#and i need to work on those dr strange fics too :’) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

preciouslandmermaid · 1 year ago

Text

like dead-eyed sharks, Gotham watches (battinson x f!reader)

Note: This takes place pre-movie and you can find the rest of this series. (Part 1 here) (part 2 here)

Safety notes/Warnings: The Kinktober prompt was "blood kink/i just wanna see a man all beaten up and bloody" I have never written for that before and honestly...i think this fic got like away from me tbh. so im sorry if this isn't want u wanted lmao

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. established childhood friends with Bruce. confessions. secret identity revealed. canon-violence. cursing/explicit language. explicit consent during sexual content. smut. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. (and yes, dr. crane is absolutely cillian murphy/nolanverse dr. crane sue me)

prompt: blood kink pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes. bonus: on ao3, i split it into two chapters for ease of reading. the first half is plot, the second half is smut. ;) enjoy.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list

You lean on the railing of your small balcony and watch the streaks of red and white lights below. The cool night air kisses your skin and tousles your clothes. Gotham’s air has a burning singe to it too malicious to be reminiscent of a campfire. It’s more akin to a cigarette lit by the gas stove combined with cheap perfume. You toy with the invitation between your fingers. The swooping, gilded text is embossed across the creamy card stock and you rub your fingers over a specific sentence: This invitation a courtesy by Johnathan Crane, M.D.

Arkham hospital is having a charity auction.It’s an opportunity. One you maybe wouldn’t have gotten while working at the paper. But what’s the catch? What purpose would Crane have to invite you?You replay your short interview with the enigmatic, intelligent doctor. The man has secrets but who in Gotham doesn’t? This charity provides an opportunity to snoop around Arkham and talk to Dr. Mercer’s co-workers who refused to meet with you earlier. Below, several cars beep at the same time and it creates a strange, dissonant melody. Youcan’t pass this up.

You wonder if Bruce will front you some cash. It’ll be easier to blend in if you can pretend to try and buy a piece of artwork or maybe a little stone statue to use as a door stopper. You chuckle to yourself at the idea and brush the idea aside. You won’t use Bruce’s money to spend on frivolous artwork and sculptures that you cannot possibly fit inside your one bedroom apartment. That settles it. You have to attend. The soft pitter patter of fresh rainfall tings against the high rise windows, railings, and roofs. From high above, Gotham is shiny chrome and long dark shadows.

You wonder if Vengeance is in those shadows tonight.

You haven’t seen Batman since your failed chemistry experiment. Your lower stomach clenches at the memory and you willfully push the lustful thoughts aside. You and Vengeance have little reason to see each other right now. It’s been nothing but dead ends since Falcone avoided arrest. According to Gordon, the evidence locker was recently flooded due to a pipe burst and the analysis of your blood samples—containing whatever Falcone did to you—were destroyed.

So, you’ve been busy working on re-writing your Arkham article under Bruce’s employ. Your time as a vigilante journalist has dwindled. Yes, there are other stories in Gotham that need your attention, but none are as urgent as reviving the Arkham story. Plus your instincts keep telling you that it’s connected: Falcone. Dr. Mercer’s death. Arkham. The mysterious drugs.

There’s a thread here. You just have to find the right one to pull.

You flick your thumb against the card’s corner. You should tell him. Batman needs to know about this. If you want your plan to snoop around Arkham to succeed—you’re going to need Batman’s gadgets. You bend down, the wind and rainwater tickling the delicate skin at your temples, and click on the multi-colored lights that frame the balcony window. Your own secret call to the Bat.

You return inside, leave the sliding door unlocked and wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce gets a call from Alfred while driving down fourth street. His voice crackles warmly over the headphone inside Bruce’s ear, “she’s got her lights on.” Alfred knows to periodically check the security cameras they installed across the street of your apartment and Bruce is grateful for his vigilance.

He pivots his motorcycle and takes a sharp turn through an alleyway as a shortcut. Someone on the sidewalk shouts profanities at him.

The rainwater ricochets off his helmet and spins like a hyped-up Ferris wheel around the tires. He’s seen you a handful of times for coffee dates or short walks in the park. Never lingering. Never doing more than kissing you. No matter how badly he wants to. It’s stupid. He’s fucked you twice as Batman, felt your walls quiver around his fingers and cock, listened to your sweet cries and watched your pretty eyes roll back into your skull. And yet...

It’s Batman who you call for in the middle of the night. He suspects that Bruce—in your mind—is at home, maybe asleep, maybe pacing his study, maybe watching some black-and-white foreign film. He wishes he could invite you over, sleep next to you, show you how he feels about youwith slow kisses buried between your thighs, but he can’t. The night is for him. For Vengeance. Gotham never sleeps so why should he? He needs to be awake and on the prowl. He needs to be ready for anything and that includes answering your silent and iridescent call.

He stows his motorcycle in the usual safe spot within the alleyway and uses his grappling hook to ascend to your floor without entering the building. His heart pounds as it always does when you’re in close proximity. Like his heart is trying to escape his chest and offer itself to you.

He sucks in a breath before sliding open the door. One of your downstairs neighbors is boiling cabbage, there’s a pair of wet socks on your radiator, and a candle on your coffee table flickers with the influx of air from the balcony door. The sight and smells of your apartment are achingly familiar. He prefers it—this tiny, homey space—compared to his large and extravagant penthouse. But then again, he prefers anywhere where you are.

He wishes he could remove his cowl and lay his head in your lap, but he folds his arms across his chest and says, “what did you find?”

“Take a look.” You toss a card onto the coffee table and the laptop illuminates your face in a blue-white glow. “I’m rubbing elbows with the right people it seems.”

“Crane?” He mutters to himself while examining the fancy, expensive card stock. A charity at Arkham. It’s strange that they’re hosting at the hospital instead of a fancy hotel. He makes a mental note to check the guest list.

“Several of Dr. Mercer’s co-workers talked to me before Mercer died. And now they won’t talk to me. That means someone or all of them are dirty and in someone’s pocket.” You explain and your eyes are lit furiously from within, “I hoped I could use Dr. Crane to reach the other employees of Arkham and this is my chance.”

“Do you think Falcone is involved?”

You shrug, “if not him then it’s another one of Gotham’s criminals.”

Bruce considers this information. It’s a decent lead. You aren’t looking at him. Your eyes are glued to the computer screen as your fingers move across the keyboard in quick, precise strokes. He could watch you for hours but those are hours he doesn’t have. Gotham needs him. As much as he wants to linger in your presence and kiss you—those are luxuries he cannot afford despite his generational wealth. He sets the invitation back onto the table.

“What’s your plan?” He asks.

“It’s simple. I go to the charity, talk to anyone that I think is involved, then we meet up during the auction itself.” Your eyes flick up and down, but he gets the distinct sensation that you’re not sizing him up in a flirtatious manner. Your expression, your tone, and body language is cool and professional. It reminds him of the early days working together...before he kissed you and pressed you against the windows of the Wayne penthouse.

“I assume you’ve got a way to enter Arkham without being noticed.” You return your attention to the screen, “we can snoop through their offices.”

“They’re likely to increase security during the event.”

You wave a hand, “that’s why I’m telling you now. It gives us time to prepare.”

He clenches his jaw. You are an unstoppable force when a story is involved. Your safety might not matter to yourself, but it matters to him. He can do this alone. He can visit Arkham while the charity takes place and discover whatever Crane or Dr. Mercer’s associates are up to. You don’t need to put yourself at risk. Even the small risk of arrest makes his heart squeeze painfully inside his chest. He can’t protect Gotham and you at the same time.

He says, “I’ll go alone.”

“And do what?” Your nostrils flare, “punch some confessions out of doctors? No way, Batboy. I’m not letting you try and take this one from me. This is my story.”

“All you need is evidence.” He counters, “I can get that for you.” You stand from the couch and place your hands on your hips. You’re shorter but you glare up at him with the heat and intensity of a car lit by a Molotov cocktail. He holds your gaze and cherishes the burn he feels prickle across his skin.

“I need firsthand accounts.” You say, your voice firm and unyielding, “you could rifle through their paperwork and take pictures of every record available and it would take us months to find what we’re looking for. And who knows! Maybe Arkham will smarten up and wipe everything clean before I have the chance to publish.”

“You think people will talk to you at the auction?”

He watches your chest rise a little with your inhale. The way your eyelashes flutter close. You always closed your eyes before saying ‘yes’ to him. He wonders if you ever notice this little tell of yours—if it ever registers that the boy you scraped knees with and the man standing before you in black armor are the same.

“Yes,” You reply while opening your eyes, “I do.”

“Fine.” He bites out. Arguing with you is akin to arguing with a brick wall. “But, I’m not sending you in there without protection.” He won’t let what happened with you and Falcone happen ever again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You toy with the little black bracelet on your wrist. A gift from Vengeance. It’s simple and straightforward. All it takes is one little press of a button near your wristbone and it releases an electric shock more painful and debilitating than your average taser. He explained that he wanted you to have something in case anyone got ‘too close’. Honestly, you hope you don’t have to use it.

Arkham’s charity event is being held in the new wing of the hospital. There are currently no patients, but it’s the perfect location for the chairmen and board members to show off the latest technology, the new rooms, and convince Gotham’s rich and powerful to make donations.

You let out a small breath of relief as you take in the freshly painted walls and large windows covered by thin, latticed metal. At least it’s spacious.Some of the other wings within Arkham State Hospital tended to trigger your claustrophobia. The murmurs of conversation float through the circular room above the music of stringed instruments by the door. The windows within the high ceilings look down at you like large black eyes as they reflect Gotham’s dark skies.You think, they should’ve made this a daytime event. It would’ve been more remarkable.

The pamphlet in your left hand boasts about the ‘benefits of natural light while providing safety, comfort and security for our patients’. In other words—Arkham has patients that can’t go outside due to the security risk and this newly built wing is their solution.

The two other exits lead into hallways but those doors are closed and guarded by security. A sign is posted nearby that reads: For Private Tours – Inquire with Director Susan S.

“I was wondering if you received my invite,” a smooth voice says from your right side. You turn to see Dr. Crane wearing a tuxedo, his brown hair slicked away from his angular face and shining beneath the warm florescent light bulbs.

“Did your secretary not pass along my RSVP?”

“She didn’t,” His sharp blue eyes drop to your shoes and then rise to your face, his look appraising and yet distant, “but she’s new and you look gorgeous so I’ll let it go.” Dr. Crane offers you his elbow and you politely take it, sliding your hand into the crook of his arm and allowing him to lead you through the swarm of well-dressed and perfumed bodies.

Youdon’t know how Bruce stomached these events. His parents were socialites and humanitarians who believed in a brighter future for Gotham.Youwonder what they’d say about Arkham's recent addition.

Crane passes you a flute of champagne and you use the opportunity to ask him how he’s settling into Arkham. His lips tug into a smile that feels secretive. He bows his head toward you and his breath ghosts along your cheek and neck.

“Some of my co-workers dislike me,” says Crane, “but I don’t take it personally. Every place has their hazing routines, their cliques, and established loyalties.”

You notice the discreet looks being tossed your way. Bored, inquisitive, jealous, and others are outright scandalized. You suspect that someone’s told Crane who you actually are by now which means he invited you for a reason. Time to find a thread to pull, you think.

You ask, “did you invite me as your plus one to disrupt those routines and loyalties?”

His eyes glimmer, “I did.”

“I’m honored.” You press the rim of your champagne glass to your lips, then lower it, watching Crane’s gaze as they follow your every movement. “Why me, though?”

“I see myself in you,” Crane guides you to the middle of the room where some of the guests are dancing in slow waltzes and whispering business deals to each other. The dark sky of Gotham—light pollution never allows for twinkling stars—peers down at you like the eyes of a shark. You can guess where this is going. The music and conversation provides enough white noise to muffle your conversation as long as you and Crane continue to whisper. You set your champagne glass on a nearby tray.

Crane gently takes your hand and your black bracelet slides on your wrist. “I’ve done my homework after our first meeting.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t do research prior to our first meeting.” You chastise as one of your hands settle on his slim shoulder, “I gave your secretary my real name.”

“A mistake I intend to never repeat.” He leads the dance. It’s a simple box step that doesn’t require much effort nor skill, “thank you for that lesson.”

You smile. “The first one is free.”

His hand slides to your lower back as he nudges you closer, “you really are determined to uncover Arkham’s secrets, aren’t you?” He whispers into the shell of your ear. You glance around the room, ensuring no one is watching—and if they are—well, all they’ll see is Dr. Crane getting close to an attractive woman. He’s good at this. Something in your gut urges you to be careful and play it safe.

“I’m here for the auction, Crane.”

“You’re here for more than that.”

You avoid his keen perception and change tactics.

“You said I remind you of yourself. That’s a bold statement considering we’ve spoken once.” You narrow your eyes over his shoulder at a familiar face. A part-time nurse named Jessica who refused to speak to you after Dr. Mercer’s death. The color of her dress washes out her complexion and the necklace around her throat sparkles like freshly fallen snow. Crane pivots and you lose sight of her.

“I’m a good judge of character,” he replies without missing a step. “In fact, you and Dr. Jacobs...”

Dr. Jacobs. He was on your list as one of Dr. Mercer’s associates, but you never had the chance to interview him. In fact, you planned on following up with Dr. Jacobs after Mercer’s death, but the man wouldn’t return any of your calls. You chalked it up to grief. But now...

Crane continues, “you both have an inner fire that cannot be understated.” He slows his step and tilts his head back to meet your eyes—steady and true. Dr. Crane looks at you as if he’s gazing into a house fire. You swallow.

“They called you ‘quicksilver’ didn’t they? At the Gotham Gazette?” You sense his questions are rhetorical. “I found that fascinating. They named you after a chemical element, a Roman God, because you--” he says your name “—are a force to be reckoned with.”

He leans in, speaking low, “and I pity anyone who underestimates you.”

You comb through his compliments, his lingering looks, and piece together your response. His hand on your lower back threatens to burn through the fabric of your clothing. What will Crane gain by helping you? Does he know that Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer knew each other? And if he’s not helping then he’s...merely pointing out that he sees your ambitious nature...and signaling that he’s the same.

You reply, “maybe I’ll talk to Dr. Jacobs tonight and find out if we’re as similar as you say.”

“I’m afraid he’s not here.” Dr. Crane sighs, “I believe he mentioned a family obligation conflicted with this event.”

Good. His office will be clear to search.

“That’s too bad.”

Dr. Crane smirks lightly, “indeed.” He leads you to the edge of the circle, “I believe I’ve monopolized enough of your time tonight.” He took your co-joined hands and pressed a polite, chaste kiss against your knuckles. Your gaze darts away from him. “I need to speak with a few of my colleagues.”

Finally! The sooner you can snoop the sooner you can leave Arkham.

“Of course,” You step aside and try to not let your eagerness show on your face, “I should go to the ladies room before the bidding begins.”

“I’ll save you a seat.” Dr. Crane says.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arkham’s security is not without its flaws. He and Alfred decided it would be more useful and less disruptive to hack into the system and program the cameras to play a loop of footage rather than try and disable the system from the outside. Thankfully, you needed access to the doctor’s offices which were far less patrolled and monitored than the area where Arkham housed its full-time patients.

An alert pings on his device. That’s his cue. He cuts through the skylight with a thin, blue laser. Then, using a handle with a glass-safe suction cup, he pulls the glass free and carefully sets it aside. Ideally, he’ll return through this skylight once the job is done.

He stands from his crouched position by the window and tests the tension in his repel line.It feels good, secure. He drops into Arkham State Hospital with a faint ‘zzzziiippp’ sound and lands behind you.

“You made it.” You whisper, relieved.

“Worried I wouldn’t?”

“More worried someone would catch me wandering the halls.” You smile a little and his heart squeezes, “I can only use the ‘I’m drunk’ excuse so many times before it gets suspicious.”

“We’ll be quick.” He checks the time, “Alfred said the camera feed will give us an hour, but we should plan for less.”

You set off toward the offices while holding up the flashlight on your phone, “we need to check out Dr. Jacobs’ office.”

The wood-paneled hallways are dimly lit and the only light source is the exit signs glowing red above doorways. The thin dark green carpet helps to muffle your footsteps. He takes a moment to appreciate you walking in front of him. He loves how efficient you are, how fearless, even when it threatens to give him a heart attack. And your ass looks incredible.

You stop in front of the metal double doors. A key card reader glows a muted yellow on the wall.

“Okay, your turn.”

“Why Dr. Jacobs?” He asks while approaching the key reader. He inserts a featureless key card into the slot. It’s attached to a device in his hand by a wide and thin wire and several numbers rapidly scan across the screen and illuminate his jaw in a greenish glow.

“Crane mentioned him.” Your rub your hands over your upper arms, “he said that Dr. Jacobs and I are similar because we’re ambitious. I don’t know. Crane doesn’t strike me as the type of person to say something without it meaning anything. He’s too smart for that.”

Bruce ignores the twinge of jealousy in his stomach. You aren’t interested in Crane. He knows that. You’re using Crane. But it still feels strange to hear you mention another man with a hint of admiration in your tone. He clenches his jaw. Crane isn’t that smart.

Bruce doesn’t look up from the device. “And you think he’s involved in Mercer’s death?”

“Mercer and Jacobs worked together and I never had the chance to interview him before Mercer died.” You lean in to watch the gadget in his palms, “I figured we would search the most likely suspects instead of digging through everyone’s desk.”

You continue, “we start with Jacobs, then Crane, and lastly Haywood.”

He mentally reflects on your files and notes. He should have known that you wouldn’t remove Crane from your list of suspects. Just because Crane wasn’t at Arkham at the same time as Mercer didn’t mean he was off the hook. You regarded everyone at Arkham with a low-level of suspicion. It didn’t matter if they were a groundskeeper, security, or head of the boardroom. Falcone’s payroll is the greatest mystery and it served to err on the side of caution when dealing with a dangerous criminal.

“Jessica Haywood?”

“Mhm.” The device beeps, the light turns green, and the doors click unlocked. “The jewelry she’s wearing tonight is well above the pay grade of a Per Diem nurse.”

Bruce unhooks the device from the reader and opens the door for you. You slip past him and for a brief second—the air lingers with your scent. His eyelashes flutter. It’s getting harder and harder to be this close. He pushes the thoughts from his mind and follow you into the personal offices of the doctors.

He says, “if Haywood is a part-time nurse, then she won’t have an office.”

“We’ll check HR for pay stubs and the nurse’s station log to see which floors and patients she’s worked with.”

Bruce grunts.

“You’ve thought of everything haven’t you?”

Your smile threatens to topple the walls inside his heart and drag his loyalty Gotham into the ocean.

“Mostly.”

Dr. Jacob’s office smells like cigarettes. Together you meticulously comb through his files, check under seat cushions, and search for false walls. Bruce plugs a USB into the ancient computer desktop. In ten minutes, he’s obtained the contents of Dr. Jacobs hard-drive and sent it to Alfred for decryption.

On the way to Crane’s office, he asks, “are you still going to re-interview Mercer’s patients?”

“Assuming my relationship to Crane allows me access then yes.”

His heart ignites, burning hot inside his chest, and he exhales sharp through his nostrils.What happened tonight between you and him?He clears his throat and says, “relationship?”

You laugh quietly. “Professional relationship, Batman. Like us.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You realize how silly your words are the second they leave your mouth. Batman stops short and pins his steely blue gaze on you. You shouldn’t have compared you and Crane to you and Batman. They are completely different. Your relationship to Batman almost borders on friendship. Or maybe it’s more like...co-workers who never dated, but did hook up and now have underlying sexual tension.

“Okay, not like that.” You lift your hands, “I’m not out fighting crime with Dr. Crane.”

Some of the tension in Batman’s jaw lessens. “We don’t fight crime together.”

“Well, that’s because you haven’t taught me to fight.” You wiggle your bracelet wrist, “and honestly you’ve been overprotective lately.”

“You’re a civilian.” He counters gruffly.

“So are you.” You lean your shoulder against the wall as Batman crouches at Crane’s door to pick the lock. “Unless you’ve recently been hired by the PD?”

Batman looks up at you and all that dark makeup around his light blue eyes highlights their color and depth. Your skin prickles, hot and sharp and painfully—painfully aware of what those eyes look like during the throes of desperate and sweaty sex. You want to kick yourself. You’re loyal to Bruce, you want to be with Bruce, but that doesn’t erase the attraction you feel towards Vengeance. His eyes drop back to the doorknob and he leaves your question unanswered.

Dr. Crane’s office doesn’t smell like anything which is a relief to your nostrils after the toxic and cloying scent of stale cigarettes in Dr. Jacobs. There isn’t a desktop in Crane’s office which leads you to assume that he takes his laptop home with him. You start with the filing cabinet that Crane glanced at during your interview with him. Batman searches his desk. And you work in comfortable silence. The anticipation gnaws at your stomach.

Come on, Crane.You need something tangible so you can start putting pressure on the doctors and nurses who are involved. Yourfirst article proved that the corruption within Arkham travels all the way to the administration. Mercer said they were powerful which means other doctors are involved. They have to be. So what did Jacobs do? Why did Crane mention him?

You step from the filing cabinet and pace the small office with your arms crossed.

“Dr. Mercer was afraid. He didn’t want to keep giving the police drugs and administration told him to stay quiet. His patients spoke highly of him. His co-workers liked him. Mercer dislike how the administration ran things.” You repeat the story to yourself in the hopes that you’ll find the piece you missed.

“Then, he dies two weeks after I present my article and the Gazette fires me. That’s not a coincidence.”

Batman opens one of the filing cabinet drawers. You let him continue his work as you talk yourself through the file details. There were plenty of co-workers of Dr. Mercer that have issues with Arkham but they were typical standard labor complaints—not enough holiday time, staffing issues, or personality clashes with other doctors. Who else could you talk to?

“I can try Jessica. She stopped talking to me after his death, but I know she idolized Dr. Mercer. Maybe I can appeal to her. Find the humanity.” You pause and press your fist against your lips.

There’s no way she could afford that necklace. Either she has a very wealthy partner or she’s accepted a bribe to stay quiet. But why? What does she know? Or are they just afraid of anyone who MIGHT talk?

A low ‘thump’ noise comes from Batman’s corner of the room.

Batman asks, “what’s Dr. Jacobs title?”

“Chief Psychiatrist.”

You hear him move closer and you turn to meet his stormy eyes. “Quicksilver, you need to see this.” The filing cabinet drawer is open, but a hidden inner compartment is unhinged and Batman grips a thick manila folder.

He opens the folder on Crane’s empty desk. Your heart bottoms out into your shoes and you clamp your fingers over your mouth to muffle your gasp.

“Holy shit!” you breathe.

The file spills out with evidence of experimental trials on patients. Experiments aren’t uncommon at Arkham. Sometimes drug companies and Arkham will partner up to test treatments, but it goes through a whole process of licensing and legal clearance. But this--? You steady one palm against the desk and your knees threaten to collapse from under you. The experiments involved sedating the patients with experimental manufactured opioids and then exposing them to high-stress situations—like torture—to see if their bodies and minds could withstand the pressure while on the experimental pain medication.

“Dr. Mercer…” His name glares in black ink like a gallows noose tightening around your neck. He was involved in this?!

You recall his final words to you before his death, “The guilt,” Dr. Mercer said, his expression pained, “I think it might eat me alive, Silver. I can feel it’s teeth in my heart.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift your phone to take photos of the files. The tests, the results, the sign offs of two prominent doctors: Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer. Your eyes scan through the dates. Eventually, Dr. Mercer’s name stopped appearing. The files shift into another direction. The pain medication is no longer the focal point. Instead, the abstract of the experiment is: ‘To discover the effects of hallucinogens on recovery and behavioral control.’

“Wait,” you flip the pages and count the dates, “what happened to the pain medication trials?”

“It looks like they started a new project.” Batman’s hard and armored shoulder brushes against your body and you tremble for an entirely different reason. You bite your lip and refocus your attention.

“Why didn’t Dr. Mercer tell me? He said he was giving drugs to cops not--” You let out a frustrated sigh, “subjecting mentally ill patients to torture and experimental off-market drugs.”

Gotham, even on her worst days, manages to surprise you. Youbelieved Mercer was one of the good ones. He wanted people to get better. He wanted to help. How could this get so twisted?

“Why does Crane have all this?” he grumbles.

“What do you mean? It’s obvious.”

Batman turns his head toward you, his eyes questioning, and you close your eyes.

“Dr. Jacobs has some big skeletons in his closet. There’s no saving his reputation from this. Arkham will have no choice but to fire him to save face and claim they knew nothing about this. And an internal investigation will likely take place after Jacobs is fired.” You gesture to the files on the desk. “That means Crane, the new blood of Arkham, has the perfect opportunity to apply for his position.”

You recall Crane’s secretive smile, his perceptive gaze, and deliberate and careful words. His glances at this cabinet during your first meeting were planned. He curated this moment from the start.

“He doesn’t want to be the one to blow the whistle on Arkham.”

“Because it would impact his chance at the job,” Batman guesses. It’s a fair enough assumption. You’d bet money on it if you were a betting woman.

You reply earnestly, “no one likes the person who reveals the truth.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Batman places his gloved hand over yours and gently squeezes your fingers, “Gotham needs people like you, Silver.”

Your lips shift into a grateful yet embarrassed smile.

“I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ARKHAM’S CORRUPTION BROUGHT TO LIGHT. The bold text slams across the headline with a grainy, colored photo Dr. Jacobs being arrested outside the hospital.

Every news outlet whether newspaper or television is reporting the story you wrote. The story secretly bankrolled by Bruce Wayne. Your childhood friend and sort-of boyfriend (you haven’t discussed labels yet). The article was published with an independent paper outside of Gotham. It spread like wildfire online and took Gotham by storm. The rest of the media vultures were forced to scramble to keep up.

And—it wouldn’t have been possible without Gotham’s caped crusader. Vengeance. The Bat. He cross-engineered the pain medication and it matched the drugs on the streets. Then, in a surprise twist, he revealed to Gordon that the ongoing hallucinogenic trial had components that matched your blood sample from your time with Falcone. Was it a little weird knowing Batman had your blood samples somewhere? Yes. But it led to the greater good so you chose to accept the weirdness.

The complied evidence encouraged Gordon to look into it. He obtained a warrant to search Dr. Jacobs home and office. His hard-drive contained copies of patient medical history and backups of all of his unethical experiments. ‘Sadly, the documents we found at his office were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Jacobs little pet projects’, you think.

However, the search for his co-conspirators is in process. It’s likely that Dr. Jacobs provided Falcone with the drugs he used on you and the other girls, but you’re doubtful Falcone will face any justice for it. Falcone is too slippery and influential. It’ll take something big to take him down.

Everything was connected just not in the way you imagined.

You click away from the news article.

Arkham’s official statement is “we are saddened to hear that our chief psychiatrist took advantage of our patients and staff. His actions were never sanctioned by our hospital and our thoughts are with the families of the patients at this time.” A rather magnanimous statement considering they’re scrambling for any good PR coverage lately.

You grab your coat from the edge of the couch and check your phone.

The text from Bruce reads: I’m outside.

You haven’t processed everything that’s happened in the span of a week. Gotham Gazette offered you a job with a pay raise and corner office. Dr. Crane mailed you a thank you note for attending the charity auction. The words were typed, concise, and polite. But you see it for what it truly is—Thank you for taking out the competition. Dr. Mercer’s involvement in the experiments is a tender sore on your heart. You never uncovered if Falcone or someone else killed him and now it’s over. You wish you could have put Falcone and his associates behind bars. But you’re forced to settle for shutting down Falcone’s drug connection.

It’s a victory. Victories are rare in Gotham especially for those on the side of justice. You try to remember that.

Arkham will move on. Gotham will move on.

And you have to move on too. There are other stories to be written, truths to bring into the light. You have a date tonight with Bruce and you’re determined to enjoy it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You loop your arm around Bruce’s elbow as you walk down the sidewalk toward his car.

“I appreciate that you came out, you know.” You say with fondness laced through your tone. “I know you prefer staying in.”

He’s a recluse, but he comes out to meet you every time you ask. You’re grateful the paparazzi are too swept up in the Dr. Jacobs story to care about the enigmatic Bruce Wayne. You know how he feels about being in the public eye and you don’t want any unnecessary strain added to this new, budding relationship. Life feels almost normal when you’re like this…There’s no lead to chase, no witnesses to interview, no late night sleuthing through the library archives.

His lips twitch upward. “I don’t mind it.” His clear blue eyes glance sidelong toward you, his sooty eyelashes flutter against his pale cheeks, “as long as it’s with you.”

“Hmm?” You lean closer into his side and let the expensive woolly warmth of his jacket seep into your elbow and arm. “Sounds like you’ve got a soft spot for me, Brucie.” You use the nickname from your youth and Bruce reflexively cringes.

“Maybe,” he teases, “but can you blame me?” He suddenly draws to a stop and cradles your cheek with one hand. You lean into the familiar mounds of his palm, the curve of his fingers. The chilly air of Gotham drifts through your legs and curls around your ankles. Every nerve in your body sings with joy at his closeness. Who knew you’d go from childhood friends, to strangers, to this? The tender display of public affection is enough to send your heart into overdrive and your pulse throbs inside your ears.

He gazes at you, pupils dilated, lips softly parted. You think he might kiss you at any moment. Bruce tends to get this look before kissing you—like he can’t believe it, like he thinks he’s dreaming. Your faces draw imperceptibly closer as if pulled by an invisible string. His breath is warm on your lips. It’s a delightful contrast to the chilled wind that tugs at your coat and sneaks cold kisses behind your ears. Your eyes slip shut.

“Oof!” Bruce exclaims. A blunt pain ricochets into your side. Your eyes spring open. You have barely enough time to throw your hands out and catch yourself as you’re knocked sideways and onto the hard and uneven asphalt. You wince as your skin scrapes against the ground. Bruce is on his hands and knees, his eyes wide, hair falling in dark strands in front of his face. A masked assailant towers above him with a wooden baseball bat. Oh God. Oh God.

“Story should’ve stayed dead, bitch!” Someone shouts before their boot stomps into your lower spine and pins you to the asphalt. Instinct takes over. Fear overrides logic. Your breath comes out in haggard puffs. The dark bracelet from Batman glimmers in your peripheral vision. You just need to get close enough. The boot lifts from your back. Someone grunts. The sound of shoes scuffling on the pavement reverberates in your head. Now is your chance! The boot returns with a swift, hard kick into your rib cage.

The air is forced from your lungs in a pained exhale. Everything feels raw. Your throat constricts. Another kick. The world blurs with tears. Your body instinctively curls like a wounded creature. One arm wraps around your stomach and the other to your head. The bracelet dangles like a cherished heirloom in front of your eyes. Batman showed you how to use it, but you can’t activate it from this position, can you? You need your hands free. The next kick hits your shinbone. The pain is acute and travels up your knee. You squeeze your eyes shut. What about Bruce?! You hate this stupid parking lot. You hate that no one is stopping to help or intervene. You hate that you can’t think and that your body is tense and trembling in preparation of the next blow. You hate the helpless feeling that’s building inside your chest and shaking salty tears from your lashes.

Someone is laughing. A slurred, drunk sound. “This one’s got some fight in him!”

“Whadda you think we should we do with him?”

“Just knock him out!” The one above you yells, “we’re here for her. Not him.”

Three. Three voices. There’s three of them. The next kick hits your shoulder and your forced onto your back. There’s no time to prepare, no time to cry out, as the boot presses into your throat. Fuck! You glance quickly to where Bruce was and see that he’s fighting—you gurgle as your assailant applies pressure to your neck and glares down at you through the holes in his ski-mask. A ski mask? What a cliché. An unexpected, hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. You flail and scratch your nails against his denim covered leg.

“This is what happens to nosy journalists in Gotham,” he sneers from above, “you should have just kept your pretty mouth shut and wrote stories about missing puppies and shit.” Several white dots dance around your vision.

Bruce grunts in pain. Your worry for his safety abruptly overrides your fear and hysteria. You don’t care if these guys are here to kill you or scare you, but you aren’t going to let them keep hurting Bruce. His only crime was being close to you. If he wasn’t here with you...then this never would’ve happened. You aren’t powerless. You aren’t helpless.

You release your hands from the thug’s leg and grab your bracelet. Muscle memory takes over. You presses into the spot near your wristbone and the bracelet hums to life. Two prongs like a spider’s fangs eject from the edge of the bracelet near the back of your hand. You slam the fangs into your assailant’s leg. They easily bite through the fabric of his jeans. The electric shock throws him off-balance and he convulses with a screech of pain. Your lungs rapidly expand as if to greedily swallow the air you were denied. You roll onto your stomach, onto your hands and knees, before pulling yourself upright. The scene comes to you in broken, jagged pieces.

The leader in the ski mask is on the ground sprawled out and twitching. If he’s dead then good riddance even though you’d like to know who sent him. The other two thugs are on the ground and Bruce is standing over them—chest heaving, his dark hair in disarray, his bloodied fists clenched at his sides, his chin smeared with blood from a split lip.

You exhale, “Bruce.” It’s unclear who moves first: you or him. Your arms encircle his middle and he clutches you to his chest like you’re going to fade into smoke.

“You’re okay?” His voice is raw and trembling, he strokes the sides of your face, your arms, your shoulders with desperate and careful motions, his eyes roam every inch of you, “you’re okay?”

You manage to nod. It’s surreal. You’re no stranger to violence in Gotham. You’ve run from drug dealers, used pepper spray on someone trying to steal your car, veered off the road due to a high speed chance, and not to mention your time with Falcone—your investigative journalism is a high risk occupation. But you’ve never been scared like this before. You can’t help but wonder if it’s because Bruce was involved. You feared for his safety. You refused to entertain the thought of losing him.

“Let’s go—let’s go.” He urges, pulling you by the elbow to his car, “c’mon, Silver.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I’m so sorry.” It’s your fault. Bruce paid for the story, but you’ll pay the price of exposing Arkham for the rest of your life. “I’m sorry...”

Bruce shakes his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t recall the drive to Wayne Penthouse. You sat in the passenger seat with your eyes closed, your hands cupped around your head between your knees, forcing air into your lungs and exhaling slowly until your heart regulated. Bruce is painfully quiet. You don’t register anything until the purring car engine shuts off.

“Bruce,” you begin, lifting your head, “I’m so sorry.” Bruce is staring straight ahead at the concrete wall of his garage, raw knuckles clenched around the steering wheel, his eyes closed. His expression pained and closed-off. Your feel your heart drag across razor blades. He fought for you, bled for you. You’re relieved he could hold his own and grateful that the thugs didn’t bring any weapons besides wooden baseball bats and bare fists. You don’t want to think about what could’ve happened if any of them had a gun.

He rasps, “Don’t.”

