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answersfromzestual · 11 months ago

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Phalloplasty and Urethra Lengthening (aka Urethraplasty) Procedure - Personal Article

***Make sure you come home with antibiotics***

Definition of a catheter: A catheter is a tube that is inserted into your bladder, allowing urine (wee) to drain freely. The catheter tube is attached to a drainage bag (a catheter bag), where the urine can be collected.

How a catheter works: Catheters are usually inserted through the urethra (the narrow tube that connects your bladder to the outside). The catheter is kept in place by a ball filled with saline that sits against your bladder wall. This can cause bladder spams.

What is the Procedure?

After phase one, Phalloplasty, a skin-tube urethra (created and placed during the first phase of phalloplasty). After phase one (a minimum of six months between procedures is a common healing period) they make an incision in your scrotum and connect the urethra in the phallis is connected to your original (but lengthened) urethra. It is a short procedure. After the procedure you will have a catheter inserted and you will have it outside of the hospital from two to six weeks (time varies from clinic to clinic). Where it will most likely be removed by your primary health care provider. The catheter is used to protect the new urinary tract as it heals post- operation.

Wearing boxers and loose underwear can help you feel more comfortable while the catheter is in. While more tight underwear such as boxer briefs and briefs are better for after your healing period to help keep your phallis from creating a potentially unwanted bulge in your thigh of your pants.

Findings and Advice:

Bladder spams can be an irritating and annoying type of pain, more annoying than painful. They come and go randomly, but they are something to be aware of.

I was in surgery for about an hour and a half for this particular part. Then, about the same amount of time in the OR (Operating Room) care unit. When I was in there, they offered to let me go as soon as I was wide awake and completely responsive. I received a [intramuscular] shot of morphine. I have a habit of getting sick (vomiting) if I get the entire dose at one time. So I informed the nurse that I get extremely neausous with the full amount of morphine and I was told to do it in two doses. The nurses were nice, they did what I asked. They gave me half then about 20 minutes later gave me the other half. Since I had to take the pain medication, I had to stay an extra 45 minutes. Where as if you don't need anything for pain you can go back to your room after a few minor "tests" of your body and mind.

I know you want to get out of that room, but take your time and rest. Take the pain medication if you need it.

Do not let your pain get over a 7/10 on the pain scale. Once you get to 7,8, or above, you can have a hard time getting comfortable.

Do not try to tough out the pain at any stage. If you are in pain, let a medical professional know.

Ask your surgeon any and all questions you have. They talk to you for a reason. They want you to be informed and heal properly.

Try to have someone who can be around a lot to look after you for a few days after the procedure.

You may have a wound between your phallis shaft and your scrotum. That is where they went in to connect the new and preexisting urethra. (At least for me)

Watch for signs of infection, and if you are concerned, go to the Emergency Room, call your clinic, or whoever provides you Healthcare. (red, irritation, heat, puss, a bad smell, ect.)

If you are leaking from your catheter, speak to a health care professional. Leakage can be a problem if the catheter isn't placed right. Catheter Info

The type of catheter they most likely will use is called: Long-term indwelling catheter: The catheter is passed through the urethra and left in place. This time can range from two to six weeks before it may removed. Surgerons times may vary, average I see is about three weeks. Mine, they wanted six weeks.

WASH YOUR HANDS ALWAYS AS IF YOU HELPED YOUR FRIEND DISPOSE OF A DEAD BODY!!!

The catheter can be in from two to six weeks. This is a long time with a catheter, so be prepared mentally.

You will need some extra catheter bags, hand sanitizer (multiple bottles), medical tape (something easy on your skin), non-scented body wash, some antibacterial wipes, a plastic leg covering from a medical supply store (if required), ice packs, boxers (plain, loose fitting boxers while you have the catheter in) maybe something to put to protect your mattress if you want to, big comfortable sweatpants (get or have at least five pairs to rotate through), a number to your clinic, all of your medications given and taken as instructed, make sure you get antibiotics!

Dripping after you are healed is normal for even cis men (usually its only a few drops)

I drip if I don't shake enough or take my time

How to reduce leakage, dribbling, and general mess:

After passing urine, wait for a few seconds to allow the bladder to empty

Place the fingertips of your hand on your mid taint, behind the scrotum and apply gentle pressure also slight pushing of your pelvic mucles may help

Keeping the pressure in the mid line, gently but positively draw the fingers forwards towards the base of the penis under the scrotum

This pushes the urine forward into the penile urethra from where it can be emptied by shaking or squeezing in the usual way

Before leaving the toilet, repeat the technique twice to ensure that the urethra is completely empty. Source

I do the last step at least three times. I also take time between the three attempts. I will let my penis rest with gravity, I do a slight push, then I can almost feel if anything is left or not. Always do a couple security shakes.

Pro-tip when urinating standing, use the pocket in your underwear, try not to pull your phallis over your waistband (usually you pull your boxer wistband down and flop your phallis over. This is okay to do by all means, but it does work against gravity and makes it more difficult to completely empty. So my recommendation is to use the pocket in your boxers. Just undo your zipper and button (or if you have sweats or something you have to pull them down, but make sure the waistband doesn't touch your shaft or even try to hold it lower than your scrotum. I kind of use my remaining fingers to block my waistband from touching me in sweats or something without buttons or zippers

It gets easier to pee if/ when your pump is implanted. Since you are always slightly pumped (most models of pumps require a pump at all times (min) ask your doctor about your oumping situation, the booklet clinics tend to give out dont always give you all you need to know), there is enough rigidity (hardness/stiffness) to keep your urethra more straight). I found my penile implant really helped with my urination and being able to completely empty my bladder. It also allows urine to flow more freely when I do urinate. This isn't to say before your pump you will have issues, more you have to support your phallis as you urinate a lot more to keep that tract straight. If you get penile implants, for example, you can pee with no hands. If you do with no implant, you may pee on yourself because there is no rigidity, but I'm sure there is someone out there who can and more who will be able to. Like I said, all of our bodies are different

Gravity is your friend

No sex (even anal) of any kind for usually at least 6-8 weeks

Try to relax

I can feel awkward peeing in a urinal with someone next to me because I shake more than I feel is socially typical. Comfort is a big factor in peeing in general. I have anxiety about going to the bathroom in public, I usually use a stall if I can. It's not a big deal.

You can still get pleasure and have orgasms in this state. I do not recommend trying to do penetrative sex, but this is a good question to ask your doctor

I had a lot more sensation after I was healed.

I find that it's easier to wear underwear that is more supportive, eg., Boxer briefs, briefs, pocket underwear. You don't shrink a lot when you're not erect, so you have more to tuck away than the average cis man. I find boxers and loose fitting underwear can cause an unwanted bulge in one inner thigh or the other when wearing especially sweatpants and jeans.

Wearing the above kind of underwear can reduce mess after your catheter is removed and drippage as you learn as well. You're probably gunna pee down your leg as you learn.

Carry a extra pair of underwear with you when you go somewhere, before your catheteris removed as well. If you are learning and you make a mess, you can have a clean pair of underwear to put on. It's not fun sitting in pee soaked underwear...

Wear dark pants at first (hides if you have an accident)

There is a huge learning curve, you don't expect it, but it's not as easy as it seems to hit the target when you stand to pee, and learning to be patient and effective at emptying your bladder.

It is ABSOLUTELY NORMAL TO URINATE SITTING DOWN!!! I did a small survey in a Facebook group for males (i was actually impressed it had over 200 votes, plus over 100 comments in total). Many comments and votes say it's perfectly fine to sit peeing and many people have different reasons. Mine is I want to play on my phone, plus sometimes my feet are tired... It's normal to sit.

Be careful with your urine bags and always ALWAYS have extra urine bags ON HAND/ AT YOUR CURRENT LOCATION!!! And no a plastic ziplock baggie will not do. Trust me.

Have tons of hand sanitizer around the house and bathroom, antibacterial soap, unscented soap (for your body), and make sure that you keep your hands and valve on your catheter always sanitized.

If you feel pain in your member or bladder or anywhere inbetween, go to the Emergency Room, if you feel hot go to the E.R right away. Better to be safe than sorry.

Keep hand sanitizer literally on the back of toilet so it is convenient.

Even with the catheter in, you feel the urge to urinate. I found that I could ease the feeling for a bit if I "urinated" in my usual position (I found sitting to be most comfortable)

You are going to be very tender and sore

Swelling will go down

Make sure you stay clean and dry. Especially where your wound is.

The doctor who does a lot of the work during this phase of surgery is called a urologist. So research them as well as your surgeon. You want every member of the team of your entire procedure to be great at what they do.

Do not try to remove the catheter yourself. You will not be successful. If you are having issues go to the Emergency Room, clinic, or whoever provides proper health care to you.

Do not take any chances with infection. Hands clean, valve sterilized and closed, urine bag attached properly and tightly.

Wait to shower until you are instructed to.

Try to shower as often as they tell/let you. You want to stay clean to avoid infection. Of course you also don't want to overdo it.

Showering with a catheter is a challenge. I found that the plastic covers made for covering wounds/bandages/ etc. Depending on what your surgeon says, you may not have to cover your catheter bag at all. Be sure you ask your clinic!

When you are showering, be super mindful you have a catheter. Any tugging or too much movement can hurt and possibly affect your healing. So be gentle. Also, be careful when washing the tip of your phallis at this stage.

Dry your wound/ pubic area by patting dry and not wiping. Be gentle.

During my showers, I would use medical tape to kind of keep everything (tubing) in one place.

Your catheter may not come with anything to hold it onto your leg. While catheters i noticed usually come with a soft elastic band with snaps that you'd tie to your leg. If you dont recieve that in the clinic, ask a nurse if they can give you some dressing mesh and ask if they can teach you how to make a pocket you can tie to your ankle (that's what I did, the elastic band would slide down my leg). There may be other options for holding your catheter. I do not recommend anything that would cut off blood flow to your leg and/or something that restricts or affects the functionality of your catheter.

Be mindful of your catheter at all times.

If you are going insane with the feeling of having to urinate, try looking at your unit and tell yourself "I don't need to pee, I'm fine. I will not mess myself". It especially helps when I would sit on the toilet as I did this.

Shave your inner legs if you have to, because you will want to tape the tube to your leg, at least in the shower. This helps so you don't pull/tug it. Trust me again. Pulling/ tugging on it even slightly by accident is not a good time.

Always double check to make sure your valve is closed, leaving it open is a welcoming hall for viruses and bacteria directly into your bladder

I know that catheter is going to drive you mad, DO NOT TUG ON IT!!! I tugged (because it was making me not comfortable), and it actually moved the catheter out of place. This caused me to be urinating directly through my new urethra before it could have been ready. It was actually really painful (burning). So please do not tug, go see your medical professional if you are feeling very irritated and/or uncomfortable. Sometimes, the [catheter] line needs to be "flushed" (flushed: when they "rinse out" the catheter system with saline water).

Take your meds as instructed, especially your antibiotics. If you have to take meds at certain times or time intervals, set alarms, tell someone. For many antibiotics, timing matters and is a huge factor in how well they function

Do you feel yourself pee when you are completely healed? - Yes, I can feel it, especially when it's been cold outside

Do you feel yourself pee with a catheter before the swelling goes down? - For me? No, your bag just fills up. But contrary to what I always think (everytime i have a catheter think "i dont have to get up to pee for awhile, niiiice", im always wrong), it does make you uncomfortable as in feeling like you have to urinate constantly. That's a lot thanks to the bladder spasms.

Here are the sources I used:

https://www.healthdirect.gov.au/catheter-problems

https://cranects.com/urethral-lengthening/

I will post my story another day. I want this information to be heard and sink in first.

If you have any questions, or concerns please feel free to send an ask or email.

If you'd like anything added, or you have questions about this. Also feel free to contact me.

Stay Golden Everyone ✌️ 💙 💜

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stevishabitat · 1 year ago

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Long rant/emotional vomit incoming….

Where to start?

In August, our neighbors moved out and left their outdoor cat, Franklin behind. We'd gotten him neutered last year during the big TNR project, so he'd retired from both the kitten factory and the tom cat fight club. So he was left kind of hanging around at loose ends.

Franklin in his previous outdoor life

He'd come to the porch for dinner with the ferals, but we could tell he wasn't super healthy, and when we had a heatwave in the 100°F range, and saw him looking like melted cat on the hot pavement, we just couldn't stand it anymore. Clearly they weren't coming back for him, and no one else was taking care of him. So we brought him inside.

This brings our indoor crowd to six. Four adults and two kittens (all courtesy of the same neighbors who had a constant stream of kittens that they would raise and then put outdoors to fend for themselves - we are not regretting their departure from the neighborhood).

The Crew at Feeding Time

So Franklin actually adjusted really quickly to full-time indoor life. But he came with a bunch of hitchhikers. Ear mites, fleas, and tapeworm for certain. I tried OTC treatments at home, but wasn't making progress, and Franklin clearly also suffered from flea allergies and secondary ear infections and skin infections from the mites.

So off to the vet we went.

He had two different bacterial infections in his ears (the tech that read the ear swab slides said "beyond reality"), so he got a full-spectrum antibiotic shot, twice-daily ear mite treatment, and I ended up with a Revolution Plus prescription and tapeworm meds for all six cats, to break the parasite cycle.

Franklin at vet visit #1

I'm hoping we're on the upward swing of things, although Franklin still has raw patches from the flea allergies that he licks compulsively. I've used an OTC cortisone spray for him, but he may need a more systemic approach. Meaning either a shot or prescription. Another trip to the vet is in the works.

Frankie being just the Sweetest

Little man, Henry, still needs to be neutered and he's going on six months old, so I can't put it off much longer. Three of the others need annual vaccinations. The plan was to do one vet visit per month, if I can swing that financially, but that's looking more difficult than I hoped.

The Babies: Henry and Patches

We are also fighting a losing battle to keep our water heater running. It was damaged by the flood last July, but we've kept it limping along for a whole year. We've now been without hot water since the beginning of September.

My grandma (who owns the house, but is currently living with another relative) is still hesitant to invest in a new water heater. It will take all of us (me, my parents, and grandma) to jointly pay for it. So without her go-ahead, we're kind of in limbo. There are a couple more parts we can try replacing before we're certain it's unfixable. But my dad doesn't want to pay a plumber, he wants to do those himself.

I bought a tankless point-of-use water heater so we can at least put together a temporary shower and sink in the basement.

But getting that installed and set up has been more difficult and costly than expected (needing extra adapters and fixtures to connect to old plumbing) and although my dad is doing the work when he can, he's also working part-time and can barely walk most days. He can really only do at-home projects once a week at most, and some weeks he just doesn't have the time or physical capacity.

My pharmacy, insurance, and neurologist can't seem to connect the dots to get my Aimovig refilled, so I'm now more than a month without a migraine preventative and I'm running out of rescue meds.

I had been paying someone to help around the house for an hour twice a month, but I really can't afford it. But without the help, and without migraine meds, and with cats that are still having digestive issues from the worms, and fleas still hatching out and infesting the house... It's a hot mess.

Can you believe this service exists???

Anyway, we're floundering.

Physically, financially, mentally, emotionally... It's draining.

Anyway, I basically ended up maxing out my credit card on all of this chaos. And this is the time of year that work slows down and overtime dries up.

I wasted so much money on things that didn't fix the fleas, or Franklin's illnesses, or the water heater, or my migraines... or... or....

So much money on meal replacement shakes because I'm too nauseated to eat, and delivery for kiddo because I don't have the energy to cook.

Bought a bunch of rinse-free body cleansers and shampoos so we can try to maintain self-care and hygiene without hot water. Got that tankless water heater and a shower tent and floor mat hoping to make kiddo more comfortable with showering somewhere other than the bathroom (they're still very much against the idea).

The payment for kiddo's therapy bounced this week, and my biweekly paycheck can't cover that and the credit card payment. So it will probably bounce next week too. I think after two non-payments we have to give up our time slot. Therapy is so important for kiddo's mental health. I have to find a way to keep up with that if nothing else.

Kiddo is absolutely at max capacity for demands and just can't help at all, can't even do basic self-care, clean up after themselves, or help with the cats like they used to. The state of the house is stressing them out, and they want more connection with me and Grandmummy, that we don't have the time or spoons to give.

Kiddo, Jack and Henry

My mom has also been without her meds for several weeks, and honestly, she's been in an autoimmune flare for most of this year. I think all the physical work from the flood, plus the mold, and a case of covid in the last year really messed her up.

My dad going back to work (which was financially necessary) means he's physically unable to do things at home, and time wise he's not able to pick my sister-in-law up from work, or take grandma to doctors appointments - so all of that is on my mom now. So she's less able to spend time with kiddo - leaving me as sole caregiver most of the time, including when I'm working from home.

My car is still dead from the flood, and the vehicle I share with my parents has multiple issues. So I get groceries and necessary supplies delivered and only do errands on the day I take kiddo to therapy. That's about as much as I can physically do anyway.

That one time we thought the car was driveable (we were very wrong)

I was supposed to meet my (long-distance) girlfriend for renaissance festival this weekend, but I don't have gas money and her car is in the shop getting necessary brake repairs. It's our twice a year getaway without kids, and I think we're going to miss it.

RenFaire in the Spring

I'm really just venting because I don't have anyone to talk to who isn't also in the thick of it with me.

I think a lot of my mutuals will understand all of this. So if you're in a mess like this, know that it's not just you. You aren't a failure.

We're all doing the best we can, and sometimes no matter what you do, the best still looks like a disaster.

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janiceloreen · 2 years ago

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(Warning: medically explicit, and to serve a reminder to men that this post is no laughing matter, and the issue cannot be ignored, so please take very good care of yourself in good health!)

