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dvp95 · 5 years ago

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quiet on widow’s peak (2)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, youtuber phil lester, dan howell is not a youtuber, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.2k (this chapter), 6.4k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

"Do you remember the Wilkins place?"

"I'm well, thanks." Martyn's voice is dry, and Phil finds himself grinning at the wall despite himself. "How are you?"

"Good," says Phil. It's mostly true, although he could do without the piles of clothes he's sorting through. He holds his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he picks up a top of Sophie's and starts a whole new pile that he's calling delicates, aka things he's absolutely going to screw up somehow. "People think the Wilkins place is haunted."

There's a beat. Presumably, Phil's brother is trying to fit the name into adolescent memories to see where it slots in. "Oh, that wreck in Rusholme? It hasn't been condemned yet?"

"Apparently it's still a hot spot for binge-drinking teenagers," Phil says.

"Well, sure. But haunted? Really?"

"That's what I said!"

Phil feels a little vindicated by the skepticism in Martyn's voice, to be honest. His friends hadn't taken his weird feeling seriously at all.

"I mean, it's a dump," says Martyn. "More likely to be haunted by a bunch of rats than anything else. Why haven't we heard this before?"

"According to my sources," Phil says, only feeling a bit ridiculous about referring to a bunch of strangers on the internet as 'sources', "the activity only recently started. Which makes me think that someone's lying, or maybe one incident kickstarted everyone else's imaginations?"

"Both could be true. Why don't you ask Ian to go check it out?"

It's not exactly a sore spot, but something inside of Phil still twinges at the question. "He's a little busy, isn't he."

"So am I," Martyn says in that same dry, familiar tone that makes Phil feel as comforted as his mum's fretting or his dad's bad jokes do. "And yet here you are, on my phone."

"You don't have a toddler," Phil points out.

"I don't? Yet here you are..."

Phil snorts a laugh and drops all of the socks he's gathered into an empty basket. It's as good a place to start as any. "Shut up, Mar. I'm at least six."

There are, literally, enough dirty socks and pants between the four of them that Phil has a whole load of just underthings. He spares a moment to be grateful to Sophie for not including her bras, because he'd have no idea where to begin with those. He sighs and picks up the basket, fitting it against his hip with one hand so he can hold his phone with the other.

"Well, I can ask around," says Martyn. "I think my friends might be past the point of sneaking into abandoned houses to party, but maybe they've heard something from their annoying little brothers."

"Ha, ha," Phil says dryly. "Think I should contact some of the people making these claims?"

"Deffo," says Martyn. "If you can record them, it'd be best."

"Yeah, that way I can use them in the video," Phil hums, setting his basket on the washer and opening every cupboard to try to find the detergent. "I mean, if they're okay with that, obviously."

"I actually meant because your bullshit detector is dysfunctional, so me or Peej will have to tell you if someone's lying."

"Wow, rude. Whose fault is that?"

"Yours," Martyn informs him dryly. "Just because I told you Santa would pull you up through the chimney doesn't mean you had to believe me."

Phil rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. Maybe it's just a big brother thing, or maybe it's their personalities, but Martyn isn't wrong - Phil has a hard time telling when someone is lying to him. Martyn was always good at lying with a straight face and seeing right through Phil's outlandish stories.

"I still blame you," says Phil.

"Alright," says Martyn. "When are you coming to visit?"

"Probably not ‘til after this one," Phil says slowly, glancing at the kitten calendar on the fridge. They'd let one of their milder housemates pick this year's after everyone got tired of looking at Chris' previous choice of nude knitted puppets.

"Yeah? You gonna head up north for this one?"

In the very last cupboard he checks, Phil finds the detergent. He wants to be annoyed about it, but the truth is that Holly's habit of switching around the kitchen when she's anxious has saved many a pack of biscuits from expiring behind some flour. Phil has never once been useful to anybody when he's having a meltdown, so.

Phil absentmindedly loads the washer while he considers Martyn's question. Maybe it would be best to check the place out for himself, see if anything's really going on. He likes being on-site best, trusts his own gut more than he trusts strangers' eyes.

The problem, of course, is that Phil's childhood home is up for sale, he has no money for a hotel, and Ian's gone and got himself a child. The last thing Phil wants to do is impose or, like, get roped into babysitting. A trip to Manchester might be out of the question for him right now.

"Maybe," Phil says, noncommittal.

Martyn sees through him in an instant, like always. "Want me to ask Mum if they've got any viewings next weekend? I'm sure you know not to trash the place."

"Have I ever once trashed the place? Don't answer that," Phil adds, remembering the shaving cream incident.

A huff comes down the line, and Phil feels the same pride at making his brother laugh as he had when he was seven and making weird noises out the car window. Yeah, he definitely needs to go to London soon, the Isle afterwards - he hasn't seen his family in way too long.

"I'll let you know what's buzzing, if anything," says Martyn. "And I'll call Mum for you and all. I know you get weird about asking them for favours."

"I get weird about asking anyone for favours," Phil says instead of a thank you, because if he gets weird about asking for help, then Martyn gets twice as weird about reacting to gratitude.

"Except me."

Phil smiles, watching the rainbow of socks and pants spin. "Yeah. Except you."

Laundry does end up taking Phil most of the day, but he doesn't mind much. It's the least he can do when Chris always does the first draft edit for him, PJ reminds him to take his EMF meter and his meds when he's packing for an overnight, and Sophie sends him pages upon pages of research while she's at work. He's so fond of these people, and he appreciates all they do for him, but being in debt to them - and not in sole control of his projects - makes Phil feel like he's got ants crawling up his arms.

While he waits out the machine cycles, Phil starts putting feelers out into this story. He checks the sources linked to him again and shoots off a couple of direct messages and emails to see if any of the people posting about the Wilkins place are eager to chat one on one.

He's got his laptop set up at the kitchen table and he's on his third coffee of the day when it occurs to him that he's not out of the woods of owing favours just yet. He clicks back into the Tumblr submission that started this spiral.

He decides that he needs to thank this person, at the very least, and maybe offer to buy them a coffee or something when he's in town. They did so much of Phil's grunt work that it feels weird not to pay them back somehow.

"Well, I can't exactly do your laundry," Phil murmurs to the screen. He hopes none of his other housemates are milling around to hear him.

Another click, and he's on the blog. It's minimalist and monochrome in a way that makes things easy to read, but not very interesting to look at. Phil's eyes start to glaze over as he scrolls through, because it's entertaining enough but - well. It's a typical Tumblr blog. That familiar mixture of memes and rants about social issues and some gifs from shows that Phil doesn't have time to watch. There are a lot of familiar walls of text tagged as personal posts, but Phil still can't parse them without really trying.

They do reblog Phil's video posts, though. That makes him grin.

He scrolls back up to the top of the page to shoot them a message and immediately gets distracted by the bio.

winnie. 21. any pronouns.

For someone who sent Phil a wall of text that could be mistaken for copypasta at first glance, it's surprisingly succinct. Phil takes another swig of his coffee and tries not to get caught up on the last part of it.

Any pronouns? What does that mean, any pronouns? What if Phil uses the wrong ones? He isn't exactly a queer theory student, and as much as he supports everybody under his little rainbow umbrella, he's got to admit that a lot of things still go over his head.

He dithers for so long that his laptop screen goes black, and he makes a face at himself in its reflection. Surely he's overthinking this.

Hi!, Phil types, and then accidentally hits enter. He was just trying not to send the fan a paragraph back, but, fine. Oops. So I'm looking into the things you sent me on the Wilkins place and I'm really impressed by the amount of time you put into this? Like it makes MY job a lot easier haha. Is he a triple-texter? He's a triple-texter. The first one didn't count anyway. So thanks!!!!! I'll def give you credit in the video, but is there anything else I can do to pay you back?

Not literally, he wants to add right after he's sent it. Oh, well. He can't just keep spamming this poor person's chat. He hopes it's obvious that he'd offer monetary compensation if he had it.

Phil leaves the Tumblr tab open and works on editing for a little while. It's almost frustrating how bad this video is, how little effort and energy Phil has started putting into these, and he doesn't know how to fix it short of rethinking his entire career.

He could easily keep churning these out for as long as people watch them, but. He's not having fun anymore.

The Phil on his laptop screen is asking questions, wandering around a cemetery just to see if anything will happen, and Phil can't help comparing it to things he did last year, the year before that, the year before that - it feels like his content is declining as his enthusiasm for the topic does, or maybe vice versa.

Phil zones out for so long that the dryer chime goes off from the hallway, echoing through the old, creaky house. He'd given up on sorting the loads after the fifth shirt that could belong to any of them, so he just takes his own things out and folds his housemates' clothes into one basket.

They can figure it out, he's sure. There's only two bedrooms between the three of them, so there's only two closets, and Phil has gone so long without knowing who's officially sharing that it would be awkward to ask now.

Phil swaps the load over and goes back to his laptop, even though the very last thing he wants to do is continue editing and uploading this mediocre video.

The thing is, Phil doesn't need his content to be perfect. He's happy to post things that just make him laugh or have a nicely spooky vibe or whatever, he doesn't need to solve mysteries every month or two. It's just that. He can hear how little he cares about it, lately. It won't be long before people notice, if they haven't already.

Phil sighs and exits the project. Maybe this video is best left unposted. He's not happy with it at all.

Maybe, if this Wilkins place video doesn't pan out, Phil can start redirecting his energy into a different type of creative output. He's got so many stories bouncing around in his mind, he just needs to figure out how he wants to tell them.

It sounds like his father's voice inside his head, telling him you can't chase ghosts forever. He wishes he still had the gumption to disagree with it.

His laptop makes a little noise, and Phil blinks back to reality. He has to click on a few different tabs to figure out where it came from, but then he realises that he's gotten a response on Tumblr.

Phil smiles despite himself and gets ready for another difficult-to-read message.

Sure enough: UHHHHHH hi hello what the fuck i didnt expect you to say anything this is so weird i am being so weird right now um like no problem? i was procrastinating an essay and this was more fun to research so you dont have to thank me or pay me back whatever that means like i was just fucking around its fine but thank you?????

Phil thinks about the four word Tumblr bio again and snorts. Maybe Winnie wanted to seem as cool and minimalist as their theme itself was.

Procrastination or not, I appreciate it!, Phil replies. Would it be ok if I use you as a reference?

?????????????? i mean yeah but what the fuck, he gets back almost immediately.

It's nice to see you know some punctuation! Sorry if it's weird to reach out like this, I just wanted to like acknowledge the work you put in. I don't have to mention you in the video if you'd prefer!

The sound of the front door creaking open and slamming shut interrupts Phil's nervous typing. He freezes for a moment, fingers still on the keyboard, but then PJ comes in the kitchen with a little salute and several bags of craft supplies, and Phil can breathe again.

It isn't that the other people who live in this house are bad people. Far from it. It's just that, of the people Phil has opted to share this large space with for nearly two years, only three of them have made any kind of effort to understand Phil. The others are nice enough, he supposes, but sometimes they come and go and new people replace them and - Phil isn't exactly good with change, is the thing.

So he relaxes when he can talk to PJ instead of making small talk with someone who thinks he's weird and too messy. "Hey! How's your day?"

"Better than yours," PJ laughs. He drops all the bags on the table and starts puttering around the kitchen. "Hungry?"

"Please. And it wasn't so bad, I got some work done."

"Yeah? Any new info on the new haunt?"

It's incredible how genuinely interested PJ always is in Phil's work. Phil grins down at his keyboard and shrugs a bit. "Some. Mostly just poking around right now, though. Mar's asking his friends too. Oh, and I thanked the person who sent it in."

"That's good," PJ says. He's putting the kettle on, because that's what PJ does when he comes home. "How'd they react?"

"Mostly confusion," Phil laughs. He glances at his screen to see if Winnie has responded - they haven't - and chews on his lip a little bit. "Hey, Peej? If someone says any pronouns are fine, what does that mean?"

"Generally," PJ hums, "it seems like it would mean any pronouns are fine."

"Oh, shut up." Phil runs a hand through his hair, always anxious about getting stuff like this wrong.

"I'm not joking," PJ says, although his tone is still light.

"Oh. So it just... doesn't matter?"

"Not to some people, I guess." PJ leans against the counter as he waits for the water to boil. At least he's smiling, although Phil can't help but notice that it's a little patronizing. "You do know that I'm not a gender guru, right? I'm barely a gender novice. I failed gender out the gate, buddy."

Phil knows his cheeks are pinking up a bit, but he rolls his eyes. "Shut up," he repeats. "You still know way more than me."

The shrug he gets in response makes Phil huff a laugh. This isn't something they talk about, but Phil has been present for enough of Chris and PJ's conversations that he'd gotten the idea.

He wonders if PJ cares that he's bringing it up. Is he making PJ uncomfortable? They don't talk about this.

"Stop spiralling," PJ says easily. His smile is warmer, now. "I don't hate you, nobody hates you, and the fan who doesn't care about pronouns certainly doesn't hate you. If you're that worried about upsetting them, though, you can always ask."

Maybe he's known PJ too long. He's grateful for it, still, so relieved that he doesn't have to voice the swirling anxiety of doing something wrong when he only has the best intentions.

"I guess I could do that," Phil mutters, embarrassed by how easily he's been read.

Winnie's responded by the time Phil looks back at the chat window, a lmao yeah ofc thats fine i just cant believe you want to, im not trying to b weird ive just been a fan for a really long time?? (used a comma for you too) (and brackets) (youre welcome) that makes Phil smile.

Awesome! And are the name Winnie & they/them pronouns fine to talk about you with, or do you prefer something else for this?

no yeah thats good idc how you refer to me, is Winnie's immediate response. It's stupid how much of a load feels like it's been lifted off of Phil's shoulders at that easy reassurance.

"You were right," Phil informs PJ.

PJ nods, solemn, as he stirs his noodles. "I often am."

"You're annoying, also," says Phil. "Hey. D'you wanna come up north with me?"

"Phil," says PJ dramatically, holding the wooden spoon up to his heart. "Are you asking me to run away with you?"

"No, absolutely not, stop making that joke." There's no way in hell Phil is going to keep putting up with this from both of them, and PJ is more likely to listen to him than Chris is.

PJ laughs. "Yeah, yeah. You going to see the haunt?"

"If my parents are okay with us hanging out for the weekend, yeah."

"Oh, okay," says PJ. "We're just waiting on confirmation that Kath and Nigel want to spend time with you? Might as well pack now."

"Your stuff's folded," Phil says helpfully. PJ throws a noodle in his general direction. It flops onto the floor between them, a sad, wet spiral of a thing, and Phil touches his nose at the same time PJ does.

"Well, one of us has to pick it up," PJ says in his Reasonable Adult voice, as if he hadn't thrown it in the first place.

Phil looks at his laptop, valiantly pretending not to see the floor noodle, and blinks.

and i mean i havent seen any of this shit firsthand but if you need to ask me anything about the stuff thats gone down im always free. like literally always.

#phanfic #phanfiction #dnp fic #phan #words words words #quiet on widow's peak

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danfanciesphil · 6 years ago

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Some Kind Of Folliful (New Chapter)

Edgelord!Dan x ObliviousBisexual!Phil AU [CHAPTER NINE] (based off the 80′s classic Some Kind of Wonderful)

Synopsis: Dan has one friend, and only because he was forced into it. Phil is loud, excitable, and irritatingly happy all of the time. Phil seems to find Dan’s perpetual attitude funny, and despite Dan’s best efforts to shun him and everyone else, wants to be around him all the time. That is, until Phil starts talking about Amanda Jones. Word Count: WIP (Estimated 12-15 chapters) updates every Tuesday Rating: Explicit Warnings: Smoking, swearing, heavy drinking, drug mentions, implied prostitution, broken home, class divide/classism, pining, light homophobia, sex

[Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Chapter Three] [Chapter Four] [Chapter Five] [Chapter Six] [Chapter Seven] [Chapter Eight]

[Ao3!]

Phil paces up Dan’s driveway slowly, the car keys digging into his palm. He’s sweating with nerves already, making his t-shirt cling to his shoulders. It’s only a few degrees outside, but he’s warm through and through. He glances behind him to check once again that the car looks unscathed.

He takes a moment to psych himself up, then knocks on the flaking wooden pane. There’s a muffled woman’s voice yelling from inside, telling someone to ‘get the bloody door’. Nobody answers her. Then, footsteps stomping, and the door is wrenched open, revealing a woman, her straw-blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She’s wearing a onesie, pushed down so it’s bunched around her hips, and a ‘Blondie’ t-shirt. At first, Phil assumes she must be a lodger, or a guest, but then he catches sight of her chocolate brown eyes, and the chestnut colour of her roots.

“Hi,” says Phil. “Are you Dan’s mum?”

“Unfortunately,” she says, looking Phil up and down. “Who’re you?”

To begin with, Phil had found it strange that he’d never met Dan’s mum, considering the amount of times he visited Dan’s house. Dan never liked bringing him over, always preferring to meet up elsewhere, or at Phil’s, but he couldn’t always make an excuse. Each time Phil managed to weasel his way into Dan’s place, his mum was nowhere to be seen. Phil learned, eventually, after pressing Dan, that his mum worked night shifts in a care home, meaning she slept in the day. He notes the dark, purpling circles underneath her eyes now, and swallows guiltily.

“Sorry,” Phil says. “I hope I didn’t disturb you. I’m Dan’s friend. Is he here?”

She frowns. “Dan’s friend? He’s never had no friends come round before.”

Phil doesn’t know what to say. She sighs, wiping a hand across her exhausted face. “Look, I dunno where he is. Haven’t seen him since-” She stops, latching onto something in the distance, beyond Phil. “Bloody hell, is that Ricky’s car? Did you bring that here?”

“Um, yes,” Phil says, nervously. He unfurls his fist, revealing the keys and holding them out to her. “I’m returning it.”

“Returning it from when you stole it?” She’s quick to anger, Phil realises. “You’ve no idea what I’ve had to put up with, Ricky’s been ranting and smashing shit. Dan thinks he can do whatever he likes, treating this place like a hotel- I should throw him out for this.” She snatches the keys from Phil, face growing crimson. “And you’re the accomplice, are you? Fuck’s sake, and he’s sent you here instead of facing up to me himself, is that it?”

“Actually,” Phil says softly. “I haven’t seen him since last night. He left Prom early. I don’t know where he went. A friend drove me home.”

“Well, when you see him you can let him know that he can deal with his brother when he shows up here,” Dan’s mum says with a snarl. “If he thinks I’m gonna hold Ricky off, he’s got another thing coming.”

