#Will keep a glimmer of hope after knowing Simon is fighting just as hard as we are for this show not to end like this

[caliphoria17]

Hey, Netflix:

[chicagocityofclans]

Minsky Edison → Charles Michael Davis → Witch

→ Basic Information 

Age: 1268

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Straight 

Powers: Neuromancy

Birthday: October 30th 

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio 

Religion: Buddhist 

→ His Personality

Minsky is approachable and friendly, able to easily bond and make friends with everyone, despite their species. He is courageous and an easily excitable individual. He has a great passion for his work and a tendency to ramble off when describing his findings or hypotheses as a Neuromancer and Council member. Minsky takes his role as a Council member and mentor seriously. He enforces the rules the Council made without fail. Although, Minsky also genuinely care for his mentees and friends, willing to find loopholes or help them plead their cases. He likes to have fun and enjoys being a witch; he takes pride in who he is. Over the years Minsky has gained great leadership skills, his intelligence goes beyond his powers, and his altruistic nature has him ready to go and save a complete stranger at the bat of an eye. None of this which curb his competitive streaks. Minsky enjoys flaunting around his knowledge.

Possibly because of his lack of paternal care growing up, Minsky has a strong parental instinct towards his biological kids and those he gained during his marriage. After losing his only biological son, Minsky's attitude become quiet and subdued, at the same time angry and upset, having lost his child due to an inheritance on his part and a failed marriage.

→ His Personal Facts

Occupation: Mentor and Shield Master   

Scars: None

Tattoos: Multiple

Two Likes: Beautiful Surroundings and Privacy

Two Dislikes: Slackers and Shallow Relationships

Two Fears: Being forgotten and Becoming a ghost

Two Hobbies: Tai Chi and Collecting/Listening to Vinyls

Three Positive Traits: Romantic, Altruistic, Joyful

Three Negative Traits: Know-it-all, Over-confident, Strict (Teaching)

→ His Connections

Parent Names:

Darna (Mother): Minsky has a difficult time remembering his mother, her face, and his previous name and last name. However the word Darna is clearly imprinted in his mind. He remembered feeling fondness for his mother, and thinking of her those nights after leaving for sea.  

Sibling Names:

None

Children Names:

Lee Cyto Rinker Jr (Step Son): Kudzai's oldest son who is 1018 years old. Kudzai has a strained relationship with her eldest due to how similar he is to his father. Minsky has tried to be as available to him as possible, and they have formed a cautious friendship. Kudzai has a habit of being exceedingly hard on her offspring, and Lee is no exception. 

Cristae Zephyr Rinker (Step Daughter): Kudzai's oldest daughter who is 980 years old and responsible for the no-offspring mentoring rule. Minsky gets along with Cristae the least of his step children, but he makes an effort to reach out on important days. 

Krebs Jay Rinker (Step Son): Kudzai's middle son who is 364 years old. He is Kudzai and James Thomas' son. Kerbs is Kudzai's least favorite child but Minsky mainly thinks he needs direction. Something he is well aware Kudzai couldn’t give him, for the sake of her own sanity. He found him a job and mentor in Seoul,  and heard he’s doing well in his Master levels. 

Hondria Edison Rinker (Daughter): Kudzai and Minsky's only daughter who is 119 years old. She is a talented Projector and was trained by Minsky himself. Despite his advanced age, Hondria was the first child Minsky ever had. He considered himself too much of a risk to have many close personal connections. He could die at any point, and thought he may be better remembered as a leader and mentor, rather than a father. When he held her for the first time however, everything made sense. He could leave as much of his knowledge in the world as possible, but Hondria and Kudzai and their family was his legacy. He vowed to her when she went to sleep the first night that he would be there as long as he possibly could for her. They are still incredibly close and it broke his heart when she left for her advanced levels. He teleports to see her often, but it’s not what he’d imagined all those centuries ago.

