#but trust me my bubbles are under constant assault

[garkgatiss]

not to burst any bubbles on esquivalience bc i think this is all v fun BUT i am 99% sure it's just a case of dweu (or what i like to call dweeu — the extended extended universe) writers/superfans being completely on the ball abt themes/picking up snippets from possibly leaked stuff & putting it into their work. case in point, book of the snowstorm containing stuff abt the unravel & being published the day after tcorr is credit to aristide adding in stuff/editing right to the last minute. this stuff is licensed & appears on the wiki bc these ppl are also v involved in the wiki & specifically seek out ways to make sure the stuff they write fits the criteria for what the wiki deems as canon (which is some of what book of the snowstorm is abt, in a meta way). tho some of them are involved w dw-related projects that some might consider slightly more legitimate than 'just' fan-published stuff, esp in the realm of faction paradox, i would be very, very surprised if any of them are working in connection w the tv show production. you can find them hanging out in #canon-welding-current-spoilers in the dw discord server that's linked on r/doctor or r/gallifrey, which is where i come by this understanding of the situation lol. (or here on tumblr. but i'm not @ ing anybody.)

genuinely i love a sanity check/further info on this type of thing, especially because i barely even go here. did the song twist at the end leak??

[hookedonapirate]

The Princess and Her Sultan

Summary: Crown princess Emma of Misthaven is second in line to the throne, her brother Leopold ll being the first, but her parents see her with a future as a great ruler. King Rumpelstiltskin of neighboring land, strikes a deal with King David, promising to uphold the peace between the kingdoms if Emma marries Prince Baelfire. With the promise of his daughter becoming future queen of the Dark Kingdom, David accepts reluctantly.

Before her wedding day, the princess is kidnapped and taken overseas. She is sold as a slave to a palace where Crown Prince Killian of Neverland ascends his father’s throne and is sworn in as Sultan. Meanwhile, Killian’s mother pressures him to sire a prince and presents him with gifts for his birthday, one of them including a blonde princess from Misthaven. Dazzled by Emma’s charm, intelligence and beauty, he summons her to his bedchambers every night and eventually finds himself casting aside his harem and centuries of tradition.  

WARNINGS: This story takes a dark turn, like fifty shades of dark. Trigger warnings for this chapter and the next include graphic scenes of violence, sexual assault, attempted rape, death threats, death, blood and gore. Some of these warnings involve main characters, but not death. The rest of the story will not be as dark, mostly this chapter and the next. I did my best to balance it out though with some sweet, sugary moments too. So please prepare yourself because by the time you finish this chapter your heart will be shattered into a million pieces, your teeth will be rotted and you'll probably hate me for the emotional wreckage I have put you through. You're welcome ;-) But seriously, this is probably the most fucked up content I've ever written and I basically had to banish any thoughts of possible negative consequences from posting this so I could finally share this chapter with you without changing anything, so please continue with caution. And no, nothing in this chapter is from Magnificent Century, this all came from my twisted mind. If you're not comfortable with reading about what I've mentioned or if you're unsure about it, please come ask me any questions you may have either in the comment section or on Tumblr under the same user name.

Thank you @gingerchangeling for your wonderful suggestions and ideas for this story, and also @ilovemesomekillianjones for gifting me with your wonderful editing skills at. I also want to give a shout out to @onceuponaprincessworld for being my sounding board, constant cheerleader and good friend, thank you, darling! This story wouldn’t be the same without these lovely ladies!

And all of you have been so supportive and awesome, thank you all for following along and for your feedback!

Rated: Explicit

AO3 l FF.N I Prologue l Ch 1 l Ch 2 l Ch 3 l Ch 4 l Ch 5 l  Ch 6 l  Ch 7 l Ch 8 l Ch 9 I Ch 10 I BTS

Chapter 11

Killian waits for Elsa to enter the room as he paces back and forth. He’s thought about this many times repeatedly but still doesn’t know if it’s a mistake or not.

 Elsa enters the room, immediately prostrating herself at his feet. He bends down and gently takes her chin in his hand, urging her up. “That's unnecessary, lass.” 

 She rises and keeps her head bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He can’t see her face, but judging by her posture, how she stiffens at his touch, he knows she wishes to be anywhere else but here. She doesn’t wish to betray Emma.

 And that’s what he was counting on.

 A chuckle leaves his lips, and Elsa finally raises her head, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Is something of humor, Your Majesty?” Her voice is shaking, and when he looks at her joined hands, they’re also shaking.

 Killian doesn’t respond and instead offers his hand to her. He leads her over to his bed. “Relax, Elsa,” he says in a soothing tone and points to the end of the bed. “Please sit.”

 She does as she’s told, still unsure about this whole thing, but she takes a deep breath, relaxing her shoulders. She waits for him to speak because that’s undoubtedly what she was told to do. Not speak unless she is spoken to.

 “You’re a loyal friend to Emma, aren’t you?”

 She seems surprised by the question, her mouth parted slightly as she nods. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

 Killian smiles and sits next to her. “I’m glad to hear this… because I need a favor from you.” Killian doesn’t realize what his words could’ve possibly implied until he sees Elsa’s cheeks flush as she looks away from him, her lips trembling.

 “Of course, Your Majesty.” She lowers her head, and he can tell she is on the verge of sobbing. “I will do whatever you wish.”

 He swallows thickly. “And you promise to keep this a secret? No one must know what I’m about to ask you. No one. Is that clear?”

 Elsa lifts her head again, and she’s even more confused than before. “Of course, but won’t they know what we’re doing in here, My Lord?”

 “And what is it you think they will know?”

 Elsa blushes once again, facing away from him. She doesn’t answer for a minute, but he can see the wheels turning, he can see the anger bubbling inside of her. “They will know you are with another woman. They will know you are not with Emma,” she murmurs. 

 “Exactly.” Killian grins and takes her hand in his, dropping a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

 She immediately regrets her words and looks at him again, her features etched with apology. “I am sorry, Your Majesty.”

 “No need to apologize. I am glad we are on the same page.”

 She raises a brow at him. “Excuse my manners, Your Majesty, but I’m afraid we are not on the same page. I do not wish to betray Emma. She is my friend.”

 “But you see, Elsa, we are on exactly the same page… I do not wish to betray Emma, either.”

 Her mouth gapes open as she stares at him in bewilderment. “Then why did you summon me here?”

 Killian's expression grows serious as his eyes meet hers. He draws in a deep breath, still holding onto her hand between them. It’s not so much of an act of affection, but a plea. His eyes and hands are pleading with her. “You will not say a word to anyone about this? I need your word... for the sake of Emma… for the sake of our child.”

 Elsa shakes her head. But she still looks a bit confused. “I promise, Your Majesty. Whatever it is you have to say will not leave this apartment.”

 Killian nods, and he feels he can trust her. He can see the sincerity in her eyes. And Emma trusts her, so he knows he can, too. “I need everyone to believe I am taking more than one maiden to my bed.” As much as the thought pains him, he needs to do this. To protect Emma. To protect their baby. “You will be moved to the apartment of favorites and treated as a Gozde in compensation for your cooperation.”

 Elsa’s face twists in bafflement. “But why? You only want to be with Emma, so why do you need people to believe otherwise?”

 “Because they won’t understand. You were taught the different ranks in the Harem, correct?”

 Elsa nods. “Yes, there are Odalisques and Gediklis, and then there are Ikbals and Gozdes, who have gone to the Sultan’s bed. You can have as many of those as you want, but you can only have four Kadins and one Bas Kadin. I know how it works.”

 “That’s how it’s supposed to work. I am expected to have four wives, but I don’t want anyone but Emma. I had only one woman before, and she was murdered, along with our unborn child.”

 Elsa’s features sadden, but she doesn’t seem surprised. “Milah,” she murmurs.

 He nods. “Aye. The Sultan of Neverland is to take many maidens to his bed, not one, and once word spreads about Emma being my only maiden, people will react. And I don’t want her or our child to suffer because of my actions.”

 “So, you want to summon me and pretend to take me to your bed?”

 “I want people to think I am summoning you. They won’t know Emma will be the one coming to my chamber every night. Even when she is with child, I wish for her to be in my arms while we sleep.” He smiles at the image his own words create.

 “But, what happens when I don’t get pregnant, Your Majesty? I’m still a virgin.”

 “It doesn’t matter. If they find out you're still a virgin, they’ll think I chose you to pleasure me in other ways, but no one will dare question my actions.”

 “But they will question you if you only take one woman to your bed?”

 “They will. My mother especially.”

 “And Regina.”

 Killian arches a brow, his eyes narrowing at her. “Why would my sister question me?”

 Elsa’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

 Killian gently takes her chin in his hand again, urging her to look at him. “Tell me, why would my sister question me? And how do you know of this?”

 Elsa swallows thickly, fear swarming her eyes.

 His voice remains calm and soothing. “Please, tell me. Remember, nothing we discuss will leave this room.”

 She nods, and he releases her chin, waiting for her to speak. “Your mother invited me and Emma to her suite for a celebration of Emma’s pregnancy. Regina was there and she was upset because Kira kept referring to Emma as her daughter.” Elsa swallows thickly, hesitant about what she’s about to say, but he offers an encouraging smile.

 “Tell me, lass.”

 She nods and lowers her eyes, speaking softly. “Regina said she hoped Emma was poisoned like Milah and stormed out of the suite.”

 A wave of anger washes over him. His jaw tightens, fists clenching at his sides. His own sister wished death on his wife and child?

 “But please, you did not hear this from me, Your Majesty.”

 “Do not worry, Elsa, our secrets are safe with one another,” he assures her in a gentle voice, but on the inside, he is fuming. How could his own sister betray him like this?

 After Elsa leaves his chamber, Nemo escorts her to the Harem, but not before opening the doors for the enchanting woman whose face is hidden by a veil, apart from her dazzling green eyes. Killian had instructed Nemo to inform Emma what was going on after Elsa had come to his chamber. 

 As Emma steps into the room, Killian smiles, the sight of her instantly calming him. He has to put any thoughts of hatred toward his sister aside for the time being. He doesn’t wish to ruin his night with Emma by letting his mood set a dark cloud over it. He’ll deal with Regina later. Right now, he has more important matters to attend to. He approaches his beloved, removing her veil and pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. Her eyes are full of love and warmth as she smiles at him. 

 “Emma…” he whispers, caressing her chin. “I’ve missed you.”

 She laughs, her eyes dancing with amusement as her hands move to his chest, fingers combing through the chest hair poking out from the v-neck shirt he’s wearing. “You saw me only this morning, Killian.”

 His smile fades, his heart pounding mercilessly in his chest as he swallows. “I miss you every second you are not with me, my love.”

 She touches his forehead with hers, closing her eyes. “I know exactly how you feel,” she whispers.

 He slides his hand through her hair and captures her lips. They kiss slowly, soon adding their tongues. His love for her consumes him. He knows he has to stop before he has the urge to take things further, for he doesn’t wish to harm their wee one. So he lifts her up, carrying her to the bed. And he just holds her in his arms caressing her belly as they talk. 

 He tells her about Elsa and what they had discussed. She will be summoned to his chamber, but Emma will be the one going to him every night. “Thank you for trusting me,” he whispers, brushing his lips along her ear.

 “Of course. When Nemo came for Elsa, I had no doubts about your motives. I knew you were up to something,” she laughs, and he chuckles with her.

 “I’m so glad my summons did not upset you. It’s the last thing I would want,” he says with sincerity. 

 She hums a response, her voice raspy with tiredness. In that moment, he realizes just how much she affects him. How much she influences him. He would do absolutely anything in the world for this woman. He’d kill for her, he’d even die for her gladly if she asked him to. Perhaps that’s why Neverland society frowns upon their Sultans having only one wife. He knows that’s why. But he doesn’t care. The traditions and customs of Neverland make him feel imprisoned, like he’s not able to think for himself or do what he wants. Even as the most powerful man of Neverland. 

 Emma makes him feel less imprisoned, less trapped. Even if his love for her makes him feel powerless. It feels like there’s this huge, conflicting war inside him. He hates feeling trapped, yet he loves being ensnared by the woman in his arms. He hates following his people’s customs, yet he’d do anything Emma asked him to. Killian smiles as he buries his face in her hair, letting her scent invade his senses. If he had to choose between being Sultan and being with her, he would choose her. He would choose them. Which is why he would rip someone's throat out if they dared threaten to destroy his future with her.

 ~*~

 The next day, Elsa is moved to the apartment of favorites, next to Emma’s suite, and the palace seems to be content with the Sultan favoring two maidens of his harem. They don’t question the situation one bit. But, there’s still another matter Killian must tend to. 

 He promised Elsa their secrets would be safe between them and Emma, but he cannot live in the same palace as someone who seeks to harm his wife and child. So he goes to his mother to discuss his sister’s future... her future outside the palace.

 “How can you do this to me!?” Regina screams as she storms into his chamber full of fire and rage. 

 Killian doesn't even flinch. He's facing away from her with his hands clasped together behind his back.

 “How dare you send me off to be married?! I will not go!”

 He lifts his head, praying that God will give him the strength to not murder his sister. 

 He spins around swiftly, flooded with hurt and betrayal when he looks at her. It’s as though she’d stabbed him in the back with a dagger, digging the blade deep and twisting it. “How dare you wish death on my wife and child?” He speaks calmly with a controlled tone, but there’s a raging storm brewing inside him threatening to break through the surface.

 Regina’s mouth opens, her eyes wide with shock. As though she didn’t think he would find out about her betrayal. “Brother, I’m sorry, I didn't mean it," she says, lowering her voice. “I was only upset. Mother treats your Kadin like a queen. She adores Emma just because she’s having your baby. And you will soon have a family to love and cherish. I will never have that.” Her eyes are glistening with tears as she kneels on the floor, bowing to him. “Please forgive me, My Sultan.”

 Killian chuckles darkly. “So, since you can never be happy, you wish for me to be unhappy as well?”

 Regina quickly shakes her head. “No, of course not.”

 He doesn’t believe her. He moves toward her, taking her chin in his hand, and lifts Regina to her feet, his expression hard and cold as she lifts her eyes to his. I want you to answer something for me, my sister.” He says sister with distaste and resentment. “If you don't answer honestly, I won't even send you off to be married.”

 She sighs in relief but then blinks back at him in confusion. "But, how would remaining here in the palace, rather than being forced to marry some stranger, be considered punishment?"

 He inhales sharply through his nose and walks away from her, trying his best to maintain his composure. But the thought of his own flesh and blood killing Milah or even wishing Emma harm makes him furious and sad. He could've had a son or daughter living and breathing if not for Milah's death, not to mention Milah would still be alive. But they were both taken from him, and if he finds out Regina had something to do with it, God help her. When he reaches his desk and turns around again, his expression remains stoic as he speaks. “I could consider it your punishment since you would no longer be breathing.”

 Her face pales, eyes swarming with fear. 

 “If you are not truthful with me, I will behead you myself and throw your body to the bottom of the sea, is that clear?”

 She nods. “Of course.”

 He steps closer to her, holding her gaze with stormy, dark eyes. “Did you have anything to do with Milah's death?”

 Regina stares at him heavily, her mouth agape, but doesn’t answer. Anger surges through him, his patience wearing thin. He wraps his hand around her neck and swiftly walks her backward until her back hits the wall. His fingers squeeze slightly around her neck to keep her in place as her hands try to pull him away but to no avail. Regina’s eyes widen with fear, as though she wasn’t expecting him to do something like this. This isn’t him, but when his loved ones are hurt or threatened, he’d do anything for revenge. “Did you murder Milah and our child?” he demands again.

 Regina shakes her head, tears falling from her eyes. “No, I didn’t. I swear!” Her words are strangled as he tightens his fingers around her neck, closing her air supply. Bright red colors her pale face as the blood rises to the surface of her skin. Her head wriggles, small, ragged gasps leaving her lips as her fingers claw at his hands, struggling to break herself free from his firm grip. 

 “Were you planning on killing Emma and our baby?”

 She shakes her head. “No,” she whispers, barely able to get the words out, “I swear.”

 He studies her intently, watching as she looks straight into his eyes without blinking. He can see she is telling the truth. A swarm of relief washes over him and he releases her. She falls to her hands and knees, coughing and gasping for air. 

 He feels a palpable relief wash through him since he doesn’t have to murder his sister. “I will find a suitable husband for you, you will run off and marry him and you may never return to this palace again, do you understand?”

 “Yes,” she chokes out, breathing hoarsely, still trying to collect the air in her lungs.

 “Good.” He leaves her sobbing on the floor.

 ~*~

 The months pass and the nights grow warmer as the snow over the roofs of the palace slowly disappears. Gepetto retires and hands over his imperial seal and Killian gives it to James, who is shocked at first, but happily accepts. 

 Meanwhile, Regina remains in the palace, but only while Killian searches for a man suitable for his sister. Honestly, it's not his top priority right now. He's certain he'd frightened Regina to the point where she will not even think about harassing Emma or making idle threats or death wishes. So, his main focuses are Emma and his council meetings, which she attends most days from behind a carved screen. 

 On the days she is not secretly sitting in on council meetings, Emma is driven mad with boredom. Her bodyguards are always there wherever she goes. When she’s bathing, when she’s eating, when she wants to chat with her friends, when she wakes in the morning after she leaves her Sultan. They’re always there. The only time they’re not allowed around her is when she is in her Sultan’s bedchamber or when she is with him. Those moments are only theirs.

 She enjoys the time with her Sultan. But she also enjoys the time away from her guards. They’re around her so much, she can’t breathe. So she sneaks away one afternoon and storms down the Golden Road, tired of feeling suffocated. 

 “I demand to see the Sultan,” she says firmly to his guards when she approaches his chamber. At the same time, she feels her baby kicking her insides. She groans, holding her belly with both hands. 

 “Are you all right, Sultana?”

 “Yes, I’m fine,” she snarls through gritted teeth. 

 One guard knocks on the door and requests permission for Emma to enter. Killian of course never denies her from seeing him.

 “You may enter, My Sultana.”

 “Thank you,” she mutters sarcastically and enters Killian’s chamber. She finds it rather ridiculous and annoying that she has to ask permission to see her husband.

 “My love,” he murmurs as he looks up from his desk and sets down the goose-quill pen next to the parchment he was writing on. “You are certainly a sight for sore eyes.” 

 Emma blushes as she gazes at him from across the room, all the anger she had held seconds ago instantly vanishes. Just like that. She smiles and strides over to him, sitting in his lap. He wraps his arms around her, kissing her lips, his hand gravitating to her round belly under the creamy white satin chemise she’s wearing. “I can say the same about you,” she coos against his lips, curling her arms around the back of his neck. Her Sultan is devastatingly handsome, though his tired eyes are a dull shade of blue and his hair’s slightly disheveled. 

 “What can I do for my lovely Queen?” he asks with a warm smile, his hand making soothing circles around her belly. 

 She sighs. “Killian, I am losing my mind. I know you wish to protect us, but I feel smothered by the measures you have taken. I cannot even leave my chamber without getting permission from my guards.”

 He glances at the doors with an arched brow. “Do they know you’re here?”

 She shakes her head. “I snuck away,” she replies unapologetically. “I’ll have to chastise them later for not doing their jobs properly.”

 He chuckles in amusement. “I’m sorry, Emma, but you and our baby are too precious to me.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, and when he pulls away, his expression grows solemn, eyes darkening at a thought. “If anything happened to either of you—”

 “I can take care of myself. I can take care of us.” The baby kicks again, underneath Killian’s hand, and Emma laughs. “He has not been born, yet he’s already protective of his mother.”

 Killian’s eyes light up as he watches her belly, seeing the ruckus their child is raising. “You think our baby is a boy?”

 She shrugs. “I have a feeling. If so, he will be a strong warrior like his father. He’ll be Sultan one day.”

 He smiles at that. Just then, the baby kicks again, causing her to groan as she holds her stomach. He rubs her belly, speaking in a soothing voice. “No worries, lad, it’s only your papa.” He leans down and kisses her belly. 

 Emma enjoys her time with Killian, but she knows he’s a busy man and has to get back to work, so she forces herself to return to the matter at hand. “Please ask my bodyguards to back off. I can’t breathe with them always around. At least allow me to bathe in peace.”

 He sighs, his lips curving into a defeated smile. “I shall, my love. I am sorry I’ve been overprotective.” He lifts his hand to her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin. “I love you, Emma, and I want you and our wee one to be happy.” 

 “Thank you, Killian. We love you so much.” She smiles at him and captures his lips, running her hands through the scruff on his cheeks. The kiss quickly deepens and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. Her tongue sweeps inside his mouth, brushing against his. He groans, and she swallows the sound, sighing in relief. She loves this man more than she could have ever fathomed. She’s so glad she opened her heart to him. She’s so glad she’d put complete faith in him. If their baby is a boy, she hopes their son will be just like Killian. Honorable, loving, caring, protective. She hopes and prays he will find a woman he will love just as Killian loves her. 

 A knock on the door interrupts them, pulling them down from their cloud of happiness. Emma groans against her Sultan’s lips. She knows it's her guards on the other side of the doors.

 “I will speak to them, my love,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead.

 Emma nods and says a thank you before tearing herself out of his lap, reluctantly leaving Killian's bedchamber. But she’s smiling and completely flushed as she leaves, still feeling his soft lips on hers, his tender touches on her skin.

 After that, her guards give her more space. They're still there, just not as much. Until there are only two full moons left of her pregnancy, and the doctor orders bed rest.

 She grows tired of resting and knitting and paces her suite with her hands on her belly as they itch to do something that doesn't involve embroidery.

 She opens her door to find her guards right outside. “I wish to go for a stroll around the palace grounds.”

 Faraji nods. “Yes, My Sultana.”

 Her other guard, Lancelot, doesn’t seem to agree, though. “But, Your Majesty, the Sultan asked you to follow the doctor’s orders and get some rest. You don’t wish to put stress on yourself or the baby, do you?”

 Emma becomes irritated and clenches her fists at her sides. She doesn’t even know why she has two guards. Both are well built, strong and tall, towering over her. No one would dare harass her when one of them is protecting her, let alone both. Although, their personalities contrast one another to the point where it makes sense why they are both her guards. Lancelot is honorable, with warm, kind eyes and an honest smile. He reminds her of a knight from her kingdom. Faraji, on the other hand, almost always dons a cold expression and never smiles while remaining detached emotionally, avoiding any personal connections with his mistress. Normally, Lancelot is the one who’s more lenient with Emma, often showing her his soft side. The two make the perfect pair of bodyguards, and it’s most likely why Killian chose them, rather than based on their sizes and physical strengths alone. “I need to leave this apartment before I go insane.”

