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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years ago

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Idiot (Affectionate) ~ A Bad Samaritan Fic

CHAPTER TWO: FRIENDSHIP

Pairing: Derek Sandoval x Reader Word Count: 2839 Rating: T - racism, references to the plot of Bad Samaritan, mild language A/N: I’m trying to balance covering a lot of time so that this doesn’t end up 20 chapters of the same thing and I never get to canon events and also getting some good, specific moments in, so hopefully this works...

Previous Chapter | Masterlist

Time passed. You found yourself settling into a surprisingly easy friendship with Derek, though not one without it’s frustrations, and certainly not one that looked like friendship at all from the outside looking in. On more than one occasion, Sean had poked fun at each of you, though never in front of the other so they were aware, calling you out for flirting and playing hard to get.

You hated him for being right and refused to admit that it was what you were doing. Your stupid schoolgirl crush on your cousin’s best friend wasn’t something you wanted to acknowledge.

Nino’s had been abuzz for weeks with the news that the restaurant had been booked out for a re-election campaign event for the mayor of Portland, and now that the night had arrived, excitement had turned to panic. Nino had fretted constantly about every detail, from the amount of food and wine available to their arrangements on the plates. He had forgone setting up a buffet table for the cocktail and hor d'oeuvres hour in favor of what he thought was the much more high-end system of servers circulating with trays. And now two of the servers had, at the last minute, called in sick.

“There are not enough people!” Nino was exclaiming. “But I cannot set out a table now! We would have to rearrange the whole room!”

You had only just arrived, stepping into the chaos from the street like passing through an invisible barrier. One that at least part of you wanted to turn around and cross back over again.

“You need servers more than valets tonight, why not ask those two boys to help?” one of the kitchen staff suggested.

“That’s really not how their contract works,” you muttered, even though you knew it didn’t really matter in the end.

Nino looked thoughtful and turned to you. “Do you think they’d do it?”

Sean and Derek weren’t even there yet, and wouldn’t be until almost opening, so it would be a gamble, unless Nino could get them to pick up the phone. Plus they didn’t have appropriate service uniforms to your knowledge. Which meant that Nino had to either change everyone’s outfits or hope he had spares somewhere in the restaurant. Not to mention, there was no guarantee they’d even be willing, and since they were hired as valets (technically Nino’s had an account with their business, but since it was the only one so far and they didn’t really seem to be actively searching for more, he may as well have hired them directly), they weren’t obligated to do anything other than park and retrieve cars.

You sighed. The only problem with working with family was that you were expected to be able to know Sean’s thoughts on things, as if you were some kind of mind reader or expert.

“I don’t know,” you said with a shrug. “But they both have a lot of respect for you, so it can’t hurt to ask.”

That was a lie. It could hurt. Saying no would make things awkward, saying yes would cost them a night of tips and...extracurriculars which you chose to actively not acknowledge. But the latter was probably best, since pulling their usual tricks on the mayor, his donors, and his powerful friends would be asking to get caught and spend the rest of their lives in prison.

“Great!” Nino hurried off to the phone as if you had said they would help without a doubt.

“Where is your tie?” Nino asked, gesturing, appalled, at Derek’s bare collar. “I told them to find you a tie. You’re not dressed properly. I can’t let you be seen like that!”

The whole staff was gathered around in the lobby for some sort of pep-talk/debrief and assignments before the doors opened for the big event. Nino was checking every detail like a hawk, jittery with nerves. The kitchen guys were anxious, not sure why they’d been dragged from their stations to the front of house, acting like a crowd of kids that got called to the principal’s office. Everyone else was casual, mostly gossiping over who they thought would be there, hoping for a political scandal to break before their eyes.

Derek held up a length of black silk. “You got any of them clip-on kind? I’ve never worn one before, so I don’t know what I’m doin.”

Nino sputtered. You rolled your eyes, stepping up beside him.

“I’ll take care of this, Nino,” you offered, gesturing at Derek’s entire self, and he had the nerve to look offended.

He nodded, turning away in a hurry, radiating nervous energy, looking for the next crisis. Finding none, he started in on his speech about how tonight was the most important night in the restaurant’s history, how he was proud to have such a dedicated staff. Then he dismissed everyone, listing off assignments as they scattered. You half listened, turning to deal with the problem of Derek’s tie.

“Hey, thanks,” Derek said quietly, offering you a half smile.

“I’m not doing it for you,” you answered. “Nino’s a better boss than most are ever lucky enough to have. It’d be a damn shame for him to drop of an aneurysm because you don’t know how to dress yourself.”

“Sure,” he chuckled. “Well I guess that means I’m in your hands.”

You smirked at the idea, ignoring Sean’s waggled eyebrow out of your peripheral. Derek noticed, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“You’ve seriously never worn a tie before?” you asked, taking the garment from him.

“No. Why would I? I don’t exactly get invited to the kind of places you need one.”

“Right…” you sighed, stepping closer, throwing the material over your shoulder to free your hands. “Step one is fully close your dress shirt.”

Your fingers darted nimbly, closing the tiny white buttons, ghosting over his throat and making him swallow nervously.

You continued to describe each step as you took it, looping the tie around his neck, trying to teach him what to do. But he couldn’t focus on your words, not with you standing so close that he could feel the heat radiating between your bodies.

“And voila. Tie tied. And if someone really wanted to, you have an easy way of killing you around your neck for fashion,” you joked, brushing the fabric smooth. Your hand lingered against his chest for a moment, for reasons you couldn’t explain, before you stepped back.

Silence hung in the air.

“So I’m all set then?” he asked finally, blinking as if coming out of a daze.

“You’ve got to button your vest too, but I assume you can figure that one out for yourself.”

“I don’t know,” he chuckled, beaming at you. “I’ll give it a try.”

You laughed along with him, trying not to think about how handsome he looked, dressed up like this. Not that he wasn’t handsome all the time, even in baggy jeans and a hoodie, but the formal black and white uniform suited him. You frowned, annoyed with yourself for letting your thoughts stray down that path.

He finished buttoning the garment and spread his arms, gesturing to himself. “How do I look? Pretty good right?”

“Not bad,” you said with a smirk and an effort to keep your voice casual. “Someone nicer might even say you clean up good.”

Suddenly his arm was around your shoulders and he leaned in to your side with a charming smirk of his own.

“Maybe they would, but you know I’ll take a ‘not bad’ from you over that any day,” he said with a laugh.

Before you could respond, he sauntered off, leaving you to glare and gape at his retreating back.

Derek couldn’t help himself. He was supposed to be walking around the room with this tray of shrimp puffs - or whatever rich people food Nino had assigned him, he was pretty sure it was shrimp puffs - and offering them to the guests. Instead, he was just standing in one spot, tray held out absently and teetering every time someone brushed past him, watching Y/N. She wove effortlessly through the clusters of men in pressed suits and women in silk dresses that rustled when they moved, smiling easily at them as she offered them champagne or wine. Even from a distance he could see the sparkle in her eye that made each person she spoke to feel like they were special, and as a result scored her numerous ones and fives left behind on her tray when they picked up a glass. His fingers itched to brush aside the piece of her hair that escaped its updo and danced across her temple, tucking it back into place behind her ear.

He felt a quick flash of guilt as he traced the shape of her body in her uniform, the black vest hugging every line and curve. He shouldn’t be staring, he thought. After all, she was Sean’s cousin and Sean was his best friend. And she was a friend, these days; you don't ogle your friends. But damn if she wasn’t hot, if he didn’t want her. His mind wandered, and he was just starting to imagine what her lips on his might feel like, what she might taste like - she had smelled like apple pie earlier when she was standing so close to him, when he’d been too chicken to make a move while he had the chance, and part of him hoped kissing her would taste like it too - when fingers, covered in too many rings and jingling from the stack of bracelets on the attached wrist, snapped in front of his face, startling him and dragging him back to reality.

“Are you even listening to me?” the woman demanded before raising her voice and slowing her words, over-enunciating each syllable. “I said I want your vegetarian option.”

“Uh. All I got are these shrimp things,” said lamely. “But my buddy Sean is around here with some mushrooms, I think. With like spinach stuff inside?”

She huffed, glaring and waiting and not saying anything.

“I'm sorry. I'm not—”

“Very intelligent. I can tell. I want you to bring me a plate with vegetarian appetizers. That means no meat. Nothing that was alive. And I want a selection, not just dumping all the same thing in a pile.”

As her voice got louder and her words even slower, it started drawing stares from the rest of the guests. He bristled at her tone, feeling his neck get hot as embarrassment and anger mingled. He knew why she was speaking to him like that. She wasn't the first.

He took a slow, deep breath. Getting angry would just play into her hand and make things worse. Before he could say anything, like maybe some remark about how plants used to be alive too, they just never had faces, Y/N appeared at his elbow.

“Derek! There you are, I've been looking everywhere,” she exclaimed.

He raised an eyebrow, silently asking what she was up to, and tried to ignore the fluttery feeling in his stomach at the idea she’d been looking for him.

“Nino said there was a problem, with the...thing and unless we want the guests to just be eating tiny hors d'oeuvres all night, you have to go talk the chef down from quitting over it.”

“What?” his face scrunched in confusion as he turned to Y/N.

She rolled her eyes (he kind of loved how often she did that) and plucked the tray out of his hand smoothly, fingers brushing briefly against his, sparking under his skin like a hotwiring a car.

“The thing. In the kitchen,” she said pointedly, like it meant anything. Then she turned to the woman, the largest, fakest smile he had ever seen on her face.

“Right...I’ll uh...get right on that…” he said helplessly.

“Sorry about that ma’am,” she lied to the woman, voice sickly sweet as she led the woman off. “He’s a culinary genius, but Nino likes to shake things up and keep the staff on their toes.”

“Oh,” the woman said, seeming surprised by the shift. “I just assumed...because he was one of them.”

“One of who?” Y/N asked, feigning confusion now though he could see that her eyes were hard and ice cold. Her smile took on a knife-sharp edge and he found himself grateful that it wasn’t being turned on him.

“Well. You know…”

“I’m sure I don’t. Because I can only think of one thing you might be trying to say. And I know you wouldn’t be so blatantly racist,” her voice got just a little louder, pitched toward the people around them, not the woman she was talking to, “at an important event like this. Would you?”

Derek chuckled and tucked his hands in the pockets of his pants, making his way to the kitchen. It might have been a fake reason, but he figured he may as well take the few minutes break it gave him anyway.

“Hey,” you said, dropping into a chair next to Derek, finally catching a short rest while the guests transitioned from one part of the evening to the next and found their seats for speeches and dinner. “Are you okay?”

“Hm? Yeah,” he said quickly, pretending that he had just been zoned out in order to cover for the fact that he was staring, again. “Just exhausted. Is this what it’s like for you every day?”

You chuckled. “It’s not usually quite this intense when we just have a few tables each to focus on. I think serving tables in a bit will be a better idea of that. But I meant about...you know...earlier.”

He made a face of confusion.

“The hag with the cheap perfume and the stupid attitude?” you offered.

“Oh that,” he shrugged. “I’m used to it. She was pretty tame, compared to some.”

“You know that’s the opposite of reassuring right? And not really an answer to the question.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” you agreed reluctantly. “Probably for the best. She’s probably a senator or their wife or something, and something tells me bitchslapping a public figure is a negative on the Character and Fitness review.”

You scratched the back of your head in a(n adorably) sheepish gesture.

“The what?”

“The thing where I spend all this time on a degree, and in the end it all comes down to one insane bullshit test and a review of my personal history. And a bunch of stuffy old men, and women these days, decide if I’m an acceptable fit for the esteemed legal profession.”

“Legal...I didn’t know you were trying to be a lawyer?!”

“Duh,” you rolled your eyes and dropped your voice. “Why do you think I keep telling you and Sean not to get caught yet. I’m useless to you for another year, at least.”

“You didn’t have to step in like that,” he said after a long pause. “I could have handled it.”

“I didn’t think you couldn’t.”

“Then why’d you get involved?”

“Just because you can handle it, doesn’t mean you should have to,” you shrugged. “I could tell you were uncomfortable. I thought I could help.”

You let your thoughts race. Had you done something wrong in trying to divert the conversation and give him an out? Did you accidentally make things worse? Was there something else you should have done instead?

“I’m not mad,” he said reassuringly, noticing the nearly panicked expression that danced across your face. “I just don’t usually get people doing that for me.”

“Well, what else are friends for?”

There was the at word again, he thought. The thing he didn’t want to destroy, but that stood unnavigable between you. He didn’t know what he was doing. This was new territory for him. It didn’t help that the line was blurry. What was real flirting and what was joking? Sometimes you made him feel more confident than ever, and then seconds later you left him drowning, insecure and flustered. Maybe this was the moment to ask, you had left the door cracked open just enough for an opportunity.

Sean caught his attention, waving him over. He realized with a start that they hadn’t talked all night, for the first time in a long time. The door clicked shut, another chance lost.

He turned to say something, and you waved him off.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said with a wink and a smile that made his heart flip. “I’m not interested in monopolizing your time. Besides, if I start now, I can probably pop in a quick 10 minute nap before we have to start running the first course.”

He watched you settle further, crossing your arms over your chest and close your eyes, either to continue the joke or to actually do what you said and shook his head fondly, before sauntering off to join Sean on the other side of the room.

#is this self-indulgence/projection? absolutely #but you know what #in reality all that is just window dressing #it's about the yearning #because this fic is going to be a slllllooooooow burn #Derek Sandoval x Reader #Bad Samaritan fic #Idiot (Affectionate)#overuse of italics probably #also possibly the worst title I've come up with to date

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burnedbyshoto · 5 years ago

Note

Hi! I love your writings and I've never requested a story of any kind,i couldn't find any rules in your feed sorry in advance but i wanted to ask if you could write about bakugo,midoriya or kirishima(you can choose) for a prom au based on how the reader gets dumped by her first date and is left "crying in her prom dress" :')

it’s a prom!au bitcheS

warnings: fluff, cursing

a/n: lets goooo i loved this so much more when i was writing this!!! also my first time,,, writing for two of these characters so idk how well i did, but i tried LMAO

Bakugo Katsuki

Bakugou is already entirely annoyed.

First of all, he found dances to be stupid. Gross sweating people everywhere, too loud music, people terribly dancing, and on top of everything else when he sweated excessively he wasn’t “allowed to use his quirk”? So how was this bullshit going to be fun for him?

But he wasn’t one to go back on his word either, he had promised Shitty Hair and Raccoon Eyes that he was going to go after they wouldn’t shut the hell up about him not attending. To be honest, the major reason he didn’t want to attend was because of y/n. She was going to this dance with someone else, some irrelevant extra from the business class that Bakugou didn’t know existed until y/n showed him a picture of him.

“He looks like some fucking douchebag,” Bakugou grunts as y/n takes her phone back from his hands, a laugh escaping her lips. It wasn’t her typical pretty laugh, it sounded almost hurt and Bakugou sighed rubbing his temples, this stupid girl was going to give him an aneurysm. “But I guess if you think he’s fucking decent, whatever.”

“You won’t be jealous?” Y/n teases as she flops onto his bed, her hair blanketing around her like some halo, and Bakugou just hates the way his heart jumps at the sight.

“You fucking wish I was.” Bakugou scoffs, “And don’t you dare mess up my fucking bed, dumbass.”

The words, however, are too soft, and y/n sees through the demure and pats the bedside next to her, “Don’t worry, baka, I’ll save a dance for you.”

“I never said I fucking wanted to dance with you!”

The laughter that leaves y/n lips makes Bakugou blush the tiniest amount as he sits stiffly on his bed as she continues talking about the extra details of the prom dance and Bakugou soon finds himself regretting not asking her out sooner.

So as Bakugou reaches the auditorium, he sends a quick text message to y/n:

I’m expecting a dance.

Perfect, Bakugou thinks as he repockets his phone it was the perfect amount of flirting and hears the annoying ding of your phone when you get a text message, and he freezes, “Y/n/n?” He barks into the night and is surprised to hear a suppressed sob coming from the opposite wall of stairs he didn’t walk by. But Bakugou knows that phone chime and the voice all too well and immediately storms over there, why the hell was y/n crying?

There y/n sits, on the middle stair, mascara running down her cheeks as her magical ballgown is poofed around her. She wipes away at the tears running down her face, effectively ruining the makeup on her face even more. “Why the hell are you crying?” Bakugou asks genuinely confused, not that his tone effectively presented that.

“Oh, you know…” Y/n sniffles as she attempts to smile, but fails miserably, “I got dumped by my date, not that I really li-liked him. It was just so… so em-embarrassing.” The words seem weak and altogether embarrassed, but it just pisses off Bakugou to no end.

“You’re telling me, that fucking douchebag prick dumped you on prom night? And didn’t fucking care that you are here crying like some fat baby?!” Bakugou hisses, the anger multiplying at an extremely insane amount. “Who the fuck does he think–” Bakugou is already storming in towards the building, but is stopped by y/n rising to her feet and pulling on his arm.

“It’s okay, Baku–”

“I think the fuCK NOT!” Bakugou roars back.

“I just want to enjoy the rest of tonight, please. I don’t need him to make it a memorable night!” She pleads and Bakugou hesitates, his eyes on his crush who despite looking like a wreck makes him want to follow her course of action.

“On one condition,” Bakugou grumbles and y/n nods her head quickly, “You replace your shitty date with me.”

The smile that comes on her face is something that Bakugou is still ashamed to admit made him fully blush.

bonus!

“HEY DOUCHEBAG PRICK FACE!” Bakugou yells over the thumping music as he notices your old date standing in the corner as he swings you around while the two of you dance, something that you weirdly were really good at together. “WATCH WHAT YOU’RE MISSING, ASSHOLE!”

Entirely way too pumped on the adrenaline of dancing in front of his classmates, having you in his arms, and having so far actually enjoyed the night Bakugou slams lips against yours, his hands gripping your cheeks as he lays one on you. And the two of you melt into this kiss, as his lips drag deliciously over your own as you eagerly return the passion despite your burning cheeks.

When Bakugou pulls away, he proceeds to flip off your old date without looking his way at all, and you can hear the distant shrieks of your classmates, “Are you going to kiss me again?” You can’t help yourself from asking as Bakugou sort of just stares at you.

His lips back on yours easily answer that question.

Midoriya Izuku

You were best friends with Midoriya, a title that you hated by the way because you were in love with the hero-in-training. As a student from general studies, your relationship was often a bit on edge given that most of your classmates hated the hero studies class. But you digressed.

By popular demand, U.A. was bringing an end of the school year dance as a new tradition, something similar to what Americans had as prom. You had hinted multiple times for Midoriya to ask you to the dance, but he never did, so instead you had agreed to go with a classmate of yours that you knew liked you.

So on the big night, Midoriya had gone off and told you that he was going to get there early to help set up because he thought he would be able to use his quirk for set up, and that was important training or something of the sort. You, however, stayed in your dorm room, sitting prettily in your prom dress waiting for your date to show up. Your eyes glancing over at the clock on your phone and saw the dance was going to start anytime soon, but still, no date.

It was soon an hour into the dance and you had hot tears rolling down your face as you realized just what was happening. You had been stood up.

You didn’t exactly know how to feel, it wasn’t as if you were expecting to fall in love with this boy at the end of the night, but it sure didn’t feel nice to be abandoned. So, gathering up your depressed emotions, you wiped away your runny makeup and stood up, ready to go to this dance alone.

Okay with your appearance, you opened the door, your eyes focusing on the hand that was centimeters away from knocking on your face.

“Midoriya-kun?” You squeak as the hand is ripped away from your face, the curly-haired boy profusely apologizing as he took several steps back.

“Y/l/n-chan!” He cries from against the hallway, “I just saw that you weren’t there, but that your date was, and well, I went to go ask him where you were because I had requested your favorite song to play. But you weren’t there. Your date told me that you weren’t interested in him so you didn’t go, but you were so excited last night that it just seemed wrong, so of course, I came to check on you because it’s��why are you crying?”

Tears are now flowing down your face and it managed to stop Midoriya’s rambling as he was now by your side, wiping away your tears, “I didn’t mean to make you cry, y/l/n-chan.”

A garbled laugh escapes your lips as Midoriya quickly works to make sure your makeup isn’t ruined, “He stood me-me up,” You cry as Midoriya envelopes you in a hug, and there the two of you stand in formal outfits until your sobs turn into hiccups. “I’m not even mad about it, but I was just so embarrassed because I know he has a crush on me… does that mean I can’t even get the guys who like me to like me?” You ramble into Midoriya’s shoulder as his comforting touches rub your back gently.

“Are American dances this dramatic?” You can’t help but ask as a laugh escapes Midoriya’s lips.

“Considering every high school rom-com of theirs ends with a dramatic prom experience, I’m going to say yes.” Midoriya teases as he breaks the hug and wipes tears off your cheeks again. “But, this can’t be the end of the night for you, I won’t allow it!”

“I never said I wasn’t going!”

“Good, because from here on out, we’ll be each other’s dates, and we’ll have so much fun!”

Your breath hitches when Midoriya goes to place a gentle kiss on your cheek, and you flush as he grabs you by the hand and the two of you are now racing to get to the dance.

bonus!

You swayed in Midoriya’s arms, the two of you slow dancing to the slow version of Latch by Sam Smith, an English song that you found to be romantic.

You pressed your cheek against Midoriya’s neck, his left hand in yours, and his right one holding you close. A smile was permanently fixed on your face as Midoriya had taken it upon himself to sing every song that was played, even when he didn’t know a single word.

The English that escaped his lips were choppy, heavily accented, and tone-deaf but you couldn’t help but feel your heart swell with every passing second. You only hoped that he wouldn’t be able to tell as you were pressed up against him.

“I forgot to tell you something earlier,” Midoriya says as the words are getting too hard for him to improvise.

“That you’re leaving the hero industry to pursue a life as a recording artist?” You tease him as laughs escaping the both of you.

“I would be pretty amazing, but no, sadly that’s not it.” Midoriya pulls away slowly, and you whine a bit from the lack of contact, but come to stare into his eyes. “I j-just wanted to say you look, well um, you look beautiful tonight.”

Maybe it was because he had been holding you close all night, or maybe it was the spark in the air because of it being a dance, or maybe it was because you could no longer keep your feelings to yourself, but you leaned towards Midoriya and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.

“Thank you, handsome.” You whisper as you return to your old position, and you flushed hearing the roaring heartbeat of Midoriya in your ear as the two of you continued to dance.

Kirishima Eijirou

You tipped the glass of punch into your mouth, staring at the dance floor with immense irritation. You had been asked to prom and had been enjoying the night with the said date until he had abandoned you for some other girl. It wasn’t that it was a big deal, but you just believed there was no point of being asked just to be abandoned.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” A voice asks from behind you, and you choke on your drink momentarily as you turn around to see your classmate Kirishima standing behind you, two cups of punch in his hand, and a curious expression on his face. “I saw y/dates/n over there? Did he make you get your own drink, that’s pretty unmanly of him.”

“Psh, I wish it was just that.” You say as you roll your eyes as you see your date now grinding with the said girl he left you for.

“Is that allowed?!” Kirishima gasps as he sees the same dance moves happening that you see as well. “That can’t be allowed!”

It shouldn’t bother you, you know that, but seeing that you couldn’t even enjoy your prom because of your date, angry tears well up in your eyes. “Well, y/l/n, I don’t know about you but–are you okay?” Kirishima jumps as he sees the tears now rolling down your face as you wipe them away pathetically.

“My date dumped me.” You bitterly admit as you turn away from Kirishima, not wanting to let him see you cry. “He asked me out by the way.” You add the last part in an attempt to make it seem like you were still the winning person there, although you were the one now crying by the sideline like some reject.

Well, in all fairness you were one.

“Did you want to dance?” Kirishima asks you, and you tense.

Kirishima and you were classmates, and yeah you were friends, but you never thought you were close enough for him to be asking you to dance. You turn around and look at Kirishima who is placing the two cups of punch back onto the table, “I was getting Sero and Kaminari punch because they’re in the middle of the floor having a break dancing competition against Mina and Shouji.”

You blink away the tears in your eyes at that detail, and you look towards where your friends are very involved in a break dancing competition. “That explains the chanting and crowds.” You mutter, but you remember his offer and shake your head, “I don’t want to ruin your night with you catering to my hurt feelings, besides don’t you have a date?”

