#Brown is a terrible houseguest

[pushing500]

Bold to start a fight when you're immediately postpartum, you're relying on your opponent's (already very limited) hospitality to keep you and your new baby alive, and you have a horrendous melee ability.

Brown's religion is a nudist, cannibal, high-life cult. Not sure it'll be the best environment for Wombat to grow up in, tbh, and it certainly isn't helping Brown recover any faster.

A fight on one side, a shuttle crash on the other, a deathly ill newborn baby lingering in the back of his mind... What a day for poor Kwahu.

The sole survivor of the shuttle crash was an Avaloi named Yuki. She's very pretty and looks to be healing up fast, thanks to Kwahu's expert care. Hopefully she'll leave quickly, as her genetic dependency on alcohol might be tricky to manage in a colony that focuses all its beverage-production on coffee.

Of course, once Randy starts he just doesn't stop, so he decided the Jones boys needed a nice psychic drone on top of everything else. Very rude.

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[tss-grimmverse]

Chapter 3: Lilac

i wish you out of the woods

and into a picture with me

The Youngstown Grimms had made it sound like Logan possessed arcane knowledge, and would cast some sort of protective spell over Virgil. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this whole protection business being based on proximity.

Had those Grimms warned Logan that they’d signed Virgil up for college classes? Did they even know how Logan’s “protection” worked? It took Virgil nearly the entire allotted thirty “digestion” minutes to muster the courage to bring it up again.

Honestly, with his track record, that wasn’t so bad.

“So…” he drawled, as the two were slipping on their shoes to leave. “How is this gonna work, anyway?”

“This?” Logan pocketed his phone.

“Me, staying here, with you.” Virgil gestured between them. “Like, do I have to stay within a certain distance for your protection mojo to work?”

“For the time being, yes,” Logan explained as they exited the apartment and started down the stairs. “My long term plan, however, is to make a charm that will shield you in my stead.”

That didn’t sound so bad.

“But I will be able to leave?” Virgil clarified. “Like, during the day or whatever?”

As much as he didn’t mind sharing space with an absurdly gorgeous…if a bit standoffish…guy, being trapped inside day after day would drive him up the wall.

Logan made a noise of assent.

“The charm I intend to make will ensure that our arrangement does not overly restrict your freedom. Shelley has informed me of your intention to attend fall classes at Stetson University.”

‘My’ intention, sure.

Truthfully, art school had simply been the cover story to explain why Virgil would suddenly abandon Ohio and his Faire family. The Youngstown Grimms warned him that the whole Ren Faire circuit wasn’t safe for him anymore, not even as far away as Florida, not when his master had already tracked him down once. He still couldn’t imagine what strings the Grimms had had to pull to get him into a fancy, expensive-as-fuck university on such short notice, with only a GED to his name and no other transcripts…but they had, and they’d told him all his expenses would be covered besides.

Virgil was smart enough to recognize an opportunity when he saw it…and too selfish to turn it down.

“Oh, I suppose I should ask.” Logan paused before they left the stairwell. “How sensitive are you to iron?”

Virgil rubbed the back of his neck.

“Cars don’t bother me, if that’s what you’re implying. Most metal doesn’t if it’s refined enough.”

“You are fortunate.” Logan absently thumbed one of his pointed ear tips. “I hypothesize that my sensitivity lies somewhere between that of a true faery and an older changeling. My disguise glamour protects me somewhat, so driving around town is not a problem, but a cross country trip would be…taxing.”

Virgil winced. “That still sucks.”

Logan hummed, adjusted his glasses, and they left the stairwell for the overly bright, bleached parking lot.

Florida, ugh. Virgil squinted in the unrelenting sunlight. No wonder Logan’s house brownie wears sunglasses. He would need to buy a pair of his own, and soon.

Logan unlocked a nearby blue Honda Fit and they climbed in. Virgil observed how Logan’s dark, graceful hands did not linger on either the door handle or the metal seatbelt buckle.

“I can eat stuff cooked in ordinary pots,“ Virgil added as they pulled out of the parking lot. “But cast iron skillets, man…” He shuddered.

“An iron skillet would outright poison me.” Logan grimaced. “Even heavily refined steel is distasteful to cook in.”

That’s why he owns a copper kettle, Virgil realized. Probably all his cooking utensils are copper or aluminum.

“I was shoved into a wrought iron gate once at a Faire,” Virgil went on. “Burned like a bitch, and I only touched it for a few seconds. I haven’t really tested my sensitivities beyond that.”

“I recommend against it.” Logan answered Virgil’s raised eyebrow with a sharp look. “The enmity between iron and Fae is an ancient one. You won’t develop a tolerance.”

Something in the tone spoke of past experience to Virgil. Another little interesting tidbit about the man he’d moved in with.

His charged iPod and headphones lay nestled in his hoodie pocket, but for once, Virgil chose not to tune out the world. Instead he observed Logan’s long fingers on the faux-leather steering wheel, the flex of muscle in his forearms, the crease between his eyebrows as he navigated downtown Deland’s narrow Main Street.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Logan said after a long silence, as though weighing the words. Which of course made Virgil’s anxiety skyrocket.

“What fae abilities do you possess?”

Virgil’s mouth twisted; he’d been dreading that question.

His own hands, caressing bits of straw, color and softness bursting from the hollow shafts. Sewing needles and the dark, metallic scent of blood. Mocking words and cruel fae lips and under it all his power, flowing from his chest into waiting bodies…

Dolls. Abominations.

“I make flowers,” he answered at last.

Logan glanced at him and arched an eyebrow.

Virgil sighed and patted his pockets, finally plucking a loose thread from his hoodie sleeve when nothing else turned up. He laid the tiny string across his palm, and mentally pulled. Warmth blossomed in his chest, like unfolding flower petals, racing down his arm, rippling under his skin, seeping into the thread he held.

It quivered, and expanded, buds bubbling along its length before silently exploding into leaves, the end growing bulbous and green and peeling into delicate violet petals and a yellow center.

He stuck the newly created forget-me-not, stem barely as long as his pinky finger, behind his ear.

“Go on, you can say it,” he challenged, chancing a look at Logan, whose expression hadn’t changed. “Sixteen fucking years in Arcadia, and I end up with the most useless changeling power in existence.”

It was safer, disparaging his magic like it really was nothing but flower-making. Those Grimms in Ohio would never have helped me if they knew what I was, and why my master wanted me back.

The half-faery’s eyes were a mystery behind his glasses. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

But then they were pulling up to an ordinary suburban house and Logan was parking the car, and Virgil had a whole different, slightly more ordinary situation to fret over.

Interacting with people.

“Come,” Logan said, getting out. “Time to meet Nicodemus.”

Virgil dearly hoped ’Nicodemus’ wasn’t another brownie, or a pixie or a hobgoblin, or…

To Virgil’s vast relief, Nicodemus turned out to be a brown Labrador that barked joyously at Logan’s arrival and spent the next five minutes on its hind legs, eagerly licking the half-faery’s face.

Logan rubbed the dog’s head, heedless of the spit bath, and exchanged words and money with the gray-haired woman of the house. Virgil gathered that she often watched Logan’s dog when he was away. The two of them, dog bouncing between, carried a crate full of hairy blankets, some dishes, and several toys out to Logan’s car.

Virgil hung back in the doorway, hands stuffed in his pockets, hoping he wouldn’t be called over to socialize. He stiffened when woman gestured towards him, and Logan said something at length. Virgil shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, wondering what excuses Logan gave to people for his changeling houseguests over the years.

Nicodemus trotted over, eyeing Virgil with curious black eyes.

“Hey…boy.” Virgil gingerly held out a hand. The dog sniffed it, sneezed, and gave his fingers a few licks. (Virgil grimaced and wiped them on his hoodie).

“I was hoping he would like you.”

Virgil startled, having not heard Logan approach. “Is that…what the licking means?”

The half-faery’s mouth twitched in a tiny smile.

“Thank you again, Stephanie!” he called, waving as the woman went inside. “Nic, come!”

Nic leaped obediently into the car’s back seat and settled with his snout just above Virgil’s shoulder.

“I suppose it is a bit late to inquire whether you are amenable to sharing a living space with an animal,” Logan commented in an uncharacteristically wry voice.

Virgil shrugged, reaching back to pet Nic’s neck.

“Dogs are okay, I guess. I’ve never had a pet, so…I don’t know much about taking care of them or whatever.”

Logan waved a hand. “I would expect no such thing. Nic is my responsibility.”

“Um, speaking of responsibility.” Virgil rubbed at the back of his neck. “I was thinking I should probably start looking for a job? So I can, you know, help out with rent and stuff?”

“Why?”

There was no judgement in Logan’s tone; only curiosity.

“I dunno, I just don’t want to be a freeloader.” Virgil shrugged, his shoulders hunched. “The Youngstown Grimms are already paying for all my school stuff and honestly I feel kinda bad about that.”

“I wouldn’t.” Logan raised an eyebrow at Virgil shocked face. “Do you truly think that an organization run by changelings, some of whom can literally transform physical objects into other objects, would have issues obtaining something as mundane as money?”

Virgil’s mouth twisted and he touched the flower still stuck in his ear…the forget-me-not he’d grown from magic and a bit of loose thread. Maybe making random objects bloom wasn’t terribly useful…but sometimes he forgot that such power was still extraordinary from a normal perspective.

Knowing that didn’t make his insecurities go away.

“Look, I dunno what they told you about me, but I was on the road with a Renaissance Faire for nearly two years before De…” Virgil swallowed, unwilling to say even the made-up name aloud. “Before my faery master found me. We didn’t have a lot and we never stayed in one place for long, but it was a good life, you know? They were the closest people I’d had to a family on the outside. And we all worked hard; you had to, to keep the Faire running. Everyone earned their keep.”

Logan hummed, rubbing a finger absently on the steering wheel. “Do you fear letting others pay your way will give them too much control over your life?”

Virgil picked at a rip in his skinny jeans. Logan was not as oblivious as his stilted language would suggest.

“I…yeah. I guess?”

“I am financially solvent enough to support myself and anyone the Grimms send to me, for however long that individual needs to stay.” Logan shot Virgil a look, his stormy eyes softening slightly. “However, I will not be offended if you wish to obtain employment and ‘earn your keep’, as you put it.”

Virgil leaned his head against the window glass, his lungs tight with memories, with fears, with feeling like any joy he scratched out of the barren soil of this existence would always be one faery whim away from being crushed.

Again.

“It’s just, last week I had a life,” he admitted softly. “Now suddenly it’s gone, and I feel a little…lost, I guess.”

Logan drummed thoughtful fingers on the steering wheel.

“Where were you initially rescued?” he asked. “Not four days ago, but when you first left Arcadia?”

Virgil didn’t quite suppress a shudder at the word Arcadia.

“Somewhere in Pennsylvania, I think,” he answered lowly. “Some Grimms…not Youngstown; a different chapter…shut down an illegal trade between two minor Courts. My master was…”

He swallowed, unwilling to admit his faery master had been a fetch-dealer, that the operation those Grimms shut down that day had been a fetch trade. Trafficking in human dolls was the only Unseelie vice specifically forbidden by the Accords themselves. Faeries caught using them in their kidnappings earned an immediate price on their heads. And human thralls forced by said faeries to make those dolls…well.

The usually went mad.

The whole mess carried a well-deserved stigma.

“Let’s just say he was involved in a lot of shady Unseelie shit,” Virgil muttered, looking out the window again.

Logan’s fingers traced the wheel again, his gaze on the road but somehow also miles away.

“You escaped in the confusion?” he prompted.

Virgil shrugged. “Yeah. I hitchhiked to upstate New York and met old Betsy in a bar.” He smiled at the memory. “She introduced me to her Faire buddies and the rest was history.”

“And you were with them for two years?”

Virgil frowned.

“Yeah. What’s with the twenty questions?”

They’d reached the apartment lot; Logan turned off the car.

“Shelley and the Youngstown Grimms were wise to send you to me,” he said cryptically as they got out and opened the back hatch. It felt like the half-faery was changing the subject, though Virgil couldn’t say why.

“You know, before I left, Shelley told me that you asked for me.” Virgil narrowed his eyes. “When they told you my situation, they said you wanted me to come.”

Logan wore an unidentifiable expression as he hefted Nic’s crate from the back. Virgil moved to help. The shared burden made it easy for the half-faery to not meet Virgil’s gaze as they moved upstairs, Nic following placidly at their heels.

“I wanted you to come because I am in a unique position to keep you safe,” Logan allowed at last, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “Both because of my heritage, and because Florida is such a long distance from your previous life.”

Virgil liked to think he had an excellent trollshit detector, mostly because his Fae master had been, among other things, a master liar. Body language, tics, tone of voice. Everyone had tells, even stoic half-faeries with extraordinary control over their facial expressions.

Logan was not lying…but he was definitely fae-dancing around something.

“If we are able to keep you out of sight long enough,” Logan went on, “it is possible that he will give up looking. As much as faeries love the chase, a single human thrall is, for better or for worse, simply not worth their time in the end.”

Unless that thrall was a fetch-maker.

Virgil swallowed hard. Well, if Logan wasn’t going to share his secret, Virgil sure as hell wasn’t revealing his own.

“So you’re saying I’m not worth their time?” he quipped instead, attempting to lighten the mood as they reached the top of the stairs. “Now I’m not sure whether to be relieved or insulted.”

Logan cocked his head. “I…had meant the words to be comforting. Did they not come across as such?”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

“How are you that literal? I was kidding.”

“Oh.” Logan frowned, shifting the crate to adjust his glasses again. “My colleagues tell me I am, in their words, ‘spectacularly’ inept at detecting sarcasm.”

Virgil swallowed a smirk. No shit, Sherlock.

“You’re gonna have a hard time with me, then.”

“Well, surely with sufficient communication we will…” Logan trailed off, and narrowed his eyes. “Ah. That was another joke.”

“You’re learning.” Virgil made a finger gun with one hand, prompting an answering eye roll.

Logan fished out his keys and the two guided the crate into the apartment. Nic bounded down the hallway and into Logan’s room; a smiling, irate Logan on his heels, grumbling that he’d better stay off the bed.

For a moment, Virgil breathed in the pleasant scent of the apartment, and listened to the soft sounds of Remy snoring in his cabinet, and allowed something like hope to lighten his heart.

He missed Ohio, but…this really wasn’t so bad.

“Oh for goodness sakes, really Nic?” Logan’s irritated voice drifted into the living room, followed by the man himself, holding a mangled stuffed animal. “That dog, I swear. Every time I have to leave him in another’s care, he destroys at least one of his toys.”

He made to toss the toy in the garbage, but Virgil scurried forward to stop him.

“Hang on, let me see,” he murmured, taking the toy and turning it over in his hands. It was a stuffed lion, chubby and smiling, with a squeaker in its belly. Stuffing was poking out of several messy rips, and the head was dangling by a mere thread.