Phil frowns, shifting from foot to foot as he struggles for a response. She doesn’t seem to care that Dan hasn’t been heard from all night, and it’s baffling to Phil. He imagines his own mother in the same situation - she’d be frantic with worry. He senses Dan’s mum staring at him, as though she’s puzzling over something. He meets her quizzical eye, self-conscious.

“Oi, haven’t I seen you before?”

“I don’t think so.”

She stares a while longer. “Hang on, you’re the little rat I saw sneakin’ out of Dan’s room the night before last.”

Phil flushes bright red, a load of gibberish beginning to spill out. He’d thought nobody had caught that shameful moment.

“You his boyfriend? Or just a quick shag?”

Phil’s cheeks burn. “We- we’re just friends.”

She snorts, then reaches into her pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “I know a walk of shame when I see one, love.” She shoves the cigarette between her lips. The movement is startlingly similar to how Dan does it. “Don’t blame you. That boy’s a fuckin’ nightmare.”

The obvious disdain rips through the soft, supple skin of Phil’s heart. Hearing Dan’s own mother talking about him this way is awful. If this is what Dan has to endure on a daily basis, it’s no wonder he hates being at home. Phil had always assumed that it was more to do with Ricky, but having this on top must make it near unbearable for him. It makes Phil want to wrap Dan in his arms, to yank him out of this house, and keep him safe somewhere, perhaps sat at the stool of his piano that Dan quietly loves so much. Or in Phil’s bed, dressed in a stupid big t-shirt, sipping hot chocolate his mum makes. The guilt surges up inside Phil’s body, choking him from the inside out. What scum he is, for adding to Dan’s pain.

“He’s fucking awesome, actually,” Phil finds himself blurting out, voice louder than he initially intends. “I’m lucky to be his friend, let alone anything else. You should be grateful Dan turned out as selfless, and intelligent, and sensitive as he is. Because he obviously doesn’t owe anything to you.”

He sees the furious retort brewing in Dan’s mum’s throat, but he doesn’t wait around for it. He storms away, blood roaring in his ears, drowning out whatever she might be yelling after him. It only occurs to Phil as he’s halfway back to his own house, that he potentially just made it even more difficult for Dan to return home.

Three nights after Prom, and Dan hasn’t slept in his own bed once. He’s stopped home briefly, during the hours he knew his mum and Ricky would be out or asleep, to gather a load of belongings – changes of underwear, a jacket he’d forgotten to take on Prom night, a toothbrush, etc. To his mild intrigue, he noticed that Ricky’s car had been returned to the driveway. Lee must have dropped it back there, after dropping Phil and Amanda home. At least Dan won’t have to track it down.

The Ozone band is shit tonight. Maybe the out of tune, dissonant noise blaring out of the speakers is the fault of the tone-deaf bassist on stage. More likely, it’s due to the fact that the sound technician currently has his tongue down Dan’s throat. He’s not that attractive, but Sam is easy, and lusts after Dan like a bloodhound. Right now, all Dan wants to feel are grabby, insistent hands and the clack of teeth against his. He needs violent distraction. Sam is all too happy to supply it.

It’s a shame he tastes so vile. Like the cinnamon vape stick constantly stuck between his lips, and warm, ashy beer. Dan pulls back once he can no longer stand it, and shoves Sam’s head into the crook of his neck.

“Bite me if you want,” he mutters, swigging the beer Sam has left on the sound desk. “I don’t give a shit.”

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Sam sinks his teeth in. Dan shuts his eyes as the pain lances through him, picturing the blood vessels bursting, purpling his skin, obscuring the mark that Phil left, that refuses to fade, covering it with something darker, worse.

And then, in an instant, Sam is being wrenched off him, pulled back with such force that Dan nearly slips off the desk entirely. Sam yelps, not expecting it, and falls flat on his ass. Bleary and vaguely nauseous, Dan fixates on whoever it is that has so rudely interrupted them. Phil stands there, the lines on his forehead pronounced, club lights dancing across his blue eyes as they flick between Sam and Dan, not quite sure how to proceed. Sam is struggling on the floor, clearly too wasted to haul himself up again in the tight space of the sound booth.

“What the fuck’re y’doing?” Dan spits.

“Me?” Phil asks, incredulous. “What about you?! Who even is this guy?”

Just then, Sam manages to wrench himself back to a standing position. He shoves Phil in the chest, hard. Dan rolls his eyes. If he has to jump in the middle of this to prevent a fight, he’ll punch Phil afterwards for making him.

“What’s your problem, dickhead?” Sam yells, spittle flying from his lips.

Phil takes a step backwards, but doesn’t flinch. He ignores Sam, eyes furiously boring into Dan’s. “Come with me.”

“Uh, no.”

“Dan.” Phil’s voice is a warning. Dan’s never heard him sound so serious. It might almost be funny, in another context.

“Listen, pal,” Sam butts in, chest puffed out as he gets closer to Phil. “I dunno who you think you are, but the kid’s not going anywhere, alright?”

“He’s not a kid, you sick fuck,” Phil snarls.

Sam grits his teeth, and Dan can see the flash of fury in his eyes. “You asked for it, ponce.”

Sam grabs Phil by the lapels of his bomber jacket, seething. Dan’s heart leaps into his throat. Mind whiting out, he lurches forwards, shoving himself in between the two of them before Sam has a chance to do anything more.

Facing Sam, Dan uses his body as a barricade. He stares straight into Sam’s eyes, heavy and firm. “Don’t touch him.”

In the back of his mind, Dan wonders vaguely how many instances there will be where he’ll willingly put his own health at risk to defend Phil Lester. Infinite, probably.

“You told me you’re mine tonight, kid,” Sam growls. “I’m doin’ you a favour. I don’t like being messed about.”

Dan grimaces, unmoved by this vague threat. Dan towers over Sam, despite their age difference. It wouldn’t be the best idea in the world to get in fight with the sound tech at his favourite club, but if it came down to it, Dan could definitely take him.

“Tuck your dick away for five minutes while I deal with this,” Dan tells him, irritable. “You’ll survive.”

Then Dan turns, grabbing Phil by the wrist and pulling him away from the booth. He’s looking for Ben, the security guard, hoping to hand Phil over to him, but Phil isn’t having any of it. He tugs free of Dan’s grip once they’re at the edge of the dancefloor, forcing Dan to spin around.

“Dan, just stop a minute,” Phil says, loud enough to be heard over the music. “I need to talk to you.”

“Well, I don’t wanna hear it,” Dan says.

His voice is slurring a bit, but he’s sober enough to know he needs to get out of this situation. Talking to Phil is an ache. It aches more than the bruises on his face, more than the cut on his lip, or the soles of his feet from spending three nights on a dancefloor. He can’t stomach the pain of it, can’t bear the thoughts that plague him, so he needs to get Phil away. Again, Dan scans the immediate vicinity for Ben, but in the dark, swirling lights and packed bodies, he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Why are you doing this?” Phil asks, apparently incredulous. “That guy is a creep!”

“What the fuck do you care?”

“I care! I care about you.” Phil tries to reach out and touch him, but Dan is quick to move out of his path. “That’s why I’m here,” Phil persists, “because I’m worried. Because I want to make sure you’re okay-”

Dan steps closer to him, and whatever Phil sees in his face makes his sentence fall away. “No,” Dan grits out. “If you cared about me, you wouldn’t’ve stuck your hand down my pants and then pretended it never happened. You wouldn’t’ve coerced me into hauling your ass around town all night so you could get with some other girl.”

Phil’s eyes, usually bright and exuberant, grow dull; he looks dreadful, Dan notices for the first time. His eyes are bloodshot, surrounded by dark circles. His hair is lank and messy. His clothes look a day old.

“Please, don’t,” he says quietly. Over the music, Dan can barely hear him. “I’m sorry.” He bites his lip, and Dan’s gaze falls to it. “I’m so sorry.”

Some small chip of ice flakes away from the block encasing Dan’s heart. He feels his resolve breaking, feels the traitorous affection he feels for this one, infuriating person melting his anger. And then, Dan is being grabbed by the arm, yanked away.

He sees Sam at his side, grumpy and livid. “Right, time’s up. You’re mine now.”

Dan’s about to shrug him off, to placate him with promises he’ll make it up to him later, but then a blur rushes past, and Sam is being tackled. Dan’s mouth falls open as he watches Phil pin Sam to the sticky, disgusting bar floor. Snatches of the things he’s shouting bounce off Dan’s ears, partially drowned out by the terrible band.

“…not fucking yours… your grimy hands off him… taking advantage… my best friend…”

Clumsily, Dan reaches for him, grabbing Phil by the upper arm and pulling. At first, he doesn’t move, but then a second pair of hands join him, then a third and fourth, and Dan looks over to see Ben, along with two other bouncers Dan vaguely recognises, hauling Phil to his feet. They grab Dan too, shoving them both through the crowd towards the fire exit door.

“Ben, mate,” Dan tries to garble as he’s being marched. “Listen, I’m sorry about him, he’s just wasted, you don’t need to kick us out-”

One of the bouncers open the fire exit, holding the door wide. It leads out into a narrow alley at the side of the club, where the bins are. It’s certainly not Dan’s first time in this alley, but he prefers to visit it of his own volition. Ben shoves Phil out first, sending him stumbling against the far wall. He turns to Dan, one hand firmly gripping his shoulder. “Don’t come back here for a while, Dan. You’ve been causing trouble for three nights running. Get your shit together.”

He gives Dan a push outside, then slams the door shut, leaving he and Phil alone in the cold night.

“Fuck!” Dan kicks one of the wheelie bins, and a loud clatter of glass bottles echoes through the alley. “For fuck’s sake, Phil! What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

“Go home?” Phil suggests, panting. He’s leaning against the damp brick wall, catching his breath.

Dan falls back against the opposite wall, head in his hands. “Oh, right, yeah. I’ll just barrel straight into Ricky’s fist, shall I?”

Phil is silent for a while, then Dan hears him step across the space between them. He takes one of Dan’s hands and moves it away from his face. Dan pulls out of his grip sharply, but it doesn’t seem to deter him.

Phil sucks in a breath once he catches sight of Dan’s face, the lines around his eyes crumpling. “Shit, Dan,” he says.

For a moment, Dan doesn’t know what he’s so upset about. Then he remembers the bruising. From the light of the street lamps lining the road beyond the alley, it’s probably all too easy to see what a mess Dan is right now.

“Yeah,” Dan shrugs. “Hardy’s lacking brains, but he’s got some brawn, I’ll give him that.”

“You should see him, though.”

Dan lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, you fractured his nose.”

“Seriously?”

“That’s the rumour. He’s got a bandage over it.” Phil’s eyes remain fixed on the right side of Dan’s face. “Two black eyes. He’s going around school telling everyone it’s a ‘gym injury’, but pretty much everyone saw you beat him up, so...”

Dan stays silent. This is the first good news he’s heard for days, and he doesn’t even feel anything other than self-loathing for it. Beating up some rich kid is nothing to be proud of. Even if he absolutely had it coming.

“Is he giving you any more trouble?”

Phil shakes his head. “What did you say to him? He won’t even look at me anymore. Or Amanda. Just scurries off if he sees us in the halls.”

Amanda’s name is a sharp stab in Dan’s left side. He lifts his gaze to Phil, wondering if he should tell him the truth. In the end, he can’t be bothered to lie.

“He got a boner.”

The look of pure astonishment on Phil’s face is almost incredible enough to make Dan smile. Almost. “What? When?”

“When I punched him,” Dan replies. This time, a smirk manages to creep onto his face.

“Fucking hell,” Phil says, blowing a puff of air upwards. He has an odd look on his face when he settles back on Dan. “You’re not…” he trails off.

“What?”

“You’re not, like… into that, are you?”

Dan makes a retching noise. “Fuck off, we’re not all into snobby douchebags.”

Phil frowns, looking away.

Dan runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Dan pushes off the wall. He’s already feeling a chill, and he left his jacket and bag in the club. He’ll have to beg Ben to let him in to grab it tomorrow. He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and starts picking through the litter to the end of the alleyway.

“Where are you going?” Phil calls after him. There’s a clattering sound, so Dan knows Phil is following him.

“No idea,” Dan says. “You ruined my plans for the night, so I’ll have to make other arrangements.”

“If your plans were to let that creep take you home with him, I’m glad.”

“Look, you don’t get to be jealous of me,” Dan spits, bitterly.

Phil swallows, eyes fixed to the floor. “You deserve better, that’s all.”

“Sam’s not that bad,” Dan says in a sigh. He’s on the pavement now, stood under the yellow glow of a streetlight as he fumbles for a cigarette. “He lives in his parents’ outhouse. Hardly dangerous.”

“So what?!” Phil says, approaching him. Dan sticks the cigarette between his lips, fingers shaking with cold. “He doesn’t get the right to touch you just because he’s willing to let you sleep over after you- you-”

Dan waits for the sentence to end, one eyebrow raised. “Fuck?”

The flush whips onto Phil’s cheeks. It makes Dan laugh, hollow though it is.

“No guys should get to touch you unless you really want them to,” Phil says softly.

Dan finds his lighter at last, then looks Phil in the eye as he sparks up. “Oh right, and you’re the exception to that rule, are you?”

It’s as if Dan struck him across the cheek. He doesn’t try to defend himself, for which Dan is both grateful and annoyed. He has more argument in him. He’s pissed at Phil right now, for a plethora of reasons, and would love the opportunity to drag him across the coals for all of it, but at the same time, he never wants to witness the hurt little look on his face again.

“Come over,” Phil says. It sounds like begging. “I know you’re mad at me, I know you should be, and that I’m a dick, and every bit as bad as that douchebag in the club, and Hardy, and everyone else. But I won’t touch you. I just want to give you a place to stay. To make sure you’re safe.”

Dan takes a deep inhale, letting the nicotine wash the exhaustion from his bones. He wishes he had the privilege of saying no, but he has nowhere else to go. He nods once at Phil, then turns on the spot and begins walking back towards their side of town. For a moment, there’s silence, and then the distinct sound of Phil’s stupid nineties Converse All Stars patting the pavement behind.

Phil’s room is usually a safe space. It’s calm and quiet, with muted colours and familiar objects. It’s somewhere Dan doesn’t have to be anxious, or cold, or concerned with anything other than which Buffy episode they’re going to watch next. Tonight, he feels out of place here. Perhaps it’s to do with the fact it’s gone 2am, and the light is on, and Dan’s sat on Phil’s big bed, all alone. Perhaps it’s because when they crept in ten minutes ago, Phil had apologised, then moved a girl’s jacket off the bed to make room. Perhaps it’s because Dan doesn’t feel safe around Phil anymore, since four nights ago, when he’d reached into Dan’s well of insecurity, into the part of himself he hates the most, and torn out his heart.

Dan is staring blankly at the far wall. There are twelve photos tacked to it. Three are of Phil’s old rabbit Holly. One is of Phil and his mum. One is of Phil and his older brother Martyn, who moved to Australia before Dan ever had a chance to meet him. There are six of Phil and Dan. Annoying selfies mostly. Driving Susan around town. Sat in a Starbucks at Christmas time because Phil’s one of those ‘festive coffee’ kind of guys. Mucking about in the art studio, Dan annoyed because Phil is using Snapchat filters to give him kitten ears.

The last one – a new addition – is a Polaroid of Amanda. It’s one of those stupid small ones, from the cameras they sell in Urban Outfitters at an absurd cost. But it’s only of her, tiny and perfect, sat on Phil’s bed, right where Dan is now. Just then, the door creaks open, and Phil walks through. He’s holding a blue plastic bowl, moving slowly. There’s a bottle of disinfectant and a few washcloths tucked under his arm. As he sets everything down on the desk, he shoots Dan a questioning look.

“You’ve still got your shoes on.”

Dan looks down at his wet Doc Martens. “Oh. Yeah.”

Phil doesn’t push it. He places one of the cloths in the bowl and squeezes it out. Then he brings it over to Dan, along with the bottle of disinfectant.

“Hold still for a sec,” Phil instructs. He’s kneeling on the floor beside the bed, right in front of Dan’s knees.

Dan’s decidedly not going to picture any of the other times he’s seen someone in the same position, under entirely different circumstances. Instead, he thinks of the old piano in the corner of Phil’s room, imagines it being happy to see him. Nobody else plays it, as far as Dan knows. But then, maybe Amanda sat there when she came round. Maybe she’s a phenomenal musician, with perfect pitch, Grade 8 piano, voice like a damn skylark. Phil pours some disinfectant on a dry cloth, and rises up on his knees, bringing it to Dan’s face. Dan flinches back at once.

“I’m just-” Phil starts to say.

“Yeah, I know,” Dan says. “Sorry.”

Dan holds still this time, letting Phil dab the disinfectant on his split lip. He’s careful, and impossibly gentle, almost cross-eyed behind his thick glasses as he concentrates on the task. It stings, obviously, but Dan’s been feeling pretty numb, so he doesn’t make a fuss.

“You lost your lip ring,” Phil says, sadly.

“Is it gross?”

The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches. “No.”

He continues for a little longer, then sits back, hand falling away. Dan can taste the acidic, metallic flavour on his tongue. Phil picks up the damp cloth then, the one he’d dipped into the bowl on the desk.

“Here,” he says, then presses it against Dan’s face, over the bruises.

Dan hisses in surprise. “Fuck, it’s freezing.”

“Yeah, it’s ice water.”

“Oh.”

It’s surprisingly relieving. He imagines there must be some swelling, but he hasn’t looked in a mirror for a while. Phil presses it over his forehead, then his eye, then his cheek, taking his time with each area. He gets to Dan’s chin, then shifts Dan’s jacket collar and sucks in a breath.

“Did he get you in the neck, too? I didn’t see that.”

Dan stares, incredulous. “Are you joking?”

Phil just stares back, dumbly. He’s so close, it’s difficult to read him.

“You did that, you pillock,” Dan says.

It takes a minute or so for the realisation to hit, but when it does, Phil draws backwards, blushing. “Oh,” he says, then stands up to rinse out the washcloth. “I didn’t see it before… on Prom night-”

“No, I covered it up,” Dan tells him, sourly. “Thought you might not want Amanda seeing.”

The only response Dan gets is the tinkle of the water falling back into the bowl as Phil squeezes out the cloth.

“So how’s it going up on cloud nine?” Dan asks, though he really, really doesn’t want to know.

Phil turns back to him, smiling sadly. He walks over and gives Dan the fresh cloth. This time, Dan holds it to his own face.

“It’s going really good,” he says, sitting down on the bed. “She came over yesterday. We just hung out. It was nice.” Dan looks towards the jacket Phil had moved, now slung over the back of his desk chair. “She left her jacket behind,” Phil says, answering the obvious.

“Cool,” Dan replies. He doesn’t bother hiding the bitterness.

