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fandomsilhouette · 4 years ago

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you found me in the ashes then (and taught me how to thrive)

The glass he makes is fragile and firm, shatters at the touch of his hand but holds the weight of his whole heart strong and steady. It melts in the heat and bends to his touch, reshaped by the palms of his hands. Felix has left his mark, made something beautiful, something he could call art.

There are scars on his hands from the cuts and the burns. Looking at them in the morning light, the crisscrossed lines look like art too.

Happy @felixmonth, y’all!

Marinette doesn’t forgive him, necessarily. He’s too far gone for that, and he doesn’t expect anything more than… well, he had expected her to burn the pillow at first sight but clearly that didn’t happen. Felix finds himself absurdly, ridiculously grateful for every smile she sends his way. It’s not often, and usually in passing, but he’s finally getting to see more than the tips of her hair as she rushes around a corner and disappears. He missed this. Felix hadn’t realized how much.

He also finds himself going back to the library, missing his kids (his kids? when did that happen?) and wondering how they’d been all summer. He’s surprised when most of them even remember him, ask about where he’s been and beg for their favorite stories to be read first.

A little girl with black hair all tied up in pigtails pushes a book at him. Felix has never read it before, and, ignoring the guilt that comes with choosing a book out of simple curiosity, picks it up. Savvy, he reads, by Ingrid Law. The children settle down, and he starts reading.

There’s something relaxing about beanbag chairs and bookshelves, and the warmth of a child like a cat on his lap. There’s something relaxing about reading children’s books, too: they reach to the deepest parts of his childhood Felix has yet to shed and call to him, pull him apart into all the pieces he’s broken into and find the spaces where the glass doesn’t fit and smoothes it over, burns him in the light of being seen and heals him in the same breath. There’s no judgement in reading it to the children. They’re a free pass to exploring the themes he skipped over as a child. Felix holds onto it with both hands.

In the book, Mibs climbs onto a bus and hitchhikes her way to her Poppa, injured in the hospital. On the way there, she learns how to work her savvy, and learns that her strongest power is the one she’s had all along. Felix’s heart aches to have a power like that, to be able to touch someone and know what they feel, what they need. He wishes he knew how to be the person that the people around him need.

“Mister Felix, you are what we need.” The little girl in his lap snuggles into his stomach and sighs, half asleep. Most of the other kids have wandered off or nodded off, holding their parents’ hands or clutching at their collar. He hadn’t meant to whisper it out loud. He’s sort of glad he did.

“Where are your parents, noodle?” Her name is Maggie, but Felix calls her anything but. Her favorite is noodle, and he’s inclined to use it when she’s all soft spoken and sweet like this, wiggly and melted in his lap.

“I dunno, I lost ‘em.” She makes no move to get up. Felix shrugs off his jacket and tucks it in around her, and starts in on the second book in the series. Her parents come to pick her up two books later, just as he’s wrapping up the last one, and he lets her take his jacket with her. She wears it gleefully, sleeves hanging past her fingertips and one shoulder sliding off. Her arms wave just to flap the sleeves and her eyes light up when her mama spins her around. He doesn’t expect to get it back.

Marinette shows up with it two weeks later at camp with a note and a messily stitched cat, grinning.

“You have a secret admirer.” The cat is stitched in with the same gap-toothed stitching that shows in the uncontainable joy of Maggie’s smile. On the back, in that messy careful writing, she’s scrawled “You are your own savvy!” Felix’s heart bursts. She’s too young to be so clever. She’s just young enough.

“Very secret, mhm. Definitely.” And then he manages a wink, and that turns into a full blown smirk when Marinette turns pink. She hands him the jacket and Felix doesn’t jump when their fingers brush. It’s been washed out and has that lingering little kid smell, overlaid with something that smells like bakery and flowers. That night is Felix’s turn to fall asleep tucked into a jacket that feels like it fits just right.

Marinette doesn’t avoid him that summer, but she doesn’t seek him out either. It’s a strange truce to be in, to go on hikes on paths they used to walk together, to see his messy stitches propped up against her neat ones in the project storage of the arts and crafts room. Felix makes an effort to wave, to nod at Nino and ask about his new music, to talk to the younger years when they get lost or lonely. Felix finds he has so many stories memorized from how often he read them at the library. He does voices, and the youngest campers are enthralled. The older ones are, too, but they skulk around at the edges, keep themselves busy with something else and act like they aren’t paying attention. Felix leans in, winks at them, and catches a little boy around the waist, throws him up in the air. The older campers laugh at the shock on his face, and when Felix gets overrun with kids demanding attention, he waves over the rest and slips out once everyone is laughing.

He runs into Marinette leaning against a wall outside, waving Nino off so he can catch up with Luka. Felix can see the blush even on Nino’s dark skin, and tries something new. A nod, a wave, something encouraging and bright instead of sneering or snide.

“I was waiting for you.” Her voice is teasing and light and makes Felix blush. He doesn’t respond. “You’re pretty cute with those kids, y’know. Allan is especially fond of you, he won’t stop talking about the voices you do.”

“...you know them?”

She snorts and pushes herself up, starts walking away. “I’ve been teaching them arts and crafts for years, so… yeah. I do.” There’s something sharp in her tone, chiding and playful all at once, and Felix’s heart races. He watches her back, her ponytail swinging, and worries. She pauses. “Aren’t you coming? You’re going to get caught in the rain again if you don’t hurry.” Then she winks, and takes off at a jog.

Felix laughs in delight, shakes off the first raindrops on his skin and chases after her, a few steps behind but getting closer.

By the time they’ve sat down with their lunch, the rain is coming down heavily. Marinette waves and splits off to find Nino, and Felix wanders over to an empty table. He can still see her, animated, waving and gesturing wildly, and Nino laughs with her. She glances over at Luka and Nino pulls a face, but he slides down into his seat too. When Marinette laughs, Felix does too.

By 3PM, not a lot of people are left laughing. The rain is coming down hard, and with everyone stuck in the great hall with nowhere to go, counselors are rapidly losing any ability to keep everyone entertained. By 5, everyone’s irritated and scared, itching to be back in their own cabins or outside or anywhere else. There’s general discontent growing across the room. Felix slips away from his table to make space for the growing group of upset children huddling together in support and slinks into a corner. Cabin fever is setting in, which makes Felix almost smile. They aren’t in their cabins, and the irony would make him laugh if he wasn’t so listless-lost-lonely in this crowded hall. Thunder rumbles. Felix’s spine shivers in time with the skies.

He’s still watching Marinette. He doesn’t know what that says about him.

She hasn't looked back at him, but the lightning strikes and she makes her way away from the seat she’s curled up in for the last five hours. Nino sticks his tongue out behind her and she does the same back to him before turning around to look at Felix. There’s lightning again, sure, but it’s in her thundercloud-blue eyes.

It’s shockingly beautiful.

She slides down the wall, her shoulder barely brushing his. Electricity shoots across his skin and he shudders. Half an hour passes like that, each second tapped out with the beat of his pounding heart.

Her voice is quiet when she finally speaks.

“...why did you do it?” She’s not looking at him, but he can hear the strength it takes her to ask the question out loud. Felix draws circles in the dust on the floor with his finger.

“I… wish I could tell you. I don’t know, Marinette. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I just want to know why.” She pauses. “I… Nino says I shouldn’t care or I should ask you and get it over with, and I’ve never been one to not take my own advice.” Marinette doesn’t explain that statement and Felix doesn’t ask her to; in the time that Marinette’s been here, Nino has been edging his way towards Luka.

“My… mother. I just… I spent so much time around people who just…” Words slip away from Felix and frustration roils in his gut. It’s bitter and biting and hurts, and he screws his face up, clenches his fists. Marinette looks away and leans into his space, and he feels seen and safely hidden all at once. “…this is going to sound so dumb, but I didn’t… I didn’t know what happiness looked like. I thought… I just… that’s what people did, okay? Growing up, everyone who smiled at me wanted something, and usually something I couldn’t afford to give. So instead it was torn out of me and after a while… you start seeing smiles with all their bloody teeth when all they’re used for is taking a bite out of you.”

She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t speak. It feels like the walls are closing in, squeezing at his heart. The fever spikes. Felix thinks he might be sick; he gropes blindly for water and gulps it down.

“I really did want to be your friend. I don’t know what it looks like but it’s damn hard making friends. Chloe spent the first whole decade of my life tearing down any scrap of self esteem I had. By the time I even figured out how to stand on my own two feet, everyone else had managed to make friend groups and build social skills and I was years behind. I worked hard to catch up. I made my way here and I refuse to be called manipulative for being kind.” Words come pouring out of her, like she spent the last half hour building them up behind a dam just to let them all burst now. They wash over Felix like waves, cool on his burning skin.

“I think I’m… starting to get that, yeah.” He tries for a joke: “As it happens, I happen to be pretty behind too.” It makes her laugh, and pride wells in his smug grin. She bumps into his shoulder.

“You’re not too bad, y’know. I’ve seen you with them.” She nods at the kids and then weighs her words on the scales of her tongue, decides to speak. “Thank you, Felix. I forgive you.”

“Thank you, Marinette. You’re… not too bad yourself.”

Counselors start bringing out dinner and the children rouse. By dessert, Marinette is singing and the kids come gather around her to listen, to sing along in their warbling voices. She nods at Felix and he joins in too; then someone demands stories and between the two of them, they manage to get through three Disney movies. She doesn’t move from beside him the whole time.

She falls asleep first, still stuck in the great hall while the clouds pour down, tilts onto his shoulder. Felix doesn’t do anything but slide down until she’s comfortable, and keeps telling stories until his voice gives out and the campers are passed out around them.

Come morning, the sun breaks through the clouds, bright and bold and shining. Felix wakes up to it, revels in the light of the morning sun, and grins.

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wellhellotragic · 5 years ago

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Dead in the Water (1/2)

You guys!!! It’s here! It’s our @csrolereversal drop date and I’m so excited for you all to see the amazing art @clockadile created for this event. Everyone, please go to her page, check out this amazeball painting, and send her all of the love that she deserves because this fic would never have existed without her! She is just such a wonderful person and I feel so honored that I got to make words in an effort to bring her art to life in a different way. I hope that I’ve done it, and her, justice and that you guys enjoy this. Shout out to @darkcolinodonorgasm for pulling this event together and to everyone in the rolereversal discord chat. It truly has been such a wonderful event and everyone has been so amazingly supportive of one another, so thank you all for being so awesome! Also tagging @cshalloweek even though my theme doesn’t completely match the day.

Summary:

Killian Jones may have just had the worst year of his life. The loss of his hand, of his career, and of his pride were almost more than he could take. In a bid to reclaim his life, Killian decided it was time to face his fears, and get back on the metaphorical horse, or in his case, back on the water. Only, the purchase of a haunted second-hand boat may just come at the cost of his sanity.

“The sea is like a cruel mistress. You can love her, you can hate her, but you can never trust her.” - author unknown

Rating: M (foul language sprinkled in and some adult themes)

Also on AO3

“Mayday! Mayday!”

Nothing.

“Please, is anyone out there?” The faint words were met with radio silence. The only noise a high pitched whining from what was likely a busted eardrum. Weak and dizzy, blood continued to drip into the water filling the cabin. The once brown floor now covered in pink.

Searing pain, a sinking boat, and all hope lost. There was little to do but wait. Wait for the inevitable. There was nowhere to go, no reason to have hope. Climbing to higher ground had been a struggle, and pointless as the vessel continued to dip lower and lower into the icy water.

That night, prayers went unanswered. The heavens laughed as they flashed their pearly white teeth and the crackle of a thousand laughs filled the air. The rain continued to fall all around.

There was nothing to do but wait until the water finally claimed her prize. Until the sea took it’s claim. Until the world went black.

***

It was unseasonably hot in Boston. Granted, summertime was hardly a perfect oasis in the northeast on a usual year, but that July had seen it’s hottest temperatures in over sixty years, and the city had been a sweltering mess. The usually pristine buildings along Freedom Trail were littered with blinding metal as each window had suddenly become occupied with ac units overnight. There had even been rolling blackouts as the power company struggled to keep up with the city’s demands.

Why Ariel’s Antiquities had insisted on holding their event outdoors was a mystery to Killian. Women and men dressed in their best, hoping that fancy clothes would somehow insinuate that they had money and could easily out bid their competitors. Unfortunately for them, their power suits became far less intimidating by the minute as sweat lines began to appear sometime just before ten. As the hours drifted on, people became puddles, their shoes sticking to the sidewalks.

Killian found himself near constantly tugging on the collar of his shirt, peeling it away from his sticky skin. Unlike him, his brother had refused to undo the top two buttons on his shirt and seemed even more miserable, if that were somehow possible.

The two men had been sniping at each other for the better part of the morning, and now with the sun at full intensity above them, they’d resorted to silence as they milled their way through lot after lot. The auction advertisement Killian had seen online seemed to have mostly a mishmash of memorabilia and collectables, with a few actual antiquities mixed in.

But unlike the other bidders, the two men weren’t there for random knick knacks. There was one specific item that had caught his eye on the online inventory. A tiny thumbnail the only indication of its existence and he could only hope that it hadn’t been from a previous auction.

For over an hour, Killian traipsed through the old fair grounds, Liam in tow behind him, searching with no luck.

“Killian, I hate to be the one to say this, but it’s not here. We’ve been to every lot and it’s just garbage.” He turned to see his brother giving him a look of pity, infuriating his very being. “Perhaps this is a sign.”

“A sign of what? False advertising?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I just-” Liam took a deep breath, pushing the air out on an audible huff. “I just worry about you.”

With that, all of the anger and frustration from the day left Killian’s body. He couldn’t be mad at Liam any more, not when he knew it was true. When he still had memories of waking in the hospital, of seeing Liam’s eyes red and puffy from tears. It was the first time he’d seen his brother cry since their mother had passed years before.

“Liam, this is something I need to do. I need to prove to myself that I can get back out there. I can’t let this cripple me for the rest of my life.”

His choice of words hadn’t meant to convey the irony, but as his brother glanced down at the metal and leather covering his wrist, Killian couldn’t help but notice the cruelty of the universe. That even the most benign of words could cause such pain, even a year later. How even thinking about that day caused his missing hand to throb in pain.

“Killian, you are one of the strongest people I know. You don’t have anything to prove. Not to me or anyone else.”

Gone were the days where Liam teased him and called him little brother. Now, he was lucky if Liam said anything cheeky around him at all. And while he didn’t have anything to prove to anyone else, the truth was that he needed to show his brother that he wasn’t broken. Not anymore. That he didn’t need to be coddled like a wounded duck.

Before he could respond though, a glimmer caught his eye from a passing bidder’s reflective earrings, causing him to whip his head to the left. And there, tucked behind an old telephone booth, 2 huge entertainment centers, and a large canopy bed, there it was. There she was.

He didn’t wait for his brother, his jogging nearly breaking into a full stride. She was hard to see, tucked away behind items too heavy to move, but even in his limited view he could see that she was battered and bruised. Still, Killian knew that with a little sweat equity, she could be a marvel. He let his hand run down the fiberglass, feeling the strength of the hull, despite the hole in her port side. A gaping wound about the size of a bowling ball.

She was damaged, just as he was, but together they’d mend each other. He was sure of it.

“That’s it? That’s the boat you brought us all the way out here for?” Killian could only smile to himself. “Brother, she’s a mess. Where’s the mainmast? And did you see that hole? There’s no telling what kind of dry rot is on the inside.”

“Yes. I know she’s not much to look at right now, but-”

“No. You can’t be serious. She’s better off torn apart for scraps.”

Killian couldn’t explain to his brother the draw that he felt. He’d been searching auction houses for months. All of the boats he’d seen were either grossly overpriced, or faced the Goldilocks conundrum. Too small. Too big. But this one, it was just right. From the instant he’d seen that tiny thumbnail picture on his laptop screen, he’d felt it deep within his gut. He was meant for that boat, just as she was meant for him.

“And what kind of name is Jewel of the Real?”

“Realm.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Jewel of the Realm.”

Killian’s hand brushed over the faded wood, tracing the faintest outline of where an ‘M’ used to reside.

The rest of their time there was a bit of a blur for Killian. Liam trying his best to talk him out of buying The Jewel as people threw their paddles up in the air, capturing the trinkets on the stage. Killian fighting with a man two rows ahead of him for the winning bid, going over the maximum price he’d set in his head. Giving the auction house the delivery address, ignoring the way his brother huffed as Killian wrote them a check.

But none of that mattered, because in the end, she was his. The auction house delivered her a few days after his check cleared. The address he’d given them was for a warehouse another expat had told him about. Cheap monthly rates and all of that. What Will Scarlet had neglected to mention was that the warehouse was actually an abandoned building in a rather questionable part of town. Killian never should have trusted the man with a deposit sight unseen. The building lacked windows or doors, and Killian immediately knew he’d been had by the huxter.

He’d scrambled to find another place to fix up the Jewel. The drydocks at the marina were expensive and lacked space for him to spread out with tools, not to mention the absence of privacy while he worked. It was bad enough that people stared at his hook while he was picking up food from the local pub or out with Liam and his wife. He’d be damned if he was going to have people watch him work on a boat one handed. He even considered trying to work out of his friend, Robin’s, garage but the thirty two foot boat simply wouldn’t fit. No matter how imaginative he got with his sketches.

In the end, it was the most unlikely of allies that came to his rescue. The last man he ever expected to aid him with the Jewel. Liam owned a shipping company, specializing in European imports, with English ales and German lagers making up the bulk of his business. The main office was based in downtown Boston, but there was also a small warehouse down by the port where items were stored as they awaited inspection. His brother, still not happy with his decision made him an offer anyway. Come to work at Jones Shipping Monday through Friday, and he’d have the warehouse all to himself in the evenings and on weekends to work on the “abomination.”

Killian accepted begrudgingly. He wasn’t necessarily in need of a salary. He had the monthly stipends from the Navy to live on, the only benefit of losing his left hand, and the idea of becoming a corporate stooge maddened him to no end. He’d already sold his soul once, and they spit him back out once they deemed him of no further use. He wasn’t quite ready to lose the rest of himself to a full time day job pushing paperwork, schmoozing potential clients, and taking orders from Liam. But the perk of Liam’s harbor warehouse was too great to pass up.

So he took the job. He started on a Monday and the boat was delivered on the following Tuesday. Liam had neglected to mention his need for a key, so after driving across town, Killian ended up having to turn around without seeing her. The next day he’d nearly ripped into Liam when he saw him, but seeing three other men in suits sitting in front of Liam’s desk made him rethink his anger. Or at least rethink giving his brother a piece of his mind at work in front of people he’d only ever met at staff parties. He’d already had to deal with stares and questions from a rather bold intern. The stress from his own self-consciousness only amplified his frustration with Liam.

He finally got the key from Liam later that afternoon, along with another gift that he wasn’t particularly fond off. One that actually left him offended. One that he threw back in his brother’s face as he stormed out of his office, not caring one bit what anyone thought of him. Not when his brother obviously thought so little.

He was too upset to even go check on The Jewel at that point, choosing to head to a pub near the harbor instead. The Rusty Anchor was a fan favorite for expats. It’s where he’d met Scarlet, which unfortunately didn’t actually say much about the place. He’d met a few good blokes there as well though, like the bartender Robin. They’d become friends in a grief counseling group. It was mandated for Killian, but optional for the other man who was grieving his wife. Listening to Robin talk at their monthly meetings had helped put Killian’s loss into perspective. Suddenly his missing hand didn’t seem so catastrophic.

Robin had invited him to the pub knowing Killian was new in town with few friends, and the two men had formed a bond in the months since. In a way, he felt closer to the man than he did to Liam. Like he could tell him anything without the brotherly judgment that always radiated from the elder Jones.

After a few pints and a good talk with Robin, Killian had calmed. Liam was still a moron, but that wasn’t on him. And as Robin said, he just had to continue to remind himself that the only reason he was even working for his brother was so that he could fix up the Jewel. As soon as she was sea worthy, he could leave his job without breaking his word to Liam.

In a slightly better mood, he headed a few streets over to the warehouse, ready to take a full inventory of all of the repairs she’d need. The hole in the hull was obvious, as well as new paint all over, and she needed a new mast and sails, but there was always the concern of dry rot. That was the biggest worry. Having to replace every plank of wood and all of the fiberglass on the boat would defeat the entire purpose of restoring her.

Not to mention the difficulties he’d face using his hook. He was more than proficient with it for everyday use after eight months of practice, but some things still tested his limits. As he walked up to the warehouse, thinking about how he’d hoist the sails on without tearing them, he was completely lost in thought, oblivious to the man standing next to his boat. He was more than a little embarrassed by the shriek that escaped from his lips, but upon realizing that it was Liam there waiting for him, his distress turned to anger again. Especially when he saw the box from earlier on a nearby table.

“Killian, before you say anything, it’s not what you think. I never meant to imply-”

“What? That I’m a freak. That I’ll scare away all of the clients?”

“Actually, it was quite the opposite. I got it for you.” Killian looked down, unable to meet his brother’s gaze. “What? You don’t think I see you? The way you shrink in on yourself when you’re out with Elsa and me?”

Liam had him there.

“Look, Killian. I just thought that maybe it would help you to feel more comfortable. I never meant to insinuate anything by it.”

Perhaps he had overreacted. In his mind’s eye, it was just the cherry on top of a horrible year. The whole world judged him. Wasn’t it only a matter of time before his brother saw him as a disfigured beast as well? Except, that wasn’t what happened. He’d made a snap judgement, and thought the worst of Liam in the process.

“You’re right. I... it’s harder than I expected it to be sometimes. I thought,” he had to fight to keep his emotions in check as he remembered those first few weeks in the hospital. How he’d lost more than just his hand. “I thought it would be easier than this.”