Jamie Edison Rinker (Son): Kudzai and Minsky’s youngest son died in his sleep at the age of 17. They came into Jamie’s birth so confident, much more than Hondria’s, assuming he’d be a mental or maybe another biokinetic. When they discovered he was like his father, it suddenly felt like Jamie had been placed into a box with a bomb in it and any movement would set it off. Both Kudzai and Minsky attempted to go on like things were normal. Jamie was energetic and brilliant; the light of his mother’s eye. And Minsky began to see the box and the bomb go away and suddenly a glimmer of hope swelled in him. If it was genetic, and Minsky had been alive for over a millenia who's to say Jamie wouldn’t share the same fate? He still remembers the day Kudzai found him in bed, having died in his sleep. It destroyed him to his core. He prayed that day and so many others afterwards to just switch him for Jamie. He’d had the life he was meant to have; Jaime’s was cut too short. Minsky and Kudzai separated shortly there after; neither one able to forgive Minsky for his part in it.

Romantic Connections:

Kudzai Rinker (Separated Wife/Woman he loves): Minsky believes himself too old to buy into the idea of soul mates, but there is something that has pulled Minsky and Kudzai towards one another for centuries. Too many chances of being in the same place at the same time; too many opportunities to go back to one another. Minsky has never loved anyone the way he loves Kudzai. Her brilliance, and snark, and steadfast beliefs; everything makes her who she is. Losing Jaime devastated them and there was no way either of them could heal together, but Minsky thinks there may be a spark left for them somewhere. A real shot, not just a brief reconnection when the world becomes too lonely. He’ll wait until the end of his days for that woman.  

Platonic Connections:

Fiona Kekoa (Mentee): She is only 21 years old, but Minsky is training her in case he dies before they turn 50. She has taken extensive notes on his routines and processes so she may keep his work going if he dies.

Catherine Barr (Mentee): Despite Cat’s beliefs, Minsky completely understands what it’s like to lose a child. However, that’s no excuse to unravel different universes. He’s willing to be sympathetic, but if he finds anything more concrete in her head, he will not hesitate to bring her in front of the council for judgement. 

Nikita Platt (Mentee): Minsky finds Nikita refreshingly genuine, especially for a Mnemokinetic. He could see it in her mind, well before she turned 50 and was glad to offer her a spot under his tutelage. Her memory acting up so much already concerns Minsky, but he is willing to assist her with whatever she needs to grow her power. He has already purchased a tracking kit to help her keep track of her keys and phone, and is trying to get her into the habit of putting appointments into her phone so she doesn’t forget them. 

Simon Lee Weyden (Future Mentee): Given that he is still alive for Simon’s next level, Minsky has agreed to take him on. He has potential, and unlike many mentors he isn’t prejudiced against Tantric Manipulators.

Rhiannon Draga (Council Member): Minsky has a lot of respect for Rhiannon and considers her a close friend. He is glad she finally found her happiness with Fallon, Alucard, and Vladimir. Before, he often wondered if the melancholia may over take her. Fortunately, he was proven wrong and happily saw her wedding and met her children. 

Ronan Cleirigh (Council Member): Minsky and Ronan have been friends for a long time. They can both shimmy in and out of each other's shields, making it easier for Minsky to trust Ronan more than their peers. Their friendship has been a little hard on Minsky as of lately, knowing Ronan hates Kudzai with a passion.

Jace Cicero (Council Member): Jace and Minsky often agree with one another when it comes to council decisions. They tend to keep their cool even when more fiery members of Council do not. The only thing they do not agree upon is Jace’s dating of his mentee, Cat. Minsky is concerned that if Cat needs to be put on trial for any illegal use of her power, that Jace may be swayed by whatever feelings he has for her.

Eric Lasiter (Best Friend): Minsky often finds a weight being lifted off of his shoulders whenever Eric is around. Eric's energy and mind sings to Minsky like fairy tales of muses. Eric was a huge help when Minsky lost Jamie and separated with Kudzai. While they might not be the best at time management when it comes to getting together but when it happens, time seems to melt around them.

Averill Sookram (Ally): Minsky exonerated Averill for a crime by looking through his mind. Minsky has been on Averill’s side for centuries. His exoneration created one of the worst fights between him and Kudzai in the past 3 centuries, but he wasn’t willing to let an innocent man be punished for something he didn’t do. 

Sydney ‘Sid��� Velanica (Distant In Law): Minsky is more accepting of those with the Rinker mark than his wife, Kudzai. Minksy never doubted Sidney and even offered to mentor him before Sid chose Jia. Minsky supports Sid's relationship with Sada.