“Shall we go to bed?”

Dan lowers the cold flannel. “I guess.”

As he unties his shoes, shucks off his jacket and jeans, Dan can’t help but notice how steadfastly Phil is not looking at him. He never deliberately averted his gaze all the other times Dan has changed in front of him. Too exhausted to read much into it, Dan just clambers into the bed, ensuring to keep a sizeable distance between their bodies. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t entirely glorious to slip between thick, warm covers and fresh sheets.

“I’m sorry I got you kicked out of the club, Dan,” Phil says into the dark, once he’s switched off the light.

Dan sighs. “It’s okay.”

It’s not really okay. Ozone is not just Dan’s favourite club, it’s the only place he can hide out indefinitely when there’s nowhere else to go, where he won’t be judged, and his family won’t find him.

“And I’m sorry for…” Phil pauses. He sniffs. “For what I did. The other night. I never meant to use you like that. You trust me, I know you do, and I abused it-”

“Phil, it’s okay-”

“No, it’s not fucking okay.” Phil’s voice is raised. “I don’t know why I did it, Dan, it’s like… like I couldn’t help it. It sounds nuts, and I don’t expect you to understand it, or forgive me, but I promise you I’m sorry. I’ll never do that to you again, Dan. I’ll never be like those other guys who use you, who treat you like an object-”

“Phil, stop,” Dan says. He puts a hand on Phil’s shoulder, though it burns him to do it. He tries to keep his voice level, so as not to give away how hard he’s crying. “Please stop. You’re sorry, and I believe you. We can forget it ever happened.”

“We can?”

The lump in Dan’s throat shifts, jabbing its jagged edge into soft flesh. “Yeah. If you want.”

A rush of breath escapes Phil’s lips. “And we can go back to being friends?”

If he tries to answer, Dan knows a sob will escape. Instead, he rolls over, remaining quiet, and shuts his eyes, tight.

“Dan?”

(Chapter Ten coming next Tuesday at 8pm GMT!)

#The angst is almost almost over i swear #next chapter #phanfic #phan #some kind of folliful #skof

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theunderestimator-2 · 7 years ago

Photo

Phil Tolstead, singer for Austin punk band The Huns, getting arrested and charged for participating in a riot after kissing a cop on the lips during the band’s very first gig at Raul’s night club in Austin, Texas, back in 1978.

Tom Huckabee, the band’s drummer, remembered a member of the audience at their second show telling a reporter that they would be nothing if it wasn't for the cops in the first one: “How right she was; we sounded like the Pistols with Sid on every instrument!”

“...During the next song, "Eat Death Scum, City of Austin officer Steve Bridgewater entered the club, ostensibly answering a noise complaint. He stood by the door for a few minutess, observing the appearance of chaos around him. In the middle of the song, Tolstead spotted Bridgewater, pointed his finger at him and, improvising a new line, chanted, "I Hate You, I Hate You."

Slowly, Bridgewater made his way through the crowd, approaching the stage as if drawn there by Tolstead's pointing finger. Tolstead continued to chant "I Hate You, Eat Death Scum" at the police officer, while Bridgewater stood two feet away from the singer (...) the two appeared to be nose to nose (...) Bridgewater screamed over the music, ordering Tolstead to stop. With the cop only inches from his face, the singer leaned over and, in another gesture of disrupted expectation, kissed the cop on the lips. This disturbance of gender rules was more disorder than the officer could stand. He snatched at the singer's wrist and slipped one handcuff on him. The singer grabbed the microphone with his left hand and shouted out over the P.A., "Start a riot. Start a riot"...

...Three weeks later, in a judicial act of interpretation, Phil Tolstead was convicted on a charge of disorderly conduct. Judge Steve Russell based his verdict on the opinion that "Tolstead displayed assaultive behavior toward Bridgewater. The decision of the court was that Tolstead's gestures, his singing, and his kiss consituted assault, justifying the closing down of the performance and the handcuffing and jailing of six persons from the club....

...This rock 'n' roll trully challenged people. It was not safe to like it; you could get beat with a billy club; you could get arrested. The ability to derive pleasure from punk rock gave an instant aura of danger, independence and power to any individual (...) Soon Raul's was packed every night with students longing for that identity streaked with power and danger...”

“Dissonant Identities: The Rock'n'roll Scene in Austin, Texas" by Barry Shank

(via)

#the huns #1978 #early punk scene #punk #punk rock #phil tolstead #tom huckabee #raul's #austin #texas #people

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sweetness47 · 7 years ago

Text

Ghosts of Memories

Pairing Clint Barton x reader

A/N: this is for #MAMTWritingchallenge hosted by @marvelatmytrash (I haven’t decided whether or not to make it a series yet. I will see where this one goes.) feedback is always welcome, as is reblogging.

“You have no idea who I am do you?” paired with calming someone down after a nightmare.

Warnings: Fluff, maybe, language, violence, memory loss, lost love, nightmares, trauma…basically if you’re under 18, don’t read this!

Summary: You are a SHIELD agent, one of the top elite. Not only do you kick ass with weapons and without, you can also control elements ie. Earth, fire, wind, water, electrical current and light. You can’t remember anything past 6 years ago, due to a terrible accident, or so you’ve been told. Doctors say your memories may never come back. So what happens when they do start to return?

Six years ago:

“I’m just going to the store to get eggs and milk, then pick up a deluxe pizza on my way home.” Y/N shouted down the basement stairs to her hubby. Clint peeked around the corner and looked up at her with his best puppy dog eyes. She caved and sighed. “Alright, ham and pineapple, and a 6-pack of Bud Light, but only because I love you and because it’s your birthday.”

Clint ran up the stairs and wrapped Y/N in his arms, and giving her a short, intimate kiss, promising some fun later. She threw her arms around his neck, moaning into his kiss. “Thanks honey. You are really the best, you know that? You kick ass, save the world, and you’re mine.” he whispered in her ear.

She smiled, “Of course I know Clint, and I’m lucky to have you too.” She said, winking at him and kissing him on the nose. “Who else could I get to fix the toilet, help me save the world, and kill all the spiders for me. You’re indispensable.” Y/N giggled as Clint reached for her sides, especially that ticklish spot by her ribcage. She squealed and tried to tickle him back, but he backed her against the wall. “Ok, ok. I give.” He was laughing as hard as she was as they kissed then, both breathless and both exceedingly happy.

As she got in the car, she remembered his reaction that morning as she presented his birthday present, neatly wrapped with an iridescent bow and matching ribbon. As he opened it, and realization set in, a huge grin appeared on his face, and in an instant he was swinging her around, showering her with hugs and kisses, the framed ultrasound picture still in his hand. She was about ten weeks according to the tests, and everything looked exactly the way it should, no abnormalities. It was too soon to know the gender, but she didn’t care. They were pregnant.

She listened to radio as she drove, weather reports and warnings were filling every station she tuned in to. Then she hit a winter onslaught. The sky darkened, and in the blink of an eye a torrential downpour of ice and snow suddenly clouded her vision. As she tried to use her power to lessen the storm’s intensity, another car lost traction on the icy street, and rammed into Y/N’s SUV. The force of the impact caused her car to break through the barrier of the bridge, and plummet head first into the frigid waters below. Blackness and water were everywhere, Y/N tried to move the water and get the car out, but there was too much ice. Instead of moving the car out, the ice pushed it down to the bottom. Her cracked windshield began leaking, the cold beginning to seep in, and without any access to wind, she couldn’t get out.

Desperate to free herself from her seemingly inescapable prison, she used light to melt what remained of the window, bracing herself for the onslaught of arctic liquid that would come at her. It wasn’t enough, the pressure slammed into her, knocking breath from her lungs, not letting her get air before enveloping her. Y/N tried to focus as she swam out the window toward the surface. Finding a small opening still in the layer of ice that covered the river, she came up for air, trying to grab the top of the ice. She could hear people yelling, but was too cold to say anything. Then before she could make the water warmer and get herself to shore, she was pulled under by the current, her head striking the jagged edge of the ice, and her world went black.

Present day:

Y/N stared at the transfer notice in her hand. Why on earth, especially since she really liked her current posting in Ireland, would she all of a sudden need to go to New York. Fuck this shit. Her head began to pound, and she absently grabbed a bottle from her pocket, popped two white T-3’s and went back to cleaning out her room. There was some small part of her that wishes she was normal, with a normal job, maybe a normal family. But noooo, she was a government assassin, and an inhuman, which made her a valuable commodity, and apparently needed in New York. She looked out her window, thinking how much she was going to miss all the lush green countryside and the peaceful walks amongst that greenery.

New York, where the aliens had attacked some time before, and the Avengers initiative was enacted. She knew who Nick Fury was, especially since he was the first person she had seen when she’d awoken from her coma. They had met on numerous occasions since, and each time he had attempted to recruit her to help with the Avengers. But she had declined each time, not wanting to leave Europe. She wasn’t European by birth, but she’d grown to love it here since being re-assigned after her accident, the one where she lost a lot of her life, her memories gone, locked away in the deep recesses of her mind. Doctors said the memories could come back at some point, or they may never return. What was worse, SHIELD files had been erased of her life before. It was almost as if they were hiding something from her, either for mental health reasons, or simply because they liked her better now. And no one ‘knew’ anything, or so they said, even Fury, stating that maybe she shouldn’t keep digging. She had tried social media, phone records, DMV records, anything, and they all came up blank. It was as if she’d never existed before, and it nagged at her conscience.

She was soon packed and on board the small plane that would take her across the ocean. Agent Phil Coulson met her at the airstrip when she landed, to escort her to their base. “Welcome here Y/N.” He extended his hand and she took it happily. Phil was something of a legend amongst the elite agents, having been the force behind putting together the A-team as she liked to call them. And truth be told, she was anxious to meet them, having been a fan for a while now. Natasha Romanova was kind of a role model, even though the age difference was only 2 years, she was everything Y/N aspired to be. There were times she imagined sparing with Widow, just to see who could best who first, though she suspected for as good as she was, Natasha was better, having trained from a young age.

When they finally arrived at the ‘secret’ base, she was shown to her quarters, where she set to work unpacking and changing out of her travel clothes. Making sure her identification was properly displayed, she took herself on a self-guided tour of the facility. It was actually pretty nice digs, and pretty big, much bigger than the Irish base. Not watching in front of her, because she was busy looking around, she walked into a brick wall, which actually wasn’t a wall at all. Thor had been walking back from the cafeteria with some java for the road, when Y/N bumped into him, causing hot liquid to erupt from the cup, and spill all over both parties.

Y/N immediately apologized. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Let me help.” And bent down to retrieve pieces of broken pottery that was the cup.

Thor smiled warmly. “No harm done. There is always more coffee to be had. Are you new here?” he asked, seeing your name badge.

Her cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson. “That obvious huh. Yeah, just transferred in from Ireland. I’m Y/N. You must be Thor.” She stated casually, gesturing at his armor and cape, and of course that infamous hammer. Mjolnir was the most fascinating weapon she’d ever seen. Y/N pointed to the beautiful but deadly item in his hand. “I know I can’t pick it up, but can I…well…touch it? Sorry, that sounded weird. It’s just a really awesome hammer.” She blushed more, realizing how stupid that sounded.

Thor chuckled. “Not at all my lady. By all means, feel free to gaze upon the power of the mighty Mjolnir. However I must warn you, it does tend to shock those who touch it, except me of course.”

Y/N raised a brow, now completely thrilled. She reached out her hand and ran it across the Asgardian symbols and craftmanship, and did indeed get a shock. But rather than sting, it seemed to blend into her skin and ignite her own power. Soon her body and Mjolnir were sharing electrical current, the hammer increasing the strength of Y/N’s energy output. Thor watched the interaction, completely taken aback with what was transpiring in front of him. Never in his lifetime had anyone been able to create that kind of power with his hammer except for himself. Now his curiosity was peaked, and he offered Y/N the weapon to hold. Frowning but not unwilling to try, she accepted the gift, and both were genuinely shocked when the hammer allowed her to hold it.

Some of the nearby agents had stopped to witness this event, including Fury and Coulson, and a wide range of expressions filled their faces, from shock, to amazement, to genuine wow. Y/N handed the hammer back to Thor when she saw the attention she had attracted. Excusing herself, she made her way over to Nick Fury and extended her hand. “Sir, good to see you again.” You said with respect, and perhaps a touch of affection. Fury was like the older brother, always protecting her and covering her ass when she dug into files she shouldn’t.

Fury accepted the gesture and returned the handshake. “Y/N. Haven’t changed a bit I see. Still manage to find new and interesting ways to make yourself known.”

Y/N smiled. “Yes sir! Now, on with the tour!” She gave a mock salute, earning a smirk from Coulson and a glare from Fury. He didn’t scold her, but she did make herself scarce, as the tour wasn’t quite done yet anyways.

She had been briefed on the plane with regards to the nature of her re-assignment. Power, they needed whatever they could get, and Y/N’s power was amongst the best in the entire SHIELD world. Talks of aliens and impending doom were everywhere. But the agency seemed especially worried. Whatever. Steady paychecks helped with the negotiations, landing herself a nice raise and bonus incentive. She could only hope that her ‘headaches’ and ‘nightmares’ didn’t interfere with her work. It wasn’t bad now, not like it was when she’d first awaken, but it still happened on occasion. It was like a never-ending cycle of torment, flashes of near death, a storm, drowning. But she could never move past those images. She would wake in cold sweats, shaking, screaming, only to realize she was alone and in no present danger. Only once did the flashbacks happen during a mission, luckily it was Fury and Hill that accompanied her for it, and neither were hurt in the process.

Fury did advise her to see a counsellor after, and she did. But the talks, while they did help some, were only that, talk. Nothing could be done to bring back the rest of the memories. It was just plain annoying sometimes. And times like this, when she was this pissed, were the times where she found exercise to be a good stress reliever. So she made her way around the base until she came across the training room, where she found Nat taking on Steve Rogers. Amused, she stood by the door and watched. Where Steve was fast and strong, Widow was small and agile, both were quick and equally deadly in their own right. Just as Y/N sat down, Steve caught movement out of the corner of his eye and Nat flipped him, taking him out for the count.

Steve got up as you walked over to apologize. “I’m sorry. I distracted you. Good match though.” You remarked.

Nat came over to join. “It wasn’t bad. Don’t apologize though. Distraction can’t be used as an excuse.” Then she looked over at Y/N. “Do you want to go a round?” she asked quizzically.

You raised a brow. “Sure. I’m Y/N. I just transferred in from Ireland.” You shook hands with Steve and with Nat.

“Nice to meet you Y/N.” Nat smiled. “Do you need to change?”

“Nope. I’m good.”

Nat motioned Y/N over to the mat. A few people stopped to watch, including Steve. Y/N put her hands up. “I won’t use my abilities. This will just be hand to hand.” She promised.

It was Nat’s turn to be surprised. “Abilities? You’re inhuman?” Y/N nodded. “That’s where I heard your name from.” She shrugged. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Nat took her fight stance, as did Y/N. For what seemed like an eternity neither moved, studying the other, watching like a lion stalking prey. Then Nat lunged, her body diving to sweep Y/N’s feet from under her. But she dodged, anticipating Widow’s tactics, and made a beeline for her arm to disable her. She countered, throwing a kick at Y/N’s arm, which was deflected, and coming around with a backhand to attack. Ducking, Y/N landed a small punch in her midsection. Nat quickly brought her knee up, catching Y/N’s chin, causing her to bite her lip. Y/N recovered quick, bringing her leg sweeping low in a circle, and connected with Nat’s ankle. She fell back, but was back on her feet quickly.

Back and forth they went, minutes ticking by, people beginning to cheer and wager on who would actually win. Without using her power, she was pretty evenly matched with her idol. For a while it seemed as though no one would ever win. Then someone else stopped to watch the fight. Someone who went white upon seeing who his friend was fighting. He pushed through the crowds to get a front row seat, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Y/N?” he whispered.

Y/N looked up at the mention of her name, and Nat got the upper hand, setting Y/N up and taking her down with that head-scissor lock flip. Gasping for air, Y/N looked for the owner of the voice that had cost her the match. Then leaning over her, offering a hand up, was a handsome, blue-eyed man that looked like he’d seen a ghost. Only he was staring at her, not a ghost. He kept her hand in his, almost afraid to let go.

Y/N tried to remove her hand, but he held firm, as if she would disappear if he let go. “Y/N. What the hell? I…it’s been 6 years. Where have you been? Why didn’t you come back if you weren’t dead? I don’t understand…” his voice trailed off as he studied Y/N’s confused look. Realization dawned on him then, and he let her hand go. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Y/N bit her lip, taking a step back as she shook her head. “No, sorry. Ummm…” Her head began jackhammering in her skull, and she ran, needing to get away from him, from everyone, just needing to be alone.

It was Nick who came knocking on her door. She let him in, only because she knew he wouldn’t go away. He motioned to sit, and Y/N nodded. The flashbacks began adding images, of a man with light brown hair, blue eyes. Holding her, making love to her, kissing her. Not even the T3’s were helping now. With tears streaming down her face, she looked into the eyes of the man she had learned to trust, the man who she was pretty sure had been partially lying to her all these years.

“I want the truth Nick, and I want it now.” Y/N wiped away a tear and glared at the man in front of her. “Who in the hell is that man and why did he act like he knew me?”

Nick sighed. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a USB and threw it on the bed beside her. She looked at it, then back at Nick. Anger slowly seeped through her usually calm façade, and he held his hands up as a peace offering. “These are the files you’ve been searching for all these years. Your life before the accident, your original posting, and everything else you tried to find. That man in the gym, Agent Barton, was your husband of 5 years, and your childhood friend, your high school sweetheart, and your first love. The day of your accident, it was his birthday. Your gift to him was an ultrasound picture of the 10-week-old fetus you carried. A violent storm swept into the area when you were driving to the store, your car was run off the road and into the icy river. You nearly drown. You went into a hyperthermia-induced coma. Your abilities are quite powerful, but ice doesn’t like you. You couldn’t save yourself fast enough. You lost the baby. The memory loss was from a concussion suffered when your head found the edge of a sharp jagged ice chunk. You know the rest of this past 6 years. Everything else is on there.” He gestured to the piece of tech, and got up to leave.

Y/N just stared at the wall, barely acknowledging Nick’s exit. For two hours she just sat there, trying to process everything she’d just heard. Her skull felt like a basketball pounding on pavement. She couldn’t keep her eyes open as the world started spinning. Her body hit the mattress, feeling like lead. Her mind flashed images, dark water, sleet, ice, cold water rushing at her, the current pulling her under the ice, her chest hurting from lack of oxygen, panic. She tried to scream but the water muffled the sound. She flailed, clawing at the ice, needing the air, needing to live. Suddenly arms were holding her, shaking her, a warm male voice was calling her name.