 Lancelot shakes his head. “I’m sorry, My Sultana, but we were given specific orders.”

 Emma ignores him and storms away from her bodyguards, heading downstairs. If they won’t let her leave, she will go herself.

 “Please stop, Your Majesty,” Lancelot calls after her, but she continues her trek. Faraji follows behind her as she marches through the harem, heading outside. 

 “The Sultana needs to stretch her legs. I’ll go with her,” she hears Faraji say to Lancelot. 

 “Fine, but make sure she’s back before the Sultan realizes she’s gone.”

 “I will.”

 The harem garden is shaded by high walls, the paths flanked by columns of white marble and overhung with cypress and willow. Emma wobbles along one of the cobblestoned paths, her hand resting on her protruding belly as she enjoys the fresh air. She’s wearing a gold kaftan, an emerald damask chemise and a crown of gold and emerald jewels atop her head, her long golden hair bouncing as she walks. Emma closes her eyes briefly, relishing in the cool breeze sweeping around her.

 “How is the baby?” Faraji graces her with a smile that highlights his rich black cheekbones as he walks beside her through the garden. 

 Emma’s a little surprised by his question because during the few months she’s known him, he’s always been quiet and strictly business. Normally Lancelot is the conversational one, always regaling her with stories of his childhood. Usually, Lancelot is the one unopposed to walking with Emma through the garden. She wonders what has changed. “The baby is fine. We just needed to get away. Thank you for not stopping me,” she says gratefully. “I was dreadfully bored in my suite. Sometimes we need to get out for a while,” she says, gently patting her belly.

 “It is not a problem,” Faraji assures her with a smile. “The Sultan is a little overprotective.” He looks at Emma, his eyes scrolling down her body, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Though, if you ask me, he has good reason to be protective of a woman with your beauty.”

 Emma shudders at his comment and the way he looks at her. The Sultan would kill Faraji for admiring his wife like he is. 

 “I’ve realized that you and I know little about one another, so I thought we should change that.”

 Emma nods in agreement, so he tells her about where he grew up and about his family. His eyes glisten as he speaks of his wife and children.

 “What happened to them?”

 He looks blankly ahead. “Our village was raided, and my family was murdered in front of my eyes when I was captured. I was then sold into slavery.”

 “I’m sorry,” Emma murmurs, her heart breaking for him. As they walk, a sudden question pops into Emma’s mind. How can a Eunuch marry and have children? He can’t. Which means either he’s lying or… he’s not actually been emasculated. Unless the slaver Killian purchased him from did the deed himself so the Sultan would buy his slave. Slavers resort to just about anything if it means someone will pay more for the purchase. Emma shivers at the memories of being stripped naked in front of all the possible buyers at the auction house. The memories of that experience still haunt her occasionally.

 She suspects the details Faraji is divulging to her is why he's never engaged her in conservation, for fear she would ask about his past. So why is he telling her this now?

 She's not sure she wants to solve that little mystery.

 “I’m sure you are.” He looks at her, but this time, his gaze holds a much different disposition than before. This time he looks at her with disdain, as though he doesn’t believe her heartfelt apology. Emma gulps and averts her eyes from him, looking ahead. 

 Do not show fear, she tells herself.

 “I was taken from my family too, and sold as a slave,” she says, trying to distract herself from wondering what his intentions are. “I was betrayed by a bodyguard I had trusted and was handed off to pirates.”

 He scoffs. “How can you possibly compare yourself to me?”

 Emma stops in her tracks and glares at him, placing her hands on her hips. “How dare you speak to me like that?” Her words don't intimidate him. 

 When he turns toward her and steps into her space, she loses a breath. “You live here in the palace and have everything you could possibly need. You have slaves tend to you, feed you, bathe you,protect you... all because you are pregnant with the Sultan’s child.” He regards her with a condescending sneer. “I would give anything to not be treated as a slave… to have my family back.”

 Anger rises within Emma as she clenches her fists at her sides. “You think I wanted this life? My parents were King and Queen, and I was taken from them. Just so I could be the mother of the Sultan’s child! I did not ask for this,” she snaps at him. “I’m sorry you lost your children and that you will never have children again,” she adds, to see if he’s actually been castrated, but he gives no indication as to whether he was or not, “but there's no point in being mad at the world for what happened to you.”

 Emma is taken off guard when she’s pushed back and slammed into the stone wall, a gasp leaving her lips as Faraji grips her arms tightly, pinning her against the wall.

 She struggles against him, but his grip is too strong. “Unhand me!” 

He laughs darkly, his fingers tightening around her skin. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong, princess,” he mutters disdainfully. “I am not mad at the world. I am only mad at the man responsible for murdering my family, and I wish to avenge them. The people who raided my village were Sultan Brennan and his men. Unfortunately, he is no longer around. But you know who is?”

 Emma gulps, slightly shaking her head. Judging by the evil look on his face, she doesn’t actually want the answer to his question.

 He leans in, his breath wretched as he breathes against her cheek. “His son.”

 Fear surges through her entire body as he removes one of his hands, lowering it to her belly, and applies pressure. Emma draws in a sharp breath as though he is trying to suck the life from her, and she's trying to draw as much air into her lungs as she can.

 “That’s right, your precious Sultan’s late father is responsible for the death of my family,” he snarls.

 “But you can’t blame Killian for that. He is nothing like his father.”

 “Is he not, though? All Sultans are the same. They only care about power and passing on their precious legacy.” Faraji presses the pads of his fingers deeper into the skin of her belly through her clothes, and Emma cries out in pain, her eyes wet with tears.

 “Please don’t. My baby is innocent.”

 “Oh, it’s certainly not. It’s the spawn of a Sultan.”

 “My baby didn’t do anything to you, and neither did Killian.”

 “You’re right, they didn’t. But Brennan did. And since he’s already dead, Killian must pay for the sins of his father. And what better way to punish someone than to hurt the things he loves the most?”

 “Please,” Emma begs, on the verge of tears. “Don’t kill us.”

 He laughs and speaks in a sinister tone. A tone that makes her skin crawl. “Relax, princess, I don’t plan on killing you. That would be too easy. Besides, what is worse than the death of a loved one?”

 Emma can barely breathe, her head spinning as she tries to mask her fear. But the thought of losing her baby makes her numb. “What?”

 “Oh, Emma, you should know this.” He smiles darkly and leans in, whispering in her ear. “Betrayal.”

 She glares at him. “I would never betray Killian.”

 “No, I suspected not. At least not willingly. But you’d have no choice if someone forced you to.”

 “I’d rather die than do anything for you!”

 He laughs again. “I’m afraid that’s not an option. You see, Emma, you were wrong about another thing.”

 “What’s that?”

 He reaches into his trousers and pulls something out. She peers down to see what he's doing and panics. His cock is throbbing in his hand as his eyes sweep hungrily down her body. She can't believe someone would be so stupid as to rape the Sultan's wife, but Faraji obviously has a death wish.

 “I can have children again.”

 She gulps, her face paling as she lifts her eyes to his empty ones. “But how? You’re supposed to have been castrated.”

 “My slaver only said I was so the Sultan would purchase me. He was offering a large amount of gold and was too trustworthy and naïve to ask for proof.”

 Faraji leans in, pinning her against the wall with his forearm pressed hard across her neck so she can’t escape while he retrieves a potion from his satchel. He pops off the cap with his thumb and drinks it himself before reaching into his satchel again, grabbing another potion. He holds it up and smiles, letting her know this one’s for her. 

 “No!” she shrieks and turns her head, screwing her eyes shut as he kisses her cheek. 

 He pinches her nose closed so she can’t help but breathe through her mouth. When she gasps for breath, he takes the opportunity to pour the potion in her mouth. Then he releases her nose and forces her lips shut with his hand, tilting her head back so she’ll swallow down the potion. She coughs and sputters, a small amount of it dribbling down her chin, but most of it ends up down her throat. He doesn’t know that whatever the contents are will have no effect on her or her baby, but she wishes to keep it that way.

 “I will implant my seed inside you and then kill the Sultan's baby,” he whispers in her ear with a dark smile.

 His threats enrage her; she can feel the blood boiling under her skin. “It won’t work, you pig! You can’t impregnate me when there’s already a baby inside my womb!” Or so she assumes. 

 He chuckles, and she can feel the sound in her bones. “That’s what the potions are for. The one I took will enhance my ability to procreate and speed up the process. The potion I gave you will cause your body to release an egg while you’re already pregnant. My baby will grow inside you at an exponential rate, soaking up all the nutrients for itself. By the time you give birth to the Sultan’s baby, it will be a dead corpse and mine will be a full-grown newborn, strong and healthy.” 

 A tear escapes her eyes as much as she’d tried to hold it back. Where did he even procure these fertility potions? He takes her chin in his hand and collects the tear from her cheek with his tongue. “I’m assuming our baby will be a boy because all my wife and I could have were boys.” He leans in, hissing in her ear like a snake. “And he’ll be black as night,” he whispers, enunciating the t, “just like me.” He moves his mouth to her cheek, his warm breath on her skin, making her tremble. He looks at her mouth, the pad of his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “Or, seeing as your skin is pure white, maybe he’ll be mixed. Either way, the Sultan will know it’s not his baby.” His eyes dance with excitement and he lifts his gaze to her eyes as the palm of his hand slides over her cheek. “The Sultan will be so enraged that his precious wife betrayed him that I won’t even have to kill you. He’ll do it himself.”

 “It won't work,” she mutters, her voice unwavering, thankfully, despite the fear surging through her. “I'll tell Killian what you've done. He'll believe me over you and he'll kill you.”

 He chuckles, not even a flicker of fear in his eyes. “That's what I'm counting on. Do you think I want to live in this world without my wife and children? Revenge is the only thing that fuels my will to live. Besides, if you tell him, I'll just murder you in front of him. He will cut my head off afterward, but at least I will get my revenge first.”

 Emma tries to move, but he presses her roughly into the wall and smashes his lips to hers, moving his hand to her breasts. Her eyes widen as she tries to pull away, but he doesn’t budge. 

 He takes the fabric of her chemise, rips it at the top and pulls it away from her chest so her breasts are exposed to him. He takes one in his hand, squeezing it, his thumb toying with her nipple. “Mmmm, there’s nothing prettier than a soon to be mother. With skin glowin’ and tits big and ripe. He lowers his head and takes her nipple in his mouth as he holds her hands against the wall.

 Emma thinks she might vomit, and it has nothing to do with being pregnant.

 He spins her around, pressing her against the wall, one hand returning to her breast and the other reaching for her skirts to pull them up. 

 Once he has her skirts pulled up, she reaches for the leather strap around her thigh and grabs her dagger. He’s unaware of what she’s doing because he’s too busy lining up the head of his cock against her entrance. He pushes her against the wall, his hands gripping firmly around her hips. Before he thrusts into her, she jabs the blade into the side of his leg. 

 He cries out in pain, releasing her. She quickly turns around and stabs him once again, this time in the stomach. She looks at him in disgust as he grips onto his stomach, and she removes the dagger and does something she’d never imagined she would ever do. But he tried to kill her baby. 

 She swipes the blade twice at him so he can no longer have children. His screams are unusually high in pitch, and with both hands, he grasps at the area where his testis are supposed to be, falls to his knees and joins his testes on the ground in a pool of his blood.

 Emma is staring blankly, still gripping the handle of the blade in her hand as though it’s a life source.

 “Emma? What happened? I could hear the screaming from inside the palace!”

 She’s in too much shock, too numb to look at Lancelot as he gently grabs her arms, observing the other guard who’s balled up on the ground in his own blood, wailing.

 “My Sultana, are you okay?” The words sound so far away even though Lancelot is directly in front of her as he turns his head to face her again. 

 “He tried to murder my baby,” is all she can manage, her voice now weak and shattered.

 He helps her back inside and calls for the doctor.

Tagging: 

@courtorderedcake @teamhookook @onceuponaprincessworld @nikkiemms @followbatb @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecuriouscurious @snowbellewellsw @artistic-writer@ultraluckycatnd @kmomof4 @darkcolinodonorgasm @lovepurplepumpkins @kiwistreetswaneetswan @therooksshiningknight @deathbycaptainswanaptainswan @tiganasummertreeasummertree @superchocovianovian @emeraldwitchestches

[forestwater87]

Secret Santa 2018 - Chapter 1

Hello! So I participated in @campcamp-secretsanta​ again this year . . . although I’m afraid that I did go a little overboard. My recipient, @pikablob​, asked for Gwenvid and Dadvid and was okay with both fluff and angst, and I’m playing with the idea a little bit, but in order to do that well, it’s looking like it’s going to turn into a 4-to-5-chapter fic (which has no name, as of yet. Suggestions are welcome). Because I know “Read More”s don’t always work, especially on mobile, and I don’t want to make people scroll past over 20 pages, I’m going to post the story in chapters -- two today, and ideally one each day through Christmas. (Once it’s all completed, it’ll go up on AO3.)

It’s not a Christmas-themed fic, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! Happy holidays!

He decides that this will be a healing year, a fixing and replacing and making-things-new kind of year.

They all need a little bit of that, he believes.

CHAPTER ONE: NURF

It starts when Gwen mentions that she doesn’t have anywhere to live after the summer, that she’ll have to move back in with her parents unless she finds something better.

(“And, like, anything better. This old guy in the park asked me if I wanted a sugar daddy and I was thinking about it.”)

When David suggests she stay at the camp year-round like he does, he fully expects she’ll turn him down. When she half-smiles and says that it’s better than any of her ideas, he thinks she’s kidding, chuckles numbly and looks back down at his phone.

When she doesn’t make any more plans to move out, he wonders if maybe she’d meant it.

When she starts peppering him with questions about the rest of the year, how he makes money and keeps himself busy and keeps the place from falling apart and keeps himself from freezing or starving to death, he realizes that she’s completely serious, that she’s serious about living here, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek raw to keep from grinning. Because when she says it’s better than nothing she means he’s better than nothing, that she prefers his company at the very least to that of her parents or of strangers and up until this moment he hadn’t ever considered that she might think he was better than literally anything.

So when she critiques his plans and makes her own, when she buys two rattling space heaters for the cabin and when she leaves for a whole weekend and returns with the rest of her life’s belongings in the back of the campmobile, David is quietly, glowingly happy.

(He is even more happy when she finally muscles past the mean little voices in her head and kisses him. They’re in the middle of Rowing Camp and they’re supposed to be watching the campers but they’re in a child-sized rowboat on the lake under blue sky and fluffy white clouds, and when she kisses him he almost forgets all of those things and nearly topples them both into the water.)

(He is even more happy when he realizes that kiss wasn’t a one-time fluke, but apparently a pattern, something to be repeated so many times he loses count.)

(And he’s the happiest he’s ever been -- quietly again, though, a warm gentle bubbling kind of happiness because he knows how defensive Gwen gets when she’s embarrassed -- when she finally admits that it’s not because she has no other options and it’s not because she’s bored, but because she just happens to like him better than either of them ever realized.)

So it begins.

The predictable doesn’t happen, and Max’s parents show up at the end of the summer to take him home. Both David and Gwen let out a sigh of relief, because the boy’s constant mutterings that they don’t care about him and wouldn’t bother to show up had been getting to them, and until he’s safely ensconced in the back of a ratty green two-door sedan they weren’t fully convinced Max wasn’t going to be left behind.

They spent so much time worrying about the predictable, however, that the unpredictable slips completely under their noses until the hours grow heavy and golden and damp, the threat of mosquitos looming as the air cools, and they look around and realize that something has gone wrong, and a camper has been left behind. It just isn’t the one they’d been prepared for.

Mr. Nurfington, an impatient female voice tells Gwen over the phone, hasn’t lived at this number for three weeks. He’s wanted for possession and resisting arrest -- what they might elevate to aggravated assault, the landlady adds, the coolness dropping from her tone as the conversation turns toward gossip, and Gwen should just hear what the police found in his trailer -- “but nobody’s heard a thing from him. His lease expires in two months and as soon as it does, I’m putting all his stuff on the lawn and the coons can have it.”

(Gwen sincerely hopes she means raccoons.) “Did he leave any contacts?”

Just his wife, who won’t be released for another sixteen months -- longer, if she keeps starting fights with the other inmates. There’s an uncle, Gwen knows, but a little digging reveals that he was sentenced to twenty years less than a decade ago, on charges that turn her stomach.

She sets down the phone and puts Nurf’s papers away, and tries to figure out how to explain all this to the two redheaded children sitting on the dock. Two very different versions, she decides, and calls David inside to give him something almost indistinguishable from the truth except that some of the more unsavory details are politely omitted, because at least one of them deserves to sleep that night and for some reason Gwen feels like David’s faith in the world ought to be protected.

Grimy and sweaty from the cabin’s closed-in air, she goes to the showers to wash away everything she’s just learned and leaves David to tell Nurf the version of the story they’ve agreed upon: that his father is gone, nobody is coming to pick him up, but it’s okay because they have a second bedroom in the cabin and this will surely be all better by tomorrow.

It isn’t, and only David is surprised.

It’s a good thing they have a bus, because the Sleepy Peak school transportation system won’t come pick Nurf up all the way at Camp Campbell. Of course, he flatly refuses to let QM drive him to school in a full-sized bus, which neither David or Gwen can really argue. Which leaves her with two options: either dropping Nurf off at school in the campmobile every morning before killing a half hour reading fanfiction on her phone before her job at Camp Corp begins, or driving the exhaust-belching, dangerously clanking bus to work and getting a few minutes of extra sleep.

She decides David is less likely to get himself killed with the bus than with Nurf, and resigns herself to a deeply uncomfortable morning commute.

The most surprising thing she learns on these quiet, sullen mornings is that Nurf is . . . a morning person. Not like David, of course -- no one is quite like David -- but he doesn’t drag his feet, is always sitting by the flagpole with his backpack (new, cheap like it’s made out of old tarp, all they could afford) between his feet when she staggers outside with a to-go cup of coffee and a fistful of David’s trail mix. Nurf doesn’t talk, but he’s attentive; he draws nonsense patterns in the dew on the Campmobile’s windows, and after a few weeks of this strange arrangement he’s comfortable enough to flip through the radio stations.

He likes classical music. David will tell her that he once asked to turn up the Farmer’s Almanac.

(Gwen confesses to David one night that she’s halfway convinced he’ll become a serial killer or something. It’s one of the few serious fights they’ve had, though less a fight than her sitting in shock-stone silence while he gets splutteringly, hand-wringingly angry at her. Tells her that she can’t ever say anything like that ever again -- can’t even think it -- that they’re counselors year-round now and that means never, ever giving up on their campers -- that if -- that as a child -- that he knows what it’s like to be a lost cause and Nurf will never feel like that as long as he’s at Camp Campbell, and that he needs her to be on board because this is hard and scary and he can’t do it alone. Even if their campers weren’t . . . such unique individuals, he would need her, and she can’t ever -- ever -- )

(He’s red-faced and shaking when he runs out of breath or out of words, she can’t tell which, and she tugs him half into her lap and kisses his temple and tells him that of course Nurf will be fine, they’ll all be fine, and she didn’t mean it and it’s okay. And she listens to his breathing even out and, not for the first time, she hates David’s father with every ounce of her being.)

So she trusts Nurf, for David’s sake. And she tries to understand him, for all of theirs.

The seasons will change one more time before she finds herself truly liking him, but she thinks maybe that’s just because neither of them are as good at trusting or understanding as David is.

The fall settles into a pattern of quiet cars and loud buses, of Summer Camp Extended -- which is how David likes to think of it, maybe needs to think of it, because the alternative is that he’s become a father of an aggressive boy the rest of the world forgot about -- where the activities are school for Nurf and work for himself, where the afternoons are spent trying to remember seventh-grade math, buying groceries, waiting for Gwen to come home from a job that demands much longer hours than it offers pay. Sometimes there are regular camp activities, too, when he can cajole Nurf into going for a hike or learning how to fish (though they can’t eat anything they catch in Lake Lilac; the fish there have been declared dangerously mutated).

He spends his mornings as a bouncer at Muffin Tops -- Bonquisha got him the job, and he knows that he looks wiry and weedy and not all that intimidating but the crowd is much calmer during the day than it will get as the evening rolls around, and he believes he can take care of himself if he needs to. (And he has to admit, he enjoys the funny looks his school bus gets when people cross the parking lot.) The customers are polite, if not especially chatty, his coworkers are friendly, the job is mostly standing outside and enjoying the fresh air. It suits him -- strange, unexpected, but surprisingly well-fitting.

David isn’t nearly as adept at metaphors as Gwen, but he thinks quite a few things in his new life could be described that way.

This is the first time he’s able to take just one part-time job, and let the rest of his hours go toward fixing up the camp, and so every patched-up set piece and wobbly table leg repaired he considers a gift from Gwen, who is answering phones and fetching coffee so that he can make Camp Campbell his own, not just legally but in spirit.

He decides that this will be a healing year, a fixing and replacing and making-things-new kind of year.

They all need a little bit of that, he believes.

David isn’t used to devoting this much attention to a single camper. (Not even Max, who has always been a special case.) It’s surprisingly difficult, this one-on-one closeness; he finds he much prefers the scatterbrained chaos of a room full of children. It suits the way he thinks, bouncing frenetic energy, instead of this careful plodding observation and cautious trial-and-error.

It would probably be different with almost any other camper, he has to admit. Nikki, for example -- she constantly needs to be moving, and he would be running to keep up. Harrison would probably be causing trouble, fires he would literally have to put out. Nerris, who can talk for hours at a time about the things that interest her. Preston swanning around the empty Mess Hall, always trying to find an audience.

Nurf, however, isn’t like the children who are sparkling firecrackers that dance and blaze until they get tired and fizzle out. Nor is he like the quieter campers, who still get bored and act out in ways they undoubtedly think are random but really are more like predictable bursts. But Nurf doesn’t seem to have much energy; he goes from school to homework to whatever little activity David can talk him into to bed without seeming depressed or bored. Gwen suggests that maybe Nurf would act out and bully the other campers because he was overwhelmed by the constant noise and activity, and after a week or two of helpless observation, he decides she must be right and leaves the kid to his own devices. Maybe he just really is quiet; it occurs to David that he only ever really noticed Nurf when he was causing problems, and it pains him that this realization comes just as he makes the decision to step back.