Sol Alfaro (Old Friend): Minsky can honestly say that he has never been friends with an animal shifter until Sol. Sol has lost his wife and went down a dark path of turning to magic to fix the problem. Having seen a lot of death in his time. Minsky advised him against using magic or contacting a necromancer, as a replacement of dealing with his loss. At first, Sol did not take it well but Minsky somehow kept finding him and offering his guidance and friendship. It's been nearly 150 years and they still keep in contact.

Tristan Lawton (Acquaintance): Kudzai has recently informed the Council that one of her mentees may have been misplaced as a Biokinetic. Kudzai is unsure about him being a Biokinetic and believes he may be something else or something new entirely. Minsky and Ronan have been doing research to try and help figure it out before Tristan can do more damage in the wrong field.

Hostile Connections:

None

Pets:

None

→ History (paragraph(s) on background) → The Present (paragraph(s) on how the character connects to the plot)

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

Echoes (Aldo Raine x Reader)

Anon Request: "hellloooo :) love your stories, bb 😭 I was wondering if you could do something kinda angsty, post war and Aldo's got shell shock and feels guilty bc most of the boys never came home, and reader (fem) was a basterd and helps him through it? Sorry if it's a lot 😭 thanks love!

@inglourious-imagines @owba-chan @war-obsessed

Let me know if you wanna be tagged in these! :)

It had been five years.

Five years since the war ended.

Five years since Shoshanna's theater was incinerated.

Five years since the remaining basterds went home...

Aldo had lost men. Good men.

They weren't just basterds.

They were all his brothers.

All along the way, each and every one of them faced the living breathing nightmares they called the enemy...

And after five years, the nightmares seemed to follow into their psyche.

After five years, sometimes the war still seemed to be going on.

Especially to Aldo.

He never forgave himself for losing them...

Andy Kagan...

Then Simon Sakowitz.

Then it was Michael Zimmerman.

A year passed. Everything was going so well...

Then, according to Bridget von Hammersmarck, John Hicox blew his German act.

They lost Wicki, Hugo, Bridget, John in one night. They lost Hirschberg somewhere along the line that night, and didn’t even realize it until morning.

Then Donny, and Omar.

They almost had it all.

And Aldo never forgave himself for it.

He was alright during the day. Most nights he slept like a rock because he worked so damn hard...

It was a cycle...

He worked long hours, day in and day out to keep his mind busy.

The pension that came with the medal of honor was more than enough to live off of.

The medal requested by Hans Landa.

"That fucking medal..." Aldo practically spat as he threw it into a closet the night he came home, five years before...

Hans Landa... Not a day went by without Aldo thinking about it...

Somehow, that animal survived and made a mockery of the brass, the allies, and the basterds, while most of Aldo's boys died fighting the good fight...

Aldo seemed calm and collected the day they got the medals. It was him, Smitty, you, and Landa standing together while people gave speeches about honor and bravery. The truth was Aldo didn’t listen to a word of it. The whole time, he couldn't stop thinking of murdering Landa...

The only reason he didn’t was because of you. 

The war was over. 

If he killed Landa, Aldo would be in jail for life. He’d never see you again...

Aldo also knew he was the closest thing Smitty had to a father.

Aldo kept it together from that moment on, for your sake, and for Smitty’s...

But there were times his mind was fogged over with one thought:

"If I could trade my life for theirs, they'd all be standing here right now..."

It was all in a brief glimmer of agonizing remembrance in his eyes every so often.

You held his hand when you saw it. A few times on the porch of his cabin up the Smoky Mountains. Sometimes it was in town, in Maynardville. People tended not to notice. They were just brief glimpses of the war overtaking Aldo's eyes.

You were the only one that could see it.

You only realized it because once upon a time, you were there too.

You held his hand firmly, and spoke gently, "It was war, Aldo...You couldn't change a thing..."

Sometimes he'd force a smile, and take a breath, "I know darlin'.... I know..."

Sometimes he'd just nod silently and stare into the distance...

For the most part, Aldo kept it together.

He was Aldo the Apache, after all.

He'd smile all day if Smitty called him. His heart was full when he looked at you, the girl that somehow made him the happiest man through it all.

Still, you and Smitty were all that tied Aldo to the war...

You knew that.

And that was also why you hesitated in marrying  Aldo at first. You didn't want to be a constant reminder of the war he left behind.

