#This ask will live rent free in my brain for the next lifetime thank you

[deafknell]

You know what's a scenario I need? Priscilla introducing Anastasia as her girlfriend to Vincent and Arakiya. The sibling-in-law dynamics would be great.

Hear me out.

I think Vincent would be quick to accept Ana into the family. He can see Ana is a skilled woman, so he'd respect her. Maybe there'd be a bit of wariness from him, because that's how he is, but even so, he knows Priscilla is smart, and if his little sister chose Ana, then surely he can trust her. Ana could take a liking to him as well; she'd definitely have fun teasing him. Plus, Ana calling Vincent "our brother" when talking to Priscilla would be cute.

As for Arakiya, perhaps she'd initially be a bit jealous of Ana. I think Ana would make attempts to approach Arakiya nonetheless, and even though Arakiya isn't very talkative, Ana, thanks to her natural skill with words, could find a way to interact with Arakiya that doesn't make the latter uncomfortable. And, feeling validated by this and also impressed by Ana's finesse overall, Arakiya could warm up to her.

(Sending this to you because I've proclaimed you CEO of PriAna)

you have no idea how much I squealed reading this AAAAAA (ily <3 prisana my beloveds)

Pris is almost definitely the type to brag about having a partner, if not to goad others and observe their reaction. I can see her using her relationship with Ana to torment an emotionally repressed Vincent whos still trying to beat all the thoughts of Chisha. Like “you couldnt kill me and you couldnt even beat me at getting into a relationship. and youre the emperor? lol. Lmao even.”

And 10000% I think you hit the nail on the head with Vincent in that he’d be wary, probably coming up with a bunch of escape plans for Pris if she somehow gets on the wrong side of the Iron Fang (or if he knew about Ana’s connection to Halibel), but would eventually warm up as she’s got that easygoing, business mentality that he can respect. I think he’d find it just as entertaining as Pris does when Ana backtalks them and slyly insults them.

Ana calling Vincent “our brother”,,,, thats so precious omg. Pris mocking her habits of collecting people and being a conniving fox while Ana’s like “I’m a greedy gal, course I’d monopolise my future wife’s family too. I aint exactly got one of my own.” and one hit KOing Pris.

god speaking of foxes I gotta wonder just how funny it’d be to Ana that Pris’ mother is a fox demihuman. Like theyre both fox women in a certain sense, even if Pris dismisses her whenever its brought up.

Arakiya is a difficult one because (at least current canon anya) shes very, very obsessed with Pris. That whole line of her being willing to dismember Pris just to keep her on the throne haunts me. So I imagine if she found out about Ana, she’d be furious at first. Pris has picked someone weak who cant protect her (abandoned Arakiya when she couldnt do the same, one of her biggest regrets) and Pris has actively picked someone as far removed from Vollachia as they come.

But I do think with time and character development, Arakiya would soften up a lot. Ana can’t protect her directly in the way Arakiya wants, but she has dozens of people capable of doing so for her. She’s good at negotiating, and eventually I imagine Arakiya will have to contend with the fact Pris is strong enough on her own. It’d take a long time for Arakiya to acknowledge Ana as worthy for the Princess, but I like to imagine her and Cecilus going to Kararagi for (his) clothes shopping and Ana tagging along to get to know Anya better.

Oh, oh and I cant forget how juicy the whole “Ana is on borrowed time” thing would be as a reveal to her inlaws. Pre them getting along I can see it be a huge reason for Vincent and Arakiya to oppose the relationship on account of their protectiveness of Pris. But after theyve got positive opinions of Ana? It’d be devastating. Poor Vincent reliving what happened with Chisha, expecting the reveal to crush Pris, while Pris insists on her world working in her favour mindset. Arakiya remembering Prisca’s reaction years back would cause her to really, really panic. She’s just gotten the princess back—would her partners untimely death break her worldview once more, or is there anything Arakiya can do to finally make it up to her?

THIS IS SUPER LONG IM SO SORRY to non prisana people but. I have so many thoughts about these two,,,

[rhysismydaddy]

After Midnight pt. 1 (Feysand)

Synopsis: After a tumultuous, heartbreaking relationship, Feyre Archeron turns to online dating for a break from normalcy. Or rather, to Velaris Nighttime Ventures, the most exclusive, high-dollar escort system around. She needs to ease back in to intimacy, so this seems like the perfect idea. But what happens when her escort turns out to be someone she can’t get out of her head? Someone who seems to understand and appreciate everything about her? 

My many disclaimers: Stole a line in here from The Hating Game. And one from ACOTAR obviously. And the story line is loosely based off of The Kiss Quotient. Basically, I’m a fraud.

__________________________________________________________

~Feyre~

If I told any of my friends I’m about to hire a hooker, they’d laugh themselves silly. 

And, to be honest, the idea is a little ridiculous to me, too. 

I’ve never had a problem getting a date in my life. Brownish blondeish hair, blue-gray eyes, and an athletic build give me slightly above average looks. A lucrative job makes me financially sound and independent. A lifetime with two sisters gave me a sense of humor. 

I’ve dated prom kings, nerds, and everything in between. I’m completely normal. 

Or at least I used to be. 

After everything that happened last year, I don’t know if that’s true anymore. 

My therapist tells me constantly it’s okay that my last relationship changed me. And the multiple degrees on her pretty green wall tell me she knows what she’s talking about and that she’s completely correct. 

Even if... even if it doesn’t feel okay. 

Even if I can hardly stand looking in a mirror or being hugged or someone giving me a compliment. 

Even if I haven’t felt like myself in so long, I don’t even know if I’d recognize it if i did. 

Because while I used to love putting makeup on, choosing a dress, and going out, the thought now fills me with so much dread it makes me nauseous. 

What if I just make the same mistake as last time? 

My sister's told me my whole life to guard my heart, but I always laughed it off and  said she was being cynical. And what do I have to prove it? Trust issues and a standing appointment Dr. Motley. 

Men don’t deserve my trust. At least not right now. 

But... it’s time to move on in the physical sense. 

And since running the risk of taking home the wrong man scares me shitless, I’ll start with someone who can’t reject me, can’t make me feel worthless. 

Someone who won’t develop feelings for me or get attached and demanding. Someone... who won’t mind giving me control. 

A hooker. 

Or escort, like the Velaris Nighttime Ventures website says as I scroll through pages and pages of profiles. 

Gods, this is more stressful than my first gallery opening. 

All the profiles include is a picture, probably-fake name, height, an age, and a simple sentence about them. 

It feels creepily similar to online shopping. And there are so, so many options. How the heck am I going to choose one? 

Scrolling down further, my eyes roam over men of every skin tone, age, and height. I don’t have any real preference, but decide I need to have a few ground rules, otherwise this will take forever. 

Age? I’m twenty-seven and don’t have an interest in being a cougar, so I set the range from twenty-eight to thirty-five. 

Height? At 5′6, I’m not exactly tall, but I’ve always found men who were more attractive, so I shrug and put the minimum at six feet. 

Pressing enter, I watch the website sort, then look at the number of men left. Thirty. Not bad. 

Scrolling through slowly, I realize it’s kind of like a yearbook for an all male college or something.

A college full of really sexy men. 

I pause on a few, but something about them make her keep going. I want the complete opposite of my ex, so any with features like him get eliminated. 

Eventually, I get to the last row, feeling a little dejected. 

But then I see him. 

His eyes seemed to pierce through the screen, and once I see him, I can’t look away. Without another thought, I click on the profile. 

The name under the picture reads Rhysand. No last name, probably for privacy purposes. He’s a few years older than me. And tall--6′3 tall. But that isn’t what draws me closer. It’s the sentence he’d written. 

To the stars that listened -- and the dreams that are answered. 

My fingers ignore the rational part of my brain and click the button to book an appointment, and before I know it, I’m looking at a confirmation page. 

For tonight at midnight. 

Oh gods.

~Rhysand~

After working at the bar for a few hours, I head back to my shitty apartment to get ready for tonight’s appointment. 

Someone has booked me for an “evening of adventure and pleasure” as the confirmation email tells me. 

Wonderful. 

All I know is her name: Feyre. It doesn’t sound like an old-lady name, so there’s that. 

Those are the worst. It feels like fucking someone’s grandmother. Not that I’d know, exactly. And I mean sure, most of my clients are older. But there’s older, and then there’s old. Fine line between the two, let me tell you. 

Most of the people who hire me are in their forties, trapped in miserable marriages, and desperate for a decent lay. They’re also filthy rich, because I’m not cheap in the slightest. 

It’s why I’d agreed to this shit in the first place. 

Yeah, I have to psych myself up and sleep with a random lady, but the pay is killer. And the more money I make, the quicker I can stop. 

So I shower and go through my pre-appointment routine, trying not to think about what’s become of my life. 

There weren’t any special requests on the appointment, but the meet was set for a swanky hotel downtown, so I put on a dark suit and white dress shirt. My hair doesn’t need much work, so I leave, figuring I’ll get there early. 

The drive over’s quick, and soon I’m walking inside and sitting at the bar. She has my picture, but I don’t have a clue what she looks like, so she’ll have to come find me. 

After a few minutes, someone settles next to me, and I turn around with an expectant smile. 

But when I see who it is, I stop. And hating myself more than I thought possible, I tell the woman, “Sorry, I’m waiting for someone.”

Which really fucking sucks, because she’s beautiful as hell. 

Smooth skin, dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and kiss-me lips kind of beautiful. 

She gives me a strange look, then says words I’d never expect from someone like her. “I’m Feyre. I’m the... client.”

The way she cringes on the word tells me it’s her first time doing something like this, and the thought makes me a little too happy. 

I know I should say something to comfort her, but all I can think is... she’s definitely no grandma. 

~Feyre~

He keeps staring at me for a few more moments, then smiles and says, “Sorry. You’re not what I was expecting.”

I nod, then realize I have no idea what to say. Or do. Fuck, this is weird. “Do you want a drink?”

Rhysand shakes his head, then says, “Feel free, though.”

That’s the first good idea I’ve heard all day. After ordering from the bartender, I turn to the man next to me and smile sheepishly. “I don’t really know how this works. It’s my first time with... this.”

“I figured.” He’s turned toward me, one arm braced on the bar. “You can have your drink, and we’ll go upstairs when you’re ready.”

A nervous laugh ebbs out of me, and I blush. “Okay.”

Gods, am I really going through with this? 

I mean sure, he’s hotter than all hell, but he’s a prostitute. 

Would you rather invite a random man home with you? the bitch that lives in my brain asks with a knowing smile. 

I ignore her as a drink’s set in front of me, finding it helps a little. The man next to me just watches, face a mixture of confusion and amusement. 

Somehow, the photo didn’t do him justice. He’s ridiculously attractive, with dark hair, almost violet eyes, and tan skin. There’s a hint of stubble on his strong jaw, surrounding the sensual mouth that’s currently smirking at me. 

I’m definitely attracted to him, but this is still weird. 

“So, why are you doing this?” he asks as I drink. “If you don’t mind.”

I’m sure as hell not telling him the truth, so I say, "I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours.”

Rhysand smiles, and it only makes him more attractive. “Fair point.”

Then he looks me up and down, raises his dark brows, and asks, “Ready?”

Not in the fucking slightest. “Sure.”

By the time we reach the elevator, I’m practically shaking. Telling myself that I can do this--that it’s what I want, for gods sake--doesn’t really help. But I don’t say a word as we glide up, then walk to the room I’ve rented for tonight. 

When we get inside, I avoid looking at the bed as I turn to him. 

Rhysand smoothly takes off his suit jacket, then leans against the wall and crosses his ankles. “You seem nervous.”

He certainly doesn’t. Every move he makes is smooth and easy, like he’s so comfortable in his body he doesn’t ever get nervous or self-conscious. 

Must be nice. 

“I do?” It’s a deflection, and we both know it. 

“You’re shaking like a wet dog.” My nose wrinkles at the analogy, and he grins. “A very cute wet dog.”

I told myself I’d be alright, but now that I’m alone with him, I realize I’ve told absolutely no one where I am tonight. And if things go wrong... I start pacing. “I’m, uh... it’s just... nothing. Let’s do this thing.”

I should write sonnets. 

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say a word as he walks to sit on the edge of the bed. Feeling like the biggest idiot in the world, I sit next to him. 

“Why don’t we just take things slow?” 

Thank the gods. I nod. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, using manners I definitely hadn’t expected but much appreciate. 

I nod again, trying to keep my hands from shaking. 

Rhysand raises a hand, but I swallow and push down the flare of panic as he cups my jaw and tilts my face to his. Then he leans in--keeping his word and going very slowly--and I brace myself as his lips brush against mine.

My body doesn’t exactly know how to feel when they touch. On the one hand, a very handsome man is kissing me. On the other... a man is kissing me. 

I ignore the second thought and kiss him back. 

His lips are silky soft against mine, slowly urging them open, and then his tongue is in my mouth, caressing mine. Everything’s slow and sensual and practiced. 

And even though it’s a picture-perfect moment, it feels like that scene in the movie where the dumb blonde goes down the dark hallway while the entire theater screams at her to run. 

Oh gods oh gods oh gods. 

My brain’s playing me a repeat of the last year on fast forward, and I press my eyes closed to try and block it out. 

I’m fine. 

Rhysand leans into me, and then I’m on my back with him hovering above me, still kissing me. His surprisingly muscled frame is heavy against me, pressing me down into the soft sheets, and his elbows are by my head.

Nothing’s wrong. 

Everything’s wrong. 

I take a quick moment to remind myself that if this had happened a year ago, I’d probably have wrapped myself around him and let him do whatever he wanted. 

But the past twelve months weren’t just a bad dream. And the band-aid protecting the stupid, naive girl I used to be from the harsh realities of the world has been ripped off and torn to bits. 

And suddenly, I can’t breathe. 

His head snaps up immediately, and violet eyes gaze down at me, full of concern. A weak hand comes up to press against his chest, and he sits up immediately. “Feyre? Are you okay?”

I shake my head and practically roll off the bed onto the floor. It’s completely undignified, but I don’t care. My lungs are on fire, my throat tight with the tears I’m barely holding back. 

I have to get away from him; I have to get some space. 

My back hits the wall, and I curl into myself, pressing my forehead against my knees. 

Breathe, Feyre, breathe. 

The silence in the room is broken only by my gasps, and I focus on the sound, letting it remind me that I’m here, that I made it out. 

I don’t let myself think about the other person in the room. It’s just me, and I’m fine. I made it out. 

There’s scratchy carpet under my legs, a wall behind my back, and more than enough air in the room. 

Eventually, my brain catches up with the obvious, allowing oxygen to fill my chest. I’m gulping down breath after breath until my heart rate finally starts slowing down, and it’s only when my head stops feeling fuzzy do I open my eyes. 

Rhysand sits on the bed, beautiful eyes wide, watching me. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Gods, he’s probably uncomfortable beyond belief. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, cutting him off and shaking my head. I know I should get off the floor, but my legs feel like jello, and I don’t want to crawl around again. “I, um...”

The words to explain the panic don’t come easy, but he stays silent, giving me time. 

And because I’m a coward who still can’t admit what happened to me, I repeat the words my therapist suggested I try. 

“I have problems with intimacy.” It’s hardly a whisper, but I know he hears it. “And, um... I thought it would be easier with someone like you.” I flinch at my own words and try to make it sound less offensive. “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay, Feyre. I understand.”

Tears burn the edges of my eyes, but I force them down and steady my voice. “You can go. There’s money on the desk.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you like this. Unless I’m the reason.”

“No, it’s not you,” I assure him. “You’re great. I just have a hard time relaxing with- I mean around-”

“Men,” he finishes quietly. 

And even though I didn’t tell him, he looks like he can read the words off my face. Rhysand doesn’t say another word, but his eyes are understanding and calm. 

He extends a hand, the silent invitation clear, and for some reason, it makes me smile as I slowly get to my feet, using the wall to support me.

Walking over, he takes my hand in is, and I notice how rough his palms are. Before I can wonder what he does to get such big callouses, he takes my other hand and places them on his shoulders. 

“You’re in control. There are no expectations with me.” The words wash over me, settling in, and my heart slows down a bit. “If you want to kiss and call it a night, we can. It’s up to you.”

For some reason, hearing that he doesn’t care helps. It’s the reason why I chose this, I guess. I’m the client, and I’m in control. 

Finally feeling calm, I slowly run my hands over his shoulders, down his arms. He’s heavily muscled, but it’s smooth and lean, not bulky. From a physical life, not from hours spent in a gym.

I can see the faint lines of tattoos beneath the shirt, but I don’t move to unbutton it. 

His eyes stay on me, and I meet them as my hands drift to his face. The stubble I’d noticed earlier is rough against my fingers as I trace his jaw, then the strong slope of his eyebrows. 

It’s been a year since I touched a man. Longer since I did so this... leisurely. 

My hands find their way into his dark hair, and I smile at how soft it is. His head tilts back a little and his eyes drift close. I don’t know if he’s putting on a show or actually enjoying this, but he seems calm at least. 

And I think... I think this could work. 

Working on my intimacy issues with him could help fix me, maybe even get me ready for a real relationship. 

So I lean in slowly and press my mouth to his. 

Like he said, I’m in control. While earlier had felt like being kissed, this feels like kissing. I move my mouth slowly over his, tracing the curve of his lower lip softly. 

He really is a beautiful man. 

And patient, too. He’s extremely patient while I take my time learning the shape of his mouth, then the angle of his jaw. He stays still, eyes closed, letting me explore. 

I slowly drift back to his mouth, and when he eases his lips open, I meet his tongue with mine. It’s slow and light and just enough to make me want more. 

My breath comes shorter, but it isn’t in panic.

Taking his hands from the bed beside him, I place them on my hips. His fingers flex, but they stay exactly where I put them, even as I wrap my arms around his neck and press a little closer to him. 

We’re still just kissing, but I feel it in my entire body, all the way to my toes. 

I pull back and take a deep breath, not knowing how to put what I want into words without embarrassing myself. Bright violet eyes meet mine as Rhysand runs his tongue across his lower lip. “Just say it.”

How can he read my face so well after just an hour of knowing me? 

“Lean back,” I say, my face warm with a blush. “But don’t turn us over. I can’t... I feel trapped.”

Rhysand just nods, gripping my hips tighter, then lays down with me on top of him. My chest is against his, my legs resting in between his. It’s the closest I’ve been to someone in a long time, and I wait for the panic to set in, but none comes. 

“You okay?”

A small part of me wishes he wouldn’t be so damn understanding and nice. It’s making me feel so incredibly stupid, even as it warms my heart. 

I nod, then put my head down against his chest. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?”

Looking back up, I meet his eyes hesitantly. “You’re probably so weirded out by me. Paying you just to come make out like teenagers.”

He smiles, and it makes some of the nerves untangle. “Silly woman. I could kiss you all night. You have the most delicious mouth.” He leans in and kisses me, as if to prove it, then makes a deep humming sound. 

“That’s absurd,” I mutter, even though I feel a lot less anxious now. 

Rhysand shakes his head, then says, “You taste like fucking candy.” His arms loosely wrap around my waist. “Tilt your head to the side and I’ll prove it.”

I do, and his mouth meets my neck, slowly but in a way that makes it feel like I’m being devoured. Tingles shoot down my body as he sweeps my hair off my neck to get better access, and a soft moan escapes me as he sucks on the spot between my shoulder and neck. 

He pulls away enough to say, “You have a really sexy moan, too.”

My face goes scarlet, and he grins up at me, then we’re kissing again. Gods, the man can kiss. He’s letting me control everything, but it’s obvious he’s good at what he does.

Even though I’m almost delirious with lust--something I haven’t felt in a long, long time--I know this is enough for tonight. I’ve already had one panic attack, and I don’t want to push myself too hard. 

So I pull back and tell him, “You can go. I don’t think... this is good for tonight, I think.”

“I feel like you’re not getting your money’s worth if I leave now,” he says, and if I could’ve sworn I hear a hint of sadness in his tone.

I shrug, not telling him the money for tonight was nothing to worry about. Instead, I just slide off him and stand up, straightening my shirt. “It’s was more than okay. Seriously. Thank you for being so understanding.”

Rhysand rises fluidly and grabs his jacket, then turns to me. Before he can speak, I say, “I actually wanted to talk to you about another appointment.”

After an awkward pause, he says quietly, “I don’t really do... repeats.”

“Oh.” There’s no way to hide the disappointment in my voice. 

I’d thought that I’d be able to work with him slowly. Build on what we did tonight. The thought of having to find a different man and explain why I’m so emotionally stunted... shit. 

What if I freak out again, in front of someone new?

Gods, no wonder he doesn’t want to come back. He’s already had to deal with an hour of my trauma. Who would ever sign up to do it again? I’m damaged goods.

“It’s not you, I promise. I’ve just had a few clients get sort of... attached. So I made a policy to not meet with women more than once.” He sounds nice and apologetic, and it grates my nerves a little. 

Rejection is rejection no matter how you look at it. 

And no matter how fucked up I am, I don’t need anyone’s pity.

But, like a big girl, I smile and nod. “I get it. It’s fine. I’ll find someone else. Your money is on the table.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Find someone else? What do you mean?”

My eyebrows fly up at how shocked he sounds. He just saw firsthand how not okay I am, and he’s surprised? 

“I mean that I’ll find someone else. I have intimacy issues, and I need to work on them. I understand completely that you’re uncomfortable with that, and I’ll find someone who isn’t.”

There’s a flicker in his jaw. “And you’re planning on using the website for this someone?”

“It’s really none of your concern.”

“Feyre, there are some not so great people on there. You shouldn’t use-”

My patience snaps. “You have absolutely no right to lecture me. You don’t want the job, I will find someone else, since it’s such a goddamn burden. Now thank you very much for tonight, but you’re community service is done. You can go.”

There are too many emotions on his face to process them all, but I definitely register shock. 

“I promise it isn’t about you, okay? You’re great. Hell, I’d want to sleep with you even if I wasn’t getting paid. But I have a policy, and-”

“Like I said, I understand. You can go now.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t use the site to find another guy.”

There’s something about the command in his voice that grabs every last thread I’m hanging by and rips them free. I march over to him and jab a finger into his chest. “Do not tell me what to do. Ever.”

Rhysand eyes narrow, but it isn’t in anger. It’s like he’s looking at a puzzle, and he just figured out the piece he’d thought would fit won’t. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

I remove the finger-gun from his chest, but he doesn’t make any move to leave. Instead, he catches me completely off guard by saying, “I’ll do four more appointments.”

Rolling my eyes comes a little to easy. “Don’t do me any favors. I’m not your goddamn charity case.”

“No, because if you were, you’d probably be a little grateful.” Whatever retort I had planned dies in my throat. “But it’s not pity. I don’t want you getting hurt by some other guy from the site.”

There’s enough genuine concern in his voice for me to believe him. And the last thing I want is to put myself in danger. 

But I still ask if he’s serious, because to be honest, it sounds perfect. 

If I can fix myself in six appointments. 

That’s a pretty big if. 

“Yes, seriously. But I’m going to charge you more, and we can only meet here.”

I shrug because I sure as hell wasn’t about to invite him to my place. And unless he’s planning on charging enough to buy a house, it should be fine. “Okay.”

He glances at me, then down at himself, like he’s suddenly aware he’s still standing here. “Okay.”

And just like that, I’ve hired a hooker. 

____________________________________________________

Part 2 is here because I have no self-control. Let me know in the comments/my box if you want to be tagged :)

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[thepeacetea]

Mistake of a Lifetime

I LIVE!!!!!!! Hey everyone! I don’t know what happened last month. It was like my brain shut down. It was the worst feeling ever. I just couldn’t write. Which was insanely frustrating. But I’m back and off of work for the next three week due to COVID-19. And since I’m not venturing into the outside world, hopefully I’ll be able to get more writing done!!! So thank you all for being patient with me. I honestly have absolutely no idea where this story came from, but enjoy my beauties. Warning, there is a tiny, little bit of swearing but nothing major. As always, if you have any questions or comments feel free to let me know. Anyway, hope ya’ll enjoy!!! Peace!!!

Damian was frustrated. He couldn’t find that girl anywhere. He knew when he explained what he had done what he did that she would understand. His angel always did. She loved him too much to stay mad at him for long. Once she learned why, Damian knew that she would come back. That’s one of the reasons he loved her, she was so trusting and forgiving. No matter what he did, he knew she would welcome him back with open arms. But right now, he was irritated with his girlfriend. She hadn’t been in contact with any of the family in five months. No one knew where she was. Tim couldn’t even find her. It was as if she just disappeared. Which is what led him here, to what was hopefully the door of his best friend’s apartment. If anyone would know where Marinette was, it would be Jon.

Finding the apartment had been a slightly more difficult then Damian had first thought. Jon wasn’t one for covering his civilian tracts, usually allowing anyone, if they so wished, to track him down. But he had been strangely quiet the past few months. Superboy had also been absent from the hero scene. When Damian had inquired as to why, no one could supply a straight answer. Jon had spoken to his parents every few weeks to assure them that he was fine, but other then that, no one knew much.

The search for apartments rented out to a Jonathan Samuel Kent had turned up blank, as did all the other alias that Damian could think his best friend might possibly use. It eventually arrived at the point that Damian had run his handwriting through the data base to find a match for a signature. Eight states and eleven empty apartments later, Damian Wayne found himself climbing the squeaking steps to the apartment located above a little Chinese restaurant in the middle of Chinatown, San Francisco.

‘Honestly Jon, the other places where far better off then this,’ Damian muttered as he knocked on the door. The sound of scuffling followed by multiple items falling sparked a flicker of hope from the Wayne heir. Though he would never tell Jon this, Damian had missed his idiot of a friend.

“Buy too much at the market again? M, I told you, just get what we need for dinner tonight and we’ll get the rest tomor . . .” Jon said opening the door, the laughter that was oh so evident in his voice died the moment he saw who was at his door.

Damian watched as a wave of emotions filtered across his friend’s face. Surprise, confusion, and doubt where all understandable, at least in Damian’s opinion, but when Jon’s face finally settled on a mixture of anger and disgust, Damian grew confused and slightly irritated. He had not come all this way nor spent all that time looking for him to be received like that. Not by Kent, not by anyone.

