#I will have Julie look at Shear later

[julie-hollis]

I'm Like a Cat. I Always Land on My Feet / self para when -> jan 22, 2025 includes @kincaidhollis tw fire, injury, hospitals, children, burns

As Julie’s SUV careened towards Star Valley Hospital she couldn’t shake the feeling that every time she turned her back on her loved ones the world tried to take them away. It started with Joanne one day when she went to school. It happened with Wynn when they got separated at the courthouse. It happened with her grandma when she was on the road. It just happened to Shawn a month ago. It happened to Caid countless times – each time she wasn’t there. This time was just another on the list.

‘Don’t rush, alright? The boys were in the truck when it happened.’

Julie swiped a trembling hand at her face, half expecting tears, but it came back dry. The last time she shook this hard she was in labor with Wylie. Doctors said it had something to do with shock. Given the rush of her husband’s words, ‘hospital,’ 'burns,’  ‘smoke inhalation,’ ‘fire,’ ‘salon,’ ‘the boys were in the truck,’ ‘the boys were in the truck,’ ‘the boys were in the truck.’

She pressed the pedal to the floor. The hand on the speedometer shot closer to the 100. Julie tasted something acrid on her tongue. Her chest ached and burned as her heart rammed into her lungs. If not for the lights splashed onto the asphalt, she’d have lost sight of the road.

Star Valley’s buildings, some old, some new, were a crooked smile on the horizon. The gleaming hospital shined like a veneer. Julie barely flung the car into park before she lunged out. The revolving doors of the emergency room brought a flood of bright light. Julie’s eyes stung as she adjusted, disoriented momentarily. 

“Momma!” A small voice called as doors opened.

Julie whipped around. Her lungs inflated with the breath she had been holding as Wylie ran towards her like a shot. She collided with her youngest, he scrambled into her arms, and wrapped around her like a monkey within moments.

“Hi, my 'Yote,” Julie greeted. She buried her face in the crook of her youngest’s neck, lifting him up with a little grunt. The warmth of his little face on her shoulder anchored her. He was safe. Caid told her so, but she needed to know for herself.

“Where’s your brother?” She began to ask just as another pair of sneakers pounded down the hall.

“Mom!” Kip called. At the sight of his face, pinched with worry, she couldn’t help but see a reflection of herself. Her kids tended to favor Caid, but their expressions were all hers.

“Hi, baby,” Julie said. Kip’s face crumbled almost immediately at the sound of her voice. She managed to shift Wylie to her hip as Kip met her halfway. Her arm went around him like a shield.

“Momma, dad got hurt,” Wylie lifted his face and pouted. 

“He’s okay, though,” Kip’s muffled voice tried to reassure her, but he kept his face buried in her shoulder. She could feel warm tears seeping into her shirt. 

Julie gently smoothed a hand over Kip’s hair. Wylie’s wide eyes stayed on her face. She managed a tight smile at her youngest. This was one of those moments – she felt her hands steady – he needed her to be brave. They both did. 

“It’s going to be okay, dad’s the tin man, remember? Nothing hurts him for too long.” She said, smiling at Wylie until he smiled, too. Kip sniffled into her shirt – still hiding his face. 

“It’s okay.” She said quieter this time, her mouth near Kip’s ear as she ducked to kiss the top of his head. 

“Mrs. Hollis?” A steady voice asked. 

Julie looked up from her children at the sight of a nurse. They looked at her and the boys with a faint smile. She straightened up a little and gave a nod. 

“It looked worse than it actually is, but your husband’s insisting he come out here even though they’re in the middle of wrapping his arm.” The nurse’s tone was weary as she pressed a button and led them into the bowels of the emergency wing. Julie had a feeling between her kids running down the hallway and Caid, likely insisting he could wrap his own arm up, that they were at their wits end. 

“It sounds like he’s doing alright, then,” Julie joked. The nurse managed a half smile at the joke. 

Squeezing Kip once more, she threaded their hands together and hitched Wylie on her hip again. Five was a little old to be carried, but it was late and well past bedtime. Kip’s grasp on her hand grew tighter as they drew closer to the room. 

The hospital room was small and dimly lit. Caid sat on a chair that most people sat in when they drew blood. He was hooked to an IV bag. His mouth was set into a tight line that quickly went away when his eyes caught her face. 

“I leave you alone for one evening,” Julie started.

“What’d you do, Ray? Fly here?” Caid asked at the same time. She smiled lightly at the nickname -- short for 'Raven.'

“I wasn’t that far from here,” Julie lied. She managed to untie herself from the kids at that moment. Caid looked at her like he didn’t believe her.

“Dad said we can draw on his arm,” Wylie said, trotting over to get a look at Caid’s mummified arm. Caid reached out to ruffle Wylie's hair.

Kip scrubbed a hand over his eyes and took a seat on one of the plastic chairs. Julie looked from him to Caid. Caid held out his good hand, fingers splaying.

She wanted to ask what happened, how bad the fire was, but with the kids there it didn’t seem right. A part of her didn’t want to know. A part of her wanted to burrow into Caid like Wylie had done to her just moments before. Instead, she managed to stay upright and drew closer. She gently brushed a hand at his cheek. There was a bit of soot on his skin. 

“We’ve got to stop reuniting at hospitals,” Julie managed around the lump in her throat.

Caid closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into her palm. He heaved a sigh. “I told the nurse's at the desk I could wrap my arm myself if they just gave me some lidocaine.”

Julie hummed. “Doesn’t sound like that worked out for you, Cowboy.”

“One day it will,” Caid said quietly. 

Julie bent down a little and pressed her lips to his forehead. She could taste the smoke. Caid’s hands smoothed down her arms.

“It’s my fault.” His voice was barely a whisper. Julie shook her head and rested her chin on top of his hair. “It’s gone, baby.”

“You don’t know that, yet,” She murmured. Suddenly, those questions she had disappeared.

“You didn’t see it.” 

She leaned away at that, at the guilt tinged in his silence. His eyes bore into her face. Whatever was held in their depths she’d find out about later. Right now, the salon was the least of her worries. What mattered were all of them in that room. The rest could wait.

“Hey, you know I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet.”

Caid gnawed on his bottom lip. He managed a nod. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. 

Julie’s heart leapt to her throat. Her eyes immediately searched for a call button. She hadn’t seen how bad the burn was since it was under a thick layer of gauze. “Wha-”

“The fucking cat,” He rasped, good hand digging into his jeans.

“The what?” Julie asked, looking over her shoulder like she half expected a cat to appear next to Kip. Kip sat up at that; Wylie blinked, confused.

“What cat?” Wylie asked. 

“The cat you’ve been feeding; I grabbed him. He’s in the truck,” Caid explained, keys jangling as he finally managed to get them out of his pocket. He tossed them at her. 

Julie barely managed to catch them. She was still trying to process what he just said. A few cats came to mind. Finally, in her mind’s rolodex, the big maine coon’s lazy eyes came to mind. “Bao?”

“Yeah, that one,” Caid said. “Fucker tried running out when we got here.” 

Julie smiled despite herself. She tried to fight the hysterical giggle, but failed to keep a straight face. Instead, her composure began to dissolve. She wasn’t sure what bubbled out first. The laughter or the tears. The relief or the delayed fear.

[bleue-flora]

Weeks later and I’m still thinking about old man Quackity in a wheel chair… unfortunately, if we were to say they joined at their real age and aged from there, then Quackity would actually be only 62 (joined Aug 8th) on his first visit while Dream would be 84 (joined April 24) and Sam would be 83 (joined April 28) years old.

However, what if Sam being a creeper has like slow aging and Dream is immortal/doesn't really age at all because of being an admin, so you get a 62 year only coming to torture this like 20 year old daily for 16 years and it’d be funny because it’s like whose physical condition is worse as time goes by - Dream from the torture or Quackity cuz of age and intense physical exertion, because Quackity would be around 78 when he stops and you can’t tell be swinging around heavy axes and swords daily for 16 years doesn’t cause problems… like talk about back pain.

Oh and then of course, Techno is obviously immortal so almost 20 years later you have 120 year old Sam (looking younger because of being a creeper) wheeling in a 99 year old Quackity to torture Techno (technically 80) and Dream (technically 120) who look like they are in their 20s lol XD... no wonder in that stream, you got Techno who is unafraid and hardly worried about Quackity slashing him with shears, he’s this like decrepit old man, but poor Dream on the other hand, is frantic in the corner after spending 16 years dealing with shears.

Though… huh, realistically this logic doesn't work or at least the way I determined it because Tommy the youngest member would be 102 (joined July 4th), which is older than Quackity because he joined the server sooner. So perhaps the better reasoning is to start them all from day one (April 24th) and age them together, so Quackity starts off as 19, Dream and Sam start off at 20 and Techno is 21. If September 14th, is 36,576 Minecraft days from the start of the server, then Dream and Sam are 120, Quackity is 119 and Techno is 121. I suppose, to make it work, we could reason that Quackity being a duck hybrid means he ages slower (even though a duck life span is actually shorter lol) and Sam being creeper ages even slower (maybe not at all?) and then you have Techno and Dream being immortals you could still have Sam pushing Quackity across the lava in a wheelchair to torture them… I don’t know why that is so funny for me to imagine XD… think I’m gonna dub this the old man au lol

[reblogged post]

@sketchehm now that is an interesting thought…

So let’s see, if a Minecraft day is 20 minutes long and the dsmp was 933 days long then converting that to see how many Minecraft days that’d be [(933(days)x24(hours)x60(mins))/20(min)] we get 67,176 days or about 184 years. Meaning if we determined time by the Minecraft day and night cycle, the dsmp happened across a span of 184 years… lol yea that doesn’t quite work huh…

For funzies though let’s look at some other events:

L’manberg (101 days) & Techno’s imprisonment (100 days) -> around 7,200 days or almost 20 years.

Quackity visited for 83 days -> 5,976 days or over 16 years (no wonder he’s tired and bored of it lol :] )

Finally, Dream’s imprisonment (314 days) -> 22,708 days or a little over 62 years……… yikes

[wool-and-wanderlust]

July 24: Today I drove to Chester to visit my mom's cousin Jo and my great uncle, Brian. The last time I saw Uncle Brian was 2017, and I had never met Jo before today. I met Jo at her house first, and then we picked up Uncle Brian from his care home and took him out to lunch in the town center. After lunch, we took Uncle Brian to the nearby model plane shop. He loves building those and his room is full of them. I asked Jo whether Uncle Brian remembers which ones he's done, and she said he's done all of them! :)

July 25: Today was the last day of shearing at Brian & Tom's farm. Tom and Ben sheared today and Jana, Brian, and I wrapped wool. Sorry for those that are squeamish, but I included a photo here of a sheep that has had maggots. I mentioned before that sheep need to be sheared for health reasons, and this is a big reason why. Flies lay eggs under the sheep's wool, and then their maggots feast on the sheep's skin, creating sores that will eventually kill the sheep if not discovered and treated.

Later, I helped Tom check the ewes' teeth to see if they were health enough to spend another year on the hill. The teeth are a good indicator of the sheep's overall health. The only have bottom teeth, so if that row of teeth is good, they are good to go...if not, they got an orange dot which means they have been marked to go to market :( Checking them is a tricky business because in order to keep them still and keep track of which ones you've checked, you have to use your body to hold a group of them in one place between the fences. You can see here that the ones Tom is holding in front of him have not been checked yet; the ones behind him (closer to me) have already been checked. Brian and I checked on the cows to end the day, and on the way back, noticed the lowest rainbow either of us had ever seen. Brian showed me some other photos of rainbows from their farm that I'll add below. They have some amazing ones!

July 26: Adrian took me to the Royal Welsh Show, which is a major event in the British agriculture world. If your animal wins a prize here, you not only win prize money, but also the respect of other breeders who will pay big money for your animals. We watch the welsh pony competition for a while, then looked at all of the cows, chickens, goats, and pigs, and spent about an hour watching tug of war. Brian was a serious tug of war athlete and traveled internationally to compete. He also coached Tom's team. It's a big thing here. There are weight limits for each team, so teams will often have to carefully monitor their weights, sometimes literally going for a group run the day of a competition to shed weight if they are at risk of being disqualified due to being over the limit. Most pulls seem to be 1-2 minutes, but a well-matched team might pull for over 30 minutes! They wear supportive boots, but they aren't allowed to put anything on their hands except resin for gripping. My forearms are tired just thinking about how long you would have to grip that rope. It was really fun to watch. I could have stayed there watching all day if it wasn't raining!

[ronearoundblindly]

The Stark Legacy (12)

Waking, beginning of Book 2: Mind (see previous or series)

Summary: After injecting herself with dermal Extremis, Samantha Stark returns to the compound on a mission no one knows about.

Warnings for slightly judgmental Bruce, mention of needles, but I think that's it. Rated Teen/Mature so 15+ only, please.

Book 2: Mind

CHAPTER TWELVE—July 2038

The bus to New York was overly air-conditioned to counteract a hot summer outside. Sam pulled down the baseball cap she’d pilfered from Cooper and Annie’s room and pulled her long sleeves over her hands. Everything was pins and needles even when she sat still. She shouldn’t have dropped the nerve dampener.

She’d woken up on the floor of her lab five days ago. While unconscious, she had vomited, but since she hadn’t eaten her penne, it was only bile. When she sat up, Sam found all her hair had fallen out into a pile underneath her head, but it was all her hair, her whole body, eyelashes and eyebrows too. The monitoring cuff was still attached to her hand, but she had ripped the cord out of Missy’s tower at some point.

That didn’t matter, however, because while Sam was out cold on the floor, Missy had found the compatible neural regeneration virus among the samples. She’d have to test her own skin and DNA later, side effects be damned. 

Sam harvested enough of the virus and prepared to travel. 

Then she looked in the mirror, finally. That was quite horrifying. She’d looked like a bizarre, animated mannequin. She would have to spruce up a bit, and luckily, a girly girl with a makeup fetish lived downstairs.

Sam attempted to draw on approximately fifteen sets of eyebrows, but she always looked shocked. She gave up and let Missy map her face to show her exactly where to put them and in what shape. The worst part was not touching her skin after the makeup was on. Her skin crawled, and Sam found it difficult not to scratch her face and head. There was hope the hair loss was temporary, however, because after just four days the prickles of new growth returned. Missy made note that the follicles within the dermis must not have died but simply been temporarily overwritten in function. There was so much observation that would have to wait. Sam Wilson had already waited long enough.

The bus stopped at the outskirts of Avengers’ Compound property, and Sam descended the stairs shakily. She was glad to be rid of the staring passengers, for as much as she’d tried not to look suspicious, choosing navy sweatpants, light sneakers, and a shirt, she still stood out for being covered up on a hot day. Once off the bus, Sam pulled out her Stark smart pad.

“Missy?”

“Yes, Samantha?” her AI replied in the communication earbud.

“Be ready to execute program Blindspot.”

“Sorry, Sam, Tony isn't here,” Bruce said when he saw her walk in. He did a double take at her completely buzzed head, even though most was covered by her cap. It wouldn’t be possible to hide the hair she used to have under that hat. “What did you do?!” Before she could even walk across the room, he corrected himself. “I mean, it looks… you're really making a statement. Are you?”

“No, Bruce, the bus was cold. I just tried something new, and it turns out it's not really my thing. Now I have to buy a few more hats,” Sam joked, smiling as she looked over the gear on his work table. She didn’t dare pick anything up for fear he would see her shaking. “So what are you up to?”

As Sam scanned the mirror image of his projected screen, Bruce continued to stare at the young woman’s sheared head. “Your Dad is gonna freak out.”

She didn't skip an instant. “Hopefully he will never see it. I just need you to give me a new project, and I'll be out of your hair.” She frowned, adding, “pun unintentional but pretty good…”

Bruce began to unclench. After all the pictures Nat showed him of Sam’s different hair styles and colors over the past few years, this was the most…what should he call it? Adventurous? Angst? Wrong? Just as practically terrible as it was wonderfully hilarious? 

“You couldn’t have just called?”

Sam’s voice got a little deeper. “Would you have picked up?”

Dr. Banner knew he’d been distant. He now went months at a time without so much as checking in. That’s what everyone did to her eventually. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a lot of extra time, Sam. This,” he gestured to his work, “it's complicated. I’m barely muddling through—”

Sam noticed a bit of formula that intrigued her. He was still trying to harness the energy of the infinity stones in a controlled environment, pairing them to be precise. The problem seemed to be what carrier mechanism to use.

Bruce saw how Sam studied the screen and started to tilt the monitor away from her. “That’s not…You shouldn’t have anything to do with that—”

“Ya know, if you could,” Sam interjected, looking away, fumbling with junk on the counter,, “use the mind and soul stones to recreate Vision. Aunt Wanda would love that. But he would only be a close approximation, assuming you have as much footage of his mannerisms and speech pattern. Oh, but that would be Jarvis.” Sam slipped Missy into the pile while she replaced each piece sloppily. “There is still the possibility you would generate an alternate personality, like a psychopathic robot killer, oh wait…Tony did that. Wanda may kill literally everyone if you dangled him in front of her enough.” She had to walk a fine line between irritating Bruce, but not angering him, and giving him more to think about on top of all of his current work.

“Sam, how do you know anything about,” he waved his arm into the paused screen, “this?”

She was no actress, but she had the brainpower to over-analyze most of her performance and correct herself. “That's why I'm here, Bruce, because I'm drowning in a bunch of information I already know, and I want, I need something new!” She removed her cap and rubbed the exposed stubble of hair in frustration, and demanded, “so for the love of all innovation, can you throw me a bone?” Sam saw a tiny light come on at the base of her tablet. Blindspot had started. Missy was in action. However, she hadn’t intentionally distracted the doctor with her itchy head.

Bruce blinked. Everything about Sam was a minefield for him. She was the perfect representation of what he wanted and could never have; a perfect little girl, smart as a whip, grown into a curious young woman, but she was brutally human: fragile, mortal, emotional, sensitive, cocky, and awkward. She was the more dangerous version of Tony Stark because she was genuinely likable. It made Bruce Banner all the more terrified of killing her--or rather of Hulk killing her--as he almost did once. 

“Well, I could,” he started mumbling, grabbing his tablet, “give you access to some files… Sam, I don’t know.” He stopped. Years ago he could barely look at her without a cold wave of guilt pumping in place of his blood. He had been so convinced that he would never, ever hurt her, but how was Hulk supposed to know that? Sam was the closest thing he had to a daughter and felt nothing but blessed that she shared interests with him. She was a lot nicer to him than Tony, but Bruce didn't know how to work right beside her. “Can you just wait until Tony gets back and ask him?”

“Sure, I can wait another 13 years and see if he cares by then…”

“I…” Bruce removed his glasses, more stressed by the family dynamic than the galactic problem in front of him.

“Because you love me, Uncle Bruce?”

“Let me think about it—”

“I could help with…” Sam coached, but she cut in too soon. Bruce's energy changed without any physical movement, and suddenly, Sam was positive he was about to throw her out of the building. She had to get to work before Missy’s program was detected, or Hulk killed her for being annoying. “Or I could leave you with your thoughts while I get us some coffee,” she said, retreating to the exit. No stimulants, she reminded herself, especially now. “Treat you to a fizzy water with lime,” she yelled as the door shut behind her, pausing to make sure no smashing noises followed.

With any luck, Bruce had thrown himself back into research or was distracted by what he should do with Sam. He couldn’t be casually paying attention to anything else. However, there had to be footage of Sam going to get coffee and sitting down in the more private residence kitchenette for Missy to loop. There would be no one there because of the training exercises being run in the Eastern Hall and its adjacent field. Thank you organized, calendar-keeper Friday.

After Sam had remained comfortably seated, half-obscured, at the far corner of the kitchen countertop, at the edge of the security camera’s field of vision, routinely lifting her mug to her face and placing it back, she heard a small tonal signal. Missy was looping the footage. She could go to the infirmary without being seen. She rounded a corner just as the nurse left Wilson’s room. This sneaking around reminded her of plundering the medical building, and she’d studied just as hard to ensure this was successful. Nurses made rounds every half hour or so, but since Falcon’s condition had not changed in weeks, it was likely no one would be back for over an hour. Sam didn’t need that long, but it was reassuring.

This time no music playing in his room. The only sounds were his various monitors.

He looked skinnier; his cheeks sunk over the past weeks and while not visible at the moment, she was sure his arms and legs had begun to atrophy. Looking at him laying there in the hospital bed, Sam thought about the possibility that her experiment wouldn’t work. She could have done all the testing in the world, and it might still not work on Sam Wilson. Could she take that risk? She had no right to choose for him, technically alive but officially brain dead as he was. Sam Stark knew what she would choose to do, but she was not Sam Wilson.

If she was a soldier who’d seen all Falcon had, if she had a team of friends, if she had the important job of defending the world, if she had the possibility of flying and fighting again, even the possibility, would she take the risk? He had chosen, years ago, to use experimental flight equipment in combat. He had seen that equipment kill his friend Riley and still flew with EXO-7. He’d been injured in the wings before and still flown, still strapped himself back in for another mission. So his answer seemed even more obvious, but the pit in her stomach remained.

Little Sam took Big Sam’s hand once again, ignoring the pins and needles running all over her skin with the contact. Her twitching made his lax hand twitch too. She could feel the calluses on his palm. He would be mad at how ashy his knuckles had become.

“If this doesn’t work,” she whispered, “for whatever reason, or it’s not what you want…” She looked at his unmoving face with the rhythmically fogging mask. “I swear to you I will make it right, but for now, however, I need you to wake up.”

“Four minutes,” Missy’s automated signal warned in her ear. 

Samantha pulled out the lipstick tube she had hollowed out to hide the vial for Wilson. Sorry, Annie, she thought, I’ll replace your Berry Kiss shade later. Sam grabbed a needle and dosed Falcon’s IV, watching for a reaction as long as possible. No immediate signs of allergy or cardiac distress. No blood pressure drops or spikes on his monitors. No rise in brain wave activity either, but she only had a few minutes to watch.

“One minute,” Missy signaled, followed by second beeps. Samantha hauled ass on her choreographed path for Missy’s visual coverage and grabbed her still-warm mug off the countertop, sitting as still as she could until the beeps stopped. She took a long, casual sip, finishing the remainder. She counted to five, looked out the window, and slowly swirled her finger around the mug’s rim. It was a move she’d planned, thinking it was a carefree gesture that would really sell how long she’d taken to drink one cup of coffee. She was very proud of her performance.

When she returned to Dr. Banner’s lab with a seltzer, he was not even there. She hadn’t seen him in the hall. She hadn’t passed anyone coming back. Sam didn’t know whether that was common during training in this facility since she hadn’t spent significant time inside it in the last decade. It was probably for the best; the fewer people to see her hair the better. You’d think there would be a better physical presence. They rely too heavily on technology. But Sam knew she couldn’t hang around to figure it all out. She could monitor Sam Wilson’s progress, if any, from Missy at her home.

She found her tablet where she’d hidden it, still face down. Sam quietly said “subset beta five ex” to unlock the phone, but nothing flashed across the screen. Instead, Missy’s calm tone promptly replied “download complete.” And they’re not even that safe with all the technology they do have. To be fair, however, both Sam and Missy were born of the Stark family and their minds; why would the Avengers need protection from them? The Avengers had no idea who they were…or what they could do.

Bucky stared down Sharon Rogers. They stood in the kitchen, unwilling to let the other do the harder task of cleaning the dishes after lunch.

“You’re our guest. If you’re going to do anything, it’s dry,” Agent 13 insisted.

“It’s your home. You do everything else, so you can let me do this one thing.” Bucky looked at Steve as if the giant blond man could help him change her mind.

“This is the most,” Steve snorted, “domestic thing I’ve ever seen, Buck. Are you even good at washing? We wouldn’t want you to rust.” Steve was confident that his seat at the table was a safe distance from his best friend’s clenched metal fist.

“Shut the hell up, jerk. I’m trying to be nice. Give me the plate, Sharon,” Bucky added forcefully.

She handed it over as if the flatware were a live weapon, backing away towards Steve. She muffled a giggle, interrupted by the phone ringing before she could sit down. Her husband enjoyed the seclusion and formality of a landline, a holdout from his youth. Sharon waved Steve to stay seated and grabbed the receiver.

“Hello,” she answered, “Bruce slow down—”

Steve instinctively tensed while Bucky dropped a cup into the sink. Sharon’s face dropped into mission concentration.

“Alright, they’re on their way. I’ll be along later.” She hung up. “Go, boys, I’ve got those. Sam’s awake.”

Bucky didn’t even dry his hands. Steve was out the door after a peck on Sharon’s cheek.

Bucky paused in the hall to yell back, “I chipped your glass,” adding a guilty “sorry” before shutting the door with his dripping hand.

“I am not going to be pushed around in a damn wheelchair,” Sam Wilson roared at the nurse. Steve stepped closer to help his friend up. “If you put me in that chair, Rogers, I will break both of your super legs. I’m on your right, mother—”

“Ok, pal,” Steve cut in, “how about I walk with you outside for a bit.”

The nurse leaned over to Bucky. “Irritability is pretty normal for a while after a head injury,” she whispered, “but maybe the fewer people the better for a little longer. See how he does.”

Bucky nodded, and the nurse waved her colleague out of the room. “Enjoy your walk, sir. We will resume your tests later.” Falcon almost snarled at the poor woman. 

Bucky stood between the newly-wakened Avenger and the staff. “Are you gonna break my legs, too?”

Wilson fumed but tossed his arm over Roger’s shoulder. “Anyone asks, you tell them I’m drunk and that’s why my ASS IS HANGING OUT,” Falcon spat at Bucky as they passed him into the hall.

“Inside voices, please,” Steve asked politely, his ear close to Sam’s potty mouth.

But Wilson didn’t stop. “Your sheets are scratchy,” he continued to yell down the corridor. “Anyone ever heard of lotion?!”

Bucky didn’t get the chance to follow. Bruce trapped him in the infirmary, mumbling something about integration failure.

“Barnes,” the doctor started, eyes flicking over his glasses, “I have a favor to ask.”

“Please, don’t make me dress him, or supervise him, or do physical therapy with him. Please.”

“What? No,” Bruce removed his glasses, finally relaxing his arm chronically bent to hold his work tablet at eye level. “Are you still going to Wakanda? I have a passenger for you.”

A/N: Yay, Big Sam is back! As always, thank you for reading, and I'm hoping to have the next several chapters formatted soon for tumblr.

[Ch 13: Deflection]

[Main Masterlist]

[argylemikewheeler]

July 1st, 1985

what the first ep of (my) s3 would look like if the main concept was: both Steve and Will are gay in 1985’s Summer of Love and the town’s enemy is a little more human; loving friendships, very confused adults, and Will Byers Actually Getting Help

“Harrington!”

“Yes, sir.” Steve looked up from his desk. He dropped his crossword and looked to be at attention; the police station’s phone wasn’t ringing, though, so there wasn’t really anything he should have been doing. Hopper stepped out of his office, angling himself toward the door rather than Steve’s desk island.

“Do you think you’ll be able to-- Harrington, what are you doing?” Hopper caught sight of the pocket thesaurus sitting on his desk (the last name written on the inside cover not belonging to Steve, of course). Hopper fixed his sunglasses on the edge of his nose, looking over them and down at Steve.

“I’m just, uh, working on my vocabulary.” Steve said. Hopper blinked twice, waiting. Steve wasn’t going to say the truth: he was dating-- well seeing someone-- way smarter than him. This wasn’t for joy or boredom. He was studying to impress. “It’s college prep, sir.”

“The crossword?” The chief evened his stare. “This your old man’s suggestion?” Of all the things Steve’s father was telling him to do with himself, he  wished  some of it was simply pecking at a crossword over a twelve hour shift.  Fucking off  and  being a better piece of shit son  just wasn’t feasible to accomplish in one summer.

“He swears by it.”

“Okay, well. Uh, moving on from that,” Hopper grabbed his hat from the coat rack. The topic of Steve’s father always made Hopper stiffen up; it was definitely the main reason Hopper gave Steve his job at the station, but it still created more questions. Steve knew Hopper and his father went to high school together, but he never asked his father about those years-- beyond his baseball glory stories. “I’ve got plans tonight and I need to head out early. Can you handle things on your own for a while. At least until the night shift comes in?”

“I’ll be fine.” Steve made sure not to acknowledge the crossword on his desk as he nodded. He was really good at his job, he was. He was also just, unfortunately, still a pretty shitty boyfriend and needed all the vocab help he could get. “What’s the pressing story?”

“I have dinner.” Hopper was already trying to walk out the door. “So  don’t  call me. For the love of God.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Chief. I--” Steve was sure it was the cool July wind that slammed the door on the last half of his sentence. Not Hopper. “won’t... Have a good time, I guess.”

The police station was empty: it was another boring and wonderfully quiet Monday in Hawkins. There’d been some calls to break up disturbances at city hall in the past few days, but somehow everyone just seemed to agree that Mondays-- the longest shift of Steve's whole week-- was the day everyone went about their quietest day.

There were a few officers milling in and out of the back lounge and front door, casting a quick glance to Steve as he muttered and threatened fourteen down and six across. Nancy had been helping close the gaps of his post-high school education-- without knowing just what for-- but had been picking up most hours at the Post to try and elbow her way into their good graces; it put his tutoring on hold. So here he was, groaning at some clues about classical artists he’d never heard of.

There were other reasons Steve was sure the other officers thought he was odd-- things he was  sure  his father had passed along in spitting rants-- but Steve didn’t mind. No one said anything to his face.

“Hey Flo! Is, uh, is Steve here?” The question was asked with the answer already in mind.

Steve sat up in his chair, twisting around to see down the hall to the back entrance to the station. There weren’t many parking spots to fill, but he knew a certain someone who preferred it to street parking.

“Jonathan?”

“Oh, I hear him. Thanks-- hey!” Jonathan hurried out from the hall, his camera bumping against his stomach and bag slapping against his leg in the same rhythm. He’d gotten a new haircut recently: semi-wonky bangs and a closer cut in the back. All thanks to Steve’s peer pressure and Mrs. Byers’s kitchen shears.

“What are you doing here?”

“Sorry to stop by your work like this--” he lowered his voice as he stopped at the corner of Steve’s desk. “I know we said we wouldn’t do that, but we got an extra muffin in the lunch order and I know you’re always starving after a Monday shift so.” Jonathan produced a folded brown paper bag from his satchel. “Here.”

“Oh, thanks.” Steve wanted to say so much more, but had to settle. No more. None of what they’d decided they wouldn’t say. Not until the summer had ended. They wanted to see if they lasted longer than the convenience of loose summer schedules.

“Won’t I see you, uh, later, though?” At eight, when Steve got sent home he always drove straight to Jonathan’s. Jonathan started late on Tuesdays and Steve had off; they had the time to waste. “Or is this your way of telling me to stay home?”

“No! No we’re still... hanging out.” Jonathan had gotten really good at cooking and treated Steve to weekly dinner. It was a nice gesture at first, but Steve started growing fond of the company. They both did around mid-June. “But, I think Mike’s going to be over so. Be  cool , alright? Keep it cool.”

“Cool, got it.” Steve leaned back in his chair. He moved his papers to leave a corner of his desk for Jonathan to sit on. No one was in the main office; it was a harmless invitation.

“I have to get going...” It sounded like an excuse, a dive for safety. “And I’m sure you have, um,  puzzles  to do?” Jonathan pretended not to be endeared. He tried, he really did. He  failed , but Steve pretended he didn’t notice.

“Don’t want to sit and help me figure out the title of Mozart’s last opera?” He patted the desk, daring to be more direct.

“I really have to go.” Jonathan was genuine, looking at his watch. “The Post only let me out early today because I have to go pick up Will from his doctor’s appointment.”

“Wait.” Steve put the cap back on his pen. “Isn’t Will’s therapy on Wednesday?”

“Yeah, but with Mom’s schedule and the store being all weird-- we had to move it to today. And you know we typically have a family night after-- so he feels okay, you know-- but we  can’t  . So,  that’s why Mike’s coming over. Hopefully they’ll be idiots and tire Will out and he’ll sleep okay.” Tension rose in Jonathan’s voice quickly, explaining his day as if going over a laundry list; never rehearsing it but having it memorized.

“I can stay home if you need time, Jonathan.”

“No, really. I want you to come over.” Jonathan sighed and placed his hand on the emptied spot on Steve’s desk. “Besides, you can’t break tradition after a little over  one month , then it was just a weird habit.”

Steve Harrington did not consider his summer fling a w  eird habit . If anything, it was the most sensical thing he’d done in a very long time. Even after getting rejected from all his colleges, and never hearing the end of his father’s lectures, 1985 had been very kind to him. And that was mostly due to Jonathan’s inherent nature to be the same.

“I’ll see you after eight.” Steve smiled and reached for his hand-- but averted to grab a piece of memo paper by the phone.

“I’m sorry to leave in a rush.” Jonathan hitched his bag up, checking his watch again. “I just, I really need to get going.”

“Don’t worry. The muffin is  more  than enough.” Steve said. “And seeing you wasn’t too bad either.”

“Slow day, huh?” Jonathan said. The corner of his mouth quirked with a flattered, embarrassed smile. Steve tried to act nonchalant, like he wasn’t so goddamn relieved to see a familiar and happy face. Especially  his  familiar and happy face. “Well, good thing I have another surprise for you.”

“You can barely fit your camera in that bag, what could you possibly-- hey!” Steve missed grabbing Jonathan’s arm as he walked away, heading for the front door. “Where are you going?” Jonathan kept walking, checking his watch the whole way. “Hello?”

“Delivered right on time.” Jonathan pushed the front door open to the station-- but was nearly knocked over as a green  dash  barreled through it.

