#There are NOT enough Jewish miniature things

[the-lesser-light]

Admission time: I've always been obsessed with miniature things. I collect wee tea sets and food items and various other things. My dream is to build a doll house some day.

Since conversion, my new obsession is to one day build a miniature Jewish doll house for my little Jewish 1/12th scale doll family.

I currently have a 1/6th scale Shabbat table with little dolls around it and I'm working on putting together a Calico critters house. I already have them sitting around a Shabbat table and I have various items to change out for the different holidays! I've ordered a wee little Menorah, I have a plate of latkas, a Seder plate and little haggadahs, little Hamantashen, challah, apples and honey, and even little bottles of alcohol so they can get smashed on Purim.

I know a lot of people are creeped out by dolls, but if anyone wants to see things as they progress, I'm happy to post pictures.

At least the Calico critters are cute, right?

[innuendostudios]

New video! Another miniature Alt-Right Playbook, about how Far Right recruitment is not dissimilar from pick-up artistry.

Back me on Patreon. Transcript below the cut.

Say, for the sake of argument, you’ve been having a knock-down-drag-out online with a reactionary for weeks. It’s been going long enough that you don’t remember how it started, or, entirely, what you’re talking about. The argument seems to center around the nation of Israel. You’re fuzzy on what his position on Israel is - he seems to think of it as a religious ethnostate, which he likes, and wants to use as a model for the US, but it’s a Jewish state and he has a lot of awful things to say about Jews. He also has a lot of awful things to say about you! He’s been giving you every incivility you can imagine - and a few you’ve never heard of - since this began. It’s not helped by the fact that, while you know your position on ethnostates and antisemitism - they’re bad! - you don’t actually know a lot about the history, founding, or government of Israel, so he often catches you out by infodumping and then mocking your ignorance.

He’s just so rude and conceited and you’re absolutely desperate to show the guy up, trying to bulk up on history every day before logging on, but then something unexpected happens. All of a sudden, he stops insulting you. He’s still saying awful things about everything you’ve ever claimed to believe, but now it’s directed at a “them.” Liberals, commies, SJWs, what have you. But he’s not calling you any of those things. He’s treating you like you’re smarter than all those limp-wristed leftoids, smart like him. Better than them. It’s like he sees potential in you. And after weeks of trying to one-up this guy, suddenly having his respect is actually kind of cool.

This is a recruitment technique. This is the outer edge of the onion. It centers around treating a person badly so they fixate their attention on you, seek some kind of recognition, and maybe have their confidence undermined, and then turning around and treating them very well. The nearest analogue is actually pick-up artist techniques like Negging and Love-Bombing.

If anyone does this to you, understand: you are being groomed.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Noah Lanard at Mother Jones:

Two weeks after the election, I met Dianela Rosario in Huntington Park, California—an almost entirely Latino city that swung hard to the right this year. A 51-year-old Dominican American shopkeeper, Rosario told me that before this year she had never voted for a Republican presidential candidate. But, in 2024, inflation and the prices of groceries were front of mind. President Joe Biden and Democratic nominee Kamala Harris were not fully responsible for the cost of living crisis, she said, but she still wanted someone new.

“If she’s been vice president and there’s been no change, then I wasn’t sure she was going to be able to change things as president,” Rosario, who identifies as Afro-Latina, explained in Spanish about why she had not voted for Harris. “That’s what influenced me the most—that things might stay the same as they are now.” Earlier that afternoon, a Guatemalan shopkeeper shared a similar perspective. She told me she missed the lower prices of Trump’s first term and that she hoped the incoming president would deport people she saw as causing problems in the area. Unlike Rosario, though, she hadn’t been able to cast a vote. “Soy ilegal,” the shopkeeper explained of her own immigration status. In 2016, stories like these would have been hard to find in cities in Southeast Los Angeles like Huntington Park, where 97 percent of residents are Latino. That year, Trump lost by huge margins. In 2016, Hillary Clinton received 84 percent of votes in the area, compared to only 8 percent for Trump. Sometimes, Trump even came in third; in several precincts, Jill Stein was the runner-up to Clinton.

Eight years later, a Mother Jones analysis of precinct-level voting data shows that Democrats have lost more support in Southeast Los Angeles than any other part of Los Angeles County. Democrats’ combined margin of victory in nine cities in the area, which are more than 90 percent Latino on average, has declined by nearly 40 percent since 2016. Trump has gone from getting less than 10 percent of votes to nearly 30 percent. This is not just a function of Democrats staying home. Trump received more than three times as many votes this year in Southeast Los Angeles than he did during his first presidential run. While the data makes clear that voters in largely working-class Latino areas have moved right, the results do not reveal how individual Latinos who live in more mixed (and often richer) parts of Los Angeles voted. Compared to Southeast Los Angeles, Democrats’ have lost less support since 2016 in more middle-class majority-Latino cities, although those cities remain more conservative overall.

Still, a national trend—working-class Asian and Latino voters shifting to Republicans, and upper-class voters choosing Democrats—can be seen in miniature in Los Angeles County.

The results in Southeast Los Angeles mirror the dramatic drops in Democratic support in heavily Asian and Latino areas across the country, ranging from the border counties of Texas' Rio Grande Valley to the rural towns of California's Central Valley to urban areas of New York and New Jersey. While some of these losses have been offset by gains among affluent college graduates who once voted Republican, it was not enough for Harris to win. The voting records analyzed by Mother Jones include results for roughly 170 communities. Since 2016, Democrats’ margin of victory has dropped by at least 25 points in about 40 of those places, which is well above the countywide shift of about 17 points during the period. In nearly every single community with that large of a drop, Latinos and Asians comprise a majority of residents. The main exception is Beverly Hills, a famously affluent area with a large Jewish population. (Most of the shift in Beverly Hills happened between 2016 and 2020—meaning that it was not primarily a reaction to how Democrats discussed October 7 and Israel's military campaign in Gaza.) Karina Macias, the mayor of Huntington Park, said in a phone interview that the shift to the right among her constituents reflected concerns with issues that voters across the country prioritized: price increases, crime, and immigration. Macias noted a significant uptick in the number of families in Huntington Park who rely on food distributions, including among residents who probably would have never considered seeking help in the past.

“I think a lot of people were looking at their current economic situation, and [were] pissed off about it," Macias said. "Can you blame them? No, right? Especially in a community like Huntington Park, they feel it. They’re paying a lot more for things and are not necessarily being paid a lot more. If they work two jobs, maybe somebody in the household needs to go and get another job, right? We have a lot of families here that are doubling up in an apartment, and that’s how they get by."

The nearly 40-point shift in Southeast Los Angeles is far different from what has happened in some of the wealthier communities in Los Angeles. In the affluent coastal cities of Manhattan Beach, Redondo Beach, and Hermosa Beach, Democrats have maintained or slightly improved their margin of victory since 2016. But these voters did not necessarily back Democratic candidates all the way down the ballot. In 2020, Los Angeles County voters elected George Gascón, a progressive Cuban-American district attorney defeated his more moderate opponent by seven points. After the win, a backlash began almost immediately. This year, Gascón still managed to secure the endorsement of the Los Angeles Times. But he ended up losing to Nathan Hochman, a comparatively tough-on-crime challenger who became an independent after running as a Republican for California attorney general office in 2022. Hochman won by 20 points—a 27 point swing from 2020. Wealthier cities like Manhattan Beach and Santa Monica moved harder against Gascón than most of the county, despite being the areas where Democrats had some of their best results at the top of the ticket. Santa Monica residents went from supporting Gascón by a nearly 2-to-1 margin in 2020 to backing Hochman. In Manhattan Beach, Gascón lost by about 50 points—nearly 40 points worse than he did there four years ago. It meant that there was an almost 80-point gap in the city between Harris and Gascón, even though both are Democrats.

[...] Another dynamic is a belief among some Latino voters that Venezuelans, who crossed the border in record numbers in recent years, and other people arriving today are different from them and their ancestors. Gustavo Arellano, a Los Angeles Times writer who covered the recent political history of Southeast Los Angeles earlier this year, told me before the election about how his cousins objected to "these new immigrants" and were turning Venezuelans into scapegoats. "Venezuelans they get free everything," Arellano said, paraphrasing his cousins. "Our parents, when they came here illegally, didn't get anything at all. They did it on their own." Arellano tells his relatives that "these immigrants are just like our parents" but they insist otherwise. Macias didn't hear this perspective too often, but did recall someone saying about recent arrivals: "They're demanding things, and we work for them." It also doesn't help that Democrats—largely as a result of Republican opposition—have been unable to deliver on their promises to provide legal status to family members of some of the voters now turning against them. An undocumented Salvadoran immigrant named Sam made that clear when we spoke in Huntington Park—even though he was one of the strongest Kamala Harris supporters I interviewed. "The Democrats had the opportunity to help us," Sam explained in Spanish. "They didn't do it. As a result, all the Hispanics that are scattered throughout the United States, who are now citizens, who can now vote, are making them pay."

While Los Angeles County, California provided hefty winning margins for the Democratic Party this election, there are blinking red lights that the Democrats ought to be concerned about: Heavily Hispanic and Asian areas, especially lower-income ones, swung hard to the right. Example: Voted handsomely for Hillary in 2016, modestly for Biden in 2020, and either narrowly for Harris or flipped to Trump in 2024.

[funnylittlelad]

Shelter From The Storm - Steddie

Page Four

<< Page Three | Series Photo Album | AO3 | Page Five>>

summary: “Hello?” He answers.

“Hi, Eddie!” Jack’s voice rings out. 

Eddie blinks at nothing for a moment. 

“Jack? Does your dad know you called me?” He asks.

“No, he’s sad,” she says. 

“Wait, how did you know what to dial to call me?” 

“My emergency card,” she tells him like it should be obvious. 

wc: 13.4k

series tags/notes: Steddie Dadfic, single dad!Steve Harrington, Music Teacher!Eddie Munson, girl dad Steve, Jewish Eddie, Steve's parents are The Worst, mentions/talks about past abuse, complicated family dynamics, pretty Steve-centric, implied past suicide, talks about illness and death, Fluff, angst, mutual pining, slow burn.

Too much time passes and Eddie knows that. He’s so afraid of Steve rejecting him. He’s so afraid he’ll lay it all on the line, but it won't be enough. The hole is too deep and he’ll be buried down here. He hasn't spoken to anyone other than Wayne and Gareth about everything. Everyone else was Steve’s friend first and Jack's family. Doesn't seem fair to put anyone in that position. It's a week before he knows it. 

Friday is threatening to turn into Saturday. Eddie doesn't know if he can stand another weekend of Steve avoiding his eyes and mumbling his answers to him. He also doesn't know if he can handle getting turned down again when he tries to apologize. It hurts both of them. They each have a throbbing wound in the shape of the other where their hearts should be. Steve won’t start the conversation. Eddie is too much of a fucking coward to. It’s a dirty vicious cycle. 

Eddie lays on his stomach across his couch. The tv is on but his eyes are fixed on the miniatures that live on his coffee table. They’re still skewed from the way Jack left them. He hasn't had the heart to put them back. Eddie never thought he'd be the kinda guy to like a kid so much he misses them. Yet, here he is wishing he was hearing Jack’s little voices as she makes the little guys move around. The phone trilling causes him to shoot up on his knees, heart racing. It takes a second trill to register it as his phone. He takes it off of the hook on the table beside the couch.

“Hello?” He answers.

“Hi, Eddie!” Jack’s voice rings out. 

Eddie blinks at nothing for a moment. 

“Jack? Does your dad know you called me?” He asks.

“No, he’s sad,” she says. 

“Wait, how did you know what to dial to call me?” 

“My emergency card,” she tells him like it should be obvious. 

He doesn't know what an emergency card is, but the words emergency and sad drop his stomach to the floor. Heart-lurching memories flash before Eddie’s eyes of being left at school, walking home, and finding… No, Steve wouldn't, he reassures himself.

“Right, okay, is everything okay? You said your daddy is sad, is he okay? Do you need help?” Eddie rushes to ask as he frantically starts searching for everything he needs to leave. Shoes, wallet, and keys, but he struggles to find his jacket.

“He’s okay, he’s just crying. Can you come make him happy again?” She asks.

Eddie can hear Steve muffled and distant calling for her. He can still hear the thickness crying left in his voice. 

“Jack, where exactly are you calling me from?”

“My super secret hiding place,” she informs him proudly.

“Is that where you went when Max had to bring us to the store?”

“Yes! Can you come?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll be there in a few minutes, alright?” 

“Okay… I think someone was mean to him,” she whispers into the phone. 

“Well, if they were, the two of us will go and beat them up, right?”

“Right!”

Eddie chuckles, settling on the only thing he can find. Steve’s work coat. He gets off the phone with Jack and rushes out into the bitter November evening air. The drive feels the longest it ever has. He’s going forty in a twenty-five, but it feels like a snail’s pace. When he finally comes upon Steve’s apartment building he sighs in relief. There’s no hesitation to go up. Not when Jack had literally called for him to. He knocks on the door without a thought. 

Steve answers, eyes puffy and cheeks flushed. His eyebrows furrow in confusion when he sees Eddie.

“Eddie? What are you doing here?” He questions.

“Uh- I- uh… fuck, I didn't really think about this at all,” he breathes a chuckle, “Jack called.”

“Jack called you?” He demands.

Before Eddie can respond, Steve is storming back into the apartment leaving the door open. Eddie follows him in as he lets out a stern Jacqueline Harrington. She finally comes out to the living room dressed in a set of maroon thermal pajamas. The phone is still in her hand and an index card with different color writing all over it is in the other. That same hand grips the wing of a little stuffed bat. Innocence is written all over her face. Steve’s hands find his hips. 

“Can you tell me why you called Eddie over here?” Steve asks her.

Her big dark eyes move over to Eddie and then back to her father. 

“You were sad,” she answers.

“I wasn't…,” Steve sighs, “Why did that make you call Eddie?”

“Because Eddie makes you happy,” she shrugs.

Steve sucks his lips into his mouth and drops his chin to his chest. He takes a measured breath before lifting his head, forcing a small smile at Jack.

“Let’s get you to bed, okay?” He tells her softly.

He takes the phone from her and places it on the coffee table. Then he takes the index card and places it next to the phone. Jack lets him scoop her up.

“Can Eddie goodnight me?” She asks.

Steve gives her another small smile. He looks over his shoulder at Eddie, the smile sticking.

“D’you wanna goodnight her?” 

Eddie’s mouth splits into a wide grin.

“‘Course I do! I’d never miss a chance to goodnight my favorite girl,” he answers.

He follows them into the bedroom. Steve’s hands are tender as they tuck her in. He pushes some wild red hair out of her face. When she giggles he smiles more.

“See!” She exclaims.

“What?” He chuckles.

“Eddie is here and you’re happy now!”

Eddie watches with bated breath. Steve glances at him over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

Steve gives her a kiss on the forehead, then the nose, and says goodnight, princess. She looks expectantly at Eddie. Steve stands and moves out of the way. Eddie finds himself nervous. 

“I’ve never done this in person before,” he realizes.

“It’s hard to do wrong,” Steve encourages.

“Knowing me, I’ll find a way,” he huffs a laugh. 

“Eddie,” Jack whines.  

“Sorry, sweet girl,” he apologizes with a warm smile. 

Eddie sits tentatively next to Jack on her bed. She smiles widely at him, her body doing a joyous little wiggle under her starry comforter. Eddie looks up at the bats on her wall. 

“Y’know, I got some like that,” he tells her like it's a secret. 

“You do?”

“I do. Wanna see’em?”

She nods vigorously. Eddie shrugs his arm out of the coat. It isn't until then that Steve realizes Eddie is wearing his work coat. His heart might as well be a hummingbird. Eddie shows her his usually covered arm. She’s seen his puppet master tattoo when his flannel sleeves were pushed up. They never went up high enough for the bats to really peak out. 

Eddie is almost never seen out of a flannel. He’s always appreciated a protective layer or two. It started when the bullying did. At first, it was a hoodie for some garage band in middle school. After that was his leather jacket he got for Chanukah one year. Then his leather jacket-jean vest combo in late high school. That stayed with him for a while after school too. It was an identifier. People knew to go to the guy in the leather jacket and jean vest to buy their drugs. 

When he stopped selling, he decided it was time to shed those layers. Having just a shirt is too vulnerable, though. The flannel gives him just enough to feel in control of who sees what parts of him and when. In his rush over he only took the coat, but that's okay. He knew he wouldn't need a flannel where he was going. He doesn't need a layer of protection from Steve, just from the cold outside.

“What are their names?” She asks him in awe.

“Y’know, I never named’em. Tell you what, you go to sleep and be a good girl for your daddy tomorrow and I’ll let you name’em next time you’re at the store,” he negotiates with a smile. 

“Really?” She asks excitedly.

“Really. Have fun dreamin’, sweetpea,” Eddie tells her softly.

He presses a light kiss on her forehead. When he stands he catches the gooey look Steve has directed at him. Maybe there's hope, he thinks. He shrugs the coat back on and follows Steve out to the living area. Steve closes the bedroom door softly. When he turns Eddie is standing in the middle of the room. Steve’s work coat hugs him, black sweatpants cover his legs, and his untied boots are on his feet. It’s the first time Steve really takes in what Eddie is wearing. Something tugs at his gut when he realizes the clear rush Eddie was in to get here.

“I’m sorry she called you,” he sighs.

“I’m just glad you’re okay. She said something about you being sad and an emergency card… I thought the worst for a second,” Eddie admits, voice strange and strangled.

“Yeah, she has this card I wrote everyone’s numbers on just in case. Everyone has a color so she knows who is who. It’s really only supposed to be for emergencies,” Steve explains.

“She said you were crying.”

Steve nods slowly.

“It’s been a tough day,” he answers.

“Has it been too tough for an apology?” Eddie ventures.

Steve’s warm honey eyes widen just a tad. Just enough to reveal the hope in them. 

“I think I can deal with an apology.”

Eddie smiles and nods toward the couch. They sit beside each other, but not too close. Both of them are nervous about how this may go. Eddie fiddles with his rings and wets his lips.

“I know I fucked up. I know I crossed a line and I dunno if I can ever uncross it. You needed someone to be on your side and I wasn't. I should've been… It’s hard to explain why I wasn't. I guess I was a little hurt. It felt like you didn't listen to me at all. Then when you mentioned bringing Jack to your parents’... I just thought about her in a house like mine as a kid. It really fucking scared me,” he shakes his head a bit,

“I didn't handle any of it right, though. I had no right to tell you what you can and can't do with her. I was too scared to remember that you’re the best father in the fucking world, Stevie. I should've trusted you to do what you know is right. I’m so fucking sorry,” Eddie apologizes with every ounce of sincerity he’s capable of. 

Steve swears he’s a puddle by the end. He wants to surge forward and kiss Eddie. It takes enormous strength not to. 

“I forgive you, Eds. I’m sorry I said you’re just her music teacher. You’re not. You’re more than that. You’re so much more than her music teacher,” Steve replies softly. 

A wavering smile takes over Eddie’s lips. Tears of utter happiness and relief threaten to pour.

“Can we go back to being friends, now? ‘Cause I really fuckin’ miss you two,” he exhales a laugh. 

A torn expression crosses Steve’s features. It’s enough to stop Eddie’s heart.

“Eds, I actually wanted to talk to you about that…”

The world is falling apart, he's sure of it. Eddie’s positive in a few moments there will be nothing left. Nothing, but him and the awful feeling sitting in his gut that Steve wants nothing to do with him still. 

“Look, if you're gonna tell me you don't want to anymore, it’s okay. I-I can go, but I dunno if I can hear it,” he blurts out anxiously. 

Steve is taken aback. He blinks in confusion for a moment as he processes Eddie’s words. 

“What? No, Eddie, I don't want to be friends with you be-” 

“Steve, please I ca-”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eddie, I’m in love with you!” Steve spits out half laughing.

Eddie’s mouth falls open. His eyes are large chocolate saucers that search Steve’s face. Red floods his cheeks. Steve can't help smiling as Eddie continues to stare at him in astonishment. The longer he goes without saying anything the more nervous Steve grows.

“Please, say something,” he basically begs quietly. 

Eddie takes a stuttering breath. Steve hadn't even noticed he stopped breathing. Only Eddie can't find words. There aren’t enough words to express how he feels. He decides to let his actions speak for him. Eddie’s lips are on Steve’s hot and quick, hands digging into his soft hair. Steve makes a noise of pleasant surprise against Eddie’s mouth. His own hands grab onto Eddie’s forearms. The kiss breathes life back into Steve’s lungs. It lifts years of weight off his shoulders and lets him relax. Right here, right now, the center of the universe is where Eddie’s lips meet his.

When he pulls back, Eddie keeps his hands in Steve’s hair. The tops of their foreheads stay pressed together. Steve looks at him through his lashes, flushed and dazed. Eddie smiles with the tip of his tongue between his teeth. 

“I’m in love with you too, Stevie,” he says, voice dripping in affection. 

Steve presses another, shorter kiss to Eddie’s lips. Then another, and another, and another. Eddie starts to laugh against Steve’s lips as he continues. Steve falls into laughter with him.

“I've wanted to do that for so long,” he admits.

“Me too,” Eddie chuckles. 

“I wish I could invite you to stay the night,” he sighs. 

Eddie offers him an understanding smile.

“It's alright. One day we can have a sleepover at my place. Jack can take the guest room,” he suggests.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Steve agrees.

They take another moment to absorb each other. It's all so much, but so good. Then Eddie catches the residual puffiness around Steve’s eyes and remembers why he came in the first place. 

“Why were you crying earlier?” He asks softly.

Steve didn't think it would be possible to frown right now. That question proves him wrong, though.

“My dad gave me an ultimatum. I should’ve seen it coming, honestly. This is the game he plays. I guess it just finally broke me,” he explains with a sigh. 

“What's the ultimatum?”

Steve looks unsure. He hesitates, fearing Eddie’s reaction. What if all this disappears into smoke and Eddie goes back to making him feel like an awful dad? He swallows those thoughts. 

“Either I bring Jack tomorrow, or she doesn't get the money.”

Eddie’s nostrils flare. Panic spikes in Steve’s chest for a second. He doesn't get mad, though. He doesn't get hurt. He doesn't seem confused or upset. No, Eddie settles a tender gaze on Steve’s face.

“What d’you need from me, Stevie?”

