#but yeah for all we know Sam will be carried to the stage or descend from the ceiling or transform his new PC from an FCG outfit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonbeambucky · 4 years

Text

Hey Neighbor (Part 7)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 3701 Warnings: fluff

Summary: You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right… that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

A/N: Things are happening!! A huge thank you to my wonderful beta Sam @buckyofthemyscira Feedback is always appreciated!

PART 6 | HEY NEIGHBOR MASTERLIST

Bucky stared at you with his mouth gaping open, stunned into silence at your question. His pause made you realize your mistake. Slapping your palm to your forehead made you cringe with embarrassment.

Quickly you corrected yourself with an awkward giggle. “I mean would you like to come out with me? Tomorrow night a few of us are gonna get together to celebrate,” you beamed.

“You got the internship?”

Bucky asked the question but the brightness of your eyes told him his answer before you bubbled with delight. His arms were around you in an instant, like a magnet that pulled you close to each other as he hugged you deeply.

The shock of his unexpected hug was not unwelcome as your own arms lifted up to wrap around him in return, keeping your bodies pressed together as you felt every little squeeze filled with unspoken pride. Turning your head brought you closer to the spice on his neck, inhaling the warmth that set every part of your body ablaze.

Suddenly you were very aware of Bucky, of the strong arms that encased your frame, of the lean muscle underneath your fingers as you gripped his back, of the firm stomach pressed against you. He whispered congratulations and the heat of his breath against your ear sent tingles down your spine. You broke away from the hug, smiling nervously as you reminded yourself Bucky was just a neighbor and friend, nothing more.

“Yeah, so tomorrow night if you’re free. We’re just going local for some drinks, like nine-ish.”

“Tell me where and I’ll be there,” he promised, flashing his teeth as his lips pulled into a smile.

You sat back on Wanda’s bed hanging your feet off the side, watching as she touched up the dark eyeliner that made her green eyes pop. You had met earlier for dinner near her apartment and were hanging out and catching up until it was time to head to the bar.

It had been longer than you cared to acknowledge since the last time you went out somewhere that didn’t involve you working on a paper. Wanda assured you nothing much has changed since your social sabbatical but it didn’t stop you from holding on to a little bit of worry.

Beside Wanda’s bed was a framed picture of her and Pietro. His arm was thrown over Wanda with his hand pressed firmly, protectively on her shoulder. You brought it closer to examine, tracing your finger along the glass and smiling at the memory of your friend.

It had been so long you’d forgotten the way Pietro’s blonde hair could look silver in certain light but you didn’t forget his smile. His beautiful smile always shined like the brightest star in the sky despite the darkness it held back.

As you placed the frame back to its spot on the nightstand you thought about what you were celebrating tonight. The internship was bringing you one step closer to your goal and soon you could honor Pietro in your own way by helping others in need.

“Who else is coming tonight?” Wanda shouted from the bathroom at the other end of her apartment.

“Steve and Sam, Clint and Natasha and Bucky.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” she asked and you explained he was your new neighbor. “Wait... the Music Man?! What happened to wanting to kill him?”

Instead of shouting back you got up to walk towards her bathroom, watching her style half her hair in a messy bun as wavy tresses fell across her shoulders.

“Wow we really need to catch up more often.”

Wanda jumped at your voice, not expecting you to be so close as you leaned against the doorframe. Looking at you through the reflection of the mirror she asked what happened, so you explained how things went when you finally spoke with him.

“He’s actually really nice so no, I won’t be committing any murders.”

“Uh huh…” Wanda’s lips pulled into a smirk. “You like him.”

Your face scrunched at the thought. “No Wanda I don’t. He’s nice, he’s a friend but I don’t like him, not like that,” you stated sharply. “Remember, he’s still sleeping with all of New York.”

The whites of her eyes were a stark contrast to the black makeup surrounding them as they rolled to the back of her head. “I know he’s your friend,” she emphasized with finger quotations, “But if he’s coming to this he wants to sleep with you too, just sayin’.”

You rolled your eyes back at Wanda, not arguing further because you know she’d never let it go.

She shrugged on a red leather jacket, not that she needed it yet. September had only just begun and the summer heat was still very much present. A bit of early morning rain had cooled things down only slightly today but it never mattered to Wanda, she’ll always put style first before comfort.

The rhythmic beat of drumming grew louder as you descended the steps to the subway. A small band of four young girls had taken up residence for the night along the tiled wall drawing a rather large crowd of faces blocked by their phones as they streamed the performance to social media.

The lead singer reminded you of Natasha with her red hair but the blonde haired drummer stuck out the most; she was killing it as her hot pink spider web clad sleeves were moving in a flurry as she hit a solo. You watched them for a few minutes, tossing a few dollars into their open guitar case before catching the train back towards your neighborhood.

You rubbed your nose with your hand, wiggling it a few times before turning towards Wanda. “Any horses in the stable?” you asked, tilting your head up. It was your code from childhood, a subtle way of asking in public if there were any boogers in your nose.

Wanda chuckled, “Nope. All clear, weirdo.”

“You love me,” you replied, with a wide smile stretching across your face.

Goosebumps erupted along your arms from the unexpected chill on the street and you shrugged down your shirt that had risen up after climbing the steps. Though you were celebrating there was no need to dress up, slimming jeans and black booties were good enough for this occasion.

You were excited to go back to this bar named only after its address, 107. It was modeled like a speakeasy with no real signs other than a lighted marquee that made it a popular Instagram spot. You had been there once before for a coworkers birthday and knowing how crowded it gets you knew you’d be fine without a jacket.

A familiar laugh carried through the streets. Underneath the marquee stood Steve and Sam laughing about something until Sam nudged him to turn around towards the figures walking their way.

After kissing them both on the cheek you introduced them to Wanda. Steve had met her before you remembered though it had been a while since they saw each other.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Sam said, taking Wanda’s hand and smiling widely, “I’m Dr. Wilson but you can call me Sam.”

He flashed his teeth, grinning widely and Steve turned towards you, speaking a silent conversation with just your eyes that revealed you both knew Sam had dialed up his charm for a reason.

“Why are you guys standing outside?” she asked.

“Well Cap over here is the genius that couldn’t find the door.”

Tilting your head at Steve you questioned, “Cap?”

“Cause I’m the captain at the gym apparently.” Steve said reluctantly, laughing under his breath. “Not my fault that Sam can’t keep up,” he teased.

“Well some of us save lives working long shifts,” Sam replied to Steve while winking at Wanda.

Steve chuckled, “Excuses, excuses.”

“Oh you wanna go?” Sam challenged Steve but it was friendly and beneath the teasing it was obvious just how well they got along.

“Alright let’s head in,” you began, leading the way to the unmarked door.

From the outside the door was covered in wooden planks, appearing to be the remnant of an abandoned or condemned building but it pulled open with ease, with sunset colored lights illuminating the stairs to the basement.

At the bottom is a large man dressed in all black, blocking a wooden door with a stained glass insert. Echoes of the music from within the room he guards bounce around the small corridor where you and your friends are pulling out your IDs to show him.

Soon enough the door opens to reveal a room bathed in muted autumn colors, from the rusted brick walls, glowing with period sconces to the deep russet leather booths. Cognac covered the walls, not only from the bottles on the glass shelves behind the bar but within the Victorian wallpaper. The damask pattern was highlighted by the slightly lighter honey color, though everything seemed to blend together in the dim room.

Natasha spotted you from the bar, hopping off the stool as she grabbed her drink and Clint’s hand. Once again you introduced everybody all the while looking around for another face. Wanda noticed your roaming eyes and asked if you were looking for Bucky. Answering as casually as you could you wanted to make it seem like you didn’t care, because you didn't, not like that. Instead your attention was focused on everyone who was present, and you moved towards the bar.

There was a large table in the back Clint was eyeing like a hawk, ready to move in once the group there showed any sign of getting ready to leave. In the meantime everyone else ordered drinks and crowded around a small high top table, with Sam offering Wanda a seat and standing beside her.

It was nice to be out with friends again and you hoped that since now you would be free from writing papers that you would have more time and energy to get out more. Truthfully you were imagining the next big celebration, the day you finally walk across the stage to receive your diploma.

You’re lost in thought as you take a sip of your deep sunset colored cocktail that clings on to the memory of summer, unaware of the person calling your name until his tap on your shoulder brings you back to reality. You choke slightly on the burn of alcohol you quickly swallow, turning around to see Bucky standing behind you.

The sleeves of his bright blue shirt are rolled up and even in the dim lighting you can see how well the color brings out his eyes.

“You made it!” you exclaimed a little too enthusiastically. “Everyone this is Bucky,” you presented him awkwardly as he squeezed beside you, extending his hand forward to everyone as you introduced them.

“So you’re the Guitar Hero,” Clint remarked.

“We live above you,” Natasha said, quirking her eyebrows.

Bucky’s cheeks turned rosy with embarrassment as he tried to laugh off the unspoken words behind her smirk. You began to speak to diffuse the awkwardness but were interrupted as Clint popped up in a flash, darting through the crowd to get to the large table that was now available.

He slid in the corner of the U-shaped booth with Natasha by his side. Wanda offered Sam to go in first towards the middle because she knew you wouldn’t want to be in the direct center, too many people to disrupt if you needed to get up for any reason.

Sam’s smile increased as Wanda sat in the corner next to him with you beside her. Steve settled in next to Natasha on the end continuing their conversation, watching from across the table as you nervously took a sip of your drink as Bucky sat in the open spot beside you.

He slid out just as quickly though saying he was going to grab a drink. Leaning in close, his breath tickled your ear as he asked if you wanted anything.

“Uh, I-I’ll take a refill, I guess,” you asked, telling him your drink order.

Alcohol is supposed to make people let go so you’re not sure why you feel so nervous.

Motioning to hand him money Bucky put his hand out to stop you. “It’s on me,” he said smiling.

When Bucky came back you raised your glass up. “Thank you so much everyone for coming. It’s been a really, really long journey and while it’s not over yet the end of the road is near.”

With a proud smile you explained not only were you celebrating the internship but your new position at Stark Industries. Glasses clinked together to toast you, with Wanda’s arms pulling you towards her for a hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered.

Sitting back up Bucky leaned in to congratulate you. As he spoke your eyes focused on his lips and the stubble growing in around them. Lifting your eyes to his you thanked him, finding yourself in need to quench the thirst of your suddenly dry mouth.

“Y/N, now that you’ll be working at Metro-Gen there’s something you need to know.” Sam lifted the glass to his lips to take a gulp, with an obvious smile stretching across his face as he made everyone wait.

“He does this all the time!” Steve laughed.

Everyone waited with anticipation as he set his glass down. “Do not eat from the cafeteria unless you wanna spend the night in the ER.”

“It can’t be that bad,” said Clint.

“Oh it is.” Sam insisted, offering other nearby places to go instead. “The coffee is passable but I’d avoid the whole place if you can.”

“Good to know.”

Smoother than honey, Sam asked Wanda if she planned on stopping by the hospital now that you’d be working there, letting her know she could always come see him too. You and Steve caught each other’s gaze again and smiled at Sam’s blatant flirting. Wanda didn’t seem to mind, in fact it looked like she had scooted closer towards Sam.

Throughout the night drinks were flowing as freely as the conversation with everyone getting to know each other better.

“Preparing for a trial is so much easier than planning a wedding,” Natasha insisted.

“I don’t see what’s so hard about it,” Clint replied, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

“For one, there are too many decisions to make. Colors and themes– do we even need a theme? So many pre-wedding events to plan for, it’s too much!”

Pressing his lips to her temple Clint told Natasha they would get through it. His kiss pacified her frustrations momentarily as Natasha huffed loudly, “And tell me again why we have to invite your cousin who you have not seen or spoken to in over ten years?”

“‘Cause he’s family?”

“I’m on Natasha’s side here,” Wanda interjected, “Just because they’re family you shouldn’t feel obligated to invite them, especially if you don’t have a relationship with them.”

“I just got my cousin’s save the date actually,” Bucky chimed in. “We talk though and his fiancé seems to be into all that planning stuff.”

“I’d rather not have a whole wedding to be honest,” Natasha mumbled quietly, following up her frustrations with a large swig from her beer.

A few hours had passed and you began to yawn, a lot. You hadn’t stayed up this late, especially without the aid of coffee in years and even though you were feeling the exhaustion it was a nice change of pace.

“We should do this again,” you suggested and everyone agreed, exchanging numbers with each other.