“Of course you ignored the well-behaved ones,” Gwen tells him one evening, curled up against his side with her cheek on his shoulder. “What are we supposed to do, let the Problem Trio destroy the camp while we try to get Ered to drop the ‘too cool to talk to anyone’ act?”

He knows she’s right, but it doesn’t make him feel any better about withdrawing. He throws himself further into camp rehabilitation instead, letting Nurf do homework and play on his phone (finally relinquished to him at the end of the summer) and do whatever else fills his afternoons, and tries to ignore the prickling panic that lingers at the back of his mind and tells him this is not okay, this is not how a Camp Campbell counselor should act.

The problem is, of course, that up until this fall it’s exactly how he’s always acted.

The other problem is that he and Gwen were wrong about the kind of person Nurf is; he isn’t a firecracker, no, and he’s not a Max-like schemer and instigator, a controlled burst of dynamite. But just because the tension bubbles under the surface doesn’t mean it’s not there, and eventually it has to boil over.

The tipping point appears to be David asking over the dinner table how his homework is going. He’s deemed it a nice, neutral topic of conversation, one that isn’t likely to veer into uncomfortable directions about his home life or the bizarre situation they’ve all found themselves in or what’s going to happen next. It’s safe and familiar ground, and whenever he’s grasping for something to talk about he returns to it gratefully, knowing it’ll never trigger a landmine.

Until it does.

“Sure, let’s just talk about homework,” he snaps, the hint of his slight damp lisp becoming more pronounced with irritation -- not that anyone would dare point it out to him. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Is my homework done? Do I need help with my homework? How was school, and what kind of homework did you get?” He slams his hands down on the table, making the dishes (and Gwen and David) jump. “Do you even consider the psychological ramifications of making an impressionable child feel like they are nothing but the sum of their academic achievements? And I am impressionable!” he adds, shoving his chair back and standing up; David notices for the first time that he’s grown a bit over the summer, enough to almost loom over them while they’re still seated. “I’m still just a kid, you know!”

He swallows, trying to find the right words (and keeping a careful eye on their silverware). “Well, of course you are, Nurf,” he begins carefully, with the distinct impression that he’s feeling his way through waist-deep water in the dark. “But it’s our job to make sure that you’re . . .”

How does he finish that sentence? ‘Okay?’ ‘Happy?’ ‘Safe?’ He’s not sure Nurf is any of those things, and the thought of being responsible for them makes his stomach coil and his fingers shake.

“That you’re engaging in an activity,” Gwen cuts in smoothly, placing her hand over David’s underneath the table. Her touch and the last-minute rescue both hit him like a lifeline. “Since camp isn’t in session, school is kinda your activity.”

Something flickers in Nurf’s expression, doubt cutting through the increasing red-faced belligerence, and David thanks whatever higher power might be out there for Gwen. She’s always understood the more difficult campers better than he does; it must be the Psychology degr --

Clouds roll in dark and heavy behind his eyes. “Why does everybody sign me up for activities I don’t want?” He picks up a napkin and began shredding it -- David wonders if he picked it up from Gwen, or if he’s always had that nervous habit. “I never asked to go to school, you know! My mom never went to school, and she’s only suffering from a lifetime of consequences made from bad decisions that she didn’t have the education or emotional framework to prevent!” He tosses the shreds of napkin to the table, the three of them watching in silence as the uneven confetti flutters over their food. “Everyone does that!”

“Well, that’s not . . .” David glances at Gwen, who shrugs. He felt less helpless when Nurf was throwing knives at him. “You have to,” he finishes weakly. “It’s good for you. And I thought you liked . . .” He wracks his brain desperately for scraps of what limited conversation they’ve had on their afternoon drives home from school, “history?”

“Ugh!” Nurf whirls around and pulls back his arm, then launches his water glass into the wall. It doesn’t break -- David bought shatterproof dishes for the camp long before any of his current campers started coming here -- but the sound is massive in the silent room. We should’ve had him sign up for Baseball Camp, David thinks wearily, watching the watch drop down the uneven wood surface. “Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to not have the vocabulary sophisticated enough to express what you’re feeling?!”

David rarely considers himself helpless, but as Nurf reaches for his mostly-uneaten plate, face still dark with bottled-up impotent fury, he feels like he’s been attacked by Daniel again, limbs as weak and useless as if they were tied to his chair. “I . . . think you have a great vocabulary,” he begins, taking the first steps into this sentence without having any idea where the end of it is. But his instinct is always for positivity, and it’s true that Nurf’s intelligence impresses him; he may have taken for granted, in some ways, that this is the one camper who he can always rely on to be direct, his words and his fists both brutally honest. “Usually I just say I’m mad.”

“I AM mad!” he shouts, but he drops the plate to the table instead of throwing it. His voice is loud enough to blow Gwen and David’s hair back like a strong wind, and they’re both too surprised to even wipe off the bits of potato that flew up into their faces from the plate’s hard landing. “I’m mad because you don’t know what to do with me, and the state doesn’t know what to do with me, and it’s the end of summer but I’m still at camp because nobody knows what they’re supposed to do with me, which is the exact reason why I ended up in Boot Camp in the first place, and all I can do is do homework until someone decides what’s going to happen to me and I don’t know why everything is this hard!”

His arms drop to his sides and his shoulders slump, eyes widening and staring blankly into a spot above their heads.

“Wow,” he says after a moment. “That’s a lot of dark stuff for a twelve-year-old.”

The Quartermaster pokes his head into the Mess Hall. “Anyone died out here?”

“No, QM,” Gwen says, giving David a sideways glance before grabbing the butter, reaching over Nurf’s plate like it wasn’t sitting in a mess of food in the middle of the table, “we’re good out here.”

The Quartermaster grunts and disappears back into the kitchen, where an unsettling grinding noise David can’t quite place begins.

Nurf picks up his plate and sets it back in its place, stealing David’s napkin and settling it over the spilled food left behind. “I should, uh, clean up everything, shouldn’t I?”

“After dinner,” David replies, keeping his voice as calm and unaffected as possible. “You should finish eating before it gets cold.” As he sits back down and reaches for his fork, he continues, “If I help you get the Mess Hall back in shape, Nurf, do you think you’d be able to give me a hand with the canoes? I’m trying to get them ready for one last trip before the lake freezes.”

“Is this a punishment because I threw things?”

“Absolutely not.” David feels like he’s walking on a very narrow bridge, with horrible drops to either side but something warm and potentially wonderful on the other end. “You don’t have to say yes.”

Gwen, still keeping her gaze on buttering her roll, mutters, “You could always do homework instead.”

David freezes, giving her a look because what on earth does she think she’s doing? But then Nurf lets out a small, barking huff of laughter, and the evening settles back on its axis almost tangibly, a kind of metaphysical thump that he thinks they all feel, because in an instant the air is lighter than it's been since the end of the summer.

“For what it’s worth,” Gwen says after a few minutes, “even if it’s hard, I think you’re better at handling your feelings than you think you are.” Her eyes flick over to the empty glass and the water stain on the wall. “But maybe we should also buy you a punching bag over the weekend.”

“He needs a shrink,” Gwen declares later that night, then flops back onto the bed, covering her eyes with her arms. “We can’t afford a shrink.”

David is quiet for a moment. “I could . . . get another job,” he offers finally, the waves of reluctance rolling off of him, and she flaps her hand in his direction dismissively.

“No, shut up. This is your dream. Stop being stupid.”

He catches her arm, fingers closing gently around her wrist, and kisses her knuckles. “Thank you,” he says, not even pretending to argue. “I love you.”

She rolls onto her side to face him, feeling her face heat up. “Yeah, yeah,” she mutters. “I know.”

(She’s not sure why being told she’s loved embarrasses her. She’s even less sure why it’s so difficult to say it back. Her degree could not be any more useless.)

David bundles her up in his long arms, pulling her to his chest and rolling onto his back so she’s sprawled on top of him. He kisses her nose, beaming. “It’s okay, Gwen.”

She buries her face in his chest and lets him pet her hair, lets herself be loved.

(By the time she finally gets the courage to tell him that of course she loves him -- has, in fact, been in love with him since before he offered to let her live at the camp year-round -- almost all the leaves have fallen and the air is ice-breath freezing and he laughs, not at her but with the kind of giddy joy that can’t be contained in a smile. He kisses her and wraps her in his coat and it gets dark and Nurf yells that it’s time for dinner before they’re willing to pull away enough to escape the bitter chill.)

He gets therapy, eventually. Mr. Campbell still has all that money tucked away, and when the Millers hear that he wants to put it toward bettering himself and learning from his mistakes, they’re more than willing to unfreeze his bank accounts, just this once. So when David takes Nurf to the small white-bricked building where his own infrequent therapy sessions are held, he brings Mr. Campbell along for the ride. It settles his nerves about lying, because it isn’t technically a lie; Mr. Campbell is going to counseling, he’s just not using it.

When Mr. Campbell came forward one evening and offered the idea, David was shocked by the generosity, and a little suspicious. As soon as he smoothly suggested that they kill time at, say, The Only Bar or Muffin Tops while the little tyke was in there getting his head straightened out, things became a lot clearer.

(He didn’t spend long thinking it over, though. At the end of the day, an hour a week in a darkly-lit bar or strip club isn’t much of a sacrifice.)

On non-therapy days, David continues fixing up the camp, making sure to go out of his way to ask Nurf if he wants to help.

And to his surprise he . . . does, more often than not. Even more surprising is the fact that he’s rather good at this kind of hands-on work. He’s a tinkerer, like David is, and understanding blooms warm in his chest as the camper-who-isn’t-really-a-camper-anymore settles himself among the detritus of the camp unprompted, sorting through broken and disorganized supplies with a touch that’s strangely delicate, like he’s used to accidentally -- or not-so-accidentally -- breaking things.

Nothing gets broken that autumn, though. And no dishes hit the wall, either.

(When he mentions all this to Gwen, she shrugs and says, “Sure, makes sense. He liked to help Preston and Dolph out with their theater shit sometimes, right?” and again he feels like a terrible counselor.)

It’s largely David’s responsibility to take care of Nurf, which he expected and doesn’t mind. She works full-time, after all, and Gwen has always been a bit hands-off around the campers; she’s . . . not exactly maternal, and the unusualness of their new situation makes her far more uncomfortable than him. Her support largely comes in the form of common sense, observations he’d completely miss and ideas that never occur to him. Though she has a wonderful heart, Gwen is all brain. It works well -- David isn’t all that brainy, but he’s better at throwing his heart utterly into something.

So he does, with the kind of squared-jaw hopeful determination that leaves him exhausted and unable to sleep each night, his brain running over and over with thoughts and hopes and fears and ideas, above all ideas that multiply and branch until they’re full-scale plans. Plans full of holes, plans perhaps doomed to fail, but that’s what Gwen is for, when he’s finally ready to share his plans. When the heart has hung up activities and topics of conversation and a thousand ways to get Nurf to open up, scaffolded with lunatic, reckless optimism, she listens and writes in her journal and shores up the weak spots, tugs down his excitement so that his hopes don’t rise so tall they’ll collapse in on themselves.

She’s the rope around his ankles that makes sure he won’t build something he can’t get down from, so he doesn’t have to worry about anything except building.

And what does building look like with Nurf?

Quiet, at first. For someone who can so eloquently describe his issues, he isn’t really very chatty, and most of the time they work on their respective projects in silence. (One of David’s plans, tentatively titled Get Nurf to Share More About His Day, gradually deflates under the realization that he just doesn’t like talking about his day, and pushing him to share about classes or friends is more likely than not to result in him shutting down -- or throwing something. He puts it aside for now.)

Other plans are more successful. Teach Valuable Real-Life Skills is one; he picks up on things like carpentry and plumbing with an adeptness that exceeds even David’s most extravagant hopes, and soon he’s scrambling to find more things that tap into that well of enthusiasm. Sports, Violent Video Game Nights (which Gwen largely participates in because David is a bit squeamish about such things), Hiking and Mountaineering that is so much easier with only one or two people to corral instead of a dozen, and he’s already making plans for winter: skiing and snowshoeing and maybe even snowball fights, if he can teach Nurf how to do so without getting anyone hurt.

Learn Nurf’s Languages is a trickier plan, constantly ongoing. The slight slump of his shoulders that means something went badly in school, and the way he either does or doesn’t want to talk about it based on how fidgety he is. The jutted-out jaw and sullen silence that means he’s stumped and doesn’t want to admit it, the habit of clenching and unclenching his fists when he’s trying not to get angry. The little questions and observations that seem to come out of nowhere -- “Is there enough wood for the winter?” “I think the draft is coming from QM’s store; there’s a hole near the foundation” “When will you find out who’s coming back this summer?” -- that all add up to the same thing: a kid who’s trying to figure out what their future is going to look like, and if he’ll be in it.

Whenever he’s particularly helpful, uncharacteristically so, David takes a few extra hours that day to do something fun. He doesn’t know how long any of this is going to hold together, but he wants Nurf to know in no uncertain terms that for as long as it’s his and Gwen’s decision, that answer is going to be yes.

[tibbinswrites]

06&26 please! I will never pass an opportunity to read something from you :)

It has taken me days longer than it should and it was supposed to be short, but here it is, finally. Thank you so much for your patience, I hope it holds up.

Prompt #06&26 - Wings and Protection from this list

Inspired by this fantastic fic (seriously, it’s so much better than mine, go read it).

Love Tibbins xx

How I Met Your Brother

Cassat with Sam on the hood of the impala, watching Jack throw stonesinto the lake, twisting his wrist low to send them skipping over thewater like Sam had shown him. Dean was asleep on the picnic blanketto their right, one elbow sticking out from under his head, kneestucked up slightly. He’d probably be stiff when he awoke, and cold;the sun was beginning its slow descent towards the horizon andalthough the temperature hadn’t dropped dramatically yet, the windhad picked up from slight breeze to more constant chill. Not that Casfelt it beyond his intrinsic knowledge of what the temperature was,but Sam and Jack had already put on their jackets. Still, they alllet him sleep. He needed the rest and Cas could always heal his acheswhen he woke.

Thislunch outside had been a great idea of Dean’s, getting them all outof the bunker for some sunshine and quality time, something whichnone of them had been able to appreciate lately, particularly Sam. Hehad taken the loss of the Apocalypse World survivors hard, and theambiguity of Jack’s current state harder still, so seeing him smileand joke and gently poke Dean with a long branch until thestill-sleeping hunter batted at the offending weapon and rolled ontohis side, making Jack hold his hands over his mouth to try and stopthe laughter from waking the angry bear.

“I’mreal glad we did this, Cas,” Sam said quietly, watching thebranches of a willow tree where they trailed lazy patterns in thewater, “I don’t know how he knew that this was what I neededbut…” he gestured at the beautiful scene around them, thebeginnings of spring making itself known; flowers beginning to emergefrom the earth, greenery budding on branches, the sound of demandingchicks hassling their poor parents for food.

“Areyou surprised?” Cas asked, a smile in his voice, “He knows youbetter than anyone, as you know him.”

“Ithought I did,” Sam replied, a shadow crossing his face, “Ithought I knew what he needed, but when he- last time he neededsomething I just couldn’t figure it out. I let him be Agent Pageand I gave him beer at breakfast and I tried to take him to a stripclub. I felt like a kid, like I was trying to cheer him up in thestupid little ways that kids do. I didn’t know how to fix theproblem so I just tried masking it with stuff he liked. It didn’twork.”

“I’msure he appreciated the effort nonetheless,” Cas saiddiplomatically, “as you appreciate his efforts in cleaning up thebunker and doing your laundry and suggesting this. Isn’t it thesame? It doesn’t fix the problem, but it helps.”

Samsighed, a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from his very core, hiseyes fixed on Jack’s next stone that was too heavy to make a goodskipping stone and the corner of his mouth twitched up as it hit thewater with a disappointing plop. Jack wasn’t deterred though,searching through the pebbles on the very edge of the shoreline,muddying the water by stirring up the sand. Cas saw worry in Sam’shazel eyes, even through the stress and pain of loss there was aconstant, gnawing worry. Cas knew it, he felt it too.

“Whatdoes fix the problem?” Samasked him suddenly, “We’ve still got so much going on; I need tobe there for Jack, for everyone that’s left, for Dean, but I don’tknow how. I can’t even go into the library anymore. I stood outsideit for twenty minutes this morning, but I couldn’t go in, couldn’teven look. I just kept seeing Maggie-”

Heburied his face in his hands then. Not crying, like would be expectedof someone in this position and in this much raw pain, probablyforcing the tears down because of the boy skipping stones only yardsaway. Keeping up appearances, a lifelong habit.

“Ifailed them, Cas,” he mumbled through his fingers, “I failed allof them.”

“Whatcould you have done differently?”

“Something.”

Cas’heart went out to the man. Sam had grown so much in the last fewyears; ever since Cas had returned from the Empty Sam had beendifferent, he had taken on the parental role in Jack’s life whileDean had kept his distance, trying his absolute best to make surethat Jack never felt the same loneliness that he had as a child. Caswould be forever grateful to Sam for fulfilling his promise to Kellywhen he himself couldn’t. Not that that was why Sam had done it, ofcourse, he was just kind.

“Doyou-” Sam began, then he dropped his hands from his face and shookhis head, expression closing in on itself, “never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing,it’s… it’s stupid.”

“Tellme anyway.”

Samshot him a look, cautious, like he was worried Cas wouldn’tunderstand.

“Doyou think maybe Dean was right? That we should’ve let him go whenhe asked us to? We lost over twenty hunters, Cas. Good people whodidn’t deserve to die. And Jack had to burn off who knows how muchof his soul to save us. Would it have been better to let Dean get inthat damn box?”

Caschewed on his bottom lip; his immediate reaction was no,of course they were better off for having Dean here, how could Sameven think otherwise? But he knew that would be unhelpful, it wasclear that Sam already hated himself for thinking it.

“Perhaps,”he said instead, “but could you have lived with yourself if youhad?”

“Liveswould have been saved,”

“Butnot you brother.”

“Itwas what he wanted,”

“So?”

Sam’slips quirked at that. “I know,” he said quietly, “as wrong asit is, even after everything Michael did, I would rather have Dean.”

“Metoo.”

Theyfell silent for a little while, watching asJack eventually grew bored of throwing pebbles and began inspectingthe insects that gathered around the roots of nearby plants.

“Iknow what it’s like to lose people under your command,” he saideventually, “to be the only one left and feel like you failed thembecause of that.”

Samlooked at him, pushing his hair back from his face and tucking itbehind his ear.

“Bummission?” He asked,

“Quitethe opposite. It was the most important mission of my life,” hepaused a moment, “I never did tell you the story of how I raisedDean from Hell, did I?”

Samstarted at that, twisting his torso around to face him, “No. I- youdidn’t.”

“Iwas desperate to prove myself,” Cas said with a sigh, “Anna hadfallen only a few decades before and I had taken her place asgarrison leader in all buttitle, our reputation hadtaken a hit because of Anna’s rebellion but there was littleopportunity for any significant victories to try and rectify that.Still, our garrison was the most disciplined, the most tenacious inpursuing a goal. We had never failed a mission for Heaven. At thetime, I thought that was why I was chosen, but now I’m not so sure,perhaps they thought I would be a good decoy, or maybe they werehoping to get rid of me because of my reputation as a rebel among thehigher-ups, though, of course, I wasn’t aware of that.” Histhroat tightened, as it always did when he thought of Naomi and theparts of himself that he had lost thanks to her… treatments. Hewondered if he would ever regain those memories, he wasn’t sure hewanted to. “Regardless, they placed me with fourteen other angels,the best of the best, leaders of their own garrisons, and they gaveme command. There were three other groups sent as well of a similarsize. An army. We hadn’t been needed in such numbers sinceLucifer’s fall. We seemed to be much harder to kill back then.”

Hesmiled wryly at Sam, who was watching him, rapt.

“Assoon as we got word that the Righteous Man had arrived in the Pit, wewere sent to retrieve him. And so we laid siege to the gates. Mygarrison were strong, we worked well together and they trusted me aswell as any angel trusts their superior. Implicitly, whether or notit’s wise.”

Heremembered it well. A lot of his memories of his time in Heaven hadgone fuzzy around the edges—probablythe result of his bouncing from angel to human and back again, theloss of his grace and its diminished power—butthat war… every detail was as sharp as the day it happened, likeeach moment had been painstakingly sketched onto glass, preservedforever.

Theywere the last of the groups to arrive at the gates, Castiel had hopedto use the distraction at the main point of entry to see if he couldfind another one but Hell had closed all other ways in and out, would have closed the main gates too if that action was reversible.So they threw themselves into the assault; demons and almost-demonsand hellhounds and twisted creatures that had once been human souls,tortured into madness and forgetting their human forms, all of themfell before his blade. But there were always more; perhaps some wereeven the same ones, they were still in Hell after all, torment waseternal here. He and the others pushed forwards, breaking through thegates after only a year of fighting, but that was barely the firsthurdle, on the other side, as expected, was a veritable wall ofdamned creatures, all intent of destroying them. 

The bloodshed wasunending, angels didn’t tire and neither did demons, though whilethe latter revelled in the violence and chaos of it all, after adecade the angels began to flag. Hell was oppressive to their verybeings, everything that it was made of repelled them. The power ofsuch a place attacked more than just their physical forms, once pastthe threshold of the gates, they were bombardedwith the prayers. The walls of Hell kept them in usually, but oncethey were inside the bubble popped and the screams began. Thousandsupon thousands of them, praying to God, to His angels, to anyone whowas listening to help them, save them, stop the torment that theirhad brought upon themselves, either with a deal or a lifetime ofvice. 

Some angels fled at the onslaught and Castiel couldn’t blamethem. Whether or not you believed the souls here deserved their fate,it was another thing entirely to hear it. Noneof his retreated though and Castiel redoubled his efforts to make anopening, using the screams as motivation. He couldn’t aid all ofthem, but there was one, one voice in the millions that he could helpsave. He tried to pick it out, to focus on it, but as he had no ideawhat Dean Winchester’s voice sounded like, it was impossible. Buthe did pick one voice, a young American male, and pretended that itwas the Righteous Man. He fought for that voice, even as Kevial wassurrounded and torn apart, his grace shredded and tossed aside withno hope of retrieval. It was the first loss of the battle and it washis, but he forcedhimself to press on. He had sent Kevial up to scout from above, totry and see if they were almost through; a reckless decision, theywould know they were through when they got there, and it had costKevial his life.