Kirishima laughs good naturally, a hand on his neck as he shakes his head, “The girl I wanted to ask unfortunately had a date.” And your mouth opens in understanding, but you watch as he offers you his hand. “Come on, dance with me, you look too pretty tonight just to be a wallflower.”

You find yourself blushing, grateful for the dimmed setting, but you didn’t put your hand in his, “I m-mean, if you want to be a wallflower that’s okay, too! I’m sorry, I don’t know how to do this!” Kirishima panics and you let out a laugh as you wipe around your eyes hopeful that you didn’t ruin your makeup.

“I’d love to dance, Kirishima.” You say as you take his hand which is now resting by his side, and take him out to the dance floor, a grin on both your faces as you danced in rhythm to the beating music.

Slowly but surely, as the night progresses you find yourself finding Kirishima’s toothy grin, weird dance moves, and terrible jokes sending a fire spreading through your body, especially when he holds you close.

“Thank you for dealing with me tonight,” You whisper as the two of you slow dance, as it was the final dance of the night.

“It was my pleasure,” Kirishima whispers back as his head rests gently on yours. “Can-can I confess something?”

You hum softly, teasing him slightly as you take a while to think it through. “Well, you did put up with me for hours, I guess you can confess something.”

“The girl I wanted to ask out was- it was you,” Kirishima says softly, and you freeze, moving your head from his shoulder and stare at him. “I just couldn’t gather the courage to say something until it was too late, so that was really unmanly of me.”

You rise to your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, “You just confessed to that right now, so I think it’s still pretty manly of you.”

The two of you stare at each other smiling as the song eventually ends, but even as the night comes to an end, you feel like something between the two of you has just started.

bonus!

“TAKE THIS!” You cackle maniacally as you and Kirishima are throwing eggs up on your old dates balcony. Bakugou had suggested the two of you go seek revenge, and this was the best thing the two of you could think of.

“Watch this, I’m doing it without looking!” Kirishima shouts as he grabs two eggs and closes his eyes and flings the eggs, and they crack onto the windows.

“Amazing!” You laugh as you reveal the now empty carton, “Should we run now?” You whisper as the lights in the room turn on, you’re already gathering the skirt of your dress, preparing to run.

“YES!” Kirishima yells as he scoops you off the ground and takes off running.

The two of you are laughing, breathless, with smiles that seemed to be permanently plastered on your face. Eventually, you two make it back to the dorms, and he places you on your feet, and with the entire mood of the night, you can’t help but press a kiss onto his unknowing lips.

The two of you still completely as you break apart, your cheeks flushed as you can’t believe what you did. “I-I’m sorry!” You stutter as you begin to ramble about how you didn’t wish to ruin anything, but you stop as his hands touch your cheeks gently.

“Please don’t apologize,” Kirishima mumbles as he presses another kiss to your lips and you melt against him instantly.

a/n: hope you guys liked it, and sorry this is a day late, my posting schedule was a bit pushed back!

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donnerpartyofone · 4 years ago

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hello, friends. today is an extremely stressful day for probably most people who follow this blog. personally, i'm staying a little disconnected, partially because i know it's going to be forever before a conclusion is reached, but also because it's so hard for me to be hopeful. wishing for a different president than the one we have is one thing, but there is also a wish to be able to stop feeling the way many of us have been forced to feel every day for the last four years; the relief of being allowed to stop listening to and thinking about that one individual would be immeasurable. i'm a little afraid to love this thought, and find myself heartbroken. note that i'm not looking forward to Hope and Change, just this one crucial psychic difference. I'm not going to debate whether donald trump and joe biden are fundamentally the same, in that democrats have just as much generalized blood on their hands as republicans. the problem with trump is in what he does to people emotionally. if he were to drop dead this instant, like i pray to god for every single day, mike pence would never inspire and galvanize the same mouthbreathing knuckledragging fuckfaces in the same violent way. having joe biden in the seat of ultimate power would not inflame the same kinds of general public feelings that it is openly permissible to shoot up a synagogue or beat black people to death in the streets, that "many fine people" are capable of these things. even accepting the allegations of rape against biden, i do not believe there are roid-raging frat boys out there who will look up to him and feel encouraged by his success to ramp up their crimes against women. the inflammatory psychic signals that come from trump specifically create their own problems in this country, separate of the legislative corruption and stagnation that we still suffer under the democratic party. politely stifled, appropriately embarrassed bigotry is radically different in character and effect than bigotry that is stroked and fluffed and trotted out on tv by a cartoon father figure who literally makes the rules for everybody. trump, specifically, has to go.

so what do i do with myself, with the conflict between my cynicism about america's ability to progress and my inexpressible rage against what must change? well, sometimes, i toy with elaborate id release fantasies about how i think trump should die. i mean, that would really be the optimal event here, but it would be important that he die in a really humiliating way that makes it hard for his constituents to keep identifying themselves with the idea of him.

i mean, none of this should ever happen in real life, because that would be cruel and hateful of course, and we're not supposed to wish unhappiness on others. but some of these ideas give my nervous brain just the massage it needs to get me through my day.

you know, i mean, i can imagine it would be good if he were like, jacking off to gay tickle porn and had an aneurysm and shat all over himself and it glued all his tickle feathers all over him and the violent paroxysm contorted him into such an idiotic shape that they couldn't remove the frilly bonnet and giant baby rattle from his rigor mortised body before hauling him through the streets in front of everybody to the city dump.

in my imagination, it would be really cool if he were coming down an escalator with a banana in one hand and a corn cob in the other and he choked while slurping on both of them and toppled over and fell right on top of his head which cracked like an egg and his pants split and revealed his many pink and purple layers of spanking welts to the entire press corps.

in my imagination, it would be terrific if it were discovered that he got a dominatrix clown wearing a patchwork pantsuit and blonde bob wig to peg him as hard as possible with a strap-on shaped like a toy gun that shot out a big BANG! flag at the peak of the action, ripping through his colon and out of his dickhole with such force that it caused his entire lower portion to explode like a blood blister, leaving only the flag flapping in the wind before the live audience of a facebook feed that the clown was secretly running the whole time.

sometimes my imagination skips the accidental circumstances and just pictures him as the subject of a mass public execution; i mean like, he's found guilty of assholism by the royal court of the entire galaxy, and he has to get in the middle of a desolate field, and every single person who wants to gets to come and burn him with cigarettes and rip little chunks off of him with nail clippers and stab him with the spines from those anti-rape condoms that burrow in further when you try to remove them, until he falls on the ground and we can all stomp all over him until he looks like a bunch of yogurt, but he's still alive and waving his little baby fists in the air and weeping in a really stupid little way that makes it impossible to feel sorry for him, so he can appreciate it when we get a long chain of elderly lesbians to come stand over his face and piss all over his open wounds, and then nature gets in on the act because carnivorous fire ants are attracted to the smell of his blood and they crawl through his tattered clothing to his hilarious little genitals and inject waves of chemical pain into his crotch to radiate throughout his entire body while gorgeous models stand around pointing and guffawing at the size and shape of his mutilated joke of a member, and then jackals and vultures come, unable to wait until he's dead, and start rippping him apart like monkey bread, and parasitic wasps nest in the festering remains, and he is still conscious, and by some divine magic he remains conscious until every single cell has been separated from the others and ground into the barren earth beneath him, which we finally spread with gasoline and set on fire. that would be really ideal.

sometimes it makes me feel better to just imagine him in the most irretrievably degraded state possible, in which every single shred of his being is individually punished to the fullest extent possible for his appalling and totally irredeemable existence that has been destructive to practically the whole entire world including people who like him. i think maybe the one thing that the right has over the left is their acceptance of the power of hate. in the extremely disturbing and eye-opening documentary FEELS GOOD MAN, about the internet's conversion of innocent cartoon character pepe the frog into a fascist icon, modern druid john michael greer makes a fascinating observation about how the pepe episode is a demonstration of sigil magic, in which a symbol facilitates the intense concentration of passionate hatred, so that it can be weaponized in a focused laser-like fashion against the object of this hatred, and used to scaffold the success of the object's adversary--namely trump. many people have theorized that the remarkable focus of feeling that was achieved within the chan boards during 2016 was, in one way or another, directly responsible for the outcome of the election. i guess i wish that the left were capable of this same kind of mass ritual, to stop the in-fighting and the moral purity tests, and pool our collective hatred in the same satisfying way that we've seen the right do--just to share the dream of it. i mean, why not? it's just emotional catharsis. it's just the power of the imagination. it can't hurt anybody. it's not like our congealed desires could spin themselves into a massive psychic megaton rocket aimed directly at the entire fate of the worst person on the planet. so let fly, indulge yourself a little. add your notes to this post, whydontcha. things can't get any worse!

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devintrinidad · 5 years ago

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Charlastor Week #6: Hurt/Comfort

Charlie had told her it was best that they stayed separate for now.

Charlie had told her that it was best that they break things off now before things would get worse.

Charlie had told her many things, but she didn’t expect that any of them would have a positive effect on Vaggie—or her.

For now, as Charlie huddled in the one place that no one would ever check (the rightmost stall of a bathroom in desperate need for renovation on a floor that was evacuated due to a brawl a few weeks ago), she would just relax and let none of her worries touch her now.

But that’s what Charlie had been busy telling herself for over three hours. However, all she could do right now was sit and cry while browsing all of her albums featuring her beloved partner when they had all those good times trying to redeem fellow sinners or hanging out or that one time—Oh! Why was Charlie doing this to herself! This was torture of the sweetest kind! A part of her wanted to throw her phone into the deep, disgusting bowels of the toilet beneath her, but another part was too damn sentimental and wanted to hold onto that phone like it was the only thing keeping her sane.

Charlie loathed the position that she was in, but after the events of last night…

Suddenly, Charlie heard a disturbance in the darkness. It was faint, but repetitive. And it was coming closer.

Footsteps, she knew that it in the back of her mind. However, she didn’t want to contend with the fact that either someone found her or worse, someone was just stumbling in on this part of the building. Whatever the case, she simply tightened her arms around her knees and stifled her sniffles. It wouldn’t do for someone to see her so weak and vulnerable. Especially since she hasn’t told anyone, save for Vaggie, about what happened.

The hands that clenched at her knees became unbearable; they were too tight. Her nails, always kept short to prevent them growing into claws, dug deep into her skin, almost drawing blood. There was only so much that Charlie could do before—

The bathroom door slowly creaked open and the footsteps from before clacked loudly on the linoleum. Ah, she could recognize that telltale click clack of dress shoes anywhere. It was Alastor and by God, she didn’t want to have this on her plate as well. Holding her breath wouldn’t work, Charlie knew that his ears could hear the most imperceptible of sounds. It was only a matter of time.

“Oh, Charlie,” his voice was mirthful, but not unkind. He had stepped in front of her chosen stall. Thankfully, he didn’t see fit to slam his fist upon the door or worse, force his way in. Having the Radio Demon also be a gentleman from a bygone era had its downsides, but for now, it saved her from seeing him.

For now.

“I know that I can be intimidating, but it’s been years since you’ve last stuttered around me!” He chuckled and the low, mellow tones had Charlie minutely relaxing within the hold of her arms. Still, she kept her breathing quiet. There was a pause outside of the door, an audible one that was only signaled by the radio frequency stuttering around a bit before going back to its scheduled programming. “Darling, Vaggie told me to come find you, which is a miracle no one asked for in Hell, but oh well.” Charlie could practically see him shrug comically in her mind’s eye, the image of which almost had her smiling into the crook of her elbow.

“Ah,” Charlie managed to croak. Her voice was shaky, like an old rickety building just moments away from crumbling away. “Did… Did Vaggie… Did she…” Why did it hurt to say her name so much? Saying a name shouldn’t have held so much power, but here was Charlie, wasting away in a cell of her own making while her dearest love’s name scratched and clawed at her throat while the pit in her stomach threatened to swallow her soul whole. A soft whimper left her lips and she nearly had an aneurysm. Alastor was here! He could hear her breathing, possibly the way her heart was beating at a rate that would have been harmful to humans. Of course he would be able to hear her!

Despite his excellent hearing, Alastor refrained from commenting on Charlie’s state of mind. Instead, he surprised Charlie with an observation.

“It was Extermination Day yesterday. Was it not?”

“Er…I’m pretty sure you of all people know that.” She didn’t mean to sound so mean, but where was he going with this? On top of that, he didn’t even bother answering her question. “What does that have to do—“

“And your…uncles came to visit you. Alone.” Another observation. A stone cold fact that chilled Charlie to the bone. No one knew about that. Not even Vaggie. How could—? “Darling,” he said easily, as if he could see her expression from the other side of the bathroom stall, “you weren’t really that secretive yesterday. Vaggie had me tail you. A risky, but bold move. Entertaining, even.”

Charlie felt like he should have laughed at that moment, he was an entertainer, he knew when certain beats and phrases were emphasized, yet… He kept his voice subdued. It was almost as if he were respecting the ordeal that she had gone through yesterday.

“So… you heard everything?” She chuckled bitterly. “Does… she know?”

“If you are referring to your dear lady friend, then yes. That woman put her spear to my throat and of course, I had to tell her everything lest you want to run this hotel all by yourself.” His voice, even lower than before caressed her ears and had her looking up at the stall door in wonderment. “I know that I shouldn’t pry into your affairs, but it’s quite telling that I’m being the mediator between the two of you when it should be me stirring up chaos in my wake. Why don’t you tell her how you feel?”

“Feel? Feel?” Charlie threw herself off the toilet seat and wrenched the door open. Miraculously, Alastor managed to avoid being hit as the door swung wide in his direction. Normally, Charlie would have taken care not to make such a fuss, but at heart, she was a soul that felt too much at times. She needed to let it all out, no matter the consequences. “How would you feel if your partner was destined to be taken away within a year because your stupid plan worked? How would you feel that no matter what you do, you can’t join her because of your parents? Because of the place where you were born? How would you feel if your girlfriend who loves and trusts you so much decides to leave your side for good because—because—because—“

With every question she threw at Alastor, the Princess of Hell would poke him in the chest, all pretense of acting the fool in their business relationship thrown to the wayside. She didn’t care that Alastor was seething underneath that damnable grin of his. She didn’t care that her voice was loud and that half of Hell could hear her. She didn’t care that water was dripping down her lashes and onto the full apples of her cheeks. She didn’t care that heat was rushing towards her flushing face, how she wobbled and screamed for some sort of sign that all of this was a nightmare.

After what had seemed like an eternity of spewing out questions that Alastor couldn’t have possibly known the answer to, Charlie had fallen silent. Her head was bowed low, fists clenched and trembling at her sides. Her hair, usually gently curled and vibrant, was matted down to her scalp, tangled because in her frustration, she would tug at her locks. For a moment, there was not a sound in the bathroom; for once, there was radio silence.

When Alastor spoke, the filter that masked his voice was gone. His words were crisp and clear, as was tradition of the Mid-Alantic accent, but there was another accent layered underneath his main mode of speaking. His consonants were rounded off, his vowels drawled and blurred together. Belatedly, Charlie realized that he was a Southerner, which matched up to his chosen cuisine whenever he would cook, but she had never asked. Never confirmed what was probably so obvious during their time together as business partners.

“Charlie, I wouldn’t know how to answer any of those questions. To be honest, I don’t think I would ever have the heart or the stomach to even try to attempt to phrase such sentiments.” Charlie felt rather than saw that Alastor was looming over her, his shadow encompassing her much smaller frame. She shuddered when she felt his clawed hand rest against her locks, had tried blinking away tears when he began combing through them with a gentleness befitting a mother grooming her child. “But, my dear, you can. I’ll be the first to attest that Vaggie was in hysterics when you ran away from her. She went from yelling to pleading with me to find you.” He tugged Charlie closed and rested his head on top of Charlie’s. “Imagine that, your dear love acting quite the sweetheart to me when she knew that you were going to fall to pieces.”

Charlie sucked in a deep breath. “She probably hates me for doing this to her.”

Alastor stopped his gentle petting before pulling away from her.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Have her fall in love with me. Allow her to date me. Get her sucked up into the hotel redemption schtick and then—and then—“ She shrugged her shoulders, not noticing how Alastor’s radio static seemed to grow erratic and imbalanced. “Well, you were there when Uncle Michael, Uncle Raphael, and whoever else was there when they told me. At least they gave me one year to say goodbye.”

“I probably should have known this before I’ve ever properly introduced myself, but you are very conceited, my dear.”

Charlie’s head whipped up from gazing down at the floor and straight into the Radio Demon’s eyes. For the first time since Alastor had stepped into her bathroom, she noticed that he looked…ragged, well more ragged than usual. His eyes were glowing a faint red, which only heightened the shadows that lay under his eyes. His clothing was bedraggled and torn, flecks of blood and an assortment of dirt was layered over his customary jacket. He was, in the words of one Husker, looking like shit.

She brought a hand up to her ashen lips, tears springing anew in her eyes.

He was telling the truth; he really had been following her to the meeting place with the angels. Had she known that he would have followed her into the forest where sinners first appeared from Earth, she would have picked somewhere closer. And cleaner.

Now, all her guilt over what happened last night was compiling into one burden.

“A-al! Have you slept at all?” She cried as she hurried to him. A hand brushed against his cheeks, another straightened the lapels of his coats. He was always well dressed—putting on the ritz, he would say. This was simply unacceptable for the Radio Demon! “I’m so sorry—“

He shook his head lowly at her. “You should know better by now, I don’t sleep.”

“But I’m worried and I can help you—“

“And therein lies your problem. You’re so compassionate and wanting to do good by others; you want to bear the loads of everyone around you. Yet, you don’t care. Not at all.” He held up a hand, effectively stopping Charlie from demanding what he meant. “You claim to start redemptive therapy for the good of all sinners. You claim to want everyone to end up in Heaven. You claim you’re doing this to stop overpopulation in Heaven. But. You. Don’t. Care.

“You’re doing this because you want to be there. Your blood that runs through your veins calls out for the sweet ambrosia of God’s love and acceptance. You want it, you crave it. So you get an idea; do enough good deeds that are worth mentioning to the higher-ups in Heaven. Along comes someone who believes in your cause. Another one joins just to jumpstart the business. Another, another, another, and you feel like you’re actually succeeding, but in reality, you’re just gathering up the clout, the good points to get you into Heaven. Then, all of a sudden, the wish that you had been preaching gets granted.

“Do you feel proud of yourself? Do you feel the need to rejoice and celebrate? After all this hard work why not celebrate? Yet, you don’t. You’re here throwing a pity party in a bathroom that has seen better days. You want to know why?

“You’re bitter and jealous. You’re resentful that the one person who you thought would stay by your side until the end actually worked hard enough for the chance to be redeemed.

“Besides, have her fall in love with you? Allow her to date you? And what was that last part you said? Allow her to get sucked into the hotel redemption schtick? What do you take her for? I may not have the highest of opinions on her, but I do know this: she went with you because she utterly cares more about you than she does about redemption.

“That’s why you’re conceited, dearest Charlie. You’re doing all of this because you hope to earn something after all of this. Vaggie did those things not only for you, but for herself. She wanted to fall in love, so she did. She wanted to get closer to you, she did. She believed in the redemption process and now—Look! She has it.”

Alastor knelt down on one knee and clasped Charlie’s hands in his own. His claws had retracted back into the supple leather of his gloves, allowing them to gently touch her skin.

“I apologize if I’m being harsh, but it must be said. You of all people should be happy—nay! proud—that Vaggie has earned her spot inside those pearly gates.” His grip gently tightened around her wrist, pulling her gently onto the floor with him. “Go to her and talk. You have an entire year left with her before your uncles come to take her away on Extermination Day.” He tapped a finger against her cheek. “Before that, I recommend you take a long bath. You’re smelling a bit ripe.”

Charlie… Charlie didn’t know what to say. After so long, she knew that there were times when the Radio Demon had his moments, both good and bad, but this speech was unheard of! Without warning, Charlie launched herself into his chest and felt a fresh slew of tears escaping her eyes. She was probably adding to the mess that was already caked onto his clothing, but at that point, she didn’t care that she was brought low and vulnerable in front of her business partner.

“Thank you,” she murmured into his lapels. “I…your methods need some work, but it really got to me.”

“I will look into better methods for the future. In the meantime—“ He surreptitiously tried to move away from her, but the soft arms that surrounded him wound tighter than a cog in a well polished clock. A loud sigh fell from his lips. He should have expected more physical sentimentality than was reasonable from Charlie.

“You know, you could be a motivational speaker for some of our group therapy sessions. Who knows, you might be next for redemption!”

“Ha ha ha! Not a chance, sweetheart.”

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miss-choco-chips · 5 years ago

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Teaching you, teaching me

Four times mother and son learned from and about each other, and one time Tim used his knowledge for evil good.

(Warning: Tim is older in some and younger in others, without order)

(For my babes @the-quiet-carrotcake and @animemangasoul who cheered me up when I was feeling bad, hope this makes you happy as well!

Also, hon tagged me on a ‘five word prompt generator’ thing and I lost the post, so this is my contribution, five words that inspired each part)

Animal

When Jack died, it was sad but they were prepared. He’d been in a coma for two months by then, and Janet had practically been readying both herself and her son for the outcome. Tim had been sad, but it was more because of a possible future lost (he’d never given up the hope of his father changing one day, of Jack wanting to stay and being more present in his life), than genuine sorrow. Or so had the therapist told her.

Janet hadn’t felt bad, not really. Her relationship with her late husband had been cold long before his death, ruined by years of neglecting their son and being absent of their lives, but she suffered for her son, with his too big heart, who didn’t hesitate on wasting his tears on a father that never deserved them, the second she told him the news.

Still, she held his hand through the entire funeral, surprised by the way he held his head on high. When he threw an arm over her shoulders to guide her away, after the service was over, she realized he was trying to be strong for her. The thirteen year old, heart breaking inside his small chest, was puffing it out to make himself seem bigger, more reliable, to comfort a mother that didn’t really need it.

Her beautiful, kind son.

Max’s death, a short two months after, was nothing like that.

The dog had been part of their household for nine, almost ten years now. Bought shortly after the circus tragedy, in a desperate attempt at soothing her son’s nightmares with the company of something fluffy and loveable, Max had grown up next to Tim, been there for any sad or happy moment, comforting him or sharing his joy by turns. The golden retriever had seem made specifically of love, giving all of it to the kid he’d been gifted to, and for that alone Janet had gone all out on his medical treatments, desperate to make him live as long as possible for a dog.

Still, he was gone too soon, taking with him Tim’s smile and leaving ample space for tears. Tim had stayed by his side from the moment the veterinarian informed them of his chronic condition, to the tragic end of it, petting him softly and speaking in low, comforting tones.

Max’s last act before dying had been to lick Tim’s hand, the only thing he could reach from where he was lying on the dog bed, and wag his tail once. Even at death’s door, he’d showed Tim more love than his father ever had. Just for that, Janet would Max more than she did Jack.

It also baffled her, when Tim rejected her offer to bring home another dog a week after the small funeral they held in the backyard, softly closing the book on his lap to give her his full attention.

-You love getting new pets -she felt compelled to point out, because it felt like the obvious course of action.

-I do, but I also know why you are suggesting it now, and it won’t work. You can’t make me forget my sadness over losing Max by getting me a puppy, mom.

-It’ll fill the void -she insists. Almost desperately.

(She can’t stand to hear her child cry by himself at night, his despair breaking her heart worse than anything else ever could)

-It won’t -he says, shifting in the window seat he always choose when deep in thought or in a contemplative mood-. I loved Max, not because he was a dog, but because he was Max. Even if you buy me a hundred puppies, I’ll love them because they’d be them. It won’t make me forget my pain over Max’s death.

She wanted to fight him on it, offer more, whatever it took to wipe the dim and far away look from his eyes, but he glanced up at her, so softly and fond, and she felt her tongue glueing itself to the top of her mouth.

She thought, weirdly enough, of Wayne. Of how, when his first son went away, how he took another boy in. Despite loving Jason, he never stopped missing Dick. She thinks she understands, a little, where Tim was coming from.

(Tim would throw his book at her, if he knew she was comparing the Waynes to dogs, but, if the shoe fits…)

Demonstration

They say watching was the best form of learning, and Tim took it to heart. He analyzed people, going to work, hanging out with friends, buying groceries, fighting, laughing, crying… he saw, and he learned.

