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shelf-care · 4 years ago

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Winter Nights

Wolverine x OC

Lipstick mark series Pt.2

| Part 1|

So its snowing in south Texas! that never happens. My parents are panicking and I’m sitting here writing fan fiction to calm myself. What could go wrong?

So Victor Creed shows up in this because I’m a pantser and I come up with ideas as I go and see if it works for the plot, (For this miniseries I hope it does.) I was also watching Kate and Leopold last night (It’s become a valentines tradition for me over the last few years.) And Liev was in it. So theres that.

Rated PG-13

Mentions of sex, medical examination, a former abusive relationship, obsession with an individual, slight violence, touch starved wolverine.

“Your mission Miss hope?” The woman in the white lab coat asked while holding a clipboard ad clicking a pen multiple times, it had to be some sort of nervous tick. Maddie tipped her head back, swallowing her saliva, she was clad in a sterile white medical gown, her red hair sprawled out on the also white pillow as another individual examined her. “My mission was to come into contact with the Man known as wolverine, or James Logan Howlett.” She took a breath, the cold instruments the nurse had been using caught her rather off guard. “And you succeeded in not only finding him, but you managed to get a sample of his DNA?” The woman jotted some notes on the clipboard now, keeping her eyes locked on Maddie. The redhead looked away, staring at the ceiling stark white and formless like everything else in the room. “I did.” The doctor nodded her head. “We’ll be taking those samples back to the lab to confirm that its him. Until they are conclusive, you are free to go.” The young woman nodded watched as swabs left the room, she rather did not want to know what they wanted to do with him.

Blankly staring at the roof above her, Maddie couldn’t keep that night from playing over and over again. He was indeed her target, but, something was stirring in her, affection most likely. It would die within a couple weeks like it did with the men following shortly after. She knew he would be harder to kill. But he’d fall like the rest. Eventually. She closed her eyes, then she felt her phone buzz next to her. She reached for it, a voice message was visible. Holding the device to her ear, she heard his voice. A voice that in all honesty she enjoyed. “Look, I’m not that great at stuff like this. But I got your note, the other one, the one with the lipstick,” He paused, thinking about what he’d say next. “I thought we got on pretty well the other night. Lemme know when you make it back to the bar.” The message was short, and pretty sweet. He did care, at least a tad. Maddie slid her lips in a grin, she recorded a new message for him. “I’d love to meet again, this Friday at the bar?”

She waited at the bar again, it was cold, snow was on its way. This time the meeting was for more pleasure than anything else since her job was done, but it wasn’t a bad things to keep up with a target. The door swung open among the mostly empty bar. The few patrons turned their heads at the sudden commotion. In walked a man who was tall, very tall. Blond hair cascading down his shoulders, while some of it was put in a half ponytail. A long trench coat and fur, was joined by it, making him look that more intimidating. He made his way to the bar and sat down, eyeing Maddie like she was his new meal. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” He said keeping his sight on the bar ahead of him while he ordered himself a large glass of whatever was the strongest drink at the bar. Maddie rolled her eyes. “You here to babysit me creed?” She asked drawing invisible circles in the counter. “Here more on pleasure Miss Hope.” He looked her up and down again and licked his lips visibly so she’d see it for sure. He knew this made her one of two things. Hot and bothered, or pissed off. it pissed her off this time around, and Creed preferred it that way. “I thought we were past this.” She turned fully to him now. “You might be.” He drank down half the mixture of bourbon, whisky and fireball and faced her, chest puffed in pride and confidence, a pointed and toothy grin showed itself. “But I sure as hell wasn’t girly.” He scoffed as his fist hit the bar making the redhead jump as he got her attention and everyone else’s in the bar as a matter of fact. “We were just getting good when you left.” A fire lit in her heart, anger and passion apparent in her face she took a moment to compose herself. “Victor, they removed you from my squad and as my partner because of your behavior towards me. That hit was the last straw and I won’t be coming back and I’m sure you know that.” Her tone was low and threatening, looking at him, she grasped the glass and slammed down the rest of the liquid before putting down a few dollars as a tip. Creed thought it was adorable when she was angry, and decided to take it as far as he could.

As she zipped up her jacket and made her way out, the large man grabbed her by the arm. “We’re done when I say we are,” He pulled her close to him, his breath brushing warm against her throat as his claw ran down her cheek. “And I’m not done talking to you.” His yellow eyes bored into hers, she felt her heartbeat quicken, she despised and loved this feeling, that’s what got her into this mess the first time. “I told you I was finished. You’ll get your chance with me another day.” She opened her hand to show her palm to him, illuminating a golden hue of color at the center and curving our like a flame, Creeds eyes didn’t change a bit, he seemed like he welcomed the challenge. “Sweetheart, if only you knew how much I craved that part of you.” He gave a guttural low laugh, daring her, as he smirked again, spurring her on. Seeing if she’d really follow through on her threat, which most of them were never hollow. “On any other occasion Creed, I’d let you have it.” She placed her hand on his fist that was still clenched around her arm. “But I’m not in the mood for playing nice.” His hand went visceral, veins becoming more visible as one could see the vitality of the large mutant being taken on by someone a third of his size. “Let me go.” He threatened as he began to feel his muscles failing him in his left arm. “You first.” She smiled, the grin widening as he raised his claws at her. but was too weak to do much else. She laughed and leaned into his ear whispering in a sensual voice, her chest touching his to pour more salt onto the wound. “I thought you craved this part of me.” He could feel himself become more drained the longer she stayed, he realized she wasn’t messing around this time, his grip loosened and she walked free, not another word was heard from Creed, and it would be like that till the next time those twos’ paths crossed. Creed was bent over the bar. He reached for his drink and it shook in his hold, and drank the rest fervently like he needed air, he watched as his hand shook like an elderly man and his hand similar to one too. “Babe’s been getting stronger.” He was captivated by the way her powers worked, he always had been.

She was Outside, the wind howled and whipped the snow up, crating a curtain of nothing but white mist making visibility a little less than optimal. She pulled out her phone and started to text.

“Hey, the bar is full. Did you want to meet anywhere else for drinks?” She messaged him. Yes, it was a lie, but she didn’t want to be around Creed, for reasons that was obvious. She waited a few minutes till she saw the three dots pop up. “You wanna come to the trailer?” He asked bluntly. She shrugged. “Pick me up?” She shot back quickly. “Sure thing.” Was all he said back.