I said I was going to write more posts,……..but it was two months ago. Greeting 2023 was not all I expected and it came down to simply a medical halt in my family. Two days after Christmas, my husband started to not feel well, and complained of a dull soreness “down there” (groin/penis area). I took a look at his area and knew this wasn’t good. The area was red and swelling. Husband went to see the doctor the same day in the afternoon. The doctor was a lady, and without checking his area and ordering bloodwork, she jumped to conclusion that he has STDS and told him to “stop sleeping around”. He looked at her in disbelief, as he saw she gave him a bad judgmental, rude manner attitude. So, she did not do much for him but to send him home and get better. By New Year’s Eve, it got worse that he got admitted overnight at the local small town hospital for IV antibiotics and monitoring. By morning, on New Year’s day, i had to drive my husband to the city hospital 2 hours from home (don’t worry, my boys are old enough to care for the house, and my neighbours checked on them like as if there are no parties being held) to be seen by a urologist. I stayed by his side.

Within 4 hours in ER, with ultrasound and CT scan completed, the urologist/surgeon came to see my husband and told him he needs an emergency surgery that night as the scan showed the unexplained injury to his penis and scrotum and the swelling from UTI that needed to be brought down to normal. My husband’s cousin texted me to come to her house in the city for supper while he underwent surgery. She and her family had the guest room ready for me to stay overnight. The surgery lasted three hours to repair the damage as well to drain the infection. So his cousin and I went back to the hospital that night to see my husband as he was out of recovery from surgery and wheeled to his own room. It seemed that while he was happy to see his cousin and talked a lot with nurses, he didn’t seem to remember I was here. I try not to let it bother me, so I had to prepare myself to be a caregiver to him.

That night, I didn’t sleep well at all. It wasn’t the guest bed that was not comfy. It was dreams of changes in routines that I have to put way more effort to helping my husband recover. By morning, my husband’s cousin put together cranberry juice and snacks to keep my husband happy and occupied in the hospital for a few days. Husband wanted me to go home and care for our boys while he was in good hands of nurses who changed his dressings twice a day every single day. He spent a good six days in hospital until discharge day as I drove back to the city to take him home. The local pharmacist prepared the prescriptions for him upon getting home. Everyday, he has to have his dressings changed to keep his incisions clean and infection free. In week mornings, he has to go to the homecare office to get his dressings changed. Weeknights and weekends, he has to go to the local hospital for the nurses to change his dressings. I had to drive him twice a day, which threw me off on the routines. He was the breadwinner of the household, and because he cannot work until further notice, I had no choice but to go back to the workforce on a part time position, cleaning rooms at a luxury chain hotel. Would you believe I lost 60 pounds in a month, cleaning up to 15 rooms within 8 hours per day? Not sustainable on my weight loss, but at least I’m not a heavy woman now.

I’ll continue my story as bed is calling me.

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looye29 · 2 years ago

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livebloggingmydescentintomadness · 2 years ago

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What's chronic Lyme disease? Google isn't being helpful, and I'm having trouble finding anything you've already posted about it :)

that's alright, i haven't talked about it in a long time so any explanation is probably buried in my archives.

in short: lyme disease presents in two different ways - acute and chronic.

in acute cases, a person gets infected and within days presents with symptoms, leading (hopefully) to them being treated quickly with antibiotics and more-or-less permanently cured. (even when the lyme is cured, it can still leave behind some issues.)

however, there are other times when a person gets infected and instead of immediately causing symptoms, the spirochetes (the type of bacteria that causes lyme) incubate for weeks, months, or years. at some point quite a ways after the initial infection, when you might have actually seen a tick or a rash on your body, you begin to slowly develop mysterious symptoms.

by that point you've probably long forgotten about the tick or rash, if you have saw/had one (only about 50% of cases develop the classic bullseye rash, and lyme can be spread from person to person, not just through ticks), so when you go to the doctor and tell them shit's fucked, you probably don't think to tell them "by the way i saw a tick on my leg five years ago".

so the doctors run tests, and either say "nothing wrong with you, sorry", pawn you off on another specialist to run more tests, or diagnose you with something else with similar symptoms. regardless, you keep getting worse, and maybe, hopefully, someday, someone thinks to run a different test, and guess fucking what. lyme disease.

the issue here is that antibiotics are the only formally approved treatment for lyme disease, but when the bacteria have had years to spread and entrench themselves throughout your entire body, they can't be wiped out nearly as well as bacteria that are fresh on the scene. personally, i was on six week regimens of antibiotics for an entire year, and every single time they tested my blood, it still came back positive for lyme.

but the real reason it's a shitshow is that, for a lot of very stupid reasons, a lot of institutions refuse to acknowledge that chronic lyme is actually a real thing that exists. the cdc's position is that chronic lyme isn't real. i've heard a real doctor say the words, "antibiotics cure lyme disease, so it's not lyme disease," regardless of the fact that people like me can show the blood tests proving we still have active lyme after completing antibiotics. (this of course means that you can't qualify for disability support, because your disability isn't "real".)

so most of us have to go our own way, trying to find solutions apart from official guidelines, because there are none. there are some doctors out there doing really good work (we call them llmd, or lyme-literate doctors), but you still have to read books, buy expensive supplements, try new therapies, treat your symptoms as best you can... all while being extremely ill and in pain.

lyme disease can attack every single organ and system in your body, from your brain to your joints to your heart to your gut, and it can absolutely end up fatal if left unchecked. the spirochetes responsible are terrifyingly adaptable and hard to kill, and a lot of us will probably never be fully healthy again.

at least 300,000 people are diagnosed with lyme in the usa every year. it's a serious problem and more people need to know about it.

#lyme disease #chronic lyme disease #personal #anonymous #ask

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delicateartisantrash · 4 months ago

Text

update: Bongo has pain meds, antibiotics, and a fancy foot cream. One dislocated toe knuckle that may heal crooked abd if so she will still be able to get around

Picture tax now that i am calmed marginally enough to think of it:

Info dump below the cut. You've been warned.

The big gest concern is ensuring the injuries stay clean and heal well, she's a very tough little gal and is being a big trooper. She's gotten her Forbidden Favorite Junk Food of Sunflower seeds (i fed her other seeds; she was eating almost exclusively sunflower when i adopted her and was literally addicted to them and it took about eight years off my life in the six months it took to convince her to even TRY a fancy stupid good and healthy pellet cold pressed to preserve nutrients and expensive because it's lacking stupid artificial vitamin K that has questionable effects on parrots long term feed with it and lacking stupid filler things that interrupt vitamin absorption or are unhealthy as fuck when eaten in too much quantity (IM LOOKING AT YOU, SUNFLOWER SEEDS. Epic treat. Bad primary food choice.) and no dyes or blah blah blah

My birds often eat better than i do xP

So she's been spoiled with extra seeds, her favorite almonds, and she got to eat the sunflower seeds from the vet. She's mostly needy in wanting company so I'll be sleeping near her tonight and also to monitor just in case she has mobility issues, she's pretty tired and sore and it's telling in the way she moves. Birds are exceptionally good at hiding pain and injury (please see the first time something like this happened, and i didn't NOTICE SHE HAD A BLOODY ASS FOOT FOR AT LEAST THREE HOURS BECAUSE SHE HID IT. I only noticed because when i asked her to step up to s perch, she used the wrong foot and i wondered why she changed her pattern.), so seeing her show any sign of distress makes my mom agony meter blast orbit with anxiety

Anxiety i was able to stuff down long enough to take care of her, she should date willing be okay ;-; new scars, but okay. It freaks me the fuck out in the most existential and absurd way that she... Reminds me so much of me. Bingo is basically my kid. Not in the "she's a people too!" No, she's a bird, she has bird properties etc etc etc but she is family to me, and she is my responsibility to take care of and there's no glorious future of rehabilitation and wild release just like there's not for 99% of any captive raised bird.

i get nervous admitting that out loud because my whole life I've known so many people who are very aggressive on anything they perceive as "not putting humans first exclusively and in all matters ever"

Like no bro

I would drive scary ass mountains for this bird if i had to or climb up thorny trees without protective gear or tackle a big ass dog. I HAVE hauled myself through the mires of both whole body shutdown because my stupid glitchy nervous system says "shit this math is too hard. Im tired of keeping up with this humans too fast movements. Just shut everything down for a bit" in order to make sure she was taken care of and then i can go crash and implode (i am approaching the implode stage but writing about it is helping me do that in a more managed way hooooo boy. Thank fuck for breathing exercises.) and i kindly said no duck you

Then promptly blacked the duck out and fainted the instant i had finished getting everything crucial done, handed off to other people. Weeeee. Glad this time there was no fainting, thank fuck. I was the only one home to take care of her so also thank whoever and all i have for watching out for us today. Bongo could have been hurt so much worse, I'm really very confident in being able to tend these wounds fate willing, so it's not like doomsday of "wow. My bird lost her entire foot" or worse.

She's drinking, eating, being sassy and cuddly and her usual self.

And there's something so freaky about relating so hard to her. Sometimes i have to remember to consider to let someone know I'm in a lot of pain, because it just. Doesn't show unless you really know me. Bongo reminds me of when i was a kid and frighteningly fearless and too tough by half. It just keeps smacking me in the face lately with that like

That thing you see when people are like

"hahaaa i hope you get a child just like y o u"

Me, with a bird too much like me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Echo is, by the by, okay as well-- i didn't find any injuries on him, and he was mostly just pretty shaken up and exploding with anxiety (which is an understatement). I had to towel him for the first time since adopting him-- something was have avoided like the plague and reserved for emergencies.

He needs to be taught how to be comfortable with towing, but that's not something he's ready for yet, so it's something we haven't done anything with and damn if my baby bird didn't handle that scary thing well for him. I was scared i would come home to him with a bloody face; Echo has a downright phobia of being confined in a cage (don't blame him, i really don't) and it brought me to tears the first time he went into his cage all on his own without any treats to lure him in, he went inside just because he *wanted* to and we'd established enough trust he was confident in knowing i would in fact let him out regularly and he'd not be trapped all day.

So this being

The first time I'd personally toweled him (he's been toweled by the vet of course, but for now we let only them do that and he gets spoiled with treats after)

I left WITH Bongo for.... Like eight hours? That might not seem like much especially if you don't know birds, but Echo has serious anxiety issues that if he's so provoked into panic, and lately we've been having issues with him freaking out when Bongo leaves the room but he's still in it (i cannot let them out at the same time, please see; they will fight; I cannot let Bongo loose in the bird room like I can Echo, because Bongo is the kind of smart that knows how to calm a human down and manipulate a household by how she directs her attention (she very deliberately takes "turns" spending time with each person in the house it's so fucking cute. And while she's being a Whoever's Bird she will snub her nose at everyone else for cuddles or games or anything except mandatory routine which she follows still)... And Bongo is also the kind of stupid that flies to Echo's cage, lands on it, then stands there and bitches him out and just. Just let's him attack her feet. She might take a single sidestep i swear to Gods Bongo you've taken a few years off my life in a matter of seconds i lived those moments for ETERNITY GWUHUUH.

Anyhow. Echo was shaken up, but chill enough after i stepped in to confirm he was uninjured and his water was still filled (he trashed his food bowls, and also yanked favorite perch off which is a first), that he started quiet with just a few contact calls while I went through all the steps of getting Bongo her first doses of medicine (she protested of course but we got them done), and getting her hospital cage assembled. (It's a flimsy was fuck fold up thing I'm disappointed by because we wanted it for a travel cage, but it works great for exactly this)

Once she was all settled, then i went over and hung out with Echo for a bit, then gave him some blueberries which he snatched with the desperate grab of Swindle reaching for rust sticks; actually hungry and excitedly ravenous for it and also needing that reassurance that comes with a gift of food.

Birds don't just yeet their fledglings out of the best and duck off. At least the species I've researched, there could be some exceptions I'm sure. But most birds, they continue to take care of their babies even when they're not really babies anymore and are fully grown and can feed themselves now-- parent birds will comfort them or praise them with sharing food or other interactions. They're highly social creatures.

Yeah Echo and Bongo fought and she got hurt but he's not the bad guy or villain in this situation; if blame goes anywhere it's on me as the human captor who controls every aspect of their lives from what food they have access to to where they can and cannot fly and and and

It's suffocating for birds to feel controlled. It's an exhausting dance between offering them as many choices and opportunities to be independent and act on preferences was possible, while still ensuring I'm making sure they're safe and healthy and not doing something they won't live to learn a lesson from.

I'm not really mad at him. I am frustrated, but that frustration comes from feeling helpless to not know how to unravel his behavioral patterns of late so i can help him be more comfortable.

Sigh but that's a whole other novel of sorry and I've vented enough.

Bongo is okay

Echo is okay

I will be okay. Whoooooo. Sold some painted skulls so that right there covered the costs of the vet visit and medicine thank duck.

...

I'm going to just accept the duck typo. It amuses me. Also fuck you phone

(Bird-mom Venting)

Not me blasting 20 of the 13 spoons of energy i woke up with today, because I ache all over and needed to rest and yake it slow and easy aaaaand...

...in the middle of getting my birds corralled for breakfast and settled, Echo (Indian Ringneck) is acting funny for his usual behavior at breakfast. I thought perhaps my routine and well-being being off was provoking it, and then i saw movement in my peripheral and both my birds attention shifted

GIZMO KITTY STEPPED A FOOT IN THE BIRD ROOM BECAUSE THE BIRD ROOM DOOR WAS OPEN *AND* THE DOOR TO MY SPOOKY EPIC STAIRWELL WHERE I LIVE DOWNSTAIRS' DOOR WAS OPEN AND THAT'S EXCLUSIVELY *MY* FAULT AND HOW THE FUCK DID I FUCK UP OR SKIP MY SAFETY CHECKS I HAVE LIKE FIVE SAFETY CHECKS FUCK YOU MIND FOG AND FATIGUE AAAUUUUGGHGHHHHHHHHHHHH

like literally the basement door to my apartment has a little slide lock on it so I can ensure kitties cannot open the door by figuring out the doorknob, and also because doing that means NORMALLY paying attention and not forgetting to ensure the door is fully actually shut not just almost shut aiabfiwoeofnyvidbe.

*screaming crying vibrating in place*

And i think i might have actually teleported across the room after Echo took flight, and Gizmo promptly went "what the fuck was THAT WOAH" and turned to trot after him towards the livingroom and i

Channeled energy i haven't used since the last time i had to yeet over and grab my baby Bongo (green cheek conure) off Echo's cage because she is so pretty and so emotionally aware and astute with PEOPLE because she was hand raised and taken from her parents by people and AAAAAAAAH SHE JUST STOOD ON HIS CAGR TO LET HIM ATTACK HET LIKE A CONFUSED GOLDEN RETRIEVER.

i did not faint this time after crisis was averted, however. That was good. Last time after I got Bongo off Echo's cage and the blood stopped with cornstarch over her confused beeps, told my mom who to call (thank the Gods for good Zoos with good exotic species veterinarians) and I think i passed her off not let her fly over, and then i promptly blacked out. Not from panic, though that didn't help, the panic actually came after i came to sitting up and someone telling me i passed out and THEN i panicked because i realized i was utterly useless in a crisis situation but at least i got everything critical accomplished and passed off to those who could (Bongo was okay, one expensive vet trip and my forever sorrow she's now missing one talon but it healed remarkably well)

I never feel more like a failure as a bird or cat or anything mom, as the viscerally real and tangible moments when my babies get hurt or could have gotten hurt.

Whooooooo weeee. Okay. Yeah.i just had to scream about that for a hot minute there because i got everyone settled, everyone is fine, Gizmo heard me raise my voice in full No Nonsense Mom Emergency Command hollar (the kitties are the newest members of our family) for the first time ever, and Echo finally went in to eat his breakfast.

Now I'm shaking and chilling with oatmeal and tumblr and wow okay imma just. Sit here for a bit. O w.

(for context, those of you new to my blog, i have chronic issues that cause problems with balance and paina nd just kind of existing on the physical plane in general weeeeee, so thr things i am not suppossd to do that i used to do all tbe time, include moving fast, standing up quickly, and turning pr moving my head too quickly. All of whi h i just did l. Weeeeeee. That is why i mentioned blowing all my spoons of energy. That one crisis save just killed most my plans for tbe day vut also wow it was more effective than any coffee or energy drinkcould ever be on waking me the fuck up.)

#Dat Rambles #Bongo is stable and cozy #Echo is okay #Everyone's basically okay enough to say we're all okay

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yellowocaballero · 3 years ago

Text

Obi-Wan’s a teen dad and Anakin DESPERATELY wants to do crime

A week after Obi-Wan formally took Anakin as his padawan, he left his quarters.

It hadn’t been Obi-Wan’s intention to spend a week lying in bed - or, at times, lying on the living room floor. Or staring blankly at the stove, or holding a toothbrush as he forgot what he was supposed to do with it. It had been his intention to handle the new...arrangements. Put on a brave face. Take care of business. There was so much to do, and Obi-Wan really did want to do it. But he stood in front of the stove staring at its knobs instead, lost.

Anakin had been a good sport about it, at least. He figured out alarmingly quickly how to work the stove and fry up the sliced fruit in their cupboards. Anakin didn’t understand that you didn’t fry fruit, but Obi-Wan ate it with little complaint. He put food in front of Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan ate it. When Anakin asked him, somewhat fearfully, how to use the shower, Obi-Wan showed him and then took one himself. After the third day he left the living quarters semi-frequently, which would have been worrying if Obi-Wan cared.

Obi-Wan’s depressed, grieving, and has an inferiority complex the size of an Alderaanian mountain. Anakin doesn’t know what’s happening, but he does know that the power grid failure was not his fault. Can Obi-Wan ever be a true Jedi and a competent master? Or is his backstory, as told by the Jedi Apprentice novels, too fucking weird?

Rest under the cut.

A week after Obi-Wan formally took Anakin as his padawan, he left his quarters.

On day six, Obi-Wan worked up the energy to turn on his datapad, and was promptly bombarded with messages. They scrolled down the screen, a new one popping up every second.

A lot of them were from his automated specialized education classes. Obi-Wan had finished the required padawan courses when he was sixteen, breezing through each course at his own pace virtually during downtime in transit and on missions. He had signed up for some Knight-level specialized education courses afterwards, loading as many on his plate as he could and managing special permission to complete them all virtually too. Apparently, he had a great deal of assignments due.

