#I’m at the airport at 4 am sorry if this is incoherent

[lavendernhoney]

Rewatching season one has been so interesting for analyzing Penelope and Colin. First of all I forgot what a good friend Penelope was to Marina (before publishing about her pregnancy…) and how hard she tried to dissuade her from tricking Colin.

Their conversation is so interesting though. Marina says that Colin is not interested in Penelope because he sees her the same way he sees his younger sisters, not implying he sees her in a familial way, but that he sees her as still being a girl. AND SHES RIGHT. And this isn’t a case of Colin being oblivious to his feelings- she does come off so much younger than the other debutants. From her shyness to her fashions to her makeup. I actually think the costume and makeup is purposeful to make her look as young as possible. Colin IS clearly fond of Penelope. He KNOWS he’s fond of Penelope.

So then I think of “I would never dream of courting her” or “you do not count you are Pen” and like. I get it. Yes it was not considerate to her but if MY younger sisters friend looked and acted similarly young I also would be like “that’s a kid not a woman” ya know.

It’s also really interesting to me the kinda reoccurring theme in Bridgerton about how women in the society find ways to take agency of their lives. From main characters to barely mentioned widows- it comes up near constantly. I think pre season 3 Penelope felt completely helpless in society. She felt she had no agency, that all she could do was stand by and hope to be noticed. All of her desire for agency and attention is poured into Whistledown. Or out through Whistledown? Anyway basically the second she takes some agency of her life outwardly Colin (as well as other members of society) are quick to pay her more attention. Like yes the clothes and hair and makeup helped but those are just ways to show her inner attitude has shifted.

So Colin is always fond of her (very openly, he’s really so sweet in season 2 until the very end), but the MOMENT she signals a shift in her attitude and intentions he’s like wait 👀 this is a woman. A beautiful woman. A woman I love talking to.

Idk I think we should give Colin more credit. Like Penelope may have known she liked Colin sooner, but neither of them were REALLY ready before.

[a-slytherinish-gryffindor]

It Was An Accident! - Rewrite Chapter 1

Harry and Teddy's Adventure at the Airport

first

next

masterlist

July 26th, 2011 - 11:26 PM EST [July 27th, 2011 - 4:26 AM GMT / England Time] - Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean; First Class

“Is there anything I can get for you or your son, Lord Potter ?” simpered a young female flight attendant.

Harry heaved a sigh and lifted his head from its resting position on top of Teddy’s head. He flicked his eyes up to the grinning face of the coquettish flight attendant and then to her name tag. ‘ Amanda’; His sluggish brain supplied.

He gave another sigh and dropped his head back down while incoherently mumbling something along the lines of a “no thank you, please, for the love of Merlin, go away and let me sleep .” towards the attendant.

He waited until he heard the attendant, Amanda, reluctantly walk away and then looked down to check on the sleeping six-year-old in his lap.

After being reassured that Teddy was alright, he settled down to get some sleep, before they landed in New York.

~~~

July 27th, 2011 - 7:48 AM EST - John F. Kennedy International Airport; Baggage Claim

Harry Potter clenched his jaw as he fought down the urge to hex the next woman or old lady who came over to him to coo over his son or question him about his family as he waited for his luggage. Instead, he took a look around the area to search for a group he and Teddy could blend in with, so the women would leave him alone. 

In his peripheral vision, Harry could see another two women making their way towards him and he panicked. He picked Teddy up and wove between the crowd of people and slid into the first group of teens he saw.

As he kept an eye on the women who were looking for them, he noticed that most of the group was surprised and were observing him and Teddy curiously. 

After a few moments, Harry relaxed and put Teddy back down, who immediately ducked behind him, shyly peering at the teens around them and mumbling a quick hello. 

Harry turned towards them and offered them a quick sheepish smile. 

“My apologies, I was trying to avoid another well-intentioned woman interrogating me about my son. I’m Hadrian and this is my son Teddy. I-”

“Stop talking like that.” interrupted the only girl in the group.

“Pardon?” ‘ What the hell? I was being polite, what’s her problem?’

Another one of the teens quickly jumped in front of her, laughing awkwardly. He was about 5’8” with floppy light brown curls and large brown doe eyes and looked to be around the same age as himself. ‘ Cute ,’ his brain traitorously thought. He quickly shook the thought off and refocused on the (cute) boy.

 “I’m so, so sorry about that. I’m sure MJ didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Peter.”

The girl, MJ , apparently, spoke up before the cute boy Peter could continue. “Actually, I did mean to be rude. Your manner of speaking. It’s completely fake. Don’t insult us by pretending to be nice, and expecting us to fall for your fake apology.” The girl had taken a few steps forward and poked him as she was speaking.

Harry took a step back, amused. He was about to speak when he noticed someone familiar walking towards the group. ‘ Is that… Harry Osborn? Merlin, I hate that we have the same name. At least I can call him Theo*. Small mercies.’

“Potter?”

Harry sniffed disdainfully. “It’s Potter-Black now, Osborn.” he sneered.

“Of course, how could I forget that you’re a few billion richer. How does it feel to be equals, Hadrian?” retorted the heir of Oscorp.

“If equals means that I’d be as big a pain in the ass as you are, Harold, then I think I’d be better off without.”

Silence. There was absolute silence in the group as they looked between the two sneering multibillionaires.

It seemed like both Harry’s were in a standoff. That neither would move unless the other would back down.

Until they heard soft giggles coming from behind Hadrian. That was the catalyst for the raucous laughter that erupted from both heirs. 

As their laughter died down, the two Harry’s shared a quick hug, and Teddy ran over to hug them both as well.

“How much do you wanna bet that the press is gonna have us in the news tomorrow, Hare-bear ?” snickered Hadrian

“That’s a fool’s bet, and you know it, Jamie** !” laughed Theo. He paused, thinking, before continuing, “How does fifty and my signed AC/DC sweatshirt sound?”

“Done” agreed Hadrian.

“Wait, wait, hold on a second! How do you guys know each other?” questioned Peter.

One of the other boys piped in with another question. “Why was that bet a fool’s bet? Is that why you’re only betting fifty dollars? Oh! I’m Ned by the way.”

Harry and Theo looked at each other, silently arguing about how would explain their meeting.

In the end, Theo sighed, and grumbled, “It’s a long story, how we met. But, it was a fool’s bet because if Jamie and I are famous in our own right, together, we’ll make the news across the country and in Europe. And we’re betting fifty-thousand, not fifty dollars Ned.”

While everyone gaped at the huge amount of money, MJ continued interrogating Hadrian.

“Why will it hit the news in Europe?” she asked.

Hadrian deadpanned, “I was knighted and awarded a Victoria Cross by the Queen for taking down a terrorist at seventeen. I’m the orphaned heir of Potter Industries who appeared out of nowhere to take over the company. I’m the eighteen-year-old multibillionaire who adopted his orphaned mutant godson. Take your pick. Anyway, I’d be surprised if the press hasn’t already found out that I’m here and aren’t waiting to mob Teddy and I at the door like the fucking vultures they are.

“If I’m not always perfect, always presentable, the press will rip me and my son and my friends back home to shreds, and take my family’s company down with it, so, I apologize if I seemed fake earlier, MJ. I’m trying to protect my only family and their legacies.” admitted Harry.

MJ listened silently, observing him. When he had finished, MJ gave him a terse nod, a silent apology, and a message that she understood why he was like that.

“I’m Michelle. You can call me MJ.”

“It was nice to meet all of you, but I’m afraid that I have to go house hunting, my friends ‘let slip’ a couple of fake addresses for me, so that I can have the chance to have a place of my own.”

“You’re not using the manor?” asked Theo, curiously.

“Gods, no! As if I want to live in the Black homes, ever. They’re creepy and give me and Teddy bad vibes. And it’s not even in the area I want to be in! I still have to finish my senior year, so my friend got me admitted to some science school in Brooklyn. Midtown something, I think. Anyway, I bought a flat-”

“He means an apartment.” piped in Theo.

“-somewhere in Queens, just to keep the press away. And I heard it’s pretty safe at night because of Spiderman. I can use all the safety I can get, with my track record.

“Anyway, I really need to get going. My pets are not going to be happy being alone for so long. Talk later, yeah?”

“Yeah, Jamie. You know where I live. Come over one of these days, even if it’s just to rant about the American education system.”

That’s a good one. I’m sure nothing can be worse than my Hogwarts years. 

  “I will, mate. Nice meeting you guys. Theo’ll give you my number, but I really gotta go. See you around!” 

Harry picks Teddy back up and jogs away.

As he leaves, he overhears Theo dramatically whine, “ I thought you all came for me… but you all ignored me for my rival! My own friends, leaving me for the next pretty face! ” and shakes his head in exasperation at his dramatic friend as he made his way to the exit.

~~~

*Since Hadrian Potter and Harold Osborn both use Harry as a nickname, they call each other by their middle names, hence Theo and Jamie. **Same as above

[caffeineivore]

The Taylor Swift Concert Hijinks

This is dedicated to the lovely @mygeekycorner and @minakosaino and follows the last thing I posted. M/K and a Taylor Swift Concert. Please don’t kill me, Swifties! Rated PG/PG13. Romance/humour.

The corporate office of Ainsley-Hart Holdings, LLC is not exactly her favourite hang-out spot, ever, but Romina Catherine Ainsley-Hart, “Mina” to everyone but her parents, still breezes in as though she has nowhere better to be at half-past four on a Thursday afternoon, carrying a cup-holder from Starbucks bearing no less than four drinks in one hand, a stylish oversized Gucci handbag in buttery red leather in the other. She plops the first one down at the desk of Janet, the formidable office receptionist, with a winning smile. “Grande soy flat white?” 

“Your father is off-site until five.” Wise to Mina’s wiles, Janet accepts the drink, but looks askance at the tray. “I was under the impression that you had a prior engagement-- drinks with some of your sorority sisters this evening? Shouldn’t you be uptown by now if you want to make it on time?”

“Well, Una has the flu, and Cassie bailed on me at the last minute because she has a hot date with Miguel Rivera-- you know, the buff Pro soccer player she hooked up with the last time she went to Cabo for vacation. He looked her up because he’s in town. So no drinks for me, no ma’am, so here I am! I’m just going to go on back, but I promise not to bother anyone or break anything!”

Janet humphs as though she doesn’t quite trust Mina’s word, and Mina pouts for a moment even as she sails off towards the elevator in the back. She’d jammed the copy machine one time, all of ten years ago, and the old battle axe still held a grudge! But no matter. She had more important fish to fry, so to speak. Her father’s office is empty, as per Janet’s report, but she sets down the espresso macchiato in the middle of the desk, with a post-it note scribbled “Mina was here!” with a smiley face tacked on as an afterthought. The four drinks now down to two remaining ones, she makes her way down the hall to the last door on the right. It’s open only a sliver, bearing a plain placard with the name “Kenneth Knightley, CFO” engraved on it. The quiet sounds of keyboard tapping alerted that her target is indeed inside, though from the looks of it, has his back turned to the door as he crunched numbers in a spreadsheet on the computer. Mina raps her knuckles on the door frame for a split second before she invites herself in. 

