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dannypuro · 4 years ago

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Okay but what was the heinous spelling error Enj made 200ish years ago and was it really as bad as he said it was ?

Also I am here to further scream over your fics and flail about how Good they are and how On Point your characterization is and how I am still thinking about them all. All at once. No exceptions

THANk YOU VERY MUCH AND GOOD NIGHT :^D (the nose is there for Grantaire reasons) - boom-goes-the-canon because Tumblr disallows sending asks from side blogs like governments ban personal lives

( Something Telling verse, post-chapter 9 (aka time-zapped Enjolras, modern-era). also THANK YOU!! HELLO!!! I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!! GOOD JOB ON YOUR MOST RECENT FIC I ADORE. to everyone else... send me prompts/questions/thoughts. i shall respond to them. thank u)

Feuilly and Bahorel come over for brunch on a Sunday in December. Grantaire makes a quiche, sets the table all nice, and everything, and then realizes, ten minutes before they’re supposed to arrive, that they ran out of coffee the day before.

“Fuck,” he hisses, as he stares down into the empty bag and wishes that for once in his fucking life he could have just a tiny bit of forethought. “Fuck.”

Enjolras hums from where he sits on the kitchen counter, where he’s been steadily working his way through a truly impressive number of clementines. “Something is wrong?” He asks; he passes Grantaire a piece of clementine, as he says it. (God, Grantaire fucking loves him.)

“Yeah,” he says, but his heart’s not really in it, anymore--it’s hard to keep up any semblance of anger past annoyance when Enjolras is doing things like- like feeding him orange segments, and shit like that. “We- I forgot we’re out of coffee. And Baz and Feuilly’ll be here in, like, a second, and the quiche is still in the oven and I don’t-” he doesn’t have time, and he has never been a shitty brunch host but brunch without coffee is a shitty brunch, and-

��Grantaire,” Enjolras says firmly. He hops down off of the counter, takes a second to frame Grantaire’s face in his hands. “Please do not panic over brunch. I shall go and buy some more coffee.”

Like it’s simple. Fuck, it is simple, and Grantaire loves him, and he’s not going to be a shitty brunch host, and-

“God, I love you,” he says.

Enjolras smiles, leans up for a quick kiss. “I love you, as well. Now, mind your cookery--I shall return before the hour, and all will be well.”

He leaves, and Grantaire repeats it to himself--All will be well--and as soon as he’s done that, there’s a crack of thunder, and it starts pouring, icy and relentless, outside the kitchen window. And. Well. So much for that mantra, then. But oh, God, it’s raining, and Enjolras never takes an umbrella with him, and if he had any sense he’d just turn back and come back to the apartment, damn the coffee, but Grantaire knows him, and he knows that he doesn’t have any sense, most of the time, so he stares out the window and wills the rain to stop before his boyfriend freezes to death.

No such luck. By the time Enjolras gets back, coffee in hand, he’s soaked to the bones, and he’s got an equally-as-sopping Feuilly and Bahorel in tow.

“R!” Bahorel crows. “Found your boy!”

Grantaire sets the quiche down on the table and looks them over. Feuilly’s teeth are chattering. They’re all three of them dripping on his carpet. Enjolras is wearing Grantaire’s hoodie instead of a coat and beaming.

Right. A change of plans, then.

They eat brunch on the couch, once Grantaire’s thrown all of their clothes into the dryer and they’ve changed into some of Grantaire’s spare sweatpants. Of course, Baz and Feuilly borrow his clothes because they need to; Enjolras borrows his clothes because he’s fundamentally ridiculous. (Grantaire loves him so fucking much.)

“You know,” Grantaire says, over couch quiche, despite the fact that he already knows that Enjolras does, in fact, know, “You could have just changed into your own clothes. If you wanted to. Since you live here, and all.”

Enjolras gives him a very, very pointed look. And you know what? Fair.

They eat brunch.

“I did have a question about your essays, actually,” Feuilly says, once they’ve finished the quiche and moved on to coffee and coffee alone. He’s tucked under the same quilt as Enjolras--one of Jehan’s, bright and warm.

Enjolras nods, snuggles back against Grantaire, where Grantaire’s got an arm wrapped around his chest, where he leans up against him in an awkward half-pivot. “Of course,” he says. “Anything you require, easily.”

“Awesome, great,” Feuilly says, with a smile. “What’s lacrity?”

Grantaire can feel Enjolras tense against him, freeze. Which is… not what he was expecting. “You jest,” he manages, eventually, and Grantaire holds him a little tighter, never mind that he doesn’t know why.

Feuilly frowns. “Um. No? I mean, I looked it up, but I couldn’t find anything.”

Enjolras is breathing a little faster, now; he takes Feuilly’s hands in his own. “Feuilly, my dear fellow,” he says, and his voice shakes. “Tell me you jest.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what the fuck is going on.

Feuilly looks just about as confused as Grantaire feels. He reaches into his bag, pulls out a book--Enjolras’s book, a little thing, six essays bound in public-domain paper. He opens it to his bookmark, hands it over. “Lacrity,” he says, and then he reads, “It is only through lacrity and fortitude that the people of this nation might ever be free; it stands testament to the chance of man, then, that itis lacrity and fortitude both which comprise the foundation of the citizen’s heart. It’s in the fifth one?”

Enjolras stares down at the book. He clears his throat. “Alacrity,” he says, very, very softly.

“Uh, yeah,” Bahorel says, from where he sits with an arm thrown over Feuilly’s shoulders. “A lacrity. But, like, what is it?”

A pained noise rises at the back of his throat that Grantaire can feel, up against his chest. “You misunderstand me,” he manages. “I- This is a nightmare.” His heart is beating just a little too fast for Grantaire’s comfort.

“Enj?” he tries. “Are you-”

“Excuse me,” he blurts out. “I- Excuse me.” He’s on his feet in an instant, making off for the bedroom before anyone can stop him. Grantaire’s side feels pretty fucking cold, without him.

Feuilly looks stricken. “I don’t- Did I say something?” Grantaire’s feeling pretty stricken, himself--he doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know what could have gone on in Enjolras’s head that would make him talk to Feuilly with anything other than kindness edging on reverence.

“I’m gonna go see if he’s-” he gestures towards the bedroom. Bahorel and Feuilly nod. He goes.

Enjolras is sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands.

Oh, Jesus.

“Enj?” he hazards.

He doesn’t look up. “This is mortifying,” he mumbles into his palms. “I have been personally wronged by every single editor who has ever lain their hands upon my essays.”

Grantaire still doesn’t- doesn’t really know where they’re going, here. He sits down beside him on the bed. “Did-”

“Lacrity,” Enjolras grits out, half frantic, and finally, he turns to face Grantaire. “Lacrity is not a word. It is- It- Alacrity. Which I did not know when I wrote those essays, because I was twenty-two years of age and a fool. And this is something which, despite the fact that he was paid to do so, my editor did not deem necessary to correct!”

Ah.

Um.

Grantaire doesn’t really know that he’s qualified to offer comfort on 200-year-old publishing woes, but fuck, he’ll try. “I’m sure-”

Enjolras holds a hand up to stop him. He stops. “This was bad enough. I was already aware of this injustice. What I cannot abide is the fact that evidently, in the two hundred years since its unfortunate publication, nobody has taken pity enough to correct it! And now Feuilly thinks that I am a fool! Grantaire, this is humiliating!”

He’s looking pretty genuinely distressed; Grantaire can’t bear to do anything but to pull him into a hug, firm and solid. Enjolras, for all his bristle, folds in against his chest. “Feuilly doesn’t think you’re a fool,” he says, into his curls. “Feuilly thinks you’re awesome.”

He lets out a pained groan. “I shall never recover.”

Yeah, okay. Grantaire holds him a little tighter. Only- “Hey, why don’t you care about me or Baz thinking you’re a fool?”

Enjolras snorts a laugh against his chest. “I have personally witnessed Bahorel misspell his own profession. I hold little concern that his regard for me will be impacted.”

Honestly? Fair. “But-”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to Grantaire’s. (Grantaire’s heart thrums.) “We live together. We are courting. If you do not already know that I am a fool, I worry that you never will.”

“You’re not-” he says, on impulse, and then he thinks about, like, actually living with Enjolras, fucking wonderful thing, and he grins. “Well. Maybe a little,” he admits.

Enjolras smiles back, still half-shaky. “Perhaps a little,” he says.

“Feuilly doesn’t think you’re a fool,” Grantaire reminds him, firm. “Feuilly likes you no matter how many typos you made when you were twenty-two.”

He sighs. “Oh, I suppose so.”

Grantaire kisses him, because he can. Enjolras takes a minute to kiss him back, then stands with a sigh.

“I suppose that I had better explain my pitiable situation to Feuilly, then,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

“Guess so,” Grantaire says, and he lets Enjolras tug him to his feet and press a kiss to his cheek, before they go.

#enjoltaire #enjoltaire fanfiction #exr #exr fanfiction #les miserables #something telling #les miserables fanfiction #les mis #writing #Anonymous

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ourplaceinthecosmosphff · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 22. Compromise

“no' might make them angry but it will make you free.

- if no one has ever told you, your freedom is more important than their anger.”

― Nayyirah Waheed, Salt

[*TW: death/violence/bomb threats, neo nazi/mysoginistic hateful language]

It wasn’t the first time I removed my shoes in the middle of the grand hall, one hand to the wall, eyes to the stairs, legs shaking. I grabbed hold of my sandals and raced up the staircase three long, thin steps at a time.

In my room, I threw the shoes on the bed and rushed to the closet, putting my hair up as I did so I could then reach back and unzip my dress, but it was a futile effort. In anger, I recalled needing Lourdes’ help to zip up before dinner.

I took a deep breath and tried it on my own; but it was useless. I tried again, but on the third time all I could hear was the ressentment in Christopher’s voice when he talked about fucking me after my brother’s funeral in front of both our parents. The anger when he asked who was it that I started seeing after we broke up. More than that, I suddenly recalled every instance where I wanted to protest against something he had said or done, but thought better of it.

“Maggie?” Lourdes’ voice awoke me to the anger I was feeling. “I can’t fucking–” One look at me, and she hurried to my side, removing my hands from the dress so she could unzip me. “I got you.” She said. “There. Nothing we can’t fix, right?”

I felt the fabric loosen and pulled the suffocating halter high neck off. The tears started falling before I even realized they had been there at all, and I felt so frustrated for crying that it only made me want to cry more. I allowed my knees to buckle as I fell to the floor, hands around my neck, breathing heavily.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Lourdes said, calmly. “It’s okay.” She passed an arm around my shoulders and hugged me close, pulling me into her chest. “Nothing we can’t fix.” She repeated.

With her bony, small arms around me as a safe port, I cried the loss of the past nine years, and all the years we almost had.

--- ---- --- I had never in my life felt more alone. And yes, maybe I was being dramatic. Maybe I was amplifying a minor problem into a bigger one as a reflection of my deep anxiety about my new title and role, but the truth is it didn’t feel like that. It felt like – in fact, I was alone in my closet, looking at eight different dresses I had just put on and taken off, thinking about Louis telling me I dressed like our mother. How could I make sure I was being myself? How could I know any of my choices were my own and not just what he described as some subconscious need to be the ‘good daughter’?

There was only one person I knew to call for help with going against family expectations: Constance Parrish Von-Bernstein.

“I’m flattered.” She said when I face timed her, still half dressed on my closet floor. “You never have this type of crisis. I need to bask in it. Maybe I should make a wish.” “This is serious, Constance.” I reminded her, sighing. “I have a chance to be heard by the very people who have been pushing me around not only for the past five months, but essentially my whole life. I need to be heard, to tell them, no. To demand what I want. But I can’t even pick something to wear without feeling like a fraud. How am I supposed to be the Crown Princess when I can’t even dress myself?!” Constance looked put off; weirded out, but definitely like she saw the seriousness of the moment now. “Okay…” She started, slowly. “Well, what’s the issue exactly?” “I feel like I’ve been doing what everyone else wanted me to do my whole life, so how can I stand up for what I want now?” I laughed, humorless. “How did you do it? You wore nothing but black all through our teen years, you started dying your hair pink at eighteen, you ditched University and everything else your parents tried to push you into doing to become a musician! How?! How do I do that?!” She smiled, amused. “Well, Maggie… I guess first and foremost we need to accept there is a big difference between being the first member of my family in nine generations not to go to Sorbonne to live my dream of playing guitar in the subway, and knowing what to wear as the Crown Princess.” “I gather from your tone you think my issue is easier. It certainly doesn’t feel like it.” I scratched my head, pensive. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want to trade positions with you, either. But you were just juggling parental expectations. I am juggling the whole country’s.” “Yes… I can’t argue there.” “So, again… how?!” She sighed, propped her phone up against something and leaned back staring off into a wall as she considered the question. “You need to know what you’re willing to lose.” She said, determined. “What does that mean?” “Well, I wore black as a teenager because it was one of the few things I could control. But I still had to wear whatever my mother told me to at more important occasions. Christmas, family occasions, formal events with your family… there was no way she would risk letting me decide what to wear to those.” As she recounted, I searched my brain to find the memories of a grumpy, teen Constance looking as pretty in pastel as the rest of us in tea parties and polo matches. “At eighteen, I received the first pay out of my trust fund from my paternal grandparents, so I knew even if my mother decided to disown me, I could afford to live on my own. So I dyed my hair pink.” “Wait, I–” I shook my head. “I had no idea that’s what you thought would happen! Your mother would never!” “Well, we both know she would.” She smiled, amused but also slightly sad. “She hasn’t, though. Which is good, I guess. We did have a lot of fights about it, not just the hair, but Sorbonne and everything else, too. The first pay out of the trust was supposed to be for University, and I used it to buy a scooter and a new guitar.” “You live a pretty simple life, though. And it’s your money, you should do what you want.” “Exactly!” She replied, excitedly. “But that’s my point, your family is dependent on taxpayer funding, right?” “Well–” I stuttered. “Not quite. We’re funded by the Royal Trust.” “Which is funded by the government with allocation of tax funds, right?” “Well…” “Chérie, I’m not trying to get evidence for the republican party here. I’m making a point.” “Yes, okay.” I shrugged. “Yes, some of our funds are from the Royal Trust, and a lot of it is private funds from family inheritances, private property, and investments–” “Okay, so.” She continued. “If you get to the meeting and tell them you want something, and they say no. What’s stopping you from insisting? From doing it anyway? It’s not a crime to go against them, right?” “Well–” I reflected. “What I mean is, I waited to dye my hair until I had my trust fund so my mother couldn’t hold my finances against me. Money was freedom. So, if your family threatens to no longer fund you, what will you do? You don’t have a job anymore.” “Well, I…” I sighed. I never had to think about money before. “I do have a trust fund, too, from my great-grandfather. And I’m twenty-five, so the inheritance from my maternal grandfather should be available to me now.” “Well, there you go. So, what can they do if you insist on having it your way?” She asked, with a grin. “Throw you in jail?” She was right. Money was freedom. “I guess there’s only the main question left.” “Which is?” “What do I wear?!” I asked, making us both laugh at the despair evident in my voice. “It’s not just about the clothes.” I justified, more to myself than to her. “I’m afraid I’ll get there, and they’ll be looking at me like I’m a child who should be off playing with something unimportant instead of trying to play pretend with the adults.” “Maggie,” Constance started, laughing, “you’re a Harvard graduated lawyer. You have a solid, successful career you left for this. They need you, you don’t need them. In fact, you’re doing them a favor.” “I’m not sure that’s how they would describe it.” “They can dress it up however they want, facts are facts.” She shrugged. “You know how to stand up for yourself and get shit done, because you’ve done it before. You worked on the corporate world for years. So, stop acting like they’re doing you a favor by allowing you to be there, and start using your experience to shove it in their faces that you’re way overqualified for this.”

