#Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal

[quotelr]

Inner peace is more a question of cultivating perspective, meaning, and wisdom even as life touches you with its pain.

Rachel Naomi Remen, Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal

[dk-thrive]

Perhaps the most important thing we bring to another person is the silence in us. Not the sort of silence that is filled with unspoken criticism or hard withdrawal. The sort of silence that is a place of refuge, of rest, of acceptance of someone as they are.

— Rachel Naomi Remen, Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal (Riverhead Books, 1996)

[lady-wallace]

Cigarettes and Old Letters (Chainsaw Man)

For @febuwhump​ Day 5 "That's gonna scar" and Day 28 "Survivor's Guilt 

Just a little Aki angst for today's Febuwhump prompt. This story contains spoilers up to the point where the Chainsaw Man anime left off, so be aware of that if you aren't caught up.

~~~~~~~

In the aftermath of tragedy, Aki receives words of wisdom from an unlikely source.

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Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Aki stared at the bag of letters for a long time. He had almost left them at the hospital when they had discharged him but, for some reason, the thought of abandoning them was worse than the thought of having them. Even if he could never bring himself to read all of them, having something close in Himeno's messy handwriting was somehow a small comfort.

At least he actually had something of hers. Unlike his family. There had been nothing left to salvage there.

Aki inhaled deeply, the healing wound in his chest aching from the action. He walked over to his bed decisively, shoving the letters underneath of it. He might never pull them out again, but they were there, all the same.

He glanced to his side table where he had left a half-empty pack of cigarettes. There was only a second's hesitation before he grabbed it, heading out to the balcony.

His thumb fumbled on the lighter, taking too long to ignite. It always seemed like Himeno could get it to go in one careless flick, with that same blasé attitude she showed toward most things.

The spark finally burst into a small flame and he leaned over to light the cigarette tucked between his lips. Then leaned further, resting his elbows on the railing wearily.

He was…tired couldn't even describe it. The type of exhaustion he felt couldn't be fixed by sleep. It was a bone weariness that came from an individual going through too much. Aki wondered if there was a limit to how much a person was allowed to survive before they simply collapsed under the burden. The universe angry at their continued persistence. Maybe that was why it kept trying to beat him down. After all, he'd survived longer than the majority of his peers, and he had also survived the Gun Devil when the rest of his family had been obliterated.

Maybe it was because his life was already dwindling away and the powers-that-be had decided it wasn't worth taking him out when he would be dead in two years anyway.

The feeling of simply wanting to sink to the ground and stay there until his time ran out was strong, pulling at him. But he couldn't allow himself that surrender yet. He had a duty, and Himeno…. Well, if she knew what he was thinking, she would have kicked him in the ass and told him he was an idiot.

He pulled the cigarette from his lips and watched the end smolder. He tried to straighten up a little, but his injury caught and he let out a breathless gasp, pressing his hand to his chest as he curled back over the railing.

"That's probably gonna scar."

Aki wasn't proud that he jumped slightly at the sudden voice. He'd almost forgotten Denji and Power were even home, they had been so quiet.

"Does it hurt?" Denji asked, stepping up to the railing.

Aki grunted. "Yeah," he muttered, because obviously it hurt. The appearance of Denji, however, provided him with enough strength to straighten up, taking another pull on the cigarette before he asked, "You need something?"

Denji leaned against the railing, arms folded on top. "There isn't any food in the kitchen."

Aki felt an irrational anger welling up inside of him. Of course that's what the bastard was worried about.

"The convenience store down the street is still open," he gritted out, stubbing out the first cigarette and reaching for another.

Denji pushed himself up slightly, taking a step back, hands still on the railing as he asked, "You want anything?"

Aki shook his head and started to light the second cigarette. The damn thing just wouldn't work. He flicked the lighter hard with his thumb, the growing anger making it more difficult.

That was when Denji sighed and leaned back against the railing. "I may not feel things the same way you do but…I'm sorry."

Aki paused briefly, surprised. But still, that feeling of rage continued to well up inside of him. "How's that supposed to help?" he grunted around the cigarette.

Denji shrugged. "Just thought that's what people were supposed to say. You know, when people die. I know they were your friends."

A spark, but the flame couldn't sustain itself and flickered out.

"She liked you, you know. Himeno."

Aki yanked the cigarette from between his lips and simply threw the lighter off into the night, not caring where it might land. He caught himself on his arms; the railing the only thing keeping him from completely crashing to the ground.

It was a long moment before he spoke again, and Denji still hadn't left. "She always…she always thought she got people killed. Acted like it was some kind of curse. But in the end, it's me who's cursed. It's always me."

He felt Denji's eyes on him and both of them were silent for a long time. "You liked her too," the younger man finally said.

"Shut up," Aki said in a strangled voice, blinking back the wetness that was threatening in the corners of his eyes. He knew she had liked him. Had read it clear as day in the handful of letters he had been able to stomach. The ones he had been able to read before her familiar handwriting had started to swim too much for him to see anymore.

And maybe he had liked her too, but he had guarded himself for too long, been too precious with his feelings, knowing how much loss hurt. And who had been the one to mellow out the surly delinquent who had turned to devil hunting for revenge? Who had always been the one to balance him? Did Himeno know he cared for her, or did she sacrifice herself in some act of unrequited love? How could she have known, when Aki hadn't even known himself? When he had, for some reason, only had eyes for Makima, even though he had known nothing would ever come of that. He should have been looking closer. And now it was too late for regrets.

His whole life was regrets. Only able to see how much he cared for those around him after they were gone. Maybe that was the true nuance of his curse. Take happiness away from Aki Hiyakawa, but only after he knows what he's missing.

He didn't know why, but he turned to Denji in that moment, trying to harden his features again. "You know, if you and Power were smart, you'd just quit."

Denji stared at him incredulously. "I didn't think we could."

Aki snarled at him. "If you do, I won't tell."

"What the hell has gotten into you?" Denji asked, scratching his head. "I mean, I know a lot of people died, but you're still alive, right? Isn't that something to be grateful for?"

That, again, stopped Aki. Was it? Was it really? How could he really be grateful for being left alive after everyone he had worked with, everyone he had risked his life to protect in battle, was dead. Didn't that make him a coward?

"You haven't been in this life long, so maybe you don't get it," Aki said, but even then, he wasn't entirely sure what he was accusing Denji of not understanding.

The younger man pursed his lips. "Yeah, I don't know, man, maybe it's you who doesn't get it. I mean—up until a couple months ago, I didn't even know if I would be able to eat every day. But even then, I was still grateful I was alive. It's like, I don't know, the universe or whatever still thought I was worth existing. You don't think that at least is something to be grateful for?"

Aki just stared at him. How the hell could this idiot sometimes say things that actually made a bit of sense?

He straightened up, able to hold his shoulders a little higher. "Maybe you're right. But if you stick around, don't be mad if I end up getting you killed."

"Thought we were supposed to be a team," Denji pointed out. "Look, you and Power—before, I never really had anyone I could count on aside from Pochita. As long as I'm not the only one who has to look out for me, then I'm good, you know?"

The last vestiges of anger dissipated, and Aki's shoulders slumped. He exhaled slowly and reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He handed some money to Denji.

"Go buy some food," he said.

The blond grinned happily and shoved the money into his pocket. "Sure thing."

He headed inside the apartment when Aki called him back.

"Denji."

"Huh? You want me to get you something?"

Aki glanced over his shoulder. "No. Just…thanks."

Denji furrowed his brow as if he wasn't entirely sure what he was being thanked for, then simply shrugged. "I'll buy you a new lighter."

Then he was gone, calling for Power to go to the store with him, and Aki was actually left alone this time.

He wasn't sure he could say he felt better but somehow Denji's words had helped him put things into perspective. Maybe he still had a duty to fulfill. And maybe that was okay.

Tomorrow, he would be making a new contract, and whatever came of that, he decided that he would put his best foot forward like Himeno would have wanted him to do.

He stared down at the cigarette he was still holding and silently tucked it back into the box for the moment.

Living one day at a time was the only thing you could do when you weren't sure whether you would make it to see the next sunrise. Maybe Denji was right and that life itself was something to be grateful for.

Aki turned around and headed back into the apartment. He decided that he would try keeping that in mind more often.

[myshadowsandmybones]

TO KNOW YOU’RE NOT ALONE

PROLOGUE

Moans, weeps and cries could be heard for miles around. Supplicants, friends and soldiers were crying for the short life of a martyred Saint while fire and sickly-sweet smoke carried their prayers to the Heavens. “Sankta Alina. Sankta Alina! Sankta…”

In the middle of everyone, the girl breathed a lone whisper. A name. A boy’s name, given up. Almost forgotten.

“Aleksander.”

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

There is a newly built playground in Keramzin.

One in the shape of a mansion. There are sitting rooms and drawing rooms where the floors are scattered with pillows and throws for the nights when stories are spun by the light of the fireplace. Settees and armchairs pushed to the side, nothing that could break in sight.

There are kitchens where during cold falls and winters, hearty stews are bubbling in pots and during springs and summers, the ovens are blooming fruity pastries and juicy pies. In those kitchens there are also shadowed corners where little hands find hidden bowls full of sweets and chocolate. The little ones think a Sugar Fairy keeps leaving gifts for them.

There are bedrooms with little beds and walls adorned with paintings of forests and meadows, stags made of light and birds with plumes of fire. Sculpted horses and soldiers made of wood, colorful fabric dolls and sets of marbles are neatly arranged on each bed, by the pillows of their owners.

There is a Room of Tales at the heart of the playground. The walls of the room are covered with rows upon rows of fairytales, legends and adventures in written form. Fantastical chronicles of heroic acts, tragic stories and love conquests, that enchant ever soul, young or old. Between them sit pieces of science, big or small, history, languages, treaties on ethics, art, geography, wisdom on the body and mind, all bound with thread. All these magical tales and bits of science become portals for those who only know the playground of Keramzin and not the world. There are also tables and chairs, of all sizes, covered in notebooks, paper, pencils and charcoal that wait to be used to etch numbers, letters and answers to questions. Then, in a corner, in front of the large windows that let powder gold cast itself over the room, there is a smaller table, of russet wood just like the others. Next to it a rocking chair, cushioned with pillows. It is known the Sun is its only claimant.

There are no adornments on the hallways. For this is a playground and in such a place there is no space for anything that can fall and shatter. A playground is for children to enjoy and to delight in. Such was the newly built orphanage in Keramzin. Younger children running around the house chasing each other, filling the air with laughter and the foyer with shoes. Older children joining them perhaps, had they finished their chores for the day and the readings for their lessons. The minders and the cooks scolding them whenever they would play Hide and Seek and use the kitchen cupboards or the wardrobe for winter clothes. And when a ball game or a round of Charades would get too rambunctious, the field in front of the house would become an adequate setting for running. But not too close to the clothesline, as dust on fresh sheets would be most unpleasant.

The constant laughter and joy of the children is what makes a playground out of the Keramzin Orphanage. That was the intention of the matron and of her husband when they opened it again, as they themselves were raised in Keramzin, along with many others whom were too young to be dealt the life lived during a war. The orphanage is an oasis where lost, alone, young souls can stop and heal their wounds and find solace. And what can bring more healing than a gentle hand, a warm smile, a vigorous embrace and advice spoken from the heart?

But that is not what the people of Keramzin thought. All they knew was that a young couple settled there after the Fold was taken down, had the orphanage built and started gathering all the children orphaned by war or by choice. Everyone was welcomed. The two were a peculiar pair, too eccentric and rich for a small village so close to the southern border. The woman was almost a child herself, in her demeanor and behavior, playing and spoiling the children, turning a blind eye when apples and pastries disappeared from the kitchen and admonishing them with a kind and tender voice when they did wrong. And her hair white as bone was most curious for a lass her age. Her husband, tall and handsome, was chief of the group when the older orphans wanted to learn the trade of tracking in the little forest behind the orphanage. He patiently taught them and took care of each in part. Once returned, often with a child on his back, too exhausted to walk on their own, the man kissed his wife with no delay and whispered secrets in her ear. She smiled. No one knew what those secrets were. His smile was open and enticing however.