“Hey, Kenneth! I brought you coffee.” Kenneth, never Kenny or Ken, had been working for her father since her college days, though they rarely exchanged more than the usual pleasantries. Smart, driven, serious and good-looking in the unapproachable chiseled-jaw alpha-male way, Mina had always been quite certain that he had exactly zero use for the likes of her. That she knew bits and pieces about him that he’d never exactly told her himself-- his coffee order, for example (Grande Triple Americano, one non-dairy creamer, no sugar)-- was beside the point. But there was the not-small matter of the Taylor Swift concert tickets currently burning a hole in the bottom of her handbag, which had been discreetly dropped in there at some point after the gala masquerade. Exactly in the way that her infuriating older brother, Zander, had prophesied. And if he’d been right about that, then…

Kenneth’s shoulders snap straight, and he takes a moment to turn around, but by the time that he does, he’s schooled his face into polite neutrality. “Good afternoon, Mina.”

She’d insisted on their first meeting that she would not answer to ‘Miss Ainsley-Hart’ and only her mother called her ‘Romina’, and generally when she was not behaving herself. It had still taken him a good six months before he’d started calling her ‘Mina’, and she wasn’t above feeling a thrill of gratification whenever her name was spoken in those grave, collected tones. “You busy? I can just sit here and drink my own coffee until you finish. I got a caramel frappuccino with extra whipped cream and cinnamon dolce sprinkles on top. It is delicious.”

“I will take your word for it.” He saves whatever spreadsheet he’d been working on, then closes out of it, courteously. “What brings you here today?”

“Well, I thought I’d say hi, and you know Janet almost didn’t let me back here because I think she hates me, but you’re free tomorrow night, right? For the concert? Because you are so going with me since those are your tickets and I am so thankful that you thought to give them to me but it would be wrong if you didn’t come with, seeing as to how you paid for them. So I came to set up the plans so we can go there tomorrow and have a great time and I am so going to treat you to drinks beforehand so you can be good and tipsy before dealing with legions of screaming fans, which I’m sure is completely not your scene. So, yes. Do you want to meet at my place, or yours? Five o’clock?”

“I…” Kenneth blinks, apparently caught off-guard. “You don’t have any friends who you’d want to go with you to that concert?” He doesn’t try to deny the fact that he had, indeed, bought expensive-ass Taylor Swift tickets and dropped them into her purse. But then again, she’d never known for him to be less than scrupulously honest about anything.

“That’s not the point!” Mina has a tendency to talk with her hands, and this time she has the wherewithal to set her sugary coffee concoction on his desk first before launching into her schpiel. “You do not have to give me concert tickets just to be nice! And while it’s a sweet gesture on your part, I could at least also get to enjoy your company while at this concert, you know? I insist. You’re going or I will give these tickets away to someone else. And then I would be sad, because they’re TAYLOR SWIFT TICKETS. So, where do you want to meet? We’ll have an hour before the concert begins and we can get drinks before then. My treat, of course. You do drink in moderation on social occasions, right? Oh of course you do. Glenfiddich and soda, if I remember correctly. From the last company Christmas party.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him carefully pull a Kleenex out of the box on the desk and place it, coaster-style, underneath her frappuccino cup, and curses herself for not thinking of it, but soldiers on nonetheless. “So yes. I think we can meet at my place. It’s a bit closer. And there’s a great little bar called Dazzle right by the venue which certainly has your Glenfiddich as well as a nice wine selection, since I’m pretty sure Scotch would put me out on my ass, and you don’t need me embarrassing you on top of everything else. Please don’t stand me up? I know this is probably not your idea of a fun time, but…”

Perhaps the faintest note of uncertainty makes it into her voice, because Kenneth finally cracks the tiniest of smiles, and faint though it is, it transforms his whole face. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

Well, maybe it was a good thing he didn’t smile often, because there was no point in being turned into a babbling incoherent mess just by the random side observation that his eyelashes were a few shades darker than his hair, curly and surprisingly long, and that his eyes softened from the colour of the sky before a thunderstorm to a pleasant cashmere-charcoal. Mina meets that faint smile with a blinding megawatt one of her own and picks up her half-melted frappuccino. “So, five o’clock it is. I’ll let you get back to work and see you tomorrow, then. I’m so excited!!”

**

True to his word, Kenneth does not stand her up, and the doorman of her building calls her at 4:59 on the dot to tell her that she has a visitor. Mina spritzes on perfume and gives her hair one final once-over in the mirror before opening the door for him, and really, it’s not fair. She knows, intellectually, that he’s tall and built in such a way that no stodgy numbers-crunching finance guy has any right to be, but it’s easy to forget when he’s usually hunched over a computer at the office. Here, standing in front of her in pressed gray slacks and a white button-down, he towers over her even in her sparkly Jimmy Choos. 

“Good evening, Mina. You look… nice.” If he’s a bit disconcerted by how glittery her dress is, he doesn’t say it. He does hold out her coat for her to slip into, and offer her his arm. It’s not a date, not exactly, but that doesn’t mean that Mina’s not about to make the most of it. She may or may not be vibrating with excitement, but keeps up a steady stream of conversation as they spend an hour at the bar over his Glenfiddich and her Riesling. Kenneth doesn’t talk too much about himself, seeming content to inquire, in his grave, polite way, what she’d been up to the last week. 

“Well, there was wrapping up the stuff with the fundraiser, of course. Una bought the Dior dress, and it looks beautiful on her, and Matthew is going to swallow his tongue when he sees her in it. And I saw Zander off to the airport. He was a bit distracted after the party, which bears further investigation, but he’s in Vancouver now, so it’s hard to get all up in his business while he’s so far away. I’ll still call him later, because at least it’s Canada and not like, Madagascar or something, right?” Zander had also been the one to clue her into Kenneth’s possible intentions, and that has her staring into the pale golden surface of her wine, uncomfortably aware that she’s blushing. “Anyway, there’s the tax forms for the fundraiser to get filed, but I’m pretty sure they just got slapped on your desk by my mom the morning after. In which case, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I sort of get paid to handle stuff like that.” 

“You’re paid to handle the real estate company’s finances, not this nonsense, and don’t try to pass it off as no big deal, because I did minor in econ at NYU, and non-profit is a whole new breed of pain in the ass to deal with from an accounting point of view. But thanks for handling it.” Mina plays with the slim stem of her wine glass, then glances up at him through her eyelashes. “The first time I met Dr. Miller, before the fundraiser, she cut the meeting short to Face-time her hospital in San Jose to talk to one of her patients. I sort of hung around. He’s a six-year-old boy who wants to be Captain America when he grows up, which… is a one in a hundred chance. She talked Avengers with him for ten minutes, and I’m pretty sure that’s not her type of movie. I almost cried.”

“She does important work, and so do you, for helping those like her get their funding.” 

Mina beams, and when the bartender moseys on over, cheerfully orders both of them a refill before asking for the check. “I’m so glad you think so. So many people think that only ditzy rich girls work on fundraisers, and don’t have any idea how hard it can be. Do people think that Dior exclusives commissioned for A-listers just fall out of the sky or something? Anyway, we have time for another drink before we should get going. Figure I should let you get as tipsy as possible before Tay-Tay. Which… what type of music do you like, anyway?”

She had never seen him at a loss before this very moment, but this is most certainly the most deer-in-headlights look which had possibly ever crossed Kenneth Knightley’s face in the history of ever. He takes a long swallow of the Scotch and soda that has just been set down in front of him, then clears his throat. “I’m not much of a music guy.”

“Oh, surely you listen to something? It’s okay if it’s embarrassing. Opera? Trance techno? Death metal? I won’t judge, even if nothing trumps Tay-Tay.”

“No, nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” Mina blinks, her wineglass halfway to her mouth as she stares at him with not a little confusion. “Surely you listen to something. In the shower, or on the subway. Everyone does. No one actually talks to people on the subway.”

“Umm. Usually NPR, though I follow a few podcasts as well.”

He looks so glum and embarrassed at this admission, as though not being a music guy would disappoint her on a personal level, and though her mind sort of boggles at the idea of anyone who would listen to NPR while showering, she grins at him over the surprise and gives his arm a quick squeeze, noting at random that the bicep underneath her fingertips is solid and firm as a softball. 

“Well, you’re in for a real treat, then. Tay-Tay is the GOAT. Just you wait and see.”

**

An hour and a half later finds Mina with a brand new sparkly white-and-gold Taylor Swift concert tee thrown over her equally sparkly dress, jamming and singing along with “I Knew You Were Trouble When You Walked In” next to a petite dark-haired girl with a nose-ring who, in typical concert fashion, was now her new best friend. Kenneth’s face looks much like that of someone in the waiting room of the dentist’s office right before a scheduled root canal. As there is a seven-foot-tall linebacker-sized man in a top hat and a legit Taylor Swift onesie dancing with at least equal enthusiasm to Mina and her new friend on his other side, she supposed that she couldn’t blame his discomfiture too much. 

The pop star goes on to something slower a few songs later-- All Too Well, a ballad about lost love, and the dark haired girl lets out a few hiccuping sobs at Mina’s side, so Mina wraps both arms around her and they hug it out for the duration of the song. Like magic, the melancholy mood vanishes when the next song comes on, and they’re belting along with “Shake It Off” and dancing around Kenneth in a way likely designed to give him whiplash. But for all this behaviour is undoubtedly outlandish and completely incomprehensible to him, Kenneth looks as though he could be persuaded to crack a smile if he’d only let himself relax a little more, so Mina redoubles her efforts, likely yelling out “Haters Gonna Hate Hate Hate Hate Hate” loud enough to annoy everyone around them. But it does bring a tiny smile to his mouth for a second, and she finds, to her surprise, that she’s okay with him finding amusement at her ridiculousness. That had never, ever happened before with another guy. 

“Are you having fun?!” She shouts at him over the applause and cheers as the song comes to a close. “Isn’t Taylor the best ever?!”

“It’s… catchy, I suppose. The music, that is.” It seems as though he had to think hard to find the correct word, but Mina forgives him even as she links her arm through his. 

“I’m glad you’re having fun, because we still have the backstage passes and we get to MEET HER IN PERSON! I am having the best time EVER!”

Much to his credit, Kenneth doesn’t say anything, though the sigh that he lets out says it all for him. 

**

They hit up a 24 hour diner after the concert, and this time, he insists on paying for her greasy hash browns and slightly burnt coffee, and though she knows quite well that he has likely been up for close to twenty-four hours at this point, he is a consummate gentleman and doesn’t mention that fact, and lets her excitedly run through a blow-by-blow of the concert that they’d just attended as he nurses his own coffee. 

“And she is so nice isn’t she? And so so pretty! I wish I was that tall. Legs for days. Then I wouldn’t have to jog to keep up with tall people, or they wouldn’t have to slow down their stride like you’ve been doing all night, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Mina nibbles on a hash brown and gulps coffee adulterated with a good half-cup of sugar and cream. “Did you have some fun, though? At least a little? I hope I haven’t irritated you too much.”

“No, you didn’t irritate me, and you’re fine just as you are. You don’t need to be any taller.” It’s not exactly the most poetic or flowery of compliments, and yet Mina feels the stilted words warm her from within. Now, post-adrenaline-rush, a bit tired and content, somewhat cold from gallivanting about in a tiny dress all night and letting second-rate greasy food warm her back up, she absolutely can’t think of a better way to spend her Friday night. Undoubtedly, her usual crew is out at some place a great deal fancier, and having a blast, and yet… she takes a second hash brown and smiles up at Kenneth. 

“So, should I get you a Taylor Swift album for your next birthday? I love her new one, but the old ones are where it’s really at.” 

