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lilydalexf · 4 years ago

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Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Marasmus

Marasmus only has a handful of fics left at Gossamer, but you can find more X-Files fics at AO3 (as finisterre). Some of my favorites of her stories I've recced here before, including one of the most clever fics you could read, Cellphone (here at AO3), and the lovely, London-set A Candle for Katherine (here at AO3, bonus commentary at LJ). Big thanks to Marasmus for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

Mine, yes, older XF in general, no — some of that stuff is amazing. Though I wonder how well fandom operates now there is not a plethora of rec sites. I know of yours and one more Tumblr blog and that’s it. I find it really difficult to find good stories in any fandom unless someone whose taste maps to mine recommends something.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it?

I look back on it fondly, but it was one of the first things that really hammered it home to me that every grouping throughout life follows the pattern of school.

A lot of people are really talented and funny and kind. Then there are absolute ego-rampaging nightmares who act like lady bountiful in public but do cruel things in private, or chuck their toys out of the pram at the least provocation.

And like school, fandom brings together a disparate group of people who you’re friendly with, but once you leave, the ones you stay in touch with are your friends.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

Thank God.

I watched the show pre-widespread internet and mostly when I had almost no money. I didn’t have regular internet access until the third season, and that was only at my incredibly conservative workplace. I didn’t get home internet access until midway through season six. You couldn’t download episodes easily, you couldn’t stream, you just had to wait until it aired overseas. I decided I didn’t care if I was spoiled and that worked for me. In fact for some particularly annoying episodes, I was glad.

I was a newsgroup and mailing list sort of person. Never really did message boards unless a newsgroup counts, though I had a Haven account.

What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

Mostly, how talented people are. I know some are now professional writers, but so many people who didn’t do it as anything but a hobby were also amazing.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

I always liked science fiction, oddness and urban legends, so it was kind of made for me. But it was the relationship between Mulder and Scully that kept me around, and after season six, it was the fandom that kept me around. I loved Scully in particular, cos let’s be honest, Mulder can be kind of a twerp at times.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

I hung out on alt.tv.xfiles.analysis (a newsgroup), which was one of the smartest boards I’ve ever been on. The threads were full of well-read, erudite people. That led to a site which collated reviews of XF episodes. They mentioned alt.tv.xfiles.creative, and I got there the summer after Gethsemane, which was pretty optimal timing.

I’d take floppy disks into conservative workplace and quietly download the most gloriously filthy fanfic onto them for reading at home on my ancient second-hand Mac.

After that I joined Scullyfic, a mailing list, which was a lovely place to hang out for a while, and got stories through a couple of other mailing lists.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

Like my relationship to ice hockey: glad that activity exists and that some people enjoy it, but not watching and not involved myself.

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

Reading, yes, and writing the odd bit of feedback, but any other fandom involvement didn’t really take. I’ve never found a bunch of people I liked as well as I liked some of the people in XF.

Who are some of your favorite fictional characters? Why?

I am usually more interested in female characters than male ones (the Doctor, Mulder and Jack O’Neill notwithstanding), which is why I only read a bit of m/m slash. I usually develop a perverse dislike for any woobie the fandom loves.

Some favourites are: Samantha Carter and Jack O’Neill, Granny Weatherwax, Furiosa, everyone from The Good Place, Donna Noble, Sarah Jane Smith, Martha Jones and Yasmin Khan, Maia from The Goblin Emperor, Cordelia Naismith and Miles Vorkosigan, General Leia Organa, Rey and Finn, and lately all of The Old Guard, even Booker...

I like nerds, pining, best friends discovering feelings for each other, second chances, redemption narratives, people being sneaky for good ends and stoics who stay stoic through all kinds of misery, only to crack and start crying when they get a happy ending.

Basically, you know Eleanor at the end of the Emma Thompson Sense and Sensibility? That.

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

No. I had about four years there where I made up stories about Mulder and Scully on any commute where I’d forgotten a book, but that’s gone now. I watched two episodes of the revival, but it wasn’t for me.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I occasionally wander in and read a bit on AO3, but nothing that deals with anything past season seven. Not interested in William, not interested in domestic fiction, not even interested in post-col any more, which was 100% my crack during XF fandom days. I did read By the Dim and Flaring Lamps [Lilydale note: by @sunflowerseedsandscience] earlier this year. Love a bit of AU historical.

I read lots of different fandoms, though I am between intense enthusiasms at the moment, which always feels a bit odd.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

Yes, but they’re all about 20 years old. Is there such a thing as fandom classics any more? There used to be a litany of stories that ‘everyone should read’. I wonder how well they hold up now.