Steve and Wanda were headed in the same direction so they left together. Before Steve left he gave you a big hug, whispering in your ear about how much you both needed to gossip about how hard Sam was trying with Wanda. You would definitely be calling her first since she turned as red as a tomato when Sam kissed her cheek as he said goodnight.

The walk to your apartment building wasn’t far but Clint and Natasha decided to grab an Uber since Clint was more wasted than he let on.

“I’m gonna walk back,” you stated as Natasha was setting up the ride. “I’m starving,” you replied to her confusion. “Wanna find something to eat.”

Your stomach had been growling for a while and you were desperate for any type of food, preferably something greasy.

“I’ll walk with you,” Bucky said.

Natasha made a mental note of how quickly Bucky offered to walk with you but still she was relieved you wouldn’t be alone.

The silence was comfortable as you strolled along the sidewalk, finding a walk up window on the next block that offered a slice of pizza for a dollar. You held the paper plate beneath the folded slice to catch the dripping oil, eating as you continued your journey home.

Walking down the block a man pushed the door open of a pub, letting out the startling sound of classic rock music from within as he steps to the side to smoke. Up ahead you heard the drunken laughter of a small group of guys headed your way. Bucky automatically took a precautionary step closer towards you which you hadn’t realized until your elbow grazed his arm. The group passed without incident allowing you to enjoy the rest of your walk home in the somewhat quieted city streets.

“This isn’t the worst dollar slice I’ve had,” Bucky said, finishing his first.

With one more bite to go you tossed the plate into the trash can on the corner. “Definitely not the best though.”

The remaining blocks until your apartment were filled with pizza discourse that made you even hungrier.

“Pineapple on pizza?” you questioned, fumbling with the keys to get into the front door of the building.

“Not my favorite. I don’t hate it but I wouldn’t go out of my way for it.” Bucky pressed the button for the elevator, leaning against the wall. “You?”

“Same. It’s not a topping choice I’d ever pick but I’d still eat it.”

The elevator doors opened and Bucky motioned for you to go inside first.

“Can I be honest? I really wish I had gotten another slice,” you chuckled, looking at the smile pulling on Bucky’s face.

“Me too. We can go out, uh back out, for more.”

The idea of roaming the streets with Bucky in the middle of the night for pizza was very tempting but despite a night of drinking some logic survived, making you realize you would end up sleeping through Sunday. There was too much to do in preparation for the week, especially since you hadn’t brainstormed any ideas for The September Foundation and you really wanted to make a good impression on everyone involved in the project.

“Next time, I promise, maybe not at 1am but we should totally go on a pizza quest! Eat our way through the city and stuff ourselves until we find the best place.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard,” Bucky proclaimed, dropping his voice softly as the elevator opened to your floor.

You smiled widely under his gaze, feeling the heat on your skin that must have been because of the drinks and not the soft stare of Bucky’s handsome face. Your heart began to beat like the rhythm of his song as your lungs let go of the breath you had been holding on to.

Your keys slipped from your fingers, falling to the floor with a jangly thump. Both you and Bucky bent down to reach for them, banging your heads together.

“Shit I’m so sorry,” he apologized, seeing your hand pressed against the spot on your head where you collided. Bucky feels terrible but also can’t help but notice how cute your face looks all scrunched up.

“I’m okay,” you reassured with a smile.

His soft fingers grazed yours as he handed back your keys.

“Thanks and thanks for coming out tonight Bucky.”

Dropping your hand from the slightly painful spot on your head you moved in to hug him. Bucky was tense, not expecting that but he quickly let go and relaxed into the hug, into the softness of your body against his.

His nose is buried in your hair and Bucky breathes in your scent. It’s overwhelming, as the subtle hint of flowers invade his senses, transporting him to a lush garden full of fragrant blooms. His mouth is watering at the sweetness, as every part of his body awakens with the urge to immerse himself in this mesmerizing scent.

He wonders why he hadn’t noticed this before on you, but then again this is the closest you’ve been and like a lightning strike to his soul Bucky is shocked. He’s never felt this need before, this desire to fulfill his senses this way, he craves this more than oxygen and he’s scared.

Fear pulls him away from you, covering his shaky voice as best as he could as he mutters out, “H-have a good night.”

“Goodnight Bucky,” you replied, opening your apartment door.

The dull throbbing of your head keeps Bucky on your mind and on the other side of the wall he lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He’s restless and unsure of what to do with the unsettled feeling in his stomach. Bucky throws his legs over the side of the bed, slumping his shoulders as he wipes his face roughly. He wonders why he can’t sleep, throwing a glance to the wall where he pictures you sleeping beneath the twinkling lights that surround your bed.

His heart skips a worrisome beat leaving Bucky with the only option he feels safe with. Grabbing his phone he scrolls through his contacts wondering who to text. Dot is clingy and desperate enough to come over in the middle of the night but Bucky doesn’t have the strength to deal with her. He scrolls to Rosa, knowing she didn’t live too far. He’s thankful when she comes over, desperate for the distraction, pounding away furiously into the girl beneath him, all while someone else was slowly creeping into his mind.

PART 8

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes series

733 notes · View notes

incarnateirony · 4 years

Photo

So here we are, The Great Supernatural Rewatch, 01.01 Pilot. If unfamiliar with this rewatch, please check my Objectives and Bracketing post [x], and then my Methodology Notes [x]; Also, reminder that I’m not the only person doing this, though each in their own ways. My Objectives and Methodology are my own.

I’m trying to get a little ahead of the official Jan 3 start date, since I know I will... inevitably fall behind, and this episode was ripe for the initial pick-through for the inevitability of a thousand call backs.

That said, with level 1. SYNCHRONIC: As it reads, unto itself, as best divorced from future knowledge of the story, it’s difficult to do much actual “meta” as much as review and commentary since literally it’s all character and story introductions. There’s some to be had, but beyond things like lighting, the Level 1 viewing tier is not going to lend towards much beyond basic archetypes, and a lot of mythology breakdown. This post will be heaving Level 2 weighted as a result. Most tier-1 posting is going to be an early build of key words, phrases and signs to assemble throughout the season watching (and tap back on later for tier 2 by tagging.)

Also a few unannounced side projects; I’m about to start a “Combat Counter” and “Marksmanship Counter”, to see how Sam and Dean handle both in physical battles/scraps over time compared to each other, and who has the better overall aim in the long term.

Some things saved in this post will seem random and arbitrary, but are potential flags I intend to keep, mostly for later level 2, DIACHRONIC study.

Now to get to the meat:

STUDY: REWATCH/REVIEW STAGE

Allow me to lead with: this episode even unto itself is a fine spectacle of just how much the genre shifted over time. I am a huge fan of David Nutter’s directing; many would know him from, say, Game of Thrones. He didn’t stay long--just Pilot and Wendigo--before moving on. But some of his touches stayed with the show for a few years. The entire ambiance is a giant testiment to survival-horror, a grimness to it, even if the CW itself could never truly capitalize on it. The mood and ambiance was successfully played on. The entire episode is rife with cloudy lighting beaming between bars and through windows, bold silhouette shots, and more that gives an air of mystery even after some characters are established. Dynamic shots are plenty.

Your early reading here isn’t going to tell you much you don’t already know, but is for filing, review, and even reminder/refresher purposes. As the season unfolds, there’s going to be more to interconnect, obviously. If you would like to read more observations on actual parallels, scroll to the DIACHRONIC STUDY header. If I’ve taken a screenshot, even in Synchronic, it’s because it’s a flag I do expect to come back up in diachronic study later and need to catalogue for future parallels and address.

So, imagining it’s 2005, we’re watching Supernatural for the first time. We’re in a very different world, Both in the show, and in the real world. A standard, haunting discord rattles the minds of the audience as a tree moves like a hand towards the window of a suburban home.

We see a classic, nuclear family in this standard home, saying their charming goodnights to an infant. But within moments, we’re told in every classic way that everything is wrong. The infant’s mobile turns on its own accord; the clock stops.

It’s 8:12pm when the world goes haywire. The decorative moon in the room flickers, growing dim. The mother wakes to the sound of a distressed infant on the baby monitor. She rises from bed in her gown.

This is a point I’m left to negotiate cursed knowledge: to all visual cues, the mother’s attire appears to be white. The audience perceived it as white. But we know it, and Jess’ gown later, was actually pink; the film stock failed to capture it. Both short term and much louder in the long term, these two colors can deliver two very different meanings. But for us, a viewer consuming a digital medium with no knowledge beyond what they published, I’m left to decide that the text seems to determine her in a white gown.

The wife sees a stark silhouette, asking if the child was hungry, assuming it was her husband that quieted her. She turns away, tapping on a flickering light over an old marriage portrait that one can only assume was a previous family generation. She descends the stairs.

Here she finds her husband is sleeping. Panic takes her, bringing her to the room. Quickly, chaos erupts. As does she, once seen bleeding down onto the hand of the father from above the crib. We see her, sunken eyes, already dying, screaming without a sound. Silent. Unable to make a noise.

The camera details the desperation of the father rushing his infant to his older child. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don’t look back. Now Dean, GO.”

I’m unclear what John thinks he’s going to achieve running back in for Mary as fire takes the home. But soon, he finds young Dean, 4, outside, holding an infant, “I've got you Sammy.” John erupts out of the house as the windows begin to blow, sweeping in to carry Dean, who carries Sam.

As the fire department arrives, the first cords of a song we would later come to recognize as Americana haunt through otherwise chilling music that climbs actively to punch out through our first cold open.

The Winchesters are our first cold open.

We find ourselves in modern day with the rick of a rock cord, and a young woman in a white nurse outfit adjusting her earings while framed by an image of John and Mary--the mother and father--in a picture frame. Though she calls for Sam, we see nothing of Dean--not even a picture. The image on the counter tells of a life Sam(my) was too young to even know, but perhaps is in his blonde-haired woman who teases him about halloween while standing in front of a mirror.

Sam is clearly in his young prime, celebrating his LSAT with a 174 score much to his chagrin with friends dressed up in all styles of wardrobe. Behind Sam a neon black cat sign may just jinx his future in warm but dull lighting; ghostly drapes hide behind Jess in a blue, sharper light.

Sam’s friends perceive he must be the Golden Boy of the family. Jess is proud of him. “What would I do without you?” “Crash and burn.”

Night onsets. Dim lighting feels dusty despite the otherwise hopeful environment. Heavy creaking, groaning, footsteps; Sam rises on instinct, spying an open door and catching haunting noises--sounds. An intruder. And one fateful fight. The choreography spares little.

In actual combat, the intruder--quickly identified as Dean--comes out on top. (Combat ticker: Sam vs Dean: Dean 1) Easy there, tiger. As Dean haunts, revealing his roguish personality quickly, he’s then gotten the better of (this is not going to be considered a combat ticker, it’s not actual combat, but aftermath).

Sam challenges why Dean broke in, but Dean knew Sam would have never picked up without him. They’re interrupted from their silhouetting by the light flicking on, and Dean further displays his roguish charm, enjoying her smurfs, not dreaming of her getting dressed; but soon, it’s down to business--Dean says it’s private family matters. Sam, a unit in the doorframe with Jess, says it can be said in front of her. Until the fateful line: “Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.” The camera zooms on Sam’s set jaw to tell the audience how much weight is in that line as the audio itself drags a raw cord of suspense.

The dizzying stairs are a descent into a world Sam seems to have left behind, with the audience viewing from below. Quickly, we’re introduced to ideas: the Poltergeist in Amherst, the Devil’s Gate in Clifton, “always missing and always fine.” Sam’s bitterness is thick: rather than telling him not to be afraid of the dark, “dad gave me a .45″, though Dean challenges what he should have done. They soon stand in a cage of sharply lit bars, arguing if this was what their mother would have wanted--to be raised like warriors.

Dean challenges if Sam would want a normal apple pie life; Sam slaps back: not normal, safe. “And that’s why you ran away.”--But John told him to stay gone. Regardless, Dean doesn’t want to do it alone. Sam asks what he was hunting, and why Dean wasn’t there; Dean was working a voodoo thing in New Orleans.

Dean reveals Jericho, California--10 men over to years on the same 5 mile stretch of road.

The “Ran it through A Goldwave” is a funny side comment but I’m not gonna get into why beyond LOL “through a goldwave”, that’s-- whatever. But we hear, in EVP, “I can never go home.”