Few knew their names. Those who did forgot them fast.

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

Chapter 1 -  Our start of forever

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

Few things to consider:

-This is my first time writing. I cannot promise quality writing or totally original ideas, as I AM doing this for myself.

-I am new to the world of fanfiction so I might make all kinds of mistakes. Should you see something like that, please let me know. I am more than happy to educate myself and right my wrongs.

Thank you!

[cleverwordsandotherstuffilike]

"But judgment may heal over time. One of the blessings of growing older is the discovery that many of the things I once believed to be my shortcomings have turned out in the long run to be my strengths, and other things of which I was unduly proud have revealed themselves in the end to be among my shortcomings. Things that I have hidden from others for years turn out to be the anchor and enrichment of my middle age. What a blessing it is to outlive your self-judgments and harvest your failures.” Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal by Rachel Naomi Remen

[epicstuckyficrecs]

Weekly Recap | August 10-16th 2020

Complete

💙 With Only You by brucespringsteen (Time Travel | 47K | Explicit): Steve, semi-retired and still a bastard who doesn’t follow rules, touches a cube that sends him to 1938, eighty-six years in the past. He takes it well. Bucky, twenty-one and baby-faced, takes it even better.

Forgive, Yet Never Forget by Kalee60/ @kalee60​ (Post-Endgame | 8K | Explicit): Steve Rogers was a broken man. He'd failed to keep his friends alive, had lived through the snap, the blip, Thanos, whatever that torrid time of his life full of blood, fear and pain had been. Yet the one good thing to come out of the worst years of his life - he had Bucky back. And a head full of issues along with it.Issues that meant the only way Steve could get out of his overbearing mind is to fall into oblivion by paying one night stands, use people he never had to see again, people he couldn't let down.So what happens when Bucky accosts him after a mission and wants answers, wants only to help Steve? Can an old weary supersoldier, whose self worth is nonexistent, start to heal and find happiness, when he truly believes he doesn't deserve it?

Love Me, Hold Me, Squeeze Me by musette22/ @musette22​, paperstorm/ @paper-storm​ (Evanstan PRF, PWP | 4,5K | Explicit): Chris grabs his junk when he's anxious. Sebastian notices.

Closer by musette22/ @musette22​ (Evanstan RPF | 5K | Teen): The relief that floods Sebastian at seeing Chris alive and well is intense, lifting some of that debilitating weight that’s been pressing down on his chest all evening, but it’s short lived. Because Chris looks... Well, he looks unfairly gorgeous as always, with his beard and his soft, cerulean eyes, but he also looks nervous and just a little bit shifty.The feeling of unease grows when Chris shoots him a smile that’s tense around the edges and says, “Hey, Seb. Can we talk for a moment?”

💙 a question of worth by Deisderium/ @deisderium​ (Post-Endgame | 30K | Teen): In which Steve and Bucky return the Infinity Stones, and return to a world drastically changed from the one Bucky left five years ago, and Bucky has to struggle with the knowledge that his best friend held Mjölnir, and at least briefly had the power of a god. So where does that leave an ex-brainwashed assassin?

Adorably awkward by darter_blue/ @darter-blue​ (Shrunkyclunks | 32K | Explicit): The one where Bucky uses Steve’s car window as a mirror and Steve can appreciate the view…

Extra Sugar, 32. the future by luninosity/ @luninosity​ (Evanstan, Dom/Sub AU | 112K | Explicit): Sebastian's feeling anxious about a change. Chris will always want to help. (Part 6 of 💙Like Sugar (Spell It Out))

💙 Songbird by chicklette/ @chicklette�� (Singer Bucky, Fake relationship | 66K | Explicit): At 43, James Barnes is a washed up old man. He’s got a dozen Grammys in the hall closet, an agent that can’t get him a deal, a decade-old case of writer’s block, a moody teen-aged daughter, and the gorgeous actress Natasha Romanova for an ex-wife. Enter Steven Grant Rogers, struggling twenty-something, orphan, and someone who has no idea who Barnes is. The two men meet by accident, doing nothing more than passing the time in a quiet bar. But when a pap gets a shot of the two men embracing, Bucky takes it as a chance to finally come out as bisexual, and his agent makes him a proposition: Ten new songs and one very sweet boyfriend will get him a new record deal that will maybe, just maybe put him back on top. Now all he has to do is write the songs, convince the kid, and not fall in love. Should be easy, right?

💙 Heirloom by 2bestfriends/ @addyetc​ (Royalty AU, Arranged Marriage | 21K | Explicit): King Steven Grant Rogers of Aphekion is only 20 years old. He relies on the wisdom of his advisors, the strength and honesty of his people, and the love and kindness his mother left to him. He wants nothing more than to honor them all by bringing peace to his kingdom. So much has been sacrificed already. If he must sacrifice his hope for love, then so be it.

WIP

💙 Querencia by SinpaiCasanova (Royalty, ABO AU, Tudor Era | 4/6 | 14K | Explicit): “Oh no, Mother, not another courting ceremony,” Steve protests, a whine slipping into his voice that he��d be rather embarrassed about if anyone other than Sarah ever heard it. “I beg you, no more. I can’t go through that puffed up charade again, being paraded before a dozen worthy Omegas like I’m some prime cut of meat. She probably won’t even like me.” “Well, Steven,” she gently corrects, “she is a he, and the only one you’d be ‘paraded’ in front of.”

💙 Sergeant Barnes and Colonel Rogers: Lessons in Lust, Longing and Inappropriate Erections. by darter_blue/ @darter-blue​ (Shrunkyclunks | 3/4 | 17K | Explicit): Bucky Barnes is a decorated (though young) Sergeant in the United States Army, a Ranger with the 75th regiment, a sniper of unparalleled skill; he still expects his first day as an Avenger to be challenging. He is not at all prepared for the greatest challenge to be one hot as fuck, steely eyed, Colonel Rogers. More specifically, he is not expecting the greatest challenge to be keeping his dick under control whenever Colonel Rogers, with his broad shoulders and his authoritative command and his fucking thick, gorgeous beard, enters into Bucky’s immediate vicinity.

💙 (i will) leave a light on by crinklefries/ @spacerenegades​ (Post-Endgame, Canon Divergent | 4/7 | Explicit): Twice a day, every day, Steve lights the lantern at the top of the lighthouse.One day, every year, a door opens and Bucky steps through. This is the story of how Steve and Bucky reclaim all of the years they've lost and what Valhalla means to someone who's willing to wait for it.

💙 Tender is the Ghost by Hark_bananas/ @harkbananas​ (Post-WS | 8/12 | 97K | Explicit): This thought is uncontrollably followed by another one: I’m not alone anymore. He looks over his shoulder, through the kitchen door, to where Bucky is sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining table, and he feels an unconstrainable smile breaking out across his face, the barest hint of threatening tears along its bright edge. Bucky is still looking past Steve’s left ear, but slowly, gingerly, one side of his mouth quirks up. Steve feels giddy, he wants to shout, or faint, or something to relieve the carbonated pressure that is bubbling up inside of him. Instead, he laughs, short and cheerful, and opens the oven door. (Part 2 of Tender is the Ghost)

💙 sharpen your teeth (tell yourself that it’s just business) by voxofthevoid/ @voxofthevoid​ (Post-WS | 1/2 | 8K | Explicit): He stays because it’s safe, because Hydra cannot get to him here, because Rogers—still waiting for his dead friend to claw his way out of the Winter Soldier’s broken psyche—will go to the ends of the earth to find him if they do. So he watches Rogers watch him, and Barnes doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he knows he has found it the first time he sees Rogers’s eyes drop down to his lips and dart guiltily away. Barnes pretends he doesn’t notice and unlike Rogers, he can act. The Red Room made him well, and Hydra could ruin only so much. He changes his act, a few weeks in. He starts looking back.

💙 Revenance by JJK/ @trenchcoatsandtimetravel​, SinpaiCasanova (The Old Guard AU/The Song of Achilles AU | 4/? | 11K | Mature): And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Or, the one where Steve and Bucky are immortal and used to be known as Achilles and Patroclus.

Re-read

Leg Day by Brokenpitchpipe (Shrunkyclunks | 12K | Explicit): Or: The one where Sam is Bucky's long-suffering roommate, Bucky is a hot mess of a millennial, and Hot Steve spends far too much time on the Lat Pull-Down machine.

the sound of rain on tin by luninosity/ @luninosity​ (Stucky & Evanstan Crossover | 3/4 | Teen): Okay, Bucky thought. He could deal with sudden universe-hopping. He’d seen weirder things. Hell, he himself probably counted as a weirder thing, brainwashed cryogenically frozen former legendary assassin and all.Chris, who looked like Steve, but who wasn't Steve, stared at him some more.

[halictus-writer]

Welcome to Seattle (Ch. 2 of 5)

The next week went by smoothly. Remus had gotten into a familiar routine with his new job, and became more friendly with his colleagues who also wrote for the newspaper. He had always had a tough exoskeleton, but it didn’t take too long to become comfortable enough to let some of his walls down for a few select coworkers. In stark contrast to his friends from college, these coworkers did not press him for details about his dating-- or as James more bluntly put it, sex-- life. In any case, both were nonexistent.

*James changed the name of the chat to “Operation get Remus laid”*

James: Alright, here we go. Remus, are you ready to read some wisdom coming from yours truly?

*Remus removed James from the chat*

The truth was, Remus wasn’t opposed to getting back out there. The only drawback was that he didn’t know how to get back out there. His relationship with his ex had started organically, with little effort on Remus’s part. And being in a serious relationship for so long had saved him from having to learn how to flirt and casually date new people.

*Lily changed the name of the chat to “Help Remus get back out there, if he wants to”*

*Lily added James to the chat*

James: Alright Remus, you’ve had a chance to get all settled down in your new place, but now it is time to wake up and smell the coffee

Lily: What James means, Remus, is that we think you should maybe try to re-enter the dating scene. Only if you feel ready, of course.

Remus: is this an intervention?

Lily: no

James: yes

Dorcas: ooh are we voting? Marlene is driving so she can’t text but we both vote yes

James: Remus. My son. Fruit of my loins. You are a total catch. It is time for you to take your beautiful face out from behind those sad Jane Austen novels I know you’re rereading every night and get your freak on

Remus: I appreciate your investment in my sex life, I really do, but I think I’m doing fine.

Remus: also you’re not my dad. I’m older than you by five months

James: Oh really? Let’s play a game where you say True or False to each statement I make.

Remus: Fine. But only until my lunch break ends

James: Here’s the first one: My name is Remus Lupin

Remus: ...true

James: My favorite food is chocolate.

Remus: true

James: The most recent time I had sex was within the last 2 months

*Remus removed James from the chat*

Remus spent the rest of his lunch break walking through Pike Place Market. He loved the lively atmosphere of the place, and mentally mapped out the places he would like to spend more time in, in the future. No longer constrained by a vacation schedule, he can see as many shops and stores in Seattle as he would like.

He also sent pictures of the most interesting areas to the friend group via Snapchat. Having multiple avenues of communication proved to be very helpful for a group of people as prone to theatrics as they were. Any arguments or disagreements could stay in whatever platform they originated in, and if people were (temporarily) removed from that platform, they would still have access to another. This unspoken agreement allowed the group to plan James and Lily’s upcoming visit on Snapchat, while Remus kept up his faux-anger at James’s nosiness in the messages app. Remus knew he would tell them everything when he saw them in person, but being ambushed with the topic on a Tuesday while he was at work was not his preferred arena.

***

Saturday morning found the group reunited at a breakfast nook within the Market. Remus sat next to Lily in one booth, opposite Dorcas and Marlene, while James sat in a wooden chair on one end. Remus appreciated that his friends made sure their seating configuration didn’t highlight his own status as the fifth wheel.

