#To be fair the British government did still think they had a right to our navy by 1812 that's what the war was about

[fantasy-costco]

for the post about telling a peasant about electing an irishman president i interpreted it as telling an english peasant from the specified time period the news which admittedly is still a bit weird to call someone from that time a peasant but it feels a bit less weird than saying it to an american person from that period

I did too initially but then why would an English person of no social standing care one way or the other about what some former colony does with its government like sir it's not your business get out of here

[olympeline]

Ehh, to be fair, I can see England having mixed feelings about his governments like any other nation-person. But I have a reeeeally hard time imagining him as anything other than a staunch royalist. Even if he disliked the current king or queen, I just can’t picture him as ever wanting the royal family to be gone. It would be like trying to imagine Japan as having no interest in anime, or France not wanting to cook, or Italy not being Catholic. Some concepts just feel too connected to certain countries to be easily ignored, you know?

As a Brit, anti-monarchy England is an interpretation of him I can’t really get behind. It’s too divorced from the reality of what we are as a nation. At least at the moment. That could change someday, but I’d be very surprised if it happened any time soon. Being a royalist suits England culturally, historically, stereotypically, and even personality wise. Since he’s described in his bios as stuffy, old fashioned, and a lover of tradition even when it’s not a good idea. You don’t get much more traditionally English than the royal family. Search any English/British related stuff like mood boards and count just how many crowns, castles, lions, and other royal symbols pop up alongside the tea and rain. I agree England probably wouldn’t dote on every monarch - some of them were real twats I mean let’s be honest - but I think he’d still hold them in a kind of reverence? More for what they represented rather than who they were as individuals. You’d be surprised how many people here have a low opinion of the royals but would still balk at the idea of ditching the monarchy. The history of the royal family and how it changed and was in turn changed by English (later UK) culture is fascinating. How we’ve kept them all this time despite starting to strip their power early with the Magna Carta. How they got tangled up with the European Catholic v. Protestant holy war. How they were used as a way to flex against republican enemies like post-Revolutionary France. How one of the biggest things we ever did was build an empire which they became the faces of, etc.

This is a hard-left website and I think there may be a wee bit of wishful thinking going on when it comes to how nation-people would react to culturally conservative things. For better or worse, the monarchy is still a huge part of the UK’s identity. I mean it’s even right there in our name: the United Kingdom. England is the most pro-monarchy of all the home nations too. If asked to choose a UK brother most likely to start questioning the status quo or even go full republican, he’s definitely the one I’d pick last. I can’t separate a certain reverence for the concept of monarchy from a personification of England. I just can’t do it. It’s baked into him. Yeah, he had a punk period, but that’s one potentially anti-royalist blip vs. like…literally everything else about him. 😂 It’s like saying America would suddenly get king fever and want to change the US back into a constitutional monarchy because he had a Downton Abbey phase.

Imagining England as pro-monarchy is the easy option but, in this case, I think it’s also kinda…I don’t want to say the “right” one because it sounds so dismissive. But…it does kinda feel that way? That sounds so dickish, urgh. Sorry, OP! I’m not phrasing this well. I wouldn’t feel so strongly if I wasn’t from here myself. Sorry to ramble for ages on your post, too. I just find my country’s history and culture really interesting to talk about and our relationship with the monarchy is a big part of that. I hope you don’t mind too much. (/;◇;)/

I know the "nation-tans aren't their governments" conversation mostly comes up in relation to America (at least as far as I've seen but I've got an obvious bias here about what's on my dash)... but I wanna point out another character where I think we really fell down on this even more...

England.

I see way more depictions of England with the royals (not just modern day, but often) than I see him with "common" people... and the fact that fanon has decided that he's wholly pro-monarchy is a huge missed opportunity. If there is more content where he's not, please let me know, because I really want to see it.

I know most English people like the monarchy and would not want to abolish it or anything, but that's not really what I'm talking about here. I'm talking about England. Arthur Kirkland. A being who has lived over a thousand years and remembers each one of them, perhaps can still hear their voices in his head.

We depict England as a punk even more often than showing him with the kings and queens, yet ignore the fact that punk rock was just about as anti-monarchy as you can get and a lot of their music was explicitly political.

I'm NOT saying there aren't a lot of very compelling ideas around him being close to the monarchy, particularly Elizabeth I (the whole married to England thing) and Victoria (I think she channeled and fed into a lot of intense feelings he was having at the time) BUT the history of the English(British) monarchy is messy--just like the history of everything else--and not every monarch was a great leader and to think that England would just unquestioningly dote on and/or favor the royal family just shows an insufficient use of imagination in an otherwise very imaginative fandom, imo (and I've been this way too). His relationships to that seat of power and who holds it at any given time could be so much more complex.

I know it's cozy to think of him playing with little royal children or romantic to imagine him having an intense love for Elizabeth I... and I agree with that. But I think we could do more, if only just to see what comes out of it.

*Disclaimer again that this is based on what I have seen in fandom, which is not everything, and if more content like this exists, I would very much like to see it.

[antoine-roquentin]

it’s nice that FAIR published this right before the announcement of the us withdrawal from afghanistan, which will inevitably cause a cavalcade of “think of the women” pieces from neocon cutouts in the us press:

The vast majority of the world was against the US attack on Afghanistan that followed the 9/11 attacks in 2001. However, the idea had overwhelming support from the US public, including from Democrats. In fact, when Gallup (Brookings, 1/9/20) asked about the occupation in 2019, there was slightly more support for maintaining troops there among Democrats than Republicans—38% vs. 34%—and slightly less support for withdrawing troops (21% vs. 23%).

Media coverage can partially explain this phenomenon, convincing some and at the least providing cover for those in power. This was not a war of aggression, they insisted. They were not simply there to capture Osama bin Laden (whom the Taliban actually offered to hand over); this was a fight to bring freedom to the oppressed women of the country. As First Lady Laura Bush said:

We respect our mothers, our sisters and daughters. Fighting brutality against women and children is not the expression of a specific culture; it is the acceptance of our common humanity—a commitment shared by people of goodwill on every continent…. The fight against terrorism is also a fight for the rights and dignity of women.

Wars are not fought to liberate women (FAIR.org, 7/26/17), and bombing people is never a feminist activity (FAIR.org, 6/28/20). But the New York Times was among the chief architects in constructing the belief in a phantom feminist war. Within weeks of the invasion (12/2/01), it reported on the “joyful return” of women to college campuses, profiling one student who

strode up the steps tentatively at first, her body covered from face to foot by blue cotton. As she neared the door, she flipped the cloth back over her head, revealing round cheeks, dark ringlets of hair and the searching brown eyes of a student.

The over-the-top symbolism was hard to miss: This was a country changed, and all thanks to the invasion.

Time magazine also played heavily on this angle. Six weeks after the invasion (11/26/01), it told readers that “the greatest pageant of mass liberation since the fight for suffrage” was occurring, as “female faces, shy and bright, emerged from the dark cellars,” casting off their veils and symbolically stomping on them. If the implication was not clear enough, it directly told readers “the sight of jubilation was a holiday gift, a reminder of reasons the war was worth fighting beyond those of basic self-defense.”

“How much better will their lives be now?” Time (12/3/01) asked. Not much better, as it turned out.

A few days later, Time‘s cover (12/3/01) featured a portrait of a blonde, light-skinned Afghan woman, with the words, “Lifting the Veil. The shocking story of how the Taliban brutalized the women of Afghanistan. How much better will their lives be now?”

This was representative of a much wider phenomenon. A study by Carol Stabile and Deepa Kumar published in Media, Culture & Society (9/1/05) found that, in 1999, there were 29 US newspaper articles and 37 broadcast TV reports about women’s rights in Afghanistan. Between 2000 and September 11, 2001, those figures were 15 and 33, respectively. However, in the 16 weeks between September 12 and January 1, 2002, Americans were inundated with stories on the subject, with 93 newspaper articles and 628 TV reports on the subject. Once the real objectives of the war were secure, those figures fell off a cliff.

Antiwar messages were largely absent from corporate news coverage. Indeed, as FAIR founder Jeff Cohen noted in his book Cable News Confidential, CNN executives instructed their staff to constantly counter any images of civilian casualties with pro-war messages, even if “it may start sounding rote.” This sort of coverage helped to push 75% of Democratic voters into supporting the ground war.

As reality set in, it became increasingly difficult to pretend women’s rights in Afghanistan were seriously improving. Women still face the same problems as they did before. As a female Afghan member of parliament told Phyllis Bennis of the Institute for Policy Studies (CounterSpin, 2/17/21), women in Afghanistan have three principal enemies:

One is the Taliban. Two is this group of warlords, disguised as a government, that the US supports. And the third is the US occupation…. If you in the West could get the US occupation out, we’d only have two.

However, Time managed to find a way to tug on the heartstrings of left-leaning audiences to support continued occupation. Featuring a shocking image of an 18-year-old local woman who had her ear and nose cut off, a 2010 cover story (8/9/10) asked readers to wonder “what happens if we leave Afghanistan,” the clear implication being the US must stay to prevent further brutality—despite the fact that the woman’s mutilation occurred after eight years of US occupation (Extra!, 10/10).

Vox (3/4/21) asserted that the US occupation of Afghanistan has meant “better rights for women and children” without offering evidence that that is the case.

The trick is still being used to this day. In March, Vox (3/4/21) credulously reported that Joint Chiefs of Staff chair Gen. Mark Milley made an emotional plea to Biden that he must stay in Afghanistan, otherwise women’s rights “will go back to the Stone Age.” It’s so good to know the upper echelons of the military industrial complex are filled with such passionate feminists.

In reality, nearly 20 years of occupation has only led to a situation where zero percent of Afghans considered themselves to be “thriving” while 85% are “suffering,” according to a Gallup poll. Only one in three girls goes to school, let alone university.

And all of this ignores the fact that the US supported radical Islamist groups and their takeover of the country in the first place, a move that drastically reduced women’s rights. Pre-Taliban, half of university students were women, as were 40% of the country’s doctors, 70% of its teachers and 30% of its civil servants—reflecting the reforms of the Soviet-backed government that the US dedicated massive resources to destroying.

Today, in half of the country’s provinces, fewer than 20% of teachers are female (and in many, fewer than 10% are). Only 37% of adolescent girls can read (compared to 66% of boys). Meanwhile, being a female gynecologist is now considered “one of the most dangerous jobs in the world” (New Statesman, 9/24/14). So much for a new golden age.

The “think of the women” trope is far from unique to Afghanistan. In fact, 19th century British imperial propagandists used the plight of Hindu women in India and Muslim women in Egypt as a pretext to invade and conquer those countries. The tactic’s longevity is perhaps testament to its effectiveness.

[bagadew]

The Great Ace Attorney Playthrough: The Adventure of the Great Departure (Part 3)

Last Time: We finally found Miss Brett, the English woman who’s present had been erased from the scene of the crime, and dragged her ass to court only to discover that she was a Massively Racist Bitch in a swan hat. After a lot of back and forth it became clear that Dr Watson Wilson actually died of poisoning, and that Miss Brett took advantage of the fact Japan currently doesn’t do autopsy reports to shoot his corpse in the chest and frame me (Ryunosuke) for the murder. Fortunately for us Hosonaga took the bottle from the crime scene, and after needlessly translating Miss Brett for the last hour (and presumably filtering out a lot of questionable content) was only to happy to produce it for the court. Unfortunately for us the poison wasn’t in the bottle, so it’s up to a lady in pink to save the day!

I’m going to roundhouse kick Auchi

I’m liking how everyone else in this room is just as done with Auchi as I am

Our saviour Ryunosuke, that’s who

Oh, that’s not a glass

Is it about poisons?

It is!

Ok so I’m pretty sure that Curare is incredibly powerful and fast acting poison (which lines up with what we know). Unfortunately I think it needs to be injected but I might be mixing it up with something else.

Susato’s actually given me the report now, which is probably a much more sensible way of getting information (rather than me trying to remember what I’ve picked up from Agatha Christie novels), and unfortunately it looks like I remembered correctly about it needing to be injected.

(Side note: how alarming is it that I’ve retained this much knowledge on poisons? I feel the need to explain that I’ve been reading and listening to audio dramatisation of Agatha Christie novels since I was about three, but I feel like that makes it worse)

What is curious though is it’s potential use as an anaesthetic. Given that Dr Wilson had just had a tooth removed with anaesthetic I wonder if there’s a connection there?

I’m not sure what it could be though, unless it turns out Miss Brett Weekend at Berniesed his corpse all the over way from the clinic.

GET HER ASS RYUNOSUKE!!!

Actually wait...

GET HER ASS JUDGE!!!

Auchi if we were to run this courtroom on things you know about we’d be running a kindergarten.

Auchi, you’d never even heard of Curare until I told you about it, be quiet while the grownups are talking.

Yeah, Curare is not a nice poison.

I’m not going to post the full explanation here, but wow, Kazuma’s really going all out with his description!

Also it looks like I misunderstood about it needing to be injected. Everyone’s saying that it can just be swallowed, which I guess that makes sense given how deadly it is.

Miss Brett’s being a bitch again (but what else is new) and Kazuma’s taking none of your shit and telling her that the feeling’s mutual. (Something I would have screenshot, but I was too busy calling Kazuma a legend to press the little square button.)

I knew it, it was only in the glass.

Yeah, now try it again from the glass you took.

Don’t worry Ryunosuke, I got this!

It’s ok Kazuma! Believe in me (Ryunosuke) and our beautiful friendship!

It astounds me too Kazuma, but for once I’m on to something!

Kazuma, please stop saying foreboding things, I need you to survive the next case and you’re already not being helped by the fact that you’re so much better than me. You’re so good you kind of render me, the protagonist, a little bit obsolete in fact.

PENALISED!

I guess I was wrong then! That bottle does somehow contain poison.

Yes Kuzuma, because I’m going to be penalised otherwise!

OH FUCK I’VE GOT IT!!!

I UNDERSTOOD CORRECTLY THE FIRST TIME!!!

IT DOES NEED TO BE PUT INTO THE BLOODSTREAM!!!

AND THE DOCTOR HAD A GAPING WOUND IN HIS MOUTH!!!

WHICH MISS JEZAILLE BRETT ADMITTED SHE KNEW ABOUT!!!

It’s finally time!

Let’s get her!

He’s got it!

GET HER ASS RYUNOSUKE!!!

She’s cracking!

Is it hatred Ryunosuke?

Ah no, my mistake - it’s lawyer rage conviction!

I know I’ve said this a lot but...

GET HER ASS RYUNOSUKE!!!!!!!!!!

HE DID THE THING!!!!!!!!

WE’RE USING HER OWN WORDS AGAINST HER

AND IT FEELS SO GOOD!

Oh good... she’s started laughing

Oh no. We’ve set things into motion haven’t we.

Kazuma, I can’t stress enough how important it is for you to take care of yourself in the case to come.

SHE’S DESTROYING THE EVIDENCE!

You can’t do that!

Oh who am I kidding, this lady’s been dancing on privilege since she walked in.

Oh Ryunosuke I think she might have done...

I knew she felt like an end of game villain!

Auchi’s about to catch these hands!

Kazuma’s telling us to step into our mind palace.

‘Is Kazuma right’, he thinks, as he remembers the blood on the plate.

I don’t know Ryunosuke? Is water wet?

You got it Kazuma!

I mean to be fair it did only just happen.

DID HE STEAL THE PLATE?!?

YES HOSONAGA!!!

YOU BEAUTIFUL GENIUS!!!

I do genuinely love these moments in Ace Attorney though. When everyone works as one to get some untouchable big fry. There’s something very rewarding about the whole thing.

Shit... she swapped it out...

Fortunately my man Hosonaga has everyone’s plates though!

Cheer up Ryunosuke, look, we have steak blood at least. And I’m sure Hosonaga’ll bring us the rest of the plates if we ask nicely. Especially after Miss Brett broke his bottle.

Miss Brett’s now making racist statements again.

But at least I’ve been given the steak to examine!

Bless you Kazuma

Ryunosuke what short of cats have you been looking at!

Get his ass (affectionately) Kazuma!

THE STOLEN COIN!!!

I KNEW SHE SWAPPED THEM!!!

(Also it looks like I was right about it being stolen by Nosa)

Didn’t know that was there, did you Miss Brett?

Now, dig your own grave with your words!

Now it’s time to dob Nosa in it. Sorry Nosa but you were kind of a jerk. Look on the bright side though, now’s your chance to redeem yourself in my eyes, like Hosonaga has!

Old man Korekuna’s armed and pissed!

Nosa I’m sorry. It’s best to throw yourself on his mercy now before I rile him up more. Use your baby to calm him if you must.

NICE CATCH NOSA!

I take everything back, Nosa your complete safe, old man Korekuna has no idea how to use that thing.

Ah, I forgot he was proficient in vase!

(Which I forgot to screenshot)

Never mind Nosa, you’re still screwed!

That is the right face to pull (Nosa not Hosonaga):

Look at him in the corner there. I feel bad now.

It was theft wasn’t it?

...oh Nosa what have you done?

(Kept food on his kids plate probably, given how he can’t afford childcare)

Nosa’s now accusing his infant son of being the mastermind... Sure Nosa, everyone’s bying that.

Either accusing a baby is a panic response, or I don’t need to feel so bad anymore.

Hosonaga how did you not immediately catch this guy?

HE SLIPPED THE COIN UNDER THE STEAK SO IT WOULDN’T BE FOUND WHEN HE WAS SEARCHED!

MISS BRETT’S TRYING TO WEASLE HER WAY OUT TO LUNCH AGAIN!

Oh thank god!

I thought for one terrible second we were letting her go.

(I’ve say it before and I’ll probably say it again, this is an intense first case)

Yes! ‘Her’ steak had a big bite mark in it!

But I thought and English Lady like yourself wouldn’t eat steak that way Miss Brett?

Of course, there’s a difference between the two photos.

I knew I could see the glass in the first one, which means it was taken before Miss Brett rearranged the table!

Oh, now Nosa’s saying that he switched the plates.

I must admit I didn’t expect that, I thought it was something Miss Brett did to remove the bloody evidence.

She’s cracking!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

YEEEEAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!

IT WAS ALIVE!!!

BABIES!!!

BABIES EVERYWHERE!

Oh god... what’s she planning.

Your honour, she’s already poisoned one person, do you want to be next?

Kiss my ass Miss Brett

Get used to it Auchi.

HAHA!

DAMN KAZUMA

(Editor Note: I am very upset by how poorly my screenshots conveyed Kazuma destroying Auchi’s hairdo with his sword)

Also, were you always hot Kazuma?

Wait no - I can’t be thinking that. The bar for fictional men I like is the floor and if I want Kazuma to continue to live a long, happy, non morally ambiguous life, I need him to not fall into the category of ‘fictional men I find hot’.

For some reason, I picture it being blue and spiky your honour

Wait what’s this about Kazuma having a mission?

Oh fucking hell, I’ve doomed you to moral ambiguity haven’t I Kazuma?

Thank you for the backhanded compliment your honour!

Ooh, petals rather than confetti, that’s a nice touch!

We did it!!!

And most importantly of all, we’re being praised by Kazuma!

Susato! Our saviour! Has turned up, along with her father: the innocent Professor Mikotoba, who I would like to thank and to reiterate that he could never kill anyone!

Seriously though, what was the relationship between him an Dr Wilson?

Ah ok, I simply just had to click on to find out.

So apparently the two of them worked together in the same hospital in London for a while.

OH MY GOD KAZUMA’S TAKING THE SWORD WITH HIM TO GREAT BRITAIN!!!

YES KAZUMA! F THEM UP!!!

(Also if your journey tragically ends in the customs office there’s a non-dead-Kazuma reason for me to go in your place.)

Oh fuck, she got off didn’t she...

I knew it

Of fucking course...

So basically she’s going to get off with a slap on the wrist. That’s what I’m getting from all of this.

Yep

Ah, but what you’ve failed to understand Kazuma is that the British Government and 99% of those people in power, are hypocritical dirtbags who will change the rules to suit them.

OK TEAM LETS GO GET HER ASS!!!

FINAL BOSS! FINAL BOSS!

Now on to the party with Kazuma!

And also Hosonaga apparently. Who is clinging onto his waiter job even though the case he was investigating is solved. Look like Ryunosuke was right about money being tight.

Hosonaga, do you not have a job anymore?

Were your superiors upset when you said ‘fuck the government’ and bought Miss Brett to us? Or was it your one man forensics team shtick that upsets them?

Oh yeah, we never did find that out did we?

Kazuma Asogi I forbid you from charging me with looking after your sister, of for that matter anything, incase something happens to you!