Maddie threw her head back against the mini sofa that was in the one room airstream. The warmth enveloping her as she sighed after her first sip of beer. The snow on her jacket seeping into the fabric further, making a chill run down her spine. “Thank you.” She said raising her head to look at him, happy to be warm. “Don’t mention it.” He said mirroring her actions. “I can’t believe you wanted to meet again.” She mentioned looking at him again, he was different from last time, but not. “I can’t either if I’m honest.” He sat on his bed across from her. There was a silence that fell between the two, but it was comfortable. “Sorry the bar didn’t work out.” Leaning forward trying to skirt the conversation along. “I’d rather be doing this.” He tilted his head referring to his drink. That made Maddie laugh through her nose a bit. “Really? You’d rather act like an old married couple than be out?” She teased him, but he looked at her for a moment. “Been there and done that.” She nodded. “I like this though. It’s nice.” She took another sip of her drink before throwing away the bottle in an open trash bin. “I never got to ask. What is it that you do?” She placed her palm under her chin and smiled, waiting for his answer. He played with his bottle, before drinking his as well. “What you saw the other night is what I’ve been doing for the last fifteen years.” He told her nodding and thinking about his past and his way of living. “I don’t remember much of what I did before.” Maddie looked at him, a blank face that he couldn’t make out, but made him curious. “You never told me what you did. How did someone like you wind up in this dump of a town?” He joked slightly but he wasn’t wrong, it was a little piece of nowhere. “I’m in military secret forces. I was stationed here, and have been here for the last three years.” She saw him tense at the subject. “You okay?” Her brows cocked at him becoming a little bit tense. She didn’t think he suspect anything, and she wasn’t outright lying about what she did. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He left it at that. She stood up and paced over to him, and sat down next to him. The mattress sinking beneath her. He looked at her not quite knowing what she was doing. She reached for his hand, and looked at him before she went any further. “You don’t seem fine.” She silently asked for permission and he let her have his hand. She traced his palm slowly and gently, comfort in every movement. He was starved of this type of affection. Most people were, but him more than others she found just from the way he acted. She laced her fingers in-between the spaces where his were not, interlocking their hands. He closed his eyes her for a split second, every curve, every bump, every imperfection written on her face made him want her more as he reveled in the feeling of them being so close. “Don’t do this to yourself.” He warned her, taking his hand out of hers, though she stopped him. “Don’t tell me what to do.” She was firm, but the firmness was met with a soft smile. Logans eyes studied her for a minute. No one had ever stopped him like that, not to his knowledge anyway. This time when he went to remove his hand she let him leave, but it was to place his hand under her chin and bring her closer, and there, their lips met, and he pushed her below him while she wrapped her hands around his neck and raked her hands through his hair, all while closing her eyes enjoying the warmth compared to the freezing outside.

While the campers light was dim, if one were close to it you could hear giggling, rocking, calling one another’s names in the dark, and a little obscene noises that you would only hear if you where right next to the airstream. Then there was the figure that stood a few feet away from the little camper, a figure that towered over most men. The same body that was blonde, and in the bar with Maddie that same night. “You made a big mistake girly,” He peered down at his still healing hand, it looked aged, like his hand was ten years older than the rest of his body.

#wolverine #wolverine x reader #Wolverine x oc #Victor Creed x reader #Victor Creed X OC #X-Men #Marvel #X-Men x Reader #X-Men x OC #liev schreiber #hugh jackman #touch starved

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evanthenerd83 · 3 years ago

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“Holly And The Demon Visit The Mall”

“Do you feel me,” asked Holly.

The demon nodded, then looked away sheepishly. “I… I guess.”

She smiled. Teeth nearly blinded It. Nearly, because the demon was used to far too much light.

Hell had several suns.

It was always summer, too.

Holly jumped off the hood of the cop car. “Good.”

She still wore her school uniform. The skirt danced about, revealing pale legs and torn stockings.

And thighs. Just the bottoms. But just the bottoms were enough.

A sudden chill sent the demon glancing every which way—at a discarded soda can, a stained napkin, a used condom. It knew that Its cheeks were blue.

Thankfully, Holly didn’t seem to notice. She never noticed.

She skipped around the cop car. Towards the back. Her hand tapped, tapped, tapped on the trunk.

She had nimble fingers. Small hands and nimble fingers.

Fingers that traced the handprint, which was beginning to dry. It was no longer bright red. It looked more brown, brownish black.

The demon felt like gagging.

“You’re… you’re—“

“Absolutely adorable?”

Holly opened the trunk. Her face disappeared.

The demon nearly gagged.

“No. Yes. Kind of?”

A sharp giggle, girly, cut through the night. It was sweet. It was also poisonous.

The demon felt needle-hairs rising to attention. It wrapped Its arms around Itself, and one of Its horns shrunk. The other wobbled a bit.

“Aw, thank you.”

The demon watched the trunk.

It could hear her rummaging around, shoving things. The cop car started to bounce.

The demon held Its breath.

It glanced at the mall.

Lights were still on inside. The parking lot was just barely empty. A few cars sat in sporadic spots.

People were still there.

People.

Men. Women. Children.

An image flashed through the demon’s mind, vivid and sensory. An image so horrible— and so horribly detailed—that it gagged.

It stumbled.

It leaned against the cop car with one clawed hand.

The night spun.

At that moment, Holly slammed the trunk. The sound carried. Nobody seemed to notice.

She was carrying something. The demon could tell. It was obvious from how she was walking. She was also grunting.

The demon screwed Its eyes shut.

‘Please be a hammer. Please be a hammer. Please be a hammer.’

It wasn’t exactly praying. Not entirely.

If a demon prayed, it only prayed to one being. And that being definitely wasn’t a God.

Not an all-loving God, anyway.

Not even a God.

It was a being that barely answered its worshippers’ prayers.

And if it did, it did so with ulterior motives. It only wanted to entertain itself.

The demon was mostly begging. It was begging to the other being, the one opposite—an all-loving God.

Its sworn enemy.

Holly came around the side of the cop car. Her footsteps echoed, a tap-dance routine. They abruptly stopped.

The demon saw her black shoes in the corner of Its eyes.

They shined.

“Whatcha doing?”

‘PleasebeahammerPleasebeahammerPleasebeahammerPleasebea— Oh. Crap.’

The demon gasped. It had glanced up at Holly, slowly, hesitantly. It had just seen what she was carrying.

The thing she had resting against her shoulder.

“No.”

Holly blew a bubble.

Her gum popped.

She resumed chewing it.

“Yes.”

Holly spun around, then started walking towards the mall.

The hammer was big, very big. Practically a sledgehammer. It bounced with each step.

It must have weighed a ton. A hundred tons. Holly didn’t seem to notice, however. She moved just as fast as ever.

The demon stumbled to Its hooves.

It chased after her, tail swinging, striking the pavement. A fear pounded its way through Its chest.

“No. No. No. You can’t.”

It caught up with the girl.

Holly ignored It.

She kept chewing her bubblegum. She had her free hand stuffed inside a pocket, and one of her shoes was untied.

The laces flipped and flopped.

The demon growled, then jumped in front of her. It spread out Its arms. It also shook Its head.

Holly froze.

“No. No, Holly. Not again.”

Holly just stared at It. Her green eyes gleamed. They glimmered like diamonds.

The demon wasn’t sure if this was from the moonlight, the lights in the mall, or something different altogether. Maybe a little bit of both.

Maybe it was her soul again.

Her damned soul.

Holly tilted her head. A curl of blond hair came loose, falling over her left shoulder. It looked cute.

She looked cute.

Wait. What?

The demon blushed again. It looked away from her.

“Why not? We had fun last time, right?”

The demon felt tears forming. They burned.

