#I mean a necessary burger nonetheless

[mechazushi]

It has become increasingly obvious....

I can question it no longer....

They've gotten Bigger.

Bonus (if anyone cares):

@kafkahibinomybeloved

*adjusts glasses* your thoughts on the matter, President.

[let-the-dream-begin]

In My Daughter’s Eyes Chapter 4: The Past Can Hurt

Chapter 3

Read on AO3

Claire peeked at the rear view mirror again, and smiled again at the sight of her happy daughter. Faith's favorite "reward meal" was McDonald's. Claire had pinky-promised that if she was a good girl with the horses today, they would get McDonald's for dinner on the way home. She was contentedly waving around the Minion toy that had come in the happy meal, humming and kicking her little legs. Claire had both of their meals on the passenger seat, knowing full well that her daughter would make quite the mess if she let her eat in the car. So would Claire, to be frank.

Claire had made it abundantly clear how proud she was of Faith, had reminded her several times already how she'd been such a good girl. Whether this made Faith happy to hear, or she was simply still in the afterglow of petting a horse, was anyone's guess. Claire hoped Faith could see, could truly understand how happy her mother was. She supposed if she said it enough it might sink in, if it hadn't already.

Back at home, the moment Claire unbuckled Faith from her carseat, she insisted on carrying her meal in herself, to which Claire was more than happy to oblige. She watched, amused, as Faith scampered up the steps to their front door, waiting rather impatiently for her mother to catch up. This was something that Faith had done whenever they'd arrived at their home in Oxfordshire: squirm out of Claire's grip and bolt to the porch, rocking on her heels or bouncing while she waited for the door to open. As Claire pushed the key into the lock, her heart felt a little lighter.

She already feels like this is her home.

Faith immediately scampered inside and right to the kitchen, and by the time Claire got the door shut, stuffed horse onto the couch, and shoes off, Faith was already halfway through her chicken nuggets, sitting up on her knees at the kitchen table. Claire shook her head, laughing.

"You are certainly in a good mood, aren't you, darling?" She ruffled her curly hair and sat down across from her, opening her own paper bag, pulling out her burger and french fries. The teenager at the drive-thru had been quite bewildered when she'd asked for crisps. Such strange lingo these Americans used.

Faith was finished eating before Claire was even halfway through her burger, and she slid off her chair and reached for the chocolate shake that Claire put on the counter to be out of her reach until she finished. Claire sprung out of her seat to grab it herself before Faith could cause it to topple and make a mess.

"Let Mummy help, Faith," Claire said, frantically. "You have to ask for help..." Claire sighed in defeat, handing over the milkshake. She sat back down as Faith settled in again, knowing better than to leave the kitchen with food of any kind. Claire watched her little cheeks hollow out as she guzzled down the liquid, her honey eyes light with joy.

Faith's being nonverbal was not as much of an issue as it could have been, but it was an issue nonetheless. The worst of it was when she was clearly distraught and could not communicate the source of her distress. Had she made a mess of her chocolate shake due to her inability to ask for help, it would have been quite the inconvenience, but Claire supposed mealtime could have gone much worse. Claire knew her daughter by now, better than Claire even knew herself. She'd become accustomed to the various grunts and whines, associating meaning to each different sound over the years. She supposed, however, that this would not be a sufficient way to communicate to a teacher someday, or Mrs. Lickett when Claire was no longer able to stay home with them.

Claire's anxiety lessened a bit at the thought of the woman; Mrs. Lickett was certified to teach American Sign Language to nonverbal autistic children, and she promised Claire she'd have Faith doing basic signs by the time she was ready to start school, whenever that may be.

Then she remembered how close they'd come to a meltdown in the stable, and how easily Jamie had calmed her, how proud he'd been to introduce the horse to her as a reward, how happy it had made Faith. Claire's heart swelled for perhaps the hundredth time since they'd left. The sound of slurping filled the room as Faith reached the end of her milkshake.

"All done, lovie?" Faith took her mouth off the straw and smiled contentedly at her mother. "Clean up now, Faith. Garbage in the bin, please."

Faith did as she was told, and then Claire beckoned her into her lap.

"Come here, darling," she crooned, enveloping her in her arms. "Mummy is so very proud of you, baby. I'll never stop saying it." She kissed her cheek, and Faith giggled. "Are you happy, Faith? Hm?" She rocked her gently, but Faith just hummed and traced patterns on Claire's arms with her fingertips.

"Happy, Faith?" Claire said again, remembering the thumbs-up maneuver from earlier, and employing it now. "Are you happy, love?"

Faith giggled again and grabbed Claire's thumb in her little hand.

"Faith, no..." Claire couldn't help but chuckle, as well. "See? Thumbs-up if you're happy, Faith. Happy?" She tried again with her free thumb.

Faith giggled yet again, but this time, she returned the gesture. Claire laughed out loud and brought the little fist, still holding her thumb, to her lips to cover with kisses.

"I'm happy, too, baby girl," Claire said. "Very happy."

She gave another little giggle before squirming out of Claire's arms and pattering out of the kitchen. Claire cleaned up after herself and returned to the table to continue nursing her own milkshake. Faith bounded back in with a DVD box in hand and held it expectantly up to Claire. Claire smiled and took it in her hands.

"Ah, all about animals today, hm?" She cocked an eyebrow at Faith. Tonight's choice was The Lion King. This was typical, even back in Oxfordshire. Faith would toddle up to either Claire or Frank with a DVD after dinner and expect help to get it ready, so she could watch her movie before bed. More often than not, Frank would wordlessly hand the box over to Claire instead, and after a while Faith learned to only bring it to Claire.

Claire put the DVD in as Faith went into her room, returning with her baby Simba stuffed animal to watch with. She settled onto the couch, now righted to its position in the middle of the room, centered and straightened. There were still boxes and messes, but things were slowly coming together. Claire took this opportunity while Faith was glued to the telly to get to some more boxes. She peeled the tape off a particularly heavy box, and smiled to herself at the sight of the picture frames inside, covered in bubble wrap. She moved behind the couch to the long table pushed against it, exactly where she'd planned to put said pictures. She unwrapped them all lovingly and arranged them on the table: an infant Faith fast asleep like a little angel on Claire's shoulder; Faith in the photo studio with a large, plastic number "1" for her first birthday; Claire holding Faith on a carousel, smiling like a fool at her toddler aged daughter; Faith, two-and-a-half, grabbing at Frank's cheeks and laughing her head off.

Christ.

Claire froze, a hard lump forming in her throat as the opening chords to "Circle of Life" filled her ears. What was she supposed to do with this? Why had she even packed it? Well, that was easy enough: Faith looked simply darling. But...

She ran trembling fingers over both of their faces behind the glass, sighing with a shudder. 

Oh, Frank...How happy we once were.

Indecisive, Claire put the frame back in the box, reaching for another to unwrap: Faith mid-bite of a chocolate-chip pancake at the breakfast table. The older she got, the less complacent she'd been for photo opportunities, so Claire had to content herself with capturing candid, silly moments like this, and she honestly would not have had it any other way. She stood it up next to the carousel shot and reached for another.

God damn it.

Claire holding Faith at the church the day of her christening, Frank's arm wrapped around Claire's shoulders, smiling proudly.

Fuck you.

Claire pressed the frame face-down into the table, biting her bottom lip to stifle a sob. How dare he stand there, looking so proud of the family that he would so quickly discard? How dare he let that little girl touch his face like that, how dare he smile at her so brightly, lead her to believe he'd always be there?

Her fingers trembled as they hovered over the keypad of numbers. Was it worth it? Couldn't she just put Faith on the plane and change her number, disappear forever?

She supposed that might not exactly be legal, no matter the terms on which Frank had left the house two weeks ago.

She somehow found the nerve to finish dialing the number and bring the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

She gulped. "Hello, Frank."

"Hello, Claire."

She cleared her throat. "I'm...I'm taking Faith to the states. And I don't think you have any right to try and stop me."

"I shouldn't think I do."

She shuddered with hatred at his indifference; though she'd expected as much, it didn't sting any less. "Alright. Good. I don't want anything from you, Frank. I am perfectly capable of taking care of her basic needs on my residency salary."

"Alright."

"But there's one thing. It's the least you can do. For the love you once bore me."

"I did not stop loving you, Claire."

"Oh, yes, you did," Claire spat. 

“Claire — ”

“No, that’s enough,” she said, firmly. “Listen. I want nothing from you but the exact amount a certain therapy will cost. It’s expensive, but the doctor thinks it can really help Faith. I’m asking nothing else of you, Frank. Just around six thousand a year, broken up monthly, to pay for the therapy.”

Claire knew she likely could afford the therapy, but things would be tight. Rent on Long Island was not cheap by any means; neither was the general cost of living there, and neither was the kind of babysitter with the qualifications necessary for taking care of someone with Faith’s needs. Not to mention she wanted to start setting money aside for a service dog, which would be an enormous investment in and of itself, but one that would certainly be worth it if it would make it easier for them to be in public places. The extra money from Frank would be worth it, no matter how sick to her stomach it made her to ask it of him.

“What sort of therapy costs that much?”

“Equine therapy.”

He scoffed. “You really believe — ”

“Yes. I do.” She had to clench her teeth and take a very deep breath through her nose to stop herself from attacking again. “Will you pay for it or not? As the man who sired her, who owes her something? Will you?”

A slight pause, then he sighed. “Fine. I don’t care how much it is, I just don’t want to deal with it.”

Claire almost choked on the expletives she swallowed. “I understand. I’ve already set aside a separate bank account for you to make deposits.” She read him the account number and the routing number, along with exact amounts needed each month.

“All you need to do is make the deposits every month. And you’ll never hear from us again.”

He sighed again. “Claire…If I could change things…”

Claire almost fell for it…but she knew what he meant.

He did not mean: “If I could change my behavior, the things I said.” He meant: “If I could change what our daughter is.”

And it made her sick.

“Goodbye, Frank.”

Faith’s humming and rocking brought Claire back to Earth. She looked up from the box to see Faith holding her stuffed Simba in the air, mirroring Rafiki on the screen doing just that. Claire chuckled to herself and swallowed any remaining urge to cry. Claire put the christening picture back in the box, deciding that she’d make a decision on what to do with it later. Perhaps she could try her hand at scissors, combine the two pictures in one frame. It would certainly be satisfying to literally cut him out of those moments in Faith’s life.

But on the other hand…was that cruel? Would Faith someday learn to verbally or otherwise communicate the question: Where did Daddy go? Should she keep these pictures intact for that purpose? What Claire would want to say in response to such a question would be that Faith did not have a Daddy and that she didn’t need one. But perhaps that was doing her an injustice.

Claire reached for another picture.

Yes…that was something that could wait to be decided on.

Claire had made a considerable dent in her unpacking venture by the time Faith’s movie finished, and she was altogether quite satisfied with her work.

“What do you think of that, Faith?” Claire sighed contentedly as she removed the DVD from the player and put it back in the box. “Your disorganized-as-all-get-out Mummy is actually getting somewhere with her organizing.” Faith slid off the couch to take the box from her so she could put it back where she found it. “Isn’t that a marvel?”

Claire watched with piqued interest as Faith sat on her knees in front of the little entertainment center, the cupboard beneath the telly opened for her inspection. Faith had a system, some sort of arrangement of her movies that she always abided by. Not a single movie was ever out of place. Claire could not for the life of her decipherer what the system was; it was something created and used only by Faith. Claire had unpacked all their movies and put them inside, only for Faith to gut the entire thing and arrange them herself. It had greatly amused Claire at the time. She’d been at it for hours.

It didn’t take long for her to return The Lion King to its apparent correct position, and then Faith shut the cupboard.

“Alright, lovie. Time to brush your teeth.”

Claire stood and led Faith into the bathroom. Claire lifted her up onto the counter to sit and Claire got to work brushing her own teeth first. Faith had not yet mastered the coordination of tooth-brushing, and Claire still did it for her every night. But her psychiatrist had said that if Faith watched her mother do it enough times, something might strike a chord one day, and she’d suddenly be an expert at dental hygiene. Apparently, Doctor Garner had seen this happen plenty of times before.

So Claire brushed, tilting her head slightly toward Faith as usual, and then moving on to brush Faith’s teeth. When she finished, Claire handed her one of the little paper cups they kept in the bathroom.

"Rinse and spit," she crooned, as she did every night.

Routine was everything to Faith, and Claire had even begun clinging to the lifeline that was knowing every next move for every day. It soothed Faith's ever present anxiety and gave her expectations for every day, and it kept Claire grounded in the reality of their lives. This was why she'd been so scared to move. Moving to the house next door to them in Oxfordshire would have been a big enough change to merit Faith's discomfort, let alone moving across an ocean to a completely different style of living. There'd certainly been an adjustment period for her routine-conditioned little girl, but it hadn't been nearly as long or as difficult as Claire had anticipated.

Doctor Garner had suggested that no matter how disorienting things were when they'd arrived at the new apartment, the sooner Claire could reestablish that same routine that Faith had been accustomed to in Oxfordshire, the better. It was the reason she'd had furniture sent to the apartment before they'd even arrived. The sooner Faith could associate the new home with the commonplace furniture, the sooner she'd begin to realize this was home now. And all that, combined with maintaining their old routines in a new place was actually working quite well.

Teeth brushed and pajamas on, Claire tucked Faith into her bed. Faith's brand new princess comforter had arrived on Wednesday, and Faith was over the moon. Claire hadn't yet had a problem getting her to sleep since they'd put it on the bed. Claire filled the medicine dropper from the liquid Risperdal bottle, and Faith dutifully opened her mouth to let Claire drop it in, her face screwing up in the usual disgust to taste the bitter liquid.

"Swallow, please," Claire said, cocking an eyebrow. Faith grimaced, but obeyed. "Good girl."

Claire knew full well that Faith hated the taste of her medicine; it had been an utter nightmare to get her to take it every night at first. She'd had to bribe her with a Smartie every time she took it. Claire had a little stash of M&Ms (apparently the American equivalent) just in case Faith was ever particularly stubborn.

Claire set the medicine aside on the nightstand and tucked Horsie (who had been properly cleaned and disinfected after being dropped in the dirt in the stable) under her arm.

"There's Horsie, darling. So you can dream of all the horses you saw today, like Pippi." She leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Goodnight, love. Today was a very, very good day."

Faith smiled a toothy grin as Claire rose to turn on the nightlight. She stopped at the door to flicker off the main light and take one last look at her daughter, savoring the contentment settling in her chest and warming her from the inside out before shutting the door.

——

 The next few days were not as smooth sailing.

Jamie had been quite right when he’d predicted the riding helmet would bother Faith. Since Mrs. Lickett only came by on weekdays, Claire decided it was as good a time as ever to give the helmet a try. After breakfast, Claire sat Faith on the couch and retrieved the helmet and Horsie.

“Alright, little girl.” She sat down, horse and helmet in hand. “Mister Jamie gave us this helmet. See?” She held it up to Faith. “Mister Jamie said you can’t ride Pippi unless you learn to wear the helmet.” She held both the horse and the helmet in front of Faith. “See? Horsie and helmet have to go together. Yes?”

Faith hummed happily and reached for Horsie. 

“Alright…let’s see…” Claire carefully attempted to lower the helmet onto Faith’s head, but her face immediately darkened and she groaned in annoyance, averting her head.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s just a little hat. Come on, now…”

She groaned again, louder, shoving the helmet away with both of her hands.

“Wait,” Claire said quickly. “Wait here, Faith.”

Claire scrambled into her bedroom and into her closet, tearing through its contents, throwing things behind her until she found what she was looking for. A plain blue visor that she hadn’t worn in years, but kept around just in case.

“Here, Faith, look.” Claire returned to the couch and sat down. She put the visor on her own head. “See? A hat.” Faith stared at her blankly. Claire smiled and took off the visor, plopping it onto Faith’s curly head. “See?”

Faith giggled, and Claire felt a renewed sense of hope. She took the helmet back in her hands and placed it precariously atop her head. “See? It’s just a hat. It doesn’t fit Mummy’s big head, though. It was made just for you.”

Claire playfully swiped the visor off Faith's head and replaced it with the helmet, and she did not squirm away.

Claire gasped with contrived shock. "Look at you!" she gushed. Faith was beaming. "What a lovely hat, Faith!"

She hummed and bounced, and Claire laughed.

Victory!

And that was when she made her fatal mistake. She got cocky.

"Now let's just fasten it, and then you're properly wearing your new hat, yes?" Claire reached for the chin strap and fastened it. "There! All ready to ride!"

Faith's entire demeanor changed, her little brow furrowing. She reached for the chinstrap and tucked her fingers underneath, starting to tug.

"It's okay, darling."

Faith began groaning.

"Hey, it's okay, Faith." Claire, having prepared for exactly this, reached for the yellow stress ball from the stables on the coffee table. "Faith, here, love. It's okay." She put the ball in one of her hands, but Faith did not latch on. She let it fall to the ground, not removing her fingers from beneath the chin strap. Dread settled into the pit of her stomach.

“Faith…” Claire stooped down to retrieve the ball, then realized it had rolled halfway across the room. She got up from the couch to pick it up, and when she turned around, Faith was tugging forcefully on the helmet, the chin strap digging into her throat.

“Faith!” Claire dropped the ball again and practically leapt back onto the couch. “Stop!”

Fingers trembling, Claire frantically fumbled with the clasp of the chin strap, desperately trying to stop her daughter from choking herself. The second she was free, Faith gave a loud wail and hurled the helmet across the room, causing Claire to jump back in shock.

Claire was too stunned to scold her right away, her medical degree kicking into full gear as she examined her neck and throat for any marks, listened to see if her breathing was normal. Once she was certain everything was alright, Claire firmly seized one of her wrists.

“We do not throw things, Faith.” Faith began squirming, pawing at her mother’s hand. “Faith, look at me, please. I need you to look at my eyes, Faith.”

She gave a loud wail and a particularly hard yank.

“We do not throw things. Do you hear me, young lady?”

A sharp pain suddenly stuck itself into Claire’s hand, and she cried out. She immediately released Faith’s wrist and recoiled her hand into herself.

She bloody bit me.

Faith wriggled off the couch and bolted for the front door. She started tugging on the handle, determined to open the door and get as far away as her little legs would carry. Claire knew she’d really do it, too, if the door wasn’t locked.

Claire briefly sucked at the blood that started slowly trickling from her hand and then strode to the front door.

“You’re not going anywhere, little girl.” She scooped Faith around the torso with one arm and carried her, kicking and screaming into her bedroom to deposit her on the bed.

“Listen to me, Faith. If you do not calm down this instant you’ll not have any dessert tonight. Do you hear me?”

Faith shrieked. She’d certainly heard.

“I’m going to count to ten! If I get to ten and you’ve not stopped crying, no dessert.”

Claire hadn’t even gotten to three when Faith started throwing her stuffed animals in her direction. Claire continued counting calmly, knowing full well that the cotton toys would not hurt her. It was only when she reached for the lamp on her nightstand that she stopped at seven, lurching forward to stop her.

“No!” Claire shouted. Faith immediately released the lamp and clamped her hands over her ears, and a horrible, searing guilt burned her gut. 

“Faith, baby, I’m sorry…I’m sorry, darling…” Claire sat down on the bed beside her and made to wrap her arms around her daughter, but she hesitated. Would she bite again, or punch, or kick?

Claire felt shameful tears stinging her eyes. Was she no better than Frank, raising her voice at her audio-sensitive daughter when she was being slightly difficult?

She shouldn’t have fastened the chin strap. She should have just let her get used to the helmet itself first. She maybe should have even waited for Mrs. Lickett to try the chinstrap. And now, because of her carelessness, she’d triggered her daughter’s biggest anxiety, and the poor girl was screaming her little head off, red in the face, because of her own mother.

Claire noticed, almost too late, that her hand was about to bleed on Faith’s brand new comforter. She hissed a frustrated “fuck” under her breath and quickly made her way to the bathroom to tend to it. She hastily wrapped some gauze around it and made her way back into Faith’s room to find her in the exact same position, hands on her ears, screaming. Claire sighed in defeat and quickly wiped her eyes clear of the tears that threatened to spill over. Perhaps it would be best if she just left her for now. There was no telling if she’d do something violent again if Claire tried to comfort her, and there was no consoling her otherwise. Claire decided to remove the lamp and anything else heavy that she could throw before leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.