“Yeah, I can definitely fix this. Do you have needle and thread?”

Logan nodded and went back into his bedroom, which Virgil barely noticed as he pressed fluff back inside and located all the busted stitches with practiced fingers. Logan reappeared with a sewing kit.

Virgil settled on the couch with the toy.

For a time the world faded; there was only cotton, yielding under his fingers; ragged edges folded and hidden; slick metal needle parting cloth and perfect stitches pulled tight. The satisfaction of tying the last knot and examining the body, ready to breathe life into its flowery heart and flaccid limbs, hear its first cries…

Virgil pulled out of the memory with a gasp, hand closing reflexively around the repaired lion, making it squeak. Slowly his surroundings filtered back in, easing the panicky tightness in his chest: couch, counter, front door, Remy’s cabinet. He was safe and out of Arcadia, out of Arcadia, and Deceit does not know where I am.

Logan sat in the chair opposite the couch, eating a sandwich and watching Virgil. A plate piled with more sandwiches sat on the coffee table between them.

How did he have time to make all those? How…how long has he been watching me?

Virgil flexed his sore right hand, trying to look casual but borderline freaking out on the inside.

He could have seen everything, I was seconds away from bringing that stuffed animal to life because it’s been so long and I got caught up, he’s gonna know what my power really is…

“Um, I think I’m done,” he muttered, gripping the lion and making it squeak again. An answering bark from the back bedroom made Virgil startle.

“May I?” Logan asked, holding his hand out for the toy.

Virgil held his breath as Logan pulled at the stitching, tugged at the head, waiting for the half-faery to call out how weird he’d just acted. But Logan only nodded.

“Excellent. This is one of Nic’s favorites; I know he will appreciate having it back in one piece.”

He stood and flashed Virgil a half smile, one that made his pulse race.

“Eat, I made plenty,” Logan added, gesturing at the plate and then disappearing into his bedroom.

Virgil let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and ran shaking hands through his hair. The fading tightness in his lungs shifted into dull, stabbing pinpricks, making him hiss softly. It felt like thorns, choking his heart, brushing his ribcage with every movement.

The needle he still held in his fingers swelled and burst into flower: a single bunch of tiny purple blossoms framed by soft emerald leaves. Virgil bit his lip hard, tasting blood.

Lilac.

No, no, no, I had my power under control, I swore never again…he clenched his fists hard, crushing the delicate flower stalk, nails imprinting on his palms. Virgil focused on that pain, determined to push the dangerous feelings down, focused on his breathing, in for four, hold for seven, out for eight, come on, Virgil…

The stabbing ebbed and he drew a deep, unsteady breath.

I’m safe here.

I’m safe.

And I can’t ever tell Logan what I was.

Purple lilac: first emotions of love

[gamechangeroo]

Part 2/3

Click for Part 1/3

Or read ahead for Part 2, which is Chapter 1, because Part 1 was the Prologue. I acknowledge the pointless confusion.

Chapter 1: Should You Buy a New Moral Compass When the Magnetic Poles Switch?

It had been two weeks since Gintoki had been ‘knighted,’ and in that time span he had gained five kilograms, Shinpachi had gained two, and Kagura had only gained one, because, despite the fact that she was eating as much of the food as all the other moochers combined, she was a monster alien girl that would never have to worry about love handles. Ignoring the limits of physics, her body morphed food into energy with a ferocity similar to what one would find in the center of stars.

That is to say, excluding that one weight loss episode, Kagura consistently had a very high metabolism.

It is perhaps a strange way to start a Gintama story where food can no longer be a concern or motivating plot point, because the Yorozuya team now had any and all of it that they could ever need. One might venture to say it is stranger still that the dawn of a Gintama story breaks over a horizon where rent was also not a concern. Yet, by this time in the plot Gintoki had already convinced Otose to take their rent as an anytime, all-you-can-eat ticket to the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian Embassy. With these two very large issues removed from the playing field, was there any motivation for Gintoki, Kagura, or Shinpachi to do anything? Would there be any growth or motion besides the outward growth of our heroes’ stomachs?!

Gintoki supplied his answer in a large, drawn-out belch, and lazily rubbed his newly accumulated belly fat. From his spot draped over one of the embassy settees he motioned vaguely to the other side of the room.

“Oi, Patsuan. Go buy me this week’s Jump!,” Gintoki managed to mumble through his food coma. As he moved his lips, a piece of beef that had been stuck to them slipped into his mouth. He chewed on it contentedly.

Kagura burped in response. “Shinpachi left hours ago, and I don’t think it was to buy Jump!.”

Cracking open his eyes for the first time since this chapter began, Gintoki peered around the banquet hall languidly. Shinpachi was indeed gone, and Kagura was still munching away at her place at the table as the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian kitchen staff shimmered, glistened, and replaced plates here and there.

“He said if he stayed around here any longer,” Kagura continued, “he’d turn into a good-for-nothing deadbeat.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Hasegawa,” Gintoki defended his friend absentmindedly.

“Nobody was talking about me, Gin-san!” Hasegawa spoke up, mildly indignant. He sat across the table from Kagura, doing his best to keep on mooching on this food train, and, incidentally, had gained about 10 kilograms himself.

Ignoring the interjection, Gintoki suggested, “Why don’t you follow Shinpachi’s lead, Kagura-chan? Go out and see how the world has grown over the last two weeks. I’ve heard they changed the color palette, and the sky is turning from blue to brown.”

“Who cares about factory smog when I have factory-processed sausage right here?” Kagura asked, leisurely waving a link at Gintoki. “Go find your Jump! lackey somewhere else.”

Running his fingers through his perm in aggravation, Gintoki grumbled and debated the merits of standing up and walking to the convenience store, versus lying around and doing more nothing. Nothing really was very appealing.

However, after two weeks of nothing, its time had finally run out. It was at this moment that a Presence slid firmly into Gintoki’s brain. He blinked twice and shook his head wildly in an attempt to dislodge whatever it was from his mind and thoughts. He then whacked one ear, hoping it would pop out the other. Undeterred, the Presence poked around his mind with a sharp, callous intensity that was, frankly, incredibly annoying. It was bit like when customers come into clothing stores, throw the neatly hung up clothes carelessly off the racks, and expect the shopkeep to clean up after them without thought or concern.

To make matters worse, the Presence paused and encircled his thoughts about how walking to the convenience store to buy this week’s Jump! was too much effort. It hung there in silence, totally judging him.

“You don’t know my life!” He roared.  “Get out, you asshole!”

At this, a huge darkness fell over the hall. Actually, it wasn’t the whole hall, there was just someone looming over Gintoki. Yup, it sort of looked like Kagura when she was about to go in for the kill. He paled considerably as he realized what was about to happen.

“Uh, wait, K-k-kagura-ch-chan,” he flailed. “That wasn’t… I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the thing in my head. Something’s in my head and judging me, so I told it to get out. I would never tell you to get out!”

Kagura halted her fist a mere hairsbreadth from Gintoki’s nose. She tilted her head to the side menacingly. Gintoki took that as an excuse to keep going.

“You… you see. All of a sudden, it just popped in there, and was looking down on me for not buying my own Jump!, which isn’t right at all! A man should have peace of mind in his own mind!”

“Not quite,” Hasegawa said through a mouthful of rice, with a small, jaded laugh. “When boys become men, even their minds have no peace.”

Kagura drew back her fist and stared quizzically at Gintoki. “Gin-chan is growing up?”

“He just grew a conscience, Kagura-san,” Hasegawa amended. “It means he can’t do anything fun anymore without feeling terrible about it.”

At this, Kagura’s face scrunched in concern, and she shook Gintoki wildly by the shoulders. “Is it true, Gin-chan?! Are you not going to come home drunk in the middle of the night anymore smelling of the scummiest parts of town?! Who will play midnight games of Five Finger Fillet with me now?”

In light of this new information, Gintoki blanched. What in the hell had Kagura been doing to him after he had blacked out on those nights?! Maybe a conscience could come in handy in having a heart to heart with Kagura about not playing evil night games with inebriated victims, but this new intruder stomping around in his head wasn’t a conscience.

“Stop putting stupid ideas in her head, Hasegawa,” Gintoki retorted. “The plot of my series is all about how I have a great conscience that orphaned children and crying women exploit to get me to save the day occasionally. It’s heartwarming, and people love it! I can’t grow what I’ve already got!”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Gin-san,” Hasegawa opined. “There are two types of consciences. The first type is the one you’ve always had: a hero’s conscience. That’s what gets Mario to save Princess Peach from Bowser all the time.

“The second type is a geezer’s conscience. That’s what makes Mario collect enough coins to pay for multiple life insurance policies, so his family knows they will be taken care of after he’s run into one too many Goombas. It’s an adult sense of responsibility, as the demands of society slowly crush his idealism and spirit.”

“Mario is such a caring hero!” Kagura enthused, spraying tofu in Hasegawa’s direction, as she settled herself back into her chair at the banquet table.

“Well, that depends on the player,” Hasegawa said with a knowing smile, and Kagura’s mouth shaped an ‘o’ of acknowledgment. A conversation about geezer consciences is where a Madao shines, after all.

“As for our Gin-san,” he continued, “his Player 1 has skipped all the coins on each level for so long that he doesn’t know what to do now that Player 1 is aiming for the life insurance policies.”

“Stop making profound statements using Mario!” Gintoki snapped. “And I am still skipping all my coins! I just head straight to Bowser, oi!”

Hasegawa just hmmed knowingly. The bastard. Look at him acting all high and mighty, while eating someone else’s food. What a terrible houseguest, who was stupid and wrong. Gintoki was the last person who would develop a geezer conscience. If there was another invasion of Earth where geezer consciences were aiming to occupy the heads of every human around, Gintoki would be once again on the front lines, but, instead of fighting Amanto, he would be fighting against the importance of mortgages and steady jobs.

“If you’re so sure, why don’t you ask your geezer conscience what it thinks of life insurance policies?” Hasegawa asked in challenge.

Gintoki narrowed his eyes, and dug into the side of the settee cushion to find a fork he had left there. He pointed it menacingly at Hasegawa. “It’s not a geezer conscience.”

“I bet it is,” Kagura chimed in again. “Or, if it isn’t, maybe it’s a brain parasite.”

Gintoki froze, a cold sweat sticking to his neck. He had not thought of that possibility. Could something have crawled into his head, and was now sucking away?! He did yank out a particularly big, green booger yesterday. Was that parasite poop?!

Though, come to think of it, he had not felt the Presence snooping around for a while. Maybe! Maybe it was gone! Maybe it leaked out somewhere! He focused his mind inward, poking around his own thoughts, and anxiously checking for any mental hitchhikers, while he dug around in his nose for any physical ones.

Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he found it. That thing. The parasite. It was there right in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his thoughts. It was just curled up in a deep mental corner, not really interacting with his head, but also definitely not out of it.

That’s it. Poor Gin-san was going to end up a drooling, brain-dead vegetable.

“Um. Hello. Excuse me,” he thought at it.

At his word-thoughts, the thing that was probably just about ready to suck his mind out through a straw stirred and came to life in his head. Gintoki could just tell somehow. It was more ‘there’ than it had been, even though it was not swirling all around his thoughts like it first had done. It was… to put it to words… paying attention.

“I was just, um, passing by in my head,” he thought as casually as he possibly could. “And I noticed you there doing your thing, and I was-I was wondering if you thought I should get a life insurance policy?”

His brain-parasite-death-machine appeared to consider the question, and he could tell the moment it seemed to scoff. It then pushed at Gintoki’s mind with a small pressure, which popped into his brain as a mental image. There stood Kagura and Shinpachi inheriting gambling debts and bar tabs from a dead Gintoki.

At this, Gintoki mentally laughed in borderline hysteria. “You’re right!” He thought shrilly. “The best I could do for those two brats is leave them as little as possible to clean up! How perceptive of you!!”

Catching his unstable tone, the cerebral terror seemed ready to push another image-thought at him, but Gintoki had had enough. He ran quickly from the depths of his own mind, resurfacing at the embassy with a heavy gasp.

Kagura and Hasegawa stared at him from the table.

“Gin-chan,” Kagura’s voice was uncertain, “are you-”

“I think I’m going to go out and get my Jump! after all!” Gintoki interrupted. “I just remembered the cliffhanger that happened last week. I need to know if Karbo was able to escape from Tommy’s Trial!”

He sped out of the room and zoomed out of the embassy before anyone could question him further. It was time to go to the hospital. They removed brain parasites right?

Gintoki asked this question at the front desk of the nearest emergency room. The nurses backed away and whispered to each other, as they stared at the bedraggled, permy man with a parasite in his brain. Patients in the waiting room made a dash for the exit, which was certainly the right move, as far as Gintoki was concerned. Who would want to stay in a room with a brain-sucking bug?! What if it multiplied and infected everyone?! What if the devil-bug made poor, innocent Gin-san go on a murdering spree?!

Gintoki asked these questions to the tired looking, old doctor who scanned his brain with this and that machine, and occasionally rubbed her chin hairs. After an hour of poking and prodding, the woman proclaimed him parasite-free, and threw him a bottle of pills to ‘make the voices go away.’

The fretful samurai wandered down the streets of Kabukicho in a near-delirious haze of nerves and fear. If the doctors could not find anything in his brain then what was this Thing?! Was it a parasite so crafty that even old doctors with notable amounts of chin hair could not spot it, or was it something else entirely? Should he actually be taking these pills? Was it too late to get a life insurance policy?

Gintoki asked these questions to the barkeep, as he downed his third and fourth beers. He just knew the solution to all of this was waiting at the bottom of one of these glasses, or he could just get drunk enough so that none of it really mattered, waking up the next morning missing a couple digits from an inebriated attempt at Five Finger Fillet a la Kagura.

By his eighth beer, he had enough liquid courage to sink back into his own head and once again confront the beast within.

“Oi,” he thought-yelled. “Bastard!”

The parasite-horror, which had been keeping to itself without any direct interaction from Gintoki, rose up. It pushed back defensively against his anger, as if to say ‘What’s your problem, asshole?’

“You can’t just set up camp in someone’s head when you feel like it! Get the hell out!”

The eldritch monster seemed confused at the accusation. It wobbled about, and poked at the surface of Gintoki’s thoughts. Finally, it pushed an image of its own toward him. The scene popped into his head as him leaving the bar and going home to bed.

“There are enough bouncers in real life, without you acting as one in my head you… you! Whatever you are. What gives you the right to tell me to go to bed when you’re probably just going to suck out my brain when I sleep, huuuh?”

Gintoki’s parasite seemed even more flummoxed by these words. It swirled to and fro, attaching to thought after thought running through Gintoki’s mind until it finally settled around Gintoki’s suspicions about itself. As it realized that the mind it was squatting in thought it to be a parasite, the parasite had the nerve to get extremely exasperated. It roughly pushed an image toward Gintoki, which he mentally squinted at crankily.