Many messages from the Temple administration. Notification for mandatory forms to complete for requisitions, medical care...reports on the Naboo mission...a mountain of forms to complete for the promotion...a mountain of forms for the new padawan...a mountain of forms for processing Qui-gon’s death.

Messages from his friends. How are you doing, Obi-Wan? Are you okay, Obi-Wan? Can we come over and talk, Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan, you stupid bastard, how dare you fight a Sith without me?

Disturbingly, even the master of mission assignments had messaged him. Xe wanted to know if Obi-Wan was going to file for extended reprieve from missions to train his underage padawan in the Temple, or if he wanted to continue taking missions. Decide quickly, Knight Kenobi. Xe are willing to grant three years of light to no missions to help ‘facilitate Padawan Skywalker’s integration into the Jedi’.

The thought made Obi-Wan dizzy. No missions for years? He and Qui-Gon had barely gone weeks without a mission. But Obi-Wan had been thirteen, and Qui-Gon had a particular talent of taking an assignment to mediate standard legislative disputes and turn it into a three month embroilment in an endangered animal trafficking scheme. Staying stuck in the Temple for that amount of time made his skin crawl. Staying at home in the Temple so Anakin could integrate into the Jedi, become the Jedi he dreamed of...

Obi-Wan turned off the pad and tossed it across the room, letting it land on Qui-gon’s private meditation mat. Somehow, he couldn’t really bring himself to care.

Five hours later, Obi-Wan dragged himself out of Qui-gon’s room to find Anakin lying on the floor with what looked like an entire droid disassembled over the carpet. He was kicking his feet in the air, lying on his stomach, stripping some frayed wire.

Obi-Wan stared at him blankly, forms dancing behind his eyes. Anakin needed clothing. They had already processed him through his vaccinations - thank hell - and prescribed him some antibiotics for his multitude of intestinal parasites, but there was no way he was taking the pills. He needed to teach him how to braid the padawan braid. He needed to get them some food for the cabinets. He needed to…

“Are you hungry?” Obi-Wan rasped. His hair felt disgusting.

Anakin’s head snapped up, eyes widening. He scrambled off the rug, brushing a suspicious amount of dirt off his knees. “Yeah! I’ll make us that green thing!”

He shouldn’t let the nine year old work the stove. But Obi-Wan let him anyway, as he managed to somehow dump water in the kettle and place it on the stove, standing beside Anakin and waiting for it to whistle.

I must be doing very well, Obi-Wan thought hysterically, as he stared at the old-fashioned durasteel kettle that Qui-gon had favored. He was releasing his emotions into the Force with perfection. He wasn’t feeling anything at all. He wasn’t thinking about Qui-gon. He wasn’t thinking about anything at all. His mind was clear and empty, and he was perfectly at peace.

Obi-Wan tried to pour his tea, but he just couldn’t move. He stood and stared at the kettle for so long that Anakin eventually walked in and, straining on his tiptoes, sloshed the steaming water into the plastic white cup.

***

On day seven, Obi-Wan managed to wrangle both himself and Anakin into some semblance of hygiene and clean clothes. Anakin needed a lot of help, which clearly embarrassed him, but Obi-Wan was too dead inside to be frustrated about it.

He ended up tying his obi for him, as Anakin wriggled and tried to turn around to see it on the back. He’d have to show him how to do it himself later, but that was for later.

“Why do I have to wear this?” Anakin whined. “It’s so heavy.”

“I’ll see if I can requisition you an outfit with less layers,” Obi-Wan said. A lighter outfit wouldn’t cut it, as Anakin had ramped up the temperature controls in their quarters a week ago and the rooms haven’t dipped below boiling ever since. “Hold still. Hold - hold still, please.”

“What does requisition mean?”

Anakin held still eventually. He managed to untie the obi in the first ten minutes, but Obi-Wan really couldn’t bring himself to care too much. Then they had to worry about brushing their teeth, and Obi-Wan had to teach him how to do that, and why was this so hard, why was everything so hard -

But when Obi-Wan eventually got them both out the door, he found no relief.The Temple felt different. Obi-Wan didn’t know how; just that it did. It was identical in every worldly way, yet mismatched in the Force. As if it was a different Temple, a pale echo from another dimension, that was the home of a different Obi-Wan. Or maybe Obi-Wan was different: maybe his Force signature was so warped and polluted that he tainted everywhere he went.

They were all parts of the great whole of the Force. The Force was composed of every Jedi, every sentient being and eddy of wind. There were tens of thousands of Jedi in this Temple - how could the death of one man change it so thoroughly? Or had it just changed Obi-Wan?

Somewhat suspiciously, Anakin seemed to know the way out of the dormitories and into the main thoroughfare of the building. Obi-Wan kept a death grip on his little hand the entire time, slowing his steps so Anakin could keep up without having to jog. It didn’t stop him from trying to run forward every few steps, only for Obi-Wan to gently tug him back.

“You weren’t supposed to run around the Temple by yourself,” Obi-Wan said flatly. Anakin grinned sheepishly, in what Obi-Wan was already beginning to recognize as his ‘Busted!’ face.

“Why not?”

“You could have gotten lost.”

“I did get lost,” Anakin said proudly. “But then I found a secret service tunnel for the droids and I crawled through it and I found a server room and -” He stopped abruptly. “But that was way after the power outage yesterday. That I had nothing to do with.”

Obi-Wan...should probably care about this.

He didn’t. He was too busy releasing his emotions into the Force, and returning his dark thoughts to the Force, and maintaining complete control over his body and spirit. There was no room in that for caring about Anakin, maybe, destroying the Temple.

Wasn’t he a teacher? Shouldn’t he be teaching?

“First rule of being a Jedi,” Obi-Wan said, exhausted, “learn to lie.”

There. That was a lesson. Qui-gon had said the same thing to him when he was fourteen. Obi-Wan was doing great at this. Anakin beamed and made a weird motion with his hand, clenching it into a fist and sticking his thumb out. Obi-Wan stared blankly at him until he put his hand down.

Maybe it was because Obi-Wan was releasing all of his feelings and thoughts into the Force so well, but he couldn’t help but feel a constant prickling at the back of his neck. It felt like everybody was looking at them. A group of gossiping knights downright stopped talking when they saw Obi-Wan and Anakin approaching, and they broke out into whispers when they left. Padawans and initiates openly stared. Masters were too polite to stare, but their interest clearly peaked in the Force.

By the time they got to the quartermaster’s and slid in line, Anakin was practically hiding behind Obi-Wan. Anakin had likely gone his entire life without anybody noticing him, blending into the background. Obi-Wan had learned almost a decade ago that it was a useful survival tactic for slaves. Although how he had ever done it, Obi-Wan would never know. The boy was a sun in the Force. Blinding and burnt, as broiling as the temperature he kept their quarters at.

“Oh my. Padawan Kenobi, is that you?” Meela, the Quartermaster’s knight assistant, stopped and stared at both of them. She was carrying a large box of fabrics, and all of the other Jedi waiting in line stopped talking to crane their heads and stare too. “Oh! It’s knight now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said, before coughing. He hadn’t realized his voice was so hoarse - he hadn’t spoken to anybody but a nine year old in a week. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Meela.”

“Of course,” Meela said quickly. She was looking openly at Anakin, who was pointedly looking at Obi-Wan’s belt. “And you must be Anakin Skywalker! I had no idea you were so young. Is he even old enough to be a padawan, Knight Kenobi?”

“We determined that the creche wasn’t the best place for him.” Obi-Wan quickly grabbed his datapad, brought up the catalogue of items to requisition, and shoved it Anakin. “Pick out what we’re going to get. I’m certain you must be very busy, Knight Meela, so -”

“My, Padawan Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan refrained from gritting his teeth, before rotating on his heel. He stuck his hands in his sleeves, bowing to the aged Togrutan Jedi behind him. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Master Hashi.”

“My condolences for your master’s death,” Master Hashi said sympathetically. His watery old blue eyes were large and perfectly pitying. “It must be so difficult for you. And taking on a padawan so soon after your knighthood, as well.”

“He’s with the Force now,” Obi-Wan said. Smiling. He was smiling. Turn it down. Just a gentle smile. Remember Rishi. “But I appreciate your condolences.”

As it turns out, half the line just needed to express condolences for Master Jinn’s death, how sad, how tragic, how avoidable. He was so young. Obi-Wan was practically sweating by the time they got to the quartermaster’s desk, at which point he was promptly told that he was missing three forms.

Obi-Wan stood in front of the quartermaster’s desk, gripping Anakin’s hand in his, trying not to unwind. “But I filled out the application on the portal -”

“Yes, but you need your knight’s identification code,” the Quartermaster said briskly. “You input your padawan code.”

“How do I find out my knight’s identification code?”

“It should be on your identification card, son.”

“I was only knighted a week ago.” They were staring. They were all staring - “They haven’t issued me a card yet.”

“I’ll refer you to my assistant, Knight Kenobi.”

Anakin tugged on Obi-Wan’s sleeve. “Are we not getting my new clothing?”

A horrible tremor rose in Obi-Wan’s chest: a choking, sinking feeling. It crawled up his throat, making his trachea burn and his head pound. It felt like a balloon expanding, splintering his chest cavity and threatening to crack him apart.

Everybody was watching. They could not see it. Think about Rishi. Do not let them see it.

After fifteen humiliating minutes sitting at a sympathetic Meela’s desk, Obi-Wan finally managed to secure them some clothes. Anakin also received the standard pack of Jedi personal items, including his own toiletries and datapad. They secured an identification code for Anakin and input him into the database, and gave him his own lanyard and set of cards. Older Jedi tended to keep them in a hidden pocket in their robes, but for obvious reasons they affixed them to the neck of younger children.

But, without the identification code and five hundred more hoops, Obi-Wan couldn’t request a new living quarters and new furniture. He thanked Meela for her time anyway, stopped Anakin from attempting to requisition a B900-A40 droid with HyperFlex specs, and escaped something as simple as the Quartermaster’s trying to avoid rattling apart.

Obi-Wan only exhaled when they were outside, looking at his datapad and marking off the first line. The to-do list scrolled down the screen, and onto another page. Anakin was already shifting from foot to foot, bored.

“One down,” Obi-Wan said. “Three more.”

“Do we have to?” Anakin whined. “Why were the other Jedi so mean?”

Obi-Wan stopped short. He looked down at Anakin, who was fiddling with his obi again. “Stop messing with that. And they weren’t being mean, Anakin, they were just concerned.”

But Anakin just wrinkled his nose. “They were being mean. They were making you feel bad.”

How had he even - “If you keep quiet through the errands, you can have some fruit for lunch at the commissary.”

“Wizard!”

****

It quickly became obvious that nobody approved of Obi-Wan and Anakin.

Whispers followed them everywhere. Masters, old friends of Qui-gon, subtly disapproved of his choices. Which was nothing new - Obi-Wan had silently suffered almost everybody in the Temple disapproving of Qui-gon to him for years - but somehow it made Obi-Wan want to tear his hair out. The knights - the other knights - expressed incredulity that somebody knighted that morning received a padawan that afternoon. The padawans refused to even talk to Anakin, and he very quickly stopped trying.

Obi-Wan’s own friends...he did not have many. He was never in the Temple long enough to significantly interact or make connections with any other padawans or knights. He was never home for longer than a few weeks, and if he was planetside for longer than a month then it was because Qui-gon was recuperating from getting blown up when Obi-Wan hijacked a pirate ship and crash landed it on a small moon.

He used to have friends. Bant and Garen and Reeft and Siri...but a small and horrible part of Obi-Wan hated talking to them. A conversation with them always felt like they were trying to communicate with an Obi-Wan who hadn’t existed for a very long time, crying out over an impassable canyon. Meanwhile, Obi-Wan had begun resenting people who saw through him.

Anakin was a stubborn and implacable kid, but he was very perceptive. He clung tighter and tighter to Obi-Wan’s robes the further they walked into the temple, and eventually Obi-Wan had to disentangle him and give him a quick talk about appropriate behavior. It was his tenth talk to Anakin about appropriate behavior - about everything from using utensils to washing his hair - but this was the first time he seemed to understand why.

“So they don’t like you if you don’t do all the dumb stuff they do?”

“It’s not dumb,” Obi-Wan hissed. “And keep your voice down, this is a library.”

Judging from Anakin’s impressed gawking, this was his first time in a library. He clearly didn’t understand why they were supposed to be quiet either, and Obi-Wan was beginning to understand that Anakin refused to do anything unless you gave him a reason.

Obi-Wan carefully placed him in a small chair in the children’s section, in front of a brightly colored plastic table. Some other initiates were sitting around coloring, or working their way through children’s books. Anakin squinted up at him judgmentally as Obi-Wan frantically grabbed the clunky and friendly library datapad and scrolled through the catalogue until he found a likely suspect. Bugs of Rainforest Planets, light on the words, perfect.

“Just stay here until I come back,” Obi-Wan whispered, after a hurried explanation of why they were quiet in libraries. “Don’t leave this chair. Please.”

“I want more fruit,” Anakin warned.

“You will have more fruit. Now please don’t move.”

This was not how you Jedi masters taught padawans. This was not how it was supposed to work. Obi-Wan was not doing this right. He was doing this terribly. And everybody knew, and everybody was judging him.

The children’s librarian was a kind, plump older Twi’lek with long silver lekku down to her waist. Madame Hallan had been a personal favorite of Obi-Wan’s when he was a youngling, and he knew that she still had a soft spot for him. She was probably the only librarian who didn’t explicitly distrust him.

He easily kidnapped her for a meeting - or, maybe, she took one look at his face and kidnapped him - and she shepherded him into her office. He had never been inside, and Obi-Wan felt weirdly on the other end of the fence of his childhood. It was bright and cheerful and had datapads scattered everywhere with tax forms.

“I understand you have a new padawan,” Madame Hallan said kindly. “I saw him reading. He seems like a wonderful boy.”

She and half the temple understood that he had a new padawan. “I need your help,” Obi-Wan said, excruciatingly impolitely. Since when was Obi-Wan impolite? Since when was he lost? “It’s Anakin - I need to enroll him for lessons and I need some introductory literature for him and -”

“Dear, you’ll want to talk to Master Ravenholme for that.” Master Ravenholme was the Master of Education, and personal blight of many. “He’ll likely ask Anakin to take a placement test to determine which classes he joins.”

“Anakin can’t take a placement test,” Obi-Wan said. “He can’t read.”

To Madame Hallan’s credit, and raising a lot of questions about what exactly the other Jedi knew about Anakin, she accepted the information with a thoughtful look and a nod. “Does he know his letters and some words, or is it total illiteracy?”

Obi-Wan scrubbed his face. He was perched in the uncomfortable metal chair across from her desk, elbows propped on his knees. “It’s sporadic. He’s not totally illiterate, and I think he can read mechanical instruction manuals and labels and signs and that sort of thing...if it has to do with starfighters, he can write the instruction manual...I don’t know, I haven’t checked, but I can’t send him to class like this…”

“Calm yourself, Obi-Wan. Release that tension into the Force. Let’s take this one step at a time,” Madame Hallan said firmly, as Obi-Wan carefully breathed. “I will schedule a reading and writing assessment appointment for Anakin for an assessment. Knight Fu and Knight Kili are available to administer personal tutoring until we get him up to speed.” Fu and Kili were two teachers in the special education department, which was somewhat lean for children over the age of ten or so. Most of the ‘delayed’ children were quickly assigned to the Jedi Corp. Obi-Wan was highly educated on this, and shamefully bitter. “Now, doesn’t that sound like a plan?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Madame Hallen typed something out on her computer, making Obi-Wan’s datapad ping. “I’ve sent you a few of the handbooks that we give new knights and first-time teachers. Hopefully they’ll be of some use to you.” She smiled reassuringly at him, oozing serenity. “I think you will make a wonderful teacher, Obi-Wan. Our Temple’s never seen a young Jedi as dedicated and hardworking as you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And I’m certain that once you and Anakin get settled in, no matter where he came from, he will make an excellent student. We’re all Jedi here, after all.”

Betting was not Jedi-like behavior, despite the fact that Obi-Wan was a world-class betting champion on three Outer Rim worlds (there had been a diamond heist), but Obi-Wan would bet five hundred credits right now that Anakin was not in the chair where he had left him.

In the end, Obi-Wan was pleasantly surprised. Anakin, obviously, was not in the chair where Obi-Wan had left him, but he was within easy searching distance and hadn’t destroyed any droids yet. Instead, he had just meandered to the large picture encyclopedia propped up on a wooden stand, flipping through the flimsi with wide eyes.

Obi-Wan stood next to him, unable to smile but amused all the same. “Do you know what that is?”

Anakin nodded fervently. “It’s an encyclopedia! The padawan guy said it has pictures of every smart species in the galaxy.”

There were, of course, digital databases for these things, but kids loved flipping through things. “Sentient species. Did you learn anything?”

“Yeah!” Anakin lingered on a picture of a Togruta before flipping further at light speed. “The padawan guy said that Qui-gon was a ‘rogue Jedi’ and that he taught you how to do crime and conquer planets and backflip and stuff.”

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. “Please don’t listen to Temple gossip, Anakin. It’ll jump down Coruscant while the truth takes an airlift.”

“But you can do backflips, I saw it.” Anakin turned to look at him - eyes wide, unjudging. “What does ‘rogue Jedi’ mean?”

What did it mean? Obi-Wan had spent half his life wondering. “It means that Qui-gon and I had a lot of adventures,” Obi-Wan said tactfully. “My training was somewhat unconventional in comparison with many other Jedi.”

But Anakin just beamed. “That’s so cool! Is my training going to be uncon - unconvectional?”

“Unconventional.” Obi-Wan sighed. “And at this point, I’m afraid so.”

Was Anakin going to resent him for this once he grew older? He must. Anakin would never be a real Jedi, a proper one. Just like Obi-Wan wasn’t. And Obi-Wan had spent almost a decade now frantically, fervently, desperately trying. He had done everything: mastered the art of saber-fighting, excelled in as many topics as he could. He was an expert in diplomacy, politics, ecology, and tactics. Everybody who met Obi-Wan found him charming, graceful, and handsome - and nobody who ever met Obi-Wan liked him. He topped his classes, was better at saberplay than most knights, and had personally saved the lives of three princesses and a memorable duchess, and he couldn’t figure out how to be a Jedi.