The one he watched the most was his mother, though.

How she smiled oh-so-politely at parties, how she ruthlessly destroyed the person speaking to her with short, well informed facts and dirty laundry. How she did both at the same time.

He went with her to DI, and took notice of the way her hips swayed with each step whenever she needed the room’s attention on her, or made her heels click extra hard against the porcelain floor when she wanted averted eyes.

She waved sweetly to her secretary, and frostily glared at the board member sitting three seats away from her.

She clenched her teeth during a phone call with someone she hated, but kept her voice perfectly smooth, warm even, as if speaking to an old friend.

He knew he would inherit the company one day. And, small as DI had been in the past, it had flourished under Janet Drake’s tender and constant care, blooming into the powerhouse it was today, on par with Wayne Enterprises. It was intimidating, to imagine all that power, all that responsibility, on his shoulders.

Mother, Aunt Nicole, Uncle Lex, Uncle Bruce, Dick, Jay… they all said it, that Tim was too kind, too soft. He would give his hand to someone down without a thought, rather than see if they had a weapon first. Sweet, they called him, and made him blush, because he liked it. Liked that, to all that ruthless, sharp, for moments cruel people, he was a warm presence. A safe, comfortable place to lay worries to rest and smile. He liked being their sweet Timmy.

But he also despised it, because he was a gothamite, and this city ate sweet people whole for dessert, just after finishing with the foolish and naive ones that made for it’s lunch. There was no place for tender people, because that was the best kind to sink teeth into, and Gotham feeds on them. And he can’t die, because who is going to make sure mom and Nicole don’t go off the deep end? Who’s going to help Lex understand and bond with his son, with Conner? Who’s going to make sure the Waynes are getting along, when Alfred himself decides to leave them to their terrible life choices?

So he watches his mom, because she’s a prime example of someone not to be fucked with. Someone who is going to survive this wreck of a city until her drawn out, bitter end, and when that comes, she’ll go kicking and screaming and suing people to the ends of the earth. She doesn’t fear Gotham, and while sure as fuck Gotham doesn’t fear her either, it at least respects her.

So he watches, and memorizes, and adapts behaviours and gestures into his own, tries to mimic the look in her eyes that send people flinching back and laughing nervously.

And, since he’s watching, he notices that she knows. How she’d look over her shoulder, straight into his eyes, as if saying ‘pay attention, I’m only showing you this once’ before she does something particularly tricky. Demonstrates her way of surviving, and lets him learn from it to make his own.

Tim, eleven years old, so tender and soft he’s like a warm, eatable bunny in everyone’s opinion, closes his eyes and breathes in, deeply. When he opens them, the icy blue of his gaze is enough to send the closest board member stumbling back and mumbling an apology (for what, who knows) before scurrying out of the room.

Mom looks back to the rest of the board, but Tim knows (because he watches her all the time, he’s learned her to the smallest detail) that she’s smiling.

She’s proud.

Galaxy

It’s late, and she feels sick and wants nothing more than to go to sleep. She’d basically lived at the office this last week, because of some stupid mistake Jack had made with the one piece of paperwork she needed him to sign (how he manages to screw up from all the way across the world, she can’t quite understand; it surely requires talent), and feels about ready to collapse on her bed.

But, because it’s been a while since she saw him, something in her gut tells her to go look for her son. Tim’s probably asleep right now, it’s almost four a.m, but if she’s silent enough, she could sneak a quick peek through the door, make sure he’s fine, and then go to bed completely unburdened.

Except, when she gets there, she’s treated to the sight of her son, her eight year old son, getting back into his room from God knows where by climbing through his window. Which, by the way, was located on the third floor.

Janet pressed a hand to her chest, as if to make sure her heart was still beating. It was, but the speed couldn't be normal.

Was this a heart attack?

Hidden by the shadows on the hallway, she noticed how he removed his tiny sneakers, that she had completely forgot he even owned, and thrusted them under the bed. They were worn out, full of grim, obviously used often for activities like sneaking out at night and climbing the house.

Yes, she was having a heart attack. And an aneurysm. Simultaneously.

The camera around his neck, she did remember. The one gift he had asked for his last birthday, the only thing he ever begged her for. She hadn’t understand his passion for owning one, but since he never had looked so earnest (and wanting to make up for Jack missing the day) she conceded.

Was it a mistake? Watching the little boy making himself comfortable in his bed, going through the photos in the camera with the most delighted expression ever, she felt like ‘fuck yes’ wasn’t a strong enough answer.

Her first impulse, to jump inside the room and demand answers, was squashed down almost as soon as it hitted her. If she did, Tim would clam up and deny everything. Instead, she breathed in deeply and tapped her knuckles against the doorframe.

Tim almost jumped straight out of his skin, looking at her like a thief caught red handed. It’d be almost funny, if her heartbeat wasn’t still off the charts.

-Timothy, it’s quite late. Why are you awake at this hour? And with your camera? -she made a show of scanning his clothing, as if she wasn’t aware of the jeans and hoodie- Why aren’t you on your pajamas?

She could almost hear him thinking, brilliant mind kicking into overdrive as her prodigious son searched for an answer that would satisfy his mother and keep him out of trouble. Shame no such answer existed.

-I… was outside, mama -he mumbled; calling her like that, amping up the cuteness, was almost overdoing it, but she supposed the situation called for big guns- Taking pictures of the sky. I-I know it’s dark, and polluted, but I heard today was going to be extra-starry, and I thought maybe I could photograph the stars for you?

He was good, she ought to give him that. But years too young to even try to lie to her.

-I see -she answers, calmly walking closer to him. Her face betrayed nothing, and she could see how that was getting into him by the way he was fondling with the camera, almost carelessly compared to his earlier reverent touch.

He flinched when she sat by his side.

-M-mom?

-Well? -an arched eyebrow- Aren’t you going to show me? You did something incredibly dangerous, climbing down your window- no, don’t even try to lie, I saw you climbing back in. Don’t think we won’t be talking about that in the morning. But you did something truly reckless, for those pictures for me. The least I can do is see them.

Quick, trembling hands fumbled a bit with the buttons. Janet was honestly surprised when he turned the camera around, showing actual sky pictures to her. She believed it a bluff. Maybe preventive measures, in case he got caught? She was sure he was lying, because even if they were sky pictures, it wasn’t a particularly nice view, all foggy and polluted Gotham landscape.

She also noticed (though pretended not to) how those angles weren't ones he could achieve from their backyard, which upped her panic levels a few notches. Her baby had been alone, at night, away from home, in this shithole of a city.

-What a pity -she says, instead, giving back the camera, despite her burning desire to search for older pictures to get an idea of her son’s true activities-, those look like the usual sky. I would have loved to see the stars. Well, not your fault, this place is just ugly. Maybe we should move to Metropolis, I’m sure there are stars there.

-Mom…!

-Hush, now, go to sleep. We are talking about sneaking out and bedtimes tomorrow, I’m too tired right now.

She could see his anxiety (at moving away? Why did he love this place so much?), but he must have realized he’d push his luck too far if he insisted, so he kissed her cheek and let her tuck him in.

Despite her bone-deep tiredness, Janet couldn't get a single second of shut eye at all. By six a.m and truly out of ideas, she picked up the phone. Too respectful of Nicole’s boundaries to bother her at that hour (or at least, not desperate enough; had the situation been a little more urgent, she wouldn’t have hesitated to drag her to the manor kicking and screaming), she called Lex.

At the fifth ring, her old friend's voice answered- I have a conference with the president in a few hours and need rest, this better be important.

-Please, your sleep schedule is even worse than mine. I need an opinion.

-And is Al Ghul unavailable? Why are you bothering me, when you two usually ignore my advice and go to each other?

-Don’t be jealous, green isn’t your color. Lavender isn’t either, but well, I guess you can’t win all your battles…

-Bold words for someone asking for help.

-Who said anything about help? I just need a new perspective. And I’m already regretting going to you for it.

-Well, I’m awake now, so might as well. Mercy -Luthor’s voice sounded a little muffled, probably covering the receiver while he addressed his bodyguard slash buttler- I’ll be in the study, bring me coffee.

She gave him a few minutes, twirling one of her dark locks in her pointer finger. Laying in bed, unmade by all the tossing and turning she did for the last hours, she looked the picture of unrest. Luthor would laugh himself sick if he saw her now.

-Alright, I have coffee now. What happened?

-I caught Tim coming back home after sneaking out last night. It looked like he did it before, multiple times; he had specific shoes for it that he hid, and even got some backup-plan photographs to make it look like he was just in the backyard photograpying the sky.

She heard the squeaking sound his chair made as he sat straighter, floored by her confession.

-You should oil that chair. Is unbecoming for your image if it makes that kind of sounds everytime you move on it.

-Sorry, I can’t answer properly to the last part because I’m still reeling for the opening bit.

-Weak.

He ignored her (rude), muttering under his breath- Tim what? No, he wouldn’t… well, he does have Janet’s genes, so maybe…

-So -she cut him off, because if he kept that line of thinking, she would hang up and he still hadn’t given her any advice-, your thoughts?

-Get a bodyguard on him 24-7 who’ll keep him from going out at night -he answered quick as a wip, not even needing to think it through. She huffed.

-If it were that easy, I wouldn't need your opinion, you fool. This is my son we are talking about. Guilt and duty might keep him from going out, if I appeal to those, but brute force and shackles? He’s smart, smarter than you, maybe even than me. If he really wants to go, and finds no moral obstacles, he’ll find a way.

-So, do what you said, attack his conscience.

-I want to keep him safe, not emotionally destroy him.

-Forbid him from going? Like you said, he’s a dutiful son, and very well behaved.

-Which means he’ll make sure I think he’s obeying, but no guarantees he’ll actually do it. Think harder.

A few minutes went by, before the man sighed.

-You said it yourself, if he really wants to go, there’s little you can do, short of locking him up like a prince in a tower. Maybe speak to him, tell him your reasons to worry… and get him some martial arts teacher, to give him a fighting chance if he ends up disobeying anyway.

----.----

After speaking to Luthor and a quick call to Nicole for a favor (namely, get Lady Shiva to accept a work as a sensei for Tim), Janet slept for a solid nine hours. Eating, overseeing some papers and phoning her secretary to clean her schedule for the rest of the week, and she was ready to face her son after having dinner together.

They sat on Tim’s bed, and she held his hand as she spoke to him. About how cold it was, how easy it was, before he was born. How life was do this, think about that, conquer here, throw something away there. Act, consequence, simple as that. Clinical as that.

It was different, she said, when he came to her life, to her arms. Because it was warm, and difficult, and so, so scary. She’d never been so afraid of the butterfly effect before. Now, consequences of a misstep could come to bite her in twenty years, a simple act now could make Tim despise her in the future.

“I’ve never been so afraid in my life”, she told him, baring her soul for the first time in her life. “But I’ve also never been happier, and it’s all because of you.”

“I love you”, she told him, giving her heart away for the first time in her life. “And I can’t lose you.”

Those words were the hardest for her to say. She did it, anyway. Because he needed to hear them, and because they might be enough to keep him from pulling last night’s stunt again.

By the time she was done, Tim’s face was a mess of tears and snot. He hadn’t uttered a single word, holding onto her hand like a lifeline, but his smile was the brightest, prettiest thing she’s ever seen.

-I’ll be careful, Mom -he promised, between wrecked sobs. It had truly affected him, to hear her heart thoughts so bluntly. She ought to do this more often, if he treasured it so much- I.. I won’t go out at night alone, not until I’m someone not even the Rogues can mess with. I promise -he looks at his bedside table, where the camera sits, and looks regretful but determined at the same time. She knows he means it. Whatever feeling he got from sneaking out to take pictures, it evidently wasn’t as strong as what he felt now, holding his mom’s hand and shaking from such strong emotions.

-Thank you -she breathed in deeply, relaxing for the first time since the night before, letting go of his hand to hug his shoulders, pressing him into her side.

After a few seconds of silence, he weaseled out of her hold, raising a hand to halt her when she tried to follow his example and get up- Stay there a minute, Mom, I have something to show you.

With that, he sprinted to the light switch, and turned them off. But a slight, greenish glow remained in the room, and then she noticed the glow in the dark stars sticking to the ceiling.

There were… a lot of them.

Tim came back and sat once again next to her, hand quickly snatching hers.

-You said… you said you wanted to see the stars, so I made you a little galaxy. Whenever you want to see them, you can come here… You’ll also know, that way, that I’m here and not sneaking out.

Thanking people wasn’t something Janet did often. But she had said ‘I love you’ today, and that one was a first, so this wasn’t too far fetched for her.

-Thank you, Tim.

Feedback

A week after showing his mother his multiple closets full of disguises and aliases’ clothing, he was called into her office.

He had expected some questions, maybe even feedback or advice in how to perfect his portrayal of other people.

He hadn’t expected this.

-..and I know I’m not as… adapted to the ever changing times as younger people like you. Me, Lex, sometimes Nicole, we are too set on our ways, but.

She cleared her throat. Tim still wasn’t sure he wasn’t having some kind of fever dream.

-But. It’s important for you to know that I… I won’t ever judge you for something you are. I might judge your actions, like when you accept Todd’s offers for a ride downtown, or Grayson’s requests for a dance, or when you are too dumb/ kind, too kind, towards other people… But I’ll never judge you for something you didn’t choose. Like this.

In the midst of this confusing speech, Tim still couldn't quiet comprehend why mom was gesturing towards the shoes on the desk. They were simple, red heels, not even that high, belongings of Caroline Hill, one of his more successful aliases. It was a wonder how people on the Alley’s clinic hadn’t catched on that their favorite voluntary nurse slash doctor in training was a fifteen year old kid instead of the nineteen year old shy girl they thought, but it was an ego boost when they called him Miss Hill, and a boost to his medical skills when they taught him something new.

-I understand this is an… -a quick glance to the papers in her desk. Had mom… wrote this down beforehand? What…?- age of changes, yes, an age of changes for you. And you are… discovering- no, learning yourself. And I’m honored that you trusted me enough to show me that, and came to me in this… confusing times.

Tim opened his mouth to speak. Mom seemed to panic, as much as mom ever did anyways, quickly sorting through her sheets of… Information? Pointers?

-Not that I think you are confused! I trust that you know yourself the best, and I trust whatever you say to me are your honest feelings on the matter.

-I… I am confused -he managed to blurt out.

Mom winced, and searched among her papers some more. When she seemed to find whatever it was, she pulled it above the others, gave them a quick glance, and kept going- It’s okay if you don’t know it yet, too. There’s more than just… male or female. According to my research, there’s a ‘neither’, ‘both’ and ‘sometimes one, sometimes the other’ option.

Janet seemed lost at her own words. Tim could relate. He wasn’t even sure they were talking about his aliases anymore.

-What I mean to say is -she breathed in deeply, letting the papers fall to the desk and meeting his eyes head on-, I love you. You are my son, daughter, neither, both, whatever you feel, but still mine. My child, and nothing you do about your… identity or sexuality can change that. I’ll always accept you, as you are. And if anyone ever gives you trouble about it, you can always come to me and I’ll set their minds straight, or remove them from the picture.

Tim felt fondness surging in his chest, even as his mind came to an abrupt halt when he finally understood what this was all about.

-You might have to be patient with me, or explain some concepts, as I learn about this, because its all new information to me. But I promise you I’ll always love you no matter what, and I’m willing and ready to do my best to/

-Mom -he finally choked up, torn between embarrassment and profound love- I’m not… I’m a boy. I really, really appreciate all this, but you don’t need to… I mean, the shoes and clothes? It’s because I’m making aliases, so I can learn different things and meet people without it being traced back to me. Like, tools. Caroline Hill, the shoes owner, for example, is a tool to learn about medicine, and practice the way of women in case I ever need to disguise myself as one. Not… not actual representations of Tim Drake.

There was a minute of silence.

-Well, this is… unexpected.

-But -he continued, cheeks warm but hurting from smiling so hard- you are the best mom ever, and this learning you are doing? It’s great, even if not applicable to me, because it… it’s good, for people to understand and accept other people like that. It makes you a better person, and I’m really proud of you.

He got up from his seat and walked around the desk, sitting in the floor by his mom’s chair like he did when he was a toddler, and rested his head in her lap, hugging her legs, eyes going to hers with wonder and happiness. She seemed utterly relieved, both at not having fucked up their chat, and at him not being mad at the misunderstanding.

-Aliases, huh. I can help with that. We can talk about it over dinner, and I’ll give you some suggestions.

-Thanks, mom. And, hum, since you brought up the whole gender and sexuality stuff… this might be a good moment to let you know I’m bi.

Long, sharp nails scratched his scalp softly, his eyes closing almost on instinct. Her laugh ringed in his ears.

-It doesn’t matter to me, Timothy. Boy, girl… whoever you bring home, I’ll…

He smiled, expectant.

-... never accept them. No one, no matter their genders, is good enough for my son.

Ah, there she was, the mother he knew and loved.

Movie

Tim, sitting in his study, didn’t even raise his eyes from the paperwork mom had assigned him (to help make him accustomed to dealing with it for when he’ll have a more central role in DI) when the door opened and closed with a bang. He continued signing contracts with one hand, while the other patted his desk for his phone, shooting a quick text to the butler without looking.

-Can you believe it? -his intruder clamored, walking back and forth in front of Tim’s desk, hands messing through long locks of black hair.

-No -he replied, eyes still not leaving his work- It's amazing, how the stock market dropped on Wayne Enterprises. What is Bruce thinking, with the neon knights? He can’t do that and then go gallivanting around the world alone again, the stockholders won’t stand for such a big inversion without the logical follow up. I need to phone Damian about this, maybe he can ask his brothers to pose as Bruce and/

-I’m not talking about your precious Waynes!

-I know -he replied, hand finishing the last stroke of his signature, raising his eyes to his godmother just as the door opened and the butler brought a tea (and coffee) set, placing it by the little table in the corner of the study-, but I needed a few minutes to finish this before paying attention to you, Aunt. Now, a cup of tea? I’ll be having coffee, but it might not be the best for your frayed nerves.

-My nerves aren’t frayed, you little brat. Show some respect. Where is my cute little angel of a godson? -she complained, sitting as elegantly as ever in the plus couch by the little table. Tim sat opposite her.

-He hasn't slept in three days -and is being asked to meddle into adult’s problems, but he didn’t voice that part, merely mixing ingredients in the steaming cup-, It’s natural to be bitter. Now, tea?

She didn’t answer, but accepted the offered drink, already prepared to her tastes perfectly. Despite her anger, she smiled. Two sugars, no milk, a little lemon, the smallest hint of vodka. Her godson knew her so well.

A few seconds went by as Tim readied his own coffee and downed half. The butler topped the cup for him, and then left just as quietly as he had came.

-Now, want to tell me what has you so mad?

He already knew, but playing innocent was one of his strengths. Bruce still blamed Dick for the incident on the music room of the manor, despite the fact that Tim had been there at the moment and his eldest far away on a secret mission civilian Tim wasn't supposed to know about. That was the true power of a goodie two shoes.

-Your mother, she… You know we were planning on going to the movies today, and she…!

-Ah -he nodded, as if only catching up then- She went with Dana, right?

Nicole gritted her teeth, downing her cup in one long glup to calm herself. Tim merely took the teapot and filled it again.

-Janet doesn’t even like the movies! She hates being around other people. The only reason she goes is to humor me, and now… That woman…

-Dana is a good person -he intervened, because he genuinely liked her. Dana Winters had been in charge of taking care of his comatose dad until his death, and they had spent some time together during his visits to Jack. A lot of his alias Caroline Hill had been based on her. And right now, she...

-Too good -Nicole muttered, which Tim suspects, was the root of the problem.

-Shouldn't you be glad? -he asked, head tilted in his best show of naivety- That mom is trying to get someone kind to be by her side? Dad wasn’t… dad wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t as nice to mom as he could have been. I, for one, want her to be happy.

-Janet doesn’t do nice.

It took everything in him to not answer ‘well, she might tonight’, because that would ruin his innocent image, and he was afraid Nicole might actually stab Dana. Really, refraining himself like that was almost painful. Mom better appreciate his sacrifice.

-The nicest thing she could ever stand was you -she continued, ignorant to her godson’s internal struggle-, and you are her baby.

-I’m fifteen -he felt compelled to inform her, but was promptly shushed.

-To us, you never grew past your chubby stage.

-I didn’t have a chubby stage, and you can’t prove otherwise -he’d know. He was the one who got rid of the evidence.

-Back to the point… Dana is no good fit for your mom. She’d end up tearing off her own hair in frustration in less than a month after countless discussions of morality and ‘doing the right thing’. She can barely resist when it’s you doing the nagging and, again, you are the exception to all of Janet’s rules.

Tim hummed, thinking distractedly how someone as smart as Nicole couldn’t see that Dana’s good heart wasn’t the problem here. Oh well, he needed to be a little more direct.

-And who do you think would be a good match for mom? Someone distant, like dad? Or easily manipulated?

A growling almost came out of Nicole’s mouth. Tim refilled his coffee cup again.

-Neither… those make for good tools, but not partners. Janet needs someone who understands her, who couldn’t judge, who likes her as rotten and twisted as she is.

Should he protest? This was his mother they were talking about. Not that she was wrong, but… still.

Deciding against it, because he needed to get back to work and this conversation was already exhausting, he nodded- Mm, but plenty of people in high society adore her...

-Those fools either don’t know of her true nature, or are too scared of it. None would make for a good life companion.

-So, someone who isn’t scared of her, knows her inside out, isn’t morally upright…

-They should also have similar objectives in life -Nicole interjected, empty cup clattering against the plater when she placed it there-, otherwise Janet might feel the need to remove them to keep them off her way.

-Objectives, like…?

-Staying on top of the food chain of the corporate world, for example. And keeping loved ones safe. Like you, for her.

“And Damian, for you”, he didn’t say. Finally, they seemed to be reaching the end of the discussion. Just a few more lines...

-And they should be strong -she kept on, digging her own grave for Tim’s convenience-, because Janet is, too, which means her enemies are as well, and she needs someone to have her back if she ever needs it.

-I don’t think -he wondered, finger tapping his chin in childlike confusion- that such a person exists. Someone as morally compromised as mom, strong enough to help her achieve her objectives, who knows her and loves her. I never met someone like that… I mean, besides you.

Time seemed to stop for Nicole, who dropped the scon she had halfway through her mouth. Tim knew what having a romantic realization felt like, so he let her deal with it while he finished his coffee. After a few minutes letting her stew, he force a look of curiosity and concern on his face- Aunt Nicole? Are you alright? You went really quiet…

Nicole wasn’t sitting in front of him any longer. Okay, he’ll forgive the rudeness, in the spirit of love and all that. Picking up his phone, he sent Dana a quick text, warning her to make herself scarce.

“Everything going according to plan on my end”

“Ah, okay. I’ll thank Janet for accompanying me, and ask her to just be friends. Then I’ll catch a taxi :) “

“Yeah, let me know once you are back on your house, it’s getting pretty late”

“Aw, you’re such a gentleman. Me and your mom spent all afternoon talking about you, you know. And Nicole”

“You buttered her up to the idea?”

“She seemed to be considering ending this ‘date’ early as well to go looking for her, so I’m guessing I did ;) “

“Thank you again, Dana “

“Make sure they invite me to the wedding, and we’re even!”

“If they don’t elope, that’s it”

“They won’t. That would mean missing the chance to make Uncle Lex miserable by asking him to plan the whole ceremony”

Smiling despite himself, he put his coffee cup down and went back to his desk. Better to get work out of the way before Mom and Nicole came back and informed him of the good news.

Shocked face number three might do.