“What are you doing here, Wayne?”

Now that caught him off guard. Damian could not, for the life of him, remember a single moment when Jon had referred to him, or anyone, by their last name. Ever.

“Tt, came looking for you. No one’s seen so much as a flutter of your cape in five month. The last time anyone heard from you was your parents, six weeks ago.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m fine. Now if there’s nothing else . . .” Jon said, closing the door, causing Damian to bit back a growl. He did not come all this way to get a door shut in his face.

“Actually, there is,” Damian countered, forcing the door back open as Jon sent a chilling glare his way, nearly causing him to laugh. If Kent thought he could scare Damian, the only blood son of Bruce Wayne, the Batman, with that poor excuse of a glare, he was in for a nasty surprise. “I need to know if you’ve seen my girlfriend?”

Damian was expecting many things, but none of them was the utterly disgusted scoff that came from the dark-haired young man as his face twisted into a scowl.

“Yeah. Two weeks ago. On tv. At the Wayne Gala. You remember, she was hanging off your arm like one of those rich people’s lapdogs. You know, the really yappy ones.” He said, something sparking in his eyes, though Damian couldn’t quiet place it.

“Not the Italian she-devil, you idiot. I mean Marinette.” Damian strained, actively using more force to push the door open as Jon was closing it. The disbelieving laugh that left the young half-kryptonian surprised Damian.

“Mar is not your girlfriend anymore, Wayne. Remember? YOU broke up with her five months ago. And then YOU announced that you were dating that – that – Rossi girl the next day on national tv.”

“Look Kent, all I want to know is if you know where she is or not, because I need to talk with her.” Damian ground out as he began to lose what little leverage he had on the door. The half second hesitation and slight dilation of Jon’s eyes was all Damian need to know whatever came out of his friend’s mouth was a lie.

“No.”

“You were always a terrible liar Kent.” Damian stated. Taking advantage to the slight surprise, Damian force the door open, stepping inside before the other man could react.

The apartment itself was rather small, though Damian was use to having far more space then needed. The apartment was an open floor concept. The only thing separating the kitchen from the living room was a counter that extended from the wall, cutting the room in half. A worn couch was sitting in the middle of the main room with a small coffee table in front of it. A tv was pushed against the wall, a few open movie cases lay scattered across the stand with a gaming console tucked neatly underneath. A bookshelf was shoved into the far corner. A fallen stack of books lay by a beaded doorway that Damian could only assumed lead to a bedroom. A few pictures adorned the walls, though Jon drew Damian’s attention before he could get a chance to identify who was in them.

“What the heck do you think you’re doing? I didn’t invite you in! Get out!” Jon said, his voice raising an octave, jabbing his finger towards the door.

“And here I thought your mother taught you hospitality,” Damian countered, enjoying the growl his comment caused. “As for what I’m doing here, I already informed you why. I want to know where my angel is and I need you to tell me.”

“Never. Gonna. Happen! What makes you think you have any right to see her let alone call her ‘yours’?” Jon growled, actually growled, at Damian. Under any other circumstances, he would have been impressed that the cheerful, happy Kansas native sounded so . . . threatening in his questioning. But Damian was quickly reaching the end of his already short patience. Pinning the other man with a glare that would have made his father proud, Damian watched as the other subconsciously straightened to his full height.

“I’m bringing her back, where she belongs. The Rossi mission is over and I want my Angel back.”

For five seconds, Jon stood there, brows drawn together in confusion as his brain processed what was said. Five seconds where he could have been telling Damian where his girlfriend was, Jon just stood there.

“. . . what?”

“Lila Rossi held vital, insider information of a new program which my mother and Dr. Hugo Strange were developing. We needed the information, but more importantly, we needed Rossi to trust us. I, obviously, was the best candidate for the job. Father and the others helped plan and execute it. We have the information we need and the parties involved have been dealt with appropriately, including Rossi.”

“. . . all of this . . . everything . . . was for a mission?” Jon asked quietly, his voice calm as he bent his head, his bangs covering his eyes. Damian let a small smile slip. He knew Jon would understand, and once he told him where his angel was, she would too.

“Yes. Now I need to know where . . .” Damian began to say when the left side of his face erupted in pain as the sound of something breaking filled the air. Whether it was his jaw or the picture frames he landed against, he didn’t know. He didn’t have the time to figure out as he was hauled to his feet and slammed into the wall, his head smashing into an other picture. Once Damian’s vision cleared, confused emerald met rage filled electric blue.

“You mean to tell me, that everything, Every hatful word, Every cutting remark, Every. Single. Day! Marinette spent CRYING was for some GOD DAMN MISSION!?!” Jon yelled, pulling Damian closer as his eyes flashed back and forth between blue and red, and for the first time in a long time, Damian felt fear. “Do you have any idea how much you hurt her!?!”

“It was a sacrifice necessary for the completion of the mission. Once she knows that, she’ll understand!” Damian shouted, defending himself. Everyone who knew agreed. The action was necessary for the mission. Without it, the whole mission would have been unnecessarily complicated. Even Clark and Diana had agreed, so why couldn’t Jon?

“Sacrifice? Is that what you think this was?” Jon hissed, eyes steadily changing from blue to solid red. “You broke her!”

“I didn’t . . .” Damian started to say before he was slammed against the wall again, causing the remaining pictures to fall, glass breaking on impact.

“SHUT UP!!!” Jon screamed. If it was possible, Damian saw his eyes fill with more rage then he had ever seen in one person, Jason included. “You know nothing! You broke her Wayne. She trusted you! After everything that happened to her, after being abandoned by so many others, she trusted you and you broke her! She gave her heart to YOU! Marinette gave you everything, only for you to turn around and throw her away like trash!”

“Jon,” Damian tried to say, but Jon wasn’t done.

“Do you know how I found her? After I found out you not only broke up with her but then decided to date the person that made her life a living hell, I spent six, SIX, hours looking for her. I finally found her on the roof where we first met her. She was just sitting there, on the edge, looking over the city. When she finally looked at me, her face was completely blank. No trace of emotion. The only real sign of life was how red and swollen her eyes were from crying. Do you want to know the first thing she said to me? ‘He left me.’ ‘He LEFT me!’” Jon snarled. “You have no idea how hard it was to keep her going after that. What it was like seeing her like that. Do you know what its like seeing someone who’s so full of life to just wilt in front of you. To see them lose everything that made them who they are.” Jon asked, his voice dropping in grief as his grip on Damian shirt loosened.

“Jon, I know. I hurt her. I know. That’s why I need to talk to her. I know my angel. Once I tell her, once I explain, everything will be fine.”

“No, Wayne. I don’t think you do know her.” Jon said, completely letting go of him as if he couldn’t stand touching him. “I know Mar better then my own mind at this point. She is the most trusting and kindest person you will ever meet, but even she has her limits.” He hissed, turning his back on his once friend, running his hands through his hair in anger and frustration.

All Damian could do was stare at the person, who had for the longest time, been his only friend. Steadying himself against the wall, the young Wayne looked down. Trying to gather his thoughts. To think of something to say when one of the picture frames caught his eye. Gingerly picking it up, Damian found himself looking through shattered glass at what appeared to be an ultra-sound photo sitting beside one the soon to be mother. Barely legible through the broken glass was Jon’s handwriting, ‘Mama and baby at eight months.’ The photo was dated three days ago. Damian couldn’t stop staring. There, through the shattered glass, stood HIS angel, her belly swollen to the point where it looked ready to burst, smiling at the camera.

What Damian was seeing wasn’t making sense. Eight months pregnant. They had broken up five months ago. He knew she had never slept with another guy before. Her first time had been with him. Once. Three months before they broke up. Eight months ago. She was pregnant. She was eight months pregnant.

His mind flashed to the last time he had seen her. The day he had ‘broken up’ with her. She had an appointment the day. A doctor’s appointment. She hadn’t been feeling well for the last few weeks. She had wanted to tell him something after the appointment. She had sounded so excited over the phone. She promised she’d tell him over dinner but he had gone first, telling her they were over. She had looked so heartbroken. So devastated. She never got a chance to tell him her news

Suddenly, the frame was torn from his hands but the damage had been done. He knew. Lifting his eyes, Damian met Jon’s gaze. Utter shock met panicked anger. For a few moment’s neither spoke. Neither man knew what say or how to react.

“Jon, I’m so sorry I’m back late! I distracted chatting with Aunty Liu and Grandpa Zhao wanted to know how the baby’s doing and then Mama Zhang wanted to give me some tea that’s suppose to help with my back pain an . . .” The sweet, sweet voice of his angel broke through the apartment before abruptly cutting off.

Damian’s whole body twisted toward the door faster then he thought possible. There, standing in the doorway, was the most beautiful sight Damian had ever seen. His angel, dressed in a soft, baby blue shirt that proudly displayed her heavily pregnant belly and black pant, stood completely frozen as her eyes, her gorgeous blue eyes that he had missed so, so much, darted between the apartment and the two occupant.

Damian took a step forward, she instinctively took one back, panic blooming in her eyes.

“Beloved I . . .”

Damian never got father then that. As soon as he spoke, Marinette’s face drained of colour as she turned and bolted from the apartment as fast as a woman of her condition could. He raced to follow, to hold her and tell her everything would be alright. That he would take care of her and their child. Their child! The very thought of his child sent an unbelievable wave of joy coursing through him! He was going to be a father! Damian was going to spoil his angel, his beloved, rotten. They would need to have one of the manor rooms renovated into a nursery. He would need to have someone take over his patrol for the next few month, his child and soon-to-be wife would need him and . . .

Both Damian’s train of thought and path was halted by the very painful grip on his arm. Fully ready to bite Jon’s head off, Damian was silenced by the red tinted glare his friend was giving him. He immediately notice how tense Jon was. He looked like he was ready for a fight, one that the kryptonian knew he would win.

“No. You are not going after her. The last thing Mar needs is this kind of stress this far in the pregnancy.”

“But . . .”

“I said no Wayne! Mar almost lost the baby once already. I am not going to allow her to go through that again! She can’t go through that again. I can’t handle going through that again!” Jon hissed, dropping his hold on Damian’s arm as he made a beeline for the stairs.

“Jon!” Damian yelled, hoping against hope that he would change his mind. That was his girlfriend and his child, damn it. He needed to be with them.

“No, Damian! Just . . . just go. You’ve done enough.” Jon shouted as he disappeared down the stairs.

Jon’s last comment caused the young heir to pause. He had done enough? He hadn’t been given a chance to fix what he had done. How could he have done enough? Sure, he had messed up royally, but he wanted to fix it. Why wouldn’t Jon let him fix it?

Pushing those questions aside, Damian ran down the stair, praying that he would at least catch a glimpse of his beloved. But the scene that met him as he burst into the street somehow drove Jon’s parting words home. There, braced against the wall of the building across from him, was Marinette. She was curled up as tightly as she physically could be, her face buried in Jon’s shirt as she let out the most heart wrenching sobs. Damian’s body refused to move as he watched Jon gently rock the mother of his child. His body refused to move as he watched the other man stroked her hair, promising to never leave her, whispering soft words of comfort to her as he planted butterfly kisses on her head. That he would always be there. That no one was going to hurt her. That she was safe.

Seconds turned into minutes before he could summon the strength to do what Jon had said. Casting one last look at his angel, his Marinette, Damian knew that taking that mission, that leaving her, had been the worst mistake of his life.

[scullydubois]

Only the Light: Ch. 9

9/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, occasional fluff | currently: s2, ep 12, Aubrey | T (for now?) | 4.3k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic

Back in DC, Missy helps Scully get to the bottom of what's plaguing her. As Scully's journey gets a bit clearer, Missy drops a bombshell about her own life.

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

Scully’s stomach clenches as the plane touches down on the runway, jostling she and the rest of the passengers around like pawns in its game. Only forty-eight hours ago, she and Mulder had lifted off toward another mystery, another puzzle daring them to solve it. Now she is back, knowing scarcely more than she did then, with a mystery of her own to solve. She is forever chasing ghosts, and trying not to become one. 

As the winged giant rolls into its gate, Scully glances out the window. Thick clouds blanket the sky, an unending greyness rolling out over the city as far as the eye can see. So much for there’s no place like home. She’s been realizing lately that home is a feeling, not a location. Sometimes she feels like she needs a map to navigate her own apartment, or like everyone in DC knows some language she never learned. Well, almost everyone. There are a couple people who speak the same language as her.

And she’s about to see one of them now. The crowd of passengers--mostly suits who had sleepless nights-- stand up in their rows, ready to file out into the bureaucratic machine. The man on the outside of Scully’s row opens the overhead compartment and pulls down his bag and the carry-ons of Scully and the woman next to her. Scully thanks him demurely. She can’t remember the last time someone other than Mulder did that for her.

As they fall into line and shuffle off the plane, Scully wonders what her life will look like next time she boards a plane. With any luck, this will all be a fluke and she’ll be heading back to Aubrey tomorrow. Then again, even if it isn’t a fluke, she’ll still probably join Mulder back in Aubrey. She knows herself.

What would she say to him, then? Having to admit she lied about her reason for leaving, coming back with the type of news that turns worlds upside down...it doesn’t seem fair to him. It hasn’t been fair to her either, but that’s out of her hands.

She had knocked on Mulder’s door before the sun was even up. She hadn’t expected him to be awake, and so was particularly surprised when he came to the door with a towel around his waist. Evidently, he hadn’t expected her either (though who else is coming to his motel door at 6am?) because the longer she stood there in front of his barely dressed body, the more his color drained away. 

Needing a lie lame enough to be true, Scully told him that Melissa had sprained her ankle and would need some help getting around for a couple days.That she asked Scully to come home rather than go stay with their mother, because who better to be nursed by than a doctor? Mulder had nodded, told Scully to go, assured her he could handle BJ and the case. Scully is sure that Mulder knows what she told him is a lie. But he didn’t object, and that’s the permission she needed to feel settled with him and herself. 

She follows everyone off the plane, through the tunnel, and into the terminal. Moments like this remind her of her obsolescence in the universe, and she is somehow comforted by that. She is no chosen one, no messiah nor martyr, no mother of a holy child. She would like to stay that way.

She surveys the crowd waiting to pick up their beloved passengers. All of her fellow fliers, mere faces in her vicinity for an hour or two, are someone to somebody else. She is, too. They are all emerging from obscurity into a realm where they are known, for better or for worse. 

At the edge of the crowd, Scully catches her sister’s unmistakable smile and glowing red locks. She saw her sister only two mornings before, but Missy reacts as if they’ve been separated a lifetime. She engulfs Scully in a hug that just about sends the butterflies in her stomach into hibernation. 

“How are you feeling?” Missy asks, pulling away to scan her sister’s face for the honest answer she won’t give. 

Aware of this, Scully turns the corners of her mouth up. “I’m okay, really. My migraine went away at about four in the morning.”

“So you barely slept,” Missy interjects. 

Scully frowns. “Well, I laid in bed from roughly eight to six. There was sleeping involved at some point, I think.”

“How about on the plane? Did you sleep there?”

“No, you know I can never sleep with strangers around.”

“Oh, right. Did they teach you that at the Academy or something?”

“The things I saw at the Academy taught me that.”

“Oh.” Missy regrets bringing it up. As they head toward the luggage area, she holds out her hand, lets her sister place the handle of her carry-on in it. A silent apology, an acknowledged acceptance.

“So what did you end up telling Mulder?”

Scully is endeared that she has successfully chipped away at her sister’s tendency to call him by his first name.

“Oh god, you’re gonna think it’s so stupid.”

Missy laughs. “What did you say?”

Scully’s voice is rife with amusement. “I told him that you sprained your ankle and needed a doctor around to take care of you.”

Melissa bursts into laughter. “Good girl.” Scully would kick a man in the groin if he ever said that to her, but coming from her sister, it’s high praise.

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

They ignore the elephant in the room until they make it to Missy’s car. The plastic of a CVS bag rustles at Scully’s feet as she settles into the passenger seat. 

“Three pregnancy tests,” Melissa explains. “I stopped on the way.”

“You didn’t have to--”

“But I did.” That had been their father’s comeback whenever someone tried to, as he called it, ‘pity the helper.’ They both smile just a bit, their memory of him alive and well. 

“Can I pay you back?”

“No!” Missy insists. “I’m living with you rent free.”

Scully decides this is a good enough reason to let it go. She crosses her legs, watches her sister pull out of the space. She lets a question float around her head until they make it out of the labyrinth of airport side roads.

“Do you think I would be a good mother?”

Missy flicks her gaze toward her sister. Dana is peculiar in her way. Instead of fishing for sympathy like most people when they ask questions of this nature, she expects punishment. She’s practically asking to have a nail hammered into her cross. 

“You’d be a wonderful mother, Dana,” Missy soothes. “You’ve never had a bad intention in your life.”

“Haven’t I?...I killed a snake with Bill and Charlie once.”

“And you cried afterward. I remember seeing the tear stains on your face when you got home. Not to mention that you were what, five or six?”

“Well, what about Daniel? Surely my judgement was wrong there.”

Melissa sighs. “Okay, I’ll rephrase it. Any bad intention you’ve ever had was paid for with regret, and that’s not true about most people.” She frowns. “It’s always the purest souls who are the hardest on themselves.”

Scully stares through the windshield. She will expend no brainpower on her sister’s implication. She doesn’t believe it to be true. 

After a moment--“Do you remember those Raggedy Ann dolls we had, Betsy and Betty?”

Melissa smiles, nods. “Of course. Betsy was yours, and Betty was mine. We had those little wooden bassinets for them.”

“Right.”

Missy lets the memories flow back to her. “We used to sing lullabies and rock them to sleep. Actually, I’d sing, you’d pray with them. Mom and dad thought it was the sweetest thing ever, and I would get so mad at you. I thought you were sucking up to them.”

Scully laughs. This is the first time she’s heard of her sister’s woes. “Missy, I was three. There was no conspiring going on.”

“Say what you will, but your stocking was always a little bit fuller than mine.” She smirks at her sister, who blushes and looks at her lap. 

Dana has the unfortunate distinction, at least in Melissa’s mind, of being the favorite daughter. Bill Jr. always was and will be the favorite child. He molded to all their parent’s expectations of him, never deviating from the upstanding family man they imagined when holding him for the first time. Dana had done well up until she decided on the Academy. As Missy reminded her countless times, it wasn’t that they hated her going into the FBI. It just wasn’t in their vision for her, that’s all. 

Missy doesn’t fret about her place, even finds it somewhat funny. She isn’t the least favorite child per say (thanks Charlie!) but she is the least favorite child her mother is still in contact with, and that’s a title that takes some maneuvering. 

Scully laces her fingers together, rests them in her lap. “Do you remember telling me that I wasn’t a good mommy one night when we were putting Betsy and Betty to sleep?”

Melissa looks to her sister so quickly she practically forgets she needs to be watching the road. “No, of course not.”

Scully can’t meet her gaze. “Well, I know it’s a silly thing, and we were just children, but it’s stayed stuck in my brain for all these years.”

“Dana, you had probably just finished a ‘now I lay me down to sleep’ prayer, and I felt like I needed to knock you down a notch.” She pats her sister’s shoulder. “There was no truth in it, and I’m sorry it’s bugged you for so long.”

Scully shifts in her seat. The CVS bag crackles as her heels bear down on it. “I’m afraid it’s turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy at this point.”

Melissa won’t give weight to her sister’s worries, but won’t discount them either. “The good news about a self-fulfilling prophecy is that you can always change your thinking...You don’t believe in psychics, so don’t try to be one.”

Scully looks at the dashboard, then her sister. “I would hug you right now if we weren’t doing 75,” she coos.  

Something has clicked in her head, some comfort she has long been depriving herself of. Sometimes words fill in the cracks left by those that preceded them. The right words go even further, it turns out. The right words give you permission to heal. 

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

A dreadful anticipation plagues her as she and Missy walk up to the apartment. She wants to get it over with, even if it goes badly (and she knows it very well might). She craves the relief of surviving such an ordeal. Scully imagines that this is what the French must have felt on their walk to the guillotine. Except instead of the relief of surviving, they got the release of death. Scully is not ready for this yet.

Missy unlocks the door, ushers her sister in. Dana is not used to coming home and finding things in different places than before, Missy can tell from the inquisitive look on her face. She is surveying her territory, updating her memory bank. Looking for the exit signs, maybe.

Melissa closes and locks the door. Letting her sister set the pace, she leaves the CVS bag on the side table. Dana has already taken the carry-on and suitcase to her room.

Her room, Scully finds, is a shrine to sameness, everything looking exactly as she left it two days before. Untouched and completely under her control...these are the reassurances she requires now. She lifts the suitcase onto her bed but leaves it zipped. Its fate is no clearer than hers at the moment. Then she places the carry-on on her dresser, makes a mental note to let Mulder know she made it home safely, and returns to her sister in the living room.

“Have you eaten?’ Missy asks, edging toward the kitchen.

“I won’t be able to until we get this over with,” Scully replies, making her priorities clear.

“Okay.” Missy won’t fight her on this one. She retrieves the bag off the side table, perches at her sister’s side. “Are you ready now?”

Scully screws up her face. “No, but yes. I just need to know at this point.”

Missy takes her sister’s hand with a specific kind of gentleness, like a fairy godmother about to cast a spell upon her princess. Scully is willing to be led. She follows her sister into the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet while Missy pulls the pregnancy tests from the bag. Scully tries not to think about any moment beyond the current one as her sister opens each test, lines them up along the counter. 

“Do you want me in here or outside?” Missy’s tone matches the sympathy that Scully needs.

“Outside, please,” Scully says sheepishly, wishing she could have some guts for once. If no one else witnesses this moment, then maybe it’s not happening. Flawed reasoning that even Mulder wouldn’t agree with, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Okay. I’ll be right on the other side of the door.”

Scully nods her thanks as Missy slips out of the bathroom and shuts the door quietly. Left alone, she feels the crushing gravity that has been trailing her all along. She’s almost certain that her heartbeat would be visible through her skin if she looked. 

She stands, picks up the first test, opens the toilet. Her hands shake so violently that she thinks she might drop the stick in the toilet, which would be a pretty terrible way to return her sister’s kindness. She pulls it away and takes a deep breath to steady herself, holding her arms out in front of her like a sleepwalker. All the things she’s seen, and she’s never been as scared as this moment. Never felt the life she knows and has grown to love so acutely threatened. Never balked at the future in such a fervent way.

It occurs to her that she might seriously need her sister to come in and help her. The thought of that is just pathetic enough to kick her into action. Her hands are barely any more steady than before, but her resolve is ironclad. 

On the other side of the door, Melissa listens as a long period of silence is broken. She’s sitting down, her head resting against the wood, a hand laid against the door like it’s the chest of a lover. 

Silence again, ruptured by Scully’s quiet murmur. “Will you hold on to the test, please? And read the result when it’s ready?” She didn’t know she would need this, but she does. 

“Of course.” 

Scully cracks open the door, passes the stick to her sister. “I wiped it off.” 

Missy suppresses a laugh. “I wouldn’t care if you didn’t, but thank you.”

Scully closes the door quickly, not wanting to hold eye contact with her sister, not wanting to accidentally see the result herself. “Two minutes, right?” Her voice is on the verge of breaking.

“Yes, Dana. Two minutes.”

“Should I wait to do the next one?”

Missy eyes the test, waiting for it to make up its mind. “You can go ahead. It’ll take two minutes too.”

“Okay.” Scully’s voice is barely audible.

“Or you can wait,” Missy offers. “I just suspect that you’d want to check the accuracy as soon as possible.”

“Uh-huh.” She grabs the second test, wearily sits back down. 

Missy’s voice reverberates through the door. “I’ve done this before you know. For myself and for a friend.”

“Really?” Scully’s brain had tricked herself into thinking she was all alone.

“Mm-hm,” Missy confirms. “Mine were never positive, but hers were. I went to Planned Parenthood with her.”

“Oh.” There are things, Scully realizes, that she has neglected to think about. Or maybe she’s putting that off until she knows for sure. It wasn’t a conscious decision, more of an act of self-preservation. Her gut feeling is that she wouldn’t, but she never envisioned herself in a situation like this. If there’s any situation where it’s justified, it’s this, right? Not that she has a problem with it; women should be able to choose for themselves. She just always thought she knew what her choice would be. 

Melissa lifts her eyes from her watch, looks at the door as if she can see her sister through it. “It’s ready.”

“It’s been two minutes?” Scully’s voice rises.

“Uh-huh. Do you want me to come in or…?”

Scully scrambles up, lays the second test on a fresh piece of toilet paper. “I’ll come to you.”

She opens the door, kneels to be eye level with her sister. Prayer position is in close proximity. She bites her lip, her dilated pupils begging her sister to either curse her or free her.

A thin smile appears on Missy’s face as she flips the test so that Scully can read it. “Negative.”

One line. One very defined red line set against the white space. Has anyone, Scully wonders, ever gotten a tattoo of that?

“I--” Tears burst out of her instead of words. She lands in her sister’s arms, utterly unsure of what she’s feeling. Relief, yes. Happiness? Not quite. Sadness? Something like that. 

Missy smooths her sister’s hair down, holds her in the tightest hug she’s probably had in decades. “How do you feel?”

Scully is tempted to ask how her sister does that, always there with the tough questions. Instead, she gulps air until she’s calmed down enough to talk. 

“I don’t know,” she laments, tears streaked down her reddened face. “I thought I would be glad but...I just feel numb. Like I went down the wrong fork in the road and missed something important, but I don’t even know what it is since it didn’t happen.” She sniffles. It sounds like a heart breaking. “I just know it’s supposed to be there.”

“I thought you didn’t want--”

“Not under these circumstances, no. But then...when else is it gonna happen?” Her voice is a sheet of glass. “Because it doesn’t look like any time soon.”

Missy hugs her once again, rocking her back and forth. She overflows with warmth, sympathy, and love. “Honey, you have plenty of time to make your life what you want it to be.”

Scully sobs into her sister’s neck. She feels like an emotional hemophiliac, constantly hemorrhaging pain. Every time she thinks she’s bottomed out, there’s farther to fall. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she says, wiping her face. “I didn’t know I would be.”

