#But there will always be an emotional component too. There's sadness and rage and disappointment

[vamptastic]

it's such a fucking nightmare that a jewish state exists in my lifetime but it's heavily influenced if not fully dependent on the US and highly militarized and not at all socialist and can't coexist with any of its neighbors and has the weight of decades of mistreatment of the people who lived there upon it and the far right leadership has fucked everything beyond belief. I don't think we'll manage to make anything good out of this in my lifetime. Brother it is so joever for the 3rd Temple

[frangipanidownunder]

Objects in the Mirror: fic

This is for my anon who asked: ‘what happens when Scully sees Mulder kissing someone else during their “separation”. This is set pre-season 10.

Willowy. That’s the first word that pops into Scully’s head. The second thought is that at least the woman isn’t a brunette too. Type, much, Mulder? The third thought is that it’s none of her business what Mulder does these days. None. At all. Unless it’s a health issue, he’s an adult. He’s not her…The mental conversation doesn’t supply a word so her brain leaps to the fourth thought, which is how the fuck could he do that? She stops short of adding ‘to her’, so she pulls herself back to the third thought, repeating like a mantra as she strides out, eyes to the sidewalk, desperate to unsee what she saw.

But now there’s a burning itch in her gut, the kind that used to see her pumping more rounds out at the firing range or sending local law enforcement officers running for cover with her machine-gun observations of their sub-par work. Pity she can’t blow her anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy off like that anymore; she’s no longer FBI.

Pity she can’t blow off being Scully.

She takes her writhing anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy into the café over the road and orders a large latte and a white chocolate and raspberry muffin. She knows she’ll regret it almost immediately and spend a week denying herself any other treats but she needs the sugar hit. Mulder’s still talking to Willow-Blonde, so while Scully’s waiting, she teases ‘Louis’ the barista with a slow smile, holding the seam of her wallet against her cheek, hugging her waist with the other arm and slowly twisting her torso side to side so that her hair falls over her face, then swings back off it again.

It’s a pointless mating dance. It’s reactive. She’s aware of that, but tries not to fall further down the Mulder-profiling-her rabbit hole. The slow-combustion of what she recognises as a misguided sense of dispossession is still taking place in her veins. She hates herself for this weakness but here she is swaying for a bearded barista. Louis blinks her way, finishing the latte art on her order with a flourish. For him, this ritual is part of his training. Keep the customers happy. Especially the older, professional women. They’re the ones who’ll return to the same café time and again, spending their disposable income on cakes and romantic hopes. She’d fuck him though. He’s pretty enough. She wonders what the male equivalent of willowy is. And then tells her mind to shut the fuck up.

Outside, where people are actually living with purpose, instead of imagining petty sex-revenge scenarios, the street is busy. Through the thrum, she spots Mulder again. His outline, his figure, is imprinted indelibly in her mind’s eye. She believes she could find him anywhere, in a ballgame crowd, in the darkened corner of a jazz club behind drifting dry ice, through the misty rain at the end of the yard, arm raised against the twisted apple tree, raging at the brutal sky above him. There was a time when she so desperately wanted him to return home from her imposed exile that she saw him everywhere: in the parking lot, at the line in the bank, across the street pushing someone else’s baby in a stroller.

“Latte for Day-nah,” Louis sings, and as he hands over the cup his fingers brush hers. They’re thin, girlish, two knuckles decorated with calligraphy tattoos. She doesn’t hold his eye, just whips the coffee and cake bag from his hand and heads outside.

The woman has gone but Mulder’s still there, brown paper cup in hand, sunglasses (those ugly sports ones he got from eBay because they were called SpookMeister, what? they’re so me, Scully) across that familiar, broad nose, hair an inch past unkempt and stubble on his chin that hides that fat bottom lip just a little too much. She dips her face to her own cup and watches a moment longer before a car pulls up and he climbs in.

He calls her later. She doesn’t answer the first time, lets the cell buzz and slide over the table top while his name flashes at her. When she does pick up, she feigns breathlessness and gets the desired response.

“Did I catch you at a bad time, Scully?” There’s disappointment laced through his words.

“No, it’s fine. Just doing a workout.” She wheezes out a cough for extra measure.

“Keeping fit for all those kids, huh? You’re a good doctor, Scully. Always going above and beyond for that place. I hope they know how deep your affections lie. Is there some kind of Olympic Games for paediatricians? The Doctors Games?”

It’s hard not to bite back, but they’ve played this game for so long their dysfunction is beat-perfect. “Keeping fit for one’s own personal health and wellbeing is a key component in living a fulfilling life, Mulder.” If only she could convince herself as easily as the words flow.

There’s a shuffle, a few clicks and bumps. He’s changing channels. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve found a new therapist. One that seems to really get me, you know?”

His tone seems genuine and she softens. “That’s good, Mulder.” Despite their issues, she’s only ever wanted him to be well. “I do want to know these things. As your physician…”

“Not that I didn’t like the other one you recommended, but,” he takes in a sharp breath as if to punctuate his point, “we’d run our course.”

She sinks into the chair, letting her head flop back on the rest. One step forward, two steps back. “How often do you see him?”

“You’re letting your unconscious bias show, Scully. Her.”

The small word stings like a needle. She refrains from asking him if she has blonde hair and legs like a foal.

“Fortnightly. We’re still at the heady getting to know you stage.” There’s a small silence where she imagines he’s assessing if he’s done enough damage yet. “She’s young enough to understand Instagram but mature enough to get Prince.”

She laughs gently. The tension diffuses again and she feels a rush of emotion. She can’t help herself. He drags her down then lifts her up with a simple switch of tone. “I saw you today. In town.”

“I do go out in the wild without my Ghillie suit sometimes, Scully. Why didn’t you say hello? I don’t bite.”

Not literally, she thinks. Well, not for a long time. She crosses her legs at the unexpected surge of arousal but the image of him kissing another woman creeps behind her eyes again. “It felt…” If he were here with her, in the same room, he’d lean in to her, tilt his head, quirk his lips, draw the truth from her. But there’s a distance more than miles between them and she can’t say the words. “I was running late.”

“That’s unlike you, Dr Punctual. Is everything okay?”

The way he switches from teasing to caring leaves her off-balance. She waits for the world to right itself.

“Can you schedule me in for an appointment, Scully? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Not medical. Are you free on the weekend?”

Tightness in her chest makes her breathing hitch. She adjusts the phone in her grip, gives herself time to respond. She’s faced mutants and monsters, her own mortality and his death, the loss of her children. Surely, his confession shouldn’t be elevated to those ranks. Yet her hands tremble and nausea roils in her stomach. Her brain rocks. It’s stupid, dumb to feel like this. She left him. She turned her back one last time and got herself away before the darkness swallowed her whole. The guilt that followed stripped her bare like a never-ending winter but recently she’s begun to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin again.

“Sure. I’ll come over,” she asserts. That way she can simply leave again. Walk the same walk.

“No, let me take you to dinner,” he says, unexpectedly. “That Thai place you like.”

Her sigh is sharp enough to graze her throat. He can’t be that insensitive as to invite her to eat at the same place they celebrated getting the keys to the house or her news about the job at Our Lady of Sorrows.

“Or the Ethiopian restaurant. You loved their shiro wat.”

“We could order pizza and stay home.” Home. She says it without thinking.

He chuckled. “Like the old days?”

“Something like that,” she says, knowing it will be anything but.

In the end, they agreed on a lunch at the vegetarian café and she orders an omelette she knows she won’t eat. He tucks into his feta and pumpkin quiche with salad and tells her he’s trying to eat cleaner. She doesn’t ask what’s brought on the change.

“What was it you wanted to tell me, Mulder? If it’s just to prove you’re finally paying attention to your diet, you’ve demonstrated it adequately. I believe you.” Her fingers clasp around a napkin and she twists it to a sharp point.

His expression is the same one he used for the victims of the most bizarre kind of crimes. She feels panic welling in her throat and crushes the napkin into a tight ball.

“I wanted to tell you that I met someone. I figured I owed you an explanation. Not an explanation, I mean I haven’t done anything wrong…fuck, this is hard,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Jeez. I feel like a teenager. I…I just didn’t want you to find out from someone else.” He pauses and she nods her head at him, encouraging him to finish, not only because he’s clearly still got stuff to get off her chest, but also because she just wants it over. “Not that anyone else knows because I don’t have friends…so, anyway. I…” The noise he makes is a sad laugh. For her or for him? “That’s, that’s my news.”

His fingers have crept across the table and they’re drumming on the surface, disturbing the small jug containing packets of sugar so that it chinks in time with his beat. He adds a low “sorry.”

If she takes a deep breath, what signal will that send? If she speaks too quickly, would that show a callous disinterest? She tries to smile but her lips refuse to co-operate. She’s never been good at hiding negative emotions, despite her tendency to stoicism. “How did you meet her?”

“Online,” he says. “Where else does someone who spends days at a time in his den meet other humans?”

He’s blushing and it’s charming and she hates it. “Is it serious?” The words are dry on her tongue.

He looks away and she tries to interpret the clench of his jaw. A beat. It softens and his mouth changes from grimace to lop-sided grin. “What does it mean if she left a copy of Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps on the coffee table?”

“Well,” she starts, trying to hold his eye despite a rush of conflicting emotions churning through her. “I would jump in the car and take it back to her, but I’m not sure how to get to her place.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence, then his head tips back and he laughs. She sips her tea and enjoys the sound. It always pleases her so profoundly to make him laugh. Not many people could claim to draw out true joy from Fox Mulder.

When he’s collected himself, he rubs his chin. “She took me out last week for coffee, took me out to tell me it was over. At least she did that, I suppose. She…she told me I was too insular. Can you believe that, Scully?” He plays for light. “According to her expert opinion of my psyche, that, I might add, she gleaned from two coffee dates and a meal at some over-priced French place where a dessert the size of a pin cost $50, I was still stuck in the past. With you.” He lowers his eyes and she rolls her lips together to stop herself from adding ‘and your demons and truths’. His shoulders move as he chuckles. “She didn’t really leave me that book, Scully. She didn’t come to the house.”

She’s stupidly relieved to hear that.

“It seemed wrong, somehow,” he says. “And it got me thinking, after her Dear John speech, that maybe this is what we’re…I’m destined for. A kind of relationship limbo. Prevented from going forward because I’m still snagged on a Scully branch. Do you think she’s right? If you…if you met someone, Scully, do you think you could give your whole self to that person?” He blinks slowly. “Or will there always be a small part of you left here?” He pats his chest with the side of his fist.

Her own heart speeds up. She’s had a few dates, a few flings. She hadn’t told him because he wasn’t in the headspace to process her attempts at moving on. And she can see now they were just ‘attempts’. There was an emptiness to the experience. And there’s a grain of truth to his question. It’s exposed just how indelibly tied they are because of their past.

She doesn’t answer him and he plays with the lollo rosso on his plate. “I like the weight of you in here.” He looks down to his heart. “It keeps me balanced.” A waiter retrieves their plates and Mulder watches her for the entire time he’s cleaning the table.

Her chest constricts, burns with such intensity that she’s certain her face is aflame. His fingers meet hers, mid-table, and she lets him squeeze them, such tenderness, such affection, so far removed from the angry, impotent man she’d left.

“Have we fucked each other up entirely, Scully?”

“Is that how she put it, your mystery woman?”

He grins. “I told her I liked being fucked up. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. That’s when she threw in the towel.”

“I don’t blame her,” she says, rubbing his knuckles. “Imagine meeting Spooky Mulder all grown up. At least back in the day your paranoia was justified. Government conspiracies and all.”

“If Dr Dana Scully had met me now, she wouldn’t have lasted one date with Ole Spook, would she?”

She lowers her head as she giggles. “You showed me many things, Mulder. Opened my eyes to wonders and closed them to the black and white life I’d known. I’m a better person because of you. I wouldn’t change a day.”

“You told me that once before.”

“And I still mean it.”

Outside, the day is cooling, sun leaching away behind thickening cloud. They walk in amiable silence down the street. There’s a bookshop she loves and he nods as she lingers at the door. Inside, the comforting smell of words on pages wafts over her and she browses the dark-shadowed shelves.