Fortunatly for us Hosonaga is here! Diving in-front of that Kazuma shaped plot bullet with promises of food!

Ryunosuke over here, taking the cases final moments to roast Hosonaga.

I think we’re even now Satoru, my second favorite character.

I don’t want to click to the next text box.

OH FUCK!

Oh wait, false alarm everyone!

I genuinely thought that the case was going to end with something like: but little did I realize that he never would.

Anyway that’s enough worrying about Kazuma! For now let’s enjoy the fact we’ve finished this bastard hard first case!

We’re moving on to Episode 2: The Adventure of the Unbreakable Speckled Band next!

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Mystrade meets MarMan. Maybe there's a diplomatic incident. Maybe Donna and Anthea avert it. Maybe they cause it. Who knows?

[The NOISE I made when this landed in my inbox. Holy shit.]

Josh spots him the second he walks into the ballroom of the Embassy. He's in a tux same as everyone else, but his energy is different than anyone else in the room. He's looser, seemingly amused to be at a white tie event but not seeming out of place in the least.

"Psst," Josh says to get Donna's attention away from the mini cherry pie she's communing with. "Two o'clock. Silver fox with the serious tan. Recognize him?"

Donna gives the guy a quick look, then shakes her head, mouth still full of pie filling. She does a finger waggle that means she has a theory. Josh waits her out and helps by stealing one of the mini-pies off her plate.

"Hey," she hisses, then swallows. "You already have four in the kitchen!"

"That was an hour ago," Josh replies around a mouthful of tiny pie. "Anyway, Mr. Two o'clock."

"Gotta be English because we know all the Americans."

"Good point. Where's John?"

"Bernice kidnapped him for a meeting."

Josh sighs. "He leaves me alone at these things all the time."

Donna gives him a mock pout. "I know."

"Just walks away like I'm nothing more than arm candy."

"You're so much more."

"I just don't know how I can keep this marriage going."

Donna's conciliatory pat on the arm is beautifully melodramatic in its slow motion tap. "Oh, I know it's hard, but think of the life you lead."

There's a snort, then a laugh, quiet but honest. John turns away from faking large, sad eyes at Donna and finds himself face-to-face with Mr. Two o'clock.

"Sorry to interrupt," the man says. He is, as Donna guessed, English. And Josh's brain--thanks to John's many explanations on the subject--pings his accent as East End London. "But I think I may have a part in this."

"Oh?" Donna asks, eyes lighting up at the idea of someone else having actual fun at one of these galas.

"You're Josh Lyman, right?" Mr. Two o'clock says. "And you're Donna Moss?"

"I am, but people don't usually know that," Donna says.

The man grins, looking delighted. "Let me guess. You're just an assistant to this lot here who think that doesn't mean you're the one actually saving the world?"

"I want my job title changed immediately," Donna says to Josh.

"Sure," Josh agrees. "Come up with whatever you want. I'll co-sign."

"World saver," Donna says with exaggerated reverence.

Mr. Two o'clock laughs. "I like it, though you might have to license it from Anthea. Think it was--"

"ANTHEA?!" Donna yelps. She grabs Josh's arm, her nails digging into his forearm through his jacket and shirt.

"CLAWS." Josh shouts.

"You were briefed by Anthea?" Donna asks.

The man beams. "I was. She's the best."

"Oh my god." Donna turns to Josh. "And you said John got stolen for a meeting."

Josh manages to twist his arm loose from Donna's grasp. "Yeah. Like always."

"No, Joshua, not like always." Donna's eyes have that gleam that means her entire week has just been made. "Because if this man--" she gestures to Mr. Two o'clock, who gives a little wave, "was briefed by Anthea, and he's standing here alone talking to us, that means John's locked in a meeting with Mycroft Holmes."

It takes Josh a moment to catch up with Donna's thinking. His jaw drops. "Wait," he says. He looks at Mr. Two o'clock. "You're Greg Lestrade," he says.

"In the flesh," the man says.

"You don't look anything like your official photo."

Greg Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Oi, that thing. Yeah, had to fit it between a double murder investigation and not murdering a police consultant for being a twat. Did my best not to look like I'd been up nineteen hours and contemplating someone's violent death at my own hand, but the lighting in Whitehall didn't do me any favors."

"My embassy ID makes me look like I got arrested for shoplifting beer," John says.

"Beer and the those cheap little cigars," Donna says.

Greg chuckles. "Well, we're in good company then. And since both our husbands are locked in a room plotting world domination, we should keep each other company."

"Works for me. I'm out of politics except for seating charts. I just show up so Donna can steal pastries."

"It's not stealing when you're invited," Donna says. "Also, did Anthea come with you? Can I meet her?"

"Happy to introduce you," Greg says at the same time Josh says, "How do you even know who she is?"

Donna gives Josh a long-suffering look. "Joshua. She is the long-standing personal assistant to Mycroft Holmes. Bernice says he basically runs the British government."

Josh scoffs. "What? He's a minor minister in Transportation. Something with the traffic cameras. I've read the info sheet." He turns to Greg. "No offense. Work's work. But back me up here. You're married to the man."

Greg shrugs and looks around with a studied nonchalance. "We don't really talk about his work. It's...boring."

Josh's eyes narrow. "Donna, has my husband been actually having world domination meetings and not telling me?"

"Yes, Joshua."

"Okay, I'm serious about this divorce thing now. Draft the papers. I want the estate in Sussex."

"Oh, I like Sussex. Mind if I pop by for a visit?" Greg asks.

Josh laughs. "Sure," he says. "But bring Anthea or Donna will murder me and take the estate herself."

"I deserve a nice place to retire," Donna replies.

"Fair," Greg agrees.

[vancafreader]

Fine Art Comics of Canada: Sixties to Seventies - Heart of London, Snore & More by Robert Dayton

Part One: The Heart Of London

There was a time where artists were making vast ripples away from Toronto and other outsized hubs. London, Ontario was such a place, all eyes were on it in the late 60’s and not Toronto. The Heart Of London comic book from 1968 was actually an exhibition catalog, an overview of the art that was happening there at the time. Organised by The National Gallery of Canada, this exhibition traveled from London to Toronto, Kingston, Edmonton, Victoria, Charlottetown and, of course, The National Gallery H.Q. itself in Ottawa.

This catalog/comic book consisted of fumetti, comics done using photos for the images. Fumetti was most prominently used in the 60’s by Harvey Kurtzman in Help and Playboy, prolifically in numerous Mexican comic book melodramas, and in Italian comics featuring the masked master criminal Satanik. Heart Of London’s particular fumetti is further stylized by heavily contrasted processing causing colours so bright that they make everything heightened artifice, buzzing as if emanating from a higher plane of being.

Cover of the Heart Of London catalogue

The Heart of London logo in Pepto-Bismol pink is rendered somewhere between Archie and underground comix titles. Above it, The Comics Code of Authority symbol -a comic book mainstay of the day implying that the work is of safe moral quality- has been altered to “National Gallery of Canada”, the institution that made this comic book and exhibition happen. The cover features what appears to be London public workers, perhaps? These men in yellow hard hats casually stand in front of a store with a Coca-Cola logo also coloured Pepto-Bismol pink, Pop Art style, at the city’s main intersection in what very well may be the heart of London.

The comic opens with a quote placed above a looming Brutalist parking lot, huddling various small businesses below it. This quote contains the phrase “heart of London” but it is rather self-deprecatingly not about London, Ontario but London, England in World War One. Sharing a name with London, England has often made this Ontario city the butt of many a joke, ie. “I live in London… (long pause) Ontario” with its population being just over 200,000 in 1968. Named in 1793 by Lord Simcoe, Upper Canada’s first Lieutenant-Governor known for starting the abolition of slavery, he was also fervently British, his vision for Canada was for it to be like England which he looooved, desperately (but stiffly) wanting this particular London to become Ontario’s capital. Alas, Toronto was chosen instead. Related, always related to everything: the term “cosmic consciousness”, the higher state of consciousness, was coined in London in 1872 by Richard Bucke, a psychiatrist and head of The Asylum For The Insane, after he received a blinding vision, illuminating him. Besides being active in asylum reform, Bucke was heavily involved in the arts -the vision occurred after an evening spent reading Romantic poetry as well as poems by Walt Whitman, who he later befriended. Yes, London, Ontario is an eccentric place.

The artists involved in the Heart Of London show were part of what was known as “London Regionalism”, a loose-knit movement of artists who were adamant about residing in London, away from Toronto or New York. Artist Greg Curnoe helped establish some of the very first artist-run centres there. He was an early member and huge proponent of CARFAC, a Canadian organisation that fights for artists to get paid and paid fairly for their work. CARFAC was founded in London by Heart Of London artists Jack Chambers and Tony Urquhart -along with Kim Ondaatje.

Besides Curnoe, Chambers, and Urquhart, the eleven artists in Heart Of London included John Boyle, Bev Kelly, Murray Favro, Ron Martin, David Rabinowitch, Royden Rabinowitch, Walter Redinger, and Ed Zelenak. They are all profiled in fumetti form talking about their practice through speech balloons and captions, along with quick biographical details. Many of these artists were known for their inventiveness, they were influenced by a variety of subject matter -including comic art- without falsely delineating these influences into false boxes of high or low art. They didn’t just make work in the visual art field either. Along with a Hart Of London work-on-paper, Chambers made an experimental film with the same name in 1970. This film intensely shows brutal shots of an abattoir in Spain interspersed with London scenes; it has been described by Stan Brakhage as “one of the greatest films ever made.”  Both Curnoe’s Heart Of London painting from 1967 and Jack Chambers’ 1968 work-on-paper Hart Of London are in the show.

Noted curator and historian Judith Rodger told me that Curnoe’s Heart Of London piece depicts The Forks Of the Thames downtown, “arguably the heart of London” near many of the artists’ studios with Greg’s studio as the main hub or heart of it all. As for the idea of a comic book catalog, it was a mystery until Rodger guided me to Katie Cholette’s PhD thesis Memory and Mythmaking: the role of autobiography in the works of Jack Chambers and Greg Curnoe which states that it was the idea of William Bragg, assistant to the director of The National Gallery’s extension services. Cholette’s paper quotes Bragg from the Sept 29, 1968 New York Times’ Arts Notes column, “…The idea was to make a kind of scrapbook, to talk as a group, not individuals. Their work is kind of echoed by the comics—it’s really their bag […] Everyone likes to read comics once in a while, anyway.” Due to its uniqueness, the catalog garnered a lot of press for the show. Beverley Lambert (Bev Kelly in the show) says, “I think we all thought it was pretty neat and it was funny. It got people’s attention.”

When I talked to artist John Boyle about this comic book catalog, he said right away, “It’s too bad that Greg Curnoe isn’t with us anymore, because he was really interested in comic books. And he always did comic book or comic-like drawings from the time he was a little kid.” In the book Greg Curnoe Life And Work, author Judith Rodger’s description of his 1963 painting Myself Walking North In the Tweed Coat could be ascribed to many of his works. “The flat, vivid colours; schematic outlines; and text all come from his love of the comic book.” As well as the inclusion of the name of the newspaper strip Mary Worth in the piece. Another colourful painting casually inserts Dick Tracy into the frame as a representative of one of his interests. Curnoe’s series of cut-out collages were often shaped into cartoony and anthropomorphic forms.

Curated by Pierre Théberge at The National Gallery, Boyle readily notes, “Both Curnoe and Chambers talked up all the other artists who were around in London, and ended up persuading Théberge to have a group show to get a sense of the whole London art scene.”

The comic book itself doesn’t give William Bragg’s name at all, nada. The designer is credited: Roger Duhamel, FRSC, Queen’s Printer and Controller of Stationery, a federal government official, as well as the design firm: Eccleston + Glossop International. All of the photos, however, were done by the late Don Vincent, of whom Boyle says, “He was a friend of ours, of all of us. And a really terrific photographer. And he documented the whole London scene as it unfolded taking photographs all the time of everybody in this show and just of London, his whole life was photography.” Vincent’s work also appeared in 20 Cent Magazine, a delightfully scrappy local art magazine started in the mid-60’s with many of the people in the show, including Boyle and Curnoe, contributing writings and drawings. 20 Cent Magazine sold for 25 cents, ha! Vincent also photographed The Nihilist Spasm Band who are regarded as the first noise-rock band; this amazing, mind-blowing, intense and milk-spurtingly funny act was founded by the late Greg Curnoe, with Boyle and Favro (playing unique guitars that he builds himself) as still very active members over fifty years later. They are unique cultural ambassadors bringing such songs as “No Canada” to the world, having performed in Japan and in Vancouver at The Western Front with poet George Bowering guesting on guitar, and have had a documentary made about them by the late noise artist Zev Asher.

In one of Heart Of London’s comic book panels about Boyle an early issue of the four color MAD sneaks its way in. I asked him if he read MAD, “Yeah. Although that is from the designer. I read MAD, although not madly.”

A very young Boyle states in one of his panels, “The day I can truly defile myself in public, I will have accomplished everything, and I will no longer have a need to paint.” Reflecting today he says, “I still think that actually, and I think I may have succeeded. Because I do still have the need to paint. But I don’t have the need to show it anymore, or to get applause or approval from anyone. And I don’t know how that arose in me. But I kind of had a fair amount of attention and approval and acceptance and shows in fancy places and meeting important people and pleasing art administrators. And I kind of reached the conclusion that most of them aren’t worth pleasing and their opinion was not as good or not as important as the opinions of other people that I happen to know. And I thought they made a lot of mistakes and people that they chose to support. And also, their approval was very fickle. They were very fickle about it because as soon as fashions would change, their eyes were directed elsewhere and the people they thought were geniuses today were no longer geniuses tomorrow. I did kind of lose my enthusiasm for the art world, but not for painting. So, I was mistaken.”

The final pages of this catalog feature a few reproductions of pieces from the show itself, including Bev Kelly’s window paintings which, with its window panels, adapt quite easily to the comic book form, comparable to an ornate and mysterious painted comic page. The layout, however, was a bit fast and loose with one of her works being printed sideways. In her fumetti section she says, “These windows aren’t ‘real’ windows, they are still paintings. They don’t have sashes and you can’t see through them. A real window is to look through, these are to look at.” Painted on canvas, the window pieces used lumber to make the frames of the paintings, carved to look like the ribbed mouldings of window frames.

Bev Kelly was the sole woman in the show and when I asked her about this she said, “I’m very happy that they didn’t concentrate on this issue that I was the only woman. I didn’t want to be known as an artist because I was a woman.” Having recently moved to London from Saskatchewan with her husband, they were warmly welcomed by Curnoe and she would go see The Nihilist Spasm Band play every week at The York Hotel. Her first solo show was at The 20/20 Gallery in London.

She spent the first two years of her life in Biggar, Saskatchewan where the signs read, “New York Is Big, But This Is Biggar.” Being in London changed her notions of places like New York being the absolute cultural mecca. Beverley says, “There was a really vibrant cultural community there. You know what a regionalist Greg was. He really believed, as a lot of writers do, that you should write about what you know, or you should do your art about what you know, including where you live and so on. And, of course, when I started on the windows that was right out where I was living. The first ones were of my house and then I walked around and took pictures of various houses that I thought looked interesting. When I got a studio in London above one of the businesses downtown I used some of the windows there as inspiration for my works. And then when I went back to Saskatchewan, I was very into that, looking around at what is there where you live. I even got a grant to travel around small-town Saskatchewan and look at the local -in air quotes- ‘folk art’ or untrained artists, let’s say, just painting odd things on their house or their property or whatever. So, I went and I did interviews, took pictures of them, and I imagine I must have produced some kind of a report on it because I probably had to for my grant. So that led me into being more observant and looking more at where it’s from and what is around you and that you don’t have to go to some huge, big place to find art.”

Bev Kelly was her married name and she returned to using her original name, Beverley Lambert in the 1970’s. Lambert did a series of three large lithographs for International Women’s Year in 1975 on women’s issues dealing with real news stories that happened on the prairies. Many of these prints were donated to many women’s centres across the country. She has also worked in clay doing an entire main street based on the fictional Saskatchewan town in the humour book Sarah Binks by Paul Hiebert. Beverley Lambert currently resides in St. John’s, Newfoundland where she makes art and is active as a conservator.

Flip the comic over and it is the same but in either French or English depending on where you first started reading!

Boyle comments, “Last night, my wife and I were looking at the Heart of London catalog. She was amazed that this was a National Gallery touring show with a lot of artists who became major artists in the country. And it looked like they were trying to spend as little money as possible by making this skinny little comic book-like thing on newsprint and I think there’s a large measure of truth in that. Because, again, I remember when Greg Curnoe had a big one-man exhibition retrospective at The National Gallery and the catalogue that they did for him was kind of a minimal thing. It was like a paperback book with one colour reproduction and a number of inferior black and white reproductions and basically a list of artworks in the show. And in the same year, The National Gallery did a big one-man exhibition of Donald Judd, the American sculptor, and his catalogue was a huge coffee table book that weighed about 15 pounds and was three inches thick and loaded with colour from beginning to end. And that just, I think, represented a specifically Canadian problem.” When I mention this to Hairy Who member Art Green he responds, “Well, of course, because they’re trying to impress their betters in New York, so you get a job at The Whitney or The Museum of Modern Art. Canada has been an incubator for museum directors since forever.”

Hairy Who catalog page by Art Green, courtesy of the artist

This style of catalog for Heart Of London corresponds nicely with The Hairy Who, another such grouping of artists around that time who were part of “The Chicago Imagists.” Their three Chicago art shows starting in the mid-60’s were accompanied by comic books that also doubled as exhibition catalogs. The Hairy Who weren’t very aware of the underground comics scene then just barely getting started, they chose this method out of creative necessity, printing a glossy catalog was cost prohibitive. Green explains, “And the printing was expensive and not very good. And we didn’t want to have a show that was called ‘Six Recent Graduates’ or something unexciting like that. And so, we realised we all liked comics and we all knew how to do colour stripping because we’d taken silk-screening courses, we figured out we could do it. And it was cheap.”

Delineating further, The Hairy Who made playful art inspired by a wide range of neat stuff. The London artists were well aware of The Hairy Who. In fact, The Hairy Who were even going to show in London at The 20/20 Gallery. Boyle notes, “20/20 was kind of a precursor to the art in the so-called artist run centres, most of which aren’t run by artists anymore. But anyway, it was one of the first and it was all sponsored by local people in London. And I don’t think it lasted longer than a couple of years, but it was a terrific gallery while it lasted.” Many of the artists in The Heart Of London show were active in 20/20, which lasted from 1966 to 1971. Greg Curnoe discussed the show with Hairy Who artist Karl Wirsum, who in a letter to Art Green wrote, “Well, if they go ahead and publish a comic book, that would be all right.” Green notes, “He may have thought that the 20/20 Gallery was more well-funded than it probably was. But it was on, we all agreed to do it. We were looking forward to it.” Green himself left Chicago for Canada in 1969. The 1968 Democratic Convention had transpired and as Green puts it, “Everybody was angry at everybody.” He was dissatisfied with his teaching job there as well, so when offered a job at NASCAD, the art school in Halifax, he leaped at it.

Alas, the show didn’t happen. In a letter to Art Green, Curnoe writes, “We had to cancel The Hairy Who show and a lot of us were disappointed.” Boyle notes, “I suspect that it got caught up in the death throes of the gallery. And they would have had to cancel whatever exhibitions they had coming up.”

Green notes that both London and Chicago are far enough away from the more major centres that artists can, “…be free to go their own way because there’s not much at stake partly and nobody’s paying attention. And I remember the first time I had been in London, we were driving on our honeymoon to Halifax where I got the job. And I thought, ‘I’m gonna stop here and get a Canada Dry.’ I’m driving down what’s the main street that runs north south and pulled into a corner store. And I said, ‘Do you have Canada Dry?’ ‘No, but we got America Dry.’  I have never before or since seen a bottle of America Dry. I bought it and it wasn’t as good as Canada Dry. And, and that’s not a dream. I mean, I have never seen it ever again. But that made me say, ‘Wow, this is a weird place.’”