I think there are waves of writers who come into a fandom and then leave again: I think I was part of a second wave, with the first wave being Mustang Sally, RivkaT, Karen Rasch, Lydia Bower, Nascent etc.

Then there must’ve been a third wave for the revival (and mini-waves in between). I don’t know that group of writers, so I am probably leaving out people who are really good.

One of my favourite Scully voices is Five Years and One Night [Lilydale note: by Shalimar], because of the contrast between her inner monologue as written and how little she actually says.

I really like quieter, thoughtful authors like Michelle Kiefer, Cecily Sasserbaum, Scullysfan, Cofax, Anjou, Maria Nicole, Kipler. Love everything Kel ever wrote.

At one point there were also about three authors called Rachel who were knockout. I like to think Rachel Howard is writing professionally because it’s a waste of talent if she’s not. Rachel Anton had a crazy gift for pacing and wrote a good Krycek.

I really liked Branwell’s strange AU novels, which riff off The Field Where I Died (a wretched episode but so much good writing came from it.) [Lilydale note: Condemned to Repeat It by Branwell is a really long story involving The Field Where I Died.]

Everyone who is reccing other people’s stuff here is also a good writer. (and their taste in recs is — mostly — excellent): http://www.thebasementoffice.com/museaxfnet/museans/TitlesAF.html

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

I like The Flexible Concept of Tomorrow. I loved trying to work out the timelines. I like the one about airships and cross-dressing which only exists on my iPhone and in my imagination right now.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

Only an AU, if ever. I am completely at sea with canon.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

In my head. Mostly AUs. Everyone has daemons! It’s an airship! They’re exploring space! It’s mediaeval Slovenia!

Most of my creativity is sucked away by work. Which is good I suppose, as writing fanfic never paid my Netflix subscription.

Where do you get ideas for stories?

Reading long-form journalism and non-fiction books.

What's the story behind your pen name?

Well, I changed mine. The first one was picked out of a magazine article about Branwell Bronte, and I liked the shape of the word. Then I got to feel uncomfortable with it because it was a real illness that made people suffer. The current one comes from the shipping forecast when I was a kid.

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

No, and also absolutely not. Over my dead body. Over YOUR dead body.

Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now?

I took my stories off Gossamer but I don’t remember why. They’re on AO3 now and there are probably stray copies on some archives out there.

Is there anything else you'd like to share with fans of X-Files fic?

I have made all of these mistakes. All of ‘em.

— On no account offer unsolicited concrit. In fact, do not provide concrit EVEN IF THE PERSON ASKS FOR IT, unless you know them reasonably well and it’s in private.

— Avoid the wank. If you have the perfect riposte to something awful, write it and file it to drafts for two days. If you still want to send it after that, godspeed.

— Write anything you want, and when you start keep going. You can edit later.

— Never put any story into the public sphere unless you’ve had a second pair of eyes on it, preferably the eyes of someone who is willing to say “are you SURE about that?”

Finally, just have fun. Being in the grip of love of story is a wonderful thing, and you never know how long it will last.

(Posted by Lilydale on September 29, 2020)

#new post #old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #marasmus #finisterre

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carryonsimoncarryonbaz · 6 years ago

