#but i put off transcribing my favorite quotes until this week

[chicot-premier]

The queen mother's collecting interests were not constrained by the typical decorative or aesthetic canons. She was widely admired for being conversant in diverse subjects and possessed a vast library of more than forty-five hundred books and manuscripts. In 1558 she acquired an outstanding collection of ancient and modern books and manuscripts that had been assembled in Florence by her recently deceased cousin, Piero Strozzi; although she promised 15,000 écus (about $19 million today) for the library, she never paris. Catherine kept a small selection of books and manuscripts in the "cabinet of curiosities" in her private apartments at the Hôtel de la Reine, mostly works related to the genealogy of the Valois dynasty. Hundreds of rare ancient manuscripts on theology, philosophy, history, medicine, poetics, rhetoric, and grammar were stored at the home of her librarian, not far from the Hôtel, while the remainder of the books were housed at Saint-Maur-des-Fossés. Catherine's cabinet of curiosities also contained a profusion of naturalia, artificialia, and antiquities: fossils and minerals, coral, seashells and coconuts (including hybrid objects that augmented nature's marvels with human artistry), antique sculptures and medals, Orientalia, games, dolls, manuscripts, maps, quasi-scientific instruments, and seven stuffed crocodiles. Assembling such cabinets was traditionally a masculine preserve, although there are isolated earlier examples in the collections formed by Isabella d'Este and Margaret of Austria. The cabinets' fabulously varied contents represented the world in microcosm; by analogy, ownership suggested a dominance of the macrocosmos, thus functioning as a representation of an individual's political power. When not conspicuously displayed for visiting dignitaries, Catherine's most prized precious objects--such as her collection of hardstone vessels--would have been stored in the room's armoires.

Marjorie E. Wieseman, "Catherine de' Medici as Patron and Collector," in Renaissance Splendor: Catherine de' Medici's Valois Tapestries, edited by Wieseman and Elizabeth Cleland (pp. 27-28)

[winterscaptain]

magic.

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Hard of Hearing Reader

request from @icantswimhalp​: Hi hun! I was hoping you could do a reid fic with a reader who is hard of hearing? It would be really awesome if you did. ❤ a/n: quick disclaimer - i am not d/Deaf or hard of hearing myself, but i do work closely with the d/Deaf community. if anyone has any notes, please send them my way! any errors are my own, and i have done my best to be as accurate and inclusive as possible. rating/words: g / ~1500 no warnings apply!

AO3 | Masterlist | Requests Open!

italics are signs, and anything in “quotes” is spoken aloud. 

+++

Your alarm woke you, the flashing light just as offensive as it was every morning. You smacked it until it turned off and sat up, checking your phone. Two text messages from Spencer. 

6:18am Got a call into work. Didn’t wanted to wake you. Sleep tight and I’ll update when I can. 

10:23am Case is local. We’re still in the office. 

You texted him back right away. 

10:31am Want me to bring lunch? I can order for the team.

When you stood, you put on your smartwatch. It was a Christmas gift from Spencer, and he had Penelope set it up so it would flash with your alarms. It had an app that could transcribe speech in case you didn’t want to read lips, and you couldn’t deny the convenience of the buzzing feature for your texts.

Slipping your sweats on, you padded to the bathroom and brushed your teeth. Your watch buzzed, and you checked it. 

10:33am I’ll send you orders for JJ, Garcia, and Hotch. 

The orders that followed were pretty simple – their favorite sandwiches from their favorite sandwich shop on the way to Quantico. The owners knew you by then, as you always tried to feed the BAU when they were working local cases or stuck in the office with piles of paperwork a mile high. 

For convenience and time, you slipped your hearing aids on to make the phone call. It wasn’t perfect by any stretch, but anything was better than nothing. They needed to hear you more than the other way around, anyways. 

+++

You waved at the owner and her son as you picked up your box. She signed her thanks, and you grinned back at her. She had been exposed to a few signs on the rare occasion that you and Spencer had the opportunity to sit in the little deli and eat at one of the checkered tables. 

+++

The security guards on the first floor were more than happy to help you shuffle lunch through the checkpoint, and they may have stolen a few fries from JJ’s meal.  