The average viewer, at this point, isn’t going to be deeply instructing the story parallels--and in the scheme of it, Sam’s fear of going home barely scratches the meta surface. We do know John has been missing for three weeks. And find out Sam has a Monday deadline for his entry to lawschool, “whole future on a plate.” Jess worries over disappearing with his family, reminding of the deadline, but he promises to be back in time.

A sharp cut to JERICHO, CALIFORNIA. The driver shares similar concerns to Sam, “if I miss it, dad’s gonna have my ass,” he tells his girlfriend on the phone. A woman in white appears down the road as the car clock fries at 10:17, asking to be taken home. “Take me home?” “She lives at the end of breckenridge road.” “A girl like you shouldn’t really be alone out here.” She hikes her skirt. “I’m with you. Do you think I’m pretty? Will you come home with me?” hell yeah.

They arrive at a dillapidated home. “I can never go home.” No one even lives here. He steps out, turns around, and she’s gone. An eerie handprint appears on the window.

He decides to leave, clearly feeling the offsettling vibes, but isn’t alone. She steams with animosity in the backseat.

He looks into his mirror.

And wipes out.

After a violent death, we cut back to our boys and another exposition: credit card scams (jesus, could sam have yelled it any louder?), breakfast in a gas station bag, you gotta update your casette tape collection--why? because for one, they’re casette tapes. Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Metallica--it’s the greatest hits of mullet rock. “House rules Sammy, Driver picks the music, rider shuts his cakehole.” “Sammy is a chubby 12 year old.” “What, can’t hear you.”

ENTER, JERICHO

Internal impala shots galore will end up being a major vibe of our next few years. A spunky guitar theme plays that we will eventually come to know. Dean pulls out a cigar box full of fake badges ranging from FBI to Bureau of Tobacco from the glove box, quickly showing us how deep this path goes for them already.

The cops review the mystery: no fingerprints, spotless; we find out that the victim was dating the cop’s daughter, who was posting missing flyers downtown. The boys introduce themselves as federal agents, are challenged for being too young, and Dean sasses his way through, “that’s very kind of you.” -- while gathering basic intel, we quickly find Dean’s tongue getting ahead of him, calling their lack of ability to find a connection beyond them all being male victims, calling it crack police work. The brothers’ dual personas exit the crime scene with a cuff upside the head from Sam to Dean, a bickering match, and Dean leaving a Mulder and Scully crack on the cops.

They quickly find Amy, the girlfriend, and lie to claim that were Troy’s relatives and had heard about her, and move to a diner to talk about events.

No major unusual things to warrant events; Sam compliments her necklace. She jokes that Troy got it for her to freak out her parents for “devil stuff”, but Sam quickly educates her on the pentagram meaning the opposite, a symbol of protection.

But there are weird rumors in town--people talk. In-sync, “what do they talk about”; a local legend. She tells them of a girl murdered on centennial where anyone who picks her up disapears forever. The brothers quickly move on to a library with a clunky monitor, fully dating us; not just the lack of good cell phones and wifi, but the equipment and the appearance of the search engine alone. Right, we’re watching this in 2005.

The brothers slapfight again, but Sam shows that even away from the life he never lost his prowess. He asks, “Angry spirits are born out of violent death, right?” and searches for suicide. 1981, 24 years prior. “Our babies were gone and Constance couldn’t bear it.”

So they go to see where Constance took the swan dive.

The brothers begin to fight.

SAM Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday—

DEAN turns around.

DEAN Monday. Right. The interview.

SAM Yeah.

DEAN Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?

SAM Maybe. Why not?

DEAN Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?

SAM steps closer.

SAM No, and she's not ever going to know.

DEAN Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammy. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.

DEAN turns around and keeps walking. SAM follows.

SAM And who's that?

DEAN You're one of us.

SAM hurries to get in front of DEAN.

SAM No. I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life.

DEAN You have a responsibility to—

SAM To Dad? And his crusade? If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back.

DEAN grabs SAM by the collar and shoves him up against the railing of the bridge. A long pause.

DEAN Don't talk about her like that.

They’re interrupted as Constance appears, diving off the cliff, and immediately taking control of the Impala.

“Dude, who’s driving your car?” Dean holds up his keys.

They flee, over the bridge, and share another movement. One more fake card later, they find themselves in John’s room, room 10, in a motel. Sam remarks that the place is covered in Salt, and Cat’s Eye Shells. The entire room is covered in case work and lore.

I’ll break down the lore of these in a later mythos reblog, though the Asmodeus one really catches my eye for reasons outside of this episode.

Sam finds a photo-- a distinctly different family than the one on his college dresser. There, it’s John and Mary as an ideal image that framed Jessica. Here, it’s the life he walked away from. But while Dean heads out, he’s spotted by police, and their old coded dialect pops out, “Five Oh, take off.” Federal marshalls confront him: They’re looking for his partner (cue Wincest fans trying to make meta that’s about to be shot down one scene later, in the distance), fake US Marshalls, fake credit cards, is there anything about you that’s Real. My boobs.

Just putting a flag in the name Sheriff Pierce, we’ll figure out if that’s ever valid to anything later. But he tells Dean of the trouble he’s in with a room full of missing people and devil worship, for Dean to snap back he was 3 when they went missing. But they knew he had more than one partner. An older man. John’s journal is thrown out (Wincest meta dies a terrible death beyond previous scene)

Again, I’ll translate the FUTHARK in a follow up post, this is already taking a lot of time as it is.

Meanwhile, Sam is investigating the leads they and John both found. Previously spoken intents to burn her has him ask about her being buried at an old plot by Breckenridge at their old place.

SAM And why did you move?

JOSEPH I'm not gonna live in the house where my children died.

SAM stops walking. JOSEPH stops too.

SAM Mr. Welch, did you ever marry again?

JOSEPH No way. Constance, she was the love of my life. Prettiest woman I ever known.

SAM So you had a happy marriage?

JOSEPH hesitates.

Putting a flag in this for later.

But Sam decides to call the man out.

SAM A woman in white. Or sometimes weeping woman?

JOSEPH just looks.

SAM It's a ghost story. Well, it's more of a phenomenon, really.

SAM starts back toward JOSEPH.

SAM Um, they're spirits. They've been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places, in Hawaii, Mexico, lately in Arizona, Indiana. All these are different women.

SAM stops in front of JOSEPH.

SAM You understand. But all share the same story.

JOSEPH Boy, I don't care much for nonsense.

JOSEPH walks away. SAM follows.

SAM See, when they were alive, their husbands were unfaithful to them.

JOSEPH stops.

SAM And these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children.

JOSEPH turns around.

SAM Then once they realized what they had done, they took their own lives. So now their spirits are cursed, walking back roads, waterways. And if they find an unfaithful man, they kill him. And that man is never seen again.

JOSEPH You think...you think that has something to do with...Constance? You smartass!

SAM You tell me.

JOSEPH I mean, maybe...maybe I made some mistakes. But no matter what I did, Constance, she never would have killed her own children. Now, you get the hell out of here! And you don't come back!

Sam is flushed out, and makes a fake 911 call to break Dean out, pointing out that the husband had been unfaithful. More dramatic silhouette shots really capture the early spirit of the piece, with Dean using a phone booth in lieu of other options. Hell, Dean was able to find a phone booth, let that take you back. They determine that John left Jericho, and establish his ex-marine habits with the coordinates, 35-111 that Dean had lied through to the cop. But while on the phone, the woman in white appears in front of Sam on the road, non-crashing.

She controls the car again, and forces him to drive to a broken home, repeating, “I can never go home.” Sam recognizes: “You’re scared to go home.” And that’s when the creepy ghost rapey vibes start, mounting him, demanding he hold her, she’s cold. “You can’t kill me, I’m not unfaithful.” He argues. You will be. Just hold me.

As she goes to rip out his heart, she flickers with the beat of his.

Dean breaks into the scene, unloading 12 shots into the ghost with iron bullets to disrupt her manifestation, giving Sam time to sit up and say, “I’m taking you home.”, where he drives through the house. Dean helps Sam out of the car, only to be telekinetically pinned by a dresser to be disabled.

The lights flicker again. Children manifest, water runs down the stairs, looking eerily like the light could be the Winchester’s old home

Here, she falls when reunited with her children. Sam clarifies--she could never go home, she was too afraid to face her kids (while not viable for the synchronic study, for my own sanity I’m going to note this season, Home will be all but mandatory to touch back here.) Dean says Sam found her weak spot.

They drive down the road with a blown headlight, Sam using an old map and ruler to locate the coordinates. But it’s realized Sam isn’t going with Dean to blackwater ridge, colorado 600 miles away. His interview was in ten hours. Dean declares, “I’ll take you home.”

There’s banter over meeting up later, and being a good team, but Sam goes inside and calls for Jess. “You home?” He finds a plate full of cookies with a note “missed you, love you” and relaxes in bed with the distant sound of a running shower.

And of course.

And so it began.

SYNCHRONIC STUDY: IN-EPISODE PARALLELS

In a first episode, there’s only so much to address. While we may question how much the Woman in White being in White may have been intentional with Jess and Mary, who wore pink (a diachronic full text body note later), in the initial review, it’s worth mentioning for the reasons in part 1 I’ve decided to air towards white in the final text product. Resultingly, the tie between Constance->Mary->Jess seems tangible. But it isn’t really so simple.

“Home.” Home is a huge keyword.

"I can never go home." within the episode unto itself, Sam is struggling to well, get back home. And frankly, returning home is the key of it. (hears distant uppity Wincest stans) The difference here is, this isn't a direct parallel, of course, as much as a general ambient mood that will haunt is forward through the show, even if current viewers just watching episode 1 don't recognize it yet. Sam going home kills Jess, essentially; or at least witnesses her death. At the same time, Sam fears returning to the hunter life, or more doesn't think he can because John told him not to come back. But now that Jess is dead, well, Sam can never go home to the life he was building. He has no choice but TO go back to the other home--the hunter life. Even if he’s certain it’s not what Mary would have wanted for them.

DIACHRONIC STUDY: IN-SEASON PARALLELS, LOOKING FORWARD

There’s no way I’ll have them all in mind, these are just what are flagging me along the way.

1.09 Home As the “Home” rewatch is not that far away, I’m going to save this as a placeholder with general notes about “Mary apologizing to Sam,” even if frankly, she should have to Dean too. But even if, at the time, the exact details of the deal may or may not have been established or hashed out by the authors--we’re not picking at arguing if the authors intended it or not here. Here, Mary apologizes for her deal. Here, Mary apologizes--for drowning her children. For magnetizing this poltergeist to this place that she demands let her sons go, where she forces the spook to let go of Sam. She couldn’t really go home in the truest sense until that passed. (I’ll have deeper chain-link connections on this looking-forward once actually at the episode.

DIACHRONIC STUDY: IN-ERA PARALLELS, LOOKING FORWARD

They’re here, but not pinging me at 1 AM beyond vagueblogging about Lucifer showing up as Jess to haunt Sam and the inevitable time travel episodes about Mary, so placeholder for later updates.

DIACHRONIC STUDY: BEYOND-ERA PARALLELS, LOOKING FORWARD

Obviously compare to above-dropped screenshots.

11.04: Mistakes were made.

Listen, Dean’s grimace seat has been in discussion lately, don’t blame me for thinking of Joseph’s mistakes right after the season as Dean-mirror Pastor Joseph. Funny how Sam’s get shown and Dean’s don’t.

11.23/12.01: Mary’s return in the (white or pink, I’m rolling with white as-above) gown, and all extending details.

12.22: Mary's dreamspace.

12.23: Dean, Castiel's death, Sam removing Dean

15.01: Woman In White, We've got work to do

I feel like the Woman in White is the most interesting of these that hasn’t been as talked to death as, say, the 12.23 elements with the Destiel parallel. After all, the Woman in White largely focused on Sam. It was his fear of home. It was him being faithful to Jess (and being unfaithful can be more than sex, really; after all, he made a promise to come back.) But in season 15, it’s Dean that the ghost of the jilted lover approaches, shortly after Dean nearly killed Jack in his pain. Was Dean the weeping woman? Or was Castiel? Who held the animosity in the back seat?

Or is this a shared path? As Dean puts the Equalizer away under the Cigar Box, he has his own haunting issues in the mirror.

Those will be addressed more deeply when we get to that episode in like half a year. But for now, I’m just putting a pin in it. With a side scribble of “Cas got his Secrets/Mary, Sam got his serial killer and clowns and Dean got... the woman in white with Belphegor.”