“You don’t have to get me anything for my birthday. But I should get you home, yeah? It’s getting late, and you’re probably cold. That coat’s still bound to be drafty with that dress, and you’ve been wearing it unbuttoned half the time.” Almost as though on impulse, he buttons it up all the way, then jerks his hands back like he hadn’t meant to take such a liberty. 

The traffic is reasonable by New York City standards when they share a cab to her place, and he walks her all the way to her door, gentleman-like. Mina turns to him with a smile, and-- is he leaning towards her just a little? 

He is, one hand held out towards her, and she launches herself at him, wrapping both arms around a broad back firm with muscle underneath his black pea-coat, but he freezes, stiff as a board, and belatedly she realizes that he probably meant to shake her hand rather than give her a hug, and she’s quite certain that the heat of her cheeks is warm enough to start a fire in the hallway. But there’s nothing to do but roll with it, and she stands on tiptoe, leaving a whisper of Tom Ford Lavish against his jaw as she air-kisses him. 

“Well, good night. And have a good weekend. I’ll see you around. Probably.” Uncomfortably aware that she’s babbling, like she has been all night long, really, she unlocks her door while managing to avoid his eyes, and all but jogs in, heels and all. She leans against the door after it’s locked back up behind her, and lets out a windy sigh as she pulls up Spotify on her phone. 

Lovelorn ballads by Taylor seemed to be in order, possibly played on repeat, the neighbours be damned.

**

Mina takes four days to talk herself into visiting the office again, and even then, makes a point to shuffle her own schedule for the day, getting up at an ungodly hour of the morning to sweet-talk a contact in Milan to donate couture evening-wear for a charity fashion show-- proceeds to benefit victims of domestic violence. That phone call, which was originally slotted in for early afternoon, freed up the rest of the morning to visit the salon after a shopping trip to Bergdorf Goodman-- it was never too late, after all, to get her parents the present for their upcoming anniversary, and she went with the traditional 35th anniversary gemstone of emerald for both-- finding matching platinum-and-emerald cufflinks for her dad and earrings for her mother. She has both presents wrapped and sent off to her place, and then leaves herself at the tender mercies of her stylist, Adrianna, whose surgeon-steady hands snip off the split ends of her golden hair and refreshes the layers without taking off so much as a centimeter more than necessary. In the very least, she knows, she will be facing Kenneth looking her absolute best. Not that he was the shallow type like that, but still.

“That’s a boy-related frown, and boy-related frowns cause wrinkles.” Adrianna’s voice floats, matter-of-fact, above her head. “I’m double-booked like a mother-trucker this whole week because of the ills of holiday over-indulgence which apparently I’m supposed to wave my magic wand and handle, and don’t have time to deal with wrinkles today, sweetie, so you’re either just going to have to jump him or get over him.”

“I don’t know if jumping him is in the cards, and there’s no getting over someone who never exactly-- well. It’s weird, is all.” Mina starts to pick at her nails, a bad habit from her middle school days, but a stern look reflected in the mirror stops the fidgety movement in its tracks. “Am I so obvious?”

“Sweetie, I’m pretty sure I’ve not seen a boy-related frown on your face since I did your updo and makeup for senior prom, and had to bite my tongue so I wouldn’t tell you that any boy who told people to call him ‘Ace’ with a straight-ass face is clearly on next-level rom-com antagonist levels of douchebag. But all I can do is make you look gorgeous, not that you’re not already, and wish you luck. Please tell me he at least has a normal name.”

“His name is Kenneth, and he has an MBA from Columbia, and he works for my dad, and he has absolutely no use for me whatsoever.”

“Oh, nonsense. If he found some use for you, he’d probably have lobbied for you to be on daddy dearest’s payroll, and then where would we be? Wearing some ugly blazer and god-awful follicle-destroying chignon. My suggestion is to get a stupidly large box of chocolates, of course. The damned things are already getting put up in stores in preparation for Valentine’s Day, of course. Either the boy is not interested, and then you can self-medicate with chocolate endorphins, or he is interested, and you can share the chocolates, in bed.”

The deliberately crass suggestion brings Mina out of her funk, as it is intended to do, and she laughs helplessly even as Adrianna finishes blowing out her hair, fussing with it until it gleams like sunlit silk. Mina thanks the stylist and leaves a generous tip, and then stops at a boutique bakery en route to the office. She does buy the stupidly large box of chocolates, but also a fancy box of assorted macarons in numerous pastel shades. 

**

This time, when she arrives at the desk of the formidable Janet, she doesn’t do much more than hold out the delicate cookies as a peace offering. “I’m just going to go on back.”

“Good for you. I’m too busy to chit-chat anyway. Take your cookies and be off. Close the door behind you when you have it out with him, will you?” Janet doesn’t even look up from the computer screen, the phone receiver cradled between her shoulder and jaw as she clacks away at the keyboard. Mina looks at the solidly-built brunette with a little bit of consternation, but Janet simply waves an irritable hand in dismissal. Put squarely in her place, she makes her silent way to the elevators, and makes a beeline towards Kenneth’s office. 

It’s almost deja vu when she gets there. Door slightly ajar. The man seated at his desk, typing away at some spreadsheet. She knocks, then lets herself in. “Hi.” To her annoyance, her voice seems to have gone all breathy and low.

Kenneth still takes his time to turn around, but this time, when he does, his expression is almost soft. As with the last time, he closes the Excel spreadsheet and gives her his full attention. “Mina. What brings you here today?”

“I… cookies? That is, do you want cookies? I thought I’d come and say hi. Hopefully you’re recovered from being surrounded by Swifties. Are you busy?” Belatedly, she remembers Janet’s injunction that she close the door, and gives it a hasty shove. The slam sounds overly loud in this quiet hallway, and she blushes. “I know my dad usually schedules his meetings in the mornings, so I figured this would be a better time.”

“Yeah, he’s off-site. A late business lunch with some guy from an architectural firm. And you didn’t need to come and make sure I’m all right. I… I had a good time that evening. Really.”

“I should’ve brought you something for lunch rather than cookies, probably, but they looked so good. Not practical, though.” She, too, wasn’t the practical type. Taylor Swift and sparkly dresses as opposed to NPR and spreadsheets. What was she doing, really? Without anyone here to stop her, she sets down both cookies and candy box on his desk and picks at her cuticles. “Anyway. Glad you didn’t hate it. I should probably go. I’m sorry if I bothered you.”

For such a big man, he moves with incredible speed as he stands up and comes around the desk, blocking her way to the door before she’d registered that he’d moved. “Mina. Are you all right? You seem out of sorts, and in the… six years, seven months, two days and… an hour and a half?... that I’ve known you, you’ve never been like this.”

She blinks up at him, then crosses her arms. “Six years, seven months, two days, and three hours and fifteen minutes. I know exactly when I met you.”

“No, your dad introduced you to me before taking you out for lunch that day at eleven o’clock. It’s twelve twenty-six right now.”

Mina, if she closes her eyes, can see that day as clear as if it were yesterday, down to the navy blue tie knotted just a little too tight on the man standing across from her. He’d filled out a bit since that internship when he’d started working at the firm, and his ties were both more expensive and more expertly tied nowadays, but… She raises her chin stubbornly. “Yeah, that’s when my dad introduced us. But I actually met you before that, when I was running to make the elevator and you held it open for me, remember? I said hi, you said hi back. I remember thinking, when my dad introduced us, oh, it was nice to have a name to go with the hot guy I’d run into on the elevator. But you sort of didn’t have any use for me, and you still don’t, not really, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other’s company, right? Maybe not at another Taylor Swift concert, if that’s truly not your thing, but I…”

“You remember that?” She’s not quite sure how he got so close, but he’s standing right in front of her now, and when she looks up, she’s eye-level to his chin. She tilts her head up, and the expression in his face is something she’s never seen before, and it gives her enough courage to finish.

“I remember a lot of things about you, Kenneth! You just don’t know, because you don’t pay much attention to me, which I guess we don’t have too much in common, not really, but just because we don’t talk that much doesn’t mean that I don’t know, just like you must have known how much I wanted to go to that concert, and being there with you was the best time I’ve had in forever, though you can’t tell Una that, because she’ll be sad and look like a kitten left out in the rain, and I was just trying to work up the nerve to see if you wanted to spend some more time together and…”

She’s cut off mid-sentence by a pair of strong arms, bare to the elbows with the sleeves rolled up, hauling her up just a little off her feet and pulling her close. She has one breathless moment to register that he smells really, really good before she’s being kissed, and there’s nothing placid about it at all as one hand fists in the glossy hair that Adrianna had just so painstakingly blown out and the other lands at the small of her back, hot and wide through the thin material of her dress. She can do nothing but clutch at his wide shoulders and hang on for dear life, but a moment later, she gives as good as she gets, lips parting under his and soothing the tiny nip that she inflicts on his lower lip with a flick of her tongue. A moan breaks the silence of the office, and she belatedly realizes that it escaped from her lips as his mouth shifts to the sensitive skin of her jaw, giving both of them the chance to catch their breaths. 

Mina slides her fingers through the silky hair at the nape of his neck and leans her head against the crook of his shoulder, where it seems to fit perfectly. “Don’t you dare start to regret kissing me.” The words come out forcefully, but with a bit of a tremble nonetheless which she tries to hide by muffling it against his neck. He’d have lipstick on his collar, but it couldn’t be helped. 

A faint, slightly breathless chuckle escapes him, rumbling through his chest underneath her ear. “No. I regret not kissing you that night, though.” That statement is delivered in a shockingly frank, matter-of-fact way even as he tilts her face back up. Her fingers, of their own volition, link together at the back of his neck, and she’s sure that her smile is both goofy and excessive. It was quite likely that she would not be eating that box of chocolate in its entirety in boy-inflicted angst, after all. 

“Well, I can invite you to dinner tonight, and we can make up for lost time afterwards. Unless you’re busy. If you’re busy, we can resche--”

His mouth stamps over hers, cutting her off mid-sentence, but the kiss is sweet and gentle this time, and she’s sighing with the romance of it all by the time he pulls back. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Okay.”

The giddy thrill of it is not unlike something that would be touched upon in a Taylor Swift song, she decides, but she keeps that thought to herself for the moment. Maybe in another six years, seven months, two days and however many hours, she’d bring that up again. Surely by then, she could teach him to enjoy the finer things in life, such as jamming to pop music in the shower. 

[alittlebugsheadx]

Home

117: ‘I just like to know you’re safe. What are you going to do? Sue me?’

——

Time: 7pm

“I got in! I got in!” She squealed over the phone.

“Oh my God! That’s insane! I knew it though. I’m so so proud of you! We have to celebrate.”

She continued squealing in incoherent phrases as he chuckled on the other end. When she had calmed down she asked, “So when do you think you’ll get here?”

“Well, my flights in 4 hours and the flight’s only 2 hours so probably 1am. I’m sorry it’s not sooner, I wish I was there with you now.”

“Me too, but it’s okay! I’ll see you later then. I’ll come to pick you up at the airport, just text me when you land. Can’t wait. I’m going out with the girls now.”

“Alright, enjoy, love,” he replied.

“Thanks. Okay, love you, bye!”

“Love you too,” he grinned to himself.

Damn. Harvard Law. Wow. That’s just Betty being Betty.

***

Time: 9pm

Betty was enjoying herself, being out with the girls. Veronica always made sure Betty had a great time too. She was always looking out for her like that, it made Betty anxious about how she would be without her, in Boston.

She’d get by. She’s Betty Cooper, of course.

But it wouldn’t necessarily be easy.