But It took a deep breath, and It shook Its head again.

“No. You had fun. I was—“

“Hiding in the shadows. And pools of blood. Like a little bitch.”

The demon gaped.

Before everything, all of this mess, Holly had never sworn. Ever.

In the sixteen years of her life, It had never caught her swearing. Not even when her little brother accidentally killed—well, semi-accidentally killed—her pet goldfish.

Or when her crush had stood her up at the Valentine’s Day dance. Nor when she had found him behind the cafeteria, sticking a finger up Jenny Mackindale.

Or when her parents had sent her to the shrink.

Or—

The demon grabbed both of her shoulders. It looked deeply into her eyes.

“Why?! Why are you doing this, Holly?! Huh?!”

Holly just blinked.

She chewed her gum.

“You never spoke like this before… be-before…”

Holly blew another bubble. Like before, it burst.

“Before you showed up?”

The demon blinked a few times.

Yes.

Yes, she was right.

Before It had shown up, appeared in the middle of her dorm, Holly had been a simple girl. A good girl.

Not necessarily a good student. But nobody really was a good student if they went to a catholic school.

The demon knew.

Everyone sinned.

The young. The old. The middle-aged.

Even newborn babies sinned. It was only natural. Humanity was a terrible species, violent and horny and very, very, very selfish, and it was normal for them to seek their own satisfaction.

But Holly…

… Holly was different.

She hadn’t sinned. Ever.

Like her mouth, she had been pure. Unpolluted. She was actually a good person; helpful, forgiving, considerate, respectful.

But now.

Now.

Holly pushed It, passing by. The demon rocked on Its heels for a second. It managed to stabilize Itself.

But by then, it was already too late.

Holly was already entering the mall.

“I don’t understand why—“

“You don’t understand anything.”

They were power walking, side by side.

The demon swiped a claw across Its forehead. Pain rose up Its arm. Sweat peppered Its rippled, scaly skin.

Everything that came out of the demon—be it tears or sweat or pee—was acidic beyond all measure.

It had ruined way too many toilets.

No wonder they’d been jumping from motel to motel.

“Hold on,” Holly plucked out her gum. She pinched a pink blob between her fingers.

The demon froze. “What?”

Holly peered back.

She winked.

She swung by a trash can. Said trash can had been positioned behind a rather imposing pillar. Said pillar, gray and very, very close to falling apart, was standing in the middle of the lobby.

The lobby. That wasn’t the right word… was it?

The demon didn’t really know all that much about the living world. It knew enough to get by. How else could It have survived this long?

It had a vague understanding of malls. These large, maze-like complexes bristled with self-indulgence and self-flagellation. Not to mention… capitalism.

So much capitalism.

It knew that humans, driven by their need for material objects, went from shop to shop, wallets filled with money. They bought things. The mere variety of things sent a numbing shock through the demon’s mind.

Books.

Clothes (especially those with more than one fabric).

Jewelry.

Shoes.

Blow-up dolls.

Dildos.

Cold suddenly flooded Its cheeks, and the demon covered Its face with both hands.

It took deep breaths.

“Hey. You okay?”

Her voice made It jump.

The demon also yelped. A hand was suddenly slapped over Its mouth, and Holly glared at It.

She lifted a single finger to her lips.

The demon went quiet. It might not have known much about humanity, but It did understand the gesture.

Be quiet.

Holly pulled It behind the pillar.

She backed up, pressing her back into the pillar. She had It cradled. She was hugging It.

“Hope you weren’t too loud,” Holly peered.

The demon went rigid.

It could taste metal. No, not metal.

‘Blood,’ It realized. “I’m tasting the blood on her hands. Oh, Christ, oh lord, oh my Go—‘

Holly breathed a sigh of relief. Something soft and plump, but not too plump, touched the demon’s spine.

No. Not just something. Some things.

Things that, from Its calculations, were situated on her chest…

‘Tits.’

She let go, and the demon fell to Its knees.

The floor was colder than her hands. Discarded receipts fluttered by. A broken watch gleamed, and It impulsively glanced up.

Holly grabbed her sledgehammer. She’d laid it down while throwing her gum away.

She spun around. For Its credit, the demon tried to avoid the whiteness—flesh, fabric, didn’t really matter—that suddenly flashed across Its field of vision. It did try.

A glare pinned It down. A frown as well.

“H-Holly—“

That gesture again.

Holly tilted her head. She indicated the side of the pillar.

The demon shuffled on Its hands and knees, peering around. It felt like a soldier crawling through a trench.

Was there a sniper waiting for It?

If It exposed Itself, would a bullet go flying? Or would someone scream, causing others to scream?

Scream and scram?

The demon would have giggled.

It exposed a single eye, iris deep crimson.

It saw what she’d been checking out.

The food court, across the lobby, was closed. Many of the restaurants had their lights off. Sandwich Queen. McRonald’s. Burrito-ville.

Only a few still ran. A Lamby’s was being tended to, the cashier Holly’s age. The cook kept looking back at her.

But that wasn’t all.

Because It then saw… them.

Them.

“Do you see?”

The demon didn’t respond.

It shook Its head, slowly at first. It quickened. An icy dread flooded Its empty lungs.

Holly gripped the sledgehammer tighter. Her knuckles turned white.

It knew that she was licking her lips. It could feel the bloodlust wafting off of her, thick and musky.

And what Holly was feeling was bloodlust. Blood. Lust. The demon heard her breathing heavily.

“Do… Do you see?”

The demon gulped.

It could see. It could see plenty.

They were just sitting there, all of them at one table. One—a girl—was busy with her cellular device. Another—a boy—had his arms draped around the girl’s shoulder.

Yet another tipped his chair backwards. A different girl sat in his lap, face twisted in mock horror.

She was giggling.

A third boy stared at a third girl. A goth girl, the demon realized.

A goth girl with her hand underneath their table, shoved down his pants—

“Holly.”

Holly was silent now.

It scooted back, then stood up. It put both claws on her shoulders. It stared deep into her eyes, searching for something, anything, a shred of the girl she had been.

All It found was excitement.

“Holly,” It whimpered. “Holly, no.”

Holly was no longer listening, though.

She was now tossing her sledgehammer—such a big sledgehammer, where’d she even find it—from hand to hand. She muttered to herself.

“No. Not like this.”

Left hand.

“No. Not that either.”

Right hand.

The demon shook her. It was sweating acid-bullets now.

“Holly? H-Holly, please don’t. Just leave them alone.”

Above.

“Maybe it should be higher? No. Not that high.”

Below.

“At my midsection?”

The demon gripped her shoulders tighter, and It felt Its nails digging into the flesh. It loosened Its grip.

“Holly. Holly, let’s just… let’s just go back to the motel. We can… we can order room service… or something.”

It was desperate now.

It was close to tears now.

But Holly didn’t notice. She had finally found a position that she liked. The sledgehammer was tilted, horizontal, and her left hand gripped the handle, the knuckles turning blue.