Only when the door was shut did Claire finally allow herself to cry.

She didn’t care that Faith could have broken a lamp and shattered a lightbulb on the new wood floors; she didn’t even care that her own daughter had drawn blood from her with her teeth. What hurt worse than that was knowing that her little girl was in turmoil because of triggers that her own mother couldn’t understand, couldn’t make better, things that Faith was not able to communicate to her or to anyone. And to make matters worse, she couldn’t even comfort her. When she was a baby, before she was symptomatic, all Claire had to do was scoop her out of her crib and rock her, bounce her, sing to her, and all her anxieties would cease, her crying would stop. But now, the older Faith got, it felt like Claire was less and less capable of providing that comfort, that sense of security.

I’m her mother. That’s my job.

And I’m failing.

Claire dumped the contents of Faith’s room that she’d emptied onto the couch and collapsed next to them, letting her tears fall freely. Somewhere in her fevered brain, she had the sense to pick up her phone from the coffee table and text Gillian. She typed: “Hey, could I call you right now?” then quickly backspaced and tried again: “Hey, are you busy right now?” She hit send, and then frantically added in a second message: “No emergency. Just miss you and want to hear your voice.”

After she hit send the second time, she let her phone rest in her lap and rested her head back on the couch cushion. Leaving Gillian had been the hardest part of leaving England. She’d been Claire’s best friend all throughout college and medical school. They’d decided to be roommates sophomore year after meeting in the pre-med program, and they’d never lived separately again until Claire’s wedding, at which, of course, Gillian had been the maid of honor. They were two peas in a pod, though one wouldn’t think so to see them separately. Gillian was brash and loud, and delightfully inappropriate more often than not. Gillian liked to say that Claire was the odd one out, that she was much too proper.

Gillian had been there for Claire after Faith’s diagnosis when Frank had not. He’d muttered something about needing some air the minute they got home from the doctor, and Claire had immediately phoned Gillian, sobbing into the phone for hours.

“He’s going to leave me, he’s going to leave us…I can’t do this alone…”

Gillian scoffed. “Wi’ the way he’s acting now, I bloody hope he does leave. Feckin’ louse.”

Well, she’d gotten what she wanted.

“I never bloody liked the bastard. I knew I should ha’ said something when he proposed. God dammit.”

Gillian had been the one to assure her that she was a good mother, that Faith’s triggers were not her fault, that she was doing the best she could.

Claire just needed to hear that right now.

As expected, Claire’s phone buzzed shortly after. She picked it up, expecting it to be a text in response, but Gillian was already calling her. Claire smiled to herself and sniffled.

“Hello?” she said, already embarrassed at how snuffly she sounded.

Gillian was quiet for a moment, then said: “Oh, is that wee Faith?”

Apparently, her shrieks were loud enough to be heard across the ocean. Claire sighed. “Yup.”

“She’s having one of her meltdowns, and ye’re all upset and feelin’ like you failed her, aye? That ye made the wrong decisions?”

Claire’s eyes quickly welled up again. “Yes,” she croaked.

“Oh, Claire. Ye ken that lass thinks ye’re a bloody queen, don’t ye? She worships ye.”

“When she’s not biting me. Or throwing things at me.”

“Och, biting again, aye? Well…ye ken that’s the autism. That’s no’ yer wee Faith. She canna help it when it takes over.”

“I know. I just…”

“She loves ye, Claire. I’ve seen it wi’ my own eyes. And I ken that she knows how fiercely ye love her. The autism just makes it hard fer her to see sometimes, aye?”

Claire breathed shakily. “I know you’re right. I mean…I know all this already. It just…”

“I ken. Ye need the reassurance. ’Specially since the Sperm Donor hasnae given ye any such thing his whole miserable life.”

Despite the pain that that fact caused, Claire could not help but smirk at Gillian’s newest term of endearment for the man who sired Faith. “Right.”

“Must be hard over there, all alone.” Claire could hear the twinge of sadness in her voice.

“I miss you, too, Gi.”

“I’m counting down the days ’till Christmas. Canna wait to see my two favorite lasses.”

Claire smiled. “And I can’t wait to see my best friend, and my daughter’s Godmother.”

“I’ve got to run, I had to sneak into a supply closet to call ye. I’m in the middle of a shift — ”

“Gillian,” Claire admonished. “You shouldn’t be doing that — ”

“Nothing more important than making sure my girls are okay. Aye?”

Claire sighed and rolled her eyes, but her smile widened.

“I hear she’s still carrying on, but just let her get it out of her wee system. She’ll be back to her humming and her movies soon enough. Just wait it out. Ye ken.”

“Yeah…I know.”

“I love ye, Claire. And I miss ye. Hang in there. I’ll call ye again sometime this week when I’m no’ in the middle of a shift. I wanna hear all about this Long Island of yers.”

Claire chuckled. “Alright. I eagerly await.”

“G’bye.”

“Bye, Gi. Thank you. Love you.”

“Quite welcome.”

She hung up, and Claire dropped her phone in her lap again. Faith was going to be inconsolable for at least another half hour, and Claire didn’t think she could bear just sitting there and listening. She didn’t turn on the telly or any music, lest she miss a suspicious noise or not hear that she stopped crying, but she did get to work sorting through a few more boxes. On her way over to a particular stack, she tripped over something. She looked down to see the riding helmet. Claire grimaced and gave it a strong kick, sending it rolling under the coffee table. She almost laughed: she’d only just admonished her daughter for doing almost the exact same thing.

“Bloody fucking helmet bastard piece of shit…”

She dissolved into an incoherent string of expletives, grateful that Faith, nor anyone else, could hear her.

[aelysianmuse]

DESTIEL FIC REC

Okay, so, fanfiction is something that has brought me so much joy, entertainment and comfort during these hard times. These are the Destiel fics that I have bookmarked and would suggest for everyone to read. They are top notch in every department and I’ve read each and every multiple times. I wrote them down from the lowest word count to the highest and I linked the authors to their tumblr accounts, whenever I could find them, so please go shower them with love!

Touchstone - by xylodemon -   Words: 3,519 - Summary: "You're in pain," Cas says finally. He sounds sad. (Episode tag for 11x03, the one where Dean is hurt but doesn’t think he deserves Cas healing him. Cas disagrees and makes heals him in loveliest, most tender way. Everything is beautiful.)

Colette - by englandwouldfall - Words: 4,218 - Summary: Cain’s prediction keeps ringing in his ears. He’s going to kill Crowley, then Cas, then Sam. It makes sense to him. He hates how much sense it makes, but there’s something almost poetic about it; it’s circular, neat, the Mark wants it. The Mark wants to destroy everything, but most of all it wants to destroy Dean. And that would do it. (Episode tag 10x14, Dean struggling with the Mark, unable to deal with all the anger and urge to kill and Cas trying to be his savior Collette. Feelings are acknowledged but things are far more complicated than that.)

Newton’s Third - by felolle - Words: 6,220 - Summary: “How can I be running from something when I’m racing toward it?” “I dunno -- kinda your thing.” Thanks for the call out, little brother (Episode tag 14x03, Cas helping Dean deal with Michael possession. Awesome character portrayal!)

Take me home tonight - by persephoneshadow -  Words: 8,111 -  Summary: The one where Cas wants to have sex and Dean is there to help (It’s a PWP where it takes some jealousy for Dean to get his head out of his ass - and Cas knows exactly what he’s doing)

Boys on film - by loversantiquities - Words: 8,540 - Summary: But maybe that’s what it is—maybe Castiel’s finally realized something Dean is too chicken to admit, despite the fact he’s been jerking off to the idea of Castiel fucking him for the past few weeks. The idea warms him as much as it pains him to think about, his friend not being able to talk to him about something like that. That has to be it—it’s the only explanation. Castiel likes him.“Or maybe he knows you do cam shows.”Dean chokes on his burger. (Basically Dean does cam-shows, Cas knows. They get it on in the end.)

Cuckoo and Nest - by komodobits - Words: 10, 190 - Summary: For a long time, Castiel thought that every earthly possession other than the immediately necessary was excess to requirement. But Dean – Dean who named his car, who keeps a photograph of his mother in his wallet, some thirty-plus years after her death, who still has the crumpled ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign with a sleeping pelican emblazoned on it from the Microtel outside of Roanoke where he first kissed Castiel, clumsy and unsure, under the unsteady fluorescence of an exhausted bathroom bulb – is sentimental.It puzzles Castiel, where Dean draws the line between what is meaningful and what it is worthless. (Boys walking on eggshells around each other, Castiel mistaking Dean’s neatness for annoyance about Cas’s lack of thereof, Dean mistaking Cas’s apprehension for having one foot out of the door. Miscommunication that gets resolved. It’s delightful!)

Just turn around and go - by Porcupinegirl - Words: 11,320 - Summary: Dean should be happy. His best friend and housemate of five years, Castiel, is moving out to live with his boyfriend, Balthazar. Dean's career is going great, so he can easily afford the house on his own now. This is just growing up, moving forward to the next phase of their lives.It would be awesome, if he weren't in love with Cas. (Some angst and miscommunication among roomies who are in love but needed a little push to finally do something about it, and that push is Cas deciding to move out and live with his actual boyfriend. Things work out just fine.)

So glad we made it - by annie d (scaramouche) - Words: 16,421 - Summary: At twelve years old, Dean makes a friend, who becomes his best friend, who will eventually become the love of his life. (Destiel fic in which they know each other since childhood and take their sweet-ass time with admitting to each other that they’re otp: meant to be. But it happens. Timeline of little snippets that show them falling in love and owning that shit up, at last!)

I know who I want to take me home- by annodominique -  Words: 17,548 - Summary: The one where Dean and Cas are new workmates who hate each other's guts, are somehow forced into driving each other crazy because they secretly want to fuck, and they might have fallen in love with each other in the process. (Lots of sexual tension, mutual pining and enemies to lovers storyline - all in a nursing home. It’s amazing and absolutely heartwarming.)

Welcome to humanity - by winnywriter -  Words: 19,944 - Summary: Castiel is falling, slowly but surely becoming fully human. Every day there is something new to discover, and many of those discoveries are not wholly pleasant ones. And the whole time, Dean can't help but worry about the fact that the further the angel falls, the more he finds he likes the human Cas is becoming. (It’s exactly what the summary says it is. Moments of Castiel slowly becoming human and Dean trying to help him navigate that path while navigating it himself in the most Dean way possible)

On air - by wincechesters - Words: 21,219 - Summary: Cas and Dean are radio DJs who host the second most popular morning show in Lawrence. They’ve been co-hosts for years at different stations across the country, and they own a house together out of necessity, even though they’re just friends. But for some reason, a lot of their listeners and even some of their friends and family seem to think that they’re secretly in some kind of relationship, which they’re totally not (besides that one time that totally doesn’t count). In spite of that, Dean thinks he’s got everything figured out, until an ill-fated on air game of Truth or Dare turns everything upside down (and the billboards around town aren’t helping either). (Friends to lovers story that’s very well summarized, so I have nothing to add except that it’s such a wonderful read, this author is absolutely amazing and you should definitely read it.)

The Beach House in the Winter - by englandwouldfall - Words: 23,715 - Summary: They're not exactly in a good place right now, so it was probably a bad idea to agree to a full Milton family reunion at their old summer haunt to mark a year since Cas' father died.Obviously, he did it anyway. (This is a second part of a series, I absolutely suggest reading all of the works ‘cause they’re equally wonderful, but I read this one first and individually and loved it the most so I’m suggesting it. Look at tag warnings. It’s about Dean having panic attacks mid sex due to trauma, Castiel trying to treat him right and handle the situation properly. They love each other so much ugh)

There are many things - by imogenbynight -  Words: 28,807 - Summary: In which Dean and Castiel learn, through trial and error, how to be together. (What starts out as an angsty fic that follows Cas’s human experience after Dean kicked him out of the bunker, turns into a Destiel falling in love fic as they find their way back to one another)

Sometimes it fits - by ballsdeepinwinchesters -  Words: 37,720 - Summary: Castiel is an over-worked, socially awkward neurosurgeon; Dean is the ruggedly handsome paramedic that asks him out for drinks. The rest kind of fell into place. (Two hotties with busy work schedules having lots of sex and being domestic. It’s a lot of fluff and smut. No angst.)

Put up your dukes - by saltyfeathers - Words: 38, 282 - Summary: Dean can't sleep. Cas offers to tire him out. (Dean struggling to accept the sexual tension relief Castiel is oh-so-eager to offer. So much tension, sparring goodness and bed sharing.)

All’s well that ends well - englandwouldfall - Words:  52,326 - Summary: Dean knew the second he took off that he shouldn't have left, but that didn't mean he could have guessed what he'd be coming back home to. (It’s actually a part 4 of the series, and I do suggest reading the entire series, but I read it first and individually before even realizing this and I absolutely loved it nonetheless. It’s about both Dean and Cas having made some poor choices in the past, abandonment and infidelity and two of them loving each other so much that they’re willing to forgive and fight for each other no matter what. Angsty and beautiful.)

A midterms night’s dream - by englandwouldfall -  Words: 75,756 - Summary: There's at least fifteen good reasons why they're not sleeping together, it's just that Dean can’t remember them when Cas sends him one second dirty snapchats to goad him into doing the dishes. (One of my absolutely favorite fics and one of my top 3 fic authors (does a lot of series, which gets you really emotionally invested!). I suggest you read literally every single Destiel story written by this author, ‘cause it’s consistent in character portrayal and in invoking emotional response and I’ll probably explicitly write down at least one more story that I particularly liked from them. This one’s about them being college roomates who’re basically oblivious to sharing sentiment of wanting to be in relationship with the other, so they pine emotionally while having exceptional we-are-strictly-fuck-buddies sex)

Version 2.0 - by elizabeth1985 - Words: 75,937 - Summary: Life is nothing but a series of processes. We rise, we work, we function within the walls we’ve designed for ourselves. Dean Winchester does not deviate from this system. Heavily tattooed and a certified genius; Dean necessitates control. Relationships are a no-go. Too messy, unpredictable. And yeah, he knows having casual sex with his best friend, roommate, and business partner is a dumbass move. But Cas’ suggestion is impossible to resist.What Dean doesn’t expect and couldn’t possibly predict is the unique way Cas manages to shut down his mile-a-minute mind, giving him a level of inner peace he’d thought to be unattainable.What starts out of convenience morphs into a dynamic emotional slide neither of them were prepared for, forcing them to decide what they’re willing to risk. (Cas and Dean being business partners turning to fuck buddies turning to mutually pining idiots, where Cas won’t let things progress further ‘cause Dean is so entwined in every single aspect of his life that he’s absolutely terrified to lose it all. But Dean makes an effort to show him otherwise!) + It’s hard to fool around in a tent (Words: 5,861)

Any little heartbreak - by followthattardis - Words: 76,897 - Summary: Dean Winchester knows everything there is to know about the human heart. Well. Anatomically speaking. (Very Grey’s Anatomy-y, Dean is a thriving cardiosurgeon, Cas is his new surgical nurse assistant, there are so many well written characters, so much gossip, gratuitous sex and eventually a relationship. It’s so lovely, ugh I love this writer.)

A crash course in computer safety - by followthattardis - Words:  85,269 - Summary: On the day of his 29th birthday, Dean receives an email from his old nemesis: Michael Milton, the guy who got him kicked out of college and stole his girlfriend. The email contains encoded images with top secret CIA/NSA intelligence – and now their only copy is in Dean’s brain. Both agencies send their best operatives – Castiel Novak and Victor Henriksen respectively – to handle their accidental asset and protect the invaluable data in his head. To justify their sudden appearance in Dean’s life, they adopt covers: Victor as Dean’s new co-worker and neighbor, Cas as his new boyfriend. Needless to say, Dean’s brother and his girlfriend are thrilled to see him in a relationship they believe to be real. Clearly, there’s no way this could go wrong. (This is a NBC: Chuck AU and one of my top 3 fics ever. I haven’t watched Chuck at all and regardless of whether you have or not, I don’t wanna write anything else in this section ‘cause I enjoyed discovering every bit of information on my own. I’ve literally taken this fic and studied/analyzed it as a writer myself to take pointers on accurate character portrayal and writing style. It’s book material, I’d literally buy anything this author writes. It’s becoming a series and more content is to come so I suggest subscribing.) + Curtain up (Words: 10,311)

La hantise (The only work in progress fic here) - by quiettewandering - Words:  87,468 - Summary: Castiel’s mother dies, leaving him the family home that sits abandoned on the moody coast of Maine. He’s forced to return to the past ghosts of his trauma, as well as meeting the mysterious and nomadic Dean Winchester. Dean offers to help Castiel fix up the house so he can sell it, which quickly becomes problematic as Castiel begins to develop feelings for Dean; especially when details of Dean’s troubling past come to light.This is a story about the sea, second chances, and two broken, forgotten people building a love between them while restoring a broken, forgotten house. (Romance, ghosts, house renovation, cliffhangers, angst - I am awful with WP’s, never read them till they’re done ‘cause I’m an impatient one but this is the one I couldn’t resist and thoroughly enjoy)

Ignore the butterflies: best friend advice from Dean Winchester - by impatient14 - Words:  114,837 - Summary: Dean likes his doctor, but his doctor doesn’t like him.Accidental friendship ensues, heartwarming bonding type moments occur, and oops!friends become best!friends.But best friends aren’t supposed to feel the way Dean feels about Castiel. He knows this. So he ignores all the things that he can’t help feeling. When he sits and watches a movie with his best friend or when they are arguing about which method of coffee brewing is best, he pointedly doesn’t look at his friends lips, or the adorable way he tilts his head when he doesn’t understand.Dean ignores his feelings.That’s the way he knows how to keep his best friend.Just ignore the butterflies. (Dean is a heroic firefighter who ends up in stand-offish Castiel’s ER and flirts mercilessly with him, but to no avail. Cas is not made of stone, though, he’s just trying to protect his little heart ‘cause Dean does scary heroic things. It’s super emotional, go read it.)

Keeping you in sight - by gingerswag - Words:  136,374 - Summary: Castiel valued his solitude, and was happy to stay hidden away in the mountains for the rest of his life. But when his seeing eye dog dies, that solitude is suddenly broken when Gabriel shows up not with another dog but an actual human slave. Castiel doesn't believe in slavery, but he can't turn away the very hurt and broken man he's given. (This is a slavery fic, look up the tag warnings! It’s extremely angsty, it has a very human and rational ending which not might satisfy those looking for a conclusive, expressed fairytale ending for these two. It’s about Dean having gone through a lot of trauma and Cas being extremely lonely and two of them trying to mend each other while going through an excruciatingly painful healing process. I don’t think I can summarize it in a way that envelops everything that happens in this fic - it’s a tougher read but absolutely wonderfully written and very angsty)

Stay with me, sweetheart - by mandalarose - Words: 142,926 - Summary: A single moment's distraction ends with a serious car accident that leaves Castiel trapped in his vehicle. Fortunately for him, fire fighter Dean Winchester is there, never leaving Castiel's side as the rest of his company work to free him from the mangled remains of his SUV.When the two meet again in the ICU, Castiel finds himself just as drawn to and comforted by the handsome fireman as he was during his accident. Dean is certainly attractive, but single father Castiel doesn't have time or space in his life for a romantic relationship.Then again, there's no harm in making a new friend, is there? (Dean is so whipped, so is Cas but he tries really hard not to get invested ‘cause everyone leaves and it’s not a commodity he can afford now that he’s got a baby. Thankfully for him, Dean is all-in kind of guy who’s gonna make all the right choices, one after another, fighting to show Cas that he can have what he desires and deserves, even after multiple attempts of Cas’s to push him away. Love conquers all!)

