#Mention off Jenkins because she's baby and I love her

[aki-draws-things]

Just a little thought I got while trying to get my hair back cause ugh, heat.

Jack, during a mission lasting too long, unable to get enough gel to keep his hair out if the goddamn way (his words, not mine), ending up stealing a hairband from whoever (actually, it's Jenkins. And yeah, she carries more because of that. For winter too sometimes, guys, we don't want our pretty asset to suffer the heat, right?) and trying to tie them, with very little success, but now he carries on the mission with that spiky thing of a ponytail.

And no, rumlow is definitely not distracted by that. Or by the hair that escape the hairband and gets a little curly. Nope. Not at all.

[ghostofwriting]

in London: I break down cause you're not around

Rafe x Reader

Warnings: mentions of cheating

Note: Just a random drabble idea that popped into my head. Please don't come at me for more cheating okay just call me Taylor Jenkins Reid because apparently, that's all I can write. Absolutely not KS related. KS Chapter 4 coming soon.

Word Count: 1,346

Summary: Rafe probably

"But you're in London, and I break down 'Cause it's not fair that you're not around

This is when the feeling sinks in I don't wanna miss you like this Come back, be here"

It’s humid out, everything feels damp, her baby blue dress sticking to her uncomfortably. The slight breeze makes her shiver due to the contrast of the heat when it touches her skin. She can’t quite breathe.

She’s outside on the terrace, the stone railing covered in pink flowers with green vines running underneath them. The stairs lead to a garden and a small maze. If you walk past the tree line, you’ll hit the ocean, she can hear the waves crashing.

She needed to step out and take a breather. There are too many people inside, it feels too crowded, and all her past lives come back to haunt her. She shouldn’t even be here. She should be back in London where she started her new life. Far away from any reminders of what could have been. 

He’s been watching her all night. The partygoers had been dancing, mingling and catching up, celebrating the happy couple and everywhere she turned she caught his eye. From the corner of her eye, or through the reflection of a mirror. He would look at her over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of his drink. She had been avoiding him, not only tonight but for the better part of the year. Ever since they broke up. 

He had tried to text and call and beg his way back into her life but it wasn’t something that he could be part of anymore. When he had tried to follow her to London, she told him that never in a million years would she forgive him. There is nothing he could do to fix what he tore to shreds. 

They had been together for years. She trusted him with everything she had in her and he betrayed that trust by sleeping with her best friend. Why? She had asked him the night she walked away. Why would you sleep with her? He had no answer, no vocabulary that could make this better. 

His friends had told her that it was because she had laid into him too hard one time and made him so angry that he wanted revenge. She wasn’t perfect, she knew that he had shit going on with his dad and that the drugs didn’t help either. He wasn’t necessarily stable, but she didn’t think he could hurt her just to hurt her. They told her he regretted it immediately and swore them all to secrecy. He threatened them with god knows what and they vouched for him. 

She had started to suspect something happened between the two when they started acting weird around each other. Before the shift, they never avoided each other, they were civil and they could hold conversations. After it happened, they were never seen in the same room and if on the rare occasion they were, no eye contact would be made and no words exchanged. Sometimes on those rare occasions, she would watch her best friend and see how she looked at him. Her eyes softened and a small smile appeared on her face only to be wiped off as soon as she made eye contact with her. She would brush it off and pretend that she was seeing things. At some point, her best friend pulled away from the friend group and stopped talking to her. She was hurt because she didn’t know why and never received an explanation. 

When the guilt started to eat at her, that’s when she came forward. Five months after the act was committed. She looked at her in disbelief as she explained herself and told her that she was sorry, that she was in love with him. In love with her boyfriend. Her best friend and her boyfriend. How cliche? How did she let that happen to her?

He had been looking for her, trying to find her to stop her from telling the truth. It was too late when she found her. She was silent, staring at the crying girl. The one that had been her best friend. She looked at him and started to back away, 

“Wait!” He had yelled after her, “Please, listen!” He rann up behind her, reaching for her arm, unsuccessfully as she kept walking. 

He had followed her through the parking lot trying to stop her from getting into her car. Tears glistening in his eyes. 

She wouldn’t listen. There was no coming back from this. She didn’t say a single word as she got into her car and drove away from the boy that she thought was her forever. 

She didn’t want to see any of them ever again, she cried to her mother, and together they decided that she would go to London and start her law career there. Her mom would do anything to get her away from the boy she thought was a bad influence. 

That very next morning she was on a plane to London. He called and called and called. Until she changed her number. Her mom told her that he had tried to find out where she was and tried to find her. She had loyal friends back home, they proved that to her by never telling him where she had gone. 

And just like that she had disappeared for months on end. No trace of her. 

Until now. 

“You look beautiful.” His voice is something she wishes she could forget. She’s disappointed to know that she remembers it exactly.

“What are you doing here?” She stares at her hands, not sparing him a glance.

“It’s my sister's rehearsal dinner.” She rolls her eyes, glad that he can’t see the reaction. 

“I meant out here.” 

“I want to talk to you.” She should have known he would follow her outside. He was never one to give up easily. 

“There’s nothing to say.”

“I have things to say. You disappeared and never let me explain myself.” She looks up from her hands now, still not at him.

“That’s because I didn’t want to hear anything you had to say. I don’t care about anything you have to say.”

“I love you. I fucked up, I don’t deserve your forgiveness, I know that.”

She doesn’t face him, choosing to look at the scenery instead. The trees, the garden, if she looks far enough into the distance she sees the ocean.

“I was so angry with you and I wasn’t thinking. I will never do something like that again, I regretted it immediately.” He won’t ever get a chance to do that again, at least not with her.

“I don’t want to hear it. I didn’t then. And I don’t now.”

She hears him sniffle, he places his hand next to hers on the railing. She sees as his finger twitches, itching to touch her. 

“Please, tell me how to fix this.” She looks at him now, his eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

“There is nothing you could ever do to fix this.” He clenches his jaw and she notices how it flutters. 

“Please. Come back.” 

“I wish I could. Don’t you get it? I wish I could just forget everything you did. I wish I never found out because I love you, I still do. Even after everything.” His eyes fill with hope. 

“I love myself more.” He deflates, looking down at his hands in front of him. 

She feels a presence come up behind them and turns slightly. She sees who it is and knows it’s her time to go. 

She doesn’t spare her ex-best friend a glance as she walks past her into the building where the party is still in full swing. 

“Rafe.” She hears her say. She doesn’t turn around, not wanting to hurt more than she already is. 

“Stay away from me, Kiara.” He snaps. He leaves Kie standing on the balcony as he climbs down the steps two at a time and towards his car.

Just a few more days of pretending to be okay. In less than a week she would be back in London. And she would be able to breathe again. 

[katie-the-bug]

Take a wild guess what I'm still reading.

For those just tuning in to my running commentary on Left Behind, we're following: Rayford Steele, a True Christian (TM) who's trying to convert his daughter and not-girlfriend; Chloe Steele, who exists just so Rayford has someone to worry about; Hattie Durham, Rayford's not-girlfriend and a newly-minted Antichrist fangirl; Bruce Barnes, failed pastor and expositor extraordinaire; Buck Williams, a reporter who's done a really bad job hiding from a global conspiracy; Nicolae Carpathia, the ridiculously charming barely-disguised Antichrist.

"As long as you don't expect me to cook or something sexist and domestic like that." Chapter 14 is off to a great start everybody.

We finally get Nicolae's take on every child in the world dying instantly, and his response has to do with quantum fields, lightning, and nuclear weapons. I understand he's supposed to be obviously lying here, but really, there's about as much proof for his theory as there is for the Rapture - which is to say, none.

Nicole also refers to the disappearance of children and "fetal material." I simply adore that a) LaHaye and Jenkins just had to make their villain pro-choice and b) this is how they think pro-choice people talk. Regardless, I'm rooting for Nicolae effective immediately.

The Steele's home gets broken into offpage, which I suppose is meant to show how lawless and cruel the world has become, but it falls flat. All the characters are back to work and traveling with only minor hitches from piled-up cars, governments are proceeding as though nothing has happened, and the characters can go shopping without incident. If the authors were trying to get across an image of societal collapse, they're failing miserably.

On call with Rayford in Chapter 15, Hattie mentions that her sister works in an abortion clinic and is getting no business because nobody is pregnant anymore, and Rayford (whose viewpoint is considered "correct" now that he's a True Christian) concludes that said sister is hoping for people to need abortions again so she can keep getting paid. Just in case you thought that the authors viewed abortion providers as anything other than baby-killing mercenaries.

The rest of the conversation has Rayford thinking Hattie is stupid for hoping her sister won't be out of business for too long. Actually, he's had a similar attitude throughout the whole story - part of the reason he beats himself up for wanting to have an affair with her is because she's young and vapid. Was I supposed to like this man? Because I don't like him at all.

M*A*S*H is still on at its usual time. But sure, the world is in chaos.

Nicolae has been declared "Sexiest Man Alive." Out of all the ways the authors are trying to show that everybody loves Nicolae, this is the funniest.

It has been mentioned several times that the Romanian Nicolae is of Italian descent. I would like to know how this matters at all. Is the Antichrist supposed to be Roman? Then why not make him Italian? And if he has to have some other nationality, why Romanian of all things? Why not American, which is what he acts like most of the time? I'm just going to assume there's some obscure interpretation of Revelation that indicates a Romanian Antichrist and leave it at that.

So, just to give you an idea of what's going on in Buck's plotline: his friend in London was on the trail of a global conspiracy. He died in a very suspicious "suicide." His other friend came to warn him that this conspiracy was coming for him before dying gruesomely in a car bombing, which Buck used to fake his own death. Buck returned to America, met with people who knew he was Buck, and went right back to reporting despite being worried that the conspiracy will arrest him for his friend's murders. He meets with Nicolae, who he knows is probably part of the conspiracy and more importantly knows exactly who he is and what he did. Nicolae is now explaining his entire evil scheme after no prompting. I think Buck is stupid, but fortunately for him, so is this conspiracy.

This whole plotline, incidentally, ends with Nicolae persuading Buck not to reveal the global conspiracy and, in exchange, phoning his fellow conspirators to get Buck off the hook. So our story about our intrepid journalist on the run from a global conspiracy ends in him not exposing a damn thing. Anticlimactic.

At the beginning of Chapter 17, Rayford watches the news. Once again, the sudden and mysterious death of every child in the world is a secondary concern to Nicolae Carpathia and *checks notes* two religious fanatics in Jerusalem yelling about Jesus Christ.

The book takes a few pages to let Bruce explain everything that's going to happen in the next seven years - and by extension, exactly how the authors think the end of the world will go down. This isn't even foreshadowing, this is straight-up spoiling the rest of the book series.

In Chapter 18, the aforementioned religious fanatics are attacked, and for some reason THIS is "turn on the TV right now" level news.

Okay so it's been shown and explicitly mentioned at least once that Nicolae doesn't use contractions in his speech. This means that, when he's pretending to act surprised about the suspicious death of one of Buck's competitors, he exclaims "You do not say!" like he's a posh French lady in a cartoon. I really want to know why the authors thought it made him sound sophisticated.

Nicolae meets Hattie and immediately gives her his personal number. We get no details, but I feel like there's a much more interesting story to be told here about the most charming man in the world being himself charmed in an instant. I know their relationship won't work out because Nicolae's gonna start acting cartoonishly evil in a little bit, but I'm gonna ship it while I can.

That concludes my thoughts on Chapters 14-19. I think I'm gonna have to start doing this in a more organized manner, maybe one post every five chapters or so just so they don't get too long and I don't have to think up silly titles for every single post. We'll see.

[symmage]

Jaxon lifted Yasmine up off the ground

"Baby!" Yasmine squealed. "Did you get enough rest over at Mike's?"

"Yeah, we put in an all-nighter on the field and hit the gym for a few hours after. He's trying to outdo me, but you can't outdo the original." Jaxon boasted. "I had to show him who's the top dog."

"That's right! My baby is number 1, with the medals and plaques to back it up."

Jaxon heartily laughed as Yasmine egged him on. "My number 1 fan right here, that's what's up."

He lifted her up higher, getting a handful of her bottom. He squeezed it endearingly and whistled.

"Ooh shit, Yassy...is that ass getting fatter?! I've only been gone for a day."

"Stop it and put me down, silly!"

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm telling you that grip is getting out of hand back there." he grinned. "I like that."

"Focus, Jax. I have something to tell you."

"What's up, baby?"

"Me and the kids finally met the tenant in unit A. She's the new live-in landlord."

"Oh, she's taking on Nana Corelle's position. Is she an older lady?"

"No, she's young, maybe a couple years younger than us. She's really quiet and a bit distant, but she's nice. Jacoby has taken a liking to her."

"His eyes were so fixated on her," she giggled. "You should have seen them light up when she talked about having gatherings in the triplex like Nana Corelle used to do."

"Don't tell me my boy is crushing on the landlord." Jaxon cackled.

"Well, he's a growing boy. I just need him to crush on girls his own age."

"Ah, I know. He'll grow out of it, though."

"It was those damn hormones, girl, and like you said, talk. It was all talk to show off in front of the guys," he replied with a reminiscing smile. But seriously, you were always the one I wanted to claim in school. They all knew I had it bad for you."

"Like father like son," she shook her head. "I remember back in school, you and your buddies used to talk about how pretty and perfect Ms. Harley-Jenkins down the street was."

Yasmine chortled. "Look at you trying to smooth over your antics back in the day. You were a piece of work, Mr. Rogers."

Jaxon gasped. "A piece of work, huh?" He pulled her in close to his chest. "I mean...look at us now. I think I smoothed over a lot and won a jackpot, finally nailing your fine ass in the end. It was what I always wanted."

"You flatter me so much." she smiled.

"It's because I mean it. I love you, Yassy."

"I love you too, Jax." she blushed.

"Now come on," she interrupted their tender moment. "I want you to meet her."

Yasmine led the way into the lobby, hoping to find Kayna at home. Off in the corner near the laundry room, Kayna stood getting a snack from the vending machine.

"Is that her?" Jaxon asked.

"Yep, that's her." Yasmine happily confirmed. "Hey, Kayna!"

Kayna turned around to find Yasmine standing with a man next to her. Was that the tenant of the bottom unit she wondered.

"Kayna, come over here," Yasmine beamed. "You can finally meet Jaxon, my other half."

"Oh! It's wonderful to finally meet you, Jaxon." Kayna smiled as she extended her hand out to shake his. "Yasmine mentioned you briefly, but her face lit up when she did."

Jaxon grinned from ear to ear, listening to Kayna speak. "It's good to meet you as well. I hate that we haven't met earlier." he sighed, "My work schedule has been a bit hectic lately."

"It's alright. Better late than never at all, right?' she shrugged.

Jaxon awkwardly laughed in agreement.

"I've met your kids as well," she continued. "I must say that you have a beautiful family."

"Thank you. I hope my kids behaved well when you met them."

"Besides the ghost story, Briyana told me...everything was fine."

"Oh man , she got you with the story, too, huh?" Jaxon cackled. "She's been holding on to that bit for over two years! I don't think she's ever going to stop telling it." Jaxon shook his head. "I hope she didn't scare you."

"Well...at first, it was alarming, but I've settled on the notion that a child's imagination is quite powerful, and I'll leave it at that."

"I agree!" Jaxon nodded.

"Well, I hope we all get along going forward." Kayna smiled. "I may be your landlord, but I want a good relationship with you all here going forward."

"Yes...I would love that for us as well." Jaxon agreed, feeling a lump in his throat as he tried his hardest to maintain cordial eye contact.

<-Back Next->

[ninjastormhawkkat]

Emily got up behind her desk and walked over toward Gene. She gave her brother a great big hug which surprised the man. “What was that for?” Gene asked curiously. Emily chuckled at his oblivious reaction to the hug.”That’s for being a caring little brother even if you get too stubborn and over protective sometimes.” Emily teased but she had genuine gratitude in her voice. Gene smiled and blushed a bit not only from Emily’s genuine heartfelt words but also her embarrassing remark as well. “Thanks Emily. I mean it when I say I don’t want anything bad happening to you.” Gene said in a calm yet caring tone. Emily smiled at her brother sympathetically. She saw how much emotional torture Gene had put himself through when Becky got sick. She and Victor hated how Gene blamed himself for foolishly causing it to happen and not considering the effects of mixing alien and human DNA. They and Tristan assured him it wasn’t his fault and along with Jenkins helped the couple through hard times until Becky got better. Emily knew that her dads and brothers along with Doohickey will help her during her pregnancy and when the child is about to be born. Meanwhile a frown formed on Matthew’s face as a thought came to mind. He turned to speak with Carl. “Hey Carl, have you talked to Gene about what we discussed last night yet?” Matthew asked. Carl’s eyes widened as he knew what Matthew was talking about. “No, with all that has happened I haven't had a chance to speak to Gene yet.” Carl replied. He then turned to face their son. “Gene, do you mind if we ride back with you to your house?” Carl asked. Gene seemed surprised by the question. “Not at all, why do you ask?” Gene inquired. “Well your father and I want your advice and some help on a few matters if that is alright. We can talk about it more at your house. It’s nothing too serious.” Carl explained to his son. Gene nodded. “Okay we can head on home now. Just let me finish chatting with Emily and I also have to drop Hugh off first.” The two old men agreed. “We’ll wait for you at your car.” Matthew explained, then he and Carl left the room while Gene, Hugh, and Mark stayed with Emily to chat about the baby and what she wants to do to prepare for when she has to take maternity leave. As they headed to the front entrance, Carl stopped in his tracks. “Actually love you can go on ahead. I just want to have a quick chat with Margaret and tell her the good news before we go.” Carl said. He also wanted to talk to Margaret about Eudora Price before he left, unaware Matthew had already mentioned the woman to Margaret, just not her last name. Matthew smiled and gave a nod in agreement before he went back outside to the front entrance to wait on Carl. Outside Matthew patiently waited on a bench just gazing at the people walking around the building, some entering and some leaving the entrance of City Hall. He also gazed at the traffic and cars going up and down the streets. As his eyes wandered he soon caught a glimpse of something that surprised him. Just a few feet ahead of him Victor’s car was parked near the entrance of City Hall. ‘Huh. I wondered when Victor got here?’ Matthew pondered. Neither he nor Carl saw him entering or leaving the building. Matthew wondered if his eldest son had arrived here because he heard about Emily being pregnant. Matthew quickly shook that thought out of his mind as it would have been impossible since he was sure neither Emily, Gene, Carl, Hugh, nor her assistant Mark had contacted the man yet. Matthew then thought back to the phone call Margaret had which caused the woman some surprise and worry. Matthew wondered if Victor was here because she called him. “Maybe it won’t hurt to check on Carl right now.” Matthew said aloud. Just as he got up from the bench and headed back inside, he accidentally bumped into a person leaving. “Oh I am so sorry about that…”Matthew started apologizing, only to be cut off as he now had a good look at the person who he had bumped into.