"Steve! Steve! Steve!” The dash was suddenly grabbing him by the shoulders. “You got the job!”

“Henderson! Oh my god! You’re back!” In an unlikely impulse, Steve grabbed Dustin in a hug, taking advantage of the change of height. “Holy shit, I nearly forgot! First of the month!”

“See you, Steve.” Jonathan walked across the room to the back entrance again. His hand braced the back of Steve’s chair, brushing across his shoulders.

“O-Okay! Yeah, see you!” Steve sputtered, losing his reminded  cool  in an instant. “Bye.”

Dustin pulled away slowly. “What was that?” It looked like  everyone  was too smart for Steve.

“Nothing. He brought me a surprise lunch-- which was an  obvious decoy to the main event! You! How are you, buddy? How was camp?”

“Oh, it was fantastic. Steve, I  have  to show you all my inventions! Camp was the  best  four weeks  of  my  life .” Dustin hopped up onto the corner of his desk. His heels tapped against the empty metal drawers. He was jittery, nearly uncontainable, but still so composed-- if only to be focused all on Steve.

Steve held his hands out, letting him start. “Lay it on me, Henderson! I want to hear everything. I missed you like crazy.”

“Well, first, obviously. I have to tell you about my girlfriend--”

“Whoa! Whoa!  Girlfriend  ? That fast?” Steve hadn’t been expecting any of his dating advice to work. It had been coming from such a poor and confused part of himself, Steve figured it was destined to fail. Apparently, it was just  Steve  that was-- when flirting with women at least. “Damn, there’s something in you after all!”

“She’s  super  smart, Steve. I’ve never met any girl like her. She’s a genius and she’s so pretty. God, I miss her already-- and I  just  saw her.”

Steve looked over his shoulder. He knew the feeling. “That’s great, man. I mean, I’m super happy for you. Like, that’s  crazy . That’s freaking awesome.”

“So what about you? How are the ladies? I mean, you work for the  Chief  now. All the ladies you could need and more, am I right?”

Steve used to be really good at this part of the lie, but with Dustin it felt cheap. He didn’t need to lie to him, but that was the deal; no matter how much that person was Steve’s best and most beloved friend, their secret was a dead-bolt, vaulted secret.

“Eh, not too great. Only girl my own age I see-- besides Nancy, really-- is the night-shift girl, Robin. But she’s not really-- we’re just friends. She’s alright. Leaves me weird drawings in the memo pad.”

“Ooo, she sounds cool.” Dustin raised his eyebrows. “Do you know her from school?”

“Yeah, we didn’t really run in the same crowds but-- it’s not like that, man. It’s really not.” Steve started unwrapping his lunch. “It’s so not like that with Robin.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m not...  looking  at the moment.”

Steve had originally decided to not go looking for trouble. After he and Nancy split in the beginning of his senior year, he didn’t start looking for an immediate replacement. The illusion of thinking he was in love with Nancy-- capable of being in love with Nancy-- was a hard thing to have come crumbling down. Steve needed time to get his own bearings, to put his feet firmly on the ground, and have them lifted off when his father grabbed him by the lapels and--

Steve hadn’t gone looking for trouble. Hadn’t gone looking for love either. But somehow, both seemed to find him.

Jonathan was late. He usually wasn’t but Will was trying not to be worried. It was a different day than usual and he knew how awful Jonathan’s boss and co-workers were. Will tried not to be worried-- he wasn't. It was just that he had spent an hour talking about the night his father left their family; standing outside the doctor’s office was a bit nerve-wracking. It felt too familiar, even with all the talking and note-scribbling.

Finally, Jonathan’s car pulled into the lot. He was speeding, as much as his car  could  speed: he knew he was late, which made Will feel a little bit better. No one had forgotten him. It was just traffic or his bosses or maybe just hitting all the red lights. As Jonathan stopped in front of the curb and waved Will in, Will could see he was jittery-- he was  upset  that he was late. Will felt bad for counting the minutes.

Not that he did it out of impatience or anything. Will just formed the habit after getting his new watch. It matched Mike’s. Completely on accident, of course.

“Hey, buddy! Sorry I’m late. I was-- I had to run an errand really fast. How long were you waiting.” He moved his bag and threw it onto the backseat. Will would’ve held it on his lap.

“I wasn’t keeping track.” Will said, climbing into the passenger seat. Will wanted to ask if his bag had Jonathan’s camera in it. If everything was okay. He didn’t. It seemed like Jonathan had been in his therapy with Will, just as shaken up. “It’s okay. Thanks for getting me.”

Jonathan waited until Will put on his seat belt. “Of course. We’re always here to pick you up. Therapy is important; you have to go.”

Will laughed before he could stop himself. “You sound like Mom.”  Why?

“Because she’s right.” Therapy was still kind of weird to Will-- since  no one else  in his grade had to do it-- but he humored his family. It was helping, if he had to admit it. But it was still embarrassing sometimes.

His therapist, Dr. Bright--  Rose Marie, as she insisted on being called-- was a send-out from the Lab, but disguised within a private practice just outside of town. She was able to listen to Will talk about what he saw and felt during his time with the Mind Flayer without trying to commit him. Almost nothing was off limits. Almost nothing.

Will checked his watch again.

“Are you excited to see Mike tonight?” The question was pointed, but Will wasn’t sure why it made him nervous. “I mean, I feel like I haven’t seen him in a bit.”

“Oh, yeah. He’s always with El.”

Will was sure they  weren’t  dating. El was just on a year-long stint of self-discovery and, besides Max, Mike was the person she trusted the most to help make as many helpful mistakes as possible. He bought her books to read and new music to try. It was really sweet, seeing Mike take such big strides toward helping their friend. But there was also a part of Will that felt dejected:  his  sort of help had to be prescribed and couldn’t be replaced with a warm laugh from one Mike Wheeler.

Will was sick while his friends were growing.

“Is there something wrong?” Jonathan used to ask the question like Will was one trembling lip away from crying-- but this time, he asked it like Will had his hand on the door, seconds from jumping out. “Will, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Will nodded. “I’m fine. Just-- I talked a lot today and I’m tired.”

“Do you want to cancel with Mike--”

“No.” Will had been looking forward to having time with Mike--  just  Mike-- for a whole week. He wanted to sit on his floor with his best friend and be a kid again. Just for the night-- maybe draw some of Mike’s old campaigns or sketch out an idea for his own. He just wanted to remember something good about the past four years. After his hour with Dr. Bright, it all felt painful. Like his childhood naivety had been broken and every conversation he overheard in his house dripped with venom and disdain.

Will didn’t like picturing his house that way. It was a place that loved and raised him, a place he felt safe. He didn’t like thinking the conversations he heard being screamed through the walls were trapped in the drywall.

His arms felt heavy and his chest felt like it was made of metal-- he kept tasting it in his mouth. Will leaned back against the seat and reached for the radio. Jonathan turned it down before Will had even changed the station.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I just want to see Mike.” Will said, his mouth too honest and his mind shrouded in guilt. “I just want to see my friend.”

“Okay. Okay.” Jonathan nodded somewhat somberly. “I understand. Let’s go pick him up. He’s at his house right? Not El’s-- o-or The Sinclair’s or anything?”

“No. He’s at his.” Will crossed his arms and tried to find the loose string-- the thing that could uncoil Jonathan’s still-tightening anxiety. “Are you still dating Nancy?”

Jonathan turned to look at Will, nearly crashing the car. That was the wrong string. “What?”

“Nancy? Are you still dating her?”

“I was never dating Nancy.” Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “I’m not dating Mike’s sister, don’t worry.” The clarification was strange and felt off-topic. Like Jonathan was trying to talk about something else.

“I thought you were. You guys hung out a lot during school.” Will heard her voice through the walls too. Always gentle, never yelling. Except when she was losing at playing cards. Then she shouted.

“She was helping me pass chemistry. That’s all.” Jonathan turned the radio up a little. Will checked his watch. “And then she helped me apply to the Post internship-- she’s great at writing papers, did you know that? A real wordsmith. Is Mike a writer too?”

He was, he  really  was. Grammatically, Will ran out of red pens trying to help, but creatively? Will envied Mike’s ability. “I don’t know. We don’t really talk about that kind of stuff like you two do… Since you two are dating.”

“We’re  not .” Jonathan laughed. Will took advantage of an upcoming stop sign to lean forward and look at his brother’s crimson face. “We’re not, Will, okay? We’re really not. I’d tell you.”

“You’d tell me?”

“Of course! I’d tell you if I… I had a girlfriend. Which I don’t!” He stayed at the stop sign for a bit too long. “Do you?”

There was an option to play dumb, to make Jonathan ask more directly:  do you have a girlfriend, Will ? but it sounded far more painful than being honest, than being as lonely as he was.

“No. I don’t.”

“And you’d tell me. If you were dating someone?” Jonathan looked at Will, hopeful but scarcely so. “You’ll tell me if anything big happens in your life?”

“Yeah.” There wouldn’t be anything happening at all that summer, that was for  damn sure . “Absolutely.”

Steve had about seventy percent of his puzzle done-- fifty of which was because Dustin was an unstoppable genius with no tolerance for Steve’s careful pace. It was just about quarter past seven, and Steve’s back was getting sore from sitting in his chair all day. He only liked sitting when it was in his car, on his way to the Byers's House, careful, of course, to obey all traffic laws.

Steve was packing his crosswords and pens up in the top drawer of his desk when something clattered the back door open. Steve grabbed a pen and whipped around in his seat, as if to wield it like a weapon.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

“Hey dingus.” Luckily, Steve couldn’t even see Robin yet-- or rather, she couldn’t see him or his emphasized eye roll. She could hear him groan though. “Hey, shut up and quit whining. I’m sending you home early.”

Her head popped out from the hallway. Robin’s ponytail was high on her head, the hair flopping over and getting caught in her stringy bangs. She flung her backpack out from behind her and tossed it toward Steve. She wasn’t in her uniform yet, only wearing the buttoned up shirt-- unbuttoned and showing her torn and dyed shirt underneath. She was wearing jogging shorts, her knees torn up and covered with Band-Aids. They reminded Steve of the ones taped to his face after getting a plate smashed into his forehead. Deceivingly cheerful.

“What are you doing here early?” Steve stood and followed her, holding her backpack awkwardly in his hands. “You’re  never  early.” Eight on the dot. Every time.

“I figure you want to get out of here tonight.” She didn’t even stop to look at Steve as they walked into the back room. “Probably want to see your boyfriend.”

Her words weren’t sharp, but Steve still recoiled. He let his arms, and her bag, hang by his sides.

“Who? Jonathan?” The only way Jonathan and Robin had ever met was in the hallways of Hawkins High. She definitely never saw them interact at the station-- or on any of their nights together: they were always indoors. “He’s  not my boyfriend.”

“First off, I didn't even say a name." Shit. "Second, he came in the other day looking for you.” Robin started buttoning her shirt up, fixing the collar as she finally turned to see Steve. “He was really upset-- didn’t even know what time it was to know you weren’t working.”

“Upset?” Technically, it wasn’t Steve’s problem. It was the deal; they didn’t  have  to care about each other’s lives. It was just summer. It was just like any other summer.

“Yeah. Crying, sniffling, snot-- the whole nine, man.” Robin sounded extremely sympathetic despite beginning to change her pants. Steve whipped around, covering his face. “You should go see him. Make sure he’s okay. Be a good boyfriend... shithead.”

“He’s  not--”

“Steve, I’m the last person you should be arguing with.” Robin laughed-- and it was only momentarily threatening. Until, of course, Steve realized what she meant.

Like all good secrets kept at Hawkins PD, Steve kept his mouth shut and nodded even if she wasn’t looking.

“Yes, sir--ma'am-- Robin.”

“So, are you going to go or what, dingus?” She tapped him on the shoulder. “Get out of here-- and tell me all about it Wednesday.”

Steve blinked at her, holding out her bag. As if it was enough thanks to give her back her own property. “Are we… friends, or something?”

“No, of course not.” She winked, slapping his arm. “Just looking out for one of my own.”

After picking Mike up from his house, they drove home in uncharacteristic chatter. Jonathan was the only one speaking, humming along to the radio. Will was exhausted beyond performative small talk; the type that had to be done between two best friends when a third party was present. Mike was great at just sitting with Will in silence, but Jonathan didn’t know that. Instead, the three of them passed around quiet jokes and laughter, answering questions about their friends for Jonathan’s upkeep of information.

Once they got in the house, Jonathan let them wander off into Will’s room as he started pulling pots out of the kitchen cabinets. He wouldn’t bother or pester them about any summer work, either. They would be left alone in their own coupled silence.

Mike was sitting cross-legged on Will’s floor, twisting one of Will's crayons between his fingers. Will needed new ones but he felt funny asking for them as a near-freshman in high school. He liked the glide of wax on paper compared to the scrape of colored pencils. Well, that and the fact he ruined half of his crayons the year prior making a full map of Hawkins in a fugue state and only had two crayons able to be used normally.

“You had doctor stuff today, right?”

Will was digging under his bed for his emptier sketch book. “Yeah. Therapy.  Doctor  doctor stuff was two weeks ago.”

“How was it?” Mike let his hand still and rest in his lap. “Like, what do you do in therapy? Just start talking?”

“Yeah, but it’s more than that. You have to think about stuff too. Doctors ask you questions, sometimes.” Will pulled back and drug his old drawing supplies along the carpet. He sat back on his heels and was able to see Mike over the top of the bed. He didn’t know Will was looking. “You have to have answers.”

“What do they ask about?” Mike kept looking at his hands, unaware of Will. “Upside down stuff?”

“Sometimes.” Will shuffled back around to Mike's side of the bed. He could feel the tiniest bit of rug burn starting. “She asked me about my dad today.”

Mike looked up, almost immediately. “Can she do that?”

“Why can’t she?” Will popped the lid on the retired Tupperware, now his art bin. “I talked about it.”

“I thought you didn’t like to.” Will had never said those words which meant Mike had gathered it from just observing him. “Did you… like talking about it?”

“Not really.” Will laughed. He found a few extra crayons, but of all the wrong colors. “She had this big speech afterward about learned helplessness that I… really didn’t like.” Will tried to keep laughing.

Mike put the crayon back in the bin. “Are you okay, Will?”

“Yeah. It’s just… the same old stuff.” Will shrugged. “Sometimes it just bothers me more than other days.”

Mike bit the inside of his cheek, picking at his words carefully. “You never talk about your dad, Will.”

“Why would I?”

“Because it bothers you. You can talk about anything you want-- I… I would listen.”

“You don’t have to listen to it just because it happened to me, you know. My therapist says you don’t have to experience things with me for them to be real.”

“But I want to know.” Mike looked insulted, almost crushed and collapsed as he sat back on his hands. “That’s your dad,” he said. “And you’re my friend.”

They sat in silence for a while. Mike went back to studying a new crayon, picking at the wrapper. Will felt something forming in his throat. A bubble that was hot, thick and sticky. Not vomit, but not impending tears either.

“I don’t get why he left.” Will said. “I don’t know what happened to our family.”

“Nothing happened. Maybe he just… wasn’t good at being your dad anymore.”

“But then why? What did I do?” Will didn’t want to ask Mike, make him feel responsible for answering, but Will was desperate to ask the universe again.

“Nothing.” Mike said. “I just think he…”

“He what? My dad got tired of me? Didn’t want to raise me?”

“Maybe he actually learned how to take a hint and knew he wasn’t good enough for you and Jonathan-- or your mom.” Mike wanted to be hopeful, to be positive, so badly. He ached, his smile tight and weak. He didn't have the answers, and who was Will to put him in the position to come up with them.

“So he gave up.” Will said.

“That’s not what I meant--”

“I know. I know… That’s just how it feels.” Will shrugged. He smiled at Mike, accepting his help and his warmth. It hurt knowing that Mike was wrong, but still. Will could always pretend a little longer. Anything for Mike.

“Hey! You monsters hungry?” Steve clapped his hands together before gently tapping the door. “Jonathan’s got dinner on the table.”

The door was open. Steve didn’t have to knock. He wanted to, just to prove he wasn’t  too  comfortable, but he also knew Mike was over. And knocking would announce his entrance rather than letting it just be something that just  was  . Rather than being  cool .

Awkwardly and with a lot of weird, throat-clearing fanfare, Steve opened the Byers’s front door and poked his head inside. Jonathan called him in from the kitchen without even needing to say hello, or being surprised by his walking in:  In here, Steve! Dinner’s almost done .

Steve walked through the living room carefully, as if he’d disturb it. There was a tape playing softly-- some band Steve’s never heard of, but didn’t hate. He’d grown to like the way that every song played in the Byers house was always moody and melancholy. The music was always the opposite of how he felt stepping into the kitchen.

Jonathan was at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled delicious. He had what looked to be tomato sauce stains on the front of his shirt-- where he wrapped his hand up to open the sauce jar. Steve was able to hide his smile as he shouldered off his uniform jacket and toed off his shoes, claiming a chair at the kitchen table.

“How was work?” Jonathan didn’t stop stirring. He moved like the stove was turned all the way up and he was afraid of burning the food. He spoke that way too.

“It was fine. Not a whole lot.” Steve didn’t want to have anything seem bigger than whatever upset Jonathan-- and seemed to still be upsetting him now. “How was your day?”

“Fine. Will and Mike are in the other room.” He was checking things off his list. Steve stepped up to Jonathan and stood even with him at the stove. He was making one-pot pasta. It really did smell fantastic. Steve was so hungry, even after his lunch.

“How was… the other things in your day? Develop any good pictures?” Steve covered how stupid he sounded by placing his hand on Jonathan’s lower back.

Jonathan stopped stirring and looked at him. Steve tried to keep cool, tried not to show his motives-- his attempt to calm something he couldn’t believe he’d missed spinning out of control, even if he didn’t know what it was. “Nancy walked into the dark room today-- she’s actually the one who gave me the muffin-- and she exposed the photos to light too early. So no, actually.”

Steve really was a bad boyfriend. Even when he wasn’t one yet-- or at all.

“Okay… how was. Everything else?”

“You don’t have to ask about my day, Steve. It’s okay.” Jonathan sighed and spoke evenly. “I’m just a little tired. Really. We don’t have to do the whole…  thing .”

The whole thing where Steve was explicit about how much he really cared about Jonathan and admitted he was sincerely and terrifyingly in love with Jonathan.

“I was asking because I was curious. Not out of obligation.” Steve clarified. His hand slid to rest on Jonathan’s hip. He moved closer, lips aiming to place a commitment-less kiss on his cheek.

“Steve! I said to keep it  cool .” Jonathan ducked back, placing a hand on Steve’s chest. “I don’t want Will to see us.”

“Your brother?” Steve was surprised; of all people Jonathan explicitly wanted to hide from Will seemed kind and forgiving-- not that there was anything  to  forgive, but it was something Steve often checked for. Steve was sure that one of Dustin’s friends would be… like Steve. Or like Jonathan-- maybe. All of them seemed prepared to deal with any of their friends suddenly being different. Far more prepared than Steve ever was.

“Yes. My brother.” Jonathan snapped, banging the spoon against the edge of the pot. “I don’t want him to learn I’m not dating Nancy but  instead  seeing her ex-boyfriend in the same day.” he whispered.

“Wait, what? He thinks you’re with Nancy?” Steve wasn’t sure where they went wrong. They were trying to  obscure  the truth, not lead everyone to a different reality. “D-Do you think Mike does too?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t want to ask and seem weird.” Jonathan sighed again. He sounded tense again. “I told Will I’d tell him if I was seeing anyone… And he promised me the same.”

Steve knew not to press the obvious question-- well   are  you seeing someone, Jonathan?  -- but also didn’t want to touch the obvious implication that Will  needed  to share a secret with Jonathan. Instead, he placed his hands into his pockets and turned to lean against the counter.

“Dinner smells really good, Byers.” There was another name that began with “B” that Steve wasn’t allowed to use, but always wanted to. Byers Byers Byers. Baby baby baby. “Thank you, again, for cooking for me-- for us.”

“You think I’m going to let you starve?” His stirring slowed; the stove cooled down. He nudged Steve’s arm with the spoon. “You coming home late and trying to cook? You mean half-drinking a beer and falling asleep face down on your bed in your uniform, half unbuttoned.”

“You picture that often, Byers?” Steve lifted an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Jonathan’s lips quirked into a smile again. “But, if you’d like a beer, I think there’s one in the fridge. No one in the house is going to touch it.”

“I can go ask Will if he wants it.”

“Shut up-- do you want it or not?”

“No.” Steve didn’t like drinking when they were together. He’d never really heard the full story about where Mr. Byers went, but he had a father of his own to make those blank spaces fill pretty fast. “But thanks. Don’t want the habit of needing a beer to forget how boring my job is.”

“I thought you liked your job?” Jonathan took a piece of pasta out of the pot and held it out for Steve to test.

He chewed and answered. “I do! It’s nice to have normal hours-- and I’m happy to help have replacements as Flo gets ready to retire but… I don’t know. Sometimes it feels  boring .”

“Would you rather be chasing down a four-legged monster without a face?” Jonathan let out a bubble of genuine laughter, playfully glaring at Steve.

“Frankly, yes! At least we’d all have something to do. I feel like I don’t see everyone anymore.”

“Then throw a party. Don’t wish for anything bad to happen.” Jonathan said firmly. “Let the record show my brother is a very strange magnet for all this… weird shit.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Steve said solemnly. He put his hand on Jonathan’s forearm. “I wish we were all safely doing something exciting. It felt nice to be needed, even if no one knew it was us.”

Jonathan put the spoon down on the counter and pivoted to be looking only at Steve. There was something resting just on the tip of his tongue, just under the surface of their conversation. It would’ve been a digression-- Steve could tell by Jonathan’s tense and furrowed brow-- but he would’ve listened.

“Jonathan?” Steve squeezed his arm, lifting his eyebrows. “What is it?”

“I--” He clenched his jaw, trying to swallow his words. “I think--” Steve knew there was no end to Jonathan’s sentence; merely starting it meant there was trust between them. A careful admission through omission. Steve knew Jonathan was looking at his shoes and wouldn’t be seen as he took in the secret flinches of Jonathan’s face. The crinkle by his left eye, the twitch of his mouth, double blinking--

They both jumped apart as the phone started ringing, practically shaking on the wall. Jonathan stepped away from Steve and left everything unsaid. Again.

Jonathan tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder as he turned to lean against the wall.

“Hello? This is--” His face changed sharply, his eyebrows furrowing. “I told you to stop bothering us. You’re lucky she’s not here to pick up the phone-- I don’t  care !” Jonathan cleared his throat and looked at Steve in a flash of uncertainty and anxiety. “I have the police here right now and if you don’t stop calling me I will send them to your house-- it’s not a threat if you’re the one bothering us. Stop. Calling.” He slammed the phone down and braced his weight against the wall with his other hand.

“Am I considered ‘the police’ now?” Steve said lightly. It was his way of letting Jonathan know he was listening, but not asking direct questions. “I’m not even allowed to have a badge.”

“It counts.” Jonathan said, letting his arms fall down by his sides. Steve stepped over and kept stirring dinner.

“Who was that?”

“No one. Can you go get the boys in the other room? Dinner’s ready.” Jonathan pushed Steve aside to hunch over the stove again.

“Sure.” Steve nodded, knowing he wasn’t seen. “Hey! You monsters hungry? Jonathan’s got dinner on the table.”

Dinner felt weird.

Will couldn’t help but feel like he and Mike had gotten into a fight. Talking about his dad made anything feel sticky, feel like it was violent or volatile. A second from snapping or tearing off, bouncing around the walls and echoing in Will's body. A small conversation between friends-- actually a little  understanding  between  best  friends-- felt like it had been a screaming match, all because it was cut off. There was no apology from Will. He didn't have the chance to tie it all up with an  I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, forget I said anything.

His plea sat heavy on his tongue as he talked to Steve-- who had arrived without notice-- and let Mike make him laugh so hard he nearly shot water out his nose. Will let it all happen under the tremor, the ache, of an apology. And maybe, if he was the best brother and friend he should’ve been, no problems or therapy, it would be enough of an apology.

He wasn't hungry and only ate half his serving of pasta, even though it was usually his favorite of Jonathan's recipes. He did apologize for that though, and it felt right to say aloud. Even if it was misdirected and no one heard it.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm so so sorry. Please come back--

Mike wasn’t tired, Will knew, but he still wanted to go to bed right after their horror movie ended. It was clear Mike hadn't been paying attention to the movie; the entire plot was that dreams were a new horror-scape for monsters to get teenagers. It wasn't too scary to Will; it just felt familiar. The villain looked different, more human, but Will knew what it felt like to dream while wide awake. To watch and be unable to do anything but scratch at the surface--

Convincing Will to get ready for bed, Mike said they’d have all day in the morning. He said that maybe he could convince his mom to let him stay over again if they don’t get all their fun in. Will knew Mike's mom probably would, if only because she felt bad for Will. But he would take the pity. A sleepover wasn't the worst thing to get from pity.

Will could still hear Mike fidgeting in his sleeping bag. He was rubbing his feet together like a cricket and twisting his wristwatch. The plastic scratched the sheer material of his sleeping bag rhythmically: back and forth. back and forth. backandforthbackandforth. It was like Mike was counting the ticks of his silent digital watch. Will began to play with his own watch, keeping it on in bed only because he'd noticed Mike hadn't removed it when they were brushing their teeth that night; apparently the watch was too good to part with.

Time though, was something Will wished he could separate himself from. He could hear the seconds scraping by now. Every moment he kept his friend awake and bored because Will was too weak or (rather and) too  everything  to stay up late again.

Therapy hadn’t even been that bad. Not really. Maybe it could be exhausting but it didn’t count because Will sat in the same spot for an hour. It wasn’t real work. It shouldn’t have counted. Will should’ve been able to hang out with his friend until sunrise, getting in trouble with his mom for being up so late. He should’ve still been a stupid, carefree kid, not a by-gone troubled teenager.

Maybe his dad had seen that from the beginning. Will's dad was always gambling, betting on baseball games he had these incredible "feelings" on. Sometimes he was wrong, but when he was right it was an amazing prediction; having the foresight no one else had. And maybe that was what it was, leaving them when he did. Maybe he saw Will wouldn’t be the second son he wanted after all. Maybe he knew of all the damage that would be done to him, the damage he would cause. Probably saw it from miles-- years-- away. And he left without a single warning to any of it.

What if his father had known? Could've known where he was when he came back into town two years ago? Not gone forever just in the lights. Just out of reach, just through the wall, Dad. What if he had known, been able to see, able to know, but wanted to leave Will Down there being possessed and enveloped and consumed and--

Will felt a chill scurry down his back. The feeling almost had legs. Too many. He felt ice cold, his body going blank-- not numb, but  blank -- for a second. He couldn’t feel his fingers, but could still feel every inch of his body, suddenly pulsing and seizing.

"Will?" Mike asked, sitting up. He gripped the end of the bed and pulled his face closer to Will's. He squinted in the darkness, feeling for Will’s hand. Will couldn’t answer, his jaw tense and breath rattling out of him. "Will, what’s wrong?"

After a (thankfully) non-awkward dinner, Steve and Jonathan washed all the dishes and let the boys watch whatever movie they wanted. Steve didn’t pay attention to what tape he put in the VRC. He was too busy thinking about the hands hidden in the warm soapy water in the kitchen sink. Neither Mike nor Will seemed too bothered by the  disgusting  amount of blood or the scary blade man on the TV. He felt no regret letting them go to bed right after the credits rolled. Jonathan had looked exhausted after putting the last dish away, and dozed off during the climax of the movie-- even slept through the high-pitched screaming.

They waited for the sound of Will’s door closing over before they got into bed.

Jonathan flopped onto his back, a pillow resting between his chest and crossed arms. Steve laid on his side, bracing his weight on his elbow. He poked at Jonathan's furrowed eyebrow lightly.

"What's the problem, Byers?"

"Nothing."

"You are not a really great liar, you do know that right?" That and Steve could still hear Robin's blasé recounting of Jonathan's distress.  Yeah. Crying, sniffling, snot-- the whole nine, man.

Jonathan sighed and turned to look at Steve. He hated being called out. "It's about Will."

"What's wrong with Will? He seemed alright at dinner."

"Yeah, but," Another sigh. "Steve, I think my brother’s gay."

Steve's first response was swallowed and he nodded. "Okay. Okay. And, um, what's the issue with that?" He adjusted himself on the bed, hoping there was more subtlety in that.

"I can't talk to him about it. I mean," Jonathan smiled and reached to touch his face. "This is a very different thing than being fourteen and confused."

"Who says he's confused?"

"I don't mean with himself-- the rest of the world is so confusing, Steve. You see the news... I can't talk to him. I didn't grow up like that. And being with you is... Different. We dated girls before. Will... I don't know. I think he knows already."

"You think he's got feelings for--"

"Oh absolutely." Jonathan nodded, closing his eyes. "Oh, I'm so glad it's not just me who sees it."

"Hopefully Wheeler does too."

"Hey, keep your voice down, he's only a few rooms over ."

"Sorry. Sorry. Me and my big mouth " Steve rested his head on Jonathan's shoulder. "Shut me up, maybe."

"Not until my mom gets back." Jonathan said, rolling up onto his side too. "If I catch her when she comes in the door, she won't come into my room to say good night. I can't have you distracting me until then."

"Your mom is on a date. She's an adult and so are you." Steve kissed Jonathan's shoulder. "You are a working man who just finished a long day at work-- I think you can cuddle up with your boyf--" Steve choked on his own stupidity, feeling his face go red and charisma die on impact. "With me."

"I will. Once my mom is back." Jonathan kissed Steve, as if a parting promise. Only to backtrack on his words immediately. He tucked Steve’s hair back behind his ear, his hands trying not to hold his face. “No--  no . Steve, not until my mom gets back.”

“I can keep an ear out--” As Steve spoke, the power in his bedside lamp dimmed. The power hummed quietly before flickering back up. Jonathan tensed and pushed himself up in bed.

“Did you see that?”

“Yeah, it was just the light, Byers. It’s windy out tonight, maybe a tree brushed a powerline.” Steve pushed Jonathan back down to his pillow-- and back into his own skin again. “It’s  nothing  . What if I turn out the light? Your mom won’t even  see  us in here.”

“No. No, I have to wait for her.”

“What if she doesn’t come back?”

“What!” Jonathan jerked upright again.

“I  meant  what if she’s at Hopper’s or something?” Steve shrugged. “She’s an adult.”

“Steve, that’s my  mom .” Jonathan hissed, swatting at the hand resting on his shoulder.

“I  meant  because she drove there on her own. If she had some wine, maybe she stayed somewhere and is being a smart, responsible parent.” Steve soothed. “Something you don’t have to be right now. You’re not Will’s parent and you aren’t your own. Lay down, will you?”

Jonathan was reluctant, but let Steve ease him back down again. He pulled the pillow tighter to his chest and sighed, his crossed arms sinking deeper. Steve laid down beside him, nose gently touching the end of his shoulder. As he breathed, his short exhales tickled Jonathan’s skin and got him giggling. It was Steve’s secret trick; something that always worked because Jonathan didn’t know it was a pattern-- didn’t know he was ticklish.

“Sorry I was weird today.” Jonathan said suddenly. He wasn’t even grinning.

“What?” They didn’t apologize. There was no need. “You’re worried about stuff-- it’s okay.”

“No, I like our dinners. And I was so uptight. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” Steve didn’t know what to do with the sentiment. “Apology accepted?”

Jonathan sighed again, blowing it out slowly between his pressed lips. “Lonnie called today.”

“L- your  dad ? Is that who was on the phone?” Steve wasn’t sure what came over him-- or his body-- as he placed an arm over Jonathan’s waist and pulled them together. There was something unspokenly intimate talking about abusive fathers while being nearly sutured together in bed, but Steve pretended he was just having problems hearing Jonathan correctly.

“Yeah.” Jonathan turned, his nose brushing Steve’s. “Said he wants custody of Will. He doesn’t trust Mom, he said.”

“How is he-- He can’t do that.”

“He’s going to try. I don't know where it came from. He still thinks he can win a case because the news says Will just  disappeared into the woods . Like he ran away from us or something.”

“Everyone knows that’s not true.”

“A court might not.” Jonathan sighed, ducking his head down. Steve resisted lifting his chin to hook it over Jonathan’s head, nestling him into his neck. He laid still, listening to his breathing and the gentle creaking of the house--

Jonathan's door was thrown open, both men sitting up quickly, ready to defend themselves and their actions. It was Mike, in his pajamas with his hair sticking out in wild curls. Will stood just behind him in the hallway looking far more awake. Stilted and untousled.

"Mike?"

"Jonathan, quick!"

"What is it?" Jonathan swung his legs around and motioned both boys to come in. "Will?" Mike pushed him into the center of the door frame, although he remained in the hallway, in the light. Will’s hand grabbed at the back of his neck. His face was blank and his eyes were distant.

"Something's wrong." Will said slowly, blinking to focus. "I feel him."

"Feel who?" Jonathan kneeled in front of Will, holding his shoulders. "Feel who, Will?"

"Dad."

[wiypt-writes]

Riding On

Ch24: The Wheel Fell Off

Summary: There are some perks to having your own, personal mechanic…and Fliss isn’t the only one who notices.

Warnings: Bad language.

Pairing: Frank Adler x OFC Fliss Gallagher

A/N: So I gotta give a shout out to @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​  as she came up with a few gems of dialogue for this!

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Fliss Gallagher and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Riding On Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter 23

And the wonder of it all is that you don’t realise how much I love you.