Eddie never thought he’d find himself at the Harrington residence ever again. The last time he was here he was holding a stash box full of inventory. This time he’s carrying Jack on his shoulders. They hover outside not far from the car. Steve is very visibly anxious about the entire thing. Seeing Jack here is nauseating. He hasn't even really told her what they're doing, unable to figure out how. His skin takes on a sallow complexion as he thinks about his father’s eyes on Jack. 

“All you have to do is say the word and she's out of here,” Eddie reminds him.

“Is this a terrible idea?” Steve all but whispers.

Eddie offers Steve a small smile. He grabs Steve’s hand for an extra layer of comfort. 

“You’re making a hard decision in a complicated situation to try to better your daughter’s future. There’s nothing terrible about that, even if it might feel terrible,” Eddie tells him. 

Steve sprouts an anxious smile. He squeezes Eddie’s hand, loving that he’s allowed to. They haven't talked about what this means yet. Which means Jack certainly isn't aware anything has changed. Steve wants to kiss Eddie more, but that's still out of reach. 

“I’m scared, Eds,” he admits.

“Don't be scared, Daddy. Me and Eddie will beat up people mean to you,” Jack reassured him.

Steve chuckles. Jack is resting her head on top of Eddie’s. It's one of Steve’s favorite things that she does. He loves seeing tangible examples of how comfortable, how at home, she is with Eddie. 

“I know you will, princess… Jack, I want to ask you something, but it's a big girl question. So, I need you to really listen and ask me questions if you don't understand, okay?” Steve asks softly as he takes Jack from Eddie’s shoulders. 

He places her on her feet and kneels down to be at eye level with her. She has such a serious face. It makes her look older and it strikes Steve just how big she’s gotten. Even just since knowing Eddie. Time is moving faster than Steve can hold onto. Does he want to waste any more of it on the people in this house? 

“Okay,” Jack nods. 

“Okay,” Steve sighs, “Do you remember, a while ago, when you asked me about my mom and daddy?”

She nods.

“Well, I do have a mom and daddy, but they… they aren't very nice to me. Actually, they’re pretty mean to me. They bullied me- kind of like Oscar last school year. Am I making sense?” He checks in.

She nods once more, impressing Steve with her serious little stature. Eddie watches fondly as Steve makes another difficult decision. How honest should he be with his six-year-old daughter?

“When you were born I took you away from them so they couldn't be mean to you too. Now, they've promised not to be mean to you. I’m telling you this because they're inside that house right now,” he points at the front door.

Jack follows his finger and really takes in the house in front of her. Her dark eyes flit all over as if she's trying to figure out a puzzle. To his surprise, she starts to move toward it. Steve gently grabs her arm to stop her.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a chuckle.

“I’m going to beat them up,” she states plainly.

Eddie barks a laugh, clutching his stomach. Steve can't help his own laugh. Jack looks absolutely offended.

“Don't laugh at me!” She protests.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl, you're just so cute all we can do is laugh sometimes,” Eddie tucks a loose curl behind her ear.

Thanks to Eddie, Jack’s hair is more soft and defined than ever. Her hair almost takes on a life of its own at this point. Every movement on her part contributes to some movement or bounce on her hair’s. 

“As much as I would love to see it, you can't beat them up, Jack,” Steve tells her.

She pouts and crosses her arms.

“Listen, okay? They promised they wouldn't be mean to you. My dad is very sick so he asked to see yo-”

“No,” she interrupts. 

Steve blinks at her in surprise.

“You didn't let me finish.”

“I don't care. If they’re mean to you, I don't wanna see them,” she states. 

“Jack, there's more for you to know-”

“No!”

“You don't want to hear why?”

She shakes her head, hair flying wildly. Steve inhales and exhales slowly.

“Okay, I wasn't expecting that,” he mumbles as he stands once more.

“She’s one tough cookie,” Eddie comments.

“Should I really let her make this decision?” Steve frowns.

Eddie swallows with uncertainty. He glances down at Jack who’s glaring at the house. Then his eyes move back to Steve's torn face. 

“Are you asking for my opinion?” He asks tentatively.

“Yeah, I mean… She’s six and this is a lot of money. This is a big deal. What do you think?”

Eddie gives Steve a set of knit brows and a small ghost of a frown. His eyes move back to Jack. Eddie gets down on a knee to be at eye level with her. He places a hand on her shoulder to grab her attention. There are flames behind the dark of her eyes. 

“I need you to really listen to me, okay? I want to beat them up too, but your daddy is in a very hard spot. If we do this for him we’d be helping him a whole lot. If we do, we both have to be on our best behavior, alright? We can come up with a secret code that you can tell me if you want me to bring you back out to the car. You don't even have to talk to anyone if you don't want to, but you would be doing a very brave thing by helping your daddy like this,” he pleads the case gently. 

A pout-like frown takes over her face.

“Will you have to be brave too?” She asks.

“Oh, princess, going in there is like storming into a castle to battle a dragon. We're all gonna need to be brave. I don't know if I’ll be able to be as brave as I need to without you, though. Do you think you can help me?” He gives her wide begging eyes, tucking his chin in a bit to give them a puppy dog-like quality. 

“What if I can't be brave?” She asks furrowing her brows.

Eddie thinks about an answer for a second. He doesn't know what gives him the idea, but he takes the bandana always tucked in his back pocket. With a gesture for her to turn around, Eddie ties the bandana around her head. A couple of loose curls still fall in her face, but mostly her hair puffs out the back. The bandana is a stark black against the red of her hair with a white paisley pattern. It goes with the rest of her outfit of a black long-sleeve under a deep green quarter zip. Her denim is a darker wash and those vans that are beginning to look worse for wear are at home on her feet. 

“There, now you have my lucky bandana,” he tells her.

Her little hands go up to feel the fabric on her head with wonder.

“What’s it for?”

“Well, I’m too old for it to work now, but when I was younger it helped me feel braver than I thought I was. As long as you’re with us and you got that on your head, we can do anything,” Eddie smiles at her. 

A smile takes over her features as well. Then she cups her hands against Eddie’s ear and whispers something Steve can't hear. Eddie’s eyes flash up to him briefly. They find Steve watching him like Eddie is hand poking the stars into the sky. Then they're gone and Steve is left wondering what she said. Eddie smiles and nods at her. 

“Okay,” Jack nods with all the seriousness of a war general before turning to Steve, her hands on her hips, “We can slay the dragons.”

Eddie smiles proudly up at Steve who still can't stop pouring every ounce of love into every look thrown Eddie’s way. Eddie lifts Jack back up onto his shoulders and holds his hand out for Steve. This time when Steve's fingers slot into Eddie’s he can feel the grasp strengthen him. Having Jack and Eddie ready as the first and last line of defense makes him feel like he stands a chance. 

“Ready?” Eddie asks.

“No, but let’s get this over with,” Steve sighs.

The few moments it takes for Steve’s mother to answer the door is gut-twisting. He wills her not to answer at all. Or, better yet, answer and tell him his father is dead. Eddie brings Steve’s hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. It’s so quick but steels over his resolve. 

“Me too,” Jack pats Eddie’s cheek.

He chuckles as he brings Steve’s hand up to her. She places her own soft kiss on the back of his hand. Steve is suddenly sure he can handle anything. His mother is too happy when she answers. She greets Jack, who simply stares at her. It takes a lot not to laugh. Her smile twitches but doesn't drop. Jack takes in the interior with giant eyes. It occurs to Steve that she’s never been in a house this big before. Grandma and Grandpa Buck’s is the biggest and that's only a three-bedroom Cape Cod.  

“So, how old are you, Jacqueline?” His mother asks brightly as she grabs some glasses of water.

Her eyes go to where Steve and Eddie's hands are together every few moments. He waits for her to say something, anything about it in front of his kid. The look in his eyes likely warns her not to. Jack’s face scrunches.

“That's only my name if I’m in trouble,” she tells her matter of factly. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. You’re not in trouble here,” she coos in a baby voice that makes Eddie cringe.

Eddie can remember one time he spoke to Jack like that, and it hadn't even really been serious. She nearly bit his finger off.

“I know,” Jack tells her like she's dumb. 

Steve’s mom chuckles awkwardly.

“Right, of course. So- um, how old are you, Jackie?” She tries again.

“That isn't my name. My name is Jack.”

Steve’s mom looks at him like she's expecting him to say something. He simply raises his eyebrows and shrugs. There's no world where Steve would tell his daughter not to stand up for herself. No matter who it's against. 

“Right, Jack. I’m sorry,” she turns her attention to Eddie, “I don't believe we've met. I’m Marsha.”

“No, we haven't,” Eddie answers. 

Steve can tell his mom is getting ticked off. He can see it in the way the corners of her mouth twitch. It kind of thrills him. There's no competition happening, but Steve feels like he’s winning for once. 

“You have such pretty hair, Jack. I bet you have so much fun with it,” Marsha is doing that baby voice again. 

“Are you stupid?” Jack questions.

Eddie full-on chokes on his water, some of it spilling from his nose as he gasps for air. Steve slaps a hand to his mouth in disbelief. He’s never heard Jack talk to someone like that before. Now, he knows he has to correct the behavior, but his mother's reaction makes it so hard to do. She stares with an open mouth like Jack slapped her. 

“I- I’m sorry?” is all she can squeak out.

“You talk like you're stupid,” Jack shrugs.

“Okay, Jack, I think that’s enough,” Steve struggles to get out as he fights back laughter. 

“Why is she talking to me like that?” Jack turns her attention to Steve.

He shoots his mom a look.

“It's best to talk to her like she's, y’know, a person,” he informs her.

Eddie gives Jack’s calf a squeeze as he recovers. Jack taps Eddie’s cheekbone.

“What’s up, menace?” he asks, looking up at her the best he can.

“I need to go potty.”

Eddie moves owlish eyes over to Steve. 

“Do you mind?” They ask in unison. 

A smile breaks out on Steve’s face. Eddie can't contain his own.

“Last door on your left,” Steve points down the hallway. 

He watches them go. Jack hugs Eddie’s head while Eddie laughs. He holds onto her legs as he does a funny walk to jostle her around. The movement causes her to giggle madly. His mother’s eyes are on him, he can feel them. Steve just continues watching the two people he cares about most in the world. Then, the door shuts behind them with one last smile from Eddie. There are no more distractions. Steve meets his mother’s judgemental gaze.

“She could use some discipline,” she tells him.

“I don't need your opinion on what my daughter could use,” he says tersely.

“Who is that man you let take her into the bathroom?” She questions.

The mere idea of her implicating anything about Eddie that way sends anger flaring across Steve's skin. His grip on his water tightens so much he’s surprised the glass doesn't shatter. 

“Eddie, if you must know,” he answers.

“And who is Eddie to her? I hardly think it's appropriate-”

“Don’t even think about suggesting Eddie has anything other than Jack’s best interest in mind. He's done more for her than you ever will,” he snaps.

He watches his mom exhale sharply through her nose and accept defeat. She crosses her arms in a last line of defense. 

“I’ll bring you to your father when they come back out,” she states coolly.

Steve just nods and sips his water. He thinks she might be trying to weaponize the silence. There's a sense that she's trying to make him feel guilty. It doesn't work even a little bit, but he has to commend her for trying. When they come back out, Jack is still on Eddie’s shoulders. Steve has a feeling she’ll be up there as long as they're in here. Up there she feels big, she can see everything, and she has Eddie to protect her. Steve catches a warm smile that Eddie tosses his way. 

They follow his mother upstairs. She goes to open the door, but Steve stops her. He turns to Jack and Eddie.

“Jack, we’re going to meet my daddy now, okay?” Steve studies her face. 

She reaches back and runs her fingers over the leftover bit of bandana from the knot. Her face becomes stern as she nods. Steve can't help his smile. 

“He’s very sick, so he might look a little scary. You just tell Eddie if you want to go,” he tells her softly.

“I’m okay, Daddy. I’m ready,” she assures him.

“‘Course you are, you’re the bravest little girl I know,” he smiles.

He nods for his mom to open the door. His dad is awake and already smiling when they enter. Steve wants so badly to wipe the smile from his face. It isn't a smile of excitement, or love, or even friendly acknowledgment. No, he knows he won the game. He won and he’s letting Steve know it. Steve’s jaw clenches. Eddie notices and takes his hand once more, not caring who is in the room to see. 

“I’m glad to see you made the right decision,” he greets feebly. 

“I’m sure you are,” Steve replies dryly.

“And who is this?” He looks at Eddie.

“Eddie Munson. I’m Jack’s music teacher,” Eddie answers with a wicked smile.

Steve rolls his eyes fondly. 

“He’s my friend and he’s here for Jack. The second she doesn't want to be here anymore she doesn't have to be, got it?” Steve jerks his chin at his father.

“I can’t stop you from doing as you please, Steven.”

“So, what now? I brought her here, now what?” He asks.

“Now, you can leave as we get to know each other.”

The silence that takes over the room is palpable. Eddie’s hand tightens around Steve’s. Steve’s free hand trembles in anger. 

“No,” he says firmly.

“Steven, I told you I wanted to get to know-”

“So, do it. We're not going anywhere. I’ll die before I let her be alone in a room with you,” he spits venomously. 

“This is the only way to receive the money.” 

Eddie is frozen. His grip on Steve's hand is white knuckle, but Steve doesn't flinch. Jack’s hands are buried in his hair. He can feel the anxiety in her little body around his head and it aches in his chest. She doesn't understand what's going on, but she's nervous. Maybe he should make the call. 

“Why are you mean?” Jack questions.

Again, the room stills for a moment.

“What?” is all Steve’s dad can ask.

“My daddy says that people are mean because they don't understand something, they’re afraid of something, or they're secretly really sad. Why are you mean?” She elaborates.

Steve always loved seeing how stunned people are at how smart and articulate she is. His father is no exception. If anything, it's more satisfying. 

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you,” his father comments, “Perhaps we should have stayed involved. We could have made sure this one was raised properly.”

“Steve is the best father there is. Everything he does is for this amazing little girl on my shoulders. He’s raising the smartest, funniest, and most loving human being I know. If there's one thing Steve is doing it’s raising Jack properly. Not that you care or it's gonna matter here,” Eddie bites.

Steve’s father’s eyes float between him and Eddie. They don't even hitch on their clasped hands. Eventually, they settle coldly and distantly on Steve.

“It might seem nice now, but bringing this lifestyle around your daughter will only do her harm,” he warns.

“This lifestyle has a name. It’s Eddie and, whether you like it or not, he'll always be part of your granddaughter’s life. You, on the other hand, will die never having been,” Steve tells him ice cold. 

“Eddie won't ever hurt me,” Jack yells at Steve’s father, “He loves me like daddy does and you don't hurt people you love!”

“That’s right, sweet girl,” Eddie confirms. 

“If you won't fulfill my request then we have nothing more to discuss here,” Steve's father states monotonously.

“You’re the worst person!” Jack snaps at him.

“Jack-” Steve starts to attempt to calm her down.

“Daddies are s’pose to be nice and fun and love you! You’re so mean! You're mean to my daddy and you make him sad all the time. You’re a bully just like Oscar and I don't like you. I’ll never like you because you made my daddy sad. You’re the one that's done wrong, not me! You should be like my daddy and Eddie. You're the worst person ever!” She rants angrily on Eddie's shoulders.

Steve’s heart nearly explodes. He wants to squeeze Jack and cry into her hair. He wants to tell her how much he loves her and always will. That no matter what, he would always choose her. Even if he could go back, he would always choose to be her father. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Steve says and pulls Eddie’s hand for him to follow.

They make it to the car, but not in it before anyone speaks. Eddie puts Jack down on her feet. She still has her round little features fixed into stern lines. Steve runs a hand through his hair as he processes everything that just happened. 

“Jack, you were a badass!” Eddie cheers. 

“The bandana made me brave!” she tells him, excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

“Yeah, it did! You were the bravest! Tell you what, you keep that bandana. That way you’ll always be brave when you need to be,” Eddie beams at her.

Jack turns a dazzling smile onto Steve.

“I was brave, Daddy!” she exclaims.

Steve’s heart squeezes at the sight of her. He didn't know how much love he had to give until Jack. He didn't know how much love he never received until Jack. 

“You were so brave! I’m so proud of you, Jack,” Steve says, soft and gooey. 

“Hugs!” She demands cheerily. 

Chuckling, Steve scoops her up. He and Eddie squish her between them. Steve buried his face half in Jack’s hair and half in Eddie’s neck. It's the only place he ever wants to be. 

“What d’you guys say to a sleepover at my place tonight?” Eddie suggests.

Steve smiles down at Jack.

“What d'you think, Jack?” 

She looks like the secrets of the universe have just been revealed to her.

“Sleep at Eddie's?” She asks in amazement.

“Yeah, we can watch some movies, play some games, maybe I can even show you how I play with the little guys,” Eddie says with a smile. 

“You're going to turn my kid into a D&D nerd, aren't you?” Steve teases.

“Harrington, I hate to break it to you, but the D&D nerd is already in there. I just plan to bring it out,” Eddie flashes a mischievous grin.

“Where will we sleep?” Jack wonders.

“Well- uh…” Eddie turns panicked eyes to Steve. 

“Eddie has another room you can sleep in,” Steve tells her.

“What about you?”

“Um, well, I think I’m gonna share a room with Eddie tonight. You were so brave today I think you deserve your own room for a night, don't you?” Steve raises his eyebrows as he convinces her.

For a moment, he expects her to say no. She's never slept in a room alone all night before. Not because Steve wanted it that way, but because necessity beat tradition in their living situations. To his relief, a wide smile breaks out on her face. She does a happy dance complete with celebratory noises that make them laugh. 

“I get a big girl room!” She sings as Eddie helps her into the car.

When Eddie gets into the front, Steve’s right hand immediately finds his thigh. Eddie takes his hand with a smile. Jack sings along to the song that's playing on the radio, which leads Steve to. To Steve’s surprise, Eddie eventually starts singing too. It’s the first time driving away from his parents’ that Steve isn't agonizing over every interaction with them. Instead, he’s looking to the future. 

Jack packs her own bag. It’s full of toys she can't go a night without. Steve packs another, with the things she actually needs. Eddie is embarrassingly excited. The smile hasn't left his face. He can't wait to have his two favorite people in his space all night long. He can't wait to say goodnight instead of goodbye. He can't wait to wake up in the morning to Steve’s face. Fuck, is he excited to cling to Steve in bed for as long as humanly possible. 

Jack shows Eddie her bag as Steve double-checks that they have everything. Eddie nods diligently as she explains each item. Her favorite truck that Hopper got her, a hand-me-down baby doll from Nancy that she calls Professor Peanutbutter, a small handmade blanket weaved from pastel rainbow yarn, and a stuffed bat called Fidget she claims was born with her. 

She unloads her stuff in the guest room immediately. The room itself is plain, but that doesn't matter to Jack. Its walls are light gray. A couple of Eddie’s posters from when he was in high school cling to the walls. A full-sized bed with flannel sheets and a flannel comforter sticks out into the middle. There are a couple of nightstands and a matched wooden dresser to complete the room. 

They leave her to it, but keep the door open so they can hear her excited chatter to herself. It brings a smile to both of their faces.

“How do you feel about chicken for dinner?” Eddie asks.

“From where?”

“From Ristorante ala Munson.”

“Sounds fancy,” Steve chuckles.

“Oh, it's the fanciest. They don't even let you in if you’re not dressed to the nines,” Eddie tells him far too seriously. 

“I think I need to change then,” Steve looks down at his old faded t-shirt and sweatpants. 

“No need, Stevie. You make anything look good enough to get you in,” Eddie smirks and tilts his head toward him suggestively. 

Steve’s face glows bright red. Eddie has an arm over the back of the couch behind Steve. They're doing a very good job of keeping enough distance to not elicit any questions from Jack. However, in the privacy of Eddie’s apartment, it’s only getting harder to do so. Getting Steve nice and flustered satisfies Eddie enough until he can get him into bed later. 

“You didn't tell me Jack is a twin,” Eddie changes the subject to kindly allow Steve to breathe again.

“If Jack were a twin I think I’d be bald by now,” Steve chuckles. 

“Touché,” Eddie laughs, “I’m talking about her little bat. She told me it was born with her.”

“She’s had it since she was born,” Steve explains. 

“Where’d she get it?”

“Uh- her mom, actually,” he explains awkwardly, “Before they were discharged she got it for her from the hospital gift shop. Jack doesn't know who got it for her, though.”

Eddie gives him a soft, understanding smile. He leans forward and gives Steve a brief chaste kiss. Steve follows Eddie when he pulls back to seek more. Eddie is about to oblige when Jack comes racing out of the guest room. Her star print pajamas are a blur.

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!” She chants as she clambers onto his lap. 

“Hey, what’s up, trouble?” He lets out a delighted little giggle that absolutely melts Steve’s insides.

“Can you show me how you play with the little guys now?” she asks with big dark eyes.

“I’d love to! C’mon, I’ll let you pick out a set of dice,” Eddie beams.

He stands up, lifting her with him. Steve watches in adoring amazement as Eddie swings her around to his back so she can climb up onto his shoulders. It’s like they’ve done it this way a million times before. Steve silently hopes they’ll have the chance to do it a million more. He hopes Eddie doesn't realize raising a kid full-time is too much at this age. He hopes Eddie loves them enough to try despite that. 

Steve has the terrifying thought that he doesn't want to keep doing this without Eddie. When it was just him and Jack things were great. They made an imperfect little family. With Eddie, however, it's perfect. Everything feels right. Seeing him with Jack gives Steve the sensation that he’s where he was always meant to be. On this couch watching the person he loves and his daughter talk D&D. 

Eddie brings her into his room. There are a few minutes of talking that Steve can’t really make out. Then, they come back out. This time Jack is walking. She has a little black drawstring bag in her hand.

“Daddy, look! Eddie gave me dice so I can play the little guy game like him!” she rushes up excitedly.

“Did he give them to you or let you borrow them?” Steve questions, glancing at Eddie.

Jack has been known to intentionally misunderstand the difference between the two. 

“I gave them to her. I have plenty,” Eddie waves him off. 

Jack climbs onto Steve’s lap despite the entire couch being free. Steve has no complaints. She opens the bag to show off her new dice set. There are a handful of sleek smoky gray dice with golden numbers on each side. She shows Steve each individual one despite not really knowing the difference. He oos and aahs at each. Eddie then lets her pick a little guy to play as. She chooses a tiefling cleric that sits on the television stand. Eddie figures it’s easier to keep with the chosen character’s sheet.

