#I’ve also heard this called exploratory writing

[theawkwardvirgin]

My advice is to focus on characters. Once you know who they are and how they’d behave/react to something, it’s a lot easier to get an actual plot. And as a bonus, it’ll make a lot more sense and be in-character, instead of having an end-point and trying to force your characters to reach it.

Idk if this is too broad of a scope for this blog, but if you could answer this, it'd be great.

I've been in a writing rut since I started getting serious about writing, and I've identified the issue in the past month or so: I slant heavily on the gardener end of the writing spectrum and all the advice on writing I've ever seen was for architect-style writing. Not once in the eight years I've been serious about writing did I find any guides on gardener-style writing (and if it says it's gardener-style, it'sreally just architect-style with gardner aspects), and my experience has just been more or less jamming a square peg into a circle hole, getting nothing written and feeling bad about it.

Now I'm unlearning all the architect-style habits that are destructive to me as a writer, but I can't find any resources for gardeners aside from Stephen King's On Writing. If you or any of your followers know how to help a gardener's writing, that would be great. I have so many fic ideas I want to write, but can't since I'm learning to write all over again.

For those who don't know what gardener and architect refer to when it comes to writers, a gardener is a writer who starts with the seed of an idea and lets it grow in whatever direction the light shines. They prune it and weed it as they go but otherwise let the idea lead the way. An architect, on the other hand, plans their stories out first and then writes them. They have a structure and the details all mapped out first and then the writing is just executing on that vision.

As a gardener myself, my biggest piece of advice is to avoid writing advice. Like you've said, the majority of it is aimed at people who do things like plan and plot and worldbuild ahead of time. Because of the structure that that writing style enjoys, providing "one size fits most" writing advice works well for it.

I tend to find a lot of that advice to be counter to what I need to do. Planning a story out ahead just makes me feel like it's already written. Building out the world before I start writing it feels like a hollow exercise - more like writing an encyclopedia than developing a land and culture for my characters to inhabit.

What I find useful is taking an episodic approach to writing. The entire story will be like a season of a television show and each chapter is like one episode. I always have my eventual "season finale" end goal in mind, but any particular chapter can meander closer to or further from that goal. It's alright to take a circuitous route, as long as I get to my destination in the end.

It's also alright if my destination changes as I'm writing. Sometimes those meandering paths take me in a more interesting direction than I was originally going down, and that shifts the story. As long as you're vaguely following a three-act structure (or 5 act or 7 act), the flow of it will feel familiar to your readers and they probably won't really notice it happening.

This advice I'm giving might not ring true to you either. You didn't have a specific problem to address, so I've been wandering a bit in my reply. Really what it comes down to is paying attention to yourself and your needs. Figure out what it is that keeps you writing and what it is that makes you stop. Do more of the former and less of the latter - and don't worry if what you're doing is "weird" to someone else.

I write directly into the AO3 window (which AO3 specifically tells you NOT to do, btw) because drafting first in google docs or something takes the fun out of it for me. I post my chapters without previewing them first. I write in 800 to 1500 word sprints, and I focus on dialogue, and I almost always try to end on a joke or a pun or a cliffhanger. These are all things that make writing an activity that I want to do.

I can't really say anything much more specific given your ask, but I hope something in here was helpful. Let's see if any gardeners out there have some resources or advice that might work for you.

[uncloseted]

Hi I love your blog and I love that you give such good advice to everyone, I’m hoping you can help me too since I have no one irl to go to. I’m a 25 y/o F, never had a boyfriend, never been on a date, and last year I met this guy at my job. He’s 38. He worked with me for 6 months, he would always try to get off work with me since we got off at the same time to take the same train home. He started asking me exploratory questions about marriage and kids since he first met me. He kind of creeped me out because he would send me texts like “I saw your work shirt has cracks on it from your big breasts” or “I like how small your feet are” After those 9 months he quit and a week after confessed that he likes me and that he spent those 6 months “trying to learn about me” and said he couldn’t tell me anything until after he left the job because he didn’t want to get in trouble or get me in trouble. I resisted him a lot for 4 months after, because I honestly wasn’t physically attracted to him but he kept insisting that I didn’t see what he wants to show me, he said I should try it out and see how I feel, that way we can say we “at least we gave a good effort” and then I finally accepted a date. The first date was really nice because I can see it took him a lot of planning, he took me places he knew I liked, that I mentioned before. After that we went on 3 more dates. The issue for me was after those dates he never asked me to be his girlfriend but we somehow became a relationship thing. He was calling me his girlfriend so I went along with it too but it scared me since I’ve never been in a relationship. Btw I live with my family and he was living with roommates who didn’t like him so he wanted to move out. I’ve never lived on my own. He started talking to me about how we should move in together. This is something I didn’t want to do because I’m very traditional and want to be married before I leave my family. I’m European and he’s American btw. We live in the US. It also seemed to me like he was pressuring me just because he wanted a better place to stay. We talked about it and he later found a new roommate. He said if I require marriage he is willing to marry me so we can start living together but it all seems too fast for me. He pressures me a lot and says I need to be married soon and have kids before I’m 30. Something about how having kids after 30 is difficult for women. He always tells me I don’t have time. I’m very gullible and naive and believe people easily. In the beginning he got me gifts. 2 plushies, a hat, gloves, and he would write me love letters. Currently he has stopped all of that and when we do go out for dates he plans them but I am the only one paying for everything. That started when I wanted to be nice and pay for our food, but since then it seems he always expects me to do it now. One day my card didn’t work when I tried to buy a coffee for $7. He ended up paying it but few mins later he said “You can send me that $7 for the coffee right?” It hurt me because I wouldn’t bat an eye to get him something and would never want to ask for the money back. I’ve paid for meals that were $60 and didn’t mind, but it seems like he cared so much about losing $7 for my coffee. I don’t bring this up to him but it kind of makes me feel like I’m being taken advantage of. I don’t mind helping him because he lives paycheck to paycheck, and somehow I have more money than him. I’ve paid for his Ubers so he can get home and I would take the bus back home. I’m not materialistic but it feels unfair. He’s very sweet and makes me feel safe, I’ve opened up to him and I’ve never done that with anyone. He’s never met my family but I’ve told him that my mom wouldn’t be a fan of our relationship because she wants me to marry someone inside my culture. After he heard that he started telling me that my mom is toxic and judgmental. That she’s keeping me in a cage because I live with her at my big age. It’s not about my mom not letting me go, she just wants the best for me. I later opened up to her about my relationship with him, told her all

I later opened up to her about my relationship with him, told her all these things and she didn’t like it. She told me to stop seeing him. I also tried to tell my coworkers about him, the ones who knew him. One of them was a girl who worked with him as well, she told me she felt weird around him because he tried to always take the train home with her too. She said he made it look like a coincidence but she saw that he was waiting around for her by the trains. He later brought up that coworker girl to me, he said me and her was the only girls he would ask those questions to. I asked him why he asked her too, and he said because she’s young and he was curious. She’s 18 btw. I thought that was a weird response, saying that she’s young. He also tells me that something he likes about me is that I’m 25 but I still act like a 16 year old. And he likes that I don’t have any experience, and he said I’m easy to mold into what he wants. He also says he likes that I’m very submissive. My coworkers also told me he gives off creepy vibes and that I shouldn’t talk to him. I wasn’t physically attracted to him but now that I’ve hung around him for a while I’ve grown to have feelings for him and he wants to build a life together. He says he wants to “continue his legacy” by having kids with me. I tried to break it off with him but he didn’t let me, he said it took him a long time to find me and that he doesn’t feel like he can trust any other women when it comes to marriage, “especially American women” because they are more likely to ask for a divorce and “destroy his life”.

So right away, I'm seeing some red flags here. The fact that he's so much older than you and was your co-worker, that he stalked you and sent you inappropriate text messages, that he's done the same thing to another young girl, that he kept perusing you even after you turned him down for four months, that he's attracted to you because you don't have much romantic or life experience, that he's pressuring you to move faster than you're ready for and pressuring you to have children, that he's stopped giving you gifts and started expecting you to pay for him, that he's never met your family even though you live with them, that he's trying to isolate you from your family, that he wants to mold you into his perfect partner, that he's attracted to the fact that you're submissive and still act like a teenager, that he's focused on "continuing his legacy", that he doesn't want to date an American woman because they're "untrustworthy" and "will ruin his life" by trying to divorce him, and not letting you break up with him are all red flags.

All together, from what you've said, this sounds like a person who is looking for a young, naive partner who will only focus on him and do all the housework, emotional labor, child raising, and moneymaking without expecting anything in return, without having a life of her own, and without having the freedom to leave. You deserve better than that. You deserve a partner who wants to see you grow into the person that you are instead of to mold you into the person that they want you to be. You deserve a partner who's excited to show how much they love you, whether that's through giving you gifts or doing things for you or just telling you how much you mean to them. You deserve a partner who is excited to meet your friends and family and to tell your friends and family how excited they are to be with you. You deserve a partner who's willing to wait until you're ready to make big steps in the relationship. And you definitely deserve a partner who wants you to be with them because you want to, not because you're trapped due to marriage or cultural expectations or children.

I know it can be hard to break up with someone, especially someone that you care so much about and who's your first experience with romantic love. I know it can be hard to imagine what life would be like without that person, and it can be hard to imagine life with someone else. But I think you deserve better than this, and I hope that you find someone who is so amazing that you can't even remember what you saw in this guy.

On a more practical note, if and when you try to break it off with him again, there are a few things I would suggest. When you're actually breaking it off, be really clear about the fact that you're ending the relationship. Give reasons for why you're initiating the breakup, but don't give excuses, and don't feel like you need to give lots of detail. I would suggest making it clear that you need a clean break and that you don't want to talk anymore, since it seems like he's someone who's persistent. "I broke up with you, and as we've discussed, I'm not going to communicate with you anymore" is hard to tell someone, but it's important to hold that boundary for yourself if the relationship is truly going to end. Don't respond to his messages, don't call him, don't let him talk you into meeting to "get closure", don't try to "just be friends". Normally I would suggest blocking him on all platforms to make that easier, but since it seems like he may have a tendency towards stalking, it may be a better idea to take screenshots of all the messages that he sends you after the breakup in case you need to file for a restraining order down the line. I would also let both your parents know that you've broken up with him and that you've gone no-contact so that they're prepared in the event that he shows up at your house.

I really hope that I'm being overly cautious and that he's actually a great guy who respects you and wants what's best for you, whether that's being in a relationship with him or not. But from what you've said and from what the other people in your life have told you, it seems like this just isn't a great situation for you to be in.

[thewildwaffle]

A Capella

I'm hoping the writing block I've been slogging through the past two months is lightening up and I'll get to some more of the prompts I've been sent!

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

"We’re on a time crunch people! I need everyone to step it up if we’re going to get this all together in time for the ceremony!” Sevahn marched stiffly through the bustle of his crew as they rolled in large boxes of decorations and gear, strung garlands of flowers across the banquet hall, and laid wires, cords, and ropes for the laser light shows and entertainment equipment.

He eyed their efforts scrutinously and made sure everything lined up with the charts in his claws. This was easily the biggest client he’d ever been hired by, and he would be flarged if tonight wasn’t absolutely perfect for them!

“Bexts, those merkel blossoms are not the right color! They totally clash with the color pallet I sent you.”

The tall silver kloxan in question stopped arranging the bouquets and stared blankly at him.

“Do your optics need to be reset?” Sevahn marched up to the robotic figure and pulled out a pallet card. “Look, these are far too light. Some of them are nearly white! I specifically asked for rich purples and reds. Swap them out, inject them with dye, or paint them if you must, just get me the right colors within the next 15 mentiks!”

Without another word, Sevahn spun on his heels and was off to inspect the stage setup. Several crew members and techs were darting between various marks and consoles. By the looks of things, the hanging microphones and lights were just about ready. Techs were also laying wires for a couple microphones sitting on stands at the front of the stage. They were a bit obsolete (technology and usage-wise) what with the hanging mics, but some of tonight's featured vocal performers had specifically requested them.

Speaking of which…

“Has anyone heard anything from the humans?”

A booka tech by the name of Nuree perked her whiskers, “Oh yeah, I’ve heard them before! Last cycle I set up for one of their concerts on Vituka 4. They didn't use any instruments, but you wouldn’t know that if you were only listening! They were amazing!”

A few other on the crew chuckled a bit, and the Nuree’s fur flickered and reddened a bit as she realized everyone was listening.

“I meant, has anyone heard from the humans’ whereabouts? They were supposed to be here already for rehearsals.”

“They’re in the back,” a toanoaktree mumbled out slowly as they reached up to adjust the high-hanging mics. “I believe they said they were going to arrange a ‘green room’ and unpack their gear.”

With a curt nod and a short “thank you,” Sevahn was on his way to search for the humans. He’d worked with other groups of human performers before. Several of his recent clients had been caught up in the human craze that seemed to be spreading through the galaxy. Everyone wanted to hire them- security companies, shipping unions, exploratory associations, art and science guilds, and on and on.

The entertainment industry was, by no means, any different. Humans, as it turns out, love to perform and have a wide array of interesting talents. Sevahn had planned parties where humans had been hired to do anything from singing, dancing, playing instruments, swinging from elevated platforms in various acrobatic fashions, throwing multiple projectiles into the air, and “juggling” to keep them aloft, etc.

Eight cycles ago, there’d been a group hired by the Magensi Syndicate to perform what they called, “magic” at their yearly Harvest Festival. Sevahn had been busy with keeping other parts of the celebration running smoothly, but he’d been able to catch a few snippets of the show. There’d been some creative sleight-of-hand tricks that even Sevahn had to admit were pretty impressive.

The grand finale was by far the most… memorable. How by all that is bright and shining did the human sneak a “school bus” into the act and get it on stage without Sevahn or his crew knowing about it?! And what’s more- where the flarg did it disappear to after he removed the tarp?! He still hadn’t recovered from that.

Tonight’s ensemble of humans, however, was a singing group. Simple enough. There shouldn’t be any buses, school or otherwise, involved in their act.

Sevahn quickly found where the humans had set up their “green room.” It was less of a room and more of a partially sectioned-off alcove. It looked like someone hung up some cloth partitions as curtains to add a bit of additional privacy. He could hear them talking and laughing as he approached. He rustled the makeshift curtains a bit to alert them of his presence before he entered.

“Come in,” one of the voices called out.

As Sevahn dipped through the curtains, he quickly took in the surroundings. The six humans were spread out and pulling equipment and packages from various bags and wheeled boxes.

“Hello, welcome,” Sevahn looked around to try to identify the manager, Marisol, whom he had spoken to earlier on a comm call. She had her back to him at first, handing out small wrapped packages to the others.

“Ah, Akeno Sevahn, a pleasure to meet you face to face,” Human Marisol turned and stood to greet him with a short bow of the head and hand on her chest. Sevahn paused for a bit. He was used to greeting humans in their various methods, but this was the first one had greeted him in Austral Akeno fashion.

He blinked in surprise for only a mentik before returning the gesture. “It’s a pleasure to have you here with us. My team and I are at your disposal. What can I help with first to get you all set up for tonight’s performance?”

“Where’s the nearest water dispenser?” One of the humans, a tall male with a deep voice asked.

Sevahn gestured behind himself. “Just around the corner next to the catering station.

The human nodded thanks and left in that direction carrying a large empty bottle. Sevahn looked expectantly at the others.

“What time do I need to have everyone ready for mic checks?” Human Marisol smiled.

Sevahn smiled back automatically then pulled back his shoulders to attention. “Any time you’re ready,” He needed to keep a professional stance and tone. “Our first guests aren’t set to arrive for another four moorts, so there’s no rush. Our sound techs just ask that you allow them to set levels for each instrument individually, and afterward, Biert, our stage manager will come by to schedule instrument trades or swaps if you need.”

“Oh,” Human Marisol’s eyes widened a bit as her head tilted slightly to the side. She looked to the other humans in the room who all kind of chuckled quickly under their breath. “I don’t think that will be necessary. We won’t be swapping instruments.”

“You… uh, you… what?” Sevahn frowned. He looked around for instrument cases he could point out.

There weren’t any. None that he could see or recognize at least. The humans watched him with varying levels of amusement slipping into their features before Marisol broke Sevahn’s confused silence. “I thought you knew… we discussed it on the comms? We’re an a capella group?” She gestured to the others in the room who were now all smiling very widely, a few had to cover their mouths to hide laughter.

A capella. Sevahn remembered her saying that. He remembered it being said by others. There are so many different kinds of music that humans perform, he just assumed it was just the name of a particular style among so many others. He glanced around the room once again. No instruments. Is that what a capella meant? Not completely unusual, he supposed, he’d seen performances where singers would carry on parts of or even entire songs without the use of instruments. But to have an entire performance on this scale with no accompaniment? Surely not.

“I apologize for the misunderstanding,” Sevahn could feel the scales in his face warm slightly as the humans continued to try to not laugh at him. “I must admit I am not entirely familiar with the concept. Do you, uh, do you have pre-recorded music to perform with? I can personally make sure that gets to the sound techs right away.”

The curtain rustled and the human from before returned with his bottle now full of water from the dispenser. “Woah, look out! Sorry!” He nearly lost his balance trying to avoid running into Sevahn.

With their attention no longer focused solely on Sevah, a few of the other humans pulled out equally large bottles. One held theirs out expectantly with a huge toothy grin. Sevahn nearly flinched at the display, but he remembered that humans sometimes bare their teeth like that when they’re happy.

“What?” the recently returned human mockingly scoffed at the proffered bottle. “Your legs broken? You heard the director, the dispensers just around the corner. Get off your lazy butt!”

The responding sound was one Sevahn was not used to hearing. It was some sort of long drawn-out whine, stretching down in pitch then curling back up with some sort of broken, growly note. The others laughed at it. Sevahn stared straight ahead, mouth slightly pursed. Humans made a wide, wide range of sounds, hence the hired group in front of him, but he hoped that sound was not part of their show.

Marisol shook her head as her band broke into teasings and joking negotiations for water. She pulled Sevahn aside and smiled at him. He couldn’t help but instantly smile back. His scales warmed a little bit again.

“We’ve got our music sorted,” she explained over the din of her band. “No instruments, just us. Biert’s got our song list. We have a few things to unpack in here and we’ll be ready for a mic check and run through in about five moortiks, if that’s alright?”

Sevahn blinked a bit, then nodded his head. “Alright,” he straightened his posture again and gave a nod before heading for the curtained exit, “I will inform Biert. She’ll get you sorted with that when you’re ready. Let her or myself know if there’s anything else you need.”

“We appreciate it, thanks,” Marisol nodded politely as he left. As soon as the curtain settled behind him, he could hear her voice change as she turned to her band and began giving orders and try to wrangle them back onto the task.

What an odd group. He wondered if it was actually the same group Booka Nuree claimed she saw perform on Vituka 4. In any case, they were the group that the client had hired tonight, so at least someone must like their instrument-less performance.

The rest of the setup ran perfectly. Not that Sevahn would accept any less. Soon enough, the banquet hall filled with quests, welcoming remarks, and slightly overly-long speeches were given, guests of honor were recognized, and culinary masterpieces were distributed. Roaming entertainers were applauded as they wove through tables, performing tricks and feats, telling jokes, or showing off artistic displays.

And finally, the lights dimmed. Someone was speaking on stage and the guests began cheering. Sevahn didn’t notice at first, at the moment, he'd been pulled away to sort out a misunderstanding between the venue manager and one of the catering assistants. Having avoided a minor waste disposal crisis in the kitchens, Sevahn returned to the main banquet hall with a small sigh.

As he stepped into the large room, he immediately noticed all eyes in the hall were glued to the main stage. He paused. According to his schedule, this should be the main entertainment. Marisol’s a capella singers. He looked. Sure enough, there were five humans on stage, with a smiling Marisol in the wings, just barely visible from this angle, nodding her head to the beat of the song.

But what really shocked him was the song itself. They had no instruments. He was watching them with his own eyes and he could tell they had nothing accompanying them. But that’s not what his ears heard!

There were notes that sounded like they should be beyond human vocal cord capability. They ranged from bone-shakingly deep to cloud-piercingly high. There were rhythms, beats, and harmonies that came together like the humans were weaving the very sound waves into a stunning tapestry.

Sevahn closed his eyes to listen. He’d directed countless events where human musicians had performed. He enjoyed them with few exceptions. In all honesty, he actually was often too wrapped up overseeing various tasks or enacting the backup plans for failed backup plans to really enjoy the shows. But whenever he could get a moment of peace like this, he always stopped to savor the performances. And this one was one that seemed to have also everyone frozen to listen.

He’d never heard this song before. It was likely a human song, so it's unfamiliarity was not surprising. There was something about it though. It made him feel like he should start singing along. The words themselves sounded simple and easy to follow. They carried through and floated between notes like they were soaring.

He opened his eyes again, and for a moment, his brain momentarily protested at the visual evidence of there being only humans on the stage. Something about that felt exhilarating. He could have sworn he could hear a kloxan flute, or maybe an orchestral barelt, but his eyes told him otherwise.

He knew he couldn’t stand here all night, as much as he wished he could. There was always something that would call for his immediate attention and pull him away. For now, though, not a soul seemed to be doing anything but listening and watching. After a while, Sevahn could start to make out which sounds were coming from which human. The tall male who had first gone to fill his water bottle earlier was the one creating the resonating bass notes. He couldn’t tell which of the two humans to his right were the ones carrying the main melody. It was mesmerizing to watch and hear.

As the humans finished the song, the effects of its spell over the audience slowly came undone. Sevahn joined in with all the applause. He felt silly now about being so apprehensive before, and yet at the time, it seemed so reasonable to question how humans could perform an entire show without a single instrument. As it turns out, humans can make themselves into their own instruments just fine. He wondered just how many sounds they could learn and mimic to incorporate into their music.