July 2020

Frank looked around at the team assembled in his office for the daily Stand-Up and nodded. “Okay, so I’ve nothing else to add, anyone got any other business before I call it?”

“Are we far behind on the repair time KPI for the Dolphin Tour fleet?” Mick, the finance manager looked at Frank and he shook his head.

“No, a day or so. Tim says he’ll have made the time back by Friday so we’re good.” Frank replied. “I’m not concerned. It shouldn’t have an impact on the incentivisation payments”

Mick nodded and Frank waited for a second. When no one else spoke, he dismissed the team and turned to his computer, leaning over to check the rest of the meetings and tasks for the day. He was midway through a very complicated spreadsheet detailing incoming repairs and timescales when his phone rang.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He greeted Fliss, leaning back in his chair a little. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, well, no. I was in the menage harrowing the surface and the wheel fell off the Quad Bike.”

“What do you mean the wheel fell off?” Frank pulled a face, scratching at his temple.

“Well, you know how it had four wheels? Now it has three,” came the sarcastic response.

“Dickhead.” Frank shot back and Fliss’ laughter hit his ears.

“Well, what did you think I meant?”

“You know what, I’m sorry I asked.” He rolled his eyes. “I suppose that means you want me to come fix it?”

“Yeah but it can wait until later if you’re busy, we managed to get it out of the way. Dad’s here snagging the extension to the tack room so he had a look and he says the bolt has sheared off so he can’t put it back on without a spare and I don’t know if you have any lying about in your Man Cave.”

“I will do from when we changed the wheels last year.” Frank clicked into his calendar to double check his schedule and smiled. “I’ve got no meetings this afternoon so I’ll come home at lunch. I can do the stock inventory at home.”

“My hero.”

“You know, if you carry on being sarcastic you can shove it up your ass.”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic!” Fliss laughed. “You know I love the fact that you can fix all this shit for me.”

“No you love the fact I get filthy fixing all that shit for you.”

“Well yeah, that’s one upside to you being good with your hands.”

“One?” Frank grinned, leaning back in his chair. “So there’s more?”

“You know it Sailor. I gotta go babe, my next client is here but I’ll see you soon, and if you can’t don’t worry it’ll wait.”

“I’ll sort it. Love you, sweetheart.”

“You too.”

True to his word, Frank left the office at midday giving his team the instruction to call his cell if needed. Once home, he parked up, headed inside to change out of his office attire and pulled on a pair of worn, light jeans and a t-shirt. Once done, he grabbed his shades, went into his work shop and picked up his tool box along with a couple of spare bolts and wandered over to the yard. As he walked, he stopped for a moment to take in the building work and smiled. The extension to the office and tack room area was complete, giving Fliss a huge extra space to organise all her tack and equipment. The paint and plastering had been completed a few days before and the fittings had all been finalised yesterday which was what Bill was in there snagging, making sure it was all as they’d specified. The storage units and racks were all on order and due to arrive at some point tomorrow so Frank knew he’d most likely be busy fitting them in the evening, not that he minded. He loved being able to be involved and help out.

The diggers were in place, hollowing out the additional riding paddock at the bottom of the yard, this one slightly smaller than the current one, but would give more than enough additional space for people to ride, and the hedge along the bottom field had been cleared to lead out to the additional three acres of grassy space they had acquired, with a new gravel path to be laid as a walkway once the post and rail fencing was done. They’d also asked for trenches to be dug for water pipes to avoid the stable hands having to lug buckets and tanks up to the horses.

All in all, it was coming along really well and on schedule, the whole thing set to be completed by the beginning of August, well in time for their wedding, which was now just ten weeks away.

Frank made his way onto the main yard, Fliss waving at him from where she was teaching in the paddock and he waved back, wandering into the newly-constructed building as Bill was busy pointing to something on the wall.

“Yeah, that needs patching up.” He nodded as the guy besides him produced a packet of small stickers in the shape of yellow dots. He placed one on the area Bill was clearly not satisfied with and Frank looked around, noticing a number of them in various places in the room. Bill glanced over at him and smiled. “Hey, son.”

“How picky ya being, Bill?” Frank smirked and Bill let out a snort.

“Nah, the actual building and electrical fittings are all sound.” He gave a nod. “This is just cosmetic. The door frame is chipped, this plaster here is rough and there’s some patches where it’s too thin but other than that it’s good.”

“I’m glad you’re doing this as I wouldn’t have noticed any of that.” Frank mused, leaning in a little closer to examine what it was that Bill had spotted, and the older man shook his head.

“Well, I have over thirty years in the trade and my eyes are still pretty sharp.” Bill chuckled. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Don’t tell me she dragged you out of work to fix that Quad!”

“It’s no problem. Got nothing on this afternoon so I can work from home.”

“She’s got you wrapped round her little finger.” Bill shook his head and Frank arched an eyebrow.

“I could say the same for you.” He accused. “And with Mary too for that matter. And Verity. You’re a soft ass for your girls, Bill and you know it.”

Bill shrugged. “Guilty as charged. Some would argue I’m a soft ass for my boys too, all of you.”

Frank smiled back, his neck feeling a little warm as the sentiment of Bill’s words sunk in and he took a deep breath and jerked his head towards the door. “I best go do what I came to do before her majesty accuses me of slacking.”

Bill chuckled. “It’s in the barn,” he informed, waving him away and Frank emerged out into the hot, midday July sun and strode round to the rear of the yard. The Quad bike and offending wheel were indeed stored in the barn, which was slightly cooler than the outside and Frank dropped his tool bag to the floor before he knelt down to take a look. Bill had been right, the bolt had snapped but it was an easy fix.

Or so he thought.

Ten minutes later, after a lot of cursing, heaving and straining he’d finally managed to work the broken bolt loose. Standing up, he cracked his neck and back, tossing the broken item into his bag with a contemptuous glare as he wiped his sweaty forehead and reached for the wheel. Thankfully, that was easy and took him two minutes to fit, and once he was happy it was sorted he pushed the quadbike out to make sure it was on properly.

“Did you fix it?” A small voice asked him and Frank glanced up to see a little girl, who can’t have been much older than four, stood looking at him as she grinned, her dark pigtails poking out from underneath a cap.

“Sure did.” He smiled.

“It was funny when it fell off.” She giggled. “Fliss screamed and then she swore.”

Frank snorted. “Yeah, she has a potty mouth.”

“Alicia!” A woman spoke and Frank turned to glance up at a slim, dark haired lady, dressed in a pair of bright, beige jodhpurs and a tight, baby-blue polo shirt, both items of clothing looking like they’d never come into contact with a horse at all. “Don’t run off!”

“I just wanted to see if the wheel was back on.” The little girl protested and the woman rolled her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” She smiled, flashing off a set of perfect white teeth from behind a set of glossed lips. “She’s so nosey.”

“Kids for ya.” Frank smiled, shaking his head.

“Don’t I know it?” She laughed, a perfectly manicured hand flying to her chest as Frank straightened up, wiping his hands on the back of his loose fitting, slightly grubby jeans. At that point, Joanne came round the back of the barn and she smiled.

“You ready for your lesson, Leesh?” She looked at the little girl who gave a cheer. “Come on then, Fliss is waiting.”

“This is the best Phys-Ed ever!” The little girl grinned and shot off after Joanne.

“Phys Ed.” Her mom rolled her eyes. “Damned private tutor education. I swear, I could kill my ex-husband for suggesting this.”

“You don’t ride yourself then, I take it?” Frank asked and she shook her head.

“No, but when she decided she wanted to, I thought I should make an effort. I think it’s what they refer to in the business as possessing all the gear, but having no idea.”

Frank gave her a smile. “Yeah, well, when my girl decided she wanted to learn I wasn’t particularly keen either but, well, she’s hooked now.”

“Oh, your girl rides too?” The woman flicked her hair back over her shoulder and Frank studied her for a moment, her painted on eyebrows and heavily bronzed face arranged into a genuine look of interest. He realised then that she had absolutely no idea who he was. “Does she do that here?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” He chuckled.

“Huh.” The woman scanned him up and down a little, her eyes blatantly flicking to his left hand. “Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing coming here after all.”

Frank took a deep breath, recognising the flirting for what it was and he gave her a little smile. “Well, I better get on.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m sure Fliss has a list of a hundred other jobs for me to so.”

“So, are you like her mechanic or something?” The woman continued and Frank looked at her, his face remaining straight.

“Something.” He gave her another nod and moved to walk back onto the yard, trying not to laugh.

“Oh, well, we’re new here. We’ve not been here long. I’m Michelle.” She offered, following him.

“Nice to meet you, Michelle.” He looked back over his shoulder as she paused a few steps behind him.

“I err, I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t give it to you.” He stopped, turning to look at her, a smirk flicking across his face. She bit her lip and grinned back.

“Are you gonna?”

At that Frank let out a bark of a laugh. “Frank. Frank Adler.”

“Nice to meet you, Frank.”

“You too.” He smiled politely, as he slid his aviators back down from the top of his head onto his eyes, before he realised they were dirty. Taking them off he pulled the bottom of his shirt up slightly to wipe at the lens and when he returned them to his face he caught Michelle’s focus was still on his waist line. Her eyes flicked up to his and she shrugged a little.

“Sorry.” She wrinkled her nose. “Can’t blame a girl for looking, huh?”

Frank blinked, glad his eyes were hidden, a little shocked at her forthcoming nature, before he let out a snort.

“Well I’ve done my fair share of looking in the past, not any more though. My fiancée would have my balls hung up on the wall.”

“Oh, erm, sorry, I didn’t, wow.” She blinked and ran her hand through her glossy hair. “That’s embarrassing.”

Frank shrugged. “I’ve been in far worse situations, believe me.” With that he turned, and as he began to walk along the side of the paddock he looked up to see Fliss was watching him over the fence, her hands on her hips. Her eyes were hidden behind her wrap-arounds but he could tell from her demeanour she wasn’t best pleased. With a groan he approached the white post and rail that ran round the ménage and leaned on it.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Her tone was friendly enough, despite her frosty body language, as she walked over towards him. “You get it fixed?”

“Yeah, took me a while to get the bolt off but it’s all good.”

“Thanks.” She slid her hat up a little and wiped at her brow with the back of her arm. “Fuck, its warm today.”

“Well, take your clothes off.” Frank grinned. “It’ll help you cool down.”

“Pervert.” She snorted, before she nodded behind him. “I see you met Kim.”

“Kim?” Frank frowned. “She said her name was Michelle.”

“Yeah, but Joanne calls her Kim Kardashian.” Fliss wrinkled her nose. “On account of the botox and fake boobs.”

“You two are bitches.” Frank scoffed and Fliss shrugged, before he frowned. “Hang on, her boobs are fake?”

“Keep talking, Sailor.” Fliss slid her glasses down and glared at him over the rims and he let out a laugh.

“Baby, I’m joking.” He looked at her and she gave a hum as she pushed them back up her nose as he leaned over the fence a little. “Come ‘ere.”

Fliss stepped towards him and Frank dropped his head to press his lips to hers. “Love you, baby.” He ginned, flashing her his best cheeky grin.

“You can’t get round me that easy.” She shot back and Frank shrugged.

“Who says I’m trying to get round you?”

“I know you, Adler.” She scoffed, stepping back. “Look, I gotta get on so I’ll see you at home. You wanna pick Alex up tonight?”

“Sure, I’ll get him. Is Mary getting the bus home from Summer Camp?”

“Yeah, I told her one of us would pick her up but she insisted.” Fliss shrugged and Frank smiled.

“Okay, I’ll see you in a couple of hours then.”

“Yeah, love you.”

“You too.”

*****

It was gone five before Fliss had finished at the yard. She’d hardly had time to breathe, let alone think about what she’d seen that morning, but that said, it was there, nagging in the back of her brain. She bid Joanne a good night, before she headed down the little path to the house. She was hot, sticky, uncomfortable and ready for a cool shower and a very large glass of white wine. As she walked down the drive, she passed her newly acquired white Hyundai SUV and stopped as she caught her reflection in the tinted rear mirror.

“Oh, Jesus.” She mumbled, moving closer to take a better look. Her skin was the colour of a fucking beet, her hair was all over the place from where she’d removed her cap and tossed it on her desk, her polo shirt was full of all sorts of stains and she was pretty sure she could smell herself and her riding britches were hung a little low on her hips, her soft stomach visible beneath the tight cotton of her top.

And then, from nowhere, came the image of fucking Michelle and her fucking size two figure, with her fucking perfect tits, model smile, stupidly glossy hair, and impeccable eyebrows and straight nose…

Fliss hastily pulled her pony tail out, fluffed out her sweat-damp hair and retied it, before she smoothed down her top as best she could and headed into their yard and through to the utility room, Thor trotting behind her.

“Hey!” Frank greeted her from where he was led on the rug, building some form of tower out of a set of large, brightly coloured blocks as Alex sat next to him, his little hands curling round a few of the bricks. The baby looked round and made an excited noise at the sight of his momma, and shuffled a little onto his knees and hands, crawling towards her.

“Frank, I stink.” She held her hands up in warning and Frank hastily rose, quickly picking Alex up off the floor before he could get much further towards her.

“A little dirt won’t hurt him.” He shrugged.

“Yeah, but I look and feel like I’ve been rolling on the muck heap all day so I’m going straight for a shower.”

Frank chuckled as she gave Alex a quick kiss on the head, moving out of his way before he could grab hold of her. “Well, I think you wear the dirty, stable hand look well, Honey.”

“Sure.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be back down in ten, do you mind starting dinner? I was gonna do a quick chicken salad.”

“Course.” Frank nodded, looking at her for a moment and she simply smiled back.

She could feel Frank’s eyes burning into her back as she headed out of the family room into the hallway, trudging up the stairs. As soon as she was in their bedroom she stripped off her sticky, dirty clothes, tossed them onto the floor and climbed straight into the shower, turning it to an adequate temperature. Tipping her face up into the stream she let the lukewarm water cool her slightly, as she blinked back tears of frustration.

Michelle had at least had the good grace to look a little sheepish when she’d realised exactly who Frank was, but fuck, it had still pissed Fliss off to the point she’d wanted to smash her face straight into the floor. And more to the point, Fliss felt annoyed that it had riled her the way it had. It wasn’t exactly like it was an unusual occurrence, everywhere they went Frank seemed to attract female attention, he was gorgeous, but today had been on her home turf, somewhere she was Queen Bee, and to have someone else buzzing around her hive in such a way made her feel uneasy.

Real uneasy.

With a deep breath she washed her hair, sorted herself out and turned off the shower before she wrapped herself in a towel and headed back into the bedroom. As she was brushing out her hair, her phone went off and she picked it up, snorting at the message from Steve which showed a baby-grow with the words, “party at my crib, 3am, bring a bottle,” on the front. She sent him a quick response, pondering for a moment at just how fast Sian’s latest pregnancy seemed to have gone, she was approaching her sixth month now, and seemed to be glowing just as she had with the twins. Mary had been very happy when they’d announced they were expecting another boy, declaring proudly that made her Bill’s only granddaughter, something which, according to her, made her special.

And of course, none of them had corrected her, because it was the truth.

Tapping her nails lightly against the surface of the vanity unit, Fliss scrolled down to her message conversations and found the one to Bonnie, sending her a quick text to ask if she was free. She set about her quick face care routine, before she braided her damp hair, and then her phone began to ring.

“Hey!” Bonnie greeted her. “I’m driving so thought I’d call you…erm, I’m not doing anything in particular, why?”

“Well, I know Si’s outta town on business so I wondered if you fancied company for a few hours?” Fliss replied, keeping the details as sketchy as she could. “Me and a bottle of white? God knows I could do with one after today.”

“That bad huh?” Bonnie chuckled. “Sure why not. I’m not working tomorrow after all. Did I tell you I had many weeks off?”

“You might have mentioned it.” Fliss replied, laughing a little. “You teachers have an easy ride.”

“Fuck you.” Bonnie shot back and Fliss snorted.

“I’m joking, well I’ve no lessons until later tomorrow so I can have a few.” Fliss scratched at her temple. “What time works for you?”

“Well, I’m just on my way to have dinner at my mom’s so, I can pick you up on the way back?” Bonnie offered. “Be about seven ish?”

“Perfect.” Fliss smiled.

“Awesome. We can get down to some Hen Party planning!” Bonnie’s voice was laced with excitement. “I found this awesome villa in Miami that will accommodate everyone.”

“Can’t wait to see it.” Fliss smiled.

After a little more conversation, Fliss placed her phone back down and dressed in a pair of denim shorts, a khaki green boat necked short-sleeved top and shoved her feet into a pair of flip-flops. She took another look in the mirror, scowling once more at her reflection, before she rolled her eyes and headed downstairs.

She walked into the family room and smiled as she saw Mary was sat on a stool at the island whilst Alex was sat in his high chair, munching on a piece of cucumber. Frank was busy tossing things into a salad bowl, and he turned to smile at her as she greeted them all, dropping a kiss to Mary’s head, then Alex’s in turn.

“Feeling better?” Frank asked as she slid her arms round his waist, pressing her face into his t-shirt.

“Yeah, much. God, it was disgustingly hot out there today.”

“Yeah, that’s one thing I don’t miss about working on boats, the lack of air conditioning.” Frank chuckled as she stepped back and moved to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine.

“My face feels burnt, but I don’t know how that’s possible.” She shook her head, thanking Frank as he reached into the cupboard and pulled down a glass for her. “I had a cap and shades on.”

“It doesn’t look too red.” He looked at her and she took a large gulp of wine, giving a satisfied sigh.

“Been waiting for that all afternoon.” She closed her eyes, savouring the taste before she opened them again. “Oh, that reminds me, I’m going over to Bonnie’s later, just for a couple of hours. Hen Do planning, that okay?”

“Course it is.” Frank nodded. “You want me to drop you off?”

“No, she’s at her mum’s so she’s going to come get me. I can Uber back.”

“I’ll pick you up.” Frank looked at her. “We can take the kids and Thor down to the beach for a little flashlight walk on the way back.”

“Flashlight walk?” Mary suddenly spoke, excitement lacing her tone. “The last time we did that it was so cool, we saw all those hermit crabs and the dolphins!”

“Don’t be so nosey.” Frank looked at her and she shrugged.

“You weren’t exactly whispering.”

He rolled his eyes and turned to Fliss who chuckled. “Sure, sounds good. I won’t be long, just a few hours.”

Frank shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, not like Mary needs to be up early and Alex will probably sleep the entire time anyway if he’s in the carrier.”

She gave him a small nod before she set about helping Frank with their dinner. It wasn’t long before it was ready, and they decided to eat outside. Mary chatted away, filling them all in on what she’d done at Summer camp, Frank listening, but all the time keeping one eye on Fliss who seemed to be taking it all in, but wasn’t saying much.

They finished, cleared their dishes away and Mary headed upstairs for a little while, whilst Fliss took Alex for his bath before she brought him back down, ready for bed to give him his bottle which Frank had ready.

She passed him over as Frank made his way to the sofa, dropping down to feed their baby, and Fliss watched for a moment, before her phone beeped.

“Bonnie’s outside.” Fliss stuck it back in her pocket and turned to Frank as he gently shifted Alex so he was a little more comfortable, his small hands curled around the bottle as he drank his milk.

“She not coming in?”

“No point, we’re only going straight back out.”

“Right.” Frank nodded as glanced back down at Alex. “Are you okay?” He asked, looking up at her and Fliss nodded back, a little too quickly, the way she always did when she was trying to hide something and Frank took a deep breath. “Liss…”

“I’m fine.” She shook her head. “Just a little wiped after today, that’s all.”  Frank sighed and Fliss narrowed her eyes as she turned towards the kitchen. “Don’t sigh at me like that.”

“I’m not sighing at you like anything.” He replied as she pulled out a bottle of wine to take with her. “Just wish you’d tell me what the problem is.”

“I don’t have a problem.” Fliss rolled her eyes. “I’m just going to Bonnie’s for a few hours. Is my life that sad that whenever I socialise it always has to be because I have a problem?”

“I didn’t say that.” Frank replied, calmly.

“Good, because that’s not why I’m going.”

Knowing he was beat, and that if he pushed it any further they were going to end up in a full scale argument, Frank nodded. “Okay then. Have fun, call me when you’re done.”

Fliss blinked, almost as if she was waiting for him to push her again, before she simply shrugged and leaned over to gently run her finger down Alex’s chubby cheek. She then turned to Frank gave him a quick kiss.

“Love you.” He pressed his lips to hers a little deeper, before she stepped back and he was pleased to see her smiling.

“Love you too.”

Frank watched her go, taking a deep breath as he glanced back down at his son. A few minutes later, Mary bounded into the room and Frank looked up at her.

“Did you hear back from the vets, you know about Cleo?” She asked.

“Yup.” Frank grinned, “wanna read the email?”

“Dur!” She grinned and Frank pulled his phone out form his pocket, scrolling with one hand to the email that had arrived earlier that afternoon before he handed it to her.

“Dear Mr Adler,” Mary read, “I’m pleased to inform you that Sandybrook Cleopatra has passed her five-stage-vetting, bla bla bla,” she skipped on a few lines, “negative worm count, negative for equine influenza, rhino-erm, what’s that?”

“Pneumonitis” Frank read as she turned the screen to him. “I’ve got no idea, some disease, obviously.”

“And Streptococcus Equi, oh I know that one. That’s strangles.” Mary nodded.

“Whatever you say, Stack.” Frank smiled.

“As such, please see attached the completed and fully executed Export Health Certificate. Upon arrival in the USA, your animal will require a further three days quarantine which you must organise ….bla bla bla!” Mary grinned up at him as she handed him his phone back. “So that’s it?”

“Yup!” Frank nodded, as he glanced down at Alex who was now turning away from his bottle, signalling he was done. ”Everything’s done, Jo’s sorted the stuff with Department of Agriculture at this end, el ponio is being collected by the UK transporter tomorrow morning and will be on a flight later that evening.” He paused to rearrange Alex over his shoulder to burp him. “So, if all goes according to plan, she’ll be arriving here after her quarantine mid-afternoon on Fliss’ birthday.” He nodded, before he mumbled. “Thirteen thousand bucks lighter.”

“Thirteen thousand!” Mary spluttered. “Holy shit!”

“Hey, watch your mouth.” Frank looked at her sternly as Alex gave a loud burp. Frank turned his head to look at him. “Better out than in, Bean.”

“Sorry but, Dad, that’s a lot of money. I thought they did you a deal and knocked half off her price because it was Fliss?”

“They did.” He shrugged as he stood and carried Alex over to his pack and play. “She still cost me three. The rest is the cost of the vetting and the transport. But, Poppa B and Nanny V have said they only want half back and Uncle Steeb is chucking in a couple of hundred towards it, so it’s kind of like a joint present.”

“She’s worth it!” Mary grinned and Frank chuckled, heading to kitchen area.

“The horse or Fliss?”

“Mom, of course.” Mary scoffed, hopping up onto a stool at the breakfast bar.

“She sure is.” Frank agreed as he opened the fridge. “But I’ll be telling her that’s her birthday this year, birthday next year, Christmas and first wedding anniversary present all rolled into one.”

“First anniversary?” Mary looked at him. “You ain’t even married yet!”

“I know but now I don’t have to think about buying her anything for like twelve months.” He shrugged, smirking to himself as he leaned down for a bottle of beer, knowing he was talking utter shit. There was no way that was gonna fly, and he didn’t even want to try for the simple reason he loved buying Fliss stuff that made her smile. Still, it was fun trying to watch Mary decide if he was joking or not.

“What about Mother’s Day?” She asked after a moment.

“She aint my mom,” Frank looked at her, “as the eldest the responsibility for that falls to you.” He twisted the lid off the beer as Mary narrowed her eyes. “You want a beer?” He waved the bottle at Mary.

“Really?” Her eyes grew wide.

“No, just wanted to see how much crap I could tell you that you’d actually believe.” He smirked. Mary blinked, before she let out a low groan, realising she’d been had.

“You’re such an idiot.” She shook her head, and Frank watched, chuckling to himself as she bent down, picked Fred up and stalked to her Den, Thor hot on her tail.

*****

“So, I thought,” Bonnie grinned, turning the laptop to face Fliss as they sat at her kitchen table, “that this one sounds perfect. It sleeps up to twelve, has a pool, hot tub, is a short walk to the beach, not far from down-town and also literally a five minute walk to the hotel we stayed in, where we can get a really good deal on a Day-Spa package. And, we can also get someone in on the Saturday to do a grill and cocktails for us, if that’s what you wanna do.”

Fliss gave a small smile, and Bonnie frowned. “Or, not. Sorry, is it not what you wanted? I thought-“ Fliss sighed, her hand laying on Bonnie’s arm. “No, that…” she took a deep breath and smiled, “it sounds perfect, Bonnie. Honestly it does.”

“So, why are you making me feel like I’ve given you a dog turd on a plate and told you it’s your dinner?”

At that Fliss choked on the mouthful of wine she’d taken and looked at her best friend. “You know, for a teacher, you really have a way with words.”

Bonnie chuckled, as Fliss shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s not you. I’m just feeling a little…actually, I don’t know what I’m feeling. Pissed off, maybe?”

“Why, what’s happened?” Bonnie looked at her.

“Just…oh, you know what, it’s nothing.” Fliss brushed it off, necking the remainder of the wine in her bottle. “Can I get a top up?”

“I’ll get it.” Bonnie nodded and stood up from the table. A moment or two later she returned, and held the bottle up. “You speak, and I’ll pour.”

Fliss blinked, realising she wasn’t going to get away with it, so she sat back and blurted everything out. How she’d felt seeing Frank with the bimbo at the yard, how she was feeling a little insecure over how she looked because she’d once upon a time been that groomed, perfect looking person. And the more she talked, the more tumbled out about how she felt sometimes that Frank was way out of her league before Bonnie shook her head and cut her off.

“Are you listening to yourself?” She scoffed. “Jesus Christ, I haven’t heard anyone talk this much shit since Simon told me he was gonna run a marathon.”

“Hey, you asked what was wrong.” Fliss looked at her, her temper flashing a little. “I’m just telling you!”

“Yeah, and I’m just telling you, you’re a fucking moron.” Bonnie shook her head. “Fliss, you’re beautiful. Honestly, like, if I have kids and end up with your figure after, I’ll be over the moon. But that aside, Frank loves YOU. Not the way you look, or the way your hair is styled, or the way your eyebrows are painted on, he loves you.”

“I know.” Fliss nodded, sniffing a little. “I know he does, and I know he’d never cheat on me, I get that. I just, oh I don’t know, I don’t know why I feel like this. I can’t explain it.”

Bonnie side eyed Fliss as she topped her glass up before she sat down at the table, taking a deep breath. “Do you think this has anything to do with your ex?”

Fliss frowned, shaking her head. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, you told me he used to put you down about how you looked, compared you to other women he, well, fucked behind your back.” Bonnie trailed off. “I don’t know, I was just thinking maybe that deep in your mind, you kinda still think you should have a face caked in make-up and boobs pushed up to your chin.”

Fliss gave a snort at Bonnie’s description before she shrugged. “I don’t feel like that, not really. I’ve never bothered about anything like that whilst I’ve been with Frank. But something about her just pissed me off, more so because she was doing it right there in my own back fucking yard.” Fliss took another slug of wine before she bit her lip. “Maybe you’re right, maybe it’s because she reminds me of that past life.” She tapped her nails against her glass. “But, I was fucking miserable, and now I’m not, so why would I even bother about some bimbo flirting with my man? It’s not like he did anything or was gonna.”

“So, basically, we’ve come to the conclusion that this woman is a tramp and you’re an idiot.” Bonnie nodded and despite herself, Fliss laughed.

“Yeah, sounds about right.”

“Hmm,” Bonnie sipped her wine. “Okay, I’m glad we got that sorted.” She took another sip before she gently reached out and squeezed Fliss hand. “You got nothing to worry about. Frank adores you, to be honest, me and Simon always say it’s kinda gross the way he’s always like looking at you with stupid doe eyes or touching you whenever he can.”

Fliss smiled, a fond look crossing her face as she knew what Bonnie was saying was true. Any chance Frank got he would touch or cuddle her, and it was never in a dominant way like it had been with John, it was because he simply wanted to, it was his love language. “Yeah, he’s touchy.”

Bonnie smiled and sat back as Fliss took a deep breath. “But you should talk to him, tell him how you feel.”

Fliss shrugged. “Maybe, like you said, I’m being an idiot.” She gave her friend another smile before she nodded back towards the laptop. “But, now for the fun stuff. Show me what you got planned for our weekend of debauchery in Miami, Maid Of Honor!”

**** It was a little before ten when Fliss called Frank to say she was ready for pick up if he still wanted to come get her, which was a dumb question, because of course he did. He packed the kids into the car, and drove the fifteen minutes or so to Bonnie’s and Fliss clambered into the passenger seat, her cheeks flushed a little from the wine. After giving him a quick kiss, she turned to smile at Mary who beamed at her, her head torch already in position, Thor’s flashing light up collar sitting pretty around his neck as he perched in the middle seat between her and Alex who was in the baby chair, fast asleep.

They drove down to the Public Access, the same stretch of beach they would be married on in a matter of weeks, and all climbed out, Frank gently settling Alex in the carrier that hung over his chest before he offered Fliss his hand and they headed onto the moonlit sand. They walked in silence for a while, the air finally cooled enough to be enjoyable, Mary running ahead of them, Thor gambolling in and out of the waves, giving a little bark of enjoyment as he chased the surf.

“He’s gonna be soaked when he gets back in the truck.” Frank groaned and Fliss laughed.

“Should have come in mine, he could have sat in the trunk.”

“He can ride home on the flatbed.”

“Don’t you dare.” Fliss nudged Frank with her elbow and he chuckled, his arm sliding round her shoulder as he pressed a kiss to her head.

“You gonna tell me what’s bothering you now?” Frank asked as they continued to stroll up the beach.

“Nothing.”

“Lissy.” Frank spoke sternly and stopped to face her. She let out a sigh, her hand reaching up to smooth over Alex’s hair as he lay slumped against his dad’s chest.

“I’m being an idiot, I know that. But seeing you before, at the yard I just…”

It was Frank’s turn to sigh as he shook his head. “Honey, I-“

“No, I know what you’re gonna say but, I just, well, she was there looking like a fucking model and then there was me, and I used to be that size, and I used to be that person, that looked half decent, you know? I can’t remember the last time I actually wore any form of make-up bar a bit of tinted moisturiser or mascara, or when I last straightened my hair, let alone painted on my damned eyebrows! And then she’s flirting with you flashing her perfect teeth, and her perfect fake boobs and her line free brow and plump lips, all full of fillers and botox and-“

“You want Botox?” Frank cut her off mid rant and Fliss let out a groan.

“No I don’t want fucking Botox, Frank!”

“Well shut up talking about it then!” He laughed. “Look, I don’t want that fake shit either. Do I look like the type of guy who wants someone who is just one step away from being a Malibu Barbie? Fuck that!”

“You look like the type of guy who should want a Malibu Barbie.” Fliss replied, somewhat sullenly. “You don’t see the looks you get every time we go out.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You know, girls like that are ten a penny down on the boardwalk. But you’re the one I took sailing.” “Thanks a backhanded compliment.” Fliss narrowed her eyes and Frank laughed, cupping her face in his hands.

“Look, Sweetheart, I love you.” He shrugged simply. “Because you’re beautiful, inside and out and because you’re my Lissy.” He pulled her face up to meet his, placing a soft kiss to her lips, his nose sliding against hers.

“I know, I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I wasn’t mad at you, just feeling a little low I suppose.”

“You know I get it too.” Frank smiled, dropping his hands to take hers. “You think I don’t notice the looks you get when we go out?”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” Frank assured her as he entwined their fingers together. “But I don’t care. Because I know you’re mine, and I’m yours. So please don’t think for a second I’d even think about anyone else that way.”

He dropped a soft, slow, deep kiss to her lips and when she pulled back, she smiled.

“Sorry, I know, I was being an idiot.”

“Yeah.” He nodded in agreement and she chuckled as he returned his arm to round her shoulders and they continued walking, the sound of the waves against the shore a perfect back drop to Mary’s excited shouts and Thor’s little barks.

“When you said you said you wouldn’t think about anyone…” She started and Frank was pleased to note her voice was full of mischief, his playful Lissy was back.

“Well,” he wrinkled his nose, shrugging a little, “maybe if Rihanna came knocking then I’d have to give it some serious consideration.”

“To be fair I’d give it some serious consideration, too.” Fliss mused and Frank arched a brow, teasingly as he looked down at her.

“Yeah?”

“Damned straight. I’d do her, she’s hot.” Fliss shrugged and Frank’s face split into a dirty grin as he stopped them both, using the arm round her shoulder to spin her into him as best he could with their son placed between them.

“Now there’s an image!” His voice was loaded with suggestiveness and Fliss laughed as his lips brushed hers.

“Pervert.” She whispered, her hand once more sweeping over the back of their sleeping baby’s head.

“Only for you.” He smiled, before he looked up, considering something. “And Rihanna.”

**** Chapter 25

[swordandquill]

Leverage Writing Prompt #31

Title: Future Tides

Fandom: Leverage

Summary: Nate has been keeping a secret from the team, but an inopportune explosion forces him to reveal it.

This is a prompt fill for @leverage-writing-prompts. I actually submitted this prompt back in July, but only got around to finishing it now.

In honor of the beautiful (and also occasionally creepy) mer-May art I still have circulating on my dash: Parker (or Nate) is secretly a merperson. When a job goes wrong, they’re forced to reveal their secret.

@rinahale did a really fun fill for it already with Mer-Parker.

You can go here to read this on AO3 instead.