Steve watches them for a while. They sit on the floor on either side of the coffee table. Eddie is doing an excellent job of breaking the basics down for her to understand. Steve was admittedly a little worried it wouldn't hold her attention. Boy, was he wrong. She eats up every single D&D-related word. An hour goes by with only Steve to notice. After another thirty minutes and a few dice rolls, Steve decides to make dinner. He knows Eddie planned to, but it's getting late and he really doesn't want to disturb them. 

Quietly, Steve looks around Eddie’s kitchen for everything he needs. Cooking in a kitchen with more than one counter is a luxurious experience. Especially without a kid running around his legs. While Jack and Eddie have their moment of bonding, Steve gets a moment of peace. He gets to enjoy the sounds of Jack playing in the other room without the worry of what she's doing. It’s the nicest night Steve has had in a very long time. He’s almost done when Eddie wanders in curiously. 

“Hey, that was s’pose to be my job. What kind of host am I if you're the one cooking?” He whines playfully. 

“You two were having fun and I don’t mind,” Steve shrugs. 

He puts the last piece of grilled chicken on the plate beside him. There's a pot of rice simmering on the stove. Eddie gets out plates and utensils for them.

“You probably did better than I could've anyway,” Eddie smiles. 

Steve can't help it. He takes hold of the back of Eddie’s head and crashes their lips together. Eddie’s hands make a home on Steve’s waist as he leans further into the kiss. It sends a line of firecrackers popping across Steve’s skin. 

“I'm hungry,” Jack announces from the doorway.

Steve and Eddie fly apart, breathing heavily as if they just got caught by a teacher in the high school stairwell. They exchange a worried look before turning their eyes back to Jack. She doesn't seem phased at all, just expectant.

“Good news, I just finished making dinner,” Steve recovers before Eddie. 

He makes Jack her plate and brings her out to the table. When she's set up with her food, Steve goes back to the kitchen for his own. Eddie is still standing there with wide eyes. Steve offers him a smile.

“I think… we need to talk before we go out there,” Steve states softly. 

Eddie simply nods. Steve continues nervously.

“I don't know what we’re doing here exactly, but I want to be with you. I get it if you don't want to commit to someone with a kid-”

“Whoa, where did you get that idea? Steve, I love Jack. I love her probably more than I should considering she isn't my kid. You never have to worry about you being a father or Jack putting me off. I want to be with you too. I want to be with both of you,” Eddie tells him earnestly. 

It’s everything Steve wants and needs to hear. The smile that finds his face is blinding. Eddie once again can see Jack in his features. 

“That mean you’re my boyfriend, Munson?” Steve teases, stepping closer.

Eddie hooks his fingers into Steve’s sweatpants pockets. He tugs him forward until their bodies are pressed together.

“That means I’ll be whatever you want me to be, Stevie. As long as I get you two, I don't care what that makes me,” he says quietly, breath caressing Steve’s face.

They're kissing again before either of them knows it. It takes an enormous amount of willpower to pull away and eat dinner. Jack doesn't ask any questions as they eat. She rattles on about all the cool new things Eddie has taught her. Eddie and Steve keep their ankles locked together under the table. Now that they have each other, they never want to let go. 

She shows Steve her little guy, Lloyd. When Steve shoots Eddie a questioning look, Eddie simply shrugs. Jack tells him about her different spells, a lot of healing since she’s a cleric. Her eyes go giant when Eddie mentions there are bards. Her mouth splits into a smile as he tells her they play music to fight and cast magic. 

“They're just like me!” She exclaims.

Eddie laughs and promises to help her change her cleric to a bard. Steve just listens on fondly, not really getting what they're talking about but loving every second of it. Then Jack makes a sudden change of subject that gives them both pause.

“Why were you kissing before?” She asks, watching them both intently. 

They meet eyes briefly. Steve gives Eddie’s nervous expression a reassuring smile. People being gay isn't new to her, not with Robin around. The real question isn't will she accept them for being gay. It’s will she accept them being together? Steve can't see why she wouldn't, but Eddie can only see why she wouldn’t. What if Jack likes things the way they are? What if she doesn't want Steve and Eddie hanging out more or being affectionate? Eddie’s heart races with the anxiety of Jack rejecting him, more so than it did for Steve. 

“Jack, you really like Eddie, right?” Steve asks.

“I love Eddie,” she answers easily. 

It warms Eddie’s heart and allows it to slow a bit.

“How would you feel if Eddie and I spent more time together?”

Her eyebrows furrow and a pout appears. Eddie’s heart slams to a stop.

“Without me?” She asks, sounding sad as can be.

“Well, maybe sometimes, but most of the time we’d like you there too,” Steve tells her softly. 

Her face scrunches up.

“Will you always be kissing?” 

Both Steve and Eddie laugh.

“No, not always. Kissing might be something we start to do more of, though. Are you okay with that? With us spending time together and kissing?” Steve tries to hide the anticipation. 

A thoughtful expression takes over her features.

“So, you'd be like Joyce and Hop?” 

“Yes, but Eddie will still live here and we’ll still live in our apartment. Nothing else will change,” he assures her. 

“Okay,” she shrugs and continues eating.

Steve blinks at her a few times before looking at Eddie. He looks just as surprised.

“O-Okay? That's it?” Steve checks.

Jack gives another little shrug.

“Eddie already told me he loves you,” she says matter-of-factly.

Steve whips his head to look at Eddie. Eddie gives Jack a stare of betrayal. 

“You did?” Steve asks him.

“Uh- y-yeah, I guess technically I did, but I didn't think that's how she’d take it,” Eddie explains quickly. 

Steve cocks an eyebrow for further elaboration. 

“Before we went into your parents’. She asked me if I was being brave because I love you. I didn't know she meant… I thought she would take it in a more platonic sense, but… I guess not,” Eddie is clearly a little flustered.

Steve laughs, to Eddie’s relief. He was half afraid Steve would be mad. 

“Kids tend to be more observant than we give them credit for,” Steve comments.

“What’s pladonick?” Jack asks.

“Platonic, it means being friends,” he tells her.

“I'm really sorry, Stevie,” Eddie frowns.

“What, why?”

“I shouldn't have- that wasn't my place to tell her that,” he sighs.

Eddie is being harder on himself than Steve ever would. He just keeps thinking about the last time he crossed a line and how badly he doesn't want to do that again. 

“Eds, it’s really okay. She asked you about your feelings and you were honest. There's nothing wrong with that,” Steve comforts him. 

“I didn't like out you or something to her?”

To Eddie’s surprise, Steve lets out a small snort.

“No, Jack doesn't really get the concept of coming out. With Robin around being gay has always just been a fact of life. It's not something she’s really ever questioned,” Steve explains with a smile.

Eddie nods thoughtfully.

“I know I’ve said it before, but you have the coolest kid I’ve ever met,” he says.

“Yes, he does,” Jack agrees with a nod.

Steve and Eddie fall into laughter. Dinner moves on to lighter topics. Jack isn't phased when Eddie’s arm ends up around Steve's shoulders. She isn't alarmed when Eddie invades Steve’s personal space for the sake of a joke. Actually, Jack looks happy, she looks normal. She looks like this is everyday life for her. Eddie finds himself hoping that one day it will be.

She looks tiny in the full bed and it swells Eddie’s heart. He and Steve sit on either side of Jack to goodnight her together. Eddie tucks her in on one side while Steve tucks her in on the other. She giggles wildly as they do. They end the entire process by kissing her on either cheek at the same time. Once the door clicks shut, Steve is on Eddie like a starving man who’s just seen a full-course meal. It’s everything. Being in Eddie’s arms, surrounded by nothing but him, and drowning in the feeling of their lips moving together is everything. 

Eddie manages to move them to his bedroom. It’s Steve’s first time getting a good look at it. He imagines it's similar to what Eddie’s room must've looked like in high school. Except, the posters are nicely framed instead of plastered haphazardly on the walls. The surfaces of his dresser and nightstands are cluttered with books and trinkets and pictures of their friends, but not messy. Just like everything else about him, it's the same old Eddie, just more intentional and put together. His queen bed is covered in black bedding that goes with the furniture and frames. The walls are the same lighter tone of gray as the guest room. 

“Sorry, it’s a mess,” Eddie says, embarrassed as he tries to see his room as Steve would.

“Eds, you’ve seen my place. Hell, you've cleaned my place. This isn't a mess. Don't let Jack in here alone for too long, though, or it’ll become one,” Steve chuckles. 

“You have an excuse, you have a kid.”

“You do too,” Steve laughs before stuttering when his words process, “H-have an excuse, I mean.”

“What's that?” Eddie smiles with pink cheeks.

Steve shrugs.

“You’re Eddie. Cluttered, but organized fits you. This whole place fits you,” he says with a fond smile.

It can fit you too. We can make it fit you and Jack, Eddie thinks desperately. He knows it's too soon for that. Far too soon. It’s just so hard to not want more now that he has them. It's impossible not to want them in every aspect of his life. Eddie thinks about coming home from the store to Steve cooking and Jack playing with her little guy. He thinks about them visiting him at work, brightening his day. He imagines bringing Jack to visit Steve at work to brighten his day. 

Eddie Munson has never ached for fatherhood. If anything, he feared it. He fears fucking a kid up beyond repair. He fears becoming his own father. He fears becoming his mother. When he sees Steve, though, he knows he can do it. He wants to do it. Unlike Steve, Eddie is well aware he would never be able to do it alone. He thinks he can do it with Steve. He thinks he wants to try. 

“Before we keep going, I think we should talk about what you expect from me when it comes to Jack,” Eddie suggests hesitantly.

Steve’s brows furrow.

“What do you mean exactly?” He asks. 

Eddie sits on the edge of his bed and pats the space beside him. Steve sits, their thighs pressed together. Eddie instantly takes Steve's hand in his lap. 

“I’ve never done this before. I need to know where the line is so I don't cross it again.”

“Look, Eds, I don't really know where the line is. I haven't done this before either. I think it has to be a continuing conversation. I trust your judgment. The only line you’ve crossed is not trusting me,” Steve says. 

 Eddie sits with that for a moment. 

“So, we’ll just take it one step at a time and figure it out together?” 

“That sounds good to me,” Steve smiles fondly. 

They’re glued together the moment they're under the covers together. In the dark of the room, they indulge in the sloppiest kisses yet. The kind that makes dirty sounds that would cause anyone else to cringe. Hands fly everywhere, taking in every inch of skin under their shirts. Things are just about to reach a tipping point, and both of them can feel it. Steve is about to push things further when they hear a creak. They freeze, waiting for more noise. After a second there’s the click of Eddie’s bedroom door. 

“Daddy?” Jack calls into the room, her voice thick with sleep.

Steve sighs and places his forehead against Eddie’s. Teaching her to knock is going to become a priority, he can feel it.

“Yeah, princess, what's wrong?” He asks gently. 

“The big girl room is scary,” she half whines, “I don't like it by myself.”

He’s going to get up and bring her back to her bed. This way she can learn to sleep in a room by herself and Eddie won't be disturbed in his own bed. He never gets the chance.

“We can't have our girl scared! C’mere, there's plenty of room. You can sleep with us tonight,” Eddie says, rolling over to face her. 

The hallway light silhouettes her small form in the doorway. Eddie holds the blanket up for her to crawl under. She climbs up into the bed, over Eddie, and settles between them. All the while, Steve’s head is spinning from Eddie casually dropping our girl. Eddie turns to face Steve and Jack. His arm stretches out to wrap around both of them. Steve does the same, effectively cocooning Jack between their bodies. She snuggles contentedly into the hold.

“I like it here,” she announces with a sigh.

Eddie can't help beaming, even if no one can see it. Steve feels like he’s vibrating from the amount of affection he has for the two he has his arm around. Having Jack between them allows Steve to feel how tired he is. The comfort of having both Eddie and Jack near relaxes him enough to lean into it.

“Yeah, me too, princess,” Steve answers sleepily.

“I like having you here,” Eddie mumbles just as sleepily. 

“I’m happy we’re all a family now,” she tells them, curling in further. 

Eddie would be lying if he said a couple of tears didn't dampen his pillowcase. He fists Steve’s shirt as he handles the overwhelming emotion. Steve’s arm tightens around them. 

“Me too, sweet girl,” Eddie breathes.

“I couldn't be happier,” Steve admits. 

They fall asleep together. They're a bundle of warmth and love. A strange, disjointed family that works so well because of all the reasons it shouldn't. Steve gets a nice, restful sleep that night. The best sleep he’s had since Jack was born. 

In the morning, Steve blinks awake groggily. It takes him a second to register where he is. It takes another second to register that he’s alone. The sheets are wrinkled and the comforter is thrown back where Jack and Eddie once were. The bedroom door is shut, but beyond it Steve can hear music. It’s a simple tune, with a couple of hiccups here and there that are corrected. Curiously, Steve gets up and wanders to the door. First, he presses his ear against it. The melodic strums of an acoustic guitar come from the living room. 

Steve pads silently down the short hall. He hovers just before the entrance to the living room, listening. 

“Just move your finger right here- there, perfect. At this rate, you won't need me pretty soon,” Eddie’s voice says pleasantly. 

Steve takes a peek and nearly drops to the floor a blubbering mess. Jack sits on the couch, feet dangling. Eddie is kneeling on the ground in front of her with total adoration all over his face. On her lap, Jack has the aged guitar from the wall. Steve’s eyes traverse the white THIS MACHINE SLAYS DRAGONS. Her strumming stops.

“Will you still play music with me even if I don't need you?” She asks with wide hopeful eyes.

“I can't think of anyone else I’d want to play with,” he tells her confidently. 

She breaks out into a wide grin and continues playing. Steve can't bring himself to disturb them. He watches for a while, drinking them in. What a privilege it would be to wake up this way every morning. He watches Eddie give Jack small adjustments and bits of advice. He doesn't have to give her too much considering she’s only six and has been playing less than a year. Then something miraculous happens. Something Steve has seen a million times before, but hits differently this time.

Eddie smiles up at Jack, his teeth flashing. His big eyes overflow with wonder and affection. He takes her hair and throws it up into a bun with the scrunchie on his wrist. She doesn't ever stop playing, she just lets him. Steve realizes that this is it. This is what he wants for the rest of his life. 

Okay, so, Eddie is a little bit terrified for Thanksgiving tomorrow. It’ll all be people he already knows, plus Robin’s parents. Which, if they're anything like Robin, he isn't worried about. No, what he's worried about is Hopper. Scratch that, he’s afraid of Hopper. Since telling everyone they finally got their heads out of their asses Eddie has received comments and jabs here and there about Hopper wanting to have a talk with Eddie. All Eddie can recall is when he picked up Jack at the station. Hopper was… less than welcoming. 

“Relax, he’s just being a dad,” Dustin tells him.

Eddie is tense behind the counter of Mordor Music. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, his black nail polish is chipped from playing guitar this week. It’s why he usually repaints them on the weekends. Max sits in the chair, chin propped up on her hand with her elbow on the counter. She looks as bored as ever. 

Her hair is down today, which is a nice surprise. When teased and prodded she admits to having a date with Lucas after work. Dustin leans on the customer's side of the counter. He has to move out of the way for actual customers here and there, but he’s completely unperturbed by it.

“That's what I’m afraid of,” Eddie says.

“Why are you afraid, because he’s the chief of police and can easily cover up your brutal murder?” Max furrows her brows playfully.

Eddie glares at her. 

“Yeah, something like that, Maxine,” he deadpans. 

“You don't have anything to worry about. Hopper is harmless unless you're like a hardened criminal,” Dustin assured him.

“Hello,” Eddie sticks his hand out to Dustin, “Ex-drug dealer, nice to meet you. And you are?”

Dustin rolls his eyes. Max turns and takes Eddie’s hand, shaking it.

“Tired of this conversation,” she smiles sarcastically. 

“Then you shouldn't mind restocking the pop rock section,” Eddie replies with his own sarcastic smile, shaking her hand with more vigor. 

She leaves to do just that with a playful roll of her eyes. Eddie knows she doesn't actually mind. Max has never complained about having to do her job.

“I’m serious, Eddie, just relax. Everything will be fine. Hopper has already seen you with both Steve and Jack. You have nothing to worry about. He’ll probably just ask you about your intentions or whatever,” Dustin shrugs.

Eddie chews on his bottom lip. He leans his elbows on the counter and pulls some hair in front of his face. There's a need to cover the lifelong plans Eddie has started making that he’s sure are present in his features. Dustin narrows his eyes and leans in further toward Eddie suspiciously.

“What are your intentions?” He questions.

“We just started dating. I don't think there's been time for intentions,” Eddie lies through his hair.

“Yeah, right,” Dustin scoffs, “and I’m a three-headed turtle.” 

Eddie sighs and deflates into his hands, covering his face. He can feel how hot his cheeks are in his palms. 

“I want them to move in with me, but I think it's too soon,” he admits with a muffled voice.

Dustin’s eyebrows shoot up. Eddie looks up at him. It seems he wasn’t expecting that. 

“Shit, I knew you had it bad, but I didn't realize it was that bad,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m… I think I’m done, y’know? I think I found what I didn't even realize I was lookin’ for,” Eddie can't help the honesty that's pouring out now.

“I’m happy for you, man, but just make sure this is something you really want before you take it further,” Dustin warns.

“What d'you mean? Why wouldn't I really want this?” Eddie questions, defenses raising.

Dustin’s hands go up in a small surrender.

“All I’m saying is Jack can be a lot. I love her, but I don't think I could live with her tantrums full time,” he tells Eddie.

“Tantrums? She’s a kid, Dustin, they get upset sometimes,” Eddie shrugs.

“I know, but Jack can really explode. She can get mean if she's angry enough but doesn't know how to express it. It’s definitely gotten better, but I did hear her tell Will he’s a bad friend with a worse haircut like a month ago.”

“You did?” Eddie guffaws, “Why did she say that?”

“She was cranky, it was kinda late. Will wouldn't move from the recliner, she wanted to sleep on it, and they got into a little argument about manners. Point is, Jack tends to hit you where it hurts. Make sure you're ready when it's your turn,” Dustin claps a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

“I think I’ll be okay.”

“Whatever, man. If you ask me, you should be more afraid of Jack than you are of Hopper.”

“Hopper has a gun.”

“Jack doesn't need one.”

“I’m starting to think you're afraid of a six-year-old, Henderson,” Eddie teases.

“I’m not afraid! I just know you. You care about what the people you love think of you. A lot. You need to be prepared for Jack to say hurtful things she doesn't mean at least once.”

“Okay, fine, maybe I’m afraid of the six-year-old and Hopper the same amount,” Eddie concedes.

“I wish I could be there to watch Hopper give you the death stare across the table,” Dustin snorts. 

Eddie groans. Dustin doesn't stay for too long after that. He’s back from school for a short Thanksgiving break. That means parading around to family members who are coming to visit for the holiday. When Max gets done stocking Eddie lets her leave early. It’s pretty dead at this point anyways. Eddie closes early the day before a holiday, something the regulars have figured out. He agonizes over what Hopper could possibly want to talk to him about tomorrow the entire way home. Hell, the entire night. 

Steve picks up Eddie the next day around two in the afternoon. His eyes drag up and down Eddie’s body. Eddie wears a deep maroon turtleneck under his old leather jacket minus the jean vest, slim black jeans, and his ever-present boots. His nails are freshly painted and his hair is tied up into a curly bun on the top of his head. A couple of loose curls frame his face and bangs. Steve can't help the sappy smile that comes to his face. 

“You look amazing,” he tells him honestly. 

“Yeah?” Eddie smiles, “Thanks, you don't look too bad yourself, handsome.”

Steve doesn't think he looks nearly as good as Eddie. He wears an old mustard sweater, a white t-shirt that peaks from under the collar, a lighter-wash pair of jeans that have yet to be stained, and his white sneakers. Every article of clothing is aged either due to the fact that Steve has had it forever, or because it came from goodwill. 

Eddie turns, grabbing the side of his seat, to smile at Jack. She’s buckled into her booster seat, legs kicking slightly. A mustard long sleeve covers her beneath brown corduroy overalls. She has on a pair of black Converse. Her hair is wild, but not frizzy.

“Hey, there, trouble. Don’t you just look adorable?” He greets her.

“Can you give me braids like Max does?” She asks him, ignoring pleasantries. 

“Uh- I dunno if I can do braids, but I can do a different hairstyle that I think you’ll like,” he offers. 

She nods eagerly.

“Alright, give us twenty minutes in my apartment,” Eddie says to Steve. 

Steve sighs but smiles and nods. He parks his car and the three of them go up to Eddie’s apartment. Steve is ordered to wait in the living room. It doesn't take much longer than twenty minutes. He can hear Jack complain about the smell of whatever hairspray Eddie used. When they come back out, Steve grins. Jack’s hair has been fastened into two cinnamon bun-looking mounds on either side of her head like Princess Leia. She beams as she bounces up to Steve.

“Look, Daddy! Eddie said it's the same hair as a really cool princess that knows how to fight and has adventures in outer space!” She enthuses. 

“I love it!” Steve matches her energy and then looks at Eddie, “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“Well, I was watchin’ A New Hope one day and wondered if I could do the buns on my hair. I found a magazine with a tutorial and now I’m a professional,” he explains with a shrug.

“I’d love to see you with them sometime,” Steve teases.

“I think the hairstyle belongs to Jack now,” Eddie chuckles, cheeks pink.

They pile back into the car. Eddie takes care of Jack’s seat. He’s a professional at that too now. Steve needs Jack to either grow another inch or he needs to get her a new booster seat. The last one broke. Her current one is an old hand-me-down that’s a little too wide and covers the buckle. It requires lifting the side to get the seatbelt in. Jack isn't too happy about going from buckling herself in, to someone else doing it for her again.

The drive to the Byers-Hopper household is full of chatter between Eddie and Jack. Steve enjoys listening to them talk to each other about everything and anything. Jack starts telling Eddie about school; she and her teacher can get on each other's nerves, but she’s been getting better at raising her hand instead of just speaking. She tells him about the class goldfish. Then, she says something that furrows Steve’s brows.

“Kacey P. is having her birthday at the bowling alley next weekend. My invitation didn't come yet, but she said the mailman might have lost it.”

Steve’s eyes flash to her in the rearview. It’s clear she’s talking about it to make it seem like it's more okay than it is. She brought it up because it's bothering her, but she doesn't want to admit it. 

