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davidjjohnston3 · 3 years

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The trees are straight and true here, and the help comes without seeming harpoons. I considered some insane things which were ‘above my pay-grade’ and as is my wont reflected on the state and implications of my former profession and what old friends and pharons meant to me. Right now think that my core goal in life is not to blow myself up. As a former would-have-been SecState said, ‘I love so many people.’ I am only sad that trying as I did to uproot that carrot of love just now could have resulted in the demolition of an entire root-network, of at least my own excision therefrom.

‘Some people’ want revenge against life for not going their way or not being the color or fragrance or face shape they like or feel it ought to be - ‘no that is not what I meant at all.’ They will never hold a life reliable which doesn’t resemble their ideal, imago, or ‘soul-idol’ &c. The meaning of the name ‘Cordelia’ as in King Lear is something like ‘heart’s ideal.’ I was driving and considering a novel that I feel touched absolute supreme greatness without knowing it or in a way that could mislead some readers Mrs. Mary HK Choi’s Yolk a novel I looked forward for a very long time. I had all these references and fractal coreferences and forgot about actual birds, like what does the chick eat in the egg.

‘Blood is the life’ - I liked etymologies for a long time and my intellectualism caused me acute trouble in Confirmation Class at Morrow Memorial United Methodist Church in about 1998. ‘Pastor’ Gretchen taught us the word root ‘consacramentum’ which comes from dipping the hand in blood in the concave of a Roman shield - those huge rectangular shields which could be used in formation as ‘testudo’ or turtle to stop projectile weapons and allowed soldiers to make pin-point stabbing attacks from a ‘matrix(?)’ of high protection. I forget what kind of animal was killed to pool the blood in the shield but it might have been a rabbit.

I was reading ‘Revelation,’ I don’t recall what everyone else was talking about. Some kind of community service project, interview your parents, buy a wedding-magazine and make a whole plan for how you would get married and how much it would cost (and while you’re at it describe how you would 1) restore a classic Shelby Cobra using newspaper and Krazy Glue 2) drive foresaid drop-top to the Moon).

The Pastor was a pipe-smoker named ‘Painter’ who used the NY Lotto’s ‘Hey you never know’ slogan to describe sth like Pascal’s Wager; OTOH St. Paul teaches us that everyone is born knowing God exists (Romans). The problem is that people fail or omit to glorify Him or subsequently ruin or betray their own best efforts through blasphemy, turning or falling away, cowardice, denial, attachment to certain sins or being ‘yoked unequally’ with non-believers.

I reflected starting in 2008 that I was shy of my ‘first love’ (rather, the woman I fell in love with at 14); at the time I gloried or reveled in the shyness like a Wallace Stevens poem that ends, ‘And not to have written a book.’ I could’ve written a few books by now or walked away from book-writing or changed my mind / specified which kind of book I might have written and for whom.

I remember always admiring the ‘magic’ of literature and feeling sad I had no characters or world of my own to work magic with. Star Wars and my own life and later much else supplied ‘materia poetica’ and till the point that I began to think in fiction and became addicted to interpreting my own in ‘story-ideas’ although that is not to say that what happened around me didn’t happen.

America is trying to become a better country in numerous valences, loving our neighbors, holding each other accountable. ‘Justice’ with or without the marks is important. It is a divine Judgment that Covid fell on the world even if eventually we all shall learn who devised the virus or leaked it or modulated its mutations. I was eager to rejoin the world feeling I might overcome my mental illness but I mishandled specific questions and tests. I ended up turning people against me and creating monsters more than ever as well as perhaps terminally sabotaging any chance I might’ve had of fulfilling a dream or making good on the past. I have a lot of opinions on the CCP but should’ve focused on love and family and personal responsibilities as in the past or at least held to my long-standing feeling that Chinese people deserve better rather than associating myself with hard-liners and racists or those who would simplify issues in order to bring about ultimate victory without temperance or concern for the side-effects.

In Milwaukee where I lived for far too long everyone’s spirit - electric, intellectual, visory(?), informational et cetera seemed to be militating against everybody else’s. There were fake vaccines, radioactive ice cream (or thermogenic ice-cream), gun-battles as usual, lines crossed, all kinds of scores that people tried to settle. I also realized that the police were probably tracking for years my various attempts to obtain weapons from samurai-swords to handguns though the purpose was defensive and I can only trust at this point that some good lawyer will prevent the bad lawyers and cops from presenting the most damning circumstantial case they could. People in Milwaukee own AK-47′s, automatic shotguns, probably all kinds of explosives, improvised chemical weapons and (’our Black brothers’ - Schopenhauer) biological weapons - the cops don’t stand a chance that I can tell and even the National Guard perhaps could get outclassed by retired military. I had told myself for years that it was only the ghetto’s that bore witness to this paramilitary equipage and that the retired SEAL Team 4 member with the ‘Stop Socialism’ and ‘Jobs Not Mobs’ sign on his front lawn would protect me from the Maoist-Covid Night of the Long Knives but I feel I tempted God a lot in the past.

I read all these books and took to heart that people thought I was just entertaining myself with but now as then I should’ve guarded my heart or not begged the question of what others thought about me or saw in me. I literally felt of late ‘I am the anti-Christ’ - good-looking at times, preach world peace, ‘form of godliness,’ want to be friends with everyone, build bridges - and had to rack my brains to come up with an ‘anti-Christology’ and science / concept of the Whore of Babylon just to make sure it was more than me alone. I also wished to simplify my past and help kids ‘get life right the right time’ doing battle with philosophies that opposed this consciously or otherwise but stepped into numerous minefields and also tried running when I should’ve flown over.

Everyone’s trying to get rich and build back better and I profoundly admired the American President for doing, finally, apparently, what presidents had tried to decades even as I remember ‘Flowers 1881′ a poem that implies that basically teachers can do only so much before turning their kids loose in a world no one has yet fixed and which others keep breaking; from a California almanac that also instructed me that the same old debates and cross-fires and burdens plague teachers as always, not that it is an ‘impossible profession’ but honestly that God won’t let us establish Heaven on Earth or at least not me or at least not America or at least not teachers who savor the experience of being a teacher or the beauty of their students more than the outcomes or commitment or intrinsic value of the work or the confirmed identity / vocation / personhood of the instructor. There are always new and old at any rate and different cultures all describe the teacher as needing to keep both alive; as do descriptions of higher education and scholarship.

I questioned my qualifications / background and wondered about re-training but can’t afford tuition anywhere so I am trying to cling to the core of my capabilities / blessings. ABC and XYZ. The glory of the soul or souls.

I kept theorizing Russian literature as well as weapons-systems and ultimate destiny, sailing ships, noble names, divisions, the flaming sword of Archangel Gabriel, the mission of Russia today with respect to the world order. I am also simply trying to be healthy and stop for a while trying to parse out who was the love of my life or what it still left in terms of action or redemption or justice or surrender or mitigation or meeting new friends or propounding the kind of understand with carefulness I have believed in - ‘saving people from themselves.’ Driving up here I remember being distressed at a gas-station in California when I was about 5 or 6 since the pump was leaking, being very upset with my parents and family. In those days I also disliked animal-cruelty though the world today seems so depraved and deprived with respect to human interests I would make no bones about neglecting most all animals outside of military or police use. When I was about 3 I saw white kids set a frog on fire; my mother has a history of running over cats.

I dislike winging it and taking risks. There is a song I call to myself ‘Run Away’ though its title is ‘Paradise.’ I am not a utopian communist for believing in secular justice and its instrinsic value... I wonder whether when I helped people in the past there were always strings attached or maybe I was just trying to close my case and discharge my responsibilities too rapidly without allowing others to gestate or make an abode in my heart besides and beyond what I could get out of them, glorifying myself, or tell others about.

What is motherhood? What is travail? Is there a kind of problematic ‘female gaze’ as feminists talk of a ‘male gaze’ associated with sadism or fascination / fetishism? It’s psychology which is not my first love at all since it appeared pretentious and distracting and retarding (in the literal sense of slowing down).

I also remembered reading various things about Victor Hugo whose ‘93′ is an important novel today due to its techno-utopianism, feminism or ‘new model egalitarianism,’ fusion of revolution and religion, etc. But I had forgotten ‘Les Miserable’ with its themes of ransom or eventual recompense, genealogies, caution, and more none of which is to negate the various complains against me or death-warrant from China or my parents with their partial private readings of Proverbs (’Let’s stone David for embarrassing us / not doing precisely what we want’ - no mention of witnesses, tribunals, questions, mitigation-hearings, actual counsels of judges etc. but just American-German ‘coalitions of the willing’ ‘run and get my gun’ ‘team-building’ etc. which in my experience ends with tanks on the street and military dictatorships as when at the end of the CultRev PLA regulars were gunning down former justice-fanatics who’d been stripping women, kicking pregnant stomachs etc. as in The Vagrants). Naturally having grown up in a family fascinated with Lee Kwanyew and Arnold Schwarzenegger and conflicted about ‘fascism’ I had reservations about the United States’ ability to suddenly dress up and ‘stand at perpetual moral attention’ but I guess my own problems are just that I am poor with a rich kid’s mind and no one really likes me except strangers and faraway friends who were easily spooked and/or just couldn’t be there. ‘King of South shall attack and King of North shall crush them with chariots &c.’ - in the end righteous will prevail whichever side of the line I end up on in the final assessment. I also remembered today a novel called ‘The Old Capital’ about a bad artist father, a virgin daughter, straight and true pines. Some other aspects of this novel are silly as well as criminally problematic and there's a lot of that going on in new-old old news America / Babylon or at least to quote my favorite lawyer / leave lawyering movie 'First let's get out of Milwaukee.' Miss the land of June snow.

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worryinglyinnocent · 4 years

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Fic: Dead Man Walking (5/?)

It’s been 84 years! Enjoy nonetheless.

Summary: Prime Ministers don’t normally wake up in morgues after they’ve been murdered, but that’s exactly what Robert Sutherland has just done. Right in front of Lacey’s nose. With limited resources and not knowing who to trust, Sutherland and Lacey must work together to get to the bottom of the attempted assassination.

Based loosely on this dream I had.

Rated: T, eventually E.

Note: This is meant to be ‘darkly humorous and amusing mystery’ rather than ‘gripping political thriller’…

[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [AO3]

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Dead Man Walking

Five

Lacey was alone in the living room with Sutherland. Mrs de Ville had vanished off somewhere and Carrie was outside talking to Ursula about the best way to get into Chequers without being questioned, trying to convince the taxi driver that everything was perfectly above board, honest.

Before, when it had just been her and Sutherland in the morgue, it hadn’t been anywhere near as awkward as it was now. Before, there had been much more urgency, and Sutherland had been a lot groggier from having just died and come back to life, and Lacey had had a lot more to focus on than the fact she was alone with the Prime Minister.

Now that she didn’t have to worry about someone coming along and finding them and she didn’t have to worry about keeping him safe from a bunch of civil servants who were probably the ones to kill him in the first place, things were much more awkward. For some reason, she kept replaying the moment she’d run into the morgue in her mind, and she could barely string more than two thoughts together before something in her brain would helpfully remind her that she’d seen the Prime Minister naked and that he did have a rather nice arse.

To be honest, the rest of him wasn’t too bad either. He’d look better if he weren’t quite so stressed, but Lacey had always had a bit of a soft spot for silver foxes. She might not agree with his party line, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t find the man himself objectively attractive.

The silence in the living room stretched on, and Lacey wondered what she ought to say to fill it, rather than just sitting here staring at the man until someone came to rescue them from this void.

Thankfully, Sutherland spoke first.

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t think that I really had the chance to express my gratitude back when we were in the hospital before, everything was a bit…”

“Frantic?” Lacey suggested.

“Yes.” Sutherland sighed. “I do really appreciate all your help. I think that there are quite a few people in your position who would have been quite happy to leave me to my fate. Or finish the job, you know.”

Lacey snorted. “Oh, believe me, I’ve been tempted over the last couple of years, and you and I are still going to have a discussion about student loan forgiveness at some point. But, ultimately, I’m a decent human being and I like to believe that you are too. And, you know, murder is bad, even if it does happen to people you don’t like.” She paused. “Well, it’s not that I don’t like you.” Good grief, why was she trying to justify herself? She’d saved the man’s life and snuck him out of the hospital; she didn’t need to be friends with him so why was she trying to ingratiate herself? “More that I don’t like your policies and the way your party thinks.”

“Fair enough.” Sutherland drained his coffee and made a face. “You’re right, maybe this experience has served to put me off coffee a bit.”

Lacey laughed. “I told you so. You know, when I was growing up, I always thought that politics was the most boring thing ever and I couldn’t believe that anyone would want to be Prime Minister. Now it’s got a lot more exciting. Although, that said, I still can’t believe that anyone would want to be Prime Minister when the rate of assassination just went up by a hundred per cent.”

“It would only have gone up by a hundred per cent if they had actually succeeded,” Sutherland pointed out.

“According to everyone who isn’t us, they did succeed.” Lacey shrugged. “Face it, you’re in a dangerous line of work. Not as dangerous as being the American president though. We’ve still got a while to go before we catch them up in terms of assassinated premiers.”

She paused, thinking deeply into her long-perceived notions of politics and politicians. Since she had one here, the top dog no less, she might as well get a few things off her chest. “Why did you want to become Prime Minister anyway?”

Sutherland sighed. “Because I thought that I could change the country and make people’s lives better. It’s only once you get into government that you realise just how hard that is. Power is always limited, and so it should be – think what would happen if there were no restraints in place.”