Mulder emerges with an armful of books from Squatchin’ for Novices to Meals for One. She swallows at the sight of that one. She’s picked up a mystery thriller, and couple of romances that he side-eyes. She bats him over the arm with one. Then she spies the main prize. She picks out two copies. A his and her pair. The teller scans them through and she hands one to Mulder.

He’s still laughing as they walk to their cars. He puts the other books on the passenger seat of his car and clasps his copy of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck to his chest.

“Shit is fucked,” she says, reading from the blurb.

“And we just have to live with it.” He drops a kiss on her head and smiles a full-wattage beam. “You’re still a good date, Scully.”

“You too,” she says. “And I’m glad you told me about…your…”

“Tiffany. That was her name.”

She can’t help the sharp burst of laughter that comes out. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That…was unexpected.”

He snugs a hand in his jeans pocket. “I know. It should have been a warning.”

“Well, unfortunate name aside, it’s good that you’re getting out there.”

“Out there. Where the truth is? I don’t think I’ll be doing it again in a hurry.”

She pulls a sympathetic face, reaches out to touch his arm. “I don’t want to be your snag, Mulder. I thought I was setting you free.”

“We’ll never be free of each other, Scully. And I don’t want to be free in that sense, not if it means never having days like this. I…miss you.” He bounces his toe off the ground and the lump in her throat wedges itself firm.

“I’d better be going,” she whispers. Turns to leave.

“Maybe we can make this a weekly thing,” he says after her. “Just two fuck-ups having lunch, you know?”

She stops, turns back around, smiling through her tears. “Maybe.” And she watches him in the rear-view mirror. Objects in the mirror may appear closer than they are, she thinks as she drives away, and sometimes, they actually are.

[shewholovestoread]

Star Wars Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker

I’ve been sitting on this for a while. I saw the film on Friday and I’ve spent the days since trying to come to terms with what I saw. While there was a healthy dose of skepticism especially after the mess that was GoT Season 8, I was still hopeful that Star Wars couldn’t possibly go that route, there was no way. I’m sad to say that while I did not hate the film, I didn’t quite love it either.

First the good, there were more than a few parts of the film that I loved. I loved that we saw Leia training to be a Jedi, I loved that she had her own lightsaber. I loved Rey and Ben together, each trying to reach the other. I loved that there was an internal conflict within her, something she had to actively work on. I loved that Ben returned to the light and both of his parents were involved. I loved that we got Reylo, something that quite of us had already predicted. I loved that Finn was Force Sensitive. But that’s about it.

There are massive plot holes in the film that are simply not addressed. How had Palpatine survived all those years? Was Palpatine always planned to be the final big bad? Because I don’t see it. The set-up came too late with little to no time for a satisfying resolve. Whichever way you look at it, it would have always felt too rushed. Where was the build-up? You needed at least 2 films to do the whole thing justice, especially with the way the film was planned. You don’t introduce a villain that big and then bump him off in 1 film.

I was unhappy that they made Rey a Palpatine. One of the best aspects of TLJ was that she was a nobody. She was a regular person, like everyone else. She didn’t come from an über powerful family. That was a novel idea, it broke from the old Star Wars tradition where everyone is linked to the Skywalkers in some capacity or another. Her struggle with the Dark Side could have still been a key component without connecting her to a Palpatine.

Where do I even start with Finn and Poe? They were relegated to the background and their entire arc was fairly messy. They served a purpose but there was no emotional payoff. The entire Resistance plot felt undercooked.

There were too many new characters for a film that was serving as the finale for a franchise roughly 40 years in the making. This should have been about wrapping up the story, not adding new elements that you didn’t have any time for. Having said that, I did like Zorii and Jannah. I liked that there were Storm-troopers who had rebelled against their training.

Then there was Ben Solo/Kylo Ren. Full disclosure, I’ve liked his character from the beginning and I loved the way Driver played him. All that unchecked rage at odds with the vulnerability of a lost and lonely boy. His fate seemed especially cruel. We learn in TROS that he was manipulated by Palpaltine from the very beginning, since he was in Leia’s womb. His own parents didn’t understand him, his uncle/mentor tried to kill him. He finally broke away from all that negativity only to die at the end? That seems harsh. What’s the message here? Ben Solo deserved to live a life of peace. The one silver lining is that he died protecting the woman he loved. It was a choice he made.

It is also not surprising that JJ and Terio killed him off. TROS plot, in a lot of ways, feels like a check-list and it shows. They tried to put in a little something for everyone from the fanboys to the shippers (so long as they were not Finn-Poe) They had to redeem Kylo Ren, that was always gonna happen but they also probably feared backlash from the majority fan-base. They probably figured that that would appease both Kylo haters and those who saw Bendemption in the cards.

But this is Star Wars and no one ever really dies. If Ahsoka Tano can be brought back from the dead then so can Ben. It’s even more likely in his case because he and Rey share a soul, they’re literally soul mates and that kind of bond doesn’t just disappear. I’m hoping and praying that there are canon books in the works where we see this happen. If not, there’s always Fanfiction.

The end with Rey taking the Skywalker name seems even more disingenuous. You’re going back to the legacy family, implying that the name makes her special. She was Rey and that was enough. She survived on Jakku for years, relying only on her wits and resilience. There was no Force there to help her out, no Jedi masters. Rey is enough, she did not need to take on another name. And while we’re on the subject, if anything, it would have made more sense for to take on the Solo name. She was close to Leia, Han and Ben. Luke wasn’t exactly nice to her when she trained with him, they weren’t close. Why the hell would she take on that name?

TROS would have been Carrie Fisher’s film and I will forever be heartbroken that we never got to see it what that could have been.

The Last Jedi was a revolutionary Star Wars in so many ways from the narrative arc to the cinematography, it felt new. TROS went back to the formulaic way of the earlier films and it was poorer for it.

I did not hate Star Wars, I can’t, there’s too much emotional investment for that. But this film fell woefully short on many fronts and that is deeply disappointing.

To Daisy Ridley, Adam Driver, John Boyega, Oscar Isaac, Kelly Marie Tran, Mark Hamill, Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher and the entire cast, I want to end by saying a heartfelt thank you. In your own way, you made these films special and that will always remain.

[connywrites]

Eavesdropping

now on [AO3]

“Yeah, well, my mom was a piece of shit, and uh, my dad—oh yeah, he was a piece of shit, too,” Leo snapped, a familiar sign of finding it hard to stop talking shit once he started.

“Not to mention the whole, liking an android more than me, anyway,” he spat with the same fluctuation in his voice as he’d used the day he sauntered in with the expectation of more money; the day when Markus confronted him and his own father encouraged him to back down from his spat of violence. It didn’t matter what he did, how he did it or what measures he took to achieve what he wanted, whether Carl gave it to him or not– it was all he’d seen, wanted or cared for, so he’d go out of his way to do anything to obtain it.

Leo was a person that insisted on pushing forward, for better or worse. If he was challenged, he would tackle it head-on, even if it meant a worse demise for himself.

“But that’s just the complaint everyone has these days, isn’t it? At least it was before everything lead to shit and robots had their heads over ours. But hey, maybe that’s just my fucking problem, after–”

A strange sensation churned in his chest while his typical double personality fought against itself, leaving him to try and make a decision over ‘which Leo’ he would allow himself to be today. It depended on the moment, what he wanted, and which way would be the best to achieve his desires. Lying and telling stories were second nature to him, and exaggeration in his favor fit his sticky fingers like sterile gloves.

“You know what that piece of shit said to me?” He always did the annoying pause for emphasis after a prologue of words, knowing it riled up whomever he was talking to, a key role in his typical manipulation tactics. The more he spoke out loud, the more he fed into the rage still stirring within him, feeling the resurgence of bitter hatred seeping its way to the surface of his skin the same way it always did.

“You know, my dad was full of his own crap, but at least he was real,” he said in an intentional diversion from his original question as he’d already lost the thought.

“This thing…I dunno. It pretends. It pretends real well.” Whoever he was on the phone with seemed to encourage him as he rocked in his seat, leaning forward and speaking with dramatic prominence.

“And that’s like, that’s the point, right? It was made like that, and dad fell for it. Just like ev-er-y-bo-dy else,” he muttered in sharp, slow, spaced syllables, revisiting his misanthropic view of humanity as a whole to fuel the emotional fire.

“I don’t know what’s up, but it’s freaky, you know? I live here, with this thing that could kill me in my sleep. I can’t really explain it. Everyone was scared seeing him on TV, and I live with that, night and day. I could die like, you know, one of the cops in the street did or whatever. I mean, they shot him and took him to the junkyard and the freak came back from the dead, or whatever.”

It was too deep of a thought process, but now that he’d plunged into it, he couldn’t escape what he’d started.

“That’s what I mean. You don’t really know, and it’s not like they tell you.” While Leo couldn’t comprehend much about the politics involving Cyberlife, he had a basic understanding of why the majority of the population didn’t take a particular liking to androids. The shift of power was sudden, and in his own view, he felt like it was majorly his own fault—he’d been shoved to the ground with a concussion in the midst of a petty argument, they’d lost their father and before he knew it, he was sharing bus seats with different mechanical models sharing the same faces, pretending they had an identity in a serial number.

Human rights. New species. Something something, new life form. Freedom. The news reports still rang in his mind as it was all he saw and listened to while bound in the hospital bed that day, as well as the next three following. He’d woken with a bloody nose and no memory of what had happened, only recalling his crippled father hovering above him in fear, sobbing over what he had done and the fact Markus was missing and ‘in danger’. The way Carl spoke about both of them as if they were on equal ground was always strange to Leo, but he knew better than to assume his dad saw him as anything close to how he perceived Markus, thus never raising his hopes with the acknowledgement that he would ever measure up to a machine.

A specifically designed android, modern art with a specific goal in mind, something so precisely constructed down to its behavior and personality. Leo had no chance of fully grasping the degree of which Markus was finely tuned, as he’d only been able to see what was revealed to him. When he wasn’t thinking about the angle of the lifestyle Markus got to lead, he didn’t mind treating him as a person and often didn’t think too hard about it the more time went on. As soon as he could find a reason to use it as verbal bait or any kind of manipulation leverage overall, however, it didn’t matter what Markus had done or fought for; he was reduced to being useless plastic praised much too high in Leo’s personally opinionated mind.

-

“Why were you saying those things about me?”

Confrontation was one of the most difficult things for Leo, and now he was caught in the act, standing stiffly while his body wavered to one side with a bout of anxiety bringing him to tap his fingertips at his side, letting out a sigh, then two, and three. Shaking his head, he turned to leave; but a hand gripping his shoulder was quick to stop him as Markus stilled him with a moment of thought as the android paused to find eye contact, eyebrows narrowing with a stare of disbelief and an edge of anger in a final response to how Leo had been acting, just now as well as overall. Is this what Carl had gone through every time?

“Leo…are you talking about me differently, depending on who you’re speaking to? And how you want them to see me?”

Being called out made Leo feel guilty, and he hated guilt. It meant that not only was he wrong, but he was forced to acknowledge it. Resonating a sense of self-awareness, he was still tussling with between accepting who he was and following through as a better person, or trying to latch onto the uglier parts of himself that existed through old grudges and bad habits for the sake of ease.

There was something in the way that Markus stared at him, a certain sorrow in his eyes with the shift of his mouth into a frown – not one of anger or frustration, but of betrayal. How could Leo blame him? They’d spent this long together with Markus constantly at his side, helping him, teaching them how to handle new coping mechanisms and the lack of certainty that came with the death of a loved one, alongside the difficulties of quitting hard drugs. Sometimes Carl’s death was seemingly the only thing they had in common. Markus felt like he’d taken it much more seriously and heavily than Leo, but he’d seen from the young man’s emotional outbursts – even if they were small and far in-between, as Leo didn’t like being emotional or giving into those thoughts and feelings at all, which was what made them genuine and proved to Markus that what he thought and felt was real – he had his own sorrows haunting him over the matter. There was something in Leo that one would only recognize if they looked, squinted and dug around for, and that was the personality that was resilient, the Leo that wanted to live, to learn and to thrive, weighed down by his previous history, from family neglect to drug abuse leading up to felony charges. A badly manufactured firecracker waiting to be lit with a short fuse while it crackled up to one explosion after another, unexpected and abrupt with sparks flying everywhere. Sometimes it was a glorious display, but usually it was an awkwardly packed bundle of gunpowder in a crooked shell, bound to explode without warning and provide a show subpar to what was usually expected.