She was right; I had a solid, sucessful – if short – career, and at work, I dressed as a lawyer, if anything to remind people I was not just a princess. So I spent the rest of the day repeating the mantra to myself: Constance is right. Constance is right. Constance is right. With that in mind, I dressed pretending I had a big meeting at work: a short sleeved, high neck, satin Jason Wu dress with simple black heels and gold and black earrings.

Then I went to work.

In my mind, this battle would take place around a long, imposing conference room table, where I’d sit in the middle, with all relevant parties around me. The reality was less corporate: my father’s office. High ceilings, chandeliers, antique paintings and vases around the room, and, of course, the victorian furniture. Dad and I sat in armchairs by the fireplace, side by side, his main staff took their seats on the couple of sofas to our sides, and the others, after the three chairs around my father’s desk were taken, brought in extra chairs from other rooms.

One thing I noticed straight away.

“Where’s Cadie?” I asked dad on a low tone, as everyone took their seats. “I thought it would be in poor taste to discuss her with her in the room.” He explained. “You’ll notice Auguste isn’t here, either.”

Present in the room were around a dozen more people, most of whom I had known all of my life, though some more closely than others. That was the case with my parents’ private secretaries, the title we gave to our chief of staff, Clemment Montennon and Madaleign Qadir. I also recognized Abelard Brodeur, my father’s senior aide, Ulysses Caron, the Head of Security, and Edwald Dupont, Head of the Palace Communications Office.

My father made introductions of those I hadn’t had too much contact with before, like Caesar Bisset, head of Outreach Relations, who explained his main role was to coordinate and plan our charitable and humanitarian endeavors, and Alexander Halden, who was liason of relations between the palace and the government.

All of them sat in the sofas, all of them (but Madeleign Qadir) were balding, old, white men with mustaches and resting judgy faces. The people sitting in the chairs in the back, I realized, were their junior aides, with notepads and pens, ready to take notes or provide useful material during the meeting.

I started to feel more at home at once: hierarchy was familiar to me. I had been the lowly intern once, trying to remain as quiet and invisible as possible in the background, writing as fast as I could, desperate to prove myself in the first opportunity to the older men who held my faith in their hands.

I reminded myself that wasn’t the case here. I was the future Queen of Savoy, they worked for me. They needed me. I held my head high and squared my shoulders back.

“Thank you all for making room in your schedules for this meeting.” My father started, in French. “As this meeting was set somewhat suddenly, perhaps we should go over our goals for today before we start. In truth, I believe today is a culmination of what has been…” He paused, and heaved a long, heavy sigh. “Some tremendously difficult last few months. As we’re all aware, after we lost the Crown Prince last year, as my eldest child, Princess Marie-Margueritte became Crown Princess Marie-Margueritte.”

Discreetly, I fidgeted with my hands so the nail in my right thumb was gently scratching my left palm. I gulped, trying to swallow the familiar knot on my throat. ‘I have to be able to talk about this without crying. I need to talk about this to get through this meeting. I can’t cry in front of these people.’

“We took a few months to allow us all to grieve properly, as a family, and also as a country. There was also the need for the Crown Princess to make the necessary arrangements to leave her private career behind and, as we discussed around the time of the funeral, to put distance between her previous image and the new one she must take on in order to fulfill this new role.”

So they had discussed this at the time of the funeral. A need to ‘put distance’ between who I was and who I needed to become. And I wasn’t even included.

“But it is a new year.” Father continued, with renewed energy. “Crown Princess Marie-Margueritte and I have had a private discussion and we have decided the time has come for her to take a more active role in the process of preparation for her future as Monarch.”

He paused, allowing the words to settle. I still stared at my own hands, trying to breathe deeply and slowly. ‘Preparation for her future as Monarch’ sounded so… crucial. Important. Fatal, almost.

“So,” he said, now more upbeat, adjusting himself in his seat, “with that in mind, we arrive at the agenda for this meeting as discussed by the Crown Princess and I. We are to discuss and decide on the plans regarding the Crown Princess’ future work, security, and office in her new role as the heir apparent.”

There was a pause. I waited. My father looked at me, then at the others.

“Perhaps it would be useful to start with providing the Crown Princess with an update on what the current situation is with regards to the public opinion.” The king added. “Edwald?”

Mr. Dupont, Head of the Communications Office, a man reasonably young in comparison to the others, pushed his glasses up his nose with his pinky, opened a folder in his lap, and began to speak.

“Right. Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness. We are still monitoring what the press knows in regards to the Crown Princess’ extended stay in Britain. As of now, seems we were able to get the Crown Princess back in the country without them finding out, but we will continue to stay alert for any rumors in that regard.”

“Do they know about Princess Lourdes-Abigail’s suspension?” My father asked. “As far as we are aware, sir, no.” Mr. Dupont replied. “We do have at the moment, though, requests for comment on a poll the Sunday Gazette ran online where 71% of respondents didn’t agree with the statement: ‘the Royal Family has kept an active working role after the death of Crown Prince Louis-Adolphe’.” My father sighed, gravely. “Did we give them a comment?” “No, sir. An online poll of no impact.” Mr. Dupont returned. “Most people just vote to see the estimated results, or because they’re bored.” “Good.” He nodded. “Go on.” “Regard–” “Wait, of how many?” I interrupted. “Pardon?” “How many people answered the poll?” “71%, ma’am.” “No, 71% of how many people? What’s the total of respondents?” “Oh, uh.” He looked through the papers on his folder again. Behind Mr. Dupont, an aide got up from his chair and handed him a couple more sheets of paper. “Ah, right. The total number of respondents in the poll was 61,359, ma’am.” “Were they given an abstention option?” “No, ma’am, only agree or disagree.” I nodded. Mr. Dupont went on. “As I was saying–” “Sorry,” I interrupted again, “One last thing, promise, do you have the analytics numbers?” “The–?” Mr. Dupont seemed confused. I looked at the aide behind him, a young man with freckles. “Sir? What’s your name?” His eyes grew wide. “M-me?” I smiled. “Yes, sir.” “Matthew.” “’Ma’am’”, his boss corrected. “Matthew, ma’am.” The aide repeated. “Do you happen to have the analytics data on this poll, Matthew?” “Uhm. Well, not a full analytics report, ma’am. But I do have a print out of the webpage, so I have a sharing estimate for social media.” “What are you talking about?” My father asked, confused. “Analytics is a… a tool to interpret patterns of data from basically anything.” I summarized. “On websites that run polls, it could be useful to know how many people viewed it as many might have just viewed it, but not voted, which doesn’t mean they weren’t influenced by it. And any new article online has an option for the reader to share it on their social media platforms, so that’s what Matthew will tell me next.” “Well, the data is rounded up, we don’t have the details.” Matthew explained. “Well, then we can skip it.” My father said. “That’s a point for another meeting, Margueritte. Let’s focus on our agenda today.” I wanted to argue, but before I could gather the courage, Mr. Dupont went on about me next, which was distracting enough to make me let the subject go. “Regarding the press on the Crown Princess specifically,” Mr. Dupont continued, “The months following the funeral saw a record high number of press profiling her biography, and of course there were the, uhm, ‘viral’ issues.” “Viral issues?” I asked, when he used a strange tone on the word ‘viral’. “The…mainstream section of the world, ma’am, meaning those outside of Savoy and who otherwise seemed to be uninterested in the story of The Royal Family of Savoy, were very interested to discover it’s new heir was a former military servicewomen–” “I–” I stuttered, “I only did the minimum service of 6 months.” “They don’t seem to care about the specifics.” He replied. “They did show a lot of interest for the picture of you in uniform during a drill, which was released through the palace at the time.” He added, shrugging slightly. “The Americans, specifically, seemed excited about your time in Harvard and New York, and a lot of articles were written with testimonials from people who, at least, claim to have studied with you at the time.” “Oh.” I said, uncomfortable. “What–what did they say?” “Positive things.” Mr. Dupont replied, short. “Though, at home, despite the King’s vow of faith in Her Royal Highness during the Crown Prince’s funeral, Savoyen press remains… unconvinced of your… capabilities.”

I looked at my father, who was staring at his hands, absentmindedly. So this was why my father had used his eulogy to public declare his confidence in me in the role. Not because it was true. It was a PR move. No wonder he didn’t want to answer my question afterwards.

“What ar-” I stuttered. “Do you know any specifics of their criticism?” “They seem to worry about your work record the most, ma’am.” He replied. “Not a lot of royal work, some rumors of controversial stances as a lawyer, and uh. Not enough… How to best describe it? Personality, I suppose.” “They think I’m boring.” I helped. Seeming uncomfortable, he nodded. “International press definitely doesn’t, though.” He said. “And they have greatly influenced public opinion at home. It is very likely our national press is… upset they haven’t been given any insight on what your future will look like.”

‘And who’s fault is that?’, I thought, bitterly.

“Speaking of work,” I started, “Shall we talk about that next?” “Before we do,” my father said, before looking at Mr. Dupont, “what about the new development from last night? Where do we stand?” Confused, I looked around the room, but other than Montennon, Qadir, and Mr. Dupont himself, everyone else seemed confused as well. “We are closely monitoring the situation, but not rumors as of yet, sit.” He replied. “But I reiterate it would be best to get ahead of it.” “What happened last night?” I asked.

My father fixed me with such a dry expression I felt almost unbearably embarrassed for having forgotten: the Chris breakup.

“Oh.” I said, awkwardly. “Right.” “We’ll get back to you, Edwald.” My father told him. “Now, what need we discuss regarding your work, Margueritte?” “Well,” I started, pausing quickly to take in a deep breath, before reaching down at the ground for the folder I had left under my chair.

I opened it to find the copies I had made of the proposal I prepared the previous year while using anything I could to distract myself from the grief, and passed it around the room.

“This a summarized version, but I can have a more detailed one made tonight if you wish,” I prefaced, walking back to my seat after handing them each a copy, “I used a business proposal model, so forgive me if I might have missed any important information.”

The proposal detailed causes and organizations I wanted to focus on. I was patron of a handful of charities currently, and if I was to work full time as a royal, priority number one was to get that number up. It was work that I liked: useful, helpful work that made a difference in people’s lives.

But most importantly: it was a way of honoring my brother. I had experience with ‘easy’ causes: elderly care, childcare, things that were easy for anyone to empathize with, things that anyone would agree matters. To put it simply: things that wouldn’t ruffle feathers on the press.

This time I picked causes that mattered to me, and it mattered to me to make the kind of impact that my brother would have.

“This is impressive, ma’am.” Said Caesar Bisset, the Head of Outreach Relations. “Truly inspirational.” The others nodded, appreciatively. No one said anything else. “But?” I prodded. They looked at each other. Mr. Bisset gulped, smiling uncomfortably. “Some of these causes, although greatly important, would not send the right message, ma’am.” “What causes do you see a problem with, exactly?” I asked, as calmly as could be. “Not me, ma’am!” He corrected, quickly. “I mean, to the public, to the press, there could be a lot of misunderstanding around some of these areas.” “Such as?” “Margueritte,” my father started, with a careful smile. “As you know there is still a large amount of people in Savoy who identify as catholics, and as the representatives of the faith in the country, we have a responsibility.” “I understand.” I assured him, lying. “But I would still like to hear the specifics of what the issues would be.”

He looked at Mr. Bisset, who nodded.

“Well, ma’am,” he started, “as an example, take this idea, item two, where you express a wish of becoming a patron of Flag House, an organization devoted to providing support to homosexual youth…” “They provide counseling for those with unaccepting families, housing for LGBT people living in an unsafe and unwelcoming environment, and even classes to get them on a path towards a career or to further their education.” “Yes.” He nodded. “And the issue of homosexualism is still somewhat–” “Homosexuality.” “Pardon?” “You said ‘ism’.” I explained, sighing. “That’s a terminology used for diseases and health issues. The correct word is homosexuality.” He nodded. “Oh. Right. Still–” “And they don’t just work with gay people.” I expanded. “The LGBT community is wide. Trans people’s life expectancy is 35 years-old in Savoy, and they are around 65% of all sex workers and 73% of all unhoused people in the country.” “No one is saying the organisation isn’t good, Margueritte.” My father argued. “But there is a reason we don’t just announce patronages. There’s a lot of research that goes into this, a lot of prep work–” “And that’s what I want to do.” I replied. “We could be halfway done with the prep work if we had set the wheels in motion the first time I did this research, but I sent August this material in November last year and never heard anything.” Mr. Montennon, Auguste’s boss, who would have told him not to get back to me, fidgeted in his chair. “The issue would simply be too polemic, ma’am.” “So would be standing up against slavery before the 19th century, but King Willem III did it anyway.” I replied. “It’s not exactly the same, sweetheart.” “Why not?” I asked. “Look at the research I just gave you. Our job is standing up for the marginalized, today the most marginalized community in our society are the unhoused, specially trans sex workers of color who are kicked out of their homes at a young age due to bigotry.” “Our job is to serve the country.” My father insisted. “But part of that is knowing what the country needs from us. And largely, Savoy is just not ready for this type of work.”

He uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to look at me.

“Margueritte, you have a difficult job ahead of you. I know that like few people can. So let me assure you, the most important thing to succeed here is knowing how and when to compromise.” He paused, intensely. “And when not to. This is not something we can compromise on.”

I heaved a long, unsatisfied sigh. I wish I could have told him of Louis. I wish I could have told him how much this mattered to him. How much he spoke of his own privilege, of knowing that no matter how big the fear of being rejected was, he knew he would never need to fear for his safety like so many in his community did. I wish I could have told my father this, as I knew it might have changed his mind.

“So, Mr. Bisset, from this proactive document my daughter has given us, what do we think would be a good fit for her to work with?” Mr. Bisset looked away from my father into the paper in his lap again. “Well, sir, we would need to tweak a few of the specifics, but this suggestion for a partnership with some of the Universities in Savoy for a series of discussion panels on important issues for the population has a lot of potential.” “Ah,” my father replied, appreciatively. “Progress!” I gulped, suppressing a roll of my eyes at the condescension. “Won’t that just make me look more boring?” I asked. “I want to do it, but it would be better to balance it with something else, too, wouldn’t it? How about the patronage of the Claire Bauton Foundation?” Mr. Bisset nodded. “Women’s issues is a wonderful topic, ma’am, and would be a good fit as the public is very interested in the prospect of Savoy’s first Queen in her own right in over three centuries. I’ll do some research on it.” “Perfect.” My father said, happily. “Next?”

I sighed, fidgeting with my own hands; mouth dry.

“Perhaps we might go over the Crown Princess’ household, sir.” Montennon said. “Seeing as we are discussing work, her team would have to coordinate with Bisset on any upcoming projects.” He nodded. “Let’s. Please, Clemment, would you explain to us again the reason for appointing Auguste Authier as the Crown Princess’ Private Secretary.” “Of course, sir.” Montennon replied. “Ma’am, the gist of the matter comes down threefold. One, tradition.”

C. C. Montennon had been my father’s Private Secretary for almost two decades. He knew me from when I was still a bony, annoying child, but that wasn’t the reason he spoke ‘down’ at me. In fact, he had a gift of always appearing uppity whenever he said anything at all, even to royalty.

Montennon explained that traditionally, royal Private Secretaries were trained by their predecessor, the senior Secretary working for the Monarch. That way, every Monarch had a secretary that had been trained in the staff of the previous Monarch by the previous Monarch’s Secretary.

“This way every Private Secretary has the most complete knowledge one can have of the royal household and work.” He said. “So that fewer mistakes are made.”

I considered his words for a while. The logic seemed fine, it was the execution that I had an issue with.