As the cheering died down, the humans began their next song. Sevahn forced himself to move on to make his rounds through the banquet hall, listening as he went. He recognized this song. It was a popular ballad throughout the central systems. This time, the humans were really laying it on thick how much their voices could imitate a multitude of instruments. He had to turn his head several times as he walked to make sure they hadn’t pulled out a set of strings or percussions. They of course hadn’t, but instead started moving around the stage with a well-choreographed routine.

He paused once again to watch. Maybe it would be fine to just take a break a while longer and enjoy this surprising show. After all, at this point, the entire banquet hall could burn down, but as long as the humans could finish their show, tonight would still be considered a success.

He hoped he directed more large events like this in the future where Marisol's group would be hired again.

[sarcasmandships]

how to save a life part 2︱spencer reid

word count: 8.7k

spencer reid x slight oc

spencer and veronica argue over him keeping their relationship from the team, but when spencer sustains a life-threatening gun shot wound it puts everything into perspective

angst + hurt/comfort with a n eventual happy ending 

this is not an x reader because i hate writing y/n in place of a character name and it often forces you into writing in second person which i also hate - however I have avoided giving specific descriptions of hair/eye/skin colour, height and body shape so feel free to imagine it like an x reader

this is also heavily inspired by greys anatomy and ive taken characters from the show to be side characters, however you do not need to have watched a single episode of greys to follow the story

warnings: spencer being shot, descriptions of blood, descriptions of surgery

read part one here! 

Veronica readjusted her dress for what felt like the 100th time that evening. The green, silk bodice was too restrictive; her feet ached from the stiletto heels April had picked out for her. She grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

"That is for the guests!" April hissed, smacking her arm with her tiny clutch bag.

"And the hostages," Veronica said, raising her glass to an imaginary toast.

"Amen to that," Cristina agreed, taking a long sip of champagne from her own glass.

"You two are hopeless," April said, shaking her head before storming off.

"I like angry Kepner," Cristina chuckled.

"God, I can't breathe in this thing," Veronica gasped, pulling at the top of her dress again, "I think I've got a tension pneumothorax."

"Unfortunately, if I had a needle big enough to help you, I'd have stabbed myself in the eye hours ago," Cristina said, deadpan.

Veronica gave her a shaky laugh.

"Ooo, is that Kevin Gibbs?" Cristina said, suddenly filled with a burst of newfound energy as she spied a man at the next table, "oh, he is rich rich, I'm so getting a donation from him," she grinned before dashing off to take Kevin Gibbs' arm.

Veronica rolled her eyes as she watched Cristina twirl her hair and flutter her eyelashes; she was far too good at this. Veronica was left alone at the table, tired of pretending she was interested in anything these rich, old men had to say; she pulled her phone out to scroll through Twitter.

However, as she unlocked it, Spencer's name popped up on her screen, and her shrill ringtone cut through the low-level chatter and ambient music in the room. She hastily switched the phone to silent after receiving a few pointed glares but continued to stare blankly at the screen as it rang.

She did not want to speak to him.

But she had told him to keep in touch.

Via text, not a phone call.

But what if something was wrong.

Eventually, she clicked 'accept'.

"Spencer, I told you-"

"Hi, Veronica," the voice on the other end cracked, "it's Derek Morgan. We met earlier today..."

Veronica's blood ran cold as Derek spoke to her through the phone. She could hear the piercing wail of the sirens; it harmonised with Cristina's shrill laughter as she flirted with Kevin at the next table.

Blood was pounding in her ears. Her entire body was in free fall like she was being hurled down the drop of a rollercoaster that seemed to never end.

"... they're taking him to Stafford Grace Mercy West Hospital, meet us there when you can - I gotta go."

Derek hung up the phone.

Veronica stood frozen, her body trembling and mind spinning.

"Veronica!" Jackson snapped as he strutted towards her, "you're supposed to be getting donations, not standing in a corner drinking all the champagne…."

Veronica was staring straight at Jackson's face as he ranted, but she couldn't focus her eyes enough to see his furrowed brows or flared nostrils. Her mind was spinning at hyper speed, but everything around her moved in slow motion; she gripped onto the edge of the table.

"…are you even listening to me?" he snapped his fingers in front of Veronica's glazed eyes.

"Spencer was shot. In the chest, he's on the way to the hospital now," she said in a monotone, "I have to...I have to go...I..." Veronica clutched her head in her hands; the room would not stop spinning.

"Oh my god," Jackson gulped, "of course, go, go. Do you want me to come?"

Veronica stumbled away from him and towards the door. Why was the floor moving like that?

"No," she called back to him, "this is your event you can't leave, I just- I need to go," she turned on her heel and dashed out of the door.

The hospital was just up the street. Jackson had picked a venue close by so the doctors who didn't have the day off could get there quickly after work. Veronica pushed people out of the way as she staggered up the street; her feet didn't hurt anymore. Her whole body was just pins and needles.

She burst through the doors of the ER, in her floor-length, green dress and dazzling emerald necklace, with tears streaming down her face. Sections of her neatly pinned hair had broken free; she clutched her chest as she gasped for air. It was only a matter of time before someone called for a psychiatric consult.

With most of the other attendings at the gala, the interns and residents had swarmed like locusts to get their hands on a surgical case. Veronica pushed through the sea people, looking for someone she knew – why did all the residents look the same?

Veronica scanned the trauma rooms, hoping to catch sight of his messy hair. They were full of bloodied and beaten-up people, but none of them were Spencer. She had just stumbled through the double doors to the waiting area when she heard someone call her name.

"Veronica?"

She whipped her head around to see Derek Morgan standing in front of her. Several steps behind him, she noticed Penelope Garcia, who she recognised from this morning, and several other anxious FBI agents.

"Derek," she gasped, gripping onto his outreached hands, allowing herself to stabilise slightly, "w-what happened?"

"We were chasing down the unsub and Reid...he fell and just when he was getting back up, he got hit. It was bad luck. It caught him just above his vest."

"And he's in surgery now? I didn't see him in any of the trauma rooms?"

"They just took him up; come with us. You need to sit down," he said kindly, and Veronica allowed him to guide her over to the seats.

"Hi again," Garcia squeaked, but Veronica stared straight ahead and didn't answer her.

The others tried to introduce themselves, Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi. They were names she knew well from Spencer's last night rants about work, but she couldn't bring herself to look at any of them long enough to put a face to the name. Derek was trying to reassure her when Veronica caught sight of a familiar resident walking past with a tablet in her hand.

"Murphy!" she barked, "get over here."

Murphy's head snapped up, and she looked around rapidly to see where the voice had come from; when her eyes finally landed on Veronica, she looked at her quizzically but shuffled over.

"Dr Grey, I thought you were at the gala-"

"I need you to look up a patient for me, Spencer Reid - came in with a GSW to the chest and should be in surgery now."

"Dr Grey, what's going on?" Murphy said slowly, her eyes darting between Veronica and the team of agents behind her.

"Just do it, Murphy!" she ordered, and Spencer's teammates looked slightly taken aback.

"Okay, okay!" she said, typing rapidly on her tablet, "he's in surgery with Dr Hunt and Dr Altman for an exploratory thoracotomy...chest x-ray showed a GSW to the chest with the bullet lodged near the thoracic aorta...he was tachycardic and hypotensive when he came in, with substantial blood loss-"

Bile bubbled up in her throat, "what OR are they in?"

"Dr Grey, I can't-"

"What O.R, Murphy?" she snapped; she gripped the edge of the plastic chair to prevent herself from strangling the resident.

"OR one!"

"Okay... OR one. OR one has a gallery," Veronica mumbled to herself, she tapped her foot against the floor and her stiletto clacked against the linoleum.

"Dr Grey, you know you can't go up there when you aren't working-"

"Murphy, do you want a medical career?"

"Y-yes," she stammered.

"Then you'll get out of my way before I have the AMA strip your medical license," Veronica snapped; she stood up and gathered up the skirt of her dress as she began to power walk towards the elevator.

"Wait, where are you going?" Derek called after her.

"Spencer's in OR one, that OR has a viewing gallery... I'm going to watch his surgery," she said flatly before turning away and continuing along the hallway.

It wasn't until she was in the elevator and ready to push the OR floor button that she realised that Spencer's team was directly behind her.

"What are you guys doing?" she sighed as they piled into the elevator after her.

"He's one of us. We aren't gonna hang around a waiting room if we can be there with him," the blonde woman that Veronica thought was called Jennifer, retorted.

She was ready to argue. To protest that they weren't allowed in the gallery, that surgery wasn't for the faint-hearted. But then she looked at all their faces, desperate and distressed; they looked how she felt.

So, she closed her mouth and jabbed the button for the fifth floor.

The elevator seemed to take forever to reach the fifth floor. It stopped on three, and a huddle of surgical interns tried to cram in, but Veronica snapped at them before they had the chance.

"No. You get the next one," she glowered at them, and they could only give her nervous stammers and shaky head nods in response.

Veronica rolled her eyes at them as the doors crept shut again, with her arms folded tightly across her chest and tapped her foot against the floor.

"You seem to have a lot of authority here," Hotch commented.

"I'm an attending," she said bluntly, "they're interns - bottom of the surgical food chain, their only job is to stay out of our way and try not to kill anyone."

"That seems...harsh," Garcia whispered to Derek.

Veronica whipped her head around, "a hospital like this doesn't work without a hierarchy; it's how we learn. If we don't treat them that way, then they get too confident. Would you rather have an intern perform Spencer's exploratory thoracotomy or two surgeons with years of experience who are chiefs of their respective departments?"

Garcia gaped at her, but the elevator doors creaked open, saving her from trying to respond to Veronica's scathing comment.

"The gallery is this way," Veronica grunted under her breath as she exited the elevator and crept up a short flight of stairs.

"That wasn't very nice; Garcia was only making an observation," JJ whispered to Emily as they followed Veronica.

"Who is this woman?" Emily responded, equally as confused as to why they were following this random woman around a hospital.

Derek turned round to face them, "she's Spencer's girlfriend-"

"Girlfriend!" Emily gasped, "did he ever mention a girlfriend to any of you?" she asked, looking between JJ and Derek.

"No, not once…." JJ frowned.

"He didn't tell me as much as he was forced to, that's why he's been acting so off recently, but I couldn't really get many details from him about her, so don't ask me anything - she's just worried about him like we are, she's on edge too."

Veronica burst into the gallery, which was thankfully empty. She pressed her forehead up against the viewing window and saw Spencer lying on the table. The glass was cool against her forehead, which seemed to somewhat soothe her pounding headache.

Spencer's face was draped, she couldn't see his eyes, but she could see his half of his rib cage. That unsettled her; she wasn't supposed to be able to see into her boyfriend's chest cavity. Veronica clung to the glass as she staggered to the intercom on the wall; she pushed the button that allowed them to hear what was being said in the OR.

"... there's a lot of bleeding here, more suction!" Dr Altman demanded.

"Right away, doctor."

Veronica flicked the switch that allowed her to be heard in the OR, "Owen," she said slowly, and he looked up at her in shock, "I need you to save him."

"Veronica, you're supposed to be at the fundraiser. What are you doing here?"

"Owen, listen to me," she pleaded, her voice cracking, "I need you to save him."

"Well, of course, I'm gonna try and save him, Veronica I don't understand-"

"Oh god," Dr Altman said as she suddenly realised what was happening, "Spencer Reid... he's your Spencer. I met him at Owen and Cristina's wedding; we talked so much about the Mechanical Complications of Acute Myocardial Infarction I thought he was a surgeon too…."

Veronica nodded silently.

Her Spencer.

She couldn't control the sob that wracked her body. She was vaguely aware of Garcia placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah, so I need you to save him," she sniffed, "because if he dies, I will literally go out of my fucking mind, and I won't be much of a neurosurgeon from the psych floor."

"Veronica, you should be up here," Owen said as he forced another clamp into Spencer's chest, "how did you even know where he was?"

"Murphy told me," she said, "but it wasn't her fault, so don't go and yell at her; I told her I'd have her medical licence taken away."

Owen paused, "you can't do that, though."

"She doesn't know that! Please just save him. I need you to save him."

"I-" Dr Altman hesitated, "we'll do everything we can, V, I promise you."

"Thank you, Teddy," she whispered through her tears; she flicked the button off again so they wouldn't be distracted by her sobs.

Veronica collapsed into a chair in the middle of the front row and kicked her heels off. Spencer's team had shuffled into the rows behind her and sat, whispering quietly among themselves and clutching onto each other.

"V-veronica," Garcia finally spoke after around an hour of near silence, "I know you're a different kind of doctor, but what are they doing? I don't understand any of these medical terms. Can you explain it?"

Veronica twisted slowly in her seat to face her, revealing her mascara coated cheeks and puffy eyes. She nodded slowly.

"They're doing a surgery called an exploratory thoracotomy; they're trying to remove all the bullet fragments from his chest cavity. Their main concern is that the bullet hit very close to the thoracic aorta, which is a major vessel that carries blood from the heart to the rest of the body."

"B-but it didn't hit his aorta, so that's good, right?"

"Right, cos' if it had, then he'd have bled out seconds after he was hit," Veronica paused to swallow the vomit creeping up her throat as she imagined Spencer's bloodless body lying in the morgue, "but the impact of the bullet creates shock waves when it enters the body. Considering the proximity to the thoracic aorta, it could weaken it and cause an aortic dissection."

"And that's bad?"

Veronica nodded gravely, "they're almost always fatal, the blood loss becomes too uncontrollable, and even the best surgeons, like Dr Altman and Dr Hunt, can't do anything," she turned back around to face the OR as a fresh set of tears threatened to spill over.

"Oh," was all Garcia could muster up.

"Those doctors, are they really the best?" Emily asked.

Veronica nodded, "Owen, Dr Hunt is head of trauma surgery, and Teddy, Dr Altman, is head of cardiothoracic surgery. They served together in Iraq; they've put soldiers half blown apart by bombs back together, if anyone can save Spencer - it's them," she reassured.

"Good to know..." Emily said in uncertainty, wrapping a comforting arm around JJ, who was silently sobbing into a tissue.

"What you need to understand is that every GSW is different, which is what makes them so difficult to fix, and when a bullet enters the body, it not only tears through structures, but the transfer of kinetic energy can cause damage to nearby tissues, like what I was saying about his thoracic aorta," she explained slowly, "that's why GSWs are so dangerous because the damaged area can ripple out around the entry wound."

"But you think he'll be okay, right?" JJ sniffed.

Veronica hesitated; she glanced back at Spencer's motionless body on the table. Her eyes scanning the monitors he was hooked up to, the constant stream of O neg he was being replenished with, the rip spreaders and clamps in his chest…

She felt sick again and had to turn away.

"I don't know. He hasn't been in surgery very long… it's just too early to say."

"There isn't anything more we can do for him now," Hotch spoke gravely, "he's in the hands of the people who are best trained to help him; we just need to trust that they are doing everything they can to save him."

Hotch's words had a sense of finality, and the room fell close to silent again with only Veronica, Garcia and JJ's sniffles and sobs echoing around the dimly lit room. Derek help Garcia's hand tightly in his own, JJ rested her head on Emily's shoulder, Hotch and Rossi sat next to each other, their faces stoic and stony. Veronica sat alone, tugging at the restrictive bodice of her dress every few seconds.

They sat like that for at least another two hours.

Suddenly, the monitors attached to Spencer began beeping rapidly, Veronica's heart seized, and she jumped to her feet to get a better view.

"What's happening to him?" Garcia whimpered; she clung onto Derek's arm as he also stood up and strained his neck to see.

"He's in DIC!" Teddy's voice echoed through the intercom, "push heparin," she ordered.

"Veronica, what's going on?" Derek asked; he tried to keep his voice steady, but it wavered slightly.

"He's in DIC, disseminated intravascular coagulation - it means that proteins in the blood that cause clotting go into overdrive, which actually causes excessive bleeding. If they don't control the blood loss, it's fatal."

"Lap pads! And more suction! I can't see a thing," Owen demanded as he packed Spencer's chest cavity to absorb the excess blood.

"And hang another unit of O neg, he's losing too much blood," Teddy added, "there was nothing in his medical history that indicated he was at risk of DIC...Veronica! Is he on blood thinners?"

Veronica dragged herself over to the intercom and pushed in on the button, "n-no, nothing like that, he takes zolpidem sometimes, but that wouldn't cause DIC..." she muttered.

Something clicked in her brain, and she spun round to face Derek, "you said he fell before he got shot."

Derek nodded, "that's right, the woman the unsub had abducted pushed past him to escape, and he fell down the full flight of stairs. That distracted me long enough for the unsub to get a shot in at him...."

"Teddy! He fell before he was shot, he fell down a flight of stairs, he could have a splenic injury or a laceration on the portal vein or hepatic artery- it wouldn't have been picked up on a chest x-ray. You have to do an ex-lap!"

"Veronica, we've already cracked his chest-" Owen began to protest.

"Pressures dropping, doctor!"

Veronica banged on the glass, "he'd rather be alive with two incisions than dead with one."

"Dr Hunt, you're the trauma surgeon this your call," Teddy said calmly, "but we need to do something and fast."

"We don't even know if he has a splenic injury! We can't take medical suggestions from our patient's hysterical girlfriend; that isn't how it works-"

"He's dying," Veronica wailed, "and he's going to die if you don't do something. If it were Cristina on my table, you would be begging me to do whatever it takes to save her. Teddy – you promised me you would do everything you could, and you're not doing anything! He's bleeding to death, and you aren't helping him," she sobbed against the glass.

Teddy and Owen exchanged a look.

"10 blade," Owen grimaced, and Veronica breathed a sigh of relief, "you better be right about this Grey – convert drapes for an ex-lap!"

"Oh God, I can't watch this," JJ said; she flopped back into her seat as Owen made a deep incision into Spencer's abdomen.

Despite dealing with horrific crime scenes daily, everyone else in the team had to follow JJ's lead as floods of blood gushed from the incision site. Garcia, who had screwed her eyes shut the minute the monitors started beeping, was rocking herself back and forth and mumbling under her breath.

"Okay, I need more suction! I'm seeing some damage to the hepatic artery," Teddy said, "can you ligate it from your side?"

"Yeah, I think so, clamp!"

Veronica wished she could be like Spencer's team. She wished she didn't have a medical degree; she wished she didn't know every possible thing that could go wrong from this point forward. She wished she could close her eyes or at least tear them away from the scene that would plague her nightmares for years to come.

She could hardly believe it when his pressure finally stabilised; she embraced the smile that crept onto her face as she watched the readings on the monitor slowly begin to climb up.

"You can open your eyes now; they ligated the artery and stopped the bleeding, combined with the heparin that should be enough to keep him stable for now."

"For now?" JJ questioned.

"He's doing well; that injury could've been fatal, but he pulled through, and that's good; it's just that I don't want to tell you he's out of the woods when he's far from it."

"It's been hours," JJ said, "how much longer before we know if he'll be okay?"

Veronica shrugged, "probably a couple more hours; they need to make sure the wall of the thoracic aorta is strong enough before they close and remove all the bullet fragments; they need to take their time."

"You'll have to forgive us, Dr Grey," Hotch spoke quietly, "we don't have the patience for this kind of thing like you do."

"It's okay, and you can call me Veronica," she smiled nervously and picked at her nails.

This was what she'd wanted all along, to meet Spencer's team. But now, she was standing in front of them and couldn't think of a single thing to say. She had imagined this moment every night for months, but never in her wildest dreams did it go like this.

"Veronica then," he said stiffly, "so you said you're a neurosurgeon?"

"Yeah," she said, tearing her eyes away from the surgery in front of her to face him, "that's how Spencer and I met; he came to a lecture I gave on the Endoscopic Fenestration of Arachnoid Cysts Through Lateral Pontomesencephalic Membranotomy, cos' that's just the kind of things he does for fun," she snorted.

"Sounds like him," Hotch said, smiling fondly.

"I just can't believe he never told us about you," Emily commented, "and I can't believe we never figured it out; I mean, come on, guys, we're meant to be profilers."

Veronica gritted her teeth, "Yeah, me neither..."

"Veronica!" Jackson said, bursting through the door to the gallery, "I just got away from the gala; how's he doing?" he asked, rushing over to embrace her in a tight hug.

"He's stable for now; his temp has come up a lot since he got here, but he did go into DIC, and they had to convert to an ex-lap..."

"Owen and Teddy will be doing everything they can; he'll be okay."

She nodded, "I know...I just want it to be over; even if he was in the CCU, I could handle it, but he's lying open on an operating table, and I can't help him."

He rubbed circles on her back soothingly, "it'll be over soon. Can I get you anything?"

"Something to change into. I don't think I have any clothes in my locker, but just grab me some scrubs... I'd take a patient gown if it meant I could get out of this dress," she said, tugging again at the restrictive top.

"You got it," he said, breaking away from their hug, "April wanted to come and be with you, but Harriett's with the sitter and she had to-"

"Don't worry about it, just get me something to wear. I can't breathe in this thing."

"Yeah, I'm on it," he said, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead, "Cristina's on her way; she'll be here soon."

Jackson shuffled out of the gallery, giving a nod and a tight-lipped smile to the others as he passed them. Veronica retook a seat.

"That was Jackson," Veronica explained, noting the confused faces of the BAU team members, "Dr Jackson Avery, he works here too, but he was stuck at the gala - we were having this fundraiser for this hospital...stupid...."

"V! I just heard; why didn't you tell me?" Cristina burst into the gallery in a similar fashion to Jackson, "I had to hear from freaking Avery that your sexy FBI boyfriend got shot?" she berated as she sat down next to Veronica.