While Green was teaching at NASCAD, Curnoe came for what Green calls, “One of his annual excoriations, if that’s a word, he would rip them up one side down the other in public, for being a Canadian art school with no Canadians teaching, hardly any, and all yanks -and it was true! And so anyway, they would invite him and it was almost like a ritual. He would be in the public, there’d be 400 students there and Greg would just rip the place apart. I had known Greg, I heard about the show and so on, and we got along fine. And afterwards he’d come up to me and say, ‘Well, how did I do?’ ‘Greg, you’re doing great, but you do realise I’m a yank’, but I agreed with him 100%.” Both Curnoe and Green commiserated on how Canadian art was neglected at the school. “If he had been in Chicago, Greg would have been a member of The Hairy Who or maybe started it. But he was more political, he had to be, and Chicago, the politics were so acidic that you wouldn’t have wanted to be to be involved in it, unless you went in full immersion. And we were decidedly unpolitical. Although we all agreed on the politics of it. We were a collective in the sense that we wanted people to collect us.” On this, Art Green is a tad glib, having made art responding to and criticizing Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. Both Art and Greg would visit with each other in various Canadian cities: Halifax, Vancouver, Toronto. “Nobody appreciated Greg in Toronto, they went out of their way to un-appreciate him. And luckily, they did put a put up a pretty nice retrospective after he was safely gone.”

Of London, Green notes, “I think that for a period of time. I don’t know how long it was maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours, maybe a few months? Maybe a few years. London, Ontario was most interesting art scene and literary scene in the whole world.”

The propensity for great art still ran in the water there, the stream flowed, there was a continuum and a recognizing of that history. London has some great galleries including Forest City Gallery, founded by Jack Chambers and Greg Curnoe, where The Nihilist Spasm Band plays every Monday night.

In 2013 The London Museum held the group show L.O. Today with artists Jason Mclean, Marc Bell, Jamie Q, Billy Bert Young, Amy Lockhart, Peter Thompson, and James Kirkpatrick. Many of these artists are a part of the Canadian Psychedooolic art comic movement that began in the 1990’s, captured and collected in the book Nog A Dod, edited by former Londoner Marc Bell and released by Conundrum/PictureBox. Much of the work in Nog A Dod occurred in Vancouver with a couple of these London artists relocating there, immersing easily, doing a lot of collaborative drawing and art books with other Vancouver based artists. Yes, ‘Canadian Psychedooolic’ was named after the fact by Bell, but we weren’t thinking of ourselves as a movement or a group at the time. Yet all of these art books had an unfettered comic wildness, funny, and expansively playful. And Nog A Dod got out there, impacting and influencing a lot of artists the world over. Furthering the connective tissue, in 2003, The Western Front in Vancouver put on an art show featuring ‘documents and ephemera’ from musical acts The Nihilist Spasm Band, The All Star Schnauzer Band (a somewhat fake band as mail art project involving Bell, Mclean, and Thompson) and July Fourth Toilet, a Vancouver based group that often involves many Nog A Dod and Nog A Dod related artists, including yours truly occasionally wearing outlandish semi-functional semi-nude costumes specially designed by Jason Mclean. The show was curated by Jonathan Middleton, who is now Executive Director at Art Metropole, a Toronto based artist-run centre dealing primarily in artists’ publications.

Getting back to Greg Curnoe. Released in two parts in 1970, The Great Canadian Sonnet contained numerous images by Curnoe. Described as a “Beaver Little Book”, the format was modeled after the popular Big Little Books, distant cousins to comic books so named for being small, square and thick. Big Little Books were marketed to children and featured popular comic, cartoon, radio and film characters of the day in text-based stories with illustrations on every other page. Some Big Little Books had flip-it cartoons in the top corner so one could make the character move. With its second volume The Great Canadian Sonnet does this as well, stating “See ‘em move – just flip the pages” on the cover and, sure enough, in the corner a spot rolls up a hill-like abstract shape transforming into a medley of human faces.

Written by poet David McFadden, Curnoe riffed off lines in his text creating a great many detailed pen-and-ink drawings for the book with titles that included “Proud Possessor Of Meaningful Pain”, “One that will be Truly Loved by the Prime Minister”, and “The Empty Universe” which featured a drawing of a tin of apple juice and a packet of bird seed -the book’s drawings contained many such absurdist pairings. The Great Canadian Sonnet was published by Coach House Press who were -and still are- known for releasing all manner of experimental works including poetry, prose and beyond. Both volumes together weigh in at over 400 pages, with every other page being a drawing by Curnoe.

Many thanks to Jason Mclean, Marc Bell, and Judith Rodger for their immense help with this piece.

Thanks as well to Art Green for use of his respective artworks.

Part Two: Scraptures, Snore and More coming tomorrow, Friday, August 20!

Robert Dayton

www.robertdayton.com

www.patreon.com/CanadianGlam

[joezworld]

Why has the UK stubbornly refused to recognize sentient vehicle rights like, at all?

At first it was cultural, then it was active coverup. 

Culture

Like many industrial-revolution era countries, human rights kinda fell by the wayside in the name of progress. When child labour is still accepted and slavery is within living memory, sentient machines being treated like horses is not a stretch. 

As a point of fact, most European countries (except Belgium) held similar views until the second world war - long story short, the Nazis offered locomotives full citizenship if they sided with them, and when it was apparent that they were losing, a lot of engines sided with the allies, but kept their (French/German/Vichy French/Dutch/Polish/other Nazi territory) citizenship. That and the US Army Railroad engines that went over to rebuild the continent forced Europe to accept engines as people. 

The UK was mostly spared from the massive loss of infrastructure and never had to deal with the Nazis as an invading force, so they never had that happen. At the time (the 1940s) these views were not too unusual, as the North American/Japanese view on locomotive rights was a relative rarity everywhere else, so the UK was allowed to be a laggard because the world had bigger stuff going on. 

Coverup

The first coverup was in the early 50′s. The cold war was slowly turning hot, and the west was slowly starting to not like communism. Old Uncle Joe Stalin realized in The War that railways won and lost the war, and made active efforts to keep the locomotives of the soviet rail network happy. (If you’ve watched the HBO show Chernobyl, the coal miners had a similar standing to locomotives in the USSR - they kept everything running)

As the soviets began to include locomotives in their society as a whole - equality for all workers and whatnot - this made countries like the UK, who had locomotives essentially in bondage/slavery, decided to keep their engines in the dark, less they decide to break free from their shackles and become communists. It also didn’t help that the vast majority of the British Public viewed locomotives in the same vein as they would a working animal like a horse - barely sentient and hardly worth notice. A few bills about loco rights introduced into parliament were quietly hushed up or just died in committee. 

Then came modernization. 

Word spread slowly, mainly through newsreel footage (that absolutely spawned riots when shown in North America) and escaping locomotives, but the world really didn’t begin to catch on until the late 1960s, when BR started scrapping relatively new steam engines, who were young enough to be considered children even by continental European standards.  

The outcry was mostly diplomatic - most European countries at the time, including the UK, had vanishingly few media outlets and most of those were either directly controlled by the state or were able to be censored by them. The Europeans didn’t want to show genocide on national television because, well, y’know - that, and while the Americans were making some noise about it when not staggering from land war in Asia to missile crisis to a different land war in Asia, the BBC merely refused to air the stories. With “Auntie Beeb” as the driving force behind credibility at that time, ITV and the newspapers didn’t really run those stories. What few they did were either buried deep in the back pages or were blocked by D-Notice. (D-Notices were used because if the trains rioted, the country would be in a bad place from the government’s perspective.)

-

Meanwhile on the international stage, the UN was mostly silent - as it was for most genocides - because of the Cold War. The British Army was one of the largest bulwarks against the Soviets (especially if they stormed their way through Europe and left the UK by itself), and the country was a major world superpower and a world-spanning empire. 

As the thinking goes: You do not accuse a major economic and defense ally of Genocide, especially if they actually did it - because then they won’t be allies with you. 

In fairness to the UN, they did clandestinely fund hundreds of different locomotive extraction operations from the 1960s to present day, so it wasn’t like they did nothing, but they had to give the outward appearance of that to keep the Brits from having massive social upheaval. 

That was the other problem - it was determined that there was a non-zero chance of a revolution level event if the British Public found out that they’d been complicit to a genocide. In order to keep things stable, the UN didn’t push. 

This period of mild détente continued all the way through the 1980s, when Operation Smash Hit happened. I’m writing a longer story just on this, but the short version is that shit hit the fan on an international stage, and the UK Government responded by putting a blanket D-Notice over everything related to OSH and the subject of locomotive rights in general. 

This held all the way into the mid-2000s, when a couple of things started to happen: 

9/11 happened, and some of our strongest partners in peace/commerce became countries with awful human rights records like Saudi Arabia and Russia. The Locomotive Genocide by this point was 30+ years in the past, so the horror was somewhat removed by then, and Britain was seen as comparatively innocent. 

The EU finally managed to slip some locomotive specific legislation into law, and basically added a 300% tax on scrap locomotive parts. This killed the locomotive scrap industry in the UK, and means that most locomotives withdrawn since 2005ish have just sat around on out-of-use lines instead of being killed. 

  The recession happened, and used locomotive exports became a profitable business during 2009-2010, as out-of-use locomotives were sent away to be “scrapped” in Albania and Greece. (The UN paid the scrap merchants for their trouble and the Albanian and Greek state railways got new locomotives for a lot less.)

The last 2 points basically made it seem a lot better for British Locomotives, as they weren’t likely to be killed in the name of the economy, which has settled many of the worries held on an international stage. The rise of the internet has slowly built awareness within the United Kingdom, but nothing has yet happened, as there’s 200+ years of cultural inertia working against locomotives within the UK. It might happen soon, but soon is a very long time to wait.  

[potteresque-ire]

Is Cho Chang a racist stereotype? [1] - Her Name

Long post. My thoughts are under the cut.

I won’t discuss JKR because it isn’t the point of this post. All I’d like to talk about is whether it’s fair to call Cho Chang a racist stereotype. 

My short answer is no.

Critics of the portrayal of Cho Chang have often focused on her name, claiming that her name couldn’t have been of Chinese origin. They’ve also claimed that her name was made lazily (or worse) to sound like “Ching Chong”, which has been how some Westerners have made fun of Chinese.

So I’ll start there. I’ll also use Katie Leung as an example. I’ll also assume here her surname is Cho, which is very unlikely—but because “Cho” has always been the more controversial character and is, indeed, the more difficult one to romanize into English, I'll consider the possibility that it is Cho Chang’s surname (see bottom for a link to a post about the more likely scenario that “Chang” is, instead). 

If Cho Chang, like Katie, comes from a Hong Kong Cantonese-speaking family, “Cho” would’ve been a phonetically-perfect romanisation of her surname if her surname is 曹. Not only that, but she’d also have had a common romanisation of her surname—not an outlier at all.

If you wonder, why didn’t I simply say Cho Chang’s last name is 曹? This is because no one can say what someone’s actual Chinese surname is by its English form alone. Please remember: the English version of Chinese surnames is only an approximation, a courtesy for those who don’t speak the language. It’s not a substitute for the real thing. For one, Chinese a tonal language and the tone is lost in romanisation, so several distinct surnames may end up sharing one romanisation. Cho isn’t Cho Chang’s last name. Her last name is the character in whichever language and dialect her surname was given.

There are many ways to romanise a Chinese surname. The allegation that Cho cannot be a Chinese surname is true if people consider only one of them, the Pinyin system currently used in Mainland China.

Pinyin is a relatively new system, developed in the 1950s by the Chinese Communist Government. It romanises only mandarin Chinese, and it is a replacement. The Wade-Giles system, developed in the 19th century, is still favoured among the Taiwanese populace. Tsai Ing-Wen, the romanized name of the current Taiwanese president, for example, would’ve been spelled Cai Ying-Wen in Pinyin. Taiwan’s continual use of the Wade-Giles system is not just a matter of habit; it signifies defiance against Communist China and is culturally and politically significant. (Taiwan is a democratic island nation off South China’s coast.). 

The surname 卓 has a Wade-Giles romanization of Ch’o. Since most people drop the apostrophe in names, Miss Cho could’ve been a Miss 卓 as well, if her family had immigrated from Taiwan.

Meanwhile, non-Mandarin dialects have their own romanisations. This expands the possibility that “Cho” can be a Chinese surname by an ... innumerable fold. Some dialects have official romanisations, but often, the most commonly used romanisations are developed by the dialect’s speakers over time, the spellings uniformized over the years for the ease of communication and not necessarily for phonetic accuracy. Katie’s last name, Leung (梁), is the agreed-upon Hong Kong Cantonese spelling for what is Liang in Pinyin, and Loeng in official Cantonese romanisation. There are also folks who don’t adhere to any romanisation conventions, official or popular, which adds another whole collection of potential romanizations. They’re under no obligations to conform either. Again: our real name is in our own language, our own dialect.

Further compounding the complexity of romanisation is the sheer diversity of how any surname can be pronounced. Chinese dialects are snapshots of the language over thousands of years, with some carrying more influence from nearby ethnic languages than the others. 梁, or Leung, or Liang, or Loeng, is often spelled Niu among Hokkienese-speaking populations. Yes. Niu. It sounds as different as it looks.

(I shall skip the part about how each dialect is further split into multiple sub-dialects that may be so different that they cannot communicate with each other.)

(This is the thing about ancient civilizations.)

The summary, so far, is this: 1) Cho is an in-use, perfectly legitimate romanized Chinese surname and 2) given the diversity of Chinese dialects and their romanization methods (and surnames available), it’d take a healthy dose of (over-)confidence for anyone to claim that any romanized, single-syllable surname like Cho (or Chang) cannot be Chinese.

You may ask then—but why have I been pointing to these small places? Mainland China is much more populous, what is the chance that a name like Cho Chang was from anywhere else? And most Mainland Chinese uses the pinyin system, right?

These are fair questions! But as it turns out, the chance is actually not insignificant at all at the time the HP books are written. Between the start of Communist China in 1949 and the 1980s, it was very difficult for Mainland Chinese to travel and emigrate to the West (and fraternize with the “Evil Imperialists”). Those who did were mostly from the coastal provinces Canton (Guangdong) and Fujian, which spoke Cantonese and Hokkienese respectively. The Mandarin-speaking, Pinyin-using Chinese population didn’t truly take off in the West until the mid or late 90s, after China’s socialist market economy had been in place for almost two decades and its citizens had finally accrued sufficient wealth for leisure. Most Chinatowns and other older Chinese communities in the UK and the US had remained Cantonese speaking until then. A large Cantonese-speaking population also immigrated to the UK from Hong Kong in the 1980s to escape the city’s imminent handover to China (Hong Kong was then a British colony).

A factoid before I leave this topic: many may have noticed the “Ching Chong” pronunciation doesn’t match up well with Mandarin Chinese and perhaps, this is why people think of this phrase as a gross misrepresentation of the language. Mandarin Chinese, which is derived from the local dialect surrounding Beijing, is indeed different, velvety smooth and rolls off the tongue. But “Ching Chong”’s heavier sounds are characteristic of Cantonese, which, because of early trading between the Canton province and the West, could’ve made the very first impressions of what Chinese sounded like. To put it another way, it’s not as “off” as many may assume. For example, if I say “clear the inventory”, or “清倉“ in Cantonese, it sounds almost exactly the same as “Ching Chong”. Why do I mention that? Because Cantonese is a dialect that, despite its illustrious history (it’s a snapshot of the Qin dynasty language from 2000 years ago), is also one that the Chinese government has been trying to wipe out. Too many revolutionaries have spoken it. One of its supposed crime is it sounds uncivilized. Barbaric. Like, perhaps, how some of you have felt about “Ching Chong”.

I understand that few if any who’ve said this meant any harm, but please think about that before you tell someone that any Chinese that sounds similar to “Ching Chong” is bad. 

Anyway, I’d close with this: in the 90s and in London’s ... or perhaps Glasgow’s Chinatown, one would probably see a wild mix of English names, of immigrants who spoke different dialects and chose different methods of romanization, if they chose one at all. No one would’ve bet an eye on the name “Cho Chang”. Instead, they’d ask its owner, “Do you speak Chinese?” and if the answer was affirmative, ask how you write the surname and name character in Chinese.

And Cho Chang would make her name, her real name, known.

ETA: For the far more likely scenario that Chang was the surname and its list of possible Chinese surnames, please read here.

[mayfriend-archive]

Totally understand if you're not up for it and fully recognize the ronald mcdonald dom/sub anon vibes which is an AMAZING post btw but like...now i'm curious, what the hell did Lord of the Flies anon DO that got him blocked for the discourse? like...i just can't wrap my head around high school lit being...uh...that inflammatory i guess?

Okay so, I'll start by saying I've had a new anon from apparently the same anon saying they are NOT the person I blocked, just a rando making the same points, but I'll answer your question anyway just to set out why this person in particular got blocked, out of the several thousand who reblogged/commented on that very successful addition to the LoTF post I made.

First off, I added the 'real life Lord of the Flies' story because I thought it was a good story. I had read about it only a couple days beforehand in Humankind and, after reading out the entire chapter to my parents who weren't very interested, I was excited that there was not only a post where it would be relevant to post, but that I wouldn't be hijacking it, as it was already rejecting the widespread interpretation taught in many schools, that humanity is inherently savage.

When making the addition, I a) did not think it would get more than a couple reblogs, because the post was already at 50k notes and I figured anyone that might be interested would already have seen it, and b) I did not know the very specific context that prompted William Golding to write the book; all I knew was that he had been a teacher at a public school (basically, the poshest schools in the country - think Eton, Harrow, very 'old money' places that pump out Conservative politicians by the bucket-load 🤢) who hated his job and the boys he taught (which, valid), and new information I'd been given in Humankind - that Golding had said to his wife one day, "Wouldn't it be a good idea to write a story about some boys on an island, showing how they would really behave?" - which had no mention of The Coral Island by R. M. Ballantyne, which I have since learned was the text that Golding loathed enough to write an entire novel in refutation of - and included what I considered a very telling letter from Golding to his publisher, in which Golding wrote of his belief that 'even if we start with a clean slate, our nature compels us to make a muck of it.' Another Golding quote that I believe portrays his belief in humanity's 'innate savagery' is that "man produces evil as a bee produces honey."

Obviously, the author of a book putting forward the case for humanity's inherent goodness was going to oppose Golding's hypothesis; Bregman not only noted Golding's literary accomplishments and beliefs, but his personal life.

When I began delving into the author's life, I learned what an unhappy individual he'd been. An alcoholic. Prone to depression. A man who, as a teacher, once divided his pupils into gangs and encouraged them to attack each other. "I have always understood the Nazis," Golding confessed, "because I am of that sort by nature." (Humankind by Rutger Bregman, p. 24-25)

I have bolded the part about him as a teacher, because it is incredibly relevant to the original post that I commented on, which begins with a comic of a teacher locking her class in to see them 'recreate' Lord of the Flies, something which the follow up comments before mine staunchly reject as both misunderstanding the point of the book, and the fact that it took the kids in Lord of the Flies a significant amount of time without adult supervision to go 'savage'. This misreading of the text is widespread enough that when Golding won the Nobel Prize for Lord of the Flies, the Swedish Nobel committee wrote that his book 'illuminate[s] the human condition in the world of today'. Whether or not they misread it is beyond my expertise - they do at least mention the factors of the outside world neglected by many when analysing the book, but still seem to believe it says something about human nature as a whole rather than just, to quote thedarkbutbeige 'British kids being rat bastards' - but Golding quite happily took his Nobel prize on this basis. Which, in fairness, I would too. It's a fucking Nobel prize.

It was with this knowledge, and this knowledge alone, that I stated in my now very, very widely read comment that Golding 'wrote the book to be a dick', in response to the tags of the person I reblogged from. As I said, I now know that Golding did not write the book (solely) because he hated the kids he taught, but as a response to The Coral Island and the general idea that clearly the British were inherently civilsed, whilst the people they colonised and enslaved were inherently savage. So. That's the background.

The anon - or rather, the person I thought was anon - was the sole exception out of dozens of replies, who instead of telling me about The Coral Island politely decided it was time to go ALL CAPS and regurgitate points already made by thespaceshipoftheseus, and implied that the only reason that the real life Tongan castaways didn't go all Lord of the Flies was because they weren't British. Not because they weren't surrounded by violence like the boys in Lord of the Flies, or there wasn't a World War ongoing, or that they weren't the upper, upper, upper crust of a class-obsessed society like Britain - but because they weren't British. A complete inversion of the concept that Golding was trying to get across - now, instead of all of humanity being equally prone to savagery in the right conditions, it was solely nationality that determined it. As in, the British were inherently savage, but nobody else was.

I, trying for humour, made the terrible mistake of replying to them.