There was a yellow book with a weird pair of brown, long somethings on the cover playing with a beach ball.  There were too many limbs for just two creatures, and was that a lightsaber?

A moment of heavy silence descended in Gintoki’s mind.

Seconds passed, until another image was furiously flung into his noggin. This time, it showed himself reading that yellow book, a look of dawning comprehension spreading across his features, as his scanned the words.

“So you’re telling me if I read this book about Jar Jar Bink’s summer vacation, you shitting on my brain will make sense?” Gintoki asked, starting to wonder if he had actually had a little too much to drink.

In response, his head-creature slapped another snapshot of the book at his mind’s eye with an aura of supreme pissed-offedness.

“Fine!” he shouted, fiercely ignoring the bartender pleading with him to stop making a scene all by himself. “I get it. Everything will be fine if I flip through this book! I’ll go do that immediately, Grand Supreme Parasite-sama! Post haste!”

…

“So you see,” Gintoki explained to the cashier at the 24 hour convenience store, as the night neared the 24th hour, “I need a yellow book with things playing with a beach ball on the front cover.”

The parasite was writhing in anger and exasperation. It punched an image of a convenience store with a red X through it toward Gintoki.

“Now, now, parasite-kun,” Gintoki mentally chided. “Have a little faith in the host you are munching on. A convenience store doesn’t always have the book you come in looking for, but it will, without fail, be carrying the one you need.”

As he thought this, the convenience store worker slid a yellow, cellophane-wrapped magazine toward him across the counter. On the cover was a beach ball being tossed back and forth between two fit bikini girls.

The parasite was reduced to a black mass of vibrating fury.

“I’m giving you a chance here and following your advice, so you should give me one too,” Gintoki addressed his mental guest with relative cheer, as he paid for the magazine. “Let’s see if I can achieve enlightenment through these pages, just like you wanted.”

Gintoki was humming to himself, happily swinging the bag that held his magazine to and fro, as he stepped toward the exit. This whole parasite thing did not seem like such a terrible ordeal with some alcohol in his gut and a dirty mag in his hand. The weird creature seemed like a bit of a prude anyway, considering the way it reacted to Gintoki’s new beach friends. Maybe he could scare it off with a little good old fashioned debauchery. Let it be known to the brain hijackers of the world that Gin-san’s noggin was not a hospitable place! He never cleaned it, and there were mysterious stains and smells everywhere!

As if at that very moment smelling something it should not have, the enraged presence in the back of his mind rumbled ominously. Gintoki simply sneered, thinking to himself the phrase ‘Just desserts.’

Lost in thought, he bumped into two masked men at the entrance to the store. One of them growled and pointed a sword at his face. The other one growled and pointed a sword in the face of the poor cashier, who immediately crumpled to the ground in the fetal position.

“Get up and give us all your money!” Robber #1 demanded of the trembling employee.

Gintoki sighed and shook his head. “You know, I’m really not in the mood for this.”

“We could not care less,” Robber #2 grunted. “Your wallet. Now.”

“Well, I just spent the last of my money on this great magazine. It gets the best reviews from alien brainsuckers. I was looking forward to reading it, but you can have it if it means that much to you.”

Gintoki threw the bag with his magazine in the face of the robber holding him at swordpoint. In this moment of confusion, he swept a leg underneath the man to send him careening forward, and slammed an elbow into the side of his head as he fell to knock him out cold.

Moving quickly, he drew his wooden sword, preparing to smash the sword out of the other robber’s hand, leaving him with no way to attack the cashier in retaliation. However, his hand’s connection with his weapon caused the parasite’s connection with his mind to flare brightly in response. The angered creature flew to the front of his mind, energized and alive, just as Gintoki swung Lake Touya down. All of a sudden, Gintoki lost track of where he ended, and the Other in his mind began – or, rather, there was no Other.

With a savage intensity that was his own, yet More, he cleaved through the robber’s sword, as his wooden blade erupted in a blast of white light that filled the store. The automatic door at the front of the building opened with a ding, providing an exit for nothing particularly corporeal.

Slowly, gradually, the large mass of light faded, and thick, sizzling tendrils of smoke took its place. Apparently, Gintoki had not only chopped the robber’s sword in half, but he had also burned a deep line through the wall of the store in the direction his wooden sword had been pointing for the cut. He could see cleaved electrical wires and singed ventilation. Following the line of his cut further down, there was a severe, charred groove in the linoleum floor, looking to be about half of a yard deep. The cut traveled along the ground, ending near Gintoki’s feet, where his wooden, infomercial-cheap sword pointed after its swing.

Um. What?

As he continued to gape at the wall, the conscious robber and shivering cashier screamed and scrambled out the door. As he continued to continue to gape at the wall, the sprinkler and alarm system both went off.

Rain dripping down his curls and squelching beneath his boots, he slowly walked toward the remaining robber passed out face-down near the front of the store. He stared at the man in the black ski mask for a few moments, before kicking him on his side and gingerly placing his smoking sword down in the slack grip of the man’s right hand. Rising, he looked ever-so-casually around, scanning the aisles of the store, and, seeing no one, began to walk toward the exit.

He was almost at the automatic doors before he turned around and quickly made his way back to the man. Gintoki crouched down and grabbed the bag with his magazine inside that he had thrown only moments before, and, with it in hand, he upped his pace, exiting the store with as much innocence as a soaked man fleeing a smoking convenience store at midnight could muster. Out on the street, he sprinted down the first alleyway he could find, disappearing into the night.

[takadasaiko]

Houseguest Chapter Three

FFN II AO3

Summary: Tony and Steve' investigate the burglary at the Stark Industry.

Chapter Three: Always Come Prepared

Tony didn't bother calling ahead to the location. He didn't typically make trips out to facilities unless R&D work was being done there, so on the off chance that someone inside his company had orchestrated the break in he didn't want to give them any warning. Granted, he had to admit there was something amusing about watching people scurry when the man whose name was on the side of the building showed up unannounced. Not everything could be strategic. Life was meant to be entertaining.

Cap had decided to tag along rather than go into town. He looked like a fish out of water as he followed Tony into the facility, and even more awkward as the SI employees went into overdrive for the surprise visit.

"Mr Stark?" Tony turned to see what he assumed was the man in charge around there barreling towards him. "Bill Wiley. I'm sorry nobody greeted you when you arrived. No one said you'd be coming in personally," the building manager said as nearly raced to meet him.

Tony greeted the sweaty man with a handshake that couldn't be avoided without coming across like an ass. "It was taking a while for the report to hit our servers. I thought I might be able to speed things along."

He didn't miss the way Bill Wiley glanced nervously at Rogers who, in turn, was sweeping every visible inch of the space with that sharp blue gaze of his. He might be behind the times on tech, but Cap had proven resourceful when he was interested in uncovering the truth on something. Maybe it was a good idea to have brought him along afterall.

"Well, it was in the middle of the night with our skeleton security crew, sir. We've been working with the police and running inventory on —"

"Perfect," Tony cut him off. "Whatcha got?"

"For… inventory…. sir?" the other man asked like he was certain he must have misunderstood.

"Yep. What'd they steal?"

The manager looked like he was bordering on terrified as he answered. "Nothing, as far as we can tell." He stopped, and Tony was fairly sure that he was weighing if what he wanted to say would get him fired or not. He motioned for him to spit it out and the man swallowed hard. "Do you… know what we do at this office, sir?"

"Something having to do with, uh…." Tony drawled out, desperately wracking his brain for the answer. He'd seen it, right? He was sure that he'd seen it or that JARVIS had told him or something. The hangover was starting to recede, but that didn't mean he hadn't missed a few things on the way there.

"I'm with your marketing division. I just happened to be the manager that answered the call at six this morning and came in."

"Six? They said the break in was at three."

"Might have been, sir, but I was at home asleep." Poor Bill Wiley, who appeared to be too far out of his depths for comfort, ducked his head. "We're the catch-all. We've got a few marketing teams that aren't housed at HQ or in New York, the aviation department holds meetings and keep their offices here, and a couple of underwriters that live out this way come in here to avoid the commute. We don't house anything worth stealing."

"Hey, Tony?"

Tony turned, finding Steve further away than he expected. He was standing with a security guard that looked more than a little starstruck. Good. Maybe that meant he'd helpful.

"Tony, this is -"

"Juan Morales. Wow. I didn't think I'd actually ever get to meet you. You're Iron Man."

"Sometimes," Tony answered casually as he sauntered over. "Right now I just own a company who had a break in that I'd like to know more about."

"I wasn't on duty when it happened. I start the morning shift at nine."

Tony shot Cap a look, but the other man motioned for patience.

"I'm buddies with Tom in the main office. Guess it's the one you work out of?"

"I work out of my house most days, but you were saying?"

"Right… So, Tom said that some of the other security guards from around the city sent in reports about signs of guys casing the places. I mean, most of them were warehouses and storage facilities and stuff, but we've all got the same basic security protocols, right? It's weird."

"Do you think they were testing them?" Steve prompted.

"Yeah. I mean, response times are gonna be different in each location, but the alarms, how long they take to go off, if the building has any lockdown protocols…."

It was like a slap to the face. "Which they all do," Tony managed.

"But no one was here. There was a delay in the lockdown. No code or anything, but nobody trapped either."

"Like they found an override….. Can you get me a list? The other locations your buddy mentioned?"

"Oh yeah, sure, Mr Stark. Anything you need."

"Just that list. And, kid, if this leads to something, you're getting the bonus of a lifetime." He turned towards Steve as the young guard bolted off to get him what he needed.

"You think someone's after something."

"More sure of it every second. Listen, uh… this is my problem. If you wanna go do the whole touristy thing -"

"What? And let you have all the fun?"

Brown eyes met blue and there wasn't even a hint of sarcasm. Cap wanted to help. Okay then. This could get interesting.

                                               _____________

JARVIS has been running probability calculations all day, leaving Tony to tinker and Cap to wander around LA at his leisure. He'd left his things at the mansion, though, so Tony assumed he was coming back.

It left him with time on his hands and time was spent tinkering with suits and a variety of other projects in his downstairs workshop. It did wonders for his nerves and let him focus on something else when he didn't have enough data to start tracking down this unseen enemy.

"Tony?"

He jumped at the light touch on his shoulder, hissing a soft curse as the soldering tool touched his opposite hand and burned it. He turned, finding Pepper to his left and she looked startled by the extreme reaction. "I called your name a couple of times."

"In the zone, sorry," he mumbled and held his hand up to examine it. He'd had a lot worse.

Pepper reached for it, her hand gentle against his as if she didn't trust his assessment. "You should ice it."

The argument died on his lips and he offered her a smile instead. He stood, but instead of moving to the freezer to grab one of the waiting ice packs he kept there, he leaned in. She snorted a laugh, muffled by the kiss, and Tony wrapped his arms around her to pull her just a little closer. She gave in and he could feel her smile against him as she reached up, one hand trailing along the side of his face until her arm rested against his shoulder, elbow bent so that her fingers toyed with his dark hair. Okay. This was nice. It did wonders for his nerves too. One of the many, many reasons he never wanted to let her go. "Hey, maybe we could -" he started in the same moment Pepper said —

"Did I hear something about a break in last night?"

Right. That. He released her and started towards to freezer. "Yeah, the offices out in Burbank."

"In Burbank? There's nothing out there to steal."

"I think they were testing our security protocols." He grabbed the ice pack and winced as he pressed it to the burn.

"Does Barry know?"

Tony snorted, shooting her a withering look. "My money's on no. Remind me why we pay him?"

"Because he's the head of security, Tony."

"He's terrible at his job."

Pepper leaned against one of his work tables and crossed her arms. "And who would you replace him with? You've hated every name I've given you in the last five years."

"We didn't know any of those people."

"Tony," she said in that tone that said she thought he was bordering on the absurd, "we don't know most new hires. That's what references and due diligence is for."

"Happy."

She blinked at him. "Hogan?"

"Yeah. He's been running my personal security for years-"

"Babysitting you, you mean?"

"- and yours for the last two. He knows every last security protocol we have and I guarantee he has ideas. We know him, there's no question we can trust him. How have we not already done it? Let's do it."

"Promote Happy to head of security?"

"Yeah."

She was still looking at him like he'd lost it. After a long moment she loosed a breath, letting her arms drop. "I'll make you a deal. You do what you're going to do anyway and figure out if this was more than just a one-off break in and if - if, Tony - SI's security has been compromised we'll revisit the topic when I get back from London."

"Deal. Wait. London?"

She crossed the space between and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "It's been on the books for two weeks."

"Seriously?"

"Yep. I'll be back on Saturday. Think you can manage?"

Tony feigned a hurt look. "No faith in me, Miss Potts?"

The look didn't phase her and her voice was painfully sweet as she spoke. "I just know you, Mr Stark. I left a reminder with JARVIS about the R&D meeting tomorrow. Please don't miss it?"

"Promise."

"Thank you. And try not to get shot at or blown up while your looking into your thief?"

He reached out for her hand and pulled her close again. "Do my best," he murmured, and she was close enough he could feel her breath on his skin. He didn't want her to go. Selfish, he knew, but it didn't change the feeling.

"The calculations are complete, sir," JARVIS' voice rang out, causing them both to jump, instantly pulled from the moment.

Pepper cleared her throat. "I need to head to the airport. Let me know how it goes?"

"Will do. Love you."

He loved that smile of hers. "Love you too."

Tony waited until she was out of the lab and starting back up the stairs. "This better be good, J."

"I wouldn't have interrupted if it weren't important, sir," his AI responded. "I've run the calculations that you requested, and have come up with two likely targets and the top five most likely times that the breach will be attempted."

"Put it up on the screen," Tony instructed and watched the data flicker into his vision. "Pretty sure you can take the warehouse on the right off, JARVIS."

"I was afraid you might say so, sir. Shall I contact the authorities?"

"No. Let security onsite know there's an issue, but I'll deal with it."

"Sir, if I may -"

"You may not."

"I only wished to inform you that Captain Rogers is back. In case you would like to enlist his aid." The second half of the announcement was spoken so quickly that Tony had to wonder if JARVIS was trying to get it out before the mutecommand was given. He should probably be more nervous that he was that his AI had developed quite that much obstinance when it came to his warnings being heard at the very least, even if he really still couldn't do anything about making Tony follow them.

"Thanks, buddy," Tony said instead, letting it slide. He couldn't fault JARVIS for trying to look out for him.

                                              _____________

Agreeing to help Tony Stark was turning out to feel like he'd been caught in a riptide. There was no real control. All he could do was let himself be dragged along until he surfaced at the other end.

Steve had barely walked into the house when Tony had come flying up from his lab and told him that if he still wanted to help, he better hurry up. He barely stopped long enough to add that he knew where his mysterious burglars were going to strike next and that he wanted to get out there to go over everything with his security team onsite. If Steve wanted any more details than that, he could get them on the way.