“Hey! Re-remember that s-story I refused to t-t-te-tell? About those b-b-b-bl-blo-blood or-or-orgies? I… I’ll tell them now. I’ll tell you everything. Just please, just please, don’t go hurting those nice peo—“

Holly ducked out of Its grip.

She then began to run.

…

The teenagers didn’t know what hit them.

Well, that wasn’t true. They saw her running towards their table. How could they have not?

She was wearing a school girl’s uniform. A light brown vest over a white button-down shirt, her collar undone. Her skirt revealed legs that wouldn’t have quit.

And they didn’t quit. They carried her all the way to their table.

Marcy saw the school emblem—a cross.

She was sitting in the right position. She looked up from her phone just long enough to see it.

And to catch the blunt side of the sledgehammer.

Tony managed to stand up and clench his fists. The words were at the tip of his tongue; those three, simple, universal words.

What. The. #$@&.

But before he could open his mouth, the girl swung her sledgehammer.

Everything cut to black.

Samantha instinctively clenched her own fist, and Marcus suddenly reached the finish line. He screamed her name. It sounded like a goat baying.

Something warm filled her hand.

Something else that was warm soon filled his pants.

She tried to pull out. She tried. But before she could, a shoe hit her chest, and Samantha fell backwards.

Marcus went with her. He had a funny look.

That funny look disappeared underneath the sledgehammer.

Samantha opened her mouth to scream.

Something filled her mouth. Another shoe. It was shoved hard, and pressure started to build. A cracking sound from somewhere inside her own head. The pressure gave way to brief, potent pain.

One last, loud crack.

Her lower jaw came loose. It practically dangled, swinging from side to side.

The sledgehammer then found her.

Silence. Dark.

And the warmth coating her hand faded away.

The girl stood over her, chest heaving, cheeks flustered. A strand of blonde hair was plastered to her forehead.

Her eyes gleamed. But they didn’t gleam like emerald diamonds. They gleamed like glass.

She heard their chairs scraping the floor.

She spun around.

The empty chair kept on spinning.

…

#holly and the demon #evanthenerd83's storytime #short story #dark comedy #sci fi & fantasy #crime fiction #horror comedy #creative writing #original writing #july 2021

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sassyshoulderangel319 · 6 years ago

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Lost Everything - A Fic Swap

for @saviorsong - Love ya girlie!

MASSIVE Endgame spoilers so if you’re NOT saviorsong and read this but haven’t seen it yet, you. have. been. warned!

I did not intend for this to be 3,800+ words but here we are.

Wind howls in your ears, pulling at your chestnut curls, as you fall through endless darkness—occasionally broken by a flicker of light. Lightning, if you had a guess. Your overlong coat flaps around your knees as you plunge headfirst into the bottomless abyss below you. The speed and shadows are wearing you out. Your body isn’t handling the stress of this fall very well.

This is pointless, your mind whispers. You’re going to die here and you’ll never save anyone.

I have to try, the more conscious part of your mind retorts to your self-doubt. It’ll work. I can do this.

If you insist, those doubts sneer.

You shut them up. You don’t have time for doubts right now. You got stuff to do. A mission to complete. Friends to save. Friends, family… civilization.

The ground rushes toward you, looming from the darkness.

Thud!

“Oof!” All the breath leaves your lungs.

You sit up.

You’re in the middle of a familiar-looking battlefield.

A crumbled building stands behind you—with a logo on it that makes your heart ache. A large letter A, with an arrow as the crossbar and a circle around it.

The Avengers compound in upstate New York. The sight of that logo, somehow intact despite the destruction, causes a chasm of loneliness to yawn open in your chest. How you missed them all…

“Hey Stark! Cap! We got a random chick in a black leather trench coat in the battlefield,” you hear someone call. You glance around. A man grows to normal size in front of you. “Hey. Who’re you?”

You stare. “S… Scott?” you ask.

The man leans away. “Have we met?”

“Now’s not the time for pleasantries, Lang!” someone else shouts.

At that moment, a six-limbed infantry creature—a “space dog” as that raccoon had once called them—leaps over the decimated ground, growling as it hurtles toward you. Scott vanishes—although “shrinks” would be the more accurate term—with a cry of surprise.

But you’re ready for the space dog.

The long dagger—“Or is it a short sword?” the voice of a passed friend teases in your mind—in your hand slices the thing clean in half. Disgusting body fluids—you’re not sure if it’s blood or guts or what combination—splatter over you. You wipe your eyes and mask and leap over the boulders, searching the battlefield for more familiar faces. Scattered over the churned earth are millions of enemies—but thousands of friends. You see the light shields of the Mystic Artists, the blue sonic cannons of the Wakandans, the flash of Cap’s shield as it sliced cleanly through the air, the lightning of… is that Mjolnir? Or Stormbreaker? Or is it Mjolnir and Stormbreaker?

You snicker. One weapon never seemed like enough for Thor.

Scott reappears. “Who are you? That was amazing!”

“Oh, Scott,” you say affectionately. “I haven’t even gotten started yet.”

“How do you know my name? Do we know each other?” he asks, chasing after you as you take off across the chaotic fight.

“Not in this reality,” you say, just loud enough for him to hear it over the explosions. You rip the hem of your coat out of the claws of a space dog and drive your dagger into its guts.

Ignoring Scott’s stunned face, you make your way toward the lightning. Out of everyone you lost, that blond idiot was the one you missed the most.

You weave and leap and pounce on space dogs, letting your blade and muscles do their work. Your heart is pulling you toward Thor like he’s a magnet in the hands of a child and you’re a paperclip lost in the depths of a sofa, drawn irrevocably toward him.

Vaulting over a mound of upturned dirt and rock and concrete, you come face-to-face with a face that makes your heart reach out. Panting, you stare at him for a moment. “Thor…” you breathe, staring at him. He’s… different from the Thor in your reality. His hair is long—as is his beard. Your Thor was like that too—between his beheading of Thanos and the events that led up to this very fight in your reality, but his Asgardian physique had burned off the excess bodyweight faster when you dragged him out of his depression by that overlong hair.

He stares back at you. You become very aware of the fact that you’re covered in gunk from slaughtering space dogs mercilessly. There’s blood—some of it possibly your own—clumping your curls and splattered over your skin, mask, and coat.

“Have… we met?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not in this timeline,” you say. “In my timeline, though, we’re close.”

He reaches out and brushes a curl away from your face. “Yes… something… in my heart… recognizes you,” he says. His face sobers. He pushes you behind him and takes a swing at six space dogs at once with Stormbreaker, slicing them all to several pieces with a single swing.

Hot dang.

“Where’s Mjolnir?” you ask.

“Rogers has her,” he replies.

You can’t help but grin. No matter the timeline or reality, Steve was always worthy.

You hear a familiar snikt! And a slender, rather short boy drops onto the ground, letting go of a web. “Mr. Thor, sir,” young Peter Parker exclaims, out of breath. “It’s… the gauntlet.” He glances at you. “Uh… who are you?”

You smile at him. “Call me Evergreen,” you say.

“Uh, hi, uh, Evergreen. I’m, uh, Spider Parker. I mean—Peter-Man. I mean—” The kid swore under his breath. “Never mind.”