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Birthday gift fic for @penpanoply! Hoping you have a lovely day tomorrow! It’s a giggling while kissing fic but more the nervous laughter kind! Read on Ao3. Just Another Kiss Simon I’m glad Baz insisted we visit Penny over the holiday break. I’d been missing her this term but I didn’t want to suggest making the trip. I know Baz treasures time with his family, especially with the little ‘uns. He’ll never admit it, of course, but I’ve seen how he is with them and how they adore him. And I’d wanted him to have a chance to get some rest over the holiday. He’s been stressed about uni. I don’t know why he’s so bloody driven to finish early. I do know why. He’s Baz Pitch and he likes doing those sorts of impossibly challenging things. So, it came as a complete surprise on Boxing Day, when Baz took me for a drive, that we ended up at the airport. He’d packed my bags in secret, the wanker. Worked it all out with Penny, he had. We’ve been in Chicago for a week now. It’s fucking cold. I don’t think Baz thought that part through very well. The timing of this visit. The snow is pretty and the frozen lake is impressive but the wind is a fucking nightmare. Even I’m cold. I don’t know how Baz is managing. Well, he turns the heat all the way up in our hotel room, piles on enough extra blankets that we practically can’t turn over in the bed, and plasters himself to me every night. It would be almost comical if it weren’t so bloody arctic here. Baz actually broke down after the first day and bought a real winter coat at one of those outdoorsy type stores. I’ve been trying to get him to buy one forever but he’s always just sneered and growled that he wouldn’t ever wear a puffy coat. He’s wearing a puffy coat now. It’s black, of course, and expensive and posh and all that rot. He looks just as good in it as he does in his leather jacket, which is downright infuriating, if you ask me. Not that anyone is asking me. He looks so damn enticing in it, with his stylish black beanie. Baz was the only one of us who ever looked good in the bloody boater hats we had to wear at Watford, so the sight of him in a beanie as almost more than I can tolerate. I want to snog him senseless. Which I can’t quite do in below zero weather on a random street in Chicago, now can I? I mean, I suppose I could, but Baz and I don’t really do public displays of affection. Not that we’re not affectionate. I’ve discovered Baz is a keen cuddler and has no reservations about being the small spoon when we snuggle in bed (the wings make me the default big spoon) (I don’t care) (I like the sensation of having him in my arms). Penny would disagree, I’m certain. She says we’re far too affectionate in the public spaces of our flat but I don’t consider the flat public. It’s home. But we don’t do much more than hold hands in public or a quick peck on the cheek when I walk him to class or he meets me for lunch. It’s probably a good thing. It’s hard to stop snogging Baz once I’ve started. He’s got a similar problem. He starts kissing my moles and there’s no end to it. I like that. We’ve got two more days before we go home. We’ve been to every museum, I think. Baz is daft for museums. I think he would have found more to visit, if we’d had the time. He’s just like Penny. Micah and I finally gave up and found an unoccupied bench at every place we went and let the two of them wander. And bicker. We’ve had Chicago pizza and ribs. We’ve gone to the top of that bloody tower with the glassed-in ledge. Made me queasy it did and I’m the one with the bloody wings. We’re at an ice hockey game tonight. Micah’s idea. I know there are a few teams back home but I’ve never seen a match. Or a game. Or whatever they call it. I’m in awe of these players. I’m shit at skating. Baz took me once before Christmas. To the Tower of London ice rink, because he’s such a melodramatic git. I loved it. Even though I kept falling down. It was stunning with the Tower as a backdrop. And Baz’s hands on my hips to keep me steady. I’m not sure if I kept losing my balance because I’m shit on skates or because I kept getting distracted by Baz’s proximity. Probably both. Baz was quite keen to come to this game tonight. He’d probably be good at this too, the tosser. I don’t think there’s anything he’s not good at. I don’t know how they do it. Move so fast, stay so balanced and chase that tiny puck around the rink. It’s graceful and ruthless and fast … Fuck, Baz would be bloody well-suited for it. Except he’d object to the helmets mucking up his posh hair. I notice the cameras during the first period break. There are event staff with bloody huge cameras wandering through the stands. They stop every so often and train the lens on the crowd. “What’s up with the cameras, Micah?” He turns to look in the direction I’m pointing. “Oh, you know. Shooting live footage of fans during the commercial breaks and between periods. We might see ourselves on the jumbotron tonight.” I’ve never actually been to a live professional sporting event before. Not much of a chance when I was in the homes. The cameras seem to focus mainly on attractive girls drinking beer, cute little kids, or older couples who are oblivious to the fact they are being filmed and projected onto the big screen. It isn’t until the second period that the kiss-cam makes an appearance. “Alright, Pen, maybe this’ll be our chance to do a movie make-out scene on that big screen.” Micah laughs as he points at the huge video feed above us. It’s an older couple, laughing and exchanging a kiss. I feel a rush of apprehension tingle through my skin. There’s no chance they’d aim the camera at us, is there? Not two blokes. But what if they do? I can’t imagine Baz would be fine with it. He’s so prickly about his privacy. Would I have to kiss him on camera? Would he kiss me? Would it be better to laugh it off? I’m making myself anxious just thinking about it. My heart’s beating faster. I don’t like attention on me like that. Never have. Hated it at Watford.  This would be worse. The camera picks out a young couple. They laugh too and enthusiastically kiss each other. I swear I see the bloke’s tongue. I rub my hands on my jeans. My palms are sweating. Baz gives me a look, eyebrow up. “You alright, Simon?” I’m not going to talk about this with Baz. It’s stupid. There’s no chance of it happening and I’m getting myself all worked up for nothing. He takes my hand. His touch calms me a bit and I lean into him. And that’s when it happens. “Simon!” Penny’s high-pitched yelp from Micah’s side jolts me. She points to the screen. “Look!” Fuck. The camera is centered on me and Baz. Fuck. I can literally see myself blush on the giant screen. My moles are the size of dinner plates. I look like a complete nightmare. Baz, as usual, looks fucking perfect. Not a hair out of place. One eyebrow up and a hint of a smirk on his face. The crowd’s cheering. I’m the worst under pressure like this. I can’t help it. I can feel the nervous laughter bubbling up and then I’m giggling uncontrollably. I can’t keep a straight face and I know I’m squeezing Baz’s hand far too hard. “Simon.” Baz’s voice seems to be coming from a distance, even though he’s right next to me.  I turn to look at him and find the calm in his deep grey eyes. “We don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.” I gape at him. “You … you’d do it?” His eyebrow arches higher. “Snog my delectable boyfriend in front of a few thousand people? Why the hell not?” And then he’s doing it. He’s snogging me senseless and it’s all up on a big screen for the world to see. I hear a roaring in my ears and I’m not sure if it’s the blood rushing to my face or the crowd around us. Baz pulls back, smiling. He’s a bit flushed and I’m completely gobsmacked. I don’t dare look up at the screen. I struggle to find my words again. “I thought… I thought …” “Thought what?” “Thought you didn’t like public displays of affection?” Baz pulls on my hand to tug me closer to him. “I’m not a fan of them under usual circumstances. But I’m also disinclined to turn down an invitation to snog you, even if it’s in front of a thousand people.” He leans closer, his breath tickling my ear. “I’ve no objection to the world knowing you’re mine, Simon, and that I’m yours.” He leans back with an utterly self-satisfied expression but he’s still blushing. Baz I could tell Simon was getting agitated about something. When the kiss-cam lit on us I could see him start to panic. I know what he does when I get that way. It’s always been damn effective. I’m going to frame that photo Bunce took of us kissing on the big screen.