Hesent Lanariel back to the edge of the fighting to recuperate after ahellhound had badly rent one of her wings and there she was caught bya group of demons who dragged her, screaming, back into the Pit.

Sherejoined the battle twelveyears later, her eyes flickering with corrupted grace, and Castielcut her down himself.

Hetoo was beginning to weaken, his grace starting to compress under thepressures of this place, where everything was blood and sulphur andbile. In a way to combat this he changed his form to a more compactshape; his earthly vessel, James Novak, onlywith the dimensions skewed so he was larger than the average human.He kept his wings, of course, mostly for practicality’s sake butalso so that he would be recognisable as an angel in the way that theRighteous Man thought of them, if he was still human enough torecognise anything. It had been sixteenyears on this plane since Dean Winchester had died on Earth, no doubthe was being given special attention by Hell’s best torturer,Alastair, to break him, to break the first Seal, if he hadn’talready.

Perhapsit was that desperate thought that caused him to dash through a briefcrack in the defending forces the second it opened. Itwas pure luck that he had been right next to it, slicing through ahellhound to reveal it and his just acted. The openingclosed behind him just as quickly, and although he hadn’t gonecompletely unnoticed, the distraction at the gates proved too largefor more than a few creatures to peel off and attack, though once hehad dispatched them, he knew that he wouldn’t have long before thevery presence of his grace drew attention like a beacon.

“SoI fled into Hell. I abandoned my garrison, left them to face thehoards of demons without me. It shouldn’t matter, they were allcommanders, one of the others would have been capable of leading, butit felt like a betrayal. I knew when Hell sensed my presence, I knewit because I heard my garrison, my siblingscrying out for mercy as they were overwhelmed. Hell had been contentto keep us fighting at the gates eternally, it has enough creaturesto spare, but the moment it knew that one of us was inside it endedthe battle.”

Casfelt his face twisting as he remembered the voices in his head, greatwarriors, pleading for a quick death.

“Ithink they were hoping to draw me back out if they tortured theothers,” he continued, taking a deep breath and comfort in thedelicate scent of honeysuckle and lilac and damp earth thataccompanied it. “Dozens ofangels crying out for me specifically to help them. Someof them lasted for years.I could have followed theircries, I might have saved even some of them. Instead I turned away.”

“Oh,Cas,” Sam said, it wasn’t the beginning of a longer thought,merely the reminder that he was there and that he was listening. Cashad never told this story before. Neitherof the brothers had asked aboutit and Cas hadn’t wanted toreopen old wounds. Still, it felt right that he talk about it now, toSam.

Itwas not the Hell of Crowley’s reign that greeted him; stone halls,demons confined to meatsuits, ego and efficiency;the Hell of Azazel’s rule was a labyrinth. Or it may have been theopposite. There was so much empty space it felt like flying through ablack hole. Even the constantbackground hum of the angels backin Heaven had been cut off, only those screaming for mercy;he had never felt so alone.There was nothingto see butflashes of demonic energy,the stench of rot and pain andsulphur, prayers like acacophony in his head and nowhere to hide fromthe occasional demon patrol that would attack him on sight.He followed the gentle tug of the Righteous Man’s soul, they’dbeen given that much by their superiors at least, animprint, not enough to visualise, but enough to be certain when helaid eyes in it.

Itwas a strange descent. Not only was he getting weaker each day, hiswounds taking longer to heal, the power of Hell beating down on himrelentlessly, but it felt… empty. It was draining, more drainingthan he would have expected. Constant battle would have kept himalert, finding his way through twisting paths would have engaged hismind, but as he flew towards Dean Winchester there were no landmarks,no walls, nothing to indicate that there was anything except for theprayers and that tug and the infrequentencounter with a feral creature. He was beginning to get anxious; hehad left his siblings to die all so he could complete the mission,but would he even make it that far?Angels were not supposed to be in this place; it was everything theystood against, concentrated and acidic and it was grating on his verygrace.

Itwas almost threeyearsbefore he reached the cages and by that time he was fatigued in a wayhe had never been before; the prayers hadgrown louder and now actualvoices joined them, hands grasping through bars, some to claw, othersto beg. He ignored them. These souls were damned for a reason afterall, none of them had been deemed worthy of salvation, so there wasno point even acknowledging them.

Still,striding through the rows of cages was… uncomfortable, it was hardto ignore the prayers when the ones praying were so close, it washard to turn his head from a sobbing child—what had theydone to deserve eternity here?—from a woman half-deranged withpain, from a man convulsing on the ground. The not-air around themall was thick and cloying, those in the cages might not need oxygen,but most of them probably weren’t aware of that yet. Indeed, manyof those he passed had scars on their throats, some still drippingopen. His hands balled into fists as they longed to reach out andtake away that pain; thatis what angels were made for, to heal, to help, to aide humans. Ofcourse they were warriors, but if he stood aside and did nothing, howwas he better than the demons who had trapped them here? What was hefighting for if not for them? He had to shake himself at thattraitorous thought, focus, you have a mission.Heaven needs you.

Sohe spread his wings once more and flew past the remaining cages,towards the source of the tug. Attacks from Hell’s swarms werebecoming more frequent now as he delved deeper, more twistedcreatures lunged at him from the dark, those that had forgotten whatlight was. He reminded them with a flash of grace; eyes burned,demons howled and alerted others, they were all searching for him, heknew it. They knew that he was inside and they knew what he was therefor, it was only luck that the very nature of Hell made it difficultto find anything at all, including an angel actively trying to avoiddetection.

Hewondered if Heaven had sent more angels after him, or if they hadsimply given up the mission as a lost cause. Dean Winchester hadbroken the first Seal after all, he had felt the snap inside hisgrace as the Seal splintered, a warning of something new, somethingonly spoken of with an air of reverence and skepticism in Heaven.There was no turning back, the Apocalypse had begun. Dean Winchesterwould be needed to house Michael, but that need was much lesspressing than protecting the other seals. He should be with them.Instead he was here, in this festering space of pain and despair. Andhere he would stay unless he could find the Righteous Man. He knewthat as surely as he knew the names of all the prophets. He would notleave Hell without Dean Winchester. He had abandoned his own for thismission, he would see it through. The tug had grown clearer over thepast few days, a more solid directional pull than just vaguelydownwards and the singular demonic entities became groups, leavinghim weaker with every pulse of grace he had to expend.

Fortyyears since Dean Winchesterhad arrived in Hell, Castiel found him. Or at least, he found a heavyfortification of demons and hellhounds and other monstrosities. Theywere clearly guarding something, and Castiel knew what. He kept hisdistance, scouted out the defences, staying out of sight. But he knewthat there would be no easy gap to slip through thistime, he was going to have toforce his way in. He dropped back for a moment, feeling the strain inhis wings, even his limbs were beginning to shake with the tremendouspower that Hell exuded. He could turn back. As soon as he left Hellthe security measures would become laxer, making it easier foranother group of angels to retrieve the soul later. He had not beenmade for a battleground such as this, there had never been shame inretreat.But thesoul had been in Hell for a long time already, Dean Winchester mightbe pure demon by the time Michael was ready to claim his vessel, andthat just wouldn’t do. It called to him, now he was close enough tohear it, though his view was blocked by the demons. It sounded…angry. Anger, guilt, pain and… was that relief? Was the soul awareof his presence?

Gatheringhis grace he shottowards the wall of demons, hoping that the element of surprise wouldgive him an edge. Well… they were definitely surprised at thearguablestupidity of his move but they rallied quickly and the battle beganin earnest. Castiel fought with everything he had. His wings wererazors and shields, his blade sangin his hand and his grace whipped around him, boiling eyes in theirsockets and leaving only husks behind; the soul became agitated,probably distressed that his saviour was outnumbered and alone.Castiel sent a surge of grace towards it, burning demons in the way,aiming to soothe, to show the soul all the might of his Heavenlypurpose.

Theprotective ring around Dean Winchester broke and the would-be guardsscattered; some fled, most died. When the last of them had been cutdown, before more could come, Castiel got a look at Dean Winchester’ssoul for the first time. It was… horrible. It wasn’t bound byrack or chains, thought there wasa rack, and a screaming soul was trapped on it. The Righteous Man wascarving strips of the soul’s imagined flesh but his head snapped upwhen his guard vanished and he whirled around to face his salvation.

Castielapproached slowly and the soul mirrored him in retreat, ananimalistic snarl rippling from its throat. It looked human, thissoul had not yet forgotten its earthly form, though it had apermanent bloody stain streaked across its naked skin and its facewas twisted in feral distrust and malice – probably a result of thebarely-healed scars and open wounds criss-crossing its entire form:bite marks and the lashes from whips, knife wounds and ragged slashespossibly from some kind of saw. In some places the skin hung inflaps, in others it was tight and shiny with burns. Castiel would becapable of healing that once they got out of here, but it was adisturbing sight all the same. He extended his hand and the soulflinched back.

“Comewith me, Dean Winchester.”

Thesoul bared its teeth, tinged orange with blood diluted with saliva.Castiel tried not to show his disgust. This is the creature thatHeaven deems worth saving?

Still,there was something about it. It didn’t shrink away from him or runto him, it just glared at him defiantly, there was somethinginteresting in that.

“Iam an angel of the Lord, I will not harm you.”

“Alastair!”The soul screeched, suddenly frightened, “Alastair!”

Itcalls for aid from a demon? Curious.

Heknew he did not have the time to talk this wretched soul into comingquietly, not with a thrum of power appearing in his periphery;Alastair probably, even among angels he was known, and feared.

“Iapologise for any discomfort,” he said instead before using hiswings to propel him forwards quicker than the soul could retreat. Hegrasped it by the shoulder and the Righteous Man screamed as hisflesh sizzled from the contact with his grace.

Almosta full demon, he thought, butnot quite. Not yet.

Heshot upwards, Dean Winchester thrashing in his grasp. Castiel pulledhim in tight, after all this he would not risk failing Heaven becausehe simply dropped his prize.It was a few days before a demon found them, despite the flurry ofactivity he could feel pulsing from the place, and all that time thesoul fought him. Growling disjointed words like ‘No’ and‘Alastair’ and ‘back’, also a few choice curse words thatCastiel would not repeat.

Castielcurled one wing around his writhingcharge as he fought thedemon. He didn’t need both to fly. He actually didn’t need to flyat all. Anywhere in Hell was floor if you demanded it be, though notall of Hell’s residents had figured that out yet, but fortravelling directly upwards flying was necessary, it was alsoquicker.

Thesoul had crowedwith delight when the demon appeared, but hissed when Castiel blastedit with grace and it disintegrated.

“Whydid you want it to win?” Castiel asked. It didn’t really matter,it wasn’t relevant to the mission, the wants of the creature in hisarms had no bearing on its fate but still… Castiel was curious.

“Back,”wasall the Righteous Man said.

“Youwill go back.” Castiel said. Deeming now as safe a place as any torest. He shouldn’t need it, but he did. So he dropped onto asuddenly solid surface and for the most part let Dean Winchester go,holding on only by the soul’s wrist. “You will be returned tolife on Earth. You have important work to do for Heaven.”

“Screwyou.” It said, trying its best to wrench itself from Castiel’sgrip, but even in his weakened state, Castiel held on easily.Ignoring the soul for the moment, Castiel gingerly spread his wings,wincing as the lacerations and would on them were stretched. Heseemed to have stopped healing almost entirely now. The pain waseasier to ignore when they were moving, but it would benefit him inthe long run to keep track of the damage, knowing his limitations ina fight was vital, and he knew that there would be a lot morefighting before the mission was done. The human watched him,suspiciously, eyeing his wings.

“Angelsaren’t real.”

Thiswas perhaps the most perplexing thing the human had said. Castielturned his attention from his wings and back to the soul in front ofhim.

“Yousold your soul to a demon.”

“Demonsare real.”

“I’man angel.”

Deansaid nothing to that. Castiel gestured around them, to the sicklyred-grey dimness and the screams of the damned.

“Weare literally in Hell. You didn’t think there might be anopposite?”

Deanjust shrugged. “Take me back.”

“Ialready told you-”

“Alastair.”

Castielsquinted at the soul, “I don’t understand.”

Deanscoffed and turned away from him as much as Castiel’s grip allowed.Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to explain himself and Castiel wastoo tired to push. Tired… that was a new feeling. One that didn’tsit well with him given his current location. He might not need tosleep but he did need to rest, he needed a few hours to not expendany grace or use his wings. That was… not ideal. But if he wasgoing to recover enough strength to get the Righteous Man out of herethen it was necessary.

Hegot forty minutes before a patrol of three demons found him. Heburned one of them with grace but that left him feeling drained andweak. His fighting the others was sloppy and resulted in a few newinjuries, one of them almost grabbed the soul in his arms but Castielused one of his wings to slice through the creature’s flesh,removing its reaching arm and causing it to stumble backwards. Headvanced, suddenly furious that this thing had dared try to harm hischarge.

Castielwas not fool enough to think that they could linger after that, nomatter the protestation of his wings. He flew, more slowly than hewould have liked. For once, Dean Winchester didn’t fight him, andfor that he was grateful.

Itwas only a few days before he had to stop again. The demons werestarting to pinpoint his location and trajectory out of Hell so henow had to fly horizontally as well as vertically just to keep themfrom swarming him. It was taking more time and energy than he had tospare and he was starting to think that he would be unable tocomplete his mission. He also had to keep hold of Dean at all times,he had lunged for Castiel’s angel blade more than once, though hadyet to be successful.

“IfI let you go, will you try to run or attack me?” Castiel asked himas they alighted on the non-floor once more. Castiel’s legsactually gave out from underneath him as they hit a solid surface andhe crumpled ungracefully. That was embarrassing. Hiswings trembled with strain and he let them relax behind him, notfolded tightly into his back or stretched out. Dean eyed them, theneyed him, and shook his head.

Dean’seyes were strange things. They were green, which was not unusual,though they had flickered black a few times since Castiel had takenhim. Again, considering the position Castiel had found him in, thatshould be unsurprising. But while a lot of the souls here had hadeyes glazed over with pain or apathy or fear or even acceptance oftheir fate, Dean’s were sharp and alert. They calculated everythingand projected nothing and he seemed suspicious, guarded and careful.It was intriguing to say the least. Perhaps there was indeed more tothis human soul than he had first thought.

Castiellet Dean’s wrist fall from his grip and Dean jumped backwards,snatching his arm up to his chest and scratching at where Castiel hadheld him until he began to bleed. But he didn’t run or attack, soCastiel left him to it. His self-inflicted wounds would only re-healwhen he stopped scratching, only the damage intended for the soulitself would remain.

Timepassed and still Castiel did not rise. They were as safe as theycould be at the moment and he felt the sluggish pull of his gracetrying to knit together his many wounds. He sent it towards hiswings; those were what he needed most, and what the demons tried totarget when they attacked, but it was an increasingly slow process.In the meantime, Castiel watched Dean. The soul kept a distance fromhim but didn’t stray too far. After a while he began to pace in acircle with Castiel at its centre, his posture tense and aggressive.It almost felt like Dean had set up a perimeter around him and wasscouting for danger. This amused Castiel, a human guarding an angel.The whole thing was so absurd he actually laughed. Dean flinched atthe sound and whirled to face him, staring at him in outright shock,asthough he hadn’t heard a laugh not tainted with evil in decades. Heprobably hadn’t. Come tothink of it, neither had Castiel and he hadn’t realised how badlyhe’d missed the sound. Not that it was a regular occurrence inHeaven but Uriel got a few laughs on occasion.

“What’s funny?” Dean snarled at him.

“That you seem to be protecting me. It’s humorous.”

Dean looked unsure at that, downright unsettled even.

“Fine, die then.”  he spat, dropping to sit cross-legged on the‘floor’, arms tightly folded. “See if I care.”

Castiel tilted his head at the strange soul. He does care,he realised suddenly. Even though he hates me, he recognises thatI’m trying to help.

“Apologies,” Castiel said, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Take me back.” Dean said after a pause.

“Back to Alastair?”

Dean jerked his head.

Castiel tilted his head.

“Why?”

“Why does it matter? Take me back and go home.”

“It matters,” Castiel said calmly, “because my reason for beinghere is to retrieve you. God commanded that you be saved. If I wereto return you to your torment, I would be going against God’s will,against Heaven and my purpose. I would also be forfeiting my life, asI do not have the physical strength to return you and then escapeHell. If I am to die, I would like to know if it would be worth it.”

Dean stared at him for a long time, those eyes seeming to search hisvery grace as they mulled over his answer.

“Not worth it,” he said eventually, turning away, “not foryou.”

Castiel frowned at the soul in front of him. This was nothing like hehad expected. He had had images of a pitiful creature that would sobits gratefulness for rescue, glad for an end to the tortures ofHell’s most depraved. Instead, this one wanted to go back.

“You don’t deserve to be here, Dean Winchester.” Castiel saidgently.

Dean flinched.

“Shut up.”

Castiel didn’t argue the point, he didn’t have the energy andthey had lingered too long as it was. He stood and stretched hiswings; some of the deeper claw marks had begun to close and thedeeper tissue damage had mostly healed, it was the best he could hopefor.

Surprisingly, when he saw Castiel stand, he didn’t try to bolt.Instead he walked towards him and extended his arm.

Castieltook it and flew once more.

***

“Behindyou!” Dean yelled mid-flight. He had been pressed against Castiel,his head hooked over Castiel’s shoulder. The more Hell’sinfluence faded from his soul, the more of what Castiel liked tothink of as the real Deancame into view and themore of Dean Winchester that he saw, the more intrigued he was. Deanwas surly and irritable but he had anintelligence and a razor witthat Castiel liked. Apparently,Dean did not like flight, andso had begun to cling as though afraid that Castiel would drop him,despite his attempts at reassurance. Truthfully, Castiel did notmind. And seeing as Castiel’sown senses had dimmed to a dangerous level, he was grateful for theextra pair of eyes, especially seeing as Dean seemed to have changedhis mind regarding demons and whether or not he wanted Castiel towin.

Castielspun, bringing one wing around to shield Dean as he swung with theopposite arm, his blade sinking into the neck of the attackinghalf-soul. It shrieked and hissed unpleasantly and scrabbled itsclaws along the wing that was covering Dean’s form. Castiel criedout but did not pull it away, to do so would expose Dean, and hewould not see the Righteous Man harmed. He kicked the almost-demonaway, ripping the blade out as he did so, yanking it across. The bodyfell into the depths of the Pit,its head flapping unnaturally on the remaining sinew keeping itstrung to the torso. Anotherdemon lungedat him from behind, landing on his back and sending him spinningoff-kilter, grace now pouring from the joints where his wings met hishuman-shaped back. Castielcurled himself around Dean, wings in tight as thedemon tore at his back andbit at his neck, it was a sign of how weak Castiel was that thoseteeth could even break his skin. He endured the onslaught until therewas a slight pause in the attack, then he acted, swinging one of hiswings out with force to dislodge the demon and following the momentumaround, blade aimed for the creature’s heart. The blade hit trueand the demon screeched as it died, following its brethren in a fall.

Onlytwothis time, he thought as hedropped Dean on the now-floor and collapsed ina heap where he landed, thatwas unusual these days. Hewas more likely to come across groups of three or four lately.They were closing in on the gates, he knew, buthe didn’t know what awaited them there. An army of Hell-spawncertainly, but would there be any angels to help him, tofinish the task of saving Dean Winchester? Castiel was fully awarethat he might not make it out the other side of this mission. Infact, he had almost hoped for it. The guilt of sacrificing hisgarrison weighed heavy and the idea of returning to accolades andpraise disgusted him. He had to finish the mission, and then he coulddie of his wounds. There was honour in that.

Butnow… he wasn’t even surehe could make it that far. The stench of Hell was all around him,seeming to feed on his very grace. Hecouldn’t endure it anymore, he wasn’t strong enough, he-

“Hey,open your eyes, you wingeddick,” came a ragged voicefrom in front of him. Automatically Castiel obeyed and the hard edgesof Dean Winchester’s face swam into view.

“Dean,”he said, as though he were pleasantly surprised by the soul’spresence, “are you hurt?”

Deanscoffed and ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit that hadreplaced the scratching, for which Castiel was grateful.

“AmI hurt? Your wingslook like a freaking beadcurtain right now.”

“Idon’t know what that means.”

“Itmeans they’reshredded, idiot. And I left my emergency surgery kit in my othersoul so unless you can mojoyourself better we’re grounded.”

“Theywill heal,” Castiel said, strugglingto push himself to sitting, “itmay take some time before I can fly again. I apologise for thedelay.”

Hiswords came out more biting than he meant them but astonishingly, Deansmirked until he walked out of Castiel’s view and around topresumably inspect the damage.

“Sohe’s got some sass in him after all, good to know,” he said,“hey, why do you bleed blue mist?”

“It’smy grace, it’s what I use to heal myself, what makes me an angel,”Castiel explained between heavy breaths that he shouldn’t need.

“Soit’s probably bad that it’s floating away then.”

“Itwill replenish.”

“Andhow long will that take?”

Castielgrimaced as Dean poked at a deep scratch on his back, “I’m notsure.”

“Great.”

Theylapsed into a long silence, hours passed and Castiel was still losinggrace faster than it could restore itself. That was worrying. If hedied here, what would Dean do? He could not escape Hell on his own,he couldn’t even hide. Castiel had toget him out, or at least keep him safe until his siblings launchedanother mission. He would not allow Dean’ssoul to be returned toAlastair, no matter what. Hehad only just begun to heal, purely from the lack of constant tortureand an angelic companion, freckles previously hidden by gore nowdotted Dean’s form, his eyes now sparked with emotion whensomething amused or frustrated him, he spoke in confusing slang andno longer jumped away from Castiel as soon as they paused to rest.Castiel could not let that light be dimmed again.

Thatwas all that mattered. It was more than his mission now, it wassomething he wanted desperately, to keep Dean Winchester safe.