A disappointment. A dud. A weakness.

“Shut up,” Leo said in offense, as if Markus’ words were the wrong ones and he had been in the right to deflect them. Lowering his stature while the width of his shoulders tensed and squared, Markus glared at his brother with a gaze holding betrayal. Leo wasn’t exactly the type that was able to read people like books, but he figured if he put forth enough emotion, it would be harder for Leo to avoid, no matter how difficult of a time he had with body language or eye contact.

“I didn’t say anything,” Markus notified him firmly.

“You’ve been doing all the talking. I just don’t like what I’m hearing.” Surprising for Leo, Markus’ voice was soft to his ears, kind and with a slight edge that reminded him of someone that had been hurt – the usual way people responded once they realized you’d set them up for disappointment and used them to gain something for yourself, meanwhile shoving them under the bus in your favor, just as he’d been so many times before, an uncomfortable reminder that whether he liked it or not, Markus was emotive. He could feel, he could think, he could become sad or grow angry, and while Leo didn’t understand it even to the slightest degree, he emotionally crumbled faster than he could catch himself once the subject was brought to his attention. It was harder to be an asshole without the red ice blurring his vision in a berserk panic, leaving him with no choice than to consider what he’d said, and the damage it had already done.

Markus drew in a long, deep breath while he reminded himself that if he wanted to help and understand Leo, it would take patience, to a degree that was new and challenging to him. Sometimes he felt as though he’d finally cracked through the shell, gotten Leo to shine for who he truly was, following his better beliefs and feeling ambition to his core, the key component to fighting his addictions; and sometimes he felt like he’d worked so hard to chisel his way through, only for all the hard work to be shoved back into his face multiple times over. Maybe this was what made Leo so difficult to get along with, but with that thought, he knew that it was only that way because no one else tried to refuse his sly ways. Whoever Leo had known in the past let him get away with the lies, the twisted words and anger, the inflated ego, the pity parties, the coercive motions and cunning words if he wanted someone to feel bad for him. He’d seen it, and he hated it, the way Leo would take every verbal and behavioral cue as an excuse to turn it back on whoever seemingly opposed him or utilize it as a chance to attract attention to himself.

“Leo—” His voice was soft but stern as he tried to catch the other’s attention.

“Leo,” he spat back with blatant sarcasm, rolling his eyes while he mimicked the word with spite and mockery.

“Christ, now you sound like my mom, too. What, my name only worth saying when you want something? When I do something wrong?” That glare was all too familiar, dark, radiant brown eyes staring into Markus’ while he was reminded of interactions he’d long since wanted to forget. Markus acknowledged that despite his personal frustrations, if he didn’t stand up to Leo when he was in a mood like this, no one would, and he’d never learn that he couldn’t get away with acting this way.

“I don’t say your name as means to antagonize you.” For a moment, he’d forgotten that trying to explain himself was a bit too much with words too long, bounding to only frustrate Leo worse; closing his eyes, Markus lifted a hand in a ‘wait a minute’ gesture while he regathered his thoughts. Leo looked nonplussed, scowling while he glared him down through frustration as he was made to deal with this, but let Markus continue.

“I just wish you’d listen, for once. That I could trust you not to act like this as soon as I turn around.”

Was he feeling regret? Over an android’s words? Leo didn’t want to believe it, staring at the ground as he shifted his weight to the other leg again, rotating a foot and smudging the toe of his shoe into the ground, as if snubbing something out – though nothing was there, proving it to be an action carried out by the need of his internal bursting energy alone, always seeming to disrupt him in a way that made it so he couldn’t sit still or hold conversation for long. Markus couldn’t tell whether to blame it on the drugs anymore or not, or leave it to the fact Leo was simply like that as a person.

“Yeah, well, I wish all sorts of shit, but that’s just it – wishes don’t come true.” There was a cold callousness in Leo’s eyes that Markus hadn’t seen since he was on drugs, and that was when the realization clicked into place that it didn’t take an external substance for Leo to act up; it was simply something he did when he might see the response as beneficial, or simply carried it on as a habit, a weapon tucked away into its holster until he needed it.

“So I’m supposed to believe the past four months of our time together weren’t…” too many words, he knew already.

“Leo, I thought that you… I thought that we,” he restated, quick to realize his monologue would likely hit deaf ears and quickly shortening his sentence before continuing. To his surprise, Leo huffed, stopping in place while he considered the words; bringing his hands to the sides of his head, Leo clenched fingers into his hair as he began to pace, a blatant sign something was bothering him and thus hinting Markus to tread lightly.

“I thought we were doing well.” He wanted to finish his sentence with more dialogue, but it lacked malice, holding pure interest as to why Leo would turn on him this way and what he should do about it. He’d heard about it, he knew full and well how Leo changed his personality on a whim, fished for compliments and played the victim card when he needed to for whatever he wanted. Nonetheless, he’d never seen the actions in front of his own two eyes, and the striking disappointment that sunk deep into him made Markus realize so much more about Leo than he’d ever wanted to. It explained why Carl had such difficulty trying to keep in touch alone, why even after doing their best for Leo, everyone had to give up eventually and leave him to face his own battles; a bold contrast to how Leo seemed to either belittle himself or inflate his own ego depending on the moment, leaving Markus to pick apart an algorithm he’d never had to before.

“It’s not that easy,” Leo griped, an immediate excuse to avoid the conversation as he, again, tried to leave. Markus was quick to position himself in his way, tilting his head with a look on his face that made Leo feel cornered—not afraid, simply aware, leaning his head back with an upward tilt of his chin as he subconsciously tried to make himself appear bigger in favor of the interaction, even as the  shorter party.

“I never said it was.” The level of intelligence this computer held reminded Leo of his frustration in the first place, index fingers rubbing circles in the sides of his temples as he glared straight ahead and began pacing back and forth across the polished wood floor.

“You can’t keep doing this.” Markus let the name drop, lacking the need to further add a carved sharpness to the words he spoke, something else he and Leo would disagree on again and again. Every once in a while, Leo seemed to belittle his own name, reacting to it with sudden disgust as if it left a ringing in his ears or a bitter taste on his tongue. What it was like to hate one’s own moniker was entirely beyond Markus, as his was simple and held no particular emotional attachment, short and to the point. There was the generally added personal connection to surnames, and Markus had yet to brave bringing up the sound of Manfred between the two of them.

“I can do whatever I want,” Leo stated blatantly, even though both of them knew better and neither of them believed him for a second.

“Is it that easy for you to lie?” This caught Leo’s attention full-on as he froze in place, staring Markus down with an expression mixed between disbelief and the ‘duh’ he communicated with his eyes, barely short of escaping his lips.

“Is it that hard for you?” Leo parroted, glaring Markus in the eyes the same way he’d done the last time while his fingertips curled into the fabric of the android’s jacket.

“Is it that easy for you to be honest? Oh yeah, you never had to defend yourself, so of course it is! You had nothing to lie about,” he began, already feeling the aggravated heat on his face from his own frustration alone. He subconsciously stepped onto the seething hot trail of rage, knowing it would lead to somewhere ugly and regretful, but took it in stride for the moment as he felt like it was the right thing to do.

“You had nobody to lie to, so of course you wouldn’t get it. There was no need!” Despite having Leo yelling in his face another time over, Markus took a long, quiet moment to recollect, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out in one long, slow motion, before opening his eyes to catch Leo’s while he was granted the mercy of holding eye contact, no matter how short-lived the moment might have been.

“No, I didn’t lie,” he stated with clear modesty.

“There’s no reason for me to lie, withhold secrets or falsify the truth. That isn’t to say I haven’t done it before – I understand the need to when you’re in the position of danger. I will never understand doing so for the sake of self-gratitude, though.”

“You what now?” Right. Markus glanced over to one of the chairs in the main room, leading them both to sit down across one another in the seats on each side of the empty chess table, hoping that Leo would accept the invitation to settle and vent one way or another, whether the conversation was personally constructive for either of them or not. He knew when Leo acted like this it meant he had a lot of pent-up frustrations he needed to get out, and sometimes complaining alone did the trick; but this time, Markus felt like it might be a little bit different.

“Sorry,” Markus offered, thinking about how talking in shorter sentences was his own sort of habit he needed to change, but it was a simple rearrangement of thought compared to the daily major life aspects Leo had to work around and teach himself to adjust to. All he was trying to do was make communication easier between them, and if he still caught himself finding trouble with it, he couldn’t imagine how many times more difficult such a thing must be for someone trying to turn their entire life around. Leo only stared at him.

“Lying just to lie doesn’t make sense to me, neither does lying to get something I want. That’s why you do it, right?” Leo scoffed, glaring daggers in Markus’ direction.

“Yeah, sure, let’s go with that. Lying to win. It’s that easy.” Both of them paused with a heavy tension between them, aggravation building, doing no favors for the docile nature Markus intended to keep with this exchange.

“No. I never said you won, or that it was easy,” Markus corrected, and Leo bared his teeth with a snarl as he further disliked being corrected.

“I said I can’t do the same thing myself unless the situation called for it. I want to understand why you talk to your friends like I’m an object after I thought you were finally understanding how to respect me as a person.” Shifting in the seat, it took all the willpower Leo had not to get up and leave, arms straight at his sides while his hands clenched into the soft red fabric of stiff luxury cushions. Lowering his glower while he glared off to the side, he shook his head with an unsteady motion as everything in his body ushered him to keep moving.

“’Cause some people don’t get it, okay? They’re never going to. They’re not gonna wake up one day and think androids are people, no matter how hard you try,” he continued with spite, but his lowered vision and shrunken shoulders told Markus that there was sincerity in Leo’s word, an emotional defense mechanism slowly crumbling as honesty and realization swirled in Leo’s mind, constantly changing his view for the better even as he dug his hands into old mud.

“It’s just…easier to talk to ‘em the way they know, you know?” Markus glared at him, not feeling so bad when Leo adjusted uncomfortably in his seat again.

“You talked about how I could kill you. You don’t really think of me that way, do you?” Leo swallowed, making Markus grow uneasy. Was this a thought process Leo had stuck in his mind all along? An assumption he’d never heard, and thus didn’t bother trying to work around?

“No,” Leo said, but it was in a rush and he realized he should take it back immediately as it was a falsified truth.

“Maybe,” he snapped, closing his eyes while he leaned back and rubbed over the skin of his forehead, rolling it over his eyebrows and back up to his hairlinne again. Too honest. This was speaking more than he cared to, and every word dug the stress in deeper.

“I don’t know. You’ve seen what—what those things—what your friends do!” Aware there was no way to properly speak about it in a dignified matter, he’d changed his wording with a last-second moment of lament, shaking his head and combing his hands through his hair.

“I don’t know, dude, everyone’s out to get me all the time, why the hell should I think you’re any different?” Leo’s eyes stared at Markus’, but they jittered, dilated and unfocused in a way that would make Markus assume he was on drugs if he didn’t know any better. This was merely a typical stress response in Leo and would usually go as soon as it came as long as he let him ride it out the way he needed to; but that was the trickier part. Sometimes it was a good idea to let Leo get his frustrations out, and others it only made the situation and his own train of thought that much worse.

“Will you listen to me if I explain it to you?” There was a sharpness to Markus’ voice as he offered-yet-threatened to try and hold a conversation over the matter, and Leo stopping in place at least proved he was willing to consider the idea. Shrugging, Leo pulled his arms up from the seat and leaned into the back of the chair, folding his hands behind his head.

“Alright. Okay. Go for it.” Markus never liked Leo’s taunting nature, but he was willing to try and work with it if it might work out in their favor. Looking expectant, Leo raised his eyebrows with a twitch of his lip as he waited. Suddenly, Markus had a harder time finding the words he needed to say once he was put on the spot.

“First of all, I’m not them. I’m not your mother, or your father, or your old friends, or your ex-girlfriend.” Leo already looked bored and annoyed but remained quiet as he waited for Markus to continue.

“I don’t have some ultimate goal to ruin your life, and I’m not dealing with a fluctuation of instable emotions like most people around you had been. I’m not going to think differently of you from one day to the next, I just want to try to understand how you are as a whole. Killing you would sort of defeat the whole point of me trying to get to know you better, anyway,” he continued with a lighter tone to his voice, prompting Leo to face the realization of truth as he bit his lower lip and turned his head to the side, shifting uncomfortably.