You unbuckle and angle yourself toward him. Your bruised skin bristles with pain at the twist of your spine and shift of your hips. You need to explain. You need to help him see. This is an unfortunate part of the life you lead. He once joked that you were a ‘journalist with a death wish’. It’s not true, of course. You have no desire to die. But you have and will continue to suffer for the sake of Gotham’s truth. When you pursue influential people and start airing their dirty laundry, they will use their power, wealth, and any illegal or legal resources to try and scare you away.

Unfortunately for them, you aren’t easily cowed. What was it Falcone said? You’ve got Gotham in your blood. Gotham raised you. She taught you how to read people, and be resourceful, and hungry for truth.

“Bruce—they wanted me. They wanted to punish me for the Arkham article.”

“I know.”

“If you weren’t with me…” You trail off and look at the center dashboard of his expensive designer car. The guilt gnaws at your bones, threatening to break them. Bruce grabs your chin. His grip isn’t painful—it never is—but it is pointed, urgent, and he yanks your face toward his.

His lips press into yours without warning. Your mouth opens for him and a faint taste of copper bites your tongue. You’ve kissed Bruce more than a dozen times. But never like this.

His tongue moves in desperate, messy strokes and each movement sends a hot and powerful spark to your core. He groans loudly into your mouth, cupping the back of your skull, keeping you close, not even allowing you to break away to breath. You inhale raggedly through your nostrils and push your fingers up along his chest. Something fragile and tenuous shatters between you. He’s alive. You’re alive. It was a harrowing experience—but you are here. Together.

“I need you,” He gasps, “please.” He presses his forehead against yours and his sweet blue eyes bleed into yours. Up close, you can see the reddish-purple swell of a bruise forming on his cheekbone. His lips are raw, bloody, the split lip likely re-opened and aggravated from kissing. You close your eyes to collect your thoughts. You know Bruce. You know him like the lines on the sidewalk outside your childhood home. You know him like the curved handle of your favorite coffee mug. You know Bruce isn’t lying when he tells you he needs you and you know he’s not exaggerating either. You’ve wanted him for years. Ached for him. And this moment might not be perfect, it might not be what you imagined, but God—you’re not going to turn him away. Not when you need him just as desperately as he needs you.

“Okay,” You swipe your thumb across his bloodied lip, “yes, Bruce. Yes.”

Bruce’s expression crumples with relief and he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is slower this time. You take a moment to savor it. Your fingers card through his silky, dark hair and he sucks your lower lip into his mouth with an appreciative hum.

His cool and calloused hand pushes along your upper thigh.

“Right here?” You guess.

“Right here.” He adjusts and grabs your hips to pull you over the center console and into his lap. Your ass bumps against the steering wheel. At least it’s private, you smile at the thought. No one is going to come wandering into Wayne’s personal garage. Except for maybe Alfred? But you assume the old man has enough sense to give you and Bruce plenty of space. Bruce’s lips travel down your jaw to your throat and you angle your neck back to allow him more space to explore. His kisses are light and exploratory, slightly roughed by the dryness of his mouth and gentle scrape of his stubble. It feels better than you could’ve imagined.

Bruce exhales, his voice pitched low and gravely, “I’ve wanted you for so long,” his mouth closes over your collarbone. Your heart leaps at his words, at the implication, at the idea that maybe...just maybe...you weren’t the only one yearning and hoping for years on end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His body is sore. He forgot how much things can hurt when he’s not in the suit. But nothing is going to tear him away from this moment with you. He’s careful where he touches. He knows that low-life got more than a few kicks onto your perfect body and if he had been alone then he would’ve broken every bone in that man’s body as recompense. His anger threatens to boil to the forefront of his mind, but Bruce wrestles it back. Now isn’t the time.

He tugs your dress off your shoulders and his cock twitches at the sound of your pleased sigh. Your breasts are perfect. Perfect shape. And at this angle? The perfect height for him to bury his face between them and trail kisses across your skin. He’s never had the opportunity to worship you like this. To press his lips and tongue against your skin, taste your sweat, feel your heartbeat against his nose. His lips enclose around one of your nipples and you cry out, your fingers entangling in his hair to pull him closer, and he flicks his tongue against the hardened nub.

“Fuck,” he moans, his hot breath pants against your skin, before he cups the breast in his hand and holds it while his tongue and mouth lavishes across your nipple over and over again. Your hips cant into his, seeking friction and release, and he trembles as your clothed cunt grinds into his hard cock.

“I’ll give you what you want, Quicksilver.” He promises and you whimper in reply to his words, “Shh.” His bloodied knuckles shine in the light as he kneads your other breast beneath his palm. “I’ll take care of you.”

He wants to make this memorable. He wants it to mean something. He’s outside the shadows with you for the first time. He isn’t hiding behind the cowl, behind his loyalty to Gotham. He is raw, and bloodied, and trembling with anticipation. Your fingers fumble with the hem of his long-sleeved dark shirt and yank it upwards in a graceless motion. He winces as he leans back, his arms overhead, and the shirt is tossed to the passenger side.

“Oh, fuck, Bruce!” You blurt and place your hand above his right pectoral. He winces again at the pressure, but gently places his hand on your wrist. His heart swells with pride and appreciation at his bracelet dangling from your wrist. It saved you when he couldn’t.

“It’s okay,” He looks toward the cut. It’s shallow. Superficial. It likely won’t scar. “Hey, hey, look at me.” He guides your chin, meeting your eyes, and his heart capsizes at the concern pouring from your gaze. “I’m okay, Silver. I promise.”

He holds your chin and kisses you before you have the chance to apologize again. It’s not your fault. It’s his. He got complacent after the article was released. He made a grievous error through his lack of vigilance. He should’ve been more careful, should’ve had Alfred checking the footage to see if you were being tailed, should’ve suggested you stay at the penthouse for a few days until the dust settled. People at Arkham and people connected to Jacobs and Falcone are going to try and settle the score.

He won’t let that happen, though. He feels you relax beneath his touch, feels your lips move urgently against his, how your body arches into him and your hardened nipples press into his bare chest. Bruce shivers. God, it feels so good to be skin to skin with you. He is wholly without armor in both the physical and metaphorical sense and it’s terrifying and electrifying.

He wonders if you know how you affect him. His hands cup your backside, squeezing, pressing you closer into him and pressing his agonizingly hard length between your legs. You make a sweet, soft sound and Bruce swallows back his groan. Everything you do is intoxicating to him.

“I’d like to do this again after we’re inside,” he says to the hollow of your throat, “properly.”

“Properly?” your laughter runs like a vein through your voice, “like with candles and roses?”

“Something like that,” he bunches the bottom of your dress until its hiked up in a ruffled heap around your hips and his gaze snags on the bruises on your ribs. “I’ll leave it to your imagination.” He says with a small grin.

“Ohh, a surprise.”

“Mm.”

He pushes his hand between your legs and discovers the dampened fabric of your underwear. Fuck. You’re always so wet for him. Bruce’s eyes roll back into his skull and he hisses through his teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were worried the sight of Bruce’s injuries would be a deterrent, but it isn’t. His bloodied lip, swollen cheekbone, and the bleeding cut on his chest are proof that he lived. A little scuffed up, but whole and alive and touching you with comfortable ease. You whimper at the first touch of his thumb across your swollen clit. Your body thrums with frustrated desire. He’s already made the tempting promise to continue once you’re inside the penthouse and quite frankly—you want to two things: for Bruce to be inside of you and then to see what he has planned in the comfort and luxury of his home.

“Bruce, please,” Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, “don’t make me wait.”

He buries his face between your breasts, his kisses sloppy, and mumbles, “I want you to come first.”

Always a goddamn gentleman!

He arches his neck, leaning his head back against the headrest of his seat, and gazes up at you with fervent adoration. You open your mouth to quip at him, to tell him the car is cramped and you’re feeling impatient, but then the concentric motion of his fingers tightens, adding pressure, and the effect is dizzying. Your mouth lets out a garbled “please” instead of articulating any of the other thoughts inside of your head. You lean forward to kiss him, feeling his nose press into yours and the coppery taste of his kiss blossoms on your tongue. Your hips thrust and chase the movements of his hand.

Your hands glide across his chest, his arms—which are surprisingly sinewy—and your fingertips catch along ridges and bumps that can only be attributed to scars. But scars from what? Before the thought can form, Bruce’s index and middle fingers plunge into your wet cunt and your spine convulses and your walls clench around his digits. The world goes muted and soft. Gotham narrows into two souls in an expensive, black car within a private garage beneath a penthouse.

You pant into Bruce’s mouth, sweat collecting on your temples, as he strokes and coaxes the fire burning low and hot in your lower belly.

Bruce says, “you’re so beautiful.” His words are quiet, bashful. And your neck prickles at the compliment. It means more coming from him than anyone else in the world. You hide your face in the crook of Bruce’s warm neck and pepper kisses along his jaw and the side of his face. The windows fog. The sound of his fingers moving slick and fast between your legs fills your eardrums. Your thighs shake.

“F-fuck.” You choke out, “close.”

“That’s it,” he whispers, “that’s my perfect girl. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm hits you slow and serene and drawn-out. Your neck arches and your chin rests on Bruce’s forehead as the quakes tremble through your body in throbs of heat and euphoria. Bruce keeps his hand there, poised within as your walls rhythmically squeeze around his fingers, and he doesn’t pull away until your head drops against his shoulder and pant onto his damp, bruised skin.

He kisses your temple. “Are you ready for me?”

“Yes.”

It’s awkward. You lift your hips and your arms tremble as you hold yourself steady. He struggles to unzip his pants. You only get a brief glance of his cock before he positions himself between your legs and motions with his other hand for you to lower yourself. You brace yourself on his shoulders and Bruce looks up, holding your eye-contact, and is unwavering as the tip of his cock slips between your folds.

His teeth bare into a snarl, “Oh, fuck.”

The blue of his eyes are nearly swallowed whole by his pupils. He moans your name like it’s being ripped from his soul. You let out a breathy chuckle, allowing yourself to close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you as Bruce sinks into you inch by inch. It feels so good you don’t want to move. You rock your hips back and forth instead of thrusting and it creates a deep and wonderful sensation that travels from your head to your toes. He fits perfect. His mouth travels hungrily across your chest and neck and jaw. His tongue licks glistening stripes of sweat from your skin. His hands knead and squeeze your ass. You feel as if Bruce is trying to melt your bodies together, consume you, and you find yourself copying his motions. You kiss him, bloodied lips and all, and drink in his low and deep groans. Your hands, even as they smear with the blood from his cut, travel across the muscled expanse of his pale chest and your fingertips occasionally dig in when he thrusts up into you. You’ve passed the threshold of your earlier desperate frenzy to touch and be touched, to feel alive and safe together.

These movements, these gestures, speak to the deep cavern of tenderness that is shared between you. Your throat tightens. Bruce’s fingertips trail along your spine and he turns his head to whisper your name into your ear.

Time doesn’t move. It melts. It shapes condensation on the windows. It pools at the dip between Bruce’s collarbones. It glistens where your bodies are joined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you cradle his face between your hands and touch sweaty forehead to sweaty forehead. Your heart is pounding. Your dress is crumpled around your hips and stuck to your skin. Your bruises pulsate with muted pain. Bruce’s dried blood peeks between your fingers. And yet you’ve never felt more at peace.

He says, “stay with me.”

“W-what?”

“Stay with me,” he repeats, unfazed by your confusion, “for a few days. Maybe a week.”

You swallow. Okay, stay calm. He’s not asking you to move in. Your smile breaks across your face and Bruce’s eyes widen at the sight of it. As if bearing witness to your joy is a privilege and not something he’s earned.

“We’re having this conversation now?”

“Silver,” he chuckles dryly and your smile widens. It’s so wonderful to hear Bruce laugh. “Someday, I’d like to ask you a question and get a straight answer.”

“I’m a journalist.” You roll your eyes, “asking follow-up questions is my forte.”

Bruce takes your hand between his and intertwines your fingers, “and you’re the best journalist Gotham has.” He meets your eyes, “so, will you stay?”

You should tell Bruce ‘no’ from time to time. It’ll be good for his pride. Today, however, is not the day.

“Yes, Bruce. I’ll stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake during the night. Bruce’s bedroom is cozily lit from the bedside table lamp and you reach across his back to shut it off. Your hand freezes in mid-air. They are scars. After you and Bruce left the garage, you meant to ask him about it, but his hands and mouth were...too distracting...and you lost all train of thought. You sit up and analyze the serpentine shape of his spine, the moles totting his skin, the curve of his shoulder blades, the cream colored sheets wrapped around his slim waist.

You resist the temptation to trail your fingers across the scars. You don’t want to wake him.

You hope that those thugs didn’t leave him with any scars. He claimed the one on his chest would heal fine. But, how does he know? He isn’t a doctor. You shift and sit upright. Your instincts flare. A gut reaction hits you like a punch to the throat. There’s blood in the water. There’s bones under the soil. A story. Another thread to pull. You carefully climb out of bed and grab a few pieces of blank paper from Bruce’s desk.

You start with today—it’s fresh in your mind.

The bracelet. Bruce didn’t notice or make comments when you first began wearing it. He didn’t ask any questions after seeing the bracelet electrocute someone into unconsciousness. Okay. A little odd, right? But there’s a few possible answers. Maybe he didn’t see it happen. Maybe he assumed you used a standard taser.

You write ‘why didn’t Batman come for me?’ on the page and stare at the letters. Batboy always has a knack for knowing when you’re in trouble. He didn’t show today. You know you aren’t his first priority. You know he’s got an entire city to look out for. But…

You write ‘Security’ on the page. Alfred told you that the Wayne home has ‘top of the line’ security. How the hell did Batman break-in without tripping any of the alarms? You’re certain that Bruce or Alfred would’ve mentioned something if they were worried about the security of the home.

You write ‘Falcone’. You sketch out the timeline out of instinct. Falcone is well-known around Gotham, but when you and Bruce reconnected, you never explicitly told him you were investigating Falcone. It was better to keep that sort of thing under wraps. It’s safer that way.

After you were released from the hospital, Bruce said something like ‘Falcone can’t hurt you’ right? You rub your hand over your jaw and frown. This is a long shot. You grab your phone and text Gordon the following message: ‘Hey, did you tell Bruce that I was drugged by Falcone?’

You scribble onto the page and let your mind wander. You doodle a little flower. And the memory hits like a freight train. Bruce’s flowers. They said ‘to my perfect girl’. Never in your time together had Bruce used that nickname. Batman, however, did. Your heart leaps inside your throat and your phone buzzes in your hand.

Gordon replies: God, kid. What are you doing awake at this hour? To answer your question, no. When I called Mr. Wayne, I informed him that you were caught in the middle of an active investigation and dosed with an unknown drug. I might have mentioned Falcone while ya’ll were together in the room, but I never directly stated that Falcone harmed or drugged you. Now get some sleep!

You reply a quick thanks and set your phone down. This is crazy. Bruce is Batman? He’s Vengeance? You press your fingertips into your tired eyes and your thoughts circle like sharks. And if he is then why didn’t he tell you? You huff and stare at your quick notes scribbled on various pieces of paper scattered on the carpet.

It isn’t so unusual, is it? He’s grossly wealthy, intelligent, and without a social life which gives him lots of free time. And you recently learned that Bruce can fight! Those scars of his aren’t from kitchen mishaps or car accidents.

“What’re you doing?” Bruce’s groggy voice lifts from the frumpy bed sheets.

Well, it’s now or never. There’s no way you’re going back to sleep with this question hanging like an anvil over your head.

“Are you Batman?”

Bruce sits up.

“Or Vengeance? Whatever you like to go by, I suppose.”

He rubs his hand down the length of his face. His shoulders are stiff. You watch as he swings his legs and clambers off the bed with clumsy grace. His boxer briefs hang low on his hips and as he stands before you in the light of his bedroom you can’t help but notice the scars on his chest.

His eyes scan the disorganized and chaotic papers on the floor. His expression is unreadable. You lay your palms on your knees and wait for his reply. Although you think his silence is answer enough.

“Silver…” He says with a minute shake of his head, “can this wait until morning?”

“No.” You deadpan, “I won’t be able to sleep without knowing.”

Bruce slowly lowers himself to sit across from you on the floor. Suddenly, you are eight years old again and having a sleep-over party at the Wayne’s. His mother is downstairs making popcorn. You both won’t stop arguing over which movie to watch. Your heart clenches. You blink away the memory. Once upon a time, you called Bruce Wayne your best friend.

He sighs.

“Bruce,” you wait until he meets your gaze and you hold it, “I want the truth.”

“I know.” He drags his fingers through his messy dark hair.

“Is that something you can give me?” You swallow the lump in your throat. If he can’t be honest, if he brushes it off or refuses to reply, then you know this relationship—hell, your rekindled friendship—is dead in the water. Even your partnership to Batman will be forced to end. He peers at you through the strands of his hair falling in front of his forehead. You wait. He can agonize over his response all he wants. The truth, as always, is the only thing that matters.

He finally says, “yes.”

“Yes as in you’re Batman? Or yes as in you can tell me the truth?”

“Both.”

You tap two fingers against your papers on the floor, “ha! Knew it.” You scoot closer to Bruce and his eyes widen.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You gaze up at the high ceiling, your brow furrowed in thought. You slept with Batman—Bruce – twice and he never thought about revealing his secret? Would he have just continued to live a secret double life while dating? Did he seriously expect that you wouldn’t figure it out someday?

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

“After today,” you chuckle, “I think I have more enemies than Batman does.”

Bruce says your name softly, “This is only the beginning for me, Silver.” His hands curl into a fist, “Gotham needs me.”

“Gotham needs me too, you dork. You said so yourself!” You smile. “None of these other freelance journalists have the courage to take down the big fish. We both are driven by our love for this city. We both take risks. If you can continue to do your job and I can continue to do mine then I don’t see any issue.”

He stares at you and his lips part in awe.

“I thought if you knew...” says Bruce quietly, “you’d leave.”

You reach out and wrap your fingers around his curled fist. “Bruce, I – well—I endured several years without you and you know what? Those years sucked.” You smile, a timid and gentle smile, and more vulnerable than you’ve ever given him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Bruce. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Bruce leans in and rests his forehead on your bare shoulder.

He murmurs, “I don’t want to be anywhere else either.”

“Then it’s settled. We stay together and fight crime and change Gotham for the better.”

Bruce lifts his head and levels you with a serious look, “you are not fighting.”

You tease, “okay, you say that now, but I’m already work-shopping costume ideas and team names.” You cup the side of his face, “The Silver Bat? Mercury and Vengeance? Batboy and Journalist Gal?” You ramble off your ideas until Bruce’s serious expression melts away and his lips twitch in a begrudging smirk.

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #happy halloween #battinson imagine #batman x reader #batman x you #dc fic #the batman fic #bruce wayne x you #battinson x you #fic: from above gotham glows #kinktober 2022

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ruinconstellation · 10 months ago

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Fic recs for The Hands of the Emperor

@rattyjol @wingedscribe @savrenim @far-sector @ariaste, and if you know an author’s tumblr handle and I haven’t yet tagged them, please do pass this along!

SPOIILERS AHEAD. Most of these contain spoilers for Artorin Damara's secret name, and some have other spoilers.

Trial by Fire by astrocryptographer. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 4,040 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR.

Cliopher sayo Mdang trials as the Sun-on-Earth’s personal secretary. Incidentally, they learn that the taboo against eye contact has lifted, and that the one against touch has not.

Refraction by astrocryptographer. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 9,249 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR.

“If each of my two natures, I told myself, could be housed in separate identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable.” -The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde In a lonely tower, a young man without a name mixes a potion out of an old alchemy book, and in the mirror Fitzroy Angursell looks back.

Hold on Forever by SunInGlory. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 16,959 words, 2/2 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR.

Kip hated the sense of desolation in the man's voice, the despair, the resignation at the foundering of the ship that was his ke'ea. No one should have to give up— “You could always stay here,” he offered. “No one would ever know.” The man’s head popped up in astonishment—and, for the first time since coming in through Saya Dorn's pantry, he looked right at Kip, directly into Kip's eyes. (in which the newly crowned Emperor keeps tumbling through to Saya Dorn’s house.)

In the Office of Friendship by astrocryptographer. Rating: General Audiences. No warnings. 3,079 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: The Imperial Household.

First Commander Omo suggested that his Radiancy retire, and that was bad enough, but then he just. Kept talking. Imperial Guardsman Elish was going to need a second vacation. If he survived this conversation.

Protocol One by astrocryptographer. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. Warning: Major Character Death. 18,836 words, 4/4 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR.

Protocol One: The Unexpected Death of the Lord Magus of Zunidh (the Last Emperor, the Lord of Rising Stars, the Sun-on-Earth, all ten thousand of his titles, his Radiancy, Cliopher’s dear friend)—how it is followed, and how it is not, and how the world somehow continues to turn.

Bloodstained Threnodies by astrocryptographer. Rating: Mature. Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. 2,113 words, 1/1 chapters. Character: HR.

The Emperor of Astandalas died so that the Empire could live. The Empire in return sustained the Emperor with blood: a perfect, vicious symmetry which stabilized the magic of five worlds. We were never certain when precisely in our reign it could be said that we died. (The Emperor is a vampire.)

Arrest by astrocryptographer, complete series, 72,212 words, 2 works. The Arrest of Cliopher Mdang, rating: Teen and Up Audiences, no warnings, 69,381 words, 13/13 chapters. Acquittal, rating: General Audiences, 2,831 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR, the Imperial Household.

When the Last Emperor and Lord Magus of Zunidh declares Cliopher an enemy of the world, a threat to peace and prosperity, a Terror to rival those of the fallen Empire, what else can he do but live up to the legends? (or: the Moon Lady sets a curse on His Radiancy, causing him to hate Cliopher in an inverse of the love he bears. How can Cliopher break the curse?)

with a winged heart by celebros. Rating: Explicit. No warnings. 33,064 words, 6/6 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR.

"Cliopher. Cliopher. Cliopher." I blink. It's Conju, standing with his hands on my shoulders, and I go to answer him and realize that I am already speaking, babbling, and Franzel is behind him, wringing his hands and looking near tears. I try to focus on what I'm saying, but it's like a stream, light and splashing past me, too quick to hold, not enough to catch, somehow, somehow – (A few weeks before the start of the viceroyship ceremonies, Kip finds himself the unwitting recipient of a truth serum.)

Inner Guard by rattyjol. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 903 words, 1/1 chapters. Character: Ludvic Omo.

His grandfather had liked to say that every piece of wood had something beautiful inside it, calm and quiescent like a wingfinger on a cold morning. It took a sharp knife and steady hands to bring it forth, but it took a carver’s eyes to show it the sun and let it fly.

Friday Keeps Coming Next by rattyjol, complete series, 44,495 words, 2 works. Friday Keeps Coming Next, rating: Teen and Up Audiences, no major warnings (temporary character death), 38,198 words, 10/10 chapters. Thursday Won't Ever End, rating: Teen and Up Audiences, no major warnings (again, temporary character death), 6,297 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR.

On Cliopher's first day as imperial secretary, breaking the taboo of eye contact causes a perpetual time loop for Cliopher and His Radiancy. What could go wrong?

The Virtue of Being True by electropeach. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 15,685 words, 3/3 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR, the Imperial Household.

"You're under an enchantment, Cliopher. The good news is that the protections his Radiancy has placed on you have shielded you; the bad news is that the protections that block the spell are also reflecting it, meaning that instead of you it affects everyone who comes near you. You may have noticed an unusual propensity for candor in your vicinity today?" (A reverse truth serum plot leads to Cliopher having a very strange day.)

The Ones We Call by Name by ketchupblood. Rating: General Audiences. No warnings. 7,222 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: the Imperial Household.

He was the Emperor, the Sun-on-Earth, and the Lord of Ten Thousand Titles. For just a moment, he let himself hope that someone might dare to call him by name. Or: his Radiancy realizes that his personal secretary and the groom of his chamber are... friends.

Dispatches from the Junior Secretariat by wingedScribe. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 62,321 words, 8/14 chapters (no cliffhangers). Relationship: the junior secretaries (Gaudy, Tully, Zaoul, Eldo, Iro, Iri), Kip & HR.

Gaudy Vawen is leaving home to follow his uncle. Eldo Vardes is doing the same to defy his father. Zaoul wants to find the answers to questions only he is asking, and Tully wants to find problems only she can sort out. They collide in Solaara, where they find the Imperial Bureaucratic Service poised to aid the greatest transition in government since the Fall. And also, where they find themselves the somewhat-captive but very intrigued peanut gallery to the lives of both Cliopher Mdang and His Radiancy the Emperor. A retelling of parts of Hands of the Emperor through the the sometimes-comprehending, often-bemused, always-intrigued eyes of Gaudy, Tully, Zaoul, and Eldo as they grow and advance in the Service.

Epithalamion by oliviacirce. Rating: Explicit. No Warnings. 10,611 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR.

"Right," Zemius said. "So—when Dora asked His Serene and Radiant Holiness the Last Emperor if the regency ceremony was a wedding, it reminded me of something, and well, Kip, I don't think you're going to want to hear this, but the thing is—it was a wedding." (in which the Viceroyship ceremony was accidentally a wedding)

a buried and a burning flame by savrenim. Rating: Mature. No warnings. 16,538 words, 1/15 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR.

Cliopher Mdang's hands were stained gold years before he came into the Emperor's service. (Or: the one where Kip went home after the Fall accompanied by Tor, a ghostly man, and returned to Solaara with golden soulmate marks on his arms.)

flies far, far home by nsmorig. Rating: General Audiences. No warnings. 5,576 words, 2/13 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR.

In Astandalas in the years before the Fall, far from home and desperately lonely, Kip makes a friend. If the Emperor can be a man without a soul then, logically, Kip can be friends with a soul without its associated man. (daemon au, albatross style)

Not a fic. A Fancy-Man and Foreign: A Case Study of Cliopher Mdang by Ariaste. Nonfiction meta, an analysis of the cultural byplay in The Hands of the Emperor. 9,909 words.

soon, they said, if not today by Ariaste. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 44,417 words, 4/4 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR.

Cliopher passes the Imperial exams on the first try. It changes everything. (In which Cliopher Mdang meets the Emperor two years after his reign begins.)

one for sorrow, two for joy by Ariaste. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No major warnings (warning: imprisonment). 35,528 words, 4/4 chapters.

The Emperors of Astandalas did not have daemons. Cliopher knew this could not, technically, be true. Thinking this thought, even in the quietest whisper in his deepest heart of hearts, was undeniably treason, but…. facts were facts: The Emperors of Astandalas, though worshipped as gods on earth, were each of them born a human being before they were apotheosized by the crown and by law and custom. Every human being had a soul; therefore, every human being had a daemon. So the Emperors of Astandalas must have had daemons. But by tradition and ritual and magic and taboo: The Emperors of Astandalas did not have daemons. (daemon au, manatura style)

hélouzithe, hélouzanth by nsmorig. Rating: Explicit. No warnings. 7,546 words, 1/1 chapters.

In court’s long sleeves, the Astandalan greeting, gripping the forearms, might not involve any actual contact of skin, and Cliopher’s hands are holding his sleeves, but Cliopher is not in court’s long sleeves, and his fingertips spread across the curve of skin before the elbow.

Works containing At the Feet of the Sun spoilers that I haven't read yet but these authors are definitely skilled:

dream only of stars and songs by electropeach, 70k words, 3 works, rating: T.

when every no turns into maybe by Ariaste, 30k words, 5/5 chapters, rating: T.

Lastly: if you have any fic recs for HOTE, please add them to this post!

#long post #op #ruinconstellation recs #fic rec list #wow i haven't done these in a long while #the hands of the emperor #nine worlds #thote fanfic #hote fanfic

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maskedemerald · 2 months ago

Text

Weaving Webs CH9

Here is chapter nine of my Invisobang fic! Enjoy the hardest chapter to write and some Danny POV!

The wonderful @pricklenettle did some fantastic art that you'll see embedded through out the first half of the fic so if you haven't seen it go check out their blog now!

You can check out the fic here or on AO3!

If you like this consider dropping us both a follow!

Warnings: Body horror, manipulation, Spectra is her own content warning, Burns, Spider - for like 2 chapters then it goes away.

The Fenton parents were there when the accident happened, they saw Danny die in an act of sabotage. Now they’re just trying to go on with the strange ghost that is all that's left of Danny. While their old college friend is wondering where the subjects of his revenge are.

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Chapter Nine

Fizzt fizzt, the old screen crackled flickering with sparks of white in the black between his fingers. He chewed on its corners. Night, like night. He frowned, eyes cast towards the window. Blocked, hide, Mom said he had to hide. There was still light escaping through the gaps. Not night yet. He was bored. Night meant stars. Not that he could see. Hiding. Sneak a peek while everyone’s eyes were closed. He grumbled a bunch of crackles as he curled around Jazz before starting up a more constant rumbling. She crackled back. Better. Leaving soon. Miss having her.

He startled, loud chime. Door. Guests. Hide even more. Mom said. Worried about him. They’d take him. Take Jazz. Then he couldn’t keep safe. Jazz untangled herself from him. He whined and flickered out of sight.

Mom got there first. Guest? Unfamiliar voice. Sharp cold that stuck in his visor. There was something in his house. Looked human. Wasn’t.

“Dr Spectra? What are you doing here?” Jazz asked. Irritated. Fake.

“Oh you must be the school counselor?” Mom started.

“I’m here to check up on your brother. A wellness check considering how you yourself are doing.” False smile. False cheer. He agreed with Jazz, she was irritating.

“He’s fine.” Jazz replied, firm. Want gone.

“What Jazz means is Danny is fine but not really well enough for visitors.” Mom was more polite, worry.

“I would like to see that for myself.” She pushed her way into the house as if she had been let in.

“I’d rather you not!” Jazz snapped. “I’m not having you talk to him like you’ve been talking to me!”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’ve been helping you. You just don’t understand that.” she waved her off. Sour, liar.

“I think I understand very well.” growled Jazz, he almost expected a flicker.

“Maybe we should get the authorities involved if you are going to refuse me?”

“Ah there’s no need for that… I’m sure we can work something out. Another time though, really Danny isn’t ready for…” Mom tried.

“It is rather neglectful to refuse letting a traumatized child talk to a therapist.”

Red, rage. Snapped thread. “Like hell you’re a therapist!” Jazz snapped.

He was angry too. Head hurt, sharp cold stuck. Building. This one had hurt Jazz. That wasn’t allowed. But he had to hide. Hold it in. He had to hold back. He growled a low crackling growl. Sharp cold slipped out. Too loud, too obvious. A sharp hiss, like boiling water. It curled in the air, too slow to fade. The threat’s eyes fixed on him. No through him. Still invisible. Still hidden.

“Oh what was that?” She stepped forward.

Jazz grabbed her arm. “Nothing, just an incense burner.”

“You really are a terrible liar.” She smirked, pulling her arm free and knocking Jazz to the ground.

Not accident. Intentional. “Oh, oh no. I am sorry. Mr and Mrs Fenton. I am concerned your daughter might be smoking. Leaving a lit one like that is such a fire hazard.”

Jazz bubbled with anger. Fear, from his family. Satisfied feeling. Not his. Someone else consuming. No, those were his. She didn’t get to do that. He didn’t even get to do that. They didn’t like it. He stopped. Safe feelings only! Not allowed. Not human. Not like family. No need to hide. Need to defend his.

Danny charged as she held out a hand to help Jazz up. False. Pretend. Would hurt her again. He lunged between them, returning to visibility with a vicious crackling. Aura expanding. Defensive, protective, angry.

“Danny” Jazz hissed.

The intruder’s face cracked with a toothy grin. Dangerous. “So this is the dirty little secret that you’ve been hiding.” A feeling of victory. “How disgusting that you keep him around like that, no better than just parading his corpse around really.”

“How dare you!” Mom snapped, her body lowered. Tense. Ready. Attack intended.

“He’s more… he’s still here. It's not disgusting.” Jazz defended.

Her eyebrows raised. “Wait? You’re ghost hunters, are you really keeping the little ghost like a pet?” crackling laughter.

“Danno’s not a pet and we… we’re not hunters, not anymore. Right Mads!” Dad said.

“Ghost scientists then.” she waved her hand. “Maybe it was intentional? You have two children, it makes sense really. Kill one and then whala you have a ghost to study. Not like you need two.”

Anger, rage. “Never.” Dad growled.

“How dare you insinuate that.” Mom reached for her. Fast. Violent. Impact… no impact.

Her fist passed through. Not human

“You! You’re a ghost! That’s why you kept it cold,” Jazz said with a sharp woosh of air, gas. Shock, bitter, anger.

“Wow, you would think the child of ghost hunters would figure that out faster,” Spectra teased unfazed as pistols were turned on her, “Oh well I suppose there’s no more need to play nice.”

She shrugged and then her skin seemed to unravel, peeling away against the licking of black flames that ignited across her body. She seemed to expand. The room darkened. Shadows blending. No, she couldn’t do that. This was his house. His space. It should bend to him not her.

“Bertrand, feel free to join the fun.” she called out.

Another intruder faded in. Shorter, shifting. Leopard. Danny growled, he’d missed the second one.

“About time. I have been so bored.” He grinned as the dark swallowed him and the rest of the room. Leaving them only what Danny’s aura could fight off. He flared. Family shivered, he hated that.

Danny growled defensively at the dark behind them, tail swishing. Hovering close to his family. Green shot over his shoulders into nebulous dark. Too dark. Not night. No stars. Dark flames flickered and reached out snatching at Jazz’s legs. Would be easier if she didn’t have those. She still needed them. He snarled, pulling her away, snapping at the black. Was it edible? Could he deal with it that way? Smelt like batteries. He wasn’t allowed batteries. He held her close, guarding. Safe.

“You really think that little monster is a good thing to have around your still living daughter.” The voice echoed out of the dark. Laughing. Smug.

“Danno’s a Fenton! He won’t hurt her! He’s a good ghost!” Dad snapped back, right. Danny wouldn’t.

“He might be harmless now but it's only a matter of time.” The green coloured leopard that was Bertrand leapt from the shadows lunging at them. “Just look at Bertrand here. Look at me even” Dad’s shots went wide as he scrambled to dodge the ghost. Red eyes hung behind Mom and clawed hands reached out. Danny lunged, snapping, unwrapping from Jazz. Shouldn’t, shouldn’t. Bad. Couldn’t be in two places.

Hands pulled back. Mom shot blindly into the dark. He curled round her defensively. Too many to protect. Too many places to be.

“Pathetic, you aren’t really that good at this whole ghost hunting thing.” Spectra taunted from the shadows. “Missing someone?”

Danny whipped round. Mom, Dad… no Jazz. Jazz was gone. Stolen. He screeched. Or tried, it came out weirdly quiet. Just the phone speaker. She’d stolen the house.

“Give her back!” Dad started blasting wildly. Danny growled and bit at the shadows with glass teeth.

