#Shady XV

[vincent-stims]

“It's too late to start over, this is the only thing I know.”

Eminem - Shady XV

🎤 💔 🪦 | 🏨 ❌ ⚰️ | 🎙️ 🛡️ 🪓

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.  What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡

Word count: 12.2k

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Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier

Make us come, baby. Make us come together. 

These words are yours. 

Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep. 

He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body. 

They’re yours, right? 

Even if you don’t get to see him ever again. 

—

It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles. 

Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here. 

It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.

Not today. Please. Not today.

Friday. 

Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head. 

Today is Friday. 

You reject the obvious.

Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.

Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.

Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night. 

You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons. 

Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours. 

Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping. 

Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.

And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you. 

You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet. 

You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.

Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can. 

You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine. 

It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor. 

—

On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body. 

You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze. 

You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste. 

Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.

Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you. 

If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be. 

With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia. 

You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste. 

All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down. 

Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums. 

At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again. 

All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.

Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.

You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black. 

—

In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation. 

You did want to get better. 

You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities. 

On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results. 

But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality. 

For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.

Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were. 

Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear. 

As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.

Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.  

Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all. 

And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.

—

The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places. 

Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed. 

Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…

Frankie. 

You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?

“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”

Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through. 

Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before. 

He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel. 

The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.  

Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish. 

There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.

So many cords. Too many sensors. 

“Where’s my phone?” you mumble. 

Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore. 

“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed. 

You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.

“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”

He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness. 

“What day is it?” you try again. 

“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”

The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.

“What happened?” 

“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”

You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you. 

Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it. 

“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.” 

You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape. 

Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”

“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.

It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.

Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most. 

The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate. 

“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”

“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week. 

Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.  

“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.

There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping. 

“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”

So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known. 

It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute. 

“Polly’s not old,” is your answer. 

“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”

“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”

“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.

The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt. 

“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”

You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline. 

He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small. 

“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”

The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence. 

“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation? 

You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out. 

You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show. 

Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology. 

“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!” 

He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine. 

“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.

“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink. 

And he’s gone.

Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping. 

Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse. 

The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location. 

Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.

Is this how it ends?

Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close. 

You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday. 

Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.

The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.

Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE. 

The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case. 

Your heart rate slows down. 

Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.

—

The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you. 

You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.

On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation. 

Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed. 

You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.

You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.

After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.  

One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you. 

You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.    

Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.

Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.

Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week. 

In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak. 

You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid. 

Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.

You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours. 

You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it. 

On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in. 

She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child. 

While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse. 

True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material. 

At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”

So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image. 

“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”

As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.

Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC. 

That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood. 

You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted. 

You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.

“Fuck it.”

You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic. 

The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour. 

It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut. 

Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper. 

As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor. 

You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.

Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks. 

That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.

You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity. 

Is this how it ends?

Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here. 

Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours. 

The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes. 

Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar. 

“Good evening,” you start with a tight smile. “I—“

A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again. 

“I come in every week?” 

Jesus. 

“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”

“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”

You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.  

“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”

“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”

“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”

“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund.  Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“

“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”

Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long? 

If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will. 

“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”

The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe. 

“Do you want to book it?”

You shake your head slowly.

“No. Thank you.”

Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot. 

He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding. 

You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you. 

You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.

All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years. 

The before and the after him. 

He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him. 

Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story. 

The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed. 

That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel. 

“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan. 

His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob. 

It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind. 

Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.  

“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers. 

“What?”

His smile drops when you take a step back. 

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“ 

Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall. 

He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.

“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.

“What happened to you?”

The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms. 

“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper. 

“Did he do that to you?”

“What?”

“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.

“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”

“How did you fall?” he presses. 

He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to. 

The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own. 

“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”

“I’m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze. 

“You can barely stand.”

However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.

“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.” 

“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”

“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”

He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.

The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all. 

“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.

“Wanna bet?”

You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could. 

“Listen,” he begins with a sigh. 

“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“

“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.

His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness. 

“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”

Our minds. 

He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control. 

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Yes, ok.”

He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”

— 

The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you. 

What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?

On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing. 

You hate yourself for that, too. 

After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard. 

Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual. 

The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it. 

“Hey. You ok there?”

In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. 

He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate. 

“C’mere.”

The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his. 

The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer. 

You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart. 

“I’m not married.”

“Ok.”

The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it. 

“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”

“Ok.”

The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit. 

“And I really fell.”

He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist. 

“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”

You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened. 

He tightens his embrace. 

“That when you hurt your head?”

“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”

“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”

“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”

You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”

How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again? 

“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.

If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight. 

“Does it still hurt?” he asks. 

“No,” you lie. 

“Mmh. And for real?”

You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.

“A little. I’ll be fine.”

The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines. 

Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.

“He wouldn’t hit me.”

“Ok.”

“That’s not what he does.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. 

“What does he do?”

You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason. 

“He makes me doubt.”

“Him?”

“Myself. And him too.”

Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel. 

The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights. 

His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist. 

Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber. 

“You ok? Want me to close the window?”

His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”

Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy. 

—

When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare. 

Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone. 

You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin. 

At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light. 

You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there. 

Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then. 

You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh. 

“Wait. I need to talk to you.”

His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will. 

You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him. 

“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes. 

Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest. 

“I understand.”

“I imagine you can’t be here either.”

No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always. 

“No, I can’t.”

The following week, either. But you don’t share that.

This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.

Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.

In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you? 

Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket. 

“Kiss me, Frankie, please.” 

“Yes.”

His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips. 

All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his. 

Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else. 

His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too. 

You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness. 

Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire. 

There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent. 

He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.

Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles. 

“Want me to make you come, baby?”

He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration. 

“No, I want you inside me.” 

“Shit, you sure?”

“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.” 

You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth. 

“You think I don’t know that?”

So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back. 

Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.

“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.” 

It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place. 

“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans. 

“I know you can.”

When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair. 

It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.   

You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside. 

In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes. 

He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart. 

Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue. 

Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.

Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.

“You ok?”

His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff. 

His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.  

Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it. 

He stays like that for a while. 

Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes. 

“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”  

“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”

You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts? 

“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.

But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him. 

Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”

You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within. 

“I want you.”

His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion. 

He doesn’t. 

He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling. 

Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named. 

You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice. 

“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt. 

The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties. 

You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face. 

He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest. 

The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale. 

Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you. 

“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”

He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.

“Fuck you’re tight.”

“Please, Frankie–”

His frame tenses up under your palms.

“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”

“No!”

That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out. 

“I can—“ You trip over your words. 

“What?”

“I can sit on it.”

Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles. 

“Yea. Yea you can.”

He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal. 

“Spit on it,” he says. 

You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.  

“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”

Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed. 

His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours. 

“Sit on it, now.”

His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look. 

“Yes,” you pant. 

Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.  

Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing. 

The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel. 

Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back. 

You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help. 

You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically. 

His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs. 

“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”

You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.

A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.  

You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats. 

His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit. 

And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall. 

“Too much?”

“Oh god yes.”

You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.

“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”

His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind. 

You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.” 

He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire. 

His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.

“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?” 

You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are? 

“Say it again, please.” 

“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you. 

“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”

“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.” 

He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon. 

You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already. 

He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk. 

You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave. 

And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss. 

****

[eri-pl]

Silm reread 12: Geography :(

Aaaand now it's the time for a geography lesson, says the narrative.

Nevrast (Turgon's pre-Gondolin kingdom) is a Noldorin-Sindarin mixed culture. Nice. I assume Gondolin will be like this, too? And still, Eol took an issue with it being too Noldorin.

Finrod is above his brothers, and has the most land and is allied with Cirdan. He deserves it all, he is awesome. <3 Except the part where he doesn't tell Thingol about the shady stuff.

Morgoth's servants all hate water and do not go near the sea unless they really need to. I wasn't sure that was canon.

Ungoliant is mentioned again. She poisons water and it makes people insane. Wait, is this the place where Nienor will later get lost?

Nargothrond's location and surroundings described in detail.

Maglor's gap has horses, oh, so that is why "Maglor the horse girl" is a thing?

Finrod travels a lot, visits Ambarussar and Green elves and what not. Who rules Nargothrond when he's away?

No Noldor go through Ered Lindon in the First Age. I'm not sure if I need this information for something, but maybe.

Chapter XV: more Noldorin drama

Tumladen the Hidden Valley. Mhm. I feel like I've seen this morpheme somewhere more popular. :)

Turgon's Ulmo-induced anxiety is also a thing that sleeps and wakes, because Tolkien's poetic language. (I like Eldritch Oath, but it is a hc with no stronger textual support than the alternative, I think)

Turgon works in secret. And it is not very bad. (He still ends up loving it too much and dies, but he's a very mild case of this problem anyway). also, it takes 52 years (4*13, like deck of cards; or 2*26 and 26 is on of the numbers of perfection in the Bible, iirc. Maybe it's just random logistics.)

Ulmo appears to Turgon (in physical form not in a dream, as he later "returned to the sea") and infodumps him. Gives him a manual on what to do + a prophecy + you will mess up anyway + but it's ok I will send you a reminder + so leave here an armor in this exact size and style. (Really, Ulmo does give Turgon the exact size for the armor, helmet and sword.)

I have a feeling that (at least in Ulmo's opinion) Turgon isn't the brightest fish in the sea.

Meanwhile, Melian asks Galadriel what the problem is and Galadriel doesn't want to speak about it. Also, if seems like the Hiding of Valinor hid it also from Melian's mental information-gathering abilities? She sounds like normally she should be able to see what happenned but now she's not. Huh.

Important points Melian says:

the Noldorin princes never mention the Valar

the sons of Feanor are arrogant and cruel (this is pre-Kinslaying!)

[later] fate of Arda is bound to the Silmarils

[later] the Eldar cannot recover them on their own

Galadriel tells her about the unrest and what Morgoth did, but not the murders, oath or ship-burning. And refuses to say more.

Melian goes to thingol, Thingol also knew something was off and had been thinking about it. Melian warns him against the sons of Feanor, Thingol says that Feanor was a great Elf (according to what he heard) and his sons are sus, but useful as allies.

So, we have a (sort of) answer why Thingol didn't want to talk with the sons of Feanor: they were behaving so badly that (based on gossip, but it migcht have been well-founded gossip) he did not want to deal with them. Huh. for 400-ish years? Not even talk to them to see on his own? Weird but ok.

Now Morgoth starts spreading gossip among the Sindar. how? I would assume Sauron and thralls. I wonder why didn't he earlier tell the Sindar about Alqualonde. Did he not know? So how does he know now? I can't figure out his strategy here.

So Thingol accuses Finrod of being a kinslayer. Finrod is very nice to his cousins and diplomatic. He prefers to be blamed for something he didn't do than to tell on his cousins. But Angrod is still angry at Caranthir (after a couple hundered years, I think. huh.) and tells on them.

Is this why his name is Angrod? Because he gets angry so easily? (+after-the-fact Elvish etymology)

Anyway, Angrod explains he before didn't mention it because of loyalty. Huh. the earlier chapter said something slightly different, but ok. And he talls on them… except the Oath? Kinslaying and ship-burning is mentioned, but no clear indication that anyone told Thingol about the Oath. Which is interesting. Gives a lot of space to my favorite type of conflict (where each side has some good points, but they do not fully know other side's situation).

Thingol kicks them out for a time, and does the Quenya ban, which is directed at the Sindar only. Nothing in the book suggests that Thingol tried to ban the Noldor from speaking their language. Just the Sindar. And they listened. And avoided those who spoke it (which confirms that the Noldor did speak it with no ill consewuences greater than social ostracism). Everyone started speaking Sindarin, only the Noldorin princes spoke to each other in Quenya and the loremasters used it.

And we end on Finrod's sad foresight.

[randomfoggytiger]

The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XV): "Other Fathers", Deleted Scenes, and "Things to Prove"

Never Again is precipitated by Dana Scully’s sidekick complex, a trickle down from her childhood daddy issues. While I’ve discussed her feeling of neglect with regards to Mulder (posts here and here), this analysis will zero in on Scully’s strivings for perfection, feelings of neglect, and subsequent discouragement and rebellion blooming from a failure to secure someone’s pride and attention. 