“The second point, of course,” he went on, “is the matter of nationality.” “Seriously?” I interrupted. “Because Cadie is American?” “Ms. Mendel’s nationality could send the wrong messaging if she was selected for the highest position in your household, ma’am.” “Will I have to pretend I didn’t go to University in America, either?” “Margueritte, please.” My father said, scratching both eyes with his hand. “I think it’s a reasonable question considering this logic.” I argued. “The role of the Monarch, ma’am, and thus the role of the Crown Prince–uh, Princess is to represent and lead the country to the best of his–sorry, her abilities.” He explained, repeatedly stuttering on the need to correct himself, “and to hire a foreigner to such a high position would indicate you did not find a Savoyen of equal ability or trust.” “Or alternatively,” I argued, “that I hired the best person to the job and promoted her when the opportunity arose.”

Judging by the looks they all exchanged, I could see that was a battle lost.

“In order to do good work I have to be the one to choose my own staff.” I insisted. “It makes no sense otherwise. I assure you I am perfectly capable of hiring the objectively best person for the job.” “I assure you, ma’am,” Montennon insisted, “I have been overlooking Mr. Auguste Authier’s training for the past ten years and he is the most qualified man to prepare you for the difficult role ahead.” “You said it was threefold. What’s the third reason?” I asked Montennon. He sighed. “Well, ma’am, it’s hierarchy. Much of the Royal Family works as any business, and Auguste Authier has seniority. He’s been a member of the Royal staff longer and it would be inappropriate to promote Ms. Mendel to a higher position when she hasn’t earned it.” “As the person who she’s been working for since being hired I’d argue she has.” I contradicted. “Auguste has been training for a decade to assist the next Monarch, Margueritte.” My father told me, softly. “Cadence is too young. What if we compromise by looking into training her as an aide, Clemment? She would be a good assistant to Auguste, don’t you think? I’m sure they would work well together, right?”

I was sure they wouldn’t; Cadie was only a few years older than me, and Auguste was almost old enough to be our father. He had never respected Cadie’s abilities or my choice in hiring her. That was part of why I didn’t want to work with him in the first place.

“It would simply be too disruptive to disregard the plans that have been in motion for years regarding the staff of the next future Monarch.” Montennon finished. “But that hierarchy, those plans, were established when my brother was the heir.” I said, bravely but, also, timidly. “Not me. If we have to adapt to a new heir, and the new heir has to adapt to the work, it makes sense that the hierarchy and plans have to be adapted too, right?”

They seemed in no rush to reply. The silence floated around the room for a few seconds before my father sighed.

“It’s not how this works, I’m afraid.” He said. “Should we move on?”

And that was that. Another compromise. One word from the King and that matter was, apparently, closed.

Mr. Caron, the Head of Security, cleared his throat and sat a little taller as he began to speak. “Sir, if I may?” My father nodded his way, and he went on. Looking at me, an intense expression on his face, he said, “Ma’am, while we are discussing staffing choices… The occurence in Britain with your detail on the train…”

I tried to brace myself for a scolding, dreading everything around me, wishing I could go to my room.

“I wish to assure you no such thing will ever happen again. The officers in question have been severely reprimanded, suspended and will retake training upon returning to work. We take the incident extremely seriously and hope this won’t permanently shake your confidence in your security.” I stuttered, awkwardly. “Oh, that–That’s fine. Really, I’m fine. I didn’t even know they’d been suspended.” “Their only job is to keep you safe, and they lost you for three days.” My father remarked, calmly, not looking at me. “They are lucky to keep their jobs.” “Right.” I nodded, nervously. “Of course… Speaking of which. The… incident, as you called it, was indeed unfortunate, of course, but since the topic has been brought up, I suppose it is as good a time as any to talk about my security detail in general. The truth is I was already uncomfortable with it before.” “Uncomfortable, ma’am?” Mr. Caron asked, “Regarding the officers? Their competence?” “No, not at all.” I shook my head. “I mean, I spent the previous decade and a half with Joyce as my primary officer. She went with me to America, to University, and in every job I ever had.” He nodded. “Of course, ma’am. The bond that many years of service creates is, of course, highly valued in this field. It is essential for the work we do.” “I’m glad you think so.” I smiled. “Because I would like for Joyce to be reinstated as my primary Protection Officer.” Mr. Caron took in a long breath, watching the wall behind me. “Ma’am, though I appreciate how difficult such a structural change is, the fact is that Ms. Espinoza–uhm, Joyce, that is, simply does not have the proper, more advanced, specified training an officer for this position needs.”

“Why is that?”

The room was quiet. One by one, they all exchanged a look with the person closer to them and then looked at me.

Mr. Caron spoke. “Why is what, ma’am?” “As a member of Palace security staff, why doesn’t Joyce Espinoza have the proper training needed to work for a senior royal?” “Oh, well, ma’am, see…” He started, “Our officers receive personalized training for the specific work that they will be assigned to. That way every royal family member can be sure they are in the right hands for the level of security threat they are under.” “But…” I started, “Doesn’t that just create a gap in the abilities of the staff? Don’t you then just have some officers who are qualified for harder jobs and some who aren’t?”

They were quiet. Mr. Caron opened his mouth to reply but closed it again, pensively.

“Margueritte, this meeting is not meant to reevaluate how we do staff training.” My father objected. “Maybe it should.” I argued, causing him to look at me, brows raised. But he ignored my point. “We are here to discuss your staff and the fact is Ms. Espinoza does not have the proper training to keep you safe.” Before I could argue, he added, louder, “That is not something we are compromising on. Not your safety.”

I sighed.

“Ulysses, do you have the security file on the Crown Princess?” Mr. Caron looked at my father with wider eyes. “Y-yes, sir. I have the raw file with me, but it hasn’t been… filtered.” “Good. Show it to her.”

Awkwardly, Mr. Caron received a separate, larger file from the aide sitting near the window. He got to his feet and walked over to me.

I opened the file to an identification page; it contained most of my personal information from my full name, age, hair color and length to weight, height, and identifying marks, like the barely visible, tiny scar I had on my left knee from a bike fall as a child (I noticed the absence of my tattoo). I looked at Caron.

“What am I looking at?” “Well–” He started. “That is what your security needs to have on their minds every second of their working day.” My father answered instead.

When I turned the page, I realized the following pages were separated by date. The first was marked only a couple of days after Louis’ death. It read:

‘Letter received by the Neunant Post. Unmarked. Security camera footage resulted in no suspects of delivery. It reads:

THE THRONE MUST NOT GO TO PRINCESS MARIE MARGUERITE. WOMAN ARE INFERIOR TO MEN AND THE RIGHT ORDER OF CIVIL SOCIETY CANNOT BE UNDERMINED. LET THE GOVERNMENT BE ADVISED: SHOULD THE PRINCESS BE ANNOUNCED AS THE NEXT HEIR THERE WILL BE AN ATTACK ON POINTE CALLOIS BRIDGE. WE ARE AN ORGANIZATION DEDICATED TO RETURNING SAVOY TO ITS FORMER GLORY. PRINT THIS LETTER ON THE FRONT PAGE OR PEOPLE WILL DIE…’

With my heart beating almost painfully in my throat, I looked at my father. He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t looking at anyone. His eyes were opened, but he was seeing something I could not see.

I turned the page. The next few threats were prints of hate comments on news sites, but they seemed slightly superficial compared to the first. I noticed they had a yellow sticker to the up corner of the page, whereas the first one had a red one. I turned the pages, finding another red one marked about a week after the first. It read:

‘Letter dropped on the gates of Callois Palace among the messages of condolences for Crown Prince Louis. Security Camera footage could not identify the suspect amongst the crowd. It read:

REST IN PEACE OUR GOOD ARYAN KING LOUIS ADOLPHE!!! THE THRONE WILL NEXT GO TO OUR ALPHA PRINCE ADRIEN WHO WILL LEAD THE COUNTRY INTO PROSPERITY. PASSING THE CROWN INTO PRINCE LOUIS ADOLPHE’S SISTERS WOULD TURN THE COUNTRY INTO A RADICAL LIBERAL HELL IT MUST NOT BE ALLOWED TO HAPPEN. THE KING MUST ANNOUNCE THE PRINCESSES WILL NOT INHERIT LIKE HIS SISTERS DIDNT. DO NOT DISMISS THIS. IN CASE THIS ISNT ANNOUNCED THE PRINCESSES WILL BE A FATALITY OF THE BATTLE FOR THE SURVIVAL OF SAVOY. YOU HAVE FIVE DAYS.

The following page contained a drawing of a symbol in red paint. Analysis confirmed it was pig blood. Symbol under analysis by the Interpol.’

I gulped, painfully, mouth dry. “Did they ever have an answer for what the symbol was?” Though I wasn’t looking at him, Mr. Caron asnwered softly, “With assistance from the NSA, ma’am, they believe it is linked to a jihadist terrorist organization.”

I turned a few more pages, hands shaking. Dated from a few weeks after Louis’ death, to a couple of months after, to just two weeks ago, they were prints of online messages, discord servers, reddit discussion threads, untraceable Twitter accounts, throw-away emails, sent to official royal email addresses, physical Palace address, personal email accounts of staff members, journalists, and any number of random people who dared say anything positive about us online.

‘THE CROWN PRINCESS ATTENDS BODY WORK GYM NEAR HER APARTMENT MOST MORNINGS AT 8AM FROM MONDAY TO FRIDAY. SHE ALWAYS PARKS IN THE SECOND FLOOR GARAGE. SHE LOOKS HOT IN LEGGINGS TOO BAD SHE’LL GET BLOWN UP NEXT TIME SHE IS THERE’

‘THE USURPER MARIE MARGUERITTE WILL DIE KING ADRIEN DOWN WITH THE FEMINAZIS WHO WEAKENED OUR MILITARY BY INCENTIVIZING WOMEN TO SERVE AND NOW WOULD WEAKEN OUR NOBLE ROYAL FAMILY’S BLOODLINE. YOU WILL NEVER FIND ME BUT YOU WILL SOON KNOW MY NAME I WILL CARVE IT IN HER SKIN. I KNOW THE ADDRESS OF HER WORK AND THE RESTAURANT SHE EATS AT WITH COWORKERS. THEIR NAMES ARE SOPHIE THE DAUGHTER OF THE CORRUPT MEDIA MOGUL AND LARISSA THE UGLY IMMIGRANT. SHE WILL NEVER BE QUEEN’

‘I AM A HIGHLY TRAINED FORMER MILITARY CAPTAIN PRINCESS MARIE MUST NOT HAVE A CONFIRMATION CEREMONY. IF YOU HAVE A CEREMONY WE WILL CARRY OUT A MASSIVE ATTACK AGAINST THE ATTENDEES. I HAVE AT MY DISPOSAL A SEMI AUTOMATIC RIFFLE AND A COLLECTION OF PIPE BOMBS.I DO NOT WANT TO SPILL PURE SAVOYEN BLOOD. I AM GIVING YOU A CHANCE. CANCEL THE CONFIRMATION AND ANNOUNCE THE ABDICATION OF PRINCESS MARIE IN FAVOR OF PRINCE ADRIEN OR ONE WAY OR ANTOHER I WILL MAKE SURE THEY DIE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED’

A few of the pages detailed untraceable phone calls made to official, unlisted numbers inside the palace. There was a collective letter sent by chief editors of the major Savoy newspapers detailing a rise in what they describe as ‘the worst kind of harassing, toxic, hateful comments’ ever before targeted at the royal family in general, but specifically, me.

The next few pages had, chillingly, photographs. It was hard to focus enough to read the text around them, but according to the captions they had all been sent by physical mail or email, some having been discovered by police in ‘intercepted phones’.

“Wha–what are intercepted phones?” I asked, my voice a mere whisper. Ulysses Caron’s reply matched my tone. “Phones intercepted by police during reids, investigations or after criminals are arrested. Some were found internationally and sent to Savoy Police.”

I nodded as though I didn’t have another million follow up questions. The photos were of me, but in cases when I had been photographed with other people, there were pictures of them as well.

They were pictures of me walking my dogs near my apartment, in Tallmound, before Louis died. Pictures of me walking to and from the parking lot at work, both before Louis died and on the day I went to quit. Pictures of me in the gardens of the Palace, in some places we knew people could see from the gates. It didn’t usually bother us as it wasn’t an issue unless they were watching to wait for us.

These weren’t paparazzi pictures, they were worse. Grainy, from farther away, from an upper angle – drones? My head hurt. I felt dizzy. My stomach ached. In one picture, I was walking near the beach with Lourdes in Corsilla.

I looked up at Mr. Caron, realizing the room had fallen into a deep, strained silence as they waited for me to say anything.

“My sister. Is she–is she pictured, too?” Mr. Caron looked at my father before replying. I did, too. He was still quietly looking inwards. “Yes, ma’am.” Mr. Caron said, finally. “Not as frequently. But there has also been a recent rise.” I fought back tears. “And–Did th–Louis?” I stuttered. He nodded, gravely.

I closed the folder with a thud. I looked away, at the windows. The sun was setting outside.

“Don’t you see…?” I asked, weakly. “This is why we can’t train our officers differently.” I looked back at them. “You’re deciding that some of us receive more threats than others and therefore we need different security, but what is stopping anyone who wishes to harm us from harming someone we love to get to us?!” “I assure you, ma’am, all our officers are highly trained to the task they need to perform–”

I got to my feet, breathless. Slowly, I walked around the chair and rested a hand on it, the other now clutching the heavy folder. I thought of my brother reminding me to stand up for myself, and of the reminder Harry had written in the book he sneaked into my bag.

I looked back at them, and sighed.

“You are going to double the number of protection officers in my sister’s detail.” I said, as authoritative as I could. “Double–?” Mr. Caron started. “And Cadence Mendel is going to be my Private Secretary.” I said, as if I hadn’t been interrupted. “Auguste can stay on for support. He can be a… consulting aide. I’m sure his experience will be valuable.” “Margueritte.” My father started. I did not acknowledge him. “Joyce Espinoza will head my security detail.” “Ma’am, she does not have the necessary training–” “Then train her!” I said. “It is not enough for security to be well trained, clearly, as your supposedly highly trained officers were sleeping while I ran off in London. If they had known me, if I had trusted them, like I do with Joyce, I assure you that would not have happened.” He didn’t have an answer. He did look at my father though, helplessly. “Training is not enough, Mr. Caron. Our security is with us wherever we go, we must trust them. Intimacy isn’t a replacer for training, either, so let’s work on both. Okay?” “Margueritte.” My father tried again. “Why don’t we talk about this privately?” “That won’t be necessary.” I replied. “It would have been useful months ago, after Louis passed. Now I don’t need to, anymore.” I looked at him, finally, calmly. “I will do good work, dad. I will. I will do work that I am proud to do, and that Louis would have been proud of, too. And I will be happy to do it. But let it be known that I will do it because I am choosing to do it.” I looked at the rest of them. “I did not want this.” I confessed. “I wish for nothing more than for my brother to be in this meeting instead of me. But I am all you have.”

Still, they were silent.

“Well, I will do it. Not because I have to. What can you do, really, if I refuse to? Throw me in jail?” I echoed Constance’s words, a humorless grin in my lips. “You need me. You have me. So, I am willing to discuss my work. But we will not compromise on my staff, or on my security. Or Lourdes’ security.” “Margueritte.” My father repeated, more forcefully now. “I am a lawyer. A good one.” I stopped him, angrily. “I had my own life before this and I can get it back. Say no and I will just send a resume and get another job next week.” I told them, daringly, shrugging. “I do not need or want the Crown. If you want to take it, this is what I need. If not,” I sighed, heavily, “well, let’s hope Lourdes is ready to be Queen.”