Lacey nodded. “Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

“Exactly. It’s something that you’re all too aware of when you get to be in my position.”

“Ever been tempted?”

“What?”

“Ever been tempted to use your power for evil? I mean, come on, we’re slap bang in the middle of an excellent villain origin story here. Poisoned and left for dead by the people you trusted…”

Sutherland scoffed. “I wouldn’t trust Sir Albert as far as I could throw him.”

“You’re ruining my narrative here!” Lacey sighed. “Why do I bother? I should have left you in the morgue.”

She didn’t mean it, and the worst thing was that she knew Sutherland knew she didn’t mean it as well. He gave a little chuckle, but it came out more tired than anything, turning into a yawn that he tried and failed to mask.

It served to remind Lacey of how late it was – well, how early now, given that it was long past midnight – and that she too was running on empty. She wondered how long this limbo was going to last. She had done her part, so to speak, delivering the Prime Minister into safe hands, and yet here she was still, for some reason unwilling to go home and consider her job done.

She tried to justify it to herself by saying that Carrie couldn’t possibly allow her to go home now and possibly ruin the secret of Sutherland’s survival, but she knew deep down that she still felt the same sense of responsibility towards him that had driven her to get him out of the hospital in the first place. It was the same acute sense of justice that had fuelled her in her current career path – the need to see victims vindicated and the perpetrators of the crimes against them punished.

“I have to say, although I’ve not met many forensic scientists in my time, you’re not at all how I imagined one would be,” Sutherland said presently, startling Lacey out of her train of thought. Spooky that he should mention it just as she was pondering it herself.

“Well, it’s not all the glamour of CSI,” she said. “Not that CSI is all that glamorous most of the time. Most of it’s sitting in laboratories looking through microscopes. And not all forensic scientists are nerds in lab coats like procedurals would have you believe. Some of us ride mopeds and rescue politicians in our spare time.”

She leaned back in her chair, running a hand through her hair and wishing it were possible for her to teleport out of the situation, get a few hours’ sleep in her own bed, then blink back in as if nothing had happened and continue the conversation. She didn’t want to leave Sutherland and Carrie to fend for themselves against whatever internal workings had brought them to this, but at the same time, she wasn’t really sure what she, Ursula and Mrs de Ville could do to help them.

She was saved from any further awkwardness by the entry of the lattermost into the room again.

“I’ve made up the spare beds,” she said, completely matter of fact. “I for one have been completely exhausted by this ordeal and if my errant daughter doesn’t come back in here soon I shall go to bed without saying goodnight or getting the latest in the plan off her.” She paused. “Although, that said, if Ursula wants to stay over as well, then people will have to start bunking up.”

Her gaze travelled from Sutherland to Lacey and back again, giving a sage nod before she disappeared out of the room.

Lacey leapt out of her seat, following the older woman out, not for any reason other than to get away from Sutherland’s physical presence whilst she also had the mental image of bunking up with him. She should not be finding the Prime Minister, of all people, this attractive. She definitely should not be thinking about sleeping with him. She absolutely should not be thinking about sleeping with him when he’d been functionally dead just a few hours ago. The poor man would need rest and recuperation, not riding into the mattress.

Although, given his current levels of stress, perhaps riding him into the mattress would provide the relaxation that he needed.

She stepped out into the driveway, where Carrie and Ursula were still very confidential beside the taxi. Carrie noticed her.

“Are you leaving us, darling?” she asked. “I was going to ask if you wanted to participate in the great expedition.”

Lacey shook her head. “No, no. I’m still here. I’m in this deep already, I might as well stick it out to the end.”

Ursula nodded. “That’s the principle I’m working on too. Anyway, we’re off to Chequers and praying we don’t get killed. Are you coming?”

“No, I don’t think so. Someone’s got to stay here and keep an eye on Sutherland. We don’t want anyone coming and finishing the job, and no offence to your mum, but I think she might need back up.”

“No offence taken. I’d best let her know that we’re going. Actually, can you do that, darling? If I tell her then she’ll want to come too, and whilst I just about managed to keep her reigned in at the hospital, I don’t trust her in the vicinity of government buildings. Wish us luck! We’re going to need it!” She flung herself into the back of the taxi and waved out of the window.

“We’re going to need more than luck,” Ursula muttered as she got into the driver’s seat. “We’re going to need a bloody miracle.”

The taxi backed out of the driveway just as the sun was beginning to come up, and Lacey felt the events of the day beginning to weigh heavy on her shoulders. All she really wanted now was a nap, but she had thrown her lot in with Carrie and Sutherland for better or worse.

Just as she was turning to go back inside and ponder her next steps, her phone buzzed with the arrival of another message. It was from her father again, and she remembered that she had never responded to his first frantic question of if she had stolen the Prime Minister.

Where are you? Is everything all right?

Lacey felt a sharp pang of guilt that her dad was so worried about her. Although she didn’t want to tell him the full extent of what was going on, she knew that she had to let him know that she was safe. Before she could reply, another message arrived.

Is you-know-who alive?

She snorted, immediately reminded of Harry Potter, and typed out a quick response. She loved the fact that he was using a strange little kind of code, but then again, she wouldn’t put it past the government to be tapping their phones whilst all this upheaval was going on and the Civil Service were desperately trying to find the Prime Minister’s corpse.

Yes, y-k-w is alive. I am safe and well and hiding out with him. Being taken care of by an old lady with a taste for gin and cigarette holders. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Well. Later today.

She paused before sending and added: I’ll call you at midday.

Hopefully by then, she’d have more of a plan, and if something did go terribly wrong and she ended up imprisoned in a basement at Chequers, or, in a terrible worst case scenario, in a morgue herself, then her dad would know to send out a search party if she didn’t check in.

His response came a moment later.

Stay safe, Lace. Keep y-k-w safe too.

She smiled and stepped back into the house, closing the door on the world outside and hoping that whatever Carrie and Ursula got up to at Chequers, they would be both successful and quick about it, so that her life could continue back on the nice and boring course that it had been taking before.

Lacey already knew, however, that it would likely never be quite the same again.

#rumbelle fic #Sutheracey #anyelle #anyem #Lacey French #Robert Sutherland #Cruella de Vil #Fic: Dead Man Walking

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rebelwriter95 · 5 years

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Rules, Memories, and Other Uncomfortable Things.

Hiiii okay here we are!! Chapter One of my first fic! I'm really excited to show this to yall, I hope it came out okay. Just a note, the title of this might change and when it does I'll let you know before I change it. A big thank you to @whispersweetliestome for reading through it for me!! 😘

Word Count: about 2170.

Chpt 1/?

Rating: T *As a general warning. Might up the rating as we go. We'll see chapter by chapter :)

Warnings: Angsty. Does Mando count as a warning?

Chapter One

The sun was high in the sky by the time I finished weeding the garden. Standing up, I dust my hands off and then absentmindedly lean on the post of the fence behind me. I stare off into the distance, caught in my endless parade of thoughts again. Life has been surprisingly good since I settled down. Boring, but good. I mean, what else did I expect when I decided to become a farmer? Sure there were some days when I miss my old life. It was a hard, dangerous, and sometimes nasty life, but it was my life and I was damn good at it.

Something shiny catches my attention and I’m flooded with memories once the glistening figure comes into focus. All at once, my breath catches in my chest and I become acutely aware of how all of my nerve endings now feel like they’ve been zapped with a bolt of lightning. Why now, of all times, does he choose to come back? Things had just started to fall into place and feel somewhat normal. I try to focus on steadying my breathing, but it’s too late and I start to get lightheaded. I reach out a hand to catch my balance. Instead of finding the fence post, a warm leather-clad hand grabs onto my bare one and holds it tight. “It’s been so long”, a disembodied modulated voice rumbles. ‘Not long enough’ almost makes its way past my trembling lips. I continue to stare down at the boots across from mine own, afraid to look at the owner of the deep voice.

** You reach out and grab onto the hand offered to you. “It’s been so long, I can tell.” No need to see his face, you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. No need to rub it in…” you trail off as you brush the dust off your pants. “Again!” you call, falling into place. You crouch in a staggered stance stance so that your right leg is behind you. After raising your fists in a defensive position just high enough to see above them, you wait for your partner to do the same. He chuckled and copied your stance. Left foot moves over right, then right foot steps back out. Repeat. It’s a careful dance the two of you share as you size up your opponent once again. Lunging forward on your left foot, you sweep your right leg out to try to throw the Mandalorian off his feet. Taking the bait, he jumps it cleanly and you seize the opportunity to quickly shift your body to tackle him as soon as his feet touch the ground. You land with your right forearm against his chest plate and knees on either side of his hips, effectively pinning him to the ground. Before you could say something witty, you feel the barrel of his blaster press into your soft (vulnerable) side. “Not bad, I guess” he chuckles. You cock your head to the side and tap the top of where his beskar chest stops with the small hidden knife in your right hand. “You guess?” **

A gentle cough pulls me out of my thoughts. Giving in, I slowly look up to the helmet that taunts my dreams late at night. A million questions run through my mind as I drink in the sight of him. Sure I was still mad at him, but that never stops the longing in my soul from calling out to him. I guess he finally answered. “What do you want?” I asked him after I found my voice.

He takes a step closer to me and replies deeply, “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” I hang my head to try to hide the flush that is crawling quickly across my cheeks; knowing full well that respect should be shown at all times, no matter how badly things may end. His hand squeezes mine comfortingly while his free hand reaches up to stroke my cheek. I jerk back slightly before he makes contact. He sighs and his hands fall to his sides. Stepping around him and out of the fenced off area, I start walking back to my wooden abode. “Well, come on then. I’d at least like to clean my hands before you explain what life or death situation brought you to my doorstep.” I throw over my shoulder.

Wiping my hands dry on a rag, I turn to where he’s leaning against my counter. “So, what brings you here?” He pauses, seemingly to gather the right words. “I need your eyes.” My eyes narrow and quickly dart over the chest that lays covered in dust, lingering in the shadows of the corner. “What makes you think I’d help?” I all but snarled at him. His head cocked and I mentally kicked myself for being a brat again. I rubbed my temples and started again. “Look around Mando. What makes you think that I would give all this up?” He pushed himself off the counter and stalked toward me. He set a small puck next to me then leaned in and said, “Because this isn’t who you are, and you know it.” I look down and finger the beat-up device before picking it up.

** “I had it covered you know” You claimed. “Oh so that’s what you call that little move? I’m not sure how almost falling off a cliff constitutes as ‘having it covered’“ he grunted. You drop the arm you were pulling to cross your arms and glare at the Mandalorian across from you, not that he could see the look on your face given the helmet shielding your faces. You wait until he turns to you and sighs, dropping the arm he has been dragging, to start talking. “Look.. You’re right. I lost my focus which caused me to lose my footing. If it hadn't been for you, this criminal here” You kicked him for added effect “would have gotten away. “I’m sorry.” He just nods in response, then bends over to pick up his designated arm. “Come on, we need to get him in the cryo freeze chamber before he wakes up.” You squat to pick up your arm, and then continued back to the ship.

Once back on the Razorcrest, the two of you wrestle with the now conscious thief, trying to get him into the chamber. “Come on, stop fighting it,” you grit your teeth. “Look, I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.” You laugh to yourself at your own witty one liner, and you think you can make out a faint chuckle from the armor-covered bounty hunter to your right. The criminal seizes the opportunity to slip loose and shoulder-charge you. You recover quickly and throat punch him, then you use all your strength to shove the burly creature into place so the Mandalorian can hit the button that initiates cryo freeze.

Rolling your shoulders and stretching your arms above your head, you glance around trying to find the little device you had placed on a ledge near the chamber before going out on the hunt this morning. Once it was located and in your hands, you turn to face the 6’8” tall man. “Are you ready?” you asked. He turned to see what you were talking about and immediately put his hand up in a “surrender” gesture. “Woah, hold on. That’s not happening.” He protested. You practically skip over to where he and the frozen form are still situated. “Come on, you said you would! Besides. It’s just one picture and it’ll be our little secret, I promise!” You wiggle in place just a tiny bit as a sort of silent plea. He signs heavily and shakes his head. “Be quick about it.” He finally replies after what felt like an eternity. You hold up the disk out in front of the two of you, posed in front your first bounty. “Say carbonite!” you laughed. Right before you took the snapshot, you quickly stuck your finger close to the frozen figure, in the direction of his snout.**

I chuckle quietly to myself, recalling the messy day that holoframe was taken. It was my first bounty by myself, some mid-level smuggler that crossed the wrong people. You know, career jump-start type thing. While I was trying to take him down, I saw something move in the corner of my eye and I got distracted just long enough for the surprisingly agile creature to kick me in the chest and send me flying backward. Thankfully, the distracting something turned out to be none other than my teacher, whom I had thought stayed back on the ship. After that save, I learned to not only stay focused, but also always have one eye on one’s surroundings at all times. Well, learned is a strong word considering what was yet still to come between us.

I go to stick my finger in the holographic creature’s nose for old times sake but the Mandalorian’s hand reached out and turned the puck off. “See? You haven’t changed one bit.” He spoke with a hint of wistfulness that comes from years of close contact. “Listen... You know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.” I squeezed my eyes shut, and take a deep breath. This man needs to stop talking, like right now, because his voice had this dangerous habit of dragging me into unsavory situations. I take another, deeper breath and exhale completely before trying to hand him back the puck. “I’m not sure how much help I can be, seeing as, you know…” I trail off and gesture shallowly to my back with my free hand. An awkward silence blanketed the already quiet house. His large hand wraps around mine to close my hand around the small puck then leaned in close enough that I feared that he would hear the erratic beating of my pounding heart. “Whatever you decide, this belongs to you.” he rumbled lowly in my ear. After a moment, he spins on his heel and heads to the door. I glance down at the device in my hands, the one I thought was lost to me forever. As of their own accord, my feet walk me over to the chest that sits in that lonely corner. My treacherous hands take the key hidden under the worn, work-stained shirt I’m wearing and unlock the heavy contraption that keeps the old secrets and memories locked away. Fingers stretch outward to run along the smooth, thick material of my deep purple cloak, gently though, like touching it any harder would release all of the history that was so carefully and deliberately hidden away.