“And I’m sorry that I didn’t handle it in a more sensitive way. I think I was just so excited to show it to you that I assumed you’d be just as enthusiastic. Obviously, it’s not all that functional, but it’s remarkably realistic and Elsa and I just thought it would make you more comfortable dealing with clients.”

Killian laughed to himself. A sad little thing. It was very realistic in a way that nauseated him when he first opened the box. Even now, as he walked over to it and lifted the top, he couldn’t help the catch in his throat. The prosthetic hand looked incredibly realistic, right down to the synthetic hair on the back of the silicone. There was a metal clip that popped into place in his arm sleeve and a metal wire that hooked into his shoulder strap, just like with his hook that allowed some slight mobility in the hand. It opened and closed, allowing him to grab objects if he needed to, but it wasn’t nearly as advanced as the mechanical hands he’d seen in the clinic. Although this one probably didn’t cost the same as Liam’s house either like the mechanical ones, which was a plus.

He lifted it from the box, testing the weight of it. It was slightly heavier than his hook, something that would take some getting used to. It was also probably going to end up being longer when all was said and done. Wearing suits might be a problem. He’d have to wait until he got home to check.

Liam, for his part, didn’t seem to want to make it any bigger of a deal than he already had. Instead, he changed the subject back towards The Jewel.

“Do you want the good news or the bad first?”

He’d already had a hard enough day. He didn’t need the bad news at all, much less first.

“The good.”

“Well, she’s not a total loss. I’ve been checking her over, and the bulk of the damage seems to be located here, in the hull where this hole is. The fiberglass is badly splintered around it. I’ve been trying to work out what exactly could have caused it, but aside from an act of Poseidon himself, it makes no sense. Whatever made the hole, it came from the inside of the boat. The furniture inside the cabin is also ruined. Smashed to pieces or rotted away. But the rudder and keel are still in perfect shape.”

Killian leaned in closer, allowing his hand to move along the edges of the hole. Liam was right. The edges was splintered towards the outside of the boat, and the fiberglass around it was all badly cracked. The auction house had sent him home with documents explaining that the ship had been docked at the marina and it had been hit by some object during a storm. They’d clearly been mistaken.

“And the rest of her? What shape does she seem to be in?”

“Well, the wood planks on the deck could use a good sanding, but if you’re just talking about integrity, I think she’ll hold up just fine.” Killian and Liam both climbed the ladder Liam had set up, allowing him his first good look at her. “You know about the mast and roping already. A full redo on both of those. But come look at this!”

Killian followed, letting his hand glide upon the metal railing. For the first time, it felt real. Look at this! It’s the original certificate showing the builder. You realize what this means don’t you?”

“That you’re excited she’s older than you are?”

“No! She’s vintage Killian! Once we fix her up, you can sell her for twice what you paid for her! Well done little brother.”

Killian took a deep breath, already out of patience with his brother for the day.

“Liam, I see three things wrong with what you’ve just said. First, it’s younger brother. Second, when exactly did this become a joint endeavor? Just a week ago you thought the very idea of my purchasing her was the single greatest mistake of my life. Thirdly, and listen closely Liam because I’m not going to say this again, I am not selling this boat.”

“Well you are my little brother. And I’m just trying to protect you. Why do you think I worry and watch after you so much?”

“You don’t need to worry about me!”

“Well apparently I do!” There was something about the way Liam’s voice, the way it broke as he screamed the words that tugged at Killian’s heart. “You almost died! I waited and waited while they searched for your body, sure that there was no way you’d survived that storm. And then I waited and waited again at your bedside in the hospital, praying to God that he didn’t take you away from me like he had mother. So don’t you dare tell me that I can’t or shouldn’t worry about you!”

Killian had to will back the tears threatening to fall from his eyes. He knew that Liam had been at his bedside in the hospital, but he had never thought of what it must have been like for him getting the call that his brother was lost at sea in a storm. He spent a great deal of time clinging to some wreckage, just trying to stay afloat as the waves crashed over his head, and his body plummeted over and over for what felt like years. Once the storm had passed, he found a piece of the destroyed ship large enough for him to crawl on top of and he let the exhaustion take over. When he woke again it was to intense agony in the hospital ICU.

“Liam, I’m not out there anymore. I’m not adrift at sea anymore. I’m here, and I’m fine.”

“But you aren’t. You aren’t here. You say you are, but I think a part of you died out there that day, and I-” Liam gave up all pretense of hiding, letting the tears flow free, “I think part of you wants to get lost again. Why else are you so intent of fixing up this boat?”

“That’s what you think? That I want to put in all of this work just to go out and vanish into the ocean? Liam, I’m doing this to prove to myself that I can. Because the idea of going back out there sends a bolt of terror through my spine right to my very core. I need to show myself that it was just a freak accident. To get back up on that proverbial horse.”

Liam said nothing, just walked back down to the stern of the boat and down the ladder, walking straight out of the warehouse, leaving Killian alone with the guilt of everything he’d put his brother through. Even as children he was always managing to get into trouble, and poor Liam had always been the one to pick up after him. As he heard Liam’s car start up from the open warehouse door, he couldn’t help but wonder how much more Liam had left in him.

If it weren’t for the fact that he had work at eight in the morning, he very likely would have found himself back at Robin’s, downing a full bottle of rum all on his own. As it stood, he had a debt to Liam, far more than for the agreement he’d made for the warehouse space. He owed his brother everything, and though he couldn’t give Liam the one thing he wanted most, he could give him everything else. He could be the prodigal son in a way. Arrive to work everyday in nice clothes, rubbing elbows with Boston’s elite.

So instead of heading back to Robin’s he went down into the ship’s cabin. The space was small, not that he expected much. The boat was only thirty two feet long, and not that tall. There was enough space for a small kitchenette with a tiny sink and grill top. Across from that stood what should have been a small dinette area. Where a table and bench seat should have been was nothing but wood scraps and moldy torn fabric.

He nearly gagged when he opened the door to the tiny lavatory. The toilet was covered in black mold, or what he hoped was mold as nothing else seemed like an attractive option. And then he went to the bedroom area up at the front of the boat. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect, knowing that the hole was in that area. What he found was nothing though. The bed and mattress had been removed, as well as the padding in the seat next to it. The wood forming the cabinets and closet had been torn out as well, leaving behind only the impressions of where they once fit in.

It was evident that the Jewel needed work when he bought her. And he knew that had he known at the time just how much work she needed at the auction house, he likely still would have bought her. But as he stood there, in the torn apart interior, he couldn’t help but feel scammed by Ariel’s Antiquities. They’d purposefully positioned her in a way that no one could see just what shape she was truly in.

Repairing her would take longer than anticipated, which only meant more time working for Liam. Exhausted, Killia headed back to his one bedroom apartment, crashing nearly the moment his head hit the pillow. The next morning, he rose well before the sun, even without the use of an alarm. Apparently you could take the man out of the navy, but not the navy out of the man.

After a nice run, Killian readied himself for the day by showering. Once dry, Killian placed his sleeve over his stump, followed by the hook he’d become so used to. He then picked out one of his better suits, not that he had all that many to choose from, dressed, combed his hair, and stepped back to take stock of himself in the mirror. It wasn’t a look he was used to. In fact, the last time he’d been dressed in such a way had been his mother’s funeral. He was still a teenager, Liam barely an adult himself, wearing suits they hadn’t yet grown in to.

Not wishing to dwell on that thought any longer, he headed for the door, grabbing his keys from the bowl on the side table.

And that’s when he saw it. The gift that Liam had given him the day before. His brother had left it in the warehouse in his haste to escape, and Killian had grabbed it on his way out, still not sure how he felt about it. He’d never really intended to wear it, not for everyday office use at least, but as he stood there in his suit, feeling completely uncomfortable and out of place, he decided to, just for once, do something for Liam.

It took him a few minutes to undress, removing his suit jacket and dress shirt so that he could disconnect his hook from the shoulder strap. The hand felt clunky on his arm, and it was difficult to get it through his sleeves, but in time he managed.

The drive to Liam’s, and now his office, wasn’t a long one, but at seven in the morning, it may as well have been a full county away. The traffic was horrible, not something he’d become accustomed to driving in. He’d always avoided rush hour like the plague, and now it would be a part of his daily routine. He also found that the hand was difficult to use. Because of his sitting position, it wouldn’t quite clamp shut around the steering wheel the way his hook would have.

By the time he arrived, he was over ten minutes late, and the morning staff meeting had already started. He did his best to sneak in, sitting at the back of the room, hoping to go unnoticed by Liam, but because the world was already against him that day, he failed.

Liam called him up to the front of the room, officially introducing him to everyone as the new head of client relations. Killian gave an awkward wave and that was it. He’d been inducted into the company, and day after day, week after week, he sat at a desk, working up contracts, researching possible leads. His nights were often spent at dinners, flirting with wives and schmoozing husbands into signing with Liam’s company. He hated it, and more still, he hated how little time he had for repairs on the Jewel.

Repairing the hull had been easy. He sent off for a patch kit, a misleading name considering the size of the hole to be touched up. After carefully cutting away the excess damaged fiberglass and setting the patch in place, he waited for the epoxy to harden, sanding down the excess so it was smooth. Aside from the lack of paint, she looked good as new. The hardest part had been placing everything where it needed to go with just one hand.

He soon realized just how difficult repairing the rest of the boat would be. The entryway to the Jewel was narrow, hardly wide enough for one person to enter at a time. He’d never be able to get fully assembled furniture and cabinets in. So slowly, he brought in all of the material, piece by piece. It took time, considering he’d had to carry all of the materials from the parking lot down the dock, and onto the ship. It was exhausting work, and there was still the matter of assembly. It took him weeks to get everything cut just to size, and assembly space had become a real issue after the new bench and table had been installed. Finding a place to store the cabinetry wood had almost broken him. The boat had almost broken him.

But he persevered. Slowly the cabinets came together. The bedroom in the bow of the boat found itself with a bed and a small closet, and the bathroom got a shiny new toilet. After two months, he’d finally finished the interior of the boat. All that stood in his way from land and sea was a new mast, the part Killian had been dreading most.

It was the very first thing Killian had ordered after he’d purchased The Jewel, but as with any special order, it had taken over a month to arrive, and then when it did, it wasn’t even the right size. He and Robin had spent the better part of a day trying to make it work, to somehow force the new mast into place, huffing and puffing at the weight. Hours later, Killian finally admitted defeat, and with shaky arms sent the company a firmly worded email chastising them for their incompetence.

Two full months and one paint job later, a new one arrived. Robin was unable to help him again though. Setting his pride aside, Killian was forced to ask for help. He and his brother’s relationship had soured. It wasn’t that there was ill will between the brothers, but there was a small bit of resentment on Killian’s part. Sometimes it seemed as if Liam was giving him extra work and setting extra meetings for the sole purpose of stalling his repairs. Some of the clients that Liam set him up with were too small to even have shipping needs.

We just want to make sure that they keep us in mind incase the expand Killian. You have to always be selling Killian. It’s called networking Killian.

He’d had enough. Eventually he’d declined enough of Liam’s offers to spend time together on the weekends that Liam had stopped inviting him over. The brothers discussed business needs, but outside of the office, they may aswell have not even have been related. Killian did feel bad. His brother was the only family he had left after all, but there was just the matter of his pride. He’d had so many arguments with Liam in his mind that he couldn’t remember which conversations were real, and which were made up. He just knew that he was right in all of them.

Which is why it was so hard for him to turn to Liam for his help. Unfortunately, the mast weighed a few hundred pounds and while the dock, where the boat finally resided, had a crane to help them move it in place, someone still needed to help him slide it into place and hold it steady as he secured it to the boat. The dock had a firm policy on not helping with certain repairs. They didn’t want to be held liable for any damages or injuries that occurred as a result of human error.

Asking Liam for help had been hard. It took him full two days of building up the courage. He’d nearly walked into Liam’s office three times before turning around at the last minute. Finally, he just had to man up. To his surprise, Liam agreed without much opinion on the matter, and that weekend the two brothers finally made up as they struggled together to install the mast. They tried seating it in place, but despite their best efforts, it was slightly off, leaning just a degree or two. While most people might have shrugged it off, both of the Jones boys were determined to get it in straight.

To the chagrin of the crane worker, they demanded he raise it back up so they could check to make sure the surface was level. Nothing seemed off to the naked eye, but again, the mast wouldn’t sit straight. After one final raising, Killian stuck his hand in the seat, trying to feel if there was bubbling or warping in the wood, and to his surprise, he felt something cold and smoothe, not at all like the wood plank he’d expected. After some fiddling, he was able to loosen the object enough to pull it from its hiding place. It was small, so small he wasn’t surprised that anyone at the auction house had missed it.

Liam, for his part hadn’t said much, but Killian could tell by the way Liam was breathing that his brother was annoyed, not with him but with the delay, and ready to finish working. Killian threw the gold piece in his pocket and together, he and Liam finished installing the mast and all of the rigging lines. Afterwards they went for drinks at Robin’s bar, a place Liam had never been before. They shared a few beers, caught up on all of the things they’d missed in the past few months, and each departed like it was no big deal, both ready for a good night’s sleep.

Killian had hoped to crawl into bed and fall straight asleep, but for some reason, as he laid there, his brain seemed to kick into overdrive. It started with thoughts of how he’d have to map out the currents and winds in the boston area before he could ship out. Before long though, all he could think about was work. He’d planned on leaving Liam’s company as soon as he was done, and while he hated some aspects of the job, he did like the structure it provided him with. It forced him to get back into the world again, something he hadn’t realized that he needed to do until Liam tricked him into it.

Unable to sleep, Killian got up to clean, something that usually relaxed him. He started with the dishes, washing and drying them all by hand before moving on to tend to his laundry. Most of his suit items were dry clean only, but his weekend clothes were soaked with sweat and best washed sooner rather than later. Checking all of the pockets and making sure everything was right-side out, he threw items in the washer one by one until he got to the jeans he’d been wearing that day. He’d managed to completely forget about the trinket he’d found on the boat, until just then.

He finished sorting his clothes and started the machine up before heading back into his bedroom, turning on the nightstand table lamp as he crawled back under the sheets. He let the metal turn in his fingers, inspecting the perfectly polished gold. It was a small locket with a bird etched onto one side. There wasn’t an engraving to go with it and told him nothing about the person who’d lost it. The chain that it was attached to was short and the links where tiny, meaning it likely belonged to a woman, but that was all he was able to gather. He continued to turn the locket, just feeling the weight of it in his hand, the surprising warmth of it, when his finger caught on a hidden clasp and the locket snapped open.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. Most women’s lockets contained tiny photographs, but the inside of this one held a small compass. The opposite side featured an engraving, but it didn’t have any names. It simple read: So you always find your way.

He should have wanted to search for the owner, to return what was probably a meaningful gift. There were plenty of news stories all the time about people helping to reunite lost items and owners. The soldier who had his purple heart stolen. The bride that lost her wedding ring on a beach vacation. They were always happy endings, and he knew that the locket didn’t belong to him, but for some reason, he just felt a call to it. Like he also needed it to help him find his way. So he kept it, slipping it on over his own head, having to pull it past his ears. He fell fast asleep soon after.

The next week at work had been grueling. Liam had lined up three dinners for him, one of them with a very sexually aggressive woman that ran a dog breeding company. Apparently there was a high demand for designer dogs and people were willing to pay high prices to have them shipped over the water during the summer and winter seasons when airlines restricted their pet travel policies. He’d had to pry her off of him at the end of the evening, promising he’d call her soon. A complete lie.

The whole encounter had left him feeling dirty. He hadn’t even so much as looked at a woman since his accident, not really, and he just wasn’t ready to move forward in a romantic capacity, even just a physical one. Not after having his heart shattered before. The woman in question wasn’t even interested in him. Not as anything more than a gigalo.

The weekend couldn’t have arrived fast enough. He just needed to get out of town. To get away from everyone, from his responsibilities. He was ready to hit the water and shed the ghosts he carried around with him. He’d planned meticulously. There were charts filling half of his closet and he’d popped by the Tuesday before to fill the kitchenette with snacks for his inaugural trip. He didn’t have a refrigerator yet so he’d done his best to stick with ready to assemble meals. Nothing big, just some bread and jams. A few tea bags and bottled water in case it got cold out on the water.

The plan had been to set sail just as the sun was rising that Saturday. To greet the new day on the water, but for some reason his alarm hadn’t sounded that morning, and for the first time since he’d joined the navy, he overslept. By the time he made it down to the docks it was just after ten, and the area was filled with people. Families going out on day trips. Tour groups trying to enjoy the last few weeks before the winter season. Before everyone would have to winterize their boats and leave them stored away until spring.

He was lost in his thoughts as he walked along the wood planks at the docks, past other ships, nearly tripping on a rope that someone has carelessly left out. Cursing under his breath, collecting himself from the slight embarrassment of it all, he glanced back at The Jewel. It was hard to see with the sun reflecting back on the water, but for just a few seconds, he could have sworn that he saw a shadow moving along her port side. There was a person on his boat.

It wasn’t unheard of, finding a vagrant living on an unused boat, or some random person lost and on the wrong ship. The Jewel had a very specific and unique paint job though. Mistaking her for any other vessel on the harbor would have been impossible. And he’d been there only a few nights before. He would have seen signs of a stowaway using her for shelter.

That could only mean that whoever was aboard his boat was looking for trouble, and after the morning he’d had, he was more than willing to give it to them. Swearing to himself, he picked up his pace, ready to give the trespasser a piece of his mind, but when he finally made it to The Jewel, she was empty. Thinking perhaps they’d gone below deck, he crept down the narrow stairs, doing his best to avoid making noise. There was no one though. She was empty. Just a trick of the mind.

Feeling foolish, Killian reemerged, on the deck, ready to give all of the lines one final check before setting sail when he heard a noise, a creaky wooden plank from down below. This time he ran, not giving a damn if the person knew he was coming or not. He was ready to find whoever was hiding.

Once again though, he came up empty. Even after searching in all of the cupboards and storage spaces under the kitchen bench and his bed. He checked all of the closets, but there was no one. He was all alone.

It was just in his head. Not surprising considering what a huge step he was about to take. The idea of going back on the water leaving him with an uneasy queasy feeling in his gut. Which was also the exact reason that he needed to do it. Why he’d tried to stress to Liam the importance of buying The Jewel.

He needed to conquer his fear. Even if his brain tried to scare him out of it. Because that’s all it was. A shadow from a person on a boat near his. An old creaky boat groaning from the change in humidity. It was all in his head, and it needed to stay there.

More determined than ever, Killian went back upstairs, ready to set sail, distraction free, but when he emerged from the cabin, he was met once again with an odd sensation. A feeling of being watched.

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Bloody hell, Liam? How long have you been here?”

“Not long.”

And there it was. His older brother, his protector, playing games with his head to place doubt. Liam had done more than his fair share of things to delay the boat becoming ready, but to actually try to scare him away was just too much.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Come again now?”

“I’m talking about you playing games with my head, trying to frighten me away from taking my boat out. You’ve made it very clear that this wasn’t something you wanted me to do, but this is a new form of low, Laim.”

He was furious.

“Killian, I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve only just arrived.”

He watched the elder Jones, the way his brow furrowed. Liam may have been a great many things to Killian, but he’d never known his brother as a liar.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’ve actually come bearing a gift.”

It was only then that Killian noticed the neatly wrapped bundle in Liam’s left hand. Liam didn’t ask permission again, choosing to come aboard The Jewel to hand the gift to Killian. He felt more than a little guilty for accepting it, especially after having just yelled at his brother, but Liam was insistent.

Carefully he peeled back the wrapping paper, careful not to tear it, lest he find paper scraps for weeks to come blown into every nook and cranky. Inside, he found a book, an old one by the look of it.

“It’s a first edition. Took some time to track down or I would have had it to you sooner.”

The significance of Liam’s thoughtfulness was evident. It was a first edition of Peter Pan. The book their mother used to read to them nightly. Each time she finished, Killian would beg her to start again from the beginning. It was the thing that first ignited his love for the sea.

“Thank you, Liam. This means more than you know.”

Liam just gave him a nod, understanding the emotional weight they both held in that moment.

“I, uh, guess you haven’t checked the stern of the boat just yet?”

It was on his list. First the ropes, then a walk around above deck to ensure everything was properly secured, before walking around the dock to check that everything was good on the exterior.

Intrigued, Killian climbed down from the boat and walked around to the back side of The Jewel. But what he found was that she’d been renamed.

“The Jolly Roger?”

“I very specifically remember you telling mum and me that when you grew up, you were going to own a huge ship, and you were going to name her The Jolly Roger-”

“Just like Captain Hook.”

He’d completely forgotten. As a small eight year old, he was determined that one day he’d own a pirate ship. That he’d sail the seven seas taking whatever he wanted from whoever he wanted. Probably in part because he was sick of getting Liam’s hand me downs.

“I hope you don’t mind. I know she’s not exactly what child Killian had in mind, but you’ve done exactly what you said you were going to do. And I know I’ve been a prick about this entire thing, so I wanted to do something to make up for it. To show you that I really am in your corner.”

Killian was touched. It was possibly the first time his brother had apologized to him since before their mother died. Even then, it was probably the first time he’d ever done it without being scolded into it.

“Thank you, brother.”

There’s one final thing. Last night, Robin and I came out here and installed a motor on the back.” Killian was about to say something, but Liam barreled on. “I know. But I just want to keep you safe. If you should find yourself without wind, you’ll still have a way to get back to shore.”

“Marvelous.” His annoyance only slightly tempered by Liam’s attempt at a kind gesture.