Heart of chaos

A year had passed since the B.E.A.W Labs organization had fallen. Since all the events had taken place. Becky being taken along with Bob. The poor girl being experimented on by a cruel scientist who had no love for anyone but himself. Matthew had broken out of the facility with her, Carl and Steven. Gene's true identity being revealed along with losing his Dr.Two-Brains persona. Shocking revelations unfolded. Betrayals and redemption. Things had calmed down significantly since but that didn't mean life had been dull. It certainly wasn't for Fair City. Especially with the villains, heroes and its eccentric inhabitants livening up the city. Becky had been making a wonderful recovery. Though she still wasn't at her full recovery Becky was still making so much more progress than the year prior. Gene still had identity issues, dealing with the loss of Squeaky. Though he didn't go through it alone. The still mad scientist had his family and friends help him through everything. Matthew and Carl took up residency within the city. A house that wasn't too far from their sons. Life in this place was definitely lively and peaceful in comparison to the hellish place many innocent souls were imprisoned in. Matthew was less exhausted than before. Relaxing within the living room in his son's house, watching whatever was put on the television. Matthew felt his eyes beginning to droop. Sleepiness hitting him out of nowhere. He simply allowed himself to doze off, not fighting it. Knowing that he was safe there. It wasn't until he felt weight on him that Matthew opened his eyes. Usually a dog or cat would be the cause for this but Matthew met many eyes. Fluffy had snuck into the house yet again. A small warm smile spread across his facial features, patting the spider on its head. Fluffy leaned into Matthew's hand, making soft happy noises. It was funnily cute to him. Though he understood as to why Gene was so afraid of him. Even Carl was squeamish around the giant spider. “Aw, who's a good boy? You are! You're a good boy!” Matthew couldn't help but baby talk the arachnid. He looked up, wriggling his chelicerae in response. As to say ‘Me! I'm a good boy!’ He chuckled at that, giving Fluffy gentle scritches. It was like a huge puppy in a spider's body. Though the peacefulness was interrupted by a sudden shout. “NO! WHY IS IT HERE AGAIN?!” Gene was in the doorway of the living room. Looking quite terrified at the huge arachnid. Fluffy instantly moved around on Matthew's lap to look at Gene. Excitedly jumping off of the supervillain's lap in favor of his son. He bolted right for the mad scientist, causing him to yelp loudly and make a run for it. “SOMEONE KEEP THAT ABOMINATION AWAY FROM ME!” Matthew gave a small laugh. “Can't help but feel abit rejected there.” Archie, who was quiet until then, responded. “I know that feeling.” This caused Matthew to jump up startled. “Don't do that! I'm old. Also I could accidentally blast you.” Archie blinked in confusion. “You didn't notice me? I came in with Fluffy. He got loose and snuck into the house. I just came to bring him back before he got to Gene. Too late for that now.” Archie frowned. “I can't help but be jealous at how much Fluffy loves him. Though Gene is terrified of him. That spider just won't listen to me when it comes to his favorite person.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “You want me to help you?” Matthew was being genuine with his question. He didn't want his son dying of fright from the giant arachnid. “That would be greatly appreciated. I have to take him back home. He can't avoid taking his medication this time.” Matthew got up, stretching first before doing anything else. This earned him a strange look from Archie. “What? I said I'm old. If I don't stretch I'll pull a muscle.” The hero shrugged. “Let's go get him soon. I have to look after Charlotte as well.” Archie always had the brightest smile when Charlotte was brought up. Either by him, Sunshine or anyone else. It was sweet. “Alright, alright.” They were completely unaware of an enemy observing them. Waiting.

Miss Power growled in frustration at the display she was witnessing through a window to the Boxleitner or rather the Woods household. A display she thought was very disgusting. How badly the alien conqueror wanted to charge right in their and obliterate everyone in her sights. She couldn't do her usual tactics and tricks right now, not after what she learned after coming back. She was still ticked off after that little alien brat Wordgirl and her parents dupe and tricked her into leaving the planet in defeat. There was no way she could go back to her planet and face her people with such a shameful stain to her otherwise brilliant record. Fueled by revenge and hatred, Miss Power spent her time preparing, training, and waiting so she could exact her revenge against those who wronged her, against the little hybrid girl and her freak of a family that humiliated her. Sadly when Miss Power and her loyal sidekick Colonel Gigglecheeks did decide to return, they were not prepared for the recent changes that had happeend in their absence. Miss Power did not care much for this Darius person or B.E.A.W labs, she had seen those like them a dime a dozen before on other worlds. The alien wished she could have congratulated the person who tortured and dehumanized Wordgirl and her sidekick. If it was up to her, Professor Ross Moran would receive high honors among her people for his actions. She did give her condolences at his unmarked gravestone. While the recent trauma Wordgirl and her sidekick have suffered gave Miss Power an opportunistic advantage, the alien conquerer unfortunately could not risk using it especially with her grandfather around. Miss Power was amazed at hearing about the past and recent exploits of Maddrix the Malicious. She was shocked that someone so bloodthirsty and powerful was the father of that scientist who used to have a mouse brain attached to his skull as well as a weird cheese obsession. To her disappointment, Miss Power could clearly see the man was too human and had regretted his actions in the past. Actions that would have made him highly respected among her people despite him being human. Still Miss Power wasn't going to risk striking back while that old coot was still alive. Age did not always equate to weakness according to what she had been taught. Even though he was old, Maddrix was clearly still powerful. It was likely that her and Gigglecheeks would wind up dead by the man's hands before they could claim revenge and victory. A chittering sound snapped Miss Power out of her musings. She turned her head to see her sidekick give her a concerned look. He chittered again and asked 'So what are we going to do?' Miss Power smiled and scratched her sidekick's head which he enjoyed. "Don't worry Colonel Gigglecheeks. We'll get our revenge soon. We just need to learn more about Mr. Malicious and what weaknesses he might have so we can use it to defeat him." Miss Power cooed. She then took her sidekick and flew off without anyone being the wiser. Miss Power was brash and bold and could be tricked sometimes, but she was no fool. The alien conqueror learned long ago that the best way to win your battles was to be prepared and know your enemy more than they know themselves. Carl sighed with relief and slight exhaustion as he sat down in a comfy chair. He had just finished sweeping the floor of his and Matthew's home. Now all he had to do was sit and relax until his husband got home. Carl wanted to try a nice 'mom and pop' owned restaurant that one of Gene's friends, Chuck, had recommended to the man. Carl had been itching to get out and do something more and more recently. If he had to be honest, he was getting bored. In the past, Carl had his job and work as a scientist to keep him occupied along with spending time with his husband and kids. Unfortunately after his 20 year imprisonment, Carl couldn't step in another official science lab ever again without a severe anxiety and panic attack @dualnaturedscientist

[boldlyvoid]

ain't it fun? | part 3

summary: reader just needs an NA meeting before they have a meltdown, they end up with the best friend they could ever make.

warnings: season 4 episode 7 plot but spencer doesn't have to go through it all alone. mentions of child molestation and murder

word count: 2K

P1 P2

Spencer calls from Vegas of all places, he’s staying an extra few days after a case and he won’t be home. “Actually, if I buy you a ticket would you fly out here for me?”

“Are you crazy?” She laughs, “what’s really going on babe?”

She doesn’t call him babe very often but when she does she can always hear him blush, he’s so giddy and cute he smiles wide and licks his lips a few times, but he doesn't this time.

“I’m not doing the best.”

“Do you need your girlfriend or do you need a meeting?” She asks because she knows there is a huge difference.

“I need my best friend.”

When she arrives in Vegas, she takes a taxi to his hotel and sits in his room all alone until he’s done whatever he was up to. There’s an envelope on the floor, “you’ve got the wrong guy” written on the front in a hasty black chicken scratch.

She hides along the wall, making sure no one can see her under the crack of the door. She manages to keep one foot on either side of the door frame as she looks out the peephole to see an older white man walking away from the door. He’s in a work uniform, on the phone, he’s whispering.

Once she’s sure he’s off the floor, she grabs her things and leaves the room. Leaving the envelope on the floor, she calls Spencer from the stairwell.

“Hey, I’m on my way back now,” Spencer answers.

“Someone dropped an envelope off in your room. I didn’t touch anything I just walked out after the guy left… can I meet you in the bar instead?”

“Yeah! Of course,” he encourages her safety protocols, “I’ll make sure the envelope is safe first, thank you for being smart.”

“No problem," she laughs, he was the genius and he was still calling her smart for following her gut.

"I’m just walking down the stairs cause he took the elevator. He was white, 5’8 ish and older; balding with grey hair so I’m guessing he was in his 60s, and he was on the phone with someone,” she gives his description quickly before she could forget it. “And the envelope says you got the wrong guy on the outside.”

“I know who that is, thank you. I love you,” each phrase got quieter and quieter and she knew he was in the car with his co-workers.

“I love you too, see you soon.”

—

It’s midnight in Virginia, it’s only 9pm in Vegas and Spencer’s been losing his mind trying to solve a case for his own sanity. He was getting nowhere, he’s even tried hypnosis to take him back to when he was 4. But nothing was working.

He’s in the middle of begging his mother to remember, “mom, this isn’t about me. This is about Riley Jenkins.”

“It was always about you…” Diana whispers.

“Please, mom—“

“Spencer,” Y/N’s eyes shoot open.

She’s just been sitting there, barely getting to know Diana as Spencer explained what he remembers. It was very intimate, but she already knew about the dream. She knew one day he’d want to learn more, and now he was.

“Listen to what she just said, it was always about you,” she repeats the words and Spencer looks more confused.

She steps forward and takes Diana’s hands in hers, sitting her down on the edge of her bed as she looks at her carefully. “This is hard, I know you’re really trying and I know how hard it is to talk to Spencer when he’s like this. But how about you tell me the story? Why was the Riley Jenkins case more about Spencer to you?”

Diana clues in then, her eyes zoning out as she remembers everything and Spencer sits quietly in the corner. “Riley was a real boy, poor boy…”

He’s amazed by the fact she’s so calm and good with his mother. “Yes he was, mom, how did I know him?”

“Your father was the t-ball coach, you were really more interested in chess and so eventually he let you go from the team, and you ended up playing in the park with this older man; who was also watching Riley before he died,” Diana explained softly. “It could have been you.”

Spencer gets closer and closer, eventually, he’s kneeling in front of his mother like a little boy at storytime. “What was his name mom?

“Gary Michaels.”

—

David and Derek are really nice guys. She’s sitting with them in the bar while Spencer has a heart-to-heart with his parents at the police station. It’s been a long day, he’s learned a lot and she couldn’t wait to unpack it all with him.

“How come you don’t come out with him more often?” Derek asks, unsure of how to broach the subject, but he wants to know.

“What do you know about me, first of all? Because it’ll tell me everything I need to fill you in on,” she asks in a question in response to his.

“I know you met at a support group, I know he loves you, and I know you live with him now.”

She smiles, “I have a rare disability that many people don't believe in, I work from home and I make little art pieces for the different seasons to make money, I don’t really like going outside. much”

“But you flew all the way to Vegas for him?” Derek smiles knowingly.

She nods gently, “he’s still my best friend in the whole world, Derek.”

“Thank you,” is all he says, “you’ve helped him be the same Spencer I met when he started. You’ve brought the joy back to his life, it’s nice to get to know you more.”

He asks to get her a drink then, to make up for everything she’s been through that day. All she wants is ginger ale and Derek gives her a strange look, he really has no idea that she’s a recovering drug addict. Spencer has kept all her secrets nice and safe in his big and beautiful mind.

“I’m allergic to most alcohol,” she isn't lying but it works. “Especially dark tequila and all vodkas, it’s because they’re made from potatoes and I have a potato starch intolerance... you know actually sometimes even hand sanitizers that are made in alcohol facilities give me an allergic reaction as well.”

“Okay, that right there,” he teases, “that’s why he keeps you all to himself.”

She laughs, “that was a bit of a Reid ramble, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Derek’s smile is so soft. “It really was.”

When she finally sees him again, it’s been almost a full day since he called her and asked for her to fly into Vegas. He needed her moral support while dealing with his parents, and he knew she was the only person who knew the extent of what he felt for them. He tried his hardest to be the best kid in the world for both of them, and yet sometimes he feels like both a disappointment and an unwanted mistake.

They hug for so long when he finally enters the bar, that Derek gets up from the table and goes to find someone to occupy his time with. It’s Vegas and he’s Derek after all… it wasn’t going to be hard for him to have a woman hanging off of him soon, too.

Back in his hotel room, he passes out from exhaustion and she just stares at him. He’s been through so much that even his eidetic memory didn’t want to think about it anymore. normally he would recount his day to her with a smile, now he just sleeps peacefully for the first time in days.

He was so soft and sweet even after being through the most terrifying things the human mind and body can go through.

—

They take a few days off, his co-worker has a baby and it’s the perfect time for him to take her to meet them all. They won't be focused on her at all, and thus she will have fewer questions to answer.

Penelope Garcia is a blessing on this earth. The second Y/N lays eyes on her, she knows that they are going to be friends. She’s a hugger, and they’re good hugs, and she was already making plans to hang out and keep Y/N company when Spencer and the team were out of town.

JJ looked beautiful for just giving birth, Emily was intimidatingly smart and beautiful and she didn’t know how to really make eye contact with her without developing a crush on Spencer’s co-worker. Derek was kind as always, and Aaron gives a firm handshake.

JJ asks Spencer to be Henry’s godfather and it’s all a little too much for Spencer to handle after everything from the day before. He’s been through so much that Y/N can see the panic roaring through his veins as he tries to keep his cool in front of his friends.

But when they’re back in their own bed; in the safe space, they’ve created for one another. She’s running her hands along his back as he snuggles into her chest. Normally she’d tease him for being this close to her boobs, but they were comfortable and he likes to hear her heartbeat.

“I thought for a while they were going to tell me I was molested,” he whispers. “I was more relieved to know my mom witnessed a murder… and I hate myself for thinking that.”

“I was,” she whispers into his hair. “More than once by different men.”

He sits up to look at her, she shrugs, “my friend's dad tried to teach me how to drive by sitting me in his lap so that I’d have to bounce on him over the rocky back road. And a scout leader drove me home and kept his hand way too close to my parts and then a teacher-“

“How are you okay?” he stares at her like she's got 3 heads or something as he shakes his head lightly in disbelief.

She laughs, “I’m not. But I am at the same time? I can’t really explain it... it sucks and I hate it but I’m safe with you so I’m fine... but I’m not okay?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “I’m fine with you but not okay, too.”

They're quiet for a bit, tilting their heads as they stare at each other with soft little smiles. She loves him and he loves her and all she can think about is forever.

“Can I ask you something?” She’s really serious now, looking at him carefully as his eyes light up.

“Anything!”

“Do you think you’ll want kids one day? Even after everything with your dad?” She’s careful, not wanting to hurt him to push him or make him think he’s letting her down if he says no.

“I want kids, even if it’s just one. I want to be a dad and do what my dad couldn’t. I want to love them and help them grow and teach them how to ride a bike and how to do Pythagorean theory,” his words are full of passion, he’s speaking from his gut.

“I want 3 kids,” she smiles. “With you.”

His eyes go wide, “why?”

She smiles because of course, he convinced himself she wouldn't want his kids, he was a worrier.

“My dad was okay, he was pretty distant and cold until I got sick and then he became one of my best friends. Your dad sucked. Together all that love that we craved will go into our little person and they’ll be so happy and wonderful and loved with us."

Spencer nods in agreement, it's soft and sweet and she makes a last-minute decision. "I don’t think I want kids if I can’t have them with you.”

“What’s your 5-year plan look like?” he asks abruptly like he wants to start having kids tomorrow.

“I don’t have one. But I’ve always dreamed of just being a stay-at-home mom and making art on the side. Maybe even babysitting a few other kids during the days… I don’t know. It always felt like a pipe dream before...”

“Before me?” He asks with a smile, proud and believing it. He really knows she loves him and it’s changed him for the better.

She nods, “you wouldn’t mind if I didn’t ever have a real job?”

“I think we’d be okay as a single income family, I make enough to support the apartment bills as well as groceries, then your income can for things you and the kids want. I’m good paying for everything else.”

She smiles, “you just said the kids.”

He’s giddy with excitement as he nods, “I want forever with you.”

“Okay,” she whispers, leaning in to press her lips against his gently like he could break.

He was so special and perfect to her. Even with the scratches and dings in his paint, he was a collector's item, a one-of-a-kind, never-made again, kind of man who she was really happy she found.

taglist: @g0lden-cth @doctorspenceryeet @samuel-de-champagne-problems @reiding-recs @ssavanessa22 @spookyspence @shemarmooresfedora @spencers-dria@reidsfish @manuosorioh @mochionly @jswessie187 @k-k0129 @calm-and-doctor

[reidscookies]

All The Things I Could Not Say

More writing is done, because I procrastinate best when doing things that have no deadline. Read it on AO3, or under the cut! Angst with a happy ending!

Summary: When Spencer heard a knock at the door, he thought Derek might have forgotten his keys again.

"Dad? What are you doing here?"

-

Or, William Reid hears about Spencer's engagement, and wants to know where his invitation is.

TW: Implied Domestic Violence, Implied Child Neglect.

Read it on AO3

When Spencer heard a knock at the door, he thought Derek might have forgotten his keys again. It had been known to happen, and Spencer was already forming some sort of way to tease his fiancé. Opening the door, he started with a small chuckle. “You’re no better than Emily-“

On the doorstep was not his fiancé, but William Reid. His hair was thinner, and he looked tired. His long trench coat practically consumed him, his chest puffed trying to seem bigger than he really was. “Spencer.”

“Dad? What are you doing here?” Spencer asked, mouth going dry.

William motioned his arm towards the foyer. “May I come in?”

Too shocked to say anything else, Spencer stepped aside. “I… Sure, I guess…”

They sat in the living room, Spencer taking his reading chair and curling into it for comfort. His father sat on the sofa, hands nervously wringing. “So, I read the news that you go engaged. It was in the alumni section for your school's old newspaper.”

Spencer groaned internally, recalling Penelope’s efforts to share the news with the entire world. “Yeah, I am. We’re getting married in October.”

William nodded, slightly awkward. “That’s nice, very nice. Um, where, though? And when?”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see how that concerns you, seeing as you haven’t been invited. And I don’t plan for you to be.”

William narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be nasty, Spencer.”

“Screw you, William! Screw you!”

“Don’t be nasty, Diana.”

“Don’t talk to me like a child!”

“Then stop acting like one!”

A crash came from the kitchen. A slap followed directly after. In the morning, Spencer would find his father’s favorite mug shattered on the counter, and the shape of his father’s hand marked red across his mother’s cheek.

Spencer’s expression became hard and cold. “Never say that to me again. Don’t ever speak to me like that. Being honest is not being nasty. While you were busy running away from us, I was a child learning to survive with no father, a mother who grew to need more assistance than her ten-year-old son could provide.”

William crossed his arms. “You know why I left! I’ve explained this to you before.”

“Yes, because you couldn’t bear the idea of Mom getting in trouble about Gary Michaels. See, I’ve thought about this, and I think there’s more to it than that. If you’d been discovered, Lou Jenkins would have gone to jail. Mom would likely have been institutionalized. Both of these have happened anyway, only it’s been 20 years. The only difference now is that Mom has not been charged as an accessory to murder.”

“Spencer, where are you going with this?” William asked, voice shaking slightly.

Spencer paced with ease around the room. “You didn’t really care what would happen to her if she had been discovered back then. Hell, you weren’t even concerned as to how Mom being institutionalized could affect me as a child. No, you only cared about your reputation.” He looked back at his father. “Congratulations, your good name remains intact, not to mention a now relatively successful son who you brag about to your coworkers but never seem to have had the time to return calls to when he was living at home.”

William was red in the face at this point. “You don’t understand. Spencer, I couldn’t stay, I had to get out of there. I kept tabs on you to make sure you were safe, don’t you realize I care about you?”

A cold, barking laugh tore itself from Spencer’s throat. “Care? When have you ever shown me that you cared, genuinely? Was it when you’d tell me to shut up when I was trying to share something I learned about things you liked? Was it when you forced me into little league even though I told you the helmet made my ears hurt? Was it when you sent Mom by herself to pick me up from first grade when you knew that type of social scenario would be too difficult for her? Was it when you left the invitation to my Doctoral Thesis presentation in the mailbox long enough for it to come back to me with “Return to Sender” stamped all over it?” He felt his eyes burn slightly. “Was it when you weren’t there when I had Mom taken to Bennington? God, Dad, I was eighteen! Don’t you understand how scared I was?! How scared I had been for eight years trying to keep both myself and Mom above water?!”

“God, you sound just like your mother, poison tongue and all!” William shouted before thinking. “Spencer-“

Spencer interrupted him. “The thing is, I used to want you to care. I used to hope and dream that you’d come home and help me. But I grew up, despite the bullying and the bills and Mom’s decline, I pulled both of us out to safety. And I have a family now! I have a wonderful family of friends who care, who put up with me despite my facts and lectures, who truly care about what I have to say. I’m engaged, I have a wonderful fiancé who doesn’t ask me to change anything about who I am or how I am. He brings out the best in me when I’m at my worst, he stays despite my “poison tongue” and when I get overly invested in my work. When I write to Mom, he signs the letters too, and a lot of times he’ll even add a few pages of his own. He knows every part of me, he is the person I want to be with for the rest of my life. So no, Dad, I didn’t send you an invitation. Partially because I honestly didn’t think you’d come, but mostly because I don’t need you there. I have who I need, and it’s not you.”

William was stunned into silence. Clearing his throat, he straightened his coat. “Well, then. If that’s how it is.”