#Tim Drake #janet drake #Janet Drake au #Nicole Al Ghul (oc)#My writing #lex luthor #dana winters #dana is not involved in the way you'd expect #sexuality and gender identity discussed #janet tries y'all #janet drake is a good mom #misunderstandings #jack dies but we care more about the dog's death tbh

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taylornock · 5 years ago

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how cell phones made our lives better while simultaneously ruining them

hi fam!! it’s me, again. are you tired of hearing from me? me too. that’s why I’m here to rant about social media / phone / technology. bc i hate it… but in a loving way???

everyone remembers when they got their first iPhone. seriously. why is that such a monumental moment in our lives? i can hardly remember what i felt like freshman year of high school but can pinpoint the feeling of sheer glee unwrapping my iPhone 6 in eighth grade. i have this thing that is attached to me 24/7 - when I go anywhere (even downstairs) without my phone i feel weird. that is f***ing SAD! PATHETIC. i hate feeling that dependent on what is essentially a pocket robot.

for what it’s worth - phones have done INCREDIBLE things for the world as we know it. for example, this quarantine shit has been testing all of us; and our phones are helping us get through it in so many ways. our phones let us see the faces of those loved ones we are missing, our phones provide us with stupid tik tok content to keep everything light hearted, and our phones let us check in on each other. all amazing things! when we are at school, we have instant access to our lives at home . being able to call my mom whenever i want is something i definitely abuse. “mom, I’m on my way home from Thompson right now and i think i have a brain aneurysm but my bio final is at 11am tomorrow will i make it” … an actual conversation i had with my mom at the end of freshman year. needless to say i was medicated shortly after THAT meltdown. I am such a brat that i don’t know what i would do if i couldn’t text my dad and have him immediately get me the password again to our Uverse account…… god forbid i miss an episode of the bachelor. i have this phone, and that’s what i do with it? abuse its powers to ask my parents for medical advice or a password i forgot? have we lost sight of everything here?

throughout life and especially throughout quarantine… my phone is the definition of a possession that is a blessing and a curse. I’m so grateful to have the ability to bother my friends - whenever i want! the options are endless! i love keeping in touch with people i thought id never hear from again, and being able to talk to so many people in my life and make my heart swell. now, when a conversation with someone other than my two roommates (shoutout parents) is so rare ⎯ that phone is my weapon and i use it to help flatten the curve: flatten the curve of covid19 and flatten the curve of my mental illness 🙃 [humor is a coping mechanism okay let me live] but like, i KNOW i’m not the only one that looks at my screen time and immediately wants to die. how can i honestly be looking at my phone for that long? picking it up THAT many times?????? my phone is the best distraction and also the most toxic - it makes me feel better but has a tendency to bring up all my issues and blast them into the reflection of my blue light glasses...... its called fashion look it up.

to give some examples - let’s open up my most used app: snapchat. I go on snapchat with the best of intentions - to see a memory from a year ago that makes me smile. to respond to my friends and see what their mood today is based on the look on their face. to creep on snap stories and see what everyone’s cooking and doing with their lives. somehow, tho, after spending a few minutes on the app.. i end up with a pit in my stomach most of the time. the person i want to respond hasn’t responded in 4 hours. oh god lets overthink this- they don’t like me anymore and are no longer interested in speaking to me and only respond every once in a while out of pity or because they are uncomfortable. everyone hates you. oh and GOD FORBID someone leaves me on open??! I am not funny nor interesting nor worth a reply - suddenly, i have equated my value to receiving or not receiving a photo of someone’s blank stare. this is extreme, and this is dramatic. but trust me —— this is the hamster wheel always turning in my head. I’m not even going to touch on snap maps; that feature is pandoras box and someone better fucking shut it.

second most used app is instagram. i scroll for hours, i have time limits set for the app acting like i’m actually going to listen to them and get off. lmaooooooooo. i love looking at aesthetic stuff and dogs and food and recipes and my friends’ beautiful faces. but you know what i don’t like? constant nudges to compare myself to others. oh look at her having a party with all of her friends even though we aren’t supposed to be. am i a loser for trying to be safe? oh look at her washboard abs, i’m never going to look like that and will never live up to the standard of beauty society has set for me. look at all of these people in their happy relationships. why can’t i have that? it goes over and over and over. its not like i sit there and think of these things just like that, its a precedent in my mind when i stare at everybody else that i am going to size my own life up against theirs. for years i followed every single elite model / VS angel on instagram to motivate me to do better - to start being psycho about what i did to my body so i could be as gorgeous as them. what kind of fucked up mindset is that? i would literally watch their footage of them eating rice and vegetables once a day and try to copy it. i would watch their runway walks obsessively trying to recreate them in heels alone in my house - like that was all i could imagine doing with my life. did i ever stop for a second to look at that photoshoot of gigi hadid and wonder if she was happy? wonder if the constant pictures she saw of herself ever made her insecure? what was i doing? the day i unfollowed those girls was a monumental day in my journey to a better self image. i didn’t realize the people i thought were my “motivators” were actually my triggers. i have grown to a point in life now that i would much rather eat a stack of chocolate chip pancakes that make me dance in my chair like an infant than practice my runway walk and shame my body in the mirror. and i am so freakin happy!

i could go app by app for hours. but moving on to the next thing i hate about cell phones - how they have destroyed our biological methods of communication. you hear about those psychos who think the world is destroyed by technology and we are going to be overrun by robots. but hey, I’m with the psychos on this one. i have this amazing friend, Trevor Wright, who without fail at EVERY dinner announces “phones off friends on” and collects our phones into the center of the table. yes, we are 20 year old adults. yes, we hand our phones over to Trevor and let him yell at us for trying to see if ~that person~ snap chatted us back. i have so much respect for him because of this. there is nothing worse than staring at your phones when you could be having a good conversation about life, about love, about laughter + memories, about “do you think hellen keller is real?” anything, bro, anything. anything but snapchat messaging your hoe of the week or mindlessly playing tetris to twiddle your thumbs. we all need to start loving a little harder, and the first step to doing that is to communicate better. communicate smarter. I’m guilty of alllll of the above, don’t get me wrong. and I am ADD asf and constantly playing mindless games just to stimulate my brain. but i need to stop that! even writing this is taking some time away from the dumb shit on my phone - and encouraging me to communicate how i r e a l l y feel to my homies that will read this. communication - especially body language - is fascinating. I’ve studied it in psych, I’ve learned the neurological bases of behavior and why we do what we do. I’ve learned how much our life experience impacts who we are as a whole...and it! is! fascinating! i also think that’s why i love film so much. because it can capture the raw moments of your friends just being your friends, of you just being the person you are, and the world around you just existing as it exists. i love the raw moments; and not just because indy blue posted one youtube video of her slow mo laughing and now thats the only footage i find myself shooting. 😚

im not quite sure what this post is, lol. but - just a rant on technology. so listen to me:

take advantage of technology + social media! it CAN BE GREAT. for so many reasons. but, don’t let technology + social media TAKE ADVANTAGE OF YOU. stay true to you - know how to communicate with yourself and your loved ones without the use of a robot. remember that feeling when you setup up your first iPhone? imagine if you could feel that again, with your phone nowhere in sight. if you don’t know how to communicate with yourself yet, start by journaling. WRITE! TYPE! SPEAK! do what you want. getting your thoughts down even without an audience is so crucial to understanding yourself and others. if you don’t like to write, reflect. breathe. meditate. make art. do what makes you feel at peace, and do whatever makes you feel like the world makes a little bit more sense than it does.

IF YOU ARE READING DOWN TO HERE, I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU, SAY IT BACK! LIFE IS A FUCKING HIGHWAY. AND IM SO GLAD YOU’RE ON MY INTERSTATE. <3

xoxoxoxo

gossip girl

#phones #socialmedia #rant #blog #hi #tender #loveme #quarantine #covid19 #cellphones #iphone #followme!#taylor #tiktok #trending #writing

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infantbluee · 6 years ago

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not a manic pixie dream girl

summary: the first time he meets her, she’s stripping naked in his neighbor’s backyard.

chapter three - death by bikini

"You're heading out?"

Soul pauses on his way to the sink for a brief moment before continuing on his path, rinsing out his bowl then placing it in the dishwasher. He waits until his hands are dried before he turns to face his brother.

Wes is leaning against the doorway, a strangely calm expression on his face. Despite the early hour of the day and no place to be that Soul knows of, his older brother is dressed to the nines like he always is, a crisp white button-up and slacks fitted perfectly to his frame. Both of them share the same lanky height and bizarre coloring, but Wes has always been slightly more filled out than Soul's lazy, introverted ass is, and the four years between them somehow feel much wider—yet at the same time not at all.

They're not close. They never have been. Wes is the prodigal son, an expert violinist with a brilliant future ahead of him and the charm to boot. Soul, on the other hand, can adequately play the piano but is nothing special compared to his brother and everyone knows it.

Wes has always tried to bridge the gap between them, but his kindness and attention to his brother's feelings of inadequacy only feel like pity to Soul, and it makes the resentment impossible to avoid.

Soul tries not to snap at Wes most of the time, knowing his brother is only desperate for Soul to love him and would do anything to make him happy, but there's only so much that can be done on Wes's end. A relationship is a two-way street. Until Soul is ready to reach for that olive branch Wes has been holding out to him since they were kids, the two of them are never going to have a decent relationship.

Soul knows he should be happy for his brother. He knows that. He should be proud of his success, glad for his kindness, and accepting of the help Wes always tries to give him.

He's just not ready yet.

"Yeah," Soul answers finally. "Maka's picking me up in a few minutes."

"You know, usually it's the guy who has to pick up the girl for dates," Wes says casually. "Mom would have an aneurysm if she knew you were letting your girlfriend drive you around."

Soul scowls. "First of all, Maka's not my girlfriend; we've only known each other for a month, since that party Mom and Dad threw at the beginning of the summer vacation. Secondly, this isn't a date. We're meeting the others at Blake's before we head to the beach together."

"Still, you should at least offer to pick her up instead. Open the door for her. It's the chivalrous thing to do."

"She can open her own damn door," Soul mutters. "To be honest, she'd probably make fun of me if I tried."

Wes smiles faintly. "You might be right."

That's it. "Okay, what's your deal with Maka?" Soul demands. "You've been acting weird ever since you found out I'm friends with her. Do you like her or something? Is that why you're being so weird?"

To his surprise, Wes gets really quiet. He frowns at his hands for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Soul's. "Doesn't matter what I think. What matters is how you feel, and I can tell from the way you look at that girl that you think she walks on water."

"What—you—it's not—"

"I'm not teasing you about it," interrupts Wes. "I'm being serious. You like Maka, and I'm glad that you do. She's a great girl, Soul. Kind, smart, funny, selfless. You couldn't choose any better. It's just..."

"What?"

His brothers rubs a tired hand over his face. "Go easy on her, alright? She had a rough time of it in high school and she doesn't deserve to be led around if you're not serious about this."

"Yeah, I know. She told me she was a bit of a nerd then but I don't see how that—"

"Is that what she told you?"

Soul stares at his older brother, not liking the look on his face. "What? Was she lying?"

Wes grimaces. "No, it's not—she wasn't lying, Soul. It's just an oversimplification, is all."

"An oversimplification? What the hell are you talking about?"

They're interrupted by the sound of an obnoxiously lyrical doorbell ringing through the house. If Soul hadn't been staring intently at his brother, he would've missed the strange look that flickers across Wes's face at the sound, and the equally strange look that settles as he says casually, "Guess that's her," and walks right out of the kitchen, leaving Soul nothing to do but follow him.

"Wes!" Maka is beaming when Wes opens the door, and Soul gets a front-row seat to her smile when his brother presses a kiss to her cheek. Soul is really starting to dislike the greeting. "You're still here. I thought you were headed back to Europe?"

"Nah, decided I had enough traveling for a while. Wanted to stay home, network a bit, spend time with my brother before he starts his senior year."

"And I keep stealing him away from you." Maka cringes. "My bad. I've been needy. I'll leave him alone tomorrow so you guys have a brothers' day together."

Soul jolts to attention. "What? No! You don't need to do that!"

She gives him a chiding look. "Your brother cancelled a tour so he could spend time with you. Don't be mean."

"It's fine," Wes chuckles. "Don't abandon my brother for my sake. He likes you a hell of a lot more than he likes me anyway."

"Oh, I doubt that's true."

But it is. From the meaningful look Wes exchanges with him, Soul knows his brother is aware of what he's thinking. It makes him feeling impossibly worse about the situation yet somehow not remorseful in the slightest.

He won't apologize for choosing to spend his free time this summer with Maka, not when every time he and Wes have done things together, it's resulted in some sort of colossal fuck-up. She's the only person he ever feels remotely comfortable around. Being with Wes just makes him feel wholly inadequate, which doesn't help their relationship at all. If anything, the more time they spend together, the worse it gets.

Especially now.

"Actually," Wes says, "if you're not doing anything near the end of the summer, do you want to go to a concert with us? I was given free passes through my company and I was going to ask Soul to come with me, but I have a few extra tickets."

Soul chokes on air as Maka's face brightens. "Really? I'd love that!" She pauses slightly. "Are you sure though? I don't want to intrude on any brotherly bonding time, especially if—"

"Don't be silly, Maka. I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't want you there." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Besides, maybe now that you're coming, Soul won't make up some excuse to ditch me last minute."

Much to their surprise, Maka merely shakes her head. "That's not Soul's fault. Some days it's just harder than others to work up the nerve to face other people, especially in public settings. I get it; I'm still the same way sometimes, even though I've gotten a lot better since the height of my anxiety." She gives Soul a smile that makes his chest warm far past healthy levels. "He's actually a lot better than I was before. I'm grateful every time he's sweet enough to indulge me by keeping me company. He doesn't owe me anything, but he'll drag himself out of bed for my sake anyway."

Soul can only stare at her in shock.

How is it they've only known each other a month and she already knows him that well? No one has ever—ever—spoken about his tendency to bail on plans last minute as anything other than a nuisance. They call him a flake, unreliable, untrustworthy. His parents still berate him constantly every time his anxiety gets in the way of an appearance at a stupid party or a performance in front of crowds that make him want to hide in a corner and die. Even Blake complains and groans whenever Soul chooses solitude over his company. After all, it's how he's gone this long without meeting Spartoi in the first place.

But not only does Maka show she understands by not berating him for it, but she also defends him in front of Wes. Perfect, understanding Wes who no one ever disagrees with.

Soul has wanted to kiss Maka countless times since he first met her, but this... this clearly takes the cake.

Wes seems just as taken aback as Soul is, but he recovers much quicker, his expression becoming very, very soft. "You're right. I know I'm a little too hard on him sometimes. I know it's not his fault."

"It's not your fault either, Wes," she says gently. "You do your best. Besides, I've met your parents. Trust me when I say how hard it can be to function normally under that level of overbearingness."

"Spirit is still overcompensating by smothering you?"

"He barged into my bedroom with a baseball bat the other day because he had a dream that I was talking to a boy," she deadpans. "A dream."

Wes bursts out laughing before he can stop himself, then laughs even harder when she smacks his arm.

"It's not funny, Wes! I was trying to sleep!"

"Let me guess: you jolted out of bed and laid him out on his ass on instinct." His grin widens when she pouts adorably but doesn't answer. "That's what I thought. You're a little menace, aren't you?"

"I'm cute," she huffs stubbornly.

"You're capable of beating up a man more than twice your size."

"Still cute!"

"Yeah, yeah, she's adorable, we get it," Soul grumbles unhappily. "Can you be all nauseatingly charming and Wes-like later? Everyone is supposed to meet at Blake's soon and I don't want to have to explain that we're late because my big brother likes to hit on my friends."

"To be fair, Maka was my friend first." When Soul growls like a gremlin fed after midnight, Wes flashes a smile that manages to be both innocent and conniving all in one. Soul inwardly contemplates the pros and cons of putting a hit on his brother.

"We'll figure out the details for the concert later?" Maka asks hopefully.

Wes softens. "I'd like that." Then, because life hates Soul, his brother adds, "Hopefully by then my little brother will find his chill and stop acting like an old man who hasn't gotten his rocks off since nineteen-fifty-two."

"Wes!"

"I've been trying to pull the stick from his butt for weeks now," Maka agrees, "but for some reason he still walks around like he has a permanent cramp in his perky little ass cheeks."

"MAKA!"

"Must've left a splinter," Wes says solemnly.

"It wasn't ready."

"We pushed too soon."

Maka nods like she's commemorating a fallen comrade. "Now he'll be backed up for eternity."

"OH MY GOD."

Five minutes later and way too many jokes at the expense of their own personal dartboard to count, Maka and Soul climb into her car with the latter pouting like a child who got the wrong McDonald's toy in his Happy Meal.

She keeps sneaking glances at him as they pull out of his driveway on the way to Blake's, but he refuses to meet her eyes and maintains his crossed arms like a life vest off a sinking ship. With each passing second, he feels more and more like a spoiled brat and less and less inclined to fold for the sake of his stupid, stubborn pride.

"Soul?"

"…What?" he grumbles moodily.

"You really do have a cute butt."

[ read the rest of the chapter on ao3 // ffn ]

p.s. i know i’m not active on tumblr these days but i love and appreciate you all! thank you so much for your support <3

#soul eater #soulxmaka #soul eater evans #maka albarn #soma #look i know it's 2019 and i'm super late to the fandom but i will stop writing for soma over my dead body #i love them..... too much #soul x maka #wes evans

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unfolded73 · 5 years ago

Text

To Come Out the Other Side (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: David mourns his husband. That’s it, that’s the fic. (AO3)

Notes: I wrote this for the SC darkest timeline collection on ao3, a place intended for sad as fuck fics that don’t have a happy ending. I didn’t think I’d post it here at all, but based on the reception it got last night, I’m going to. WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (in the recent past), grief, loss, and a brief mention of suicidal thoughts. Don’t read if wallowing in sadness isn’t something you want to do. Rated Teen, 4500 words.

_________________________________

Three months, two weeks, and two days

David crosses and recrosses his legs, shifting on the generic loveseat in the overly pastel office. He looks up and down at the therapist who introduced herself to him earlier as Vanessa. She’s visibly pregnant, and he feels a flash of irrational anger that she could get herself in such a state when she’s got patients to see. When she’s taking on new patients like him who are going to need her full attention. What right does she have to have a baby? What right does she have to have a happy family when he’s so—

“I’m sure it’s been a difficult few months,” she says.

He laughs bitterly.

“I know, that goes without saying. What prompted you to make an appointment to start seeing me?”

“My best friend kind of insisted.” He drags his hand up and down on his thigh, scratching at the soft denim. “She worries.”

“Well, that’s understandable. It was brave of you to actually go through with it, though.”

David sneers. He doesn’t want to hear someone calling him brave. He isn’t brave. If he were brave, he wouldn’t have spent the last hundred and eight days ghosting through the empty remains of his life like he has. He’d have done something dramatic. Something concrete. Sell the house. Sell the stores. Leave town. Walk into traffic.

“Can you tell me what a typical day is like for you right now?”

David heaves a sigh. “I sleep late. I have employees who open the stores.”

“The stores?”

“Yeah, we own…” He stops and corrects himself; even the act of correcting his language is becoming a habit now. “I own three general stores in the area. Schitt’s Creek, Elm Glen, and Elmdale. It’s called Rose Apothecary.”

There’s a spark of recognition in Vanessa’s eyes. “I’ve been to the one here in Elmdale. It’s great.”

“Thank you.” He looks down at his lap. “I sleep a lot.”

“That’s common, with grief,” she says in a kind voice. He doesn’t want that kindness from her. He wants her to fix him. He wants her to tell him if feeling like this will ever end. He wants her to tell him he deserves to feel like this, for daring to be the one of them left alive.

“I usually go in and check on the Elm Glen or Elmdale stores by noon. Spend the afternoon calling vendors, or…” Or staring at his laptop, not doing anything.

“You live in Schitt’s Creek, though, right?” Vanessa asks.

“Yes.”

“You don’t go to that store? The one near home?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Why not?”

He rolls his eyes. She’s sussed out the answer, she just wants to make him say it, obviously. “That was the first one we built. Before we were married. Before we were even a couple. We…” He feels tears burning behind his eyes. How can there still be tears left, David wonders. It doesn’t seem possible.

“That store symbolizes your relationship with…” She consults the clipboard she’s holding. “Patrick.”

He’s instantly furious with her for speaking his name out loud, and also for having to check what his name is, for not having it seared into her brain. For having it written on a piece of paper like it isn’t something sacred. Perhaps together with words like ‘aneurysm’ and ‘grieving’ and ‘widower’.

“Yeah, I fell in love with my husband there, so it’s not a huge fucking mystery why I don’t want to be there,” David says, crossing his arms and giving her his haughtiest, cruelest look. Vanessa seems unphased. She just gives him more of those kind eyes. He hates her. He imagines himself storming out of her office and never coming back, but Stevie would be disappointed in him, and Stevie is the main reason he’s made it through the last three months, so.

David sighs and stays put.

“How long were you married?” Vanessa asks.

“Thirteen years,” he says, his breath betraying him and hitching on the words. “Unlucky thirteen.”

“So what do you do after you go to work in the afternoon?”

“I go back home.”

“Do you still live—”

“In the house we shared? Yes.”

She waits, letting the silence stretch out. It’s excruciating.

“I packed up all of his things in the first couple of weeks. It gave me something to do. Boxed up mementos to give to his parents. Donated his guitar to the high school. Same with the piano — I paid a special moving company to come and take it away. Boxed up all of his boring clothes to go to Goodwill.” He stares at an ugly painting of purple flowers up on the wall.

“You didn’t keep any mementos for yourself?” Vanessa asks quietly.

“No.”

He expects her to ask why not, figures he’ll have to describe how Marcy Brewer had asked him the same thing, causing him to break down in front of her for the fourth time in as many days. She doesn’t ask. What she asks is worse.

“Do you ever think about harming yourself?”

“Yes, but not— I don’t have a plan.” He remembers that from a psychiatrist whose care he’d been under in high school. The overheard murmur as Dr. Herndon spoke to his parents. He has intrusive thoughts, dark thoughts, but he hasn’t made a plan to commit suicide. Having a plan was important.

“What form do these thoughts take?”

“I’m not going to kill myself,” David says with a huff. “He’d be so angry.”

“Patrick would?”

David nods. Not that he believes in an afterlife, but Patrick would find a way to be angry anyway.

~~~

Seventeen days

Alexis crouches next to him on the floor of the bathroom, and he can feel her hand resting on his back as he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

“I can do this on my own, thanks,” he says after spitting into the bowl. His stomach is still churning.

“I know you can.” She doesn’t move, other than to rub his back.

He was crying before his stomach decided to reject the dinner he tried to feed it earlier, and the tears coming out of his eyes now as a result of vomiting don’t seem that different. He wonders if they are different. If some scientist with a fancy piece of equipment somewhere could measure a chemical difference between the tears that come from your eyes when you’re throwing up, and the tears that come from missing someone so desperately that you literally don’t think you can go on living without him.

He heaves again, but nothing is left to come up.

A few more minutes has him cleaned up and back on the sofa, Alexis wiping the sweat on his forehead with a damp cloth. She’s 44 now, and elegant, and as beautiful as he’s ever seen her.

“You should have gone back to New York a week ago,” he tells her.

“Actually, it was L.A. that I was supposed to be in a week ago, but it’s fine.” She combs her fingers through his hair, her eyes roaming over his face. He wonders if she thinks the way his hair is flecked with bits of gray now makes him look too much like Dad. “What good is all of this technology if I can’t do these meetings remotely?”

“You can’t babysit me forever.”

“I’m not planning to babysit you forever, David.” She sounds annoyed, and the sound of her annoyed voice is weirdly soothing. It’s the cadence of those years in the motel. It’s her being irritated by his cologne and his time spent in the bathroom. It’s her pining over Ted and talking him down from bumps in the road with Patrick. It’s the morning of his wedding when she fluttered about, making sure that everything was perfect on the best day of his life.

He starts to cry again, and Alexis pulls him into her arms. She’s deceptively strong, his sister, and he lets himself be held.

~~~

Four months, three weeks, and one day

“What did you do this week?” Vanessa asks, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her, he actually doesn’t. He wants to be the kind of person who can walk in here and say, I’m a little bit better this week. I went to the gym. I looked at a flower. I appreciated the ephemeral nature of life and love.

“I watched three seasons of Justified.”

Vanessa doesn’t show any judgement on her face. “How was that?”

David shrugs. “I don’t remember. Timothy Olyphant is hot, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

She smiles then. “What sort of thing?”

“That cowboy thing.”

“Ah.” She’s silent then, doing that thing again where she lets the silence settle to see what he’ll do to fill it. David studies his nails, trying to call her bluff. The seconds tick by.

He loses the battle.