“I know that truth is difficult for you, Leo. Sincerity, emotion, it’s all a foreign concept that you struggle to understand.” Cheeks darkening, Leo felt the need to get up and leave thricefold as soon as Markus pointed out the truth, leaving him to start scratching at the long sleeve of his upper arm in agitation while Markus pulled out another pin to add to the cushion of his own denial. Leading to self-discovery was another process in itself, Leo’s body shuffling so his shoulders slouched when he leaned forward, still casting his gaze off to one side in avoidance. Still, in Markus’ mind, it was another step forward.

“You don’t have to tell me. Your relationships with your friends and what they mean are your own business, and not mine. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to be treated like a person, better than how you’ve been talking, with how much I’ve done for you.” Usually, Leo would take that as an antagonization, hearing Markus’ words and reflecting them in his past memories of manipulation – but Markus was sincere, another fact that had him lost while he tried to register the words for what they meant, and the emotion they fully encompassed. Markus wasn’t passive-aggressive, he wasn’t bitter or spiteful; he occasionally sunk his teeth into a bittersweet fruit but overall, Leo knew what he was telling him was honest, and there was no way he could deny or run away from the matter.

“Okay,” he said swiftly, and the disbelief made Markus curl his lips with an expression of dismay and lower his eyebrows while Leo rubbed the palms of his hands together, antsy and avoidant.

“You know what, you’re right,” he admitted – as much as he hated stating such a thing.

“I just… I know so many people, and they all think different. I can’t fit in with anyone, so I sorta, I have to change my behavior because of it.” It sounded pathetic; he knew. It fell flat on Markus’ microphones; he was all too aware. But it was the best he could give at an explanation for his actions, in a way that would make sense to him.

Markus wanted to respond immediately, but he took a moment to redecide, trying to imagine himself in Leo’s shoes; to him, it would be easy to tell the truth and hold a modest persona, but for Leo it would be the opposite. The fact this person had to adjust and change his personality so much made Markus question who the true Leo was, or rather, who he might have been if given the freedom from such a cruel world caving in around him. The longer he’d spent with him, the more he learned that Leo’s exaggerations and lies weren’t merely self-defense; they were deeply ingrained beliefs that would be harder to shake than super glue.

“You don’t have to do that.” It was the first thing Markus thought to say, pausing afterwards so as to let the words sink in.

“I know,” Leo responded in a dark, quiet tone, the words surprising both of them.

“I don’t have to. But it’s easier if I do.”

Easy. A word Markus was aware of, but never became well-acquainted with. Why would there be any worth in doing something if it was easy?

Then he remembered Leo’s situation, where nothing was easy and he had to do his best just to survive, feeling the melancholy drift over him, shrouding him within a cloud of newfound heartache. He still hadn’t adjusted to his own emotions in regard to Leo, so it was always a bit surprising when he felt something in response to their exchange, new sensations he was still regulating to while Leo likely knew the full extent of the strings he was pulling. This time, he hoped to turn the tide, even just slightly.

“Why do you think it’s easier?” It was a difficult concept, but he wanted to know the truth, and understood the thought process Leo must go through every time it came to something like this; he imagined it may have been a practiced feat, but never assumed it could come easily.

“Okay, like, if I called up a thrift shop and started talking about an old microwave like a person, they’d look at me like I’m nuts, right?” The mania strung out through his veins made him continue to shake while he offered a half-smile, half-sneer, eyes wide with disjointed lips and crooked teeth showing an expression Markus never really understood.

“I mean, I get it. The revolution shit. I was there, I saw it, I kinda caused it,” he said with an airy tone holding more snide than he’d really meant. Again, he wasn’t good with confrontation.

“But that doesn’t mean everyone listens. Some people I know aren’t gonna change their minds, and that’s just how it is,” he said, not noticing the touch of gloom to his voice. Markus did, eyes darting over to him while he tried to absorb the full length of exactly what Leo was feeling – but it was impossible, considering just how in-depth his personality was, deeper than most of the humans he’d ever known.

“If you’re speaking and you think no one is listening, then there’s a flaw in your dialogue. I mean to say, they’ll hear you if you talk loud enough.” Leo scoffed.

“I don’t care about that, dude,” he chimed in a voice all too friendly for the discussion at hand.

“They don’t need to hear me. I don’t need to hear me.”

“Then why tell them the lies that you do?”

Leo’s gaze turned serious, the brown of his eyes seeming to dim as he leered at Markus, trying to decide how to respond to his question. The fact he had no words only continued to prove he was in the wrong, and this time he had to face the fact, rather than try to bury it down in his typical act of repression.

“Nobody trusts me. I want to keep what I can, when people think I’m worth it.” He wasn’t worth it, he knew; they were just using him for what he had to offer, whether it was drugs, money or sex, adjusting his weight in his seat again with a rapid scratch at the skin of his collarbone.

“Guess that means talking shit about you too,” he said with the realization that the Leo that spun webs of lies and the Leo here now, trying to overcome such an act in an effort of rehabilitation, were very different and ultimately difficult people to split.

“If I tell them the truth about you, then I lose them as friends, too.” Markus wasn’t sure whether to be hurt over the aspect of being replaceable, or remorseful with the idea that Leo’s friends were that shortly extendable, easy to drop like flies if he so much as told the honest reality of it all.

“Do you want to keep them as friends in the first place?” Markus knew the weight of his words and how they sunk Leo down by the shift of his expression, but in his mind, it was necessary. How else would he come to terms with such an idea?

“The last I knew, you were only talking to your ex-girlfriend. Who were you on the phone with?”

In response to being questioned, Leo was quick to stand from his seat, close to backhanding Markus all over again before he reconsidered the idea, stepping away to pace through the living room.

“Who were you on the phone with?” Markus repeated, his voice holding more depth as he noticed Leo’s typical behavior of avoidance, making him all the more uncertain, and therefor wary, hoping it wasn’t what he thought. Leo avoided the question, feeling the anger bubble up beneath his skin with a readiness to kick down the kitchen chair while his hands clenched fistfuls of his own hair.

“He was–he was—" Speaking was a new sort of communication that Leo could never entirely connect to, linking his ability to easily lie alongside the need to tell the truth in favor of Markus, what he wanted, and how badly he, himself needed the connection they had. Losing it now would only hurt him worse, as much as he hated to think such a thing.

“Was?” Markus’ voice was calm, reasonably quiet. Leo shook his head, scratching his hair while he took in Markus’ question. Feeling defeated, Leo sighed, snapping the fingers of his right hand a few times in lieu of knowing what else to do with himself.

“He was my dealer,” he said in one rushed, fast breath, hoping it would be lost in the wind if they could put aside the conversation. Of course, with Markus, they couldn’t.

“So your red ice dealer doesn’t like androids? Hard to see that connection,” Markus said in a flatly sarcastic voice, but Leo still appreciated the irony, flashing a one-sided smile in response and scoffing before he let out a low, dry laugh, but not one that indicated it was humorous to him.

“Funny. You got jokes,” Leo stated with a bored tone of voice that showed he didn’t actually find it amusing. Markus reflected his expression.

“You and I both know this isn’t funny.”

“Yeah, well, I gotta laugh. What do you call it? Irony?” He shrugged, gaze shifting to the ceiling as he let out a big sigh.

“There’s no reason to. If you stop finding humor in the morbid things, you’ll realize there’s nothing to laugh at.”

“That’s not funny.” The ironic paradox in the statement struck them both, but Markus was the only one to react, letting out a quiet sigh as he leaned forward to prop his weight on his arms with his elbows against his knees, sitting down.

“Would you find it easier if you could laugh at it?” Eyebrows immediately knitting together, Leo glared at him with offense riddling his face, leaving him to feel both frustrated and righted, as there was probably some truth to what Markus had asked. He wanted to bat away the subject and stand up to leave, but Markus’ gaze was enough to reel him back to his seat in the chair even when he tried. Markus felt satisfied that Leo had retreated of his own accord.

“Easy,” Leo said back, staring with cold eyes, glassy with their glare of spite.

“Yeah. Sure. If anything about my life was fucking easy,” he bit, ready to trail down another road of anger and nothing else, virtually feeling his shoes burn from the melting lava - even if it was entirely metaphorical.

“Can you listen to what I’m saying for a moment?” That was new, the frustration in Markus’ voice that Leo had never personally heard before, attention immediately on him as he turned his head, wary as to whether it was an act of truth or not. Another part of himself – and what the drugs made him out to be – he hated was the temptation to distrust, always wanting to second-guess what he’d been told, to challenge what had been done to him. This time, he just sighed, slumping into the chair as the urge to fight left him, and for the time being, he listened to the words Markus was going to say.

“You don’t have to lie to fit in with people. You don’t have to fit in at all.” Looking confused, Leo narrowed his eyes, tilting his head with a defiant shrug of his shoulders.

“If they really mean so little to you, then why give them so much credit?” Leo was struck silent for a moment, sinking into the seat of his chair. Taking that as a victory, Markus continued.

“Do you think more of me or of them? Who matters more to you?” Markus was well aware the ultimatum wasn’t fair, but that was exactly the reason why it would make Leo think over it.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Leo looked offended, but Markus remained deadpan.

“What do you think I mean?” Leo hated when he asked questions like that. He hated what they meant, and the way it made him think.

“I dunno. It’s not like that. I can’t just, pick and choose my friends, you know?” Markus looked confused.

“Sure you can.” The aspect made Leo feel like he’d fall from his chair, scrambling to catch his balance again with a mocking noise. Markus wanted to comment about it but said nothing.

“You know what’s better or worse for you. Good influences, and bad, whether you want to admit it or not.” His voice became lighter as he was hoping Leo absorbed his words, examining his shifting expressions while Leo did all he could not to get up and leave. Markus continued to be thankful he’d tried so hard not to, another piece of proof that he was still trying, even in moments like this.

“You know what it takes to sober up and talking lowly of me isn’t part of it.”

He was right, of course, the denial leaving Leo to do little but glower in his direction. Markus knew it was a signal of progress, opting to let him for the sake of how it would help, even if Leo didn’t acknowledge it – now or ever.

“Dude, if I leave him too, I won’t have any friends left,” he said with contempt, aware that he would be better off if he’d dropped the ‘connection,’ yet fearful of the future of another person leaving his side—even if it was for the best.

“Do you need them?” Leo stared blankly, lacking any physical or mental response this time.

“I need something,” he stated clearly, even though the words left his lips in crumbling uncertainty.

 “Company, I guess,” Leo continued with a sneer.

“Good company,” Markus corrected. Leo glanced away.

“Maybe that’s part of your problem, or why you keep going back,” Markus offered.

“Do you actually feel a connection to that person?” Leo glowered, teeth bared but lips limp in a lack of proper expression, lacking words certain enough to escape his mouth.

“No,” Leo murmured with the voice of epiphany, a tone of realization that left him in a whisper while he glanced down at his hands now trembling in front of him.

“He’s just there for the drugs. Right?” Leo closed his eyes, hating this particular aspect of discussion, as he’d had many similar interactions with therapists before. They never ended well.

“Right,” he said in a voice that wavered, a hint of dismay proving he didn’t want to believe it.

“Why did you talk to him about me killing you?” That struck him speechless, leaving Leo to roll onto his side and curl up against the seat between an instinctual nature to hide and the desire to flee. For now, while he didn’t want to be there, he laid still, waiting for more of Markus’ words while he curled himself into a corner.

Did he really have to tell the truth?

“Uhm, that’s what he thinks is gonna happen,” he muttered simply. Markus didn’t take it in so few words, swallowing down the awareness of there being so many people out there, always ready to kill himself or others like him.

“And you fed into that?” Leo’s eyes looked tired as he glanced up at him, but they were understanding enough to continue the conversation. Leo glared at him with the obvious undertone that Markus didn’t understand to the extent he needed, but the thought was quickly discarded.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

Markus paused as he acknowledged it was a good question, considering the circumstances. Say no was too simple, with expectations much too intense for someone like Leo, and he couldn’t hold such high hopes against a man like him.

“You weren’t ‘supposed’ to do anything. Just consider what it might mean for yourself, to keep in touch with people like that.” Leo’s own mind reminded him those were his only friends, but realizing Markus wouldn’t understand such a concept, he didn’t dare speak such words out loud.