“That’s how it is.” Spencer nodded. He looked towards the door where Derek stood quietly with the grocery bags.

Derek had a look of concern on his face, but he kept it relatively masked in front of William. “Everything okay?”

Spencer nodded. “He was just leaving.” He lead William to the door, thinking to himself that his father wasn’t unlike a dog with its tail between its legs. When the front door closed, it was like a note of finality. Something was done, and honestly, it felt good.

Spencer grabbed one of the grocery bags and headed for the kitchen, starting to put items away. “How much did you hear, Derek?”

Derek joined him, putting the milk and juice in the refrigerator. “I only got back a few minutes ago, but probably about the part when you were talking about who your family is now.”

Spencer hummed, folding the reusable bags and placing them in the corner. “He heard about the wedding from the local newspaper announcement Garcia insisted on. He wanted to know why he hadn’t received his invitation.”

“Well, you made it abundantly clear that he isn’t going to be getting one.” Derek said, moving closer. “Need a hug?”

Spencer smiled and let Derek hold him close. “Honestly, love, I really am okay. I was able to say a lot of things I never thought I’d get a chance to. Him leaving is always going to hurt in a lot of ways, but he’s made his choice. I think it’s okay that I get to make mine, too, and that includes who I have in my family.”

Derek gave him a soft kiss on his forehead. “I absolutely think it’s okay for you to make those choices. You’ve got us, baby, no matter what.” He looked at his watch. “You still up for meeting everyone for dinner? Or do you need it to be just us tonight?”

Spencer thought for a moment. “Would you mind if we invited everyone here for pizza instead? I don’t want to go out, but I want my family with me.”

“You’ve got it, pretty boy. I’ll let them know.” Derek gently pulled away and grabbed his phone to reach out to the team. Spencer smiled to himself, letting all traces of his father’s unwelcome visit start to ease off his mind. He had what he needed, and there was no way he would ever change it for anything.

[specialagentsergio]

only if you knew

summary: Spencer’s in love with you, but you’re in love with Emily.

pairing: spencer reid x f!reader (unrequited), emily prentiss x f!reader

category: angst

content warnings: description of a panic attack, mentions of bullying and homophobia, swearing

a/n: my take on a fic inspired by heather by conan grey. writing is a hobby i've had for years, but this is the first time i've posted any of it. i hope you enjoy it.

a/n 2: bi!reader, fem!reader bc emily is a lesbian

word count: 3.5k

song: heather by conan grey

series masterlist || masterlist

Spencer isn’t looking for a relationship when he meets you. He wants a relationship someday, but he likes his life the way it is for now. He doesn’t want it to change yet. He thinks that’s why it took him so long to realize he was in love with you.

You join the team a few weeks after Rossi does. Hotch has been wanting to add another profiler to the unit for a while. The fiasco with Gideon’s loss of Sarah and subsequent disappearance, then Emily’s sudden resignation, finally convinces the board that it might not be a bad idea to have more than five profilers on the team.

Morgan and Hotch already know you. You come from the sex crimes unit, and the BAU had worked a case with them a month before he joined. You were just an agent trainee at the time, but Hotch saw promise in you, and has kept an eye on your work ever since. (Spencer wonders how he never ran into you at the academy; you’re only a year older than him and you both joined the Bureau in 2003. Eventually he realizes it’s because you weren’t remediated.)

Despite an awkward introduction (he gives you his spiel about handshakes and how it’s safer to kiss, and you respond with, well, if you insist, prompting laughter from Morgan and Prentiss, and leaving him at a loss for words as his face turns red), you quickly become friends. Your mutual love of reading is how you initially connect. Then he notices you only ever cut off his infodumping when you’re working on a case, and it’s always with a gentle, “redirect, Spence.” Outside of work, you seem genuinely interested in what he has to say, even going so far as to follow up on things you had to interrupt earlier.

You also bond over your shared love of Doctor Who, and begin to join him at Penelope’s place each time a new episode airs. It’s not long before he considers you his best friend.

Spencer tells you things he rarely puts a voice to. He tells you about his kidnapping and subsequent Dilaudid problem (he still struggles to call it what he knows it was—an addiction) after the South Padre Island case, when he doesn’t pick up on Adam’s dissociative identity disorder until it’s just a bit too late.

On the one year anniversary of his solving of the Riley Jenkins case, he recounts what happened the day his dad left in a wavering voice and you run your hand up and down his back when he cries.

He even tells you about the goalpost incident and the real motivation behind that act of bullying, a detail he omitted when he told Morgan about it. (He didn’t have a crush on Alexa Lisben, the prettiest girl in school. He had a poorly concealed crush on the football team’s quarterback.)

You also open up to him in a way you seldom do to anyone. You tell him about the bullying you experienced in high school over your shared sexuality. You tell him about the worst cases you saw in the sex crimes unit, and on a day when you’re struggling, you tell him what the worst day of your life was.

He’s had great friends before, and still does, but he’s never had one quite like you.

Spencer can’t say what the moment he fell in love with you was. He can’t pinpoint when your friendship became something more to him. But he knows the moment he realized he was in love, and he doesn’t need an eidetic memory to recall it perfectly.

It’s such a small thing, nothing big and grand like film and literature portray. He’s showed up to the roundtable with a new haircut. Hotch asks him if he’s joined a boyband, which he doesn’t quite get, but Morgan finds very amusing. You catch up to him on his way out of the bullpen and say, “I liked your hair long, but it looks great like this, too.”

That’s when he knows.

The realization is like a punch to the gut, yet it’s not unpleasant. His world feels turned upside down, but upside down is looking like a fine place to be.

And you just carry on like nothing’s happened, like you haven’t just irreversibly changed his life with twelve words.

---

Spencer spends a few weeks sitting with this new information, mulling over his feelings and weighing his options.

Does he tell you he loves you? The FBI holds annual seminars discouraging fraternization between employees, but it’s mostly aimed towards preventing relationships between supervisors and their subordinates. There’s nothing in the regulations preventing two agents in the same standing from dating (which he knows because he’s read the entire handbook). A visit to HR and a form filed away makes that perfectly acceptable.

But as much as he wants to be with you, he’s terrified of losing your friendship. It’s one of the most important things in his life. If he confesses and you don’t return his feelings, it very well could ruin it. Things would never be the same between the two of you again. He can hardly tolerate the thought of that.

He has everything to lose, yet also everything to gain.

All of his speculation is operating under the assumption that you’re single, but he’s confident in that. You tell each other everything—there’s no way you wouldn’t mention seeing someone. You’ve always told him about any dates you’ve gone on in the past. And if, for some reason, you’d keep it a secret, he’s a profiler. He studies human behavior. He’d notice something going on.

Spencer finds out he’s wrong in what he thinks must be the worst possible way, because you don’t tell him yourself. He finds out you’re taken by accident.

It’s only a few weeks after JJ’s forced departure. They’ve just wrapped up a case in Connecticut, and Hotch postpones their flight home to the next morning so they can all get some solid rest after a grueling three days. Rossi offers to take them out for dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, and everyone takes him up on it.

You and Emily excuse yourselves a bit earlier than normal, but he knows he’s not the only one hurting over JJ, so he chalks it up to that. He finds himself following suit not even five minutes later when he fails to stifle his seventh yawn of the night. He steps off the elevator to the fifth floor and hears some quiet giggling from down the hall, but doesn’t think anything of it, just heads towards the room he’s sharing with Derek. It’s the door right after the one leading to the room you’re sharing with Emily, so there’s no way for him to avoid seeing what breaks his heart.

Emily has her hands on your waist as she presses your back against the door. You’re trying to scan the keycard and open the door from behind, a task you’re struggling with because she won’t stop kissing you.

Spencer freezes, his own keycard dropping from his fingers onto the plush carpet.

“Emily, Emily,” you whisper against her lips, trying and failing to suppress your laughter. “You have to let me open the door.”

“Mmm, fine,” she relents with an exaggerated sigh. She presses a kiss to your nose before taking a small step back so you can turn and scan the card.

Your eyes leave Emily’s face and land on his. You just stare at each other for a moment, unmoving.

Emily notices, of course, and asks you, “what’s wrong, baby?” before following your gaze to him.

That finally snaps Spencer out of his daze and he blurts out, “Sorry!” His voice cracks and he clears his throat as he bends down to pick his keycard back up. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to, to—disturb you. I’m just, just really tired and I’m gonna go to bed now.” He keeps his eyes on the carpet as he passes by the two of you, ignoring you when you say his name.

“Reid—” Emily starts, but he’s already letting the heavy door fall shut behind him and pressing his back against it. His breathing is shaky and he grips the strap of his satchel tightly. He doesn’t bother to turn on the lights—he knows they’d be too much right now—and starts to sway from side to side in an attempt to self-soothe.

It doesn’t work, so he begins pacing across the room, back and forth and back and forth until he stumbles over Derek’s go bag and any semblance of control he had breaks. His tie feels too tight and the way his bag is thumping against his thigh as he walks is maddening. He pushes his satchel off of his body as fast as he can, then claws at the knot of his tie, pulling on it until it’s loose enough to slide off over his head. He throws it across the room.

He starts pacing again, unable to stop one of his hands from flapping as his breathing grows erratic. He trips over Derek’s bag again and kicks it in retaliation, just barely holding back a shriek of frustration and agony and panic because oh god oh god I can’t breathe it’s all too much, too much, I can’t breathe.

Spencer can’t breathe because he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, and you don’t love him back.

---

He loses time.

It happens, sometimes, when he has a shutdown.

One moment he’s pacing across the hotel room floor, trying in vain to catch his breath, and the next he’s letting out an involuntary whine when the room lights turn on. Whoever flipped the switch turns them back off immediately.

Slowly, Spencer comes back to himself.  

He’s sitting on one of the beds, hugging a pillow to his chest as he rocks back and forth. His back thumps lightly against the headboard with each motion. He can breathe again, but they’re the wobbling breathes that come after crying. He touches his face and it feels wet.

“Reid.”

It’s a whisper from across the room, and he tenses on instinct.

“Reid, it’s Morgan,” it continues, and Spencer relaxes. He recognizes his friend’s voice now. He makes a small humming noise to indicate that he’s listening.

His eyes have adjusted to the dark now and he can see the vague shape of Morgan walk forward and sit on the bed across from his. “Are you okay, kid?”

Spencer’s breath hitches as he tries to respond. “I.... no,” he whispers. He hasn’t remembered what happened yet—something else that can happen when he spirals—but he feels all hollowed out inside, like someone has scooped out everything that’s him and left behind only a deep, aching pain in their wake.

“What happened?” Morgan asks quietly.

“What happened,” Spencer repeats under his breath. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes as he thinks. What happened.  What happened, Spencer?

“You left dinner,” Morgan prompts. “You said you were tired and were going to go to bed.”

That’s right. He left the table and headed to the elevator. Got off on the fifth floor. Walked down the hallway to their room and found—

It comes back in a rush, without warning.

You’re laughing as Emily kisses you, the hand not struggling with your keycard tangled in her hair. Emily places an affectionate kiss on your nose when she pulls away. You freeze when you see him, and Emily calls you baby.

The memory takes his breath away again, and he feels hot tears falling down his cheeks.

“Reid, Reid.” Morgan’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Stay with me. You’re okay, kid. You’re okay.”

All Spencer can do is shake his head, because he’s not okay, he’s so terribly far away from okay right now.

“Tell me what happened, kid,” Morgan urges. “Then I can help you.”

Spencer lets out a humorless laugh. Can’t Morgan see that there’s nothing he can do, can’t he see that Spencer’s in a thousand pieces on the floor? “You can’t help me,” he says, his voice hoarse from countless tears he doesn’t remember shedding.

“You don’t know that. How about you tell me what’s wrong, and then I can decide?”

“No, I do know that, Morgan,” he snaps. His rational brain recognizes that he’s acting out, that Morgan doesn’t deserve his anger; he’s not who Spencer’s actually angry at. But his emotional brain is the one running the show right now, so he continues, “Did you know?”

“Did I know what?” Morgan asks calmly. He’s keeping his cool, trying to deescalate the situation, and that makes Spencer even more upset. He doesn’t want to calm down, he can’t calm down, not when his world is falling apart.

“Did you know that Emily and (Y/N) are—are fucking?” he spits out. He can’t bring himself to say that you’re in love, despite the fact that the way you were looking at Emily can’t mean anything other than that.

“I... No, I didn’t, Reid,” Morgan replies. He’s not lying, but Spencer almost wishes he was, just so he could have someone to yell at right now. “Why is that upsetting for you?”

Spencer doesn’t answer. He’d never admitted his feelings about you out loud before, not even to himself, and he sure as hell won’t do it now. He knows the moment Morgan figures it out, because he can hear him sigh.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he says. “I know how you feel.”

“Oh, right,” he scoffs. “Derek Morgan, god’s gift to women, knows how I feel right now.”

“Come on, Reid. Being able to leave a bar with someone on my arm doesn’t make me immune to the pain of liking someone who doesn’t like me back.” Derek’s voice is gentle, so much more gentle than he deserves right now, considering all Spencer’s done since he stepped foot in their room is lash out at him.

“I don’t like her, Morgan,” he says quietly. “I love her.”

Derek doesn’t say anything for a while. He doesn’t try and reassure him that he’s okay, that he’ll get over it. He doesn’t use that awful line of there’s plenty of fish in the sea. He just sits in silence with him. It’s exactly what Spencer needs. He doesn’t know how Morgan knows this when he didn’t himself.

Derek always seems to just know.

---

The morning comes before he’s ready to face it.

He wakes up to the sound of the shower running. His head hurts and his eyes feel puffy and sore. A beam of light is cutting through a gap in the curtains, landing on his face.

Spencer rolls over in bed and curls in on himself as his memories from the night before catch up to him. He stays like that, a lump under the covers, until Morgan comes out of the bathroom freshly showered.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “You awake?”

Spencer just grunts in response, unwilling to do anything that isn’t staying wrapped up in this cocoon of blankets. You’ve always called him a “Spencerrito” when he does this. He pretends to hate the nickname, but really, he finds it endearing. Now, though, it just hurts.

Any thought of you and the little things you do, the special things you do, the things that make butterflies sprout in his stomach, things that just yesterday made him feel warm inside, now make him ache all over.

“The jet’s set to take off in about an hour,” Morgan tells him. “If you don’t wanna fly, we can drive back together.”

The offer is tempting; spending an hour in close quarters with you and Emily knowing what he knows now, is not his idea of a good time. But he knows what he has to do. He’s known from the moment he saw the way you looked at Emily last night.

About a year ago, you’d come to his apartment on a Saturday night, looking truly downtrodden. You had been on a date, but it didn’t go well. “I’m scared I’ll never find someone,” you’d confided in him, your eyes filling with tears. “What if there’s no one out there for me, Spence?”

He hadn’t been sure how to answer. After all, he often felt the same way. So he’d put your favorite movie on the TV, dug some ice cream out from the back of his freezer, and stayed up late with you, watching one movie after another until you both dozed off in a tangle of limbs and blankets on his couch.

Slowly, he pushes himself into a sitting position on the hotel bed and looks at Morgan through the strands of hair hanging in his eyes. “You can’t tell her.”

Morgan raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I wasn’t going to, Reid.”

“I mean it,” Spencer insists. “(Y/N) can’t know. Emily, either. They... I don’t want to ruin this for her.”

“Hey,” Derek says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “My lips are sealed, kid. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Spencer sighs. “Thanks,” he mutters, then attempts to rub the sleep from his eyes. “An hour, you said?”

---

He sequesters himself in one of the corner seats on the jet. He gets multiple worried and confused glances from everyone, including you, but no one pushes, as his body language just about screams, “leave me alone.”

Twenty minutes into the flight, someone slides into the seat across from him and he reluctantly looks up from his book. It’s Emily, looking properly nervous, folding her hands in front of her on the table.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that it’s not you.

He is sure that he doesn’t want to be talking to Emily right now, though. She took you, she took you, she took you, she took you, runs relentlessly through his mind. He pushes the thought away, glancing down at his book and running his finger across the pages to try and keep himself calm.

“Reid,” she starts hesitantly, and he drags his eyes back up. “I know you’re mad that (Y/N) didn’t tell you about us.”

Well, you’re not wrong, he thinks bitterly. It’s just not for the reason you assume, Emily.  

“But, um, that’s not on her,” she continues. “I asked her not to. And it wasn’t just you. We didn’t tell anyone. Only Hotch knew before last night, and that’s because we had to tell him.”

“Why?” Spencer asks bluntly. He does, technically, know the answer. Emily is very private when it comes to her life outside of work. It makes sense that she wouldn’t want to go around announcing her relationship status.

But Spencer doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand how she can be in love and not want to shout it from the rooftops. It doesn’t make any sense to him that she wouldn’t want to show you off and introduce you as my girlfriend. He can’t comprehend how she can have you, be loved by you, and not want everyone to know it.

Emily’s slightly taken aback by his question, and she bites her lip as she considers how to answer. “I just... really prefer to keep my work and personal life as separate as possible,” is what she settles on.

“Kinda impossible to do that when you’re seeing a coworker,” Spencer shoots back, then mentally scolds himself. You said you wouldn’t ruin this for her, Spencer. Don’t ruin this for (Y/N).

Her chuckle is nervous. “Well, yeah,” she concedes. “But we make it work.”

Spencer then asks a question he doesn’t really want to know the answer to before he can stop himself. “How long?”

Emily’s eyes fall to her hands as she poorly hides a smile. “Eight months.”

Eight months. Eight months. You’ve been with Emily for eight fucking months, and you never told him, never even hinted at the fact that you were seeing someone. You kept him in the dark for eight months.

You let him fall in love with you when your heart already belonged to someone else.

He doesn’t want to be mad at you. He knows he’s not being fair. He really, honestly, wants to be happy for you, happy that you found what you’ve been searching for, but reality seems hellbent on making that as difficult for him as possible.

“Please,” Emily says, “if you’re going to be mad, be mad at me. I was the one who asked her to do this.”

He stares down at his book for a full three minutes before finally muttering, “Alright.”

He sees her shoulders slump in relief in his peripheral vision. “Thank you,” she whispers, and then she leaves.

Spencer watches her walk across the jet to the couch and sit down next to you. He looks down before you can look at him because he knows he won’t be able to handle what he’ll see in your eyes. It’ll be love in your eyes, but love that’s not directed at him.  

Emily took you from him, she took you, she took you, his mind repeats until Spencer makes the first of what’s to be many attempts to accept the truth.

Emily didn’t take you from him. You were never his to begin with. 

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

tell me what you thought here!

[prose-for-hire]

How the women of the Buffyverse would care for a s/o with ptsd:

Request: Your depression hc's were so nice and comforting. If you’re willing to write it could you do similar hc's for a s/o with PTSD with the girls of the buffyverse (and optionally any guys you'd personally like to add)?

Characters include: Buffy Summers; Willow Rosenberg; Cordelia Chase; Faith Lehane; Tara Maclay; Anya Jenkins; Darla; Drusilla

Requested by: Anonymous

Warning: Discussion of ptsd (but mostly its about how the characters would support you). Mention of medication. Mention/implication of destructive coping methods. (You can ignore the parts that do not apply to you)

A/N: Female buffyverse characters were requested, if you would like male readers you can drop a request when they are open again. 

I’m so so sorry this took so long to do, I lost my motivation after I lost the first draft but I hope these are okay !! I made this as generic as I could so that it could be accessible.💖🖤

Buffy summers:

She will always be there

Even if you try and keep a distance, isolate yourself

She won’t let you cut yourself off

Will suggest activities if you’re feeling particularly low or alternatively just cuddle up to you if things really aren’t going well

However will always have a suggestion that gives you something constructive to do

Patrolling, walking around the mall, maybe even helping her train

If you’re struggling with sleeping she will stay up with you

Or at least always be on hand if oh need her

If you see something that triggers you she would know exactly what was going on

Knows about painful experiences (she’s died twice she has buckets of trauma)

You would feel less lost, less alone whenever she was around

Lots of physical affection and cuddling as long as you were comfortable

Her number one priority is you being as comfortable as possible

If you really struggle leaving the house/staying in rather than doing things you might usually

she will encourage you slowly but will never push it

will ride out any periods of depression with you, you are not alone

always presses the softest kiss to your cheek whenever she has to go anywhere, always lingers, you know she never wants to leave your side

Cordelia Chase:

Cordelia will always encourage you to see a therapist/doctor

but will always be there herself to listen if you want to talk over the painful stuff

She has a reputation for non-stop talking

But she is a really intuitive person

Will listen for hours if it’s something that would help you

Also would understand if you just needed time or not to have to relive anything

This is where her talking comes in

Has so many ideas up her sleeve for distractions it’s unreal

Will always speak sense, the way you feel is not your fault

It’s a mantra she’s always repeating

if you have a period of particularly bad feelings (whether its flashbacks, anxiety attacks, anything)

she will help you in her own way. 