Veronica shrugged, "Jackson was there when I got the call. You were busy turning up the charm for that rich old sleaze."

Cristina shoved her lightly, "I'll have you know that rich old sleaze donated 1.5 million dollars to this hospital," she said smugly.

"Show off," Veronica grunted, folding her arms over her chest.

Cristina stood up to peer through the glass, "supervisory sexy agent, has Owen and Teddy working on him? You need to calm down and stop chewing your nails; he'll be fine."

Veronica rolled her eyes, "you need to stop calling my boyfriend supervisory sexy agent, or you'll be the one on the table."

"Aw, come on, I'm kidding! My husband is right down there...oh my god, my husband saves your boyfriend from a GSW? That'll be such a good story for me to tell your kids."

"Can we wait to see if he makes it off the table before we start discussing our hypothetical children?"

"Boring."

Jackson returned at that moment, "sorry, I didn't know your scrub size, so I just guessed. And you didn't have any shoes in your locker, so I stole some sneakers from April, you're the same size, and she won't mind - I also brought you some of her makeup wipes," he rambled, handing her the pile of clothes.

"Stealing shoes from your ex-wife now?" Cristina teased as Jackson sat down on the other side of Veronica, "I thought pretty boy Avery was rich enough to buy his own," she cooed.

Veronica stood up and slid the scrub pants on under her dress, and pulled the scrub top over the top. Cristina unzipped her dress, and she let out a deep breath as the pressure on her rib cage was released; she shimmied the dress off and threw it over an empty chair.

"Shut up, Yang," Jackson grunted.

"Children, behave," Veronica said warningly as she slipped on the socks and shoes she was borrowing from April.

Veronica sat back down and finished wiping off the makeup that hadn't been flushed away by her tears. Jackson gripped her hand tight in his, and she smiled appreciatively at him; Cristina gave her a pat on the shoulder.

"Guys, what if he dies?" she whispered as they watched Teddy and Owen work away on Spencer.

"He won't," Jackson protested, "he didn't code in the field, and the majority of GSW victims without penetrating vascular injuries survive if they get to a hospital on time."

"There is a bullet in his chest cavity! That is a penetrating injury," she blubbered.

"But it didn't directly damage his heart or any major arteries; yes, they could be weakened by force, but he's been in surgery for hours, and nothing has ruptured – plus after they close him up, we'll monitor him closely, and he will be okay," he said with a squeeze of her hand.

"Avery's right. It's far more likely he'll be a vegetable or something," Cristina shrugged.

"Yang! His best friends are right behind you," Jackson hissed.

"They are?" Cristina said, whipping her head around, "oh, hi."

Cristina gave them a wave, and they stared back dumbfounded.

"Who the hell are these people?" Emily hissed.

"I don't know, but they seem to think that Spence is gonna be okay, and that's all that matters to me," JJ answered.

"He could still die; people die from GSWs all the time. There could be complications, he could get an infection-"

"Look, Veronica, if the worst happens, then we can cross that bridge when we come to it, okay? And you know we'll all be here for you, no matter what," Jackson said, and Veronica smiled appreciatively at him.

"Thank you," she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Y'know, you should've married him when you had the chance - cos' if he dies and you were his wife, you'd get that life insurance. If he dies now, you'll just be poor and sad."

"Cristina!"

"No, it's okay," Veronica said with a slight smile, "it helps."

"God, talk about a dark sense of humour...."

"I think I'm just still drunk," Cristina shrugged.

"I think I'm hungover already; my head is killing me," Veronica groaned, massaging her temples.

"Want me to get you a banana bag?" Jackson asked.

"Yeah, why not."

Jackson stood up and made his way across the gallery and to the door; he turned back to face the BAU team members, "can I get anything for you guys? Coffee, water…I wouldn't recommend the food, but we got vending machines."

"No, thank you," Hotch answered politely, "anyone else?"

The rest of the team shook their heads or mumbled no thank-yous in response. Jackson gave them a sympathetic smile before leaving; JJ's stare was still firmly fixed on Veronica.

"What did she mean? You should've married him when you had the chance?" she asked.

"It means that supervisory sexy agent-"

"Cristina!"

"Fine, Spencer, asked V to marry him, and she said no cos' she can't let herself be happy."

"That isn't why I said no, and you know it."

"Well, no. But your real reason is stupid, so I'm gonna say it's your self-destructive tendencies instead. Do you know what I've give to never have to interact with Owen's dumb work friends? You're getting the best of both worlds here."

"You work in the same hospital! Owen's dumb work friends are your colleagues."

"Ugh, whatever."

"You turned Reid down because of us?" Rossi questioned, speaking for the first time since they had entered the gallery.

"It's a bit more complicated than that-"

"What's wrong with us? You didn't even meet us until today?" JJ snapped.

Veronica sighed and picked at her nails; her first interaction with Spencer's friends already wasn't going very well, and now she had to tread lightly as to not offend anyone.

"That's the problem; it took Spencer getting shot in the chest for us to meet because he refused to tell you about me; how could I marry someone when I'd never even met his friends? It's what we argue about more than anything else. We argued about it this morning actually...."

The blood drained away from Veronica's face as the events of the day flashed through her mind.

She turned to face Cristina, "oh God, we were arguing this morning about it, and again when I dropped his phone off at work - the last conversation we ever had was about that stupid argument. What if he dies thinking that I'm pissed off at him? I didn't even tell him I loved him before I stormed off," she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Well, he's a profiler, right? Even if you didn't say it, he would be able to tell...."

"He's a genius, not a psychic, Cristina."

"She's right," Derek interjected, "before he lost consciousness, he told me to call you and tried to say something else; he kept saying tell her... he never got to finish, but I'm sure it was just that he loved you."

"He really said that?"

 Derek nodded, and a weight was lifted from Veronica's shoulders, although she quickly felt uneasy again when Jackson returned, IV kit and banana bag in hand.

 "Okay, I know you don't like needles, but it'll make you feel better, so give me your arm," he demanded.

 Veronica huffed and begrudgingly gave him her arm; she winced as he pushed the needle through her skin, "ow! I thought plastic surgeons were supposed to have a gentle touch."

 "Plastics is barely even a real speciality; Avery gives boob jobs on the daily – we do real surgeries and save lives."

 "Hey! I'm also a qualified ENT, and I practically run the burn unit-"

 "Guys," Veronica groaned, "can you have your little dick-measuring-contest another time? Maybe like when my boyfriend isn't lying open on an operating table?" she said, gently massaging the tender skin around her IV.

 "You said you liked my dark humour!"

 "Only when it's funny," she sat down again and massaged her temples "hey, I think they're nearly done," Veronica cheered.

 She dashed over to the intercom, "Are you guys closing him up?"

 Teddy nodded, "yeah, and then we'll be taking him up to the CCU. You should get some rest before he wakes up," she advised.

 "He's going to be okay, Veronica," Owen said; she couldn't see his face under his mask, but she could tell he was smiling.

 Veronica couldn't fight the grin spreading across her own face; Spencer was going to live. He was going to make it off the table. Now all she had to do was pray that he woke up because Veronica didn't know how she would cope if she never saw his eyes again.

 "He's really going to be okay?" JJ whispered; she held her hands up to her lips in a prayer formation as fresh tears spilt over onto her cheeks.

 Emily pulled her into a tight embrace and stroked her hair, "Hey, don't cry. The doctor said he's going to be okay."

 She nodded against Emily's chest, "I know, these are happy tears – it's just I've been sitting here for the past four hours wondering what I would tell Henry if his Uncle Spence died and now, he's going to be okay, and I'm crying more than when I thought he was going to die…stupid," she mumbled.

 "It's not stupid," Veronica offered kindly, "your body has been in panic mode and how that you're finally able to relax a bit, you get an emotional outburst that makes you cry – it's totally normal," she said, tentatively reaching out her hand to take JJ's.

 She nodded and gave Veronica's hand a squeeze, smiling at her for the first time since they had met. The mood in the room had shifted as the BAU members slowly began to accept that their teammate was going to live, and the nervous tension began to dissipate.

 "Teddy's going to close him up and then wheel him up to the CCU, Cristina are you staying or coming home?" Owen's voice echoed through the intercom.

"I'm staying obviously!" she said indignantly.

Veronica shook her head, "no, it's okay, you go home."

"V, I can't leave you here-"

"It's fine, Cristina. You're working in the morning, and you'll need to be here for rounds at 6am, and you won't be any use to anyone if you're sleep-deprived. So, go home. Besides, I've got Avery to keep me company."

Cristina gave her an appreciative smile and squeezed her hand one last time before she left the room. A wave of jealousy surged in Veronica's chest as Cristina disappeared from her line of sight; it wasn't her fault that she was going home with her husband whilst Spencer was being stitched back together. But that didn't make it hurt any less.

 "I'm so sorry, V," Jackson said, holding up his phone, "it's one of my burn patients, she's got an infection, and I think I'm the only sober attending after the gala…I can send a resident-"

 "No, no, it's okay," she smiled sadly, "go and help your patient; she needs you more than I do."

 "Page me if you need anything," he said, kissing her forehead gently before leaving her alone with the BAU team.

 She was in a room with seven other people, but she had never felt more alone. They were clutching onto each other, whispering amongst themselves and smiling; Veronica didn't have anyone.

She shuffled away from the displays of affection and picked up her dress and shoes, "I'm going to put this stuff in the attending's lounge, there's coffee in there if you want anything – and on-call room seven is always empty if any of you need to sleep. He won't be awake for a while; you should get some rest," she said, giving them a tight-lipped smile.

 "Thank you, Veronica," Derek said; he nodded over Garcia's head as he held her in his arms, "I don't think any of us will get much sleep until pretty boy wakes up, though."

 Veronica laughed, "pretty boy, I always thought he was exaggerating when he said you called him that. If you don't want to sleep, that's fine, but you can't stay in here – the interns like to hang out in here before pre-rounds, and they'll be here soon," she said before gripping onto her IV pole and swiftly exiting the gallery.

 Tears burned in her eyes as she made her way to the attending's lounge, grabbing a replacement banana bag from the nurse's station on her way; Spencer was going to be okay. He was going to wake up and have his team to comfort him, fetch him jello, keep him company through the recovery and bring homemade meals to his apartment. What else could she do for him that they couldn't?

 She burst into the attending's lounge and slammed the door shut behind her. She let out a heart-wrenching sob as she shoved the dress into her locker, growing frustrated and kicking it when the poufy, underlayers of the skirt wouldn't fit.

Maybe that's why he had never introduced her to the team because he already had seven people who loved him unconditionally and could give him all the love he needed. And Spencer didn't want her to know that; what could she do for him that they couldn't?

Veronica darted into the bathroom and held her own hair bag as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. Maybe she was just a fuck to Spencer, an outlet to release his frustrations after a hard day. Assuming he wasn't fucking any of his teammates, that was the only thing she was good for that they couldn't give.

 Derek said that his last words before he passed out were about her; he asked him to call her. He tried to give her a message – why did Veronica not share Derek's confidence that the message was I love you?

She flushed the toilet and washed her mouth out with water from the tap. Her headache was beginning to subside, but she still switched out her banana bag before she limped out of the bathroom, using the IV pole as a support.

Veronica threw herself onto the couch. She wanted to scream, or kick something else or rip her own hair out, but she simply didn't have the energy to do anything except shut her eyes and drift off to sleep. The image of Spencer's open chest cavity and the knowledge that his team were everything she was and more burned into her brain.

 ***

Spencer's brain was awake before his body was. He was acutely aware of people moving around his room, but their voices were muffled, and he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes to see who they were.

 There was a tight sensation in his throat, and suddenly, Spencer started gagging violently.

 "He's fighting the intubation!" a voice called out, "page Dr Altman."

 Dr Altman. He knew that name, he thought to himself. But his brain was still too hazy from the anaesthesia to think straight. Dr Altman…something to do with cardiothoracic surgery – probably one of his doctors. But where had they met before?

 He felt hands all over him, grabbing at his neck and face; there was a horrible scraping sensation in his throat, and then he could breathe freely again. He's fighting the intubation, the voice had said. That was good; that meant he was breathing on his own.

 However, he couldn't appreciate the joy of knowing he wouldn't be hooked to a ventilator for the rest of his life whilst his throat ached like that. The tube had been removed, but he still felt his gag reflex at the threshold of triggering.

 He really needed to get Veronica more credit for that.

 His limbs were heavy, he tried to at least wriggle his fingers, but they wouldn't move. The muffled voices which echoed around him were beginning to become clearer; he could make out what sounded to be JJ's voice by his head.

 Finally, his brain allowed his eyes to flicker open. But he immediately wanted to screw them shut again when the blinding fluorescent glare of the ceiling lights shone down on him.

"Oh my god," JJ gasped, "he's awake!"

 He couldn't move his head to see her, but her worried face quickly appeared in front of his, "Spencer? Spencer, can you hear me?" she asked frantically.

"Ow," he mumbled in response.

 "Thank God you're okay," she said, stroking his hair as tears streamed down her cheeks.

 "You gave us a scare, pretty boy."

 Spencer strained his eyes enough to see Derek standing in the corner; he leant against the wall with his arms folded tight across his chest, but Spencer could clearly see the grin he was fighting.

 "What happened?" he groaned, trying to readjust his body into a more comfortable position.

 "Hey, don't try and move," JJ scolded lightly, "the nurse said that you'll be groggy from the anaesthesia for a while," she took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently.

 "Did we get him? The unsub?"

 "Yeah, don't you worry about him, kid, he's going away for a long time," Derek reassured, "he got a shot in at you before we could take him down… I'm so sorry, kid, you fell, and it distracted me long enough for him to shot you before I could shoot him."

 "Hey, it's not your fault," JJ said, "it could've happened to any of us."

Spencer nodded in agreement but didn't try and speak again; his head was throbbing, and he closed her eyes again, the darkness providing some brief relief from the brilliant light above his head. But with every passing second, Spencer became increasingly aware of the dull aches in his chest and abdomen, the pain growing sharper with each intake of breath.

 "How many times did I get shot?" he groaned, "I can't remember anything…but my whole body hurts."

 JJ bit her lip as she continued to stroke his hair, "just once, Spence, but you fell down the stairs just before you got him and it injured…something, I don't know what – I can't remember what she said," JJ looked over to Derek for a prompt, but he shook his head in response.

 "Hey, don't look at me; I didn't understand a single word any of those doctors said," Derek shrugged, "Dr Altman is coming to check on you, though, kid. I'm sure she'll explain it all to you."

 Dr Teddy Altman!

They met at Cristina and Owen's wedding; Spencer could tell she was in love with the groom and distracted her with a rant on Mechanical Complications of Acute Myocardial Infarction. She was Veronica's friend.

 Oh god, Veronica. She must be so worried – if Derek had even called her that was, she might be oblivious to his condition. Spencer was ready to open his mouth to as about her, but JJ was already speaking again before he had the chance.

 "…and our resident genius will definitely be able to understand better than us," she said, pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead, "I've never been so nervous as when we were sitting in that gallery, thank god those doctors fixed you up."

 "Wait, what gallery?" Spencer asked, opening his eyes to squint at her, her words distracting him long enough to forget to ask about Veronica.

 JJ paused and exchanged a look with Derek, "we hoped you wouldn't mind – we were in the OR gallery during your surgery, but we didn't actually see anything," she reassured, "none of us could actually bring ourselves to watch, but we just wanted to be there, in case anything happened to you."

 "Not that we'd have been much help," Derek chuckled, "but I got you to the hospital in one piece. I wasn't about to let you out of my sight until you were stable."

 Spencer nodded slowly, "how did you even get in there?" he mumbled.

"Veronica," Derek said, "you asked me to call her, and she came straight over, but she wasn't about to sit around in any waiting room, so she found out where you were…we just followed her up there."

 Spencer tugged on his blanket, "so…you met her then?"

 JJ nodded stiffly, "we did."

 "Oh. Suppose I did ask you to call her, I don't know what I expected…."

 "We didn't get a chance to talk much," Derek said carefully, "you were touch-and-go a bit in surgery, so it was a bit too tense for small talk."

 JJ moved away from him and sat back in the chair next to his bed; she picked at her nails, "I don't get why you never told us about her, Spence?"

Spencer didn't answer her. This was not how he wanted this conversation to go; in fact, he was hoping he'd never have to have this conversation at all. The rational part of his brain knew that was unrealistic, but the rational part of his brain didn't seem to exist when it came to protecting Veronica.

 He shrugged, "I didn't think you guys needed to know."

 Derek unfolded his arms and moved out of the corner, coming to rest at the end of Spencer's bed, "didn't need to know? You've been making excuses about this to me all day, kid. And I'm not buying the - you wanted to have something to yourself - bullshit anymore-"

 "You asked her to marry you," JJ said, her voice cracking slightly, "you wanted her to be your wife, but you didn't even tell us about her? Were you just going to get married without any of us there?"

 "She told you that?"

 Spencer had the strength to ball one of his fists; this was going horribly. The tension he had created in his hand spread up his arm and along to his chest. He grimaced as another sharp stab of pain rippled across his body.

 JJ shook her head, "no, her friend mentioned it, and we overheard. I don't get it, Spence, we're supposed to be like family, and she…we didn't get to talk, but she seems nice. And she's a doctor – she's smart like you, and she obviously loves you. Did you think we wouldn't like her?"

 "No, and she said no to me anyway, so it doesn't matter…."

 "She only said no because you wouldn't introduce her to us," Derek stated bluntly, "that's what she said when we asked her about it and considering I didn't even know she existed till this morning, I can't say that I blame her."

 "Guys, I will explain later, I promise," Spencer began as he tried to sit up in the bed, "but I need to talk to Veronica. Right now – where is she?"

 "She is in a patient room down the hall," Dr Altman said as she waltzed into the room and picked up Spencer's chart from the end of his bed, "nice to see you awake, Dr Reid."

 "A patient room – i-is she okay?" Spencer stammered.

 Teddy peered over the chart to look at his concerned face, "she'll be fine, she's just dehydrated and a bit hungover – we've got her on an IV. Besides, the couch in the attending's lounge is not the place you want to sleep unless you want to give yourself scoliosis."

 Spencer tried to move one of his legs, "I need to go see her, I need to explain everything, I-"

 "You need to lay back down," Teddy said as she moved over to his bedside and pressed her stethoscope against his chest, "I need to listen to your chest, take a deep breath for me-"

Spencer begrudgingly breathed in.

"-breath sounds are clear and equal, that's a good sign," Teddy said, hanging the stethoscope back around her neck, "and your latest round of labs are all within normal limits. Dr Hunt and I were able to remove all the bullet fragments during surgery, we were concerned that the impact could've weakened the wall of your thoracic aorta, but it seems unaffected."

 Spencer nodded, "okay."

“We had to convert to an exploratory laparotomy mid-surgery; you had some bleeding in your abdomen which we needed to repair; that's why you have two incision sites. They will likely leave scars, I'm afraid, but the abdominal bleeding triggered a condition called DIC and would have been fatal had we not caught the bleeders."

 Spencer's brain was spinning. He knew he had been in bad shape, but he really nearly died. He needed to talk to Veronica, and fast.

 "…it was actually Veronica who made the connection between your fall and the bleeding. She wasn't even operating, and she saved your life," Teddy smiled at him, "I just need to take a peek at your incision sites, and then I'll be out of your hair."

 Spencer winced as she lifted up his bandages to take a closer look.

 "Okay, they look all good and no signs of infection. You will need at least another day for observation; I'll get the nurse to administer your post-op antibiotics, so let her know if there's anything else you need."

 "He won't admit it, but he's in pain. Can he get any more morphine or something?" JJ asked, biting her nail.

 "What? No, I'm fine. I don't need any more painkillers; I'm all good!"

Teddy raised an eyebrow at him, "you just had major surgery, but you don't want more pain meds?" she asked sceptically, "you aren't maxed out on anything; I can order more-"

 "No," Spencer snapped, "I mean…no thank you, Dr Altman. They make me too disoriented, and I need to be clear-headed when I talk to Veronica," he said, adjusting his tone.

 Teddy gave him one last suspicious look before she moved back towards the door, "okay, no more pain meds. I'll let Veronica know you're awake," she said before exiting the room, closing the sliding glass door behind her.

 Spencer let out a deep sigh of relief and relaxed back into his pillows slightly. Even the brief conversation with Dr Altman had left him exhausted, so he wasn't sure how he would manage when the rest of the team flocked to his bedside to question him about his condition and Veronica.

 Veronica.

That was going to be a long conversation.

JJ and Derek stayed by his side as the nurse came in to administer his antibiotics, just as Dr Altman had said.

 "Hotch and Rossi had to go sort some things out with the arrest," Derek had informed him, "they said they'll stop by later when they can."

 "And Emily and Garcia are in the cafeteria, we've let them know you're awake, but we didn't want to overwhelm you with too many visitors at once," JJ explained, "and Garcia really needed some sugar. She's been freaking out, Emily's trying to get her to eat something," she chuckled.

 "I feel bad I caused all this stress…." Spencer mumbled.

 "Course we're worried about you, Spence; we're a family. But you didn't cause us stress; it's not your fault," JJ reassured; she leaned closer to Spencer to grip his hand in hers.

"Exactly, it's the unsub's fault. You didn't choose to get shot," Derek added; he shuffled over to the bed from his corner and took hold of Spencer's other hand.

 The three of them sat in comfortable and heartfelt silence for a few moments with their hands intertwined until they were interrupted by a hesitant voice in the doorway.