Choice decided, I scramble to my feet and run after the Mandalorian stalking away from my house, toward the setting suns. His head turns so that it looks as if he’s glancing over his shoulder when he hears my pounding footsteps sprinting up to him. He slows to a stop so you can catch up to his long, strong strides. “Alright,” I agree. I can see his shoulders perk up a bit as it registers what I’m agreeing to. Nodding in reply, he tells me that he has a couple of things to take care of before leaving tomorrow at dawn. “You know the deal, pack only the necessities. I’ll be back tomorrow at sunrise to pick you up.” I grunt a quick yes sir to the order given to me, falling back into old habits a hell of a lot quicker than I want. Turning back toward the meager house I had built myself, I made a list of all of the items I would need, and which supplies I could grab for the trip that wouldn’t spoil. Opening up the chest once more, I wrap the cloak around the contents of the wooden crate and stuff it into the combat bag I have hanging off my shoulder, then I start packing the rest of my essential items.

The next morning, I sit outside in the cool damp grass meditating on the rules I created for myself late last night instead of sleeping. Hearing the screams of the Razorcrest’s engines, I stand and dust myself off. I steal one last glimpse behind me before I mutter a soft good-bye for the me I could have been. Facing forward again, I whisper a careful prayer. One about hope. About surviving the coming storm I know is bound to happen. You don’t just mash together you guys’ personalities and expect things not to get heated. I square my shoulders and walk confidently up the ramp to where my old friend stands waiting for me, a sight that holds such bittersweet emotions with it. It’s like a punch in the gut though, and I have to remind myself to keep things professional. Remember the rules, I thought to myself. Stay composed. This can not end like it did last time.

#the mandalorian #fanfic #mando x reader #dyn jarren #slow burn?#mando #perdo pascal #oh gawd what am i doing #im drowning in feels #this is probably gonna hurt #mandalorian fanfic

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ganymedesclock · 5 years

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I realize that I put out a post of Troupe headcanons but not Grimm-specific ones, which is funny because I did announce my intent to make headcanon posts for all the Higher Beings earlier,

He has this thing where he never presents himself as royalty. There’s certainly an air to him, how he carries himself, how he talks, but very often, he’ll take orders from creatures far beneath him and even allow himself to be insulted or affronted with very little rebuke. It’s a very long-running temper, Grimm’s. Much longer than his clan tends, so, if one makes a habit of exploiting Grimm’s patience, it pays to keep in mind that being haunted for a while by a Grimmkin Novice with a penchant for nasty pranks is the nicest thing that might happen.

Speaking of, there’s a certain trickery- anyone of decent magical talent can probably tell that Grimm and his clan are all glamouring themselves with dreams. However, since the majority of the grimmkin are fundamentally mortal bugs, the presumption is that Grimm is the same- merely a powerful spellcaster. Anyone who’s found a way to peep beneath Grimm’s glamours and see the Nightmare King, however, is in for an... interesting surprise, to say the least.

He’s obscenely, hopelessly polymath. He’s got about a thousand acts and picks up new skills quickly. About the one thing he can’t really do is sing, because he’s got this thing where his throat is scarred by smoke and fire, one of the things he never gets rid of incarnation to incarnation.

As soon as the Grimmchild has those red eyes, that means it’s technically just Grimm- might have some growing to do, but at that point, everything’s fully transferred and the previous Grimm is dead.

Grimm remembers the past incarnations, all the way back to his first- but he’s never the same person. He’s died young, lived to a very old age, been all sorts of genders, gained disabilities from injuries or incarnated with a disability- and died lots and lots of different ways. While the ritual bearer is always an instrumental part, what causes the end of any particular incarnation of Grimm really depends, a lot.

The true form of the Nightmare King looks relatively little like Grimm; he’s basically a being of raw fire held together in a thin-stretched mortal membrane that he gradually burns through over time, which is what really causes a particular incarnation of him to age and weaken over time. It’s possible to temporarily pluck him out of said mortal body. Possible, but... not exactly wise.

In his true form, Grimm is more reactive and driven by emotions- his own, and his acute sense of others. It is usually a joke when someone says something can smell fear. That’s not a joke for the Nightmare King. He knows exactly what you’re feeling and if you’re especially scared of him, it will get his attention, and interest, and it’s a lot harder for him to focus and think about decorum, politeness, low profiles, or the flammability of mortals if he’s in that raw state. He can reign himself in by mental discipline, but it’s hard and may not happen before you’ve gotten burnt.

He doesn’t cause misfortune, but he and his troupe have certainly been identified as an omen of it, and rightly so. Of course, Grimm is politely incredulous at the notion that he sees the future. It would be more accurate to say that he’s old, observant, and has a magical perception of entropy and the way that it acts on others. He really doesn’t need to have a Wyrm’s eyes to say that the very anxious aristocrat dripping in old regrets is not long for this world- and if the bug proves him right in their frenzy to escape what they view as an oracular prediction of their death, then, well. He’s merely done what any competent roadside fortune-teller does; tell people what they need to hear based on observation.

The fact that Grimm fights Ghost only for the Ritual gives the player, I believe, an overly serious perception of how Grimm fights on average. Most of the times Grimm gets into a fight he is not actually threatened nor under any particular obligation to take it seriously. He fights like Bugs Bunny without the cartoony physics-breaking antics or inexplicable production of props. He’s not taking on the average highwayman with fire bats and cape spikes, no, he’s holding them up with their own knife while he politely offers to read their palm and this is when literal clowns don’t get involved.

That said if he actually does cut loose on someone, he is capable of a veritable laundry list of horrifying ghost things. No matter how chill you are with Grimm it is probably not good for your psychological health to look at the aftermath of someone he was displeased enough with to kill.

His unusual nature as a Higher Being means that he actually has a very rare immunity among light-oriented gods- while not immune to the void, it doesn’t inherently hurt him. Part of this is, he’s technically “hollow” himself, due to separating the Nightmare Heart from his body.

His distance from the Nightmare Heart also does affect him physically- he’s cold as a corpse unless he’s been using fire magic lately and has no discernible pulse. Also, while a lot of normal things are fatal to him, he can’t die from being impaled in the heart, for example- since it’s not in his chest.

He’s taught people dark magic before. Not even people who were troupe members or became one, just, like. it happened.

He has a very complicated system of debts and old favors. Only he really can tell the complicated system of rules for when he feels indebted to someone, but, if a favor is owed, a favor will be paid. Furthermore, while he’s not the exploitative sort, if something has been promised him that was that person’s to give, he’s rather precise about collecting. There’s a reason that people can leave the troupe any time, but they won’t be able to take everything with them, and what they lose depends heavily on what they sought joining and their reasons for leaving.

Most likely Higher Being to gatecrash your wedding / baby’s first birthday / coming-of-age ceremony / royal ball, etc. What reason he’s there depends, a lot, as does whether or not this is a good thing.

I guess what a lot of this amounts to is he teeters this really weird line where sometimes he’s super likable and funny and you can be very close to him, but at the end of the day he’s an unnerving death god fair folk and ain’t entirely your bro even if you’ve been his right hand for centuries. Even if maybe he actually would’ve liked to go easy on you, but that’s not how the agreements were worded... and the Heart is a relentless and hungry thing, even if it belongs only to him, it has no hesitation burning the rest of his body up to feed itself. All the layers of civility and emotional attachment in the world don’t make him less of a flame. In the end, he always burns.

#Hollow Knight #Grimm #readmore #Higher Being headcanons

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builder051 · 7 years

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spiderman when peter decides to catch a bug right when tony is angsting over the whole civil war thing and so peter is also angsting but as well as angsting about civil war he is also angsting about not wanting to cause distraction and he also feels bad yes I like angst okay

I like angst too!! I had a little bit of a hard time divining exactly what moment in time you were looking for, but I just picked something and ran with it. Hopefully this works for you.

My first Spiderman thing ever and I’m PSYCHED!! And it’s 2500 words exactly.

__________________

When Mr. Stark tells him to stay down, Peter’s first instinct is to protest. “I’m good,” he says, trying to stand up without jostling his very painful ribs.

“No, you’re done,” Tony says. He drops a metal-gloved hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter tries to insist, though he’s gasping for breath. Tony threatens to tell May, and the argument’s over. “Ok, yeah, I’m done,” Peter concedes. Then Tony’s gone and Peter’s still murmuring, “I’m done…”

Peter isn’t sure how long he lies there on his little square of runway pavement. The battle rages on for a while, but then there’s a huge jet takeoff noise, and things drift into quiet after that. Peter’s ears are still ringing, though, and there’s a frizz of shimmering stars around the edges of his vision. He can barely take a deep breath around the sharp sensation of what feels like a boulder wedged into the side of his chest. But possibly worst is the slight aura of not-quite-rightness that’s been hanging around since last night ratcheting up toward full-blown body aches. Which, of course, makes every sensation more acutely uncomfortable. Great luck he’s got going here…

He does have great luck, Peter reminds himself. He’s met Tony Stark. He has a new suit. He’s traveled outside New York for the first time in his life. Well, except for that one time he went to Jersey, but that’s beside the point. The most famous team of superheroes in the world has recognized him as something. Or, well, half it has. But the pros are starting to feel a little negligible under the growing pile of cons. God, his head hurts. Wait, when did that start up?

It’s Happy that comes and pulls Peter off the tarmac. “How bad are you hurt?” he asks by way of a greeting.

“Oh. Not bad,” Peter says.

“My intel says you were injured.” Happy looks odd in his buttoned suit jacket, bending over with his tie hanging straight down.

“Intel? What—?”

“You’re under video surveillance.” Happy’s face is all seriousness.

“Really?”

“No. I just talked to Stark. How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m ok.” Peter gets to a sitting position with a grimace he hopes is hidden by his mask. “My side hurts a little.” He pushes to his knees, then to his feet. Actually, make that a lot.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Happy asks.

“No,” Peter replies. His head choses that moment to throb awfully, and a twist of pain comes through in his voice.

“Ok, good. I hate parking garages,” Happy says, tucking his tie back in. “Come on, I’m taking you back to the hotel.”

They walk slowly down the runway, which is deserted except for a slew of battered planes and trucks, some of which look to be smoldering.

When they reach the glossy black car, Peter asks, “Where’s Mr. Stark?”

“In the ambulance,” Happy replies with no emotion.

“What?!” Peter shouts, every inch of his body protesting the volume of his voice. “I didn’t know he was hurt. We should go to the hospital, then, and like, go see him.”

“No. ��War Machine.”

“Huh?”

“War Machine got hurt. Stark’s fine,” Happy explains, his lack of patience evident as he aggressively turns the key in the ignition. He turns his head to look at Peter in the backseat. “You sure you didn’t get a head injury or something?”

“Mm?” Peter lifts his still-masked head from where he’d been leaning against the window.

“You’re kind of slow today. Slower than usual.”

“’M not slow…” Peter mumbles. He’s suddenly too hot, and his body feels constricted. He pulls off his mask, then returns his head to the tinted window, sweat-damp hair smearing the glass. The pressure on the bottom half of his face hasn’t let up, and hopes it’s not a sign he’s about to puke all over the backseat of Mr. Stark’s car.

The ride back to the hotel isn’t long, but Peter’s still thankful when it’s over. Happy lets him out in front of the high-class sliding doors, and Peter shuffles through them. He’s almost embarrassed as he crosses the gold and marble lobby, but the emotion ranks just shy of the top spot on his non-existent mental state scoreboard. He mostly just feels sick. And he wonders where the hell he stashed his key card.

The slip of plastic is stowed in his suit’s one interior pocket, and Peter has to practically disrobe from the waist up in order to reach it. Once in the spacious room, the only thing Peter wants to do is flop onto the bed. So he does, but he ditches his suit first in favor of sweat pants. He’s too hot to bother with a shirt, plus it kind of hurts to put his arms over his head.

As soon as he lies down, though, Peter’s cold. He pulls the fluffy white duvet around his shoulders like a cape and partially cocoons in it, though is bare feet are still splayed out in the open. Yep. He’s sick. Peter muses over how stupid it was for him to come. He’d had a nagging feeling this might happen, despite all the Airborne he’d drank. But, who’s he kidding. This is the best day of his life.

There’s a knock on the door, then no pause before it swings open. Peter snaps open eyes he didn’t realize were closed. “What’s going on?” he wheezes.

“I’m supposed to be your nurse now,” Happy says through gritted teeth. “And keep an eye on you until Stark gets back.” He looks less than thrilled with the new roles.

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says. “I’m ok.”

Happy drops the first aid kit he’s holding onto the bed and uzips it. “You said your side hurts?”

“Yeah, ‘s no big deal,” Peter insists.

“Do you have broken ribs?”

“No. Just bruised or something.” Though to be fair, Peter’s never a broken a bone and doesn’t have any idea where the difference in pain lies.

Happy pulls out a cold pack and kneads it to activate the cooling reaction of the chemicals inside. “Here.” He tosses it to Peter, who doesn’t even reach up and attempt to catch.