After catching up on everyone’s lives, and many pointed glances directed at James from customers who evidently didn’t want to hear the piercing falsetto James used when reenacting conversations with Lily’s sister, the conversation found its way back to Remus’s dating life.

“Remus, you’re a catch and a half. It’s been a few months since your relationship ended, and it may be time to get back out there.” Lily started.

“It’s true,�� Marlene added, nodding, “if I weren’t dating Dorcas I would be all over you and your wool cardigan. Almost makes me forget I’m a lesbian.” She laughed as she dodged a light flick from Dorcas.

“If you were a woman I’d totally sleep with you.” James said sincerely.

“Uh oh, misogynistic comment tax!” Dorcas swept in and took a piece of bacon from his plate before dividing it between Lily and herself. “For the vegetarian,” she made a half bow gesture from her seat as she presented Marlene with a liberated strawberry.

“Um, thank you for the votes of confidence, I think,” Remus began. “I appreciate it, I really do, well maybe not what James said, but I’ll admit defeat. I have been thinking about getting back into the dating scene.”

“A-ha!” James shouted, gesturing his final piece of bacon towards Remus. “The man is smelling the coffee. I can see it, he’s smelling it.”

“But,” Remus said softly, hoping that his reduced volume would subtly encourage James to be quieter as well, “I don’t really know how to meet people. I mean, we’re not in school anymore.”

“It isn’t easy, but you are in a much bigger city now,” Lily reasoned, “so theoretically your dating pool is much larger.”

“And there’s all kinds of designated queer spaces here!” James added. “You can go to gay bars and stuff, right?”

“I would pay to see Remus at a gay nightclub,” Marlene said, laughing.

“I would pay to see Remus awake past nine PM,” Dorcas said, “and not because you’re finishing a book.”

“Okay, okay, thanks everybody. I appreciate it.” Remus said flatly.

“Alright, let’s reel it in. Point is, you can meet people organically here, and we’ll support you.” Lily said. After she gave pointed looks around the table, the others nodded, although James was still smiling. “We can switch the topic now, but you better plan on keeping us updated on all your dating endeavors.”

James continued to smile mischievously, and added “And all of your casual sex endeavors. I need to know the exact starting date of your post-breakup hoe-phase. Get on the dating apps! You’d be a beast on there.”

“No.” Remus and Lily said in unison.

Lily continued, “I think you’ll have better luck meeting people organically. Dating apps can be creepy.”

When Dorcas finally changed the topic by prompting Marlene to tell the story of the cat she swore was taking the bus by itself last week, Remus sighed in relief.

***

A few days after James and Lily’s visit, Remus and Dorcas met for coffee before work. Once they had gotten their iced coffees, and in Remus’s case, a giant brownie (he hadn’t been to the Italian restaurant in a few days, so it was well-earned), Dorcas began a monologue that could hold its own against one of James’s.

"Alright. We love James and Lily. We love their beautiful, heterosexual, suburban lives. I am in awe of their enchanting, heterosexual love story, and how they met heterosexually and organically in their Communications class, and how it must have been meant to be when James was late to class and took the only available seat, next to our heterosexual princess.”

Remus laughed in silence, trying not to choke on a bite of brownie.

“Their heterosexual hearts are in the right place. Their heterosexual advice is kindly meant. And yet!” Dorcas announced, punctuating with one pointer finger, “you’re gay!”

Remus, having just finished swallowing the brownie and mistakenly taken a sip of coffee, struggled to not spit it out.

“Dating apps can be weird, of course, but it’s so much easier to meet other queer people there, and not worry as much about hoping the person you flirt with isn’t going to be offended by your existence.”

“Fair point,” Remus said, consciously not eating or drinking until Dorcas was finished.

“Until they open an LGBTQ+ bookstore coffee shop combo, which they totally should, and you would totally thrive in, you should get on Tinder."

Somehow Remus blushed at that, despite being a twenty-six year-old man who has dated before.

Dorcas called him on his blush, and laughed. “You are the most wholesome person I know, it’s too adorable. I won’t make you talk about it in public if it’s embarrassing, but just consider it.”

Remus agreed to do so, but secretly considered the pros and cons of staying single forever. Making a dating profile sounded anxiety-inducing.

***

When Remus walked through the doors of the Italian restaurant for the third time, he instantly felt a little better, as if his brain was already beginning to associate the place with the healing effects of the pizza he would soon be eating.

He had been feeling a little down this afternoon, with his thoughts often gravitating back towards his ex. He considered reaching out to one of his friends, since he knew they would be more than happy to talk him through it, but decided that a little alone time would do him good. Besides, he hadn’t eaten margherita pizza in over a week. It was time to indulge.

Looking up from his booth, he was momentarily surprised to find Sirius standing right in front of him, ready to take his order. Sirius hadn’t been working during Remus’s most recent visit, and Remus tried not to stare at the wavy pieces of hair framing his face, the rest tied back in place. Realizing that Sirius had spoken, Remus tried to regain composure.

“Hi, um, sorry, what was that?” So much for composure, Remus thought.

Sirius smiled warmly, holding eye contact. “You’re good. I just asked what I can get started for you today.” He added a little gesture to the pen and notepad he was holding.

“Oh, um, one small margherita pizza, please. And some water would be great, too.”

“Coming right up!” Sirius announced, and turned towards the kitchen. Remus pointedly looked away from the view, reminding himself that he was here to feel sad, not lustful. But, then again, maybe the latter would help him get over the former. Either way, his spirits were already lifting.

When Sirius returned carrying a beautifully steaming pizza, Remus was ready to devour it. He was also ready to speak words to Sirius like a normal person, having mentally rehearsed “Thank you, this looks great.” a hundred times.

“Thanks, you look great!” Remus expressed, looking at Sirius. His blush immediately materialized. “Wait, oh god. Sorry–”

Sirius laughed, “No worries! People tell me ‘you too’ when I tell them to enjoy their food, like, at least once a shift. You’re in good company.”

Remus smiled and felt a little more relaxed. “Thanks.”

Sirius shuffled for a second, looking like he had more to say, before saying “Well, enjoy your pizza!”

“You too!” Remus said, in mock sincerity. They both laughed.

***

When Sirius brought the check, he also dropped off a piece of tiramisu. “It’s for you!” He said, smiling and already walking away, as Remus tried to protest.

Remus ate about forty percent of the cake, mentally focusing intensely on the next plot point in his novel. Eventually, the soggy texture overpowered his desire to appear grateful for the free dessert, and he left the restaurant quietly when Sirius stepped back into the kitchen, away from sight.

[themummersfolly]

@ardenrosegarden I think you’ll like this. Non-sexual bedsharing, hurt/comfort. Non-POV character is male, but who he is and all details about the narrator are left intentionally vague. CWs for descriptions of injuries and mentions of previous violence.

Story after cut.

“I tried to warn you.”

“Never said I didn’t believe you.” I stumble over the uneven pavement and grunt in pain. He pauses, adjusts his grip to support me better.

“You knew this would happen.”

“Worth it.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t beat you to death.”

“I did what I had to do.”

I wait for the lecture to start, but it never comes. If he’s angry at me, he’s set it aside. We reach the front steps and he helps me up, lets me lean on him while he opens the door. He’s warm and solid. Unshakable.

Inside, he bolts the door with one hand. “We need to wash your wounds.”

That’s going to hurt. I already hurt. “Don’t think I can do it by myself.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” His voice is unexpectedly kind.

He settles me on the couch in the front room, draws the blinds, helps me out of my coat. I whimper as the motion jars my bruised ribcage and torn muscles. He hushes me and kneels to undo my bootlaces.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“Hmm?”

“For coming to get me.”

I can’t decipher the look on his face. It’s too warm to be pity.

I lay back and close my eyes. After a moment I hear him in the kitchen, running water, pulling things out of cabinets. I must doze off at some point, because when I open my eyes he’s pulled a stool and a side table up in front of me, with a basin and the big first aid kit. He glances at me apologetically.

“We need to get you out of those clothes.”

He’s right. I stink of sweat and piss and that one asshole’s tobacco juice. I try to sit up and fall back again, whimpering. Now that the adrenaline’s worn off, cold and injury have made my muscles stiff.

“Hush.” His hand brushes my face, carefully avoiding the bruises. The cushions dip as he kneels on the edge of the couch, leaning over me. “You’ll have to forgive me...”

“S’okay.” After what I went through an hour ago, you’d think I’d shy away from letting anyone else put their hands on me. But this is different. He’s on my side. He was always on my side.

We manage to peel off the button-down I’m wearing like a jacket, but under that I’m wearing a t-shirt, and I can’t lift my arms. He fishes in the first aid kit and pulls out the trauma sheers.

“Sorry about this.”

He cuts away my t-shirt and jeans, tossing them in a pile by the door and pulling a blanket over me as he works. Something in the back of my mind frets as he starts on my underwear. My need for medical attention overrules it.

Once I’m naked, he wrings out a rag from the basin and starts examining the cuts and bruises on my face. Strands of my hair are caught in the dried blood. I flinch when he tugs at them. Carefully, he sponges away blood and dirt. The hot water stings, but it helps. He pulls back the blanket a little at a time, washing my body and examining for injuries and evidence of broken bones. My ribs are broken, he says. I’ve got a lot of bruising. As he finishes each section, he covers me again with the blanket.

When I’m more or less clean, he puts his arms behind my shoulders and helps me lay down.

“How does this feel? Can you breathe like this?”

“Mm-hm.” This feels better, but the effort of changing position has me dizzy. “We got any water?”

He steps away, and when he comes back he lifts my head and holds a glass to my lips. I drink down most of it and feel better.

“I got you some ice.” Something crinkles: a gallon bag full of ice cubes. He lays it across my ribs, outside the blanket. I flinch. After a moment the pain subsides a little. A pill bottle rattles and he slides his hand under my head again.

“Here, drink these down.”

I open my eyes a crack. “Are those left over from my wisdom teeth?”

“You know better than me. They were in the back of your cabinet.”

“Ugh. Forgot I had those. Was supposed to get rid of them.”

“Good thing you didn’t. Here, this is the amount the bottle says to take. You’ll heal better if you’re not in so much pain. Believe me,” he adds, and I do. I let him put the pills in my mouth and swallow them with a sip of water. He’s dabbing ointment on my face when the medicine kicks in and I drift away.

When I wake up the icepack is gone, but he’s still there, in an armchair pulled up to the end of the couch, reading a book. He looks up and sees me awake.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.” It’s true; I still feel like I shouldn’t be in one piece, but the pain is mostly in the background now. “I need to pee. Can you- I don’t think I can get there on my own.”

He sets down his book and grabs a second blanket. It takes our combined efforts to get me up off the couch and into a standing position, and it’s still impossible to stand fully upright. He helps me into the hallway, keeping me wrapped in the blankets, and holds the second one up as a screen when I’m finally sitting on the pot. When I’m done, we pause before beginning the return journey.

“Can I make a request?” I mumble against his shoulder.

“Of course.”

“Can I sleep in the bed?”

“Certainly.”

“It’s not too far?”

“Not for me. And I can carry you if need be.” I can hear his smile.

We make it to the bedroom, and he tucks me under the quilt.

“Do you need more medicine?”

“No. I’m good.” Exhaustion is making my vision swim. My hand is sticking out from under the quilt on the side. He takes it in his and rubs circles on the back, gently. The pad of his thumb is rough, calloused.

“You can stay here,” I say. “You don’t have to sleep in the chair.” Or on the couch, which probably still smells like an ass-kicking.

“Are you sure? It seems... improper.”

“Cause I’m naked?”

He nods. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Can’t be uncomfortable if I’m asleep.” My eyelids keep drooping. “Don’t have to if you don’t want to. I don’t wanna be alone...”

He leans over me and kisses my forehead. He smells nice. “Then I’ll stay.”