"Uh, sorry, I did mean to interrupt. I'll come back later…."

part 3 coming soon

sorry there’s not too much spencer in this part, i promise there will be more in part 3 when veronica and spencer have their confrontation 

if you enjoyed this please consider leaving a comment as it really keeps me motivated, and reblogging! i really appreciate likes but on the tumblr reblogs are the only way to get my work out there x

tagging anyone who commented on part 1, message me/ comment if you want to be tagged for part 3:

@dilaurantisbitch

masterlist

i also take imagine requests!

[thesearchforbluejello]

Imagine a "Star Trek: Lower Decks" style sitcom in the Stargate universe. Stargate: SG-47... the crew that follows up on all the really boring planets SG-1 goes to once and never again. They always debrief with Walter instead of the General. They annoyed the Nox once and now they show up to pull pranks on SG-47 in revenge. Minor Goa'ulds catch them and are depressed they're not SG-1 or someone more important so they just release them.

My notifications ate this ask; I don't know when it's from, but I'm just seeing it now. Please accept this totally unedited bullshit fic as my apology and thanks for how hard this ask made me laugh. I'm definitely not supposed to be writing a final right now. And I know you said minor Goa'uld but like I couldn't resist this opportunity. Also, me, using a minific to talk about my obsession with what the hieroglyphs in a Goa'uld ship could be? More likely than you think.

​A Soldier, a Linguist, a Botanist, and a Biologist Walk into a Ha'tak

Major Lissa Cannon emerges from the event horizon into the bright, clear sunlight of P4X-737. She takes a deep breath and immediately sneezes. "Great," she says.

Dr. Jess Abubakar passes her on the right, heading down the stone stairs of the gate platform without hesitation. "Better get used to it," he says with a cheerfulness that she doesn't-- and any reasonable person wouldn't-- share.

"Jess, I swear to God," Dr. Beth Rosenberg says as she follows him down the steps.

"You're just salty you have to help us collect samples," Jess counters, more affable than Cannon would have expected anyone to be before she actually started working with him.

Beside her, Dr. Chris Richardson just gives a wry smile before heading down the stairs after their teammates. Cannon sneezes again.

"It's the pollen!" Jess says as she joins the group. "Initial samples brought back by SG-1 indicate that it's at least twice as potent as anything we have on Earth."

"How is that a good thing," Cannon gripes even though she'd sat through the briefing and already listened to Jess and Bill Lee go on about how important it could prove to be.

"I mean, just think of the possibilities!" Jess says, more than happy to repeat himself. "We could synthesize new antihistamines, or even make existing ones more effective. We could develop new crops that are potentially more resistant to blights or unfavorable growing conditions."

"Yay," Beth says, drier than the climate on this planet has likely ever been.

"You're just mad because there are no indigenous people here to talk to," Cannon points out.

"You could talk to the plants," Jess says.

"Studies have proven that talking to plants encourages growth," Chris adds, soft-spoken as always.

"I'm not talking to the plants," Beth says.

"Why not?" Cannon asks. "With this much pollen in the air, after a few hours they might start talking back."

"Oof, like when SG-7 was on P8Q-984," Jess laughs. "That's not an experience I want to have for myself."

"Those were spores, not pollen," Chris corrects amiably as the team starts into the forested area beyond the field in which the gate sits.

"Sentiment's the same," Jess says.

Cannon hears a rustle in the undergrowth and raises her P-90, her team stopping immediately in defensive positions behind her. After a moment of nothing but birdsong and her own breathing, she relaxes. "Must've been an animal," she says.

"SG-1's initial exploration didn't indicate any indigenous animals on the ground," Beth says.

"Well, that's why we get their leftovers, because everything is just 'initial,'" Cannon points out. She takes the lead as they continue between the trees, rifle still ready in her hands just in case.

"Bloodthirsty squirrels is not on my extraterrestrial exploratory bucket list," Jess says.

"Yeah, mine neither," Cannon agrees. She's barely got the sentence out of her mouth when she hits a force field, face-first. "Motherfucker," she tries to say, a natural reaction, but the syllables come out muddled because her face is suddenly very numb. She drops to a knee and raises her rifle, looking for whatever danger has to be in the forest with them. Around her, her team drops the specimen cases they'd been carrying and raise their own weapons. They're not armed for this; SG-1's previous mission and the UAV surveys hadn't revealed anything dangerous enough to warrant coming through armed with anything more than Cannon's P-90, a couple of flash-bangs, and an assortment of 9mils and zats carried by her and her teammates. Except for Cannon, they're scientists, not soldiers.

"Lower your weapons," a voice commands from the trees.

"You lower your force field," Cannon calls back.

"I think not." Around them, Jaffa begin to materialize from the forest.

"Fuck," Cannon says.

*

The Jaffa strip them of their gear, tossing their vests, holsters, and packs in a careless pile on top of the specimen cases they'd dropped when the force field had initially gone up. They're surprisingly respectful about it, which Cannon almost laments because she's pissed off and ready to fight, even if she knows it's a fight she won't win. She watches their gear disappear from view in a flash of light as they're beamed up to a ship she knows must be waiting above.

Gold walls and a polished floor illuminated by dim lights materialize around them. Another group of Jaffa is waiting. One of their captors reports to a man Cannon assumes is his superior. She tries to pick of bits and pieces she recognizes from the language but doesn't get much.

"Wait," Beth says, "can you say that again? That's word isn't in the lexicon we've been developing."

The Jaffa looks at her sidelong in confusion before his superior barks an order.

"This way," he says. The Jaffa behind them push the team roughly forward.

"Yeah, I heard him," Cannon says, her face still numb and her words muddled, "relax."

They spend the next several hours sitting in a cell. Beth whips a notebook out of one of the pockets of her pants and starts making notes on the glyphs in their cell.

"Does that actually say anything?" Jess asks. "I've never been on a Goa'uld ship before."

A chorus of variants on "yeah, me neither" precede Beth's answer.

"It does, actually, though most of it just repeats. A lot of it is just vague, seemingly formulaic stories of someone's victories and conquering and blah blah blah, but the name has been chiseled out," she says, tapping a glyph that's clearly been destroyed deliberately.

Cannon turns her head against the wall from where she's sulking with her arms wrapped loosely around her knees. "Why?"

"My best guess? Whoever owns this ship now stole it from another Goa'uld and had their name erased. Think damnatio memoriae."

"Huh," Jess says, setting his hand of cards down to Chris's obvious annoyance. "But they kept the part about the victories?"

"Why not? Obviously they had someone spend all the time necessary to do this to the whole ship, so keeping the rest saved a hell of a lot of work. Plus, if they bested the guy this ship used to belong to, that's quite a flex." Beth shrugs and goes back to writing in her notebook. Jess picks up his cards again and Cannon can tell by the barest quirk of Chris's lips that they have the winning hand.

"You know what I'm thinking about right now?" Cannon says. "Mashed potatoes."

"Ugh, the mashed potatoes in the mess taste like plastic," Beth says without looking away from the wall.

"I know; once I start eating them, they're so disgusting I just can't stop myself. It's like the flavor gets grosser with every bite."

"They're not bad with the roast beef," Chris says.

"That's because the roast beef is the only palatable thing the mess serves besides jello," Jess points out.

"It was lemon chicken today," Cannon sighs. She rests her head against the wall again. "My vest had all my granola bars. What could these guys possibly want with us," she complains.

"Do you think they've realized that we're only number 47 because they want any potential enemies to think there are more SG teams than there really are?" Jess asks.

"I don't know," Cannon says stiffly, "but say that again a little louder and I'm sure they will."

Jess holds his hands up in placation, tipping his cards towards Cannon. Chris is about to destroy him with that hand.

"Well," Cannon sighs, "the good news is that I can feel my face again."

Heavy footfalls sound in the hallway and Cannon stands, shifting her weight to ease the stiffness in her legs. Beth hurriedly stuffs her notebook back in her pocket and Chris and Jess shove the cards into the pocket of Jess's pants.

"You will come with us," the Jaffa says.

"Sure," Cannon says as she leads her team after him. "I don't suppose you guys have any snacks on board this thing? You've got to eat, right?" He doesn't answer. "Didn't your mom ever teach you to share?"

The Jaffa ignores her and leads them into an open room with a throne at the fall wall. Ba'al surges to his feet as they enter. "Fool," he spits at the Jaffa beside him, who Cannon recognizes as the leader of the group that had captured them. "This isn't SG-1."

"My lord--"

"Who are you?" Ba'al interrupts.

"Major Lissa Cannon, leader of SG-47," she says, raising her chin.

"Forty-seven," Ba'al says in disbelief.

"We're a science team; we were studying the flora of P4X-737 when you so rudely interrupted."

Ba'al just looks at her. "You're scientists."

Jess raises his hand. "Doctor."

"Doctor," Chris agrees.

"Major," Cannon says with a shrug.

"Doctor," Beth says.

"I've seen this episode of M*A*S*H," Chris says.

"I did also once make a baking soda volcano for a sixth-grade science fair," Cannon adds.

Ba'al sits back on his throne, crossing one leg over the other and resting his elbows on the arms, looking the picture of a carefree megalomaniac.

"Bring them back to the surface," he orders the Jaffa with a lazy wave of his hand, without so much as raising his arm from the throne. "Finish studying your plants," Ba'al says, "I have no use for you."

"That's kind of rude," Cannon says.

*

The Jaffa drop them on the planet's surface and beam back up to the ship. Cannon pulls her vest off the pile, slings it over her shoulders, and pulls a granola bar out of the pocket. She rips it open and stuff it into her mouth, chewing as she zips her vest and secures her holsters around her legs.

"That was easier than I expected," Beth admits.

"Sometimes I think the only reason the Goa'uld try to capture SG teams is just because SG-1 pisses them off so much," Jess adds.

Cannon snorts at that. "Let's get our samples and haul it back to the gate before the mess runs out of mashed potatoes."

"You realize that's extremely unlikely, right?" Chris deadpans.

Cannon shrugs and stuffs the wrapper of her granola bar into her pocket. "Even so, let's get a move on."

[theloniousbach]

ALMOST COUCH TOUR: SEAN MASON/GIVETON GELIN, MEZZROW’S, 9 SEPTEMBER 2021

The real time Couch Tour phenomenon is drying up with only Small’s/Mezzrow’s and the very occasional The Jazz Gallery gig filling that precise bill. And Small’s/Mezzrow’s rather conveniently putting things up in its Archive with a very quick turnaround. And, truth be told, I very often would catch a Smoke or Village Vanguard in that same weekend, not in the moment. It is also possible that such gigs were filmed and not live live. Similarly, in the European Tradition, my primary chamber music source, Wigmore Hall’s events reflected London time. I wasn’t watching them in real time.

But these streams remain a way to experience live performances and get a writing prompt when I need one. There has been some calculation re: writing prompts of late as I mine the Small’s archive thematically sometimes.

But, in this case, I just wanted to see Sean Mason more directly. He’s been a stalwart on several gigs by the Wayne Shorter repertory ensemble Palladium where he has been fresh and innovative on those suggestive compositions. He also was on a gig with Barry Stephenson with Nicole Glover recently where he again caught my ear.

Here he was on a late night Mezzrow’s gig with trumpeter Giveton Gelin. Together they did what I expected, dissecting tunes and musical spaces in a very free (exploratory far more than discordant) way. The duo format has great richness and I’m collecting trumpet/piano settings: there is a Roy Hargrove/Mulgrew Miller collection that hasn’t made my streaming service and Jeremy Pelt/George Cables with Peter Washington did a very nice ballads set.

This first set opened with a long suite that hinted at a few tunes and moods before resolving into Someone To Watch Over Me. It reminded me of a Blue Note stream of Chris Potter/Kenny Werner which did the whole set in seemingly telepathic connection. Here they soloed in parallel in a very sympathetic not individualistic way. There was intense listening going on. I sense that is a Mason trademark and what makes his ensemble work so fresh. He listens to what’s being played and improvises his own part. It’s not accompaniment per se but it is deeply complementary and supportive. David Crosby called Grateful Dead music electric Dixieland. There’s something of that here, though the Dixieland moniker in jazz suggests different things. So does free jazz. This isn’t that but it’s freedom is breathtaking and exciting.

Gelin’s tone and range was rich and not strident. I wish I knew Lester Bowie far better, but my sense of him is what I heard here—a deep appreciation of the traditions that allowed drawing on many giants finding fresh and unexpected connections. That fit well with the ethos that Mason set up for the gig.

The second suite started with a Monk blues that wandered into an even more straight up blues then back to Monk to a segue into a completely new tune that felt beboppish (so it might have been a blues too) though it was nicely off kilter like Relaxin’ at Camarillo is. Very nice.

They kicked off a second set/jam session with one last but shorter tune/suite. But they gave the band stand over to a jam session. First Sarah Hanrahan who was on the Barry Stephenson gig led the way with a young piano/bass team on September in the Rain. I was glad to hear her again. Another tasteful trumpeter joined mid tune for a fine relaxed solo. The final tune featured Hanrahan again but with Micah Thomas whom I’ve seen with Immanuel Wilkins, a different bass player, and a tenor man with Gelin returning.

I hadn’t seen a late night Small’s/Mezzrow’s set with jam. It was looser and it sure felt like there were musicians in the house playing for one another. That has obvious charms. But I will keep an eye out for Sean Mason for earlier in the evening gigs—not that it matters for Almost Couch Tour.

[arcticdementor]

I’ll be transcribing select podcasts from now on. The one I recently did with Misha Saul had a lot of great insights, so I thought it was a good place to start.

It’s been lightly edited to make it more clear and legible, and sometimes for grammar, while maintaining the general ideas.

…

Richard has hit the spotlight in a big way over the last year – he’s been on Tucker Carlson and is increasingly known for his iconoclastic style. His podcast is excellent, and his essay drawing out the mechanism for how Wokeism grew out of the Civil Rights Act in the US has made waves.

This conversation picks up on a strand that I’ve been thinking a lot about. Diana Fleischman in my conversation with her said: Institutions are increasingly reflecting the values of middle-aged women. Tyler Cowen often writes about the feminization of society at Marginal Revolution. No one, as far as I’m aware, has really buttoned down what that means and what it looks like.

I don’t think that’s quite what we do here.

It’s a pretty free-flowing exploratory conversation about what we might call the feminization of society. What do we mean when we talk about it? Where can we see it? What are its benefits and derangements? We have a crack at the subject, anyway. Think of this as an experiment in chatting through some observations, live.

…

Richard: Sure. This is going to be a very American-centric analysis because it goes back to American history and American law but a lot of Americans don’t actually know this story. A lot of liberals have this idea of the Civil Rights Act… there used to be racism, they still think there is racism, but there used to be official state-sanctioned racism, Jim Crow, private businesses would discriminate against blacks and women to a lesser extent, or the same extent in some people’s minds. Then you pass the law of the Civil Rights Act and things got better. And a lot of Republican politicians, those doing the most superficial kind of analysis, don’t have much of a different story than that. They just think that “whatever, now the wokeness has come and now maybe it’s something a different and that’s a problem.” And they’ll throw in “oh and by the way, those who opposed the civil rights were Democrats." They try and claim the mantle for the civil rights movement for the Republicans, which is nonsense because a lot of those people left and became Republicans specifically over that issue, and a lot of their voters left the party. So it’s really a nonsense narrative they try and throw back at them.

It says you can’t discriminate in government and you can’t discriminate in private business. And most people at the time thought that basically meant you couldn’t put up a sign that says no black people. Even the gender thing they say was added as a joke actually. Somebody was trying to kill the bill, they didn’t want the racial equality parts. They said, “it would be so absurd to have a society where you didn’t discriminate based on sex” so they put sex in there hoping to kill the bill. And it ended up passing. I’m not 100% sure, I was told this by a law professor at the University of Chicago, so it’s not like I read it on Twitter somewhere. It’s credible though I haven’t looked into it.

Misha: American politics is basically a rerun of the producers, like hilarious accidents that keep escalating forever.

Richard: Right. So what does not discriminating mean? It wasn’t long after that that the phrase affirmative action comes along. It comes along in a series of executive orders. Government contractors first under Kennedy and then LBJ in the 1960s. Under Nixon for the entire federal government. Basically it said that the government would have to keep racial and gender statistics and make sure there weren’t any disparities between groups. You also had development of these other legal doctrines developed from the Civil Rights Act which includes a hostile work environment, sexual harassment law, stuff like that.

And lots of people have raised questions about free speech: If I think men and women are different and I’m in a private business and I want to say that, that’s of questionable legality… mainstream conservative views on things. They went after a lot of companies for this. There were some major corporations, I think Mitsubishi was one, they ended up paying a lot of money to the government, that made examples out of certain places.

Another doctrine, which was invented by a combination of the courts and executive agencies, is disparate impact. So if you give standardized tests, Grigg vs. Duke Power Company, this was a case early after the Civil Rights Act. It said if you give an IQ test and it has a disparate impact between groups… you can still use it but it’s a little complicated, it has to be related to the work, but it becomes harder. Everything you do that has a racial disparate impact, and by the way everything in the world has a racial disparate impact, if you find something that doesn’t I’ll be surprised, they can come after you for it either through the government directly coming after you or through people suing you.

So what happened? What happened starting in the 1960s is you see the growth of this human resources industry. You can just look at the chart of the number of human resource workers in the US going through the roof. Now if you had just said quotas, hire this many blacks, this many women, that would have been simple. You wouldn’t need a full-time bureaucracy to do that. The fact that it was vague and there were potentially substantial penalties sort of put business on edge. You needed a full-time bureaucratic class to interpret the laws and what was going on.

So the DEI industry is derived off of the rise of human resources. So you know, the way people see woke institutions today, “well they’re just deciding to be woke, there’s just a class of people deciding to take the leftwing issue on anything related to race and gender,” and some of that is obviously right. But you’re ignoring that basically legally you’re only allowed to be on one side of the culture wars. You’re not really allowed to say… if you’re a government contractor you can’t say “I don’t want to count my employees by race or gender. I don’t want to collect that data. I don’t want to take affirmative action to help black people or women out, I believe in a colorblind policy.” Mainstream conservative views, conservatives believe this stuff, it’s not legal. Conservatism is illegal for a lot of institutions. Not everything is covered but huge portions: the federal government, government contractors, subcontractors, it covers a huge portion of the private and public sectors.

And then it filters down, you have these big corporations and other people sort of follow them. And then you have these norms that apply to everyone. Courts will look at best practices, saying “Oh, discrimination is wrong, what are the best practices in the industry? What are people doing to fight discrimination?” And if that’s Robin DiAngelo at one point in time, you start to worry if you don’t have Robin DiAngelo coming to give speeches you might get in trouble. Not specifically Robin DiAngelo, but you get the idea. You have these intellectual fads that come and go and everyone’s jumping on the same train because it’s necessary.

…

But anyway, let’s get back to the feminization issue. I think this is a discussion that can easily devolve into two cranks kind of sounding conspiratorial and bitter. The one place outside this conversation that’s been steadily beating the drum of this thing has been Tyler Cowen on his blog Marginal Revolution. I think we can generally be quite normatively neutral around this trend, it’s not necessarily a good or bad thing, but if you go to Marginal Revolution and search “feminization,” you notice that it does pop up quite periodically.

For example, one thing that Tyler Cowen recently said, and I’ll quote: “one thing the contemporary world definitely has not come to terms with is how much a highly feminized culture will be rather strongly enforcing new forms of discrimination, albeit cloaked under different and rhetorically emancipatory principles.” I think last year or the year before Tyler Cowen said “the feminization of our culture is for me, trend #1,” noting that basically all the top ten selling books had female protagonists and seven were authored by women. And I think you can go through different professions, education and other institutions, over the past 50 years, and I guess it’s not surprising since the kind of increased participation of women in the workforce and democratic process, you’d kind of expect our cultural and institutions to change. But I guess this is what I wanted to spend today talking about, when you kind of took the piss out of DiAngelo and just said “this is just estrogen and mental illness.” Let’s talk about what has happened in our culture, what does feminization mean?

Richard: Well, I think it means a lot. It’s a broad topic. I think what Cowen is referring to is, you have men and women, and men and women deal with conflict and challenges in different ways. We as a society are leaning more towards doing things in the feminized way rather than a more masculine way. Robin DiAngelo is just a great example of this. I mentioned the human resources industry. I also have a chart in my Substack that shows the changing demographics over time, shows something like 60-70% female. So this idea that you have problems with people and then you talk to them about it and you talk to them not for say, an instrumental purpose, “we’re going to work something out,” but talking is a reward in and of itself. You need something, you need to re-establish the relationship, you need to feel heard, feel validated. This is a very feminine thing.

So you have these protestors at universities, and it’s funny because you look at identity politics in the past, anti-colonization or something. It’s just “we want to get the occupiers out of our country, we want to fight them, we want to have our own society” it’s a kind of masculine idea. And you now have these sort of identity politics where it’s like “hire more diversity counselors and have them talk to the people who are mean to us forever.” It’s a very strange thing compared to what identity politics was 30, 40, 50 years ago. It’s a sort of nationalism, a tribalism, an us vs. them that’s there in every society. But it’s morphed into something different.

So DiAngelo, the rise of human resources, even things like how we understand cost-benefit analysis. I think Safetysim is a more female way of looking at things. Bryan Caplan in his book The Myth of the Rational Voters has a few predictors of thinking more like an economist, and one of them is being male rather than female.

…

Richard: Well, if you go to the places where it’s most purely about consumer preferences, just walk though the girls section in the toy store… now they announce there’s no girls section or boys section, but they’ll have one isle that’s all cars and one isle that's all dolls. I was at Target not long ago just looking at the dolls and the Barbies, now they’re in different colors, black, brown, and they have careers, doctor Barbie, astronaut Barbie. I didn’t see a fat Barbie, I didn’t see a trans Barbie, I didn’t see a bald-headed Barbie, I didn’t see a tattooed Barbie…

Misha: Not now, but every joke becomes a reality.