Obi-Wan couldn’t teach what he didn’t have. And he would never be able to give -

“Cool! I want to backflip and conquer planets too.” Anakin grinned up at him, yellow teeth flashing in the soft library lights. “I already know how to do crime, I’m really good at it!”

“Jedi have diplomatic immunity, so technically I’ve never done a crime,” Obi-Wan said, somewhat testily.

“What’s diplomatic immunity?”

“Lesson number two, padawan, is that it means we can do whatever we want so long as we can justify it in the mission report.”

“Wizard!”

Maybe Obi-Wan should just never repeat anything Qui-gon had ever said to him. Ever.

In a roundabout act of bribery, Obi-Wan finally led Anakin towards the cafeteria. It wasn’t lunchtime, but few Jedi strictly followed the guidelines of breakfast, lunchtime, and dinnertime. This was mostly because the creche and Initiates did, and nobody wanted to be in the cafeteria while children were everywhere. Obi-Wan was somewhat infamous in certain circles for braving the cafeteria at 0500 hours, when the space was completely overtaken by retired and venerated Masters sipping tea and playing intense grudge matches of shogi. Obi-Wan had been forced into the matter by his habit of waking up at 0430, but the shogi skills he learned had once settled a trade negotiation between two tribal groups with an ancestral grudge on a Mid-Rim planet, so he had no regrets.

Anakin was practically crushing his hand in excitement. His head whipped around everywhere, eyes wide and drinking in the sublimely banal and boring sight. There was the salad bar, there was the meat bar, there was the drink fountain...but to Anakin, it was the most amazing thing on Coruscant. It almost made Obi-Wan smile. When was the last time he had that expression on his face? Even the beautiful spires of Naboo were commonplace to him.

“And they just -”

“Yes, they just give you the food.” Obi-Wan stopped in the center of the crowded thoroughfare - where, thankfully, everybody was far too focused on their meal or their friends to care about the Temple’s newest spectacle. “I’m sorry, Anakin. What do you...eat, again?”

Anakin suffered this atrocious act of caretaking patiently. What had he been eating until now? Just the self-stable noodles? Had he been handling boiling water?! “At home we ate jinjaraak and ekijun. People with money had fruit and stuff.” He looked around hopefully. “And they just give you fruit -”

“Right,” Obi-Wan said. He struggled to remember the food Shmi had served them. It had been mostly gruel. Obi-Wan had been around the block enough to see that she had been an adept cook of terrible ingredients. “Could you give me an idea of what those are?”

“Uh…” Anakin made little slapping motions with his hands. “Jinjaraak is from clay and lard and spices. I help Mom make little cakes. Like this, see?” At Obi-Wan’s dubious expression, he quickly clarified, “From the good clay. Near the dried up rivers. Not the bad clay. That stuff makes you sick. O’la’rek ate some of that and she got super sick and she barfed up blue -”

“Let’s get you some fruit,” Obi-Wan said.

Anakin got as much fruit as he wanted. Obi-Wan was too busy thinking about what ‘good clay’ could possibly mean to stop him. He could take the extra back to their quarters, anyway.

There was a line for medical diets, and Obi-Wan eventually shuffled an ecstatic fruit-chomping Anakin into that line. He had to present the script the Halls of Healing gave him to the friendly yet belaboured Padawan working the booth that day, and waited patiently as the Padawan squinted at it and ran off to go get his supervisor. Anakin was in Rylothian Heaven, complete with the trees of plenty.

Eventually the supervisor shuffled out, and when Obi-Wan recognized Master Law he bowed. The gruff Patitite squinted at Obi-Wan, then down at the effervescent Anakin with jogan juice staining his sleeve. It was a good thing Obi-Wan thought ahead and ordered extra robes.

“Kenobi,” Master Law finally said, with an air of crisp memory. “Iron deficiency.”

“Yes, Master.” Please don’t remind him. “I’m here with a prescription for my -”

“And the Vitamin D deficiency. And malnutrition?” Master Law squinted further at Obi-Wan, as if half-convinced that he couldn’t possibly be remembering correctly. “I had you eating Lo’rok paste for a month.”

“Yes, Master. After I was stationed on Neskar.”

“How the blazes was a Padawan stationed on -” Master Law cut himself off abruptly, staring down at Anakin instead. He looked him up and down with sharp eyes, seemingly picking out a dozen things that Obi-Wan just couldn’t see. “I’ll get you the nutrient shakes. See that he has one with every meal, three meals a day. I’m prescribing extra vitamin gummies, he’s a bit yellow. Those dietician hacks at the Halls of Healing don’t know anything about real food.”

Obi-Wan really didn’t want to get in the middle of that, so he just nodded. But Anakin blinked up at the man, flecks of seeds caught on the corner of his mouth. “What’s a gummy?”

“A very sweet, tasty candy,” Master Law said gravely. “Which young Padawans only receive when they are very brave.”

Anakin brightened. “What’s candy?”

“The best food in the galaxy.” Master Law’s stern countenance split into a sharp smile. “Seems like that’s just what the doctor ordered. If you’ve never had any, then that means I have to prescribe you a double dose.”

Anakin grinned to match, bright and wide, with yellow teeth and crinkled eyes. “That means I’m brave! I’m super brave! Padme said so, and you said so, so it’s like I’m extra brave!”

For some reason that he just couldn’t parse, Obi-Wan found himself anxiously saying, “I think you’re brave too, Anakin.”

“Triple brave!”

The cafeteria was quickly proving to be Anakin’s favorite place in the Temple. Obi-Wan was reasonably certain that this was a good thing, because it made Anakin happy and happiness was good. That was a reliable fact of the universe: when happiness was scarce, sweet food could usually supply it. Sometimes you took what you could get.

Obi-Wan made an uncharacteristic move and placed a great deal of sugar on his oatmeal. Dumping sugar on oatmeal was crazy. This was probably what going insane felt like. Obi-Wan felt like a criminal.

“You’re very boring, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said judgmentally.

“I’m afraid so,” the ten time war veteran agreed.

It could be worse. Nobody was around to see his shame but Anakin, and the small child wouldn't squeal. All he had to do was ply Anakin with nutrition shakes and fruit, take him back to their quarters, not leave their quarters again for another two weeks in order to recover from this experience, and -

“Obi-Wan! Goodness, Obi-Wan!”

Both Obi-Wan and Anakin jumped a foot in the air, Anakin fighting to keep his food balanced on his child-sized tray. But Obi-Wan recognized the voice, the smooth familiarity soothing his panicking heart and calming down his padawan by connection.

Despite the fact that the voice was the last person he wanted to see.

Bant didn’t run, because she was a respectable Knight, but she did speedwalk in a dignified waddle towards Obi-Wan and Anakin. Anakin subtly slid closer to Obi-Wan, which he should really discourage.

“Obi-Wan! Oh, goodness, you - you jerk, you big jerk!” Bant wrung her flippers, jowls shaking with the clear uge to wrap up Obi-Wan in her patented tight hug and foiled only by the tray that Obi-Wan was holding in front of him like a shield. “You’re an absolute bantha’s - oh!”

She had just noticed Anakin, who held his tray tightly. He was frowning at Bant, and Obi-Wan could feel a twinge of childish bad emotion across their still nascent bond. Wait. What bond?

Bant was oblivious, or put on a good show of it. “You must be Padawan Skywalker,” she said warmly. She bent down a little, and Obi-Wan was struck by nostalgia for her glimmering eyes and bright smile. Bant loved kids. Obi-Wan never had. “It’s so good to meet you! Have you been taking care of your silly master for me?”

Anakin pursed his lips judgmentally. “My teacher’s not silly,” Anakin said, a bit loudly. “He’s great and smart and does backflips. It’s not his fault he’s a jerk!”

Never mind. Obi-Wan was never taking Anakin out in public again. He carefully destroyed the urge to wince, settling for smiling weakly at Anakin. Bant looked a little taken back - shocked by the idea that Anakin could have taken her friendly teasing seriously. Or maybe that he would openly call Obi-Wan a jerk. Obi-Wan wasn’t going to contest it. It was fair.

“Bant’s my best friend, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, with as much warmth as he could muster. His smile was looking more pathetic than anything, so he dropped it. “She knows how good my backflips are.”

“The best in the Temple!” Bant immediately swore up and down. “I’m awfully sorry, Anakin. I think your master’s the coolest guy here. Come on, why don’t you two come eat lunch with me and the rest of Obi-Wan’s friends? We’ve all been dying to meet the newest member of the family!”

A stone sank in Obi-Wan’s gut. He looked over the crowd, effortlessly picking out the familiar table in the back center. Sure enough, he saw the telltale gawks of Siri and Quinlan.

Joy. The two people he wanted to talk to the least. Those two ate Obi-Wan for breakfast on a good day. They would devour him now. They could smell weakness on him. He couldn’t get anything past them. They would take one look at him and know, just know -

“Obi-Wan has friends?” Anakin asked dubiously. “But he just stays in his room all day.” Went tactfully unsaid: and nobody likes him.

Somehow, the emotional obstacle course his friends were going to put him through was more appealing than the cold judgement of the nine year old. “I have plenty of friends,” Obi-Wan lied through his teeth. “Let’s go say hi.”

It felt like walking to the guillotine. Actually, Obi-Wan had walked to a guillotine before, and this was - no, it wasn’t worse. Hadn’t he done it twice? The first time was stressful, because he wasn’t sure if Qui-Gon had seduced the prison guard yet. The second time was fine, since he had hidden his lightsaber in the loose floorboard under the guillotine before he set up his own capture. So - better than the first time, worse than the second time.

Bizarrely, Siri and Quinlan grinned when they saw them. Obi-Wan was actively fighting the urge to hide behind the nine year old. The nine year old who he couldn’t possibly have formed a training bond with - he had been his padawan all of a week, it was impossible - but who had undoubtedly sensed his anxiety anyway.

“Obi-Wan, I can’t fucking believe it,” Quinlan shouted, far too loudly. He and Bant’s trays were empty, while the slow eater Siri’s bowl of grains were half-eaten. They had been there for a while, probably hours, talking about life. He had always left after thirty minutes. He had stuff to do. “I must have left you ten damn voicemails -”

“You son of a varnaak.” Siri had a death grip on her spoon, wielding it like a lightsaber. “I’m strangling you with your intestine. Not inviting me to your own knighting -”

“If you’re going to be mean, we’re leaving!” Anakin interrupted, voice high and reedy. “I already said so! I will stomp your feet!”

“You’re not allowed to stomp their feet, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, exhausted beyond measure. “Hello, all. Save the interrogation for after we’ve eaten, please.”

And maybe it was the sheer power of Anakin and his mighty feet, but his friends quieted enough for Obi-Wan to shove sugary oats into his mouth and for Anakin to polish off his fruit before starting in on his nutrient shake. Obi-Wan had to stop and take a napkin and wipe the seeds off the corner of his mouth, and help him to insert the straw in the protein shake, but the act of sucking on a straw amused Anakin and he didn’t hate the taste. There were friendly animal species on the cup. Special nutrient shake for chronically malnourished children - now with bright colors!

His friends just watched them, without even food to make the environment faux-casual. Their dark eyes seemed to follow him, and Obi-Wan felt his skin crawl. He didn’t want to deal with this. He could barely deal with Quinlan on a good day, much less...today. Any day, lately.

Finally, his grace period seemed to tick down to zero, and Quinlan broke the ice with a fishing spear and an excess of exuberance. “Is this the famous little guy we’ve heard so much about? I hear you’re a good pilot, kid!”

And, just like that, Quinlan was Anakin’s favorite person on Coruscant. “I’m the best pilot,” Anakin asserted arrogantly. Obi-Wan mentally noted the tendency for arrogance and pride down in the ‘Goal Setting!’ part of his brain that was half-heartedly drafting a training curriculum. “I can blow up anything and anyone.”

“Sounds like Quinlan,” Siri snickered. Unlike Bant, she was terrified of children, but she hid it well. “He and your master are Joballian twins that way. Those two could start a fire in deep space.”

“So who are you people?” Anakin asked. Obi-Wan put ‘unbelievably blunt’ in his mental training curriculum. “Are you really Obi-Wan’s friends? He doesn’t like you.”

“I like them very much,” Obi-Wan said rotely. Quinlan pantomimed a shot to the heart.

But Bant just smiled down at Anakin, unflappable. “You’re a padawan, young one. You should call Obi-Wan your master. It’s good to be polite.”

“Why should I have to do that?” Anakin’s voice tinged a little louder, and at a pointed look from Obi-Wan he toned it down. Siri’s eyebrows rose. “He’s my teacher, not a master of no one.”

Bant winced a bit, and all three of them rippled discomfort in the Force. So they knew, even though it wasn’t totally public knowledge. Quinlan had undoubtedly used his ridiculous clearance as a Shadow to access the Naboo mission records and spilled the details to them. Keeping it professional, as always.

“Master means something very different to Jedi,” Bant said gently. “It’s a special relationship between two people. Every Jedi teaches and learns from each other, but your master is the person who guides you and makes sure you go to bed on time. It’s just the same word for a very different thing than you’re used to.”

“What do you mean by that?” Anakin gnawed on his straw suspiciously. “I thought Obi-Wan was the one who taught me.”

Quinlan, who had far more experience with the wider world than Siri and Bant, caught on first. He propped his elbows on the table, and Obi-Wan saw him visibly struggle for the ‘wise teacher’ tone before giving up. “The Jedi have different relationships than you’re used to, kid. Who took care of you and watched you all day back home?”

This was heading into dangerous territory, and Obi-Wan frowned dangerously at Quinlan, but Anakin just hummed. “Mom took care of me and we moved around together. But Old Lady Hun watches me and the other kids in the gathering space when Mom’s busy. And when Jipol was sick, Mom and I took care of her two daughters. And Old Man Wa taught me how to fix things. And -”

“Right. So the Jedi are like that. Instead of a very small number of people raising kids, every adult raises every kid. So, for example, any Jedi would tell you to stop running in the halls or stop you from misbehaving -”

“And every Jedi did, with this one,” Siri added.

“ - but any Knight or Master would help you with your homework, too,” Quinlan finished, elbowing Siri. “We all help each other here. We share food, stuff, school, and teachings. That’s why we practice nonattachment - everything’s everybody’s, not just yours. Make sense?”

Anakin’s brow was furrowed. He paid close attention to everything - chewing everything over again and again until it made sense. Obi-Wan shoveled oatmeal in his mouth, glad Quinlan was doing this. “Why does nonattachment mean you don’t get moms or dads?”

Dangerous territory. Bant opened her mouth to say something soothing, but Quinlan beat her to the punch. “Well, to Jedi, we think the idea of just putting two or three people in charge of kids is pretty crazy. Kids are loud and bouncy. One or two people would get totally stressed out and make mistakes. And imagine just a few people teaching you about life. They could believe all this crazy stuff, and then so would you.”

“And what if the parent’s being a total jerk?” Siri pointed out. “Then the kid’s stuck with that. But when there’s other people around, they can stop and tell the parent that they’re being a total jerk. Then they have to cut it out.”

Anakin narrowed his eyes. “So nobody beats their kids here because the other Jedi would get mad?”

Awkward silence loomed. Finally, Quinlan said, “Yeah, totally. Anyway, that’s why our way rocks and makes sense. Boom. Teaching moment.” Quinlan slapped the table in victory. “We are so good at this. We’re going to be the greatest teachers ever, Anakin. Forget lame old Obi-Wan, he’s going to lead you down the path of boring. Stick with Knight Vos, I’m gonna lead you down the path that rocks.”

At Anakin’s deeply confused expression, Bant put a hand on his back. But when she spoke she spoke to Obi-Wan, gleaming eyes boring into his. “We’re Obi-Wan’s best friends. We’re going to be here for you almost as much as Obi-Wan is. None of us have padawans yet, so we’re all really excited to help you! Did you know I’m a doctor?”

Anakin perked up. He respected doctors highly - apparently it was a very prestigious position on Tatooine. “Wow! Obi-Wan’s friends with a doctor?”

“And I’m a superspy action hero, kid!” Quinlan flexed, tossing his dreads. “I can teach you how to hack into anything!”

“I’m a better pilot than anyone at this table.” Siri awkwardly waved her fist in the air in a pantomime of excitement. “I’ll help you...fly things. Which you can apparently already do. But I’ll teach you how to do it better.”

The idea was heady to Anakin. His eyes widened, filled with possibility and excitement. Of smiling adult faces, wanting to help. But he looked at Obi-Wan instead, fear sneaking in through the gap bored by long experience with misery. “So what does a master do, then?”

Obi-Wan smiled wanly at Anakin. Experimentally, he tried sending him as much warmth as possible. He didn’t have much to spare, but Anakin seemed to appreciate the sentiment. “I’ll protect you, Anakin. And I’d like it if you continued calling me Obi-Wan.”

And he knew that meant more to Anakin than all the rest. At least Obi-Wan won there.

Although Obi-Wan had gone his entire life despairing for Quinlan’s future padawan, he somehow handled Anakin wonderfully. Even Siri awkwardly asked a question about Anakin’s favorite kind of ship - clearly expecting an answer along the lines of ‘a big one!’ or ‘one that shoots lasers!’ - and sat through Anakin’s ten minute scientific dissertations on the difference in engine ports between Genoshian Special X100 and Genoshian Special X200.

When’s the last time Obi-Wan had a long conversation with Anakin, where they just talked about nothing? He’d been so selfish, focusing entirely on himself and not even thinking about Anakin. His friends were doing this a thousand times better than he was. They should be the one with a padawan, not him. Qui-Gon hadn’t thought he was ready for knighthood until - well, until it was convenient, but if it took him this long to be knighted he ought to be forty before he got a padawan.