By the time you finally made it up the elevator to the BAU, you’d yanked your hearing aid out and threw it in your purse. The building was far too loud, too busy, and it never failed to give you a headache. 

You went to shoulder the glass door open, only to find it held open for you. You smiled at Hotch. With your hands full, you couldn’t sign. You spoke instead. 

“Hey, Hotch.”

Hey! How are you? He looked happy to see you, but you knew him well enough to see the strain behind his eyes. 

“Good,” you said. “Busy morning. Your lunch is in here. How’s Jack?”

Thank you, he signed, gesturing toward the box. Want help?

You shook your head, and he let you lead the way into the office. When you settled in the kitchen area, he propped himself against the counter and started to sign. You unpacked the box, keeping your eyes on Hotch as he signed. 

Jack is good. Doing well in school. He passed his math test last week and will probably be ahead of his classmates next year. 

Wonderful, you signed back. Tell him I’m proud of him. 

Of course. Come to Dave’s next time we’re all there together. The boys love your stories. 

I will, but you’ll need to keep Spencer honest for me so he doesn’t forget. You grinned at him, and he offered a small smile back. Other than Spencer, Hotch was the only confident signer in the unit. You’d become fast friends because of it. Emily was picking it up rather quickly, though she stumbled and got nervous often. Derek was getting better. Last week, he proudly informed you (in adorably broken sign) that he practices with Spencer on the jet on the way home from every case. 

Hotch’s gaze tracked up over your shoulder and he raised his eyebrows. You whirled around. Spencer stood in the doorway, a smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You bounced toward him and he brought you into his arms, keeping one of your hands pressed to his chest. You spelled “Hi” into his hand and felt him laugh. 

He leaned back and met your eyes. Thank you for bringing lunch. This case is crazy. 

Aren’t they all? 

Spencer laughed. True. 

He taught you a few industry specific signs, but serial killer and family annihilator were your favorites because of the faces Spencer made with them. He walked backwards as he told you a few details about the case – ones he could share, anyways. His sandwich was tucked under his arms so his hands were free, and Hotch trailed behind you with his sandwich and JJ’s. 

You sat on his desk and he sat in his chair, your legs hanging over his lap as you ate your lunch. You both had grown out of your aversion to PDA long ago, and were happy to be among your friends for a quick respite. The team always made an effort to regale you with tales of Spencer’s antics in the field whenever possible, and today was no exception. 

“And then he looked at me and said ‘I gave the profile to this one woman and she asked me if I was the unsub.’ I just about died,” Derek said, laughing. They all made sure they were facing you when they spoke, so you could read their lips. Without your hearing aids, they were just a dull thrumming. The direction was easy to pick up, but the content was almost lost entirely. 

JJ said something, and you knew you missed it before she was finished talking.

You glanced down at Spencer, who was watching JJ. He interpreted. 

Spencer did great on that case, Derek. Give him a break. 

You reached out and squeezed Spencer’s shoulder. He looked up at you. 

Thanks. You leaned over and signed at JJ. Hotch voiced your signs. He better be on his best behavior for all cases. Hotch’s glares look tame compared to mine. 

At that, they all laughed and you winked at Spencer. His eyes were more than a little distracting, and you got lost in them for a minute.  

Hotch waved his hand at you to get your attention, and you looked up at him. He signed as he spoke, and you relaxed a little, taking a bite of your sandwich. “That was the same case Spencer used magic to find the unsub.”

You barked a laugh around your bite, absolutely delighted. Really? Magic magic or physics magic?

“Magic magic,” Hotch replied. 

“Okay that’s not,” Spencer looked up at you, continuing to sign. “That’s not what happened. I had to deliver the profile and –“

“The way he was doing it definitely didn’t work,” Derek said.

So what did you do, really? 

You saw Hotch relay your question to the rest of the team. 

“Well,” Spencer started, signing as he spoke, “I managed to deliver the profile using a trick that kept the bartender’s attention while I outlined the key features of the unsub. It wasn’t –“ he huffed, “it wasn’t that ridiculous, all things considered.”