…

Richard: I think things like anxiety, feelings of inadequacy, these things are higher in women. Neuroticism, I think these things are clearly… everyone sort of understands that. Especially the way we talk about things like mental health. Simone Biles… the idea that she quit right before a match, a meeting? A game? Whatever they call it?

Misha: An Olympics thing? A sports thing? We’re the wrong guys here. And she says she doesn’t want to do it anymore?

Richard: Anyway, there’s some kind of competition which she quit. And it’s not about her specifically, it’s about the media reaction which is that this is more heroic than if she would have won.

Misha: The quote in The New Yorker, I think it is, “her radical courage.” It’s deranged! To your point, even the best have blowups and absolutely no judgment, whatever. It’s the cultural reaction to it that is totally hilarious and idiotic.

Richard: Even stuff like therapy, the rise of mental health discourse. If you watch some normal TV shows, it’s amazing how everyone has a therapist. It’s seen as everyone has these problems they gotta work through, and the idea of it is that everyone is walking around damaged. I’m not going to say that’s normal for males or females. But we are tilting towards… it’s closer to the female norm than the male norm. There’s a minority of women who are very anxious and go through life feeling a lot of pain, and even for all our so-called gender equality, there’s still an idea that it’s much more socially acceptable for women to complain about things; for women to cry about things is much more socially acceptable than men.

So women tend to have these negative emotions at higher rates and it’s more acceptable for them to express negative emotions, so what happens is female concerns are overrepresented in the things we talk about. Not even all female concerns, I mean it’s very specific. Elizabeth Bruenig, this is a Washington Post writer for those who don’t pay attention, I think she just wrote some article that said “I became a mom at a young age and this made me happy,” that was the whole article. And every person on Twitter lost their mind and said it’s white supremacy or something. So it’s not the women like Elizabeth Bruenig, though she is a columnist and has a voice, she’s not representative of her class. It tends to be single, urbanized, less connected to family or marriage or a committed relationship. Those people talk the most and they tend to go into journalism and academia. They tend to have a disproportionate influence. This isn’t just women who have influence, but is true of human beings in general and who ends up mattering and having influence. The prominence we give to mental health and the way we talk about it are both signs of feminization.

…

Richard: To go back to what you said about whether it’s an American thing, I don't have much experience traveling overseas. I did a semester abroad in Russia when I was an undergrad, that was about 10 years ago, around 2008-2009.

Misha: That’s awesome, where did you go in Russia?

Richard: St. Petersburg.

Misha: Cool! How’s your Russian?

Richard: Not very good. I have a minor in it but it’s been 12 years so I barely know anything.

So I was there, and I saw Tyler Cowen say this: the gender dimorphism is very high there. I didn’t see any women with short hair. I didn't see any women with sweatpants or anything like that. I traveled a bit in Europe and I think it’s the same way. ‘Letting yourself go’ as a woman is more of an American thing. I don’t know if it’s an Anglo thing, you can tell me about Australia, but it’s sort of like… some women have gotten in their heads the idea that to appeal to a man is somehow sexist or wrong. But it’s human nature, men want to appeal to women and women want to appeal to men.

Misha: Yeah, but you can have an argument that’s regressive and that’s reflective of traditionalist values, that’s basically behind rather than an alternative. I know they look at the anglosphere and see everyone as totally deranged. I can’t even say it on here but the things they say about this whole dynamic is pretty funny. How do you think about that? Maybe it’s just a function of liberation, that you don’t need to be on parade all the time.

Richard: Why is that liberation? You could say someone being obese is liberation, why do they feel like they have to watch their weight? Not caring about how you look, this is a form of liberation.

Misha: You joke, but the US is way heavier than it was 50 years ago. You are seeing all these big is beautiful schtick kind of everywhere, you know what I mean? I kind of get the everyday person rolls their eye at this, but it seems to be a meaningful…

Richard: Do an experiment. Find a woke woman, tell her “you’ve put on a few pounds recently.” Say it in the nicest way possible, and see if she takes it as an insult. The things we say, “big is beautiful,” but try it sometime. Tell someone “I’m a liberal, I don’t have any judgement on these things.” It doesn’t work. There’s what we’re supposed to say and the reality.

…

Richard: Yeah, that’s some of it, and to go back to civil rights law, some of these things have been forcibly integrated. Some big golf course, something related to the PGA… they had men’s only golf and some big lawsuit. I think that’s right… Harvard within the last few years got rid of single gender fraternities and sororities, I don’t know if they went after the sororities too but they at least went after the fraternities. You think about why you’d need a male only space, or an all female space, and the justification would be “men and women are different, I can speak and talk in a way with other men that I can’t in a room with all women,” and that idea of fundamental differences is verboten, it’s something you’re not allowed to say or think.

You do get some all female spaces. It’s sort of like you could have an all black club but not all white club; because that’s the preference of the protected group, people will justify it somehow. They’ll say “blacks or women face unique challenges” not because they’re biologically different but because they’re facing unique challenges due to sexism or whatever. Sometimes they won’t deny the biological, but basically you don’t have to think too much about it, because they’re the “good people,” women and minorities.

And if you’re a man, now you’re talking about differences. And you’re implying those differences in some way favor the men. It’s funny, Daily Caller is a conservative website and they went to some member of the Congressional Black Caucus, a Democrat, and asked him “why do you think that men are arrested for crimes more than women?” Now the joke is that the Congressional Black Caucus says that it’s racism if blacks are arrested more for crimes than white people. And the Congressional Black Caucus, one of the guys was like “oh of course, because men are more violent.” It was nothing. So they sort of got him. There’s not a consistency. Sometimes you can believe in differences, sometimes you can’t. It’s not about if you believe in differences or not, it’s about if you’re flattering the group that needs to be flattered or insulting the group that needs to be insulted.

…

Misha: Just leave the crusty old dudes alone! There’s like 50 female gyms down the road from that same club and no one cares. But this is literally front-page news. No one can get enough of these crusty old dudes getting together for lunch.

Richard: The thing is men don’t want to do identity politics against women. You do have these guys online, men’s rights activists…

Misha: They’re losers! Who wants to be those guys?

Richard: Right. So there’s got to be a way to pushback, while not falling into the “we’re just like women, we’re going to have a fight on equal terms.” I mean if you do do that, you end up with the Taliban. Men will win, if you fight on equal terms with women… Trust me, it’s not going to be much of a fight. You don’t want to go in that direction.

…

Misha: I meant more, does being an immigrant allow you to speak truth to power? People can’t accuse you of being some rich, boat-shoe wearing fancy-boy who is speaking from a place of power in the US. Do you know what I mean?

Richard: Maybe. Let’s say there was a blond-haired blue eye guy who was just like me.

Misha: And you’re light haired and light eyed by the way!

Richard: I’m light eyed and dark haired. But yeah, I think it would be more difficult. I do think that’s certainly the case. There’s a guy named Madison Cawthorn, a young Republican, he looks like an SS officer. But he’s in a wheelchair, he had an accident, so it’s sort of strange that way. But he’s a typical dumb Republican who says dumb things. The media freaks out at him, it’s the way he looks. The wheelchair thing makes it a little strange. From what I can tell he’s not different from any Republican in Congress, just different in the way he looks.

Misha: So this is one of my favorite things about you. And whoever’s outraged at this point would have switched off or stopped listening already, but you’ll kind of point to the demographics or insane institutions in the US and you have this whole wokeness piece, you’re a pretty loud critic of that. But then you look at the Republicans and go “these idiots are totally worse. These idiots couldn’t organize a root in a brothel.” What’s going on there? To go in a different direction, what is with the state of conservatism in the US?

Richard: This is something I actually want to write about. There’s a narrow problem which is that they have never done the things I recommend they do, which is look at civil rights law and honestly face what’s happening. But then there’s a broader question as to why they think about this stuff and why they never intend to do anything about it. So that’s sort of a broader question.

The liberals are ideologically motivated. You look at which sources of news and information liberals trust more, and it’s usually the written word. The New York Times, Washington Post, it’s these other publications. The base driving the Democratic party and the left in the US is journalism and academia. For the right it’s talk radio and TV. Talk radio and TV is not ideological, it has a short attention span. It likes to fight, it likes the reality TV side of things. Sometimes it can win, it can win over the majority of the public because it’s good at showmanship and fighting.

And you have these groups that are issue focused, the gun people and anti-abortion people. These people do well, they’re organized and get the bills passed that they want. But in general, I think conservatism is more of a reaction to an ideological movement and liberalism is the ideological movement.

[kenzieam]

Touch

Rating: M

Warnings: Major Angst, heartache, some language

Word Count: 3595

Tags: @jewels2876  @moonbeambucky  @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123  @iammarylastar @captstefanbrandt  @badassbaker  @pinknerdpanda  @oliviastan17 @mizzzpink​

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As time runs out, Lev remembers her first encounters with Bucky, and how the touch-starved, damaged man became just as important to her as she is to him.

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HEADS UP..... MAJOR ANGST AHEAD, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. i DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY I WRITE THIS SHIT, IT JUST MAKES ME CRY.

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Shit, I’m cold.

But at least it doesn’t hurt anymore.

I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped down here; things have gotten hazy.

It’s been a while though; I can’t hear half as many people screaming for help as before.

I’ve had time to figure out what happened at least, with nothing else to do but lay here, slowly suffocating.

My day, I think it’s fair to say, has gone spectacularly to shit.

I think it was an explosion that made the building collapse, but things were happening so goddamn fast I can’t say for sure.

Either way, I’m here, trapped, and I’m pretty sure I’m dying.

Figures, Bucky didn’t want me to go to this convention. If I live through this, I’ll never hear the end of it; Bucky hates being apart from me, because I’m not enhanced like he is, he thinks I’m fragile.

And to be honest, I’m feeling pretty goddamn fragile right now.

My back is arched, bowed backwards to where I could almost grab my ass with the arm that’s twisted back behind my head; my fingers are in the perfect place to scratch any itch I might have between my shoulder blades, but an itch is the least of my problems right now.

I can’t feel my legs.

I don’t know if it’s the fact that a large section of concrete wall is pinning me from the hips down, or if its something more sinister and permanent, a broken back perhaps. Either way, I can’t see my legs or feel them. Maybe they’re not even there anymore.

Would Bucky still love me if I were broken? No longer whole?

I think he would, he knows what it’s like to be incomplete. So many times, after we’ve made love, he’ll hold me and tell me how much he loves me, how I complete him, make him feel whole for the first time in nearly a century.

It’s a heady sensation, to know someone as powerful and legendary as James Barnes loves you.

I never expected to find someone like him, to feel the things he makes me feel.

It breaks my heart that it’s probably all going to end today, with me trapped, alone, in my proverbial coffin.

Was it only three and a half years ago I heard Tony Stark was hiring and me, fresh out of school with the ink on my doctorate of Physical Therapy not yet dry, decided on a whim to apply?

I never expected a call from the man himself, never expected to be given such a huge opportunity so early in my burgeoning career.

But Tony had a plan. People get hurt all the time, secretaries with carpel tunnel, agents with bruises and bumps, Avengers with broken bones earned on their newest mission, it only made sense to bring in a full time PT to the medical labs in the Avengers Complex, and Tony wanted someone fresh and new, someone without any bad habits to break as he put it, which is ironic when you consider all the bad habits Stark himself has.  

I’m still working on refining his damn posture in front of the computer, but I think it’s a losing battle.

My job was soon revealed, to help after Bruce and Helen had worked their magic, regain range of motion, stretch and massage damaged muscles, ensure the team ran at their peak.

While my job originally was supposed to include the entire Complex, it soon became obvious that all my attention would need to be devoted to the team of superheroes themselves and, after a few months of commuting to and from my small studio in the city, I gave into Stark’s less than subtle hints and moved directly into the Complex myself, becoming a round-the-clock, on-call-all-the-time member of the team.

My first interactions with Bucky were minimal, a shadow lurking behind the much more gregarious Captain America himself. I didn’t take it personally because, from what I could see and had heard, the former assassin stayed as far away from everyone that he possibly could.

But he ended up being half dragged to me by Steve himself a few months into my job, due to a lingering pain in the juncture of his shoulder from a recent injury; or more accurately, from a recent injury on the training mats that merely brought back the pain Bucky had apparently been struggling with off and on ever since HYDRA attached his first bionic arm.

The big man didn’t want to be there, I could tell and only his loyalty and commitment to his oldest friend kept his ass on the table as I examined the puffy, angry red scar tissue, his body rigid beneath my exploratory touch.

I knew enough of his past to realize that Bucky’s aversion to me was part of, if not wholly, due to the rough and cruel way HYDRA had treated him, when every contact meant hurt and degradation, but it still affected me. What had he lived through that had taught him that even simple touch meant pain? And how, with the very nature of my work involving discomfort, did I help him?

“Can you rotate your arm?” I ask quietly. When he hesitates, I continue. “I need to feel the joint when you move it.”

He nods silently, accepting the fact that my hands need to stay on him, press in lightly while he rotates his shoulder and, most likely, increase the pain he already feels.

I fall silent, close me eyes to help concentrate as he complies. “Again, please.”

I finger a particular point, deep in the joint and Bucky flinches, swallowing a low groan. I instantly feel horrible, for surely, to make Bucky react at all the pain I just caused must have been extraordinary, but it gives me something to focus on.

I pull away, trying to ignore the way his skin makes my fingers tingle; must be related to his serum-enhancement, my mind studiously ignoring the fact that touching Steve doesn’t illicit the same sensation and offer him a smile.

“I think a lot of that discomfort can be managed with massage, relaxing and sorting out the muscles involved. I’d prefer to try that, rather than jumping into more invasive therapies right away.”

I wait for his response, glancing at Steve when it appears for a beat that Bucky hasn’t even heard me but then it hits me.

Massage.

Continuous touch, continuous pain while he will be forced to lay immobile, tolerating it soundlessly.

Pretty much Bucky’s worst nightmare.

Shit.

Steve shifts his weight, clears his throat. He’s obviously torn between answering for his friend and letting Bucky decide, although it’s clear he expects Barnes to reject the proposal, to push on grimly through the ache and potentially damage his body more.

“Okay.” His voice is so low I almost don’t hear him.

“I’m sorry?” I lean closer, frowning with concentration. Fuck, for so huge and imposing a man, the guy can make himself practically invisible, even right beside you.

“Okay,” he repeats, barely raising his voice. “We’ll try.”

“I’ll do my best,” I feel compelled to reassure him, barely stopping myself from resting my hand on his shoulder, pulling back at the last second when I remember that that would probably be the last thing to calm the man. “To make it as tolerable, as pain-free as possible.”

Bucky nods but doesn’t answer.

“Want to start now?” Steve asks carefully, glancing between me and Bucky. I don’t know what Bucky will say, but I’ve probably filled his quota of contact today.

A silent head shake, his lank brown hair swinging, a quick but interesting glance up at my face. Is he concerned about my reaction?

“Tomorrow?” I ask gently. At his nod I continue, running through my schedule in my head and I know these two usually go running in the morning, hitting the gym after and then grabbing something to eat. “How about after lunch?”

“Okay.” Christ, the man’s voice is so quiet and soft, it doesn’t fit with his appearance. He looks like a beast, huge and muscular, danger radiating out of every pore. Its so much easier to visualize him as the cruel assassin The Winter Soldier than as a traumatized prisoner of war. That is, until you look in his eyes; then the muscles, the bulk and silent intimidating air all fall apart.

The concrete around me creaks, the rubble threatening to shift, and I hold my breath. It’s getting harder to breathe but I don’t know if that’s because of the way my torso is twisted, or just a general lack of fresh oxygen. I can’t see any daylight anywhere, of feel any type of air movement, but I also can’t move any part of myself around to look. For all I know, there could be a way out of this mess directly behind me, but I’m pinned.

How long has it been? I think I greyed out for a minute there, remembering one of my first meaningful encounters with Bucky, the first time he answered me, agreed to try massage therapy for his shoulder. The trust he showed wasn’t lost on me.

The building groans, as if its in pain too and I fight a rising panic. The voices I could hear around me have gotten less and less, the faint screams for help devolving into wordless, animal cries of agony before cutting off altogether and I wonder if anyone is even still alive. Is there any type of rescue effort yet? Has there been some kind of terrorist act that’s holding up my salvation?

Have they told Bucky?

The convention was a couple of thousand miles away from the Compound, even with the quinjet Bucky and I were hours apart.

Is he out there right now? Digging for me?

My mind wanders again as a fresh stab of agony shoot through my torso, ending curiously at my hips.

I look up at the soft knock at my office door and smile.

“Hello, James.”

His eyes meet mine, just for the barest heartbeat before dropping. “Bucky,” he murmurs.

“Bucky.” I agree, my smile widening at his soft, endearing air. I want to just gather him up and give him a hug, show him that there is love and gentleness in the world and he deserves it too; although, to be honest, I’d just look like a koala hanging off him, God, he’s beefy.

He follows me soundlessly through the Physio department, to the room I’ve set up strictly for massage therapy. I put myself through school moonlighting as a masseuse, and that was one of Tony’s first requests, that I set up shop again. It seems some days that half of my job is just massage, but I’m not complaining; I enjoyed it in school and it’s just as amiable now.

I gesture to the table, draped with clean sheets. “I’m just going to work on your back and shoulders, so you just need to take your shirt off, if you want to remove your pants too, that’s fine. Lay face down and there’s a sheet to put over yourself when you’re ready. I’ll be right back.”

He nods again but there’s a tension in his body now. Is it because he’s going to be showing his arm, the angry scars that surround it? I’ve seen it before, but it seems to be an enduring shame with him, and I make a note not to draw attention to it.

“Are you ready?” I knock softly and ask through the door, hear his quiet confirmation. I turn the lights lower as I enter, explaining as I do. “I’m just turning the lights down a bit.” I busy myself at the small table covered in different types of massage oil. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t relax under full lighting.” He mumbles some sort of agreement, head lowered into the u-shaped cushion. He’s laying face down, like I requested, but he’s anything but relaxed. Fists clenched tight, breathing quickly, he’s not letting go, not yet. “I can play some music if you want?”

“Okay.”

I pause, then speak. “Bucky? We can hold off; you seem a little tense-”

“No.” He lifts his head to look at me. “I’ll lay still, I promise. Just go ahead…. I won’t react, I can take it.”

I shake my head, that’s not the point. “No, Bucky. That’s not how it works here.”

He lifts his head again after dropping it during his statement about laying still, frowning thoughtfully, if a little suspiciously.

“You don’t have to just lay here and ‘take it’. This is for you, if you get uncomfortable, if you want me to stop, you say so and we’ll take a break. I don’t want you to just lay here and endure the pain. If it hurts, tell me; if you start to get overwhelmed, tell me. The last thing I want is to make this another bad experience for you.”

He pauses then, forehead furrowing slightly. From what I’ve gathered regarding his past, free choice wasn’t something ever offered to him, HYDRA would just order him to lay stay and endure whatever torture or torment they were performing.

That shit doesn’t fly here.

“You are in charge.” I squat at the head of the table to meet his eyes, wanting him to really hear me. “I will not do anything to you that you don’t consent to. I can’t guarantee it won’t hurt, but I will only do want you allow me to, okay?”

Something flickers through his eyes, something soft and vulnerable and I get the feeling that he will lay here for me through the worst pain, if only because I gave him the control to, something he’s never been given before.

“Okay,” he replies quietly.

“I’m not going to lie, the harder I work, the more it hurts initially, the quicker the pain will be over.”

He nods and I think he’s relieved that someone is taking the time and consideration to include him in what’s going to be done to his own body.

“But we go at your speed, okay?”

“Okay.”

I stand again, reach over and turn on my playlist, a compilation of soft, bluesy swamp rock and acoustic melodies and begin.

I’m getting tired.

Is it dark outside too?

Will I ever see the sky again?

I can’t think that way, I can’t give up. Not on myself, not on Bucky.

He will come for me; I just have to hold on until then.

My mind continues to wander, trying to distract itself from the growing lassitude in my body. The weariness, the lethargy scares me, I wish I could still feel the pain, at least I’d know I’m still here, existing, even with the agony.

I remember the way our relationship progressed, slow and cautious, tentative.

Slowly his body would turn from iron to relaxed muscles beneath my touch, slowly there would be anticipation, maybe even eagerness in his eyes when he’d walk into the department, rather than grim resignation.

Once he fell asleep on me, facedown on the massage table and I let him nap, leaving the music and lights low, the door cracked, waiting for him to wake as I went about with other duties, finally seeing him emerge looked a little shamefaced, smiling tentatively in apology as I worked with Sam on a range of motion exercise for his recently injured knee.

That seemed to be the final barrier.

After that, I was one of the few people Bucky actually chose to seek out, a rare and exclusive club.

It was easy to love him.

For even as I seemed to be a source of comfort and contentment for him, he too was my bastion of strength, my rock.

If he could wake up each morning and push on, then anything I encountered in life was conquerable too.

“Baby.” He groans, lips brushing my ear.

His powerful body moves above me, inside me, bringing me to heights of pleasure I’ve never felt before.

It’s our first-time making love together, and in some ways, it’s like its truly the first time for both of us.

He’s so gentle and tender, careful with how he handles me, like I’m precious glass in his large, powerful hands.

He cradles me as he thrusts, holding me close to him, whimpers faintly and its that sound of pure vulnerable surrender that pushes me over the edge. He follows, groaning my name into my hair as his body shudders. I feel him pulse inside me, the most peaceful feeling of rightness suffusing my limbs.

Right here.

This is where I’m meant to be.

This is the point my entire life has been leading to.

He collapses beside me, breathing heavily and I roll to the side, resting my arm across his heaving chest. The faint flinch he always had, that he still has with most other people, is gone. He trusts me completely and it’s a gift I will never waste.