#carry on #simon snow #baz pitch #kissing fic #birthday gift fic #one shot #my writing #my fic

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samwpmarleau · 8 years ago

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It's shameless anon that asked you dinner au. I come back again. I see that Elia/Arthur(seven bless them) is your otp (MINE TOO!). So I get little bit encouraged if you could contunie your modern au Arthur as soldier I would die happy. To be specific would you consider a fic where Arthur wakes up from a nightmare but doesn't disturb Elia and somehow Rhaenys wakes up and talks to him. Like helping him. Sorry if I'm being annoying. Your works are always lovely!

Uh, you are most definitely not annoying. I adore your prompts. Keep them coming!

I did kind of Frankenstein this one, though. I also have no personal experience with PTSD (or car accidents) except what I’ve read about on the internet, so probably most of this is totally contrived but if anyone reads this who knows better than I about this stuff and takes issue with how it’s presented here, please let me know so I can fix it!

Hey Tomorrow

“Hi, you’ve reached Judy Thompson. I can’t come to the phone right now—”

“Ugh,” Rhaenys groans, jabbing at the End Call button. She’s tried literally all of her friends and their parents, and not a single one of them has answered. They have almost the same voice messages, too, and she’s sick of hearing them. “‘If you ever need a ride, just call, and I’ll pick up.’ Yeah, right. Thanks for nothing, Mrs. Thompson.”

She can feel the after-school instructor’s eyes on her, and steadfastly pretends she can’t. Mrs. Gorf is no one’s idea of a competent or engaging teacher, about a hundred years old on top of that, and a stickler for rules. None of her friends’ parents are Rhaenys’s parent or guardian, but they’re also booster club members and on the PTA; not even Mrs. Gorf would be able to refuse them.

Not that it matters, because they’re not picking up the phone.

A final, terrible, no good, awful thought wrenches its way into her mind, and after wrestling with it, she comes to the unfortunate conclusion that it’s her only choice if she ever wants to get out of this place. Mother isn’t an option, Egg definitely isn’t, and Father’s much too far away. But if even he doesn’t answer…

“You want a parent or guardian,” Rhaenys says to Mrs. Gorf, shuddering at the clicking of the woman’s dentures. “What about a…a stepparent?”

Mrs. Gorf stares at her some more, then replies, “Yes, that would be acceptable. Though I was not aware Mrs. Targaryen had remarried.”

“Martell,” Rhaenys corrects. “Mother’s never been a Targaryen.”