I waited, breathing heavily, anxious, hands shaking. My father said nothing else. Neither did any of the others. I could barely see them through my anger.

“I expect my Private Secretary to get in touch in the next twenty-four hours so we can get to work. If not,” I sighed, “You can expect my abdication letter by the end of the week.”

With that, I turned on my heels, and left the room.

--- ---- ---

Business Bitch Outfit

[A/N: ITS 6 AM AND I HAVE NOT SLEPT. I HAVE WORK IN 5 HOURS. I HAVE A HEADACHE. THIS IS ALL TO SAY PLEASE FORGIVE ANY SPELLING/GRAMMAR/NONSENSE MISTAKES. Seriously, I am so grateful for your patience. I had to move out of my house in 2 weeks into a much more expensive apartment. First time I had to do the whole moving process thing (long story) and it is not great. 0/10 do not recomend. Why do I own stuff? Also my job is not going well. I fully expect to be let go in January. Maybe I am being a paranoid anxious bitch maybe I am being a self aware queen. We’ll see. But it’s definitely the second option. Anyway, I’m all unpacked now and loving living alone for the first time ever. I think that’s all I needed to say. Oh, also, I did some research for the death threat part but -- thankfully -- I am not fully versed on it, so sorry if its a little cringe? Anyway. Let me know your thoughts?! What do you think will happen? Will Maggie’s boss bitch ultimatum work?! Will the dramatic Chris breakup leak to the papers?! Tune in next week to find out! LOVE YOU!]

#Princeharryff #prince harry fanfic #prince harry fanfiction #princeharryfanfiction #Princeharryfanfic #prince harry #brf #modern royalty au #modern royalty fanfic #fanfiction #OPITCphff #chapters #sorry i said bitch like 3 times in this AN #i cannot stress this enough #it is 6am

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violetsystems · 4 years ago

Text

#personal

The holidays are quiet if not a little more restful than usual. I facetime’d my dad and his wife and talked to my mom on the phone. Since I left my job way back in July I haven’t had much video contact with anybody. Everybody is too busy baking banana bread on YouTube I guess to check in. The final days of my employment had devolved into a virtual SCRUM twice a day led by myself on camera. It was exhausting at times to lead but kept people focused. That is when they bothered to show up. One of my employees was off making music with my boss half the time I was trying to lead those discussions. I’m beginning to sense a theme. People saying they are there but not really. Maybe the mic is muted. Maybe you can’t see behind the screen. All I know is the follow through lately with people is missing entirely. I spent a good hour the last two days trying to decouple a credit card from my old job’s contact info. I’m locked out of both the phone number and the email attached to the account. I got the run around trying to provide a US passport to confirm my identity. It was good enough to enter China alone. The first call that ID was sufficient. They had said they sent an email to follow through with the process to two different emails I provided. The email never came most likely because neither had been tied to the account previously. I called back on Christmas eve and suddenly the passport wasn’t good enough. Neither was an expired driver’s license. The woman actually asked me why I hadn’t renewed my driver’s license. I told the truth. My ex girlfriend stole my car. That didn’t really help the situation. I sent a passport photo to unlock my facebook but they never followed through. I had an easier time unlocking my Fortnite account with it although that took a full week. I ended having to call the police on Christmas eve to explore filing a report for fraud and identity theft. The police officer on the phone pretty much gaslighted me at the end of the questioning. “Nothing criminal.” he stated plainly. I didn’t get mad. I didn’t even complain. I simply said Happy Holidays and hung up. Much like I’ve hung up on the last twenty years of my life at this point. Nobody seems to want to answer the video call. The opening introduction if they did would be something like “What exactly have you done with my life?” Maybe they’re afraid to confront the truth. The media, the government, and even the police seem to not want to believe evidence that contradicts their narrative. I guess you could throw up your hands and revolt. But the holidays have been peaceful and quiet enough to simply roll my eyes and move on. I’ve had years of failures to connect. COVID has taught me a lot of things. I heard the mantra in all the mandatory corporate webinars. This pandemic has brought to light structural problems we were never aware of before. Sexual harassment in the workplace. Check. Organizational corruption. Check. The fact everybody is full of bullshit and will just mute the mic and pretend it never happened. Check. People feel invincible behind a screen and think they know it all. Check. Now that we’re aware. What do we do? How do we move on with our life now that we have all this space? How do I even care about participating in a broken process when I have no debt and fiscal maturity? How can I go back to being the old me when I’ve been completely erased and conveniently forgot about? Why would I even bother?

Mostly I take the time with this process to make sure my identity is completely secure. Which is why it’s not really fun to be locked out of twenty years of your own information in the form of an email account and forgotten about for six months. But this is just the structural reality come to light. Much like the rest of America is waking up to the reality of what greed really does to people. That was my Christmas present this year aside from the coffee that never came and that Cyberpunk game that I don’t really have the time or the subpar computer setup to criticize. I’m guilty of tricking myself into thinking people care about me. I have statistical data from the last six months that proves otherwise. I also have financial data that points to whatever hustle I have been hustling during that time has paid off and will continue to. But I don’t really have an answer to anything. I’m in the worst kind of limbo. I don’t get the sense these days that I should even remotely worry until July. Which is kind of like saying fuck you to the world for the next six months. I spent the last six waking up from a nightmare. The only times I look back is to clean up the mess. And a Christmas Eve call to the police is kind of messy. But the result is more of the same for me. An extravagant “I told you so.” I’ve been telling myself for awhile now a lot of things. Some of them were kind of unbelievable. Now those very dreams are all I really take comfort in. The limbo I’m in is more pointed to the light at the end of the tunnel than the void. But I can’t say the same for everybody else. I work for myself for the time being. It looks really nice on paper. I can even pay myself if it fits into my organization’s financial outlook. But none of this matters when you or your struggles don’t even exist to people other than to mock or judge it. All the work we do to survive. All the work we do to create art and to be beautiful in the face of chaos. All of that is negated by a loud mouthed jerk who can bark you back into submission. A mob of dumb ass fraudsters that talk over and mute any opposition without any warrant or merit. The press follows this mentality pretty clearly. Everybody has a hot take and a theory. But nobody wants to sit down and listen to the culmination of lies spread about people and situations. Everyone is too emotionally interested in sharing their recipe for banana bread to an invisible audience. I guess I could be guilty of that too. Except that I share actual human emotion and care with a community of people who pay attention week to week. For a person like myself who has no real need to worry about money for the foreseeable future what’s the value of care and attention? A lot. I don’t feed myself with vapor or fake sentiments. I take it all at base level as real as it gets. You can’t build a future on speculation. You can technically if you are in the stock market. But risk is risk. And money is money. No one can be me at the end of the day. Sometimes I can’t even prove I’m myself. My mom reminded me I had to provide ten pieces of documentation to renew my passport ten years ago. The reasoning was simple. The government did not believe I existed. No bullshit. A decade later nothing really has changed. I’ve been to Shanghai by myself and eaten McDonald’s. I read all these Republicans talk about how you put your identity at risk just setting foot in that country.

And yet when does the rhetoric and brainwashing fall flat on it’s face? When you can’t pass economic stimulus to not only save your own people but the fragile stock market all this bullshit is built upon. I could keep telling you I told you so. Or I could save my own ass. And largely I did without really owing much to this country whatsoever except taxes in Q1. Taxes billionaires don’t have to pay because they offer us so much relevant employment and benefits that fit on their bottom line. The real truth is that America would rather not face the truth. It hasn’t for years. It’s built on this kind of thing. It always has been. And the world gets bigger and the excuses get worse. And so what does anyone expect a person like me to do after you openly admit that there’s nothing criminal going on here. How does that sound when you’ve been treated openly like a criminal in so many unsettling ways that you just don’t want to participate in society anymore? Not that anyone really asks me to participate. They’re too busy signaling or whispering secret messages. Is it suggestion or valid communication? I’m the one that has to shift through it all and detangle the mess from what is real and what is some sort of mass hallucination. An alternate reality hunger game that the rich have been playing for years without any punishment or oversight. When you get caught up in the crossfire they expect you to know the drill. Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you. None of this is good for me. You could argue it made me the beast that I am. But I am the one who had to actively make that choice to adapt and survive. But I’m not like any normal person these days. I refuse to admit it anymore. They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I have a problem. One that it seems I cannot fix. And if you isolate and quarantine yourself from an entire twenty years of nostalgia what is left? Where are the texts of merry xmas from yesteryear. Probably pinging my old work number. I can’t access my facebook. Maybe that’s for the best. I can’t shut down lines of credit until I renew my state ID. I could jump on a plane and visit Shanghai Disney quicker than I could prove I’m alive to the US government. And when does the constant gaslighting break down? When do we realize that people gaslight to cover up an elaborate lie that has gotten out of control. That we are not all in this together. Not by a longshot. That the problem of connectedness is right there in front of our faces. We’re exhausted propping up entire infrastructures that keep a bloated empire alive. Family fortunes built on opioids and war strewn out across the landscape in trusts and elaborate tax schemes. Oligarchs that have generational wealth that buy our politicians and scam people into debt and forced labor. This is America. This is the systemic problem the pandemic brought to light. This shit was built this way. And like any fort constructed with shaky foundations, good luck hiding from the storm in that shit. At least I can still access my Epic account. What am I going to do for the next six months? Complain about something I can’t fix because everybody wants to consider me part of the problem? I don’t know what to do anymore except move forward and lead by example. There’s enough quality people who follow to keep me warm with those thoughts through the holidays alone. I won’t be drunk on a zoom call. I’ll be in bed watching Wonder Woman or something. When everyone you worshipped comes out of this looking fake, tired and exhausted you’ll know where to find me. Unlocking more accounts tied to an identity that doesn’t exist anymore. Nothing criminal. Hopefully people will stop treating me like one eventually. <3 Tim

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allbeendonebefore · 5 years ago

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Hey hapo what's with the sea of blue in sask and Alberta during the election like did Sheer make that good of an impression on Sask voters??? NDP is option??

sea of blue you say? obviously we created our own blue sea since we’re not allowed access to tidewater JKJKJKJK

this is a really complicated question and I’m trying to think about how best to explain it. my feelings on the issue are very mixed because i feel like i have a foot or a hand in several camps like some convoluted twister game. it’s something that a lot of identity and emotion is tied up in for a lot of people and it’s rooted very firmly in inequalities that have existed for over a century and get expressed differently in different regions. It’s something that I grew up saturated in and I’ve done a lot of reading about (and of course there’s always more on my reading list) but I’ll try and highlight a few reasons that I’ve been musing about so as not to be too overwhelming.

it’s something that is really hard to explain to people from outside the province because we’re quick to be written off (sometimes rightfully so, others not) but it’s something that’s equally hard to explain to people inside the province. As I said it’s something we’re all saturated in, we are born into it or we grow up in it and it’s really hard to confront a lot of things surrounding it. And I definitely have my own biases and background and relation to this issue and I must stress that as furious as I am with people in large groups making dumb ass decisions, I can’t be angry at individuals because I get a lot of why this happens even though I find it personally misguided or ignorant at best and actively harmful, selfish, and self-sabotaging at worst. But when I explain this I hope it makes sense why for a lot of people it feels like the only option.

And my last preface is that I am speaking from an Alberta perspective, if my followers in Saskatchewan want to add on to this please feel free. I’m glossing over a lot here because I’m trying to keep this short and understandable… but when have I ever done that lol.

Yeah, it got long.

so why does the west go conservative. it’s not scheer, and if you remember harper you’ll remember personality is never high on our list of priorities. [insert gif of harper explaining how he too is a human who watches netflix here]

1. History

To sum up two hundred years: Alberta and Saskatchewan were never equal partners in confederation with other provinces. They were purchased and carved up by the Canadian government which then imposed the two party system on the provinces, which prior had consensus government which (i believe) was similar to how NWT and Nunavut continue to operate. They were not given the rights to their own resources until decades after joining confederation. They were given Liberal governments because the Liberals were and are considered the “natural” governing party of Canada, and while Saskatchewan has flopped between Liberal and Conservative governments like many eastern provinces, Alberta has always had a radical streak and has NEVER re-elected an unseated party in its history. And no, I don’t consider the UCP a continuation of the previous 4 decades of conservative rule, even though they imagine themselves to be the inheritors of that legacy.

Fast forward to the direct impacts: in the 70s, world events that severely impacted oil production caused Eastern Canada to absolutely panic and force Alberta and Saskatchewan (yet again) into providing discounts on their production to soften the blow in Ontario and Quebec of rising prices, forbidding them to sell for a profit to the United States. This included both oil products and potash, hugely lucrative products in AB and SK. It was a continuation of Eastern Canada imagining and treating the prairies as property, as chattel, where provinces like Quebec and BC would never be asked to undersell to benefit the rest of the country.

The current federal conservative party is an amalgamation of reactions to this situation and related ones: the Progressive party (which was a complete misnomer) originated in Manitoba, the Reform party emerged from what I understand as the “first wave” of western separatism, and even though Reform was defeated federally it is still a direct ancestor to Stephen Harper and by extension Andrew Scheer. Harper’s policies are the natural product of decades of conservative governments dating back to Preston and Earnest Manning’s Social Credit party in Alberta.

That said, people from both inside and outside the provinces completely misunderstand Harper’s (and Kenney’s) “Western-ness” or “Albertan-ness”. Both of them ran on western issues and appear to speak up for western interests, but those issues and interests only go as far as the CEOs of the oil companies are concerned, not the working class in the industry. Harper and Kenney actively undermined the equalization formula for the west and had the gall to campaign on striking a good deal for the west. Federal politicians do not have to ever strike a good deal for the west, they will ALWAYS prioritize voters in Ontario and Quebec so long as our voting system remains this way.

2. Identity

My next point in the long agonizing question of Why This is a sensitive one. In Alberta we have my parent’s generation who were voting age at the toppling of Social Credit by Lougheed’s Conservatives. For Alberta this was a monumental shift in taking no shit from Ottawa that people still look back on. Lougheed was a hero for demanding a fair price from Canada for Alberta, and he was incredibly concerned with managing the resource and the profits wisely. While conservative governments were natural and long standing in eastern Canada, this was the first time they had taken power in Alberta and they made a dramatic and revolutionary impression, which is not a thing that conservative governments are usually known to do.

My parent’s generation remembers this time of intense prosperity. My parent’s generation raised their children in this boom-bust cycle and my parent’s generation watched as Lougheed’s heritage fund was spent out from under us. I grew up under Ralph Klein’s government- intensely popular for a premier and who’s legacy was as powerful as Lougheed’s, but incredibly polarizing. He gave $300 to every man, woman and child in the province (except my fam because we had just moved back and didn’t have residency, lol) which was memorable if irresponsible. But it was men like Klein who had the charisma and the presence to make people really take pride in the industry, to worship the boom-bust, and to consider all problems solved. Klein did not give a shit about the part of Alberta I grew up in, and friends who lived in the far north of the province fared even worse. It’s absolutely no wonder that the Edmonton area consistently votes “against” the rest of the province when we were left isolated and broken during the bust of the 90s and ignored repeatedly in the mid to late 2000s.

I have a deep seated and extreme resentment for Ralph Klein’s government and it’s not because I missed out on my 300 Ralph Bucks or because I don’t have connections to the industry, it’s because I grew up with a deep seated fear that I wouldn’t be able to complete my education or that if I got sick something horrible would happen. I was legitimately terrified I would not be able to make it to secondary school because of the cuts his government made on rural schools, and for friends of mine who were not as lucky and well supported as I was, it was even worse. I won’t drag their personal stories onto the internet to make my point, but know

But the point of this all is that the people alive today who vote are people who remember this time of prosperity, of fighting Ottawa, and of relative ‘freedom’ from taxation and so on and so forth are constantly trying to hold onto that time. The kids in my generation who I went to school with did not have to graduate high school - my school had a 70% drop out rate because people would go straight to the patch or into a related industry. In Alberta, every industry is a related industry. There is not an aspect of living in Alberta that the patch doesn’t touch. This is hard to understand for people outside the province. It was actual culture shock to me to come to Ontario where funders of schools and businesses are families that date back to confederation rather than Enbridge or Suncor.