Tony talked almost as fast as he drove, rattling off so much information that Steve had to listen fast to catch the important pieces. "Wait, Wait. Hold on a second. What exactly are you doing with alien tech?"

The other man was halfway through a new sentence when he seemed to hear the question. "Huh? Oh. I created a new department at Stark Industries after the Battle of New York to work with the government to help with the cleanup."

"You? Working with the government?" Steve asked, shooting the other man an amused look. He'd seen clips of what happened a couple years before when he'd been called to Capitol Hill to discuss the Iron Man suits. His mockery of the Senate wasn't the top video when Steve had searched his name, but it was close. Funny thing, he's found some old reels put on the internet of Howard in a similar position after the war. He'd responded flippantly, hoeing no rea respect for the elected officials that had questioned him. Like father, like son.

"It does happen every once and awhile."

"I'm still not sure why we didn't contact the police. This seems like the type of thing they should handle."

"All the cops will do is scare them off and we'll lose them," Tony grumbled as he took a particularly sharp turn too fast for comfort. He glanced over, and Steve couldn't shake the feeling that he was sizing up his reaction to tailor his own. "I need more data. Let's get there, get the lay of the land, and then maybe we'll loop LAPD in."

"Backup couldn't hurt," Steve pressed. "In case things move quicker than you're expecting."

"I don't need that kind of backup. The LAPD are great for what they do, but I became Iron Man to make sure that no one could use my stuff to hurt people. This falls firmly in that category."

"And they're okay with that?"

"Oh no, they hate it. Just can't really stop me," Tony chuckled and turned a corner. A warehouse came into view, large and gated with a guard station at the edge. The guard did not look happy as they pulled up next to it.

"Mr Stark," the guard greeted, his tone matching his worried expression. "I was just about to put a call in, sir. Communication with the warehouse went down about two minutes ago. I can't get through to anybody inside. I know you said -"

"Yep," Tony cut him off and killed the car engine.

Steve watched him step outside and followed half a moment later, his gaze trained on the warehouse. It was quiet, which might be expected after the close of the business day if it weren't for the fact that Tony had sent a warning ahead. For that, it was suspiciously quiet.

It didn't last. There was a loud crash that drew their attention and a figure stumbled out the door and fell hard against the ground.

"Shit," Tony cursed. "They're already inside."

"Call the LAPD," Steve instructed the guard before Tony could counter him. It wasn't until no argument came that he saw him toying with what looked like a bracelet of some kind. "What are you-?"

Tony nodded at the car. "Check the trunk."

Steve shot him a questioning look, but circled around to where it had popped open. Inside he saw his shield. The same one Tony had asked to take a look at while he'd been out earlier that day. "Just coming to check things out, huh?"

There was a loud roar that he'd heard before and one of Tony's suits came into view from seemingly nowhere. It barreled down and opened up just long enough for him to step in before it snapped shut around him. "Always come prepared, right?" he asked through the suit and Steve resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"The police are on their way," the guard offered.

"Fine. We'll have it wrapped before they get within a mile." Steve could feel that dark gaze move to him even through the helmet. "You with me, Cap, or do you wanna wait for your buddies?"

Steve pushes a frustrated breath out his nose as he grabbed his shield.

                                              _____________

TBC

Notes: I was just writing along and suddenly Tony's pitching Happy for the head of security position. Don't know what to tell you. Apparently Barry sucks at his job. He's a lousy Forehead of Security :P

Next Time: Tony and Steve race against the clock to rescue the hostages and catch the thieves.

[chromalogue]

I’m nearly done compiling the recipes for this commemorative cookbook for the school anniversary thing.  The formatted version of the book is due early next week if we’re going to have it on sale by the time of the tea.  

My mom has medical appointments all next week in Toronto, so it’s going to be me putting it together.  (She apologized profusely, but considering that when she finishes doing her e-mail and wants to watch a video, she scrupulously closes the Gmail window and then restarts Chrome to go to YouTube, I figure I’m probably a better person to do this stuff anyway.)  But also we have a houseguest at the apartment, and he’s here until Saturday, so I want to spend as much time over there as possible, which means that I’ve got basically today and next Monday to get this done.  

The response has been overwhelming.  People have e-mailed recipes, they’ve dropped them off at the drop box in the library, they’ve collected them from their friends and their children, they’ve pestered the relatives of deceased teachers, they’ve photographed the tattered index cards in their recipe box, and it’s phenomenal.  

And looking through this compendium of culinary treasure, I feel like there’s just so much behind these recipes, so many gatherings and celebrations and potlucks, but one question stands out, unanswered, taunting me.

I ask you, good people, for the love of all that is decent:

HOW MANY SWEET-AND-SOUR MEATBALL RECIPES CAN A SINGLE COMMUNITY OF UNDER 5000 PEOPLE GENERATE???

The secret ingredient varies--pineapples, ketchup, brown sugar, molasses, maple syrup--but it seems that every major family group has at least one, and one person sent two.

I’ve told everyone Thanks, it looks great! but inside I’m secretly throwing up in my mouth a little.  Here, where my name is unknown to all but a few, and the townspeople cannot discover my terrible secret, I can be honest: I have never enjoyed a homemade meatball.  The best they have ever tasted is like broth-infused cardboard.  The worst they have ever tasted is, well, sweet-and-sour.  I know I’m somehow in the minority on this, but dessert and meat do not go together.  You don’t put a walloping dollop of marshmallow creme on your cod cakes.  You don’t drizzle caramel on calves’ liver.  You don’t peer down thoughtfully at a plate of pasta Bolognaise, trying to decide what it needs, and finally deck it out in a great wad of cotton candy.  I don’t understand how it’s acceptable to drench your meatballs in syrup.  

(I tell people here this.  They say, “Oh, but I’ll make you my raisin-and-toffee-stuffed pork loin. Don’t be alarmed by the fact that honey is the first ingredient. It’s totally different.  You’ll love it.”  I say that given my proclivities it sounds unlikely.  They make it anyway.  It is not totally different.  I do not love it.  I do not pretend, because I have learned that if I choke it down and tell them yes it was nice they will make it for me over and over, so I gently point out that while I am sure it is very good, it is making me physically ill. They are invariably shocked and hurt.)

I know these recipes aren’t for me personally, and are not subject to my approval, and have been submitted by kind people who have generously given of their time and are best served by my copying and pasting without comment.  But ye gods, so many sweet-and-sour meatball recipes.  If I ever needed a reminder that something I consider beyond the pale, embraceable by no human being except out of a sense of malice, could in fact be genuinely and innocently beloved, I need look no further than the sweet-and-sour meatball chapter of this impending cookbook.  

[e350tb]

Steven Universe: Marooned Together - Chapter Thirty-Six

(thanks to @real-fakedoors for proofreading, as always. Read her stuff!)

As do most things with the passage of time, the gunshot wound faded.

The aches and the pains did not.

Vidalia noticed that she just couldn’t carry all the things she used to, or work as hard - and while the Curator was enthusiastic, he wasn’t exactly fit, so she was forced to look for new museum employees. She was surprised when Blue Pearl answered the flyer, and even more surprised when she asked genuine, interesting questions about all of the paintings in the museum.

She began to teach her what she knew - technically and practically. Her lines were straight and geometric at first, but not at all bad, and as time went on she blossomed into an impressive visual artist. Drawing remained her passion, but Vidalia taught her to paint, to watercolour, to sculpt.

She didn’t think much of it until one day, six months after the coup, when the Curator blandly asked her a question.

“Are you training your successor, then?”

He immediately apologized profusely and bolted for his office before Vidalia could reply - which was odd, because she wasn’t offended by the question (although it was a tad insensitive). It made her think - was she? After all, she wouldn’t be around forever, and she’d brought Blue in specifically because…

She cleared it from her mind. What was coming was coming; for now, as always, she’d focus on the moment.

The months flew by - they seemed to fly right off the calendar, the world speeding up as she seemed to slow down.

A year after the coup, Jeff inaugurated the New Earth Home Guard, the replacement for the disgraced Resistance under the command of Peedee Fryman (Captain Franks’ offer to lead it had been politely but firmly declined.) They were explicitly designed to be less threatening than the old guard - green uniforms instead of black, old fashioned helmets shaped almost like bowler hats, and a distinct scaling back of random military parades. The biggest change of course was that anyone could join, human or gem.

There was a big shindig to celebrate the moment at the Diamond’s Lament, but Vidalia found herself growing tired as the night wore on - before long, she found herself trudging home, her legs weary and aching.

She found herself sitting on a crude little bench near the museum to catch her breath.

“You alright, V?”

She looked up. Amethyst was standing there, concern underlining her features.

“You left pretty early,” she said, “I mean, nobody’s even wasted yet.”

“I’m just tired tonight, Ames,” replied Vidalia.

Amethyst sat down next to her.

“That’s��� really not like you.”

Vidalia sighed.

“Yeah, well… you know, it’s late,” she said.

She looked up at the lights swirling in the sky, dancing and swirling in the Oort Cloud.

“If we died tomorrow,” she asked, “Do you think we’d have lived a good life?”

“I… well, duh, but what brings this up?” demanded Amethyst.

“I’m in my seventies now, Amethyst,” replied Vidalia, “Considering I spent a good portion of that without proper food and water when we started this place, I think that’s pretty damn good, but…”

She sighed.

“...I feel like I’m slowing down,” she said, “I just… can’t do the stuff I used to.”

“Okay, I really don’t like you talking like this, Vidalia,” said Amethyst, grabbing her shoulder, “I mean, come on, you’re not…”

Vidalia chuckled, and Amethyst trailed off.

“Look at you,” said Vidalia, “Just as beautiful as the day we met.”

“Hey, you’re still hot, if that’s what you’re saying,” said Amethyst.

Vidalia smiled.

“But you’re gonna be here one day,” she continued, “And Sour Cream, and Onion, and I… I won’t be. And I just…”

Amethyst swallowed and nodded, her eyes glassy and her lip trembling slightly.

“I’ll look out for ‘em, V,” she said.

Vidalia pulled Amethyst into a tight hug, patting her back gently.

“Thank you, Ames,” she replied.

There was a long sniffle, and Vidalia couldn’t help but laugh a little. It was infectious, and Amethyst vibrated in her arms as she laughed back.

“Getting old fuckin’ sucks, V,” croaked Amethyst.

Vidalia nodded.

“Damn straight it does.”

Another year flew past, and suddenly she couldn’t run without losing breath. Her pace slowed. Everything else accelerated.

Her work at the museum seemed to scale back more and more, with Blue picking up more of the slack. She had learned to categorize everything in the galleries, and on those few happy occasions when a scavenger brought back an old piece, she was able to tell where it was meant to go - most of the time - without Vidalia’s help.

She still had enough energy to veto the Curator’s more impractical ideas - “...and where exactly are we going to put a working railway?” - but her work became increasingly administrative, and she found herself more and more unsatisfied.

In those moments, she turned to painting. The world outside was changing day by day, and she was determined to chronicle it. She had painted before - the dark days of early New Earth were represented with limited and crude paints and charcoals, while today’s fabrication technology allowed her to use whatever technique she wanted. She wanted to show her kids, and Sour Cream and Onion’s kids (should they choose to have them), what these times were like.

And there was one painting she was more and more determined to paint.

“Okay, so you just want us to stand in front of the barn?” asked Stevonnie.

They and Lapis stood on the beach before the barn. It was a beautiful sunny day on the Island, and after so long on New Earth, Vidalia had started to forget what sunny days on a planet were like. She leaned out from behind the easel, studying her subjects.

“Maybe sit on that rock,” replied Vidalia, “Lapis, put your arm around Stevonnie’s waist.”

“Like this?” Lapis did so as they sat down.

“Perfect,” replied Vidalia, “Alright, I just need to get the sketch and the basic colours down, then I reckon I can finish back at home.”

She began to put paper to canvas, swiftly drawing up the rough sketch on her easel. After a while, she stopped to cough into her arm - she drew it away and saw red spots. Not again, she thought grumpily.

“Vidalia, are you okay?” asked Stevonnie, concerned.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, hold your pose…”

It didn’t take terribly long for the sketch to be finished - Vidalia was well practiced, after all - and she was soon onto the colour. In this moment, she felt freed - existing in a world of rich blues, sandy pale yellow, greens from the treeline and brown from the barn, and in the middle of it all, two figures who loved each other; and there she was, bringing this all to life, preserving this singular moment forever on canvas. There was a simplicity to it all that soothed her mind.

Eventually, however, she set down her brush and climbed to her feet, and all the aches and pains and stresses of life seemed to slowly crawl back, nettling their way into her joints with the familiarity of a houseguest.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ve got the gist of it. I think I’ve got enough to finish back on New-”

She coughed again, and this time some of the red gunk fell to the sandy beach. Before she’d recovered, Stevonnie had run over, placing their hand on her shoulder.

“Vidalia, are you sure you’re okay?” they asked, “Maybe I can help.”

Vidalia chuckled.

“Kid, it’s an internal thing,” she said wryly, “And I’m not swallowing your spit.”

“But…”

“Beside, it comes and goes,” continued Vidalia, “Doesn’t stop me from doing anything, so… let it be.”

“But I want to help!” exclaimed Stevonnie.

Vidalia smiled, putting her hand on their shoulder.

“I know,” she replied, “But… how do I put this, I…”

She shrugged.

“I’m okay,” she said, “I know it’s coming, and… I’m okay.”

Stevonnie frowned, eyes filled with concern.

“Know what’s coming?”

“I think we both know,” replied Vidalia, “Warp me out, will ya?”

She turned to the warp pad - hesitantly, Stevonnie followed.

“I’ll let you know when this is done!” said Vidalia, “I think it’s gonna come out really well…”

It was a night like any other.

Vidalia sat in the living room of her apartment, built into the back of the museum, taking in the moment. She had just been working on a painting - not the Stevonnie and Lapis one, that had been done for months; this one was a completely spur of the moment one.

It was her as she was now, wrinkled and grey but still smiling, still full of life; next to her stood Amethyst, and both laughed at an unheard joke. In the background was the museum, it’s artifacts arrayed in cases, displays and on the walls. Next to one, Peedee and Jeff shared a kiss. Peridot stood next to an old fossil in a glass case, but her eyes were really on Amethyst. Blue Pearl sat at an easel to the left of her, Yellow modelling for her. Stevonnie and Lapis walked around nearby, lost in each other’s company. And dotted around them all were her other friends; Garnet, Jenny, Rhodonite.

And on their own on a bench, talking about the little things that brothers speak of, were Sour Cream and Onion, the elder one ruffling the tuft on the younger’s head, as a portrait of Yellowtail looked down on them.

She didn’t know if it was her magnum opus, but it was a damn fine piece, if she said so herself.