Looking up techniques to combat it, riding it out with you

will insist you try meditation, she’s seen on some talk show that it helps with relaxation and clearing the mind

she wants to cover all bases, anything that has the ability to alleviate the way things can get even a little she’s all over it

she’s not often seen as the most practical, but she really can be. She knows when she should ‘step up’ for someone she loves

and has absolute faith and knowledge that if the roles were reversed you would be there for her in the same way

will hold you to her at night, hoping you felt safe in her arms

Willow Rosenberg:

caring is in her nature

You would never ever feel a burden with willow

She loves nurturing and caring so you don’t feel that you’re taking from her in a way you might with anyone else

She would have little reminders for taking meds or doctors appointments

She would make teas and warm drinks for you before bed

always looking up ways to improve your sleep or thinks up dorky (and incredibly cute) activities to see your smile

loves it when you smile so much

if she can get even a half smile out of you she will glow for the entire day

your happiness means so much to her

she will do little sleepy/sweet dream spells for you if you’re having trouble sleeping

Doesn’t always work, but it’s the thought that counts

if you have bad dreams she will pull you into her, stroking you softly until one of you falls back into sleep

If you’re slipping into destructive coping methods she will understand

She has felt the same but she will never make you feel ashamed or leave you when you most need her

She may be firm because she knows you need it

But will never ever deny you comfort if it’s something you need

Anya Jenkins:

If you’re avoiding leaving the house or going certain places she might not understand at first

But catch her in the magic box with every known book on ptsd

Telling customers to go away because she’s reading something important

That’s how much you mean to her

She’s turning away customers trying to understand

Will come home to you and not so subtly hint that she thinks there’s something wrong

Will talk over, very practically all of your options

therapy, meds, the works

don’t get her started on all of the alternative medicine she stumbled into on her search for information

Try not to roll your eyes at her being so by the book she is really trying

Will open her arms looking at you, nodding and smiling

Will give the most loving and comforting parts of her for as long as you need

she will take days off with you if you need to take time out of work/education

will rush around and tidy things up, offer to make snacks or petition to get that show you really loved back on air after they cut it

literally nothing is too big an ask for her

when she loves, she really loves 

literally only wants the best for you

if you’re struggling to get out of bed

will make your favourite breakfast and be really excited about it

brings it to you on a tray

the best part would be sitting with you in bed and sharing it with you while she dotes on you

Tara Maclay:

would have a tea to brew for any mood or situation

sleepy teas, calming ones, etc

she keeps you grounded

the woman is so empathetic, so in tune with your mental state

its as if she shares your brain sometimes

its spooky

If you’re feeling on edge

she would know about it

has the most sweet and honest approach to your mental health

She will always encourage you to open up to her

But won’t ever be annoyed if you don’t

She’s quiet so will understand when words just won’t cover how you’re feeling

Would never judge you no matter how graphic or shameful you believe your thoughts are

Would never pressure you to share anything

but it is in her nature to do small things to make your life easier

incredibly selfless love

would tidy up around your shared space if you haven’t had any motivation to do so

would stop every so often, probably kiss the tip of your nose soflty or something

would gently bundle you up in blankets and make sure she had your favourite movies or a show on hand

plenty of comfort as well as practicality

Faith Lehane:

when you first tell her she listens, wrapping her head around everything

she loves you and nothing like that would ever change the way she felt

in fact she loved you more for baring yourself to her in such a raw way

some days she just wants to fight your trauma

Wants to literally fist fight your brain sometimes for doing this to you

If you’re cutting yourself off she will very subtly (yes she can do subtlety) make suggestions or invite your friends over

even if she doesn’t like your friends

will endure events and hanging out with them even if she doesn’t care for them

Chaotic in her methods but never fails to make you feel supported

will be very secretly soft for you

especially in periods where you’re suffering particularly badly

would do anything to show you she was there

incredibly protective

 if anyone blames you for the way you feel or is wilfully ignorant about mental health she will shout at them

(she will probably make sure you’re out of earshot though)

wouldn’t baby you (unless you asked lol), or treat you different 

would be firm with you, making sure you took meds and went to the doctors if you needed to

no wouldn’t be an answer

but you always know its because she cares

becasue she only ever wants the best for you

Drusilla:

would probably relive any flashbacks with you

So would 100% understand

she would know exactly what you needed and when you needed it

Would never let you face anything alone (unless you told her you needed space)

Such soothing, calming touches

Wants you to feel she’s always there

Maybe it will help ground you too

she has her own pain and trauma and would definitely share with you equally to what you would tell her

you would bond so intimately

you would never feel alone

she would recite such sweet prose

such beautiful stories that she may have written herself or have been picked up from long ago

would distract you from your low moods

if you were in a period of depression, she might begin to plan lavish events 

(ensuring you agreed to them of course)

each would be more ridiculous than the last

she would decorate accordingly too

and have a fit at anyone that got anything wrong 

(never directed at you, ofc and would quieten down immediately if she sensed the noise disturbed you)

you would celebrate a holiday every night

St Patrick’s day, St Vigeous, World recycling day

demon and human holidays alike

all in your honour. all to try to cheer you up

Darla:

would have picked you out of a crowd

and just known

you were the one

she adapted very quickly to you, wanting you with her as much as possible

by her side

wouldn’t be used to taking a caring role, but would definitely do so for you if you needed it

if you have a period of particularly bad nightmares

She would be there

For anything you needed

She sleeps in the day so would literally stay awake all night laying beside you

would stay holding you as you slept

Stroking you, comforting you if it was so bad you woke up

if you could not get your mind to relax and images or thoughts kept replaying in your mind

she would talk, tell you stories

she has hours worth of stories

she would try to keep it light, but may get carried away if she remembered a particularly gruesome story from her past

would embellish or change the story if she saw your look becoming more and more spooked

she has a very guarded soft side

only for you

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 23

Contrary to what he’d said while tired and sex-drunk, Buster did care about being seen with Nelly. After he’d driven her back to her apartment Monday morning and she’d hurried in to drop off her bags, then hurried back to the car, he dropped her off a few blocks from the United Artists lot. He hazarded a quick kiss on the lips, but that was it. He knew as well as anyone that to keep a mistress you had to be quiet about it, at least if your wife was as concerned about preserving the illusion of a happy marriage as Natalie was. It was a price he was willing to pay.

Now alone, he drove the half-hour to Culver City, reflecting on the weekend. It felt nice to be wild for a girl again, made him forget his troubles until the M-G-M sign loomed up ahead. His gut sank. Before he signed the contract, he’d asked for his team to be put on the payroll. The studio had granted his wish, but what he hadn’t bargained on was becoming the proud new recipient of every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wanted to make their mark in moving pictures gumming up his simple story with the goddamndest stuff: jewel heists, damsels in distress, a full military band. The days of Steamboat Bill seemed far, far away, and he longed for his old scenario department. Lately the mornings had consisted of sitting around a table with a baker’s dozen of men, including Thalberg, passing around a script that grew heavier and heavier with harebrained ideas with each passing day, like a ship sinking under the weight of too much cargo.

The image of that ship put him in mind of a gag. By the time he was inside and put in his standing order of coffee and donuts with a secretary, the gag had taken shape.

Bruckman was in the room with the big table. Buster could see that he was trying to pretend that things were as normal as they’d ever been, but he looked like he felt just as much like a fish out of water as Buster did. Some of the paid writers helloed Buster and asked him if he’d had a nice weekend. 

“Sure. Did some quail-hunting in the Valley.” He smiled to himself, remembering a naked Nelly clinging to his neck in the lake. 

Two young pretty girls came into the room with the coffee and donuts. Munching a donut, Buster wasted no time in introducing his idea to Bruckman.

“Suppose I start filming with my old camera to impress my girl, but I do it all wrong. Get into the craziest scrapes. I could be near a ship as it’s getting ready to be launched, thinking I’m about to get the shot of a lifetime, only the ship launches me with it,” he said. 

“And you darn near topple off of it and lose your camera,” said Bruckman. 

“Exactly,” Buster said. 

“I’ve just written a part where your character bumps into a dame whose son has just been kidnapped,” one of the writers, a medium-height fellow with a brown mustache, chimed in. “She’s willing to give you all the tea in China if you just help her find her Billy. You’re willing to do it. It’s your chance for a ticker-tape parade if you find him. You know, to impress your girl.”

“Kidnapped?” Buster said, not sure he’d heard right. 

“Sure. It fits perfectly.”

By now, Thalberg had entered the room and seated himself at the table. He took a donut and smiled in a benevolent way that spelled trouble. 

“No, no. It’s the mob Buster comes up against. They think he’s a spy and take him for a hostage, but he’s more useful as a stooge, see?”

Buster found himself wishing he’d poured a little whiskey into his coffee when no one was looking. It was bad enough to have to put everything down on a script for the first time in his career in pictures and even worse to entertain this kind of dreck. He looked over to Bruckman, but he just gave him a helpless look. At this rate, they’d never get around to filming. 

Filming. His mind crowded with everything he was obliged to do in the next six weeks, premieres (including Steamboat’s), parties, benefits, and not least of all traveling to New York City to begin filming. He thought sinkingly of Nelly. 

The worries continued on the drive back home late that afternoon. He worried his nails with his teeth as he thought about juggling it all.  At the Villa, he parked in the drive and bustled his way through the magnificent mahogany doors with his suitcases. Before departing from the studio, he’d checked the car for any trace of Nelly, a stray stocking, a dropped bracket, but there was nothing to give him away. As he stepped into the foyer, he was struck with an unfamiliarity that sometimes came over him. This big, clean, airy house, so cold and charmless—was it really his? He’d obsessed over it endlessly when it was being constructed, sparing no detail, never sure of what possessed him beyond the thrill that he could and a desire to impress. Impress his fellow stars? He thought, setting his suitcases down and running a hand across the back of his neck. No. 

To impress Natalie. 

He called for her. “Hello?” There was no answer and he tried again. “Hello?”

“Hello?” But it was only Eleanor, coming around the corner looking worried. “Mr. K—Buster, how are you? Shall I take your suitcases?” It had taken a while, but he’d finally gotten her to stop calling him Mr. Keaton. 

“No, I’ll take care of that. Have you seen Natalie? Is she around?”

“She’s out I’m afraid,” Eleanor said, with an apologetic smile. 

He could hear the kids outside somewhere, giggling and screaming. “Alright. If you see her, just tell her I’m home.”

He took his suitcases up to his room. It was cool and dark, and managed to smell both stale and clean at the same time. The bed was made, all the corners of the sheets tightly tucked. He drew his curtains and opened the balcony doors. 

“Hey, you hooligans!” he cried down to Bobby and Jimmy, who were running around on the lawn under Connie’s watchful eye. 

“Daddy!” they said, racing to the balcony. 

He went down to them and allowed them to wrestle him to the ground where they swarmed on top of him, then demanded to be swung around by the arms in the dangerous way that Nate disapproved of. A little voice in the back of his head lectured him about his failures as a father and husband, but he let the feeling of his sons’ hands in his smother it. Nelly was distracted for her entire shift Monday, remembering moments from the weekend. The assistant prop manager had to remind her to get her head out of the clouds when she fetched the wrong dinner service twice in a row. She could scarcely wait to get home, where the phone would surely ring and Buster would be on the other line asking her how her day had been. He had promised to be in touch when he’d dropped her off a block before the studio. That night, however, she went to bed disappointed. A worming doubt began to spoil her recollections of their time at the cabin. 

The phone did ring after work the next day, but it wasn’t Buster. 

“Nelly, is that you?” her mother said on the other end. Barely waiting for an assurance, she cried, “Ruthie had the baby! It’s a girl and they haven’t named her yet, but they think Violet or Virginia, which do you like better? Virginia? I like Virginia myself. She’s seven pounds even. We think she might have brown hair instead of blonde; it’s rather dark if you ask me, but of course there’s not much of it.”

“Well that’s wonderful,” said Nelly, wondering why her heart wasn’t in the congratulations. “How’s she doing? How’s Ruthie?” She’d never been able to fathom the birth process, the pushing and tearing and bleeding and all the rest. With what mothers had to go through, it was a miracle anyone ever had a second child, let alone a third like Ruthie.

“Oh, she’s tired but she’s an old hand by now. It wasn’t an hour later she wanted some chicken broth and now she’s bullied Gerald into letting her have some ice cream. Lord knows where he found it this time of year but nothing’s too good for her where he’s concerned.”

“And June and Eddie?”

“Eddie wanted a brother and declares he won’t see the poor soul, but you can imagine June is over the moon. She’s brought up her dollies’ clothes for her. Thank goodness they’re too small or we’d be in for quite a fight.”

As Nelly stood in the hall with the receiver to her ear, her mother chattered on about what time Ruthie’s labor started, how it had progressed, and what the doctor had done when he’d gotten there. She plotted with some guilt about how to cut the conversation short; she was worried she’d miss Buster if he called. 

“And you, how are you, dear?” her mother said, as if sensing Nelly’s intentions.

“Oh, I’m okay,” she said, a bit hastily. 

“How are you getting on with the moving pictures?”

Nelly explained briefly about her role in Tempest, which she’d mentioned in her last letter home. 

“What about that Keaton film? When will that come out? Your father says he intends to take the whole family to see it.”

“Buster—Mr. Keaton’s cutting it right now. April, I suspect.”

Not noticing her daughter’s slip, her mother pressed on. “When can we expect you back home?”

“I’m awful busy. Autumn?”

That was not good enough for Lena. “What’s wrong with summer? Or late spring? We miss you terribly and you know Harold Jenkins is wondering how you’ve been. I’ve given him your address so he can write. Have you gotten any letters yet?”

Nelly gritted her teeth unconsciously at the mention of Halitosis Harold. “Not yet. But Mother, I really have to be going.” She racked her brain for an excuse. “I’m having dinner tonight with a fellow I work with.” It was the wrong thing to say, because Lena became gleeful and effusive. “Oh Nelly, you didn’t mention you were seeing someone. What’s his name? Is he handsome?”

Nelly flushed. “It’s Joseph,” she said, thinking of Buster’s given name. “He’s very handsome, but he’ll be here any minute. I really must go.”

“I’ll call tomorrow, perhaps. I want you to tell me all about your new beau and I presume the baby will have a name by then.”

“That’s fine, Mother. I love you. I’ve got to go.” With a few more I-love-yous and talk-to-you-soons, Nelly was able to hang up the phone. The conversation had left her feeling unsettled and wrung-out. She supposed she should pick up a congratulations card for Ruthie on her lunch break tomorrow. Waiting for Buster to call, she was too nervous to eat anything more than an apple. She tried to read another chapter of Mistress Nell Gwyn, but couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was lying under the stars with Buster as he strummed his ukulele. 

It was a severe blow when another night passed with no word from him. The doubts were full-blown now. Her biggest worry wasn’t that he was preoccupied with his wife or even another girl, but that their time together hadn’t meant what she thought it had and that she had handed him her heart when she should have kept it more carefully guarded, only giving it to him when they had been going together longer and he had proven his worth. 

She went to work on Wednesday morning feeling blue despite the shining sun. The sensible part of her tried to push her out of her gloominess, reminding her that it had only been forty-eight hours and Buster was liable to be busy with his work, but nevertheless she moped around the prop department, not even caring to put on the radio for a diversion. On her lunch break she walked to a corner shop, having no appetite anyway, and chose a simple card to congratulate her sister. It had a Kewpie on the front clutching a telephone and read: I heard your home is honored / By a tiny little guest / I am rejoicing with you / That you are so greatly blest. As she walked back to the studio, she tried to get her head around the fact that she was an aunt three times over now. 

She returned to the prop warehouse around half past noon. Immediately she noticed a large vase sitting on the desk where she did the books. It was heaped with a snowy mountain of gardenias, jasmine, and myrtle. She could smell the flowers from a yard away. Propped against the vase was a record in a paper sleeve, which she examined. There was a cartoon of Paul Whiteman’s fat, mustachioed face on the front of the record and on each side a different song, “ ‘Taint So, Honey, ‘Taint So” and “That’s My Weakness Now.” A small card with her name on it was tucked into the flowers. She looked around the room for a sign of who might have delivered it, but no one was in sight. Her heart beating faster, she opened the card.

She’s got eyes of blue, I never cared for eyes of blue but she’s got eyes of blue and that’s my weakness now. 

BK 

P.S. See you tomorrow around 6?

“Got a beau now, huh?” said Gracie, one of the other girls who helped out in the department, walking into the room. Bold as brass, she leaned over Nelly’s shoulder to read the card. “Who’s BK?”

“Buddy King,” Nelly said, without a moment’s hesitation, blushing. “Did you see who delivered it?”

“I did,” said Gracie, rolling her eyes. “Florist dropped it off up front and I was the lucky gal told to bring it on back. Thought it was for me at first. ‘Course that would have been a shock. Bennie don’t do flowers or nothing like that. You’re lucky.”

“I am,” said Nelly, burying her face in the flowers. A waft of spring filled her sense and along with it a feeling that was very close to intoxication.

She was the center of attention during her walk to the tram and then her tram ride home, holding as she was such a huge arrangement of flowers. The commonest remark from strangers was, “Someone must care for you very much.”

And her face reddening, she would respond, “I guess he does.”

Note: Remember, Buster Keaton really did have a maid named Eleanor at the Villa. Confusing, but she wasn’t his Eleanor.

Also, after listening to this song since November, I finally have an excuse to share it with you! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAfVQpzQB3g

[plaidbooks]

Everyone Deserves Love Chapter 14

A/N: This is another long one, and it’s some angst with a happy payoff at the end. Barba’s being threatened again, but not if Devon can help it! I do write Barba as kind of rude af to Sonny in this chapter, but tbh, he was pretty fucking rude to him when Sonny wanted to shadow him, so....

This is still dealing with the fall-out from Community Policing, and he’s still not being threatened by the dude from canon. He will show up, I promise.

P.S. I wrote this and edited it multiple times before I realized it takes place on Friday the 13th

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Tags: talks of threats, guns, some in depth descriptions of bullet wounds (I spent, like, and embarrassing amount looking up info/accounts from paramedics on this shit)

Words: 6071

Taglist: @the-baby-bookworm @beccabarba @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @stardust-fray @permanentlydizzy @averyhotchner @mrsrafaelbarba @dianilaws @ben-c-group-therapy @glowingmess @infiniteoddball @whimsicallymad  @detective-giggles

Apartment of Rafael Barba and Devon Motely

Friday, October 13th. 9:05am

Devon was pacing in the living room, hands running through her hair roughly. Barba watched her from the loveseat, trying to not get riled up himself.

“Hermosa, calm down. We’ve dealt with this before. It’s not that big of a deal,” he started slowly.

Devon whipped to look at him. “Not a big deal? Rafa, someone left a threatening note on your desk! They had access to your desk, your office. What if I’m not there? It’s not like before; I’m not around you 24/7 anymore, I can’t—”

“Dev, come here,” he said, patting the cushion next to him. She looked at him, eyes hard, before she came over and plopped down next to him with a “harrumph.”

“Plenty of people can get in there. Nothing happened; I’m fine. Besides, what’s the point of getting so worked up over this?” he asked.

“Nothing happened this time!” Devon was up again, pacing continued. “I’m calling in today; I don’t care what Jenkins says, I’m not leaving your side.”

It was Barba’s turn to sigh. “Don’t you think you’re being a little over-protective? How do you know someone will attack me today? How do you know some other nutjob won’t come out of the woodworks to threaten me some other time?”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been threatened; it won’t be the last,” Devon replied.

“So, what? You’re just going to stay by my side until someone shows up?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Barba grabbed Devon’s wrist as she passed by him, stopping her in her pacing. She turned to look at him, expression softening when her eyes met his.