Four Letter Word for Intercourse - by bendingsignpost - Words:  194,739 - Summary: As a grease monkey turned college freshman, Dean's constantly three seconds away from being stressed out of his mind. It hardly helps that he's finally figuring out his sexuality in his thirties.What might help with that stress is a little phone number (and a big credit card bill). If he can't figure out how to be bisexual in person, he can at least give it a go over the phone, right? (I think I probably read this story a hundred times. Fantastically written fic where Dean is a student discovering his sexuality through a phone sex line, struggling with having to take over family business and Cas is a professor with a sidejob, with whom Dean interacts wordlessly at the library. It tackles on mental health, on wonderful sex dynamics, coming out and lots of other stuff. It’s one of the best writen fics out there, along with the other works in this series that I highly suggest to read: A Little Anal - Words: 18,805 and What makes a man kneel - Words: 9,920)

[susoftjockau]

The Party - Part Seven

Looking at plants was the type to inflame a ravenous hunger. Well, anything can make one hungry, so this wasn't a new experience for him even with the new context to it. If anything, this was one of the less intense but pleasing moments in his life, where he could enjoy a meal without that lulling buzz of deja vu he kept having when it came to eating in general — veggie burgers, salads, pizzas, somewhere located with the cheerleaders with no care in the world; it was a pattern that he got used to quickly.

This time it was a bit different: there was a light squeeze in his chest, the kind that kept him warm like a fireplace even with the cold walk out of the park and the goosebumps riding his arms. It must've been Connie; he wouldn't lie that she had been a small crush of his ever since they met — it didn't help that this intensified because of that magical statue he touched a week before that, being told that it granted miracles of romance, which he was a sucker for. He could question why he had such an affinity for her but it was already there for him if he squinted hard enough. It must’ve been her warm personality. Or her intelligence. Or anything else for that matter that kept him focused to his jam bud, staying right next to her as they exited the Japanese grounds for some food.

They found the truck on the outskirts of the garden — wafting of spice and vegetable, dream catchers dangling from the overhang, makeshift tables harboring a few families and teenagers for the night. Some were talkative, but many appeared to be relaxing, enjoying the solitude as the truck took orders for plates and cups of Mexican cuisine, the clang and tussle of kitchen utensils resounding within in an enthusiastic beat.

Connie took account of the menu boards plastered above the truck's open grate, a small frown on her lips. "Do you think they have salads?"

Steven looked through the contents. There were tacos, quesadillas, customized cups of horchata, and everything in-between, but there doesn't seem to be any that would fit a description of a salad. He knitted his eyebrows, there was some case for worry here. "We could ask for non-meat stuff? I could take out the stuff if I have to."

"I know that, but," she bit her lip, flinching at a loud clang of metal from the truck's kitchen, "I have to make sure their meals don't have too many carbs or cholesterol."

Oh. He felt a bit ashamed for forgetting that one tidbit: that his jam bud had a diet stricter than his. "Wellll, we'll just see where it goes. One of these dishes must have a lot of vegetables, they’re bound to help us with custom orders; they sound like they'll be okay with it if it makes their customers happy."

"I hope so." She rubbed her arm, but after a second of it she pulled it back down, like the action burned her upon contact. "I don't want my stomach to act up."

"We could find another restaurant if that works for you."

"No, no," she shook her head. "I'm okay, let's just ask them and see if we have to move or not."

He nodded. Sounds like a deal. "Alright."

The ordeal wasn't that worrisome when it came down to it. There were a slew of questions over which dishes had the most vegetables, which one harbored non-meat ingredients, and the typical pondering of choices they could pluck from the menu, both of them taking jabs on what would be the best dish — Connie more weary on her end than his. It wasn't a nervous wreck of a deal, but he could tell something was on her mind, something fumbling around her noggin like a pest on a wall. He had the patience; he had the time, yet he didn’t want to ignore it.

"You feeling okay, Strawberry?" The nickname caught her off guard. They were sitting at a table, facing each other with their meals. Steven had picked from a platter of small veggie tacos, and she was nibbling at her burrito, sweet potatoes peeking through the salsa verde, teeth hesitant on digging into the contents. It was a quiet affair, but there was a tension in the air, something he couldn't describe, yet there nonetheless. "You seem out of it."

"Am I?" Connie put her burrito down, wiping a sauce smear from her chin. Her eyes were downtrodden, looking away from him. "Sorry, I'm just thinking."

"You could tell me if it bothers you." He put one of his tacos onto her plate -- a peace offering, he called it, the breaking of tacos, even if he didn’t really break it and kept it in one piece.

She gave him a sheepish smile, putting the taco back onto his set. "Well…"

"I promise," he did a criss-cross motion in front of his chest, "won't say a word to anyone."

"I know you wouldn't." She grimaced slightly. "I'm just nervous to say it."

"Well," he said. "You don't have to tell me if you're nervous but I promise you that no matter what, I'll accept what you'll say."

"You're so sweet." Her sentence seemed to take him by surprise. Even she seemed to be surprised, tone twisting into something unfamiliar. "But yeah, I'll tell you, if it makes things a little bit easier."

"Remember, Connie," he said. "I'm always open."

"Mhm. Just give me a moment."

At the sight of her quick bite at her food, he smirked at her. "How is it?"

"It's good," she admitted, cheeks brushed with pink. "Better than I realized."

He couldn't help his giggle as she started back up again, putting the burrito down.

"It's just that," she fumbled with her fingers on the table, biting her lip, shoulders tense under the weak moonlight. "I get anxious over these types of events." She stopped, looking at him with inquiry in her stare like she was waiting for him to react. After a second, he nodded. That was enough. "When your friends were around, I'd feel like I'm drowning, overwhelmed by all of it — two of them are okay, yes, but having all of them surround me and ask questions made me want to get away...or dissociate."

"Ah…" He tried not to take offense to it. Being truthful was better than just lying to him, but somehow it still hit him that this would be hard. He can't just place her into his friend group with one step, it wasn't that simple; people had to adjust in their own ways, pacing themselves to something manageable. For Connie, she couldn't handle a crowd with all eyes on her, he'll have to take it slow or he won't have his favorite people around unless he wanted a chance of her having a panic attack.

"Okay." He said, taking a bite from his taco, chewing slowly. He needed a moment to ponder. Think. What could help her? How slow was he supposed to go? Where should they start? "You said you could manage how many at a time?"

"Two or less." Her voice went higher. "But if you really want me to get to know them, then I can try anything as long as it doesn't make me anxious."

"But you don't have to befriend them if you don't want to." He reminded her.

"That doesn't mean I don't want to." She stated. "Back at the food table, I did have a conversation with one of them; it didn't pull me into a fit or had me wanting to leave, it actually felt nice." Before he could respond, she added one more. "I'm open to trying something with you, with them, but I'll tell you if it's too much, if I can't handle it."

A sharp inhale. "You promise that?"

"I promise."

"Okay. Okay." Think. Think. Think. She could take two or less. She was able to find stuff to talk about with them without being uncomfortable. He had the patience to guide it and she had the honesty to tell him if anything went wrong. He rubbed his chin; there was an idea, but he had to get it through her before he could think of it further. "What about one-on-one time? We could schedule hangouts with them so only you and one of the girls could get to know each other. I could be a third party so you don't have to talk much if it gets awkward!"

Connie stared at him, uncertainty in her eyes — the intrigue, however, was churning in them. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Mumbles strung out from her lips. "I don't think a third party would be necessary for all of them. There are some cheerleaders that harbor more of an outgoing and talkative personality than some I've noticed. I could handle them, the only ones I'm worrying about are the ones who might be too much."

"So...I'll only come if you need me?"

"Mhm."

Okay, he thought, a smile beginning to grow on him. They were making progress; they were compromising. If they could tinker with it more, they should be able to make it work. He spoke up. "We could make a list of who'll go first? I can give you a description of each one and what they like to talk about and you can rate them on who you're most likely to get along with."

"Yeah." Her face lightened up. An ease was there, finally. "Yeah, that can work!"

"Do you have a piece of paper? I want to write the list down."

"What if we just use our phones?" She fished it out from her pocket.

"Oh yeah,” he couldn’t help his embarrassed giggle. “That works."

Progress was being made.

[rynhaswritersblock]

take a bullet | p.p.

summary: you and peter go on your first mission without the team, flirting can be a powerful tool, and cliches like "taking a bullet" for someone don't seem so unrealistic anymore

warnings: cussing (as always wtf), a bit of angst???? wOah

+ + +

in and out.

oh, how you desperately wished this were only a mission to get burgers at in n' out and not one to hack into an insane, power hungry organization's secret base.

can't always have what you want, can you?

the quinjet lands just a few miles from the base. the rest of the team opted to stay back, figuring that it was time for you and peter to have your first standalone mission. nonetheless, tony was alert, prepared to suit and fly over at any given time. you and peter give the group an awkward wave before walking out, the sound of the jet's doors locking back up making you flinch.

"you good?" peter asks.

"yeah," you say, giving him a hopeless smile before shaking your hands out and pointing your palms at the ground, bursting into the air. the green energy hovers around your wrist as you dart through the air and see the HYDRA base in the distance. peter is beneath you, swiftly swinging through the telephone poles.

as you get within a mile of the base, you begin lowering yourself, softly landing on the concrete and looking over just as peter touches down behind you in his signature landing pose. you quickly glance around before grabbing peter's wrist and focusing your powers.

the two of you morph into agents, dressed in the uniform HYDRA attire-- all black and military style. you look down at yourselves, then each other, nodding your heads. you were now donned in tight black shirts and black combat pants with matching boots. a belt holds the pants up on your waist, gun resting on your hip.

you begin walking, the two of you entering easily with your fake badges. all you had to do was get into the center of the building where the mainframe and computers were, and, essentially, trash it all. luckily, your powers gave you enhanced intelligence, so hacking into HYDRA's system should be a piece of cake.

the two of you approach the doors beneath the sign labeled "MAINFRAME: RESTRICTED ACCESS." you take a deep breath before putting on a confident yet blank face, walking up to one of the guards and showing your badge. peter does the same to the other guard.

the guard gives you a look. "you're not at a high enough level."

you humph, looking for a second before going, "not high enough, huh? well uh, okay, let me just-"

you begin to fake rummage around the pockets of your legs before swiftly snapping your head back up and kneeing the guy in the nuts, grabbing him by the arms as he doubles over and, with a wave of your hand, making him fall unconscious. your green energy lingers in the air around him.

a sigh falls from your mouth as you stand back up, looking over at peter and the other guard, who stand there, staring at you, dumbfounded looks on their faces. you furrow your brows at peter before he lets out a small "oh!" and turns, punching the guy and webbing him to the wall.

"pay attention," you mutter as the two of you walk down the hallway.

"sorry," he whispers, glancing over at you.

the two of you make eye contact and you can't help but let out a tiny laugh out of pure nothingness, shaking your head as you look down at your boots.

"what?"

"nothing, parker."

the two of you round a corner and reach a set of double doors, the word "MAINFRAME" above it and a guard staring straight ahead. you quickly snap back behind the wall before he sees you.

"stay here," you whisper to peter with a mischievous smile.

"what?"

"it's our first mission alone; why not have a little fun?"

you wink at peter and round the corner, making the sway of your hips just a bit more prominent as you walk towards the guard. peter sticks his head out slightly to watch before tony's voice rings in his ear, causing him to whirl back around and hold his ear.

"parker! what are you letting my daughter do?" tony asks, anger in his voice.

"shit, i forgot we had comms," peter mutters. "uh, i don't know."

"oh, for fuck's sake.. just make sure she doesn't get hurt, otherwise you'll be in pain with her as well. hear me?"

peter nods, feels stupid for nodding in the middle of an empty hallway, and sticks his head back out.

"good afternoon," you say, smiling at the man.

peter is in shock. were you seriously about to start flirting with a middle aged man? and for no good reason?

"evening, sweetheart. identification?"

the word sweetheart makes you internally cringe and peter's ears burn.

"oh, i, uh," you say innocently, beginning to fiddle with your fingers. "forgot it today. do you think you could still let me in, please?"

the guard smirks slightly. "how about i do, but only if you give me a kiss."

"a kiss?" you fake laugh, glancing behind you quickly to see peter's eyes poking around the corner. you just about lose it. "well, fine, officer. i guess that'll have to do."

and that's when peter loses it. he steps out from behind the wall, fired up and ready to nut-punch the guy for being a total misogynistic dickhead. and for flirting with a teenage girl. however, the boy stops when he sees you step forward.

you bite back a shudder when see the man's face up close, bringing a hand forward to make it seem as though you were to plant a small kiss. instead, you get him in a choke-hold, grabbing his ear and twisting it.

"i hope you die, you sick fuck," you whisper before using your powers to knock him out, giving him a hard kick as he thumps onto the ground.

"what the hell was that, y/n?!" tony booms into your ear. you stumble.

"shit, i forgot we had comms," you mutter. peter smiles, thinking that's exactly what i said! "uh, i just wanted to have a little fun on our first private mission?"

"when the two of you get back, i swear-"

"tony!" nat jumps in. "y/n, peter-- go do your job. i'll calm tony down, and we'll be here in case you need backup."

you mutter a thanks before turning around to look at peter. "well?"

he sighs, expression hard before walking up to you and past you, breezing through the doors.

"someone's jealous."

the boy spins around.

"i am not-!" he blurts, stopping as you give him a look. "i am not jealous."

"okay, pretty boy," you nod, walking next to him and sitting down at one of the computers.

the sound of the team going wild blasts through your comms. "she got you there!" sam says, letting out a whoop.

a small smile creeps onto your face as you begin typing, easily getting into their system and working through the codes to get everything in the base to shut down. and explode, as you hope. you hear peter elicit a sigh and glance over to see standing him next to you, back facing you and arms crossed over his chest. you shake your head before continuing typing, just a few codes away from being done.

"shit."

you turn around to see a guard walk in, gun drawn. shit was right.

you move to stand and grab your gun before peter reaches back and stops you. "i got it."

"show identification," the guard orders. you finish putting in the codes but don't get the chance to finalize them before you hear the gun click.

without thinking, you shoot up and shove peter to the side, feeling a sharp impact in your gut. it's a searing pain that blinds you and you stumble over, grabbing your abdomen and miraculously managing to fall into the chair.

"shit, y/n," peter gasps, running over to you and trying to hold you up. "guys? we need help here!"

you let out a weak laugh when you hear the sound of movement through the comms and clint saying, "yeah, we got that. from, you know, the gunshot."

your eyes start to get heavy and you teeter on the edge of consciousness, trying to reach for the mouse to submit your actions and complete the mission.

"y/n, please don't die please don't die please don't die- what are you doing?" peter asks, letting out a yelp at the blood spilling out from your wound.

you let out a soft giggle. "you're cute, parker."

"y/n i know we flirt all the time and i love it i really do and i honestly wish it were more but now really is not the time," peter struggles, eyes getting watery as he sees you pass out in his arms. "shit."

the blood is all over your torso. the boy stares at it for a second, dumbstruck, before opting to take off his shirt and secure it tightly around the wound to stop the bleeding. he then looks around, panicking, before his eyes rest on the computer, he quickly reaches out and hits submit just as the team runs in. within seconds, you're ripped from his arms and he's left there, standing in a daze before scott runs back in and grabs the boy by the arm.

"listen, parker: i know the situation was dire, but was taking the shirt off necessary?" the ant-man asks as they jog back to the quinjet. a tear rolls down peter's blank face. "i mean, i know the two of you've got stuff going on, but your ripped muscles truly are only distraction from the whole hacking thing she was trying to do."

"that's not-"

"yeah, i know, pete. i know."

+ + +

peter couldn't move.

his entire body and brain felt numb as he sat there, resting his chin atop his clasped hands. hell, he hadn't even thought about the fact that he was still shirtless until steve held out a shirt for him that he'd dug out of the boy's closet. and, even after shrugging the tee on, he reverted straight back to his initial position, the inside of his mind feeling like tv static.

it wasn't that he didn't trust dr. helen cho. it was that it was you.

he stayed in the chair outside the medical wing of the compound for almost four hours until dr. cho walks out. the very sight of her makes him shoot up from his seat. "is she okay?"

the woman gives him a sympathetic look as she pulls the surgical mask from her face. "no complications, peter. give her an hour or so to wake up from the anesthesia and you'll be the first to see her, okay?"

"okay," he nods, pursing his lips as she pats him on the shoulder, walking away.

+ + +

the boy had finally settled on a position on one of the couches in the commons, eyes boring straight into the blank ceiling.

"pete!"

he turns his head to see tony. he gives a small, expectant humph.

"she's up," tony says, "if you wanna see her."

peter's off the couch in seconds. "if i wanna see her my ass."

tony turns to watch the boy jog off, letting out a huff. kids these days.

peter bolts into the room, using his hand to swing around the doorway and slow down. you jump at the sudden movement, which makes you wince, still awfully sore.

"you're alive," the boy sighs.

his tone wasn't entirely full of relief. there was a monotonous way about it, one that made you frown slightly. yes, he was relieved as hell, but there was a twinge of anger hidden in his voice.

"yeah, i am," you sigh, nodding.

a painful silence settles in between the two of you. your heartbeat quickens as you notice that the look in peter's eyes wasn't the same soft gaze that you had fallen in love with.

"why did you do it?" he breathes, helplessly giving his head a light shake.

"i had to, peter," you reason, "i didn't even think about it-"

"exactly!"

the harshness and severity of his voice makes your blood run cold. the interruption felt like a dagger cutting across your wound and you wince; you'd never seen this side of peter before. moreover, you most certainly never expected that your first time seeing it, it would be directed towards you.

"you didn't think about it, y/n! it was stupid and irresponsible and i just don't understand why you'd ever make such a dumb decision!" he flops his arms to his sides. "shit, y/n, you're smart as hell! you're the one who knows how to hack into HYDRA's security system and make the whole building blow up!"

"thanks for the compliments, asshat."

a huff falls from your lips and you sit up, continuing before you can even see the surprised expression on the boy's face. you weren't one to go down without a fight.

"i'm not the stupid one here. i can't believe you! you seriously expect me to just sit there and think about just, you know, maybe trying to save your life? to ponder it like a fucking philosopher? do you really think i'm that self-centered? is that the type of person you think i am?" you seethe as your wound plummets a sharp pain throughout your abdomen.

he steps closer. "y/n, i never-"

"no, peter, i'm the one who got shot in the stomach, i'm the one who gets to talk," you interrupt. "don't you get that i did this out of love? god, parker, you're so oblivious all the-"

or maybe he wasn't.

his lips were soft on yours, harsh yet gentle, the whirlpool of emotions that matched your own. you felt his hand curve around your neck to deepen the kiss and you're forced to turn your body to him and put a hand on the rail to steady yourself. a sharp pain radiates through your abdomen and you suck in a harsh breath, reeling back. his hand slips from your neck and the overall loss of contact shakes you even worse than the stitches bearing your stomach.

"sorry," he mutters, a gentle and worried look in his eyes. that's the peter you knew.

"it's okay," you breathe. you shift and sit back, feeling a bit more relaxed as peter pulls up a chair and sits at your bedside, lacing his fingers with yours.

thor's voice rings out from the doorway. "i still cannot believe that it took little y/n getting shot for the two of you to admit your undying love for one another."

your head snaps over to the man. "and since when was that your business?"

before you know it, a boom of sound erupts at the door, the entire team coming out from behind the wall with arguments flying out of their mouths. you sigh, shutting your eyes and leaning your head back as you suppress a smile, peter squeezing your hand before webbing the door closed.

"gottem."

+ + +

i hope y'all enjoyed <3333

[bloodydamnit]

You went to MICA, right? I’m currently going there and it’s good (stressful as fuck, but good) and I wanna know; what did you hate and what did you love about it? (Oh my god I sound like those end of year surveys they give you)

Hello there!!! Omfg I’m literally on campus right now for pride!!! LOL just got myself a smoky burger from OTH what what. okay okay okay good questions. 

MICA has changed quite a bit since I was there. Like, my freshman year was fucking lit. If you take the shuttle and get Mr. Robert or Ms. Yvette, ask them about the nudists. Shit was wild. 

Our freshman/foundation year was different in general too? Like

Okay. So. lol. Our classes were:

Elements of Visual Thinking - Which was a chance to explore concepts, mediums, learning how to properly critique, etc. 

Critical Thinking - Which was just critical theory, but more on your own practice I guess? I don’t really know how to explain it. 