FATHER COMPLEXES

The first time Scully displayed vulnerability in Beyond the Sea was at her father's funeral, pleading with her mother for reassurance: “Was he at all proud of me?” By the end of the episode, she takes Maggie’s “He was your father” to heart, turning down a chance to give her father a final goodbye via the shady conduit Boggs. 

After her abduction and return, Scully meets her father once again in the land between Life and Death. Standing at his daughter’s side, Captain Scully pours out his heart in a touching monologue she takes back with her into life.  

More importantly, her father was the only person who knew she wouldn’t die--”We’ll be together again, Starbuck. Not now. Soon”-- and Mulder the only person who believed in her strength. Scully came back for Mulder, yes; but she still had to process her family’s hopelessness and her father’s visitation. 

An interesting and important note: Scully was aware when her family gave up in One Breath-- “When they found me-- after the doctors and even my family had given up, I experienced something that I never told you about. Even now it’s hard to find the words. But there’s one thing I’m certain: as certain as I am of this life, we have nothing to fear when it’s over.” 

Melissa, her voice (post here), was right: Scully was right there; and her spirit did speak back and forth with her sister in limbo. Knowing this, it makes sense why Missy pushed Dana so hard to accept every vital part of herself and her experiences in Season 3-- trying to prevent Scully's self-destruction through purposed ignorance.

The only problem is, Scully wasn't-- and isn’t-- sure how to understand her experience: on the one hand, it gives her a sense of peace when facing death (telling Mulder they have nothing to fear in Dod Kalm); but on the other, embracing that experience would require her to embrace other aspects of herself she is running from-- buried memories of her abduction, the paranormal happenings drawing naturally to her (post here), and her own fear of belief. 

In A Christmas Carol, Scully can’t sleep because of her father’s disappointment in her career path; in Pilot, she glibly tells the Assistant Directors her parents considered this change “an act of rebellion” (post here); and in Beyond the Sea, she is thrilled to be on closer terms with Captain Scully (though they struggle to connect with unaddressed issues between them, post here.) Her sense of self-worth is attached to her usefulness, which is measured by the praise or adoration she strives to earn from the people she looks up to. 

Avoiding instead of internalizing leads Scully from person to person-- man to man specifically-- looking for the acceptance she will only find in herself (all things.) 

She is drawn to men that open her mind to new possibilities-- Daniel Waterston, her teacher; Jack Willis, her instructor; Fox Mulder, the paranormal and little green men expert-- but are also devoted to their work and expect her to come along for the ride. Scully, enthralled, follows their lead; but after time passes and she remains second priority, Scully rebels and leaves. 

Scully has stayed with Mulder longer than any other romantic partner, miring herself in danger and intrigue and murder for over three years. And she has seemed-- despite the oddity of their situation-- content to be challenged and thrilled over pursuing the domesticity expected from peers her age. Yet Scully takes a sharp left turn in Never Again, contemplating her circular life path and seeking reassurance from Mulder for her decisions-- equally reaching for and rebelling against the second-place position she assumes he places her in. 

I’ve already written at length how Mulder completely misinterpreted his partner’s signals (thinking she was resenting him and the work rather than wanting assurance of her place in his life) and that his resulting actions accidentally confirmed Scully’s worst assumptions and fears (compelling her into the arms of Ed Jerse); but cutting that important angle out of this episode, let’s focus on the residuals of her father’s legacy that sends her into an ouroboros of insanity. 

MEASURING UP TO SUCCESS

Captain Scully lived in pursuit of accomplishment. “I’ve went at a proper pace-- many rewards-- until the moment that… I knew, I… understood that I would never see you again. My little girl. Then my life felt as if it had been the length of one breath, one heartbeat.” Although decorated properly in his medals of honor, her father's afterlife appears empty and alone, allotting ample time to count his successes while waiting for his loved ones to join.  

We see the echoes of that achievement mindset when Scully reexamines her life: the endless cycle of what she’s lost or the little she’s accomplished. The lesson her father tried to impart to her from the world of the Dead is blocked by her unwillingness to fully believe; and the gnawing of bereft dissatisfaction continues to build in the wake of personal tragedies and her partner’s inability to do or express more in their relationship. 

THE BEGINNINGS OF ONCE AGAIN

Scully stands behind her partner, tuning out his interrogation of a witness as dissatisfaction starts to pulse through her. Having already dismissed the case, she wanders off, trying to pinpoint or escape her swelling emotions, coming face-to-face with a wall of venerated names. These people are the embodiment of legacy: what they did mattered, who they were is remembered. Their service is recognized; their sacrifice is honored. 

Their names may be what draws her, but not what keeps her. Unlike her father, who wanted his named etched in higher rank or bigger history (Personality Type post here), Scully’s attention and emotions are captured by the personal, heartfelt memorial at the bottom of the glistening pillar: “BROTHER, TWENTY YEARS LATER… I STILL MISS YOU. WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID WAS RIGHT.” She slides down silently as her thoughts begin to solidify. 

Touching one of the rose petals, she ruminates on the loss of a life so insignificant to the rest of the world but so important to the ones he loved most-- that not only did he matter, but he mattered because what he did was right. 

Scully may be a woman who places herself in second position, but she is also a woman that demands respect and devotion-- proof that she is valued, loved, and cherished (Personality Type post here.) Furthermore, Scully lives her life by her morals and ethics, by what is right-- breaking up with Daniel Waterston before crossing an unbreakable line, holding herself to a standard of decency and honor, and demanding Mulder hear the truth even if it's hard to accept.  

As of late, there isn’t enough cherishing to balance out her self-doubts; and now that the scales are out of whack, her life seems unfairly disjointed. Because Scully is fixated on identifying and solving her problem, she misdiagnoses its cause, wondering if her presence would even be missed, nullifying the importance of her decisions and choices. And who does Scully look to first to set everything back into order? “Other fathers”-- or in this case, the Ahab to her Starbuck. (And this Ahab completely misses the memo.) 

These doubts plague her hours later: holding Mulder’s plate and sitting behind Mulder’s desk in Mulder’s chair, Scully sees her workspace with new eyes, noting how lacking her presence (seemingly) is, despite the devotion she’s poured into the X-Files. The rose petal’s significance has left its mark. 

Mulder poking Scully about abandoning him scratches at the open wound of “WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID WAS RIGHT”, flipping her concealed disillusionment into more outward hostility. 

Still, she tempers her annoyance, slipping it under Mulder’s radar… until: “Hm. Have you confirmed the identity of these individuals?” 

“That’s your assignment while I’m gone.” 

Her back immediately arches at assignment: sharp intake of breath, stiffened posture, and lowered eyes-- more signs of her anger. When she refuses, both of them are left frustrated. 

“So, you’re refusing an assignment based on the adventures of ‘Moose and Squirrel’?” Mulder teases, battening down his own anger with humor. 

“Refusing an assignment? It makes it sound like you’re my superior,” Scully replies, stepping around his olive branch and digging her heels in. 

When Mulder snaps, misreading her mood as disinterest in his work, she sighs, cryptically replying, “And it’s become mine.” 

Stung, he softly asks, “You don’t want it to be?”

Scully does her best to explain the chaotic whirlpool of emotions sucking her down-- “This isn’t about you. Or maybe it is indirectly, I don’t know. I feel like I’ve lost sight of myself, Mulder. It’s hard to see, let alone find, in the darkness of covert locations. I mean, I wish I could say we’re going in circles, but we’re not. We’re going in an endless line: two steps forward, and three steps back. While my own life is… standing still”--  ��  

--but her response isn’t direct enough for Mulder’s suddenly resurrected abandonment issues. 

“Well, maybe it’s good we get away from each other for a while,” he surmises, assuming she’s sick of being around him; which causes her to close up, assuming he’s sick of listening to her problems.  Then he flees before she can rethink things further; and she sits and feels her admission has been ignored and minimized. 

Mulder is her Ahab; but he doesn’t expect subservience in their equal partnership. Now four years in, he and Scully both expect her to waltz off to the next case in his absence; and she is nettled by their assumptions, and he baffled by her response. Scully cannot see past the tall and commanding figure of her father to notice Mulder-- shrinking from her raised hackles, blaming himself for consuming too much of her time, calling her later because he wants her a part of his life, even in absentia-- reading his withdrawal as disapproval and rebuke.  

Scully has a long wait for Fight the Future’s declaration. In the meantime, she is crying out for validation and reciprocation; and stumbles across a form of it in Ed Jerse. And after a brief investigation into the Russians and Mulder’s commanding fumble over the phone, she decides to pursue that path as soon as possible. 

THE ALLURE OF DISOBEDIENCE

Ed Jerse is her mother’s cigarettes personified: sinful and satisfying, different and dangerous. The tattoo you deserve. 

“I’ve always gone around in this, uh… this circle," she tells him. "It usually starts when an authoritative or controlling figure comes into my life. And part of me likes it-- needs it, wants the approval-- but then at a certain point, along the way I just… y’know.

“My father was a Navy captain. I worshiped… I worship.. the sea that he sailed on. And,” she admits, looking down or up or away to keep her emotions in check, “when I was thirteen or so, I went through this… thing where I would sneak out of my parents' house and smoke my mother’s cigarettes.” 

Her monologue in the bar exactly parallels Luthor Lee Boggs’s extracted confession in Beyond the Sea: “There was... that one time when I was fourteen and my parents had gone to bed and I snuck downstairs all alone. Got one of my mom's cigarettes and went out onto the porch in the dark. I was so scared: my heart was beating-- I mean, they would have killed me if they knew. But I was so excited. Not because of the cigarette-- I mean it was gross, but... because I wasn't supposed to.” 

Even now, her eyes light up in recollection, a sly smile pulling at the corners of her lips. 

“And I did it because I knew that if he found out, he would kill me. And then, ” Scully wraps up, halting as her voice drops in disgust, “There are other… fathers.” 

“Sounds a little like… your time has come around again,” Ed posits, smooth and attentive with his unspoken promise of a good time. “I want things more like a straight line,” he adds; and so compelled is Scully that she forgets a straight, endless line is worse to her than an endless cycle.

To commemorate her breakthrough, Scully inks the chains of her life onto her back… in the same place where Mulder frequently steers her around. The tattoo she deserves, after all: trying to turn her self-punishment into liberation; glorying in the pain-- in the wrongness of it all-- in an effort to produce something new and exciting and beautiful. Starbuck, thou art aptly named. 

All for naught. 

“All this because I,” Mulder questions after it’s all over, “because I didn’t get you a desk?” 

Scully is once again caressing the rose petal; but looks up, surprised, that he bothers to ask her about anything other than their next case. Seeing that he’s serious, that he’s willing to listen, she says, “Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my life.” 

Scully has figured out, rather late, that “other fathers” were not at play here: that her search for approval was an effort to conceal her aching loneliness because Mulder-- no matter how good his intentions-- isn’t ready to be a part of “my life.” 

And Mulder intuits this, too; and falls silent. 

ADDRESSING MEMENTO MORI’S DELETED SCENE

The last mention of Captain Scully in Season 4 pops up in a deleted scene from Memento Mori. 

There are many reasons why I dislike (loathe, really) this scene-- the depiction of her brother, mainly-- but those are secondary to the thoughts I want to explore here. 

Scully wakes from her round of chemo to a man in uniform by her bed. A flash of her coma visitation shines through; and she calls out, “Dad?” softly, with a smile. 

It’s Bill Scully, Jr. that advances out of the light instead, grabbing her hand in anxious confusion. “Dana?”

“Bill?” Scully, aware of her mistake, quickly withdraws her hand and sits up, momentarily humiliated. Laughing at herself, she starts, “I thought you were, uh…”

“You were expecting someone else,” Bill smooths.

In hindsight, this is a rather morbid remark on his behalf: clutching her hand like she’s dying and half-expecting her to be expecting apparitions of the dead. (It turns out this scene is framed around him deciding she's already got a foot in the grave.)

She thanks him for coming, Bill leans in to give her an awkward hug, and the two try to regain their equilibrium in the silence that follows. 

“You look good,” he lies; and Scully makes a face, not believing it but thanking him, regardless. “Charles is sorry he couldn’t make it,” he adds, confirming that he and Charlie would have been in contact had this scene remained canon. “Think he’ll call you tonight, if you’re feeling up to it.” 

“Sad cause for a family reunion.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, fake chuckling. 

The two fall silent before Bill expounds on his new orders-- alluding to the fact she and he might not regularly communicate about much other than work. (Another aspect that might but doesn’t quite fit with their characterization in Gethsemane; but I digress.) 