“Did she mail out everyone’s invitations?” Steve asks.

Eddie throws him a questioning look. 

“No, she gave them out at school.”

“Isn't Kacey P. one of your best friends?” Steve inquires further.

“Yeah, we play every day at recess.”

“Did she say why she mailed your invitation?”

“No, she just said her parents told her to tell me it was lost by the mailman.”

Eddie’s face twists in frustrated realization. Jack is being purposefully excluded from a kid who is supposed to be her best friend’s birthday party. She doesn't understand what's happening, but she can tell the situation doesn't feel right.

“Huh, okay, well, I can talk to her parents and see if they can send another,” he says.

She seems cheered up by that. Eddie still looks rather upset, but he does a good job schooling his face to push the conversation forward. He starts asking Jack what her favorite subjects are. His heart nearly explodes when she says guitar and piano. 

They end up being the last ones to arrive. Jack enjoys it, though. It just means everyone is there to make a big deal of her arrival and her cool fighter princess hair. Steve introduces Eddie to Robin’s parents. Their names are Melissa and Richard, but everyone calls them Grandma and Grandpa Buck at this point thanks to Jack. They're nice people and Eddie can see Robin in her mom’s eyes. Everything else is her dad. 

Grandma Buck and Joyce are cooking. Occasionally someone else will go in to help and get shooed away. Grandpa Buck and Hopper are drinking beers and talking about sports at the table. Robin, Jonathan, Will, and Max are laughing at something Jack said. They're all spread through the living room. Everyone is dressed just a smidge nicer than they usually would except for Hopper and Grandpa Buck. Both men are a little gruff with a collection of stained shirts and flannels. Steve takes the moment to check in with Eddie.

“Are you really sure you wouldn't rather be with your uncle?” He asks.

“Stevie, there's nowhere else I’d rather be. Besides, Wayne’s working for the holiday pay today,” Eddie tells him. 

Steve smiles at him. He swears smiling wasn't quite this easy before Eddie. Concern takes over Eddie’s face.

“What's up with the whole invitation thing?”

Steve’s smile falters. He tucks his hands beneath his arms, crossing them across his chest in the process. He takes a measured breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. 

“The Prestons are pretty religious people. I don't think they like the whole having a kid out of wedlock thing,” he explains, “They’ve been pretty vocal about it in the past.”

“Sound like dicks.”

“They are,” he snorts, “but those dicks are the parents of Jack’s friend. So, I’m gonna have to make a phone call or two next week.”

Eddie is studying Steve’s face, the only time he’s ever enjoyed studying. He’s thinking about how great of a father Steve is when Robin’s voice calls to them.

“Hey, lovebirds! Are you gonna join the rest of the party or are you gonna stay huddled in your gay corner all night?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but Eddie smiles all goofy-like.

“I guess your gay corner will do,” Eddie quips. 

They end up piling on the couch with the others. Jack is absolutely delighted to have so many people who love her on one couch. When she mentions being a bard, however, she’s all Will’s. They manage to keep each other entertained on that topic for a while. Steve, Eddie, Robin, Max, and Jonathan mostly catch each other up on things.

Eddie has never really had a big family holiday before. He revels in the energy of it. Everyone is happy to be there, to be together. Silence is far from attainable, but that's okay because when the room isn't full of talking it's full of laughter. Until Jack was born, Steve never had a big family holiday either. His holidays were either spent alone or stuck in the mold of the perfect suburban son his parents stuffed him into. As hard as it got, everything got better when Jack arrived. 

Despite everyone else’s best efforts, Steve goes into the kitchen to help. Joyce and Grandma Buck happily let him cut some carrots while they ask how he’s been- how Eddie’s been with sly smiles. He admittedly gushes a little, elated to share how good he is with Jack and how much she loves him. Then how good he is with Steve and how Steve has never had something like this before. He’s never had something where the other person has seemingly been just as crazy about him as he is about them. 

Eddie is in a light-hearted argument with Max and Robin over the best sour candy while Jonathan contends the best candy isn't sour at all. His argument is ignored. 

“Munson,” Hopper says from in front of them.

Eddie’s attention snaps to him in surprise. None of them noticed his approach, they were too caught up in their conversation.

“Let’s take a walk,” Hopper nods towards the door.

Eddie swallows nervously but nods. Max says a low teasing good luck as he stands. Hopper leads Eddie out the front door. They stop a few feet away from it. At first, he just measures Eddie up. Eddie might as well be literally shaking in his boots.

“Look, Chief, you really don't have to worry about Steve and Jack with me-”

“I know that. Is that why you think I brought you out here?” Hopper seems amused, but his face is hard to read.

“Uh- well, yeah. I figured you’d wanna talk about my intentions,” he makes air quotes. 

“I wanna talk about your intentions for that death trap of a van of yours,” Hopper says. 

Eddie takes a moment to absorb that.

“My van?”

“I know a guy over on Maple. Y’know Kenny’s Used Cars?”

Eddie nods.

“He said he’d give you a good offer on a sedan if you trade your van in with him.”

Eddie’s head is spinning a bit. 

“A sedan?”

“Yeah, you’re gonna need one if you’re serious about this.”

It all finally clicks into place. Hopper doesn't want to threaten or intimidate Eddie. Hopper wants to help him make adequate space for Steve and Jack in his life. It warms Eddie’s heart and floods him with relief, but he does well not to show it. At least not too much. 

“I'm serious,” he says with full conviction.

“Then the van has to go.”

“I’ll go to Kenny’s next week,” he decides.

Hopper nods, satisfied with that plan. They stand there for a few moments, regarding each other. Hopper wets his lips as he seems to decide something himself. He claps a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

“You've been good for them.”

Just as quickly as it begins, the moment passes. Hopper is heading back inside and Eddie follows, struggling to process what just happened. 

The rest of the evening goes by smoothly. It's a lot of sharing stories, reveling in nostalgia, and laughter. Eddie loves spending holidays with Wayne, but this is so much more vibrant. He wonders if it's too soon to invite Wayne to the next one. He has a feeling he’d get on well enough with Hopper and Grandpa Buck. Then Eddie thinks about Wayne with Jack. He melts. Once Wayne sees how Eddie is with her and meets her himself, Eddie knows he’ll love her. She’ll likely love him as well. As he looks over Steve and Jack he smiles fondly at the thought of all of them with Wayne.

Eddie and Jack convince Steve to sleep over at Eddie’s. It doesn't take much. Jack ends up sleeping between them again, her hair still up. She refused to take the buns out, especially after Eddie showed her the fighter princess in question. 

“I like that she’s rude to the boys,” Jack comments midway through A New Hope.

They end up staying through the weekend. Eddie teaches Jack more about D&D, he lets Jack play his old guitar that adorns the wall, and Steve watches them happily. He’s even able to take a few naps. Sunday afternoon they left after as many hugs and kisses as needed to draw out their goodbye an extra ten minutes. 

On Monday Eddie drives to Kenny’s Used Cars. Kenny himself is nice enough. Although, Eddie has a feeling if he didn't have Hopper’s name in his arsenal Kenny would be a lot more sleazy. There are a few options that Eddie can afford, but only one holds his attention. It’s the least rusted with the least amount of miles on it. Eddie drives off the lot with a 1981 Chevrolet Chevette. It has a red-orange body with rust eating the edges of the wheel wells. The interior is a gray fabric. It’s clean but stained here and there. She runs and drives smoothly. Less sputtering than the van has been giving him, that's for sure. 

Eddie thought he would be more heartbroken at the loss of his van. He thought it would be harder than it was. The decision was simple and easy. The van wasn't safe for Jack and relying on everyone else for rides when he’s with her is getting old. Especially if he’s going to be with her even more. The Chevy can seat her comfortably and safely. It isn't until he’s home and sees it in his parking spot that it really hits him.

 The last identifying piece of who he was is now gone. People will no longer see his shitty van coughing through Hawkins and remember all the drugs he’s sold them. People will see his old red Chevy and know he’s different now. He’s thinking about his family now. Eddie Munson isn't who he was before, even if bits of that person still remains, and he finds comfort in that.

<< Page Three | Series Photo Album | AO3 | Page Five>>

[queer-shedim]

Hi, I'm Luka, and this is my story.

If you're confused, it's because I was Oli when this happened and have changed my name.

Since my story came up, I wanted to post my perspective. Please please message me if you have questions or comments. I am willing to have calm conversations about nearly anything.

Never once did I think this had anything to do with me being queer.

This was simply a difference in beliefs that got well out of hand.

One of the reasons I fell in love with Judaism is the openness to discussion. The draw of the concept of the Talmud was groundbreaking in my little universe where my own family exorcised me and kicked me out of Sunday School for asking too many questions.

I admit I did wrong in this as well. I looked up to her and really wanted to be able to learn from her. I understand it is not her job to educate me, and I would have respected her saying she didn't want to discuss. And I would have respected her not engaging in my discussions.

I am not proud of my reaction, but I stand by standing up for myself. I am the proud owner of family heirlooms and I do not view my display of them as religious. Bringing greenery and lights into the home during a cold, dark winter is a non-religious (ad it predates modern religion) tradition of my German heritage to bring joy and warmth into the home.

My great grandmother hand made a miniature pine tree and all of the tiny ornaments she made herself. It was the first thing my grandmother gave to me when I moved out.

The other is a memorial ornament of my grandfather who died in 2020.

The discussion began with me asking for others to offer opinions on leveling with my history and my new religion during my first winter of study. I was open to hearing others thoughts. I wanted a discussion.

I did not expect someone to take my comment(s) in such bad faith or to tell me that (not word for word, but it seemed to be the vibe) even considering keeping these things means I'm not Jewish enough.

My Judaism is between me, my rabbi, and Hashem.

And we spent a lot of time talking about this after temple, and we came to our own conclusion. But understanding other forms and beliefs of and in Judaism is extremely important to the culture and study of the life I am actively choosing. Other people deserve and are entitled to their own system of beliefs.

I had questions. I asked this group specifically to hear their more conservative takes on the matter. I'm converting into reform and often feel it's not observant enough. My partner is reform, my temple is reform, so I wanted to get other views. Again, it is not anyone's job to teach me just because they're Jewish. Which is likely why there was very little response to most of my inquiries and is very understandable.

In summary:

- i miss you guys

- I'm am very sorry, though I have been told my many that I shouldn't be apologizing. I do think this particular situation was (at minimum) partially my fault

- She was supposed to be on hiatus. She had other things happening in her life and the misinterpretation of my statement must have been a straw to break the camels back and for that I am sorry.

- I'm extremely sad that I am not the only person who has had an experience like this with her.

- I've wanted to work this out for a long time.

[globalworship]

A Visit [by Angels to Mary in Community] (JA Swanson serigraph)

A Visit by John August Swanson, 1995 Image size: 38½” x 14½” Serigraph, 61 colors printed Edition of 250, sold out

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Artist’s Notes

Visit of the Angels (Acrylic on board, 1992), was one of my most elaborate paintings and when I printed it as a serigraph edition it became the most elaborate one that I have done. It presents Mary as a member of a community in which each cares for each other. Usually Mary is represented in paintings by herself and more isolated. I wanted to paint a picture showing her as part of a larger group, village, or community, as she would have been in real life. Her formation and her character would have been formed by the people around her and by the Jewish religion and stories. The African proverb: “It takes a whole village to raise a child” is a timeless one and I am sure that it would have been part of the way things were done in these Biblical times.

In thinking about the people at that time, very few would have had the chance to learn to read. Mary would not have been literate. The demands of everyday life and survival would not have allowed her enough time for that. But she and all the people in the village would have other knowledge, knowledge of oral traditions, knowledge of all the customs, and in great depth. The many stories that I have represented on the walls of the buildings would have been known and thought about by all the people in the village. This knowledge would have been a part of their connections with the ancestors and distant relatives. I have drawn 25 scenes of these Biblical stories to capture their complexity which can be compared to a woven fabric with many threads.

The people are all doing work that helps each other. They are interested in and caring for each other, to make sure of the survival of the village as a whole. All these works are called Mitzvah, the Hebrew word which means to do a good deed or to help others. Each of the groupings of people is doing some work that connects them to or helps the village. Part of the tradition of the Mitzvah is that the angels of God would somehow bless the people who do their work using their talents and doing the best they possibly can for their community.

In many spiritual traditions the philosophy is that the sacred comes through ordinary life. I have tried to show that in this painting. All the people are doing their everyday work that has no grandeur or representation of power over others. So even Mary as the young woman feeding the chickens and sweeping the roadway is the first to be blessed by the angels. They would then go to bless each of the other people in their everyday tasks. I also wanted to show the important scene of the angels announcing to Mary the news of God coming to earth and asking her to participate in this event. The angels continue to visit all of us in our everyday lives, to ask us to allow God to be in our lives and to honor God’s presence in the creation around us.

I had made many drawings considering this scene of the Annunciation. I wanted to connect it to the other paintings and serigraphs of the TRIPTYCH and so I chose the finished drawing to be the format of the elongated shape. The first attempt was a painting called THE ANNUNCIATION, 23” x 7” in 1992. It was more at dusk or early evening and the houses in the village had only elaborate decorations. After I completed this I decided to try to draw it again but have it as a day scene so that I could show more varieties of chores and work that people are doing. I also felt that instead of using the decorations I would like to put small miniatures that would show the oral traditions and stories of their ancestors. This new painting was started in that same year and completed in 1992. I painted it in a larger size (40” x 14”) so that I could work the very fine miniatures into the village scene without straining my eyes.

In 1995 I decided to rework the image into a serigraph called A VISIT. There were changes made in the drawing and colors were changed in the serigraph, differing from the painting. It took me eight months to complete this very complex printing and I drew a stencil for each of the 61 colors printed. https://johnaugustswanson.com/catalog/a-visit/

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 I was delighted to meet John, one of my favorite artists, a few years before he died in 2021.

John’s studio colleagues continue to promote his art here: https://www.facebook.com/JohnAugustSwansonStudio

“His art reflects the strong heritage of storytelling he inherited from his Mexican mother and Swedish father. John Swanson’s narrative is direct and easily understood. He addresses himself to human values, cultural roots, and his quest for self-discovery through visual images.”  http://www.johnaugustswanson.com/

Remembering John August Swanson: a life dedicated to art, faith and justice https://www.americamagazine.org/arts-culture/2021/09/23/john-august-swanson-death-art-241485

The holy simplicity of artist John August Swanson https://www.christiancentury.org/article/features/holy-simplicity-artist-john-august-swanson

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One of the limited edition original serigraphs with this "Visit" image is currently for sale here, price not listed. https://www.eyekons.com/john_swanson_serigraphs/swanson_out_of_print_serigraphs_available

As well as his original serigraphs, you can buy many posters he created - most are $15. https://johnaugustswanson.com/product-category/posters/

[kjack89]

Propaganda

Happy (early) Halloween!

Technically a companion to the other fics I’ve written about Enjolras and Grantaire’s son Max, but you don’t need to have read any of those to read and (hopefully) enjoy this. Also inspired by my drabble from a few weeks ago.

Modern AU, established relationship, kidfic fluff.

“Dad?” Max asked, setting his spoon down into the melted brown puddle in his bowl that had at one point earlier that evening been chocolate ice cream. “Is Daddy gonna be home for Halloween?”

Grantaire’s forehead puckered as he looked at his son, a perfect Enjolras in miniature, from his unruly blond curls right down to the serious expression he currently wore. “You bet he is,” he said firmly, because that was their arrangement.

When Grantaire had broached the topic of having children, Enjolras had been hesitant to agree, but not for the reasons Grantaire had initially expected: Enjolras traveled frequently for work, and that was unlikely to stop in the near future, and he didn’t want to place the burden of raising their kid fully on Grantaire. “We’ll make it work,” he had assured Enjolras at the time, “provided you’re home for the big stuff, and for holidays.”

Of course, getting Enjolras to agree to what constituted a holiday had been a struggle in and of itself (“The High Holy Days?” Enjolras had repeated incredulously. “Neither you nor I are even Jewish!”), but they had landed on a list in the end, and that list, at Grantaire’s insistence, had included Halloween. 

“Why do you ask, Squirt?” Grantaire asked as their son fiddled with his spoon. 

“I want him to see my costume,” Max told him earnestly, and Grantaire smiled with relief that it wasn’t something more serious than that. 

That smile quickly turned into panic when he glanced at the calendar and realized that he had less than a week to get Max a costume. “Uh, speaking of, what do you wanna go as for Halloween this year?”

“Chase,” Max told him, and Grantaire frowned.

“Chase?” he repeated blankly. 

Max nodded. “Yeah,” he said brightly. “From Paw Patrol.”

Grantaire blanched. His conditions for childrearing may have included having Enjolras home for various holidays, but Enjolras’s had staunchly included raising their child to be socially conscious. As a result, their kid was a walking embodiment of everything Fox News feared children were becoming, including with a rudimentary understanding of Critical Race Theory, something that millions of children in America had never and would never be taught in any public school in the entire country.

That also meant that Enjolras had very specific guidelines for what type of entertainment Max could consume, especially before they were able to have what promised to be a long and involved conversation about the role of the military-entertainment complex and the normalization of extrajudicial policing, guidelines that distinctly forbid some popular children’s tv series. Including, especially, Paw Patrol.

Grantaire stared at his son, who seemed completely oblivious to the internal struggle Grantaire was facing right now. Because on the one hand, he understood Enjolras’s concerns and it was an easy enough thing to enforce, and so he should probably nip this in the bud sooner rather than later.

And on the other hand, however this turned out, it was bound to be hilarious.

“Have you, um, been watching Paw Patrol?” he asked cautiously. “You can be honest, I’m not gonna be mad, I promise.”

Max shook his head. “No,” he said.

“Not even when you’re at Uncle Marius’s?” Grantaire asked. Marius, as the only other one of their friends with kids around Max’s age, watched Max a few days a week when Grantaire had to work, and had already suffered the wrath of Enjolras once by letting Max watch Dumbo without properly decrying the stereotypes of the Black-coded crows.

Again Max shook his head. “No, we normally watch Sesame Street.”

Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief, because Enjolras would actually have murdered Marius if that had been the case. “Oh, good, on PBS?”

“HBO.”

Grantaire winced. “We’ll save the conversation about public financing for children’s educational programming for when you’re older.” He looked at Max closely, and decided his best course of action was to take no action at all. “Well, we’ll see what they’ve got at the store, alright?”

Max just shrugged. “Ok,” he said brightly. “Can I go pick out a book to read?”

“You sure can,” Grantaire said, feeling like he’d somehow dodged a bullet and hoping beyond hope that whatever costumes were left at the store did not involve Paw Patrol or police of any kind.

----------

His hopes were dashed sooner than expected, as the next day Max came home from preschool where they had spent craft time making masks for their Halloween costumes, and his was unmistakably a dog with a tiny police hat drawn on clumsily.

Grantaire got Max set up with some coloring and activity books before calling Max’s teacher, Musichetta, ready to give her a piece of his mind.

Or at least, a piece of the best Enjolras impression he could muster.

“Grantaire,” Musichetta said when she answered, sounding surprised. “Is everything alright with Max?”

“Physically, yes,” Grantaire said, perching on the kitchen counter. “Spiritually…”

He trailed off and Musichetta sighed in such a way that Grantaire was certain she had rolled her eyes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or am I supposed to guess?” she asked dryly. “Because frankly, I get enough of playing guessing games from the children.”

Grantaire laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “But, uh, actually, it’s about Max’s Halloween mask that he made today.”

Musichetta was quiet for a moment as if trying to remember what mask Max had made. “Chase from Paw Patrol?” she said finally, and a little warily. “Do I even want to know what’s wrong with that?”

“Do you want my answer, or Enjolras’s answer?”

“Oh, God.” Grantaire heard the telltale sound of Musichetta pouring herself a cup of coffee before she asked tiredly, “How much am I going to wish this coffee was wine?”

Grantaire considered it. “More than a little, less than a lot.” She muttered something obscene under her breath and he tried not to laugh, schooling his expression into something serious. “Honestly, I’m a little concerned about the sudden interest in Paw Patrol. That’s a TV that Enjolras and I decided not to let him watch due to it being—”

“Don’t say it,” Musichetta groaned.

“—Paw-paganda,” Grantaire finished with a smirk, waiting for her resulting sigh before continuing, more seriously, “So we know it’s not something that he picked up at home, and that leads me to think he may have picked it up at school.”

“Well, no shit Sherlock,” Musichetta said bluntly. “I think at least half the kids have Paw Patrol backpacks or lunch boxes. And Max is smart enough to be able to figure out what Paw Patrol is with even less context than his friends talking about it.”

Grantaire had to chuckle slightly at that, because she wasn’t wrong, but… “Fair enough,” he said, “and make no mistake, he gets that from me, but that still doesn’t explain how my son went from learning vaguely about Paw Patrol through his friends to deciding he wants to be one of the main characters for Halloween. Or, for that matter, why you didn’t discourage him from doing so.”

“Probably because it’s not my job to discourage your son from his interest in a television show for children, no matter how questionable your husband may find the portrayal of the fictional police dog,” Musichetta said with a weary sort of patience. “And as to deciding he wanted to be Chase for Halloween, have you asked Max that question? Because his answer will probably prove more illuminating than mine.”

Grantaire was silent for a long moment. “Am I the worst parent in the world for not even thinking of asking my own damn kid why he wanted to be Chase from Paw Patrol?”

“Worst? No,” Musichetta said. “But you’re probably not bringing home any ‘Parent of the Year’ awards either.”

He barked a laugh and ran a hand across his face. “Harsh but fair.”

Musichetta’s voice softened. “Look, you have a good kid, and you and Enjolras are doing a really good job of raising him to be conscientious and equity-minded. I’m sure whatever reason he had for wanting to be a fictional canine cop for Halloween, it’s not going to undo any of that.”

“Thanks Musichetta,” Grantaire said. “I’ll stop harassing you now.”

Musichetta laughed. “Honestly I wish all my conversations with parents could go as nicely as this one did.”

Grantaire winced. “I can only imagine,” he said before hanging up and looking carefully over at where his son was still studiously coloring, seemingly without a care in the world. 

He took a deep breath before sliding off the counter and heading over to sit down next to Max at the kitchen table. “Hey buddy, can we talk real quick?” he asked. Max shrugged, not looking up from his coloring book, and Grantaire took another deep breath before starting, carefully, “I want to talk about your Halloween costume.” That got Max’s attention, and he set his crayon down as he looked up at Grantaire with wide blue eyes. “So do you remember Daddy teaching you what ACAB means?”