Soon you understood that no matter what, he couldn't leave it behind. He needed someone that understood, and that was you.

Most days, you were all he needed.

But some nights...especially around the time of year that Operation Kino happened... some nights it just wasn't enough.

It had been five years exactly.... Aldo refused to go to any military reunions, any banquets or interviews.  He went to work that morning, like he always did. After all, a basterd’s work was never done...

Aldo didn't say much that day, even to you. He left for work earlier than usual, you were still half asleep. But you felt him kiss you  on the forehead before he left.

He came home about an hour later than usual.

He wasn't drunk, but you could smell a hint of alcohol in his breath when he hugged you... He held on for a moment or two longer than usual.

Usually, you couldn't shut him up at dinner. Usually, his belly laugh would make your heart sing. He'd usually clear his plate in the blink of an eye and sweep you away to listen about your day, or listen to the radio.

But that night, he was silent. He hardly ate a thing.

He murmured a sincere but quiet "Thank you, darlin'..." as he got up and then silently washed the dishes...

You sat at the table for some time, wondering how you could change his mind.

It wasn't his fault...

Order were orders.  You all knew what you’d gotten yourselves into when you agreed to do Operation Kino.

It was the war, not him, that got the boys killed.

That fucking war....

You went to the living room to find him...or hoping to find him.

But he wasn't there...

You peeked out the window onto the porch, expecting to see him sitting there and smoking.

Nothing. The night was dark. Mist and fog was beginning to float up the  mountain. The crickets were all you could hear...  You shut your eyes, and you could hear the crickets in the middle of the night, back in France. You could hear Donny fighting Omar over: The Red Sox were definitely better than the Giants. You could hear Wicki and Hugo’s arguments. You could hear Hirschberg and Smitty talking about home.   You opened your eyes, and shook your head as your heart sank with a teary smile...

"Aldo??"

You looked around the cabin until you finally reached your bedroom...

You sighed.

You gently pushed open the door, and walked into the dim room.

Only the light from the hall seeping in.

You saw his outline, sitting on his edge of the bed.

It was only seven o clock.

But...it was the fifth time it had happened.

You got into bed by him, and laid there silently.

Eventually, he laid by you. You slipped your arms around him,  "I love you..."

You felt the tension in his shoulder ease just an ounce as he said "I love you too." You could tell he was hurting, but you knew him. He wouldn’t talk about it because you were there. You knew too well what was in his mind. This was the best you could do...after five years, you knew that. 

About an hour passed. You were still holding on to Aldo. The entire time, you'd been praying for them. For all the basterds you lost...

Even for Smitty, who was about to become a father...

You noticed Aldo's breathing had slowed down. He had finally fallen asleep...

You slowly let go of him, and looked to the ceiling, thinking of the good times you all had...hoping your prayers were enough as you closed your eyes.

It was about three in the morning.

Aldo's nightmares that night  were reflections of the worst of war... He lost them all over again. He watched each and every one of his boys die. Somehow, he lost Smitty, and he lost you...

Over and over again.

It never ended. 

The droning of bombers flying low, the marching nazi boots...

No amount of scalps changed what happened back there.

What was done was done... Those boys were never coming home. Bridget would never trip the light fantastique up another red carpet again.

 Shoshanna and Marcel would never be recognized for anything...

Aldo was shaking in his sleep, angry at the nazis, never having so much hate for them than at that moment... Angry that he couldn't save his boys... He was sweating, shivering, tossing around, losing them for the thousandth time in the night, "NOOO! NOOOO! NO! FUCK! FUUUUCK!  BOYS I'M SORRY! BABY NO! I'M SORRY! I'M FUCKING SORRY!-"

You shot up, scared for a moment, but realizing what was happening.

Aldo could see blood. He could hear engines and marching boots. He could see his basterds’ corpses.

"Sh, sh, it's ok, Aldo! Aldo, listen listen to me, you're home! You're  home, love... Sh..." You held onto him, swaying gently trying to calm him down.

He leaned his head against your chest, you ran your hands through his hair as he shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. He listened to  your heartbeat

The only thing that reminded him you were alive...

He at least still had you...

He could still hear he marching...the screaming. He could see the fire...

"Aldo...It's over now. It's all over..."

He held onto you, his hands resting shakily on your ribs, where there was a scar. A deep gash that ran from your side to your chest.