Clint had been walking slowly toward her room, trying to figure out how to talk to her. Then her screams broke through his thoughts and he tore down the hallway, opening her door in less than 3 seconds. She was choking, her breath ragged, like she couldn’t get any air. She was panicking. She was having a nightmare. He sat on the bed and gathered her into his arms, and held her, stroking her hair, whispering soothing words.

She opened her eyes to the man who was a stranger to her, but not a stranger. She nestled into his embrace and cried.

@legion1993 @marvelatmytrash

#MAMTWritingChallenge #marvel #hawkeye #clint barton #clint barton x reader #Avengers

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literature-islit · 4 years ago

Text

Phil Lapsley - Exploding the Phone (2013)

Let’s talk about nostalgia.

I’m so nostalgic for the 2013-2015 era that I haven't upgraded from an iPhone 6, so I can live comfortably in my low-tech echo chamber and avoid hyper-connective developments like TikTok and Instagram Reels which I know would be fatal for my long-fought-for, recently-revived attention span.

like it or not, but this is technology at its peak. everything since then has been a slow decline

But these days, nostalgia drenches everything. You have, according to various internet self-proclaimed cultural expert magazines, teens who are nostalgic for an experience they’ve never had listening to mallwave, Instagram accounts like Velvet Coke dedicated to highlighting fashions of the 90s that, until the Kardashian/Fashion Nova/BBL era, were considered very grave mistakes. People are so nostalgic for simpler times that they be romanticising Motorazor flip phones and velour tracksuits, and the days where celebrity paparazzi picks were plastered over thousands of magazines that have since folded

youtube

And, you know what? I get mad nostalgic too.

Nostalgic for the times long gone before Anonymous was infiltrated by the FBI, and equated with the alt-right, before their members were either jailed or snapped up by influential tech companies, when they were just a crew of young kids punch drunk on the power that being able to hack into the poor password protection of multinational corporations to expose their sins might give a 17-year-old 4chan lurker (not to mention helping stage the Arab Spring, support people in uprising from tyranny etc).

Highly recommend this book

I recommend this book a little less

But what’s funny about my obsession with computer hackers, is it all led one way - and that was toward realising that the very first hackers weren’t just geeks hanging out on old message boards shielded by anonymous user names.

The very first incarnation of the computer hacker didn't hack into computers at all - they hacked into phone systems.

It’s NERDY AF, but, if you skim read past the technically detailed pages, THIS is one of the greatest, most action packed books I think I’ve ever read in my life and I thoroughly recommend it to all people who are filled with joy by tales of human ingenuity!

It centres around the ‘phone phreak’ community, a name given to a loose group of people who all, one day, spontaneously began messing around with the phone network and discovering ways to take advantages of loop holes in the primitive system. Because, you see, before the phone network was run by computers, it was run by actual people.

You picked up the phone and the operator on the other end asked who you wanted to dial. You told her, she’d connect you - voila. Even more instant than Siri.

Obviously, aside from the fact that certain phone switches only connected with certain others, so to make a long distance phone call you might need to be connected with like five or six other long distance phone centres until you finally found one who could connect you with who you wanted to speak to.

Anyway, these phone phreaks carefully studied the makeup of these phone switchboards and they discovered a few interesting things.

After careful study, trial and error, etc they found that Bell Phones had certain test lines that you could call for free, and acted as impromptu conference calls for anybody else who also happened to call the same number at the same time. Sure, there was generally a busy tone playing while you were connected, but you could speak over it, and connect with any other stranger who happened to share your interest in playing with phone lines - a whole community formed this way, which anticipated the internet message board in its early incarnations.

RIP to the early golden days of the net

More enterprising phone phreaks realised that you could invent devices that mimicked the tones sent down the analogue phone network and secure yourself long distance phone calls for free. In fact, making these devices is exactly how the founders of Apple got their start in tech - and almost ended their careers, too, until a narrow escape from the FBI

It was a glamorous time - nerds, drugs and constant surveillance from tech-stunted authorities wondering exactly how and why so much fraud and theft was being committed involving the telephone system.

But, all good things must come to an end.

As Bill Acker is quoted as saying: “Right now, we have more control over the phone system than we will ever have again.”

The telephone company, sick of being ripped off, were eager to find a solution. They also had a monopoly on telephone service and, thus, unlimited funds at their disposal to upgrade their network. And so digital phone services began replacing the analogue dial tones, and so the interest factor of exploring non-standardised and regionally different phone system was eradicated as everything became the same.

I think that’s what drives my nostalgia for the past. I’m so bored by this globalised standardised culture where everything is all the same. Same trends on Netflix and same two phone companies making all the phones and forcing you to do the same boring updates, and same Google and Facebook that everyone uses to communicate, being followed by the same ads based on the same algorithms all around the internet, with Spotify and YouTube dedicated to bringing you more of the same content that you viewed and listened to last time blah blah blah, etc etc etc.

But then again, just like Bell Telephone corporation was broken up for having a monopoly on phone services in the 1980s, so Facebook is facing a similar type of lawsuit.

And, what I think this book demonstrates that can’t ever be broken, is human ingenuity. It is human nature to seek to overcome limitations of any kind, and like skater kids always ride their bikes pursued by security in the mall, so do the latest trends become routine and then boring and attention turns to something different and fresh and new.