“Oh, did Mom tell you? Got new orders-- NAS Miramar, Dad’s old stomping grounds.” 

So, Bill Scully also keeps in contact with Maggie (no surprise), making he and his mother the communication lightning rods of the family-- and likely Melissa, too, since she visited her family and followed up with regular phone calls (The Blessing Way, post here, and A Christmas Carol.) 

“Yeah, I was out there not long ago. Lot of old memories,” Scully reminisces, an allusion to her Piper Maru investigation (post here.) Cool call back, actually.  

“Yeah…. Lots of ghosts now. Dad… Melissa. Mom’s gettin’ worried there’s no one left to carry on the Scully name. Guess the pressure’s on, huh?”

I, personally, believe Bill would have more tactful in this situation-- and he is, even when confronting his sister in Gethsemane and A Christmas Carol-- and am glad this scene is no longer canon.

“I didn’t choose this, Bill.”

“No-- but you chose to join the FBI. Mom and Dad sending you to med school-- you were going to be the one to save lives.” 

Scully gasps, turning away to collect her words. “When Dad died, I asked Mom. She said he’d forgiven my choice.”

We have confirmation here that, while her parents were both disapproving of the FBI, it was her father that was angered by it. This fact is also backed up by her and Melissa’s conversation in A Christmas Carol (again, post here.) 

I’m going to gloss over the rest of the scene because Bill is unreasonably cruel, ridiculous, and out-of-character, blaming his sister for Missy’s death when he doesn’t appear to do so in Gethsemane, Redux II, A Christmas Carol, or even Emily.  

The takeaway is: 

Bill feels angry at Scully’s choices but doesn’t voice them until she calls attention to his subtle pokes. 

Bill is moving to his dad’s old stomping grounds, meaning he’s beginning to measure himself against his father’s legacy. Meaning, Scully may have been able to break away from her parents’ expectations, but he has not. 

Not only that, but Maggie piles her expectations for grandchildren onto Bill and Tara’s shoulders (despite their struggles with infertility) while somehow forgetting her other grandchild via Charlie Scully (previous post here.) 

All in all, this scene badly damages the extended Scully family quite a bit. But the fact that Bill is choosing to follow his father’s journey step-by-step leaves some interesting implications (to be explored in a future post.)  

REMEMBER DEATH, PART II

Scully’s father also left an impact during her fight with cancer. 

Fearing she wouldn't be strong enough for her Mulder or her mother (again, post here), Scully’s courage begins to crumble in the face of futility and exhaustion: “Mulder, it’s difficult to describe to you the fear of facing an enemy which I can neither conquer nor escape.” 

After Mulder runs to her side, afraid she'd been hurt or recaptured, he finds and reads her journal, later confessing: "When I came to find you and you weren't in your room, I got scared something had happened. And I read what you wrote."

She exhales, embarrassed. "Oh. I didn't want you to read that. I decided to throw it out. 

"I decided tonight, that, um…,” she continues, pebbling her chin to keep the tears back, “that I’m not gonna let this thing beat me.” Squaring her shoulders resolutely, she adds, “I came into this hospital able to work; and that’s how I’m leaving.” At his encouraging nod, Scully pauses, smiling back.    

Mulder finally gives her the reassurance she’s been searching for: “Scully, something was done to you, something that you’re just beginning to remember-- you can’t quite figure it out, but it can be explained and it will be explained. And no matter what you think as a scientist or a doctor, there is a way. And you will find it, to save yourself.” The truth is, he’s always believed in Scully, even when she doesn’t believe in herself. 

Scully spells out her new focus-- “Mulder, I can’t kid myself. People live with cancer. They carry on. And so will I. You know, I’ve got things to finish-- to prove, to myself, to my family. But for my own reasons.” 

It’s an incredible leap forward for the captain’s daughter; and Mulder knows this, giving her a blooming smile and wrapping her up in his first initiated hug. 

Scully beams in his praise and soaks up his comfort-- the right time for both of them, in spite of everything. 

Mulder’s “The truth will save you Scully. I think it’ll save both of us” draws out a smile while his tender forehead kiss brings her to the brink of tears. 

It’s enough for both, for now; and she pulls away, walking back bravely into battle. 

CONCLUSION

Captain Scully’s long shadow stretches from beyond the grave, shading the milestones of his children’s choices and accomplishments. While he tried posthumously to give consolation and encouragement-- like Bill Mulder did for his son, post here-- the effects of his example have left grooves that circle Scully (and her brother) around and around, faster and faster, until she breaks free of those patterns and starts her own journey. 

Only then-- not unlike the late Melissa Scully-- can Scully (and Bill) truly be free. 

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[gabriellerudessa]

Compass (Norm Maclean x OC) - V

“Last vestiges of civilization”, Betty had called their Vaults. Not much different from what his father had said.

How much of a lie that line of thinking was. It didn’t matter the radiation and everything else, the surface was surviving, while they all were holed in the ground and followed a routine determined by people that had been alive before the bombs.

AO3 | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV | Part XVI | Part XVII | Part XVIII | Part XIX | Part XX | Part XXI (Smut) | Part XXII | Part XXIII | Part XXIV | Part XXV | Part XXVI (Smut) | Part XXVII | Part XXVIII | Part XXIX | Part XXX | Part XXXI | Part XXXII | Part XXXIII | Part XXXIV (Smut) | Part XXXV | Part XXXVI (END)

PLAYLIST ON YOUTUBE

Words: 4.597

Warnings: ... The start of emotional vulnerability lol

V

They walked for the whole second day, stopping at a half fallen house for the night, and Marigold had explained some more – Legion. Enclave. NCR and Shady Sands, mainly.

Half of everything Norm heard were snippets Marigold had heard from travelling merchants or Dad Francesco, that had travelled a lot before settling down with Ma Guadalupe. Marigold herself had never travelled too far.

Some factions were in decline, like the NCR, especially after how Shady Sands had been bombed. Marigold’s parents had visited it sometimes, before it, and Norm was actually shocked at how many people had been there. “Who bombed it?” “No one knows.”

He had a sinking feeling in his stomach after that.

Others hadn’t reached the region, like the Legion – “Thank God”, her exact words –, and others like the so called Enclave were too secretive for anything beyond rumors be able to travel far.

His last question, as they had stopped, had been “How does one end with two husbands?” Both to try and clear the air after the heavy talks about those factions, and because it was just… Too weird for him not to ask about.

Marigold had to actually use a hand to muffle her laugh, and Norm almost felt embarrassed.

“Why the question, thinking of finding two for yourself?” She was giving the extra trouble cheeky grin.

Norm spluttered at that, cheeks flaming.

“What-? No! Why would you-? No!”

Her mirth dissipated, mismatched eyes blinking at him.

“Wait… That’s really something that doesn’t happen in the Vault?” Norm shook his head, fast, and Marigold grimaced, scratching at her nape. “Uh… Then sorry for, you know, everything I just did. Last time I heard this question, my brother Ed was trying to get council for a situation of the type.”

Norm nodded at the apology, trying to get his embarrassment under control.

“And… What was his situation?” he managed after some moments.

“In love with two women. The three of them are now a trading caravan. As far as I know, that’s all it needs. More than two people in love with each other.”

 “Really? That just sounds… So simple.”

“It does… And, I mean, I never really stopped to think about this… I was four when Ma told me ‘hey now you and Catarina have another Dad and a stepbrother’. It was… Just our reality, three parents at home.” She shrugged, and Norm nodded, slowly.

“And I mean…”

“What?”

“It’s just… Like… Your dads, are they… You know… Married, to each other, or…?”

“Oh. Yeah, in our home, yeah… Why? Same-sex couples not something on the Vault too?”

“No… It’s all about the ‘having kids and perpetuating America’.” Norm shrugged.

“Seems stressing.” She grimaced, and Norm chuckled with a nod.

He could get what she had said; “just our reality”. If it’s how you grew up, and it was treated as the normal, why would you find it weird, unless something actively made you question it? It wasn’t even as if her parents had been overtly in their affections, just casual romantic touches and words that were, in retrospect, more laidback than he had sometimes seen in the Vault.

And still Ed had asked council.

“… Ed is a dragged one, isn’t him?”

“Spot on, Norm-boy.” She grinned, making finger guns at him.

---------

On the start of the third day, they entered a forested area.

“It’s not long now. Stay sharp and close, Norm-boy.”

He did, and after remembering her explanations about the Brotherhood of Steel, unbuckled and stored the Pip-Boy in his sidebag. Marigold gave him a respectful nod, hand at the top of his back to keep him close every time the path narrowed and they ended farther apart than some few steps.

As they crossed the forested area, small shelters started to appear in between the trees, strung clothes all around, small unlit fires… A community, or at least the signs of one, because it was empty of people.

Groups started to appear, walking around and verifying what was on the shelters. Most of them were covered in color-coded overalls, looking at both of them either with curiosity or animosity.

“From what I know, most of them look like Squires and Scribes, but some also look like Lancers.” Marigold whispered once they were away enough to not be heard. Norm didn’t bother to try and tell that she hadn’t explained their ranks and those were just words to him. “Any Knights and Clerics must be inside. From what I heard, I don’t think they brought in Aspirants or lower.”

They reached a metal tunnel, two Brotherhood members acting as guards, blocking them from going ahead.

“Name and business.” The one to the right said, his voice bored, and Marigold and Norm looked at each other for a moment.

“Marigold and Norm. Trading.” The one to the left took notes in a clipboard, eyes tired, and something in the gesture was so mundane that it surprised Norm.

“Allegiance?”

“Bear Family Ranch.”

“Never heard of it.”

That made Marigold roll her eyes so hard that Norm was certain she saw the insides of her brain. He bit his lip to keep his chuckle inside.

“Because you’re newcomers. We’re the most stable source of game meat and leather around here, ask any resident of Filly.”

The guards looked as if they preferred to eat glass than talk with such peasants.

“I can buy you being a hunter, but not him.” The one that had been taking notes talked, using the pencil to point Norm.

“I’m the family’s accountant.” The words escaped before Norm could actually think them through, the lie leaving his lips smoothly.

The two guards looked him over, then at each other, then back, taking in the carefully combed hair, his hands in the coat’s pockets, the straight posture, overall clean appearance with fitted clothes… And it all should fit into their idea of what an accountant looked like, because they just waved them in with a grumble.

Oh God, that had worked, thank God.

Marigold gave him a shining smile, gap visible, a double thumbs up alongside once they were through. Something in the smile made his cheeks heat up. He forced himself to give a brief nod, then snapped his head to look ahead.

The city was in a hole in the ground, big enough that he couldn’t see its end, and it managed to surprise him more than the ranch with how lively it looked. People of all the types wandered about, going out and about the buildings, but the ones using the Brotherhood’s overalls were the majority, with some using long clerical tunics, and a few Power-Armors. Marigold had warned, but it was still a shock, especially with how well preserved and cared for those looked.

“Last vestiges of civilization”, Betty had called their Vaults. Not much different from what his father had said.

How much of a lie that line of thinking was. It didn’t matter the radiation and everything else, the surface was surviving, while they all were holed in the ground and followed a routine determined by people that had been alive before the bombs, hoping to one day come up and… Teach them civilization, apparently.

They descended a staircase to the bottom of the hole, Marigold ahead, and Norm easily saw their destiny: “Ma June’s Sundries – Caps only – Thieves will be shot”. People looked at them, one Brotherhood member outright staring – probably because Marigold was one of the tallest people around, just one head shorter than the Power-Armors they saw –, but no one stopped them.

The store was a mishmash of things, and he noticed some Vault-Tec products exposed. And he could easily imagine what Lucy had said about that, damn it.

Still, what really caught his attention was a box of Sugar Bombs, dusty but closed, with a plaque under it: “Pre-war food, perfectly sealed and edible. Only six caps each.”

Pre-war. Edible.

He understood in the Vault, with its hermetic freezers and storages, but on the surface? Two hundred years after the bombs, as found? How the hell was it still edible?

What exactly had he been eating all his life?

Now Marigold’s snickers every time he ate something pre-war made so much more sense.

“Ma June! It’s Marigold! Barv, you there too?!” The scream snapped him to look ahead, Marigold by a counter, tapping her nails against the wood.

Norm stopped by her side, sighing when he could just barely look over the counter.

A woman limped towards them from the back, white hair a frizzy cloud above her head, a heavy scowl towards them.