Peter grabs it up and tentatively positions it against the tender pink-tinged skin he knows will probably break into a mottled mess of black and blue by tomorrow. The pack is painfully cold, and he winces at the feel of it. A rush of shivers flows over his body and up to his head, redoubling the ache.

“Do you have ibuprofen or something?” Peter asks.

“I thought you said it was no big deal,” Happy replies.

“Uh, well, it’s mostly my head, actually…” And his fever. And yeah, maybe a little bit his ribs too.

“You do have a head injury?”

“No!” Peter insists. “Like, an adrenaline crash headache thing?”

“Ok, here.” Happy produces pills and a bottle of water.

“Can I have three?”

“You’re a minor. You get two.”

“Ok, fine.” Peter swallows the orange coated tablets and exhales as he wills them to flow straight down to his stomach and start making a dent in his overall discomfort.

“I’m supposed to check on you every hour. So, please stay put and don’t screw with anything.” Happy closes the first aid kit with attitude and heads for the door.

“Yeah,” Peter sighs absently. The longer he lies there, the more he’s convinced he’ll be staying horizontal.

The next thing Peter knows, the door’s opening again. “Are you sleeping?” Happy asks in an inappropriately loud whisper.

“Yes,” Peter groans back. Well, he’s not anymore. But it only takes him a moment to drift of again.

When he wakes next, it’s to the sound of something heavy bouncing off the wall. “Huh?” he breathes. No one’s in the room with him, so of course no one replies.

Peter takes a deep breath, which hurts, and scrubs his hand over his forehead, which also hurts. The ice pack tucked against his side is burning his overheated skin with its icy bite. And his stomach hurts now. Fan-flipping-tastic.

The thing hits the wall again, and when raised voices start to sound alongside the thumping, he realizes it’s coming from the room next door. Peter’s not sure exactly what’s going on, but snatches of “Rhodey…” and “Paralyzed…” and “Captain fucking America…” generally let him know that it’s not good.

In his fevered state, it seems like a good idea to get up and see what’s going on, so that’s what Peter does. He unwraps from his partial duvet burrito and pads barefoot out of his room and toward Mr. Stark’s.

The door isn’t completely closed, so Peter lets himself in, not paying mind to the fact that he’s partially dressed and entirely uninvited. “What’s going on?” he asks hoarsely, squinting around. His headache hasn’t improved with the transition to being upright, and the glare of the overhead lighting isn’t helping.

“Hey, no, this doesn’t concern you,” Tony says, waving Peter away from across the room. Then he goes back to throwing his fist into the wall. Maybe Peter imagines it, but it seems like a trickle of dust is falling from the ceiling. “Happy, can you put him back?”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to move from watching surveillance footage of Colonel Rhodes in the hospital?” Happy asks unsurely. He’s seated in a hard chair at a rich mahogany desk, watching pixelated footage of a man apparently sleeping in a hospital bed with machines hooked up to his arms and face.

“Yeah, go put him back, then keep watching,” Tony says. He lets loose on the wall one more time, then shakes his hand and says, “Where’s the fucking scotch? I can’t deal with this, all this shit happening…”

“What shit’s happening?” Peter asks. “I mean, didn’t it end? With the fight?”

“I’m allowed to say bad words. You are not,” Tony says, pointing at Peter and blowing some dust off his knuckles.

“Sorry,” Peter apologizes. He reaches out for the wall, then realizes he’s too far away, so he stumble-steps and tries to casually lean his shoulder against it without betraying that everything in his body’s starting to go to shit. Which he’s not saying out loud.

“Yeah, well,” Tony says. “Small potatoes now. Since Captain goddamn America’s a war criminal, his psycho-killer BFF is on the loose, and my very respectable Air Force colonel BFF is on life support in a hospital that doesn’t even take our insurance!”

“Aw, geez,” Peter says. “I…I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark.” It’s news to Peter, and he’s starting to hazily realize how much he’s been kept in the dark. Captain America… really. The guy he watches videos of in school. And Stark has such a low opinion of him now. Peter’s really going to have to re-think his childhood heroes.

Only not right now. His body’s covered in goosebumps because he’s so cold, and his head’s obviously about to fall off because it hurts so much. And—no, actually it’s boiling in here. Something’s seriously wrong with the thermostat. Or at least his body’s internal one. Sweat prickles on Peter’s upper lip and a surge of sudden and unexpected nausea licks through his chest on the way to his throat.

“You, you were a big help,” Tony says, pointing at Peter again. “I just can’t believe that fucking Boy Scout isn’t backing down. He’s hurting more people than he’s helping.” He tears his fingers angrily through his hair. “And for once I’m on the right side of things, trying to keep people from dying. Like freakingRhodey. And what thanks do I get? Oh, just some combat against people I thought were my friends.”

“Yeah, that’s…” Peter says, fishing for something to say while also swallowing hard to keep his stomach in place. “I’m really sorry.”

“Not your goddamn fault,” Tony whispers to the floor. He raises his head and takes in Peter’s look. “You’re way too pale. Happy, I think the kid needs a scotch too. Or, what am I saying, maybe like a cherry coke or something.”

“Actually,” Peter says, his voice breaking a little, “I don’t…” The floor’s falling out from under him. There’s too much spit in his mouth, and it all tastes sour. “I don’t feel that good.”

“Yeah, of course you don’t,” Tony dismisses, missing Peter’s message. “Do they still make that, what’s it called, French vanilla Dr. Pepper?”

Bile explodes into Peter’s throat, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “I’m gonna be sick,” he mutters, taking off for the bathroom.

“The hell?” Tony leaps out of Peter’s way. Peter slams his knees into the cold tile floor and heaves hard, reverberations lancing up his ribs in a painful web of neural flares.

“Hey, chill out, ok?” Tony’s hand tentatively pats Peter’s shoulder. Bile and stomach acid hit the toilet water. Peter doesn’t have a lot to expel.

“Happy?” Tony calls, away from Peter’s ear. “Why didn’t you tell me I had a sick kid on my hands?”

“He’s not sick,” Happy’s voice replies.

“He’s puking and he has a fever,” Tony responds. “He’s sick.”

“Well, he wasn’t feeling good, but he just got beat up. What was I supposed to think?”

“I’m ok,” Peter murmurs, spitting out ropes of snot and breathing through the urge to gag again. “Don’t…don’t worry about me.”

“Too late,” Tony says. “D’you think you can go lay down or something?”

Peter retches and brings up a splash of something that really shouldn’t have chunks in it. He squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see whatever he ate last Tuesday make an unwelcome reappearance.

“Ok, never mind,” Tony says. “Ginger ale, maybe? Or a fever reducer? Assuming you’re stomach’s going to calm down.”

“Already…took ibuprofen,” Peter pants, his words echoing wetly back at him.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Happy,” Tony shouts, his footsteps pounding out of the bathroom. “You gave him meds on an empty stomach? It’s always like this with kids. You have to give them like, half a banana or a Scooby snack or something or they’re gonna ralph everywhere for sure. You were there that time Barton’s family came around, right?”

“’m not a kid…” Peter mumbles. He rides out the next spasming retch and listens to the padding of Tony’s sneakers approach again.

“I’m sorry you’re sick,” Tony says, leaning back against the door frame. “I’m gonna fix this.”

“Hey, don’t worry about me, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, surfacing from the toilet and rubbing the back of his hand across his sweaty lip. “I don’t want to distract you—” Peter pauses to hiccup. “Or anything. Just. I’ll be ok.”

“Sure you will.” Tony checks his watch. “I’ve got 22 hours to get you back to normal, or May will never let me take you anywhere ever again.” Then he calls out to Happy, “Do you think we can order saltines from room service?”

Peter smiles. Laughs. Then hacks until he gags again.

#spider-man: homecoming #spiderman #marvel #mcu #fanfic #fanfiction #sickfic #emeto #emetophilia #peter parker #tony stark #happy #happy hogan #please tell me if there's a better way to tag this

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ask-thehappykids · 7 years

Text

Humandroid - An Andy Fic

I got to write a short story for a paper I had to turn in for Humanities, so I wrote this. It’s a little heavy-handed near the end because of that, but I actually like how it ended up and it has to do with Andy’s backstory, so I wanted to share it!

The android’s eyes fluttered open for the first time to the tune of whirring monitors and whispered murmurs. An icy blue pair of eyes stared up, unblinking, and unfazed by the harsh fluorescent lights above. A look to the left, then the right. Something internal told them to blink. They were surrounded on all sides by people, all staring directly at them.

“She’s beautiful,” one of them spoke.

Their eyes slowly traced over the face of the one who had spoken. Glasses, shaggy and unkempt hair, and a smile that would have sent shivers down their spine, were that physically possible. The other three were similar, with some combination of poor posture and unsettling smiles, as if they were staring at something to covet.

“We’ve gotta test her out, don’t we?” said another. His grin was wide and almost predatory, creating an unsettling combination with the way his tone was both giddy and impatient. Everyone’s eyes were locked on them, laid out on the table they had woken up on.

Another blink answered the waiting gazes of those above them. There was a gentle click from inside their own head, so soft they were sure that no one else could hear it. Their jaw moved slightly, adjusting itself. Then, softly, their voice finally slipped out in a gentle, “Hello?”

The four men took in a collective sharp breath, eyes wide. “Her voice is gorgeous,” said one that hadn’t spoken up before. “Can’t wait to hear it saying other things.” He nudged the one who had called them beautiful with his elbow, an eyebrow quirked in a knowing way.

“Enough waiting around then,” said the fourth one. He grabbed at their legs, wrenching them open with wild abandon. They were acutely aware that there was nothing between their flesh and this man’s eyes. “We’d better make sure she works the way she’s supposed to before we turn her in to the boss.”

No more invitation was needed for the men to take what they wanted. Hands wandered on fresh skin, grabbing and smoothing and stuttering over the new flesh. Their icy blue eyes darted around, watching and taking in as much information as they could. Hands, flesh, hot breath, all over them at once.

“She feels so real,” muttered one before pressing his lips to the base of their neck.

Andy awoke with marks on their neck and the register of soreness between their thighs. The night before had been dedicated to their partners, Daniyal and Rory, and the pleasure that came from that. It was so pleasantly familiar now to feel that when they woke up.

They heaved themselves up and out of the bed, padding gently to the bathroom, but they stopped short in front of the mirror. A pit formed in their stomach when they made eye contact with their reflection. A thick crease drew from the bottom corners of their eyes and down the sides of their face, adorned with a pair of small bolts on either side. They acted as a reminder that anything they thought they felt was nothing more than synthetic, just like the rest of them. There was no soreness between their thighs, no pit in their stomach, no gentle throbbing in the marks adorning their neck where blood would pool. It was all just adaptations they had acquired over time to make everything about them seem more real to the outside world.

Andy tore their eyes away from the mirror and busied themselves with cleaning up. After all, avoidance was a very human thing to do. They scrubbed themselves gently with a wash cloth, their skin feeling plush and soft under their touch. It had the same give, the same flexibility and folds, as a humans, but that was just a lie. It must have felt so disingenuous to any human who touched it. Andy ran a slow hand up their own thigh. They imagined Daniyal would shiver at the touch and Rory might have gotten goosebumps. But Andy’s skin didn’t respond. Their brain told them the sensation was pleasurable and comforting, but they felt nothing.

After getting themselves dressed and pulling their blonde hair back into a ponytail, Andy made use of their morning by starting breakfast. Surely, their boys would be hungry when they woke up.

Steam began to rise from the pans, the smell of bacon and eggs following suit. The frantic pop and crackle of the bacon grease complimented Andy’s rapid thoughts. Their eyes focused on the task, hands deft as they ran through the motions of the meal, but Andy’s mind was somewhere else entirely.

“I’d say be careful not to burn breakfast, but I think you’ve made bacon and eggs enough you could do it in your sleep.” Rory’s words quickly pulled Andy back to reality and their eyes snapped up to stare at the wall directly in front of them. It was always fascinating how Rory could read a room without actually being able to see it. Andy figured it was some byproduct of knowing elements of the future that gave him incredible insight.

“I have it under control, thank you,” Andy said softly. Their eyes trailed back down to the pans they were handling, becoming acutely aware of the heat that they couldn’t feel in their hands. “It is almost ready.”

“Smells good.” The smile in Rory’s voice was evident.

Andy finally turned to get a good look at Rory. He was still shirtless, though he had pulled on a ratty pair of shorts. Andy made a mental note to try and wash all the caked in dirt out of those later. His long, dark hair was pinned back in a loose bun, strands of it still falling in his face from how sloppy it was. The more they looked at him, the more Andy was aware how different they were from each other.

“You’re staring at me,” Rory said pointedly. “Do I need to put a shirt on? There something on my face?” His tone was joking, but Andy became frustrated.

Their eyebrows furrowed, but they averted their gaze. “You cannot possibly know that.”

Andy noticed Rory grin out of the corner of their eye. “I can hear the bacon burning already, which means you’re not paying attention to it. And, I can feel you staring at me, you know?”

“I do not,” Andy muttered, turning back to their cooking. “I do not feel anything.” They pulled the bacon off the stovetop and turned so that they could grab a plate from the cabinet.

They caught sight of Rory, who’s face had grown much more serious. His grin had pressed into a tight line, and his face seemed thoughtful. They wished Rory would just let them wallow in peace.

After dumping the bacon onto a plate, Andy turned back around to tend to the eggs. But as they did so, a pair of arms wrapped around their waist and Rory’s chin rested gently on their shoulder. They wanted so badly to relax into the touch, but they were suddenly acutely aware of every inch of synthetic skin making contact with Rory. After a moment, they blurted out, “Do I feel warm to you?”