Max nodded enthusiastically. “All cops are bastards!” he practically cheered, and Grantaire grinned.

“Darn right,” he said, his smile fading as he then asked, “And you know that Chase from Paw Patrol is a cop, right?”

Again Max nodded, this time with less enthusiasm. “Yeah.”

Grantaire looked expectantly at him. “So what does that make him?”

Max screwed his face up as he thought about it, then he brightened. “A bastard!”

“You’re exactly right, buddy,” Grantaire said, nodding, and his brow furrowed as he looked at his son closely. “Ok, so, why do you want to go as a bastard for Halloween?”

“Because I wanna be like Daddy.”

It was literally the last thing Grantaire was expecting, and he stared open-mouthed at Max before recovering. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said slowly.

Max shrugged, picking up his crayon again. “Well, you call Daddy a dirty bastard all the time,” he reasoned innocently.

All the blood drained from Grantaire’s face because, well, yeah, he did. Almost always jokingly and apparently less out of Max’s earshot than he had thought. “Well, um,” he started, grasping at anything to say to make this better. “Yes, I do sometimes call Daddy that, but, um, that’s not really what I mean when I say that.”

Max blinked up at him in confusion and Grantaire winced, wondering how in the hell he was supposed to explain his and Enjolras’s way of teasing each other to a four-year-old. “Sometimes adults call each other names when they’re joking. Like a nickname.”

“So Daddy’s nickname is bastard?” Max asked.

Grantaire made a face. “Not...quite,” he said, before deciding to try something different. “So Daddy may be a bastard sometimes, but that doesn’t mean going as a cop for Halloween is going as your Daddy. Because Daddy is a bastard but he’s not a cop.” Max was staring at him like he was completely lost and Grantaire winced again. “It’s like...you know how all squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares?” Max shook his head and Grantaire sighed. “Not at that part of geometry yet, huh. Ok, well…” He cast around for another example. “Ok, it’s like broccoli.”

Max wrinkled his nose. “Ewww,” he said, drawing the syllable out, and Grantaire smiled with relief.

“Exactly,” he said. “You don’t like broccoli. And broccoli is a vegetable. But there are vegetables you like, right? Like you like green peppers, and carrots—”

Max nodded seriously. “So some cops are good.”

Grantaire blanched. “No,” he said quickly. “No, uh, that is, uh, not– not where this was supposed to be going.” He ran a hand across his face again. “No, um, what I meant is, broccoli is a vegetable. But not all vegetables are broccoli, right? Like, you wouldn’t call spinach broccoli, right?”

Max giggled. “No.”

“And you wouldn’t call tomatoes broccoli, and they’re a vegetable.”

“Tomatoes are a fruit,” Max told him seriously.

Grantaire took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. “You know what, squirt, you’re absolutely right, but here in the United States of America, the Supreme Court – you remember Daddy talking about the Supreme Court? They decided that tomatoes are vegetables, so for the purpose of this conversation, how about we pretend, ok?”

Max shrugged. “Ok.”

“Ok, so tomatoes are vegetables, and…” He trailed off. “I don’t even remember where I was going with this.” He looked at his son, who, judging by the way he was shifting in his seat, was rapidly losing interest in this conversation. “You know what? Let’s try something different.”

----------

“Daddy!” Max screamed at the top of his lungs, launching himself at Enjolras the moment he walked in the door.

Enjolras groaned as he scooped Max up, carefully shifting his bag so that he could hold both child and bag without dropping either. “Hey, buddy,” he said tiredly, kissing Max’s cheek. “I’m really glad to see you, too.”

He crossed to Grantaire, a slow smile erasing all the exhaustion from his face as he looked at him. “And hello to you, too,” he murmured, before leaning in and kissing him.

“Gross,” Max giggled, squirming until Enjolras set him down on the ground, at which point he ran excitedly back to his toys.

Grantaire rolled his eyes affectionately, grabbing Enjolras by the shirt collar to pull him into another kiss. “For what it’s worth, I’m really glad to see you as well,” he said.

Enjolras smiled before setting his bag down and groaning, rolling his shoulders to relieve them of tension. “Dare I ask why our son is dressed as a pig?” he asked conversationally as Grantaire went to pour them both glasses of wine.

“It’s his Halloween costume,” he told Enjolras, passing him a glass of wine.

Enjolras arched an eyebrow as he took in the bright pink outfit complete with fake plastic pig nose and ears and curly tail poking out of his pink sweatpants. “And why is our son going as a pig for Halloween?”

Grantaire took a sip of wine before assuring him, “Oh, he’s not a pig.”

“He’s not.”

“No,” Grantaire said sweetly, before raising his voice to call to Max, “Sweetheart, why don’t you tell Daddy what you’re going as for Halloween?”

Max beamed up at them. “I’m you!”

Enjolras’s expression went from amused to confused. “I’m a pig?” he asked Grantaire in an undertone.

Grantaire smirked. “No, you’re a bastard.”

Enjolras frowned. “I missed something.”

“Yes you did,” Grantaire agreed, kissing him once more, but instead of laughing, Enjolras’s expression fell slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Grantaire frowned. “What?” he said, taking another sip of wine. “Don’t be. You’re here for the important part.”

Enjolras looked over at where Max was playing. “I feel like I’m not,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras shrugged. “I just feel like there’s so much that I’m missing out on,” he said tiredly. “The least of which is whatever happened that led to our son dressing as a pig for Halloween.”

“If it makes you feel better, the easiest explanation is not exactly a stellar parenting moment for me,” Grantaire told him with a half-smile, one that faded when it wasn’t returned. “Well, there’s an easy solution for that, you know.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “To feeling like I’m missing out on things, or to your lack of stellar parenting moments?” he asked, clearly aiming for a joke but not even bothering to wait to see if it landed. “Look, I know you’re going to tell me that I should be home more often, and if you’re not happy with our arrangement—”

“I have no issues with our arrangement,” Grantaire returned, a little coolly. “You’re the one who doesn’t seem happy with how things are right now, and I’m just pointing out an obvious solution.”

Enjolras sighed, looking back over at Max. “I’m not unhappy, per se,” he hedged. “I just – I don’t want to miss this.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, and he nudged Enjolras gently with his elbow. “For what it’s worth, I know at least one kid dressed as a pig who would be really happy if you were home more.”

“Oh, just a kid dressed as a pig?” Enjolras asked with a smile, wrapping an arm around Grantaire’s waist. “Not, say, my husband of six years?”

“Who, me? Perish the thought.” Grantaire took another swig of wine before adding contemplatively, “We’d probably end up divorced if you started spending too much time at home.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed, and his grip around Grantaire’s waist tightened. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire told him, as sincerely as he could. “Besides, there’s no way I would divorce you.”

Enjolras set his glass of wine down on the counter to wrap both his arms around Grantaire’s waist from behind, resting his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Because you love me too much?” he asked, his voice low in Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire let out a hum of agreement. “That too, I suppose,” he said, turning his head to kiss Enjolras’s cheek before smiling and adding, “I was thinking more that I’ve got four more years until I can take half your assets in the divorce.”

Enjolras snorted a laugh. “Asshole.”

Grantaire laughed. “Careful,” he warned, leaning his head against Enjolras’s chest, “or our son’s going to want to dress as that for next Halloween.”

He couldn’t see Enjolras’s face from his angle, but he knew him well enough to tell that he furrowed his brow at that. “Have you been calling me a pig while I’ve been away?” Enjolras asked, a teasing lilt to his accusation.

“No,” Grantaire told him, honestly. “I’ve been calling you a bastard.”

Enjolras laughed lightly at that. “Fair enough,” he murmured, kissing the top of Grantaire’s head. “But I’m not sure I follow the correlation between that and Max dressing as a pig.”

Grantaire tilted his head back to capture Enjolras’s lips in a kiss. “Don’t worry,” he assured him teasingly, “I’ll explain it to you when you’re older.”

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

Atrium - Part Two

Part two of the Library AU for @mistkissedmoon 

Part one

————–

Jason walked under the pyramid skylights in the atrium. There was a warm glow filtering in through the large windows on the ceiling. It touched each aisle, filling the rich mahogany bookshelves in turn with sunlight. Funny. It often seemed as though rays of light could only travel through muted grey clouds. Where the library and the manor were concerned. And much of Gotham.

But now, it was radiant. The place hadn’t gotten as much foot traffic or attention in recent years. Though since Raven had come around, it already looked brighter. Alive, even.

It moved him to see the place like this. She had done a fantastic job so far. Jason knew that there was something about her. He could tell from the first time he looked at her that she had come to Wayne Manor with a purpose. Despite the initial mishap about what that purpose entailed, he knew he was right.

Oh.

Speak of the she-devil and she might appear.

Jason could see the slim contour of her body. It was bent toward the desk by the fireplace in the front of the room. Thick, black framed glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose. Fair fingers twining the cord of the old rotary phone as she spoke. She nodded, no doubt, agreeing with the words uttered by the party on the other line. Her profile turned. She was facing him as she replaced the filigree gold and white handset on the switch hook. Scribbling something down quickly. Rachel tapped her cheek twice with the arm of the glasses, before setting them down on the desk.

Black kitten heels echoed through the lofty space, as she drifted over to him. In her black button-down and dark wash denim, she was every bit the picture of casual meets sexy-sophisticated. “Jason.” She had at last dropped the formalities with him. This was something he was increasingly grateful for. Rachel extended an arm with a bag in hand. “Here, for all your efforts.”

“Well, what’s this?” He asked. His fingers furled with deviousness, as he peered into the paper bag peace-offering. Appearing much more enthusiastic, than he should have been, for whatever she handing him. “Looks like I’m getting my compensation in the form of -” He paused. “Is it a severed head? From one of those useless volunteers?”

And surprising him once more, she actually let out a little laugh. “It’s actually lunch. My lunch.” He motioned for her to elaborate, his face split into its usual grin. “Well, Jason. I was wondering if you would split a sandwich with me.”

The grin faltered.

Another fragment of the veneer that kept him concealed, chipped away. There was a surprising amount of vulnerability in that simple request. And in Rachel that moment. She was just a girl standing before a boy asking him if he would… split a sandwich with her. That was it. Yet, he found himself dumbfounded - unable to speak. And it was crazy. It was crazy that a simple request would render him speechless. That he was nearly incapacitated by a single utterance from her. He cleared his throat and repeated her question. “A sandwich - you want me to have your… sandwich?”

Rachel stared honestly and earnestly into Jason’s uncertain and uneasy blue. “Yes…” She nodded. “I get it - Alfred’s food is legendary. Even I know this, with my limited experience with his repertoire… But, I hoped you might still consider it.”

Jason shook his head immediately. “No - no - I… it’s not -” He paused. Then, he tried once more. “Rachel, I would love to share your sandwich.”

The two of them found themselves seated on the hard ground beneath the dark wooden bookcases. Their bodies leaned back on long ladders. Such ladders were normally used for ascending to higher learning. Which, of course, one could take quite literally. After all, wasn’t that the supposed purpose of a library? To allow one to obtain things that appeared out of reach - to make them out of reach no longer.

Maybe this was why it was there they sat. To eat two halves of a pastrami sandwich out of a paper bag.

Jason didn’t mind sitting on the floor at all. He had found it difficult to notice anything aside from the girl next to him, and the richness of the meal she was sharing with him. If Rachel was experiencing discomfort, she hadn’t felt the need to mention it either.

Yet, just across the way from where Rachel had come, was the desk. Not far from it, a ring of comfortable leather chairs situated near the grandfather clock. But, this seemed more fitting. Jason couldn’t shelf certain thoughts in his head. About how normal this seemed. The two of them at ease with one another like this, in one of his favorite rooms in the manor.

“Here…” She fished into the wax paper, and passed him one of the two halves of pickle. “Cheers.” Rachel touched hers to his, a little laughter in the depth of her indigo eyes, and she took a big bite.

Jason took a little bite of his own. “This was, uh, really good, Rachel…” He swallowed.

“Don’t mention it.” She licked the juice from her lips slowly. Unconsciously, his pupils traced her pink tongue.

“I’ve never had a sandwich like this one.” Jason told her. It was true - in some ways more than others. “Did you make it?” He asked her curiously. He was trying not to appear as though he was prying. But he was.

He definitely was.

“That’s because it’s special.” She tilted her head towards him. He could see her loosening up. Her left arm looped through a rung on the ladder. “And no, I bought it. I get these sandwiches from a little store.” The purple-haired girl took another bite of the vert, vinegared vegetable between her fingers. “This hole in the wall Jewish deli my mother used to bring me to when I was young. She’s Jewish.” Rachel’s throat moved as she gulped down a piece. “Every time I need a little pick-me-up, I stop there.” She gestured with the remaining piece of pickle. “Sometimes, I miss it… Those easier times.”

The entire time she spoke, Jason listened to her with rapt attention. For a split second, he stared off into nought. He hadn’t known any of that. Or much of anything about Rachel, really. He hadn’t asked. Until now, he hadn’t asked. But, he knew - he wanted to ask. He wanted to know her. If she was willing, he wanted to know her. But - one thing in particular stood out to him. “Why would you need a pick-me-up?” Rachel stared at the half-eaten pickle in her hand. She took a few thoughtful bites. And chewed it slowly and finished it. “Rachel?”

She turned to him, a somber half smile on her face. “I don’t… know what I’m doing, Jason.”

“What are you talking about, Rachel?” He shook his head. Rachel was the best thing that ever happened to this library. And the single best thing he had seen walk through the manor doors in a long while. She didn’t even know. “That makes no sense to me.”

“Correction - I meant - at all. I don’t know what I’m doing at all…” Rachel sipped from a water bottle, shaking her head slowly. “I mean look around. I can barely find my way around most days and I’m supposed to be the head of the project…” Her voice lowered to a murmur that he could just make out. He slid his own ladder closer, he didn’t want to miss it. “This place, this library - it’s the most amazing private library I’ve ever been in.” Her arms widened to denote its vastness. “It’s been my dream to do a project of this scale. But, this is Wayne Manor - I think I’m in over my head.”

“That's it, Roth.” Jason said seriously and then, he stood up. He dusted himself off and waited. When she didn’t join him, he gave her a quizzical stare. Still seated, she gawked up at him. He tapped his foot, impatiently. “Come on.”

“Come on? Come on, where?” Rachel sounded skeptical. He held out a hand. She lingered for 3 seconds, before she took it. And he gently pulled her to standing, her ponytail fluid with motion; Rachel was within inches of his lips. He followed her line of sight to his mouth. Their warm breath mingled for several moments. Rachel broke first. And she glanced off in the distance, blinking to refocus her gaze. Her other hand slid slowly down his bicep. After a second, his arm reluctantly released her waist. Jason grasped her hand tighter, his fingers weaving tightly into hers.

“I… want to show you something.” He explained.

“Okay…?” She agreed. Though he could tell by the twinkle of mirth in her eyes, that she was more than curious.

“So let’s go - right now.” Without any more warning, he broke into a run. His long legs forced her to sprint along behind him. As he ran, he marveled at his surroundings. Rachel was right, even though he grew up here, the place was truly massive. Like a maze almost. With multiple floors and multiple wings. It had several staircases in each wing and on opposite sides of the atrium.

But its size allowed it to contain its fair share of secrets.

Including his own.

After running for a couple of minutes, darting around shelves, around lamps, and dodging boxes and a book cart, she finally called over the wind in their ears. “Jason, where are we going?” Finally, after two more lefts, he stopped. They were both panting, but he was excited. To show her. “W-what… is this?” They stood before what looked like a large wooden cupboard or pantry.

“You’ll see, Rachel.” He said in lieu of an explanation. “I want to see if I can still get in; it’s been a little while.” He dropped her hand to finger the outside of the cupboard. “Ah!” He exclaimed, as he pried it open. The door opened with a creak. It wasn’t a cupboard at all, it looked like something else entirely. There were pulleys and cables. A small platform. It was large enough to crawl into. It looked like a miniature lift, but not quite.

Rachel was confused, as she watched. “Jason… what is it? I don’t -”

“Shh… it’s a library…” He put a finger to her lips. “And this… is a secret.”

——————-

He stroked a path down her mouth, before he let his fingers fall off the slope of her chin. They silently took each other in for several moments, before he turned back towards the dark, half-sized room.

“It’s my little hideaway - from when I was first taken in as a kid…” Jason offered. “It’s a dumbwaiter - for servants to leave food for anyone in here. All so they could eat without ever having to leave.” Rachel slowly nodded, taking the contraption in, as she peered inside. “I think over the years, it’s been forgotten…” He had never told anyone about this before. But, he was telling Rachel. “I used to have hidden spots all over the manor and all over this place. But this one, was my favorite…” He smirked. “No one ever thought to check the library for a scoundrel like me.” He snorted.

Rachel smiled. She watched him closely before she asked a question. “Why was it your favorite?”

“I liked getting lost in here - in the library.” He shrugged, his feet shuffling. “I would get lost in here for hours reading or thinking… When I was feeling unsure, or like I didn’t belong, I would come here… I’m still glad for it, this place taught me a lot.”

“What… did it teach you?” Her face mystified and awed by his confession.

“Many things. But mostly, that I was wrong.” Jason admitted. “I didn’t need to be in some hole in the wall. I did belong - I was exactly where I was supposed to be.” Jason faced her, his hand on her own. “And so are you.”

She glanced at the dumbwaiter, processing this. Her face angled back toward the ground, before she came up, with a wistful stare.

“I don’t want to say… I get it or I understand… As no one ever quite can - get it - I mean.” Rachel tried. She licked her lips. Rachel hesitantly reached up and skimmed his face with her index and middle fingers.

“Yeah… Tell me about it. Everyone says that, but the truth is, they really don’t.” Jason nodded, he was grateful for this. He was glad that she wasn’t one for generic replies, especially to his admission. But truly, if anyone could grasp what he was saying, he felt she would.

“What I didn’t say before was, well… was.” Jason waited patiently for her to elaborate. “My mother… She was Jewish. "I lost my parents - too…” Oh. He felt a turning in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t hesitate and he pulled her close. Rachel froze, before she settled into his arms.

When he let her go, she spoke again. “Going to get a pastrami sandwich with her, is one of the last true, dependable memories I have of her.” Rachel’s voice wavered. But then, after a moment, it sounded full of something akin to hope. Or was it acceptance? “It’s almost like it gives me guidance, or answers to questions I can’t ask her… It… fills something inside me. More than an ordinary meal does.”

“Food for the soul.” Jason agreed. She did understand… She really did. He knew it as he saw Rachel’s deep sparkling eyes search his.

“But, like you, I found family in unexpected places… It’s so much more than blood ties, isn’t it?” She gave him a soft smile.

“Yes.” Jason thought of Bruce. His brothers. Alfred. Ace. Though it had seemed unlikely at first. And they were the oddest bunch of misfits he knew. They were a family. What they had become and why they had become it, was mixed up in the wonderful and the terrible. But, he wouldn’t trade for anything. “It’s whatever or whomever you need it to be.”

“And that’s what matters.” She finished. He couldn’t have said it better.

“Yes. Yes it is.” She knew what it was like to lose family. How he must have never felt quite right or the same, until he found his place, his people. And if he hadn’t known then, he knew now, how a sandwich could satisfy a different kind of craving. As that meal had sated him in immeasurable ways. It had filled the cracks and fractures inside him in ways no meal before it had managed to. It was his heart that felt sated.

“Thank you for showing me this, Jason.” Her words were measured and careful. But, he could tell that this talk had invigorated her, especially when she said, quietly, “I think I needed that.”

“And thank you - for lunch.” Jason clarified. “That really was some sandwich…” He muttered under his breath, shaking his head. They walked slowly. Ambling around the shelves listlessly. Neither ready to leave each other’s side just yet.

She shifted a lock of hair away from her face. “I told you it was special.” Rachel brushed his shoulder and blushed, when she realized what she was touching him with such ease.

“No, it’s not.” Jason told her. And he could tell by the look on her face that she wasn’t getting it. Or maybe she had yet to figure it out. “It’s not the sandwich, Rachel.” His low voice speaking as he moved closer, the corners of his lips turned up. “It was never the sandwich that was special.”

[felinisfeloney]

with everything going on and the state of protests and what my grandma has been doing I keep thinking over the first time I realized- genuinely realized, that she didn’t see me as white. It was the moment I realized that when she had disdain for my love of fantasy and magic that she believed it was something I inherited. We were at a botanical garden that had these beautiful tiny miniature places of worship and I loving architecture stepped inside the catholic church first and loved it. It was simple but warm in its design.

Grandma said it was nice for being Catholic and I’m not sure how but we ended up talking about founding of religions and world mythology. And I remember the warm wood and the light in that tiny stained glass window as she touched my curls and said “It’s too bad you inherited your father’s dirtiness.” She said it so sweetly. Like it didn’t occur to her what those words meant. 

Like she didn’t call dad a dirty Jew 

She got bolder after that and would say to my brother how dad was a ‘dirty Jew’ and that I was bound for hell. My brother was never the one called out on this and I genuinely believe it came down to the fact that my brother looked white without question. My brother would burn in the sun and he had fair straight brown hair and light eyes. I inherited my dad’s dark hair and eyes along with mom’s Cherokee nose. The curls that make my hair unmanageable and if I stand in the sun enough I don’t burn instead my ‘heritage shows’ as Grandma put it.

I for all standpoints do not appear to most as anything but white. On legal documents I check white because there isn’t an option that says ‘it’s complicated but white supremist wouldn’t want me alive despite all appearances and have been bullied enough that it feels uncomfortable to say even though it is true’. I have never been exposed to the indigenous part of my mom’s heritage and neither was she. I have no claim to it and it’s likely only 1/8th which is next to nothing. I am half-Jewish with a quarter Sephardic along with the other quarter Ashkenazi and because of my childhood I struggled to take part in Judaism in most cases despite wanting to. And yet, despite all this distance every mention of my Jewishness and every time I brought it up would take me one step away from white. One step away from being someone people were completely okay with. After 9/11 happened my dad who’s very tan whenever he came to my elementary school I remember that people would suddenly seem uncomfortable. He’s told me stories about being stopped because he’s got that dark goatee and that slight brown tone. That he’s been called the face of Satan. I remember being asked for my ‘Jewish opinions’ or being told my cheapness made sense. People assuming I was rich or a grifter when I’m a ditz who usually just forgets my wallet. I have been unfortunately called ‘not white enough for Texas’ by children who were my age. 