It wasn’t finished, mind - about two-thirds were painted, and she hadn’t really begun with the shading at all - and yet when she looked at it, she felt a sense of satisfaction. There was more she’d like to do with it, so much more, but if she couldn’t? Well, that was okay. There was something there, something she had done, and she was damn proud of it.

Her eyelids were heavy as she laid back in the chair, and as she began to drift off, she could have sworn she could see a bearded figure in yellow.

She nodded wearily.

“Took me long enough, didn’t it?” she whispered.

Then, smiling peacefully, Vidalia drifted off.

It is with great sadness that the Museum of Earth announces that it’s co-founder Vidalia passed away last night at the age of seventy-four. She is survived by her two children, Sour Cream and Onion.

Vidalia was the heart, soul and most of the muscle that got this museum started in the early days of New Earth, when all we had were a few meagre crates of human artifacts, and what could be found on the backs of the survivors of Earth. It is almost entirely due to her that we gathered the collection we have today. But her efforts extended beyond our walls - she was one of the great bridges between human and gem that allowed us to survive and thrive in this new world.

It is going to be hard to imagine New Earth without her, but we must follow her example, and live up to her spirit, her kindness and her tenacity in the face of all adversity.

We asked that you give her family space in what is a sad and difficult time for them. We have been asked not to publish the details of her final resting place until she has been laid to rest…

Stevonnie put down the slip of paper, letting it fall to the floor as they sat on their mattress, a deep lump in their throat. With shaking hands, they clutched their temples, closing their eyes.

“She’s gone,” they muttered, “Everyone’s… gonna be gone one day…”

A hand came down on their shoulder, and they looked to their left. Lapis was sitting down, pulling them into a hug.

“Well I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly.

She pulled them in close, rubbing their hair as they began to cry into her shoulder.

Amethyst wiped her eyes as she watched the tiny canister float into the Oort Cloud - the final resting place of one of her best friends. She could feel the eyes of Onion and Sour Cream on the bridge behind her - she turned around to find Onion already leaving, his expression unreadable as ever. No-one would ever have known he’d been bawling earlier.

“Is… is he gonna be okay?” she asked softly.

Sour Cream nodded, turning around to follow his brother. He made it as far as the door before turning around.

“Hey, Amethyst?” His voice was croaky and soft from lack of use.

Amethyst raised her eyebrows in surprise. Ever since he had returned to New Earth, she had never actually heard him say anything.

“Yeah?” she asked, and immediately kicked herself for not saying more.

“Thanks,” said Sour Cream, “For being her friend.”

Fresh tears threatened to spill over her cheeks as she smiled sadly back.

“My pleasure, SC,” she replied, “My pleasure.”

Sour Cream gave her a small smile in return and walked away.

“Amethyst?”

Peridot got up from her chair, walking slowly up to her girlfriend.

“Are you… gonna be okay?” she asked gingerly.

Amethyst smiled, putting an arm around Peridot’s shoulder.

“She’s at peace now,” she replied, “I’m gonna be sad for a while but… it’s not a bad way to go.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the trickle of tears, the frog in her throat, and a strange sense of calm in her very being.

“Not a bad way to go at all…”

[monkeesimagines]

Monkee Mayor

It wasn’t that you didn’t support Mike in his campaign for mayor.  But after all those letters and checks poured in, just two days before the election- well, you figured something was wrong.  The whole time that Mike was campaigning, and the other three Monkees- especially Micky- were running the campaign, you had taken the liberty of polling the populace- and nobody was voting the Nesmith ticket.

  After you told Mike the results of your polls, the two of you got into an argument, a bad one.  He was determined to go through with all Micky’s planned craziness and advertising.  And you told Mike just what you were thinking: that it was all Micky’s idea- which was true- and that Mike had let himself get talked into something he never wanted to do it in the first place- which was also true.  But pointing out that he wasn’t thinking for himself was just about the worst thing you could do to him.  You had practically accused him of not having a mind of his own.  It turned out to be the easiest way to make him mad.

  His face was red, his jaws clenched tightly.  It was the only time he was ever angry enough at you to clench his fists.  He didn’t raise them, but you half-expected a slap.  Instead, he let his fiery brown eyes burn into yours for a moment before he spun on his heel and stormed out of your house, slamming the door behind him.

  You figured he must have told the other Monkees what you’d said, because it was a couple of days before you heard from them.  You spent most of that time at home, crying.  When you finally got a call, it was Davy, explaining about Zeckinbush’s threats, confirming your worst fears about the contribution money.  Mike had accepted and spent the money, and that meant the biggest crook in town now owned him, just like he owned Mayor Motley and the rest of the city.  Cold terror gripped your heart.  Mike was ruined, and the other Monkees, too- your best friends, and so early in their lives!  You could see no way out of this mess.  Now you had a new reason to cry.

  Davy told you when and on which station to watch Mike’s campaign speech.  With the Monkees out of the house, you decided to go to their pad (you didn’t have a TV) and watch the speech with the three neighbors that were living with the boys.  Not knowing whether the Monkees or any of their friends might be angry at you, you sat off to the side, away from the neighbors, but still at a good enough angle to see the TV.

  The TV cameras showed Honest Tex (one of your nicknames for him) staring at the table in front of him, chewing on his lip until it seemed he would make it bleed.  He looked up sharply as someone off to the side directed his attention to the camera.  He shifted in his seat uncomfortably.  “Hello, my name is Michael Nesmith, and as many of you know, I’ve been running for- as an independent candidate for mayor of this city.

  "Politics is a very interesting game- but it’s a dirty one, too, as I found out, and I don’t guess that I’m tough enough to play that game.”

  Your brow creased quizzically as you listened.  Michael, what are you doing?

  “You see,” Mike said, lowering his eyes, “in the beginning, when I started all this, I sorta wanted to do something for the community, because… uh…  Well, Mrs. Filchok- Oh, you don’t know who Mrs. Filchok is.”

  Mrs. Filchok, sitting in front of the Monkees’ TV set, gaped at the mention of her name.  You realized that, until that moment, none of them had known that Mike had started all this for them.

  Mike explained, “There are some people in this town who are the little people-”  He frowned.  “Well, no, they’re not the little people!”  He slapped a hand down on the table in front of him.

  You thought perhaps you understood the source of his frustration.  He had been playing this politics game just long enough to start talking like a politician, like he was somehow better than everyone else.  That was how he’d always been treated growing up, and now he saw himself doing it, and he hated it.

  Mike stumbled on, “What I- what I mean to say is, there are some people in this town without power.  They’re people like my next door neighbors.  And what I wanted to do was go down to city hall and make their voices be heard, because I didn’t think it was right that because they didn’t have any power, that nobody would listen to them.”

  You felt like crying.  He was taking this whole thing personally.  What he saw happening to his neighbors was the same thing he had seen happen to his own family when he was a child.

  Mike looked down at his hands, clasped together on the tabletop.  “Well, I suppose that was a noble enough motive, but somehow, in doing that, I got sucked up in the very forces I was trying to conquer.”

  You inhaled sharply.  He was going to come clean, right there on television for everyone to see and hear!

  Needing something to look at besides the cold, unforgiving cameras, and something for his hands to do, Mike began gouging his left thumbnail into the lines of his right palm.  “Well, the newspaper ads and the skywriting…”  He drew his lower lip into his mouth, biting down hard, leaving marks, and shut his eyes briefly, as if experiencing some terrible, gut-wrenching pain.  “…and this television show, much as I hate to say it, were all financed by funds that I got from an improper source.”  He had to pause for a deep breath before he went on.  “I didn’t know they were improper.  I don’t suppose that’s any excuse.”  He finally managed to look up at the camera.  “But if I can be tricked like that, I don’t guess that I’m smart enough to be your mayor, so I’d like to take this opportunity to announce my withdrawal from the race-”

  “Mr. Nesmith?”

  You tensed as Mayor Motley appeared beside Mike.  What could that mealy-mouthed windbag want, unless it was to torment Michael?

  “You’re right,” the mayor said.  “That’s usually how city hall is run, except when one man’s honesty throws sand in the machinery.  I promise you- and all our citizens- that from now on, our city will be a cleaner and more personal place to live.”

  Happy tears flowed freely from your eyes as you watched Motley grab Mike’s hand and start pumping.  Mike grabbed onto his hat and stood up to keep from falling out of his chair.  Then there was the sound of shouting and cheering as the other three Monkees ran in front of the camera to grab Motley’s hand themselves.

  And you and Mrs. Filchok and the others were crying tears of joy as you cheered and hugged each other.

  *     *     *

  You could hear the Monkees as they came up to the door, singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” as they came in.  Micky and Peter were deliberately singing off-key.  Well, at least the guys knew better than to try to lift the proud Texan on their shoulders and spoil his dignity.

  As soon as the guys walked in, their houseguests gathered around to join in the chorus.  Mrs. Filchok had baked a cake, originally intended to celebrate Mike’s becoming mayor.  The icing on the cake read, “To Mike, Our Hero.”

  You hung back uncertainly, wondering whether Mike would forgive you.

  The three neighbors thanked and congratulated Mike profusely for what he had tried to do.  He thanked them for their praise, blushing slightly, but not smiling, tucked his hands in his pockets, country-boy style, and muttered, “Ah, well, I tried.  Too bad it didn’t work out.”

  “That’s all right,” Peter said reassuringly.  “You’re not cut out for politics, anyway.  You’re a leader of men!”

  Everyone looked at him funny, the way they always did.  There was logic in his statement somewhere, but no one felt like looking for it.

  Except Davy.  “He does have a point, you know,” the British lad said.  “You’re not a politician.”

  “Like I said before,” Micky said with a smug smile, “he’s too honest.”

  Mike shot him a dirty look.  The Texan had a quippy retort on his tongue, but before it came out, he noticed you standing by the stairs.  You offered him a small smile and a slight wave of your fingers.  Mike came over to you, his head down, ashamed to look you in the eye.  “Hey, Y/N.  Listen, um…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The two of you chuckled, as both of you had spoken at the same time.

  “No, I really am,” Mike said.  “I- Hey, what do you have to be sorry about?”

  “For accusing you of having no mind of your own,” you said.  “Did you tell the others what I said?”

  “No,” Mike said, with one of his emphatic head shakes.  “They knew we weren’t talking, but I didn’t tell them why.”

  You sighed with relief.  “Good.  At least I don’t have to apologize to Micky for the things I said about him.”

  “Yeah, but you weren’t so far off,” Mike admitted.  “I got in over my head when I didn’t even want to.  I let myself get dragged into all this.  It’s my own fault.  Well, mine and-”

  “Hey!” cried Micky, coming to you and Mike.  The curly-headed Monkee grinned widely.  “Hey, Y/N, did you catch the show?  Man, I didn’t know how that was gonna play out, but it turned out all right in the end.”

  “Sure did,” you agreed with a small smile.

  Micky grinned at his friend.  “See, Mike, I told you running for mayor would solve everything.”

  Mike gave him a small, tight smile, his eyes narrowed.  “Yeah, you did.  Which reminds me…”  He grabbed the back of Micky’s collar, yanking him up onto his tiptoes, and started him towards the other room.  Micky squealed in fear.

  “Mike,” you pleaded, “go easy on him.  He was just trying to help.”

  “I’m not gonna hurt him,” Mike said.  “I just have some things to settle.”

  Micky winced.  “Uh, this is just a wild guess, but are you upset with me about something?”

  “Yup,” the Texan answered, Gary Cooper-style.

  “I was afraid of that,” the former campaign manager whimpered as the former candidate marched him into the next room for a stern discussion about the difference between free speech and loose tongues.

  *     *     *

  A couple of days later, you took another poll, asking people if they were happy about Mayor Motley’s re-election.  Most of them were.

  When you asked what they had thought of the independent candidate, most of them replied, “What independent candidate?”

  “The Texan, Mike Nesmith,” you reminded them.

  “Who?”

  But of those who did remember Mike- and mostly what they remembered was his withdrawal speech- this is what they had to say:

  “Oh, yeah, he was that southern boy with the hat that pulled out at the last minute.  I wasn’t sure about him until his TV speech.  Too bad he withdrew.  After that speech, I just might have voted for him, after all.  Sure, he messed up.  But who doesn’t?  At least he admitted it.  Most politicians are such cowards, they try to hide their mistakes.  And maybe he isn’t that smart when it comes to politics, but then again, most politicians don’t really seem to know what they’re doing, anyway.  If I’ve gotta be under someone’s rule, I’d rather it be an honest human being than a smart politician.”

[creativitytoexplore]

In Nature https://ift.tt/2ZVPUH1

A week before Christmas, Maggie’s son is married in the bare spot of land under the hemlocks where nothing ever grows. Maggie hangs white lights in the branches. She covers her son’s pregnant bride in a pale woolen blanket. She wakes early the morning of the wedding and spends hours digging a path through the fresh snow so that the guests—the bride’s aunt, and friends from the ranch where the young couple works—can come up to her cabin for warm bread and jam and champagne. At some point, glitter is thrown. Weeks later, when the snow melts in patches, Maggie finds it mixing into the earth and curses.

All throughout January Maggie is awoken by the foxes’ tortured mating calls, like children’s screams, breaking through the night. She sleeps terribly, but there’s comfort in the foxes’ ancestral routines. The country is a lonely and strange place. Her husband has been dead for years. Her child is an adult. There are people, in other houses, through the woods, but in the ten years she’s lived here, no one has ever invited her for dinner. She finds herself eager for cub season, when the foxes return to the den under her tool shed.

That day arrives in the first week of March, on a morning when the cold still blows its way through the trees. Inside, Maggie grows seedlings under hot little lamps. She reads a library book about birdsongs. She brews tea; she drinks vats of it. Maggie’s son calls and tells her he is coming home.

On the phone everything is already decided. He has packed and closed the door on his life at the ranch. The girl will go back to her aunt’s; she’ll have the baby there. Just like that, the newlyweds will split and be absorbed into the old families, the way the snowy woods make animals appear and then swallow them up again.

Maggie loves her son. She should be grateful for the company. But she always thought that one day he would just be grown; done, like something in an oven.

At first he is eager. He chops firewood, makes trips into town. He poisons a colony of ants that have been nesting in the roof for too long. He treats Maggie like she’s much older than she is, like she wasn’t able to do these things without him around.

At night they eat stew, and he catches her up on news she’s missed from the outside world. She listens to him talk in circles; there’s an edge to his politics that she doesn’t remember. His hair is long, his palms are callused. Maggie doesn’t know why he was asked to leave the ranch. She knows the place, the type of people it hires and lets return year after year, the things it sweeps under rugs. Perhaps it’s better not to ask.

He looks for work. One day he lopes to the edge of the road and catches a ride to the big town, an hour away. When Maggie cleans his room, she gathers new information about him, strange talismans. Wild mushrooms in a neat row on his dresser. A long gray hair on his pillow. A torn piece of newspaper advertising a vacant tavern by the state line. A dark form under the bed she reaches for, then changes her mind. Her son returns after midnight and is sullen for days. She could fill a well with the things she doesn’t know.