“Sometimes I think if I’d just had time to prepare for it. If he’d been a heavy drinker or a drug user or if he’d gotten cancer. Something to ease me into the idea of him… of him dying. Instead one day I’m having a completely normal, mundane day, and the next day my whole world had fallen apart.” He stares hard at the ugly flower painting. “I gave him a handjob the night before, did I mention that?” His eyes slide down to Vanessa’s, to see if he’s shocked her. It doesn’t look like it. “After he… I kept thinking over the next few weeks that if I’d known it was the last time, I’d have… I would have made the sex more special. Not just given him a stupid handjob.”

“Any type of sex is special if it’s between people who love each other,” Vanessa says, and David throws his hands up in frustration. She’s missing the point.

“My point is, I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t get to do anything to make his last day on earth good. He deserved… he deserved a good day. All the good days.”

“Who’s to say he didn’t have a good day? Also, you were married for thirteen years. I bet you gave him lots of good days.”

David shakes his head. “I was difficult. We were very different, and sometimes we argued.” He inhales shakily, trying not to cry. “I gave him bad days too.”

“Another thing that is totally normal with someone you were married to for thirteen years.”

His laugh is sharp. “Stop being so understanding.”

“You want to feel like you didn’t deserve him?” she asks.

“I didn’t.”

“It’s a way of explaining why he was taken away from you too soon. That it was karma or something. That you deserve this.”

David looks away, blinking rapidly.

“You don’t deserve this, David.”

~~~

One month

The edibles kick in just as the second episode of Great British Bake Off is beginning. He wouldn’t say he feels good — he hasn’t felt good for a single solitary moment since he lost Patrick — but the edge of the huge knife buried in his chest feels a little blunted. He can stop treading water for just a minute and float. He’s still in the icy cold water, still drowning, but he doesn’t feel the cold at the moment.

Stevie giggles at one of Sue Perkins’ terrible puns. David snuggles deeper into their blanket and tries to let himself get lost in the drama of baking a perfect Opera cake, but his mind wanders and he imagines that Patrick is at baseball practice, or out having beers after the game with his team. That he’ll come home late while David is on step four of his nine-step skincare regimen, smelling vaguely of cigarette smoke from the cluster of smokers who loiter outside the door of the Wobbly Elm. Patrick will shower to wash off the grime of the day and they’ll snuggle in bed together, David letting him be the little spoon for once.

He’s so lost in the fantasy that when he finally notices Stevie crying, her face red and puffy, it seems like it’s been going on for a while.

“Sorry,” she says, wiping under her eyes with her sleeve. “These weed gummies might not be for me.”

David watches her for a second, feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet. “You miss him too.”

“David—”

“Stevie, fuck, I’m so sorry.”

She eyes him with annoyance. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

“No, I’ve been leaning so hard on you that I didn’t even think about the fact that you’re… that you’re hurting too.”

“David, you lost…” He can see the wheels turning as she tries to come up with some way to say it that doesn’t just lay it all bare, ragged and bleeding like it is. “What I’m feeling is not relevant compared to what you lost. It’s a mosquito bite compared to your…”

“Gaping chest wound?”

Stevie laughs, and then just as quickly claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m a monster. I’m the worst friend.”

“No, you aren’t,” David says, pausing Netflix and turning to face her. The high is making words need to spill out of his mouth. “Do you know what I was thinking last night?” Stevie shakes her head. “I was thinking that Patrick would be so pissed off at himself for dying. Because it totally messed up all of his plans, and he hated having his plans messed up.”

Stevie laughs again, and this time she doesn’t try to stop herself. “God, you’re so right. He’d be fucking furious.”

“Not that he didn’t plan for it. I mean, we had wills only because he insisted on it, and he left me a file with all of his passwords in it, and to be honest, I kind of wish he hadn’t? Because now I have no excuse not to pay the bills.”

“David, I’ve been paying your bills.”

“Right, like I said.”

She kicks his shin under the blanket, and they regard each other in silence for a moment across the length of the couch.

“I started jerking off again,” David says with a sigh.

“Congrats,” Stevie says.

“Shut up.”

“No, I’m being sincere, I think? It’s a little piece of normal. It’s like… life moving on.”

“I don’t want life to move on.”

“Of course you don’t, you want to wear funeral blacks and pace around at the top of a lighthouse until you die of grief.”

“Consumption would also be acceptable,” David says, sniffing imperiously.

“David, I know it’s a long way away, but the day will come when things will get normal again. When you’ll wake up and feel okay, when you can go to the store and not be constantly thinking about him, when you even—”

“Don’t say it—”

“Date again.”

“I’m not going to date again. I lost the love of my life; why on earth would I date again?” He’s once again glad for the weed gummies, because speaking those words out loud sober would probably ruin him.

“Because some day you’re going to get tired of your hand, and I’m not going to fuck you.”

He picks up the remote to unpause the TV. “Well, warmest regards to you.”

Stevie shifts over, nudging and prodding him until they are snuggled together on the sofa. “Best wishes, David,” she whispers against his chest.

~~~

Six months, one week, and six days

He pours himself some of the terrible, burned coffee that percolated from the ancient coffee pot to give his hands something to do. He hates being here. He’s only here because Vanessa made him promise right before she gave birth that he go to group therapy at least three times during her maternity leave. David can stand three hours of anything, even sitting in a sad circle with other sad people with this sad styrofoam cup clutched in his hand.

The facilitator of course makes him introduce himself, because he’s new, and in that moment he despises Vanessa and her stupid baby more than he’s ever despised anyone.

“I’m David. My husband died six months ago,” he says simply, hoping that can be enough. The expectant looks on everyone’s faces tells him it isn’t. “It was a ruptured brain aneurysm, so there was no warning. One day I was married to the love of my life, and the next day I was wondering how the hell I was supposed to organize a funeral for…” He inhales and exhales slowly. “... for the best person I ever knew.”

People around the circle greet him with sympathetic smiles and platitudes, and he bites the inside of his lip to keep himself from telling them to fuck off. They go around the circle and talk about their grief — an older woman whose husband died of pancreatic cancer, another whose son died of an opioid overdose, a man whose teenage daughter committed suicide. All of their stories are tragic, as tragic as David’s, and maybe it’s supposed to make him feel better, knowing that people in the world are struggling the same way he’s struggling, but it doesn’t. It makes him think that the world in general and humanity in particular is irredeemably fucked up.

When he’s forced to talk again, he can’t think of what to say, so he ends up telling these strangers about the phone call he had with his mother-in-law earlier that day.

“She wants me to come out for Thanksgiving in a few months, but I just… I don’t think that would be good for anyone.”

“Why do you think it wouldn’t be good for anyone?” the facilitator asks.

“Because the last thing the Brewers need when they’re mourning their only son is to have their son-in-law who is different from him in every possible way — and generally agreed to be too much in every situation — in their house, reminding them of what they’ve lost.”

One of the older women reaches over and pats him on the arm. “You said your husband was their only son, but looked at another way, you are now their only son. Maybe it would help them to be with you. And maybe it would help you too.”

He tunes out the rest of the sad stories, and when the group session mercifully ends, David flees before anyone can talk to him. He doesn’t go back, his promise to Vanessa be damned.

He does tell Marcy he’ll think about coming for a visit, though.

~~~

Two months, three weeks, and three days

“David Rose,” Ronnie says when she encounters him in the cereal aisle of the Brebner’s. She looks at him as balefully as she always has, which is a comfort when he’s still getting sympathetic glances from everyone in town every damn day that he manages to leave the house. As if he didn’t have enough reason to avoid the café, Twyla’s eyes well up every time she sees him. It’s more than he should be expected to endure when he just wants a grilled cheese.

“Mayor Lee,” he answers before returning to his contemplation of the cereals on offer. Patrick liked cereals with nuts and granola in them. David is trying to decide if there is any reason not to buy a giant box of Fruity Pebbles.

Ronnie is looking in his cart, which actually isn’t the collection of shameful frozen meals for one that she probably expects to find. He may not have known how to cook when he moved to Schitt’s Creek but he knows now, and he’s trying to get into the kitchen again now that he’s run out of the frozen casseroles from friends and acquaintances that filled his freezer for the past several weeks. Besides, there’s something meditative about chopping things, even if he does end up throwing most of the leftovers away. It’s a step.

“How are you, David?” she asks, her eyes coming up from the contents of his cart to meet his own.

He shrugs. “I’m out of bed.”

She nods, and then reaches out and touches his arm. “It’s good to see you,” she says, and he feels his eyes burn with tears at the unexpected affection.

He turns and grabs the Fruity Pebbles, holding it up to her. “There’s no one to shame me about buying garbage cereal,” he explains, his mouth pulling to one side as he puts it in the cart.

“As long as that’s not your dinner,” she says.

“No, I’m actually making a stir fry for dinner.”

She eyes him sidelong. “Sounds like you might need company to help you eat all that food.”

David tilts his head. “I’m sorry, but are you inviting yourself over to my house?”

“Call it the mayor's prerogative,” she says. “I’ll bring the whiskey.”

An unfamiliar smile comes to his lips. “See you at six-thirty.”

Ronnie turns out to be the perfect houseguest for a grieving person. She talks about the problems she’s having with the current council members (“I never would have thought I’d long for the days of Moira Rose on city council, but here we are”) and her contracting business and she asks after the store, and whether he’s still liking the cabinets she installed two years ago. She doesn’t mention Patrick, but she also isn’t visibly avoiding mentioning him the way some people do. It’s only when they’ve finished eating and she pours a measure of whiskey for both of them that she gives David a nod and clinks her glass against his and says, “Patrick was a good man.”

David scoffs. “You hated him.”

“I didn’t hate him.” She takes a sip of her whiskey and tilts her head back. “He rubbed me the wrong way at first, but I got over it.”

“I think he’d be surprised to hear that.”

She smirks. “He just needed someone to keep him on his toes. Everyone else thought he was too perfect.”

David drinks his whiskey and mulls that over. “You had a lot in common, you know. Queer, small-business owners, an unhealthy fixation on baseball…”

Ronnie laughs, a satisfying cackle that’s as smoky as the whiskey they’re drinking. They both stare into their glasses. The constant ache in David’s chest swells with how much he misses Patrick.

“I’m furious with him sometimes for leaving me,” he whispers, surprised that the words have come out of his mouth. He’s not sure if he could have said them to anyone else, even Stevie.

“You’re allowed to feel that way,” Ronnie says. “You gotta go through all that to come out the other side.”

He lets go of a half-laugh, half-sob. “There’s another side? I’m starting to doubt that.”

“So they say. Give it time; you’ll get there.”

“Thanks for coming,” he says after a while, his voice raspy. “This was… it helped.”

She pats his hand. “I can always go for a meal I don’t have to cook myself. Anytime you want some company, you just give me a call.”

~~~

Seven months, two weeks, and two days

“Thanks for… helping me with this,” David says to his father.

Johnny Rose glances up at him over his reading glasses. “That accountant you hired could probably help with this as well as I can.”

“I’m sure she could, but the stores are keeping her plenty busy. I don’t want to burden her anymore than I already do.”

“It’s her job, David; it’s not a burden.” His hands tremble as he sets the paperwork down on the table. His father is getting old, David thinks, and he resists the urge to bundle his parents off to the hospital to have every possible test done, to try to extend their lives as long as he possibly can. “But I’m happy to help, of course,” Johnny continues. “Are you sure this is what you want to do with the money, though? Patrick’s life insurance money is there to help you. There’s no shame in using it to make your life a little bit easier.”

David’s been thinking a lot lately about the fact that he was once a person who grieved for the loss of his money, for the loss of luxury. Now he knows he’d go through that a million times over just to have his husband back. He’d sleep in a moth-infested tent, he’d give away all of his clothes, he’d spend the rest of his days in a pair of overalls from Walmart if he could just see Patrick standing in front of him again. It puts a lot of things he cares about in perspective.

“I’m keeping some of it. But this is what I want to do with the rest,” David says, tapping the papers.