“It’s okay Spider-Man,” you say. “Now. What was that about the gauntlet.”

“Oh yeah! The flying, glowing space lady—whatever her name was—is racing for the quantum tunnel! She’s got help and she’s almost there but Thanos is heading right for her!”

Thor grabs you and launches into the air. “No time to waste!” he exclaims. You hold onto him tightly. It’s been… a while since he held you like this.

Since your Thor held you like this. You shake your head. This isn’t your Thor. You know it’s not. But… he kind of is. All Thor’s are… kind of your Thor. They’re all still Thor.

Man. Alternate realities and timelines were going to give you such a massive headache later.

^*^*^*^*^

You stand on the dock of New Asgard in Tønsberg, Norway, staring out over the ocean. Thor had brought you back with him after… the funeral. Thor is standing next to you, his remaining blue eye reflecting the color of the sea.

“So,” he says. “Tell me where you’re from.”

You sigh, glancing down at the wooden dock. “I’m from a timeline—a reality—where that fight didn’t… end quite so well.”

“Explain,” Thor requests. It sounds like an order, but the gentlest order you’ve ever heard.

You plop down on the dock, crossing your legs underneath you. Thor seats himself beside you. “We lost. In my reality, I’m an Avenger. Have been for… a long time. Years. Nat used to jokingly tease us that it was a bad idea to date a teammate. But the you in my reality and I didn’t care. Never did. And Nat was never serious anyway.” You shake your head. “Anyway. We lost. Tony didn’t manage to get the stones off the other gauntlet and Carol didn’t get it through the quantum tunnel either. Thanos just repeated what he’d done that we fought so hard to undo. What Nat…” You sniff. Thor reaches up and wipes a single tear from your left eye. “What Natasha sacrificed herself for. And… not only did we lose… but we fell. Thanos… he killed everyone. The whole team. He… he shredded the universe like he said he would.”

“How did you survive?”

You hold your dagger out. The glowing green gem in the hilt pulses in the mid-morning light. “I’m… before I was an Avenger, I had a past. Like everyone else. But it wasn’t noble like yours or Cap’s—”

“Mine is debatable,” Thor remarks. You snicker.

“Fair point,” you concede with a small grin. “Anyway. My past was more like Clint’s or Natasha’s. I… wasn’t always a hero. I fancied myself more of a Robin Hood character but… a thief is a thief, right?”

“A thief, eh? Is that the reason for the knee-length black leather coat?”

You smile. “It is,” you agree, glancing down at your outfit. It’d been repaired since the battle at the compound.

Form-fitting black trousers, combat boots, dark green shirt, stitched-up coat. After the space dogs nearly shredded your coat, you’d fixed it up.

“My apologies. Continue with your story.”

You tug your mask out of your pocket and stare at it contemplatively. “I wore many masks during that time, as a thief. But this dagger… well. It came to me when I was stealing something else.” You can’t help but chuckle at the memory. “It lets me jump between timelines and alternate realities. This stone… it’s not an Infinity Stone, but it’s still powerful in its own way. When Thanos shredded the universe and rebuilt it anew, I jumped ship before he could get me.”

“Indeed. That stone is powerful if it brought you here,” Thor agrees. “Tell me. Why do I feel my heart calling for yours when you and I have never met before?”

You stare out to sea, not looking at him. Behind you, somewhere, Valkyrie shouts at some human punk who was, “getting familiar.” You can’t help but snicker. You haven’t felt this at-home in months. Since everyone was stolen from you.

“In my reality, you and I were closer than just dating. We were… basically married. But it was different. It was less of a legal bond and more of a heart bond. We could always feel each other’s hearts and the closer we were, physically, the easier we could feel each other’s actual emotions. Made it hurt all the worse when the you in my universe died. That bond is lingering around me, I guess. And it’s still reaching for you. You’re still Thor.”

Thor hums in thought. “I see. I understand.” He’s quiet for several moments. “Why did you come here, Melody?”

You finally meet his eyes. “I lost my universe. I lost my family and friends. You. Everything and everyone I ever cared about. Why do you think I’m here?”

“Solace? Refuge?”

“I came to ask for help,” you retort, sharper than you intend. “I can make it back to my universe with this. If we can make it back before he destroys the stones the way he did the first time, I could get all of them back.”

Thor sighs. “We’ve already lost… so much.”

“I know. But don’t you think I lost a lot too?”

“You misunderstand,” Thor says. “I am not refusing. We’ve lost so much in this timeline as well, but we’re the Avengers. It’s our job to Avenge what we lose. And you’re the last Avenger of your timeline. I would gladly accompany you for another chance to kill that disgusting. However, I don’t think I can do so on my own. I will ask and see if anyone wishes to join. I swear to you, we will try to bring your universe—and your husband—back to you.”

“Thank you,” you say. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

You smile. “I get to drive my blade into his eye socket.”

“A privilege I will gladly allow you.” Thor kisses your hair. Your heart aches and you desperately wish to bring his lips to yours. But you remind yourself, he may look like your Thor before you dragged him out of his depression, but he is not. You take what comfort you can from him in the form of his arm around you and his lips in your hair.

“Thank you.”

“Give me three days to rally some warriors. Then we will see about returning to your universe and avenging it.”

“Take your time, but not too much. I don’t know how long we have before Thanos destroys the Stones in my universe.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Thank you, Thor.”

^*^*^*^*^

You, Thor, and the rest of your more ragtag group of Avengers from another world spew out of your portal. Thor’s landing is much smoother than your jump into his world. He sets you down gently.

“Now,” he says, peering around the remade universe.

You smirk and peer up at him through your cleaned mask. “Bring me Thanos,” you purr.

He smirks in turn and flicks a loose curl off your shoulder. “Gladly,” he says.

You and your group charge off.

As you run, you look around the remade universe. At the very least, the remade Earth is beautiful. Much as you hate to admit it—even internally to yourself—Thanos has an eye for natural beauty.

If only it could come without his price of you losing everyone you love.

You clench your jaw. You can’t appreciate the beauty without your Thor by your side.

“Guys, I’m getting an energy signature!” Banner calls from just ahead of you. “I think it’s the Stones!”

“Let’s go!” you shout, finding more energy to keep going forward. Thor claps your shoulder.

“It’s going to work. I promise,” he says.

You nod in determination. “It will. We’re together.”

He nods back. You know he’s thinking that he’s not your Thor, but he’s still willing to give you support. Perhaps it’s the bond between you and your universe’s Thor tugging at him from your heart still. Maybe it’s just that he’s a big golden retriever full of love and heart.

You turn back towards where you’re running after Banner. “Let’s take him down!”

^*^*^*^*^

“Evergreen, now!” Thor shouts, holding Thanos around the neck.

You leap on him, knees holding you to the alien’s massive purple barrel chest.

Ruthlessly, you drive your dagger into Thanos’ eye. “That’s for my husband, you monster,” you snarl.