Maggie waits for a few warm days in a row and then turns the earth to plant her seedlings. The dog fox watches from the edge of the woods. With a new litter he hunts for the whole family. He’s been known to go through the neighbor’s trash, to tear up her garden. His responsibility makes him rash and desperate. But foxes parent for one fierce, sweet season and then release. By June the cubs will be off to their own territories.

When there’s nothing else to do Maggie walks for hours through the woods. She catalogs changes: the new growth, the dead trees that have fallen or are about to fall. She has always been a quick study. Once she worked in a museum. Once she lived in a big city. Then she started tunneling out to quieter places, searching for her own home, anything different from the sterile, colorless suburbs where she was raised. Now she can’t remember what had really been so bad about them.

After the last frost she lets the chickens out into their yard. It’s a pen full of sunlight, reinforced by double wiring. The dog fox sulks. She can almost see him licking his lips. Her son joins her on the porch and together they watch the animal retreat into the woods.

At the ranch we take them out with a twenty-two, her son boasts, disappearing into the house, but he returns with a gun much bigger than that. It fits so easily against him. Maggie catches her breath; she feels weightless, suddenly, and has to steady herself on the railing. She watches her son cock and point the loaded weapon into the woods at a spot of nothing. The fox is long gone.

Then she turns towards the trees and shakes her head slowly. That’s not how I take care of things, she says to him. But when she looks back, he is already inside.

Sometimes Maggie just wants to give in and let the foxes take what they need. Humans have so much, so easily. She pictures her son as a boy, pulling down colorful boxes in the sugary cereal aisle. She sees his small, angry body, its clammy desperation when she would hold him back from a tantrum. So much in nature, she thinks, can be boiled down to hunger. But human hunger is a bigger, more frightening thing. She remembers the other child, the new one; she counts the months in her head until there are nine.

In her sleep that night, Maggie is visited by the parties of her youth. The lights, the strangers, the buzzing. When she wakes to a dirty kitchen, she is still fondly inside of her dream. A bottle of champagne, left over from the wedding, knocks softly against her feet. Cooking wine, a can of stout lying in its own thick brown spit. It’s like the house has been sucked dry of everything. She finds her son asleep by the door. He’s so much heavier than the last time she ever carried him. Still, she drags him out onto the porch. Then she takes his bags, his sweaters, his books, and puts them in a pile by the edge of the woods. She covers his passed-out body in a loose woolen throw. Then she goes for a long walk.

The days are so long now; the light in late evening is breathtaking. Her garden does well that year. Her chickens give far more eggs than one person could eat. She leaves them in baskets on the neighbors’ porches, with notes that Maggie hopes sound friendly. One morning she bakes a cake and eats the entire thing before noon. Then she bakes another. She’s missed this side of solitude, its boundarylessness. For months she’ll look out at the blank spot under the hemlocks, and think: Once there was a boy, who now has disappeared.

  Cameron Quincy Todd is a writer, educator, and editor living in New Orleans. She holds an MFA from the University of New Orleans, where she received the Samuel Mockbee Award in Non-Fiction. Her short stories have appeared in The Best Small Fictions 2017, HOUSEGUEST Magazine, Inch (Bull City Press), and elsewhere. She is writing a book. Find her online at cameronqtodd.com.

[biofunmy]

TV’s worst moments of the year (there were many)

CLOSE

These are the worst TV moments and disappointing endings in 2019. USA TODAY

In 2019, there was more TV than ever before, from scripted dramas and reality series to sports, news and sketch comedy. And in that vast crop, there was some really fantastic TV. 

But for every superb “Dead to Me” or great Oscar acceptance speech or triumphant underdog team clinching the World Series in Game 7, there were embarrassing new series, excruciatingly dull awards shows and finales practically begging for angry Twitter reactions.  

As the year draws to a close, we rounded up the worst offenders on TV this year, in the hope that, as TV becomes even bigger in 2020, it just might get a little better. 

Danerys Targaryen (Emilia Clarke), left, and Jon Snow (Kit Harington) have their final embrace. (Photo: Helen Sloan, HBO)

The terrible ‘Game of Thrones’ finale 

The few months away from Westeros hasn’t lessened the sting of HBO’s “Game of Thrones” series finale, “The Iron Throne.” Overall, the final season was a letdown, with a rushed plot and no emotional resonance. The finale itself was poorly directed and dull, even before the controversial decision to have Jon Snow (Kit Harington) kill Daenerys (Emilia Clarke) and anoint Bran (Isaac Hempstead Wright) as king. Over eight seasons there were plenty of fantastic moments, but the writers’ inability to stick the landing tarnished the series’ legacy and made its inevitable Emmy wins seem like a fluke at best and pandering at worse. 

The contestants, hosts and judges of “The Great British Baking Show” Season 10. (Photo: Mark Bourdillon)

The reality TV tinge of ‘The Great British Baking Show’

What happened to the sweet, homey show about grandmas who bake simple cakes? The 10th season of the British treasure threw out the most beloved tropes of the series in favor of something flashier, and far worse. Producers chose a young and attractive cast of bakers that was considerably less talented than in previous years; episodes showed more footage of interpersonal drama and tears onscreen; the judges asked contestants to prepare ludicrous dishes and then eliminated contestants almost randomly to drum up drama. These choices made “Baking” (which streams on Netflix in the U.S.) seem more akin to shallow, aggressive American reality TV. We are far more disappointed in what we watched than judge Paul Hollywood could ever be in a bake. 

Hailee Steinfeld and Wiz Khalifa in “Dickinson.” (Photo: Apple TV+)

The overly weird ‘Dickinson’ (and the disappointment of Apple TV Plus)

Tech giant Apple jumped into the original programming sphere last month with Apple TV Plus, a streaming service that debuted with just nine original series. One of them was “Dickinson,” a half-hour comedy starring Hailee Steinfeld about Emily Dickinson’s teen years tinged with modern music and slang. The year’s biggest love-it-or-hate-it series, it illustrates the overall disappointment with Apple’s big TV bet, which (so far) has failed to produce any truly great shows, even if “For All Mankind” and “Servant” are halfway decent. 

Megalyn Echikunwoke, Emily Osment and Brittany Snow in “Almost Family.” (Photo: JoJo Whilden/Fox)

New shows with all the wrong ideas: ‘Dollface’ and ‘Almost Family’

Every year networks and streaming services debut new series, hoping to find the next “This Is Us,” but this year there were some true flops, Hulu’s “Dollface” and Fox’s “Almost Family.” The former turned twenty-something women into a gross stereotype that wasn’t funny (not ideal for a comedy) and the latter tried to turn an egregious crime into a heartwarming family story. 

Nicole Kidman and Meryl Streep in “Big Little Lies.” (Photo: HBO)

‘Big Little Lies’ wasting a second season (and so many Oscar winners)

If the second, and disappointing, season of HBO’s “Big Little Lies” has any moral, it’s that Hollywood needs to learn to let stories end. When it debuted in 2017, it was intended as a seven-episode series. Creator David E. Kelley and producer/stars Nicole Kidman and Reese Witherspoon should have stopped there. The decision to bring back the series without a compelling story was a huge mistake, and the wonderful cast (including Meryl Streep) couldn’t save it.

Jessica Walter and Jeffrey Tambor on “Arrested Development.” (Photo: Netflix)

‘Arrested Development’ ends with a whimper

Remember when fans used to clamor for more “Arrested Development”? You won’t see hashtags to save it anytime soon. The so-so final eight episodes of the cult sitcom, which began on Fox in 2003, arrived on Netflix last March with little fanfare and a reminder of the sexual misconduct allegations against star Jeffrey Tambor. It was a sad end to a once-brilliant sitcom that raises the question: should it have been rescued from cancellation at all?

The cast of ‘Game Of Thrones’ presents the award for supporting actress in a limited series or movie during the 71st Emmy Awards at the Microsoft Theater in Los Angeles on Sept. 22, 2019. (Photo: Robert Hanashiro, USA TODAY)

Awards shows without a host 

Take note, 2020 awards shows: You need a host. The 2019 Oscars, plagued by pre-show controversy, barely scraped through without a host, but when the Emmys tried the tactic in September, the broadcast was a slog. As, more often than not, ratings fall for these gilded, self-congratulatory Hollywood affairs across the board, taking away a major element designed to entertain the audience at home is a grave error.

Auli’i Cravalho in “The Little Mermaid Live!” (Photo: Eric McCandless, ABC)

Not-so-live musicals

Live musicals are sometimes ratings bonanzas not because of the nostalgia for the title, but rather the live aspect of the event, the sense that anything can (and probably will) go wrong. But the two we got this year were anything but, from Fox’s version of “Rent,” which aired a prerecorded dress rehearsal after a cast member’s injury, and ABC’s “The Little Mermaid,” mostly the 1989 animated movie with live songs sprinkled in. 

James Van Der Beek hug his partner Emma Slater on “Dancing With the Stars.” (Photo: Eric McCandless, ABC)

The mind-boggling ‘Dancing With the Stars’ eliminations

The long-running reality competition series disappointed in its 28th season as a slightly tweaked voting formula led to some of the most emotional eliminations for all the wrong reasons. The judges had to pick who would stay and go among the two couples who received the fewest audience votes, and often they had to choose between two of the best-dancing couples of the night. The judges were irritated, the couples were heartbroken and bad dancers (including former White House press secretary Sean Spicer) stayed in the competition far too long. The problem was summed up, sadly, by James Van Der Beek’s elimination. Despite his solid performance in the Nov. 18 episode, he wound up in the bottom two, and the judges chose to send the former “Dawson’s Creek” star home right after he revealed his wife’s miscarriage and danced while sobbing. The decision seemed so antithetical to everything the usually uplifting series is about. Even his competitor, Ally Brooke, thought it was wrong: She asked if he could take her spot and stay in the competition. 

“Survivor” contestant Dan Spilo (Photo: Robert Voets/CBS)

‘Survivor’ and ‘Big Brother’ mishandled racism and sexual harassment  

Twice this year, CBS reality show participants stepped over the line: On “Big Brother,” houseguest Jack Matthews was accused of racism by fellow contestant Kemi Fakunle, and on “Survivor,” contestant Dan Spilo touched multiple women against their express wishes. In both cases, the networks prioritized keeping the drama onscreen over punishing bad behavior and protecting victims. Matthews and Spilo should have been sent home, but they were left on their series, risking potential repeats of their offenses (and Spilo did). TV networks and producers need to learn how to promote safe and inclusive environments, or rethink the entire genre.

Student activist Samantha White (Logan Browning) becomes the target of racist cyberbullies in the Season 2 premiere of “Dear White People.” (Photo: ADAM ROSE/NETFLIX)

Netflix’s cancellation spree

Every network and streaming service has to cancel multiple series every year; it’s just a fact of the industry. But in 2019 Netflix wielded its ax at a far higher rate than the streamer had before, canceling such a wide swath of its series that, from an outside view, it seemed to speak more to the company’s overall strategy rather than viewership for any one series, which it (mostly) won’t reveal. As more shows (good and bad) are announced as a “third and final” or “fourth and final” season (including greats like “Dear White People” and “GLOW”), it becomes clear that Netflix isn’t out to get 200 episodes of a sitcom or even 100 episodes of a twisty drama, the outmoded formula for syndication. While certainly not every show needs to last 10 seasons, some have the potential to evolve and grow for years. Especially on a platform that pioneered the idea of binge-watching a series over a week or two, it’s sad that Netflix originals might never keep us occupied for very long. As streaming becomes more dominant in the industry, it’s a safe bet to say we’ll be far less likely get a series that runs as long as “Friends” or “Grey’s Anatomy” again. 

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As I’d mentioned in an earlier post, redoing some of the floors in the house has kept me busy (and my friends concerned about the integrity of my limbs).  It was a task that was a long time coming.

Ever since I bought my dad’s old house, I’ve been meaning to remove the dull brown carpets from the bedrooms and my Man Cave (Nerd Cave according to the Houseguest) and replace them with laminate flooring similar to what’s in the living room (the rest of the house is tiled). I mean, these things were ancient. And by ancient, I mean disgusting. I’m not sure if they were the original carpets from 1980 when I was in junior high, but at a minimum, they’d been on duty at least 20 years and were a far duller brown than when they started out. They were so bad, I wouldn’t invite people over for fear they’d catch a glimpse of them and pass judgment on me.

These carpets had seen their better days sometime in the early 90s. Two decades of tramping feet had ground dirt into them. Vacuuming didn’t help — instead, it produced weird smells from the vacuum cleaner. When the carpets got wet, it resurrected faint scents of accidents by pets long gone. I occasionally borrowed a carpet shampooer from my friend The Todd (not to be confused with Stoner Todd from my post, Ridin’ Dirty) but still the carpets looked only marginally better. The carpets simply had to go.

Trouble Pulling the Trigger

Over the last few years, there have been numerous times I’ve haunted flooring stores or departments looking wistfully at the laminate flooring. However, I always left with nothing more than samples and a vague determination to do something — eventually.

However, as much as I despised the carpets, I never got around to replacing them.  Things kept coming up, like my lack of will to undertake the project myself or not wanting to spend the money. When I did have enough money, I’d use it on something else. I thought about hiring someone, but that would be way more expensive — plus, they’d see my disgusting carpets and silently judge me. And, my Man Cave had so much stuff jammed into it it would be an arduous undertaking to clear it all out. If you’ve ever seen the Room of Requirement from the Harry Potter movies, you get the idea.

My Man Caves resembled this only slightly more crowded.

I could do the job myself but then that meant relying on me and, in my book, that’s never a good idea — especially since my handyman skills are rudimentary at best. I haven’t posted many of my home project follies here, but one time, I got stuck on my roof. And everyone I know cringes when they think of me renting a saw — and they aren’t the only ones. There was the chainsaw incident where I rented one to cut up a tree that fell over during a storm. I came this close to being in a tragic news report and, shaken, I ended up hiring a professional to finish the job.

Mortal enemies

As much as I hated the carpets, the Houseguest hated them more. She’s a Zoroastrian, so she takes the whole cleanliness concept seriously. (Well, compared to me she does — the rest of the Zoroastrians might kick her out of the fire temple if they saw her messy workspace.)

She has been renting a room from me for 3 years, and well before she moved in, I told her I intended to rip up the carpets. Lately, she had been complaining more often about their grodiness and blamed all her ills on them. Shortly after my employment ended, at her behest, I pulled up the carpet in her room. She reasoned that even a bare concrete floor had to be better than the hated carpet. Once I’d removed it, she looked at the exposed concrete with a critical eye, and I could sense her excitement ebb.

“Don’t like it?” I asked.

“I thought it would look — different. More…” her voice trailed off.

Her brow wrinkled as we stared at the stained, dull grey floor.