So, what will be next? I look forward to seeing.

~~~so n0stalg1c 4 dis p@st i n3v3r 3xperi3nc3d~~~

#exploding the phone #phone phreaks #nostalgia

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aswithasunbeam · 7 years ago

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One Week in July

Warning: Major Character Death

Available on A03

The early morning light had just begun to creep through the divide in the thick curtains of her bedroom when Eliza opened her eyes. The baby hadn’t yet begun screaming, all her children still snug in their beds. She inhaled and tried to enjoy the brief moment of peace. More miraculously still, she felt a warm arm slung across her back. Her husband was still abed beside her. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. He was always up before the dawn: writing, reading, working, thinking, pacing his office manically. Carefully adjusting herself so she was facing towards him without removing his arm, she was surprised to see his eyes wide open and staring at her. The dark blue against his pale face in the morning light was mesmerizing. She reached out slowly, dragging a finger over his chiseled cheekbone. So handsome, she thought, even now, after over twenty years of marriage.

A small smirk curled at the edges of his lips.

“Hi,” he muttered.

“Hi,” she whispered back. “What are you doing?”

“Watching you sleep,” he answered.

“Mm, a worthwhile endeavor for your great intellect.”

“It is.”

She rolled her eyes and pushed closer to him, pillowing her head on his chest. He held her gently, his hand absently stroking at the small of her back. Eliza inhaled deeply, soaking in the smell of him, the quiet of the morning. A bird sang outside. A breeze must have taken up to cool the summer morning, because a tree was tapping rhythmically at the window.

“I love being in the country,” she told him, for perhaps the millionth time.

She felt his lips press against the crown of her head. “Me, too.”

With her ear pressed to his chest, she heard his stomach give a sour sounding gurgle. He shifted uncomfortably. Frowning, she placed her hand to his belly, stroking tenderly as she adjusted to look up at him. The reason he was awake but still abed was suddenly clear.

“Again?” she asked, worried.

He nodded.

He looked exhausted, like he could fall asleep in an instant, but his eyes remained open, staring at an unremarkable point of their bedroom. His stomach had been unsettled for months now. For the most part, he seemed to push through the discomfort, but lately it had seemed to grow worse. He had started skipping meals and occasionally lying down at odd times of day.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner last night,” she remarked. She hadn’t commented when a servant had taken away his almost full plate of lamb, not wanting to embarrass him in front of guests, but she’d taken notice.

“It was a bit too rich for me,” he said lightly.

“I can speak to them about preparing blander meals,” she reminded him. It wasn’t the first time she’d made the suggestion.

“I don’t see why everyone should be forced to eat unappealing mush for my benefit,” he answered predictably.

She huffed at his stubbornness. He laughed, the chuckle rolling through his chest and midriff, the most pleasing sound and sensation.

“Oh, my dearest Betsey, I don’t know how you put up with me.” A smile lit his eyes as he spoke.

She gave his stomach another gentle rub before sliding her arm around him to embrace him. “I love you,” she told him. A simple truth that conquered all his sins. Oh, how she loved him.

His beautiful eyes turned melancholy, the smile leaching from his face. Perhaps his thoughts had also turned to all the things he had been forgiven for due to that basic truth. She didn’t want him to think of those things. Not on this perfect morning they were sharing.

She craned her neck up to kiss the corner of his mouth. The edge lifted very slightly beneath her lips. Encouraged, she pressed another kiss to the other corner, gratified when it too lifted slightly. A smile again graced his face.

A grimace quickly stole its place as his stomach gave another displeased rumble.

“Mama!” a high pitched demand sounded from the nursery.

Alexander laughed again. “That was pleasant while it lasted,” he commented.

“Mm,” she sighed, pushing herself up. She forwent the robe hanging on the stand by the bed, the morning already warm. As she moved around their bed, she saw him pushing himself up as well, and paused at the bedside to favor him with a hard look.

“What?” he asked, all innocence. All the blue- eyed innocence in the world couldn’t cover that his eyes were bruised and his face was pale to the lips.

“Stay,” she directed firmly. “You’re not well. Rest, try to get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

He sighed at her, but did as she demanded, sliding back against the pillows. “It was better when you were here,” he muttered.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Mama!” the little voice demanded again.

She let her hand brush the side of his face, his morning stubble rough against her palm, before she pulled open the door and faced the day.

~*~

She was efficiently laying the silverware for the afternoon meal when she heard footsteps on the stairs. The sound was faint over Angelica picking out notes on the piano, but twenty years of motherhood had made her attuned to these sorts of noises. Her first thought was that one of the boys had snuck away early from their studies.

Little Phil was still sitting a few feet from her, engrossed in his blocks. She glanced over at Eliza and saw her staring wide eyed at her older sister. Definitely one of the boys, then, she determined. Moving towards the foyer, she fixed a stern glare on her face, only to find herself face to face with her husband.

He was fully dressed, now, and looked slightly less ill than he had this morning. He smiled when he saw her, palms facing out in a show of surrender. “Hello, my darling wife,” he greeted.

She couldn’t help smiling back at him. “Husband,” she replied. “I thought I told you to rest.”

“And rest I did, my dear Eliza. Now I find myself a little hungry, and I hoped to join my family for dinner,” he explained.

“Papa!” Little Eliza squealed from the parlor. She ran past Eliza, her little arms upheld in the universal gesture for ‘lift me.’

“And hello to you, little angel,” he grinned, stooping down and lifting her high into the air. He settled her on his hip and moved into the parlor. Eliza sighed and followed, moving to finish preparing the table for the meal. Alexander was sitting at the piano beside Angelica, with Eliza in his lap, tapping at keys in harmony with his elder daughter. Phil had abandoned his block tower in favor of staring at the three, she noted absently as she went back to her work.

Another few minutes, and she went to the staircase to call the boys down to eat. The stampede of shuffling footsteps told her they’d heard. She made her way back through the parlor. “Dinner,” she repeated to the trio at the piano.

“All right,” Alexander sighed, looking almost as put out as Angelica at having to move. “Come along, my darling daughters.”

Little Eliza was carried into the dining room on her father’s hip once more. Eliza nearly scolded him for doing so (she’d told him enough times not to spoil the girl), but bit her tongue. He seemed in such good spirits today, despite his discomfort. Let him carry his baby girl around, she decided, if only for today.

“Papa!” William exclaimed as he hurried in, always the first for food. Alex, James and John followed at a much more reasonable pace.

Eliza huffed at seeing her husband’s name sake with a smudge of ink on his cheek, and dabbed at it with a cloth, much to Alex’s annoyance. He tried ducking away, but she held him firm with a stare.

“You weren’t at breakfast, Papa,” she heard John comment behind her as they all took their seats.

“That’s because I was upstairs in bed,” he answered.

“Why?” William asked.

“I had a sick tummy,” he told the six year old.

“Are you all better now?”

Eliza turned to see him nodding as he took a sip of wine. She let her eldest son free to sit beside his father, and took her own chair at the head of the table. A maid brought in their first course, serving Alexander first, then Eliza, then each of the children. With no guests to entertain, they were eating earlier and less elaborately than usual.

“Now, tell me, how are your studies going?” Alexander asked.

The meal passed pleasantly enough, each of the boys telling their father what they had been learning that morning. Eliza watched her husband take two bites of his meal, then pick it apart, and spend the rest of the meal moving the food around on his plate. He was obviously still not well, but again she bit her tongue. He had rested all morning, was trying to eat something, and he seemed to be enjoying the time with the children. She’d let it be.

They finished their meals, the maid coming back to start clearing their places, and Eliza announced, “All right. Time to go back to your studies.”

“Well, wait.”

Every eye at the table locked onto Alexander, the boys frozen half out of their seats where they had been obeying her instruction.

He laughed warmly at their startled expressions. “I just thought, it’s such a lovely day outside, and I’m going to have to spend the whole of next week in the city…perhaps we could all go and take the air.”

“Really?” William asked, breathless with anticipation. His little blue eyes turned to his mother, as though waiting for her quash the whole idea thoroughly.

She looked at her husband fondly and shook her head. There were chores to be done, books to be read…and yet, it was a fair day outside, not too hot for early July. He’d be gone all week. And he seemed so pale and tired. How could she deny him?

“Yes, all right. Let’s go outside and sit in the garden.”

~*~

That afternoon was one of the best Eliza could recall. The children ran, playing games, shouting. Eliza had brought a book, but ended up watching as her husband fought off four of her sons in a game of pirates. Angelica had even joined in for a time, looking more bright and present than at any other time in the past two years.

She’d gone inside long enough to pack some food into a basket and bring it back out with a blanket. They ate a picnic supper. She’d never seen her children look so happy.

As the sun began to sink behind the trees, they all laid in the grass and watched the stars come out. Alexander told stories of thrilling adventures from the war (heavily edited) at William’s request. When little Phil’s eyes began to fall closed, she pushed herself up with a groan.

“I’m going to take the little ones inside,” she interrupted the story, collecting Eliza and the baby. “William,” she commanded when he made no move to join her.

“But Mama,” he pleaded. “I want to hear the story. I’m not a baby like Phil.”

“It’s fine, dearest. We’ll be in shortly,” Alexander assured her. William’s groan prompted him to add, “Or we could all go inside now.”

Crickets chirped merrily in the complete silence that followed. She saw her husband’s grin grow wide in the moonlight as he picked up the story where he’d left off. The sound of his voice followed her inside.

She tucked the children in and began to change for bed when she heard the rest of her family trooping up the stairs. Alexander closed the door to their bedroom with a click, the sounds of their children readying for bed dulled behind the wood. He slid off his jacket, undid his cravat, then removed his stockings, shirt and breaches. Just as he was pulling his night shirt on, he looked back to see her watching and winked rakishly.

She flushed like a virgin. Lord, the effect he had on her.

When he slid into bed beside her, she settled close at his side, pillowing her head on his chest once more.

~*~

The next day, Sunday, was equally blissful.

Hamilton woke at his usual time with no complaints of ill health. He still looked pale to Eliza’s eye, and he didn’t seem to have much of an appetite, but he’d insisted he was feeling much recovered. He read the church service to the children after breakfast and then brought them all out to the garden once more. Again, they stayed out until dark, playing, laughing, looking up at the night sky to watch the stars come out.

“That was a lovely day,” she sighed against him when they retired to bed once more. “We should do that every Sunday.”

He tensed a little in her arms, but relaxed a second later and agreed, “Yes. Yes, we should.”

~*~

He had already left for the city when she awoke the next morning. The boys had gone with him. The house felt too quiet with them gone.

~*~

Ten o’clock Wednesday morning, a knock sounded on the front door. Not expecting visitors, Eliza left the little ones on the floor in the parlor and made her way into the foyer to answer the door. William Bayard stood on the other side, his hat in his hands, worrying at the fabric as he shifted from foot to foot.

“Mr. Bayard?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

“Mrs. Hamilton. I’ve been asked to summon you at once,” he replied, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Well, yes, ma’am. Your husband…he’s…he’s taken ill. His stomach, you see. Spasms. The doctor is with him, but…well…he’s asking for you.”

Asking for her? Worry was gnawing at her insides now as she nodded.

“Please, come inside. I’ll collect the children and be ready momentarily.”

Mr. Bayard did as she asked, standing awkwardly in the foyer as she rushed to collect Philip, Eliza and Angelica. She had them ready to leave within ten minutes, and the coach was underway by ten fifteen. She held Philip close to her breast as her mind raced.

He’d been ill that weekend. Perhaps she should have insisted he spend Sunday in bed, rather than running around with the children. Oh, but it had been such a lovely few days. He’d seemed so happy. She couldn’t regret that.

Perhaps, then, she should have insisted he stay home on Monday. Not that it would have done any good. He’d crawl to the courtroom on his hands and knees to avoid disappointing a client.

Perhaps she could have joined him in the city. At least she could have tended to him when he came home in the evenings.

She took a deep breath. She’d be by his side soon, and she wouldn’t leave it again. No matter how much she hated the city, she’d stay with him. How ill he must be, to be calling for her? Missing work, being tended to by a doctor? She closed her eyes, willing the coach to move faster.

It was nearly noon when the coach made its way up a crowded New York street, clattering to a halt outside Mr. Bayard’s home. She looked at him, confused. She’d been sure she’d be going to the townhouse they kept in the city.

“He…he was brought here…after….” Mr. Bayard told her vaguely, voice trailing off into silence as he disembarked the coach and helped Angelica down, then Little Eliza, then finally her.

She went inside, a feeling of foreboding sweeping over her as she crossed the threshold.

“Eliza.”

Her sister, Angelica, was in the parlor, her eyes wet as she reached for little Phil.

“I came as soon as I heard. John’s collecting the boys from school. Don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll sort it, dearest. He’s strong.”

Panic, that’s what the new feeling in her chest was. Pure panic. The adrenaline rush that had accompanied the news that her son was dying from a bullet to the side. What illness was this, that had Angelica rushing to her side? Surely, something more than stomach spasms.

“Where?” she managed to ask.

“Upstairs, ma’am,” Mr. Bayard informed her.

She was shaking, her heart pounding in her chest as she hurried up the stairs. The door to a large second-floor bedroom stood ajar, and she could see Doctor Hosack moving inside the room. She pushed inside, her eyes landing immediately on her husband.

Pale…so pale…paler than he’d been on Sunday when she’d last seen him. His beautiful blue eyes fluttered open, the corners of his lips lifting just slightly when he saw her. The ghost of his perfect smile.

He swallowed, then tried to speak, his lips moving but no sound coming out. He swallowed again, then managed, “Eliza. My Eliza.”

“Alexander,” she whispered. She moved to his side without thinking, seating herself on the bed, reaching for his face. She stroked his cheek, her palm quickly becoming sticky with his sweat. He was sweating so, but she didn’t feel a fever. Surely, if he was so ill, he’d have a fever?

Her hand moved down to his middle, stroking it tenderly as she had that weekend when he’d complained of an upset stomach. Far from relaxing at her touch, he tensed violently, swallowing down what appeared to be a scream.

“No, madam,” Doctor Hosack shouted, pulling her away.

“It’s all right,” the doctor was saying. He pulled back the blankets. “Let me check it. Make sure it’s not bleeding. You’re all right, General.”

Bleeding. God in heaven. The doctor moved to the side a bit, giving her a clear view. There was a hole in Alexander’s stomach. Two inches at her estimation, right in his belly, by his ribs. An ugly, gaping hole.

A puddle of blood had been hastily wiped up from the floor by the bed. The metallic coppery scent overwhelmed her nostrils as she stared at it, as if her sense of smell had only just caught up with her eyes. In the dim light, she’d missed it at first. Now, the dark stain beneath the doctor’s feet was all she could see. She’d stood in it when she was at his side. Blood likely stained her shoes.

He’d been shot.

Just like…just like….

She’ll never be sure, but she thinks she may have screamed. She certainly produced some kind of sound, because the good doctor looked at her with wide, concerned eyes. He started speaking to her, seemed to be attempting to calm her. Nothing could calm her. Nothing could make this all right. Her husband…her husband….

“Eliza,” his voice cut through the haze of her thoughts. It sounded stronger than before, more commanding. Perhaps it was the voice he used to steady frightened soldiers at Yorktown. “You are a Christian, my Eliza. You are a Christian.”

She nodded at him, vaguely, trying to get a handle on herself. She understood what he was saying, what he was asking for. Calm. Assurance that everything would be all right. Even death was not the end. He’d be with God, with their son (their son, their son, she tucked the thought away so as not to collapse on the floor) and she would see him again.

“Eliza?” A question, now.

She looked at him again, focused on his handsome face. She nodded. Forced her mouth the form a smile, weak and watery though it may have been. He needed her, needed comfort and reassurance. She’d crumble later, alone.

He motioned her over to him with a weak twitch of his wrist. She obeyed and settled at his side again, taking his hand.

“How is the pain, General?” Hosack asked.

A stuttered breath released from his mouth before he answered, “Bad. It’s bad.”

“More?” The doctor queried.

Alexander hesitated a moment, then nodded.

The doctor shuffled around the side table before bringing over a small amber bottle. He placed four drops of liquid on her husband’s tongue. “That should help. Relax, sir.”

She gave Hosack a questioning look.

“Laudanum, ma’am,” the doctor explained.

She squeezed the palm in her hand and looked back at her husband’s sweaty, tense face. “Is there something to fan him with? He’s perspiring,” she asked.

“I’ll inquire with our host,” Hosack offered with a bow before departing the room.

Alone in the room with her husband, she stroked his face once more to draw his attention. Tears pooled in his eyes as they met with her own. She hushed him, cooed comforting nonsense, helpless in the face of his unbearable pain.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hush, my love,” she begged.

“It’s all my fault, Eliza. I’m such a fool.”

“No.”

“You should never have married me.”

She felt a rush of anger at that statement.

“I love you,” she all but snapped at him. He recoiled slightly against his pillow, then closed he eyes against the pain that followed. “Whatever’s happened, whatever you’ve done, nothing will change that. Nothing. You should know that by now. I love you.”

He was crying again, tears mingling with the sweat on his face. After a deep, fortifying breath, he told her, “A duel. With Burr. I…I said something during the election…and he….”

“Hush,” she whispered again.

“I couldn’t fire at him. I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“Alexander, please. It doesn’t matter.”

“I wanted to tell you. I…I’m sorry,” he repeated, his hand twitching in hers. He was trying to squeeze, she realized, and wasn’t strong enough to grip. She squeezed back anyway.

“You are forgiven. Always.”

~*~

Alexander had a steady stream of visitors all day. For each of his friends, he opened his eyes, conversed, smiled bravely despite his pain. When they left, she watched him deflate. She saw how much the effort weakened him.

She’d asked Hosack to forbid anymore visitors. Alexander had immediately overruled her. Stubborn to the end, she’d thought. Now, he was half asleep, groggy from the heavy doses of laudanum the doctor continued to administer. Eliza didn’t think it was doing much to dull the pain, but there wasn’t much else to be done. She sat at his side, fanning his face in a feeble attempt to keep him comfortable in the stifling July afternoon.

A raised voice from downstairs caught her attention. He turned his head weakly, his half lidded eyes landing on her questioningly. She placed the fan down on the side table along with the rest of the medical supplies that were doing next to nothing. “I’ll see what that’s about, shall I?”

He nodded once. His eyes closed all the way. Her heart stopped until she saw his chest rise with breath.

She padded downstairs into the foyer, where a small group was huddled.

“Just…speak with him. Please,” David Ogden was pleading, his voice softer now.

“I’ll speak with him, sir, but I don’t see how it will change anything.”

Ogden’s eyes closed in frustration. “Please, Reverend. It’s all he’s asked for.”

He was speaking to Bishop Moore, from Trinity Church, she realized. She met the Reverend’s eyes and was surprised when he broke contact, his gaze landing on the floor guiltily. He nodded to Ogden and moved to the stairs, nodding to her as he passed without meeting her eyes again.

“Mr. Ogden?” she asked.

“I apologize for the commotion, ma’am. I hope Mr. Hamilton was not too much disturbed.”

She waved off his apology. “What is happening? Why were you shouting at the good Reverend?”

Ogden’s face crumpled as he shook his head. “Your husband made but one request after being wounded. He wished to take the Lord’s Supper. I…There has been some difficulty finding someone. It seems, because of the manner of his being injured….”

“They are refusing him communion?” Her voice came out high in her outrage.

“I’ve begged Bishop Moore to reconsider. He’s…he’s agreed to speak to Mr. Hamilton again. I can only hope your husband’s renowned powers of persuasion have not failed him yet.”

Eliza thinks of her husband’s groggy eyes and weak grip. She also thinks of how he’s managed to rally all his flagging strength for every visitor that entered his room. Yes, he’ll likely still manage to persuade the reverend. She feels sick inside, nonetheless, that the church she’d always looked to for comfort would make him use his talents to beg for this.

~*~

“Try to sleep, General,” Hosack counseled as he finished monitoring Alexander’s pulse. “Do you need any more pain relief?”

Her husband shook his head slightly. “Making me nauseated,” he mumbled, his eyes closed, already half asleep.

The doctor looked distressed at that. “I know. I…I wish there was something else….”

“It’s fine,” Alexander whispered.

Hosack nodded and squeezed his hand tightly before lowering it back onto the bed. “Then I bid you good night, sir.”

He blew out the candle and bowed to her. “I’ll be just in the next room. Wake me if he needs me.”

Eliza nodded. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. The house seemed quiet now, although still packed beyond capacity with friends, relatives, and well-wishers.

She settled back in the uncomfortable chair she’d been given hours ago. Her eyes closed, but she knew she’d find no rest tonight. Not when every breath could be Alexander’s last.

“’liza,” he muttered in the dark.

“What is it, my love?” she asked, sitting forward, ready to run for the doctor at any hint of discomfort he voiced.

“I can’t sleep,” he whispered.

“You’re practically asleep right now,” she corrected fondly.

“Lie next to me.”

“Alexander--.”

“Please,” he begged, his voice taking on a whining quality she often heard from her children when they wanted sweets or to stay up past their bedtimes. She smiled. Forgot for a moment the terrible thing that was happening.

“I’ll hurt you,” she whispered back, voice breaking slightly.

“You won’t,” he argued.

“I can’t.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “I just won’t sleep.”

“You need rest.”

“I do.”

A beat of silence followed.

“You’re impossible,” she huffed back at him, already sliding the shoes off her feet.

“You love me,” he parried back. She could hear the smug grin in his voice.

Her heart felt like it was shattering in her chest. He sounded so…normal.

She choked on a sob.