From his inside coat pocket, Liam produced a manual for the motor. ‘A guide to your new Stern Mounted Electronic Engine.’ He had to give it to Liam. He’d thought of everything. Even a Mr. SMEE.

Together, he and Liam set about getting The Jolly ready. After checking everything over twice, they finally set out, both men trying not to hold their breath as the docks become smaller and smaller. After about thirty minutes, they were able to relax, realizing that the ship hadn’t yet sunk, and likely wouldn’t anytime soon.

The trip was relaxing for the most part. The brothers argued still, as Killian realized that Liam had completely rearranged all of the food in the kitchenette. It wasn’t surprising and he’d seen Liam do it at his house, whenever Elsa would just quickly throw things back in the pantry. But what did shock him was how Liam adamantly denied it, even though Killian knew he’d left the tea bags in the cupboard above the tiny stove top, not under the sink. And the chips had been moved as well as other items. Still though, Liam swore he hadn’t touched them.

Killian eventually let it go, finding it not worth bickering over anymore than they already had. The real fist-to-cuffs came at the end of the day, as the two men had already redocked and were setting the boat back to rights. Liam had grabbed the trash and told Killian that he was going to take it all to the dumpster in the parking lot while Killian secured all of the sails.

Liam couldn’t have been gone for more than a minute when Killian stood to turn and move on to the other sail when he slipped and fell flat on his back. It hurt more than he wanted to admit, and in his haste to stop himself from falling, he’d somehow managed to catch his hook in the jib sail, tearing it as he fell.

Killian took a moment to compose himself, waiting for the sting of hitting his back on the rail to subside. He must have taken longer than he realized, because by the time he sat back up he heard Liam call his name and scramble across the boat to check on him.

Killian assured him that he was fine, or that he would be as Liam helped him back up. Careful of his steps, he turned to see just what exactly he’d slipped on when he caught sight of small water puddles in the shape of shoe prints. Absolutely sure that Liam had made them somehow, the two brothers had it out, causing Liam to storm away in a huff once more.

Killian stayed long enough to dry all of the water and to watch the sunset over the horizon before heading back to his place to grab a much needed ice pack. His back was still sore two hours later, so he opted for a shower instead hoping that the warm water might help soothe the muscles.

Slowly he undressed, trying not to twist or bend too much. Catching just a glimpse of himself in the mirror are he removed the small gold locket he’d found, he caught sight of his red cheeks, realising that even in October, he’d still managed to get a bit too much sun.

Getting to sleep had been tough. It was only after a glass or two, or three of rum that he was able to find a comfortable position. He drifted off, dreaming of being a child again. Of Neverland and Captain Hook.

The next morning he was still quite sore, so he’d opted not to take a second trip out on the water. Instead, he’d spend the day shopping for groceries and flicking through television programs until he settled on Wicked Tuna. Before he knew it, it was time to ready himself for bed and another dreaded week at work.

It ended up not being as bad of a week as he expected it to be. Liam hadn’t scheduled any meetings for him outside of normal office hours, and the clients that came into the office to settle contracts all seemed relatively normal for once. The brothers had quazied made up, but both felt it was best if Liam didn’t go out with Killian again for a while.

By the time the next weekend came, Killian was eager to set sail again, alone. No distractions. No mind games. Just him and The Jolly. Unable to hide the gold chain under his work shirt, Killian had chosen to leave the compass at home all week, but slid it back over his head before getting in his car to drive down to the water.

For a few moments he worried that his plans would be dashed as his car had refused to turn on. The starter trying to turn over and failing. Finally though, he got her started and headed straight for the docks.

He went through his usual routine, checking everything over, checking the weather once more. It was a little windier than he would have preferred, but the local station said that the wind would die down a bit by mid day. With everything ready, he set out, heading up the coast line just a bit.

The wind stayed stead for nearly four hours, despite the weather stations promise, and at one point, his life preserver ring had managed to come loose and blow straight off the ship. Not wanting to waste sixty dollars on a new one, he turned into the wind, stalling the boat, and dove dove in after it. A foolish endeavour on his part, considering he was alone if anything had gone wrong, but he figured if he could just get to the ring, he’d be fine.

The water was colder than he’d expected. In the navy he’d done cold water drills, letting his body adapt to it. But it had been a year, and his body simply wasn’t used to it yet. The moment he hit the water, his leg cramped up, and for just a second, he sunk under the surface of the water as he grabbed at his leg. When he resurfaced, it was with a mouth full of salt water. His nose burned and his eyes stung.

Once he managed to make it to the preserver, he tried wiping his eyes, but it only made things worse. Looking around to see just how far he was from The Jolly, his eyes had difficulty focusing. Everything became blurry as it felt like he’d had sandpaper rubbed against his cornea. At one point, it looked as if there was a figure standing at the bow of the boat. An impossibility given how far out he was and the lack of other boats.

He closed his eyes, giving them a few minutes to calm down, and when he reopened them, the figure was gone, and The Jolly was more in focus. Killian managed to swim back to the boat, a freezing mess in his wet clothes. He hadn’t actually thought about bringing a change of clothes with him for such a short journey. He stood there on the deck a shivering mess, ready to give up on the day.

As he tried to turn the wheel he began to feel slightly warmer. The wind had finally died down just as local weather woman Alfina Merryweather had promised, except that Merriweather had neglected to mention that her version of a slight breeze was actually a dead stop.

There was nothing, not even the slightest hint of movement. He waited and waited, at one point removing his clothes and doing his best to squeeze as much water out as he could. He thought of Liam, of how his brother would probably be worried if he didn’t hear from him soon. Thoughts that eventually reminded him of the motor his brother had installed for just such an occasion. The motor that Killian never wanted, and certainly wasn’t going to admit to using.

It took him forty two minutes to read the manuel enough to understand what he was doing, the whole thing one long novel of gibberish. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, and how many times he went through the manuel again, twenty minutes later he was just as stuck as before.

After another thirty minutes of attempting to start it and pretending that hyperthermia wasn’t a real threat, he finally caved, ready to call for help over the radio to a towing company. But the radio was just as dead as SMEE, and all of his calls for help were met with static. He began to worry, checking his phone to see the time only to realize that his phone was dead as well. He continued to plea for assistance, the static only becoming louder, eventually there was a spark as he felt a strange nasty shock from the microphone

He jumped back, yelling every curse word he could think of until he was nearly hoarse. Just as he’d quieted, shaking out his hand, he’d heard it. A creaky noise coming from above deck, The same sound he’d heard on his first day out. The sound of boards buckling under the weight of a person. He was sure of it this time, unless the jolt had managed to shock his brain too.

Slowly he crept back up the stairs, feeling every hair raise along his arm as he went. Something felt off. Something just felt very very wrong. But he persisted still, opening the door as quietly as possible. He crept along the deck, treading lightly as not to make any noise. As he moved high enough to see the front of the boat, he noticed a figure. An eerie ethereal blur of a woman.

But before he could say anything she turned and looked right at him. He watched her for a moment, as she seemed to float above the bow of the boat, somehow both there and not quite real. And then her mouth opened, and with the anguished scream of a hundred voices at once, she yelled at him to get out.

He nearly fell as he scrambled backwards, feeling his heart in his throat, trying to leap clear from his body. And just as quickly as she appeared, she was gone. He was paralyzed in fear, completely unable to move when he heard the boat’s engine spring to life, snapping him out of his trance.

#csrolereveral #clockadile is just the best #show her all the love #cs fanfiction #csff

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tmarie82 · 6 years ago

Text

Private Party

Pairing: Dr. Bryce Lahela x MC (Dr. Blake Reyes)

Book: Open Heart

Word Count: ~4,100

Rating: NSFW

Disclaimer: The storyline and dialogue from the first ⅔ of this story is completely the work of Pixelberry’s Open Heart chapter 6, with my own artistic embellishments. Also, I refused to pay diamonds for that piece of red sequined fabric that PB tried to pawn off as a “shirt” in the chapter, so I’ve classed up Blake’s outfit a bit for the story.

Author’s Note: I was floored by how good Bryce’s first diamond scene was last week. Even with the fade-to-black that left some to the imagination, it was still incredibly HOT and perfectly Bryce. This is my adaptation of the housewarming party (and private party in Blake’s room) from Bryce’s perspective. This can and does fit into the timeline of my other Bryce x Blake stories, or it can be read as a stand-alone based on pure canon.

Please let me know if you would like to be added to my tag list. You can find all of my fics in my Masterlist on my homepage.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bryce Lahela had always enjoyed a good party. Starting with the high school ragers he’d attended when his friends’ parents were away and then the college keg parties that would inevitably end with the cops at the door, he had developed a reputation for being quite the party boy. Yet somehow tonight at this particular party, he found himself unexcited at the prospect of free beer and drinking games. Instead he found himself anxiously awaiting the arrival of one person in particular.

Perched atop the arm of the large L-shaped sofa, Bryce tipped his head back to swallow another mouthful of his chilly IPA. He’d brought the six-pack as a housewarming gift of sorts, a casual gesture since he knew Blake loved to try new craft brews, however the beverages had proven quite handy after thirty minutes at the party without a keg. But the bad news was, since he already had a backup in the beer department, that meant there was still no sign of Blake …

He was currently chatting with Elijah and Landry, trying his best to make a good impression on Blake’s two male roommates. While he still wasn’t exactly sure where this thing with Blake was going, deep down he was hoping to see whole lot more of her in the future and he knew maintaining a good rapport with the roommates would be beneficial to everyone down the road. The two other guys were recounting the events from their expedition to the Nighthawks baseball game the other day, and surprisingly Bryce found himself rolling at Elijah’s recap of Landry’s first baseball experience.

The laughter rumbled from his chest, his head thrown back before he responded to the tale. “It sounds like you guys did it right! I’d love to go to a game sometime if you are up to it.” Bryce lifted his bottle to his lips again, taking a small swig before he noticed a slim figure lugging a large metal barrel awkwardly through the front door.

“Yeah, that would be great!” Bryce could hear Landry talking in front of him, although his attention was admittedly focused elsewhere. He couldn’t help the warm grin that spread across his face as he examined Blake, her dark hair looking disheveled in a knot atop her head and her face knitted as she struggled to get the bulky keg further inside. “And I know Blake wouldn’t mind if you tagged along.”

The mention of her name brought Bryce back to the moment, his eyes looking back to the two other men to find them watching him with knowing looks. “I’d really love that. Let me know next time you guys go.” He chugged the rest of his beer down, setting it down on the table before averting his gaze back to Blake. “But if you’ll excuse me, it appears that I am needed elsewhere …” He heard the soft chuckling from the two other men as he walked away, but his mind had already moved on.

Blake had finally made it past the front door and about six feet into the entryway tugging the keg by one handle behind her. Bryce swooped in swiftly and gripped the other handle with one hand, lifting it effortlessly off the ground. “Lemme help with that.” Blake startled at the sudden assistance and turned to him, her eyes blank for a brief second until they glistened with a genuine warmth upon recognition. Bryce nodded a hello at her, following behind her with keg in hand as they now smoothly made their way to deposit it in the kitchen. As they set it down, he finally voiced his confession. “I was wondering where you were.”

Blake flashed him a smug grin, obviously pleased to hear that he had been looking for her. “At the hospital, getting puked on. Again.”

He laughed out loud, his eyes sparkling mischievously as he replied. “I love when you talk dirty.”

He saw her eyes widen at his playful innuendo, then her face set in a satisfied grin. “At least one of us does.” She looked down at her plain gray henley and jeans with a grimace, running her hands along the fabric before glancing back up with a pleading look. “Give me a minute to get showered and changed.”

Bryce nodded, his eyes following her as she made her way through the crowded room towards the bedrooms. Of course his mind had already conjured up an image of Blake in the shower, her slick hands massaging soap across her wet skin, the water trailing over her full breasts and down the curves of her belly and then lower … He cleared his throat and shifted in place to divert the blood flow in his body, attempting to avoid an obvious physical indication of this thoughts in his pants. He quickly surveyed the room for an entertaining distraction to pass the time.

Twenty minutes later, Bryce stood in the middle of the room chatting with several of the other surgical interns when he noticed Blake emerging from her room looking clean and, well, pretty damn hot. Her thick ebony hair tumbled over her shoulders, resting atop her low-cut red blouse that revealed just enough to leave a guy wanting more. And Bryce definitely wanted to see more … which was probably obvious by the way he was staring with his jaw wide open when he caught Blake smirking at him. Bryce tried to compose himself as best he could while she sauntered slowly over to him. “Oh, damn …” was all he could think to say once she was finally standing before him.

Blake arched an eyebrow at him inquisitively, that playful smirk still lifting the edges of her lips slightly. “Problem?” She asked innocently, as if she didn’t know exactly what she was doing to him.

Shaking his head, Bryce allowed his eyes to rake up and down her body, admiring her up close and personal. “Just admiring the transformation.” He noticed her dark eyes sparkle with satisfaction at his response, her bronze skin glowing warmly under his gaze.

“Are you saying I looked terrible before?” Her eyes narrowed in challenge as she waited expectantly.

Bryce’s eyes darkened as he met her gaze, a sly grin on his lips. “I’m saying you look killer now.” He didn’t miss Blake’s sharp intake of breath as he emphasized his words, delighting in the slight flush that crept to her cheeks at his bold flirtation.

Finally tearing her eyes away from his, Blake began looking around the party. “Well I don’t know about you, but I need to see a doctor about some shots!” She gave him a wicked smile. “You in?”