I won't lie, I was absolutely blown away that this was real life. What I think they were trying to do was be that Cool Tumblr Person who, after somebody's been shitty on a post, goes to their blog and sees something Damning in their about/description. In an ideal world, I imagine I'd have gone nuts or done something Unforgiveable. In what I can only call the rant that followed, they stated several times that I needed to go back to high school to get some 'proper literary analysis' skills and that the story of the Tongan castaways was completely unrelated to the point at hand which. I mean, I disagree, considering that I made the addition, but I couldn't get my head around how commenting on a post that was already rejecting the thesis that the 'point' of Lord of the Flies was that humanity was inherently savage and was, in fact, about how kids - British or otherwise - learn how to function from the adults around them, and that traumatised, terrified children aren't going to create a mini-Utopia, and put forward a real life example of how without the key additions of an ongoing world war, a colonial Empire and the subsequent mindset of thinking you are 'inherently civilised' and therefore can't do anything wrong, actually, people just want to take care of each other.

A friend has since asked me why I even have 'england' in my description. To be honest, it's a timezone thing - I talk to a lot of people online who don't share my timezone, and it generally makes me feel like if I don't reply immediately because it's 3am, they have the tools to see that I'm not in their timezone and not just ignoring them. I did consider changing it to 'british' or 'uk' after it was... 'used against me', I guess, simply because I didn't want to deal with it, but you know what. No. Not gonna do that. I am from England, and I have never hid that fact. I have a tag called 'uk politics', during Eurovision I refer to the UK's act as 'us' (even if I really, really don't want to. Because James Newman slaughtered that song and it was downright embarrassing), I regularly post stuff in my personal tag about where I live (and mostly complain about this piece of shit government). If people really think my nationality makes every point I make null and void, then they don't have to follow me or interact with my posts; tumblr is big, and I am one medium-small blog very easily passed over.

I did reply to them, trying to explain the above, but their next response really just doubled down. Because I used the word British instead of English - foolishly because the posts above mine focused on Britishness, and also because although Golding was English and taught English kids, the pro-Imperialism author of The Coral Island, R. M. Bannatyne was actually Scottish so, ding ding ding, falls into the 'British' category - they then decided that I was somehow trying to pretend I wasn't English and made all the same points, before ending with this doozy:

At this point, I knew there was nothing to be gained from replying, because if we're whipping out conditions like they're pokemon cards then there's no actual conversation anymore, and I'm not going to start mudslinging like an identity politician. They made up their mind, and I figured there could be no harm in letting them think that they 'won' by blocking them instead of replying.

Until the ask. INNATE ENGLISH SAVAGERY did, I'll admit, make me think it was them, back again. I even thought up a really good response approximately 12 hours after I replied, I was that sure. Until the second message came in, and said they were just someone who came from the post and made the same point by chance. So the saga draws to a close... for now.

It may have been them, it may not have been - the anon feature makes it impossible to be sure, but as the second message I got said, we're in a heatwave. It's too hot to argue. And I've just written a goddamn essay about a book I dislike anyway.

My pasty English ass is going to go melt. If there's Disk Horse, do not tell me. I am Done™

[theinvisibledreamergirl]

The Grinch Girl

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC (Klaw Craig)

Warning: Nope only fluff content and bits of sadness.

Word count: ~2.3 k

A.N: Hello again folks! Did you miss me? Well this fic came out unexpectedly and wasn’t even planned lol. But I hope you enjoy this and Merry Christmas! And I know you’re impatiently waiting for Part 6 of my OH AU 1 but still is in progress. THIS IS MY FIRST STAND-ALONE FIC EVER OMG AND I’M REALLY NERVOUSSSS.

———————————————————————

Basically from all of the staff of Edenbrook Hospital there was a certain someone who didn't like Christmas as everyone else- Dr. Klaudia Craig. This wasn't something new for everyone because they knew she detested it.

She was occupying herself with lots of different cases in order to escape from the festive moments and the cheering voices of her colleagues ready to decorate the Infamous Christmas Tree.

At least that's what she thought.

She wasn't into the winter holidays or any kind of other holidays. Maybe she was a Grinch but as much as she had information about him it was completely another history- he hated people but not Christmas. Whereas she hated both of them.

Klaw didn't have any particular reason to be angry with anyone but she couldn't bare the fact to be involved in such kind of parties. Lousy and noisy people were always a migraine for her and would drink two strong pills in a day at least saving from that horrible sinusitis.

Her free times would always consist of reading books or scientific researches on internet for new developments in oncology surgery as she was eager to see the latest news. Furthermore she would watch BBC every time when the British Government released new announcements about the future of the country whom she dearly missed it. Maybe for others it was such a granny thing but for her was the best cure.

And as for today she was stepping into the corridors seeing the nurses chirping and decorating the railways and doors in which she let an exasperated sigh while shaking her head.

Why do they like them so much? It's completely nonsense. All of that glitter. Everyone seems so happy but I'm sure this is a façade.

Well clearly from her point of view it was maybe a façade but actually everyone was happy and was enjoying at its fullest. And that's why she hated it.

She never got to celebrate any holidays with her family as they have been always busy in their works and didn't pay too much attention on how this would reflect on their daughter's character in the future. They would always justify their lateness in house because of the "duty". God she thought that word would never get out of her mind.

When one of her patients asked her to do the Gingerbread House together she stared blankly as she had no idea what was this thing and she immediately regretted her lie to the kid.

Oh yeah of course I'll help you but until i finish my shift alright?

The little girl was smart and understood that she wasn't telling the truth and aside from that she could tell that the doctor standing opposite her wasn't even pleased about it and she let a mischievous smirk.

"You don't know what Gingerbread is, don't you?"

The doctor gulped hardly as ever. The patient saw her hesitation and asked sincerely.

"Don't worry I'll ask someone else but can I ask you why don't you know about the Gingerbread?"

"Mary, I think you need to rest now after your long surgery, right?"

"Got it doc."

With that she trailed off furiously as she didn't want to awake again that memory.

She hated herself.

She didn't want to be like this.

Harsh.

Cold demeanor.

Selfish.

And afraid to be happy.

When she went to the elevator she heard Sienna calling from behind.

“Hey Klaw!"

Oh god please don’t tell me she’s going to invite me to that party.

"Hi Sienna, how you've been?"

"Perfect! May I say everything is going to be awesome and I can't wait to celebrate with all of us in our apartment! You'll come too, right?"

God she wanted so bad to celebrate. But her logical answer was always ahead of what heart truly wanted. You can say without fear that she was an introverted ass.

"Uhm actually I won't."

Sienna's smile immediately faltered and shook her head in confusion. "Why?” Before Klaw could explain herself she abruptly said “Look If you're worried about those scumbag surgical residents, don't worry we won't invite them. And also-"

"Sienna it's not about them. It's just..."

"Just what?"

I don't celebrate Christmas Eve and I don’t have any intention to because I just simply hate it.

“It’s about patients Si and we have lot of work to do especially Dr. Ramsey won’t let me to finish the shift that easy so I’m leaving-”

“Not so fast gorgeous." a sing-along voice stopped her. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Oh, Bryce." She put a plastered smile while laughing nervously. As always. "Uhm, well I have to go to a patient now heh."

"Tsk. I don’t believe any single thing what you’re saying girlie.”

She wanted to seem so believable but this time was out of her luck. Before she would protest again he interrupted.

"Come on Klaw. We already know you've been working your ass since five in the morning and you haven't even eaten anything today needless to say- you haven't even wished us for Christmas."

"Oh really?" He nodded "Well- Merry Christmas Bryce!"

He frowned in confusion and was crooking his eyes in suspicion as she sounded differently from usual. Something was wrong and he was about to ask her again when he heard that annoying voice.

"Rookie!" Klaw's eyes widened but in the meantime she thanked him in silence for saving her.

"In my office."

"Yes Dr. Ramsey."

With that she excused herself to Sienna and Bryce who stayed mouth agape and Sienna was finally the one to break the silence.

"So...Plan A and B are ruined right?"

"Yeah" he slid from his pocket the phone in which he called a number. "Jackie." He let a defeated sigh. "Tell the others we need a plan C. That old man Ramsey destroyed everything."

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

When the elevator reached the 3rd floor Ethan guided Klaw to his office gently pushing the door for her to enter first. They made an arrangement before she started her residency- to remain professional but her gut feeling told that something not good was about to happen.

What was weird was the fact that the lights of his office weren't turned on but only those of his little Christmas Tree. She rolled her eyes annoyingly.

Great. Now I have to deal with another Christmas enthusiast.

He saw her expression and when she turned as if questioning, he gave her a rueful smile. "Please sit."

She did as he said raising her left eyebrow. "So? What is the reason you called me?"

"Simple. I want to find a treatment for a patient whose brain is not functioning as usual." He said ironically which she didn't get it.

"What are her symptoms?"

Even though it was not an usual question he would ask as every time- she was ready to show her high diagnostics knowledge despite being a surgeon.

"It's a difficult case and a rare one. I'm not sure if you're going to handle it."

"There's nothing I can't handle Dr. Ramsey." She said while raising her head in confidence. "Remember what you said to me in my intern year? When there isn't a path, you make your own."

"Fair well. This girl is about 5 years old and she doesn't celebrate Christmas because she hates it. What do you think we should do?"

"What? I don't-" Then it all clicked.

It was about her.

"You too?" She scoffed in disbelief while standing up "I really can't believe this!"

When she was reaching the door handle a strong grip on her waist held her in place and growled in her left ear that made her shivered. "You're not going anywhere!"

"What happened with being professional Dr. Ramsey huh?"

He shut his eyes and inhaled sharply. "Please. Tell me what's wrong. I know that you're worried about something."

"You don't deserve to know anything!" With that she kicked his crotch with her left knee letting herself free from him. That self-defense instinct she had- it was going to be the death of him one day.

"And you don't tell me what should I do!"

"Is that so Dr. Craig? Remember that I'm your boss."

"Ouch. So scary. What are you going to do then? Pin me to the wall?" She let out a weary chuckle "Remember Ramsey- I'm not going to play hot and cold game again with you because I've had enough! And don't even try to do the victim's face here 'cause you know that it's your fault that we're in this position now!"

She was the most infuriating woman he had ever met in his life and maybe this was the reason why he wanted her so badly. Her gorgeous face etched to his mind every night before sleep. When she was always angry she looked like a goddess to him no matter how and he would bow down just for her. One word or only one action from her and he was her slave.

"What happened Dr. Ramsey? Cat got your tongue?" said in a sing-along voice and when he didn't answer she wanted to use the opportunity to leave but his eyes were trailing her full parted lips.

No. No. No. Don't let him kiss you Klaw. Just don't.

But his actions were faster than she thought and her fear came to life. He kissed her such gently that made her cheeks blush enough to stop arguing. When they parted Ethan set both of his hands to her face trailing her cheekbones and temples saying in a soothing voice.

"Now, will you tell me what is going on with your cold behaviour?"

She nodded forgetting everything in what they agreed on. Maybe she would regret it later but it seemed that she didn't care for now.

---------

"So that's why I hate it. I mean I don't want to hate Christmas. It's just I don't want to leave the impression to the others that I hate holidays. I don't want to look like Grinch but still...Ughh I don't know.” she placed her palms in her temples. “I feel such in shame now like I don't even know what Gingerbread is!"

"Why haven't you searched on the internet before?"

"Well this is the case. I've never shown interest in it. The only thing that I would search were always something about science in general and projects for school. And I've never received Christmas gifts before which makes me well-" the last words she said almost in a whisper. "- not appreciated person."

Ethan could see himself in her somehow. After his mother left he didn't want to celebrate Christmas anymore as that day was one of the worst of his life. But his father Alan insisted that his son should see his future and letting that pain to go by every year celebrating and reminding him to be a strong man just like now. Whereas for Klaw he felt his jaw clenched in frustration when her parents now that they weren’t anymore never celebrated and not even letting her to go at least at her best friend's house.

"Do you think I'm a Grinch Girl, Ethan?"

When she called him in his first name he felt his chest warming as she was slowly becoming more openly to him.

"No." He said without hesitation. "It's clearly that you were raised like this and you should not blame yourself for that. You're not the only one who doesn't celebrate Christmas Eve. There are many people who don't even know what Christmas is so-" he put a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. "No, you're not a Grinch but...A grumpy one may I- agh!" he winced when she pinched his arm then smacked it furiously.

"That hurt."

"You deserved that."

"Seriously? I'm trying to understand you whereas-" she cut him off guard with another kiss but on his cheeks instead.

"Thank you. For always being nice to me."

"Hey, you know I would do everything for you?"

"Yeah, I know. But what am I going to do now?"

"First things first" he stood up from the couch where they were staying "You're going to say to everyone who you meet the magic words: 'Merry Christmas!'"

He chuckled when she let a groan. "And then you're going to pick some gifts in the shop for your friends because this is the value of this holiday- sharing is caring. And about gifts-"

He went to his drawer of his white wooden-metallic desk to reveal an object packed in a rectangular shape with a white strap.

"Wait is that-?"

"Yes it's for you". She stared at him. "Open it."

She took it hesitating at first because this was the first gift ever someone made especially for her and was fidgeting her fingers not knowing where to start because she didn't want to ruin the way how beautifully it was packed.

When she let go of the strap she gasped when there was an old book of Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Grey and there were two milk chocolates Fin Carré which was her favourite flavour and a little card were was written:

I'm sorry for being an asshole.

Merry Christmas Rookie!

E.R

"So...uhm do you like it?" He scratched the back of his neck nervously. " I know you're a bookworm and I remembered that Oscar Wilde was the only Irish author whom you didn't read so I went to the National Library and asked if there was still an old copy of it and luckily it was the last one."

She immediately left the gift in his couch and pressed a lingering kiss on his lips and said in a whisper while tearing up "Merry Christmas Ethan. And I'm sorry too for being grumpy and harsh to you."

"You don't have to apologise to me. Your friends and your patient Mary need to hear this. Okay?"

"Okay. Seni seviyorum. [ I love you ] “

“Uhm what?”

She giggled “I’ll tell you when the year ends.”

“But-”

“A girl has to keep some secrets, right?” said when she opened the door and left contently with it.

For the first time in her life Dr. Klaudia Craig felt a radiation coming through her body.

She was happy and grateful.

P.S: The words ‘seni seviyorum’ come from Turkish language. And no- my MC is not Turkish but British lol. She is a polyglot that’s why.

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if anyone else wants to be tagged please let me know! xoxo

[barbariccia]

Do you have a few minutes to talk, one-on-one?

ash’s been facetiming with her sisters at home, wherever home is for her family right now. we get the chance to overhear her sister saying that she saw kaidan in a news vid and that he’s cute, to which we get to raise our eyebrows... unless you’re playing a maleshep, in which case her sister says that you’re the one who’s cute. (naturally, this is the starter for the ashley romance for a mshep.)

ash herself doesn’t think kaidan’s cute - or at the very least, she’s not sweet on him, so we take the chance to ask about her family instead.

Shepard: Did your father serve with the fleet?

Ashley: Yeah. Took any crap posting he could get that offered space time. He worked his ass off trying to get recognised. But he never got above Serviceman Third Class. He was real proud when I made Chief. First thing he did was salute.

Shepard: What about your mother? You haven’t mentioned her.

Ashley: You must know what military wives are like. Strong because they have to be. Able to raise kids while Dad’s away on a six-month cruise. She has a degree in planetary geology. She and Dad both wanted to see new worlds. She gave up her career to raise us, though.

innocuous enough, but it stands out to me that ash’s family is all still hale and healthy. maybe that’s just a byproduct of the final fantasy franchise, where i’ve gotten used to a 99.99% rate of at least one parental death for characters within the series (as an aside, if you can tell me one character who has both parents alive other than zack fair, i’ll publicly endorse you for whatever role you want to lead), but also within the normandy so far. the rest of our crew has either committed patricide, is estranged from one parental unit, or just straight up hasn’t mentioned one or both of them, so a full family unit isn’t exactly something to be sniffed at.

on its own, i don’t need to highlight the parentification that ashley’s been party to for her whole life - she mentions she’s the eldest of four sisters, with the youngest still being in high school. and ash is only 25! she’s had to have worked her absolute ass off to attain that kind of position and be relied on by her parents to help with the other kids, and i just... i respect ashley so much. let’s not forget that first contact only occurred the year before she was born. there’s been a lot of change in her life, both as quick as the digital age upon us in the last decade or two, and slow over her years of growing up.

we get to ask about her sisters in more depth; she says her relationship with the youngest, sarah, was rocky for a while up until the point where sarah got a boyfriend that wanted to go further than she did. her other sisters worried as well, and ashley was posted in the same galaxy, but too far away to make it back quickly if something happened.

Shepard: If he really liked her, he wouldn’t be pushy.

i really like her dialogue here, honestly. it’s a real human response of her! ash definitely feels like the most real of the characters aboard the ship, to me - her responses to things are flawed and shitty, but she’s self aware of it to a degree, and she’s not the kind of person that acts black and white, either end of the morality scale. who among us can really say that they’re the pinnacle of human morals? even the best of us have thought things like this before, in varying contexts - even if we don’t verbalise them. doesn’t make us bad people... just human.

sarah’s boyfriend thought he’d try and persuade her into having sex, and sarah herself threw him into a tree and left him then and there. the williams parents had all their daughters learn some kind of self-defense - ash herself was taught hand-to-hand, sarah learned aikido, the second eldest got pistol training, and the third picked up the sword, which is just. utterly hilarious on a galactic scale considering the setting. i think i love the williams family.

Shepard: Didn’t you call the police?

Ashley: [Sarah] said it wouldn’t solve the real problem. And she and Mike would both become household names. It was a small colony. I said it was her call to make. That we should let her do it her way. Mom was pretty pissed about that.

ash took leave to walk her sister to school and back, and on the last day of her leave, the boy in question was waiting after school.

so this SURE IS A STORY,

and that’s the end of the talk about her sisters. it makes me feel fuzzy that these girls - no matter how not real they are - have the presence of mind to deal with an abuser so calmly, but at the same time... leaves me feeling tired. not that i expect humans to ever really change, especially not in only a hundred odd years, but for this setting to be so expansive, for there to be bigger problems and more people around than anyone could ever have dreamed... and yet entitlement and abuse still runs rampant.

this is its own problem within the universe, that despite everything, a female shepard doesn’t quite have the same footing as a male shepard does in certain situations, but i’ll get to those when i get to it. besides... i suppose there are bigger things happening now in the real world than anyone could ever have dreamed of seeing, and petty problems still win out in terms of importance. doesn’t matter how small your problem is if it’s personal.

we’re not done quite yet, though.

Ashley: Dad always wanted to serve in space. But he wanted us to have real ground under our feet. He’d say, “Space is beautiful, but you can’t raise a family there.”

Ashley: “I cannot rest from travel: I will drink life to the lees. All times I have enjoy’d greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those that loved me, and alone. For always roaming with a hungry heart. Much have I seen and known. Cities of men, and manners, climates, councils, governments...”

Ashley: “Ulysses” was Dad’s favourite poem. Every time he shipped out, he recorded me reading it. He had a dozen versions when he retired.

Shepard: Does he still like it?

Ashley: I sure hope so. I read it to his grave every time I go home.

Lord Alfred Tennyson was a well known (and still popularised) British poet, best known for his poems The Charge of the Light Brigade, which i studied at school, and Ulysses. his work is still felt today with phrases that became commonplace from his work, like the lines “tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all”.

the lines ash quotes specifically are about the restlessness of wanderlust and wanting to live life utterly to the fullest, feeling nostalgic for the times when the subject was doing just that, and the full poem continues and ends with the assertion that the speaker’s goal is to continue living life wholeheartedly until the end, and even beyond.

speaking of the beyond-

Ashley: That’s not a problem with you, is it? That I believe in God?

and we reach out to take the hand of yet another utterly fascinating facet of ashley. we’ve seen religion briefly within the game so far - the preaching hanar on the citadel comes immediately to mind - but there’s always been a feeling within sci-fi that because the universe can now be explored that god isn’t real and that things like faith are tossed to the wayside in favour of scientific exploration and discovery, even though in the grand scheme of things people tend... not to behave like that, on the whole. i vastly, enormously appreciate ashley for keeping her faith, and for it to be really not a huge part of her character. at no point is she reduced to any stereotype of character, whether that be “gun-toting god-fearing soldier babe”, or “i am religious therefore i must preach” - it, like other parts of her personality, are only parts that make up a whole and do not define her.

i love ashley. she’s such a good character.

[thesameasbe4]

Harry in London

*Loosely inspired by the British Miniseries The Bodyguard. Cameo appearance by Richard Madden’s streak of gray hair. Explicit language and some sexual references. 