His father gives him a smile, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “He’d be so proud of you, son.”

~~~

One year, two months, one week, and six days

He stands next to the grave marker. It was several months after the funeral before he could even bear to drive by here. Then the anniversary of Patrick’s death came and went, and he started to feel a pull to come stand next to the grave. Now spring is in full bloom, and David looks around and has to admit that it’s a beautiful spot. Maybe he should have been coming here all along. Maybe it would have helped.

“Ronnie fixed the leaky pipes in the basement. And she gave me a good quote for the upgrades to the Elm Glen location. I know you’d say get quotes from at least two other contractors, but you aren’t here so I’m just going to give her the work.” He imagines the look Patrick would give him, the indulgent annoyance of it, and he smiles.

“They named the new band room at the high school after you because of the money I gave them. The plaque they put up is horrible, but I was gracious about it. You would have been proud.

“I still miss you every day,” David says, his voice husky. “Stevie suggested maybe it would help to stop wearing your rings, but I told her to eat a bag of razor blades. Maybe she’s right, but I don’t think so.” He twists one of the gold bands now. “It makes me feel better, I think, to have this tiny piece of you with me.”

The wind blows gently, rustling through the grass.

“I did go on a date with that alpaca farmer, though, the one I told you about. Chloe.” He runs his hand over the top of the headstone. “We realized we were at Coachella three of the same years, back before she left Los Angeles. She might have been even more ridiculous in her early thirties than I was.” He imagines Patrick laughing at that. “It’s true,” he protests, laughing a little bit himself.

“I don’t think I’m ready to love anyone else. Maybe I never will be. But it’s nice to… it’s nice to be with someone sometimes. Not all alone, rattling around the house. You always said I was starved for affection, so… Anyway. I think you’d like her. I think she’d have liked you.”

He stays for another several minutes, staring out over the rolling fields, watching a hawk circle in the sky.

Before he turns to go, he pats the headstone again, gold rings against the granite. “Love you, honey.”

#schitt's creek ff #schitt's creek fic #tw: suicidal thoughts #my fic #sc darkest timeline #dead dove do not eat

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setaripendragon · 6 years ago

Text

The Light of a Pole Star - Part 4

So, this part covers most of canon. I tried not to go into too much detail because I can’t actually remember the details (and I don’t think I got very far in Brotherhood... I honestly can’t even remember how far I got...), but I really wanted to write these conversations anyway ^^” All the foreign language bits are off google translate (I used Chinese for Xingese and Greek for Xerxesian, although I wrote both in latin characters, so accuracy is not to be expected here) And, uh... I should probably warn for attempted patricide? ^^”

Ed really wishes Roy were here. It would be nice to have an anchor right about now. His head is swimming, has been swimming for hours, and he can’t quite snap himself out of it. It hadn’t been like this when he’d realised he’d known Granny through two lifetimes. It hadn’t been too hard to keep his lives separate in his mind. A little mind-bending sometimes, when Granny would do or say something that knocked him back to a different life, but he’d expected it, and he’d braced for it, so he’d managed to hang on to the order Roy’s simple presence had imposed on his memories.

Roy is consistent, and consistently different in each lifetime. So Ed can orient his memories around him. He can look at a memory and go ‘my soulmate was wearing that face then, so it must have been that life’. He knows he’s Edward Elric, that his soulmate is Roy Mustang, but…

Ever since he’d seen that woman in the labs, he hasn’t been able to separate Edward from Leon, so Roy could be Klaus instead, and he doesn’t know. He looks at the memory of Lab Five, and wonders why Leon ever felt the need to go looking for a philosopher’s stone. He looks at his memories of ducking through rubble-strewn streets, bloody sabre in hand and horror choking him, and wonders when the hell Ed ever got ordered to the front lines of a war.

Because she’d been there both times.

So they can’t really have been two hundred and fifty years apart, can they?

Ed tries to anchor himself on Al, his brother, but maybe Leon has a brother? He doesn’t, he’s an orphan, but he could have found one, because Ed is Leon and Leon is Ed, which means they both love Al like a brother. He tries to anchor himself on Hughes, when he comes to visit him at the clinic, but that’s even worse. Leon has known plenty of superior officers, even some he doesn’t hate, so maybe one of them is called Hughes?

The Fuhrer stops by, but Ed barely listens to a word he says, can’t even look at the man because it makes his brain jitter, replacing Bradley with Riese, snippets of old speeches ringing in his ears and drowning out anything else. He lets Hughes handle it, because he’s not in a fit state to be doing anything. It’s taking all his effort just to keep some parts of his thoughts straight. “Brother! Snap out of it, please!” Al begs, some time after the Fuhrer has left.

“Trying, Al.” Ed rasps, fisting his hands- No, not the right hand, the automail will snag on his hair- Not the right hand because he doesn’t have a right hand, and why is it so cold in here, Atossa is never this cold during the day- “Shit. Lyco- Alphonse. Al, tell me what year it is.” Ed begs.

“1914.” Al says at once. “Your name is Edward Elric.”

“What’s their name?” Ed presses.

“Roy Mustang.” Al tells him, not missing a beat.

Not Klaus. Not Huang. Roy. “Black hair. Black eyes. Stupid smug face.” Although, that part’s always the fucking same, isn’t it? “The Flame Alchemist. Hero of Ishval.” Ironic. So, so ironic. “Grew up in a brothel. Doesn’t actually work at a brothel. Right?”

Hughes snorts. “Right.” He acknowledges lightly, but then sobers up when he asks; “What’s going on, Ed? What’s wrong?”

He trusts Hughes, he does, he knows he does, but he also knows that he doesn’t trust a single one of the officers he’s ever met. He likes a few of them, some of them are even good people, but Leon doesn’t trust any of them as far as he can throw them. Side effect of growing up poor and thieving, he supposes. Side effect of seeing first-hand how the military brass treat whores. “I’m fine, sir.” Leon says, even though it’s blatantly not true.

There’s a long moment of quiet, and Leon drifts into Lexi at the buzzing of the lights, slips sideways into Feng at the stringent scent of medicine. “Brother,” someone calls, and he’s Natan, and he needs to pull himself together because Perry and the other kids need him. “Brother, it’s 1914. Your name is Edward Elric.” Ed shudders, memories colliding. “His name is Roy Mustang.”

Roy. Not Valentino. Not Arthur. It’s 1914 and he’s not a regular army grunt, he’s not a drafted military engineer, or an alkahestric healer. He’s a State Alchemist, and he’d gone investigating the Philosopher’s Stone in a supposedly empty laboratory and he’d found himself in a warzone. He remembers it so clearly because it had been kind of odd. Most of the cooks were just as hard-faced and run ragged as the soldiers, but not her. She’d been beautiful and smiling, and more than one soldier had tripped over themselves trying to impress her. And then Leon could have sworn he saw her in amongst a resistance meeting his squad had been sent in to break up, and his moment of shock had cost him everything.

Being gutted isn’t a pleasant way to die.

Except he’s not dead. Is he? Maybe he’s just lying there on the floor, hallucinating before the inevitable end? He’s heard people say that your life is supposed to flash before your eyes before you die, and he has a lot of lives to get through.

“On your feet, soldier!”

Three separate lifetimes have him responding to that barked order on instinct. He’s expecting a wave of agony in his gut, but of course there isn’t. Why the hell would there be? He’s not dying. He got a bit banged up, sure, which is why he’s here in the clinic- his clinic, and he might not be dying, but it sure as hell feels like it when Xiaoli is struggling just to breathe and there’s not a damn thing his useless alkahestry can do to save her-

“With me.”

He follows along obediently, recognising Hughes as someone he trusts, even though the dissonance is loud in his head, making it difficult to place the man. He recognises the phone receiver that’s shoved into his hand, too, although as he lifts it to his ear, several corners of his mind – his soul – insist it ought to be a scroll, a long-distance communication array, a radio, a-

“FullMetal?”

“Roy.” Ed breaths, closing his eyes and focusing on Roy’s voice. Male, smooth, with that crisp edge the military had put on it. His voice is higher Huang’s, deeper than Klaus’s, and nothing at all like Xiaoli’s. Of course. He’s Ed. He needs the Philosopher’s Stone to get Al’s body back. Perry and the others are some three hundred years dead. He’s not in Cameron, he’s in Central City.

“Edward, what’s wrong?” Roy demands, and he sounds cold and sharp in the way he only gets when he’s panicking internally and trying desperately not to let it show.

“Sorry. Just… bad day.” Ed tells him. “You ever feel like you’re not really you anymore, and then you blink and, like, five hours have gone by?” He asks, because that’s the best way to describe what getting lost inside his own memories feels like without explaining the whole past lives bullshit.

“I’m somewhat familiar with the feeling.” Roy hedges. “What happened?”

Ed opens his mouth, and then stops. He remembers, briefly but vividly, watching Val’s bar go up in flames, the way it had felt like her heart had just stopped, just given up the moment the front windows blew out, and everything beyond that moment became a distant, unreal haze of denial. Remembers the ten painful years after that wondering how they’d found out, how they’d known. Had it been her fault? Had she said something careless and been overheard and gotten Val killed when all he’d been doing was trying to help people who were getting crushed under Amestris’s boot?

“Just some bad memories, bastard, don’t have an aneurysm.” Ed says.

“I see.” Roy replies, very clearly not believing him for an instant.

“It’s fine. A lab was blown up, but the Fuhrer says he’s got people looking into it, so it’s all taken care of and shit.” Ed tells him flippantly, and as he says it, he finds himself frowning. It seems… odd, is all, for the Fuhrer himself to come all the way to clinic to- what, exactly? The memory is a little fuzzy, even now that his head is so much clearer, but he remembers the way the Fuhrer had ‘joked’ about the Philosopher’s Stone. It wasn’t a joke, he can recognise that with all of Leon’s – and Piper’s and Lexi’s and Oz’s – experience with men like that rattling around in his head.

And then there’s the woman. She was here, in Lab Five in 1914, but she was also there, in Cameron in 1662. He has a really, really bad feeling about that; his intuition is painting lines of conspiracy all over this event, even though he can’t quite figure out where they’re going or what it might mean. There’s also a little kernel of hope taking root in his chest, making his breath come a little sharper than normal. After all, immortality doesn’t just randomly happen to people. There has to be a cause, and there’s only one thing Ed can think of that could enable someone to live for two-hundred and fifty years.

“I… see.” Roy says again, more dubiously, this time, shaking Ed out of his thoughts. “Well, do be more careful from now on, won’t you, FullMetal?” He asks, sounding exasperated, but Ed hears the concern underneath.

“Yeah, yeah. You too or whatever, Colonel Bastard.” Ed replies, and then hangs up.

“Better?” Maes asks, putting a hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner that also serves as a way to nudge him back towards his hospital room.

Ed nods. “How’d you know it’d help?”

Maes gives him a look. “Ed, your grounding technique was to run through a list of Facts About Roy. You weren’t subtle.” Ed blushes, because, yeah, okay, when he says it like that, it’s obvious, and also really fucking sappy and embarrassing as hell. “I’d be really interested to hear about whatever it was you figured out while you were on the phone, though, and why you didn’t want to tell Roy. That was impressively subtle.”

Ed considers, and then decides he’s going to tell Maes, but not here. Not in a military clinic where anyone could be listening. “I just didn’t want him to go sticking his nose in because he’s an interfering overprotective bastard. The Fuhrer said to leave it alone.” He explains, giving Maes a pointed look. He frowns for just a moment, before his eyes widen as he catches the implication. “Come on, Al.” Ed says, before Maes can respond. “Let’s get out of here. I hate hospitals.”

“You’re feeling better, Brother?” Al checks.

“Yeah. Good as new.” Ed assures him, knocking a fist against Al’s metal arm in a mixture of reassurance and excitement. “I think maybe we should go visit Teacher again soon.” He carries on in a belligerently casual tone of voice.

“Teacher? I suppose it would be nice to see her and Sig again.” Al agrees, blithely cheerful in a way that tells Ed he’s caught on to at least a few of the things Ed isn’t saying. He loves his little brother.

“You know…” Maes begins, falling into step with them as they head out of the clinic. “You’ve had a rough night. How about I buy you a drink before you disappear from Central again for who knows how long, hmm?” He suggests, and he’s definitely better at this ‘pretending not to be up to something’ than Ed or Al are. Ed grins and nods, and isn’t surprised in the slightest when Maes guides them towards Madame Christmas’s.

“Roy, as your mother, I feel a pressing urge to make sure you’re not living in bachelor squalor.”

“I can assure you, Madame, I’m keeping a very clean house.”

“And when was the last time you cleaned your gutters?”

“I felt an irrepressible need to do housework after FullMetal decided to worry the hell out of us.”

“Good. Alright then.”

“What the hell is going on? What happened at Lab Five?”

“Your boy is back to being cryptic again, so I’m not sure how many answers I have for you.”

“Yes, I had noticed.”

“Seems he saw someone there who spooked him. A woman, very beautiful, dark hair, red eyes.”

“Why did she spook him?”

“He said he recognised her from stuff about the Cameron Civil War.”

“He thinks she’s two hundred and fifty years old? At least?”

“Mmhm. He seems to think a Philosopher’s Stone may be involved, whatever that means.”

“It… is possible. I take it that means FullMetal intends to pursue this lead?”

“Yes, although… He also said that he didn’t like the way coincidences were piling up.”

“Coincidences?”

“She was at the Cameron Civil War and a supposedly defunct military lab.”

“He thinks she’s affiliated with the military?”

“The Fuhrer himself showed up to tell him to keep his nose out.”

“That… could be explained by the potential presence of a Philosopher’s Stone.”

“That’s what Maes said. Edward scoffed at the idea that the military could ever be that benign.”

“Well…”

“He cited Ishval and Cameron. Then Maes swore a lot, demanded a map, and drank all my whiskey.”

“A map?”

“Yes. Whatever this is, it involves all of Amestris, and it’s been going on since Riviere, at least.”

“That wasn’t even fifty years after Amestris was founded.”

“Exactly.”

“Shit.”

“Oh, it gets worse.”

“…Worse?”

“Maes lined my map up with an array your boy says is likely used in making Philosopher’s Stones.”

“Your map of Amestris.”

“Each of the points matched the site of one of Amestris’ most bloody battles.”

“Like Ishval.”

“Yes. And like Cameron, and Riviere, and a bunch of others.”

“That is definitely worse. I don’t think I’ve had enough whiskey for this conversation.”

“Mm. I know the feeling.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do with this?”

“Do you really need me to answer that?”

“No. We figure out a way to stop them, of course.”

“Good boy. And Roy?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Be very, very careful.”

“I will.”

“Your boy also wanted me to tell you to ‘take care of your stupid pretty face, bastard’.”

“I- ahem- If you have the opportunity, tell him ‘likewise’.”

“Heheh. Will do, Roy-Boy.”

Visiting the ruins of Persepolis was a bad idea. Ed knows that now. Of course, at the time, he thought it would be very educational, and it has been, but he underestimated how painful it would be to walk through the barely-recognisable ruins of a city he once lived in and loved.

At least now he knows what happened to the place, thanks to Greed’s explanations and the remnants of the array they’d found. And he knows what happened to Winry’s parents, too. He goes to visit their graves, but only part of his mourning is for them. “We taught you better.” He whispers, aching with a strange sense of loss for all that wasted potential. He’s thinking of Queen Aesara and the King who had gone along with that travesty, and how it hurts to think that he could have been descended from someone so good. Thinking, too, of Empress Nianzhen and her descendants, who are currently enjoying Teacher’s hospitality while looking for immortality for their Emperor father.

The thought almost makes Ed snort. If only the old fool knew just how disappointed his ancestors would be with him. The part of Ed that was once Feng is composing a furious lecture in the back of his mind about the shame being brought upon their house by the Emperor’s behaviour. Xiaoli would undoubtedly have been able to deliver a lecture far more cutting. He half wants to ring Roy up just to see if he could coax something like that out of him, but he won’t.

They have far more important things to discuss, anyway. Like the fact that Amestris is going to go the same way as Xerxes unless they can figure out how to stop the Homunculi and their creator. Like the fact that, with the revelation that a Philosopher’s Stone is made of human souls, Ed suddenly has no idea how he’s going to restore Al’s body.

He shies away from the thought of using human lives as a bargaining chip for his own – or his brother’s – personal gain, but there’s a corner of his brain that wonders… what happens to the souls that get used that way. Presumably the gate takes them. Does that destroy them? Or could it possibly be a way of freeing them, to be reborn again, at last? Is Ed only entertaining that possibility only because he desperately wants to hope that maybe all his years of research haven’t been in vain?

His soul passed through the gate, and he came out the other side alive. A little muddled, but still basically whole in spirit if not in body. It’s different, he knows. He was the bargainer, not the tradable goods. He wasn’t dead, or dying – was he? – he was just paying a toll. There are too many variables to make his own experience anything close to a decent control set.

“Brother… I think there’s someone at Mum’s grave.” Al says quietly.

Ed’s head snaps up, and he looks over and he sees-

He’s three years old – He’s eleven years old – standing in his father’s study – playing in the branches of his family’s orchard – holding up his first alchemical success for his father’s approval – spying on a golden-haired vagabond sleeping under the plum blossoms- He’s four years old – He’s thirteen years old – standing in the hallways with tears stinging his eyes – clutching a letter from the royal court – watching his father’s broad shoulders walk out the door – searching desperately through the house for any sign of his teacher-

“What the fuck-?!” Ed chokes out, staggering a step back. He thought it had been quiet, but it must have carried, because Hohenheim looks around.

“Edward.”

Ed recoils, the dissonance rattling through him like a ricocheting bullet, leaving him feeling torn through and ripped apart and so betrayed. Because- because even through the confusion, he can still figure out what’s going on. He’s been through this before.

Four hundred years, and not a single wrinkle different.

“You look pale, Edward.” Hohenheim remarks, walking closer, his brow furrowed, and that’s the last straw. He doesn’t want his damn concern, and the bastard better not come one step closer to his little brother!

Ed charges.

Al yelps, Hohenheim jerks backwards, but for once, the chaos in his mind is working in his favour. Hohenheim is braced for an Amestrian kid’s idea of fighting, but Ed is more than just one life, now, and he’s more Feng than Edward when he sweeps into range and launches himself into the air. His foot connects with his teacher’s- father’s jaw and sends him staggering back, and Ed spins and flips back onto his feet, and whips around, flesh fist leading, catching him in the solar plexus. Hohenheim doesn’t look very pained by the blow, in fact he looks sternly disappointed, and this time, it’s Proteus who lunges in low and catches him around the knees in a one-armed hold to flip him clean over his shoulder and onto his back in the dirt. Then Ed spins, plants one knee on Hohenheim’s torso, claps, and drives his new automail blade straight down into his father’s- his teacher’s- the homunculus’s chest.

“BROTHER!” Al screams.

Hohenheim looks stunned, but he’s not even bleeding. “You really hate me enough to kill me? Your own father?” He asks, sounding, of all things, disappointed.

“We might share blood, but you are not my father.” Ed snarls. He knows this, knows what it is to have a father who’s actually there, knows what it is to be a father, and a mother, of children who share his blood and children who don’t. He knows what it is to be a teacher, to be a student of a teacher who is as good as family, who is welcome in your home and never betrays that trust. “Nǐ fàngqìle wǒmen! Wǒmen guòqù gěi nǐ hàokè, hé nǐ fàngqìle wǒmen.”

“Shénme?” Hohenheim asks, startled. “Edward, what-? What are you talking about?”

“Oh dear.” Al says. “It’s 1914, brother.”

Ed knows that should mean something to him, but it’s so very far away right now, there are so many disjoined memories clamouring for attention. The memory of the Royal Palace as it was at the coronation of Queen Aesara fills his mind, overlaid by the crumbling ruins half swallowed by the sands, and it’s Ed who saw it but it’s Proteus’s heart that breaks, and there’s hardly any difference in who, exactly, feels the rage filling them at Hohenheim’s confusion. “Ísoun esý? Prodótis! Dolofónos!”

At that, Hohenheim flinches, and looks up at Ed with sudden fear. “Ochi, den- Who are you?” He whispers in horror. “What have you done to my son?”

His mind is a battleground, a dozen answers to the first question swarming his mind and leaving him more confused than ever, but at least every inch of him knows he doesn’t like being called ‘son’ by this man. He snarls wordlessly, and shakes his head, scrambling for coherence so he can demand answers. “How dare you?! What have you done to our people?”

A giant metal hand scoops him up by the back of his jacket like a misbehaving kitten, and Ed goes limp in confusion. A metal hand? Since when has Lyco had- Since when was Shan- “Brother, I know you’re upset, but you need to calm down. Dad, are you alright?”

Hohenheim pushes himself up and rubs at the place where Ed stabbed him. His shirt is torn, but there’s not a mark on him, otherwise. He peers up at them with confusion still writ large across his features. “Alphonse?” He asks in bewilderment.

“Yes.” Al says, simple and short, but it’s enough to make Hohenheim’s expression fall into pained lines. He looks between them both as Al finally sets Ed- Feng- back on his feet.

“What…?” Hohenheim chokes out.

“I think we’d all like answers.” Al says, perfectly cool and reasonable. “But perhaps not in a graveyard, hmm? Let’s go back to Granny’s.” Proteus shakes his head, because their grandmother is dead, and her house is a ruin. “Pinako’s.” Al corrects. “Mrs Rockbell’s.”

Right, the automail mechanic. Lexi nods, and lets Al guide them down a street that is painfully familiar, even though she knows she’s never been to Risembool before. Which is a ridiculous thought, she grew up here- No, she grew up in Rush Valley, where Winry is at the moment. Ed knuckles at his temple with his automail hand, even though he knows the ache building behind his eyes isn’t physical.

“Do you need to call Roy again?” Al asks, as he nudges Ed up the steps to the porch of Granny’s house. Ed suffers a moment of complete disorientation, the wooden house overlaid with sandstone and marble, and the memory calls up another surge of grief and rage. He forces his head clear by orienting around the memory of Roy. Roy was the one who’d been here, lifting him half out of the wheelchair to shake some sense back into him, not Huang.

“Probably, but I want answers first.” Ed growls.

“…Alright, brother. If you’re sure.”

Ed just stomps into the house and throws himself at the couch, setting his automail on the arm of the couch, still pointedly weaponised as he glowers at Hohenheim. “Are you boys back alrea-” Granny calls, sticking her head out of the workshop, and cutting herself off mid-sentence when she spots Hohenheim. “Ah. I see. Is everything alright?” She asks carefully.

“Not in the slightest.” Ed replies frostily, not taking his eyes off Hohenheim.

Hohenheim looms forwards, looking down at Edward with a deep frown, and Edward stares right back, not hiding an inch of his betrayal and rage. “Who are you?” Hohenheim asks, choosing not to sit. Al has perched himself carefully next to Ed on the couch, all his huge metal limbs tucked in to make himself seem smaller.

“You first.” Ed retorts.

For a long moment, there’s silence, and then Hohenheim sighs. “For the first part of my life, I was known only as Slave Twenty-Three.”

Ed can’t help but snort. At least Huang had managed to hang on to his name, even if he’d admitted once that most of his masters had never bothered to try and pronounce it. “Pretentious, much? Geez, how up your own arse do you have to be to want to gloat that badly about owning twenty-three people?”

Hohenheim blinks at him, and then sort of almost smiles. “Quite. Clearly you know more than- How much do you know about how Xerxes was destroyed?”

Ed grits his teeth. “I know that the people were slaughtered and turned into a Philosopher’s Stone. I know it was done to make some of the court immortal. I know that one of them came here because they thought it was a great lark and wanted to do it again. I know that that wasn’t you, because you were Xing, running out on people who relied on you, big surprise.”

“Oh.” Al breathes, and then cringes, which is a fairly noisy affair in the armour.

“How do you know that?” Hohenheim asks, frowning deeply again.

“You first.” Ed repeats impatiently.

Finally, Hohenheim deigns to sit, and Granny appears a moment later with drinks and sandwiches. Ed doesn’t touch his, too busy watching Hohenheim as he explains all about the Dwarf in the Flask and what had happened to bring about Xerxes’s destruction. “When I woke up I found that the Dwarf in the Flask now appeared identical to myself, and that every single person in Xerxes was… gone.” Hohenheim concludes awkwardly.

Ed scowls. He feels a little bad, now, for assuming Hohenheim had been a willing participant. His story is similar enough to Huang’s that Ed feels an unwilling kernal of sympathy lodge itself in his heart. “That’s awful.” Al says quietly.

“Yes.” Hohenheim agrees solemnly. Then he draws himself up, reabsorbing some of the strength telling his tale appeared to have sapped from him, and looks at Ed. “Now it’s your turn.” He instructs, before asking, yet again; “Who are you?”

It takes Ed a moment to sort his brain out, because there are so many answers to that question, and he needs to get them in the right damn order for this, but his head is still in chaos, and it’s hard to remember who was when. Hohenheim opens his mouth to press, but Al interrupts before he can. “Give him a minute, Dad.” Ed has never been more grateful for his brother, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to focus and not get distracted by Hohenheim’s unchanging face.

“I am Edward Elric, the FullMetal Alchemist.” Ed states. “But I’m also Proteus of Atossa, Tutor to Crown Princess Aesara, Savant and Professor of Architectural Alchemy at the Grand Persepolis University.” He hears Hohenheim suck in a sharp, shocked breath, and presses on before he can be interrupted, and lose the thread of his lives. “And I am Yi Feng, Chief Healer of the Royal Court of Xing, First Consort to her Imperial Majesty, the Divine Empress Liu Xiaoli, Daughter of Heaven, Sovereign of the Stars and All Beneath Them.” It’s easy to rattle off the titles – he heard them so many times at the Imperial Court – and it settled him a little, to think of Xiaoli. Because as much as they had a passing resemblance, she really hadn’t looked all that much like Roy, and it made it easier to pull the two lifetimes apart in his head.

He opens his eyes to look at Hohenheim, and finds him staring slack-jawed and shocked. It’s kind of funny. With a snort, Ed finally grabs his sandwich and starts devouring it. The sound seems to knock Hohenheim out of his stunned reverie, and he shakes himself. “I- This is- How? You…” He shakes his head, and just stares at Ed with a pleadingly bewildered expression.

“Huh.” Ed muses, frowning at Hohenheim. “So you don’t remember, either.”

“Re-remember what?” Hohenheim asks, bewildered.

“Huh.” Al says, sitting a little straighter. “Fascinating. I wonder why…?”

“Why what?” Hohenheim presses.

“Did, um… Did Granny tell you about…?” Al asks, gesturing awkwardly at himself.

Hohenheim gives them both a deeply disappointed look, which makes Ed want to stab him again. “She told me you tried to bring your mother back, yes.” He states, in a tone that matches his expression.

“Yeah, well. Turns out that some people who pass through the gate come out the other side with the memories of everyone they’ve been before suddenly awake in their heads. Still haven’t figured out why Teacher and I remember, but Al and apparently you don’t.” Ed explains flippantly.

“Everyone you’ve been before?” Hohenheim echoes, distracted from his attempt at paternal disappointment by academic curiosity. “You’re talking about reincarnation.” He realises.

“Yup.”

“And you…” Hohenheim blinks at him rapidly. “You were Feng?” He asks.

“Yup.” Ed says again, with a vicious sort of false cheer in his voice. “It was really fucking shitty of you to wander off in the middle of a plague, you know.”

“I was going to help.” Hohenheim told him, frowning.

“Yeah, but it sure would have been nice to know that then, asshole.” Ed shoots back. “But whatever, fuck if I’m going to waste my time explaining shit like common courtesy to you. If you desperately need to know anything else, I guess Al can tell you. I’m going to give Roy a call.”

Ed stomps off toward the phone, but he’s not quick enough – or loud enough – to drown out the sound of Hohenheim asking; “Who’s Roy?”

Nor Al’s very awkward response of; “Oh, well, um, you see…”

#Fullmetal Alchemist #RoyEd #soulmate AU #Edward Elric #Roy Mustang #reincarnation #soulmates #Maes Hughes lives #Nina Tucker lives #translations aren't really necessary to understand what's going on #but Ed's lines are basically (very basically because google fucking translate)#'we trusted you and you abandoned us' in Xingese/Chinese #and 'traitor! murderer!' in Xerxesian/Greek #and Hohenheim says 'what?' and 'no it's not-' respectively #if anyone has any corrections I'd love to hear them

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vagrantblvrd · 6 years ago

Note

have a prompt! fahc - alfredo rescuing trevor who has been kidnapped by a rival gang

Thank you Anon! Once again featuring a thief!Trevor because I love him so.

(Also, I was listening to this song while I wrote this and imagining a city night just after rain, because ~atmosphere.)

Alfredo and Trevor being sent on a simple little job in San Fierro where they’re expanding business.