And she’d skin you for saying so, you hobbit.

“Oh, she’s one of those women. No wonder she’s divorced.” Mrs. Gorf curls her lip. “Exactly when did she remarry?”

“Um, it was super recent. She didn’t want to make a fuss or anything, so no one at school has heard about it.”

Mostly because it’s totally false. Not that I’m going to tell you that.

For a moment, she thinks her lie doesn’t stick, but then Mrs. Gorf waves her hand in what Rhaenys assumes is acquiescence. Rhaenys dials yet another number quickly, glad she hadn’t thrown away the sticky note Mother had written with his information on it. Before she can wonder whether Arthur will be as flaky as her friends’ parents, he answers.

“Rhae? What is it, are you okay? Egg, your mother, are they—”

“No, we’re fine,” she says, realizing that naturally he’d think someone was in mortal danger, because why else would she call if not for a life or death emergency?

After a long pause, he asks, “Oh. Then…what do you need?”

In a last ditch effort for freedom, Rhaenys peeks at Mrs. Gorf, whose eyes are narrowed in suspicion and decidedly unsympathetic. Setting aside her pride, she presses on, “You have to come get me. I had that after-school project, none of my friends’ parents are picking up, and Mrs. Gorf won’t let me leave.”

“Gorf? Is that the one who looks like a troll?”

If he were anyone else, she’d have laughed; as it is, she doesn’t so much as chuckle. “Yeah, that one. So are you going to come or not?”

“Yeah, of course. Let me just—yeah, sit tight. I’ll be there soon.”

He hangs up before she does, and she tries to ignore the feeling of irritation that courses through her. Somewhere, she knows it’s not totally rational to have so much distaste for him, not when he makes Mother smile and stays up all night helping Egg with science experiments, but the sensation persists. Three years and counting.

The minutes tick by like hours, Mrs. Gorf hovering over her and Rhaenys watching the pick-up area just as intently. At ten minutes on the dot, she finally sees Arthur’s truck pull into the lane, and she bounces her leg, itching to leave. The bell above the door jingles as Arthur enters, and Mrs. Gorf immediately begins sizing him up with those judgy, rheumy eyes.

“And you are…?”

“Arthur Dayne, Rhaenys’s…er…” Arthur trails off, not sure exactly what he is to her. Rhaenys can’t riddle it out either, but is more than willing to hang him out to dry. “Her mother and I are together.”

“‘Together’?” Mrs. Gorf pounces on the word like a hawk. “Miss Targaryen stated that you are her stepfather.”

He’s plainly taken aback at the news, so Rhaenys shoots every imploring, telepathic wave in the book at him. Followed by, Don’t make this a thing. You’re my get-out-of-jail-free card, that’s it.

“More or less,” Arthur hedges, receiving her not-so-subtle signals. Apparently almost as anxious as she is to escape Mrs. Gorf’s company, he adds, “Sorry to make you stay late, ma’am. We’ll just be going now. Come on, Rhae.”

For once doing as he asks, Rhaenys snatches up her backpack and all but sprints out the door and into Arthur’s truck. It smells like he does, worn leather and pine, plus a hint of Mother’s perfume. Not altogether unpleasant, but for its owner. When he gets into the driver’s seat, the silence is instantly stifling, the awkwardness only increasing the further away they get.

Wanting—needing—to mitigate the oppression, Rhaenys channels Nana Rhaella’s patience and mutters, “Thanks. For…whatever.”

He appraises her curiously, so she turns away and instead studies the road ahead more intently than strictly necessary. Not taking the hint, he answers, “Always.”

She’d retort, but retorting would mean talking to him, and she’s already done more of that than usual today, so she leaves his offer unacknowledged. The quiet continues on and on, until suddenly it doesn’t. They approach an intersection and as if in a movie, she watches as one car rushes through a red light and speeds straight into the one with the right of way.

Arthur screeches to a halt, Rhaenys exceedingly glad she’s wearing a seatbelt, for elsewise she’d surely be propelled straight into the windshield. There’s a horrible screeching sound as the cars ahead tangle up with one another, smoke issuing from the hoods, glass littering the pavement, pools of fluids spreading across the scene. Some loud bangs erupt from somewhere within the whole mess, and she doesn’t know much about cars, but she would guess that’s not a good sign.

Shaking her head to clear it, she quickly comes to her senses. “I’ll call 911,” she announces, pulling out her cell.