“Sounds like a plan. You lead the way, Reyes!” Sliding his hand to cup her lower back, Bryce followed closely behind as she guided them through the crowded room.

~~~

The party continued on until the wee hours of the morning, the rambunctious crowd gradually dwindling off and transitioning to a low-key gathering after the landlord came around at midnight. The keg had long been floated, the board games had been laid out, and couples had started pairing off and departing for the privacy of their own homes. By anyone’s standards, the housewarming party had been a success.

Despite the quiet vibes in the penthouse apartment, Bryce wasn’t ready to call it quits for the night. Determined to make himself useful, and hopefully win over a certain lady and her roommates in the process, he grabbed a recycling bag from the pantry and started making his way around the apartment picking up empty cans and bottles.

A few minutes into the mundane task he glanced up to find Blake watching him, her arms crossed across her chest as she observed him in amusement.

Bryce gave her a weak smile, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing to the remaining trash he hadn’t attacked yet. “Just about done cleaning up over here, Blake …” She approached, leaning down to retrieve a few cans and depositing them in the bag. “Thank you.” Bryce muttered appreciatively.

Blake scoffed. “Thank me? You’re the one staying late to clean up our party.”

Shrugging again, Bryce moved forward to pick up three more bottles. “Eh. Force of habit, I guess. Messes seem to follow me around for some reason. I’m pretty used to cleaning them up at this point.”

Blake chuckled, shaking her head as she leaned over to hand the last bottle to him. “Hmm … I can see that.” As she pulled away, her fingertips grazed the palm his hand, her eyes locking on his. Tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, Bryce could see the heat dancing in her dark eyes before she spoke in a low voice. “You know … you don’t have to go home.”

“Oh yeah? Where would I sleep?” The anticipation buzzed in his veins, the tension lingering in the space between them.

“With me.” Her stare was unfaltering, demanding even. There was no doubt in his mind that she wanted this just as badly as he did.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” His voice came out softer and huskier, laced with desire and intention. Blake grinned smugly, extending a hand to him and he laced his fingers through hers, allowing her to take the lead and usher him to her room.

As soon as the door was closed Bryce pushed her against it, cupping her chin and guiding her lips to his in a languid kiss. He felt her body melt into him, her hands gripping him by the collar of his shirt as if she were afraid to let go. She released a soft moan into his mouth as his tongue teased hers lightly, their mouths dancing together until she pulled away breathless. “Do you think anyone saw us?” Her words came out in breathy pants.

Bryce was unable to suppress the soft chuckle. “Do you care?”

Stilling in place she thought for a moment, then shook her head before muttering her reply against the tender flesh of his lips. “Not really.”

Pushing away from the door, Blake gradually guided them to the center of the room near her bed, his arms around her waist and their breath mingling as their kisses grew more fervent. When Bryce’s hands slipped under her hem to the small of her back she arched against him, sighing at the feel of his warm hands on her bare skin. Bryce slowly leaned back, his voice thick with desire and his eyes tinged with wonder as he admired her in the dim light. “You are gorgeous and I need to see a whole lot more of you.” Like putty in his hands Blake allowed him to tug her blouse over her head, lacing her fingers through his hair as he laid a trail of wet open-mouthed kisses across her collarbone and down her chest. He relished the sound of her mewls as he reached the black lace of her bra, running his tongue over the swell of her breast peeking out while his hands reached around to free her from the confining garment. As soon as she was bare he captured one peaked nipple in his mouth, swirling it slowly with his tongue as she tugged his hair roughly, then shifting to grasp the other one between his lips.

Releasing her breasts Bryce stood upright, his eyes devouring Blake as she peeked out from under hooded lids, her arousal apparent in her labored breathing. The sight and the sound and the smell of her invigorated his senses, his pupils broad and dark with lust. His strong hands spinned her around until her bare back was flush against the soft woolen fabric of his sweater, his rigid arousal prominent against the curve of her backside. His hands made a slow path down her body, taking his time to savor every sound and shiver he earned from her along the way. The soft scrape of his teeth at the base her neck followed by slow suckling kisses made her squirm, eliciting a low moan from her throat. So lost in the sensations of his touch, Blake giggled once she realized he had managed to remove the remainder of her clothing, leaving her naked except for her black lace panties. “You are … very good at this.” She flashed him a coy smile over her shoulder.

“I’m good at a lot of things.” He placed a finger under her chin to tilt her face to his and capture her lips, his hands looping around her body to cup a breast in each palm.

She responded eagerly to his touch, his thumb and fingers tweaking her nipples gently and causing her to writhe as her pleasure built. “You did tell me you had the best hands ...”

His chest vibrated against her back as he laughed softly, eager to hear what naughty plans she had in mind for him. “And?”

“And I need more convincing.” She said with a cheeky grin. He laughed, cupping her hips in his hands and steering her towards the bed. When the back of her legs hit the bed she paused, peering up into his eyes as her hands roamed over his chest and shoulders. Suddenly her eyes narrowed, focusing on the soft fabric beneath her fingertips. “Wait ... how am I nearly naked while you’re still dressed?”

Bryce chuckled, taking one step back and giving her a challenging look. “Feel free to fix that.” He quipped, giving her his usual cocky smirk that he knew drove her crazy. And sure enough …

Blake stepped forward, her eyes locked on his as her hands tugged his sweater over his head. Her fingers moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, slowly revealing inch by inch of his smooth tan skin as she continued. She dipped her head to nip along his chest as she pulled the shirt from his shoulders, giggling before playfully pushing him backwards onto the bed. Bryce just smiled as he watched her lean down over him, her deft fingers working the fly of his jeans open and tugging them down to the floor. Crawling on the bed she settled on his lap, one leg on each side of his hips. He could feel the warmth of her through the layers of fabric between them, grinding his growing bulge up against her instinctively. “Better?” He asked in a low whisper.

Blake bent down to cup his face in her palms, her breasts brushing against the bare skin of his chest as she kissed him deep and slow. She emitted a satisfied sigh, her breath tickling his lips as she whispered between kisses. “So much.”

For a moment they lingered there, Bryce running his fingers over the bare skin of her back, their hips rocking together slowly as their need for each other grew. Slipping a hand between them, Bryce stopped and peered up at her, his eyes imploring her as his fingertips tickled the waistband of her panties. “Are you sure you want this?” The sincerity in his voice, although genuine, did little to mask the husky tone of desire there.

Nodding her consent, Blake met his stare. “Keep going.”

“Whatever you want, Blake.” His lips pulled up at the corner in a small smile as he laid her back against the bed, hooking his fingers on her panties and pulling them down her legs. Settling in beside in her in the covers, his traced a slow path up her thighs.

Breathing heavier from the anticipation, she did her best to respond between pants. “Whatever I want?” She gave him a playful smile before her eyelids fluttered closed at his delightful torture.

Bryce shifted his body to align himself along her, grinning widely as she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him tighter. They moved together, his excitement pressing against her core, a tantalizing taste of what was to come. “Tell me.” He leaned down to kiss her, long and gentle, his fingertips dancing softly across the flushed skin of her cheek, her neck, her chest, settling at her waist. “Blake? What do you want?” He murmured into the crook of her neck as he lay kisses from her earlobe down to her shoulder.

“I want you to touch me.” She purred, her body tingling with need. She looked up to find him studying her face, his lip tucked between his teeth mischievously as he slid a hand lower and lower … Blake gasped when he found the wetness waiting for him between her legs, the slick heat causing Bryce to groan in arousal and his cock to twitch against the cotton material of his boxers.

God, he wanted her so bad … But he couldn’t take his eyes away from her as she squirmed at his touch, the soft moans and rolling of her hips against his hand giving him more than enough pleasure for the time being. “You’re stunning.” He whispered softly, his gaze never leaving her face.

She opened her eyes for a brief moment, lifting her hands to twine them in his hair and pull his face down to kiss him deeply. She laughed in between panting breaths. “And you really do have the best hands.”

He pulled away grinning wickedly, causing her to groan immediately at the loss of his touch and his kisses. His eyes flashed with a glimpse of something dark yet playful, sending a shiver from her head down to her toes. “You should see what the rest of me can do.”

Blake giggled as he moved down, kissing and nipping at her navel before moving lower, lower … but her her laughter was quickly replaced with soft moans as he licked along her abdomen, down her legs, up the inside of her thighs ... She threw her head back when his tongue ran a long stripe across her core, then another, Bryce unable to get enough of her smell and her taste. She gripped his hair in her fingers and thrust her hips to meet his mouth when he latched onto her clit, pulling it gently between his lips as he slipped two fingers into her. He could feel her begin to lose control, her legs shaking as he licked and sucked and fucked her relentlessly until she came with a cry, her back arching off the bed as she peaked.

Laying kisses up her body as she came down from her high, Bryce nestled in beside her and watched her breathing steady. He marveled at her radiance in this relaxed state, her skin rosy and slicked with a thin sheen of sweat, her breasts rising and falling in a steady rhythm as she regained her breath, her lips curled in a soft satisfied smile while she luxuriated in the aftershocks of her orgasm. “You’re amazing.” He murmured into the crook of her neck, running his fingertips lightly over her belly.

Blake chuckles under her breath, still not opening her eyes. “No … but I’m beginning to think every part of your body is amazing, Bryce Lahela.” She turned her head to face him, her gaze dropping his prominent erection pressed against her thigh. “Although there is one part I have yet to to prove this theory with.”

“Well I would hate to stand in the way of your research.” He flashes her a sly smirk, his heart rate already speeding up at the thought of what comes next.

Rolling to her side she presses her mouth to his, sliding a hand under the edge of his boxer briefs and wrapping it around his cock. Bryce moaned, his grip tightening and fingers digging into her hip as she started stroking him up and down, his hips moving in sync with her rhythm. Blake pushed him to lay down, pulling down his boxers and throwing them to the floor. Locking eyes with him, she lowered her head to start placing soft, wet kisses along his hips and across his abdomen, inching closer and closer to where he wanted her the most before backing off with a smug grin. After teasing him three times, Bryce released a short exhaling grunt. “Reyes … you’re killing me he-“ His complaint was cut short as Blake took him in her mouth, the vibrations of her laughter only adding to the extreme pleasure. “Ah fuuuuucccckkkk …”

With his fingers laced in her hair, she slid her lips up and down, up and down and again over his cock. She relished the feel of him pulsing every time she tickled the head with the tip of her tongue, the salty taste of his precum filling her mouth. One hand was situated at the base massaging whatever portion of his significant length could not fit in her mouth, while the other lightly caressed his balls, her coordinated ministrations overwhelming his senses. It didn’t take long before Bryce was thrusting his hips to meet her mouth, the warm wet sensation causing the pressure to build in his pelvis.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, he gently pushed her away, his eyes still closed and his teeth gritted as he forced himself to stop. “You’re way too good at that, and I’m afraid if you keep going you won’t be able to properly complete your research.” He released one last long exhale, then finally looked over to find her smiling at him. He pulled her tight against his torso, rolling her to her back as he settled between her legs, his eyes flickering with both heat and affection as he beamed into her face. “Besides, I’ve been looking forward to this view.” He felt Blake sigh against his lips as they met hers, her body melting into his as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

He slid inside of her, her warmth enveloping him in the most erotic and comforting way he hadn’t realized was possible. She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him close as they started moving in tandem. Taking their time, Bryce took this moment to study her features, brushing his thumb gently across her cheek and eliciting a soft smile on her lips that stirred something deep inside of him. His hand founds hers gripping his shoulder, and he laced his fingers through hers, the intimate gesture stoking the heat in her gaze. She tilted her chin up to meet him in a kiss, her wanton moan filling his mouth as her tongue slipped past the seams of his lips. Feeling her moving eagerly beneath him, Bryce braced himself with her clasped hand above her head, giving him the additional leverage to roll his hips faster against hers.

Before long their slow, tender motion had morphed into frantic, heated thrusts. Bryce used his free hand to cup the back of her thigh, pulling her leg up to gain him additional access as his pelvis pounded against hers. He tried to focus on her, to stave off the aching desire for release inside himself while he waited for her to climax again. Just as he felt his willpower failing her body start quivering, her raspy moans signaling her impending orgasm. When the dam finally burst, he felt her core flutter around his cock, his name spilling from her lips as she found her release. Bryce tumbled over the edge with her, the pulsing of her walls around him drawing his own orgasm. After a few more thrusts, his body stilled as he emptied himself inside of her.

“Damn, Blake …” he mumbled, his word muffled on his lips smashed into her shoulder where he had collapsed on the bed.

“Yeah I know.” She breathes out loudly, the drowsy euphoria obvious in her tone. “I think all of your anatomical bits are in prime working order.”

“Good to know. My mother will be so proud.” He chuckled, leaning back on his side and perching himself up on one elbow. “So, was the housewarming party everything you wanted it to be?”

“I think it went really well, actually.” Blake turned face him, laying her head on her arm as she pulled a sheet up to cover herself. “Although if I’m completely honest, I enjoyed this private party even more.”

“I’m available to entertain any night of the week, but reservations fill up fast.” Bryce wiggled his eyebrows playfully until Blake swatted at him, causing him to lift his arms to shield himself in defense. “Kidding, kidding!”

“You better be kidding.” She giggled, her smile warm as she took his hand in hers. “But regardless, please be sure to pencil me in for several nights a week if your schedule will allow it.”

Bryce grinned widely as he dipped his head, his lips hovering mere inches above hers. “I’m at your beck and call, Reyes.” And when his lips met hers, all joking was quickly forgotten.

END

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Special thanks to @walkerismychoice for sharing a few screenshots of dialogue that I missed.

Perma-Tag: @abbiebishops @akrenich @alesana45 @asprankle @bella-ca @blackcatkita @blackwidow2721 @boneandfur @catlady0911 @choicesarehard @choiceslife @choicessa @choiceswreckedme @client-327 @cocomaxley @crookedslimecreatorpasta @darley1101 @debramcg1106 @domainoflostsouls @drakelover78 @drakewalker04 @eileendannie @enmchoices @flowerpowell @gardeningourmet @harlequinash @harrington-sinclaire @hopefulmoonobject @indescribablechoices @indiacater @innerpostmentality @jadedpixiescribbles @lizeboredom @lolablackwrites @marikagia @mfackenthal @mrsnazariowrites @ritachacha @romancehereicome @sawyeroakleyscowboyhat @simplyaiden-blog @snyggflicka @stopforamoment @sweetfluffyunicorn18 @tabithacarlisle @the-everlasting-dream @thequeenofcronuts @walkerismychoice @wickedgypsymoon @writtenbycandy

OH (Bryce) Tags: @aworldoffandoms @divergentofhogwarts @halcyonhaarry @keira1416 @mariamulroney @simsvetements @timecanaryy

#dr. bryce lahela #bryce lahela #bryce x mc #open heart #n*fw #tmarie82 fanfic

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pika-ace · 5 years ago

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Foster Dog Hamilton AU-Character Descriptions

((I combined all your submissions into one to save space cause I’m kinda OCD like that, okay X3))

Burr Breed: Black Lab Appearance: Um…a black lab,lol. Dark brown eyes. Breed Info: To be honest, this is just what I’ve always imagined Burr to look like as a dog. While Labs are usually very hyper, many can have a calm disposition as well. They are very friendly and charming to lots of people, as well as intelligent. Background: Burr was born to a breeding pair of Black Labs that were owned by an official breeder. He was adopted by a man at a little younger than two months. He was very hyper and playful, which amused his master at first, but as he grew bigger the man grew tired of the constant barking, and began yelling at Burr when he began to get loud, even kicking him at some points. Burr soon grew afraid to bark or make much of any noise. If he even moved around the house too much his master would get angry. He trembled at any raised voice, even at voices raised in excitement. His life soon became both monotonous and stressful at the same time. A personal motto he ended up developing was “Bark less,Wag more”. At a little under a year old, his owner finally grew tired of having him around and tied him up outside the animal shelter one night. When the employees found him they took him in right away. The attempts to adopt him out were unsuccessful, as due to his anxiety he would never play with anyone who came to look at him or interact with them much at all. Plus,he would show great fear at raised voices and barking, as if he would be punished for other dogs barking. The shelter employees decided to ask the Washingtons if they could take him. Perhaps they could help him to be a normal dog again.

Laurens Breed: Beagle/Retriever mix Appearance: Slightly taller Beagle body, golden brown color with a white chest,fluffy floppy ears, light brown eyes. Scar on his tail. Breed Info: Beagles are friendly social dogs. They usually get along well with others. They do tend to howl and bark when left alone though due to separation anxiety. They also love to track scents,though they must be watched carefully because this can cause them to wander and get lost. Beagles owners have to work hard to train these dogs to listen, as they sometimes their pets will ignore their directions, especially when tracking a scent. Beagles are also one of the most popular breeds in South Carolina. Background: Laurens was born to a beagle father and retriever mother in a small family home. His other siblings were sold but he was kept by the original family. They had a hard time teaching him not to howl and wander off. Eventually he ended up wandering so far that he became lost. After days of trying to find his way back, he finally made it,but his father,who never really liked having the puppies around and still didn’t care for Laurens himself,chased him away before the family saw him,giving him a good bite on the tail. He was picked up by a shelter a few days later. The Washingtons were still new to this foster care thing, so they decided to try and foster him, so he was sent to Virginia to be their second foster.

Lafayette Breed: Picardy Spaniel Appearance: Just as a Picardy Spaniel looks, brown eyes Breed Info: The Picardy Spaniel originated in France as a gun dog. Today it’s nature is active,affectionate, and alert. They are great family dogs and are content to stay by their family’s side. Due to their alertness,they are excellent watchdogs and will sound the alarm if something is amiss. They are easy to train from a young age. They do best with a positive and consistent leadership. They are great with children. Background: Lafayette was born in France and purchased by an older couple living in France. After a few months, their schedule would not allow them to give as much time to him as he needed. Rather than just send him to anybody, the couple asked their friends the Washingtons to take care of him back in America. Lafayette was flown to them some time later, and has been with them since. It was soon after that the Washingtons decided to foster some more animals.

Hercules Breed: Pitbull/Rottweiler mix Appearance: Rottweiler style body, a bit leaner however. Brown brindle coloring. Brown eyes. Breed Info: Both Pitbulls and Rottweilers have a bad reputation due to many being used in dog fights. Both breeds are affectionate and protective towards people. They make good guard dogs and are both active and intelligent. Rottweilers are very alert and aware of their surroundings. They are levelheaded and calm. Pitbulls can be fearless,yet stubborn. Both breeds were used to drive livestock in the past. Background: Hercules was born into a dog fighting organization, but at a few months old he was rescued in a police raid. Despite being rescued as a pup, nobody wanted to take him, especially as he looked more and more intimidating as he grew older. At a couple years old, the staff was thinking he would never be taken by anyone,until the Washingtons took him in. He was the third dog that they fostered and kept,after Lafayette and Laurens. Unfortunately for Hercules, he is often feared by people who can’t see past his breed and history, but he is one of the sweetest dogs.

Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy Breed: Golden Retriever Appearance: Angelica: Darker gold wavy coat Eliza:Straight gold coat Peggy: Light cream coat Breed Info: Golden Retrievers are even-tempered, intelligent and affectionate. They were bred to retrieve game for their masters. They enjoy being in water and are very easy to train. They can be trained for many different things. They enjoy being around other dogs as well Background: These three sisters were born in the same litter and are inseparable. They were adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler at a few months old and have been there ever since. Angelica enjoys going duck hunting with Mr. Schuyler, Eliza gets spooked by the gunshots however, and Peggy is a little too hyper to stay quiet, so they stay home with Mrs. Schuyler. They live nearby the Washingtons’ home, and their owners have been friends with them for years,so they often go over to their home,as it is large enough for many dogs. Eliza is so calm and gentle and Peggy is so friendly that Mrs. Schuyler volunteers them as therapy dogs for children in schools and hospitals.

(Just a little note that I forgot to add in my submissions. I made Jefferson and Madison cats because I thought it would fit them better in this AU. I may send in an alternate description where they are dogs, but for me, I headcanon them as cats. Plus, it sounds less overwhelming when you say someone is caring for five dogs and two cats rather than seven dogs.)

Jefferson Breed: Ragamuffin Cat Appearance: Brown tabby,long-haired, light blue eyes. Magenta collar Breed Info: Ragamuffins are large and long. Their fur is long, soft, and silky. It needs to be brushed daily to keep all the tangles out of the coat. They usually have a docile nature and love to be held or lay on laps. They crave attention and can become clingy. Background: Jefferson belonged to a wealthy elderly lady. He was very spoiled from the moment she bought him. The best quality,most expensive wet cat food,groomed every day and night, and the softest bed. It all ended when she passed away when he was older. After a little while, some people dropped him off at the animal shelter. He mourned his poor owner as he sat in the kennel he had been placed in. He turned up his nose at the food they offered him, he barely knew how to groom himself, and what was this bed!?. He became grumpy and unwilling to let anyone interact with him. The shelter decided to ask the Washingtons if they would be willing to foster him, as they have been pretty successful with animals. They agree, and the next day he was sent off to them.

Madison Breed: American Shorthair Cat Appearance: Small, stocky grey cat, amber eyes Breed Info: American Shorthair’s have broad chests and a muscular neck. They are placid and easy going. While they’re fine with attention, they don’t need it constantly. They can entertain themselves easily. Their coat is thick and dense, so they need some brushing, especially in the colder months when it gets thicker. Background: Madison was born in a kitten mill. He was sickly soon after birth and developed a cough. It’s a wonder he survived. Police shut down the kitten mill when he was six months old and brought as many cats as possible to be evaluated and treated. Madison was there for a few months to regain his strength. It was discovered that his cough could be controlled with medication. It wasn’t contagious but he would always have it for the rest of his life. Not many people want sickly cats,so the shelter asked the Washingtons if they could continuously foster him if the shelter provided the medication. They agreed and took him soon after that.

#hamilton au #dog au #submission #long post

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kristallioness · 6 years ago

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Benevolence runs in their blood

Summary: Katara goes to donate blood and brings Kya along with her.

Word count: 2,495

Author's note: I just love the concept of little Kya following her mommy around in the hospital (i.e. at work) like a baby duckling while Katara teaches her about modern medicine (or shows her around different rooms, which are usually restricted to staff or patients only). Also, think how much courage and strength it takes for Katara to face her fear of bloodbending in order to become the best healer in the world and work as a doctor. She sees blood nearly every day and yet she doesn't let that bother her anymore. She has to forget this dark side to herself, or the possibility of using this type of bending. Not to mention that at this point, she's probably managed to get it outlawed already. That's really something. Btw, here's an adorable illustration for the story.

----------x----------

"Here you go, Master Katara. Just take a seat and make yourself comfortable and I'll be right with you."

She climbed up on the armchair and lay down, resting her head against the back to relax.

"Come here, baby! I want you to see this."

Her right hand had a firm hold on Kya's and she beckoned her 4-year-old daughter over to the chair.

The little waterbender had been distracted by a bunch of doctors and healers, who walked by the door of the otherwise empty room. She turned around and stepped closer, peeking up over her mother's tummy to look at the other side.

Katara reached for the squeezable red ball on the armrest and handed it to her.

"Do you wanna play with this before it's mommy's turn to play?"

"Okay!"