“You better have some of those meds Goose makes. And who’s the boy?”

Marigold gave the extra trouble grin.

“We heard about the shot out, so you bet I have. And he’s Norm, helped us big. He needs some information we think you have, so…” Marigold shrugged.

Norm tried to keep as immobile as possible under the older woman heavy stare and scowl. Then she looked to the front of the store, letting out a heavy “humpf”.

“Come to the back, both of you.” She didn’t wait for an answer, turning and limping away.

Marigold nodded for him to go ahead, following close behind.

They ended in what looked like a kitchen area, a big white table in the middle. Ma June sat at a stool, the bad leg over another, grimacing.

From his place, Norm saw another woman appear, hair long and thinning, just out of the way.

“Let’s take a look at what you’ve brought.”

It was Marigold’s clue to land the backpack heavily over the table, immediately starting to take things out of it: soda bottles filled with animal fat for cooking, rolls of treated leather, tin cans manually welded with cooked radroach, ant and bloatfly, fabric packets with dried radroaches, no wings or antennae in sight, and strips of dried and salted radstag, molerat and yao guai meat… And small fabric bags with the healing powder he had seen Goose make.

Norm blinked at all that and asked how the hell it had all fit.

Ma June tried to catch one of the healing powders, and Marigold expertly moved it out from her reach, cheeky grin in place, even as Ma June’s scowl deepened.

“As you see, it’s the usual haul, plus some more animal fat, the yao guai, and the healing powder. Going by our usual rates, a hundred and fifty caps added to the usual six hundred should cover it all.”

Ma June’s scowl remained, but she nodded.

“Done. Barv, Marigold’s payment.”

The other woman started counting the so called caps, her movements fast, and soon she was delivering a small bag filled with them to Marigold. She nodded towards Ma June to get the powder, and then started to verify the caps.

Ma June’s hand took hold of one of the fabric bags, raising the pant of the leg and applying it to a wound to the side of her knee. Norm wasn’t sure if it would do much; it was stitched, but the edges were red and he was pretty sure it was starting to get infected.

“Fuck, Ma June. The powder is not enough for this type of thing. You need stimpaks.”

“I fucking know, but theses dipshits” she waved a hand to indicate the Brotherhood in Filly “fought not long ago and took all our stimpaks and didn’t even pay us right.”

“Motherfuckers.” Marigold glowered at the infected wound, still counting the caps.

Norm looked at the wound again, trying to hold in his grimace. He had three stimpaks, and he still needed information. He doubted the woman would just tell what he needed, even if he had arrived with Marigold.

How much Goose had said they could reach? 75 caps each? There were no stimpaks in the city, the Brotherhood with all of them. He would need some form of currency with him to keep going.

“I can trade you two stimpaks for the information I need plus forty caps for each one.”

Both of them looked him over, Ma June in disbelief, Marigold… He was pretty sure that what he caught in her mismatched eyes and face was heat. Oh God, he wasn’t good with this…Swallowing, he kept his chin up and stared at Ma June.

Posture, Norm. It had gotten him through the guards. It would get him through now.

Ma June pressed her lips.

“Fuck. Done. BARV! Eighty caps to the boy! Where the fuck did you find him, Marigold?”

Talking about him as if he was a stray animal just adopted.

Which, in retrospect, after what he had seen of Marigold’s family, wasn’t too far of.

“By the ruins, close to one of my traps.” Marigold smiled at him as she stored the caps, and the only word he could associate to that smile was “proud”.

The other woman approached, grumbling, and the caps and stimpaks exchanged hands. Barv immediately jabbed one into Ma June’s leg, the angry-red edges improving, not looking infected anymore.

“Fuck. What the hell do you need to know, boy?”

“My sister, Lucy. I know she was seen talking with you the day of the shot out. What happened with her after?”

Ma June squinted and scowled harder at him.

“Motherfucker, another Vaultie?” a dirty look towards Marigold. It didn’t dampen her mood in the slightest, still that proud smile and heated look towards him. “I sent her with a wounded bounty to Moldaver in the Observatory.”

Norm stiffened at the name, and Marigold’s look moved to Ma June, squinting.

“If it involves a bounty, I’m surprised you just told us that much.”

Ma June barked a dry laugh.

“You didn’t hear this part then. The shot out was because of this Enclave scientist, the bounty. The Ghoul was here for him, started the fucking shot out, and the dipshits appeared later for the bounty.”

“The Ghoul? Last Dad heard he was buried.” Marigold grimaced heavily at that, crossing her arms, body leaning back.

“Who is this?” Norm forced it out, frowning, half of him still caught in Moldaver’s name.

“Bounty Hunter. Pre-war Ghoul. Fucking dangerous.” Marigold pressed her lips.

---------

“Your sister and the scientist got a head start during the shot out, but that’s about what I know. And the dipshits attacked the Observatory and killed Moldaver, so I don’t even know if they arrived or what.”

Those words cut short Marigold’s thoughts about “reward Norm-boy with a kiss for his smart mouth and trading skills”.

“What?” her words were too loud even for her.

Oh fuck. The Observatory.

“What you heard, Marigold. What’s the problem?”

How that piece of news hadn’t reached them yet?

“Marigold, are you okay?” Norm, his voice the most worried she had heard from him.

With a fast calculus, she started counting from the paid caps.

“Do you still have a courier for messages?”

“Of course. What the fuck is wrong with you, Marigold?” She ignored Ma June’s question and Norm worried stare.

“Here. Five hundred of what you paid for the haul, and fifty for a message. Send a message to the ranch: Observatory was attacked. Marigold going down there with Norm. Send someone to take the rest of the caps.”

“Will do it, but why? Is it about Catarina? She lives outside the Observatory and without NCR colors, she must be fine.” Ma June, didn’t hesitating on collecting the caps.

Marigold wanted to scream in her face. For fuck’s sake. Really?

“Yeah, but she’s married to a Ghoul, or you conveniently forgot that’s why she moved there? You know how these dipshits are with Ghouls, I’m not taking chances. Let’s go, Norm-boy.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, turning to leave with hard steps, throwing the backpack over her shoulders as she walked. She faintly heard Norm say “Thanks for the information”.

Then he was walking ahead of her, opening the door for her with a nod, worried frown in place.

How funny. Both of them with sisters they didn’t know if they were alive or not in the same general region.

---------

They didn’t have trouble leaving the city, the Brotherhood guards looking damn happy at it, actually. It was a relief, because neither of them would be able to actually deal with them – Norm couldn’t stop thinking that Lucy had been sent directly towards Moldaver, and he could see Marigold was with her head on the news about the attack, on her own sister.

Marigold had picked a direction and started walking, steps just shy of too fast for Norm, silent and tense, instead of the relaxed and sure pace he had grown used to.

They left the forested area and went into the desert, when he buckled the Pip-Boy again; Marigold was still like that, nothing of the way she had owned the desert before Filly.

It made him worried.

Norm made sure they were safe before intervening, getting a hold of her hand – the leather of her fingerless gloves soft and supple, the skin of her fingers calloused and weathered. Marigold stopped as if struck, looking at him with shock, as if she had forgot he was supposed to be besides her.

“Are you okay?”

She swallowed, looking at the hand he was still holding; before he could let it go, she squeezed it, and Norm let it be, trying to ignore how it made his heart kick inside his chest.

“Not exactly… Sorry.”

“Don’t. You just heard the region where your sister lives was attacked. It’s all right not being okay.”

“Thanks.” She gave a self deprecating smile. “But I am putting both of us in risk. Thanks for the wake up.”

Norm nodded and she let go of his hand, breathing in as they started walking side by side again. Her face was still worried, eyebrows frowning, but her steps were slower, attentive to their surroundings, owning the desert again.

---------

“I heard you and the others mention Catarina. Another sister, right?” Norm asked after some time of walking, this side of the desert seeming to have more sparse ruins.

Marigold nodded at that, face slowly relaxing.

“Oldest sister, actually. A pain in the ass…” Marigold grinned at him. “… But our pain in the ass.”

Norm chuckled at that.

“Lucy’s also my oldest sister. Well, older, it’s just the two of us.” He looked at her, smiling. “Also my pain in the ass.”

That made her laugh.

“Older sisters, hm? Our pain in the asses, no one else can mess with them. Vice-versa too.”

“Absolutely.”

Marigold touched his shoulder, making him stop, and held her hand out, smiling.

“We will find the both of them. Preferably alive.”

Norm shook her hand, the squeeze firm – and Norm tried not to get too focused on the controlled strength he could feel through that.

“They better be, or we will bring them back to kill them ourselves for the scare.”

“Damn righty.”

---------

They spent the rest of the afternoon exchanging sibling stories – Catarina telling Marigold terminals were “magic”, him helping Lucy escape the Vault, Goose slipping extra pepper on the food as a prank, when Lucy and Chet had been caught in a storage room by all the older residents of the Vault, Regina braiding Marigold’s hair around the bed’s metal frame, he and Lucy putting shaving cream in his father’s shampoo…

He could barely remember the last time he had laughed so much. Norm was pretty sure it had been before the attack. It also had done well to Marigold; she had laughed almost as much as him, her whole face and body relaxing.

They stopped at an old two-floor home as night was starting to fall. The roof had collapsed and most of the second floor was inaccessible, while at the first all the windows had been broken, even if the door was still miraculously standing. The fact that it was the most intact building close to all the others was disheartening.

The wind twirled around them, and Norm remembered that first night in the Wasteland, the cold he had noticed only when in shelter.

“No light tonight, I presume?”

“Nope.” Marigold cleaned a place between a broken refrigerator and a still standing internal wall. “Also better if we stick close, the cold will be bad once night fully falls.” She looked around and nodded once. “Here, it’s the most hidden spot.”

Marigold put the backpack on the front of her body and sat down. Norm sat beside her, and the space was… Cozy, to say the least, the refrigerator pressed against him on one side and Marigold on the other.

“That’s how it is when you and your siblings need to stop at a place like this?” he whispered, and Marigold chuckled.

“Oh, worse. You saw how big we all are. It’s not so bad with Regina or Mika, but Moose? God, we always end up kicking each other.”

She got one of the strips of dried meat and started munching. Norm sighed as he opened his sidebag and looked at yet more pre-war food from the Vault. He had barely stopped to think during the brief stop for lunch, but now the Sugar Bombs box in Ma June’s Sundries was flashing in his mind.

“Not hungry?”

“It’s not that.”

Long seconds with only Marigold’s chewing audible.

“What then?”

Norm pressed his lips in a line. Would she laugh as when he asked about the curious situation of her three parents?

Well… She had been fast to apologize, at least.

“We plant things in the Vault, but a lot of what we eat is pre-war. And… It looks as if here on the surface too.”

“Oh. You saw some on Ma June’s, I bet.”

“Sugar bombs.” He looked at her, and Marigold blinked at him, still chewing the meat he knew the Bears themselves had hunted and preserved. “Your family doesn’t eat pre-war food, from what I saw.”

“Grandpa Juan doing. Really suspicious of the whole ‘edible more than a hundred years after the bombs’. But don’t be mistaken, occasionally we don’t resist and take a bite.” She answered with a small chuckle, then got serious. “It’s food from the place you grew up, Norm-boy. I bet it was properly stored and so on. And it didn’t go through bombs and nuclear winter.”

Norm looked again at the package in his hands. Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. One of his favorites.

“What’s that you’re having?”

“Radstag. Basically four legged and two headed. Oh wait, there’s two extra non-functional legs too.”

“Can I experiment?” and the Cakes would be after. He wasn’t sure he would be able to eat them without another thing now that he had seen the box.

“Sure, but I warn you, it’s tasty, but it’s dried so it’s also hard on the teeth.” She got another strip from the package and handed it to him.

Norm bit experimentally into it. And chewed and chewed and chewed some more. Tasty, salty, but yeah, hard on the teeth. He offered one of the cakes as he gave the second bite, and Marigold shook her head.

“Thanks, but I had it once. Too sweet for me. Dandy Boy Apples are more my taste, if we’re talking about pre-war food.”

---------

They kept eating in silence; night had fallen when they finished, the darkness not as all-encompassing as it could because of the slivers of moonlight entering through the broken windows.

Marigold made sure her backpack was closed and the hunting rifle was between her and Norm, hidden from anyone that entered the house.

“We will have to sleep in shifts, Norm-boy.”