“It’s bad,” Leo said with an air of realization, as if he just then understood the way it could lash back on him. Markus stared, but didn’t offer any verbal response. Before long, Leo’s hands were scraping through his hair; meanwhile Markus gave him a pointed gaze, distracting him for long enough to keep his attention where he needed it to be, yet didn’t pursue Leo despite part of his initial programming telling him to do so. For the most part, he’d learned to ignore those instructions, neglecting them in favor for what he- as well as androids around him- needed as a whole. Leo had never saved an entire species of his own, he’d mused, but never did he feel so trapped that he felt the need to otherwise. A new chance rose with a bright and vibrant opportunity, an aspect that scared Leo to the core.

“Then why do you keep doing it?” Markus’ words shook him, yet made him think long enough it left him quiet while he debated the exchange. That was the hard part; trying to explain what made it that effortless, that quick to slide off his tongue in a slip of a few seconds of coherent questions and responses, even to the police and authorities.

“Why do you keep asking me about this bullshit?” Leo was pleased to find his external reflection skills were still needle sharp, tilting his head with a twitch in his eyebrows and an accusatory stare at Markus as soon as he’d been given the chance.

“Stop telling me about shit I already know, okay? And the whole listening to me while I talk to my friends, thing – way creepy, dude.”

The weight of the ground seemed to shift beneath them as Markus didn’t exactly expect to be so blatantly dismissed. Nodding, his eyebrows furrowed in a moment of confusion as he scratched the back of his neck—an action he hadn’t generally acknowledged, picked up by someone aside from himself who he didn’t immediately remember while his mind scrambled to find an answer. Leo didn’t notice, and he was grateful.

“What? Now you’re quiet?” The way Leo’s voice cut into him was quick to force him to settle in place, staring into dark brown eyes with his own, digging his metaphorical heels into the ground while he wondered exactly how long he could stand staring into Leo’s eyes.

Looking amused, then offended with an accusatory glare in Markus’ direction, Leo laughed in his face.

“I should have known better, anyway.” Leo rambled on in a tone meant to attract attention and all the while speaking in pointed, short bursts with the anticipation to keep a sharp mindset, a way of speaking that kept Markus on his toes as he’d learned to become more in tune to Leo’s awareness than he’d originally anticipated. Leo sucked in a deep breath while he made his best attempt to hold a civil conversation, but couldn’t help the way his voice held nothing but spite.

It was all too easy for Leo to dig from an old list of egotistical remarks and demanding tones that made Markus equally more curious and yet all the more willing to leave the entire thing behind as soon as Leo opened his mouth.

“All you motherfuckers do—”

Markus turned to stare at him without so much as a three-second movement, barely casting a glance while he did a quick analysis of the human. He was a bit too quick to strike, lost in a moment of what might have been emotionally-driven thought as he shoved Leo to the ground, but even in millisecond motions he wasn’t sure there was anything backing up exactly what he’d done.

“You think that everything is entitled to you, but you don’t deserve half of what the world has offered you,” he hissed through his teeth, a particular accusatory gaze pointing at Leo with his hands already wrapped into the front of an unzipped jacket.

“Haha! Look at you!” Leo’s congratulation was thick with sarcasm, followed by one of his infamous chuckles—the ones that sounded so unrealistic, it was strange to hear from a living, breathing being. That laugh was a signal that the cognitive portion of Leo was lost in the confines of whatever delusions had their grasp on his prefrontal cortex for the time being. There was no negotiating with someone who wasn’t coherently there in the first place.

“Not so perfect now, are you?”

“Leo,” Markus stated sternly with just enough gumption to keep his attention,

“Stop this.”

“Don’t call me by my name,” he demanded, the sour scour never leaving his face. Markus considered it an odd request, but stored away the ‘command’ for later.

“You’re not my fucking parents. I get it, the way you really tried to fit in and become a big part of everything, but don’t you realize how stupid it is? I mean, that’s the joke, you know—the first android Kamski made was a blue-eyed, blond-haired babe!” There was an unusual amount of enthusiasm to his voice as he pointed out the fact, laughing to himself at the idea of Markus being comparable to nothing short of a bikini model.

Markus saw black, and in a moment, there was nothing. The last time they fought, Leo was unconscious on the ground and Markus wondered if he was dead – and hearing otherwise almost made him wish he’d finished the job.

The next thing they knew, Leo was beneath him, turned onto his stomach with his arms behind him while he shouted in discomfort, struggling for a few minutes before he turned his head to glare up at Markus the best he could from his position.

“Alright, if you’re into this, you need to tell me now, because it’s really kinda weirding me out—” Markus’ eyes narrowed as he graced Leo a gaze of distrust, but remained silent, lifting himself up and letting him go in one quick motion. Blinking, Leo brought his arms forward to push his body off the ground so he could stand, then brushed the dirt off his hands and clothes, but wasted no time scowling directly at Markus.

In a moment of silence, it seemed like neither of them had anything to say. Markus had plenty of words to use in favor of convincing Leo he was in the right, but even if Leo was willing to pay attention, he didn’t currently have the desire to teach. Not to someone that refused to listen. Not him.

Markus knew his words were meant to try and pull a response from him, so he was silent in his refusal. In a swift line straight towards him, Leo was quick to close in, never looking away with his eyes glaring into the android’s as soon as he’d set foot in his direction—a behavior that only seemed to happen when he thought he was the one in power, another expression showing an emotion he would never understand.

“Why do you want to hurt me?” It was an honest question, even if Markus didn’t expect an honest response.

“I don’t. I wanna see that you won’t hurt me.” There was a twist of uncertainty that welled inside him as he prepared a few backup commands for the worst of situations—just in case.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Markus said softly with a lift of his eyebrows, and in that moment, something occurred to him; in a haze of his own distracted thoughts, he hadn’t checked to ensure Leo took his medication earlier in the day. Could a few hours make this much of a difference?

“You say I don’t think a lot. I thought that was your whole thing, raising hell about thinking and feeling? Tell me about how you feel, Markus.” Leo spat each word with such vigor Markus felt the flecks of saliva speckle his face. As much as he wanted to resist, he knew if he fought back, the only way this could go was downhill, letting his body grow limp in surrender. Besides – he’d made the first move, after all.

“Tell me if you feel this,” Leo threatened in a tone that gradually lowered before slamming a fist across Markus’ face. Once, twice, then again. Pausing for a moment to recalibrate, Markus felt his weight shift as he found himself weakened a fair amount from the blows. Momentarily silent, he told himself how history had a tendency to repeat, wondering for a moment just what was going through Leo’s mind in the time they’d shared face-to-face, now close enough he could feel the erratic breaths cast down his neck. A swift scan notified him Leo’s conditions being none too healthy, moving his head out of the way as Leo swung another punch and rolling away to sit up beside him. Confused, Leo glared him down with suspicion; Markus shrugged in response.

“Come here,” he beckoned with a voice of concern. Baffled, Leo took the opportunity to stand upright again, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows in a gesture that asked the question so obviously blaring in his mind. Markus was grateful he didn’t feel the need to use his nasty vocabulary to speak, for once. In a few moments, Markus gathered the words to say, reassuring himself they were in a fashion Leo would listen to and understand, even if it sounded unlikely.

“You—you think I’m just gonna, walk over there, right up to you? Is that what you want?” While he paused to catch his breath, Markus took a moment to feel nigh on impressed by how well Leo could taunt while in the face of direct danger. A surprise he’s not dead yet, he thought to himself, before discarding the notion in abrupt discomfort.

“Listen to yourself. You’re not making any sense.” Surprisingly enough, the words seemed to get through to him, leaving Leo to take a moment to kneel on the ground, holding himself up on his uninjured knee and both of his arms. For a moment, he thought back to the days when he’d been more fit, running track with visits to the gym at least twice a week. In that moment of feeling useless all over again, he took a few deep, heavy breaths before heaving himself back to his feet – and turning around, leaving the room before Markus could get another word in.

[tarisilmarwen]

*slides into your inbox* Soooo. . . You got any Teen Titans/Pacific Rim AU you'd like to share? ;D

Whoops I slipped, have an excerpt:

—

“How’s she feeling so far?”

He glanced down at his harness, testing his mobility in the new cockpit drivers.

“There’s not as much drag,” he observed.

The voice in his radio headpiece positively gushed with pride as it explained, “Yeah, for the Mark Vs we completely redesigned the pilot interface for maximum flexibility.  Makes the Jaeger faster, more mobile, lessens the force of impact when you get tossed around out there.”

The teen grinned.  "Can it do a double handspring now?“ he asked.

“Not quite yet, but we’re working on adding shock absorbers to the legs and feet,” came the joking reply.

“If you two are done goofing around,” the gruff voice of Bruce interrupted.  “We have a test run to perform.”

“Sorry, Sir.”  There was the sound of a clearing throat.  “All right then Grayson, Anders, get ready for neural handshake.  T-minus one minute.”

“Roger that, Vic.  T-minus one minute,” he acknowledged.

The Jaeger thrummed to life around them, lights blinking on and components sliding into place.

Dick glanced across at his nervous co-pilot.  Kory was fiddling with the straps of her harness.  Her fingers fumbled and shook as she tightened them.  He felt another pang of sympathy for her, remembering back to his own rookie years, the anxious anticipation of being inside someone else’s head for the first time, and he felt compelled to put her at ease.

“The first drift is always the hardest,” he told her, speaking up suddenly.

She started at the sound of his voice and looked up at him with anxious eyes.

He smiled at her, reassuringly.  "Just relax and let the memories flow,“ he said warmly, trying to keep the mood light.

"O-okay…” she stammered.  She ducked her head apologetically, with a bashful expression.  "I am sorry,“ she said.  "I am quite nervous.  Supposing I go out of synch?  Do you think they will expel me from the program?” she asked, sounding for all the world like she genuinely believed Marshall Kent would do that.  Dick almost laughed.  Her worry was adorable.

He reached across the space between them to take hold of her hand, and he squeezed it once, gently.[1]

“You’ll do fine,” he assured her.

She gazed into his eyes a moment and then smiled faintly at him in silent gratitude.  The hand that he was holding stopped trembling; he could feel it even through their metal-and-leather gauntlets.  He squeezed it one last time and then let go, settling into ready position.

Machinery whirred and charged, and the computer recited the countdown in their ears.  Dick leaned back and closed his eyes, exhaling.  He wasn’t too worried.  This wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before.  He could handle this.  Bruce would see it.

Three… two… one… he counted along inside his head.

“Neural Handshake initiating.”

***

When the first deluge of memories and thoughts began to flood his mind, Dick nearly staggered under the weight of Kory’s sheer, undiluted emotion.  The pictures that flashed before his eyes were impossibly vivid, crystal clear and intrinsically tied into how Kory was feeling at the time.  So when he saw her as a small, terrified ten-year-old cowering in a dark underground shelter, her tiny hands clutched around her sister, both of them whimpering and shrieking as the sound of thunderous footsteps, deafening roars, splintering glass, and crumbling brick raged on outside, above their heads, he felt her fear and helplessness as acutely as if it had been his own.  As sharply as if he’d experienced it yesterday.  He felt, too, her incurable anxiety as she walked along a seaside pier, looking out towards the ocean and afraid of seeing the monstrous form of another Kaiju rising from the waves.  He felt her excitement and adoration when she sat at a confetti-covered restaurant table with her family, celebrating her sister’s acceptance into the Jaeger program, the smell of fried food and warm bread filling her nose.  He felt her own pride and joy and elation as she opened the envelope with shaking hands and screamed in delight, having been accepted into the program herself.

Kory’s memories held a vitality he’d never experienced before in all his years of drifting with Bruce, and then later with Roy, and Raven.[2]  There was none of the expected memory fog that clouded and colored her recollections.  Instead, Kory’s memories were bright, the colors sharper and more intense, the sounds and smells keen.

Dick was carried away by the rush of it, unable to hold still in the current of emotions.  Years of drifting could not have prepared him for this.  Raven and Bruce had carried as little emotion into the drift as possible.  He himself had tampered down on his feelings as much as he could.  But now he was overwhelmed.  Swept up.  He felt for her.  He felt with her.

So whenever the Drift started shuffling through his own memories, he saw them with fresh eyes, fresh feelings.

His latest argument with Bruce.  Irritation burning in his veins.  "What is your problem?“ he heard himself demanding again.  "You don’t think I can handle myself with a new copilot, is that it?”