“Eliza,” he sighed, voice going soft and serious.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled. Tried to push the grief back down. She climbed onto the bed, careful to leave him plenty of space. She gripped his hand in hers.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” she replied.

They lapsed into silence. What else was there to say?

~*~

He slept poorly and fitfully. Every time he dropped off, he’d shift in his sleep, and the pain would wake him all over again. Hosack offered more laudanum when he came to check in every hour or so. Alexander finally acquiesced around two in the morning.

“I feel like I’m going to be sick,” he announced to her a few minutes later.

“Should I fetch a basin?” she asked, sitting up.

“No,” he mumbled, without moving his head.

“Do you want me to fetch Doctor Hosack again? Perhaps he has something to ease the nausea,” she suggested.

“No.”

She slid her hand into his, feeling useless. Helpless.

~*~

“Shh,” she whispered when Hosack opened the door an hour later.

“Sleeping?” he whispered, tip-toeing to the bed.

“For now,” she sighed. “He’s very nauseated.”

“There’s nothing for it. It’s either nausea or pain.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Your husband is a brilliant man,” Hosack praised as he lightly pressed his fingers to Alexander’s wrist.

Looking at him in the bed with a bullet in his side, she’s not sure she can agree.

~*~

The morning light peaked through the curtains in the Bayard’s guest room. Eliza blinked owlishly at her husband. His chest still rose and fell. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling vaguely. He hadn’t moved a muscle in hours.

She could feel him slipping away from her.

Taking a steadying breath, she pushed off the pillows and examined his face. Stubble was dark against his white cheeks. He was always so fastidious about his appearance, and people would be filing in soon.

“Would you like a shave?” she whispered.

His focus moved from the ceiling to her face. “Mm,” he hummed lightly.

She took that as an affirmative. “I’ll be right back, dearest,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. Her silent plea hung in the air: please still be here.

She opened the door and poked her head out. No one was about upstairs, but she could hear whispered conversations from below. The house was already stirring. They’d likely be upon them at any moment.

Their host was standing on the stairwell, looking perplexed by the number of people filling his home. Eliza would have found it endearing if her life wasn’t falling apart at the seams.

“Mr. Bayard,” she called.

He looked up at her, eyes widening in panic. He thought she was going to say that Alexander was dead, she realized. She forced her lips to form a smile. “I wondered if you had a spare shaving kit? For my husband.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” he let out a nervous laugh. “Our man, never one to let his appearance slip, is he?”

She nodded, let him believe that this was at Alexander’s insistence.

He disappeared into a room for a moment, then returned with a razor, both a damp and dry towel, and some lather. “With my compliments,” he said as he thrust the items into her hands.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “If you could tell the others to wait a few minutes before beginning to come up?”

“I’ll be sure to inform them, madam.”

She slipped back into the room, hesitating in the doorway until she saw her husband’s chest rise and fall with breath. A tear slipped from her eye when she saw he still lived.

“Alexander,” she called. He didn’t move. She moved forward, putting herself in his line of sight. His sparkling blue eyes looked duller than usual, but they met hers with coherence. “I have a razor and some lather.”

He stared at her silently a moment.

“All right,” he croaked at last.

Settling beside him on the bed, she wet his face with a damp towel and took out the brush with the lather and began to gently coat his cheeks. She’d done this for him before several times, when he was too ill to stand before a mirror. He’d always teased her, twitched away in faux concern, asked if she’d still love him after she mutilated his pretty face. Now, he stared at her silently.

She slid the razor down his cheek in a steady motion, leaving the skin soft and smooth. The lather carried a scent, something strong, likely an expensive French luxury item. Alexander would have liked this, she thought. Her stomach dropped somewhere down near her feet a moment after. She was already thinking of him in the past tense. He was still here, still breathing, still capable of speech.

“This is a nice lather,” she commented, determined to prove to herself that her husband was still present. “I’m surprised you don’t use it.”

He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, as if summoning the strength to speak.

“Expensive,” he managed.

“Ah. A nice treat, then,” she said, conjuring another watery smile.

“Mm,” he hummed again.

She worked in silence for a time. Then his throat worked with another swallow and his head moved just a hair so that he could meet her eyes more fully. “Try…try not to ruin…my good looks…”

A startled laugh burst out of her. He smirked in response. She leaned in, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. He moved his head again, just slightly, to capture her lips in a full kiss.

He let out a harsh breath after. The smirk still on his lips told her it was supposed to have been a laugh. “You…have…lather…on your nose,” he managed slowly.

Later, she wishes she’d kissed him again, rather than wiping away the cream and continuing with the shave. How was she to know it would be her last private moment with her husband?

~*~

The press of people in the small bedroom made Eliza feel claustrophobic. Alexander was fading moment by moment. He hadn’t strength left to move. When he spoke, it was hardly above a whisper. Yet people still filed into the room and tried to speak with him.

Gouveneur Morris arrived just after nine o’clock and had all but collapsed at her husband’s side. “Ham?” he’d whispered, reaching out and grabbing his hand.

“Hi,” Alexander had practically mouthed in return. His lip quirked up even as his eyes fluttered closed.

“Hi,” Morris had replied. The usually jovial man had looked at Eliza with tears in his eyes and tried to explain, “I…I thought…When I heard about the duel, I didn’t think….”

Eliza had nodded her understanding and he’d stopped speaking, staring at her husband instead. He’d thought Alexander dead. The chance to see him, to hold his hand, must have seemed a miracle to him.

Morris had been followed into the room by a parade of friends and relations. At moments, as many as twenty people were packed into the small space, all weeping and praying, straining to hear any muttering from her husband.

Eliza patted Alexander’s hand tenderly and leaned close to him. “Darling, I’m going to step outside for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

His beautiful blue eyes fluttered open and met hers. He’d hummed as he exhaled to acknowledge her. She forced a smile and made her way from the room, stepping through the maze of mourners and wishing them all gone.

When she opened the door to the hallway, she nearly knocked over a small form standing just outside the door. William looked up at her fearfully. “Hi, Mama,” he said timidly.

“What are you doing?” she snapped. Angelica was supposed to be watching them. He shouldn’t be up here.

“I wanted to see Papa,” he said plaintively.

Taking a breath and trying to calm herself, she said, “Papa is very sick.” She knelt before her son and placed a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

“I know,” William replied. His lower lip quavered slightly. “Aunt Angelica said he was hurt really bad.”

“Yes,” Eliza confirmed.

“But…but I’ll be really good. I’ll be quiet. I just…I want to see Papa.”

Eliza squeezed her eyes shut as she considered. Alexander was dying. William was always the most intrepid of their children, but she knew the others were likely downstairs silently thinking the same thing. They deserved a chance to say goodbye to their father.

“Come with me, sweetheart,” she beckoned, taking the six year old by a sweaty palm.

“Mama,” he fairly whined, digging in his heels.

“Come, William,” she commanded again. “We’ll…we’ll go see Papa in a few minutes. I want to speak to you and your brothers and sisters first.”

“All right, Mama,” he agreed finally, allowing her to tug him down the stairs.

Eliza’s sister was weeping openly on a divan when she entered the Bayard’s sitting room. Her children were spread about the room. The three eldest boys were crying silently. Little Eliza was sitting in her aunt’s lap with a look of confusion wrinkling her brow. Her elder daughter was seated in the corner, staring vacantly out the window. Only baby Phil looked unmoved by the events happening upstairs.

Her heart skipped a beat as she realized her littlest boy would likely have no memory of his father.

Alexander, James, John and Eliza looked up when she walked in, as did her sister.

“Oh, my poor Eliza,” Angelica whimpered, reaching out and clasping her hand.

Eliza ignored her as she looked at each of her children.

“Mama says we can go see Papa,” William announced as she was searching for words.

All eyes in the room looked at her hopefully. “Yes, we can go see Papa,” she confirmed for them all.

She tried to explain that Alexander was very sick. She told them that they must be very quiet and very well behaved. They had all agreed immediately, even Angelica had nodded, and now the six of them trooped up the stairs in a line. Baby Phil sat comfortably on her hip, laying his little head against her shoulder as she followed them up the stairs.

Alex opened the door and entered first, the rest following closely. She motioned them forward through the mass of people and lined them up before the bed. Alexander opened his eyes as they filed in. He looked at each of his children, studying their faces, moving his head for the first time in hours.

Eliza stood before the bed and leaned down so that Phil would be close to Alexander’s face. His face crumpled as he looked at the toddler, but he mustered the strength to press his lips against the boy’s temple. He then relaxed back into the pillow and turned his face away. He was swallowing convulsively. For the first time since seeing her, he seemed to be fighting tears.

“All right,” she said, clearing her throat to unstick her voice. “Back downstairs, children. Let’s let Papa get some rest.”

They obeyed her, filing out the way they had come. Only William hesitated, his little hand gripping the duvet as he looked at his father. “I love you, Papa,” he whispered.

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut, but then turned his head slightly and opened them again. He met William’s gaze, winked, and conjured a weak smile. He had no voice now, but his lips moved, clearly forming words. “Love you,” he mouthed back.

William’s whole face lit up with a smile as he scampered out after his siblings.

~*~

In. Out. In. Out.

The simple act of breathing seemed overwhelming. The crowd of people pressed into the tiny bedroom felt stifling. She couldn’t do this. Madly, she considered running from the room, outside to…to…she didn’t know where. Her whole world was lying in the bed before her. Her world was fading, slipping through her fingers.

Tears were pouring down her face, unstoppable and ugly. She wiped at the mucus under her nose with her sleeve, caring nothing for propriety. Reaching out, she clutched her husband’s slack hand so tightly he likely would have cried out if he’d been conscious.

He’d fallen asleep a few minutes ago. His breathing was getting shallower, his chest rising only slightly and taking longer to refill with breath. A tell-tale rattle accompanied his latest inhale. Eliza let out a whimper and leaned forward.

“Please,” she whispered into his hair, her voice quavering and watery. “I can’t do this. Please don’t make me do this.”

Minutes stretched by like hours and disappeared like seconds. The world seemed to be holding its breath with her. She was happy to have time freeze here. She’d gladly spent the rest of her life stooped over this bed, her husband’s warm weight beneath her, feeling his chest expand slowly with air.

She felt a puff of breath against her cheek. She waited to feel his chest rise again. She held her breath stubbornly, waiting for him. His chest wasn’t rising. She sucked in a breath. In. Out. In. Out.

“He’s gone,” Doctor Hosack whispered.

Eliza pressed her trembling lips to Alexander’s hair line, trailing kisses along his forehead. She kept her hand in his and hoped that he’d felt that until he’d gone. She dropped her head onto the pillow beside him, pressed her hot face against it, close to his ear, and whispered harshly, “I love you. I love you.”

The doctor was hovering in her peripheral vision. Eliza straightened from the bed and forced her hand to let go of her husband’s. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. Please breathe, she thought desperately.

“Why don’t we step outside, Mrs. Hamilton?” the doctor suggested softly. The others in the room had filed out already.

Eliza ignored him and went to the bedside table, shoving passed the useless instruments and remedies as she sought a pair of scissors. The room was blurry through her tears. She wiped at her nose again, blinking her eyes several times until she could see the instruments. She brought the scissors to the bed and sat once more.

She let her fingers tangle in the hair at his temples. The strands were silky soft. She selected a generous portion and cut swiftly, parting the hairs from her husband’s temple and clutching them in a fist.

“Where…” she began, her voice shaking. “Where will he go?”

She felt the doctor’s eyes on her, regarding her carefully. Perhaps he was wondering if she was asking a philosophical question. He answered practically instead. “He’ll need to be taken downtown for an autopsy. I’ll go with him, Mrs. Hamilton. He’ll not be alone. Not for a moment.”

Eliza nodded vaguely, frozen to her seat. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave this room. When she left, this would be real. Her Hamilton would be gone. He’d be taken downtown and sliced open before a room of strangers. She’d never see his face again, never taste his lips, never hold him close on a cold night.

A sob ripped out of her and she clutched the hair in her fist tighter.

“Come, Mrs. Hamilton,” the doctor cooed softly, taking hold of her elbow and leading her from the room. They turned into a different guest room. “Perhaps you should lie down. I…I am so sorry for your loss.”

The words hit her like a punch to the stomach. It was the first of many, many times that the phrase would be used. She hated it already. She hadn’t misplaced him. He’d been ripped away from her. Stolen. Eliza felt a hole, a tangible ache inside, worse than if she’d lost a limb.

She collapsed onto her knees and hauled in a breath. In. Out. In. Out.

“Would…would you like me to send someone to you? Perhaps Mrs. Church, or…” Hosack asked from the hallway.

“Mr. Morris,” she requested. “Send Mr. Morris.”

She stayed on the floor and pressed her hands together in prayer as she waited for her husband’s old friend to come to her. He arrived within a minute. She could hear the distinctive tap of his wooden leg on the floorboards as he entered the room.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” he greeted, his voice sounding rough, as though scrapped over sandpaper. She thought perhaps she should say something comforting to him. Thank him for his years of close friendship with her husband. She’d have to find words for all Alexander’s old friends for the funeral.

The funeral. She leaned forward, gasping for air at the thought. She’d have to bury her husband. “I can’t…I can’t...”

“You can’t do what, Mrs. Hamilton?” Morris asked, kneeling at her side.

“I can’t… breathe. I feel like I can’t breathe,” she gasped again, tears soaking her cheeks and mingling with the mucus running from her nose again.

A big warm palm rested on top of her back. “I…I…” Morris stuttered helplessly. “What can I do?”

“Pray with me, Mr. Morris?” she requested.

“Of course,” he agreed immediately.

“Pray that the Lord will take me as well. Pray that he’ll let me go with my husband. And…and if He is kind enough to grant me my prayer, would you promise to be a father to my children? You were such a kind friend to my husband. They will need someone to look out for them….”

He didn’t answer her. She forced herself to look up at him. Fat tears were running down his face as well. She couldn’t deal with his grief. She couldn’t even deal with her own. She closed her eyes and prayed fervently. May the Lord have mercy on her and strike her down. May he spare her from another minute without her beloved Alexander.

~*~

“Eliza?”

She curled up into a smaller ball in her bed as Angelica’s voice carried through the door.

“Eliza? Are you getting ready?”

She felt weak and dehydrated. Her eyes ached from the tears that refused to stop forming. Every time she thought she was finished, more would well up. The salt made her face feel dry and sore. She hadn’t bathed in two days. She had barely risen from her bed at all in that time.

“Eliza?” Angelica was tapping at the door now. “I’m coming in.”

She stubbornly pulled the blankets up over her head as her sister opened the door. She didn’t want to see anyone. She wanted to lie here until she died.

Her sister’s weight settled on the mattress beside her. A hand stroked over her back through the covers. More tears leaked lazily from the corners of her eyes at that gentle touch. How she wanted it to be his hand on her back.

“Eliza,” Angelica cooed softly, “You must dress and clean up a bit. The service is starting in a few hours. We’ll need time to get to the church.”

She didn’t move. She held her breath in the stale air of her cocoon. Her stubborn lungs insisted on drawing more air. Before she’d climbed into bed, she’d pulled Hamilton’s night shirt from his laundry pile. It was too large for her, but it smelled like him. At least it had, until a day ago. Now, her own scent threatened to overwhelm it. Still, under the covers as she was, the last remnants of his scent wafted up to her. She hugged the fabric against her and wished she could block out the world.

“My sweet sister,” Angelica sighed. “You must get ready, dearest.”

She swallowed to wet her throat and croaked, “I’m not going.”

Angelica’s hand froze on her back. “You have to go.”

“No I don’t,” Eliza replied, her voice rough from disuse and constant tears.

The blankets were pulled back from her face, and Angelica stared down at her. Her sister seemed to recoil slightly at the sight of her. Two days she’d laid here, crying and praying for death. She’d fall asleep for brief snatches of time, but her beloved, sainted husband appeared to her in every dream. She’d wake each time with a whine of pain and cry all over again. No mirror was required to tell her she was pale, with red rimmed, dark circled, wild eyes and red cheeks.

“You’ll regret not going,” Angelica insisted.

She wouldn’t regret it. In fact, she couldn’t bear the thought of it. How could she watch his casket be lowered into the ground?

“You would have him be buried with no family in attendance?”

Eliza flinched at that.

“The boys may go, if they so desire,” she decided finally.

Angelica looked pained. Eliza closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear witnessing the grief of others just now. Her grief alone threatened to drown her.

At last, she sister rose and left the room. Eliza curled onto her side and pressed her face into her pillow as she flung the blankets over her head again.

“I want my Hamilton,” she whimpered to no one.

~*~

Her bedroom door creaked open. She opened her eyes and found the room was dark. She’d slept, apparently. Alexander’s face hovered in her memory, his smirk quirking his lips just so. She closed her eyes to recapture the image.

Little footsteps padded uncertainly across the floor. The blankets pulled back and the mattress shifted with the weight of someone small climbing into the bed. Thin arms wrapped around her waist.

“Mama,” William sniffled miserably.

Her heart broke even more. She hadn’t thought that possible. It was already shattered into tiny shards. Her child’s cry made her feel that her heart was being beaten into dust.

She wrapped her arm around her little boy and held him close. He snuggled against her, tucking his knees up to his chest and fitting himself against her stomach. She stroked his back and thought of her precious babies. Her Hamilton’s precious babies.

The Lord wasn’t going to answer her prayers, she accepted at last. She would have to go on without her husband for as long as He saw fit. Seven children were now fatherless and in pain. Tomorrow, she would rise from this bed. She would make breakfast, and read to them from the bible, and see that they attended to their studies. It would be Sunday. The Lord’s day.

Life would go on. Tomorrow. An endless parade of tomorrows, until at last she would see him again.

#hamilton fanfic #historical hamliza #hamliza #heavy angst #major character death #seriously the most upsetting thing I've ever written

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epacer · 5 years ago

Text

Back Story

Stephen Bishop, Class of 1969

Stephen Bishop San Diego’s Hometown Boy Keeps Going “On and On”

Virtually everyone in San Diego had their Stephen Bishop story in the late 1970s. I had mine! At the time I was a self-styled rock musician at Grossmont High School. I played some guitar and sang a set of Dylanesque songs with the five flat notes I could hit. Yet, there were enough polite, fellow students who could tolerate me. So I wound up at many a Grossmont HS house party, singing my songs in somebody’s living room. Needless to say, once, I remember finishing a set and taking a break. And a girl came up to me, a girl I secretly liked, and said, “Bob Dylan is so 1960s. Why don’t you play “On and On” by Stephen Bishop?”

Stephen Bishop was born at Balboa Naval Hospital in 1951. His family moved several times around San Diego in his early years, from Chula Vista to North Park to Del Cerro. Young Stephen attended several schools, including John Muir, which the kids called “John Manure,” and Jackson Elementary. Finally, the family settled on Mohawk Street in the College area, where Stephen went to Horace Mann Junior High and Crawford High School. (Interestingly, another great San Diego songwriter Jack Tempchin also went to Crawford.)

He got an early taste of the limelight when he appeared on the Johnny Downs Show at nine years old. Johnny Downs was a big, local celebrity in San Diego at the time with his own variety show for kids. Stephen remembers sharing the stage with the Oscar Mayer mascot, a little person dressed as a hot dog.

Bishop was in junior high when the Beatles appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show. The British Invasion proved to be a life-altering experience. “I was a newspaper boy,” Stephen says. “While on my route, I saw a guy and a girl in a car listening to ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’” Putting two and two together, he quickly concluded that music was a good way to meet girls.

Soon afterward, his older brother bought him an electric guitar and Stephen started to figure out how to play on his own. He learned to play the British stuff: the Kinks’ “All Day and All of the Night” and “Gloria” by Van Morrison’s Them. He was also playing Southern California surf guitar.

Unfortunately, Bishop’s stepfather, an opera singer and teacher, didn’t take too kindly to rock ‘n’ roll and the new British sound. “I had to hide my guitar and practice and write songs in the closet.” It was difficult to keep his affinity for British rock ‘n’ roll a secret, however. He began pronouncing his name “Stave” instead of “Steve.” He grew his hair out and began collecting Beatles trading cards. And, most prominently, he began speaking with a British accent. All the while, he was writing songs and progressing on the guitar.

Influenced by seminal San Diego rock band the Other Four, Stephen and his neighborhood friends formed the Weeds while attending Crawford High School.

Living close to San Diego State proved fortuitous and the Weeds made a decent name for themselves, playing Frat parties, dances, and venues along El Cajon Boulevard. At this time, they also entered a Battle of the Bands competition in Clairemont, winning second place. Their set included some early Stephen Bishop originals. And when the judges were handing out the awards, one commented to Stephen that he was going to be an accomplished songwriter someday.

At this time, he had another brush with music stardom when he met Ray Charles at the singer’s Tangerine Studios.

The Weeds broke up as high school came to an end. In 1970, Bishop realized that if he was going to become that accomplished songwriter, he would need to pack up and move to L.A. He would spend the next several years, walking all over Hollywood and knocking on doors.

“I lived in a motel when I met Milt Rogers at Dot Records.” Then, Bishop got a job making $50 per week as a staff songwriter at Edwin H. Morris Publishing. “I’d write silly songs with names like ‘A Hair in Your Enchilada’ and ‘Beer Can on the Beach.’” At this time, he wrote “Daisy Hawkins,” a song recorded by Jerry Cole.