EMAC - Which was exploring different forms of digital media and how to use them (Premier, Photoshop, Audacity, recording devices, etc)

Sculptural Forms - Which was a chance for you to explore 3d media. So it was held in what used to be 15/15 and it was woodshop, plaster, 3d printing, and cardboard. 

Then, this is where I get pissed off and seriously fucking angry about this change. 

But we USED to have Painting and Drawing. Now, if you got a 5 in AP art, you gained an extra credit and could skip Drawing/Painting 1. HAH. IMAGINE THAT. HAVING A PAINTING AND DRAWING CLASS AS A FOUNDATION FOR YOUR ART. BECAUSE IT’S KIND OF NECESSARY. 

can you tell im a bit fucking salty?

They were separate classes and I think, they were extremely fucking important to the development of not only my art but my peers. For example, I fucking hated painting when I went to MICA. Literally fucking refused to touch the medium. 

I went to my first class with Latoya Hobbs, tried oil paint, and everything fucking changed. I was a GD major (or that was my plan) and I immediately switched to Painting and I never looked back. 

Unfortunately, yall don’t have that opportunity anymore. Especially since when you choose your major, you tend to stick with those classes. Which really fucking sucks, because you can tell the variety of art has gone down since this change happened. And I think that’s the thing that I dislike about MICA NOW the most. I had the chance to take things, was required to take them, and then I knew how to do a variety of things BECAUSE of those changes. And from what I understand, you don’t have those opportunities anymore. Which really fucking sucks. Because you also miss out on the amazing fucking professors in other majors as well. For example, Karen Warshal. I HIGHLY recommend taking her Portrait class and her Anatomy class. I swear to god, those were the best, more useful classes I’ve ever taken. Is she crazy? A bit. But she’s the most genuine, caring, supportive, and one of the hardest professors I’ve ever had. And thats what you WANT. You don’t want someone to butter you up, tell you your art is poppin when it’s not, and to try and let you off easy because you look upset. Karen tells you how it fucking is and that’s so god damn important. no matter what major you are, TAKE HER FUCKING CLASSES. They’re important and they’re necessary to your development as an artist. Even if you’re not into figural art. - also she makes food and brings it in. and if you’re sick she might make you chicken noodle soup. shout out to karen

Honestly, Karen was probably one of my favorite things about MICA. Along with Mark Karnes,  TONY FUCKING SHORE. LISTEN. YOU NEED TO TAKE A CLASS WITH TONY SHORE (PAINTING). I think he might be doing a class on race (which haha he knows hes white as fuck) and i think it will be fantastic. so keep an eye out, AND RUTH TOULSON THE ANTHROPOLOGY TEACHER. IT MIGHT STILL BE A REQUIREMENT. HER CLASSES HAVE AN 80+ WAITLIST. IF YOU GET ON. ITS SO WORTH IT FUCKING TRUST ME. SHES OUT OF THIS FUCKING WORLD. PAUL LONG, HE’S AN ACADEMIC TEACHER (TEACHES POETRY AND SOME OTHER SHIT. HE’S GREAT. BRINGS SNACKS EVERY DAY), and others?? if you want to know more, please message me and i’ll give you them!

Anyway, I havent really answered your question!

Dislike:Housing situation fucking sucked. getting a room was fucking ridiculous. They ran out of room for us because they started accepting more (this happened when sophomore housing was required. My year was the first year that went into effect and they had to buy out bolton hill apartments. people had to break leases, etc. it was fucking ridiculous). 

The MICA store is eh? It used really good and held in dolphin. But it was literally falling apart. Now its too.. idk. It’s fine. I prefer artists and craftsmen. 

Access to studios and equipment is eh too. Because of time constraints. 

How the student body treats the fucking faculty is DISGUSTING. One girl literally called one of the sweetest security guards the ‘help’. Ms. Gloria (senior in security) is fantastic, Officer Green is everything, Ms. Yvette is so fucking sweet, and Mr. Robert makes my heart sing. 

The student body in general LOLOLOLOLOL. ‘Surround yourself with good juju’ - Former MICA Grad (my best friend) The fucking student body mica page is a fucking dumpster fire lol. 

I don’t like how white MICA is and how entitled a good part of the student body is. The amount of entitlement is fucking ridiculous. And the amount of ignorance is astounding. Also the obviousness to what fucking city you're in, is so wild i cant fucking even. Like. MICA is deceptively beautiful (the MICA bubble). Which is why it is high in crime lol. Just be alert and don’t be a god damned dumbass walking around at 3 am with your fucking headphones in, smoking a cigarette, and acting like you’re fucking immune to being mugged. Just saying. Take the shuttles and you’ll most likely be gucci. 

I don’t like how MICA spends its money (our money). And what they choose to invest in - like buying random fucking buildings and not telling the students what it’s for, and fucking raising the price of tuition and living in order to compensate. 

The total and utter lack of transparency, etc. It felt eehhhh I don’t know how to explain it. 

NOW. I KNOW THIS SOUNDS LIKE A LOT AND THAT IM JUST SHITTING ON MICA. BUT MY MICA EXPERIENCE WAS THE BEST OF MY LIFE. I LEARNED SO MUCH. AND I FIND WHAT I LEARNED THERE TO BE INVALUABLE (except for the fact that I’m 56k in debt. just saying)

But really. I loved MICA. I wish I could go back. I met so many amazing people, made great connections, and I don’t think I would have had the same love at any other art school. (I have friends in SAIC, Pratt, Parsons, FIT, SVA, RISD - they all complain about the same things. they in the grand scheme of things, are material. Which important because, hah, money. But, material nonetheless. If you have the means, I don’t think these things I explained are deal breakers)

Now what I loved about MICA. Because honey. I fucking LOVED MICA:

When I was touring schools, I was kind of eh about them? Not in the sense that I wouldn’t have a good time or be ungrateful, but I didn’t get that feeling. Does that make sense? For example, I took a tour at SVA and I have very very strong opinions about SVA, I had no feeling. When I stepped on MICA’s campus, that was fucking it for me. Not only was I comfortable there, but the professors that were at the tour, made it their duty and went out of their way to make myself and the other potential students feel welcome. They were personable, they were kind and welcoming, they were warm, and that continued even after I decided MICA was the place for me. 

My class at least, had no drama lololol. Again, my freshman year was a hell of a lot of fucking fun. We didn’t have any big racist shit going on like other years (ahem ahem 2018, 2019). INSTEAD, we had the nudists, we had carrot videos (ask around about that), it kind of felt less cliquey? Because everyone was generally interested in being friends? Idk. Like we definitely had groups and they became more evident as majors really clicked in, but in the beginning, everyone was pretty much together (this was the first year that the grill opened and leake was a thing. So we were all figuring out the dorms together). I mean we had drama but it wasn’t... idk. It wasn’t like mica student body (maybe its because we didnt have that to fuck shit up lolol). 

On The Hill was my shit. Still my shit. I fucking love on the hill with a fucking passion. Pom Iced Teas, where you at. The neighborhood in general was really nice. Baltimore is one of my favorite cities and the stigma of it will be broken as soon as you start exploring it. HOWEVER, BE FUCKING SMART. DONT BE A FUCKING IDIOT. IF YOU DON’T FEEL COMFORTABLE SOMEWHERE, YEET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE. TRAVEL WITH OTHERS. DON’T BE THOSE DUMB ASS WHITE GIRLS FROM RURAL FUCKING TOWNS THAT THINK THEY CAN WALK AROUND AT 4 AM OR JUST WHEN IT’S DARK OUT, ALONE, AND BE OKAY. TAKE. THE FUCKING. SHUTTLE. 

The studio spaces were really nice so as they’re taken care of. the equipment is really nice. take advantage of it while you can. because once you’re out of school. hah. you’re screwed. 

Networking was nice. 

Being close to the Walters was amazing and the ability to go to DC for the day only spending 8$ on the Marc train to get there was amazing. Having Penn right on campus. 

Again, the professors were in majority, fucking amazing. 

Some professors had classes outside of MICA (karen has model drawing classes at her studio) take them! They’re really worth it!

I actually didnt mind the dorms. 10x better than most colleges. 

Accessibility was amazing. Especially since its not a closed campus, but everything is in one place. That’s not the case with a lot of Art colleges. 

And most of all, I just loved being there. I loved learning. I loved the people. I loved baltimore, i loved the professors. MICA 10000% shaped how I am as an artist in the best way and I think it’s an amazing place to be despite the downfalls. 

Don’t take everything I said as gospel. like I said, these are just my experiences as well as a few of my friends in the same fine arts department. The others, I’m not sure about. But yeah. I hope this helps! You can always message me and I’d be happy to refer you to classes, professors, etc. Good luck with next year!

[chloebeale]

BROKEN ROAD, CH. 2/?

A cross-country road trip and a flat tire that just might change Chloe’s life forever. | Bechloe fic.

(Read it on ao3!)

RATING: G so far | WORDS: 4,504

Maybe it’s a little strange, but Beca tries hard to maintain her air of mystery, to be the queen of dark eyeliner and withdrawing from those around her. She’s done it with her parents, who are still not too pleased with her for opting not to go to college. She loves them, she really does, she’s just… She’s kind of a loner, that’s all. Maybe a bit too focused on her future.

But then she’s driving along an almost sinisterly quiet road, and a flash of orange catches her eye, and suddenly she’s pulled right back in.

It’s not like Beca can’t do nice things for other people. She does them all the time. It’s just that pulling over and changing a tire for two total strangers has kind of cut into the day she had planned. But she doesn’t mind.

She thinks about those eyes. Piercing, blue. And she doesn’t mind.

And Beca knows that’s a dangerous thought.

For a little while, she considers not texting Chloe at all. Changing the tire really was nothing, she doesn’t need the girls to repay her in any way, so the two of them taking her to dinner is really not necessary. Eventually, though, somewhere around four, Chloe calls her.

“Beca, hey! It’s Chloe. You were supposed to text me.”

“Oh, hey. Yeah, sorry. I guess I got caught up. You know, you really don’t have to take me to dinner, right?”

Chloe’s tone is light as she responds. “I’m taking you. You have to let me,” she lowers her voice slightly, “Aubrey would never let me forget it if we didn’t pay you back in some way. You saw how scary she can be.”

It’s clear that she’s joking, and Beca finds herself chuckling softly under her breath. Aubrey had seemed standoffish, maybe a little annoyed about their situation, but Beca wouldn’t really use the word scary to describe her.

“Speaking of Aubrey,” Chloe continues, “She isn’t feeling so great, so she’s probably going to stay here at the hotel. Is that okay? If it’s just you and me for dinner?”

A part of her thinks that she should say no. Maybe this is her out. She probably won’t have any fun anyway. Chloe, although nicer than Aubrey, doesn’t really seem like Beca’s kind of person. She should say no, forget about those crystal blue eyes, let Chloe go back to being the damsel in distress whose tire she changed that one time.

“Beca?”

“Sorry, yeah.” She really hadn’t even realized she’d paused for so long until Chloe’s voice cuts into her thoughts.

“That okay?”

“Yeah, definitely,” she hears herself saying. “Just you and me. That’s fine.”

She shouldn’t go. She knows she shouldn’t, because Beca doesn’t need this kind of distraction. But the clock hits six fifty-five, and Beca is pulling into the parking lot of the bar-slash-restaurant she’d settled on, eyes immediately catching sight of Chloe’s car.

The redhead is standing beside it. She squints toward Beca’s windshield, then begins waving enthusiastically. And Beca isn’t worried anymore. She isn’t regretting showing up.

She doesn’t know why.

“Hey!” Chloe greets cheerfully once Beca is out of the car, her red curls draped over one shoulder. Beca notices that she’s wearing a different outfit to the one she had on this morning. Chloe is wearing a dress, it hugs her waist but floats out immediately after. She looks good, Beca notices. She doesn’t like that she notices, but she does.

“You look pretty,” Chloe states, catching Beca off guard. She, of course, had changed, too. Her black skinny jeans, white shirt and black leather jacket isn’t exactly as dressy as Chloe’s outfit, but she appreciates the compliment nonetheless, even if she does feel her cheeks darkening a shade. She isn’t used to random compliments. She hopes her makeup will cover it.

“Thanks.” She tucks a chunk of hair behind her ear; it’s loose now, whereas she’d had it tied up in a messy bun this morning. “So do you. I like your dress.”

Beca doesn’t give out random compliments either. She really doesn’t know what’s happening.

“Thank you, it’s one of my favorites.” Chloe beams, motioning toward the building. Beca is wearing boots with a slight heel, and they click against the ground as she hurries to catch up with Chloe.

“So, what’s wrong with Aubrey?” She questions as she grabs the door, holding it open for the taller girl to walk in first. She doesn’t even think about the gesture, she just does it. Chloe doesn’t question it either.

“She has a headache,” Chloe responds as she makes her way inside, offering Beca a gracious smile as she slips in ahead of her. “But she also has some family stuff going on, so I think she just kind of needed the break.”

Beca nods, and feels almost guilty for the fleeting thought that she was glad, once they’d hung up the phone this afternoon, that Aubrey wouldn’t be joining them. It didn’t make much sense to her, considering she’d been thinking of using Aubrey’s absence as an out, but it had crossed her mind, nonetheless.

“You know, this place looks cool and all,” Chloe begins, though pauses for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to navigate it. It’s really just a bar, there’s nobody to seat them, something Chloe seems to realize pretty quickly, and then she’s turning to look at Beca with a small frown on her face. “But when I said I was taking you to dinner, I really meant something more like a restaurant.” That frown, the way her nose has scrunched, it’s honestly kind of adorable. Beca thinks so, anyway, and finds herself chuckling softly under her breath.

“I’m not really a fancy restaurant kind of girl,” the brunette admits with a slight shrug of her shoulder. “This place is more my scene. Besides, the food here is really good.”

“What, is it just, like, wings and stuff?” Chloe questions. She doesn’t look like she’s too sold on Beca’s eatery of choice.

“Well, yeah. But they’re really good wings.” She’s kind of teasing, and finds herself sending Chloe a wink. It was evidently the right thing to do, because the other girl’s expression is suddenly softening, there’s a smile curving at the corners of her mouth, and it doesn’t seem she’s going to continue to protest.

“Fine. They’d better be the best wings Oklahoma has to offer, though.” Chloe’s smile, somewhat smug now, is still in place. Beca mirrors it without thought, before motioning with her head for the redhead to follow her over toward a free booth, one she usually occupies alone.

There are two menus laid out on the table, and once Beca has slipped into her seat, she nudges one toward Chloe. “There you go, check out the wing collection.”

Considering this is one of Beca’s favorite places, she’s entirely aware that there are many more options on the menu, and can’t help the way she grins as she watches Chloe’s eyes scan over the options, evidently realizing, too.

“Better than you thought, right?”

There’s a glare shot across the table at her, but it’s a playful one. “Fine,” the redhead says, “I take back my judgment.”

She gets the feeling, as she watches Chloe take in everything on the menu in front of her, that the other girl doesn’t really frequent places like this. There’s a bar, a couple pool tables, and some sports game playing on the television. It’s not the expensive restaurant Beca imagines Chloe is used to, but she’s confident that she won’t be disappointed. At least she hopes she won’t, anyway. She doesn’t want to disappoint her.

And she doesn’t know why.

---

It’s a very lax environment, but their order is taken eventually -- Beca finds it amusing that Chloe throws a side of honey bbq wings onto the end of their order -- and it’s not just the beer she’s slowly sipping on that has Beca thinking about how easy this girl is to talk to. She’s chipper, she’s breezy, she’s basically the polar opposite of herself, but for some reason, Beca doesn’t hate being here with her.

“Are you in school?” Chloe asks as she grabs a fry from her plate once their food has arrived. She pops it into her mouth, eyeing Beca for a moment. “What’s your story?”

That’s a loaded question. Beca doesn’t like talking about herself.

But she’ll open up for Chloe.

She doesn’t know why.

“Nope, no school,” she states with a short shake of her head. “My parents are pretty pissed about it. I mean, my dad’s a college professor, so you can imagine how well it went down when I told him I wasn’t going, right? I would’ve gotten a free ride if I’d gone to his school, but college isn’t really for me.”

Chloe shrugs as she swallows her bite of food, nodding her head in understanding. “School isn’t for everyone. I mean, I personally love it, but I know plenty of people who don’t.” She stares down at her plate for a moment, almost like she’s contemplating something, before eventually picking up her burger with both hands. The idea that she was considering using a knife and fork flashes through Beca’s mind, but she holds back her amusement.

“What do you--” Chloe pauses, gaze meeting Beca’s. “What?”

So maybe she hadn’t done as good a job at holding back her amused smirk as she thought she had, though she doesn’t realize it until Chloe is curiously eyeing her.

“Nothing,” she says, quickly shaking her head and reaching for a fry from her own plate. What is she supposed to say, ‘I was just smiling at you being adorable’? “What were you going to ask me? What do I...?”

Fortunately, Chloe doesn’t push, and seems to snap quickly back to her original thought. “What do you plan to do in LA? You said you’re headed out there, right?”

Beca really, really doesn’t like talking about herself. She’s a private person, and after hearing her father tell her over and over that her career dream of choice is, in fact, not a career, and is instead a hobby, she doesn’t really like talking to people about it. But Chloe is looking at her expectantly, so what can she do?

“I want to be a DJ. I eventually want to produce music,” she finally states, waiting for an amused reaction. She’s almost surprised when it doesn’t come.

Instead, Chloe looks fascinated, her blue eyes lighting up somehow. Beca is sure the shade has changed to an even brighter one than before.

“Really? That sounds so cool,” the redhead comments, and it’s clear by her tone of voice that she’s being genuine. She’s not just trying to make Beca feel better.

“You think?”

“I do,” Chloe nods, almost a little eagerly. “I would love to be able to do something like that. Honestly, I still don’t really know what I want to do, but you have things figured out, and I think that’s really admirable.”

Beca doesn’t really know why her cheeks are heating up, a tint of pink prickling under the surface.

“You know it’s not that hot in here, right?” Chloe questions, setting the remainder of her burger down on her plate.

Beca’s brow raises. “What?”

“Your face keeps going red.”

At that, Beca feels her cheeks heat up further as she glances down at her plate, though the soft, almost singsong sound of Chloe’s light laugh has her glancing back up again.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Chloe states, her eyes soft, kind. Her tone of voice has softened, too. “It’s sweet.”

Beca can’t help but feel like this isn’t just a ‘thank you for the tire’ dinner, especially as her gaze meets Chloe’s. But she doesn’t question it. She doesn’t give herself the time to, in fact, and instead clears her throat as she tears her eyes away from the other girl, glancing back over her shoulder and toward the pool tables. “How are you at pool?” There are three tables, and two of them are unoccupied. “You want to play once we’re done eating?”

---

They finish up their food pretty quickly, and both grab another beer from the bar, before making their way over to one of the free tables. According to Chloe, she isn’t very good, but she seemed into the idea of playing regardless, and watches in fascination as Beca begins to set up the balls.

“How do you know the order to put them in?” She questions, peering over Beca’s shoulder. She’s close enough that Beca can smell perfume wafting toward her nose. It’s a nice smell, it’s sweet. It’s strangely familiar.

“It’s pretty easy,” Beca shrugs. “You just set them up so that there are no solids beside solids or stripes beside stripes.” She glances over her shoulder at the other girl. “Or that’s what I do anyway, but I like that you think I’m cool enough to know how to correctly set up a game of pool.”

“I mean, you do seem pretty cool,” Chloe grins, picking up the two cues balancing against the side of the table. She holds one out toward Beca. “We’ll see how cool you are once you’re getting your butt kicked by a beginner in just a minute, though.”

This girl is definitely easy to be around, Beca thinks as she notices her own smile, the way it’s eased onto her lips almost too naturally. And that’s a feat really, because Beca Mitchell doesn’t generally like spending time with anybody.

She likes spending time with Chloe, though. At least so far.

“You want to break?” She offers, motioning to the table. The game is set up and ready to go, and Chloe seems pretty excited about it.

“I’ll try,” she decides, hurrying around the table to lean over and line up her cue with the white ball. Beca watches her as she takes the first shot, the balls scattering, with two solids rolling into separate pockets almost expertly.