“Not particularly,” Rory answered, making Andy’s eyebrows furrow. Of course not. “Why? Feeling sick?” Rory’s hand pressed against their forehead and Andy couldn’t help a small scoff.

“I do not get sick, Rory. And I….suppose it was a silly question to ask.” Andy continued to scowl down at the eggs, then pulled them off the stove and edged themselves out of Rory’s embrace. “Of course I would not feel warm,” they muttered, reprimanding themselves quietly.

“What’s with the sudden interest in body temperature?” Rory asked. He busied himself by grabbing Andy a new plate from the cabinet. “There’s nothing wrong with how warm you are usually.”

Andy took the plate and carelessly dumped the eggs onto it. Of course Rory wouldn’t understand what they were feeling, why would he? In an attempt to escape the conversation, they let out a strangled, “It is fine.” Not very convincing.

“Talk to me, Tulip,” Rory said softly, carefully taking the pan Andy had been holding far too tightly. Their hands brushed together, flesh against fake, and Andy pulled back. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Andy looked down at the floor, their hands desperate for something to grab onto, but all they could do was clench into fists at Andy’s sides. “Rory,” they whispered, the words choking them on their way out, “can you tell me how I will die?”

Rory took a step back. Any lightness left in his demeanor was gone, his body growing tense. “Andy, I can’t tell you that. I don’t—I don’t like thinking about you—“

If Andy were physically able to cry, they had a strong suspicion they would have been sobbing by now. “But it happens? I can do that, correct? You have to tell me, I need to know.”

“Well, everyone—“

“But do I, Rory? Am I included in everyone?” Andy’s gaze was hard as they looked him over. If he could feel them staring before, then he must have felt it now. He had to know how desperate they were with whatever sense told him when they were staring. “Am I even capable of death? Or is that another thing that I will never know?”

Rory was definitely aware of the cold gaze locked onto him, evidenced by his tense stance. He reached out to comfort Andy on instinct, but pulled back at the last second. All it took to see what Andy wanted was a single touch and, though he’d already seen it, Rory was suddenly very aware of the motion he usually avoided. “I think Daniyal’s worrying has been rubbing off on you,” he tried desperately. “You’re perfectly fine the way you are.”

“I am a husk. How can that be fine? I am nothing but synthetic nerves and programmed emotions. I cannot feel anything that is truly mine, only what I am told to. I am the product of the male sexual fantasy and it’s sadistic lover, consumerism, I cannot possibly have the same depth as a human.” Andy’s chest heaved, metallic lungs taking in unnecessary breaths as they worked themselves up. “But maybe, if I were to know how I die—if I die, I could feel some connection with the human experience. I could be somewhat…” Their eyes cast upward, meeting the pity Rory had on his face. “…like you.”

Rory’s hand lifted slowly, meeting Andy’s face to gently caress their cheek. Andy clutched at his arm, their grip fearful. “Tulip, just listen to yourself. I’ve never heard anyone sound so human. All those things you’re so afraid of, all those concerns, well, it sounds human to me.”

Andy’s brows furrowed. “But I do not feel the same way you do. My feelings are all learned, none of them are innate.”

“I’d say humans are like that too,” Rory pointed out thoughtfully. His hand no fully cupped Andy’s jaw, tilting their head up so that their eyes couldn’t stray away from his face. “We learn and react the same way you do. We just got our programming from different places. You don’t need to know how you die for that.”

“But what if…” Andy trailed off, their nails digging into Rory’s soft, human flesh. “What if I can never be more than what I was programmed for?”

Rory chuckled softly. “I’d say you’ve already far surpassed that. You’re made up of far more than your sexual experiences.”

Andy thought for a moment, their eyes locked onto Rory. Their brain processed the information as fast as it could go, eyes searching for something disingenuous in Rory’s words. “Do you really believe that?” they asked, voice barely a whisper.

Rory pressed a kiss to Andy’s nose, then dropped his hand from their jaw to grab their hand instead. “Of course I do, darling.”

It was a little reassurance, at least.

#fic #andy tag #rory tag #friendo tag #even though daniyal's not in it #i still feel like i should put that tag for him being mentioned

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chilldexie · 7 years

Text

Jack Zimmermann was accustomed to dealing with difficult situations; he was captain of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team after all, but this? This was never in the job description.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Bitty whispered into the side of Jack’s neck, breath hot and sweet against his skin. The kegster ended a while ago but Bitty was still feeling the effects. When he fell off the coffee table attempting to dance to All the Single Ladies, Jack swept in ready to piggyback him to bed.

“Alright,” Jack said, mouthing I got this in Lardo’s direction before heading to the stairs.

“I don’t wanna be a single lady anymore,” His voice faltered and Jack became acutely aware of Bitty’s thighs around his hips. “I want a person. Everybody else has got a person.”

“With moves like that I don’t think you’ll have to wait long,” Jack said, supressing a chuckle.

“Mmhmm,” Bitty mumbled, fighting a losing war against sleep. Jack pushed open the door to Bitty’s room with his foot and ducked inside.

“I’m gonna put you down now, okay? You just gotta stay awake a few more minutes.”

“Mmhmm,” Bitty mumbled again. When Jack placed him on his feet he staggered a few times before picking up Senor Bun and sliding under the covers. It was nearly 3am, but tomorrow was Saturday, Jack reminded himself. No responsibilities. Good thing too seeing as Bittle would be in no shape for practise with a hangover.

Jack propped his knee on the bed, turning Bitty gently so that he was lying on his side. The light from the moon sparkled through his blond hair making him look even softer, even sweeter. Just as Jack was turning to go, Bitty spoke again.

“I lied,” he said, “that wasn’t the secret.”

“Don’t worry about it Bittle. You can tell me tomorrow if you still want to.”

“I think I’m in love with Jack.” Pause. The words hung heavy in the air. “Don’t tell’em I told you. He wouldn’t…” Bitty trailed off for a moment. His eyes had drifted closed and his breathing came slow and deep. “He’s not like that,” he finished.

Jack’s heart stopped. Bitty… in love with him? In seconds the events of the past couple of months formed a narrative in Jack’s mind. It all made sense, when it came down to it. All those times Bitty sought him out in a crowd to ask him about his day or discuss an upcoming game they’d discussed a thousand times before. All the half-glances and shy smiles and laughing at jokes that weren’t half as funny as they sounded in Jack’s head. All those times Jack found himself glancing and smiling and laughing back. These words weren’t meant for him, he knew that much, but the voice in the back of his head just wouldn’t shut up.

“Not like what?” Jack asked.

“He doesn’t like boys,” Bitty’s voice was so faint now that Jack could barely hear what he said. “You won’t tell’em, will you?”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Jack said. His mind had turned into a war zone trying to piece together the rest of the puzzle. How could he have been so oblivious? Not only to Bitty’s feelings, but his own? Things like this were never black and white, but hindsight was full fucking colour and flashing lights and violin music. He should have known. Jack turned to go.

“…please stay,” Bitty said. Jack’s hand froze around the doorknob. He looked over his shoulder, careful not to make any more noise. Bitty was nearly twenty years old, but the way he curled up under the covers reminded Jack of the scared kid he used to be. They had a lot more in common than Bitty would ever know. It doesn’t have to be that way, Jack reminded himself. You don’t have to hide from everyone.

“Okay,” he said, closing the door and moving back to sit on the edge of the bed. “You sleep now, okay?”

“Mmhmm,” Bitty murmured, but this time his voice caught at the back of his throat. The sound came out strangled, tight.

“Bits?” He reached out his hand, brushing a few loose strands of hair away from Bitty’s eyes. “Bits, are you crying?” But Jack already knew the answer. Making a decision, he tucked his legs up onto the bed, lying down so that he was facing Bitty. The smell of alcohol permeated the air, and Jack had to force back the distinct mental image of Shitty pouring Bud Light into a humidifier. There were more important problems at hand, like the very drunk, very beautiful blond boy silently crying only inches away.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “Not for a long time.”

_X_

When Jack awoke the next morning the sky was still navy blue. It took him a moment to remember where he was and what exactly had led him there, before he noticed the tuft of blonde hair peeking out from under the covers. Bitty slept soundly tucked into Jack’s chest, breathing steadily and radiating warmth. Jack didn’t remember falling asleep like this, but he wasn’t complaining. The clock on the bedside table read 6:25am, but Bitty had never been a morning person. They could stay like that. Maybe even for the rest of the day…

No. He needed to leave, and he needed to leave without disturbing Bittle. Jack closed his eyes for one last self-indulgent moment, letting himself enjoy the feeling of another heartbeat pressed against his chest. This boy. This hockey playing, pie baking boy. Jack knew that if he were to give up the world, he’d give it up for him.

“I’m sorry it took me this long,” he whispered into Bitty’s hair before removing the covers and sliding out of bed. But just as he was turning to go, Jack slammed his hip into the bedside table, nearly sending a lamp and an alarm clock to their early deaths. “FUCK-“ Jack’s hands flew to his mouth. “SHIT.” Behind him he could hear Bitty stretch and turn over.

“Whas goin’ on?” Bitty groaned, rubbing the back of his knuckles against his eyes. In Jack’s panic, he tossed the bed sheet over Bitty’s head and sprinted from the room.

“HEY! WHAT THE HOLY HELL WAS THAT FOR!?” But Jack was already half way out of the haus by then.

_X_

“You will not believe the morning I’ve had,” Bitty grumbled, ambling into the kitchen. Lardo sat at the table in a tank top and boxer sipping from a mug of something hot.

“I made coffee,” she said over her shoulder, but Bitty was already pouring himself a mug. Once he was done, he sat down across from Lardo, placing a mostly untouched pecan pie between them and handing her a second fork.

“You didn’t happen to see anyone sprinting from my room around… I don’t know, 6am- did you?”

“6am huh? I didn’t, but Shitty may have mentioned seeing-”

“HOLSTER!” Jack practically flew into the kitchen, sliding on the smooth tile in his socks.

“Oh, mornin’ Jack,” Bitty said pleasantly, “Lardo made coffee if you want any.”

“That would be great!” Jack sounded slightly out of breath and Lardo narrowed her eyes at him.

“Um, actually it was-” Lardo began, but Jack- walking behind Bitty- motioned wildly for her to stop.

“HOLSTER. Definitely Holster,” she said. “I mean… I’m not sure if he was sprinting necessarily, and he could’ve been coming from anywhere…”

“Oh,” Bitty said around a mouthful of pie, “well I think I might talk to him anyway, y’know- just in case.”

“Alright,” Lardo said, spooning some pie into her own mouth.

“I just don’t know why he’d do something like that,” Bitty said. “I mean, if it was him.”

“Why? What happened?” Lardo asked. She focused a sidelong glance at Jack who was now leaning nonchalantly against the countertop.

“I don’t remember much about last night but I remember falling asleep with someone, and then this morning-” Bitty furrowed his brow. “Then this morning they threw a sheet over my head just as I was waking up and ran from the room.”

“And you don’t remember who it was?”

“Not one bit,” Bitty groaned, folding his arms on the table and burrowing his head. “I guess I’ll shoot Holster a text and see if he’s down to grab coffee later. See ya Lardo, Jack.”

The moment Bitty disappeared from the room, Lardo’s expression changed from pleasant coffee companion to death glare in a matter of seconds. Jack smiled at her from where he leaned against the counter, although the fear behind his eyes resembled that of an antelope about to become prey.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” she began in an agreeable tone, “You better sit your ass down and begin explaining before I tear you a new one for whatever the hell you did to that sweet boy.”

“Nothing happened,” Jack said, pulling out a chair. “I carried him to bed, and I guess he didn’t realize it was me, but he said something I probably wasn’t meant to hear.”

“Well, what happened this morning?” Lardo took another bite of pie before handing her fork to Jack.

“He started crying and I didn’t know what to do, so when he asked if I could stay I just…” he trailed off, “and then this morning, I tripped over his nightstand trying to leave the room and threw a bed sheet over his head so he wouldn’t know it was me.”

“Smooth.”

“Thanks.”

“So now he’s on his way to interrogate Holster for attacking him with a bed sheet.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say attacking…” Jack said, running a hand though his hair. “Either way, you should tell him it was you. What did you say he told you last night?”

“Oh… well…” Jack paused, turning his gaze towards a particularly interesting indent in the table, hoping to delay the inevitable for a moment longer. Lardo wasn’t one to snoop. She never had to with him. “He said he was in love with me.”

“Damn.”

“I know.”

“Surprised it took you this long to find out to be honest,” Lardo said, taking a sip of her coffee. “That boy’s so transparent I’m pretty sure the whole team knows. Except you, that is. Until now.”

“You knew?” Jack sounded incredulous. “Why did nobody tell me?”

“Hey Jack, great game, but it’s been brought to my attention that one of our star forwards is head over fucking heels for your French Canadian ass and although it’s been months you’re still as oblivious as ever.”

“Alright fine,” Jack said with a chuckle, “I get it.”

“Good. Now go find him before he finds Holster.”

_X_

By the time Jack made it to Annie’s, Bitty and Holster had already grabbed a table, two frappe-latte-things covered in whipped cream settled between them.

Great, Jack thought, scouring his mind, trying to remember if anyone besides Lardo saw him piggy back Bitty to bed last night. He doesn’t think so, but he’d rather not take his chances.

Dipping into Annie’s, he caught Bitty’s eye almost immediately. Jack smiled, started in their direction, and slid into the space Holster had made for him on his side of the booth.