His eyes lock with mine, searching, somehow dark with desire and light with joy at the same time. His body is ready again, hard and straining, serum-enhanced and close to insatiable.

I roll to straddle him, his eyes following me. His hands reach up and I clasp them, twine our fingers together, press against them as I sink down onto his cock, watch his eyes roll back in his head with ecstasy. I roll my hips, encouraged by the sounds my movements draw from him, the low groans and grunts, moans and hums of pleasure.

“Fuck-” he curses and my heart dances.

My body is hungry, wanting more, and I increase my pace, chasing another release.

His eyes open, lock on mine once again and we stay connected like that, both in gaze and in body. I watch the emotions shine there, in his supernaturally blue depths, see the vulnerability there, something akin to awe, as if he has trouble believing he’d ever be this way again, open and honest and bare with someone else, trusting them in so many ways.

“Bucky-” my voice drops into a whine as my peak hits, my eyes closing.

“No.” He orders and my eyes snap open. “Let me see you, baby. Let me watch you.”

Our eyes lock again as I give in and then he’s coming too, thrusting up into me one last time, eyes burning into mine, the expression in them driving me into another, simultaneous orgasm, which infinity loops back into Bucky, his body shuddering as my walls milk him, drawing his seed hungrily, and I realize that there’s few things I’d rather be in this world right now, than joined so viscerally with him like this.

The only thing that would make this better would be if his seed takes root inside me and I’m able to give him a child, a second chance, an opportunity for unconditional love.

I cough, wince at the pain that flares in my chest, taste copper in my mouth.

It won’t be long now, I feel the truth in my bones and, while it breaks my heart, I still fight it.

I need to see Bucky, even if its for the last time.

I’ll miss our life together, the way he always sought me out, wherever I was.

Touch-starved as he was, for nearly a century, once Bucky learned he could trust me, began to touch me whenever he could.

An arm around me from behind, lips on my neck. Tight hugs for no reason, seeming to recharge at our connection. Waking tangled up with the huge cuddle-bug, barely knowing where I ended, and he began.

And the way he’d cling to me on the couch, even if others were there too, uncaring about what they thought. Curled against me like a child, head buried in my neck, almost purring under my touch as I ran my hands along his back and shoulders, like stroking and taming a large beast, soaking in the touch-love like parched earth and water.

After almost a century of starving, he was hungry for connection now, for my touch.

I hate that I’ll be taking that from him.

Slight sounds I’ve been hearing sporadically for a while now but not really able to make out become faint rustles nearby, a muffled call.

The rubble creaks, threatens to shift and, after a fraught pause, the rustling continues.

“Lev?!” I hear someone call, faint and blurry, but the way the word cuts tells me they’re screaming.

I try to answer but can only croak.

The weight on my body is almost too much now, the exhaustion pulling me further and further down. My belly feels heavy and a faint part of me muses that I’m probably bleeding internally, probably have been since I came to in this horrible, choking blackness.

Would Bucky still love me if I were broken? No longer whole?

I know the answer.

Yes.

I loved Bucky before he was whole, when he was broken.

A giant rat is nearby, scratching, then the cutting scream again, closer and cracking with strain. I recognize it finally, Bucky’s voice, breaking with anxiety, snapping under the stress. His throat will be sore for days.

I imagine him tunneling through the rubble by hand, shaking off other’s hands that try to stop him, tell him it’s too late and there’s no way I can still be alive.

But I know he won’t stop, not until he can touch me again.

[cutegirlmayra]

What do you think the new sonic cartoon is about

There’s not really a lot of news yet, yeah?

My hope... is that it’s either by the Japanese team who made Sonic X (hopefully a continuation) or following the train of reboots, it’s either Sonic Boom or Sonic X remastered something XP

I’m hoping it’s not a ‘entirely new thing’ UNLESS it’s based in the realm of actual canon.

SOA posted that “everything is canon” thing and it really ticks me off sometimes how they follow a trend that is fading, about keeping everything so unserious, but I’m over here with the Japanese GIANTIC lore fountain like-

Oh hey y’all, SOA, did you know SOJ-

HAS ACTUAL CANON LORE???? -There is so many quotes I want to write but due to having NO ACTUAL IMAGES of some of these stated I’ll simply write-

BUT NOT THIS LORE:

Don’t let America tell Japanese Hedgehog lore, okay? They don’t get the culture sometimes and it leads to really bad rewrites of the Sonic characters and storylines--Just ask their creators, get the facts, it’s not that hard, SOA PLEASE there IS canon lore and it’s so good and underdeveloped because no one goes back and expounds upon it like-

Half your villains never return

Your casts doesn’t age or go through actual character building drama

Your stage building is great, why not add exploratory mechanics like they knew they should do in SA1 and SA2? Heck, Even Sonic Heroes and Unleashed had moments to go explore.

You’re not Mario, so quit advertising to younger audiences and realize that kids like to watch what their older siblings are into, we want actually compelling content please!

Sorry, I went off, I just know there's so much potential if you just took the time to go back, research/re-learn it, and develop from there. It doesn’t need to be as complicated as Kingdom Hearts, just BUILD FROM WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. It’s so simple. Zelda has an official timeline, doesn’t always make sense, but Sonic has something similar and even the creators have stated that Classic Sonic is from his own universe and isn’t young Sonic of the past. Do you know what that means???

You can have Modern Sonic diving into his actual past to stop someone from taking over, you could have a Sonic X cartoon showing what happened after Cosmo and going into further games that released just like when they did those arc specials for when SA1&2 were a thing, what about a feature that simply shows Sonic’s world and his adventures and his friends and a big evil they’ve encountered previously, I don’t know--NEO METAL SONIC? But this time, Neo has a new way to rebel, and it’s shown that he’s ALSO separate from Classic Metal Sonic who still serves Eggman?

I mean, pitch some things to Japan and word it in a way that works with their culture and CANON Sonic Lore, It’s so easy to make a new thing, new character, yadda yadda, but what makes a TRUE skill and marketable franchise is taking what is already there and building a firm establishment on it.

Pokemon. Pokemon has evolved but never forgotten the basics. (Pun intended)

If you want to be like any other franchise that is THE one to think about.

What are their shows like? Introducing a time-old favorite or new pokemon to add to your ‘pokedex’ which you have been building upon since the start.

How to make that a Sonic Cartoon thing..?

Every few episodes, you introduce another time-favorite CANON character. They have a few episodes and arcs SPECIFICALLY to re-introduce, re-live background, and then SHOW real developmental change and progression, then a few episodes later you couple that with them reappearing and having some significance in the over-arching theme.

Example? Sonic, Tails, Knuckles and Amy are the main casts.

This one episode, they say goodbye to Team Chaotix (who will return for a significant role later) after having their few episodes arc of their team, who they are, and what they do before they suddenly meet and are introduced to Shadow (who they already know but the audience -if younger- might not until now) and the episode is showing G.U.N after Shadow. We realize Shadow’s past with Maria and G.U.N, and realize that G.U.N are being manipulated by a higher power. Enter the puppet master role of Black Doom which further explains the story of Shadow The Hedgehog after SA2. Then we have his arc after a few episodes and the team are ready to say goodbye to him as well before he drops a plot hint that ties him into the season finale as well, which means we’ll see him again. In that arc, we see him develop from what he once was, to what he was when the team found him again, and finally to what he is now... it shows that he’s still a growing character and by the end of the season arc, we see his ‘new form’ and ranged characterization from a fully rounded character arc that was perfectly executed in the main plot dynamic arc.

POKEMON. Introduce a character, have a specific few episodes of character growth with that character, and have them appear again to reinforce said characterization growth.

If you really need a new thing, and not a reboot, just let me pitch a few concepts and I’m SURE we’ll have a successful BRANDED feature for you. It’s only a matter of time before Sonic is taken seriously enough again by the company to have a massive Sonic BOOM in popularity and satisfying media. I just want to hopefully contribute if I can...

Yes, not very neutral writing, but I’ve seen a lot of ‘call to arms’ writing recently and I kinda jumped on that bandwagon, so if this is unprofessional, I AM A HUMAN WITH EMOTIONS AND SONIC NEEDS, GRAB YOUR SWORDS, YOUR BOWS, AND YOUR POETIC PROSE CAUSE ITS ACTION TIME PEOPLE.

Seen and not heard, is now heard and please be seen T-T

[daggerzine]

The Simon Provencher interview (by Tom Murphy)

Simon Provencher is perhaps best known for his frenetic and creative guitar work for the post-punk band VICTIME out of Québec. But on March 26, 2021 the musician released his debut EP Mesures via Michel Records. It is six tracks of free jazz collages that bear favorable comparison to the avant-garde compositions of Anthony Braxton as Provencher makes creative and playful use of clarinet, electric guitar, percussion and processing to convey a strong sense of mood and place while making one very aware of aspects of the environment around us we often tune out. In pairing aspects of exploratory jazz and musique concrète, Provencher has given us an album that is both soothing and keeps us grounded in the present. The composer and musician recently answered some questions we presented to him via email about the nature of his music, its inspirations and methods of crafting its elegantly evocative passages.

 Dagger Zine (Tom Murphy): Mesures will probably hit some people's ears as akin to a free jazz or spontaneous composition type of record. How did you approach putting together these songs and experimenting with sound compared with maybe how you do with VICTIME?

Simon Provencher: People wouldn’t be wrong in these assumptions at all. Mesures is a record that was written very quickly. I decided to trust my first instincts for much of the record. With VICTIME, our approach has always been more iterative. By that I mean that we’ll loop “embryonic” parts over and over again, slowly changing elements, morphing the composition until we found ourselves happy with how everything sounded together. I’m still very much into this way of writing, but Mesures was a much more immediate affair.

For me, inspiration almost always comes from timbre, usually through loads of guitar pedals. In this case though, I wanted to see what sounds and textures I could get out of the electric guitar without using any external effects or even amplification. Timbre was still my main concern, but in a more subtle way I guess. I slightly detuned the strings and experimented with resonances, chord shapes, finger placement, fingernails, etc. I also “prepared” the guitar: I jammed objects between the strings and tied sewing thread to the strings (if you pinch the thread with slightly wet fingers and slide them around, you get eerie, reverse-like effects).

Enough about me though, another big change was that this record was made remotely with two new collaborators, Elyze Venne-Deshaies (clarinet) and Olivier Fairfield (percussion). Both of them had “carte blanche” (pardon my french) to do whatever they wanted. I can’t speak much to their personal approach to improvisation, but both of them are seasoned veterans and delivered absolutely amazing performances.

 D: Some people might think of any kind of music declared experimental is a barrier to its acceptance but your album seems to me very accessible as a form of pure expression. Do you have a sense of why your songs seem so open and, as one reviewer put it, welcoming?

 S: I don’t quite know actually. I do agree that the songs have a certain softness to them that was certainly somewhat intentional. When I did the initial guitar parts, I did set out to make something conventionally “beautiful”, or at least “not harsh”. I don’t really have the vocabulary to describe what happened there, but the resonances, repetitions and patterns definitely implied a soft mood from the get go.

I guess this foundation inspired Elyze and Olivier to also play with softer tones, to approach the music with warmth and subtlety in mind. They really “got” the vibe of the music without me ever telling them anything about my intentions. A “shift” of some kind happened when the clarinet parts were added to the drums and guitars. I felt like the mood of the pieces almost completely changed (in a positive way, of course). I think there’s something to the linearity of Elyze and Olivier’s playing, in contrast with the repetitive, hypnotic guitars that gives the music a sense of wandering aimlessness which I really love.

On the audio engineering side, I did intentionally mix the songs with a certain softness in mind. We added some warm tape saturation to some of the sounds and carved out a lot of higher frequencies. On the songs with feedback and noise, Simon Labelle, who mastered the record, made it so that when the clarinets get louder, the high-frequency content ducks out of the way a little bit. This nifty little trick does help out a lot with making the noisy songs more warm and inviting too.

 D: Listening through the album I found it resonated with the albums of Anthony Braxton and Ornette Coleman. The former of which never considered his music part of jazz though he is often associated with that form of music and the latter who expanded the range, dynamics and tonal choices of jazz. Were you inspired by in any way by those forms of abstract yet emotionally expressive music? How might you describe its impact on what you've done?

S: I totally was! I discovered Anthony Braxton through Québec jazz guitar great René Lussier. I’ve been a fan of Le Trésor de la Langue for a while and I got into his back catalog last year: his collaborations with Fred Frith, EAI stuff and more, some of which was released on “Les Disques Victo”. “Victo” stands for Victoriaville, a small city between Quebec and Montreal, where there’s a great contemporary music festival named FIMAV. Shamefully, I haven’t actually been to FIMAV yet, but I’ve loved finding recordings of some amazing concerts, a favourite being Anthony Braxton and Derek Bailey’s 1987 Moment Précieux. I was amazed to find out about this rich local history of musical experimentation and improvisation. This record was very much inspired by the whole FIMAV sound.

Coleman is another great point of reference. His records and those of his collaborators, Don Cherry being another big one, all are major inspirations. As a guitar player, I especially got into James “Blood” Ulmer’s career. I really admire his approach to guitar and the immediacy and expressiveness of his music.

 I’m probably paraphrasing it all wrong, but Don Cherry said of Ornette Coleman’s “harmolodic” approach that instead of improvising from chords, like in bebop, you’d start with melodies and improvise to create new forms, harmonies, rhythms to try and reach a certain “brilliance” as he calls it. You’d try to make the music transcend. In harmolodic theory, melody, rhythm and harmony are treated as equals, no solos, no lead and accompaniment dichotomy, no strict timing, scale or tonality.

This is both quite simple but also quite hard to actually grasp in a musical setting, and I’m far from mastering any of it, nor is it necessarily something I strive for, but it is an inspiring way to conceive improvised music for sure.

 D: The first half of the album you make great use of what sounds like atonal melodies yet they perfectly convey the mood and lend a sense of texture. What informed employing those sounds in the songwriting?

S: I’ve always written music without much regard for tonality, key, etc. My musical background is still very much anchored in No Wave and noise music, where skronky chords and weird, unstable melodies are the norm rather than the exception. When playing, I really don’t think much about it, I follow what sounds good to me in the moment.

Looking back on the recorded music though, I feel like there is a lot of nuance to be found in atonality and imperfection. Detuned chords ringing out have such complex and interesting decaying resonances, you can almost hear the frequencies battling each other. These interactions between notes and lines that fall just short of resolving are part of the magic and intrigue of abstract music. In the case of Mesures, I think there’s something special with how some of the atonal, out of tune textures and weird synths clash beautifully with the in-tune clarinet parts, making either one “pop out” depending on where you focus your attention.

 D: The second half or at least the second three songs on the album use processed drones and what some might call noise underneath or in the background, although very much a presence in the mix, of the clarinets? What do you feel this almost contrast in sounds conveyed that say a more conventional arrangement might not?

The second half of the record is basically a rearrangement of the first three songs. There’s four clarinet parts in there! On the first side, they fade in and out of focus, but on side B, everything is there all at once.

This is basically the result of me simply “soloing” the clarinet takes in my DAW (Digital Audio Workstation, the software used to arrange and mix the music). When I heard the four clarinets at once, I really fell in love with the sound.

 So I knew I wanted this to be the focal point of the rearrangement, and I knew I wanted to add something. I just happened to be working with feedback that week, so it kind of fell in place. Feedback manipulation was a technical interest first, I had gotten a new guitar pedal called a Feedback Looper, which sends some of your output signal back into the input of a series of pedals. This creates self-oscillating and rich, detailed noises that are somewhat interactive and malleable. By turning some knobs and flicking some switches on ordinary guitar pedals, you end up with an infinite amount of possible glitches and shrieking high frequency tones.

I don’t know if my ears got accustomed to it or what, but I’ve come to really enjoy the sound of this process. I also really love the tactile aspect of it, it feels kind of like an unpredictable modular synthesizer. When I had recorded the feedback improvisation, which I did in one single take, I thought this sparse, harsh rearrangement was a nice contrast with the more warm, conventional first three songs. At that point, the record felt complete.

 D: The final three songs also remind me of Philip Glass in his soundtrack work wherein he mixes the playful and flowing with the dissonant. How would you say these sounds complement each other in your own music?

S: Especially on this release, while there are a lot of sounds that are contrasting with each other, I also feel like there is a sense of shared directionality. The song Et quart is a good example of this. The high feedback notes start out in almost complete opposition to the meandering low clarinet lines, but, as the song progresses, the sounds somehow seem to merge with each other and they end up flowing in the same direction for the song’s climax.

 D: What are some other artists operating now that you find interesting and/or inspirational and resonant with what you're doing?

There’s way too many to name them all, but I’ll try! I think there’s a very interesting local-ish scene around me. I admire the work of N NAO, either her solo releases or her collaborations with Joni Void. Sarah Pagé does mind-bending music with harp and effects; I’ve had the pleasure of catching her live in Ottawa just before the pandemic started last year. Kara-Lys Coverdale is also a major inspiration, so is Kee Avil, whose live show and guitar playing blew me away.

I also need to shout out my friend (and bandmate) Mathieu A. Seulement, whose end-year list allowed me to catch up on a lot of fantastic new music, including, but not limited to Ana Roxane’s Because of a Flower, Jasmine Guffond’s Microphone Permission, Caterina Barbieri’s Ecstatic Computation and, last but not least, Holly Herndon’s magnificent Proto.

  **the three Simon photos were taken by Charlotte Savoie

www.simonprovencher.bandcamp.com 

[abigailzimmer]

Favorite Reads of 2020

In this year of slowness, thank god for books to make the world a little larger again. I read several classics for the first time—Shelley’s Frankenstein and Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring and Bernadette Mayer’s Midwinter Day—all of which felt important to return to the source material, to see how these books shaped those that came after them. And I delved into new books from favorite authors whose words I will always seek out—like Kelly Schirmann’s The New World and Heather Christle’s The Crying Book—and I branched out into mystery and romance books because they kept pages turning and tidied everything up so neatly at the end, which if not my usual fare, was sorely needed in this strange year. But since I do love a list, here are the books that sung to me / inspired me / shaped me:

1. Exquisitely told and inventive in form, Women Talking by Miriam Toews centers on a group of Mennonite women in South America who discover they're being drugged and raped during the night by the men in their community. While the men are away, the women meet to decide whether they will stay and forgive their attackers, as their community’s religious leaders ask them to, or leave the colony and start anew. Their conversation over the course of two days questions the role of women, what freedom and forgiveness really mean, how to fulfill one’s calling as a woman, mother, and believer, whether one must choose one thing over another, and whether staying or leaving carries the greater risk. It’s a thoughtful and creative approach to hard questions and the complicated reasons why there’s never a right answer.

2. Ilya Kaminsky's collection, Dancing in Odessa, was one of the first books of contemporary poetry I ever read, lent to me by a friend in college, and I remember being stunned at what poetry could be and do. Deaf Republic stuns in the same way. The poems are incredibly cinematic, telling the story of an occupied town and its people and a couple who fall in love. When a young, deaf boy is shot by the soldiers, the entire town pretends deafness in rebellion, finding excuses to not understand the soldiers. They bear witness to the boy’s death and honor his life. Though a fictional town, the call to political action, to really see those who are being oppressed and stand for justice with them, is resonant for any time and place. Plus, Ilya writes the most beautiful love poems.

3. Another cinematically-inclined poetry book is GennaRose Nethercott’s The Lumberjack’s Dove. In this long poem/myth/fable, a lumberjack accidentally cuts off his hand, which turns into a dove, and then a story parts ways. The lumberjack is not just a lumberjack and the hand-turned-dove is not just a hand-turned-dove, and the story visits both an operating room and a witch, and the story, of course, is one you've heard before and one that brings surprise and wonder to the telling. I simply adored it.

"Living creatures believe they own something as soon as they love it. They refuse to believe otherwise, no matter how many times a beloved vanishes."

4. I fell in love—hard—with The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller and her exquisite, queer love story between Achilles and Patroclus. Miller’s writing is wonderful and after reading her novel Circe as well—another fantastic retelling of Greek myths—I spent the remainder of the year searching for a novel that compared.

5. Some books meet you in the right moment. The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey is a slow and attentive book on small things, which in 2020’s period of waiting and uprootedness was a gift. Due to chronic illness, Bailey finds herself confined to a bed with little to do. Her friend brings her a potted plant and a snail whose pace of life, matching her own, becomes a comfort and lessons her loneliness. As she watches, she learns intimately the snail's eating and sleeping habits, its daily adventures, and the conditions it best thrives in. Later she delves into the literature and science of gastropods and weaves her notes in with her own observations and stories of the snail. Her writing is light and funny and holds such tenderness for this very small creature.

"In the History of Animals, Aristotle noted that snail teeth are 'sharp, and small, and delicate.' My snail possessed around 2,640 teeth, so I'd add the word plentiful to Aristotle's description....With only thirty-two adult teeth, which had to last the rest of my life, I found myself experiencing tooth envy toward my gastropod companion. It seemed far more sensible to belong to a species that had evolved natural tooth replacement than to belong to one that had developed the dental profession. Nonetheless, dental appointments were one of my favorite adventures, as I could count on being recumbent. I could see myself settling into the dental chair, opening my mouth for my dentist, and surprising him with a human-sized radula."

6. Insecurity System by Sara Wainscott was one of my favorite books published in 2020. The poems in it make up four crowns—a series of sonnets in which the last line of each poem becomes the first line (or an echo of it) of the next. The playfulness of the form as well as the topics give the book an energy: Sara muses on time travel, levitation, memory, flowers ("people who read poems know a rose / is how the poet drags in genitalia"), motherhood, Mars, and mythical transformations (children tell their mothers they have turned to seals “and it is true”). Sara is funny and wry, and yet she also captures some difficult emotions of grief and depression, a struggle with complacency amid daily obligations “Sentences become drawn out affairs / but I am doing what I can / to answer one word each day.” The poems move from the mundane to a hard feeling and then onward to wonder and a bit of the fantastical, which I guess is just how life goes—I love how these emotions are all rolled together and always shifting.