“Some parents you are. Letting your daughter get taken so easily” Bertrand taunted slipping out of the shadows.

“Back off! Give her back” Dad bellowed, blasting at the ghost.

Green seared and Bertrand snarled, leaping back into the shadow at the hit.

“And miss this tasty misery? Not happening.”

Danny resisted the urge to chase. He flitted between his parents, staying close and growling like grinding gears. He wanted to save Jazz but that would mean leaving someone unprotected. If he stuck close to Mom then Dad wasn’t safe. The same in reverse. He couldn’t stay near both. Not when the two in the shadows were driving them apart with attacks.

He was knocked from the air by Bertrand’s pounce. He struggled and bit at the ghost pinning him down. The green tasted like the green he was both allowed and not allowed.

“Speaking of tasty, this ones pretty fresh. It's been a while since we’ve had a new ghost.” Bertrand sniffed.

Mom blasted him off with a well aimed shot, “stay away from him.”

Danny bolted up, darting over to her. Clinging close. His head swiveled till he found Dad. Good, no one else had been stolen while he was distracted. He couldn’t let that happen again.

They kept being pushed back, up the stairs. Shots firing. Danny hated. Hated feeling helpless. Couldn’t grab. The intruders mostly were too quick to bite. Useless. Unable to fight. Mom’s blaster beeped.

“Jack? Please tell me you left some more weapons up here?” she asked. Urgent, hopeful.

He shook his head, “not with Danno, some in the ops center I think.”

“Then we need to get there.”

Mom made a break for the upstairs. Dad followed behind blasting. Danny hated being stuck in the middle. He wanted to help. To protect. The ladder dropped.

“Trying to escape? Honestly, what kind of parents are you, abandoning your daughter?”

“We’re not!” Jack snapped.

“Jack, don’t listen to her!” Mom yelled blasting where she hung on the ladder.

“Right, right. We’ll get the weapons and then rescue Jazzy.” He clambered up and Danny clung to him defensively while it was harder for him to protect himself.

Mom slammed down the hatch after them. Danny was comforted by the static fuzz from nearby speakers and the light. He didn’t flicker that. That would scare his family. Even with that comfort he didn’t leave the hatch. Floating back and forth as Mom and Dad rummaged for weapons. Batteries. Anything. He wanted to go after Jazz. Not wait. But wait was needed.

It took far too long for Danny’s liking. He was grumbling frustratedly by the time Mom reopened the hatch. A snowstorm of static background noise filling the ops center. The bottom of the ladder was completely lost in the dark. Mom shot a few testing blasts into the dark. Nothing shifted. Nothing reacted. He whined as she started down. Shot down after her. Curling round her and casting a small light. Not safe.

Dad stepped onto the ladder. Dark shifted. Danny panicked. Wrong. Mistake. Shouldn’t have left. The ops center went dark and clawed hands pulled him back with a yelp.

“Jack!” Mom blasted into the opening hoping to hit spectra.

“Woops there goes the oaf. Bet you think you’ve got a better chance without him. How heartless.”

“Shut up.” Maddie growled.

“You can’t really not think that. He was pulling you down. Loud, obnoxious and incompetent. Everyone knows you’re far more capable.”

“We’re a team.” She defended.

“And yet alone you could just leave.”

The dark vanished, pulling back like it was peeling from the walls. There was the stairs back to the living room, clear as day. There was a silence. Danny snarled. Trick, lie. Wouldn’t leave Jazz and Dad anyway. Mom kept her weapon drawn as she approached the stairs. The way to the lab was still wrapped in shadow. Danny clung close as they approached. One left he could still protect.

“Please don’t let them have taken them through the portal.” She muttered.

Danny growled, not through. He hoped not. Portal was bad. Portal was dangerous. Portal hurt. Other side was curious but dangerous. Like stars. Interesting but not a good idea to try and touch. He curled round her as she stopped in front of the door.

She shifted trying to get out of his tangle. “Danny no, you can’t. You can’t come with me. I can’t lose you too.”

“Have to. Need to help. Keep safe.” Danny growled back with static.

“No, no. Don’t worry I’ve got this. You’ll be safe up here and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Lie, need help. Not safe here either.” He whined.

Mom nervous, anxious. Fear. Glanced around. Sigh, “Okay, fine. I can’t leave you here either. She’d just pick us off the moment we split up. Stay close… and Danny if this goes wrong leave. Get help somehow but don’t get yourself… caught.”

“Help protect.” He grumbled.

He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to help. If she could lie then so could he. He nodded. He’d help. He’d protect. He’d watch her back as best he could. He wanted a better weapon than biting though.

Danny clung close to her as she descended into the lab. His glow barely piercing the dark. Mom scanned the dark for anything distinct. He couldn’t even see the portal. Shadows clung tight, not like the small bubble they’d been given before. All a game. Just toying with them.

“Foolish.” Spectra laughed. “You could have left. You could have saved yourself and yet you walk into the lion’s den to save them. How stupid.”

Bertrand lunged out of the shadows knocking Mom down the stairs. Clattering. Painful tumble. Thump. Danny screeched and rushed at the dark. He couldn’t see her. He heard the whine and zap of Mom’s pistol.

“Useless. Should have fled while you could. You know what that means for him right?” Bertrand chuckled a growl somewhere in the dark.

“He’s so fresh, just a few months. Oh how tender he’ll be.” claws grasped at him. “And how sweet your misery will be to see it happen.”

He lashed out at the grasping hands, his hands tingling. Burning cold. There was a flash and the intruder hissed. He launched himself in the direction of the hiss. Mom shot green blasts from somewhere. He had to help her. He had to fight. He caught sight of Bertrand. Too many limbs. Half way between the leopard he had been and something with far more legs. Too many eyes and insect like. He hit something. Sticky and tangling.

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#writing #danny phantom #fan fiction #eldritch danny #full ghost danny #invisobang 2024 #good parents fentons #hazmat au #invisobang #weaving webs fic #caught in the spiders web series

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babytarttdoodoo · 1 year ago

Note

hi! I've loved all the fic's you've posted so far! could I please make a request for something where Jamie gets officially diagnosed with ADHD and the team (and Roy and Keeley) are like 'well that makes sense' and are just so supportive through the process?

This was a doozy, anon, and I hope I’ve done it justice. Sorry Keeley didn’t get a lot of screentime - it ended up being a lot more introspective.

Thanks for the prompt!

(Prompt Fill Masterpost)

—

It wasn’t like no one had ever suggested it before.

Jamie, in fact, could clearly recall those cautious, gently probing questions Simon had ventured a few months after they’d first met. He was a teacher - a genuinely brilliant one, at that - and had recognised certain behaviours in the smart-mouthed teenager he was suddenly spending an inordinate amount of time around.

Unfortunately, Jamie had been a stubborn, prideful 16-year-old with little more than vicious dismissals for his mum’s cheery new boyfriend.

Years of school report cards and conversations at parents’ evenings echoed the same things.

If Jamie could just focus…

If he really applied himself…

If he tried a bit harder…

Exasperated teachers, tutors and coaches all leaving Jamie feeling stupid and frustrated with their attempts to guide him towards being better. Towards acting normal.

He had learned to live with the fact that some things were just harder for him than they seemed to be for everyone else. He set multiple alarms and reminders on his phone for everything he could think of. He wore jewellery and clothes that he could tug or twist or pull at without drawing too much attention to himself.

He learned to hold his tongue when he was overwhelmed and irritable for reasons he couldn’t define... and tried his best to apologise when he couldn’t keep the harsh words or knee-jerk reactions under control.

He coped.

It had finally taken a suggestion from Dr Sharon, a woman who had built up such an impressive amount of Jamie’s trust in a startlingly short amount of time that he often felt like she knew him better than he did himself, before he thought about doing anything more than that.

She had referred him to a specialist. Jamie made an appointment and answered the questions as best he could. Now, weeks later, it was official. He had ADHD.

Sitting with that information was strange. Deciding what to do with it was worse.

The first person he told was his mum. Obviously. She was reassuring and supportive, like he knew she would be, and even offered to take the train down that weekend to visit. Jamie declined, but he did have another request.

“Can you tell Simon?” he managed to choke out at the end of the call. “I think he’d like to know.”

The next conversation was a bit more complicated.

In amongst the information he’d received with his letter from the clinic were recommendations for ‘workplace accommodations’ - things that could help make ADHD easier to manage in a professional environment.

Most of it was completely irrelevant. Jamie didn’t need to sit in meetings all day or focus on a computer screen - he just needed to play football and that was the one thing he’d never had any problem with. But the advice (which Dr Sharon endorsed) was to discuss options with a manager.

Problem was, his manager was now technically Roy Fucking Kent.

And Jamie had absolutely no idea how to go about saying ‘hey, apparently my brain works differently’ to him in a way that wouldn’t end in either ridicule or dismissal.

(He was aware that he was perhaps being unfair to the man who was in many ways one of his closest friends these days. But there was a long and colourful history there that shaded every new interaction between them with the potential for chaos.)

Finally, driven half demented by days of overthinking it, he printed out a copy of his letter from the clinic and tossed it more or less directly at Roy’s head while he was filling out paperwork in his office. It mercifully landed on his desk, rather than smacking him in the face.

“Well, fuck you, too.” Roy deadpanned, fixing Jamie with a half-hearted glare and making no move to open the folded paper. “What’s that?”

“You could just fucking read it.” Jamie sulked, shoving his hands deep into the pouch of his hoodie. “‘S a letter, innit? From the doctors’.”

That had Roy frowning, what Jamie recognised as concern bunching up his brow. He picked up the document and unfolded it about as aggressively as one conceivably could. Kind of impressive, actually.

Jamie pinpointed the exact moment the information sank in and averted his gaze, locking in on the one part of the desk that wasn’t covered in files or wires or photo frames.

“Right.” Not bad, as far as reactions went. In his peripherals, Jamie saw Roy nod and readjust his hold. “... thank you. For, um, letting me know.”

“Yeah, well.” Jamie shrugged, plucking at the seams inside his pocket and studiously keeping his eyes trained on the same corner of Roy’s desk. “The leaflets and that they gave me said I should tell my boss. So. Now I have.”

“Right.” Roy repeated, agreeing like that made sense. He cleared his throat. “I know fuck all about it.”

“Join the club.”

That eased some of the weird tension that had been brewing and Roy huffed a laugh.

“Fair enough. Are you alright?”

Jamie gave that due consideration and finally dragged his stare back to Roy’s face before answering. “I think so. It’s weird, being told your brain is all…” He waved a hand around. “But it’s… nice. Knowing it’s not just me.”

Roy narrowed his eyes, assessing the truth of Jamie’s words, and seemed to accept what he said. “Is it alright if I put it in your file? Nate and Beard might have some input. Higgins should know too, probably.”

“Whatever.” Jamie chewed on his lower lip, mulling the implications over. “I don’t want to have to, like, say anything about it. But, yeah, you can tell whoever.”

“That include the team?”

Jamie sucked in air through his teeth and pursed his mouth. Why that set his teeth on edge, he didn’t know. They were good lads - not always the most sensitive but they all (Jamie included) tried extremely hard to lift each other up when a difficult topic wormed its way into the safe space of their locker room.

This wasn’t Colin coming out or Sam fighting back against racist dickheads, though. It was just Jamie and his weird fucking brain.

“Dunno. I mean. Yeah. If you want.”

If Roy noticed his hesitation, he didn’t mention it.

Not a lot changed over the next few weeks. Jamie was still Jamie, after all. His quirks hadn’t disappeared overnight or become suddenly worse.

He coped. Just a bit differently.

And so did the people around him.

A few days after his talk with Roy, Jamie was confronted by a smiling Keeley bearing a colourful gift bag: a present of cool rings that had spinning bands and mini gears he could fidget with, for ‘no reason’ other than she’d been thinking of him.

He spotted Sam with a book on the bus after a match, the title confusing him until he looked it up later. And then it cropped up again and again: on the shelf of Isaac’s locker, in the passenger seat of Colin’s car, sticking out of Jan’s bag.

Higgins approached him with a quiet and pleasantly confident assurance that the club’s management would do everything in their power to ensure Jamie was granted approval to use any medications that became necessary to his wellbeing.

The coaching team gave him a (mildly offensive) signal to use when he needed a minute, either to stick in his airpods and tune out, or to shuffle down to the boot room and breathe. More often than not, Dani would be waiting for him afterwards, beaming and ready to provide physical contact or launch into a full discussion on any inane topic he could think of.

Everyone was careful not to get outwardly annoyed when he asked them to repeat themselves or if he lost track of time. They let him talk when he went on a tangent. They were quick to forgive when he interrupted them or spoke without thinking.

They were… brilliant. It was brilliant.

Jamie carried on his therapy and worked hard to manage his symptoms and learn new behaviours. Despite Higgins’ promises, he decided against trying any of the medications offered to him, too concerned about weight loss and what (to his mind) felt like an unfair advantage on the pitch.

Diet and exercise became about more than just his job, they were further tools he could use to keep in control. He felt calmer most days and when he didn’t, Roy was there with extra workouts and an open door if he just needed a safe space.

It wasn’t perfect, of course it wasn't. Jamie still fixated on it when he fucked up and acted impulsively, screwing over his team or friends. He still let people down sometimes and struggled to understand how or why. He still needed to be held accountable. Shame at not being better still occasionally reared its head.

But that was okay.

Jamie was coping. And he wasn’t alone.

#self-projection? in MY fanfic? it's more likely than you think #fic prompts #my fic #jamie tartt #roy kent #ted lasso #afc richmond

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sanddusted-wisteria · 3 months ago

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An update on my fics

hey wow it's been 4 months

Nearly six months on both longfics lmao. I've been busy and will continue to be busy, unfortunately. Grad school is a different beast entirely to undergrad (be careful taking 3 grad classes in a semester. 2 heavy ones can really make you regret it), I need to prepare for job interviews and PhD program applications, and this summer I've been wrangling an internship and research work.

Even so tho, my MTAS brainrot is far from dead. It takes a lot of time and effort, but I still have a lot I want to do with the My Time verse and my OCs, both art and fic. So here's a quick update on where I am and what the plan is with my fics and fic series going forward, and some previews of what I have so far (on a separate post bc this one's already too long lmao)!

TL;DR: busy, but still writing! WIP snippets on the next post.

[Long post and rambling belowwwwww]

Earth and Sky

Currently my primary focus. E&S has evolved a TON since I decided to rewrite it. How much? Well...

[Drafting = first draft is in progress; Revising = draft is plot-complete, set aside for future editing passes]

In fact, I haven't even outlined the ending chapters since I recently had a change of heart in the kind of resolution I wanted. I got stuck on it enough that I decided to forego outlining anything for now and playing that one more by ear. I think any more time I spend tweaking these outlines might put me off this fic altogether :P

As someone that started writing with nameless/generic builders, writing for an OC is a different kind of challenge. I'm working to try and strike a good balance of focus on Wis vs Qi vs them together, and making Wis a very human, if not enjoyable character. Still, I think that this is one of those projects that if I can get right, it will be VERY right. It'll just take a bit to get there first :>

At minimum, I'll wait until most if not all of the chapters in the first third/quarter are done (chapters 1-16) to start posting, though hopefully I'll also have a solid idea for how some of the later chapters will go as well. Those are the really (internal) conflict-heavy chapters and I want to make sure it won't come out as shallow :P But I am excited to show you what I've got cooking!

A Cosmic Garden

This is the broader series for Wis and Qi. E&S will be the biggest fic, but it only goes up to a little beyond MTAS's Act 2. Beyond that, my plan is to write some side stories that go into Wis's Lore(tm), namely her origins as an Old World clone and her interactions with other Wis clones around the Alliance.

Why side stories? Well, a) any plot involving Wis as a clone is relatively spread out across the timeline of MTAS's story, since it's actually not that closely tied to her "main" storyline (being the first clone I made when the clone story was just kind of just a bullet point on their lore descriptions, it's less involved), b) it therefore doesn't really affect the story of how she and Qi get together, and c) I know that people might be far more interested in just the romance story with Qi (which is totally okay! I understand, I'm pretty much in the same camp with OC-centric stories a lot :P)

As for the equivalent of MTAS's Act 3, this won't be one cohesive fic, but a small series of smaller stories, since I don't really have too many ideas for a fully fleshed out telling of Act 3 that doesn't just walk through the main missions without much deviating from that. Some of those stories include:

A series of conversations between Qi and Miguel post Act 2

A Nia/Mi-an story

A silly little oneshot of Qi and Rosie interacting (tentative)

The original idea that Strangeness and Charm sprouted from; Wis and Qi conducting a methodical study on non-sexual intimacy (tentative)

The finale of the MTAS main story

A Builder, a Researcher, and a Rooftop

Currently on pause. For now, there's just too much OC brainrot for fics and on OTAS that I just need to get out. Don't worry! I'm absolutely not abandoning this one. I just can only really focus on one big project at a time lol. We're close to the end of this story's act 2, though not much of the remainder is written. In fact, chapter 34 is already done, but not chapter 33, so I can't quite post it yet. I think after I get the first part of E&S done (or I suppose whenever I feel like picking it up), I'll switch gears to at least get to the end of Act 2. Act 3 will need some reevaluation...I've hemmed and hawed over it forever, but I do want to finalize the plot for that one, and also potentially get started on that as well.

Others

To the...5 people that read my Grace/Wis miniseries, I really do still want to get that done a;sdlasdralsdrkj It's been hard since my thoughts on how Grace and Wis interact after Act 2 have changed a lot. But even so, I hate to leave it hanging there, so I've started working on it again. It's already outlined, I just need to get it filled in.

Someday I should come back to Quiet Moments in Sandrock... My art's gotten a ton better since then and there's a few ideas I still have leftover that I never got to. Unfortunately I need to make room for it somewhere in the 13438525 other art ideas I have that I can only do like 1 per week at MOST asdlrkasdasdrjksdrj

Sitting on the back burner forever in my writing folder is a fusion of Junji Ito's Uzumaki and MTAS... An MTAS version of Uzumaki's story works SURPRISINGLY well, and Wis and Qi I think make for stronger protagonists in this setting than Kirie and Shuichi in theirs if I do say so myself lol. It's fully outlined and everything, but that's gonna forever be on the back burner until either my longfics get done or I figure out how to write horror, whichever comes first 😂

So all in all...still cooking! Thank you if you read all this, and thank you for your patience, especially if you've been closely following any of my in progress fics. Hopefully once the interview and application cycle is out of the way this fall, I'll have more brain capacity to really plug away at all these and share with you all! :>

#long post #shady's fics

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futureplayboibunnie · 2 years ago

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‘The Last Time’

Dr Strange x fem!reader

- i’m back with another hurt smut fic that i’ve been a slut for recently, i think i just like being dramatic tbh. but this one is loosely based on the song call out my name by the weeknd bc lord that mans discography is toxic and nasty and this fic is lowkey all that horny brainrot. anyways enjoy ily x

- HE’S DAMN FINE LEAVE ME ALOOONE

Stephen was hurting in a way that was ineffable, too difficult to describe the particularities of what he felt, it was all too much to comprehend at once. As always he internalised it, more angry about it than sad if he was being completely honest. He helped you out of a broken place, he eased your peace of mind, he held you close when it felt like the weight of the world was on your shoulders and the roughness of night made sleep seem pointless. Stephen was the one that was there, no one else. You found each other and sometimes it seemed fated but other times it just felt like it was two people who needed solace, two people who just wanted to feel wanted.

To say you both felt wanted in it was an understatement, he showed you what true desire was like, what was like to be worshipped. But it just couldn't work. Stephen was bitter and arrogant, you were stubborn and unrelenting. It didn't make for a good relationship but it made for the most potent, unmatching and sinful sex. The kind that made you call out his name, aching for just that little bit more. The pining. The knowing it was bad but still continuing to do it anyway. It was the definition of insanity, doing this over and over and expecting a different result, but Stephen would prefer that over nothing.

He swore you off, he never wanted to see you again...but how could he hate someone he's loved for so long? Although, he thought that you certainly didn't feel the same because you were with someone else. You wanted someone else. Stephen was just a pit stop and you simply just wasted his time. He'd grown a poisonous resentment for the both of you, even though he loved you and wanted your midnights and uneasy mind, he despised you for wanting someone else, he despised the idea of someone else wanting you; watching you, feeling you, fucking you.

It was irrational, insane- you were maddening him in ways he'd never thought were possible and he hated you all the more for it, filling the void with every man you met because you were upset with him.

But you weren't his anymore. Or so he thought before he found at the door of the Sanctum at an hour deemed unadmissable. Stephen had been ignoring everything between you, keeping himself occupied through his duties for as long as he could but damn, you just standing there is the most incredible thing his eyes have ever seen. Now what kind of pathetic would that make him?

It reminded him of when he first saw you.

When he first saw you, he broke. You broke him, and nothing had been the same ever since. He just wanted to let you know that it was all real to him, every touch, every word. Stephen could tell you that, you were right in front of him but he wouldn't out of pure spite-eyes sad and bleary, yet retaining that wild firey nature he'd always loved. He didn't know what you wanted and he was nervous to find out.

His shadowy figure emerged from the depths of night when he creaked open the door, your breath halted and the relentless humming of your heart along with it. It felt like you hadn't seen him in years, your palm was twitching and your fingers were restless. This was bad, it just reinforced eveything you knew to be true. You just needed to see him- you knew you belonged to him, it was an eternal battle between your good moral judgement, what your heart was begging for and your body. Your body was stiffening under his dark gaze, those dark and sensual eyes that could convince you in one look to do what he wanted. With one look, you knew what he wanted and your body's reaction was foreign and natural all at once. So damn confusing, but isn't it what made it fun?

Isn't it what made it hurt? You frowned at the thought

You had to tell him the thing you've been dreading. Stephen would be hurt, you would be hurt but you had to rip the bandaid off. You needed to think about your future happiness, even if it didn't include him.

Without uttering a single word, he opened the door fully to let you in from the cold. Stephen committed your scent to memory and it was a welcome feeling to be wrapped up in it again. But he knew he didn't have long to keep you here.

He could fuck you one last time, hear those final screams of his name before you abandoned him forevermore but he doubted it. Stephen scowled at himself for pushing his luck.

‘’I needed to tell you something.’’ You said seriously as you twirled around and flung your bag to the floor,

Stephen closed the door and gave you a confused look- stoic as always but you knew that exterior would shatter once you told him what you needed to.

‘’Then tell it.’’ He said softly, reassuring when he locked eyes with you. You wore yourself tensely, eyebrows knitting together the longer he looked at you.

You sat with the silence. It was radio. You took the time to just drink him in one more time because you were sure it was going to be the last. The thought made you bite your lip and the telltale signs of tears beginning to form told you everything, but you sucked them back. Stephen was growing more anxious with every moment that passed but as per usual he would never let anyone see that, the air was thick with anticipation and he was cracking under the pressure.

‘’He asked me to marry him.’’

You kept it simple and short; heart aching with every word that came out of your mouth and the fact you were saying it meant that it was real, it only just registered to you fully and it made a deep void form in your chest. Your voice was hushed and cracked when you said it.

‘’And I said yes.’’ You finally admitted with a breath, eyes darting away from his face as a means to avoid your own hurt, you didn't care if it was selfish you just couldn't picture his reaction let alone view it in real time. Stephen had to surpress his mouth opening in surprise, he thought it through all wrong, his heart was shattering in his hands and he couldn't pick up the pieces without slitting his fingers even more when he reached for them. All he could see was you- you being happy with someone else, you without him, but right now you looked...sad.

Just plain, simple sadness.

‘’He's good to me.’’ You stared down at the floor and raised your eyebrow as if you were finding an excuse, breath calmed as you regained your cool and collected nature. ‘'I feel like I can be happy with him.’’

To avoid himself lashing out or breaking down, he just stared at you…you deserved to be happy, even if it wasn't with him.

‘’Can you say something? Please?’’ Your eyes were filling up with tears as you exhaled sharply. Stephen's silence was killing you in ways you couldn't even fathom, eyes wide and begging for just about anything to fall out of his lips- you didn't even care at this point you just wanted to hear his voice again.

Stephen's tongue forgot how to function, every single vein in him felt like it was rubbing together like sandpaper- itching with uncertainty and pain, he didn't want to take the high and mighty road but he had to, he had to do it for you because he loved you.

Your happiness was something that couldn't be replaced and Stephen realised that it was more important than his heart and ego being bruised. His true feelings were unpalatable but he swallowed them down, he was at your mercy and just like the first time he saw you.. you broke him...again. But this time he shattered.

You sauntered forward to be near and blink up at him, hoping for a reaction, an insult- anything. He said nothing.

‘’Please.’’ You begged again with guileless eyes and Stephen's vast blue eyes bore into yours, obviously not giving anything away in the process. Your arms held onto his biceps as if to anchor him back to reality, to make him wake up from his daze. To make him fight for you- that's all you ever wanted.

Fuck this. Fuck it all. If he didn't want to say anything, fine. So be it. At least you had given him the grace of telling him to his face than finding out by his lonesome.

‘’You know what? Don't say anything, just know that it was all real. Everything. I'm not going to stand here and watch you be vacant.’’ You huffed as you grabbed your bag and headed for the door out of the maddening atmosphere, it was thick with judgement and dread but fire tinged within you when you swiftly made your way passed him and he grabbed your arm and and pushed you against the door.

Stephen grabbed your face harshly and kissed you with a fervour you had never experienced before, a brutal kiss- as if to say goodbye.

His lips were as intoxicating as you remember and it made a stray tear fall out of your eye when he ripped his lips away from yours to gawk at those beautiful, tear stricken eyes. Your face contorted into an angry, yet pleading frown.

‘’Can you just stop being so goddamn noble for once? Tell me this is stupid, tell me not to do it, just tell me-!’’ Your voice was pained before he cut you off with another searing kiss, you didn't want to get married but you didn't want to experience hurt the way you did with Stephen either, the worst hurt- you were stuck and everything felt impossible. He held onto you impossibly tight, his hands cradling your face as his thumbs smoothed away the tears leaking down your face.

‘’Listen to me, you deserve to be happy. I couldn't give you that and if you're happy with him then I can't stop you from marrying him. Do what you have to do...but I'm a jealous man and I will never stop loving you, I always have and I always will and I'll be angry about it but all I know is that you deserve to be happy. I would wait for you for as long as I have to, just don't leave me alone tonight.’’ Stephen finally said the bittersweet words and it was paradoxical rolling off his tongue. Your mouth opened to form words but you simply couldn't say anything and what sent you even further to the edge was that his thumb brushed over your lips, it made you heave softly as you shivered into his touch. ‘'Please.’’

‘’I love you.’’ You said hastily , eyelashes fluttering. The words falling from your mouth and you couldn't even attempt feigning them back in.

Stephen didn't let a single second pass after those words came out, his lips instantly collided with yours- to say it was desperate was an incredibly vast understatement. It was as if it was the last kiss you would ever share, the atmosphere was dampening with guilt and sin but you were too high off his taste to care. Lord you fucking missed him. The look in your eyes was scorching. Wanton. Unwavering. Stephen knew it was wrong but his morals were always grey anyway. He wanted to sink his fingers into your glowing skin as he got you naked under him again, he was aching for this specific moment for so long.

Desperation clouded the air as he intertwined his fingers with yours and pulled you from the door and back through the foyer and up to his room, lips still like magnets- unable to be pulled apart.

With every pace, your heart beat was thundering. You were devious for being ungrateful but Stephen's faithless love was the only hoax you believed in. One last time. One final time until you part ways- for good. Let it be sweet, let it be heady and impulsive. Let this time be soul enamouring. You were begging for it at this point.

When he finally got you in the room you had christened many times before, you were sure you had never felt Stephen's tongue wrestle with yours like this; he kicked the door closed and the pinch of your waist was delectable. Holy.

‘’Let me make love to you.’’ Stephen breathed between brutal kisses. ‘’Let me make you feel pretty. Feel worshipped.’’ He strung out and your mouth was going dry with every word he uttered, it was as if he could read your mind. But it was your body he memorised like a map.

He was getting you naked already, discarding each layer of clothing until he got you in your underwear- he pushed you roughly down on his antique of a bed and your whole body recoiled as your legs dangled off the side of the bed.

‘'Do what you want to me.’’ You whispered as you perched yourself up on your elbows, Stephen found hospice between your legs as he stood before you, glaring down at you only to be met with desperate doe eyes.

‘’No. Stop it.’’ He grunted softly as a means to tame your threat. His mind was running rampant with those words and his fingers were itching to feel at you but he showed restraint by discarding his shirt instead.

‘'Do. What you want. To me.’' Your voice was stern, certain. A fucking goddess, a woman beyond space and time.

‘’Don’t say that. I won’t be able to hold back’’

Stephen gawked down at you through creased brows, he could cry out and weep with how unattainably gorgeous you looked right now. You had every man at your mercy, including the man that was once deemed untouchable. Your eyes were a window into the soul he wanted to live in, analyse, piece apart and understand- but he wouldn't have the chance, that was someone elses pleasure. This was the last time.

It was good enough for now.

You whined in a savourable satsifaction as his body dominated against yours, fawning over your frame to nestle himself between those sweet and soft thighs. You couldn't forget Stephen's figure no matter how hard you tried, those shoulders, , that chest, those biceps...those hands that had the ability to extract so much pleasure out of you it was almost metaphysical. You could weep at the delectable feel of his body on yours. Stephen's hands roamed the expanse of your skin, watching your face intently as it contorted into different scenes of pleasure. His fingers clamped around your neck and he loved your reaction, he wanted to have it etched on his tombstone.

‘’You and I always end up like this, don't we?’’ Stephen quirked an eyebrow and breathed into your skin, you weren't sure if he was teasing or being deadly serious.

‘’Uh huh.’’ You nodded furiously as he kissed between the valley of your tits. His free hand finally rid you of your underwear, the elastic burned but it was incomparible to the way he was making your insides burn with that intense gaze of his. Your fingers rushed to get his pants off and to your satisfaction you got your way. Unrelenting. Unstoppable.

‘’Fuck I missed this.’’ Stephen groaned as his eyes clamped closed momentarily, as if to savour the pure feel of it all. ‘’I missed this type of desperation.’’

You were about to explode. You needed him inside you so bad, you insides were swirling into a cyclone and it was spiralling out of control. Stephen entered you with a splendour that was unbelievable, you were so wet, so ready for him and only for him; you melded into him perfectly. You cried out. With abandon. With ecstacy. Desperate to cling onto this final moment before the inevitable departure. Your eyes never once broke connection with his, the intimacy was clandestine but it made the atmosphere that much more provocative and seductive.

He pulled out of you then slammed his way back into you. This was what he wanted and you were happy to oblige- you met his thrusts and it made a strangled cry tip from your lips. Stephen swallowed your moans in its entirety, his fingers still on your neck- he knew you liked being fucked in this way. The only way he knew how. Possessive and jealous.

'’Call out my name, baby.’' Stephen demanded and you were more than willing to comply to his every instruction. ‘’Scream my name for me.’’ He just needed to hear it out of your sweet mouth one last time.

‘’Stephen!’’ You let out with a strangled cry, eyes sprinkled in a wicked and desperate gleam.

'Again.' He said gruffly.

‘’Stephen!’’ You whimpered like a pathetic slut and that's when you felt yourself come undone on his cock- you were greedy and full of sin, not holding back as you gushed onto him, taking all you wanted, taking all you can. A voracious counterpart to him.

"You're going to unman me.’’ Stephen gritted through clenched teeth, staring deeply into those eyes he knew himself to constantly get lost in. He was a lovesick fool...but he kissed you like a god. He kissed you and tugged your bottom lip back and it snapped back into place, the moan you let out was enough to send him to the immediate precipice. He came into you and relished the final feeling before he had to sadly pull out and be dragged back to reality along with it. He stilled once he finished, imploring you with sad, stern eyes.

He just wanted to stay inside you forever. He would never have it.

You were both panting into each others air, nose sliding against noses, casted into a spell in which you couldn't find a loophole from.

It was going to be the death of him. But then he remembered. The thoughts of the words said before making love to you flooding back, sadness stained his face and you only echoed it.

Stephen wanted to ask if you loved your soon to be husband, he knew he could be so pious as to ruin the moment just for clarity but part of him just needed to know, no matter how much it hurt. Anguish grasped at his heart at the idea...so he didn't say anything. He just revelled in those last moments with you, where you were laying on his chest and he was smoothing your hair- clinging onto each other for the warmth you both had the lack of if not for these moments.

In another universe, it wouldn't be fleeting. In another universe, it wouldn't be the last time and only the beginning. But for now, it was the end of the greatest and almost poetic chapter of his life.

#dr stephen strange #dr strange angst #dr strange fluff #dr strange x fem!reader #dr strange x y/n #stephen strange smut #dr strange smut #stephen strange

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royaltrios · 4 months ago

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here's some notes on my recent chsc: what you're missing

-since i published as needed as last year's snow in january, i've been busy trying to graduate and not had any time to read or write or even really think about genshin. then i visited our chsc server friends for a few days beginning of june and i came back and haven't stopped writing since

-on the drive up me and taho spent most of the two hours yapping about chsc, and it was lovely but also extremely extremely strange for me to hear someone praise my writing irl. im genuinely just stumbling through word documents like a bow-legged fawn so

-starting back up with writing this summer i started working things out on physical paper in a notebook. its actually been really fun/feels different than notes app/sticky note-ing it. i still did use sticky notes for puzzling out intricacies of the smut tho (and then proceeded to pretty much use none of it) i'll attach a pic of my notes here for fun even though its slightly horrifying to do

-like most of my fics ive had this one waiting in the wings for a while, basic premise though was just 'chsc first time happens after scara backhands childe in front of people and childe gets very horny about that'. wrote it over about two weeks, fight scene fucked me up until i just locked in and wrote all of it at once at 2am. spent a while rearranging the smut then sent it to pachi to beta, forced myself not to look at it during those days, got it back and made isolated edits and was too embarrassed to read the smut i wrote 2 weeks ago again so i just posted it. hope its ok

-i always always always have trouble with scara during harbinger era. its because im a chronic overexplainer/overjustifier for characters getting together. for his actions during that time i lean on the little tiny bit we ever saw of it and that's mostly abrasiveness... but you gotta pull on how wanderer acts/ his backstory a bit too to like really see where hes coming from at that point in the story. halfway thru writing i realized he wouldnt act the way i was imagining him acting, had to fix that, then had to tweak the rest of the fic

-basically; i think childe would accept that he has a thing for scaramouche without too much thought. he's into mean people who're older than him + match his freak. he goes towards what makes him feel good. scara on the other hand i think... he immediately justifies the pull he feels as 'childe's stupid enough that i can use him'/'he worships me without being told'. this is a guilty pleasure for both of them until they realize its not (which is what i hoped to set up by beginning it with their abyss connections-- they're alike from the very beginning and they're both being used in different ways) <- i talked to pachi some in the middle of writing and it helped me puzzle out what chsc would be feelin a bit more. ty dr pachi phd in childe characterization

-had to have like multiple tabs open of bible's rgg pwp fics as emotional support. i filtered fics tagged 'cunniligus' in my bookmarks more than once. i was floundering. 90% of what i write or consider writing is E rated but i don't actually get much fulfillment out of describing smut. however i kind of tried really hard here bc i know thats what 99% of people are reading this for and even though i hate when i have to write the words scaramouche and clit directly next to each other i ended up pretty proud of the smut here.

random favorite bit:

“Well, it—” Childe's hips buck up into Scaramouche's fist. With a strained expression across his face and in a tone that sounds a little too genuine, he says, “feels kinda... different, since it's you." It's as bold-faced and earnest as anything else he's heard Childe say. But it's a sort of confirmation that Scaramouche was hoping to avoid—whilst simultaneously enjoying dancing around it. Stupid to give him this much leeway, this much permission, and not expect the guy who does everything else with the ruthlessness and loyalty of a hunting dog not to extend that to this.

i liked this bc i felt like i managed to nail down scara realizing he might've bit off more than he can chew without disrupting the smut. and childe + dog metaphor + shaky earnest confessions + L + ratio

-my penchant for having characters write letters in fic returns (almost as bad as my thing with inserting flashbacks in the middle of stuff) (i like first person but i dont like it in fic so this is the only way i can do it)

-looped teenage dirtbag (title + captured how i was trying to play childe here) (friend told me recently the singer of wheatus went to hs around where we grew up?), against the kitchen floor by will wood (taho's doing), some high energy 2000s stuff while revising the fight scene, my age gap oriented pl + will stetsons rabbit hole cover during the smut

i'll leave whoever reads this with a teenage dirtbag induced write-up i did to try and work out why i ended up liking the title i chose so much:

what you're missing-- what you're letting pass you by. what you don't have by not looking at me, what you'll want back in the future. what you don't have by not having me. what you've been trying to find, to grasp. what you didn't know you were missing.