He goes limp underneath you. You manage to flip off him before he collapses. Thor tears the Avengers’ version of the Infinity Gauntlet off Thanos’ arm. You stare at it. That’s what killed Tony in this Thor’s universe. You and Tony were similar: no powers whatsoever. Your strength came from gadgets and objects—as well as intelligence and training. You couldn’t put that glove on, snap your fingers, and get your husband and friends and family back and live to tell the tale.

You can’t ask Banner to do the snap again either. It damaged him too—in your universe and his. You couldn’t have a random person do so either because they had no context and wouldn’t want to erase their whole universe. The normal people probably weren’t even aware that they were only created days ago at the expense of the people in the universe that existed before they did.

You pick up the gauntlet and quietly handle it. It’s decimated after already being used once by Thanos to remake your reality. It’s going to be hard to use again. The nanotech is damaged.

“Melody, don’t,” Thor says, setting his hand on top of the gauntlet and pushing it down so it’s out of your immediate field of vision. “Don’t even think about putting that thing on.”

“Who else is there?” you ask, looking up at him. His mismatched eyes meet yours steadily. “There’s no one else.”

Thor pushes his fingers into your hair, brushing it out of your face. It’s stained with Thanos’ violet blood. “Please, Melody, let me. Let me wear the glove and bring your family and friends back.”

“I… why would you do that? You’re not even from this reality!”

“I failed my reality once. If I can save yours, I can consider myself redeemed.” He tugs the gauntlet from your grip.

“Thor, no!” you try to protest, reaching for it. He holds it away from you. “I can’t—I can’t lose you again. You’re not even mine but I… I know I can’t… I couldn’t handle watching you die again.” Thor’s arm holding the gauntlet as far away from you as possible relaxes a little.

“You won’t. This won’t kill me. I swear to you.” He smiles and jams his hand into the damaged gauntlet.

“Thor, wait!”

He smiles reassuringly and lifts his hand. He snaps his fingers.

You reach out as the gauntlet flares with bright white light. “Thor!”

For a moment, a void of white overtakes you, leaving you standing there in an endless expanse of light. You whirl in all directions, looking for the existence of literally anything or anyone else. Your dagger is clenched in your hand. For several long moments you’re alone in the light.

Then the light fades away, and you’re standing where you were.

Thor is standing there with his right arm—and armor—heavily burned. The gauntlet has fallen off his hand.

He stoops and picks up the blue Space Stone and red Reality Stone in one burned hand. The other whole hand brushes another chestnut curl from your eyes. “This is where we say our goodbyes, Melody. I’ll return myself and the others back to our own reality. I wish you the…” He winces and recoils as something hurts him. “The very best of luck. And the greatest happiness.” He smiles at you, both eyes sightly watering.

His ragtag Avengers gather around him. A portal of swirling red and blue opens and they all disappear.

You’re left alone.

The universe around you starts to dissolve. Turning to dust the same way you had seen half of your universe do five years before. Once everything is gone, you’re left floating weightless in an empty void. This time of darkness.

The shadows start to swirl, slowly at first and then getting faster and faster. You start spinning with its rotation, caught up in its momentum. The darkness begins to generate light. Red, then orange, yellow, green, blue, and vibrant violet. You clench your dagger tighter in your hand for stability—searching for one thing solid and real.

Reality seems to stretch and snap like a dolly zoom in a horror movie.

You’re standing on the ruined earth of the battlefield at the Avengers compound.

Alone.

Dust and ash seems to coalesce from the burning ground.

Each one becomes a person.

A friend. A family member. A warrior. A Mystic Artist. A Wakandan. A captain or two. And—

“THOR!” You can’t help it—seeing him again washes you with joy. This time, it’s your Thor. Short hair, short beard, and all. The bond between the two of you is pulling you right toward him. You heed it without caution, running at him from the moment he reformed. Your legs are throbbing slightly from all the running today, but you forget about the discomfort entirely.

You leap on him, wrapping both arms and legs around him, keeping your dagger’s blade away from him to keep him safe. He catches you and holds you tightly. You can feel relief and shock flowing down your bond from his heart to yours.

“Melody,” he whispers like the very sound of your name brings him rapture, a few chestnut curls pressed between his lips and your ear. “What happened?”

You climb off him slightly just so that you’re on your own feet. “I’ll explain fully later. For now… I’m just ecstatic to have you back.”

He smiles softly at you.

Thinking in perfect sync, you lean toward each other at the same time.

Your lips meet with eager enthusiasm.

^*^*^*^*^

You spin your dagger and slash at the arm of an arms dealer’s lackey, laughing and smirking.

Another day as an Avenger. A slow day, maybe, but another day.

Thor’s back presses against yours. You feel him chuckle in the deep vibrations from his lungs.

“Look at us,” you say. “The two of us, back at it again on the battlefield.”

That brings out a real laugh—that hearty belly laugh you love so much. “Indeed! I could think of nothing more fun!”

“Me neither,” you agree.

“Save it for the honeymoon, Mr. and Mrs. Evergreen,” Sam teases.

“We already did that,” you retort, grabbing a thug by the shoulder and kicking him in the gut down a short flight of stairs.

“I wouldn’t mind another, though,” Thor says playfully.

“Ugh. Definitely save the planning and fantasizing ’til you’re in private,” Sam says.

“But maybe we want to make you uncomfortable,” Thor teases as you swing up onto a henchman’s shoulder, grab his face, and jab your dagger into the soft tissue of his shoulder. With any luck, no one would die on this particular arms bust.

“There are innocent ears on this mission,” Scott remarks.

“Who?” Peter Parker wonders.

“You, small child,” Thor says, linking his arm with yours to pull you out of the way of a bullet and simultaneously throw you at another lackey.

“Hey! I’m not that young!” Spider-Man protests. Laughter echoes across the comms from the rest of the team. Even Barnes chuckles quietly—and he’s been pretty stoic for the last couple months. There’s a crackling of lightning behind you and you narrowly dodge getting zapped.

“Compared to me you are,” Thor says. “I’m fifteen-hundred. You’re fifteen.”

You laugh and pull Thor away from a thug in order to throw your dagger at the thug’s shoulder. With one quick motion the blade is free and you’re receiving a quick kiss from Thor.

“Hey, babe, whaddaya say we take a little vacation once this is over?” You glance over your shoulder at him when you make your suggestion.

“Nothing would make me happier,” Thor says. Lightning shoots down from the sky, lightly zapping a henchman who tried to sneak-attack the two of you. You snicker. Nothing was better than this. Surrounded by friends and family—your team—fighting side-by-side and back-to-back with the love of your life, knowing he was always going to be there for you. Nothing—not even Thanos’ crazy scheme—would ever separate the two of you permanently.

Your bond—no, your love—was too strong for that.

You tilt up onto your tiptoes—you almost swear he’s taller than he was before—and return Thor’s quick kiss with your own. “I love you,” you say, quick and quiet.

He smiles. “I love you too. And we all owe you our lives for getting us back.”

“Thor, I would fight to the ends of the universe as we know it for you and the rest of our family and friends.”

“I know. Without you, all would have been lost.”