Moreover, the people who work in the patch do an incredibly difficult and dangerous job for incredible amounts of money and it’s no wonder they are so valourized. The people who work in the patch are more dependent on the companies than they are on the government. During the fire of 2016, it may have been the government providing evacuation stations, but it was the companies who got people out. Working class people feel seriously undervalued and are obviously seriously defensive about the industry for real, concrete reasons.

The past four decades have shaped generations of people in this way. This is not something easily reversed. Voting conservative is almost inextricable from Albertan identity and it’s impossible to explain concisely. We all grow up with the same arguments and talking points, we are all imbued with anger and defensive remarks from birth, and to people outside the province our arguments can sound rehearsed to the point of sounding cult-like. Stop Using Plastic If You Don’t Like It. Stop Driving and Flying. Stop Importing from Dictatorships. Stop Being a Hypocrite. They are easy, simple mantras to absolve anyone related to the industry (which is everyone) of any guilt because they don’t have to be a hypocrite if they just embrace the reality. There is no room for any critical thought in this identity, there is no room for discussion, there is nothing beyond Don’t Ask Don’t Tell and Don’t Ever Criticize What Keeps Everything Running. It’s normal and natural to feel upset when people who don’t grow up with this line of thinking find it strange.

3. Alienation

So why doesn’t our valourization of the working class translate directly into NDP votes? Why does Rachel Notley become vilified for speaking and acting as Peter Lougheed did in the 1970s? Why do we continue voting conservative and say thank you when they betray us and kick us in the balls every single time? Why do we cover up our oh-so-shameful history of birthing the CCF/NDP out of the desperation and destitution of the Great Depression?

As I’ve been saying it’s complicated, but it’s also really simple. No federal party ever speaks to us. Not a single one. The conservatives barely have to because they know our identity as conservative dates back to before a time when we even had a provincial upper-case Conservative government ourselves. Scheer can parade up and down parliament hill with his appeals to free speech and his pro life base and his white supremacist dogwhistles all he likes because he knows keeping Alberta and Saskatchewan “happy” (read: angry) is easy. This is a man who said himself that he doesn’t need ‘indian votes’ to win and he certainly was far more worried about keeping Doug Ford out of the spotlight during his campaign and pissing off Ontario than he was about us, and premier kenney spent all his time in office campaigning for scheer instead of running the goddamn province, including preparing us for an emergency. And we lap it up while screaming bloody murder if rachel notley is not personally handing out waterbottles on the side of the highway of death.

No party, not even the conservatives, truly speaks to Albertans. We get hated on constantly by the rest of the country because we appear to be full of climate change deniers, but even the CEO of SUNCOR condemns deniers and politicians who cater to them. A lot of Albertans do acknowledge climate change is a reality despite how we’re painted, but because of the misunderstanding we feel directed at us constantly we tend to react badly and would rather hole up in our bunkers and let the rest of the country freeze in the dark - or melt in the sun as it were. No party speaks to working class rural people. No party makes the attempt to speak to people who are still only grappling with already outdated terminology like “global warming” while they are shoveling snow in August or September. No party is talking about actual grievances that working class people in Alberta face, such as long hours away from home and family or intense isolation that leads to addiction and death, that matter more to people than seemingly hypothetical change in climate that happens Elsewhere, not Here. Parties need to start coming up with concrete solutions that will make the inevitable transition more than just necessary but inclusive and beneficial. No one wants to feel like they have to start from scratch, no one wants to worry about what to do or how it will help. We aren’t used to thinking about solving problems, and we keep putting it on the next generation while we make it even harder for them.

The more we are criticized the more militaristic the vocabulary becomes, and that’s why we provincially voted for a war room and tax cuts while taking the money from school lunch programs. We rest on our laurels of having the lowest child poverty rate in the country while stealing money from children and blaming their parents for them going hungry. It’s abominable. And a lot of us realize it. And a lot of us still feel as if we have no choice. A lot of progressive voices get drowned out in stifling silence and any change feels like an existential threat. We got ourselves into this mess, but we all need to work together to get out of it. And that means listening to the strongest opposition we’ve had in nearly a half century. That means being grown ups and sitting at the table with the rest of the country. That means fighting the gut reaction to sputter out talking points you were taught to say because it meant protecting your family. That also means that we need to be listened to in return without smugness or patronizing attitudes from politicians or the rest of the country.

If you want us to switch to alternative energy, you all need to step up and start helping us do that. As long as we feel as if it’s being imposed on us we will struggle and we will fight, but it’s exactly why it’s so important to change the tone of the conversation. Listen to us. Help us. Make us feel like we’re part of the country. Give us the tools we need to be better. Encourage us to be leaders in the energy industry because we love being the best and thrive off healthy competition. Appeal to real, concrete issues for working class people with real concrete solutions.

yeah. uh. [places mic shakily back on the stand] peace im going to bed, fight me or whatever.

#yeah y yeah alberta #long gone saskatchewan #hapo replies #hapo reads canadian history #if you want citations i can and will dig them up so like don't test my patience #if i am misinformed i appreciate a gentle correction #but when i'm speaking of my own experience don't fuckin correct me #weh weh wehxit #neef-breeks #i reread this the next morning and im like wow i didnt touch on so much #but also if i add more i'll lose a thread of what i was saying because i go off on tangents #anyway i still stand by what i've written here even if i didnt embellish enough

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premvivah · 6 years ago

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Sarkari Naukri Pane Ke Liye Upay | Simple mantra to get government job," Kya Aap Koi Esa Upay Karna Chahte Hai Jis Se Aapko Manchahi Sarkari Naukri Mil Jaye? To Is Bataye Gaye Upay Ko Karke Aap Hasil Kare Apni Manchahi Sarkari Naukari Aur Kare Apna Sapna Pura.

इस उपाय को करने के लिए जरुरी सामग्री :

एक केले का पत्ता

थोड़ा सा गंगा जल

हल्दी

सिन्दूर

एक अखरोट

सात पपीते के दाने

लाल धागा

एक देसी घी का दीपक

थोड़ा सा दही

एक चमच शहद

दो छोटी इलायचियाँ

Sarkari Naukri Pane Ke Liye Upay | Simple mantra to get government job

इस उपाय को करने का पूरा तरीका :

केले के पत्ते को गंगा जल से स्नान करवाएं. फिर उसके ऊपर हल्दी के साथ एक गोल बना लें. अब दही में एक चमच शहद मिला लें. उसको गोले के अंदर रखे दें. अब देसी घी का दीपक जला लें. उसके साथ एक अखरोट रख दें. उसके साथ दो छोटी. इलायचियाँ रख दें. उनके ऊपर थोड़ा सा सिन्दूर डाल दें. फिर नीचे दिए मन्त्र का 181 बार जाप करें

मन्त्र :

||ॐ श्रीं ह्रीं श्रीं कमले कमलालये प्रसीद प्रसीद ॐ श्रीं ह्रीं श्रीं महालक्ष्मयै नम:||

उसके बाद दही के ऊपर फूंक मार दें. इस दही को आप अपने पास रख लें. और बाकी सामग्री को केले के पत्ते में लपेट लें. उसके बाद उसको लाल धागे के साथ बांध लें. इस सामग्री को किसी सुनसान जगह पर पेड़ के तने के पास रख आएं. दही को आप जब. नौकरी के लिए इंटरव्यू पर जाने से पहले खा लें

इस मन्त्र को करने के लिए कुछ सावधानियां :

मन्त्र का उचारण सही ढंग से करें.

इस उपाय को केवल शनिवार के दिन करें.

सामग्री को ऐसी जगह रखना है जहा वो पेड़ के तने के साथ लग रहा हो.

इस उपाय के बारे में किसी को कुछ न कहें.

Sarkari Naukri Pane Ke Liye Upay | Simple mantra to get government job

Bad Relationship With Parents

Vashikaran mantra for parents

More Information about our guru ji.

Name :- Manoj Sharma

Contact Number :- +91-9950420009

E-MAIL US :- [email protected]

#सर्वत्र सफलता के उपाय #Sarkari Naukri Pane Ke Liye Upay #Simple mantra to get government job

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carp0nastick · 6 years ago

Text

The Secret Clanstone Pt.5

He was not ready! As soon as the zero G infantry reported that they had secured the gravity generators on the ship, their pod had launched. The ride was swift, noisy, and ended with much too much impact for Fuzi’s comfort. As he was recovering from the jolt, Hector was already hitting the explosive seals on the door. A few screams and quick shots from Hector and Dragomir signaled that the pirates on the other side of the door had been unshielded from the spray of shrapnel the door discharged. Seeing Michelle slide out the door, Fuzi gulped some air as he racked the slide on his weapon and scurried after him. Mr. Dross and Shizuka fell in easily behind him as Hector and Dragomir’s weapons sounded off at their position across the hall.

It was safe to say that Fuzi had never seen so much blood in his life. The pirates had been a mix of Human and Chorak scum, with a sprinkling of Dubachi mixed in. Now they were smears on the rusting walls of the ship as the two human soldiers in front advanced with brutal efficiency. As the fourth trooper in line, Fuzi was expected to help clear rooms, but in the hallway his job was to check the downed pirates. Checking, in this violent context, meant putting a few rounds into any that were still moving. Later on, Fuzi would marvel at how he felt absolutely nothing as he had put three rounds into the back of a crawling Chorak. He would lose sleep over it that night, but for now, his training proved it’s worth as he dispatched a human thug trying to reach his pistol. Not breaking stride so as to keep up with the group, he calmly checked his magazine and gave a suspiciously twitching Dubachi another two rounds before reloading. A shower of sparks made the two humans in front duck for cover.

“They’ve got a PP1G!” Hector shouted from his sparse cover across the hall. Dragomir was already chucking a grenade down the space as the stream of bullets kept the younger man pinned and isolated.

“No good.” Dragomir commented on his attempt. He was using a small camera in his wrist to peek around the corner without exposing himself. “They’re in defilade.” Michelle somehow looked frustrated through his armor as he began to pull up a map, presumably to find another route to the package.

“Vent.” Shizuka said behind Fuzi. Looking back to where the marksman covered the rear, Fuzi saw the grate of one of the ships air vents. He wouldn’t be able to take his primary weapon, but his sidearm and knife would fit just fine. Without further discussion, Fuzi passed Mr. Dross his weapon as he climbed up the man’s arm. With the unitool in his wrist pouch he had the cover off in moments and squirmed into the duct.

“Knew I liked him.” He heard Mr. Dross say as he walked on all fours through the airway.

The others must have intentionally tried to draw fire and keep the gunner distracted, because the loud sounds and flashes of the aged, but still effective PP1G squad suppression gun left no question as to which vent to come out of.

Fuzi paused at the grate, taking a quick look at his opponents. He didn’t carry grenades, as his limbs were unsuitable for throwing them. He would have to rely on his speed and agility to take out the gunner and his two compatriots. Fuzi’s heart hammered in his chest as his instincts told him to get away. Killing already dying pirates had been one thing, charging into a close quarters fight with two larger predators was quite another.

It was a funny thing, teaching a herbivore species to act aggressively for combat. Galaxy wide, herbivores trended towards getting away from danger instead of creating it. This had been a problem for the Systems League as the Mutilax wars had escalated. While adding Humans to supplement Chorak and Ca’rizn forces had provided a boost to Systems League combat strength, the growing cost of blood was beginning to undermine the Systems League’s basic tenet of species equality under the law. As the necessity for a draft drew near, government psychologists scrambled to find a training regimen that could turn the more sedate members of the league’s populace into contributing fighters. Common herding and pack instincts allowed the first interspecies units to function. Getting the violence challenged members of society to follow orders, and even kill was easy when they were grouped with those that killed on instinct. Eventually a more functional method was found to make aggressors of the whole Systems League population. Furka, Dubachi, and Lesuri didn’t have adrenaline or predatory instincts to rely on, but all species had one evolutionary commonality that could be exploited. Mating competition. The result was a rather peculiar combat mantra for Fuzi to mentally chant as he prepared to make his first ever attack.

“Belly fur, belly fur, belly fur…” Fuzi recited in his mind, until he made his move. Now he was yelling it at the top of his lungs as he jumped down on the back of Human pirate bent over the large suppression weapon. “BELLY FUR!” was the last word the scum heard as Fuzi plunged his combat knife into the back of the buccaneer’s neck. The Chorak loader recoiled in surprise, and Fuzi reacted with precision. Lifting his pistol, the Furka ranger put two into the chest of the pirate, and a third bullet through the fanged maw of the dying Chorak. Another pirate came around the corner with a weapon drawn, but before Fuzi could even react a bullet cored the skull of the corsair. Fuzi turned to cover the hall with his pistol as Hector vaulted over the barricade.

“Nice kill, Fuzz!” The human said without breaking stride. Dragomir and Michelle gave nods of approval as they passed. The momentary burst of aggression Fuzi had felt was wearing off by the time the humans were shooting again.

“Well done.” Mr. Dross said, passing Fuzi back his weapon. Fuzi took the weapon automatically, his eyes fixed on the blood pulsing from the dead human onto the corridor floor. Before he could actually form a thought about what he had just done, Shizuka tapped him on the shoulder. Training once again took hold, and Fuzi checked his weapon to ensure it was still live before taking his place in line.

His heartbeat was already calm as he stacked up with the others on the door Michelle directed them to.

“Our guy is in this room, I’m sharing his beacon with you now.” Mr. Dross said as the whole team saw a new point of reference appear on their augmented reality combat displays. “Do. Not. Shoot. Him.”

Mr. Dross didn’t wait for anyone to become confused by his insistence on the obvious, but instead motioned to breach. The charges Hector and Dragomir had placed neatly holed the bulkhead door, and the fireteam charged into the room. The were only a few pirates in the room. Those that were armed and ready were quickly dispatched, Fuzi once again killing along with his pack of humans by simple imitation. Scanning for another target after putting a burst into a Dubachi, Fuzi’s training made him zero in on a very familiar silhouette. A shape he had been practicing to put bullets into for years filled his sights, and only Mr. Dross’ warning made Fuzi’s finger hesitate on the trigger. In the center of the room, tied to a chair, was a Mutilaxian.

Gritting his teeth, Fuzi confirmed that the beacon was coming from the bound Mutilaxian’s pocket before moving automatically to his next target. He kicked the pistol away from a Chorak trying to rize from the floor, cowing the reptile at gunpoint.

“Clear!” Hector called loudly across the room.

“Clear!” Came Shizuka’s response from the rear.

Dragomir and Michelle were busily cuffing the cowed pirates that had survived the assault as Mr. Dross moved to the Mutilaxian and cautiously issued a challenge.

“Crawdads…” Mr. Dross said.

“Poutine.” The Mutilaxian answered. Dross immediately moved to cut the bonds on the creature.

“Objective secured. All forces RTB. Captain, we have been compromised, I’m afraid it’s plan B after all…” Mr. Dross listened to the response patiently, but his voice came out clear and cold as he responded to the captain of the warship. “I’m aware you don’t like it, Captain, but it’s not your call… 5 minutes, confirmed.” Finished with his communication, Mr. Dross looked to Michelle. “Agombi, plan B if you please.”