He crawls under the quilt on the other side, leaving the sheet between me and him. Close enough to feel each other’s presence, distant enough to maintain a boundary. If I were in better shape I would roll onto my side, mold myself against his body. It hurts to move, so I stay put. Instead, he folds his frame around me, warm and solid, one arm beneath his head as he watches over me. I feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes. Will he let me lie this close to him when I’m healed? I hope so. I sink into the warmth, and sleep.

[dopescotlandwarrior]

The Dancer-Chapter Ten

                        A special thanks to @statell​ for your help and wisdom

Previous chapters on AO3

Chapter Ten

Jamie’s image swam before Claire’s eyes. He was breathtakingly handsome even six years later. She wanted to speak but couldn’t and suddenly felt strong arms pick her up. She heard him try to wake her and kept her eyes closed wanting the closeness for another moment.

“I’m alright Jamie, please put me down.”

Ye fainted lass. Let me help ye home.” He walked her to the curb and whistled for a taxi keeping hold of her hand.

“I’ll see ye home Sassenach.”

“No, no. Not important, I’m sure you have people waiting for you.”

Claire looked around for a wife to come and take him away from her. Jamie looked around following her eyes.

“Are ye runnin from someone Claire? You keep looking for somethin. Are ye in danger lass?”

“Yes. I don’t want the memory of seeing you with your wife Jamie.” Her tears fell again and she gave up her attempt at bravado. It looked like she crumbled in front of him and he whistled again for a taxi.

“I havena a wife Sassenach. It’s true I tried to fill the whole ye left in me, but it didn’t work. I never married and left the relationship.”

He spoke softly to her, not wanting to cause her any more pain. She was just as beautiful, but her face told a different story. He could see the pain she had endured but there was a new light that came from within. He desperately wanted to know what that was. He chose his words carefully.

“Will ye have coffee with me so we can talk? Just for a bit.”

He seemed so desperate to keep her there and she felt her tears come again. Maybe if they could start fresh, strangers that just met, but there was a traumatic history between them.

“No Jamie, I can’t. I will get into a taxi and let you get on with your day.”

He held her arm like she was a lifeline, “I’m not strong enough to do that Sassenach.”

Claire’s mind was like a tornado standing so close to him. She felt love pulling her to him like six years had vanished from her memory. But it hadn’t, and she couldn’t face going through all that again with him.

She looked into Jamie’s blue eyes and thought about eyes that very color waiting for her at the daycare. Her heart was closed to him but her son’s wasn’t, they had a right to know each other and forge their own relationship. She pulled a notepad from her purse and wrote her address.

“Would you come to dinner tonight Jamie?”

Jamie pulled against the curb in the late afternoon and looked at the address on the mailbox. The small house seemed to suit her, he thought. He wouldn’t care if they were meeting in a cardboard box, he was just happy to spend more time with her.

His heart pounded after he rang the doorbell and his ears strained to hear footsteps coming toward him. The door opened and he smiled at air until he noticed movement below him. Dropping his eyes he saw copper-colored hair, soft and curly, and blue eyes peer at him like he was a giant.

“Mommy! Da is here to eat with us!”

Jamie felt his world tilt as the boy opened the door another three feet and smiled up at him. Jamie looked around for Claire feeling like he was dreaming of this child that now took his hand and pulled him inside before running to find his mother.

Claire came around the corner wiping her hands on an apron.

She smiled at Jamie with a look he could not read. Dropping to her knees next to her son she held him and smiled excitedly.

“Are you happy to finally meet your da, sweetheart?”

The boy shook his head and his curls tumbled against his face. He broke away from his mother and ran down the hall. Before Jamie could think of something to say the boy came running back with a large photo album and placed it on the couch. He scrambled up and pressed his back against the cushions asking Jamie to look at the pictures with him.

Claire was not offering to run interference for them, her son had things well in hand and this was for him, for them, so she went back to preparing dinner. She washed her pans and set them to dry hearing the conversation continue in the living room. She pushed back hard on her tears, wishing it was she who sat closely and talked with excitement. So many feelings, love, fear, abandonment, desire, hope, and hopelessness were swirling in her heart. She pulled her shoulders back and closed them out of her mind. Tonight was for Brian and his father.

Jamie looked into this beautiful boy’s face and saw his own eyes and jaw, his mother’s cheeks and forehead. He was a picture of both of them, and each time the child smiled he felt more of his heart melt.

“What is yer name, how old are ye?”

“Brian James Beauchamp, I’m five.”

Little Brian pointed to pictures saying the names of the people in his life. Page after page was filled with pictures of Jamie and Jamie with Claire. Brian knew the back story for every picture, the puppies attacking Claire with the baby goats in the background. Jamie looked at her face, the way the sunlight seemed to light up the joy in her eyes and smile.

“This is when you and mommy climbed up a mountain and saw your house way far down there. This is a room on the top of your house where you kept all your toys. This is mommy in her fancy clothes and a big car to drive her to a party. That’s you da, laughing with mommy.”

“This is Geillis, my Godmother. She comes to stay with us and makes Mommy laugh. I can stay home all day when Geillis is here.”

Jamie could not hold his tears back any longer. He was overwhelmed with meeting his son for the first time, a braw lad with an infectious joy like his mother. He pulled the boy closer and asked him to continue.

Claire held dinner back a bit to give them some time. Brian was over the moon at meeting his father and Jamie was understandably shell shocked, but they seemed to be getting on.

“This is Jadda, and this is Jaddati.”

Brian seemed to linger on their pictures and Jamie could feel how much he loved them. He didn’t want this pictorial of Claire’s life to end so he asked about the other pictures as it became clear she had lived in Egypt for some time. Someone had captured Claire kissing the nose of a reclining camel in front of the great pyramid and another of her holding Brian near the Sphinx. Brian got quiet and ran his finger over the picture of a man. Tall, dark curly hair, kind eyes.

“This is Madu. He went to heaven without us. He is Habbi.”

Jamie could feel the boy going inside to his grief and turned the page asking about other pictures. Brian looked up and smiled at his mother running her fingers through his hair.

“Da likes our pictures, Mommy.”

“That is most wonderful sweetheart will you two come and eat please?”

Jamie tried to catch Claire’s eye, but she averted them and kept him from seeing her all through dinner. He wanted so desperately to talk to her about all that happened in the last six years. It stole his appetite and made him feel weak.

“Get to your bath young man and then come and say goodnight to da.”

Brian was very reluctant to leave and took Jamie’s huge hand. When he looked up at his father Jamie felt his heart jump and wanted to pull him into his arms. Brian did it for him, he lunged at Jamie’s waist and clutched his father with all the strength he had. Jamie looked down at this beautiful boy hold him and he sucked air to the blinding tears. The innocence of that moment, a boy clutching the father he always wanted was Claire’s undoing. She jumped up to start clearing the table and running water into the sink, looking every few minutes as Jamie spoke Gaelic in his soft voice and Brian held on.

Claire tried to think fast. She knew that Jamie wanted to talk, and she was afraid of the emotion and love she still had for him. She had lived a completely different life in Egypt, accepted into a family of parents, cousins, sisters, and brothers. They pulled her into the only family she had ever known and prayed she would stay in their household after Madu died. They helped her heal from a devastating betrayal of someone she loved. Now, here he was wanting to talk to her and leave his footprints all over her heart again.

Claire found Egypt to be as foreign as living on the moon. She loved Madu’s family but decided it was time to go back to an English-speaking country. London was her choice because she would never return to Scotland.

Jadda, Madu’s father held her close and promised to send support once she was settled. Jaddati, Madu’s mother cried and held onto her saying blessings and kissing her cheeks. Jadda sent one thousand pounds every month and lavished Brian with gifts on his birthday. Claire was ever grateful for their support but had started sending any funds back she didn’t require.

Claire thought back to her first six months in London when all she could afford was a studio apartment. She worked as a cashier at the hospital cafeteria, but Brian’s daycare costs were more than she made working full time. It was a dark time for her. Jadda called to give her an address where she could live. He told her little about how he knew of this place and she always suspected he bought it so they would have a decent place to live. Especially since the rent was eighty dollars per month. It was like moving into a mansion on a quiet street where Brian would later walk to school from each day. That was three years ago, although it seemed like so much longer.

Brian still held Jamie’s hand and looked at his mother with tears streaming down his face. His look was breaking her heart because he didn’t want to leave Jamie.

“Sweetheart you will see him again. Your Da and I will talk about it tonight so don’t worry, okay? Now, little man, to the bath.”

Brian seemed to feel much better about letting go of Jamie after his mother’s promise and he ran out of the kitchen leaving two shattered hearts alone with each other.

“I’m sorry for the shock of it Jamie. I couldn’t find the words to tell you this afternoon, so I just had you come over. I’ve wanted to find you since we’ve been back but there were things I couldn’t face. I always thought one more year and I’ll be strong enough. I’m sorry.”

Jamie just stared at her letting his love and compassion for her show in his eyes. He knew they had to talk about what happened to them before they could move forward but Claire was unwilling, too afraid.

“He is a braw lad Sassenach. You have done a spectacular job raising him. Ye made a decision this afternoon that will forever change all of our lives, and I thank ye for being brave enough to do it. I’ll no ask for more than ye want to give. if I can be in his life, I will be forever grateful.”

“I have told him stories about you since he was too young to understand speech. He took to you like I’ve never seen him do to anyone. Do you want to come for dinner once a week and see how it goes?”

“Thank ye Sassenach. Can I help ye clean up?”

“No thank you, this is the easy part.”

She remained on her feet and suggested the same night next week. Jamie stood and said goodnight, feeling his heart hurt as he drove home. Claire had drawn a line between them and made it clear that her life was closed to him.

The next week Brian gave him a painting he made in school and Jamie’s heart nearly burst. He and Brian would spend the hour before dinner, talking and laughing until they were called to eat. Claire was always cordial but remained closed off to him. As the months went by he managed to come extra days when there was something to fix in the home, and he was rewarded with a second dinner. Brian would erupt with joy on these nights because he was his father’s assistant. Sometimes Jamie would coax him to do the repair himself, always under the watchful eye of his da.

Jamie would steal long glances at Claire when her back was turned. All attempts at seeing her as just the mother of his child went straight to the trash because he would never see her as anything but his love and soulmate.

Claire ran for her train pulling her phone out and panting hello to Geillis. They talked through the train ride and Claire’s walk home. Geillis listened to the incredible story of Jamie’s re-emergence and meeting his son. She was incredulous at Claire’s cold heart.

“Yer forgettin that I know yer heart lass. Why don’t ye talk to him, tell him how ye feel. Maybe he has a story of his own. Maybe he will win yer trust back. It sounds like he’s tryin Claire. I did hear that he was arrested twice at the hospital tryin to see ye. They had to tase him in the neck because he was a raging bull.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know. Did you ever hear what happened to Jenny?”

“Still in prison. Abandoned by her girls and Jamie I guess. He didn’t show up for her trial.”

They talked another fifteen minutes and clicked off. Claire sat down hard on the couch and thought about the new information. Jamie had tried to see her and abandoned his sister. That is not what she had led herself to believe but it changed nothing.

The next time Jamie showed up for dinner Brian let him in and his eyes got huge at the triple bouquet Jamie handed him. He pointed to the kitchen and Brian barely got them to his mother due to their size.

“Mommy! Take these because they’re heavy!”

“Oh! Aren’t they beautiful!” Claire looked at the card that said, “Happy Birthday to the best girl.” She smiled at Jamie because he remembered.

Jamie came back into the kitchen after saying goodnight to Brian. He watched her back while she finished dishes.

“I have lived a life of bein right, always. I have taken it for granted that I’m always right and never question my actions. But there was one night I was dead wrong, my thoughts, my decisions, my actions, and what I allowed to happen, they were all wrong. Every single minute of this night I was wrong, and I haven’t found my way to the other side yet. I’m stuck there, watchin each minute unfold, like a torturous nightmare night after night. Jamie’s eyes were lost in his memories and his voice grew quiet.

“I loved a girl once; she was pure as the driven snow. She made me see the stars at night and hear birds in the morning. Before long I was looking up each evening to watch the sunset.”