Missy pulls her in a third time. “Don’t ever apologize to me for anything, even the things you’re actually wrong about.”

Scully laughs half-heartedly. “Oh!” She realizes then. “We still have two more tests, don’t we?”

Missy nods, smiles empathetically. “The second one should be ready by now.”

Scully is about to get up, but Missy lays a hand on her back, beats her to it. “I’ll grab it.” She strides into the bathroom, picks the stick up off the counter, and takes a look. Again, she flips it so her sister can see. “Negative.”

Scully presses her lips together, a stopgap to any further emotional reaction. “We should do the third one then, just to be sure?”

Missy detects a lift in her sister’s voice, a space she’s made for hope. “Whatever you’d like, Dana.” It seems that her sister will always end up disappointed through no fault of her own, no matter what she wishes for. This chills Missy to the bone.

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

The sisters share dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets for lunch because this is the kind of food Melissa buys when left to her own devices. Missy dunks hers in honey mustard, Scully takes hers plain. Remnants of anxiety hang in the air; Scully’s plight remains unresolved, and they are well aware of that. Whatever path they are walking, this is just the beginning. 

The phone interrupts their silent reverie, and Scully hops up to disguise the fact that its ringing made her jump. “It’s probably Mulder,” she tells her sister. “I meant to call him when we got home.” Missy nods, continues with her nuggets. 

Scully grabs the phone off the wall. “Hello?”

“Hey, is Mel there?” It’s a sweet, flowery voice, very different from the one Scully expected. She furrows her brow. Could Mel refer to her sister? She’s never heard anyone call Melissa that. “Who is this?” Missy looks up, watches her sister curiously. It’s not Mulder, evidently. 

The woman on the other line clears her throat. “It’s Trinity. Am I speaking to Dana?”

“Yes, this is Dana,” Scully says slowly, unnerved by the caller knowing her name. “Are you calling for Melissa?” Scully offers, hoping she might get out of this scot-free. 

Hearing this, Missy wipes her hands on a napkin, gets up, and rushes toward Scully, holding her hand out for the phone.

Scully ignores her, keeps the phone to her own ear as the caller speaks to her. “I am, but I was actually wondering about you. Mel told me your worries. How are you doing, Dana?”

Scully is now particularly spooked. Who is this woman, and why does she know all of her business? Missy pokes Scully in the bicep, then gestures for the phone. Scully hasn’t seen her sister this greedily desperate since she snuck out the window when she was seventeen and needed Scully to unlock the front door so she could get back in before their parents woke up.

“Um, Trinity is it, Missy--Mel wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, okay! It was nice to finally meet you!” the cheery voice practically sings. Scully just nods and makes her usual ‘Mulder you’re crazy face’ as she hands the phone off to her sister.

“Hi, Trin.” Missy speaks in a rush. “I can’t really talk right now, but Dana is home and all the tests were negative so she’s doing okay. I’ll call you tonight, alright?”

Scully can hear the voice on the other line, but she can’t make it out. Her sister says “I love you, bye” into the phone, then hangs up.

Scully raises an eyebrow, feeling it her duty as the little sister to pry. “Who was that…?” 

Missy puts the phone back on the wall, circles around to her plate, sits down. She answers calmly, casually. “That’s Trinity. She lives in Portland, we used to waitress together.”

Scully slides back into the seat across from her sister. “How come you’ve never mentioned her? She seems to know a lot about me.”

“Well, you’re the reason I moved to DC and all.”

“I didn’t know you were still in contact with anyone from the West Coast.” Scully picks a stray crumb off one of her nuggets, thankful that her sister is in the line of questioning for a change. 

“I bounced around the area for three years, of course I have friends from there.” She grabs her own empty paper plate, points to her sister’s. “Are you done?”

Scully pushes the plate--with two uneaten chicken nuggets--toward Missy. “With the food, yes. Not with the questions.”

Melissa takes both of the plates to the trash, then rinses her hands in the sink. “Yes. Does that answer your question?”

“Depends. What do you think my question is?”

Missy dries her hands on the dish towel, swivels to face her sister. “Is Trinity my girlfriend? Because yes, she is.”

Scully’s mouth drops open the slightest bit. She had known Missy was bi, but she had never met any of her girlfriends, not even in passing. Missy tended to keep them to herself, fearing that the Scully family might encroach on the holy ground she created. “Really?” she asks excitedly. 

“Uh-huh.” Missy sits back down at the table. “For nine months now.”

“Are you serious? That’s incredible, Missy! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Missy just raises her eyebrow. Scully feels like she’s looking in a mirror. “What? You know it doesn’t bother me.”

“Sure, but mom, and Bill…”

“I don’t think that mom would be upset by it,” Scully answers level-headedly. “Surprised maybe, but not mad.”

Missy balls up a napkin, tosses it back and forth between her own hands. “I don’t know that she would be, I just...don’t trust that she wouldn’t. And besides, nothing mom says or does will change how I feel about Trinity. So it’s not really a pressing issue. No need to cause a scene.”

“I can’t believe you moved here without mentioning her. I wouldn’t have let you leave her, you know.”

Missy laughs. “Oh, I do. That’s why I didn’t say a word.” Scully’s laugh is her first genuine one all day.

“She seems very nice,” Scully says, flicking a crumb off the table.

“Oh no, she’s a total bitch,” Missy replies. There’s a moment of silence while Scully figures out that was a joke, then they both laugh.

“Just kidding. I love her very much.” Missy’s smile could melt ice. “I’m glad you got to talk to her. Now my two favorite ladies have technically met!”

“I’m afraid to ask whether I’m in first or second place.”

Missy reaches out across the table. “I moved across the country for you, honey.” Then, with a smirk--”But I could move back any day now, so watch out!”

Scully smiles, nods. She can’t imagine what these past few weeks would have been like without her sister near. She hopes Missy never goes away again, as unrealistic a thought as it is. If there are angels on Earth, her sister is one. But Mulder too has emerged as a force in her life; no one destabilized her life quite like him, but he would be her rock if she let him, she knows this. She owes him a call. She knows that too.

[randomingoftherandomness]

My personal headcanon is that whenever the Guard splits up, Booker will go and volunteer at the orphanages in France bc yes, he lost his family and it's heartbreaking, but he didn't just forget how to care for children after raising 3 boys. So he's known by the kids and caretakers, he donates to them, he gets to know the kids and it heals his heart just a little.

AHHHHHH 😭❤️

I love this headcanon. It’s very beautiful. Thank you for letting it live rent-free in my brain now.

But oh, can you just imagine Booker picking up the kids when they rush him whenever he comes to visit? How he takes a moment with each of the children? Just to listen to them talk about the latest book they read and asking if he could help them pick out what they should read next, listening to them talk about missing their moms and dads and families and wishing they could go home, just sitting with them to colour in their activity books. 

The caretakers are always happy to have him around. Not just coz he always seems to come when they are running a little short on funds that month and were working out how they can make a meal stretch to four. But Monsieur is a genuinely lovely man if not a bit sad. Very handsome still, they always whisper amongst themselves.

The younger children will always ask for stories before bedtime and the older ones will get him a little later to just talk like how you would to a friend. If there are newer kids in the home when he comes to visit, he just introduces himself and lets them seek him out if they want to talk to him. 

He always goes to their eye level so that he can hold their gaze, listening intently even if it were just to hear them talk about what Barbie got up to with Hot Wheels.

Booker always leaves a little reluctantly because, yes, he can see himself spending a lifetime just caring for these kids and making sure they all grow up well or are placed in a loving home. But he has to leave all the same and he knows that in a few years time, he has to stop coming altogether because he has been coming for 5 years now and it would start looking suspicious. So he treasures every visit and hopes that he has at least made some sort of difference in all their lives.

[theycallmebeccawrites]

Chris & Ellie Series: Episode 21

Greetings all! I hope you guys are having a good day and if not, I hope it gets better for you. Today is a bittersweet day for me. I gave Ellie July 17th as her birthday in honor of my grandma, who passed away in 2016, a couple days after I started writing the Chris and Ellie series. My grandma would have been 92 today. ❤

My grandma always encouraged me to do what I love and I love to write, so I do. And I love sharing what I’ve written with you guys. So thank you for allowing me to share this little world I have created with all of you guys. And thank you all for reading.

xo Becca xo

Pairing: Chris Evans x Ellie Spencer (OFC)

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: language

Episode Summary: The lead up to Ellie's birthday and the surprise that Scott has planned for her.

Disclaimer: This work of fiction is not to be reposted, used or translated without my permission.

This episode can also be read on AO3.

The Chris and Ellie series is primarily chronological. It begins with a flash forward to 2016 and has a few other scenes in the future. However, the majority of their story is told in chronological order starting in 2013 and going through 2017. Each episode starts with a date to help you place it within the story.

The Chris & Ellie Series Masterlist | Chris & Ellie Masterlist

Episode 20.5

Episode 21: Birthday Confessions

July 2014

Music flowed through the speakers as Ellie merged off the freeway and onto the exit for LAX.

"I don't have to go, you know," Scott said as he looked over at her.

"Yes, you do," Ellie replied, glancing at him. "You're in a wedding and your family has been looking forward to seeing you."

"I just don't like the idea of you all alone," Scott admitted. He knew she had come a long way in the weeks since she'd started opening up about what had happened between her and Chris, but he hated leaving her there alone.

"I'll be fine," Ellie assured him with more confidence than she actually felt. She hadn't been by herself in the house since December and that felt like a lifetime ago. If she was being honest with herself, she'd never really liked being in the big house when it was empty, but now it was filled with memories she didn't want to revisit.

"Thanks for driving me," Scott said as Ellie navigated the departures drop off area.

"It was the only way for me to ensure you'd get on the plane," Ellie replied in a joking manner as she pulled over in front of the designated area for the airline he was flying.

Scott gave a mumbled 'ha' before he leaned over and gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek. Then he got out of the car and went back to the trunk to get his suitcase. He gave her another wave before he disappeared into the steady stream of people going into the airport.

Not ready to go home yet, Ellie ran a few errands before she made her way back to Chris's house. She parked her car in the garage and then made her way inside.

With no desire to hang out in the big house, she quickly made her way through the kitchen and out the backdoor. Using the patio off the kitchen and the steps down to the pool deck took longer than going out the door through the basement, but she didn't like going down to that room if she didn't have to.

Once inside the guesthouse, Ellie let Daisy out of her kennel and then sat down on her bed to check her email. She'd finished editing a book a couple weeks ago for a new author and was waiting for her next assignment. Instead of finding a new manuscript to read, she found an email saying that one of her main authors would have one ready for her soon, so they were keeping her schedule open.

After replying to the email, Ellie closed her laptop and leaned back against the pillows on her bed with a sigh. She had been hoping to distract herself with a new manuscript while Scott was gone, but now that wasn't an option. She'd already picked up a few extra shifts at the bookstore, helping people who wanted to take days off, but picking up seemed better than staying at Chris's more than necessary.

Picking up her phone, she sent a couple texts, seeing if anyone wanted to hang out that night. Unfortunately, no one was available, but she was able to make plans for other nights during the week when she wasn't working. Including accepting a couple invitations for the Fourth of July.

Thus, the first week Scott was gone went by in a breeze. She worked on the second and went to a movie with some friends after work on the third. Then she spent the morning of the fourth with her cousin and the late afternoon and evening with Pierre and some of his friends. She picked up another shift on Saturday and then spent Sunday with her cousin's family, not wanting to spend the whole day alone at Chris's house.

"You've had a busy week," Pierre reflected after she'd told him all about it during dinner at his condo during the second week. In fact, he'd already known how busy she was keeping herself, thanks to a group chat he'd found himself part of with her sisters, cousin and Scott. He wasn't convinced it was a good idea to have such a chat, but it made the others feel better.

"It feels good to be busy," Ellie said with a shrug before muttering, "Better than staying alone in the house, anyway."

Whether or not she wanted him to hear the last part, he had, and he realized her sisters were right to raise concern over her sudden shift in personality. Ellie, they had explained to him, was a homebody by nature. A trait she'd shared with Chris, Scott had told him privately.

"What's wrong with staying at home?" he asked, cautiously.

Ellie sighed and shoved her food around on her plate before looking up. "Other than that it's Chris's house and I'm just a house guest?" she asked.

She sounded snarky, but he sensed that she was trying to mask her true feelings. Instead of prying, he waited her out. They'd been friends for nearly two months and he'd learned quickly that she liked to process her thoughts before she could speak them aloud.

"It's the memories," she finally admitted. "There's nowhere in the house that I can go that doesn't have a million memories flooding back to my brain of happier times. Not even the guesthouse is memory free, but there, with my things, I can push him out. That isn't possible in the rest of the house though. He's fucking everywhere."

Pierre nodded consolingly. He'd been through many a breakup, but only one that had left him in a house full of memories. Of course, he'd had to suffer through the rest of his lease before he'd been able to move. But moving to this condo had been a fresh start.

"And I'm crying again," she said in an exasperated tone as she brushed away the tears. "I told myself that I'd cried enough over this whole situation." 

Pierre stood up and grabbed a box of tissues off the kitchen counter and brought them back to the table. Instead of sitting back down across from her, he took the seat next to her. He handed her a tissue and she gave him a weak smile before blotting the tears.

"Obviously, I don't know your financial situation or what your agreement is with Scott's mom regarding room and board, but have you thought about moving out?" he asked Ellie.

Ellie shook her head. "I hadn't gotten that far yet," she admitted. "Chris is gone for another few months and technically, living there when he isn't there is what I'm paid to do."

"Think about it," Pierre encouraged her. "It might be the next step you have to take."

The idea of finding her own place stayed at the forefront of Ellie's mind in the days that followed, but it wasn't until a night where she had nothing to do but sit in the guesthouse that she did anything about it. She went back to the links she'd found in her early days of living in the Los Angeles area and looked for availabilities within her price range. There were a few of them, but none in areas that she'd feel comfortable living by herself in.

Unlike the last time she'd been hunting for an apartment, she wasn't tied down to a specific part of town because of a job. Nor was she as strapped for cash as she had been. Thanks to the added income of editing manuscripts and not having to pay rent, she had managed to pay down a lot of her debt with the money that Chris's mom had paid her.

Despite having a wider area to search for a place to live, Ellie found herself struggling to find anything less than $1,000 a month that allowed dogs. Frustrated, she closed her laptop and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. Which only served to remind her that in addition to finding a place to live, she'd have to buy furniture as well as she didn't have any.

"We'll find a place, Daisy," she said, scratching her dog's head. "I don't know where yet, but we'll find a place."

By the time Scott returned from the east coast, a few days later, she'd sent off applications for a couple of apartments an hour or so away, but both had come back saying she'd been added to a waiting list for an apartment. She considered telling Scott that she was thinking about moving out but decided against it. She knew he was still worried about her with everything that had happened and she didn't want to worry him more than she had to.

"You're a doll for picking me up," Scott said once he was in the car and she had merged into the traffic leaving LAX.

"Gave me an excuse to get out of the house," Ellie replied before mentally kicking herself. "Daisy and I spent yesterday lounging by the pool."

Scott lowered his sunglasses and raised his eyebrows. "Under an umbrella?" he asked, seeing that her skin, while glowing, was still barely tan.

"And wearing lots of SPF," she replied with a laugh. "How was Massachusetts and the wedding?"

"The wedding was beautiful," Scott stated before going into a full rundown of the wedding. Followed by an elaborate explanation of his family's Fourth of July party and what he had done with his family while he'd been home.

"Sounds like you had a blast," Ellie said with a smile.

"Oh, I did, but it's nice to come home to some quiet," he replied and then smiled. "But don't worry. It won't be too quiet, after all, we both know what's happening on Thursday."

"I know my birthday is on Thursday," Ellie said, cautiously as she glanced at him. He wore a big smile on his face. "Scott Evans, what have you done?"

"You'll just have to wait and see," he replied, then mimed zipping his lips closed, locking them and throwing away the key.

He remained annoyingly tight lipped over the next few days, which put her slightly on edge because she had no idea what he had up his sleeve. She knew the two of them had two very different types of fun; she liked to stay home and play games while he liked to go out and dance.

Thursday morning, Ellie came up to the big house to find a cinnamon roll in a pastry box for her on the kitchen counter along with a note from Scott.

Izzy told me that you guys always had cinnamon rolls for breakfast whenever someone in the family had a birthday when you were growing up. I didn't make it (that would have been a disaster) but enjoy!

She cut the large cinnamon roll in half and ate half of it, then took the other half back to the guesthouse with her, to take to work. Once Daisy was settled in her kennel, Ellie grabbed her stuff and left for work.

The sense of relief that came over her as she drove away from the house was only more confirmation that it was time for her to move out.

Later, during her lunch break, she looked for apartments again and, after failing to find much in the Los Angeles area, decided to try looking in Oregon. She hated the idea of leaving LA and her friends, but the truth was she could live anywhere and still do her editing. 

————— 

“She’s coming!” Scott called as he ran down the stairs. "Everyone get away from the window!"

He heard her sisters scrambling into spots that couldn't be seen from the window as he made his way to the main floor. Hearing the garage door opening, he made his way down the hall to the kitchen and was waiting there when Ellie came into the house.

"Hey there, birthday girl!" he greeted her with a big grin. "I noticed you didn't leave me a piece of the cinnamon roll."

"You're damn right I didn't," Ellie replied with a tired smile.

"Before you go to your room, can you come look at something in the living room for me?" he asked.

"I have a call with my sisters in like ten minutes," she told him, glancing at the clock on the stove.

"It'll be fast, promise," Scott insisted. "Like a minute tops."

Sighing, Ellie put her stuff down on the counter and then followed him down the hall to the living room. "So what am I -" she started to ask, but shut her mouth when she saw her sisters sitting casually in the room.

She stared in disbelief as tears began to well up in her eyes. She felt Scott nudge her from behind, encouraging her to go to her sisters.

"Happy Birthday, El," Izzy said, reaching her first. She wrapped her around Ellie and hugged her tight.

"I'm happy you guys are here," Ellie said, through her tears. "But what are you doing here?"

"You didn't think we were going to make you celebrate all by yourself, did you?" her youngest sister, Riley, asked with a grin as she gave Ellie a hug. "We were here last year, too. This year we just brought Sydney with us."

"I'm here to make sure those two don't get too wild," Sydney said, jokingly as she gave Ellie a hug. "And to make sure we do things you like to do for your birthday weekend."

"Birthday weekend?" Ellie repeated. Then she saw Scott lingering in the doorway. "This is what you've been planning all week, isn't it?"

"Part of it anyway," Scott replied with a grin. "I'll let them tell you the rest."

"You're the best," Ellie told him. She reached her hand out to him and he took it, squeezing it. "What is the rest?"

"Our gift to you is a weekend getaway at a beach house about an hour from here," Sydney told her. "The five of us and Pierre, but he'll be coming tomorrow after work."

"When are we going?" Ellie asked.

"As soon as you can pack a bag," Izzy told her. 

"What about Daisy?" Ellie asked, only then spotting her dog curled up in her favorite chair in the corner.

"She's coming with us," Scott replied. "I've already packed her stuff."

"Thanks," Ellie said, smiling at him. "What do I need to bring?"

"I'll h-" Izzy and Riley started, but Sydney stepped forward and took Ellie's hand before saying, "I'll help you pack."

"Thank you," Ellie muttered under her breath as she and Sydney made their way to the guest house.

Twenty minutes later, she and Sydney came back into the main house, locking doors as they passed them. They followed the voices out to the garage and found Scott and Izzy loading things into his car while Riley played with Daisy.

"Isn't someone driving with Scott?" Ellie asked as Izzy took her bag and put it in the backseat.

"Daisy is going to be my copilot," Scott told her

"Are you sure?" Ellie asked him. "I can ride with you."

"Nah, you ride with your sisters, Daisy and I will be fine," Scott assured her. "Besides, she doesn't try to change the music like some people I know." He gave her a pointed look.

"I would be offended except you do the same thing to me when I'm driving you," Ellie retorted before maturely sticking her tongue out at him.

"Very mature for a 29-year-old," Scott commented.

"Let's get on the road, shall we?" Sydney interrupted in a mom tone.

"You guys head out, I'll do a quick check around the house to lock it up and then Daisy and I will follow," Scott offered.

"Shotgun!" Riley shouted out.

"It's Ellie's birthday, Riles," Izzy said, shaking her head. "The birthday person always gets the front seat."

"Fine," Riley sighed. "Let's go."

Thanks to traffic, the drive took longer than an hour, but Ellie didn't mind. It had been a long time since she'd gone anywhere with just her sisters and it was just like old times. Telling stories, laughing, and talking over each other as Sydney drove.

The beach house was down the street from the beach, rather than oceanfront, but they could see the ocean from the balcony off the largest of the three bedrooms. The house had a Mediterranean feel to it in its design and decor. The first floor had the smaller of the three bedrooms rooms, a half bath and an open concept living, dining and kitchen. The second floor had a full bathroom and two bedrooms, the largest of the two having two queen sized beds in it. The best part of the house, though, was the backyard that looked like it belonged in Italy instead of Southern California.

By the time Scott got to the house with Daisy, the sisters had unloaded the few things that had been in the trunk of Ellie's car and had ordered takeout from a nearby restaurant. They helped him unload his car, putting their luggage in the bedroom with the two queen sized beds, leaving the other two rooms for Scott and Pierre.

Then they all headed outside to relax on the back porch while they waited for their dinner to be delivered. Sydney poured everyone drinks, except for herself, a fact that her sisters quickly noticed.

"Are you pregnant?!" Riley demanded.

The corner of Sydney's mouth twitched, but she nodded. "I didn't want to say anything tonight, because it's Ellie's birthday, but -"

"Shut up," Ellie said laughing as she gave her sister a hug. "It's the best birthday present you could give me!"

Hearing the doorbell ring, Scott went to answer it, leaving the sisters to celebrate. Knowing the sisters had already paid for the meal, he gave the delivery person a cash tip, thanked them and closed the door.

As he carried the food back to the girls, he paused when he heard Ellie say: "I have some news myself."

Given what her sister had just announced, he froze, his mind instantly going to the idea that she might be pregnant with Chris's baby.

"Relax, I'm not pregnant," Ellie said with a nervous laugh.

"Fucking hell, Ellie," Izzy said in a relieved tone that matched how Scott was feeling. "Don't scare us like that."

"What's your news, Ellie?" Sydney asked, drawing everyone's attention back to Ellie.

"I'm going to move out of Chris's house," Ellie announced. "I don't feel comfortable there anymore. In fact, I hate being there by myself."

Scott could tell that she was holding something back and so could her sisters, because Riley called her out on it.

"What aren't you telling us?" Riley asked.

"I'm having a hard time finding a place here that I can afford," Ellie replied, her voice trailing off. "So I might be moving home. Want a roommate, Riles?"

Scott felt his stomach drop. He didn't want Ellie to go back to Oregon.

"I thought you were saving money," Sydney said, snapping into the protective older sister/mothering older sister mode.

Scott smirked. Her sisters had this.

"I paid off a lot of things," Ellie replied. "And I have some savings, but…"

Scott heard her sigh.

"After everything with Chris went downhill, I haven't felt right accepting the money that Lisa has been paying me," she confessed to her sisters. "I've been donating my paychecks to a non-profit organization that provides books to underprivileged kids in the LA area. It seemed fitting since she and I met at the bookstore."

"Oh Ellie," Sydney said, the tone not one of scolding but of compassion.

Backing up, Scott decided to put dinner on the dining room table and get dishes out so they could serve themselves in the house. Allowing the sisters and himself time to process Ellie's confession. All of them.

He hated the idea of her moving period, but especially the idea of her moving to another state. The paycheck donation was a whole different situation, one that he wasn't fully capable of processing just yet. Obviously, there was guilt on Ellie's part, but for what? Taking advantage of his mom's trust by boinking Chris? His mom liked Ellie and she would have loved holding the fact that she'd picked Chris's wife over his head.

Scott shook his head and sighed. Hearing footsteps, he looked up and saw Riley in the doorway. "I was just going to call you guys in," he told her, gesturing to the food that he'd laid out.

"Awesome, I'll get the others," Riley replied before disappearing outside again.

One thing he knew for sure was that if his mom ever found out that Ellie had donated her paychecks because Chris was a dumbass, Scott would pay top dollar to witness that confrontation.

He was still smirking to himself when the sisters filed in. He let them go first and then dished himself a plate of food.

No one said a word about Ellie's possible move until they were all seated at the table outside.

"For the record, I think you moving back to Oregon is a bad idea," Riley stated, looking at her older sister. "I've never seen you run away from your problems in my entire life. Never mind the fact that everyone will wonder why you left California. And you know how our family talks, it will be all over town within five days of you stepping foot on mom and dad's farm. We won't talk, but you know how they are, they'll figure it out. They always do."

Scott picked up his drink and took a sip, hiding his smile. Ellie was stubborn, but her sisters wouldn't let her do anything stupid. And neither would he. He was going to do everything in his power to get her to stay in LA.

Episode 21.5

Want to find me off tumblr? I'm @beccatheycallme on twitter. I also post my stories on AO3.

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[kidney9-9]

Sweeter Than Sugar (Chapter 2)

Hey everyone! This is Part 2 of the mini series! Hope you guys enjoy! Bucky x Reader, featuring Sam. There will be another part coming out soon!

Warnings: swearing, lots of fluff, love-struck Bucky, little bit of embarrased Bucky and the tiniest mention of sex.

Word Count: 2.1k

Part 1

It’s been 6 wonderful months since you’ve made Bucky’s life a lot better. He’s turned into a smiling man ever since he’s met you. Bucky cannot imagine life without you. He knows he would be lost again, facing all his troubles all alone, going to missions without a care that he might die. He wouldn’t ever be in a state of pure happiness, or know what true love is. 

And Bucky has made your life better as well. He always supports you in every decision you make (except for the stupid ones), and his number one priority was to make you feel happy. You can imagine life without him, and well it seems pretty fucking bad. You would be stuck in New York with no real close people in your life, you’d be working extremely hard to make enough money for rent, and you would be a cat lady. You already are a cat lady though, with Bucky’s lil buddy.

Your first date (going to breakfast), ended up being very memorable. You were incredibly happy and Bucky was on cloud 9 during your first date together. 