Author’s notes: The merrow are Irish merfolk who require a magical cap to move between land and sea.

Bone and Sickle podcast by Al Ridenour did a really great episode on the Kraken (Ep 65: The Kraken & Other Marvels of the Northern Sea). In its earliest renditions, the Kraken was a sea serpent. It was only later that it became associated with first giant octopi, then the giant squid.

*************

Nate knew as soon as the explosion knocked Eliot over the railing of the pier that he only had one option. Eliot was strong swimmer, but not stronger than the turbulent currents under the pier, particularly if he was unconscious. Nate hadn’t been able to tell in the split second it had taken to register him going over.

Even as he was yelling for the rest of the team to get off the burning structure, he was shucking off his shoes and jumping over the railings. He hoped they listened. The rickety structure was going to collapse, with or without another explosion. Getting to Eliot before he got bashed into the pylons was going to be enough of a challenge without having to worry about the rest of the team ending up in the water.

By the time Nate hit the water, his fingernails had hardened into claws, and he used them to tear the rest of his clothes off so he could finish the change. There was something euphoric about settling into his other form. He hadn’t changed since before Sam was born, and it was like finally allowing himself to scratch an itch that had been burning its way through his skin.

There wasn’t time to think about that though. Nate blinked his second eyelid closed, and the murky water sharpened into black and white, the fire above reflecting through the water in bright, washed-out streaks. He had to fight the chaotic currents rushing under the pier to stay still long enough to spot Eliot.

He had already been swept under the pier, probably already been driven into the pylons at least once, and was limp in the water. Nate flicked his tail and pushed into the current, using it to reach Eliot before he could be driven into the pylons again, but he wasn’t able to get them clear of the pier before the next surge. The best he could do was curl around Eliot and turn them so his back hit the pylon instead of Eliot. He was going to be bruised, but it was better than Eliot hitting again.

He pushed hard across the current and surfaced a good four meters from the pier. Eliot started coughing as soon as they broke the surface. The shear relief of it left Nate drifting for a moment, Eliot’s head tipped back against his shoulder and the rip tide pulling them out. There was blood fanning across Eliot’s face from a cut at his temple, and he wasn’t quite conscious, but he was breathing, and for now, that was enough.

Nate cut across the rip to escape it, then brought them into shore, doing his best to keep Eliot’s head above water, although there was no doubt he had breathed in more water by the time they reached the shore.

Changing back was not as easy or simple as the change to had been, but Nate had known it wouldn’t be, known he couldn’t deny his body something it had been craving for so long, then expect it to just let go of it so quickly again. It meant he had to drag Eliot up onto the beach with a tail, which was less than ideal and required more arm strength than he was used to using in either form, but he managed it.

He turned Eliot on his side in the sand as he continued to cough up water. Part of him wanted to leave him here for the team to find and make a break for it before they saw. Eliot was unlikely to remember anything, and Nate was sure he could make something up that would appease them. Then nothing would have to change.  

Eliot’s eyes fluttered open, and he shifted fitfully, his whole body shaking with cold and shock.

“Just lie still,” Nate brushed the wet hair from his face with a webbed hand, “you’re alright.”

Eliot blinked up at him, and Nate waited for the reaction, but Eliot just gave an unsurprised “oh” before another coughing fit had him curling back into himself.

Nate let out a sigh and rubbed his back. He couldn’t wait to hear what “distinctive” thing about him had tipped Eliot off to what he was.

Someone yelled his name, and he looked up to see three silhouettes, framed against the light of the burning pier and racing towards them. It was a relief to see them, but Nate couldn’t help the unease as they got closer.

Parker reached them first, too focused on Eliot to pay much attention to Nate. She dropped down in the sand next to them, grabbing Eliot’s shoulder and shaking him in the Parker version of gentleness. Eliot batted at her weakly, but curled closer to her none-the-less. It wasn’t until Nate brushed her hand away when she tried to poke Eliot that she finally looked up at him.

Nate braced himself for fear, or disgust, or any number of negative reactions, but her face lit up like she’d just received a bag of non-sequentially numbered bills.

“You have cool teeth!” she told him brightly.

Nate’s world snapped back into place and all the unease drained out of him.

“Thank you, Parker,” he said drolly, just managing to not run his tongue over the points of his teeth.

“Oh my,” Sophie stopped short as she reached them, and Hardison almost ran into her.

“What is it?” the hacker demanded anxiously, “is Eliot…”

Hardison trailed off, mouth open and eyes wide at the sight of Nate’s tail.

“Nate’s a mermaid,” Parker announced gleefully.

“Do I look like a maid to you?” Nate groused.

“Maybe if you had a feather duster,” Sophie was giving him a look that said they would be having a long, unpleasant conversation later, “and a frilly little French smock.”

“Mermaids are real?” Hardison sputtered.

“Merrow,” Eliot corrected hazily, then curled into another coughing fit.

Nate was never going to hear the end of this from any of them. The fast-approaching sirens were almost a relief.

“Get him out of here,” Nate helped Parker to sit Eliot up, “don’t let him tell you he doesn’t need a hospital. He’s got water in his lungs.”

Hardison ducked down and helped Parker get Eliot to his feet. He swayed unsteadily, and the two were quick to get his arms around their shoulders and take his weight.

“What about you?” Sophie gestured towards his tail.

“Changing back takes longer,” Nate made a shooing motion, “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“You promise?” Parker demanded, refusing to be dragged in the direction Hardison was trying to usher both her and Eliot, “not like the little mermaid; you won’t turn into sea foam for loving humans?”

“No, not like that,” Nate assured her with an eyeroll, “hurry up and get out of here so I can too.”

“But you promise,” Parker refused to budge, “you’ll catch up later. You won’t disappear.”

“I promise,” Nate snapped, “go already.”

Parker grinned and turned back to help Hardison with Eliot.

“Don’t think I won’t send a trawler after you if I have to,” Sophie threatened, then turned to follow the rest of the team in the direction of the waiting van.

Nate didn’t doubt she would, and that they would find him, but he didn’t have any intention of making them do that. For now though, he pushed back into the water and let the waves carry him back out towards the open sea.

**********

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us you were a mermaid,” Hardison hissed, voice low in a futile attempt to not wake Eliot.

“Merrow,” Eliot mumbled groggily.

Futile because Eliot wasn’t sleeping. Exhausted, still feeling chilly if the truly ridiculous number of blankets piled on him were any indication, and a bit out of it from a not insignificant head injury, but not asleep, at least not at the moment.

“You know, I googled that,” Hardison groused, “just because Nate wears stupid hats all the time doesn’t mean he’s some kind of Irish shape-shifting sea creature.”

Sophie snorted indelicately.

“That’s not…” Eliot started to protest, only to be cut off by Parker, which was probably for the best given how soar his throat sounded.

“You can’t have your hat back,” Parker pulled Nate’s hat down farther on her head; she must have picked it up after he dropped it at the pier, “just in case.”

Eliot moved restlessly in his hospital bed, and Nate, sitting on the edge of it, dropped his hand down to pat the hitter’s wrist. He left his hand there, fingers resting lightly against Eliot’s pulse point.

“You can keep the hat, Parker,” Nate said easily, “it looks good on you.”

Parker beamed at him from the foot of Eliot’s bed.

“It’s a con anyway,” Nate continued dismissively, “someone made it up centuries ago to trick fishermen and it stuck.”

“You really are a merrow,” Hardison deflated, as if the reality of it had finally sunk in.

“Yes, Nate,” Sophie sat back in the uncomfortable hospital chair regally, looking for all the world like a queen reigning over her court, “do tell us about being a mythical sea creature.”

Parker leaned forward like a child eager for a bedtime story.

“Well…”

Nate was interrupted by Eliot reaching up with his free hand to try to pull his oxygen cannulas off. Again. Nate caught his hand and lowered it back down to rest on his chest.

“Leave that be for now,” Nate gave his hand a pat.

“I don’t want it,” Eliot shifted, movements agitated and unsure, as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do, “we should get out of here. It isn’t safe.”

“I’ve got it all taken care of, man,” Hardison reassured him patiently, “we’re safe.”

“Security’s not…” Eliot started to protest.

“We’re security,” Nate let his hand fall back to Eliot’s wrist and left it there, “we’ll check in with the doctor this afternoon and reassess, alright?”

Eliot grumbled, but settled down again.

There was very little chance of Eliot being released before tomorrow. He was responding well to oxygen, and the CT had looked good, but he had been unconscious underwater, and that wasn’t something any of them wanted to take lightly. He was having trouble focusing and keeping track of what was going on around him, and it wasn’t because of the relatively mild pain meds he had been given.

Better to keep him where he could get the care he needed, at least while they could. Nate wasn’t kidding about reassessing. If the situation changed, and they needed to go to ground, they had other resources they could tap into to make sure Eliot still got taken care of. For now, though, this was best.

“Nate,” Parker was looking at him intently, “Sophie said I should pick something besides money that I want for my birthday.”

Nate turned to face her, resigned to whatever was coming.

“I like gold and gems too,” Parker grinned, “shipwrecks have lots of gold and gems.”

Nate gave a long-suffering sigh, and pointedly ignored Sophie suppressing a snicker.

“It wouldn’t even be like stealing,” Parker pressed, “it’s not like anyone really owns it anymore.”

“There are plenty of countries that would disagree with you on that,” Nate said dryly.

“Only if they know we have it,” Parker shrugged, “so can we go diving for treasure for my birthday?”

“You have to commit to a date for your birthday first, sweetheart,” Sophie pointed out, “also, if we’re diving for treasure, there is the platinum reserves Spain dumped into the ocean in the 16th century. Probably not enough to make the expense of an actual expedition worth it, but if you could just swim to it…”

“No,” Nate said firmly, “absolutely not. We are not treasure hunters.”

“But we could be,” Hardison smiled impishly, “we do need alternative revenues streams after all.”

“Not Spain,” Eliot murmured sleepily, “’s guarded.”

“By what? A kraken?” Hardison scoffed, then paused, “wait, there isn’t a kraken, is there?”

“No,” Nate said firmly at the same time that Eliot said “yes.”

He glared at the hitter, who gave him a tired, shit-eating grin.

“It’s not a cephalopod,” Eliot looked far too pleased with the way Hardison started to sputter.

Nate pinched the bridge of his nose. At this rate, they were never going to get Hardison near the water again.

“You’re making that up,” Hardison balked, “there aren’t sea monsters.”

“How would you know?” Eliot countered, “you don’t even swim.”

Hardison opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but Nate interrupted him.

“What I want to know, is how you knew what I was,” he gave Eliot a curious look.

It would be good for him to know what had tipped Eliot off so he could fix it. The fewer people that could tell what he was, the better. Maggie had known, had seen him change once before they were married, but he hadn’t wanted to split his life between two worlds. He had chosen the land, still chose the land. That remained where the things that mattered to him were.

“You bled all over me when you were shot,” Eliot said, “your blood is different than human blood. It’s distinctive.”

Not something he could do anything about then, although it was interesting to him that Eliot hadn’t bothered to say anything about it sooner. As with all the random and far-reaching knowledge Eliot had, Nate was caught between wanting to know how he knew and feeling it was probably best not to ask.

“That’s just nasty,” Hardison grumbled.

“So we’ll go to South American, and Hardison and I will track down the shipwreck sites,” Parker continued as if she had never been interrupted, “you can search the shipwrecks, and Eliot can help me update my dive certification.”

“Whatever you want, darling,” Eliot yawned.

“Do I get a say in this?” Nate asked.

“Probably not,” Sophie looked thoroughly amused.

“It will be like a family vacation,” Parker grinned, clearly excited by the idea, “you and Sophie keep saying I’m supposed to try normal people things that I haven’t done before.”

Nate knew a lost cause when he heard one. He sat back and listened to Hardison and Parker plan, keeping half an eye on Eliot as he finally drifted off to sleep.  Sophie alternated between encouraging the pair with much too much enthusiasm and giving Nate thoughtful side glances. He was grateful she didn’t push for more information. Not yet anyway.

He had told Maggie before he had proposed to her. It had seemed unfair not to. And Sam… Sam had been so young. Nate was never sure he really believed it was more than a fairy story. Maybe if he had lived longer… gotten to be older… who knew what could have happened, what potential had never been unlocked. It hurt to think about, made him want to reach for a bottle and try to forget all the things his son should have been, should have had.

Eliot reached for the cannulas in his sleep, and Nate caught his hand, bringing it back down to his side and holding onto it.

Nate had a future here. Different from the one he had so badly wanted, shaped by different tides, full of unexplored depths and currents, but still good. He was learning to live with that, slow though the process was. It wasn’t the catastrophe he had always thought it would be, having them find out.

If the trade-off for this new future was the occasional treasure hunt, Nate could live with that.

*********

Parker continued to be non-committal about choosing a birthday, but there was a lovely 16th century gold and ruby pendent necklace tucked under the tree for her at Christmas.

[unpack-my-heart]

This is the first thing I’ve written for the Shameless fandom, but I am utterly besotted with tomato-obsessed-vegetable-growing Ian Gallagher and so wrote this! 

He was out there again. This time, he was wearing bright yellow rubber gloves that went right up to his elbows, and they were covered in soft-looking dirt. He’s got a streak of dirt on his face too, powdery, from where he’d presumably wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.  His almost-too-orange hair shon brilliantly in the oppressive July sunshine, and Mickey watched as beads of sweat, almost imperceptible, slid down the side of his face.

It was the third time this week that Red has been out there, elbow-deep in mud, or tenderly caressing the lacey tufts of green shooting out of the ground. Sometimes, Red will tug on the tufts, and the soil will give birth to a misshapen carrot, much smaller than the type Mickey buys at the supermarket that come shrink-wrapped in rustly plastic, but Red doesn’t seem to care. He beamed at every fucking carrot as if he’d never seen one before, as if that carrot was the best, most precious thing he’d ever laid eyes on in his entire life.

Mickey watched him as he sprayed something from an unmarked spray bottle onto tomato vines that twist and turn, vein-like, up a beaten-up old trellis. Plump, bulbous tomatoes hung from their stalks, and Mickey watched, feeling more and more voyeuristic, as Red plucked one from the vine and popped it into his mouth. Red chewed slowly, methodically, before smiling, all too wide and with tomato pulp mushed between his teeth. It should be disgusting, and yet, as Mickey watched the blissed-out smile reach Red’s eyes, papery skin crinkling, it’s not. Not anywhere close.

When Mickey moved into the apartment building, he’d barely noticed the garden. The apartment was cheap, suspiciously cheap, but Mickey couldn’t afford to be suspicious. So, when the greasy and smelt-like-onions letting agent had shoved the wad of paper under his nose, he’d signed on the dotted-fucking-line.

“It’s in an up-and-coming area, you know. You’re getting a real steal here, and it’s a ground floor property, no hauling heavy goods up the stairs,” the letting agent had said, tugging at the limp, flaccid tie around his neck.

Mickey had just rolled his eyes and shoved the papers back. “Save the fucking speech.”

It had taken him a pitiful two trips with Iggy’s busted up old pickup to schlep all of his worldly possessions from one side of Chicago to the other. A couple of soggy cardboard boxes filled with miscellaneous crap, a pair of practically broken but still just-about useable kitchen chairs, and a mattress with not a single functioning spring. When Iggy left, pickup grumbling down the street, Mickey had sent Mandy a picture of the chairs stood pathetically in the middle of the otherwise empty room.

She’d sent back a string of laughing emojis, at least when i come and visit i won’t be sitting on the fuckin’ floor

It took Mickey another three weeks to accumulate enough second-hand furniture to pass as a genuinely functioning adult, and by that point, he’d barely opened his blinds, never mind noticed the stretch of scrubland that barely passed for a communal garden that stretched out beyond the confines of his bedroom window. It was by accident that Mickey had happened to open the blinds just as Red was strutting past his window, wrestling with an enormous bag of soil. The soil slipped out of his arms and Red cursed, loud and long enough that it startled a grunt out of a bemused Mickey.

“Fuckin’ shit, fuckin’ slippery bastard, fuckin’ all over my fuckin’ boots! Jesus fuck.”

Hands twitching, Mickey watched as the orange-haired man, resigned to his muddy timberlands, kicked the rapidly emptying bag of soil, before grabbing it with both hands and tugging it along the floor, leaving it to rest in front of three large, raised vegetable beds. Red squatted down and ran his hands over the surface of the soil, head cocked inquisitively.

Mickey stared at the man, hand resting on the window pane, ready to pull it shut and get on with the rest of his day, but before he could, and without warning, Red looked up.

Red looked up, stared directly at Mickey’s swiftly reddening face, and waved.

Feeling like he’d been caught with his hands down his pants by his third-grade English teacher, Mickey slammed the window shut and pulled the blind across, a vital extra layer of protection from the outside.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Mickey scolded himself, before purposefully striding out of the bedroom, and slamming the door behind him, resigned to not re-enter the room until he was quite sure that Red had gone.

The next day, after Mickey had dragged his aching bones back from the chop shop, engine oil and miscellaneous grease coating his hands, he’d floated into his bedroom on autopilot. He tugged the blind up, and shoved the window open, eyes blurry and half asleep. A wiggling figure in the distance caught his eye, and his stomach dropped.

Red was out there, forehead damp and glistening in the evening sun. Mercifully, his back was to Mickey, as he leant down, fussing with something buried deep in the pillowy looking earth that covered the surface of the first vegetable bed. Red’s ass wiggled this way and that, a unrhythmic dance to the chirpy evening birdsong, and Mickey let himself watch, eyes glued to the dirt-covered denim, only for a second, before he forcefully pulled the window shut again.

Only, the window groaned loudly, and, ridiculously, Red peered between his splayed legs, and waved at Mickey from his rather precarious upside-down position.

Mickey pulled the blind shut and stomped out of his bedroom, determined to forget about Red and his fucking pruning shears.

The plan, however brilliant in theory, failed miserably in practice, and resulted in Mickey finding himself, yet again, covertly watching Red chew his fucking tomatoes. If Mickey cared, or if he was the kind of guy that had some sort of gardening glove fetish, he would have realised that Red tended to the garden in the evening, when the sun dipped, bloated and heavy, below the treeline, and bathed the grass in dazzling, shimmering golden light. If Mickey cared, or if he was the kind of guy that jerked off furiously in the shower thinking about the way the muscles in Red’s arms rippled, taut, when he hauled bags of soil from one end of the garden to the other, he would have devised a way of opening his blind just so, just enough to see out of, but not enough that Red could see his peering, lurking face.

For a kid who had grown up in the underbelly of Chicago, whose first word was ‘fuck’, only to be followed by ‘you up’, Mickey had been remarkably quick to come to terms with the fact that he only liked fucking dudes. The first time he’d slept with a chick, the noisy, breathy, wetness of it all had kept his dick limp and his ego in tatters, and she’d thrown him out of her bedroom with a ‘fucking faggot’ for good measure.  He’d slept with countless other women since then, a painful exercise in compulsory heterosexuality, and as he ploughed into them from behind, he’d screw his eyes shut and pretend the fleshy give of their hips was tight, coiled muscle, and pretend that their high-pitched blabbering were deep, guttural moans. It hurt, every time, when they’d slink off, hair mussed and lipstick smudged, and he’d be left splayed lifelessly on damp sheets that smelt like sex, but he managed. He had to manage. Until Terry Milkovich, silverback gorilla, had died in a wheezing, heaving mess on the kitchen floor, and Mickey was free.

He fucked his first guy on the night of the funeral, was fucked by his first guy three nights later, and never looked back. Mickey was pretty comfortable with what he liked and liking what he liked didn’t make him a bitch.

But this? Staring at some guy whispering sweet nothings to his peppers, hiding behind the blind every time he so much as glanced in Mickey’s general direction? This was horrifyingly close to pining, teetering on the edge of teenage puppy love infatuation type shit, and it set Mickey’s teeth on edge. Milkovich’s didn’t do crushes.

A knock on the window startled him, shattering his belligerent introspection and rattling his bones.

It was Red, who had somehow managed to creep his way across the scrubby lawn, up to Mickey’s window. Mickey blinked at him, dumbly.

Red started to speak, but Mickey couldn’t hear him.

“The windows closed; I can’t hear you!” Mickey shouted, dumbly.

Shit.

Red stepped out of the way, just in time, and Mickey shoved the window open.

“Uh, window was … y’know. What the fuck do you want?”

Red smiled.

“Do you want a tomato?”

[dwellordream]

“In February 1924, Illustreret Fagblad for danske Damefrisorer, one of the leading trade journals for Danish women's hairdressers, reported that short haircuts for women were becoming increasingly common throughout most of Europe. Although the trend had not yet reached Denmark, it was likely to do so, the journal predicted, since "we have seen within the last couple of months the first signs of .. . shorn hair here in Copenhagen." The prediction proved correct. In July 1925, Ugens Spejl, another trade journal, reported that the new fashion was spreading "like fire in old houses." That same year, the president of the Ladies' Hairdressers Association estimated that 25 percent of Copenhagen's female population had their hair cut short.

The following year, one Copenhagen barber claimed that no less than 75 percent of women under the age of 30 had adopted the new styles, leading the editor of yet another trade journal, Danmarks Barber-og Frisortidende to conclude that "there is something almost epidemically contagious about the advancing shingling. Each and everyone who lets her locks fall for the scissors immediately draws four or five others with her." Although contemporaries may have exaggerated the numbers, contemporary street photography and surviving photo albums suggest that a significant number of young women did in fact dispose of their long hair in the second half of the 1920s. 

It is also telling that no fewer than 48 of the 59 women interviewed for this project recalled having their hair cut short before 1930. As Anne Bruun explained many years later, "That was just what you did. If you were young and wanted to be in style, that was definitely the look. Anybody who wanted to be up-to-date did that." Helene Berg agreed. "Short hair made you look chic, made you look modern," she claimed. Besides, as Louise Ege pointed out, short hair "kind of fit with the other things that were fashionable. Short dresses and all that." But despite their enthusiasm for the new hairstyles, actually acquiring one of the fashionable bobs was not always easy. While the number of beauty salons had been growing since the turn of the century, women's hairdressers generally shied away from providing their female customers with the short haircuts they desired.

For decades women's hairdressers had worked hard to create a respectable female profession by promoting themselves as specialists in hygiene and conventional feminine beauty, an accomplishment they were not willing to sacrifice by embracing the controversial new styles. Moreover, since most hairdressers were only used to working with combs, brushes, and curlers, few were actually competent to cut hair. As a result, many women had to enter male barbershops to have their hair cut, a step many took with considerable trepidation. The difficulties of finding a stylist both willing and able to cut a woman's hair was not the only obstacle to a fashionable appearance. Many fathers and husbands explicitly prohibited the new styles. Others let their disapproval be known more indirectly.

As Magda Gammelgaard Jensen recalled, "I really wanted to get my hair [cut] short, but I didn't know how to go about it. It wasn't so easy when there was a man around." According to Mr. H. M. Christensen, the president of the Danish Grooming, Toilet and Sanitary Workers' Union, many women therefore chose to "have their hair cut at a time when their husbands and fathers [were] not at home." Outside the private sphere, other forces also strove to contain "that unfortunate tendency among young ladies to shear their hair." Some workplaces openly discriminated against women who adhered to the new fashion. Several prominent department stores did not hire women who sported the new hairstyles. Others fired employees after a visit to the hairdresser. 

In 1924, the personnel director at Crome & Goldschmidt, one of the leading clothing stores in Copenhagen, flatly declared that he "would absolutely not engage or employ any young woman with bobbed hair." Other businesses had similar policies. The president of Salomon David Jr. Inc., Inger Diemer, explained that she had "banned bobbed hair." "I demand," she continued, "that the women who work with us, sign [a contract] that they will not wear short hair. In my mind, that is not proper in an old, highly esteemed firm." The director of Bispebjerg Hospital, Charlotte Munck, also banned short hair for all nurses under her supervision.

Even women in less publicly visible occupations faced ostracism if they chose to adopt the modern styles. Inger Mangart, for example, who worked as a part-time cleaning assistant in a private home in the late 1920s, recalled being dismissed the first day she arrived with short hair. The press was equally adamant in its stance against the new styles. To discourage young women from following fashion, newspapers and popular magazines delighted in sensationalist stories about domestic turmoil caused by short hair. Divorces, physical abuse, family disintegration, and even murders were described as tragic, but predictable, outcomes of women's changed appearances.

Assuming, however, that young women were more likely to follow fashion prescription than sensible guidance, journalists and other commentators figured that the most efficient way to combat the modern styles was simply to declare them unfashionable. "Bobbed hair is no longer in style," one beauty advice columnist thus warned as early as 1922, several years before the new styles hit Denmark. "We hardly have to repeat that bobbed hair has already received the death sentence abroad," another fashion expert claimed that same year. "There is no doubt that this fad, the short hair, is coming to an end," Ugebladet asserted a couple of years later, and in 1925, B.T. was pleased to report that "all countries now agree that the fashion of short hair is finally on the retreat."

Yet despite these elaborate efforts to suppress the new haircuts, women's enthusiasm did not wane. Many critics therefore felt compelled to explain the dangers of the new styles in the hope that young women would be swayed by their arguments. Some journalists and beauty advice columnists sought to discourage young women from having their hair cut through use of the kind of racist imagery that permeated early twentieth century European culture. By labeling the new styles "Hottentot hair" or "Apache cuts," they strove to impress upon young women the incompatibility of short hair with refined Western womanhood. "Surely, no young lady wants to look like a monkey," one reporter thus argued, apparently hoping that young women would recognize the similarity between women's short hair and animal fur. 

Other observers claimed that short hair simply made women look ugly and unattractive. Cutting one's hair was therefore inevitably at the risk of losing "the man's admiration and desire." Although some men admitted that a short-haired woman might serve "as a drinking buddy," those who participated in the public debate all insisted that the new styles did not mix with marriage and motherhood, implying that short-haired women could expect to live out their lives as spinsters and old maids— an argument that presumably would dissuade any young woman from such reckless behavior. While most female critics tended to focus on the aesthetic aspects of the new styles, it was quite different considerations that fueled much of the vehement male opposition. 

Like many other people in the early twentieth century, these commentators believed there was a direct correlation between external appearance and internal self. When a woman cut her hair, she was not only defying conventional standards of femininity but was also prone to develop some of those mental traits that usually characterized people with short hair—namely, men. As Ludvig Brandt-Meller, a male hairdresser who opposed the new styles, explained, "Short hair tends to emancipate the woman. It is as if it affects her psychologically." Others found that short-haired women became "like men in character and gestures," insisting that "that 99 out of 100 women with short hair have simultaneously acquired boyish or mannish manners."'

A few alarmists saw even greater dangers ahead. The very act of cutting a woman's hair, they argued, would eventually alter a woman's biological constitution and turn her into a man. Believing that the mass of hair on a human body was constant, some argued that short hair would necessarily cause women to grow beards. Others predicted the advent of female baldness. "The evidence is right there, since 60 percent of all men over forty [who presumably had cut their hair since childhood] are bald, while less than 0.1 percent of all women [who had never previously cut their hair] suffer from this weakness," another critic of the new styles explained. 

While men had tended to object to short dresses because they rendered women too attractive, their reactions to short hair were therefore quite different. According to male critics, short hair "emancipated" women and made then unwomanly, even masculine, and not attractive enough, a violation of gender norms that seemed to them much graver and ultimately more unpleasant than women being overly sexy and seductive. Even those who did not necessarily believe that short hair would actually turn women into men found this quite disturbing because, as one correspondent wrote to the editor of the newspaper B.T. in 1925, "If there is something we men cannot stand, it is precisely women void of femininity. "

Young women's seeming disregard of men's opinions about the new styles only made matters worse. Apparently, young women were no longer pursuing physical beauty and style for the purposes of male pleasure and admiration. How, then, were men to understand women's enthusiasm for short hair as anything but a sign that women cared less about male approval than about their own "emancipation"? Some even feared that the popularity of the new styles might indicate an explicit sexual and emotional detachment from men. In comparison with those who defended short dresses when they first appeared, supporters of the new hairstyles were therefore faced with a much more difficult task. 

The opposition to women's short hair was much fiercer than the opposition to short dresses had ever been, as short hair connoted emancipation, female defiance, and rebellion against men's judgment in a way that short skirts never had. During this entire controversy, the voices of women who cut their hair were rarely heard in public. Under heavy fire, most young women seemingly preferred to avoid the discursive battles that raged around them. On the few occasions that any of these women did speak up, they generally adopted a very cautious stance, seeking to diffuse the opposition by reassuring critics of their whole-hearted commitment to femininity and respectable womanhood. 

In 1925, one young woman who described herself as "old-fashioned" despite her short hair thus sought to counter criticisms of the new styles by denying that there was any link between appearance and identity. "Why in the world should a young girl not be equally feminine and good whether she has bobbed hair or long hair?," she wondered. "It does, after all, not change the nature of the young girl to have her hair cut off." More often, young women simply tried to skirt criticisms by emphasizing the very pragmatic concerns that allegedly had led them to the barbershop. "Much can be said both for and against the bobbed hair, but the fact that it is a practical way of wearing one's hair, nobody can deny," one woman argued.

Nonetheless, the relative silence on the part of the women who wore the new hairstyles did not mean that no voices were raised in their defense. Complicating the picture of vocal male opponents and a largely silent group of female supporters, the chief public advocates of short hair for women in the 1920s were in fact male barbers. Not that barbers were a particularly fashion-conscious bunch or especially committed to young women's right to determine their own appearance. These men simply saw the new styles as a means to propel their profession out of the crisis in which it had lingered for decades. 

The rise of the medical and dental professions had dealt the first blow to the former surgeon-barbers, eliminating what had been the most profitable areas of their occupation. Later, when men began to shave themselves rather than frequenting the barber twice or three times weekly, the financial base of most barbershops had been further undercut, and scattered attempts at cultivating new areas of business expertise such as facial massage and manicure had contributed only little to their economy. 

In this context, the fashionable new styles for women seemed a god-send for barbers eager to cultivate both a new clientele and new sources of income, and since women's hairdressers generally opposed the short hairstyles and most often refused to cut women's hair, barbers were left with the uncontested responsibility for providing young women with the look they desired. Of course, barbers were not oblivious to the offense women's short hair provoked or the wrath they might incur by accommodating female customers. 

It was therefore in their own best interest to counter the opposition, and toward that end they adopted the same strategy that fashion advocates had successfully used a few years earlier, namely, to attempt to disassociate short hair from any kind of subversive intentions on the part of women. Short hair, they insisted, had nothing to do with defiance of feminine conventions or even modern fashions. It was a style adopted for reasons of comfort, ease, and practicality only. "It is not the senseless mimicking of fashion follies that has led women to allow their hair to be cut off," one barber thus insisted in 1926. "Rather, it is the natural development in all social strata that has forced the women to choose a practical hairstyle."

To give credibility to this claim, barbers traced the origins of women's short hair not to feminist rebels or decadent fashions, but to that highly respectable, self-sacrificing female heroine, Florence Nightingale. "When a war begins," one writer explained, "masses of younger and older women who wish to be nurses in the army immediately sign up. The healthiest among them are selected, and the first step on the road to their new vocation is to cut their hair as short as men's, first, because the daily care takes too long time, and secondly, because a nurse cannot run around with a zoo of carnivores [sicl] in her long hair." Upon their return, the reasoning continued, admirers adopted similar hair styles. 

Although there was little historical evidence to support such an explanation—after all, Florence Nightingale's reputation had been established during the Crimean War almost three quarters of a century earlier, and few women had followed her example in the intervening years —this argument had several advantages. First, it disassociated short hair from any kind of female defiance. Second, it sought to ground the popularity of the new hairstyles in admirable, patriotic concerns. And third, it tied short hair to notions of health and hygiene. From the mid-1920s, particularly the latter, combined with arguments about the practical requirements of the labor market, formed the core in the defense of women's short hair. 

In addition, barbers also sought to address anxieties over the seeming dissipation of gender differences by calling attention to the cultural and historical versatility of hair styles. In an article entitled "Masculine Girl Hair and Feminine Boy Hair," the author set out to prove that "women have not been 'the long-haired sex' for as long as we believe." A sampling of Greek, Roman, and Persian traditions led him to conclude that "long hair appears just as frequently on men as on women when one examines history, which is why hair has nothing whatsoever to do with sexual character." 

Just as long hair did not make men less masculine, short hair would not eradicate women's femininity. In fact, some argued, it held the potential of actually heightening it by drawing attention to women's fine facial features. "The shape of the face, the beauty of the skin, as well as the soft lines of the neck" were accentuated by short hair, one barber wrote, poetically comparing a woman's face to a "painting [that] is also seen more clearly in a simple frame." In the case of modern dresses, fashion advocates had gradually managed to convince most critics of their compatibility with conventional womanhood. Short hair fared differently. 

Short, simple haircuts for women never gained acceptance in the 1920s, at least not among the men and women who publicly expressed their opinions. The controversy over women's hair only died down at the end of the decade, when a new, modified style of short hair became popular. Ironically, this new short style, which eventually appeased critics, emerged from the beauty salon run by women's hairdressers. Having been entirely unsuccessful in their attempts to coax women into preserving their long hair and eager to regain some of the professional territory lost to barbers, women's hairdressers found themselves forced to dispense with their rejection of the short fashions. 

Still unwilling, however, to embrace the bobbed look, they devised a new strategy. Arguing that short hair unfortunately had been "carried to extremes... by the less cultivated segments of the female population" and was sported by "each and every factory and shop-girl," (middle-class) women were offered a chance to distinguish themselves as "finer ladies" through "feminine and graceful styles with curls and waves" while they were waiting for their hair to grow out again. By fashioning themselves as aides to women concerned with the reestablishment of their femininity and by presenting their care for short hair as a form of damage control, hairdressers were able to legitimize their growing interest in women's new hairstyles. 