In a characteristically deft maneuver, Quinlan had flagged down a friend of his - Ku Lun, a friendly face and teacher to the Initiates - and gave Anakin a real world lesson in Jedi togetherness by asking him to walk Anakin back to their quarters. Anakin shot a panicked look at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan deeply wished to send a panicked look back, but he just nodded supportively.

“Don’t you want to ask Knight Lun about lessons?” Obi-Wan said. “You can work together to design your school.”

The concept of school, and the power to choose it, was obviously heady to Anakin, and he jumped off the bench with only a tinge of reluctance. “Come back to the room in thirty minutes or you’re fired,” Anakin told Obi-Wan gravely, yet nonsensically, before running off with Knight Lun.

It wasn’t until the sounds of Anakin’s chattering faded, then disappeared completely, that Obi-Wan turned back to his friends with a sigh. Their plot had worked. Quinlan and Siri’s perfect score in tactics - second only to his more than perfect score - had won again. He was subject to the masses, and the masses were stressed over his wellbeing.

Better make the pre-emptive strike. “Greetings, my honored friends,” Obi-Wan said dully. “My very best friends in the galaxy, whom I have not spoken to in months.”

“And whose fault is that, you asshole!” Quinlan thumped the table, making the plasteelware rattle, and cuing a withering look from Bant. “You drop out of contact. You leave on a routine diplomatic mission. You get wrapped up in an interplanetary war, obviously, because that’s how your routine missions always go. And you come back with a kid and the head of a Sith?”

“You have the situation well in hand, Quinlan. There’s nothing more I can teach you.”

“Idiot! I’m not asking for a mission report, here.” Quinlan set his mouth, as tempestuous as ever. “Are you okay?”

Was he okay?

Maybe Bant caught something on his expression, because she placed a reassuring flipper on his arm. “We’re sorry about Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan. We know how much he meant to you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“You can’t get rid of us just because you don’t talk to us.” Siri scooped the rest of her oats in her mouth, clearly regretful that she no longer had something to hide behind. “Reeft and Garen feel the same way. You’re lucky Garen’s on a mission, or he would have staked out your door.” He would have. Garen was insane. “I know they waived the two weeks in solitude considering your circumstances, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it. Anakin needs -”

“As his master, I have the best idea of what Anakin needs.” Obi-Wan kept his voice flat, dispassionate. He wasn’t a child anymore, not that impetuous Initiate who yelled and stomped and screamed. Obi-Wan had drowned that anger under thick layers of Jedi robe years ago. “I appreciate and understand your concern. However, I ask for faith in my abilities to handle my padawan.”

“Oh, no. Not the ‘I Am A Perfect Jedi And You Are The Irresponsible Bugs Beneath My Feet’ voice.” Siri didn’t sound amused, as she normally would be while making fun of him. What was funny about speaking properly? “Don’t shut down on us.”

“I’ve never understood where you got the impression that Jedi don’t have feelings, Obi-Wan,” Bant scolded, “but you know it’s not true. Jedi feel their feelings. They feel them and release them. This is you repressing them. They’re just going to fester and get worse if you do that.”

“Yes, Bant. I recieved top marks in Philosophy 101, same as you.” Obi-Wan picked at his sealed up, the rims of thick juice sloshing in the corners, before forcing himself to stop. He forced his hands still on the table, pressing them down hard on the linoleum. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know what good a confession would do to all of you. Obviously I miss my master. Obviously I’m all…very sad about it.” Obi-Wan jerked his shoulders in a half-shrug, ignoring everyone’s unimpressed looks. “What good will talking about it do? I have to remain focused. In the real world, you don’t get the luxury of hermitage.”

“Luckily, you’re not in the real world.” Bant’s wry tone imparted the air quotes around ‘real world’. “You’re home. You and Anakin are safe here.” Obi-Wan snorted. “Knight Kenobi, what was that?”

Uh oh. But Siri unknowingly came to his rescue, leaning forward with as intent and sympathetic expression as she could wring from her usually severe countenance. “Don’t give me that dung, Obi-Wan. I cried for a month after Master Tahl died. You were there for me every second of it. What, are you so special that you don’t need help? Are you so much better than us that you don’t feel what every sentient feels? Your ‘better than you’ attitude doesn’t make you better than yourself.”

Bant made a warbling sound of frustration. “Siri, let’s not insult the person we are trying to help.”

“It’s not my fault he’s so - look, this is about Anakin -”

A tightly wound rope of...of something bad snapped in Obi-Wan’s gut. “You don’t think I can handle him.”

“Nobody’s saying that, brother,” Quinlan said, placating for the first time in his life, “but it’s like I was just telling the little guy, right? Nobody can do this by themselves. Cultures that try to do it are - they’re just crazy!”

“None of you think I can do this,” Obi-Wan whispered harshly, trying to keep the - the bad thing locked tight inside, incapable. It wouldn’t stop overflowing, a cup that runneth over. “Nobody in this Temple thinks I’m capable of taking care of him. They don’t think he can be a Jedi. It’s my fault. It’s because he has such a fuck-up for a master.”

Everybody around him suddenly radiated extreme alarm in the Force in unison. Was it really that unusual for him to say the words that swirled around in his head every hour of the day?

“Obi-Wan, we’re the fuck-ups. I mean, me and Siri and Garen. You and Bant are the Rylothian angels here.”

“That’s not what everybody else thinks,” Obi-Wan said lowly. “I’ve always been tainted because of Qui-Gon. Now just being around me is going to taint Anakin. Everybody knows it.”

“Tainted?” Bant asked with alarm. What was alarming? “What are you talking about -”

But Obi-Wan barrelled through her, unwilling to hear whatever sweet and placating words she had for him today. He stood up, carefully stepping off the bench and fussily fixing his robes with hands that did not shake. “We are going to prove it to them. Anakin will become a Jedi. I will make Anakin a Jedi, if it’s the last thing I do.”

He swept off, feeling a little bit dramatic, feeling as if he had expelled the smallest amount of emotion he could. That was the least he could give, portioning out bits of himself to the hungry and braying crowd.

Why did they want these pieces of him so desperately? What was valuable about these hideous parts of Obi-Wan - the fear, the insecurity, the nightmares shaking him awake each night? People like Bant and Quinlan dug and dug and dug until they found what they were looking for, as if they wanted to prove something to themselves, to him, to the Jedi.

Prove that he was inferior. Prove that he was just as wild and angry as everybody always said. Prove that his flimsy mask of ‘A Perfect Jedi’ was nothing more than a stage actor placing a pulp-mache bantha’s head mask over his face and strutting about as if he was a king. Prove what Qui-Gon had always thought of him: that any love for him could only be held at arm's length, that a kid who needed to prove himself never required support or a helping hand, that there was no such thing as ‘good enough’ when you lived in competition with ghosts and shadows.

Prove what everybody knew, and what Obi-Wan could not hide.

***

When Obi-Wan got home, Anakin was lying on the ground committing atrocities upon the ravaged corpse of a pilfered library droid.

“Please start putting down a tarp when you do that,” Obi-Wan said. “You’ve been getting oil into the carpet.” He paused a beat. “And please stop sneaking away from chaperones.”

“But I need to practice sneaking away from good guys so I can be good at sneaking away from bad guys! And it’s not like I was caught.” Anakin didn’t look up at him, absorbed in his work. “That’s Jedi lesson three, right? ‘Do whatever you want, just don’t get caught’?”

“When had - why do -” Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting the one day exposure to Qui-Gon. But..in the face of that logic, Obi-Wan was forced to concede. It was objectively true. “Yes. But make an exception for me. Just don’t get caught by others.”

“You got it! Hey, pinch this wire for me.”

So Obi-Wan lay down on his stomach across from Anakin, staring at him from over a sea of rusty machinery. His round little face, somehow still clinging onto baby fat, was smooth as only a child’s could be. It was flaky and rough from the blistering heat of twin suns, but he had ointment now. His featherly light blonde hair would darken without its sunshine bleach, and it would grow long in limp brown shags. He would look like his mother - if, apparently, there was no father to speak of.

His expression was screwed up in concentration, tongue poking out of his teeth as he carefully screwed in a bolt where it likely was not intended to go. There was something strangely beautiful about him in that moment - an intelligence at work, a powerful focus rarely applied. He glowed in the Force like a sun, overwhelming and breath-taking.

But when Obi-Wan’s breath caught, he wasn’t sure if it was the Force. Maybe it was just Anakin. Could you fall in love like this? Just by looking at somebody, just by feeling how great they could be? Stronger than Obi-Wan, more righteous than Qui-Gon? Kinder than Master Dooku, more vibrant than Grandmaster Yoda?

Could he be better? Or would Obi-Wan only make him worse?

“Do you like my friends?” Obi-Wan whispered.

“Gimmie a min’.” Anakin finished screwing the bolt, huffing at the piece. “Bad. Gotta redo...what didya say?”

“Do you like my friends?”

“Oh!” Anakin brightened. “They’re super cool and awesome Jedi! They’re just like I thought Jedi would be. Bant’s a doctor! Did you know that?”

“I did.” A pang shot through Obi-Wan’s heart. “They’d be better teachers than I. I’m sorry, Anakin. I’m sorry you’re stuck with…”

“No way! I’m sorry you’re stuck with me, Obi-Wan.” Anakin’s expression crumpled a little, although he bravely tried to keep it straight. He was already picking that up from Obi-Wan. “I’m why everybody keeps looking at us weird...it’s all my fault. All the Jedi hate us.”

“Anakin, no. The Jedi love all sentient beings.” Judging from Anakin’s expression, Obi-Wan was speaking straight bantha poodoo and acting as if the Corellian moons were made of cheese. “It’s true. They’d - they’d all help you. You don’t need to rely on me.”

Wires hissed and sparked. Anakin was quiet for a moment, stripping some wires with a deft, chubby hand and tying them together. He reached out to grab a blowtorch, but at Obi-Wan’s dangerous expression he carefully retreated his hand. It was a matter of time until he was using his lightsaber to solder metal. Incorrigible. Finally, Anakin said, “What Mr. Quinlan -”

“Knight Quinlan.”

“Knight Quinlan was talking about how you’re just there to guide me and teach me the Jedi way for a few years. And they all acted like the master and padawan thing is so special and great, but…” His face crumpled a little, overcome by an emotion he couldn’t name. “When we had to leave Mom behind...I thought that meant that you were going to be Mom now. But they aren’t going to let us. They’re going to make other people teach me because they don’t like you, and - and - and!”

Fat tears were rolling down Anakin’s cheeks, no matter how hard he scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. Obi-Wan quickly sat up and moved closer to Anakin, wrapping him in a hug and letting Anakin press his head into Obi-Wan’s tunic. He would probably have to get this one cleaned with Anakin’s robe. He didn’t know why he was focusing on that instead of Anakin’s hitched breaths as he tried to control his tears.

“Nobody’s going to take you away from me, Anakin.” That wasn’t what he meant to say. That was far too possessive. That hadn’t come out right. But what had Obi-Wan meant to say? “We all just want what’s best for you. You might be happier with the others.” Obi-Wan faltered. “You could be a normal child here. Take lessons. Play with the other children. Learn and grow and be happy. My padawanship, Anakin...it was dangerous and isolated. That’s the kind of life I’ve always lived. I don’t want to expose you to that.”

Anakin separated from him, eyes red-rimmed but dry. “They aren’t strong! All the kids and the old people here - they’re weak! Nothing bad’s ever happened to them, so they think sad people like us are freaks. But you’re strong, Obi-Wan. I want to be strong and just like you. I’m not embarrassed to be your padawan.” He faltered a little, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s okay that you’re sad and that I had to make food for a little bit. Mom would get sad sometimes too. She couldn’t leave bed and stuff. I would take care of Mom and make her food. I don’t mind making you food. The slaves all had each other, we did, but...Mom and I took care of each other. We can take care of each other. It’s just you and me. Right?”

Obi-Wan embraced Anakin tightly, fighting to control his breathing. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the correct way to do this. He had to be more like Qui-Gon - professional and strong and affectionate. Qui-Gon would have never let Obi-Wan cling to him like this, swearing an oath that neither of them should ever make.

Nobody was going to help them. None of them had ever forgotten how Obi-Wan had been a failure as a child, and none of them were ever going to forget where Anakin came from. No matter what they all said, their bright smiles and helping hands - none of them understood what it was like. It was just Obi-Wan and Anakin from now on.

In some strange way, it felt as if it had always been. As if Obi-Wan had only been alone, because he had not met or loved Anakin yet.

This wasn’t the kind of master Obi-Wan should be. He should be discouraging this desperation and neediness. But he couldn’t discourage it in himself, and he had no idea how to quench it in either of them.

As the Rylothians would say - if this was a sin, then hell had greater need of him than heaven.

He would put in the request for active mission duty. If Anakin grew up like he did - in the midst of adventure and hardship - then he could attain the strength he so desired. That was all Obi-Wan knew how to offer, and that was Qui-Gon’s legacy.

“It’s just you and me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan swore, and damned himself. “It’s just you and me…”

#star wars #sw #star wars fanfic #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #bant eerin #siri tachi #quinlan vos #this is the first and last star wars thing you will ever get from me #please don't ask the rationale i have secrets #i like to think that nothing bad happens in this universe #(it's not an AU but it's not NOT an AU? up to interpretation)#because Obiwan in canon is on anakin's ass about everything #and here he's just one of those single parents who's like 'ok so long as you're fed and not on fire i don't have energy to care #about anything else'#I think this was written from joking about how comedically and weirdly terrible obiwan's childhood was #and from my own personal feelings about the weird way the sw fandom understands communal childcare #and nonattachment #It Does Not Mean What You Think It Means (Because George Lucas Is A White Guy Buddhist!)#if you're wondering if the behavior by the jedi here is realistic or nomal or if it's positive or negative #I have lived in a monastery and it is the most accurate thing you will ever see in a SW fic #my writing

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boltedfruit · 2 years ago

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Today was my one month hysterectomy post op! If you are also ftm and wanting to know what the process was like, this is that post.

So for context: I'm 28, came out at 26 which is also when I started hormones. The month I turned 27 I got my top surgery (double incision). This is only relevant because I compare the two experiences. (Top surgery was worse recovery-wise for me.) I also live in California and went through insurance.

Pre op: So pre op was normal. They took my blood, added anti-nausea medicine to my IV antibiotic drip, because I specifically asked for it. When I got my top surgery I threw up once about an hour after I got home, which I was very nauseous for. Any type of abdominal surgery is it only made worse when your body is squishing itself together to throw up otl. But thankfully I had zero nausea or vomiting this time post op. So if you're like me, ask for anti-nausea meds before surgery. They also shave basically from your chest down to your suprapubic area.

What I had: I had a laparoscopic robotic total hysterectomy, where they removed my uterus, cervix, fallopian tubes, and my left ovary. I kept my right one for future bone health and any future egg harvesting if I ever want to do reverse IVF. I also don't have a family history of ovarian cancer, so that was a big deciding factor for me too.

Right after surgery: Where my top surgery took 6 hours and was generally a flippant experience by the staff, this surgery took around 2.5 hours and the staff was great. The only thing I didn't like was a nurse assumed I was diabetic for some reason and put me on a no food diet outside of jello. I stayed overnight and nobody would listen to me insisting I wasn't diabetic and wouldn't get clearance from the doctor until over 24 hours since I last ate. My doctor told me the next morning I should have had a no restriction diet, and eating normally after a robotic hysterectomy was totally normal and encouraged.

Post op bleeding and tw: I've seen other stories and vlogs of people who have had the same procedure done and explain how the nurses didn't help them move around or go to the bathroom, or in one really shocking case let the patient walk a trail of blood from the cervical sutures from his bed to the bathroom. I was worried about that, but after my experience I wonder if that wasn't just a new or uncaring nurse or half assed suture job. My experience was I hardly bled the entire post op. I had very heavy clotting periods before I started hrt, and had one mild instance where basically a pad was used. But all other bleeding was just light spotting. I also had healthy organs and have never been pregnant so that is a factor I'm assuming as well. But if you are worried, ask your surgeon what type of suture/stitch they plan on using and how that affects any expected bleeding. Even ask them to show you how they do it. You should not be pouring blood after surgery.

I was discharged around noon the day after surgery and I had to walk up stairs to get to my apartment. That was fine, this surgery didn't leave me off my feet like my top surgery had.

At home recovery went well. I propped myself up in bed and sleeping was slightly awkward but nowhere near as awkward as sleeping with top surgery drains was. The first five or six days post op it was hard to stand all the way straightened up, there was an internal pull, which was mainly on my left side, so I'm assuming for me it was because that side had more things removed. Laying on either side was hard until about a week and a half post op. At a day shy of two weeks post op I felt completely normal again. I also was cleared to take baths again.

I had four incisions, one of each side of my belly button and one in my belly button. But I still don't know where the fourth is, and the nurses at the hospital couldn't find it either?? So we were all like idk man. Honestly the one in the belly button is the hardest because (for me at least) with weight and a roll you just have a hard time keeping the area dry after an incision is left there. I'm 5’4 and weight 198lbs, and the way I hold weight it's not like I have a lot of folds of skin, but it was an awkward spot. My surgeon closed the incisions with internal stitches and skin glue. And around a week that glue came off, so to stop seepage I just used medical tape and a square of gauze over my belly button and changed it frequently throughout the day. It's nowhere near as bad as dealing with top surgery drains though.

At a month post op I've been cleared for everything except like power lifting until six weeks, which I don't do anyway. Compared to top surgery, having a total hysterectomy robotically was a breeze. I wasn't even told to limit sodium intake, so idk if that's a thing across the board when it comes to hysterectomies or just in my case. But nothing beats sausage after having like half a pound of jello cups.

My next step is meta, which I found out I got approved for, so I hope to get that done soon.

If anyone has questions about a part of the process, even if it's really TMI or not, I'm happy to answer!

#ftm hysterectomy #hysterectomy #laparoscopic hysterectomy #transgender #transgender hysterectomy

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rothjuje · 3 years ago

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Whew. At least one of the kids has been sick for 6 weeks. SIX WEEKS. The twins were sick for 3 weeks out of 4 last month. They got on antibiotics for a sinus infection and have been healthy since, which is such a relief. After the twins were sick for two weeks straight (=no sleep for me) I was beginning to doubt my sanity. But I’ve slept through the night the past couple weeks and it has been restorative/I feel much better.