The first date was to have breakfast and you and Bucky mostly flirted while eating. Well, you did most of the flirting while Bucky fidgeted in his seat, blushing. But after the flirting came to getting to know each other. 

Bucky told you some of his struggles, while you listened and comforted him. It was upsetting to hear how much he’s been through and how some people still never accepted him as a war victim. 

He listened to how you spoke of your past. You told him silly stories of you and your friends, explaining how you guys were basically the three musketeers of your high school. He loved every bit of this. He loved listening to everything, and he loved watching your expressions and his heart skipped so many beats when you placed your hand atop his metal one. 

After breakfast, you insisted on taking him to the ice rink, claiming it was your favorite place to go in NYC since you’ve moved here. The ice rink was a disaster (almost). 

The first thing to go wrong was the worker refused to give out skates to Bucky, claiming he would kill others with the blades on the ends. You jumped in, without even a second for Bucky to respond to the man, with “You shouldn’t be scared of him. You should be scared of me! I’ve already gotten the skates from you, and I’m pretty sure I can lean over to cut you right up in a nice dish of “fuck you”. How ‘bout you give him the skates, asshat?” 

That shocked both Bucky and the worker quite a bit. The worker was actually terrified of you now, not Bucky. He quickly handed over a pair of skates, and squeaked out “Please don’t hurt me!”. 

Bucky was pretty impressed and touched that you defended him. He gave you a quick bump on your shoulder, and passed a “Thank you”. You just shrugged and smiled with, “People shouldn’t act like that to you, sweetie.” His blush from that nickname instantly came on but he welcomed it.

The second disaster of the ice rink was actually a dangerous one. Bucky spotted a target he and Sam lost a few weeks ago. Bucky spit out a “gotta go” to you before skating off to the other side of the rink. You thought this meant he wanted to race you, and well, you followed behind him. 

Seeing you behind him startled him even more, but he had to catch this guy before he ran off again. Skating in front of the man, Bucky caught his arm fast, pulling the man down. 

You slowed down, watching this scene happen, and realizing Bucky didn’t mean to race you! You stood there for a second, watching the man try to fight Bucky off, not knowing what to do. But once you saw the man reach to his pants with his free arm, you skated closer, kicked his chest, pushing him completely down, with Bucky grabbing both of his arms now. 

“Woah! I knew you had a gun! That’s so crazy! Why would you pull out a gun in public like that? Just let my sweetie arrest you!” You screamed at the man. 

Bucky’s standing there, thinking, why did you go ahead and get involved? You could’ve been hurt! But you did help him there, Bucky was thankful for that. And hearing you call him “sweetie” again, oh my, did he feel conflicted! He’s blushing like a mad man, trying to appear tough in front of an actual mad man, and also extremely confused of why you jumped in! 

“Sorry doll, I’m gonna have to end this date, I have to take him in.” Bucky told you on the rink. Oh did he regret saying that! Your expression dropped and you took a step back with, “Okay, I understand.”. 

You really didn’t want this date to end all because of some lousy criminal. You wanted to spend more time with Bucky, he was so sweet to you this entire time. Bucky didn’t want to end it either! He really wanted to stay with you but had to leave. 

“I had a really good time with you, doll. I’m sorry this happened.” Bucky spoke, still holding onto the criminal. You sent a polite smile back at him and shrugged.

You really didn’t know how to respond but wow did Bucky look even more attractive (if that’s even possible), arresting someone. It made you really want to compliment him but that would be fucking awkward, with some random loser, watching both of you. 

So you decided to do the next best thing, skating towards him quickly and winking, “Thank you for the date sweetie. How about we skip the ice rink for the second one?”

Well did that shock Bucky once again! He really thought you wouldn’t want to even speak to him after that! So when you asked him out extremely smoothly, he swooned again. His frown was replaced with a shy smile, and of course he was blushing again. 

Wow, have you held this date up! His urge to flirt back was so strong, you were so incredible. He really needed to express how you resembled an angel, how you’ve been the greatest person he has interacted with since he made his way back into society. 

“Doll, I swear you’re sweeter than sugar. I’ll be waiting for our second date, see you soon Y/N.” He went to skate away, wowza is he embarrassed! He doesn’t know if what he just said was too cheesy but he needed to say it. 

Once you hear those words, your heart is pounding very hard! Wow that was so cute and sweet! Never in your life has a guy made you feel so happy like this, this fast. 

You skate fast to Bucky, pulling his hand back, and quickly lean in and place a small kiss on the corner of his lips. “Bye Bucky,” you smiled. 

Bucky is so surprised and all that is on his mind is well fuck that was so cute and he wanted to actually lean in and kiss you hard and long. And how red his face is because of this moment, well pretty sure he resembles a ripe tomato. 

--

Each date after the first always made you and Bucky fall farther in love with each other. By the fifth date you hinted at the idea of taking it to the next step very casually almost as if you were nonchalant about sex (you definently weren’t). 

And Bucky’s eyes bulged out of his head! His response came about a minute later, as he stared at you sipping the milkshake in your hands, “Yeah I’d like to taste some sugar.” Your eyes popped up, and mouth open, wow you didn’t see that coming! But it was pretty smooth to you, and you winked back and sent a sweet smile.

Around 3 months into the relationship, Bucky was walking through the hallways of the compound, thinking of you. How you and him had the sweetest moments and the silliest, cutest and loving moments. How everyday he woke up thinking of you and wishing you laid by him in the mornings, and spend the mornings drinking coffee with sugar, and spend the evenings with a dance and a kiss goodnight. 

Well shit.

Bucky already knew he was in love but now realizing how in love with you he was, he wanted you by his side day after day. He halted in the middle of the hallway rather abruptly with a silent “Fuck!”. 

Asking you to move in with him was a huge deal! He really had no idea how to ask and if it was too soon to ask but he did it anyway. The next time he saw you, he pulled you into a hug, slipping a spare key in your coat pocket. He never mentioned it at all for the next day, and his anxiety was rising and he was questioning himself.

Two days later, you called him to help you with “something”. Not sure what, he was nervous, and brought some coffee with sugar to share with you. 

“Hey sweetie! I got a rental to help move my stuff, can you help me move all this?” You said, giving him a quick kiss and pulling away to grab a box. 

Bucky’s brain went haywire. You really wanted to move in? He was wondering if this was just a dream. He felt like the luckiest and happiest man in the world at that moment. He swore he felt like he was soaring in the sky. 

Wow, you did this, you’re going to live with him! Fuck he forgot to clean his apartment! Bucky dropped the cups of coffee, and tugged you back into him, making you drop your box. Both of you laughed and smiled, laughed some more and kissed. 

-

By the sixth month of being together, Bucky felt he knew you for a whole lifetime. He would go to sleep smiling, and wake up smiling, happier than the day before when he saw you laying by him. 

You would sometimes wake up before him and smile and cuddle closer to him, and when he would wake up, you would tickle him and kiss him senseless. Who wouldn’t love that?

Sitting at the kitchen counter together, Bucky smiled before sipping his coffee, “Just how I love it. I love you, doll.” You smiled back and stood up, giving him a kiss on the cheek, “Love you too, sweetie.”.

That day, Bucky went to work repeating your words in his head. His smile wouldn’t fade, and he felt like he was bouncing on happiness. Sam noticed for sure, anyone would see how love-struck he was. 

Sam gave Bucky a small nod, “Hey, how’s everything going with Y/N?” Bucky gave a nod and smiled back. Bucky opened his mouth to respond and the first thing that came out was, “I’m gonna propose. Help me pick a ring?” Oops. Yeah, Bucky didn’t mean to spill it out immediately today but he 100% knew he was going to marry Y/N.

The look of shock appeared on Sam’s face but he replied quickly with, “Wait, seriously?” Bucky could only nod, he was nervous about Sam’s reaction, since Sam has become one of his closest friends. 

“Buck, count me in, congrats!” Sam cheered, pulling Bucky into a side hug, and quickly adding on, “When do you want to pick the ring?” 

That was something Bucky did not think about exactly. He knew exactly what ring he wanted and how to propose but he had no idea where to get it and when. 

The next day, after their mission, Bucky and Sam headed over to one of the jewellery stores. The worker nervously greeted them, and offered to show everything to them, but Bucky declined quickly. 

“I want a simple ring, diamond and all, but I want this ring to be engraved ‘Sweeter than Sugar’”. Bucky spoke confidently. Sam awed at his choice, punching his arm. Bucky shrugged him off with a scoff, “Back off, she’s going to love it.” Sam nodded and grinned back at him, chuckling lightly.

Taglist is open for this story! 

[asphalt-cocktail]

For the Sake of Content- Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Sex Money

Summary: After walking in on your long-term boyfriend, Harrison, cheating on you and then losing your job the following day; your find yourself broke, jobless, and single for the first time in a long while. In order to make ends meet, your best friend since college, Freddie, suggests you start soliciting explicit photos of yourself, not only to help boost your confidence but to help pay the rent for his band mate’s apartment you just moved into.

A/N: ALL RIGHTY CUTIES!! This is where the story starts to pick up! I might take a little break in writing because the next chapter has literally taken me a week and a half to write up because I just can not get it right and I want to work ahead for when the semester begins to pick up. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this newest chapter! As always I really appreciate and read every comment I get on this, and love all the likes, reblogs, and asks i have been getting!

Pairing: Roger Taylor x F!Reader

Warnings: Language, mentions of sex work, cam sex, mutual masturbation, masturbation, sexual tension, some friendly banter between roger and reader, slight arguing, maybe some slut shaming, not proof read, shit is getting juicy.

Word Count: 2.4k

Today was the day.

After heavy deliberation and a lot of working around schedules you and Mojo_Man had found a day and time that worked for the two of you. In the time it took to plan this whole ordeal you found that Mojo_Man, whoever he was, was pleasant to talk to and he even paid for a lifetime subscription to your Snapchat. The attention he had been giving you was nice to say the least.

You wore just a silky robe and sat strategically in front of your camera, only showing your shoulders on down. Your computer screen lit up with the call, you let it ring a few times before you answered, to make it look like you hadn’t been nervously waiting for this mystery man to call you.

When he answered, his room was darker than yours, only illuminated by a dull orange light in the corner of the room. You could make out the shape of his body, he was slim but looked like his body was secretly lean by the definition you could see in his arms. You couldn’t tell much more because like you, his face was also covered.

“Hey,” You said, shifting to sit on your knees, your thighs peaking through the gap in your dressing gown.

Mojo waved and the little typing icon popped up. ‘Sorry, no mic.’ He sent.

You couldn’t help but smile even though he couldn’t see it, waving your hand in a dismissive manor “’S okay.” You said casually, “So,” You dragged out the ‘o’ “Thank you for your generous gifts,” You shifted once more, purposefully slipping your robe down your shoulders “What do you want to do first?” You asked in a sensual manor.

Mojo Man sighed deeply as though he were in thought, ‘You can slip the rest of the robe off if you wanted.’ You felt heat spreading from the back of your neck to the tips of your ears at how polite he was. You found that typically men were very demanding and wanted to be in control, often ordering you around. But for once, it was nice to have a suggestion instead of a command.

You glanced down and undid the tie around your waist, opening the robe and sliding it down. The silky fabric pooled around your hips as your breasts became exposed for your one-man audience. You saw the slender man’s chest heave with arousal and felt a surge of pride swell through you. Your hand traveled down your chest, rubbing over the swell of your breasts and kneading them delicately in your hand before you moved down, pinching and rubbing your nipples between your thumb and pointer finger to get them erect. It didn’t take long before they hardened, your touch working in tandem with the cold.

You lifted your hips, sliding out of what remained of your robe and rubbed your hands along your thighs. The breath in the back of your throat hitched when you watched the stranger shift his camera ever so slightly down to expose his cock that lazily laid against his stomach. He stroked it in slow languid motions. You could see his chest rising and falling as he began to get more erect in his hand.

A soft moan left your mouth at the sight. God a stranger’s dick shouldn’t have been this arousing to you, but here you were.

Your legs instinctively spread apart exposing yourself to him and you dipped your finger between your fold. Grinding it in circular motions around your clit in an attempted to match his pace. Your hips bucked against your hand’s slow teasing pace and your eyes remained locked on the internet man’s dick and his hand firmly gripping his now fully erect member.

You whimpered, picking your pace up and now strumming your self rapidly, throwing your head back with a breathy moan, “Come on, baby I wanna hear you.” You sensually said. You hadn’t even thought of the words before they left your mouth.

Mojo’s hand faltered a moment before his free hand typed out a message to you, ‘I don’t know.. I don’t want my roommate to hear.’ You couldn’t help but smirk, thinking of the unsuspecting Roger who could walk into the apartment at any moment or walk into your room at any moment and see you fingering yourself for some stranger.

“It’s okay, I’m sure they wont mind.” you said slowing your strumming yourself and watched as the little crossed out microphone icon became bolded. A shiver of anticipation ran through you as you watched the mystery man once again, tightly grip his hard cock and pump it in his hand. He let out a shaky breath and you felt your face heating up at the sound. His voice was soft with a hidden roughness behind it that made your tummy tingle, “Come on, baby, let me hear you.” You said moving against yourself with more vigor.

The internet stranger’s jerking pumps matched your pace and your slightly staticky voices mingled together and filled both yours and his room. The slender man’s hips bucked against his hand as the two of continued to watch each other get off.

“Fuck,” You abruptly hissed out, your fingers buried deep inside you, hitting all the right spots “Can… can I come please?” the words slipped out of you mouth with little thought.

A short laugh bubbled from the man’s chest, “Not yet, baby.” You could tell his jaw was clenched tightly from how he spoke.

Your eyes fluttered shut and you tipped your head back trying to picture his face. Darker blonde hair, that was confirmed by the light dusting of chest hair he had, and blue? No. Green eyes.

He choked out a desperate sigh, “Shit,” he grunted, thrusting hard into his hand, “I’d love to see that ass of yours bouncing on my cock.”

Your walls clenched at his words, he could see it from the angle of his camera, and you let out a high-pitched sigh in response. The closer he got the more vocal he was. You loved every vulgar word that fell like syrup from his lips.

But there was something so familiar about his voice that caused your mind to spin. Your fogged over lust filled brain could barely comprehend what was going on after being on edge from your release for so long. It was as though your toes danced on the ledge of a building and the threat of falling was hammering against your chest.

Suddenly your walls clenched, and you sobbed out, having to cover your mouth to stifle the noise while you rolled your hips against your fingers. The mystery man soon followed, shooting ropes of come onto his stomach, he sat for a moment to catch his breath “Be right back,” He mumbled before abruptly standing up and leaving his computer chair probably for some tissues.

The light flicked on in his room and you took in what little you could see in, the cluttered clothes on the floor, the messy bed spread that made it look as though he kicked it off every time he woke up. It was interesting to see into the lives of your clients.

He came back and his computer screen illuminated his now clothed chest. He was now wearing an old Jimi Hendrix shirt and you couldn’t help but smile- Roger had the same shirt, upon further inspection you saw that Roger also had the same bracelets and necklace your client wore too. Your stomach clenched with dread “Roger! You- you” you pointed an accusatory finger at the camera, not caring that it fell, exposing your face as you abruptly got up and struggled to find your words. A wave of confusion and rage washed over you, causing your orgasmic fog to dissipate immediately.

“[Y/N]?” Roger sounded just as confused as you felt “Oh, fuck.” He muttered to himself.

You threw your robe back on and stomped over to your door, ripping it open and meeting Roger half way down the hallway “How could you watch me masturbate!” You shouted at him, raising and flailing your arms in frustration.

“How was I supposed to know it was you masturbating!” He shouted back in an equally frustrated voice, “Fucking Christ.” He hastily ran a hand through his hair, “You spread your pussy for every bloke on the internet now? Is that how you pay for the rent, with-” He motioned between the two of you, blowing out a frustrated puff of air “With dirty sex money?”

Your mouth could have hit the floor if it was possible, “It’s none of your bloody business how I make my money! It’s Fred’s fault anyways, he suggested it!” Your brain vividly played Fred’s voice over and over again in your head before you pushed it aside to clear up more questions “You were the one that gave me the dirty sex money anyways!” you were on a roll now, “What the fuck kind of a name is Mojo Man anyways! You couldn’t have come up with something clever?”

Roger’s jaw gaped much like yours, his face riddled with disbelief, “I can’t help it I’m horny and want to pay for attention from girls!” Roger clenched his fists together in frustration and pushed past you, hastily slipping his shoes on, not even bothering to untie them and throwing on a leather jacket “It’s a Jimi Hendrix song, by the way.” He hissed, slamming your apartment door behind him causing the mirror in the hallway to slant.

You let out a frustrated noise, a cross between a growl and a groan and found your self pacing the hall, back and forth, back and forth while muttering to yourself like you’d gone mad. “Fucking hell! I can’t believe I wasn’t more careful, what am I? A fucking fool, that’s what you are.” You stopped yourself, realizing your solo conversation was making you look more insane than you had hoped. You raided the fridge, stealing several of Roger’s beers. He wouldn’t mind anyways, it wasn’t like the two of you had boundaries anymore after wanking in front of each other.

So, there you sat, on the couch, brooding, thinking, and drinking several beers. You hated to admit it, but the chemistry between you and Roger during your private session with him was hot, just thinking about it caused a clench in your gut that you couldn’t push away. You thought of ringing up Freddie for advice, but you could already hear the howling laughter that would rattle your ear drums, so you opted to continue thinking in silence. But still found your mind drifting back to his words, the rise and fall of his soft chest, and his soft gravely moans that would forever haunt your memory.

An idea crept into your brain, slinking against the shadows before it forced its way through and now had your full attention. You couldn’t shove it away and it echoed against your brain.

Ask Roger to help you with your content.

You’d seen it many times and heard girls talking about it on various forums and chatroom communities dedicated to sex work but never though you’d ever come across the opportunity yourself. Countless women had their spouses, partners, and even friends help with their content from time to time; they found that it helped provide a variety of things to post and proved to be an advantage.

You mulled it over a bit more, sipping on your cold beer. It would be nice to not have to take screen shots of videos you took of you doing various poses and there was the benefit of actually having sex. You hadn’t gotten any action from a real-life human being since Harrison and frankly, you’d forgotten what good sex was like and something told you that Roger would be able to help you remember.

The come down from your adrenaline high mixed with the beer and soon put you to sleep on the couch. Only waking up to Roger roughly shaking you. He reeked of cigarettes, you scrunched your nose up and could tell he’d taken a walk outside to chain smoke and think. It was a stress habit you’d noticed in your few months of living with him.

You blinked one blurry eye at him, your vision clearing and noted the soft, almost sympathetic gaze he’d cast down at you. You sat up, sitting sideways into the corner of the couch to offer him a seat which he graciously accepted, “I’m sorry for calling your money dirty sex money.” Roger mumbled, his face flushed with embarrassment.

You cleared the sleep from your throat “I’m sorry for making fun of your username.” You mumbled in the same apologetic tone. You turned your body towards him and let out a nervous cough, just enough to force his gaze in your direction, “I… um… I wanted-” you inhaled and exhaled deeply before you started over again to gather your thoughts “Do you want to help me?”

Roger jumped at the volume of your voice and you mumbled a soft ‘sorry’ before looking back at him. His face was riddled with confusion, “What?” He asked quirking his head to the side.

“You know, filming and content and stuff.” You couldn’t bare to look at him any longer, the conversation was almost painful making it easy to avert your gaze.

Roger cleared his throat and tried to act casual, but he was almost as uncomfortable as you, “Would… would I get a part of the profit?” He asked, sneaking a side glance at you.

You honestly hadn’t even though of that. “80/20” That was the first number that popped up into your mind.

Roger scoffed, “50/50” he argued back, “If my dicks going to be on display, I want half.”

You found yourself frowning deeply “70/30 and I won’t hide my face anymore, but you can.”

Roger hummed, you didn’t know if he was actually in deep thought or just mocking you, “Fine, but we also get to fuck without cameras too, and I want the first time we hook up to just be natural, no cameras.” He crossed his arms over his chest “Got to make sure it’s worth my time.” He made sure to add.

You rolled your eyes at his back handed comment, “You talk a big game, bet you’ll be the disappointing one.” You knew it was a lie the moment you said it. But you would never admit it.

[timelordthirteen]

For Rent - Part 10

Mr. Gold/Belle,  G

Summary: Gold finally asks Belle on a date.

Notes: I know I said one more chapter, then three, but I decided to put two of the chapters together and then an epilogue. I just kept writing, and these two dorks just kept being adorable and wanting me finish their whole story. So there's going to be two more chapters, including this one. A total of 11. I know, I know. I'm a lying liar who lies. ;)

[AO3]

To say Gold thought about that soft, brief kiss was an understatement.

It didn’t just linger in his mind, it moved in, remodeled the place, and signed a lifetime lease. He fell asleep touching his mouth, remembering how she smelled and the sensation of her lips. When he awoke, there was a lightness in his chest that he couldn’t recall feeling in some time. All morning, as he worked in his study, reviewing contracts and balancing his accounts, he found himself at the window, gazing at Belle’s house.

Belle’s house.

Despite the fact that she was renting it from him and had only been a tenant for a few months, he had come to think of it as hers. It felt like it had always been so, that the house was simply biding its time, never knowing what it was missing until she arrived, breathing light and light into the empty spaces within its walls. Just as he had been waiting.

The grandfather clock chimed eleven, and Gold blew out a breath as he pushed back from his desk. Nervous energy made him pace back and forth by the front door before he finally opened it and stepped outside. He looked across the tree lined road, feeling his lips twitch as a smile crept over his face.

The curtains were open in the front living room, and the potted plants were back on the front porch. Belle had moved them inside to save them from being pummeled by the storm. She was definitely awake and home, as far as he could tell.

He started down the front steps before his courage evaporated, and a moment later found himself at Belle's door. He knocked and then steeled himself, repeating the words he'd been practicing since the previous evening ended. The door opened and his mouth gaped as Belle smiled up at him. She was wearing a green dress that flared above her knees and a short black cardigan. Her hair was pulled back on the sides and fell to her shoulders in loose, wavy curls.

She was beautiful and his brain had suddenly forgotten what he was supposed to say.

“Good morning,” she said, her grin widening. “Did you sleep well?”

Gold nodded dumbly. “Y-yes,” he managed. “And you?”

She nodded and then stepped back. “Are you here to see if there was any damage from the storm?”

He shook his head. “No, I trust you’d tell me if there was, and I usually have Mr. Dove check on all my properties after severe weather.” Her head tilted in question, and he exhaled slowly. “I - I just came over to ask you if, um, if you wanted dinner.” Her eyebrows lifted slightly and her lips parted.

“With me,” he added.

She giggled and for a brief moment he thought she was going to laugh him off her front porch. But all negative thoughts were banished when she took hold of his free hand, pushed up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his. He made a small noise of surprise and then reached for her, gently cupping her cheek. The kiss was firm and lingering, and he felt her start to smile before she pulled away.

“I was hoping you’d ask again,” she said, curling her fingers further into his and giving his hand a squeeze.

Gold let out a short laugh and shook his head. “Well, I’m glad I managed it then.”

Belle bit her lip and stepped fully out onto the porch, inching forward until the toes of her shoes were almost touching his. Her hands slid up the lapels of his suit jacket and then down again, and he wondered if she could feel how his heart was pounding just from her proximity.

“Truthfully,” she started, “if you hadn’t, I would have been at your door asking you.”

He smiled and took hold of both her hands, lifting them to his lips and kissing each one. “Then I suppose tonight isn’t too soon?”

She shook her head, still smiling. “Tonight is perfect.”

Gold wasn’t sure he could remember ever being this content. At least not since his son was just a wee babe and life hadn’t beaten him down too badly. They walked along the street in the cool night air, Belle’s arm tucked into his, their shoulders brushing with every step.

Dinner had gone better than he’d ever imagined. After the first few awkward minutes, the conversation became easy, and he lost himself more than once in her eyes and the passion with which she talked about everything. The evening flew by, much to his delight and disappointment. One minute they were ordering wine and antipasto at Marco’s, and the next, she was holding out a bite of her tiramisu for him to eat. She even moved around to sit at the side of the table, instead of across from him. Her eyes sparkled with something like mischief as he leaned in and pulled the dessert off her fork.

They arrived at his car, still parked in front of his shop, and before he could open the passenger door for her, she tipped her face up for another kiss. It was becoming quite the regular thing, and he was more than happy to do so whenever she liked.

“Well, that went considerably better than my last date,” Belle said, as they pulled away from the curb.

Gold chuckled and reached for her hand, smiling when she readily threaded her fingers through his. “I would hope so.”

She hummed and looked out the window. “The food was good, the wine was excellent, and my date even showed up.”

He shook his head and then weighed his words for a moment before asking the thing that had been on his mind since last night when she showed up looking so wet and sad. “Has that, uh, happened to you a lot?”

She shrugged and glanced back at him. “That was the third time,” she said softly. “The first was this boy in high school who I thought was nice, but he turned out to be a huge jerk. The second was some guy at university that I honestly didn’t even want to go out with in the first place. And then, last night.”

Gold frowned. He still couldn’t imagine anyone wouldn’t want to spend time with Belle. She was intelligent, funny, and gorgeous. She could snore like a bear and he’d still be completely in love with her.

“Why?”

The question was out before his brain had caught up to his mouth, and he chastised himself silently. It was bad enough he’d make her bring up her mother’s death when they’d only just been getting to know each other. Now, he was asking her to explain what were certainly painful details about her past relationships. To his surprise, she laughed.

Belle shook her head and smiled at Gold. He gave her such a befuddled look and she couldn’t help it. He truly didn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to date her, and the thought charmed her. The way he looked at her had been different than anyone else, almost from the moment they’d met. It was like he was a little bit in awe, like he couldn’t believe she’d even speak to him, and she wondered if she looked at him the same way.

“Let’s just say that I went through a bit of an awkward stage,” she said, with a wry smile. “From about age four until twenty-five.”

Gold sputtered and then laughed. “Seriously?” he questioned as he turned the corner onto their quiet little street. “But you were a ballerina.”

She shrugged again. “I had fuzzy hair, a gap between my front teeth, and the only time I was graceful was when I was dancing. One time in secondary school I tripped up the stairs, picked myself up, and immediately walked into a door.”