“You’ll be sorry!” One of the pirate’s began. Fuzi was shocked that Mr. Dross had used Agombi’s name so openly. The pirate gangs were notorious for their revenge hits, and the prisons leaked buccaneers like water in a wicker basket. For his part, Michelle didn’t seem bothered as he drew his sidearm. “We’ll get you ba…”

The pirate’s sentence was abruptly cut off as Michelle shot him in the face. Without even pausing, the human methodically shot each of the pirate captives fatally. Fuzi’s tail bristled at the callous and very criminal act. Hector and Shizuka flinched, while Dragomir watched without a single twitch to betray how he felt. Finished with his execution, Michelle holstered his pistol and turned to the Mutilax.

“You had better be worth it.” The spook said icily.

“Sorry for the inconvenience.” The Mutilaxian said as it rubbed its wrists. Fuzi wasn’t an expert on Mutilaxian expression and inflection, but he felt like the creature was smiling at all of this.

#short story #military #science fiction #scifi #Aliens #space #humans are awesome #HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities

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billehrman · 5 years ago

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Trump Tweets While the World Burns

Trump and his team just don’t get it! It’s their trade policy that is responsible for grinding global growth to a halt. Can you imagine business-planning: capital spending, hiring, and the like, when a tweet could change the environment in a second?

Managing money is impacted by Trump’s tweets, too, but so far we have navigated successfully outperforming the markets, investing in mostly domestic companies tied to the consumer and/or with technological domination, with strong management teams, winning long and short term strategies, strong earnings, cash flow and free cash flow with dividend yields, above the 30-year Treasury bond yield, that will grow each year. Also, we own gold stocks as a hedge against monetary/currency and political instability in today's VUCA (volatile uncertain complex, ambiguous) global environment.

How dowe navigate in a VUCA environment? Simple. COSS: With clarity, order, simplicity, and steadiness. The antidote to volatility is simplicity. The remedy for uncertainty is order. The treatment for complexity is simplicity. The cure for ambiguity is clarity.

Our mantra says it all. Review all the facts; pause, reflect and consider mindset shifts; always look at your asset mix with risk controls; do independent research and invest accordingly! We synthesize all the data taking a global approach to formulate a macro view then merge that with a bottom-up analysis doing firsthand research to find undervalued companies going through positive incremental change that will outperform over time despite the VUCA environment. Look at Target last week, one of our largest holdings as is Home Depot.

It remains clear that all of the major monetary bodies: The Fed, ECB, BOJ and the Bank of China, realize that monetary policy is not the panacea for what ails their economy. Global trade has slowed dramatically due primarily to the trade conflicts initiated by Trump that have spread throughout the world. Business sentiment/spending/hiring have declined precipitously for obvious reasons. While the U.S is best positioned today as trade is not the driver of our growth, our big fear is that the decline in business sentiment here and abroad could negatively impact hiring and wage growth which will hurt consumer sentiment and spending. Yes, the slowdown that we are forecasting could turn into a recession within two years. But that is not our current forecast. Why? First of all, our Fed has more arrows in its quiver to stabilize and stimulate growth than all other monetary bodies. Second, we are already running huge fiscal deficits that will only get larger which stimulate growth. It won’t be easy for the Eurozone and Japan to pass major fiscal stimulus programs quickly even though they may want to. China can and will. Third, we have a President who wants to be re-elected and realizes that he needs a strong economy and stock market to win. There are things that he can do to offset the negative impact of tariffs on the consumer. We still believe that Trump may cut withholding taxes on the lower and middle class equal to the tariffs received by our government. Not a bad idea, is it?

Before we go further, we want to reiterate that we agree with Trump that the United States has gotten the short end of the stick on reciprocal trade with China, Europe, and Japan. China has stolen our IP for many years, but U.S. companies permitted it because they wanted to enter China. They share part of the blame here. These companies also agreed to joint ventures in China. So, Trump is asking now for a level playing field, for China to change its ways. Not so easy nor should it be. How would we react if it was the other way around?

Things should change in dealing with China. China can easily purchase much more from the U.S reducing the trade imbalance: agricultural products for sure and end stealing our IP. Then there is Europe. Here again, the Eurozone can buy much more from the U.S by simply reducing tariffs and subsidies and leveling the playing field. Where's the beef? And finally, there is Japan. Same here. Japan can buy much more from us, including agricultural products, to reduce its trade imbalance.

The bottom line is that it is hard to change trade patterns that have existed for so long. Trump cannot do it with a tweet and a sledgehammer. Our partners must deal more fairly with us. What is wrong with removing all tariffs and subsidies? But it takes time and patience. which Trump does not have. He prefers to tweet without much thought of the consequences not only to us but to our long-standing relationships. While the world is getting more global, Trump is thinking as an isolationist. Trump needs to take a longer view and a more global view of what he is doing; have a timeline that all agree to for actionable events like trade deals; and hold everyone’s feet to the fire to deliver as committed.

There is a reason why our yield curve has inverted: investors from around the world are shifting their money here buying our bonds which have positive interest rates when their rates are negative. Does that mean that we are entering a recession or that they are already in one? Maybe that explains dollar strength too. Look at the flow of funds.

The U.S stock market is clearly undervalued selling at less than 17 times earnings with the 10-year yield hovering around 1.5%, the thirty-year bond yield near 2.0% and bank capital/liquidity ratios at all-time high. Think as an investor with a longer-term time frame as we move a difficult, VUCA, period where change is occurring to global trade patterns which has caused geopolitical risks to rise too. Unusual opportunities come during periods of stress for those who stick to their disciplines. Now, is such a time.

Let’s take a look at the key data points of the week that support/detract from our view that the United States is the only place to invest unless/until there are trade deals.

· The U.S economy continues to chug along sustaining growth above 2% so far in the third quarter. We were pleased to see that the Conference Board Leading Economic Indicators increased 0.8% in July to 112.2 which suggests continued growth in the second half of the year. Both the coincident and lagging indicators of growth increased too despite continued weakness in the manufacturing sector. Housing activity has finally picked up too benefitting from lower mortgage rates. Don’t underestimate the positive impact on consumer spending as homeowners refinance their mortgages at much lower rates too. E-commerce sales are growing by nearly 14% year over year and now account for 10% of retail sales. Business activity did weaken further in August with the U.S Composite Output Index at 50.9; the services index at 50.9; the manufacturers' index at 49.9 and the manufacturers' output index at 50.6. Businesses commented on the weakness in spending due to trade concerns. It is clear from both the Beige Book and all the Fed comments, including from Chairman Powell, at their annual Jackson Hole symposium last week that the Fed is more concerned about the global slowdown including the impact of tariffs and weak inflation data than any perceived problems in the U.S economy. The general belief is that our yield curve has flattened/inverted due to huge money flows from abroad reaching for positive yields when their yields are negative. We still believe that the Fed will cut by at least another 50 basis points before year-end. The CBO increased the anticipated size of the U.S deficit in 2019 by $63 billion due to the new budget deal. Expect an even larger increase in the deficit next year. All of this is highly stimulative. Also, we would not be surprised if Trump reduced taxes on the lower and middle classes to offset the new, higher tariffs and introduced another program to aid the farmers. While we recognize that risks have risen as the trade war escalates, we still believe that our economy will continue to expand by 2+% over the next several quarters led by the consumer and increased government spending.

· Growth in China will continue to slow in the second half of year tied primarily to the trade conflict with the U.S. While Trump’s tweet last Friday ordering U.S corporations to begin exiting China was ridiculous, the truth is many are leaving at an accelerated rate. The trade war with the U.S has cost China almost 2 million industrial jobs so far and that was before the most recent increase in U.S tariffs. Don’t believe the rhetoric that China can offset the trade war with domestic growth and new markets. Growth will fall and stay below 6% for the foreseeable future without a trade deal. China is cutting off their nose raising tariffs on soybeans and oil, both sorely needed. China is banking that Trump will need a deal before elections next year. But maybe not, if Trump cuts taxes equal to the tariff hike.

· Growth in the Eurozone continued to moderate although we were encouraged that both the Eurozone Composite Output Index rose to 51.8 in August and the Services Index increased to 53.4. On the other hand, both the manufacturers' output indices remained below 48. The German Manufacturing PMI came in at 43.6 in August and was considered better than expected. While we expect the ECB to reduce rates again while increasing the number of asset purchases next month, don't expect growth to be rekindled without trade deals and major local fiscal stimulus. Let's see if Germany can pass a $55 billion stimulus plan. It was hard to fathom that Germany could sell 30-year bonds last week with negative yields. That says it all! We are monitoring closely whether there will be a hard Brexit or not in October and whether the U.S and Eurozone can move closer to a trade deal. We remain very pessimistic on the prospects of Europe. And so do the Europeans who are all moving their money here reaching for any positive yield.

· Japan’s manufacturing data shrank for the last four months as export orders fell. Factory output and new orders continue to weaken too which does not bode well for the balance of the year. Inflation rose 0.6% from a year ago. Here again, there is not much more than the BOJ can do to stimulate growth and the government has little wiggle room to introduce a major fiscal package. Why invest here?

Trump is holding global trade and growth hostage as he is fighting battles on all fronts at once. He must make some deals fast as the risks of a more pronounced global downturn are rising. While there is no place like home, the risks of contagion hitting our borders over the next two years are rising. So is the fear of rising deflationary forces and currency battles. The bottom line is that we are maintaining our defensive posture. While we remain optimistic that Trump will make the needed changes to win the election next year, he is turning the screws tighter on China and Europe right now. That will give him the ability to snatch victory next year before elections. But China knows that too. Look for a major tax package funded by the tariffs within the next few months to reduce/mitigate/eliminate the hit on the lower and middle class. Our portfolios are concentrated in consumer non-durable companies; technology companies not exposed to China; housing related retailers; specialty retailers; healthcare; utilities; cable with content; airlines; telecommunications; and many special situations. Our cash levels are elevated, we own no bonds and are flat the dollar. We are still working on an options strategy to move more cyclical if/when trade deals are reached.

Remember to review all the facts; pause, reflect and consider mindset shifts; look at your asset mix with risk controls; do independent research and …

Invest Accordingly!

Bill Ehrman

Paix et Prospérité LLC

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the-old-dip-and-stir · 6 years ago

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The Diary of Jessie Rucker

notes: So this is (and a few others I wrote) based off of a bullet list of things I wish I could say to Arthur. I had the urge to just expand upon the thoughts and then it became this whole thing and now Jessie exists. Jessie is a gender neutral OC cuz why the hell not? I haven’t completely delved into who they are, nationality, features, etc. I have some ideas brewing, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself cuz, uh, I bite off more than I can chew sometimes then I don’t finish something for like three months. So this is the first one I wrote, but most definitely NOT the first entry. This will be pretty sporadic in timeline, so it’ll probably go back and forth some. Some will be in and out of canon. The game never specifies what time of the year it is so, free interpretation, here we come. I’ve been sitting on the few that I have written for a little while, but I figured it was time to share. This is really short, and a chunk of these entries will be centered around Arthur for the time being. rating: General pairing: none, but maybe slight Arthur/OC? word count: 278

June 18, 1897

While talking to Arthur today, he called himself a bad man. Now I do not necessarily agree or disagree with his statement, but the way he said it stuck with me. It’s as though he says it to remind himself. To never delude himself into thinking otherwise. I would say it’s his personal mantra. Sure, the man is no saint, but he’s not evil. There are far worse people than him. He knows people worse than him. He’s incline to make mistakes, just like anyone. He’s capable of making good and bad decisions. He feels pride and remorse. He does what he feels is right, whether it benefits him or not. He’s not entirely cruel, although he has his moments of being the merciless killer his wanted posters describe. He’s killed many times with reason, other times without. Yet in these killings, he has never seemed to take pride in it. Never felt satisfied by the act of it, but of the result. Perhaps his moral compass is skewed, yet whose isn’t? Sometimes a job takes you places, places you don’t really want to be. Makes you do things you don’t like, but you do it anyway. For Dutch. For the Gang. For the code. We’ve all done things we don’t like in order to live free. Maybe, hopefully, it leads all of us to a better life. A life where we don’t have to rob, lie, and cheat. A life where we can live simple and away from the government’s meddling. Yes, Arthur Morgan is not necessarily good, but he’s not bad either. Just like the rest of the world, he is human. Purely and simply human.

#rdr2 #rdr #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x oc #the diary of jessie rucker #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption

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educationalinstitutesindia · 1 year ago

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UPSC Civil Services Exams Preparation Tips from Toppers

Every year the Union Public Service Commission conducts civil services examinations for recruitment to various civil services such as the IAS, IFS, and IPS. Qualifying for the exams results in highly prestigious positions under the Government of India. Out of the several lakhs of students attempting the exams in the end less than a thousand are granted jobs. With a success rate of less than 1%, it is highly helpful for UPSC aspirants to understand what the toppers did right and what is their success mantra. Numerous nationally trusted sources of study material for the UPSC civil services exam publish interviews and tips for success from toppers of each year. Preparatory books like “Predigital Darpan” and online platforms like “reader buzz” offer exclusive interviews of toppers where they describe their strategy for the exam and their advice for future aspirants. Here are some preparatory tips from toppers for UPSC civil services exam: - There is no shortcut to success. Concentration and deep study of the subjects are necessary for successfully solving problems related to them. - Start early and give your exam preparations at least a year of devoted time. The UPSC exams have a giant syllabus covering a vast range of subjects. Don’t hurry and acquire a comprehensive understanding of the subjects over time. - Students are offered numerous optional subjects for two papers in the Mains exam. Recognize your interests and choose your optional subjects wisely. Preparing a subject and giving up on it halfway will not only waste your time but also demotivate you. Go through the syllabi of each subject and read more about them so that you can choose according to your past academic background in the subject and your level of ease in understanding the study material. - Make it your habit to write down notes. The notes not only simplify the revision process but they also help you recall the topics for a longer period of time. It is a scientific fact that we tend to remember things that we have written down more easily and effectively. Add diagrams, flow charts, etc. into your notes and answers in the exam. - Practice writing down detailed answers using correct grammar in a neat, simple, and readable manner. Keep your answers compact and add flowcharts, Venn diagrams, diagrams, etc. to reflect a clear understanding of the subject material. - You must always refer to authentic resources like referred standard NCERT textbooks and magazines like, AIR News analysis, Planning Commission Document, Economic Survey Report, and Publication Division Books. - To be successful you must answer almost every question and for that, you need time management. Practice mock tests and learn to utilize your time effectively over the different sections of the exam. If stuck leave the question instead of panicking and wasting time on one question. Read newspapers regularly and subscribe to recognised preparatory books and websites for valid updated information and knowledge of current affairs. To get updated information related to the upcoming exam dates, current affairs, and other such relevant topics visit the website. You can also visit here for sample essays and personality development tips. Read the full article

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hillnerd · 7 years ago

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I Won’t Say How Much I Love You

A03 FF.net rated PG-13

Angelina Johnson/George Weasley , Ron in it for a bit :) Words: 7,448

After Fred's death, George has been a mess. Angelina has been there for him through everything. She's tired and weary, but maybe if she can just get him well again, she can tell him how much she loves him.

Trigger Warnings: alcoholism, breathing techniques to calm down

Angelina's stomach clenched as she knelt over the corner chair. She'd been able to dress in relative silence, but her keys and jacket would wake him if she didn't take the utmost care while moving them. She delicately unfolded her jacket from the chair, making sure the metal latches on the sleeves didn't jangle. She had nearly extracted it when she heard his voice behind her.

"What are you up to?" George asked from the bed, a sleepy, but curious smile on his face.

Angelina felt her face warm as she stood up straight from her ridiculous crouching position on the floor.

"I was trying to let you sleep in by being quiet, but if you want me to be noisy…" she said, letting her keys and jacket fall to the ground with a great clank.

George twisted his face up and yawned.

"Bit early for you to leave, innit?" he said, scooting over a bit towards the center of the bed. "Why don't you lie in with me a bit longer?"