Alyssa is on antibiotics for the gnarly cough she’s had for 6 weeks. The steroids helped with croup but she can’t seem to kick the lingering cough. The antibiotics haven’t helped. My friend’s son had a cough for 7 months after croup so maybe this is normal(ish)? I miss having healthy children.

The twins turned two!! My babies 🥲🥲

Covid numbers are still down at Alyssa’s school. We got a new rug, best decision ever. Can’t wait until we move and get to leave this gross couch behind. We have a meeting with our realtor scheduled so we can prepare to list. I am starting to get antsy. Content with our decision to wait, but very very excited for May and getting the heck out of here. Like, so excited. I get a burst of energy whenever I think about it.

We started the Whole30 this week. It’s nice to get back on track after eating cake and takeout for two weeks straight. I have more energy on the Whole30, which is great, but I also miss feeling full and have a tendency to get hangry.

Hef is still around. He’ll have a bad day (they are horrible and hard to watch) and then he’ll have two good days. His bad days are getting worse so I think the end is near but I am having a philosophical issue with putting him down/playing Gd. I feel like I’ll *know* when it’s time. My neighbor thinks I should just do it. I told her I don’t feel comfortable choosing if someone else gets to live. She told me that the Inuit cast away their elders on ice and that he’s just a dog. Oy. Anyway. I’m clearly still having anxiety about it.

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foxqueen-katarian · 2 years ago

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If I get sepsis and die because none of my health care providers want to take my tooth pain seriously know that I will haunt all of them into an early grave.

My dentist says the referral they gave me to the oral surgeon three years ago is still valid and there's nothing they can do in office to help me.

The oral surgeon says they need an up to date x-ray before they'll agree to see me.

My PCP's stance is that this is a tooth issue and they want no part of it (never mind that I'm pretty sure I have an infection and would like an antibiotic which is why I contacted them in the first place).

The ER won't prescribe me an antibiotic because I don't have a fever, even though I told them I'm taking at least 800mgs of ibuprofen four times a day to manage the pain, and that's probably why I don't have a fever, and also wont do blood work to test for an infection because it's a tooth issue and that falls under dentistry and they aren't equipped to handle that.

Also my dentist can't see me for at least six weeks, so I can't get an updated x-ray for a month and a half, and then will probably have over a months long wait to get in to see the oral surgeon, and at that point if I do have an infection it'll probably have killed me.

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csnews · 4 years ago

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Museum exhibit showcases wonder, challenges facing orcas

Darron Kloster - March 28, 2021

He was known as Ruffles and numbered J1. The big male orca, named for his tall jagged dorsal fin, was one of the first southern resident killer whales identified by scientists in J-Pod in the 1970s. The nine-metre J1 lived a full life, fathering at least 16 calves in all three southern resident pods — J, K and L. Twelve of them are still alive and his legacy continues with 12 grandchildren and one great-grandchild.

Ruffles was estimated to be 60 when he disappeared in 2010 and was presumed dead. But the mighty orca lives on. He’s one of three life-size replicas going on display at the Royal British Columbia Museum’s feature exhibition Orcas: Our Shared Future, which opens April 16 and runs to January 2022.

The event was cancelled last year due to pandemic restrictions, but is back on track during a critical time for the beloved but struggling marine mammals. Southern resident orcas now number 75 after three births over the past six months, but their struggle for food, chiefly chinook salmon, continues.

Gavin Hanke, curator for vertebrate zoology at the Royal B.C. Museum and one of the chief scientists behind the exhibit, said people have developed a kinship with the resident orcas, as the various family groups navigate an increasingly complex world of food supply, pollution, toxins and marine traffic that interfere with communication in their traditional areas.

“People love wolves and grizzly bears, too, and the Biggs [transient] orcas, but they are not coded, named and recognized as individuals,” Hanke said. “The residents are like people. They have names, families, history and that’s what’s so great to see. These are highly intelligent animals and we should appreciate them.”

The three replica orcas also include Slick, or J16, at 49 the oldest female in J-Pod who is still swimming the Salish Sea, and her daughter, Scarlett, or J-50. Scarlett, who died in 2018, made international headlines when the three-year-old was discovered severely underweight. Scientists from Canada and the U.S. tried to feed her salmon and administered antibiotic darts, attempting a capture to provide medical assistance.

Hanke said the replica models were created using years of photographs and measurements taken from drone video. The exhibit also contains the skeletal remains of J-32, or Rhapsody, an 18-year-old pregnant juvenile found dead near Comox in 2014.

Necropsy results indicated Rhapsody died from an infection linked to her near-term fetus. Her body was filled with toxic contaminants often found stored in orcas’ and whales’ blubber, said Hanke.

“The organs, blubber and muscle had to be disposed of in the landfill, in the toxic-waste section, because of the contaminants in her body,” said Hanke.

Rhapsody’s story and skeletal remains — as well as those of her fetus — will be a centrepiece of the museum’s display and bring attention to the plight of the southern residents, said Hanke.

“Her story personally changed me,” said Hanke. “She was eating salmon for 18 years with toxic waste. I gave up fishing, try to grow most of my own food. We drive an electric car now.”

Fewer boats on the water during the pandemic have likely helped the orcas, improving echolocation techniques in finding food. For orcas, heavy boat and freighter traffic is like “being in a pub that’s super noisy. You almost have to yell to be heard,” said Hanke.

He said many whale-watching companies are being responsible and keeping their distance. There are also boaters who are converting to electric motors, and whale-watching land observation posts are being developed.

“A partner in the exhibition, Eagle Wing Tours, often takes people out to view the transient orcas, as opposed to the southern residents,” said Hanke.

The museum’s exhibition is taking a deep dive into the stories and science that surround the apex predator of the oceans. Visitors can explore ecological activism, popular culture and Indigenous beliefs to gain a deeper understanding of how orcas and humans are inextricably connected.

“This is a timely and challenging story — and one that we are uniquely qualified to tell,” said museum board chair and acting CEO Dr. Daniel Muzyka in a statement. “Our unique collections, curatorial expertise, and physical and emotional proximity to orcas and oceans combine in an edifying and ultimately hopeful experience that affirms we are all part of nature — not apart from nature.”

Among the artifacts on display are rare cultural objects by Indigenous artists, including an articulated dance mask by Richard Hunt (Kwaguilth), an intricately carved gold killer whale box by Bill Reid (Haida), and a commissioned painting by Haida manga artist Michael Nicoll Yahgulanaas.

The exhibition includes a companion publication that brings together the work of marine biologists, Indigenous knowledge keepers, poets, artists and storytellers. Spirits of the Coast: Orcas in Science, Art and History is edited by Hanke, Martha Black and Lorne Hammond and available at local bookshops, the Royal Museum Shop and online at rbcm.ca/books.

The exhibition has been designed to travel to other museums during the UNESCO Decade of Ocean Science for Sustainable Development (2021-2030). The museum is following pandemic safety protocols. To purchase timed tickets, visit rbcm.ca/orcas.

#news #orca #killer whale #cetacean #whale #dolphin #museum #srkw

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nicknellie · 4 years ago

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Anonymous requested: Julie and the Phantoms are on tour and Juke are dating, one stop on tour Luke gets sick (woke up with fever, swollen glands, sore throat etc) and the doctor diagnoses him with strep and an ear infection and Julie takes care his stubborn butt back to the hotel because he doesn't like to let down the fans since they have to cancel few shows.

Anonymous requested: alive guys, out of school in the real world, now all living in an apartment together. The 5 Times Luke Was Sick, and The 5 Times Julie Cured Him and maybe add in the 1 time Luke returns the favour of taking care of Julie.

Anonymous requested: Luke and Julie are married and have a daughter (Rose, 3). Rose and Luke end up waking up sick with the flu and Julie takes care of them, and she gets worn down from doing everything and caring for them. And even with him being sick in bed he lays with Rose when Julie’s beat and cuddles her when she feels sick even though he feels the same. Cute family fluff basically.

We Will Fight To Shine Together

The entire week had been hectic. Julie – along with her boys, Luke, Alex, and Reggie – had finally got the keys to their new apartment and had spent the whole of the previous two days hauling their belongings there from their respective homes. Ray Molina, protective as always, had been breathing down their necks in a frantic and worried attempt to help them out, the presence of Willie and Flynn had resulted in less unpacking and more Cardboard Box Wars, and most of their things were strewn about in unlikely places after the chaos of unpacking; just that morning Julie had found Alex’s drumsticks in the fridge.

But they were finally there, they were finally home, and there was nothing to worry about. Everything in the apartment seemed to be in order, they weren’t set to go on tour for another six months so the stress of that was still a way off, and the band’s new-found sense of freedom and independence hung over them like a rainbow. There was nothing that could have gone wrong. Nothing except–

“Dude, you look sick! And not in the good way.”

Julie had been sat atop the kitchen counter, watching Alex prepare their breakfast, but she looked towards the door when she heard Reggie’s exclamation. Stood in the doorway, bundled in about four hoodies, his eyes bloodshot and his nose running, was Luke. Reggie was right – he looked as if he were about to keel over and die. His puppy dog eyes were wide and watery and he looked utterly dreadful.

“Luke,” Julie said, hopping off the counter and heading over to him. “Are you feeling alright?”

He shook his head and sniffled pathetically. “I’m sick,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, you look it,” Julie said. She took his hand and gently led him towards a kitchen chair. He collapsed into it with a relieved sigh as if he couldn’t have bared standing any longer.

To Julie’s surprise (and slight annoyance) Alex and Reggie were laughing.

“You must have the weakest immune system known to man,” Alex joked as he put the group’s breakfast onto plates.

“On the bright side, Willie owes me ten dollars,” Reggie said with a beam. “I bet him you wouldn’t last two weeks before getting sick.”

Julie put her hands on her hips and glared at the two boys who immediately ceased their laughter. She knew she could be quite terrifying when she wanted to and she didn’t like abusing that power too much, but this was a situation she felt called for it.

“You two are seriously lacking compassion,” she scolded, pointing to and from Alex and Reggie. “Your friend is ill and all you can do is laugh at him. It’s mean – he has it difficult enough right now.”

Luke, pouting pathetically, nodded in agreement.

Alex and Reggie, both looking suitably chastised, muttered, “Sorry Julie.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t apologise to me.”

“Sorry Luke.”

“That’s better,” she said. Julie took herself out of Mother Mode and returned to Supportive Girlfriend. She gently ran her fingers through Luke’s hair – he relaxed a little as her touch. “I’m going to take you back to bed, you’re going to get some rest while I look up your symptoms, and then I’m going to take care of you.”

Luke’s eyes widened. “It’s probably just a cold. You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t, but I’m going to. Come on.”

Julie sent one more cutting glare to Reggie and Alex before helping Luke stand and leading him back through their little apartment to their shared bedroom. She eased him back into the bed, helped him make a half-nest-half-fort with the pillows and duvet, then grabbed her laptop and set up YouTube for him. Then, she pulled up a tab on her phone and sat beside him on the bed.

“Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?” she asked.

Luke shook his head.

“Are you feeling dizzy at all?”

“A little bit,” he croaked.

She smiled knowingly. “Sore throat too?”

He closed his eyes and nodded.

Julie asked him more questions, then determined that because of the stress of moving his immune system had utterly crashed and some nasty bug had seized the opportunity. According to the internet, he needed plenty of bed rest, he should have been kept warm, he needed a lot of water, and most of all he simply needed to not do anything for a while.

“But we’re supposed to go to the studio tomorrow to record a bunch of songs,” Luke protested when Julie told him. He sat up abruptly, but eased himself back down, a hand rested against his forehead, wincing.

“You’re not going anywhere like that,” Julie told him. “I’ll call the studio and let them know we’ll have to record your parts a different time. Don’t say anything,” she commanded as he opened his mouth to argue again. “I’m not changing my mind.”

He grumbled something she couldn’t quite hear but assumed was something childishly rude – it had certainly sounded as if he’d been mocking her voice. She ignored him and instead headed back out to the kitchen. Julie grabbed painkillers and a large glass of water and took them back to Luke who had started a long YouTube playlist of Bondi Rescue videos.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be sitting in front of a screen if you’re dizzy,” Julie contemplated, handing him the tablets and the drink. Luke looked up at her with a mixture of sadness and fury in his eyes.

“I’ve already lost my health, I can’t lose Bondi Rescue too,” he said.

She breathed a laugh and sat back down beside him. He immediately melted into her side, his head rested against her abdomen. She stroked her fingers through his hair and felt him sigh at the touch.

He was asleep within minutes.

Julie and the Phantoms were on tour. It was a moment they had all been anticipating ever since they’d inducted Julie into the band. The four of them had saved up enough money to buy their own tour bus emblazoned with their faces and the band’s logo and were spending nine months driving across the United States and Canada to perform their show to sold-out crowds. Julie could hardly believe it was happening.

Right that moment, part of her wished it weren’t happening.

Julie had been led to understand that before she joined the band and became the responsible one, Alex was the ‘parental figure’ who had kept Luke and Reggie (both far more boisterous by nature) in check. If anyone had told her that on the second leg of their tour, she would not have believed it for a moment. Alex was sat in the passenger seat beside her, but was leaning over the back of it to swat at Reggie who was kicking the back of his seat. Both were calling each other childish names and their hands were flapping about like they were having a catfight. Julie had given up trying to stop them about two hundred miles ago.

Looking after them sometimes felt like having a pair of toddlers. Though more often it was like having three toddlers because Luke would find a way to join in on the shenanigans. But right then, in the backseat beside Reggie, he was oddly quiet.

“Luke,” Julie called over Alex and Reggie’s squabbling, readjusting the mirror so she could see Luke behind her. “You okay?”

Luke nodded then tried to clear his throat. “Yeah,” he said, voice gravelly. “Sore throat, that’s all.”

Julie frowned. “Are you sure? You don’t sound good. Will you be able to sing for tomorrow’s show?”

His eyes widened frantically at the mention of the performance. “Of course! I’ll be fine, it’s just a sore throat.”

It was, unfortunately, very clearly not just a sore throat.

Julie pulled the tour bus into the parking lot of their hotel and the gang all headed to their rooms. Julie and Luke were sharing, partially to save money and partially because they wanted to. Before they went to sleep, Julie checked again with Luke to see if he was alright and again he told her in that rough voice that he was fine.

However, when they woke up Luke seemed distinctly worse for wear. He was radiating heat like the sun but shivering as if he were in the arctic, he was complaining of pain in his right ear, and when Julie looked down his throat she saw that his tonsils were swollen and covered in white spots.

“You’re not going on stage like this,” she said, shaking her head. “No way. I’m calling a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” Luke insisted, attempting to hoist himself into a sitting position but giving up quickly. “It’s just a sore throat.”

“You can try telling me that again when you can swallow more than a drop of water,” Julie said before picking up her phone and calling the nearest doctor.

Luckily, the doctor was able to come out to the hotel so Luke didn’t have to even get out of bed. The doctor took one look at his symptoms, then turned to Julie.

“Looks like strep throat,” they said, snapping their latex gloves off. “The pain in the ear is because of an ear infection that came after the bacteria travelled from the throat to the middle ear. I’m going to prescribe him a course of antibiotics, he’ll need to take them all otherwise the infection will come back stronger. I recommend he doesn’t perform for at least another month to give the infection ample time to heal.”

“A month?” Luke tried to yell, but it came out as an outraged breathy whisper.

“Yes,” the doctor said, looking down at him over their glasses. “Your infection is particularly severe, Mr Patterson, and if you want to finish your tour then I suggest you take my advice.”

“We can’t cancel shows,” Luke protested weakly. “Think of how excited everyone’s been…”

Julie smiled to the doctor and saw them out of the room. “Thank you very much,” she said. “I’ll make sure he gets those antibiotics and plenty of rest.”

Once the doctor was gone, Julie called Flynn, the official manager for Julie and the Phantoms and Julie’s lifelong best friend. “Cancel every show for the next month,” she instructed. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Are you alright, Jules?” Flynn said, immediately sounding concerned. “I can come over and take care of you, whatever you need, I’ll book a flight right now–”

“I’m fine, Flynn,” Julie assured her. “It’s Luke. He’s got strep.”

“Oh no.” Flynn’s worry morphed into something akin to disappointment. “He’s literally the worst one of you guys to get ill right now.”

“Tell me about it. He’s furious that we’ve even suggested cancelling the shows.”

“He gets it’s for his own good, right?” Flynn asked.

Julie shook her head even though Flynn couldn’t see her. “He knows that but he doesn’t want to let everyone down. He’s been more excited for the tour than the fans have – he doesn’t want any of it to go wrong and this is about as wrong as it could go.”

“I’m sure he’ll get over it once the ‘get well soon’ messages start arriving,” Flynn said.

“I think that’ll just make it worse,” Julie countered. “Anyway, it’s fine. There’s nothing we can do. Just make sure everyone knows the next shows are cancelled.”

“You got it, boss. Good luck with Luke.”

“I’ll need it.”

Julie hung up on Flynn and headed back towards Luke. He was still sat up in the bed, looking very sorry for himself as he pouted with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hey,” she said softly, crouching down next to his side of the bed. “I’m going to make you some hot honey and lemon water – my mom always made it for me when I got a sore throat. It’ll help, I promise. Is there anything else you want?”

“I want to do the shows,” he said petulantly.

Julie shook her head firmly. “You heard the doctor – none of us are going on any stage for another month. Flynn’s cancelling the shows as we speak.”

Luke looked aghast. “No!”

“Yes. You’re sick, Luke. And think about it; if this were me or Alex or Reggie in your position, what would you say to do?”

“I’d say we should cancel the shows until you got better,” he said as if the answer were obvious, then he seemed to hear his own words and deflated a little. “Fine. I suppose this is for the best. I… I just feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

Julie intertwined their fingers and held his hand tightly. She gave him a soft, reassuring smile. “You aren’t letting anybody down, Luke. It’s not your fault that you’re sick and there’s nothing any of us can do about it now. All that can be done is for you to rest and take your meds so that the next shows we do are as good as they can be. Okay?”