I have been privileged to never had people call me out on the street. To be attacked by a Karen or police for just existing in a space. I have never experienced that but I also know what it is like to have relatives who say protesters deserve to be hurt and that it’s only natural I would side with the BLM movement because I’m ‘one of them’. No. I am siding because police brutality has always been wrong and because people of color don’t deserve to live a life where they can expect law enforcement to kill them. Because human right’s are not a thing to debate. I am not the target for this movement but I sure as hell support everything it stands for. I have only ever tasted the tip of racism and it made me want to regret who I was so what of people who truly experience it? What of those horrors I hear in pieces that make my heart weep and my body shiver? What of people who are actual minorities and not whatever I am? They are who matters now and I will support them. I will do what I can to help them.

Because it is what is right.

[impressivepress]

Matisse And The Nationalism of Vichy, 1940-44

How did André Derain, Maurice de Vlaminck, Andre Dunoyer de Segonzac and Henri Matisse fare in Paris during the Nazi occupation 1940-44? Given that their Fauve works in German museums had been seized by the Nazis, sold for cash or possibly destroyed in a bonfire of degenerate art, were they and their works then banned in France?

This was not the case. The Nazi occupiers did check poster announcements and visit art exhibitions before they opened to the public, but they interfered minimally in the artistic life of Paris, and confined their nefarious activities to slashing paintings by Jewish artists still hanging on gallery walls. As for Paris salons, at the Salon d’Automne for example, French-born artists in good standing could continue to exhibit there as long as they placed their signatures onto a document headed, "I certify that I am French and not Jewish." My source for this is the pages of signatures from the 1942 Salon d’Automne. Finally, to the extent that the Vichy government retained any autonomy on what went on in occupied Paris, it welcomed the rebirth of art like early Fauve painting which, as the last modern art movement said to be rooted in a purely French tradition, coincided with its own nationalist agenda.

A group show of Fauve paintings ("Les Fauves 1903-1908") took place at Galerie de France in June 1942. Opened on Feb. 8, 1942, its inauguration was held under the aegis of Louis Hautecoeur, head of the fine arts department in the Vichy government at that time. At the reopening of the Musée National d’art moderne, a state institution, in August 1942, paintings by the Fauves were very much in evidence. When that show traveled to Switzerland, Spain and Portugal, the Fauve contingent was there as well. In 1943, a book on the Fauves came out at éditions du Chène with a text by Gaston Diehl. Also in 1943, Comoedia Charpentier published a collection of interviews -- most of them with Fauve artists.

How much Matisse partook of this officially sanctioned revival of the Fauve movement is a question posed in my book, Artists under Vichy, published by Princeton University Press in 1992. My answer -- or rather my very questioning -- has displeased Hilary Spurling, the author of Matisse the Master, the second volume of her much-praised biography. According to Spurling, I intimated that Matisse’s attitude during the Occupation years meant psychological collusion or passive collaboration with the "Fascist authorities." "Psychological collusion," "passive collaboration" -- these words are not mine. As for the "Fascist authorities," implied in this collusion or collaboration, although there was communication and much "collaboration" between the pro-fascist government of Pétain run out of the French town of Vichy and the Nazi occupiers who ruled from Berlin, they were quite separate entities and it was possible for a French person to be anti-Nazi and pro-Vichy.

There is no question that Matisse managed to steer clear of the Nazis by living in the South of France, mostly in Nice, a city in the non-occupied zone of France run by Vichy -- until all of France was occupied following the Allies’ landings in North Africa. Unlike his former comrades Vlaminck and Derain, he did not prostitute himself by going on a trip to Nazi Germany in the company of SS officers, and did not ooh and aah at the sight of National Socialist art the way they did. He did not attend the parties given at the German embassy in Paris. While this forbearance suggests that he did not collaborate with the Nazis, it does not say anything about his views of the regime of Vichy.

Through his art and through his words, Matisse did accompany the Fauve revival -- albeit from a distance. Considering the serious operation the artist underwent in early 1941, and the fragile state of his health thereafter, his active participation in the art life of France at that time is that much more surprising. In addition to giving interviews to the art critics of the period, Matisse spoke on the Radio Diffusion Nationale de Nice, a branch of the official Vichy radio. All these interviews -- concerned with artistic issues -- were published in officially sanctioned publications of that time: Comoedia, Nouvelle Revue Francaise, Les Beaux Arts, Le Rouge et le Bleu. Matisse’s paintings were on view with other Fauve painters at the Salon d’Automne of 1943 and in the group shows of Galerie Charpentier. A number of his works were included in the show of "Les Fauves" at the Galerie de France in June 1942, and in the exhibition of modern French art officially sent to Spain in 1943. The Vichy government bought two drawings from his show of recent drawings at Galerie Louis Carré in 1941. Books illustrated by the great master came out at that time. This information is easily verifiable, and given in more detail in my text and in texts cited in my bibliography. If nothing else, these facts suggest that Matisse’s name and his art were appropriated by the Vichy regime.

The question I did not fully resolve in 1992 was whether the great master was unaware of being appropriated by Vichy, or supremely indifferent to the context in which his work was shown. What I noticed and wrote about in my second book on the Vichy years, their antecedents and their sequel (French Modernisms, Cambridge University Press, 2001), is that Matisse had already displayed his indifference to context by allowing work from his studio (Branch of Lilac, 1914) to be on view in Berlin in 1937 at an exhibition of modern French art co-organized by the Nazi and French governments. Only artists born on French soil -- and their birthplace was clearly indicated in the catalogue -- were considered French enough to represent French art in this repugnant German context. Fauve painting was present, but not the work of the foreigner Picasso nor the work of the Jews Chagall and Soutine, among the so-called foreigners who had made France their patrie.

This rarely discussed exhibition of modern French art in Nazi Berlin, held the same year as the show of degenerate art in Munich, was positively reviewed in the art press of Nazi Germany at that time, and succeeded in stirring confusion in the minds of those who assumed that all vanguard French art was anathema to Hitler and his cultural henchmen. Hitler visited the exhibition, and apparently acquired a small sculpture by Aristide Maillol. I have no information on any other purchase of French art by Hitler, or by Goering, an aficionado of modern French art.

Matisse’s supreme indifference to the context in which his work was shown (and his thoughts published and aired) is not enough to say that Matisse shared the nationalism of Vichy. What can be said is that for several years prior to World War II, the art world had been divided between a Franco-French Ecole Française rooted in French tradition, and a foreign-born (and often Jewish) Ecole de Paris. During this period, Matisse had, at least on one occasion, expressed his views on the subject of art and its national traditions. That was in December 1924, at the time of his first major retrospective in Copenhagen, at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek (September-December 1924) when he was interviewed by the Danish critic Finn Hoffmann.

In the final chapter of an anthology entitled L’Art face a la crise 1929-1939, published in 1980, the French art historian Jean Laude discusses this interview: "As for the problem of a national content of painting, Henri Matisse declares in 1924, in an interview with the Danish critic Finn Hoffmann, ‘I do not consider as a positive thing in every aspect that so many foreign artists come to Paris. The consequence is often that these painters bear a cosmopolitan imprint that many people consider as specifically French. French painters are not cosmopolitan. . . ‘." A little further, Matisse specifies with the same interviewer that in his teaching, he always stressed the need to ground oneself on a national heritage "which is what I have done for myself." Jean Laude, hardly a lightweight art historian, cites as his source for this passage the Danish review Buen (no.2, December 1924), translated into French in the journal Macula (no. 1, 1976). That journal can be consulted at the library of the Institute of Fine Arts of New York University.

By describing French artists as "not cosmopolitan," by advising his students to ground their art in a national heritage and by saying that he himself had grounded his art in a national heritage, Matisse -- who rarely can be caught off guard on any subject -- did give himself away as a partisan of the national content of painting. The view expressed in that interview was more than an off-the-cuff "single remark" (Spurling’s words), it was the expression of a position in a serious debate that was to become exclusionary during Vichy and involved the issue of artistic decadence in Ecole de Paris painting, the nefarious influence of foreign talent on French art, and the work of Pablo Picasso.

By what formal criteria a member of the Ecole de Paris could be distinguished from a member of the Ecole Française was not always clear. Yet supporters of the Ecole Française argued firmly for the cultivation of national traditions. The pro-Ecole Française critic Louis Vauxcelles pointed a finger at the "barbarian horde" (Ecole de Paris foreigners) who "have never really looked at Poussin and Corot, never read a fable by la Fontaine, ignore and, in the bottom of their hearts, look down on what Renoir has called the gentleness of the French School."

Matisse’s advice to his Danish counterparts, that they must follow his lead and ground themselves in their national tradition, was not exactly genuine, for Matisse himself had looked at art beyond his national heritage, at exotic textiles, at art from Africa and Oceania, at Persian miniatures and at Vincent van Gogh, but his words echoed the views of Franco-French artists who reeled at the success of non-French artists on the Paris scene at that time, Chagall, Soutine and Picasso among them. Foreign artists, Matisse was saying, would be well advised to stay in their own country, search for their own national traditions, and let French art flourish in France. Of course, this was 1924, and between then and the years of the Vichy regime, Matisse could well have changed his views.

Indeed, much has been made of Matisse’s "delicate" position during the war due to the Resistance activities of close members of his family. The arrest of his wife and daughter, about which he learned two days after the event, was greeted by him as "the greatest shock of my life," he told the painter Charles Camoin in a letter of May 5, 1944. "It is very delicate, right now, it is very compromising," he added. Compromising as it was for Matisse to get involved in the fate of these family members, Matisse did activate himself on their behalf. He asked Camoin to intervene with friends in Paris. The playwright Sacha Guitry acknowledges in his memoirs being contacted. Madame Matisse was imprisoned but not deported, and survived the war. So did Marguerite, though she was tortured by the Gestapo, and escaped from a train headed for a concentration camp. It is more than likely that Matisse’s intervention was of some help, at least to Amélie. But Madame Matisse and her daughter lived apart from the master in concrete and spiritual ways. And, it was not infrequent during those years for family members to hold divergent political ideas.

It is hard to know what to make of Matisse’s remark upon hearing the news of Vlaminck’s arrest as a collaborator after the Liberation of Paris in August 1944. In a letter to Charles Camoin on November 16, 1944, he says, "Basically, I think that one should not torment those who have diverging ideas from one’s own, but that is what today is called la Liberté." On the one hand, Matisse’s tolerance of diverging ideas in art was magnanimous, but his lack of political commitment meant one less voice on the side of "la Liberté" during Vichy, and an important one at that. The fact that Vlaminck had been on the side of those who caused Amélie and Marguerite great harm during the Occupation years escapes the great master’s consciousness. Yet had there been fewer individuals sharing Vlaminck’s ideas, and more of them on the side of Amélie and Marguerite, human lives would have been saved.

Finally, Matisse’s poor state of health has put into question any notion that the artist could have had an indulgent life style and many friends around him during the war years. However, while his age and infirmities might preclude an indulgent sexual life, his fragile state of health did not cause him to be isolated. That is an absurd idea. The artist remained in touch with the outside world through the visits of collectors (Pierre Levy), dealers (Louis Carre, Martin Fabiani), art book publishers (Albert Skira), biographers (Pierre Courthion, Louis Aragon), journalists and artist friends. He even took a trip to Switzerland. Throughout that period, the old Fauve painter Charles Camoin, a longtime friend, is one of Matisse’s most loyal ears and eyes. "I saw your beautiful ensemble, exploding with color, at the Salon [d’Automne] where your influence can be felt," Camoin reports on November 10, 1943. Indeed, the most written-about painters in France at that time, shown under the collective label Bleu Blanc Rouge, used a vivid palette in their paintings, inspired by Matisse’s bold harmonies.

Overall, reading through Matisse’s correspondence with Camoin in La Revue de l’Art (12, 1971) makes me suspect that Matisse’s behavior during Vichy had little to do directly with the presence of Marshall Pétain at the helm of the French government. The master could accommodate himself with "any regime, any religion, so long as each morning, at eight o’clock I can find my light, my model and my easel." Or so he told Georges Duthuit. (Transition Forty Nine, no. 5, December 1949, p. 115). What was a more likely influence on his behavior was the absence of Picasso from the Paris art scene. For four years, Picasso, the foreigner, did not have a single exhibition of his recent work, and Matisse had the limelight all to himself. During Vichy, the foreigner who had successfully competed with the equally famous French artist (on the latter’s turf, so to speak) was not on view. At a time of French nationalism and Fascism in Franco’s Spain, the Loyalist Picasso and his art, symbols of Judeo-Marxist foreign decadence in France, were in purgatory.

Not only were the ex- and old Fauves going to triumph at the Salons, in the galleries and elsewhere during Vichy, but they could, like Vlaminck, publish anti-Picasso diatribes in the French press (Comoedia, 6 June, 1942). They could also rise in anger when someone dared to say positive things about Picasso. Thus, Camoin tells Matisse in August 1941, after reporting on a talk in which a "Jewish" lecturer had called Picasso the greatest French painter of our time, because he has done the French the honor of coming to France to work: "I left before the end. . . . It is another proof of the hold of the Jews in our era, out of which the judeo métèque [central European] style has emerged for which Picasso is the inspiration."

In August 1944 came the Liberation of Paris, and the first Autumn Salon to be held in the newly freed city. This time Picasso is given a room of his own that he fills with examples of his wartime production. It is a triumphant return for Picasso, marred, however, by disturbances that have remained unattributed. On Nov. 16, 1944, Matisse wrote a letter to Camoin: "Have you seen the Picasso room? It is much talked about. There were demonstrations in the street against it. What success! If there is applause, whistle." One can guess who the demonstrators might have been -- cronies of the Fauves, still ranting against the Judeo-Marxist decadent Picasso.

~ Michele C. Cone.

MICHÈLE C. CONE is a New York-based critic and historian. Her latest book is French Modernisms: Perspectives on Art before, during and after Vichy (Cambridge 2001).

[chiseler]

Hello, Molly

Molly Picon stopped growing when she was a kid and topped out at around four foot eight -- four-eleven standing on her tiptoes, she liked to say. The biggest thing about her was her impish Betty Boop eyes. But she packed a lot of energy and spirit into that miniature package. She could and would do anything to amuse an audience -- sing, dance, do a somersault, climb a rope, crack jokes, wear blackface or boy's knickers. She played gamins, waifs, soubrettes well into her matronly years. The one thing she wouldn't and maybe couldn't do was to hide or even just tone down her essential Jewishness to appeal to the goys in the mainstream audience. It sets her apart from many other Jewish entertainers of her day. Whether she was performing in Yiddish or English, on Second Avenue or in Hollywood, there was never any question that Molly Picon was Jewish. Very Jewish.

She was born Malka Pyekoon on the Lower East Side in 1898, in a fourth-floor back bedroom of a tenement on Broome Street near Bowery. Her mother was a seamstress who'd escaped the pogroms near Kiev as one of a dozen children. Her father was an educated man from Warsaw who was never happy doing an immigrant's menial labor in America, so he did as little as he could. He also turned out to have a previous wife back in Poland he'd never legally divorced. He drifted in and mostly out of Molly and her sister Helen's lives. Decades later, when Molly became well-off and world famous, he'd drift back into hers, to borrow money.

Their mother and grandmother picked up and moved the girls to Philadelphia, where Mom became a seamstress at a Yiddish theater and took in boarders. Later she'd run a small grocery store. The story of how Molly got her start in show business -- like many of the tales in her charming and irrepressibly schmaltzy memoir Molly! -- is too good not to be true. When Molly was five her mother, who made all her daughters' clothes out of odds and ends, stitched her up a fine outfit and took her on a trolley headed for amateur night at a burlesque theater, the Bijou. On the trolley a drunk challenged the little girl to show him her act. She sang and danced in the aisle. Charmed, he passed the hat and collected two dollars. At the Bijou the audience tossed pennies on the stage while she performed. She also won the first prize, a five dollar gold piece. Her grandmother was astonished at the ten dollars she'd earned -- roughly a week's wages for an adult worker. When her mother said she was going to start taking her around to all the amateur contests, her grandmother said forget the theaters, there weren't enough in Philadelphia -- just keep taking her on the trolley.

Boris Thomashefsky's brother Mike ran Philadelphia's Columbia Theatre. He soon put Molly and Helen in a Yiddish production of Uncle Tom's Cabin, Helen as Little Eva, Molly in blackface as Topsy. Molly, billed as Baby Margaret, continued to act through her childhood. She dropped out of high school in 1915 to tour small-time vaudeville in a female quartet, the Four Seasons. In Boston in 1918 she visited a Yiddish theater group who performed one night a week at the Grand Opera House, a large but no longer grand theater in the South End that staged wrestling and boxing the rest of the week. One of the young actors she met there was Muni Weisenfreund; ten years later he'd go to Hollywood and become Paul Muni.

Jacob Kalich, who ran the theater company, came (like Weisenfreund) from Galicia, a province on the Austro-Hungarian empire. He'd studied to be a rabbi but then fell in with traveling Yiddish theater troupes. He'd slipped into America without a passport and speaking no English in 1914. Kalich hired Molly away from the Seasons, they fell in love and were married the next year in the back room of her mother's grocery store. According to Molly's memoir, her mother stitched her wedding gown from a stage curtain.

Yonkel, as Molly called Kalich, wrote parts and whole plays specifically for his new wife. One was Yonkele, an operetta in which she wore boy's clothes and sang, danced and did her somersaults as a kind of Yiddish Dennis the Menace. Kalich was unsuccessful in trying to get one of the Yiddish theaters on Second Avenue interested. On the Lower East Side as in American theater generally, leading ladies tended to be stately Lillian Russell grandes dames, not petite gamins in knickers.

After a child was stillborn in 1920 Kalich distracted Molly with a new project. They sailed for Europe. His plan was to make her a star (and improve her Yiddish) in the theaters there, then return in triumph. They started in Paris, where Yonkele was a hit, then toured it around Europe for two years. In her memoir she says they did three thousand performances, almost surely an exaggeration, but they did keep busy, and her star kept growing. She made her first Yiddish-themed silent films in Vienna starting in 1921, playing a sassy soubrette or a boy. When they were in Bucharest hundreds of university students shouting anti-Semitic slurs rioted in and outside of a theater where she was performing. They may have been put up to it by the Romanian National Theatre, which was losing business to Picon. It was time to come home.

Jews around Europe had been writing their American relations about the wonderful new star. Kalich's plan had worked. By 1922 the Second Avenue Theatre near Second Street was happy to host Yonkele and anything else Kalich put together, as long as it had Picon in it -- Gypsy Girl, The Circus Girl, Schmendrick, Oy is dus a Madel (Oh, What a Girl!). Picon played to houses packed not just with Yiddish-speaking Lower East Siders but with celebrities like Greta Garbo, Mayor Jimmy Walker, Albert Einstein and D. W. Griffith. Griffith was on the downside of a long career by then and tried, without success, to raise money for a film starring Picon. Flo Ziegfeld and his wife Billie Burke (the good witch in Wizard of Oz) came over from Broadway to see Molly perform. Afterward, Yonkel and Molly took them to a Jewish restaurant, where the waiter covered the table with plates of pickles, sauerkraut, fried steak, radishes slathered in schmaltz. The very goy Burke asked the waiter if she might have some vegetables. What, he snorted, pickles and sauerkraut aren't vegetables?

Picon was such a star that Kalich got the idea of renaming the theater the Molly Picon Theatre. When their packed performance schedule there permitted, they toured Yiddish theaters around the country. Later, Jews who had fled Eastern Europe for South America organized a tour for her there. She would also tour South Africa.

She returned to vaudeville in a big way, headlining at the Palace in Times Square with Sophie Tucker. Picon sang half her songs in English, Tucker sang half of hers in Yiddish, and they triumphed. When Picon played the Palace in Chicago, Al Capone (who had started out on the Lower East Side himself) bought out the first three rows. After the show he took Picon and Kalich out to dinner. At his request she sang "The Rabbi's Melody" (a big hit on Second Avenue) and, she claims, he "cried like a baby." For the rest of her career she introduced it as "the song that made Al Capone cry."

The crash of 1929 ruined Picon and Kalich along with everybody else. They scrambled to get back on their feet. They took over the grand Yiddish Art Theatre on Second Avenue and renamed it Molly Picon's Folks Theatre. In 1936 she and Yonkel sailed back to Europe to film a Yiddish musical in Poland, Yidl mitn Fidl (Yidl with a Fiddle). She plays a penniless girl who disguises herself as a boy to join a band of traveling musicians. Location shooting took place in Kazimierz, the once grand, now bedraggled Jewish zone in Krakow. They recruited the whole neighborhood as extras for a big wedding scene that took days to shoot. Few if any of the locals, deeply Orthodox and very poor, had ever seen a movie. They marveled at the food that kept appearing as scenes of the wedding feast were shot and reshot.

Yidl was a hit with Yiddish audiences worldwide. It inspired one of Hollywood's great eccentrics, director Edgar G. Ulmer, to shoot a couple of his own Yiddish films in America. Ulmer, another Jewish immigrant from the Austro-Hungarian empire, had started his career in Hollywood directing the 1934 Karloff-Lugosi vehicle The Black Cat for Carl Laemmle's Universal Pictures. On the set he met and stole the wife of one of Laemmle's nephews, for which the mogul reputedly banished him from Hollywood. Ulmer drifted to New York. When he saw Yidl drawing big crowds on Second Avenue he started a small Yiddish production company, Collective Film Producers, and filmed Grine Felder (Green Fields), recreating the shtetl in a field in New Jersey on a shoestring budget. Ulmer spoke no Yiddish himself, so he hired the Second Avenue star Jacob Ben-Ami as co-director and go-between with the cast of Second Avenue actors. The movie went on to be one of the most praised in the history of Yiddish film. (Ulmer later went back to Hollywood and a now-celebrated career as a Poverty Row maker of lowest-budget B's, ranging from brilliantly idiosyncratic noir like Detour to zero-budget sci-fi like Beyond the Time Barrier.)

As the 1930s drew to a close, Picon and Kalich saw that they were playing to the same dwindling and aging audiences over and over. Yiddish was dying out among the American-born children of immigrants, taking Yiddish theater with it. Although they would continue to work on Second Avenue through the 1950s, Picon still playing Yonkele in her fifties, it was clear they needed to work harder to crack the mainstream.