With relatively few ideological scruples they were therefore able to plunge into this profitable market during the last years of the 1920s, gradually recapturing the patronage of most women. However, that women left the barbershop and (re)turned to the beauty salon did not indicate that long hair was regaining its popularity. Fashionable hairstyles for women remained short for the rest of the decade. What did change was the way short hair actually looked. Female hairdressers, one fashion columnist noted with applause, did "everything to give the short style a more feminine air than earlier." 

Permanent waves and curls, artificial hair pieces, decorative combs, ribbons, and barrettes all contributed to this goal. This new, feminized version of short hair quickly gained popularity among women interested in variation and possibly weary of public hostility. Within just a few years the original simple, straight styles had virtually been abandoned. Customers, one hairdresser noted with pleasure in 1927, now wanted "to become more feminine, not with completely long hair, but with longer short hair, enough to be curly in the back and around the face .. . so that the repulsive boyish head becomes beautified and more feminine."

Thus, after a brief but troubling intermission where women's adoption of short hair seemed to be blurring gender differences, new curlier versions of bobbed hair marked the reestablishment of gender distinctions in fashionable self-presentation. Even though women continued to cut their hair, the clear stylistic differences between short hair for men and short hair for women soothed critics, and gradually their opposition faded. With their confidence in the stability of sexual difference restored, some of the harshest opponents were even able to admit a few years later that they actually found short hair quite charming and attractive—if not on their wives, then at least on their daughters.”

- Birgitte Soland, “The Emergence of the Modern Look.” in Becoming Modern: Young Women and the Reconstruction of Womanhood in the 1920s

[radiojamming]

Can you tell us anything more about John Hartnell's time on the Voltage?

Hell yeah, I can! I have some pictures from the log books I can post later, too. I legit sat for H O U R S reading tiny handwriting from the master’s logs. Most of the logs were lists of chores, punishments, notes on the weather, and any major events. John’s time on the Volage can be divided pretty neatly in half, between the ship’s North American tour, and its Irish Sea patrol, all between 1841-45. 

The North American part was probably pretty exciting for him, considering that he’d been a shoemaker since he was thirteen years old. Compared to what his brother had been up to on the Volage (the Aden Expedition, Battle of Chuenpi, etc.), it focused less on military ventures and more on transportation and patrol. The first major thing it did was in December of 1841, when it accompanied the HMS Warspite and HMS Thalia in taking the King of Prussia, Frederick William IV to England to attend the christening of the Prince of Wales. After that, it scurried over to Plymouth to get new fittings, and then took off for the Caribbean. 

A lot happened in the Caribbean, and reading through the log books (always written in very non-emotional language, but still entertaining) paints a very eclectic picture of their activities. The Volage went to Jamaica first, awaiting orders until they were ordered to go to Saint Martha to pick up... $800,000 in gold. Legit, that sat on the Volage for two months until they dropped it off in Port Royal. By then, half the crew was incredibly ill with a mix of diseases including what might have been dysentery. Amazingly, for all of John’s terrible luck, he doesn’t appear on the sick list, even as one of the lieutenant’s eventually died as well as the clerk. 

They scurried back and forth across the Caribbean from January of 1842 until they departed for Halifax, Nova Scotia later that summer. (Land of @theiceandbones!) In all honesty, the Volage didn’t get up to much during it’s time in Halifax. They didn’t necessarily have a mission, but it does make for some really entertaining reading! There was a lot of shore leave, for instance. Here are some of the notes I wrote on my read-through between the Caribbean and Halifax (which is from ADM 54/312):

Mondays and Fridays are mandatory clothes-washing days.

8th of July 1842 - “Punished Michael Logan with 48 [!] lashes for Disobedience of Orders and Insolence”

12th of July 1842, 6pm - “Committed to the deep the Body of Samuel Marvin (AB) Deceased.” / “Departed this life William Baillie (boy) - Buried at sea on the 13th.”

18th of July 1842, 10:50 pm - “Heard the report of several Guns from the North” [in Halifax]

20th of July 1842 - Halifax Citadel visit and the burial of Robert Webb (boy), Samuel Gibbon, John Barnes, and Samuel Brummage (carpenter’s mate) on shore

Godden reports that several warm nights, sailors were permitted to use their hammocks and sleep on the beach! (I put a smiley face next to my note here!)

Most of their Halifax mooring was spent cleaning. Lots of repainting, holystoning, repairing, etc.

Multiple discharges for “uselessness” and “disgrace”. 

The latter note is really interesting, considering that none other than Charles Dickens visited Halifax that same year, and made note of sailors making total idiots out of themselves on oysters and champagne. Indeed, there are plenty of punishments recorded for that summer for drunkenness, insubordination, and desertion, again sometimes up to 48 lashes. (I’ll post a picture of the log just to confirm that.) On a high note, John Hartnell wasn’t punished once! And believe me, I looked!

They did have to have some repair work done to fix a leak in October before scurrying back down south with the “Squadron”. Godden makes some pretty boring notes about looking at the United States coast (as in essentially saying, “Yep, there it is!”) before they hang tight to the coast of Mexico. 

The Volage appears to have been outfitted for doing survey work, which is part of what they did for the next few months. Between that, mooring for absolutely nothing, and hanging out with slave ship hunters (I like to think they high-fived the HMS Racer at some point) their zig-zag order of ports of call are:

Barbados > Puerto Rico > Grenada > St. Vincent > Jamaica > St. Lucie > Antigua > Jamaica (long-term Port Royal mooring) > Haiti 

By early 1843, the Volage was headed back home. They docked in Plymouth for a time before getting their next orders for the Admiralty for the apparently much-maligned Irish Sea duty. At this point, Captain William Dickson had a temporary replacement for the deceased Lt. Davey, but eventually, that lieutenant had to leave as well. Captain Dickson did get a note from the Admiralty that he was to get his replacement at the Cove of Cork, and according to the sudden burst of tiny handwriting at the bottom of the page on Tuesday, August 29th, 1843, Captain Dickson totally forgot about that. Literally, the note for the day is kind of falling off the page from squeezing it in, but reads: “Read the Commission of Lieut J Irving”.

Because Lieutenant John Irving hopped on board as a new replacement, thus using those sweet, sweet letters of his to describe the next few months. He was absolutely meticulous about dating his letters, and having them on hand in his memoir made it easy to line up with Godden’s notes in the master’s log, confirming everything between the two of them. This time, Irish patrol got kind of exciting.

First, here’s Irving talking about joining the Volage, saying much nicer things about Capt. Dickson considering the captain was probably going, “Oh shit right I forgot we were doing this.”

“To my great joy I found the ‘Volage’ at anchor here. I was afraid she might have gone somewhere else. I went on board direct from the steamer, and was introduced to Sir William Dickson, the Captain; rigged myself in a blue coat and a pair of epaulettes; the hands were turned up, and the Captain read my commission appointing me lieutenant of the ship to the ship’s company. There are three of us. I am the second in seniority. Our mess consists of seven--viz., three lieutenants, one master, surgeon, a lieutenant of marines. They are all very good fellows. I was three years messmate of one of them in a former ship, so am comfortable in that respect.”

Irving noted that the officers were frequently invited to parties in Cork (”I could be at parties every day if I liked;”), and Godden does say that the rest of the crew were given shore leave fairly frequently, even though they didn’t have enough officers to allow them to leave as often. 

For the next four months, the Volage remained at Cork, doing patrol with several other man-of-war’s. On land, there were frequent clashes between the Protestants and the Catholics, but more importantly, there were the Repealers following Daniel O’Connell’s urging to repeal the Acts of the Union and re-establish the independent Kingdom of Ireland. Between Irving and Godden, the image of this time from the perspective of the Volage is one of a lot of bloody rumors and high tension (a Protestant curate was killed, houses were being burned down). However, O’Connell’s followers were very civil to the sailors and actually invited some of the Volage officers to visit their homes. Irving called their hospitality “quite Highland”. 

The Volage was temporarily relieved of its patrol in December, and returned to Plymouth by January of 1844 for refitting and repair work after shearing off part of her keel. Godden and Irving both noted that sailors and officers were boarded on a hulk, or a non-sailing ship. Godden also noted that several sailors were permitted leave to go visiting nearby. (John Hartnell did have family in Plymouth, and Thomas Hartnell may have been visiting the area at the same time, if a pet theory of mine holds up.) 

They were back in the Cove of Cork by February, with the Volage now as the flagship. During a period between February and June, the Volage frequently made trips between Cork and the town of Bantry, after further pro-Repealer agitation began to raise tensions once more. Godden’s log doesn’t say much on the subject aside from weather reports and notes on officers leaving the ship to attend parties, major gatherings in town (there’s a really interesting bit from Irving on scaring the bejeezus out of a group of paraders and stealing the Waterford city flag), and switching out officers. However, the tensions once again didn’t amount to much more than far-off reports of violence and a few observations of pissed-off “pisantry”. The Volage did return to Plymouth for Christmas before returning for a short turn in Cork, and then being paid off completely. The log for that topic shows that John Hartnell was paid off on February 1st, 1845.

As far as what life would have been like for John Hartnell on the Volage, it’s hard to say for sure since, once again, Godden’s logs are impersonal. However, he was responsible for recording all punishments, injuries, illnesses, and deaths, of which there was no lack. He also kept meticulous note of what chores were to be done on particular days, as well as drills. I noticed there was a lot of repetition in the chore schedule, and there was a slight uptick in sailors suddenly taking ill with “unknown” illnesses about two and a half years in, especially on days that had chores requiring a little more elbow grease.

But I think, as I said, this would have been very exciting for someone like John. After all, he voluntarily signed up for the Erebus four months after signing off on the Volage. Unfortunately, we don’t have any letters to or from him that might hint to how he felt during this time, so we have to take it from his actions rather than his words. I like to think he enjoyed himself.

[lexiconoffear]

Well, what do you know? A tragic glimpse to my right presents a view of a little stranger with a charm for whispering nonsense to the air. Fucking Harper Lee over there is writing shit all on her frosted green MacBook with the creativity of a blunt hacksaw. That she casually smiles with a hint of disdain towards those that give her the stern eye when she infrequently cowers behind Jane Austen books is nothing less than revolting. Why do I sound surprised to see these people at Verve? All of them with the usual brand of “I want to make it in Hollywood too”. Here’s a newsflash for you. Stop pretending that you like to read Lady Susan and Sanditon. Oh and Miss Fucking Perfect, we know you haven’t read any classics in your sunny shell of an existence. I would also like to add that drinking five cups of mint mocha and mumbling your shitty screenwriting lines is a non-starter with any professional worth a damn. It’s insulting that people like you think otherwise. But you like giving out shitty blowjobs to every one of your followers on Insta if it gets you some undivided attention. The nerve. For once, I would like to rip open her fucking head and look inside. But we all can’t take unnecessary risks. Can we Joe? Cut to our little hideaway in that golden Americana cul-de-sac. Repose feels great in the evening. Some might beg to differ. Now, it’s time for some pressing news. Shock. Horror. A domestic violence case in our own quaint suburbia. To say that I'm intrigued to see how you handle this crisis is a bit of an understatement. Typical. Color me fucking surprised. You try to console yourself with many crafted truths. A bad case of false reporting. Lack of circumstantial evidence. You even blame it on something out of your control. But I'm glad to hear that you’re slowly dying on the inside. The world can finally find comfort in knowing what a stand-up guy you are, Joe Goldberg. You want a do-over? Some respite from public heat? No bueno. Why will it be any different this time Joe? Do you honestly think that low of me? Every word you espoused was a lie. Like crimson etches that forever stains our vision of what’s real. Comeuppance is nothing but a decorum now. The viewers of the media and our community love to crucify every fucker that slowly chips away at the perfect household image. The perfect family. Our fucking so called perfect lives as couples that be. But that’s the least of your concerns. What you should worry about most is a woman who owns her narrative. Her story. Her triumphs. She doesn’t pretend to be some victim of circumstance. She is a fucking survivor. Fucking America loves this piece to death. People love it. They all can't get enough of that shit. As soon as it's served up, everyone eats it up like magic rice. You were too oblivious to see what is at stake here. Don’t give me that dirty look as if you're entitled to it. Really, it’s a fitting retribution. Any scorned lover would see this punishment as fit for the crime committed. Did you think for once that the cost to all the insanity you inflicted was justified? Has nothing sacred ever matter to the likes of you? You weren’t like this before we grew and settled. Those restless struggles. Endless disputes. Our relationship certainly wasn’t the easy paradise that we pictured in our minds. That much I can tell you. But it was worth fighting for. Nothing else meant more than the first word we chose to define our union. Don’t tell me it meant nothing the moment you pulled closer at a wedding and reassured me with vows that came to be. Don’t you dare lie to me and say that our love was an illusion that ended while we fucked each other in my third trimester. When you saw me for the first time at Anavrin, you witnessed that wonder. A one-of-a-kind love. That incited all this madness and ecstasy. I was the cool girl you envisioned in your hopeless dreams. That cool girl who did everything right. Who like every asshole envisions as the definitive girl they like to fuck and bring to their family home for Christmas. Manic pixie version. She is that fucking cool girl. The same girl with a mouth that is sure to win some prizes in any department. What a fucking joke. To think that I shaped myself to be the ultimate lover. Unmatched in both scale and vision. Did you think that my fucking name was a joke to you? Yes, that’s a rhetorical question by the way. One fucking word. Love. How the fuck did you fuck that up? My charming hardened New Yorker guy with a wounded soul. I remember when you were different. Smitten by a dumb joke about fucking fruit of all things. I saw that darkness in your eyes. A wit that followed with a charming presence. Can’t also deny you weren’t easy on the eyes either. This had to be it. The thing we both searched for our entire lives. Love. In Hollywood of all places. You were all in and nothing else mattered. I loved you unconditionally. Yeah, that’s a fucking cliché if I hear it again. We fucked each other, blew one another and rose in the morning like fucking squirrels on mescaline. Perhaps, that’s a little too intimate for the ears. Forgive me for not censoring shit that needs to be heard. So, how the hell did we end up here? Call me a little jaded now, if I don't look back at our history with rose-tinted glasses. I should have seen the signs. Yes, love can make us do terrible things and be blind to each other's faults. That's a fucking given. But I never thought I would lose trust in you. The one who finally brought a sense of ease to my heart. The same guy who later cheated on me and fucked a woman from behind. Our neighbor no less. On a day that very well should have marked the death of me. Just one glance and I saw the vision of our nuclear family undone. All you ever pursue is another work of project in sight. That’s how your fucking story always is. Just like Delilah. Just like Beck. Add that cutthroat bitch with a revenge agenda to the fucking equation too. You killed assholes. Left. Right. Center. Yet, you stand there and face me with a familiar look. A smugness that reeks of self-righteousness. That appearance of hypocrisy. The very look my mother gave me when I didn’t do my part in taking good care of Forty. The same look is all I see now. Disappointment. Disgust. Revulsion. Like a damaged commodity that you pass on when you’re done. You didn’t even have the balls to tell me what you really felt. It’s all a delusion that you hold to encourage that shitty desire of buying new merchandise with an exclusive item on the side that some cunt upsells you at Walmart. Forgiving the unforgivable is not in my fucking rule book. You think you can get away. Unscathed. Unfazed. Unhurt. No, you don’t. No fucking way Joe. Now, I know the truth. I wasn’t destiny. I wasn’t love. The worst part is that you made me believe in hope. Made me hold onto faith. Then, you reduced me to a foil in your self-absorbed romance story. But make no mistake, you will pay the price. Mark my fucking words. Don't think I won't make plans well ahead in advance to fuck you over. You will see what I'll bring to the table. I must thank you though. You brought something else out of me. Something I tried to hide for a very long time. All it took was a little nudge in the right direction. The follow up act was less painful. But you wouldn’t care, would you Joe? You never thought about family. The lengths that many would go to protect their kind. To spare them of any anguish. A quick head dash into a collective antique vase from Montalcino should do the trick. Maybe, a little cut on the arm with a help of a few broken shards. That will save myself from the shame. From the silent screams. The undying pain. Nothing compares to the deep cuts of the heart. All I see now is a vivid painting of torture. Filled with cinnabar streaks all over the Vermillion carpet that my late brother cherished. What a perfect expression of grief. The dull ache. The fading memories. The wild stench of blood. When your other half dies, nothing eclipses the misery of loss. That’s what I told myself. Family is everything. It always came first. Above all else. But when I fell in love again, my entire perspective changed. Until reality hit me in the face. Sheared off in patches and defiled like every other celebration past the fourth of July. Do you really think I wouldn’t see to it that justice will be sought for the unseen wounds, the unheard abuse, and the million masks people like you wear to fool their loved ones? Don’t kid yourself Joe. It’s time we put an end to this fantasy. One way or another.

Love Quinn (YOU)

[dailyusuk]

Tigers in the Sky Chapter 1: American Patrol

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19095154/chapters/45367303

Stars streaked overhead, shearing through the clear dark sky with trails of light following. America watched the stars streaking across the sky as if everything were happening at half pace. Bursts of flame billowed from the horizon like a distant rising sun, and yet America couldn’t smell smoke nor determine the path of the flames.

He could only discern the fiery paths overhead and a warm sticky breeze gripping at his sides.

America opened his eyes to a blue void overhead dotted with faint wisps of cloud. Endless blue ocean stretched in all directions - water, water, and more water. He lay reclined on a wooden deck chair on the deck of the Dutch liner Jagersfontein as she sliced a line across the Pacific.

Only hours before at 1:20 PM sharp, the Jagersfontein had pulled away from her entourage of waving wives and girlfriends and then swiftly passed under the Golden Gate Bridge with the prudence of a working woman. The sea had quickly grown rough afterwards, so the men who’d vomited their farewell lunches over the rail after a swell quickly retreated into the liner’s interior. America had seen far worse himself, of course, so he smirked and waved at the men who passed by and then closed his eyes for a catnap right by the saltwater pool.

And then that odd dream had flashed before his eyes. China had once mentioned prophetic visions at a world meeting, though at the time America had been too preoccupied with his own grandiose ideas to listen to the rumors of a superstitious country.

Still, perhaps China’s words held some truth to them -- something about that vision felt dimly familiar to him. He briefly wondered how China was doing before remembering why he was aboard a Dutch liner in the first place.

He, along with the pilot boys and mechanics aboard the Jagersfontein , had been recruited straight out of the United States military for some civilian fighter pilot outfit currently being assembled in Burma to defend Free China’s last remaining supply route from the Japs -- an American Volunteer Group, or AVG for short, if you will. Every man traveled incognito with backgrounds ranging from Brooklyn to Selfridge Field and a made-up profession listed on his passport.

America’s own passport listed his profession as “doctor”, which he thought was a lie about as believable as a philanderer stating his profession as “missionary”. America didn’t look anything at all like a licensed medical professional even disregarding the baby fat rounding out his cheeks. Really, whoever made these things had obviously never spent more than a moment in a room with him present.

As for why he was heading out for a volunteer military mission during ostensible peacetime, well, he simply considered himself an American thrillseeker on an exotic adventure.

Sure, a monthly salary starting from $600 for a pilot -- around two to three times the monthly salary in the armed forces for a grunt -- and a commission of $500 for every Jap plane downed didn’t exactly hurt, but little could compare to the promised adventure of fighting Japs in the Orient like some comic strip hero. It wasn’t as if his government really needed him for anything for the duration of the year he would be contracted, anyway. President Roosevelt had handled himself fine for decades and would handle himself fine for many decades more.

Additionally, he’d always preferred fighter planes, having flown single-seat planes ever since their advent. An American-built truck of a fighter plane like the Curtiss P-40B would be like a second home to him. A thrill spread through his veins at the thought of soaring above foreign lands in the cockpit of a sturdy fighter.

He closed his eyes again. The vision didn’t return.

Laying there without sweet sleep or strange visions to entertain himself with was super boring, so he rose and headed inside to his room so that he could read his stash of action comic books atop his bunk.

For dinner, America sat at the head table with Captain Brower and a smattering of other volunteer pilots -- Jack Newkirk, James Howard, Bob Sandell, Charlie Mott, Bob Power, Mickey McGuire, and Hal Rushton, he learned their names were. He groaned when he saw the array of silverware spread before him as plate after plate of rich Dutch cuisine arrived at the table. His only relief was the apparent fact that few of the other pilots knew what to do with their forks either, a social faux pas he decided to cover up by cracking some jokes while characteristically ignoring the atmosphere.

As planned, he introduced himself to the boys with his human name of Alfred F. Jones, though he dodged questions about what exactly his middle name stood for and where exactly he hailed from and whatnot. He found that the conversation quickly shifted as the boys lost interest in his peculiar lack of backstory.

Later that night, America pulled out a small leather-bound notebook in his bedroom and set it on the provided desk. The porthole was closed as per the nightly blackout, so the air in his room was rather stifling with heat. He wasn’t allowed to turn on any lights either, so he’d have to write in the dark.

Apparently the Japs had previously threatened to sink the Jagersfontein over Tokyo Radio, at least according to hearsay, so America couldn’t really fault the captain for taking precautions. Still, he wasn't exactly happy about the sweat condensing on his forehead as he pulled his desk chair out and uncapped his pen.

July 10, 1941 , he dated the first page.

All Aboard! Today I’m off to Burma.

He tapped his pen against his chin in thought.

Our departure from San Fran was really uneventful besides a weird-ass vision I saw while snoozing. The accommodations here are way nicer than anything I’ve had in the past few years, so that’s swell. Don’t know which fork to use though.

It’s super dark right now here, so I’m not sure if I’m writing on the paper or on the desk right now. Maybe tomorrow I’ll play bridge with the boys after black-out.

He capped his pen after that. The darkness was straining his eyes.

(Read the rest of Chapter 1: American Patrol on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19095154/chapters/45367303)

(Note: Chapters 1-4 are already published. Chapter 5, Ain’t We Got Fun, is in the works.)

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG154!

- So, what Mary had left to Gertrude almost 100 episodes ago was indeed Eric’s page:

(MAG062) MARY: I’ve always found a singular devotion far too restrictive. Just ask Eric… or what’s left of him. […] GERTRUDE: And do you have any proof of this? Your… “magic book”. MARY: Yeah. [PAPER RUSTLING] You can keep this page. I made sure it was in English. GERTRUDE: Go– Who… who is it? MARY: A surprise, dear. Just make sure you’re alone when you read it. […] ARCHIVIST: […] Hmm. No… strange skin page. But there is a laptop. And a key. I wonder what it opens. End supplement. [CLICK.]

The Delano-Keays have been present since the beginning of the series (Gerry and Mary were introduced as soon as MAG004) yet were… all already dead when we began to hear Jon record his statements, presumably ending the von Closen line (unless somethingsomething about Albrecht’s two Shiny New Sons mentioned in MAG127). It’s strange, in a way, that it feels like we’re saying goodbye to them through that closure and the reveals of their stories… while we never met them alive? Only through a recording (Mary in MAG062), the recording of a “memory” (Eric’s page in MAG154) and a “memory” (Gerry’s page in MAG111). The three of them bound to the book but never at the same time – Mary binding and ripping Eric’s page before she would bind herself to the book, Gertrude burning Mary’s page before binding Gerry, and Gerry’s page ripped and then burned by Jon at the end of season 3.

- Eric’s VA did a fantastic job, and hhhhhhhhhhh, the way he… sometimes snarled a bit? Drawled? Just the same way Gerry spoke? It just dug the knife a bit further in – Eric and Gerry had the same kind of dry self-deprecating sarcasm about their condition, and you could feel that they sounded alike, that Gerry had taken after his father so much, and that they probably would have adored each other………………… Also noteworthy:

(MAG154) ERIC: … And Gerry? Have you seen my son? […] I chose the option I thought might keep Gerry safe.

Eric never called him “Gerard”, but called him “Gerry” twice. Given that:

(MAG111) ARCHIVIST: Thank you, Gerard. GERARD: Gerry. ARCHIVIST: What? GERRY: Gerard was what my mum called me. [EMBARRASSED CHUCKLE] I always wanted my friends to call me Gerry. ARCHIVIST: Thank you, Gerry. Uh… I dismiss you.

… Did the nickname stick in Gerry’s mind when he was an infant, and this is why he was fond of it…?

(And once again: Jon adopted “Gerry”, and was even mocked for it by Julia last episode… while Gertrude was using “Gerard” in MAG137. Until now, I was working under the assumption that Gertrude just wasn’t a “friend” enough to know about Gerry’s nickname but, no, turns out that she did know about it from Eric. Cold, Gertrude, cold.)

- Oopsies about the fact that Gerard had assumed that his father had been killed in his sleep:

(MAG111) GERARD: I never knew my dad. Not really. He worked in the Archives like you, but quit once I was born. I think he wanted to help raise me. But mum didn’t need the help, and after me she wasn’t able to have kids again, so she killed him in his sleep to practice her bookbinding. I guess she failed. I always thought he was in here, but when I eventually got hold of it, there wasn’t a page in there.

(MAG154) GERTRUDE: “When he opened his eyes, he of course saw nothing; but he heard her breathing, slow, and steady, and focused. [CREEPING STATIC SLOWLY RISING] And he immediately knew that she was finally going to kill him. When the garden shears plunged into his chest, he was surprised by how little actual pain there was – just the sudden feel of moisture on his chest, and the realisation that his body was growing weak, fading away. He wished she would say she was sorry she was doing this, that she loved him, that she would miss him – but he knew better, and his final thought was a gentle sadness at how little he was surprised. [OMINOUS RUMBLE WITH A SIDE OF CRACKLING RISES TO CRESCENDO] And so Eric Delano Ended.”

… he hadn’t been so lucky to stay asleep, uh.

- SO THIS IS WHY GERTRUDE HAD SEARCHED GERRY OUT…

(MAG111) GERRY: In the end it was Gertrude who saved me. She came to me when I was desperate, nowhere to go, and she offered to help. I just had to make sure I took the book while my mum was fading, and brought it to her, and then she would free me. I didn’t really believe her, I don’t think, but I did it anyway. When she returned the book to me a week later, her pages burned and mangled, I think I actually cried with relief. I never even considered that my mum might have taught Gertrude how to make pages for it before she was destroyed.

(MAG154) ERIC: Fine! I… I want two things. GERTRUDE: I’m listening. ERIC: I want you to find my son. If Mary is… if she’s gone, or worse… I want you to make sure he’s alright. GERTRUDE: [HUFF] I’m not exactly a mother figure. ERIC: You could hardly do worse than her. GERTRUDE: Fine. But I don’t know what growing up with Mary has done to him. If he’s… gone rotten, I can’t promise anything. ERIC: I understand. GERTRUDE: I suppose he might be useful. ERIC: Oh, sentimental as ever.

… Except that HUM, Eric made his request on July 2008 and Gerry was still haunted by Mary in autumn 2012 (MAG004) so, hey, Gertrude waited at least four years before making her move.

(Things that happened in-between: Gertrude stopped The Flesh’s ritual (October 2009), The Spiral’s (between October 2009 and 2011) and possibly The Lonely’s in that timeframe. She was already making active preparations to counter The Unknowing in October 2013, so did she end up approaching Gerry mostly because she thought he would be useful…? She mentioned in MAG137 (October 2014) that his connection to The Eye was a key to prevent it… “Sentimental as ever” like Eric said.)

- Aaand that’s what Gertrude meant by Eric’s “footsteps”:

(MAG137) GERTRUDE: Gerard may have a connection to The Eye, but I’m not convinced it will be enough. And I will admit I’ve grown… fond of the boy. I wonder, if I told him about Eric – whether he’d follow in his father’s footsteps. Still, that’s not like it kept Eric safe in The End.

… I had wondered if it was about, uh, falling Very Deep into Beholding. But no. It was about fleeing the heck out of it.

;; Gerry already had his eyes-tattoos before he began working with Gertrude (they had apparently protected him from Diego Molina’s fire in MAG012, there was the painting on the wall in MAG004…) so… If Gerry had known about Eric’s sacrifices and disgust of the Institute, maybe he wouldn’t have given so much of himself to The Eye. And Eric would probably have been so sad to know that, while he had fled from the Institute to care for his son, his son… ultimately had gotten so strongly Beholding-aligned and even more or less worked with the Institute (at least by collaborating with Gertrude)…

Given how Gerry didn’t mention his father’s blindness to Jon: no, Gertrude didn’t “tell him about Eric”. Not a surprise. (Gertruuuuude…)

- Some other bits relevant to the timeline:

* Given that (according to one of the given timelines) Elias joined the Institute in 1991 and became Head in 1996 (MAG049) and that Eric didn’t know about his ~promotion~:

(MAG154) ERIC: […] Wright would have preferred you not to know…! How is he, by the way? GERTRUDE: James? He died about… twelve years ago. Elias is Head of the Institute, now. ERIC: “Elias”? Elias Bouchard, seriously? GERTRUDE: Hm, he has changed a lot. ERIC: Must have!

It means that Eric left between 1991 and 1996. Given that Gerry was very little when Eric died, and a kid/teenager in 2002 (MAG035), it’s possible that Gerry was actually a biiit younger than Jon – who was born around 1987-1988…? ;__;

* So, Eric had left the Institute before 1996… but clearly identified Adelard as Gertrude’s “friend”:

(MAG154) ERIC: She never played dumb when I was stalked by bloated, blood-sucking things, or told me I was “imagining it” when I saw your friend Adelard drop a screaming box into the Thames.

The earliest acknowledgement of Gertrude being in contact with Dekker was during MAG077, recorded in November 1996. She had also mentioned an older statement (either “by” Adelard or where Adelard appeared) from July 1991:

(MAG077) GERTRUDE: Based on the interactions and effects, I suspect this to be the creature that Adelard Dekker refers to as the “NotThem” in statement 9910607. […] Based on Dekker’s statement, it would seem Polaroids are also relatively stable.

(Or February 1991; the “7” had become a “2” in the next episode.) We’re still missing this one, since Jon had found another statement in the file in MAG078. I didn’t have the impression that Gertrude and Adelard were in close contact yet in MAG077 (“Adelard Dekker”, name + last name, implied… some distance) but it looks like, no, they were already close enough for Eric to identify him and link him to Gertrude before 1996.

* Mary had given Eric’s page to Gertrude on the 3rd of July 2008 (MAG062); the recording of Gertrude and Eric is from 21st July 2008 (MAG154). Despite Gertrude’s words, I would have almost expected Gertrude to wait… years, before invoking Eric. On the one hand, she “just” waited 18 days before listening to it; on the other hand… it was indeed a long time already, although she had good suspicions of what and who it was.

The Buried’s ritual attempt, “The Sunken Sky” had taken place on 17th June 2008; so, cheer! When Eric told Gertrude all of this and she didn’t flinch:

(MAG154) ERIC: You know, you were never actually that nice to me when I worked for you, Gertrude. Not like Michael, or Emma. […] She never promised anything. Not even in her vows. She never betrayed me. Not like you. She never played dumb when I was stalked by bloated, blood-sucking things, or told me I was “imagining it” when I saw your friend Adelard drop a screaming box into the Thames. She didn’t try to keep me in the dark just so I wouldn’t stop being useful. She never made me complicit in a thousand nightmares, and lives ruined for the sick joy of some otherworldly voyeur. Compared to that… I suppose a few murders were easier to stomach…! […] But I couldn’t be a part of it. Not when I saw what happened to everyone else you involved. I had to get out, to escape this place. I had a son to look after, he needed me! … Or so I thought. And that’s when you turn nasty, isn’t it? When all your… “resources”, they no longer want to serve their purpose. I suppose you didn’t know there was a way out, a way to… escape. But if you had, would you have told me…? […] She laid out her own plans as well; her dreams of power. In many ways, I guess they were no better than yours. But at least, she didn’t bother to hide behind noble aims.

It was just a month after she had sacrificed and dismembered Jan Kilbride to stop The Buried!

* … Gertrude……………

(MAG154) ERIC: You know, you were never actually that nice to me when I worked for you, Gertrude. Not like Michael, or Emma. […] And that’s when you turn nasty, isn’t it? When all your… “resources”, they no longer want to serve their purpose. I suppose you didn’t know there was a way out, a way to… escape. But if you had, would you have told me…?

The exchange took place in July 2008 and we know that The Great Twisting didn’t happen before October 2009 (since Deborah Madaki received an invitation to Sannikov Land from Gabriel one week before she gave her statement in MAG126). Which means… that when MAG154 happened, Michael Shelley was still working in the Archives. Would still be for a bit over a year before Gertrude sacrificed him to stop The Spiral’s ritual. It’s not really surprising that Gertrude “there’s ten years yet before I can afford a conscience” Robinson 1°) didn’t share with Michael that she had received a trace of Eric (Michael-The-Distortion did tell Jon that Michael Shelley had been kept ignorant of the spookiness), although they were on good terms, 2°) still ruthlessly sacrificed Michael to stop The Great Twisting despite Eric’s harsh words about her behaviour and motivations, about how they hurt people around her, about how there was absolutely nothing “noble” to them, 3°) didn’t share with Michael that there was a way out of the Archives and acted just like Eric predicted. Indeed, Gertrude learned about it… and didn’t share that knowledge with those who could have benefited from it. Didn’t give them a choice, whether to stay or to leave.

(And, from the depiction of Michael Shelley in MAG101? I am not even sure that he would have chosen to leave.)