15.02: Road Closed

15.03: If one insists Mary and Jess’ dress are pink, Rowena’s dress upon wedding and unbirthing to death (and queendom)

15.04: I still think about Jess (shortly before Eileen’s return.)

15.13: If one insists Mary and Jess’ dress are pink, atop the eventually-addressed meaning of lighting (death and transformation) vs the Empress symbolism (fertility, rebirth), Castiel in pink light.

15.15: If one insists Mary and Jess’ dress are pink. Amara’s trenchcoat.

15.20: Beyond the obvious quotes, and the (IMO failed) attempt at nostalgia, there’s honestly very little callback to the original episode.

That’s it on first glance, I’m sure more will rattle out as we go forward. Well, mostly. Keys to the Legacy from Mint Condition is flagging me alongside control mechanisms like Castiel losing control of his vessel. But those are thoughts to put pins in for now and develop later.

COMBAT COUNTER:

DEAN VICTORIES: 1 (sam vs Dean)

MARKSMANSHIP COUNTER:

DEAN SHOTS: 12 shots, 12 hits.

(hits for any individual will be considered accurate even if targets teleport/flicker out as long as it should have hit the body)

The mythology pasted all around John’s Room is worth a second trip, but off the top of my head I see the Bell Witch and Asmodeus from the Lesser Key of Solomon (near the motel door).

I’ll reblog later to add commentary on that.

47 notes · View notes

fallintosanity · 4 years

Note

What are your thoughts on 7 Remake’s ~controversial~ ending? It’s been a few weeks now since I finished and I legit feel like I’ve journeyed through all 5 stages of grief and finally landed on Acceptance 😅

haha that’s fair! I have a lot of thoughts about the remake, but they’re coming from three different angles.

(Spoilers under the cut obvs; also this got fucklong even after I cut a bunch of non-ending-related thoughts, and I apologize to those of you on mobile)

From the POV of someone who played and loved the original

Overall, I really enjoyed the remake, ending and all. I replayed the OG prior to the remake’s release, finishing literally four hours before the remake became available in North America, but it had still been months since I did the Midgar parts so it wasn’t too immediately fresh in my mind. Still, I was impressed by how faithful the remake is to the OG for the vast majority of the game. They noticeably cleaned up a few things, like Tseng slapping Aerith, which didn’t age well or stopped making sense with regards to the greater Compilation, which was nice to see. But they also doubled down on some of the ridiculousness of the original. I can’t tell you how much I cackled when the Hell House showed up, or how many times I said to my fiance in joy/disbelief, “They really managed to fit that in!”

I also love all the little nods to the greater Compilation. I saw one interview excerpt from like... 2015 or 2014 or something that said the Remake is considered canon to the Compilation, and the content of the Remake itself suggests this. While some of the cameos could be considered nothing more than cameos (as much as I love Kunsel, I don’t think his name being dropped means anything other than that they needed a name and wanted to give a nod to him), there are other clear hints that Crisis Core and The Kids Are Alright, at minimum, are canon to the Remake. Hojo mentions “S and G type” SOLDIERs, i.e., Sephiroth-type and Genesis/Gillian-type. (Roche is a G type I am not taking arguments on this point) The description of the Buster Sword says it carries the hopes and dreams of those who came before, implying more than just Zack (i.e., Angeal). Zack’s scene right before he charges the ShinRa army is shot-for-shot the one from Crisis Core, which could have just been a nod, but the fact that he also says the same lines as the original is telling. There’s a lot of lore loaded into those lines. Leslie and Kyrie are both from The Kids Are Alright (which makes me wonder if the third ShinRa half-brother is floating around somewhere). You could make an argument for Before Crisis being partially or completely canon to the remake as well, since someone mentions a previous assassination attempt on the President, which happened in BC.

But now we get into the issue of whether Advent Children is canon to the remake, i.e., the ending and the thing you actually asked about. ^^; This is where I’m more torn. My initial reaction to the ending was “Oh crap, we went from FFVII-Remake to Kingdom Hearts - oh shit now we’re in Advent Children - oh fuck now we’re in fanfiction-land.” Which... is definitely not what I was expecting from the ending of Part 1.

On first playthrough it feels a bit like they overplayed their hand with Sephiroth in the ending: “everyone wants a Sephiroth fight in a FFVII game, so we’ll give them a Sephiroth fight”. I’ve seen a lot of complaints about the fact that Sephiroth appears in person in the Midgar sequence, when in the OG all we see of him before Kalm is the aftermath of President Shinra’s murder. I do think Sephiroth’s appearances prior to the ending were done well - the writers clearly intended to emphasize Cloud’s mental issues, and Sephiroth is too big a part of them to ignore. His appearances prior to the top of Shinra Tower both serve as a bone tossed to those who wanted to see him in the remake, and set up the Cloud-Sephiroth relationship a lot earlier and in more depth. You can see how utterly terrified Cloud is every time Sephiroth is around - even sometimes frozen into immobility. Depending on how things go with the Kalm flashback, this may also help cue new players in to just how wrong things are with Cloud. (After all, a SOLDIER First shouldn’t be afraid of another SOLDIER First, should he?) But the final fight against Sephiroth, or at least, a clone wearing Sephiroth’s face, felt premature, out of place, something that’s only there to appease people who wanted to fight Sephiroth now.

Aside from the Sephiroth thing, I’m reserving judgment a bit on the ending as a whole. On the one hand, I’m deeply curious to see where the story goes from here, and how the writers use their newfound freedom (more on that in a minute). On the other hand, I don’t want this to turn into Kingdom Hearts 4, and I don’t trust Nomura in that regard, especially after all the bullshit that went on with KH3, Verum Rex, and FFXV/versus 13. I love Nomura, but like George Lucas, he desperately needs someone to rein in, edit, and shape his ideas.

I’m also not sure how I feel about all the theories being thrown out there - such as that at least one of the Sephiroths we see is the one from after AC, somehow flung back in time to fuck things up; or that the OG was, 999-style, Aerith seeing into the future and now in the remake she’s taking control to put everything on the path she wants. They’re interesting, for sure, and I think that with careful handling, it’s possible Squenix might be able to pull one of them off - but given what I know of Squenix (again, more on that later), I don’t trust them to do it well. I am, to be blunt, very concerned that later installments of the remake are going to turn into an incoherent tug-of-war between those who want to be faithful to the original, and Nomura’s desire to inject weird Kingdom Hearts nonsense everywhere.

I say this with all the love to Kingdom Hearts, but it’s a very specific kind of story and it’s not what I want to see in my FFVII.

On a writing meta level

On the meta level, I’m fascinated by the choice to go with the whole Whispers/Arbiters of Fate thing. I don’t know how much of that is pure Nomura-injected BS vs how much was a deliberate choice by the writing team, but for right now I’m going to assume it was mostly a deliberate and unanimous choice.

I’ve seen a lot of other Remake opinions along the lines of a reluctant, “I guess they had to put the Whispers in there because a perfect remake wouldn’t have been satisfying to everyone. There’s always someone who would have complained.” I... don’t think that’s entirely true. Like, yeah, sure, someone’s always going to complain if it’s not a pixel-perfect remake, but based on the overall satisfaction I’ve seen from OG fans (including myself) regarding the parts that are true to the original, I think Squenix would have done just fine if that was the path they chose. And given how much attention they paid to making most of the game into a nearly-perfect recreation, I think the writers knew it.

So why’d they go the whole Whispers route?

My guess would be that the writers were giving themselves freedom, on a meta level, with the Whispers. It’s a way of both poking fun at, and solving, their own dilemma: do we make a perfect, hi-res copy of the original? Or do we change things to make it our own?

The “change something to make it your own” is a longstanding trope when someone new is put in charge of something old. You see it in everything from Disney live-action remakes to new managers who change their employees’ routines just to “make an impact”. Most of the time, these changes are neutral / un-impactful at best, or outright frustrating / terrible at worst. I wonder if the Remake writing team wasn’t fully aware of this, and possibly tangled up in knots internally about how to handle it. Would it be seen as a bad, “make it their own” change to have Tseng not slap Aerith? What about adding Chocobo Sam, Madam M, and Andrea Rhodea to the Wall Market sequence? What about the changes to how the Avalanche gang reacts to Cloud, now that we have full animation and voice acting and it’s clear Avalanche has no reason to want to keep him around except for Jessie being horny on main? Where’s the line?

I could see the Whispers being the writing team’s way of making sure they stay in line where it’s important, while also giving themselves the freedom to make the updates needed to allow the remake to work. They’re kind of a meta nod to the audience, a “don’t worry! If we get too far out of line, the Whispers will bring us back.” In that sense, the entire ending where you (the player) kill the Whispers and free yourself (the player) from destiny is you giving the writers permission to continue making those small changes.

In FFXV, almost the entire ending sequence is a cutscene: Noctis on the throne, being murdered by his ancestors and descending into the spirit realm. But there’s one single quick-time event in there, one point where the player has to take action and push a button. It’s not even difficult, and on the surface it seems pointless. Except, if you don’t, Noctis lives. (Trapped in purgatory maybe, but he’s still there.) If you never push that button, Noctis doesn’t sacrifice his spirit and those of the Lucii to destroy Ardyn and wipe the Scourge from Eos. By asking - requiring - the player to push that button to commit that final act, the game makes the player complicit in Noct’s sacrifice. It’s a powerful moment, and similar to what (I suspect) the Remake writers intended with the Whispers.

Because they could have left the Whispers in forever. They could have had them be a continuous presence throughout all episodes of the Remake, a little reminder that no matter what tweaks the writers might make to update the story, to “make it their own”, the Arbiters of Fate will ensure things are on track. That things will play out exactly as in the original. But by asking the player to destroy the Arbiters, the writers are asking for the player’s permission to make changes. And by killing the Arbiters, you’re granting it. Because, just like you can keep Noctis alive by not pushing the button when prompted, you can keep the original game more-or-less on track by never stepping through that portal, never killing the Arbiters. But if you do step through that portal and go through with it, you’re agreeing to accept that things might change, thus freeing the writers from the constant double jeopardy of changing things vs keeping them exactly the same.

On a business meta level

As cool as (I think) that all sounds, the bigger question is, can Square Enix actually pull it off? And here’s where I start to have my most significant doubts. After the FFvs13/FFXV debacle and the hopeless mess that was KH3, I do not trust Nomura to tell a coherent story, even if it’s supposedly a retelling of an existing, well-known story. I don’t know anything about the inner workings or politics at Square Enix, other than that there are politics at play, so in fairness to him I can’t really say it’s because he himself is bad at telling a story, or just doesn’t have the support he needs to convey his vision well. But that gets into other issues with Squenix. We know their last several major games have had long and troubled developments. Someone way more attuned than me to the Japanese video games industry can talk in depth about why; all I know is that it happened (is happening?) and that it’s something of a miracle the remake came out as well as it did.

On top of that, I’m a bit concerned that even if Squenix can get (and keep) its shit together, it might be up against external forces that constrain how it can tell the story of FFVII in the present. For example, from what I’ve heard, the reason Crisis Core never got ported the way so many other games did, and the reason Genesis Rhapsodos has never been seen outside it and a Dirge of Cerberus cameo, is due to image licensing fights with Gackt, Genesis’s face model. CC established Genesis as a key player in the events leading up to the original game’s story, and enough hints have been dropped about CC in the remake that, like I said earlier, it appears to be canon. But if Squenix can’t reach an agreement to use the character again, they might be trapped in a corner where they either have to completely rewrite the parts of the story involving Genesis, or dance around his existence.

And on top of all that, it’s just expensive and time-consuming as hell to make games on the remake’s scale. Everyone expects the PS4 to be retired by the time Remake Part 2 comes out, which is going to pose huge logistical issues for releasing it. Squenix has been having a rough time of it lately, from what I’ve heard - are they, as a company, capable of handling all those logistical issues? I don’t know, and that makes me nervous.

Still, they did do a remarkable job with the remake overall, even grappling with the pandemic around the launch date. So maybe they’re getting their shit together again, and things will be smooth sailing from here. We’ll have to wait and see.