Kya took the ball in her own hands and squeezed it a couple of times. She threw it on the floor, not expecting it to bounce back just as hard. The red ball bumped against her nose and continued hopping towards the row of armchairs opposite to them. The little waterbender squealed and began chasing it around.

"Be careful, Kya! Don't knock anything over!" Katara warned her, after which her attention turned back to the middle-aged healer who'd returned to her side. She pulled off the armband on her left forearm.

"Okay, before we start, I'm gonna check your vitals first."

"Yes, Elthia, I know how the procedure goes.." she said in a cheerful tone. Katara raised her arm a little bit, letting her employee slip a thermometer under there to take her temperature. Next, she waited for the healer to put a stethoscope in her ears, so she could listen to her heart and take her pulse.

"Psst!.. Kya, come here!"

The little waterbender crawled out from behind another armchair once she'd found the red ball, and she scampered back to her mother. Katara offered her a reassuring smile and stroked her head with her free hand while healer Elthia had two of her fingers pressed to her other wrist.

"Would you like to listen to your mommy's heartbeat while I take her blood pressure?" she asked, removing the earpieces from her ears.

Kya nodded and, with a little help from her mother, she hopped up on the edge of the armchair, snuggling up to her. Elthia placed the stethoscope in her ears and gave her the shiny chestpiece. Katara tugged at the white furry collar of her coat a little so Kya could press the diaphragm on her bare chest.

While the little waterbender was busy, the healer pulled a cuff around Katara's left arm, leaving it near the same height as her heart, and began pumping it to add pressure. Once it was tight enough, she tapped the little girl's shoulder.

"Can I have that back now? I need to take your mommy's blood pressure."

Kya gave the stethoscope back to Elthia, watching how she pressed it on her mother's elbow pit to listen for a while as she released the air from the cuff slowly. Katara picked up the red ball and rolled it around in circles on her stomach to keep her daughter entertained until the healer finished. She let her remove the cuff.

"Alright.. your heart rate and blood pressure are within normal range. Let's have a look at your temperature."

The healer pulled the thermometer out from under her coat and stared at the silver line of mercury inside the glass.

"And your temperature is normal. You're a fit blood donor, Master Katara!"

"That's great! Carry on, Elthia. I'm ready."

She nodded to her superior and began preparing everything necessary. Katara snaked her right arm around her baby girl to pull her closer, rewarding her with a kiss on her temple.

"Good girl, Kya! You were such a good girl for being so quiet while the nice healer examined me."

"What happens now, mommy?"

"Well, in order to draw the blood out of my vein, healer Elthia will first insert a needle into my arm.. right around here," she explained, pointing a finger above her left arm.

"Owie! Won't that hurt you, mommy?" Kya gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. Her mother merely chuckled and stroked her back to comfort her, just as Elthia looped a belt-like strap around her arm and pulled it tight.

"No, it won't. Maybe a little when she inserts the needle, but it's just a small sting that only lasts a second. You know, like when I give you a shot?"

The little waterbender couldn't quite comprehend why her mommy would deliberately let another healer hurt her. As long as she didn't have to, she was never gonna let anyone do that to her.

Elthia waterbended a droplet of water over Katara's skin to disinfect the area. Kya's cerulean eyes grew wide and she instinctively cowered into her mother's embrace. Was it just her, or did that particular needle in the healer's hands seem much longer? And bigger?

"Okay, Master Katara, it'll be just a pinch.."

Kya grimaced, but was surprised that her mother didn't even flinch, or start crying or.. pretty much do anything. The only thing she noticed was how her mother wrinkled her nose for a second, after which the content smile returned to her lips.

Elthia fastened the needle, along with the transparent canal attached to it, to Katara's forearm with the help of some sticky band-aids. She also handed her the squishy red ball.

"..and we're good to go! You may start pumping now. I'll be right over here and come check on you as soon as the bag seems to be full."

"Okay, Elthia! I'll let you know if I need anything."

She offered her boss and her baby girl another soft smile, then spun around and walked over to her desk at the end of the room to give them some privacy.

Kya crawled into her mother's lap to have a closer look at what she was doing. The canal, as well as the empty bag on the other end, had been painted crimson from the blood that flowed through them.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not at all. Do you wanna know what's happening here?"

The little waterbender nodded, following her mother's right hand as she pointed to the different parts attached to her left arm.

"My blood is flowing freely, but rather slowly, through the needle and into this narrow tube, and it's being collected into that bag over there. By squeezing this ball in my hand, I'm increasing the blood flow through my vein and this way, I'm speeding up the process."

"How long do you have to keep this up?"

"Until the bag is completely full, which usually takes about 10 minutes or less."

Kya slid down her mother's legs and walked over to the tray containing the plastic bag. She stood on her tiptoes for a second in order to see it better.

"Don't touch! Just look."

She obeyed her mother's orders and kept her tiny hands away from it. Her cerulean eyes glanced at the bag and then at her mother, comparing their sizes.

"But this bag is so big, mommy! Aren't you scared of running out of blood?"

Katara released a short giggle.

"No, sweetie. That bag only contains one pint of blood. Our bodies contain a lot more, and are capable of producing more blood in case we lose some or, in my case, voluntarily decide to donate some."

"Why do you wanna do this, mommy?"

The elder waterbender patted her thigh and waved her free hand.

"Come here, baby, and I'll tell you why."

Kya scampered over to the armchair and climbed back up into her mother's lap. Katara rested her right hand on her back, gently combing her fingers through her daughter's fluffy hair. She did it in the same pattern as her other hand squeezed the ball.

"Sweetie, you know how sometimes when people are really sick or they get seriously hurt, they need an operation and we take them into surgery?"

"Mhmm."

"Well, during surgery, the patient might start bleeding and they can lose a lot of blood that way. But it's very dangerous to lose too much blood, so we need to give them more to replace the amount they've lost. And where are we gonna get more blood?"

Kya laid a finger on her lips to think.

"Umm.. from donors?"

"Exactly! That's my bright little girl," Katara praised by stroking her head.

"So, now do you understand why I wanna do this? Because by donating blood, I'll be helping the other healers and doctors, who can use it to help our patients get better. This can save lives."

"Like you saved daddy?"

She fell silent for a moment, swallowing an unexpected lump in her throat.

"Y-yes. I saved daddy with the help of spirit water, not by donating blood, since this technique hadn't been invented yet back then. I'm not so sure whether it would've helped much.. but you're right."

The little waterbender remained quiet after that, pondering over everything her mother had just taught her. Katara glanced at the nearly full bag and wondered how she could make these last couple of minutes more fun.

"Sweetie, do you wanna help me with something?"

Kya beamed back at her.

"Sure, mommy! What is it?"

"My hand's getting tired from squeezing the ball so much. Can you grab my hand and help me squeeze the ball, gently?" she pleaded, feigning some weariness in her left hand.

"Okay," Kya agreed, placing her tiny hands around her mother's fingers and gently pressing them against the ball like she'd asked. Katara merely pretended to be tired. Her baby girl could still sense how firmly she squeezed the ball.

"Wow! You're really strong, mommy."

"I could say the same about you, baby. You're really helping me out here."

Kya giggled when her mommy grazed her cheek with the back of her right hand. They went on like this for another minute or two before healer Elthia rose from her desk to join them.

"So, how's everything going over here?"

"We're doing great. I think it's almost full by now," Katara stated, letting her employee have a closer look to be certain. She hummed approvingly.

"You're right, Master Katara. You can stop squeezing the ball now. Just relax while I help you finish."

The elder waterbender took her advice, heaving a sigh of relief and closing her eyes for a second. Elthia untangled both her and her daughter's fingers from the ball and put it away.

Next, she grabbed a thick patch of gauze, attaching a rather big bandage on the back. The healer tenderly pulled the other band-aids, which kept the tube and needle in place, off Katara's skin. Then, Elthia held the bigger bandage above the needle and, as soon as she'd removed it from her vein, she pressed the gauze over the spot and quickly folded her forearm against her arm.

"That's a good girl! Now just apply pressure for half an hour or so until the bleeding stops, and take all the time you need to recover from the procedure. I'll be right back with some refreshments."

"Thanks, Elthia!"

Katara watched how she began cleaning up everything when she felt her daughter's hands support some of her weight on her chest. Kya budged closer and planted a kiss on her forearm, slightly above her elbow.

"What was that for, sweetie?"

"You always kiss my boo-boos better after you give me a shot, mommy. I thought you'd like me to do the same for you."

She giggled, pulling her precious little girl into her embrace with her other arm.

"Aww! Thank you, baby!"

Katara kissed Kya's temple in return to show her that she appreciated the gesture.

"I do feel a little better now," she murmured, softly stroking her arm. Both their gazes turned to Elthia, who stepped closer and held the tray, which contained the blood bag, in her hands.

"Hey there, little one! I know your mother forbade you before, but do you wanna touch this bag now?"

Kya hesitated and stared at her mother again to ask for permission.

"It's okay. You can touch it," Katara urged her. She carefully lowered her hand on the plastic and tenderly rubbed her fingers over the thick crimson fluid inside.

"It's so warm, mommy," she remarked.

"I know. It's warm because my body kept it warm inside me."

"What do the healers do with your blood?"

"A donor's blood is stored in a special freezer in the hospital until we need to use it."

"Don't worry, dear! We're gonna take good care of your mommy's blood," Elthia assured the baby girl. She patted Kya's head and took the bag away to prepare it for storage.

"Can we go now, mommy?"

"Not yet, baby. Remember when I said that our bodies can produce more blood if we lose some?"

The little waterbender nodded.

"Well, it's a slow process and it takes time. That's why I shouldn't strain myself after donating a whole pint of blood. Otherwise I might start feeling light-headed or very-very sick. So we're gonna sit right here for at least another 15 minutes to be sure that everything's okay and enjoy some snacks in the meantime."

"Snacks!?" Kya gasped, clasping her hands with joy as the healer approached them with a small tray of cookies and a glass of orange juice.

"Here you go, Master Katara. Something to help you regain your energy."

Elthia placed the tray on the armrest and returned to her desk to allow her patient to recover in peace. Kya already wanted to grab a cookie when her mother's hand landed on her own to stop her for a moment.

"Actually, sweetie, these are meant for the donors only.."

Kya pouted and hung her head in disappointment upon learning that. Katara didn't mean to burst her bubble. She lifted a finger under her chin to get her to look her in the eye.

"But.. okay. You can have some, too. After all, you were so well-behaved and you stayed here by my side the entire time today."

The elder waterbender picked up a single cookie and gave it to her daughter, who smiled back at her before shoving it into her mouth.

"Thanks, mommy!"

Having heard their predicament, the healer decided to bring the pair more nourishment. Both Katara and Kya were surprised when she walked up to them with another plate, filled with half the amount of cookies they had in the beginning.

"You deserve a treat for being such a brave girl for your mother. Here you go, little one!"

Elthia also handed Kya a glass of milk to drink while she nibbled on those few cookies her mother had spared for her from the previous batch.

"This was really sweet of you, Elthia! Kya, what do you say to the nice healer?"

"Thank you!"

#Katara and Kya II #Katara #Kya II #ATLA and TLOK #my fanfiction #mine #shards of Kristal

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idolizerp · 5 years ago

Photo

LOADING INFORMATION ON OLYMPUS’ LEAD VOCAL JUNG DAEHAN…

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: Han CURRENT AGE: 27 DEBUT AGE: 22 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 13 COMPANY: Midas ETC: for his extensive commercial/variety work this member is known as the nation’s it boy

IDOL IMAGE

From the way that Midas often presented him, it was no surprise how much of a shock if others were to find out his true personality. Growing up terribly restricted by his family rules as well as pandering to his own likings in secret had cultivated a melancholic and yet careful personality for Daehan. He was anxious with people most of the time, their approval the greatest thing that he desired, most if not all of the time. Needy—perhaps, one might describe him to be, but all he yearned for was approval and recognition—at least from those that he considered close to his own heart. Even the simplest praise would light a soft smile upon his handsome face, his heart easily content with the recognition he would earn.

Being scouted at the age of 13 meant that he had potential—Daehan liked to believe, but also gave him an opportunity to step away from the birdcage that was his family and into another place where he could, perhaps, make it all on his own. Entertainment, Music, Singing, Music Production—all the different parts of his dream that would come together when Midas selected him out of the many that had auditioned that day. But hope is something iffy and tricky, and Daehan learns the hard way that Midas selected him not for his singing talents or his musical production aspirations and musical skills—but for his looks.

The next door neighbour kind of boy, the romantic, handsome, cheeky and yet suave on television. He had a beautiful face to market that look, and the cheeky curves that would curve on his features when he smiled. He was a perfect candidate for the romantic boyfriend concept they had in mind for at least one of the boys in Olympus. And so he was taught the way of selling himself like an ideal boyfriend. Variety shows, commercials were lined up one after another, his background only serving as something much more enticing to the audience—a dreamy eyed boy abandoning the regular things for something much more unpredictable, wild and fun. It was the breaking of the moulds of obedience and hierarchical structure that most of the his fans saw in his bravery and openness about his family not supporting his work, and the romantic but dutiful son that constantly thought about them, filial and understanding, yet charming and cute as well as attentive.

Midas marketed Daehan as someone who encompassed everything that the girls wanted for their boyfriends, and what the boys desired to be in the future—the dreamy eyed nation’s boyfriend was the concept that Midas feverishly sold him for. It was close enough to Daehan’s own sweet and understanding personality, though without the melancholic and contemplative parts, especially with how cheeky and flirty they told him to act to whenever on various interviews and variety shows. It was awkward for Daehan to accept, even if it was as similar as it could be to his original personality—acting cute was something that he couldn’t do well, though Midas continually drilled into him of making this his special appeal. Eventually, he became used to what they demanded of him, and his supposedly drilled so far into him that it became something of a reflexive second nature to be flirtatiously charming.

He didn’t like the way he turned out, even though his fans gradually came to understand that the occasional shyness that seeped through was a part of his personality—and that only increased his appeal to them. Daehan didn’t like being fake to others—it made the connections with them seem unreal and unrealistic, but there still were things that one needed to do—for survival.

IDOL HISTORY

They say that third sons of the third sons are always the unfortunate ones. That the curse itself wouldn’t affect the first generation but the subsequent one—Han’s family was always secretly superstitious like that—though Han supposed that, with whatever that happened to him throughout his life with his family, that it was the truth that he was quite the unfortunate one.

After all, he was the third son of a third son, the youngest and the runt of the Jung family, who had their claws and teeth deep within Korean politics, medicine and diplomacy. The Jungs were cold people, vicious but beautiful, their lives all planned like map lines on a guiding map, with a hierarchical structure and a place for everyone to where they supposed belonged—and for Daehan, it was more or less the same. He’d been born the youngest and the weakest link of the family, but blessed with extraordinary looks compared to his brothers, as well as the brains for an above average intelligence. One would say that he was blessed—but with such blessing came the curse of having to live up to expectations, and expectations in the Jung family were always more than just a simple A on a piece of paper or a lovely drawing declaring love for your parents. No—it was much much more, always far too much, especially with Daehan’s two older and more outstanding siblings. But still, people said that Daehan was lucky, because his father had intended to skip his two older sons and make him the heir of the family and company, following, for once the idea of merits over legitimacy. But Daehan felt no liberation from his father’s intention, nor luck from all the secret congratulations. It only gave the dreamy eyed boy, who aspired to write, sing and love music more pressure within the bird cage that had kept his wings duly clipped.

He should have been happy with what he was given—Daehan knew, because there were so many others much less fortunate than him—but family felt like a metal collar that he couldn’t rid, slowly constricting around his slender neck.

His road had been planned out right from the start for him–an effortless Road to a doctorate and being a doctor, the future of working in the same hospital that his second brother did, and achieving great things that were supposed–had to be greater than the rest of his brothers to prove his worth.

That was the demand his father asked, no–ordered of him.

You’re the one I want to choose to be heir, son. Don’t disappoint me.

But all Daehan wanted to do was write and sing the beautiful pieces that fell from his lips and fingers, and the order from his father was like a chain of shackles that tied him deep down into the barren earth and enslaved his flighty feet.

….

His room became his only saving grace, the splash of colours that weren’t white and gray a beautiful relief for his tired eyes and lonely soul, the music production tools that he’d bought with his pocket money and the beat of music of his various compositions the only comfort and reprieve that he could work with.

It was the only relief that he had, studying intensely to follow that route and path his parents had displayed for him, until fate forcibly carved another pavement for him to follow his heart, with the announcement of Midas auditions.

For the first time in his life, Daehan disobeyed his parents in secret, the first time of exhilaration of disobedience and defiance hitting him in his veins as adrenaline as he gave the best performance of singing that he had ever given that day, cheeks flushed and dreams of hope deep within his brown eyes.

He never expects to receive the contract from Midas that soon, a deep hope stirring in the pits of his stomach as he tells his family of the news that he’s going to be an idol at Midas, since they called him back from the audition that he’d done behind their back.

He’s not prepared at all for the dead silence in the midst of the family dinner, the sounds of chewing and clanging of cutlery no longer filling the air like a melodious piece of deadened music.

“Daehan’s only kidding, father.” The first thing that leaves his eldest brother’s lips is words of denial. “I’ve been tracking his work, and he hasn’t been doing anything of that sort.”

“I skipped school that day, and told someone to cover for me.” Their disbelief makes him blurt the truth out in the most vicious way possible, the words cutting a chasm between him and his family that he never knew would last for the rest of his life.

“Step out of the house for whatever this Midas thing is, and I’ll have one less son. I already have two, so either way the loss is yours over mine.” Never had his parents words cut so deep, and with that tearstreaked rebelliousness, Daehan packed his bags and left the Jungs with his head held high.

If as a thirteen year old trainee life wasn’t hard enough, Daehan learnt that what was treasured within the confines of Midas was not the freedom that he had so naively believed. Did he think innocently that he’d be allowed to produce his own music for his own group?

Perhaps.

Had he been foolish enough to think that people would listen to his creative inputs?

Yes.

In the end–he’d simply flown from one lofty cage to another, with chains slowly bogging down his body and his feet.

….

His trainee years are more than silent, the comfort that he feels in being be able to at least do a fraction of what he truly desires to be making him much more satisfied than he had ever been with his family.

There were downsides to being a trainee of course, the debilitating downside of diets as well as constant practices had nearly made him collapse from exhaustion, leaving him with some minor dieting problems that he ended up managing to work around with, and when he finally debuted with Olympus, Daehan had never felt more relieved.

With how long he had been with the company, he always felt that he had something missing, and that was the reason why Midas didn’t see him fit to debut in his earlier years, only debuting him when he turned 22. But he needn’t have worried. Midas had needed a male with his face for the group, that fitted the image of an ideal but charming, all rounded boyfriend– and with him in their reserves, Daehan was immediately drafted into Olympus.

He supposed that he got along well enough with his group mates. That was at least his perception and the perception that they put on for everyone to see. Olympus did well with their concept, and Daehan gradually realised that even with only just part of his dream realised, the exhilaration of being on the stage and putting out music that others enjoyed was something that he gradually came to enjoy from the depths of his heart, apart from the commercials and the variety shows that Midas placed him in to spread word for his ideal boyfriend image. Commercials were easy, and variety shows even easier, with all the training that Midas had put him through with moulding to his image and personality till it was nothing but second nature, though much if it was thankfully enough—close to his own original personality and character.

But idol life was not without the ups and downs of a dating scandal. It had been a rumour that cropped up due to a variety show filming that he was in, Roommates, where at least 11 other idols were selected to live and room within a house. Whilst many had praised him for his kind, gentle and yet romantic boyfriend ways that seemed genuine onscreen, rumours spread about him being in a relationship with one of the female idols in the show itself–a scripted romantic line by the producers that had taken off due to their chemistry and playful flirtations with each other that never crossed the line.

Such romantic lines were troublesome, he would learn, more for the female than himself, because the one that was shaded badly in the scandal was not the nations boyfriend–but the girl that had apparently, stolen his heart. Midas threw themselves into clearing that stain from his image, declaring that he was unattached and single, and very much loyal to his group and fans, silently insinuating with him to not get too close with the other girl in the romantic line, and as time passed, the rumours and heated fan wars gradually died down. But the damage had been done–the impact much less to himself and more to the female counterpart of his in that romantic line, and Daehan remembered quietly apologising to the girl silently after filming for the issue. The issue had been brushed off fleetingly, but Daehan had always been a tad more sensitive than others to the issue, and it moulded for him a more careful personality onscreen than previously before.

As the years passed, and Daehan gradually came to the understanding that Olympus were no longer the ‘it’ group of the industry, having faded ever so slightly as their status as idols became from junior to seniors. But still—relevance was vital to the survival of a group, and even more important to the decision of whether Midas would keep them safely in its embrace—and for that, all of the members in Olympus worked more than just hard in securing themselves solidly in their place, especially with the up and coming boy groups seemingly threatening their various positions. With everything in place for Olympus, Daehan could now focus more on his aspirations—more commercials? Variety shows? Maybe..perhaps. What he wanted to do, however, was to try his hand at the musical production that he’d been isolated from for so long. Perhaps, he thought—he might finally see that long hidden dream in his heart come alive once more.

#id.bio #id.midas #id.olympus #id.park hyungsik

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ratherhavetheblues · 4 years ago

Text

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘ FROM THE LIFE OF THE MARIONETTES’ “Weak people choose strange paths…”

The films of Ingmar Bergman have elicited from his loyalists a bemusing history. At the point where a consensus about the remarkableness of his skills and heart was at full tide, there also began to occur some battle fatigue in face of waves of other demanding presences of his. A pantheon readily arose, by way of influential critics who jumped to the idea that the mother lode had been reached and that the latter flood was secondary and not worth the strain. That Bergman began to produce films by way of television, also seemed a sign of losing it. (Also a sign of the viewers’ easily losing it, was the myopia about films predating 1957, regarded, if at all, as quirkily overreaching.)

For what it might have meant, the television series of Scenes from a Marriage (1973) became a last hiccup before finding other entertainments to go with popcorn. The soap opera (with a difference), in question, displays a couple of patricians and their on-again, off-again liaison, ad nauseam. But Bergman-being-Bergman, he inserts another couple, very different from the silver spoons. The protagonists host a dinner party for their friends, Peter and Katarina, who proceed to humiliate each other. After the hosts are rid of them, they stage a rededication to their superiority. “Peter and Katarina don’t speak the same language. We speak the same language…” Peter and Katarina, played by different actors, in German rather than Swedish, resurface in the 1980 film, From the Life of the Marionettes, in order to elaborate what heterogeneity can look like and feel like. Peter, another silver spoon, manages to remain another Peter Pan. His malaise with a Katarina drawn from one of his staffers, drives him to butcher a prostitute, perform necrophilia upon her and end up in a mental hospital holding his teddy bear. His wife is left to be an adult. Few of the original loyalists would have seen this film. Too bad, because it’s easily as brilliant as Scenes from a Marriage and any of the other films thought to be great.