“She made me feel whole and brought my heart back to me. I wanted her with me all the time because she took the sunshine with her when she left. I still see her in my dreams, lookin at me bursting with love. I fear I will never be the same without her. I have tried and failed because she is my soulmate. If I could just tell her what an ass I was, how wrong I was to judge her and turn her away I might find some peace. I fear she thinks I didn’t love her. I did. I was hurt and jealous and handled her confession in the worst possible way. I will bear the loss of the purest heart because of what I did. I cannot bear her thinkin she wasn’t loved and cherished. She was and is.”

Jamie had inched closer to her as he talked. This was his big gamble, so he threw caution to the wind and put his heart within her striking distance. For months she had kept to her own space, and he was dying inside so he took this chance.

If ye hear nothin else lass, please know you were loved for who ye are and I was wrong about everything. And I…

Claire dropped the dish she was washing and yelled “enough!” Jamie looked at the ground and started to turn around until he felt her arms come around him and hold him close. She hugged him as hard as she could and cried.

The impact of her body made him gasp as his arms went around her in a lifeline hug.

“Jesus Sassenach, ye feel so good, I’ve missed ye so much. I meant every word lass; I was wrong on the tallest order and so much heartache followed. Don’t let go love, please, don’t let go.”

He acted purely on what his heart told him to do in the next minute. He picked her up and laid on the couch with her so she could feel his strength and warmth, come what may.

Claire could not let go. The six years of heartache and loneliness for him locked her arms around her lost love and she felt frozen there. Jamie spoke to her in Gaelic. Softly, he told her the story of true love, loss, and finding love again. She pressed her head to his chest and listened to his voice resonate and vibrate deep inside him. She fell asleep and he still held her, to keep her warm, and give him as many minutes as possible to touch her.

“I love ye Claire, yer the best person I’ve ever known and I am sorry, truly.”

Claire had woken up in time to hear every word of that sentence. She was crying again but that didn’t stop her from pulling herself to his face where she kissed him over and over. She didn’t care about the consequences; she didn’t care about anything except feeling his lips on her and his body pressed to hers. She knew the truth of what he said, they completed each other, they would live half a life without the other and he would bring the light back to her wasteland existence.

She clung to him and cried and kissed like her life was coming back online after a long hibernation.

Jamie picked her up and walked her to the bedroom where he laid down with her and took over the kissing. He held her face and kissed her so softly she nearly cried again. He felt Claire unbutton his shirt and she pushed it off his shoulders before pulling her own off with her bra so she could feel the skin that she had missed. Jamie held himself back and let her lead, not wanting to make a single mistake. It was getting harder as her nipples pressed against his chest as she gasped for air between kisses.

“Please love me Jamie.”

From her lips to his heart he touched her softly, hesitantly, as if she would change her mind any minute. He was so gentle with her, so giving of his warm hands and mouth and when he pushed into her, he was focused on her eyes the entire time. It was the sweetest moment when two hearts surrender to each other.

Jamie slipped out of her bed as the sun was rising. He pulled the quilt up to her chin and watched her for several minutes. He left a note on her side table asking her to bring Brian to his office as soon as she could. He had something to show her.

Two days later, Claire moved slowly down the road looking for the address of Jamie’s office. She parked close by and when she got out of the car, she almost fainted. The address was a used bookstore and the sign above said, “The Sassenach’s Books.”

Brian was in no mood to walk at his mother’s slow pace and he pulled her along by the hand, anxious to see his da. Once inside, Claire’s eyes went wide at the two stories lined with bookshelves, music, artwork, a wall full of announcements, schedules of free classes, and book clubs. A man approached carrying a stack of hardbacks that blocked his view and he crashed into a display table as the books toppled.

“Dear God.”

Claire spun around at the sound of his voice, one she remembered from long ago. John looked like he was seeing a ghost, a very missed ghost. He hugged her for a full minute and noticed a small person with copper coils looking up sternly at him touch his mother.

John stuck his hand out and formally announced he was John Grey.

Brian shook his hand but was very shy toward him allowing time for John to fill his eyes with his good friend Claire. They talked for several minutes before John leaned closer.

“Jamie is here Claire.”

“Yes, I know that is why we’re here.”

“I really don’t know why I feel you two even like me since you never shared anything before, and he doesn’t share anything now. It’s okay. I am so happy to see you, fit as a fiddle. And the wee man behind you is Jamie’s son, is he not?”

Claire smiled at John and nodded her head.

“Da!” Brian broke away from his mother and ran to Jamie when he saw him. Jamie tousled his hair and looked up for Claire. When he found her, his stomach flipped over and his heart rate shot up. She was more beautiful than he remembered with her long graceful body and special eyes. His mind video relived her taking a leap of faith the other night, acting on her desire to hug and kiss him, thank Christ he thought. He replayed feeling stunned when she pushed his shirt off and then her own. The exquisite feel of her skin was intoxicating, and he was drunk with the feel of her. When she fell asleep in his arms she jerked herself awake, twice, and scrambled to hold onto him, like he might escape. He cried both times because it was just like the first night with the dancer. They were the same woman, with the same needs, and the same love for him.

Claire smiled shyly at Jamie and he at her. Brian looked from one parent to the other a bit confused because they seemed to be talking without using any words. This was weird but he was pretty sure his mother liked what they were saying.

“I have a special room Sassenach, I want to show ye.” He led them to the other side of the store and pointed to an arched doorway. Above the door it said, “Classic collections” and below that, “My Sassenach’s Heart.” When Claire walked into the room she smiled and touched the volumes of Tolstoy, Dickens, Hemingway, Wolfe, and many others. She felt the presence of the great writers and somehow felt them say welcome back. She looked up at Jamie with tears in her eyes and shook her head because she couldn’t believe how he had kept her with him all these years.

Brian was not happy with this turn of events and moved between his parents with a warning look at Jamie to stop making his mother cry. Jamie took a step back from them to show little Brian he meant no harm.

“Yer mam is the most important person in my life lad. This room, this store, and the work I do is a tribute to her ever-present spirit in my life. You were both lost to me for many years, and this is how I kept the joy in my life. I see her name every day, I bargain for her favorite authors, just in case she walks in here, or the other six stores, she will find her peace and loved literature in the store that bears her name.”

Claire was overcome by Jamie’s words and the way he kept her alive in the special name he gave her long ago. She flew into his arms and held him so closely, sniffling back the tears that came pouring out with his admission to his son. With both arms around his middle she looked up at the eyes she loved, and they kissed like it was the very breath that kept them alive.

Brian was confused until he felt Jamie’s hand in his hair, then on his shoulder, pulling him into his father’s side, letting him know he had one arm for this mother and another arm for him.

The End

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 24

AO3 link here

On Sunday, as they are preparing to eat breakfast, Rose calls and tells them without fanfare that the double mastectomy she’d had two years ago might have held things at bay, but the cancer is back.

“It’ll be worse this time,” she says over speakerphone as Peggy’s toast burns and the kettle whistles without answer. “No more body parts I’m not using to offer up instead. They’re saying it’ll be chemo now, and pretty aggressive.”

(Last time, Rose had decided on mastectomy without much fuss, got through the recovery as quickly as possible, and got back to work. The only real sign of change was that her repertoire of tops and suit jackets, fitted to her sturdy, busty figure, had to be replaced.)

On Monday, before sunset, they arrive in New York. Rose said that her oncologist wanted to get her started very soon, which scared Steve more than anything. Last time the wisdom had been to wait and see, the doctor advising more tests, careful consideration, avoiding jumping into anything, before Rose’s tough and unsentimental practicality had steamrolled that plan. Now they are moving forward with barely enough time for him to process things. Cancer has always been serious, even now, but this seems to be an emergency.

(His kids might have been grown, Steve was always reminding them all to have regular checkups, to make sure to get their kids vaccinated on time, to get a flu shot each fall. It’s how they caught it so early on Rosie’s annual mammogram the first time. It’s how they found it again now, and Steve is so glad, so glad, so awfully glad.)

Rose greets them in socks, her hair fluffy around her shoulders, wearing her glasses instead of her contacts: nighttime Rosie.

“I told you that you didn’t have to come,” she says, hugging them each anyway.

“Don’t be absurd.” Peggy carries her suitcase through the doorway and back to the guest bedroom. “We’re your parents.”

“She’s right,” Steve tells Rose, who wraps her arms around him again and says, “Thanks, Daddy,” before reaching up to kiss his cheek.

That just terrifies him more.

It has been a long while since they had a quiet evening alone, but with Rose sleeping at a friend’s, they take full advantage.

“Pass the ice cream, would you please?” Peggy licks some of the blueberry filling off the side of her finger as she waits for Steve to slide the container across the table. She scoops a healthy amount onto her pie and observes it with satisfaction before digging in. Her bare legs are crossed politely at the ankle although she’s wearing only one of the button-up pajama tops that Steve refuses to.

“You should have let me warm the pie first,” Steve says. Disapproval doesn’t quite come out the right way when he is licking ice cream off of his own spoon and can’t stop himself smiling as he does.

“You’re becoming quite the perfectionist,” she teases. “Are you concerned that Irma Rombauer is peering through our front window?”

“I hope not. She’ll spot in a second that I didn’t homemake the ice cream.” He is lifting another spoonful of the local dairy’s excellent product to his mouth when the phone rings. There is a standoff where neither of them moves, unwilling to disrupt the moment, but then Steve sighs and answers.

Three minutes later, he is fully dressed again, back in the kitchen to find his keys.

“And Mrs. Solomon didn’t specify when was wrong?” Peggy asks. She’s returned the ice cream to the freezer while he was gone and is sitting in her chair again, the pie untouched on her plate. “Rose was fine this morning.”

“As if she would have mentioned if she wasn’t. And risk missing the big sleepover?” Steve finds his keys beneath the mail on the kitchen counter.

“Well, then, I’m afraid she might be dying.” Despite the attempted sarcasm, Steve can hear the worry beneath her tone. She looks up at him and takes his hand as he walks past. “We did have a good reason for deciding to become parents, didn’t we? Because I’m finding this sort of constant concern quite unpleasant.”

Steve kisses her upturned mouth. “Comes with the territory, I think,” he says. “But so do the good parts.”

Rose comes home, sleepy and exasperated and a little teary from the pain that Steve has expertly diagnosed as a common ear infection, held in her father’s arms. Her mother, clad now in her sensible dressing gown (though her hair is still strewn about her shoulders), prescribes a hot bath and some late night blueberry pie. By the time she has finished her portion, Rosie is laughing.

She falls asleep in her parents’ bed, snug between them. Peggy strokes her hair.

“Oh, yes,” she says fondly. “The good parts.”

The first few sessions are not as bad as he had feared. Rose feels fine after the first, tired after the second, a little under the weather after the third.

The fourth is like a truck hit her.

Peggy holds her hair back as Rose kneels in front of the toilet, smoothing a palm over her forehead. She cannot keep her hand steady enough to shave the hair off with the electric razor that Rose insistently sent Steve to pick up at Duane Reade. She blames her age. Steve catches a breath beneath the buzz of the razor because for Peggy to claim such a thing, her fear must be worse than he had ever considered.

Steve makes soup endlessly. His mother’s recipe is not so much that as it is instructions consisting of “Put whatever you have that seems appropriate in the pot, add water, don’t be afraid of salt, keep it on the flame until it smells good.” But he always admired her transformation of what were essentially bones and scraps into something that did smell good. He’d found comfort in it, in the way she’d come home tired and still try to fill up the house with warmth for him. He knows he’s trying to do the same for Rose, even as she asks for smaller and smaller portions.

They don’t spend all of their time in the apartment, going together for Rose’s appointments and treatments whenever they’re scheduled. The hospital is better than Steve remembered, better than he thought it would be: plastic has replaced creaky and unwelcoming metal, nurses walk the halls in their scrubs and tired smiles rather than walling themselves in starch and impatience. People so often walk out healthy. Rose has a comfortable armchair and popsicles from the freezer nearby when she wants them.