#fic tag #fic notes #srry for copying u and posting writing notes mango

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skylerskyhigh · 2 years ago

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What ninpo powers would 2012 turtles get?

(Yes this is inspired by a song shush)

So I've been wondering about what kind of powers the 2012 team would get. It needs to be tied to their personalities so I'm gonna yeet this out there for you all to chew on. I might use it for the sequels.

Leonardo would probably be something tied to Speed and Energy. Basically, he's Sonic lol. He has shown to be very spiritual, and he has the "healing hands". He's also shown to be very fast, more than normal. If he has ninpo powers, it would expand on those two things. He can run faster than anyone, almost being a blur. He can also channel and expand energy, which I think he would use to heal or boost others.

Raphael would probably be similar to Rise!Raph. I think he would have Energy Constructs and Kinetic/Energy Rebound. Raph has been shown to be the fighter, and while he does defend his brothers, I think having the ability to produce slashes of pure energy to attack from afar would fit him.

For Energy Constructs, think of Shadow's "chaos bolts" or like Undyne or Chara from Glitchtale.

Probably not as big but you get the gist.

As for the Energy Rebound, I think it would look like Black Panther's suit where, any attacks he takes would be turned into energy that he can store and release in his next attack. It would be pretty effective for someone like Raph, who hits hard and is relentless.

Donatello is a bit of a tricky one. I don't want to make his Ninpo the same as Rise!Donnie. Cool, but there needs to be differences. So I've decided to make his powers be like... I don't have a name but Donnie would be able to take it pieces of garbage/scrap/items, just anything around him, and turn it into something new.

With his knowledge of engineering and chemistry, he can take, let's say, the scraps from a car, take it apart with his ninpo, and combine it all to make a new blaster. While he can't make stuff out of thin air, he can still make stuff. Maybe in the future he can change the molecular structure to do some amazing stuff. Why not add something about energy too. Maybe Technokenisis? He can transfer part of his ninpo into technology to either understand how it works, or control/take over it.

It's like Lego Movie logic plus Magneto's powers. Maybe Sombra from Overwatch.

Michelangelo is tricker. What would fit this wild card of a character? I thought about it for a bit and thought, why not? Let's make him able to bend reality, Dr Strange style.

Mikey can manipulate reality for a short amount of time, changing the environment to fit his endlessly creative mind. Turning the battlefield into his playing ground. His boundless energy would also transfer into his fighting, increasing his physical abilities.

Well! That's my take on what the 2012 Turtles possible ninpo powers! I might use it for my own fics but we shall see.

#2012 tmnt #tmnt 2012 #tmnt leo 2012 #2012 raph #2012 donatello #2012 mikey

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theficdealer · 4 months ago

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While Peter, MJ, and Ned are saying their goodbyes as Dr. Strange is completing his spell, a final rift opens up right in front of them. To their shock, they are hit by a small, green meteor that immediately sucks them into a vortex.

Unable to control their wild ride through history, the vortex collapses, violently expelling them into the unknown. The trio finds themselves in New York City, 2009 and learn their original future is gone.

Choosing to change this new reality for the better, they turn to an unlikely ally - Jarvis, Tony Stark's highly advanced AI assistant. Peter, MJ, Ned and their artificial allies must confront not just the threats of this altered present, but the rippling consequences their actions could have across the multiverse itself.

In an epic adventure that spans realities and timelines, this unlikely squad of heroes must embrace their second chance and rewrite the future, navigating a universe of infinite possibilities where every choice they make massively impacts the world as they know it.

—Summary of Spider-Man: Time to Go Home by Kythara on ao3

Is it just me or have the time travel fix-it fics been awesome lately, because I’m following like seven fantastic ones right now and t h r i v i n g.

I’m not sure I’ve ever read a fic that was so simultaneously conscious of character’s strengths and weaknesses and toed the line of making people brilliant but not infallible so well.

Peter, Ned, and MJ, for example, while geniuses, are still portrayed as teenagers in possibly the most reasonable way they could have been. They each have unique strengths and weaknesses that balance out well and give them each something unique to bring to the table, which makes them feel more even ground than the way they’re generally portrayed as Peter’s sidekick and long suffering girlfriend.

Tony, also, is a complex character with his faults and hang-ups, but can buckle down and focus when he needs to, and even if he doesn’t like something, is able to put aside those hang-ups and do what’s right.

Pepper too, actually. This fic, like with MJ, Ned, and Peter, puts her and Tony on much more equal footing than I see most of the time (though I am, admittedly, in and out of this fandom) and has her making her own decisions for SI that don’t necessarily go through Tony first, which, while it theoretically happens, isn’t often shown (in my experience) and generally if it is, it generally doesn’t include her perspective. To the same effect, Happy and Rhodey aren’t treated as accessories, but their own people.

Things I loved in Particular:

Ned learning magic!

MJ’s focus on the environment and how she goes about laying the groundwork for large scale, multi-faceted discussion on the topic (bamf shit, honestly)

Jarvis Plotting

TrioWeb0rs<3

The entire Stark Expo section

Rhodey’s meeting with the higher ups

Wong<3

The resolution of the Hulk Situation

Nick Fury having three (3) people he can trust and absolutely hating that one of them is Tony Goddamn Stark

Sassy The Slightly Unhinged But Very Fabulous Magical Sash which took one look at Ned and was like “that one’s mine now”

The application of the web formula the author came up with is actually fucking genius i love it

Ross’s sentence<3

General Blackwell<3

Isabella<3

Peter’s exploration of various martial arts

Just generally the sheer amount of research that must be going into this fic

Go read it or lose the toes<3

#spiderman #ao3 fanfic #fic rec #this is great #time travel fix it #yes i have a type and that type is well thought out time travel fics #come to think of it #how many have i already recced on this account?#at least three now #ive only posted like 12 times #peter parker #ned leeds #michelle jones #pepper potts #tony stark #jarvis #uhhh #mayne i’ll add more later #tired

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free-for-all-fics · 6 months ago

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Here we are at the final part! I hope you’ve enjoyed this fic. Part 7/7 💜📸📝

“Go out to the car, Jim. You needn’t wait for me.”

“We’ve got no place special to go. It’s just the house. We’ve both been there many times before.”

“Just the house I grew up in. Just the house that’s the venue for my parents’ wedding…again.”

“All right. In that case, we’ll have to rush.”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Don’t tell me you’re going to the wedding with that beard.”

“Well, there’s a Tibetan tribe that considers a clean shaven face a mark of disrespect.”

“Well you’re not in Tibet. You need a shave.”

“What, again, darling? Oh, never mind.”

“You can borrow my razor. It’s up in the top drawer.”

You imagine yourself lying amongst rustling grass, up on the hillside above the bay. Those embryonic oaks lay upon the grass, their browns a gift to the eyes. You could watch them a while, those acorns, let that moment of bliss extend as much as the light is spreading over the horizon...but the path wends onwards and there is much journeying ahead. It is the day after the rain, you can smell the green on the breeze. The skies are blue, now, with only wisps of cloud. The bell of a cow clanks nearby, as she rips and chews at the grass. You close your eyes and listen to the world. You wander over the face of the earth, the illustrious and the obscure, earning beyond the seas your fame, your money, or only a crust of bread. Your trip from the Californian countryside to the bustling city of Charles Street was eventful, to say the least. Now that you’re here, you’re not entirely sure you should have come.

You can hear Dr. Jaquith’s voice in your head, telling you to just remember that honoring one’s parents is still a pretty good idea, that you’re gonna be a shock to her. He advised you to soften the blow. Give her time to get used to you. Remember that whatever she may have done, she’s your mother. You didn’t want to give her a shock. You won’t, but you don’t know that. Suppose your mother doesn’t come up to scratch, and turns out to be pure undifferentiated female grievance-nursing, grasping, selfish, without imagination, not at all contrite like your father described her to be in his letter to you? But in some ways things have worked out better than expected. Your family will (hopefully) be happy to see you. You can hear Dr. Jaquith’s voice in your head telling you to remember that every cloud has a silver lining. You look out the car window from the passenger side while Jim drives, your luggage sitting in the backseat. Your surroundings become all too familiar, and you know you’ll be arriving at the house in less than fifteen minutes. Putting your arm through Jim’s, you cling to him for the rest of the car ride, indeed, as to a support in a world grown suddenly difficult and strange. The car soon pulls up the driveway and approaches the house. Jim puts the car in park and steps out to open your door for you and hand you down.

“Oh. Oh no, it’s raining. Oh, we’ll catch our death.”

“Better death than gossip. You will enter that drawing room with your head held high.”

You take his hand and step out. Jim opens the backseat and hands your luggage to you before grabbing his own. Soles moving upon such solid ground, the walkers make bold progress. With your shoe soles upon the walkway, you and Jim have come as your vulnerable selves as you step up to the front door. You’ve come back to New York quite as you might have come to a strange town. You had made almost no effort to see anyone on your way here, except the gentlemen at the bank who were directly concerned in your affairs. It seems to you that going home must be like going to render an account. You’ve returned to face your superiors, your kindred, your friends—and you guess the last part of the trip is your mother and those like her—those whom you obey, and those whom you love; but even people like Jim, who have neither, the most free, lonely, irresponsible and bereft of ties,—even those for whom home holds no dear face, no familiar voice, —even they have to meet the spirit that dwells within the land, under its sky, in its air, in its valleys, and on its rises, in its fields, in its waters and its trees—a mute friend, judge, and inspirer. Your anxiety for your parents had been an absorbing matter. You had thought about calling at the house twice to let them know you and Jim were coming, but still feared that doing so would be a dismal experience. You thought about calling the Lemp girls, but worried that you’d been away for too long. You hadn’t contacted them since you wrote them a letter telling them of your most recent trip to California. That was four or five months ago.

December 1939

Dear Lemp Family,

Jim and I are back in California. The first time was to visit friends and see Jim’s hometown of San Francisco. But you’ll never guess why we’re here for the second time or who we’re visiting in California— Alexander Hollenius, your “favorite” composer! He’s renting a lavish apartment in Los Angeles (between you and me, I think it’s a bit too much, but it matches up with his personality, I guess) and, after hearing about my booming art career, including my successful art exhibitions in India and seeing Jim’s work as a journalist, he called to invite us both up here. Actually, he didn’t really invite me - He invited Jim, and Jim invited me. When Hollenius recognized my maiden name and realized who my father was, he allowed me to come along. I sold a painting to him, and I hope the money will carry Jim and I to wherever we’re going next. I just hope this isn’t another one of his silly attempts to grab publicity. Some people can be a little too rich and a little too famous for their own good. According to Alex, he’s getting death threats, but he won’t go to the police—so he wants Jim and I to do some investigation work. Nothing too deep or dangerous, just enough to spark public interest in his upcoming concert since he’s finally finished the concerto he was working on since last winter. As if there isn’t enough attention on him already! How can I imagine anyone not liking Alexander Hollenius, a man who is an egomaniac and believes himself to be God’s gift to music? A paranoiac, a perfectionist to the point of acting as dictator during rehearsals. Have we abolished dictators in politics to find them cropping up in music? I’ve had enough of dictators. A power complex, that’s what it is. The insolence of a megalomaniac. Setting my sarcasm aside for a moment, I have a sneaking suspicion there’s more to this than meets the eye. Something else is at work. Ulterior motives? Foul play? I’m not sure. I’ll call you later to tell you more.

Your friend and neighbor,

Mrs. Masters

They’re all wives and mothers now, busy with their own lives, and you imagine they’d be rather reluctant to take up an old friendship where it had been dropped. Jim observes closely to determine your standing in the town. So far as he can tell, no one seems to sense you’re anything but a shy and reserved young woman whose tastes keep her away from home during her leisure time. It would have been pleasant, you think, to have talked with the Lemp girls in person about nature, love, travel, and such things. But there’s no time to urge and pursue friendships that don’t seem to be welcome. You sigh again. You somehow regret that you can’t be grieved about the Lemps. You know that it’s not the fault of the town that you feel yourself so much a stranger. Your own detachment follows certainly on an attitude of your own, and your isolation, outside of your actual work, is greater than Kay’s when she was living in a shack near her husband’s lab for his scientific research. And now here you are, coming home to meet your fate. But you aren’t alone. Jim is with you.

“How do you feel, my dear?”

“Honestly, Jim, not that great.”

“Well, would you feel better if you called me Jimmy?”

You smile, thinking back to when you first met. “No, Jim.”

“Good.”

Your head is high, and your spirit up in arms. You ring the doorbell. No turning back now. Once more into the lions’ den you go.

Soames is the first to greet you when he opens the door.

“Hello, Soames.”

He stares at you in silent disbelief.

“Yes, Soames. It’s me.”

“Welcome back, Miss Skeffington.”

“Actually, it’s Mrs. Masters now. But thank you. This is my husband. You remember Jim, don’t you, Soames?”

“Of course. Your mother’s getting ready upstairs in her room.”

“And my father? My sister?”

“Your sister is upstairs with your mother and Manby. Everyone else is gathered in the library. There’s tea in there, if you’d like a cup.”

“Thank you. We’ll go see them first before heading upstairs to Mother. Tell Manby to keep her occupied just for a while longer, and don’t tell her I’m here yet. I’d like to keep it a surprise for now.”

“Of course, Miss Skeff— I mean, Mrs. Masters.”

Jim stops when he sees Clinton.

“Jim, are you coming? I know Dad is eager to meet you. You can leave our luggage with Clinton and he’ll take care of it for us.”

“Coming, dearest.” Jim hands his luggage to Clinton and nods to him. “Hello, Clinton.”

Clinton doesn’t say anything, but gives Jim a formal nod. Jim follows you to the library, smiling after you.

The library was one of the few places frequented by your father. He must have read almost every book in that place, living a thousand lives on paper, traveling around the world in eighty days and through the looking glass. But you? You were an intuitive, with no mind for business. You dare say you never touched a single book in your father’s study or the library that didn’t have pictures. Mathematics, science, linguistics—all the things that fascinated your scholarly father bored you to tears. He really loved those dusty old tomes, didn’t he? You never read many books, just listened to your father and Uncle George’s war stories. They made you want to go out on an adventure of your own. Were they enough, you wondered? Your father’s books, did they make him feel alive? You preferred reading the American landscape as you went along. Every bump, rise, and stretch in it mystified your longing.

Fanny was your perfect mother. In the foyer she was the finest socialite you’d ever seen. She was spoiled, a renowned beauty with many admirers and suitors. She put everyone at ease, drew them into loving her and wanting her to love them. She got everything she wanted as a woman, everything she needed. It had often been said, she was easy on the eye but the moment she showed you a slice of her personality, you'd feel for the first time, something of magic was walking on this earth. She had the sweetest, most handsomest company, taking over their minds for a song while they grinned and hung on her words. but she loved it. It was a thrill for her to turn them over while they gushed about what a great woman she was. She did the same to her lovers and boy toys; no-one was indispensable to her and everyone in her life fulfilled a purpose. In the twenty years you knew her, you never saw a genuine emotion other than greed. Whenever you saw her, you thought: I wonder which face she sees when she looks into the mirror.

But in a strange way, you pitied her more than her “victims”. Other people were simply pawns to her. Your mother lived in a world where the funeral mattered more than the dead, the wedding more than love and the physical rather than the intellect. Where she lived, people hated each other with a lovely smile. She lived in the container culture, which despised the content. You couldn’t think of yourself boxed up and examined with wide-awake affection and sympathy, because you weren’t being lulled into absent-mindedness by her circle’s unceasing and curiously monotonous flow of eloquence.

You were more at home in your father’s world. People like Mr. Molloy did not trap you with innocent questions to make fun of you; even Father was not highly critical unless you said something stupid. Ladies seemed to live in faint horror of men, seemed unwilling to approve wholeheartedly of them. But you liked them. There was something about them, no matter how much they cussed and drank and gambled and chewed; no matter how undelectable they were, there was something about them that you instinctively liked…they weren’t—

“Hypocrites, Mrs. Blye, born hypocrites,” you remember Mrs. Rutherford saying.

In the library sits Johnny Mitchell, your Uncle George, and your father. Whatever conversation they were having stops immediately once you enter the room. Johnny and Uncle George stand up to greet you and shake hands with Jim. Of course, they both remember him. And Jim remembers them too. They’re very glad to see you here and congratulate you on your marriage.

Your father, on the other hand, doesn’t move from his seat. “Is it my daughter?”

You find his lack of movement odd, and his question even more so. ‘Is it my daughter?’ For a moment you can’t speak. The others, every one of them, had at least recognized you, even if with evident shock, but here is your father, white-haired and shriveled, sitting under the lamp at the other end of the long room, not recognizing you at all. His eyes, except when gazing at you and they became wet with pride, had been as keen as a hawk’s. Now they’re hidden in the dim light, and you can’t tell, though his head is turned towards you, whether he’s looking at you or not. But he must be looking at you; he can’t help it, with his head turned that way towards your voice.

“You don’t—know me?” you ask, swallowing. Maybe he’s disappointed in me, you think, he doesn't know I never gave up looking for him, never gave up hope he’d return.

He says slowly, after another silence, “The voice is my daughter’s.”

And you snap inside, snap like brittle glass and feel the shards tearing at your guts. You can’t speak, the blood leaves your face and you grip at Jim’s suit lapels. He stops, watching you break right before his eyes. Your voice. Nothing left of you now, for your father, but a voice. Your father begins getting up, but his movements are deliberately slow. Is he afraid that you, too, will run away and leave him, as your mother’s suitors did when she grew old? He seems to have difficulty in getting up. He fumbles, feeling his way along the arm of the chair with the hand that isn’t holding the cane. When your father steps from the shadows you understand why he didn’t want to explain to you what had happened to him in writing. Why he spoke to you from darkness. Though his voice is the same, had you seen him first you would have denied it was him. Your father’s face comes from the shadows, craggy features suspended between grief and joy. In the split second that he is illuminated by the flickering lamp your face falls from elation to horror and then to a controlled visage of concern.

The man that comes into the light looks like an aged version of himself. At first his eyes are cast to the dusty earthen floor and then he seems to suddenly realize he is at his destination, at your rendezvous. He lifts his head. His face has the same structure as you remember, high cheekbones and symmetrical. He has the same deep brown eyes and tanned skin. He’s still slender despite his years, toned and not at all stooped. Around his eyes are laughter lines in just the right amount. You suppose that he’s often happy, but at this moment he’s deadly serious. In his hand he clasps a large envelope and your heart skips a beat. Photographs perhaps, possibly of Mother and your babyhood.

Seconds pass, your brain taking him in, struggling to comprehend that he isn’t one of the pictures you keep beside your bed, that he is real. Your brain can’t formulate a thought, at least not one based in any language. You knew if he was whole you’d be running forwards at this point, throwing yourself into his arms but you can’t. Not just yet. But you know that if you don’t touch him soon your atoms will tear themselves apart. He steals your breath and the heat from your skin. But when he trips on the rug, and the cane is jerked out of his grasp, suddenly your defenses are just paper, paper that is being soaked by the rapidly falling, briny drops of your tears. How the ground between you was erased you’ll never recall, but one moment you are apart and the next you are morphed into a single being. He would have fallen if it hadn’t been for your and Uncle George’s quick reflexes pulling him back into the chair. Instinct is too much for you and you fly to him, holding out your hands. He takes no notice of them—you, his daughter, holding out your hands to him, and he taking no notice of them,—while his face, upward turned to yours, has the same queer, blank, listening look you had noticed when he heard the door open. Something in it, now that you can see it up close, something invisible but felt, freezes you.

“Daddy,” you whisper, as if you’re a little girl again, hardly able to breathe, “you’re not—they didn’t—you can’t be—“ But the word won’t come out, and he says it for you.

“Yes,” he says, bowing his head, speaking very gently, as if anxious to avoid the smallest appearance of complaint, or even of criticism. “Blind.”

“Not the—?” But terror comes into the room, into the quiet, safe, Charles Street room, at the bare approach of the word you were going to say if he hadn’t stopped you.

“Hush, hush—” he whispers in quick panic, showing his first real sign of life, fearfully turning his head, as if to see if anyone is hiding behind his chair, his body suddenly going tense, instinctively getting ready to be hurt.

Your father is being broken up into a sort of frightened animal. How can one live, while such things are going on? How can one endure consciousness, except by giving oneself up wholly and forever to helping, and comforting, and at last, at last, perhaps healing? You stare down at him, struck to stone by the terrible implications of his movement. This, then, is life, beneath the smiles. Before you can draw in the air your body needs you have melted into his form. You can feel his firm torso and the heart that beats within. His hands are folded around your back, drawing you in closer. You can feel your body shake, crying for the missed time you will never make back, crying to release the tension of these nearly four long years. He says nothing. He’s listening intently, but not to you. His head is turned towards the door, while you, overwhelmed by an agonizing pity, hold him to you, protecting him, daring anyone to harm him, incoherently whispering words of love and reassurance. There’s a noise coming from in front of you, quite an ordinary, everyday little noise, a noise you wouldn’t even have noticed, but it’s enough to make your father start and clutch the sides of the chair; and this second movement, again appalling in its implications, brings you to your knees.

Flooded by a passionate tenderness, you kneel down and gather him to your heart. “No, no,” you assure him, holding him close, almost rocking him, as though your roles have been reversed and he’s the baby and you’re the parent, “they shan’t—they never, never shall again—you’re safe—you’ve come home— You see it’s only Jim,” you anxiously assure your poor father, just as if he is a frightened child being coaxed to believe that there is nothing to be afraid of.

“Yes, sir. And very glad to finally meet you, sir,” says Jim, taking one shocked glance. "I hope you are—” He was going to say keeping well, but how can a poor gentleman be keeping well who is so old, such a skeleton, and, worst of all afflictions, blind? Even on his wedding day?

Then you move close enough to touch, and you can see his eyes are the same, still that vulnerable man from the meadows of your youth. One of his hands clasps around your lower back, while the other hand raises silently and touches your hair, running his hand through it and stroking it, as if he can’t quite believe you’re not part of an almost forgotten dream. It’s clean, but you wish you’d washed it today so that he could at least enjoy the fragrance of your shampoo and conditioner, both of which are faded now. Had you known… But he doesn’t seem to mind. Even without his sight, he knows it’s you. The warmth of his body meets your cold skin, giving you hope like he always did before the war. With each soft touch more tears fall, tears neither of you wipe away at first, too caught up in your emotional reunion. When he kisses you on the forehead and your cheeks, it’s sweet, gentle, and it tastes of your tears.

You feel like a little girl again, being dropped off at Cascade for the first time. You want to speak but all you can do is croak, “Don't go, not again.”

His face stays blank but something shifts in his posture. “I’m sorry, darling. I won’t go. I’m here, and here is where I’ll stay. I promise.” He pulls his head back. His mouth paints a soft smile and he nods once and wipes your and his tears away with a calloused thumb before folding you in his arms again. Even this roughness brings more relief than your heart can hold. After so many years you have the chance to make new memories and wasting time isn’t on the agenda.

Just before you exit the library to see your mother, your Uncle George stops you and Jim at the door, his voice low so Job won’t hear. “It’s all right, darling. Now, no matter how old your mother becomes, your father will always see her as young and beautiful. Jim, would you care to join us in the kitchen for a drink? It might be good to have something stronger than tea while we wait.”

Jim grins knowingly. “I have just the thing.”

Meanwhile, your mother smiles, lifting her eyebrows— but only half a smile, because really George, and Soames, and the house generally, are behaving too mysteriously for comfort. If it’s more money George wants for his charities, so soon after what she gave him a month ago, that might explain his embarrassment; but it doesn’t explain why Soames looks as if he’s seeing ghosts, nor why the house is hushed in a kind of alarmed expectancy. Fanny is extremely sensitive to atmospheres. She hasn’t felt this particular atmosphere in Charles Street since she cast back her mind through the years, and found, to her great surprise, that she hadn’t felt it since the time when Job was last here, before he left for Europe and took you and Fanny with him. There’s a knock on the door. Not thinking much of it, Fanny bids whoever is on the other side to enter on the second knock. Who’s that? She glances up and, through the mirror’s reflection, sees you standing just inside the doorway, not moving. Your mother, in her distant chair, doesn’t move. An old woman, with hands folded nearly in her lap. She’s quick to turn around and face you. Are you really here or are you another hallucination? She has to be sure. With Manby’s assistance, she stands up and slowly walks towards you, holding out a hand. She steps forwards, keen that you shouldn’t go. You stand still and let her approach. She takes her sweet time, but you don’t rush her. You don’t say or do anything. Whether it’s because you don’t want to startle her or she doesn’t want to startle herself is unclear. Maybe it’s both. She reaches for your shoulder, and her hand makes contact with your flesh and the fabric of your clothes. Solid. Warm. She squeezes your shoulder, can feel it rise and fall as you take slow and steady breaths. When you were a hallucination, she couldn’t touch you. She’d pass right through you whenever she tried. To be able to touch you and feel the warmth of your skin, your breath, must mean that—

“You’re real. You’re really here. My darling daughter.”

“The very same, Mother. And a bit miffed I am, too, finding myself forced to expose my best pair of boots to so many miles of country road on your behalf.”

“What—? I don’t believe it!” Yet once she knows you’re there, those eyes light up behind the drooping eyelids. “Why didn’t you say to expect you? Why didn’t you let us know you were coming? Why didn’t you write?”

Unbeknownst to your mother, you tried to draft a letter to her. Many times. Ever since your father’s letter came. But each one ended up crumpled in a ball and thrown into the waste bin. You wasted so many pieces of paper, not because you couldn’t find the words, (you and Jim are talented storytellers. Jim is a journalist, for crying out loud. You could find the words as easily as breathing), but because you didn’t want to write home in advance and say yes or accept the invitation to your parents’ wedding prematurely, afraid you’d end up making a promise you couldn’t keep. Your mind wasn’t susceptible to changing at the drop of a hat, but you and Jim were both so busy with work that you were worried something else would suddenly come up at the last minute and interfere with your availability and it’d be out of your and/or Jim’s control. You needed to confront your mother in person, without the usual RSVP or two weeks’ notice. You kept your last draft of your letter to her but, instead of mailing it, you stuffed it into one of your notebooks. Even now, you’re unsure if you should give it to her to read. You’re here, so maybe her reading your letter would be redundant.

May 1940

Mother,

Knowing how you probably feel about me marrying Jim, I can almost picture you staring at this letter as it lay on the table in front of you. This is why I also wrote to dear Fanny, knowing that she could easily convey the sum of this letter to you verbally, if only to get you to open this and read it for yourself. I sit here now, writing you about how I forgive and love you despite what you have done to me over those last few months I spent at home. You only wanted what was best for me, and for me to be happy. Well, I am most certainly happy now with Jim, who has provided me with every bit of love, tenderness, comfort, and joy I could ever want. Despite all of the hardships we have faced, we are very much in love. We show it in every kiss, caress, and look we give one another. I give him all of my heart, for I know I already have his. Neither of us could ask for anything more than that.

I am lucky with Jim. He has managed to pass fifty without going doolally, getting depressed, splashed by nerve poison, changing his nature, trusting demented therapists, chasing after little girls as some men do, forgetting to zip up his flies, dribbling his food, champing false teeth, shuffling in slippers, quarreling with neighbors, cursing his enemies, or shaking his fist Lear-like at the skies. All the things — Gloria was quite right — that men tend to do as they get older. Older men are better companions; they are seasoned lovers, they know the world, they know themselves. Unlike younger men, they hold their emotions in balance. They are more interesting. They have read more, seen more. They are warmer, kinder, less boastful, more tolerant, less violent. They could choose a wine based on which tasted the best rather than just blindly picking the most expensive bottle to impress people. The only drawback to marrying late in life—otherwise, I considered, so wholly admirable a thing for a man to do—was that by the time one’s children were grown up one would be too old to be of much, if any, use to them. Of the age of grandfathers, not fathers, one would be; or even of great-grandfathers. When his daughter, Buff, who was also his youngest child, came of age, he himself, was in his forties, at an age that had completely freed him from temptation to be or do anything else. It’s fortunate that I don’t and never will want children, because, as much as Jim loved and still loves his daughters in his own way, he wasn’t cut out to be a father. He just realized this truth too late.

Mother, I know you doubted Jim’s wealth, but know this: We’ve traveled throughout the American, European, and African continents and still have plenty left over to keep on traveling. We’re mindful to save for a rainy day or stormy night. I know what you’re thinking, but Uncle Fred only gave us money once, and we didn’t ask for it. If you really know how he is, you know he has a generous heart and is just as stubborn as I am. He can’t take no for an answer, (remember what he did for Fanny and I’s eighth birthday?) especially when it comes to wanting to help the people he cares about. Though Jim’s wealth will never amass to Sir John’s, he is more than capable of providing for the both of us, even without any of my money. Unlike Trippy and myself, his brain is wired similar to Father’s. He’s very smart and conscious about how our money is spent and saved. He manages it because he knows how much I struggle with numbers and mathematics, but he doesn’t lie to me or keep me in the dark about how it’s spent or where it’s being saved. We have equal access to and control over it. We’re frugal when we need to be, but neither of us mind. Our way of life isn’t rich or grand, but it’s comfortable. We’re comfortable. Jim is a wealthy man in his own right, as well as a good one, and I am sorry that you could not look beyond his past marital status and his apparently empty pocketbook to see the great man and genius that he truly is. Jim is a brave man. There are many different kinds of bravery. There’s the bravery of thinking of others before oneself. Now, Jim has never brandished a sword nor fired a pistol at another human being, thank heavens. But he’s made many sacrifices for his family...and put away many dreams. Where did he put them, you ask? He put them in a drawer. And sometimes, late at night, he takes them out and admires them. But it gets harder and harder to close the drawer. And that is why he is brave.

However, I have not written to chide or lecture you. Instead, I have important news. Jim and I are coming to your wedding, and afterwards we’re going to renew our own vows while we’re in the States. For a long time, we didn’t think we wanted to marry. We were happy just being together. Though we didn’t have rings or a signed piece of paper, in so many ways, we felt as if we’d been husband and wife for years already. We didn’t need a piece of paper and a pair of rings to keep us together. We both thought: What difference would it make? We didn’t need it, but we wanted it. It came down to whether or not he loved me, and whether or not I loved him. That was it. The rest was just detail. And I do love him. So very, very much. And I know he loves me in a way he thought he’d never love again. So we’ll be all right in the end. We’re due a lecture on the sanctity of marriage, but Fanny wouldn’t dare. I have a feeling that if anyone will lecture us, it’ll be you. I am sorry that I could not tell you this sooner, but I cannot help but feel that you have not yet forgiven me for my actions. I know this decision may very well possibly mean I’m disowned from the family, but I went through with it regardless. Just as you have always known I would never marry a pauper, I have known for years that I should be part of the Masters family. I do not wish to be loved for my family any more than Sir John Talbot wishes to be loved for his $40,000 a year. Therefore, I will return to see you so I can be sure of your feelings towards my marriage to Jim and to our very different way of life.

You might be pleased to know that Jim and I have decided to stop giving you the runaround and have found a way to have something of a permanent address. We’ve rented an apartment and are on an annual lease. You may send any and all messages through the landlady, Mrs. Hall. She has a list of the addresses where we will be staying during our long trip and will either forward them to us or, if the post is too unpredictable where we are and your letter is at high risk of getting lost, keep them safe for us until we return. There is nothing I want more than for you to correspond with or even visit us. I hope to hear from you soon.

Love,

Your daughter

“Because I wasn’t sure until I got on the train. I didn’t call, Mother, because I knew you would be there and Manby or Soames or Clinton would pass the phone to you, and I couldn’t do it if they did. I had to see you in person.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Can you not ask me that for the rest of the day?”

“Fine is good but you need some blue skies every now and then. Manby, could you leave us for a moment?” Fanny sits back on her heels, and looks up at you through wet eyelashes. Her face is the face of grief itself, but the grief shines through with hope and resolve.

No need for help here, Manby thinks, suddenly aglow with pride; her lady is going to do the right thing, and she’s more beautiful to Manby at this moment than she had ever been in the days of her glory.

“You don’t have to go, Fanny.”

“Believe me, I’ve been part of this relationship for quite long enough. It’s for you to manage from here.”

“Jim is waiting in the kitchen with Dad, Johnny, and Uncle George, Fanny. I’m sure they’d enjoy your company also.”

“That’s it. I’ll join the men in the kitchen and leave you to it. We’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

Just before your sister leaves, you grab her by the arm gently to stop her. After all the tears, hugs, laughs, and advice she had given you in your relationship, you want - no - need her honest opinion. After all, had you and she not been so close, you probably wouldn’t have confided in her in the first place. You won’t blame her if she admits that she almost wishes you hadn’t told her anything at this point. But you need to know. “Fanny, you must tell me the truth as a sister, which is a relation stronger than marriage. Do you mind at all?”