Nazis once tried to take you from him.  You comforted Aldo all those years ago, the night he almost lost you...a hun couldn't cut out your heart because Aldo already had it...

That night broke Aldo.

That was the night he lost his first basterd, and the night he realized he loved you.

It was the night he realized the boys were more than just his soldiers.

They were his family...

And after all those years, it hurt knowing that he'd never see them again...

It was war, but it was never ok.

You were all he had. You, and the rare visits with Smitty.

Sometimes it all seemed in vain.

There were hordes of nazis that got away with it...

One of them was living on Nantucket fucking Island...

Sometimes it made Aldo scoff...

If Donny were around, he would've personally made sure Landa never stepped a goddamn foot in Massachusetts.

It was a disgrace... sometimes Aldo felt like his work was never done.

But there was nothing he could do about it. The war was over, and he couldn’t go back in time.

He knew that.

He was back up the Smoky Mountains, back in Maynardville Tennessee. He had you to hold, and no one to fight off.

No more guns firing, no more tanks. 

No more basterds...

It was just you and Aldo...

It wasn't easy... There were times he felt it never would be.

A basterds work was never done, but he wasn't alone.

He had you. 

[frangipanidownunder]

It’s a New Day, It’s a New Dawn: fic contest entry

This was my entry to the fic contest. Cancer arc. Mulder and Scully go on a date.

She’s been having dreams. Vivid, cinematic. Bright kaleidoscopic photography. It’s an irony that her skin is parchment-pale and her eyes are gray-ringed and she fights the urge daily to disappear herself in the comforting wrap of her charcoal fleece.

She doesn’t smile too often yet. She still finds that hard, despite her positive prognosis, despite being dealt a second hand in life. Maybe living with death changes muscle memory. She doesn’t smile for many reasons, like her mother’s almost oppressive love and her brother’s tight surprise at her recovery. But sometimes her lips twitch at the relief Mulder’s hides in his own easier smile, the protracted looks he hangs on her when he thinks she isn’t paying attention, the more frequent night-time phone calls – that come much earlier now. Honestly, she misses their 2am slot. They spoke more freely then, shared fears among the ideas, dropped old stories into the mix of autopsy results and wild theories. She knows he’s been frightened to his core by her cancer. And, like the child that still lives in his soul, he doesn’t quite know how to shuck off that terror.

              Remission. It’s a strange term. Sending back, releasing, abating, waiving a debt. Like she owed somebody something. If she has rejected death’s shackles, then it goes that she must be free. She must be able to do as she pleases. She remembers reading about the first sexual revolution – in the Roaring Twenties when the heavy burden of war had lifted and the novelty of life and living powered up. Jazz clubs, movies, cars. The world changed profoundly for that generation. And there’s something about the curious and colorful hope in her dreams that makes her feel the same way.

              Last night’s dream lingers under her skin, behind her eyes, in her breathing. Magical, sensual, sexual. She can’t pin it down but it made her feel good and she wants to hold on to that feeling. She stretches her toes out under the soft linen and enjoys the warm weight of it molding to her body. During her treatment she couldn’t bear anything against her skin, even the lightest touch scratched at her skin, burnt, bruised, scarred. Now she craves it.

She’s always been tenacious, clinging to noble principles or boyfriends past their use-by or scientific proof despite what she’s seen. She has gripped life by dagger-like horns and held on, palms bloody and torn. This time she has won and she needs to celebrate. She bought herself new underwear and pyjamas in the most luxurious silk, and she booked herself in for a day treatment at the local spa hoping to shed the last of her dying cells and front this new life of hers with fresh, unblemished skin.

___

Mulder drops by. He’s no good at lying, gives himself away with too many stumbling starts and glances to the left. He rubs his nose and she stares boldly at him, this glorious man in front of her holding out daffodils, the flowers of new life and hope. He’s asking her to dinner and she wants to believe it’s because he feels the same things she does, but she knows it’s really because he needs to see that she’s eating.

“My shout,” he says and there’s a vague air of desperation as he taps his wallet in his pocket.

The restaurant is bland. Mulder is the bright spot with his embroidered reminiscences and luminous smile. He’s genuinely delighted to be entertaining her. He can’t help trying too hard. This man who has lost everything and still believes in fairy tales and happy ever afters. The truth. Mulder’s truth has always been about a bigger picture, a higher purpose. The mundanity of dying just wasn’t in his vision.