“Whoa. Okay, pool shark,” Beca laughs a little, genuinely surprised.

“I forgot to tell you,” Chloe states as she stands upright again, blowing the end of the cue as if to filter out smoke. She grins toward Beca. “I lied before. I’m awesome.”

Their first game, Chloe does as she said she would, and completely kicks Beca’s butt. It’s honestly kind of impressive, and it’s clear when Chloe goes to the bar to grab them each another beer that she’s having fun. Beca is, too. Evidently, she hasn’t disappointed her. At least not yet, anyway.

While she obviously does know what she’s doing, about halfway through their third game, it seems that Chloe has herself stumped, and she eyes the table for a moment, nose scrunching in thought.

“You stuck?” Beca questions, walking around the table to stand beside her and see the setup from her view. She can see the confusion, but she also sees a way for Chloe to make the shot, too. “Want some help?”

The redhead frowns at the table a moment longer, before nodding her head. “Maybe just a little.”

Beca’s laugh is soft and raspy as she points to the white ball. “Okay, hit it right here, and you want to aim for the side rather than any of the balls.”

Chloe nods, then leans over to do as instructed, but Beca sees that she isn’t lining it up right.

“No, not like that,” the brunette shakes her head, setting her cue down against the side of the table. “Here, look.” She makes her way behind Chloe, and it’s without thought that her hands settle gently on the taller girl’s arms, guiding her where to go. Her pale skin feels soft beneath her fingertips, and the added height from her heels helps her to see over Chloe’s shoulder.

They make the shot together, and Beca wonders why she gave the point to her opponent. She’s generally a pretty competitive person, but the grin on Chloe’s face as she watches the ball roll into the pocket is totally worth taking a loss.

Beca doesn’t even notice the time.

They play a couple more games, the scores pretty even in the end, but eventually they head back to their booth, and Chloe orders another beer. Beca would really like to keep drinking too, but she’s also not trying to drive while drunk, so she switches to soda. Chloe’s thought process is evidently not the same.

“Are you glad you agreed to go to dinner with me?” Chloe asks, eyes lighting up all over again as she sips coolly from her bottle. “I know you didn’t want to, but I think you’re having fun. I know I am, anyway.”

Beca shakes her head, reaching for one of their empty bottles and beginning to absentmindedly play with the label wrapped around the neck. “I didn’t not want to. I just didn’t think you needed to pay me back in any way. It was just a tire.”

Chloe’s eyes grow wider, and this time they’re not sparkling with the same curiosity or wonderment they seem to have done throughout the night so far. Instead, they look sad, her bottom lip begins to quiver. “So you’re not glad that you agreed?”

Eyes widening also, Beca quickly shakes her head once more. “No! No, I am. I’m glad we’re doing--”

She’s cut off by the sound of Chloe’s singsong giggle all over again. “Wow, you’re really easy to freak out,” the redhead grins, taking another sip from her beer.

Beca looks back at her as if she’s crazy for a moment, though she’s soon scowling, but it’s a playful one. She knows Chloe can see that too, given the way her lips are arched slightly upward at the corners. “You kind of suck, you know that?”

“Hm, maybe,” Chloe hums, setting her bottle down in front of her. Her eyes are back to glistening in that familiar way again as she locks her gaze with Beca’s. “But you’re still here with me.”

She’s right, she is. And while Beca had been trying to think of excuses as to why she shouldn’t have agreed to this earlier, she’s suddenly glad that she hadn’t listened to the responsible side of herself then. Her evening with Chloe has been much better than the one she would’ve spent at home with her roommate, and getting to see those eyes again? Totally worth it.

“You have a habit of staring, you know?” Chloe’s voice breaks into her thoughts, and Beca is almost embarrassed for a moment, until she realizes the other girl is staring right back at her. This time, she doesn’t scramble to pull her focus away. Instead, she just looks. She really lets herself look.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” Chloe nods. “But that’s okay. I like it.”

---

This was supposed to be just dinner, but it’s pretty late by the time they leave, and they’re only doing so because the bar is closing for the night. Beca has stuck to soda, though Chloe has gotten progressively more intoxicated throughout the evening. She isn’t wasted, at least Beca doesn’t think so, but there’s no way she should be driving, so she isn’t going to let her.

She protests at first, insisting that she’s fine, but eventually Chloe caves, and soon Beca is helping to buckle her into the passenger seat of her car. Chloe’s will be fine left at the bar overnight, then Beca will drive to her hotel in the morning and bring her back to get it.

“You know, if you want to spend more time with me, you just have to say so. You don’t have to pretend like you’re worried about me driving,” Chloe teases once Beca is seated in the driver’s side. The brunette playfully rolls her eyes, before starting up the car.

She’d asked earlier which hotel Chloe and Aubrey were staying at. It’s close by, Beca knows it, and she’s soon driving toward it with Chloe relaxing back into the passenger seat. Her eyes are closed, Beca notices as she steals a glance toward her. She steals multiple, in fact.

She doesn’t really understand why she’s smiling to herself the way she is.

Or why an overwhelming sadness washes over her once she’s pulling up outside of the entrance to the hotel.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty. We’re here,” Beca announces as she puts the car in park. She looks over toward Chloe, whose eyes are still closed. It’s possible she’s a little more drunk than Beca had realized.

“I’m not sleeping,” the redhead mumbles, voice lazy. “Just resting my eyes.”

Beca chuckles to herself in response. “Well, time to unrest them. We’re back at your hotel.”

Chloe lets out a soft sigh through her parted lips, but eventually opens her eyes, pushing herself upright and reaching for the handle of the door. “Fine, fine. I might need a little help finding my room, though.”

Instinctively, Beca’s eyes drift toward the clock. It’s late, she really should be getting home. Though it’s clear, as she watches Chloe opening up the door and trying to climb out with her seatbelt still fastened in place that she really could use the help. Beca bites back a laugh at the sight, then eventually cuts the engine.

“Alright, hold on,” she says, unbuckling both of their seatbelts, and then hurrying out of the car and over to the passenger side to help Chloe out. “You have your key, right?” She questions as she locks her car, hand settled almost protectively on the taller girl’s back, just in case she needs to catch her. Fortunately, it seems Chloe can walk in a straight line still, though that doesn’t make Beca move her hand away, and she stays close as they head toward the building.

“I do,” Chloe nods, reaching into her purse to produce the keycard. It’s lucky that there’s a room number printed on it, and soon Beca is guiding the other girl up to the second floor where she and Aubrey’s hotel room is situated.

“Okay, all good?” Beca asks once they reach the correct door. She takes the keycard and slips it into the slot, carefully pushing it open.

“No,” Chloe whispers, though it’s a loud whisper, the kind that drunk people do when they think they’re being quiet. She grabs ahold of Beca’s hand, and the brunette doesn’t pull away. Instead she just eyes her for a moment as the redhead brings her finger up to her lips. “Shh. We have to be quiet, Aubrey’s sleeping.”

“We?” Beca questions, though Chloe is soon tugging her through the door and into the dark room, the soft sound of Aubrey’s sleep-laced breathing breaking through the stillness of what’s otherwise a calm, quiet room.

“It’s pretty late,” Chloe states very matter-of-factly, her voice still hushed, though not as much as it really should be. Luckily, Aubrey doesn’t seem to be stirring. “You can’t drive home now. You should just stay here. You can share my bed, it’s okay.”

Normally, the idea would be completely laughable to her, but in spite of the way she pauses, almost hesitating for a moment, the word ‘no’ doesn’t seem to be computing in Beca’s mind. She really should go home, it’s only a short drive, but Chloe is leading her toward the bed, hand still in her own, and Beca finds herself following.

They don’t change for bed. Not that Beca has pajamas with her anyway, but Chloe remains in her dress, too. They slip off their jackets, and it’s without further hesitation that Beca finds herself climbing into the bed beside Chloe.

“I don’t normally bring my dates back to my hotel room. At least not on the first date,” Chloe whispers, the playful tone in her voice evident even at its quieter volume.

“Date?” Beca quirks a brow, though the smile on her lips is an amused one. She can’t see Chloe’s expression, the room is too dark, so she’s pretty sure she can’t see hers, either. “It was a thank you for the tire dinner, wasn’t it?”

“Mm,” Chloe mumbles, her voice laced with exhaustion. She rolls onto her back, and Beca can see her silhouette in the light through the window now. She can see her lashes, she can tell her eyes are closed. “Thank you for the tire,” Chloe continues, voice hushed, still mumbly. “And the date.”

Beca doesn’t protest. Actually, she doesn’t say anything. But in doing so, she doesn’t protest.

---

“Oh my God, Chloe. You brought her back here?”

Aubrey’s voice is unfamiliar, much like Beca’s surroundings as her eyes blink open. The sun is streaming through the open blinds, filtering right onto her face, and it takes her a couple seconds to realize where she is. Her plan had been to slip out of bed once Chloe had fallen asleep, but no sooner had their heads hit the pillows were they both out like a light, and evidently her plan had not worked out the way she’d expected it to.

“What?” Chloe’s voice is mumbly, it’s lazy. It’s thick with sleep, and Beca sees, as she turns her head to glance over toward her, that her eyes are still closed. It’s not surprising really -- Chloe really had been pretty drunk last night.

The last thing Beca wants is for anyone to think she’d taken advantage of that, of course. She hadn’t. She’d literally fallen asleep as soon as she’d gotten into bed, and there’s a certain level of panic washing over her as she sits quickly upright, the blankets falling to reveal her outfit still very much intact. Chloe’s too.

“Whoa, this is not what it looks like,” Beca quickly states, shaking her head. She’s about to continue, to explain that Chloe had been really drunk and needed help getting back to the hotel, but Aubrey shakes her head, cutting her off.

“I don’t have time for this,” the blonde states, and Beca can suddenly hear that there’s panic in her voice. She sees that she’s tossing things into her suitcase, almost haphazardly.

“Aubrey, what’s going on?” Chloe asks, having apparently adjusted to her surroundings. She’s sitting up now too, concern written across her features. Beca doesn’t know Aubrey, but she knows that something is wrong with her.

“It’s my aunt,” Aubrey says, though she doesn’t look over at them. She’s still stuffing her belongings into her suitcase.

“What? What happened?” Chloe is peeling herself quickly from the bed, and while she’s a little unsteady on her feet, she makes her way over to Aubrey, protectively placing her hands on the other girl’s arms. “Aubrey, what happened?”

The blonde doesn’t answer her question, but it’s obvious that she’s crying when she responds. “I’m sorry, Chlo. We have to cut this trip short.”

Beca sees the expression on Aubrey’s face, it’s a vivid mixture of both sadness and guilt as she continues. “We have to go home.”

[survivalplan1]

The Different Kinds Of Beef Jerky

The Numerous Type Of Beef Jerky

Beef jerky appears to produce major jobs in individuals. Yes, consuming beef jerky can be a marathon consuming experience. It additionally assists me continue to be without taking in furthermore much scrap food considered that after I take in a choice of points of beef jerky I’m thrilled along with in a comparable means no a lot longer need to take in a whole bag of potato chips.

Beef jerky is instead lowered in calories, it consists of a big quantity of salt so it’s on a regular basis not assumed of a wellness food. I consider it a well maintained in addition to well stabilized in addition to well stabilized along with well balanced and also fairly healthy and balanced benefit. It’s a good deal much better for you than consuming those chips I stated over or consuming cake, pie, brownies, along with pleasant bars.

, if you like beef jerky yet do not wish to provide your jaw an exercise there’s some sort of beef jerky that are very basic to take in. The cut along with furthermore created beef jerky is usually much better in calories in addition to additionally lowered in well balanced as well as likewise well balanced as well as likewise furthermore healthy and balanced as well as well balanced healthy and balanced as well as well balanced healthy protein than regular beef jerky so it’s not as fantastic for you.

, if you look at your neighborhood shop you’ll usually discover beef jerky choice indicates appropriate following to the food dehydrators., if you such as to blend your exceptionally very own tastes there are whole deals of expenditure free of charge dishes given online

.

I’ve made beef jerky at residence with burger numerous times. The burger along with in a comparable means choice are consisted of with each many different other (that’s the actually straightforward aspect). That’s when self-constraint is needed because, depending upon what type of jerky you are making it takes 4-12 staff members to definitely completely dry along with end up being jerky.

In some conditions up to two-thirds if you make your truly very own jerky protect in mind that it lessens a great deal. You might believe you’re negotiating of jerky till you open your dehydrator back up after the meat has actually definitely dried out in addition to you see little elements of meat where there taken advantage of to be substantial elements of meat.

Some individuals worth making their truly very own beef jerky, the majority of individuals like to obtain their beef jerky currently made. There allow quantities of alternatives. Along with the choices at your place grocer along with additionally supermarket, different meat markets together with in addition butcher stores make along with furthermore market their truly incredibly very own beef jerky.

Standard beef jerky is my suggested choice, I furthermore value teriyaki along with peppered mouthwatering beef jerky. Jalepeno or chilling out delicious beef jerky remains to remain in renovation gladly given at many of shops, yet if you like actually comfy beef jerky you can choose to go shopping online where you have a great deal a lot more options of relaxing, hotter, along with a great deal of preferred choices of jerky.

As, together with the routine factors of beef jerky, you can currently obtain shredded beef jerky in addition to also beef jerky chips.

, if you’re looking jerky that’s made with something countless along with beef you have exceptional deals of options. There’s turkey jerky (terrific), poultry jerky (additionally tasty), buffalo jerky (choices a huge quantity like beef jerky), ostrich jerky (not my suched as yet I was inclined to not like it thought of that ostrich jerky absolutely did let down up extraordinary to me), alligator jerky (had in reality not been a follower of this kind either), crocodile (would definitely not attempt it thinking about that I truly did not such as the alligator jerky) kangaroo (have in fact not developed the stomach system systems to attempt this kind yet), Emu (afraid of this one on top of that), Wild Boar jerky (have in truth simply seen this kind online in addition to in addition have really not attempted yet), Venison (it was impressive nonetheless I’m not a follower of venison) along with also smoked Salmon (have in reality not attempted this yet however it appears remarkable).

I’ve in a similar approach accustomed individuals making their exceptionally very own trout jerky, goose jerky, along with duck jerky. The choices appear basically limitless.

Some individuals advise Native Americans made the very first jerky (buffalo jerky) centuries back. The therapy to make beef jerky have actually truly altered along with been updated in time, the specific similar necessary treatment of truly thoroughly decreasing meat, including tastes, along with drying it with a decreased relaxing are the accurate like when jerky mosted most likely to initially made.

Jerky is a food that’s over greater than most likely kept in mind right below to remain to be to be. As additionally although beef jerky is by far amongst among one of the most suggested sort of jerky, a big quantity a good deal a lot more in addition to in addition to that a good deal a whole lot even more individuals are coming to be vibrant in their selections in renovation to require to attempt a few of the consisted of “distinctive” type of jerky.

Jalepeno or comfortable yummy beef jerky is additionally conveniently utilized at the mass of shops, yet if you like truly settling back beef jerky you could wish to go obtaining on the internet where you have a great deal a large amount even more alternatives of comfortable, hotter, along with also finest options of jerky. As although beef jerky is by far amongst among one of the most advised type of jerky, in addition a good deal a large amount a great deal even more together with additionally a lot more individuals are ending up being vibrant in their options together with need to attempt a few of the a great deal much more “distinct” type of jerky.

Jalepeno or taking a break delicious beef jerky remains in enhancement quickly offered at the mass of shops, yet if you like really comfortable beef jerky you may intend to go getting net where you have a lot a great deal added options of comfy, hotter, along with additionally excellent choices of jerky. As although beef jerky is far and away among one of the most suggested sort of jerky, in addition a bargain added together with likewise far more individuals are ending up being strong in their options along with require to attempt numerous of the much similarly a good deal a great deal a lot more “special” kind of jerky.

Jalepeno or comfortable delicious beef jerky is additionally quickly provided at the mass of shops, yet if you like actually comfy beef jerky you could intend to go hopping on the internet where you have a superb deal a wonderful deal extra alternatives of comfortable, hotter, along with also impressive choices of jerky. As although beef jerky is by a wonderful deal one of the most preferred sort of jerky, additionally a terrific deal a large amount added along with in a similar way likewise far more individuals are ending up being strong in their selections in addition to requirement to attempt several of the much furthermore a whole lot added “unique” type of jerky.

Jalepeno or comfortable tasty beef jerky is moreover quickly offered at the mass of shops, yet if you like in fact comfy beef jerky you can desire to go getting on the internet where you have an outstanding deal a superb deal included choices of comfortable, hotter, as well as also superior alternatives of jerky. As although beef jerky is by an excellent deal the most advised kind of jerky, in addition an excellent deal a terrific offer additional as well as likewise additional individuals are completing up being strong in their options as well as requirement to attempt some of the much also a great deal added “unique” kinds of jerky.

Some individuals worth making their in truth incredibly very own beef jerky, the mass of individuals like to acquire their beef jerky currently made. The cut as well as in enhancement produced beef jerky is generally a great deal much better in calories as well as furthermore lowered in well balanced as well as likewise well balanced as well as well balanced and also in addition healthy and balanced healthy and balanced as well as well balanced healthy protein than standard beef jerky so it’s not as impressive for you. Some individuals satisfaction in making their truly very own beef jerky, an entire fantastic deal of individuals like to get their beef jerky currently made. Jalepeno or comfortable tasty beef jerky is additionally quickly provided at the mass of shops, yet if you like in fact comfy beef jerky you can desire to go acquiring on the internet where you have an outstanding deal a superb deal included choices of comfortable, hotter, as well as also exceptional choices of jerky. As although beef jerky is by a fantastic deal the most suggested kind of jerky, in addition an excellent deal a wonderful bargain additional as well as likewise additional individuals are completing up being strong in their options as well as requirement to attempt some of the much similarly a whole lot added “unique” kinds of jerky.

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[justanoutlawfic]

A Deal With The Devil: 4/4

So, funny story. I mixed up what group I thought I was in the third round and wrote a whole one shot around it. Went to go submit it and realized my error, but I feel it’s a good chapter nonetheless, so here’s a little bonus one of Lacey and Bruce’s first date.

Prompts: zoo, flu, blue; a compliment; why not?

“Can I come with you tonight?”

Bruce paused tying his tie to look down at his son. “I’m afraid not, son.”

“Why not? I want to go to the zoo.”

“The zoo? I’m not going to the zoo.”

“Yes you are. I heard you telling Mary Margaret that you’re going to see deaf leopards.”

Bruce blinked a few times, doing his best not to laugh. Sometimes Bae seemed wise beyond his years, others he was reminded just how young he really was. Looking back, it was an assumption that most kids would jump to and if Bruce was being honest, he almost wished he was taking Lacey to the zoo. He wasn’t a huge fan of rock (he was much more a classical man), but it was her favorite band and it was their first date, if one could call it that. They weren’t going for the car anymore, it was just to have some fun.

Truth be told, as long as he was her, he’d have the time of his life. Even if he’d have a migraine for the next few days as a result.

“I’m not going to see deaf leopards,” Bruce explained. “I’m going to see Def Leppard, it’s a band.”

“Oh.” Bae’s face scrunched up. “That’s a silly name.”

“I agree, but they’re Miss French’s favorite.”

“I like Miss French, she’s very pretty.”

Bruce cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “Indeed.”

He had his eye on Lacey ever since she came back to town from college. He had recently moved to Storybrooke after his divorce and was just trying to start over. She was beautiful, had a great laugh. Yet, he knew his bounds. He was a divorced man, nearing 40. There was no way that a 20-year-old would want anything to do with him. Besides, Lacey spent most of her time working or in and out of bars. He wasn’t one to judge, but that wasn’t quite the lifestyle he wanted to lead. He hated crowds, it was why he was dreading the concert.

Milah had loved concerts, shows, the like. Part of their divorce had been due to his panic attacks and overwhelming anxiety. She had found someone who could keep up with her pace and made it clear how much happier she was with him. Bruce didn’t feel inferior to Killian in the slightest, but it made him worry about Lacey.