She goes through the motions, feeling weirdly disconnected from the whole thing as she speaks with the operator. Once she ends the call, it occurs to her that Arthur hasn’t said a word this whole time, and she looks over, bemused. His hands are clenched white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his posture rigid, his eyes glazed over as he stares at the destruction in front of them. He’s muttering something, she realizes now, mostly nonsense and a couple names, she thinks, but she can’t make any of them out.

“Uh, Arthur?” she prompts, more than a little weirded out at the reaction. The accident is bad, but not that bad. There’s no fiery inferno, no one lying dead on the street, not even a police cruiser.

Just as she’s wondering if she should call the hospital and beg them to let her talk to Mother, Arthur jolts into action, which she’d think was a good thing were it not for the fact that his face is still blank, like he’s seeing but not seeing. He unbuckles his seatbelt and throws open the door, racing up to the car that was hit.

“What the hell?” she grumbles, hurrying after him. Okay, she’s not his biggest fan, like at all, but she doesn’t want him to die, and she’s pretty sure cars can explode. She keeps what she thinks is a safe distance, watching as he does his best to wrench his way into the cab, seemingly not caring about the oil and whatever else seeping into his jeans.

“Oz!” he yells in a panic. “Bull! Don’t worry, I’m gonna get you out of here, both of you, you’re gonna be fine!”

The driver inside is just beginning to rouse, more than a little disoriented but so far as she can tell not horribly injured, all things considered.

“You’re okay,” continues Arthur, apparently not noticing what she does. “You’re okay, you’re fine, Sana’s fine, I radioed for help, the medivac is on its way, just hold on, please…”

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Rhaenys finally realizes what’s happening. She’s never seen it personally, he and Mother had certainly never let on that this was an issue, but she’s heard Iris recount her dad’s episodes more than once. And suddenly, everything else slips into place, things she hadn’t really paid attention to before.

Why they never sit near windows in restaurants and why Arthur is always the one facing the door, why he never goes out with them on the Fourth of July, why of his past he only ever talks about college or hockey instead of the years that followed, why some mornings he and Mother look utterly exhausted, why every night he triple-checks the locks around the house even though they live in a stupidly boring neighborhood, why he’s always up just before sunrise.

Before, she’d just thought them weird habits, she hadn’t ever considered they might be something else.

And of course, of course, this would happen in the middle of a random intersection miles from home when Mother’s unreachable. Of course it wouldn’t be Egg here, Egg who actually likes Arthur, Egg who’s probably read several books about this.

She doesn’t know anything. Not about this, not about Arthur, not about the people he’s remembering, the event he’s remembering, she doesn’t even know what he did in the military. Mother hadn’t told her, and most definitely she hadn’t ever bothered asking.

Her savior as much as the drivers’, the ambulance arrives in all its blaring glory. They brush right past her, instead beelining one apiece to the cars, but they would have to be blind to not register Arthur, and upon preliminarily checking that the hit driver is stable, the nearby paramedic attempts to bring Arthur back to reality. It doesn’t work, so instead he whistles for a set of EMTs, and they grab him bodily in order to, she supposes, restrain him until further assistance can arrive.

It doesn’t work. For however much Rhaenys hates him, she’ll admit that he’s always been gregarious, so downright gentle with Mother, that his physique had never really been intimidating. But now, his height, his mass, his agitation, it makes the EMTs’ jobs incredibly difficult. All the while, she hears him protest, more and more anguished by the minute. “Get off me, I can still—they’re not, they can’t be, let me go, I have to—”

The paramedic searches the back of the ambulance for something that she’d bet isn’t water. “You’re doing it wrong!” she shouts.

He whirls, catching sight of her. “Kiddo, you shouldn’t be here, it’s dangerous.”

“I’m not a ‘kiddo,’” she objects hotly, “and he needs help, not a tranquilizer dart or whatever it is you grabbed.”

“Do you know him?” he asks. “Is that your dad?”

She shakes her head, because no, she has a father and Arthur’s not him.

“You need to leave then, now.”

Part of her wants to, but the rest of her isn’t so cowardly. Plus, Mother would never forgive her, and Rhaenys isn’t sure she could handle a lifetime of her cold shoulder. “He’s not my dad, but I know him,” she blurts. “I do, I know him. He’s my mom’s boyfriend.”

“Oh,” says the paramedic, now all business. “Well, I’ve called in backup, but we have to prioritize. That other driver is in critical condition, this one may have internal injuries, and we can’t do our jobs if we’ve got a case of PTSD to handle, too. Can you pull him out of it?”