“I just…I don’t know what else to do…” she said softly. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened….”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he started, but when he saw her gearing up for a fight, he added, “stay with me today; we can talk to Liv about having a detective with me afterwards, okay?”

He was trying and that made Devon smile, tears in the corner of her eyes; she knew how much he hated being protected—babysat, as he thought of it. “That would be perfect. I could track down whoever did this; maybe send a message to the NYPD to back off. But does SVU have the people to spare with Amaro gone?”

Barba smiled sarcastically. “They got a new Sergeant; Mike Dodds,” Devon didn’t miss the last name—same as the Deputy Chief of SVU. “Plus, Carisi has asked to shadow me. Has he mentioned to you that he’s taking night classes at Fordham Law?”

“Only a couple hundred times,” she replied. She had met Sonny a few times now, and she wasn’t sure how much she trusted the young detective to watch Barba in her stead. But it was better than no one, she supposed; he had gotten a message to her through Jenkins about the threats against Barba…something she still had to ask him about. “Fine. You get me today, then Sonny afterwards. But, if he gets called into work, you better call me or so help me, Rafael, the NYPD won’t be your only concern.”

Office of Rafael Barba

1 Hogan Place

Friday, October 13th. 1:18pm

“Just like old times,” Devon smiled, stabbing at a piece of orange chicken. They had hidden in Barba’s office, trying to sneak a bite to eat between court appearances. Devon had noticed the officers working in the courts shooting Barba a dirty look, but they looked away when they saw the impressive glare Devon shot back, her hand resting easily on her glock, daring any of them to make a move, to say anything to the counselor. She wasn’t shy about intimidating people, especially when it came to Barba. And she wanted to send these assholes a message, which is also why she had her FBI badge also on clear display.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Barba smirking, sipping his fourth coffee of the day. The day had gone by smoothly enough, not shocking to either of them; Barba did have a point about the likelihood of receiving a threat today. But it still put Devon on edge, her normal anxieties racing through her. She hated the waiting the most; every noise, every look from a stranger, every reach for a phone, made her jump, reaching for her gun. As usual, Barba was calm, collected. It was like having someone threatening his life was just a normal Tuesday. She couldn’t wrap her head around it.

She sat up straighter in her chair, putting her food down and turning towards the door seconds before there was a knock.

“How do you do that?” Barba mumbled before calling out, “come in.”

Devon smirked as Sonny came in, shutting the door behind him.

“Hey Barba, Devon,” he greeted in his thick New York accent. Even with all the complaining Barba made about the Detective, she liked him. He was like a puppy; that was the only way Devon could describe him. She hadn’t gotten a chance to work with him often, but she liked it when it did happen.

“Hey Sonny. What’s new?” Devon asked.

“I thought I told you tomorrow,” Barba said before he could respond.

Sonny frowned at him. “Yeah, ya did. But I thought I’d sit in the gallery today. Just take some mental notes...maybe give Devon a break.”

“That’s sweet of you; you can keep me company in the gallery,” Devon replied, glaring at Barba. “Don’t be rude; you’re going to be teaching Sonny some things.” Besides, it was nice having another pair of eyes watching Barba’s back.

Barba rolled his eyes. “Right. Shadows don’t talk and they have no opinions,” he instructed the taller man. Sonny smirked, knowing that Barba was joking. Kind of.

“It’s okay, I had the same rules when I first started working with him,” Devon stage whispered behind her hand. Barba shot her a glare.

Courthouse

Friday, October 13th. 4:30pm

“Nice win,” Devon grinned, giving Barba a half-hug and a peck on the cheek in the corridor outside the courtroom. They had disclosed, and their relationship was old news, but Barba wasn’t much into PDA; he was much more into leaving marks on her in private, letting others know who she belonged to. Devon acquiesced, agreeing that it was safer for them in the long run, keeping their public touches brief; a brush of skin, a quick kiss, shared looks that lasted too long. It was especially hard when they were alone in his office, his sleeves rolled up, shirt half unbuttoned. Or the nights where he wanted to play, to see how far he could go without anyone noticing the touches he gave his girlfriend, the things he whispered in her ear.

“This was an easy one,” he replied, smirking back. Their little moment was broken when Sonny came out of the courtroom and started bombarding Barba with legal terms and maneuvers that went over Devon’s head, even with her months in the courtroom watching her boyfriend work. She resigned to looking at the crowd of people, looking for danger, her eyes stopping short on a familiar face.

“Olivia! What’re you doing here?” Devon asked, waving the newly appointed Lieutenant over.

“Hey Dev. Ah, I’m just here to pick up a warrant,” she replied, smiling at the three of them.

“No problem,” Barba said, obviously ignoring Sonny and jumping at the chance to lose the younger man. “I left it in my office.”

The four of them made their way to the doors, Devon and Barba in the lead, the SVU detectives behind them.

“Think we’ll be home for dinner tonight? Or should we just get takeout?” Devon asked, opening the door, and heading towards the stairs.

Barba thought about it. “I think I only have one trial to prep for, so it should be an early—”

“GUN!” Devon shouted. Time seemed to slow. Devon was a step below Barba, looking towards the street. A man was standing at the base of the stairs, gun raised, aimed right at Barba’s heart. As Devon shouted, she moved, shoving her body in front of his, a gunshot ringing out. A moment later, another gunshot sounded, the man dropping, a bullet hole appearing in his chest, darkness staining his shirt. Another moment passed, and Devon was collapsing in front of Barba, onto the stone steps. Instinct took over as he dropped his case, hands barely catching her head before it cracked against the stairs. He knelt down next to her, body numb, mind going blank, unsure of what the hell just happened.

Instantly, Olivia was there, ripping her jacket off and pushing it against Devon’s left shoulder, between her collar bone and armpit—Barba vaguely noticed the blood staining Devon’s shirt. Sonny was yelling into a radio, but Barba didn’t hear him, he just stared at Devon’s face. Her eyes were closed, face expressionless, skin growing paler by the second.

“No no no,” he thought, or did he say it aloud? He couldn’t be positive; all he knew was that Devon was shot. She was shot and it was protecting him, saving him. She always got hurt because of him; this was all his fault. How could he have been so selfish to have let her be there today when he knew, he knew there was a chance of this…

“10-13, officer down. I repeat, officer down. We need a bus here, now. Officer’s been shot,” Sonny kept saying it over and over again. He took one look at Olivia and Barba kneeling over the down agent, before he took off down the stairs, trying to get some sort of crowd control and get the people away from the would-be assassin.

“Stay with us, Devon. Stay with us,” Olivia was saying. She was murmuring it like a prayer, more to herself than to Devon. And still, Barba just knelt there, staring into his girlfriend’s face. She was breathing, he could see it, but for how much longer? He looked down to where Olivia’s jacket was pushed against Devon’s torso; there was so much blood. How could anyone survive after losing so much blood? It hit him then that he may lose her; that Devon may not wake up from this. And he didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye, their last conversation about dinner….

After what seemed like years—or was it a few minutes?—hands were on his shoulders, pulling him away. Barba was reluctant to let go of Devon, but he had no strength to fight them; they moved him however they pleased, shoving him gently away from her. He vaguely noticed it was paramedics, three of which were now crowded around Devon’s unmoving body. Olivia had an arm wrapped around Barba’s shoulders, though he didn’t feel it, nor did he feel Sonny’s presence behind him as they watched the medics lift Devon onto a stretcher, carry her down the stairs, then into an ambulance.

Olivia led Barba, arm still around his shoulders, to her squad car. She put him in back, Sonny taking the front seat. She flipped on her lights and followed the speeding ambulance.

Mercy Hospital

Friday, October 13th. 11:30pm

Barba sat in the waiting room, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his hands. He stared at the same spot on the floor that he had since they arrived hours ago. Olivia sat next to him, only leaving to inform the SVU detectives and FBI agents that appeared in support of Devon on her condition, and to grab a coffee or snacks. She long since gave up trying to give Barba either, or even talk to the man; he had shut down, going so deep inside himself that no one could reach him. People came over and mumbled condolences, or attempted to assure him how strong Devon was, but to no avail. They might as well be talking to a brick wall.

“The bullet nicked her brachial artery; she was lucky she didn’t bleed out on the courthouse steps,” Olivia informed Fin when he arrived. “It then ricocheted into a rib, causing it to splinter. She’s still in surgery; she lost a lot of blood on the steps. They had to do three transfusions, and they had to get the bone fragments out. As long as the bleeding stops, she should be fine.”

All of this went in one ear and out the other for Barba. He kept replaying their last conversation in his mind; Devon’s smile, thinking about dinner that night, happy to just spend the day together before she went back to work.

He thought about the first time they met, in that cop bar, how she had saved him in that dark alley. He thought about how she protected him at Jordan’s coffee stand, so intent on neutralizing the Olivera brothers that she didn’t notice she had been stabbed. He thought about the conviction in her eyes when she had shot Marco Sorrel, then the pain when he had yelled at her for it. He thought about her calling him in the middle of the night after weeks of no contact, her voice frenzied when she had heard about how he was threatened. She always worried about him, always wanted to protect him. Of course, he had always worried about her, too, especially with her job. Every time she kissed him goodbye, leaving to go to God-knows-where, he was terrified that it would be the last time he saw her. So far, he had only gotten one phone call from her, on her way to the hospital, a bullet having grazed her. He wanted to be there for her, too, to protect her for a change. But he was an attorney, his only weapon was the law, his suits his armor. How could he ever hope to protect her?

By not getting yourself involved in shit like this, he thought to himself, cursing himself for his stupidity. It was true that the DA’s office had forced this case upon him, but he didn’t balk from it, didn’t even attempt to turn it down. Quite the opposite, he wanted this case, because he knew he could secure the indictment, get the conviction. And the officers involved did deserve it; they deserved to be brought to justice. But Barba knew that this would put a target on his back, he knew and yet he still went through with it. And now Devon was in surgery, a bullet in her shoulder, and who knew if she would survive? Barba had been praying to every God he could think of every moment that he sat in the uncomfortable lobby chair that she would live, that she would be alright. He closed his eyes, fighting the tears that threatened to overtake him. In his mind’s eye, he could see Devon’s soft smile, a twinkling in her brown eyes as she looked at him. But, if he looked too long, her eyes would close, the smile would vanish, and she was an expressionless corpse on the courthouse steps.

Finally, the waiting room fell silent as the head doctor walked into the opening. As if roused from a deep sleep, Barba looked up at him, peeling his chin from his hands, the skin sticking slightly. He shot to his feet, pushing past everyone as if they weren’t there, coming to stand in front of the doctor, desperate for news.

“How is she, Doctor?” Olivia asked, coming to stand behind Barba. He silently thanked her, unable to form words of his own.

The doctor looked between them both, taking his dear sweet time to answer. Barba wanted to throttle him. “Miss Motely is out of surgery and is in recovery. It was touch and go there for a moment; she coded twice on the table. But we’ve done all we can; it’s up to her now.”

Barba’s stomach dropped to his feet, his heart fluttering in his chest. Devon died? Twice? He felt like his legs were going to give out any moment.

“Can I see her?” he whispered, voice barely audible. His throat was tight from lack of use, mouth dry.

“Not yet. Once she wakes up, then she can have visitors. Only one at a time, though,” the doctor informed him before turning and heading off to whatever else he needed to do.

Olivia must have sensed Barba’s legs giving out, because she wrapped his arm around her neck, helping walk him over to an unoccupied chair.

“She’s going to be okay, Rafa,” she whispered to him, squeezing his shoulder in support. He simply nodded, withdrawing back into himself, finding a new spot on the floor to stare at. She coded twice on the table, the doctor’s voice echoed in his head. Barba closed his eyes, one tear slipping down his cheek.

Mercy Hospital

Saturday, October 14th. 5:05am

Most of the SVU and FBI personnel left late the night before, after hearing the doctor’s words, asking to be kept informed on Devon’s condition. They would have stayed, but most had work the next day. Plus, they also heard the doctor say that only one person at a time could visit with Devon, and they knew that that time would be taken up by her boyfriend and close friends. Olivia was going to stay, but Sonny eventually convinced her to leave, citing that she had a child at home to take care of, and that he’d call her the moment Devon woke up. Besides, Sonny had the time; he was the one who shot the man that shot Devon, so he was off work while IAB investigated. Though, Tucker had already all but assured him that he would be cleared; there was enough witnesses to the shooting to know that Sonny had made a good shoot, even with the previous pressure from the public about police brutality. So, Barba and Sonny were left in the waiting room. Sonny had left at some point, but came right back, laptop and textbooks in hand.

“Might as well do homework,” he joked to Barba who made no inclination that he heard. Barba was still staring at the floor. Sonny wasn’t sure if the man had even blinked. He knew that he needed to break Barba out of his withdraw, but he had been unsuccessful. He tried asking the most obvious questions about law, quoted things incorrectly, even tried to justify the Ted Bundy murders. But nothing made the ADA so much as glance at the detective. He soon gave up, resigning to do his work in silence. He couldn’t imagine what the older man must be feeling. He sent a silent prayer for Devon, then turned his focus to the upcoming bar exam.

Barba had decided to distract his mind from that sentence—she coded twice on the table—by trying to bring up every detail about Devon he could think of. He started with physical, the way she flipped her hair over her shoulder when she laughed, the way her eyes lit up when she was being mischievous, the way she tapped her fingers against her leg when she was nervous. He loved the way she bit her bottom lip when she was waiting for him to answer her. He loved the way she scrunched up her nose when he made a bad joke. He loved the way she dragged her nails over his skin when they were in the bedroom together, loved the way she sighed contently when he pulled her in for a deep kiss.

He thought about how often she worked, even on her days off. How many times they had been relaxing on the couch, only for her to answer Olivia’s call, or the rare call from Jenkins. He thought about the few times he overheard her talking to victims, whether on the phone or in the precinct. There were even a few times she helped talk to witnesses he had to prep from trial. Hell, even when they went for a walk in the park, she’d help someone whose dog had gotten loose, or gave money to a homeless person, or helped an elderly lady across the street….

I can’t live without her, he realized suddenly. But God, wasn’t that the most selfish thought he ever had? She got stabbed because of him, lost sleep because of him, was shot and died twice during surgery because of him; how the hell could he possibly be thinking of himself at a time like this?

“Mr. Barba?” a nurse called from the entryway. His head snapped up, eyes locking on the woman. “Miss Motely is awake and asking for you.” He hesitated for the briefest of moments, before Barba abandoned the chair, almost rushing past the nurse in his hurry to get to her room, to see Devon, to make sure she was still alive, selfish or not.

Mercy Hospital

Saturday, October 14th. 6:00am

Devon had her eyes closed, though she was awake, alert—well, as alert as she could be with the amount of morphine pumping through her system. It was enough that she didn’t really feel any pain; her mind was floating a little, and she found it hard to focus. She slowly opened her eyes, though, when she heard the door to her room open, Rafael Barba peeking in. She smiled sheepishly, as if she had been caught doing something embarrassing.

“Hey,” she whispered, the loudest she could be, really. She felt weak, tired. Not shocking all things considered. She didn’t remember much, though; she remembered a man at the bottom of the stairs, him aiming a gun at Barba, a pain in her shoulder—

“Hey,” he croaked out, voice not much louder than hers. He came into her room fully, closing the door behind him. He pulled the visitor chair closer to her bed, then sat down gently, eyes never leaving her face. That was when the tears formed, making Barba’s green eyes brighter. He reached out and enveloped her pale hand in his big, warm one, and squeezed her gently.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, tears now stinging her eyes. “I’m okay.”

He smiled, relief evident in his face, as well as a fear that Devon could disappear any moment. “I almost lost you,” he murmured, tears really falling now, on both of their faces.

“But you didn’t.”

They sat like that for what seemed like forever, holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes, silently crying in relief that they were still here, still together.

“This is all my fault—”

Devon cut him off, “don’t you dare blame yourself for this, Rafael. It’s not your fault some bastard tried to shoot you.”

He sniffled. “But it is. I knew that taking that case could result in that, in this. And I let you come to the office today, to-to protect me—”

“You didn’t let me do anything. I took the day off willingly. I went to your office with the intention of protecting you. And I did exactly that; you’re safe, you’re okay. That’s all I ever want, Rafi, is for you to just be safe….”

Barba sat there, staring at his lover’s face, trying to look for anything, for the smallest sign that she was lying, that she really hated him, blamed him for this. But all he found was love in her eyes; love and a profound relief that he was okay. He squeezed her hand tighter, and she flipped hers over, interlacing their fingers and squeezing him back.

“So, about dinner…” Devon started, trying to break the tension.

Barba chuckled, shaking his head. He wiped his face, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I think you’re stuck with shitty hospital food for a while, Cariño.”

“Ugh,” she said, leaning her head back on the pillows in mock exasperation. “Sneak me in some good food?”

“I’ll try, mi amor,” he raised her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it gently, his heart full.

Devon gave him one of her sweet smiles, and he swore he melted right then. How could he ever have lived without her? He silently thanked every God he could think of for not taking his love from him, not yet.

“At least there’s one good thing about all of this,” Devon said.

Barba furrowed his brow. “Please enlighten me, because I think this is possibly the worst thing to ever happen.”

Devon nodded. “True, it’s not…great. But I will be able to spend more time at home for a while. At least half a year, probably longer.”

“And you, of all people, are okay with that?”

It was true; Devon had trouble staying still. Even on her days off, she was normally out doing something, dropping by SVU or Barba’s office. The only time she was content with staying home was on the rare occasion that they both had a day off.

“I mean, I’m going to have to be. Besides paperwork, there’s not much I can do with a bullet hole in my shoulder and a reconstructed rib. No field work for a bit,” she replied.

Barba nodded; he knew she was going to be a homebody for a while. Which was fine with him. As much as they both supported each other, pushed each other in their careers, he was always afraid when she went out that door; afraid that she wouldn’t come back. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he was glad she’d be safe at home, even if she went mad with boredom.

“We’ll have to find something for you to do. Maybe you can help me with trials or help SVU with something, like consultations…we’ll talk to Liv about it,” he suggested.

“And besides, now I can be around to protect you,” she joked, grinning. But her smile faded as she saw the pain flicker across Barba’s face.

“You’re not working. Not for a while,” he ordered in a tone that said that she would not be able to argue against it. At least, not anytime soon.

Devon agreed begrudgingly, and Barba stood, making up his mind. “I’m going to go grab a coffee, call Liv and let Carisi visit, if you’re up for it? I’ll be back in right after.” Devon agreed again, and Barba left, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead. He was reluctant to leave her, but he knew that others would want to visit, too.

Sonny was relieved to see some of the life coming back into the counselor as he re-entered the lobby. “You’re up,” he told the detective. Once Sonny headed down the hallway, Barba called Olivia.

“Hey, Liv. Devon’s awake; you can come visit her. But first, I need you to pick something up from my loft.”

Mercy Hospital

Saturday, October 14th. 3:30pm

Sonny didn’t visit long—he started with a reenactment of the shooting, then into a spiel about how everyone was happy Devon was okay, and ended with needing to study for an exam—and Olivia showed up at the tail end of it. She handed Barba the thing that he had asked for, which he tucked into the inner jacket pocket of his suit. She then made her way to Devon’s room. This visit lasted longer, ending around lunchtime. When Olivia came out, she told Barba, to his dismay, that Devon had fallen asleep.

“She needs her rest to recover fully,” Liv explained. He knew that already, but his skin was on fire, his heart pounding, wanting to see her again. It was a different kind of buzzing than before; he knew she was alive, that she was going to be okay. Now, he just wanted to see her, talk to her. If Devon coding twice on the operating table showed him anything, it was that life was short, and that he needed to speak his mind sooner rather than later, selfish or not.

He waited a few hours until he couldn’t wait any longer. He got up from the waiting room chair and made his way to her room. He cracked open the door as quietly as he could, shuffling in and closing it softly behind him. Devon was still laying in the bed, dozing softly, chest rising and lowering slowly. The only sounds in the room were the whirling and buzzing of the machinery checking her vitals and the lights softly humming above them.