“In fairness,” JJ said, making sure to face you more directly so you could see her mouth as she spoke. “Spence has used magic more than once to help with a case. Remember the train?”

Spencer rolled his eyes and dove into the refuge of your arms. You scooted to the edge of the desk and held him to you, brushing his hair back. It was getting longer, and would probably need a cut soon. 

You felt him say something against you, the vibration of his voice against your hand drawing your attention. Looking up at Hotch with a frown, he helped you out. 

It’s a useful skill, okay?

You laughed, and Spencer held onto you a little tighter. 

The team looked up suddenly in response to something. You watched as Hotch pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Hotchner,” you saw him say. After a few seconds, his mouth fell into a grim line.

All at once, the team was in motion. They wrapped their sandwiches and organized their desks, picking up their keys and backpacks on their way. Spencer stood and kissed your forehead, and you took his sandwich off his hands, wrapping it tightly and putting it in your purse. 

Spencer stood in front of you as he clipped his gun to his belt. He took your hand and signed with the other.  

Sorry. 

That’s okay, you replied. Duty calls. Go get the bad guy.

He kissed you, and you leaned into him. 

“I love you,” you said quietly against his mouth. 

He leaned back and met your eyes. I love you too. 

Please be careful. 

Spencer grinned at you. Always. He kissed you once more and bolted out of the bullpen behind Derek, who held the door for him. He threw another smile at you over his shoulder, and you waved at the team as the elevator doors closed.

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @ange-must-die @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @dr-reid-ismyspiritanimal @icantswimhalp @octothorpetopus @hurricanejjareau (i dont have a reid tagging list, so i tagged anyone i thought might like it! let me know if you’d like to be added or subtracted!)

[maewestside]

ALL ACCESS: Memorable One-Liners by Arnold Schwarzenegger and Other Wits in Good Company at Oscar Shindigs… by heidi siegmund cuda, aka @maewestside

The best part about most of my friends being illiterati is they’ll never know the loving things I write about them. I’m free to cherish their every brilliant utterance and put it on wax, without them ever realizing their pal’s a fangirl.

I was an L.A. Times nightlife columnist for 15 years while also working as an investigative producer for tv news, and most of my friends never knew what I did. Many are creatives who spin tapestries of music and art to their own brilliant beats. So it was never, “Hi, my name’s So and So, and I went to Harvard… (in other words, a typical Bif).”

It was always more like, “Hey. I know you! Didn’t I see you at Rancid last week?”

And the answer invariably was, “Yes!!! You’re friends with …. (insert name of dopeass bass player here).”

And that’s just how it was. And really, still is. It might be years before we found out who did what for a living, because it simply never mattered. We were fireflies of the scene, glowing individually, basking in each other’s shine, and living for music. And many of us never stopped.

The scene once again is getting richer and richer as we rebuild it brick by brick, just like we did post-’92 uprising, when the nights went dark, and only the bravehearts continued to creep into the noir, never ceasing to discover music in even the worst shiteholes or down the sketchiest alleys.

(Remind me to tell you about seeing CJ Ramone last month at the Moose Lodge in Lancaster, with Johnny Madcap opening and Tony Bee and his son in the pit. I could smell the memories of Al’s Bar in the expanding foam insulation exploding out of the paneled ceiling. Good flippin times).

I remember the day a cretin took the music away from me. Told me I had bad taste. Killed the music from my words. Shrug. I never stopped going to shows. Never stopped enjoying my bad taste. Never stopped loving music, and thanks to the magic of the interweb, I can still share my so-called backstage life in ink.

Even when I stopped columnizing for the L.A. Times and other music papers and mags, I remained on most of the right lists, and all the wrong ones.

In honor of Oscar party season, I’m going to try to cue up a few of my favorite memories without having to think too hard. (It’s late, and we’re in the middle of a Revolution):

In order of no particular import:

That time a besotted and shvitzing Chris Farley hit on me while I was wearing a $20 Contempo Casual Dress, cuz when you’re in your 20s, you can rock a cheap dress. Despite being flattered at his taste in poorly attired scribes, I was at Sir Elton John’s party and on the clock for Entertainment Weekly. An all-nighter did not include watching the brilliant Farley abuse himself with drogas, while transcribing all the goings on at all the parties I crashed. I was actually on most of the guest lists but as these evenings would unfold, you’d hear about the private parties and celebrity soirees and if you looked good in a cheap dress, you could get into anything anywhere in Hollywood.