We had passed each other many many times. I think I even spoke a few brief words to him here and there, polite greetings and the like. In this way it was strange then to feel like I had seen him for the first time. “Sarge,” I had heard some of the other security call him. I wasn’t particularly familiar with British Policing but he did seem to be the one that others reported to on our security detail even though he worked along side them.

I was uncomfortable with the idea of personal security at first, unsure why an international consort of social welfare experts needed such a thing, until we encountered our first protest. It turned out that almost every political platform could find a reason to disagree with this initiative. There were complaints about taking British social practicum into the international sphere, disagreements about our inclusion of family planning and safeguards sensitive to immigrant welfare. The list never stopped. A few weeks into our stay we learned that there were also death threats targeted at several of us individually. That was when I first officially met Sergeant Collins. They started the day off by pairing each of us with a personal protection officer who, from that time forward, would be with us from the moment we stepped out of our residences till we returned there in the evenings. The Sergeant had stepped toward me, introducing himself and I did the same in return, putting on a display of politeness but distracted by the work we had yet to do that day.

At lunch, I dragged myself down to the lower floor courtyard, a paper cup of coffee steaming in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. I lowered myself to the ground against the wall, sloshing coffee over my fingers. “Fuck,” I muttered, remembering suddenly that I had a horrid headache. I set the cup down on my right side and tossed the pack of cigarettes down next to them. I wiped my stinging hand on the fabric of my black pants and drew my knees up so that I could rest my head on them for a few moments.

“Are you all right Ma’am?” An emotionless voice said. I looked up, startled that I was not alone as I had thought. The sturdy figure of Sergeant Collins stood in the doorway of the courtyard. I took another deep breath, this one a little more exaggerated than the last and rolled my eyes up at him.

“Yes Sergeant, I’m fine thanks. It’s just been a long day, and it’s not nearly over, ” I said on an exhale. I brought the cup of coffee to my lips and took a heavenly sip of the dark brown liquid. I had the forethought to pack my old dorm coffee pot from so many years ago, anticipating a lack of American style coffee in work spaces, and I had been right. Tea and instant coffee would not get me through these high stress days, and so I brought my own solution, something I was well known for and one of the reasons I had the honor of serving on this initiative. Though I did receive my fair share of ribbing based on my very Southern American preference for black drip coffee.

“Are you allowed to sit while on duty Sergeant?” I asked, inviting him to join me with a nod of my head.

“Sometimes, Ma’am, if it’s appropriate.”

“What would make this an appropriate time for you to sit next to me?” I asked taking another sip of coffee.

“Well Ma’am, firstly if I’m not interfering with your work duties or personal wishes, and secondly if it is advantageous or inconsequential to your physical safety.” I had never heard him string that many words together, and I was startled by the brusk Scottish tone of his voice.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Well we are still within a secure government building and I am inviting you to join me because it’s weird for you to stand over me. Is that sufficient reason for you to join me?”

Interestingly, he cracked a smile at me and then took a few measured steps toward me and lowered himself to the ground. I noticed the special care he took in making sure his fire arm was still safely holstered in the belt at his waist. He kept a professional distance between us, but it was the closest we had ever been to one another besides the few times he held car doors open for me.

I studied his form. From far away all of the PPOs looked put together and slick, but up close he looked uncomfortable and lumpy. He wore a well tailored suit, but there was an intercom wire attached to his collar and threaded down the back of his shirt and clipped onto his trousers. He also had an ear piece in the left ear, which was closest to me. His chest was unusually stiff and wide, which led me to assume he had a bullet proof vest under his crisp white collared shirt.

“Want a smoke? I asked, offering him the pack.” He shook his head.

“No thank you, Ma’am.” So I dropped the pack again. Instead I held out my hand to him.

“Lucy, I’d rather you call me Lucy, at least when we are alone,” I said to him. Hesitating only for a moment, he took the hand I offered and shook it twice firmly.

“Harry,” he replied. Our movements stirred the air just a bit and the faintly masculine scent of old spice teased my nostrils. I turned to face forward again so that I wouldn’t stare too hard at him. I had assumed that he was middle aged because he was the Sergeant, but up close he appeared to be in his early thirties. “Don’t let me interrupt you Ma’am, go and have your smoke.”

“I don’t smoke,” I replied and we both fell silent.

Finishing my cup of coffee, I rose and dusted myself off as I waited for Sergeant Collins to check the door and open it for me.

The day faded to late afternoon and then into early evening. Much of the day had been set aside for meetings and I was throughly spent. Our final decisions were made for the day around six and I was already thinking about what I would make for dinner and coaxing myself into believing that I had enough energy for a short workout as well.

As we filed out of the conference room I sought the dark shape of Sergeant Collins amidst the line up of PPOs. He nodded to me and stayed where he was, patiently waiting for the halls to clear before moving toward me.

“You mind if we take the stairs instead of the lift?” I asked. He spoke a few words into his collar and then waited while I assumed someone was responding through the receiver in his ear. I was about to interject that if it was any trouble we could just take the lift, but he nodded in assent and we headed the opposite way down the hall from the cluster waiting for their turn down to the ground floor.

I was itching to get some of the wiggles out after being seated for so long and I relished the faint strains on my quads as we made our way down the five flights of stairs. It is hard to explain what happened next, my brain recalls only fragments of it at a time. I remember bursting out of the stairwell and into the building lobby slightly out of breath and then being tackled by a huge mass behind me. I hit the ground hard, slamming my jaw on the tile floor and I felt my knee pop. All around me there was a deafening noise and an abrupt wave of heat followed by screams and the hectic whining of the fire alarms.

“Lucy… Lucy!” I heard in my ear, “can you hear me?” I nodded, realizing that the heavy weight on top of me was Sergeant Collins. “Stay here, don’t move at all, I am going to assess the situation and then come back for you. I won’t be long.” I felt the weight shift and then lighten as he rolled off of me and staggered to his feet.

I stayed there, inhaling thick smoke, systematically wiggling each of my body parts. As far as I could tell I was in one piece.

A few moments later a strong hand reached down and grabbed my arm. Startled, I tried to wriggle out of the grip. “It’s me Ma’am,” Harrys voice cut through the smoke and alarm bells. “Come, there is a car waiting out the back entrance. Can you stand?” I scrambled to my feet, wincing at a sharp pain in my knee but gritted my teeth and allowed the Sergeant to guide me back into the stairwell and through a series of emergency exit doors. Hesitating just inside the final door, Sgt. Collins spoke into his collar, waiting for some kind of signal before he stepped out into the fresh air. From my vantage point behind the Sergeant I was still able to see a black SUV pull up and brake hard a few meters away from our exit. As it halted abruptly, the back door swung open and another PPO got out and made a signal in our direction. Sgt. Collins gripped my arm and ushered me out into the cool air. We walked quickly to the vehicle and I climbed in, Sargent Collins following me into the back seat.

“Ma’am,” a sturdy female voice caught my attention from the driver seat, “have you any need for emergency medical assistance?” I blinked a few times, unsure of what to say.

“Um, I don’t think so. I’m a little battered but I don’t think I’ve got anything major thats wrong.”

“In that case, we will drop you off at your safe house. A detail has been sent to screen your belongings for hazards and then they will be brought to you at your new location.” I nodded, unsure of how one was supposed to react in a situation like this. “Sometimes you don't notice you are hurt until the shock wears off,” she continued, “Sergeant Collins has the appropriate training to treat any minor injuries you may discover you have and a trip to the doctor can be arranged for tonight or tomorrow if that becomes necessary.”

The rest of the ride was quiet. I had no idea where we were, although I was still unfamiliar with London in general. Finally the vehicle glided to a stop and Sgt. Collins stepped out and held the door for me. It was now too dark to see anything and there were no lights on the outside of house, just the headlights from the SUV. Collins stopped me at the front door and he proceeded to check each room, shouting “clear,” as he finished his inspection of each one. Finally he returned to the front door. “Ma’am, it is safe for you to go in now. I will be waiting here with you at least for the time being. Would you prefer it if we arranged for a female officer to stay with you over night?”

“Um, no, I trust you, it is fine, I just want to be as little trouble as I can,” I replied hearing an unfamiliar tremor in my voice. Sergeant moved aside, allowing me access to the interior of the house. I wandered through the little rooms without much purpose while the two PPOs spoke quietly to each other on the front stoop.

I managed to find a few light switches and flipped them on. There was a kitchen and dining room all in one with a sitting area just beyond and a short hallway that  I gathered led to a bedroom. I went to the dining table and pulled out a wooden chair and sat down. In the light I noticed that I had little scratches all over my arms and my  clothes had small holes in them. There wasn’t a lot of blood but there was enough that I felt my hands tremble as I felt around, trying to locate the source of it.

I didn’t notice that Harry had come into the house till he pulled out a second dining chair and sat across from me. His clothes were torn similarly to mine, and I could see that he had a nice sized cut on his eyebrow. “You’ve got a few cuts on your face,” he said to me. “May I bandage them?”

“What happened?” I asked, ignoring his question.

He sighed and leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Someone detonated a bomb.” Pausing, he looked at me, waiting for my response. I had assumed as much, I mean, I had heard it, felt the blast, if just the very outer bit. So I returned his gaze, though I suspected my eyes were a bit harder than his. “I don’t have many details, I expect you will be debriefed in the morning.” He sat back, sighing.

“What do you think though?” I asked. He shifted, pulling at his shirt like he was just noticing the warmth of the room.

“I can’t confir-“

“I know,” I cut him off, “but what do you think?”

He was silent for a moment, meeting my cold stare again before he finally replied. “I think if they wanted all of you dead you would be.” He stood and turned his back on me, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a bottle of brown liquid. From the drying rack he took two glasses and poured a little liquid into each of them. “This was hate mail, not attempted assassination.” He placed a glass on the table in front of me. I picked it up gingerly, half expecting it to blow up in my face as well.

“So what happens next?” I asked quietly. The Sergeant let out a sigh and met my gaze as he downed the contents of his glass. Closing my eyes for just a moment, I did the same.

We remained silent as he then proceeded to inspect my injuries. Though I insisted I was uninjured, as my shock faded, it was replaced by a dull ache in my jaw and a sharp pain in my knee any time I tried to put weight on it. He stuck a few bandaids on my face and gave me some paracetamol which I washed down with another shot of whiskey. He showed me the bathroom and the spare clothes already laid out in the bedroom.

“What about you?” I asked stopping him in the doorway of the small bathroom.

“Ma’am?”

“Lucy, please,” I said without thinking. He looked straight ahead, just over my hairline, as if that mask of professionalism would erase the intimacy of our now entangled reality. “You are bleeding, may I clean your cuts?” I stared at his face, willing him to look at me. Finally he looked down and met my gaze, his eyes softened.

“Thank you, Lucy.” So we returned to the kitchen where the first aid kit still lay open on the table. He sat down as he had before and I fumbled with an alcohol swab determined to stop my hands from shaking. I could feel him watching me and my frustration grew as hot wet tears squeezed out of my eyes unbidden and unnecessary.

And then his warm hands were covering mine, stilling them. His touch calmed me and I drew in a slow breath. I remembered how far from home I was, how alone, only working and working.

My gaze settled again on the Sergeant, who, I noticed, was still wearing his suit jacket which was badly shredded, since he had weathered most of the impact from the explosion.

“You don’t know me,” I said, my brow creasing as I dabbed at a cut on his forehead.

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Why would you put your life in danger for someone you don’t know?”

“It’s my job.”

“But what about your family?”

“I don’t have any.” I paused my barrage of questions.

“But what if I’m a bad person, you don’t know me. Why would you risk your life for someone you don’t know?”

“It’s my job.”

The tears were flowing freely down my cheeks now. “And if someone was shooting at me, what would you do?”

“I would move you out of the line of fire, using my own body if I had to.”

I let out a sob and I sank to my knees on the ground, he followed. Blinded by the moisture in my eyes I grappled with his jacket, trying to tear it off. “I want to see it,” I spat through my soggy tears. “Let me see your vest.” He had been trying to still my hands, but at this demand he released my wrists and helped me pull off his jacket and held still while I fought with the buttons on his well tailored but now ragged shirt. Finally they were all undone and I couldn’t really recall what it was that I had intended to do, so I placed my hands on the hard surface of his ballistic vest.  It was white and started high up on his chest. I started there, running my fingers over the top seam of the thick material, then I followed it out, to where it ended on his taught shoulder muscles, and then tapered down just below the bottom of his rib cage. I circled my arms around him so that I could feel the back side of it as well. Realizing that I was looking for punctures in the material. I found what I had been dreading close to his left shoulder blade, a shard of glass dug in deep. I pulled and pulled but it wouldn’t come out. Finally I felt his body resisting me and I sat back on my knees.

Not breaking eye contact with me he undid the velcro under each arm and lifted the vest over his head.

I jumped at the knock on the door. “Stay here Ma’am.” Harry said, resuming his professional tone, despite being dressed in only an undershirt and his slacks.

It was the other PPO from earlier arrived with a medic who checked the work that Harry had done on me, providing a knee brace that I should wear when I needed to move around. After that I excused myself and took a long hot shower.

…

I awoke slowly the next morning, my mind fuzzy and my body sore. Shifting uncomfortably in an unfamiliar bed, I slowly recalled the events of the night before. Eventually I thought to check the time but could not locate my phone anywhere. Easing out of bed I searched the unfamiliar room but to no avail. I thought it might be in the kitchen where we had first sat upon arriving, I made for the door but realized just in time that I was dressed only in a large t shirt, no pants and no bra. Turning to face the room again, I saw only my clothes from the night previously strewn about the floor, which were in tatters and covered in blood.

I saw a towel draped over a chair so I grabbed it and wrapped it around me. Tiptoeing down the hall, I made my way to the living room area. Harry was sitting in a lounge chair, looking not at all relaxed as he stared at a tv screen showing footage of a building up in flames. Fascinated by the violence of the black smoke and the red fire, I moved closer. “God, is the building even still standing?” I muttered, and was surprised at how quickly he stood and turned around. I must have been quite a sight, because he relaxed when he saw me standing there pitifully wrapped in a towel still damp from the night before.

“Good Morning,” he said. “Your things were delivered earlier this morning. They are in the kitchen.” I swiveled to see three half full black garbage bags sitting on the kitchen floor. I moved towards them. “You may want to put on something comfortable,” he said to my back, “you can’t go in to work today.” I gave him no sign I had heard what he said, but I rummaged through my now rumpled clothes and came out with a pair of dark wash jeans and a light knit sweater.

I returned to the bedroom to make myself presentable. I peered into the floor length mirror and frowned. The left side of my face looked like I had been sprayed with brown paint from the micro cuts that had sliced into my skin. I also had a growing dark splotch under my right eye which I expected would bloom into a full on shiner by the end of the day. My shoulder length black hair was frizzy and knotted, but I didn’t know where my brush was so I ran my fingers through it a few times before giving up, not wanting to look at my damaged face anymore.

Harry had said I couldn’t go to work today, so I suspected the next best thing to do was to make coffee. I nosed around in the kitchen, unsurprised to find that there was no coffee maker, just a kettle and a half of a tin of brittle brown pebbles. Happy to grumble about something normal, I set the kettle to boil and located the cupboard of mugs. As I waited I recalled that I had originally come out to look for my phone.

“Sergeant, have you seen my phone lying anywhere? I’m not sure what happened to it last night.” There was a sound of old creaking wood as he rose from his position in front of the news and joined me in the small kitchen area. We each retraced our movements the night before but to no avail. During our search I couldn’t help but notice again his various scrapes and bruises. There was a long gash that went up into his hairline as well as some of the smattering of tiny cuts that I had on my face, but his were thicker and though his new crisp white collared shirt obscured his torso, I guessed that they continued down his arms and neck.

“Its likely it didn’t make it out of the building,” he said. We discussed this possibility and I realized that if my phone didn’t make it out, neither did my wallet or passport. After a number of expletives on my part, he excused himself to make a call.

The kettle boiled while he was out and so I poured out two steaming cup fulls of hot water. In one I spooned a few sad lumps of brown instant coffee and in the other I plopped a tea bag, a drop of milk and one sugar.

“Okay,” he said, reentering the house and bolting the door behind him. “Here’s the plan, someone will be brought over from the American embassy to take some information from you and they will hopefully be able to get you a new passport by the end of the week. My colleague from last night, will also be returning to take our statements about the events yesterday.” I nodded and handed him the mug of tea. He took it from me with a lift of his eyebrow and brought it close, as if inspecting it. Then he sipped it, his face changing to amusement. “How did you know how to fix my tea?” He asked.

I just shrugged, “What? You think you are the only one who notices details? I’ve got nothing better to pay attention to during all those long winded meetings than what happens at the tea station.” I sipped the dark sludge in my cup.

He nodded as he took another sip.

The embassy clerk came first, looking a bit wide eyed at the two of us, reminding me again how close we had come to death. I gave him all the information I had and we coordinated for the rest of it to be sent to the embassy from the United States. The fidgety man assured me that it would all be processed as quickly as possible and that I should expect new papers by Friday. I stood to shake his hand and then Sgt. Collins showed him out and watched the armored vehicle leave.

The other PPOs arrived not long after, bringing gifts. The woman PPO who had driven us here the night before, Davis, I think was her name, arrived with large cups of real coffee and a bag of groceries, on the very top of which was a box of croissants. She set it all down on the table and slid a coffee over to me as well as a croissant. I ate and she and Sergeant chatted for a while till I was done. Sensing a shift in the atmosphere, she turned to me and laid out the situation as they understood it to this point.

I was the only international on the task force that had not been hospitalized, likely because they had targeted a spot close to the elevator, not the stairwell. One of my colleagues was in critical condition but stable and all the others were suffering from topical injuries such as burns and shrapnel and all were expected to recover. I was to continue to remain in this safe house for several more days as an investigation took place. Sergeant Collins would remain as my PPO as long as I was comfortable with that. A new cell phone and any other equipment I would require would be provided to me.

I gave her my statement and Sgt. Collins retreated outside with her for quite a while. While they were away I dug into the bag she had brought. There were a few groceries as well as a chocolate bar, a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes. I studied the box of smokes, curious about why she had thought to include them.

…

It had been a while since I had done absolutely nothing. Idleness never looked good on me. I had picked over the sparse book shelf several times already that morning, finding only two novels that looked palatable, only to discover they were too smutty to stomach in my current state of emotional and physical frailty. I had unpacked my things in the small bedroom at the back of the house and then reorganized them.

Mid-afternoon, a gentle rain settled over the house and I finally sunk into a chair in the kitchen. My knee was throbbing so I hobbled to the freezer and found a pack of frozen mixed vegetables that I laid on my knee. The PPO agent had offered to get me set up to work from this location immediately but warned that no one else was up to it, so I told her to get me connected whenever the rest were healthy enough to begin working again. Sergeant had left for a few hours earlier and Davis remained in his place. He had returned with a neat little overnight bag hanging from his shoulder. The rest of the time he either lingered next to the door, muttering into his earpiece or he would pace in a loop around the kitchen and living room. He didn’t speak to me really, but now in this small space together, it was hard to ignore him. And it felt silly.

“Are you allowed to sleep while you are on this assignment Sergeant?” I inquired when I finally couldn’t take the pacing any longer.

“Of course Ma’am,” he replied, turning to give me his full attention.

I nodded, “Then is there a second room for you somewhere that I missed?”

Resuming his mantle of professionalism, he raised his gaze to just above my hairline, “no Ma’am, we did not have a house available at this time that is more suitable to the situation.” He didn’t answer the question.

“So where do you sleep?”

Still gazing beyond my head, “On the couch Ma’am.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “I know you will refuse, but I just want you to know that I would gladly give up the room for you.”

“Thank you Ma’am, thats very kind.”

“I mean, you did all the hard work, you did your job for sure, kept me safe, had to react under severe stress…” My words faded away, I wasn’t communicating what I was trying to. Sergeant remained standing at attention as I floundered to gather my thoughts. “Why did officer Davis bring a pack of cigarettes if neither of us smokes?” I blurted finally.

Sergeant Collins raised that one eyebrow again and if I wasn’t mistaken, a faint look of amusement settled on his face. “Ma’am, she brought them because you have led everyone to believe that you are a smoker.” I continued to look at him quizzically, so he continued, “When I was first assigned to you I was briefed that you took up to four smoke breaks a day.”

“Oh right,” I had discovered within the first week of working in London that only the smokers ever actually got fresh air during the day, everyone else took their lunches and breaks in sad corners of the break rooms or at their desks. So I had walked down to a corner store and purchased a pack of cigarettes, and like magic, any time I wished to be left alone, I would grab it and make my way to the courtyard. The Sergeant was the only person who knew I never actually smoked any of the cigarettes. I lifted the pack off of the table, “Any chance I can scoot out the back while I smoke one of these?” I swear, I could hear him itching to roll his eyes, but he gamely refrained.