In 1940 she took her first serious roll on Broadway in Morningstar, a short-lived and soon-forgotten drama notable mostly for her spot in it and that of a thirteen-year-old actor named Sidney Lumet. In 1942 she returned to Broadway with a big gamble, her and Yonkel's musical Oy Is Dus a Leben! (Oh Is This a Life!), the first Yiddish play on Broadway. It was a vanity piece about Molly's life and their marriage, and they played themselves on stage. The Al Jolson Theatre -- where Jolson had taken thirty-seven curtain calls on the opening night of the revue Bombo in 1921 -- was renamed the Molly Picon Theatre for the occasion. The Times' Brooks Atkinson (who later got a theater named for him, too) caught the opening night, when the house was packed solid with fans and Molly pulled out all the stops. They adored her; Atkinson, who was as goyish as Molly was Jewish, thought she overplayed and mugged for them too much, coming off "gauche and coy." Atkinson was the most powerful theater critic in New York at the time, and his reviews made or broke plays. But his tepid response to Oy Is Dus a Leben! couldn't overpower Picon's appeal with Jewish audiences. The show ran for a respectable seventeen weeks, and she claims it only ended when the producers, feeling that they'd shown it to every Jew in New York by then, decided to quit while they were ahead.

During World War Two Picon did many USO concerts, played every military base she could get to, joined in many all-star benefits for refugees. She stands out in a very brief and uncredited scene in The Naked City, the 1948 cop movie inspired by Weegee's book. She runs a soda fountain at the corner of Norfolk and Rivington Streets. "Got any cold root beer?" a detective asks her. "Like ice!" she replies, then goes into a bit of endearing Yiddishe mamele schtick. After that, while she remained very busy on stage and did some tv, there was nothing much from Hollywood until 1963, when she played Frank Sinatra's mom in the screen version of Neil Simon's Come Blow Your Horn. When Frank had signed on they changed Simon's Jewish family to Italian to accommodate him. Then they hired Picon and changed it back to Jewish. This turned into a problem for Lee J. Cobb, who played the father despite being just four years older than Frank; they gave Cobb old man make-up to age him and put a wig on Frank to make him look younger. Cobb was Jewish, born Leo Jacob in the Bronx, but he hadn't played Jewish in years. He had to relearn it. It's not a good movie but it was a box office success and Picon earned an Oscar nomination for her performance.

In 1961 she was in another hit on Broadway, Milk and Honey, a Jerry Herman (Hello, Dolly!) musical comedy about a busload of Jewish widows from America trying to find new husbands in Israel. She was in her early sixties, but still managed to work a somersault into the part. When she left the show to go film Come Blow Your Horn, Hermione Gingold replaced her.

Then Fiddler on the Roof opened on Broadway in 1964. It was a record-setting hit that ran until July 1972. Picon was not in it. The role of Yente the matchmaker went to Bea Arthur. But when Norman Jewison -- not himself Jewish, despite the name -- put together the cast for the 1971 film adaptation, he studied Yidl mitn Fidl for background and hired Picon for Yente. Inarguably the schmaltziest Hollywood film ever made about Jews, it was the perfect setting for her and remains the role she's most known for today.

After Yonkel died in 1975 she gradually withdrew from the public eye, puttering around in their home up the Hudson, which they'd named Chez Schmendrick. She wrote her memoir, did a little more tv (Grandma Mona on The Facts of Life) and a couple more movies (Mrs. Goldfarb in The Cannonball Run and Cannonball Run II), and in 1979 toured a one-woman show, Hello, Molly! But her own health was deteriorating. She lived her last decade quietly and was ninety-three when she died in 1992.

by John Strausbaugh

[radarsteddybear]

My sister keeps bugging me to post about our vacation, so…here we go.

Part I–Amsterdam

A few things about Amsterdam:

Bicycling is HUGE there--there are more bicycles than people, since a lot of people own more than one (a ratty one for day-to-day use, a nicer one for more focused riding, I guess), and bicyclists will run you down if you’re in their way.  This can make crossing bike lanes (of which there are many) very treacherous.

Marijuana is also very big there, as is smoking regular old tobacco.  It seemed like we couldn’t walk ten steps without smelling some kind of smoke.  It was pretty gross.  

We also saw a lot of litter, at least in the parts of the city we were in.  Especially in the mornings before the street sweeper trucks would come by and clean it up.  There were still often piles of trash near the public garbage cans, through.

It’s a very pretty city.  Lots of canals and row homes.  Most of the row homes are very narrow because, at one point in time, they were taxed based on how much ground space they took up, so people built up rather than out.  This also means that the stairways inside are very narrow, making large furniture extremely difficult (if not impossible) to bring to the higher floors; people solved this problem by putting hooks at the tops of the outsides of the buildings so that they could hoist their furniture up and down with ropes.  Some of the houses even tilt outwards to help keep that furniture from bumping into the outer facade.

Another thing about Amsterdam (at least in the part of the city we were in) is that there are a lot of places to get different types of foreign food.  We had Italian food, Irish food, and Asian food while we were there.  We didn’t have a lot of Dutch food other than pancakes and stroopwaffles.  They were good, though.  And so was that Irish food.

Apparently in Amsterdam you can put a sticker on your mailbox to indicate whether or not you want to receive junk mail and ads, and enough people have indicated that no, they don’t want junk mail that nobody really bothers to send any.  I’m envious.

Anyway, in Amsterdam, we went to the Rijks Museum, which is the same sort of museum as the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC or the Louvre in Paris--it’s got some famous paintings, like the Night Watch and the Van Goghs up there, and it’s also got a ton of other paintings and things that nobody’s ever heard of with the aim of being as comprehensive and complete as they can.  This includes the Delft pottery violin and the small biplane pictured.  It’s pretty cool, but a little overwhelming.  Unfortunately, we didn’t get enough time there because our travel agent sucked and thought that two museums in one day is a perfectly fine, reasonable thing to do.  But we did, of course, stop off at the gift shop.

After the Rijks Museum, we ran over to the Van Gogh Museum for a guided tour.  The tour itself was superb.  It was amazing to go through the museum while hearing about Vincent Van Gogh’s life and how and why his work changed.  Unfortunately, you can’t take pictures in that museum, so I have none. 

We also discovered that Miffy is super big in the Netherlands because, as it turns out, she’s Dutch!  My sister and I used to watch some Miffy cartoon when we were younger, and it was super weird to see her in EVERY SINGLE GIFT SHOP when we haven’t seen her at all since the cartoon disappeared from TV.  I ended up getting a little Miffy dressed in a Delft blue-patterned dress, and my sister got a Delft blue tile of Miffy painting.

The next day was a little crazy.  In the morning, we ended up going to the Jewish museum, which was pretty cool, but then we had to run to catch a tour to Delft and The Hague to see the Royal Delft factory, the government, and Madurodam, a park full of miniatures of buildings and things in the Netherlands.  It was super hot out, so the running part sucked, but we were happy to have made it.   Monkees fans will recognize the portrait on the plate in the seventh picture as The Laughing Cavalier, the subject of “Art for Monkees Sake.”  That was a neat surprise.

The day after that, we went to the Anne Frank house.  It was very interesting, and very, very sad.  It’s hard to imagine a child having to go into hiding like that for so long only to be tortured and killed anyway.  

We weren’t allowed to take pictures there, either, but I took some pictures of the actual Diary anyway because there wasn’t anybody else in the room aside from another guy who was also taking pictures and my dad, who started taking pictures once I started taking pictures.  I guess that makes me a bad influence.

[lowat-golden-tower]

“THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!”

“Not a demon, Roman. We’ve been over this....” Logan sighed and turned a page in his book. If he focused hard enough, he could ignore the crucifix being obnoxiously pressed against his scalp.

Roman shook his head. “Aha! But you see, Logan Blair-”

“Fair reference.”

“-this time I have come prepared! For a hero is not so easily dissuaded from his civic duties!” Roman went so far as to pose, tossing the useless crucifix aside with a flourish. How it managed to fly out the window was beyond Logan, but the yowl of a disturbed cat confirmed his peripheral was not wrong.

M̧͟m̡̀͝m,̧ ̸͟cáţ́.̵̡̀

Oh no. We are not eating a cat, do you hear me? That rat you snapped up while I was sleeping was bad enough. I didn’t even know human were capable of coughing up a hairball....

Í ̢hųņ͏ge̷͢r̴͘͟.̢

Yes, well, then I’ll go fetch us some bagels like a normal human being.

Logan closed his book and straightened his glasses, fully aware he’d been tuning out Roman’s gallivanting while hosting the silent conversation with his... not-so-better half. Was it even a half? Logan wasn’t certain how best to mathematically describe their connection. Perhaps he could ponder it over their snack-

He was abruptly reminded of Roman’s presence when a finger came to rest in front of his face, pointed directly between his eyes and practically touching his nose. Grey eyes followed the line of Roman’s arm to his roommate’s own set of dazzling, determined green.

“Lord Hanuman!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lord Hanuman!”

“Is this another obscure musical reference?” Logan gently pushed Roman’s arm aside with a fingertip and strode to the kitchen, leaving the man sputtering in his wake. “Perhaps you should stick to movies-”

“It’s a Hindu practice!” Roman snapped, indignant and now flustered as he (unfortunately) trailed after Logan; stubborn as ever, it seemed. “I researched online; saying his name is supposed to make demons and devils tremble with fear!”

“Not a demon,” Logan intoned with all the enthusiasm of the economics teacher from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. He began scouring the cupboards for those elusive bagels, wondering if Patton had gone and consumed all the miniature ones again. (Logan liked those.)

“I thought you might say that-”

“I said it five minutes ago.”

“-so I took it upon myself to bring out the big guns! Have at you, foul de- er, whatever you are!” There was a glint, as Roman slipped something shiny from his pocket.

A soft hiss, a bit of cool mist, and suddenly Logan’s nose was scrunching up with obvious distaste. Even the horror inside him retched at the smell. “Cologne? That’s your ‘big gun’?” Logan performed some air quotes before returning to the task at hand, claiming the last two mini-bagels for himself. Sweet, sweet victory.

Roman snuffed. “Part of an Islamic exorcism is to use perfume. Since you so staunchly claim it’s not a demon, maybe black magic is afoot!”

“So you decided to attempt dousing me with your cologne?” Logan quirked a brow, taking a slow bite from one half of a mini-bagel. He maintained eye contact with Roman on purpose while he did so, relishing the man’s immediate disgust.

“Good lord, man, if you’re not going to cheese it then at least toast the bread, I beg of you!” Roman cringed away, horrified and hoisting up his bottle of cologne as if it could ward off Logan’s “odd” eating habits.

Logan licked a bit of crumbs from his lips. “No.” He proceeded to eat the bagel while Roman fumbled about, cursing softly under his breath.

“What was next, what was next? The Jewish one, right? One of these has to work, that’s how it is in media, you just keep trying techniques until one sticks...” Roman mumbled to himself, grimaced when Logan picked up the other half of the mini-bagel, and decided to act. With a sharp cry he stepped forward, throwing out his hand to smite the bit of baked good to the floor.

It was Logan’s turn to sputter as he gaped at Roman, stunned and wide-eyed, hand still half-raised to his open mouth. “Roman!” He glanced to his fallen sustenance before returning an accusatory expression to the other. “What on Earth-”

“Sacrifice!” Roman pointed at the mini-bagel, looking torn yet triumphant. “In Judaism it says a sacrifice can be made to expel the horrible spirit!”

Logan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Roman, that’s not-”

“Look it was sacrifice or poisoning you, and I don’t think either Patton or Virgil would let me live that one down-”

“You were contemplating poison?”

“Not really! Just as a backup, maybe- look, perhaps I shouldn’t have relied on Wikipedia for my research material...”

“Oh, you think so?”

The front door opened and shut, two pairs of footsteps tromping closer before the remaining two occupants of their shared apartment rounded the corner. Patton and Virgil were loaded down with shopping bags, though whatever pleasant conversation they’d been carrying was cut short as they practically felt the tension in the room.

“Uh, why’s Logan glowing again?” Virgil was the first to pipe up.

Logan frowned, glanced down at his hands and then mentally cursed. He shook off the black aura which had begun pooling and wriggling around him with an irritated huff.

Patton was frowning as well, but with more concern as he stepped closer. “Loganberry? You doin’ okay, sport?” A hint of his Southern accent made itself known, as it was wont to do whenever Patton drifted into more tender speech.

It still managed to make Logan’s heart act irregularly, and he looked pointedly away. “Besides Roman trying to poison me? I’m fine.” Roman’s aghast, betrayed look made all the coddling Patton was about to smother him with worth it. Virgil was on Roman in a heartbeat, finger wagging and all- he really was spending too much time around Patton. Patton, of course, immediately dropped his bags and inquired again about Logan’s health, joining in on Virgil’s scolding.

It wasn’t long until things managed to calm down, Roman thoroughly cowed but silently swearing his continued efforts to Logan via eye contact. It made Logan sigh, even as he helped Patton put away the groceries. Then Virgil’s voice, soft and inquisitive, reminded Logan of exactly why he’d been in the kitchen to begin with.

“So, what’s with the floor bagel?”

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

Consider this the first oneshot I guess? Still blaming @fangirltothefullest for this. I noticed tagging people in updates to works/AU’s is a pretty popular thing in this fandom, so... I guess if you want me to tag you in the next one, just mention in a reply or reblog comment? (Or shoot me an ask, I suppose. XD)

[royaltides]

You wanted war  chapter 2

Juvia didn't conjecture this will occur to her, not after all she'd gone through in those several yore weeks, at last Juvia gain a place she belongs to, she did not explicitly planned to reach there, but Juvia didn't complain of how things turn out to be. After the exhausting journeys, lurking in the shadows of abandons building, and even after all that sometimes she and Gajeel were almost identified. Juvia couldn't control it, she fell in love with the first man she saw. Gray Fullbuster was a partisan in a group called Fairy Tail, and he was all she could dream and want in a man. He was thin but muscular with precise lines that defined the toughness of his abs, he was without a shirt even in the harsh winter of this northern forest.-30 degrees Celsius, maybe less. Gray was taller than she was, with piercing black eyes, sexy rebellious and shiny black hair. Even his personality suited him. He was like ice at first until he saved her. When they fought, he defeated her. With great difficulty, Juvia remarked after the battle. He confronted her as if she were equal to him as if he were seeing a man in the shape of a woman. He treated her like no other man had ever treated her. He saw her as someone without a difference because of her gender, Just the despise for someone in the uniform with that badge the whole world despised now. Blinded by the hatred, he didn't realize that she wasn't his enemy at first.

flashback

They were standing on the roof of a half-destroyed building. Juvia tried to explain to him, to talk to him, but all he saw was the uniform. The uniform of the Nazi's, the uniforms of those who almost killed him, but killed his community, his parents, those who seek to destroy all his people, those who torment the whole world with war and endless death. Juvia understood his heart or at least tried. The nuns always told her that "the key to a person's heart is the secret of his understanding." How could she understand the pain of destroying an entire minority nation, a community whose roots had been obliterated and buried in the depths of the earth? How could she know how it was to lose parents when she had never had parents?

In the course of the battle, however, the shots stopped because to the both of them the bullets had run out. Only the two of them remained with jagged daggers and knives hidden under layers of clothing. All of this happened in an ongoing struggle of willpower. She tried to stop him but not kill him though Gray wanted her dead. There on the ground, he wanted her blood on his hands. Gray managed to slide under her protections arms a fast fist into her upper abdomen, the air came out of her lungs, and Juvia fell to the floor in a massive noise. She tried to raise, one hand on the cracked asphalt floor and the other hand trying to attach what must have broken inside her. In a split of a second, he was already there holding her hands in his left hand. Gray grounded her legs to the soil with his own legs, and his other hand went up. She realized that he wanted to beat her to death, punch after punch because of who she had been until a few weeks ago, although Juvia had changed because of his people, because of what was in the document, because of her values, but mainly because of people like him who didn't deserve this horror.

In a moment of panic, Juvia looked him in the eye. They were dark black, gleaming in the bright sunlight through the fleecy clouds of snow. It was the emotion behind them that broke her. The ex-soldier could see his soul, crushed under the mask of cold and stiffness. She could see, even almost touching his pain. He was scarred by the experiences life had forced him through. The Man deal with all it but not without wounds that would accompany him for life. Before his hand hit her, she began to cry. Not because her pain, or because Juvia was probably going to die (even though the woman was sure she was going to die) but because of what he had absorbed, what this pointless war had cost him, what her people's greed and injustice had done to him. "I'm sorry," Juvia whispered, "I'm so sorry," she muttered again and again as tears came down from her eyes and deep wails of pain from the physical pain were out of control. Her lips trembled, but she kept saying those words. As if she were asking forgiveness for everyone who died, for everyone who was imprisoned and for everyone who survived and was irreversibly injured like the person before her.

Gray got off of her and grabbed his head. He was on his knees, and in this state, he looked like a child trying to stop the tears from falling down. "Do not say that!" He snapped at her sharply, "You have no right to ask me for forgiveness, not after ... not after all your people have done to me!" Juvia took the opportunity to get up and placed her head to the floor. "You're right," she rustled quietly to the ground, hoping he would hear her. "I have no right to ask for forgiveness, but it will not stop me from disapproving what my people had you go through and what you have lost because of it." Juvia hoped it would be enough, but the guy seemed to want more information because he asked, this time his voice was a little more composed. "You talk as if you didn't have a part in it, what do you mean?" Juvia gulped hard and tried to describe briefly but as detailed as possible what her part in the war was and why she is here precisely now. "My job was to gather information, I was a spy, and as you can understand, I was a good mole because I ran into an envelope that was listed on Germany's plans for the Jewish problem." Juvia heard his teeth creak and continued. She understood him because she was angry too. "I was disgusted and hated my own country and the people of mine, I ran away or deserted if that what you wanted to call it. I took vital information with me. I and someone else tried to cross the border to get to the opposing army, but the Nazi army sent pictures of us to all the stations as wanted. This is why we needed to enter the forest and try to cross the border. You caught us unprepared and now we are on the roof of a half-destroyed building because of it."

If it were every other day, Juvia would laugh from the irony that she deserted from the Nazi army only to be killed by a Jew or the building could collapse at any moment and kill them both. If the guy wanted to ask something else, he didn't have time because the building did collapse. Juvia heard Gajeel shouting in her name, and a firm arm lifted her on his shoulder suddenly. In seconds she was on a pile of snow, and the Jewish boy was panting. "Thank you," she told him, but the boy disregarded her. "We'll go to the master so you will present him your information," he stated, remarking that it was as self-evident. Juvia felt his hands doing something over her and blushed. Dirty thoughts invaded her mind. When he got up and told her to follow Juvia finally understood what he had done. This guy tied her hands with a thread. She realized Gray was taking her as a prisoner.

It was not long before they reached HQ or rather a forest's clearing where there were several tents and fire in the center next to it, some women laughing and talking among themselves. A large pot hung over the bubbling fire, and a blond girl with ample breast who had been seen through a thick winter coat stirred in slow turns inside the iron ladle. A girl with gray-white hair like snow on the ground nodded encouragingly. From one of the tents came a tiny girl who looked no older than 13 years old with light blue hair and simple warm clothes. There were large papers in her hands that looked like maps. Even from a distance, Juvia could see the bruises that had turned blue on her cheeks and neck. A few people gathered together around a large figure and kicked it cheerfully. Juvia saw black hair and silver sparkle in the cold sun. All her senses awaked at once even her own injuries didn't matter anymore. The thread was no longer an issue, Juvia's captor was startled as she moved without notice or sign, Juvia launched herself speedily and accurately into the area of the men. Juvia advanced inside while she was stepping on someone. She half-stood half sat there with her hands tied and a rigid expression written all over her face. She was mama-bear protecting her cub.

"If you dare lay a hand on one of his hairs, I swear to you that you will meet a ground before you can say Nazis stinks." Juvia threatened through her teeth, and her eyes shone with determination. Most of the boys stumbled back except for a pink-haired fellow with a strange scarf and an idiotic smile on his face. "Oh? I'm looking forward to it" He grinned at her mockingly. He seemed to be about to progress towards her and Juvia was ready to rip him off with her bare teeth, but before the situation proceeded into a physical fight, her captor stood beside her. How did he get here without her notice? Juvia cursed her ability at surroundings awareness. He said something to the guy with the absurd pink hair. The guy with the absurd pink hair moved, and Gray retook her thread and began to drag her toward one of the tents, but instead of coming silently with him like before, Juvia remained rooted to her place, glancing at anyone who dared to look at Gajeel wrongly. She heard an exaggerated sigh and then a voice she'd learned to recognize recently announced. "If anyone who touches that guy he will have to deal with the master." Silence had passed through the camp. Juvia gave her captor a grateful glance that he disregarded it again and tugged her toward the tent where the short girl had exited from.

They went into the master's tent. Guns and maps lay everywhere. Books were stacked beside one of the chairs. Papers rested on a shaky desk, and a miniature man of about 60 years old looked at them with furrowing appearance. "Master," Gray declared their presence."I brought a prisoner. This soldier says she has valuable information." You could hear his disbelief dripping from his voice, and the venom of his voice blended with Juvia's blood as if he were trying to kill her slowly with words instead of his hands. Juvia favored his fists than whose venom-like deadly words. The Master looked at her. She felt a shiver run through her. The presence and the aura surrounding him were unbridled, beyond creation. This old, wrinkled man can overcome Hitler by sheer force of mind. Juvia saw it in his core. What he saw in her eyes made him drop his defense and send her captor, now named Gray out of the tent.

Without objection and only with a scowl on his face Gray went out, Juvia remained helplessly tied in the office of a master of a specific armed force. "Child," he said in a powerful but a tender voice. "Introduce yourself." "Juvia lockser, a former individual spy from SS, the rain woman from deep depths." The spy saw him shot his eyebrows up twice at the sound of her nickname and the word former. "Why the former?" He asked fascinated. Great, Juvia thought. She had to win his trust. "My co-worker and I deserted the Nazi army a few weeks ago because some information that happened to fall into my laps." She thought of the gas chambers and stoves the size of human bodies. Jews forced to carry the bodies of their loved ones, their people, children and old people while suffering from malnutrition conditions and taken any self-identity away from them. Perhaps the Master, as Gray called him, saw the disgust in her features, nodded at her, and ordered her to continue with a small hand gesture. "In the last few weeks we have tried to reach the opposing troops, but without success. Our identity pictures were sent to all the bases, and in less than a week we were known throughout the war and checkpoints. There was No Nazi soldier would not recognize us. Despairingly we tried to enter this unoccupied forest with the intention of trying to contact the other side of the border and provide necessary information to the Allies. On the way they encountered your men and they ambushed us and defeated us but also saved our lives from the building collapse at the border of the forest." He looked at her thoughtfully.