A sigh.

“Don’t know if you noticed, but I’m pretty useless with fighting.” Marigold grinned at the sarcasm in his voice.

“You don’t need to fight. Just be awake and wake me if you hear something weird. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“… Sure. I can do that.” A clearing throat sound. “So…”

“You sleep first. I’ll wake you some time after midnight.”

“All right. Thanks.”

Silence, but with the proximity she could feel how tense he was, and Marigold started listing the possibilities in her mind – worried about his sister, fear for sleeping with a lack of walls, cold…

“I didn’t tell you everything.” He started after some time, voice quiet.

“Hm?”

“About my sister being up here.”

“I had imagined, but I’m a stranger to you. You have a right to your secrets. Everyone does.” Marigold shrugged, conscious of how he had frozen with Moldaver’s name. Conscious of her own secrets.

Maybe because of her words, maybe her laid back way, but he relaxed.

“I’m also a stranger and you still invited me into your home.”

“Flashing news, Norm-boy, I can afford to take such a risk with you, but I can totally get why you didn’t.” Watching him, she raised the arm closest to him, flexing it jokingly, the muscles visible even through the cape.

Something flashed in his face at the movement, but the lack of light made it impossible to say what.

“Still. There’s you sister and mine in all this.” His voice was soft, and he started talking.

---------

Marigold raised her arm, almost absentmindedly, making sure Norm’s head remained against her shoulder as he slept, instead of bent towards his chest. A sore neck from bad sleeping posture would make survival a little bit harder.

Even as she did it, her mind went over everything Norm had said. His sister’s marriage; the attack by Moldaver and what Marigold was pretty sure were raiders and not NCR; his father, Hank, kidnapped by Moldaver; his sister hiding him; Lucy leaving to rescue their father; the bodies he had found on Vault 32 – Regina’s routes; had she noticed something in the door? –, how the Vaulties there had all killed each other even before…

How he had asked questions, suggested the raiders were to be executed, hadn’t been the perfect Vault-Dweller, and then the raiders they had captured had been poisoned, and he was the one that carried their food but “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t”. She believed him. He still lacked that edge she recognized in people that had killed others. Rare enough to stand out in the Wasteland.

He was pretty sure he would be incriminated by that, and that’s why he had left to find his sister.

Marigold couldn’t help but think there was more he wasn’t saying; a certainty that he had discovered why the residents of Vault 32 had killed each other. She wouldn’t force him to say what, but she hopped he slept well – he had been clearly exhausted after telling her everything.

She looked over at him, the hair crumpling against her shoulder, eyelashes softly against his cheekbones, not a single frown on his forehead.

Peaceful. Just like the night in her home – Mika had caught her staring and had given her so much shit over it, saying she had “finally found a hobbit for herself”.

As if he could say much. He had been the one to give her the books and was in love with a five foot nothing guard caravan. There would be pay back when she went back home.

A sound outside the house made her raise her head… Wings. Bird wings. Far enough away. Not a danger.

Marigold felt his head sliding, and moved her arm again, not even looking.

She was glad she had been the one to find him. One of the few times her luck had held, instead of showing to be fucking rotten.

[curiousb]

The Knightley Family Album: Volume XV

James very quickly found employment after graduation, in the shady underworld of Merybury. Being a Loner and a Night Owl, he doesn't mind the antisocial hours - although they rarely leave time for proper nutrition - but belonging to the criminal fraternity is hardly his grand plan.

He has other ideas, of the perfect way to provide for himself, fiancée Martha and their future family. He's just biding his time, until the right opportunity comes along...

For Mary, sadly her time is finally up.

The young couple aren't slow to realise that their inheritance is just what they need, to start making their own way in the world - although the death of his mother-in-law also puts James in a rather unaccountable frame of mind! 😯

Ever since his first lemonade stand, James has had entrepreneurial ambitions. So, with money in his pocket, when a chance to purchase a business in Merybury finally comes up, he doesn't hesitate. Even better - given that he and Martha especially are Animal Lovers themselves - it's a pet shop! After a major revamp of the premises, it's opening day. (The Knightley's pet shop is my own recreation of @kayleigh-83's 'Happy Tails'.)

There's no shortage of customers already!

Some seem to need a little convincing...

...so James start working on his sales patter right away!

It's not all about shmoozing though - there are far less glamorous tasks to take care of too. He should probably think about hiring some extra staff, at some point...

And there it is - the first Simolean from his new enterprise! He should frame it, or something.

[uniquejellyfishqueen]

11/24/1835 The Texas Rangers, a horse-mounted police force were authorized by the Texas Provincial Government

*Didn’t she have horses wearing friendship bracelets?

11/24/1877 - Black Beauty, by English Author Anna Sewell is published. It became an immediate best seller and eventually sold over 50 million copies

11/24/1932 - In Washington, D.C., the FBI Crime Lab opens (officially known as the FBI Scientific Crime Detection Laboratory

11/24/1943 - During World War II, at the battle of Makin, the USS Liscome Bay is torpedoed by the Japanese near Taraw and sinks killing 53 officers and 591 enlisted men

11/24/1963 - The assassin of U.S. President John F. Kennedy, Lee Harvey Oswald is killed by Jack Ruby

11/24/1969 - The Apollo 12 command module splashes down safely in the Pacific Ocean, after it completed the second manned mission to land on the Moon

11/24/1971 - Dan Cooper, aka D.B. Cooper parachutes from a Northwest Orient Airlines plane during a thunderstorm over Washington state with $200,000 in ransom money. He was never found.

*same initials as Down Bad

11/24/1973 - Photography by Ringo Starr hits #1

11/24/1994 - At the first annual MTV European Music Awards, Oasis is named the Best UK Band 

11/24/1998 - Garage, Inc., is released as the Metallica compilation of cover songs

11/24/2014 - Shady XV is a two-disc compilation album released by Eminem

The Panthers host the Chiefs on 11/24 at 1pm.

Bank of America Stadium is 33 acres.

Broke ground on 4/22/1994 and opened on 8/3/1996

The Carolina Panthers have never won a Super Bowl, losing both of their appearances:

2004: In Super Bowl XXXVIII, the Panthers lost to the New England Patriots 32-29.

2016: In Super Bowl 50, the Panthers lost to the Denver Broncos 24-10. The panthers were the favorite by 5.5. The network it was on was Westwood One…(Woodvale?….I forgot how the west was won….)

*They are 1 out of 12 teams that have not made it to a Super Bowl.

Owned by David Alan Tepper 9/11/1975 hedge fund manager of Appaloosa Management (specializing in distressed debt) founded in 1993 based in Miami Beach, FL (their logo is a horse.)

TS was wearing a Panther necklace on 11/19

The Panther on her 1989 set

The “Big cat” on her blind for love shirt in the bank vault

“Range Rovers and Jaguars…”

“Karma is a Cat”

Her 2 cat is Olivia Benson… Named after Mariska Hargitay who can speak 4 languages.

In SVU History:

* Clarence Williams III 
In the 2000 Law & Order episode "Burn Baby Burn" (aired on 11/22/2010), a former Black Panther named Clarence Williams III shoots and kills two cops on the warrant squad. The episode explores the idea that police can never know what they might encounter when they knock on a door. 

* Former Black Panther accused of murder 
In season 11, episode 6 of SVU(aired on 10/28/2009), a former Black Panther is accused of murdering a Caucasian police officer. The episode features a politically charged trial and the accused questioning Detective Green's integrity. 

PANTHER SYMBOLISM:

* Protection and guidance: In medieval bestiaries, the panther was seen as an embodiment of Christ, and was said to bring unity and harmony to the animal kingdom, while also protecting from evil. 

* Leadership and unity: In modern times, the panther has become a symbol of leadership and unity, especially in comics, civil rights activism, and cinema. 

* Power, protection, and ferocity: In Greek mythology, the panther was associated with Dionysus, the god of wine and pleasure. 

* Grace, beauty, and mystery: For many tattoo enthusiasts, the panther represents these qualities. 

* Justice, morality, and money: In The Visit, the black panther symbolizes these concepts

Or we have the Florida Panthers

They do not have a game on the 24th.. but they do play on the 23rd and 25th of this month…. Bookends of sorts. And they are all home matches for the kitties.

11/23 Colorado Avalanche W 7 vs Florida Panthers 4

11/24 KC Chiefs vs Carolina Panthers

11/25 Capitals vs Florida Panthers

The day before Thanksgiving 11/27 the Florida Panthers host The Toronto Maple Leafs (TS current stop on the ET)

11/27/1942 is Jimi Hendrix birthday (electric lady..)

11/27/1957 Caroline Kennedy Birthday (US Ambassador to Australia since 2022)

11/27/1727 - The foundation stone of the Jerusalem Church in Berlin i laid

11/27/1870 - Baseball is called "The National Game" by The New York Times

11/27/1901 - The U.S. Army War College is established

11/27/1924 - The first Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is held in New York City

11/27/1960 - Gordie Howe becomes the 1st NHLer to score 1,000 points

11/27/1961 - Gordie Howe becomes the 1st to play in 1,000 NHL games

11/27/1965 - The Pentagon tells U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson that if they are to succeed in the Vietnam War that the number of American troops has to be increased from 120,000 to 400,000

11/27/1973 - The U.S. Senates votes 92-3 to confirm Gerald Ford as Vice President of the United States

11/27/1983 - Avianca Flight 011 (Boeing 747) crashes near Madrid's Barajas Airport, killing 181 people on board

11/27/1989 - Avianca Flight 203 (Boeing 727) explodes over Columbia, killing all 107 people on board and three people on the ground - The Medellin Cartel claim responsibility

11/27/2009 - The Nevsky Express train between Moscow and Saint Peterburg derails after a bomb explodes causing 28 deaths with 96 people injured

11/27/2015 - A shooter in a Planned Parenthood facility in Colorado Springs, Colorado shoots four police officer, one police officer and two civilians die and six are injured

11/27/2017 - Country singer Blake Shelton is named People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive

11/27/2020 - Days after the discovery is announced, the Utah monolith is removed

11/27/2021 - All Too Well, the extended version by Taylor Swift with a time of 10:13, hits #1 on the Hot 100

But also because Pittsburgh has been relevant The Penguins host the Florida Panthers on 12/3/24. 1..2..3..?

*5 days before the last day of tour.

12/3/1818 - Illinois becomes the 21st U.S. State

12/3/1910 - Modern neon lights are demonstrated for the first time by Georges Claude at the Paris Motor Show

12/3/1960 - The musical Camelot debuts at the Majestic Theatre on Broadway in New York City

12/3/1968 - NBC airs a TV special called Elvis

12/3/2014 Actor Taye Diggs (Private Practice) divorces Broadway actress Idina Menzel after 11 years of marriage

12/3/2015 - Scott Weiland American singer and songwriter who was the lead singer of the Stone Temple Pilots and made six albums with them

12/3/2015 - Based on the book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, a live adaptation of The Wiz airs on NBC

12/3/2016 - Following his death, Leonard Cohen's original version of Hallelujah enters the Hot 100 at #59

TS HISTORY IN NC (15 shows):

1/20/2007 @ Greensboro Coliseum, Greensboro, NC

5 song set list

8/2/2008 @ Time Warner Cable Music Pavilion, Raleigh

7 song set list

8/3/2008 @ Verizon Wireless Amphitheater - Charlotte

8 song set list

Fearless Tour:

6/12/2009 Greensboro

9/5/2009 Charlotte

5/1/2010 Raleigh

Speak Now Tour:

6/30/2011 Greensboro

11/16/2011 Charlotte

11/17/2011 Raleigh

Red Tour: Charlotte

3/22/2013 Charlotte: “Tim McGraw”

9/12/2013 Greensboro: “Change” acoustic tour debut, “Everything Has Changed” with Ed Sheeran

9/13/2013 Raleigh: “Everything Has Changed” with Ed Sheeran

1989 World Tour:

6/8/2015 Charlotte:“You Are In Love Acoustic”

6/9/2015 Raleigh:

10/21/2015 Greensboro: “Little Red Wagon” with Miranda Lambert

[journeydb]

March 26 2023 Santa Coloma de Farners

We often take excursions with Angie, Toni, and Iris outside Barcelona. Today we went to Santa Coloma de Farners and hiked and had lunch in the Parc de San Salvador. Even though Toni drives a big tractor trailer for a job, he loves driving so we all piled into his car and made the trek outside the city for only a short drive of about an hour.