And Cheryl always knew how to scare off the predators. You know, the guys who stay sober and wriggle their way when they see a vulnerable, drunk girl drinking by herself, on the verge of sobbing.

And Toni always made sure they didn’t do too many stupid things. Or too many stupid guys, rather.

Betty was going to miss them all, everyone really, the whole town.

But she was going to miss Jughead the most.

***

Time: 11pm

“So, Betts, Betty, B, what are you going to do about Jughead? Because come on, you’re going to Boston! There’s going to be so many cute guys! You don’t want to be unavailable, do you?” Cheryl persisted.

“Noo, Cher, she lovesss him.” Toni interjected.

“That’s right,” Betty nodded, half-unaware of the conversation.

“Right. Of course. You love him. But I love designer handbags, doesn’t mean I need to date only one of them whilst there’s a whole selection to be viewed. Wait. That would be pretty cool, you know dating handbags.” Veronica rambled on.

“What?”

“She said she wants to get it with a handbag, focus Betty.”

“Again, what?”

Veronica sighed, daydreaming of only God knows what, as Cheryl and Toni started making out.

Betty checked her phone for a text message from him.

J:About to board. Love you babe!

She replied, B: Lov youu two!

J:You alright? Or are you drunk texting me ;)

B: Me? I fine, how abouut you

J: I’m good thank you. Excited to see you. You sure everything is alright though?

B: Yessss omg

J: I just like to know you’re safe

She sat there, grinning at her phone stupidly.

J: What are you going to do?

J: Sue me?

She chuckled before replying, B: Haha you’re funny

J:I know I am

B: Anyway, I was thinking we order from your favourite Chinese place when you get home?

J: Sounds great :D

J: Oh and by the way, Betty, we’ll make Boston work

J: You know, the whole long-distance thing

J:Besides, I only have to be here for 2 more months and then...

B: I know we will :)

B:?

J:I can apply for the Boston role, I’m sure James will give it to me, he owes me anyway

B:Really?

J:Really :)

B:Awh! I can’t wait!!!

J: Me too

B:You sure though?

J:100%

J:Anywhere’s home when I’m with you

J:Better go though

B:I love love love you!

B:Okay have a safe flight, babe Xxxx

J: I love you too ;)

Still smiling, she shoved her phone back into her purse and took another round of shots with Veronica.

***

Time: 1am

No text from Jughead.

Maybe they took longer to board than he had anticipated.

***

Time: 1:27

No text from Jughead.

Maybe he didn’t have any service. Maybe his phone died.

***

Time: 2am

Betty stood at the gate, confused. There was a lot of commotion but no one was getting any answers.

***

Time: 2:38

Betty couldn’t sleep, even though the airport staff had suggested she and other waiters should, in the seating area.

***

Time: 3am

No text from Jughead.

Maybe he had missed his flight...

***

Time: 3:14

No text from Jughead.

Only a low-volume news report on a nearby television screen, announcing a crash of two aeroplanes that had somehow come onto the same path....

One coming from JFK...

Jughead was coming from JFK.

Betty’s stomach dropped. She feared the worst.

***

Time: 3:16

Her suspicions were confirmed.

[alicescripts]

Live show: Los Angeles, California

On October 30, we are releasing the Alice Isn’t Dead novel, a complete reimagining of the story from the ground up. It is a standalone thriller novel for anyone looking for a scary page-turner, whether they’ve heard this podcast or not. Available for preorder now. And preordering helps authors out tremendously, so please consider it. Thanks so much!

Hi, this is Joseph Fink. What you’re about to hear is the live Alice Isn’t Dead performance at the Largo in Los Angeles on April 5, 2018. This live episode was not any material from the podcast, but instead was a standalone show focused on the weird and interesting sites and places of LA. It was an incredible night, and thank you to those who came out to see it. Enjoy the show.

--

Oh. I’m sorry, I uh, I didn’t expect um, I-I didn’t know that anybody would be listening. [clears throat] OK. Um, when you tell a story, you should expect an audience but sometimes I don’t think about that. I just tell the story the same way I breathe, just move life in an out of my body.  I suppose you could listen if you want.

My name is Keisha. I’m a truck driver. It’s weird isn’t it the-the way say our jobs as though they were an identity rather than a thing we do for money. I mean do you think that outside of capitalism we’d confuse our self image with what pays the bills? [chuckles] Sorry. I-I got away from myself. Story not polemic, right.

I became a truck driver because, well, that-that’s a long one. I thought my wife alice was dead. But she isn’t dead. And she’s out there somewhere on the highways and back roads, and I’m trying to find her. Just driving my truck around and around looking for her. That’s who I am really. I am the one that looks for Alice. And Alice is the one who isn’t dead, but isn’t here.

I was in Los Angeles. All downtowns are the same downtown, they are landscapes built for the facilitation of money and business without thought to he human experience. And we are tiny to these monuments and that we are allowed to pass among them is a privilege, not a right. Still each downtown bears some mark of its city. The LA downtown, despite surface similarities, could not be mistaken for New York or Chicago, it’s too eclectic. It’s too strange in its architecture. LA is, is much more than movies but – movies infuse everything because movies are the only history the city will acknowledge. The history of the indigenous people, the history of the Latino people, these are set aside. The city looked at all the people that had already come and thought, ah! A blank slate! And so they did not draw from the Gabrielino or the Chumash or even the Spanish in their missions, they drew from the movies. From the foundational idea that LA could and should be anywhere in the world. So the style of LA is every style, each house and each neighborhood built in wildly different ways. It’s art deco and Spanish stucco and mid-century modern.

In Brand Park, out in Glendale, there’s this enormous house turned public library that is less actual Middle Eastern and more movie Middle Eastern, built by the wealthy white man whose garden that park once was. There’s nowhere in LA that feels stylistically of one piece, and it is that incoherence that provides the coherence of the city.

You see, I’ve come to town on your word, Alice. Only it wasn’t your word direct of course just – whispers through a network of safe houses and gatekeepers, those living on the fringe of society who can be trusted with the kinds of messages we send back and forth. But who knows how the messages mutate mouth to mouth? But still, even through this mutilation of intent, I can hear your voice, like a heartbeat, your skin and bone.

It’s Tanya in Omaha, a friend of the cause, who reaches out to me on my radio to finally lay your words to rest. There’s a meeting in Los Angeles, you’ve heard. You don’t know the exact nature and purpose of this meeting, no one seems to, but the word is that it’s a meeting of those at the heart of it, the ones that are making the real choices, that shape every decision that we think we freely make. So I’ve come to town to find that meeting. I will find this meeting and then… shit, I don’t know. And then I will decide what to do next.

I’m faced with a mystery that’s so much bigger than myself that it sits like an uneven weight in my chest. I feel off balance, so I take comfort in smaller mysteries, ones that don’t matter at all. In Pico-Robertson, a five minute walk from six different synagogues, and a celebrity chef kosher Mexican restaurant called Mexikosher, is a strange synagogue with no windows. The architecture is unmistakable. Modern LA Jewish has a certain look and this place has it, right down to the arches designed to look like the two tablets of the Commandments. Except this synagogue is several stories tall, and with no visible entrance.

What does it mean to blend in? What-what does it mean to, to disguise, what does it mean to stick out? These are intrinsically Jewish questions. A people that has, throughout over a thousand years of oppression, variously done all three. And this way too the building is very Jewish. Of course it is not a synagogue. It is, in fact, 40 oil wells hidden inside a soundproofed structure designed to look like a synagogue. And it is not the only one, just five minutes down the road is an office building with no doors and no windows, that one is 50 wells.

The machinery of our system is not hidden below us, it is disguised among us. Rocks that are actually utility boxes, trees that are cell towers. That vacant house that we walk by day after day, the one with the opaque windows? Actually a maintenance entrance for the metro.

Which buildings are real and which ones are disguises? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. But that’s what makes me enjoy considering it.

Sylvia’s here too. She’s really come a long way from the teenage runaway I first discovered on the side of a highway. Did you tell her about the secret meeting, Alice? She is both more vulnerable and far braver than either of us, did you send her to this place? [sighs] We reunited on one of the vacant cul-de-sacs near LAX, where neighborhoods that had once been an airport’s buffer zone were now demolished.

“Heya,” Sylvia said, as though we were meeting at the continental breakfast at a hotel, not on a dark empty street after months of not seeing each other. “Hey yourself,” I said. “Why did you come?” She shrugged, performed nonchalance. “Same reason as you, I guess.”

Well then I guess neither of us knew. Because I had no idea why I was there, I didn’t even knew who was meeting in this town, let’s start with that. OK what what organization, what secret brotherhood, what ancient cabal that influences world events is now sitting around the table in some sterile backroom in this sunny, thirsty city?

I could have asked Sylvia what she knew about it, but I didn’t. I felt like I would be following a script you gave to me, Alice, and I am not interested in your dictating my actions. So instead I asked her: “How you been?” And she took a long slow breath that was more answer than words could ever be. “[sighs] I’ve been good,” she said. “You know, trying my best, finding places to sleep, finding a friendly face on the other side of a meal.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s the same struggle for everyone. But those of us who live on the road, everything is amplified, you know?” I do know. Goddammit, I know.

I wasn’t even sure where in the region this meeting might be held. So I drove out east to the desert where the mountains looked like set backdrops, unreal and perfect, taking up half the sky. Palm Springs, the town killed by cheap plane tickets. Why drive two hours from the city for the weekend, when it’s possible to weekend in Honolulu or Costa Rica instead? Then, having died, Palm Springs hung on just long enough for everything dated about it to become vintage cool. Now it’s back, a mid-century modern paradise of steel beams and rock walls and that style of beautiful, but featureless wooden security fence that only exists in Southern California. Old motels not updated since the heyday of the 50’s now are converted to hip resorts with (farmed) table food and upscale tiki bars. The city is an Instagram feed. Which is both snark and compliment, because it is a genuinely beautiful place.

I wondered the town, feeling that there was something worth finding there, but unsure where it would be hidden. I visited Elvis’ Honeymoon Hideaway, a garish airplane of a house with giant wings of a roof looming at the end of a cul-de-sac, providing kitsch to the dwindling population of Elvis enthusiasts.

That house was built on sale for 9 million a few years back and is now reduced to an easy 4, so make those owners an offer and you too could own a house that is listed as a historical site. A place where Elvis had sex a few times. It probably doesn’t have a dishwasher, though, so… Just south of Cathedral City, I saw a sign that looked familiar. It’s this huge neon pink elephant, mouth wide in mid-laugh, splashing herself. A pink elephant carwash. The sign has a twin sister in Seattle, that one is famous. It was weird running into her in the desert too. It was like driving through the suburbs and suddenly finding out that 150 years ago, they also built an Eiffel tower in Pomona.

I stopped the car and I just gawked up at her. It made me so happy. And then, looking down from the sign, the horror came to me. I saw someone walking towards me with a shuffle that I recognized. Like their legs had no muscle or bone but were heavy sacks of meat attached to their body. One dead leg thrust forward after another, and as the man came close, he looked up and I went from dread suspicion to horrible certainty.

He’s one of those creatures that I call Thistle men. Sagging human faces hung limply on skulls that are the wrong shape. Yellow teeth, yellow eyes. They are serial murderers hunting the back roads of our highway systems, and one of them was here.

He made eye contact with me. He laughed, a sound like hanging knives clattering together. And then he was gone. The neon elephant’s face no longer seemed friendly. I mean it, too, seemed to be laughing.