He saw the scene play out as if through a distant window, saw the guarded, uncomfortable look in Bruce’s face as he replied, “It’s not your performance I’m worried about.  It’s hers.”

The sting in his heart was sharper this time.  Kory felt it too; Dick could sense her acute dismay and hurt at his mentor’s mistrust of her and remembered anew his own indigence and offense, his immediate defensiveness and need to stand up for her.

Later pieces of the argument blurred together as the Drift washed over him.  A bitter, “You don’t trust anyone but yourself!” and then he was back in Kory’s head, watching her struggle her way through her first training sim.  Then her as a child, crying because her sister had made fun of her.

His memories danced in and among them, and with them flared up raw, intense emotions.

Narcing on Roy, the bald look of betrayal on the other boy’s face as Dick confessed what he’d been seeing in their Drift, what he’d witnessed his copilot taking.  Guilt and remorse weighing heavily on his heart.  Anguish at having to tell on his best friend’s misdeeds.[3]

Earlier than that, his first kill with Bruce, jittery excitement combining with his lingering terror in an adrenaline-powered cocktail.

Even earlier, the soft melodic notes of a lullaby.  Then…

Bright lights.  A colorful bigtop tent.  Fraying rope and two figures spinning and twirling between trapeze bars.  He and Kory watched the scene with shared horror as the figures plummeted from the air.

A grief so sudden and acute it was like a physical blow to his gut hit him.  Dick gasped, felt himself double over, all the wind rushing out of his lungs like it had been punched out of him.  Pain in his heart threatened to burst him open.  For a moment he felt like he would teeter off the edge and be lost to it.

But then Kory’s warm mental touch brushed against him, pulling him back from the brink.  Sympathy radiated off her.  She felt his pain, shared it, wrapped him in a blanket of comfort and understanding.  Dick melted into her mental embrace, his thoughts merging with hers, intertwining and mingling until–

Dick’s eyes started open and he gasped, feeling the neural link lock in place, holding steady and strong.

All he could do was gape for a moment, panting, still tingling from the rollercoaster of emotions that had rocked him not a few seconds ago.  Such sadness.  Such joy.  His head was still spinning from it.  It was like a bottle inside him had been uncorked, everything poured out.  Everything he had ever buried–every hurt, every disappointment–had bubbled to the surface once again, as if freed from the deep dark prison Bruce had told him to lock it in.  The sting of his parents’ deaths was fresh and raw in his heart.  He remembered anew, also, every triumph, every proud moment, and the pure satisfaction of punching a Kaiju in the face.

And it felt… exhilarating.

He was so wrapped up and overwhelmed he didn’t even realize he was crying until he saw the tear streaks in the reflection of his helmet, running down his face.

Kory was looking at him in concern, worry bubbling across to him through their link.  "Are you… okay?“ she asked.

It took a moment for him to answer.

"…Yeah,” he breathed.

Covertly, he slipped his arm out of the rig for a moment, reached up under his helmet and rubbed his eyes.  He slid his arm back into the rig, gripping the controls tightly as he looked left and flashed her a smile, happiness reverberating through the Drift.

“Yeah.  I am,” he told her.

***

Through the glass window they saw the brightly painted Jaeger flex its hands, beginning to test out its maneuverability.

Marshall Kent’s chair gave a squeak as he rolled it back, swiveling around to cross his arms and give Bruce a smug, self-satisfied look.

“Told you they were drift compatible,” he said with a grin.

The only reply the Ranger made was a pensive, “Hmm.” as he watched the test proceeding outside.

Phoenix Rising raised its arms, beginning to run through a series of test movements.  According to all the graphs and monitors, the neural link was steady.  And remarkably strong.

Still, Bruce couldn’t shake his reservations, frowning anxiously at the window as though he could peer in through the Jaeger’s outer shell at the pilots within.

“Are you sure it’s safe to carry that much raw passion into the Drift?” he asked the Marshall.  "I don’t like pairing a veteren like Grayson with an emotionally uninhibited newcomer.  She’s too intense.  They’ll get hot-headed and cocky out there.  It’ll get them killed.“

Clark turned to face him again, more seriously this time, a sober expression on his face.

"Bruce… when was the last time you asked Dick how he was doing?” he asked.

Bruce stared blankly as though he didn’t understand the question.  "He does his job.  Better than most of the younger pilots.  His killcount is–“

"I mean emotionally, Bruce,” Clark interrupted, exasperated.  "When have you last asked him how he’s feeling?“

The Ranger grimaced, recalling the months of chilly tensions.  "It’s… been a while,” he admitted.[4]

“Well, I’ve been watching him.  And ever since the incident with Harper there just hasn’t been the same… edge to his fighting.”  Clark shook his head.  "I still remember the early years, how bright and eager he was when he first started.  A lot like Anders.“

The lines in Bruce’s face hardened.  "He was too impulsive.  Reckless.  He would let his emotions cloud his focus.  If I hadn’t reigned him in, he’d have gotten hurt.”

“Maybe,” Clark allowed.  "But he lost something in the process.  Something that makes him… him.“  He spun back toward the window, the chair squealing cheerfully.  "This’ll be good for him.  Get him out of his shell,” he said confidently, watching with pride as the Mark V hit every barometer perfectly.

Bruce frowned uncertainly, but crossed his arms and joined his superior in observation.  "I guess we’ll see,“ he said.

Outside in the hanger the Jaeger finished its test moves, curling up and striking a fighting pose with all the grace and poise of a hundred foot tall Olympic athlete.

—

[1] The Mark V’s are designed with the ability for the pilot to more easily detach from the rig, in case they need to escape a damaged Jaeger quickly or avoid an injury through the neural interface.  This does require being able to predict if one such incapacitating attack is coming.  It also allows for more hand-holding. XD

[2] Bruce and Dick piloted Mark I Dark Knight in the first year of the Kaiju War, later replaced by Mark II Striking Shadow for years two and three.  Dick and Roy Harper piloted the Mark III Archer Zeta during year four.  Dick and Raven Roth piloted the Mark IV Demonfang during year five.

[3] Roy Harper’s heroin addiction makes its way into this AU.  He was expelled from the Jaeger program for a while after Dick told on him, but Marshall Kent let him back in once he’d been through rehab and gotten clean.  Now pilots Archer Zeta with Garth.

[4] Batdad and Batson are having some tensions.  XD  Has mostly to do with Bruce’s overprotective control issues and Dick’s rebellious spirit.  They’ll make it up eventually.

[rilenerocks]

I wonder if all people are born equipped for life’s passions. And if they are, is the capacity for them the same for everyone? Does everyone start out with a genetically determined amount or is there an infinite level that is sometimes achieved and sometimes not, depending on what happens to each of us? I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about this. Some people seem like they’re boiling over with passion and others act so subdued that it’s hard to know if they’ve every experienced a single moment of that powerful sensation.

I think passion has lots of different connotations, both positive and negative. Some passions are conscious and others lurk below our mind’s surface. They can be enriching and growth-inducing or deleterious and damaging to our health. Passion can be enthusiasm and avid devotion. It can be overwhelming in both rage and love. It can be intense sexual attraction. It can be vehemence and anger. Probably it’s combinations of a wide range of feelings and this can be very confusing. I know that I’ve felt all types of passions ever since I was a little kid.

When I was about five, I got a chameleon. I loved it so much I squeezed it to death. What a horror. I was way too young to understand the implications of the potential for destruction associated with a positive feeling. But I learned more and more about that as I grew up. My parents told me I was born loving everyone and everything and that people loved me back. My mom said she was afraid someone might steal me, most particularly my dad’s sister, someone she detested. My older brother told me he first remembered being truly happy when I came along. Sad for him but good for me. I did love so many things with a passion. I loved my parents. I loved warm milk. I loved animals. I loved fudgsicles and chocolate popsicles. I loved playing outside. I loved school and school supplies, especially crayons, erasers and glue. So I guess I started out with my fair share of passions.

  As I got older, I extended all that passionate love to people. I loved my friends. I started to love boys. I loved sports and movies. I loved justice. So much passion. It wasn’t long before I started getting knocked around by reality. Reality was that just because I loved what I loved didn’t mean that I was going to reap big returns on my passionate investments. I loved school but after 9th grade, it mostly bored me to death and as I went off on my own to learn, my grades tanked. I had just enough natural talent to take me into college but nothing about that structure worked any better for me at that level.

  Then I realized that the just world I dreamed of may as well have been in a galaxy far, far away. The disappointment from that discovery ignited my negative passions which are still going strong today. Always something to be furious about and to fight against. Fuel for my engine.

  I loved participating in sports but that brought me negative attention. I wanted to be an attractive girl but my youthful participation brought me the nickname “moose” which had a profoundly negative effect on the joy I found as an athlete. In my junior year of high school I cut 60 PE classes and as a senior, had to make them all up, two for one, in order to graduate. On swimming days, I was soaking wet on and off for hours. But I still loved sports although I became more of an observer rather than a participant. I still have my swimming but at one point I dreamed of smashing home runs and spiking volleyballs for a long time. I made it back to volleyball as an adult, playing while pregnant. Maybe that vibe is why my daughter turned out to be an exceptional athlete in a time that was somewhat kinder to women than the days of my youth. Although not yet kind enough.  But let me stay on track here.

I was a passionate friend and potentially a passionate girlfriend when I was a kid. I fell in love easily. And I stayed there. There’s another component to my particular brand of passion – loyalty. My husband and my kids always told me I was the most loyal person they ever knew. That’s probably a fair assessment. Once committed to someone, at least in my own mind, if not in actual practice with the person I’ve sekected, I stayed put. I’m hard to get rid of once I’ve made my choices. Despite the fire that burns in me so frequently, I’m not the type to flame out. My burn is slow and long-lasting. A lot of disappointment and pain have to happen before I walk away from someone. I guess it’s fair to say that I have personal standards of how people should treat one another, my rules, for sure. But I’ll bend and accommodate for a long time before I give up on a person. Over the years, I’ve developed what I call my permanent list. I have occupants on that list who said or did something egregious enough so that I know I’ll never forget it, at least as long as my brain is functioning. But for the most part, that list is of those individuals who are beyond my forgiveness. I know that’s not a very politically correct attitude in current culture. Forgiveness is a real thing advocated around me. Being unforgiving is supposed to be bad for you, toxic and unhealthy.

Your Greatest Strength

1

Social intelligenceBeing aware of the motives/feelings of others and oneself; knowing what to do to fit into different social situations; knowing what makes other people tick.VIRTUE CATEGORY: HUMANITY

24

Forgiveness Forgiving those who have done wrong; accepting others’ shortcomings; giving people a second chance; not being vengeful.VIRTUE CATEGORY: TEMPERANCE

I took a personality trait test from a Yale-sponsored class a few months ago. You answer all these questions and a list of your character traits ranked from best to worst is generated. My best trait was emotional intelligence, followed by loyalty and my worst was the inability to forgive. Sounded right.  And it works for me. Michael was always trying to get me to let things go and be more forgiving. He said my hot rage and grudge holding was going to damage me physically. Well, look who’s still here and who isn’t? I’m living on the terms that suit me.

I guess I got the most bashed around emotionally by my first serious college boyfriend. I thought I was going to marry him. The truth is, I thought I was going to marry everyone I ever loved, going all the way back to when I was five years old. But this was the first genuinely reciprocated love I’d felt as a grownup and despite warning flags about not being ready and immaturity, I was convinced that if I fought hard enough, I could make this happen, even with evidence to the contrary popping up regularly and painfully. We were together on and off for three years. One morning after feeling that we’d had the best night of our life, I woke up to him telling me that we needed to break up and that things just couldn’t work. I was astonished, hurt and enraged. As he made his way out of my apartment, I followed him into the street, screaming at the top of my lungs that he would never find anyone who loved him the way I did and that he’d regret this decision for the rest of his life. My roommate and another friend dragged me back into the house as his metallic blue Chevy Hornet pulled away.