“Oh. Oh, no. I was surprised. Mind you, I had it on good authority that you would never be a wife, and now you’ve gone and gotten married. No, I don’t mind. I was never like you, making plans about the great things I’d do. I never saw myself as anything much. Not a great artist like you.”

“Oh, Fanny, I’m not a great artist.”

“But you will be. We’ll talk later, but I’m very happy for you.”

“Just as I am happy for you. Can you believe it? Both of us married. Both of us happy. And maybe someday there’ll be a baby on the way to make me an aunt in the future.”

You share a warm smile and kiss each other’s cheeks before Fanny goes downstairs to join the others, leaving you and your mother alone.

So this is the temple of beauty. Undoubtedly, this house was the epicenter of social life in New York once upon a time. Time remained at rest. For a moment, you have the feeling that guests will suddenly start arriving. How still the room is. A curious quiet seems settling on it, now that only she and you are here—like dust falling softly on ancient, finished things. For a few moments more you gaze at each other, without speaking. But it’s not awkward or suffocating like it used to be. It’s comfortable. You know by the way she’s pressing her hands together—a trick familiar to you whenever she’s in difficulties, that she is absorbed in what she is trying to say. You don’t press her. Instead you take this time to look at the woman in front of you, really look at her. An old woman, so entirely unlike the Fanny you remembered that your wrath all dies away. How could anybody be angry with a pitiful stranger? Could this really be your mother? Your mother who kept her hair curled and her figure trim. Your mother who used to work so hard to hide her wrinkles. Your mother whose bathroom would be a dazzling display of every remedy on the market, all of them in fancy small bottles, perfumed and delicate. You’d be up early, voice blaring. Your mother would be upstairs, “putting her eyebrows on,” as she used to say. Then she’d shush you and you’d complain of her reducing your rights to freedom of expression, only to hear her stock response, “I’m not seeking to reduce your rights, love, just your volume.”

You wonder if a part of her wishes she had put on the makeup she’d been saving for your father’s return. The makeup she has since discarded. She has followed Dr. Jaquith’s advice and has stopped all that. You wouldn’t have believed Dr. Jaquith when he wrote to tell you about your mother’s change in daily routine and beauty regimens if you weren’t seeing it now with your own eyes. So your mother has come to realize that Dr. Jaquith had been right. He wasn’t being insulting when he told her that quiet nights were very important for women her age. He was being considerate. And your mother has not only heeded his advice, but taken it to heart after all. She doesn’t seem to mind the tired eyes. Now she lets the creases deepen and magnify unimpeded, but she looks well-rested. When you saw her last, never having had cause in her life to be afraid of personal remarks, she took what the children said as so many compliments, except that she rather wished they would keep off her hair. She was sensitive about her hair since her illness, and not quite sure whether Henri had got the color right. He said it was exactly the original color; but if it was, it didn’t seem to go quite so well with her face as it used to. Certainly if it made children think of the yellow crocuses on the lawn, Henri had got it seriously wrong. She said she would see him about it the first thing. Now, she still wears false hair, but it’s done in a color and style that suits her much better. Though gray hair would be most becoming to her. She isn’t an eyesore anymore.

She enjoys quiet nights at home with your father and plays bridge with Uncle George whenever he comes over, preferring to spend time with people she loves and who love her, instead of throwing extravagant parties for the sake of keeping up appearances, surrounded by superficial people that couldn’t care less about her. It’s like she woke up one morning and just decided to get old. Perhaps fighting it was just too hard. While you’ve been traveling the world with Jim, the map of wrinkles on her face tells of the most incredible journey. Her eye lines tell of laughter, of warm smiles and affection. Her forehead tells of worries past and worries present. But mostly they’re so deeply engrained they tell of a woman who has traveled through five decades to that moment; to stand here as an old woman, no longer beaten and forlorn, but glowing with radiance that only a happy bride can have. So this is Fanny, you’re thinking, while feeling as if you’re looking into a picture. This is what she’s really like, must always have been like, beneath the wonder of her beauty. How easily her lovers and admirers dismissed her as “old” when she’s so much more than the sum of her parts. All this sudden radiant sympathy and eagerness to do kind things—is it, then, nothing but the effect of perfect health, and perfect contentment with her lot? Is it possible?

And as she looks at you, Fanny is thinking, Job had given me precise coaching on what to say, and I had dutifully rehearsed it. Unfortunately, when the time came to actually utter the words, as I was instructed to, so as to build up the anticipation for her grand entrance, my jaw dropped instead. She’s hating me. I’ve shocked her beyond recovery unless I do something quickly. I must hurriedly explain. George, Fanny, Job…everyone has worked so hard for us to be close again, and I can’t risk blowing it as soon as she’s come home for the first time after being absent for so long. I can’t let her go. I can’t lose my daughter. Even if she had been misjudging me, I can’t lose her. Not again. I won’t survive it a second time. I already lost my parents, Trippy, and, for a very long time, Job. She is one of the few family members I have left. I can’t lose her too. I shall have to tell her why I behaved so badly. One humiliation more or less doesn’t really matter. I’d rather she know what a fool I am than think me hateful and hard.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Mother, the last time I saw you, you all but threw me out for saying I loved Jim. Now Father’s whistled and I’m here, but I don’t know why.”

“I was amazed you came at his call.”

“His letter was very eloquent. I was quite persuaded.”

My darling daughter,

I have come home and I’m going to stay for good. George, who clearly saw Fanny’s treatment of me cruel and spiteful, was the one who pursued her to reconcile with me. Though you may not recognize this handwriting as my own, know that every word you are about to read comes from me, your father, and no one else. I can no longer write to you myself, so I have asked Miss Cartwright to transcribe what I’m dictating to her, but believe me when I say every word in this letter is my own and that your mother hasn’t put me up to this. As I sit down in my study to dictate what I want to say to you, your mother is downstairs in the parlor with Dr. Jaquith and won’t be done for an hour, or maybe two. She doesn’t know anything about this. The reason I haven’t been able to let you or Fanny, my darling daughters, know that I’ve come back sooner than now is because… Well, when you see me, you’ll understand. Something unexpected but not unwelcome has happened. The fact is, darling, your Uncle George found me in Battersea Park. He was walking across it, and I was on a bench seat, sunning myself. Me, Job Skeffington, sunning myself. Me, Job Skeffington, having leisure to sit and sun myself. Me, Job Skeffington, wanting to sun myself. This indeed was strange, that I, a man of offices, of board meetings, of a thousand irons in the fire, of power, importance, and ceaseless activities, should want to sit and sun myself. It was very unlike me, and I’m sure you would agree, but George found me much altered… An apathetic figure on the seat in Battersea Park, rousing only at a sudden noise or movement behind me; that patient, unarguing listener to George’s impetuous proposals; that obedient follower wherever he led, even if it were into Fanny’s own house; could such a positive emotion as love still be expected of me? And agonizing love, too. “Poor Skeffington”, your Uncle George must’ve thought when he found me. “He had had enough of every sort of agonizing. Miserable, of course, for poor Job to have to be broken up, but at least his misery wasn’t going to last.”

I didn’t see him. But he saw me, really saw me, not in the way your mother had been seeing me. (Yes, she told me all about the hallucinations that plagued her in my absence. Figments of me staying in the room the whole time while she undressed, and insisted on kneeling down and putting her slippers on for her, and actually kissing her feet. Dreadful for her, to have a figment kissing her feet. And she’s been experiencing them again. That’s why she’s called on Dr. Jaquith to help her. She sent a telegram for him to catch the next train, and he just arrived here around tea time), but since George is of the same blood as herself, when he took the plunge and told her he had seen me, Fanny thought perhaps he was seeing things too which weren’t really there. Nobody she knew had ever seen me since the divorce. I had disappeared. Gone abroad. Gone, the rumor went, to Mexico, and stayed there. But that’s not the truth. I’m not in Germany or Mexico anymore. I’m here in New York. I had been in a concentration camp. You’d hardly recognize me, darling. George had the greatest difficulty getting me to talk, getting anything out of me. But bit by bit… I told him that I had first begun losing money in Mexico, where I got mixed up in politics, and revolutions, and God knew what, and when things got too hot for me there I had come back to Europe, and gone to Vienna and started again, and with my usual skill had managed to get richer than ever when the Nazis walked in. Vienna wasn’t exactly a healthy place for a Jew, and I was soon in serious trouble—

For a moment you didn’t seem able to read on, seemed to be staring, with incredulous horror in your eyes, at something you could hardly credit. Shriveled, you were thinking. The man you saw so often in your mind’s eye was just as you remembered him after the divorce, when you and Fanny left him behind in Berlin to return to your mother in New York at his urging. An agile, sinewy, small man in the very prime of life. You tried hard to imagine the change. There must, you knew, be a change, but it gave you a curious stab that your father, too, should have had to submit to one. That live-wire, that over-rider of any and every obstacle, now sitting shriveled on a seat in Battersea Park, doing nothing. One more of your past role models and heroes gone to pieces, one more of them tamed into an old, tired man. And this time it was your father.

—such serious trouble that I was lucky to get away with bare life, if bare life could be called lucky. I was a broken man. They took everything away from me. I haven’t got a cent. Stranded. On the rocks, if ever a man was. How cruel, how utterly beastly what the Nazis did to me. People forget how vulnerable they are despite their shirts and shoes and briefcases, how this hungry and cruel world could strip them, put them in the same position as the beggars. Circumstance makes hypocrites of us all. But that’s a conversation for another time, one better suited for when we are face-to-face. I don’t wish to spend the bulk of this letter lingering over it. Instead, I wish to talk about you.

My darling daughter, it is my honor to be your father. I know you believed otherwise for many years, but you’re not a mistake. You were never a mistake. You’re a miracle, a God sent miracle. Before you and your sister were born, I had no family at all. Before I met your mother, I hadn’t expected to ever marry, to ever be a father. The night your mother and I consummated our marriage was the first and last time we ever shared a bed. Your mother believed in the importance of keeping to her marriage vows, but after one night, she considered her marital duties to be fulfilled. On my proposing to join her in her bedroom, she had vehemently assured me she would never, never be my bed partner again. We ended up in separate rooms and separate beds rather quickly after our honeymoon and were never again intimate, which must have seemed odd even in 1915. Chances of her becoming pregnant were incredibly slim. Within a year of our marriage, your mother and I were both surprised, but I was very happy to learn I was going to be a father… And then we were surprised again when you and your sister came.

After I got that phone call from the hospital telling me I had not one, but two healthy baby girls, my world changed, filled with love for you, my precious daughters. You and your sister made up for a lot of things. I was glad you were girls. I could go on kissing you and Fanny for the rest of my life. With a boy? After a while I’d have to shake hands. From the day you were born, I treated you like princesses. I gave you everything, in part because I knew I wouldn’t have any more children, but I did my best not to spoil either of you too much. I vowed that I would maintain the delicate balance between authority and sympathy. I can’t say it was always easy to do, especially as you both entered your teenage years and I could hear my mother’s voice in my head telling me things like, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight!”

Preserving her youthful appearance was an important influence in your mother’s avoidance of any future pregnancies. “Children are the curse of a woman, for when they come, they drive away Beauty, which is the best gift of the gods,” she had once said. If she hadn’t had children, maybe she’d be planning her summer vacation with her friends instead of going to live with your Uncle George in California. She didn’t want anyone to see her all “puffy and ugly”. Everyone else was out enjoying life, and she just wanted to do the same, even after having her daughters.

While your mother had big dreams for you once you blossomed into womanhood, I had big dreams for you from the moment I knew you were growing in your mother’s womb. I wanted a wild, brave child. I wanted that for you. I wanted you to grow into a strong woman with a penchant for exploring, so, even unconsciously, I’d pushed my wanderlust onto you. And you have grown to become the daughter I’ve always dreamed of. Beautiful, smart, and fair. But I hadn’t wanted this. I hadn’t wanted you to wander away from safety during the most dangerous war in over a hundred years. When you were very young, it was for me to defend you, to care for you, to help you mature into who you were born to be - not a small version of myself or your mother, but your own self. When you were first learning to walk and you were still unsteady on your feet, you often would stumble and fall, landing on the ground with a small thud and a quiet huff. You never cried; only scrunched up your face in frustration, before pushing and pulling yourself back onto your feet. A determined little girl, just like your mother. Just like me. It was our God given duty to protect you from harm, but it was never for me or your mother to toughen you up. That was her mistake. Over time I taught you, my smallest daughter, that you were beautiful inside, but your mother tried to teach you never to sacrifice your outer beauty or “toughen up”. Result? You learned how to be a “good hypocrite”. Dr. Jaquith is helping to show your mother that it was for us to find a healthy way for you to express who you really are.

We never really talked about what happened between your mother and I. But now, I need to tell you a few things before your marriage separates us forever. We had just been married and were on a cruise ship, surrounded by other married couples. The way the wives were looking at their husbands, you couldn’t miss it. Fanny pretended to know what I meant, thought that it was the way she was looking at me. But… No. Her look was cordial, not connubial. I married her, but I hadn’t won her. No. So far, I’d merely taken her away from the others. That night I broke into her party... Do you think that was the first time I’d seen her? No. I’d seen her many times before that. Dining at Sherry’s. Dancing at the Waldorf. She never noticed me. When I saw her the night I came to see Trippy...she looked very beautiful. Very unattainable. That’s why I commissioned Vanyi to paint her portrait. At least, I’d have that. Your mother tried to tell me that, with our marriage, now I had both. The portrait and her. What she meant was that I owned both. But it wasn’t quite the same thing. Not quite what I wanted. But I was a very patient man, darling.

When Trippy was killed in action while flying for the Lafayette Escadrille in France, I heard her tell George she was “stuck” with me, and our marriage then became wholly loveless, continuing only for your and little Fanny’s sake. George and I also enlisted but were stationed near home. The affairs I had with those secretaries twelve or so years ago and our ensuing divorce broke our family apart. I can’t imagine exactly what was going through your or Fanny’s heads during that time… “My mother no longer exists for me. I can only trust my father…” You’ve been through a lot and I know things haven’t always been easy, but remember what the school principal said during his speech at Fanny’s highschool graduation: “Faced with the Dragon, one must brandish sword and shield… Sometimes one has to know when to kneel before the Dragon...” I’ve always thought of you as a fighter, who, faced with the toughest challenges, is capable of brandishing all the weapons necessary to fight courageously and heroically. Now that you’re an adult, it is your right to take your own reins and judge your own risks. But you need to eat, you need sleep, you need to look after yourself. Fanny is aware of the misadventures that have befallen you both. She knows of your strife with the world, the most insidious of evils. You can’t explore the world from the inside of a casket and, baby, neither I nor your mother can live without you. No mother or father should ever have to bury their child.

The writing stopped abruptly before starting again a bit lower.

I’m balling my goddamn eyes out, darling. But thankfully Miss Cartwright is a very patient scribe. I pray that my care of you leaves you able to be autonomous, to have control of your own life, able to fully love and care for those blessed to share life with you. I hope so. Also, there was my own sense of moral conduct. I taught you as a child that hypocrisy presents itself in many forms and is not always wrong. Acceptable hypocrisy is often called politeness. “If ever you get invited into someone's home,” I said, “you go into the sitting room and you say, ‘Oh, what an attractive room!’ even if you think it's hideous.” “Do not treat others as you would not like to be treated” frees one from hypocrisy. “Treat others as you would like to be treated” enslaves one with insincerity. Hypocrisy and insincerity can coexist. Together they can prevent people from saying the wrong thing to the wrong people and mitigate social damage before they become the causation of irreparable harm. Even so, we should still remain true to our beliefs. But for someone as vain as your mother that didn’t work. You have so many dearly held and cherished values and this world is so broken that she must be a good hypocrite. Your mother was about to turn thirty when she married me, and this fact seemed significant to her. She had a sense that the decisions she was making then would determine the rest of her life. Like with a ship, the trajectory set was critical; a fraction of a degree in the wrong direction could send her to a wildly different place. Your mother tried to set you on a path she paved for you, but the more she tried to keep you on the path, the more you drew away from it, away from her, just as I drew away from her. Was this your understanding mother? Had I been married for years to Fanny without getting an inkling of what a woman’s vanity could be, how it could seep through her whole character, drowning every good impulse on the way?

We’ve all got these trauma brains now, brains that developed with less love than we needed, bland food, and violence. We’ve all got these short attention spans and the need to pull people close only to push them away when things get hard. It’s that urge to run, that fear of trust, that uncomfortableness with nurturing love - addicted to the dysfunction and rejecting the cure. I don’t think Fanny ever meant to be maliciously selfish, I really don’t. She wasn’t like that when we were together. She’d been kind and gentle and considerate. She had the selfish streak for sure, but she wanted everybody to love her then and, in hindsight, that was all that made her behave. Your mother didn’t know what a poor, vain creature she’s been fond of all her life, what an absurd— Ever since I’ve known her, she’s thought only of herself. She never loved anyone but herself. She spent her life in front of a mirror...unaware of the people around her or the world she lives in. She was, of course, as self-centered as a child. Luxury is the enemy of observation, a costly indulgence that induces such a good feeling that you notice nothing. Luxury spoils and infantilizes you and prevents you from knowing the world. That is its purpose, the reason why luxury cruises and great hotels are full of fatheads who, when they express an opinion, seem as though they are from another planet. It was also my experience that one of the worst aspects of traveling with wealthy people, apart from the fact that the rich never listen, is that they constantly groused about the high cost of living - indeed, the rich usually complained of being poor. She was so self-absorbed that she just didn’t care about anyone else, not even her daughters. For her the world that mattered stopped at the tip of her nose. I came to think of her as emotionally blind. She just couldn’t see, couldn’t empathize with what other people thought or felt.

You couldn’t get within a mile of her. There were always a hundred fellows ahead. She treated everyone like they were too frightening to get close to. She interacted of course, she laughed and joked, she would even make nice gestures from time to time. But ask her a personal question and she would recoil faster than a snapped high-tension spring. After that you’d be in her no-friend zone for a while, isolated until you learned your lesson. Those men and women were so predictable. Their doors were already open even before she put her hand on the knob. But your mother’s door was closed shut, and so beautifully painted. Everyone liked her, but couldn’t get her to open up. I knew there was something more behind that pretty paint. Something behind her bright smile. But on the other hand, being able to spend time with her was a good enough blessing for me. Enough to make me want to never leave her side. But then Trippy died and my love goggles came off. We’ve reconciled and the goggles are back on but, this time, I can still see clearly. I think it was an act. Come right down to it, she kept the family and the house from falling apart while I was gone. She couldn’t afford to look weak. She was a bit of a bully, your mother. She liked her own way. But there’s another side to her. I see that. I loved Fanny agonizingly, you know. And I still do. Say what you will about your mother but, as I’ve had time to reflect, going to sleep every night with somebody, as she had dutifully done with me till the secretaries started trouble, does make—well, a link.

Your mother believed you were seeing through rose-tinted glasses and needed her help to see clearly. She believed you and Jim were from too different of worlds and couldn’t be together. She thought you were living in a fairyland of idyllic make-believe and were at risk of getting taken advantage of due to your naivety of youth and idealism. She thought you were an open book. But what she didn’t realize was that your skin is a cover to a book nobody can open until you want to give them the key. It is a boundary, your boundary, for in that sacred home of body and brain, you live there. The fires are in the hearth, the lights are on and there is both beautiful music and aromas of home baking. Few would have said your Great Endeavor is on the verge of completion. That very threshold which has eluded the members of our family down the ages lies before you, and you have the keys within your grasp to open it. Yet recall, that nobody can read your pages without your key. But Jim was always welcome in your world. You gave him the key to it. Even if he lost it, he could always come back to your world to find it. To your mother, while she considered herself pretty open-minded, she still thought there were some things that we should just not do, not even once. And Jim was one of those things. Jim meant trouble was coming. Then what was going to happen? The inevitable. She thought you brought out the very worst in each other, each of you backing up the other’s vices as if they were virtues. It was the “right” thing to spend all of your money on yourselves, to not let others “push you around”. And while Fanny liked to buy some nice things too, there was just nothing right with taking off for an expensive vacation when you “wouldn’t be able to” afford to feed yourselves or buy new clothes when you outgrew or wore out the others. But that’s just the way you and Jim were and there was nothing she could do about it. She loves you but she can’t control you. Despite the anger and distress of your mother, you rejected the expected role for a woman of your status to become a mother. You worked hard to educate yourself in the art and science of photography and painting, in the face of opposition from your mother and the restrictive social code for affluent young women. You are and always have been a very unusual and independent person.

You know, you’re like your late Uncle Trippy in many ways. He was extravagant and dishonest and, while you’re neither of those things, you’re headstrong, stubborn, and temperamental at times, with a certain flare for picking odd names and places...just like he was (that’s not meant as a reproach, it’s just who you are). You’ve just always been that way. At first, we were all befuddled by your behavior. Your mother and I, your Uncle George, as well as your nanny and the servants. We didn’t really know what to do with you. As you were growing up, we often asked ourselves, “Why do you have to be so angry all the time? Why do you do it?” We didn’t know, and we wondered if maybe you didn’t know either. “Who did you get it from?” Not from your grandfather. He was a grand old gent, wasn’t he? Then we thought maybe you got it from me. I have a bit of a temper sometimes, though I did a very good job at hiding it so as not to scare either you or Fanny. But I’ve gotten angry before. But not at you. Never at you. Do you remember when you were nine? You excelled at P.E., but were struggling in everything else, including reading and writing… You were slower than other kids your age, but I was sure you’d catch up and pass them soon enough…

It was an appalling school. Your spelling was atrocious, your pronunciation absurd. When I had you and Fanny wait outside while I confronted Mr. Davis in his office after the parent-teacher conference, he said it was as useful to educate a Jew as to educate a female cat. I really could’ve strangled Mr. Davis! I thought I ought to go over there and beat the tar out of him with his own stick! It would’ve served the scoundrel right! But I had to set an example for you and Fanny. I had to teach you to be the better person, to take the high road, to keep your head high and do what you had to do to defend yourself, but do it without stooping to their level, no matter how much they hurt or wronged you. So instead, I took you and Fanny home, and I tended to your hands myself once Manby told me what had happened, though you’d wished she hadn’t. As you cried and sniffled from the sting and went on and on about how you’d like to hit Mr. Davis back but ten times harder, I said, “Darling, we must not embrace violence. I’ll write this man a letter.” You scoffed at me, “A letter? That’ll show him.” “Mr. Davis, what right have you to strike a child? In God’s eyes we are all children and we are all equals. If you hit and humiliate a child, the only lesson she will learn is to hit and humiliate. I withdraw my daughter from your school. I shall henceforth undertake my daughter’s education myself,” my letter concluded. At the end of the next week the school principal received it, and I supervised your education as you disciplined yourself to learn from home, until you were brought to Cascade and, from there, Dr. Jaquith and Charlotte took over and oversaw your education. Under their care, you were already doing so much better, not only showing signs of improvement but thriving. You were never stupid, you just needed accommodations the schools couldn’t or wouldn’t provide for you. What I’m trying to say is, when I did get angry, it was never like the way you got angry.

Your mother was the first to realize who you must’ve taken after. The realization was a horrific one. As you know, your late Uncle Trippy had embezzled funds from me. He was the brother of the most sought-after girl in New York, and believed he had to live up to it. But that was no excuse for doing something so dreadful. I was his boss at the time and attempted to confront him, but was instantly smitten by your mother. Indeed, there was nothing she didn’t do, for it was because of your uncle that she had pursued and married me, your lovestruck father, in order to save Trippy’s skin from prosecution and facilitate a comfortable life for herself. Fanny was nearly ten years older than Trippy was, but she loved him and there was nothing she wouldn’t have done for him. Her dear only brother had been the person on Earth she had most loved. She would’ve done anything to help him. But your Uncle Trippy was disgusted by the arrangement, in part because of his prejudice against me being Jewish. Trippy left home to fight for the French in the Lafayette Escadrille in the last war, where he was immediately killed.

So, you see? To her, whenever she looked upon you and witnessed firsthand your volatile behavior, it was as if she was seeing her darling brother in a new body, as if his ghost possessed you and was haunting her, punishing her for marrying me, even from beyond the grave. Even now, you remind her of him. That scares her. That’s why she always left the room whenever you had your episodes. I think she was worried that you wanted to follow in your Uncle Trippy’s footsteps and that you’d share his fate if you went down a similar path as he did, especially when she found evidence that said you wanted to contribute to the war effort. She nearly fainted when she found the letters that told her of your ambitions, and you nearly gave her a heart attack with every application you sent behind her back. It sounds awful, but of course she was glad you got rejected by all of them. How could she not have been? It meant you weren’t going to prison and you weren’t going to be killed like Trippy was. If you had taken after her or myself more, or even your Uncle George, maybe she would’ve known what to do with you. But you didn’t, and so she didn’t either. That’s what frightens her. You’re stronger than she is, really. Or as strong. And she’s not used to it. And isn’t the unknown always a bit scary?

Fanny, as vain as she was, did not deal well with her daughters’ own youth and beauty. Perhaps the toughest time for a mother is when her children surpass her, when her task is complete and they are stronger and better than she. To be a protector and realize that you are no longer needed to protect, that is tough. Yet it is also a time of great pride, of realizing that she has done her job well, that it is over. You and I both know she didn’t do her job as your mother well, but she’s ready and willing to try now. She learned that there are a lot worse things in this world than losing one’s beauty. If she had a do-over, she’d do things very, very differently. She’d give up something that is much more precious to her than her beauty so that you got one decent shot at life. Can you guess what it is? With your return, she’d have a chance to do something for someone else. When she had finally worked up the courage to tell me everything that transpired between the two of you in my absence, how she had irreparably betrayed your trust, and that she had done the wrong thing by deluding herself, I said, “Love, what’s convenient and what’s right is rarely the same thing. To shy away, feeling awkward, when someone is in need of help, is a form of social cowardice. I guess we all need to choose how we exert ourselves and for whom, but for our daughter, someone who loves you, promise me you’ll try a little harder?” I wanted your mother to promise me that she wasn’t going to let me down.

You figured out a long time ago that you got your wanderlust from me. I loved the idea of meeting new people, experiencing new things. I always wanted more—more travel, more sights to see, more feelings to feel. And you came into this world infected with wanderlust. The old wanderlust had gotten into your blood, the joy of the unbound life, the joy of seeking, of hoping without limit. I had wanted you and Fanny to see that the world was a much broader, more complex, and indeed more interesting place than we could fathom, and I accomplished this and then some, instilling in you your own wanderlust, your own curiosity about other people and places. There’s something about arriving in new cities, wandering empty streets with no destination. You will never lose the love for the arriving, but you were born to leave. Everything was different when it came to you. You never played with dolls, never played house, you never wanted any of the things that most little girls dreamed of wanting: A steady job, a reliable car, a mortgage, a traditional family. That wasn’t the kind of life for you. You were seventeen, and already there were young gentlemen who were lining up at our front door, thinking to marry you, but I said you weren’t of that mind yet. You’re not a woman a man brings home to Mother, pick out china patterns with, or Mary forefend, breed. Mr. Masters is never going to sit at your feet and write you poems, which is good because you hate poetry. You never wanted a poem-ish life, a tender, subtle love story. You wanted a dramatic whirlwind of a life, a titillating romance filled with adventure, danger, the unknown, and the unexpected. It’s totally fine if no one else gets it as long as Jim does.

Wanderlust has a reputation as the epitome of unrequited love, something the young and naive chase after because they don’t yet realize it’s as futile as a dog chasing its tail. Turns out, ever-burning wanderlust is a good thing. Your love story is written only for his eyes. Together you’ve seen a chunk of the universe, true, but there’s still so much more to see. What great beauties, what bounteous paradises, may lie beyond the walls we confine ourselves to? Surely, it will lead to the Arctic deeps, to the megalithic structures in Brazil, to anywhere within our world. Yet you may go further. Wanderlust is never truly quenched. If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world. I doubt you’ll ever cure this wanderlust, but I want you to know that this is what happens when you meet the person you are supposed to spend the rest of your life with: That restless feeling doesn’t leave you, but it becomes shared. If you’re content with dedicating your life to failing to sate it, then that is more than I could ever hope for you and your future. The best journeys, like the best love affairs, never really end. Yet as one chapter closes, another opens. Nature abhors waste and your skills will be called for once more. A new chapter will begin.

There is a natural time for a bird to leave a nest, and this is healthy and right. Leaving can be part of loving, of showing that you are strong enough to do what you’ve been raised to do. As such, our loving bonds are ever there, ever strong, ever tangible. My darling, I think it’s a good time for both you and Jim to come back now, even if it’s just for a day or two. The fact is, darling, your mother and I have decided not to put it off any longer. We’re getting married on Thursday. And all I’m asking you to do is to get on a boat and come home to be with us on this very special occasion. If you’re apprehensive and worried it’ll be a huge society affair, don’t be. We don’t want to have that kind of wedding. It’ll be a small, private affair. Something quiet, held in our house, just like when your mother and I married the first time. It’ll just be your mother and I, your Uncle George, Manby, Fanny and her husband, and the officiant. So will you come over for the wedding? Please say yes. I want you and your husband to be here to celebrate with us. I’d love very much to meet Jim, the man who has won your heart. You’ve been hither and thither all of a dither, and it’s time to settle down, even just for a day, so we can appreciate all of you as one big talent.

I can picture you in my mind’s eye now. You’re an artist, your hair is rarely tamed and sometimes you sleep till noon. Your house is messy and you speak to the moon. You care less about the materials that you share with the world and more about the passion inside yourself. You’re an artist, what more can one expect? You are full of soul, love and all the rest. Even your so-called flaws have turned out as crucial benefits to seeking your quest end. This world needs more like you. But it’s your mind and it’s up to you to make it up. Whatever you decide, know that I love you with all my heart and I always will. Even if you decide not to come, I will not, and never will, hold that decision against you. Just know my love for you is eternal, that it will always be in the ether to comfort your heart should you ever have need. You are the internal light in my heart. Although there is nothing I want more than for you to make peace with your mother before any of us leave this earth, enjoy your time in the sun, my darling girl.

Love,

your father

“So will you stay now? Please.” After so long without you, Fanny thinks she’ll just die if you leave now. She needs you, and while she knows you don’t need her, she hopes you’ll still want her. When she tries to speak, her voice falters into unintelligible croaks. She wants to tell you she loves you but she doesn’t think you’ll believe her and she’s afraid it will sound hollow.

“Hmm. Well, I suppose I’ve come this far. Why miss out on a good wedding? But, Mother, I don’t know what I’m doing here. You broke my heart. I’m not blaming you, exactly. I know Jim’s not what you were looking for in a partner or husband for me. I know why you felt you had to—”

“Dr. Jaquith and I talked about how marriage should be equal. It has nothing to do with position or money, simply that a couple should be equal in both strength and passion. You were right. You and Jim are in love with each other. I’m not sure why I fought it but I’ve stopped fighting it now. I can’t bear another year pretending we know what we’re doing when, really, we’re just going around in circles. No more running.”

“So, you’ve given in? I’ll at least thank God for that,” you answer, your brows relaxing a little. “But I don’t understand what you want of me. What are you asking?”

Your mother is determined not to forget again and goes to you, her daughter, now an adult, and tells you what she thinks. Then she explains it in the way only a heartbroken and repentant mother can. “I want us to make peace with each other.”

“Just like that?”

“Whenever you choose, but...that’s what I want. Would you believe me if I said I couldn’t live without you?”

“You’ve done a pretty good job of living without me so far.”

“I’ve done a very bad job. You know I’m sorry.”

“I assumed you would be fairly sorry unless you’re actually insane.”

“I’m not insane but I am sorry. I don’t know why I did it. Not really.”

“I told you. Because you were unhappy so you wanted me to be unhappy, too. Now you’re happy again, you’ll be nicer...for a while. But nothing’s changed.”

“I’ve changed, darling.”

“Well, if you have, you haven’t said a word to me about it. I don’t believe you’d have spoken now if Dad hadn’t come home and written to me about the wedding.”

“I would have, I promise. We thought you might not come if it were me who wrote to you.”

“Well… They were right there.”

“If that’s what you feel, then why are you here?”

“Because, in the end, you’re my mother, and we can either take our experiences and try to improve the way our lives move forward, or use them as an excuse to stay stuck. I meant what I said the last time we spoke. As my mother, I love you, but I have tried and failed to like you. I’m sure you can say the same about me. I know you love me because I’m your daughter, but I saw how much you tried and failed to like me over the years. But if together we choose to move forward, then one day our shared memories will mean more than our mutual dislike. I don’t know what else to say. I think I was so desperate to get away that I forgot I already knew what mattered. I knew who you were. I’ve known that my whole life. I see you when I look in the mirror, and at Dad, and at everything you loved. And I hear your voice, whenever the world is quiet enough. You look nice, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

You watch her, face entranced, as the morning light reflects off the brown hair of her wig and her pale skin, highlighting the eyes that belie her years. She has laughter lines from her gift for smiling easily. Her personality is all there to read in those creases. She’s no longer the blank page she was in her wedding pictures. Then her face takes on a look of delight.

“Should I ring for more tea? A cup of tea, darling, let’s have tea.” So you do, always made in a china pot, milk in a little jug, proper little cups like in an old movie. “Are you always so cool and collected now?” she asks. “I do hope so.”

“Dr. Jaquith’s support and advice, and time away from you and the house worked wonders. Finding myself was a form of discovering parts of me that had been suppressed, yet also developing new skills, new self-control, greater creativity and logical thinking skills. By being present in the moment, by being willing to analyze myself and my motivations from many perspectives, I got there. You can too. Let me be your cheerleader. I believe in you.”

“I’m sorry I never understood you, never tried to understand you. But I’m starting to now. I never thought rage was an emotion worthy of a well-bred woman. But you used it. You used it to endure pain.”

“It’s okay if you can’t be proud of me. Because I finally am. You may see in me all of your greatest fears squeezed into one person—”

“I spent most of your childhood praying you would not end up like your Uncle Trippy. But you turned out to be stubborn, aimless, a mess. Just like he was. But now I see that it’s okay that you’re a mess. Because just like your Uncle Trippy…the universe gave you someone kind, patient, and forgiving to make up for all you lack. I don’t want you to live your life like I have lived mine, my love. I want you to be free from the past, once and for all.”

“So you’re finally ready to move forward, to embrace the future. No more time wasted on vain attempts of trying to wind back or freeze the clock. I’m glad to hear it. Now, about your wanting to make peace with each other… If I agreed, which is a big if, would you welcome Jim into the family? I mean, really welcome him. No conditions or stipulations, no ultimatums. He’s my husband now, so—”

“So now you’re settled. Or as settled as you and Jim can be. You two kids. Oh, I never was sentimental about marriage, and I’m not gonna start now. But I’m relieved to hear it. I’m very happy for you. And yes, of course I would welcome him into the family. Your father and Uncle George would too, but you already know that. Maybe it’s like you said. Maybe there is something out there, some new discovery that will make us feel even smaller, more insignificant. Something that explains why you still went looking for me through all of this noise. And why, no matter what, I still want to be here with you. I will always, always want to be here with you.”