“It’s kind of — ugly,” she said.

Yes, yes it was.

It was not an attractive looking floor; the construction guys had slopped paint and other things onto the concrete and it looked quite unappealing. The Houseguest consoled herself that at least the carpet was gone and she could at least sweep. That sentiment lasted about two weeks and she began making more and more negative comments about the concrete.

What the Houseguest envisioned…

The reality.

A decision gets made

During that time, I began contemplating paying for new flooring with a credit card. I didn’t really want to add debt while I was unemployed and trying to get some freelance work going, but this ongoing floor situation had been festering far too long. The Houseguest told me not to be silly, she could deal with it.

A week later, the concrete floor finally wore her resolve down and she offered to fund the flooring project and I would pay her back when I had the money. Though I appreciated the offer, I declined because I hate borrowing money from (or loaning it to) friends because a financial obligation is an easy way to poison a relationship. But the Houseguest was persistent; she did not want to look at the concrete floor anymore. Plus, as she pointed out — now was the perfect time to jump into a project because I had a lot of free time. So, finally, I agreed to the loan and she wrote me a check for $1,900.

Gathering supplies

We drove to a couple of spots to check out flooring options. I had been set on installing laminate, but several people had mentioned that Vinyl Luxury Planks was the way to go these days. ‘Vinyl?’ I thought. No way I was putting vinyl on my floors. Oh, but this isn’t your father’s thin vinyl flooring. No, this stuff is created to mimic the look of wood and comes in textured planks. Nucore, the brand I settled on has a cork backing to soften footfalls and deaden sound. It’s not as hard as laminate, but it’s waterproof (I’ve had a broken water line before — no fun) and fairly easy to work with — you can even score it with a boxcutter and then bend it to snap it in two.

I almost went with a nice-looking brand sold through Lowes, but the online reviews were either glowing or scathing. Turns out the product was originally made in China, but after the trade war started, apparently they brought production back to the U.S. and the quality was terrible. People were scrambling looking for boxes of the stuff made in China and some people had got stuck with American stuff halfway through their project. I quickly scratched that one off my list and ended up going with Floor and Decor’s Spalted Maple NuCore.

Before I got the project rolling, I borrowed my friend Carlos’s miter saw to cut the vinyl quarter round molding that would cover the expansion gaps at the baseboards. I’m glad I did because I ended up actually using it to cut the vinyl planking as well. Even though they tout you can use a boxcutter, the first two planks I tried to cut, I kept screwing up and veering offline while scoring the boards and cutting scatches into the surface. No way was I going to end up with jacked up floors from the get-go, so I used Carlos’s power saw (as well a regular hand saw for lengthwise cuts and a hobby saw for small, delicate cuts). That miter saw totally sped things up.

Getting started

Once I had everything I needed, I sat around for a couple of days watching Youtube videos, nervous to start. I’d calculated the number of boxes of planking I needed and added an extra 10% for mistakes, but I wasn’t absolutely sure I had enough. I didn’t want to screw things up to the point where I’d have to scrap the project. Hence the obsessive video watching.

Finally, I decided to stop overthinking it and jump into the deep end and do the Houseguest’s room. I just needed a friend to help me move furniture out. The Todd agreed to stop by late Saturday afternoon and help, but as I had nothing else to do that morning, I thought I’d get a head start by removing all the drawers from the two dressers to lighten them and move the nightstands out, which went smoothly. But why stop there? I decided to see if I could move some of the furniture by myself. See, I don’t like inconveniencing other people (and in turn, don’t like to be inconvenienced). The dressers were solid maple but had small casters hidden underneath which made it easier. Then I decided to tackle the Houseguest’s queen-sized bed (she’d already agreed to stay at a friend’s over the weekend).  Like a determined ant, I got the moving done by the time The Todd called. (Over the course of the project, I ended up moving everything out of all three rooms by myself — dressers, beds, bookcases, desks, etc.)

That’s my bedroom door to the left. I really hoped I didn’t have to escape the house in a hurry.

Hitting my stride — or so I thought

The first room took me longer than I thought it would. A professional could have prepped the floor and laid the interlocking planking down in a few hours, but it took me 3 days (not working straight through, mind you).

Making progress on the Houseguest’s room

Nearly done

Once I finished the first room and moved everything back in, I figured my room would go more quickly now that I had a better idea of what I was doing. I continued to learn new techniques as I went along, like how to cut trim properly and make proper endcaps when the molding ends at an open space to make it look attractive.

After pulling up the carpet in my room, I began prying up the wooden strips of carpet tack that’s nailed into the concrete to keep the edge of the carpet from moving. However, I ran into an immediate setback. Most of the concrete nails holding the carpet tack in place were short, but on one 8-foot section, whoever had nailed the carpet tack down had used gigantic spikes — they looked like the nails the Romans used when they crucified Jesus. These spikes had demolished the concrete underneath, which I pulled it up in big chunks. They’d also caused an eight-foot long crack in the concrete stretching toward the center of the room.

Normal nail and the nail from hell.

I bet some dude ran out of regular nails and used the spikes figuring no one would discover it for decades that he’d half-assed it. Luckily, I had a lot of quick-setting concrete leftover from my plumbing project and I used that to fill in the huge ragged gap along the wall — of course, I had to let it dry and that delayed me.

A pox upon your lazy ass!

Other than that, the main problem I ran into was my decision to go minimalist — I wasn’t going to move a lot of the furniture and extra bullshit back into my room and Man Cave. It was time to purge. But now that furniture and other stuff sat there clogging up my hallway, front room, and living room. As my mom would have said, it looked like a bomb had gone off in my house. 

I ended up sleeping out here

Stuff everywhere

This is my bedroom

Spilling out to the front of the house

Computer in the bathroom

Printer in the hall

Sweet dreams

While I was working on my room, I ended up sleeping on my couch, which (luckily) consists of two day beds and is super comfy. I actually slept more soundly on it than my regular bed. The Houseguest was a bit bummed because she likes to watch CNN in the morning on the living room TV before going to work. I ended up sleeping out there for a week because when I started in on the Man Cave, I had so much crap to lug out I had to store a lot of it in my bedroom and some stuff ended up piled on top of my bed. The Man Cave floor I completed pretty quickly, even though the crucifier had been at engaged in his destructive ways again and I had to put new cement down once more.

Yep, I have my knee pads on upside down.

Once the floors were down, I still wasn’t quite done because I needed Carlos’ nail gun and compressor to secure the quarter rounds. It was about a week before I got them, however, I decided to move some of my furniture and stuff back in and work around it once I got the nailgun because routines were too disrupted. Plus, furniture was blocking access to my washing machine and I was running out of clean clothes.

Let’s do this!

Not a good look for me

I have to admit, the project stretched out longer than I wanted it to and people kept asking when it would be done. Joe, the owner of Bigfish, my last place of employment, texted me after one of my umpteen updates.

“Rivers! (my nickname) What are you doing over there? Building the Taj Mahal?”

Using a packing blanket to drag my heavy-ass bedframe without damaging the floor.

But I eventually got everything I wanted in the rooms dragged back in. My Man Cave looks like a minimalist’s haven — well, compared to what it looked like before. The front rooms are still a bit messy, but I’m going through stuff and putting it into the garage, throwing it out, or donating it.

I was happy with my work. The Houseguest stood admiring the floor of the Man Cave.

“You know, you got so much better at it as you went along,” she said. I looked at her.

“Are you saying you’re unhappy with your floor?”

She wasn’t. But she was right; my early work wasn’t my best. You could see a few seams in her room that could have been tighter. I’d made a couple of minor mistakes, but I wasn’t sure I’d have enough material at the time, so I worked around them. Once I’d finished everything, I ended up with a left over box of planks. I’d already decided I would fix the Houseguest’s floor, so I recut the problematic boards and have them stored away. When she goes out of town in November, I’m going to redo her floor. It won’t be hard. I’ll simply pull it up and relay it and insert the new boards. The hardest part will be dragging her furniture out, but it should take me no time at all. Honestly, it doesn’t look bad now, but I would know it could be better, so I have to redo it.

Lessons learned

So, I learned a few things during this project.

Getting up and down repeatedly sucks. I ended up bruising my left knuckles and knee against the concrete until I started wearing work gloves and bought some knee pads.

If something doesn’t seem right, it probably isn’t. My knee pads sucked and kept falling down. Worst design ever. Just as I was finishing up the row in the last room I realized I’d had them on upside down the whole time. Oops. I put them on the right way for that last row and they fit well and were super comfy. Better late than never — I guess.

After much pain and tears, you’ll discover a super-easy way to do a pain-in-the-ass task, right as you’re finishing up.

Having the right tools is super helpful. Not having them is really frustrating, though you can improvise.

I suck at trying to cut vinyl planking with a boxcutter. Mitre saw for the win! My friend Jason’s brother saw me post on Facebook about using a miter saw and asked him if I realized I didn’t need a miter saw for vinyl planking. Au contraire, my friend. Bro, did I ever need it.

Never take the easy way out. You won’t be happy. I was just using a straight cut on the end of my quarter rounds even though the flooring experts said it looked unprofessional. I’d tried to make a neatly curved end cap but failed and settled for a simple 90-degree cut. But the experts were right — it looked like shit, so I went back to YouTube and found a better how-to video and learned how to do end caps right. Then I redid all the ones I’d done so farl. They looked 100 times better.

Take a gander at that awesome looking end cap I made. Involved two 45-degree outside cuts and a regular cut and then some glue.

Anyway, so, the flooring is down, it looks good, and I love the new and improved Man Cave. It no longer looks like an orc den. Oh, and I just repaid the Houseguest her money after getting paid on some freelancing gigs. And there were no trips to the ER. I’m calling this a win for the Land Manatee.

The new and improved Man Cave.

DIY Success? Luxury Vinyl Planks As I'd mentioned in an earlier post, redoing some of the floors in the house has kept me busy…

[3one3]

The Sequel - 851

Bibbidi Bobbidi

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“I love this house. I can’t believe how little time you’re spending here this summer.”

“I can come back when we have a few days here and there. It stays nice here for months still.”

“I had a dream that was just like this, only more dramatic. We had to split up in the morning. It was like our last night together, but for some really serious reason. One of us was being sent away, or going to jail, or leaving to fight in a war or something crazy. It was a night just like this though, with all the doors open, and the curtains blowing around, candles inside, the moonlight outside, the smell of the ocean...”

“And the sex?”

“And the sex.”

Wednesday night in Mallora was perfect in every way. It was warm but comfortable, even in direct sun. The grilled lobster and strip steaks came off the grill rack with char marks that couldn’t have been any more idyllic if someone painted them on, and they tasted as good as they looked. The sangria had great depth and dynamism of flavor after sitting in the refrigerator for three hours, and beautiful color. Two pretty gray and yellow birds visited the big patio a few times to have their picture taken. And best of all, Juan was there. He was all smiles and Greek tan, and Christina was equal parts relieved and excited. She missed him. He missed her. They needed each other, and they knew it. They knew that no matter how long they pretended they could change their arrangement, it would never be a good choice. It would leave them wanting, fundamentally unsatisfied.

Monaco was good too, for Christina at least. Rio wasn’t a big fan of the small and oddly curved arena surrounded by mega distractions, but Nick’s good work ethic shone there. He won a class and placed well in others. André got him a beer to celebrate and became the Hanoverian’s new favorite human. André also apologized for not going to the party with his girl on the eve of the first competition day, and she apologized for being awful to him for half the day. All was fine. They were sad to say goodbye to Lilly XO Sunday, even if the rider would see her again in 4 days. More than they were sad, they were happy to be heading home together as a family. They missed their bed, and their couch, and their cars, even. Christina missed the rest of the horses. She couldn’t get Daniel and her other teammates to bring their animals over for a mini-camp, but she got Daniel to agree to bring his family to stay for two nights before they went to Cascais for another round of the Global Champions Tour, and they were going to ride the resident horses together, give each other lessons, let their kids play, have a cookout, etc. André loved the idea. He loved the idea of his wife having normal friends and doing normal friend things with them. He was a bit dejected about having to see her off to Palma on Wednesday- off to spend three nights with Juan- but he had his first day of training and the first with the new Borussia Dortmund manager coming. Thursday was fitness tests and Friday was double sessions with the full squad. He was ready to make a good impression.

“Your hair is so light. I don’t think I’ve even seen it this way,” the Spaniard remarked while his houseguest yawned in his lap. She was kind of crooked, curled up next to and on top of his waist. He couldn’t wait to take the clothes off her after giving their big dinner a chance to land, and she couldn’t wait to be loved in his unique ways. Those two things had to happen separately. Juan got his way first, and then there was a break for more sangria, and for candles, and music, and to open up doors and windows. Then Christina got what she wanted most, including the spent snuggles afterward.

“I don’t think I’ve spent this much time in real sun at once since I first moved to London,” she told him, her hand bumping his as she tried to comb some of her golden highlights back out of her face. The Chelsea man was already trying to do that for her. “It used to get like this every summer when all I did was go to horse shows every week. Even wearing a helmet and a baseball hat all summer, I still got so much bleaching. And you’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“Do you not remember when your fiancé made me spend an entire day in a salon, getting platinum blonde?”

“I didn’t, actually, but that’s different. It wasn’t like this. It was weird and unnatural. This is beautiful.”

“Awww.”

“What about me? Is my summer hair beautiful?”

“Gorgeous.” Christina turned some so she could look directly up at her friend, and reached to poke at his fuzzy chin. That was still dark brown, unlike the milk chocolate stuff atop his head. “Thanks for having me, by the way. I forgot to say that when I got here.” Her graciousness garnered much sniggering.

“Any time, cariña. Any time you want to be had, I’m willing.”

“You know what I meant.” She rolled her eyes at him and he reached over to tickle her side. He had a sheet covering his body up to where she was occupying it, but she was completely nude and uncovered. There was a lot of squirming to get away from his deliberately agitating touch. I guess it wasn’t quite so as intense as in that fantasy anyway, she decided once she’d rolled far enough away that Juan could no longer inflict tickle torture. She was about to open her mouth to complain that he ruined the mood. It would be weird if we were super serious tonight, I suppose. I don’t want it to be like we’re lovers kept apart by warring families or nations or something. That’s how big the stakes were in that dream, with the Yerevan song. We’re just normal. Just normal levels of missing and needing each other.

“Where you going?” the Spaniard asked her as she got out of his all-white, all-Italian linens.

“You promised I could have a post-sex cigarette on the terrace. Nobody can see me out here, right?” Christina leaned through the old French doors to peek out at the peaceful, breezy night. There was just enough room on that terrace for two chairs and a little tree stump-like table. He told her no one could see her unless they were watching from a boat, with night-vision binoculars or something, but warned her that she’d be pretty cold out there if she didn’t put something on. That consequently got his shirt stolen, because she didn’t want anything of her own. She didn’t want to be just Christina. She wanted to be Chris with Juanin. That was a whole different person than just Christina, or Chris with Schü. She had to be. It couldn’t work, otherwise. Compartmentalizing was necessary and satisfying. That was a conclusion she arrived at one day at home, in the saddle. The jury was still out on the significance of that revelation. But the significance of feeling like Chris and Juanin was unquestionable.