He blinked at her in disbelief.

“The principal even laughed at me,” she said, sighing and letting her gaze drift to the window again. “It was a long time ago, but -”

His hand squeezing hers made her turn back, and the look in his eyes was so full of adoration she thought she might cry. She swallowed hard and squeezed back, her chest aching with emotions she’d been wanting to express for some time. It had been entirely too easy to fall for him.

“We’re here,” he said softly.

Their gazes lingered on each other for a moment, before he reluctantly opened the door and got out of the car. She waited until he came around to her side, finding his old-fashioned sensibilities rather sweet, and then took his hand as she stood.

He walked her to her door, and Belle looked up at him, her hand still holding his, the two of them standing much as they had this morning. “Thank you,” she said. “I had a lovely time.”

Gold nodded. “As did I.”

She stepped closer and he didn’t hesitate to bend his head and kiss her. One kiss lead to another, and then he couldn’t help himself. His hands went to her waist to hold her close as his cane fell to the side and clattered on the porch, and her arms slid up over his shoulders, one hand at the back of his neck as her fingers played with his hair.

She broke the kiss and looked up at him. Her chest was rising and falling faster than normal, and despite the rain bringing cooler temperatures, she felt warm from head to toe.

Gold licked his lips and tried to slow his own breathing. His face felt flushed and he was afraid of taking things too far. They’d spent months flirting and getting to know one another, but this was only their first date. “I was going to ask if you wanted to have breakfast. Perhaps brunch at Granny’s?”

Belle grinned and let her hands slide down over his chest, her fingers tracing the pattern in his tie. “I’d like that.”

He flashed her a smile and then stepped back, waiting as she bent to pick up his cane. “Goodnight, Belle.”

“Goodnight,” she said, then stretched up again and kissed his cheek.

He made it to the bottom of the steps before she called out to him. “Maybe next time you could make me breakfast?”

His head tilted slightly. “French toast for Miss French?”

She giggled and arched an eyebrow, the look on her face amused and nearly sinful at the same time. “It’s a deal, Mr. Gold.”

Gold laughed and nodded, and she gave him a little wave before closing her front door. He crossed the street to his own home, and then looked back over his shoulder. There was a figure in the window surrounded by a warm, glowing light that paused for a long moment, and then drew the curtains. He smiled to himself, and stepped inside, trying to remember where he’d put the recipe for his Aunt Millie’s praline pecan french toast.

[kalendraashtar]

Fanfiction - A Lifetime of Her (Part III)

Part III – “You don’t know how lovely you are”

Twenty-four

The night was unusually dark, even for the end of September – the scarce light of public illumination swallowed by scraps of mist, like cold long fingers, stretching to capture an unwary victim. But the lack of visible stars caused me more dismay – the feeling of infinity I usually felt gazing above my head, of endless life beyond the flapping of butterflies’ wings of human existence, veiled beyond my reach. I felt small and locked outside of a mystery that made my life more meaningful.

I was walking fast across Princes Street, my hands buried on the pockets of my overcoat, thinking about the job interview I had endured that day – a promising position as a Math teacher for a local high school, very surprising considering my lack of experience and the fact that I was fresh out of college. The headmistress had seemed pleasant and competent, interested in knowing things about my personal life as well as my academic course – inevitably she had asked why I had took almost an entire year off school, four years ago. I had answered truthfully, reassuring her about my full recovery.

To my right I could see the Gardens and the outline of the Scottish National Gallery, one of my favourite places in Edinburgh to relax and spend some free time. Without a second thought, I decided to make a shortcut across the park, which would lead me straight to the neighbourhood where I had rented a small, yet cosy, apartment.

I saw her before I could even hear her – she was standing alone, talking on the phone, close to the museum entrance. She was wearing a long black dress with sleeves, which fitted perfectly her mesmerizing body, kissing her curves with fabric lips – her hair pinned up in a simple but elegant knot. She sounded distressed and – I thought – angry enough to make me want to run in the other direction. I recognized her instantly, even in such different circumstances than those of our last encounter – Claire.

I walked – levitated, really – towards her, without any notion of why I was doing it. Perhaps I meant to thank her for what she had done in the past. Maybe I was fascinated by the idea that, for once, I could be her saviour. She was clearly dressed for an elegant party – as I approached the building, I noticed several people in similar clothing, probably heading for some sort of gala inside.

I could hear her talking more clearly, her voice quick and deadly, like the stab of a dagger. “Fine!” She snapped, suddenly finishing her conversation. Claire looked at her phone with aversion, like she was considering the idea of throwing it to the nearby bushes.

I was near enough for her to notice my presence – without recognizing me, she quickly composed her expression and looked at her phone with pretended interest, fearing any unwanted advances from a strange man in the night.

“Claire?” I called her, as I reached the circle of light streamed through the museum’s doors. Her eyes jumped to mine and softened, as she promptly identified me.

“Jamie!” She greeted me, smiling – her lips were a soft pink with the touch of discrete lipstick. “How are you?”

“Good.” I grinned back – a gesture that almost entirely faded away as I noticed the ring on her finger. It was a sizable diamond, shining like a beacon made of crystal, outrageously dominant on her slender finger. An engagement ring.  “I couldna resist, coming to say hello.”

“It’s so good to see you!” Claire seemed honestly happy and warm – a million miles away from the cold glacier of moments before. “Are you coming to the charity gala too?”

“Ach, nae.” I gave her a lopsided smile and raised my brow. “Is that why ye’re here?”

“Yes.” She shrugged, sliding her phone inside her black satin clutch. “I was waiting for my fiancé but it seems he is…rather busy at the moment. He won’t be coming.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I said softly, trying to abstract myself of how magnificent she looked – dark as the night, but with millions of stars inside her. “I’m sure ye’ll have a lovely time, nonetheless.”

“I doubt that.” She replied, somewhat conspiratorially. “This night was organized by a friend of my uncle – he was kind enough to invite me in honour of his memory. Actually, I don’t know a living soul inside those doors.” Claire’s eyes darkened, sadness creeping in. “Maybe I’ll just go home and send him my apologies afterwards.”

“No!” I instantly rejected the idea. “Perhaps I could go with ye?” I suggested in a cool tone, praying that I wasn’t about to blush. I pointed to my black attire, matched with a grey tie. “I’m wearing a suit after all.”

“That you are.” She smiled, with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Do you really don’t mind?” Claire asked, nervously adjusting a stubborn curl that had fled her hairdo. “We could just pretend you’re my fiancé. No one really knows Frank, either way.”

“Of course, lass.” I mockingly offered her my arm for her to hold. “Shall we?”

We entered the party, quickly mingling with the crowd – an assorted array of wealthy men and women, with a taste for art and philanthropy - or for ostentation. Soon enough we had located the canapé and champagne flutes, launching ourselves in a conversation about the artistry on display – or lack of it.

“So, are you fully recovered?” Claire eventually asked me over the live jazz music, that a small band was playing in the corner, a saxophone crying about the loss of an imperfect lover.

“Aye.” I nodded, offering her one of my owlish winks. “I’m so verra thankful for what ye did for me – I…”

“Don’t be silly!” She dismissed emphatically, waving her hand. “I should be the one to thank you!” And seeing my puzzled look, she leaned over and talked closer to my ear. “After what you told me, I went ahead and applied to medical school. I work some shifts as a nurse to pay my bills, but I’m a proud med student!”

“That is wonderful!” I congratulated her, squeezing her hand – soft and capable, warm under my fingers as a pulsing heart. “I’m so glad!”

I convinced her to dance, afterwards. She conceded with an amused smile. We swayed together, amongst other couples – I wasn’t an eager dancer and had no memory of a time when the idea of dancing had seemed appealing to me. But with Claire everything was natural and effortless – every move and word had the magical quality of destiny, of a life finally fulfilled. I tried very hard to overlook the shackles symbolized by her ring, the deafening warning of a tragedy I was powerless to avoid. She had wilfully surrender to the dragon – I couldn’t be her saving knight.

“So what happened to yer fiancé?” I asked tentatively, my hand struggling not to caress her lower back. God, it seemed so easy to touch her, to hold her against me. “Ye seemed distraught.”

“He had a meeting with another faculty assistant.” She pursed her lips in discontent, her eyes avoiding his – hiding her pain and shame. “Something about a spectacular discovery in his newest research.”

“Oh.” I babbled, trying to sound charitable. “Have ye been engaged for a long time?”

“A couple of months.” Claire sighed, her fingers accidentally brushing the back of my neck and making me shiver, preparing to confess her secrets under the protection of the music around us. “Actually, he has been invited to go to America to teach – and asked me to go with him.”

“And will ye?” I asked, almost breathless – pushing down the sudden feeling of panic, like a dark wave that threatened to swallow the skyscrapers of my soul. “Go with him?”

“I honestly don’t know.” She admitted slowly, wincing a little. “But I accepted his proposal so…I should want to go with him, shouldn’t I?”

“I dinna ken much about serious relationships.” I said in a hoarse voice. “But I dinna understand how a man can leave a woman like ye, alone, in such a night. I dinna ken how anything can be more important than being with ye.”

“It’s complicated!” She tried to argue, but her voice lacked the vigour of certainty. “He has to work a lot to get recognized. Sometimes he has to let go of superfluous things, as much as I –“

“Dinna say that!” My voice was a deep rumble, suddenly stripped of all civility. “Ye should be the priority in his life, lass. Ye are a wonderful woman.” I gulped. “Any man deserving of being with ye, should give ye the place ye deserve in his life. Never settle for less, Claire.”

She nodded, looking away to hide the sudden threat of tears. Eventually, her body relaxed and her cheek came to rest in the lapel of my blazer, silently thanking me for my support. I could feel the small movements of her lashes, the hot breath of her life so close to my heart – I never felt more alive, nor more defeated.

We talked and danced the night away – I made her twirl and laugh, until her face was less pale, more like the lively girl in the graveyard, so alive amongst my ghosts.

At the end of the night, I escorted her to a taxi – not daring to offer her my company to her doorway. I feared what the intoxicating mixture of her and the champagne might conjure up.

She smiled – skilfully tucking something inside the pocket of my overcoat – and stood on her toes to kiss my cheek in a tender goodbye. Later, feeling less overwhelmed by the lack of stars, I read her note – “In case you need it. XO”. She had added a phone number underneath the short sentence and a funny smiley face, with abundant curly hair.

I kept her note under my pillow for the next few weeks – a silent dare, urging me to take a leap of faith. I was convinced that my path was fundamentally entwined with Claire’s – it had to be a reason for the insistency of life to place her in my way. She lured me in – fascinated me.

I must have grabbed the phone, adamant on calling her, half a dozen times. Started to dial her phone number – by then carved on my brain with luminescent red ink of desire – at least a dozen more. I mentally prepared our conversation – tried different variations of casualness, honesty and tenderness. I laid awake at night, gazing at the phone, ominous and teasing.

“Iffrin!” I desperately reprehended myself one night, almost a month after the gala. I clenched my teeth, breathed deeply several times, and made the call – prepared to invite her for innocent coffee.

“The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service.” – said the mechanical and metallic voice that took me back to a place with no stars.

[inechoingsilence]

Silence Does More Stuff

1. What’s your philosophy in life?  Whatever works.

2. What’s the one thing you would like to change about yourself? To be more patient. 

3. Are you religious or spiritual? Both, they are equally to me. 

4. Do you consider yourself an introvert or an extrovert? I am who I need to be when it’s necessary, but I am naturally more introverted. 

5. Which parent are you closer to and why? I wasn’t close to either parent. 

6. What was the best phase in your life? 19, when I lived a rather artistic, off-beat lifestyle

7. What was the worst phase in your life? From 23-28, I had 7 surgeries, a divorce, a marriage, 2 kids, and a miscarriage. 

8. Is what you’re doing now what you always wanted to do growing up? No, I wanted to be an executive chef. 

9. What makes you feel accomplished? These days, putting dinner on the table. 

10. What’s your favorite book/movie of all time and why did it speak to you so much? I’m not sure?

11. What is a relationship deal breaker for you? Lying. Plain and simple, black and white. 

12. Are you more into looks or brains? Brains. Beauty fades. 

13. Would you ever take back someone who cheated? Nope. 

14. How do you feel about sharing your password with your partner? He knows all my passwords. 

15. When do you think a person is ready for marriage? If they are still there when the shit hits the fan. 

16. What kind of parent do you think you will be? I’m pretty easy-going but strict when needed, and a bit of a free-spirit. 

17. What would you do if your parents didn’t like your partner? Oh well?

18. Who is that one person you can talk to about just anything? My rabbi.

19. Do you usually stay friends with your exes? Never. I’ve learned it never works.

20. Have you ever lost someone close to you? My parents, more than a few goo friends. 

21. If you are in a bad mood, do you prefer to be left alone or have someone to cheer you up? Left alone, I need time. 

22. What’s an ideal weekend for you? No kids, no husband, sleep, coffee, magazines.

23. What do you think of best friends of the opposite sex? It can work, but there needs to be open communication. 

24. Do you judge a book by its cover? No. Covers come off and rarely tell the whole story. 

25. Are you confrontational? OMFG no way RUN AWAY (unless it’s about my kids then COME AT ME WORLD I’LL STOMP YOU DEAD)

26. When was the last time you broke someone’s heart? when I was in highschool

27. Would you relocate for love? I did. Moved from PA to NY

28. Did you ever write a journal? No. 

29. What are you most thankful for? Every single thing I have and ever had. 

30. Do you believe in second chances? It depends, but for others, yes. Myself, not really. 

31. What’s the one thing that people always misunderstand about you? People find me condescending because I am intelligent and incapable of going through all the steps most people need to get to the same conclusion. I can’t help that my mind goes too fast, even on meds.  

32. What is your idea of a perfect vacation? The mountains, near a lake. Or the beach. 

33. What did your past relationship teach you? That you shouldn’t ever ignore your intuition. 

34. What are your thoughts on online dating or tinder? I’m not sure? I never did that. 

35. What’s on your bucket list this year? I don’t have a bucket list. 

36. When have you felt your biggest adrenaline rush? Ziplining 100ft over a lake on a perfect July day. 

37. What is the craziest thing you’ve ever done and would you do it again? Hanging off the back of a pickup truck and going downhill at 60mph. 

38. If a genie granted you 3 wishes right now, what would you wish for? Health, wealth and peace for the entire world. 

39. What’s your biggest regret in life? Not finishing college

40. What do you think about when you’re by yourself? Roleplay, my kids, life

41. Does your job make you happy? It brings in some extra money. 

42. What did you want to be when you were younger? An actor and an assassin/spy

43. Why did your last relationship end? He didn’t tell me he was gay. 

45. What’s been your biggest mistake so far in life and what did you learn from it? Not listening when I was younger and ended up going through a bunch of unneeded nonsense and ending up homeless. 

46. Where is your favorite place in the entire world to go? The mountains

47. What are your top five favorite movies? LOTR, all of them, Kingsman both, P&P 2005, and I am sure there are others but I forget. 

48. What are some of your favorite songs? Anything from Armen and BB Brunes

49. What qualities do you admire about your parents? My mother had a really difficult pregnancy with me and could have easily aborted, but she stayed on bedrest for 7 months and delivered me then. 

50. How would you describe your best friend? My husband? Strange and perfect for me. 

51. What’s your favorite hobby to do alone? Watch shows on Hulu

52. What’s something you can’t go a day without doing? Kissing my kids. 

53. What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve done lately? Started bingeing Lucifer

54. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done for love? Walked into a store and told my future MIL that I was the perfect match for her son. 

55. What’s your biggest pet peeve? Ignorance

56. Why do you think you’re still single? I’m married almost 13 years...

57. What accomplishment are you most proud of? 4 awesome kids. 

58. What is one dream you have yet to accomplish? Living totally debt-free

59. What is your greatest fear? Not having enough to take care of my family

60. What are three things you value most about a person? Honestly, open mind, humor

61. Who are five people you are closest with? My husband, rabbi, aunt, uncle, and my online friends

62. What is the greatest struggle you’ve overcome? Too many to single out

63. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be? Probably Israel

64. What’s the most exciting thing that’s happened this past year? My eldest son got into the perfect school for him. 

65. What’s your favorite beer? Wine. And it would be Riesling. 

66. What’s one thing that bothers you most about the world today? So many things. 

67. Who are you closer with your mom or your dad? Neither

68. If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be? You asked this already

69. If you could change one thing about the world what would it be? Ignorance. There would be no more of that. 

70. Who was your favorite teacher and why? Ms. B, 11th grade drama. She loved my creative writing. 

71. What sport did you fall in love with? None, but I loved color guard in high school. 

72. What is the weirdest thing about you? I dunno?

73. What was your longest relationship? My marriage, almost 13 years and counting

74. What would your best friend say is your best quality? That I never give up

75. Who is your favorite historical figure? Louis XIV

76. What made you choose the college you went to? I never finished, but it was because the chef instructor was the best in the area at the time. 

77. If you could tell your former self one thing right now what would it be? Save your money and not everything needs to be designer. 

78. What food could you not live without? Coffee

79. Dogs or Cats? Cats

80. What’s closest you’ve ever come to being arrested? Making an illegal U turn right in front of a cop and not paying attention. I told him I had hoped he wouldn’t notice, he laughed, I accepted the ticket. 

81. What was your best birthday? My 19th or 20th. I got a full body wax and massage, new dress, a pearl necklace, and rented out the club of my favorite restaurant for me and my friends so we could drink, dance and play pool. 

82. What’s one thing you wish you knew how to do? Not sure, let me get back to you?

83. Where’s one place you’d like to go that you haven’t been? Scotland

84. What was the last book you read? And When? Months ago, the Outlander series

85. Where do you usually get your news? FB, the Daily Mail, Hamodia

86. What are some of your own personal goals in the next 5 years? Get my sons bar-mitzvahed, my daughter bat-mitzvahed, and who knows what else?

87. What would you consider your greatest accomplishment so far? Again, you asked this already.

88. If you could get away with anything that you do? Not sure

89. Who is your greatest hero? Any female chef that doesn’t take shit. 

90. What’s the greatest risk you’ve ever taken?  Marriage

91. Why are we here? To fix whatever we did wrong in previous lifetimes. 

92. If heaven is real and you died tomorrow, would you get in? I’d like to think so.

93. Do you believe in fate? I call it divine providence, but yep. 

94. How do you think people see you? Kind, caring, don’t-mess-with-me. 

95. If you had the ability to erase something that you did in the past, what would it be? Probably several years of my life

96. What song makes you unconditionally happy? Mint Car by the Cure

97. If you could have anybody else’s life, who’s would you take? No

98. What fictional character do you most relate to? Lizzie Bennett

99. If I asked you at age 5 what you wanted to be when you grew up, what would you say? Shirley Temple or Harriet the Spy

100. What is your biggest irrational fear? Bugs. ALL THE BUGS

[libramoon2]