He rolled his eyes sighed, but there was the tiniest smile playing about his lips. “Okay.”

Julie had said it was a bad idea from the very beginning, but the boys had insisted that they’d done it before and it was perfectly safe.

It felt good to be proven right, but less good to be vomited on.

The first problem was that there was definitely not enough room anywhere in their tiny apartment for three grown men to attempt the famous lift from Dirty Dancing. Julie had pointed that out. She had pointed it out almost a dozen times. Every time, Reggie had told her that they didn’t actually need a lot of space, trust me.

The second problem was that their heights simply didn’t add up to a safe lift. Luke and Reggie were of a similar build, but Alex was much taller and there wasn’t really anywhere for him to go – if he held up one of the guys, they’d be held at an angle; if he were the one on top, he would likely crush the other two.

The third and final problem was that none of the boys were dancers and had no training or experience, therefore none of them knew how to do the lift properly and safely. Julie had stretched this argument to its breaking point but the three idiots had not heeded her warning.

And so they had done the lift.

It had started out strong. They had decided that Alex would be the one in the air, so Luke and Reggie had got into position with their hands outstretched and Alex had taken a great running start and leapt at them. To their credit, the boys held Alex in the air for a solid three seconds before Reggie lost his balance and Luke’s grip slipped, and the three of them went tumbling to the ground.

Julie watched in unsurprised horror as Alex fell flat on top of Reggie and scrambled to get off him, while Luke dropped far too close to the dining table and whacked his head on its corner with a grotesque thud.

He was out cold.

Julie muttered a curse and hurried towards him. Alex and Reggie gathered around slowly too, warily looking down at Luke, clearly feeling guilty.

“Luke?” Julie said to the unconscious lump in her lap. He was heavier than he looked – she privately understood why they had decided to lift Alex instead. “Can you hear me, sweetie?”

After a few more minutes, Luke came to, groaning and cradling his head.

“Hey,” Alex said, smiling brightly. “You’re awake! Sorry about that, we–”

Alex didn’t get to finish his sentence because Luke interrupted him by loudly and violently throwing up on Alex’s shoes. A little bit hit Julie’s dress and she quickly yanked the fabric out of the way.

Alex looked at his shoes disappointedly. After a long while he said, “I am going to the bathroom. Either to shower or be sick, I’m not sure yet,” and then disappeared.

Reggie was a deathly shade of green, staring at Luke and the vomit.

“If you don’t like it you can go, Reggie,” Julie said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

Reggie nodded and followed Alex out of the room, wide-eyed.

“Let’s get you to bed, huh?” Julie said. Luke nodded vaguely, his eyes far away, and she led him through the apartment to their bedroom. She only just managed to get him into bed before he started slipping into unconsciousness again.

It was plain as day that Luke had a nasty concussion. Julie tucked him into bed, then switched off the lights and drew the curtains so that it was almost pitch black. She got him an enormous glass of water and readied all the painkillers she could find, as well as grabbing a large bowl so that he didn’t have to run to the bathroom if he needed to be sick again. Then she looked up concussion on her phone – it said that if he’d woken up after being knocked out then he needed to go to hospital; she wasn’t sure how she was meant to get him there now that he was unconscious again.

Julie decided to wait until he woke up again. She laid down beside him on the bed and pressed the gentlest of kisses to his forehead.

“You’re such an idiot,” she whispered. “I love you.”

Julie loved her boys usually, but sometimes she really believed they lacked the common sense necessary for general survival.

“You did what?!”

Luke, Alex, and Reggie looked between each other frantically, stuttering for excuses.

“Uuuuhhhh…”

“Nothing really out of the ordinary, I don’t think.”

“Pretty sure it was actually you who did something they shouldn’t have.”

Julie raised her hands and the boys silenced. She glared at them, half furious and half exasperated.

“Are you seriously telling me – or rather not telling me – that after all the times I specifically told you it would be a bad idea, you went and got hotdogs that were being sold out of the back of an Oldsmobile?”

“In our defence,” Reggie piped up, raising his hand like a kid answering a question in class, “they smelled really good.”

“Wish they’d tasted as good as they smelled,” Luke grumbled. Alex hit him.

“I have never met anyone with less common sense!” Julie yelled, waving her arms. “What is wrong with you? What made you think it’d be a good idea? How did you not think that it was the dodgiest set up for any fast food ever?”

“Relax,” Reggie said, “street dogs haven’t killed us yet.”

The highly questionable hotdogs did not, in fact, kill them. However, the next day all three boys were overcome with food poisoning so horrible that Julie simply could not take care of them all by herself.

That morning she sent a quick text to Willie to offload Alex to him: Come and get your dumb boyfriend, he and his idiot friends ate bad hotdogs and got sick, you can take one. Twenty minutes later, Willie showed up to take Alex back to his apartment, an ungodly amount of blankets in his hands when he arrived at the apartment.

Reggie was the least ill – he could pretty much take care of himself and at the very least he wasn’t throwing up everywhere. He stayed on the couch, watching some cartoon on repeat. Julie let him be.

Luke, on the other hand, was quite the task. He was feeling and looking absolutely dreadful, unable to move himself from his bed and being sick whenever he tried to do so much as drink a glass of water. Julie truly had her hands full trying to take care of him.

Despite his protests, she called the studio and cancelled their appointment with Luke today. He was in no fit state to record any hit songs right then; he could hardly even open his mouth without sick coming out of it.

Feeling particularly frazzled, Julie finally allowed herself a little break from rushing around after Luke to relax, just for a moment. She settled herself comfortably onto the bed beside Luke once his sickness had calmed down a bit and fired up Netflix. She could feel his doleful eyes on her as she selected a movie and let it play.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“Are you apologising for being sick or for eating those hotdogs even though I told you not to?” she questioned.

Luke had the good grace to look a little ashamed. “Both.”

Julie shifted a little to wrap her arms around Luke’s midriff. “Don’t apologise for being sick. It is your fault, but don’t say sorry for it. I will accept your apology for disobeying me though.”

Luke rested his head against Julie’s shoulders, shuffling further into the covers. “We should have listened to you, I know. But if you could have just smelled those hotdogs…”

“Yeah, I’m sure they smelled great mingling with the stench of petrol,” Julie deadpanned. “I’m starting to think you three need constant adult supervision.”

“We are adults.”

“That’s why I’m so worried.”

Luke huffed a laugh, but then frowned. “I feel bad. You’re always the one taking care of me. Just once I want to take care of you.”

Julie raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you want me to get sick?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that,” he said hurriedly, even though Julie had been joking. “I just meant that you do such a good job with this every time. I want to give you a break.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Julie assured him. “But… if I ever do get sick, I’ll make sure to come straight to you and you can take care of me. Deal?”

“Deal,” Luke said with a soft smile.

It had been many years since Luke had been really sick. Julie had naively thought that maybe they’d get lucky and he’d never be sick again. Maybe his laughable immune system had finally caught up and had strengthened itself against what most people could avoid easily.

Wishful thinking.

Flu season was set to ruin Julie’s life. She had woken up one Monday morning and followed her usual routine, heading to her daughter’s bedroom to wake her up for preschool. She had shaken little Rose awake, but the three-year-old had been extremely hot.

“Oh, sweetie,” Julie had said gently. “Are you feeling sick?”

Rose, rubbing her teary tired eyes, had nodded and cried very quietly.

Julie had pulled her into a hug. “Okay, honey. You go back to sleep. It’s alright.”

She laid Rose back down, tucked her back in, and encouraged her to sleep. It took a long time and a lot of tears from Rose, but eventually the little girl drifted back into a fitful slumber. Feeling like all she wanted to do was go to sleep herself, Julie headed back to her own bedroom and shook Luke awake.

“Luke,” she whispered. “Rose is sick. I’m going to call the preschool and tell them she won’t be in, but then I’ve got to get to the studio. You think you can take care of her today?”

Luke sleepily opened his eyes and groaned as he shifted into a sitting position. He held a hand to his head – it looked far too similar to him steadying his balance for Julie’s liking.

She sighed. “Please don’t tell me you’re sick as well?”

Luke tried for a smile. “No, no, I’m alright. I’ll take care of Rose, don’t worry.”

He tried to swing himself out of bed, but Julie didn’t miss the way that the sudden movement made him wince. That and the fact that he clapped a hand to his mouth, the other held over his stomach. Unsteadily, he got to his feet and headed to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he came back to the bedroom looking sheepish.

“I’m sick too,” he said quietly.

Julie sighed haggardly and looked to the alarm clock on her bedside table. She needed to be at the studio to start her recording session in half an hour, but no part of her was willing to leave her husband and daughter alone while both of them were seeming awfully ill. She quickly made her decision.

“You get back to bed,” she said gently to Luke, taking his hand and leading him back to the bed.

“No, I need to get Rose,” he said, but he grudgingly followed her.

“I’m going to get Rose,” Julie told him as she sat him down and tucked him in. “I’ll bring her here and you can stay snuggled up together. I’ll call the preschool, run some errands, and I’ll check on you both later, okay?”

Luke nodded and lifted Julie’s hand to his lips as if to kiss it, then seemed to think better of it and dropped it. “Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Julie went back to Rose’s room. The little girl was fast asleep, wriggling around a little as she dreamt, her black curls that were the same as her mother’s spread out over her pillow. Gently, Julie picked her up and held her tightly to her chest, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head as she carried her to her own bedroom.

Luke smiled as Julie entered the room with Rose cradled in her arms. He lifted up the duvet so that Julie could lay Rose down beside him. As she put Rose down, the little girl woke up. She looked around, seeming surprised to have been moved. Then she began to cry very, very quietly.

“Dada,” she wailed, tiny fists clutching at Luke’s pyjama top. “Mama!”

Julie was exhausted. She could see a long day ahead of her, looking after both of the most important people in her life as they battled this disgusting illness. But as she looked at them – tearful little Rose snuggled up with Luke, who had his arms around her tightly, stroking her back soothingly as he whispered shushes – she felt a little bit of that exhaustion melt away, replaced with love.

She perched herself on the bed. “Rosie,” she whispered, tucking one of Rose’s stray hairs behind her ear. “If you quiet down, Mama will sing you a lullaby.”

Luke’s eyes widened. Behind the bloodshot sickness, Julie could see the love and admiration he had for her in them. She beamed at him, and he smiled back as if in awe of her. She felt her heart swell with love.

Rose hushed a little and Julie began the lullaby that her own mother had sung to her when she was little. It was a traditional little rhyme, simple and easy, but the beautiful melismatic notes strung together like bunting made the rising melodies sound ethereally pretty. It had always been one of Julie’s favourite songs.

Rose fell back asleep, huddled in Luke’s arms. Luke reached his hand out of took Julie’s hand.

“You’re perfect,” he mouthed, trying not to wake Rose.

Julie smiled, gently kissed his hand, and finally got up to phone the preschool.

Julie never got sick. It wasn’t in her nature. It just didn’t happen.

Except for that one time.

Julie woke up with the highest temperature the thermometer had ever recorded, her head was spinning like she was on a rollercoaster, and her muscles felt so fatigued that she couldn’t get out of bed.

And yet, she said to Luke, “I swear I’m fine.”

Luke, in a rare moment of knowledge and common sense, didn’t take her word for it. He seemed almost excited for her sickness – Julie wasn’t sure how to feel about that – and he pulled her into a tight hug.

“No,” he said firmly, “you’re sick. I’m going to take care of you.”

And he did. The very next thing Luke did was make Julie up a hot water bottle and bring it to her to help combat her chills, then he brought her three boxes of paracetamol and an entire pitcher of water. He called the doctor’s office for advice, then dragged the entire television set up to his and Julie’s room from downstairs. He got Rose ready for school and before he left the house he assured Julie that he would be back soon and she didn’t need to worry and, “If you need anything, just call me and I’ll come straight back.”

Julie couldn’t help but smile despite her tiredness and awful feeling. “I’ll be fine, Luke. Get Rose to school before she’s late.”

“I love you,” Luke said.

Rose, stood at the end of Julie’s bed, said, “Love you, Mama!”

“I love you, Rosie. Have a good day.”

Julie watched the love of her life and her perfect daughter leave the room and listened to their footsteps heading downstairs. Maybe she felt absolutely terrible and perhaps like she was going to be sick, but when she had someone like Luke looking after her it didn’t feel quite so dreadful.

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writefinch · 4 years ago

Text

Family-Owned Small Business

(CN: incest, sex work, mentions of sexual assault & suicidal ideation)

The worst part of my job is administration. Last-minute rescheduling when a client flakes on us. Chasing up payments. Booking accommodation at short notice. Answering messages! Jesus, every time in the last year when I've slumped, sighed, and thought to myself "fuck working, I need a break from all this" it's been when I've opened my messages and seen thirty different texts that need a reply. Some people are fine with it I guess, but for me it's boring, time consuming, and stressful.

Big deal though, right, I mean nobody loves doing admin, why even bring it up? Well, if I tell someone that for work last night I ate a client's cum out of my mom's pussy, I'd expect that they'd get fixated on the sex work and the incest. I'd expect them to freak out and not pay attention to the specifics of what I'm saying. So, first, I'd like that person to know that the thing I hate about my job is probably the same thing that *they* hate about *their* job. I would rather lick my mom's asshole for five minutes than answer emails for five minutes, and I answer a lot of emails.

Do we have to worry about violence, danger, cops, and legal trouble? Yeah, we do. Am I scared of these things? Yeah, sometimes, but I had to worry about all of those things before I started doing sex work. At least now we've got the money to buy our way out of the worst of it.

I'm not saying that what I do with mom is an objectively healthy relationship, let alone a perfect one. If you took me back in time and told me I could pick a completely different life for me and my mom, I'm sure there's a bunch of choices I'd pick over this one. But I never had that choice. I got hurt a lot growing up. I feel like I've finally escaped the things that hurt me, but I know that I've barely started to recover from them.

That's why I'm writing this. We've saved enough money to afford some therapy and my first session is next week. I want help with the fear, the nightmares, the mood swings and insomnia, I want to stop the rush of rage and terror that flows through me every time I see the word 'dad,' I want help untangling the stuff that came out of being told I was a pansy when I was growing up, then figuring out I'm gay, then figuring out I'm a girl, then figuring out I'm all three of those things while I was living in a place that kept trying to kill me for it. What I don't want is for the psych to pin it all on the two least harmful and least fucked-up things about my life, and worse, I don't want them to make me believe it. This journal is a prophylactic, an assessment of my job, my relationships and my life that I can refer back to if and when someone sticks their fingers in my brain and swirls them around.

I'll start with a problem statement: my dad. The memories that hurt the most are the ones where he almost appeared human, the flickers of joy, curiosity and humor that stood out from the bland cruelty that made up the rest of his personality. I'll remember him buying me ice cream or talking about a book or a movie with me, I'll doubt myself and wonder if I just went crazy and cut him out of my life for no reason, and then my brain will hook onto a random act of sadism he inflicted on me.

The physical abuse was bad all on its own, real psycho shit like driving me out into the woods and making me pick through the brush for a switch he could hit me with and a whole lot more I won't go into, but the emotional abuse was worse. When I was eleven, I forgot to feed my cat one day. He gave her away to my uncle, but told me that she'd developed malnutrition and had to be put down. I didn't find out the truth for another two years, when he just let it slip at Easter. He bragged about it, even, like he'd invented a really smart child-rearing technique. I don't want to write too much down here because I don't need to, if anything I want therapy to *stop* everything he did from running through my head. He's a punishment-obsessed sadist, a Baptist, and he works as a judge. Did he ever sexually abuse me? No. Parent of the year, right? He kicked me out for being a fag the day I turned eighteen, so it's ironic that my biggest fear is that he comes looking for me. He doesn't even know I'm a girl.

On the other hand, my mom has had an interesting life. She's kind of a fuck up. When I was one year old, mom and dad split and dad got full custody--being a judge helped with that--while mom left the state. She spent a decade trying to kick a heroin habit and a year and a half in prison for related stuff, got banned from even entering the state I lived in on account of her parole--again, dad being a judge helped with that--illegally emigrated to Canada for a while, and went to Oregon by mistake, doing a mixture of bartending, delivery driving, MDMA dealing and whoring to stay afloat.

The only reason we met again is that I was in the same city staying with friends, also whoring. I don't remember the first time I saw her, but the first time we talked was in a mutual friend's tiny studio apartment with a few other hooker friends. We ended up comparing our Pest Lists, shared a few drinks, and swapped numbers. A week later we fucked, and a month after *that* we realized that we'd Oedipus'd ourselves. It seems funnier now than it did at the time.

That was an emotional time. We cried with joy that we'd found each other, we started tip-toeing around the ideas of rebuilding our lives together, and we agreed to pretend that the sex had never happened. Of course, we got drunk together a week later and fucked again. She's hot! I have a thing for older women, I have a thing for breaking taboos, and I have a thing for being mommied in bed. Blame dad for raising me like this, I dunno.

We started doing sex work as a team after she got a dental abscess. The bill for the hospital stay and the tooth removal was insane, and the dentist straight-up told her that she'd end up with another in a different tooth within a year if she didn't get two root canals. Even when she was recovering, we could only afford fish antibiotics off of Amazon. We crunched some numbers and made some inquiries, and figured out that we could pull in two week's worth of our combined income with one night of mother-daughter stuff.

Our first joint session was with a real estate pervert I'll call Stan, a chubby balding powerlifter in his fifties who we'd both had as a client before. Mom took me over her knees and switched between spanking me and fingering me while he watched. I sucked him off while mom made out with him, made out with my mom with his cock between our lips, licked his balls as mom licked my ass, then let him fuck my ass while mom sat on my face. That was the first half hour. He came six more times before we passed out in the early hours of the morning, and I drifted off nursing his finally-limp cock in my mouth. He paid us the price of a used Volkswagen for our trouble, and I blew him one last time before we left as a thank-you.