The trees were mostly bare in the park and hadn't begun to leaf up yet and it was easy to imagine how much more beautiful and shady it would be in a few weeks. Because it was still a bit chilly we enjoyed the sunlight that streamed through the trees, which warmed us up.

We decided to hike to the hermitage and then, if we weren't too tired, to the tiny castle at the top of the mountain.

The views along the hike were marvelous! Santa Coloma de Farners is a lovely little city, as we noticed driving around to find the park. Our friends Jezebel and her husband, Oriol, are from there and they named their daughter, Farners, for the city. Oriol told us all about this place when they were at our Valentine's Day party in February and piqued our interest.

We stopped to rest and took some photos with the huge boulders as backdrops.

It looks like they are standing on the edge of a cliff because they are! The drop to the canyon floor was pretty steep so we were very careful and watched our step.

We reached the hermitage in about 45 minutes and spent time exploring it. Here is some information about it from the website:

"Much loved by locals, this is a XII century romanesque structure with Baroque extensions, very close to Farners castle. The semicircular apse and part of the nave remain from the romanesque period. It looks like the reconstruction of a former chapel, of which nothing remains.

It is located at the foot of Farners Castle, and between this and the hermitage, important celebrations and local festivities take place in the Farners esplanade, such as the Choral Festival or the Farners Aplec. It is also a destination point, and often a rest point, for many walking or cycling trails, including the Trail of the 10 Hermitages."

After hanging out at the hermitage we started the ascent to the castle, behind us in the photo above.

The castle was worth hiking up to, even though it was small. According to the Santa Coloma de Farners website:"

"The first mention of the castle dates back to the middle of the XI century, when the viscount Ramon Folc de Cardona swore allegiance to the Count of Barcelona. The Farners maintained ownership of the castle until the XIII century, when it passed over to Vilademany leadership. It was abandoned definitively in the XV century, except for a brief occupation of a Bourbon garrison just after the War of the Spanish Succession, at the start of the XVIII century.

Architecturally, it follows the model of castles built in the XI-XII centuries, with a main tower, which in the case of Farners castle is round and has a surface area of 211 m² and is delimited by a crenellated wall. On the inside, you can see the remains of quarters and rooms. Excavations were carried out in 1991 and 1992, and it was expertly restored to allow for visits.

This is a simple but beautiful space, that will easily transport you back to the olden days. It is worth going to the Farners esplanade, where you will see the hermitage that goes by the same name, and from this point you can access the castle. You can get to the esplanade by car, but it is also accessible on foot, or on a mountain bike. It is a short and very beautiful route, with many access options. You just need to get to the Sant Salvador Park, where you will see signposts to indicate the way to the castle.

Once you reach the castle, you will be able to visit the area around the tower, walk around the parapet and even go up to the tower, an exceptional observation point where you will have fantastic views of Santa Coloma de Farners, the Guilleries and the plains of la Selva."

We climbed the steep stairs to the top and had a magnificent view of the valley below us.

Climbing down the steep staircase from the tower was almost as hard as climbing up. We were tired by then and hungry and ready to go back to the park for lunch.

[random-movie-ideas]

Superman Villain Movie Ideas, Part XV: Lex Luthor

Lex Luthor is a fantastic villain. He is Superman's most iconic nemesis for a reason. He represents such a raw power dynamic with Superman that I don't ever want to see him not part of a Superman story. Superman is a god among men who desires nothing more than to live among them, while Lex Luthor is the most powerful of mortal men, desperate to ascend above them and live amongst the gods yet finds himself unable to do so, and so rages against the gods for their power. The plot writes itself more often than not. That said, I never want to see him as the "central villain" of a movie ever again. He is such an intrinsically linked part of the Superman mythos, with a hand in the creation of a thousand other villains, that you could create an entire series, all with different main villains, and Lex Luthor would still be an essential part of it.

Origin Movie: Reeves' Superman did it, Routh's Superman did it. It's not hard.

Sequel Movie: Cringeworthy performance aside, Batman v. Superman followed the logic I would have followed. Introduce Superman in the origin against some invader or something, and then along comes Lex, distrusting the hero everyone else worships and trying to make their god bleed.

Finale Movie: Building up to Lex? Now, that's a unique spin. Then again, as stated above, he has a hand in the creation of multiple villains, so having him as a shadowy figure in the background before the finale is a natural fit there.

Supporting Villain: Created Metallo, created Bizarro, created Parasite, financed Livewire, drove Toyman to villainy, worked shady deals with Bruno Mannheim, endless possibilities that we need to start delving into.

Here are my rankings of them:

Supporting Villain: He is, in many ways, the world's most perfect co-villain.

Finale Movie: A natural followup to the Supporting Villain angle.

Sequel Movie: A natural way to do him that doesn't put him front and center.

Origin Movie: It's been done.

What do you think? Now, I'd like to cover at least five major allies of Superman, to see how best to fit them in as supporting characters.

[skydoit]

Paris Art History May Term: Final Exam Reflection

Group members: Skylar DeWitt, Rachel Douma, Lauren Carpenter, and Bryn Couturier 

Temple of Sibyl (19e)

As our first stop on our scavenger hunt final, this beautiful park and monument was a great way to start! At first glance, we were all stunned by the beauty of the temple sitting atop its rocky outlook. Upon further inspection, we discussed questions such as whether or not the rock formations were natural, and when the monument was made. After doing some research I was able to find out that the rock formations it sits on are actually man-made, and that the temple itself was designed and completed by the architect Gabriel Davioud in the late 19th century. Witnessing it today we were able to observe Parisians engaging in a multitude of Saturday leisure activities from walking their adorable dogs to exercising along the water’s edge. Even though the two walking bridges to access the island were closed, this was an amazing stop to relax and take in the nature-filled space that seemingly transports you away from the hustle and bustle of the city. 

Passerelle Richerand pedestrian bridge (10e)

When walking up to this cast iron walking bridge, we noted the beauty of the view of the canal from the top. Now decorated with an assortment of what could be argued as graffiti or street art, this bridge stands as a reminder of the canal itself. Build in the early 19th century by Napoleon I, this canal was one of the first planned waterways to bring drinking water to the city of Paris. Now still connected to the seine river through ports, this calm river is a popular spot for a shady river walk or view of the neighborhood. 

The foundation of the Bastille in the Bastille Metro Station (11e)

Upon stopping at the Bastille Metro Station, we found ourselves face-to-face with a moment of preserved history! History is not something I have found myself expecting to find when scanning my Navi-go and entering the Paris metro station, but this example of a memorable historic site changed my expectations entirely. Discovered during the expansion of line 5 on December 17th, 1906. As we saw in the Bastille station on line 5, it has since been marked off and preserved within the new Metro addition. Marked not only by its historic stone appearance and protective glass covering, the city of Paris has added plaques and information signs to help inform anyone from the daily passerby or visiting tourists of its history and importance. Having learned about the extensive, and at some points, destructive history of the Bastille, we all found it amazing to witness the original foundation and wonder about its distance below modern-day ground. 

https://www.travelfranceonline.com/bastille-metro-station-platforms-murals/#:~:text=Bastille%20Metro%20station%20was%20inaugurated,order%20to%20highlight%20its%20layout.

La Madeleine (8e)

Travelling to the 8th Arrondissement, we stopped at the Église de la Madeleine, or, La Madeleine. With construction beginning under King Louis XV, La Madeleine bears the traditional features of a Greek temple, like a frieze and a columned entrance, distinguishing itself from the surrounding Haussmann buildings. With 52 Corinthian-style columns lining the building and the frieze depicting the Last Judgement, overlooking the city, the Madeleine is best known for its sheer size and unique, neoclassical style. Today, the Madeleine still serves as a Catholic parish church, as was orignially intended, and is the focal point of Rue Royal; however, due to construction, we were unable to get a full view of the front of the building. Currently, scaffolding covers large swaths of the columns, and the stairs are largely blocked off to pedestrians. Because of this construction, we unfortunately could not take in the full splendor of the Madeleine, but we were still able to enjoy the frieze and the columned side view of the building, and note how the art and architecture periods we have studied parallel each other. 

“Église de La Madeleine - Paris Tourist Office.” Paris Convention and Visitors Bureau. https://en.parisinfo.com/paris-museum-monument/71158/Eglise-de-la-Madeleine

“Eglise de la Madeleine Visitor Guide.” France This Way. https://www.francethisway.com/paris/eglise-de-la-madeleine.php

Century-old rats in the window of Julien Aurouze and Co. (1er)

Julien Aurouze and Co. showcases a surprising collection in its storefront windows… From a distance, the shop appears charming with its painted green exterior. Yet, upon closer inspection, our group discovered the macabre sight of rat carcasses hanging inside. Although we found it disturbing, we were captivated by the remarkable preservation of these bodies spanning a hundred years. Upon research into the history of Julien Aurouze and Co., we found that it has served as a pest control shop since the 19th century (Mishmash, 2016) Fun fact: it has even been included in the Pixar movie ratatouille! While it wouldn’t be #1 on our list of places to visit in Paris, it was quite an interesting site to see.

Citation: 

Mishmash, U. (2016, August 1). Unusual Shop Fronts: Julien Aurouze & Co., Paris | Urban Mishmash. Urban Mishmash | Paris. https://www.urbanmishmash.com/paris/city-guide/shops/julien-aurouze-co-unusual-shop-front/

Street sign on rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1er)

In the first arrondissement is the rather unassuming street “Jean-Jacques Rousseau.” The street was named after the philosopher, writer, and musician Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778). Rousseau lived on this street during the height of the enlightenment who believed that human beings are inherently good and only become bad when corrupted by society. Therefore, he believed that society should function based on the general will of the people and thus led to Rousseau being one of the first to argue for the sovereignty of the people. Rousseau’s philosophy was instrumental in the development of ideas that would culminate in the 1789 revolution and continue to influence French politics to the present day. The apartment where Rousseau lived with his wife still stands on Rue Jean-Jaques Rousseau and serves as a reminder to the ideas that freed the French from the monarchy and allowed them to develop a government that supports its people above all else. 

Citations:

“Jean-Jacques Rousseau.” Wikipedia, May 13, 2023. https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Jacques_Rousseau. 

“Rue Jean-Jacques-Rousseau (Paris).” Wikipedia, April 9, 2023. https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rue_Jean-Jacques-Rousseau_(Paris). 

Grave of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvior in Montparnasse Cemetery (6e)

In the Montparnasse Cemetery lies the grave of Simone de Beauvoir and her life partner Jean-Paul Sarte. Simone de Beauvoir was a French existentialist philosopher and writer who was instrumental in the early feminist movement in France. Her partner Jean-Paul Sartre was also a philosopher and the pair both read and influenced each other's works. Beauvoir and Sartre never married or had children but remained life-partners until his death in 1950. Sarte’s existentialist philosophy helped shape both academic and public thought during the 1900’s and 50,000 people visited his grave after his death. Simone de Beauvoir’s work was fundamental in the progression of feminist thought. Both Beauvoir and Sartre influenced philosophical thought both throughout France and in the rest of the world.

Citations: 

“Jean-Paul Sartre.” Wikipedia, May 24, 2023. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Paul_Sartre#Career_as_public_intellectual. 

​​“Simone de Beauvoir.” Wikipedia, May 25, 2023. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simone_de_Beauvoir. 

The ruins of the Roman baths at the Musée de Cluny (5e)

In the 5th Arrondissement of Paris, large Roman ruins seem out of place, yet, the Haussmann buildings and tall trees surround the expansive remains of a Roman bathouse. Now a part of the Musee de Cluny, these first or second century ruins span 6000 square meters and are what is left of an ancient frigidarium, the cold room of a bathouse. With tall ceilings visible from the street, but the “ground level” now being underground, these ruins are a unique Parisian landmark. As some of us had all already visited the Musee de Cluny earlier this week, we appreciated the opportunity to view the ruins from the exterior, something we did not do upon our first visit. We noted how, from the street, the ruins do not look as expansive as they are from the inside, and remarked how different and unassuming the exterior looks. On the street surrounding the Cluny, a market was bustling. Booths lined the sidewalks, selling normal market goods in a spread out setting; we wanted to stop at a macaron booth that we stopped at on our first visit to the Cluny, but had to rush to our next location. 