Persephone in Fall

Persephone in Fall Moon in Gemini She told me she is dying. "There's really nothing, you know, that I feel I need to do, except to get to truly know you, for you to get to know me, while we still can." What could I say? That I have a life, a lover, plans? Is this the guidance I asked for, Goddess? Is this my next stage, my sacred education? I can certainly use the greater solitude, the forced isolation, to hunker down and discover what my imagination has been whispering. She needs me here; and I guess I need to be here with her now. I guess we have gifts to exchange, lessons learned from living to teach each other. I am a selfish bitch! Why am I not just comforting her, thinking of her, thanking her? She has been the one constant, always ready to be there for me. We were close when I was little, so intertwined as a family. Then, I guess I needed to break away. I can return. We can be close, even friends. Great friends. Someday I will look back on this as a significant time in my life. Right now I will look forward to a very special, very important opportunity for sharing what is left of my mother’s life. When we meet again, my love, we will have great stories to tell. Yes, I must call Tom and tell him I will be gone for the duration. This time is for Celia and her prodigal daughter to connect and let go. Moon in Gemini Stale Sun, changing seasons. The only child I was ever mother to died before we had a chance to know each other. Yeah, I did the whole bonding through the womb thing, talking to him as if he were a person who could hear and understand. Not that I would have talked to him in the same way once he was an actual child in my care, or maybe I would have. I'll never know. Maybe I'll have other children. Somewhere down the line. Not that I'm planning to; but plans get changed. I planned to go back to the life I was living, creating, enjoying, making work out for me. Celia had other plans, and hers get to trump mine because she's dying. As she says, this is our last and only chance to say all we need to say, learn all we need to know from each other, heal wounds, reclaim bonds, make it alright that her time is officially ending. Not everyone gets this chance. It's so very common to die suddenly, without time to plan, to make amends, to have your say. I admire her wisdom in realizing that after a lifetime of so often giving over her needs or desires to others' that this is her time if she is to have one, that she finally gets to make a choice for her own sake. Theoretically, I could deny her this time from my life. I can't because I know that she's right. This time for connection is as much for me as for her. I would regret not being with her now. I realize I am at last secure enough in my self to admit my need for not only closure, but closeness denied by my earlier rebellious confusion, by my misunderstandings about who we are, she and I, to each other. Perhaps I needed my time, learning to believe in, to trust in my Goddess, to get to this vital point of understanding, to be the me I need to be now. I hurt. It's a physical pain, in my heart and guts and lungs and brain. I hurt not only in sympathy. Celia hurts not only from her disease. We are unnumbing to pain built up over years of feelings denied. We are reaching out now to each other in a closed circuit of pain that can be transformed into a warm familial bond to carry with us, each in our future separate realms. I do, I want to go home, to melt in Tom’s embrace, to live my up and coming life as I believed I would. Belief can be fleeting. I have a sacred duty, not only to Celia but to myself. Goddess, I feel your presence. I asked for a vision and was given a truth. I am connected to the Earth, to my bloodline, to this woman who is facing the ending of her life on Earth and who has no belief in eternity. She wants in these final days she has been given only to tell me who she is, to learn who I am. I am given an opportunity to explore where I come from, a gift Celia simultaneously gives and receives. She has given me so much, more than life and nurturing. I sit here on my "guestroom" bed, no now it's my room, with Pandora purring to my touch. I am feeling my way into a new, unexpected phase of my life, emotions pulsing out everywhere at once. Celia's had time to process her changes. This is my process. I am not a little girl. This is not my childhood home, or my childhood cat. This is Celia's life, Celia's death. I am her daughter, and her most intimate confidante. Spring is for being born, Autumn for dying. The transition to the transformation of death is a different kind of birth. Hecate would understand, the Goddess of birth and death and the spaces between, thresholds, doorways, crossroads, limbo. Goddess Hecate, I understand that I am in your realm for this duration, for this direction in which you are moving my consciousness. Bless me, Goddess. Give me your strength of purpose and will, serenity within the maelstrom. The future is one moment at a time. The time is always now. Who I am to become will amaze me, I'm sure. Moon in Cancer She's always been always in motion. My mother the verb. So constant that it's just the background of the life we shared. She has her routines, her daily habitual motions. Happy to chatter about whatever topic is in the air, or quietly intently listen, or fall into hypnotic precise patterns of movement: puttering with plants, chopping vegetables for soup, sweeping away clutter, knitting or embroidering as a nervous habit, something to do with her fine, quick fingers while she talks or watches a news program on tv "to keep in touch" or listens to music while swaying along, then dancing as she stands to move to another task. She's never slept much. Neither Celia nor I were the kind of girls that had slumber parties with our girly friends. Though generally well liked, Celia had no time for friends when she was growing up. There were always chores, responsibilities, managing to keep up her studies in available moments to keep up stellar grades while helping at home with housework and watching over her younger sisters. Her mom, Grandma Angie, was busy working, as a high school English teacher and on projects of community and school politics she considered part of her career. Then, as Celia got older there were whatever jobs she could fit in after school, weekends, summers, to save for college, along with all the rest of those responsibilities she seemed to have been born to take on. She would tell me of her younger life without complaint or rancor, but to help explain her habit to take on responsibility, to explain some of the contentious differences between her ways of being and mine. I was just unlikeable by the kids I grew up around. Cute and clever had not yet found their way into my social strategy, except with the more sophisticated grown-ups of my aunt's crowd who always made me feel so adored. The kids in my neighborhood and their parents just found me weird and intolerant. It was some kind of private badge of honor for me to feel superior and apart. This was not an attitude I dropped at home. But there were those late nights when neither Celia nor I were into sleeping. We would make up silly stories or snuggle over cocoa and late night tv movies or share a quiet space each involved in private projects. I can see her energy is so low. Rather than long hours of sleep, though, she dozes from time to time on the couch, amidst her current projects. I don't feel lonely. She is intensely interested in anything I say, everything I am willing to share. I am, rather, emotionally in free fall. It's ok. It all feels real. Intensely real. My life recapitulated and more immediate. I feel like Alice when she had grown so large that the rest of the world was out of proportion so that her mind had to search for new measures, new relationships to the familiar. Strangely, I don't miss my usual life. I feel I am where I belong for now. Of course I miss Tom. He has been so beyond wonderful in all of this. When I called and cried and cried and cried before I could talk at all, he held my heart in his listening. Moon in Leo So I was a bratty kid with no childhood friends except my adoring worshippers on Aunt Marie's farm and my contentious relationship with my mom. The contention was all me. Celia was just Celia, taking care of the practical details day to day with no complaints because that was, she believed, her lot in life. Well, no, sometimes there were kids who thought I was cool and hung out with me for a time, until they got caught up in compromises more suited to their ultimate self-interest. Celia's friends were mostly people she worked with and came to enjoy as companions in conversation and cultural excursions. They would get together for dinners and movies or concerts, bookclubs and planning charity events. There were even some short term, no drama boyfriends over the years. Nothing deep and lasting. She never seemed to mind. I think she always thought of herself as belonging to Danny, even after years of his absence from her life. Or, maybe, like me, she was incapable of compromise, at opening herself to anyone who was not a true soulmate. I know, there were all those lovers in my life, but they really never touched me in the profound way I needed to be touched, until Tom. When it happens, it happens I guess. No substitution can be accepted. He took care of everything without me even having to ask. He told my roommates to rent out my room since I had no idea when or if I would be returning. Celia gave me a check to send them for next month's rent, since I left with so little notice. He packed up my stuff to send me, but instead brought them himself, flying in and taking a cab from the airport. He drove back in the car he had rented for me to return it. He even tracked down a friend of an associate in Celia's general neighborhood who could provide the best of medicinal illicit herb in case she should need it (or I). He stayed the night, told me all I needed to be told on every level, and left in the morning, bowing to Celia in is gentleman's way, assuring that he understood perfectly and admired her far beyond words. She responded with humble gratitude. I cried and made a scene, clinging to one and then the other, and both together, making them drop all formality to tend to the hysterical child. He finally left with the promise that I phone or email anytime for any reason and he would happily return if I should summon. Then I clung to Celia, and she to me, murmuring calming words from my youth, stroking my hair, until somehow we were laughing. I do know this woman, on so many levels and wavelengths. In so many ways she is part of me. I know I spent years denying that truth. Your little joke, Goddess? Making me see clearly the obfuscations I brought into my life? I'm not a child anymore. Yet I am nothing but the child I grew from. This time from the new Sun to the New Moon this new season is magical, a time of reflection outside of the linear rules. Everything in its own time. But time doesn't own us, we creatures of emotion and mind. We created time to serve us, to differentiate days, moments, so we can see each discrete step and response of our dizzying dance. Celia likes to take a break from time, drink soothing tea, converse without boundaries, opening into spontaneous thoughtstreams, making connections. She jumps up, tends to a plant or the cat or moves some item to its assigned place, pulls out a photo album or finds a remembered cd, to look, listen, find new meaning in old memories, make new memories of old remembrances. Celia at last gets to teach her most well learned subject to her most well loved pupil. Remember when fall was always about being back in school? Pandora is trying to walk over my notebook, sit on the hand moving my pen, to demand her own attention. This woman who has grown from that bratty, unhappy, lonely child is so blessed with love, on so many levels. I am so sorry, Celia, that it took me this long to understand. At least we have this time, your time, to make it all worthwhile. It's been so rainy, hurricane season. I watch the beautiful changing leaves outside, bent by driving raindrops, mysteriously waving in the wind. They say a harsh winter is coming. I breathe in the Autumn air, breathe out my Summer fantasies. Life is what happens while we're making other plans. Yeah, planning is highly over-rated. Responding to the call of the moment, isn't that what women do best? Mama, I love you. You must know that, though I intend to tell you over and over in every way I can. You must know. That is why you need me with you now. Yes, Pandora. I am putting down the book and pen to worship you. Moon in Virgo I asked Celia if she were afraid of dying. She replied that she was afraid of pain, that she supposed at the actual moment she would be afraid, but the thing is to get through it as quickly and easily as possible. She told me she had arranged for hospice care at the end, when she could no longer function. She showed me the phone number on her rolodex. That's Celia, always managing the details so no one need worry or be inconvenienced. It must have been tough for her to grow up so alone, except for the familiar company of work. The story, as I've gotten it in bits and pieces over the years, was that old one of unplanned senior year high school pregnancy, quickie marriage, young dad fulfills his working class family's dreams going to college, while young mum juggles work and momhood living with disapproving in-laws happy to constantly share their grievances against her. Apparently Grandma Angie learned about birth control, in defiance of the Church, because Celia's younger sisters, Donna and Linda, waited to be born until after Angie had gotten her college degree and teaching job, gotten her life in order. By that time Celia was old enough to be a real help around the house. She says they didn't pressure her about good grades, didn't even seem to notice as long as she caused no trouble and did whatever needed doing. I don't now how harsh it really was. She talks very little of her childhood and family. It's like she's embarrassed to have been so worthless to the people who mattered to her. I could express my outrage that they didn't appreciate the priceless jewel they had, but how hypocritical is that? Celia can disappear into the background so easily. She is such a magical presence that we don't see her, just the sparkle and afterglow of her constant working without appearance of effort, making no demands. She trained herself well, finding no advantage in rancor or bitterness. Often she seems quite happy, buzzing along. Quite ethereal, like a force of wind and spirit, flowing through her moment to moment doings, she has long since made her peace with reality. I guess the idea of impending death is just one more piece of that pattern. For an avowed atheist, she exhibits an awful lot of faith. She never argued with me about my beliefs or in any way suggested them invalid. Celia has a marvelous way of compartmentalizing "you" and "me". She lives and believes as she does and lets everyone else do the same. I hope I am right to think I picked up that trait from her along with a few others, absorbed that underlying paradigm from its early and constant presentation. I know I don’t always express my opinions diplomatically, having picked up the habit of open, loud, display from Danny. Celia is more likely to avoid contentious topics. If they are broached, she is capable of sharply, intensely, stating her view, and moving to another topic so deftly you never notice how the conversation went from there to here. This is a subtle woman, my mother. Naturally I, like so many, have long undervalued her. Maybe that mistake has also caused me to undervalue the parts of me that are like her. My mom and my Aunt Marie were never on easy terms. There was an unstated, subtle antipathy. Yet there was also great and obvious mutual respect, more so as time went on. Marie would admonish me to love and respect my mother, and not out of some lecture on propriety. My Aunt Marie was not a propriety respecting sort of woman. She was direct, forceful, sure of herself, a maverick and an iconoclast and proud of it. That was never Celia's style. I don't think she found it so much uncomfortable as mildly irritating in a way that tired and depressed her. Perhaps what Marie resented in Celia was the lack of appreciative audience, positive or negative, that she expected from those around her, including me. I was endlessly admiring of my marvelously wicked Aunt who always made me feel special and beloved. Celia never showed any jealousy of my relationship with Marie, nor do I believe she ever felt any. She was happy for me to be connecting with Danny's sister, the only of his family we ever knew. Celia and I, we're kind of cast out in the world on our own, unattached to other family. Yes, Ms. Purring Pandora, you are family, we three. If the weather is nice tomorrow, we will take a drive into the country, pack a picnic, enjoy the natural splendor of the Libra New Moon aura of loveliness. Beauty isn't something you need to believe in to feel its inspiration. I am having to learn new rhythms for my life, a different way of being and seeing. Maybe I'm growing up, at last, at least? I am the younger generation, displacing what has come before. But I'm not displacing. I'm assimilating, becoming more. Yeah, Celia, we are women who think and self-reflect, examining our life and thoughts, studying as if we are holy texts in which real Truth is waiting to be found. Did I learn that from you? Are we learning it together from each other? I can believe for both of us that we are blessed by this chance to enhance each other. Moon in Libra She takes notes when she reads, takes reading seriously, as if still in school. She writes classical poetry, endlessly edited. She likes 60s/70s era classic rock and jazz, sings bits of songs as they wander through her head. When I was little she would dance me around the room, picking me up, twirling me about, losing our separateness in the music. Today we can dance around the room together as equals, to the old tunes evoking memories. She likes to dress comfortably in cotton and wool, sturdy leather shoes with flat heals, no make-up except when socially expected, her mid-length brown hair loose or tied in a sensible knot securely pinned. Her manner is more wistfully practical, gently ironic, than no-nonsense. She doesn't complain or catastrophize. She likes everything in its place, including emotions. She watches C-SPAN and the Comedy Central fake news, but says lately all the bickering makes her tired. The tv has hardly been on since I've been here. I have been able to do some writing assignments on her computer. Over the 'net by email, it doesn't matter to the magazine editors where I'm sending from. Information I need to research for my articles is also thus convenient. Not that I need to maintain gainful employment as Celia has my expenses covered, small as they are. She took early retirement from work when she learned she was sick, always thoughtful giving her employer plenty of lead time to find a replacement. She's always been a pay as you go consumer, no debt and over the years a good amount of savings. She bought this place outright from what she got selling our old house. She tells me she has arranged for the bills to be paid on a regular schedule so if she gets too ill to manage it all will still be taken care of automatically. Whatever is left, including this condo, will be mine to do with as I like when she's gone. Certainly not enough to make me rich, but I won't have to concern myself with finances for a long while. Still, it doesn't hurt to keep my hand in, keep up contacts and skills. I write anyway. I may as well send it out to be read. She is so matter of fact, telling me about her arrangements, every detail in place. She's always been like that. It can be both soothing and maddening. Danny found it soothing. Marie found it maddening. At this point I find it endearing. She is who she is without apologies or aggrandizement. She deserves respect for that; she's earned it. She has made a life that is hers without back-up or recognition. I always have to be "Oh, look at me! Look how good I'm doing, how valuable and wonderful I am." She did that for Danny, admired him, gave him all the back-up, recognition, applause (metaphoric and real) that made him able to glow his shining glory. I can tell, even from the distant and erratic contact we have had these many years, that Gwen does not do that for him. What there is of him now is but a shell of what he was then. We do not talk much of him, only on the fringes of conversation on times past, mostly even that only by association. In a way he is what has kept us apart. I know in many ways I am like him, that she's made deeply happy in a quiet special place to see those parts of him in me. I am the synthesis of a great tragic love, the brutal poignant tragedy Celia always attempts to capture in her poetic words of ancient worlds. I am becoming acclimated to my life here. It is new, though in some sense a recapitulation of previous episodes of the story of Celia and me. It's not just that we are in a different physical place, or a different temporal place in our lives. In a way I am waxing as she is waning. We are linear beings meeting on the mystic plains of destiny. Here we share reflections of each other in a set and setting we have never before experienced. The stark strangeness of reality is always amazing me. Celia likes everything to be in its very own place. In this particular onwardly rushing now, my place is here. My quest is to learn my roots and stalks and leaves and the many layers of love and history between Celia and me. I don't know why this is so important, so impelling, only that it is all that I am or can be right now. You know, that artistic temperament, making grand gestures from mundane fate. Yeah, Mama Celia, this is your time; but I am the legend of my own mind. Yet, we both know you love me for that grandiosity as much as any of my inherent traits. Aren't we a pair? Or with Pandora a trio -- the three-headed Goddess: Mother, Daughter, and wise old Cat. I feel I am doing your bidding, Goddess. I am truly becoming a woman, at last, cognizant of my place as inheritor of generations of women. We are each our own story, our own bright varicolored thread, and part of a greater tapestry. I suddenly feel like baking a cake. We never did have a proper birthday celebration. I hope I can find candles. Moon in Scorpio Taking advantage of the sunshine, we took a drive out to the country by Marie's farm. After Helen sold it, went off to Europe and another life with Marie's ashes and assets, it was turned into a private primary school. The kids get to grow gardens and other hands-on learning projects -- very progressive. I probably would have liked school if I could have gone there. Who knows what might have become of me? Then, as now, we were not allowed on the grounds. We stopped and looked at the place from the roadside. There was nothing of the old feelings about this high-priced school yard. After a few minutes of silence for what no longer is, I drove on, stopping at a roadside farm stand advertising organic produce and fresh-baked pies. I love October, the colors and smells and tastes of harvest. I love the crunchy orange and red leaves, that go so well with my hair. I still jump into leaf piles to feel the soft embrace to my feet and hear them snap, crackle, pop. Migrating birds are a marvel, in proud formation. Gaggles of geese land resplendent making ordinary parking lots into festivals of honking and flapping, then launching pads into resumed parades of flight. Celia and I enjoy our fresh organic pie, thermos of tea and packed sandwiches in a pile of leaves under a brilliant old tree, protected from the damp by our unsnapped rain ponchos brought for the occasion or in case of sudden rain. We laugh about silly old memories of other autumns. We did have fun together, many good times, in those bad old days of my childhood. Yeah, I admit it. A lot of those days weren't so bad. I wasn't deprived of love or laughter or warm memories. Everyone gets bad memories too. It's part of the package. We get rain and sun and clouds, starlight, moonlight, darkness. It's how we grow as creatures on a planet, part of the ecosystem of cycles and strategies. I don't know that every experience is meant specifically to teach necessary skills or give object lessons pertinent to some destiny. All those experiences do, though, add up to who we are. I hear people talk about trying to reconcile their god of love allowing tragedies. It's not that the deities allow tragedies or injustices. It's that we are living out all the possibilities of life. When I was pregnant, I became cognizant that there were so very many variables that could go wrong in the creating of a new being. Every step of the way there are dangers, bad possibilities. Everybody dies sometime, somehow. We all live with that sentence hanging over us. Look at Autumn, the season of pulling back in after harvest in preparation for Winter's fallow time, hibernation, time for tall tales and the creation of art from the world of imagination while the real world appears dead and cold. In less seasonal climes there must be other metaphors. The still living eat and survive off the dead, though usually of other species. The point is, we are meant to experience the whole story -- not just the nice bits. Not because we are evil or have evil gods, but because the whole story is what we are meant to learn from, as a species, as individuals, as above so below. The pattern is dark and light, multi-colored, multi-textured. Would we want endless days of sunshine, gentle breezes, moderate temperatures, milk and honey flowing freely without kicking cows or stinging bees? Maybe. But what would be the point? Blah, blah, blah, la de dah, no drama, no heart-racing fear, no mystery or dark delicious thrills? Maybe this is why straight and narrow namby-pamby Christians call us evil, because we are willing to embrace the whole enchilada, the fiery spice along with the meat and corn. I was never raised by Christians, though those who raised me were. Who would I have been after Church and Sunday School, the daily admonishment of my sins? Celia has been so unloved, unadmired, unhonored, unfairly. I am glad to learn this lesson while I have the chance to apply it. The Goddesses who watch over me are wise old teachers. They do not deny or denigrate the darkness. That does not make them evil; it gives me the chance to learn to be wise. If it were not so cloudy this evening I might see the crescent Moon. Each month she reminds us that darkness gives way to light. In all the vast dark universe, countless stars burn brightly. There is so very much I have yet to learn. How does that poem go: "I am a child of the universe. I am meant to be." Moon in Sagittarius Uncharacteristically, I don't want to talk to strangers. There's too much background to fill in for even the simple pleasantries. Besides, I feel some kind of sacred loyalty or bonding that I need to immerse in, exclusively psychically relating to Celia and our little space-time bubble. We are unplugged from most of the constant media onslaught. What does impinge, we pretty much ignore as if that world is from another place and time. I exchange emails with Tom and some other friends. We keep it personal. This is a time for only intimacy. Small talk, small concerns, won't do. There is a park near my mother's home, an easy walk. It isn't huge, but large enough to find areas thick with trees and wild growth allowing the illusion of a natural environment. I go there at odd hours, when I am unlikely to encounter picnickers or children at play. I can run and stomp and open my lungs, feel free. Other times Celia and I walk here together. She is still able to get around pretty well, though she tires easily. I insist it's important that she get outside, move about, take walks and breathe in greenery. She laughs at my demanding, but enjoys the fussing over attention and walking in the park. Even on rainy days, protected by our plastic hooded ponchos and galoshes, we fall into the magic fantasies evoked by puddles filled with layers of muddied colored leaves and ubiquitous odors of life -- Earth and Sky. Celia has neglected to get to know her neighbors since she moved here. At first she spent most of her time at work or socializing with her work companions. At home she was happy to engage with her routine and personal projects. Once she gave up on her job, she didn't want to deal with getting to know strangers. She even let her work-based relationships lapse. She is withdrawing from this world, not opening to it. She can be so self-sufficient and reserved. The neighbors, out of respect or fear or more likely indifference, don't pry, don't stop by or stop her on the street to chat. There is no hostility. It's more everyone keeping to their own space, their own concerns, the relationships or chatting companions with whom they are comfortable. Even the old couple that lives downstairs act as if our homes were separated by more than floor to ceiling. We are in our separate spaces, separate lives, with those who do not need to be filled in on background. It is almost as if we, my mother and I, were encapsulated in a bubble world that we have created for ourselves to open up within, privately, to each other, because that is where our attention and awareness are fixed, fixated. We do create our own realities, each individually, then in tandem, moving outward or holding inward as far as we choose. On the streets, in public, in the marketplace, people engage with masks, superficially, smiling briefly to signal non-aggression, avoiding any extended meeting of eyes. It's what's polite. Politic, as in the personal is political. There is that constant outside of consciousness masking against everyone we encounter, posturing, adjusting masks to remain safely unseen. Then, tragically often we merely readjust those masks in our private encounters, jockeying for position perhaps or testing to see what we can gain while preventing loss. Politics and economics rule the social scene, in the large and the small. On the rare occasions, the miraculous meetings of minds and souls when we do feel free to really be with another real being, becoming aware of our usually unconscious masking can be painful, or at least an uncomfortable irritant in contrast to the exuberant authenticity. Breathing green air, filtered by vegetation, or car-fumed and factory enhanced air encouraging lungs to mask in hope of filtering out toxic impurities, what do we choose? The buzz is the world is going to hell in a handbasket. Who agreed to that world? Who is selling the handbaskets, and who is buying them? Who is defining Hell? Moon in Capricorn A child who was never meant to be. Ten years ago today my son was born and died. Many years before it was around this time that my father left and changed my life. Yet still I love October. It is not the season's fault that people leave. People leave, one way or another, all the time, in all the seasons of life. People die. That's the greatest leaving, most permanent and profound. People go off to live out other lives. Sometimes they even stay right there, but lose interest or otherwise change or psychologically move on. I change. I leave places and people and priorities. People who have meant so much to me, have been my center for a time, change in my mind as I form new relationships with myself and others. Converging with some significant other, then growing apart, the frame changes. All these leavings, leaves falling, becoming particles over time mingling into rich earth for seeds to grow in. I tried again to talk Celia into contacting Danny, or letting me. She doesn't want to go there. She feels, thinks, rationalizes, that she has made her peace with what they had. She doesn't want drama, or, I think, to take the chance that he won't come, that this will be a final humiliation and renewal of pain. The kids, my half-siblings, are pretty much grown. He must have gotten well fed up with Gwen by now. That's probably my fantasizing, though, not fair to make Celia pay the price of my desire for a happy ending of sorts. More rationally, what good would it do Danny to come back here to watch her leave him, profoundly and permanently? Maybe it is what he deserves. Do I get to judge that beyond my private fantasy? We can't decide other people's lives, rearrange them to suit our sense of balance or aesthetics. That way lies madness. People will do what they do for their own, no matter how illogical or self-defeating, reasons. Look at how I allowed Mark to take over my life. Yeah, I was pathetically young and stupid, but I had known something about integrity, personal responsibility, insistence on self-expression. I know, I wanted to lord it over those high and mighty high school rubes that I was the ultra-sophisticated rebel lover of an older and extraordinary man. He was married, an artist, a maverick iconoclast, more than they could ever be or attract. Now I know, looking back cringing, what a low-life worm and psychotic waste he really was. I may have fooled myself that we had this intense wonderful passionate love affair. Looking back, it was never about love. I had no clue what that word translated to beyond lust and excitement. What I loved was the emotional high of flirtation with danger, consummated by turning over my life to a crazy roller-coaster ride of vicarious insanity or folie a deux. Celia didn't even try to control me. I was in no condition to be controlled. She did attempt to get me to see what I was doing. When sarcasm and simple truth didn't sway me, she muttered dire predictions interspersed with wishing me well, assuring me I would come to my senses, and offering safe harbor when that would become necessary. I, of course, wild know it all teen, ignored it all as calcified ignorance, even obstructionism against my superior instinct. She was no woman to be lecturing me on love having made such a mess of it for herself. Celia and Danny met in college where he was a well-admired established star amongst the counter-culture crowd, and she was a studious mouselike scholarship nerd, admiring from afar. The Spring he came back, well into the semester, after his mother had died, he was too subdued, melancholy, no longer entertaining to his adoring fans. Celia no longer worshipped from afar. She loved up close and personal, giving him what he needed at a crucial time of transformation. They clicked, each having what the other needed to be whole. Neither Mark nor I had the basis to make anything whole. We couldn't even make a child who could survive as a separate life. I don't blame him. I don't blame me anymore. I don't really blame Danny anymore, or Celia, for not staying whole together. It's not about who is right or wrong. We make connections that seem to be inevitable at the time, because they are. Then times change. We change. Life changes us, each according to our own inclinations. While we are connecting, in that sacred space of commonality, we are given opportunities to incorporate an expanding vocabulary, a more intricate map of the territory of life. Yeah, spinning out philosophisizing. What I feel is so much more than I seem able to say. The sweet clear air of October evokes such poignancy. To every season so much life attaches. Leaves of scribbled pages mellowing; words constantly recycling as their underlying meanings deepen with age. Moon in Capricorn I know about that whole being in tune with the moment, resonating with the immediate confluence of energies. There are times when I am there. Briefly, of course. If that is the essence of our reality, where we belong, why isn't it the way we just naturally are? Why is that nirvana place so hard to maintain? Is it that we are denying our true natures, living in a manufactured environment out of touch, out of balance with nature? Aren't we natural beings no matter where we live, how we relate to the rest of nature? Why does human life seem so often so difficult to navigate? Steering by the stars, the planets, the celestial compass, we tend to get hung up on prognostication or fighting against fate. Each moment is a special sacred seed which, if we were wise, we would see in all its intricate glory, interweaving moments and being and meaning to breathe in and assimilate. I can see the structure in my inner eye, even dance it, touch its lines and textures with a metaphoric tongue. Yet here I am, just me in my circumstances, mind body and awareness intermixed waiting for my cues to speak lines, perform actions, as if spontaneously improvising in response to each challenge. This is where my mind goes when I need comforting stories, soul-embracing philosophy to counter the anxiety, the memories of pain that snap me up as if past and present have no separation of domain. It's times like these that a good long run or twirling entrancing dance can give the reigns to body over mind releasing trapped energy, critically amassing emotion. I have been having disturbing dreams of secret ceremonies, treacherous icy journeys to sacred caves where tribal