“So what? You’re just gonna ignore everything else? You could be anything, anywhere. Why not go somewhere where your…where your daughter is more than just…this?” you laugh bitterly. “Here, all we get are a few specks of time where any of this actually makes any sense.”

“Then I will cherish these few specks of time. But you must promise that you will always be close by, or at least close enough to be reachable by phone or mail. I couldn’t bear losing my daughter again, and neither could your father. Darling, I’m not asking you to give Jim up or to come back home to live with us. Though an occasional visit here and there wouldn’t be unwelcome, if it’s not too out of the way for you and Jim. we’re more than happy to receive letters, postcards, and phone calls whenever you have a chance to sit down in between your wonderful, hectic life.”

“So I take it you’re not going to disown me after all?”

“No, never. I want you to believe me when I say you’re always welcome in this house. The house is my family’s and you’re entitled to it just as much as I am. I want you, my darling daughter, back in the family, and everyone happy. I was just shocked and frustrated, and in the heat of the moment—”

You melt at once. A woman who readily melted before any kind of distress, the distress your mother is evidently feeling at having to say all of this, leaves you wholly tender and sympathetic. “I’m glad you’re going to be reasonable about it. In that case, this is my offer: I will stay one week to avoid the impression I’ve run away, and because I don’t want to spoil your and Father’s wedding. Then Jim and I will resume our travels, and we will send occasional letters and postcards informing you of where we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re going. And if anyone ever wishes to visit, we will linger for a few days so we can properly meet up. Whoever wishes to visit us will be very welcome.”

“Now that I can live with!” she beams as she pulls a rope that rings a bell, summoning Manby to her. “Manby, Miss Skeffington— I mean, Mrs. Masters has come home,” she says, “she and her husband will be staying with us for one week.”

“Yes, m’lady. Should I—” a small pause, while Manby struggles with, and triumphs over, an inconvenient and unseemly feeling in her throat which easily might have ended as a sob, “should I tell the housekeeper to prepare a room?”

“Her own room,” says Fanny.

“Yes, m’lady.”

After Manby leaves you alone to fulfill her orders, your mother takes your hand in hers and holds eye contact with you. “I just need to hear it from you, to know for sure, for my own peace of mind…so you don’t regret it?”

You smile. “No, never. He’s a wonderful, wonderful man. We’re evenly matched, Jim and I. He’s strong in his beliefs, so am I. We’re a marriage of equals. We’re very happy. Somehow none of it seems to matter when we’re traveling together. Social status and all that just seems to fade away. I’m Mrs. Masters and we get on with our lives like millions of others. I love going out of my way, beyond what I know, and finding my way back a few extra miles, by another trail, with a compass that argues with the map…nights alone in motels in remote western towns where I know no one and no one I know knows where I am, nights with strange paintings and floral spreads and public radio that furnish a reprieve from my own biography, when in Jim’s terms, I have lost myself though I know where I am. Moments when I say to myself as feet or car clear a crest or round a bend, I have never seen this place before. Times when some architectural detail on vista that has escaped me these many years says to me that I never did know where I was, even when I was home. The apartment we rented doesn’t look like much, and it isn’t on the right side of town, but we’ve made a home out of it.”

Your mother nods in understanding and gives you an affectionate touch. “I think I see that now. Not at first, you’re right. But now.”

“What about you? I need to know that you’re certain about remarrying Dad.”

“When he proposed to me, he said…”

“We’re not going to be polite and formal with each other, are we, after all these years? Now, let’s get this clear. You and I are both in the prime of life.”

“Oh, Job, you’re not going to get romantic now, are you? At this time of life?”

“Why not?”

“I suppose you want to cheer me up.”

“I don’t want to cheer you up. Fanny, Fanny, I want to marry you. So what do you say? You’re going to need someone to boss around in that great big house of yours.”

“Job… Is this a proposal?”

“I’m a divorced man who’s loved you for over twenty years, and ever since the day I set foot in that house again after being away for so long, I’ve been trying to tell you how much I love you, how much you mean to me. Have you forgotten? Fanny, feel that. Feel that. Feel that thumping? It’s all because of you. Fanny, my darling, we’ll have a glorious life together. You can’t use words like ‘age’ and ‘old’ about us. We’re just beginning the best part of our lives. I love you. I love you, Fanny.”

Job’s proposal was much more genuine, much more heartfelt than Edward’s. Edward was no one but an optimist, a man of great natural exuberance, an ignorer of second thoughts, and used, during years of power, to getting what he wanted. He would have supposed so easily that he was going to marry Fanny. In the old days she had obstinately refused to let him marry her, but this, though he well remembered it, cut no ice with him then, because those days weren’t these days, and a woman will do things at fifty which she wouldn’t at thirty, and often be jolly glad to. He had kept careful track of her. He knew all about her—how she had never gone in for any more husbands after her Jew, still lived in Charles Street, still, therefore, was well off, had been so ill that she almost pegged out, and in a few days was going to celebrate her fiftieth birthday. So that by that time, having had lots of rope and presumably done all the silly things she was ever to have a chance of doing, she must be as ripe for settling down as himself. He was sixty. Neither of them had any time to lose. Each had reached an age at which, if one was going to marry, one had better do it at once. He saw no reason why he and she shouldn’t. They might’ve even done it on her fiftieth birthday, which would’ve been distinctly chic; after which he would’ve taken up life with her prepared, for the rest of his days, to love and cherish what there was left to love and cherish, as a good husband, not as young as he was but not, either, as old as he was going to be, should. An admirable plan, Edward considered; a first-rate plan. Both would benefit. She would have someone to take constant and devoted care of her, and he would be able to pay his debts. But he was bald, and he called her things like “his girl” or “bad girl”. It wasn’t just his outward appearance which put her off, it was his manners, or lack thereof, with which he proposed. With Job, however…

“His words made my heart pound at such a rate I’m surprised he couldn’t hear it. And I said words of love, words he would have given his life to hear a tenth of a century ago. I’m hot, cold and can’t breathe. All because of him. I must say, he carries it off well. I am certain. I believe I’ve met my match. I have. I’m not twenty, trembling at the touch of his hand, but I know that if I leave him now, I’ll never be as happy as we could’ve been together.”

“He’s not twenty either but he still trembles at the touch of your hands.”

“Me, too. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Oh, Mother. Thank God for you and Dad.”

“And… You’d ask, wouldn’t you, if there was anything you wanted me to tell you. I mean, I’m sure you know.”

“More than you did.”

Your mother exhales.

“And relax. I’m a married woman now, Mother. There isn’t anything I need to hear now.”

“Because when two people love each other, you understand, everything...”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting for your mother’s response.

“…Is the most terrific fun.”

You laugh. “Careful, Mother. You’ll shock Manby if she hears you. Jim and I… We’re going to try lots of things. Maybe not sex, but there is more to do in the world than that, isn’t there?”

“Yes, there’s so much more. It’s a wide, wide world out there. I know I’m nearly four years late, but will you accept an old woman’s apologies?”

“So you were wrong about Jim?”

“I think I was.” At her words, you smile in a way she hasn’t seen you smile in years. “Why are you smiling?”

“Show me a daughter that doesn’t smile when her mother admits she’s wrong. Heh. It’s so uncharacteristic of you.”

“We’re not fighting anymore, remember?”

“Right. Sorry, I just… I just wish you knew him.”

“Darling, I will know him. I’ll know him and value him. I promise. We all will.”

“I know mine was a wild runaway marriage, Mother, and yours is the one everyone wanted, but what’s so thrilling is that this is every bit as romantic.”

“Thank you. For being so sweet.”

“Anyway, I best go down, make sure Jim’s not too suicidal. Last time we were here, he felt so patronized, and he hated it.”

“Yes, you’d better go down and see to him. Oh, and, darling, if I were you, I wouldn’t let Janie Clarkson know about you being Mrs. Masters. She may not be at the wedding, but she’s got ears like a cat and friends like hawks, ready to swoop down and gobble up the tiniest piece of gossip.”

You agree with an amused shake of your head. “Even without Janie, there are people out there who know the truth. There could be gossip. Are you ready for it?”

“Well, I hope to avoid it, but I’m ready if we can’t. The only thing I’m not ready for is to spend what remains of my life without you.”

To your mother’s credit, you really believe she wants to make up for her betrayal of your trust. It’s strange. When you first boarded the boat, you expected to still be angry with her, but you’re not. Your anger seems to have burned itself out on the way here. You know her motivations were good, even though her actions weren’t. And looking at her now, you see how much she’s missed you. You think you should keep in touch with her. That’s what your father and Uncle George would want you to do. You have more understanding for your mother and resolve to be even kinder to her.

Just as you’re about to leave, You hear a short, rapid knock on the door. You call for whoever it is on the other side to come in, and the doorknob turns slowly as the door opens even slower.

It’s Jim. All you and your mother see of him is his head as he peeks in at first, as if apprehensive about what kind of scene he’ll walk into and wanting to make sure the coast is clear before entering fully. “How’s it coming?” Once he sees you and Fanny, his shoulders drop from their tension as he lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good, neither of you are at each other’s throats, so I hope that means you’re making progress!”

“Speak of the devil.”

Jim fully comes in, holding one of your gloves. “Here’s your glove.”

“You’re under discussion, Jim. Maybe you’d better leave,” you say teasingly.

“I don’t mind being the center of attraction. The question is, am I worth it?”

Your mother smiles brightly. “Hello...Jim. Welcome to Charles Street.” She approaches Jim with her hand outstretched, expecting a handshake.

Jim takes her hand. “I hope I am welcome, Fanny.”

“Of course. Although… Is it a Californian tradition?”

“What?”

“She means not changing,” you clarify.

Jim looks down at his plain clothes.

You’re irked. “Of course not, Mother.”

“It might have been. You don’t change on the first night of a voyage.”

Jim isn’t pleased by the conversation either. “No, Fanny. I don’t own a set of tails. Or a dinner jacket either. I got rid of my dinner jacket shortly after I left your house. I wouldn’t get any use out of them.”

“Well, I hope you own a morning coat since you’re here for a wedding.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“We live a completely different kind of life, Mother.”

“Obviously. You should buy a New York wardrobe and leave it here. Then you won’t have to pack when you come.”

“What a good idea.” You smile at her suggestion, just to appease her and close the subject.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t turn into somebody else just to please you.”

“More’s the pity. Oh, Jim, I’m only teasing. Now why should you change to please us?”

“Oh, Mother! You wicked…” you trail off as you playfully push her shoulder, the tension leaving your body and voice. She really could’ve been an actress, you think.

“We heard you were in Greece or somewhere. You’ve been much occupied with journalism, I am sure.”

Jim visibly relaxes, the tension in his shoulders and eyebrows gone in an instant. Maybe he should be offended, but Fanny is his mother-in-law now, so of course she is well within her right to rib him and give him a hard time. He could take anything Fanny threw at him before, and that hasn’t changed in the time that’s passed since they last saw each other. The fact she can not only make fun of him, but make fun of herself at the same time has shown Jim how much she’s grown. “I’m not pursuing journalism just now. I decided I should concentrate on something much more important for a while.”

“Which is?”

“Being a good husband and keeping my wife happy,” he laughs to himself. “In all seriousness, I’ve gone into business. It’s a much more promising field and would allow my wife and I to still travel, just without the stress of living almost paycheck-to-paycheck. Although I haven’t found a very exciting position yet, I know that will change.”

“I’m sure. And maybe Job and I could change it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Have you given any thought to being an investment banker? If so, here’s what I propose. You have heard of the Isaacson brothers?”

“Who hasn’t, Fanny?”

“They’re expanding fast. And they invest in many ventures.”

“They’re big players, Mrs. Skeffington.”

“Job and I could speak to Ted Isaacson, if you’d like.”

“Not about me?”

“Certainly about you, Jim. You have no objection to their being Jewish, I suppose?”

“Not at all. How could I have any objections when my father-in-law is Jewish and a fine gentleman, Fanny?”

“Good. As I say, Job and I could discuss you with Mr. Isaacson and he might be prepared to take you on as a broker, with excellent prospects. In a few years, you could be a rich man.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, nothing need be decided now. But think on it, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And what about you, darling? How’s your art coming along?”

“I went to Europe to paint the great cathedrals but I couldn’t get you and Father out of my mind. So I painted something special for the both of you as a wedding present. Something good that I keep in my memory. Dr. Jaquith always told me that, ‘Painting is not about using fancy tools or techniques. Let your feelings do all the work.’ Well, this is how I feel.”

“Oh, darling, how lovely!”

“Jim says It’s beautiful, but it’s not as beautiful as I wanted. It isn’t what it should be, But I am still learning. I hope you’ll like it, Mother. Your praise will improve it.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it. And your father will too, once we describe it to him in vivid detail.”

You turn your attention to your husband. “I was just about to come down and see how you were faring, darling.”

“Well, our great minds must think alike because here I am coming to see how you’re faring, sweetheart. I hope I’m not interrupting.” Jim then looks over from you to your mother. “And here we have the blushing bride. I’m annoyed with you, Fanny. Here I am lots of gray, more than my share of wrinkles. You? You’re as young as ever. You fought off age and refused to recognize time. You always were stubborn.”

“Jim, in 1934, I was forty-eight. I had most of my hair, All my teeth and hardly a wrinkle. Two years later, I contracted diphtheria. Look at me now. In four short years, I’ve turned into an old woman, while you haven’t aged at all.”

“I’ve never seen you look more beautiful, Fanny.”

“A woman is beautiful only when she’s loved. Isn’t that right, darling?”

You smile. “Yes, Mother.”

Once Jim stands next to you, taking your hand in his, Fanny is able to get a clear side-by-side view of your wedding rings. Your rings suit the way you are as a couple, practical yet with an eye for clean styling. Each of them have a broad platinum band to the edges where they meet a brilliant stripe of gold. They clearly must’ve been selected from your Uncle Fred’s extensive diamond collection. Fanny has no doubt that as soon as your godfather discovered your plans to marry, he let you choose whichever diamond you wanted and had them made into wedding rings for you and Jim, free of charge. He loves you like a daughter and has always been very, very generous, to the point that she and Job worried he’d spoil you and Fanny too much if they didn’t watch him closely and carefully. No doubt any husband of yours would be like a son to him, so he’d give you whatever you both wanted, regardless of how much of his own money it would personally cost him to do so.

“I was just telling Mother that we’ll stay one week before continuing our travels. I hope you don’t mind too much, darling,” you tell Jim as you wrap your arms around his arm and squeeze it, resting your head on his shoulder.

“No, I don’t mind. In fact, I think that’s a wonderful idea. Tangiers can wait for a few days.”

“Tangiers! Oh my.”

“Are you going to make a show of trying to stop us?”

“No, of course not. Even if I tried, I know it would be useless and you would go anyway.”

You make a noise at that.

“But… How are you getting all the way over there? Is there a boat that sails direct?”

“Actually we’re flying. For the first bit, anyway.”

“What?”

“I know. It does seem rather daring.”

“I do not envy you.”

“I don’t know. Now the commercial airlines are starting to operate, I dare say we’ll all be flying hither and thither before too long.”

“I like the way Jim makes no bones about it.”

“Anyway, I rather doubt that. But at least for today, we’ll all be a family as we always should have been.”

“Fanny, Johnny, Jim, and I are going to try and get together at least once or twice every year. Wherever Jim and I happen to be, we’d love to have the whole family together, in the summer.”

“Won’t it be too hot?”

“We hope you and Dad will join us and come and find out, Mother.”

“Oh, no. No. That’s—that’s all over for us. Of all the places I could be, why would I want to be there with you? It doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re teasing us again!”

“Yes, my darling, I was teasing again.” Your mother turns her attention to Jim. “I am happy to know you, Jim. I think we’ll get on pretty well from now on, don’t you?”

“I think we will.”

“You weren’t quite what I had in mind for my daughter, but I got past it. And that’s life, isn’t it? Getting past the unexpected. And perhaps learning from it, which I think we can say we’ve done.”

“You’ll be a good friend to me through the years, Fanny. I hope I can be a friend to you. I do so wish we could have parted friends the last time I was here.”

“And what about you, darling? Did you want to part friends?”

“I did. Although I didn’t expect to.”

“Then can we at least part as friends after today?”

You catch your mother’s look. “Not quite. But not as enemies either. I don’t like bitterness. I forgive you for all you’ve done, but that’s only the first step. There’s still work to be done in rebuilding our relationship. One step at a time.”

“You’re a marvelous person, Fanny. Do you know that?”

“I will take it as my consolation prize.” She then pauses before saying, “All right.”

“What?”

“Well, I can’t stop you, nor do I want to. I see no profit in continuing this petty quarrel. You’ll have a very different life from the one you might have lived, but if you’re sure it’s still what you want.”

You turn to look at Jim and smile at him before turning back towards your mother, still smiling. “I am.”

“Then, contrary to what I said before, you may take my blessing with you, whatever that means. Some people would regard it as the equivalent to a witch’s curse.”

“Oh, Mother. It means more than anything!” You hug her with delight. “More than anything! It’s all we want.”

“Then let’s end this story once and for all. We haven’t always been there for each other, but I hope you’ll let me be there now.” Your mother turns her gaze to Jim, lifting an eyebrow as she pretends to scrutinize him. “There is just one stipulation.”

“Mother, you promised there’d be no stipulations.”

“Let her finish. What is it, Fanny? Just tell us.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If you mistreat her, Jim, I will personally have you torn to pieces by wild dogs.”

You and Jim both let out a laugh as you exhale in relief.

“I’d expect no less. But you won’t regret this, Fanny.”

“And there’ll be some money. But not much.”

“That reminds me… Mother, tell me, did you send the money to get us over here? I asked Father and Uncle George, but they said it wasn’t them. Please say yes.”

Your mother looks confused. “What money? Well, I’m very glad you’re here, but no, it wasn’t me, I’m sad to say. Someone sent you and Jim the price for the tickets to come over?”

“Yes.”

“Does it matter who it was? It meant we could be at the wedding.”

“Of course, I wish it had been you, Mother, but I don’t mind. I thank them, whoever they are.”

“Well, I love a mystery. Who could it be? My guess is your sister. She always likes to stick her oar in.”

“I’m going to ask her.”

“For Heaven’s sake, it was me.” You all look up in shock at Manby, who’s stood in the doorway. Manby finds you like that. It’s she who, to her great vexation unable quite to control her hands, bumps the tea tray she’s carrying against the door. After that single moment’s bungling at the door, she advances into the room. Even Fanny is shocked out of her nervous state, and Jim looks up in surprise.

“You? But it wasn’t your writing.”

“No. Taylor who works for the Thorntons did it. Like all ladies’ maids, she lives for intrigue.”

“You wanted me to come here?”

“I wanted both of the Skeffington daughters and their husbands to be here for their parents’ wedding, yes.”

To Manby, the only husband her mistress had ever had was still the master. She slid over that long-past lapse into the Law Courts, being unshakably of the opinion that once God had joined people together, no amount of talk by gentlemen in wigs could put them asunder. She applied the same school of thinking to you and Jim and Fanny and Johnny. Long ago she had discovered that the only way to approach the varied situations in which her lady so easily became involved, was to behave as if nothing were happening. A single glance at Fanny’s face, as she peeped through the door at her walking along the passage to the stairs, had convinced her that yet one more of these situations was upon them, and hurrying back into the bedroom she telephoned down to Miss Cartwright, and asked her if she knew what it was. The answer she got made her first hold onto the table, because her legs gave way, and then, recovering her breath and her courage, immediately rise to the occasion. Now indeed her mistress and her daughter must be helped. You and Fanny had both behaved in a way ladies shouldn’t have, but ladies weren’t gentlemen, and ought to be forgiven. By this time her mistress ought really to be able to forgive, and so should you, she thought.

“Why keep that secret?” you ask, furrowing your brow.

“Silly, wasn’t it?”

“I’m very touched. I’ll admit it. Makes me think maybe I’ve been mistaken in you, Manby.”

“I am a woman of many parts. After all, Masters, you are a me— I mean, Jim. Ha. You’re a member of the family now.”

The corner of Jim’s mouth turns up into a smile.

“You’ll find the Skeffingtons stick together.”

You smile and hug Manby, kissing her on the cheek to show your gratitude, not caring if it goes against propriety. She’s like a second mother to you, in a way.“What you did for us was really awfully swell and we’re very grateful, Manby. We never would’ve gotten here if it wasn’t for you.”

“I’d do it for myself.”

“How is everything downstairs?” you ask your husband.

“You know, when I crashed into the dining room and slipped into a chair, I looked pretty calm and comfortable. Well, I can still show the bruises where my knees were knocking together. Your Uncle George, your father, Fanny, Johnny, and I were all in the kitchen, chatting about this and that. This is one fine house. No beer.”

“Well, I’ve been gone for nearly four years. They’ve let the place run down. We’ll soon institute some reforms.”

“In the meantime, I made them all some of the white wine of the Mahabus to try.”

“Signifying an eternal friendship, huh?”

“‘Would you like a little wine? I can make some very nice homemade white wine for us while we wait for our brides to come down, Job. Nothing like a little homemade white wine to warm you up a bit. That’s what I always say. ‘Well, I don’t care if I do,’ your father said. Just as I poured everyone, including myself, a glass, your sister came in to check on us, so I invited her to join us and have a drink too. ‘I made it myself. Would you like to sit down?’ I said. ‘I hope you know what you are doing. She’s quite a handful, you know,’ said Fanny with a smile on her lips as she arched an eyebrow. ‘Who’s a handful?’ I asked. And she didn’t even hesitate before saying, ‘My beloved sister. Well, she is beloved by me, anyway.’ And so we shared a toast. I said, ‘To eternal friendship and your very good health. Drink hearty, everyone.’ ‘The things we do for a friend,’ your uncle said as he took a swig, only to immediately spit it out into the sink at the same time as Johnny! ‘Eternal friendship or no eternal friendship, we’re going for a beer later.’”

The three of you share a laugh.

“That sounds like Uncle George and Johnny.”

“Your father and sister seemed to like it, though. Or at least tolerate it. They actually swallowed it down, though your sister’s face was like that of a child swallowing syrupy cough medicine that was much too thick and tasted most foul. Your father didn’t seem affected though and drank it without so much as a grimace.”

“To calm his nerves?”

“No, he’s not nervous at all and he has no reason to be. He’s about to marry the love of his life.”

“Yes, it’s about that time, isn’t it?”

“Now, Fanny, no more tears. Would you like to go to your wedding wet or dry?”

“Dry.”

“Feel any better?”

“I’m all cried out. So I must feel better.”

“A little powder wouldn’t do any harm,” Jim teases.

“Now, won’t you send me to my wedding happy?”

“Of course. We best go down, Jim. What do you want to do after the wedding now that we’re back in the States? Go to the registrar’s office and renew our marriage vows? Make it official?”

“Well, I have a confession. I procured a license so we could marry at once.”

“Oh? Good old America. Some things never change. How did you manage that?”

“I have my methods. But the point is, it’s still valid. So shall we get married now?”

“Now? Like, now, now?”

“Since we’re here…” he turns to your mother. “How about it, Fanny? Why don’t we make this a double wedding?”

You playfully hit Jim on the chest for suggesting such a thing. He must be joking.

“Sure, why not? I’m ready.”

You gawk at your mother. Is she being serious?

“Come on, darling. It’s only the rest of my life,” says Jim, on one knee and with his arms stretched out.

You take him by the hands and pull him to stand with you. You look down at yourself and what you’re wearing. It’s the nicest outfit you have. A pant suit that gives the illusion of a dress, but is neither a skirt nor a dress. You wore this same pant suit to your own wedding when you and Jim got married in Switzerland. You never cared about what others thought of what you wore. But that ceremony was private, and you didn’t need to worry about what your mother thought because it wasn’t her day. It was yours. But now it’s her day, and you’re feeling self-conscious. This wedding is supposed to be for her and your father. It’s their wedding day, and you don’t want to intrude or take away from either of them. Finding it too difficult to find the words to voice all these thoughts, you simply ask, “But… I don’t look much like a bride, do I?”

“Of course you look like a bride. All married women do. There’s no need to fret over your appearance. You look perfect as you are.”

“But won’t I embarrass you? You look very fine in your new white lace. If we’re really going to have a double wedding, maybe I should change. I can wear the pink velvet.”

The pink velvet is old, from three or four seasons ago. From before you left. But beggars like you can’t be choosers. Surely it’d look nicer than what you have on?

“No. The pink velvet is pretty, but it doesn’t suit you. You never liked skirts or dresses. You only wore them begrudgingly and under protest. You should come as you are. It’s not like Jim cares what you look like or what you wear. Do you, Jim?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t love the clothes nearly as much as the woman wearing them. My suit is far from black tie, but you won’t refuse to marry me again because of it, will you, sweetheart?”

“You’re right. To wear anything else would be denying who I am. And I love you, Jim, more than the clothes you wear on your back. Okay. Let’s do this. I mean, if you’re both sure…”

You still find it so out of character for your mother as to be mystifying. You have to be sure this isn’t a dream.

“I am.”

“And I am too. So long as you don’t let me fall,” your mother says jokingly. “And your father will agree, so no need to worry about that.” She takes her bridal bouquet but then removes a handful of the flowers to give to you.

You take them with a soft “thank you”.

Jim holds out his elbow for you to interlace your arm with his. “Well, darling, shall we?”

“Here come the brides.”

You and Jim walk away, hand in hand, leaving your mother alone with Manby. Her mouth tight with determination, the thumping of her heart sternly suppressed, as a preliminary to steadying and helping, she begins measuring medicine into a small glass. Her ladyship’s tonic. Dr. Clark’s Blood Mixture. Recommended by Manby herself, and administered every evening at three o’clock. It’s now three o’clock. Habits, in her experience, if punctually kept to, are invaluable as reminders that there are other things in life besides shocks. Look at breakfast, for instance; look at brushing one’s teeth. And having measured, she puts the glass on a tray, takes it down with the composed tread and impassive countenance of one performing a daily duty at the appointed hour, and says, her eyelids respectfully lowered, “Your drops, m’lady.”

“No, thank you, Manby. I told you, I’ve given all of that up. You can throw it away. I don’t need it anymore. I never needed it.” Fanny takes one last look in the mirror.

“Never wish for beauty,” her father told her, as he handed her an old ring. “For if you do, you risk the envy of the thing that lives in your mirror. Do not wish for beauty, or it will try to take it for Itself.” Having had a sculptor for a grandfather, a knighted sculptor of the Victorian age, the old lady in her youth had heard great talk of moulding and of bones, and is able to recognize that the bones and moulding she now sees are undoubtedly what her father and his friends would have thought highly of. The line of the brow, for instance; and a peculiar graciousness, almost innocence, about the temples. Still, bones aren’t everything, and don’t make up for her make-up—she dwells a moment, pleased, on this sentence, glad to find she’s retained her early aptitude for turning a phrase. She had been the one of the family with a sense of humor. Her father used to say so. “Fanny,” he used to say, “you should send that to Punch.” So that, though she might be fifty-four in the years of her body, she is nothing like so much in those of her mind; and after all, it’s minds—isn’t it?—which keep bodies alive.

Her face that is battered by weather and wrinkled beyond recognition is her own. In her mind’s eye it is youthful, the face her mother and father kissed so many decades ago. There is every excuse, though, she reasons, for the hollow cheeks, after such a day of blows following on a tormented and sleepless night. Still, five years ago, even perhaps only a single year ago, no amount of blows and sleeplessness would have prevented her reflection from shining back at her with very nearly its usual loveliness. That horrid illness had done all this. To be as ill as that on the verge of fifty was very different from being as ill as that on the verge of thirty, and as she would probably never now get back her beauty she had better think out what had best be done with her boring, senseless future. But her future isn’t boring or senseless, is it? No. The mirror tells Fanny otherwise. Part of her wants to erase all those lines, wind back the clock and begin again. But there is another part that loves every crease, because they are part of who she has become - no longer a girl but a mother and maybe someday a grandmother. Yes, she and Job had had children. But she hadn’t thought that they too, by this time, would be all scattered and anyhow. Grown up. Married. While you expressed vehement disinterest in becoming a mother, Fanny, of course, might end up making a grandmother of her someday. Incredible, the things one could be made by other people. Fancy being forced to be a grandmother, whether she liked it or not! But— grandchildren. She turns the word over on her tongue cautiously, as if to see what it really tastes like. Back when she had had that awful illness in the spring, with her temperature up in the skies for days on end, her hair, she knew and once deeply deplored, wasn’t what it was. Nothing, since then, seemed quite what it was. She might’ve hid for years from people who didn’t look her up in Debrett that she had had a fiftieth birthday, but she couldn’t hide grandchildren, they would certainly insist on cropping up. Just as well, then, that there weren’t any yet. Who wanted to be dated?

But now, she welcomes change with open arms. Now she thinks—don’t grandchildren fill a gap? Don’t they come into one’s life when it’s beginning, like one’s hair, to thin out? She looks at the face in the mirror. It is the face of someone who has lived, suffered, loved, and grieved. Fanny cannot be anyone else and this crumpled face is part of who she is. Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. Grandmother. Grandma. Granny. It has a nice ring to it. Fanny stares at the sun through the bleary fog of happy tears that she’s quick to wipe away. Not because she’s afraid of smearing her makeup, she’s not wearing any, but because she’d rather go to her wedding dry than wet. You had once told her that wanderlust is like a pretty girl, you wake up one morning, find she’s grown old and decide that either you’re going to commit your life to her or you’re going to walk away. The light of the afternoon burns through her and fills her with epiphany. With the ring her father gave her safely in the palm of her hand, the choice is clear. She sees it now, and she’s never been more certain of anything.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to join together this man and this woman...and this man and this woman in matrimony. Will thou pledge thy troth to him? In love and honor? In faith and tenderness? To live with him and cherish him?”

“I will.”

“Have you the rings, gentlemen?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You will both repeat after me. In token and pledge...”

“In token and pledge...” Jim and Job recite in unison.

“...of our faith...”

“...and abiding love.”

“By authority committed unto me as Justice of the Peace...I declare Job Skeffington and Frances Skeffington née Trellis, and Jim Masters and Y/N Masters née Skeffington are now husband and wife...according to the laws and statutes of the state of New York. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s a privilege of the justice of the peace to kiss the brides.” The Justice of the Peace says as he gives both you and your mother a kiss on the cheek.

May 1940

Dear Dr. Jaquith,

The wedding turned out to be a double wedding! Jim and my sister got married again alongside Mom and Dad. It was like something out of a Jane Austen novel, and it was very sweet. For Mom and Dad, the double wedding included a Jewish Cantor who sang the Psalm in Hebrew and the Christian minister spoke the Palms in English. They broke the glass. “Hear, O Israel: the LORD is our God, the LORD is one” found in Deuteronomy 6:4,. the Jewish Shema, was part of Mom and Dad’s wedding text. It was a lovely display of interfaith love. The Lemps were invited, but this was purposefully kept secret from Jim and my sister. They were unfortunately too late for the ceremony. There was a family emergency or something that came up. But they made it in time for the reception. My sister was so surprised when Adam, Etta, all four girls, and their families came over. When she saw them, she dreaded approaching them...but the four daughters brought this painting with them that they all made together when they were kids. They kept it after all these years… And then they presented her with a new painting that they all made together as a family. Even the littlest kids participated.

“While we’re waiting for Mr. Masters...”

“What is it?”

“We painted this for you as a way of saying thank you for all your years of friendship, but...”

“But what?”

“We just realized it’s like asking for our work to be hung alongside all of the old masters.”

“I assure you I will value it highly, oh...for many reasons.”

And then there she was, crying at the kitchen table. They asked what was wrong and she was thinking about how we all used to be friends and how much she’d taken for granted...but instead she told them about school and Mother and Jim...and then how sorry she was that she wasn’t their friend anymore. They gave her a big group hug and said it was going to be okay. And she believed them. Maybe there’s hope their friendship can be rekindled after all. But then she snuck away and disappeared shortly after. Not even Jim saw where she went. After an exhaustive search, Dad and Uncle George tracked her down in the gardens, sitting on a high tree branch like she used to do as a girl, and convinced her to rejoin the family. Years of Mother’s manipulation left her a bit suspicious of the offer at first, but she finally agreed, provided she could paint a mural at Battersea Park dedicated to the memory of the lives lost in the wars. Father and Uncle George loved the idea, and wrote a letter to the city formally requesting permission for her to do it. The city agreed, and we all consider it the first meaningful step towards not only rebuilding our family, but strengthening the community.

Between Mother and her, there was still an armed truce. Mother threatened, but she didn’t act. My sister followed your advice: She stuck by her guns but didn’t fire. For years, they were in a stalemate. Now they’ve finally waved their white flags and have called for an official truce. While they still have a lot of issues to work through and it’s not water under the bridge yet, the water that was once a sea of turbulent waves crashing on top of each other has at least calmed to a gentle, trickling stream. There’s still rocks in the stream, but they’re mostly small, the size of pebbles. During dinner, Dad locked her in a serious gaze. “You know,” he said, calloused finger pointing right at her nose, “you kids have it easy. When I was a lad, the real work was in setting the snares for the wild parsnips.” She mock fainted on the table and Mother snickered. Sometimes there’s just no being serious past the age of fifty.

“Well, then, how did you become so successful?”

“I don’t wanna go on with the story of my life. It’s routine, rags to riches. Of course, I sold newspapers. I was a messenger during the day and went to school at night. You can fill in the rest.”

“There’s one difference. You didn’t marry the boss’s daughter.”

“No. But I married the woman everybody else wanted to. That makes up for it.”

She had just finished telling us the highlights and lowlights of her and Jim’s camping trip in Australia, when Mother showed us all the wedding gift she made.

“And then she painted this, Job. It’s a portrait of us in our old age…”

Mother went on to describe in great detail the painting to him. As she did, his eyes sparkled. Even if he can’t remember what colors look like, his imagination no doubt created a beautiful picture from her auditory description.

“It’s inscribed to us on the side.”

“How was the miniature painted? We didn’t sit for it. Did you paint it from memory?”

“Yes and no. I went for a walk one day, and there was a shop where a man was taking photographs. It reminded me of my own collection of photos. While I painted Mother from memory, I dug through my photos until I found the most recent one I had of you from Europe, and copied it from that. At the same time as I was painting it, I scribbled Mother a silly letter.”

“You wrote me a letter?”

“I never sent it. Of course, I should have burned it. It doesn’t matter now. Everything that’s in that letter is what I’ve already said to you in person.”

“Still… I would like to read it. May I?”

“Sure. It’s tucked in one of my notebooks. I’ll fetch it for you later.”

“I confess, I have unsent letters I also wrote to you, darling. I’ll give them to you to read before you leave. Remind me, in case I forget.”