Finally, his friend Leah Kunkel, whose sister is the late Mama Cass, slipped some of his demos to Art Garfunkel. Garfunkel recorded two of Stephen’s compositions: “Looking for the Right One” and “The Same Old Tears on a New Background” for Garfunkel’s platinum Breakaway album in 1975. Soon, Bishop was signed to ABC Records to record his own album, which became Careless, released in 1976. All in all, it took Bishop six years to break into Hollywood and finally make it.

Careless went Gold, buoyed by the two singles “On and On” and “Save It for a Rainy Day.” Stephen’s second album, which refers to his nickname, Bish went Gold in 1978.

Over the next 40 years, Bishop would release 19 albums, including his just-released We’ll Talk About It Later in the Car. He’d record and perform with an A-list of other artists, including Phil Collins, Eric Clapton, and Sting. And he’d have his songs covered by a who’s-who of popular music: David Crosby, Kenny Loggins, Johnny Mathis, Steve Perry, and Barbara Streisand plus nearly two dozen others.

Of course, “On and On,” which charted at #11, continues to be his signature song.

He has two Grammy nominations and one Oscar nomination. Phil Collins and Eric Clapton have loudly praised him as a songwriter. Along the way, he was mentored by Chaka Kahn’s manager Bob Ellis, Simon and Garfunkel’s producer Roy Halee, and E.Y. Harburg who co-wrote “Over the Rainbow” with Harold Arlen.

“To write good songs, you have to get your heart broken,” says Bishop. If that’s the formula, it’s obvious that Stephen has taken the heartbreak to heart. “I put a lot of time into songs,” he adds. It shows. Stephen is viewed as a craftsman within the songwriting community. Rooted in those early rock songs that were written to get the girls, his songwriting brims with the various stages of romance, from love found to love lost. He also isn’t afraid to reach back into the American Songbook and sample influences from a bygone, pre-rock ‘n’ roll era.

In addition, he’s acted in and written music for several major motion pictures, working with John Landis on four movies including Animal House, Blues Brothers, Kentucky Fried Movie, and Twilight Zone: The Movie. In one iconically-1970s moment, Bishop is seated playing folk guitar on the stairs of the Animal House fraternity when John Belushi, clad in toga, grabs the guitar and smashes it. He has also acted or provided music for several other movies including Tootsie, White Nights, and Somebody to Love. Stephen’s performance of Dave Grusin’s “It Might Be You” for the mega-hit Tootsie became an instant 1980s classic. Most recently, he wrote “Almost Home” for the 2018 remake of the movie Benji.

However, he’s also very proud of the “quirky” aspects of his career. He used to do a lot of fundraisers and tennis tournaments and met a lot of the celebrities who also participated. One of his favorite memories is once playing for Patty Hearst, following her famous foray into radical politics.

Bishop has steadily released new material over the last four decades, averaging a new album every couple of years. The year 2019 proves no different and he has just released a new album and a new collection of songs We’ll Talk About It Later in the Car. The album includes a recording of the Benji theme “Almost Home” along with three cover songs. But it also contains nine new songs that stretch across the pop music palette.

“In Dreams I Fly,” one of the covers, is soul-searching, introspective, and almost psychedelic at times. “One in a Million Girl” brandishes Bishop’s Top 40 chops with bubblegum perfection. “Like Mother, Like Daughter” takes the listener on a ride to the country charts while demonstrating Bishop’s storytelling talents, developing a narrative about life as it is passed down from one generation to the next. “In Love with a Violent Man” furthers the journey down that country road, this time exploring, through brilliant storytelling, the more brutal side of American relationships. “Nora June” is about love lost. So is “French Postcards,” which musically hints to the accordion-infused “musette” of Parisian sidewalk culture. “Tiny Pillow” drips with love and longing. Again, to write good songs, you need to have your heart broken. That motto is apparent on We’ll Talk About It Later in the Car.

However, after 40 years and counting, Stephen Bishop’s first hit “On and On” continues to be the song that most defines his career and public persona. “I wrote it living in Silverlake. My landlady had lots of exotic flowers. They made me want travel somewhere else.” Traveling somewhere is what he has done indeed.

In fact, he’s now writing a book about his travels, a collection of personal, behind-the-scenes stories aptly titled On and Off. Next year, 2020, will mark 50 years since Bishop started pounding the pavement along the Sunset Strip. And after 50 years of knocking on doors, attending awards ceremonies, recording, and touring, he has the stories to back up a fabled career. There are stories about meeting fellow songwriters such as Michael Sembello, who wrote and recorded the hit “Maniac” for the movie Flashdance. And there are stories about his encounter with music royalty, such as the time he was seated next to James Brown and a date at the Grammy Awards. “The book contains crazy, interesting things,” says Bishop.

Dedicated to the quirkier views of the world, today he enjoys reality shows such as Dr. Pimple Popper, Naked and Afraid, and 90-Day Fiancee. These days, “I’m kind of a home body. I stay at home with my dogs.”

He’s also performing and doing shows. In fact, Bishop is no stranger to touring, having performed in South America, Europe, Japan and, as he proudly adds, the Philippines 11 times. “The theme from Tootsie ‘It Might Be You’ is on every jukebox in the country.”

His next big show is at the Grammy Museum in L.A. on November 7. Tickets can be purchased online including at Stephen Bishop’s official website. And he’s set to play on the ’70s Rock & Romance Cruise scheduled for February 2020.

However, don’t call him a “’70s singer.” “I’m an anytime singer not a ’70s singer.” By the longevity of his songs and his popularity, that might be truer now more than ever. Regardless which era you place him in, Stephen Bishop is a really nice guy who writes and performs some very nicely crafted songs, *Reposted article from the SD Troubadour by Raul Sandelin of November 2019.

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updatedphan · 8 years ago

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🌱 phil’s younow march 16, 2017 🌱

HOW TO GET AN INSTANT SIX PACK with Phil

read on google drive with links

-he smells like a marshmallow -hornets. Gross. -don't be mean to the hornets phil -he's reviving his dying plant -life has found a way -the bonsai is comin back -happy st patrick's day -he's not irish -lucky charms -he turned into a bit of a perfectionist while editing his last video -maybe the universe just puts him in these situations because it likes his videos -he forgot they had the muscular apron so phil printed out a six pack and taped it to himself and now he just has a paper six pack -he thought a lot about his life when printing it out -he ordered a single sweatband for the video and they gave him like. A Billion Sweatbands -do people even actually wear sweatbands -color wheel -lookin at the color wheel -not a fan of corners -he plays with his tentacle friend in his sea of imagination -Don't We All? -he really likes corgis and sausage dogs -he woke up really early because drilling -he tried to order some glasses wipes and he was sent 200 -they stayed up last night watching the firefly movie -it was a very good film -new sim vid -dillypants didn't lower his. dillypants -they won't be playing as the pancakes all the time though -these sims are quite needy tbh -he watched a video of emma watson being interviewed while covered in kittens -corgi sausage dog mix -people want more golf -he doesn't think he'd be good at real life golf -got on those muppet pajamas -he's wiping his screen with a glasses wipe. #Content -he actually had a lot of dirt on his screen whoa -we just got our shower of the day thank u phil -he's a 7 on the hydration scale -had 5 drinks today -the permanence of tattoos scares him -they look cool on people though -he's glad he took a post production course at uni -'twas fun -puttin the hood up -he looks great in yellow -he was 14 when he got his glasses -then he got contact lenses about a year later -maybe he should get laser eye surgery but he's afraid he'll be the one in a billion that dies -dan will be uploading some time after the ol liveshow -he thinks -we made phil's day better -he's headin off -hope you've had a KNIFE time -dapg vid soon -and plushies back on daps soon -goooooooooooooooodBYE!

#amazingphil #phil lester #2017 #mar 2017 #younow

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zrtranscripts · 8 years ago

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Radio Abel, Season Two

Part 6 of 6

The clips collected in this section do not have a set chronological order. For the sake of spoiler prevention, further details about the contents of this post are under the cut:

This post includes the Run of the Day clips, “The Ablers” series, the “Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear” series, and the Top Five countdown, in addition to some miscellaneous clips

[JACK HOLDEN sings a rock tune]

EUGENE WOODS: What... what are you doing?

JACK HOLDEN: Uh, nothing. [imitates guitar] That song's just really stuck in my head, that's all. [imitates guitar]

EUGENE WOODS: But that's not what we just played.

JACK HOLDEN: I know!

EUGENE WOODS: You are so weird.

JACK HOLDEN: I know. [imitates guitar]

Note: the following clip contains spoilers for S2M5, "Top 40"

EUGENE WOODS and JACK HOLDEN: [singing] Come on and text me up, whoa-oo-oo-oo-oo-oh.

JACK HOLDEN: [sings] You got my number, I want your I.L.U.!

EUGENE WOODS: [sings] Text me up, tell me your love is true!

EUGENE WOODS and JACK HOLDEN: [singing] Don't have to speak, don't have to phone. Text me and tell me you're mine alone. Come on and text me up, whoa-oo-oo-oo-oo-oh. Come on and text me up, whoa-oo-oo-oo-oo-oh.

EUGENE WOODS: Ugh, why won't that song leave us alone?

JACK HOLDEN: It's so damn catchy! I want it out of my head!

EUGENE WOODS: Quick, stick something else on, try and knock it loose.

JACK HOLDEN: Good idea.

EUGENE WOODS: Let's see... bishop to C4

JACK HOLDEN: Nice.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Mm. Good move, good... good move, if you like being chess idiot!

JACK HOLDEN: Bring it, Cheeseman. Bring it!

ZOE CRICK: What about - ?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Hmm, yeah. Yeah, that might work. [laughs] King to H8. Suck it!

JACK HOLDEN: Ooh, getting all feisty, are you, Phil?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Don't get scared, Jacky boy. It's just the trademark Cheeseman thunder coming.

JACK HOLDEN: You talk better than you play, old man. [whispers] Gene, try that.

EUGENE WOODS: No, that's not going to work.

JACK HOLDEN: No, it is. Trust me, just -

EUGENE WOODS: Fine!

JACK HOLDEN: Look!

EUGENE WOODS: Oh. Oh, yeah. Queen to F4.

JACK HOLDEN: And that is how we do that.

EUGENE WOODS: Bada-bing, bada-boom! Chessed!

ZOE CRICK: Damn! Nice game.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: No, no, wait. We can -

ZOE CRICK: It's over, Phil. Well-played, guys.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Good game, Eugene.

EUGENE WOODS: Thanks, Phil. Well-played. [JACK HOLDEN clears throat] Oh. [laughs] Jack spotted the winner.

JACK HOLDEN: Aw, shucks, it was nothing.

ZOE CRICK: Hey, Jack, didn't you have a song you wanted to play me?

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, yeah! Yeah, here we go.

JACK HOLDEN: Right, listeners. Welcome back. What's up next, Gene?

EUGENE WOODS: Uh, you know, I'm not sure. Uh, why don't you check the schedule?

JACK HOLDEN: Wait, we have a schedule?

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah. I think it's uh, I think it's under this pile of socks.

JACK HOLDEN: Are you sure? Wouldn't it be in the in-tray? Well, the in-pile? Mound? Heap?

EUGENE WOODS: No, no, I'm pretty sure it's - just look under the socks, would you?

JACK HOLDEN: All right, grumpy pants. Give me a second. Hey, what's - ?

EUGENE WOODS: Do you like it?

JACK HOLDEN: What's this?

EUGENE WOODS: Well, you know, since you broke W.G. -

JACK HOLDEN: Gene, this is...

EUGENE WOODS: I've had the runners keeping an eye out, and Twenty-One picked this up the other day. Is it... is it okay?

JACK HOLDEN: It's perfect. Perfect!

EUGENE WOODS: W.G. the Second.

JACK HOLDEN: No, no, no. No, it will be Sir Geoffrey.

EUGENE WOODS: That's another reference I don't get, isn't it?

JACK HOLDEN: Of course. It'd be no fun if you understood me.

EUGENE WOODS: Sometimes I wonder why I bother trying.

JACK HOLDEN: Okay Eugene, how about we start the rundown?

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah, seems as good a time as any.

JACK HOLDEN: The – [laughs] the "run"down?

EUGENE WOODS: Very good.

JACK HOLDEN: Because it's all about the best runs.

EUGENE WOODS: I get it. Very nice pun.

JACK HOLDEN: Don't you mean "run"?

EUGENE WOODS: So guys, we're celebrating all the hard work our runners do by taking a look at the best runs as and when they happen.

JACK HOLDEN: And today we've got a little piece of tactical genius from Runner Nineteen.

EUGENE WOODS: That's Atwood Macmullin Boyd, for those of you who aren't lucky enough to know the man personally.

JACK HOLDEN: Right. So, this took place this morning on a fuel run out to the motorway. Talk us through it, Eugene.

EUGENE WOODS: My pleasure. Now, this starts out as your standard fuel run. A couple of cannisters, some hose to drain the cars. Nothing but open road and a couple of distant shamblers to slow our man Nineteen down.

JACK HOLDEN: Until -

EUGENE WOODS: Until a bus full of previously undisturbed zoms bursts open and floods the road with the dead.

JACK HOLDEN: Everyone's worst nightmare: an unexpected swarm right between them and home.

EUGENE WOODS: Exactly. But our man Atwood is not one to panic or lose his head. No. Instead, he takes a look around him, spots a car with all four tires still intact, pops the handbrake and sets that thing rolling down towards the swarm.

JACK HOLDEN: Instant zombie roadkill.

EUGENE WOODS: And it doesn't end there! Knowing he couldn't possibly hit them all in one go, he's tossed his noisemaker into the passenger seat and turned it on. That made sure the remaining zoms were distracted long enough for him to climb onto the roof of the bus, sneak around the back of them, and make his escape back to Abel.

JACK HOLDEN: What a hero!

EUGENE WOODS: That's our man.

JACK HOLDEN: Only...

EUGENE WOODS: What?

JACK HOLDEN: Well, wasn't Janine super annoyed that he'd lost a noisemaker?

EUGENE WOODS: Uh, yeah. Apparently, she chewed him out for around 20 minutes about "properly respecting the technology which he had been issued." But then the Major reminded her that a runner and six full cans of fuel were less easy to replace than an old smoke alarm, and so she backed off.

JACK HOLDEN: Fair point. Still, wouldn't have liked to be him for those 20 minutes.

EUGENE WOODS: No. But here's a song for you, Atwood, in the hope that it'll wipe the experience from your mind.

JACK HOLDEN: And it's that time again, guys, for the run of the day. What have we got today, Gene?

EUGENE WOODS: Well, this is more of an entry for the blooper reel than anything else, to be honest with you, Jack.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh no. No, Simon didn't do a supply run naked again, did he?

EUGENE WOODS: No, thankfully. You know what the Major did last time he insisted on uh, showing off his glutes?

JACK HOLDEN: Yeesh, yeah. Three days without clothing must have been pretty nippy.

EUGENE WOODS: He certainly looked cold.

JACK HOLDEN: [clears throat] So uh, not another streaking incident?

EUGENE WOODS: No. This little incident occurred when Runners Four and Eighteen were both out on separate missions.

JACK HOLDEN: Right, right. Eighteen was out checking cameras -

EUGENE WOODS: - and Jody was grabbing firewood, right? Now, as you probably know, Mister Miles -

JACK HOLDEN: Justin Miles, Runner Eighteen.

EUGENE WOODS: Right. Now, Justin's a stealthy man, as you probably know, which is why he's sent out to the cameras and other high-risk areas.

JACK HOLDEN: I can see where this is going.

EUGENE WOODS: And a lot of the cameras are in rather... wild?

JACK HOLDEN: Muddy?

EUGENE WOODS: Messy places. So when Justin comes out of the trees just as Jody's on her way back to the gates -

JACK HOLDEN: - he must have looked a right state.

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah. And Jody's just escaped a pack of sprinters out in the woods, so she sees Justin running towards her covered in mud and scratches from the bushes -

JACK HOLDEN: Oh God!

EUGENE WOODS: Yeah. She swings for him with this huge log she's carrying -

JACK HOLDEN: Yeesh!

EUGENE WOODS: Luckily, his reaction time's better than a zom's, so he ducks at the last moment and manages to avoid a busted face.

JACK HOLDEN: Thank God.

EUGENE WOODS: Exactly. I think Jody's agreed to give him her laundry ticket for this week as an apology.

JACK HOLDEN: So all's well that ends well, I guess. Justin gets some clean socks, and Jody, uh...

EUGENE WOODS: Jody gets this song.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah.

EUGENE WOODS: To remind her to stop feeling guilty about it. Jody, it wasn't your fault.

JACK HOLDEN: And Justin, maybe less running directly at people the next time you look like you've been dragged through the hedge backwards, yeah? Enjoy this one, guys.

EUGENE WOODS: All right! Now, it's time for another run of the day, and today it's something pretty special.

JACK HOLDEN: I really couldn't believe this when I heard it.

EUGENE WOODS: I suppose, with the number of runs we send people out on and the laws of chance, it had to happen at least once, right?

JACK HOLDEN: I don't know. I can't believe this is just chance, though. Maybe it's a sign.

EUGENE WOODS: Come on, you can't really... wait, we should explain what's happening here.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, oh yeah. Um, right. So, listeners, Runner Twenty-One's just returned from the old pharmacy -

EUGENE WOODS: - out to get some antibiotics and so on.

JACK HOLDEN: Right, and... no, you won't believe this. The whole time he was out – that's four hours! - He didn't see a single zom.

EUGENE WOODS: Not a one.

JACK HOLDEN: Nothing on the cameras, no visual contact, not even a murmur on the breeze.

EUGENE WOODS: Incredible, right?

JACK HOLDEN: Now obviously, we're not saying that there are no more zoms.

EUGENE WOODS: Obviously not.

JACK HOLDEN: Just that for this one blissful, perfect, four hour period, Mister Erik Englert managed to run from here to the pharmacy and back again without seeing a single one.

EUGENE WOODS: The perfect run. Man, remember when you could just run for fun?

JACK HOLDEN: Well, maybe you could run just for fun. It was always torture for me.

EUGENE WOODS: But not for Erik. At least not today.

JACK HOLDEN: Not today. Erik, this song's for you.

[RADIO CABEL sings "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear" theme tune]

EUGENE WOODS: And now, Radio Cabel presents the sensational first installment of "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear."

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Runner Zero, Runner Zero, come in. Do you read me, Runner Zero?

ZOE CRICK: Reading you, Control. What's the 411?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Bad news, I'm afraid, Sally. Seventeen and Twenty-Two have got themselves in a bit of a jam.

[zombies groan]

JACK HOLDEN: We're treed, Sal!

EUGENE WOODS: It's our own fault, Control. We got too greedy, got surrounded.

ZOE CRICK: How many, Twenty-Two?

EUGENE WOODS: A couple of dozen, Control.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Dear God. I haven't seen a swarm that size since Grimthorpe.

ZOE CRICK: We lost a lot of good runners that day, Control. Never again.

JACK HOLDEN: There's something in the trees. It's -

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Sally, there's not a runner on my books who could take on that many zombies after dark and survive!

ZOE CRICK: Lucky I'm not on your books, then.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh God! It's coming back! Hurry, Zero!

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Runner Zero, you are not cleared for this mission. This is totally against the rules! They'll take your number for this!

ZOE CRICK: No fear, Control. You know there's only one rule I live by: run faster. Hang tight, boys. I'm coming for you.

[RADIO CABEL sings ominous music]

EUGENE WOODS: Will Runner Zero reach them in time? Will all of our heroes survive the unstoppable onslaught of the undead? What untold evil lurks in the darkness between the trees? Find out next time on "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear"!

EUGENE WOODS: And now we return to the shocking second installment of "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear."

[RADIO CABEL sings "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear" theme tune]

[zombies groan]

ZOE CRICK: I'm approaching the forest now, Control. Seventeen, Twenty-Two, get ready to run.

EUGENE WOODS: Roger that, Zero.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Be careful out there, runners. I don't like these odds.

ZOE CRICK: You know me, Captain. I never made a bet I didn't think I could win.

JACK HOLDEN: But Sal, there's so many! How are you going to distract them all?

ZOE CRICK: I'm going to show them the stars. Tie your laces, boys! It's time to run.

[RADIO CABEL imitate firework explosions]

EUGENE WOODS: Fireworks! Sal, you're a genius! Keep running!

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Go, runners! Go! Get out of that forest and come on home!

JACK HOLDEN: You don't have to tell us twice, Control.

[JACK HOLDEN and EUGENE WOODS struggle to get out of trees; something attacks]

EUGENE WOODS: Oh God! What's – what's that?

JACK HOLDEN: No! They're alive! They're alive!

[JACK HOLDEN and EUGENE WOODS shout]

ZOE CRICK: Seventeen, Twenty-Two, report!

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Their lines are dead! What the hell is out there?

ZOE CRICK: Only one way to found out, Captain: I'm going in.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Sally, no! It's too dangerous.

ZOE CRICK: All the more reason to get them out of there. Put the kettle on, Control. We'll all be back before you know it.

[RADIO CABEL sings ominous music]

EUGENE WOODS: What will Runner Zero find? Who or what has taken the other runners? Will our hero survive? Find out in the next mind-bending installment of "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear."

EUGENE WOODS: And now, dear listeners, we bring you to the thrilling third installment of "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear."

[RADIO CABEL sings "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear" theme tune]

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Runner Zero. Runner Zero, report!

ZOE CRICK: Reading you, Control. I'm heading into the forest now. No sign of the zoms, thankfully, but no sign of Seventeen or Twenty-Two, either.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Um, that noise... any sign of what's making it?

ZOE CRICK: None yet, Control. But I bet my boots on the fact that I'll find it when I find the boys.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: If you find them.

ZOE CRICK: No fear, Control, I'll find them.

[JACK HOLDEN shouts]

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Move, Zero! They sound nearby!

ZOE CRICK: I'm coming, Seventeen!

JACK HOLDEN: Well, good, Sally! Help! [chokes]

ZOE CRICK: I see them, Control! Oh! Oh my God!

PHIL CHEESEMAN: What is it? Zero? Zero, report!

ZOE CRICK: It's the trees, Control! They're alive!

[RADIO CABEL sings ominous music]

EUGENE WOODS: Living trees? Undead fiends? What horror will Runner Zero face next? Will she reach the boys in time? Find out as we continue "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear."

EUGENE WOODS: And now, we rejoin our heroes as they flee for their lives. It's part four of "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear."

[RADIO CABEL sings "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear" theme tune]

EUGENE WOODS: Thanks for the rescue, Sal.

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah. Pretty lucky you were carrying your trademark machete.

ZOE CRICK: It's just like me, Seventeen: fearless, no-nonsense, and sharp as hell.

EUGENE WOODS: And it's really useful for cutting through killer vines when they imprison your fellow runners!

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Hate to interrupt the chat, guys, but I could do with a status update, here.

ZOE CRICK: Just trying to escape these sentient killer vines and find our way out of the forest, Control.