He wouldn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t, but a part of relationships were compromise and if theirs had a chance of even starting, he had to. That all started with this concert. The way Lacey’s eyes lit up as soon as he showed her the tickets proved he had made the right choice.

After dropping Bae off at the Nolans, he drove over to Lacey’s. Gripping his cane, he made his way up the path and knocked on the door. He was quite surprised to find not Lacey or Moe on the other side of the door, but someone he hadn’t seen before. She looked about Lacey’s age, auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. She smirked upon seeing him, shaking her head.

“Lace, your date is here!”

“And you are?”

“Aurora French, Lacey’s twin. She didn’t tell you about me?”

“We just met. I was aware Moe had two daughters, I just never see you around town.”

“I try to stay as far away from Storybrooke as possible but when I heard Lacey had a date, a real date-not just screwing Keith-I knew I had to come help her.”

“Geez, Ror, you make me sound like a shut in.”

Bruce looked up and saw Lacey coming down the stairs. He had to do his best to not let his mouth drop open. He was used to seeing her in all black or deep reds. That night, however, she was wearing a skin tight blue dress that showed off every curve. It was the same color as her eyes and complimented her very well.

“Excuse my sister, I know this isn’t really a date…” Lacey said, clearly oblivious to his staring. “It’s…complicated.”

“You’re beautiful.” The words escaped his mouth before he could help it and she cocked an eyebrow. “I mean…the dress…it’s quite beautiful. It matches your eyes.”

Lacey grinned. “Thank you.”

“Have fun, you crazy kids,” Aurora said. “Do things that I definitely wouldn’t do.”

“Goodbye Aurora.” Lacey slid her feet in some high heels and they walked out the door. “Sorry. She means well…she’s just…too excited. I can’t wait for her girlfriend to get back from China, then she’ll stop focusing on me.”

“It’s nice to have someone care for you,” Bruce replied, opening the door to his car and watching her get in. He went around to his side, pulling out of the driveway. “To be quite honest, I didn’t have that again until my son came back to live with me. He selected my tie.”

Lacey took it in, smiling. “It’s nice, though I think you may be the only one at the concert with one.”

“The clothes make the man, I think my son is learning that at a young age.” He cleared his throat, hoping he wasn’t sounding too stuck up. “He actually thought we were going to the zoo, he heard me talking about the band name and…”

She burst out laughing and it was perhaps the sweetest sound he had ever heard. “I’ve only met your son once, but he is officially my new favorite person.”

That fueled Bruce’s ability to keep it together as they drove to the concert. They slowly got to know one another, though they definitely didn’t share too much. It wasn’t long until they pulled up to the arena and went through the turnstile. Bruce was doing well in the beginning as they slid into their seats. There were a lot of people, but it didn’t seem to be too bad. If anything, he could blame his leg when he needed a breather to sit it out.

Then the concert started. It was loud, much louder than he had expected. He had listened to their music to get him ready, but quickly realized his sound system was nothing compared to the professional amps provided. His face grew pale as the people got closer together, shouting and singing along with the lyrics. Lacey was having the time of her life clearly and he felt terrible. Knowing better than to disturb her, he made his way out of his seat (glad he had claimed the aisle) and headed for the aisle.

It didn’t take long for Lacey to figure that Gold was gone and at first, she figured he had snuck off to the bathroom. After a few more songs, she got worried and decided to go looking for him. She headed into the men’s room, silently cursing how they never seemed to have the lines that the women’s did, and found his cane behind one of the stalls. She could see his knees bent on the floor and for a moment, worried he had the stomach flu. Then, she heard his rapid breathing. He wasn’t sick, he was having a panic attack.

Suddenly, she felt like a huge idiot. Crowds weren’t easy for everyone and she hadn’t even asked him how he felt about them. They were fine for her, yet she had her own experience with panic attacks after her mother died. Sometimes, it was best to just be left alone.

Bruce got his way through the attack and pulled himself back up to his feet. Splashing some cold water in his face, he let out a few shallow breaths. The concert couldn’t last much longer, he’d get through it. When he made his way out, he was surprised to find Lacey standing there.

“Lacey…”

“It’s getting a little hot in there,” she interrupted. “The concert’s almost over, do you mind if we ditch and just go get something to eat? There’s this quiet diner about 5 minutes away. It’s no Granny’s, but the burgers are really good.”

He wanted to protest at first, clearly she had figured out what was going on. Then, he saw the genuine light in her eyes. Milah would’ve been annoyed, pissed. Lacey, actually cared. She wasn’t asking any questions, she was giving him the necessary space. Still, she was helping all the same.

“That sounds like a great idea,” he said. “Maybe I can play you some real music in the car.”

“Hey! Rock is real music.”

“It’s loud.”

Lacey playfully rolled her eyes and slipped her arm through his. “Let’s see what you’re a fan of, Mr. Gold.”

A smirk fell across his lips. “As you wish, Miss French.”

Actions

[edwad]

“labor is the source of all wealth.”

to start with, the pretty obvious nod being attempted here is toward marx’s theory of value and the related notion of surplus value, but to quote marx himself from one of the first lines of the critique of the gotha programme, “labor is not the source of all wealth.”

the reasoning he gives is that wealth is conceived of as being material wealth, that is, use-values. marx goes on to say “Nature is just as much the source of use values (and it is surely of such that material wealth consists!) as labor, which itself is only the manifestation of a force of nature, human labor power.” in c1.1.2 he says something similar: 

“Use-values like coats, linen, etc., in short, the physical bodies of commodities, are combinations of two elements, the material provided by nature, and labour... When man engages in production, he can only proceed as nature does herself, i.e. he can only change the form of the materials. Furthermore, even in his work he is constantly helped by natural forces. Labour is therefore not the only source of material wealth, i.e. of the use-values it produces. As William Petty says, labour is the father of material wealth, the earth is its mother.” (p133-4, penguin edition)

but even more can be said than that. outside the realm of purely concrete articles and into the realm of value, that abstract quantitative form of wealth, there are commodities which are bought and sold without any value bound up in them. at the end of c1.1.1, marx gives the following examples: “Air, virgin soil, natural meadows, unplanted forests, etc.” clearly people can still own these, which shows that they are materially wealthy despite the fact that these commodified products of nature are untouched by human labor, but more importantly they can be priced without any reference to their labor costs or a marxian value theory in general. this means that money can be made off of the sale of such commodities without any physical intervention. this might be a purely fictitious transaction and considered peripheral to the “real economy” of industrial production (often contrasted with the “FIRE” sectors: finance, insurance, real estate), but it happens nonetheless and people can be made wealthier (in both senses) because of it. 

“to make a profit, a capitalist must sell a product for more than what it cost to pay the laborers that produced the product.”

this is true, but it doesnt mean much, in terms of the difference between the two amounts, yes the price of a day’s worth of products has to be more than a day’s worth of wages in order to afford to reproduce the commodity the next day, but labor is not the only cost. the capitalist also often has to pay rent to the landlord, taxes to the state, and for all sorts of other things which do not necessarily figure into the value of the commodity but do factor into its price. much of this can still be understood in terms of the distribution of surplus value, but often without reference to the living labor which is directly producing commodities for this capitalist today. 

there is also a whole world of “unproductive labor” which, to use the terminology of the physiocrats, would be considered “sterile” in that they are, as far as price-formation is concerned, only a cost, but as far as profiteering goes, a necessary one.

the above sentence is crude and almost suggests that the only cost to production is wages, which is cartoonish and obviously untrue. this is the sort of stuff that makes people assume we know nothing about economics, and if this is what we’re putting out into the public eye, we’re only making ourselves look bad.

“the laborers do not get paid the full value of their labor.”

this, again, is trying to emulate the rhetoric of exploitation in the marxian sense, but it completely misses the point. one of marx’s most important contributions in his critique is his assertion that workers dont sell labor, but rather their labor-power (their capacity to do labor, rather than its actual concrete output). a burger flipper gets paid the same wage for each hour of work, whether the restaurant is busy or not. the number of burgers put together have no effect on the hourly rate. it is clear from this that laborers do not get paid the full value of their output (sometimes they would actually make less if this were the case!), but marx’s critical point is that this doesnt come about through some sort of bizarre imbalance in the wage-form, where workers are structurally underselling their commodity, labor-power. in fact, exploitation can occur without any infringement of the laws of commodity exchange. the wage can be perfectly equal to the value of labor-power, and therefore workers could receive the full value for their commodity in its sale, whose use-value is to create more value for its buyer. marx makes this crystal clear in c1.7.2:

“The use-value of labour-power, in other words labour, belongs just as little to its seller as the use-value of oil after it has been sold belongs to the dealer who sold it. The owner of the money has paid the value of a day’s labour-power; he therefore has the use of it for a day, a day’s labour belongs to him. On the one hand the daily sustenance of labour-power costs only half a day’s labour, while on the other hand the very same labour-power can remain effective, can work, during a whole day, and consequently the value which its use during one day creates is double what the capitalist pays for that use; this circumstance is a piece of good luck for the buyer, but by no means an injustice towards the seller.” (p301, my emphasis)

what this amounts to isnt really a marxian view (and if it were to be restated in marxian terms it would be hardly revolutionary, considering “exploitation” for marx isnt really a moral concept in and of itself) but rather a ricardian socialist view, which generally suggests workers get full remuneration even of value-added, where laborers WOULD get paid the full value of their labor, but this isnt what marx wanted and it isnt what anybody working in the marxian tradition should want. the political future we ought to have in mind isnt simply a fairer system of distribution (inseparable from the mode of production anyway) but rather the destruction of capitalism and the value-structure itself. to quote marx again, 

Instead of the conservative motto: “A fair day's wage for a fair day's work!” they ought to inscribe on their banner the revolutionary watchword: “Abolition of the wages system!"

it ought to be clear that the concern for the full value of our labor has some truth to it but is misplaced and often practically misleading. 

“profit is unpaid labor.”

as I already noted above, the system is much more complex than the crude labor-capital dynamic which this sort of logic rests on, and you can definitely talk about the ways in which modern profiteering has changed to include things like financialization, monopoly pricing, and the commodification of products nature, all of which will have some effect on profits outside of the realm of labor-time, but theres even more to say about the indirect link between surplus labor and profit-making. 

its important to recognize that a worker who spends 10 hours producing knick-knacks, and whose daily wage is paid from the first 6 hours, has expended 4 hours of surplus labor over the 6 hours of necessary labor in order to reproduce themselves. the source of profit is generally located in this gap, and this is what marx termed “exploitation”. however, the very existence of the gap doesnt automatically mean that this surplus labor is converted into surplus value which is sold for an equivalent profit, or even a profit at all. its more than possible that, although the laborer was paid for the value of 6 hours rather than the full 10, the capitalist is unable to sell the knick-knacks at all and force a profit. much of the labor, at least in the terms set out here, would be considered unpaid, but there would be no profit in sight. 

conclusion

what all this means is that there is a certain level of crudeness in anti-capitalist propagandizing which actually muddies the water more than it clears it. theres something to be said about avoiding jargon and over-complicating things, but oftentimes theres also plenty of danger in over-simplifying things, effectively obscuring all complexities and actually doing more damage than not. the outcome often makes us look dishonest or seriously ignorant, and therefore undeserving of serious consideration. i dont think we need to say all of this in a single image with bold font, but we ought to at least attempt to make our views sound somewhat realistic. otherwise, we’ll always be losing to the much more effective propaganda machines which have been set against us from the very beginning. 

[karingudino]

‘Splaining The Plant Base | Lewiston Sun Journal

The signal stated “The Inconceivable Burger”, and Burger King, placing the unique whopper subsequent to a look-a-like whopper pretending to be a “actual” whopper really made from crops, and even giving it a reputation…”The not possible burger”~. They’ve been promoting the heck out of it, grown building kind of males being provided a burger made from crops, coercing them into pondering it actually style like beef. Does it? Does it not?…………

So what’s it? Plant-based meat is meat constructed from crops. It’s particularly designed and created to appear like, and cook dinner like typical meat, shaped in patties, nuggets, crumbles and sausage, these meat-vegetable alternate options are shaking up the meals business having introduced in $800 million in revenues within the final 12 months alone. What on this planet is happening?

That is nice and all, however you simply is perhaps questioning what are they made from? I do know I used to be,

So once they tried to push the not possible burger on me, I used to be like “No, no thanks”. It’s chickenless-chicken and beefless-beef, so what does that basically imply? The not possible burger credit “Hemes”, that is a necessary molecule present in all dwelling plant and animal. Inconceivable makes plant-made heme by means of fermentation of genetically engineered yeast. In case your questioning whether it is secure, usually, it’s, and it’s sustainable. Different substances discovered embody wheat-based protein, coconut oil and potato protein, some model incorporate pea protein and beet juice, (they are saying it creates a “bleeding” impact)

Nonetheless, I don’t suppose I’m prepared for genetically fermented meals, that sounds too 2050 for me.

If you wish to go meatless, however don’t wish to miss out on beefy savor (even juicy pink facilities and bits of fats), there’s by no means been a greater time to buy your grocery store. I scanned the meatless part of beef whereas each one is combating over turkeys, dressings, pie crust and no matter. The great butcher man got here out and I bombarded him. He did make suggestions as we deciphered the vitamin labels.

1. Candy Earth Superior Grounds-form this floor pea “meat” into patties your self, plus a bonus, you may add in spices.

2. Inconceivable Burger-Soy and potato proteins type a grind that sizzles, smells and tastes like

beef. Cook dinner it med-rare for greatest outcomes.

3. Morning Star Farms Incogmeato Burger-Regardless of its identify, this mix has nothing to cover.

The soy-based patty has the meaty texture you need from a burger with bits of plant-based

gristle and beefy taste.

4. Past Burger Plant-based Patties-This selection has probably the most meat-like texture and look, due to flecks of coconut oil that mimics the marbling in beef and supply that oily sheen.

The umami-forward taste has only a trace of beaniness poking by means of from the pea and mung-bean proteins.

So if you will attempt one in all these meatless wonders, the butcher recommends this choice. I’m nonetheless questioning what a chickenless-chicken appears to be like like.

There’s an upside:

along with tasting and searching like beef, most labels acknowledged they’re nutritionally related too. Calorie-wise they vary about 200 to 250 energy per 4-ounce servings, in comparison with 200 in lean floor beef, and a few are fortified with key vitamins in beef that vegetarians can have hassle getting, like iron, zinc and vitamin B-12. Plus in contrast to beef, you’ll doubtless get successful of fiber-many blends every have the identical quantity as ½ cup of oatmeal.

Now the draw back:

The sodium content material: learn the labels, I discovered some with lower than 400mg. That’ s nonetheless 5 instances the quantity in floor beef. However don’t fret; simply contemplate them preseason and skip the salt. When it comes to saturated fats, bear in mind that many of those blends get their richness from coconut oil, giving them simply as a lot, if no more saturated fats as beef (4 grams per ounce of uncooked).

The recipes

Plant-Based mostly Smashed Burger with Caramelized Onion Relish

Prep time: 40 min.

Smashing burgers into skinny patties not solely makes them quick-cooking, it additionally creates irresistible crispy edges.

3 Tbs. canola oil, divided

2 giant white onions, diced

¼ cup cider vinegar

2 tbs. mild brown sugar

1 tsp. contemporary thyme

½ tsp. floor pepper, divided

¼ tsp. desk salt, divided

12-16 ounces plant-based floor “meat”, (see strategies under)

2 tsp chili powder

8 slices seeded whole-grain sandwich bread, toasted

2 cups child arugula

4 slices of a big tomato

Instructions:

1. Warmth 2 tbsp. of oil in a big forged iron skillet, medium warmth. Add onions

and cook dinner, stirring often, till caramelized. (15-20 min).

2. Add vinegar, brown sugar, thyme, 1/4 tsp pepper and 1/8 tsp salt.

Cook dinner, stirring, till many of the liquid has evaporated and onions

are barely “syrupy”, (about 2-3 minutes), switch combination to

a medium bowl. Wipe out pan.

3. Mix floor “meat”, chili powder remaining pepper and salt

in a big bowl. Type into 4 patties and smash to ¼ inch thick.

4. Warmth remaining 1 tbsp oil over medium warmth in skillet, Add the patties and cook dinner till brown on either side, (3-4 minutes).

5. Stack every burger on toast with the onion relish, arugula and tomato slice. Get pleasure from.

 Skillet Beef & Veggie Potpie With Buttermilk Biscuits.

Prep time: about 45 minutes Preheat: 400*F Yields 6

Utilizing an oven-safe skillet, like forged iron permits you to take this potpie from

stove-top to oven, with out dirtying further pans.

 1 tbs. Olive oil

1 pound of plant-based “meat” (or, like me, use floor chuck.)

4 cloves garlic, minced

1 tbsp Dijon mustard

1 tsp salt, divided

1 14-ounce bag frozen pearl onions

1 13-ounce bag frozen peas

1 cup diced carrots

3 tbsp white, whole-wheat flour plus 1 cup, separated

3 cups low sodium beef broth

½ cup chopped contemporary parsley, plus extra for garnish

½ tsp. baking powder

4 tbsp. chilly, unsalted butter (½ inch thick), lower into quarter squares

½ cup buttermilk

Instructions:

1. Warmth oil in giant oven proof skillet on medium warmth. Add beef and cook dinner, breaking it up with a picket spoon, till browned and cooked by means of, 6-8 minutes, add garlic, mustard and ¾ tsp salt; cook dinner stirring for 1-2 minutes.

2. Stir in onions, peas and carrots, cook dinner till a small boil, stirring regularly, 5-6 minutes.

3. Combine 3 tbs. of flour with 1/2 cup of broth, stir nicely to dissolve and add to skillet, stirring, add remaining broth to skillet, cooking till combination is barely thickened, about 11-13 minutes. Stir in parsley.

4. In the meantime mix remaining flour, baking powder and salt in a bowl, rub the butter into the flour combine to create a rough combine.

5. Stir in buttermilk, combine till simply blended, place heaping tablespoons on prime of beef combination, it is best to have 12 biscuits. Switch skillet to oven, bake for 16-18 min. or no less than biscuits are a golden brown and cooked by means of. Garnish with remaining parsley. Serve from the skillet.

Pleased Fooding! Pleased Impossibiling! Pleased Holidays Followers….I’ll be cooking with

you subsequent 12 months! E-mail your concepts, recipes and ideas…[email protected]

Exerts from Inexperienced Issues and Vitamin for Longevity. And the final phrases~”We Elves

attempt to follow the 4 primary meals teams: sweet, sweet canes, sweet corn, and syrup.” Elf~

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Source link

source https://fikiss.net/splaining-the-plant-base-lewiston-sun-journal/ ‘Splaining The Plant Base | Lewiston Sun Journal published first on https://fikiss.net/ from Karin Gudino https://karingudino.blogspot.com/2020/12/splaining-plant-base-lewiston-sun.html

[ucmeteora]

Metonymy

Elizabeth and her architect

Act one: Limitation and Resistance

E: All the old houses crumble and new ones rise. (1) My potential Existence won’t be victim to decay. In the grid of infinite sameness, content must be constantly added to this stem space to give it meaning. (2)

A: Thats why you need this vessel for your brand.

“In a world that incessantly consumes images, in a constantly expanding metropolitan culture, in a universe whose buildings are no more than a few of the infinite number of figurative and informative dwellings that surround us, there nonetheless exists the architectonic event. This event is like an extended chord, like an intensity at an energetic crux of streams of communication, a subjective apprehension offered by the architect in the joy of producing a polyphonic instant in the heart of the chaotic metropolis.” The “radical desolation” of weak architecture, “a groundlessness emerging out of the singularity of an event,” has “nothing to do with a lack of ability to manifest the conditions of the contemporary culture. Quite the contrary. This weakness is precisely the architectonic manifestation of the condition of contemporary culture.” (3)

E: Thus you’re not saying that only the body explains what is obscure in the mind. To the contrary, the mind is obscure, the depths of the mind are dark, and this dark nature is what explains and requires a body. Nothing obscure lives in us because we have a body, but we must have a body because there is an obscure object in us. (4)

A: Exactly, The essence of an image (or a body) is that it should be taken for reality and equally reality can shape the image, and pass itself off as having the same substance and meaning. Without disturbance or rupture, perception can continue the dream and fill in the gaps, bringing confirmation to all  that is precarious in it and allowing it to accomplish its work. If illusions could appear as real as perception, then perception too could pass itself off as the truth, undeniable and visible. (5)

E: An image which must facilitate direct understandability! In this sense, this other architecture can be regarded as an architecture of resistance—resistance against the predictability of the traditional comprehension of architecture; resistance against the conformity supporting the status quo between institutions and the living environments; resistance against the cynical fear of imagining alternative possibilities in architecture and its visions of a better future; and resistance against the solely commodified and partial comprehension of architecture. (7)They don’t care for the world they enjoy. This situation, this state of affairs is grave and unbearable. We shall invent a new way of life; We shall have to construct another whole world from the ground up. It shall be built, it shall be created! (6)

A: I am willing to follow this peculiar thought line of yours for a while longer (8) as long as we can grab that beyond burger now.