“Dean,”Castiel said, his voice measured, Dean,who had taken up his pacing again, stopped and backed up so he was inview.

“Ithink we are going to have to delay your return. I’m sorry.”

Deanrolled his eyes, “Whatever, man, take the time you need, it’s notlike I’m going anywhere without those flappers anyway.”

“I’mnot going to make it out of Hell,” Castiel continued, ignoring thechange in Dean’s expression, aslight tightening around the mouth,“but I can protectyou. I can change my form, concentrate my grace into a shield aroundyou. It won’t be using energy on flight or movement so it will notweaken and my grace will replenish more quickly. No demon will beable to get through. You willbe safe until my siblings come for you.”

“Okay…”Dean said, “And if you get back to full power before that happens,you’ll just pop back out, right?”

Castielsmiled, suddenly sad that he would never see Dean Winchester restoredto life. “No, Dean. Mywings are too deeply damaged, it would take more grace than I possessto heal them enough to fly again, andchanging my form into something non-sentient would be permanent.”

Deanwas shaking his head violently, “No, hellno.”

“Dean-”

“I’mnot gonna just sit in some angel-bubble for who knows how long justso that you can get out of babysitting duty. You are notleaving me here alone, you understand?!”

“Mysiblings-”

“Theyain’t here!” Dean yelled, “I’mnot pinning my hopes on somefeathered assholes who don’t evencare where you’ve been for the last decade.”

“You’drather pin your hopes on a dying angel who can’t fly?”

“I’mpinning my hopes on you.”Dean snapped, “You’re the most stubborn son of a bitch that Iever met. You just took out two demons and you’ve been flying onfumes for weeks straight and you wanna give up now?”

“I’mnot givingup,”Castielinsisted, trying not to give sound to the frustration that only Deanhad been able to bring out in him, “I’m being practical. Thereare other angels, Dean, and I can protect you long enough for them toget here. Thisis the only way I can think of that will make sure you never end upin Alastair’s hands again. This is the only way to saveyou.”

Castielsensed rather than heard Dean’s flinch,

“Inever asked you to save me,” he said, his voice shaking with rage,“I never asked anybodyto save me. I’m not some freaking damsel in distress princesslocked in a tower, I got myselfhere. I made a deal and I knew where it was going, so don’t actlike I didn’t sign up for this, likeIdon’t deserve everything that I get.There are people here who were tricked into their deals, or were tooyoung to know what they were selling, that ain’t me. Youwanna go out in a blaze of glory? Go die for one of them instead.”

Hestepped forward and prodded at Castiel’s back again. “NowI’mnot anangel surgeon but I know a little something about first aid, so Iguess the first step is to stop you from bleeding, leaking, whatever,right?”

“Dean,wait-”

ButDean had already pressed his hands directly onto what was probablythe wound losing the most grace, right at the joint of his wings.Castiel cried out. Painlanced through him, then horror ashis grace began to pull at the soul so valiantly trying to help himas though attempting to steal its energy. Castiel jerked forward,away from Dean’s touch, and rolled to face Dean, holding a hand outin front of him, “Stop!”

“Don’tbe such a baby,” Dean scoffed, “I know awaddedshirt would be better but-”

“Thatwas incrediblydangerous.” Castiel said, a growl leaking into his voice. “You’relucky you didn’t explode.”

Ithad been like a shot of adrenaline in a human brain, a sudden rush ofenergy, intenseand overwhelming.

“Dramaticmuch?”

“Fora human soul to come in direct contact with grace is notsomething to take lightly.” Castiel admonished, “I don’t evenknow what would happen, it hasn’t been done in eons.”

Deancrossed his arms, sceptical, “I’lltell you what happened,you’ve stopped leaking.”

“What?”

Deanjust raised an eyebrow so Castiel craned his neck and tested hiswings. Dean was right, the superficial damage on his wings had closedover, even if he could feel the deeper tissue trauma. It would takeless time for his grace to replenish now. Thatdidn’t mean he wasn’t angry.

“You’rewelcome.”

“Icould have destroyedyou.”

“I’malready dead.”

Castielclenched his jaw, “AndI would be unable to reverse that if my grace had absorbed you.”

“Thatsounds like a you problem. Myproblem is making sure that no one else dies for me, you got it?”

“You’re…infuriating.”

“Hey,I never claimed to be an angel, pal. AndI just saved your feathered butt, so maybe stop with the name-callingand make with the healing so we can get out of here. Look, whateversoul damage I got from that weeny little shot you’re gonna fixlater anyway, right? So we might as well use it. And no more stupidtalk about becoming a shield or whatever. We get out of this togetheror not at all, because I’m telling you right now, if your‘siblings’ show up, I ain’t going with them.”

Castielgrumbled but refrained from mentioning the fact that Dean would havelittle to no say in the matter if it came to that, but his angerdimmed into a warm glow that he didn’t quite understand,unexpectedly touched at Dean’s obvious wish for him to stay alive.

***

Thingsbecame marginally easier after that, Castiel regained his ability tofly within a few hours and they set off once more, energy restored.Dean was generous with his soul energy, though never more than oneshort burst at a time, Castiel had been explicitly firm on thatpoint, and he had to admit that Dean had been right, it gave him anextra edge in battle and he was going to need that it they were everto make it to the gates. Even if it made him tainted in the eyes ofHeaven, even if it meant thathisgrace was so weak he needed to tangle it with a human soul; it wasfilthy, it was unheard of, it wasthe most beautiful thing Castiel had ever experienced. For onreceiving Dean’s gift, he saw,he truly saw what was under the layers of trauma and guilt anddespair and rage that Dean gathered around himself. He felt his soulas pure and glorious as it had been before Hell, not unmarked truly,but bright and delicate and good. Castiel kept those thoughts tohimself. They were not right, they were not related to the mission.But Castiel took to staring at Dean when they paused to rest, tryingso hard to see what he could feel when Dean touched his wings.Sometimes he did, when Dean smiled at him one time without sarcasm ormalice, he saw it then and it caught his breath.

Deanslowlybegan to open up about things that he missed onEarth. He talked about food, and women, and his car, andalcohol. But it took him almosttenyears of travelling together to ask about his brother.

“Hey,so you know a bit about me, right?” Dean said, shuffling his feeton the not-floor.

Castielcocked his head, “I have learned much since meeting you.” Theywere waiting for his grace to rally once more, he had taken a set ofclaw marks to one of his wings, perfectly placed to sever one of hismain tendons. It was excruciatingly painful, but Castiel did not letit show. Pain was just a thing he could ignore and it was worthignoring it so long as Dean didn’t think he needed some ‘souljuice’. Castiel was worried about how much soul was now blendedwith his grace. He would return it, of course, when the oppressivepressure of Hell was gone, allowing his grace to replenish as quicklyas it could, but it was weakening Dean day by day and he didn’tknow how much more he could give without doing something irreparable.

“Imean, from before. You know about my life, right? That I was a hunterand we killed a lot of bad things?”

“Iwas given a summation.”

“Right.So… you know about my brother.”

“Ofcourse.” Castiel didn’t elaborate. He didn’t like thinkingabout the boy with the demon blood. Theyhad gotten word on the battlefield of what Sam Winchester wasbecoming without his brother there to guide him, and it had beenprophesied as to how it would all end. Hedid not like to think of Dean becoming a vessel for Michael anymore, it felt less like the natural order of things and more like apreventable loss.

“He’sdead, right? I mean it’s been, what, nearly fifty years? Huntersdon’t live that long.”

“Actuallyit’s only been a few months on Earth.” Castiel said, “yourbrother is alive.”

Thatput a light in Dean’s eyes like Castiel had never seen before,“Really? You better not be screwing with me, man.”

“I’mtelling the truth. Or at least, he was alive when I entered Hell, Idon’t know what’s happened since.”

“He’sokay,” Dean told him, “Sammy’stough, tougher than me. He’s fine.”

Castielsaid nothing. It was clear that this was important to Dean and hedidn’t want to ruin it by informing him about the demon that wascurrently his brother’s only companion.

“We’regonna get out of here,” Dean said, a small, hopeful smile on hisface that buried itself deep into Castiel’s chest, “I’m gonnasee him again.”

“Yes.”

***

“Andhe was right.” Cas concluded, smiling atthe sun now restingon the horizon, glancing at Sam to see tears in his eyes. Jackwas back to skipping stones in the lake, concentrating fiercely, “Wegot through. We got close enough to the gate that I began to hearsnatches of angel radio again, I sent out a signal, told them that Ihad the Righteous Man but I needed help to get him out. Heavenrallied, sent all the angels it could spare, including my originalgarrison. Hell’s army was as numerous as it had ever been and welost even more angels in the fight. But Dean leant me his strengthand we managed it. Together.”

Hefelt pride welling up in him, as much as he had felt when he hadflownthrough the hoard of demons like a bullet, ignoringthe demons that harried at him,and come out the other side, unfurling his singed and battered wingsto reveal Dean’s grinning face,

“Didwe make it?”

“Yes,Dean,” Castiel had said, his arms holding the human soul just astightly as his wings had, “we made it.”

Ithad taken several days for Castiel to recover enough to be able totake on the task of healing Dean. The other angels had tittered aboutthe presence of human soul intermingled with his grace and Naomi hadrequested a meeting for once Dean had been returned to Earth, ameeting he would not be able to attend because of Pamela Barnes’and then Dean’s own interference. But he was praised by hissuperiors and promoted to official commander of his garrison, despitethe fourteen angels in his charge that he had allowed to die. Thoughthe garrisons of those fourteen did not forget as quickly.

Deanhad not allowed any other angel near him while Castiel was healing.Zachariah tried and even Michael paid a rare visit but Dean sent themboth away without a conversation and certainly without a healing.When Castiel was deemed well enough, he was instructed by an annoyedZachariah to begin the process himself.

“You’rethe only one he can seem to stand,” he huffed, practically shovinghim into the room where Dean was being kept and closing the doorbehind him.

Deanwas crouched in a corner defensively, but he stood when he recognisedCastiel.

“Yoursiblings are all dicks.” He said by way of a greeting, “All theywanna talk about is the Apocalypse and using me as a meat suit, it’sgross.”

“Wedon’t interact with humans much.” Castiel said, “I’m afraidwe are very practical creatures.”

“LikeI said, dicks.”

“Iam one of them, you know.”

“Nah,”Dean said, “you’re different.”

“Thankyou?”

Deanlaughed, it was small and shaky but it was real. “So it’s timenow, right? E.T. goes home?”

“Thoseare not your initials.”

Deanlaughed again, Castieldecided that he liked the sound very much.“Heal me up, doc,” Deansaid, spreading his arms out.

Castielstepped forward. “My name isn’t ‘Doc’,” he said, raisinghis hand to begin sending healing grace pouring into the soul infront of him, but before he could, Dean grabbed his wrist andmet his eyes.

“Whatis it? Your name? You never said.”

“Castiel.”

Deannodded and released his wrist. “Cool. I’mma call you Cas.”

Baffled,Castiel blinked at him, “Why?”

“’Causeit’s shorter,” Dean said sardonically, “and it suits you.Sounds less stuffy.”

“Myname is not ‘stuffy’,” Castiel huffed, flickinghis fingers in quotation,though he wasn’t opposed tothe nickname.

“Nah,it’s not so bad. But I mean, you’ve got a better nickname from methan Junklessout there,” he jerked his chin towards the door and grinnedconspiratorially at him. Cas couldn’t help but smile, even thoughZachariah was a well-respected and high ranking member of Heaven andhe had no authority to poke fun.

“Alright,stand still,” Castiel instructed, raising his hand once more. Deanshuffled a little but did as he was told.

Castielbegan on Dean’s face, healing away the scratches and the red tintto his skin, remnants of the blood he had shed. Under the healing,Dean’s hair lightened to sandy brown and the freckles, which Cashad only caught glimpses of before now, came into glorious view. Evenhis eyes grew more vibrant incolour.

“Theylook like peas.” Castiel mused aloud.

“What?”

“Youreyes, they look like spring peas.”

Deansnorted, and a new red tinge appeared on his cheeks, though it wasfar more endearing than the one he had just healed, “That’s gottabe one of the worst pick-up lines I’ve ever heard.”

“Idon’t know what that is. I have picked you up many times.”

Deanmade another amused sound but said nothing.

Theritual continued. Molecule by molecule, Dean’s soul was re-shapedinto what it had once been, although Castiel knew that he could noterase all of what Alastair had done.

“Areyou getting rid of all my scars?” Dean asked suddenly.

Castielblinked at him.

“Ihad a long white one here,” he pointed to his right elbow, “froma werewolf hunt when I was fourteen, and I had somehere,” he gestured to his abdomen, though he didn’t meetCastiel’s eyes, “from the night Sammy left.”

Castieldid not enquire, but he recognised the point about scars. They wereimperfections on Dean’s soul, true, but Castiel had found that theyonly added to Dean’s beauty. They were a testament to what he hadbeen through, a story told through puckered skin and raised tissue.Perhaps they were important to him.

“Doyou want to keep them?”

Deanconsidered, then shook his head, “I don’t need to be remindedanymore.”

SoCastiel erased them and, oneby one, Dean recounted thestories of how he had gotten them; most of them anyway, there weresome that he wouldn’t talk about. He was passing over Dean’s leftshoulder when Dean stopped him,

“Leavethat one.”

Castielactually took a half-step back, “what?”

“Youcan leave ’em, right? Leave that one.”

Castielplaced his hand over the raised mark on Dean’s arm, his fingers fitperfectly, “You’re sure?”

Deannodded, “Junkless told me that I’m not gonna remember you. Hesaid that I ‘needed to be introduced to angels properly’. Bastarddidn’t say anything about making me forget the rest though.”

“Ican make you forget it all if you want.” Castiel offered. That wasdangerous, he had been given strict instructions to only erase thememories of himself and their escape from Hell, but Castiel had seemhim down there, revelling in doling out the torture that he himselfhad endured. The person that Castiel had come to know would not beable to abide what he had done, perhaps it was best that he forget.

“No,”Dean said softly, “I need to remember. I need to know what I canbecome.” After a moment, heshook himself, “so leave that scar, okay? If there’s one thing Ididn’t hate about thatplace, it’s you.”

“Verywell.”

***

Oncethe healing was done, Castiel raised his palm to Dean’s head. Hefelt an intense sorrow that Dean was not going to recall anythingabout him, but Heaven had a plan, and Castiel was made to follow thatplan.

“Bye,Cas.” Dean said with a wobbly smile that Castiel tried to return,“Drop by some time, okay? I’d like to meet you again.”

Castielnodded, though he had no idea if he could keep such a promise.

“Goodbye,Dean.”

***

“Ittook me moments to restore Dean’s body and place his soul inside.Heaven told me that it was important he be returned exactly where hisbody lay, but now I think they were just being petty. I should haveleft him somewhere beautiful.”

“AndDean doesn’t remember any of it?” Sam asked, glancing at thestill-sleeping figure, though he would probably wake soon, he was alight sleeper.

“No,but sometimes he’ll say things, turns of phrase that soundfamiliar, that kind of thing. Perhaps part of him remembers. Memoryis complicated, it’s impossible to erase everything.”

Theylapsed into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, just taking inthe scene, the shadows were getting longer, the temperature wasdropping incrementally butdespite all that it was serene.This place was truly calming.

“Iunderstand your feelings of failure, Sam,” Cas said eventually,“you weren’t there for people you felt responsible for and theysuffered because of it. But if I had turned back to try and save mybrethren, I would not have saved Dean. And the only way to haveprevented Maggie and the others from dying would have been to lockDean in the Mal’ak box and drop him in the ocean. Butyour choice wasn’t so clean-cut as choosingwho to save. Andit’s hard, because you cared about them, but you have to forgiveyourself. Dean is here, and Michael is dead and those are good thingsand we will deal with therest. You proved yourself awise and capable leader, Sam. Don’t let this discourage you fromtrying to help those that survived. Don’tshut yourself off to the possibility that this time, things mightjust work out.”

Deanstirred and groaned, loudly stretching out on the blanket. Samflashed Cas a quick smile and wiped at his face.

“Thanks,Cas,” he said, nudging him gently with his shoulder, “I think Ireally needed to hear that.”

[sofreddie]

The Winchester Way - Part 13

Summary: Sam wakes after falling unconscious and learns something new about Mary.

Characters: Mary, Sam, John

Word Count: 1,726

Warnings: Angst, TW: Suicidal Ideation, Mentions of Torture

A/N: HEED THE WARNINGS!!! Years ago I saw a movie, called The Life of David Gale. Brilliant movie, you should watch it. Anyway, in the movie, they talked about a modern psychological torture method and I researched it further. The Securitate are the real secret police of the former Republic of Romania. And the torture technique mentioned was one of their favorites. It’s pretty sick, the general concept of what they did.  Anyway, there’s your random education for the day. But I used that as a sort of inspiration for what John did to Sam in a way. Yeah, equally sick, I know. UNBETA’D. Feedback is appreciated. : )

Series Masterlist

Previously…

“Give it back, Y/N. Don’t make me take it from you.” He reached out his open hand, waiting for her to return it. Y/N paused, before sighing, slowly walking forward to place it in his hand. Sam growled with impatience as she hovered close to his hand, causing her to jump and drop the pendant. Sam’s eyes went wide as it fell, hitting the ground, bouncing and rolling. His eyes jumped to Y/N. A lump formed in her throat, knowing whatever was coming wasn’t good. Might as well make it count, she thought as she suddenly stomped on the pendant with her heal. A crunch was heard before the room exploded in blue light, blinding them. Then nothing but the sound of Sam’s agonizing screams.

Mary sat on the side of her bed, staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. It happened almost every night now. She’d feel the pull of her Soul calling to her, beckoning her back to Heaven where it resided. She’d remember her time there.

Though she had only died for a few short minutes, her time in Heaven seemed to stretch on in the best way. She’d get caught up in herself, arguing with herself over staying or going, and finally struggling to silence her Soul. She was aware, every time that John was there. Every time he tried to bring her back, snap her out of it. But she couldn’t. If she broke her focus, she’d lose and give in to the sweet promise of Heaven.

Mary knew she couldn’t leave. She so desperately wanted to, but couldn’t. John had gone against everything he knew and believed in just to keep her by his side. But it changed him. The more Crowley threatened to take Mary away, the worse things John did to keep her there. The darkness and weight of his actions seeped deep into him, staining his heart and Soul. Mary watched with guilt and silence as John changed into a monster.

But what could she do? Everything he did, he did to keep her by his side. She knew she’d do the same for him. And while John was becoming increasingly sinister and spontaneous, his love and demeanor towards Mary never changed. When he held her, when they lay together, he was her John, the man she fell in love with, built a life with.

If she was no longer there, Crowley couldn’t use her as a pawn. But then everything, all that John did and became, would then be without reason. Mary couldn’t handle the guilt of all of the pain, the darkness, the complete disregard for the traditions of The Way...it was all because of her.

With time, her misery consumed her. Her secret of being soulless, feeling her connection to Heaven, all of it was her burden to bare alone. Hers and Crowley’s. It slowly ate at her, consumed her. Until day in and day out, outside of the trances, all she could think about was her and John dying. Maybe if they were both gone, the world would be right again.

Sam came to, wincing from the pain in his head and body. What the Hell happened? He forced himself to open his eyes and sit up. He was in his room, the overhead light turned off, the room dimly illuminated by the soft lighting of his desk lamp. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a silhouette sitting in the chair by his desk.

“You’re awake.” John said, standing from the chair and turning on the overhead light before moving to Sam’s beside.

“What happened?” Sam asked, genuinely confused, as he threw his legs over the side of the bed, clutching his head.

“Seems you were attacked by Y/N.” John stated. Y/N.

“Give it back, Y/N. Don’t make me take it from you.”

Sam shook his head as flashes came to his mind, pieces of his memory clicking into place. Sam remembered the necklace, but didn’t feel it’s weight resting against his chest. He unconsciously rubbed his hand over his chest, confirming its absence.

“How do you feel?” John asked carefully, biting his lip as he watched Sam with scrutiny. I don’t feel anything, Sam remembered. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmed with sadness and anger. “What’s going on, Sam?” John asked again, drawing Sam’s full attention to him. Another flash, and Sam remembered John beating Dean. Remembered he had helped. Remembered he threw him in the dungeon.

“I don’t feel anything, really. A headache, I guess.” Sam said, keeping his voice calm and indifferent. He stood, fighting against the pain he felt, hiding it. Sam felt panicked. As his memories came flooding back to him, he felt one thing very clearly...rage. Rage for John, for what he had done to Sam, to Dean, what he had made Sam do…

Sam knew he couldn’t reveal any of this to his father. John wasn’t stupid. He was cunning and strategic and brutal. Sam knew he’d somehow end up in the dungeon like Dean.

“What happened to Y/N?” Sam, again, trying to maintain a level tone. John smiled, patting his son on the back.

“Don’t worry. She assaulted you. Hell, some might argue she tried to kill you.” John’s smile grew sinister as he faced Sam. “And Hunters don’t kill other Hunters.” John teased. More memories and Sam’s anger grew more. His nostrils flared and John noticed. “Are you angry?” John goaded in mock concern.

“No, Sir.” Sam was quick to reply, getting himself back under control. “Just disappointed I couldn’t address the situation myself.” Sam gave a half-smirk to John. John laughed heartily.

“Good to see you’re ok.” John responded, walking towards the door. “You can see to her when you’re well.” He added before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. Sam let out a long breath as he let his wall crumble and allowed himself to process...everything.

Regardless of the whirlwind of emotions bubbling inside of him, Sam still had responsibilities. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, but his memories continued to return to him in painful flashes.He spent a long time in his room, quiet and thinking over everything.

“I won’t leave, I promise!” The words reverberated off the walls of Sam’s mind as he remembered the look on Y/N’s face as she spoke them, the absolute fear there. Then he remembered. He had said the same, felt the same, as he looked up at his father from the table. Sam quickly realized that John had stolen his Soul, making him a shell, a perfect soldier.

Sam had read, years before in his constant learning and research of the world, about a group called the Securitate, a secret police agency of Romania. They were known for one of their preferred methods of torture, wherein a victim was bound, forced to swallow the key, and left to die, usually by suffocation, knowing the whole time their freedom was within. Sam couldn’t help but feel sick, the ghostly burn of the pendant reminding him of its former place, his proverbial key within.