Barba sat in the chair by her bed, watching her sleep. Devon’s face had regained some of its color since waking up that morning—something about hospital beds made people look much paler than they were--but he was glad to see a rosy-ness in her cheeks that wasn’t there before. Her thick brown hair was a mess around her. Her eyes were fluttering lightly, as if dreaming, her mouth slightly ajar, a thin line of drool at the corner of her mouth. Barba could watch her sleeping forever, even with the nervous buzzing in his mind; she looked so peaceful, so relaxed. The only thing out of place was the hospital sheets and pillow, not their bed, their pillows. Plus, her left arm in the bright blue sling, bruise already forming from the surgery, peeking out from the neck of her gown. He was hoping that she didn’t have to stay here too long, that he could take her home soon, dote on her in the comfort of their own place. He was definitely taking time off, no matter what McCoy said.

He sat there, listening to the soft sounds of her breathing for about an hour, his nerves ebbing away, feeling fully at peace listening to the music of her asleep, watching her chest rise and fall softly, a stark reminder that she was here, that she was alive. Finally, her eyelids fluttered before fully opening.

“Morning,” she said groggily, yawning. She raised her right arm above her head, stretching, then attempted to scoot her butt back, sitting up.

“Afternoon,” he replied back, smiling.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep—I wanted to see you again—”

Barba held up a hand. “No need to apologize. Sleep is good. You should do it more. I’ve been telling you that for almost two years now.”

“Oh god, it has been two years, hasn’t it?” she grinned, smacking her forehead. Indeed, in three months, it would be two years since they met in a dingy bar. They had been dating for a year and a half. It somehow seemed like they had always been together, but also like they were still in the beginning stages. They had never left the “honeymoon” stage, Devon supposed; they were still very much infatuated with each other. She wasn’t sure if that was a testament to how deeply they cared for each other, or with how little they actually saw each other; out of the year and a half, they may have actually spent about a year together. Even so, Devon couldn’t imagine spending her time with anyone else.

Barba chuckled, but then his face changed. His eyes were sparkling, those piercing green eyes locked with hers. His grin faded, but he still looked happy, content. Devon furrowed her brow; she’d never seen this look before, wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. There was a familiarity in it, some sort of barely suppressed excitement which only confused Devon more. He put his hand on the bed next to hers, palm up; a silent question. Devon instantly moved her hand into his and he closed his around hers, his thumb tracing patterns over the back of her hand.

“I love you, Devon,” he started, voice soft, but strong. Unwavering, confident, as if he were born to say them. “Yesterday, I thought that I had all the time in the world to tell you, to show you how much I loved you, in every sense of the word. Then, I learned that that was a foolish thought, something that I should—both of us—should know, should expect in our professions. So, instead of painstakingly planning for the perfect moment, something I’ve been doing for months, by the way, I’m just going to do this now.”

Speech finished, Barba scooted out of the chair, dropping to one knee beside her. Tears sprung instantly to Devon’s eyes. “Are you kidding me?” she breathed out.

Barba chuckled, eyes sparkling in the hospital lights. “Far from it.” He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand, pulling out a long, thin black box. He took his hand back from her grip, opening the box, and Devon gasped. Inside, nestled in red velvet, was a silver dagger, the hilt intricately carved with little roses, small gemstones laid in between the petals. It wasn’t a dagger for use, simply for show. An engagement dagger.

“Devon Motely, I can’t imagine my life without you; these past 24 hours have proven as much to me. There’s no better time to ask in my mind than right here, right now; will you marry me?” Barba asked, eyes searching hers. If he was going to be a selfish bastard, then fuck it, he was going to go full selfish.

Her hand was shaking as she laid there in shock, a smile already tugging at her lips. “Yes. Of course, I will. Do you even need to ask?”

The smile that broke across Barba’s face could provide light for the whole city. “Well, that’s generally how it works,” he replied. She smacked his arm with her free hand.

“Shut up and kiss me,” she said, grabbing at his collar. He chuckled, getting off the hard tile and leaning over her for a kiss. Devon felt all the love and affection that they shared for each other in that kiss. Her heart soared, head dizzy, unable to believe that she was going to be able to spend the rest of her life with him.

“I cannot believe you found an engagement dagger,” she murmured against his lips.

He pulled back, collapsing into the chair and reclosing the box, tucking it back in his jacket for safe keeping. He still had the goofy grin on his face; he didn’t think it was going away anytime soon. “I actually found a small Rajput shop; turns out engagement daggers are still sometimes used in their culture.”

Devon had a matching grin. Devon Barba, she thought, liking the sound of it. She loved that he remembered such a little detail she said over a year ago; he knew she hated jewelry. Not only did rings—especially with gems—catch on things, but they were also dangerous in her job. It was like telling a perp “hey! I’m married, so if you need any leverage, just go after my loved ones!” But she also knew Barba. And, even more, she knew his mom.

“Don’t get me wrong; that dagger is gorgeous, and I absolutely love it. But Mama Barba would never accept that. Besides, I know that you’re old fashioned, too, baby,” Devon took his hand and kissed his knuckles. “After I’m released from this prison, we’ll go ring shopping, okay?”

“Are you sure? I know you hate rings, and I don’t care what mom—”

“I’m sure. And don’t you dare say you don’t care what your Mamí says!” she admonished.

Just then a nurse knocked, before coming in. She started checking Devon’s vitals, which Devon was sure showed a higher heart rate, seeing as she was still soaring. She was engaged! She looked at her fiancé—fiancé—and grinned. She realized that she was going to be able to wake up next to that face every morning, see it every day, lay next to it every night. She made up her mind then and there. She was going to retire from the Bureau. She refused to put her future husband through this kind of pain and torture ever again. And while she didn’t get this particular wound while working for the Bureau, it wasn’t a long shot from what could happen while undercover. What’s has happened a couple times since they started dating, even, though maybe not as severely. She didn’t know what she was going to do yet, but she didn’t care; as long as she got to spend the rest of her life with Rafael Barba, she felt like she could do anything.

[buffyversefanfiction]

Tristan Tormented

Warning: I do not own the rights to the television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, its spin-off series Angel, its dark horse comics continuation series, or any of the characters created by Joss Whedon and others in the Buffyverse. 15 years +, Mild to Strong Violence, Sexual References. F/F, F/M, M/M, Other +

Volume 8 - Shadow Self (Part Two)

PART ONE HERE

“All that I am saying is I do not see why Spike needs to come especially with Buffy on her way there is such a thing as too many people for a séance.” Angel complained to Faith as the two of them walked through a cemetery located somewhere within New York. “Spike knew Mandi and their friendship believe it or not is a lot less complicated than Tristan and Mandi’s so if it is her haunting Tristan my bet is on Spike convincing her to either lay off or crossover.” Faith explained to the brooding vampire. “Spike is needed for this little séance you and Buffy are here to be there for your kid.” “Is Willow coming too? I mean Buffy goes everywhere with her friends and having a witch during a séance makes sense.” Angel replied to her, giving in to the notion of having to soon play nice with Spike. “I doubt Dawn and Xander are going to be there with the baby and everything…but then again I doubted Spike would be there and hey presto.” “Calm down big guy,” Faith laughed at Angel’s jealousy with Spike. “Willow is not coming I told B it was better for her to come on her own so you and her could you know do whatever parents do with their kids that does not involve messing them up.” “And yet Spike still got an invite?” Angel moaned once more. “I get you and Spike have this beef over B and then there is some messed up shit with Dru that I do not even want to approach but you have both been fighting on the same side for a while now it is long overdue that you two stop being a pair of bitches and learn how to get along.” Faith told him straight. “The last thing Tristan needs right now is dad to be fighting with mum’s on/off lover over stupid shit!” “You are right.” Angel reluctantly admitted. “When did you become the voice of reason?” “I know, scary right?” Faith laughed. “New York’s been a good move for me so far…well until Dru made her little comeback anyways.” “Do you think it is Mandi that is haunting Tristan or something else?” Angel questioned her as the two stopped walking and stood still on the path. “Honestly, I think Mandi is gone and that’s the worst of this because if she is at least haunting him then Tristan has a chance of closure.” Faith replied to Angel. “But then on the sinister side ghosts are known for breaking windows but other than Tristan’s nightmares there has been no other signs of a haunting.” “Well he did not break the windows himself so if this séance is a bust then we take to the research I guess.” Angel answered her, “I hope for Tristan’s sake it is Mandi.” “Never did I think we’d be hoping for a haunting.” Faith said, as the two shared a laugh with each other. “I miss the good old days when it was just vampires and slayers.” Faith was glad Angel was in town despite their awkward attempt at becoming something more the two of them had always made good friends, in a way she was thankful for the fallout they had over a year ago as it led to the two of them finding their unique friendship once again, a friendship Faith valued deeply. Faith had always had a soft side for Angel and it was good to learn he did too but after their brief romance which was just a series of make out sessions she was glad to once again refer to him as a friend having never really been one for relationships, or maybe Faith had just not met someone she could imagine herself being all in for.

With the constant nightmares, the exploding windows and the shock arrival of his father Angel, Tristan Summers was more exhausted than he had ever been before but with the hope of a séance getting to the bottom of his recent ordeal Tristan decided to get some time to himself and ran a bath. Tristan never lasted long lying in the bath he had made for himself before he quickly found himself falling asleep despite trying his hardest to avoid it he couldn’t resist his exhaustion any longer and before long he had found himself fast asleep. As his eyes closed he found himself transported to standing in the garden of his family home in Riverborn, shocked to how he got there and uncertain of whether or not he was dreaming as he looked at his home noticing it looked lived in and abandoned like the last time he was there as he began walking towards the front door only to be left shocked as he reached the porch to find Drusilla opening the front door. “The demon inside you grows stronger by the day my darling boy.” She said as she walked over and gently raised her right hand to stroke Tristan’s right cheek softly. “You have been lost for a long time but soon you will find your real home…with me.” “No, you are wrong this is just some weird way of you messing with my mind again.” Tristan replied as he pulled away from the female vampire. “I will never be with you again unless that is me killing you.” “Silly boy if you wanted me dead you would have tried harder,” Drusilla laughed, revealing what Tristan already knew himself deep down. “Yes, you are mad, but I am the last bit of family you have, and mummy will always love you!” “You killed my friend!” Tristan snapped at her. “You and I both know I was not the only one to kill her.” Drusilla replied, adding more guilt to Tristan’s conscious. Before Tristan could reply to Drusilla he suddenly found himself in a dark cave within a blink of the eye, confused by how he had went from his family home to a cave so quickly as he looked around for any sign of Drusilla only to be met by nothing but empty space and shadows. He wanted to go towards the light and walk out of the cave but something inside him wanted to see where the cave led to and before long Tristan found himself walking further and further into the darkness until he found the first slayer stood in front of him. “You’re the first slayer I remember you from my last wacky dream.” Tristan greeted her. “Why are you here now?” “Be stronger than the monster inside!” Sineya warned Tristan, but before he could respond to her he felt a cold chill behind his shoulder which forced him awake, back in the bathroom of the apartment he shared in the bathroom, back in a now cold bath. “Well that was different,” Tristan stated as he looked around the bathroom. “At least there’s no broken windows this time.” “Hello friend,” A version of Mandi greeted Tristan as she appeared from out of thin air with jet black eyes, shocking Tristan by her presence. “Goodbye friend!” The twisted jet black eyed Mandi grabbed a hold of Tristan’s head and shoved his entire body under water with an unfamiliar superhuman strength as Tristan began struggling to come back up only to be met by Mandi’s cackling as she continued to drown the demonic slayer.

Buffy Summers stood in the alleyway outside of Rogue’s front doors hesitant to walk into the bar owned by her son and her former friend turned enemy turned friend again Faith, as she tried to prepare herself to go into mum mode. Now when it came to monster hunting, she was an expert, being a big sister she managed and she believed she was a good friend but when it came to being a mother she had little practice only having a few weeks with her new born baby before losing him to a portal to the past and she was more than nervous to take up her motherly duties once again. It did not help that her son seemed to be thick as thieves with Faith which added to Buffy’s fears knowing that Tristan could relate more to Faith than her, even Angel had one up on her in the department not to mention nobody exactly asked Buffy to come to L.A. to help Tristan’s redemption, although nobody told her not to either. Suddenly a loud screaming sound came from within the bar that Buffy instantly recognized as her son’s scream forcing her to face her fears and run into the bar as fast as she could, hearing his screams louder when inside the bar which were now matched with sounds of splashing. Buffy quickly jumped over the bar counter and ran into the backroom, rushing towards the stairs which she quickly charged up before reaching the bathroom door and kicking the locked door open with force shocked to see Tristan lying there in the bath looking completely traumatized but his head was now above water and as Buffy looked around the room she concluded he was alone. “Did a ghost try to drown you? They love drowning people, well not just ghosts actually vamps love it too but their a little better at it, especially The Master.” Buffy rambled to Tristan before receiving a non-amused look from her son. “I guess I should close the door and wait downstairs for you to get changed.” She could tell something had just happened that she had just stopped something from going any further but she could also tell her son was wet, naked and in need of getting changed and so she left him to it quickly closing the bathroom door behind her as she left Tristan alone in the bathroom once again. Whatever attacked him was clearly gone and so Buffy felt safe in leaving him to get himself ready before meeting her downstairs, saving him from whatever was tormenting him was an easy task for her, it was just another day as the slayer to her but she knew what would come next, what he needed from her, would prove to be her hardest job yet; being a mum.

After yet another near death experience Tristan had well and truly met his limit, he was done with all things supernatural, with always having to fight every single day and mostly he was done with being haunted by a friend who he believed had every right to torment him like he believed she was. He had spent so much time loving Lucas and then loving Dante that he never stopped to fully appreciate the kind of love he had with his best friend Mandi Jenkins, a girl who always had his back no matter what and even plunged forward into the darkness with him so he did not have to be alone. This loyalty did not go unpunished with Tristan choosing Dante and Drusilla over Mandi repeatedly before going on to kill Mandi’s boyfriend and yet Mandi was one of the biggest advocates for his redemption. The truth is he had given up on her and even himself a long time ago and yet she had never give up on him, her belief in him being what Tristan truly believed had left to her untimely death at the hands of Drusilla. “Why did you have to be such a good friend?” A now fully dressed Tristan mumbled to himself as he looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “You deserved so much better than me!” Tristan continued to investigate his reflection, beginning to notice that his eyes kept changing from it’s normal color to jet black before he started blinking quicker and quicker hoping to see his eyes stay their normal color, growing more and more frustrated, leading him to punch the mirror with his right fist as his face went full vampire mode. “That is who you really are, you can keep trying to pretend you’re not a monster but deep down we both know better.” Dante stated as he appeared from out of thin air, shocking Tristan out of his vamp face, as he struggled to understand how his dead lover was suddenly standing right next to him. “You are not real you cannot be real!” Tristan replied, after managing to stumble up the courage to speak. “If you were going to haunt me you would never have waited so long…” “Oh, I am real I’m just not Dante it’s just easier to talk to you with a face you like.” The being displaying Dante’s body claimed. “You tried drowning me.” Tristan responded, admitting for the first time Mandi was not behind recent events. “You’re a vampire you cannot really drown,” The Dante imposter scoffed. “I just needed to get your attention.” “Why?” Tristan wondered, fearing the answer. “Go downstairs and find out for yourself.” The enigma replied before vanishing how he appeared, within a blink of an eye. It was in that very moment Tristan knew for a fact neither Mandi or any other ghost was haunting him, that Drusilla was right about her claims of the soul he now had being that of the demon’s, the shadow demon’s. He knew that the thing plaguing him was actually himself or rather something within himself and the only way to get rid of this plague was to face the ancient demon within, no matter it’s risk, the risk being the potential of losing his soul forever.

Buffy, Angel and Spike all sat at the counter of the bar on the stools within the Rogue’s bar as Faith stood behind the bar ready to begin a séance she did not fully believed needed to be performed but knew Tristan needed all of their company now more than ever. Buffy had informed them all about her bathroom break in with Tristan, how spooked her son looked by the time she had got to him and how there was no sign of anyone else, not that it would be the first time the slayer had encountered an invisible foe but it was the first time one plagued her son. Faith shared the nightmares she had witnessed Tristan waking up from, how he was convinced Mandi was haunting him and how deeply she feared that the demonic slayer was beginning to lose his mind at the hands of something, if not himself. Angel admitted to his worries about the son he shared with his first love Buffy but also admitted to the hopes that they could pull him through this, being somewhat confident after his recent father/son moment with Tristan. And as for Spike, he didn’t have much to add to the conversation, mostly avoiding the awkwardness of being around Buffy after their latest breakup and the general feuding he had with Angel lasting centuries long, while drinking the bottle of beers Faith had been handing him in order to keep him there. They talked about Tristan over and over while all trying to avoid any other topic of conversation; Faith wanting to avoid the Buffy, Angel and Spike love triangle that never went without it’s drama, Buffy wanting to stop herself admitting her jealousy over Faith’s bond with her son and Angel and Spike just wanting to avoid each other. “He has been up there a really long time!” Faith noticed, keeping the conversation on Tristan still, as she began to grow more worried for the demonic slayer. “Maybe one of us should go up there…” Buffy suggested, fearing being the one to check on her son but also fearing to stay alone with Angel and Spike. “I am more than willing…” Angel began to say, before being cut off. “I’ll go check!” Faith interrupted, not meaning to be rude but just being used to the one handling Tristan, her eagerness not going unnoticed by Buffy. Before long Faith found herself in the backroom of the bar and rushing up the stairs, shouting Tristan’s name repeatedly as she walked into the hallway of their shared apartment before noticing the bathroom door was left opened. She wasted no time into walking into the bathroom, already knowing deep down she wouldn’t find Tristan there only to find the broken mirror as evidence to her theory, concluding Tristan had left to god knows where, fearing if she did not act quick she may never see him again as she worried about what danger lay ahead for the demonic slayer. One thing Faith knew for certain wherever he was going spelled trouble and she was going to need Buffy, Spike and Angel’s best efforts to find Tristan in time and save him from whatever had left him so tormented.

TO BE CONTINUED…

[fortunatelylori]

Thoughts on Otis Molyneux

I hesitated somewhat before making this post because the fandom seems to have settled on Otis being “a good man who made one terrible mistake” and who am I to rain on anyone’s parade?

Inner goddess: A very opinionated woman … that’s who … No one keeps baby down!

Well … since you put it that way …

My very first meta on Sanditon revolved around the idea that this show is Andrew Davies’ homage to Austen’s entire body of work. And since I discovered a very interesting link between Otis and one of the more misinterpreted Austen characters, I couldn’t resist. Particularly since every time I read a remark on Otis, I end up going:

He is a most fortunate man! Everything turns out for his own good! He meets a young woman at a watering place, gains her affections, she consents to an engagement! He treats her abominably, she bares it like a saint! His aunt is in the way, his aunt dies! He has used everybody ill and they are all delighted to forgive him! He is a most fortunate man indeed!

Emma is perhaps Jane Austen’s most transgressive novel and, while it is not my favorite (that’s Persuasion in case anyone was wandering), I think it’s the clearest indication of her genius. In Emma, Austen not only spoofs herself, as the old maid Miss Bates, but also pulls off a master stroke in concealing her villain, Frank Churchill, not only from the characters but also from the audience.

Austen villains are usually charming, fun and attractive, most of the time far more so than the hero that will eventually win the heroine’s heart. What Austen does with the likes of Wickham and Willoughby is show that superficial charm and a pretty face are poor substitutes for substance, integrity and a value system.

In order to drive that point home, her villains usually suffer a fall from grace: Wickham gets exiled to Newcastle (the degradation!) and is stuck with Lydia for the rest of his life; Willoughby gets ousted by his aunt, told off by Eleanor and publically canceled by Mrs. Jenkins.

Whatever it may be, all of her villains suffer some consequences (even if it’s just not getting the girl as is the case for William Elliot in Persuasion). All except one: Frank Churchill. As Mr. Knightley’s frustrated speech above shows, Frank is so fortunate that by the end of Emma, he gets everything he’s ever wanted and everyone continues to love and cherish him as if nothing had happened (with the exception of Emma and Knightley).

And because the characters move on from his betrayal so quickly you can barely get a glimpse into their POVs, so does the audience. By the end of the book, most of the readers are as pleased with Frank as the people of Highbury.

I can just imagine Jane Austen cackling with joy at our silliness.