He needs you, Mother, not me. I can’t do this. “I don’t know. I have no idea what I’d say.”

“Try. We have a sedative if required. Holler for one of the EMTs if you think he’ll hurt you.”

“He won’t hurt me.” The statement comes on reflex, and yet it’s not as surprising as she wishes it were. He and Mother have arguments all the time, loud ones but frivolous, but he’s never raised his voice at Rhaenys, not ever, no matter how much she probably deserved it. She doesn’t know this Arthur in front of her now, yet she’s confident in this one thing, and so she repeats, “He won’t.”

The paramedic is skeptical but has more pressing problems so allows her to scurry forth and kneel down beside Arthur. Stupidly, the only things that run through her mind are how much she’d always resented him, loathed him, and how Iris said that sometimes not even her mother could break her father out of his flashbacks, both of which are only made worse by the fact that she can feel the two EMTs wanting her to hurry the hell up.

“Arthur, it’s me,” she tries, her voice cringingly small. “It’s Rhaenys. Remember? You picked me up from school, you called Mrs. Gorf ‘ma’am’ even though she’s a skeevy old hag and Uncle Lewyn says that when she was his teacher, he once saw her turn someone into an apple.” She’s rambling, she’s fully aware of that, she just can’t seem to stop. “Oh, I’m no good at this.”

She’s startled by a shout from the paramedic by the other car. “He’s coding! Leave the kid, I need you two here!”

There’s barely time to register the EMTs letting go of Arthur and giving her a few short, uninspired bits of encouragement before they’re running off, leaving her alone. Alone-ish. He’s not physically struggling so hard anymore, but it’s not much of a comfort.

She remembers what Iris also said, that sometimes it helped to remind her dad of who he is not who he was, so in desperation, she speaks the truth, even if it’s a truth she’s always balked at. “You love my mother, and she loves you. You love Egg and you…you love me, and…” Unable to look at him, she instead looks somewhere in the vicinity of his knee. “And I know I’m the only reason you and Mother haven’t married yet. Because you want me to approve and you want me to like you, and I don’t.”

He hasn’t stopped saying those names, Oz and Bull and Sana, but, and it’s probably her imagination, she thinks maybe he’s not fighting quite as much. “But I…I don’t hate you. I don’t think. Not really. I mean, I kinda do, but…but maybe not forever.” For some lame reason, her vision goes blurry, and she blinks a few times to focus. Wanting to shunt aside the weakness, she forces herself to look at him again. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t know where to go from here, can’t think of anything, and she wonders how she’ll explain to Mother that Arthur’s been put under sedation and it’s her fault. Except then she notices that his eyes are beginning to slowly slide back into focus, that he’s actually seeing her, and eventually his body stills completely.

“Rhae?” She thinks it’s the first time she’s been grateful to hear him say her name. “Where are—but—what happened?”

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, abruptly self-conscious about all that she’d said. “You had a nightmare or something. Daymare, whatever.”

Arthur surveys the area, the crashed cars, the trapped drivers, the billowing smoke, the scent of burnt rubber in the air, and his face goes ashen. She sees the instant he realizes what his episode was, and digs the heels of his palms into his forehead. “Jesus fuck.” He must really be out of it, she reflects, if he swore in front of her. Mother gets livid if she says “crap”; Rhaenys would get grounded for a month if she even thought the F-word. Absently, Arthur asks, “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t.” He lets out a breath, as relieved as if she told him he doesn’t have terminal cancer.

The surreality of the situation rescinds her admittedly flimsy impulse control, and she asks, “Who are Oz and Bull?”

Slowly, warily, Arthur lifts his head. “What?”

“Oz and Bull. And, um, Sana? You…you were trying to save them.” Arthur doesn’t say anything, so she does. “Iris said it’s good to talk about these things, you know, that it helps her dad.”

Though, she grants, Mr. Roark was discharged over a decade ago and I have no clue what Arthur’s job was.

So long is he quiet, she nearly jumps when he begins to talk. “Major Oswell Whent and Colonel Gerold Hightower. They…we were on a mission, we were guarding this little Iraqi girl who was helping us identify some members of the Taliban, and Oz and Bull were returning from what was supposed to be a routine supply run.”

He says it all with a detached sort of tone, like he’s speaking to a wall, and she prays he won’t relapse. “We had daily confirmation that it was safe, that there weren’t any insurgents or IEDs in range, it was supposed to be—” He swallows. “They were in sight, Sana even ran out to greet them, when the Semtex went off. It was so close I got hit by some shrapnel, but I…they were in bad shape. I radioed base, but we were too far away for them to get to us in time. Oz and Bull were too damn honorable to even want me to get help for them, they just wanted to know if Sana was okay.”