Act two: Authority and Narcissism

E: I’m in love with myself. (I) regard narcissism as the central imaginary relation of human relationships. What crystallized analytic experience around this notion? Above all, its ambiguity. It is in fact an erotic relationship, all erotic identification, all seizing of the other in an image in a relationship of erotic captivation, occurs by way of the narcissitic relation and it is also the basis of aggressive tension. (9)

A: Who, with such instantaneous confidence, was recognised as mad? (10)

E: Don’t kid yourself, honey! You’re not building a house for a madwoman, what you’re building is me:

We speak of our 'self' only in virtue of these thousands of little witnesses which contemplate within us: it is always a third party who says 'me'. These contemplative souls must be assigned even to the rat in the labyrinth and to each muscle of the rat. Given that contemplation never appears at any moment during the action  since it is always hidden, and since it 'does' nothing (even though something is done through it, something completely novel)  it is easy to forget it and to interpret the entire process of excitation and reaction without any reference to repetition  the more so since this reference appears only in the relation in which both excitations and reactions stand to the contemplative souls.The role of the imagination, or the mind which contemplates in its multiple and fragmented states, is to draw something new from repetition, to draw difference from it. For that matter, repetition is itself in essence imaginary, since the imagination alone here forms the 'moment' of the vis repetitiva from the point of view of constitution: it makes that which it contracts appear as elements or cases of repetition. Imaginary repetition is not a false repetition which stands in for the absent true repetition: true repetition takes place in imagination. Between a repetition which never ceases to unravel itself and a repetition which is deployed and conserved for us in the space of representation there was difference, the for itself of repetition, the imaginary. (11)

A: It is necessary to be outside ideology … to say: I am in ideology’. In architecture, interpellations are being imposed at three different levels: firstly, through the disciplining process (institutions, boards, academia, publications, clients, the market, and so on); secondly, by the architectonic objects produced, which create a ritual, constantly reinforcing how architecture should be understood; and finally by the instruments that architects use, such as perspective or computational techniques, which both frame and produce facts. Architecture does not simply present ideologies as facts, as if it were lying; it actually transforms ideologies into social facts. The Prince complex (or, the architectural unconscious) the theory of history has only recently tried to overcome the chronicle of the princes by means of a history of the masses, the everyday life and the concrete conditions (not just what lies on the wave crest, but the enormous forces of movement in the depth of the sea). Nevertheless, architectural imagination is still trapped in narcissistic histories of ‘Princes’. Machiavelli’s book The Prince creates an intellectual device for political practice to counter ‘fortuna’ (the conjecture) in order to rule, thus demanding ‘negativity’ and ‘objectivity’ (virtú) to control the randomness of the future. By doing so, Machiavelli was not inventing the prince per se. What he revealed was the representational character of this practice. (12)

E: Rather, (my) meaning unfolds as (my) viewers participate in the social situation (I) ha(ve) orchestrated. (13)

A: The noblest are certainly those who are entrusted with the supreme Authority and Moderation in public Affairs. (14) For this Reason I would have the Temple made so beautiful, that the Imagination should not be able to form an Idea of any Place more so; and I would have every Part so contrived and adorned, as to fill the Beholders with Awe and Amazement, at the Consideration of so many noble and excellent Things, and almost force them to cry out with Astonishment: This Place is certainly worthy of God! (15) Thus the buildings design will have an attractive appearance, its unimpeded entrance, utility, and the walkway around the cella, authority. (16) And, in (my) opinion, age will give a temple as much authority, as ornament will give it dignity. (17)

Act three: Resurrection, Interaction

E: By slow degrees a special authority takes shape within the ego; this authority, which is able to confront the rest of the ego, performs the function of self observation and self criticism, exercises a kind of psychical censorship, and so becomes what we know as the ‘conscience’. The existence of such an authority, which can treat the rest of the ego as an object – the fact that, in other words, man is capable of self observation – makes it possible to imbue the old idea of the double with a new content and attribute a number of features to it – above all, those which, in the light of self criticism, seem to belong to the old, superannuated narcissism of primitive times. Yet it is not only this content – which is objectionable to self criticism – that can be embodied in the figure of the double: in addition there are all the possibilities which, had they been realized, might have shaped our destiny, and to which our imagination still clings, all the strivings of the ego that were frustrated by adverse circumstances, all the suppressed acts of volition that fostered the illusion of free will. (18)

A: Freedom is thus not freedom from a Master, but the replacement of one Master with another; the external Master is replaced with an internal one. (19) It acts as a (partially) autonomous, and spatially, structurally, programmatically, and visually homogeneous whole which is never completely autonomous due to its integration to a network system. (20) Mentalities of cooperation, social exchange, and interaction are, through the order of the urban, to be elicited and maintained. (21) The framing of communicative interaction is the societal function of both architecture and design. (22) But what about visual, sensory, and aesthetic interaction? (23)

E: The strategy seems, to “derive from the ‘organic’ demand for the integration of space and structure; and, as fulfilling this demand, the building becomes a single, complete, and self explanatory utterance.” (24) Freed of all normative impediments, of all questions of realization or production, the creative imagination can identify itself with global consciousness. Prospective aesthetics is the vehicle of man’s greatest hope: the collective liberation of humanity. The socialization of art represents the convergence of the forces of creation and production toward a goal of dynamic synthesis and technical metamorphosis: it is through such restructuring that man and reality find their true, modern face, that they become natural again, having overcome all alienation. Thus the circle closes. (25)

Together we will invent what I call the imagination without strings. (26)

A: How do you want to achieve that?

E: We should throw a ball.  Instances of this kind are so plentiful every where, that if I add one more, it is only for the pleasant oddness of it. Dance, and that to great Perfection! (27)

(1) Hugo, Les Miserables

(2) Sorkin, All Over the Map

(3)Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

(4) Deleuze, The Fold

(5) Foucault, History of Madness

(6) Alberti, Momus

(7) Senk, Capsules Typology of Other Architecture

(8) Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

(9) Lacan, The Psychoses Seminars of JL

(10) Foucault, History of Madness

(11) Deleuze, Difference and Repetition

(12) Stoppani, This Thing Called Theory Critiques Critical Stud

(13) Bureaud, MetaLife Biotechnologies Synthetic Biology ALi

(14) Alberti, 10 books of architecture 1755

(15)Alberti, 10 books of architecture 1755

(16) Vitruvius, Ten Books on Architecture 1999

(17) Alberti, On the Art of Building in Ten Books 1988

(18) Freud, The Uncanny

(19) Zitzen, Less than nothing

(20) Senk, Capsules Typology of Other Architecture

(21) Lahiji, Architecture Against the PostPolitical Essays

(22) Schumacher, The Autopoiesis of Architecture Vol1

(23) Doherty, Is Landscape Essays on the Identity of Landsc

(24) Hartoonian, Time History and Architecture Essays on Critical

(25) Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

(26) Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

(27) Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815

[monkey-network]

Good Stuff - My Little Pony: The Movie

WARNING: Hold onto your snake lady body pillows, I could cast some touchy judgement towards this. And remember that loving kids shows like this openly is not/ should not be a crime, so don’t be afraid of going out to see it. Thank you, take care out there, and enjoy.

Equestria’s Mightiest Heroes have arrived

I just watched the MLP Movie (Early Screening) and...it’s weird. Maybe it’s because they had those Equestria Girls specials (each about an hour long), but this felt like one of those specials. I mean I’ve been a good fan of this series since its early times, and I was applauding the inevitable idea of a movie in the works, but I can’t say that what I saw had as much impact as seeing a season finale of the show. Just saying, is it wrong to say that it almost felt like a waste paying for something that I typically see for free?

Though, the theatrical experience ain’t bad when you gotta good movie in your hands. Like the Simpsons Movie, our Pony Movie has that effect where it can be worth going out to see an extended episode of a well made series on the big screen; with food, drinks, and none of your friends knowing you saw it unironically. It has that grandiose where the adventure’s a pretty, extensive world tour but it never feels like a alternate version of the stuff you’ve loved before. The new cast are a welcome addition to the universe, things are set up nicely in the beginning, and seeing one of my favorite squads do their thing is never not a delight.

With one ship I think they had in mind when writing (*winkity wink wink wink*)

However, there are a couple setbacks to this fun flic. One thing is that the 3rd act is pretty underwhelming or by the numbers. I mean I understand this is definitely a kids movie, but they could’ve utilized the big baddie a little better than what they gave us. No spoilers, but the big villain of the movie is pretty worthless when ya think about it. Other than that, there is one moment that seriously pissed me off and this honestly chipped the good mood I had going for this film for a teeny bit. As for the visuals, while everything looks fucking sleek, illustrious, and beautiful, there are a couple moments where the character have some floaty movements when things should feel hectic. This is especially so when they have the traditionally drawn characters on pretty yet obvious 3D sets, and this isn’t so much a bad thing, as much as it is hilarious to look at.

On me this is how they run

To be honest, the pony movie does its job. It’s a competent & entertaining romp; it has good jokes, songs, pirates, action, pussy, colors, magic, and cake. Can’t say it’s up there with the Spongebob or Rugrats Movie, but it certainly stands great as a cartoon based cinemasterpiece. I also can’t say you SHOULD see it in theaters because kids will be there too. Then again, if you want to see it with your kids, then I highly recommend it. It’s a standard 3 act film, but it’s a sweet film nonetheless. And for this mixed bag of a year, it’s one to appreciate as much as how they sideline Starlight Glimmer. And Discord. And Shining Armor. And the Princesses. And almost everyone fans know from Ponyville or anywhere familiar. Everybody you see below are cameo to nonexisting in this film, but that’s not a bad thing though, because as a 1st movie, it should introduce you to the characters that matter to the adventure, less the universe that typically revolve around them. So while there are a few nods to those long time fans of the show, this namely does justice by giving newer audiences a set foundation before presenting the in-universe. That and the prequel comics, which are a worthy look as well.

Just letting you fans know; whole lot of cameos. Though, that’s never been a problem

But to wrap this up, let it be known that I’m glad they’re starting to bring cartoon movie adaptations back. With Nickelodeon and their future nostalgic throwbacks, Cartoon Network and their obsession with Teen Titans GO!, and a Bob’s Burgers movie to think about, things are somewhat looking up. I say somewhat because Hollywood can be a wild card with anything up for grabs. So keep caution, demand better when necessary, and most importantly, never lose sight of who or what you (should) value best. That’s what our Pony movie here taught me and it’s a great lesson to carry to the future. So, there you go. Movie done good and they didn’t even have to staple OC McNoticeme for reasons I wouldn’t want to like. Jolly good show all around, and speaking of Starlight...

Ah, misery can be joyous

[garudabluffs]

American Exceptionalism Is Making Earth Uninhabitable       “Ever since 2007, when I first started writing for TomDispatch, I’ve been arguing against America’s forever wars, whether in Afghanistan, Iraq, or elsewhere. Unfortunately, it’s no surprise that, despite my more than 60 articles, American blood is still being spilled in war after war across the Greater Middle East and Africa, even as foreign peoples pay a far higher price in lives lost and cities ruined. And I keep asking myself: Why, in this century, is the distinctive feature of America’s wars that they never end? Why do our leaders persist in such repetitive folly and the seemingly eternal disasters that go with it?

“Sadly, there isn’t just one obvious reason for this generational debacle. If there were, we could focus on it, tackle it, and perhaps even fix it. But no such luck.”

“In waging endless war, Americans are also, in effect, mutinying against the planet. In the process, we are spoiling the last, best hope of earth: a concerted and pacific effort to meet the shared challenges of a rapidly warming and changing planet.

So why do America’s disastrous wars persist? I can think of many reasons, some obvious and easy to understand, like the endless pursuit of profit through weapons sales for those very wars, and some more subtle but no less significant, like a deep-seated conviction in Washington that a willingness to wage war is a sign of national toughness and seriousness. Before I go on, though, here’s another distinctive aspect of our forever-war moment: Have you noticed that peace is no longer even a topic in America today? The very word, once at least part of the rhetoric of Washington politicians, has essentially dropped out of use entirely. Consider the current crop of Democratic candidates for president. One, Congresswoman Tulsi Gabbard, wants to end regime-change wars, but is otherwise a self-professed hawk on the subject of the war on terror. Another, Senator Bernie Sanders, vows to end “endless wars” but is careful to express strong support for Israel and the ultra-expensive F-35 fighter jet. The other dozen or so tend to make vague sounds about cutting defense spending or gradually withdrawing U.S. troops from various wars, but none of them even consider openly speaking of peace. And the Republicans? While President Trump may talk of ending wars, since his inauguration he’s sent more troops to Afghanistan and into the Middle East, while greatly expanding drone and other air strikes, something about which he openly boasts.

War, in other words, is our new normal, America’s default position on global affairs, and peace, some ancient, long-faded dream. And when your default position is war, whether against the Taliban, ISIS, “terror” more generally, or possibly even Iran or Russia or China, is it any surprise that war is what you get? When you garrison the world with an unprecedented 800 or so military bases, when you configure your armed forces for what’s called power projection, when you divide the globe — the total planet — into areas of dominance (with acronyms like CENTCOM, AFRICOM, and SOUTHCOM) commanded by four-star generals and admirals, when you spend more on your military than the next seven countries combined, when you insist on modernizing a nuclear arsenal (to the tune of perhaps $1.7 trillion) already quite capable of ending all life on this and several other planets, what can you expect but a reality of endless war?

Think of this as the new American exceptionalism. In Washington, war is now the predictable (and even desirable) way of life, while peace is the unpredictable (and unwise) path to follow. In this context, the U.S. must continue to be the most powerful nation in the world by a country mile in all death-dealing realms and its wars must be fought, generation after generation, even when victory is never in sight. And if that isn’t an “exceptional” belief system, what is?

If we’re ever to put an end to our country’s endless twenty-first-century wars, that mindset will have to be changed. But to do that, we would first have to recognize and confront war’s many uses in American life and culture.

War, Its Uses (and Abuses)

A partial list of war’s many uses might go something like this: war is profitable, most notably for America’s vast military-industrial complex; war is sold as being necessary for America’s safety, especially to prevent terrorist attacks; and for many Americans, war is seen as a measure of national fitness and worthiness, a reminder that “freedom isn’t free.” In our politics today, it’s far better to be seen as strong and wrong than meek and right.

As the title of a book by former war reporter Chris Hedges so aptly put it, war is a force that gives us meaning. And let’s face it, a significant part of America’s meaning in this century has involved pride in having the toughest military on the planet, even as trillions of tax dollars went into a misguided attempt to maintain bragging rights to being the world’s sole superpower.

And keep in mind as well that, among other things, never-ending war weakens democracy while strengthening authoritarian tendencies in politics and society. In an age of gaping inequality, using up the country’s resources in such profligate and destructive ways offers a striking exercise in consumption that profits the few at the expense of the many.

In other words, for a select few, war pays dividends in ways that peace doesn’t. In a nutshell, or perhaps an artillery shell, war is anti-democratic, anti-progressive, anti-intellectual, and anti-human. Yet, as we know, history makes heroes out of its participants and celebrates mass murderers like Napoleon as “great captains.”

What the United States needs today is a new strategy of containment — not against communist expansion, as in the Cold War, but against war itself. What’s stopping us from containing war? You might say that, in some sense, we’ve grown addicted to it, which is true enough, but here are five additional reasons for war’s enduring presence in American life:

The delusional idea that Americans are, by nature, winners and that our wars are therefore winnable: No American leader wants to be labeled a “loser.” Meanwhile, such dubious conflicts — see: the Afghan War, now in its 18th year, with several more years, or even generations, to go — continue to be treated by the military as if they were indeed winnable, even though they visibly aren’t. No president, Republican or Democrat, not even Donald J. Trump, despite his promises that American soldiers will be coming home from such fiascos, has successfully resisted the Pentagon’s siren call for patience (and for yet more trillions of dollars) in the cause of ultimate victory, however poorly defined, farfetched, or far-off.

American society’s almost complete isolation from war’s deadly effects: We’re not being droned (yet). Our cities are not yet lying in ruins (though they’re certainly suffering from a lack of funding, as is our most essential infrastructure, thanks in part to the cost of those overseas wars). It’s nonetheless remarkable how little attention, either in the media or elsewhere, this country’s never-ending war-making gets here.

Unnecessary and sweeping secrecy: How can you resist what you essentially don’t know about? Learning its lesson from the Vietnam War, the Pentagon now classifies (in plain speak: covers up) the worst aspects of its disastrous wars. This isn’t because the enemy could exploit such details — the enemy already knows! — but because the American people might be roused to something like anger and action by it. Principled whistleblowers like Chelsea Manning have been imprisoned or otherwise dismissed or, in the case of Edward Snowden, pursued and indicted for sharing honest details about the calamitous Iraq War and America’s invasive and intrusive surveillance state. In the process, a clear message of intimidation has been sent to other would-be truth-tellers.

An unrepresentative government: Long ago, of course, Congress ceded to the presidency most of its constitutional powers when it comes to making war. Still, despite recent attempts to end America’s arms-dealing role in the genocidal Saudi war in Yemen (overridden by Donald Trump’s veto power), America’s duly elected representatives generally don’t represent the people when it comes to this country’s disastrous wars. They are, to put it bluntly, largely captives of (and sometimes on leaving politics quite literally go to work for) the military-industrial complex. As long as money is speech (thank you, Supreme Court!), the weapons makers are always likely to be able to shout louder in Congress than you and I ever will.

America’s persistent empathy gap. Despite our size, we are a remarkably insular nation and suffer from a serious empathy gap when it comes to understanding foreign cultures and peoples or what we’re actually doing to them. Even our globetrotting troops, when not fighting and killing foreigners in battle, often stay on vast bases, referred to in the military as “Little Americas,” complete with familiar stores, fast food, you name it. Wherever we go, there we are, eating our big burgers, driving our big trucks, wielding our big guns, and dropping our very big bombs. But what those bombs do, whom they hurt or kill, whom they displace from their homes and lives, these are things that Americans turn out to care remarkably little about.

All this puts me sadly in mind of a song popular in my youth, a time when Cat Stevens sang of a “peace train” that was “soundin’ louder” in America. Today, that peace train’s been derailed and replaced by an armed and armored one eternally prepared for perpetual war — and that train is indeed soundin’ louder to the great peril of us all.

War on Spaceship Earth

Here’s the rub, though: even the Pentagon knows that our most serious enemy is climate change, not China or Russia or terror, though in the age of Donald Trump and his administration of arsonists its officials can’t express themselves on the subject as openly as they otherwise might. Assuming we don’t annihilate ourselves with nuclear weapons first, that means our real enemy is the endless war we’re waging against Planet Earth.

“Every war makes us less human as well as less humane. Every war wastes resources when these are increasingly at a premium. Every war is a distraction from higher needs and a better life.”

The U.S. military is also a major consumer of fossil fuels and therefore a significant driver of climate change. Meanwhile, the Pentagon, like any enormously powerful system, only wants to grow more so, but what’s welfare for the military brass isn’t wellness for the planet.

There is, unfortunately, only one Planet Earth, or Spaceship Earth, if you prefer, since we’re all traveling through our galaxy on it. Thought about a certain way, we’re its crewmembers, yet instead of cooperating effectively as its stewards, we seem determined to fight one another. If a house divided against itself cannot stand, as Abraham Lincoln pointed out so long ago, surely a spaceship with a disputatious and self-destructive crew is not likely to survive, no less thrive.