Just because there are no consequences for Frank and because all ends well despite his efforts to the contrary, it doesn’t follow that he should be absolved of responsibility. For all his professed love for Jane, Frank involves her in an imaginary extramarital affair, flirts with Emma in front of her and ultimately humiliates her at the picnic. For all his friendliness and affability, he is less than generous to his father, uses Emma for his own motives and is secretly chopping at the bit to see his aunt, the woman who raised him, dead so he can inherit her fortune. Despite what his endgame would suggest, Frank Churchill is an immature, selfish man who is used to getting his own way with little thought or care about how that might hurt other people.

Which brings us to Otis “I fell in love with your soul” Molyneux.

But, but … I hear you say … Fortunatelylori, he did suffer consequences. He lost Georgiana!

To which I say don’t bring out the pity parade just yet. Because in losing Georgiana, Otis’ actions are reduced to an unfortunate youthful indiscretion by the characters (Georgiana and Charlotte) as well as by the people watching. Because he shed some resigned tears and spoke prettily about how much he loved Georgiana’s soul, everyone is “delighted to forgive him”.

But just as with Frank, is his love for Georgiana enough to absolve him of his wrongdoings? Should we cheer for their potential reunion or think she deserves better, the way Mr. Knightley thinks about Jane? And while we’re on the subject, what are Otis’ crimes? He clearly never meant to cause Georgiana’s kidnapping so what’s the big deal?

What gets lost in Charlotte’s “you are insensible of feeling” rebuke of Sidney is that Otis isn’t a victim of circumstances nor is him honestly being in love with Georgiana a get out of jail free card. Otis is a gambling addict who has amassed debts so vast that the man who is trying to collect them resorts to kidnapping a teenager to get his money back. And that’s just one guy he owes money to.

Does he love Georgiana? Yes, in his own way he loves her just about as much as he loves losing money at cards. What do you think would have happened if they married? Because me thinks Otis would run through that 100.000 real quick while simultaneously loving the hell out of Georgiana’s soul.

Which brings me to Otis’s less than agreeable character traits: lying and manipulation. He lies to Georgiana from the first moment he meets her. Worst yet, he takes advantage of her vulnerability and he encourages her to rely solely on him for emotional support:

Georgiana: I was uprooted. Lost. In despair. Otis restored me to life. Those 3 months were the happiest I’ve known.

That sounds great and all but what happens after he’s gone from her life is that Georgiana feels like she suddenly has no one and nothing. Because her entire sense of self was tied to Otis.

He also allows Georgiana to believe that her guardian is a racist monster who is keeping them apart because of the color of his skin when he knows full well that’s not the case and also that Georgiana needs to have a good relationship with Sidney for the foreseeable future at least.

In order to keep up the charade, he takes active part in poisoning Charlotte against Sidney and very much enjoys playing the wronged party in this whole scenario:

Otis: But then your friend, Mr. Parker, took it upon himself to rip us apart.

Charlotte: However painful that might have been, Mr. Parker must surely have had Georgiana’s best interest at heart.

Otis: Then you clearly don’t know Mr. Parker as well as you think.

 Lying is so ingrained in Otis’ modus operandi that he can’t help himself from doing it even when there’s not even the slightest chance that he can get away with it:

Beecroft: Oh, yes! The famous Miss Lambe! Mr. Molyneux speaks of little else. Miss Lambe this, Miss Lambe that.

Otis: That is a lie! If I mentioned her it was only in passing …

Beecroft: I’m not the liar here. You told me a wedding was imminent. That her fortune was as good as yours. I never would have let him run such a debt otherwise.

Otis: All I wanted was to buy a little time … If I had known even for one moment …

What was that about Sidney not having good reason to keep you away from Georgiana, Otis?!?

Also look at him running the eluding responsibility obstacle course like a pro:

Otis: He’s sold her! The villain has sold her!

Charlotte: What?

Sidney: In return for a promise to buy his debt, she’s been handed to some dissolute named Howard. Even now he’ll be dragging her to an altar.

Charlotte: An altar? But that cannot be allowed without your permission.

Sidney:  No. They have no such laws across the border. There they will marry you with impunity.

Otis: Had you only allowed us to marry!

Otis has gambled himself silly, bragged about Georgiana’s money to the worst possible people, disappeared from public view (he hasn’t picked up his mail in weeks because he’s in hiding from the debt collectors) and his reaction is to put all the blame on Sidney. That is not the behavior of a well-balanced adult. This is the behavior of a gambler who thinks he can talk his way out of anything because he has “game”.

This brings us to his last scene with Georgiana when everything comes into focus. If you really think about it, there is not a single moment during their relationship where Otis isn’t lying to her, including the romantic separation that hit everyone in the feels:

Otis: I’ve gambled. That is true. But whatever they tell you, I never gambled with your name.

Notice how the first thing out of his mouth is manipulative. “Whatever they tell you” i.e. turst no one but me. I’m the only one who is telling the truth so listen to me as I lie my ass off right now.

Otis: I never boasted of your wealth. I boasted of you.

Two lines in and he’s already lied twice. You can actually do a play by play of what he says here and what he says in the Beecroft scene.

And then comes the coup de grace!

Otis: It was pride. That is all! And Lord knows, I have paid for it!

As consequence of his gambling, hiding from his creditors and running his mouth about Georgiana’s fortune, the woman he loves was kidnapped, Charlotte almost got raped and Sidney is however many thousands of pounds lighter for paying off his debts. So bring out the waterworks for Otis, guys! Let’s not forget who the real victim in all of this is!  

Alexa, play Despacito.

Otis lies so much he has ended up internalizing his lies to such an extent that he has turned himself into a victim. His narrative is ultimately rejected by Georgiana, leaving him pained but that shouldn’t fool you into thinking he’s a good guy. Neither he nor Frank are moustache twirling villains but their flaws and the way they allow those flaws to affect the people they supposedly love speaks volumes about their character.

Maybe, eventually, they both grow up. Maybe Frank becomes more selfless and starts treating others with respect. Maybe Otis never gambles again and becomes the responsible civil rights leader he wants others to see him as.

But as things stand at the end of their story line, I, for one, am not willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. It’s sadly too late for Jane to pick herself another husband. But I haven’t given up hope that Georgiana will shake Otis off like a spot of English rain.

[writemarcus]

Black LGBTQ+ playwrights and musical-theater artists you need to know

These artists are producing amazing, timely work.

By Marcus Scott Posted: Friday July 24 2020, 4:56pm

Marcus Scott is a New York City–based playwright, musical writer, opera librettist and journalist. He has contributed to Elle, Essence, Out, American Theatre, Uptown, Trace, Madame Noire and Playbill, among other publications. Follow Marcus: Instagram, Twitter

We’re in the chrysalis of a new age of theatrical storytelling, and Black queer voices have been at the center of this transformation. Stepping out of the margins of society to push against the status quo, Black LGBTQ+ artists  have been actively engaged in fighting anti-blackness, racial disparities, disenfranchisement, homophobia and transphobia.

The success of Jeremy O. Harris’s Slave Play, Donja R. Love’s one in two and Jordan E. Cooper’s Ain’t No Mo’—not to mention Michael R. Jackson’s tour de force, the Pulitzer Prize–winning metamusical A Strange Loop—made that phenomenon especially visible last season. But these artists are far from alone. Because the intersection of queerness and Blackness is complex—with various gender expressions, sexual identifiers and communities taking shape in different spaces—Black LGBTQ+ artists are anything but a monolith. George C. Wolfe, Tarell Alvin McCraney, Branden Jacobs-Jenkins, Robert O’Hara, Harrison David Rivers, Staceyann Chin, Colman Domingo, Tracey Scott Wilson, Tanya Barfield, Marcus Gardley and Daniel Alexander Jones are just some of the many Black queer writers who have already made marks.

With New York stages dark for the foreseeable future, we can’t know when we will be able to see live works by these artists again. It is likely, however, that they will continue to play major roles in the direction American theater will take in the post-quarantine era—along with many creators who are still flying mostly under the radar. Here are just a few of the Black queer artists you may not have encountered yet: vital new voices that are speaking to the Zeitgeist and turning up the volume.

Christina Anderson A protégé of Paula Vogel’s, Christina Anderson has presented work at the Public Theatre, Yale Repertory Theatre, Penumbra Theatre Company, Playwrights Horizons and other theaters around the U.S. and Canada. She has degrees from the Yale School of Drama and Brown University, and  is a resident playwright at New Dramatists and Epic Theatre Ensemble; she has received the inaugural Harper Lee Award for Playwriting and three Susan Smith Blackburn Prize nominations, among other honors. Works include: How To Catch Creation (2019), Blacktop Sky (2013), Inked Baby (2009) Follow Christina: Website

Aziza Barnes Award-winning poet Aziza Barnes moved into playwriting with one of the great sex comedies of the 2010s: BLKS, which premiered at Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theatre Company in 2017 before it played at MCC Theatre in 2019 (where it earned a Lucille Lortel Award nomination). The NYU grad’s play about three twentysomethings probed the challenges and choices of Millennials with pathos and zest that hasn’t been seen since Kenneth Lonergan’s Gen X love/hate letter This Is Our Youth. Barnes is the author of the full-length collection of poems the blind pig and i be but i ain’t, which won a Pamet River Prize. Works include: BLKS (2017) Follow Aziza: Twitter

Troy Anthony Burton Fusing a mélange of quiet storm ‘90s-era Babyface R&B, ‘60s-style funk-soul and urban contemporary gospel, composer Troy Anthony has had a meteoric rise in musical theater in the past three years, receiving commissions and residencies from the Shed, Rattlestick Playwrights Theatre, Atlantic Theater Company and the Civilians. When Anthony is not crafting ditties of his own, he is an active performer who has participated in the Public Theater’s Public Works and Shakespeare In the Park. Works include: The River Is Me (2017), The Dark Girl Chronicles (in progress) Follow Troy: Instagram

Timothy DuWhite Addressing controversial issues such as HIV, state-sanctioned violence and structural anti-blackness, poet and performance artist Timothy DuWhite unnerves audiences with a hip-hop driven gonzo style. DuWhite’s raison d’être is to shock and enrage, and his provocative Neptune was, along with Donja R. Love’s one in two, one of the first plays by an openly black queer writer to address HIV openly and frankly.  He has worked with the United Nations/UNICEF, the Apollo Theater, Dixon Place and La MaMa. Works include: Neptune (2018) Follow Timothy: Instagram

Jirèh Breon Holder Raised in Memphis and educated at Morehouse College, Jirèh Breon Holder solidified his voice at the Yale School of Drama under the direction of Sarah Ruhl. He has received the Laurents/Hatcher Foundation Award and the Edgerton Foundation New Play Award, among other honors. His play Too Heavy for Your Pocket premiered at Roundabout Underground and has since been produced in cities including Los Angeles, Chicago, Des Moines and Houston; his next play, ...What The End Will Be, is slated to debut at the Roundabout Theatre Company. Works include: Too Heavy for Your Pocket (2017), What The End Will Be (2020) Follow Jirèh: Twitter

C.A. Johnson Born in Louisiana, rising star C.A. Johnson writes with a southern hospitality and homespun charm that washes over audiences like a breath of fresh air. Making a debut at MCC Theater with her coming of age romcom All the Natalie Portmans, she drew praise for empathic take on a black queer teenage womanchild with Hollywood dreams. A core writer at the Playwrights Center, she has had fellowships with the Dramatists Guild Fellow, Page 73, the Lark and the Sundance Theatre Lab. Works include: All the Natalie Portmans (2020) Follow C.A.: Twitter

Johnny G. Lloyd A New York-based playwright and producer, Johnny G. Lloyd has seen his work produced and developed at the Tank, 59E59, the Corkscrew Festival, the Samuel French Off-Off Broadway Short Play Festival and more. A member of the 2019-2020 Liberation Theatre Company’s Writing Residency, this Columbia University graduate is also a producing director of InVersion Theatre. Works include: The Problem With Magic, Is (2020), Or, An Astronaut Play (2019), Patience (2018) Follow Johnny: Instagram

Patricia Ione Lloyd In her luminous 2018 breakthrough Eve’s Song at the Public Theater, Patricia Ione Lloyd offered a meditation on the violence against black women in America that is often overlooked onstage. With a style saturated in both humor and melancholy and a poetic lyricism that evokes Ntozake Shange’s, the former Tow Playwright in Residence has earned fellowships at New Georges, the Dramatist Guild, Playwrights Realm, New York Theater Workshop and Sundance. Works include: Eve’s Song (2018) Follow Patricia: Instagram

Maia Matsushita The half-Black, half-Japanese educator and playwright Maia Matsushita has sounded a silent alarm in downtown theater with an array of slow-burn, naturalistic coming-of-age dramas. She was a member of The Fire This Time’s 2017-18 New Works Lab and part of its inaugural Writers Group, and her work has been seen at Classical Theatre of Harlem’s Playwright Playground and the National Black Theatre’s Keeping Soul Alive Reading Series. Works include: House of Sticks (2019), White Mountains (2018) Follow Maia: Instagram

Daaimah Mubashshir When Daaimah Mubashshir’s kitchen-sink dramedy Room Enough (For Us All) debuted at the Rattlestick Playwrights Theatre in 2019, the prolific writer began a dialogue around the contemporary African-American Muslim experience and black queer expression that made her a significant storyteller to watch. She is a core writer at the Playwrights Center in Minneapolis as well as a member of Soho Rep’s Writer/Director Lab, Clubbed Thumb’s Early Career Writers Group, and a MacDowell Colony Fellow. Her short-play collection The Immeasurable Want of Light was published in 2018. Works include: Room Enough (For Us All) (2019) Follow Daaimah: Twitter

Jonathan Norton Hailing from Dallas, Texas, Jonathan Norton is a delightfully zany playwright who subverts notions of post-blackness by underlining America’s obscure historical atrocities with bloody red slashes. The stories he tells carry a profound horror, often viewed through the eyes of black children and young adults. Norton’s work has been produced or developed by companies including the Actors Theatre of Louisville (at the 44th Humana Festival), PlayPenn and InterAct Theatre Company. He is the Playwright in Residence at Dallas Theater Center. Works include: Mississippi Goddamn (2015), My Tidy List of Terrors (2013), penny candy (2019) Follow Jonathan: Website

AriDy Nox Cooking up piping hot gumbos of speculative fiction, transhumanism and radical womanist expression, AriDy Nox is a rising star with a larger-than-life vision. The Spelman alum earned an MFA from NYU TIsch’s Graduate Musical Theatre Writing Program and has been a staple of various theaters such as Town Stages. A member of the inaugural 2019 cohort of the Musical Theatre Factory Makers residency, they recently joined the Public Theater’s 2020-2022 Emerging Writers Group cohort. Works include: Metropolis (in progress), Project Tiresias (2018) Follow AriDy: Instagram

Akin Salawu Akin Salawu’s nonlinear, hyperkinetic work combines heart-pounding suspense chills with Tarantino-esque thrills while excavating Black trauma and Pan-African history in America. With over two decades of experience as a writer, director and editor, the prize-winning playwright is a two-time Tribeca All Access Winner and a member of both the Public Theater’s Emerging Writers Group and Ars Nova’s Uncharted Musical Theater residency. A graduate of Stanford, he is a founder of the Tank’s LIT Council, a theater development center for male-identifying persons of color. Works include: bless your filthy lil’ heart (2019), The Real Whisperer (2017), I Stand Corrected (2008) Follow Akin: Twitter

Sheldon Shaw A playwright, screenwriter and actor, Sheldon Shaw studied writing at the Labyrinth Theater Company and was part of Playwrights Intensive at the Kennedy Center. Shaw has since developed into a sort of renaissance man, operating as playwright, screenwriter and actor. His plays have been developed by Emerging Artist Theaters New Works Festival, Classical Theater of Harlem and the Rooted Theater Company. Shaw's Glen was the winner of the Black Screenplays Matter competition and a finalist in the New York Screenplay Contest. Works include: Jailbait (2018), Clair (2017), Baby Starbucks (2015) Follow Johnny: Twitter

Nia O. Witherspoon Multidisciplinary artist Nia Ostrow Witherspoon’s metaphysical explorations of black liberation and desire have made her an in-demand presence in theater circles. The recipient of multiple honors—include New York Theatre Workshop’s 2050 Fellowship, a Wurlitzer Foundation residency and the Lambda Literary’s Emerging Playwriting Fellowship—she is currently developing The Dark Girl Chronicles, a play cycle that, in her words, “explores the criminalization of black cis and trans women via African diaspora sacred stories.” Works include: The Dark Girl Chronicles (in progress) ​Follow Nia: Instagram

Brandon Webster A Brooklyn-based musical theatre writer and dramaturg, Brandon Webster has been a familiar figure in the NYC theater scene, both onstage and behind the scenes. With an aesthetic that fuses Afrofuturist and Afrosurrealist storytelling, with a focus on Black liberation past and present, the composer’s work fuses psychedelic soul flourishes with alt-R&B nuances to create a sonic smorgasbord of seething rage and remorse. He is an alumnus of the 2013 class of BMI Musical Theater Workshop and a 2017 MCC Theater Artistic Fellow. Works include: Metropolis (in progress), Headlines (2017), Boogie Nights (2015) Follow Brandon: Instagram

[papermoonloveslucy]

HUMILIATED & UNHAPPY

July 16, 1960

TV Guide ~ July 16-22, 1960 (Vol.8, No.29 & Issue #381) Cover photo by Sherm Weisberg, Fashions by Sacks Fifth Avenue

This was Lucille Ball’s tenth (of 39) TV Guide covers. 

“A VISIT WITH LUCILLE BALL” by Dan Jenkins

On January 19, 1953, Desi Arnaz rushed exultantly into the Hollywood Brown Derby, grinning that wide, idiotic grin common to new fathers for the past several eons. Striding down a side isle, he threw his arms excitedly in the air and shouted, "Now we got everythin'!" By "everythin'," Arnaz was encompassing quite a bit of territory - an eight-pound son born that morning, the birth of the Ricardo son on ‘I Love Lucy’ that same night and a gold-plated peak of popularity for a television series which, in all probability, will never again be approached. On May 4, 1960, just seven years later, Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball, quite possibly the most widely known couple in show-business history, were divorced. She had sued for divorce once before (she didn't complete the proceedings), but that was back in 1944 when Desi was a corporal in the Army, Lucy was a star at MGM and World War II was getting all the headlines. By 1960, the Lucy-Desi combine had made so many headlines that no one even bothered to look at the press-clipping scrapbooks any more, or the countless awards that had rolled in on them from all over the country. On an overcast spring afternoon, just 10 days after the divorce, Lucille Ball was sitting in her small but tastefully decorated dressing room on the Desilu lot. That morning, during a short drive over to the neighboring Paramount lot to confer with the producers of her upcoming picture with Bob Hope, she had stuck her head out the window of her chauffeur-driven car and shouted to a friend, "Hi! Remember me? I used to work at Desilu." The remark was not only typical of Lucy Ball but an unwitting reflection of her character and a classic off-the-cuff example of the laugh-clown-laugh tradition. Like most true clowns, Lucy is not a jovial, outgoing person. Her devastating sense of humor, often with a cutting edge, is reserved for her friends. In her dealings with the press she is precise, truthful - and sparing with words. A newsman asked her recently if she had plans to marry again. Lucy stared at him for a few seconds and said simply, "No." (1) The newsman felt that Lucy had missed her calling and should be rushed into the negotiations with Khrushchev forthwith. Relaxing (which is to say, at least sitting down for a few minutes) with an old friend in her dressing room that spring afternoon, Lucy alternated between abrupt sentences and spilled-over paragraphs. On the subject of her immediate plans, she talked almost as though by rote. "I start rehearsals this week for a picture with Bob Hope. It's called 'The Facts of Life.' [She did not wince at the title.] I liked it the minute I read the script and said I'd do it if Bob would. It's written and produced by Norman Panama and Melvin Frank. We have a 10-week shooting schedule. "Then I go to New York with the two children, my mother and two maids. We have a seven-room apartment on 69th Street at Lexington. I'll start rehearsals right away for a Broadway show, 'Wildcat.' It's a comedy with music, not a musical comedy, but the music is important. I play a girl wildcatter in the Southwestern oil fields around the turn of the century. It was written by N. Richard Nash, who wrote 'The Rainmaker.' He is co-producer with Michael Kidd, the director. We're still looking for a leading man. I want an unknown. He has to be big, husky, around 40. He has to be able to throw me around, and I'm a pretty big girl. He has to be able to sing, at least a little. (2) I have to sing, too. It's pretty bad. When I practice, I hold my hands over my ears. We open out of town - I don't know where - and come to New York in December. [Ed. Note: ‘Wildcat’ is now scheduled to make its debut in Philadelphia in November.] (3) "I'm terrified. I've never been on the stage before, except in 'Dream Girl' years ago. But we always filmed ‘I Love Lucy’ before a live audience. I knew a long time ago that I was eventually going to go to Broadway and that's one reason why we shot Lucy that way. But I'm still terrified. The contract for the play runs 18 months. Maybe it will last that long. Maybe longer. And maybe it will last three days." (4) The phone rang. A man's voice, the resonant kind which a telephone seems to make louder, wanted to know if Lucy would like to go out that night. Lucy's expression indicated that the whole idea was a bore but the man prattled on. He apparently had a commitment to attend a young night-club singer's act. "I've seen him twice already," Lucy said into the phone, "and his press agent is now saying I've been there eight times. If I go again the kid will be saying I'm in love with him. He's 2-feet-6 and nine years old. I don't want any part of it." The voice on the phone turned to a tone of urgent pleading. Lucy held the phone away from her at arms length and looked to the ceiling for advice and guidance. She finally hung up. "I go out because people ask me to," she said. "I have no love for night clubs, unless there's an act I especially want to see. And I don't especially want to see this kid's again." She lit another cigarette. "Nervous habit," she said. "I don't inhale, never did. Just nerves.” "I get tired too easily. The reaction is beginning to set in. I've had pneumonia twice in a year. That's not good." There was a long silence. Even for old friends, Lucy is not an easy person to talk to. "I filed for the divorce the day after I finished my last piece of film under the Westinghouse contract," she said suddenly. "I should have done it long ago." Would there ever be any more Lucy-Desi specials like those Westinghouse had sponsored? (5) She stared. "No," she said abruptly. She paused. "Even if everything were alright, we'd never work together again. We had six years of a pretty successful series and two years of specials. Why try to top it? That would be foolish. We always knew that when the time came to quit, we'd quit. We were lucky. We quit while we were still ahead." Was she happy?