“Of corse, Ma’am.” So he did a quick sweep of the fenced in garden at the back door and then stood aside to let me out. It was still gently sprinkling but I was happy for it. The back stoop was covered so I sat there, rubbing my hands up and down my arms, having forgotten that it was late November. This back garden had a lovely peaceful, very English feeling that I hadn’t ever gotten in the flat I was provided in the  center of London. There were some over grown roses climbing up a disheveled trellis in one corner, a few garden chairs and a little table on the other side. Acting on a whim I stood and stretched, reaching my hand out to test the rain. The sky was darkening and the drops grew more frequent. I stepped out from under the back stoop, hobbled to the center of the small yard, feeling the  drops plop onto the back of my neck, I stood there unmoving, waiting for the steady fall of rain to penetrate my clothes and shock my system with their cool wetness.

It felt good on my face, cooling the skin that was scabbing over. As the water ran over me I remembered the weight of my arms, my head, my back and legs. I breathed slowly, aware of the small stream of water running off the tip of my nose. I didn’t hear him move closer, but his warm hand on my shoulder did not make me jump. I noticed he had a days worth of stubble on his cheeks and neck, already obscuring some of the scabbing on his face. And the rain caught and was lost in his dark curly hair, a streak of it already greying on the left side of his head. I had a sudden urge to touch that streak of hair. I wondered what he would do if I did.

“Come inside, Ma’am, you’re getting wet.”

“I prefer it to the heat,” I replied.

“Ma’am, really I insist.”

“I can’t,” I said, exasperated and wanting to be left alone.

“I’m also getting wet Ma’am, please can we go inside.” I tilted my head, gazing at him through the sides of my eyes, enthralled both by his dark silky voice and by what he said. What did he think he knew about me that would make me more inclined to save him discomfort than myself? So I asked him.

“Am I really that persuadable?”

“Sorry, Ma’am?”

“You think I will value your discomfort over what I need?”

“Is that so, Ma’am?” He asked, evading my query with his own. I watched the rain falling heavily on him now. His hair was flattening and streams of water poured off the hems of his jacket. I imagined his shoes were filling with water also.

I sighed, “Fuck, I guess so.” Turning away from him I moved toward the door.

As I reached the cover of the stoop I pulled the now drenched sweater over my head, realizing too late that I was not wearing a shirt underneath. My eyes widened and I glanced at the Sergeant who was behind me. At my look he turned around quickly, allowing me a moment of privacy to right myself. I rung my sweater out and bounded inside the little house, closing and locking the door to the bedroom, which I was now ashamed to have since I knew the Sergeant was confined to the couch.

I took my time slipping into some stretchy leggings and a loose fitting shirt. I noticed in the long mirror that my hurt knee was much larger than the other one and I winced as I pressed on it. I hobbled back down the hallway, intent on the bottle of paracetamol in the kitchen. Rounding the corner my eyes were arrested by the half naked figure standing in the living room. I stepped back into the hallway quickly, not wanting another awkward encounter with Harry, but it was too late, he had already heard me and turned to look at me.

“Apologies, Ma’am, I thought you would be in there a while.”

“Oh, no,” I said hurriedly, my voice too high, “This is your space, after all. I should have given you more warning.”

“Not at all Ma’am,” he replied stiffly as he pulled a tight shirt over his head, obscuring his torso. But he wasn’t fast enough to keep me from noticing the marks and scars all over his back. I hadn’t looked very hard, but while some appeared to be from our recent bombing, others looked like long healed scars from some other event in his life. My gaze slipped to the kitchen as the kettle whistled.

“Ah, I was making tea,” he said, walking over to the stove and cutting the fire. “Fancy a cuppa?” He asked, already filling two mugs with steaming water. I joined him in the kitchen, sitting with my aching knee propped up on a second chair. “How do you take it?”

“Just milk.” I said, gritting my teeth as I massaged my knee gingerly. He placed the cup in front of me and remained leaning against the counter top.

“May I check it?” He asked, nodding at my swollen knee. I nodded in unperturbed assent. He swiftly but carefully lifted my leg high enough that he could slip into the chair I had propped it on. He sat so that my calf way strewn across his lap. I quieted my breathing as he poked and prodded at my poor knee.

“What are you looking for?” I asked in a gasp, realizing I hadn’t been breathing.

“I’m just checking again to make sure there are no obvious fractures or a dislocation.”

“Do you think I need to see a doctor?”

“I am going to schedule an appointment for tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry I ruined your suit,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Not at all, Ma’am, it’s my job.”

“Please call me Lucy,” I said. He opened his mouth to respond so I cut him off quickly, “I mean you saved me from a fucking bomb, you’ve at least earned that. It’s so weird you have to call the people you guard Sir and Ma’am, I’m not your boss, just the pathetic person who can’t look after herself.”

He was outright smiling now. “Well Lucy, I have no doubt you can look after yourself, I’m here so that you can focus on other things the rest of us aren’t bright enough to deal with.” I was transfixed by the hollow of his collar bone, the way the skin over it stretched when he breathed and spoke. And his hands were still on my leg, one of them on the rounded part of my calf, the other just barely above my knee. “And while I officially have no opinion on the matter,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “I appreciate your American sense of earning respect rather than inheriting it, something the Scots and the Yanks have in common.”

His hands moved over my leg, a non invasive gesture meant to be reassuring but the touch made my stomach flip. We sat amicably like this for a while, sipping tea and listening to light rain hitting the low roof of the house.

“Now,” Harry continued, “shall we take another smoke break?” The sun had sunk low in the sky and the light appeared orange in the still cloud filled sky.

“Sure, but only if you promise not to follow me into the rain this time,” I made a funny noise as I hoisted myself into a standing position.

“I can’t do that Lucy.”

“Then I guess we are both lucky it has stopped raining.”

…

This time we sat closer together, squeezed beside one another on a single step of the back stoop, taking in the bright cool air the rain had pushed in. Harry had given me more paracetamol by orders of the doctor I was to see the next morning and it was making me a bit drowsy. I yawned and felt my body lean into Harry’s sturdy form.

“Shall we go back inside?” He whispered, I grunted in the negative. Now only half conscious, I thought I felt a rumbling laughter in his chest and then an arm slip behind me as my muscles loosened and relaxed.

And then I was floating, my feet weren’t moving but I was gliding down the hallway to the bedroom. I opened my eyes and looked up to see Harrys stubbly jaw looming over me. Was he carrying me? I didn’t want to throw his balance so I remained still as he negotiated the door gracefully and laid me out on the edge of the bed. As he leaned over me, I reached up and grabbed a handful of his stretchy shirt material. He hovered above me, waiting patiently.

“Stay,” I whispered. To which he shook his head and began to pull away. So I pulled again and he let me, remaining suspended above me.

“You know I can’t,” he said.

“I just don’t think I can stand to be alone right now. Please stay.” The words were difficult for me and I avoided his gaze. He sighed heavily. I sat up slowly, still groggy, “you said you would follow me into the rain.” My hand bunched tighter into his shirt, dreading the moment he would move away from me.

He sighed one last time then knelt down, removing his shoes with a resigned expression. Straightening again he sent me a defeated look. Then gracefully, he climbed over me and gingerly laid in the center of the bed, leaving a wide gap between us. We laid on our sides facing each other, his head at the height of my shoulders. Again I had the urge to stroke that streak of grey in his hair, and so I did. Tenderly, Harry ran his hand along the silhouette of my body, starting at my ear and moving down to my shoulder and side and finally stopping on my hip.

We were magnetic as we moved closer to each other. I pulled his head into the safety of my chest, his stubble a raspy comfort against my skin and our legs entangled. In silence we lay there, feeling each other breathe. We may have fallen asleep though the line between consciousness and unconsciousness was not immediately apparent. After a long while he stirred and rolled off the far side of the bed, making his way to the toilet.

When he returned he paused and removed his shirt, letting it fall to the ground before again joining me. As he lay back down I shifted, laying my head on his torso. He was very warm and I put my ear to his chest, listening for all the sounds a body makes as it works to keep living. “Am I hurting you?” I asked quietly.

“No,” he whispered, running his hands down my body again till they found my bottom. I propped myself up above him on my elbows, caressing the recent bruises and wounds, tenderly tracing the old scars.

“Tell me about Scotland,” I said.

“Hmm, what do you want to know about Scotland?” He returned.

“Only the good bits,” I said. He smiled gently as he coaxed my good leg up, bending it around his hip in a sort of half straddle and I lowered myself again to his chest. I listened to his stories about a lush green land of great promise and adventure as the words carelessly rumbled out of him.

…

I hadn’t expected to be so jumpy when I got in the security vehicle. I got in and slid to the very center seat, a hand planted firmly on each side of me. I stared straight ahead the whole time, ignoring the dizziness from the sharp turns.

The consult from the doctor confirmed there was nothing broken, but the hard fall had slightly dislocated my knee which was promptly reset and I was warned that it would take several weeks to heal. I was sent home with a heavier brace and instructions to take over the counter pain meds for swelling.

We returned to the house and were met with a second security detail that had come with equipment for me to work remotely. I dove into it with manic energy. Indeed there was little that could be done as the other internationals were still recovering from burn trauma. So I prepped all the materials I could think of that we would need in order to resume our work. Harry placed a cup of tea next to me which I drank, but I ignored the lunch delivery, feeling like my eyes and hands could not keep up with the speed at which my brain was moving.

“Ma’am,” I heard someone say from far away. “Lucy,” who was that? “Lucy!” I flinched when Harry’s hand touched my shoulder. “Perhaps you might take a break now, you haven’t eaten at all today.”

“No, no I have to get this done,” I replied, turning back to the computer.

“It is common to feel strong bursts of energy and fatigue after an event like the bombing,” he continued.

“Really?” I continued to stab at the keyboard. “Then I guess I’m fine, if this is a common reaction.”

“It’s common, it’s not fine.”

I slammed the laptop shut, pushing the heels of my hands into my temples, God my head hurt. My chest heaved with sobs. I felt him move closer but I needed air, space, I lashed out, feeling my hand connect with his ballistic vest.

I took off down the hall toward the bathroom, seeking a place he couldn’t follow me. But he caught up with me, securing his arms around my shoulders, immobilizing my arms. I continued to sob for several minutes. He continued to hold me like this till I quieted and stopped fighting and sagged weakly against him.

“What do you say we get some food and water in you now?” I nodded and we returned to the kitchen. I ate ravenously, with Harry looking on like a cafeteria lady from grade school, making sure I ate all my greens.

“Why do I still feel out of control?” I asked, “Why can’t I just move on?”

“Well it hasn’t been that long, barely two days. If anything I’d say your actions today are very much fitting with the magnitude of the event. In fact you probably deserve a few more temper tantrums.” He looked at me and valiantly fought off a smile. I stabbed a tomato with my fork and pouted, not quit ready for joking yet.

I narrowed my eyes at him thoughtfully. “Clearly you have been in situations like this before.”

“Clearly,” he repeated back.

“So when should I expect you to throw a tantrum?”

“Probably not this time, but I have before.”

“Why is this not hard for you?”

He sighed, “in my perspective, we did it, we survived. That’s not always the case. I did my job well and I am continuing to keep you safe.” He leaned over and touched my hand. “It’s a win.” He leaned back in his chair.

I stood abruptly, taking the few steps to where he sat. He didn’t move, just looked at me, challenging me. I moved even closer, my legs now straddling his lap. I thought he would again assume that distant look and excuse himself, but instead his hands reached up, urging me down closer to him. I sat, wrapping my arms around his neck and he brought his head close to mine, our foreheads touching.

“I don’t think this is keeping you safe,” he murmured to me.

“It’s hard to tell what is safe,” I mumbled.

“So for now all we can do is react.” I made a noise of agreement as our lips connected. We pulled each other in closer, unable to touch enough, to feel enough. His lips were searching and needy. Never had I needed to be touched so badly. I wanted to be shielded by him and yet I wanted to draw him in tighter, protecting him from the dangers he saw every day.

His lips moved lower, caressing my neck and collar bone as I wrestled his jacket and shirt off his body. I kept removing layers till there were no more to remove. He responded in kind, lifting my shirt over my head then drawing me close to him in a warm embrace, like he wanted to cover me completely. “Harry,” I whispered after several long seconds. Then again, “Harry,” and he responded.

“Lucy.”

Pulling out of his arms, I stood and stepped away. “I want this, I want you, and I don’t want either of us to have regrets.”

He rose out of his chair gracefully, stepping close to me. “I cannot regret any time with you.”

“And tomorrow? In a week? When I have finished this job?” I gulped, bile rising in my stomach just thinking about leaving.

“I don’t think I can let you go.”

“Will you take me to Scotland?” I asked as I wrapped my arms around his waist. He leaned his forehead against mine, “Only if you let me stand in the rain with you.”

[scrapironflotilla]

Anzac is so much more than Gallipoli

Another Anzac day has come around and with the lock-downs and global pandemic it seemed like it would be different. But having a listen to the news or a quick scroll through the other blue hellsite, F*c*b**k, it looks like this Anzac Day is more similar than different. The reverence, the mystique and the myths are all still there, with a massive dose of social media self indulgence. So I’ll probably stay away from that today and instead talk about some history.

I don’t have a favourite aspect of the Anzac legend. I don’t think I even can. The very concept of the Anzac Legend bothers me. This is our recent history. Its members, who have all died, are still within living memory of many millions of people. The events are so well documented that we can follow some of them minute by minute in the diaries, letters and reports created by the participants. I understand the desire to turn these stories into legend and myth, especially in a country like Australia after the war and certainly in the last decades of the 20th century.

I understand how the virtues and values of the AIF made for such fertile imaginative ground in an inter-war world. The romance of war, lost on the battlefields of Europe and the Middle East, was much harder to destroy far away in the colonies, where people experienced little hardship compared to those on the continent.

I understand how and why the AIF became a legend. But I don’t think I can believe in it.

But what does it matter if I believe in it or not? It’s important to tens of millions of Australians and the government tightly controls public commemoration and the Anzac brand. The military indoctrinates its members with to strive for an unattainable Anzac perfection. A newly minted army officer once told me that during his training his instructors had screamed at these cadets, ranting at them about how unworthy they were, how they could never live up to the Anzac reputation and how they could never lead a digger.

It draws hundreds of thousands every 25 April to dawn memorial services across the world, in events whose gravitas and sombre communion even I can’t deny. It’s this secular religion that makes the legend a reality that we have to contend with. The history may vary widely from the myth, but the myth is potent enough and popular enough to be able to divorce itself from the past. “The AIF”, historian Peter Stanley points out, “has become revered as [our] romantic nationalist mystique”.

The last two or three decades has seen a steady dismantling of the Anzac legend, at least in academic circles. All its basic tenets of natural fighting prowess, mate-ship, equality and the rest have been questioned, criticised and reassessed. But this new understanding hasn’t moved far beyond academia. The short spike in Anzac TV series during the centenary showed the same romantic tragedy and nationalist triumphalism. Popular histories from the 50s and 60s were reprinted and a new slew of books turn up on shelves, from children’s books to all kinds of history and dozens of romance novels. The legend remains deeply entrenched in the Australian imagination. Little in the popular realm even attempts to challenge it in light of new understanding. Even for those in academia the revision of that history has produced harsh reaction from the right, I’m exactly one of those “cadre of academics” associated with those elite, Canberra institutions, that noted crank Bendle talks about there. But that’s the strength of this legend. Its followers take any attempt to examine it and broaden it as denigration. Lest anyone think I’m exaggerating here, just have a look at what happened to ABC presenter Yassmin Abdel-Magied after she tweeted the words “LEST.WE.FORGET. (Manus, Nauru, Syria, Palestine...)” on Anzac Day 2017. She was attacked by the press and government ministers and bombarded with rape and death threats. There’s no doubt much of the faux outrage was inspired by racism and misogyny, but you don’t even need to attack Anzac, but merely recognise that Australia’s history is less than perfect, to be met with a violent, histrionic reaction.

To imagine that the Anzacs were perfect, individually and as a whole, is wilful delusion. They were men and as such fallible. It is no dishonour or disrespect to recognise their humanity in all its complexities. We must know and understand their failures, their embarrassments and their crimes (for they are many and varied) to better place their successes, victories and virtues. To deify them and to force them to represent only what was best, without recognising the fullness of their character, good and bad, robs them of the complexity of their own stories. It robs them of their humanity and us of our history. But while I struggle with the Anzac Legend, I also think there are some little stories that deserve better recognition.

The Anzac mythology upholds a very particular character as representative of the AIF, but little about this legend is uniquely Australian. The language used to express the values, that of the larrikin, the digger and above all else mateship, may be particularly Australian but the values are not. Irreverence and camaraderie are close to universal.

These aren’t values to be denigrated in any way. But they’re representative of most militaries in war. But the AIF did have a character unique to the Australian experience. Much is made of the fact that the AIF was an entirely volunteer organisation. From a population of fewer than five million more than 330,000 men and women served in its ranks between 1914 and 1918. Conscription was put to the people in referenda twice and twice it was defeated. People joined the AIF for the duration of the war. Few pursued careers in the military and although many had prior service it was in the militia, the part time army.

The ranks were filled from the cities, the suburbs and the bush by civilians. Even the officer corps was fleshed out by the professional and middle classes of lawyers, bankers, teachers and the like. These men saw themselves not as regular soldiers, but as civilians in uniform. They saw their role as merely a job, not a calling. They were there to fight the war, to defeat Germany, or the Ottomans, and to go home and back to the farm or the factory.

Australia had one of the strongest trade union and labour movement in the world in the early 20th century. It was the first country to vote a labour government into office and ideas of unionism, collective bargaining and fair work practices were strong in the minds of many working Australians. The language they used and the tactics they employed to deal with the discipline and hierarchy of the military demonstrates just how powerful these beliefs were. Soldiers routinely referred to their officers as their boss, refused orders they thought were unfair and protested their ill treatment by military authorities. They released soldiers imprisoned under field punishment, refused to salute officers and rejected the distinction between officers and other ranks imposed by the British army. They went into clubs, restaurants and hotels set aside of officers, believing strongly that they had the right to drink or eat where they chose.

They took strike action when they felt too much was asked of them, when they were refused rest or when they felt hard done by. When battalions were to be broken up due to lack of replacements in 1918, they mutinied. Refusing orders to disband, they ‘counted out’ senior officers sent to negotiate with them. Counting out consisted of soldiers on parade counting down from ten to one, before shouting a final obscenity at the officer concerned. It was a powerful form of insubordination that humiliated officers when it occurred.

In autumn 1918, after months without leave, Australian battalions took to strike action when they were ordered back into battle. After being promised a fortnight’s rest they were ordered back to the front for an offensive after just a few days. Unhappy troops - veterans, mostly - refused to move. The battalions were well understrength after months of fighting and the men felt they had been lied to, that they had sacrificed enough and that they were being overused. The soldiers took action in the way they knew how. They shot no officers and destroyed no property. For men used to fighting for their rights in the workplace it was natural that they would turn to collective action in trade union style.

(Ex-union organiser and Labor prime minister Billy Hughes, seen here with some of his beloved men. Hughes was a favourite of the Australian troops who dubbed him ‘the Little Digger’)

And so it was in the 15th Brigade, under the command of Harold Elliot. Called Pompey by him men he was a courageous and fatherly figure, both liked and respected by the men under his command. It was his unique character that allowed Pompey to negotiate with his men, although rant and then plead were the words used by diarists, and convince them to follow his orders. Other officers, less well known and less admired by their men failed in similar efforts.

The civilian attitudes made them difficult soldiers to discipline. The standard punishment of the army, called ‘field punishment’ was particularly odious to Australians. Field punishment consisted of being bound to an object, a post or a wagon or gun carriage in the open for a number of hours. Due to the danger of artillery this punishment was not just humiliating but also potentially fatal. Diaries and letters from soldiers are full of stories about field punishment. They usually tell of Australian troops coming across British soldiers undergoing field punishment and freeing them, fighting with guards and military police.

There was a powerful resistance to the dehumanising and anti-individualising aspect of military discipline and authority. The AIF by and large saw themselves as civilians first and soldiers second. They understood the need for discipline and obedience and as more than one Australian noted “we have discipline where it matters”, on the battlefield. But the trappings of military culture and authority were repellent to the Australian working man. Strict obedience to hierarchy and the seemingly pointless requirements of military discipline were not only alien to Australians but went against their own values. Mutual respect was the key to the AIF as most of its officers discovered.