- INCREDIBLY, Eric Actually Had The Qualifications for the job:

(MAG154) ERIC: So when I finished my Master’s in Library Science and saw a vacancy at the Magnus Institute, of all places, I jumped at the chance. The chance to pursue my passion and my career at the same time seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up! It was only an “assistant archivist” position, of course, but that was fine. A good entry position, I’d, “I’d soon move on,” I told myself. [HUFF] Yeah… And for the first few years, it was pretty much exactly the job I expected. Longer hours than I hoped, and the Archivist seemed less interested in doing her job than I was; but all told, there were worse places to work.

James Wright’s time… another era. Present-time, Elias hired Jon who doesn’t have any library-science-related diploma (MAG093), and Martin who lied on his CV (MAG056); Sasha, who was more on the computer side of things; Tim, who… actually had a background in a publishing company, so was probably more in his element than the others. Of course Tim and Eric had to die: they were actually competent.

- I like how you could clearly identify Mary as Beholding/End through Eric’s eyes:

(MAG154) ERIC: Then I met Mary. She was like no one I’d ever met before in my life. She was beautiful. Like a… u–uh, like a shark is beautiful. Every movement she made was deliberate, sharp, and her eyes were always focused on something, always watching. And when she looked at me, I always felt afraid. But there was something else. Something under the fear. Something that made me feel very aware of all – my – blood. […] And Mary pushed so hard. Harder, even, than you. But I let her, because… she gave me something I had never before experienced: danger! The things she taught me, had me do… I’d never known anything like it. Whenever I kissed her, it tasted like blood.

That charisma, and also DD: Eric no…

(It’s weird because, first depiction of Mary we got (MAG004), she was already dead and a ghost. First time we heard her: she was already an old woman (MAG062), and quite horrible. Eric’s statement was… hilarious/tragic/sad in the fact that it was partially about how and why he had tried to escape the Archives, and a lot about how he was absolutely taken in (and over) by Mary… but also explained how she was getting her ways. What is it with old women in TMA being dangerous and murderous and domineering and kinda hot? Mary was born around 1946 (MAG062: “I was 9 years old at the time, so it would have been… 1955?”), Gertrude presumably during the late 40s/early 50s (MAG137: “The Risen War failed [in 1942] a few years before I was even born.” + MAG145: “Can’t have been older than… twenty-five.” when she retrieved some of Agnes’s hair in the ashes at Hill Top Road, and the house had burned in 1974 according to MAG008), Agnes was born in the early 60s if she was truly eleven in Ronald’s statement… those were fine years, uh.)

- I have a bit of trouble understanding the status of Eric’s sight, as a ghost/~memory~:

(MAG154) ERIC: I suppose…! Mary used to get me out to bounce ideas off of; talk through her thoughts and theories. Never listened to me, obviously, but… nothing new there. GERTRUDE: Well, it’s… good to see you, I suppose. ERIC: You too. … You got old. GERTRUDE: Better than being dead. ERIC: [HUFF] Fair enough. To be honest, I’m impressed, more than anything. Hard to get old in this business; you either die or you, er… “stay young”. [PAUSE] … How did Mary look? GERTRUDE: [CHUCKLE] She got old, too.

Gertrude didn’t notice that he couldn’t see, and Eric specifically mentioned that Mary had made him “watch” his own dismemberment. The way she initially checked if it was indeed Eric was similar to Jon’s reaction when invoking Gerry in MAG111, so it might be that the people invoked do not have… well-defined or identifiable shape outside of their voices; but then, Mary had been able to recognise ghosts on sight when she was a child observing the doctor (MAG062). And here: on the one hand, Eric noticed Gertrude being old; on the other hand, he asked about Mary (although… it was implied that she hadn’t spoken to him in a while – “used to get me out”). Or is it because Eric doesn’t have any senses left, only… overall perceptions of the world around him, so he was able to see Gertrude because he wasn’t a body anymore…? Or just guessed from her voice that she “sounded” older, therefore had grown old…?

- Crying a bit though, because Eric… was aware of Mary’s doings. Was disillusioned about the fact that no, she had never cared about him. But still had the instinct to:

(MAG154) ERIC: So. Was there anything else? GERTRUDE: No. No, I, I don’t think so. ERIC: Then, if you don’t mind? I think I’d like to go away, now. […] If you see Mary again, tell her– … No. [HUFF] I guess there’s not really anything else to say. [CLICK.]

Eric… (Also YIPS that he was… very fond of Gerry, described Gerry as his main motivation (ANCHOR?) to leave the Archives – not Mary (though that could be a small retconning on his part) – and still… had thought that it was an acceptable idea to have a child with Mary despite knowing full well that she was a serial killer and dangerous. “I chose the option I thought might keep Gerry safe. At least, if I was home with him, I could perhaps… soften the edges of his mother.” Eric, my librarian-with-a-degree, my dude: Gerry didn’t come out of nowhere or only from Mary, the fact that you were aware of who she was and still accepted to bring a child into this mess… ;;) (But then: he was absolutely taken with Mary, uh…)

- ;; What Eric said about Gertrude, mentioning what Mary wasn’t doing to him…

(MAG154) ERIC: She never betrayed me. Not like you. She never played dumb when I was stalked by bloated, blood-sucking things, or told me I was “imagining it” when I saw your friend Adelard drop a screaming box into the Thames. She didn’t try to keep me in the dark just so I wouldn’t stop being useful. She never made me complicit in a thousand nightmares, and lives ruined for the sick joy of some otherworldly voyeur. […] Mary, at least, played straight with me. She knew all about the Institute. And when we were married, when she was sure I could handle it, she laid it all out for me: the Powers, the rituals, all the messy little cogs of the games you play with the universe. She laid out her own plans as well; her dreams of power. In many ways, I guess they were no better than yours. But at least, she didn’t bother to hide behind noble aims. … Maybe that’s why I chose her, in The End. At least she was honest.

… was absolutely a reflection of what Gerry said Mary had done to him:

(MAG111) GERRY: Eventually, I grew old enough and wise enough to see her obsession for what it really was: hubris. She lived her life just carefully enough not to be destroyed by things she studied, but that was it. The things out there weren’t like taming fire, they couldn’t be contained or used for light or warmth. The best you could hope for from them, would be that they don’t spot you, and instead my mum chased after them, obsessed with others who had tried to stare at them without being blinded: y’know, Flamsteed, Smirke, Leitner. Idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing. And the worst thing was, she marked me as a part of that, without my understanding. Or consent.

So ;; Biased much, Eric, and he still wasn’t able to realise how toxic this relationship was, uh…

(Gerry’s “secret that wasn’t worth knowing” was AOUCH, too, given how… Eric explained how “I always loved ghosts. They fascinated me. Not the rattling chains and horror part of it, of course, but the mystery. The promise of secret knowledge – of seeing something that no one else was privy to. A secret world. It… gripped my imagination.”)

- We’ve known for a while that Gertrude used to have three assistants:

(MAG080) LEITNER: I think she was lonely. I didn’t meet her until about six years ago, after she’d lost the last of her own assistants. She would mention them sometimes. I believe she missed having someone to talk to on occasion. ARCHIVIST: I… I didn’t know Gertrude had assistants. LEITNER: Of course. Three of them, each meeting an unpleasant end.

And we finally have the name of the last one: Emma.

(MAG154) ERIC: You know, you were never actually that nice to me when I worked for you, Gertrude. Not like Michael, or Emma.

And there was a time during which they had all worked together… Eric highlighted that it was rare to get old in this business but, surprisingly, Michael Shelley lasted around fifteen years (or more) as Gertrude’s assistant? And still had no clue what was happening? Given how people who came close to Gertrude… didn’t have a lot of positive things to say about it:

(MAG099) ARCHIVIST: Everyone who came close to her… seems like it… it went badly. Her assistants, Gerard, Leitner, Elias, though I don’t think Gertrude had anything to do with his going rotten.

(MAG101) MICHAEL: Even being what I am, I have rarely seen anyone so adept at distorting the truth as Gertrude Robinson. Michael was protective of the frail old woman he believed her to be. So… so delicate, so forgetful, yet gently wise. He cared for her. He trusted her. And she fed him to me. She made him me to destroy our transcendence. And she did not hesitate. […] Gertrude had made sure that all her assistants were ready. That none of them would be suspicious if they were told they were going abroad for work.

(MAG154) ERIC: But I couldn’t be a part of it. Not when I saw what happened to everyone else you involved. I had to get out, to escape this place.

So what happened to Emma…? I feel like likely there has been a trend of Jon reacting to current events&preoccupations as lead-up for his hunting down a statement about it (MAG152, he discussed Jane Prentiss with Helen / MAG153, he read a Corruption statement), so he could try to learn more about “Emma”… I’m pretty sure we had never heard her name before; who is she?

On the one hand, I felt like Eric isolated “Emma” a bit when mentioning her, as if… she was already gone when he left (before 1996). On the other hand, he would have accused Gertrude of her death if Emma had been killed or fed to Spooks when he was still around. So, what happened to her…?

(Three assistants: one sacrificed to stop a ritual (Michael), one escaping for love (Eric, for his son), and one… forgotten? It’s not a clear-cut reproduction with Jon’s era, though we get the 2 men and 1 women dying one after the other: Tim indeed died stopping a ritual too, but you could also say that he died for love (in Danny’s name)… and Martin, like Michael, is heading towards another power. But still. Sasha didn’t have the time to get bitter about Jon; Tim got accusatory, Martin sounds harsher too… just like Michael and Eric, absolutely disillusioned about Gertrude.)

- Alrighty, so, this is only the second time ever we’re hearing about Elias’s predecessor and it came with a few details putting some things into perspective / confirming some theories, and reinforcing some others. The only mention of “James Wright” so far had been in MAG049:

(MAG049) ARCHIVIST: Supplemental. Elias Bouchard is a difficult man to pin down, certainly since he became head of the Institute in 1996, taking over from James Wright, who ran the place from ‘73 until he passed away. It was a remarkably fast climb to the top, as from what I can find, it looks like he only joined the Institute five years before, in 1991, working in the Artefact Storage. Perhaps he was simply that impressive. Certainly, the Elias I know now is almost unmatched in terms of paranormal knowledge. Well. Theoretical knowledge, at least. And yet, everything I found out about his life before the Institute seems… an ill fit with the austere man I know. He apparently graduated with a Third from Christ Church’s College in PPE, and I found an old gossip column in the student newspaper that – sure well – that mentioned him. If I’m not reading too much into it, the implication seems to be that he was… something of a… pothead. [CHUCKLE] Was he… like that when he first came to work here…?

(MAG154) ERIC: Wright would have preferred you not to know…! How is he, by the way? GERTRUDE: James? He died about… twelve years ago. Elias is Head of the Institute, now. ERIC: “Elias”? Elias Bouchard, seriously? GERTRUDE: Hm, he has changed a lot. ERIC: Must have! […] GERTRUDE: So. How did you do it? How did you quit the Archives? ERIC: It was actually really simple. Not easy, but simple. [SCOFF] You’ll kick yourself when I tell you. GERTRUDE: Okay… ERIC: You were almost there, you know, with your theory that James could watch us through any eye, even an illustration. So what did you do? How did you sever that link? GERTRUDE: … My… God! ERIC: I left to avoid dragging my family, my son into this life; to try and look after him. But Mary decided that a newly blinded husband was… simply too much of a burden.

So, confirmations:

* James Wright was Spooky, too, and identified as such by Gertrude – Eric was in the confidence, too.

* This is indeed why Gertrude had been scratching eyes out of her possessions:

(MAG054) [CLICK–] ARCHIVIST: Supplemental. I broke into Gertrude’s flat. […] Oh. And… I looked through a handful of books on her shelf. They were very well taken care of – with the exception that… any time a person’s face was featured on the cover, their eyes had been cut out, and very carefully removed. End supplement.

(MAG113) ARCHIVIST: Found anything yet? MARTIN: Er… er… Bunch of… eyeless paintings? MELANIE: [JOVIALLY] Snap! Eyeless dolls. Oh, and. Just a lot of shredded newspapers.

Though, it’s not absolutely confirmed that James Wright operated this way (it was Gertrude’s hypothesis), and it doesn’t necessary mean that Elias is also spying on people this way… but it could be how. Elias did admit, twice, that Gertrude had successfully managed to escape his surveillance:

(MAG080) LEITNER: How did you know I was here? ELIAS: I didn’t. You’re very well hidden. But Jon is not, and he failed to take the same precautions I’m sure you took for granted with Gertrude. I knew he was talking to someone.

(MAG102) ARCHIVIST: And you can’t just… See where she put it. ELIAS: She was… She got very good at hiding things from me. ARCHIVIST: How embarrassing for you.

If Elias can see through eyes, whether they’re illustrations/more or less eye-shaped things/actual eyes: AHAHAHA good luck with that, Team Archives. We know from Patreon content that the Institute’s official files and statement bear the Institute’s crest, the owl. Meaning there are eyes everywhere in the Archives.

(You bet that Elias might have ordered mass-produced stationery just to put the logo everywhere. Pens. Papers. Notes. Paperweights. Handkerchiefs. The mug you’re (not) drinking your tea from.)

* Archival Assistants being bound to the Archives is something that predates Elias’s position as Head of the Institute – this is our first confirmation of that fact. And both Gertrude and Michael (since Eric knew him from his Archives days, pre-Elias) survived James Wright’s death. Even though Elias had said that killing the Head of the Institute would mean insta-death for the entire Archival staff. So. It’s possible that there are actually two separate things at work (being bound to the Eye and not being able to quit / being bound to Elias “like fingers on a hand” and dying if he dies), but in any case: either Elias lied on the kill-me-and-it-kills-you bit… either something happened during the transition from James Wright to Elias Bouchard, that allowed a “continuity” that did not kill the Team Archives of the time. Consensual ritual? Body-hopping? Elias backstabbing James and taking his mantle?

* Eric’s tone (disbelief and cracking up) when he learned that “Elias Bouchard” had taken James Wright’s succession Said It All – yeah, Elias was a Known Pothead in his early days at the Institute too, uh. And as Gertrude put it, he “has changed a lot”. Was it a ~natural~ change because people just… tend to change fast at the Institute when they get involved with its spooky parts (people were assuming that Tim was having a breakdown in season 3 and, indeed, if you had known him from his pre-Archives day… he seemed nothing alike. Martin’s and Daisy’s changes compared to their first appearances are also quite jarring) or… something else.

I’m still not on board with the Elias=Jonah theory, because I still feel like… Elias is too dumb… (and restricted: he did lament on his current abilities in MAG102). (And also: because I lovelove the idea that Our Current Elias indeed has that past of being a spoiled rich kid who got his family to buy him a place in uni, and then did nothing except smoke weed, and ended up drifting to the Institute without realising what he was signing up for.)  But I do admit that mm, a LOT of things are piling up giving the idea that something, most likely Jonah, has been body-hopping from one Head of the Institute to another:

(MAG096) DAISY: El–Elias didn’t say. ARCHIVIST: No, he doesn’t, uh… He’s not big on micromanagement. SARAH: It’s Elias now, then? ARCHIVIST: [WHISPERING] What?

(MAG101) NIKOLA: Is it… your Elias who listens? Helloooooo! […] So, Elias, can I call you Elias?, let me set the scene, as I know you can’t actually see this. […] You know Elias, can I call you Elias?, you have not raised this one very well! […] Oh, no, I’m afraid he can’t See, can you Elias?, can I call you Elias? – what’s the point of having a secret place of power if you can’t hide it from a big stupid eye?

(MAG135, Manuela Dominguez) “When you read this, I would consider it a great favour if you could share my words with the Head of your Institute. Tell him that Maxwell Rayner sends his regards and offers… sanctuary. A time of holy Darkness is at hand, when The Eye will close forever, and in the spirit of the friendship they once shared, he offers an opportunity – to surrender.”

(MAG148) BASIRA: What? ARCHIVIST: … I–I don’t know, I mean… We still don’t really know… what Elias actually is…? I thought… Maybe if he was more like me than we realised… BASIRA: He might have some advice? ARCHIVIST: Stupid, I know.

… But as long as it’s not confirmed, I can continue to think about how pretty damn funny it would be for every spook around to be assuming that Elias is actually “Jonah”… when he isn’t. (And maybe it had been the case until Wright, but then, Elias put an end to that.) Elias=Jonah is not the only option anyway – it could be a matter of memory-sharing rather than body-hopping, etc.

(I’m still HYSTERICAl over the fact that back in season 2, Jon’s main theory re: Why Elias Might Be Gertrude’s Murderer was:

(MAG049) ARCHIVIST: The difficulty comes from the fact that the only person in the Institute who worked here before he took over… was Gertrude. Did he… kill her because she knew something about his past? And if so… how can I prove it…?

… because she might have known about his past as a pothead. JON.) (It’s a bit surprising, though, that… past staff didn’t report to the new ones about how ahaha, the current Head used to be Like That when he had begun to work here? It’s indeed like Gertrude was the only link between the old era and another one, when Jon (and Martin? He had worked at the Institute since at least 2009) joined…)

- It had been mentioned in the… season 3 Q&A, I think?, that the tapes were “not neutral”, and we’re still exploring various aspects of this: the tape recorders choosing which scenes we (as listeners) are allowed to hear since they’ve begun to be (officially) autonomous in season 3; the fact that they didn’t bother recording the stories Jon violently tore out from people in season 4, except for Floyd (as Jon put it in MAG147: “I–I mean, I don’t record anything anymore, not… not really, I just… sort of assume they’ll… turn on, if it’s important.”). We had already had cases of Jon listened to some tapes without other options to choose from: he was given whichever Basira was able to sneak out for him back in season 2 (and even back then: was the “pick” absolutely random, or orientated?); Elias had sent him MAG087’s (with the clear purpose of sending him in Jude’s direction or, as Jon inferred in MAG102, because Elias had no idea what the heck he was doing?); The Web sent him MAG130’s cobwebs-wrapped… But now, it’s also official that Jon was actually influenced in his choice when he did have multiple options to pick from, including when it came to the tapes he would ~naturally~ avoid.

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: I’ve found a– [SIGH] I went back to Eli– er, Peter’s office. To that box of tapes; started rifling through. And I started to try and pay attention to the ones I… wasn’t drawn to. The tapes I instinctively wanted to discard. [SIGH] There was one, this one, that my hand… pulled back from. I–I dropped it, twice, when I went to pick it up. Even now, I’m… [AUDIBLE FORCED SMILE] struggling to press play…! I am the avatar of Awful Knowledge And Revealed Secrets… so what does it not want me to know…?

………………… Given how The Web sent him one a few months before, how Annabelle has admitted that she is “watching” and sometimes nudging him, how Jon can’t concentrate on his own lighter, I’m not sure that this is Beholding (or only Beholding) trying to lower his interests over certain files or tapes, though.

A few considerations about the tapes for themselves:

* I’m still not sure which tapes Jon has listened to, amongst the ones recorded when he was absent or comatose, notably MAG108, MAG118, MAG120 and MAG121. Does Jon know that Elias knows about the dreams and was… satisfied by them? It still doesn’t feel like he has heard MAG118’s – or, at least, he probably hasn’t heard about Martin’s mother (I’m not sure he would have acted the way he did in MAG129 if he had known what their relationship was like); there was also this bit in MAG126 which sounded like Jon indeed hadn’t heard anything post-MAG117:

(MAG126) ARCHIVIST: [DRY EXALE] There was a tape recorder waiting for me when I sat down. They’re not even hiding it anymore. There weren’t any tapes from when I was… away – I checked. Whatever they are, they are here for me.

… But even at the start of season 4, I’m not sure that he had heard MAG108’s since:

(MAG122) ARCHIVIST: … Oh. Wow. O… kay, er… Great, s–so… what’s the problem? BASIRA: He appointed an “interim” director. Guy named Peter Lukas. ARCHIVIST: … Oh. BASIRA: Yeah. ARCHIVIST: Read about him. [LIGHT CHUCKLE] BASIRA: Yeah, I’ve… hunted down some of his old statements and… yeah.

“Read about him”, not “heard him”. Does Peter even record on the tapes…? Or did the tapes featuring him just not make their way to Jon? Jon has since accessed Martin’s secret stash (MAG152) but did it include MAG134’s and MAG144’s (the tapes where Peter and Martin discussed The Extinction together)?

* Eternal question of who is listening to the tapes / through the tape recorders: I Still Have That Tape Recorders Post To Go Back To/Finish One Day (… I began season 4 with it, gdi, it’s just. getting longer and longer.), but one aspect that I still find strange is the… framing of Gertrude’s tapes.

We have had cases of clear cross-recordings, with Jon’s tape recorder still on while he’s listening to the glimpses of another ones: the bit of Daisy’s statement from MAG061 when he was readying himself to open the coffin (MAG132), MAG001!Jon’s introducing his first statement while Jon and the others were exploring the house at Hill Top Road and discovered what Annabelle had left for them (MAG147). But when it comes to Gertrude’s tape, it’s not the same framing, and we got another demonstration:

(MAG154) [CLICK–] ARCHIVIST: […] Even now, I’m… [AUDIBLE FORCED SMILE] struggling to press play…! I am the avatar of Awful Knowledge And Revealed Secrets… so what does it not want me to know…? [LONG SIGH] [CLICK.]

[CLICK–] GERTRUDE: [LONG SIGH] Right. No use putting it off further. […] ERIC: If you see Mary again, tell her– … No. [HUFF] I guess there’s not really anything else to say. [CLICK.]

[CLICK–] [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] [SOFTLY BUT WITH FEELING] … Fuck. [CLICK.]

There are these double clicks: we’re not listening to Jon listening to Gertrude’s tape, we’re switching to Gertrude’s tapes. It’s possible that Jon is loading her tapes in his own tape recorder, but then, that was clearly not what Jon was implying there (it would have been an action a bit more complex than simply “struggling to press play”) and it also wasn’t how he had listened to Gertrude’s tape with Georgie:

(MAG087) GEORGIE: Look, I’m really not sure about this. ARCHIVIST: I just need to borrow it for a half hour or so. I, I’ll look after it. GEORGIE: Wha– No, I don’t– You can blow it up for all I care. It’s been in the loft for, like, twenty years. If I need tape hiss, I’ll add it in post. ARCHIVIST: So, what’s the problem? GEORGIE: With playing an unmarked tape from your stalker? […] Look I’ve, I’ve got work to do. You listen, or don’t listen, or cross-record, or whatever you want, just… just think about it first, okay? You can choose to leave it alone. [DEPARTING FOOTSTEPS] [DOOR CLOSES] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] [TAPE PLAYER IS LOADED] [CLICK.]

[CLICK–]

It’s not a cross-recording of “Jon listening to Gertrude’s time”. Every time, there is silence between the two [CLICK] – no “spooling” sound, no hissing anymore. I do understand why it would work like this as a meta-choice from the editors (it’s clearer this way and we’re put in Jon’s situation while he discovered the information, rather than… risking to have the information butchered by Jon’s reactions if he wouldn’t be able to stay quiet) but I really don’t think that it’s a choice without meaning in the story itself: every time there is a so-called “cross-recording”, we’re actually switching from Jon’s tape recorder, recording him, to… something else (just listening to Gertrude’s tape? Being back in Gertrude’s time?).

At the end of season 3, Max Mustermann mentioned that something was “listening in” (and that he “[did]n’t like it”), which could be something different than our point of view as listener: there could be something listening in in their present and something/someone else listening to the tapes days/months/years after the recording happened. If it’s the latter: we have to consider that this “someone” not only accessed Jon’s tapes, but also Gertrude’s, and was able to reorganise them chronologically following Jon’s footsteps. If it’s the former: that “something” is able to switch from one tape recorder to the other (as it did, too, in MAG039, MAG079 and MAG118), whether it’s to listen to pre-existing tapes or to witness the recordings of current events. Whether it’s a conscious will or acting more on instinct (being able to feel when spooks or spooky events or just Episodes Of That Little Soap Opera You Call An Archives are coming up), it’s not passive either: it makes discrete choices when it comes to turning on and off during every episode, it doesn’t let other characters decide what should be cut off (Tim&Daisy turning it off in MAG082 before it clicked back on; Elias inviting Martin to cut the recording before it clicked back on, “Mm! Sorry. Looks like it wants to know what’s going on.” in MAG118). So what is it…?

(Jon said in MAG114 that he didn’t think it was Beholding; MAG118 hinted that it wasn’t Elias either since he wasn’t controlling it… I’m still taken with the idea that it’s The Web, but I agree that The Web using the recorders and the tapes as mundane items (delivering them) doesn’t mean that She’s spookily controlling them. Who/what else, then? One aspect of Extinction? Someone stuck within them à la Sergey Ushanka – Gertrude, Sasha, Jonah Magnus, “Emma”…?)

* Interestingly, Eric wasn’t surprised at all that Gertrude was using a tape recorder:

(MAG154) GERTRUDE: Hm! And, the second thing? ERIC: I want to make my statement. GERTRUDE: Is that really necessary? ERIC: I don’t want to disappear on her terms. Or yours! I want to speak my piece, have it recorded. GERTRUDE: Mm, fine. Tape’s running…! Subject is Eric Delano, recorded 21st of July, 2008, regarding… ERIC: Mm, what else! “Me, Mary, and the Archives.”

Eric had left the Institute before 1996 (since Elias became the Head that year, and Eric hadn’t witnessed it), which is also the year of, as of now, the oldest of Gertrude’s recordings that we have: MAG077, recorded on November 4th, 1996, labelled “Changeling / Imposter” (Lucy Cooper’s statement about the Not!Them taking her mother’s place). Since that statement explicitly mentioned that tapes weren’t rewritten by the Not!Them bending reality, I was thinking that Gertrude had potentially begun to record some statements with information that she deemed more valuable because she knew the Not!Them was roaming wild, but that was one amongst… many hypotheses. We still don’t know why Gertrude began to record statements and what motivated her recordings on a case-to-case basis; Jon himself wondered about it as soon as in season 2, and still hadn’t put out a guess into words in season 3 (although it was still on his mind, as revealed by his questioning Gerry about Gertrude’s tape habits).

On the one hand, of course Eric wouldn’t be surprised by a tape recorder: he died in the 90s, they were still widespread. On the other hand, Gertrude might have been using them back when he was still around, and that’s strengthening the hope that there is a recording of stoner/pre-Head Elias with Gertrude somewhere /o/

- It’s… extremely interesting how Eric’s portrayal of Gertrude gave the impression that she was much, muuuuuch more Beholding-aligned than we were previously made to think:

(MAG154) ERIC: She didn’t try to keep me in the dark just so I wouldn’t stop being useful. She never made me complicit in a thousand nightmares, and lives ruined for the sick joy of some otherworldly voyeur. […] I know what you say, what you think you’re doing – saving the world one poor doomed soul at a time. I mean, I understand; I do! … But I couldn’t be a part of it. Not when I saw what happened to everyone else you involved. I had to get out, to escape this place. […] Mary, at least, played straight with me. She knew all about the Institute. And when we were married, when she was sure I could handle it, she laid it all out for me: the Powers, the rituals, all the messy little cogs of the games you play with the universe. She laid out her own plans as well; her dreams of power. In many ways, I guess they were no better than yours. But at least, she didn’t bother to hide behind noble aims. … Maybe that’s why I chose her, in The End. At least she was honest. […] GERTRUDE: Did you need to do anything special? Any… ritual, or… [SIGH] ERIC: Just as long as they’re useless. I went the extra mile, destroyed them completely, but… I’m sure you’ll find something… “neater”. A strong acid, precisely applied? That sounds more your style. If you decide to do it, that is. GERTRUDE: Nn, I, I–I don’t know… ERIC: No… It’s not an easy sacrifice to make, is it? GERTRUDE: I still have work to do. ERIC: Don’t you always. GERTRUDE: Yeah… Anyway. I think I’ll probably do some research of my own before the rather extreme step of… blinding myself.

She sounded so… vehemently opposed? at the idea of blinding herself – immediately exposing it as something she wouldn’t do, perceiving it as a non-option and vaguely trying to justify herself. And there is Eric’s mention of “a thousand nightmares” which seems to imply that Gertrude… was taking live-statements pretty often, or used to?! (It was… a bit weird, indeed, how she had behaved with Lucia, presenting the “dreams” as a fatality when she could have chosen to have Lucia write her story down, and I am still wondering why she needed a recording of that one in the first place).

Jon had pointed out his surprise that Gertrude hadn’t recorded MAG102’s – was it because she was with Gerry and he had prevented her from taking it live, or because she didn’t want to show him her ugly side…? Was it because… she was like Jon, and trying to justify to herself that she “needed” the stories live when in truth the whole point was for her to feed on people’s trauma, to feel good…?

And GUUUUH, the contrast between Gertrude’s instinctive reluctance at the idea of gouging her eyes out, vs. Jon who… seemed to jump on the idea:

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: … Because… uh, because I–I trust you, I– I’m trying to think about what to do, and I… Well… if I did try this, I… I don’t want to do it alone. MARTIN: [EXHALE] ARCHIVIST: But we could leave here. You and me; escape. […] MARTIN: No, I mean… [DRY CHUCKLING] Could–could you even survive at this stage? Is there anything else keeping you alive? ARCHIVIST: Uh, I–I don’t know. I don’t… “Know”. But… [EXHALE] Maybe it’s worth it? The risk, y–you and me, together, getting out of here… MARTIN: [SNIFF] ARCHIVIST: … one way or another… […] MARTIN: I just… Look, I need to see this thing through with Peter to the end. If–if what he’s saying is even half true, I need to be there. ARCHIVIST: But what if you don’t? I mean…! We could just leave. I mean, whatever… their plan is for me, I am damn sure that doing that isn’t it. I could derail everything– MARTIN: [NERVOUS CHUCKLING] ARCHIVIST: –We could derail everything, and then just… leave…!

Martin might have had a few points re:the fact Jon might not actually want to do it… but still. Gertrude immediately gave reasons not to do it. Jon presented it as a way out.

- … Jon surprised me (positively) and holy heck, it had been a while. From:

(MAG137) [CLICK–] ARCHIVIST: [HEAVY SIGH] So. Funny story. Turns out when Daisy broke the lock to get into Elias’s old office, well, she did a good enough job that it’s not… obviously broken. So it hasn’t been replaced yet. So I had a look around. [SIGH] M–mostly as I remember, but… There’s a box of tapes and statements in the corner. Obviously those Elias either didn’t feel he could trust me with yet, or maybe just the ones he was checking himself. Ideally, I’d like to avoid… tipping Peter off for as long as possible that I have access. And it turns out I don’t… Know… Elias’s safe combination. Not yet, anyway. So I just took the first one that called to me, and it’s… [DRY NASAL EXHALE] It’s good. I suppose. Glad to know I don’t need to worry about a Slaughter ritual; nice to get… confirmation that whoever… Eric was, he was Gerry’s father and… well, one assumes Mary Keay’s partner.

To:

(MAG154) [CLICK–] ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Hm. [SIGH] I’ve, uh… I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, after what happened with Daisy last week. About… what I can do. What I am. What feels… right. I’ve found a– [SIGH] I went back to Eli– er, Peter’s office. To that box of tapes; started rifling through. And I started to try and pay attention to the ones I… wasn’t drawn to. The tapes I instinctively wanted to discard. [SIGH] There was one, this one, that my hand… pulled back from. I–I dropped it, twice, when I went to pick it up. Even now, I’m… [AUDIBLE FORCED SMILE] struggling to press play…! I am the avatar of Awful Knowledge And Revealed Secrets… so what does it not want me to know…?

And both times, it was about one of Gertrude’s tapes, mentioning Eric and Gerry (and even Adelard in passing!), from the same stash. But what contrast, from Jon relying on his spooky powers to guide him in a direction, to Jon purposefully aiming for his own kind of silence (MAG153, “Don’t listen to the blood.” “Listen to the quiet”)…!

At this point, I was losing hope of seeing him get proactive in order to try and counter The Eye’s influence. It sounds like listening to Melanie (MAG150) and to Daisy (MAG153) inspired him a bit? And Helen-the-Distortion too, in a way, as a counterexample: she was encouraging him to “embrac[e] it” (MAG146), explained how Helen “chose to stop feeling guilty” (MAG154) and made fun of Jon for his “brooding”… The others made sure that he wouldn’t attack any more people since they learned about it in MAG146 and, now, Jon is taking little steps to go against his influences (or at least try to pinpoint when they could be at work and motivating some of his actions that are still guilt and regrets-inducing for him).

That’s good! Aaaand I have no idea if he’s at a risk of crumbling in a what’s-the-point way after what Martin told him! (It could lead to Jon… thinking about Martin’s words, and whether they hold a bit of truth re:his self-sacrificing tendencies, the fact that he indeed told Daisy that it could be Right if he were to die and indeed agreed to do dangerous things and things which could kill him… but probably doesn’t want to die indeed. Or Jon will go back to “moping around” and Daisy will try to get him drunk again.)

(Six episodes left, last of the season is usually the “debriefing” after the action, 158 and 159 will probably be the action itself… What can Jon actually do in the three episodes before that? Martin is Going To Do Something, but Jon…? It feels like if he gets involved, it would be either because he goes after Martin out of worry, either because something is inflicted on him (4th kidnapping? Julia&Trevor are back, Peter could still have a dirty trick up his sleeve, etc.) It’s strange, because Jon has never felt more disconnected from a season finale despite still being the voice we hear the most…?)

- I am also RELIEVED that Jon still has in mind that… Elias and Peter probably aren’t neutral and just hoping that The Extinction gets stopped uwu:

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: But honestly, it’s the internal threats I’m worried about. Peter Lukas is just… sitting up there, doing whatever the hell it is he [STATIC BEGINS AND RISES] and Elias have planned, and Melanie still has that bullet pumping violence into her, waiting to turn this place into another Lanncraig.