“Jack, my dude, what’s going on?” Holster said clapping Jack on the back. “Bitty was just telling me about his love lost.”

“Love lost?”

“He means the bed sheet guy from this morning,” Bitty explains, pushing his drink across the table for Jack to take a sip. Normally he’d refuse the literal mountain of sugar in front of him, but he grabbed the straw instinctually and gave it a taste anyway.

“So I guess you weren’t the culprit Lardo and I saw this morning?” Jack asked. He knew he was adding fuel to the flame, but he wasn’t ready to have this conversation in front of his defenseman.

“Not I, good sir,” Holster said. “I spent the rest of the night watching Mulan with Ransom. Only woke up around eight this morning.”

“Huh…” Jack said, standing. “Actually, hold that thought, I think I might grab some tea.”

“Sorry Jacques, I’ve got econ in about…” Holster checked his phone, “shit, ten minutes! Thanks for the talk Bits, see ya Cap!” Holster practically sprinted out of Annie’s, nearly knocking over an elderly couple on his way.

“Forgot how that boy can move,” Jack said, a hint of... perhaps pride in his voice. “Want anything else while I’m up?”

“M’alright” said Bitty.

When Jack re-joined him with a cup of black tea, however, his expression had shifted. “What’s on your mind?” Jack asked.

“I know it’s probably nothing,” Bitty said, “but I can’t stop thinking about the guy from last night. At least I think it was a guy. Could have been Beyonce herself, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.” Jack laughed.

“I find that hard to believe.” Bitty smiled but it barely reached his eyes. After a moment he spoke again.

“Do you think they were ashamed of me? I guess… we didn’t really sleep together. Not like that anyway, but it sorta feels like they didn’t want anyone to know. Why else would they sneak out of the room at such an ungodly hour?”

“Maybe they were scared?” Jack suggested. He was finding it more and more difficult to look Bitty in the eyes. They were too wide, too bright, too good for Jack to fall in love with. He still didn’t believe he deserved anything good.

“Scared of what?” Bitty asked. Jack’s eyes flitted to Bitty’s, if only for a moment.

“I have to tell you something,” Jack said. His heart was racing a thousand miles a minute. He wished he had an anxiolytic, but he’d been doing better recently. Slowly waning himself off of them like his doctor prescribed.

“Okay,” Bitty said, “I’m all ears.”

“Last night you told me you were in love with me,” Jack said. He paused for a moment, letting the words hang between them, heavy in the air. “Um, I- I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Bitty’s expression dropped and Jack found himself scrambling for the right words to make things alright again.

“It’s okay! I just wasn’t expecting it, and you were drunk, and you started crying and- Bitty?” But Bittle was already half way out the door. Jack left his half-finished tea on the table and began running after him.

By the time he caught up, Bitty was wiping tear after tear against his jacket sleeve, walking across the quad with brisk determination.

“Bitty, please slow down,” Jack said, coming up beside him. “Just let me talk to you for a minute.”

Without slowing his pace, Bitty replied. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I don’t know what I expected, but you are under no obligation to feel the same. Now if you’d just-”

“I think I love you too!” Jack blurted. Bitty stopped. A student walking within hearing distance turned to give Jack an encouraging thumbs-up.

“Jack, that’s just cruel,” Bitty’s voice was almost a whisper again.

“I mean it, Bits,” Jack said, taking a step closer. Tears continued to well around Bitty’s eyes, and Jack pulled up his sleeve to wipe them away. Jack had never lied to him before, he had no reason to believe he’d start now. Bitty had angled his face to the side, but when he finally mustered up the courage to look at Jack, he noticed how close the two of them had become. In fact, he could feel Jack’s breath brush the side of his cheek. It smelled like tea and pecan pie. He wondered if it tasted the same.

“Jack?” Bitty said, but Jack’s mouth was already on his, soft but firm, keeping him there as much as the hands that wrapped around his waist. And Bitty melted into his touch, cupping the side of Jack’s face in his hand, breaking apart only to reposition his lips on the stubble along Jack’s jaw. He never wanted this to end.

“I mean it, Bits,” Jack said again, this time into the side of Bitty’s neck.

“I meant it too,” Bitty said. It took him a moment to realize that there were still tears running down his cheeks. Perhaps, now, for a different reason. “I meant it too.”

#omgcp #zimbits #eric bittle #jack zimmermann #omgcheckplease #ficlit #yooooo so I started this ages ago but only finished it now because PROCRASTINATION #anyway I wrote some more so that's pretty chill #turned out longer than i intended but i'm happy with it #please let me know what you think!#my fics

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acelaces · 7 years

Text

the difference between good and well: a Bonnalise fic

My first time posting a Bonnalise fic. This ship needs more appreciation xo

Annalise's eyes blinked open and she groaned slightly when she saw the time. Accidentally falling asleep was one of her least favourite things and these days it happened almost weekly. She assembled her loose thoughts from the new case, files and appointments flashed around her mind’s eye and she made a mental note to make an audio note for Frank about doing some recon that didn't involve chasing student skirt for once. It was a lot of thoughts at once but Annalise liked it that way. Mental silences had a way of letting other things creep in, sinister as cautious feet on floorboards in the darkened corridors of her mind. It amazed her how the sight of blood no longer quickened her breath. Instead the familiar curl of disgust at the corner of her mouth over glossy photos of the dismembered departed. But never anything worse than what awaited her beyond any sleep that wasn't dampened with vodka-drowsiness and tempered with thread count sheets. Those were the nights she'd wake, blankets twisted around herself, serpentine and sucking in air too fast for her own screaming lungs. Silence. The house was silent now but for the creak of beams and the whirring of the fridge, making ice while she slept.

At least something in this house is doing its job.

She got up, popping her back and making her way to the fridge. Cocktail onions. Olives: black and green. Mustard. A container with a post-it note saying it was Wes'. And that his fridge was out of commission. Ordinary enough except that his use of full stops pricked at the back of Annalise's mind.

He's still mad at me.

But he needed to be. To-

She didn't need a mental note to tell her how much fixing she'd need to do. She looked inside. Baked beans, rice and a pathetic excuse for coleslaw. Maybe she could buy him a new fridge, or buy herself one and give him this. Make it look like a coincidence instead of charity. The boy would refuse any handout...the whole thing would have to wait on this case. And there was still the issue of the damn empty fridge.

Those damn kids.

She sent a grocery list to Bonnie and waited for the usually immediate 'Seen.'

When it didn't appear she added 'When you're not busy.' The full stop glared at her and she sighed. She was doing it again. This - thing with Bonnie was new and in all honesty as hard as she was clinging she was just as terrified it would break in her hands. Or she would break it first. She hastily pulled her phone back out

Nevermind, I'll just get everything myself.

It was backtracking, and even worse now that she thought about it a 'don't worry' probably would have been better than a never mind. She was making it worse. She swallowed the sting at the back of her throat. Thinking back to that night. And how she'd faltered in the midst of it all, the drugs, the deceit, feeling more lonely than ever, how she'd faltered mid-reprimand and Bonnie had stumbled over her own hesitation for once. It had been enough to have the warmth of that embrace then, to wake up a part of her that had been laying dormant lately while guilt paced her mental cage. The never-ending need to protect giving way to the feeling of safety. A deep exhale encircled by memories of thin hands that wrung themselves at every furrow of Annalise's brow. It made her want things. Ridiculous-given-the-circumstances things. Stability that wasn't restless on a sharp apex. Mornings of sleeping in, together. God, it all seemed so bitterly, hilariously possible now, and she was screwing this up.

She stepped out into the night and drove at a cruise to the bodega on the main street where the dim fluorescence showed it was near deserted. She couldn't help the glance in the rear-view mirror nor the annoyance that rose meeting her own stare, sleep-lined face and hair disheveled. But a bodega was perfect, and she'd never have a repeat of running into a DA official with a smug bug-eyed stare at her 3AM hangover run, her skewed silk bonnet and slippers. She couldn't forget the twinge of embarrassment at his stupid smirk, how no amount of cold courtroom courtesy could wipe it off. Then turning down the aisle she did forgot to look where she was going.

“Annalise! I- sorry, I didn't look where I was going...I got your message I was um-”

It was Bonnie. So she’d more than gotten her message. But where Annalise expected to feel her spite quenched she felt empty and raw seeing her there, blonde hair unkempt as straw. Her kitten heels replaced with canvas shoes, car shoes. So she ran here. She was muttering apologies and wringing her hands. And before Annalise could stop herself she was holding her in the frozen food section. She felt a sigh over her shoulder and Bonnie’s cheek pressed closer to her neck though she didn’t make any other movement. A sudden coldness finally parted them, the pint of mint chocolate still in Annalise’s hand. With a lopsided smile that pretended it wasn’t, Bonnie took it from her with a hand that lingered too long and dropped it in the basket.

There was the baby, and then there wasn't. And after that Annalise didn't feel like doing much. She couldn't stop thinking about Rose, and Rose's baby, and Rose's blood on her hands. But she could drink again, so she did. Could drown her thoughts, dredge them up whenever she needed evidence she was bad, all the way through. Confirming the suspicion growing inside of her since infancy. And she could win her cases, so she did. She learned it was easier, so easy to do whatever it took when you were bad, all the way through, so easy to win when you had already lost everything.

Annalise didn't leave her house much. Always working, pacing in the evening between office and library. No book or file was dusty. Everything in the Keating house shone with care. Cherry floorboards and a table made for candlelit dinners. Annalise's skin shone with care, with back massages from her husband who always had soft words and sometimes screwed his students, sometimes massaged them too and washed his hands. Annalise's hair shone because Annalise learned that being taken seriously sometimes meant erasing every trace of Anna Mae, of baby hairs and softness. She'd learned that when an attorney had called her ghetto during a recess. Annalise's eyes never shone.

Some of Annalise's students eyes shone when they walked in, and then they didn't. Around exam time especially. That was when Sam would have more students come to him for therapy (Sam would still also make some of the students come). After the baby that wasn't, Sam stopped working for a week. He stopped talking to his wife's belly, and to his wife. He forgot to tell one student he cancelled, a student whose eyes shone well past the bar exam results. Her eyes shone, specifically, for Annalise.

In class Bonnie paid the most attention. Annalise had only ever called on her three times. The first time she had been wrong, had referrenced a case without having studied it in its entirety, and Annalise had described the hypothetical butterfly effect of that error, had followed it to a disastrous court conclusion that ended with Bonnie in jail. Her detail was frightening, impressive. And as she advanced towards Bonnie's desk, the girl noticed her gaze was too. And she imagined that being pinned by that gaze, grazed by those teeth. And she had missed something else and been wrong again. The third time she had prepared, hadn't slept, suffocated herself in boxes and boxes of files. She had gotten it right, and seen the glorious upward quirk of Annalise's mouth. Had felt it through her like a shiver. Had imagined those lips on the nape of her neck in the morning, smiling through mumbled bickering, lazily claiming what was already hers. Bonnie kept her smiles hidden. Didn't it feel so much better to have smiles to hide at all?

Bonnie came to the house for her last session with Sam when she heard them arguing, she'd let herself in and heard Sam say some ugly things to Annalise, unawares of her standing a doorway away, half-hidden, the other half apparently invisible. He said things that sounded like echoes of the dirty secrets Annalise might have scraped into herself, might have shown to his eye and hidden away again. He repeated unrepeatable confessions, where his mouth was the soothing words had all rubbed away and now was only a hole for darts. And Annalise's skin that was soft from his hands shone with fresh tears. Sam drove away and Bonnie stepped out from the shadows and found herself around Annalise, who was shaking, then straightening up, then suddenly asking if she needed work or a referral.

"You're a smart girl, Bonnie, and you like a challenge. Don't become one of the losers over in Copyright cause I don't want to find out you hung yourself over legacy misappropriation."

Bonnie laughed despite herself, acutely aware of the parts of her that were still touching Annalise as they sat on the stairs (how strange to see Annalise sit anywhere this close to a floor). Her left knee and her right. Their shoulders.

"I could always use someone on my team, the sooner the better." Annalise let the words hang in the air casually, but Bonnie paid attention, she sensed the uncertainty. Somehow it made her braver.

"When can I start?" and Annalise smiled.

Sam came back home less and less, and talked less. They didn't look each other in the eye. 800-thread count Egyptian cotton felt better than her husband's skin, his nails, as it turned out. And there was always vodka, and the drawer in her desk where it lived. Normally Annalise hated silence, but this type, the type that crept around the floorboards at night, and made the house feel like it was contracting in on her. Annalise had woken up on nights like this as a girl, had rushed outside and lain under the trees out back, feeling oddly safe listening to the crickets, the rustling through the twisting branches above incessant, and higher, the protective circle of the moon.

The silence pulled down, dripped between the floorboards of baby's room into basement, was too much without the steady trickle of alcohol and the soundtrack of her inner monologue. Her own twisted sense of humour making her chuckle instead of want to vomit. In the lull between cases life hovered between sleepless dream and dreamless sleep.

Then one day she woke up to a soft knocking of fingers on wood. A slow blink and she saw hesitant fingers shifting a rocks glass from where it sat dangerously close to the edge of her desk, another slow blink and she forced herself to sit up. The pressure on her temples was immediate.

"How are you doing?" said Bonnie, resting a hand near Annalise's shoulder on the back of the chair as if she were approaching an open flame, near, but not near enough.

Annalise noticed the same way Bonnie didn't notice the way she leaned towards the almost-touch. Normally Annalise would have snapped at a question like that, prompted Bonnie to say what she really meant; "Why are you passed out on your desk? Why aren't you preparing to teach your class? Why are you drinking so much when your problems are too big to be swallowed?" Annalise tried to fix Bonnie with a look but was met with eyes so sincerely concerned it stunned her before she flinched again at another streak of pain across her forehead.