“I look forward to reading them, Mother, but let’s not think on any of that now. Now is a time to celebrate.”

Over the years, you’ve become a great friend to us and I hope I’m not overstepping when I speak for all of us and say that we think of you and Charlotte as family. Thank you so much for everything, David. We couldn’t have gotten where we are today without you. We hope you’ll join us for holidays, birthdays, and other special occasions in the future.

Love,

Fanny Mitchell

#Jim masters x reader #mr Skeffington #daughters courageous #now voyager #claude rains #bette davis #crossover fic #crossover #crossover au #pls tag me if you’re inspired by this #I’d love to read it

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fairyringtaxiservice · 1 year ago

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This is Lumina. She has a last name but she probably won’t tell you what it is.

She’s my Dr. Stone OC for a fic I’m writing called Binary Star in a SenkuxOC asexual romance rewrite. She’s a medically-inclined character if only because I think they really needed to address medicine and disease especially early on in the series more than they did. Lumina isn’t especially interested in medicine specifically but disease terrifies her and she is fascinated by necrobiology, virology, chemistry, and the sneaky ways people kill each other and try to pass those deaths as natural or accidental. So, like, she’s practically a doctor, right? Yeah, totally. Absolutely. That’s how that works. Tsukasa thinks so too, so when they meet one day while she’s deliberating over whether or not it’s more merciful or right to kill a man suffering from rabies than to simply let the neurotropic virus run its terrible course, he kidnaps her because the Empire needs literally anyone to advise people not to rub dirt on their wounds hoping they’ll be magically healed.

As you can guess, Lumina is super unhappy with this decision, especially once she learns Tsukasa killed Senku, a totally cool guy who was her sort of, probably, kind of, actually friend and who was dedicated to absolutely launching illegal rockets into space and who didn’t care what legal framework or legislation had to say about it. Seriously dude, you need the Prime Minister’s permission for every launch with a payload. What a guy, right?

Anyway, so she spends her time in Tsukasa’s Empire Hospitality Suites forced to consult strange men about dermatitis, heavy metal poisoning, and broken hearts.

Wait no, why is that last one in there? She was quite possibly the worst person to consult about that? She wasn’t a therapist! Ah, whatever, she’ll choose to spend her time spitefully annoying Tsukasa until she figures out how to escape.

Hopefully. Probably. Maybe.

I feel like this summary is both very accurate but also a poor representation of what’s going on, so if any of this sounds remotely fun to you, please take a look and tell me what you think.

Here is the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45630784/chapters/114822286

#dr stone #dcst #dr stone fanfic #dr. stone #dcst OC

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shadeedee · 1 year ago

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Another Producers/MBS crossover fic enjoy!

Roger DeBris wanted revenge. His precious dress had been massacred by those pesky kids and their friends. He had been treated badly in the past for being gay. He wasn’t about to let the society mess with him. He had to think of an idea. He sat in his lavish chair, thinking. Then, he began making a weird noise and a strange face. “He’s having a stroke of genius!” Carmen exclaimed. Roger had a sneaky, devilish idea. First he had to make some phone calls. Meanwhile, Dr Garrison was adjusting to life as a mother, again. It had been a while since she raised Nate. She wasn’t sure if he remembered her properly or not. She filled up a bottle and held Nate in her arms. He was a heavy baby. Nate began drinking from the bottle and wriggled his toes. Dr Garrison smiled. Nate didn’t have a father anymore but a mother was just what he needed. Later, when all the society were asleep, there was a noise. Nate grunted in his crib. Suddenly, the door burst open and Mr Benedict’s house was ransacked. The figure of a person took Nate out of his crib and carried him to a vehicle, speeding off into the night. “That’s my baby! Give him back!” Dr Garrison cried, weeping. Mr Benedict was horrified. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him i promise you. We’re going to call the police,” he said. Nate was taken to the DeBris residence, where Roger was waiting. Roger was dressed in a lavish dressing gown with fluffy slippers. The mysterious figure handed the baby to him. Nate was still fast asleep, but grunted slightly. Roger kissed him tenderly on the face, leaving a glossy smudge. “What flavour is that gloss?” Carmen asked. “Watermelon. Your favourite,” he said, smiling. Carmen giggled, excitedly. During the search for Nate, police looked high and low but found nothing. Dr Garrison was being comforted by Mr Benedict as she wept. “Can you think of anyone who would want to take your baby?” asked the policeman. They all were silent for a minute. Then Garrison’s eyes widened. “Roger! Roger DeBris has Nate!” she cried. “The man who dresses like a lady,” said Constance. The kids chuckled. Mr Benedict coughed. “Uh, yes my dear. That one,” he said. But when the police went to confront Roger, he had his own story to tell. “That woman is an unfit mother. I did what had to be done. Now he’s safe. There’s things about her you don’t know about. Bad things. And i can tell you,” he said. Carmen came up to Roger, nuzzling his face. “Darling, i’ve got that feeling. You know, that lovey dovey feeling,” he said. “Not now Carmen. Just a bit longer, okay? Then we can snuggle,” Roger said, tenderly. Carmen whimpered. “Where is the baby?” asked the policeman. “He’s in bed. Safe. Don’t worry. I’m taking care of him,” Roger said. The police were stunned when they looked at Nate. He was the biggest baby they had ever seen. But something else was bothering them, too. He was wearing girls clothes and had a bowtie in his hair. Roger chuckled. “Yes. I gave him a makeover. A gay makeover. From now on he won’t be wearing any more boys clothes. He’s gay. Just like his papa,” he said. The police were very disturbed by it. “My god. We need to get the hell out of here now,” the policeman said. They rushed out of the house. “Don’t ruin the carpet! I just had it shampooed!” Carmen shouted. Roger smirked, smugly. The next day, Nate looked unrecognisable. Roger’s production team was putting makeup on his little face. “Put a little blush on. Bring out those rosy cheeks,” Carmen said. Roger watched, happily. Nate grunted as the men worked on him. They turned him around and faced him in front of a big, lavish mirror. The baby grunted in confusion. He had no idea what was going on. “You look divine! Absolutely lovely!” Carmen said. Roger chuckled, clapping his hands. Then he came over to them. He looked at Nate’s face. “He needs a little something extra. Wait a minute,” he said, and he took out some lipstick and applied it on Nate’s face. “There. Now it’s done,” he said. They all giggled and clapped their hands. “Keep it gay,” Roger sang. “Gay,” Nate said, in a little voice.

At the Benedict house, they couldn’t believe the police had simply walked out of Roger’s house and refused to return. “My baby is there! And they’re not doing a damn thing!” Garrison cried. “Then we’ll have to do it ourselves,” said Number Two. Mr Benedict looked at the children. “Up for another mission?” he asked. “For Nate, always,” Constance said. Mr Benedict smiled. At the DeBris house, Roger was sinking his teeth into a big burger. The cheese dripped from his mouth as he licked his lips. “Mmmmm. So delicious,” he gushed. Outside the house, the society crept around in the garden. “Maybe we can find the room Nate is in,” said Reynie. They made their way to the other end of the house. “Look! There he is!” said Sticky. But something was wrong. “That’s not Nate. That’s another baby,” said Kate. “No it’s Nate. I’m sure it is,” said Sticky. “If it’s Nate then why is he wearing makeup and a dress?” said Constance. Garrison felt sick. She rushed up to the window and saw a horrifying sight. She screamed in terror. “Nate! Oh my god what’s happened to you!?” she cried. Nate turned around and looked at them. His face was covered in makeup. Constance screamed. “We’ve got to get him out of there,” Mr Benedict said. Kate used the tools in her bucket to pry the window open slowly. “Come on Nate. We’re here to take you home,” she said. Nate didn’t move. He sat at the mirror, just looking at himself and babbling to it. “He’s acting weird,” Reynie said. “What the hell have they done to my baby?” Garrison said. Nate slowly crawled over to the window. “That’s it. Come on,” Kate said. Mr Benedict came over to help and went to lift Nate from the window. But Nate threw powder in his face and crawled away, fast. Mr Benedict coughed and spluttered then fell through the window, crashing into a closet and then knocking things over. “What the hell was that?” Roger said. “Upstairs,” Carmen said, and rushed up there. When he got to the door he found the room in a mess and Mr Benedict on the floor. Nate sat there, babbling. “What the hell happened in here!? How dare you make a mess of Mr DeBris’ room!” he shouted. “Oh shut up! Give me my baby!” Garrison yelled. Roger ran upstairs but had no idea Kate had set up a trip wire outside the door. He went flying across the room and then fell out the window, screaming in terror as he did. Carmen gasped in horror. Nate began to squeal and cry. Everyone was silent. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” said Mr Benedict. “Oh my god is he alright?” asked Garrison. “He’d better be or else i’ll have your asses arrested!” Carmen wept. Garrison held Nate in her arms as he squealed. “Oh i’m so sorry, Nate. I never wanted this to happen,” she wept. Later, they got told about Roger’s condition. “He’s going to be fine. He’s in a bit of pain but he’s fine,” the nurse said. Nate was asleep in Garrison’s arms, now. Roger was too tired to talk, so she sat Nate on the bed when the baby woke up. “I know he’s gay, but i guess I can’t deny him as your father. I’m going to have to accept it, as hard as it’s going to be,” she said. Nate tenderly touched his face with his small hand. Garrison smiled at Mr Benedict. “He’s not an orphan anymore. He has parents. His father may not be all as he seems, but he’s still his father. Nate has family. He’s Nate Garrison DeBris.”

#mbs #nicholas benedict #constance contraire #baby love #the producers #crossover

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monstermaster13 · 2 years ago

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Dr Aykroyd’s House Of Insanity.

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Sometimes what is weird to one person is normal to another and in this universe there is no such word as normal, everyone is weird and insane to some degree. Nathan loved Dan Aykroyd and as such wrote stories about him but he was wholesome about it and wasn’t harming the actual celebrity in question, and as such he was just being himself and there was nothing wrong with that but he wished some of his critics understood that and he wished there was a way to fix it and luckily there he was…he had Were-Aykroyd powers that allowed him to take him on a new persona, Dan the Were-Aykroyd who was a supernatural version of Dan Aykroyd who could hypnotize people and also charm them.

He knew exactly what to do as he got out a medallion he had in his possession and gazed at it, concentration and wishing…’I wish I could teach the people who tell me I'm not normal a lesson.’ ‘A lesson is what you want to teach them, then I shall help you with that.’

Dan Aykroyd’s spirit entered Nathan’s body, morphing him into Dan the Were-Aykroyd and allowing him to think of a plan, he decided to set up a horror house to teach these people a lesson, which converted his house into a horror attraction with real monsters, scares and even some demons. Speaking of those people, that’s where he saw two of them…Thomas Sheppard, who was Stephanie’s boyfriend and his lackey.

“Well, it looks like my first victims are here.”

“What did you call me, you nasty little weed?”

‘You heard me, Thomas. You know, it’s not nice to call others names like that. Maybe you should consider a new line of work that doesn’t make you an ignorant jerkass.’ ‘Maybe you should consider being less of a disgusting creep who does fetish fics of Dan Aykroyd and his dead friend and maybe you shouldn’t be talking about your strange fantasies and sexual fantasies.’ ‘Bla bla bla yeah yeah you think I’m a nasty little freak that needs professional help. Maybe you should see what it’s like to be weird, like me.’

“What do you mean by that?”

Dan chuckled, using his powers to make a ticket manifest in Thomas’s hand. ‘Oooh lookie here, you’ve got a ticket, you can come on in.’ ‘I didn’t ask for a ticket.’ ‘Oh yes you did, look, take a good look at it.’ ‘No way would I ever want to be part of your freakshow.’ ‘You have no choice i’m afraid. Besides, it’s better than parotting what your girlfriend said about me.’

“Parotting?”

Thomas screamed as he found himself suddenly growing feathers and he developed a half beak-like nose, looking like some kind of mutant parrot. ‘Hey! Cut that out?’ ‘Ooops, sorry..what’s that, sorry, dear boy I don’t speak parrot.’ ‘But i’m not a parrot, i’m a human being.’ ‘You don’t look or act like a human being to me.’

“You ain’t normal, you know that right?”

“Of course i’m not normal, but nobody is..now come on, the show is about to begin.”

He panicked as a pair of ghostly hands grabbed him and pulled him into the attraction, Dan, taking on the mad persona of ‘Dr Aykroyd’ showed him all around the attraction…he tried to complain but then Eucalyptus showed up, and summoned some Dan Aykroyd characters to attack him. ‘Next time you have something to say, don’t be a personal puppet for your own girlfriend.’ The green haired koala-girl teased.

“I am not a puppet.”

‘Oh yes you are, you’re like a sock puppet account for her who parrots exactly what she says because you don’t know better. Stephanie got fixed though, but don’t worry you will be fixed too and it will be fun.’ ‘I am not Stephanie’s puppet.’ He protested that remark but he found himself turning into a Spitting Image style puppet version of himself. ‘Oh yes you are, you don’t do anything unless she tells you, you believe what she tells you to believe.’

Several undead beings emerged from the walls and attempted to attack Thomas as ‘Dr Aykroyd’ and Eucalyptus showed him their little horror attraction, and a screen with multiple reflections of him popped up including one that showed him becoming a deformed creature, one that showed him turning into a doll, one that showed him peeling his face, etc.

He attempted to escape and he ran through the rooms in the attraction only to run into some of Eucalyptus’s mutants and a few Aykroyd characters. ‘What the hell, let me out of this nightmare.’ ‘Nightmare? I am afraid not, dear boy…this is very real. I know you probably think this is a rage-fic or whatever it is, but this is real and this is your lesson.’

Eucalyptus smirked…’Oh how I love someone who acts like they’re in the right but in actuality they’re wrong, you are just so wrong and you know it, you don’t understand weirdness, but I can help with that.’ ‘What do you mean by that?’ ‘Come now, don’t be shy.’

Thomas gulped as a pair of ghostly floating hands pulled him towards Eucalyptus, taking him into a laboratory, he attempted to break free but he was dragged over to a table where he was strapped in. That is when what appeared to be invisible needles were injected into his arm, as a result…his skin slowly began to mature as brownish hair slowly coated his arms which bulked up as his hands enlarged.

His fingernails lengthened a bit to resemble Dan’s as his chest and torso broadened, causing the buttons on his sporty button up shirt to pop off, the hairs from his arms covered his chest and his stomach making him look hairy but not overly hairy, he wasn’t on the same level as Alec Baldwin or Robin Williams.

He groaned as his stomach broadened and he bemoaned the loss of his athletic muscles, in addition to this his shoulders broadened and his rear plumped up and made him look like he had a thicc real end, and yeah I know this sounds erotic, but the fans told me as the narrator to describe it like this and well if Dan Aykroyd didn’t want to be viewed as simp-worthy maybe he shouldn’t have played such adorkable characters.

He looked at himself as his feet enlarged, two toes on both feet merging together to look like he had webbed feet. In addition to this his neckline altered while his back broadened and his height grow to around 6’1, his hair turned from dirty blondish to dark brown as his brow furrowed and his forehead enlarged, his eyebrows thickened and his eyes widened, one turning from brown to green and the other remained brown.

In addition to this his nose broadened with a cleft materializing in the middle of it as his lips plumped up to become kissable as he became more Aykroydian in appearance, becoming a perfect doppelganger of Dan as his voice contorted to sound exactly like him and his voice deepened and his mannerism altered to sound very much like him. ‘There we go, I fixed you. No more stupid crybaby antics from you.’

He realized he had been a bit of an idiot and he apologized to Dan and Eucalyptus before hugging them. ‘You are so right, I feel awful now, I didn’t mean to, it’s just I was told to judge Nathan based on what Stephanie said and I only do as she tells me because i’m afraid she’d kick my ass if I disobeyed her.’ ‘You don’t need to be afraid.’

“I don’t?”

“Of course not…you’re among friends here.”

Dan hugged his latest addition and admired him…’Another successful operation, another happy patient.’ ‘Indeed.’ ‘You are an excellent doctor, Dan.’ ‘Same goes to you, Eucalyptus.’ Eucalyptus giggled as the ghostly hands broke the new Were-Aykroyd free and allowed him to explore the lab.

‘You did such a great job.’ ‘Thanks, you too.’ And thus Eukie and Dan had a lovely time welcoming the new member of the group and as for Thomas, he had learned a vital lesson.

#dan aykroyd #transformation fic #monstermaster13

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laurabenanti · 2 years ago

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top 5 general danvers fics (your recommendations list is too big)

... i split this into categories to make it easier it wasn't easier i just want to sob and i think i just need to have their own page at this point because... yeah there's a lot of gd fics in there compared to everything else.

fave of all time: anatomy of a stoic by nashur

look - if you're not going to read anything here except for one thing - please read this. it's legit one of my top 3 fics of all time - regardless of ship or fandom or anything along those lines. i have only been able to convince one other person to read it, and they agreed it was fantastic. it's under 12k words, is a one-shot, and i really don't think you even need to know anything prior to going into this to enjoy it [it's au so knowledge of general fandom things is unneeded]. seriously - i do not shut up about this fic if stuff ever gets brought up to me. i reread it a lot because i like it that much. TL;DR please read this fic

ask me my top 5/10 anything

The other 4 are below the cut because i babbled and put small descriptions [from ao3] to assist~ [let's see if the read more behaves...]

fave canon divergence: sword of damocles by uisceB

Canon divergent from 1x13: When Hank shows up on the rooftop to stop Astra from activating Myriad, Astra manages to outmaneuver him, taking Alex hostage as a means of escape. Now, Alex finds herself a prisoner at the hostile Fort Rozz base, but as time goes by, she and Astra begin to form an unexpected bond, challenging each of their beliefs, and loyalties.

fave under 5k words: but gravity, love strangely may defy by mzhlf

In which Astra tries her absolute hardest not to care about people. It doesn't go well.

fave fic that's trope based: (soulmates au) a remedy for old injuries

Astra gets a second chance at life, when it is discovered that she’s being held captive by Cadmus, instead of dead at Alex’s hands as thought, and Alex brings her out. When a chance event reveals that the two of them are soulmates, Alex isn’t so sure that it will work out, for the two of them have many demons to get past. But, with Astra committed to a change of path, and Alex committed to keeping an open mind about her, both of them realize that they have more to offer each other than they had ever dreamed. A story about how Alex and Astra find their way to each other, and to happiness.

fave by a friend: engagements by theonlyspl

"Do you ever think we should just stop this?" her voice is almost alien in its huskiness, and considering the warm body next to her, somehow it seems appropriate. An Anon responded to a meme on tumblr asking for “Do you ever think we should just stop this?” + Alex/Astra and here's the result.

THIS IS CHEATING BUT I PUT A 6TH & 7th BECAUSE - idk

fave with an additional featured pairing: (has supercorp) a proper kryptonian proposal

Astra comes up with a brilliant plan to get Kara to propose to Lena, and ropes Alex in to help her. Along the way, though, she just might find herself ambushed by her own feelings for Alex.

fave crack / humor fic: some tough alien you are... by anonymississippi

Astra blows out her powers during a freak desert thunderstorm and wakes up the next morning feeling feverish and achy. Thankfully, her not-so-useless human roommate is there to look after her.

a couple honorable mentions because i just can't not put them you feel

(holiday cuteness) i saw mommy kissing astra by nashur

(domestic fluff) rainy mornings and black coffee by anonymississippi

(social media au - something i never knew i wanted) swipe right by anonymississippi

#anon replies #anon asked for 5 and i gave 10 i am so sorry #but not really??? i've gotten this question before but idk what happened to it so i meannnnnn #fic rec #replies #⭐️tp: i like you

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gretagerwigsmuse · 2 years ago

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every single time i read about darcy and bradley i get this little rumble or buzz in my chest! mila i simply cannot believe this is the end of their story! but it’s such a perfect and lovely end and i cried so much because it was so lovely and sweet and real and human and nothing went right but at the end of the day everything actually did? darcy and bradley are my absolute favorite bradley x oc couple like they feel so unbelievably real to me and you’ve done such an amazing job with this entire series, it makes me so happy every single time i see a new chapter or fic about them and i just want you to know how that i’m going to read this so many more times and have a good happy cry because they’re my sweet boy and sweet girl, my taylor swift ‘peace’ couple and they’ve finally gotten to the ‘give you my wild, give you a child’ phase x

“No, Dr. Bradshaw still works in the Pentagon archives, sir.” That might be too petty. - get fucking WRECKED cyclone! and then cyclone just going on about his book with bradley (and later darcy) had me in stitches! oh that man has no tact. you totally nailed cyclone here, like he’s such a fucking suck up and has his head shoved so far up uncle sam’s ass (“to the next generation of top gun graduates” PLSS STOP). i can just see the tension in bradley’s jaw throughout the entire conversation

You have every checklist memorized, a birth plan written up, an overnight bag packed, baby clothes, and diapers by the stack. Baby nail clippers, snot suction thingamajig, stroller, car seat, and an assortment of stuff your sister convinced you were essential. Bradley wisely didn’t comment on the parade of delivery people dropping off packages almost every day, tacitly accepting that this is just who you are. You have everything. You think. - i love love love this because it’s so darcy. like she knows all of this stuff is kind of ridiculous, but she’s Darcy so she needs to plan for every inevitability. which is ironic because nothing about her birth plan went…well, to plan. also they have so many thingamajigs now that like they Def didn’t have when i was a baby and i turned out fine, i can totally picture bradley not necessarily saying anything about the volume of packages, but like late at night going into their nursery and going through all the stuff and being like wtf is this???

That sunny Monday in May, the night after Bradley made you throw up (which he never stopped bringing up), you promise you will call the doctor first thing. - first this was so funny in part 1. and second i love how nonchalantly she brings it up? and the fact that it’s discussed frequently? like it’s absolutely hilarious

Bradley doesn’t get annoyed easily with you, but you know you have the tendency to push his limits with your rather blasé attitude to things you don’t like—like doctor appointments—and cruising along on the insistence it’s fine. You’re fine. - i feel like i always say this anytime i read a chapter with them, but i just love that not everything is perfect for them? and they both Know this? they’re just a real couple? like this is something my parents do? like darcy knows this annoys bradley, but she still continues to do it because she can’t get out of her own head about it? and then later she texts him that she made the apt because she knows he cares about it even if she doesn’t necessarily? ditto with the stereo system later? like darcy does not give a fuck about it, but bradley cares? idk those seem like small things, but it makes them seem so real and fleshed out to me

“Just Bug then.” He says fondly. “Just Bug.” You agree, not even questioning that it took Bradley less than 5 minutes to come up with a nickname for your unborn child. You feel giddy, strangely light, as a warm feeling spreads through you. Is this what it feels like to be pregnant? - this is so unbelievably sweet and gave me butterflies! oh i want to call my baby this one day, it’s absolutely adorable

Against what is your better judgment, you pick up. - famous last words, i knew how this was gonna end the second she picked up that phone, poor poor darce! birch being too much of a wimp to talk to her himself was pretty funny ngl. and darcy losing her shit, yet still being darcy enough to apologize to the assistant was perfect.

“Daddy will be back soon, Bug,” You whisper softly as you button the shirt up, feeling the baby move. “We just have both hold out a little longer.” - this KILLED ME! KILLED! ME! it was so cute! wearing one of his shirts! talking to bug! calling bradley daddy to bug! my heart melted!

And right now you are terrified that if you argue with him, that your stupid mouth will say something horrible, something you can’t take back, something like “well, you left again” because he did, and he’ll look at you again with that crushing guilt overshadowing him—and it’ll be because of you because and because you don’t actually deserve him. You hiccup as tears fill your eyes. - sweet girl no! 🥺

“What the fuck, Beth?!” You suddenly screech, ripping your hand from hers. Fuck staying calm. You need to urgently throttle your younger sister. - i always forget beth is younger! and i get what she’s trying to do, but ma’am! pick your moments! your big sister is really going through it right now! wait wait wait is beth actually ‘elizabeth?’ are they elizabeth and darcy a la pride and prejudice? was that mentioned previously? because i totally could have forgotten until right now

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He is supposed to be there with you. Bradley knows how scared you are and how much you tried to hide it. He is not supposed to be here. - this part didn’t make me cry the first time i read it, but i did the second time

The moment his feet reach the ground, he hasn’t even unclipped his helmet yet, Cyclone is yelling at him to hurry up as he is making a beeline towards him. Hurry up? For what? - and then he comes into the hospital room, hours and miles later with the helmet still in his hands? oh sweet boy! oh bradley!

“She sounded fine.” The assistant butts in. - i love her so much. darcy gives me amy brookheimer from veep energy with work stuff in the best possible way? like kind of terrifying, but you’re still so in awe of her? she’s amazing

Exasperated and in pain, you promised you would look over his writings at the earliest convenience, spelled out your email address between gritted teeth as a contraction thundered through your lower body. - this whole scenario of cyclone and the book is so fucking funny?!! i can picture darcy gritting out her dod email address while beth tries to feed her ice chips or something and she just keeps pushing her away

A warmth fills you. You missed his voice, and he sounds so close, like he can come in at any moment. Soon, another contraction will pull you away from his voice. You try to direct your sleepy brain to focus on Bradley to bring him closer. It’s working. His voice is becoming louder—he’s talking to someone. He sounds annoyed. There’s no reason to be annoyed, babe, you think. It’s all good. You’re here. Come here. I need you. - this also made me cry (but both times). ‘come here. i need you’ really got me and just the warm feeling of knowing he’s nearby and close and that everything is going to be okay? oh she must be so tired, sweet girl

Because in the doorway is Bradley, still in full flight gear—g-suit still zipped over his flight suit and helmet in his hand. His hair is messy and flattened at weird angles, like he only just pulled the helmet off. He’s towering over the strict nurse and arguing with her. - MY SWEET BOY! oh i love him so much it’s unreal

He’s half-sitting next to you on the bed when you collapse back on the pillows behind you, and he whispers to you how much he loves you, how proud he is, and how well you did. - stop stop stop this is so sweet pls i can’t take it! and him saying darcy could’ve done it without him??? sweet boy no! she could’ve, but she didn’t want to!

You feel like you’ve fallen in love with him for the first time, over and over again today. - girl me too the fuck

Bug is under his blanket, sleeping on Bradley’s bare chest, his fight suit tied around his waist. The blanket that had been draped over them has fallen off one of Bradley’s shoulders, revealing his muscular chest and the subtle movement of his abdomen as he breathes. - this is so hot yeah i’d be one of those nurses too wow

Wish You Were Here [2] | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | Some things you’d rather not face alone.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings | swearing, explicit smut / 18+ only

Words | 9.4k

Note | Can be read as part of One For The History Books (takes place post-epilogue—chronologically the final part) but also works as a standalone. Read part 1 here.

Library

He shouldn’t be here.

For years, Bradley simply accepted that being shipped around the globe was part of the job and never complained. But now, the one time he really didn’t want to be away from home, he received special orders. The Navy required him, him in particular, to lead specialized training on low-altitude maneuvers. And when you get orders like that, directly from an Admiral, you can’t really say no.

Standing at parade rest, staring straight ahead, Bradley can’t help but notice it’s annoyingly hot in vice-admiral Beau Simpson’s Florida office, despite it being late January and not at all that warm in Pensacola. Bradley is itching to get out of there, but the admiral is taking his sweet time leafing through his file. It’s bordering on the absurd.

“You know I like to get to know the aviators under my command, lieutenant commander. Understand what makes them tick.” He begins, without looking up from Bradley’s file. “It’s important for team building and trust, even if it’s just a temporary assignment.”

“Yes, sir.” Bradley replies out of obligation rather than interest.

“I see you finally got hitched?” Admiral Simpson finally looks up from the file, smile on his face. Bradley, however, is in no mood to discuss his private life with Simpson. His home life with you is off limits as far as he’s concerned—especially since that’s where he should be, and not here at the behest of Simpson no less, hundreds of miles away.

He still likes keeping some aspects of his life private. Bradley proudly wears his wedding band everywhere he can, only slipping it on the chain with his dog tags when he’s out on the tarmac or in the air. But that doesn’t mean he wants to talk about everything that is going on the home front with everyone.

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s been a while since I saw you at TOPGUN - how long are you married now?” Simpson continues conversationally.

“Just over a year now, sir.”

The admiral nods, studying the page with Bradley’s personal information.

“Spouse: Mrs. D. Bradshaw - Williams, Ph.D.” He mutters, before looking up again. “That wouldn’t be the Miss Williams that was at TOPGUN then, is it?”

“Yes, sir.” There’s no reason to hide it, although Bradley has to strongly fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“I remember her fondly, she did great work.” Simpson nods, and Bradley just about stops himself from shifting on his feet uncomfortably. “And I’ve read some of her articles from the senate committee—fascinating stuff—but is it true she hasn’t published anything lately?”

“That’s possible, sir.” You hadn’t mentioned writing new articles in a while, working on smaller projects instead.

“Miss Wil - that is, Mrs. Bradshaw hasn’t left her position at the DoD, has she?”

“No, Dr. Bradshaw still works in the Pentagon archives, sir.” That might be too petty.

“Of course.” Simpson just smiles, probably happy he got more than a two-word answer out of Bradley. “I’ve been thinking about putting my thoughts about leadership and strategy to paper for a while now,” He leans back in his chair, pressing his hands together. “For the next generation of officers, you understand, lieutenant commander?”

What the fuck?

“Anyway, I’d like to ask mrs- Dr. Bradshaw if she would look over some of my drafts.”

“You’d have to ask her directly, sir.” If this conversation was absurd before, it’s straight-up insane now. “But she won’t be available for the coming months.”

“Oh, how so, lieutenant commander?”

“She’s on maternity leave.”

Simpson narrows his eyes, before turning his gaze back at the file. Bradley already knows what’s coming: there is no mention of children, which means Simpson will put two and two together pretty quickly.

“How far along is Dr. Bradshaw?” Simpson’s tone conveys not casual interest, but purely a request for information —personal chat is over.

“38 weeks.”

“Will that pose a problem for your focus during these two weeks?”

Bradley’s fingers flex behind his back out of frustration, but he keeps his features neutral. He shared with his commanding officer he was not keen on leaving so close to your due date, but was told Simpson requested him personally, and not going was pretty much not an option.

Still.

He shouldn’t be here.

“No, sir.”

“Good. You have singular experience in low-altitude maneuvers, which is why you were selected.”

Bradley doesn’t say anything, but Phoenix and Bob, Payback and Fanboy—hell even Hangman—all have similar experience. Minus being shot down over enemy territory, he thinks bitterly. However, he is under strict instruction from his CO not to bring that up to Simpson. Part of him is itching to do it anyway and get sent home for it.

But that would be veritable career suicide.

“I appreciate it, sir.”

“Anyway, I suppose congratulations are in order, lieutenant commander.” Simpsons grins up at him. “To the next generation of TOPGUN candidates.”

Bradley has to actively stop himself from cringing. It’s probably meant well by Simpson, but can’t shake the intrusiveness of it all. He’s here to train recruits for two weeks, and that’s it. He’ll be on the first flight home, back to you, as soon as this assignment is over. In the meantime, he has zero interest in discussing this—if only for the guilt weighing on him for having to leave you and Bug now.

You took it well. Of course you did. You smiled up at him and said you would invite your sister to keep you company, so you wouldn’t be alone. But your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. This was the one thing you admitted actually terrified you. But you put on a brave face for him. And Bradley so desperately wished he didn’t have to leave you now.

“Thank you, sir.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You are alone. Again.

Your sister left for a day out in D.C. with her family. Bradley is gone. Hell, if you could leave you, you would probably do so too.

Miserable doesn’t even begin to describe it. Irritable. Anxious. Fucking furious.

Your body barely feels like it’s yours anymore; it’s unwieldy and everything hurts. You don’t fit into any of your clothes, and your feet are so swollen you are relegated to wearing slippers most of the time.

The worst thing is since you’re on maternity leave, you are bored out of your skull. You thought it would be nice to actually relax, and catch up on your nonwork reading, all the shows on your to-watch list, but you had enough of it after one long weekend. Years of having your brain constantly engaged has worn you out—do you even know how to take it easy?

Even if you wanted to do more research, double, triple check anything, every time you sit down at your laptop, Bug quite literally kicks up a fuss.

Your poor ribs and bladder usually bear the brunt of the assault.

You smile despite yourself as you grab a handful of honey-nut Cheerios. Bug.

That sunny Monday in May, the night after Bradley made you throw up (which he never stopped bringing up), you promise you will call the doctor first thing. But when Bradley brews coffee for you both that morning, and you throw up from it again, he practically threatens he’ll call you in sick and drag you to the clinic if he has to, despite you insisting you are fine.

You insist it’s a stomach bug. You insist it all the way up to the doctor’s office.

“Do you think…?” Bradley is leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, watching over you as you brush your teeth.

“Nah.” You practically cut him off, knowing exactly where he’s going with that question. You’re absolutely refusing to even start to entertain alternatives because if you let yourself believe for one second that it might be something else, you will be utterly crushed if it isn’t. You rinse out your mouth. “It’s just a stomach bug.”

You’ll probably get some antibiotics or something, a few days of prescribed rest and you’ll be right as rain. But Bradley is looking at you penesivly, like he’s trying to figure the meaning behind your reaction. Except there’s no meaning. It’s just a stomach bug, and it’s really nothing to get bent out of shape about.

But because even brushing your teeth doesn’t help settle the queasy, churning feeling in your stomach, you decide to call in sick. Bradley leaves you on the couch with a mint tea and a kiss.

“Let me know when you have the appointment.” He pulls the fleece blanket over you as you lie back. You nod. First you just want to close your eyes for a few minutes. Just to rest. You feel like you haven’t slept in days, even though you got up just an hour ago.

No. Call the doctor first.

As someone who takes health quite seriously, he has admitted it grates on him because he worries about you, and doesn’t quite understand how you can worry about so many things in your life, sometimes to the point of tears, but when it comes to your health you take it all in stride.

Embarrassingly, you don’t really have an answer for him either.

Pushing yourself back up, you dial the doctor’s office—they can squeeze you in at 3 in the afternoon that day, which gives you plenty of time to rest. You text Bradley that you have the appointment, knowing it matters to him.

That afternoon you walk out of the doctor's office, thunderstruck and with a stack of papers and pamphlets in your hand. Bradley calls you shortly after. He mentioned he would try to check in with you if he had a moment after your appointment. It shouldn’t still give you butterflies when you think about how Bradley prioritizes you even on busy days, and you feel a little bit guilty again as it’s your fault in the first place he’s worried.

“So, what did the doctor say?” You can hear by the cadence in his voice he is walking somewhere, and he sounds hurried.

You open your mouth, thinking of how to explain it, how to somehow bring this life-changing news gently, in a way that reflects the gravity of it, the strangeness of it, the joy. Or should you wait until he gets home?

“Darlin’? Are you okay?” Bradley’s voice is urgent.

Shit.