#anonymous #final fantasy vii #ffvii #ffvii remake #spoilers #meta #sanity replies #sanity talks a lot #tumblr massively fucked up the formatting somehow sorry

17 notes · View notes

therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

Text

❉ 139 Dreams (Jake Webber) Reckless

📑 Table of Contents

Genre: Angst, Supernatural, AU, Fluff, Romance ☁

Word Count: 2,564 ☁

Pairing: Reader x Jake ☁

World: YouTube ☁

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

Dating a YouTuber came with its own set of hardships, but that list was nearly tripped when you dated a reckless one. Jake Webber was the embodiment of reckless – he never considered consequences, he just wanted to live for the moment and make videos. The site itself was partially to blame. So many were losing ad revenue and getting demonetized, making it nearly impossible to survive doing what they loved. With this, people had to find more creative and insane ways to ramp up their view and sub counts. Jake was no exception.

“Hey, babe. Do you work tomorrow?”

You glanced down at your boyfriend who was using your legs as a pillow and scrolling through his YouTube comments. “No, why?”

He leaned his head back to look up at you. “There’s someone a few hours from here that claims their house is haunted. They invited us to stay the night.”

“Is staying at a stranger’s house overnight really the smartest thing?”

“No,” he paused, grinning. “But it’s not the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Come on, it’ll be fun!” He sat up, pulling you into a messy kiss. “He says that there’s some poltergeist activity. Think of the views!”

“Jake…”

“I’ll protect you~” He pouted, playing with the pendant around your neck. It had been a gift from him when you first started dating. “I know you love haunted locations.”

That’s what he thought because you always insisted on joining him on his haunted trips, but you didn’t enjoy it at all. If you were to be honest, you hated it. You grew up in a family of people who hunted and killed things that go bump in the night, and you know how dangerous spirits can be. Not just spirits, but his group sometimes comes across demons, as well. Jake is a skeptic and doesn’t take the paranormal seriously. Of course, you have to tag along – that idiot would get himself killed without you. He doesn’t know about your past, however, or your current job of taking care of supernatural creatures. Colby is the only one in the house that knows.

“Please?” He snuggled into your neck, pressing his lips against your skin. He smiled when you sighed in defeat, knowing he had won.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Jake Webber.”

He chuckled. “We’ll go together, babe.”

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

The house was tucked back in a wooded area of the mountains, surrounded by thick trees that towered over the Earth. It was a mixture of old Victorian and wooden cabin and it sent chills down your spine. The grass was overgrown and the house was in bad shape. It wasn’t the least bit welcoming and looked like the kind of place a serial killer would stay.

Demons and ghosts, you could handle. They were predictable and straightforward with what they want and how they act. But humans? They scare the shit out of you. They’re unpredictable and you never know what someone can and will do. You’d take the supernatural over humans any day.

Jake’s hand slipped into your own. “Are you scared~?”

“This is a bad idea, Jake.” You stated firmly, despite knowing that he wouldn’t change his mind.

“Thank you!” Corey cried from behind you. “At least I’m not the only sane one in this group.”

“It’ll be fine.” Jake waved us off as he approached the house. “This guy’s a fan!”

“So he says,” you muttered under your breath. Did he forget that human beings lie all the time?

Colby came up behind you, leaning close so the others wouldn’t hear him. “Do you sense anything?”

“No, nothing paranormal, but…”

“But?” He prompted.

“Something doesn’t feel right.” Was all you said as you headed toward the house. Jake had already knocked and was talking to the homeowner – a balding man with a beer belly and beady eyes. He looked at you when you approached and you felt a sense of dread in the pit of your stomach. All you wanted to do was turn tail and run, but you couldn’t leave your idiot boyfriend behind. He was as stubborn as he was reckless, and would refuse to leave. Knocking him out was always an option, but you had the rest of the roommates to worry about too.

Jake threw his arm around your waist when you settled by his side. “This is my girlfriend, Y/N. That’s Colby, Sam, and Corey.”

“Nice to meet y’all.” The man smiled, but it didn’t reach his dark eyes. “Name’s George. Come on in, I’ll show you around.”

The inside of the house was even worse than the outside. The floor creaked under your weight, feeling like it could give at any moment. The smell of ammonia and mothballs invaded your nose, stinging at your eyes. You didn’t even want to think about the various cobwebs that covered the walls. The furniture was old and worn, and the couch looked as if it had been taken from a dumpster after twenty years of being chewed on by rats.

You refused to sit on the couch, so you decided to inspect the rest of the room. The wallpaper was faded and peeling, stained a pale yellow. There was only one single painting in the living room, of an older woman sitting on the very couch in which Jake now sat. Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her thin lips pursed and beady eyes narrowed.

“That’s my ma,” George had come up behind you, far too close for your comfort as he breathed into your ear.

You quickly stepped away, nearly stepping on Sam’s foot, since he was beside you.

“Where is she now?” Sam inquired.

“Dead,” The way he said it with no emotion or attachment unnerved you.

“Did she die in this house?” Jake asked, not stopping to think that it may be insensitive. You shot him a look and he just shrugged, making you want to facepalm.

“Yeah. She was attacked in the kitchen and dragged to the basement where she bled out.”

“Attacked?” Corey was looking between all of you with wide eyes. His own unease was growing and he was regretting letting Jake talk him into this.

“It was a break-in. They never caught the guy.”

Something told you that there was more to the story, but you didn’t ask.

He took the group on a tour of the house, pointing out areas that he deemed ‘hot spots of paranormal activity’. Jake asked to see the basement, but the man refused, saying that it brought back too many bad memories and he didn’t want the door opened. After finishing the tour, he said that he was going to run into town to get some beer and would be back soon.

Jake waited until the old pickup truck was out of view before he turned to the group with a grin. “Let’s find out what’s in that basement.”

“What?” Corey looked between him and the other boys. “He specifically said he didn’t want us in the basement.”

“Think about it, bro. There’s got to be something down there! If she died in the basement, it’s gotta be the most haunted area.”

“I checked the door earlier, it’s locked,” Colby added, his hand resting on the side of his neck.

Jake approached the door, which was off to the side of the living room, and wrapped his hand around the doorknob. It turned with ease, clicking as it released.

“I swear it was locked.” He looked at me with confusion in his eyes.

“Well, it’s not now.” Jake shrugged, pulling it open. “Let’s go, boys. And babe,” he added as an afterthought.

“I am not going down there.” Corey folded his arms over his hoodie.

“Fine, you can be the lookout. Yell if you see him coming.” Jake rolled his eyes and started to descend the stairs, followed by Sam. You and Colby brought up the rear.

“Y/N,” Colby followed close behind you, his voice a whisper. “Do you think he unlocked it before leaving?”

“I don’t know…” You sighed, feeling a headache beginning. “I thought it was strange that he left right after giving us a tour. This could be a trap.”

“God, it reeks down here.” Jake scrunched up his nose, using his phone flashlight to look around.

“It smells like death,” Sam commented, bringing his shirt up to cover his nose.

It was a smell you had become familiar with after years of working as a hunter – the smell of a rotting corpse. Your body became tense as you realized what was happening, but Sam yelled before you could say anything.

“What the fuck is that?!” Sam pointed his phone towards the corner of the basement, but the light wasn’t bright enough to fully cut through the darkness.

“We need to leave.” You stated, your voice full of authority as you locked eyes with Jake. “Now, Jake.”

He hesitated, but seeing how serious you had become, he reluctantly stepped back, glancing back in the direction of the corner. Sam took a step forward but Colby grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the stairs.

Corey appeared at the top of the stairs, looking panicked. “He’s back!”

You all picked up your step, rushing up the stairs and slamming the door moments before he entered. He wasn’t carrying any beer, and his face was blank as he stared at the group. You caught sight of a knife concealed under his shirt and tucked into his faded jeans.

You stepped forward, standing in front of Jake. His hands went to your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your pants.

“We’re going to leave,” you announced, doing your very best to make your voice loud and confident. “You’re not going to stop us, and we’re going to forget about all of this. Right?”

His lifeless eyes met yours – he seemed to be contemplating your words. “I can’t let you do that.” He reached for the knife, slowly pulling it from his pants. It glinted in the low lighting. Like everything else, it was ragged and rust-covered the blade in several areas. It would do some serious damage.

“Woah, calm down.” Corey took a step back as the group tensed. Jake tried to tug you back, but you didn’t budge, nor did you let him place himself in front of you.

“Babe – ”

“Trust me.” You whispered, eyes not leaving the man’s. He didn’t step away, but he didn’t try to move you.

The man tilted his head.

“It was you, wasn’t it.” You stated, eyes narrowing at him. “It wasn’t a break-in. You murdered her and staged it to look like one.”

Sam took in a shaky breath. “That means…”

You nodded – the thing Sam had seen in the basement was the rotting corpse of George’s mother.

‘Jeez, why couldn’t it have been a demon? I can’t read this guy!’, your lips tugged down, hand inching towards the pocket on your thigh.

Jake frowned, looking at Sam in confusion. He hadn’t seen the body. Corey looked just as confused but more terrified than anything.

“Why did you do it?” You asked.

“Why?” He echoed. “She was a bitch.”

You scoffed. “If people murdered everyone that was a bitch, more than half the population would be wiped out.”

“That would be beautiful.”

“Is this guy Thanos?” Corey whispered, harshly.

The man stepped forward and Jake pushed you back. Using his body as a distraction, your hand quickly reached into the pocket on your pants, fingers wrapping around the handle of the blade. Placing your free hand on Jake’s back, you pushed him aside and threw the blade. It flew through the air, slicing the man’s wrist before embedding into the wood behind him. The sudden wound made him drop the knife and you rushed forward, using the momentum to slam your fist into his face. He grunted in pain, stumbling back.

“Go!” You ordered, tugging the knife free from the wood before rushing after the boys. They didn’t hesitate, aside from Jake, rushing towards the back door. Colby unlocked the car and the group scrambled to get inside. Corey was screaming for him to hurry as the man rushed out of the house, clutching the knife again. Colby threw the car into reverse and peeled out of the driveway.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

The drive home was completely silent, no one knowing what to say. No one said a word even after returning home. Aaron asked how it went, not expecting you to return so quickly, but Colby just shook his head. Everyone went to their rooms.

You watched as Jake pulled his shirt off, throwing it onto the hamper. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

You remained silent, eyes watching him as he left the room. The headache was worse now, your temple throbbing. The events of the past few hours were swirling in your brain. Should you call the police? You doubted that he or the evidence would still be there, but… if you didn’t, it would haunt you. You pulled out your phone and called up an old acquaintance of your family. He worked as a detective for the L.A.P.D and he thanked you for reporting it, promising to reach out if anything came from it.

After the call, you grabbed the bottle of meds from the dresser, hoping to relieve the pressure against your skull.

Jake re-entered the room, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. His lips tugged into a smirk when he caught you staring. “Like what you see?”

“That’s a stupid question.” You ran your hand through his damp purple hair. “If I could get away with it, I’d spend my life just staring at you.”

He chuckled, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled you closer, forehead resting against yours. “Do you realize your sexiness went up like crazy tonight?”

You raised a brow, running your thumb under his bottom lip as you hummed. “Do tell,”

His lips found yours, body pushing you until you fell onto the bed. He hovered over you, his lips moving slow and sensual. Your hand gently traced patterns in his stomach, making him groan in approval. The need for air won and he pulled away, both of you breathing heavy.

“I love you, babe.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips.

“I love you, too, even if you are a reckless idiot.”

He pouted, “That’s not called for.”

You laughed and he dropped his weight on you, cutting off your laughter. You didn’t complain, allowing him to snuggle into you as you ran your hand through his hair. It wasn’t long before you both fell asleep.

That night, you dreamed of the woman from the painting. She didn’t look nearly as angry as it had depicted her. She thanked you for solving her murder and allowing her to move on.

The next morning, George’s face was all over the news. The police had arrived just as he was fleeing the house. He tried to cover up his crime by setting fire to the home, but the police arrived in time to stop the fire and preserve the evidence. He was locked away for life, and the roommates soon forgot about the events that took place thanks to an old friend who knew how to manipulate memories.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

📜 Read more by checking out my masterlist 📜

17 notes · View notes

generalkenobi22 · 4 years

Text

Fic: as iron sharpens iron - Chapter 2 (Burn Notice) - 9k+ words

SUMMARY: Somewhere along the way, at one point or another, Madeline tells them, “You need to stick together.”

And that, more or less, is what they do.

Nearly a year and a half later, here’s chapter two! I’m blaming a lethal combination of a global pandemic and grad school.

Here’s Part One. Also: both chapters can be found on AO3.

——————

He knows it's coming. Has known since the very beginning.