This side of the AIF, the strength of its civilian values is one that ought be remembered and celebrated in Anzac. The ideas from the labour and union movements, the fair go and mutual respect deserve a place alongside mateship and the larrikin as part of Anzac. The men who fought for the eight-hour work day and living wages were the same men who filled the ranks of the AIF and who fill Australian cemeteries in Europe and Turkey.

This is a part of the Anzac story that deserves a better place in our telling of it.

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hey. I love these fics, they are some of my favourites. You’re the only thing doing this ship justice. Do you think you could do a Clueless au. With Sirius as Cher and James as Josh. Tysm

"Sirius, James will be coming over tonight, so be sure that you're prepared for a family dinner," Orion said, and Sirius just barely managed to keep himself from gaping at his father. 

"What? Why is he coming here? You divorced Euphemia, like, three years ago." And his current outfit was far too good for someone like James. He didn't want James to think that he'd gotten dressed up for him or summat. Sirius just always looked this good. 

"Yes, well, you can divorce a wife, but not your children," Orion said distractedly. 

Sirius scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Isn't he busy in uni?" 

"It hasn't started yet." 

"Figures," Sirius muttered. 

Orion glanced at him. "Why are you so against this? He's your brother." 

"He's not my brother; he's your ex-wife's son. Our connection to him is long over." 

"Can't divorce your child," Orion repeated, turning back to the papers in front of him. 

Sirius rolled his eyes again and left the room. The term hadn't started yet, so what? It's not like James lived here. He had an actual home of his own that he could stay at, where he had a parent that actually had responsibility to him. 

James showed up way before dinner, like he lived here or something. It's not like Sirius hated him, but he always acted like Sirius was an idiot. Like just because he didn't talk like a bloody professor all the time, that meant he didn't know anything. What a tosser. "Hey Sirius," he said, then took a swig of orange juice straight from the bottle. Who did that? Honestly, every time he came around, it was like living with a pig. If Sirius wanted to live with a pig, he'd buy from from the animal shelter or wherever it is people bought pigs from (how would he know? He's not a farmer, and a pig wouldn't fit in very well at their house-- pigs and this many stairs don't mix.). 

Sirius made a face at him and reluctantly said, "Hi. Is this what you're learning at uni? How to mess up someone else's kitchen?" Because in addition to his bottle-drinking ways, he'd opened a loaf of bread and left the peanut butter with the knife still in it-- and still sticky with jelly. 

"Relax, it's not like you're the one that has to clean it up." 

*

"I can't believe Professor Binns gave me this bad a grade," Sirius said, frowning at his report card. 

"Ugh, I know right?" Lily said, easily falling into step beside him. "I got the same grade. My dad's totally going to choke when he sees it. You look pretty calm considering I know your dad's going to flip too." 

"It's not set in stone yet," Sirius said, thinking about all the other report cards that he'd been able to fix. 

"You going to get it fixed?" 

"Yep." 

"Binns is notoriously hard to please. I don't think he'll change it for you." 

"I've done the impossible before," Sirius said, tucking the paper in his bag. 

"Like that time you convinced Severus to cut his hair short?" 

Sirius gave a decisive nod. "Exactly. This is just a little grade; Binns won't even remember it by the end of the year." 

"Good luck," she said, voice light enough that Sirius knew she doubted his ability to get it done. 

But really, what did she know? Sirius had been taking care of his grades like this for years, and Orion was never the wiser that Sirius failed to turn in so much of his homework. He didn't have the time to do homework though, not after the designer stores started opening so close to their house. Great outfits didn't just put themselves together. Lily knew that. 

*

"Hey kiddo," Orion said, looking up from his dinner as if suddenly struck with a memory, "where's your report card?" 

Sirius had to swallow thickly around food he hadn't quite finished chewing. "I don't have it yet." 

"You don't have it? What is that supposed to mean?" 

"Yeah, Sirius," James said, looking far too smarmy for his own good. "Didn't everyone else get their's today?" 

Sirius glared at him, but he had to think up a response because Orion was still looking at him expectantly. "Dad, you always say that you should never accept a first offer. I'm negotiating." 

James snorted, but Orion nodded approvingly. 

"Do you think you'll be able to do it?" Orion asked. 

"Totally." 

"How?" James said derisively. "Going to give your professors a makeover?" 

"Don't get mad at me just because you look like you went picking through a poor American writer's closet." Open plaid shirt? Really? James could at least try. And the graphic tee under it that said something about animal rights certainly wasn't helping-- also, faux fur exists for a reason, duh. 

*

"-and I was like, er hello? Gideon's Welsh, and if we go on a date or something, people are going to expect me to know how to speak Welsh. It's like, a super hard language to learn, and I'd totally butcher it," Lily said. 

"Welsh is hard. It's like, almost impossible to learn even if you are Welsh," Sirius agreed. "Total downer." 

"It's almost impossible to learn Welsh because the British government is still trying to make it a dead language and is actively working to make that happen," James interrupted, and Sirius and Lily turned around to glare at him. He was eating cereal from the box. Again. "If either of you paid attention to your history class instead of talking about your nails, you'd know that." And then he stormed away. Like he thought he was some sort of storm god that came down to interrupt perfectly nice conversations. They'd barely been talking about Welsh and British colonialism in the first place. 

"What's his damage?" Lily said. 

"God, who even knows. Maybe you could ask Gideon on a not-date first. See if it's worth the trouble first," Sirius suggested. Then he shrugged and added, "Or you could go my route and not date because everyone our age is kind of a bonehead anyways." 

"Are you including yourself in that?" Lily asked pointedly, and Sirius just rolled his eyes. As if. 

*

"Hey Sirius, have you seen my cellphone?" Regulus asked. 

"No, and I'm not going to help you look," Sirius said, flipping a page of the fashion magazine he was reading. Well, looking at. They never had good articles in these, he was sure. "Maybe next time you'll carry it in a bag like me." 

"I'd look like a ponce," Regulus said, then poked his head up and looked at him. "Like you." He ducked back down before Sirius could decide to throw the magazine at him. 

"Well there are worse things in life than looking like a ponce, Reggie." 

"Don't call me Reggie," Regulus muttered, and Sirius summarily ignored him-- summarily, his big vocab word of the day; he was trying to get better about those so he wouldn't sound so clueless all the time. 

"For one, you could be crawling around on your hands and knees looking for something that you could have so easily kept in your bag. For another, you wouldn't fail to find it and have to ask Dad for a new one. You know he's not going to give it to you, right? Not after he just bought you that new desktop computer." 

"I'll find it," Regulus growled, all prepubescent certainty. 

"Sure you will," Sirius said. "And while we're on the subject, I didn't say you have to carry a purse, I said a bag. Get a bag to match your school bag or something so that you can avoid being bullied like you imagine your dear old brother was." 

"You weren't bullied," James said, choosing that moment to enter the room, looking a little more angry at the world than he usually did before talking to Sirius. 

"Exactly my point! So, dear sweet Regulus, get yourself a bag. Or a purse, if you are so bold. Hi James." 

"Er, hi. You lose something Reg?" James asked, bending over a little as if the changed angle would help him find the answer to his question. He was a total prick and all, but at least he had a nice backside. God only knows how he got it though, sitting around reading boring books. 

"My cellphone. Matty said he would call me tonight, so I need my cellphone." 

"Would that be the same cellphone I saw sitting on the balcony upstairs?" James asked. He had that answer all prepped and ready to go before Regulus had said a word. Weird. 

Regulus shot up, eyes wide. "Really?" He went running off up the stairs before James could answer. 

"You okay?" James asked, and Sirius frowned up at him. 

"Yeah? What, are we having heart to hearts now? Because if there's something you want to talk about, there are therapists for that." Aka, please don't talk to Sirius about that sort of thing. It's not like he was against James talking to him, but if James was in a talking sort of mood, he'd probably want to talk about, like, world hunger or something and then James would get mad at him for not doing more to help-- just like he always did. 

"No, I- I meant with Regulus?" 

"What about my dear sweet brother? I was being honest before; Dad won't give him a new cellphone if he doesn't manage to hold onto that one for another month. At least." 

"Not that. He called you..." 

Ah, so James had been listening the whole time. "You can't say that surprises you," Sirius said. "The makeup is usually a dead giveaway for people when I'm not wearing a skirt." Although, he did usually wear a skirt because if he could look that good in something, why wouldn't he? 

"Yeah, I didn't mean that." He was still giving Sirius a too-severe look. Normally at this point in a conversation, they'd be poking and needling at each other. "...Whatever." He walked around and joined Sirius on the couch, landing heavily specifically to displace Sirius's comfortable position. "Bloody hell, you're reading a fashion magazine. And here I thought you were reading something intellectual for once." 

That was more like it. Sirius hit him on the head with the magazine and got tickled in the side for it. Besides, it totally wasn't fair for James to say that. Sirius had watched the news some to that he knew what a little of what was going on. And he actually listened when Professor McGonagall talked about the various disasters happening around the world. 

*

"We should be friends with him," Sirius said, and Lily looked at him like he was crazy. 

"Um, excuse me? Sirius, look at him." 

Sirius looked. His nose wrinkled, but he shook it off. "Yeah, I know. God, I know, he looks like a total burn out." He had baggy clothes, and the lip ring wasn't doing him any favours. He'd dyed his hair green, which served to make his skin look pale and sallow. "But, you know Lily, we've been trying to do more good things for the world, and that starts where we live." 

"That means planting flowers that don't grow on bushes; not bringing down our credibility by being seen with... someone like that." 

"You'll survive," Sirius said before raising his voice and calling, "Remus!" while waving a hand at him. "Hi, I'm Sirius, and this is Lily." 

Lily gave a terse little smile. "Hi." She sounded way too snooty for what they were trying to do. 

Sirius gave her a warning glare for it, then turned back to Remus with a bright smile. 

"Oh. Erm, I'm Remus. Just moved down here," he murmured. He had a Northern Irish accent. God, who even lived there anymore? At least it explained why he was more pale than he should've been. Honestly, the porcelain look had been a mistake for everyone. 

"Yeah, that's great honey. Listen, if we're going to be mates, you need to not mumble everything. You're proud of yourself-- or at least you're going to be-- and people who are proud of themselves don't let their mouths muss up their speech so much. Okay?" 

"Erm. Okay?" 

Sirius beamed. "Great! You free tonight? No offense, but I was thinking you could come over and we could get started on a makeover for you. Maybe buy some new clothes this weekend if this is representative of your entire wardrobe." 

Remus tugged on his shirt self-consciously. "I'm here on scholarship," he muttered, face getting a bit of colour as he blushed. 

"Oh, don't even worry about that. I've totally got you covered." 

"Why? I mean, why would you do that for me? We've just met." 

"Because he's totally lost his marbles and decided that he needed a male best friend," Lily said, rolling her eyes. 

"I've done nothing of the sort, Lily. I'm simply... expanding the group." 

"Group? There's no 'group'. It's you and me." 

"Well, now it's you and me and Remus, so we're a group. Right?" Sirius said, looking at Remus. 

"I guess?" Remus agreed tremulously. 

*

The good news-- the really really excellent news-- was that Remus was pretty cute once the weekend was over. His natural hair was loads better than what he'd done to it before, and with the lip ring gone, he had the face of an angel. Well, an angel with freckles, but some people liked that. 

Lily had missed most of the transformation because she'd had a date with Gideon-- apparently, the Welsh thing wasn't an issue so long as they were still in the city because everyone around them pretending that Gideon wasn't Welsh-- but she was suitably impressed when they showed up to school on Monday. 

"Okay, lesson number two, Remus, is making sure that if you're going to date, you're dating the right sort of person. Your new look, new diet, and new workout regime won't mean anything if you spoil it by dating the wrong sort of person. Benjy, for example, is a burn out. You don't want to join that crowd. They're all going to end up flunking out before they can decide what they want to do with their lives, and you're going to be just like them if you date him." Sirius wasn't used to being so harsh with people-- other than Regulus and James because duh, they both needed the help big time-- but Remus had given Benjy a shy smile and friendly wave when he'd seen him a few moments ago. Remus could always decide not to date like Sirius had, but Remus had seemed gobsmacked at the idea that Sirius wasn't having sex. Aiming him in the right direction had a better chance of success than convincing him that guys their age weren't worth his time. "Look, for example, at Peter." Peter was a friend, and they got on pretty well considering they hardly hung out because Peter lived in the exact opposite direction of Lily. "He's popular, very nicely groomed, and most importantly, doesn't smell like weed because he doesn't smoke it. Tell you what, I'll help you get his attention, and we'll see where it goes from there." As if he stood a chance of failure. He'd gotten two of his professors together just to help boost his grade; getting Remus and Peter together was going to be a piece of cake. 

But Remus agreed, and that's all that was important. Even if dating Peter didn't last, it would get his mind off Benjy and on the right track. 

*

"I bet you've never done anything selfless in your entire life," James said, and Sirius glared at him. 

Partly for the (very unfair) comment, partly because there was no reason for James to be here right now when there wasn't a break in uni, but mostly because he was sporting facial hair that looked more like razor burn than anything else. "What is that thing on your face?" 

"My glasses? I've had them since before we ever met." 

"No, that disgusting peach fuzz on your chin. You look fourteen; it's despicable. Shave it off or you'll risk looking like an even bigger berk than you already do. There, I did something selfless." 

James rolled his eyes. "It doesn't count as selfless if you're telling me to help your own senses." 

"So you admit that that thing is an abomination to my eyesight?" 

James snorted and muttered something about he was right about Sirius being selfish, but the light dusting of hair along his jaw was gone. He looked much better this way, but it's not like Sirius could say that to his face; that would be too much like getting along. 

Still, James thinking that Sirius was selfish stuck with him. "Lily? Would you say that I'm selfish?" 

"Not to your face." 

Sirius pouted. "I do good things." 

"Sure you do. You're better than me, anyways. I'm still not sure about your whole mentoring-Remus kick, but whatever." 

*

This was probably the worst night of Sirius's life. Really. Worse than Dad's last wedding, when the priest showed up drunk, and Regulus puked all over the cake because he'd been sneaking ice cream all day and Sirius had had to run around fixing everything-- why Sirius had taken care of it instead of James's mum, he'd had no idea, but it had been very stressful. Wedding cakes took ages to make, and priests were surprisingly hard to pin down even though they were supposed to serve the people or whatever. 

But anyways, this was worse. Because not only had Peter stolen a kiss and pretty much ignored Remus the whole party and come onto him in the car and then driven away when Sirius got out of the car because he wouldn't stop touching him, leaving Sirius stranded in the middle of nowhere, but someone had mugged him! Mugged! Like it was the bloody dark ages! he had no phone, no cash, and he'd gotten mud on his Jimmy Choo's. Mud. That wasn't going to come out. He'd just gotten these heels, and now they were ruined. Ruined! Why did he try to have anything good in this life? It was just going to end up splattered with mud. 

Since he didn't know how to use the tube much less where it was and Dad would totally be mad at him if he had to leave the house to come pick Sirius up from a party he wasn't supposed to be at, that left Sirius with only one real option: James. James would come get him, if only because it would make Sirius owe him a favour. 

Getting his hands on a phone he could use was a little bit more difficult than it should have been, and he was glad that he'd taken the time to memorise the number for James's dorm room. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi James, it's Sirius, and I need for you to come pick me up." 

"Pick you up? Where the hell are you?" 

"I was at this party that Dad doesn't know about, so I couldn't call him!" Sirius didn't really mean to shout, but he was tired and-- quite frankly-- on the verge of crying. "It's been like, the worst night ever. Someone stole my phone so I can't call a cab." 

"Okay," James said slowly. "Weren't you at a party with your friends? Why didn't one of them drive you home?" 

"Peter started to, but then he like, practically assaulted me for some reason, and he wouldn't stop touching me, so I had to get out of the car, and when I wouldn't get back in, he left. Can you believe that? He just left me out here all by myself, and then someone stole my phone and stuff, so I couldn't call a stupid cab for myself, and I just ruined my new pair of Jimmy Choo's, so I need you to come get me!" 

"Jesus, I'm coming. Just- don't cry, I'll be there soon." 

Sirius was already crying. He sniffled a little and went outside to wait since he'd already ruined these shoes and a little more harsh pavement wasn't going to do anything worse to them. Sirius thought that he couldn't feel any worse about himself, except he got in the car when James showed up, and some little fuck buddy of his was there, took one look at Sirius and said, "God, is he your step-brother or a rent-boy?" 

Sirius ripped one of his shoes off and shoved it in their face. "These are Jimmy Choo's. Rent-boys that have to stand on the side of the road in the middle of the bloody night can't afford those, and I'm sixteen. If you want to be a piece of shite, maybe you could just say so." He put his shoe back on and sneered at him now that he was looking. "And if you want to say I'm pretty, you could just fucking say that too." 

James pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, which kept Sirius from feeling even worse about himself. Of course, then James's little friend started talking about Shakespeare-- probably to make him feel inferior-- and he had to butt in partway through. 

"That's Twelfth Night, not Taming of the Shrew." 

"I think I know more Shakespeare than you do," he said, all condescension. 

"Congrats, I know my American high school movies. Channing Tatum was the one that gave the greatness speech in She's the Man, not Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You. She's the Man was based on Twelfth Night, so that's what it's from." 

This time, James couldn't completely hold back his laughter. 

*

"Hi Dad." 

"Hi pumpkin," Dad said distractedly, not looking up from the paper in front of him. 

"What are you working on?" 

"Just a case." 

"Ah." Sirius rocked back on his heels. He didn't feel like being alone, but he also didn't want to leave the house or... do anything, really. He just wanted to hang out with Dad a little. "Anything I can do to help?" 

Dad looked up at him, over the rim of his glasses. Then he smiled. "Sure. Here," he said picking up a stack to the left and handing it to Sirius along with a highlighter, "highlight every call that was made on March third." 

"Okay." Sirius sat down next to him and started working. It was pretty quiet, just the sound of them breathing, the squeak of highlighters, and the occasional paper being flipped. 

*

"Are you watching the news?" James asked. He sounded a little surprised, but not incredulous. 

"Yeah. Trying to stay up to date with the world like you suggested." 

"Huh." James threw himself on the couch next to him and stole his snack. 

People who stole his snacks should not be allowed to look so cute, especially since James said it tasted weird and then kept eating it instead of giving it back. And really, who looked cute in denim anyways? This was totally not on. 

Sirius didn't think anything about the fact that he'd called James cute in his mind until a few minutes later, when James pulled a blanket over their legs. This was... soft. Comfortable, even. Snack stealing aside, it made Sirius's chest feel all warm to be snuggled up like this with James. 

*

Realising that he fancied James was kind of like that time he was a kid and realised that he was stuck with Regulus for life, unlike Dad's wives that had a habit of coming and going before Sirius had to really accept them. Only this was worse because unlike then, there was no guarantee that everything would turn out okay. Sirius and Regulus had had to get used to each other; James was under no such commitment to fancy Sirius back, especially since James's type seemed to be arseholes that thought they knew Shakespeare and had no idea how to dress themselves. 

Sirius hadn't decided what he was going to do about it, which made it so much worse when Remus turned to him one day and said, "Hey, would you help me get James?" 

"What?" Sirius said, blinking at him. Surely that had been an auditory hallucination. Since when did Remus want to date James?

"James," Remus said, as if there had been any doubt. He might as well have elaborated to explain who James was for all that had made sense. Of course they were still talking about James. If they were talking about someone else, Sirius wouldn't care. More power to Remus for finally getting his legs under him. But James? Really? The last guy that Remus had been interested in of his own volition was Benjy. "Will you help me? I mean, you know him so much better than I do." 

"Why would you want to date James? He's not exactly your type." 

"You've been saying that I should get a new type," Remus reminded him. 

Aw shite, he had said that. Of course, at the time that he'd been saying it, he meant Peter. He didn't mean that anymore, but he really did not meant James. "Well yeah," Sirius hedged, "but I don't think you're his type either. I mean, he likes, like, brainy people." 

"Are you saying I'm stupid?" Remus asked, and he wasn't hurt by it, he was belligerent. 

"What? No, I just mean that-" 

"If you're going to be an arse about this, I won't bother sticking around," Remus said. Before Sirius could collect himself enough to protest or correct him, Remus had gathered his things and left. 

"What the...?" Sirius shook his head. Whatever. If Remus wanted to act like he was better than him, then fine. Sirius didn't need him, and obviously Remus didn't need him anymore. 