fires burn and savage brutal initiations merge into orgiastic ecstasies. Steep mountain roads buried in mushy ice eerily lit blue and gray, iridescent, twist and turn on and on. When I wake I feel more ghostlike than alive for a long while before imperceptibly the real day takes precedence. When I told Celia about these dreams, she seemed to recognize my imagery. She said we had spoken of such dreams before, when I was detoxing from the drugs I had learned to rely on in my flailing away from the pain my life had come to represent for me all those years ago. I had been so impulsive then, blindly running off in some desperate or defiant attempt to rewrite myself, redefine my life, lose my old experience by wrapping and ribboning in the new. As we talked, she acknowledged dreams of her own that disturbed her. Dreams of falling while attempting to fly, ever more deeply into a dark abyss decorated with purple glowing hieroglyphics; a train whistle and the clicking of metal over tracks sounded from below. So often dreams disappear upon awakening as if ice melting in the sunshine or rain. Then there are the images that stay, stark or wistfully lovely or eerily haunting. Sometimes they linger for years, popping into view without bidding, a hyper reality not to be denied, though we do try to brush them off as mere symbols without substance. We awaken into life after birth trying to make sense of sensory input, of language and behaviors presented by those who seem to know how to be. The more we think we figure out, the more there seems to be that doesn't fit our hypotheses or impertinently mocks what we thought we had been told by those who know. Do you have these confusions, purring Pandora, making a game out of pouncing on my pen as I write? Are these human concerns or do we too arrogantly and ignorantly dismiss the experiencings of other species? There may well be no point to any of it at all, just electrical storms of the brain based on some kind of atmospheric chain reaction. Or maybe it's all some mass-hypnotic dream no more real than "reality tv". Moon in Aquarius Goddess, my higher self, that intuition place where all the electricity of my brain comes together inspiring, making sense, that's what we have. People leave. No matter how tight the bond, no matter that they encourage me to depend on them, make promises outright and implied, they leave even if against their choice or desire. Celia was always my one constant, though I may have ignored her in favor of any shinier object, ignored my need for her as a solid background to whatever foreground I was playing out. Certainly everyone else left, each in their own manner and time. I tried to blame her for losses she shared, did not cause. I wanted to blame someone who wasn't me. Yet now it is so clear that I wasn't to blame, nor was she. She is not to blame now either, as she is in process of leaving. For this most profound leaving, at least we are taking the time to prepare, to really have each other consciously while we can. I am given the time to learn that my only lifelong companion, the only human I can always depend on, is me. I think Celia had to learn that early on. Still, she kept trying to deny that painful, lonely truth. She tried to believe in Danny and me, maybe others, maybe even her mom and dad and sisters, cousins, neighbors, teachers, whoever came along offering connection. There are connections and connections. It's not that we are cursed to be always and forever alone. Rather, we are cursed to love and lose and be left lonely, often, over and over again. It's not about blame. There is no blame. I don't now what it is about, if it is about. One day here we are suddenly conscious of things and people around us. In inchoate attempt to make some kind of sense of sensory impressions, of fears and attractions, of the familiar emerging from the chaos, we reach out for connections. We assemble our software routines mimicking those to whom we feel relationship. We learn to want to be liked, to elicit pleasurable attention, to string together definitions in response to the responses to our actions. Even when we are feeling anti-social, we are fundamentally social beings. Yet cruel experience also makes us learn that connection leads to loss of connection and painful emptiness where once was shared wholeness. I mean, what's that about? Is it to learn self-reliance, or spiritual reliance, or is it about lies we tell ourselves to pretend we are not ultimately, irrevocably, vulnerable, mortal, on our own? Without illusions this world of often hostile others is a very scary place. Historically people are always being betrayed, tortured and horribly murdered or enslaved, forced into untenable choices, starved or otherwise left without necessary sustenance for no good reason, made pawns against their will without consent, just because here we are and this is the game we're playing now. What's that about? Getting born just to be tortured and ill-treated to death in a variety of degrees, condemned by circumstances over which you have no power, control, say; under which you are never even noticed. Maybe it is some kind of tapestry or mural or vey long and complicated play in which we each have our part, however short or brutal, or gifted. Maybe it's randomly firing neurons telling us lies. Maybe I am really alone and omnipresent making it all up as I go along for entertainment, a song running through some infinite mind. At least I do manage to entertain myself quite well with all these imaginings, questions, interpreted sensations. If I am my own little emissary of the infinite, how would I order my universe if offered the architectural assignment? Would I do it differently from what I perceive as the world I've been given or born into? If it were all perfect from the start, would there be a point? Moon in Pisces I took a long walk tonight while Celia snoozed, curled up with Pandora on the couch, woman below, cat above the warm earth-toned afghan. They looked relaxed, peaceful, while I was feeling anything but. The night was comforting, foggy, brisk but far from cold. I felt secure in my old trenchcoat. Celia, sentimentally, packed up what I had left behind when she moved. Now I have my ancient wardrobe to pick out those special garments imbued with emotional attachment, or those in which I refind aesthetic delight. I've always found walking a solitary pleasure. It is akin to dance when the rhythm takes over the body and mind and senses are left free to roam wild. My mind clears marvelously. The sensual delight of autumn fog encourages fantasies, as if I need encouragement. Streetlights through the fog give off that twinkly glow. A cat, black in the darkness, skittering across my path can send little waves of shivers through me, portent potential. I am not used to this kind of solitude lately. It reminds me of someone I have been. When I was alone on the streets of a strange city, or even as it became more familiar, I spent many nights walking with nowhere to go, no home base I could rely on for safe repose. Yeah, I did often find warm bodies, even ones with challenging, subtle, enlivening minds, inviting me for a night or a time, however long it might work out, to their safe havens, to their beds. It's not like I was a pro, or that I was taking or taken advantage of. We enjoyed each other for the time we were together, then amicably went on. I still have valued friendships with many of the people I originally met as pick-ups, in bars or parties or striking up conversations on the street. (As opposed to those I never want to see again.) There was mutual respect, safe sex, pleasurable feelings, and a safe haven for a short time in which to reflect before moving onward. Here I am with a different kind of safe haven relationship. Social economy is the real deal. Money may be the coin of the realm, means of exchange among strangers. Like bureaucracy and other formalities it is a means of protection from intimacy, from real human engagement. In that world of day to day connection that officialdom apparently tries to deny, we do take care of each other for personal reasons. Despite capitalistic rhetoric, life is more often about illogical emotional pull than well thought out balancing of profit and loss. There are probably plenty of petty squabbles that would negate the equal sharing of communist philosophy as well. The best laid plans need to include the realities of human foibles, or not foibles, just unreasoned humanity. The Moon is getting fuller. Energy is rising. I saw Her light outside the window before the fog set in. They say water will soon be in short supply. But we live on a planet more water than land, and the icecaps are melting. Floods, tsunamis, water water everywhere, but ineligible to drink? How long has our species dealt with the changing conditions of our planet? How long before we find, invent the means to move on to other planets if this one no longer serves our needs? Isn't adaptability supposed to be our superpower? Desert creatures know where to find water in places no one else would think to look. The sky is falling. The sea is rising. The air is encumbered by industrial pollutants. It's always something, many things, convergences of influences opposing even the best laid plans. Unobstructed by preconceptions, cleared by fresh air and rhythmic motion, let's see what we can do. Or not. Earth turns without our input. Moon in Pisces We develop over our life's time, no matter how long or short, knowledge of how to be ourselves within our circumstances. What happens to those hard won insights when we have died? Even if we were artists, leaving behind the corpus of self-expression, what happens to all that experience carved into our bodies and minds? Does it all dissolve, as if it never happened? Is there some depository of psychic awareness, a pool of accumulated wisdom, where the initiated go for consultation and renewal? Is this how we gain insight in trance, tuning in to that collective energy? In my early barely pubescent teens, playing with witchcraft, I tried to tune in to my Aunt Marie's spirit, she who had been so influential in my understanding of the spiritual. She, her after energy, never said a word that I was aware of as being her. Maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe in the afterlife pool of energy individuality is no longer maintained. Though there are plenty of people who claim more direct communication with individual ghosts, of those they knew in life and those only met after their passing into some liminal nonphysical state. Celia believes when she dies there will be nothing left of her but her physical remains. She has arranged to have even that burnt to ash. Marie was also cremated. Her ashes were given to her long-time significant other, Helen, who had a potter friend create a discreet but beautiful urn for Marie's remains' safe-keeping through Helen's travels. Celia would like her ashes scattered someplace beautiful of my choosing. I can remember her in some private special setting instead of a cemetery plot public and impersonal among the crowd of tombstones. Maybe like the Dalai Lama we all reincarnate. The new children with our souls who would be attracted to our old possessions, have traces of our memories, are never searched out and identified. Our new forms are never discovered. Memory traces fade into vague deconstructed dreams. We are surprised, perhaps, along the way to feel such strong attraction to objects, ideas, people, pets, previously unknown yet somehow known forever. That may well be. Here and now, though, I am simply me, my accumulation of experiences, attractions, fantasies, inchoate yearnings. Whether any of these are carry-overs from previous incarnations makes no difference in the here and now. It would only matter if, like the Dalai Lama, others were searching me out to find that soul knowledge from the past. If it's like that Hindu thing of karma based incarnation, ascending or descending along the scale of lifeforms based on past-life behavior, housecats seem far superior to humans as a reward for good conduct. Were you some brave and beneficent hero in your previous days, dear Pandora? Do you deserve your pampering and regal independence as payment for keeping your karma clean? Had I best attend to improving my ways or risk return as some crippled, ugly, unwanted beast? Or do we do that to ourselves in real time by denying our true good fortune because it wasn't the fortune we thought we were seeking? I wonder what became of Aunt Helen. She was an artist, a painter, rather ethereal in manner, always caught up in her project of the moment, more there than in the room with the people she really did love and enjoy. Without Marie's loving emotional support, she went off to Europe ostensibly to join in the kind of bohemian community where she belonged, could find inspiration and audience. I've never heard of her since, nor seen any of her work online, where today everyone seems to converge. Maybe she just never connected with the 'net, preferring to stay in her old ways, comfortable because familiar. She wouldn't need to make a name for herself to pay her way. Marie, several years the older of the two, made sure Helen would be materially cared for should she outlive her. Helen had been not much more than a street kid artist in bohemian Greenwich Village, New York, when she and Marie met. The story is they met in some dyke bar in the Village on a cold night back in the late 60s. By the time I knew them, they had been together forever, and still obviously entwined. It was beautiful, their unconscious graceful dance, sentimental, endearing. From all accounts, Marie was a shrewd investor, like her maternal grandfather, my great grandfather whom I have only known through Marie's stories. She was his favorite grandchild, the only one who had lived with him and her grandmother. They had raised her for several years until she was commanded to her mother's side to help out with her brothers. Granddad Fitzpatrick left his favorite descendent a decent material legacy from which to start her own investing. I don't know how she would be doing in this crazy world today, but probably she would be fine. She was quite conservative in many ways, despite her decidedly counter-culture lifestyle. She would not have gone for hare-brained financial schemes or underhanded practices. She was more of the do well by doing good socially conscious investment sort. She kept up the farm, Lady Bountiful to all the crazy artists who stayed there for their chosen times. Celia, independent as she was, did accept Marie's bounty for the time she and Danny, and for the first year or so of my life, I lived there. Later, Celia dutifully paid off the mortgage that Marie privately financed for our house over all the years until Marie forgave the balance in her Will. Celia's third-generation American working class background, Danny's part patrician, part Southern military traditions, I only got the fall-out and the DNA. Ain't that America in the 21st century, mongrel traditions and heredity. Yet here we are, each our individual answers to all those variables. Each unique coming together of all that past into now, collectively creating what will be. So, if this is the bright, shiny future, where are the flying cars and federation of planets we promised us? Moon in Aries Celia made clear that she wanted us to exchange, be open to expressing, all the mixed and hidden feelings, everything that we had to be said, to be worked out or given voice. I remember, with chagrin, how easy it was for me to make such awful denigrating snotty remarks, such an angry child. Of course, well, no, not of course, she deserves real credit for her understanding. She did know when I did not that it was not really about my feelings for her. I was pretty snotty generally to those oh so dismissing while tormenting neighbors and schoolmates. But for Celia I had special venom that they would never have been able to appreciate. Now I apologize, deeply and sincerely, but Celia is not looking for such apology. She is interested in that deep, complex person underlying the crap that I was too inexperienced back then to access or understand. She tells me, coming out in random spirals of thought and conversation, narrative bundles from her memories as they come to the surface, as if recording into my ears, my mind, lessons she is codifying into language. I learn I was right about Grandpa Tony's swinish behavior in her quietly bitter condemnations, spitting out her long silently held venom. I realize as I hadn't as a child the great love, admiration and gratitude she felt toward Marie for all those little and big kindnesses Celia did not feel deserving of. I learn, though to a large degree I always knew, how grateful for and dependent on Danny's love and recognition of her she still is. It hasn't been an easy life for her, or even a fulfilling one. There are so many people and situations she is grateful for that have passed into long-term memory, of which her gratitude and happy remembrances are all she now has. I tell her I am grateful for having her in my life, that I realize how much she has always meant to me even if I spent far too long denying those feelings, burying them in resentments that I know now really belonged elsewhere. Somewhere in all the dredging up of memories, sharing and forgiving, confessions of feelings, excavations of embarrassments and mistakes, it occurred to me, I remembered wondering. "Why didn't you leave, even after Marie died and the house was free and clear to sell? Why did we stay all those years in that neighborhood where we clearly did not belong. I know you could always pass well enough in that superficially friendly way, but you didn't feel a part of that community. You knew how they ragged on me, how miserable I was. Even if I was taking out on you my frustrations from the malicious behavior of others who wouldn't accept me, why didn't you take us somewhere we would better fit in? By then you had been at your job long enough to be well valued, several times promoted. You had the credentials to find a good job somewhere else. Or, we could have found a better neighborhood for us somewhere within commuting distance. Was it because you had your memories, maybe fantasies, about your life with Danny there?" She said she thought that was probably part of it, but had a hard time explaining what I suddenly realized. Really it never occurred to Celia to move because she was so used to making do, to tuning out of unpleasant circumstances into her own private world of ideas, of motion, of routine and attending to the details. She never expected the going to be easy, the neighbors to be supportive, the people in her life to acknowledge her worth or meet her halfway. That was part of what she was so grateful about with Danny, who had really loved, respected, admired, believed in Celia, unlike anyone else in her life. If you only ever get that one real relationship, of course there is no substitution, replacement. If you never expected that sort of connection to happen, if it does it must seem like an irreplaceable miracle. Amazing, after all this time I am seeing my life from these very different views. The information was always with me, but it was differently arranged, stuck in other boxes where I had thought it neatly stored for easy access, simplistic interpretations by for and all about me. The definition of me keeps expanding while I let it. Here, in this special confined yet unrestricted place and time connections are realigning in my mind as I newly connect with the one person outside myself I have known all my life. I am reforming into someone I am getting to know better. We are two someone's getting to know ourselves and each other better, more expansively, more deeply and lovingly. I can now allow myself to know, Celia, how honored I am to have you so much a part of my life, and to feel the joy and pride of our connection as I get to share this time, these feelings, this expressing, with you. Moon in Gemini I admit I am a big picture kind of gal. I lose the trees in that magnificent forest. I say, let the Devil have the details; I want to revel in the grand plan. Celia likes order. I enjoy the thrill of chaos. Though I do understand the need for some kind of order, framing, limitations, to be able to make sense of the picture at all. I do go back over the history to make salient connections, divine the pattern. In my analyses, I also understand the need to allow room for the patterns to shift, to open to less obvious possible connections, to reframe, refocus, move boundaries when they get in the way of progress or collaboration. A permeable box of flexible, stretchy material able to cross dimensions without reticence is my model. Permeable, transparent, barely a box at all, yet with enough integrity to keep disparate definitions in useful dynamic tension appropriate to concrete concepts, communication, building creatively inviting structures on reliable, if often unorthodox, foundations, I spin out metaphorically while keeping contact with a securing base. Society may apply definitions of psychosis to minor deviations from what everybody knows, everybody does. Such defining really says nothing beyond "us" and "them" -- the perennial disconnect. Psychosis, being lost in a world one has made without sufficient lifeline to the common world to function, is a different proposition. I joke, ironically as befits my sense of humor, about my psychotic disassociations from the norm. Yet, I clearly see the norm and choose to disagree. This is not the situation of my unfortunate brethren? fellows? is there a unisex word for this? co-humans? who become identified as mentally ill, sucked through the system that denies their internal experience and insists "conform or you are in essence dead to us." There are social constructs that still insist homosexuality, attraction to those we say aren't in the allowable pool of attractants, is a mental illness. Yet now we have a huge demographic and movement saying Gay is good. I see no logical or philosophical problem with accepting each individual's self-experience as valid. Take people where you find them, where they are, and work from there to discover commonalities on which to base communication. Yeah, it's like bureaucracy and money -- we don't want to communicate. We want to upstage in our power games, use any articulable difference as a vulnerability to exploit. We who write the book make the rules. You didn't read the book? That just compounds your criminality. Off with your head; away with your freedom to be you. Millions of people incarcerated for the daring crimes of unsanctioned self-expression. No, you "conservatives" practiced in the art of doublespeak, I don't mean we must not protect ourselves from violent opposition, "terrorism," street crime. I mean that a sane society keeps its definition of the criminal to the sensible bounds of minimizing violent conflict and unwarranted destruction. Just who are the terrorists when people's lives are commonly violated, their freedom denied for all kinds of petty disagreements with the holy sanctified social norm? To my mind, law ought to protect the people from the government, or protect people from each other, not protect the government from the people or people from ourselves. Ideally law enforcement acts as a champion to help defend the less powerful from those who would harmfully overpower them. The Koran never insisted on veiling or denigrating women. My understanding is that Mohammed believed in social equality. His message from Allah was about building equitable community, bringing His people together under rational laws for their interactive benefit. Likewise, Christ was not homophobic or hierarchical by gender or monetary wealth. I don't know why the self-called pious make up these rules, except their obvious will to power over. Why can't we uppity female polytheistic self-determination types find our own will to power and make our own rules that put us in charge? First order of business: send those holier-than-thou propagandists out on the streets naked for our delight and ridicule. Then give them some comfortable clothing, nutritious soup and organize them into a game of charades. While they are thus occupied, we'll free the political prisoners and enjoy a rousing celebration. Moon in Leo My Samhain pieces are emailed out and I realize I won't be home for the holy day. Then I realize I am home. This is my home for now. It's not like there is another place on this planet that is mine, where I live now. Places and people I think of as mine, feel as home, are living out other lives, apart from mine, except for Celia, and Pandora so real and now nuzzling at my hand. Celia sees Danny that way, as an archetypal figure representing a home solid only in her imagination after all these years. After only a month of physical absence, I am still solidly connected to Tom. We stay in virtual presence to each other. We are present tense, sharing separate lives. Celia and I intertwine our immediate presence. I imagine a future of absence intensifying the value of immediacy, of now. Time is money in a very real, even mathematical sense. What do we as the working class exchange for money? Skills and labor, but these are not diminished. We may even expand our skills through experience. What is irrevocably lost is our time. Still we profligately spend our time even less consciously than we spend our hard earned cash. It all kind of falls through our hands as we tumble on. Those trying to be wise say in the end it's relationships that matter. And we let those tumble along as well. Maybe it's none of that stuff that really matters. Maybe it's the whole package, the panorama, the eternally evolving gestalt of which time, money, people are but random elements thrown together into abstract patterns from which we can take (or to which we can give) the meanings we find comforting. The season some of us associate with thoughts and ceremonies of death and veiled transitions is upon us. In community in ritual we gain strength to look deeply into our own feelings, fears, questions, chills and thrills and long held social ills, all the human thrashing about working out our relationships with that beyond our bright and shiny business as usual facades. It shouldn't be so complicated to be human. The other creatures seem to have this life thing down much more simply and concretely. We've got to build up taboos and guilts and psychosomatic hysterias. Beyond that old corny story of the insecure would-be lovers afraid to admit their feelings wasting their lives resentful and apart, eventually bitter, shriveled, unlovable, beyond that personal tragedy, how might we feel to realize after lifetimes of loneliness, anger, pain, that we were holding ourselves apart from those who might have been the salvation we had yearned for yet made ourselves believe could not exist. In some of my psychic spaces I miss Celia already. There are still those spaces in long-term memory where I have missed what we might have shared if not for foolish blockages of my self-devising. I have heard that pain is a signal caused by blocked energy, building up, cutting off the free flow that promotes health and serenity. The blockages are mistakes. They may have been meant to protect injuries or weaknesses, but they have gone too far, stayed too long, gotten in the way of healing. It often appears in this sexually repressed and therefore sexually obsessed society, part and implicate of the insanity of this social here and now, intimacy is about sex, love is about sex, romance is a polite word for sex. It is forgotten that sex isn't about sex. It is about life, biology, messy intricacies of organic fluids, consciousness and chemistry, all the mysteries that combine as manifestation. Rationalists talk about magical thinking as if nursery superstition. Denying magic is fraught with risk of missing the essential in favor of manmade myths of mathematics. The map, the territory, the now, all grappling with narratives of authorities, could be simply moving naturally as butterfly wings sitting upon this and that attractive petal. Is it any better for those who mindlessly do what is codified as right, letting guilt for any transgressions of behavior or thought suck them dry? Apparently for all my open-to-loving faith, I am not truly loving of humankind. My deep-seated anger seethes as viciously as any. I have learned the folly of making myself the target, or my loved ones. The anger is for the stupid tragedy. It takes up so much time, energy, mindspace, lives and treasures. If we let the spirits from across the veil tell us their stories, show us their wounds, if we really took the sacred time out of time to listen and completely feel what they tell us, would we transform? Would we take in the spirit wisdom and see a saner path? Do we culturally fear the angry spirits of the night because they mirror our hidden knowledge of the waste we make of our lives, twisted spending of our time. We forget the value of our greatest assets. Those among us who are wise didn't get that way from having an easy life handed to them. They suffered, and learned to find meaning in those experiences. Blessed with a life skewed to discovering treasure in the muck and mire, if they would persevere beyond despair, they are human diamonds, human pearls, gems, invaluable, exquisite beauty created out of otherwise unbearable pain and yearning. Moon in Virgo The chill in the air has become pronounced. I dig out and launder sweaters, long underwear for Celia's and my daily walks in the park. Gold and red leaves, colors becoming muddied on the trees, ever more of them drift along the ground. Early morning walks are met by frost and lingering darkness. Darkness encroaches earlier on the day. Spooky sparsely leaved trees make an imprint against the faded light, chill and blowing a mournful tune. We are building a collage of junk mail circular images glued onto cardboard at the kitchen table in lieu of travel. Celia is comforted by her familiar routines and surroundings; she enjoys playing this game of fantasy, like putting on a play without fuss or break in spontaneity. I also enjoy the simulated adventures, the sense of possibilities. Tom misses us, wants me to come home. Mom wants me to stay in this home we are building, our fantasy bubble where she feels safe, able to express what is left in her that demands sharing. I told Tom I will return to him in the Spring. Meanwhile we can play at building our winter fantasies, apart but shared. It is a different kind of intimacy, exploring alternative forms of language, of touching, discovering, with other kinds of senses. He is not happy about our separation, but is intrigued enough to give this game a chance to enthrall -- because we both believe in magic. Good magic work requires discipline and will, and excellent skills of metaphoric translation, transformation through psychic manipulation of subtle energies. The journeyman wizard in Tom appreciates the challenge. The timeless romantic imp in me enjoys the adventure of our game. Isn't that what life so excellently can be, a romantic adventure, much more than a game of chance -- a game of chances to fly or drive or quietly walk through charming wonderland hand in hand with wild laughing love. I watch Celia across the room, stoic and cheerful, that intense underlying sadness acting as a restful foundation, where she has made her peace with disappointment and stale dreams. This place is filled with the products of her busy hands, beautiful needlework furnishings for human comfort, luscious growing green and flowering plants, some bearing fruit or savory herbal spices. Her self-contained world expresses her natural beauty. I understand her need to share, to be led by my acceptance into opening further to herself. I understand that she is wise, that I can be humbled and encouraged by her wisdom. These are lessons out of the everyday, yet lessons we can find everyday, any day, if we will to learn. Wise magic power is not about power over; it can be even more meaningful as power with intimate others. We exchange, merge, grow. Love, beauty, wisdom the will to magical life, isn't that enough of a glorious game to engage with? Why all the petty bickerings and mean spirits? Is it that people think we are owed treasure we do not create together? Is the accepted myth of an omniscient dispenser of largess dividing us, each attempting to sacrifice the rest to find favor? Are these traps of DNA or cultural legend learned survival strategies? Are they a darker and far more clouded kind of magic? Moon in Libra Rain, wind, I almost expect to see spectral faces briefly glaring against the windowpane. It is an intense season. More violins than percussion in the mix as I hear it tonight. The weeping oboe more than the screeching saxophone, strains of late night heavy blues on keyboard, and of course that bass fiddle, that deeply booming bass. Scorpio is a season I can feel gripping tingling through my guts. I think Nietzsche was a Scorpio -- all about that inheld power so intense that only the starkest expression will do. Scorpios look realer than real to me. It's as if they are fully three dimensional in a two dimensional world. Tom is so completely Scorpio. He thrills me with mere memory, the thought of his name. He is so very there, so intensely present. While I fly hither and yon, he is my staunch fixed point. He is the exhilaration of the wild storm and my secure harbor. Beauty and Beast, the fulfilled fairytale reveals me to be the enrapt child laughing and clapping in awe and enthrallment. Yet I have exiled myself from my soul's safe home. I am walking in the rain buffeted by angry winds and icy pellets, opening myself to helpless pain, even horror. How appropriate for the season of transformation through mortal trial. The snake of power coiled in my spine is not fooled by my blushing protestations. I have allowed myself to become an emotion junkie, leaping into the magnetic attraction of that which leaves me trembling but more alive. Thus am I Tom's equal and other self. We are a parrying of challenge and resolution, storm and harbor, at play. I am working on a birthday e-card poem to send him, looking through googled images, discovering a route to music through picture and words. It's all ultimately music. I feel it in my every movement, in all the ambient sounds and vibrations. Moving to the groove of the eternally mutating symphony, we could, if we were closely enough connected, dance ecstatically through it all. There are times when I feel that is exactly what I do. I have heard about people who believe sharing music can change and save the world. It does seem to be a basic value; but it can also divide us, like probably anything we can find to disagree on. How well will I get on with a friend who insists on a constant background of commercial country music or Italian opera, or any musical dialect I can't stand. Because I am so attuned to the vibrations, sound sequences I find unappetizing often give me actual symptoms of sickness, headaches at least. Yet there are plenty of otherwise seemingly fine people who actually prefer these to me horrid sequences of sound. I might reflect that I need to broaden my ear; but it's not just me. Music can be as divisive as any other means of expression. Souls are different. We are not all one. Or, if we are, it is a one of many disparate parts. Is there a music we can all agree on, all feel speaks within us, moves us to dance together, to join, joyfully, in song? Or are we divided by our separate drummers? We pagans dance around a sacred fire to bring our visions to magical fruition. People dance. People sing. People throughout the world, from earliest history, find ways to express musically. We must eat and eliminate the unacceptable of what we've eaten. We must breathe, in and out, the right mixture of elements. We must take in fluids and let excess fluids flow. We must find shelter from storms and predators and heat and cold. There are necessary conditions for the continuation of life as we know it. We seem to need music, an ethereal and ephemeral formulation. What else do we need to be healthy and whole that scientists have not unraveled? If humans are some amalgamation of animal and angel, or Earth spawn and alien, are there neglected necessities that keep us from our potential abilities? Is that why so many of us suffer and die early from illnesses that make no sense if we were engineered for survival? Is that why depression is rampant and anti-depressants so often exacerbate suicides? Something seems to be missing from a great many lives. Do creatures have analogous problems in the wild? If enough wilderness still exists to make that relevant, because such illness in wild creatures might well be due to encroaching civilization. When all that is left of the wild is an open zoo paid for by tourist dollars, what will have become of us? Or is that what we already are? I stroke the soft fur of my small, to me, feline companion, knowing we are both far from wild, yet atavistic enough to feel alive. Moon in Scorpio October snow on Tom's birthday away from me. How romantically poetic! Celia, Pandora and I, warm and cozy, drink luscious cocoa (well, not Pandora) and watch the early winter surprise. It's like a reprise of those special snow days when Celia's office and my school both closed, though the snow is nowhere near such conditions. In those days it was an unexpected holiday. What do they do for that special time in places where it doesn't snow? Monsoon or tornado days don't seem so peacefully picturesque. On a whim, I put on a Christmas music cd. Christmas, at least in America, is a secular celebration. No need to be Christian to get sentimental about these old tunes. I felt like a Hallmark card cozied up with Mom and Pandora wrapped in soft warm afghan smelling of childhood, with hot drinks, safe from the wintry world. We never went in for all the bright lights and decorations. We enjoyed the simple elegance and wonderful woodsy aroma of each year's fresh cut tree picked carefully from the tree farm. Once it became brittle and lifeless sometime in January, we would solemnly, carefully, burn the remains and thank the tree for its gracious visit. For an atheist, Celia has amazing awareness of the sacred, of the life-force of nature. She never cared for arrangements of picked flowers, but requires living flowering plants in her everyday ambiance. I sent Tom a commemorative collage of homemade poetry and borrowed pictures (because my attempts at drawing express nothing but my maladroitness), carefully arranged in an email message to express love, admiration, adoration. I know he will appreciate the gesture. He has told me he doesn't like fussing over his birthday because it usually is so contrived. I gather there was a lot of attention to form and little to substance in his home (or, rather, homes) when he was growing up. His parents travelled a lot and dumped Tom and his older brother Ty in boarding schools and camps, but sometimes brought the boys along if that was the current whim. Growing up rich is not necessarily as much fun as one might imagine. Through all that he somehow became a romantic and lover of substantive expression. He can be a severe, consummately fair critic of my work, of any artwork he notices. He fully acknowledges, appreciates, admires when it comes out right, when the art works, expresses exquisitely. So, no lazy good enough when the work is meant for him. I put in full concentration, focus, emotion, and practiced restraint. Capture the essence, make it sing as if angelic choir. Celia was happy to give me the concentration space, and to listen intently and respond with insight based on her wisdom and love as I bubbled over babbling about him and how well we fit. She is happy for my special extra glow, warmly encourages me to talk and talk in the way the presence of that glow turns my words into a magical litany. The ebullient wealth of my feelings shines in her sharing of my glow. What is wealth? I have no interest in wasting my time accumulating money. That doesn't mean I am not motivated to work. I am driven to work for the intrinsic values of the product and the work itself, to myself and my community. Given the opportunity, we seem to each have work that is intrinsic to our life. Jobs done with a passion, out of enlightened self-interest or fascination with the project or the pleasurable stretch of effort are jobs better done and lives better lived. Money has no intrinsic value at all. It is not an effective noun, but a verb, a symbol of action. It only gains value by being exchanged for valuable goods and services. The producers of goods and services are the nation's valuable assets. Money is a myth, a hypnotic suggestion used to enslave. The system gets fixed so people feel helpless to provide for our needs without selling out our lives for a monetary wage. Who do we think are those who provide these necessities? We could be doing even better work providing better lifestyle options, more fulfilling and comfortable lives, by turning our understanding and attitude in more self-loving and community appreciating directions. All those experts talking in self-defining convoluted language, sniping out their petty differences or insisting on their agreed upon models and theories, we allow them to make the frames as if they really were elite. Economics is simple, trade so we can each do our calling and have what we need to be healthy and productive. Sharing makes us all wealthier, not hoarding or enslaving. It's all a matter of what we invest our wealth in -- our time, talent, skill, energy, ideas, joy. I send you a wish wrapped in a deeply imagined kiss, dearly loved Tom, for many magical wonder-filled Solar Returns. I know nothing bought with money would possibly thrill you more. Moon in Sagittarius Celia takes folks as we are. It wouldn't make any sense to her to try to change us. We are going to be who we are. Ultimately practical, she works with what is. Marie was more of an idealist, highly critical if you were below her standards. She treated me like a princess, as did Danny. Celia treated me, treats me, like another human being, one she deeply loves and is aware of as independently aware. She knows how to pass, naturally falling into appropriate chit-chat, even mannerisms. She has long been practiced at blending in, almost part of the background. There must have been so much ugly tension in her childhood home, first with her dad's parents and sisters in the mix piling up against Celia as a package with her Mom. Then, when they had their own home, there was all that tension between her parents, Tony and Angie, who shared no genuine love or respect for each other. She learned to stay out of the way, a neutral bystander, ever pleasant and courteous, never a target for ire. Danny is a charmer, of everyone on whom he focuses that expansive smile. He can be loud and out of place in a lot of places even so. I tend to get carried away with my emotions and sense of self-important drama. Celia made us normal. In public people would see her as that nice lady. A nice lady with an eccentric family, but they must be alright because she is just like us. It was not her way to be judgmental, to demand that others fit a preconceived idea of what she thought they should be. Tonight she was genuinely solemnly joyous with me in the Samhain ceremony I improvised for us. Celia is well steeped in literature of ancient lore, philosophies, rituals, psycho-social manipulations before the advent of science as we know it now. We put together an altar of candles, safely separated from the dried leaves we had fortuitously gathered before the snow. We arranged bowls with leaves, smoldering herbs, salted water for the sea and tears, and sang incantations I had written earlier in the day. I had also found appropriate music on an internet radio station so we could fall under the spell of song, dance, smoky herbal aromas breathed in deeply, coalescing into potent personal ritual. We held hands moving slowly around the altar, gracefully flickering shadows of the candle flames. Moving closer together, we whirled hugging each to the other. I could feel her waning energy. Eventually we sat looking into the candlelight, silent, mutually aware, entranced in the subtleties of the moment. Celia needed to sleep. She sleeps still in short naps, but ever more frequently. I have time to think and feel uncomfortably, letting those uncomfortable thoughts and feelings do as they will, not imposing my will to turn them away. They say the veil is thin tonight between the worlds of consensual reality and spirit. If I let myself be off-guard, perhaps wise or lonely spirits will share tales or visions with me. It's not insanity if I label it a dream. Is it insanity, though, that is to be feared, or the bureaucracy seeming to be in the business of making life harder for those who have become overwhelmed by their own circumstances? Insanity might be fine, might be some entranceway into a more profound knowledge and way of being human if we labeled it in that direction. One person's or people's insanity might well be another's religious experience. I'm not realistically nonjudgmental like Celia. I expect people to be sane enough to make room for the spiritual insanity each of us may privately experience, to make room outside of that practical consensual reality for the spirit world to infuse through, expanding our definitions of normal human behaviors and relationships. "And ye harm none, do what ye will." So mote it be. I blow out the candles, look deeply into the darkness. Moon in Capricorn Danny often told me, during our infrequent conversations usually initiated by his drunken phone calls from whatever bar or party on his end, how much he still and always loves my mother. Like he is for her, Celia is Danny's one true soulmate. He explains plaintively, perhaps hoping for my absolution, he was no good for her. He excuses his weakness by embracing it. He was not cut out to be responsible, to settle down, to fit into an ordinary life as she seemed to need to feel secure. He may be little better than an indentured pet to Gwen, but she does know enough to let him wander on his short leash, to not make demands beyond simple rules, to keep him benignly distracted with new scenes and exciting people, fun, fun, fun for all her children while she basks in their attentive glow. She didn't take him away from us. She was his convenient excuse and meal ticket. I wonder, though, all those dramas, miscommunications, assumptions about what was important, even urgent, back then, how meaningful any of that has turned out to be. Neither of their lives apart were fulfilling or magical as their time together. Could they have found a better solution had they been thinking clearly without clouds of guilt and shame, perceived self-inadequacies? They could have created within their relationship byways for their separate paths, separate adventures, to then store in familial framework of their own making. Wanting differently, using different strategies, coming from different experiences does not mean working at cross purposes, does not necessitate contention or contradiction. Engaging with those of other perspectives and methods can give us all more to work with for more pervasively useful results. If we could start from a base of respect for ourselves and each other, with a true will to work out what we must so everyone's interests, needs, concerns are addressed, the results could well be so much better than ever anticipated. Expanding borders, making room for everyone involved, we can create better models, better blueprints, better structures, projects, lives. Privately, unilaterally, deciding based on individual weaknesses and fears you get bicoastal misery instead of mutually nurturing caring family, untraditional as it may turn out to be. Tradition has its place, which is not about getting in the way of the urgent now. Tradition is better as a practical garment that can be altered to fit than a one size fits all straitjacket. Celia wants to vote, no matter the lines. At least there's no snow in the forecast. I registered here once I knew I would be staying through the election. Celia did succeed in inculcating a sense of civic responsibility in me. She does not take her right to vote for granted. She informs herself about the issues and candidates, even for local elections. She's the one who told me that local elections are where democracy is most likely to be effective in everyday lives. All those little local decisions about the public services we use all the time are the outgrowth of local politics. The big national stuff is mostly out of the realm of real democracy. We elect people thinking they can do what no one really can, especially not government. People in this country act like there are only governmental services, policies, projects and profit-making businesses selling their products and services. Yeah, there is that private family and social life sphere where we do each other favors, help each other out voluntarily without legal coercion or profit motive. It seems to me that we forget the very important nongovernment, noncapitalist civil sphere. The old concept of the public square is a place where we meet not only as marketplace to buy and sell our wares or to exchange political harangues or make social connections. We come together as members of a civic community to work out solutions our perceived common problems, to indulge in civic pride with beautification projects and cultural opportunities. Community self-interest is best at providing enhanced educational programs and otherwise generally improving the conditions in which we all live together. It makes sense that if each little community were well loved and cared for by civic minded participants, the whole country would prosper. Celia has not had much in the way of community in that sense for most of her life. She keeps herself informed. She votes. On occasion she writes out her opinions on issues she has particular concerns about, sends letters to newspapers and political representatives. Her concern to make me aware of politics grew out of the more activist role she and Danny and their friends took in protesting anti-Vietnam, pro-Civil Rights, Women's Rights, Gay Rights, for all late 60s/early 70s era. I have a more educated understanding of the political structure and realities of this country than I see evidenced by most of public opinion. So many people screaming out on the airwaves, the internet, in public and private, show they have no idea of how this country's government is designed or meant to work. They just want laws to tell everyone to do or not do whatever their moral codes or economic prejudices assure them is the proper course. There is no talking to them rationally, no swaying them with facts, certainly not compassion. They know what they know; they're right. Anyone differing is wrong. In this sense I hate politics. I, as well as Celia, am so tired of the bickering around this election. I hate the shrieking cries of the wingnuts who refuse to see that one wing will never fly. To move forward as a nation, all wings, the whole of us, must move together, each doing our individual essential part. Moon in Pisces I've been sleeping so much more than usual, actively wanting to sleep. It's not physical tiredness, but a strong desire to dream. I get such beautiful vivid imagery in my dreams. Deeply personally meaningful jumbled vignettes of scenes, feelings, incredible camera shots no camera could capture because the images are all imagination, keep calling me back to play. Far from restful, these dreams give me intense work-outs. I am more then compensated for any lack of exercise in my more constrained waking life. This place isn't big enough to take much housework. Two adult women and an aging cat, all naturally clean creatures, don't require much cleaning up after. Long late night walks and romps in the park are not the same level of activity I had been used to in that more daily active life I had worked out for myself. My energy, motivated movement, exuberance, have been low, my agitation level on the rise. This is a generally contentious time of year, peace and goodwill be damned. Not only is the US holiday season secular, it is brutally consumption driven. It is the race to being in the black for businesses of many brands by the end of the year. Thus frantic anxiety abounds. Now that the election hysteria is fading, the holiday hysteria comes to the foreground. There always has to be something overwhelming our senses so mainstream America keeps pounding the treadmill without thought. Well, yeah, those busy brain cells are taken up with how will I juggle the bills to keep the credit flowing? What can I get away with getting for Aunt Sue or my obnoxious co-worker who makes such a big deal of these gift exchanges? The junk mail catalogs are pouring in, filled with glee and cheer as only models of over-priced gaiety can provide. Until the year my aunt died, Celia and I celebrated in high bohemian style with the crazy artists at the farm. It was a warm and witty fantasyland that I thought of as normal real life. That first Thanksgiving when Celia and I were confronted by our scant number, she did her best to inaugurate family tradition. Even a small turkey was obviously too much for our small family, just Mom, Persephone and our aging cat. Back then it was Mao, named by Danny before I can remember, in my (and Mao's) baby days, for the infamous Chinese leader. Mao was intent on keeping us in line. Big, black, loudly opinionated, he had a notably different temperament from sleek, sweet calico catpanion Pandora, who I see currently stretched out watching over sleeping Celia. Mao was still with Celia when I went off with Mark. He died in the Spring before I returned, while I was caught up in my to me astonishing pregnancy. Lonely, several months later Celia adopted baby Pandora, late that summer. She was only a few months old when I moved back in. We go way back, don't we, Pandora dear? For our first Thanksgiving on our own, Celia settled on stuffing a smallish chicken. That Wednesday night, on her way home to start the long holiday weekend, she picked up fresh cider from the farm stand. While the chicken roasted she whipped sweet potatoes with maple syrup, spices and cream, cut up fresh salad veggies to dip in a homemade luxurious green goddess style dressing, home-baked a pumpkin pie. We listened to Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant" while eating our "Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat." I was too thankful to be sullen. My family had unraveled. I wanted to believe in what was left. I always loved Thanksgiving, not "enjoy," love! It's my favorite secular holiday. It's not the food or traditions, certainly not the now exposed ugly history of European colonists and their native hosts. It's the peacefulness. Late November gives me tingles. Sagittarius, season of my birth, gives me a rush of peaceful inner power. I feel it strongly, every year. Some years Celia would invite friends without local family obligations. If there were more than us, she would roast a small turkey which we would eat from well into the next week in various recipe guises. That first year with Mark, when I was till seventeen, I brought him for Celia's Thanksgiving dinner. He was actually grateful to belong, still devastated by the restraining order keeping him from his kids. That was before the whole bitter custody fight that landed him supervised visits. Mark, Jr. was like four or five that year; and little Alex was only like three. I had only met them briefly a couple of times. One of his wife, Delores' big concerns bringing her to the point of legal restraint against him was keeping her kids from the influence of their no-good father's teen witch tramp. Celia hated that I was with Mark, I now can see with good reason. Nonetheless, she treated us both graciously, as family celebrating together. It's not phony with her. She doesn't deny her feelings; she allows other feelings to surface for the occasion. This year it is already evident Celia will not be up to holiday chores. I am the one who must rise to this occasion. I thought of asking for Tom to join us; but I know that is both selfish and ill-advised. Celia deserves this last Thanksgiving to be about her, not as host to even a most cordial guest. Goddess worshippers, attuned to the movements of the Moon, are theoretically aware of the sacredness of each day. Giving thanks for each day's blessings, taking solace for each day's disappointments in the magic of each night's transitional movements into a new day, we celebrate life. Dreams can heal us, inspire us, take us to places of special personal meaning so beautiful that we know we are blessed. Thank you, Goddess, for the magic of dreams. Celia, I wish you dreams of Danny. In your ever more frequent fade-outs from the real and earnest world, I hope you find yourself back in that perfect time when you were complete with love. She does tell me sometimes that she was dreaming of him, of them, of happiness. Reality as we interpret it in our private minds is not much different from a dream. A strong belief, acted upon, is not so different from a truth. We can have it all, everything our great big hearts desire, if we can be not so particular about our definitions, or boundaries between dream and real. Not so far from the cross-quarter, the veil may still be thin. Ah November, time of wonder, a crossroad time of year! Moon in Aries I put on high energy rock music and danced to exhaustion just to get it out of me. I suspect I am genetically predisposed to depression which I unconsciously treat with activity. My paternal grandma has been described to me as crazy, clinically out of it though kept safe at home without chemical or institutional incarceration. My dad is clearly alcoholic My mom sublimates her sadness with activity. Depression is rampant these days, not only to sell pharmaceuticals. We are only built to take so much concentrated stress without cracking. I laugh at talk of foreign terrorists infiltrating to kill us. The real threat is all the barely hanging on when they hang on no longer and have convinced themselves they need an honor guard to flank their suicided souls. Or maybe they think they are being merciful to their victims, taking them along on the great escape. In any case, what do we think we're doing piling on no win scenarios in a societal crucible without enough provision of emotional safety valve exhaust? Dancing's good for getting out what ails. Swirling into screaming into wide open displays in carnival mania must be why such traditions exist. Humans, we are biologically emotional creatures. Restraint only goes so far before we need to break out. Is that what war is really about? Yeah, land and ideology and fear of strangers, but couldn't those issues be handled with our well vaunted reason if we weren't chomping at the bit to spit out a bloodthirsty yell of emotion breaking out of restraint? Kids, puppies, kittens, little creatures learning how to use our bodies, fight just because we enjoy moving our muscles in that connective sport until the pain of battle wounds catches our attention. Athena, body daughter of Zeus, sprang forth ready for battle, and is known as the Goddess of Wisdom, patron of democratic Athens. Are emotions, as well as relationships, sacred mentors meant to move us toward wisdom if we are willing and attentive students? What's the point? We live. We die. Then there's another crop living, fighting, dying. So, big deal, or rather no big deal, if I get wise through my unique tawdry mundane suffering. It's no achievement if no one cares or profits. Look at Celia, so stalwart, so bravely self-sufficient, so wasted now, wasting away. For my little time, I get to what? Flex my muscles, dancing, playing, running away, even making love, random occurrences. I know, I'm trying to make sense when the prescribed answer is having faith. Faith can be so confusing. Faith isn't based on sense; but magic is. Magic isn't about exchanging mumbo-jumbo for gold. There is a strict structure of rules within which magic allows itself to happen. Faith is kind of like quicksand, but more pernicious. There is no solid ground. There is no safety net. Survival happens. Or not. There is that greater unknowable purpose that makes it all okay. I know magic works, often better than mainstream science. Faith, well you've got to take it on faith. There is nothing but room for interpretation, for crazies and cranks to wield their faith-hewn swords. So, maybe the place to start from is: I am aware. Look at all the scenery whizzing by as I scope out my environs. That bit was quite nice, very pretty. Eeuuww, that's so sad, all that nasty bloody roadkill. Look, I painted my name across the sky. Now look, the light is fading. My name has faded from the sky, below the horizon. Perhaps it will rise again with the dawn. It's not so much blind faith as an eyes open ongoing relationship with whatever higher power calls to you through life. Look at me: aren't I the philosophical one! Named for a goddess she is, perhaps a goddess in training herself. Yeah, little old immortal me, burned in the flames of immortality all over, neglecting not so much as an Achillean heel. Cleansing phoenix flame encourages transformation, new lives for old. Like that "Doctor Who" timelord regeneration, or am I mixing archetypes too irresponsibly? Too flippantly conflating metaphoric musings? There, I'm back in relative good humor. No one gives an internal peptalk like you, Persephone. Thank Goddess. Thank you, Goddess, for never doubting me. Moon in Taurus After Mark was dead, our son was dead, I remember feeling hollow, pointless. I had thought I had what I wanted. I really was happy. I had my very own life, my own family on my own terms. Defiantly, I intended to name him Lucifer, the morning star. We would call him Luke I supposed. Mark insisted on his last name. Luke Dante who never was. Everyone leaves, bare trees with no certainty of Spring. I felt hollow, yet angry, hurt, yet again abandoned, cast from Eden ... if I want to go there. Poor, pitiful me. Is it some lesson I'm not getting about self-sufficiency or compassion? I really thought I had shown I could go out on my own, that I could love unselfishly. Maybe it's not about lessons at all, but just life, random inevitabilities. Celia took me home from the hospital. She took care of me, part nurse, part loving friend, no demands or recriminations. I was, by turn, sullenly morose, viciously outrageous. She took to talking to me about bits of her life, almost randomly. It was like she described little vignettes she had thought about until they became objective stories, not personal to her. Maybe she was trying to show solidarity in disappointment. Maybe she was just looking for something to say in response to my silence. Maybe she had decided that I now had enough experience of my own to share these secreted memories, to be a confidant. She had not felt free to share her feelings or serious thoughts with her sisters as sisters do. She was more of a young but more reliable third parent to them. Marie was something of an older somewhat disdainful but loving sister to her. Helen, who was closer to Celia in age, would sweep Celia out to her studio to see her latest painting, talk of art and life in that breathless excited way she had when fully engaged. Celia loved them as family. I think she was hurt when Helen so abruptly deserted us, as was I. People are always having to get away. It's not you. They love you. But they have to go. Did I do that to Tom? But I am returning, as I have to Celia. A different, older I, but still the essential me will be with him in the Spring. Celia beyond any doubt will be in hospice by then. She doesn't want me with her at the end. She says she doesn't want to have to deal with what others are feeling during her final experience. It is not something she wants to share. Her life has been a lesson in self-reliance. She has learned to depend on herself as ever-present friend. This departure for her is a private matter. I will have to pack up Pandora and find an apartment back in the thick of my once and future life, or whatever life I am led to, back with Tom. He would be cast as one of those English gentleman officers in period romantic fiction. Always correctly polite, he manages to convey an unseen sneer when not acting sincerely. Thus, we inner circle few always know exactly what he is saying. He awaits my return, but not alone without consolation, or companionship in his black silk sheets. He is staying well entertained while missing my presence, assured that this time will pass. I don't know that he won't leave me or I him, permanently, some day. I suppose unless we die together one or the other is inevitable. Long before death parts us, we may well disband for other reasons. We may well be in each other's blood, be in love forever. That's not what keeps people together. I don't know what does. People stay until they leave. Sometimes they return with tales to tell and scars to display. Sometimes they're gone. Of course most of us, for the most part, glide by each other as strangers, maybe here and there relating through some little bit of business or sharing a joke. People are unreliable. All we really have is ourselves. But no, not entirely the truth. We have people, some people, for whatever time we share. The stories, the jokes, the hugs, it all adds to the whole store of experiences we can build up for ourselves. We are made more by the people who have been with us. Yeah, some people, if we let them, if we are complicit, tear us down, take away from who we had been. I guess in a way that's adding too, depending on what we do with it. Art, you know, all those crazy feelings, trying to make sense of them, move them around sensually, find the hook, the core that pulls it all together into a form that can be shared, sold, put on public display. Yeah, spinning out to avoid getting stuck in confusion. We get inside each other, then leave those left behind to continue the relationship alone. Moon in Taurus The powerful Taurean Full Moon pouring mist-diffused rays into the night, sends a stark chill with its celestial light. Under another such moon, another time, another home, when Pandora was a fluffball delight, I can hear sadly exasperated Celia insisting I listen to her. "You can't just lie around in your bathrobe being sullen and angry. Where is that going to take you? I know you're not going to do as I have. You already know what I have to say. You are going to have to figure out what you want to do with your life. It's your time. What will you want to see when you look back on it?" Eventually her nagging got to me to the point that I pulled myself reasonably together and visited our greater community's community college. Celia had brought me a catalog to look over, to see if I had any interests to pique. Part of my problem with high school was that I had no objection to learning, but a strong objection to routine disrespect. At the community college everyone was more adult, respectful of the time and effort going towards useful education. There aren't the academic requirements like those for getting into a real college, the institutional transition between high school child and professional adult. We self-select, each student pursuing personal goals. It is thus an environment much more conducive to learning than compulsory public schools. They say some of the charter schools are good, starting with a philosophy that kids will learn if you let them, help them get where they are going. We humans are born needing to fill in the confusion with whatever we can find and figure out. We are curious little mimics working away at learning how to be human beings in the background conditions of the here and now we become aware within. What we learn becomes the basis of plans toward big picture goals. What we do with our labors gets circumscribed by perceived need to acquire property, be owned by appropriately valued possessions, positions of responsibility, picturebook family, respected social roles, or not. What do I want to do with my life? I find a great deal of it caught up in irrelevant activities, even outright stupid, self-defeating activities. These are all what I do, not meaningless. When I look back there is embarrassment, regrets, and insights into myself and my world. Adventures and misadventures replayed, recited for fun or commiseration, they become little gems of sensual recall to treasure. I do understand the desirability of some organizing principles, organized knowledge to apply to purpose. Today we can learn about any section of a vast store of knowledge through the user friendly internet. We can muster some discipline, outline a plan, and fill in instruction layer upon layer at our own comfort level. We can, alternatively or at whim, melt hours surfing from captivating wave to the next, imbibing the heady mix like a drug. It's all valid, spent time, learning, doing, effecting who we are, what we look back on. Who do I want to have been? Celia says she is satisfied. She lived on her own terms. I may see her routine, her circumscribed little life as I interpret it, not satisfying at all. She laughs, gently but in true humor. It's not been about those routines for her. They are the soothing well-worn structure within which she enjoys that self-made internal world, her real home. I have a home like that, though vastly different from hers in specs and decoration. There are points of similarity where we grew up together, shared in mutual private world visitation. We see people in their public performances. We think we know who they are, peg them into a labeled box. We have no idea. Is it acceptable to ask: Show me a glimpse, or batter a panorama, of your world. In my daily living now I watch the one constant person I have always depended upon moving away from her commitment to life. I feel as I imagine Arjuna would have on the field of battle, struggling with the vast issues of life, death, purpose, destiny. Moon in Gemini There was that November, the last one I had spent with Celia and Pandora before now, after that August when Brent had wrecked my car (sweet birthday present from Daddy Danny) filled with his big drug score and gotten incarcerated. The drugs were out of my system by then, but not the need for them. No physical addiction, but I lived in a fog jumping out of my skin. I felt trapped by being alive, stuck, nowhere to go, nothing to be done. What is it in us that picks us up and keeps us going, even thriving? I was more feral then, a wild creature in a cage. Danny was good for sending checks for cars from afar when he was flush. Celia was good for my critical disdaining for her sanity while mine was missing in action. I wasn't much good for anything. I mean, I had been putting my life together, so I thought, after the whole Mark massacre. I was taking classes, thinking about career paths, imagining a future that almost looked normal. It's not that it snuck up on me. I did sad a lot. Crying myself to sleep was pretty much a nightly ritual. Pandora, bless her kitty instinct, would jump up on my chest, looking so curiously with those big green feline eyes. Celia would talk, soothingly, about whatever happened to be going through her mind, current events, literary allusions, dissecting the meaning of a common phrase. She wonders a lot about connections, how things come to be as they are. I was having a life, slowly putting it together. Then I wasn't. It didn't matter anymore. It was so much easier to get high and let Brent make the decisions. Not that this fantasy driven druggie was much of a decider. He had things figured out in simple terms: stay as high as possible, making it work by partying and selling drugs. I was the cool chic of his fantasies, supportively sharing his habits. Symbiotic we were, like AIDS and cancer. I don't blame him. How can blame be applied to someone so obviously irresponsible? He fulfilled my fantasies, which were admittedly dark. It was a nonrelationship based on needs we each had for self-nullification. After he achieved ruining his life, putting it in the solid hands of the criminal justice system, I felt cheated. Not that I was adverse to freedom from legal consequences or even bitter at the loss of my ride. I felt I was being unfairly forced to confront myself again. I had been arguing with Celia about some theory against her I had come up with, based on the occasion of the anniversary of Aunt Marie's death. One of the guys Brent and I hung out with told me about the accident and subsequent arrest, which he had found out about the way people are always knowing things that I don't. Yeah, I was wasted. Not on any one drug, mind you, but whatever combination Brent had lying around. He was eclectic in his distribution. Why am I thinking about this now, dissecting my earlier years? Right, the last time I lived with Celia and Pandora, before I took off without a word. Well, I did leave a note: "I've got to go. I'll call you when I know where I am. Don't worry. I love you. Persephone." It was shortly after my birthday, before Christmas. Danny had sent me a largish birthday check, a couple of grand, giving me travel money. It wasn't enough for a cool new car, but a bus ride was a welcome moving through scenery while I avoided thinking about what was to come. I had the luxury of a lovely hotel room to start off in while I pretended to figure out how to proceed. Naturally, I ended up on the streets on Christmas Eve, ready to be taken in by some lonely single looking for holiday companionship. Yeah, it looks bad for me. But, bit by bit, I really couldn't tell you how, tell me how, I got better. I found myself living a life I could enjoy, found people I could love, found work to stretch me and help me to see what I could do. It doesn't always work out that way. Lots of people get lost forever. Not that my salvation is an ongoing certainty. I do understand. People get scared. We realize the vastness of uncertainty. We grasp at whatever looks like permanence. My dreams have been disquieting, quick cut images that carry no sense of coherence. It is dark most of the time. Stark dark tree branches stand out against cloudy sky. Well past the big celebrations of harvest, it is time for somber thought, preparing for the coming winter.