In other words, in waging endless war, Americans are also, in effect, mutinying against the planet. In the process, we are spoiling the last, best hope of earth: a concerted and pacific effort to meet the shared challenges of a rapidly warming and changing planet.

Spaceship Earth should not be allowed to remain Warship Earth as well, not when the existence of significant parts of humanity is already becoming ever more precarious. Think of us as suffering from a coolant leak, causing cabin temperatures to rise even as food and other resources dwindle. Under the circumstances, what’s the best strategy for survival: killing each other while ignoring the leak or banding together to fix an increasingly compromised ship?

Unfortunately, for America’s leaders, the real “fixes” remain global military and resource domination, even as those resources continue to shrink on an ever-more fragile globe. And as we’ve seen recently, the resource part of that fix breeds its own madness, as in President Trump’s recently stated desire to keep U.S. troops in Syria to steal that country’s oil resources, though its wells are largely wrecked (thanks in significant part to American bombing) and even when repaired would produce only a miniscule percentage of the world’s petroleum.

If America’s wars in Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, Syria, Somalia, and Yemen prove anything, it’s that every war scars our planet — and hardens our hearts. Every war makes us less human as well as less humane. Every war wastes resources when these are increasingly at a premium. Every war is a distraction from higher needs and a better life.

Despite all of war’s uses and abuses, its allures and temptations, it’s time that we Americans showed some self-mastery (as well as decency) by putting a stop to the mayhem. Few enough of us experience “our” wars firsthand and that’s precisely why some idealize their purpose and idolize their practitioners. But war is a bloody, murderous mess and those practitioners, when not killed or wounded, are marred for life because war functionally makes everyone involved into a murderer.

We need to stop idealizing war and idolizing its so-called warriors. At stake is nothing less than the future of humanity and the viability of life, as we know it, on Spaceship Earth.

28 comments

[melforbes]

cold, ocean, phonebook

post Drive

What she needed was a local dive, some seedy diner with busted red vinyl booths and laminated menus featuring blue plate specials and eggs any way you would like them. As dusk settled over the Californian sea beyond her, she flipped through a phonebook, thought of keywords for what she wanted: milkshakes, family-owned, titled as Chuck’s Place or Beverly’s Diner or even The Greasy Spoon. Biting her lip in concentration, she counted the waves beyond her little payphone, measured time with them as she looked over all of the listed restaurants from here to San Francisco. Loleta was an odd combination of seaside and rustic, rich and unpopulated; if she wanted a diner, she would have to drive, and after that day, she didn’t want to be stuck behind a wheel any longer than was absolutely necessary.

And Kersh had been called, and their asses were on the line, and their return flight to D.C. would be filled with her last moments of reprieve before an inevitable hailstorm of paperwork, liability, and unfortunately both metaphorical and literal manure rained down upon her desk, but somehow, she had the inkling that a good plate of corned beef hash at a checkered palace where neon lights claimed open twenty-four hours and where blonde waitresses scooted around on roller-skates would at least take Mulder’s mind off of exploding eardrums and the fragility of human life. Of course, the inkling was hardly backed up by solid scientific fact, and just last week, she’d told him that he needed to better his diet for the sake of his heart’s health, but nonetheless, she needed to find him respite, a place where he felt most in his element. First, a diner came to mind even though Loleta seemed void of any diners.

Back in her second year working with him, they’d been stranded in a snowstorm in Burlington, the roads closed and all of the native Vermonters snuggled beneath flannel sheets while she’d phoned her mother to say why she couldn’t make mass on Sunday. That night, they’d holed up in one of the few bed-and-breakfasts that had power, the lake effect wind rustling the shutters on her window, the television’s rabbit ears barely picking up a signal, and at two in the morning, when she’d somehow still been awake, he’d knocked heavily at her door, shouted to her, “I’m starving. Want to get dinner?”

And then, they were in a Ford Taurus - rented, of course - barreling over snowdrifts while plows on all kinds of cars - most commonly trucks but also Jeeps and Yukons and even the occasional S.U.V. - cleared what they could, silent and fat flakes of snow still falling well into the night. From the reckless turns Mulder made, and from the crunchy way the brake pedal on that car had felt even before the snowstorm, she clenched her fists on her lap for the whole ride, her mind repeating I cannot die in a snowstorm with this man, for that’ll be the most tragic way for me to go. While Mulder sought out a diner, they both realized that, apparently, there was a culture surrounding the idea of a diner and that so-called diner culture didn’t exist in Vermont, where shops closed at five in the afternoon and dared not reopen until morning. Stomachs empty, they made it back to the motel, where they managed two candy bars out of a vending machine and where they sat together on his bed, her boots left at the door while his were kicked off haphazardly in the middle of the room, and watched local programming on the fuzzy television. Unsurprisingly, Vermont news was tame to the point of hilarity; over processed chocolates, they laughed at how Mrs. Roberts’ grandson’s visit was the breaking story of the night, and when Scully fell asleep alongside Mulder, he was polite enough not to wake her until morning.

And now, she once again found that, when they needed a diner most, one would never appear.

Stepping over to where she stood at the little payphone off of the side of the road, he looked over her shoulder, asked, “Why don’t we just find a place to stay for the night?”

She took a deep, quiet breath, her eyes cast down at the Yellow Pages.

“We need dinner,” she said coolly.

“There’s a burger shack two miles up the road,” he commented; she wondered how he knew that while she’d been left oblivious. “Let’s just go there.”

She sucked her lips into a near-smile, went to nod when he quipped, “Unless that’s not up to your standards for my diet.”

But his little smile fell flat, held solemnness beneath it, and suddenly, her mind blanked, then centered on one thought: it was absolutely up to her to protect this man, to comfort him, for she was the only person in the world who could, yet she couldn’t even find him dinner when prompted to do so.

“It’s fine,” she managed, then set the phonebook back down, headed for the driver’s side of their rental car.

At the passenger’s side, he climbed in, and with the radio off, she pulled away from the ocean in silence.

They were lucky for the summer weather, for the lack of youngsters mulling about the shack’s picnic tables, for the fact that the place was still open even though the sun was beginning to set. Benji’s Burgers, a hand-painted sign on top of the place indicated, and the menu was simple, just five separate burger titles and their ingredients listed on a propped-up chalkboard. Two teenagers worked the place, and when Mulder asked if either of them was Benji, he received shrugs and the excuse that Benji was out of town on business.

“Burger business?” Mulder asked incredulously as they later sat alongside each other at a picnic table, plastic baskets of burgers and fries in front of them. “What kind of burger business do you have to go out of town for?”

In between bites, she commented, “Maybe this is just his side business.”

The sky formed a shade of bright orange, remarkable and vast above them; cars would occasionally buzz past the roadside shack, but mostly, the only sounds were the summer insects around them and the transistor radio that the two teens had set up in the shack. Currently, some staticky Spencer Davis song played, and she kicked off her heels beneath the table, let her feet rest bare against the earth beneath them.

“Benji’s Burgers,” Mulder enunciated, hovering his burger in front of his mouth, “a front for Benji’s Blow and Dope. This, of course, is just a side business. Doesn’t make nearly as much money.”

For his sake, she quirked a lip at that even though her face felt heavy with woe, her eyes tired, her uncertainty making her hands shaky as she went to take a bite of her own burger. Extra mustard, hold the pickles. He’d ordered for her.

“Do you think at all about dying nowadays?”

The question left her gagging on her bite, one of her hands coming to her mouth while she forced herself to chew, swallow, find words. Before she could speak, he smiled to himself at her response, admitted, “I didn’t mean to make you choke.”

Embarrassed, she defended, “It was an abrupt change of subject.”

“We can’t lie as though it wasn’t on our minds.”

She took a deep breath, said, “No, we can’t.”

“With the cancer and all, it must’ve been hard not to think about it,” he said, “but do you ever thinking about it now?”

“About dying?”

He nodded softly, honestly, so she shrugged, offered, “Sometimes, I guess. When we thought Crump-”

“Mister Crump,” Mulder corrected, then took another bite of his burger, Benji’s so-called special sauce leaving a red stain alongside his lips.

“Well, when we though that Mister Crump had been infected with something bacterial,” she repeated, “I thought about dying.”

“How did it feel?” he asked. “The concept, I mean. The thought of it all.”

She weighed her words, gave, “Horrifying. Uncomfortable. But in the end, your only option is acceptance.”

“It’s not your only option,” he said. “You could be kicking and screaming until the very end, right until that profound plug is pulled. You’d don’t need to accept a thing.”

“You need to accept it if you want peace of mind.”

“Who cares about peace of mind?” he asked. “If you’re going to be dead, then why does it matter?”

And to that, she had no response, so she stared down at her lap, the fries in her basket going cold, a sedan driving past at a speed that deserved a ticket. Uncomfortably, he shifted his weight, finished off his meal, kept his eyes down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being an ass.”

“You had a rough day.”

“He didn’t deserve to die, Scully.”

“Does anyone?”

Humorlessly, he laughed.

“You don’t want to know my answer to that,” he admitted, meeting her eyes.

She stuck a cold, unsatisfying fry into her mouth and wondered where they would stay tonight as she chewed.

“I just think that today’s injustices were avoidable,” he said, unbuttoning two buttons on his shirt and ruffling his - dirty, she might add - hands through his hair. “You said that everyone in that home area was dead. There’s no way a government can rationalize that.”

“A government can rationalize anything,” she mumbled as he chose not to listen.

“How many more people have to die, Scully?” he asked. “How many more innocent civilians have to get in the way before someone, anyone, realizes that this is unjust?”

“You’re assuming they don’t already realize that this is unjust.”

“I can’t keep doing this anymore, talking to rednecks about their beets and pretending I’m making a difference,” he said softly. “There’s so much more out there, so much more I could be doing.”

“We’ll find our way back to cases like this,” she assured, bringing her palm to rest on his leg. “We’ll solve x-files again. We’ll be able to help again.”

“But what have the x-files done for either of us?” he asked, his tone stark. “They caused your abduction, your cancer. They’ve attacked our families, and for what, Scully? For next to nothing. If we do something, people die. If we don’t do something, people die. There’s no way out of this.”

As Jim Croce crooned hazily through the teens’ radio, she folded her hands on her lap, swallowed hard. Though she wanted to offer something, to say that everything would be fine and that no one would ever die again and that the world, though he had never been able to see it in such a way, was, at its depths, a good place, she couldn’t offer any of that without knowing her statements would be lies. Breathing in, she closed her eyes, felt the soft touch of a breeze, could smell the sweat and grime heavy on his skin; when she thought of their flight home in the morning, of the inevitable meeting with Kersh, her heart began to race, so she pushed those thoughts away, forced herself to find something that would comfort him. Her search for a greasy spoon had failed; her consolation efforts were nonexistent; though she thought she knew him better than anyone else did, she still couldn’t find words to take his mind from the injustices of the universe. The injustices of men, she corrected herself. The injustices of the world were mauled animal corpses left to rot in the savannah; the injustices of men were a slew of deceased bodies as a product of government experiments.

Opening her eyes, she reached out, took his sticky hand in hers, entwined her little fingers between his thick, calloused ones. The sky was fading to darker tones, and by now, she knew he needed somewhere to rest and wash, but she still searched for something to say, some little compliment or inside joke or anything else that would bloom a smile of his, but her search continued to be fruitless.

“You’re pensive,” he said with a dry laugh, but she could hear a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Softly, he curled his fingers against hers, so she sucked her lips into a smile, spoke the first words that came to mind.

“Some of my best memories are with you,” she said, the compliment absent-minded and unrelated, but as she looked up, she saw the stunned look on his face, the deep blue-grey of his eyes, the way he looked at her as though everything else had momentarily faded away, leaving only her dry and freckled face in its wake. With sauce still on his cheek, he was messy and unshowered and himself, and she wanted to curl her arms around him and reassure herself that, even though death seemed to follow them wherever they went, it had yet to touch them and that that was a good thing.

Glancing down and breaking their eye contact, he smiled toward his shoes, said, “Let’s go find a hotel, Scully.”

Exhaling, she nodded, said, “Somewhere nice.”

“On the bureau card?

She gave him a look, said, “We’ll call it repayment for the talking-to Kersh’ll give us in Washington.”

Smiling, he stood, pulled her up as well. She picked up her heels and dangled them from her open hand while he led her back toward the car, but before he could go around to the passenger’s side, before he let go of her hand, he added, “Scully?”

She hummed a response, looked up at him with new perspective; she so rarely stood next to him flat-footed, so the positioning reminded her of the moment when he’d held her in the hospital after Penny Northern had died, of how warm and alive he’d felt alongside her dying body. Absently, she wondered how his arms would feel now, California nighttime surrounding them, unrighteous death behind them and personal anger ahead.

Looking down, he admitted, “Most of my best memories are with you too.”

Then, he ducked over to his side of the car, and as she opened her own car door, as she slid her shoes back on, she didn’t realize that she’d begun to smile.

[danithebelcher]

Dear Members of the U.S. Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor & Pensions,

We are a collection of current and former career civil servants at the U.S. Department of Labor (the “Department”). We write in our capacity as private citizens to express our serious concerns about Mr. Andrew Puzder’s nomination to serve as the Secretary of Labor, and to request that the Committee vote against Mr. Puzder’s nomination. None of us has joined a letter like this one before; we feel compelled to do so now because of our serious concerns as to whether Mr. Puzder would be able or willing to serve as a conscientious steward of the statutes that the Department is charged with enforcing and the precious rights that the Department is responsible for protecting. We believe that three specific factors disqualify Mr. Puzder from serving as the head of an agency whose primary mission is to protect America’s workforce: (1) Mr. Puzder’s own business practices; (2) his derisive public comments about his restaurants’ employees and other low-wage workers; and (3) his equally troubling public comments and behavior towards women.

First, we are alarmed that Mr. Puzder has presided over a company, CKE Restaurants, whose franchises have repeatedly been found responsible by the Department for violating employment laws—namely, the Fair Labor Standards Act and Occupational Safety and Health Act. It is true that there may be worse offenders in the fast food industry. Nonetheless, conducting business in an industry where others routinely violate the law is no license for engaging in similar conduct. The Secretary of Labor should be someone who exhibits exemplary behavior as an employer, not someone for whom violations of employment laws is routine.

In the anti-discrimination context, Hardee’s and Carl’s Jr. have had more federal discrimination lawsuits brought against them since 2000, when Mr. Puzder took over, than any other major hamburger chain. At least one of these cases has resulted in a consent agreement with CKE itself, not merely with its franchisees, implicating Mr. Puzder’s failure to take the necessary steps to eliminate CKE’s discriminatory practices. Although the Department does not enforce Title VII, the Department does enforce anti-discrimination law in other contexts, such as in our review of federal contractors’ compliance with anti-discrimination mandates. The Secretary of Labor should be a leader in opposing employment discrimination, not the head of a company that is a leading defendant in discrimination lawsuits.

It is also true that many of the violations at CKE restaurants have occurred in facilities operated by franchisees rather than by CKE itself. However, our experience as the guardians of our nation’s employment laws has taught us that such violations often occur as the result of incentives or practices created by the franchisor. We were therefore unsurprised to see a recent report that CKE corporate has apparently sent a memorandum to its franchisees setting forth a company policy that workers are prohibited from speaking to the press. When franchisors wish to impose policies on franchisees and take a strong stand against violations committed by their franchisees, they have the means to do so: most franchise agreements require franchisees to comply with the law and not to generate negative publicity. We are not aware of any instances in which Mr. Puzder elected to use such provisions to curb the unlawful behavior of his franchisees. Notably, the franchisor of the world’s largest restaurant chain has done so.

Regardless of whether CKE, as a franchisor, is legally liable for the violations perpetrated by its franchisees, it has a moral obligation to use its considerable power over its franchisees to ensure that they are complying with the law. A Secretary of Labor who has experience in business could well provide a valuable perspective that would help inform the policy decisions the Department makes every day. However, such an individual should be a leader in his or her own industry in complying with the law—not someone who has benefited from violations of the law, even if formal legal structures protect him and his company from liability.

Our concerns about Mr. Puzder’s business practices are magnified by his public comments that demonstrate hostility to the laws that the Department enforces. We are particularly disturbed by Mr. Puzder’s widely publicized comment that replacing employees with automated machines would be desirable because machines are “always polite, they always upsell, they never take a vacation, they never show up late, there’s never a slip-and-fall, or an age, sex, or race discrimination case.” Our concern about this comment is not the acknowledgement that work is becoming more automated—the rise of automation is a reality that it is proper, even wise, for a Secretary of Labor to acknowledge.

However, Mr. Puzder’s remarks reveal insensitivity to employees’ rights, their needs as human beings, and the importance of protections against discrimination. We fear that Mr. Puzder’s comments evince hostility to the enforcement of workers’ rights that is antithetical to the public-facing role that the Secretary of Labor must play. The Secretary of Labor is the highest public official tasked with protecting workers against employers who discriminate against them, fail to maintain a safe workplace, or deny employees statutory rights to take leave. Many of us regularly interact with workers as part of our duties, and those interactions have taught us that workers listen to what the Department’s leaders say and take cues from them when deciding whether and how to exercise their rights. Having a Secretary of Labor who has publicly complained that his own workers demand vacation, compensation for injuries, and the right not to suffer discrimination would send a terrible message to workers considering whether to turn to the Department for protection and to vindicate their rights. That message, if associated with the Secretary of Labor, would undermine the Department’s mission.

We are similarly concerned about Mr. Puzder’s comments about his restaurants’ employees as being (at varying times) either “the worst of the worst” or “the best of the worst.” We find extremely troubling Mr. Puzder’s degrading tone towards his own restaurants’ employees and other low-wage restaurant workers. No individual deserves being described as “the worst” merely because he or she is employed in a low-wage industry or lacks education or job training. Such descriptions further stigmatize a struggling subset of workers in ways that are harmful and hurtful to them and those of us who care about them. Such comments also express a lack of empathy for and understanding of the struggles and challenges faced by large numbers of vulnerable American workers. We believe that such empathy and understanding are critical qualifications in a Secretary of Labor, regardless of what policy solutions that Secretary may choose to offer to address the problems that low-wage workers face.

We are also extremely concerned about Mr. Puzder’s comments about women. Striving for equality for women in the workplace is central to the efforts of the Department. Mr. Puzder’s enthusiastic embrace of the sexualized advertisements his company has run makes us worried that Mr. Puzder is ill-fit to grapple with the subtle ways that perceptions of women in the workplace affect their everyday working experience. (One of us once heard a colleague ask, quite seriously, whether it would violate workplace rules of civility and prohibitions against sexual harassment to view Mr. Puzder’s ads on a government computer. We think the question is a good one.) Mr. Puzder has proudly embraced those sexualized advertisements. He not only said that, “I don’t have a problem with our ads,” but even went so far as to boast that his brand has taken on his own personality. Mr. Puzder unapologetically declares, “ugly ones [i.e., women] don’t sell burgers.” A nominee to become the Secretary of Labor should be ashamed of having made such a statement.

Our concerns about Mr. Puzder’s attitudes towards women are exacerbated by the allegations we have heard regarding his personal involvement in acts of domestic violence. Although Mr. Puzder’s ex-wife has subsequently withdrawn her allegations, the fact that she aired them anonymously on “The Oprah Winfrey Show”—something she would have no incentive to do if her charges were being made falsely for personal gain—gives us pause about Mr. Puzder’s personal conduct. These allegations, combined with Mr. Puzder’s sexualizing comments about the women in his commercials, make us worry that Mr. Puzder is incapable of fostering a supportive and fair workplace for the thousands of women who work at the Department and the millions of working women across our nation.

Because of his business practices and his degrading public comments about low-wage workers and women, we strongly urge the Committee to vote against Mr. Puzder’s nomination as Secretary of Labor. Our concerns about Mr. Puzder are not premised on any policy disagreements some of us may have with him. Rather, we firmly believe that this nominee has not demonstrated a sufficient commitment to, or faith in, the laws that the Department is charged with enforcing. We do not take this step lightly; we take it because America’s workers deserve better. We thank you for considering our views.