*

Sirius didn't know how big of a mistake he'd made with Remus until they were at school, and Remus didn't just brush off Benjy when he dropped by their table; he made fun of him. Listen, Sirius wasn't responsible for a change of mind, and he knew that. But there was something about the way he did it, like it was a performance he was doing to please everyone around him. The amused look he shot Lily afterwards only cemented that idea. 

Sirius went to find Benjy after last class, because he figured someone owed him an apology and Remus sure wasn't going to do it himself. "Hi," Sirius said. 

Benjy looked up at him, looking less stoned than usual. "Hey. Erm, sorry about your shoes." 

"What shoes?" 

"The er, red ones that I spilled a drink on. Like, a few months ago, remember?" 

"Oh, those are so last season, it's fine. Listen, I wanted to apologise for Remus being... well, a total arse. I told him that he should take more pride in his appearance and like, apparently he took that to mean he should be rude to people that like him if they aren't popular." There were a few details that he was leaving out, but they weren't important to the situation. It didn't really matter that Sirius had given Remus a makeover and told him straight out that dating Benjy would bring him down, because Remus hadn't even listened to him. It was only once Remus had turned confident that he started acting like an arse, and Sirius didn't think he could be credited with that. "Did you want to-" god this pained him "-like come over for pizza or something?" 

"Huh?" 

"Just to make you feel better," Sirius said quickly. He didn't want Benjy to think they were suddenly friends. "You looked like a kicked puppy after Remus blew you off. And I need an excuse to order pizza," he added. Lily was going gluten free, and as the best friend, Sirius wasn't supposed to order any food that would mess up her diet. Of course, Sirius also wasn't supposed to be eating that much cheese and bringing Benjy around would give a good excuse for both of them. 

Sirius had sort of been having not good luck lately, so it was a surprise when Benjy said yes, but not a surprise when Benjy, Lily, and Sirius showed up to find that James and Remus were already there. Personally, Sirius wanted to know why Remus thought he could invite himself over when they were in the middle of a fight, but whatever. 

"James, do you want pizza?" Sirius yelled. He wasn't going to make the effort to go over to him and ask like a civilised person because he didn't want for James to think of him as put together all the time. Looking as good as Sirius did on a daily basis took time. 

"Pineapple!" 

Sirius only had to stare at him incredulously for a moment before he cracked up. He found it endearing. It was a stupid joke-- a barely there joke, even-- and James was guffawing, something that Sirius usually did not find pleasant in the slightest. Somehow though, all Sirius could think was that James looked super adorable and he wanted to squish his cheeks. Or maybe kiss him. Or maybe hug him. Feelings were confusing. 

"Cheese is fine," James said. 

Sirius stuck his tongue out then went to make a call, nodding when Lily said they should do thick crust. He had no idea what happened when he was gone, but Benjy and Remus had both vanished. Together, according to Lily. "Well where did they go?" 

"Based on the moon eyes they were giving each other, I told them to get a room, and I think they listened to me," Lily said. "I'd give them some time alone before going looking for them. I don't think it's something either of us want to see." 

"What, are they getting along again?" 

"Guess so," James said. "Isn't that why you brought that guy here? What did you say his name was? Ben?" 

"Well yeah, but I didn't know that Remus was here." Sirius narrowed his eyes at James. "What were you even talking about? And why are you here? Don't you ever go to school?" 

"You're just now realising this?" James asked, raising an eyebrow. 

*

Sirius's crush on James was out of hand. Normally, Sirius only helped with Dad's work when Dad was around. The whole point was to spend time with him. Right now though, Dad was still at the office, and Sirius was helping with the work to spend time with James. He wasn't sure when James had decided to work with Dad, but it meant that Sirius was poring over papers in the study with James and Lucius instead of going shopping with Lily and Remus like he wanted to; he'd even gotten all dressed up for it, and it felt kind of ridiculous to be wearing a skirt this short if he was staying in but whatever. 

If this was a different situation, Sirius might think that James was interested in him. Sirius was playing with his hair because he categorically refused to pull it back unless he was doing something physical, and he was trying to keep from getting too bored. It wasn't all that strange, but he'd be messing with his hair, and James would glance at him before tearing his eyes away. Then, a minute later, it would happen again. Sirius would poke James with the non-ink point of his pen, and James would give him a little shove in return. It was playful, almost like flirting. If it were anyone else, Sirius would think it was flirting, but this was James, and since when was James interested in someone like him? 

Lucius shuffled some of the stacks around, looking confused. "Where are the call records?" 

"What call records?" James asked. 

"The ones our client made. It was over a hundred pages, where did it go?" 

"You mean the March calls?" Sirius said, and they both looked at him. "I highlighted the calls from March and then put them in two piles since there was..." he slowed a little at the angry twist to Lucius's face, "so much. Was that not right?" 

"No, you absolute idiot, it wasn't right. The March calls are nothing; we don't need them. It's going to take hours to find all of them again, and it's your fault." 

"Hey," James protested, and Sirius shrunk back a little. 

"We have to have this case ready by tomorrow, and now we won't be able to." Lucius shook his head. 

"I didn't mean to," Sirius said quietly. 

"Congratulations, you didn't mean to bugger up," Lucius said flatly. "You still did. Why are you here, again?" 

Sirius wasn't in the mood to get yelled at, so he slid out of his chair and left the room. 

"That was uncalled for," James said. "He's not getting paid for this, and he had no idea that he shouldn't split them up." 

"Leave it to you to defend him." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"That maybe if you weren't busy making puppy eyes at him, you would've noticed that there was an issue sooner and we would actually have the time to fix this. But you were busy thinking with your prick, and now we're buggered. Besides, isn't he supposed to be your brother?" 

"Step-brother, and we weren't bloody raised together," James defended automatically. 

"Do whatever the hell you want," Lucius said, getting to his feet, "I'm calling in sick tomorrow so I don't have to explain to the boss why his stupid son messed it all up." 

"He's not stupid; he's just not trained for this. He didn't have to be there at all, and-" 

Lucius cut him off with a groan as they walked to the front door. "For god's sake, if you want to moon over him, do it with someone that cares. I'll talk to you when you have half a brain again." 

"I doubt I'll ever see you again if you're ducking out of this now, Lucius, but go on and get a good night's rest, I'm sure you'll need it for job hunting." James sort of slammed the door as soon as Lucius was out of the house. He rubbed at his forehead tiredly as he turned, catching sight of Sirius sitting on the middle landing of the stairs. It was obvious that he'd been there the whole time. He looked sad. James had seen him upset a few times, but never so dejected. He had his knees pulled up a little, arms resting on top of them. The way Sirius dressed was so innocent. He wore a short skirt because he liked knee-high socks and the way his legs looked, not because he was trying to seduce anyone. That being said, James felt thoroughly seduced. 

"Did I really mess it all up?" Sirius asked, sounding as depressed as he looked. 

"Nah." James walked up the stairs and sat down next to him. "Lucius is just blowing off steam. I mean, yeah, it'll take some time to sort out, but it's not going to ruin the case or summat." 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah." 

Sirius turned and hugged him, hiding his face in James's neck. "Thanks." Then, a moment later, he added, "Thanks for sticking up for me. I know you think I'm kind of vapid." 

"You're not vapid; you're just not a bloody professor. That's not a bad thing." 

Sirius leaned back a little. "Were you really making puppy eyes at me?" 

"What?" James asked, a blush rising in his cheeks far too fast for it to be innocent. 

Sirius kissed him. It was a little clumsy, but the important part was that James kissed him back. James's hand was warm on his knee, and Sirius wondered if it would be wildly inappropriate to climb into his lap. 

[enkelimagnus]

Club

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1542 words, rated T

Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 3 Power Broker 

Bucky's thoughts and feelings during the party at Sharon's house, while they wait for her to find Nagel.

TW: alcohol drinking

Read on AO3

Part 23 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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

Bucky has no idea what he's drinking. He knows it’s supposed to be strong, some sort of clear grain alcohol in quantities that would knock out a normal man. He’s not a normal man though. He hasn’t been in a really, really long time, and G-d Almighty he can feel it right now.

Sharon’s house is now a club. Bucky doesn’t really like clubs. The pounding of the music is relentless, the noise of the people unending. Conversations and laughter and bodies and the smells of a hundred perfumes, a hundred alcohols, a hundred body chemistries. It’s too much, hefeels too much.

He can’t even taste the alcohol. That’s how overwhelmed he is.

But he’s got a fucking job, and he’s going to fucking do it even if it kills him. Which, it probably will, because he’s keeping Zemo alive, and Zemo has no intention to return the favor.

It’s fine. Bucky knows it. He can deal with that later, once the mission’s done. It’s not something he needs to burden himself with right this instant. There’s way too much for him to deal with already. Sam, Sharon, the noise, the smells.

The sights are alright, it’s dark in here and his eyes adapted almost instantly to that.

Truth is, he’s hungry too. He hasn’t been eating enough since he left the States. He let himself forget it, he let himself refuse the extra food offered. It’s an old habit he can’t seem to break. When someone offers him more than the initial serving, he says no.

That food can go to someone else that needs it more than him, that’s what his mind tells him every time. May they be Wakandan children or Brooklynite ones. He doesn’t need the extra food, he’s strong enough to go a little hungry and still work to make sure no one else does. He’s a welterweight anyway.

The second he gets out of this house, he’s getting himself enough satay to feed a small army. And he’s not sharing.

He’s too hungry not to think of food. But the smells around him make him want to puke.

He needs to focus.

Sam isn’t far, he can feel it. He’s too hyper aware right now not to feel where the American soldier stands, a little awkward, a little out of place. Did he go to clubs often when he was younger? What were they like in Louisiana? Sam’s good-looking. He must have been an appreciated visitor. Was it something he enjoyed doing? Bucky never asked. To be fair, he never asked anything.

He knew Sam had a sister. It was in the intel Hydra gave him when they realized Steve had that strange pilot by his side. A sister, Sarah Morris, a brother-in-law, Antoine Morris, one nephew Antoine Jeremy Morris.

He now knows there’s a second nephew, Cass, and he knows Antoine Morris died, and he knows Sam’s family has a boat. It’s not enough. He asked the guy to follow him into a fucking pirate island, for fuck’s sake. He should know more.

His eyes catch movement and he’s grateful for the distraction it causes from the devouring guilt in his stomach.

Zemo’s dancing. His motions are stiff, inelegant. Not that Bucky’s would be much better. He hasn’t danced since 1943. It’s still strange to see. It feels robotic. Did Zemo attend a lot of clubs growing up as some young noble of an Eastern European country? Before he joined the Sokovian army and rose up the ranks fast enough to be an established commander and colonel by age 37?

The Asset never had to deal with Zemo directly, therefore Bucky has no information on him. He’s pretty sure he killed one of his wife’s uncles once, but that’s as far as it goes. He was never a direct target, he was never anything but a random, far away name, a footnote.

He didn’t need to be told what happened exactly to Zemo’s family. He heard the man was Sokovian and that was enough. Bucky saw Sokovia fall from where he was in Austria, on the tracks of his own past. He saw the large cloud in the sky. He didn’t need more to know that it was a world-ending sort of catastrophe.

“The Winter Soldier’s back in town,” someone says to Bucky’s left and he shifts. Has he been recognized, again? Is this going to put Sharon’s entire operation in even more danger?

“Yeah, at the Brass Monkey. My brother saw him fight. Took out ten men in 30 seconds.”

“That guy’s a machine.”

They have no fucking idea, do they? The two people chatting about him start moving, walking in his direction and Bucky tenses. Their eyes stop on him for a second. There is no reaction. They just keep walking.

They haven’t recognized him. With this jacket on, covering the arm, no one has recognized him. That’s been the line he’s walked on since he came back to civilian life. If his arm is hidden, no one recognizes him.

The Winter Soldier is an aesthetic.

A man with a metal arm is only that, especially in the enhanced land of Madripoor. A man with a metal arm and a harness is kinky. A man with a metal arm, a harness and who obeys to Russian: that’s the Winter Soldier.

His skin color allows him to blend into the background of every picture. He’s unremarkable, when he doesn’t want to be.

And right now, in this room, he’s just a white guy with a metal hand, if someone is looking. And no one really is. He exhales deeply. Sometimes, he is grateful for the anonymity of the aesthetic, grateful that unless he’s doing something specific, no one will recognize him. Sometimes, he hates it. He’s a wolf in a dollar-store costume and all the sheep are oblivious.

Fuck, Bucky needs a smoke. Or six. He orders another of the clear alcohol glasses again. Thank Sharon and her open bar policy for him. She must have known he’d consume the equivalent of two bottles of vodka tonight. After all, she was a close friend of Steve’s for more than two years.

Steve was never much of a drinker, but she probably knows supersoldier physiology enough. And she knows Bucky’s a drinker, the same way Zemo is. You gotta take what pleasure you can have, no matter how small it is.

Bucky still can’t taste that alcohol.

“You know anyone in the powered business?” someone asks, upstairs, right above where Bucky is swallowing liquid.

“Man, that’s the Power Broker’s turf,” another replies. Bucky can’t see either of them, but there’s a thick rolling accent in their voice, something… Arabic. He can’t place it quite yet. He might be able to, given some time.

“I know, I know, but there’s new enhanced popping up all around,” the first voice tries again. The accent is British, mated with something else, a slight clicking sound. “I’m sure the big guy won’t mind one or two ending up with someone else.”

There’s a shuffling noise, a fist bumping into a leathery jacket, the sound easily recognizable. “Listen. None of my business. We don’t fuck with the Power Broker interests or we get a warrant on our heads. I like my head.”

They move away in a loud clinking noise and when they start talking again, they’re too far for even Bucky’s ears to pick up. Interesting. They might just be talking about the FlagSmashers. The Supersoldier population multiplied by at least three times in the past couple of months.

Maybe there’s something else too, but it’s not a priority. Might just be a newly discovered bunch of Inhumans. The epidemic was over eight years ago, soon after the fall of Sokovia, while Bucky was in Europe. He remembers how careful he’d been to keep himself hidden, when people and the governments started looking for powered individuals. He remembers the constant need for control, the constant stress, looking over his shoulder.

A new crop of Inhumans surfacing now would make some noise, in the aftermath of the Blip. It would heighten the tension already closing and narrowing minds. When you’re trying to rebuild yourself after that kind of event, after the displacement, after the injustice caused by a giant alien, the newly-discovered alien-given powers of your neighbors would feel like a threat. Bucky knows that kind of mentality.

Something to keep an eye on, once they’re done, he guesses. Not that he’s allowed to keep an eye on anything.

He has no idea what will happen when he comes home. How will Lieutenant General Henricksen react to him switching teams without really asking for permission? He doesn’t know what kind of strings Walker pulled so Bucky could have free reign. He finds himself thankful for it, and he hates it.

He doesn’t want to owe a man like Walker. He doesn’t know what he promised Bucky would do in exchange for that change of hands holding his leash. He doesn’t want to find out. Whatever happened, he doesn’t want to find out.

Sharon coming to let them know she’s found Wilfred Nagel is the perfect distraction from that horrible line of thought, and Bucky follows her lead without question.

[chilling-seavey]

Passchendaele Corbyn and Daniel hanging out post-war!! Happy 2 months Passchendaele!! ❤️ ~T

Has it been two months already since my love, my novel, came to a conclusion?? My goodness 🥺 I almost forgot how to write in 1916 British dialogue so bear with me lol...

July 25, 1916

Daniel and Corbyn only saw each other for the first time after the war at the medal ceremony in the epilogue but after that, they got together more often. Corbyn and his wife bought a car with the cheques from the government post-war and could drive out to visit the younger couple more often. Without Daniel and Elizabeth married, they still lived in their parents’ houses so they often visited the park together with a packed picnic basket for their double dates.

“Have you chosen a wedding date yet?” Christine asked, her baby daughter sitting beside her on the picnic blanket.

“Not until the war is over.” Elizabeth replied, laying over the blanket with her head on Daniel’s lap, his fingers twisting through her hair lazily.

“Why’s that?” Corbyn asked.

“So nothing can pull us apart again. So our children are not born into a world of terror.” Daniel whispered, focusing on the sunlight reflecting over Elizabeth’s light hair. She smiled up at him and ran her hand over his cheek.

“That seems fair.” Christine agreed.

“But no stupid war could keep my hands off my gorgeous woman for one more moment.” Corbyn smirked, grabbing his wife’s cheeks to pull her in for a kiss and she giggled softly into it.

“When the time is right for us, we will know it.” Elizabeth said as she sat up and leaned over to pick a berry from the bowl on the blanket. She fed one to Daniel and then ate one herself, squinting in the bright summer sun that reflected off the pond they were sat beside.

When lunch was over and the women took the baby farther down the grass to feed some ducks, Corbyn and Daniel were left together to talk, both of them watching them quietly for a moment down by the pond.

“Do you think the war is going to be over soon?” Daniel asked softly.

“Hopefully. We made good progress.” Corbyn replied, sipping the soda from the glass bottle in his hand.

“I want to marry her so badly.”

“You do not have to wait.” Corbyn looked over at Daniel. “No one is saying you have to wait.”

“I know.” Daniel sighed. “I just do not want to risk anything.”

“Marry her by the end of the year, Daniel.” Corbyn said.

Daniel looked back at him, furrowed eyebrows in his confusion, “Why?”

“You are driving yourself crazy, mate. Marry the girl. No excuses.” Corbyn shrugged. “Best thing I ever did.”

Daniel turned back to look at Elizabeth farther down the grass and he bit lightly at his lip, watching her lace dress billowing in the wind and her sun hat tied under her chin with a white ribbon. Her smile was infectious and the way she played with the baby made Daniel’s heart skip a beat. Corbyn could only smirk at his lovestruck friend, shaking his head and taking another sip from his drink.

“The General confirmed; there is no way we will be brought back out. We are finished with war. We are safe now.” Corbyn added.

“I know.” Daniel mumbled.

“Marry her. Put a baby in her. Start your life.” Corbyn said plainly, making Daniel blush furiously and he turned to the grass and picked at a few blades. “I’m serious.” Corbyn laughed.

“You just…really said...that.” Daniel chuckled, rubbing his face with his hand to hide his pink cheeks.

“Circle of life, mate.” Corbyn shrugged. “We have heard men being men in the trenches so that little comment is nothing.”

“I know.” Daniel’s eyes went wide at the memory, making the two friends laugh together.

“Jack was the worst with those statements.” Corbyn chuckled, leaning back on one hand against the picnic blanket. “Bloody hell, the guy had his head in the gutter all the time.”

“He really did.” Daniel snorted. “I learned way too much from him.”

“Christ.” Corbyn chuckled, shaking his head as he took a sip of his drink, eyes finding the girls again. The two friends sat in silence a moment, just watching their families play and laugh down by the bank of the pond.

“What is it like being a father?” Daniel asked softly after a moment of silence.

Corbyn glanced over at his friend, “Incredible. I can’t even describe it.”

“Are you scared you might mess her up?”

“Sometimes.” Corbyn nodded, turning back to his baby daughter who was waddling around with the ducks. “I have another person to lean on though. We are all learning. Baby is learning to grow up into a whole real person and the parents are learning how to raise a child. By the second it will be easier, I reckon. Are you worried about that?”

Daniel shrugged, picking at the green grass, “I can hardly take care of myself some days so…”

“It is different with a child. Your world starts to revolve around them. Nothing matters except for them…and your wife of course.” Corbyn looked back to Daniel. “You are going to be a great father, Daniel. I swear it.”

The women made their way back to their blanket, the baby running right into Corbyn’s arms and he greeted her with a cute little voice and lots of kisses. Daniel looked up at Elizabeth as she sat herself down beside him and draped her arm around his shoulders to pull him close and press a kiss to his cheek.

“Lizzie…” Daniel whispered, twisting his fingers around the material of the ribbon of her hat.

“What is it, darling?” Elizabeth asked.

“I want to marry you by Christmas.”

Elizabeth’s eyes went wide and her silence made him meet her gaze, “Why’s that?”

“I want to start my life with you.” Daniel said softly, glancing at Corbyn who smirked at him. He looked back to Elizabeth and leaned in to whisper, “And I want to make a baby with you.”

“Daniel Seavey!” Elizabeth shrieked with laughter, smacking his shoulder playfully. “What a naughty man!”

The four of them laughed loudly together, Corbyn clapping Daniel on the back proudly despite the younger man’s blushing cheeks. They started packing up their things and Elizabeth slipped her hand in the crook of Daniel’s arm, pulling him close.

“I would like that very much.” she whispered. He turned to smile at her and she leaned up to kiss his lips.

“We’re expecting the wedding invitations by the end of the month!” Corbyn called out as they started towards the car.