Sam did get sick then, hurrying to the wastebasket and releasing all the contents of his stomach in violent heaves. His emotions, for so long gone, were overwhelming. The memories of what he had done, of how everything twisted and became so perverse. It was why he wanted to leave to begin with, he saw it coming.

Sam quickly adjusted himself, wiping his face on his sleeve and standing to attention when he heard his door quickly open and shut. He was shocked to see Mary there, breathing heavy and staring up at Sam.

“Mom?” Sam asked cautiously. He didn’t know if she too was aware of the necklace, of what had been done. He only knew he had to pretend nothing had changed and trust no one. At least until he could figure something out.

Mary didn’t move. Still leaning against the door, she looked up at Sam, her eyes slightly wide. She slowly stood straight, walking towards Sam and tucking his hair neatly behind his ear while he rested her hand on his cheek lovingly.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered. Sam hadn’t heard her talk much at all in years because of her illness. They all just assumed she was hit with madness that gradually got worse. Some sort of brain deterioration. Sam remained wary as he removed Mary’s hands from him and shuffled her to sit in the chair by his desk.

“Why are you sorry?” Sam fought to keep his tone level.

“Where’s your necklace?” She glanced to the spot where it usually lay before meeting his eyes again. Sam swallowed hard, his hand instinctively going to his chest once more. She stood and looked deep into his eyes. “Are you...you again?” She whispered. Mary was scared, Sam could see that. She loved her son, but in the absence of a Soul, he had become John’s errand boy. Mother or not, Sam would put her in her place for any insolence. That is...if he was still under John’s control. She turned from him then.

“After that hunt, when Crowley brought me back, my Soul stayed in Heaven.” Sam’s eyes widened at hearing her words. Were they all without Souls? “I haven’t felt right here since. I stayed, for John,” she looked at Sam again, “for you boys. But I’m tired.” She sighed out the words, her shoulders slumping with the admission.

“Mom, what are you saying?” Sam eagerly asked, maneuvering them both to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I’m saying,” She sighed against, sitting up straight and staring him in the eye, “I’m saying that I don’t belong here. I belong in Heaven, with my Soul.” Sam shook his head frantically, understanding dawning on him. “But I won’t leave without John.” She added. Sam’s mind reeled at her words. Mary stood to leave.

“You and your brother...take back The Way. Make it mean something again.” She whispered sadly before leaving the room. Sam gripped at his hair, his face going red with too much to process. Take back The Way? How? What did she mean? Back to Heaven? So many questions. He didn’t know what to do, who to turn to. He needed Dean.

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[easyfoodnetwork]

Anxiety in the Deep End

Drowning my worries of germy kitchen surfaces and ethical COVID-19 concerns in the blissful oasis of a vacation rental pool

Alanna Bennett is a screenwriter and culture writer living in Los Angeles, and vacationing for the first time in Palm Springs.

I stood, face dripping over the fake-marble countertop, staring at a black washcloth and wondering if it might kill me. It looked clean. Freshly washed and crisply folded, the cloth had surely been placed in the guest bath by the cleaning crew our AirBnB host assured us had scoured the property the morning of our arrival.

We’d tried to be diligent. We’d gotten tested, bought extra antibacterial cleaning supplies, and vowed not to enter any grocery stores in the desert resort town where we’d be spending the weekend, lest we drag in germs from home base. We’d promised ourselves we’d wipe down the entire place before leaving, just to be sure we weren’t poisoning this community. Upon arrival we did the same to protect ourselves, taking cleaning wipes to door handles in case any remnants of COVID-19 clung to the brass.

We are so tired, please just let us have this and trust that we were safe.

Absolutely nothing is simple in 2020. Merely existing, which already requires Herculean patience, now carries added layers of coordination and fear. The boogeyman’s in town, and he’s invisible and very mean. It has been a constant bludgeon to the psyche. We are in the middle of a prolonged assault at the hands of not only the United States government, but also the very air around us. Grief has permeated every pore of daily life. The concept of a functioning society feels like a myth.

With the exception of protesting to defund the police, my boyfriend and I have largely been trapped inside since early springtime. We’d both been wrung out, two Black people frayed by living at the cross section of the pandemic and the race war. There was no escaping that. Around July, though, I started to notice more friends and acquaintances taking trips out of town. These were the people who, like us, had been diligent about COVID-19. But as the new “normal” sunk in, the psychic toll continued to rise. The cabin fever became too much. Suddenly, everyone I knew just had to be elsewhere, if only for a moment. All over the country, those with the means to do so temporarily fled to Joshua Tree, Crater Lake, Big Bear, Woodstock. Each missive from these trips felt like an acknowledgement of unspoken compromise: Yes, we will avoid most of our friends and family; yes, we will forgo crowds except in the name of justice; but also, we are so tired, please just let us have this and trust that we were safe.

The drive between LA and Palm Springs was quick enough we wouldn’t have to stop.

It’s a tremendous privilege to travel during a time like this: Travel is always a luxury, but the gap between those who can afford to move around for pleasure and those who can’t is wider than ever. Many people are immunocompromised, live with someone who is, are elderly, or have older loved ones who’d be more vulnerable to the virus. The decision to travel at all now hinges on the crucial question of whether you can do so without putting somebody else’s life at risk.

But pulling off a trip safely felt like it could open up a whole new era of possibilities. As if it could show us what constructing a life under COVID might look like next. It could give us something to cling to as the world waits out an effective vaccine. Though we are neither doctors nor epidemiologists, three factors stood out as my boyfriend and I started discussing whether we could vacation responsibly: testing, cleanliness, and isolation. We established self-made guidelines — don’t go far; get tested beforehand; clean like crazy; and stay physically far away from as many local businesses and other humans as possible — and set about looking for our own personal bubble.

We set our sights on Palm Springs. A common weekend getaway from Los Angeles, the drive wasn’t long enough that we’d need to use a public bathroom along the way. In order to feel the rewards of being away from home, our main goal would be a good pool. The pandemic complicated that search immediately. We found plenty of places with access to pools and other amenities — the problem was, most of them were too public. Personal space was not something we could compromise on.

After weeks of looking around, we found a house that worked for the slice of summer we were attempting to capture: a mini-universe that would allow us to ditch the drain of our normal routine, to spontaneously abscond to a place that is simply not where we usually are. When that location is equipped with trappings you don’t have at home? Incredible. The diamond-shaped saltwater pool was what clinched it. At this private vacation home, I wanted to outrun my anxieties, escape the claustrophobic drudgery of my daily life. I wanted, above all else, to be elsewhere. But I’d forgotten to worry about the washcloths and towels.

At this private vacation home, I wanted to outrun my anxieties, escape the claustrophobic drudgery of my daily life.

Spontaneity is not a required element of giving in to vacation-brain, but it certainly helps. Who doesn’t want to step away from their lives at a moment’s notice? It’s a kind of relaxation all its own — get frustrated on a Monday, do some aggro Airbnb-browsing on a Tuesday, and cruise out of town by Friday. The pandemic complicates this. An overwhelming influx of others were trying to escape their bubbles, snatching the best properties out from under us. With markedly higher stakes, a last-minute zip out of town requires a whole new level of organization and consideration.

Before booking, I double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked multiple grocery-delivery services to make sure we’d have access to food without having to enter a grocery store. We planned on grilling, and then living off the leftovers and select takeout. No dashing out to neighborhood bars or dawdling at tourist-trap restaurants. A mix of excitement and anxiety hit the moment my finger left the “reserve” button. There was the thrill — a place I’d never been, with a person I’d never been anywhere with. The release, of being somewhere other than my home for more than a few hours at a time. But also the fear — would a vacation house be the thing that finally took me down?

The views from the car were as strange as our new reality.

I’d never been to this part of the desert before.

Boyfriend and I got dual testing appointments on the Monday before our departure. Several friends had recommended the drive-through testing center that’s taken over Dodger Stadium. We rolled up to several lanes of traffic and an hour wait. Inching toward the testing site, Mayor Eric Garcetti’s image loomed on jumbotron screens telling us that Los Angeles would fight the COVID-19 crisis together. The video played on a loop, with audio you could access through your car radio or by downloading a sponsored app. Garcetti was periodically replaced by instructions for the test in both Spanish and English. Eventually a long grabber pole extended from a makeshift trailer and handed us our test kits. Phlegm deposited, we tossed the materials into an electric-blue waste bin and went about our days. The results landed in our inboxes 24 hours later. Both negative, a small relief that momentarily curbed the hum of background anxiety I’d grown accustomed to.

The blue sky was sharp against blond hills as we arrived in Palm Springs on Friday morning. We’d left Los Angeles shortly after daybreak to give ourselves plenty of time to explore the area’s various tourist instatraps by our lonesome before I had to work at 10 a.m. Given temps in the 100s and our desire to avoid other people, we wanted to give ourselves the chance to cruise through downtown before locking ourselves away in our little corner of the desert. The main stretches of town were deserted. Shopping centers and restaurants stood empty, the occasional jumbotron telling people to wash their hands and keep a safe distance. The restaurants bore banners, reminding passersby, “WE DELIVER.” I read them as “WE STILL EXIST.”

A private pool was our top priority.

Our Airbnb was a sweet ranch home in a deeply suburban subdivision. The decor was of the “LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE” variety — either a painfully ironic mission statement or a galvanizing display of perseverance, depending on your perspective. One wall of the dining room bore a sign in script that simply said, “GATHER.” We did not. Instead, I wiped down the dining table and settled into a day on Zoom while my boyfriend explored the house and settled in for a nap. Blissfully, the bed was as massive as a hotel’s.

Starving from the trip — we couldn’t duck into stores on the way for a quick snack — we settled on Mexican for lunch from a local place called El Huarache. We got two orders of asada fries topped with cheese, guacamole, and sour cream, and split an order of asada hard tacos. I threw in some horchata for good measure, and we wiped down every inch of the packaging before diving in. When our grocery order came in from Shipt an hour later, my boyfriend wiped that down too, while I tried to focus on writer’s room Zoom pitches instead of my ambient worry that the wooden table I was sitting at might secretly be a corona carrier. Overall, Friday didn’t start out so different from a typical day at home in the pandemic. It was a weekday, only elsewhere.

The elsewhere was what mattered. I couldn’t leave my psyche behind in Los Angeles, but a change of scenery can still pack a punch. Maybe that change is even more powerful now. At home I don’t have a saltwater pool that reminds me of the existence of the word “aquamarine,” or a sectional couch that in better times could easily fit 10 people, or pillows quite this fluffy. At home I don’t have a yard, or a pool, or even in-unit laundry. At home I am simply at home. This was at home, but different. At home but better — at least for the weekend. In a stroke of luck, that Friday ended with a work Zoom happy hour, so at 5 p.m. sharp my boyfriend handed me a perfect tequila sunrise crafted with Casamigos he’d brought from Los Angeles. By the time it wrapped we were both verifiably tipsy, and we christened the weekend with a jump in the pool. The saltwater was a balm against the heat of the night, and it finally hit — we were away.

The restaurants bore banners, reminding passersby, “WE DELIVER.” I read them as “WE STILL EXIST.”

Sadly, you cannot live in a swimming pool. The escape provided by a body of water and a body full of tequila is only temporary. Once we dried off, the anxiety was waiting for us.

There are certain things you give in to trusting when you travel. This is particularly true when you are traveling right into somebody else’s home. You do your best to trust that the sheets are clean — that the towels won’t poison you with a deadly virus — that the cleaning crew did their absolute best. I wiped down door knobs, the action feeling a bit like the crossroads so many people I know find themselves at with COVID-19 right now: Committed to not getting other people killed, but also determined to find the small compromises they can get away with. Seeing a friend here, taking a trip there. The small releases of the pressure valve. As I grabbed that black towel to dry my face with a knot in my stomach, I told myself that I had to unclench. There’s no point in a trip like this if you don’t let go of some daily worries. Caution is crucial, yes. So is picking your battles — and not instinctively giving into what the Atlantic dubbed “hygiene theater,” especially when the CDC insists that although it’s possible to contract COVID-19 via surfaces or objects, the “primary and most important method” of transmission is person-to-person. But tell my brain that after four months of wiping down every item that enters my home.

It felt almost hilariously pedestrian to find ourselves intimidated by the house’s propane grill. How to use the thing was a mental rollercoaster that had nothing to do with a deadly virus, or being Black people who’d passed multiple pro-police, pro-Trump sentiments on the way into a strange suburb. We just didn’t want to accidentally blow up ourselves or the beautiful house we were staying in. You know you’re in deep with anxiety when the question of whether you’re going to cause a literal explosion still counts as vacation escapism. At least for a moment, we weren’t thinking about the dystopian tragedy of the world around us.

We opted to have local groceries delivered rather than bring our own from home.

I was sous chef as my boyfriend moved our dinner plans to the kitchen. We’d chopped onions, potatoes, peppers, ears of corn, broccoli, asparagus, and Italian sausage for the grill. Now, we threw most of the vegetables into a wok and sauteed them in olive oil and seasonings. We threw the corn and the greens — the broccoli, the asparagus — onto sheet pans in the oven. We tossed shrimp with Old Bay we’d brought from Los Angeles and tossed those into frying pans along with the sausage. For the potatoes we raided the spice cabinets, sprinkling masala along with salt, pepper, and garlic. Simple as it seems, it wasn’t the kind of meal I usually have the attention span to create for myself in my daily quarantine life. It was as if purposely misplacing ourselves gave us permission to sink our brains into an activity we’re usually too drained to do together, inside a beautiful kitchen equipped with all the accoutrements I have been too lazy to buy. We ate in front of a Katherine Heigl movie from 2009 — and fell asleep in front of it not long after. We’d do the same thing at home. But that’s vacation for you — it still felt like release.

The next morning, we chopped the leftover peppers and onions and threw them into a scramble accentuated with bacon and sausage. We ate in front of Avatar: The Last Airbender while talking about the myriad chaoses of this era. I could feel the anxiety bubbling back up within me. The trip was a planned escape from that, but there’s no running away from your own brain.

We tried our best, though. After breakfast we slathered ourselves tip to tit to toe in sunscreen and jumped in the pool.

We spent at least five hours in that pool on Saturday. The temperature hit 105, but the gentle saltwater inoculated us. I reacquainted myself with what it means to give yourself over to the water, to just float with your face barely above the surface, trusting that it won’t consume you. We both revisited the flips and handstands we used to do in the summer waters as children. At times, we just threw ourselves over spaghetti-shaped pool noodles and let those carry us wherever they pleased. There was an ebullience, a lightness, and a sense of respite.

The end of the day brought the kind of exhaustion I’d missed: not brought on by the news cycle or a steep decline in fresh air and vitamin D. I’d been using muscles I hadn’t used in years. My energy had been provided and then leached away by the sun, the water, the heat. After showering, we collapsed, freshly moisturized, onto the massive couch, and ordered two big cauliflower-crust pizzas from Blaze.

We spent as much time as possible outside.

The next morning we took one last dip, one more momentary escape. Then we got to cleaning — again. Basic etiquette demands clean-up at the end of any weekend trip, even in the best of days. I wouldn’t strew detritus around a hotel room for housekeeping. Here’s hoping that the better days saw you following whatever instructions your Airbnb host left — stripping the beds, most likely.

We followed the instructions, taking the trash out and piling the used towels into the designated hamper. Then we set about our own tasks. We wiped down every surface we’d touched — nightstands, kitchen counters, cabinets, stove knobs. Remotes, light switches. Doorknobs came last, just before our final sweep-through to make sure we hadn’t forgotten anything.

We slipped back into our own apartments — carting along those same tired brains, slightly more sun-kissed.

Then we were back in the car, hurtling homeward. Hoping against hope that we’d made the right moves. Not knowing what the next weeks and months may hold for this still-new COVID world: whether travel home for Christmas to see our families will be possible or responsible; whether that starched-black washcloth would come back around to bite us in three to five days.

I wish I could say that we made another big, nutritious meal when we landed at my place, but we snapped right back to our usual exhaustion. We unearthed some leftover empanadas from my fridge and went to town on them. We ordered more takeout two hours later, and wiped down every inch of the packaging. Life slipped back into the claustrophobic resilience of our COVID routines. We slipped back into our own apartments — carting along those same tired brains, slightly more sun-kissed.

Weeks later, I’m still thinking about that pool. The cool, gentle way it held me, suspended me in space. Disappearing under its waters felt like slipping out of my current world and into another, even if just for a moment. The gift of awayness. It’s common, I think, to crave something slightly sideways from your daily state of being. Now my thumb instinctively clicks that small square on my phone. It swipes and swipes, exploring options. It daydreams. It reaches for what might be next, even as our own world sits just out of reach.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3aGvHrW https://ift.tt/3aCLwQs

Drowning my worries of germy kitchen surfaces and ethical COVID-19 concerns in the blissful oasis of a vacation rental pool

Alanna Bennett is a screenwriter and culture writer living in Los Angeles, and vacationing for the first time in Palm Springs.

I stood, face dripping over the fake-marble countertop, staring at a black washcloth and wondering if it might kill me. It looked clean. Freshly washed and crisply folded, the cloth had surely been placed in the guest bath by the cleaning crew our AirBnB host assured us had scoured the property the morning of our arrival.

We’d tried to be diligent. We’d gotten tested, bought extra antibacterial cleaning supplies, and vowed not to enter any grocery stores in the desert resort town where we’d be spending the weekend, lest we drag in germs from home base. We’d promised ourselves we’d wipe down the entire place before leaving, just to be sure we weren’t poisoning this community. Upon arrival we did the same to protect ourselves, taking cleaning wipes to door handles in case any remnants of COVID-19 clung to the brass.

We are so tired, please just let us have this and trust that we were safe.

Absolutely nothing is simple in 2020. Merely existing, which already requires Herculean patience, now carries added layers of coordination and fear. The boogeyman’s in town, and he’s invisible and very mean. It has been a constant bludgeon to the psyche. We are in the middle of a prolonged assault at the hands of not only the United States government, but also the very air around us. Grief has permeated every pore of daily life. The concept of a functioning society feels like a myth.

With the exception of protesting to defund the police, my boyfriend and I have largely been trapped inside since early springtime. We’d both been wrung out, two Black people frayed by living at the cross section of the pandemic and the race war. There was no escaping that. Around July, though, I started to notice more friends and acquaintances taking trips out of town. These were the people who, like us, had been diligent about COVID-19. But as the new “normal” sunk in, the psychic toll continued to rise. The cabin fever became too much. Suddenly, everyone I knew just had to be elsewhere, if only for a moment. All over the country, those with the means to do so temporarily fled to Joshua Tree, Crater Lake, Big Bear, Woodstock. Each missive from these trips felt like an acknowledgement of unspoken compromise: Yes, we will avoid most of our friends and family; yes, we will forgo crowds except in the name of justice; but also, we are so tired, please just let us have this and trust that we were safe.

The drive between LA and Palm Springs was quick enough we wouldn’t have to stop.

It’s a tremendous privilege to travel during a time like this: Travel is always a luxury, but the gap between those who can afford to move around for pleasure and those who can’t is wider than ever. Many people are immunocompromised, live with someone who is, are elderly, or have older loved ones who’d be more vulnerable to the virus. The decision to travel at all now hinges on the crucial question of whether you can do so without putting somebody else’s life at risk.

But pulling off a trip safely felt like it could open up a whole new era of possibilities. As if it could show us what constructing a life under COVID might look like next. It could give us something to cling to as the world waits out an effective vaccine. Though we are neither doctors nor epidemiologists, three factors stood out as my boyfriend and I started discussing whether we could vacation responsibly: testing, cleanliness, and isolation. We established self-made guidelines — don’t go far; get tested beforehand; clean like crazy; and stay physically far away from as many local businesses and other humans as possible — and set about looking for our own personal bubble.

We set our sights on Palm Springs. A common weekend getaway from Los Angeles, the drive wasn’t long enough that we’d need to use a public bathroom along the way. In order to feel the rewards of being away from home, our main goal would be a good pool. The pandemic complicated that search immediately. We found plenty of places with access to pools and other amenities — the problem was, most of them were too public. Personal space was not something we could compromise on.

After weeks of looking around, we found a house that worked for the slice of summer we were attempting to capture: a mini-universe that would allow us to ditch the drain of our normal routine, to spontaneously abscond to a place that is simply not where we usually are. When that location is equipped with trappings you don’t have at home? Incredible. The diamond-shaped saltwater pool was what clinched it. At this private vacation home, I wanted to outrun my anxieties, escape the claustrophobic drudgery of my daily life. I wanted, above all else, to be elsewhere. But I’d forgotten to worry about the washcloths and towels.

At this private vacation home, I wanted to outrun my anxieties, escape the claustrophobic drudgery of my daily life.

Spontaneity is not a required element of giving in to vacation-brain, but it certainly helps. Who doesn’t want to step away from their lives at a moment’s notice? It’s a kind of relaxation all its own — get frustrated on a Monday, do some aggro Airbnb-browsing on a Tuesday, and cruise out of town by Friday. The pandemic complicates this. An overwhelming influx of others were trying to escape their bubbles, snatching the best properties out from under us. With markedly higher stakes, a last-minute zip out of town requires a whole new level of organization and consideration.

Before booking, I double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked multiple grocery-delivery services to make sure we’d have access to food without having to enter a grocery store. We planned on grilling, and then living off the leftovers and select takeout. No dashing out to neighborhood bars or dawdling at tourist-trap restaurants. A mix of excitement and anxiety hit the moment my finger left the “reserve” button. There was the thrill — a place I’d never been, with a person I’d never been anywhere with. The release, of being somewhere other than my home for more than a few hours at a time. But also the fear — would a vacation house be the thing that finally took me down?

The views from the car were as strange as our new reality.

I’d never been to this part of the desert before.

Boyfriend and I got dual testing appointments on the Monday before our departure. Several friends had recommended the drive-through testing center that’s taken over Dodger Stadium. We rolled up to several lanes of traffic and an hour wait. Inching toward the testing site, Mayor Eric Garcetti’s image loomed on jumbotron screens telling us that Los Angeles would fight the COVID-19 crisis together. The video played on a loop, with audio you could access through your car radio or by downloading a sponsored app. Garcetti was periodically replaced by instructions for the test in both Spanish and English. Eventually a long grabber pole extended from a makeshift trailer and handed us our test kits. Phlegm deposited, we tossed the materials into an electric-blue waste bin and went about our days. The results landed in our inboxes 24 hours later. Both negative, a small relief that momentarily curbed the hum of background anxiety I’d grown accustomed to.