“The Ancient Thermal Baths.” Musée de Cluny: Le Monde Médiéval. https://www.musee-moyenage.fr/en/site/the-ancient-thermae.html

The exterior facade of St-Étienne-duMont church (5e)

As we approached St-Étienne-du-Mont church, our group was greeted with a delightful surprise – the captivating beauty of the cathedral. Positioned in the heart of Place Sainte-Geneviève, it exudes an imposing grandeur that dominates the surrounding area. Numerous individuals were scattered about, amidst the presence of rectangular stones placed around the vicinity. The architectural design seamlessly blends gothic and renaissance influences, featuring a stunning gothic rose window and flying buttresses. Although we regretted not having the opportunity to explore its interior, the sheer loveliness of the exterior was a sight to behold.

[z-ndjenja]

“I swear to Christ there are nights when I stay up and might say a prayer twice just to make sure God hears.”

— Eminem // Fine line (Shady XV)

[wikadreamer]

So this is for every kid who all's they ever did Was dreamt of one day just getting accepted I represent him or her, anyone similar You are the reason that I made this song And everything you're scared to say don't be afraid to say no more From this day forward, just let them a-holes talk Take it with a grain of salt and eat their fu*king faces off The legend of the angry blonde lives on through you when I'm gone

[gabriellerudessa]

Compass (Norm Maclean x OC) - Part XXVIII

Marigold squatted, gun pointing to the path as she watched something on the ground, and Norm approached carefully, stopping beside her.

A footprint, very clear in the ground, even as the earth was starting to dry up. A trail of those, and his eyes followed and followed… The path to the left.

“It was done after it started raining, so what… One hour and a half ago?”

“Around it.” He confirmed, swallowing.

AO3 | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV | Part XVI | Part XVII | Part XVIII | Part XIX | Part XX | Part XXI (Smut) | Part XXII | Part XXIII | Part XXIV | Part XXV | Part XXVI (Smut) | Part XXVII | Part XXIX | Part XXX | Part XXXI | Part XXXII | Part XXXIII | Part XXXIV (Smut) | Part XXXV | Part XXXVI (END)

PLAYLIST ON YOUTUBE

Word Count: 4.503

Warnings: Wasteland Typical Violence

XXVIII

The so-called cantina and its communal bedroom was a metal-building with two rooms, one large and closed, the other open to the night air on one side, fire stoves and two counters against the dividing wall. Marigold recognized Aspirants cooking and one Initiate manning the business side of it, tables and chairs all around. The open side opened directly to the ruins, and the lights along it – windows, streetlights, everywhere – were harsh and bright, almost looking as if the stars were on the land instead of the sky.

There was no way to deny that at least the cold fusion or whatever energy source was true. She had never seen so many lights in a single space.

How and why they were keeping it a secret from the rest of the region, she didn’t know. Ma June would’ve told her without a doubt, but no. Besides, the place was empty of non-Brotherhood; the news would’ve attracted traders from all around and the Observatory would be bustling. She didn’t understand everything about what cold fusion meant, but whatever could energize such a big stretch of land meant power in the Wasteland and she was certain the Brotherhood would do its fucking best to exercise it.

Maybe the secrecy was more about where the source of it was, which made sense, especially if they were still figuring how exactly it worked and fortifying better their position to keep it with them.

Or maybe news were just being slow, which, fair enough, that was Wasteland for you.

Brotherhood members came and went from the cantina, not paying for food and water, some Squires taking food to specific Knights and even Paladins. The few non-members paid – and a fair price at that, Marigold noted as she passed the caps to the Initiate.

They sat at a corner with their own plates and cups – squirrel and tato stew with mashed corn and water. Talk was all around them, enthusiastic and loud, and Marigold and Norm kept their ears up even as they exchanged what they had discovered in lower tones, without actually discussing possibilities and theories – better let those for when they were outside Brotherhood’s hearing range.

“Nothing that indicates Lucy?” Norm shook his head as she finished with her stew and started on the mashed corn. “Damn. That’s depressing.”

And worrying. They both heard about the fucking cold fusion, apparently Moldaver’s work, and the tension between the so called Knight Maximus and the Elder Cleric, but no one even mentioned a Vaultie woman.

The prisoner that had stolen Power-Armor was a good clue, at least. Most Power-Armor was in Brotherhood’s power from what she knew, so they just needed to find people talking about one travelling alone and so on. Hopefully it would lead to Lucy too; Norm hadn’t talked about it, but she guessed the prisoner was probably his father – which was messed up if what that Maximus guy said about the prisoner having bombed Shady Sands was true. How could he have done it from inside a Vault? Why?

She hoped it was all just a misunderstanding, because if true… Not only pre-war, but bombing a city with thousands of inhabitants? Fuck.

Marigold finished eating and leaned back on her chair, legs crossed, one arm possessively on the back of Norm’s chair, eyes watching the movement and the lights while she sipped slowly on the water – purified, fresh tasting. She wasn’t rushing with it.

Most of the talk around still revolved around the battle against the NCR and Maximus promotion, with some high-tales of how he had killed Moldaver – all contradicting each other. Few talked about the escaped prisoner, even fewer about what was being done, and no one mentioned a Vaultie woman or some Knight Titus or an Enclave scientist – Marigold hoped it didn’t equate to bad news about them. And, as Norm finished eating, all the talk diminished even more, as the Brotherhood members departed to their own quarters.

Fuck. She had hoped to hear something more interesting and definitive, that complemented better what they already had. For no one to talk about Vaulties, they hadn’t really found one, and they hadn’t known Norm’s father was one. Where was Lucy? Had she even arrived?

“I think it’s better we go to sleep and leave early tomorrow.” Norm said after he finished, sounding as disappointed as she felt, and Marigold nodded, finishing her cup of water.

“Yeah.”

They took their tableware to the counter and paid for a couple of beds. The Initiate rattled out the number and handed them two robust padlocks with keys – “there’s lockers under the beds, you can put your things in them.”

Thank God.

The communal bedroom was filled with metal bunk beds, old and rusted, mattresses exposed. Their numbers dangled in small metal plaques attached to them, and Norm read them in low voice as they walked, not bothering the few people already sleeping.

She wasn’t surprised when both of the numbers the Initiate had said indicated a single bunk bed.

“I’ll fall trying to reach the higher bed.” Marigold sighed and shrugged; there was a reason Goose and Mika were the ones to usually get the higher beds. Too many times her and Regina – and Moose, when still single – had made bunk beds tumble just by trying to get into them.

“And I’ll fall during the night.” Norm’s shoulders slumped and she nodded, still remembering how he had tossed and turned the only night they had shared a bed and not cuddled. “Did he say anything against sharing?”

“Nope.” She grinned and winked at Norm, already pulling the two lockers from under the bed. “But that’s a great idea, Norm-boy.” And maybe would help cheer him up.

Norm shrugged with a small smile, taking their blankets out and helping her with storing the bags and locking the padlocks.

That taken care off, they cuddled in the bed. It was usually a tight fit for her, her feet easily dangling outside, and with Norm it was even harder. However, as they hugged each other tight under the blankets, his head against her shoulder and neck, her arms pulling him into her, their legs intertwined, she wouldn’t exchange that moment for anything.

---------

The night went fast, and soon they were waking with the sounds of more people getting up and moving around them. Somehow, he and Marigold had gotten even more intertwined during the night, blankets twisted around limbs, and they needed some minutes to get out without tumbling into the ground, whistles from anyone that passed by them making his ears burn.

Finally they managed to get up and got their bags – everything exactly as they had left – and folded the blankets into them before leaving the communal bedroom.

There was another bunch of Brotherhood members cooking in the annexed cantina and another manning the counters – Aspirants, Marigold specified, marked by the dog tags around necks and lack of jumpsuit, and an Initiate. They paid for a bowl of food and a cup for what passed as coffee in the surface.

The food was mashed corn with meaty pieces that Marigold called “iguana”, soft and white-ish, the taste subtle and pleasant. The coffee, made with something Marigold called “coyote tobacco chew”, was black, bitter, thick and weird, and for the first time exactly as he liked without him being the one to make it – in the Vault the rule was usually either too weak, too full of sugar, or both, and he hated all those variations.

The talking around them was muddier than last night, more about the responsibilities awaiting the Brotherhood members that day than recent news. He noticed the Dane-person appear, taking a tray with them – “Knight Maximus’ breakfast”, had been their words –, as others did, but that was the only thing that caught his attention in some way. Norm and Marigold didn’t dally long after eating.

They left the Observatory hand in hand, just like they had arrived, a comfort that Norm had missed. Two different guards were at the gates, noting their names in the clipboard as they left, and then they were walking the trail down the mountain, the morning sun doing its best to warm the day despite the cold wind.

---------

As they walked, the trail sunk back amidst the thin trees, slowly descending, the Observatory getting farther and farther away. Norm sighed and finally allowed himself to try and process what they had heard – and what they hadn’t.

“From where the hell that cold fusion came?”

“Wish I knew, Norm-boy. I was even thinking last night, about how they’re keeping it a secret.”

“The rumors implied it was Moldaver, that she activated it while fighting the Brotherhood…”

“Makes sense. Still your question: from where? She had the tech the whole time?”

Norm stopped talking for a moment, thinking, frowning…

“Maybe it involves my father, or at least Vault-Tec… If she had this the whole time, why go inside a Vault and kidnap someone that works for Vault-Tec before activating it?”

Marigold made silence, hand squeezing his, and he sighed, frown remaining.

“…I was going to say that it may involve the scientist, but considering that we heard nothing about Lucy or that Knight Titus, I think it’s safe to say they must still be after the Enclave scientist… Even if it does sounds like something from the Enclave.” She hummed, voice serious, and Norm groaned, scratching at his eyes with one hand.

“Damn it. That, Moldaver’s death, and with my dad God-knows-where, supposing he’s the escaped prisoner… Lucy won’t even have to who deliver the scientist.”

The pieces made less sense than before. The new ones only told him about some stranger Squire-turned-Knight and his tensions with the highest ranking officer in the region, of probably his father running away in a Power-Armor and being the guilty for Shady Sands, of damned cold fusion… And that was it.

Knight Titus, with whom Lucy had left Vault 4? Nothing. Considering he was after the scientist and what the Brotherhood had done to Filly after such scientist had passed through, Norm had no doubts that the man’s presence would’ve been mentioned, at least to say if he had been successful in his mission or not.

No Lucy. Not even the damned scientist. It was anti-climactic, all his stress over it and over everything influenced by it feeling as if for nothing.

Damn it, all of it was almost as bad as his lack of answer regarding his mom.

Norm was so fucking tired of half-answers and trying to fit a bunch of pieces that didn’t even seemed to belong to the same puzzle. One thing was trying to discover what the hell had happened with Vault 32 and what was going on with Vault 31… Another was trying to discover where the hell Lucy was and how to find her, while desperately hoping she was still alive.

And he was all out of clues regarding location, state of living, everything.

“Come here.” Marigold whispered, stopping and pulling him into an one-armed hug, his forehead resting on her breasts.

He breathed her in, sand and gunpowder and blood, arm around her waist and pulling her closer, not allowing the hand-holding to fade. Her free hand slowly massaged across the top of his back and shoulder.

All that without including the stress over his relationship with her. Damn it.

“… I don’t know what to think, expect, or do, Marigold.”

“You don’t need to decide now, Norm-boy. Let’s focus on reaching Catarina’s house, eat lunch and note down everything we know and discuss what it all mean, there. Maybe there’s even some clue in Catarina’s terminal that you didn’t notice.”

Norm sighed and raised his head, looking up at Marigold. He got she was trying to encourage him, but it seemed cruel that he had a clue regarding his father – lying person, he still loved him, still didn’t know how to untangle the mess of feelings –, but not about his sister, the one he really needed to see and talk with.

“… Do you think we could’ve done something different to try and discover more at the Observatory?” He finally asked, and her hand cupped his nape, thumb stroking his hairline.

Norm felt her breasts moving as she sighed, eyebrows frowning slightly.

“No.” She wetted her lips. “The only people that would’ve know more were either high-ranking Brotherhood members, and any imprisoned NCR. Maybe the Squire-turned-Knight, he was supposedly there when the prisoner escaped, so he would at least have some definitive answers about if it was your father or not.”

He drummed his fingers against her back.

“And we would’ve needed an excuse to talk with either of them. And there’s no way we can give one without going into details about my Vault or my father. And there’s still no way to know if they would’ve answered us or imprisoned us or whatever.” Norm whispered, closing his eyes.