(You left, Michael. You had a choice to make, and you made it.)

He knows all the reasons they can't be together—has them memorized, front and back, reverse alphabetical order, ascending and descending order of importance. Hell, he could even recite them in English, Russian, and Farsi if asked. He used to mentally run them on a loop all the time, but that's—it's not enough anymore. Because the truth of the matter is that he has wavered on the subject with an alarming amount of frequency over the last year with her here in Miami, further demonstrating—in his mind—that his judgment has become too clouded to be objective anymore.

(I'll always care about you, Michael. I'll still help you with your thing, and you'll still help me with mine, but we can't be together.)

It doesn't change the fact that, no matter how prepared he is, no matter how many times he's been briefed on all the terrible consequences they could incur as a direct result of their...liaison, it's difficult to hear her say it out loud.

It doesn't truly become painful until the sound of her words echoes off the empty walls of the loft, and without so much as a glance back, she walks out the door.

—

"Fi, what do you think of these?"

She turns and takes in the floral print blouse and matching hoop earrings (with little, plastic flamingoes on them) Madeline is holding up. They're hideous.

"They're, uh—" She goes back to scanning the department store for visible security threats. There's a particularly suspicious character seated over by the food court in the adjoining mall. "—they're really something."

She tracks the food court guy until a woman and small child approach him, and the three head off toward the New York & Company at the south end of the mall. Satisfied, she glances back, then does a double-take at the deeply unamused look on Madeline's face.

"What?"

"Fiona," she says dryly, stashing the blouse and earrings onto the circular rack beside them, "I'm not an idiot. I know you're only here because Michael asked you to babysit me."

Fi looks down at her nails and swallows. "Well, I think his exact phrasing was 'protect her'..."

"You say 'tomato,' I say 'condescending eldest son.'"

Fi peruses through the clearance rack, nose wrinkling at all the tacky prints. "Michael's helping Sam protect a client—some ex-convict turned dedicated family man—from some bad men in Little Havana. He just—" She shrugs. "—wanted to keep you safe. He cares about you."

Madeline snorts at that. "Yeah? Well, he's got a funny way of showing it."

Fi somehow manages to keep her thoughts on that particular subject to herself. She comes across the tackiest shirt of all. "What about this one?"

It's a t-shirt with Hot Mama emblazoned across the front. Even by both of their style standards, it's awful.

Madeline doesn't even bat an eye. "Only," she says, pulling a shirt of her own off the rack, "if you agree to get this one."

More subtle, but no less awful, hers reads Trouble. They exchange matching grins as they swap shirts.

"You know, Fiona, honey," Madeline begins uncertainly, avoiding Fi's gaze as she holds up her shirt to make sure it's the right size, "Michael's been mum about this whole break up, but I'm sure it...well, I'm sure it hasn't been easy—"

"We were never together," she automatically corrects, ignoring the way her heart twists painfully at the denial.

Madeline's expression turns suspicious, but she keeps her opinions to herself. "Of course. I just mean, if you can't come to poker games, or come visit as frequently because seeing him is too difficult, I...I understand."

It's such a thoughtful sentiment, and one that fills her with an alarming amount of anguish, that Fi feels the need to correct her immediately. Just the idea that Madeline thinks she doesn't want to be her friend anymore because of her son's emotional incompetence is...is...

"Absolutely not." Her voice squeaks out an octave or two higher than normal, but she plays it off like she doesn't even notice. "That's a preposterous idea, Madeline, and I'll hear none of it. Now, go try that on."

The small smile that Madeline flashes her on the way to the changing room is both grateful and doting in equal measure.

—

Even in Afghanistan, the early morning brings some kind of reprieve from the heat, but Miami is its own kind of animal. Sure, it's marginally less humid, but as Michael's sneakers pound against the dirt running trail and his lungs (heavy and unmistakably saturated with the moisture in the air) swell in his chest, he forgets what an absolute hell hole this place is—an insult, probably, to Hell since it can't possibly be this humid there.

(Home sweet home.)

"Mikey—h-hold up!"

Sam's voice barely registers with him as he presses forward, ignoring each coinciding jolt that shoots up his legs and makes his teeth rattle. He deliberately tunes out the internal voice that reminds him thirteen miles was a hell of a lot easier back in his Army Ranger days, at the age of 23, than it is at the age of 41. Still...Langley never had this view—sun cresting over the ocean, streaks of muted pink and orange stretched across the early morning sky.

(Langley also didn't have frozen bank accounts and deleted job histories, that same internal voice reminds him, which...fair).

They bypass a park bench, which Michael figures is as good a spot as any to take a break, just as he gets a side cramp. Apparently, his own body has a truly wicked sense of humor. He presses his palm to just below his rib cage as he watches Sam collapse onto the other end of the bench, legs sprawled.

"Aw, c'mon, Sam," Michael says to him in between labored breaths. He attempts a smile but winces when he gets another sticker. "Don't tell me you've gone soft in retirement. I thought SEALs were supposed to have better stamina than this."

Sam's own breathing is erratic as his chest rises and falls unevenly. He wipes an arm across his forehead. "Uh, for the record: If we were in water right now, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

"Why?" Michael looks up from the ground, hands planted on his knees. "Because you would have drowned?"

Sam's responding look says everything a rude, single-fingered gesture could. "Oh-ho! That's real funny, Mike." He lets his head rest on the back of the bench a moment, eyes jammed shut, trying to regain a steady pace of breathing again. "I'll let it slide, though, 'cause I know you're all messed up about this break up with Fiona—"

"We were never together."

"That's just the denial, brother. Veronica says it's the second stage of the grieving process, and—"

Michael lets his head fall, chin to chest, and holds out his hand. "If I buy breakfast, can we please drop this?"

Sam takes his proffered hand and uses the leverage to spring from the bench. "Throw in lunch, and I'll forget I ever met the broad."

Despite himself, Michael grins at that. When they finally make it back to the Charger—drenched and completely exhausted—Sam beats his personal best time by about a second and a half, which he claims—in addition to both meals—is worth at least two drinks of his choosing.

"It's certainly worth at least a drink and a half," Michael ultimately decides, and Sam's responding laughter is contagious.

—

The instructor is too...peppy for this early in the day. At least, that's what Maddie thinks.

All she says, however, cigarette hanging limply from the corner of her mouth is: "I hate her."

Sam rolls his eyes, careful not to lose his grip on the pool noodle she's balancing on as she does half-assed flutter kicks. The other ladies in the aquaerobics class keep covertly (and some not so covertly) shooting them dirty looks. He manages to keep them at bay with a few disarming smiles. Apparently, Sammy's still got charm to spare.

Of course, it probably helps that he's easily the youngest one in attendance, but when your best buddy asks you to keep an eye on his Ma, what can you do?

All he says to her, however, is, "Now, now, Maddie. My shrink from back in the service would say you're projecting."

"Projecting?"

"Mm-hmm. It means you're not really mad at the instructor, you're just upset because—"

"I know what it means, Sam. I'm not an idiot."

"—Fiona and Mike broke up."

"Fiona said they were never together."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, Mike said the same thing."

"Oh, please," she spits out with enough force that her cigarette drops from her mouth into the pool. "They were 'never together' in the same way you date 'age-appropriate women'."

"Hey, now," he bristles, sounding almost hurt.

Maddie doesn't apologize, but her tone doesn't carry the same kind of bite when she adds: "I suppose that's why Michael put you in charge of surveillance this morning? So the two of them don't have to spend more time together?"

He relinquishes the pool noodle to her when the instructor holds her own noodle above her head. Maddie mirrors the movement. "Or, maybe I just like scoping out all the eligible broads in Miami-Dade County who are raking in those sweet social security checks."

She barks a singular, "Ha!" over her shoulders, which of course earns them a few more disgusted looks.

Up front, the instructor begins doing some kind of modified jumping jacks. Her teeth gleam as she smiles widely and says, "Okay, ladies! Let's move with porpoise and try to have some dol-fun with this one!"

The two of them exchange looks. "I hate her," Sam finally decides, frowning.

Maddie turns back around, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. "Now who's projecting?"

—

She could flag down someone at the Cuban café down the block, but—ugh, no. Horrible idea. Untrained civilians would be more trouble than help. The cops? Not unless she wants Michael and Sam to get pinched—and as tempting as the latter may be...There!

Fi makes a hasty approach to the EMT station just down the block. This was supposed to be a two-man job (of which she had no part, thank-you-very-much) until her pedicure was interrupted by a call from Michael, who practically begged her for reinforcements. So even before her gels have a chance to set, she finds herself in Hialeah trying to find a suitable enough commotion to allow Michael and Sam the chance to escape from...well, whatever it is they've got themselves involved with.

He owes me big time, she thinks sourly before hiking her dress up just the tiniest bit and fanning air into her eyes to make them water before she makes her entrance.

"E-Excuse me? Somebody! Can-Can anybody help me?" she cries, really turning up the dramatics—truly, if anyone should be teaching an acting master class, it should be her.

There are a couple of ambulances and a group of EMTs playing cards. Or, at least they were playing cards before they all turn to look at the hysterical woman standing in their station.

One of the men—a genuine look of sincerity and concern on his face—approaches her. "What seems to be the trouble, ma'am?"

"It's my father," she tells him, voice cracking. "He's feeble, and—and the dementia? It's only getting worse. He was supposed to meet me at the jai alai court on seventh, but he never showed." She brings her hand to her mouth as if suddenly overcome with emotion rather than trying not to break at the thought of Sam being described this way. "I think—I think it might be gang-related?!"

The man places a comforting hand on her shoulder, which normally would be a bit forward, but Fi's having trouble getting upset over the whole ordeal—especially when that hand belongs to someone with such a cute face.

A very cute face.

"Don't worry, ma'am," he reassures her earnestly—it's only further endearing, "we'll send someone out to make sure he returns home safely."

He gestures behind him to two of the men playing cards, who immediately stand to attention. With his back turned, Fi quickly shoots out a text to let Michael know the cavalry's on its way. The sound of the ambulance's siren as it turns out of the garage startles her, and just as she slips her mobile back in her hip bag, the man redirects his attention back to her.

"Oh, thank you!" she gushes, making a show of dabbing at her eyes. "Thank you, Mr....?"

"Uh, Campbell. Just—Campbell."

"Thank you, Campbell. I'm—" She hesitates, only slightly, with every intention of offering up a fake name (Millicent, maybe?). But it's like she said: he's very cute. "—I'm Fiona."

Eventually, he asks for her number, blushing and backtracking at her raised eyebrows as he explains they want to make sure they have a point of contact in case Bryce and Jeff (the two guys in the ambulance) find her father.

They never do, obviously. But Fi does receive a text from an unknown number later that night inviting her to stop by the garage any time tomorrow.

...for an update on her father, of course.

(He doesn't actually ask her out until the following week, and by that point, she updates the contact listing in her phone from Cute EMT to Just Campbell).

—

Their question doesn't make sense. Especially because they're at Carlito's, and their brunch order hasn't even arrived yet.

"I like Campbell," Michael says, his smile not really all there. "He's...great."

Sam and Barry exchange glances, as if they somehow know something he doesn't. Michael hates it. He flags down the waitress for another mimosa—maybe two?

The whole thing's an ambush, all things considered.

—

"You said what?" Fi practically shrieks.

A few women on the yoga mats in front of them turn around to glare at the interruption. She offers up a hasty apology.

Sam, who is finally dressed appropriately in a baggy t-shirt and athletic shorts, looks duly chastised. Whether from her outburst or the fact that he can't seem to maintain his balance for boat pose, she's uncertain. "I told her that I've traveled all over the world, seen a lot of women, and that..." He hesitates when he catches her glaring. "...that she's one in a million?"

Fi lets out an exasperated yelp. "How did you possibly make it through SEAL training when you are clearly suffering from such advanced levels of brain damage?" she hisses, careful to keep her volume in check.

Sam falls back against his yoga mat gracelessly as they mimic the instructor's transition into corpse pose. "Hey!"

An older woman on the other side of Sam looks at him, disappointed. "Veronica has every right to be upset," she says. "You tell her she's something special and then can't even honor her with a response when she proposes?"

Sam tries to catch his breath, arms splayed at his side. He glares at her. "Uh, no offense, but you're not exactly a relationship expert here. You've only been with Anthony, what? Two weeks?"

"No, Donna's right," Fi assures him, closing her eyes to hopefully re-establish some form of equilibrium.