Sylvia and I, we split up for the day. We just watched the traffic and people, looking for suspicious crowds, folks that don’t fit in with the tourists and the beautiful people working as baristas just for now. Of course we don’t know what those suspicious crowds would even look like. Grey men in grey suits going greyly about the tedious business of running the world? Or, like the Thistle men, monsters of hideous aspect?

I reached out to my friend Lynn who works as a dispatcher at my trucking company. She and I became friends soon after I started. She doesn’t take shit, I don’t give shit, we get along that way. “Any unusual moments in Los Angeles?” I said. “Strange shipments, unsual routings, anything?” “You know I can’t tell you that,” she said. “What if I said please?” I said. She snorted into the phone. [chuckles] “In that case, sure,” she said. “I always like you when I’m polite, let me see what I can find.”

Sylvia and I saw nothing of note that day. We ate together at a Korean barbeque place built into the dome of what had once been a restaurant shaped like a hat. “This is nice,” she said towards the end of the dinner. It was, it really was.

You know, a city is defined by its people but it’s haunted by its ruins. There are no cities without vacant lots, the skeletons of buildings, ample evidence of disaster and failure. Our eyes slide past them because they tell a different story about our city than the one we wanna hear. A story in which all of this could slip away in a moment. Even though we know this fact is true, even more for Los Angeles than most cities. This city will some day be shaken to the ground, or burned, or covered over with mud, or drowned by the rising sea or strangled by draught. The question is, as it is for each of us in our personal lives, not if it will die but how.

I like to go and look at these broken places where the refuse of recent history shows. It allows me to look at a region differently, maybe see what I was missing. And if a secret meeting was gonna be hidden here, where but in the cracks? So I peer in. I search.

Above the Pacific Coast highway in the hills of Malibu that are so beautiful when they aren’t falling or burning, is what remains of a house. That house was a mansion built in the 50’s and burned in the 80’s when its location finally caught up to it. There’s now a popular hike that goes right into the ruins, so any walker can go see this place where people lived as recently as 30 years ago. A ruin shouldn’t be so new. A Roman home destroyed by a volcano, well OK you know. A medieval castle, sure. Even an old stone settler’s hut, 100 years old, alright, OK that make sense. But a house that once held a television and a shower? It feels wrong to walk on the foundation, stepping over the bases of walls and around the chimney. It was a home not so long ago, and now it is transformed. Transformation is uncomfortable, and easily mistaken for an ending.

In Griffith Park, I met with Sylvia in the old zoo. All the animal enclosures are still there, and you can sit in them and look at where once caged animals lived, and now wild animals are free to come and go.

Sylvia and I sat in the artificial caves, trying to imagine what the purpose of this secret meeting was. Sure, generally the word was out that it was a meeting of those in control in order to further control us, but specifics were, as they often are, lacking. Sylvia asked me: “Do you feel like this story is too convenient?” And I had no way to respond but nodding. “But we still have to look for it, right?” she said. And I nodded again.

As the sun moved behind the hills, it got very cold. She said, “Yeah”. And I said, “Yeah.” And neither one of us meant it.

Gentrification comes for us all. Let’s leave aside for a moment the many issues of endangered communities and rocketing prices, and consider just two cases of what people will look past to get access to LA property. December 6, 1959, in the hills just below Griffith Park, a doctor lived with his wife in a mansion with an incredible view. The Christmas tree was up for the season, wrapped gifts underneath. At 4:30 in the morning, the doctor got out of bed, retrieved a ball-peen hammer and murdered his wife with it. Then he attacked his daughter, though she survived. And then he took a handful of pills and was dead by the time police arrived.

That house stood empty ever since, still filled with the family’s things: the furniture, the tree, wrapped gifts underneath. A prime house in a prime LA area, but who would live in a house where such horror had happened? For 60 years, no one. Well, the house sold for 2.2 million last year. A view of the city, just above those (-) [0:21:06]. Well at this point, who wouldn’t take some hauntings and a terrible bloody past for that?

Meanwhile the Cecil Hotel in Hollywood, site of an inordinate number of murders and suicides, where the Night Stalker lived in the 80’s while causing terror across the region, where just a few years back, a body floated in the water tank for days before being discovered, is now the boutique Stay on Main. A rebranding for this rebranded city. Even our murders are getting gentrified.

Maybe it’s me. I don’t know, maybe I just don’t like change. Change is often wonderful. But we should definitely think hard about what we are changing into, and what that change might mean. We should just spend a little time thinking about that.

[long break]

Still searching for this meeting. I went up the coast, over the Grade and down toward Axnard, not as cool as Ventura or as rich as Camarillo. Oxnard gets by. As I waited to hear from Lynn, I walked on Silver Strand, just watching the surfers. Many, even now in the winter. Nothing will keep them out of those frigid Alaskan currents. I headed south to Channel Island harbor. It was absolutely peaceful on its shore. The ocean is chattering and restless, the harbor sleeps. It does not stir except to send crumbling waves in the wake of the few boats in and out.

During my walk, I saw a rowboat. Old, practically falling apart. Something about the occupants of the rowboat made me look closer. Stooped figures in awkward postures that looked painful. One of them turned to face me, though the boat was 60 feet offshore, and even at that distance, I could see. Two Thistle men, floating in a rowboat in the (Sound).

“Ooooooooooooooooo,” one of them shouted at me in a gentle high-pitched voice. “Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.” There was something that looked a lot like a human arm poking out over the rim of the rowboat.

I returned to my truck. Not everything is my problem.

Worship is a feeling so all-encompassing that it can be easy to misunderstand from outside. Take the worship of Santa Muerte, a Mexican (folk) saint of death, likely a legacy of pre-Colombian devotion, dressed in the clothes of the colonizing religion. The church has spent a long time trying to suppress her worship, but of course the church has never been good at actually suppressing much, and devotion to Santa Muerte has only spread in recent times.

Like many figures of death, she represents healing and well-being. Religion often lies in embracing contradiction. Those on the outside, they see this as a weakness but those on the inside recognize it as strength. The temple of Santa Muerte in Los Angeles is just down on Melrose Avenue, sharing a building, as everything in LA does now, with a weed store. It is a one-room shrine established by a husband and wife, full of life-sized skeletons bearing (-) [0:25:04]. It would be easy as an outsider to default to one’s own associations with skeletons and come to one’s own emotional conclusions, but it is healthier to embrace the contradiction of these symbols of death. That, after all, physically hold us up for as long as we live. To deny Santa Muerte is to deny our own bodies.

Meanwhile on the other end of the spectrum, the Bob Baker Marionette Theater carries a different kind of worship: devotion to a performance style that time has left behind. And the outside of the building is – let’s face it, it’s creepy. Because, like skeletons, puppets have taken on a certain cultural connotation in the wider world. But we should try to see it from the inside, as the earnest expression of performance and joy.

Mm mm. No I can’t. Mm mm, I ju- not with puppets. Skeletons, fine. Loose-skinned monsters from whatever world, well I’ve deal with them, but puppets? Mm mm.

Lynn got back to me. “You didn’t hear this from me,” she said. “That goes without saying,” I said. “No it doesn’t,” she responded, “because I just told you that. Now, there have been some shipments that don’t belong to any company. Or the company info is missing from them, I can’t understand what I’m looking that. They certainly don’t hold up to any scrutiny at all, so I don’t think that they were expecting scrutiny. These things stand out so bad that they might as well be big red arrows pointing at a location in Los Angeles.”

It was late afternoon. Sylvia was asleep in the back of the truck’s cab. I lowered my voice. “Where?” She told me. I looked at Sylvia, knowing she would want me to wake her up, to take her with me. But I didn’t. I let her sleep. I went alone. Better that one of us survive.

I went where Lynn told me: up La Cienega, past a mall and a hospital. I came to the address she gave me. An unassuming place. If it weren’t for the brightly lit shine, I might not have even spotted it from the street. I went through the gates. There was a courtyard there, deserted. The air was still and there was no sound, but the stillness felt temporary, like the pause after an act of violence before anyone can get over their shock and react. I continued through the doors to a dark room. Not the grand hall I might have expected for a meeting like this, but a cozy place. Rows of theater seats. A stage draped in red curtains, from which a speaker stood addressing the crowd. There was music. Was that music? Or was it the shifting and squirming of inhuman bodies? Because there was something inhuman in this place, I could feel it. Not the people in the seats, they seemed completely human. Looking up at the person speaking, following the narrative, and slowly having information dawn on them.

In fact, the people in the seats did not at all seem like the kind of people I would expect at a meeting like this. Were these the powerful, the wicked? Were these the unseen hands ushering us to disaster? Looks can be deceiving. Everything can be deceiving, up to and including the truth, but no. I did not think that these were monsters, I thought they were people like me. People lured to the spot for the same reason I had been, because the story of the meeting had been a very good story. It played exactly into how I had thought the world works. It fed my suspicions and it led me to this place. And I think the same is true for every person in that room. They were there, like I was there, looking for a good story. But why were they led there? Hmm? If the meeting itself was a decoy, then what was the true purpose of this moment?

And that’s when I saw them. Lingering in the shadows at the edges of the crowd. Men with faces that sagged. Flesh that peeled. Yellow teeth, yellow eyes. Thistle men ringed the crowd. (Wools to sheep, parks to bunnies). Hunters. Prey. Did the people in their seats notice? Did they look into the shadows and see the inhuman eyes peering back at them, did they smell the breath of the Thistle men, like mildew, like soil? A smell of rot from deep within, cold lungs, did they hear the occasional laugh coming from a gurgling broken throat? Did they look beside them at seats that were empty and think, wasn’t someone here just moments ago? Or was there? But surely there wasn’t, because where could they have gone? And then the shadows at the edges of the crowd, the people that had once sat in those seats, were led into a place from which they could never return.

I understood. A simple plan: tell an irresistible story. A story that is exactly what all of us fighting Thistle might want to hear. That we were right all along. That the world really is against us in so simple and easy a way that the culprits could all meet in one room. And we would come to hear that story, and then Thistle would take us. Why hunt when instead they could lure?

Standing in the door to that hall of horrors, I saw the faces of the Thistle men as they turned and noticed. One gave a yelp and started to lope towards me and I fled. Where the courtyard had been empty, it was now packed shoulder to shoulder full of men with loose faces and eyes that went yellow at the edges and wet lips hiding sharp teeth. They were waiting for the crowd inside. Hungry creatures preparing to feed on any person that stepped out of that theater. I pushed into and past them, using their momentary surprise to escape, and I ran until my throat was dry and ragged, through that courtyard and out to where the lights of the strip club across the way flashed back and forth, back and forth, and then into my car and then onto the maze of freeways where it is so easy to disappear.

I kept my eye glued on the mirrors, but no one was chasing me. Somewhere behind me, an audience of innocents remained in Thistle’s trap, and I wouldn’t help them. I couldn’t.

Instead, I went back to the truck. Sylvia was still asleep in the cot. I sat in the driver’s seat. I was exhausted. The sun had fully set, and I allowed my eyelids to drift downwards. “Hi,” said Sylvia. She was in the passenger’s seat turned sideways towards me. It was light again. I don’t know how long I’d slept, I know I didn’t dream. There are small mercies in life, I guess. “Did you find out anything?” Sylvia said. I looked in her eyes. She’s so young. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair that she was out here like me on this labyrinth of roads and rest stops. But that’s just what it was. For her and for me and for so many others.