              “I’m not keeping you up too late?” he asks, checking his watch for the fourth time. It’s only just gone nine and she feels extraordinarily awake.

              “I’m fine, Mulder. I’m having a nice time,” she says but knows it’s not enough for him. His mind will be worrying through all the things he has said or hasn’t said or should say. She covers his jiggling fingers with her hand, his sharp intake of breath punctuating the moment. “I want to say thank you for believing. For having faith and for your courage. I know how hard it must have been for you to see me that way. I don’t think I’ve told you how grateful I am.”

              His fingers still and his shoulders fall forward a little. He turns his head to the street. There’s nothing to see out the window but the rain falling into orange spools of light cast by the lamps, but his attention is captured by it. It seems he is all out of stories. “There was no choice,” he says, monotone matching the outlook. He does lift her hand and close it inside both his palms, and it feels like he’s covering her heart.

              She has a sudden urge to dance. To drink incandescent cocktails in a shady club. Wear feathers round her neck and Charleston until dawn. She wonders if Mulder has ever danced, although she dimly recalls a story about his mother teaching him to waltz as a pre-requisite life-skill, alongside swimming and cooking. Teena and Bill Mulder’s priorities in life were never quite synchronized. Genteel living on the Vineyard or trading your daughter to a syndicate of power-hungry men?  

              “Have you ever been to a jazz club, Mulder?”

              He releases her hand along with an unguarded laugh. “What?”

              “A jazz club, you know? Dancing, drinking, cigarettes in black holders, pearls and boas.”

              He’s still chuckling, all teeth and chesty laugh. “I do have a fedora and some two-tone Oxfords in the closet somewhere.”

              She sees him then, gray hat shadowing his face, pinstripe shirt with gold cufflinks, suspenders holding up his cuffed pants, black and white polished shoes skitting across the floorboards. Something inside her blooms. She smiles and the stretch across her face feels like an new act in her life.

“You look good as you are,” she says, trying not to linger on his broad chest.

              “Thank you,” he says, drawing out the words with uncertainty. Then he sits upright, runs a hand through his floppy bangs and grins. “You’re serious? You really want to dance?”

              Suddenly unsure, she rubs her thighs and swallows. She’s being irrational, she knows. She’s taking a chance, she knows. She’s putting herself out there, she knows. He’s not ready for this shed-skin Scully, this rebirthed version. “It’s okay,” she says, shaking her head. “Let’s get the check.”

              Outside, the air is damp and the residual smell of frying onions hangs all around. She’s noticed the slow return of her sense of smell and the aromas of life come at her with memories. A chilli-dog with mustard spooling down her shirt. Smoke from campfires with grit between her toes. Cologne on pillows. Ocean-fresh skin. The salt-sweet stickiness of the morning after.

___

Mulder cranes his neck back round, slows the car and turns it around. He looks across at her and holds her in a half-smile. She sees the neon sign, a golden pineapple with oversized verdigris spikes, flashing. The Tropica.

              Inside, it’s velvet-walled dark. It’s tactile. It’s pink smoke puffs and aqua light strips around ceiling high mirrors. The bartender is dancing shiny cocktail shakers in each hand. The low thrum from the speakers is pulsing some saxophone standard and Mulder pulls his credit card from his wallet and sets up a tab. It feels illicit, ensconced in a booth sipping strawberry daiquiris through green straws. After the first, she tucks the cerise cocktail umbrella behind her ear and makes Mulder grin. After the second, she tucks the umbrella behind his ear and makes him laugh.

              When her cancer struck fear into her bones in the early hours, when she saw nothing but a void in her future, when she trembled at the thought of Mulder going mad with bottled-up grief, she imagined how she would spend her last days on earth, had she been well enough. It wasn’t a midnight tryst in an underground club sharing lurid drinks and even more lurid tales about work colleagues. Somehow, she’d imagined pink sand and sun-baked skin, glimmering yachts and dolphin-diving. Fresh, salt-whipped winds snapping shade-sails overhead and mango juice sticking to her chin.