Another girl, Natalie—with bangs and a University of Miami t-shirt—chimes in from behind them. "Sam, my guy. It's completely understandable that you would have some reservations, or whatever, given everything that went down with Amanda. But you can't just, like, project all of your emotional baggage onto Veronica. It's not fair to her."

Sam looks between the three of them as they transition into bound angle pose. His hips creak painfully in the process. "Okay, let's assume that some—"

"—all—" Fi corrects.

"—Fine, let's assume all of that is true. What do you guys think I should do?"

"Have you called her since?" Donna wants to know.

Sam looks uncomfortable—and not just because his body hasn't moved like this since before the Soviet Union dissolved. "Well, no, not exactly, but—"

"Sam!"

This time, Fi doesn't bother watching her volume. She stands abruptly, slinging her yoga mat over her shoulder, and grabs Sam by his ear. His protests combined with her antics are enough to disturb the whole class. The instructor scowls at them both.

"Don't worry, we're leaving," she calls out, dragging a sniveling Sam behind her. He barely protests when she informs him they're driving over to Veronica's, so he can explain to her in person why he's an emotionally stunted idiot man child (her words).

—

"Now, you can hit me all you want," Sam growls at him, breathing wild and uneven, "but I'm gonna stand here 'til you get your head back in the game."

All Michael can see is red (although, some of that may be courtesy of Sam, who apparently still packs a hell of a right hook) as his options for saving the sick boy, Jack, vanish right in front of him. To him, it's just tactical reevaluation: Rachel is no longer an option, so the next logical step is Carla, who has the cash they need. But to Sam, it's apparently a breach of conscience.

It's been so long since Michael took his conscience into consideration—seared and mangled beyond repair, as it is. But Sam, apparently, views it not only as something worth saving but as something capable of being saved.

So he retreats, equal parts livid and grateful toward the guy blocking his front door.

A good friend supports you, both tactically and personally, he thinks, but an even better friend knows when to draw the line.

—

"You're lucky I like you so much," Fi says through a barely concealed yawn as they walk into Milam's. "Otherwise, you would never find me up this early on a Sunday."

Campbell smiles and pulls her into his side. "Good thing I'm so convincing then."

She has every intention of keeping up her pouting act and drawing the whole thing out a little while longer, but when she looks up at him and sees how...happy he looks, she finds it difficult to stay annoyed at him. Especially because she finally has the chance to wear the romper she snagged from the outlet mall two weeks ago for a fraction of its original cost.

(Michael would have complained about heading out to Dolphin Mall on a weekend, but Campbell was more than game. He even offered to drive—)

She cuts off that thought and instead focuses on how warm his fingers feel through the thin material of her romper. "And charming," she adds without really meaning to, but as soon as she sees his smile widen, she's glad she does. "However, I believe there were promises made regarding a homemade breakfast of some kind?"

She wiggles out of his grasp to pull a hastily made grocery list out of her pocket (half-off and pockets? Be still, her heart!). She hesitates a moment when she sees two of the cashiers looking intently in their direction (it's always the same girls who stare at her every time she's in here). They go back to busying themselves with the registers as soon as they see her looking their way.

"An egg white omelet with spinach?" Campbell suggests, then after a moment of doubt, he adds, "Right?"

It's adorable—as is everything he does. She nods in reassurance, and his shoulders sink in relief.

"Now," she says, redirecting the conversation to the task at hand, "produce is on the other side of the store, but the eggs are lumped in with poultry here, so if we hit up this side first, then make a straight shot through to—"

Campbell releases her and instead clasps one of her hands in his. "We have nowhere else to be today. Why don't we go up and down the aisles and pick up anything else we might need?"

She hesitates. Tactically, his plan is an absolute disaster—why would you divert from the objective for non-essential food items? But, a small voice reminds her, not everyone is as tactically minded as him.

Campbell frowns as her smile presumably falters, but she shakes her head like an Etch-A-Sketch and hooks her arm in his. She makes a big show of sighing and rolling her eyes as she relents. "Fine, but you owe me a yogurt now."

He plants a kiss on her head. "Blueberry, right?"

She spends the rest of the day pointedly ignoring the voice that won't stop reminding her he's not Michael.

—

Crouched behind their registers, Olivia turns to Maricruz. "Oh, my God—that's the supermodel wife slash girlfriend!"

"The one with the yogurt guy?"

She nods. "Yeah, but that's definitely not him."

Covertly, the two peer over their registers to get a better look. Not long after, Supermodel Wife Slash Girlfriend looks in their direction, and they quickly disappear again.

"Uh, excuse me, but who the heck is generically handsome white dude?" Maricruz demands, sounding almost offended.

Olivia's shoulders sink. "Do you think she's cheating on him? Poor yogurt guy."

"I mean, it could be her brother?"

"Yeah, right. He had his arm wrapped around her waist. That's, like, Boyfriend 101."

Maricruz puts her foot down. Metaphorically. "No. No way. I—"

"Excuse me." An elderly woman peers over Maricruz's conveyor belt, her mouth pressed into a hard line. "Could I please get some assistance?"

The two girls pop up from their crouched positions and brush themselves off. Maricruz offers the woman a conciliatory smile. "So sorry, ma'am. I'm happy to help you out."

After Maricruz rings up her order—a tube of Sensodyne and a bag of Werther's Originals—the elderly woman walks off in a huff. They both wave after her, wide smiles plastered on with professional ease, until Maricruz turns back to Olivia.

"No, look. I have a cousin who runs a kind of sketch auto body shop in Little Haiti, and he says yogurt guy was in just last week buying a new windshield, and supermodel wife slash girlfriend was with him."

Olivia looks somewhat impressed. "You looped your cousin into this?"

"...Yes. I'm not proud of it," Maricruz laments. "According to Diego, yogurt guy is in there a lot, always showing up with his car busted up. One time, Diego swears he saw bullet holes on the side, hand to God."

Olivia takes this in with some difficulty. "But he...he owns so many polo shirts! I just—what does that guy do?"

Maricruz crosses her fingers, nodding in Supermodel Wife Slash Girlfriend's direction. "Hopefully, not her. My money is still on super hot sister."

—

"Now, did Shawn deliver, or did he deliver?"

Michael turns just in time to see the giddy smile stretch across Sam's face as he makes his return to their seats, his arms delicately balancing chili cheese fries and plastic cups of beer. Before Sam can reclaim his seat between them, Fi makes a grab for the fries, while Michael takes one of the proffered beers. When Sam settles in, he tries to snag one of Fi's fries, but she slaps his hand away.

"Fifty-yard line, third row back," Michael recalls, unable to help the grin from spreading on his own face. "I've gotta admit—these seats are real nice, Sam."

Of the three of them, he's the only one in an orange polo shirt. The other two are decked out, head to toe, in Dolphins' colors—including jerseys (Sam, of course, in an old Marino one) and in Fi's case, an orange bandana. She even has eye black under each eye.

"Nice?" Sam demands with a hearty laugh. "Mikey, these seats are more than nice. They're phenomenal. I can practically see the whites of Ricky Williams' eyes!"

Fi sighs dramatically. "Get back to me when we're talking about real football," she says, popping a fry into her mouth.

"Real football?" Sam gestures toward the whole field. "This is as real and American as apple pie, lady."

She rolls her eyes. "Michael, can you please inform Sam that I am not an American?"

"Mikey, can you please inform Fiona that I didn't serve in the Navy for over a decade to listen to the good name of American football be besmirched?"

"Kids, kids," Michael says dryly. "Let's try not to kill each other before half time even begins."

Arms crossed, Sam and Fi glare at each other. "Fine," they spit out simultaneously.

Michael smiles from behind his sunglasses as an announcement filters in through the speaker system that they're clearing the field to honor a group of local World War II veterans. Sam springs up from his chair just as a steady stream of other people migrate toward the restrooms and concession stands.

"Those beers shot right through me," he informs them just as Fi makes a point of dramatically shuddering. "I'm gonna try to beat the lines."

As soon as he leaves, Michael is acutely aware that he and Fi are alone together for the first time since...well, a while. Without Sam as a buffer between them, she seems much closer than before. Which is...inconvenient because she said they can't be together, and she's still—well, the whole thing is still—a lot.

And...maybe she called Campbell before the start of the game, and Michael realized he hadn't been able to make her smile or laugh like that in a long time.

"I never got a chance to thank you, Michael."

He looks up at the sound of Fi's voice, but when he turns to her, she has her feet propped up on the seat below her, gaze straight ahead. He copies her stance, settles into the cheap plastic seat. "Thank me for what?"

"For taking this job and putting Felix away for good. He was a monster. Corey and Tanya deserved more than living their lives in constant fear."

Michael has a brief flash to his father, but he reflexively pushes that back. Instead, he watches as a group of elderly veterans make their way onto the field. "Well, you said you felt strongly about it."

"I did," she says, then quickly corrects, "I do. Tanya is just a kid, and when I—"

Abruptly, she cuts herself off, and it takes everything in him to keep his gaze straightforward. Fi could never stomach his pity, and he has a feeling now would be no different. There's something there, but he won't press her. Instead, he tries a different tactic. "You did good work, Fi. They were lucky to have someone who lets her emotions run the show on their side."

He feels eyes on him, and instinctually, when he turns to look at her, she's looking right back, an appreciative smile on her face. He looks away just as she makes the decision to climb over and into the seat next to him. She plucks a fry from Sam's abandoned pile and settles in before saying, "Sam will simply lose it when I tell him I submitted his name as one of these elderly veterans."

It's enough for both of them to share matching grins and clink plastic cups as the concept of colleagues who are just friends seems more attenable.

(In the spirit of colleagues who are just friends, he may need to tell Sam to stop calling Campbell "Soup" behind his back.)

—

Even from his spot behind the police line, Michael can feel the stifling heat blazing from the explosion site. He's not actually breathing in any of the smoke or the smell of charred plastic, but he may as well be, the way his chest constricts, the way bile comes up and burns his throat on its way back down.

He spends the next few hours scouring what seems like every freeway, every back road, and every alley that make up Miami-Dade County looking for her. He mentally compiles every safehouse, every evacuation measure, every weapons stockpile she has littered throughout the city. All the while he tries calling her ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") again ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") and again ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") and again ("This is Fi. Leave a message."). It's only when the rain turns into a torrential downpour, reducing his visibility to practically nonexistent, that he's forced to make the retreat back to the loft. The click that accompanies the closed door carries with it a finality that Michael refuses to—can't—accept.

But then her voice somehow filtrates through his waning adrenaline and utter exhaustion ("You have got to get a landline in here."), and suddenly, he can't focus on anything other than remembering how to breathe.

There's no Campbell, there's no job, there's no sleazy, retired ex-SEAL making not-so-subtle comments, or a well-meaning-but-intrusive mother demanding to know how he ever let a girl like her go—

There's just them.

And suddenly his chest constricts, and he's drowning for another reason entirely when she sinks into his embrace—warm, and solid, and alive.

—

Sam keeps asking, keeps pressing, keeps...being Sam about the whole thing, but she is quite adamant on the subject.

She doesn't want to talk about it.

"Are you sure?" he tries again, breathing heavy. They're outside the loft, where the Charger usually is, sparring (Michael's off with—other Sam). She can't recall who had the idea first, but she's dismayed it took this long to figure out that hitting Sam is...well, it's phenomenally cathartic.

"Because it seems like—" He ducks, narrowly avoiding being kicked in the head. When he comes back up again, he fixes her with an indignant glare. "—it kind of seems like you might wanna talk about it."

"There's nothin' to talk about." Fi's next punch lands squarely on the beat-up couch cushion he's using as a strike shield. If her native accent slips through the haze of her own outrage, then so be it.

"Nothing at all?" This time her foot connects with the cushion, but he holds his ground. For an octogenarian (she assumes, anyway), he's still surprisingly spry. "You're telling me," he continues, as she blocks his counter, "that you have absolutely nothing to say about the fact that Mike—our Mike—was once engaged?"

Fi lets out an enraged shriek before she lands a roundhouse kick that makes Sam lose his footing and stagger backward. While he recovers, Fi paces—hands on her hips, breathing erratic, head and chest pounding in tandem.

"Of course, I do!" she cries, coming to an abrupt halt. "Do you know what he said to me? What he told me that first night we were in Miami?" When Sam shakes his head, she tells him: "He said—" She swallows past the lump in her throat with some difficulty. "—He said I was the 'closest he ever got.' And then this—this Sam woman just shows up, out of the blue, and she's just like him—"

Sam stands fully and looks at her with not quite empathy—he's not nearly evolved enough to pull that one off if she's being honest (and she almost always is)—but with pity. It's positively grotesque.