JACK HOLDEN: And just how in the heck did trees start thinking for themselves, anyway?

EUGENE WOODS: Uh, speaking of which -

PHIL CHEESEMAN: What? What is it?

ZOE CRICK: Our route's blocked! The forest is – it's knitting itself together!

[RADIO CABEL sings ominous music]

EUGENE WOODS: Escape seems impossible. Our heroes seem doomed. Will they be consumed by the coniferous carnivore? Tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion of "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear."

EUGENE WOODS: Up next, we are proud to bring you the thrilling, the chilling, the fear-instilling final part of "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear."

[RADIO CABEL sings "Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear" theme tune]

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Runners, report!

ZOE CRICK: Bit of a sticky thicket here, Control. Seems these plants weren't too keen on letting us get away after all.

EUGENE WOODS: The – the thing I can't work out is why they didn't try and grab us when we were up in the trees.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Mike, you're a genius!

JACK HOLDEN: Don't tell him that, Control. It'll go to his head.

EUGENE WOODS: The only thing that's going to my head is blood! These damn things have me hanging upside down!

ZOE CRICK: What are you thinking, Control?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: The zoms, Zero! The trees must be repelled by them! Maybe some auto- autono- [out of character] autonomic pheromonal response. [in character] Autonomic pheromonal response to the zombies' less – [out of character] oh dear God - [in character] lessened biorhythmic signature. Do you still have - do you still have a noisemaker?

ZOE CRICK: [laughs out of character] [in character] Uh, it's in my pack, but I can't – I can't reach it!

JACK HOLDEN: I think – I think I might be able to -

[PHIL CHEESEMAN hits ZOE CRICK]

ZOE CRICK: Ow, Phil. Too hard.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: [mutters] Sorry.

JACK HOLDEN: Got it! [imitates noismaker ringing]

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Great job, Seventeen.

ZOE CRICK: They're coming!

EUGENE WOODS: The vines, they're retreating!

ZOE CRICK: We're free. Come on boys, let's make like a tree before those zoms catch us.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Good job, Zero. Come on home. The kettle's boiling.

ZOE CRICK: Two sugars today, I think, Control.

[RADIO CABEL sings triumphant music]

EUGENE WOODS: And so, Runner Zero escapes the Forest of Fear, returning once more in triumph to Cain Castle.

JACK HOLDEN: Runner Zero in the Forest of Fear was a Radio Cabel production, written, directed, and produced by Phil Cheeseman, Zoe Crick, Jack Holden, and Eugene Woods.

ZOE CRICK: Control was played by Phil Cheeseman.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Zoe Crick provided the voice of Runner Zero.

EUGENE WOODS: Jack Holden played Runner Seventeen.

JACK HOLDEN: And Eugene Woods appeared as Runner Twenty-Two.

[RADIO CABEL sings Radio Cabel production theme]

PHIL CHEESEMAN: It's time to join our friends over at the De Luca Farm for another episode of "The Ablers," where Lee is having problems with the wheat crop.

[RADIO CABEL sings "The Ablers" theme tune]

ZOE CRICK: Afternoon, Lee. Not having much luck with the wheat, is it? I hope we don't have to start trading with Monton, again. They were charging us three cans of fuel a ton last time, and that's well above the market rate.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Aye, aye. With the recent droughts, though, it's a seller's market, you know? More's the pity for us. I'm not ready to ring any alarm bells yet, but I'm starting to worry we might have a case of take-all on our hands.

[JACK HOLDEN loudly imitates chicken squawking in the background]

EUGENE WOODS: [whispers] Shh, Jack! Jack, too much!

ZOE CRICK: Oh yes, I can see. All the seeds are going white. That's not a good sign, is it?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Not so good, no. But luckily it's only in this patch by the fence. I think we should be able to save the rest if we can get the affected stuff out before the fungus gets its hyphae out and spreads too far.

ZOE CRICK: Better grab a spade, then.

[PHIL CHEESEMAN imitates a doorbell ringing]

JACK HOLDEN: Ah! Hello, Dan. What is it that brings Abel's most beloved operator to the commissary this afternoon? Horlicks, is it?

EUGENE WOODS: Not today, Bob, no. I'm actually after a dab of vinegar.

JACK HOLDEN: Oh, well, you're lucky, I could tell you! I've just had half a bottle in. What is it you're wanting it for?

EUGENE WOODS: Cleaning, I'm afraid. You know me. Someone spilled something on the comms desk, and I'd like to clean it before anything jams or breaks.

JACK HOLDEN: Always taking care of your equipment, eh?

EUGENE WOODS: You take care of it, and it'll take care of you, that's my motto. And vinegar's best for this bit of cleaning.

JACK HOLDEN: Right then! I'll just nip out back to get it for you.

[RADIO CABEL sings "The Ablers" theme tune]

PHIL CHEESEMAN: We return now to the De Luca Farm, where Lee's attempts to save the wheat crop are causing tension.

[RADIO CABEL sings "The Ablers" theme tune]

JACK HOLDEN: Listen, Lee, all I'm trying to say is if you're looking for somewhere new to plant, you need to consider the drainage. Look uphill of me. The makeup of the soil's all wrong. This is all silty clay on shale. The water'll run right through that and the next time it rains, you'll have to go fishing your dinner out of the river!

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I understand what you're saying, Bob, but the crop has to go somewhere. The soil at the farm's contaminated with take-all now. The only way to fix that for the next season is to plant in a new spot and put something else where the wheat is!

JACK HOLDEN: Right, but what about over there by the eastern fence? There's an empty patch over there now they've condemned the shed after Pete fell off it onto Bess's prize cow, and the soil over there is all loamy. Perfect water retention!

PHIL CHEESEMAN: You make a good point, Bob, but I'm worried about the mineral balance over there. Ground's been leached with the thawing of the winter frost. It's just too nitrogen poor.

JACK HOLDEN: Surely you can solve that with some fertilizer.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Oh, don't give me that again! We don't have any appropriate fertilizer.

[PHIL CHEESEMAN imitates doorbell ringing]

ZOE CRICK: Oh! Hello, Dan. Are you looking for Bob? He's out in the field, arguing with Lee again.

EUGENE WOODS: Oh no, what is it this time? Not a replay of last month, is it?

ZOE CRICK: The cricket thing? No, no. Bob can see that it probably was unlikely that he'd seen Jimmy Anderson on his way out of London, given that they were defending the Ashes in Australia at the time of the outbreak. It's the first time I've ever heard him admit he was wrong!

EUGENE WOODS: Oh well, that's good at least. And will you be going up to Janine's for the book club later?

ZOE CRICK: Oh yes. You know me. Can't get enough, can I?

EUGENE WOODS: And what's the book this time?

ZOE CRICK: The first half of Great Expectations. The second half's missing, but Janine's going to fill us in on what happens before we start our discussion.

EUGENE WOODS: Well, that'll be nice.

ZOE CRICK: I’m sure it will. Anyway, what can I get for you?

EUGENE WOODS: Just some Horlicks for today, Poppy, if you got any.

ZOE CRICK: One second. I'll just have to pop out back to check.

[RADIO CABEL sings "The Ablers" theme tune]

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Now let's check back in with our pals over at De Luca Farm, where Poppy's niece, Rosie, has been feeling a bit under the weather.

[RADIO CABEL sings "The Ablers" theme tune]

EUGENE WOODS: Morning, Poppy. Just thought I'd stick my head in to see how your Rosie's getting on.

ZOE CRICK: Not so well I'm afraid, Dan. Looks like she's coming down with the flu.

EUGENE WOODS: Oh, that's a shame. Well, at least Marlene has just had some more medicine through.

ZOE CRICK: Yes, she's about to bring some around now.

EUGENE WOODS: Ah well, that's... that's... oh, sorry. Guys, I just, I can't do this. This is so boring.

[PHIL CHEESEMAN gasps]

JACK HOLDEN: Gene!

EUGENE WOODS: What? I know this is supposed to be some beloved British classic or something, but I'm sorry, I just don't get it at all.

JACK HOLDEN: A lot of people love The Archers, Gene.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Myself among them. Oh, to curl up in a big chair on a Sunday for the omnibus. It's a slice of life! Like uh, a home comfort. Like hot soup made by your mom or something. It's a restorative.

ZOE CRICK: God, Phil, it's a radio show, not a religious experience.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Speak for yourself. And now it's all ruined.

EUGENE WOODS: It was ruined when we started, if you ask me.

ZOE CRICK: Hear, hear.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Oh, now you -

JACK HOLDEN: Look, listen. Why don't we... why don't we just take a bit of a break from the whole Archers thing and come back to it later maybe?

EUGENE WOODS: Sounds good to me.

ZOE CRICK: Yup. I could do with a day without fertilizer or farming equipment.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: If we must.

JACK HOLDEN: Great! Then, listeners, we'll have a song, and then we'll be back with something completely different.

ZOE CRICK: All right. And now you all know what time it is.

JACK HOLDEN: It's time for -

ALL FOUR: [singing] The Radio Cabel Top Five! [laughing]

ZOE CRICK: The post-apocalypse's longest-running and indeed only chart show.

EUGENE WOODS: Bringing you all the latest and greatest hits every week.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: And at number five -

EUGENE WOODS: This is a new entry from a band that started life as the Raging Piranhas.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Something you might not know about these guys is that they were once banned from using the word "pickle" on-stage.

ZOE CRICK: Some people just don't know when to stop.

JACK HOLDEN: And here they are, refusing to stop, in at number five -

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Hello, ci-ti-zens. I mean, Cablers. You're back with us for the Radio Cabel Top Five.

EUGENE WOODS: Don't touch that dial, guys!

ZOE CRICK: However tempted you might be.

EUGENE WOODS: You're going to want to stay right here as we count down to this week's number one.

JACK HOLDEN: And up next, we've got a stubborn little number that's been in the top five for over 400 weeks!

EUGENE WOODS: It certainly seems to be on track to beat the record for the longest stint in the top five.

JACK HOLDEN: Let's hope so. Phil, what was the previous record?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Oh, let me check. Uh, 672 weeks.

JACK HOLDEN: Wow. Nearly there, then.

ZOE CRICK: And here it is, for its 403rd time at the number four slot -

EUGENE WOODS: Take it away!

JACK HOLDEN: Kapow! Let's keep this party going and barrel straight into number three. What can you tell us, Zoe?

ZOE CRICK: Well, Jack, this one's very close to my heart.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Really?

ZOE CRICK: Yeah, absolutely. You see, this track was recorded in my hometown.

EUGENE WOODS: Hey, isn't that also where Isaac Newton was born?

ZOE CRICK: It was. Good knowledge. Him and -

EUGENE WOODS: Kim Kardashian, right?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Wow, home to so many luminaries.

ZOE CRICK: It's a place that just breathes genius, what can I say?

JACK HOLDEN: Let's have a listen and judge for ourselves, shall we?

EUGENE WOODS: Hit it!

ZOE CRICK: All right, now we're getting close to the top spot, and I've got to tell you, it's been a really close race this week.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Neck and neck, honestly.

EUGENE WOODS: Our first contender was the cause of some controversy over the past few days when a popular religious group began to protest a perceived undertone of zombie worship in its lyrics.

ZOE CRICK: They say there's no such thing as bad publicity, but that's because they never read the press coverage of Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark.

[PHIL CHEESEMAN laughs]

JACK HOLDEN: And our second runner's had a meteoric rise from obscurity with its creator being offered a 27 record deal after publishing the lyrics on Rofflenet.

ZOE CRICK: A real Cinderella story, this one. But its loyal following of Rofflenet fans wasn't quite enough to propel it into the top spot, so here it is at number two.

EUGENE WOODS: And here it is, your number one hit of the week!

JACK HOLDEN: It's controversial!

EUGENE WOODS: It's catchy!

PHIL CHEESEMAN: It's the hit tune you just can't stop talking about.

ZOE CRICK: No matter what the priests and politicians might say, it struck a chord with all of you out there in the wild, so everyone give it up for this week's number one!

(the following clip plays when your base morale is greater than 95%)

JACK HOLDEN: Can I do my song?

EUGENE WOODS: [sighs] Do you have to?

JACK HOLDEN: What? It's a morale booster.

EUGENE WOODS: You think?

JACK HOLDEN: Sure it is! Can I do it?

EUGENE WOODS: [sighs] If you must.

JACK HOLDEN: All right. Awesome. So, here it is: "Smiling Because Of You," by Jack Holden. [clears throat] [sings] When you're walking down the street, chances are the people that you meet will be frowning. But if you put a smile upon your face, in every single place that you're found in, the chances are that smile will catch on, and then not before long, the world will be smiling, too. Smiling with you, and smiling because of you!

EUGENE WOODS: Is that it?

JACK HOLDEN: Yeah.

EUGENE WOODS: Right. So listeners, uh, time for a real song.

JACK HOLDEN: Oi!

#zombies run #zrs2 #s2 radio #s2 radio part 6 #zr transcript

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mredwinsmith · 7 years ago

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Coaching Peaks and Valleys Pt 1

Pat King’s article recently came across my news feed. Shortly after NYNY won the first of their five consecutive open titles (1989-1993), we got our hands on the VHS tape of that title game.

By late 1989, I had maybe eighteen months of playing under me, and I watched that tape nonstop for the better part of six months. Pat was Johnny Dawkins, Phil Ford, Skip Brown, John Kuester, Len Bias, and Jordan all in one. His passion and pace were unassailable. In the article, Pat mentions he’s coaching the men’s squad at Santa Clara University. Because this is a fact and because he was such an inspiration to me, I was motivated to look back at the eight seasons I coached and reflect on some of the moments you wish you could have back. I navigated mostly all of the peaks and valleys on the Frisbee terrain and my takeaway is all positive, yet still those times remain when you wonder how things may have transpired had the gamble gone differently. It’s pleasure and pain.

UNCW Seamen. 2011 Atlantic Coast Regionals. Wilmington, North Carolina.

The Seamen were a 3 seed behind Virginia and Virginia Tech and looking at a one bid region. On Saturday we defeated our opposition 39-12 and our first three games averaged an hour a piece. The next morning we opened with Towson at 8:30am. After our O made the score 12-4, we rolled 3 on defense in 4 possessions to close out at 15-4, but somewhere in those last three points the trouble started. Our defense started calling fouls on their receivers and the game grew real chippy. Towson resented this and rightly so. The game was essentially over and the calls were not calls our D had a habit of making and worse, they delayed the end of the game. On game point, Towson turned the disc over in our red zone and after punching it in we moved on to face Virginia Tech Burn in the semi-finals. Virginia Tech had a relatively easy go of Saturday as well, defeating their three opponents 39-17.

We opened the semifinals holding serve on our fourth try. Sizing one another up for the next few points, we quickly pulled away and had 2 times to break for 7-2 but only managed a TMF. After Burn took three tries to cut our four-point lead to three, we rolled two to take half 8-3 and one hour in we were feeling pretty good. But you’re never up by enough. Pulling and down 4-8, Virginia Tech came zone on the second point from half and then person d on the next two points and our lead went from 8-3 to 8-6. Off the third pull, they came zone again and we were able to extend the lead to 9-6, but only after three tries and the energy expended in those three tries is impossible to regain. Adding stress to that loss of energy, Burn’s women and the Towson men’s team began crowding the sideline at this point, along with a handful other schools beyond Richmond. Their seasons over, yet their hardline heckling was just getting started.

Pulling at 9-6 our D earned a Callahan and a second TMF as well. The one sideline now packed end to end with college kids in full postseason revelry feasted on this. At 10-6 we feel like we have some breathing room, but maybe the moment fueled by unruly college kids thrilled by your every mistake was too big. Undaunted, Burn’s offense scores with a few passes and they get their D back on the field. That point took thirty seconds at best for Burn and it was clean, efficient and poised Ultimate when they needed it most.

Burn must have rostered four guys at six feet tall and taller that season playing in a 4 person cup. They came with that set the next 3 points to roll 3 breaks and knot the score at 10 even, game to 12. The women’s semi-finals began at the same time as the men’s. In those games the losing teams scored a total of 8 points to the winners’ 30. In the other men’s semi, Virginia Night Train made quick work of Delaware 15-9. In separate factions they all made their way to our field. Around noon, the locals, mostly rec league all-stars and UOA sympathizers, began arriving dressed for a picnic with their coolers and strollers in tow, though their interest wasn’t directed at the Seamen as much as the forthcoming women’s final between UNCW Seaweed and UNC Pleiades, featuring future Callahan winners.

From 8-3, we were outscored 7 to 2 in essentially thirty minutes’ time. Four out of their five breaks came on one possession and those same four came transitioning from their four person cup, after mostly uncommon and uncharacteristic doinks and mishandles. Maybe it was the chippy calls against Towson catching up to us, but I’d rather tip my hat to Burn’s defense. At 10 all and receiving for the fourth point in a row, the numbers were in our favor as a fourth consecutive break was unlikely, and Burn came down in person d. We scored quickly and when the hard cap sounded during the next point, Burn’s offense buckled and we broke for the win 12-10. We were outscored 7-4 in the second half and while we advanced to play in the finals, rarely was a victory so deflating.

Winning in the hard cap left us barely any time to readjust and get over their 3 and 4 point run. By 12:30pm we had played 42 points to Virginia’s 47, but the last half of our semi-final with the crowd pressing in and the stress of Burn’s four-person cup and one bid looming in front of us was on everyone’s faces. ‘No Weak Faces’ we preached. No palms up body language. Additionally, when you are the team everyone loves to hate, you learn to place your concern on the team in front of you and embrace indifference with the team and/or teams thus eliminated. There is a degree of the NYNY factor here: you beat up on some second or third tier teams on Saturday and Sunday morning, you exchange trash talk and call the game the way you believe the game ought to be called because after all, you are not the inferior team, and then those inferior teams, because they don’t want the postseason to begin just yet and because they for the moment possess an overblown sense of what they bring to the table, sit on half empty coolers with their women’s team and 2nd and 3rd tier friends. I’d rather be starving than sit at that table; however, seven years later here I am writing an essay in hindsight and the long journey to the middle is complete – My apologies to Lester Bangs for the device.

The minor and major factors leading up to the finals vs Night Train created a perfect storm and while they advanced and took the one bid, I don’t feel that they were better that season – they won when they had to. They finished 1-3 in pool play at Nationals and 3-3 overall, and while we may not have fared better, the shadow of that one moment is still there. After receiving and going up 1-0 on our second try, we had one chance to break for a two point cushion but missed out. With six total possessions between both teams and the score even at 1s, the Ultimate didn’t get much better, or prettier. It mirrored the crowd. With their O getting 1 on the board, their D line rolled two for 3-1. We managed an easy O point for our second goal and then easy took a back seat to grind. Again, our D gained possession and we had one shot to tie at 3s but had no such fortune and a potential tie game was quickly a five-point deficit. Down 2-6 and having suffered two quick breaks, our O was put to task on the ensuing point and we fought off four break chances before turning it over in Virginia’s red zone, giving up a third straight break and to go down 2-7.

For an instant, the clouds parted and we managed a quick O point and our D was back on the field. Certainly, if our D could get a third try at a break we’d get one, and one could lead two. Pulling at 3-7, we earned a quick one and cut their lead to 3. As a coach, which way do you want things to go here? A quick point to keep up the pressure, maybe cause some finger pointing, or longer uglier points to keep their O on the field and your O off the field getting much-needed rest? If you are a guaranteed a break, you want it ugly perhaps, but there are no guarantees here, except the one that says you have one another’s back. Down five and the game beyond a picnic, we are now down two at 5-7 and pulling for the third point in a row and Night Train is looking to take half for the fourth consecutive point.

Freeze. Give me these 70 seconds back. Rest on the line and call timeout at ‘ten seconds to pull’; send all but the pulling D line to the shade, and following the timeout, turf the pull, concede the point and get off the field and in the shade with the others, with water and food and wet towels and music and a well-timed joke, recharge and refocus for the next 45 minutes. A three-point deficit and pulling at half is not insurmountable and after all, it was our home field. More often it’s not about the lead nor the margin you trail, it’s energy and keeping that energy. Up to that last point of half, the finals saw 12 points scored on 31 possessions. 19 turnovers in less than an hour. Seldom is it in Ultimate that you’re served an opportunity on a platter to bend it in a particular way to where you don’t suffer an earful from Frisbee cognoscenti adamant the game must be played this way at all times.

We aimed for the third break. Our D line was foaming at the mouth, fired up after two breaks. No bread was ever broken between these two teams and Virginia stewed for a year over us knocking them into the backdoor bracket in 2010, a game where the observers marked the score incorrectly and we had to win twice. A few passes into the point, we get hit with a TMF for backpacking. Virginia scored, spiked the disc and took half 8-5. The bulk of that half was squandered quarreling over what just happened instead of what was going to happen. Minutes later, it was 12-5 Night Train. We managed only 2 more in the second half; 2 points on 8 possessions. Virginia scored 7 on 9 possessions, both turns by their defense, keeping our O on the field. Overall, our O received 14x, scored 5x, and played defense 13x. Season over. Now leaning in with a certain alacrity only identifiable if you lived here long enough, the hometown crowd eventually enjoyed their picnic as the Seaweed dismissed Pleiades 15-3 in a game that was never close.

Unlike the next year when Georgetown rolled four on our three-point lead to knock us out in the quarters of another one bid region – Towson first on the scene and no filter on the schadenfreude, there was no road trip home with a 5th year player where you try and offer something, some perspective to assuage the emptiness. But what can you say? This year they departed as they arrived. All alone or in twos and with no practices to look forward to. Who is to say what might have transpired had we bent half-time and turned the game into something else? Would our fortunes have faded so quickly? I do know that the handful of fifth-year boys we had, boys who are now men and who went on to have decent open careers with Ring and the Flyers, deserved better than that, on that day. And that’s the trick to coaching: You want to win and you want so much for those trusting your authority and decision making, but often it’s not about scoring points.

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