“Unfortunately.”

He sunk more into the hug, fingers digging into her waist, her hand squeezing his. It helped his heartbeat, no longer in his throat, relaxing slowly into it all.

“… Can we stay like this just a little longer, Marigold?” Norm forced himself to ask.

“Of course, Norm-boy.”

---------

The “a little longer” turned into almost half an hour, and Marigold carefully pulled them both more to the trees, humming… She didn’t even know what, but she felt Norm relaxing so she kept at it, ignoring that small, annoying part saying that she should convince him to go back to the ranch with her – “you don’t know where your sister is and we have no place to search for more clues”.

If Marigold had a way, she would slap some common sense in that fucking part of her. They had clues about his father, if anything going after the man would mean stumbling into Lucy, at some point. And if they found clues about him in the whereabouts, she was staying with him too. No need for that… Despair.

Eventually he retreated from the hug, hand tugging lightly at her braid. Marigold went, touching her lips to his, firmly, but trying to imitate those sweet kisses Norm so easily gave her. She must’ve done something right, because she felt him smiling and sighing into it.

“Thank you.” He said against her.

She nodded and started guiding the path down once more, a calmer pace, hands not letting go, ears attentive to the path.

They stopped briefly at the start of the trail so Norm could buckle back his Pip-Boy. Marigold was just starting to guide again… Then a solitary drop of water hit her nose.

Soon more drops, the Geiger count rumbling lowly from Norm’s forearm, and then more, until it was a light drizzle upon them. Not enough to soak them, clearly just slightly radioactive, but still annoying. Marigold barely stopped to think before grabbing the bottle of Rad-X and giving one pill to Norm, just then taking her own.

Norm swallowed the Rad-X and extended his hand towards her, even as his eyes watched the rain around them – in the sunlight, not through a night-vision scope.

Something in the brown was marveled. It made Marigold smile as she started pulling him down the path towards Catarina’s house, double careful when slippery rocks appeared – the last thing they needed was a twisted ankle or anything like it.

---------

The water was cold on his skin, but at least the leather coat and the Vault-Suit kept it off from most of him, water just sliding against the fabric. Still, Norm closed tighter the neckline of the coat, trying to keep it from seeping down his neck and under his suit. Marigold didn’t have the same luck, only the leather bracers and short cape sliding off the rain, while pants and shirt were slowly and inexorably getting wet.

The water glimmered lowly in the light of day, and throwing looks to the trees showed the weird squirrels enjoying it, cleaning their sickly looking skins, drinking from the shallow puddles forming and licking stones. Somehow, the smell of petrichor was even more intense than the other night, the air inside his nose and lungs fresh, humid, totally different from the dry warm air he had gotten used to.

The paths that went through dry streambeds were more dangerous, not enough water to turn them into streams, but still making the rocks and stones slippery. Marigold repeated numerous times for him to be careful as she kept him ahead of her, always hugging him when they left those.

The rain eventually stopped, leaving only the fresh air and wet earth under their feet. The clouds disappeared in the sky, midday approaching, warming the day and the wind.

 It didn’t take long after it for them to see the large stone with the childish-looking bear painted on.

“Not long now.” He hummed under his breath.

“Yeah.” Marigold stopped suddenly, hand tightening in his before letting go and he frowned at her.

“What is it?”

She was already holding the hunting rifle ready, tip pointed to the ground, slowly approaching the stone, head turning and watching everything around. Norm stopped and looked around too, not hearing anything beyond the low chippering of the squirrels and the light squishing of her steps in wet ground.

Marigold squatted, gun pointing to the path as she watched something on the ground, and Norm approached, stopping beside her.

A footprint. Very clear in the ground, even as the earth was starting to dry up. A trail of those, and his eyes followed and followed… The path to the left.

“It was done after it started raining, so what… One hour and a half ago?”

“Around it.” He confirmed, swallowing.

“Light feet, it’s not as deep as it could be, most weight on the front… And smooth, which usually means leather soles, like mine.”

“Another Bear?” Oh, please, it would make things so much easier…

“Nope.” Marigold raised and stepped firmly close to the footprint. Besides the size – Marigold’s foot clearly way bigger than the footprint –, Norm immediately noticed it had a careful indent of a ‘B’ in the heel. “We mark our soles for this reason. It’s not always there’s ideal condition for it to appear, but when it does, it’s clear to see.”

Norm sighed, holding the revolver, even if unsure if he would be able to use it much; cutting a neck was one thing, shooting at someone was another.

“Hopefully whoever left those ignored the house.”

“That’s my hope too.” Marigold nodded and started for the path. “Now let’s keep silent, Norm-boy.” He nodded, following her and trying to imitate the light and almost soundless footsteps.

He concluded that he was really bad at it.

---------

The strings of a fiddle reached them before anything else as they walked; Norm guessed they were in the middle of the distance to the house.

Then someone humming along, happily, the sounds approaching, and Marigold looked back briefly, a confused look and a shrug, before looking back to the path.

A bend later, and a man became visible, Brotherhood jumpsuit, black but mud-stained in patches of browns, tall but not nearly as tall as Marigold.

Her hunting rifle went up, pointing at his head, and the man let out a high-pitched scream, raising his hands, a small object falling to the ground.

“PLEASE DON’T SHOOT!”

“What are you doing here, Brotherhood?!”

“I’m-I-I-I-” the man stuttered, trembling, eyes crossing to keep looking at Marigold’s gun.

Norm circled behind Marigold, noticing an open bag on the men’s shoulder, vegetables sticking from it. He hadn’t stopped to actually analyze Catarina and Sarah’s garden, but it seemed clear from where it had come.

“He was getting food from the garden.”

“THAT!”

A moment of silence, the man with hands still up, the short mousey-brown hair wet and sticking in all directions. The fiddle music still echoed and then Norm noticed it came from the object in the ground: a small radio.

“Brotherhood offers food for free to their members and there’s a corn field in the Observatory. Why are you here?” Marigold asked once more, words slow and paused, and Norm recognized the same coldness from when they had met the other Bounty-Hunter.

“I-I can’t return, they’ll kill me!”

Marigold frowned.

“Why?”

“I’m-I’m turning into a Ghoul! Here, look!” The man raised his head, exposing his neck.

It was Norm’s turn to frown.

“Describe what you see, Norm-boy. If you so much as twitch towards him, Brotherhood, I’ll blow your brains.”

The man nodded, fervently, and Norm slowly approached.

At the man’s neck, there it was.

“There a weird scar… It remembers a burn but… Not exactly? There’s weird grooves.”

“Sounds just like a radiation burn. So what, Brotherhood?”

“It-It was a bolt! Through my neck!” Norm blinked.

“You mean it healed like that instead of killing you?” he asked, and the man fervently nodded, and Norm looked at Marigold. There was a small ounce of pity in her face.

“Fuck.” Marigold. She breathed in. “Raise one foot, Brotherhood. Take a look at his shoes, Norm-boy.” Her voice was calmer and he remembered her explanations about how the Brotherhood persecuted ghouls and other people with mutations because of radiation. Apparently not even members were an exception.

Norm nodded and the man carefully did as she ordered.

“It’s rubber. There’s grooves in it. Not smooth.” He looked at the line of footprints they had been following. “His foot is also way bigger than those.”

Norm retreated back towards Marigold and the man put his foot down.

“Did you pass by anyone? Saw anyone? Heard?”

“No… I was in the garden by the better part of the morning. With the radio on.” Apparently Marigold’s calmer demeanor meant he was also calmer, clearly considering the risk of dying as lower.

But he was still wincing

“Of course you were.” Marigold sighed and rolled her eyes.

“How long have you been getting food from the garden?”

The man’s shoulder bunched up.

“Almost two weeks, I think. Didn’t saw anyone. There were things starting to dry and rot. Figured no one would miss some food, if it was going bad anyway.”

“Didn’t try and hack into the house?” Norm raised one eyebrow.

“Didn’t want to risk the owners finding me if they returned.”

“You must be at the narrow pass, on the other path.” Marigold raised an eyebrow and the man nodded. “Too narrow for Power-Armor and a lot of hidden crevices. Smart.”

Norm exchanged a brief look with Marigold. Not who had left the footprints, hadn’t heard anything… He felt a pit in his stomach, the disappearing form in the distance flicking through his mind.

Marigold mouthed one name: “James”. Norm swallowed. It horribly fit. The man knew where they were going, after all, even if didn’t know the exact location of Catarina’s house. If he had managed to survive, he didn’t even need to follow their trail.

In retrospect, if it was James, they were lucky to have found the place before him.

“Can I go now? I don’t want trouble.” The man had lowered his hands a little.

“You have been a deserter for almost two weeks?”

“… Yeah…” the man answered Norm’s question carefully.

Norm raised an eyebrow at Marigold. Almost two weeks. Not inside the Brotherhood anymore, but wandering the region. Maybe he knew something, at least from before the attack. God. He hopped so.

Marigold just nodded, gun tip to the ground.

“Not yet, Brotherhood.” The man groaned, hands lowering. “We need some information, but here’s too open. You walk ahead.”

“Fuck. Promise not to shoot or kill me?”

“If you don’t attack us or give me reason to think you know the owner of the footprints, then sure.” Marigold shrugged, the man’s shoulder’s slumping.

“Can I at least get my radio?”

Marigold grinned, extra trouble, and Norm snickered.

“Yes, but please turn it off. We heard it before we saw you, Brotherhood.”

The man’s ears burned red as he leaned down.

“It’s Thaddeus.” He grumbled and started walking, radio off.

---------

Thaddeus walked ahead of them, in silence, and Marigold kept her rifle pointed in his general direction.

Despite the warming of the day, her clothes almost dry, the footprints were still easy to follow. Marigold could clearly see how different from Thaddeus’ they were: the former Brotherhood also had heavy steps, weight evenly spread in the footprints. Someone used to carry heavy loads. Former Squire, she bet.

Then the house appeared, and the footprints went directly to the closed door.

If not for the radio, Marigold would doubt Thaddeus’ allegations of “didn’t see or hear”. And if it was James, and he had been the one to disappear probably thanks to a stealth-boy, then even without the radio.

He had managed to approach the terminal and put the holotape in the ranch without raising any alarm, after all.

She pulled Thaddeus by the neck of his jumpsuit, noses almost touching, making sure to show her teeth like a wild animal.

“You stay silent and quiet and don’t fucking run. If it’s who I think, you’re lucky he didn’t cut your neck.” She whispered, and Thaddeus nodded fervently.

Marigold let him go and he stumbled as his feet touched the ground again.

The perks of being so tall.

Norm was waiting her, and they slowly approached. There were sounds from inside, but the metal and concrete muffled it all enough that she couldn’t say what was causing it.

The door was closed, and Norm approached the terminal, fingers dancing over the keys. He mouthed “locked” and she carefully put her ear to the metal, noticing Thaddeus approaching carefully, hands twisting around each other.

A voice, amidst breaking glass… Slowly the voice became more recognizable as of fucking course James, and she mouthed it. Norm winced.

Then the words became easier to get and… Bloodbugs flying around? What?

Then she remembered the poisoned food and James penchant for eating other’s food, and she grinned, big.

She mouthed “Heart-Crasher”, slowly retreating, and Norm shook his head with a wry smile. Good choice of his, leaving it behind.

Marigold landed the rifle in the table carefully, then did the same with her backpack and bag-belt, Norm looking at her curiously.

She could still remember the razor touching Norm’s neck, the fear that James would say to Nip-Nip that they better kill Norm. The coward had run away and insisted on going after them. She wasn’t letting the poison do all the work. Besides, Heart-Crasher could take a fucking long time to kill sometimes.

Her Ma’s knife in one hand, the drop-point one in the other, then she mouthed at Norm to unlock the door.

Norm looked at her, frowning, then pulled her closest hand and kissed her knuckles. He mouthed something against her skin, and she couldn’t say what exactly. Norm’s eyes watery, he let go and turned to the terminal once more.

[juhnkit]

#Motivational #Music in the #Morning ... #Yelawolf, #Down ... #ShadyXV #Circa2014

[jamieroxx]

Today in Pop Culture History: Nov 24, 2014 Eminem releases the two-disc compilation album Shady XV. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shady_XV) *Fun Fact, that a lot of our friends have no idea about, but Dani is Huge Eminem Fan.