              But this, this electric thrall that presses around her, the gravity of life. It’s more than she could imagine. His fingers cover hers and he’s tapping with the beat of the drum. On the small stage, a woman in a purple sequin gown shimmies and belts out Nina Simone. He leans across, tipping over the glass in front of him, spilling pink ice onto the table. He ignores it and his jaw brushes her cheek as he whispers in her ear.

              “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, Dana?”

              Hearing her name on his lips shoots heat through her veins. She is Dana tonight. She has worked off her debts, gripped life by the shoulders and shaken herself back into it. She is free. And when he presses his damp-shirted chest to hers nesting his face in the crook of her neck, it’s like she has stepped into one of her dreams.

              She never wants to wake.

[moodyvalentinestories]

O Thomas Hunt, Wherefore Art Thou My Professor? | Chapter 9

Summary: It was the night of the Freshman Award Show... how will that go?

Notes: Oh God. Oh Gooooood. This one has quite a bit more Hunt in it. Is that a good thing, though?

Also, you can read this on AO3 if you prefer that.

As I walked up to the theatre, Simon right behind me, I couldn't help feeling nervous. I had every reason to be. I knew Hunt would be overly critical of our film -- because I'd worked on it. Sure, I was worried about my grade and all, but more than that, I was worried about Simon's. Even though he'd fucked up a bit when he didn't finish the script on time, he didn't deserve this. If Hunt was going to insist on giving us a bad grade, I would do everything in my power to fight it.

"You ready?" Simon asked. He was looking quite dapper in his suit and bowtie -- it was very different from his casual hipster attire.

I took a deep breath. "As ready as I can be."

He took my hand, squeezed it, and then pushed open the doors. We weren't the last to arrive, but there were already a lot of people there. I soon realised that it wasn't only our class -- there were professors, other students, and even people I had never seen on campus before.

"Fuck," I whispered under my breath. Yes, I wanted to be an actress. I knew things like this would be part of my life. But this... I'd just come here. I was just a college student, just starting out... it was a little too much. I let go of Simon's hand. "I'm... I'm gonna go outside for another minute. Get us some good seats, okay?"

I didn't let him answer before I stormed out. When I was finally outside again, I heard footsteps behind me. Thinking it was Simon, I spun around and snapped, "Didn't I tell you to get us some seats? I swear, I--" My words got caught in my throat once I realised it wasn't Simon at all.

"A little irritable tonight, are we?" the man in front of me said. Professor Hunt.

I swallowed hard. "Just... the nerves."

He raised an eyebrow. "I must say, you did not strike me as the type to get nervous."

"That's because you don't know me at all," I replied, rolling my eyes as I turned back around to walk away from him.

I didn't think he'd say any more, much less follow me, but that was exactly what he did. "You made it seem like you believed in what you created. Is that no longer true?"

"No, it is..."

I sat down on a bench while Hunt somewhat awkwardly stood in front of me. "Then you have no reason to be nervous. Get back inside before anyone notices--"

"I do have a reason! Just because I think I did a good job doesn't mean others will, too," I interrupted him.

He shook his head, scowling. "And now you care what the general public thinks? You truly manage to fall below my expectations every time."

Hunt had already turned away and was starting to walk back to the theatre when I, once again without thinking things through, jumped up and said, "I care about your opinion."

He stopped dead in his tracks. I could tell he hadn't expected me to say that. Once he was facing me again, he finally spoke. It was only a single word. "What?"

"I just mean... I need good grades if I don't want to get... expelled. And I... I can't have you, a member of the board, hate me," I stuttered.

He let out a low, humourless chuckle. "I do not hate you, Miss Fields," he said, taking a load off my mind... only to pile it back on seconds later. "You're far too irrelevant to me."

I felt like someone had punched me in the chest. Irrelevant. Somehow that was a thousand times worse. I just stood there, opening and closing my mouth with no words coming out. There was nothing I could say. No witty comeback. No sassy remark. Irrelevant.

Hunt was about to say something else, but I couldn't bear to hear it. I pushed past him and went back inside. I'd hoped a bit of fresh air would help me calm my nerves, but, of course, someone just had to come and ruin it. Fucking Hunt.

"Is everything all right?" Addison, who was standing by the entrance, asked me as I walked past her.

I quickly nodded, not wanting to talk about it, and looked for Simon. He was sitting in the second row with a bunch of other students from our class.