"Water." she managed to croak out the singular word, yet she swore Bonnie had already turned on her heel and darted towards the kitchen and returned before she'd finished saying it.

"Here. I found these too, for your...headache." She had almost said hangover and glanced down at a spot on the rug where Annalise had spilled some tonic.

"What time is it?"

"3:30 in the afternoon. You weren't in your office on campus and I was just going to check with you about the slides."

Annalise groaned, remembering her course coordinator's insistence that she adapt to more modern multimedia teaching methods, incorporating more powerpoints and infuriating interfaces that froze unpredictably, and that little ball in the mouse that always needed cleaning. Why did that thing need to exist???

Bonnie must have thought the groaning was pain-related and she stepped closer opening her fists as if she wanted to do something but couldn't.

"Um, if you're not feeling up to it I could notify-"

"Please, so they could write me off as another woman not up to the job? I'd rather get crucified in court than in front of these jokers." At that Bonnie smiled, something lighting up her expression that might have been pride. Annalise felt the strangest blip of pleasure at having caused it, then she flinched again at a sudden wave of migraine returned.

"You should lie down-" blurted Bonnie before collecting herself,

"I mean, if you want to."

Annalise must have glanced at her watch for a fraction of a second but Bonnie was already at her side, "Just for a minute, I could- help you relax?"

A memory from months before surfaced in the silence.

"Actually, that would be...nice."

And Annalise was laying on the couch like before, arm draped over her eyes to shield the light. For a moment Bonnie paused like she didn't know where to move, but Annalise pretended she didn't notice and let Bonnie decide to draw up a chair. After that she maneuvered a pillow and guided Annalise so she was on her side, then she paused again and Annalise entertained the idea she was being admired, her face warmed at the thought of her secretary considering the curve of her spine. She was going to have to ease up on Frank if she went on like this. At least this way, her face was hidden in the half-shadow of the angle of the couch. She felt cool hands on her shoulders, the touch tentative at first, but then she felt herself relax against the rhythm, the constant push and tug of thumbs untwisting a knot she hadn't known was there. A small moan escaped her parted lips like a breath, but she was sure Bonnie didn't notice.

A pause, then suddenly a touch to her temples, then braver, softer circles there suddenly bringing a waterfall of relief to her fevered brain. Annalise felt her eyelids drifting shut, her mind afloat in thoughts of warm hands and warm smiles...Bonnie smelled like vanilla, not the cheap car scent kind Annalise hated, the nice kind, that made you think of familiar scents of a kitchen and waiting for cookies to cool. She let her eyes fall shut before opening them again with a start,

"Mmfph...thanks for that Bonnie. I should get ready and you should get back to Ben. Tell him to send a different I.T technician, someone less...condescending. I'm expecting a fax in twenty minutes and they need a reply so tell Frank." she'd gotten up and busied herself stacking some papers together, and brushed past Bonnie into the hallway before pausing at the door. "And thanks."

Her secretary's bewildered expression turned into a small smile, "You already said that." Annalise felt her face warm again. "I'm um...really glad I could help."

The next time Bonnie and Frank had been driving all over time collecting pieces of a case only for it to fall apart after new developments at the D.A's office. They could feel the frazzled energy coming off of Annalise from as far as the porch door so they had both been eager to go out for some drinks before returning to face the next day's case which was guaranteed to be punishing.

Frank soon found distraction in another undergrad, this one a white girl fumbling her way through explaining each of her 'ancient Chinese' tattoos, and Bonnie soon got lost in the bottom of her glass, worrying about Annalise, alone in that house right now. Wondering if she was lonely, if she ever got lonely. A familiar feeling of guilt clenched at her for leaving at a time like this. Maybe she couldn't be much help with the case but she could be there. She was barely aware of getting up and leaving, barely aware of Frank asking her what was up while tattoo girl teased him up against a counter, barely aware of the rain that was spattering the windows on her way to Annalise.

Annalise wasn't as bad as she'd imagined, she was worse. Passed out and lolling off the edge of the couch, a bottle of vodka and some broken glass near her head. Thunder rolled and Annalise mumbled something, furrowed her brow and rolled over. Bonnie felt something within her break, and she was on her knees.

"Annalise" and she frowned in sleep before opening her eyes "Whatimeisit" she asked. She asked Bonnie for the time constantly. Bonnie had checked the time more often in the past few months than in her whole life. Bonnie didn't mind, because it gave her something to say and sometimes she would hold her watch out for Annalise to see, then her boss would hold her wrist for a better angle, peer at it and then get back to work.

It was 2:33 am when Bonnie finally got Annalise upstairs ('all these damn stairs' as Annalise eloquently put it) and into bed. These was another trip down and up again for a glass of water, which Annalise drained, a small frown creasing her features, though she was grateful. Bonnie turned and heard her sigh as she settled into her pillow. She lingered in the doorway, noting the smallness of Annalise in that empty bed, her natural hair exposed without the usual silk wrap, draped in her crimson robe and expensive sheets.

Bonnie was aware she was stalling, after having the weight of Annalise against her on those crowded stairs the distance between them now felt wide, and it was widening. She turned out the lights so the only spots remaining where the red pinpricks of light from the clock and where the moonlight played over Annalise's forehead, now relaxed, her eyelids, her mouth.

"Stay" she mumbled, or Bonnie could have imagined that. "Stay with me." the words were firmer, and she felt Annalise's eyes on her in the dark, heard her move and lift the covers, making a space that pulled Bonnie to her as if the room was suddenly airless. Bonnie remained breathless, counting the seconds and staring straight ahead. Then Annalise, with an impatient sound like sucking teeth linked two arms around her and pulled them flush against each other. Hyperaware of the places where they were touching and oddly cold everywhere else.

It was Annalise's breathing that smoothed over where Bonnie's neck met the tension of her shoulder. It was Annalise's body around her in Annalise's bed with the scent of leather...from her briefcase and book binding...lavender from the shower...shea butter from her morning ritual...Annalise's body that anyone could mistake for being well loved but which clung to Bonnie's own shower-blistered back like a lifeline, the cool fingertips oddly warming her wherever they trailed.

Soon the fingers slowed in their movements and Annalise drifted off. Funny how Bonnie could tell without looking at her, could feel her mind slow its constant calculations. How easy would it be to close her own eyes and give herself to sleep, to Annalise's embrace, to this feeling that was a little bit like a pleasurable panic.

But Bonnie knew this was good, so good, and therefore too good to last. There was work to do and...besides, Annalise wouldn't mention this in the morning. There wouldn't be breakfast or tangled limbs or smiling through forehead kisses. She would wake up to the sounds of showering and she'd sneak out of the room to spare her boss some awkwardness. Perhaps that was always the problem; she knew her too well.

#my fanfiction #Bonnalise #Annalise Keating #Bonnie Winterbottom #femslashrevolution #long post #maybe the first of many if I get good feedback #hint hint #alcohol mention #miscarriage mention #angst and comfort mostly

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lalorrunningclub · 5 years

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Maroondah Dam Race Recap by Matthew Coughlin

While being well aware that I am a very inexperienced trail runner, after completing the much lauded Two Bays trail run inside the cut off time I thought that it might be time to up the ante a little so I decided to enter the TrailsPlus event out at Maroondah Dam. I picked the 30K distance as it was only an extra 2km and certainly didn't seem to garner perilous reputation that Two Bays does so how hard could it possibly be?

With the help of a friend and mentor we created a training plan that took me up to and past this event and I was also able to rely on another great friend to help me with training, which at times when doing it on your own just doesn't seem to get the results and can also seem much more of a chore when you don't share the pain with someone else.

I was up nice and early and left with plenty of time up my sleeve to negotiate all the wildlife that I was likely to encounter on the way and wasn't more than 3 minutes into the trip when I had the first kangaroo cross the road in front of me. Once I got out to Healesville conditions were perfect for the event, it was about 10' with a light mist in the air and not a breath of wind.

I was there early enough to see some friends, the real crazies, set off on their 42k and 50k events. Then I picked up my bib and headed back to the car to get ready. Getting ready consisted of spending 10 minutes attaching my bib with my swanky LRC bib clips. You'd think that after a year of using them I'd be somewhat more adept at getting them to work but I got there in the end.

I headed back to the marshalling area for the pre-race briefing and was mildly alarmed to hear the race organiser telling us that while we might expect the climbing to be the hardest part of this event he however found that the descents were tougher. Wait! What? That's not what I signed up for! I was happy enough to train to get up the hills based on the proviso that I could then run down them like a madman. Well surely it couldn't be that bad coming down the hills, I bet he is just exaggerating, it will be fine coming down the hills.

2 minutes until race time and my body decides that is the perfect time to go to the toilet. So my warm up consisted of a short sprint to the toilet and then rushing back over the start finish line past the crew lining up at the front of the pack and having just enough time to turn around, hit the button on my borrowed Garmin, that's another story, and commence my run.

In order to get to the 30k distance you do a few short loops at the start of the event and cross the start finish line a few times, on my last time through before setting off up the hill I heard of a few "Go Matt's" and looked across to see the smiling faces of Paul and Chloe Radovic and then to my left I saw Claire McGregor lining me up for a photo.

I would like to say that it was at this point as I headed off and got into some sort of groove that my plan kicked into action but, there was no real plan. As far as I had considered everything the plan was, get to the top of the hill then get back down. Maybe because of, or in spite of this I was feeling great. The first 5k-7k was predominately runnable and the trail was relatively smooth and surrounded by a towering forest of gum trees so that probably helped to lull me into a false sense of security. It was from about 7k onwards that the real climb began.

There were 4 of us within about a 60 metre stretch of trail and while you are trying to do your own thing you are also acutely aware that you always want to be able to see the person in front of you getting closer and you don't want the breathing of the person behind you to be getting any louder. As we hit steeper inclines and we were all hiking I felt good and the legs felt strong and it seemed as though I was gaining ground on those ahead of me, ever so slightly and old mate behind me seemed to be dropping off a little. This pattern continued for the next 7 or 8k.

As we got higher the forest changed and so did the weather. The understory was dominated by both small ferns as well as 4 metre tall tree ferns and was a sea of green compared to the lower part of the course and the drizzle had really set in. As I looked up the hill/mountain to see how I was tracking in relation to my comrades I noticed that a thick mist had either descended or we had climbed into it. There was an aid station at about the 13k mark where I grabbed a couple of snakes and kept moving. I caught up to the guy who had been in front of me the past hour and said, "Well it's only 2k to the turn around." To which he replied, "It's more like 4 because of those little loops we did at the beginning." That and the fact that when I looked up, due to the steepness of the slope I couldn't see the top of the hill anymore was my, "What have I done!" moment. 37 minutes and 2k later I finally got to the top of Mt St Leonard. You go over the top after climbing all that way and have a steep downhill plus 1k to the turn around point. Halfway down the hill I saw a friend Kat who told me that it wasn't far to the turnaround, which was a great relief because during an event peoples ideas of "Not very far" can mean wildly different things so it was good to hear it from someone I trusted.

I got to the aid station, they asked me what I wanted, I said a taxi, we all laughed like that was the first time they had heard that today, I got some water and left. On my way back to the bottom of the hill I'd just come down a few people were heading towards the aid station and I let them know that it wasn't far, which they probably didn't believe. While my legs were aching going back up this hill my mind was thinking, this is it, last one, then it's all down hill, sort of, but yeah, mostly all down hill. I caught up to a guy who didn't look like he was loving the hill, as I went past he looked at me and just said, "This is awful!" He was right. It was hard, relentless and almost an insult to injury type of thing after getting the brief reprieve of the short downhill but as I kept telling myself, this is the last uphill. It also helped a little that I had prepared mentally for it to be awful. I'd scribbled on my forearm at the start of the day "I W H" for "It Will Hurt" and it did but it wasn't unexpected which helped me every time I looked up and saw how far I had to go. I also had Miss 6 draw a heart on my wrist the night before to remind me of all the love and support I was lucky to receive from everyone who makes these types of follies possible.

And then I'd done it. I had no more hills to climb and had the joy of about 14k of downhill ahead of me. I took the opportunity to take my shoes off and empty out all the pebbles, had something to eat quickly and then began heading downhill. While there is a very good chance that I would have struggled anyway the constant drizzle for the whole morning had made the downhills somewhat treacherous so my thoughts of 14k of fun quickly dissipated and I just started concentrating on getting down in one piece. If it wasn't the mud it was the leaf litter and if it wasn't that it was the loose stones and if it wasn't them it was branches across the trail. Between the top and the next aid station there were a few short stretches where you could let gravity do the work and let the legs go but for the most part of that 3k leg it was pretty much trying not to fall down and keep the brakes on. Thankfully after that it opened up a little and despite the fact that after 20k of up and now down my legs were still not complaining too much.

The last 10k were relatively uneventful, it was a case of just keep moving forward because if you stop you might struggle to get going again. With not long to go I passed a very kind gentleman who was obviously late for his appointment at Specsavers because he said "Looking good!" I got to the finish, remembered to stop the watch, got my medal saw that there was a food truck selling pizza, went straight to my car and got my wallet and ordered a pizza stretched a little while I waited for the pizza and then sat and ate and contemplated my morning, early afternoon.

Trail events are very different to "road events". They are generally cheaper, smaller, more convivial, extremely well run, much more focused on the experience than the amount of time it takes you to complete it and they are held in amazing, natural venues usually less than 90 minutes drive from the centre of Melbourne. Definitely worth having a look if you are even only slightly interested.