So they’re off on their own, making deals and arrangements with this asshole businessman who thinks he’s so, so clever. That Geoff and the Fakes are some kind of bumbling idiots who won’t see a double-cross coming once he’s gotten all the influence and power he wants, right? (Like this is their first rodeo.)

There’s a rival crew there, or maybe they followed from Los Santos.

Don’t like these meddling bastards sticking their noses in business that doesn’t concern them because the rival crew has invested in this businessman, don’t like that he’s turned to the Fakes after all this rival crew has done for him.

Alfredo and Trevor think everything’s going to plan, have everything in place and plan to head back to Los Santos the next day with their work here done?

But no.

Alfredo heads out to grab dinner, and Trevor is poking through the secret files of this businessman he managed to get his sticky little fingers on – and that’s when the rival crew grabs Trevor.

Break into their hotel suite and make a mess because Trevor outs up a bit of a struggle but there are too many of them, or maybe they get a lucky hit in.

...possibly Trevor didn’t put up quite the fight he’s capable of because he wants to see what this is all about, you know? See what these imbeciles have up their sleeves, and he leaves Alfredo a clue or two before they knock him out and take his to see their boss.

And Alfredo.

He comes back to the hotel with this takeout, all, “Honey, I’m back!” like an absolute dork, and finds himself a crime scene.

Checks to make sure there aren’t any baddies left around, and then ~investigates the scene.

Finds these little spatters of blood, signs that Trevor didn’t go easily (of course he didn’t) and finds his one of his little thief/spy gadgets that’s been activated.

One of Trevor’s listening devices that he was working on because it was acting up, but oh, look!

Conveniently it worked well enough to allow Alfredo to get the important info about what happened while he was gone. Bits of static and whatnot, but enough to know Trevor was in control of the situation, and is like really? but then he finds the other clues Trevor left.

Wonders why Trevor is like this, because honestly, and calls the others to let them know what happened, that he’s got this but hey, FYI you know?

They say they’ll be there as soon as they can, but that’s a few hours off and anyway, anyway, he’s got this.

Goes to their gear they’ve hidden away – just in case, you know – and borrows some of Trevor’s little tools and gadgets. (Alfredo doesn’t have his full kit with him, but Trevor never leaves home without his.)

Goes out to meet with some of the crew’s contacts who give him the general area of where this rival crew might be and off he goes.

Ends up in the industrial district because of course he does.

Sets up in a nice vantage point and snipes the perimeter guards. (Got the okay from Geoff to send a message with this, even though they both know he would have done it like this either way, because Trevor.)

All calm and cool, utterly ruthless. (Sending a message.)

Gets to where Trevor’s being held, leader of this little group running an interrogation and Trevor laughing with blood on his teeth and okay, okay, okay.

Alfredo’s got knives Ryan gave him as a gift for his birthday, and this sweet little gun from the Lads for winning a stupid bet. Trevor’s little gadgets and his climbing rig.

He takes the leader’s bruisers out first before dropping down from the rafters next to Trevor, nice and quiet, and he gets to see the baddie do a double-take when he turns around at Trevor’s laugh and sees him there.

(If it’s one thing Trevor’s taught him, it’s the importance on making a dramatic entrance in these kind of situations.)

Trevor grinning up at him and Alfredo giving him a little look, the baddie staring at them like how did this happen? as he calls for his people.

Alfredo smirking because that’s going to be a problem, isn’t it.

“Oh, bravo,” Trevor says, clapping in delight.

The baddie having an aneurysm because Trevor was tied up?

But no, no.

He’s a thief, you see, and the baddie’s men are terrible when it comes to knots.

“Were,” Alfredo chimes in, leaning over to wipe the blood on Trevor’s cheek away. “They were bad at knots.”

The two of them turn to look at the baddie who suddenly realizes the position he’s in. (Predator and prey, and no mystery where he falls.)

“You get the information you wanted?” Alfredo asks, because Trevor.

“Hmm, I did have a few questions,” Trevor says, and since they have a nice little set up for an interrogation here and no one to interrupt, he asks them.

Thorough with it, because he’d hate to have to do it again, and Alfredo brings out the knives Ryan gave him to clarify a few things.

They don’t kill this guy, no, because they’re sending a message here, you know?

And while the rival crew realizing they lost a good number of their people with this stupid stunt of theirs, letting this guy bring the story back home will have more of an impact. (Whatever his boss does with him afterwards is none of their concern.)

The two of them walk out of there, Trevor shaking his head and tsking at the bodies as they walk past because just look at these idiots.

Alfredo rolling his eyes and handing Trevor an ice pack when they get to the car, fingers gentle on his face and Trevor allowing it. Small little smile just for Alfredo and Alfredo resting his forehead against Trevor’s for a moment because the asshole is safe, never mind his no doubt brilliant little plan here.

“Dinner’s gonna be cold,” he says, because what are words?

And Trevor heaves this dramatic little sigh as they head back to the hotel, because it’s such a tragic waste, really.

#Alfreyco #prompt fills #technically not a fic #vagrant fic #:D??????????#Anonymous #Replies

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littlecrookedheart · 6 years ago

Text

Amen, Amen • Unfolding

Catch Up : Reckoning | Rum on the Fire | Like You're Made of Glass

Character(s) : Noah Marshall, Jane Marshall, Matt Pivouz (OC), Vinny Trovato (OC), brief mention of Lucia and Peter Trovato (OC)

Rating : MATURE. Language warning. Please read at your own risk. I’m issuing a general trigger warning for the entirety of this story. THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SENSITIVE CONTENT SURROUNDING DRUG USE, MURDER, SUICIDE AND POSSESSION.

Time : This takes place 14 years after Jane’s death and roughly 5 years after the events in ILITW. Noah is 22 years old.

Word Count : 5,100 (or so)

Author’s Note : Have some answers to your Matt related questions!

Key : Perspective switches will be marked with ** | Time jumps will be marked with –

Soundtrack | Chapter Inspiration

"You in there? Keep your eyes on me."

Matt's voice swam in and out as if he were underwater, one arm around Noah, the other blocking his line of vision while they made it back inside the church. Noah's knees were buckling as often as he'd take steps, Matt having to nearly carry him inside of the church.

If you were a passerby, you'd see clarity, an empty space of land, dead and barren, two men walking through. You'd see overgrown vines, crumbling cement, the breeze turning stalks of brown grass into an ocean. But if you could see it, oh if you could see it, you would not be able to tear your eyes away.

With Noah hooked on one arm, Matt dodged what seemed to be warping, pitch black shadows of children, wailing deafeningly into the sky as they swarmed around Noah. They bent at unnatural angles, solidifying and cracking open, spilling out multitudes of maggots and beetles.

"What the fuck!" Matt screamed, trying to shake Noah awake as his feet trudged through the abyss of insects.

Once inside, the wailing grew louder, silhouettes of locusts flooding the windows matched the sound of loud, heavy banging against the walls and door. Matt left Noah against a pew, rushing over to open a bottle of water and coaxing Noah into drinking it. Finally, Noah opened his eyes fully, looking around at his surroundings. He jerked backwards, almost in shock, taking breaths and counting to seven, watching Matt head over to the altar where he kneeled down, dropping his head and silently praying.

Noah stood to his feet, wobbling over to Matt, putting his hand on his shoulder. Matt flinched under Noah's touch, looking up in horror before realizing who it was.

"Thank you for saving me," Noah mumbled, his voice like a hoarse whisper.

Matt's mouth moved in reply, but Noah couldn't hear him, the screams from the shadows and humming of the locusts drowning out all sound. Noah pressed his palms to his ears, turning around to face the door, one too many stupid ideas running through his mind. He ran forward, nearly collapsing, Matt's hand reaching to hold him back but falling short. Noah's hand hit the door handle, burning hot and crackling with a strange, dark energy, causing him to immediately let go and fall backwards, skidding across the splintering floor. He squeezed his eyes closed, audibly counting his sevens, over and over, until all went silent.

He warily looked around, the church having been entirely restored, with shining floors and brand new pews, the windows bright and beautiful as they reflected the afternoon sun. Rainbows danced along the wall of the altar, beams of light shining through stained glass at the east end of the church. Noah's breath was heavy as he stood up, creeping around the corner, eyes seeking out the source of this version of reality.

And there she is, Jane. She's standing in a long, white dress, her hair flowing down her shoulders. She looks like an angel. She doesn't even see me? I'm standing right in front of her, and she's just swaying, humming.

"Janie?"

"Katai! You took forever, what the heck!"

She's running...right through me. I'm turning around to see..Katai, as a kid, smiling at her and taking her hand. They're leaving. Running to the door, giggling. And now Katai is looking back at me, and they just smile, a wink, and I can't help it but..was that a message? What's happening?

"Mattie?"

On the front pew is a boy with jet black hair and the same hazel eyes Matt has, the kind with rims of gold and just a dash of green. I don't know who Matt's brother was, but this has to be him. It has to be. He looks so clean, so pristine and put together, kneeling on the pew, looking at me. Does he think I'm Matt?

"I'm Noah."

"Where's Mattie?" He's asking, and all of a sudden he's right in front of me. How can he see me when Jane couldn't?

"He's not here...I'm sorry."

"That's okay. Are you friends?"

Friends...right. Hardly, but I'm nodding.

"I can't stay here..." He's trailing off, smiling as he looks around the room. Beams of blue and green light are washing over him and he seems to glow, like he was fashioned of the stained glass himself.

"Can you tell him I waited for him? But I have to go now."

"I'll tell him." Will I? Does Matt deserve to know that his brother has been waiting for six years and now he's gone? Maybe it's better if he thinks his brother is still around.

"Tell him I heard him talking to me. I stopped the dark thing. But I -"

And he's gone, shimmering away into the light. And the church starts to decay, years or an eternity, even, flashing before my eyes. Left in ruins. Matt on that altar, looking up at me.

"How did you-"

"What was your brothers name?"

"What? Um.." Matt reached down, searching for something to grip as he lowered himself to the floor, burying his palms into his eyes and hid fingers in his hair.

"Vincenzo. V-Vinny." Matt looked up at Noah, confusion across his face.

"He...I think.."

"You saw him, didn't you?"

Noah sat on the floor across from him, brushing the hair out of his eyes before nodding. "He said to tell you that he stopped the dark thing. And..."

"He said more?"

"Yeah he said he's been waiting for you but..."

Noah bit his lip, seeing Matt's eyes start to glimmer. I can't do it.

"He said he's been waiting for you. Then he said to 'tell Mattie I love him.'"

Noah watched Matt, for the first time since they'd met, lose his composure. He became a river, drawing his knees to his chest, sobbing hard into them.

After a few moments, Matt looked up, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater.

"Did you ask him for help earlier? When you were praying?" Noah asked, worried to overstep.

Matt nodded, sniffling as a smile turned on his lips. "Yeah. I can't believe you saw him. Was he okay? Did he say anything else? Was he alone?"

"Uh...yeah, he was fine. He actually looked... beautiful. I saw Jane, too, but she didn't see me. And my old friend Katai. Your brother was the only one who talked to me, though."

"Vinny," Matt suggested, leaning over to grab his coat from a nearby podium. "Call him Vinny. It makes it more real."

Noah took a breath, sighing. "Vinny. Vinny was the only one who talked to me."

Matt shrugged a shoulder, letting out a small laugh. He fumbled through the pockets of his coat, pulling out a black leather wallet. Inside, two folded up photos stuck out of a compartment, Matt pulled hem out and handed them to Noah.

Noah took the photos, opening them to their full size. The first was old, Matt's unmistakable grin not having changed since even this. Vinny looked about three, which would leave Matt nine, the two of them holding a wicker basket of berries, purple and magenta staining their hands and mouths. Noah smiled at the photo, flipping it over. Across the back was scrawled in a dainty handwriting, 'Matteo, 10 Vincenzo, 4 berry picking with grandma.'

"Matteo, huh?"

"Shut up," Matt laughed, taking the photo from Noah and gazing at it, beaming at the memory.

The second photo was the boy Noah just met, Vinny, in a striped yellow shirt, his hair blowing in the wind.

"That was his twelfth birthday. Magic Mountain," Matt said, pointing to the background. "Three months before he died."

Noah handed the photo back to Matt, mindlessly picking his nails in intervals of seven.

"The berry picking, that's what I hold onto. I don't know if he even remembered it, but I do. That's my light."

"I hate that I saw him and you didn't, " Noah said, biting a fingernail.

"I've seen him so many times. Just..not the way you did."

Noah furrowed his brow, looking up at Matt.

"You saw him how I see Jane, didn't you?"

Matt looked away, staring into space.

"Something like that."

How could that be? Matt said Vinny died from an aneurysm, 'how fucked is that?' Why would these demons plague Vinny, or Matt, the way they do Jane and me? She was taken, physically taken, her soul left to linger for a decade. Vinny died, like people do, a death not uncommon. Did Matt lie to me? Maybe Vinny was swallowed up, too, by something just as sinister. Maybe Matt can't say it.

I can't say I blame him. Lord knows how many moments I tried to smash my words into something others could understand. Mom and Dad did just fine, lying through their teeth, saying Jane died in her sleep. Saying it was a...

Holy shit.

"Matt, I need to ask you something."

Matt clenched his jaw, standing up and walking over to the window. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, bracing himself for any reaction Noah might have. Light blankets of rain coated the ground, a cool gust of wind coming from the shattered block in the window. He leaned down, picking up a large rock, smoothing his thumb over the surface.

"It wasn't an aneurysm." Noah said, his voice shaking.

Matt glanced at him, quickly looking away.

"It wasn't."

Noah shook his head, scoffing.

"Don't," Matt snapped, spinning on his heel to glare at Noah. "Do not act like I've somehow hurt or inconvenienced you. You think I found you on accident? That I just heard about your story and thought I'd like to be your friend? No. No, I heard a story about a kid whose friend died and the news was blaming him. I heard how that same kid had a twin sister who died from an aneurysm at eight years old. I don't know why, Noah, but I knew that we were alike. That's why I'm here."

Noah's head spun with questions, and with just as much annoyance, burning inside from Matt's lie.

"What took him?" he asked, a darkness in his eyes he couldn't seem to shake despite knowing that he had no reason to be angry. His stomach felt like fury and his fingers like knives, digging them into his palms, opening the flesh and gritting his teeth to stifle the pain.

"I have no fucking idea. But I saw it. I saw it too many times."

Matt leaned onto the bricks, resting his head on them. "I was fifteen when I first met the darkness. At first it was just my mind, this incessant pulling at me. And I couldn't ever get it to stop."

Noah pulled himself onto a pew, looking at his lap while he listened to Matt's story.

"And then, I mean, what happens next? What happens when you can't shake the dark? You just indulge. So I did. Pills, you know. I remember I'd zone out so hard I'd miss entire conversations, meetings, classes. I'd go to school and they'd slap a test in front of me and I couldn't even read the first question. I didn't care."

Matt walked over, sitting next to Noah. He ran a hand over his face, taking a breath before continuing.

"I can play violin and drums...like, really well. I wasn't in concert band at school, but I was in a band, and they wound up kicking my ass to the curb. I wasn't me anymore...and it wasn't pills anymore." His eyes welled up, clenching tight to stop the flow. He swallowed hard, his voice wavering.

"One night, I got home from some guy's house, couldn't tell you who, and the next thing I know, I'm laying on the garage floor. Fucking blue. Body like an icicle. And Vinny's sitting next to me, screaming for mom. He's got the house phone in his hand, crying so hard...I don't even think the dispatcher understood him. And I look over, and he's got his hand pressed to my arm, there's fucking barf just...and mom runs in, screaming, she's crying, turning me on my side. And I just see a needle, and blood, and vomit, and then nothing."

Noah sighed, his eyes wide, scrubbing his face with both hands. Matt held up a finger, gathering himself.

"When I woke up in the hospital, Vinny was sleeping in a chair, sitting up. Mom wasn't in the room. But something else was. I thought I was hallucinating, you know? But I wasn't. It just closed its hands around Vinny's face, and I tried to scream, I tried to move, but it was like I was stuck. Frozen in place. I just watched this darkness seep into him."

"It couldn't have been-"

"It was. I didn't even struggle in rehab. Didn't go through withdrawal. It was all just...gone. But I swear to you, I didn't know. I didn't know that what I saw was real," Matt started shaking, whimpering. Noah raised an eyebrow, slowly putting a hand on Matt's back.

“Do you think it’s my fault?”

Yes, like it’s my fault. Yes, like the sound of Jane’s whistle, like the sound of Vinny’s scream, yes, like the way we failed them. Yes, like the way they burn us, living in our veins, breathing tar and wax and boiling sludge into our lungs. Yes, it’s your fucking fault.

“No.”

Because he’s my friend, somehow, despite not knowing him. Despite the way he always shows up when I don’t want him. Because he’s the only thing I have, and that has to mean something.

I don’t know how to console people. Put your hand on their back, right, Like in movies and at funerals. I swear I have a scar in the shape of a collective handprint on my back from Jane’s funeral. How can you say sorry when you can’t form words? How can you say thank you when you don’t know what it means? God, I feel like I’m just treading water.

I wonder if Matt feels the same way. Maybe he never knows what to say to me, too. Nah, he has things together. He survived, which is better than I’m doing.

After a long silence, Matt pulled his coat on, yawning.

“Go home, Noah. Reconvene in a few days.”

He slipped out the door, walking into the rain.

** FOUR YEARS AGO **

“Now, would anyone like to share?”

The room was quiet, seven folding chairs circled around a small table with a rubber stress ball sitting on it. Six teenagers who had nothing to say, or who didn’t want to say it - one of them who, for the first time ever, sat with a smile on his face.

“I’ll go.”

Noah reached to the stress ball, tossing it in the air.

“Fantastic, Noah.We have yet to hear from you.”

“I don’t like talking about Jane very often. But today is our birthday.”

A young girl around fourteen peeked her head up and smiled. “Happy birthday, Noah and Jane!”

“Thanks, Anya.”

“What would you like to share with us?” Ripley asked, folding his hands over the round of his belly.

Noah shrugged, pondering. Anya perked up, straightening herself in her chair. “How about what she was like?”

Noah sighed, grinning. “She was so much fun. A real brat, but fun. Jane always knew the best games, she always took lead and gave everyone roles that actually fit them. Like, I could run, but I wasn’t a good kicker. So when we’d play kickball, she always said it was only fair if our friend Dan kicked the ball and I ran for him.”

“She sounds nice!” Anya said, chewing on the sleeve of her jacket. “My sister was always the leader, too.”

“She was nice. She was funny, too. She always had something sassy to say.”

“How old were you? You know…”

“Anya, is that very considerate to ask?” Ripley said, raising an eyebrow to her.

“I’m sorry, Noah.”

“It’s alright. We were eight.”

“It’s not very fair that you didn’t get to know her for long, is it? My sister was almost twenty when she died. I had my whole life to know her… You only had eight years.”

“Anya, please-”

“Really, doc. It’s all good. You’re right, it isn’t fair. I just try and keep in mind that while I didn’t have very long with her… We had a lot of memories. Those memories can’t ever run out, even if I remember them a hundred times. Because Jane is always in here,” he said, pointing to a space above his heart. “Our twin cradle.”

“That’s a load of shit.” A tall boy about Noah’s age piped up, rolling his eyes. “Nothing is in that twin cradle. Know why? Because she died. Her end of the cradle will always be empty.”

“David, I think you should apologize to Noah. It is not our place to correct someone or project our emotions onto them, especially when it comes to grief.”

“Why? I’m not sorry. Do you think my brother is in there? He died five years ago. Identical twins. Do I feel him? Not a chance. My twin space? Cold and empty, because he’s dead. Sitting around singing campfire songs isn’t going to help him come back. Noah, I thought you might be the only other person in this group that knew that. Guess I was wrong.”

“I’m trying to honor Jane and this is the only way I know how to, Dave. I don’t think this will bring her back…but I do think it’ll keep her memory alive.”

David scowled, crossing his arms. He stood up and walked out of the room, mumbling under his breath.

**PRESENT DAY**

“Go home, Noah. Reconvene in a few days.”

A few days…right.

I’m not leaving yet, I don’t really want to deal with what’s bound to be waiting for me at home. Home. Supposed to be warm, supposed to be safe. Have I ever had a place like that? Not since Jane. Maybe one day, that’ll change. Maybe I can create my own home. But for now? Sleep.

–

“Hey!” someone is whispering, loud, like they’re right in my ear. It’s so dark I can’t even see my hand outstreched in front of me, let alone anyone or anything else.

“Noah!”

“Who-”

“It’s me!”

A flicker, like a match being lit, far away. It’s like a small orb floating in the distance, but the voice is all around me. I guess I’m meant to follow it. I swear I’ve heard this voice before, I swear -

“I have to show you.” Vinny, reaching to touch my forehead, and it’s like a warm apple cider, tangy and sweet, filling my body, darkness going dim, light surrounding me.

I’m standing in a living room. What the hell?

“Vinny, go get your brother.”

It’s like time is jumping, skipping, warping, Matt’s mother walking by is more like a phantom, like a fast forward button, pausing briefly. Vinny runs out of his room, winter hat on his head, dancing down the hallway.

“Mattie!”

“I’m coming!” Matt’s younger, looks like he’s still in high school, two drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket. “Hey, wait, Vin! Got your lunch?”

Vinny turns, nodding, moving his arms like a worm as he wiggles out the front door. Matt’s mom is laughing, pulling him into a hug before he grabs his keys and leaves, too.

Things are rushing, like speed mode, distorted fragments of conversations like a boomerang around my head. And then it stops.

Vinny skips into another room, Matt’s voice comes from there, too. Guess that’s where I need to be.

“I’ll bring you whatever you want,” Matt’s saying, putting his same leather wallet into his jean pocket. “Skittles? Gushers? Dr. Pepper?” His room is weirdly clean for a teenager, but maybe that’s why he thinks I live in a dump.

“Okay. Can I sleep in here?”

“Why?”

Vinny shrugs. “Dunno. I like it more.”

“Are you having nightmares again?”

“Sometimes…but that’s not why I wanna sleep in here. Deal?”

“Deal. You sleep in here, you don’t mention that I’m out to mom or Pete.”

Matt grabs his keys and slides the window open, slinking out. You can hear him make his way down the gutter, jumping off with a thud.

Vinny runs out of the room, closing the door behind him. Now I guess I’m stuck in Matt’s room? I’m not corporeal. Vinny as I met him, again, standing in front of me. He’s pointing at the door, and it opens. He’s gone.

Things warp, time speeding up again, a loud bang breaks the jump. It’s so dark it’s hard to see. Where’s Vinny? His room? Empty. Matt’s room. He wanted to sleep there. But the door is closed? Sounds like…shuffling…in another room.

“No! No! Please don’t do this, please, I-”

But I can’t get there fast enough.There’s a man, Pete, I think - standing over Matt’s mother’s body, a single gunshot, and now..blood. So, so much fucking blood. For fucks sake, what?

Pete is storming out of the room, staring at himself in a mirror above the mantle. I can’t let him get Vinny.

Speaking of Vinny, he’s in the hall, opening the door before he’s gone again.

He’s hiding under Matt’s bed, stuffing papers into a panel on the floor. What is that? Not important. I have to find a way to get Vinny to safety. Come on, come on, I can’t get this fucking window open!

No, no, no, no, no, this can’t happen. Matt said it was the darkness that took Vinny, there’s no way - open, you fucker!

A glitch in time, seriously? Another bang. Vinny?

Oh my god. Oh my god.

–

*SIX YEARS AGO*

Matt gripped onto a window ledge, climbing his way up the gutter. He shoved the window open, jumping in through the window. The room is dark, the scent of metal in the air.

“Ew, what the hell?”

Matt clicked the side button on his phone, the light illuminating his face as he switched the flashlight on.

At the sight, he fell backwards, struggling to breathe. And then, after he caught his breath, he saw crimson against his eyes, not the blood on the walls or the floor, but rage, pure and unwavering, as he ran out of his room and to his mother’s.

A single gasp of terror, his head spinning, no trace of his step father amongst the remains of his mother and brother. And then the scent of sulfur, a boiling hot wave of fear, Matt holding himself up along the wall, finding Pete staring into the mirror above the mantle. All in a moment, Matt’s eyes widened, a shudder of a shake in his head.

“No…”

The reflection of his step father swirled in black, smoking tendrils crawling into his eyes and mouth, the sulfuric cloud making Matt choke as he stifled a gag. He watched Peter’s eyes glaze over as he raised his hand and - gone.

“Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.” Matt repeated, collapsing before rocking himself back and forth with his arms wrapped around his knees. “Gone.”

“See?” Vinny’s whispering to me, pointing under the bed. “I have to show you.”

I’m nodding, and then everything dissipates, leaving me in the dark again.

–

“Noah, wake up.”

Katai is standing over me, holding the sides of my face.

“Katai, I have so much to-”

“WAKE UP!”

Noah heaved awake, his eyes jolting to the altar, where Vinny’s phantom stood.

He approached him, kneeling to his height, tears welling in his eyes.

“Vinny, I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“Help him,” Vinny whispered, hugging Noah before fading, trickles of light left where he’d stood.

“How?”

A loud clank came from the west side of the church, Noah craned his neck to see the source of the sound. Matt lodged a chunk of wood against the door, looking up when he saw Noah.

“When did you get here?”

“What? I stayed the night when you left yesterday.”

“Noah..I haven’t been here in three days.”

Maybe I should be more concerned with having lost three days and wow, what the fuck? But I’m standing here, looking at Matt, the image of him finding Vinny burned into my head. I can’t believe I ever thought he didn’t know what he was talking about. I can’t believe I got so pissed off at him for not telling me.

Why the fuck am I like this? Hug him.

“You solid?”

Hug him. Say you’re sorry. Tell him you know. Hug him. Hug him.

“Noah? Is everything okay?”

And I’m hugging him, I can basically feel him looking at me like I’m fucking insane. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s exactly why we get each other.

Matt’s face turned in confusion, but after a second he just accepted it, hugging Noah back.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Matt stepped back, rubbing his temples.

“What?”

“I didn’t mean that, I-” Noah turned away, slinking over to sit on the pew. “Hold on. It’s been three days?”

“Yeah, has it not been for you?”

“No, I just slept and woke up and now…Matt, what happened to your mom’s house?”

“What? Why?”

“This is going to sound bizarre, but please just…I’m sorry. About being such an asshole. I know what happened to Vinny, your mom…Pete. I know you found them. I know.”

“Noah-”

“We have to go back.”

“…To my mom’s? How did you even…Vinny. He told you, didn’t he?”

“He showed me. And yes, your mom’s. Do you trust me?”

“As much as I probably shouldn’t, yeah, I do.”

Noah pulled his jacket on, walking over to the door.

“Now?” Matt asked, buttoning his coat. Noah nodded, and with Matt leading the way, they walked into the night.

–

Turning onto the street, Matt pulled out a ring of keys, running his thumb over the teeth of one specifically.

“I don’t know why I kept it,” he said, turning his head for Noah to better hear him.

“I used to come here to feel closer to Vinny. Now…it’s just rust.”

“And cobwebs.” Noah added, shuffling his feet along the sidewalk.

“Yeah. Those too.”

Matt nodded toward an old house, shingles falling apart, more decrepit than Noah expected after seeing the inside. Time’s most tragic and beautiful gift. Decay.

Inside, moonlight washed over the coffee table, a harsh, lingering smell of mildew in the air. Everything remained as it was, apart from the mirror above the mantle, which was now shattered, pieces having rained across the floor. Matt noticed Noah’s pondering stare, rolling up his coat sleeve to reveal a scar along his knuckles. Noah nodded, understanding.

Turning toward the rooms, they both stopped short, a figure standing midway through the hallway. It was still, a mess of rot and dirt, like thick, webbed membrane, gray and dry.

“Ignore it,” Matt said, pulling Noah’s sleeve toward his old room.

“Right, ignore it.” Easier said than done.

The thing in the hallway growls as we pass it, almost like a threat. Good thing I don’t give a fuck about threats anymore.

Matt’s room looks exactly the same, only difference is the blood has been scrubbed away. I kneel down, reaching under the bed, but the panel is too far away.

“Help me push it?”

We shove the bed against the wall, Matt’s standing there watching me as I move the wood and grab a stack of papers. There’s also a bracelet, one of those plastic ones you braid together at camp or something, and a figurine of a dinosaur. I hold it out to Matt, but he just takes the dinosaur, almost starts to cry.

I toss the rest onto the bed, slowing sorting through papers, which mostly consisted of awards from school. 100% on a spelling test. Perfect attendance. Best Hall Monitor of the year. And then there’s a letter, and a folded up piece of construction paper.

I’ll open the letter first, read it out.

‘Dear Matteo aka Matt aka Mattie,

I can’t believe you’re already graduating high school. Then you’re gonna go to college, and you’re gonna move away. I hope I get your room! JK. I just want to say thanks for being the best big brother. You were always there for me, especially during the times where I didn’t feel like I was very smart or cool enough. Thanks for just listening. Thanks for being my brother. Maybe I don’t tell you enough but I really do love you. Good job graduating.