The fact is, he did figure that out later but by that time, I’d mostly recovered and was with Michael with whom I spent the rest of his life. Sadly, not the rest of our lives. Michael helped me rebuild myself and to believe that I could trust someone and reestablish my belief that a lifelong positive passion was possible. I’d already figured out that I could hang on to my negative passions about feminism, politics, economic justice, the health of the planet and the like. But I wasn’t sure about people. One of the places I put my positive passions was to sports, both teams and individuals. I could afford to invest myself in those without personal disappointments that had left me flattened and despairing. I picked my loyalties and stayed with them. I had favorite teams and players. I watched everything, football, basketball, hockey, swimming and became an Olympics junkie. As time went on I added tennis and soccer. I still remember the uniform numbers of those individuals who for whatever reason, won my heart. Jean Beliveau, #4 – Montreal Canadiens. Doug Mohns, #11 – Chicago Blackhawks. Doug Buffone, #55 – Chicago Bears. Fred Biletnikoff, #25 – Oakland Raiders. I could go on and on. A lot of my friends were surprised that I was so into sports, as many of them, particularly the contact ones dominated by males, seemed in direct conflict with my feminist politics. But I didn’t care what it seemed like. My personal passionate commitments had  cost me a significant amount of emotional angst. I think I was born with a fairly deep reservoir for giving but I’d come to realize that when I put myself out there, I’d best be prepared to be doing it because I needed to for me and not because of what I expected in return. I’d had a lot of disappointment from family, friends and lovers. With sports, the worst that could happen was that your favorites could lose. The pain threshold for those things was tolerable for me, easier than all the personal disappointments. At least, it always had been for many years. When the silent switch happened, I really wasn’t aware of it at all. I’ve only just figured out that my lines had gotten blurred below the surface of my consciousness because of what life dealt out to me. I was too busy in the living of it to recognize that I’d set myself up for a whole new undoing.

  So these sports. As a Chicagoan and a southsider, I loved the White Sox. I branched out and embraced the Cubs. I was a hockey fan and I sat with my dad as he agonized over DePaul’s basketball team. Except for golf, I’d watch almost anything. Eventually, tennis got my attention. I watched the women, Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Steffi Graf and of course, finally Venus and Serena. I admired their skills and grit. But I always loved the boys and most particularly, the ones who behaved well, rarely had tantrums or broke their rackets and in general, seemed to play against that spoiled brat type. No John McEnroes or Ilie Nastases for me.

  I liked the cool Swede Bjorn Borg, who played like a smooth machine. After him, it was Pete Sampras, who was just a kid when he started and had a long 14 year career, complete with those beautiful serves and the tenacity to keep playing after vomiting on the court from sickness and dehydration. The civilized guys. I made an exception for Jimmy Connors sometimes because he had high entertainment value. There were a few Australians thrown into the mix and the Croat Goran Ivanisevic who had sporadic talent but took forever to win the big tourney. But in the middle of Pete’s reign, Roger Federer appeared on the scene. And that was all she wrote for me.

  Federer broke into the big time as a teenager and was kind of a punk for awhile. But the tragic car wreck death of his Australian coach when he was 21 was a life changing event for him. Between that and his relationship with his older girlfriend who eventually became his wife, he pulled himself together and became who he is today, a brilliant champion, a genuinely loved public figure and a generous philanthropist. In short, my favorite tennis player.

  Federer’s been playing for 21 years. I’ve watched him countless times and always enjoyed his grace, elegance and tenacity. For most of those years I watched him and the other players during the four major tournaments, the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon and the US Open. There was a lot of other tennis happening off my radar, many tournaments and point systems for rankings. I didn’t really care about that stuff. I was happy with what I saw, read articles so I had some idea of the background for the majors, and was generally content.

When Michael got sick seven and a half years ago, that was where I was at. As we processed his disease and what we knew would be a limited future, I was trying to get a handle on interests that would distract me from the constant pressure of anticipating death. Michael liked tennis too and had played for years as a young man. Often we watched matches together. But as time went by and we rode the waves of anxiety, I started to seek out more and more information about tennis. We’d switched cable tv providers and the Tennis Channel was included in our package. I realized that there were all kinds of tournaments and that Roger participated in lots of them. He was famous for holding records in places that had never crossed my radar. And we had a DVR. I started taping everything. When I had nothing to do, I started watching more tennis. I liked other players but Roger was the one. As the months of Michael’s illness progressed, we both labored under the strain of wondering how much time we had left to enjoy our life. Sometimes I drove my reserved husband crazy, wanting to talk through everything all the time. He was in treatment, often tired and in need of rest. I had lots of time on my hands but I wanted to stay nearby, soaking in every minute of life with Michael. So I turned to the box where Roger waited in the DVR. He was such a joy to watch. Healthy, easy and an amazing contrast to my precious guy who was carrying such a huge load. Over time, I decided that who needed a DVR when you could set an alarm and watch a tournament live from Australia, China or the Middle East? We didn’t really have a normal routine or schedule any more so I could make my own hours. As years went by, Federer’s wins or losses began to affect me more and more. The worst time came in 2016 when he sustained a knee injury while bathing one of his kids. He decided to withdraw from the professional tour for months while he rehabbed thoroughly and tried to decide if he could return and play at the championship level again.

  I was worried about it but at the time I was really focused on the stretch of good health Michael was enjoying so we took advantage of an excellent fall and traveled a lot. I had concerns about some signs of immune system letdown in Michael but as late as December, 2016, we were in our happy place at Starved Rock and life seemed even and predictable. Unfortunately that languorous period was short-lived. By the first week of January, Michael’s behavior was unusual. His appetite was diminished and he had some odd moments when he wasn’t making a lot of sense. We went in to see our oncologist who did some bloodwork and ordered a scan. Everything came back clean. So on we went. Things got stranger and stranger. I began to believe that there was an occult return of Michael’s cancer and began a nagging process that drove him nuts. He wanted to leave well enough alone and I didn’t. We began bickering. Right around the same time, Roger was getting ready to emerge from his medical exile and enter the Australian Open.

As days went by, Michael’s behaviors became odder and odder and I kept dragging him back to the doctors. Meanwhile, Roger was winning match after match. I was up in the night, watching him in real time and trying to avoid arguing with Michael who was annoyed with me. The doctors kept finding nothing. On January 29th, 2017, I had the pleasure of watching Roger win his first major since being injured.

On January 31st, I prevailed upon Michael to let me bring him to the ER to see if we could get him a brain MRI, the only test he hadn’t had. By that night we had the dreadful diagnosis of carcinomatous meningitis, a rare manifestation of certain solid tumors that’s becoming more common as people survive their original cancers for longer periods of time. We were devastated, Michael even more than me as he’d believed the continuing positive reports while I knew something was terribly wrong. We had a 32 day siege in the hospital and then I was able to bring him home in early March. The median survival time for this disease was 4 weeks from diagnosis. Michael hung on for almost seventeen.

  Meanwhile, the French Open began close to the end of Michael’s life and I continued to watch through June 11th. I remember thinking how ironic it was that Roger’s playing bookended the last months of Michael’s life. When July came, along came Wimbledon. I watched all of it and Roger emerged victorious. That highlighted my summer of preparing for the celebration of Michael’s life which was planned for December. When that was over, I stared down 2018, trying to figure out what to do with myself. I started this blog on January 1st. I was in the midst of planning my 50th high school reunion and also wanted to do a little traveling.

  I finally landed on the Western-Southern Open tennis tournament in Cincinnati, a chance to see Roger in the flesh for the first time. As he was getting older I figured I’d better get that bucket list item done. Additionally, the Laver Cup, Roger’s creation was happening in Chicago, at the same time as my reunion.

  I bought tickets to that as well. Both events were wonderful and I was so glad I went. Roger won some and lost some and I felt satisfied. But as time passed I found watching him, especially when he lost, to become more and more stressful. I was aware of the negative feelings but not sure what to do about them. Each match got worse and worse. This was not supposed to be my relationship with sports. I was irritable, frustrated and hostile. I could barely stand being with myself. When my son was around he tried to be comforting but I was basically so obnoxious he’d wind up leaving me to my own devices. I started thinking really hard, going back over the seven and a half year history of Michael’s disease, death and this mourning period. A lot has happened to me during that time. I spent a lot of emotional capital during those years. I spent an extraordinary amount of love on my marriage, so much that I often wonder if I can love anyone or anything new ever again. Even a pet. And then just this past week in the midst of an ugly US Open for Roger, I recognized what I’m referring to as a silent switch. Somewhere back there, as I recognized that my time with Michael was running away, I put a lot of my heart into Roger, a sports guy who was supposed to be a distraction, not someone personal. As his fortunes ebb and he gets closer to retirement I realized that my outsized reactions are more like living through an intimate loss instead of just watching an athlete’s life come to its normal conclusion. I realized that I’d transferred some of my feelings about Michael’s absence to a weird anticipatory despair about Roger’s career coming to an end. How bizarre is that? Probably not very. Roger’s trajectory is another ending, a metaphor for what I’ve been coping with for a very long time. I didn’t recognize exactly when it happened but I know it did. And acknowledging the inappropriate outsized reactions I was having helped me see the need to face this metaphor for what is – a familiar road twisted into an inappropriate level of importance. It’s time to set it back in a more normal place. Ironically, during this week of internal probing and exploring, I’ve been outside in my garden a lot. I had no trouble identifying two adult butterflies, feeding, still strong but battered by predators, perhaps by wind. But still living out there in the world. I was aware that I identified with them. No silent switching in this case. Awareness is hard and often mysterious. I’m going to keep going after it. It’s better than living in the dark. 

      The Silent Switch I wonder if all people are born equipped for life’s passions. And if they are, is the capacity for them the same for everyone?

[rilenerocks]

I wonder if all people are born equipped for life’s passions. And if they are, is the capacity for them the same for everyone? Does everyone start out with a genetically determined amount or is there an infinite level that is sometimes achieved and sometimes not, depending on what happens to each of us? I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about this. Some people seem like they’re boiling over with passion and others act so subdued that it’s hard to know if they’ve every experienced a single moment of that powerful sensation.

I think passion has lots of different connotations, both positive and negative. Some passions are conscious and others lurk below our mind’s surface. They can be enriching and growth-inducing or deleterious and damaging to our health. Passion can be enthusiasm and avid devotion. It can be overwhelming in both rage and love. It can be intense sexual attraction. It can be vehemence and anger. Probably it’s combinations of a wide range of feelings and this can be very confusing. I know that I’ve felt all types of passions ever since I was a little kid.

When I was about five, I got a chameleon. I loved it so much I squeezed it to death. What a horror. I was way too young to understand the implications of the potential for destruction associated with a positive feeling. But I learned more and more about that as I grew up. My parents told me I was born loving everyone and everything and that people loved me back. My mom said she was afraid someone might steal me, most particularly my dad’s sister, someone she detested. My older brother told me he first remembered being truly happy when I came along. Sad for him but good for me. I did love so many things with a passion. I loved my parents. I loved warm milk. I loved animals. I loved fudgsicles and chocolate popsicles. I loved playing outside. I loved school and school supplies, especially crayons, erasers and glue. So I guess I started out with my fair share of passions.

  As I got older, I extended all that passionate love to people. I loved my friends. I started to love boys. I loved sports and movies. I loved justice. So much passion. It wasn’t long before I started getting knocked around by reality. Reality was that just because I loved what I loved didn’t mean that I was going to reap big returns on my passionate investments. I loved school but after 9th grade, it mostly bored me to death and as I went off on my own to learn, my grades tanked. I had just enough natural talent to take me into college but nothing about that structure worked any better for me at that level.

  Then I realized that the just world I dreamed of may as well have been in a galaxy far, far away. The disappointment from that discovery ignited my negative passions which are still going strong today. Always something to be furious about and to fight against. Fuel for my engine.

  I loved participating in sports but that brought me negative attention. I wanted to be an attractive girl but my youthful participation brought me the nickname “moose” which had a profoundly negative effect on the joy I found as an athlete. In my junior year of high school I cut 60 PE classes and as a senior, had to make them all up, two for one, in order to graduate. On swimming days, I was soaking wet on and off for hours. But I still loved sports although I became more of an observer rather than a participant. I still have my swimming but at one point I dreamed of smashing home runs and spiking volleyballs for a long time. I made it back to volleyball as an adult, playing while pregnant. Maybe that vibe is why my daughter turned out to be an exceptional athlete in a time that was somewhat kinder to women than the days of my youth. Although not yet kind enough.  But let me stay on track here.