"Some of us have errands to do and can't lie in all day," she replied, trying not to smile at him as she sat on the space he had made. He curled his legs behind her before quickly putting a hand to her face and bring her down to the bed, peppering her with kisses and playful bites.

"George! I need to get going," she said, half-heartedly twisting from his embrace. Truthfully, she wanted to stay curled in bed with him forever, but there were important things to do today that she could not put off any longer.

He gave her a tired smile. "Fine, I'll let you get to your mysteriously important early morning tasks."

"You going to go ahead and get up?" Angelina asked, hoping he'd say yes.

He yawned and made a face. "Naw, I'm pretty tired. Think I'll kip a bit longer."

She did her best to keep a frown from showing, and rubbed her fingers over his hair that he'd been keeping brutally short for almost a year.

"I miss being able to run my fingers through your hair," she said wistfully. He opened an eye and looked hard at her, before giving a shrug.

"Too much upkeep," he grunted, rolling over and pulling the comforter tight around his shoulders.

"I miss your face too," she added, tugging at his overly long beard.

Angelina wanted to shake George and give him a smack upside the head sometimes. He had improved so much over the past year. He had stopped his drinking, had started doing mail order WWW products, spent time with his family, and his smile reached his eyes more than half the time now. While this all remained true, he had behaviors that continued to trouble her.

He slept far too much, was still not eating enough, kept shearing off his hair, and growing a beard. George had always been broad, rosy cheeked, with thick wavy red hair and loads of energy. Now he was rather thin, pale, and could only show small spurts of energy. Between all this, he barely looked like himself, let alone Fred. She suspected looking less like Fred was the real goal, but hadn't the heart to confront him on this.

Despite his uncharacteristic pallor, hair choices, and leanness, George managed to keep a few aspects of his appearance that had originally drawn her in to him. No matter how much weight he lost, his shoulders remained wide and jaw square. He still had straight teeth with a playfully crooked smile. He still had the most expressive deep blue eyes of anyone she'd ever met. He still had that Weasley-red hair she loved to rake her fingers across, and freckles she loved to explore with her mouth.

Angelina had become quite addicted to him, so found herself spending more and more of her free time in the small one bedroom flat he'd been renting since the war ended. He hadn't so much as set foot in the flat he and Fred had shared above the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes shop. The flat he rented was pleasant enough, but never really seemed to reflect his personality as the old flat had. She hoped he'd eventually want to move back above the shop. It was perfectly placed for him to work and be inspired, no matter the hour. That was one step he'd have to take on his own, though. Perhaps it would be the final concrete sign of his healing she'd been looking for.

She doubted this would happen anytime soon. Just getting him to leave the house seemed a habitually Herculean task. A stint outside his flat seemed to deplete him of energy in record time. He had begun to hoard his stamina. To prepare for a simple night with family or friends, he'd lock himself away for hours, sometimes even days. He would smile, laugh, and almost seem himself the whole time. Afterwards he would come home a husk of himself, and immediately fall in to bed to sleep it off. His mother in particular would make him tired. She meant well, but her fussing over how ill he looked seemed to remind him of how changed he was, and how he couldn't be 'old George' anymore. After those sorts of evenings, he would get home, slam doors and not see anyone but Angelina for days.

George had a very short list of people who could actually reinvigorate him, instead of sapping his strength. It was hit or miss, but Lee, Ginny, Ron, Victoire, and Teddy were the most adept at leaving George intact. Unfortunately most of them had little time they could spend with George. Lee and Ginny were frequently out of town for their jobs, while Ron was a busy Auror. Victoire and Teddy were just little toddlers, so never were far from their caregivers whose company did little to make George feel energized. This left Angelina as George's main source of socialization.

As much as she worried that George needed more people in his life, Angelina didn't mind acting as George's sanctuary. She even revelled in it. There was comfort in curling up to talk and laugh about little nothings late into the night. His kisses, branding her as his, would leave her breathless and longing for more. She'd never been touched with half the reverent passion George would bring to their bed. He would need days to work up the energy to see others, but he always wanted Angelina in his flat, no matter what state he was in. A certain sort of pride nestled within her, knowing she was so special to George. Guilt often followed these moments of pride. A worry plagued her. Was she enabling his continued withdrawal from society?

After the war everyone seemed to be healing, but George seemed stuck and unable to really move on with his life. She knew he would never be able to stop mourning the loss of Fred, and she would never would ask him to stop! She did hope, however, to help him heal and start living a full life, instead of this half-life he kept living. It wasn't healthy to spend so much time home alone in bed. It just was not the life George was meant to lead. She knew he needed so much more, and even if he might hate her for it, she needed to start pushing him.

With that thought in mind, she leaned over and gave him a peck on his temple.

"Bye, George."

"I'll see you tonight, right?" she heard him ask from beneath the covers.

"If you like."

"I would," he said, moving the comforter down a bit, so he could look her in the eye.

"Well then I'll see you tonight. I'll make something for dinner after work."

"Beautiful woman and food?" he said with a smile before curling back up into his covers. "I'm looking forward to it."

With a firm swat to his backside — "Oy! Don't get me all excited then leave, woman!" — she put on her jacket and headed for the living room.

"Love you, Ange," she heard George call from the bedroom.

"I won't say how much I love you, George" she replied with a smile, before apparating into the grand atrium of the Ministry of Magic.

The atrium was unpleasantly dark and hallways with crowds of magical people made her stomach clench. She couldn't help but think back to the final Battle of Hogwarts, and it made it a bit hard to breath normally. She forced herself to take steady breaths in and out, in and out… After centering herself a moment, she flipped her braids over her shoulder and willfully walked forward, head held high.

Angelina had only been to the Ministry a handful of times, but no matter how often she went, she always felt out of place. The golden statues had changed multiple times over the past years, and she had no interest in eyeing them today, or any day, for that matter. The atrium did nothing but bring her anger: anger at the government that failed them all so quickly, anger at the wizards and witches who went along with the genocide, and anger at herself for not doing more in the war. She had fought in the final battle, and defended people here and there, smuggling supplies and muggleborns a fair few times... But compared to many others, she felt she'd simply not done enough.

Working her way across the hall, like a fish swimming upstream, her shoulders were quickly becoming tense. She tried to will the tension away with a shrug of her shoulders, but knew nothing would work. She had get out of this crowded place as soon as possible.

She stepped to the side of the grand hall and approached the security desk. They checked her in and proffered a silver visitor's badge. She promptly made her way to the gold gated lifts, ribs feeling tight. They were just as packed with people, and violet-colored interdepartmental memos kept annoyingly flapping against her head. She silently repeated her mantra.

'In and out. Breathe in and out. Center yourself, Johnson.'

The lift made several stops before finally calling out, "Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."

The windows were magicked to let sunlight stream into the hall, and made it a great deal more pleasant than the austere halls from earlier. She finally felt she could breathe normally, and rolled her shoulders to let the tension leave her body.

Through a set of oak doors was the Auror Headquarters. It was highly informal and brightly lit, just as Angelina liked it. The cubicles were all covered in haphazardly placed photos, memos, and posters. The buzz of conversations, dictations, and occasional laughter made it feel almost cozy, despite the headquarters housing some of the most powerful wizards in Britain.

In one of the very last cubicles she found the wizard she was looking for. Ron Weasley was leaning back back in his chair with the end of a quill in his mouth, intensely studying a map covered in red pins. He had multiple papers laid out, a leather bound journal in his lap containing a great deal of his sloping writing, and a few papers and photos magically floating to the side. He glared a moment longer before his eyebrows shot up into his fringe, and he slammed his chair down on all four legs. Excited scribbles worked their way across his journal, and he let out an incredulous laugh with a shake of his head. He went to grab an orange colored form when he looked up and saw Angelina. The floating papers and photos fell to his desk along with the forgotten form.

He quickly stood to his full height and walked over, a look of concern on his face.

"Everything ok?" He looked poised to apparate on the spot.

"Oh yeah," she smiled, doing her best to assure him. "Sorry. I really should have owled or something... It's definitely not an emergency or anything this time. I just need to talk to you when you have a moment."

He let out a long breath and gave her a relieved smile.

"Ok, good good. I thought— Well… Of course we can talk," Ron said, giving a nod. "Can you give me a few minutes to wrap this up?"

He gestured to his paperwork. Angelina quickly nodded.

"Right. Let's get you somewhere more comfortable to wait," said Ron, looking around over the cubicles. "Oy! O'Shea!"

"Yes sir?" said a young recruit, quickly running up to Ron's desk and rigidly waiting for an order.

"Could you find an interview room for Mz Johnson, here?"

"Yes sir," he said, giving Angelina a glare.

"Swipe that look off your face, O'Shea. She's a guest, not a suspect. Get her anything she needs, and snap to it, Cadet " said Ron with so much authority Angelina had to do a double take.

It was hard to reconcile this composed imposing figure of a man with the insecure teen she'd had to coach through Quidditch games just five years prior. Not for the first time in the past few years, she was proud to see how he'd grown up, but also sad that he'd had to grow up so quickly. No one at twenty should be so battleworn and have so much on their plate.

O'Shea gave a scared salute to Ron, whose mouth tugged a bit.

"Don't worry yourself, mate. Just try to stay neutral next time, yeah?"

"Yes sir, Auror Weasley."

Ron waved them off with an amused shake of his head as he turned back to his work.

O'Shea led Angelina of down a hall she'd only been down once before.

"You new to the academy?"

"Yes Ma'am, six months in," O'Shea said with a nod.

O'Shea fixed her up with some tea and pitcher of water, leaving her in one of their 'soft interview' rooms. Instead of the cold steel and tile of an interrogation cell, this room was rather comfortable, with plush furniture, a basket of children's toys, magazines, and warm lighting.

Angelina grabbed an out of date Quidditch magazine, but found herself unable to take in anything she read. She felt guilty for just showing up at Ron's desk without so much as owling ahead. After everything they'd been through the past two years, it really wasn't responsible of her to pop up like that when it wasn't an emergency. She knew under normal circumstances it shouldn't be a big deal to show up like this, but George had created a new standard for normal.

After Fred died, George was rightfully a complete mess.

One month in he was staying at a muggle hotel and refused to do anything associated with the wizarding world. Really he was just avoiding anything that held memories of Fred, but unfortunately that meant distancing himself from everyone and everything he knew. It took coaxing, but he finally began to do things with his family again after a month or so. He'd look you in the eyes, but it was as if George wasn't in there.

Two months in, his spirits were slowly improving. At times he seemed to be something like his old self, occasional laughs and smiles coming out of him without provocation. Angelina was spending time with him three to four days a week. and it was good to see him cracking jokes again. Sure, his smile didn't reach his eyes much, and his jokes seemed forced, but he was trying. The worst was when he'd say part of a punchline and pause, as if waiting for Fred to back him up with another witty retort. George was so used to his sentences being finished or begun by Fred, that he didn't seem to know how to hold conversations at times. When this happened, he would act out a ritual of sorts: He'd smirk, raise his glass in a silent toast, and take a gulp.

Five months in was when Angelina began to really take notice George's drinking habits. At first his drinking didn't seem all that problematic, or even noticeable. He was just drinking to toast Harry's birthday, or Ginny's birthday, or Bill and Fleur's pregnancy announcement. He was having an Irish coffee because it was Tuesday. He was doing shots because it was Lee Jordan's birthday, and then Percy's birthday. He was drinking heavily because he and his brothers were having a night out to celebrate brotherhood. He was drunk because he'd seen something that reminded him of Fred and was toasting him repeatedly. He arrived at dinner tipsy because it was Hermione's birthday and someone should celebrate her, right? Another Irish coffee day because it was cold outside that morning. Maybe a little extra Irish without the coffee- what's the big deal? She realized it was harder and harder to think of a moment George didn't have a drink of some sort in his hand.

Six and a half months in, he ordered drinks with every meal. He'd show up to events already smelling vaguely of whiskey. He would apparate and crash into things. Harry and Ron had needed to pull him aside a few times and give him warnings for apparating under the influence. That didn't stop him, though. George kept apparating no matter how drunk he was. He kept causing incidents, and getting spotted by muggles. It got so bad the Aurors were about to put an alcohol sensing trace on his apparition. They would have, if not for the intervention of Ron. If it weren't for Ron cleaning up his messes, along with other various family members (including Harry and Hermione), George would probably have been jailed for all the crazy crap he kept pulling. Under protest, George started to kip on couches multiple nights a week. He'd say he was too tired to apparate, but it was an unspoken understanding that this he was just too drunk to legally apparate. He showed up at Angelina's flat sloshed quite a lot, wanting to talk about quidditch, muggles, funny animals— anything other than Fred and past memories. One night he slurily confessed he could only really laugh now, if he had a drink in him. She'd looked up at him hoping he was joking. He wasn't.

Seven months in, Angelina asked George over on a chilly December evening. She prepared her home for his visit, and dug her nails into her hands to keep her alert edginess from showing on her face. She centered herself by breathing in and out. He'd gone to her cabinet 'for a pick-me-up,' to find there was no alcohol. He made a joke about it, but clearly was agitated that she didn't have 'so much as a butterbeer' in the house. He made offer after offer of places he could apparate to, so he could restock her home.

As she shot him down, he became more desperate and temperamental, finally letting his foul mood be unmasked when she asked "Why do you need a drink so badly?"

"What's it to you, Ange? I just want to relax a bit, for Chrisake!" he hollowly laughed.

"Can't relax without a drink going down your gullet?"

George made an uncharacteristically ugly face.

"Careful, Ange," he ground out.

"Oh, I should be careful?" Angelina laughed. "What are you going to do, George?"

George made a mulish face, and for a moment she almost wished he would raise his wand. She'd happily hex him into next week after the stunts he'd pulled.

"You going to hex me?" she asked, poking him in the chest. "We'd need to dry you out for a day for you to do that, since you're too alcohol saturated to hit anything."

"I don't need to take this shit," said George, pushing past her and grabbing his coat.

"Got a bar to get to?" she challenged him, as he desperately tried to get past her. She used her forearm to keep him at bay as she antagonised him. "Need to get home to your stash of firewhiskey and vodka so you can finish them off alone?"

"Get out of my way!" he yelled, a frenzied look on his face.

"NO! I'M TALKING AND YOU'RE GOING TO LISTEN!" she bellowed, pointing her wand at him. A desperate anger shivered through her.

"You're practically living on people's couches, you're so drunk. Everyone, including your little brother, need to keep covering your arse so you don't end up in jail. You're such a lush, you'll splinch yourself at this rate" she fiercely rattled off. "And you know what George? Sometimes I think we should just let you."

"Fine! Let me! Who cares?" snarled George, his eyes becoming wet.

"I CARE, YOU PRAT!" she hollered back at him. "You are surrounded by people who love you! We all love you so much, but you can't expect us to stand by and let you continue this self destructive lark. If you keep drinking like this, you're going to hurt yourself!"

"SO WHAT IF I DO?" George roared back.

"'SO WHAT IF YOU HURT YOURSELF?'" she thundered at him. "What an utterly stupid thing to say! We already lost Fred!"

George angrily wiped at his eyes.

"We couldn't take losing you too, you selfish tosser," she finished quietly.

Neither said anything as she lowered her wand. The only sound was their hard breaths. George's expression was hard to read as his brows scrunched together, his fist clenching and unclenching. He let out a deep sigh and his arms fell lifelessly to his side, eyes trained on the ground.

"There. I'm finished," said Angelina, crossing her arms, jaw defiantly high in the air. For a moment she thought he might storm out of her apartment. If he did, she would not chase him down. She braced herself for him to push past her.