The immediate shock, so unlike Bergman’s usual sophisticated procedure, signals, I think, a new form of traction bidding to surmount the dilemmas of a perverse planet. Doing something that new, the project would suggest, might occasion a rich departure.

Therefore the film today begins with the savagery meted to an anonymous (but eventually named) young girl becoming, in a coward’s eyes, an enemy army. The first we see of her is a close-up of her lips having been heavily covered with scarlet lipstick, along with a necklace of cheap tags, resembling a dog collar. (This imagery will pay dividends, later.) Then the attacker whispers, “I’m tired…” Long after the presentation of the hooker’s demise, we’re given a second look at the preamble to the horror. She tells him, “I don’t smell anything anymore… When I was a kid, my mother would take me to see her parents in Denmark. I remember how the seasons smelled. Winter… winter smelled like snow, coal stoves and wet gloves. And summer smelled like seaweed and ant hills. Spring smelled like melting ice and snow in ditches… budding Easter catkins and rain. But the autumn was the most beautiful of all…” She notices that Peter’s fallen asleep (that being a familiar “glitch,” when a heart was vividly at its best). She comes over and kisses his cheek. “I wasn’t asleep,” the Lost Boy lies.

The violence at the shabby brothel speaks to a hatred of nature, in someone letting fear overtake a brave and confused hope. But, as with the victim’s word-choice of “catkins” (a blossom resembling a spike), much thrilling dare and joy anoints her last moments. In his fatigue, she covers his face in a sort of benediction—her grace engaging his errancy. On the other hand, her swatch of black hair cascading over his head discloses a monstrous figure. During the explosion of his attack, small features speak to the ways of primordial action whereby intensities entail a gentle gift. As she struggles to avoid being crushed, a wash cloth appears on a clothes line. Its contours describe a bear cub. She manages to run to the concern’s stage, a vision of blood red, where two paper palm trees on the wall fail to bring a cogent dance. With each tree, however, as so often maintained, a subterranean force is called upon. Here the crazed figures crash between the trees, describing, instead of a harmony, a horror. At this moment, the coloration subsides to black and white, where many thoughts and many feelings bid for truth.

Though not over the hill like Peter, Katarina has a tiger by the tail which she manages quite badly. Firing up his indiscretion, the body of the work consists of several vignettes regarding his policy of refusal to grow up, and particularly refusing to touch the phenomenon of death. Two weeks before decimating a large percentage of the poetry of Munich, Peter Pan sees fit to pay a visit to a family friend by the name of Mogens Jensen, a professor of psychiatry. (At another instalment, twenty hours after the murder, that academic was quick to insist, to some kind of tribunal, that, “To be honest, I am deeply shocked. I’ve known Peter Egermann for twenty years. He is an amiable, talented, conscientious man whom everyone likes, as far as I know. He’s happily married to a hardworking career woman. He has a large circle of friends and leads a comfortable, rather modest life. A charming mother, Cordelia Egermann, the actress. His father died a while ago. His family is wealthy. His brother is a consul [in Bergman's film, Dreams [1955], a wealthy man seeking a miracle is also a consul]. His sister is married to a businessman.”/ “No hereditary depression in his family?”/ “Not that I know of… ” [all speaking the same language, until Katarina crashed the party]. “Peter and Katarina never consulted you?”/ “It was never serious. Nothing Valium couldn’t cure…” [This interplay includes the doctor’s large collection of African sculptures, seemingly the antithesis of classical rational logic.]) Peter admits, “There have been many long nights and too much drinking, recently. Besides, I am very aware of the fact that time is passing.”/ “Fear of death?” the specialist asks. Peter very ill at ease, without mentioning his fear, claims that what precisely bothers him is that he wants to kill his wife. “I’ve been carrying that idea around with me for two years.” The Valium expert, expert at circumventing death, listens to Peter’s assurances that, though both have been unfaithful, “We’re great in bed” [sounding like Johan and Marianne, in Scenes from a Marriage]. Then he reproves the conscientious man for asking, “I want you to tell me my hormones are responsible for my urge to kill her…”/ “Why did you come to me? You don’t believe in your own agony. You don’t believe in the existence of the soul…” [serious matters, but bemusingly pursued]. Peter, far gone in a relapse of bourgeois snottiness, can’t imagine what the family friend could be fussing about. Jensen continues, “Of course I’m angry. Because you have so little respect for your fear” [a paramount fear which the scientist won’t touch]. Concluding their conversation with Peter’s, “Maybe you should prescribe something for me,” the delinquent only pretends to leave the office, and, “letting himself out,” lurks in the darkened foyer, his advantageous cleverness leading him to expect the doctor to speak to Katarina. He’s wearing a woolen scarf, woolens being a flash point of the Anna of the film, The Passion of Anna (1969), who can only tolerate a mundane life and will attack at any chance to butcher carnal unruliness. On one occasion, she expresses her dislike by butchering a herd of sheep. Just before the exit, a Peter, who could feel he’d made an ass of himself, trots out a little homage to Katarina. “I’ve always loved to watch my wife, even when we hated each other. Or when she was revoltingly drunk… I’ve always loved the way she moves.” (Cut to her in their bathroom.) “She watches me in the mirror. She is lost in her own thoughts and she breathes heavily. I’m standing behind her, and I’m holding the razor in my right hand. She watches me the whole time. And now she really sees me. An imperceptible smile hovers around her lips. Now the knife slowly moves toward her throat. I can feel her slight agitation, a slight pulse at the throat…” (She smiles in seeing the now-constant clash this way.)

While standing in the dark, Peter lines up within a lamp alight on the wall and a pronounced part of that wall. Nothing happens. Katarina, rushing to what Jensen might enlighten her, stages an opening gambit far from impressive, to wit, “Have you got anything drinkable around here?” Completing the triad, the doctor proposes her coming to Tunisia with him, on business, for six weeks. She tries for the high road with, “Why hasn’t a clever man like you realized that I love Peter?” Cut to Peter, superimposed upon three windows, the depths of which might as well be in Tunisia. Giving us a sense of the priorities of that haute couture business she runs as a sidebar for Peter, Katarina exudes studious bourgeois unflappableness. The healer perseveres, “I think it’d be a lot of fun to have an affair with you…” Showing more urgency than the first responder, she snipes, “I didn’t come here to sleep with you, but to talk about Peter… Besides, I have my period…” Neither coitus in the office nor the possibility of someone getting hurt attains to seriousness. But the surroundings themselves lift this misadventure. There are two identical table lamps and one of the pedant’s wild creatures in between. Far, unfortunately, an impressive array. The lady with unstable cares pronounces, “If Peter’s really sick, he needs me.” In that frame of melting solicitude, the caregiver declares, “I don’t know, Kat… My intuition won’t let go of this…”/ “I also have an intuition,” she chides. Asking her what her intuition reveals, he receives a feeble strain of one-upmanship: [My intuition discloses] “that consciously or unconsciously you’re trying to figure out Peter’s and my relationship.” Despite this self-aggrandizement, she also reveals that the “relationship” is veering out of control. It veers promptly in her “relationship” of the world of classical reasoning, being so cavalierly wielded. “I’ve always been afraid of you…” This window of her intuition” curdles to the cartoonish. “Peter’s a part of me. Don’t you understand that? I carry him inside of me, no matter where I go. He’s inside me [that intuition of kinship being a vastly complex system, not amenable to whimsy]. I’ve never felt that with anyone else… If we had kids, it’d be different. He’s my child, I’m his…” (In the film, Dreams, a fashion careerist hears from a married lover of her’s that he has reached a state of affairs where he is as weak as a toy, “a worn-out teddy bear.” The connections between these two films will blossom throughout.) “No, that’s not true. We didn’t want to be clever or mature. That’s why we fight and hit each other and cry. We don’t want to grow up. But we share the same blood circulation. Our nerves have grown together in some strange, uncanny way. Can you understand that?” Her so seemingly passionate about their closeness of sensibility is far more hope than substance. In fact, her bidding, in painful truth, to be not of the same language as Peter, carries a danger she underestimates. Her final words with Jensen here, therefore, measure her cowardly incompetence. “Whenever Peter’s not feeling well, the same happens to me. I want to run home to Peter and hold him and say, ‘Now, from now on, I’ll understand everything you say or think… everything you feel…’ I want to hold him fast until he finds me. Why the hell don’t we see each other, although we live together?”

The next step involves her mother-in-law, a week after the murder, receiving a police investigator at her estate. “Peter was the child I’d always wanted. We were so happy. He had a wonderful childhood. Maybe it was too sheltered… He was a fearful child. He was afraid of the dark. He always wanted the light in the hall to be left on. He was afraid of all sorts of things: dogs, horses, large birds. He was like me. I was also sensitive and somewhat sickly. He was very close to his sister… They’d play with dolls and put on puppet shows. He was a quick learner at school [not, you can bet, a quick learner at what they don’t teach in school]. He always got the highest grades. When he was twenty, he met a nice girl [you can bet a patrician, like him]. They got engaged and planned to get married after finishing college. And then he met Katarina and fell madly in love with her. Katarina had a lot of control over him. She had the say. What Peter’s parents said or thought wasn’t important anymore… I don’t understand anything… I’ve had a good and happy life. Peter came to see me a few days ago. He had a list of things that needed to be dealt with, pertaining to his fixing up an old house for them.” (A rare lingering bit of rebellion. She noted that the roof is badly insulated. In The Passion of Anna [1969], a weak-willed man addresses his rotting roof. Disaster follows. But here, not a complete massacre occurs; therefore, we’re enmeshed into a very complex dynasty, a life of marionettes that, rarely, beats the odds.) Onscreen, many candles surround the old lady. A surfeit of candles. Three lamp lights—two, rigidly, side-by-side: another, way off beam. He stands behind her, being eclipsed by his mother, with only his arms and hands seen at her head (a configuration resembling his threatening knife upon Katarina; and also resembling the precious fashion designer, in Dreams).

The episode, “Five Days before the Catastrophe,” tests the catastrophic errancy of a woman struggling to navigate a true magic which her vision fails her. The odd couple find themselves at variance, unable to sleep, and they come to the dining room table to table their agendas. He begins a cognac, while raggedly choosing to cover up with a bedsheet. Then he opines that the meal they had that night at another couple’s place was “horrible.” She chooses whiskey. “That relaxes me. And it’s healthy.” He argues, “Don’t drink so much…”/ “I’ll drink as much as I want, my darling. I never go overboard…” That goads him to remark, “You were pretty insufferable last night.” Her rebound is, “Don’t I know it… I was like that on purpose. That’s the way it is. On purpose[making sure she was at an advantage; that being the bane of any hope for that disinterestedness she needs to practice on the way to creativity]. I enjoy embarrassing Martin… He always tries to fondle me in secret. So I get tipsy and fondle him. Openly. That’s a subtle way of getting back at someone, Little Peter.” Subtle! The pressure requires real subtlety. And the pressure for us is to realize that Katarina has embarrassed herself. We won’t get much subtlety from her. But this film has challenged the viewer to provide the vast subtlety she lusts for and fumbles. He, from his sterile decorum, complains, “You’re starting to get loud and nonsensical.” Her, “That’s your opinion… Everyone else thinks I’m terribly nice,” would be a prelude to hating herself when alone and sober. More empty loudness from her, pertains to an argument about his mother, cropping up the following day. When he reminds her that she promised to be present for a discussion of the quirky house, she sneers, “I don’t have the time. Your business friends consider it an honor to eat that grub your awful old mother prepares… She’s a rotten old monument to your [deceased] father’s imperium of oppression…” (Though Peter laughs at that, that we know now he’s been contemplating her murder for two years, there has to be some quiet rancor.) The tenor of their conflict reaches an unexpected turn for Katarina. “Now I’ll tell you what I actually didn’t intend to tell you. No, it’s nothing special, just a feeling… It happened early yesterday morning. I was in the bathroom drying myself with a freshly washed, rough towel that smelled good. Suddenly, I had an insight, or what it’s called… I saw all these familiar things around me and knew that they soon wouldn’t belong to me anymore. That everything would be taken away from me. None of these things around me would belong to me anymore… That feeling was gone after a minute or two, but last night it came back…”

Peter ignores this (as he ignored, by sleeping through the prostitute’s insight, she being light years more significant than he). What he doesn’t ignore, however, is the mention, by Katarina, that his friend, Harry, had set up a tennis workout early in the morning. On hearing the reminder, Peter informs her that his friend’s tennis elbow was acting up and that therefore the game was off. This brought to mind (despite her having so recently come close to cogency) a recurrent annoyance about Harry’s smoking habits, which reach 70 cigarettes a day. Her gambit of attending to some form of vitality (which does not touch her alcohol habit) becomes a case of her (ragged) concern for a peculiar sensual force. There is another Harry, the protagonist of the film, Summer with Monika, who, after disastrously attaching himself to a poisonous girl, runs her out of his life. This figure makes plenty of sense here, inasmuch that Katarina is on the hook to ditch a dead-end sensibility. That other Harry becomes adept in work and wider responsibility. But Katarina’s wider responsibility is as hard as it gets. Next morning the rush-hour traffic powers past their flat. Two streams of vehicles, headed in opposite directions, presenting much statement but no links. There are contrasting lights in the German darkness, depending on the direction. At work Peter dictates to a secretary, “We have two alternatives.” Not three. Later he notes, “The problem is that a completely new point was raised…” In an ironic conclusion to this very long instance of pedantry, rounding off a punishing display of mutual disarray, we have Katarina rehearsing the models for her imminent fashion show. The effete impact being a paragon of how not to deliver well.

Our major protagonist makes good on her threat to be missing in action at Mama’s soiree. At a bar (where she drinks heavily and shoos Peter along to thrill to something she too should care about), one of her colleagues, the major designer of her concern, spirits her away to his art deco gem of a flat (showing two diamond-shaped lamps vertically positioned in the dazzling darkness along with one rounded lamp too far-off be a player), for the sake of lifting her spirits, and becoming, as far as his lights allow, a genuine friend. Tim, the first responder, had mooted, “I have a wonderful idea. Come to my place for a few hours. You can take a nice long bath. I’ll make us a salad.” In face of this handsome proposal, she corrosively claims, “I’m fine where I am.” In standing up she collapses upon his chest. “I feel so bad.”/ “I suddenly had the feeling that you were terribly unhappy,” he perseveres. (She covers one eye with her hand.) Once to Tim’s tidy home, he shifts the subject to that Martin she felt she had to outsmart with “subtlety.” “We were very attached to each other. But as you know, fidelity doesn’t exist. Not true fidelity.” (Tim is shown by a full-length mirror. A twosome.) “When you’re gay, you can’t be faithful.” Pulling himself back to the subject of conviviality, Tim states, “You have to cry if you feel like it.” Then back to political advantage: “Most gay men like women. Not because we’re particularly feminine, but because we’re more in touch with our feelings. I didn’t come up with that. Martin said that. But it could be true.” (One light is on behind her.)

Tim emotes, “Splits! It’s immeasurable grief… Maybe it isn’t grief at all, but some sort of madness.” (She in the way of a lamp with two lights.) She contributes, not entirely candid, “People like me have never given the soul much thought. Then the soul starts acting up, and you’re helpless. You know?” Tim says, “I understand.” She continues, “Perhaps a few tears are shed at first. A strange kind of crying which then turns into a terrible howl of grief and hopelessness. Then it turns into a blind roar… a roar… a roar…” (Cut to Tim, nonplussed. Is Katarina caught up in Tim’s sentimental menu?) The designer avers, “Everybody breaks down once in a while… I’m pathologically addicted to intimacy!” (Two diamond lights between them.) Then Tim speaks at length about about the horror of getting old.“Two incompatible people… Sometimes I think they all stem from one and the same origin.” He concludes this rampage of intimacy by asking Katarina to lay her hand against his cheek. She does. But when he asks—“Can you feel that my hand is me? That it’s me?”—she shakes her head. (Katarina joining a host of dullards ignoring what’s up. Can she rally? That’s the heart of the saga.)

Three days after the murder, Tim, the apostle of intimacy, is summoned by the police due to his being instrumental in Peter’s meeting the victim. After a lot of flim-flam at the expense of a one-track-minded functionary, he declares—what happened to intimacy and more in touch with our feelings?— “I liked the idea that Peter was cheating on her with a prostitute. But that’s only part of the truth. Weak people choose strange paths. I gradually focused on taking Peter from his wife and making him mine. I saw the coldness in his marriage… I knew I could save him… People like me have a feeling for such things.”

A somewhat less predatory scene pertains to a letter from Peter to Mogens, which never becomes sent. It functions as a glimpse of the influence of Katarina. And it confirms that that toss away platitude, “Weak people choose strange paths,” is studded with deadly practices. Peter premises is cri de coeur, by declaring (Tim-like), “What I’m going to describe isn’t a dream in the usual sense.” (It’s, in fact, more a dream like the fervid dreams of the film, Dreams.) “Although I experienced this under the influence of pills and alcohol, the experience seemed more real and horrible than the reality of everyday life.” Cloaked in a calming fog, there were him and Katarina seen in bed from the vantage point of the ceiling. The documentor struggles to describe the fabric of this action: more than “sensual;” not only “erotic;” “a direct link between my lower body and the intense, sweet-smelling moisture of a woman.” (Katarina’s hair tumbling as she sleeps.) Then a moment showing them nude from a long distance, with over-exposed visuality, insinuating a snowscape. In the vein of “more in touch with our feelings,” Peter gushes, “I moved over a glittering, spacious surface with my eyes closed. And all was very quiet. My contentment was complete. I had a strange urge to tell a funny story.” (Can Katarina’s heights get past the funny story stage?) “There was a little eye on every finger.” (In Dreams, one eye upon a raincoat suffices; here the push to be “big” collapses the traces of remarkable initiative.) He moves to touch one of her nipples. Then he rattles off a formula, where only the deftness of motion can prevail: “If you are death, then I welcome you, dear death. If you are life, then I welcome you, dear life.” Amidst such sophomoric efforts, he does break from tradition to realize, “that it was dangerous to become afraid.” Back to his cruising speed, he imagines consistently to be unable to penetrate her. “I fell into a rage. I withdrew to stop myself from killing her.” Her vigorous countering of his aggressiveness, leaving him holding his head, produces a long glare of intransigence between them. This is followed by her gently soothing his wounds. “It is difficult to describe that particular moment. The very air I was in was transformed… We entered a sudden spirituality without reservations.” That her range puts his to shame culminates in his fantasy of having killed her “in some cruel way.” The missal describing a weakling. No wonder it was never sent.

The episode, “Two Days before the Catastrophe,” brings the letter to solid action. It begins with Katarina frantically trying to reach Professor Jensen, because Peter is up on their roof contemplating jumping to his death. True to form, the psychiatric flop is not available. Her backup choice is one of his cronies, namely, Arthur, a name (in the form of King Arthur) redolent of maintaining good breeding. (In The Passion of Anna, a weak-willed artisan on a broken roof ends up like a figure in the works of Samuel Beckett. From here on in, it’s about whether Katarina can fare better than that.) Arthur tries to rally the on-again but largely off-again rebel with, “It’s respectable to want to jump, but inhuman to torment one’s fellow man.” He adds, “Someone will see you and alert the police… Can’t I at least get your fur coat?”/ “That would be nice of you,” the not quite desperate enough malcontent replies. (Weak people choose strange paths.) He’s back before Arthur can carry the furs. Katarina attempts to calm the country club regular, but at this stage he shows no interest in their constellation. She drops that hot potato and hopes to find more success with the paragon of easy chivalry. “Poor Martha (Arthur’s wife), we’ve disturbed her.”/ “Not at all,” he tells her. “She had an early operation at the children’s clinic.” In the Swedish Bergman film, Dreams, a woman, named Marta, uses a trump card of children to fend off the protagonist fashion entrepreneur, Susanne, intent on a weak paramour. Marta is a pretty smart cookie, but not as bright and brave as she thinks. On the subject of hard knocks, Peter, attempting to look somewhat less weak, kicks Katarina backwards from her position of sitting on the carpet by the chair he occupied after doing without his furs. Arthur does nothing noble here. “Come sit with me,” is his policy of law and order. An embarrassed lady of the house chirps, “I’m fine on the floor…” Then both of them begin to glare at each other. She plunges on with, “We had a drink with Johan and Marianne. Then we all went out to that new Italian restaurant near the theatre.” (She drinks. Arthur smokes. Far less overt is her uphill climb to bring her seldom uncanniness to a full fruition and a hope for beating back a horde of cowards, along lines of surpassing those who kick, while keeping in play those who meant something, being held in reserve.) Arthur asks her, “What’s that on your neck?” This brings instant communication from Peter, “Her necklace broke… I got caught in it, and then it broke.” (Peter got caught in Katarina’s audacity. And then it broke.) Arthur remarks, “Make sure it doesn’t get infected.” Peter the Weak blurts out, “Oh, Katarina says she wants to leave me. I say great. What a godsend. Then she says she can’t live without me. I say I can live better without her. She says I’m important…” (Katarina lies back on the floor.) As the transaction spins crazily, Katarina loses her temper, as she has done may times. But, while she has an end-game, he has nothing.

During the rest of the humiliation from out of that overt consideration of suicide, the conflict and its results do nothing but confirm that their life together is no more. She snipes, “Shut up, Peter, you’ve had your performance.” But now Peter—terrified in face of his wife’s reckless and valid cares (and occupying the model of that Anna, the little pedant and coward, emerging from the film, The Passion of Anna)—opts for an eleventh hour return to full bourgeois appetites, including a final “performance” to recompense his treason against his clan. How far apart are they? One indicator says a lot, though no one notices. As Katarina lies back on the carpet, pondering her future as a solo act, we see her from upside down and particularly the collar of her shirt. Two button holes and a button: the two of them no longer in business, but, for her, filling little needs could go far. That she is far from steady enough to see her way through this snake pit may be transparent in the following communication later in the conversation. “Poor Peter, I feel so damn sorry for you.” (That is precisely what the protagonist, Susanne, in Dreams, has to endure, from a prim, nihilist Marta, who believes that no couples ever become magic. That, in the cyclone going on at this point, Katarina becomes a stiff, is food for thought. She set this doomed, underground adventure by way of a degree in charisma. We’d like to discover if she can reinvent (and then some) a new and wider fruition. Out of the pointlessness of tons of clashing verbiage, there is one kernel of might from her: “We accepted the rules [of skepticism] but had no knack for the game [the play and its good-naturedness].”