Six months later, mom's teeth were fixed, I was on spiro, and we had just under a dozen clients for our "doubles sessions." Only a few of our appointments are ones with me and mom together, three or four a month, we mostly work alone. That's not out of a deliberate choice, it's just that we've got a strict criteria for who we'll double up on.

Trust is one thing: depending on the lawyers we can afford, what we're doing is either kinda illegal or extremely illegal. Since my dad is presumably still a judge, I don't want him to ever find out about this. He'd put us in a prison or a mental institution. We won't do a double session with a client unless we've both had individual sessions with them.

Money is the other thing. Getting your dick sucked by a hot mom while her daughter sucks your balls costs a week's wages for the average person. Hiring us for the night is more like a month's wages. Even in a city like this, there's only a few thousand people that can drop that kind of money on hookers. Then, they've got to *want* to fuck a trans girl and her mom together. Don't get me wrong, more people are into mother-daughter incest than you'd expect, but it's not a universal thing.

Clients are, on average, annoying. It's a fact of life. The thing that all clients have in common is a ton of disposable income and a fondness for fucking hookers. They're not necessarily bad people, but there’s a heavy ‘What can a banana cost, ten dollars?’ vibe to them. It’s not that they’re adrenochrome-drinkers who don’t see regular people as human, it’s more that they don’t have an intuitive awareness that other people don’t have savings accounts, health insurance, an investment property, and four figures of walking-around money at any given time. I guess I'd feel differently if I was like, a concierge or a PA, but there's a lot more pillow talk in my job.

I've had bad and dangerous clients before, there's been at least two occasions where I was pretty sure I was going to die--one where the hospital afterwards stay wiped out four months of income, not counting the month where I couldn’t work--but they were all before I met mom, when I couldn't be so careful about screening prospective clients and dropping them if they threw up red flags. I'm sure we'll get bad clients in the future, but we're in a better place to deal with them safely.

I also wanna write down what a "normal day" is like. Friday was a good example. I woke up early at 9am and cooked breakfast for mom. She was up already doing the laundry. We entertain some clients in our apartment, so we go through a lot of clothes and a lot of sheets. You can't fuck a guy on top of another guy's cum stains, that's rude. Some of the job is Housework But More. We don't really use the main bedroom or the sitting room because we treat them like bed and breakfast guest rooms. It's annoying but every time we have a session without getting an actual hotel or motel room we save like $50 minimum.

After breakfast I epilated, showered, and went for a run. Personal grooming isn't that big a deal in terms of time, I'm not saying I don't spend a lot of time on it, I do, but I'd be spending that time even if I worked in a bar or an office or something. Look: I'm hot. I might have been a weird-looking spotty nerd when I thought I was a boy, but as a girl I'm a fucking dime. I could get like, 25% uglier before it had any impact on my earnings. The only part of personal grooming that's necessary for sex work and I wouldn't do all the time anyway is power-washing my guts an hour before every session.

After lunch, mom went to see some friends and I played Magic for a few hours. At two pm, the actual work started. I picked up the work phone for the first time that day and began answering texts. An hour later I'd cancelled the 6pm appointment, blocked out all of Sunday evening, checked in with a few regulars, and provisionally moved three guys to the 'Time Wasters' list.

I spent a while sexting with a good prospect. He was a good prospect because he paid up-front for the sexting instead of treating it like a free samples platter at Costco. We scheduled a tentative appointment for next Tuesday, when his wife would be out of town on a business trip. Most of the guys I fuck have kinks, and I swear that 'cheating on your wife with a sex worker' is the most common one there is. Do I feel bad about it? At my hourly rate, absolutely not.

Mom got back at half four, so I took a break. We made tacos for lunch together and ate while watching Billions. She nudged me and told me that I need to do my injection, and, well, we have a little ritual for that. I'm scatterbrained and I'm not great with needles, but mom has been incredibly supportive with my HRT, and when I told her I was having problems taking them on time, she came up with a way to make me as comfortable as possible. As soon as the needle is ready, I laid down in her lap and she cradled my head in her arms, pressing her bare chest against my face. I took a nipple into my mouth and nursed it softly while she stroked my hair. She called me a good girl, telling me how proud she is of her daughter, how much she loves me, and asked if I was going to take my medicine like a big girl. On good days I inject myself while she pets me and coos over me, and on bad days she takes the needle and does it for me. As soon as I dropped the needle in the sharps container, mom pressed a Hitachi against my cock and took one of my nipples into her mouth, called me her big brave girl, and asked if I was gonna cum for mommy.

As usual, the answer was yes.

Late afternoon and early evening is when the messages start flowing in, especially on Fridays, when the kinds of people with hooker money have either left work early and thinking about getting laid, or are still held up at work and are desperately thinking about getting laid. This kind of messaging gets trickier, because it comes down to what I'm providing. Like, setting up a session is the kind of normal administrative stuff that's baked into the price of a session. It's also partly a sales job, so I'm naturally flirty and solicitous, and because I do sex work I talk openly about sex.

However, *sexting* is not normal administrative stuff. If I'm sending you messages for jerking-off purposes, I can charge by the hour or by the text but I will insist on charging for it. Also, it's not just sex that me and mom provide. There's a reason that 'companionship' is an old euphemism for whoring, it's because whores are good company. I'm a good listener and I don't judge, which means I'm like the fun parts of a therapist but without all the homework and self-improvement. I'm (unsurprisingly) friendly with all of my clients, and I have more than a few clients and former clients who I'd consider good friends and vice versa. I talk to a bunch of them outside of a business context, especially the ones I met outside of my job, and that's a normal part of maintaining a pool of clients for any sales job, but on the other hand... it's a demand on my time and it's a part of my services. I can and have bluntly told guys that they're wasting my time when it comes to uncompensated sexting, but the platonic stuff requires a lighter touch.

One of my regulars, Fintech Pete, sent me a message. Two messages later, he sent me $100, and we're off. Describing in gratuitous detail exactly how I'm going to suck his cock, begging him to fuck me until my clit is drooling all over the sheets, sending him feet pics, things of that nature. Pete is great for sexting because he barely jerks off while he's doing it, he saves all the messages and pictures and jerks off to them later, because he's got some biohacking routine where he only cums once a week. He said once that part of the reason he hires sex workers is that he takes each nut a lot more seriously if he's paying three digits minimum for the privilege. He does this teleconferencing report with the board of directors at his company four times a year, and every time he hires me to kneel under the desk in his home office and suck him off while he makes his presentation.

Anyway, while we were going back and forth like that, he mentioned that I'd made a joke one time about doing a joint session with my mom. I told him it wasn't a joke, and to cut a long story short, half an hour later I was asking mom if she was up for an overnight session starting at 9pm. She agreed, Pete confirmed, so we both got ready--think getting dolled up for a night out but with a more thorough enema--and drove to his place. He lived outside of town in a two-bedroom suburban home, alone with his two dogs.

As soon as we were parked in his garage I did the safety call in front of him: I rang a friend of mine, told her we were visiting a friend, told her it was at the address I sent her earlier, and told her we'd call her again tomorrow morning. Was it really necessary to do that with someone like Fintech Pete? No, but practice makes permanent. If you let these things slip when there's no danger, eventually they'll slip when there is danger.

Now, I don't want to imply that I'm in a lot of danger! There's a reason that most of the faces you'll see on the Trans Day of Remembrance are of poor black and brown women, because real danger comes when you can't turn skeevy jobs, when you can't afford to take precautions, when you have to make the choice over and over between maybe starving and maybe getting murdered. I'm white, I've got a good support network, and I've been relatively lucky in that I can do all these things to minimize my risks. I've still got to do them, though! Things like safety calls are a good habit to get into and it helps all sex workers if there's an expectation that they've all got someone looking out for them.

...I get that there is some bravado creeping into this journal. I start off saying that admin is the worst part of the job and a page later I flippantly mention that the job has put me in the hospital. On a day to day basis yeah, the admin is the bit that sucks the most, but if you offered me a deal where the admin is twice as bad but I never took that session, I’d take it in a heartbeat. This job has left me with some scars. Any time something cold touches my wrist I get a vivid flash of the first time I had my hands zip-tied behind my back in a cop car. I've had nightmares all my life, and more than a few of my nightmares are about stuff that's happened since I got into sex work.

If it seems like I’m downplaying it, it’s because the harrowing stuff is where the job has gone wrong, it’s not baked into the everyday stuff, and most importantly it has nothing to do with my mom. The work I've done with her is some of the least stressful and dangerous I've had since I started this job, and whatever wounds I have, she's not the one who caused them.

On a more positive note, a cool thing about doing sessions with my mom is that we can dress pretty conservatively and still have it come off as insanely lewd. Mom wore a black cocktail dress with an imitation pearl necklace and her hair up in a bun, I was in a white blouse under a lambswool sweater, a pleated short skirt, cheap dark tights--Pete has a thing for tearing them--and patent leather shoes. When you're going to suck a guy's world entirely off alongside your mom, the more modestly you're dressed, the more perverted it looks. Out in the suburbs it also means you get to avoid the microskirts and fishnets look which screams to the neighbors 'I've just hired a pair of hookers' or the mid-range raincoat over microskirts and fishnets look which screams 'I've just hired a pair of pricey hookers."

Pete's living room looks like the back room of a Radio Shack, computer guts everywhere, every surface turned into a makeshift workbench. It's not a suitable place for lovemaking; I don't want to have to pull shards of a soundcard out of my perineum. His bedroom is a lot neater, with a king-sized bed to sit on, a ton of pillows to lounge up against, and a TV mounted on the wall. Mom poured out some wine, a mid-range red zinfandel that we'd picked up on the way, Pete brought out some imported dark chocolate that costs like $40/kg, and I swung my legs over his lap and turned on the Food Network. I took a bite of chocolate, mom took a sip of wine, and before either of us swallowed she pulled me into a deep kiss, mixing the wine and the chocolate. It's a good combination, and Pete enjoyed the show.

The night started off with chatting. None of us were in any rush, not with an overnight session, and since Pete has been a client for each of us for a while it was a pretty relaxed atmosphere. Pete's fingers danced over my thighs, absent-mindedly plucking ladders into the fabric as we talked baseball, business, sex work, the difference between the gentrified fag bar downtown and the really gentrified fag bar downtown, programming and other nerd shit, local politics, the contestants on Cutthroat Kitchen, just normal stuff. Mom and Pete started talking about fancy cooking stuff so I started annoying them both by claiming that sardines are just fully-grown anchovies, that DOP labels are all fake, and that instant grits are better than the regular ones until mom jabbed me with a finger and told me that my mouth should be put to better use elsewhere.

You know how some people say "Cilantro tastes like soap, that's why it's good?" Same thing for how weird it feels to go down on my mom. The first time I ever jerked off, watching a 144p clip of Rocco Sifreddi fucking a girl in the ass while flushing her head down a toilet bowl, knowing that this meant I was going to go to Hell unless I begged God for forgiveness and never did it again, I came so hard I passed out. It feels good, it feels wrong that it feels so good, and it feels even better because it feels so wrong.

She was already wet when I got between her legs. I kissed her clit and started licking, her bush tickling my nose and her thighs squeezing my ears. Fabric rasped over my head as she hiked her dress up to run her hand through my hair. Everything was muffled but I could hear kissing and clinking, and I knew that mom was undoing Pete's belt and jeans to give him a Catholic-quality handjob.

I got mom worked up, bucking her hips and getting all breathy, until she asked me to get up here and give her some help. I crawled up to his groin and winked up at him. He blushed and grinned back. Pete's not a bad-looking guy. I mean, I don't care about looks in general, I guess I can look at someone and say that objectively they're ugly, and if someone is beautiful it adds something to the experience, but like... it doesn't really figure into it. Obviously most johns don't look like supermodels but they're not uniformly ugly, as I said before the thing that johns have in common is being horny guys with a lot of disposable income. Still, Pete is towards the better-looking side of that scale.

...Okay there is one thing about him that's weirdly common for my clients, I call it 'John Balding:' where a guy is losing his hair but in a slow, uneven, and kinda weird pattern, so that even when they cross into being more bald than not, they never bite the bullet and shave it all off. Pete is only like 30% of the way through that process so it doesn't look terrible yet, but he's on that track.

Anyway, back to the sex. A fun thing about double blowjobs is that you can take them a whole lot slower than solo blowjobs. Me and mom have had a lot of practice so we go at about 1/4th speed and it feels twice as good. She started off by wrapping her hand around the shaft, slowly stroking it while she softly kissed the tip, and I licked his balls, gently lapping at one, then the other, cleaning away the day's sweat and musk, carefully taking both of them into my mouth at once. Mom swallowed half his length, and I started kissing my way up his shaft as she pulled back up, my lips touching the head as hers reached the very tip. She grabbed me by my hair and pulled me into a deep French kiss with his cock in the middle, precum mixing with spit, moaning as we felt him twitch and grunt, mom's hand on his balls and my hand on his shaft. We broke the kiss and repeated it in reverse, taking his cock in my throat as mom kissed her way down to his balls. He came after five minutes of gentle little schoolgirl kisses on each side of his cock from the pair of us. The first rope caught mom on her cheek, the second hit her hair, but I wrapped my lips tight around the head and sucked him dry before he could spill another drop.

You can't give a client a mother-daughter blowjob and not snowball the cum back and forth in front of him. We've done it enough times to get the timing down: wait until he sits up straight, because if you don't he'll be too dazed from nutting in your mouth to really appreciate it. Make sure he's looking at you, move your hair out of the way so it doesn't obstruct his view, open your lips so that a trickle of jizz almost sloshes out, move in close to your mom so that your noses are touching and it's clear that you're about to kiss, sink a palm into her tits as she grabs your ass, and then you gotta really go for it: wide-mouthed, feral, energetic, like you're trying to reach each other's sinuses. If a little bit of cum spills out because you're being so sloppy, that's a sign that you're doing it right. You're going to lick it up afterwards anyway.

We broke the kiss, I licked mom's face clean, and we took a break. We drank some more wine, he offered us cigarettes--the coolest clients are the ones that let you smoke indoors--and we cuddled and relaxed for a while with Guy's Grocery Games playing on the TV. Pete went to get some water, and returned with three bottles and a strip of Cialis. He downed two pills, we both stripped off--it was sweltering by that point--and got ready for the next round.

Mom played with his nipples and I got between his legs again, this time going lower than his balls to eat his ass out. Rimming is a trusted client privilege like the mom-daughter stuff is, except it's less about trusting them in the legal sense and more about trusting that it won't be grainy down there. I like it when a client is clean enough to rim, because I'm extremely good at it. Mom says she's better, she claims she once made a guy no-touch cum with a rimjob, but I don't fucking believe her.

He got hard after a minute of digging my tongue into his ass, but his cock was still super-sensitive so we figured we'd tease him for a while longer. We swapped places, mom ate his ass while he made out with me, squeezing my tits and playing with my cock. I like it when guys touch my tits, my cock is... fine, I guess? I don't viscerally dislike people touching it but it doesn't do much for me. After a minute of that he reaches around and works a finger into my asshole, which is much more my speed.

By the time he was two knuckles deep I looked down and saw his cock twitching, leaking precum onto his stomach. He seemed pretty worked up. I kissed his neck, nipped at his ear, and whispered, "Do you wanna breed me, Mister?"

He sure did.

I use condoms unless I've got an extremely compelling reason not to, and mom has a cool trick for getting them on. She grasped Pete's cock around the base, placed her lips around the tip, deepthroated the entire thing in a single stroke, and as she slowly lifted her head back up, his cock was neatly fitted with a condom.

As soon as I lubed up he put me on my back, pushed my ankles up to my ears, pressed his cock against my hole and sunk into me inch by inch. He muffled my moans with a kiss and rutted me into the bed. I gotta give it to him, all that biohacking and cardio is doing something right because he railed me at a fast, steady pace until my dick was leaking all over my tummy and I couldn't form sentences in my head any more. Mom made out with him as he finished, and at that point I was just babbling nonsense. He was gentle and cautious as he pulled out of me, stroking my hair as I reached down to take off his condom. I poured the contents out over my tits, slumping back against the headboard as mom licked them clean.

It wasn't yet midnight by then, and we went on like that through the night. Licking his feet, mom-daughter 69, him sucking my cock while mom rode his dick like a Sorority cowgirl champion, more wine, more double-blowjobs, tacking an extra $200 onto the fee for the privilege of pissing in my mouth instead of having to get up to go to the bathroom, a whole buffet of fun whore stuff.

We woke up at around ten in the morning, stayed for breakfast, then said our goodbyes. Me and mom thanked him for his custom, and he thanked us for a good time. By midday we were at home, we both showered, checked our calendars, messaged our evening clients to confirm that they were still on, and then... well, the rest of the day kinda evaporated. I played Demons' Souls until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, passed out in bed, and woke up when my alarm went off in the evening.

That's one of the things I don't like about overnight sessions: you're technically only spending like, ten to twelve hours with a client, and for some of that time you're either not fucking or actively asleep, but it kinda feels like it destroys two days. By the time it's scheduled, everything in the rest of the day is either preparing for it or doing it, and when you get back it takes the rest of the day just to recover. I don't like that part of my job, and if I sit down I can probably go through a whole bunch of things I don't like about my job. I still know that my job isn't a *bad* job, because the last time I had a bad job it was at a chicken processing plant. Know how I know that the chicken job was bad? Because I excused myself for a bathroom break four hours into the shift, walked off site, and never came back.

You know what, there's another reason I know that this isn't a bad job and that mom isn't a bad mom, and I guess it's part of the reason I've written all this down in the first place. I was seven years old when I first wanted to die. By the time I got to high school, suicidal thoughts were just the radio static in my brain. I can't remember any point after like, grade school where I didn't daydream about suicide every single day.

Now? I sometimes go for weeks without thinking about killing myself. It hasn't gone away completely, it still pops up when I'm upset or stressed out or tired or really hungry, but what I do is I talk to mom about it, and she talks me out of it. I feel guilty sometimes about putting that pressure on her, and taking that pressure off is part of the reason I'm going to therapy I guess.

I hope it works out.

I really think it will.

#story #stories

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