He sits there, beside that comfortable chair, watching his daughter being filled up with poison that is meant to save her.

Science has given him his life so many times over. It gave him this life. He tries to trust it. He can’t stand what it is doing to her.

The worst part is watching her get fuzzy and unfocused. “Chemo brain,” the nurses tell them. “It’s normal.” But this isn’t normal for Rose, who was so obviously smart even in those furious months right after she’d come home to them, who takes such pride in a case well-argued and a strategy well-built. She takes leave from work when it is obvious that she won’t be able to manage much for now.

“I think this is the longest vacation I’ve had in years,” she tries to joke as she puts on her headphones and starts a new romance audiobook. She’s found a series that she can enjoy even if she tunes in and out.

Peggy is the one who keeps track of the appointments and medications, who consults with the doctors and then consults with them again, with slow and charming menace, when she thinks that she might not have gotten the full story. Steve is the one who holds Peggy at night as she readies herself for another day.

“I thought we had passed the difficult parts of parenting,” she says against his shoulder one night. She is not crying, but her breath shudders in and out.

“I think we got the difficult parts forever when we signed up.��� He looks up at the ceiling, knowing how the streetlights will peek through the blinds. This room might be theirs at this point.

“If I could--” he starts quietly. He doesn’t know how to continue: if he could trade places with Rose? If he could transfer some sort of healing ability to her instead? If he could give up anything to make her well? But he knows that it’s all true.

Peggy nods against him. “I would as well.”

They see other parents at the hospital, oftentimes with patients younger than Rose. It is not arrogance to say that none of them have had the life experience that Steve and Peggy have. Their eyes still look the same.

Rose comes home from her first semester at Smith and gets the flu immediately. All her vacation plans are put on hold as she lies in bed, first groggy, then grumpy.

“Dad!” Steve hears her call from where he is in the kitchen, having remembered to put together a lunch tray for her. Rose’s semester might have ended, but he is still in the midst of final papers and exams. Now that he is in his master’s program, he somehow doesn’t quite have the confidence he gained over the past four years as an undergraduate. He’s trying to do everything exactly right, and keeps having to unbury himself from his work to check on Rosie.

“Can you please sit with me?” she begs as soon as he comes into the room. He sets the tray on her lap and leans to feel her forehead. Still cool, though her voice sounds raspy and there are tissues scattered around her nightstand.

“Do you need something?” he asks.

“Someone to talk to, please,” she says fervently. “I’m not going to try to pretend I’m ready to leave the house, but I’m absolutely bored to death.”

Steve spots the novel she’s tossed to the end of the bed in agitation, its pages fallen pathetically open. “I can see that,” he says wryly. He thinks of the pile of work downstairs, his notes and textbooks and the essay half finished in the typewriter. He thinks of himself bed during all those long hours when Bucky and his mother were busy, when he had finished all of his library books and hadn’t gotten a new batch, when even his careful conservation efforts had left him without art supplies and there wasn’t quite enough stretch to his mother’s paycheck for anything new. He remembers watching out of the window during all those hours, listening to the games down on the street and imagining the taste of the blue of the sky.

“I certainly know what that’s like,” he tells Rose, at which she snorts and says, “Okay, Dad, as if you ever get sick.”

How strange it is, to hear her say that. “Let me get a deck of cards,” he says hastily.

Between bites of her grilled cheese, Rose beats him at several hands of gin rummy, then they switch to War and she tells him what college has been like behind her excitement and the confidence she shows her sisters and brother: that she sat through her first real lecture and found that everyone else was already giving answers before she even thought of the questions, the time she attended a formal dinner with the faculty and nearly knocked a candlestick over onto the beautifully set table, how she had only managed to get a chorus part in the play but the other girls there ended up becoming her best friends. After enough stories and a few games of War, she is even willing to play chess with him, something she swore years ago that she would never do again. But he catches sight of the clock as he goes to get the board and realizes that it’s time to go pick up Emma from school. When they get back, Nate and Drea are home, curled up beside the bed talking to Rosie, and Emma races up to join them. He watches her with a bit of longing before he goes to the kitchen to start dinner.

He has to stay up late that night to finish his own work, but it’s all worth it.

There are plenty of visitors. The Barneses and the Starks are local, and so call asking if they can drop by often. (There’s a week where Tony shows up nearly every day, apparently having decided that “visiting a cancer patient” is some sort of excuse for procrastination. He gets back to it, pouting, when he realizes that Pepper has been handling things entirely fine without him and has barely even noticed that he wasn’t showing up.

Drea and her family come from Boston every other weekend if they can, and Emma and Nate usually trade off coming up on the alternate weeks. When Rose is at her worst, Steve and Peggy ask whether it’s a good idea to allow their grandchildren to see her that way. Despite choosing not to have children of her own (she claimed she was “too busy and too selfish” for it), she has always been an excellent aunt, treating her nephews and nieces to Broadway shows, shopping sprees, and meals out whenever they made it to New York, always available for catching up over the phone or convincing a parent of some scheme when asked. As difficult as it is to realize, though, even the grandchildren are all grown or nearly there. Tess will turn 16 in just a couple of months, and although they still think of Julie as the baby, she will follow suit before the end of the year. And even if they weren’t, would it really be healthier to quarantine them from her as if she was dying?

Besides, it is clearly good for Rose to be surrounded by the people who love her. She might let comments fly by without a smart retort or drift off to sleep if a treatment’s taken a lot out of her, but she always smiles when she wakes up and finds her family talking over one another and chattering about every possible topic.

It isn’t just family, either. When people show up at Rose’s place or the hospital, Steve recognizes some of them, like Rose’s old secretary. Others are strangers, though they go out of their way to introduce themselves to him.

“She came to speak to my class in law school,” one of the associates from Rose’s firm tells him. “Just leaned back on the desk, crossed her arms, and said, ‘So, human rights,’ and I knew immediately that I needed to work with her.”

There’s the middle aged woman and her teenaged daughter who seem to have a million private jokes with Rose although they apparently met when they spent three nights in Rose’s guest bedroom on an emergency referral from the domestic violence organization she’s been working with since after college. There’s another woman, a friend of a friend, who stayed three months after she lost her job and was evicted from her former apartment. One of Rosie’s college friends comes by at least once a week.

“She was there for me when I was going through the same thing,” she says when Peggy asks delicately whether they’re keeping her from something else. “My kids had dinner that I didn’t have to cook practically every night of my treatment because she was there organizing it.” She laughs. “Not doing the actual cooking, though, thank goodness.”

On the cab ride back one evening - just the two of them; Peggy is already back at the apartment - Rose leans herself drowsily on Steve’s shoulder. He runs a hand over her hair, which has grown back down around her ears by now. (She thinks it makes her look like an awkward thirteen-year-old, but is persevering until it’s at a more flattering length.)

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, very quietly, although he isn’t certain she’s awake enough to hear him. “What you’ve built for yourself here...It’s so special.”

“Well, I learned it from you,” she murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“You remember that time--I must have been with you and Mom for four, five months. I woke up in the night and I knew that I was going to throw up. And I just lay there, hoping that if I didn’t move, it wouldn’t happen.

“I’m still not sure how you realized - I was so careful not to move or make any noise - but you came into the room, this big shadow in the darkness, and asked if I was okay. And I started to cry a little, so you picked me up, and I absolutely--I hadn’t known I could puke so much. It was all over you. And you just went, “Oh,” and then you asked me if I was feeling better. You got everything cleaned up - bath, teeth brushed, new pajamas and sheets, big bowl next to the bed just in case - and after you went to change, you gave me some seltzer and rubbed my back until I fell asleep. And when I woke up, you were still sitting right where you had been. It was the first time I could remember that kind of love being given to me, that support of just being there.”

Steve swallows. He racks his memory and can think of a million little examples of Rose having been sick - the summer cold that kept her trapped inside instead of playing, the stomach virus that she passed on to the rest of the kids - but he can’t seem to grasp onto that one. It’s escaping him, this first moment of his daughter knowing that he loved her.

“Your friends,” he says, “are so lucky to have you. Everyone is. And I’m so lucky to have played any part in it.”

When Steve and Peggy finally go home, the house is cold and smells unfamiliar. It hasn’t been entirely untouched while they’ve been in New York - they’ve been back for brief visits, and Emma and Eric, and Nate and Eleanor, all live close enough to have checked on things occasionally - but it’s like stepping into a pair of shoes unworn for a long while. They turn on more lights than necessary, and Steve makes an aromatic stew and fresh bread for dinner.

Rose’s oncologist is incredibly pleased with her progress. The chemo seems to be doing its job, and with time and medication to help manage them, her side effects have, blessedly, lessened. She’s gained back a significant amount of energy, started working again - mostly behind the scenes and sometimes from home, but building up to the number of hours she puts in each week - and is on track to finish her chemo in a few more months.

They had almost decided to stay for the duration, but Rose’s network of friends had assured them that they could keep things covered for the next while until she is - please, please - allowed to stop regular treatment.

Peggy sits, stirring her bowl of stew and looking around at the kitchen. It’s changed since they first moved in, appliances obviously updated, but the paint and wallpaper and tile refreshed too.

One day, when it is someone else’s, they won’t know about the places where Emma and Nate colored on the walls, or about the burn on the counter from when Drea put down the Thanksgiving turkey directly out of the oven. They won’t see the traces of Rose’s dubious kitchen experimentation, won’t know about all of the family dinners and the laughter and the squabbling.

“They’ve been grown so much longer than they were children--” she says

“But for us they still are. Always will be.” Steve smiles, soft and tired and loving. “Was it worth it? Knowing what you do now about how hard it would be?”

She takes his hand and echoes his own thoughts back at him: “I would do it over again in a heartbeat. All of it. In a heartbeat.”

More chapters here

[herlittlelibrary]

April 21st, 2019.  Easter.

Yesterday.

Went to the mall to browse for decently priced skincare products that turned out to be online exclusively.  Left the congested clothes stores and streams of people, and camped out at a Barnes & Noble nearby to evade the traffic of rush hour.  Shrugged off an ounce of tight-fistedness, enough to convince myself to order a spinach-and-feta pretzel for lunch.  For an hour, sifted through fiction books, guiltily eyed the YA section, and flipped through some manga.  Stepped out, just moments after the rain had cleared.

Shrugged off another measure of tight-fistedness.   Bought myself a pair of shoes at a thrift store, to replace my rugged, beyond-well-worn Vans.  Sent my little sister an emergency text when it came down to two choices: Which do you prefer?       

Went to the lake, just a half hour before sunset, to watch water lap at the shore.  Mused:  A date with God.

Went to the library, and checked out two books.  Bought supplies to make pizza, and then made half of a portion at home:  one half pesto, one half marinara, all fresh spinach and creamy mozzarella. 

Remembered, vaguely, the wedding that I didn't attend, the cries I swallowed, the secrets I'd been carrying like water in the bladder.  In that moment, they felt like distant memories rather than things that had been occupying my mind for months.  It reminded me that healing would come - that change was underway.

A date with God.

-

Today.

Wrung my wrists on the front row of church, nervous.  Nervous about how visibly nervous I was.  Anxious about anxiety, and quietly loathing myself for it all. 

Some of us had been asked to share our testimony.  I was one of them.

It was nothing too difficult: What was our life before Christ?  After?  The issue wasn't that I had nothing to share - I had watched myself become an entirely new person over three years.  It was the fact that I was still in the middle of my storm - still wrestling with depression, still self-loathing, still sitting in a dark room by myself, still half-convinced that I am a blemish and that everyone else has just learned to bear with me.    

But I still shared, with a shaky mic in hand.  Because he was worth the discomfort.

Listened to the other testimonies.  The patient father who I always admired, who treated his daughters so sweetly, revealed that he grew up in foster care.  The sweet, motherly woman who always greeted with smiles and hugs once painted all her life in grey, and lost her daughter a few days shy of her birthday.   The strong man who gave me warm hugs, recommended counselors, and reminded me to be strong spoke about his abusive childhood.  The clever friend who gently persuaded me to not reenter an unhealthy situation spoke about her struggle with partying and drinking.