“Was she?”

Arthur shakes his head. “She was near on top of the blast. She had no protection, hers was quick, but theirs…” Whatever he must have seen, whatever memories he carries with him, she wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not him, not even Mrs. Gorf. “Rhae, I’m sorry.”

Frowning at the change in subject, she asks, “Sorry? Why?”

“I never wanted you or Egg to witness…this,” he answers quietly. “I don’t deserve your pity.”

“You don’t deserve it?”

He massages his temples, eyes shut tight, though whether it’s for fighting off another flashback or something else, she can’t tell. “I did things I’m not proud of. Things I shouldn’t have done. I’ve hurt a lot of people, and I’ll…I’ll never be clean of that.”

“You haven’t hurt Mother,” she shrugs. “Or Egg.”

“I’ve hurt you. I know how miserable you are by me being in your life, but I’ve stayed anyway because it’s what I want, never mind what you want.”

She doesn’t think now is particularly the best time to get into her dislike. “What about guarding that girl? That was something you’re not proud of?”

He laughs, a brutal, discordant sound. “I did a pretty shitty job of protecting her. But it wasn’t that, it was later. They moved me to a different division and to stop thinking about that day, I turned everything off, good or bad. It was easier.”

Ever since Grandfather refused to say anything nice to or about her, Rhaenys has wanted to be treated like a grownup, to not be sheltered, to be told everything that’s going on. At the moment, she might want to revise that wish. “Does Mother know?”

“Most of it. For some reason, she still keeps me around. God only knows why.”

I know why. Herself, she’s having a difficult time letting go of even a speck of her resentment towards him, so built up as it is, but putting herself in Mother’s shoes isn’t that difficult. After ten years of Grandfather’s hatred and hubris, and Nana’s sadness, she guesses it must be nice for Mother to be around someone who’s so self-sacrificing. And she guesses it’s nice that he can fix things and reach the top shelf and show up at Egg’s plays and cook her favorite food with all the right spices and always be there for Mother no matter how sick she gets.

And drop everything to pick me up from school in the middle of the day.

Yes, must be nice. For Mother. Obviously. Not her.

She’s not sure what else to say, but fortunately she’s saved by the arrival of the same paramedic who’d instructed her to help Arthur. “I’m glad you got this sorted out,” he says to her, surprised. He turns to Arthur then and asks, “How are you, sir?”

“Fine,” says Arthur, and he’s much harder to read than Father, but even she can hear the lie in his voice, see the strain on his face.

“Pleased to hear it,” says the paramedic. He holds out his hand. “And thank you for your service.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, and he can’t quite manage a smile, but shakes the paramedic’s hand anyway. “Just doing my civic duty.” Before the paramedic can say anything else, Arthur heads him off. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take Rhae home now.”

The paramedic becomes uncomfortable, and counters, “I can’t recommend that. Given the severity of your reaction, it wouldn’t be prudent for me to approve you to drive.”

Rhaenys is no fan of being told what to do, and though the paramedic is talking to Arthur, it affects her too. “He was a captain in the Marines, for years,” she snaps. “Yet you think it’s somehow beyond him to drive us a few miles home? Stick to putting Band-Aids on people. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Rhaenys.” It’s admonishment, sort of, but there’s the barest hint of amusement in it, too.

The paramedic, on the other hand, is plainly irritated by her outburst but is also apparently still intent on showing Arthur a modicum of due respect. “Even if I could sign off on his mental state, I wouldn’t be able to let you go with him anyway. Only a parent or guardian can escort a minor from the premises. ‘Mom’s boyfriend’ doesn’t fly with us.”

Oh, come on. Not you guys too. Mrs. Gorf was bad enough.

“Her mother’s in the hospital,” Arthur points out. “I can’t reach her.”

“She’s got a dad, doesn’t she?”

The mention of Father is what sets her off, as though the paramedic knows anything about her family. She glances at Arthur, whose expression is somewhere between pain, irritation, and exasperation, then fixes the paramedic with a hateful glare.

“You said a parent or guardian,” she declares, grasping Arthur’s hand. “I’ve got one.”

#arthur dayne #rhaenys targaryen #arthur x elia #asoiaf #got fic #my fic #tw ptsd #(sort of--there's nothing graphic)#verse: same auld lang syne #compliance: modern au #anonymous

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