I was a passionate friend and potentially a passionate girlfriend when I was a kid. I fell in love easily. And I stayed there. There’s another component to my particular brand of passion – loyalty. My husband and my kids always told me I was the most loyal person they ever knew. That’s probably a fair assessment. Once committed to someone, at least in my own mind, if not in actual practice with the person I’ve sekected, I stayed put. I’m hard to get rid of once I’ve made my choices. Despite the fire that burns in me so frequently, I’m not the type to flame out. My burn is slow and long-lasting. A lot of disappointment and pain have to happen before I walk away from someone. I guess it’s fair to say that I have personal standards of how people should treat one another, my rules, for sure. But I’ll bend and accommodate for a long time before I give up on a person. Over the years, I’ve developed what I call my permanent list. I have occupants on that list who said or did something egregious enough so that I know I’ll never forget it, at least as long as my brain is functioning. But for the most part, that list is of those individuals who are beyond my forgiveness. I know that’s not a very politically correct attitude in current culture. Forgiveness is a real thing advocated around me. Being unforgiving is supposed to be bad for you, toxic and unhealthy.

Your Greatest Strength

1

Social intelligenceBeing aware of the motives/feelings of others and oneself; knowing what to do to fit into different social situations; knowing what makes other people tick.VIRTUE CATEGORY: HUMANITY

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Forgiveness Forgiving those who have done wrong; accepting others’ shortcomings; giving people a second chance; not being vengeful.VIRTUE CATEGORY: TEMPERANCE

I took a personality trait test from a Yale-sponsored class a few months ago. You answer all these questions and a list of your character traits ranked from best to worst is generated. My best trait was emotional intelligence, followed by loyalty and my worst was the inability to forgive. Sounded right.  And it works for me. Michael was always trying to get me to let things go and be more forgiving. He said my hot rage and grudge holding was going to damage me physically. Well, look who’s still here and who isn’t? I’m living on the terms that suit me.

I guess I got the most bashed around emotionally by my first serious college boyfriend. I thought I was going to marry him. The truth is, I thought I was going to marry everyone I ever loved, going all the way back to when I was five years old. But this was the first genuinely reciprocated love I’d felt as a grownup and despite warning flags about not being ready and immaturity, I was convinced that if I fought hard enough, I could make this happen, even with evidence to the contrary popping up regularly and painfully. We were together on and off for three years. One morning after feeling that we’d had the best night of our life, I woke up to him telling me that we needed to break up and that things just couldn’t work. I was astonished, hurt and enraged. As he made his way out of my apartment, I followed him into the street, screaming at the top of my lungs that he would never find anyone who loved him the way I did and that he’d regret this decision for the rest of his life. My roommate and another friend dragged me back into the house as his metallic blue Chevy Hornet pulled away.

The fact is, he did figure that out later but by that time, I’d mostly recovered and was with Michael with whom I spent the rest of his life. Sadly, not the rest of our lives. Michael helped me rebuild myself and to believe that I could trust someone and reestablish my belief that a lifelong positive passion was possible. I’d already figured out that I could hang on to my negative passions about feminism, politics, economic justice, the health of the planet and the like. But I wasn’t sure about people. One of the places I put my positive passions was to sports, both teams and individuals. I could afford to invest myself in those without personal disappointments that had left me flattened and despairing. I picked my loyalties and stayed with them. I had favorite teams and players. I watched everything, football, basketball, hockey, swimming and became an Olympics junkie. As time went on I added tennis and soccer. I still remember the uniform numbers of those individuals who for whatever reason, won my heart. Jean Beliveau, #4 – Montreal Canadiens. Doug Mohns, #11 – Chicago Blackhawks. Doug Buffone, #55 – Chicago Bears. Fred Biletnikoff, #25 – Oakland Raiders. I could go on and on. A lot of my friends were surprised that I was so into sports, as many of them, particularly the contact ones dominated by males, seemed in direct conflict with my feminist politics. But I didn’t care what it seemed like. My personal passionate commitments had  cost me a significant amount of emotional angst. I think I was born with a fairly deep reservoir for giving but I’d come to realize that when I put myself out there, I’d best be prepared to be doing it because I needed to for me and not because of what I expected in return. I’d had a lot of disappointment from family, friends and lovers. With sports, the worst that could happen was that your favorites could lose. The pain threshold for those things was tolerable for me, easier than all the personal disappointments. At least, it always had been for many years. When the silent switch happened, I really wasn’t aware of it at all. I’ve only just figured out that my lines had gotten blurred below the surface of my consciousness because of what life dealt out to me. I was too busy in the living of it to recognize that I’d set myself up for a whole new undoing.

  So these sports. As a Chicagoan and a southsider, I loved the White Sox. I branched out and embraced the Cubs. I was a hockey fan and I sat with my dad as he agonized over DePaul’s basketball team. Except for golf, I’d watch almost anything. Eventually, tennis got my attention. I watched the women, Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Steffi Graf and of course, finally Venus and Serena. I admired their skills and grit. But I always loved the boys and most particularly, the ones who behaved well, rarely had tantrums or broke their rackets and in general, seemed to play against that spoiled brat type. No John McEnroes or Ilie Nastases for me.

  I liked the cool Swede Bjorn Borg, who played like a smooth machine. After him, it was Pete Sampras, who was just a kid when he started and had a long 14 year career, complete with those beautiful serves and the tenacity to keep playing after vomiting on the court from sickness and dehydration. The civilized guys. I made an exception for Jimmy Connors sometimes because he had high entertainment value. There were a few Australians thrown into the mix and the Croat Goran Ivanisevic who had sporadic talent but took forever to win the big tourney. But in the middle of Pete’s reign, Roger Federer appeared on the scene. And that was all she wrote for me.

  Federer broke into the big time as a teenager and was kind of a punk for awhile. But the tragic car wreck death of his Australian coach when he was 21 was a life changing event for him. Between that and his relationship with his older girlfriend who eventually became his wife, he pulled himself together and became who he is today, a brilliant champion, a genuinely loved public figure and a generous philanthropist. In short, my favorite tennis player.

  Federer’s been playing for 21 years. I’ve watched him countless times and always enjoyed his grace, elegance and tenacity. For most of those years I watched him and the other players during the four major tournaments, the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon and the US Open. There was a lot of other tennis happening off my radar, many tournaments and point systems for rankings. I didn’t really care about that stuff. I was happy with what I saw, read articles so I had some idea of the background for the majors, and was generally content.

When Michael got sick seven and a half years ago, that was where I was at. As we processed his disease and what we knew would be a limited future, I was trying to get a handle on interests that would distract me from the constant pressure of anticipating death. Michael liked tennis too and had played for years as a young man. Often we watched matches together. But as time went by and we rode the waves of anxiety, I started to seek out more and more information about tennis. We’d switched cable tv providers and the Tennis Channel was included in our package. I realized that there were all kinds of tournaments and that Roger participated in lots of them. He was famous for holding records in places that had never crossed my radar. And we had a DVR. I started taping everything. When I had nothing to do, I started watching more tennis. I liked other players but Roger was the one. As the months of Michael’s illness progressed, we both labored under the strain of wondering how much time we had left to enjoy our life. Sometimes I drove my reserved husband crazy, wanting to talk through everything all the time. He was in treatment, often tired and in need of rest. I had lots of time on my hands but I wanted to stay nearby, soaking in every minute of life with Michael. So I turned to the box where Roger waited in the DVR. He was such a joy to watch. Healthy, easy and an amazing contrast to my precious guy who was carrying such a huge load. Over time, I decided that who needed a DVR when you could set an alarm and watch a tournament live from Australia, China or the Middle East? We didn’t really have a normal routine or schedule any more so I could make my own hours. As years went by, Federer’s wins or losses began to affect me more and more. The worst time came in 2016 when he sustained a knee injury while bathing one of his kids. He decided to withdraw from the professional tour for months while he rehabbed thoroughly and tried to decide if he could return and play at the championship level again.

  I was worried about it but at the time I was really focused on the stretch of good health Michael was enjoying so we took advantage of an excellent fall and traveled a lot. I had concerns about some signs of immune system letdown in Michael but as late as December, 2016, we were in our happy place at Starved Rock and life seemed even and predictable. Unfortunately that languorous period was short-lived. By the first week of January, Michael’s behavior was unusual. His appetite was diminished and he had some odd moments when he wasn’t making a lot of sense. We went in to see our oncologist who did some bloodwork and ordered a scan. Everything came back clean. So on we went. Things got stranger and stranger. I began to believe that there was an occult return of Michael’s cancer and began a nagging process that drove him nuts. He wanted to leave well enough alone and I didn’t. We began bickering. Right around the same time, Roger was getting ready to emerge from his medical exile and enter the Australian Open.

As days went by, Michael’s behaviors became odder and odder and I kept dragging him back to the doctors. Meanwhile, Roger was winning match after match. I was up in the night, watching him in real time and trying to avoid arguing with Michael who was annoyed with me. The doctors kept finding nothing. On January 29th, 2017, I had the pleasure of watching Roger win his first major since being injured.

On January 31st, I prevailed upon Michael to let me bring him to the ER to see if we could get him a brain MRI, the only test he hadn’t had. By that night we had the dreadful diagnosis of carcinomatous meningitis, a rare manifestation of certain solid tumors that’s becoming more common as people survive their original cancers for longer periods of time. We were devastated, Michael even more than me as he’d believed the continuing positive reports while I knew something was terribly wrong. We had a 32 day siege in the hospital and then I was able to bring him home in early March. The median survival time for this disease was 4 weeks from diagnosis. Michael hung on for almost seventeen.

  Meanwhile, the French Open began close to the end of Michael’s life and I continued to watch through June 11th. I remember thinking how ironic it was that Roger’s playing bookended the last months of Michael’s life. When July came, along came Wimbledon. I watched all of it and Roger emerged victorious. That highlighted my summer of preparing for the celebration of Michael’s life which was planned for December. When that was over, I stared down 2018, trying to figure out what to do with myself. I started this blog on January 1st. I was in the midst of planning my 50th high school reunion and also wanted to do a little traveling.

  I finally landed on the Western-Southern Open tennis tournament in Cincinnati, a chance to see Roger in the flesh for the first time. As he was getting older I figured I’d better get that bucket list item done. Additionally, the Laver Cup, Roger’s creation was happening in Chicago, at the same time as my reunion.

  I bought tickets to that as well. Both events were wonderful and I was so glad I went. Roger won some and lost some and I felt satisfied. But as time passed I found watching him, especially when he lost, to become more and more stressful. I was aware of the negative feelings but not sure what to do about them. Each match got worse and worse. This was not supposed to be my relationship with sports. I was irritable, frustrated and hostile. I could barely stand being with myself. When my son was around he tried to be comforting but I was basically so obnoxious he’d wind up leaving me to my own devices. I started thinking really hard, going back over the seven and a half year history of Michael’s disease, death and this mourning period. A lot has happened to me during that time. I spent a lot of emotional capital during those years. I spent an extraordinary amount of love on my marriage, so much that I often wonder if I can love anyone or anything new ever again. Even a pet. And then just this past week in the midst of an ugly US Open for Roger, I recognized what I’m referring to as a silent switch. Somewhere back there, as I recognized that my time with Michael was running away, I put a lot of my heart into Roger, a sports guy who was supposed to be a distraction, not someone personal. As his fortunes ebb and he gets closer to retirement I realized that my outsized reactions are more like living through an intimate loss instead of just watching an athlete’s life come to its normal conclusion. I realized that I’d transferred some of my feelings about Michael’s absence to a weird anticipatory despair about Roger’s career coming to an end. How bizarre is that? Probably not very. Roger’s trajectory is another ending, a metaphor for what I’ve been coping with for a very long time. I didn’t recognize exactly when it happened but I know it did. And acknowledging the inappropriate outsized reactions I was having helped me see the need to face this metaphor for what is – a familiar road twisted into an inappropriate level of importance. It’s time to set it back in a more normal place. Ironically, during this week of internal probing and exploring, I’ve been outside in my garden a lot. I had no trouble identifying two adult butterflies, feeding, still strong but battered by predators, perhaps by wind. But still living out there in the world. I was aware that I identified with them. No silent switching in this case. Awareness is hard and often mysterious. I’m going to keep going after it. It’s better than living in the dark. 

      The Silent Switch I wonder if all people are born equipped for life’s passions. And if they are, is the capacity for them the same for everyone?