(MAG154) MARTIN: I just… Look, I need to see this thing through with Peter to the end. If–if what he’s saying is even half true, I need to be there. ARCHIVIST: But what if you don’t? I mean…! We could just leave. I mean, whatever… their plan is for me, I am damn sure that doing that isn’t it. I could derail everything– MARTIN: [NERVOUS CHUCKLING] ARCHIVIST: –We could derail everything, and then just… leave…!

And that managed to make Jon’s plea even more heartbreaking?! Because he’s aware that Elias and Peter are still threats, are still probably expecting him to fit somewhere in their personal plans – there might not be any big conspiracies, but Elias has demonstrated that he could deceive, lie, manipulate, push in specific directions. But meanwhile, Martin has been told about the “big picture”, has been led to think about broader concerns, has already sacrificed around 9 months of his life after selling himself to protect the others, so… of course he wouldn’t want to give up now. (But as Gertrude showed: there will always be other threats, other concerns that need to be taken care of.)

(Though, I’m. Extremely worried that Jon was able to access Eric’s tape, although he was naturally prone to ignore it. Melanie reported that Elias didn’t have a safe in MAG118; he had acquired one, according to Jon in MAG137. Why wasn’t Eric’s tape inside that safe? Why leave it accessible? Is it because Elias hadn’t even bothered to check them all himself, or had also been made to avoid that one specifically, or… is it because in one way or another, he was waiting for Jon to listen to that one, because it was part of a plan…?)

- I CAN’T BELIEVE that we got 1°) two “Fuck”s in an episode, 2°) JON saying “fuck”, 3°) MARTIN SAYING “FUCK”. Jon was already a big WOW moment, and then Martin… just had the same reaction. Beautiful. Especially given how we know how Hard To Get those are (=> they raise the rating on iTunes, hence theoretically less listeners, so no swearing is gratuitous)… it was a Very Precious Episode.

So many “fuck”s given this season, tho?!

(MAG131) ARCHIVIST: Oh, I… Melanie, I–I’m so sorry, I– MELANIE: Oooh, fuck off?!

(MAG148) BASIRA: You sent us to the North fucking Pole for no goddamn reason. ELIAS: A, a–hem… miscalculation.

(MAG154) [CLICK–] [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] [SOFTLY BUT WITH FEELING] … Fuck. [CLICK.] […] ARCHIVIST: I know; I know what you said, but I just… I think I’ve found a way for us to leave the Institute. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … Okay…? ARCHIVIST: Yeah. But i–it’s… [INHALE] it’s pretty… drastic. MARTIN: What, [CHUCKLING] you gotta gouge your eyes out or something? [SILENCE] … Fuck off?! [SILENCE] … Right…! Uh–uh…

Tim would be so proud of his ducklings… Team Archives unites… And incredibly, DAISY still hasn’t said “fuck”. SOMEHOW.

+ Honorary mentions:

(MAG127) BASIRA: Can we cut the bullshit? ELIAS: What “bullshit” might that be?

(MAG131) ARCHIVIST: I’m… [SHAKY CHUCKLE] W–would you believe I’m… trying to save Daisy? MELANIE: With more bullshit surgery? […] It didn’t stay in my leg because of some Ghostly Masterplan; it stayed… because I wanted it. ARCHIVIST: … Shit. MELANIE: Yes.

(MAG135) BASIRA: [SLAMS HANDS ON THE TABLE] Cut the shit! What are you playing at? ELIAS: I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.

(MAG143) BASIRA: [SIGH] So, what, this was another waste of time? What, no Church, no Dark Sun? … I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch…!

(MAG145) ARTHUR: [CHUCKLE] Always respected you for that. Takes a strong stomach to not give a shit.

(MAG147) BASIRA: Something’s here. MELANIE: No shit! [DOOR OPENS] Look at this place…!

(MAG148) ELIAS: [SNIFF] Good evening, Detecti– [PUNCH] OW! [EXTENDED SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PUNCHING] BASIRA: Useless, scheming piece of shit! ELIAS: Detective, this is quite unnece–

(MAG154) ERIC: Sorry, I just… [SNORTING CHUCKLE] I don’t mean to be a dick, but…

This season is so vulgar <3 It was already suspicious that Jon had said his seasonal “shit” so early on (it had happened in MAG039 and MAG078 and (aborted) in MAG099), but I wasn’t seriously expecting him to join the “fuck” team.

- Okay, tl;dr I loved every bit of dialogue in this episode, it was glorious all over, I was “!!” all through it, so much good heartbreak and sadness and PINING, GODS, JON???, so I’ll only give Selected Commentaries:

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: Sorry, I–I just– MARTIN: No, ’t’s fine, I ju– You just surprised me, that’s… Jesus, you alright? You… you look like hell. ARCHIVIST: Oh! Uh, right, I, em… ki–kind of weak. Hungry, I–I guess, sort of. I–I’ve been trying to a–avoid, being, hum… Sticking to old statements? Thank you, for your little “intervention”, by the way. MARTIN: Look, I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t– ARCHIVIST: Yes, no, I know, I’m sorry, uh– that didn’t… come out right. Honestly: thank you. [EXHALE] It’s been hell, but… I–I did need to hear it. MARTIN: Oh, hum… Uh, g–good. Heh. Are the others… helping? ARCHIVIST: Oh! [DRY CHUCKLE] They’ve been keeping a… very close eye on me…! But that’s not important – no, well, it is important, but it’s– it’s not why I’m here, I– MARTIN: Jon. Calm down. What do you want?

* I’m so, so glad that Jon… validated what Martin did, regarding Jess’s complaint? Especially given how Martin was afraid of his reaction back at the time (MAG142: “I should probably try to get him this tape, let him know what happened, that someone came in to… But then, ahah, would that just come across as an accusation? Like, because I don’t wanna… And then, then I guess he’d… hear this bit as well, so… I… I… [LONG EXHALE] What do I do…?”). Jon did awful things, was awful in the way he hid and didn’t handle it, and, at least at the moment, there is no further harm being done… although there have already been too many victims. At least, Martin prevented more harm.

(Also: confirmation that Martin indeed send the tape himself, and that it wasn’t Annabelle or Peter giving it to the assistants behind his back? I was still fearing this possibility, since Basira had mentioned that it had been left for them but that she hadn’t seen Martin himself. But given how Martin didn’t object and proudly owned up to his decision when Jon gave the impression of blaming him for it, it was indeed him all along ;w; It took him a few weeks but he had finally decided to send the tape on his own, aah…)

* The emphasis Jon put in that “keeping a… very close eye on me…!” with dry humour… JON… JON, YOU WERE SO SNAPPY ABOUT BASIRA AND DAISY MAKING EYE-THEMED JOKE, YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO INDULGE IN THEM:

(MAG143) BASIRA: [SIGH] Eyes peeled. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: … Was that a joke? BASIRA: Yeah.

(MAG147) DAISY: Perhaps they… bugged out. [FOOTSTEPS] ARCHIVIST: [WHISPER] … Was that a joke? BASIRA: Jon, focus.

Jon is going to judge you (and will do the things he’s reproaching you). He had been making Eye-related puns here and there for a while but with his tone here? It was absolutely deliberate and PFTT.

* I love that Martin’s perception of Jon is still that he… looks a mess.

(MAG142) MARTIN: O–okay, okay, hum… What… Would you mind telling me what happened? Uh, what they did? WOMAN: He. MARTIN: … Ah, uh, alright. Hum… Did he… [SIGH] … Did he look like he hadn’t slept in like– WOMAN: Mm–mm. MARTIN: –a week? WOMAN: Yep, uh… MARTIN: … Right…

(Though, Martin pointed out that Jon looked… not good, but I feel that the worst we heard of Jon was from 148 to 152? On the contrary, for the last two episodes, I felt that Jon was… softer again? Less sounding like someone who would be eaten out from the inside by their own hunger? Or he’s behaving like someone would when sleep-deprived: dry and cutting at first, and then all over the place and absolutely messy and jumpy. To me, he sounds better. So I’m amused that apparently, no, he Looks Terrible. Jonny is still trying to tell us that the Archivist is not hot, uh?)

- It’s… a strange feeling given how Peter has precisely been grooming him to become a Lonely avatar (well, dual one?) during season 4, but I had never realised how Beholding Martin was/sounded, before?

(MAG154) MARTIN: Em… like, like permanently? Or… ARCHIVIST: I–I–I don’t know, I–I mean, I suppose? I–i–if your vision comes back, the Beholding probably does as well…! P–probably. But it’s not like it’s easy to only… blind yourself temporarily anyway, uh, I… MARTIN: Y–y–yeah… yeah, uh… […] Could–could you even survive at this stage? Is there anything else keeping you alive? ARCHIVIST: Uh, I–I don’t know. I don’t… “Know”. But… [EXHALE] Maybe it’s worth it? The risk, y–you and me, together, getting out of here… MARTIN: [SNIFF] ARCHIVIST: … one way or another…

The way he immediately wondered about the specifics, the details, how things worked and asks out aloud, half-thinking half wanting to know more more more…? The funny thing is that Martin has always displayed that sort of broad thinking, taking myriads of parameters into account:

(MAG039) SASHA: I’m still not sure why you have this. Drinking in the archives? MARTIN: What? No, no, it’s for worms. ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: For pulling the worms out of people. Like now. SASHA: You, er… what? MARTIN: I used to carry around a knife, but I started thinking that, well, cutting into someone laterally wasn’t really the most efficient way to get them out, and besides which, they seem to be quite slow burrowing in a straight line so, given their size, th-the corkscrew just seemed to be the better option. [HEAVY SILENCE] Look, you guys got to go home every day, okay. I didn’t! I’ve been thinking for a long time about what to do when… well, y’know, this happens.

(MAG110) MARTIN: –but that doesn’t make sense, can he even do that? BASIRA: I don’t know, I guess so. MARTIN: It’s so– What, he can just reach into your head, and put something in there? BASIRA: [SIGH] I don’t know. I guess so. MARTIN: I mean… does it even have to be a truth, do we, do we know for sure he’s not lying, like, like magically lying? BASIRA: I don’t. know. MARTIN: R–right, right. Sorry. I just… It’s a lot to take in, you know.

And the fact that Jon was the one who had to admit that ~he didn’t know~ in return…

- The fact that the assistants were trapped in the Archives had popped up as soon as season 1 (although… back then, we (and they) hadn’t realised how literal it was):

(MAG026) SASHA: I should really quit, you know. We, we all should. I don’t think this a normal job. I, I don’t think this is a safe job. ARCHIVIST: You’re probably right. Do you want to quit? SASHA: No. I’m just… I’m just too damned curious, I suppose. You? ARCHIVIST: No. Whatever’s going on, I need to know. Get some rest. [CLICK]

(MAG065) ARCHIVIST: Then quit! If you hate it so much, leave your post in the Archives. Permanently. TIM: You’re firing me? ARCHIVIST: … I’m offering you a chance to quit. No notice period, I’ll even make sure you get the rest of the month’s paycheck. [PAUSE] Just say the words. [STATIC RISES] TIM: I want to. ARCHIVIST: So do it. TIM: I… … can’t. ARCHIVIST: [SOFTLY] Why not…? TIM: I… I… I–I can’t! I don’t know… Why can’t I quit?! ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know. But I don’t think I can fire you either. TIM: What? ARCHIVIST: It’s this place.

(MAG079) TIM: There is something in this place, and it’s messing up our heads. It watches us all the time. It stops me quitting. I’m pretty sure it would stop Elias firing Jon even if he decided to actually try running this place for once. MARTIN: You’re sure you don’t just want to stay? TIM: I’m. sure. MARTIN: But, like, deep down– TIM: No. MARTIN: … Oh.

(MAG092) ELIAS: Ah, of course. Er, sometimes I forget how new you all are to this. Basira is now tied to the Institute. All of you are. Like fingers on a hand. And I am the beating heart of it. Should I, or the Institute, be destroyed, you will all, unfortunately, follow suit. MELANIE: Wait, what? TIM: Yup, that sounds about right. ELIAS: And it would not be a pleasant death.

(MAG095) MARTIN: Kinda thought your job was to be a hostage. […] Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, trying to escape? BASIRA: Sure. How’s that gone for you? MARTIN: What? BASIRA: The way Tim tells it, we’re all in the same boat here. So, how’s your escape plan coming? [NOISES OF CONFUSED EXASPERATION] MARTIN: How… Doesn’t it bother you?!

(MAG102) ELIAS: Even more than the others [Melanie] has a visceral hatred of being trapped. Regardless of how much freedom I afford her. […] MELANIE: [Frustrated anger] It’s not just being stuck here, Jon. It’s not just me. He’s manipulating you, he’s manipulating all of us. Can you seriously not see that?

(MAG106) ELIAS: Whatever I’m planning needs to be stopped! Even if it costs a few lives. Including your own. MELANIE: Well, that’s not even– ELIAS: A rationalisation, of course. A lie, about your own selfishness, that you would rather be dead than trapped without the self-determination you prize so highly. I wish I knew the words to convince you it’s for the best.

(MAG131) MELANIE: I don’t know! I can’t… look at her without my leg hurting, but what else am I going to do. I don’t want to be on my own, and I’m stuck here. So… ARCHIVIST: Basira said you were doing better. MELANIE: Would you just– stop?! ARCHIVIST: No– Right, no– MELANIE: This isn’t better! ARCHIVIST: M–Melanie, I, I– MELANIE: I’m not dying and I don’t… want to kill you, it’s, it’s…! [SHARP EXHALE] It’s just different. Yes, it’s… sort of better, m–maybe, but I–I can’t…

(MAG136) ARCHIVIST: It, uh… Hm. Is, uh… Weird question, but… I… [EXHALE] I haven’t seen you in my dreams? The last couple of weeks? DAISY: … Oh, uh, no. I… I work here, now. I figured it seems to protect the others, so… ARCHIVIST: Oh. Right, so… Wait, did you talk to Lukas, or…? DAISY: [CHUCKLE] Broke into Elias’s old office. Found an employment contract; filled it in, and signed it. ARCHIVIST: And that worked. DAISY: Seems so. ARCHIVIST: And you’re not… worried about… DAISY: Basira’s trapped here. So are you. Not like I can be going anywhere anyway. ARCHIVIST: … I suppose not. So… no more dreams. DAISY: Not of you and your weird eyes. Just the coffin. ARCHIVIST: Is that better…? DAISY: ’T’s mine. ARCHIVIST: … right.

(MAG150) MELANIE: Look. [INHALE] I’m not going to do my job anymore. ARCHIVIST: … I am not sure I follow, you–you know we… we can’t… quit, we’ve all tried. MELANIE: I didn’t say I was going to quit. I said: I’m not going to do my job. No researching; no filing; no… field trips. Nothing that is going to help the Institute in any way. I’ll still be around, I just… ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] MELANIE: I can’t be a part of this anymore. If, if I get sick, I get sick. And, and if I die…

Learning that Eric had found a way out, that there is a way out is… especially interesting in the light of the running thematic of “choices” that season 4 is exploring. Because, until now, being trapped at the Institute was just something that had been inflicted on the Archival staff, without them being able to do much about it apart from going for Melanie’s option (slowly dying). But now, if there is a way out, it means that staying at the Institute becomes a choice, too. The staff can decide that the cost to pay in order to leave is not worth it, but still: there is now another option, and staying is not an inescapable curse anymore. It’s up to them to decide and to define what their priorities are.

- I’ve purposefully left out Martin out of the Assistants Being Trapped wall of quotes because actually… There has only been one occurrence of Martin describing it:

(MAG039) ARCHIVIST: … Why are you here Martin? MARTIN: Well, well, Prentiss is out there and you can’t run so– ARCHIVIST: I mean at the Archive in general. Why haven’t you quit? MARTIN: Are you giving me my review now? ARCHIVIST: No… We’re clearly doing a whole heart-to-heart thing and, truth be told, the question’s been bothering me. You’ve been living in the Archives for four months, constant threat of… this. Sleeping with a fire extinguisher and a corkscrew. Even you must be aware that that’s not normal for an archiving job? Why are you still here? MARTIN: [CONSIDERING] Don’t really know. I just am. It didn’t feel right to just leave. I’ve typed up a few resignation letters, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hand them in. I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t… move on and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck. […] No, no… it’s just that whatever web these statements have caught you in, well, I’m there too. We all are, I think. [SIGH]

… And even back then, that was it. More than being trapped in a place, Martin was seeing it as sticking to Jon.

And it absolutely stopped being a concern afterwards. When Martin had his litany of recriminations about everything that had happened in the Institute and about what Elias had done to them… being tied to the Institute hadn’t been one of them:

(MAG117) MARTIN: Me and Melanie, well… Well, I don’t think “death” is really the worry, it’s just… [SIGH] It feels like an ending? Or… something. Like nothing can go back to normal after this. Hey, hey, I mean what’s normal, right? Is living in an old document storage normal? Is losing a friend and not even noticing normal? Corridors? Evil all-seeing managers? I suppose you can get used to anything, but… [PAUSE] It feels different. […] These last couple of years, I’ve always been... running, always hiding, caught in someone else’s trap, but… but now it’s my trap. And, well. I think it will work. I know, I know it’s not exactly intricate, but… it felt good, weaving my own little web.

(MAG118) MARTIN: What? You don’t want him… hearing your big evil speech? ELIAS: Just wanted to spare you the small amount of dignity you have left. MARTIN: [DRY LAUGHTER] Dignity? Alright, yeah; like the dignity of being trapped in your flat by worms, or sleeping in the Archives, clutching a corkscrew! Or– or fetching drinks for the thing that murdered your friend without you even noticing…! Laughing at all their little jokes, then being left to wander impossible corridors for weeks! ELIAS: [SIGH] Are you done. MARTIN: Not even close. Because... [HEAVY BREATHING] I… I’ve been thinking. It’s not like you’ve got this all-seeing thing recently. You’ve had it the whole time. I remember the way you looked at Sasha after the attack. You knew it wasn’t her. And I reckon you knew Prentiss was lurking under the Institute, too, and you did nothing. Why? [SILENCE] WHY?! [SLAMS TABLE]

I’m not sure that Martin ever truly perceived it as a burden, quite frankly. He didn’t have a lot in his life – his mother, the Institute, his poetry, as far as we knew. Maybe for Martin, there used to be some comfort in the idea of being trapped and stuck; because that meant people around him… wouldn’t ever be able to leave, either?

(The only recent case of Martin pointing out the trapping as negative was when he screamed at Daisy:

(MAG144) DAISY: Fine. … Fine. Just thought you– MARTIN: No! No, you didn’t! [DOOR OPENS.] We’re not… we’re not friends, Daisy! None of us are! We’re all just trapped together, here, and–and kidding ourselves that we don’t hate it! Christ, there are more important things than, than “feelings”– DAISY: [INCREDULOUS EXHALE] MARTIN: –right now, alright, so just… leave me alone! For good!

And there might have been some sincerity in these words (although Martin confirmed right afterwards that he was mostly just aiming to make her leave). But if he were asked quietly whether or not he wants to leave, I’m not sure Martin would: what does he have, outside of the Institute? What kind of life could he lead? He’s been there for most (if not all) of his adult life at this point, nine years at the very least; and while I firmly believe that Melanie would be able to go forwards and to recreate her own life, or that Daisy&Basira might be able to as a duo, when it comes to Martin�� I’m not sure he would even want to try. I’m not sure that he laughed at Jon’s face because it was “too late” for him to leave although, yes, he did confirm to Basira that he wasn’t expecting to make it out alive or as himself; I think it might just have sounded incongruous and so… surreal? So impossible to imagine? And I don’t think that The Lonely is the only thing to blame for this.)

- Given how Eric suspected that Gertrude wouldn’t have shared the eye-gouging trick with him if she had known before he did (and, indeed, as far as we know, she… didn’t inform Michael Shelley about a possibility of quitting – but I’m not sure he was even aware of being trapped in the first place…), and that Jon already jumped on Martin to tell him:

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: I know; I know what you said, but I just… I think I’ve found a way for us to leave the Institute. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … Okay…? ARCHIVIST: Yeah. But i–it’s… [INHALE] it’s pretty… drastic. MARTIN: What, [CHUCKLING] you gotta gouge your eyes out or something? [SILENCE] … Fuck off?! [SILENCE] … Right…! Uh–uh… ARCHIVST: [EXHALE] MARTIN: Uh, r–right, uh… Wow…! [NERVOUS CHUCKLE] Uh, okay… […] Y–y–yeah… yeah, uh… Ha–have you told the others, or…? ARCHIVIST: No, you–you’re the first. […] MARTIN: Who are you kidding, Jon? You’re not gonna do any of that. ARCHIVIST: I, I could…! MARTIN: But you won’t…! That why you came to me, isn’t it? ARCHIVIST: [EXHALE] MARTIN: You know I can’t do it, not now; you don’t want to blind yourself; you don’t want to die; what you want… is a reason to not do those things. So… you come to me. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] MARTIN: Well… you’re welcome! B–because I can’t follow you on this one.

I think Jon is very likely to share it with the others, despite (/because of) Martin’s last words? So, are we heading towards (at least) one member of current Team Archives choosing to lose their eyesight in order to leave the Institute…?

If so, who? Martin sounded like Gertrude in that aspect: he has a goal and is sticking to it, and is not ready to consider it an option.

He also had a point re:Jon on the idea that… maybe Beholding is the only thing currently powering Jon to live right now, because he should have died during The Unknowing and ultimately made a choice when faced with dying or “becom[ing] something else”. We’ve also seen Jon display instant-healing abilities (MAG131, when he tried to cut his finger), and he also mentioned that the wound from Melanie’s scalpel had healed quickly so… it doesn’t seem like he could permanently harm himself, nor that someone else’s injury would last. However, Dekker had mentioned that Hunters were able to take down avatars (MAG113), and Daisy had managed to quickly kill off Mike Crew, so it’s possible that Hunters would be able to inflict permanent damage and, oh, good timing, Trevor&Julia managed to crawl back to England, sneaked into the Institute once, and might still be looming around.

When it comes to the conscious choice of blinding oneself to escape The Eye… I doubt that Daisy would go there, since she signed up for the Institute on her own (without being coerced or misled into it, knowing full-well that it meant she would be trapped), both to reclaim a bit of control (getting rid of Jon in her dreams) and because Basira and Jon were already trapped. Daisy wouldn’t want to leave without the others, she displayed some protective tendencies around Jon although she is already deeply weakened in her current state, she didn’t sound morally upset at the thought of being tied to The Eye when she discussed with Martin in MAG144, so… I really don’t see her going for Eric’s solution. She might see it as making herself vulnerable without getting much in exchange?

Basira… I’m not sure. I think that even more than Daisy, she would see it as making herself vulnerable – Elias took a dig about that one time she “let her guard down” (Jared’s attack?) in MAG127 and it feels to me like this is really her problem right now – desperate and scrambling for control, craving it so much that she both tends to sideline her feelings and attachments because she perceives them as a weakness, and to make herself susceptible to manipulation. She was quietly resigned to being trapped, too, signed up to protect Daisy without showing much anger towards the action, so I’m not sure she would think that blinding herself would be worth it? And there is the additional fact that she might or might not be on a Very Beholding Path herself (although recently, it sounds more Hunt-y to me?).

And finally… Melanie feels to me like the person who would probably be the most interested in Eric’s option. She already emotionally cut ties with Beholding by deciding that dying was better than surviving at the cost of feeding it. She has already worked on trying to get better. We heard about her going outside of the Institute, we know that Georgie is helping her. She has a support system outside (although small), and strong distaste of The Eye. So…

;; There is the additional fact that, hum. Eric didn’t survive long after quitting because he was murdered. But what if The Beholding’s grasp was supposed to come back after some time…? We also had Beholding places containing, uh, eyeless people, and we’re still unsure of who they were and what had happened to their eyes (older Archivists in older Archives?):

(MAG023, Albrecht von Closen) “I approached the man, but he didn’t move to flee. As I got closer, I saw him in more detail. He was short and squat, wearing an old-fashioned, black frock coat and knee breeches, though his head was shadowed by a wide-brimmed black hat. By his costume, I assumed him to be an old man, perhaps a groundskeeper for this place, or simply a recluse that lived nearby. When I greeted him, though, the voice that answered held no quiver of age within it. […] I felt the presence behind me, and I turned around. It was the man from the cemetery. His wide brimmed hat was removed and he stared at me. His head was completely bald, and his eyes were missing. They were just empty sockets but they stared at me. The saw me. Believe or dismiss anything else in my letter as you wish Jonah, but I swear to you that I stood face to face with a man with no eyes and he saw me.”

(MAG053) WALTER: It was a body. […] His eyes were gone. But rather than simply decaying into nothingness, there were ragged scratches around the edge of the socket, leaving messy, hollow pits. I was feeling very afraid now and had just turned around to leave when my torch abruptly turned off. It was the strangest thing. It should have been pitch-dark. There was no light at all filtering through into those underground caverns, but instead, I could so everything! Every detail of the shrivelled corpse before me was as clear as day, though there was no light to see it.  I can’t explain it, even really describe how it felt, but it was absolute darkness, and I could still see. At the same time, I suddenly got the most intense feeling of being watched – like a thousand eyes turned to me at once. […] The sense of being watched was getting stronger, an almost physical wave that seemed to drag me down. I reached the mouth of the tunnel just as a figure came into view. It wore what looked like the remains of an ancient robe, and in the darkness, I could see long, spindly fingers stretching, probing toward me. From beneath its huge, flowing hood, I could see nothing except for a single, lidless eye.

… But especially in the Schwartzwald man’s case: having no eyes didn’t stop him clearly belonging to Beholding, so… There is no proof that it would indeed work.

- Of course, gooooooooods… The echo between Gertrude’s era and Jon… three assistants “meeting an unpleasant end”; Tim and Sasha are already gone, there is only Martin left of the original team. Of course Martin would have, even unconsciously, been a prime concern after a recording of Gertrude and one of her (dead) assistants… EXCEPT NO, AHAHAHA, Jon’s worry/concern/feelings truly felt like something else than guilt and responsibility.

I’ve seen how RQ operates, I know that they know their tropes, I know that they wouldn’t Tease to get listeners and shame them for hoping for some more queerness afterwards, I know that they’re careful about this; I knoooow rationally that there probably wouldn’t be this much focus on Jon’s anxiety towards Martin’s current situation if the bottom line was Oh, Jon Is Mostly Feeling Guilty About Tim&Sasha And Worried That Martin Might Die Because Of Him Too (especially when it’s been acknowledged multiple times that Martin has romantic feelings for him).

But. Still. Up until now, it could perfectly be read that way in Jon’s worry and longing.

(MAG122) ARCHIVIST: Just you and me. … And, Melanie and M–Martin, I, I guess. Honestly, I’m surprised Martin isn’t… BASIRA: [SHARP INHALE] ARCHIVIST: What? Oh god, the, their plan, it’s, Martin is– Is he okay, or– … What did Elias do?

(MAG123) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I wish I could talk it through with Martin. … Or Tim. [SHORT SAD CHUCKLE] Or Sasha. But we never really did that, did we…? … Everything’s changed. … [SIGH] Two days out of a coma, and I’m already tired.

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: H–how are you, Martin? I–is everything… MARTIN: Yeah, yeah, no, I’m, I’m alright, er… Everything’s… fine. ARCHIVIST: … Right. Hum. … H–how’s… h–how’s the poetry? MARTIN: Oh, er, well, I haven’t exactly had a lot of time recently, so… ARCHIVIST: Yes, of course… MARTIN: Mm. ARCHIVIST: You’ve been busy. MARTIN: Yeah. ARCHIVIST: … MARTIN: … Look, Jon, I, I’ve really got to go, so… ARCHIVIST: Oh, er, okay… MARTIN: I’m, I’m sorry that you– ARCHIVIST: Wowowow, it was… good t–, it was good to see you. MARTIN: … Yeah. [STEPS LEAVING] ARCHIVIST: … Yeah… 

(MAG136) DAISY: You need to stop moping. ARCHIVIST: I what? DAISY: You need to stop swanning around, being all sad. ARCHIVIST: I’m, I’m not “swanning around”– DAISY: “Boo-hoo, I’m so alone and a monster!” ARCHIVIST: I am alone, Martin is– DAISY: Busy. doing. paperwork. Not like he’s dead. Beside, he’s not the only other person here, you know. There’s me; Melanie; Basira– ARCHIVIST: Traumatised; traumatised; and paranoid, because of me.

(MAG139) ARCHIVIST: And that just leaves Martin, which… […] … [SIGH] I’m just worried about Martin. … Christ… Every other Avatar gets to have their feelings… burned right out of them, but me? I’ve… just got to sit in mine. … I know he said he had everything under control. I need… to trust him; whatever he’s doing with Peter, he’s… he knows what he’s doing. Probably. I just– … [VERY FAST] I need him to be okay. I just do.

(MAG148) ARCHIVIST: I’ve been meaning to ask. The… tape. The one of the, uh… my victim. You said Martin gave it to you. BASIRA: [EXHALE] Yeah. ARCHIVIST: How was he? H–how did he look, was he, uh… BASIRA: I don’t know. I didn’t… see him. He just left it on my desk with a note. ARCHIVIST: Oh… Right.

(MAG150) ARCHIVIST: We are trying. Daisy, Basira and I, we don’t leave the Institute much anymore – so we do spend a lot of time together. It’s not that easy, though. When everyone has so many walls, so many defences… [SIGH] sometimes you can feel lonely even when you’re in the same room. … But it’s better than the alternative. And at least none of us is suffering alone. … Martin’s got it the worst, of course. But it still seems to be his choice. And I have to trust that he knows what he’s doing.

In this episode? Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnot so much, and Oh No, Jon Is Indeed Having A Crush, Uh.

I think what felt the most “… Jon…” about it is that… Jon didn’t present the eye-gouging as a way for Martin to be free and get out. There was Jon’s insistence that they could do it “together” – it wasn’t so much about saving Martin as ensuring that Martin wouldn��t die and that they could be reunited.

(And it came right after a statement of… Eric and his one-sided crush on Mary, who was mostly using him to achieve her own goals (getting a Beholding kid from the Archives?), so. Aouch. The echo of the statement wasn’t kind to your situation, Jon.)

It’s possible that indeed, Jon was partially motivated to go to Martin because he (unconsciously) wanted to be told to not do it, but… I think that, more straightforwardly, it was because Jon had just found a way to get Martin back. Jon has never been that good at weaponizing his own emotions to manipulate other people, except when faking his accent and hiding his feelings. So either Martin has understood that Jon was indeed jumping on him because he was genuine about wanting to elope with him (and it’s too late; it’s not the time, and Martin himself seems to have given up on the idea of surviving his “ritual”), either Martin has closed up with The Lonely, and the idea of someone caring for him? Is just unfathomable at this point, and there must be hiding an uglier truth or selfish motivations.

(And oh, how selfish Jon’s plan was!! Gosh?? I still can’t believe he literally begged Martin to just give up on the spooks, on saving the world, just to elope together for a while?? Jon???)

(Not even a thought about his victims, about the fact that hey, maybe if he was cut from The Eye, they would be released from his nightmares?)

(MAG154) MARTIN: [DRY AND HOLLOW LAUGHTER] ARCHIVIST: [BREATHY] … What…? MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] N–nothing, it’s just… That’s just ironic, that’s all. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Martin, I… MARTIN: Who are you kidding, Jon? You’re not gonna do any of that. ARCHIVIST: I, I could…! MARTIN: But you won’t…! That why you came to me, isn’t it? ARCHIVIST: [EXHALE] MARTIN: You know I can’t do it, not now; you don’t want to blind yourself; you don’t want to die; what you want… is a reason to not do those things. So… you come to me. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] MARTIN: Well… you’re welcome! B–because I can’t follow you on this one. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it? MARTIN: You know, I think it always did. ARCHIVIST: [SOFT HUFF] [QUIET] Maybe. [SILENCE] Well… I–I’ll be here. If you ever do need me. MARTIN: … I hope so. ARCHIVIST: Just don’t wait too long, okay? [RUFFLING OF CLOTHES] [FAINTER, IN THE DISTANCE] If you haven’t already. [DOOR OPENS, CLOSES] MARTIN: Yeah. [LONG EXHALE] … Yeah… [CLICK.]

A few things:

* AOUCH at that “I’ll be here” / “I hope so.” Not going out terrorising people, uh.

* I’m a bit lost re:Martin’s criticism, because he had been fairly upset about Jon’s self-sacrificing tendencies, or the fact he was throwing himself into danger, when discussing with Daisy in MAG144… while here, he called Jon out (in a very cruel, falsely indulgent tone) on not wanting to end his life. Given Jon’s pedigree, it almost sounded like a taunt to get Jon to try to gouge out his eyes, but, mostly: I’m surprised that Martin would perceive Jon’s actions this way, when he had listened to Daisy’s input and had called her “observant” (so, validating her reading of Jon)… ? It’s very likely that these words were absolutely valid when it came to Jon, I’m simply surprised that Martin would suddenly read him like this. Martin is in a bad place, he doesn’t need to make sense but… still…? Unless it was mostly his bitterness about being perceived as an enabler coming out…?

Unless he told Jon what he needed Jon to think – that he didn’t want to sacrifice his life…? (Because if so? That would be extremely web-y, Martin.)

* … Martin, Jon is currently demonstrating that not wanting to do something doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t do it anyway (=> “I don’t want to stop”, and he’s stopping anyway).

* Jon’s coma is still a sore spot, uh.

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: … What happened, Martin? [SILENCE] MARTIN: You died. ARCHIVIST: I came back. MARTIN: Yeah. [OPENS DOOR] I’m not gonna let it happen again. ARCHIVIST: … wait… Wait! W– [DOOR CLOSES] [SIGH] [CLICK.]