The blue sky was sharp against blond hills as we arrived in Palm Springs on Friday morning. We’d left Los Angeles shortly after daybreak to give ourselves plenty of time to explore the area’s various tourist instatraps by our lonesome before I had to work at 10 a.m. Given temps in the 100s and our desire to avoid other people, we wanted to give ourselves the chance to cruise through downtown before locking ourselves away in our little corner of the desert. The main stretches of town were deserted. Shopping centers and restaurants stood empty, the occasional jumbotron telling people to wash their hands and keep a safe distance. The restaurants bore banners, reminding passersby, “WE DELIVER.” I read them as “WE STILL EXIST.”

A private pool was our top priority.

Our Airbnb was a sweet ranch home in a deeply suburban subdivision. The decor was of the “LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE” variety — either a painfully ironic mission statement or a galvanizing display of perseverance, depending on your perspective. One wall of the dining room bore a sign in script that simply said, “GATHER.” We did not. Instead, I wiped down the dining table and settled into a day on Zoom while my boyfriend explored the house and settled in for a nap. Blissfully, the bed was as massive as a hotel’s.

Starving from the trip — we couldn’t duck into stores on the way for a quick snack — we settled on Mexican for lunch from a local place called El Huarache. We got two orders of asada fries topped with cheese, guacamole, and sour cream, and split an order of asada hard tacos. I threw in some horchata for good measure, and we wiped down every inch of the packaging before diving in. When our grocery order came in from Shipt an hour later, my boyfriend wiped that down too, while I tried to focus on writer’s room Zoom pitches instead of my ambient worry that the wooden table I was sitting at might secretly be a corona carrier. Overall, Friday didn’t start out so different from a typical day at home in the pandemic. It was a weekday, only elsewhere.

The elsewhere was what mattered. I couldn’t leave my psyche behind in Los Angeles, but a change of scenery can still pack a punch. Maybe that change is even more powerful now. At home I don’t have a saltwater pool that reminds me of the existence of the word “aquamarine,” or a sectional couch that in better times could easily fit 10 people, or pillows quite this fluffy. At home I don’t have a yard, or a pool, or even in-unit laundry. At home I am simply at home. This was at home, but different. At home but better — at least for the weekend. In a stroke of luck, that Friday ended with a work Zoom happy hour, so at 5 p.m. sharp my boyfriend handed me a perfect tequila sunrise crafted with Casamigos he’d brought from Los Angeles. By the time it wrapped we were both verifiably tipsy, and we christened the weekend with a jump in the pool. The saltwater was a balm against the heat of the night, and it finally hit — we were away.

The restaurants bore banners, reminding passersby, “WE DELIVER.” I read them as “WE STILL EXIST.”

Sadly, you cannot live in a swimming pool. The escape provided by a body of water and a body full of tequila is only temporary. Once we dried off, the anxiety was waiting for us.

There are certain things you give in to trusting when you travel. This is particularly true when you are traveling right into somebody else’s home. You do your best to trust that the sheets are clean — that the towels won’t poison you with a deadly virus — that the cleaning crew did their absolute best. I wiped down door knobs, the action feeling a bit like the crossroads so many people I know find themselves at with COVID-19 right now: Committed to not getting other people killed, but also determined to find the small compromises they can get away with. Seeing a friend here, taking a trip there. The small releases of the pressure valve. As I grabbed that black towel to dry my face with a knot in my stomach, I told myself that I had to unclench. There’s no point in a trip like this if you don’t let go of some daily worries. Caution is crucial, yes. So is picking your battles — and not instinctively giving into what the Atlantic dubbed “hygiene theater,” especially when the CDC insists that although it’s possible to contract COVID-19 via surfaces or objects, the “primary and most important method” of transmission is person-to-person. But tell my brain that after four months of wiping down every item that enters my home.

It felt almost hilariously pedestrian to find ourselves intimidated by the house’s propane grill. How to use the thing was a mental rollercoaster that had nothing to do with a deadly virus, or being Black people who’d passed multiple pro-police, pro-Trump sentiments on the way into a strange suburb. We just didn’t want to accidentally blow up ourselves or the beautiful house we were staying in. You know you’re in deep with anxiety when the question of whether you’re going to cause a literal explosion still counts as vacation escapism. At least for a moment, we weren’t thinking about the dystopian tragedy of the world around us.

We opted to have local groceries delivered rather than bring our own from home.

I was sous chef as my boyfriend moved our dinner plans to the kitchen. We’d chopped onions, potatoes, peppers, ears of corn, broccoli, asparagus, and Italian sausage for the grill. Now, we threw most of the vegetables into a wok and sauteed them in olive oil and seasonings. We threw the corn and the greens — the broccoli, the asparagus — onto sheet pans in the oven. We tossed shrimp with Old Bay we’d brought from Los Angeles and tossed those into frying pans along with the sausage. For the potatoes we raided the spice cabinets, sprinkling masala along with salt, pepper, and garlic. Simple as it seems, it wasn’t the kind of meal I usually have the attention span to create for myself in my daily quarantine life. It was as if purposely misplacing ourselves gave us permission to sink our brains into an activity we’re usually too drained to do together, inside a beautiful kitchen equipped with all the accoutrements I have been too lazy to buy. We ate in front of a Katherine Heigl movie from 2009 — and fell asleep in front of it not long after. We’d do the same thing at home. But that’s vacation for you — it still felt like release.

The next morning, we chopped the leftover peppers and onions and threw them into a scramble accentuated with bacon and sausage. We ate in front of Avatar: The Last Airbender while talking about the myriad chaoses of this era. I could feel the anxiety bubbling back up within me. The trip was a planned escape from that, but there’s no running away from your own brain.

We tried our best, though. After breakfast we slathered ourselves tip to tit to toe in sunscreen and jumped in the pool.

We spent at least five hours in that pool on Saturday. The temperature hit 105, but the gentle saltwater inoculated us. I reacquainted myself with what it means to give yourself over to the water, to just float with your face barely above the surface, trusting that it won’t consume you. We both revisited the flips and handstands we used to do in the summer waters as children. At times, we just threw ourselves over spaghetti-shaped pool noodles and let those carry us wherever they pleased. There was an ebullience, a lightness, and a sense of respite.

The end of the day brought the kind of exhaustion I’d missed: not brought on by the news cycle or a steep decline in fresh air and vitamin D. I’d been using muscles I hadn’t used in years. My energy had been provided and then leached away by the sun, the water, the heat. After showering, we collapsed, freshly moisturized, onto the massive couch, and ordered two big cauliflower-crust pizzas from Blaze.

We spent as much time as possible outside.

The next morning we took one last dip, one more momentary escape. Then we got to cleaning — again. Basic etiquette demands clean-up at the end of any weekend trip, even in the best of days. I wouldn’t strew detritus around a hotel room for housekeeping. Here’s hoping that the better days saw you following whatever instructions your Airbnb host left — stripping the beds, most likely.

We followed the instructions, taking the trash out and piling the used towels into the designated hamper. Then we set about our own tasks. We wiped down every surface we’d touched — nightstands, kitchen counters, cabinets, stove knobs. Remotes, light switches. Doorknobs came last, just before our final sweep-through to make sure we hadn’t forgotten anything.

We slipped back into our own apartments — carting along those same tired brains, slightly more sun-kissed.

Then we were back in the car, hurtling homeward. Hoping against hope that we’d made the right moves. Not knowing what the next weeks and months may hold for this still-new COVID world: whether travel home for Christmas to see our families will be possible or responsible; whether that starched-black washcloth would come back around to bite us in three to five days.

I wish I could say that we made another big, nutritious meal when we landed at my place, but we snapped right back to our usual exhaustion. We unearthed some leftover empanadas from my fridge and went to town on them. We ordered more takeout two hours later, and wiped down every inch of the packaging. Life slipped back into the claustrophobic resilience of our COVID routines. We slipped back into our own apartments — carting along those same tired brains, slightly more sun-kissed.

Weeks later, I’m still thinking about that pool. The cool, gentle way it held me, suspended me in space. Disappearing under its waters felt like slipping out of my current world and into another, even if just for a moment. The gift of awayness. It’s common, I think, to crave something slightly sideways from your daily state of being. Now my thumb instinctively clicks that small square on my phone. It swipes and swipes, exploring options. It daydreams. It reaches for what might be next, even as our own world sits just out of reach.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3aGvHrW via Blogger https://ift.tt/2YeR66N

[dragonsaphirareads]

Mianite Season 3? Kind of!

We all know Mianite season three is nothing more than a pipe dream at this point. The streamers aren’t interested and the bts crew have mostly moved on. 

But that doesn’t mean this fandom is going to die. I’m not leaving anytime soon. 

I’m happy to announce that I’m currently working on a pretty big project for everyone who wants some more Mianite. 

As I want to have a once a week upload schedule, I won’t be uploading the full thing for another couple of months. School’s busy and I need to focus. 

But we’ve been waiting for long enough, a couple months is nothing!

Here’s a taste of the first chapter, as rough as it might be. Enjoy!

They didn’t know how long they’d been falling for. It could be minutes. It could be hours. Hell, it could be days or months for all they knew. Despite all the gear they had on them when the group took the plunge into the never ending abyss, a simple clock wasn’t among it.

Jordan tried to use his spectre key to access his ME system, but their constant movement didn’t allow for him to transfer into the other dimension. Tucker had long run out of his stored blood after using his sigils for so long , and both Sonja and Tom were lying as still as possible after their trusted wings had failed to let them escape. Even Wag’s advanced teleportation magic refused to let him leave, and Martha’s powers meant nothing to the void.

They had lost Andor to the darkness after he’d tried to fly off and find something in the pitch darkness of the void, and both Mot and Dianite had disappeared as soon as they’d started falling.

They were stuck. And though the weightless feeling in their stomachs had long become familiar, the dark abyss still made it difficult to breathe. Due to that, they had fallen into silence, their only company the rushing of blood and air in their ears.

Jordan started when Tom, who’d previously been trying to doze off, grabbed him by the shoulder and spoke into his ear.. “Is it just me... or is it getting harder to breathe?”

The man took a shaky breath and shrugged. It was hard to tell when the air was already constantly avoiding his lungs, but now that his attention was focused, something else had changed around them.

Jordan used his wings to twist around in the air, and he came face to face with Tom. He stopped, and admired the man in front of him. Despite being clearly exhausted, his face still held a huge contagious grin and Jordan had no choice but to smile back. Tom’s eyes twinkled with light, full of life and happiness. How had he stayed positive when they had no idea how long they’d been falling for?

Wait... Light? They’d been surrounded in darkness since they jumped into this pit, where was that beautiful light coming from?

Only moments after Jordan noticed the change, Sonja called out to the group, “Light! Below!” Tucket and Wag perked up, looking down with new hope. As they drew closer to the bright white light, their gear gleamed and glinted. Then there was a bright flash, and they were in a new world.

---

A menagerie of color assaulted their eyes as they flailed their limbs and tried to orient themselves. Jordan realized after trying to spread his wings that they were all back to their normal clothes. No armor, no angel ring. High pitched screaming reached his ears, and based on prior experience, it was either Tucker or Tom.

Martha and Wag shot past him, their limbs folded and hands connected, aiming for the ground below. Jordan squinted and managed to make out a few blocks of blue, possibly a water pool they had spotted. Amazing they had, considering it was only a couple blocks wide. He didn’t spend much time surveying the land for another one however; they were coming up on the ground fast and there was no time to waste.

He spread his arms and legs wide to get to Tom, still kicking and screaming his head off. After his own shouts were whipped away by the wind, he resorted to grabbing Tom’s hand and aiming them both towards the water. Tucker and Sonja saw this, and clumsily grabbed at each other’s arms and linked themselves together.

The ground came up to meet them fast, and Tom and Jordan just barely managed to glide over enough to land safely. The resulting splash was explosive, and it took all the air out of Jordan’s lungs. He struggled desperately to pull himself up above the surface, but Tucker and Sonja’s landing sent him spinning around again. The man kicked as hard as he could, but as soon as he was about to break the surface, a foot came out of nowhere and hit him straight in the chest. He cried out under the water, sinking as he failed to rid his lungs of the water he was inhaling. Jordan watched as his friends got out of the pool, and seemed to not notice him still underneath.

His vision started to go hazy. He was still sinking. Was this pool really that deep? He hadn’t thought so. He laughed as his nose burned with water. He lived that whole drop through the abyss, and then he drowns in a puddle. Ha!

He felt cold. His arms and legs had stopped working, and he floated serenely under the filtering white light. Half lidded eyes and a cold blue smile looked back at the sun. Had he been scared before? It was so beautiful down here, why would he need to be scared?

Bubbles suddenly disrupted the calm waves of the surface, and his last vision before it all went black was of an angel descending from the light above him,

---

“Ughhhhhhhh!” Tom groaned as he flopped halfway out of the shallow pool, breathing hard as he kicked furiously to get his legs out of the water. “That hurrrrt!”

“It’s gonna hurt more if you don’t stop kicking water in my face!” Tucker shouted at him, coughing and spluttering as he hauled his deadened body onto dry land. He held an arm out for Sonja, but she managed without it, kicking hard against the water to haul her body out.

“Is everyone alright!?” Martha asked, her voice scratchy from swallowing gallons of water. She clung to Wag even now, their hands intertwined as he rung out his robes and she her hair, sending a cascade of water back into the pool.

“I’m good. Man, that was awesome!” Tom grinned widely, his eyes glinting with excitement at the adrenaline rush they’d just experienced. Tucker punched him in the arm. “Ow! Shit man, my muscles still hurt!”

“That’s for splashing me,” he deadpanned, taking off his fingerless gloves and wringing them out. Sonja pulled her hoodie over her head and did the same, then stopped cold and looked around.

“Guys...?” They all looked at her, panic building in her eyes as she spun around and looked at all of them with fear stricken eyes.

“Where’s Jordan?”

Martha immediately started looking around to see if he’s somehow gotten out and started walking without them. Tucker, Sonja,and Tom all ran to the water’s edge, where Sonja saw a dark shadow deep in the water. “The-“

Before she even finished the word, Tom dove in headfirst and frantically started swimming downwards.

His clumsy dive sent up a plume of water and bubbles, but he pulled against the water with hard, fast strokes. Jordan was sinking further, his eyes closed. His glasses had fallen off in the crash and sunk to the dark bottom.

If there even was a bottom.

‘Just a little further!’ Tom told himself, even when his lungs burned for air and his eyes stung. Jordan was only ten feet away... five feet... three feet...

Tom collided heavily with Jordan’s still form, wrapping one arm around his waist and the other across his chest. He wasn’t anywhere near the bottom of the pool to push off of, but he kicked over to the side of the pool and pushed off that with a powerful kick.

He did it again when he slammed into the opposite wall, and once more to break the surface. Tom coughed hard, wheezing and gulping as much air as he could get. Tucker, Sonja and Wag all reached out for them, with the two men grabbing the unconscious Jordan and Sonja helping Tom out.

He took only one deep breath to recover, then was on his knees besides his friend. The zombie skinned man put his ear to Jordan’s chest, and after hearing nothing, he started pushing firmly against his chest.

“Do you know CPR, Tom?” Sonja asked, watching as he tried to save him.

“No, but I have to try!” he reasoned harshly with her, before tilting Jordan’s lolling head back, pinching his nose, and tightly sealing his lips against cold blue ones. He absentmindedly thinks that the sight would be extremely awkward if he weren’t attempting to save his friend’s life.

Two breaths, 30 chest compressions. Those were the numbers he remembered from the class he took a long time ago, so that’s what he was going with. Tom could only hope he didn’t somehow injure Jordan.

Everyone searched their pockets for something to help but nothing had stayed with them in the cross between worlds. Not that they would have had much to help anyways, but the feeling of helplessness was only amplified with there being no need to search for something.

So they stood and watched as Tom went back and forth between chest compressions and breaths, holding his ear to Jordan’s chest in between each set. He could hear the air rushing out of the unconscious man’s lungs, but that came along with the bubbling of the water stuck inside his body.

Silent minutes passed, with no change. It seemed wrong to make noise while one of their friends was possibly dead.

Martha was the first to crack, burrowing her head in Wag’s shoulder and quietly sobbing. Wag wrapped an arm around her small frame, and Tucker and Sonja reached for each other’s hands, eyes down.

After countless amounts of repetition later, Tom sat back and watched his friend’s chest. Beyond the breath he’d given Jordan, there was no movement… except…

Yes! It was slight, but Jordan’s chest rose! “Jordan!” Tom cried, attacking his chest with new hope.

The rest of the group had started at Tom’s shout, but they gathered closer and watched Jordan’s face. Was that a grimace, or just a fake movement made by Tom? Did his lips just move?

“Come on Jordan, wake up! You can’t die on us that easily!” Tom encouraged with a grin, trying to hide tears.

Jordan’s eyes snapped open, and he rolled over onto his side and promptly vomited. Tucker, in the line of fire, jumped out of the way with a yelp, but the rest of the group cheered his name. Jordan was alive!

Tom and Wag helped the weak man to his hands and knees to avoid vomiting on himself, then Tom gently rubbed his back as he let all the water he’d breathed violently leave his body.

Even after the majority of the water was gone, he continued to dry heave, tears coming to his eyes as he whimpered and cried. Finally, he sat back on his legs, putting his face into his hands and sobbing heavily.

“Oh, Jordan, you’re ok, it’s ok. Shhh.” Sonja cooed, sitting down beside him and wrapping her arms around him, sharing her half-dry warmth. Tom stands, swaying, and motions to Tucker.

“Gimme your glove.”

He paused in the middle of wringing out his hat he had smartly stashed it in his pocket before they’d all jumped. “What?”

“Gimme your glove.”

“Why?”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Cause it’s the closest thing to a rag around here, and Jordan needs to wash his face and mouth. Actually, gimme that too.” He snatched the hat out of his friend’s hands, and took the glove from where it was sitting on the ground. Tucker glared at him for a few seconds, trying to gather the energy to yell at him, before huffing and continuing to try and wring out his clothes. Now that Jordan was breathing conscious, Tucker put his energy into scanning their surroundings.

Sonja and Martha had managed to get Jordan sitting up on his own, hugging his knees and breathing heavily. The man stared at nothing and Tom wanted to cry. Those eyes shouldn’t be that vacant, not ever.

He dunked both Tucker’s hat and glove into the pool, filling the hat as much as he could with water his friend could wash his mouth out with.

Martha immediately took the glove and gently gave it to Jordan, guiding his shaking hand up to his mouth. He barely responded to her touch, allowing her to wipe at the vomit on his chin and cheek.

Tucker cringed at the sight of his soiled glove, and quickly grabbed Wag to go search for a suitable place to bunker down for the night. Already the sun was halfway across the sky.

“Here, Jordan. Cup your hands, and you can wash your mouth out,” Tom nudged his friend’s legs as he kneeled and held out Tucker’s hat, still decently full of water and dripping.

Jordan’s reaction was immediate and surprisingly explosive. He jerked back, knocking Sonja down and cringing. “No!”

Tom’s heart broke at hearing his cracked voice laced with fear. “Come on Jordan, don’t you want to get all that nasty stuff out of your mouth?” He shook his head, his body shaking both from cold and fear.

“No water. I’m... I’m fine.” He tried to fake a smile, but his rapid breathing devolved into a cough. Afterwards, he spat on the ground in front of him, a watery yellowish color.

Sonja and Tom exchanged glances, realizing that fighting this battle probably wouldn’t be worth it with Jordan in this state. And a gross mouth wasn’t that big of a deal anyways, if Jordan didn’t mind. The zombie skinned man nodded, dumping the water onto the ground and trying to wash away the vomit, which was already starting to stink in the still air.

The girls quietly mumbled kind words to Jordan, rubbing his back and brushing his wet hair out of his face. Jordan was focusing solely on bringing his breathing back under control. With nothing else to do to help until they found or made shelter, Tom stood and finally surveyed the area they had landed in.

They had landed in what he assumed was the base of surrounding hills, which Wag and Tucker had disappeared over the top of. In the distance, weirdly shapes cliffs scraped against the sky. It wasn’t ideal to land on such flat ground, but who knows if they’d have survived a drop onto the top of the mountains. They were lucky enough that there was even a small pool of water here.         

What caught his eye was the odd colors that popped out at him. There was almost no green, and instead his eyes were drawn to the odd transition between the sand beneath his feet and the course dirt a few meters away. Stone poked out of the earth in odd places, and there were mushrooms on podzol and flowers on grass right next to each other.

After glancing back and reassuring himself that Jordan would be alright, he trekked up the steep hill to get a better survey of the land. “What a great start we’ve had already,” he groaned to himself, vaulting over a jumble of loose cobblestone and gasping at the sight laid out before him.

The ground was mismatched, five by five patches of different blocks splattered across the ground like paint, and most didn’t even match the environment. His eyes bulged at each new oddity. There were wooden planks of all kinds built into the ground, but the pattern was too random to be anything but a coincidence. Blocks like sponge and obsidian sat side by side, and there were gold blocks sitting right out in the open!

Tom spun to call out to Jordan and the girls about this odd and interesting world, but something stopped him. Specifically, an invisible hand over his mouth and a sharp pressure against his neck. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a hooded figure materialize behind him, and a feminine voice hissed into his ear.

Feedback? Excited for (an unofficial) Mianite S3?

I also could really use an editor to help tear my work apart and make it better than I can make it alone. Hit me up!

Also! When this is actually released, I will be recording audio of the chapters and posting it to my Youtube, for anyone who might have trouble reading or wants to listen while doing something else! 