Love,

Your brother Vincenzo aka Vinny’

Matt is gripping the dinosaur, tears staining his cheeks, his chest shuddering with his breaths.

“Can I?” He’s asking, and I’m handing him the letter. Fuck. Of course he can.

Now I’ve got the construction paper in my hand, unfolding it. Jane used to make these fortune tellers with Ava, folding the paper like this one is. I wonder if all kids did this. Maybe it’s just an anomaly, just our siblings did it. Who knows.

It’s a scribbled crayon drawing of Vinny, standing on something? And next to him is a little girl, blue dress, long red hair. Are they….is this the church? This isn’t possible. This can’t be real. Matt’s looking over my shoulder, I can feel him breathing on my neck.

“What the fuck is this?!” I turn, shoving the paper at him, but he’s not there, he’s standing to the side of me, still crying with the letter clutched to his chest.

“What?” Matt says, I’m turning back to him, thrusting my arm over to hand him the paper.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. My head is full of pressure, like it’s about to pop and shatter like that god damn mirror. A loud screech, a jolt, the hallway figure appears in front of us and pins Matt to the wall, gripping his throat. Red and black burns appear under its fingers, Matt’s screaming in pain, but doesn’t look away. He’s staring straight into it, his face twisted like he’s just stared into the eye of Hell.

I don’t know what to do, so I just -

“No! Jane, STOP!”

The figure turns, dropping him to the ground, cocks its head at me. It laughs, growls,

“It’s not Jane,” Matt chokes, trying to slide up the wall into a seated position. He’s doubled over, coughing up black ash, the figure crumbling into bone fragments and gray, lava like gooey shit.

“Who was it, Matt?!”

“Noah, I…it was you.”

•

Disclaimer : Characters I own are Matt Pivouz, Vinny Trovato, Lucia and Peter Trovato, Ula Santiago, Dr. Ripley, David, Anya, and Remy. I do not own the others. I’ve added a bit of a flare to them for the sake of this piece, but they do not belong to me.

Tag List : @teamtomsato @nuttatulipa @lovethemarshalltwins @europeanguy @spectrelier @breaumonts @fullbeaumonty @choicesatnight

#amen amen #noah marshall #it lives in ths woods #write things

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aspiringpolymath · 6 years ago

Text

Hallmark Christmas Movies . . . Why Can’t I Quit You?

Like, I mostly disdain them. The vast majority of them are an enigmatic miasma of boring and terrible. But there are some decent ones in the mix, and @tvmoviechristmas nails it by basically saying they are the white noise of the holiday season. Put them on in the background while you clean, do laundry, decorate your house, bake cookies, or do any of the dozens of corny Christmas activities they make characters do in these teleplays. (No, actually. Don’t go skating or sledding or have a spontaneous snow ball fight.)

So far this season (and it ISN’T EVEN DECEMBER) I’ve watched the following movies:

(And let me just explain that I was on vacation visiting my in-laws and there was little else to do for the last 4-5 days):

It’s Christmas, Eve (starring LeAnn Rimes) - Of the two country singers-turned-Hallmark actresses this season, LeAnn is the better actor. But that’s NOT SAYING MUCH. Another ‘save the school’ scenario, this wasn’t bad, just unrealistic. I wish the writers/producers would spend, like, four hours of research time so that they didn’t get all excited that the community raised $20,000 dollars for the music program. (Even crappy school districts pay their music teachers a lot more than that.) However, it’s not the worst Hallmark movie I’ve seen this week.

Christmas at Graceland (or ‘Graycelin’ as Kellie Pickler has it) - Oof. This one might take the prize for worst movie of the season. Kellie Pickler CANNOT act. The girl cast as her daughter? Not much better. They did get the rights to a bunch of Elvis songs and filmed out front of the actual Graceland, apparently, in exchange for being a travelogue about the Graceland resort. But for a format where they don’t have enough time to do multiple takes or teach people to act, they had to cobble together the best of a bad lot (and even incorporate some flashbacks, a sure sign they were struggling to make the minimum length) to make a bad movie.

Christmas at Pemberley Manor AND

Pride, Prejudice and Mistletoe - Listing these two together because they are both supposed to be P & P inspired stories. I think Hallmark sort of vaguely gets that Pride and Prejudice is a foundational inspiration for much of the romance genre, but just CAN’T bring themselves to insert even an ounce of manufactured ire or animosity into their movies, even for plot’s sake. In CaPM, there is a mild confrontation in the first fifteen minutes, but it is quickly resolved and then they’re cozy for the rest of the show.

In PPM, we get Lacey Chabert, who MUST have a clause in her contract stating that she can never be portrayed as anything other than sweet, humble, and/or beatific, because even as an investment trader, she’s thoroughly decent, kind and DULL AS DISHWATER. Brendan Penny provides a nice foil and is good eye candy, but again, there’s no THERE there between these two. They’re supposed to be antagonists, and they spend about 0.7 seconds being less than moon-eyed over each other.

Christmas Joy - One I actually liked!!! Miracle of miracles. There was a plot point that bothered me greatly, however. Joy has to come ‘home’ to North Carolina, because her aunt has broken/sprained her foot SO BADLY that she’s admitted to the hospital, and ends up having to go to a rehab center an hour away for a WEEK, but when she’s released, she uses a cane for one scene, and then we never see it again. Could they not have rented a boot for continuity?

That bit aside, I actually really liked the two leads. They had good chemistry and infused some snappiness that most Hallmark movies lack.

Road to Christmas - Actually, ANOTHER one I liked! You’ve got some more well-known actors in this one, and they elevate the material. Road trip movies are hard to mess up (but believe me, they have), and the interstitial animations of the car driving the route are really adorable. ALSO, we have a secondary character who is HEAVILY CODED as gay, which was both refreshing and frustrating (JUST SAY IT.)

Christmas in Evergreen: Letters to Santa - This was another big MEH for me. Last year’s Christmas in Evergreen was pretty unobjectionable and enjoyable, but this didn’t really build on that story. It was just another story set in the same town with a few of the same characters. They only got Ashley Williams back for a couple scenes (but I did like the line about how she and her boyfriend were only now figuring out their relationship after months of long distance--a refreshing shot of realism.) Overall, it was cloying and the child actor was not . . . great.

Christmas at the Palace - I don’t generally like royal-themed movies, and this was no exception. (The exceptions are: Crown for Christmas and I’m sure there’s at least one other one . . . ooh, the one where the princess comes to New York and wants to be anonymous is pretty good.)

I also don’t love skating movies, and this was both. A royal skating movie. Merritt Patterson is too smooth for my liking. She’s not a terrible actress like some Hallmark stars, but she just doesn’t stretch herself much. Another movie where I liked the secondary romance better than the first.

Reunited at Christmas - This one wasn’t bad! I liked the switch up of the characters getting engaged right away, but the heroine getting cold feet. It was a real to pretend to real relationship journey. There were real motivations behind the characters’ actions, and the secondary characters had unexpected depth.

Christmas on Honeysuckle Lane - I’ve got to give it to them for getting an ACTUAL historic home for this one (if you want to read about my Hallmark-induced aneurysm from last year). I have such mixed feelings about Alicia Witt in these. I feel like she’s both winking at the camera and playing along into the treacly-ness. And I have to say, Colin Ferguson doesn’t seem like the right kind of guy to be in one of these. It felt like he had to take a deep breath before every take and be like, “OK, guess I’m still doing this!” This was . . . massively fine.

A Godwink Christmas - Gaaaahhhhh. When I saw who was starring in this movie, I got excited. Kimberly Sustad and Paul Campbell are two of my favorite Hallmark stalwarts, and I think they could ONE DAY make a genuinely cute movie together. However, I should have known by the title and the presence of KATHIE LEE GIFFORD that this was gonna be . . . not good. It was lawful neutral: really, just not much of anything. “Inspired by a true story”? Oh, really? Is it one of those stories you start to tell at lunch with your friends before you’ve really thought about HOW you’ll tell it and then the waiter comes to take your order right as you get to the only interesting part of it and by the time you get your appetizers everyone has forgotten about it? One of those stories? Because I could believe that.

Non-Hallmark movies:

Christmas Contract (Lifetime) - Legitimately cute, and set in Louisiana, so they didn’t have to spray that stupid soap/foam everywhere.

(part of) Every Day is Christmas (Lifetime) - Didn’t need to watch more than 40% to get it was a bobo version of a version of A Christmas Carol.

Christmas Perfection (Lifetime) - This was a strange brew of Groundhog Day and Freaky Friday, sort of. It’s always weird when they try to add a sci-fi twist to Christmas that doesn’t include Santa. It actually felt like a throwback to an early 2000s holiday movie vibe. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t hate it, but I also didn’t quite like it, either? I think I mainly liked that it tried to do something different, but it did it quite badly. Also, I found it amusing that they clearly filmed the whole thing in Ireland, even the parts that were supposed to be in America.

I didn’t have my computer with me on the trip, or I would have tried to liveblog some of these bitches. Maybe I’ll get to a few off the old DVR soon . . .

#hallmark christmas movies #countdown to christmas

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welllpthisishappening · 7 years ago

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Hi, Laura. I have a question for you, how did Liam and Elsa started dating in Blue Line?

In an effort to avoid thinking about Ryan McDonagh and JT Miller playing the Rangers for the first time since the trade deadline, I wrote this instead. It’s not real long, but it’s been a week in a way that deserved a few more italics and maybe a few underlines and I’ve been thinking about this ask non-stop for, like, the last twenty-four hours.

Some more under the cut because I am me.

“He absolutely does not know.”

“You don’t know that.”

Liam stared at her, head tilted slightly with something that felt like a mix of fondness and disbelief rolling off him. “I do know that,” he said, letting his forehead rest on hers. “He’s way too preoccupied with whatever stories they’re going to publish in the next two days.”

“He’s got to relax about that,” Elsa muttered, rolling her eyes when Liam scoffed in response. “He’s not even twenty years old and he’s going to give himself an aneurysm.”

“You want to tell him that?”

“I mean…no.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Liam laughed.

Elsa huffed and she couldn’t actually cross her arms, pushed against the door in the hallway of the hotel she, technically, wasn’t supposed to be in.

It was making her anxious.

The whole goddamn weekend was making her anxious – and only seventy-two percent of that anxiety was hockey based. At least ten percent of it was focused on Killian and his ability to be the single most dramatic human being on the planet because he also wanted to be the single best hockey player on the planet and, well, maybe her original percentages were a little off.

She, at least, was not one-hundred percent worried about hockey. She was, at least, five percent worried about what anyone at that national championship hockey game would do if they figured out that she and Liam were dating.

And had been. For the last five years. Well, kind of.

They’d grown up together, of course, living down the hallway from each other and people used to say stupid things about them all the time.

Oh, you must think of each other like live-in cousins. Oh, isn’t it great to have an older brother like that? Oh, you must be incredibly close.

She hated it. She hated the questions and the assumptions and, yeah, Liam lived down the hallway, but it wasn’t like he was actually her brother and it was…kind of stupid.

She liked him.

Elsa blamed the wine coolers. She’d just turned seventeen and Killian had gotten them somewhere and snuck them into the basement and air hockey was a lot more fun when she was pleasantly buzzed and she hadn’t realized she was alone in the basement with Liam until he coughed softly under his breath. And then it just kind of happened.

They just kind of happened.

She absolutely kissed him first.

“You’re thinking so loudly, you’re transferring your stress to me,” Liam said, brushing the words into Elsa’s jaw and that kind of helps. “Killian knows nothing. He knows less than nothing.”

“Anna knows.”

“Yeah, well that’s Anna.”

“You want to tell her that?” Elsa asked. She, somehow, managed to get an arm in between them, tugging on the front of the jersey he had to wear for pre-game interviews and the fabric of the ‘C’ on his shoulder was rough against her fingertips.

Liam shook his head, hair far too long and curls almost dangerously close to his eyebrows. It made her heart speed up. “Nah,” he grinned. “That’s ok. But thanks for the offer.”

“At least your manners are intact.”

“Good upbringing.”

Elsa could feel herself freeze, eyes going wide before she could stop herself and Liam blinked, by her count, fourteen times. She heard his lips part before she saw them, eyes practically boring a hole into the ground, and she’s now, at least, two percent worried she’s going to sprain a muscle in her cheek from twisting her mouth so much.

“The thoughts, Magi,” he whispered, letting his fingers card through the ends of her hair and her heart might have actually exploded at the quiet nickname.

He’d come up with after when she was fifteen and managed to figure out two different hockey schedules and four different school schedules and he had exams and she had projects and everything got done. He told her it was magic and that might have been the exact moment Elsa stopped thinking of Liam as the vaguely attractive guy with a different last name who lived down the hall from her.

He never once called her that around anyone else.

“That’s cheating,” Elsa mumbled. She pressed up on her toes anyway, arms looping around Liam’s neck and his jersey got twisted in between them when he ducked his head.

They were still in the hallway, still playing with fire, which seemed problematic a few hours removed from a national championship hockey game, but she didn’t want to leave and he kept promising Killian didn’t know anything and maybe she didn’t have to worry. Maybe things would just be ok. Maybe no one would freak out. Maybe it wasn’t as weird as she was worried, terrified, it might have been.

“And that’s still not an answer,” Liam pointed out.

“God, I don’t know who’s more stubborn. You or KJ.”

“It’s definitely Killian, but if you could maybe not talk about Killian while I’m trying to make out with you, that would be great.”

Elsa laughed, burying her head into the curve of his shoulder and her lungs felt a bit more like a functioning part of her body when she felt his lips press against the top of her hair. “I’ll take that into account in the future,” she said. “You really don’t think this is weird?”

“What’s weird?”

“This. Us. All of it?”

She felt him tense under her, the fingers that had been tracing out nonsensical patterns on her back stilling immediately. Elsa squeezed her eyes closed, gritting her teeth and counting seconds like that would make any of this better or less weird. She’d made it so weird.

Liam leaned back, staring at her incredulously. And, maybe, with just a bit of anxiety on the edge for good measure. “Do you think it’s weird?” he asked, doing his best to make sure his voice didn’t shake and coming up decidedly short of the mark. “Have you always thought it’s weird?”

“For the last five years?” Elsa countered skeptically. He widened his eyes. She wished she had wine coolers to blame all of this on. “No, no, I don’t, but…we’re here and there are all these cameras and Mom and Dad and, like I said, Anna totally knows and has known forever and wants details—“

“—Details?”

“She’s Anna.” Liam hummed, the ends of his mouth twitching and maybe Elsa was worrying for nothing. It would probably be fine. “But, yeah, details and I’m not really sure we’ve ever been that great at sneaking around and what happens if you win?”

“Now you sound like Killian.”

Elsa scowled, but Liam was definitely smiling at her – enough to make her wonder if confidence was a thing she should be working a bit more on. “I’m serious,” she said. “We’re just supposed to pretend like we’re…what? Totally platonic brother and sister and I’m super psyched that you won a national title?”

“I don’t think you have to use the phrase super psyched, technically.”

“None of these are actual answers, you know.”

“I know Magi,” Liam grinned, brushing his lips over hers again. “But that’s mostly because I don’t have one. And I know that’s going to stress you out. So better to just ignore, right?”

“I’m not sure that’s going to help.”

He chuckled lightly, nosing at her cheek and he really did need a hair cut. Her parents wouldn’t appreciate if he had curls in his eyes when he inevitably posed for pictures post championship. They were absolutely going to win.

And Elsa had no idea when she started thinking of it as some kind of collective pronoun.

“I really do not think of you as my sister,” Liam said. “I have never thought of you as my sister. Best friend, definitely, but never sister.”

“You’re trying to be charming.”

“Is it working?”

“Decidedly.”

He kissed her before she could say anything else – or, maybe, the other way around, but it absolutely, positively did not matter because she needed to get back to a different hotel and avoid her actual sister like several different plagues and she nearly jumped a foot in the air when she hears footsteps rounding the corner.

Killian stopped a few feet away, blinking at both of them with a tie hanging loosely around neck and something that looked a bit like the visual definition of incredulity on his face. “Hey, El,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Elsa stammered. She tried to take a step back, but there was a door in her way and the tips of Liam’s ears might stay red for the rest of their lives. “I was just, ummm….”

“Ummm….”

“Ok, don’t be an ass, KJ.”

He widened his eyes, hand still stuck in his hair and she briefly considered checking him into the closest wall – if only to get that vaguely suspicious look off his face. “I’m not being anything, El,” Killian said. “It’s almost eleven, though, which is almost curfew and you guys are standing out in the hallway like Mrs. V just found out we went on the uptown-3 at rush hour.”

“That definitely falls into the category of being an ass,” Liam muttered. “And Elsa just wanted to double check on the plan for tomorrow post-game. You know Mr. and Mrs. V want to do something if we win.”

“When,” Elsa corrected, but it was pointless and both Jones brothers mumbled no jinx under their breath. She rolled her eyes, retreating back another few steps until she was closer to Killian than Liam and the whole goddamn thing was a disaster. “Well,” she continued. “I’m, uh…going to go now. Because we’ve got a plan and an idea and a plan.”

“You said that already, El,” Killian said.

“That’s true. I did. Well done on the listening portion of the exam, KJ. You absolutely pass.” She pressed her lips together when he kept staring at her, eyeing her like he was trying to read her mind and he was usually better at that. “I probably won’t see you guys before tomorrow though,” Elsa added, not entirely sure why she was keeping the conversation going, but she’d made it weird and then weirder and she could still feel the anxiety churning in the pit of her stomach. She was going to fix this. Kind of. “So. Good luck. And score a ton and we’ll follow the plan after, right?”

Killian gaped at her, mouth hanging open in something that felt a lot like suspicion, but Elsa’s eyes darted to Liam. He smiled. And nodded.

And she was only, like, sixteen percent anxious about anything after that.

“Yeah,” Liam said. “We’ll absolutely follow the plan later.”

The plan, obviously, went to complete shit as soon as the final whistle went off.

She spent most of the third period trying not to cry and trying even harder to ignore Anna’s not-so-quiet quips about how clear the tears in her eyes were, but that might have been the best pass Liam ever made and she’d never seen Killian’s smile that wide or that honest and they won.

They won.

They open up the zamboni doors after – a small army of maroon and gold jerseys passing around one pair of ceremonial scissors to cut up the net and it took, approximately, forty-seven seconds for Liam’s eyes to land on hers. He handed Killian the scissors. And if the game-winning set up in front of the net had been the best pass Liam Jones had ever made, then the few feet between him and Elsa was the best he’d ever skated and she didn’t think before moving, lunging forward and slinging her arms around his neck as soon as his hands landed on her waist.

He still had one glove on when he kissed her. Or she kissed him. She probably kissed him.

That was kind of their thing.

Anna shrieked and Killian might have gasped, but her parents looked frozen and just a bit stunned and maybe they’d been better at sneaking around than Elsa assumed.

“So much for all of that, huh?” Liam asked, voice shaking with his laughter and there were still tears on her cheeks. “Magi, are you crying?”

“No,” Elsa hissed. He lifted his eyebrows when he leaned back to look at her and her feet had left the ice at some point. “It was a really good pass.”

“I was totally trying to impress you, how’d it go?”

“Pretty ok, honestly.”

“All part of the plan.”

She didn’t really stop crying for the rest of the night or a few days later when Liam and Killian sat in front of a backdrop with cartoon gophers on it and announced they were turning pro or, a few years later, when the world seemed to crash down around her and Liam had looked so young when they carted him off the ice. Killian kept pacing in the hallway of the hospital, shoulders sagging under the weight of the guilt he’d carry with him for years, and Elsa couldn’t stop crying, didn’t know what to do next until someone told her she could go in now and she practically ran through the doorway.

He smiled at her from the hospital bed.

“Hey Magi,” Liam mumbled, voice gruff and scratchy and she wasn’t sure what sound she made in response, but it might not have been human. “It’s going to be ok. It’s just…we may need to come up with a new plan now.”

They did.

They figured it out and she cried a few more times and moved across the goddamn country and she was still anxious about hockey for, at least, forty-three percent of the year, but it was a good plan and they were even better at executing it. And Elsa knew there were more tears on her cheeks, standing behind a different zamboni door in an arena she’d always just assumed both Liam and Killian would rule together, but it all worked and he nearly tripped over his own skates when he spotted them – the goddamn Stanley Cup lifted above his head.

“Go skate, little brother,” Liam said and Killian visibly exhaled, that guilt disappearing as quickly as it arrived. Elsa might have sobbed.

Liam slung an arm around her shoulder when they were allowed onto the rink, confident steps as soon as their shoes land on ice. There was music playing and Roland was screaming somewhere and Scarlet refused to relinquish the Cup to anyone, but Elsa barely saw any of them – instead her eyes landed on Emma and her barely-certain movements, skidding towards Killian with a smile on her face and something vaguely familiar lingering in the air around her.

She kissed him. Or he kissed her.

The specifics weren’t important.

“The more things change, huh?” Liam muttered, dragging his fingers over the tiny bundle of blankets masquerading as a baby in the crook of Elsa’s arm.

She nodded, grinning as wide as she could and as certain as she’d ever been and it wasn’t easy to kiss him, but they made that work too and it wasn’t ever really weird. “I love you,” she whispered, barely letting him repeat the words back to her before she heard both Robin and Scarlet shouting and Killian laughing and Liam smiled when he kissed her again.

#onceuponaprincessworld #cs ff #frozen jewel #frozen jewel ff #i don't know how to tag this #it's weird writing in not emma and killian's pov #blue line one shots #HERE HAVE SOME MORE EMOTIONALLY CHARGED NICKNAMES BECAUSE I AM NICKNAME TRASH

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xiajin · 7 years ago

Text

bet on it sugakookie; doctor/nurse au;

jungkook barely puts down the current case file he has when jimin hurries up to him, taking the blue folder for himself and setting it down in some nondescript corner containing a pile of other folders. jungkook slumps against the edge of the countertop, his eyelids literally aching from the amount of weight he’s put on them.

“do you need an espresso shot?” jimin asks, not bothering to look away from his computer screen, tap tap tap-ing away at the keys. “taehyung punched the coffee machine and it’s working again.”

“either that or a cup of sugar,” jungkook admits. “i literally feel like i might have an aneurysm and die.”

“don’t forget to bleed internally,” jimin smiles at him, “just to be a complete go-getter.”

jungkook snorts. his legs almost seem like they might buckle. “i didn’t think getting a promotion would make my life harder,” he starts, voice hanging on a whine. “i thought i would be sitting behind the desk and doing filing. i was looking forward to it.”

“that’s such a lie,” jimin cuts in cheerfully.

“let me have it,” jungkook mutters. “i’d do anything to just sit down for a moment. i swear, it’s all because of dr. min. he won’t get me a fucking break?”

jimin’s eyes lazily move up to meet his, and he raises an eyebrow. “oh?”

“ever since i got the head nurse promotion,” jungkook leans in, whispering, “he’s been driving me crazy. he won’t let any of the other nurses do anything to his patients, like putting in a goddamn iv or taking vitals. every nurse learns how to put in an iv in their first year. he won’t let me live.”

jimin coughs to hide the laugh that’s bubbling out of his throat. jungkook, looking half crazed with those dark circles and hair slightly sticking up in the back, is probably in no state of mind to hear what jimin thinks dr. min - uh - really feels about jungkook. namely, how much he tries to keep him around physically.

“what’s going on,” taehyung pops in with a cup of espresso, looking for all intents and purposes like he’s just walked out of a magazine. jimin and jungkook have both agreed that they hate him, just a little bit. he’s like seokjin, who has long since left the er and has gone to cushier, better paid positions up in what they call the vip lounge.

“jungkook was telling me about how dr. min,” jimin waggles his eyebrows, “puts him to work.”

“ooh.”

jungkook takes taehyung’s cup of espresso and downs it in one go, balefully going, “that’s what you get for saying it in that voice. don’t act like he’s doing anything else but torturing me.”

“i’m sure dr. min would love to torture you. in bed.”

jungkook throws the empty espresso cup at taehyung’s head, who deftly dodges. damn him, he must have taken a power nap before coming to the front.

“i just want to sleep,” jungkook starts. “i want to eat a burger and maybe have a green tea chocolate ice cream from the stupid convenience store and then i want to sleep. is that so much to ask. why are so many people sick.”

“hey, if people weren’t sick, we’d be out of jobs,” jimin points at him. “was that old man pyo?”

“yeah,” jungkook sighs, rubbing at his eyes. jimin feels bad for a split second; despite all of their teasing, dr. min really is working jungkook down to the bone. jungkook believes that he’s doing it out of spite; ever since dr. min had gotten the verbal beating of his life by an irate, sleep deprived jungkook (back when seokjin was still head nurse) jungkook believes that dr. min is out to get him. jimin and taehyung think that min yoongi, md, has a raging heart boner for their friend and can’t emote properly because of it. instead of saying hi, jungkook, want to get a shitty coffee with me in the cafeteria so i can stare at you and talk to you more? he asks for jungkook specifically for every single patient he gets and stares at him while he’s hooking up a catheter to a 92 year old man. it’s kind of romantic and pitiful at the same time.

the beep of a pager goes off, and jungkook looks down at his pocket with a groan. he pulls it out and reads off, sarcastic, “oh, wonderful. dr. min wants me to go to room 412 again.”

“want me to take it?” taehyung offers, and jungkook nods tiredly. he turns off his pager and tells jimin that he’s clocking out for a break - which he was due about an hour and a half ago anyways - and starts to walk, zombie-like, to the back room.

taehyung whistles watching him go. “seriously, yoongi-hyung has got to get his act together. his method of wooing is terrible.”

“he’s not allowed to bring flowers, some people are allergic,” jimin says cheerfully, forcing the sunshine out of him on sheer willpower. if he doesn’t put up a happy front, someone is going to die. most likely himself.

“it’s just like watching a dog trying to follow after a cat to desperately get their attention,” taehyung continues, “which is weird, because i always thought of yoongi-hyung as more of a cat and jungkookie like a cute labrador.”

“taehyung, he needs you in room 412. go already.”

“is someone dying?”

“there’s no code?”

taehyung waves it away. “let him sweat a little.”

jimin snorts. “he already sweats enough trying to find his big boy pants when jungkook is around. cut him some slack.” he pauses thoughtfully. “seriously, is namjoon really allowing this to happen?”

at hearing the name of their resident supervisor, taehyung laughs. “please, if he lets this continue, yoongi-hyung is going to trip over himself sooner or later and make this whole thing get drawn out even further. then he’ll win the bet pool.”

frowning, jimin goes, “i thought we were in the lead, though? last week jungkook almost looked like he was going to hug yoongi and cry on his shoulder because of the printer incident, do you not remember the printer incident? what?”

“yeah, but then this shit happened,” taehyung points to jungkook, who can be seen sleeping on his stomach on the sofa. he hasn’t even taken his shoes off. “now namjoon-hyung is winning again. i feel like i bet half my salary on that pool, i’m winning it unless it kills me.” he starts walking backward, taking room 412’s file.

“don’t kill anybody,” jimin yells after him. he turns to the female nurse beside him and goes, “is namjoon seriously winning the betting pool?”

the dark haired nurse named eunha nods sympathetically. she’s looking at an excel spreadsheet on her screen. “yeah, he’s currently in the lead. damn, i really thought i was going to win this one.”

“don’t lose hope,” jimin says, picking up the phone as it rings his ear off in the shrill tone he’s come to hate intensely. smile, jimin. cheerful. “we might get them together before that.”

she holds up a weak fighting sign and jimin casually adds another case to yoongi’s patient list, answering the call pleasantly about a man who has an unidentified object stuck up his - ahem, eta 15 minutes. jungkook doesn’t have to know.

#sugakookie #yoonkook #nurse jungkook: aka my shit

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