Instead, George's breaths hitched. His shoulders began to shake, and he slumped to the floor head in his hands. Great gasping sobs came out of him, so raw and painful Angelina stood shocked a moment, before dropping down to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders. The sound of his weeping painfully wrenched from his throat. She rocked him back and forth, for how long she hardly knew, a few stray tears falling down her own face into his red hair. She covertly wiped them away. He held her tight, as if she's disappear the moment his hands left her. Slowly his sobs died down until his breathing was almost normal, save the occasional stuttering inhalation.

"I miss him so much," he thickly mumbled into her.

"Me too."

"I'm sorry I'm mental."

"You're not mental," she said with a smile. "At least no more mental than you've always been."

"I've been a prat, though."

"I won't argue with that. You have been."

"I'm going to be a mess for a while."

"I know. I'll be with you the whole time."

He sat up and they stared into each other's eyes, as he put one of his large hands up to cradle her head. George's dark blue eyes were no longer vacant; instead they were more present and piercing than she'd ever seen them. He looked at her, almost searching for something. His thumb brushed her cheek, he tipped his head, leaned forward and his soft lips were on hers. Angelina found herself unable to move, as shock and something much more pleasurable roiled through her. She was caught off guard, but quickly began to return the kiss.

What began as warm and chaste, quickly became hungry and needy. He continued to caress her cheek, as his other hand slowly slid down her side to draw her in closer. She grasped him close as his kisses began to trail down her neck. Eventually they found their way to the bedroom, her legs locked around him as he held her aloft, their lips never leaving each other. Moans, caresses, laughter, tangled limbs, and kisses filled the rest of the night until they both drifted off to sleep.

The next morning she woke to find George staring at her. She felt prodigious guilt begin to course through her body. She had no right to kiss him, yet alone share a night of passion, when he was so vulnerable and broken.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a drowsy smile on his face.

"I love you," he said simply. She wanted to hold onto her guilt, but found it difficult when she felt warm elation rushing through her.

"Don't say it back," he said taking a finger and hushing her lips, a small smile on his face.

"Why?" she asked, puzzled.

"I don't want to hear you say it back until I'm doing a whole lot better," he said looking away. He sat up and stared down at his hands. "I'm mad about you. I figure I have been for years, really, but… I'm not exactly a good investment right now, ok? I'm all in with you, but I don't want you throwing yourself into a sinking ship."

"Don't I get a say in this?" she said, irritation prickling down her spine.

"Of course!" he said, staring into her eyes again. "You— You do whatever you want. I just… I want you to know if you want an out at any time, you have one. No hard feelings. You don't owe me anything, but if you could just… Please put off saying it back until I'm better… I want to know you're saying it because you love me, and not because you're worried if you don't say it back I'll break. I don't want it to be an obligation… I know it doesn't make sense… I don't really— God I picked the worst day to stop drinking!"

He put his head in his hands.

"Fine," said Angelina, sliding along the bed until they were shoulder to shoulder. "I won't say how much I love you until you're doing better."

His fingers shook as he blindly reached over to squeeze her hand.

For once, it felt like George was actually present.

From that day forward, it was easier to find George in his eyes. He struggled, he had setbacks, he had days where Angelina had trouble remembering why she put up with him, but she found there was no way she could walk away from him. She loved him too dearly. He'd come so far since that night.

Now Angelina needed some help to pull George further into recovery. Part of her wanted to leave it all well enough alone. She and George had a comfortable pattern now. It troubled her, but it was familiar and known. If she pushed George, she worried things could change for the worse. What if she pushed him too hard too soon and he went back to drinking? What if he resented her for breaking their trust and bringing in Ron to help? Or what if he got well and decided he didn't need her anymore?

She felt a burning sensation in the corner of her eyes, and furiously blinked while looking at the ceiling to rid herself of the interloping tears.

She looked around the soft interview room the Auror had led her to, and found a box of handkerchiefs available. She quickly dabbed at her face before banishing the offending cloth as if nothing had happened.

A knock came from the door, and Ron came in with sheepish look on his face.

"Sorry you've been waiting so long," he apologized before sitting across from her.

"It's fine, Ron," Angelina smiled. She honestly hadn't noticed the time pass, she was so caught up in her own thoughts.

"So, what brings you to Auror Headquarters?" he asked.

"I wanted to talk to you about something..." said Angelina. "I guess I should start by saying thank you for all the help you've been to George. You were such an unbelievable help getting the Wheezes mail order up and running with George. Even busy with the Aurors, you've still been able to come up with all sorts of amazing new product ideas and make George actually get enthusiastic enough to work on new things."

Ron's ears turned red and he began to protest. "Anyone could help with that, I just happen to have a bit more time." For just a moment, the grizzled Auror was again the fifteen-year-old Keeper she knew.

"You definitely don't 'have more time' than everyone else. I know how busy your department is, so don't bother saying so. And stop being modest. No one quite 'gets' the whole Wheezes thing quite like you, Ron. I know I don't. People are always going on about how smart Hermione is, but you've got way more creativity and brains than anyone has ever given you credit for."

Ron ducked his head, ears even redder than before.

"Well don't let anyone know. Being underestimated works in my favor, especially as an Auror," said Ron with a wry look. "Chuffed as you're making me, I'm guessing that's not what you came here to talk about."

"No… It's just - " she hesitated, biting her lip. She cast her eyes about the room hoping something would stop her from saying anything. Maybe an emergency, could pull him from the room. Perhaps she could use the quidditch magazine as a distraction. She could just say she came to thank Ron and that was it. She could leave, and nothing would change... The little half-life she had with George would stay the exact same.

Hesitant was not a trait people associated with Angelina. She was known for being brave, resolute, and blunt. The war had changed her. George had changed her. In a moment, with only a few words, she could alter so much in her life.

The seconds ticked by, and she felt uncharacteristically small next to Ron as he patiently watched her. She was suddenly reminded of George. He and George looked related thanks to their coloring, but beyond that they had few features in common, being differently built in every way. They had one shared trait Angelina had never noticed until this moment, though. They had the same penetrating eyes. Their eyes were slightly different shades of blue, but they were the same.

She breathed in and out.

"I came here because I need your help with George," she said with a sigh. There. It was done.

Ron tensed and looked hard at her, but said nothing.

"He's fine," Angelina began, making sure to assuage any worry he had. "Nothing new. But that's the problem, really. He's still depressed, sleeping all day, and just doesn't have enough to take up his time... I don't think the mail order alone is enough for George. He barely fiddles with new ideas, and most of it is handled by other people making and distributing the existing products. He needs the feedback of real live customers, needs to be out there getting socialized, and getting inspired to really create again."

"He needs to open the store," supplied Ron.

"Exactly. I've tried mentioning it to him, but he keeps dragging his feet."

Ron twirled his wand a minute or so, the same piercing look he'd had on his face when solving some crime, before holstering his wand with impressive finesse.

"I'm going to ask for a leave of absence," he said, face set.

"What? No! Ron you can't leave your job!"

"I won't. I can take the time off long enough to get George and the shop set up, though. It's Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. The title is plural for a reason. He needs another Weasley, and I'm the only one who can do it. Bill's married with a second kid on the way, Charlie's in Romania, Ginny's busy with the Harpies and Percy…" He pulled a face.

They both laughed at the thought of Percy working in a joke shop. Ron and Angelina spent a half hour planning how best to talk George into it, including getting a portkey to get Lee over for some moral support. Ron was certain Wheezes could afford to hire people to help so George could work his way up to full days at the shop, without overtaxing himself too quickly.

"Maybe we can even convince George to look a bit less 'homeless goblin' so he won't scare away customers," said Ron with a laugh.

Angelina felt those blasted tears chasing her down. She gave a quick inhale and willed them away.

"He's so lucky to have a brother like you, Ron."

Ron pulled a face, unable to reply to such direct praise as this.

"I worry about him so much," she let out. "He's doing so much better, but—"

"But he's not the same," Ron finished for her.

"No… I don't expect him to be the same as before. He never can be, but I want him to be doing a whole lot better than he is now."

"We'll get him there. Together," said Ron, taking hold of her hand. Angelina had never had a brother, but she knew if she had one, she'd want him to be just like Ron.

"Well," said Angelina, trying to sound upbeat. "I better get to my job. We'll work out the details over the next few weeks?"

He nodded and opened the door to escort her out. She briefly saw Harry and gave him a wave before leaving the Auror Headquarters and apparated to her office.

Angelina unlocked the bronze door that read in purple curly letters 'Galena's Therapeia Physicalis.' As much as Angelina enjoyed working for Galena, she was looking forward to the day she could have her own physical therapy practice. She would name it something less ridiculous than Therapeia Physicalis, an odd mix of Greek and Latin that sounded more like an illness than a remedy.

She turned on the lights with a wave of her wand and sat at her desk.

"It's just a day like any other day," she intoned to herself.

She set the wireless to an upbeat channel, setting up her equipment and paperwork for the first clients of the day. She wasn't completely done with her training, but would be finished in a few months. At this point, she was allowed to treat clients without much oversight, only needing to have her treatment reports approved once a week.

For most of her life, she dreamed of being a professional quidditch player. She did more than dream for it, she planned for it; but those plans were changed for her. A war, and a particularly nasty curse that gave her a significant blindspot on her right side, left her unable to pursue quidditch beyond one rookie year. For any normal person, her blindspot would be a minor inconvenience, but on a pitch with bludgers, and professional flyers surrounding you, it was too much of a handicap.

She supposed everything happened for a reason, or at least coincidence was on her side. In another life, she would have taken up chasing for some team or another, and wouldn't have been there to help keep George together, let alone be with him romantically. The thought of a George-less life made her shudder. For all the heartache they'd been through, George and his blue eyes had come to mean more to her than anything else in her life. She'd think of him, and be frightened with how deeply she felt for him.

Other days, a girlish sort of sentimental giddiness would take over. To someone so independent, she felt ridiculous when she caught herself smiling over him like this. She couldn't help it, though! Daydreaming about him and those big hands that always seemed to know exactly where and when to stroke, grasp, caress and tenderly part… It was hard to resist a good fancying.

"Ah to be young and in love," came a voice, shaking Angelina from her reverie. She looked up to see Galena, as well as the other therapist, Nelson, smirking at her from the door.

Angelina sat up tall and schooled her face to a nonchalant look.

"I can't say how much I love him," she replied, shuffling the papers on her desk into a neat pile. Merlin knew she wanted to shout out how much she loved him, but she'd promised him she'd not say it until he was 'better.'

"You don't need words," said Galena, giving Angelina a pat on the hand. "Right, Nelson?"

"Besotted," he intoned from across the room, hauling some large weights over his shoulders and moving them to the other side of the room. He could have easily spelled them instead, but Angelina supposed he wouldn't have such tree trunks for arms if he did that.

Angelina decided she'd take her teasing without a fight. For once, she was feeling unabashed in her sentimentality. By the end of the day she was fairly tired, but felt renewed energy knowing she'd be at George's flat soon. Maybe it would all be ok. They loved each other. Maybe the time to tell him was fast approaching.

Apparating to a secluded spot, she walked to his flat, feeling a lightness in her step.

She used her key to unlock the door, and let out a gasp. The dinner table was fully set, with a seemingly unsafe amount of candles lit in the middle of it, surrounded by steaming casserole dishes. A smirk stretched across her face as she looked closer at the china George had set out. Each plate was bordered with horribly drawn stick figures doing a number a lude sex acts.

George came out from the kitchen, wearing the apron that had 'Save A Broom, Ride a Quidditch Player' emblazoned across it. He'd shaved his beard down from the bushman whiskers he'd been sporting to a short stubble that made him more handsome than he'd been in a long time.

"Impressed?" he asked with a broad grin.

"I am!" she laughed. "Though I thought I was cooking tonight."

"Hey, you still can if you really want to," he said, holding up his red oven-mittened hands. She shook her head as he kissed her hand, a feat given how oversized his lobster claw oven mitts were. He escorted her to the table and scooted the chair out for her.

"So what's the special occasion?" she asked, as he served her pumpkin juice, boxed macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets, hotdogs, and frozen broccoli.

"Well… It's a couple of things, really," he said, throwing his mitts onto the sofa, looking more serious. "I've, er- I've been sober for a year and a half. Today's the anniversary."

They'd never talked about his drinking in terms of alcoholism or sobriety. He just stopped drinking, occasionally would laughingly complain about how he could use a drink, or make a joke about 'black-out George,' but that was it.

"I'm really proud of you, George," she replied.

He nodded, giving her a small tight smile. He still was ashamed of himself for needing to stay away from alcohol, but she really was proud of how he'd improved and been so disciplined.

"So, in honor of such a big anniversary, which coincides with our first epic night of love making anniversary, I thought it only fair to celebrate. Even shaved my beard. That wasn't for you, though. That was because I was looking too goat-like, and Aberforth kept eyeing me up."

Angelina let out a snort.

"But my final announcement, is the biggest," he said, looking serious. "I'm going to need the key to my flat back from you, Ange."

She felt her smile slip from her face.

"What?"

"My key. I'm going to need it back," he said without hesitation. "You still have it on you?"

She dumbly nodded and reached into her pocket. He'd given it to her the night he'd given up drinking. She gave a thick swallow and looked up at him.

Was this because she'd meddled with Ron today? All because she was trying to help him? She never thought he could be so cruel. She'd been with him through everything. She'd held him as he cried. She'd stroked his hair back as he vomited into the toilet, shaking from alcohol withdrawal. She coaxed him out so he could still have some sort of life. She made excuses for him so he could stay home without any pressure. She loved him through it all, and he wouldn't even let her say it to him. After everything they'd been through, this was how he was going to end it?

Anger began to boil within her. If he wanted his key back, he could fucking choke on it.

She threw it at his face, but he deftly caught it.

She was about to storm from the table, when she heard him say, "catch!"

She caught what he threw, and opened her palm to find her original key, plus two others, all on a keychain that read 'thanks for all the orgasms.'

"Magenta one opens up Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. Orange one opens the flat above," he said, voice suddenly husky. "I've decided I want to open the shop and move back into the flat. Maybe you could move in with me?"

Angelina froze.

"Have you been talking to Ron?"

George blinked. "What?"

"Just answer."

He made a face of consternation. "I'm asking you to move in with me. Maybe bring up my little brother another time? I've been thinking about this for over a month now, and I think it's time we move in together, I open the store and it just makes the most sense to live in the flat, you know?"

"Then you — You didn't talk to Ron?"

"No," he replied, looking confused.

Tears that had been haunting Angelina, for how long she wasn't even sure, finally caught up with her, and she burst into sobs. The shock of this emotional explosion stunned George, who slowly approached her before kneeling beside her.

"Ange, I love you so much. I promise I'll never talk to Ron again. Or I'll talk to him every day. Whichever you like. I'm really not sure why you're crying."

Angelina looked at him, her face streaked with tears of released pain and happiness. Sobs and laughter began to intermingle until she didn't know which she was doing.

"So will you move in with me?"

She nodded, wiping at her face and trying her best to calm her breaths. In and out. In and out. He smiled up at her, his large hand reaching up to hold her cheek.

"George!" she cried, her voice sounding ridiculously strangled. "I have something to say."

He nodded, though he seemed nervous.

"I love you," she let out. "I love you, and I'm going to say how much I love you every damned day."

Relief flooded his face, he put his arms around her and they kissed, a long perfect kiss.

They parted and laughed, both wiping at their eyes.

"So I can talk to Ron now, right?" he quipped.

"Yeah, you can talk to Ron!" she said in mock exasperation.

He kissed her again, before whispering, "I love you, Ange."

"And I love you, George."

#angelina johnson #george weasley #george x angelina #angelina johnson/George weasley #romance #hurt/comfort #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #fan fic #harry potter #ron weasley #hp #my writings #I Won’t Say How Much I Love You

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