All redeemed.  All renewed.  Being healed.

You never know a person's story.  The testimony they might have.

Went in the back to help with the kids' nursery .  Chased after one-, two-, and three- year-olds whose utter cuteness seemed equally balanced with their extravagant ability to wreak havoc.

Picked up lunch, and met with the others at someone's home - a house that has become a home to the crowd.  Gathered around the table, chewing on Taco Bell and Mediterranean food before dipping into bowls of carrot cake.  Some laughed in the kitchen; others congregated in the living room.  Ended the party with a game involving dice: one person would roll a die, make a story based on the picture that showed up, and then each successive person would do the same and build upon the narrative.  

The stories were ridiculous.  Mute indigenous people who lived in cotton-candy, multi-storied tents; turtles turning into humans and landing in fountains of youth at the center of the moon; sheep with the voice and wisdom of Morgan Freeman - we were all revealed to be insane.  Wheezed, laughed, and cried at the hilarity.  

Parted ways.  Felt pooped.  Saw that text from my roommate: Still coming over? 

Almost didn't.  But didn't want to give in to anxiety.  

Per request, picked up a fellow student (and mutual friend) who came from China: along the trip, she talked about her home country, how our climates differed, and how clear American skies were in comparison to the ones she grew up seeing.  She told me that she sometimes took pictures of the clouds and sent them to her family.  

Arrived to a house filled to the brim, well loved, full of people and shelves of books.  As the floorboards creaked beneath my feet, I was reminded that this was where my roommate grew up - where she was homeschooled, where she fostered memories, where she learned herself.  Their house sat on a lake front, their backyard a myriad of overflowing gardens that fell into the shimmery water like a scene from a book.  Sat in the sun.  Swung on the swing that hung from the tree, the handiwork of my roommate.  Petted a duck named Bunny .

Saw some familiar faces; saw some new ones.  All from different cultures.  All drastically different.  Listened and giggled at a baby girl who pointed at the water and said Ducks, ducks! in Mandarin.  Spoke with sweet woman from India who sent me a book about psychiatry, and offered to lend her books at any time.  Skipped stones with the quiet sixteen- year-old girl - also from India, but from a different city.  Noticed, with a grimace, the scars on her wrist.  Noticed, with some relief, that none were recent.

You never know a person's story.  The testimony they might have.

Drove back home, riding along roads still paved with golden sunlight.  Dropped off that new friend.  Went home, exhausted.  Well fed.  Realized there was no anxiety.

A good day.  A good life.

[fume-knight-of-shovelry]

Artistic Licenses

A sequel to Inaccuracies and Lights, taking place after both of those stories. You can also find them and my Gency week prompts, as well as any other stories I write, on my Archive page.

-------------

“Angela, have you taken a look at this?” Genji entered Angela’s office without knocking, hands enclosed around thin sheet of paper. He’d elected to keep his mask off for today’s visit. Sighing, she looked up from her work and rested her head in her hands.

“Genji, I appreciate you seeing me so frequently on my off-hours. But would you please knock? One of these days, you’re going to catch me at a bad time.”

“Whatever do you mean, Angela?” Genji grinned. “I imagine that you’d be more concerned that someone might walk in on us.”

“Very funny, Genji.” She rolled her eyes and drummed the corner of her pen on the edge of her desk, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Well, what did you want to show me?”

“I apologize, Angela. I’ll be more mindful in the future. But here, take a look at this.” He shuffled the stack of paper in his hand across the surface of her work table towards her. “Something of Brigitte’s. I think she got it from Reinhardt when she was much younger, and she gave it to me after our last trip to Sweden, and I thought you’d enjoy it.”

 His girlfriend looked the book over, flipping from page to page, chewing on the tip of her pen. “Die Walküre? This is...very old. In fact, I believe that the inaugural performance of this was over two hundred years ago!” She looked back up at her boyfriend, beaming with gratitude. “Thank you, Genji! This is a recent script reproduction, but it is still a wonderful gift. What about it made you think of me?”

 Genji reached out a finger and flipped back to the cover, pointing to the title. “Walküre. German for ‘valkyrie’. I thought you’d find it fitting, given, well, you know.” He began to circle around to the back of the desk, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Is something wrong, Angela?”

 She shook her head and turned to let him plant a quick kiss on her lips, tilting her chin upward to better face him. “Nothing at all, Genji. I merely find the idea that these valkyries have any similarity to me a little...silly. Do not get me wrong, this is a fantastic opera, and my quibble is not meant to detract from the value of your gift.”

Now it was Genji’s turn to raise an eyebrow quizzically. “What do you mean, ‘these valkyries are not similar’? Can you be more specific, Angela?”

“I mean, Richard Wagner was a theatrical and musical genius, I’m not disputing that. That his plays have stayed relevant for so long is remarkable.”

“Angela. The valkyries?”

“Right, sorry. He was good, but he took some significant liberties from his source material. Torbjörn would be able to tell you more, or Brigitte.”

“I’m not asking them, I’m asking you  .”

“Genji, I need to get back to work.” Angela made a shooing motion with her right hand, brushing against Genji’s forearm. “Later, I promise. Okay?”

Genji sighed, but he couldn’t argue with that. “All right, Angela. One more, for the road?” He leaned down and puckered his lips, and felt her return the gesture. With a light smacking sound, they parted, and Genji left her to her work. He had enough to do between now and the end of Angela’s workday.

“So, you were going to elaborate on your point earlier.” Genji prodded. Rather literally: as Angela stood in their kitchen in the sink, he poked the back of her shoulder.

“Oh, right. My apologies.” Angela shook her hands dry from the dishes she’d be doing and turned, leaning against the edge of the countertop. “I was talking about valkyries, correct? Well, as far as I know, the original mythical valkyries were servants of Odin.”

“Who?”

“Ah, right, you wouldn’t be familiar with that.” Angela tilted her head towards the book Genji had brought her, now resting on their table. “He was a Scandinavian god of poetry, wisdom, war, kings, and hanging, among others. Not a nice god, from what we know, even if he ultimately tried to act in the world’s best interests.”

“How do you know so much about old belief systems?” Genji crossed his arms over his chest, the gesture coming across less as “frustrated” and more as “self-conscious”. “You’re making me self-conscious about what I don’t know.”

“Please, Genji, that was not my intention.” Angela reached out to run her fingers over her boyfriend’s forearm, smiling calmly. “And if it makes you feel better, I really don’t know that much. Just the bits that stick out to me as the most interesting.”

Genji winced. He hadn’t meant to whine, but clearly he’d sounded aggravated enough to merit comfort. “Apologies, Angela. What else did you have to share?”

“Well, valkyrie literally means ‘chooser of the slain’.” Angela hadn’t acknowledged his apology verbally, instead communicating her understanding with a light squeeze on his arm. He knew what she meant. “And rather than being the angel-like figures that they’re often depicted as, they could be...somewhat sinister.”

“How?”

“Well, their name isn’t a euphemism. They were literally choosing the slain: who lived, who died, who told their story. They could heal and act to save humans, but more often they might actually engineer the death of a particularly powerful combatant. The belief was that this was so that the bravest, strongest, most stalwart warriors would go to Valhalla to be at Odin’s disposal come Ragnarök, ‘the doom of the gods.’” Angela sighed and leaned into Genji, resting her chest against his shoulder. “In practice, though...not to be dismissive, but in reality this was probably an explanation for why many of the most valiant fighters died young, in their prime.”

Genji slipped one of his hands out from the fold in front of his chest and stroked the back of Angela’s neck, murmuring softly. “I suppose it’s easier to believe that everyone who perishes in battle does so at the will of a league of superwomen for some greater purpose , rather than due to chance or an uncaring world. If you find the appellation ‘valkyrie’ inaccurate, why not choose another?”

Angela leaned back, from Genji, resting one hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm. “Because our cultural consciousness has cemented valkyries as angelic figures. I’ve no illusions about the role the eventual Christianization of Scandinavia played in that a millenia ago.” Angela rolled her eyes, blowing a strand of hair out from her face. “Now, though, it’s another good way to market my technology, as cynical as that may sound. And it is not wholly inaccurate: the valkyries did supposedly have benevolent tendencies and healing powers, even if their primary function was to create and collect dead soldiers. Having an angelic-themed suit and naming it ‘valkyrie’ was too good to pass up.”

“Why not rebrand it as an ‘angelic’ suit, then? I know little of angels, but I’m sure you could find some way to incorporate their names into your suit’s name or branding.”

“Because, mein lieber, angels are even worse in that regard. At least the valkyries look like beautiful women. Angels in the Torah an be...very distressing in appearance.” Angela shuddered. “The hayyoth are essentially wheels with wings and eyes all over them, as are the ophanim. We hold the seraph to be winged snakes with human characteristics, although some view them as having human heads and six pairs of wings…”

“Enough!” Genji held Angela close, pressing his lips against the side of her throat. “You’re making them sound worse than some of the      yōkai     I’m familiar with, and given how bizarre      those    can get, that is quite an achievement.”

Angela patted the back of Genji’s shoulder, letting him lean into her. “Is my big, strong boyfriend scared of Jewish angels? Don’t worry, liebling. I’ll protect you.”

“Save me, Angela! You’re painting a vivid picture of angelic terror!” Genji cuddled his chin between her jaw and clavicle side of her jaw, then broke out into giggles, burying his face in her hair. “Sorry. I couldn’t keep a straight face. But yes, I understand. You’re willing to sacrifice a bit of accuracy for the sake of not driving your patients away in terror.”

“Very true, Genji. Although I won’t pretend it doesn’t bother me. And the caduceus staff and suit spinal design…” She scoffed. “Well, let’s just say that I felt rather silly when I remembered that the healing is represented by the Rod of Asclepius, not Hermes. Blame that on the United States and overworking myself as I was applying for the patent.” She grit her teeth audibly in frustration.

Hearing her aggravation, Genji couldn’t stop himself from bursting out into further laughter. Bracing a hand against the small of her back, the other on her shoulders, Genji lifted up and spun Angela in a poor imitation of a ballroom twirl, leaving him leaning against the kitchen counter with Angela on her tiptoes, resting against his chest. She whooped in surprise, hair mussed from the speed and slightly dizzy from Genji spinning her.

“What’s gotten into you, Genji?” Angela queried, blinking to stop the world around her from tilting. He’d flipped her with a bit more force than he’d probably intended, and now she was trying to keep her balance by resting on Genji’s body.

“Angela, I continue to be frustrated by how most ninja are portrayed. You have expressed displeasure with the inaccuracies your technology’s name and design has with respect to valkyries, angels, and healing symbols. Perhaps we are even more alike than we thought.”

“Are you suggesting that we bond over mutual irritation with inaccuracies?” Angela quirked an eyebrow, the world finally coming to a rest around her.

“No, I’m saying that we already are. There’s a key difference, Angela.” Genji didn’t give her a chance to respond, pulling her forward into another kiss, cradling her body against his. Angela started to speak around his lips, but thought better of it and sank into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist and neck.

Their relationship was healthy enough that they didn’t sustain it on petty spite. But it was a lot of fun to air their grievances together, however minor they might be.

[cleverwordsandotherstuffilike]

One of the blessings of growing older is the discovery that many of the things I once believed to be my shortcomings have turned out in the long run to be my strengths, and other things of which I was unduly proud have revealed themselves in the end to be among my shortcomings. Things that I have hidden from others for years turn out to be the anchor and enrichment of my middle age. What a blessing it is to outlive your self-judgments and harvest your failures." — Rachel Naomi Remen, Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal

[artpropelled]

We are, in a certain way, defined as much by our potential as by its expression. There is a great difference between an acorn and a little bit of wood carved into an acorn shape, a difference not always readily apparent to the naked eye. The difference is there even if an acorn never has the opportunity to plant itself and become an oak. Remembering its potential changes the way in which we think of an acorn and react to it. How we value it. If an acorn were conscious, knowing its potential would change the way it might think and feel about itself. The Hindus use the greeting "Namaste" instead of our more noncommittal "Hello." The connotation of this is roughly, whatever your outer appearance, I see and greet the soul in you. There is a wisdom in such ways of relating. Sometimes we can best help other people by remembering that what we believe about them may be reflected back to them in our presence and may affect them in ways we do not fully understand. Perhaps a sense of possibility is communicated by our tone of voice, facial expression, or certain choice of words . . . Holding and conveying a sense of possibility does not mean making demands or having expectations. It may mean having no expectations, but simply being open to whatever promise the situation may hold and remembering the inability of anyone to know the future. Thoreau said that we must awaken and stay awake not by mechanical means, but by a constant expectation of the dawn. There's no need to demand the dawn, the dawn is simply a matter of time. And patience. And the dawn may look quite different from the story we tell ourselves about it. My experience has shown me the wisdom of remaining open to the possibility of growth in any and all circumstances, without ever knowing what shape that growth may take.