“I’m pregnant.” You blurt out sheepishly. So much for subtlety.

“Come again?” Bradley has stopped dead in his tracks. He must have misheard you. Yes, he did seriously consider it an option, it made sense in his head, but you seemed so adamant that he never really allowed the thought, the dream, to fully take hold.

“I’m pregnant.” You repeat, more self-assured this time. “They’ve timed it around six weeks.”

“Wha- I mean, fuck -” Bradley is stumbling over his words, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “That’s great! Amazing even. Fucking hell, I’m so happy right now.”

You laugh, although you feel like you’ve barely had time to actually grasp that you’re pregnant now. But Bradley accepts it so readily, making it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, that—yeah, of course. It’s what you both wanted, what you talked about, and you agreed on doing. And now it’s happening.

“Me too.” You smile.

“So really not a stomach bug?” Bradley can’t help but tease you.

You laugh again, despite yourself. He’s never going to let you live this down. “No, very much not.”

“Just Bug then.” He says fondly.

“Just Bug.” You agree, not even questioning that it took Bradley less than 5 minutes to come up with a nickname for your unborn child. You feel giddy, strangely light, as a warm feeling spreads through you. Is this what it feels like to be pregnant?

If only. You shove another handful of honey-nut Cheerios in your mouth. Nothing and no one quite prepared you for the perpetual discomfort of pregnancy—it comes in many forms, but there’s always a new goddamn thing aching, a new way to feel sick, or just the plethora of tears you’ve been shedding because you feel like you’ve been losing your sanity at times, barely having a hold on your emotions.

Bug is especially restless today, like he’s picking up on your mood. You want Bug to be born already, but you don’t want to go into labor without Bradley by your side. Of the many things you accept, you’ll have probably to face alone in having a naval aviator for a husband, giving birth is just one thing you desperately don’t want to go through alone. It terrifies you beyond belief, almost irrationally so.

Music usually helps calm Bug down. While you try to stop yourself from building up unnecessary expectations in your head of what your child will be like (god knows you know what it’s like to grow up like that), you do allow yourself that Bug might take after Bradley that way. It would bring him a lot of joy, you know that for sure.

Scrolling through your Spotify, you rub your belly. “What would make you happy today, Bug?” You wince as Bug squirms. “Some Rolling Stones?” Quickly selecting She’s a Rainbow and connecting to the sound system Bradley had painstakingly installed, you gently sway to the music and start walking around. You smile to yourself as you think back about how Bradley had explained all the details and exact science behind the music setup he was getting, and how he measured every angle and talked excitedly about every aspect. You love him, but goddamn, you cannot tell the difference. It all sounds great to you, so you happily nod along and agree, enjoying his absolute passion for the subject more than anything coming from the speakers.

Bug is finally chilling out too. Closing your eyes, hands resting on your stomach, you feel the anger and anxiety finally ebb away. This is not so bad. It’s just you and Bug for now, and you’ll be fine. In a week Bradley will be back, your sister will be back in Colorado, and you can welcome Bug together, just as you planned before he was ordered to Florida.

You love your sister, you really do, but if she drains the blood from you under normal circumstances, she's insufferable now. Or you have become insufferable. It’s honestly a toss-up at this point, but you’ve been at each other’s throats even more than usual. You feel sorry for her husband, who probably thought he was coming over to Fredericksburg for a nice break, but instead has been trying to run interference between you two.

But they’re out for today.

You get to enjoy some peace.

Of course, it could never last long. The music cuts out harshly as your phone starts ringing.

Well fuck.

When you see the number, and you recognize it as coming from the Pentagon, you strongly consider just not picking up. But. You are also curious. Who is looking for you? What do they want? Did someone fuck up? Your brain is itching. Maybe it’s something you can kill time with. But you really shouldn't—you’re on maternity leave.

Against what is your better judgment, you pick up.

“Darcy Bradshaw-Williams speaking.”

“Good morning, Dr. Bradshaw,” A nervous voice starts at the other end. “I’m calling from Birch’s office.”

Why isn’t he calling you himself? Since when does Birch contact you through an assistant?

“Uh, okay.” You reply, not unkindly. “What is this concerning, as I am currently on maternity leave?”

“It’s uumh - well, there are some papers that you need to sign before the senate committee report can get archived.” The poor girl on the other end sounds terrified. You don’t think you’re particularly intimidating, but you don’t recognize her voice, so you surmise she must be new.

Patience. You were once the new girl doing the shitty jobs no one else wanted. Like calling the pissy pregnant lady on leave.

“Oh, well, email them to me, and I will sign digitally,” You reply easily. “That’s not a big deal.”

“It, uhm, can’t be signed digitally, it needs to be done by hand.”

“Then… what are you suggesting exactly?” You keep your voice light, but quite frankly, you are gobsmacked. Out of all the bureaucratic bullshit…

“So I’ve been asked to- well, ask you,” Her voice wavers. “If you’re willing to come in to sign those papers.”

Really?

“No.” You can’t keep the annoyance out of your voice. “Look here, miss…?” “Brown.” The reply comes in a half-whisper.

“Look here Miss Brown, I know you are only relaying the message, so please put Birch on the phone, I know he’s there.” Keeping your voice level and professional is becoming harder by the second.

“He can’t come to the phone.” Miss Brown supplies hurriedly.

Coward.

“I’m 39 weeks pregnant, are you actually suggesting I come down all the way to the Pentagon?” You ask much louder than is probably necessary.

“We-, I suppose, we could also fax you the papers?” Miss Brown tries.

“Where the fuck do you think I live? 1992?” The words come out of your mouth faster than you can bite your tongue. Oh no, you didn’t mean to have an outburst like that at the poor assistant. It’s all just so fucking absurd because of course, what does the digital era mean in the DoD? Showing up in person. Jesus Christ.

“I’m sorry Miss Brown,” You apologize, cringing at yourself. “That was not meant for you.”

“It’s okay.” A small voice on the other end replies.

“By when do you need this?” The wheels of the DoD turn slowly, after all. Maybe you can push it back until Bradley is at least back so he can drive you. Worst case scenario until your sister is back. But right now, you are standing in your living room dressed in Bradley’s old Navy shirt covered in Cheerios crumbs and a pair of old sweatpants. You’re really not wanting to go out today.

“Today,” Miss Brown informs you. “As soon as possible, really.”

“Today!?” You yell, knuckles white as you clutch your phone. “You have got to be kidding me!”

You take a deep breath. You have to keep your cool. Be professional about this.

“Put Birch on the phone.” You grind out, fist balled at your side.

“He - he says he can’t come to the phone…”

“Then I’ll come to see him in person.” You bite out, acid dripping from your words,, hanging up angrily. They want to play like that? Fine. You’ll play along, you fume as you stomp through the house up to the bedroom. You’ll go to the Pentagon, you’ll sign the stupid papers, and you’ll lob the whole packet at Birch’s head while you’re there.

Shit. Do you even have anything nice to wear to the office? Maybe you should just show up like this—although funny, you’re too self-conscious for that. Also, you still want to have a job to return to eventually.

Bug is mercifully calm, unlike you, as you dig out a knee-lenght skirt with an elastic waist. Shimmying it on, you’re glad to find out it still sort of fits, the waistband rest comfortably under your stomach. You end up slipping on a pair of nylons with it, not quite convinced you be able to pull up a pair of tights and afraid they might be too tight anyway.

Now for a top. You won’t try one of your regular button-up shirts, even as a joke. Even the loose-fitting ones won’t close over your stomach anymore.

That leaves Bradley’s closet.

You rifle through the shirts he neatly hung up on clothes hangers, taking care not to pick one that belongs to one of his uniforms. Settling on a soft dark blue one, you feel a pang of sadness when you slip it on. It smells of him. He’s only been gone for a week and will be back so soon again, but that doesn’t take away that you are alone right now.

“Daddy will be back soon, Bug,” You whisper softly as you button the shirt up, feeling the baby move. “We just have both hold out a little longer.”

Fixing your hair and doing minimal makeup, you quickly text your sister you have to run an errand and you’ll be back later, just in case she beats you home. You doubt she will reply to you any time soon though, she’s probably busy taking pictures or videos. For as much as you don’t understand how much your sister shares online, you are happy she’s doing something she enjoys and she’s good at it. Sometimes she even takes a nice picture of you.

You don’t text Bradley. For one, he’s probably busy, and two—you have a nagging feeling in the back of your head—you shouldn’t be doing this. Bradley would be rightly unhappy if you were driving yourself an hour up north, by yourself. But you don’t want to argue right now—you’ll argue with anyone, but you desperately don’t want to lose your temper with Bradley.

You said you were fine when he told you he had to leave. He was so unhappy, the pain in his eyes was burning a hole in your heart. So of course you said you would be fine. But you aren’t. And right now you are terrified that if you argue with him, that your stupid mouth will say something horrible, something you can’t take back, something like “well, you left again” because he did, and he’ll look at you again with that crushing guilt overshadowing him—and it’ll be because of you because and because you don’t actually deserve him. You hiccup as tears fill your eyes.

Shit.

Get it together.

The quicker you leave, the quicker you’ll be home and there won’t be anything to argue about.

Now. Is it a horrible idea to wear ballerinas in the middle of D.C. winter? Yes. But no other shoe will fit you, and your fluffy slippers are arguably an even worse choice. God, you can’t even button up your nice coat anymore either. Better wrap up thick with a good scarf.

You heave yourself into Bradley’s Bronco—you promised you would only use his car if you really needed to go somewhere—but it’s so goddamn high.

“I can’t wait until you can climb in yourself, Bug.” You joke. Adjusting the rearview mirror, you catch sight of the baby carrier affixed in the back seat, and your heart jumps. You pestered Bradley so much to put it in already.

“I fly million-dollar fighter jets for a living, darlin’,” He told you smugly. “Don’t you think I’ll be able to figure out a car seat?”

“Do it then.” You smiled back, handing him the manual, knowing he won’t back down from you goading him.

It took him a good twenty minutes and a lot of colorful swears to figure out how to affix the base properly, so it wouldn’t move. You didn’t say anything, just smiled sweetly and kissed his cheek as he shot you a venomous look when he was finally done.

Pulling out of the driveway, you turn on a calming playlist, hoping Bug will not decide to tap dance on your bladder while you’re driving.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This is all then, boss?” You groan as you sign the last of the papers. They could have really mentioned on the phone you had to initial about 50 pages too. Your hand is cramped, and the chair is uncomfortable and making your lower back hurt—you don’t even have the energy to give Birch a piece of your mind. You just really want to go back home now.

“Yes, Dr. Bradshaw.” Your boss nods curtly. “And thanks again for coming in on such short notice in your… condition.” He adds carefully, avoiding looking at you.

You wonder if your hardened former marine boss is scared you’re going to go into labor on his watch, because you have never seen him so awkward.

“Yeah, of course.” You reply, trying your best to conjure up a polite smile, but wincing slightly as you get up. “I’ll be taking my leave now.” You joke poorly, waving your hand trying to get the cramp out.

You bid goodbye to your boss and a few of your colleagues, but your prime motivation is to get out of the Pentagon right now and get home. You’re starting to feel weird, not in your stomach, but in your gut.

You shouldn’t be here.

As fast as you can, which is not very fast all things considered, you try to make your way back to the car. The pain in your back is getting worse, shooting down your sides. You need to sit down comfortably, you tell yourself, and then it will get better.

Why is the parking lot so far away? You waddle miserably. Your feet are hurting too now, your soles burning at every step in your too-tight shoes. Finally, you reach the car, panting by now. With a grunt, you clamber into the driver’s seat.

Finally you can relax. Bug is not having a good time anymore, squirming, probably as uncomfortable as you are currently. It’s making your stomach hurt.

“We’re going home.” You mumble, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Just let me catch my breath, Bug.”

After a few minutes of sitting in the comfortable seat, the pain finally starts to subside. Starting the car, you hum to yourself to keep calm. Just get home.

You barely make it out of the city before you realize you need to pee urgently. There’s a mall just off the main street, as you remember, so you’ll just take an early exit there. You are nearly shaking in your seat as you park and snatch your purse out of the car.

You really think you’re about to burst, and it doesn’t help your feeling increasingly anxious.

You shouldn’t be here.

You need to get home.

Coming out of the bathroom, your back hurts worse than before, and it’s starting to spread to your stomach. Fuck. fuckfuckfuck. You try not to swear out loud and grimace too much as you wash your hands next to an elderly lady.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” The lady asks, her pearl necklace glimmering in the stark artificial light of the bathroom. Her light gray hair has a faint purple sheen that you are not sure you are imagining. From the corner of your eye, you can see your reflection—you look pallid.

“Ye- yeah, all good.” You force a smile on your face. At that moment, pain suddenly shoots through your abdomen with such severity, you nearly double over. It’s not even the worst of your problems, you realize quickly, as you feel a trickle run down your leg.

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

This is not happening.

Breathing rapidly, you grind your teeth helplessly.

“Oh dear,” The lady immediately grabs you by the elbow, helping you upright again. “I think the baby is about ready, sweetie.”

“No.” You utter softly as tears spring in your eyes. “Not yet.”

“Come, let's find you a place to sit and clean up.” She probably didn’t hear you as she starts leading you outside to a bench by the bathroom entrance. “Where’s your husband, sweetie? He should come get you now.”

At the mentions of husbands, you just start pathetically sobbing. “H-he’s not here.”

“Oh dear.” The kindly lady hands you a tissue to dry your eyes.

“He’s in the navy, and he’s in fuck-fucking Florida until next week.” Your words are coming out punctuated by sobs. “S- so the baby can’t come yet.” You add, urgently, trying to dry your eyes.

“Who can I call for you?” She asks gently, as she rubs your back. You wince as another wave of pain shoots through you.

“My sister.” You say weakly, reaching into your pocket to dig out your phone. No matter how much you want to call Bradley right this minute, you also know that there is very little he can do all the way from Pensacola. Beth needs to come to get you. So she better pick up.

Every time the phone rings and Beth is not picking up, your anxiety ramps up further. The bench you’re sitting on is uncomfortable, the wooden slats digging into your sore back and you’re having trouble catching your breath as your shaking fingers nervously pluck at your unbuttoned coat.

“Why isn’t she picking up?” You breathe, bending your head forward. Black spots are appearing in your vision.

“You need to calm down.” A kind voice is telling you. You know. But you can’t control it. There is one thought permeating over everything else.

Not yet.

The lady’s voice sounds far away, as you clutch your head, trying to desperately not have your vision go completely black on you. But you don’t know how to reason yourself back from the edge at this point, not seeing a solution to your predicament or grounding yourself in logic and pragmatism to deal with the problem at hand.

You need Bradley.

“Sweetie, I’m calling you an ambulance.” The voice sounds like it’s on the other end of a bad connection. But you manage to nod.

You only sort of remember flashes of everything after that. Another person talking to you, laying down on a stretcher, clutching your bag, more voices, and then a silent room.

Bug is okay. That’s all you really remember, and it’s all you really care to remember right now.

If you just lay here, and wait, Bradley will come for you. You hope he won’t be mad at you for going to work so close to your due date, and then having a panic attack when your water broke. You’re already mad enough at yourself.

You asked to nurses to try and call him, but they keep telling you no one is picking up. They reached your sister at least. Oh, joy.

Beth of course comes in all guns blazing. You see her husband scurry away with little Emma in his arms after he says hi to you. Smart man. You wish you could hide under the bed.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” Beth seethes. Jesus, why is she so angry? You sit up, sending her a withering look.

“What?” You reply curtly. The nurse implored you to stay calm so your blood pressure wouldn’t rise too much.

“What? What?” Beth stalks up to the foot end of your bed, pointing her finger at you accusingly. “Darcy, have you gone completely insane? Can you not be left unsupervised for one afternoon? Seriously, who are you, and what have you done to my sensible sister? Does Bradley get custody of your brain cells when he is deployed or something? Jesus Christ.”

You’re not going to get in a word edgewise right now, so you don’t even try.

“You nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack. What the hell am I supposed to think when the hospital is trying to urgently reach me? But what a fucking surprise! It’s a hospital in D.C.! A place my dear darling sister has no business being.”

Still not saying anything, you avert your eyes.

“What were you doing in D.C.? And I swear to fuck, Darce, if you say it has anything to do with work, I will not hesitate and burn your book collection.”

At that, you choke back a sob. You feel so guilty, it’s starting to consume you. If you had stayed home and relaxed like you were supposed to, you probably wouldn’t have gone into labor yet. Beth is right to be angry with you. Bradley will probably be. You promised you’d be careful, you promised you’d take it easy, you promised yourself you would hold out until he would be back.

“No, but seriously, have you lost all common sense? Do you need a -” Beth finally stops her tirade short as she sees you cry silently, not even bothering to defend yourself. She’s seen you cry plenty of times before, hell, she’s made you cry a lot of those times. But never like this. Never like you’ve given up. You always fight back, you are always doing something. Usually, it’s Beth who tries to stop you from completely overdoing things. But now you’re just sitting there crying.

“Darcy- Darce, what the hell?” She walks around the bed and sits down next to you. “You are freaking me out now.” She tells you seriously, as she grabs your hand. You just shake your head as tears stream down your face. “Have you reached Bradley yet?” She asks, her voice a lot softer.

You shake your head. “He’s still not picking up”

“And?”

“And what?” You sob softly.

“Since when have you ever given up at the first hurdle?” Beth pushes. “Really, you got married, knocked up and now you’re going to sit pretty? I’m disappointed, honestly.”

Something dangerous flashes in your eyes as you turn to look at her, drawing a shuddering breath. Gotcha. She’s going for the jugular now.

“No, really, I mean—you’re just going to wait around for your husband like this? I’m sure he’s appreciating all your efforts to get in touch with him as soon as possible.” Beth sneers at you.

“What the fuck, Beth?!” You suddenly screech, ripping your hand from hers. Fuck staying calm. You need to urgently throttle your younger sister. “You’re supposed to be on my side here! Can you for once in your life not antagonize the ever-loving shit out of me? I’m in pain, I already feel like shit, and I’m alone here! I know—I fucking know—it’s my screw-up.” Your voice is raw from crying. “Why are you so fucking hell-bent on kicking me when I’m down? Can’t you just be here for me, for once—just this fucking once?”

“Because you are being ridiculous, and no one but me will tell you that!” Beth matches your volume easily. “You don’t sit here just because Bradley’s not picking up his phone. Do what you always do. Do what do best, you dumb bitch. Organize a fucking solution.”

With that, she snatches your phone from the table next to the bed and pushes it into your chest. “I’m going to get a coffee. Let me know if you need help.” Beth cuts at you with an eerie calmness as she gets up and walks out the door without as much as a look back at you.

You sigh heavily, rubbing your stomach. “Let’s figure out a way to let daddy know you’re early, Bug.”

There are many things you didn’t anticipate about going into labor. How long it would take, how painful it would be, to name a few. But mostly, you didn’t anticipate having to argue and beg your way up your husband’s chain of command before you reach someone that could actually reliably relay the message to him, urgently.

For the last ten minutes, you’ve been arguing with Simpson’s assistant, who seems deeply unwilling to either put you through or to confirm he will forward the message to the admiral.

“He’s supervising training maneuvers now.” He tells you in a bored tone. “So it will have to wait.”

You push yourself off the bed, and start pacing. “Lister here -” you stop yourself before you call him a little shit. “Lieutenant.” You add after a suspiciously long pause. “I know he’s supervising the maneuvers. My husband is the one flying them.”

“Well, I can’t patch you through to the jet, not from a civilian phone.” He replies in the same bored tone.

“I’m not asking for that, am I?” You grind out as a contraction stops you dead in your tracks. Your face twists in pain and anger. “Tell admiral Simpson Dr. Bradshaw needs to speak to him urgently. He knows who I am.”

You are banking on Simpson actually taking the call based on what Bradley told you. If he actually gives Bradley the message, you will willingly edit any brain fart Simpson puts to paper for publication. You swear under your breath.

Finally you hear the hold tone. You let out a deep breath as much to steel yourself for hopefully the last leg of this telephone journey, as well as to help abate some of the shooting pain.

“Dr. Bradshaw!” Simpson is entirely too jovial for the current situation. Calm. You need to stay calm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Rooster, Rooster—this is tower, come in.”

“Come in, tower.”

It’s been an absolutely grueling day of flying. Bradley is tired and in pain and glad to be on the way back. He wants a shower, bed, and you on the phone.

Cyclone better not have him on paperwork or other stupid errands today.

“Rooster, this is Cyclone from tower.”

Fuck. Cyclone only calls in to complain or heap on additional bullshit to his day.

“Copy, Cyclone.” Bradley tries to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Your wife called, Rooster. She’s in labor.” Cyclone’s message is wholly unemotional like he’s simply updating Bradley on changing weather conditions.

“Copy that.” It’s almost comical that that’s the only thing Bradley can come up with to say, more because it’s second nature, rather than him acutally parsing what was just said to him. But how do you react in a moment like this?

He needs to call you.

He needs to talk to you.

If he can’t be there physically, which pains him more than he cares to admit right now as his hands tighten around the steering, he wants to at least to be able to talk to you.

Shit.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He is supposed to be there with you. Bradley knows how scared you are and how much you tried to hide it.

He is not supposed to be here.

“Rooster, return to base urgently.” Cyclone orders him. Bradley replies affirmative, breaking formation and speeding up. He has no idea what is going on right now. A million things are running through his head, but most of all he wants to turn his jet around and blast north toward Virginia. Rationally, he knows that it’s out of the range a fully fueled F18 can fly, and his tanks are running near empty.

That feeling of powerlessness is creeping up on him again. You are almost a 1000 miles away, and he has no manner of reaching you, despite sitting in a fighter jet. The clock is running, you are alone, and he can’t do anything.

When Bradley touches down, he’s a good ten minutes ahead of the rest of the squadron, who were ordered to stay on speed and formation. As he taxis into the bay, he notices, to his utter confusion, Cyclone jogging across the tarmac followed by his sour-faced assistant.

Bradley has a sinking feeling in his stomach. This can only mean Cyclone is pissed about something that happened in the training, and Bradley is about to be dragged into a painfully long debrief. It’s just his luck today.

He shouldn’t be here.

“Rooster!” Cyclone is hollering at him and waving his arm frantically the moment the canopy lifts.

Bradley starts climbing out of the cockpit, bracing himself for the inevitable dressing down. The moment his feet reach the ground, he hasn’t even unclipped his helmet yet, Cyclone is yelling at him to hurry up as he is making a beeline towards him. Hurry up? For what?

Is there something wrong with you? Is that why he was ordered to land? Is that why Cyclone is running across the tarmac yelling? Is it something he absolutely could not be told in while in the air?

Bradley stands rooted to the ground as he watches Cyclone approach, who is now gesturing wildly at him to also start running.

“Rooster, move your ass already!” Cyclone yells so loudly, that several engineers look up in surprise.

Almost automatically, Bradley starts running in the same direction as Cyclone and his assistant, his muscles protesting heavily against the sudden motion.

“What the fuck is going on?” He blurts out, adrenaline rushing through his body, every sense in overdrive.

“There’s a transporter leaving for D.C. in -” Cyclone quickly looks at his watch as he tries to catch his breath. “Two minutes.”

The assistant trusts a paper in Bradley’s hands. “Emergency 48-hour leave.” He deadpans.

“Wha- what is going on?!” Bradley exclaims angrily, clutching the paper forcibly as he slows down his run. Emergency leave? A plane to D.C.? However, instead of answering, Cyclone grabs him by the elbow and practically starts dragging him along to the second taxiway.

“Your wife is in labor. You’re getting emergency leave.” Cyclone grinds out. “And a “thank you sir” would be nice.”

“Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” Bradley asks hurriedly instead, completely ignoring Cyclone’s comment about showing respect, because his need to know that you are both okay is really the only thing he really cares about right now.

“She sounded fine.” The assistant butts in.

Cyclone is now practically pushing him up the ramp of the transporter plane. The loader is waving at Bradley with hurried motions to get in.

Over the sound of the roaring engines, he hears Cyclone yell: “She’s at The Virginia Hospital Centerl!”

Bradley puts up his thumb. “Thank you, sir!” He yells back.

“And kindly remind Dr. Bradshaw she owes me one!” Cyclone adds, grinning, as the ramp is closing.

Owe him one? What? Bradley is even more confused than he was less than a minute ago. Why are you not at the hospital you had picked together in the first place? Isn’t VHC in D.C.? It doesn’t really matter right now. At least he knows you and Bug are okay, and he’s on his way to you.

However.

He doesn’t have his phone, he doesn’t even have his wallet. All he has on him right now is his military ID. How the fuck is he supposed to get to the hospital from the air base?

As he straps in, Bradley can’t help but wonder: did he just get washed up by the Cyclone?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You shuffle around your hospital room miserably, while your sister chills in one of the chairs playing with her phone. The nurses have been checking up on you regularly, but your blood pressure is pretty steady now and everything seems to be progressing normally. A particularly strict-looking nurse reprimanded both you and your sister quite harshly for making such a scene in the maternity ward. Honestly, she was right to do so.

The contractions are coming more often and more severely. Your lower back is killing you, but you’ve been told it’s still too early to give you any medication.

After you managed to get through Simpson, he was quick to promise to inform Bradley about your condition, but then promptly went on to ignore you were in labor and talked your ear of about something he wanted to publish.

Exasperated and in pain, you promised you would look over his writings at the earliest convenience, spelled out your email address between gritted teeth as a contraction thundered through your lower body. At this point, you would have probably promised your firstborn—well, no, not that, but anything else—so you could at least talk to Bradley.

So now you are desperately waiting for Bradley to call you. It’s been almost two hours since you’ve spoken to Simpson, surely he’s not still flying? When you try to call him, his phone just rings and rings before switching over to voice mail, like it’s been doing all day. Where is Bradley?

Unhappily, you push yourself to accept he won’t be here with you, but that you won’t even be able to talk to him? That’s cruel.

Waddling back to your bed, you slide in, pulling the cover over yourself. The nurse mentioned she would get you a hospital gown soon, since you had absolutely nothing with you. There are so many things you have to think about, but your brain is not cooperating anymore. All you can think about is how miserable you are—in pain and lonely. Beth keeps telling you to suck it up, but you don’t want to. You get to be sad if you want to.

Of course you are happy that Bug is coming. That’s not the point. But there are so many things running through your head, it’s hard to focus on the positive side of it all. You should ask your brother-in-law to drive down to your house and get your overnight bag. You need to figure out how to get back to the Bronco too, as that’s the only car with a baby seat. Personally, you think your brother-in-law is kind of a shit driver, so you’d rather not resort to him picking the Bronco up. Then there’s paperwork. Forms, informed consent, insurance—if you have to sign one more fucking thing today you will scream.

It’s too much.

Pulling the blanket over your head, you curl up, trying to stave off the pain in your lower body. Bradley’s shirt still smells like him. Sadly you consider if this is the closest he is going to be here today.

“Beth?” You mumble from under the blanket, voice thick with tears.

“Yeah?” Beth finally looks up from her phone. It’s concerning her how much you seem to be suffering from Bradley not being here—you were always independent, on top of everything, and you sure as hell didn’t mope around this much. You told her you were scared of going into labor alone, and Beth understands that. And she feels sorry for you, but never has she seen you behave like this, and it’s actually kind of freaking her out.

“Can you please ask Erik to get my overnight bag from home?” Your voice is quivering. “Everything is in there, it’s right by the door.”

“Yeah, of course.” Beth gets up and walks up to the bed. She gently lifts the cover to look at you. Your bloodshot eyes look back at her. “Do you need anything else, Darce?” She asks as she squats down, so she’s at eye level with you. You shake your head.

“We’re in this together, okay? I know I’m not the person you want here.” Beth tells you gently, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “But you can do this, I know you do. And I’m here for you.”

“Thank you.” You whisper. “And you are a close second, don’t worry.” You try to joke through your tears. Beth laughs softly.

“It’s okay, I’d pick your hot husband over you too.” She winks at you. You groan in disgust.

“I’m telling Erik you said that.”

“Too late, I already texted him to go get your bag.” Beth waves her hand dismissively. “He’s taking Emma with him, hopefully she falls asleep in the car for a while.”

It’s getting dark outside already. You sigh. This morning at home feels like a distant memory already.

Still wrapped in your blanket cocoon, Beth continues stroking your forehead and talking you through breathing exercises. It’s helping you relax finally. You close your eyes and just focus on Beth’s gentle voice. It feels like you're falling in and out microsleep, Beth’s voice becoming so distant at moments you cannot make out the words before a contraction pulls you back to the present. As the pain ebbs away, so does your consciousness.

It must be the third or fourth cycle of micro sleep you fall into, Beth softly humming now, when you swear you can hear Bradley’s voice. You cannot make out what he is saying, because it sounds like he’s in a different room, but it’s unmistakably him.

The door clicks open. It’s like the floodgates open. You can hear Bradley’s voice clear as day now—and he’s really annoyed. Seriously, the best your brain can come up with when you miss your husband is him being annoyed? Sad.

“What the shit?” Beth utters in disbelief, as she suddenly gets up, waking you up fully. You finally open your eyes, only to see Beth staring at the door behind you.

You can still hear Bradley talk, although you are now sure you are awake.

Shooting up, arms flailing, the covers slide onto the floor. Beth grabs your arm to steady you.

You’ve lost your mind.

Your brain is 100% broken now.

Did they give you morphine anyway? Are you fucking hallucinating?

“She needs rest! You can’t just barge in like that.” She’s admonishing him, pointing her finger in your general direction. “And only one visitor in the room!”

“I know she needs rest—that’s why I’m here.” Bradley bites back. “And I’m not a visitor, I’m her husband, and that’s my child.”

“What the fuck.” You don’t realize you say it so loudly, every falls silent and looks at you.

“I’ll wait in the hall.” Beth says hurriedly as she scurries away to the door, followed by the strict nurse, that throws one final venomous look at Bradley who is completely ignoring her now.

So others clearly can see him too, right?

You start clambering out of the bed as fast as you can, padding over to him barefoot, needing some sort of confirmation Bradley is really, actually here, and you’ve not finally and definitively cracked.

Your arms snake around his neck as you pull him close to you. He feels so real, he smells like jet fuel and winter air, but his skin is just as warm as you remember. Bradley doesn’t say anything, just wrapping you in his arms and pressing kisses along your jaw.

“What are you doing here?”

Bradley stops dead in his tracks. Not the question he was expecting. He pulls back, so he can see your face, but you cling to him, your fingers digging into his arms like you’re scared he’s going to turn to smoke in your arms.

“Didn’t Cyclone tell you he gave me 48-hour emergency leave and practically threw me onto a transporter headed to D.C.?” Bradley asks with a slight chuckle. “I had to pull rank on some poor private to drive me here from Anacostia-Bolling airbase—I don’t have my phone, wallet, nothing.”

You’re looking at him completely slack-jawed, blinking rapidly. Finally, the neurons in your brain start firing again.

Fucking Simpson. Figures.

“You know what?” You sigh, before smiling up at him. “Tell me another time. I’m just glad you’re really here. I need you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bug is born just after midnight. A healthy baby boy with all ten fingers and ten toes.

Bradley doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to hear a baby cry. And he’s never been so goddamn proud in his life: of you, of the little life you both created, and again of you because you did all the hard work. He’s half-sitting next to you on the bed when you collapse back on the pillows behind you, and he whispers to you how much he loves you, how proud he is, and how well you did.

You open your tired eyes for a moment. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” You breathe.

“Yes, you could have, darlin’.” He counters with a smile as he wipes the fresh sweat off your forehead.

“And here’s baby boy Bradshaw!” The nurse announces happily, as she gently pulls the top of your gown down and puts the baby against your skin before covering you with the baby blanket you and Bradley bought months ago.

You feel your heart soar. So small, so warm, and finally here. You tear your eyes away from your little Bug just for a second to see Bradley’s reaction. He looks completely awestruck, tears forming in his eyes. Tears spring in your eyes too as you watch his index finger run over your son’s cheek in a feather-light touch.

“Hey Bug.” He whispers. You never felt like your life was incomplete. But in a certain way, it feels like it’s naturally more complete now than it was before, like more puzzle pieces are sliding into place around you. “I’m so glad to see you.” You add softly.

It’s hours later when you are sitting up in bed, across from your sister, sharing a pile of snacks from the vending machine. Only the bedside lamp is on. You are not only starving, but also wide awake, hyper-aware of every sound and move Bug is making. Bradley is getting some much-needed shut-eye in the recliner with Bug sleeping on his bare chest.

You honestly didn’t think you could fall in love any more with that man, but the way he is gently cradling your son in his large arms, the way he looks at him like he’s the most special little thing in the whole wide world and how he keeps repeating how you made him and how proud he is of you is honestly messing with your head in the best kind of way. You feel like you’ve fallen in love with him for the first time, over and over again today.

“So, do you think all these nurses coming to check up on you all night are here because of your fancy insurance,” Beth asks, grinning as she pops an M&M in her mouth. “Or they’re just coming to gawk at him?” She jerks her head to the side where Bradley just fell asleep.

You snort.

“Well, he’s a good-looking daddy.” You shrug as you take a sip from your Fanta.

“Jesus Christ, Darce - TMI.” Beth guffaws. You shush her, unable to keep yourself from laughing too. There is something strange about having a girl’s night with your sister in a hospital bed when you’ve given birth just hours ago. But here you are, giggling like teenagers.

Bug starts squirming and softly crying, and while you both quiet down, Bradley wakes up right away. He starts shushing and rocking Bug, who’s not having it.

“He’s probably hungry, babe.” You say, wiping your hands on a tissue before reaching out to him. Carefully Bradley places Bug in your arms.

“How are you two not tired?” He asks, rubbing his eyes. You shrug, you are too full of wonder, too full of love—and actually just way too wired—to go to sleep.

“I have a toddler.” Beth laughs as she gets up from the bed to give you some privacy. “Do you really think I’ve had a full night’s sleep in the last three years?”

“Now’s not the time to regale us with your horror stories with Emma.” You warn Beth, still laughing lightly as you try Bug to latch onto your breast. Bradley sits down close to you on the bed.

“You want anything else from the vending machine?” Beth asks from the doorway.

“Nah, we’re good.” You reply absentmindedly, still focussed on Bug.

“We’re good, right?” You ask fondly, meeting Bradley’s eyes. You’re not even really asking about the snacks anymore.

“I think we’re great.” He agrees, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

note | oh damn, it's actually really done now :( I have no more stories to tell for these two. I hope you enjoyed this adventure, and that the ending didn't disappoint! (I tell myself it had to age a bit like a wine). If you'd like to read more of my stories, I'm currently working on a WWII AU called Of All The Stars In The Sky.

#bradley fic #i’m really emotional about this and them and first read it hours ago and thought about it for my entire trip to the grocery store #so much so i forgot to buy bread #god i want to love someone the way they love each other #my peace couple! finally has it!

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