In the episode, “Three Weeks after the Catastrophe,” we find some signs that Katarina is beginning to find a knack. Paying a visit to her grieving mother-in-law, our protagonist counsels lightening up, going on a visit to Paris where the grieving one has a sister. As to being possibly needed by the butcher now ensconced in an institution for the hopeless, the daughter-in-law relates, “I went to see him yesterday. He didn’t seem to be all there… He’s getting injections to stave off distress.” So prostrated is the mother with the shock, Katarina (surely feeling some irony, which now, though, for her, might have an impact for some good, for some people) suggests Professor Jensen to lighten her load. The offer is accepted. Despite Katarina’s history of hating that lady, she now declares, “I can come to see you every day…” This gambit is promptly shot down by the host’s digging into their troubled relationship. “You think it’s all my fault…” (But Katarina has begun to leave such sterile warfare, while needing to stand up to a history of panzer violence.) The mistress of the mansion argues, “You’ve always been very critical of Peter’s and my relationship.” Having to retort, “You were critical of our marriage,” would simply not be what was on her mind. A better manoeuver, though, would—in face of the woman with no future (like her son), dictating, “I gave birth to him and raised him. He’s a part of my life. You don’t have any children. You don’t understand a mother’s feelings…”—“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Pleased to feel on top, the maternal one speaks through a dynasty. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” The guest in the leopard-skin coat, assures the old lady, “You didn’t hurt me.” Pouring on that favorite insult by those smelling a kill, “I feel so sorry for you,” is met by Katarina’s, “I don’t believe that… I’ve been here for half an hour. All you’ve talk about is your feelings…”Perhaps her parting words forever (but not necessarily), the solo pours out her heart to someone who wouldn’t give a shit. “Full of astonishment, I look back on our lives… on our former reality, and think, ‘Was it all a dream?’ It was a game. Lord knows what the hell we were doing. This is true reality, and its unbearable.”(It could be that being in the presence of Peter’s mother has somewhat rattled the soloist.) True reality is not unbearable to the strong, and Katarina knows it. She also knows that being a soloist is madness. Her being felt on the spot to match the matron’s emotions swings her into a line she’d find ludicrous when composed. “A strange, hard surface. But under the surface I’m crying. I’m crying for myself because I can no longer be the way I was… I cry for Peter. I’ve never been able to put myself in other people’s shoes… But suddenly I think I know what Peter is feeling and thinking….” And even in such a maudlin funk, her better self returns. “But the [exponentially] worst part of it is… that poor woman. I tell myself she was only frightened for a moment… That doesn’t help.” Just before Peter presumes to make his piddling statement for the sake of the “betters,” he learns that the woman knowing catkins is also a Katarina. The guest that day to the mother-in-law was very significantly on a track to touch those worth touching. To more fully disclose Katarina’s distinction in leaving that fortress of enmity, we look back to Peter’s doggerel where his wife (the only thinker that long family tree had ever enclosed) had had her creative heartiness cribbed and twisted into a cheap stunt. “There was a little eye on every finger.” What had the unsteady thinker wasted, on a worthless associate, was her hard won realization that her gentle and powerful proof against inertia not only opens and drives the fireworks of the cosmos itself, but being gifted by a vast menu of carnal initiatives, by way of which to be truly blessed, truly loved. (The outset of the film, Dreams, with its producing a large set of red lips, like those of Katarina’s, also traces a word for the wise: “One has to say no at some point.”)

An Epilogue showing Peter’s cell returns coloration. It has nothing to do with him (the exponent of, “no way out” and solitary chess, recalling the cowardly patrician in The Seventh Seal), but that Katarina is in the building, perhaps for the last time.

As this saga has unfolded, we’ve come to a unique need to add to Katarina’s struggle. Bergman’s exceptional skill about problematic drama eschews attending to further steps along this endeavor. The hundreds of montages accompanying the narratives were not only about the “mood” of the stories, but the actions of the viewers. The placements about the mundane, the ecstatic and their harmonics are not precious museum-pieces; but a way of life hugely dissimilar from the dynasties which have commanded fealty for, in one case 4000 years, and, in another, 2500 years. That they are massively wanting is one thing. That their homicidal proclivities exude a pall upon the land may be well seen by the former’s incompetence and arrogance to the point of a world-wide collapse, without so much as an apology. That is the reality which Katarina and we must deal with at a level of difficulty so extreme as to seem, “no way out.” But along with the Byzantine history, there is a stunningly underused resource to foster a “knack” in return. The likes of Katarina, who finds snippets of magical dynamics setting her apart, can, if alert enough, become buoyed by an agency recommending action for the sake of interplays that have no end of joys, but very much end of sentient life. This planet of toxic dynasties, so effective in paralyzing the full range of creativity (delivering a world of marionettes), is far from the only place graced with a creative knack.

#ingmar bergman

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welcometophu · 7 years ago

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Not Your Destiny: Chapter 17

Marked Book 1: Not Your Destiny

Chapter 17

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Luca leaves after an hour or two, taking Maritsa with him to drop her off at a dress fitting. Cleto remains camped in the same seat, chatting quietly with Hayley, answering questions about Ángel’s childhood. Ángel feels like he should regret this, especially when Tanner starts helping Cleto tell stories, but he can see how it helps. He doesn’t want to break the fragile peace that Tanner seems to feel.

Lira comes back, lips pursed when she looks at Cleto, gaze drifting from him to Hayley to Tanner with narrowed eyes. Ángel stares at her, waits for her attention to fall on him then meets her gaze calmly until she blinks and looks away, expression sour.

“Is there news?” Mary asks, twisting in her seat to look at Lira. Joey’s hand rests on Mary’s knee, Mary’s other hand tangled with Papi.

Lira smiles when she turns back to them, sweet and soft. “He’s awake,” she says, “and the doctor’s cleared him for visitors. Only two at a time; until we know what set off this round of seizures, the doctor would prefer to keep stimulation to a minimum. She’s also called for one of the elders of our Mages to come see him, see if she can see what has upset his Talent.”

Mary’s expression thins, and Tanner makes a low nose. Hayley’s brow furrows, but Ángel shakes his head. If Mary wants to explain how everyone’s seen Emerson at one time or another, that’s up to her. Not them. Every single adult Mage in the northern part of Florida met Emerson when he was younger, it seemed like, and none of them had any experience with his Talent. None of them knew why the seizures came with the magic, or why they seemed link to the color and number of the bubbles.

Ángel makes a mental note to talk to Pawel when he gets the chance. Maybe he’ll have a better idea, or at least someone else they could talk to. Someone with a new perspective.

“Do you want to see him?” Lira asks, and Tanner’s out of his seat, Hayley moving in his wake, before she finishes the sentence. Lira frowns as Hayley follows Tanner to the door, and Hayley stops, rocking back on her heels.

“I’ll just… wait… here.” Hayley turns, gestures at the chairs. “With Papi?”

“You don’t need to stay,” Mary says quietly, hugging Joey quickly, squeezing Papi’s hand. “I’ll be fine. Take Abuela home to get some rest, and Tanner and I will stay.”

Hayley bites her lip, wavers in place.

“Come on, Hayley, we’ll take you home.” Joey stands, smoothes the wrinkles from her shirt. “We’ll come back later to bring Tanner and Mary some lunch; something better than the hospital has in the cafeteria.”

“It’s okay,” Tanner says, his hand already on the handle for the door. He reaches for Mary, an arm across his mother’s back as they nudge open the door together. Hayley deflates as she watches them go.

“Do you want me to come home?” Ángel asks, because at this point he’s not really sure what he should do. He needs to work off the payment for Helga, but at the same time, he wants to support his family. But he can’t support Tanner if he leaves, although maybe he could help Hayley.

It’s confusing.

Hayley shakes her head, crosses her arms and bounces a little on her toes. “No, I’m fine. I mean. I’ll go home, and I’ll text Zita and maybe she needs some help today or something. I don’t really think I can sleep again. Not until tonight. I’m just.” She lifts her hands, flicks her fingers near her temples, and sparks spill out. “Wired.”

Cleto laughs, soft and low.

Tanner and Mary disappear. Ángel takes the moment to hug and be hugged by everyone except Cleto, before Cleto carefully pulls him away from his family. “I’ll drop you off,” Cleto offers, and well, that takes care of that decision.

The Camaro rumbles loudly, more like a friendly warning growl than a purr. But it rides smoothly, and the interior is clean and neat. Ángel suspects the upholstery has been redone, rather than patched, or else the seats have been replaced completely. “It looks good,” he says when they arrive, and Cleto just nods his reply.

Cleto doesn’t stick around while Ángel goes inside.

He walks past the floor, pausing when he hears Luca hiss. He glances over, and Luca points at the office door that sits mostly closed, then presses a finger to his lips, twists his fingers like a key.

Locked lips? Zipped lips? Ángel’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head, taking another step down the hall. Luca rolls his eyes, waves him away.

Gabi looks up as soon as Ángel walks in, eyebrows rising, then falling into a scowl just as quickly. “Of course it’s you,” she mutters. “Weren’t you taking the day off? Go help Emerson.”

“There’s not really anything I can do to help,” Ángel says. “Figured it’s better to come here. Hayley’s going to try to help out Zita again, if she needs it. Tanner and Mary are with Emerson.” Ángel glances back at the door, finally figuring out what was wrong when he walked in. “Is Luca the only one on the floor?”

A dark, dry laugh. “Million dollar question, there. Yes, yes he is,” Gabi grumbles. “Want to place your bet on how long he’s on his own, or do you want to get out there and help him?”

“Tony said not to touch anything unless he said—” Ángel cuts off at Gabi’s glare.

“Tony isn’t here, so take your orders from Luca,” she snaps. “Just go. Do something. We have too many cars and not enough mechanics and the work’s piling up. Someone needs to deal with it.”

There’s no arguing with her, and it isn’t worth Ángel’s life to sit there in the office with her glaring at him. He heads back out to the floor, takes the paperwork that Luca hands him, and hits the button to open the door for the middle bay. It’s an oil change, of course. Ángel has a feeling that they’ll all be oil changes, since that’s most of what Tony’s had him do so far. He’s going to be a mess by the time he goes home.

It’s easy to get lost in the work. He gets through three oil changes before Gabi yells for him to get the truck out to change a flat. He’s on his way back from that when she calls him to bring someone in with a car that won’t start. The woman comes with him, sitting quietly in the cab of the tow truck, ignoring him after he explained that neither Tony nor Cleto was coming to help.

The woman stalks inside while Ángel lowers the car, Luca coming to help him get it off the truck. They’re just winding the chains back up on the truck when a car pulls in and stops. Ángel glances over, expecting a customer, but Tony gets out. Luca clears his throat, taps his wrist, but Tony ignores him, leaning back in through the open door. Even from a distance, Ángel can see the way Daphne twists her hand in Tony’s collar, tugs him close before they kiss.

Ángel drops the coil of chain with a clatter.

Tony jerks back, just barely clearing the top of the door. He turns, glares as he slams the door, and Daphne peals out.

“You’re late!” Luca yells. “And we’re really fucking busy!”

“Are there any more oil changes on the list for today?” Ángel asks. He jumps down from the back of the truck, makes sure everything’s tight and solid. He could warn Tony that whoever she was is inside, and probably interested in running into him, but he decides he doesn’t care. He has a feeling Gabi will be entertained, anyway, if Tony has to deal with her.

“None that I saw, unless Gabi added one while you were out,” Luca says. He steps back from the truck, avoids Tony’s path as Ángel climbs into the truck. “Why?”

“Sounds like you don’t need me anymore. I’ll put the truck out back, clean up, and see what Gabi needs,” Ángel says. He slams the door closed, twists the key and revs the engine. It feels good when it rumbles under his foot, the shift moving with a low clunk into gear. He leaves them behind and takes the truck into the back lot, parking it in the open space.

Helga’s sitting there, off to one side, lonely and ignored. Ángel trails his fingers just above her hood, not wanting to touch with his greasy fingers. Maybe later. Maybe just for a little while.

He lingers over washing his hands, avoiding the office as long as he can hear Tony’s low voice inside. He waits until Tony stalks past on his way to the floor, then heads in to find Gabi slumped at the desk, her head resting against the cold wood.

Ángel grabs the other chair, slides it next to her and sinks into it, his hand at the nape of her neck. “Hey. You okay?”

“Frustrated,” Gabi mutters to the desk. “I bet Zita how long they’d stay broken up. She thought it’d take a month to get them back together. I said less than a week, but I really didn’t want to be right. And it’s not like he—” She cuts off with a sour growl, her back arching up into Ángel’s touch. He flattens his hand in response, rubs small circles until the sound she makes is more pleased than annoyed. She finally huffs, sighs, and pushes herself to sitting upright.

“You got anything you want me to do?” Ángel asks, pulling back enough to give her space.

Her gaze drifts to the paperwork, all neatly stacked and ready for filing, then she shakes her head. “I’ve got this. I’m not going out on the floor. Does Luca have anything else for you to do?”

Ángel bites his tongue on the response that Tony’s here now, and shouldn’t he check with him instead? He just shakes his head. “I’ve done all the oil changes, and I’m not approved for anything else yet.” If Gabi’s not going to say his name, then Ángel won’t either.

“Just go find something to do until the next call comes in,” Gabi says quietly. “You had a shit night. If you want to crawl into a corner and take a nap, I’m not telling, and Tony has no room to bitch.”

Ángel’s not tired. He’s getting hungry, but he can ignore it for the moment, and he’s not going to give up a chance at some quiet. “I’ll be out back if anyone’s looking. We’ve got a vacuum for cleaning cars somewhere, right?”

Gabi shows him where the vacuum’s tucked in a closet, and Ángel grabs that and a couple of trash bags and heads out to Helga. It’s not anything glamorous, but it’s needed to be done for months, and why not now? Ángel digs all the trash out, puts the returnable bottles into another bag to take back to New York after break to be returned. Once he’s got it clear, he shucks the hoodie he wore during the cooler overnight hours, leaving it on the hood, and crawls in under the dashboard to pull out the floor mats and vacuum up the multitude of crumbs that have somehow fallen down.

He slides out, straightens up to find Tony standing there, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the hood. Tony arches an eyebrow, and Ángel turns away. “Got another oil change for me?” Ángel asks dryly. “Gabi said she was all set, so I figured I’d clean Helga out.”

“Luca told me about Emerson,” Tony says, and Ángel turns around slowly.

“I’m not expecting special treatment because I was at the hospital overnight,” Ángel tells him. “Besides, I’m not the one who was—” He cuts off, not wanting to start an argument.

“I was thinking we could do her brakes.”

That’s not the response Ángel was expecting. “Aren’t you busy?”

Tony shrugs one shoulder. “Yes, but sometimes things take time while we’re waiting for parts to come in. Or we don’t get to them because there are calls that interrupt. Bring your car around, put her in the middle bay.”

Ángel wants to protest that it’s Wednesday. That they shouldn’t bump anyone else’s business for his car. But at the same time, he stubbornly wants one thing for himself right now, so he bites down on the words, instead choosing to say, “Helga.”

Tony snorts, comes to his feet with a roll of his shoulders. “Bring Helga around. I’ll meet you in the middle bay.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to push her?” Ángel asks. “She still won’t start. Hitching her to the truck seems like overkill.”

Tony makes a noise of agreement, and they open the two front doors, each getting a shoulder in. Ángel knocks the car into neutral, and together they push her around and get her situated in the bay. Tony puts her up on the lift, gathers what’s needed for the brakes.

It’s half work and half lessons. It’s not Ángel’s first brake job, but it’s been a couple of years. It helps that Luca’s doing the brakes on an Audi in his bay, and slowly the mood shifts from tense to something closer to the usual easy banter. It’s not as good as it was on Sunday, when it was just him and Tony, but that’s because there’s a residual tension in Tony’s shoulders, pinning them back.

Gabi comes out and brings up a chair, swings it around to sit on it backwards, her elbows and chin leaning on the back. “Is there any news from Tanner about Emerson?” she asks.

Ángel’s grip on the wrench slips; Tony reaches past him, leaning against him as he anchors it in place before Ángel can make a mess. Tony jerks his chin at the wrench, and Ángel leaves him holding it, steps back enough to be able to get his phone out.

He shakes his head at the blank screen. “Nothing.”

“But he’s going to be okay,” Gabi says quietly, and Ángel feels his heart twist at her concern.

“Hope so. They might have to change his meds.” Ángel isn’t sure how it all works, and he feels like there should be a better solution. He opens up his email while he’s thinking about it, composes a quick message to Pawel: I have a weird case of Talent I’d like to talk to you about.

Tony nudges him, and Ángel ducks in close again, listening while Tony explains what they’re doing next. In the background, he can hear Luca telling Gabi the story of Emerson’s first seizure, and he wonders how Luca heard that particular story. Ángel answers questions when he’s asked, but it’s only with half a brain.

“It’s a pity that there’s nothing that can just make Talent fizzle out and stop,” Gabi muses idly, and Ángel huffs.

“That’d be one solution.” He sinks down to sit for a moment, knees up. His ass is probably covered in grime, but what’s one more pair of jeans ruined at this point? “It’s like he’s got a half a Talent. It doesn’t do anything useful, and maybe it would if it worked completely. Maybe the seizures are his brain trying to do something else, but the bubbles just pop ineffectually and then his synapses short circuit, and down he goes. It’d be good if it could either be what it’s supposed to be, or just stop.”

“Do you think he can come over on New Year’s Eve?” Gabi spins back and forth in the chair, looks up at where Tony is reaching down, fingers opening and closing like he’s asking Ángel for something.

Ángel looks around, finds the part and rises to bring it to Tony.

“Are you inviting Emerson and not me?” Ángel asks, and Luca laughs out loud.

“Ángel, you are entertaining and of course you’re invited for the new year,” Luca calls out. “The whole family. This is a big party, not just us kids.” He makes a little scoffing noise. “Not that Zita and Tony are kids.”

“It’s my house,” Tony points out.

“Our house.” Gabi’s hand circles to indicate herself and Luca along with Tony. “Our house. All of us. Not you, Ángel, you don’t live there. If you decide to move in, you’re paying rent.”

Why would he do that? “I’m fine where I am,” Ángel says. “I’m going back to PHU in January, remember?”

“Expect to stay over on New Year’s Eve,” Luca tells him. “We have guest rooms. Most of our relatives will go home, but there’s plenty of space for anyone who wants to drink and stay.”

“Your father and grandmother can come,” Tony says quietly. “When we say family, we mean family. Our great aunt—our grandmother’s sister—will be there, at least for part of the evening, until Danny takes her home.”

“It’s about ringing in the new year with the most important people around you,” Gabi says. “You need your people there.”

“Why do you need me there?” It’s the most obvious question that Ángel has to ask. Luca’s silent, suddenly busy with a stuck lug nut, and Tony’s equally quiet. Ángel looks over at Gabi, and she raises both eyebrows, glances at his wrist.

“I licked you,” she says, amusement in her tone. “You’re stuck with me now.”

For all that it doesn’t make any sense, there also isn’t any argument Ángel can make against that. She licked him, therefore he’s family.

When Tony holds out his hand, Ángel hands him the wrench. Changing the brakes makes a lot more sense than this family right now.

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#welcome to phu #welcometophu #not your destiny #phu marked #marked

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thisdaynews · 5 years ago

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Meet the Silicon Valley investor who wants Washington to figure out what you should eat

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/meet-the-silicon-valley-investor-who-wants-washington-to-figure-out-what-you-should-eat/

Meet the Silicon Valley investor who wants Washington to figure out what you should eat

Dr. Joon Yun. | M. Scott Mahaskey/POLITICO

Helena Bottemiller Evich and Catherine Boudreau cover agriculture and nutrition for POLITICO Pro.

Joon Yun strolled the white marble halls of the Cannon House Office Building looking like the Silicon Valley hedge fund manager he is, no tie and his collar unbuttoned, California style.

It was his first visit to the U.S. Capitol, the beginning of a quixotic quest to persuade Washington of an idea. His first meeting was with someone who at first glance might appear to have little interest in policy proposals peddled by Silicon Valley types: a Trump-supporting Kansas lawmaker who sits on the Agriculture committee.

Yun, 51, is a radiologist by training, but he is best known for putting up millions in prize money to spur innovations to end aging. Over the past two years, however, he’s been transfixed by another issue. He is here today to help convince lawmakers, including Republicans who often think government is the problem, that there is at least one problem the feds can help solve: the country’s epidemic of diet-related disease.

Nearly half of American adults now have diet-related diseases like obesity or Type 2 diabetes, yet the connection between illness and food has perplexed the best scientific minds for decades. Meanwhile, the federal government has failed to make nutrition research priority. Fixing this requires a new federal agency dedicated to the issue, Yun argues, and it should be set up under the National Institutes of Health.

America, Yun says, needs a National Institute of Nutrition.

“There’s public appetite for this to happen,” Yun said, after a meeting in March with Rep. Roger Marshall, the Republican from Kansas. “We all grow up hearing that food is a source of life. But in our lifetimes, we’ve started to hear that food is killing us.”

The statistics speak for themselves. An estimated 318,656 deaths in the U.S. each year are attributed to diet-related disease. Treating these ailments is among the top drivers of ballooning health care costs and is fueling national debates over how to overhaul the system, whether by scrapping Obamacare or implementing “Medicare for All.”

Yet preventing these diseases ― through better diet and other interventions, like physical activity ― is largely absent from the political conversation on Capitol Hill.

For decades, the federal government has spent a tiny fraction of its medical research dollars on nutrition, a POLITICO analysis has shown. Last year, for example, the National Institutes of Health invested $1.8 billion, or 5 percent of its total budget, on nutrition research. The Agriculture Department’s main research arm, which is responsible for developing America’s nutritional guidelines, spent even less: $88 million ― an amount essentially unchanged since 1983 when adjusted for inflation.

No one in the federal government seems to be setting strategy for nutrition research, either. Installing a new agency at NIH with fresh leadership would raise the profile of nutrition, help set research priorities and, ideally, secure more funding, Yun said.

Most navy suit-donning visitors to the Capitol are selling ideas that financially benefit them or their employer. This does not appear to be case for Yun. A new National Institute of Nutrition likely wouldn’t inflate the biopharmaceutical assets managed by his firm, Palo Alto Investors. In theory, a healthier population would mean fewer prescriptions and medical treatments.

So here he is shaking hands with Marshall, who’s become an unlikely ally in this quest for a new institute. Marshall is a physician, an OB-GYN who thinks a lot about how to bring down the cost of health care. He has seen firsthand the effects of poor diets on mothers and children in his practice. The second-term lawmaker is supportive of Yun’s idea and says he wants to hold hearings to get the issue on the radar of more lawmakers. After all, without support from GOP lawmakers, any move to create a National Institute of Nutrition can’t be approved by the Republican-led Senate.

“Right now, I pick up the paper — and I know a little bit about nutrition — and what I read confuses me,” Marshall said, recalling that when he was in medical school, nutrition was only offered as an elective worth about an hour of credit. “I just think that we’ve turned our backs on nutrition.”

IN THE LATE1990s, while still a practicing radiologist at Stanford Hospital, Yun began investing in health care with Palo Alto Investors. He went on to become president and managing partner of the physician-led firm, which manages $2 billion in assets primarily in the biopharmaceutical industry.

His foray into nutrition science began with a chance meeting in Los Angeles in 2017 at the Milken Institute’s annual conference attended by the who’s who of global politics, science, philanthropy, business and entertainment. The headliners that year spanned from George W. Bush to Reese Witherspoon to Jim Yong Kim, former president of the World Bank.

Yun was there to talk about longevity, a personal project on which he once gave a TED talk. Following his panel, he met Dariush Mozaffarian, dean of Tufts University’s nutrition school and a cardiologist, through a mutual friend. Mozaffarian “talked about things I’ve never heard anyone else talk about,” Yun said, so he asked for a meeting, and another and another. They met four times during the multiday conference.

Like Yun, Mozaffarian wants the health care system to pay more attention to nutrition, and major research institutes like NIH to make it a higher priority.

“We have a system that spends billions on treating diseases, yet very little on researching the basics of prevention, like nutrition and stress,” he said. “At the same time, nutrition science is improving, but much of what it points to is more questions. What’s the role of the microbiome? What about probiotics? What about supplements?”

Yun had his own questions, too. He had long wondered what are the effects, if any, of consuming plants and animals stressed by their environment. If a cow has high levels of cortisol, the stress hormone, do humans pick that up when they eat beef? He realized no one knew.

In November 2017, he took a Silicon Valley-style approach to the problem and convened researchers from universities and companies like Nestle, investors and food writers at a science museum on San Francisco’s waterfront. He wanted to find out if he could make a difference by throwing some money at the problem. But a key takeaway from the event was the lack of public funding for and coordination of nutrition science across the federal government.

“I entered this thinking, ‘Can I fund some scientists?’ I came away thinking this is far larger than I can do myself,” Yun said. “The opportunity is really for public agencies to reimagine what it means to create the knowledge base needed.”

Yun took what he learned from that Bay Area event and began studying legislation that created other institutions, like the National Cancer Institute in 1937, and drafted a bill dedicating one to nutrition.

Yun’s belief that only Congress has the power to jump-start an overhaul of nutrition science is rare for Silicon Valley, where investors are more inclined to “move fast and break things” than to work within institutions. Yun himself is known for having an anti-establishment bent.

To spur breakthroughs in extending the human lifespan, Yun launched a $1 million contest in 2014 to “hack the aging code,” in part by challenging competitors to extend a mammal’s life by 50 percent. He also has an intense interest in political cartoons and countercultural art; he attends the Burning Man festival regularly.

Yun’s vision for an NIH institute focused on nutrition fit into a new push by Tufts University’s nutrition school, which wanted to expand beyond academia and have a tangible impact on policy.