The Chelsea creator got himself another shirt and put his shorts back on, and then joined her outside with a glass of ice water for himself and what was left of the sangria in her wine glass, with fresh ice added. The kitchen in his old villa was so far away from his bedroom that he actually brought an ice bucket up with him when they retired for the evening. His ex-girlfriend teased him for it, but also kind of adored his forethought. She enjoyed the fruity and warming beverage with her cigarette. A now-and-again nicotine fix still tasted terrible to her, really, and it was nice to have a chaser to cover it up. It was also nice to enjoy it without André’s disapproving glare. Juan didn’t mind her occasional smoking. Sometimes he found it sexy. Her husband crucified her for one stolen Camel Light on the dock in Antibes.

“I can see my boat,” she smirked. “See?” She pointed out over the low wall of the balcony toward the water when the footballer circled her little waist in his arms from behind her. He leaned over her shoulder to see the light bobbing around on top of Lilly XO’s tallest mast, visible down beyond the cliff and little beach. They could both sort of hear the general rumble of the sea off in the distance, and it added to the ambiance and the peaceful mood there, but really they just imagined it, and the sound of the water circulated artificially in the swimming pool to their left aided in the illusion. Real or imagined atmosphere, Christina couldn’t find a thing wrong with it.

“I’m looking forward to watching you walk around on your boat. You know how I think your walk is everything? Your bouncy runway-girl swagger? It’s even better barefoot in the bathing suit on the boat deck. I’ve been thinking about you strutting around on there, with your music.”

“Mkay,” she giggled, blushing. “I’ve been thinking about you strutting around a football pitch. Do you miss it yet, or nah? Holiday not long enough?”

“I don’t miss it yet but I’m sure it will feel good to go back and get started,” her human cape shrugged around her. He then grabbed gently at the skin on the side of her neck with his lips. He’d been uncharacteristically possessive of her body and affectionate toward her since he picked her up at the airport and took her shopping for dinner ingredients. He sucked passively at one spot an inch below her right ear for a few seconds, and then lazily smooched a little closer to the pulse point. The rider tried to blow her cigarette smoke away so it wouldn’t come right back at his face. It felt to her like his lips were trying to chase the movement of her throat each time she pulled on the cigarette or exhaled the byproducts. She felt him moving ever closer to the front of her throat, until he found a spot he must have liked. There he stayed, sucking, and nibbling, and even lapping with his tongue on her skin held carefully between his teeth. Juan’s arms remained locked around her waist too, so there was no wriggling away if his attention got tickle-like, as any attention to her sensitive neck could.

There is going to be a really ugly hickey there when he’s done, Christina idly recognized as his “kiss” moved further and further from tickling, and she worried less and less about holding herself up. Being adored is so wonderful. Why can’t the boys have longer for vacation? They’re so much happier and more relaxed when they have time off. Yes, I am selfishly saying I wish they got more free time so that they can spend it adoring me. Adoring me is good for them too though! Boyfriend is sooooooo fit right now, and he’s not even stressed about the new manager. That’s ludicrous. And any time he gets to spend with me is good for this leach, she smiled to herself while lowering her cigarette and raising her glass. It felt kind of weird to swallow a gulp of Rioja-based sangria while someone was sucking on her throat. That someone took advantage of her tilting her head back a bit to drink, and opened up his lips to engulf some more of her skin in an even bigger kiss.

“Baaabe,” she chuckled plaintively. A squishy sound preceded the removal of wet lips from wet, warm, abused flesh.  

“You taste good,” Juan told her, as if his hunger for her couldn’t be helped.

“If you want to taste me, can you taste somewhere else?” the rider smirked back without turning from the shadowy view. The end of her cigarette glowed brighter for a second as she pulled on it and gave him a chance to mull over his answer, or at least mull a snappy or sarcastic quip. This window for contemplation was expanded with her thirst for the rest of her wine, which she gulped down in a few swallows.

“Where should I taste?” the fuzzy face by her cheek inquired. The hands belonging to that person also rubbed around her sides.

“My inner thigh could really use some love,” Christina told her best friend. “The one I pulled months ago hurts a lot lately. What should I do with this?” The Spaniard nodded at his water glass sitting on the wall, giving his approval for her to use it as an ashtray. Flicking ash around was fine with her. Stubbing out her cigarette on someone’s house or in his wine glass wasn’t okay without asking first.  

“Can we go in now? It’s cold out here, cariña.”

She conceded to getting back under the covers, but Juan just wanted to get back onto the bed, not in it. He told her to get comfortable on her back and bend her knees, and he lay on his stomach in between them. Her request for some love for her sore inner thigh was not going to go unheeded. He passively kissed his way up and down the inside of her legs from knee to bikini tan line while they talked about Ibiza. A couple of his Spain teammates were going to Above & Beyond too, so Christina wanted to invite them over for dinner on the boat beforehand. She quizzed her personal Furia Roja player about where he stood on the subject of their privacy. That was never resolved in Cannes. They had that sort-of-fight about his kissing her in front of everyone in hospitality and then they shipped out away from the public eye for most of the next day, so it didn’t really matter. The rider wanted to know if he was going to go touching her in any more-than-friends ways, or if he was going to hold her hand, or kiss her neck when she inevitably forced him to dance. It would be one thing to blend into a packed club and sneak some intimate affection. It would be a different thing to behave a certain way in front of his friends.

“I get a feeling that you’re asking me this because you want me to do those things, not because you just want to know if I plan on it,” the Chelsea midfielder surmised.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “On one hand, I like it when you can’t help but act a certain way. I mean, what girl doesn’t like it when someone she loves is affectionate? Or affectionate in public so that everyone sees you’re together? But I also don’t know how to handle the fallout from that, and I don’t want it for Schü. It’s not fair to him if people talk.” She was trying not to melt into the pillows and pass out. Being blissed out on post-sex chemicals, exhausted from a long day, lulled into placidity by loving smooches on her legs, and then made to lay on pillows with the perfect balance of firmness and absorption was asking for a coma. She held the bottom of Juan’s black t-shirt down between her legs since she still lacked panties and his face was right there but not for any purposes related to that specific part of her anatomy, and because she knew his lips on her sensitive inner thigh spots got the same kind of reaction as that other purpose would have done. A face full of vulva while not actively licking or kissing vulva just seemed unpleasant and awkward to her. Her other hand played around in her hair, at her scalp, and his slightly accusatory question made her rotate her fingers from pad to tip. “Like...if you kissed my neck or squeezed my butt or something and Sergi Roberto saw it and then asked you about it, what would you say? How would you explain that?”

“I don’t think he would ask me. We’re not that close,” Juan shrugged. He was kneading the underside of her right thigh too, from his elbows.

“What about Ander? What about all of your friends? Don’t they ask you why you spend so much time with me? Or just whether or not you’re hitting that? I would ask you all the time.”

“Believe it or not, the whole world does not care about my sex life, or yours for that matter. How many of your friends ask you if we’re sleeping together?”

“Literally all of them.” Christina’s frank response earned skepticism in return, but she was being honest. Tom asked. Stef asked. Nat asks with her accusing eyes. Marcus asked. D hasn’t formally asked but I feel like that’s just because he already knows.

“Your friends are just nosy, I guess.”

“Your face is nosy.” She let go of the hem of the shirt to poke the player in the nose instead. I don’t want to have to tell him how many people I’ve actually told, she thought somewhat guiltily. Process stories- the implications and side effects and logistics of her unconventional relationship with Juan, and indeed her husband- plagued her less and less of late. They were kind of like the Olympics- just blocked out, on “ignore”.

“I got a book for you. Want to see?”

Christina slowly shook her head “no”.

“Want to hear the synopsis?”

Again, the answer was “no”.

“Water?”

Once more, a rejection. The Spanish player rose up on his hands and knees and leaned forward to get to his guest’s neck.

“This?” he asked after nuzzling his way in for a kiss. She nodded and tilted her head to smooch his cheek.

I’m tired, and I don’t want to have any more sex tonight, she narrated to herself, eyes closed, and legs closed around Juan. But I missed him so much. He feels so good. I was already happy when I got here, which is rare. I was already happy at home. Things have been good. I catch myself smiling for no reason. That feels good. But then I saw his smile at the airport and it was like my smile got unruly and uncontrollable. Like when I walk into the barn and Dirk is hanging over his door with his cute pony ears pricked and his big mischief eyes imploring me to come see him. That smile. I don’t want to stop feeling like this. I don’t want to show up at Aachen for the most beautiful week of horse stuff in Germany- the showpiece for the nation, and the federation- and lose this feeling because I know what happens by the end of that week, and I know what comes after that. I want to stay in this pre-Aachen world for longer.

“Love you,” she mumbled through the juxtaposition of warm, soft lips on her neck and scratchy Brillo on her cheek- a contrast that nearly always raised her body temperature and enlivened her spine. The bearded man stretched between her legs let his weight drop the rest of the way down on her, and rested his face on her pillow with a view of her familiar profile, which he traced with the tip of his right pointer.

“Do you remember the Gatorade advert for the 2014 World Cup?”

“No,” Christina snorted before grabbing at the finger with her teeth.

“Messi was in it, with David Luiz, Sergio Ramos...”

“That feels like a hundred years ago.”

“It was a training montage with the song from Cinderella- you know- the silly one? With no real words?”

“Ohhh! I do remember! The Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo commercial!”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“That song has been stuck in my head all day.” Juan tapped out the rhythm of the Fairy Godmother’s theme tune on his ex’s nose, lips, and chin.  

“You couldn’t have just said the Cinderella song?” she asked, still kind of chuckling. “It wasn’t even a special version in that ad, I don’t think.”

“I remember it from the ad,” he shrugged back. “I can see Leo Messi bouncing between uprights when I hear it.”

“It’s well after midnight and neither of us have turned into a pumpkin so I think we’re safe.”

“I never know with you,” he told her, his tone serious. “Sometimes when our time is up, you turn back into a duller you, and I can’t get the party girl back until we’re together a bit again. It surprised me these last weeks that you kept your dress on and your horses stayed handsome and special instead of changing into old nags or whatever Cinderella had before her pumpkin turned into a carriage.” Christina did her best to turn on her side under his weight, so she could see into his eyes, and so she could hold onto his waist.

“You and me both.”

“I’m not complaining though.”

“Me either.”

“Tomorrow you need to help me choose a watch.”

“You decided? It’s gonna be a watch?”

“Yes. I’ve narrowed it down to two. One is very old, and the other is just old. You pick for me.”

“I dunno, man. That’s a lot of responsibility, and money.”

“I love them both, so whichever you pick will be the right one.”

“Mkay. I’m not gonna let you pick my Ferrari because I have better taste than you, but I might let you suggest the first place to which I drive it.”

“To me, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Christina grinned as Juan zeroed in closer to kiss her mouth. They’d spent a lot of time talking about the rewards for achieving their respective big goals. It was almost like a default topic, reverted to whenever there was nothing else to say. The rider appreciated that she could talk to the player about her Ferrari wishes- code for gold medal wishes- without him making any kind of big deal about it, or being overly confident, or too encouraging. She also liked that he wanted to involve her in his own reward. He’d been waiting for a trophy worthy of a special token for so long, and she knew how hard he worked for it on and off the pitch, physically, emotionally, and mentally. He didn’t hide from big mental questions the way she did, and she thought that meant he was “better” at the psychological game than she was. She was in awe of it, even. Juan could be all mentally tough and dedicated but still cede to her judgement on something as significant as his big reward. That meant something to her. In some way, she thought it might mean he believed she knew as well as he did what would make him most happy and content. Christina also really loved that the Juan Affection Switch was well and truly flicked to the “on” position. He couldn’t keep his lips off her.

“You going to let me drive it,” he questioned between delicate smooches. “Or do I have to wrestle the keys from you?”

“You know it doesn’t even have keys.” She couldn’t stop grinning. It made his kisses feel funny, like he was kissing her but she wasn’t kissing back. Neither participant was bothered.

“The key fob.”

“You’re a fob.”

“I want to fob you again.”

“That’s not even funny,” the equestrian laughed.

“You’re laughing though.”

“At you, not with you.”

“Shhhhh,” Juan urged before engaging her in the kind of liplock she couldn’t avoid actively getting involved in. He reached around her butt at the same time, sliding his palm all the way down between her legs while his tongue got between her lips. There was only one thing on her mind. So this is what it’s like to be with Juanin when we’re both happy. It’s never happened before. I think I told him once that we could never be happy together because I only want him when I’m unhappy and I thought he only wanted me when he was unhappy, and that we’d just be unhappy all the time, together. Now he’s happy, and I’m happy, and it’s...it feels perfect. I haven’t been happy together with someone in years. Not since before Lukas was born. Not since Schü and I were so happy together that we decided there should be a Lukas. I’ve hardly been happy at all since then, and never at the same time he is. He’s not there yet. He needs football to be right, and he needs us to be 100% again, and only then will he be happy like this one is, Christina concluded when it was just her tongue left in her mouth, and when beautiful, sparkly, and darkened blue eyes blinked placidly back at her as she opened hers.

“You were right.”

“About the acid in the citrus? I still taste it.”

“No. Never mi-“ She shook her head a tiny bit and reached out with her lips. Another kiss could save her from having to admit that Juan was correct when he assured her that they could do better than just being unhappy together. It was too serious a thing to get into when there was an alternative available like making out. “What book did you get for me?” was the only question she thought of during the next break.

“It’s called “The Zoo”. It’s a history of the London Zoo, told through profiles of Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles, as in the hotel in Singapore that you want to go to, an architect, a veterinarian, the taxidermist who inherited the mistakes of the veterinarian, Charles Darwin, a zookeeper, and a wealthy guy who was obsessed with hippos.”

“Honestly that sounds amazing,” Christina laughed, eyes alight. “Totally random, but amazing.”

“I thought so too. Right up your alley.” The Spaniard pulled her left leg up from the back of her thigh, and then went back to feeling around closer to her butt. He definitely had more in mind for the rest of the night than she did, and that made her smile to herself, again. If for no other reason, it affirmed for her that he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. “It might be just strange enough to keep you interested on your flight to Tokyo, and in your hotel there when you can’t sleep.”

“Don’t jinx it. And nothing short of prescription drugs would help me sleep there, if I get to go.”

“I can go with you, you know. Ask, and I go.”

“No you can’t.”

“I can.”

“Can’t. I need to do it myself anyway.”

“You do and you don’t.”

“Mm?”

“You need to do it yourself for yourself, but you don’t have to.”

“I actually think I want to. I need to get back to being able to do that.”