And she looked at me with trust. And I looked right back and I said, “I didn’t find anything. I don’t think the meeting is even real. Let’s get out of here.” Sylvia yawned, she stretched, she nodded. “Yeah OK,” she said. “Might as well. Too bad this turned out to be nothin’.” “Too bad,” I said.

So now here I am telling the story from just outside of Ashland, Oregon. Los Angeles is hundreds of miles behind me now. It isn’t far enough.

I love you, Alice. I stayed alive another day. You do the same, OK? OK.

[applause]

Joseph Fink: Thank you to everyone who came out for our Largo show. We will be back in two weeks with chapter 1 of our third and final season. This show would not be possible without our Patreon supporters. Such as the incredible Ethel Morgan, the indomitable Lilith Newman, the victorious Chris Jensen, and the electrifying Melissa (Lumm).

If you would like to join these folks in helping us make this show, please check out patreon.com/aliceisntdead, where you can get rewards like director’s commentary on every episode, live video streams with the cast and crew, bonus episodes, and more.

Thanks for listening, and see you soon.

[nickireadstfc]

The Raven King, Chapter 16 - I Got Scars, They're Multiplying

In which Neil needs protection, hugs, soft kisses and everything good in the world, and Riko needs to die in a fire pit.

Sounds good? Then it's time for Nicki to read (and finish) The Raven King.

Here we are. Last chapter of The Raven King - and what a wild ride that one was. We saw more plot than ever before, more sass than we could handle, and more gut-wrenching shock than we liked.

Let's finish this off, shall we?

          [Neil] rubbed his eyes with gloved hands and regretted it immediately. The gloves hid his bandages but did nothing for the pain.

So apparently, Neil wakes up in the airport - with no memory of how he got there, but instead with a body that feels like it had a nice time fighting with a lawn mower.

Only that the lawn mower had twice the usual amount of blades, was extra mean, and could also, like, spit fire or something.

Also, Neil lost.

          For a moment, Neil was baffled that [the airport gate announcement] wasn't in French. He'd spent so much time with Jean he'd forgotten any other language existed.

Neil is also weirdly confused at the absence of Jean. Having spent two - three? - weeks metaphorically chained to each other does that to you, probably.

I still don't like Jean, just so clarify that from last chapter. Maybe he grows on you some more next book and then I'll see the light, but so far, I don't know. I see him as a clear victim of the Ravens total fuckery, I have pity for him, and I find him an interesting character because of his dynamic with Kevin, but he is still kind of a douchebag to me.

I'm sorry. I wanna like him. He just hasn't given me much reason to yet.

Neil, (occasionally) smart boy that he is, charges his phone and calls Wymack to get him - but not before having to wade through tons and tons of texts from the Foxes, which already made me a lil emotional.

Everyone, apart from Andrew of course, everyone texted him over the holidays. This is the kind of quality fox family shit I signed up for.

          "I didn't know who else to call," Neil said. He barely recognized his own voice. The last time he'd spoken he'd been screaming; apparently his vocal chords still hadn't recovered.

There's shit like that dropped through this entire scene, shit that hints at just how much actual fucking torture Neil is coming back from right now, and I am decidedly not fucking liking it.

          "Are you all right?"

          Neil smiled. It felt like it tore his face open. "No. No, I'm not. I know it's kind of sudden, but can you come get me?"

Is that........ the first time......... Neil has admitted to not being fine........ ONE FOR THE BOOKS, FOLKS.

I mean, with so much painful shit done to you, you'd have to be a serious shade of fucked up, angsty and alone not to ask for help.

Which is to say, Book 1 Neil would have totally not asked for help.

Another exhaustion blackout later, Neil finds himself on one of his most frequented post-awful time places: Wymack's couch.

And Wymack, although keeping caring watch like a tattooed momma hen, is not here for Neil's bullshit:

          "He sounds like Neil," Wymack said, "but he doesn't look like him. I'll take your explanation from the top and without a side order of bullshit, thanks."

What, did the injuries they gave him at the Batcave of Extra rip him an entirely new face?

          The face waiting for him in the mirror was horrible enough to take his legs out from under him. (...) This was his natural hair colour, and those were his real eyes, and this was his father's face.

APPARENTLY, YES.

An entirely new face that looks exactly like his father. Oh shit. OH SHIT BOI.

At this point it should be pointed out how amazingly well-written this chapter is. Neil's pain-induced confusion and blackout, his anxiety, and most importantly his screaming, hurting body is tangible through the pages and that just gripped me.

I mean, it also gripped me because Neil is my beautiful sassy angsty adoptive son I need to protect at absolutely all costs, now more than ever.

But also because the writing is just damn on point.

Hey - remember how last time there was this tiny annoying voice that kept reminding me of something I'd seen time and time again in fanart and cosplay?

          Wymack went so still Neil thought he'd turned to stone. "Neil, the fuck is on your face?"

Oh no.

          Neil wasn't ready to see his reflection again. He was less ready to see the "4" tattooed on his left cheekbone.

OH NO.

I SAW THAT COMING AND STILL OH SHIT NO.

HELL NO.

          By the time Wymack caught up with him he'd already pulled a knife from the wooden block on Wymack's counter. Wymack seized his wrist before Neil could take the knife to his own face.

Wow.

Wow, shit.

No kidding - to me, this little bit here is probably the most shocking and wtf-moment in this entire chapter.

Like. Not only does Neil want to get rid of that tattoo - which us understandable, we all would in his situation -, but he is instantly rady to take a giant ass kitchen knife and cut it out of his own skin without a second of hesitation?

What the fuck. What the FUCK.

This speaks volumes, volumes of what they did to him at Batcave of Extra, and I do not like one single thing about it.

          Every time Neil blinked he remembered a little more of his Christmas vacation. Every time he moved he felt Riko's hands and blades and fire on his skin. he'd let Riko take him apart time and time again because it was the only way to survive, because bending should have kept him from breaking, but Neil didn't know if he could pull himself together one more time.

MY SON, MY BEAUTIFUL SHORT-TEMPERED ANGSTY SASS MACHINE SON, FUCK NO.

I MUST PROTECT YOU.

And then, immediately after - are y'all ready for the most heartbreaking paragraph in this chapter, because I am ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT:

          Neil, Wymack called him, even when he looked like this, even with his father's face and his father's eyes and the Moriyama's number on his face. Neil, Wymack called him, and more than anything Neil wanted it to be true. He stopped fighting to get free; the hands that had been trying to wrench Wymack's arms off him now held on for dear life.

HE'S HUGGING HIM.

NEIL IS HUGGING WYMACK, KNOWING WYMACK WILL LOVE AND ACEEPT HIM NO MATTER WHAT, NO MATTER WHAT UGLY PART OF NEIL HE GETS TO SEE, AND NEIL IS HUGGING HIM, CLINGING, PROBABLY CRYING.

GUESS WHO'S NOT JUST PROBABLY CRYING.

IT'S ME.

          "Help me," he said through gritted teeth.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Neil!! Is!! Not only accepting help!! But ASKING FOR IT!!!

[high-pitched incoherent emotional screaming in the distance]

Wymack, of course, is the Best Person Alive and patches Neil up without asking questions - which is an incredibly feat considering that Neil's body right now has reached new Deapool-looking heights.

On the contrary, it is now Neil who offers answers - after the finals, after the Ravens are beaten and have had their abusive sadistic asses handed to them, Neil will tell Wymack the truth. As in, the actual truth.

HELL FECKIN YES.

Wymack deserves to know All The Things.

          "I didn't sign it," Neil said, looking up from his hands. (...) "He gave me a contract but I wouldn't sign it. He couldn't make me. This doesn't mean anything. I'm still a Fox."

Oh my god. This small "He couldn't make me" in there, brb literally burying myself in a pile of my own emotions.

They tortured him. They legit medieval-style full-on tortured him, and he still refused to be one of them. Even in pain so cruel it caused blackout memory, Neil still refused to give up his Fox family.

"He couldn't make me."

Neil, I have seldom loved you more than in this very, very moment.

And oh - it's almost New Year's.

          He tapped out a simple "Happy New Year" to the Foxes. (...) The response was almost immediate. By the time the midnight countdown started on the screen (...), he'd already heard back from his entire team, most of them in capslock and with extraneous exclamation marks.

FOX BABIES

FOX FAMILY

          He was their family. They were his. They were worth every cut and bruise and scream.

WOULD SOMEONE THINK OF MY FOX TEARS

          Facing the Foxes on the court this spring would be the last mistake Riko ever made.

And if it isn't, I will personally worm myself into this fictional universe and smack him so hard his shitty sadistic motherfucker of a brain comes flying out his ass where it had been hidden, and he will die slowly and painfully of tragic brainlessness while I bound off to find Neil and give him the 24h cuddle session he needs and deserves.

Fucking hell.

Nicki out.

Hold on - before I leave, a quick note on how updates will continue:

Some time next week (don't know when exactly) I'll put up another review of the entire book, like I did for The Foxhole court. We're also looking at what predictions I made last time and whether they turned out to be golden bullshit or not, so stay tuned for that.

After that, in August this blog will take a hiatus as I'm travelling around a lot taking well-deserved holidays. (Canadian peeps: I'm invading your country! If anyone here lives in the Regina, Edmonton or Toronto area, hit me up.)

In September, we're back to our normal update schedule of twice a week (as long as life allows me to, as always), this time probably having All The Feels over The King's Men.

I can't wait.

And, on a last note: As always, if you like what I do here and you want to help me continue making this project, please consider buying me a coffee. Every little bit does help. Thank you so much! <33

[bibiko0838]

THIS KISS (CHAPTER 8)

(GIF NOT MINE.  CREDIT TO ORIGINAL OWNER)

CH.1   CH. 2   CH.3    CH.4    CH.5   CH.6   CH.7   CH.9   CH.10    CH.11

CHAPTER 8

She took a deep breath, rang the doorbell and entered as soon as it opened. A man with no expression on his face opened the door but her wrist was grabbed before she can take her second step inside. She was being dragged away by the wrist which made her cry out in pain, hitting the person holding her.

Baekhyun whipped his head around and tore away his mask. 

"It's me. We need to talk. Why the hell were you not answering my calls? I tried calling your work supervisor but she said you've been calling in sick. What the hell is going in? I barely managed to get to your place when I saw you getting in that taxi to come here. What's this place? Who are you meeting here?" He started off calmly but started getting more agitated with worry and jealousy the more he talked. 

Tears flowed freely from Yoo MI's eyes blinding her. She missed him. And now he is here and everything is just so wrong. Slowly she reached out and pulled back his mask in place and covered his head with his hood. 

"I'm sorry ..." she began before once again dissolving in tears. She bent her head in agony at the thought of leaving him and at what she was about to do. 

"What the hell do you have to be sorry for? YOO MI! Dammit talk to me!" Baekhyun started shouting at her but she only cried harder. Unable to see the woman he loves crying in such heartbreaking way, he gathered her in his arms and hugged her as tightly as he could, rubbing her back soothingly, more worried than before. 

"Let's go. I had the Chanyeol pick me up at the airport. He's waiting in the alley. We need to leave before people recognize us." He kissed the top of her head and all but carried her to the car. 

Chanyeol raised an eyebrow in inquiry once the couple were safely tucked in the backseat. Baekhyun just gave a frown and negative shake of his head. Yoo Mi was bent over silently crying. Chanyeol started the car and pulled out of the narrow street and started merging into the highway. 