7. Asiya Wadud’s powerful long poem Syncope is one I’ve returned to often throughout the year. She tells the story of 72 refugees who fled Tripoli in an inflatable boat in 2011 and were stranded for 14 days, despite the presence of 38 maritime vessels who could have rescued them, but didn’t. Instead, only 11 passengers survived. Syncope is both an indictment against those who did not act and a eulogy for the dead, returning humanity to people who were deemed not worth saving but who were “luminous in that / we were each born under the / fabled light of some star.”

“We began as 72 ascendants by that I mean we were a collective many each bound for greatness merely in the fact that we were each still living”

8. Eula Biss’s Having and Being Had is a thoughtful and exploratory conversation about capitalism and its effects on what we do and how we think. In a series of short vignettes, Eula picks apart what consumption, work, accounting, and investment mean on a personal and everyday level (albeit a white, middle class level). Who defines value among boys trading Pokemon cards and how did Monopoly's origins in economic injustice shift to pride in bankrupting players and if one of Eula's favorite things about being a new house owner is easy access to a laundry machine, is her house merely a $400,000 container for one washer and dryer? Her essays bounce from work that is valued, unseen or shamed; the perceptions and realities of being poor or rich; our approach to gift-giving and art-making and pleasure—weaving together research, observations, and conversations with friends.

9. In Grief Sequence, poet Prageeta Sharma’s grieves the loss of her husband in a kind of journal, tracing the memories of his diagnosis, the hard and normal days, the days before diagnosis, and the days after he is gone during which she tries to make sense of her new reality: “How gauche it is to be in this body being unseen by you now,” she writes. “You are not you anymore and I am trying to understand how a human with feelings has disappeared.” Her writing is excellent but it is hard to sit with and next to her pain, and it makes me wonder: when does one read such a book? When you’ve also lost a beloved to cancer? To be in conversation with someone who has, with Prageeta? Do you read for the sake of the living or to honor a body who was once here? Prageeta writes, “Poetry and grief are the same: you are taught to care about it when it happens to you.” I don’t know who to recommend this book to, but it spoke to me, and I’m glad she wrote it, as a monument, of sorts, to a specific togetherness and to a person.

10. The Lives of the Monster Dogs by Kirsten Bakis is a strange and sweet book about a race of genetically-engineered dogs, created initially to be soldiers, who move to New York in the ‘90s while still holding onto the customs and dress of nineteenth-century Prussia, which is to say: I don't know if I ever would have picked this book up had a friend not recommended it. Told through news clippings, letters, journal entries, an opera(!), and the first-person account of a human who befriends them, their story has echoes of Frankenstein as the monster dogs reflect on their creator and what it is to be human, to have purpose and hope, to wrestle with a clouded past and an uncertain future. "It's a terrible thing to be a dog and know it," writes one monster dog scholar after some of the dogs begin to revert back to their primal state. I loved the varied forms, the piecing together of the dog’s history, and the surreal mark they left in the book’s world and my world.

For more books throughout the year, follow along on Instagram at book.wreck.

[alvaar-aldaviir]

First Bite (Vampire AU)

Based from this post. Because I can’t be trusted @ffxiv-writers.

Time Frame: Heavensward. No Spoilers. AU

Notes: A dumb vampire AU where the twins are older and dhampire’s. Vampires are the upper class and respected academics/mages in Sharlayan and so quite respected there, but wary mistrust everywhere else. Dhampire’s do not need blood to survive, but to replenish their magic. Everything else in the story is the same, more of an exploratory ‘what if’ because we ALL know vampires are kinda hot and I have no self control.

Just a self-indulgent bit of writing for that first bite scenario, after a heated battle against the Dravanians in early HW.

Cross posted to Ao3.

   -

“You going to be alright?” Alvaar asked softly, studying the Arcanist still slumped against the side of the bed closer to the fire. He’d done his best to patch the larger holes torn into the long-abandoned cabin in the Coerthas Western Highlands, but even then the blizzard raging outside still blew frigid air through.

He wasn’t overly surprised when he only got a mute nod from the pale Elezen. Alphinaud hadn’t spoken much since he’d collapsed in the snows after a fourth abrupt bout with the Dravanian Horde during their scouting mission. With a barely breathing dhampire in his arms, unfamiliar terrain, and a storm rolling in, Alvaar had been given little choice but to try and hole up somewhere to wait it out. Finishing tacking up one of his spare oil skins over one of the shattered windows for insulation, he hopped down off a chair and moved closer. Tossing a few more logs on the fire and tugging the tipped over long table a bit closer to help reflect more heat into the sheltered alcove he’d made from what surviving furniture remained. It wouldn’t be the most lavish of accommodations, but there was plenty of wood to keep them from freezing to death and they wouldn’t be buried under snow. That would be good enough to get them through.

“Jerky?” he offered, holding the wax paper bag he dug out of his pack in offer. “Otherwise I might have enough stuff on me to cook something,” he continued, finding a seat beside him on the floor.

Still buried under the thick blanket Alvaar had wrapped him up in earlier, Alphinaud shook his head slowly, gaze fixed on some far-off point through the floor.

“You should eat something Alphinaud. And don’t start with a ‘only the blood of the living’ crap I’ve seen you eat scones and tea,” Alvaar chided.

“I eat solid foods yes. But it would be a waste right now. I won’t keep it down,” he murmured.

That made the Bard still before ducking his head to study him with concern. “You sick? You said earlier it was magic depletion. That’s a rest and eat well situation Leveilleur. I can do a broth or something instead?”

Again, he shook his head, seeming a touch more annoyed but breathing out a slow sigh before he winced with discomfort. “I... I’m afraid I didn’t account for this much difficulty in our travels. And in light of recent days and troubles it has been difficult to acquire fresh stock...” he mumbled.

Staring at him for a long moment, Alvaar finally piped in with a flat, “You need blood.”

The dhampire’s ears twitched, a faint flush coloring his face as he ducked his head. “I... I’ll be fine. It will be difficult, but I can make it until we get back to Ishgard. The shipment Urianger was orchestrating must have arrived by now.”

A long moment of silence stretched out between them, Alvaar chewing on another bite of jerky as he mulled it over before washing it down with a swig from his canteen and slapping a hand to the floor.

“Well, people got to eat,” Alvaar offered with a much calmer tone than he really felt. “It’s just a bit of blood, right? Nothing fatal?”

Alphinaud blinked at him in surprise, the first proper look Alvaar had gotten of him and the red of his eyes was a stark shift from the deep blue he was familiar with. It was enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably, but he refused to let it show.

A few stunned moments ticked past before the Arcanist was nodding. “Y-Yes. I mean no, I mean... of course it’s nothing fatal I’m not savage,” he scoffed at last before his expression muted back out with a faint wince.

Alvaar studied him silently, noting the slightly hunched posture and the way the Elezen’s arms were wrapped at his stomach. He seemed almost sick from the Bards point of view, and in some manner he probably was. Alvaar was familiar with the feeling of starving after all, the gnawing almost sickening ache of an overly empty stomach...

“Then I’ll help,” he stated promptly. “Or donate, whatever you want to call it. What do you need me to do? Get a knife? Offer my neck? What?”

Staring at him in puzzled discomfort for a moment the Arcanist sighed heavily. “Nothing so dramatic... in fact I, well, I prefer drinking from a glass honestly that’s how I’ve consumed blood for years,” he mused aloud.

“... Holy shit do you just have fucking wine bottles of blood lying around in your fancy mansion in Sharlayan? Have you ever served it to a non-vampire?” Alvaar asked, tone purposely upbeat to keep them both distracted and given the nervously amused snort that escaped the pale Elezen it must have worked.

“In a fashion, yes I suppose so, and no. We’ve never mixed up the bottles. ... but a knife would be wasteful I think. It would also hurt more, and I would really rather... Just your arm please? If you’re certain...” he murmured, keeping his gaze lowered and obviously embarrassed and uncomfortable.

“Hey, what’s a little blood among friends hm? Sides, it’s better than the alternatives. I’d rather not see any problems today and, well starving sucks,” Alvaar murmured, holding his arm over after slipping it free from his coat and rolling up his sleeve.

The fingers that lightly gripped his wrist were eerily cold, enough to almost make the Bard flinch but he refrained given how guilty Alphinaud already seemed about the whole thing. And it wasn’t a big deal, it would be like a trip to the chirurgeons... just where needles were teeth... apparently...

“It’s been awhile since I’ve done this,” the Arcanist murmured, thumb trailing along the inside of the Bards wrist almost like he was measuring something. Then he was drawing Alvaar’s arm up even as he lowered his head, mouth opening wide and-

‘Have his canines always been that long?’ Alvaar wondered with a start, watching in morbid fascination as elongated canines set to his skin and-

“Ah!” he hissed before he could stop himself, gritting his teeth and still stubbornly staying put by force of will at the burning pinpricks he felt in his arm. The pain only doubled when the Arcanist jerked away abruptly at the sound.

“Sorry! Twelve above, sorry Alvaar I-” he apologized immediately.

“Don’t worry about it, just a reflex. Do what you gotta kid,” Alvaar cut in, lifting his arm a bit for emphasis. “Rude to waste food, right?” he joked.

The glower he got in return made him grin even as his heart was thumping instinctively with fear.

“I meant sorry because I haven’t done this in some time and I’ve sort of forgotten the steps...” the Arcanist grumbled, a faint flush of embarrassment on his face. “Just... don’t judge, it’ll help.”

Alvaar had been about to question it before falling silent at the wet heat of a tongue lapping over the wound. He winced again on reflex, but the sting was already fading to leave only the pleasant warmth of the man’s mouth against his skin.

“Oh... that’s, neat?” he murmured, still morbidly entranced by the whole situation.

Alphinaud made a soft sound, more to let him know he’d heard him than for anything else. Darker eyes flicked to the Bard pointedly as he lifted his head slightly. “Better?”

“Yea. It’s fine.”

“Good. ... Could you... oh, never mind,” he huffed.

“Could I what?” he pressed.

“I was going to ask if you could look away but somehow, I doubt you would,” Alphinaud mumbled sheepishly.

Blinking at him in confusion, the Bard snorted when it clicked. “Don’t bite people much huh?”

It earned a flat scowl. “Not particularly. Were things not so dire I would prefer to just weather it out but... with all of the fighting since we arrived, I’ve depleted my aether reserves. Even half vampires still have slower aetheric recuperation than most every other creature-”

“Not that this isn’t fascinating but maybe explain it once you’re done?” Alvaar cut in pointedly. “Honestly, I think it’s more surprising you’re not just fixated on my blood.”

“I am,” Alphinaud shot back a bit sharper than he meant and quickly looking away. “... It just... helps. To think about other things and not the fact I’m starving. Wouldn’t you pace yourself so you don’t make yourself sick?”

“... Would you get sick?” Alvaar returned, tilting his head a bit in puzzlement.

“I... no, but what could happen would be worse and I would rather it not happen.”

“Lose control you mean,” the Bard continued flatly, taking the faint flush on the other Elezen’s face as a yes. “Listen I won’t hesitate to punch you in the fucking face if you start gnawing up my arm. This buffet ain’t open and it ain’t free.”

“You say while insisting I hurry up and drink...” Alphinaud returned drily.

“And you should before my senses come back to me and I change my mind. That’s my draw arm I’m offering and it’s going to be a pain in the ass firing while injured.”

“You won’t be injured,” the Arcanist returned promptly before setting his teeth back to Alvaar’s arm and this time he barely felt a thing. Well, he felt something distantly, like his arm was locally numb and he registered the pressure, but he could still clearly feel the softness of lips and tongue against his skin and-

It was a little unsettling how those smut novels were rather on point. It was sort of... sensual wasn’t it?

Looking off abruptly, the Bard resolved himself to not think about it. It was just to help a friend. A very annoying prat of a friend that also happened to be a half vampire or dhampire or... whatever it was. Certainly nothing to get this bothered over. Unless…

“... Wait, there isn’t some passive enchantment shit is there?” he asked, looking back at the snowy haired Elezen. Who wasn’t listening and seemed rather intent on the whole blood thing now...

Shite.

“Hey. There isn’t some mind control shit in all this right?” he asked again, louder and tapping Alphinaud’s shoulder as he tried not to panic.

Thankfully, it got his attention, pulling away with a parting lick and wavering sigh. “Beg pardon?” he asked, blue eyes back to normal but dark and vibrant and honestly if Alvaar needed to find words to describe the soft breathy way he spoke and look he was giving it would be something akin to ‘hour two of marathon sex.’ The urge to ask if he wanted a cigarette almost overrode any sense of propriety.

His question dropped off his mind as he noted the clarity of his own thoughts against the warm and almost sleepy look of the dhampire sitting next to him. If anyone here was charmed it wasn’t himself… And hadn’t Minfillia mentioned something about the Echo protecting his mind from outside intrusion in the past? … Damnit. He wasn’t supposed to be the one panicking here.

“You okay?” he asked carefully after shaking himself free from the thoughts.

“Fine. Perfectly fine,” Alphinaud replied, finally seeming to settle fully into the present and glancing down to where his fingers were still curled around the Bards wrist before lowering a hand to his tome. The healing spell was faint, but still as quiet and warm as the times before as it sealed the two pinpricks of blood before he let go and shifted away a few feet. “Thank you, um, yes, sorry for that and not to be rude but please stay over there for a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Alvaar murmured slowly. “But you’re fine?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’re not going to savage me...”

“Of course not.”

“So...?” Alvaar pressed after a few moments.

“.... What?” Alphinaud asked, giving him a wary look.

“I don’t get a critique on the vintage?” he joked.

 “Alvaar don’t ask that...”

“Why not?”

“Because I really don’t enjoy hurting people contrary to public opinion of my kind and it’s a little hard to remember it when you taste that good,” he returned flatly before pausing, another faint flush coloring his face before he was hugging his knees to his chest in a sulk.

“.... You know I thought I would be... So, is it more like trying to pin down a liquid flavor or a solid flavor?” Alvaar continued anyway.

“We are not having this conversation Aldaviir.”

“I see how it is. Here I am, putting myself out on the line and-”

“Alvaar.” It’s said firmly but there was a touch of anxiety underneath, a note the Bard doesn’t miss in part because it’s reflected in the nervous gaze he’s getting. The glitter of ocean blue over the top of his knees where he’s still hunched over, arms wrapped around his legs and making himself as small as possible.

It’s not the first time he notices how naive and inexperienced the dhampire can be, but it is the first time he thinks perhaps the Arcanist may be more concerned over what makes him different than Alvaar ever was.

He blinks, meeting that worried gaze for a long moment before glancing away to study the fire instead. “You’re right, I shouldn’t tease you. I’m sorry that was out of line.” The quiet crackles of the fire and howling winds outside are the only thing to fill the minutes of silence that stretch between them.

“... How do you make jokes about it?”

The whispered question almost doesn’t reach Alvaar’s ears, but it does and he gives the Arcanist a puzzled look anyway.

“The people of Eorzea... They fear my kind. They only begrudgingly accepted any help from my Grandfather because the situation was so desperate, and they didn’t know what he was. Surely they might suspect it but they would never ask. The only ones here aside from the Scions that know what I am is you...” he murmured, carrying on when Alvaar remained quiet. “When my sister and I first arrived, we came across a caravan being overrun by bandits. The situation was so bleak, and the night was so dark, we had little choice but to use our powers to help them.”

Voice trailing off, the Arcanist buried himself a bit further into the blanket he’d been given. “They screamed. They called us monsters. When everything was over, they tried to kill us too. Alisaie said she wasn’t surprised. The ignorance of Eorzeans has always been a problem she said. But... I started to understand why.

“We don’t think of it much in Sharlayan, where vampires are accepted parts of society. Mortals donate blood freely and it’s preserved and kept openly. Many of the great advancements in aetherology have been made with mortal and vampire scholars working together. There’s no reason to be afraid of vampires because it’s taught to us from the day we’re born not to hurt others. Why would we have to take what’s freely given? We give back our achievements and research freely in exchange. We fight and work together. It’s a cardinal sin to turn someone into a vampire, or to willfully harm someone. Punishable by death or exile at the very least, a sentence that may as well mean death. But the people of Eorzea don’t see that. They only see us as monsters... as something approaching voidsent... So why don’t you? Why aren’t you afraid?”

Studying him quietly for a moment Alvaar pushed himself closer. Pausing briefly when Alphinaud tensed before carefully looping an arm around the Arcanist’s shoulders and pulling him into his side. Settling his cheek against soft white hair he blew out a faint sigh.

“You’re not a monster Alphi, you’re my friend. I made a promise to you and Tataru both when we fled to Coerthas. That I would keep you safe and protect you. I don’t make those sorts of promises to people I don’t trust and care about. What you are doesn’t change who you are right? As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a friend with some interesting dietary needs.”

Blinking at nothing in particular, the dhampire made a slight annoyed face Alvaar couldn’t see but could hear. “It’s vaguely insulting to hear you distill my troubles down to something so base.”

Alvaar gave a soft snort of amusement. “Sorry. Not my intent. It’s just... not a big deal to me personally Alphi. The world at large has its reasons, and I’ll admit I was wary at first but we’re really not that different. Sides, whatever you took I feel fine so it doesn’t seem that big a deal to me.”

“Your blood is... unusually aether rich,” Alphinaud commented after a moment. “It wouldn’t take very much.”

“No shit? Well, I barely cast magic anyway, so I guess that’s fortunate for next time,” Alvaar returned easily.

“Next time?” The incredulous look on the Arcanist’s face had the Bard trying extremely hard not to laugh.

“Yea next time. There always ends up being a next time for this sort of stuff. Gods, read a book Leveilleur,” Alvaar joked, pulling away enough to steal part of the blanket and readjust it over both their shoulders.

“What sort of books are you reading where there’s an invariable need to take blood from someone ‘next time?’” he persisted, frowning as he was once again pulled into the Bard’s side.

Ruffling fluffy white strands absently, Alvaar stretched out a bit, crossing one boot over the other and settling back against the broken bed frame. Leaning his cheek against Alphinaud’s head, he gave a faint squeeze of the arm around him. “Come on, quit fussing and get some sleep.”

“That’s not you answering my question Alvaar,” he complained.

“I have my sources. Now hush, we should get some sleep while we can.”

The Arcanist blew out an irritated breath but didn’t argue it further. Though he did make a reasonable effort by the way he shifted and the several bothered huffs he made as he got comfortable of letting Alvaar know he was beyond annoyed. It just made the Bard chuckle in amusement, again ruffling soft strands gently before closing his eyes and slipping into the easy light sleep that was waiting to claim him faster than usual.

It made him miss when the Arcanist finally eased into his side, shifting a bit closer into the Bard’s warmth before falling into a quiet sleep himself.

[maychorian]

ive wanted to write a dnd campaign for a while, and i figure now might be a good time to get started, do you have any tips in general for people completely new to dnd?

Congratulations! I hope you have a great time! 

For starting out as a brand-new player who has never tried DnD before...honestly, I would hate to GM for my very first game. That’s really throwing yourself into the deep end. It would be much better if you could join someone else’s game so you can get a feel for how it works and the kind of play styles you like and don’t like. I learned DnD from my best friends in college, people I trusted and enjoyed being with, anyway, which made my first experiences with RPG really great. If you don’t have that, it can be a lot more difficult. But hey, maybe that’s not an option for you. I get it.

As for writing a campaign, I don’t really have many tips. I’ve DM’d a couple of times with campaigns that I “wrote,” one a short adventure that was meant to last about four sessions (and it did) and one long-term campaign that I played for months with my players. The shorter campaign was pretty easy to keep on track because I had very clear ideas about what was going to happen in each session, and my players were very cooperative and followed my narrative hooks without a fuss, so we got through it very well.

For a longer campaign, though, you’re really not so much “writing” a campaign as just...having a few ideas. You never know where your players are going to go, especially if you give them a big new world to explore. You can do like Matt Mercer does and prepare things for every single corner of the map just in case they go there, but that’s a lot of work, so I usually would just have a few encounters planned for places they could go, and if they went there, great, and if not, I would make something up. You really have to be creative and quick on your feet, and I enjoyed it a lot. There are lots of tips and tricks out there for DMs if you go searching on the internet, though, especially since DnD has gotten more popular in the last few years.

I think it is important to be aware that there are two basic styles of campaigns, though: railroad and sandbox. If you’re doing a railroad campaign, you have a lot of things planned out ahead of time and you want your players to follow on the path points and adventure hooks you give them so you can get through it without a lot of deviations. Some (bad) GMs will force their players back on the railroad if they try to get off, but that’s not very fun and can lead to strife in the group.

Sandbox campaigns are much more exploratory. You give the group a whole bunch of narrative hooks (there’s talk of a monster bothering that farmer over there, people are saying there’s a dungeon full of treasure in that wilderness over in the opposite direction, oh, and the princess has been kidnapped), and just let them choose where to go and build the story organically from their decisions. That can be more fun for the players, but more stressful for you, and also can start to feel directionless if you aren’t good at weaving it into a coherent tale.

Really, balance is key. You would want to have plot points that the group will eventually follow and enjoy experiencing, but you also want to let them deviate and go on side quests when they feel like it. And that balance really just comes with experience. Don’t be hard on yourself and expect perfection in your very first session. That’s not gonna happen.