You smile. “Well, maybe a little. But I couldn’t just let you cease to exist when you hadn’t finished doing the dishes at our place,” you tease. More laughter crackles with static on the comms.

Thor laughs. “You’re right, of course. How inconsiderate of me.”

“Well, take me on another honeymoon and we’ll call it even.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

#Endgame #Avengers: Endgame #Endgame spoilers #saviorsong #Tumblr friends #Thor #Avengers #MCU #Marvel #fic swap #my writing

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bonniejstarks · 5 years ago

Text

The Pink Jumpsuit: An essay about the bubbles we live in

‘It seems like someone else’s dream of my past.’ For Emma Neale, the painting ‘Wanderlust’ by Dunedin artist Sharon Singer stirs memories of her childhood, and new understandings of guilt and forgiveness.

There were gifts from my father when he came home from overseas trips. Love offerings; a bit like those a cat might bring home after night revels. Placations. Mixed messages. Guilt trips. Gilt traps.

Top 40 albums and band memorabilia for my younger sister. Leather pants for me, the anxious girly swot he called ‘Stude’ to rhyme with ‘dude’, to make praising my studiousness — and maybe that studiousness itself — seem cool.

After unwrapping the leather trousers, I went to a school social with my bottom half dressed like a biker chick; the top half in a turquoise T-shirt borrowed from my mother, which sported a black panther and swirls of gold glitter. The ensemble was a look I wasn’t sure how to carry, though I still drew a lot of attention from the senior boys. “Are you really a junior?” “Whoa, hot pants.” “Hey, Olivia Neutron-Bomb!”

My svelteness was wasted on me, at that age. I couldn’t see it: I just felt awkward, uncoordinated. Even if I had seen it, I was probably still too sensible and bookish to flaunt it, cash in on it, or let it give me confidence. The attention was just unsettling. I got the same feeling in my throat as when I’d seen an aggressive male pigeon treading a female — the flutter and scramble of it, the poor hen hard-scrabbling to get away. There had been no preamble dance of bobbing beak-link, glossy necks shimmering at each other, like panels of sequins. It was all panic, claw, shake, the female’s coos like bottled sobs.

Sharon Singer ‘Wanderlust’, acrylic on canvas, 2019

From the pod of my teenage awkwardness, however I could see that my mother absolutely knew how to cut a figure; elegance was, if not a weapon, a kind of armour. When Mum unwrapped her own gift from Dad that year, my sister and I thought it was hilarious — and dizzyingly bold. He had given her a slim-fit boiler-suit in a light denim fabric, its colour the pink of smoker’s candies. It had fake gold ventilation grommets, a long front zip; and I think it had stitching in a batwing bust. Usually Mum wore deep plums, aubergines, black, russet-red. They were the shades of polished piano wood, tooled leather hardback book covers, candlelight, the heavy, hushed velvet of theatres: colours with body and weight The colours of thought, and of night. The suit was racy, playful, youthful, almost saucy — and she looked stunning in it: dark and sultry like Anni-Frid Lyngstad, from ABBA, with a shiver of haughtiness.

We crowed at Mum when she tried on the new outfit. “You look great! It’s fabulous!”

Silence.

“Are you brave enough to go out in it? Don’t you like it?”

Her quiet reply: “I’m not sure about it yet.”

“Do you think it’s too tight-fitting?”

We knew she and our father often worried about their weight. Weren’t the ‘80s a decade of extreme food weirdness? Hadn’t they tried the bread diet, the grapefruit diet, the cottage cheese diet, the Jane Fonda workout, skipped meals, taken up running, talked about the Lebanese Army Food Diet (which I think involved eating only eggs or chicken)?

Dad sometimes made dark jabs at Mum about her figure. “If only your [x or y] was smaller, you’d be perfect.” His nickname for me was Lumpy. If he found me and my sister eating, he often said with acerbic, Basil Fawlty-esque disdain: “Having a little snack, are we?”

I became anorexic when I was 17. As a schoolboy at Nelson College, Dad had been harassed for his own weight, so his attitude had a backwards logic, even for a man who could be deeply empathetic. He was a close listener, and loving enough that, if I think too hard about his sudden death at age 48 (from a heart attack while he was out jogging), it feels as if a trench is being excavated in my stomach. He repeated what he knew, I guess. He criticised us to pass on the urgent and venomous message he had received from that all-boys’ boarding school culture: fat means failure, slender is status, beauty is, yes, narrowly defined.

‘Wanderlust’ by Sharon Singer, 2019 (detail)

Mum stood side-on to the mirror, hand swiping quickly over her stomach, as she pulled it in: as if women’s bellies should at least sit level with the hip-bones, the way lager should sit level with the rim of the glass, Mum’s swipe a bartender’s beer comb trimming the foam head. She turned this way, that way, a whether vane in the mirror: should she wear it, should she not?

“You look lovely, Mum!” We wanted her to be wedding-day glad at Dad’s return from his travels; we wanted the normal routine to have landed with him. We wanted that ordinary rhythm to mean we were safe: safe to be as selfish as kids need to be, to get on with the job of growing up and eventually, wanting to leave… which makes no sense, it makes no sense, but what does, when…

“I’m just not sure how your father really sees me,” Mum said.

I don’t know if I put two and two together then — the candy-pink overalls and the other time I’d seen her taken aback by a gift. I think it was about five years earlier, when we lived in America, but memory shuffles together events and settings from different packs to come up with a stacked deck. Dad’s not here to contest the dealer’s version.

One Christmas, he gave her some jade and silver jewellery. She loved nephrite; we kids were far too ‘70s-expat-Pākehā-Kiwi to know the word pounamu then. We were busy learning to hide our accents and swap ‘cookie’ for ‘biscuit’, ‘bug’ for ‘beetle’, say ‘jerk’ and ‘turkey’, ‘Get off the grass’, ‘No duh’, ‘Catch my drift’, ‘Mondo bizarro’… And maybe because my dad was a nephrologist, the word nephrite drew the family language to it. The words share a relationship: the root links them through the Spanish piedra de (la) ijada or yjada (1560s), where ijada means loins or kidneys. Jade was thought to have healing properties, for kidney and lumbar complaints. Even the thought of pressing a cool, polished jade amulet over an ache seems soothing.

I suppose if this scene did happen in America, the jade was unlikely to be from Te Wai Pounamu anyway, given jade is also found in California, where we lived at the time. Either way, when Mum opened the gift there was confusion and collapse in her face, which she fought against.

There was something going on here that we hadn’t seen before. I only recall seeing her cry one other time, and that was when she was in pain, from a minute shard flicking into her eye as she clipped my baby sister’s toenails. I had never seen her look so stricken. American TV in the build-up to Christmas hadn’t revealed this kind of reaction in all the seductive ads for toys, toys, toys … Presents were meant to be opened in great communal teeth-baring, group hugs, a festival of cleanliness, perfect skin, efficiency, friendship-joy and great hair. We were all in our dressing-gowns, three of us no doubt with bed-hair, Mum probably the only one who’d brushed hers for the occasion. I can remember looking at the Christmas wrapping to try to figure out what had gone wrong.