That was the year (‘93ish?) that I met me chums Jeff Kravitz and Johnny Dodd on the circuit, who then became my Oscar night running mates. (Kravitz also recalls the dress.)

Year after year, fate just kept on happening.

I made a point to try to never miss an Elton John AIDS Foundation party. Sir Elton not only gave out the best swag, but it was the easiest party to let your hair down because the cause is so good and everyone loves Sir Elton (among the many reasons I love him: my gnome fetish).

Prolly it was the Sir Elton party of ’98 when I showed up with a bandaid on my face. I’d long ago left the $20 dresses behind in favor of combat gear, i.e., comfortable platform boots that could take me up and the down the bleachers at the ceremony, backstage to any Governor’s Balls, off to Sir Elton’s party, and hit two or four others parties throughout the night, until passing out on my typer after faxing in the copy. I kid you not.

By the middle late 90s, we were emailing, but nevertheless, there I was with the bandaid on my face, having just removed a sunspot right in time in for the Oscars, when I heard the unmistakable voice of The Terminator: “That’s the best accessory I’ve seen all night.”

His lovely then wife Maria Shriver laughing sweetly by his side at my anti-glam non-statement.

Dem were the daze.

I recall interviewing Mike Meyers at a Sir Elton party, and feeling bad I’d bothered him because he was such an earnest, sweet man, taking great pains to give me a thoughtful answer to whatever dopey question EW had cued up for me that night (like, “What’s your favorite summer jam?”).

I remember asking Bono what he thought of MP3s at the House of Blues. Neither of us knew what we were taking about. Ah, the ‘90s. Someday, when we’re all dead, I’ll be able to write the real truth. (Like that night in ’94 we blew off Clapton just to hear Robert Downey Jr. play piano all night at the Hotel Bel Air or was it the Mondrian? I’ll have to ask Billy Zane; he bought the rounds that night.)

Gee whiz, so many good times. I got a posse of women and my friend Cesar into Jamie Foxx’s Oscar Party at the Vine Street Lounge, the night Foxx won for “Ray.” We got to hear him play piano while shimmying and basking in gratitude.

The nights with Denzel and friends will always be my favorites. 

I recall celebrating the glow of Denzel Washington, two times. First, when I crashed his Oscar party at the restaurant Georgia on Melrose (’93ish?), and spent the night chillin with a pair of Wayans and Kravitz, who tipped me off to the shindig.

And then there was the second Denzel party, where I was actually on the list. It was at the Sunset Social Club and it was the dopest guest list since Hole played the Viper Room acoustic (and me and Tom Hanks wept like babies at Courtney’s vulnerability).

I remember the night I almost missed the Oscar party Ian Shrager threw at the Mondrian (’97ish?) because a rock star pal could not pull herself together.

Yes, there were also some debacles, like the night I was too verklempt to speak (it was 2006ish and the Oscars fell on a day during the Iraq War where images of American prisoners of war were haunting the telly. Famed publicist Steve Valentine gallantly stepped in and helped me get through the night, even scoring a lovely tribute quote to the soldiers from Paris Hilton. The same Steve Valentine who let me crash Denzel’s first Oscar party a decade earlier.

So many memories. 

This year, my dress is from Vivian’s Boutique in the Palisades, part of a gifting suite a producer pal is putting together. She picked the tulle, seam foam confection. It’s a color I haven’t worn since prom night, and I’m wearing it in honor of her, for reading my script when she was sick over the holidays and making a movie with my team.

See you in the pit.

*****

Heidi Siegmund Cuda is an author, columnist, producer and screenwriter, who is directing her first feature film this year. Below, the author at Jamie Foxx’s Oscar Party, 2005, Vine Street Lounge. Photo by Cesar Hernandez).