Something you might want to consider, instead of writing your own campaign, is buying an adventure path. These are pre-written adventures with encounters, plot, and NPCs all laid out for you. You will probably still need to do some improv and making stuff up if your players surprise you, but they can give you a great foundation. The Adventure Zone started out with a pre-written adventure like this, the one that came with the DnD starter box, though Griffin very quickly went off the path and did his own thing with it. Still, it’s a good way to grasp the bones of DnD.

I’m not as familiar with 5e adventure paths, but I’ve played a number of them in Pathfinder, and I can confirm that they are very good and fun, for the most part. My Wednesday night group is currently doing a path called Ironfang Invasion. I’ve also heard that Kingmaker is a very good one for exploring and making your own country. There were a few years where I couldn’t meet with my regular RPG group because I was working 2nd and 3rd shift jobs, and when I got back to meeting with them, they had played that quest in the meantime and made their own country, and I ended up joining them for a sequel campaign that our DM wrote himself, using some stuff they had skipped from the path and adding his own embellishments and plot points.

Whatever you choose to do, I hope you have a lot of fun.

[mebertolini]

Field Notes from 25 years of Teaching Writing

Think like a reader, writer, and teacher.

Fifty years ago this September, I stepped into a high school English class and attempted to teach writing. I am going to tell you a secret that I wish someone had told me 50 years ago when I was so afraid of making a mistake that I carried a pocket dictionary every time I walked into a classroom.  Here is the secret:  You already know more than you think you know.  So, take a deep breath, and concentrate on three main things:  You as a reader, you as a writer, and you as a teacher.

Be a reader.  

Start with yourself. Think about what you value in writing, any writing. Before you are a professional, you are a reader.  Write for about three minutes about what is important to you as a reader. If you are with others, discuss with a few people, and then share with a larger group.  You have just defined some writing goals for your students. You will need to have general writing goals and then particular writing goals for the class you are teaching and for the assignment you are giving. Goals for a first-year class can be more general than goals for a second or third year class, which is going to reflect readings and protocols in your discipline.  Your goals for your first assignment and your second or third papers, also, should be different because you want to increase the difficulty or complexity of your assignments.

None of these goals matter unless you communicate them.  Your students are not on the psychic hotline with you. It is unlikely they will magically sense what you consider important unless you communicate with them. When you convey this information—whether through speaking or writing—and the best approach is through speaking and writing, you are modeling good communication skills.  Writing is communication between one mind and another. Writing is the conduit, which makes the ideas of one mind transparent to another mind.  Whether what is in one of those minds is worth communicating or not is something, we will have to consider.

Be a reader is important when you are setting your goals, and it is important when you read your students’ papers as a reader. When I do not understand what a student has written. I write, “I don’t understand.” “I’ve lost the thread of the argument.” Or, “Do you have evidence to back up this point?” or “What is the point?” I always respond to papers as a reader. I also respond as a writer—“You might try so and so,” and as a teacher “Remember, we discussed xyz in class.” Nevertheless, responding as a reader comes first. Transparency and clarity in writing are two of my biggest goals.  My college acting teacher used to say, “If you are going to make a mistake, make it big enough for me to see it.”  How can I begin to help a student if I do know what the student understands?

Be a writer.  

You know you need to communicate your writing expectations, yes, but you also need to be aware of yourself as a writer—to think about your own process.  In order to teach writing, you need to think about how youwrite.  How you revise. How you move from an idea to publication. How might that process vary from project to project?  Think about your own writing process, and if you are with others, share your thoughts with them. What did you learn about yourself or the process of others?  When you think about your process, you are really thinking about how you manageyourself as a writer.  

How do you help your students have a process? You can talk to your students about your own process—how you manage yourself as a writer. How you break down your process. You can be honest, and admit that writing is messy and hard. Thank about what resources you have. Consider what resources your students have. Do you direct them to the Writing Center to the Library, to other support services?

Teaching your students to manage themselves, as writers, is one of the most important things you can do in helping them become better writers. Not always, but frequently, the paper your students hand you is a first draft—or not even that—what I call a discovery or exploratory draft. They are thinking, “What do I know about this subject?” Rather than thinking, “How do I communicate what I know to another person?” Consider how much time you give your students to write. Is it enough?   Do you budget a week for every 5-7 pages you assign? When I teach a writing course, my students write three drafts of every paper. Along the way, they receive feedback from their peers, peer writing tutors, and from me—a process that spans several weeks. This has worked beautifully, but it may not be realistic for you in your course.  So, I invented the 30-minute writing process, which I will unveil shortly.  

Be a teacher.  

Do you remember the old question, “What are the three most important things in real estate?” The answer, of course, is “Location. Location. Location.” Your location is your classroom, or your office or your desk. Whatever you do, face to face conveys importance. So, use the classroom, or your office to convey your expectations, to share writing management, to discuss the assignment. To say what it is your students need toknow to complete the assignment. Here is the 30-minute writing process: When I give out paper topics, I spend 15 minutes in class discussing the assignment.  I might have three or four possible prompts. I discuss each one, discuss how a student might approach each one, and discuss what the student needs to know to complete each one. Then I ask students to eliminate one right then, to draw a big X through that topic. I ask them to spend another 15 minutes of their own time that day or the next day looking at and thinking about the assignment, and choosing one.  Even if they never look at that assignment again until the night before the paper is due, it has been sloshing around in their brains for a bit, and they will write a better paper.

You have all heard by now of “Flipping the classroom.” It’s hot. It’s the new thing.  Teachers of writing smile “about the “flipped classroom” because we’ve always flipped the classroom.  We have always workshopped student work. We do not ask students just to comment on how they like a student paper, and we do not ask peers to fix semicolons. Instead, we workshop student work in a very directed way.  To write well, students need to read well and perceptively. This can happen in directed workshops, where students learn first to be readers and editors of each other’s work. I’m always frank with students about the benefits of the workshop—that they will, at first, learn more as a reader/editor of someone else’s work, then as a writer, but soon, they will learn to be perceptive readers of their own work. Maybe you do not have time for that. Maybe your class is too big. You can bring in examples of opening paragraphs from a previous class and discuss.  Or before your students hand in their own work, you can ask them to read their own papers silently in class—and make changes.

As a teacher, you should be asking yourself, why you are assigning a paper. What is the point? Is it to know if your students understand the content?  Is it to see if they can use concepts you have taught them on new content? Is it to apply theories to new situations? To recognize and understand the research knowledge in the field?   Is it to use key terms or theories in your disciple? If you cannot answer these questions, or if you are not conveying this—how can your students write well?  As a teacher, you have to answer these questions:  

What do your students have to know or understand before they write?

How well do your students understand your content?

How well have you taught them about this subject matter before they write?

Two experiences molded me as a teacher before I taught writing to college students. First, before Middlebury, I taught in suburban, rural, urban, and inner city high schools, and I attended a private high school—all, vastly different experiences.  When I taught English in a NYC high school, I taught 150-200 students a semester. When I began teaching at Middlebury, I knew my students had had vastly different educational experiences before they arrived at Middlebury. I have tried hard not to make assumptions about what they know or do not know, and I have sought to normalize what they knew or did not know. I often introduced a skill with the words, “As you may have already learned or not.”  

Second, for five years, I was “just” as a stay at home mom. Those five years taught me more about teaching than I learned from any book, or that I learned in the other 45 years of my teaching life. My two same gender children, from the same gene pool, learned completely differently. One remembered most what she saw.  The other remembered most what she heard.  One wanted to learn with me sitting next to her. The other wanted to try things on her own. Because students learn differently, I have tried to teach a variety of ways.  I create opportunities for students to listen, to read, to write, to speak, to act.  I encourage students to share things with others, and to try tasks own their own. I share important instructions in class, on paper, and online on a course website.  Always, I direct students to resources.  What you might change in the way you teach writing? Take a few minutes to write or think about this. For now, keep this information just for you.

Finally, what have I learned most in 25 or 50 years of teaching writing?  

Humility, Patience, and Faith

Humility: You cannot teach everything there is to teach about writing from one paper. You cannot even do it in one course.  You are one stop—one important stop— on a writer’s journey.  Many people set your student on this path, some well, some not so well, but you are not the only one.

Patience: not only with your students but, also, with yourself. Take the time to know what you expect, and spell that out.  Respect where your students are in their writing journeys.  Give your students good directions. Take the time to prepare your students. Give your students enough time to write well and to revise– week for every 5-7 pages, and throw a weekend in there.  Give your students support, and direct them to the Writing Center, Learning Resources, and the Library for more support.

Have Faith: pass your students on to the next stop in their writing journeys, and have faith that the next person on that journey will care as much about your students’ writing lives as you do.  

Mary Ellen Bertolini

[thewildwaffle]

Abduction - Chapter 13

Between this and Inktober, I must say that this will be a busy month for me! I’ve got so many ideas and so little time to do them all! Thanks to everyone who has been reading along - especially those who keep encouraging me to keep writing and posting! You’re the best and I really appreciate the boost you give me!

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To be perfectly honest, he felt a bit out of sorts and had no real clue as to what to do next. It didn’t happen often, but it was not a feeling he enjoyed. Not in the slightest.

What a day!

What a day indeed. He thought he was a goner when the Montauk - Simmo, it had said its name was - was about to deliver a deadly blow after knocking him down. He’d be dead now if it wasn’t for… well, if it wasn’t for both of the humans. Mike had tackled Simmo before she could strike. Jebannuck still couldn’t fully wrap his mind around how that had even been possible. Mike had been down, struggling with his own serious injuries one minute, then flying to the rescue the next. Wenona as well - both were seriously wounded. If they’d been anything but human, one might say they’d been mortally wounded.

And yet, they fought through it all. Nothing, no contusion, no cut, no amount of blood loss seemed to stop them. They’d been downed, seemingly beaten, and yet they still fought on with a fervor that Jebbanuck had heard of only in stories.

They were terrifying.

Granted, he had already seen what they could do before, or at least, he’d seen the aftermath of their wrath. The Montauk ship had been full of evidence of what happens when humans are scared and fighting for their lives. It was an image that had remained in the back of his mind since. Sure, it had faded a bit over time aboard the Gladius as he got to know Human Mike and Human Wenona, but after today? Well, those images had returned to the forefront of his memory and were enhanced now with firsthand experience.

The light of a campfire flickered across the clearing. The Montauk, Simmo was asleep on the ground to his left, spread out on it’s back as much as it could with all its bandages and restraints. It was barely breathing, it hadn’t fully woken up since the fight, though it did slightly stir a bit just before the humans shut themselves up in the pod for the night. They both refused to sleep anywhere near the Montauk. It was nothing short of a miracle that they hadn’t killed it yet. They nearly had. It had taken nearly everything he had earlier to call them off, or rather, pull them off.

Simmo stirred again. She had been on the verge of waking off and on for some time. Even though she was securely tied down, Jebannuck still felt himself go tense. There was a part of him that almost questioned if he shouldn’t have stopped the humans. He felt bad about that part.

A little.

He had no love for the montauk, sure. He knew their kind well, had fought their kind often. Had lost… had lost to their kind. Justice had been served, yes. But justice didn’t completely repair damages done.

He had made the right choice though. He wasn’t sure if the humans would have actually killed the montauk, but it was still his duty to make sure they didn’t.

“Ehhhhrrrrrr…” the montauk turned her head, her eyes flickering slightly. “Ohhh… my head. What did…” She shook her head and scrunched her eyes tightly before opening them. She started to lift an arm to reach her face but was stopped by the restraints. “What the…” her eyes widened and darted around, trying to adjust to the firelight, resting on Jebannuck. Alarm turned to recognition, which turned to a mixture of panic and anger. Snarling, she tried jumping to her feet but managed to only squirm violently.

“Oh calm down, will you? There are people trying to sleep.” Jebannuck’s own tone surprised him. Teasing? He must have spent too much time around Mike, that must be it, yes. He tried again in his more typical, serious tone. “Calm down, you’re not going anywhere, but no one’s going to hurt you now.”

“Is that so, sefra? Because to me, it seems a little late for that,” she all but snarled at him, but Jebannuck noticed her eyes flicker around the camp, searching. “Where are your little attack pets? I’m not sure they’d share your little sentiment of leaving me in one piece…”

“The humans,” Jeabannuck cut her off, “are no pets. They are members of the galactic confederation and my crewmates.” His sudden vehemence regarding his human charges surprised him. Crewmates? Since when? Oh, what did it matter right now?! “All things considered, you’re lucky to still be alive. I’ve seen them take down an entire ship of your kind. They can be terrifying when they’re hurt or afraid.”

Simmo continued to stare Jebannuck down, her eyes darkened and became harder for him to read. “My kind. Ha. I have no kind. My kind, my people, have been gone 741, no wait, how long have I been out? 742 local days.” Simmo’s stare was becoming more and more intense, but Jebannuck refused to be the first to break eye contact. She leaned forward as much as she could against her restraints. “You and your little monsters are certainly not the first to try off me. And to be honest, since I’m not dead, I’d appreciate it if you’d release me. I’ve got things to do. People to kill, and none of you are currently at the top of my list.”

Jebannuck’s raised a brow ridge. “Release you? Oh right away, because you certainly know how to instill a sense of trust, don’t you?”

She sneered at him, baring her small but sharp teeth hidden behind her mandibles, but said nothing more. The fire crackled. A log fell over and shot a cascade of sparks dancing into the air. Jebannuck watched them rise, his eyes catching on the stars beyond.

How was the Gladius fairing? His crew? He was supposed to be there with them. Fight with them. Protect them. And yet here he was stuck on a planet that was barely hospitable, with a prisoner who was not at all hospitable, and two humans who seemed to attract and be attracted to danger in everything they did. All of them injured, none of them on friendly speaking terms with each other at the moment. He shouldn’t be here. This whole situation was ridiculous. His place was on the Gladius! And yet, if he hadn’t been here…

“See what you’re looking for up there, sefra? See your ship? or at least, pieces of it up there, do you?”

Jebannuck glowered at her but said nothing. Instead, he dropped another log onto the fire.

What a day.

***

Thurrin had never seen the medical bay like this before. I mean, sure, it’d been busy at times. After exploratory assignments or during mass check-ups. It’d been really full when the humans had first been brought aboard. But now, it was a different kind of busy. A scary kind of busy.

Gerben and Demfar had their hands full. Or tentacles full in Demfar’s case. They raced to and from patient, wrapping bandages, administering photon treatments, tying slings, etc. Gerben walked with a slight limp. He’d taken quite a hit to his leg while being thrown across the room during the fights. His skin was very dark where it could be seen through gaps in his feathers.

A few in the crew who were fairly well off helped where and when they could. Thurrin was on duty now, relieving another crew member who looked like they’d been there a cycle or two too long. Everyone looked like that though. Rest seemed to be a rare commodity when you were busy running from a battle you just got your tail kicked in.

It’s not supposed to be like this. She’d been thinking that over and over. This was all just so… wrong.

They were explorers, not fighters. Sure, the Gladius was equipped with shields, blasters, etc. but those were supposed to be used for safely maneuvering asteroid fields, or pushing through nebula storms, or at most, self-defense. Not all out battle. Especially not all-out battle against an enemy they weren’t expecting, who were also armed with calciar cannons!

“Ow! Thurrin, not so tight!”

“Oops, sorry Karbrir,” she muttered sheepishly. She started unwinding the bandage she’d been wrapping around Karbrir’s massive shaggy arm and began re-wrapping it, looser this time.

Yeah, they hadn’t been expecting to be suddenly thrown into a fight like that. They’d nearly been torn to pieces. They’d been told to retreat. And yet, as bad as all those things were, they weren’t the worst of it.

Captain Salora had ordered that the humans be sent to the surface of Gamnut 4. It was the nearest planet that could sustain life, though, in all technicality, it was a planet that had been labeled as “off-limits.” Mostly due to the fact that it was right in the middle of what was the Burnti Blockade, but also partly due to the fact that it was considered by most species to be a “death world.” It was category 3, so honestly it wasn’t that bad, but still, not a place you’d want to vacation, for sure.

Thurrin missed Mike and Wenona. She wasn’t the only one either. She realized now what an impact they’d made on the morale of the crew. She wished the captain hadn’t sent them off. Yeah, it made sense. This wasn’t their battle. Technically speaking, they weren’t part of the crew, they were civilians. Practically speaking, however, their absence left a hole.

Not the only hole though.

Thurrin felt the temperature of her fur drop and darken to a dull red. Sometime during the battle, after he’d gotten the humans off the ship, Jebannuck went missing. Then they discovered just how much damage the hall he’d been in had taken. He was gone.

There’d was no way they’d be able to find the body now, returning to the blockade space now would be less than wise. The thought should have made her furious, her friend’s body floating amidst the debris, alone, broken. She felt a little guilty for not being angry about it. Instead, she just felt numb and sick.

She finished Karbrir’s bandage. He grunted thanks and shuffled out and into the hall. She glanced over the rest of the medical bay. She wasn’t sure what to do next. She’d applied salve to and wrapped three arms, four legs, and a few small cuts. Everything serious was left to the actual medics, but it looked like most of the “easy” medical treatments she could do were done. She leaped down from the high stool she’d been working on and found Demfar stitching up a head wound two bays down.

“Demfar, is there anything else I can help with?” Oh, she wished her voice didn’t sound so tired. Or sad. Or both.

Demfar hardly looked up from his work, his tentacles didn’t miss a beat as he pulled and tied the edges of the worst part of the wound closed. “You’re fine, Thurrin. I think our other volunteers already left. Gerben and I need to be the ones to handle what’s left.” He finished the stitches and applied a light orange gel over the entire area surrounding the injury. “Thank you for being willing to help so we could focus on those in critical condition.”

Thurrin put up her best smile she could muster, it immediately felt like it was slipping off her face like a wet pexa fish, “Glad to help.” She turned and walked on all fours to the exit. She knew she was hungry, but she felt like the cafeteria was the last place she wanted to be right now. That was where she’d met… and that was where she’d talk to and laugh at… and they weren’t there. Her nose stung as her eyes watered.

Sleep, she thought. Sleep sounds good. I’m tired of being awake right now.

[skybound2]

Fanfiction ask: 3, 4, 13, 17, and 21!

Sorry for the delay in answering this one, RL is very annoying at present! (So this was a nice distraction tonight :-D)

3. favorite fic tropes to write?

Answered here :-)

4. favorite fic tropes to read?

Not sure if it’s a proper trope exactly, but my favorite thing is reading outsider POV of my ships. I ADORE just catching snippets of my ships going about their lives and seeing how others perceive them. 

Beyond that, I really dig on some of the tropey-est of tropes like “Fake Dating/Marriage Until Oops! It’s Real!” and “There’s Only One Bed/Bed Sharing” and “Enemies to Friends to Lovers” and for no good reason that I can tell, I also enjoy a good Harry Potter Universe Crossover/Transplant. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

13. favorite snack/drink while writing fic?

Hot tea (anything from Earl Grey, to Moroccan Mint, or more herbal flavors, like Hibiscus Lemongrass - I just really like tea, okay?). Snackwise, it’s either dark chocolate pieces, or carrots.�� 

17. a fic you have always wanted to write?

YEARS ago (probably right after DAO was released, I’d wager?) I started to plot out a Mass Effect/Dragon Age crossover fic that was going to involve an Alliance vessel crash-landing on Thedas, and a pre-Reapers Shepard was going to have to go undercover ala the Star Trek: TNG episode “Who Watches the Watchers” and things were going to spiral out of control fast from there, with her becoming the Hero of Ferelden. My thought had been that mission was going to be how Shepard gained her renown in the Alliance, as opposed to being a War Hero, or the Butcher of Torfan, or the Sole Survivor, and is why she was put forth as a candidate for the First Human Spectre. 

I know that I wanted to explore the effects of the Blight on Shepard off-planet, and her struggles with merging the year she’d spent on Thedas with the rest of her life, and how she’d approach the Reapers as a result, and the impact that her presence might have had on Thedas as a whole. It was...broad and weighty and had the potential to be VERY long and convoluted, and it never got off the ground beyond a hefty outline and a dozen or so pages of an exploratory opening. 

I no longer have any intention of writing it, but I do think about it on occasion. Especially in light of everything that we’ve learned a bout the history of Thedas in DA2 and DAI. (You can probably imagine how excited I was to see both the planet of Thedas referenced in ME3, and the Krogan referenced in DAI :-D) And while I don’t have any plans to write it at present, I am still interested in the concept. 

21. if you could only keep one of your fics in the public domain forever, which would you choose?

Huh. That’s a hard question! If we are going based on popularity alone, it should CLEARLY be “Beating Like a Hammer” as that is far and away the most popular fic that I’ve ever published. And I AM pretty proud of it, as I think it is a pretty soundly written fic. But, I think I might actually go with a much less-read fic of mine called “Into the Shining Sun.”

The premise of which is simple, in that I wanted to explore the origins of The Illusive Man from Mass Effect, specifically, how he ended up with cybernetic eyes. It’s a short piece, and nothing overly special, but it resulted in one of the most touching reviews I’ve ever received on a fic; one that even years later I go back to read because it meant so much to me. (In summary, the review was from the friend of someone whose eyesight had been damaged in a manner similar to what I described happening to TIM in the fic, and the reviewer had read the fic out loud to their friend, and that person had been moved to tears by the story as it had hit home for them in a relatable (but good) way.) 

And that just...it wasn’t the first time I’d ever been told that a story I’d written mattered to someone. It wasn’t the first time I’d ever heard from someone who’d been thankful that I’d put words to paper and shared them because they struck a chord for them or were cathartic in some way. But I think it may have been the first time I really FELT like something I wrote mattered, if that makes any sense? And it impacted me in ways I hadn’t been prepared for, and for that I will always be grateful. And for that reason, I think if I had to pick only one fic, I’d want that fic to stay public forever and always.