Something was very awry. The jewellery was already broken? The jewellery had something missing? It seemed elegant, queenly to me — but the sadness in Mum’s face made me think, are the necklace and bracelet really so ugly? How do I find the ugliness? How do I understand it?

I thought the gifts would look enchanting on her. My mother has very green eyes: she really does. She tells me that green eyes are more common in fiction than in real life. I wonder if that might have subliminally helped to make her a writer?

When she found her image in novels, saw her statistically exceptional eyes and her difference reflected, was that unconsciously affirming?

Mum hid her face in her chestnut brown hair. In the Californian sun, her hair bleached ginger on the tips, which she hated, though she loved candied ginger, and my sister had a giant teddy called Ginger Bill, and ‘gingerly’ was a beautiful word, but what was wrong with the present?

Perhaps I didn’t truly begin to understand until I was 16, when a boyfriend brought me gifts after he’d been away overseas: gold fan earrings, gold fan charm on a necklace, a tropical flower perfume: frangipani or hibiscus, the name lost, now along with its thin sugary fragrance. When I received them, I was confused about what to feel; the offerings weren’t at all to my personal taste, but the gesture seemed wildly generous, and it gave off a thin buzzing edge of a new experience, even though it was also conventionally, stiflingly romantic. Yet as soon as I’d unwrapped the gifts, the boyfriend went at me with a force and insistence that seemed to say I owed him something. He was extracting payment; pushing me down on the bed, so that I felt like the poor flustered female pigeons I’d seen, pecked and trampled and somehow, at the same time, bizarrely, completely ignored by the grinding bull of a bird.

I must have understood it, then, as now it feels as if the two events are filed in the same memory compartment: terrible, terrible presents.

Mum’s jewellery was a kind of hush money. Or an apology. Or a bribe? They weren’t a gift of time. They weren’t companionship. They weren’t home when he said he would be; home at the weekend.

The gift was also a celebration of her beauty, of course: which is fine, and human — don’t even babies spend longer looking at symmetrical features? But that isn’t enough to underpin and make-good the architecture of love.

I also seem to remember that part of the shock was the expense; the gift can’t have really been within our means. The sense of disproportion was all part of the strange scene. If it had been books, or notebooks, pens, typewriter, foolscap, or even a cheap T-shirt with a favourite author’s portrait and some bad but forgivably literary pun printed on it, the gift would have said more about Dad listening to Mum, really knowing her.

I think I remember my father’s devastated expression, too, from that day, and him hugging her as she cried. I’m in the child’s position of feeling for them both; a bad place to be when there are irreconcilable differences. He just wanted to show that he loved her. He thought she would be happy. He thought the receipts for the jewellery were like … billets doux, a love letter.

What can anyone outside a marriage really understand about what goes on inside it? When I said as much to my paternal grandfather once, when he was in his early 90s, he answered, ‘Sometimes even the people inside the marriage don’t have a clue what is happening, either,’ and he told me an extraordinary tale of a house call he had made once, as a GP in Wellington in the 1950s or 60s. When he arrived at the house, the woman patient reported severe abdominal pain. Gramps examined her and told her that she was quite far advanced in labour. She insisted — with real vehemence — that he must be wrong. The husband fully backed her up. He told my grandfather, privately, that it was impossible as there “hadn’t been marital relations for some considerable amount of time”. Gramps was confused; he doubted himself. As he prepared to re-enter the bedroom, to examine the woman again a ‘poor little frightened probationer nurse’, as he called her who had accompanied him that day, called out, “Doctor, I can see a tiny hand!” My grandfather helped the mother deliver a live, healthy baby. He said to me, “I’ve always wondered what on earth became of that poor couple. I’ve thought about them, all down the years.” And, shaking his head, “Not every child is a gift, though it should be.”

‘Wanderlust’ Sharon Singer (detail)

Every Christmas and birthday my own husband says the best gift I can give him is nothing. I think about that, too when I see Sharon Singer’s painting, ‘Wanderlust’, and its arid, red-planet setting. I feel dread at my own covetous impulse to have the painting, partly because I’m not sure I can explain the impact of the strange sideways slipping trail into memory it’s leading me along.

The image itself touches on everything from a scorched earth, to climate refugees, perhaps even to the avoidance of infection. (Sharon Singer has other creepily premonitory paintings of people socialising with face masks in outdoor settings.) It also suggests space exploration; a sense of adventure; threat and fragility; the ludicrousness and the tenacity of so much human aspiration. Yet it also seems like someone else’s dream of my past.

The child in the painting could be my dark-haired little sister, her sweetly rounded limbs when she was under five. She could be in a child’s androgynous, asexual version of the strange gift overalls from the 1980s: a little like a child dressing up as a superhero. The image brings back memories of our guinea pigs: we sometimes carried them in the kind of pet transport cage seen in the painting, and of course, they tried to escape us. It brings back the time well before them, when I tried to run away, with a small, brown, ginger-nut textured zip-up school-case. (I sat happily on a street corner, telling the adults in a car that stopped to ask if I was all right, that I had left home forever. I had a book, a warm jersey, a toy rabbit and maybe an apple so I was going to be fine.)

The small child astronaut in the image, with her long, untied shoelace (such a loving, funny, apt detail) trails its own clouds of meaning: vulnerability, inattention, slap-dash, innocence, the tiny hazards that persist amidst the colossal breaks from the norm and the known.

Those shoes and the carry-case also make me think of my sons, their pet rabbits, my boys’ laces trailing like mouse-tails, the constant reminder, you’ll trip up! (I would still be saying it on the moon, on Mars, on the moons of Mars … ).

None of this has anything to do with a husband in the 1980s imagining his wife in tight-fitting, distinctly non-utilitarian coveralls. My sister points out that the gift was telling Mum she was gorgeous. Was that so out of the norm by then that it unsettled her? It seemed to set off detonations of silence, anxiety, disapproval, contraction, retreat, mystery and the unspoken — which, of course, is different from the silence.

But what if our real life is lived in the silences? The thoughts, and the in-between-the-thoughts, not what we manage to put into words? What we intuit, intimate. (The visual arts and music can both exquisitely, expertly, seep into and explore these interstices, I think.)

The people close to us can never truly know us, and we can never truly know them. Maybe real love is when you feel you do understand the silences — when it’s in what you don’t say that you agree to meet. What if the person you share that with isn’t someone you live with? Or, to complicate things, what if the main way you fight in a family is actually the silent treatment, when it seems as if you are all wearing opaque glass masks, air-locked in the head-gear of your own hurt and anger?

It doesn’t make sense that this dumpy little cosmonaut with her luggage, her pet travel crate, her heedlessly undone basketball boot, brings back memories of my tall, slender mother standing in front of a full-length mirror, looking intent and also a little crushed, trying to smooth her stomach and hips away as she strokes the fabric over the planes and curves of her body.

But what does, what does, when your father buys your mother a parachute suit, a flight suit, a jumpsuit, and then reels with shock, when finally, she makes the leap, she bails, she decides to leave?

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