(MAG154) MARTIN: Jon… [SIGH] Don’t do this. ARCHIVIST: Do what? MARTIN: Make it my decision. ARCHIVIST: I’m not– MARTIN: No, I mean… [DRY CHUCKLING] Could–could you even survive at this stage? Is there anything else keeping you alive? ARCHIVIST: Uh, I–I don’t know. I don’t… “Know”. But… [EXHALE] Maybe it’s worth it? The risk, y–you and me, together, getting out of here…

Indeeeeeeeeeeeeed, if Jon were to die due to his eye-gouging because Martin had agreed and encouraged him to follow through that plan… Martin would feel responsible about it forever, uh.

* I feel like Martin tends to react badly to… Jon’s choice of words/feelings.

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: I just… I’m sorry. Basira is off doing… God-knows-what, and I can’t talk to Melanie. MARTIN: Mm-mm. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I suppo– … I miss you. MARTIN: [SNERK] ARCHIVIST: I’m just… MARTIN: Lonely. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Yeah. MARTIN: [HUFF]

(MAG154) MARTIN: Why? ARCHIVIST: … Because… uh, because I–I trust you, I– I’m trying to think about what to do, and I… Well… if I did try this, I… I don’t want to do it alone. MARTIN: [EXHALE] ARCHIVIST: But we could leave here. You and me; escape. MARTIN: Jon… [SIGH] Don’t do this.

“Miss you” and the feeling of loneliness, “alone”… is Martin thinking that it’s just The Lonely causing Jon’s longing…?

* Season 4 has been a long fall into The Lonely for Martin, and it just. Doesn’t feel good. Like Jon, he’s not… enjoying himself in the avatardom? He’s stopped living – doesn’t have much contact with anyone, hasn’t been mentioned around tea, isn’t writing poetry anymore… And there is no glee nor joviality in what he’s doing? It just feels sad all over.

(MAG123) ARCHIVIST: So: we’re under siege; Melanie is aggressively unstable; Martin is working very closely with The Lonely, who is, predictably enough, isolating him; and, oh, yes, Tim and Daisy are still dead. Which is at least easy to keep track of!

(MAG134) MARTIN: And you thought that since I’m so lonely already, I’d be ideal. PETER: Yes!

(MAG138) MARTIN: I think he wants me to join The Lonely. ELIAS: Then it sounds like you have a decision to make. […] Don’t forget to keep in touch, Martin. There are so many people in here, but without one’s friends… [DOOR LOCKING] it does get rather lonely.

(MAG142) MARTIN: [SIGH] Th–the worst part is I don’t even want to talk to him about it. I’m just… [SIGH] I suppose I’m just getting comfortable with the distance. [SIGH] Cut off. [DRY CHUCKLE] “Lonely”. [INHALE] Mind you, Peter’s not wrong. It really is easier than actually just trying to communicate with people.

(MAG150) ARCHIVIST: Statement ends. The Lonely is… possibly the most insidious of the powers, I believe. Certainly it is the one that… most delights in having you do its work for it. Even the Spiders seem to have a hard time matching it for sheer seductiveness. [HUFF] “Time to yourself”, “self-care”, “putting yourself forward”… “not being a burden on those you care about”… [PAUSE] It doesn’t even need to tell you any lies; just waits for the lies you tell yourself.

(MAG151) MARTIN: [POINTEDLY] I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever. SIMON: … What a Lonely way to look at things. Which makes sense, I suppose.

(Except when it comes to tape recorders – Martin still likes those:

(MAG126) [CLICK–] [CLOCK IN THE BACKGROUND] [TYPING SOUNDS] MARTIN: [SIGH] [COMPUTER MOUSE CLICKING] Oh. Hello. [ONE CLICK] Haven’t seen you in a while. [TYPING RESUMES] … Really? I mean, it’s just admin. It’s not exactly thrilling listening. … Alright, fine. Whatever. You do you. [TWO CLICKS] Spool away, I guess. [ONE CLICK] Just, you know, let me know if you need some more batteries or something. [TYPING] … It’s because he’s back, isn’t it. [ONE CLICK] [SIGH] He’s back, so now you’re going to be… around, again. Listening in. [ONE CLICK] Mff. [TWO CLICKS] You missed him, didn’t you. [HUFF] … Yeah. … [VERY SHARP SQUEAL OF DISTORTION] Yeah, me too.

(MAG154) [CLICK–] [CLOCK TICKING IN THE BACKGROUND] [TYPING SOUNDS] [COMPUTER MOUSE CLICKING] MARTIN: Oh. Right. [CHUCKLE] Hello, again. [TWO CLICKS, TYPING RESUMES] Look, sorry pal, [SHORT LAUGH] false alarm this time…! [ONE CLICK] Oh, unless… [SIGH] [TWO AGGRESSIVE CLICKS] [TO THE ROOM] Peter! [SILENCE] [INHALE] Look, Peter, I– [DOOR OPENS] ARCHIVIST: Martin! MARTIN: Oh, Jon! [DOOR CLOSES] God, don’t do that!

Does Martin still like… spiders…?)

And gods, again and again, there is still what Peter had told Martin coming back to Haunt Us:

(MAG126) MARTIN: … When all this is over, I’m telling him everything, with or without your permission. PETER: Martin… when it’s over, you won’t want to. MARTIN: … Mm. PETER: But he will be safe. They all will. MARTIN: … Yeah.

Peter sounds Right, right now, on the first part; on the second… define “safe”, Peter. (Define “safe”, Martin: is it to be secluded and trapped inside of the Institute forever?)

- Hashtag worried too because with Eric&Gertrude’s conversation… We have the pattern of an archivist discussing with someone who had been bound to the book by someone else and agreeing to burn the page (… if Gertrude indeed burned the page. We didn’t hear her burning that page.), before binding someone else to the book some time later (Gertrude, Eric bound by Mary, Gerry). Jon: discussed with someone who had been bound to the book by someone else (Gerry by Gertrude), before destroying Gerry’s page. Julia&Trevor are back in town, must have come with the book, so it’s there……… I’m. A bit worried. That Jon would end up binding someone (Martin?!) because he doesn’t want to lose them forever…?

Title for MAG155 is… uh. Could be about the Current Economy again (I thought about Ivy Meadows and Melanie too) but I’m a bit at a loss Fears-wise. Spontaneously, I thought about The End but it’s technically… the other way round with that one (if we’re following the gist of MAG029: “‘You said that if I won, then I’d live!’ The monk shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t.’”), and we’re just getting out of a Beholding+End statement with Eric. Extinction, then, with either Martin reading another one or Jon trying to get his hands on new statements because he wants to help from the sidelines? I have a bit of trouble thinking that we could hear Martin two episodes in a row before the finale, it’s been… so long… ;; Other options: something about Jonah Magnus (since Smirke revealed in MAG138 that he feared his own death the most) or, overall, about avatars…? Or a Lonely one again? (I tend to associate Lukases with the mythological figure of Pluto because “rich”.)

Second meaning is “WELP”, I guess Jon is/has been spilling the beans to the others about their new eye-gouging option…?

[gleedalehq]

a dark secret unveiled

Who: Clara Evans (@fieryclaraevans), Peyton July (@southsidepey) ; brief appearance by Derek Gilbert (@derek-ghoulie) w. brief mention of Cassie Bailey (@cassiexbailey)

What: Clara and Peyton stumble across an unexpected secret

When: October 26, Evening

Where: Bridgemont Estates, St. James’ Masquerade

Notes: If there are triggers you need me to mark, please let me know

Peyton

Peyton needed some time away from the dance. One of the guys started to make her feel uncomfortable and knew she had to get out there before she had a full blown panic attack. So, she decided to get some fresh air and it would be best to walk along the beach. Once she arrived there, Peyton slipped off her heels & mask before she started to walk mindlessly. After a while, she got lost in her mind, thinking about things when she saw a log. She furrowed eyebrows, knowing that logs didnt come down this far from the river. She glanced behind her, wondering if anyone was following her and then continue to walk towards the log. Once she got there, she could feel shear panic run through her body and felt sick to her stomach. "No..." She sped up her walking and then started to run before she stopped and let out a scream when she noticed it was Sebrina's body. She dropped her dress, her heels and her mask as she wrapped her arms around herself. She couldnt stop looking at the body, or even move. She was frozen there.

Clara

Clara only snuck out momentarily, enough for a joint and had every intention on going back. There was definitely more she could pocket to make Daddy proud, and there was definitely more scenes she could cause.

She was about to head back to the manor when a bloodcurdling scream distracted her. A scream like that meant something. Without thinking she followed the sound and found Peyton standing alone. It didn’t add up until she walked closer.

The body was almost unrecognizable but even she could place it. Sebrina Smythe.

“Holy fuck...” she mumbled. “Oh this... this is something.”

Peyton

Peyton was close to tears as she stared at the body, covering her mouth as she quieted her sobs. She didnt noticed someone had joined her until she heard someone mumble.

She glanced over to see Clara, then she looked at the body. She slowly uncovered her own mouth then she can opened up her mouth, but no sound came out and glanced out towards the water. She wondered how long the body had been there, just, lying behind the manor. She knew that she needed to let someone else know, but her legs were still frozen there.

"W-we need to get someone." She finally spit out, glancing towards Clara once more. "W-we c-cant just leave h-her here." She stuttered out, wondering if it was the cold that was making her do it.

Clara

Clara wasn’t sure she wanted just anyone showing up. As innocent as she actually was, her standing above the body of a Smythe wasn’t exactly something most NS’rs would take very kindly to. 

“Yeah,” she told Peyton, in an effort to placate her. “I’ll text someone, don’t worry.” The only people she even wanted showing up were her own people.

She pulled her phone out the the purse, careful not to reveal anything else she had in there to Pey, sure she wouldn’t hear the end of robbing the St. James’. She scrolled and found Derek’s contact info and shot him a text.

Back of the manor. Beach area. 911.

Peyton

Peyton fought against the tears as she looked over Sebrina's body, knowing that  things will come unglued and she didnt want to be in Riverdale for it, but she knew that she wanted to be there for Jackie.

"T-thank you." She said as she started to rubbed her arms and glanced back out at the water. She chewed on her bottom lip as she carefully walked around the body, the best she could and then glanced back at Clara.

Peyton picked up her dress, prayed that none of the flowers from her dress had fallen off and then walked back where she was standing at, by her heels & mask.

Derek

The evening had been positively eventful, and he was right in the middle of showing the new girl in town why he was such a beast when he got Clara’s text. Huffing in annoyance at the shit timing, he still finished Cassie up before getting himself dressed and heading out to the back of the manor indicated by the urgent text. All the while he thought to himself if someone’s not dead, someone’s fucking gonna be.

He approached and saw Peyton first, looking confused and hesitant. She didn’t seem hurt. Clara would’ve had no reason to attack her. But soon enough he saw what they were looking at.

Were he a gambling man, the bloated, purple and blue corpse appeared to belong to one Sebrina Smythe. It was impossible to tell how long the body had been in the river but it was definitely too long, chunks of flesh missing from being battered around by the lake and probably gnawed at by fish and other creatures.

Unphased, he arched a brow and looked over at Clara. “You called me out here with a 911 to look at an old dead body? What do you want me to do about it? This is a crime scene now, you can’t fuckin’ move it or anything.” He glanced back over at Peyton. “Call the actual police. No ones gonna get accused of murdering that thing tonight.”

Clara

Clara could Derek wasn't pleased to be called out here, she could see it in the way he walked. That being said, what was she supposed to have done? It's not like she trusted many, or any, people outside of the Ghoulies. He wanted to be their leader, this was the stuff he was going to have to deal with.

Then again, if one Ghoulie standing over Sebrina's dead body, two was probably worse. She wasn't going to let Derek know that had even crossed her mind now though.

"Look," she answered, completely turning away from Peyton. "I heard her scream, I came running, as one does when they hear screaming and this is what I find. Excuse me if I don't exactly know how to deal with a dead fuckin' body."

So maybe getting worked up wasn't the best thing either, and she would probably pay for that later, but she couldn't help it. Like Moni always said, she was a firecracker, it was just in her DNA.

Peyton

Peyton swallowed hard when she listened to Derek, nodded before she pulled out her phone from her bra and dialed the police. She glanced between them, let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through her hair carefully.

"Hi, yes. Um. I found the body of Sebrina Smythe a..and she's behind the manor of the St. James. It looks like she was washed up on shore." Peyton started to say as she stepped in the water, and closed her eyes a bit. "N-no, no one has moved the body a..and I just walked around it, to make sure it was Sebrina Smythe." She glanced at Clara & Derek and let out a breath.

"Y-yeah, I'll go and meet up with the police and show them where Sebrina's at. The address?" Peyton said before she told them the address and hung up before she placed it back into her bra. "The police will be here in a few minutes, in the meantime, you two, should go. I dont want you two to get hit once everyone gets wind about this. I realize that no one will get arrested, but, I dont want anyone to go after you two. However, it's up to you guys if you want to stay."

Derek

Rubbing his eyes in blatant irritation, Derek glared in clara’s direction. “You literally had nothing to do with the body. You turn around and you walk away. What the hell were you expecting I’d be able to do about it? Not like she can be revived. And she was a huge bitch anyway.”

He sighed at Peyton. The cops would be here any minute to fetch the body of their beloved little NorthSider wench. Derek pointed at Clara again. “Princess, go gather up everyone you can find and evacuate. The second the cops get here this place is going on lockdown for questioning. I’ll send out a text but go.”

He shrugged at Peyton. “I’ll hang back.”

Clara

Clara waited patiently as Peyton made the call. When Derek spoke she could help but stand a little straighter. She was just supposed to leave him here? She didn't like the sound of that, but he'd given her an order and she was damned if she was going to step out of line right now. "Yes, Daddy," she answered, putting her phone back in her purse and flash a little of the good's she'd already grabbed at him, obviously out of view of Peyton.

As she walked away she quickly texted everyone even if she knew Derek would too, and made her way to gather everyone on the path out, none of them were going to be caught tonight, not if she could help it.

Peyton

Peyton watched as Clara walk away, stepped out of the water and away from Sebrina, wrapped her arms around her body once more. She slipped on her heels as she stood next to Derek, mask in her hand and knew that her makeup was messed up.

"I should probably text everyone I know as well, right?" She asked as she looked up at Derek. "Never been in this situation before, so not sure if Im doing anything right or not." She glanced back at the body. She let out a breath, that she apparently was holding and really wanted to put her hair up but she didn't have a hair tie. "Do you think they're going to take me down to the station to get a full report?"

Derek

Derek half expected Clara to fight with him about it, but the priority needed to be getting everyone out that had a loaded purse or bag filled with shit they stole from the manor. Especially with everything in clara’s bag. He dug out his phone and fired off a quick group text to the Ghoulies.

Glancing down at the corpse again, Derek shrugged. “If you want? I’m having my guys get the hell out of dodge before the cops start pointing fingers and asking questions. I don’t really give a shit what you do for those shitty snakes.” He reached over and carefully patted Peyton’s back. “I doubt it. The body’s been decaying for awhile. I can’t imagine they’d waste time bringing you there for a lot of “I don’t know” answers.”

Peyton

Peyton listened to Derek, rolled her eyes as she gave him a pointed look. She didnt want to argue with him right here and in front of a dead body. She opened up her mouth but she closed it and pulled out her phone back out of her bra.

"Thank you, for patting my back carefully. Be aware of the sticks and bobby pins on the left side and the flowers." Peyton replied as she quickly texted everyone that she knew, froze over one name and quickly skipped it before she went back texting. "Never know, I could be a suspect, which would be hilarious because I didn't come back, shortly before or was it after she went missing. I don't quite remember, but you're right. Though, probably ask me where I was on the Fourth of July." She put her phone back into her bra and shuddered a bit. "I should've brought a coat with me."

Derek

Derek shrugged again. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you, P. This is very clearly not a recent murder and I can tell you right off the bat you’ll fair a hell of a lot better with the cops than I will.” He glanced over at her, shaking. “Why the hell wouldn’t you come out here with a jacket? For fucks sake.” He shrugged off his suit coat and offered it to her so she could put it around her fancy dress herself. “Here. Put this on before your nipples fall off.”

Peyton

"Because I was in a middle of a mild panic attack at the moment." Peyton pointed out and rolled her eyes as she grabbed the jacket. "Even though I've wore less in the cold, thanks." She slipped on the jacket and pulled it closer to her. After a while, the cops showed up and Peyton gave Derek his coat back after thanking him, knowing that she shouldve kept it on. She showed them where the body was before she followed one of the EMTs to get checked out. She felt a storm was brewing now and she didnt like what was going to become of it.

[minimarker]

The Talllle of Glennnn and Daaaale

(and Gaiiiil and Marrrrsha)

(Note: some of the footage of the 2017 P4A was lost. This compilation was the best I could do from my memory and the footage available. If I made any mistakes or forgot any parts I apologize.) 

In the 2017 Project for Awesome the Missoula crew were hanging out the first night when Brit Garner brought a bunch of props from a local theatre. As Hank said, “Brit is here and she brought… something terrifying.” That terrifying thing was Glennnn the sheep. From one angle Glennnn looks like he smoked a bunch of weed and then killed someone. From another angle Glennnn looks like he’s very tired and knows a lot about you. From yet another angle Glennnn looks proud, like a spiritual teacher. Like a gentler Rafiki mentor. Apparently, Victoria looks at Hank like Glennnn a lot, especially when he has “ideas.” Glennnn reminds Hank of Undertale. At one point Glennnn was called the Merlin to Hank’s King Arthur. Hank quickly became so attached to Glennnn that he promised to work Glennnn into the sequel to his book.

Glennnn came to the stream with two hats: a green visor and a gold crown. When wearing the green visor, it seemed like he will do your shady taxes and launder your money for you. Or maybe play poker with his friends. Does he have a gambling problem? No, he’s just a CPA. When wearing the crown, he is King Glennnn. We will get to that later.

Soon a consensus was made on the spelling of Glennnn. Glennnn must have 4 n’s, three of which are silent. It does not matter which three are silent. Later we learned that Glennnn is pronounced “Glen” if the last three n’s are silent and “Gle-n” if one of the later n’s is the audible one. At this point chat was overtaken with sheep emojis, all from Glennnn the Sheep Father. Some chatters went overboard and were informed that Glennnn can’t have five n’s, we must keep it reasonable!

Quickly we learned more about Glennnn: he is a hollow shell full of wisdom … and MURDER. Hank claimed that NASA is hiding the fact that for years they have observed Glennnn through a powerful telescope. Someone claimed that Deadpool wishes he didn’t wear such a skin-tight suit and instead wore Glennnn’s hat… and nothing else. 

Meanwhile, the nerdfighters quickly made social media accounts for him. Glennnn The Sheep soon had an Instagram with a screenshot of the P4A stream as the profile picture. The bio read “Hi, my name is Glennnn, the last three n’s are silent. My favorite people are the Nerdfighters that are currently watching the livestream of the Project for Awesome!” A twitter account was also made for Glennnn, @GlennTheSheep. Later, when describing the discrepancy in n’s on social media, we were advised to type as many n’s as your heart tells you to find Glennnn on social media. 

Soon Matthew Gaydos joined the stream and was introduced to Glennnn. Matt found his legs “interesting” and when chat asked him how to buy the sheep Matt said “You can’t! Glennnn is a human! No, he’s not!” Hank questioned if Glennnn is 100% sheep and Matt clarified that he is 4% wood and 96% sheep. When Matt had to step away he left Glennnn in charge of the stream.

Somehow Glennnn lost his hat. Matt gave him the crown and declared him King Glennnn. King Glennnn of the Glen, Hank added. It is Glennnn’s Glen, he is not king of the forest. Daaaale is his brother, King of the Dale. And Marrrrsha, of the Marsh, is their sister. Clearly glens were named for Glennnn. As Hank said “If Glennnn can see you, you are in his Glen. You are turning into a sheep. Can you feel it?” 

Hank invented a new version of Instagram for Glennnn: Glennnnstagram. All pictures on it are of sheep and glens, except the one picture of a dale from when Glennnn visited Daaaale. Chat suggested a Glennnn theme park and Matt seemed confused about what that would entail. Hank suggested making a hat with Glennnn on it as a perk for P4A 2018 (as of the posting of this it has not been announced as a perk but Glennnn and Daaaale plushies are totally a thing!). Much of this conversation happened while Hank’s face was being painted to look like Pizza John. Hank then declared that Hank-Pizza John Green of the Glen is a subject of King Glennnn. Chat requested that someone kiss Glennnn and Matt promised that someone would at 1.4 million dollars. Hank offered to kiss Glennnn, although I am not sure if he ever did. 

Soon talk turned to a major event in Glennnn’s past. Apparently, a sheep’s hair is only shorn when he loses in battle. Glennnn’s hair is the longest in the Glen. Daaaale’s hair is slightly longer. Glennnn of the Glen is the hero of the Battle of Glen-Dale. The elves know him. Songs have been dedicated to Glennnn. It is proposed that Lin-Manuel Miranda or Al Roker should write a musical of the battle of Glen-Dale. 

Then Rodney appeared and it was confirmed that Glennnn has Rodney’s back because, of course he does. Rodney said, “the sheep is everything” and as Glennnn was passed from person to person we learned that holding Glennnn feels so right that you forget he’s there. For a time Glennnn wore the frog hat instead of his crown. We also learned that Glennnn plays the banjo just like Ed Helms and Ryan is his middle name. Maia and Valerie drew Glennnn eating corn in a timed competition.

The next day we learned that Glennnn is everyone’s baby. He belongs to the world. Unknowingly, Destin was encouraging donations by offering to write donors’ names on magnets and one was a sheep. The chat insisted that the sheep was Glennnn. Soon a donation came in from Glennnn but Destin rejected his name because he “is not a real person.” The chat declared that while other magnets were worth a certain donation amount the sheep should cost $1000 in honor of Glennnn. Ben donated $1000 and Destin insisted “but does he want the sheep?” He then offered that Ben could name the sheep whatever he wanted. When Destin wrote on the sheep he could feel how much it mattered to chat. “This is the most important thing I’m gonna write on a sheep, probably in my life.” Destin writes “Ben (Glenn)” and chat quickly corrected: Glennnn has four n’s. 

Back with the Missoula crew we learned that Glennnn is Tuna’s favorite quadruped. Since we had last seen the Missoula crew, Ashe had made a painting of Glennnn. The donations reached a milestone and Brit brought in a surprise. DAAAALE HAD ARRIVED! Daaaale bowed to Glennnn, for he was the hero of the Battle of Glen-Dale. 

“All hail Daaaale!” someone declared. “Disagree!” countered Hank. Soon it was questioned where Marrrrsha is and Brit clarified “I drive a Honda Civic, I can only do so much.” After a brief debate, it is confirmed that Daaaale has four a’s and can be pronounced as “Dale” or with a bleating sound in the middle (like a sheep). Soon the battle between Glennnn and Daaaale was sparking again, they began to tally a donation battle between the brothers. “Is the vote just a tally? I’ve made a spreadsheet!” someone said, proving how nerdy we all are. The spreadsheet was put to use as the tally was called the “popular vote” and the spreadsheet was used to count the amount donated to each sheep. Suddenly most of the Missoula crew was on Daaaale’s side. “We’re just excited by the new thing” said Caitlin (and seconded by Hank). 

The following was determined about the First Battle of Glen-Dale: 

-It took place in 1994 (Possibly 640? Possibly yesterday? It couldn’t have been yesterday!) 

-Different spellings are all accepted: Glen-Dale, Glennnndale, Glennnn-Daaaale 

-Hank’s recap of the Battle: “This is Glennnn, king of the Glen. This is Daaaale, king (queen?) of the Dale. The Dale and Glen were once one land until the Battle of Glennnndaaaale. Very sad for Gaiiiil, their mom. Their sister, Marrrrsha, inherited the Marsh that no one wanted, so it is a peaceful land.”

Now we are in the Second Battle of GlennnnDale! Accusations were thrown at the brothers and slogans were created: 

-Glennnn had cow pox and did not tell his lady-friends about it 

-A vote for Glennnn is a vote for cow pox for the entire flock 

-Tip the scale for Daaaale 

-Justice for Daaaale 

-A win for Glennnn is a fail for Daaaale

-Daaaale has kind eyes (contrasting the discussion of Glennnn’s eyes from the first day) 

-“If Daaaale fails I will wail”- Julie 

-Glennnn is such a good friend! 

-RiverDAAAALE! 

-What do we know about Daaaale? Nothing! 

-Daaaale is against Net Neutrality 

-We are feeling sheepish about Glennnn 

-Daaaale will prevail 

-Tip the scale for Daaaale 

-Glennnn and Daaaale have beef with each other 

-A vote for Daaaale is a vote for a world of snacks

The Battle paused to introduce and catch up the new guests. Brit explained everything as “Brit brings props from community theatre but they are now their own things and stories.” At this point Daaaale was wearing Shrek ears because Shrek lives in a swamp. (I’m still confused on this one since a dale is not a swamp.) The new guests were happy to jump into the Battle and insisted that cow pox gave us vaccines. As their connection to the stream went in and out it was commented that the Battle is causing wooly connections and shear brilliance of puns. I’m not sure you herd me. Chat declared the puns to be flocking awesome. 

As the Battle waged on and the donations continued to pour in Brit called for peace: “I need to take them back in the same vehicle.” Hank agreed, adding that Glennnn and Daaaale need to go sit in the same basement together. Soon donations were submitted for peace and were tallied under the joint ticket of Gaiiiil and Marrrrrsha. Unfortunately, this peace was short-lived as the debate was reignited by the question of if Glennnn or Daaaale is older. Eventually it was decided that they are twins but Glennnn is older. 

As is to be expected, Harry Potter was soon pulled into the battle. In the heat of anger Glennnn was declared a Slytherin but it was soon walked back. He is a Gryffindor. Daaaale is definitely a Hufflepuff. Both Glennnn and Daaaale love Harry Potter. The discussion of Harry Potter brought us back to Nerdfighteria and Brotherherd 2.0 was born, as were its fans the Herdfighters of Herdfighteria. Quietly Brit lamented, “Why do I feel like they are never going to be returned?”

“I’m for Daaaale, but when I look into Glennnn’s eyes I feel the need to vote for him” commented Hank. There is definitely something about Glennnn’s eyes. Ben (possibly the same Ben from before) made a big donation in Glennnn’s name. He was declared Glennnn’s SuperPAC which was soon replaced with SuperHERD (or SuperFLOCK). Since Glennnn was given larger donations than Daaaale, Glennnn was declared a puppet for Big Sheep. Soon the Second Battle of GlennnnDaaaale was ended due to the $5154 donation that did not vote for either sheep. The votes were tallied and Glennnn won the Second Battle of GlennnnDaaaale. 

As they were finishing up for the night Brit went to wash dishes and found a picture of Reed hugging a different sheep from the theatre… and also a large goat (which Brit did not bring to the stream because it was too big). 

You would think that would be the end of Glennnn and Daaaale for the evening BUT NO! They traveled to Synema Studios to visit that crew into the wee hours of the morning. Michael Aranda questioned why Glennnn gets to be the lord and savior (and wear the crown). He was then given a quick recap of the story. Soon it was discovered that Glennnn and Daaaale were in marching band together as drummers. As the stream continued the Synema crew gave Daaaale a lot more attention than Glennnn because Glennnn is a king and “Daaaale just lives in a swamp” (Note: a dale is not a swamp). At the end of their shift Michael declared that it was more of an honor to be in Daaaale’s presence than Glennnn’s and chat was offended. 

As the 2017 Project for Awesome came to a close Hank thanked Glennnn and Daaaale for their efforts. Glennnn appeared to celebrate the end of the livestream. After John and Hank said goodbye the last shot of the stream was Glennnn.

(Here’s a link to my Butfartman Lore Compliation.)

[sciencenewsforstudents]

In early July, two large earthquakes rattled southern California. Scientists are now scrambling to understand what led to the temblors and what they might tell us about future quakes.

A magnitude 6.4 quake struck July 4 near the town of Ridgecrest. That’s about 194 kilometers (121 miles) northeast of Los Angeles. The next day, a magnitude 7.1 quake shook the same region.

Both quakes took place in a high desert area. The crisscrossing faults here are known as the Eastern California Shear Zone. They are quite a distance from California’s infamous San Andreas Fault.

Explainer: Understanding plate tectonics

That fault stretches nearly 1,300 kilometers (some 800 miles) and generally takes center stage for California’s earthquake activity. There, the Pacific tectonic plate and the North American tectonic plate slowly grind past each other. This can cause sections of ground to lock together for a while. That brake on their movement allows strain to buildup. Eventually it will suddenly release, producing powerful quakes.

For the last few tens of millions of years, the San Andreas has been the primary origin of massive earthquakes in southern California. It’s also now overdue for a massive earthquake, based on historic trends. Many people fear it’s only a matter of time before another truly “Big One” strikes.

But as shown by the July 4 and July 5 quakes — and their many aftershocks —the San Andreas Fault system isn’t the only area of concern. California is riddled with faults, notes geophysicist Susan Hough. She works for the U.S. Geological Survey in Pasadena, Calif. Almost all of the state is part of the general boundary between the Pacific and North American plates. The Eastern California Shear Zone itself has been the source of several large quakes in the last few decades. These include the magnitude 7.1 Hector Mine quake in 1999. There was also the magnitude 6.7 Northridge quake in 1994 and a magnitude 7.3 Landers quake in 1992.

Here are three questions scientists are trying to answer in the wake of quakes on July 4 and 5.

Which faults ruptured, and how?

The quakes appear to have occurred, here, along previously unmapped faults. These include a section known as the Little Lake Fault Zone. Its broad bunch of cracks are difficult to map, Hough says. “It’s not like the San Andreas, where you can go out and put your hand on a single fault,” she explains. And, she adds, the zone also lies within a U.S. Navy base. Such military sites generally are not open for mapping by geologists.

But preliminary data do offer some clues. They suggest that the first rupture may actually have been a two-fer: Instead of one fault rupturing, two connected faults — or conjugate faults — may have ruptured at almost the same time. They would have produced the July 4 quake.

It’s possible that the first quake didn’t fully release the strain on that fault, but that the larger, second quake did. “My guess is that they will turn out to be complementary,” Hough says. By that, she means they will turn out to be related.

The jury is still out, though, says Wendy Bohon. She’s a geologist at Incorporated Research Institutions for Seismology in Washington, D.C. “What parts of the fault broke, and whether a part of the fault broke twice … I’m waiting to see what the scientific consensus is on that.”

It is not yet clear, she adds, whether a simultaneous rupture of a conjugate fault is surprising. It may turn out to be common, she says. The data simply haven’t amassed to show that yet. “In nature, we see a lot of conjugate-fault pairs,” she says. “I don’t think they normally rupture at the same time.” But if they do, “We haven’t had enough data to see that.”

Is the center of tectonic action moving away from the San Andreas?

Data from Global Positioning System (GPS) satellites have revealed exactly how the ground is shifting in California as the giant tectonic plates slide past one another. The San Andreas Fault system bears most of the strain, those data show — some 70 percent. But the Eastern California Shear Zone bears the other 30 percent. And the large quakes seen there over the last few decades raise an interesting possibility, Hough says: We may be witnessing the birth pangs of a new boundary.

“The plate boundary system has been evolving for a long time already,” Hough says. For the last 30 million years or so, the action has focused along the San Andreas Fault. But just north of Santa Barbara, Calif., lies a “big bend” in the fault. This kink separates the northern and southern portions of the fault. Where the fault bends, the Pacific and North American plates aren’t sliding past one another but colliding into each other.

“The plates are trying to move,” she says. “But the San Andreas is actually not well aligned with that motion.” The Eastern California Shear Zone is. And some geologists are now asking whether this is a new plate boundary in the making. The changeover would take “millions of years,” she adds. “It’s not going to be in anyone’s lifetime.”

Will these quakes trigger the Big One on the San Andreas?

Such large quakes inevitably raise fears of setting off the Big One. Historically, the San Andreas has produced a massive quake about once every 150 years. “It has been pretty quiet in the San Andreas since 1906,” Hough notes. That’s when an estimated magnitude 7.9 quake along the northern portion of the fault devastated San Francisco. The southern portion of the San Andreas is even more overdue for a massive quake. Its last biggie was an estimated magnitude 7.9 quake in 1857, she says.

How Earth’s surface morphs

The recent quakes aren’t likely to change that situation. Subsurface shifting due to a large earthquake can alter strains on nearby faults. But it’s unlikely that the quakes either relieved stress or will ultimately trigger another quake along the San Andreas system, Hough says. The reason? Basically, the early July quakes were too far away. “The disruption [from one earthquake] of other faults decreases really quickly with distance,” she explains.

Some early assessments do suggest that the 7.1 earthquake on July 5 triggered some slippage, also known as creep, along at least one shallow fault in the southern San Andreas system. But such slow, shallow slips don’t produce earthquakes, Hough points out.

July’s back-to-back quakes could have perturbed much closer faults. One of them, the Garlock Fault, runs roughly west to east along the northern edge of the Mojave Desert. That would be nothing novel: The 1992 Landers quake may have triggered a magnitude 5.7 quake two weeks later along the Garlock Fault.

“Generations of graduate students are going to be studying these events,” notes Bohon. They’ll be looking, she says, into angles of the faults, how the ground moved — even how the visible evidence of a rupture can disappear over time.

For now, scientists are eagerly trading ideas on social media. “It’s the equivalent of listening in on scientists shouting down the hallway: ‘Here’s my data — what do you have?’” Bohon explains. Those initial ideas and explanations will almost certainly evolve as more information comes in, she adds. “It’s early days yet.”