"Hate to ask, but where do you want me to go now?" Chanyeol asked Baekhyun in a low tone. 

"We need to talk privately and I really don't know a place here in Seoul that we can do that." Baekhyun sighed in frustration raking his hand in his disheveled hair. He looked tired, his face bare and slightly swollen. Make-up could not hide his lack of sleep in the last few days. 

"If you don't mind traveling some distance, I will drive you somewhere I know. I borrowed my friend's house up in the mountains intending to spend the weekend in there relaxing and composing songs. It's pretty isolated though. Doesn't have any WI-FI signals because of the trees and next door neighbor is about an hour away by car. I'll give you the keys." He offered his friend a way.

"Thanks Bro. I'll owe you one." Baekhyun nodded before he leaned back in his seat and tugged Yoo Mi back into his embrace. He closed his eyes and was out like a light. Yoo Mi had already fallen asleep as soon as Baek hugged her. The couple were back in each other's arms where they belong. Chanyeol shook his head at them before silently driving on. 

"Yeoboseo?" Chanyeol had been driving close to two hours, they had now reached a remote country road with nothing visible around them but trees and other vegetation. 

"Did Baek make it back safely? He hasn't called and we are worried. Chen and I tried covering his absence best we could but someone will question it soon enough." Xiumin was calling on the other line. 

"Are you back in Seoul now?" Chanyeol replied quietly hoping not to wake up the tired couple. He noticed Baekhyun stirring when his phone rang. 

"Ani. We just got back to the hotel after that last minute interview." 

"Well he's here asleep on the backseat. He found Yoo Mi. I'm dropping them off so they can talk. I'm not sure what's going on either, but looks like a big problem." He glanced worriedly at his friend who is now awake and gazing at his sleeping girlfriend like a starving man. Baek couldn't help kissing her despite his presence. 

"He just woke up. Do you want to talk to him?" He asked Xiumin in a low tone. Chanyeol quickly took off his Bluetooth earpiece and gave it to Baekhyun. He focused on his driving. 

"Hyung, thanks for covering. I owe you one." Baekhyun sighed tiredly. 

"No you don't. But better be ready for the fallout that is sure to come. We will try to buy you some time with Yoo Mi-ah. Just fix whatever is wrong and let us know how else we can help. That's what family is for." Xiumin replied sincerely. His quiet strength once again reminding the two younger ones that he is the eldest hyung in the group. 

Chanyeol pulled up to a gravelly driveway and quickly got out of the car. He took out a set of keys from his backpack and opened up a tiny but pretty mountain cabin set among the trees. Baekhyun picked up a still sleeping Yoo Mi and followed him. He laid her down on the blankets that Chanyeol hurriedly laid down on the floor of the only bedroom. She never woke up. 

The two men stepped out quietly to talk to each other. Chanyeol handed the keys to Baekhyun and clapped him on the shoulder before walking back to the car. Baekhyun slid under the blankets with Yoo Mi and drifted back to sleep. Yoo Mi woke up with a start and looked around wild eyed at the unfamiliar surrounding. She felt a weight holding her down and started struggling. 

"Stop! I changed my mind! Stop! Please!" She was kicking, crying and sobbing incoherently. Panicking about her baby's safety. 

"Yoo Mi! You're safe. It's me." Baekhyun surrounded her with his arms, preventing her from hitting him again. In a daze, she pulled back slightly to reassure herself that this is really him. He gave her a crooked smile, slightly bittersweet at this kind of reunion before he bent his head to kiss her with all his pent up longing and passion. She could taste the saltiness of their mingled tears in this kiss. She broke it off and leaned her head on his chest, her tears falling unchecked on his shirt. 

"Yoo Mi, what's wrong? What happened? Can you tell me about it?" He asked her while kissing her head and tightening his hold on her. He's so afraid to let go. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm....." she was hiccuping as she replied. 

"What are you sorry about? What happened while I was gone?" He asked as gently as he could but worry is now making him anxious. 

"I.....I.....I..."she was stuttering unable to form the exact words that needed to be said. 

"You are....?"he prompted her gently, tilting her face so he could look at her eyes. 

"I'm pregnant." She blurted out in a rush before tears started forming in her eyes again. She saw the shock that flashed across his worried face. They were very careful. She shouldn't had gotten pregnant. 

"You are pregnant?" He repeated dazedly not quite grasping the implications yet. 

"I'm sorry! I didn't plan it. I was going to fix it but, but, but...." she was crying more loudly this time. It doesn't feel like there is ever any end to her tears. 

"I'm going to be a father." He dropped his arms and was thankful he was sitting down. He feels a little dizzy. 

"What do you mean fix it?" He suddenly grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

"Was that place what I think it is?" He yelled at her in disbelief. He was so surprised when she gave small nod that he let her go and stood up quickly. He was clenching his hands and jaw while he paced the room agitatedly. Anger was boiling inside him quickly. He was trying desperately to put a lid on his temper. 

"Baek..." she raised her hand to him imploringly and that's when he snapped and let his anger show. 

"HOW THE HELL COULD YOU THINK OF KILLING OUR BABY!!!" He was shouting at her at the top of his lungs, his anger now beyond his control. His tears were now falling down his face which was contorted in anger and pain.

"We can't have a baby! We're too young! Think of your career! My studies, my job! I can't raise a baby by myself." She was shouting back at him, her pain as tangible as his own. She scrambled to her feet unable to stay seated on the floor feeling at a disadvantage in that vulnerable position. 

"You never even gave me a choice. You were making all the decisions by yourself. This is my baby too. When were you planning on telling me? After you got rid of it?" His tone was accusing. His pain making him lash out blindly.

"What good would telling you do?" She replied brokenly before she crumpled back to the floor too tired to fight now. 

"I believe I asked you to marry me before I left for Japan. I guess I now have my answer. I was fun to fuck and sneak around but not to spend the rest of your life with, huh?" His bitter words were like knives sticking into her heart one by one. She kept her head bowed, she doesn't know what to say to erase his pain and anger. She had fucked up big time. 

"I was dreaming of making this work. Of a family together. You should have told me right away that you don't want to marry me. That I was just dreaming. I would have been able to take that better than this." He waived his hand uselessly at the two of them. She remained silent. 

With a curse, he walked out of the bedroom. Her tears were falling once again she she heard the outer door slam loudly. Outside, she could hear Baekhyun yelling and screaming loudly, his pain now her own to bear as well. 

She fell asleep crying once again. 

When she woke up, it was dark outside but a small light was shining outside the bedroom. Baekhyun was seated beside her looking directly at her as if just waiting for her to wake up. His eyes were cold. She had never seen him looking at her with anything except warmth and love. 

"We are getting married. I am telling you this time and not asking you. I will support you until you have the baby. We can divorce after that. I will raise our baby on my own. You can do whatever the hell else you want with your life after that." He stated simply, bitterness lacing his tone. 

Yoo Mi shook her head negatively refusing to marry him. This was wrong. They shouldn't be getting married in anger. Shouldn't be getting married because of the baby. She's going to ruin him. He ignored her and stood up to leave. She grabbed his wrist and unashamedly begged him. 

"No! Please Baekhyun listen to me. I am sor....." she started but he shook her hand away, turned his back at her and walked out of the bedroom. 

That night she laid on the floor wide awake as she listened to the man she loves sobbing like a child on the other room.

[thejokersenigma]

Joker x Reader Deadly Voice Part 30

Hiya Guys,

I can’t believe I am on part 30 and I’ve now been writing for over 4 months! Ahhh! I also can’t believe that people are actually liking and enjoying my writing so thank you guys all so much! i really appreciate it more than you can possibly understand!

Ok anyway here’s the next part, again not 100% happy with it - but I never am! So have it anyway!

I promise I will put some Joker in the next chapter?

Anyway enjoy!

Warnings: Brief mention of suicide

Masterlist

“What is this?” I asked grabbing the phone from Frost’s hand and reading the article - scanning it desperately to find what the headline could possibly mean. There was no main picture with the article, but I knew –from the title alone -it was about the Joker.

My eyes flickered over the large body of text and some of the words seem to stand out in bold to me – ‘…Joker’, ’ …met his demise’, ‘…suicide’, ‘…death’. Panic began to set into my body, my hands becoming clammy, my breaths shorter, and my heart beat unsteady. “Frost what is this?!” I repeated desperately at the screen, not looking at him as I blinked rapidly at the tears pricking at my eyes and blurring my vision.

“Read it.” He simply told me and he too seemed to be struggling with what was on the screen. I took a breath to try to get myself under control and focus on the whole article, now taking my time now to actually read the full page. It was dated from an hour earlier and the words swam and danced in front of me till I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. Finally I could read it, “It’s been two weeks since the Arkham escapee ‘The Joker’ was last seen on the streets of Gotham. It is unknown if this lack of activity is signalling the end of his recent run of crime or if another attack is still in the planning.

The GCPD has so far refused to confirm or deny whether they or the Batman have apprehended the clown prince of crime, but - in a surprising twist today – reports have begun to circulate that the jesting villain may have met his demise.

So far no body has been identified but rumours on the streets of Gotham vary- some claiming there was a possible suicide attempt by the well-known psychopath; others claiming it was by the hand of the masked vigilante Batman – but with the clear theme of the psychotic clown’s death.

There has still yet to be any evidence provided to support any of the theories suggested so far and speculation still remains on the Joker’s current whereabouts. The GCPD -

I broke off there, my eyes once again blurring too much as the tears slide down my face. I handed Frost back his phone and I peeked at him through the hair that fell across my eyes – trying to see if I could catch any emotions on his face. He seemed low, his frown more sad than grumpy now, but he showed no obvious distraught unlike me. When I fully raised my head and looked at him properly he met my gaze and there seemed almost pity in his eyes – probably for me and the state I had worked myself into - but also what seemed to be concern – concern for the Joker. What had happened? Was he truly dead? Was I too late to make it to Gotham?

By this point I no longer cared what reason I had given myself to justify returning to Gotham – I could no longer lie to myself that my decision had come from wishing to save innocent civilians who got in his way. Heck, now – if the article was true – they would probably be much safer!

But I no longer cared about them – and had I ever truly? Every last person could die now for all I cared if it would only ensure he was alive. I was a selfish person, making excuses so that I didn’t feel I was an insane little girl running back into the arms of my tormentor.

But now I didn’t care anymore.

I couldn’t lie to myself or anyone else anymore. If there was even a remote chance he was alive I had to know. I had to go to Gotham and find him – dead or alive.

As I had become lost in my thoughts I didn’t notice how shallow my breathing had gotten, how shaky my hands. I began to become detached from everything around me, my head becoming dizzy and cloudy. I became so numb that I didn’t even notice Frost move towards me and I only vaguely acknowledged my knees giving way beneath me.

I never felt myself hit the floor.

When I became conscious once more I was confused.

I couldn’t recall anything from before – what day was it? Did I have a shift? Did my alarm wake me up? Why wasn’t it still chiming?

Then memories began to flow back through my mind – was any of that a dream? I could remember talking to Frost at the door, then him appearing in my living room, then him leaving. Snap shots of recollections playing across my eyelids. I could remember opening the door my front door once more to go searching for Frost, but what then –

The Phone.

The Article.

I snapped my eyes open - the bright light from the surrounding windows causing me to squint. As my eyes adjusted I noticed I was in the passenger seat of a large SUV which Frost appeared to be driving down a long stretch of open highway. I blinked some more in the daylight, my eyes still sore and raw from crying earlier, and watched the farmed fields and occasional town sliding past.