"Fi..." he trails off, his expression totally lost.

She can't tell if it's said out of genuine concern, or out of embarrassment by her outrageous emotional display, and he's just too much of a gentleman to address it forthright—but either way, she decides, she has spent far too much time wallowing to be of much use to anyone. (The fact that she just compared Sam to a gentleman is merely further evidence of her fraught emotional state, as far as she's concerned).

"Sam, I'm fine." She wipes her hair out of her eyes and brings her fists back up to fighting stance. "Like I said," she reminds him, "I don't want to talk about it."

Sam takes a moment to determine if she really is fine, but she doesn't budge. Satisfied, he clears his throat and holds the couch cushion back up. "Fine by me, sister. But this time," he advises her with an annoyingly smug smirk, "try leaning your whole body into it. Your last kick was pretty weak."

Later, after Fi leaves and Sam drives over to the clinic in Coconut Grove to tell his medical buddy about the whole ordeal, Sam's buddy takes one look at his x-rays and tells him he has three cracked ribs.

—

I left her because you don't marry someone when you love somebody else.

Madeline can't see Fiona's expression from her place in Michael's bed (pretending to be asleep limits her line of sight), but she can't help the small smile that blooms on her own face at her son's admission.

She hasn't known Fi long, but she has come to think of her as...family. Like the daughter she never had (the one she miscarried all those years ago). Sometimes she thinks about it—about what would happen if her fool son would start prioritizing the people he cared about over his job and what that would look like. How he would finally decide whether Fiona was officially his girlfriend or not, and how she would finally have the big family get-togethers during the holidays with all of them (her sons, and Fiona and Sam) like she always wanted, and maybe—eventually, somewhere down the line—how she might even get grandchildren out of the deal. She snuggles down into Michael's god-awful mattress, hopeful.

Her son certainly picked the right girl, but so help her, if he thinks Fiona—coming from an Irish Catholic family like that—would ever be caught dead proposing instead of him, then he clearly inherited all of his common sense from Frank, who was—at his best—a complete idiot.

#burn notice #burnnoticeedit #my writing #my fic #burn notice fic #michael westen #fiona glenanne #sam axe #madeline westen #fiona x michael

5 notes · View notes

radioleary-blog · 6 years

Text

Long Names and Outsourcing Superheroes

It’s not easy writing political comedy.

One factor is the impermanence of a political joke. Even a great political joke has an expiration date, and political narratives change fast these days. Your average political joke has a shorter shelf-life than a pint of half & half that you left in the car. “Honey...when did I write this joke about Trump getting golden showers from Russian prostitutes? Is it still any good or should I throw it away?”

“How does it smell?” she replies from the living room.

“Whew! Pretty funky...I think it’s turned. Dammit! That was a good one.”

“So write a new one,” she says dully, without looking away from whatever TV program has unattractive British servants enduring wretched lives of 19th century drudgery. Which accounts for about half of all PBS programs. Or should I say “programmes.” They’re so depressing. They ought to call it “Downer Abbey.” Or “Upstairs, Downstairs, Blank Stares.” Seriously, man, how much does the BBC pine for the days when the lower classes knew their place? Is that really an era to romanticize, even if they do call it The Romantic era? And who the hell could enjoy watching shows about the help being treated badly? As for me, if I watch even ten minutes of a show with berated butlers and yelled-at scullery maids, I start to get angry. Every time I see some mutton-chopped, inbred Lord of the Manor lining up his staff to lecture and threaten them for poorly-polished silver, or for becoming ‘too familiar’, or for having any normal human desires whatsoever, I have the normal human desire to make him ‘too familiar’ with my fist in his mutton-chop face. Just once, I’d like to see one of the servants he’s giving a good “dressing-down” to turn around and give this privileged twit a good old working-class “beating-down.” I’d like to see the First Footman, or the Second Footman, or some Footman put that foot right up his aristocratic ass.

I was trying to think up some funny-sounding British aristocratic names as examples of noble pomposity, but it turns out they have this new thing called “the google,” so I just looked up some real names instead. These are just a few of the actual descendants of William the Conqueror, who, being British, conquered everything but brushing and flossing:

Flora Paulyna Hetty Barbara Abney-Hastings. That sounds like somebody who never had to fill out their name on a lot of forms. Good luck fitting that on a job application. But of course, nobody with a name that long and dreadfully upper-class ever had to look for work. The longer your name, the easier your life. Hey, I just realized that. I might actually be onto something. Who do you think works harder - a person named Prince Stuart Johann Knud Bernhard Felix Maria René Joseph de Bourbon-Parma (real name), or a guy named Stu Parma? If you’re having trouble figuring that one out, the title Prince is a big clue. The only Prince who ever broke a sweat died last year in Minnesota, and judging by his opioid addiction, it was probably a cold sweat. Stu Parma sounds like an ex-Checker Cab driver from Queens, whereas Prince longname there sounds like an exchequer for the Queen. Big difference between those jobs, and probably all because of the length of their names. Great, just what men need, one more length to feel inadequate about. The only people who work harder than guys named Stu and Kip and Sam are guys with even shorter names like Bo and Al and Ed.

Same thing probably holds true for women, I bet Vikki works a longer shift for less pay than Victoria does. And I bet Kat does things for money that Katerina never would. I’m not thinking sex-worker, necessarily, but if she did it would be all her idea. No, I was picturing Kat doing something more along the lines of a cage-match fighter, or rodeo girl, or tattoo artist. She could set up her own new-school tattoo shop and call it “KATTOOS.” And she’s more likely to be a fun person to party with, too. Kat is a bad-ass who keeps it real, and Katerina will not go down on you even on your anniversary. The longer the name, the less fun and the more stuck up you are. Here’s another real name, and I bet she isn’t bringing any beer or weed to your party: Countess Antonia Charlotte Jeanette Marie af Holstein-Ledreborg. Wow, really? Can we just call you c*ntess for short?

And with the titles and peerage to boot, these names really start to get re-goddam-diculous. Check this guy out, this is a real title: His Royal Highness the Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, Royal Knight Companion of the most noble order of the Garter, Royal Knight Companion of the most ancient and most noble order of the Thistle, Knight Grand Cross of the most honourable order of the Bath, member of the order of Merit, Knight of the order of Australia, companion of the Queen’s service order, member of Her Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Councillors, Aide de Camp to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. WTF? That’s not a title, that’s the whole book! And the sequel! Keep in mind this is just a really fancy way of saying this guy is banging the Queen. This title is so long that when you start saying it you have 13 colonies in the Americas, and when you’re done saying it Cornwallis is surrendering at Yorktown.

But that’s the trouble with those british TV servants, they never fought back against the system like we did here in the colonies. That’s why their rigid class-structure hierarchy remained in place for so long, and they’re still sentimental for it in these godawful butler dramas. They never really had a lot of rebels in England, not for very long anyway, they either came here and started killing Indians, or they got arrested and shipped off to Australia to get eaten by sharks. Even today, British culture doesn’t celebrate the rebel like we do in America. The British never had a ‘Cool Hand Luke,’ more like ‘Keep Calm and Carry On Luke.’ The Brad Pitt ‘Fight Club’ character Tyler Durden sounds like it could be a proper English name, but if there was a ‘Fight Club’ in England, the first rule of Fight Club would be No Fighting.

And hey, did you ever hear Brad Pitt try to do a british accent? Yikes. He has all the range of a veal calf. He sounded worse than Bob Dylan trying to speak Chinese. But strangely, British actors have no problem at all doing American accents. Why is that? In fact, they have taken over a lot of our favorite tv and movie characters. On ‘The Walking Dead’, Rick Grimes, Maggie, Morgan, the Governor, and Jesus are all British. There are so many Brits on the show they should rename it ‘The Ambulatory Deceased’.

And the list includes some of our most beloved Superheroes. Henry Cavill, Christian Bale, Andrew Garfield are English, that’s Superman, Batman and Spider-Man. And even the new Spider-Man, Tom Holland is British. Both Jeremy Irons and Michael Caine were Alfred, which begs the question ‘What’s it all about, Alfred?’ (Ah, you’re too young to get that reference). Two actors have played Professor Xavier and they are both English, so are both actors who played Magneto. Fellow X-Men The Beast, Nightcrawler and Jean Grey, and Avengers Quicksilver and The Vision are British. So are the actors who played Doctor Strange, Daredevil, Commissioner Gordon, The Thing, Mister Fantastic, Odin, Ozymandias as well as super-villains Dr. Octopus, Sinestro, Killer Croc, Col. Stryker, Juggernaut, Toad, Azazel, The Lizard, and Loki. All English. Add to that Ryan Reynold’s Green Lantern is Canadian, while Eric Bana’s Hulk, Chris Hemsworth’s Thor and Hugh Jackman’s The Wolverine are Australian. An Australian Hulk? I understand they let Mel Gibson audition to play Hulk. But the Hulk is a rampaging rage monster who smashes everything in sight, and they felt Mel Gibson was just too angry for the role. Plus the Hulk isn’t anti-Semitic. I’m beginning to wonder if we have any American superheroes left, except for the Captain with America right in his name. If Donald Trump is going to bring back jobs to America, can he please start with our superheroes?

But I digress. I don’t remember what my point was, but I’m pretty sure I had one. Oh yeah, British servant shows. Why do women love these Victorian period pieces so much? They’re usually intelligent and independent women, too, yet these butler-laden bodice rippers get them steamier than an Icelandic orgy.

No, wait, I remember my point now: it’s not easy writing political comedy. Reason two, you get distracted. As I just demonstrated with the last ten paragraphs. I was saying the life of a political joke is short, and getting shorter. There was a time before the 24-hour news cycle when a political scandal stuck around for a long time. Watergate hung around for years and years, like an Irish houseguest. Comics in the 1970’s could take months to work out Watergate bits, and if they were solid, you could tell those jokes for half a decade. Fashions and music trends would change before your Watergate jokes got old. The first time you tell your Watergate joke on stage, you’re wearing bell-bottom jeans and a tie-dye T-shirt, and years later you’re telling it on stage wearing a white Disco suit. And it’s the same old joke about E. Howard Hunt, or H.R. Haldeman, or R.L. Stine, or George R.R. Martin, or whoever the hell was involved in the break-in. And actually, it kind of was a Game of Thrones, except instead of a dragon Queen who could walk through fire, you had G. Gordon Liddy who liked to hold a torch to his hand to show how tough he was. If you don’t know who he is, that’s okay, just picture Negan, but high on cocaine and patriotism.

People had better things to do in the 1970’s than obsess on scandals, and the only way to follow it was in newspapers and on the evening news. Which, if you were not home while the evening news was on, tough luck, there was no recording it. And 1970’s people were definitely out, and doing much cooler things than watching the evening news. Like driving around in a Pontiac Firebird and smoking a joint, or going to a Pink Floyd concert and smoking a joint, or throwing a key-party orgy and smoking a joint, or just smoking a joint and smoking a joint. You could do a lot of fun things in the 1970’s, as long as you had a joint. Those were the rules. Even if you got pulled over by the police, you better have a joint on you, the cops will ask you, “Licence..registration...proof of joint…”

So political scandals unfolded at a leisurely pace. Which is not to say people were not involved in politics, maybe it was the draft, or maybe it was the joint, but they were very involved. They were the only generation that ended an unpopular war through protest, and threw a corrupt President out of office. I think it was the weed, because after that, the police stopped making sure you had a joint.

But things are different in the Trump era. If you can call a presidency that only lasts until he quits this summer an “era”. More like the Trump “error”. Trump has a new scandal every day, every fourteen hours to be precise, so by the time you write a good joke, it’s over. It’s old news, and on to the next scandal. Tiny hands, Meryl Streep, grab ‘em by the pussy, Betsy DeVos, Michael Flynn, and now wiretap, the scandals are coming too fast. - That’s what she said! The jokes are obsolete by the time the pen leaves the paper, because by the time you read this, the whole wiretap scandal will be over and he’ll be on to the next inexcusable act. And that will only be like, two days from now.

I realize now that when I write about politics, I’m like one of those monks who make paintings out of different colored grains of sand. It takes them forever to do it, and the minute they’re done, they erase it. And they move on to the next one.

And I’ve never had more fun.

0 notes