“We need to bring together diverse allies. This can’t just be about health, but about business expenses being crushed by health care costs,” Mozaffarian said, adding that both the military and the food industry should be on board. “It requires a consortium of people across the political spectrum.”

Yun and Mozaffarian are careful not to criticize NIH, which historically has been resistant to major changes in its structure at the whim of Congress. Not criticizing NIH is politically savvy: Mozaffarian’s own research is often funded by NIH through a competitive grant process. In 2018, he was awarded $1.5 million to run an epidemiological study looking at consuming animal products and cardiovascular disease risk. Tufts as an institution is also a significant beneficiary: It received $57 million in 2018 from NIH for many different types of clinical research.

“We’re not intending to say existing USDA or NIH research isn’t useful,’’ Mozaffarian said. “It is useful. It’s just not enough.”

ON CAPITOL HILL,the idea of creating a National Institute of Nutrition is a long shot. Political polarization in Congress has largely paralyzed legislation, only exacerbated by the ongoing impeachment inquiry into President Donald Trump. Asking lawmakers to come up with new money for an entirely new agency may be comically out of touch.

But Yun and some lawmakers are thinking about the long game.

“I understand that we’re perhaps on day number one and it may be 20 years from now before this nutrition concept is prioritized by Americans, but it has to start somewhere,” Marshall said after his meeting with Yun and Mozaffarian last spring.

Marshall says the idea for the institute meshes with traditional Republican values like fiscal responsibility: “I tell people I can never touch the national debt if we don’t start driving down the cost of health care,” he said.

Yun and his allies are hoping that Rep. Rosa DeLauro (D-Conn.), who chairs the House Appropriations subcommittee that oversees the NIH budget, will be the Democratic champion they need in the House.

They already have one high-profile supporter in the Washington policy community. David Kessler, who led the FDA during the George H.W. Bush and Clinton administrations, teamed up with Yun and Mozaffarian in the summer of 2018. He had taken part in a panel hosted by The Washington Post at which he called the U.S. government “clueless” about how to reverse the nation’s alarming obesity rates.

“I would go back to the basics. Set up, in the National Institutes of Health … a National Institute of Nutritional Sciences,” Kessler told the audience. “I would try to answer very basic questions: Is a calorie a calorie? What’s the basis of insulin resistance and diabetes? What’s going on with my brain?”

Kessler’s comments made waves on the health and nutrition Twitterverse, and it wasn’t long before he got a call from Mozaffarian. Several months later, Kessler was on a plane to visit Yun at his home in the Bay Area. The two had never met or discussed a national institute. It was a coincidence they had the same idea.

In an interview, Kessler said that if DeLauro decided to use the power of the purse that comes with chairing the Appropriations subcommittee, she could propel a plan forward much more quickly than stand-alone legislation would.

“I know from 30 years of friendship that she gets this,” Kessler said of DeLauro. “When the time comes to sum it all up, and they ask, ‘What did I accomplish?’ This is one of those things lawmakers can say made a difference.”

DeLauro told POLITICO in a brief interview she’s “taking a very serious look at the proposal.”

Meanwhile, Rep. Tim Ryan (D-Ohio), a former 2020 presidential candidate, has introduced a bill that would set up a National Institute of Nutrition. He was inspired after reading an op-ed in The New York Times that was co-authored by Yun, Kessler and Dan Glickman, a former secretary of agriculture.

“We are having the wrong conversation right now around health care,” Ryan told POLITICO in a phone interview. “If half the country has diabetes, the system will still go belly up.”

“I want to shift the conversation to prevention,” Ryan added.

Yun acknowledges that creating a new institute at NIH is a big ask, one that could take decades. But he is prepared to work on the effort for as long as it takes, hosting meetings, writing op-eds and showing up on Capitol Hill. He wants Congress to take the idea and run with it without resorting to the typical tools of influence. He’s not hiring lobbyists or making political contributions.

“I don’t think we can afford not to have a National Institute of Nutrition,” he said.

Helena Bottemiller Evich and Catherine Boudreau cover agriculture and nutrition for POLITICO Pro.

#figure #Foreign #Politics #Washington

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davidastbury · 7 years ago

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March/April/May 2017

Margaret …1965 She had a flat in the All Saints district of Manchester, quite near the big hospital. On summer evenings, with the window open, the noise of the ambulance sirens would have bothered most people, but she didn’t mind. Her friends had given up trying to persuade her to join them in pubs – she preferred to stay at home during the week, reading or listening to music. The man from downstairs was a problem. She shouldn’t have encouraged him at the beginning by letting him in, but he was lonely, and she had felt sorry for him. But later he brought his drug kit with him and she had smoked. They would watch television and giggle – but afterwards she hated herself. So she stopped answering the door when she knew it was him – she didn’t want to see his worried face and his trembling hands; his dirty matchboxes and silver paper. So she would sit reading – any book would do – and look up when an ambulance passed – her face tightening with concern for the poor person being rushed to hospital.

Sandra .... (who was married to George) Sandra was George’s first wife, the one he loved most, the one he forever regretted leaving. He married at least four more times and lived with many other women. I served as ‘best man’ at his first and second weddings – we were close friends. Sandra basked his adoration but he didn’t fully meet up to her specification. She hated his name. George was not a great name to have in the early 60s – it was uncool and lumpy and forever linked with grey newspaper photographs of our chain smoking monarchs. The name was dumped upon him by his uncle George, childless himself, who assured the parents that if they named him George, he would make sure that the ‘little lad’ didn’t go ‘without’. This was a nudge-nudge way of telling them that the boy would inherit a portion of his butchering empire (a chain of shops in Burnley). The baby was inducted into the Church of England with the name George, but he saw nothing of his uncles’ estate when the sad day of his passing occurred. There was of course Georgie Fame who was high in the charts with clever rhythm and blues music – and the genius at Manchester United, George Best – but Sandra hated the name, and that was that. The other thing that bothered her was that George was thin and she hated thin men - she wanted a fat husband. Once, when we were drunk and George wasn’t around, she said that only fat men turned her on – I nodded with deep understanding. Her plan was to make George fat. The size of her meals increased gradually and she bought larger plates. Great offerings of slices of beef topped with suet dumplings, knobbly mountains of mashed potatoes, heaps of canned peas in what looked like green ink, boiled to death carrots – all swimming in a flood of watery gravy. I can only surmise that seeing her husband struggling to get into his clothes caused her to want him to struggle out of them. It was during that period that George emerged into his full heritage of faults. That first marriage winkled out all his weaknesses and compulsions and the two of them – both nineteen and without a clue about what life was about – looked like giggling kids who spent their time shoplifting.

Victoria Station – at night An old man is shouting at the ticket kiosk. I’ve seen him before, and he was shouting then. Everything annoys him, you can see it in his face – the face of someone who has taken a lifetime of being pushed around - of not fully understanding what was being done to him – of not being able to find the right words – of not being in control of his own destiny - of not being valued as a human being. But the hangdog years are finished and have been replaced by a rage at what the world has done to him – so he’s out on the streets looking for trouble. People are stepping back – it could get physical. They are enjoying the entertainment but don’t want to be hurt if things get out of hand. They find it amusing – a dishevelled, hunched up old man shouting at a glass grill.

Him! No matter how many disagreed with him he wouldn’t budge an inch. At the centre of his thinking was a conviction that whenever everyone is in agreement, something must be wrong. He had been like that at school and it had developed and intensified over the years - his opinions made life difficult, and few shared his relentless scepticism. He often felt isolated because he couldn’t believe in shared values. The idea of religion was attractive but he knew he would only disagree with the members, and to be honest, the concept of utopian goodness was irrationally repugnant. He never learned to debate and as far as I know has never converted anyone to his viewpoint – but he has been true to himself and consistently taken the side of anyone and anything that has drawn public hostility. No matter how loud the braying of the mob (using his phrase) he has always stood beside the underdog, always helped the lost cause – always.

Restaurant near the University I know nothing about him, but I’ll tell you this – he is clever! He has a look of Einstein - you cannot look like that and not be clever. The people at his table sit in awe at his knowledge and the flow of his perfectly chosen words. The nice thing is that he wears his erudition lightly; he isn’t pedantic or bombastic – he’s a nice clever man. A few minutes ago he left his group, lots of handshakes and good wishes, and passing my table, had a quick word with the cashier and then across to the curtained alcove to collect his coat. I saw him retrieve it and give it a good shaking, as if admonishing it for failing him in some way. Then he shouldered his way into it. It was instantly clear that he would have difficulties – I think the sleeves were too tight – too tight to pass over the rather bulky sleeves of his tweed jacket. Presumably the overcoat had a satin lining which enables it to slide over the garment underneath, but excessive tightness would eradicate this feature. He inserted his right arm and tugged the front of the coat, which is the right thing to do, but he failed to reach far enough down the sleeve – his hand did not appear. Instead he attempted to ‘shoulder’ his way into the left side, which resulted in the neck area becoming trapped in his upper back. I could see that his arms were pinned, with very restricted movement, and whilst his coat would not move upwards to cover his upper body, the knobbly bulkiness of his jacket would not let the overcoat ride up – nor was there sufficient looseness to tug the coat down and start again. So he stands, red-faced and helpless. The only solution is for someone to grip the back of the coat and vigorously jerk it upwards, releasing the trapped collar and enabling his shoulders to fit where they should.

Cadences and Complexities She was giving a series of talks and he, as an old friend, had been invited. The series had the snappy title ‘American Literature: A Personal Survey’ – in which she tried to chart the development of what had once been a branch of English literature until, blossoming so successfully, it became the tree itself and ‘English’ literature became the mere branch. This was her big theory; she had written books on the subject. He found it very pleasant to be sitting among the huddle of academics in the small, dignified hall. A satisfactory number of her students – a few friends like himself – and a ragbag of enthusiasts who preferred going out in the evening to sitting at home watching television. He enjoyed the sound of her voice - the pleasant tone - the rising and falling of the long (sometimes Jamesian) sentences – the modest, understated humour, all combining to make the lecture a very pleasing experience. She was also easy on the eye – she was very nice to look at. So deeply was she absorbed in her subject that people might assume that there was no other side to her personality, yet there was nothing ethereal about her physical presence. The tilt of her head as she spoke and the interesting self- consciousness of the way she perched on a corner of the polished desk, showed that cerebral issues did not totally occupy her mind. He was familiar with her themes; he had read one of her books long ago and it was coming back to him. He even composed a point for the end of the lecture - when she asked for questions. But then he rejected the idea – being aware that he would be showing off, as people usually are at such moments. He was old enough to know better – and anyway, she would know what he was doing – and he would know that she knew – and he would know that she knew that he knew. How Henry James would have loved this! So instead he let his mind drift away to wherever it wished, and a memory from early childhood materialised. He had been six or seven years old, and his parents were talking about something they had just bought – a set of ‘foam rubber’ cushions. These were viewed as the very latest items from our burgeoning post-war technologies. Unlike convention cushions, their composition made them ‘want’ to spring back to their original shapes – which was quite magical. Once left alone – and then quite often when left alone – he would remove the covers and handle the cushions with an innocent wonderment. He loved their forceful resistance to being squeezed – their patient tolerance to his grip – their deceptive appearance of weight, when in fact they were so soft and resilient and accommodating.

Clothes She used to have an unchanging appearance when at home. She always wore the same clothes, or so it seemed when he tried to remember. Always pale blue jeans and a red top – a T shirt in summer or a jumper in winter, but only in the house - she dressed differently when outside. Over the years the jeans would be loose fitting, or flared, or skinny and then flared again, or whatever the fashion stipulated, and the tops were always bright red – a loud red – a troubled red. The colours suited her, fitted in with her personality – clothes to slob around in – for listening to Blondie or Madness, or sprawling in front of the telly, eating crisps, hair a mess, skin blotched. That was a long time ago, but then something odd happened – he started to adopt this look himself. He now wears the same colour of jeans and pullovers in the same shade of red. It was something unconscious – he had never thought about it, and it was a while before he recognised the habit. It simply feels right, as if the clock had been turned back, as if the fun and optimism has never gone, as if she was still there – still in the house.

On the Train Summer 1964… (all change) They were very young and talked about getting married. They were so pleased with each other! She had told him, more than once, how he was exactly ‘her type’ – and she went into detail explaining what her type was. This pleased him hugely – her specification was quite demanding, and yet when thinking it over, a question crossed his mind about the exclusivity of his qualities – was she drawn to these features in other men? And then there was a crisis; she had been away on holiday with her friends and met someone new. She quickly told her boyfriend and there were tears and they decided to call it off. The new boyfriend travelled up from Northampton every weekend and she probably told him how he was exactly her type. After a few weeks it all went wrong and they decided it to give each other some ‘breathing space’. During this period of quiet consideration she by chance met the first boyfriend and told him that she was again free. He was delighted to hear this and the two of them resumed their relationship and once again started to talk about getting married. He told her that he was going to Wales to visit family and wanted her to go with him – she gave some excuse which he accepted. Early Saturday morning he rushed down the steps of the local station – he had to travel to Manchester and then on to Crewe and then to Wales via Chester. But as he rushed down the stone steps there was someone rushing up them – and he knew instantly who he was – you see, he was exactly her type.

We were never particularly close, but we once shared a lot of friends and were at the same inevitably found ourselves sharing conversations at all sorts of parties and events. Conversation was pleasant but it never broadened out or developed further; we just drifted on the fringes of each other’s lives. And the years passed. He must have enquired about what was happening to me, and via the same friends I looked into what he was doing – a roller coaster ride of businesses and divorces – much more eventful than my own demure history. So in recent weeks, finding ourselves face to face again on several occasions, we effortlessly slotted into our comfortable positions. We have talked about the past, the people we have known (very few, for various reason, are still around) and the things we did. He is eager to go into detail as if it all means a lot to him. His wife watches and listens, knowing she is excluded from the code being used. She sees no reason for his curiosity, his eagerness to hear me speak of car journeys, theatre trips, dinner parties but slowly I understood. Others probably know him better but he doesn’t want to be with people who know everything – it is nicer to be with someone with partical knowledge. But more than that, I knew the person whose name must not be mentioned – his first wife.

He didn’t care much for poetry – he told me that more than once. But when that dog of his died he wrote a lot of verse, all at top speed, all very raw and hurt. I commiserated with him and mentioned a pet cemetery on the moors near Leeds, run by a lovely couple who burst into tears with every new client. So his dog has a grave with an impressive slab of marble for protection – inscribed with one of his poems.

The Eye Test I was in the semi-darkness, perched on a leather seat having my eyes tested, and at the end of the examination the optometrist took photographs of the back of my eyes. The results came up on a huge screen. It was incredibly beautiful – like a lost throbbing planet or some wonderful splash of colour inlaid with a filigree of red webbing. ‘That is so beautiful’ I said to the optometrist. ‘Yes it is’ he replied – ‘but then all the human body is too, wouldn’t you agree?’ I was thinking about this when the door opened slightly and a crack of light slid across the consulting room. It was his receptionist- she put her head round the door and softly said – ‘Excuse me...’ We all laughed.

As usual I am (in the words of Charles Dickens’ Sam Weller) ‘as dumb as a drum with a hole it in.’

Pret a Manger The cup was empty and she wanted to play with it – her elder brother, about seven years old, wouldn’t look at her as she pretended to drink. And then the cup slipped through her fingers and smashed noisily on the floor. The little girl was wide-eyed – so many shiny fragments scattered over the tiles. The man crouched down and carefully began picking them up, laying them neatly onto a paper napkin. A waitress rushed over and started to help, and he smiled apologetically – he was picking up the pieces and realising, with sadness and happiness, that he would always be picking up the pieces.

There is a little girl in many of Picasso’s Minotaur series – she is usually carrying flowers or holding a light. She also appears in other works. She is all important. This is Conchita, Picasso’s sister, who died of diphtheria in 1895 when she was seven. As she lay dying, her 14-year-old brother made a vow to God. He said he would never paint again if her life was spared. She died; he painted.

(John Richardson) At the Jewellers She went into the shop to collect her ring, which had been repaired. As she explained to the jeweller, it had once belonged to her grandmother’s mother and had been passed down to her – it was loose on her finger and also needed the mount tightening. She was pleased with what he had done – she stretched her arm out and admired the way the light caught the blue stone. The jeweller watched her and noticed that the colour of the stone matched her eyes. She was about twenty and was delighted at her ring being ‘old’. This amused the jeweller and he wanted to say that the gold is much, much older. No one throws away gold - it is continually melted down and takes on new shapes, new objects of beauty. The gold of her ring, now sitting so prettily on her elegant, tapering finger, may once have been stolen by the Spanish Conquistadors, or part of Charlemagne’s treasure or it may have adorned Nero’s plump pinky. It was at such moments that he loved his job. He held up his hands and said: ‘May God Bless you and give you many, many years of health to enjoy it.'

Russell at Thirteen An old photograph, developed by Boots – colours bleaching into a brown/orange – but I can still see him okay. Smiling across the years, faithful to the simple love of his gorgeous puppy - his older sister - his mother who smoked like Audrey Hepburn - his genial, often absent father. It’s a lovely group picture, all of us together, including the puppy. I’m next to his sister – his older sister – his dazzlingly pretty older sister - and I’m so happy that I’m nearly falling off the garden chair. But she never looked at me - she was always in profile! And we all sat in the sun; Russell at the front with the puppy licking his face, each of us smiling into the future.

There is a country lane with high hedgerows and rippling green meadows and ponds and buttercups and bulrushes and a stone house with no roof. On summer afternoons I would walk home from school with my friend Russell. We would cross the meadows and the long grass was as soft as hair and we would laugh together, our voices ringing in the bee loud stillness. And a while later I returned – not with Russell but with someone else. And the green of the meadow and the green of the leaves and the green of everything was changed forever – because I had seen the green of her eyes.

On the Train Only the deeply unhappy can be so happy. And the man opposite me belongs to an exclusive society for the truly wretched – because like all the other members he has been guided into a comfortable room marked ‘private’, and given the bad news, and from then on nothing will be the same. Members can spot each other – total strangers – a glance in a café – in the queue at a check-out – or in the street; and sometimes a quick ‘me too’ nod at each other, but they don’t need to say anything; they don’t want to know each other, they don’t want to hear the other’s story. But I can say for sure that they are no longer bothered by everyday worries; all the anxieties of the past are finished forever. Time itself becomes compressed and each day shines like a miniature lifetime. The relentless ache is transformed into an appreciation of everything – every detail is a delight! And there is joy in simply being alone – doing something exciting alone – like leaving the house before the postman comes – and ensuring no more bad news by dropping the mobile phone into a drawer and rushing out into the street – to the sunshine – to people who don’t know you – to life itself!

A hundred years ago – (not very long ago, my grandparents generation) it was noted that the performance of boys in schools plummeted in the higher forms. The boys knew that as the school leaving age approached they would soon go into the army and be slaughtered in the trenches. I suppose it became difficult to see the relevance of irregular verbs with something like that at the front of your mind. Every week the headmasters would struggle to read the latest list of former pupils who had been killed. These schools produced the officers, and in those days the officers led from the front, so their casualty numbers were higher pro rata than the ranks.

Seventy-odd years ago my own parents spent the last summer of peace tearing around the Linconshire lanes on a Norton motor bike. They saw the young airmen in the evening pubs, drinking and singing despite knowing that their chances of survival were slim. They smoked very heavily – cigarettes were called ‘gaspers’ and ‘cancer sticks’ – but who gave a damn when you were going to be killed anyway?

Euston Station Amazing. Thousands of people and I see a face that fifty years ago used to belong to my friend Russell. When he didn’t need it anymore it was given to someone else, because that’s how it goes. I cannot prove it; but then no one can disprove it. And seeing a face like that, right back from my past, gives you a bit of a shock and that’s putting it mildly. It is all about how we used to feel about life, and our eagerness and how it was taken away, how it was secured with a spring-steel clip and how much we want it back – if only we could – if only we could.

Politics The annual school Speech Day was coming up, and at the age of twelve he was selected to be one of the welcoming party for the Mayor and his lady wife. It meant standing in the entrance hall with the senior staff and greeting the assorted dignitaries, and then later being on the platform helping with the prize-giving. He refused. His parents did their best to understand why he didn’t wish to accept the honour and concluded it was a matter of shyness and lack of confidence. They told him that they accepted his decision and were so nice about it – but hinting at a deep disappointment – knowing that he would pick this up. Gradually this had an effect and a few days later he announced that he would be late home because there was a rehearsal of the opening ceremony and he was needed. But two years after this, his sister was in a similar situation – she was proposed for something and she refused. She glared at her parents and gave an emphatic and resounding ‘no’. And that was an end to it.

James O’Brian ‘Big Jim’ (1921? – 1992) On his last day at school Jim’s headmaster said to him – ‘It is difficult to predict your destiny, but my guess is that it will be at the end of a rope.’ A few years later Jim was in the army – ‘Out east’ – and his unit, under Lieutenant-General Percival, surrendered to the Japanese army. This was in February 1942. He then found himself working in gangs in the Burma jungle. The conditions were hellish and he must have decided that any escape must be done very soon, before he lost his strength. He had a go, and was recaptured – and although he survived whatever it was they did to him, he never talked about it. Back in England he found employment as a building site labourer and he did this work for the rest of his life. He never married, lived in one-room flats, and each weekend spent most of his wages on drink. Everyone knew him in the pubs, he had no close friends but he was respected. One Friday night, when the pub was loud and smoke filled, a young man in a suit made a joke about Jim. People were laughing. Jim slid off the bar stool and went across to him. He raised his dirty, stained left hand and put it in front of the young man’s face, and then, elegantly, flicked the front of his hair.

At the Takeaway Three queues, slow moving. Scruffy man at the head of my queue and he’s having a problem with money - he doesn’t appear to have enough to pay for what he has ordered. I can only see the back of him; he has a bulky, canvas bag over his shoulder and he appears to be one of Manchester’s hundreds of rough-sleepers. Woman at the head of side queue goes across and presses paper money into his hand; the assistant passes over the meal on a plastic tray. Whatever other characteristics the woman possesses, she is certainly kind-hearted and generous. Everyone who knows her will be also be aware of the many other aspects of her personality – the kindheartedness and generosity will be blurred, obscured. Yet the homeless man will see only her goodness, and in the ‘true’ scale of things - the things that really matter – it could be said that he knows her better than anyone else.

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