He, too, asked me if I was okay, which I told him I was. I didn't talk to anyone else after that. I just sat there, staring at nothing in particular, hoping this nightmare would be over soon. But it was far from it. The ceremony hadn't even begun yet. How would I possibly survive this night?

Not long after I'd sat down, Professor Hunt stepped on stage. I tried my best not to look away, but I couldn't help it. His words kept playing in my mind. You're far too irrelevant to me. Irrelevant. Irrelevant. 

I honestly didn't know why I cared so much. He was a great director, so what? There were a million others out there. Out of all of them, why was it his opinion that mattered to me the most? Just because he was the youngest director to ever win a stupid award? Just because he was talented in many different areas? It was idiotic, really. What should have been important was the fact that he said he didn't hate me. I shouldn't have cared about anything else.

I took a deep breath, straightened up and looked at the stage, watching him move around as he announced the first category. Oh, but I did care. With every second I watched him, I became angrier. By the time Hunt announced the script-fixer category, I was livid.

"And now... we see the last contestant of this category. Simon Ortega and Rachel Fields," Professor Hunt said and stepped aside

Simon and I walked onstage together. We'd carefully planned everything out beforehand. Who would talk when, what we would say... but at that point, I didn't give a shit anymore. Simon was on his way to the mic, but I got there faster and grabbed it.

"Remember how Professor Hunt said he wouldn't assign us a project for this so we wouldn't blame him if it turned out terrible?" I began and Simon immediately tried to take the mic from me. "Well, guess what, we had the displeasure of getting our assignment from him personally. Now, I am proud of what we made of it, but I'd just like to say--"

I couldn't finish. Hunt had come back to the centre of the stage and ripped the microphone right out of my hand. "That's quite enough, Miss Fields," he said to me, keeping one of his hands on the mic so the entire audience wouldn't hear. "What do you think you are doing? Are you trying to get expelled?"

I shrugged and Hunt just shook his head, disappointed. Then he handed the mic to Simon, who was clearly taken aback by the entire situation. He quickly composed himself, though.

"What Rachel was trying to say... it wasn't easy to turn the script we've been given into a good short film, but we're proud of the finished product. I hope you enjoy it, too."

Simon walked off the stage as the film started playing, and I was about to follow him when Hunt pulled me aside. He led me to a small office space, where he, as soon as he'd shut the door, started yelling at me.

"Are you completely out of your mind?"

Refusing to look at him, I just shrugged my shoulders.

"Did I not tell you not to embarrass me?"

"Why would I care if I embarrassed you?" I huffed. "Maybe you're irrelevant to me, too."

He sighed. "Is that what this is about?"

Once again, I shrugged.

"Miss Fields, that was not personal. You're simply a student. I have no reason to hate you. Strongly dislike you, especially after what just happened, yes. All I meant was that you should stop flattering yourself by thinking I care enough to hate you."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever you say, Professor."

After a few seconds of silence, I looked up. Hunt was looking out of a window, seemingly deep in thought. I only just now realised that he hadn't turned on the lights when we came inside. The only source of light was the faint glimmer of the moon shining in through the window, illuminating Hunt's face.

It was then that I realised why I cared so much. Taking in his jawline, so sharp I was afraid it would cut me if I touched it, the depths of his eyes, the little creases on his forehead, the shape of his lips... it was exactly what I'd told myself wouldn't happen when I first saw him at that hearing. Exactly what I'd denied when Addison had asked me earlier today. I had developed a crush on my professor -- and out of all the professors it could have been, it just had to be Thomas fucking Hunt.

"I'm sorry," I whispered when he still hasn't said a word. He turned to look at me. I added, "I really fucked up, didn't I?"

I scanned his face as he looked at me, trying to figure out what he was thinking. Once again, I couldn't read him. His scowl hid everything. After what seemed like an eternity, he said, "It seems your film has ended. You should get back to your partner."

Before I could even say anything, he'd walked out the door. After gathering my thoughts, I followed him. He was right, the film had ended. When I entered the theatre hall again, I was met with applause. At least people had liked it. I looked at the stage, where Hunt was already standing again. And, all of a sudden, I realised that he hadn't even seen our film. How could he possibly take it into consideration when choosing a winner when he hadn't even seen it?

I made my way back to my seat, where an angry Simon was already waiting for me. I didn't want to face him but didn't have much of a choice. Damn it.