[writingguide003-blog]

How should young women react as #MeToo moves into dating? Female writers discuss | Anne Perkins, Iman Amrani, Marie Le Conte, Rachel Shabi and Ash Sarkar

New Post has been published on https://writingguideto.com/must-see/how-should-young-women-react-as-metoo-moves-into-dating-female-writers-discuss-anne-perkins-iman-amrani-marie-le-conte-rachel-shabi-and-ash-sarkar/

How should young women react as #MeToo moves into dating? Female writers discuss | Anne Perkins, Iman Amrani, Marie Le Conte, Rachel Shabi and Ash Sarkar

Five female commentators share their views on how Aziz Ansari and Cat Person are taking the #MeToo debate into todays dating scene, showing gender disparity and raising consent issues

Women

The panel

How should young women react as #MeToo moves into dating? Female writers discuss

Aziz Ansari and Cat Person are taking the #MeToo debate into todays dating scene, showing gender disparity and raising consent issues

Anne Perkins, Iman Amrani, Marie Le Conte, Rachel Shabi and Ash Sarkar

Wed 17 Jan 2018 07.48EST Last modified on Wed 17 Jan 2018 17.54EST

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I recognise that by blaming Graces response, I am also saying that on one level Ansaris behaviour is OK. Photograph: Cassie Wright/WireImage

Anne Perkins: Being young is the time when you should be utopian in your views

Part of me wants to give Grace a really good shake. What did she expect, dating Aziz Ansari, a man 10 years older than herself and famous enough to have an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, whatever his public reputation as a thoughtful and considerate person fully signed up to #MeToo. The message of his haste to leave the restaurant, the food barely finished, the wine untasted, and race her back to his apartment is so blatant it might have been written up in one of those neon bubbles.

Her failure to tell him where to go once things went pear-shaped when she was there is even more worrying. Sure, she indicated that it was not what she wanted. A genuinely thoughtful man of course would have responded appropriately. He didnt. She should have left. That is level one in elementary social skills.

But I recognise that by blaming Graces response, I am also saying that on one level Ansaris behaviour is OK. Thats what men do. Its down to women to handle it. Get used to it.

And the point of telling stories like this is to say to other women, and men, its not you, its him. To say, check your ideas about consent. Consent is not the absence of rejection. It is not a tense silence. It is not passive. It should not be capable of being misread.

Utopian, perhaps. But whats the point of being 23 if you dont refuse to get used to stuff thats wrong?

Anne Perkins is a Guardian columnist

Iman Amrani: Bad experiences should not be lumped with serious assaults

There are three main things in my experience that can expose young women to exploitative or uncomfortable situations. First, money. Whether its keeping a job or a roof over your head, the need for it can push some women into circumstances that they wouldnt freely choose. Second, ambition. Drive can lead to women feeling forced to put up with things that they know are unacceptable, in order to achieve a greater objective.

Both of these factors expose women to abuses of power as we have seen in many of the cases of workplace harassment, from Hollywood to Westminster to all the women contributing to the #MeToo movement. Its this power struggle that adds weight to the stories about hands being placed on womens knees or unwanted advances, and its important this movement continues.

The third trap is the desire to be liked. There is a societal pressure on women to be attractive, friendly, and grateful, felt most acutely in young women. Aziz Ansaris accuser, Grace, and the narrator of Cat Person fall into this one. The latter might be fictional, but both accounts resonated widely with many young women. Both feature women in their early 20s, who found themselves in circumstances they didnt want, but felt unable to fully vocalise that they had reached their comfort limits.

Part of dating and sex as a young person is finding our boundaries, learning to protect them and develop the confidence to tell people who overstep, in no uncertain terms, where they can go. Not many people are born with this confidence, and it isnt something you can learn in a two-hour workshop on consent, but through making mistakes. Some of the situations that contribute to our experience may be unpleasant or regretful, but that doesnt necessarily mean that they should be grouped with assault, harassment or rape.

There has to be room for both men and women to make mistakes, to create a space where real dialogue can happen and where people can learn what is and isnt OK. Lumping all these grey-area stories in the wider #MeToo debate about rape, assault and the abuse of power only serves to drown out the voices of women whose stories should be focusing on this week, such as Simone Biles, and the countless other women who are bravely speaking out.

Iman Amrani is a Guardian multimedia journalist

Marie Le Conte: Men can no longer be seen as guided by their sweaty crotches

I had a conversation with an older feminist recently and she asked why women of my generation seem to hate men. We never stop criticising them, find endless examples of objectionable behaviour, and will gleefully turn on any man deemed not good enough by our precious standards.

She wasnt entirely wrong our expectations are undeniably higher than they used to be but my response was that it was, at least from my viewpoint, the exact opposite.

We expect more from men because we want to have more faith in them.

I refuse to see them as foolish animals, clumsy and to be pitied because life isnt easy when one simply cannot understand the complex and confusing women around them, choosing instead to be guided by their sweaty crotches.

This is why some of the responses to the claims about Aziz Ansari felt puzzling sure, we could have an argument about why the woman didnt leave, but why not talk about why he felt the need to keep trying it on?

Why can so many men feel so comfortable trying to sleep with women who dont want to sleep with them? Why do so many men think they can plunge their tongue down a womans throat before making sure its wanted?

Incidents which to some feel too small to be scandalous actually reveal the way men see women, and if they have no trouble crossing womens boundaries once or twice, where will they stop?

Weve been raised to see men as the superior intellectual gender, so spare me the idea that they just dont know what theyre doing.

If women can go through life without lunging at men, groping them, and treating their bodies as property, then surely we can expect men to do the same in return.

Marie Le Conte is a French freelance journalist living in London

Rachel Shabi: Older women wondering why millennials dont walk away have forgotten dark times

These stories have forced light into another area where it is sorely lacking: the stark lack of parity over sexual agency, expectation and desire. Its there in harsh, excruciating detail: the distorting and damaging ways in which heterosexual men and women are socialised about sex.

This isnt about a generational divide, despite some of the responses to such stories. Doubtless this terrain is thornier for younger women who, on top of the usual biases, are also navigating complications imposed by a certain kind of porn culture, and the image- and confidence-twisting burdens of social media.

But maybe the older women wondering why millennials dont just walk away from horrible sexual encounters have forgotten the times when they also stayed, rather than dealing with the awkwardness, risk his angry response, or navigating the paralysing weight of confusing expectation. Because women are socialised to be polite and accommodating, and are under constant pressure to be passive pleasers in every way, to the extent that our own desires and ambitions are routinely subjugated.

Such is the pervasive social messaging around gender and sexuality, such are the ever-present biases, that a woman asserting her own will or expressing a preference risks being labelled as unpleasant, unattractive or aggressive as it is in the boardroom, so it is in the bedroom. And thats before we even get to the men in the equation, with all their socially conditioned expectations, damaging biases and toxic assumptions.

Its messy and awkward and all tangled up, but if this #Metoo discussion is bringing us on to the question of what genuine equality in sex and relationships might look like, then good. In that spirit as with all parts of this debate we could do with less judgment and a lot more listening.

Rachel Shabi is a freelance writer and commentator

Ash Sarkar: A divergence in perception between men and women must be addressed

Theres a truth to the Aziz Ansari story which extends beyond whether or not he behaved in the manner alleged; that all too many of us have had sexual encounters in which one persons comfort is subordinated to the urgency of anothers desire.

Traditional feminist discourse from Susan Brownmillers Against Our Will to more recent discussions prompted by the Harvey Weinstein revelations has focused on a figure of the rapist as monstrous and malevolent. However, nearly one in three women have experienced sexual violence at the hands of an intimate partner the archetypical perpetrator looks less like a grotesque outsider, and more like a familiar neighbour. We hold him in affection and esteem. We trust him. We might even desire him.

Whatever we wear, wherever we go yes means yes, and no means no! The old Reclaim the Night slogan misled a generation of feminists into understanding consent as binary, and violation as self-evident. Were supposed to announce our consent (or lack thereof) like were entering a plea at trial.

But yes, in a context of mutual respect, might be a joyful wordlessness; no might come in the guise of not now, maybe later, or even well, OK then. In a society where sex is often seen as something to be extracted from partners like a mineral or an ore, a soft no is just so much social sediment to be worn away.

A rigidly legalistic model for understanding consent doesnt encourage men to shift the parameters of how they understand sex. The Ansari allegations show us that the task isnt to get men to see themselves as rapists, but to see their partners pace of desire as being of equal primacy to their own. There is no god-given right to orgasm: even a one-night stand requires patience, empathy and a capacity to interpret more complex cues than what is accepted in a court of law.

For what its worth, I believe Grace in her account of events. I also believe Ansari when he says: It was true that everything did seem OK to me, so when I heard that it was not the case for her, I was surprised and concerned. Its precisely this divergence of perception which men need to address. That starts with viewing consent as the beginning of a social process not a verdict at the end of a long process of litigation.

Ash Sarkar is a senior editor at Novara Media, and lectures in political theory at Anglia Ruskin and the Sandberg Instituut

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/us

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Drowning my worries of germy kitchen surfaces and ethical COVID-19 concerns in the blissful oasis of a vacation rental pool Alanna Bennett is a screenwriter and culture writer living in Los Angeles, and vacationing for the first time in Palm Springs. I stood, face dripping over the fake-marble countertop, staring at a black washcloth and wondering if it might kill me. It looked clean. Freshly washed and crisply folded, the cloth had surely been placed in the guest bath by the cleaning crew our AirBnB host assured us had scoured the property the morning of our arrival. We’d tried to be diligent. We’d gotten tested, bought extra antibacterial cleaning supplies, and vowed not to enter any grocery stores in the desert resort town where we’d be spending the weekend, lest we drag in germs from home base. We’d promised ourselves we’d wipe down the entire place before leaving, just to be sure we weren’t poisoning this community. Upon arrival we did the same to protect ourselves, taking cleaning wipes to door handles in case any remnants of COVID-19 clung to the brass. We are so tired, please just let us have this and trust that we were safe. Absolutely nothing is simple in 2020. Merely existing, which already requires Herculean patience, now carries added layers of coordination and fear. The boogeyman’s in town, and he’s invisible and very mean. It has been a constant bludgeon to the psyche. We are in the middle of a prolonged assault at the hands of not only the United States government, but also the very air around us. Grief has permeated every pore of daily life. The concept of a functioning society feels like a myth. With the exception of protesting to defund the police, my boyfriend and I have largely been trapped inside since early springtime. We’d both been wrung out, two Black people frayed by living at the cross section of the pandemic and the race war. There was no escaping that. Around July, though, I started to notice more friends and acquaintances taking trips out of town. These were the people who, like us, had been diligent about COVID-19. But as the new “normal” sunk in, the psychic toll continued to rise. The cabin fever became too much. Suddenly, everyone I knew just had to be elsewhere, if only for a moment. All over the country, those with the means to do so temporarily fled to Joshua Tree, Crater Lake, Big Bear, Woodstock. Each missive from these trips felt like an acknowledgement of unspoken compromise: Yes, we will avoid most of our friends and family; yes, we will forgo crowds except in the name of justice; but also, we are so tired, please just let us have this and trust that we were safe. The drive between LA and Palm Springs was quick enough we wouldn’t have to stop. It’s a tremendous privilege to travel during a time like this: Travel is always a luxury, but the gap between those who can afford to move around for pleasure and those who can’t is wider than ever. Many people are immunocompromised, live with someone who is, are elderly, or have older loved ones who’d be more vulnerable to the virus. The decision to travel at all now hinges on the crucial question of whether you can do so without putting somebody else’s life at risk. But pulling off a trip safely felt like it could open up a whole new era of possibilities. As if it could show us what constructing a life under COVID might look like next. It could give us something to cling to as the world waits out an effective vaccine. Though we are neither doctors nor epidemiologists, three factors stood out as my boyfriend and I started discussing whether we could vacation responsibly: testing, cleanliness, and isolation. We established self-made guidelines — don’t go far; get tested beforehand; clean like crazy; and stay physically far away from as many local businesses and other humans as possible — and set about looking for our own personal bubble. We set our sights on Palm Springs. A common weekend getaway from Los Angeles, the drive wasn’t long enough that we’d need to use a public bathroom along the way. In order to feel the rewards of being away from home, our main goal would be a good pool. The pandemic complicated that search immediately. We found plenty of places with access to pools and other amenities — the problem was, most of them were too public. Personal space was not something we could compromise on. After weeks of looking around, we found a house that worked for the slice of summer we were attempting to capture: a mini-universe that would allow us to ditch the drain of our normal routine, to spontaneously abscond to a place that is simply not where we usually are. When that location is equipped with trappings you don’t have at home? Incredible. The diamond-shaped saltwater pool was what clinched it. At this private vacation home, I wanted to outrun my anxieties, escape the claustrophobic drudgery of my daily life. I wanted, above all else, to be elsewhere. But I’d forgotten to worry about the washcloths and towels. At this private vacation home, I wanted to outrun my anxieties, escape the claustrophobic drudgery of my daily life. Spontaneity is not a required element of giving in to vacation-brain, but it certainly helps. Who doesn’t want to step away from their lives at a moment’s notice? It’s a kind of relaxation all its own — get frustrated on a Monday, do some aggro Airbnb-browsing on a Tuesday, and cruise out of town by Friday. The pandemic complicates this. An overwhelming influx of others were trying to escape their bubbles, snatching the best properties out from under us. With markedly higher stakes, a last-minute zip out of town requires a whole new level of organization and consideration. Before booking, I double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked multiple grocery-delivery services to make sure we’d have access to food without having to enter a grocery store. We planned on grilling, and then living off the leftovers and select takeout. No dashing out to neighborhood bars or dawdling at tourist-trap restaurants. A mix of excitement and anxiety hit the moment my finger left the “reserve” button. There was the thrill — a place I’d never been, with a person I’d never been anywhere with. The release, of being somewhere other than my home for more than a few hours at a time. But also the fear — would a vacation house be the thing that finally took me down? The views from the car were as strange as our new reality. I’d never been to this part of the desert before. Boyfriend and I got dual testing appointments on the Monday before our departure. Several friends had recommended the drive-through testing center that’s taken over Dodger Stadium. We rolled up to several lanes of traffic and an hour wait. Inching toward the testing site, Mayor Eric Garcetti’s image loomed on jumbotron screens telling us that Los Angeles would fight the COVID-19 crisis together. The video played on a loop, with audio you could access through your car radio or by downloading a sponsored app. Garcetti was periodically replaced by instructions for the test in both Spanish and English. Eventually a long grabber pole extended from a makeshift trailer and handed us our test kits. Phlegm deposited, we tossed the materials into an electric-blue waste bin and went about our days. The results landed in our inboxes 24 hours later. Both negative, a small relief that momentarily curbed the hum of background anxiety I’d grown accustomed to. The blue sky was sharp against blond hills as we arrived in Palm Springs on Friday morning. We’d left Los Angeles shortly after daybreak to give ourselves plenty of time to explore the area’s various tourist instatraps by our lonesome before I had to work at 10 a.m. Given temps in the 100s and our desire to avoid other people, we wanted to give ourselves the chance to cruise through downtown before locking ourselves away in our little corner of the desert. The main stretches of town were deserted. Shopping centers and restaurants stood empty, the occasional jumbotron telling people to wash their hands and keep a safe distance. The restaurants bore banners, reminding passersby, “WE DELIVER.” I read them as “WE STILL EXIST.” A private pool was our top priority. Our Airbnb was a sweet ranch home in a deeply suburban subdivision. The decor was of the “LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE” variety — either a painfully ironic mission statement or a galvanizing display of perseverance, depending on your perspective. One wall of the dining room bore a sign in script that simply said, “GATHER.” We did not. Instead, I wiped down the dining table and settled into a day on Zoom while my boyfriend explored the house and settled in for a nap. Blissfully, the bed was as massive as a hotel’s. Starving from the trip — we couldn’t duck into stores on the way for a quick snack — we settled on Mexican for lunch from a local place called El Huarache. We got two orders of asada fries topped with cheese, guacamole, and sour cream, and split an order of asada hard tacos. I threw in some horchata for good measure, and we wiped down every inch of the packaging before diving in. When our grocery order came in from Shipt an hour later, my boyfriend wiped that down too, while I tried to focus on writer’s room Zoom pitches instead of my ambient worry that the wooden table I was sitting at might secretly be a corona carrier. Overall, Friday didn’t start out so different from a typical day at home in the pandemic. It was a weekday, only elsewhere. The elsewhere was what mattered. I couldn’t leave my psyche behind in Los Angeles, but a change of scenery can still pack a punch. Maybe that change is even more powerful now. At home I don’t have a saltwater pool that reminds me of the existence of the word “aquamarine,” or a sectional couch that in better times could easily fit 10 people, or pillows quite this fluffy. At home I don’t have a yard, or a pool, or even in-unit laundry. At home I am simply at home. This was at home, but different. At home but better — at least for the weekend. In a stroke of luck, that Friday ended with a work Zoom happy hour, so at 5 p.m. sharp my boyfriend handed me a perfect tequila sunrise crafted with Casamigos he’d brought from Los Angeles. By the time it wrapped we were both verifiably tipsy, and we christened the weekend with a jump in the pool. The saltwater was a balm against the heat of the night, and it finally hit — we were away. The restaurants bore banners, reminding passersby, “WE DELIVER.” I read them as “WE STILL EXIST.” Sadly, you cannot live in a swimming pool. The escape provided by a body of water and a body full of tequila is only temporary. Once we dried off, the anxiety was waiting for us. There are certain things you give in to trusting when you travel. This is particularly true when you are traveling right into somebody else’s home. You do your best to trust that the sheets are clean — that the towels won’t poison you with a deadly virus — that the cleaning crew did their absolute best. I wiped down door knobs, the action feeling a bit like the crossroads so many people I know find themselves at with COVID-19 right now: Committed to not getting other people killed, but also determined to find the small compromises they can get away with. Seeing a friend here, taking a trip there. The small releases of the pressure valve. As I grabbed that black towel to dry my face with a knot in my stomach, I told myself that I had to unclench. There’s no point in a trip like this if you don’t let go of some daily worries. Caution is crucial, yes. So is picking your battles — and not instinctively giving into what the Atlantic dubbed “hygiene theater,” especially when the CDC insists that although it’s possible to contract COVID-19 via surfaces or objects, the “primary and most important method” of transmission is person-to-person. But tell my brain that after four months of wiping down every item that enters my home. It felt almost hilariously pedestrian to find ourselves intimidated by the house’s propane grill. How to use the thing was a mental rollercoaster that had nothing to do with a deadly virus, or being Black people who’d passed multiple pro-police, pro-Trump sentiments on the way into a strange suburb. We just didn’t want to accidentally blow up ourselves or the beautiful house we were staying in. You know you’re in deep with anxiety when the question of whether you’re going to cause a literal explosion still counts as vacation escapism. At least for a moment, we weren’t thinking about the dystopian tragedy of the world around us. We opted to have local groceries delivered rather than bring our own from home. I was sous chef as my boyfriend moved our dinner plans to the kitchen. We’d chopped onions, potatoes, peppers, ears of corn, broccoli, asparagus, and Italian sausage for the grill. Now, we threw most of the vegetables into a wok and sauteed them in olive oil and seasonings. We threw the corn and the greens — the broccoli, the asparagus — onto sheet pans in the oven. We tossed shrimp with Old Bay we’d brought from Los Angeles and tossed those into frying pans along with the sausage. For the potatoes we raided the spice cabinets, sprinkling masala along with salt, pepper, and garlic. Simple as it seems, it wasn’t the kind of meal I usually have the attention span to create for myself in my daily quarantine life. It was as if purposely misplacing ourselves gave us permission to sink our brains into an activity we’re usually too drained to do together, inside a beautiful kitchen equipped with all the accoutrements I have been too lazy to buy. We ate in front of a Katherine Heigl movie from 2009 — and fell asleep in front of it not long after. We’d do the same thing at home. But that’s vacation for you — it still felt like release. The next morning, we chopped the leftover peppers and onions and threw them into a scramble accentuated with bacon and sausage. We ate in front of Avatar: The Last Airbender while talking about the myriad chaoses of this era. I could feel the anxiety bubbling back up within me. The trip was a planned escape from that, but there’s no running away from your own brain. We tried our best, though. After breakfast we slathered ourselves tip to tit to toe in sunscreen and jumped in the pool. We spent at least five hours in that pool on Saturday. The temperature hit 105, but the gentle saltwater inoculated us. I reacquainted myself with what it means to give yourself over to the water, to just float with your face barely above the surface, trusting that it won’t consume you. We both revisited the flips and handstands we used to do in the summer waters as children. At times, we just threw ourselves over spaghetti-shaped pool noodles and let those carry us wherever they pleased. There was an ebullience, a lightness, and a sense of respite. The end of the day brought the kind of exhaustion I’d missed: not brought on by the news cycle or a steep decline in fresh air and vitamin D. I’d been using muscles I hadn’t used in years. My energy had been provided and then leached away by the sun, the water, the heat. After showering, we collapsed, freshly moisturized, onto the massive couch, and ordered two big cauliflower-crust pizzas from Blaze. We spent as much time as possible outside. The next morning we took one last dip, one more momentary escape. Then we got to cleaning — again. Basic etiquette demands clean-up at the end of any weekend trip, even in the best of days. I wouldn’t strew detritus around a hotel room for housekeeping. Here’s hoping that the better days saw you following whatever instructions your Airbnb host left — stripping the beds, most likely. We followed the instructions, taking the trash out and piling the used towels into the designated hamper. Then we set about our own tasks. We wiped down every surface we’d touched — nightstands, kitchen counters, cabinets, stove knobs. Remotes, light switches. Doorknobs came last, just before our final sweep-through to make sure we hadn’t forgotten anything. We slipped back into our own apartments — carting along those same tired brains, slightly more sun-kissed. Then we were back in the car, hurtling homeward. Hoping against hope that we’d made the right moves. Not knowing what the next weeks and months may hold for this still-new COVID world: whether travel home for Christmas to see our families will be possible or responsible; whether that starched-black washcloth would come back around to bite us in three to five days. I wish I could say that we made another big, nutritious meal when we landed at my place, but we snapped right back to our usual exhaustion. We unearthed some leftover empanadas from my fridge and went to town on them. We ordered more takeout two hours later, and wiped down every inch of the packaging. Life slipped back into the claustrophobic resilience of our COVID routines. We slipped back into our own apartments — carting along those same tired brains, slightly more sun-kissed. Weeks later, I’m still thinking about that pool. The cool, gentle way it held me, suspended me in space. Disappearing under its waters felt like slipping out of my current world and into another, even if just for a moment. The gift of awayness. It’s common, I think, to crave something slightly sideways from your daily state of being. Now my thumb instinctively clicks that small square on my phone. It swipes and swipes, exploring options. It daydreams. It reaches for what might be next, even as our own world sits just out of reach. from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3aGvHrW

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