I turned to look across to the driver side where Frost was sat staring straight ahead, both hands gripping the wheel tightly.

He glanced over at me as I pushed myself more upright, shifting in my seat and groaning as I moved -  my neck protested sharply at the change in angle. “Ugh – How long was I out?” I asked, my voice sound croaky from sleep.

“About an hour.” He replied, keeping his eyes on the road. I didn’t know what to say to that, and so a silence fell between us, the only sound in the car coming from the roar of the engine and road. I sat looking forward, watching the brake lights of vehicles in front of us light up as I came to grips with the situation I found myself in and what had happened before I woke up. Why had I fainted?

“Frost.” I started cautiously, sensing his tense mood. “What happened?”

“You had a panic attack.” He informed me, “You blacked out from it.”

Well that was odd. I hadn’t had a panic attack since I was little – and never one strong enough to knock me out. I could feel my cheeks warming as I thought about poor Frost left alone to deal with a women who had just fainted in front of him. “I’m sorry.” I muttered humiliated, no longer able to look at him.

“No need to –“ he mumbled uncomfortably and became incoherent over the noise of the road.

We couldn’t look at each now, both a bit self-conscious or embarrassed about the whole thing. I kept my eyes staring out of the passenger window, acutely aware of how red my cheeks must be. I tried to take my mind off it by looking for an indication of where we were, or a road sign telling me where we might be heading.

“Frost.” I started once more, trying to break the awkward silence between us. “Are we going to Gotham?” I asked turning back to him.

He shot a quick look at me to gage how I felt about this before he gave a nod, “Yes.” He confirmed, “And before you start yelling I can explain. I –“

“It’s alright Frost. Don’t worry about it.” I said, interrupting him before he began another long speech in an attempt to convince me that this was the right thing to do. I watched his eyebrows crinkle in confusion as he continued to watch the road.

“You’re not mad that I basically abducted you?” he questioned.

“No.” I said simply like it was no big problem. “I would probably have come anyway.” I admitted, shrugging and looking back out the window. Frost still looked confused and I realised I had never told him about my change in heart about returning to Gotham. “I was going to come find you, by the way.” I clarified, glancing over at his profile, “I changed my mind - I want to go back.”

Any reactions he had to this sudden revelation he chose to keep hidden under his emotionless mask – though I thought I saw a glimpse of relief in his eyes. He was probably glad that I wasn’t going to put up a struggle, not that there was much I could do in a locked vehicle travelling way over the speed limit down a highway in the middle of nowhere.

We fell quiet again, but now that the air was cleared between us it felt more relaxed, almost companionable, and I noticed that Frost’s hands had loosened slightly on the steering wheel. I turned back to my window to watch the world fly by - the sun now almost at its highest point in the sky, though partially hidden behind clouds of different shades that lazily floated by reminding me of the never ending questions that drifted in my mind.

“Uh – Frost?” I said abruptly, getting his attention, “Are we really driving all the way to Gotham?” I knew that would take days - at least 2 days - and that would be without any breaks along the way.

“No.” He answered, glancing in the rear view mirror and signalling to change lanes, “We’re driving to the nearest airport.”

“Oh. Ok.” I acknowledged lamely, not sure what else to say and my courage to ask more was failing me. Though I now felt I knew Frost better, he still continued to intimidate me, at some times more than others and I was very aware that he that the upper hand in this situation – being the driver and actually aware of where we were. Though I had yelled and bullied him back at my house on the farm, I was no longer in my comfort zone – in fact I was probably at least 100 miles from my comfort zone – and I knew it. I no longer felt brave or strong and felt almost completely at Frost’s mercy. I didn’t like it one bit.

To take my mind off these depressing and worrying thoughts I - once again - returned my gaze to the scenery outside my window, took a deep, slightly shaky breath, and considered the reason behind the  current state of things.

There was a good chance the Joker was dead.

There was also a chance he wasn’t.

I was in love with the Joker.

If – upon returning to Gotham city - he was dead I would be heart broken and at a complete loss as to what to do about it.

If he wasn’t, I would be suddenly confronted with a very much alive and – by the sounds of it – much more psychotic joker. And still at a complete loss as to what to do about it.

So I was going into this with no plan what so ever.

I swallowed the lump that was forming in my throat. How were we even going to find him? How did Frost know where he would be? Sure he must know the Joker’s hideouts, but what if they changed? What if he was dead? Where would he be then?

“Um, Frost?” I inquired, plucking up the courage to question him once more. He nodded slightly to show he was listening, “Uh – What – what are we doing?” I asked, “What’s the plan here?”

He paused a moment, as if considering the best way to explain it, “We are going back to Gotham to look for the Joker.” He stated matter-of-factly, almost as though I was just another henchman and he was briefing me on our mission.

“Yes…” I drew out, “But… um, how are we going to find him?” I asked, nervously fiddling with my fingers on my lap.

“Our best hope is he’s just laying low at the moment.” Frost informed me, “If that’s the case then there are several hideouts he may be at. We need to head to each one and search them.” He explained, keeping his eyes ahead, not looking at me once. “Hopefully we will find him. I we don’t we may at least get an idea of where he’s gone.”

“How many places are we talking?” I asked, wondering if he was referring to 3 buildings or 50.

“A lot.” He said simply. I gulped, there goes at least my next week probably – and I wasn’t sure how much time we had left – if any.

“That’ll take forever.” I pointed out.

“You got a better idea?” He asked sarcastically, raising one eyebrow and glancing over at me. I thought about it for a bit, turning away from him to watch the white road marks slide by as I thought. There had to be a better way, a quicker, more efficient way to do this. But how was I supposed to know?

And so I spent the rest of the drive pondering different options to keep my mind from other things.

At the airport I awkwardly followed Frost around, not really knowing what his plan was to get us on a plane that would leave within the next 30 minutes.

Somehow – god knows how but I believe it involved a large sum of money – he managed to secure us 2 tickets - both 1st class too, I noted as I glanced at the ticket he handed to me. How much money did this man have?!

I had never sat in first class before – surprise, surprise – and I felt like an imposter sat in their curtain off area in a plush reclining bed-chair, each with their own private screen. Why did we have to sit in 1st class?! It was like a half an hour flight – barely enough time to have the complimentary drink! I didn’t touch the sparkling water I order, too anxious to enjoy any of the luxuries that lay before me, instead I stared out the round little port hole window at the wispy clouds and blue sky, thinking about everything I would have to deal with when we eventually landed.

I was still hopeless trying to figure out a way we could find the Joker quicker – but how was I supposed to know what to do? I didn’t know their whole operation or how things ran – how was I going to know if there was a better idea? Sure, if Frost was talking to a henchman at least they would know a bit more about everything that went on – they might actually be able to give a useful sug-.

“Frost!” I called across the aisle, where he sat reading his phone screen. He looked up at me, frowning and clearly a bit surprised at my sudden wish to talk when I had been completely silent since we’d gotten out of the car. “Do you know any henchman that might have been with the Joker?” I asked hopefully.

“There were some guys still around when I left. Why?” he asked, crinkling his forehead in confusion.

“Could you ring any of them?” I inquired excited by my brain wave and not answering his question.

“I don’t have their numbers.” He informed me, returning his gaze to his phone, “It’s all part of security. No one has anyone numbers – expect the boss - in case anyone is caught and might compromise our operation.” He explained.

“Oh.” I mumbled, feeling deflated that my idea failed, but I supposed it made sense. “So how do you communicate?” I asked – just generally interested now.

“Radios.” He said simply without looking up.

“Ok…” I said, drawing it out as I tried to think of a way to rework my plan, “Do you know where any of them live?” He looked back up - seeming to be intrigued with where I was going with this

“Yeah. It’s my job to know.” He said matter-of-factly.

“Well, why don’t we go see a couple of them first?” I proposed, “Ask them if they have any ideas where to try? It might limit the number of sites we have to hit?” I suggested a bit nervously now – self-conscious by his full sudden full interest in what I was saying and worried it was a ridiculous idea – why else wouldn’t he have come up with it?

He seemed to consider if for a bit – looking for the flaws in my plan. “Yeah. Maybe.” He eventually admitted before once again becoming glued to his phone screen. We remained in silence for the rest of the flight.

I stuck to Frost like glue when we disembarked the plane – not entirely sure what we were going to do next. I followed him as we fought our way through those heading for luggage collection and out into a large main hall. Frost strode forward through the crowd, people parting before him, whilst I followed behind like a second shadow in the space left behind. I watched the people that milled around the large hall - men with briefcases, women in tight pencil skirts and heels, young children with brightly coloured rucksacks and crew members dressed in their varying uniforms.

Eventually the signs overhead seemed to suggest that Frost was leading me in the direction of taxis, trains, buses and car rentals and I soon found myself stepping out of the elevator into the airport’s multi-storey car park.

“Wait here.” Frost ordered me as we entered the third floor of parked cars. I frown at his back in confusion at his command as he continued to walk away from me, but did as he said – remaining by the entrance.

I watched him as he walked down past the row of cars, moving in and out of the small dim spotlights that illuminated small circles of the tarmac floor. He kept turning his head slightly either way as he checked the surroundings, finally stopping side of a SUV similar to what we had previously travelled in, although this one appeared to be a deep blue colour. He moved down the side of the car and stopped so he faced the driver’s door. I couldn’t see what he was doing as his actions hidden by the rows of cars between me and him, but he seemed to be fiddling with something in front him, his arms moving in jerks and tweaks.

All of a sudden he pulled back and then tried the car door, and I was amazed when it opened. Did he already have the keys for it? Then he slid into the driver’s seat and sat there for a few more moments appearing to now be toying with something in the car. All of a sudden the car’s engine roared and erupted into life. Was he stealing that car?!

He closed the driver’s door behind him and drove out of the space before pulling up next to me. When I didn’t move from my frozen state on the pavement he leant across the car to push open the passenger door. “Get in.” He grunted curtly at me. I hesitated only for a second before doing as instructed. He quickly accelerated away before I had even closed the door and I gripped my seat tightly to make sure I didn’t fly out of the chair as I heard the tyres screech beneath me.

When I finally felt secure, the door now closed and my seatbelt finally fastened, I turned to look at his profile as he drove out of the car park. “Did you just steal a car?!” I demanded.

“Didn’t have time to arrange one.” He said gruffly, not looking at me. When I didn’t say anything he glanced at me and must have noticed the shock still on his face, “Oh come on, you can’t be that surprised.” He muttered, clearly annoyed at how long it was taking for me to adjust to the fact that he was a criminal and therefore did criminal things.

I shook my head in amazement about how relaxed he was about what he had just done had, but decided there was no point in trying to get him to understand that his actions weren’t actually legal – this was probably not the first time he had done this, and I doubted it would be the last.

Instead I moved my gaze to the window, watching the different cars that lined us on either side slide past in the pools of artificial light, trying to come to terms with sitting in a stolen car and being yet another accomplice to a crime.

Eventually we emerged into the light of the day - though there wasn’t much of it.

Gotham was just exactly as I remembered it, as I gazed out of my tinted window, the same gloomy skies and dirty streets, the same noisy traffic rushing past and people pushing their way through crowds in their thick coats. Home I thought as Frost drove us through the streets, the tall imposing office buildings towering over us. It was home and I had truly missed it - only really realising it now that I was back in the comfort of its familiarity.

After having drunk in the sights around me I turned back to Frost, “So where are we going?”