"After you've seen our camp location, I can't let you continue on your journey." the knowledge hit her Juvia, her journey will end here, but that doesn't mean her war effort will stop. If Juvia will play her cards right, but she had to demonstrate her ability accurately. Juvia perceived that in order to win his favors she would have to share all her deepest secrets and draw calculated conclusions that years of training had given her. Juvia realized it was a traveling camp; the tents were wrinkled with folds. They didn't have an ample supply of trees and didn't dig holes in the ground. In the best case, they will stay here for a week, and in the worst case at night they will move elsewhere. "The army will not catch you even if I will tell them your location. You'll be someplace else by then". She said calmly. It must have been a test she had passed because he slowly applauded her. The Master foresaw it coming. "Wonderful information gathering. Do you've learned Something else about us at this time?" the Mater urged. "You are a small fighting force without any support, without knowledge about your existing concerning both sides of the war. You are about 50 people, at least a quarter of whom are women, and it is clear that most of your fighters don't have military training. Your data about the course of the war is lacking. You, the master, carefully choose your battles." Except for Gray, she thought, from her experience with him she knew he had military training."You were a police captain before the war. The Ladies here have no training or survival knowledge, and I almost convinced that the blonde girl is from a luxurious family and I guess that she is German but not Nazi. You don't have much ammunition, and your defenses are meager, but determined warriors are compensating for this." She finished. The Master stared at her in amazement. "you are well trained." the tiny man stated in awe. Juvia nodded and held herself a little straighter. Pleased that she is beginning to prove herself to him. "One last thing," he said. "What information did you desired to bring to the Allies?" "I have a map of all the defects in the Nazi's borders." Juvia felt the map in her pocket. She glanced at the side of her left trouser leg. The Master's eyes gleamed. "Most vital information. I believe I didn't introduce myself properly, Makarov Dreyer." Juvia's eyes widened at the name. The Polish legend. The captain of the police department in Warsaw before the occupation. The only one who had managed to escape but not before he killed about twenty Nazi soldiers on his way out. "As you assumed, we are a group of warriors who are fighting without consent for the Allies and attacking the German army when it is not prepared. Call our group, the truth that we are more than a family than the militant group. We are Fairy Tail." "Would you like to join us?" He asked with a grin on his face when he saw Juvia's reluctant nod. She was shocked that the circumstances had turned so radically. A moment ago she was captive and now offer her what she wanted! A chance to help the war end and perhaps even to play a significant part in the overthrow of the country that once she called home. Without thinking she spilled out the words. "Can Gajeel join too?" The Master chuckled, and Juvia grinned bashfully.

flashback

At this moment, Juvia sat around the blazing bonfire, her hands stretching out to the heat. Her eyes were unconsciously drawn to a man sitting two campfires away. The campfires were not significantly large or even enough for the number of people around them, and Juvia's chest was still warmer than any other place she had been. With a loud rattle, Juvia accomplished to divide her eyes from the bare-chested Partisan. Juvia studied the closest thing she has to a brother, an unyielding expression of determination on his face, his lips were like if he had sewed them himself. Next to him set two men, who remained hostile-eyed toward him and a blue-haired girl staring at a spot of land near the fire, the isolated location that grass was poking through the white blanket of snow. The spy in Juvia screamed in her subconscious to extinguish the flames so the smoke wouldn't disclose their location, but the master stated it was all right, only for a few minutes of heat before dark, numbing night.

Juvia thought about the developments of the few past days in astonishment, she has some friends now, she belongs to an admirable-causes' group, her best friend is here with her, she has love object (even though he have no knowledge of her feelings and probably will not return her feelings). The only thing that prevents her from savoring those moments is that in this second there are dozens of camps that murder thousands of Jew indiscriminately. That was the principal reason her smile didn't reach her eyes, although another reason for her condition is that Gajeel isn't willing to apologize. The day before Natsu (she had learned the name of the stupid pink-haired guy) and Gray had assaulted them, Gajeel ran into the cerulean-haired girl, Levi, and assumed she was the enemy. He had injured her, not seriously, or killed her (like how he usually did while they were in the army), but the purple bruises danced on her face and neck, piercing out in front of her fair skin and snow. Juvia bent approaching Gajeel, whose hair was a few inches longer than the military haircut that was always on his head. The red in his eyes didn't stop menacing people. "Nothing will happen if you apologize. No one will think less of you, in truth, I think they appreciate that." She murmured to his ears alone. "I know you're sorry about the whole incident." Gajeel didn't respond, except that his lips hardened, he stood abruptly and marched briskly to the edge of the grounds.

A silhouette sat beside her instead of Gajeel, she saw an exposed skin, her face became flushed uncontrollably. 'You are a soldier' her mind told her 'act like one,' however the speed of her pulse didn't slow down, and the heat in her cheeks only got dangerously red. "I owe you an apology." A rich, low, familiar voice spoke. 'Gray,' the thought of him sitting near her, the idea of him coming here mainly to converse with her dizzied all her wits. Juvia gazed at him disoriented, one reason was that she couldn't think clearly with him so near her, and the second reason was the word she was able to recognize, 'sorry, why should he ask her forgiveness?' "Juvia doesn't follow you," she replied in a voice that was too faint to be her own. "About all your injuries and on the way I behaved in our first encounter." Gray stated, and Juvia could see that it was difficult for him to acknowledge it. She welcomed the intention, but she couldn't accept his apology, she doesn't deserve it. Juvia knows she had to suffer for what her nation did to his family, his hometown, and to the people that share the same religion as he. Juvia will willing accept any punishment for that deed. If she ever received a death sentence for the sins of her nation caused, Juvia would carry it gracefully and walk straight to her destination. "You don't ought to apologize, Juvia earns those injuries." She looked back at the fire. Red, orange and yellow swirled together, like snakes wrapping around each other trying to beat the others first. A sweaty hand rested on her small back, right where the torn part of the shirt Lucy had lent her. The uniform aroused too many problems and distress to the camp. The heat from him was unnatural, everyone else was freezing and not radiating with heat, instead of stealing her heat like some other people, Gray give her heat. "The Master told me everything, you deserve none of it ... and that's what I'm sorry about." There were silence and flames danced again.

" A minute to extinguish campfires" someone called in the distance, Natsu complained to Lucy in a childish cry. "Just .." Gray continued, not to accept Juvia's silence as an answer. " when I saw the uniform and..." "You've lost your temper," Juvia has completed his sentence, "don't worry Gray-Sama, Juvia understands." Juvia felt the hand parted from her and sensed his weight neglect the long log they had been sitting on. For the last time, Juvia looked at his face. His lips stretched into a thin line, 'almost a smile' she thought. What a magnificent view. "extinguish all the bonfires in camp!" the same voice from a minute ago called. The rustle of the legs and the 'bzzzz' sound of fire met snow was heard all over the camp.

At night in every hour someone watched over the camp and when Juvia's turn arrived the moon was glowing at its fullness. The brilliant light almost shines through the trees. Bewildered by the beautiful site Juvia almost fail to catch the soft sound of footsteps slowly creeping closer toward her. In a split of a second, her hand went to the knife hidden in her right thigh. She was pushed into a snow-covered tree, Juvia's back bumped softly against the rock-like trunk, it felt like someone protected her from the full blow. "Good instincts, sharp reflexes but intoxicated by pretty things" the low-raw voice that often visits her dreams said. Gray was looking on her knife pressed against his neck. "you can let the knife lose, I'm not going to hurt you" Gray whisper, but Juvia only held it tighter. "Juv.. I don't think so. even though Gray know I no longer a Nazi, for you I still a German." Gray laugh at that, like her terror isn't reasonable nor expected, like he will never hurt her in the middle of the night without any witnesses, he laughed like he never even thought of it. "don't fear me" he whispered sensually. His breath tingling Juvia's nose and a shiver run throw her bones. Before she could understand what was happening his lips devours hers and her knife fall to the ground. His big warm hand held her face and Juvia melt into the feeling. Her arms wrapped uncontrolled around his neck, her eyes closed, small moans escaped her throat when Gray moved his other hand to grab her round butt. On instincts alone, Juvia's legs encircled Gray's hips. Gray start humping back and forth, crashing all his weight into her. A sharp cry came out of her when their groins connected for the first time. Gray growled deeply and continued with all his might. Suddenly someone at the remote call Juvia's name and just like how fast it started, its end. Juvia walked confused to the lookout point to exchange shift with Lucy, wondering what the hell just happened and what she could do to make it happen again.

[brokengem]

Title: Blues and Whites Fandom: Descendants Pairings: Mal/Jane, Fairy God Mother. For: @tinybroodinggay from your @descendantssecretsanta! I hope you enjoy this little work of art. Hope you had a very Happy Hannukah and Happy Holidays! <3

Also can be found on AO3 over here. 

“Oh no! I’m late!”

Jane’s outburst tore Mal’s attention from the book she’d been studying. A frown graced her lips as she watched the pretty little fairy rush about to collect her things. With a slight huff Mal leaned against her hand, not once taking her eyes from the other girl.

“What’s got you in such a rush?”

Jane paused, the Calculus book she’d been trying to stuff in her book frozen in her hand. Bright blue eyes blinked back at the dark fairy.

“I’m so sorry, Mal,” Jane rushed out, stuffing the book in her bag, “I don’t mean to cut our study session short, but I’ve so lost track of time. It’s the first day of Hanukkah and I was supposed to meet with my mom ten minutes ago.”

“Hanukkah?” Mal’s frown deepened. The Isle hadn’t offered them much joy in terms of holidays. In fact they had never  celebrated a thing until they were welcomed in Auradon. Sadly, she only a vague idea of what Jane was talking about.

A sad frown appeared on Jane’s lips, “that’s right. I’m sorry, Mal. You guys didn’t get the chance to celebrate the holidays did you?”

“It’s no big deal,” Mal shrugged, turning back to her forgotten math book. It wasn’t a complete lie. A part of her didn’t mind, but the other part. The part that enjoyed being in Auradon and liked being good felt a little hurt by her lack of knowledge of all the traditions her new home had to offer.

Jane’s giggle brought Mal’s attention back to her, a pale hand extended out towards her. “Why don’t you join us? We’ll go meet mom in the kitchen and then head back to my room.”

Mal blinked down at the offered hand, “what are we going to the kitchen for?”

The blue-eyed fairy’s smile grew impossibly wider, her eyes practically sparkling in her excitement. “Mom got permission for us to use the kitchen to make latkes! You’ll love them, I promise. They’re like a potato pancake and if you want you can even have them with sour cream.” Mal’s amusement must have shown because the tip of Jane’s ears turned red followed by a light dusting of pink coming to her cheeks as she quietly finished, “They are delicious.”

With a playful shrug, Mal accepted Jane’s eagerly wiggling hand, “I can’t really turn down food, especially if you’re claiming it to be so delicious.”

She was barely able to pack up her things before the excited Jane lead her out of the library.

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

Mal didn’t know what to expect when she entered the kitchen, but a cheery Fairy Godmother in a blue and white apron with bowls of ingredients was certainly a sight to behold. The headmistress beamed as they entered.

“Mal, what a pleasant surprise!”

She dropped her bag down beside Jane’s, accepting the matching apron Jane held out for her. “I hope  it’s okay if I join you. Jane invited and I really don’t want to mess up your holiday or anything.”

Fairy Godmother’s face melted into a small frown for all of a second before her bright smile return. “Not at all, child. I’m happy to have you.”

Before anything Mal could say anything else, the woman swept her up into one of the tightest hugs Mal had ever had. It was enough to help calm her nerves as she relaxed and returned the hug with one of her own.

“Wonderful,” Fairy Godmother gave her cheeks an affection pat, “now you can help Jane with the onions and potatoes.”

Jane held out a onion and knife, smiling sweetly as Mal made her way over. “You’ll want to peel the skin off and cut them into quarters. I’ll do the same with the potatoes.”

Nodding, Mal carefully took the items and did as she was told. It didn’t long for her eyes to begin to water, the purple haired fairy wiping away the tears with the back of her sleeve.

“How do you do this without crying?” she whined, happy to be finished with her task.

Jane laughed from beside her, “I’m sorry. I probably should have done the onions. I’ll show you a good trick to preventing tears next time.”

The promise of their being a next time totally didn’t send warmth through Mal’s entire body.

“Now we put these in the food processor and then we’ll quickly start making the batter.”

Everything was much more fun than Mal imagined. The potatoes and onions were grated and Mal got the pleasure of squeeze out as my liquid as possible. They worked together to mix it all together with the eggs, flour, salt, pepper and baking powder. Fairy Godmother let them have their fun as some flour found itself smudged across Mal’s cheeks and blended into Jane’s brown hair. Their giggles feeling the kitchen as they took turns mixing.

“All done girls?”

Mal took a step back and watched as Fairy Godmother poured some batter into the hot oil she’d taken care to prepare. Quickly the kitchen was filled with such an overwhelmingly delicious scent. She couldn’t wait to try the treat they’d worked together to prepare.

That warm feeling returned as watched Jane come to her mother’s side and they sung together. It was beautiful even if she couldn’t understand a single word.

Ten minutes passed and the first set of latkes were ready. Jane handed her a plate of two of the treat with a smile. With a small thank you, Mal took her first bite and groaned happily.

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

Mal had been to Jane’s dorm plenty of times to study or just to bother the younger girl, but she’d never seen it so clashing before. Audrey’s half of the room was decked out in the traditional greens and reds that all of Auradon Prep seemed to have been drowned in just after Thanksgiving. Jane’s half of the room was decorated in blues and whites. A large six pointed star hung just above her bed, she’s seen a smaller version around Jane’s neck everyday.

“That’s the Star of David,” Jane smiled, playing with the miniature version she wore, “it’s a known symbol of the Jewish people, but it also means so much more than that.”

Mal walked up to the large star, tracing the points and triangles with a finger, “I’d love to hear more about it sometime.”

When she looked back, pink dusted Jane’s cheeks and her ears were red once more as she beamed back at her, “I’d be happy to tell you more!”

“What’s the story behind that?” Mal pointed to the silver nine-candle candelabra on the windowsill, only one unlit candle in it’s holders.

Jane clapped her hands together, quickly crossing her room to reach her desk. The top drawer opened and she pulled out a candle and box of matches.

“That’s a menorah. We celebrate Hanukkah for eight days starting today at sunset and each night we light a candle after saying our blessings. Mom offered the blessing before she had to go. She can’t be here for the lighting tonight but she’ll be here tomorrow and every night after.”

Mal nodded, watching as Jane lit the lone candle in the center, the shamash she’d said. She added the one she’d taken from the drawer right beside it. Carefully, Jane removed the lit candle and held it out, a shy smile on her lips.

“Would you like to light the first candle, Mal?”

Green eyes widened, “are you sure? It wouldn’t be disrespectful or anything will it? I don’t want to mess anything up.”

Jane shook her head, “it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“If you’re sure,” Mal took the candle, carefully using it to light the other, staring bright-eyed at the flames. Jane hummed beside her, taking the lit candle and returning it to the center.

They stepped back, Jane quietly singing another song in Hebrew. The word beautiful crossed Mal’s mind again as she listened, sliding her hand into Jane’s. The younger gave paused for a minute in her song, but gave Mal’s hand a squeeze as she continued her song.

The evening had been pleasant and Mal enjoyed herself. She hoped Jane would be okay with her joining in on the celebration for the remainder of the days as she learned more and hopefully got to get closer to the girl.

[anhed-nia]

PROFONDO ROSSO/THE APPLE

For some disgusting reason that may never be explained, I recently watched THE APPLE back to back with DEEP RED, and the experience produced a powerful moral outrage that I didn’t even know I had in me. Readers may be aware of the latter-day cult classic THE APPLE, a US-West German nightmare vision from 1980 that was exhumed in recent years by masochistic thrill-seekers and subsequently elevated to appropriate infamy. In fact, nonsensically, THE APPLE may have enjoyed wider visibility in our time than PROFONDO ROSSO, a virtuoso directorial effort from giallo master Dario Argento arriving the year before the more popular SUSPIRIA (not a giallo, by the way). PROFONDO ROSSO was exported under the ironic american title DEEP RED: THE HATCHET MURDERS--ironic because the film was hacked nearly to death, with the fatal amputation of more than twenty minutes of character development, leaving behind a movie that was too confusing and too revolting for foreign audiences then unfamiliar with the italian thriller genre. Happily, the film has enjoyed loving restoration and increased circulation since its 1975 debut, giving one a feeling of justice served. It is hard to feel that same sort of cultural pride in the endurance of THE APPLE, which is similarly impossible to look away from, though for quite opposite reasons.

So the thing is, Dario Argento is an artist who, in spite of his notable misanthropy, has given something to the world. He works in what I would call the most complex artistic medium in human history, and for more than a decade, he consistently lives up to its many intricate challenges. Here you have a guy who wakes up one day and says, "You know, I have something to say. I see the world in a certain way, and I need to tell everyone about it. I'm going to shoot a movie that's really going to make people feel something." And he does. He makes PROFONDO ROSSO, a perfect film. He really cares about it. Every single thing is just so. He takes these absurd miniature tableaus, and photographs them in a way that transforms them into another universe. He makes you feel like you're seeing the color red for the first time. He positions flashy modernity against grave antiquity, and seductive trash against high art, creating juxtapositions that communicate vividly about the dazzling contradictions in the very soul of Rome. This dichotomy is mirrored in his main character, a nervy but vulnerable pianist who has to hide his full artistic sophistication, lest he lose his job playing in seedy dives. This being a giallo, he witnesses a mysterious murder, the key to which is buried in his own memories--he himself becomes the only substantial evidence of the crime, and he is forced to live out his life in an escalating nightmare until he gathers enough context to make meaning out of what he knows. PROFONDO ROSSO is indeed profound and savage, offering reflexive commentary on its own existence as a primal and salacious piece of entertainment that is executed with almost impossible elegance and wisdom. Dario Argento is an artist who recognized the full multifaceted power of cinema, and then with great deliberation, fashioned this gift to the world.

Meanwhile, this same world also contains a guy like Menahem Golan. Golan may be forgivable as the crass commercialist behind the Cannon Group, who shat out a number of dusty-looking vehicles for goons like Chuck Norris and Sylvester Stallone. However, nothing forgives THE APPLE. Nothing even explains it. It appears to be marketed to no one at all, being that no human being who has ever walked the earth could derive pleasure from it. While it may be hard to imagine possessing Argento's talent, it's easy to imagine him contemplating the vast potential of cinema, identifying its prismatic means of expression, and approaching it with both the humility and the courage to make of it something flawless. He does due diligence. He is responsible. He may injure his audience with his brutality, but he’ll never hurt their eyes. It is in no way so easy to even begin to estimate what Menahem Golan was thinking when he dreamed up this grueling fundamentalist christian sci-fi fantasy in which a pair of dopey Adam and Eve-like folk singers tries to save the distant future of 1994 from a literal disco inferno. This dystopian fable, apparently shot in the mass transit hubs of West Berlin, describes a world that has been taken over by a tyrannical music production company-cum-government, Boogalow International Music. The defining characteristic of its rule is enforced disco dancing. The viewer will never find out what is gained by all this disco dancing, or what else this company/government does; there is almost no apparent violence, physical or institutional, and there seem to be no consequences for the disco-averse other than that they are occasionally fined for failing to wear their "BIM marks" (a sort of "mark of the beast" that's obviously just a dead stock skate sticker). BIM's worst crime is trying to turn cherubic hippie chick Bibi into a disco diva, while keeping her apart from her beloved folksy musical partner Alphie. The action culminates with the lovebirds running away to live with a bunch of dirty hippies who leave unattended fires burning all over the public park where they live, and who are presently rescued by a godlike intergalactic being (or just god, but he flies around in outer space, I have no fucking idea) in a white tuxedo, who ferries them all off to another planet in his flying Rolls Royce.

That is how THE APPLE resolves itself. It's almost a feat in and of itself that, in spite of being based so transparently on the story of the Garden of Eden and certain parts of the Book of Revelations, THE APPLE manages to have no clear message whatsoever. There's a tenuous thing about how it's good for people to love each other, but it's impossible to imagine what BIM's point is, why they care whether or not people love each other, why they oppress people, how they oppress people, and what happens if you defy them, other than that you get a ticket and someone chases you out of the civic space that you're vandalizing. Besides that, the movie is simply bad in every single way. The music is the worst you'll ever hear, vacillating between being purely idiotic, and being militantly offensive, as in the case of a reggae number comparing the rule of BIM to the American slavery period. The costumes are beyond ugly, leaving every single character looking like they've been scribbled on and thrown in the garbage by an angry child. At a certain point, THE APPLE seems to be meticulously checking off a list of things that no person would ever wish to see in a movie, from filthy gangs of sack-clad children shrilly repeating nonsense lines, to warty old jewish stereotypes being sexually molested while they spoon-feed unctuous folk singers a greasy-looking stew

The film is so hideous in every dimension that you wouldn't even take a picture of it if it were happening in front of you. It's bad enough that the people who collaborated on this movie actually did any of what you see on the screen even one single time, without someone actually deciding to record the whole thing and distribute it to the world at large. What I'm essentially trying to say is, on the same planet in the same timeline, you can somehow have a person like Dario Argento, considerately and patiently crafting an incomparable work of art that speaks to the artist's economic and historical context--and you can also have someone like Menahem Golan, who can't even figure out how to make meaning out of the fucking Bible, who has the fucking nerve to shoehorn a bunch of degenerates into grimy leotards and make them twirl batons in a world covered in shitty stickers, and he calls that a fucking movie. He charges money for people to see it. It is literally maddening to even try to imagine what would motivate all this wasted motion, the product of which is so aesthetically and emotionally destructive that it is actually evil. It can be evil, to make a bad movie. This is the one and only lesson of THE APPLE.

PS I've seen THE APPLE like a hundred times so I guess I actually love it in some perverted way, I mean I'm not above it. Just, something had to be said.