Another stare. "Am I happy? No. Not yet. I will be. I've been humiliated. That's not easy for a woman." She started to talk about the recent years with Desi. She talked in a quiet, factual monotone, a voice that had been all through bitterness and was now beyond it. She talked with an implicit faith that what she was saying was off the record. It was. Some day, it was suggested to her, somebody was going to write the story. She stared. "Who would want to?" (6) She looked over at the framed picture of Desi that stood on a small table. "Look at him," she said. "That's the way he looked 10 years ago. He doesn't look like that now. He'll never look like that again." The door was opened and a spring breeze began drawing some of the heavy cigarette smoke out of the room. Lucy smiled a little and turned to her desk. "Try to write," she said finally, "more than I said but not as much as I said." 

FOOTNOTES

(1) Lucille Ball did indeed marry again - to Gary Morton (born Morton Goldaper) on November 21, 1961.  They remained married until her death. 

(2) Gordon MacRae, Jock Mahoney, and Gene Barry were considered before Lucille selected Keith Andes to play the role of Joe Dynamite. He was indeed 40 years old at the time of casting. He committed suicide in 2005. 

(3) 'Wildcat’s’ Philadelphia tryout opened on October 29, 1960. The Broadway opening had to be postponed when trucks hauling the sets and costumes to New York were stranded on the New Jersey Turnpike by a major blizzard. After two previews, the show opened on December 16th at Broadway’s Alvin (now Neil Simon) Theatre.

(4) ‘Wildcat’ ran for 171 regular performances. The show was on hiatus from February 5, 1961 through February 9, 1961 during Lucille Ball's illness. The production was to take a 9-week hiatus after June 3rd, 1961 and re-open August 7, 1961, to complete Ball’s contract, but the show closed and did not return due to Ball’s physical exhaustion. 

(5) Jenkins is referring to the 13 “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hours” which were part of the “Westinghouse-Desilu Playhouse” which continued the adventures of the Ricardos and the Mertzes, including guest stars, musical numbers, and travel-themed episodes. 

(6) Lucy and Desi’s tempestuous marriage has been the subject of several books, two television movies, an award-winning documentary, and at least one stage musical! 

TV Guide columnist Dan Jenkins had his name used by “I Love Lucy” in “Redecorating” (ILL S2;E8) in 1952 for the used furniture salesman played by Hans Conried.  His name was also mentioned in “Lucy and Ethel Buy The Same Dress” (S3;E3) as a possible emcee for their television show.  His qualifications? He plays tissue paper and comb! 

In 1953, when Lucille Ball was accused of being a Communist, the real Dan Jenkins stood up at a press conference and said “Well, I think we all owe Lucy a vote of thanks, and I think a lot of us owe her an apology.” Lucy and Desi walked over to where Jenkins was standing and gave him a huge hug. Jenkins later said, “From that time on, we were very good friends.”  His last interview with Lucy was in 1986 during “Life with Lucy.” 

OTHER ARTICLES

“Shari Lewis and her Puppets” - Lewis was a ventriloquist who’s main character was the sock puppet Lambchop.  In 1960, after years of guest-starring on television, Lewis got her own show, which lasted three years on NBC. 

“Ty Hardin’s Whirlwind Career” - Ty Hardin and his western show “Bronco” (1958-63) was ABC TV’s answer to Clint Walker’s “Cheyenne”.  

“From the Mouth’s of Babes Comes Happy’s Gimmick” - “Happy” (1960-61) was the nickname of a baby, who’s thoughts could be heard by the viewers in this one-season sitcom.  It was filmed at Desilu Studios. 

“The Untouchables - Fact and Fiction: Part 2″ - “The Untouchables” (1959-63) was a series that began on “The Westinghouse-Desilu Playhouse” and turned into a hit weekly show by Desilu. 

PHOTO FEATURES

“Linkletter’s Packing Tips” - Art Linkletter was one of television’s most popular hosts and presenters. Lucille Ball appeared on his show “House Party” in 1965 as well as a 1966 episode of “The Lucy Show” and a 1970 episode of “Here’s Lucy,” both times playing himself. 

“Connie Stevens’ Calorie Counter” - Connie Stevens was a singer and actress then playing Cricket Blake on “Hawaiian Eye” (1959-63). 

REVIEW

“Mystery Show” - was a mystery anthology series broadcast on NBC from May 1960 to September 1960 as a summer replacement for “The Dinah Shore Chevy Show” with Walter Slezak as host, except for the last three episodes, which had Vincent Price as host.

At the time Evelyn Bigsby was the Associate Managing Editor for Women’s Features at TV Guide’s Hollywood Bureau. Her name was given to the new mother (played by Mary Jane Croft) who sits next to Lucy on the plane in “Return Home From Europe” (ILL S5;E26) in 1956. 

Depending on the time zone, “I Love Lucy” was re-run every morning at 10 or 11am. Here it competed with “The Price Is Right” which was broadcast in color!  NBC (RCA) was the leader in color television and staked its claim far soon than CBS. “The Lucy Show” didn’t air in color until the fall of 1965. 

In another market, “I Love Lucy” ran weekdays at 10am. This edition (same cover and feature articles, different listings) included “Lucy” episode descriptions, while others did not. Notice that an hour earlier the same channel re-ran Desilu’s series “December Bride”. On Monday, July 18, 1960, the re-run was “Second Honeymoon” (ILL S5;E14).  From this we can logically assume that this week, in this particular TV market, channel 2 and 8 presented:

TUESDAY, JULY 19, 1960 - “Lucy Meets the Queen (ILL S5;E15)

WEDNESDAY, JULY 20, 1960 - “The Fox Hunt” (ILL S5;E16)

THURSDAY, JULY 21, 1960 -  “Lucy Goes To Scotland” (ILL S5;E17)

FRIDAY, JULY 22, 1960 - “Paris at Last” (ILL S5;E18)

On Tuesday, July 19, 1960, at 8:30pm, CBS aired the unsold pilot for "Head of the Family". The pilot had Carl Reiner as TV writer Rob Petrie, Barbara Britton as Rob's wife Laura, Sylvia Miles as Sally Rogers, and Morty Gunty as Buddy Sorrell. In 1961, CBS would score a hit with a new name and a new cast of Dick Van Dyke, Mary Tyler Moore, Rose Marie, and Morey Amsterdam, filmed at Desilu Studios. 

For American TV viewers, this was the week between the Democratic National Convention (July 11-15) and the Republican National Convention (July 25-28).  Both parties affirmed their November presidential candidates: John F. Kennedy (D) and Richard M. Nixon (R). Kennedy would prove the victor on Election Day. 

Eight years earlier, in July 1952, an estimated 70 million voters watched the broadcasts, which ended with the nominations of Adlai Stevenson II and Dwight D. Eisenhower.  Although the conventions were also televised in 1948, few Americans owned a TV set to watch them. There was a popular myth that Stevenson lost the election because of backlash from interrupting airings of “I Love Lucy” with hour-long campaign ads. Another story has Stevenson receiving a telegram from a Lucy fan that read: “I love Lucy, but I hate you.”  The situation was paralleled on “I Love Lucy” in “The Club Election” (ILL S2;E19).  By 1956, the conventions were less a novelty on television, and drew smaller ratings and less attention. In the summer of 1956, Lucy and Desi were preparing their sixth and final season of “I Love Lucy” and storylines had to revolve around big name guest stars (Orson Welles and Bob Hope) and the move to Connecticut. 

Lucille Ball’s last appearance as Lucy Ricardo was on April 1, 1960, just four and a half months before this issue of TV Guide hit the stands. She wouldn’t return to series television until September 1962, by which time Lucille will be back on the cover of TV Guide once again.  She remained a yearly fixture on the Guide cover until 1974 and then made only one more original appearance to mark her return with “Life With Lucy.” 

After this article comes out, the next time TV viewers see Lucille Ball on their home screens is to promote her film with Bob Hope, The Facts of Life, on “The Garry Moore Show” on September 27, 1960. The film opened in November 1960. 

For more about TV Guide and “I Love Lucy” click here!  

[fatgirlsguidetodating]

Blog: Almost 40.

I’ve never been one for posting particularly introspective blog entries publicly. It’s not that I don’t contemplate things, or even write about them, but for the most part those meandering musings are confined only to my phone’s notes app- my most used app behind Facebook. And on those rare occasions that I *do* publicly blog about them I usually keep it on a relatively superficial level as I don’t necessarily like opening up my mind (and insecurities) to strangers.

But I’m turning 40 in less than a month and I think this is the catalyst that’s prompted a lot more thought about things than I’d ordinarily give them. I’d always considered 40 old but, as I approach it, I don’t *feel* old. And my family and friends would be rather quick to point out I don’t act it either. I always thought by 40 I would be much further along in life than I am. That I’d have a good job, a nice husband, a nice house, kids, that whole suburban dream. But... I haven’t.

And I started thinking if I’m a ball of mixed emotions about turning 40 maybe there’s other women- and men for that matter- who are feeling the exact same way so perhaps if I’m to break my self imposed cocoon of privacy around my innermost thoughts now might be the perfect time to give it a shot. So, with that being said, here goes nothing...

Here’s the thing: I remember my Mum’s 40th. I had just turned 10. I was sitting outside with my cousins, all of similar ages, and we were making fun of what we considered to be the appalling music taste our respective parents had. I even remember the leather pants Mum was wearing. She claims to have forgotten them but I think she’s faking that despite her bad memory. It didn’t even occur to me for a millisecond that my 40th wouldn’t be spent in a similar fashion. I just assumed life would follow the same path most women’s lives had followed for generations (with one caveat- I was planning to be the first one to go to uni): I’d find a job, I’d find a husband, we’d buy a house with a white picket fence, and we’d have 2.5 kids and a dog. And that all of that would be well and truly achieved by the time I turned 40. Just like it had been for my mum, and her mum before her, and hers before her. It was just the way things went, you know?

And then life happened. There’s a line in “Beautiful Boy” one of the John Lennon songs that I love that says “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” and it couldn’t be any truer in the 21st century than It was when it was written in 1980. (It’s a cruel twist of fate that it was written not long before he died and released after his death.)

For me “life” was all about my health, or lack thereof. I’ve mentioned the back issues before and the many hospital visits, and the 70 plus back ops. In essence this put things on hold: work, getting a home of my own, finding a guy (hard when you are always in and out of hospital and have problems losing weight) and having kids. So as I approach 40 without those things I’m not necessarily looking forward to it the way many do. (Plus if I get one “over the hill” card the person giving it to me shall be in a body bag.)

One thing I noticed when researching this blog post was Google searches about turning 40 seemed to concentrate on two things: what your health would be like post 40 and life as a Mum. Well what about those of us who are single and childless? Are we invisible? This didn’t particularly help with my mixed emotions about this supposed great milestone.

And it seems I’m not alone. Dr. Nancy Oreilly wrote about women’s aging anxiety that regardless of how you feel towards turning 40 you’ll still do what everyone does at this juncture and take stock of your life thus far. Things like “what have you done with your life? Are you the person you intended to be and are you living the life you want?” (1.)

In Lisa Bono’s interview with author Glynnis MacNicol about her book “No one tells you this” for the Sydney Morning Herald about life as a single 40 year old woman MacNicol admits she approached her 40th with “so much dread and shame" because she didn't have what she was "supposed" to have - a husband and a kid or two.... (because) we don't understand how to talk about women's lives as fulfilling unless we incorporate babies or weddings.” (2.)

Meredith Goldberg, in her article about age being just a number posed the question that if indeed age was just a number why was she feeling so apprehensive? Was it because she felt “like (she) had not accomplished enough in (her) 40 years on earth?” (3.) After all she hadn’t gotten married, hadn’t had kids, didn’t have another advanced degree.

Interestingly studies over the last decade or so have shown that the start of middle age (which, much to my chagrin given my belief I’m still like a much younger woman, is considered to be 40) often correlates with the time when people are the least happy, have the lowest levels of life satisfaction and highest levels of anxiety. A study at the University of Warwick and Dartmouth College attributed this to the facts that at this stage “adults are often faced with the pressures of raising children and looking after aging parents while simultaneously dealing with mounting financial and career pressures.“ (4)

Is it all too late for me- and other women turning 40 without a child- though? This is one of the most common thoughts going round and round in my head as I approach 40. I mean we all know about the whole ticking biological clock right? Even when I was doing my first postrgrad degree at 24, working part time, still single, still living at home, I still thought well there’s plenty of time. At 28 when I was finishing with postgrad, working full time but still single I *still* thought well there’s still a fair bit of time. At 33 it changed to well I guess there’s still time if I get a bit of a hurry on now. And now, at 39, single and childless, I think well maybe it’s too late now.

In her article about turning 40 whilst single and childless Bethany Jenkins wrote that it’s not only common but practically universal for a woman to expect and long for children, “to bring new life into the world; to put her hand on her belly as her baby grows; to wonder whether the newborn will have her or her beloved’s eyes; to hear “mom” not as a word uttered by her own voice to her own mother but as a call from her child’s voice for her.” (5) MacNicol in her book echoes that saying “as women, we’re taught to expect our stories to turn to marriage and children at a certain point in time (namely, before 40.)” (6)

Robin Deutsch, a psychologist and associate professor at William James College in Newton also points out that women reaching 40 tend to be more confident, have more wisdom and make better choices. (4) (Does she even know me?) But when you really think about it the whole “life begins at 40” theory has some merit. Julia Child didn’t publish her first cookbook until she was almost 50. Vera Wang didn’t start her fashion career until 40.

The fact that these women have the same feelings surrounding turning 40 whilst single and childless gives me some comfort. There’s a quote from Jung that I remember from philosophy at uni. He said that life begins at 40 and until then you’re just doing research. And maybe I’ve got to look at the positives in my current circumstances? One big upside I see is freedom. I plan to travel and return to uni to study something I’m passionate about and it’s doubtful I could do this had my life taken that path I was so sure it would.

So does this mean that the formula that my mum and all my ancestors followed, that unsaid life plan of when to get married, buy a home and have kids, is a thing of the past? We know women have children later these days. In fact the median age for a first kid these days is 30.6 as per the ABS reports

From the 1950s to mid 1970s, the fertility rates of women aged 20–24 and 25–29 were patently higher than that of all other age groups. Since then, the fertility rates for women in their 20s have been steadily declining whilst rates of those aged in their 30s have mostly increased since the early 1980s. Since 2000, the fertility rate of women in their early 30s has been higher than all other groups. It’s not just that women are having babies later but also the birth rate has declined. In 1950 the birth rate was 23.124. Its predicted 2020 will be at 12.561. (ABS yearly reports.)

We know women have children later these days, preferring to be settled and to have done the things they thought they’d not be able to do after before becoming a parent. Compared to our mothers, our grandmothers and so on we have more choices and not every woman’s first goal in life is having a child. (8)

The differences between say baby boomers and millennials are striking. It’s not just the fact that they settle down later but there are also other factors that mean by the time we turn 40 we may not have all the things our ancestors have but there are other priorities we have. For instance more women go to university now than they did when my Mum was turning 40. And after spending the time, work and money to get a degree it’s only natural that it follows that they want to get more out of their careers. Whilst baby boomers are more driven by loyalty, often staying at the same company for years, millennials are more interested in achieving more, whether that’s at the same company or not. (9) My father, for example, worked for the same company his entire life. He could have gone to many others with the knowledge he’d accumulated but he liked his job and he was happy there so it didn’t even really occur to him in more than a passing thought.

Then you look at things like buying a home. It’s ironic given that pay has increased that millennials are putting home ownership off longer than previous generations. Whilst people of my parents generation were content with a “starter home” these days more and more first home buyers want a bigger home, with bigger and better appliances, closer to the city than the suburbs etc. Research has found that rather than jump straight into a mortgage millennials look at travel, and spending their pay on things like Ubers and Lyfts, coffee, gadgets, clothes, and live entertainment and sports. (9)

Marriage is also something we do later. Consider the fact that whilst almost “50% of baby boomers were married between the ages of 18 to 32... a mere 26% of millennials are married in the same age range.” (9)

The fact that so many other women have the same feelings surrounding turning 40 whilst single and childless gives me some comfort. There’s a quote from Jung that I remember from philosophy at uni. He said that life begins at 40 and until then you’re just doing research. And maybe I’ve got to look at the positives in my current circumstances? One big upside I see is freedom. In the next 12 months I plan to travel and return to uni to study something I’m passionate about and it’s doubtful I could do this had my life taken that path I was so sure it would.

In an article published on mindbodygreen.com the writer spoke about how well-meaning friends had been asking her did she not want to have kids, did she not want to get married, etc, and she was quick to say that this can actually be the “most celebrated time of your life (and to) consider yourself blessed and enjoy the freedom.” (10) She listed some of the things to celebrate about turning 40 whilst single and childless. Like me travel was up there on her list as was the time to Perdue your passions. She also mentioned “(the) opportunity to nurture your friendships and relationships with family...(and that) the dating pool is large in your 40’s (given) a large majority of our population is divorced... there are so many

social media dating sites and social events in every major city... (and) you know what you're looking for.” (10)

So maybe instead of worrying about why I’m not where I wanted to be turning 40, worrying that it’s too late, worrying that my friends are further along than I am, I should be embracing it. The future is mine. I’ve just got to find a way to embrace it.

Fatgirl.

Sources:

1.) https://www.drnancyoreilly.com/40-2/

2.) https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/no-one-tells-you-life-as-a-40-year-old-single-woman-can-be-like-this-20180717-p4zs16.html

3.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.sheknows.com/health-and-wellness/articles/1140197/anxious-about-turning-40/amp/

4.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.bostonglobe.com/magazine/2017/06/01/seriously-now-what-traumatic-about-turning/UVnbdmxVvLSzwoB8Yo4wGP/story.html%3foutputType=amp

5.) https://ifstudies.org/blog/reflections-on-turning-40-while-single-and-childless

6.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.wellandgood.com/good-advice/single-at-40-glynnis-macnicol-interview/amp/

7.) https://aifs.gov.au/facts-and-figures/births-in-australia

8.) https://www.mamamia.com.au/average-age-to-have-kids/

9.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.businessinsider.com/difference-millennials-baby-boomers-2019-4%3famp

10.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/amp.mindbodygreen.com/articles/so-im-single-40-and-childless-now-what--10631