Rachel Naomi Remen, Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal

[uraynoro]

Read PDF Kitchen Table Wisdom 10th Anniversary -- Rachel Naomi Remen

Read PDF Kitchen Table Wisdom 10th Anniversary Ebook Online PDF Download and Download PDF Kitchen Table Wisdom 10th Anniversary Ebook Online PDF Download.

Kitchen Table Wisdom 10th Anniversary

By : Rachel Naomi Remen

  DOWNLOAD Read Online

 DESCRIPTION : "I recommend this book highly to everyone." --Deepak Chopra, M.D.This special updated version of the New York Times-bestseller, Kitchen Table Wisdom, addresses the same spiritual issues that made the original a bestseller: suffering, meaning, love, faith, and miracles."Despite the awesome powers of technology, many of us still do not live very well," says Dr. Rachel Remen. "We may need to listen to one another's stories again." Dr. Remen, whose unique perspective on healing comes from her background as a physician, a professor of medicine, a therapist, and a long-term survivor of chronic illness, invites us to listen from the soul.This remarkable collection of true stories draws on the concept of "kitchen table wisdom"-- the human tradition of shared experience that shows us life in all its power and mystery and reminds us that the things we cannot measure may be the things that ultimately sustain and enrich our lives.

[theblueinyou]

Star Chaser, Star Keeper 01

genre: supernatual, healing, angst  

words: 1,833

pairing: KookMin

Jungkook, child of the moon, falls in love with Jimin, child of a dying star.

( AO3 Link )

Downpour

/ˈdaʊnpɔː/

(noun)

A sudden and unexpected heavy fall of rain.

Jungkook has never found a word so fitting that described him and Jimin perfectly.

Chapter  1: The Springtime Visitor

The weather in May is like a pendulum. The sun would tease its scorching existence a little before disappearing behind a sheet of rain for weeks on end. Sometimes there were brief periods of snow in the lower regions of Korea. Too warm for spring and too cold for summer - it was easy to tell that the people were tired of the seasonal ambiguity.

Seoul has the worst of it. Although the weather forecast hadn’t officially declared the end of the rainy season, its citizens crowded the streets at the first sight of a clear sky, wanting to see the cherry blossoms before the flowers were washed away by the rain. The good weather had only lasted for a few hours until a sudden, unexpected downpour forced everyone to take shelter in nearby cafes and stores.

Solgahun is one of them.

The wooden nameplate of the traditional tea house etched in hanja is practically invisible to most people. Their eyes predictably skip over the unassuming sign and exterior, drawn to the dozens of other cafes lining the streets of Jongro district.

Jungkook runs Solgahun ( 솔가헌, derived from how the place smells like the pine tree ). His patrons are usually the elderly who like to play Baduk while enjoying his homemade tea or herbal medicine. They also like to play Hwatu, but Jungkook always prohibits the gambling with a firm but gentle smile.

“Jungkook-ah,”

He’s quick to respond, shifting his attention from mopping the floor and raising his brow at Namjoon to indicate that he now has his full attention.

“I’m working more than your staff . Now that I’m thinking about it, I should be the one getting paid by the hour,” Namjoon complains.

“ Would you like to be paid by me?” Jungkook scoffs, balancing against the mop as he gives him a knowing look. He knows the rules of Confucius don’t apply to Namjoon considering how he’s been around long before the philosopher was born, but a child of the Sun taking money from a child of the moon is still seen as petty. The age hierarchy, it seemed, was universal - with minor variations, of course.

Jungkook had met Namjoon in Seoul at the end of the Joseon Dynasty, right before the Japanese had forcefully annexed Korea. It made sense to keep each other company during times of hardships. The two had been together ever since.

“Besides,” Jungkook adds, “it’s not like you have anything better to do these days. Best spend your time doing something productive.” Such as cleaning the floor and help serving tea, he thinks to himself. Namjoon may not be the most careful with the china, but he acts as a quiet energizer, just like his celestial parent, which eases customers in a way Jungkook can’t.

Namjoon looks mildly offended by this, but decides not to add fuel to Jungkook’s teasing, nodding in defeat and going back to sweeping the floor.

The bell chimes when the door opens, and a rain-soaked guest stepping in in a hurry. Both Namjoon and Jungkook turn to greet him.

The guest brings in the smell of cherry blossoms mixed with wet soil as he enters, a warm breeze drifting into the tea house despite the heavy downpour outside. The oversized beige sweater he’s wearing is drenched, drowning him in his own clothes and making him look smaller than he already is. Jungkook notices how the chime of the bell still echoes around him, and he lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding when the boy meets his gaze.

“Welcome,” Namjoon says with a smile while Jungkook stares in stunned silence. It seems like Namjoon had picked up on his surprise since he doesn’t wait for Jungkook to speak. “Feel free to seat wherever you’d like,” Namjoon tells their guest before turning to Jungkook.  “Jungkook-ah, bring him a towel.”

“Yeah,” he replies, almost on autopilot.

“Is there something you’d like to drink as well?” Namjoon asks the guest.

“Thanks,” the boy says shyly, his eyes darting here and there, obvious that he’s surprised as well. “Um, do you have warm omija tea?”

Namjoon nods and gives Jungkook a gentle push towards the kitchen. Jungkook doesn’t fight the push and moves where he’s supposed to go even though he’s half-annoyed and half-grateful, wanting to stare at the boy longer but needing a minute or two to refocus.

“We didn’t expect to see someone like us around so soon,” Namjoon muses when Jungkook returns with a towel and a tray of tea. “Do you have a name?”

“I’m Jimin.”

“Jimin?” Namjoon echoes, almost as an afterthought. “Ji (智) for wisdom and Min is for…?”

“Sky (旻),” Jimin nods. “Wisdom that touches the sky.” Namjoon’s small talk seemed to have help relax both Jimin and Jungkook a bit; Jungkook can look at the guest without looking away whenever their eyes meet.

There’s a faint glow around Jimin, bright enough to see the dust dancing around him. It might be from the help from the sunlight pouring in, but Jungkook can’t take his eyes off the guest.

Besides the glow, Jimin was soft-looking with a mouth prone to smiling. And with his pale skin, rosy cheeks, and soft, silver-blond hair, Jungkook isn’t surprised when Jimin introduces himself as a child of an old star.

“Seems like you’re the youngest out of the three here,” Jimin giggles, giving Jungkook a kind yet unreadable look. “All the other children I’ve met so far were older than I am.”

“You’ve met others?” Jungkook’s eyes widen in interest. He hadn’t seen any other gods for a while now, not since the Korean war.

Jimin shakes his head. “Not in Seoul, at least. There’s too much light pollution here, so you can’t see anything in the sky. Not to mention the yellow dust.” Jimin crinkles his nose, making no effort to hide his disgust.

“Yeah.” Jungkook looks at Namjoon, who gives him an understanding look. Seoul wasn’t exactly the best place to live. “So what brings you here then?”

“This was my first home. I was created here.”

So were Jungkook and Namjoon. Their silence prompts Jimin to continue.

“I missed this place. I haven’t been here ever since the Japanese occupation and wandered around in Europe for a while but…”

“It’s just not like home,” Namjoon helps him finish.

“……” Jimin doesn’t answer, giving him a slight shrug instead.

“Yeah, home is the best place to be.”

Namjoon’s words have put them all under nostalgic silence, and Jimin looks particularly wistful. Jungkook wonders what kind of life Jimin had that makes him miss the past so much.

It’s nice to reminisce. While Namjoon is a great companion, they’ve been living together for too long. While Namjoon is a great companion, they’ve been living together for too many decades to count. Jimin’s stories are more interesting to listen to, the newness of his tales taking hold of Jungkook. If Namjoon and Jimin were talking about the same sky, then they described it as different colors.

When the downpour outside had metamorphosed into a light drizzle, Jimin tells them about how there are two rivers in the their galaxy. He speaks delicately, the words almost a soft mumble that makes Jungkook feel warm and comforted.

“I’ve never seen them in person,” Namjoon shakes his head when Jungkook looks at him for confirmation.

“There’s a river where all the wishes flow. You can see all of them glitter underneath the water like rocks.”  

“Wishes?” Jungkook asks, brows furrowing.

“It’s where people’s wishes go,” Jimin clarifies. “Anytime someone looks at one of us, blows out a candle, prays… it becomes part of that great flow.”

Jungkook’s mouth forms a small “O”, catching the way how Jimin’s eye glitter as he speaks of their home.

“I heard it’s almost overflowing, but it never floods,” Namjoon comments.

“That’s because our Father made it, silly,” Jimin giggles.

The god who created the universe. It always amazed Jungkook how someone with such a big presence could obscure himself so that no one had ever really seen him. There were an abundance of rumors - glimpses, even - but nothing more than unconfirmed tales. Even legends had their own legends.

“So what kind of wishes get granted by Father?” Jungkook asks, curious as Namjoon as never spoke of it before. “The brightest one? The one that’s in the deeper part of the river? Or the most humble one?” A river made up of glittering wishes - Jungkook found it so poetic.

Jimin’s response is not what he’s expected. Jimin looks at him for a while, lips pressed together tightly.

“None.”

“......”

“It’s a river made up of wishes that can’t come true.”

“......”

“That’s why it hurts when you try to dip your hand in for too long.”

Jimin leaves when the rain stops completely. Jungkook blinks at the clock on the wall, surprised to see how time went by so fast. Even for a celestial child, Jimin seems to timeless.

He’s reluctant to see Jimin go, wanting him to stay longer. Jimin promises that he’ll be back, and he believes him. The way Jimin’s gaze lingered on his makes him sure of it. Or that’s how he imagines it to be.

When Jimin disappears into the corner at the end of their street, Namjoon turns to Jungkook.

“I think you scared him away with all the staring.”

“What? I didn’t stare.” Jungkook is quick to defend himself, not meeting Namjoon’s eyes when he feels the heat of a blush rushing up his neck. “I just, you know, his skin kind of glowed. It was cool. I never met a child of a star before.”

“It was cool,” Namjoon parrots him dryly, wetting a cloth from the sink to wipe the table clean.

“He looks like he’s been around for a while. He must have seen a lot of stuff,” Jungkook says, trying to change the topic.

“Yeah. Centuries before you were created.” Namjoon’s voice sounds almost distant, indicating that he’s reminiscing again. “There were a lot more star children back then. No one wants to come to Earth when it’s so difficult to see the stars these days.”

“He looked a little sad,” Jungkook says, picking up the cup that Jimin had drank from, still warm to touch. Korea had changed drastically over the century. Although most changes were for the best, the difference might have made Jimin feel like a stranger in his own home. “He must miss how things were like before.” He recalls the distant longing in his voice when Jimin spoke of the past, how he stared into his reflection on the glass rather than the view outside the window.

“Jimin doesn’t really miss the old days,” Namjoon corrects him. “He’s just counting his days.”

Jungkook stills, his grip around the tray tightening.

“…what?”

In the short silence they share, Namjoon seems surprised that Jungkook hadn’t noticed, shooting him a sympathetic look.

“He’s dying, Kook. Jimin is a dying star.”