Oh and just for comparison the 28k at Two Bays has an overall elevation about 680m and 30k Maroondah Dam is a tick over 1200m.

#lalorrunningclub #lrc

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chasesthelight · 8 years

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crawl out through the fallout [1/5]

[AO3] [Fallout: New Vegas AU, 4,431 words, slow build Dirk/Todd]

“Dude, that’s not how it works.”

“What do you mean?” His smile drops off slightly and his eyebrows furrow together.

“Your case is me, right? I can’t help you solve my own murder. That’s just not how it works.”

PART 1: AIN’T THAT A KICK IN THE HEAD?

The air is warm and surprisingly still. The last bits of colour have long since drained from the sky, leaving only a dark blue void above. It’s an evening in late October, and five men are standing in a graveyard. As morbid as it sounds, this marks the end of a journey, a long journey spanning almost the entire west coast, a lot of money, and a lot of dead people along the way. It was the end of this quest, but also the beginning of something greater. It’s a evening in late October and five men gather in a graveyard not to pay their respects, but to bury a man. To them, it was the end of an era and to their credit, it was. What happened that night would change everything, but fate deals the cards as she chooses. What happened that night would change everything, but not necessarily in the way they intended.

“You got what you were after, so pay up.”

“You're crying in the rain, pally.”

The first thing Todd notices when he wakes up is the god awful ache in his neck. The second thing Todd notices when he wakes up is that his hands are bound. His immediate reaction is to start yelling, but he realises someone’s taped duct tape over his mouth while he was unconscious. Any cries for help fizzle out before they can ever leave his mouth. Even with blurry vision, he can make out three figures standing in front of him. Two of them are in typical raider gear, but the guy in the middle is wearing a fur coat. Really he used the term ‘fur coat’ loosely as it was so big the guy looked like he might get swallowed up in a sea of white fur. There was a lit cigarette between his fingers, and he was furiously whispering to one of the goons. None of them have noticed that he’s woken up yet. Todd kept tugging on the rope restraints on his wrists, trying to see if there was any give to them, if he could break them or slip out of them.

“Guess who's waking up over here?”

He tenses up almost immediately, his next breath lodging somewhere in his throat. He slowly looks up at the three men, trying to make his movements as small as possible. The man in the fur coat took a hit from the cigarette before dropping it into the dirt, extinguishing the embers with the sole of his shoe. “Time to cash out.”

Todd thinks it was somewhere around that moment that he realized the gravity of the situation he was in. Most likely because this was when his brain started yelling at him Oh my god you’re gonna die, these guys are gonna kill you, you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die. He kept struggling with the restraints, this time with intensifying urgency.

“Would you get it over with?”

“Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?”

The man in the fur coat takes a step closer to Todd who freezes again. The two make eye contact and the man slips a hand into his coat. He pulls out a poker chip, painted an unusual platinum colour. It glints softly, illuminating the embossed details of a roulette wheel on the face of the chip. Shit, he has the platinum chip. Todd makes a desperate attempt to try and grab it despite the aforementioned bound hands but his legs are too weak and refuse to move when he asks them to. All he manages to do is just kick up dust, irritating the back of his nose. Just great, Todd. You’ve already been kidnapped, tied up, got the sole item you were meant to deliver stolen and now face certain death, and now also you can’t sneeze because you’ve got duct tape over your mouth you goddamn idiot.

“You've made your last delivery kid.” The man in the fur coat has an accent that Todd can’t place on anywhere that he’s been before. He’s certainly not from around this part of the wasteland, maybe from the east coast. He places the platinum chip back into his coat (Todd contines to kick himself mentally for losing it) but his hand stays there, searching for something else. Please don’t be a gun please don’t be a gun please don’t be a gun.

“Sorry you got twisted up in this scene.” He draws a 9mm pistol out from the coat, metal gleaming in the lantern light. Shit. Of course he has a gun, his brain continues to berate him, how else did you think they were gonna kill you? Despite that the man in the fur coat was apologizing, there wasn’t a hint of sincerity. He sounded more like he was apologizing to a sick animal before he put it out of its misery. The two raider goons seem to shift around when he pulled out the gun, whether due to anticipation or uneasiness, Todd wasn’t sure. He tries one last attempt to get out of the restraints and make a run for it but to no avail. It appeared that the universe wasn’t going to let him get out of this one.

He was always aware that he was gonna die. Not in the way that he consciously knew his own mortality and that everyone dies at some point. Todd knew that his death would go something along the lines of this. He was never gonna die just of old age, having lived a complete and fulfilled life. He would bleed out after losing an arm or a leg in a fight with a deathclaw, he would mouth off to a Legion soldier or NCR ranger at the wrong time, he would step too close to a trip mine he never saw on the road. He would have his delivery stolen, his job ruined, and his corpse left in a shallow grave. Despite the fact he had no control over his own inevitable demise, he hoped that the final moments of his life would be memorable. Rewarding, even. He glanced up, past the man and his raider goons, out towards the horizon. He could make out a cluster of neon lights in the distance, a halo of light pollution against the night sky. The New Vegas Strip glowing in all its glory, an eternal testament of a world saved from nuclear fire. He had never visited the Strip, but the sight of it filled him with a warm glowing nostalgia. The knowledge that it had lasted this long and continued to last, even if he wasn’t, was oddly comforting in this turn of disconcerting events. Todd thought of his sister, and hoped that she would forgive him for this.

The man in the fur coat points the pistol at him, aiming directly for Todd’s forehead.

“Truth is… the game was rigged from the start.”

The next thing he remembers is light, white light. His ears are ringing, the reverb echoing back and forth. He’s not really sure of much aside from that there’s something solid underneath him. He blinks once, blinks again, but his eyes won’t focus on anything. Light just keeps pouring in with no form or shape and it hurts like this is the first time he’s opened his eyes. He closes his eyes, trying to shake off the ringing. When his vision finally manages to clear, he’s staring up at a dingy ceiling with a fan softly whirring. Now that the blurriness and the buzzing was gone, he becomes acutely aware of the excruciating headache right at the front of his head. Kind of felt like he had been shot in the head. Hang on…

“Well, you’re awake. How about that.”

Todd turns around, trying to find the source of the voice, but in doing so his vision just blurs again and the headache flares up. A hand grabs his shoulder, centers him upright. The world aligns itself again to reveal a man sitting in a rickety chair in front of him. His hair is white and balding, the creases in his features a testament to the number of years he’s seen. Todd thinks of his parents, how close they might be in age to this man. The thought strikes a solitary chord in his chest, a old feeling he buried so long ago he’s forgotten the name of it. He decides to ignore it for now and focus on the physical, the mattress creaking under his weight, the scratchy dryness in the back of his throat.

“Woah, easy there kid. You’ve been out cold a couple of days now. Just focus on getting your bearings.”

The room they’re in is a decent size but relatively empty. The cot that Todd is sitting on is shoved up in the very corner, right next to a dusty window filtering in sunlight. Behind the old man, he can see a surgical table with some tools left on it. He can only assume that he was lying on that table recently, walking the thin line between life and whatever comes next.

“Let’s see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name?”

The question startled him from his thoughts, so much that it took a few seconds of panic for him to remember. “It’s, uh, Todd. Todd Brotzman.”

“Huh. Can’t say that’s what I would have picked for you. But if that’s your name, that’s your name.” The old man leans back in his chair. “I’m Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings.”

Goodsprings. Todd was familiar with the name, a small town just north of the Mojave Express head office. He had visited it a few times before on small deliveries but never stuck around for long. At least whoever those guys were who shot him didn’t dump him in the middle of nowhere.

“Now I hope you don’t mind, but I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out. I take pride in my needlework, but you’d better tell me if I left anything out of place.” Doc Mitchell reaches under his chair and grabs a small hand mirror, passing it over to Todd. He had been mentally preparing for his bit, but in all honesty he didn’t know what to expect when he saw his reflection. His hair, previously unruly and curled at the ends, has been hacked back severely so that he can see the damage in full unobscured view. Just off the center of his forehead, two small puckered round wounds. Small ridges indicate there was a couple stitches there but the skin was still inflamed, an angry raw pink colour. No matter what he could tell himself, Todd can’t deny how obvious they are, or the bile rising in his throat. Bullet wounds never healed, not really. He would always have these two scars on his forehead, a testament to what had happened that night. It would never be let down, that Todd Brotzman took two bullets to the head and lived. It seemed that he was tougher to kill than he thought.

He silently passes the mirror back to Mitchell. He doesn’t mention the wounds or where his hair went or how tired he looked. Mitchell seemed to pick up on the uneasiness, mumbling an offhanded comment about getting stuff that mattered right as he stood up from his chair.

“Okay. No sense in keeping you in bed anymore. Let’s see if we can get you on your feet.” Just as Todd was about to sink back in the mattress, Mitchell reached out to grab both of his hands. Todd let out a heavy breath but slowly pulled himself up off the cot onto his feet. His knees started to buckle and legs almost gave out when he loosened his grip on Mitchell, slipping forward quickly and uneasily but he stopped himself before he met the floor. Apparently in the handful of days he was bedridden, he had forgotten how to use his legs. Although that’s probably just a result of the bullets to the brain. He feels like his head’s been scrambled, put through a blender on the highest speed possible. He focuses on getting his balance and tenatively takes a step forward. He takes another, and another, until he’s no longer holding on to Mitchell and his legs aren’t completely numb. He stretches his arms out above his head, hearing his back pop. The mattress certainly wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing he’s ever slept on, but it wasn’t the nicest ever. Todd turns his head around to notice a folded set of clothes on the edge of the mattress, and his worn out leather boots sitting neatly by the foot of the cot.

“Those clothes are for you, so the locals don’t get annoyed at you for lacking modesty. Figured they were about your size too. Feel free to get dressed, then come find me, I’ll see you out.” Doc Mitchell walks out of the room, leaving Todd on his own. He quickly looks through the clothes he was given; just a thin flannel shirt and dark slacks. They were practically a perfect fit for him, oddly enough. Mitchell had mentioned he guessed the size but Todd could have mistaken these for his own clothes if they weren’t such good condition. He chalks it up to a coincidence, quickly shoves on his shoes, and wanders out of the room into a hallway. Mitchell was standing at the left end of the hallway in front of the door, carrying something in his hands. “Here. These are yours. Was all you had on you when you were brought in.” As Todd approaches him, Doc Mitchell holds out a knapsack made from worn canvas and a cowboy hat. Ah, he hadn’t lost his hat. That was nice. He was rather attached to his hat. He takes both the knapsack and the hat and immediately puts the hat on, tilting down slightly to cover the wounds on his forehead. He quickly scans through the sack’s contents; a handful of bottle caps in a plastic bag, a couple of stimpaks, a revolver, some ammo and a note. Todd checks the chamber of the revolver (empty) before pocketing it with some of the ammo and putting on the knapsack. “I hope you don’t mind but I gave the note a look. Thought it might help me find a next of kin, but it was just something about a platinum chip.”

Todd freezes up. The platinum chip. Whoever those guys were, they had stolen the platinum chip off him, the platinum chip he was meant to deliver to the Strip. He would have gotten 250 caps, one of the biggest payments he would have received in months. 250 caps was enough to repair his decaying revolver or get enough food to last him for a month. Decent food as well, not just brahmin meat that tasted like leather when cooked. Shit, he could even have bought good alcohol. Instead, here he was. No money, no delivery, nowhere to go.

“Well, if you’re headed back out there, you ought to have this.” Mitchell picked up some kind of metal gauntlet contraption off the shelf next to them, holding it out towards him. “They call it a Pip-Boy. I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war. We all got one. Ain’t much use to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you’ve been through. I know what it’s like, having something taken from you.” A pang of guilt shoots through Todd from the sheer sincerity in Mitchell’s tone. He had never met the man before, but Mitchell was still helping him, giving him clothes and a goddamn Pip-Boy as if saving his life wasn’t enough. The Pip-Boy was much lighter than he anticipated and fit snugly onto his forearm. The display glows dimly, struggling to life after years of disuse.

“I reckon some of the fellas at the saloon might be able to help you out. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta your grave.”

Todd clears his throat, struggling to convey his thoughts while staring at the Pip-Boy on his arm. “Thanks, Doc. You know, for patching me up, and all the extra stuff. You really didn’t have to do all this so uh, thanks, really.”

Doc Mitchell gives him a half smile. “It’s what I’m here for. Anyway, if you ever get hurt out there, you come right back. I’ll fix you up. But try not to get killed anymore.”

Todd smiles for a split second at the quip. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he mumbles under his breath before he pushes the door open and steps outside.

It’s immediately bright, brighter than he was expecting, and his eyes take a few seconds to adjust. Goodsprings is just as tiny and quiet as he remembers it. A couple of run down houses, the general store and saloon in the middle, surrounded by hills on all sides. Just a sleepy town where nothing unusual ever happened.

He had taken a few steps down off the veranda when he realised his major problem. He didn’t know what to do now. He wasn’t really expecting to still be alive after what happened that night and he had very little leads on where to go from here. Mitchell had mentioned checking the saloon and a robot who apparently pulled him out of his grave (he was trying to ignore that one for now), but Todd still had other questions. He didn’t even know why the platinum chip was so important, why those guys were after it, why they were perfectly willing to kill him for it. His employers certainly hadn’t mentioned that it was important or anything, it was supposed to be just another ordinary delivery. Certainly no mentions of impending death. He had joked about it before, but Todd had never actually thought one of his jobs would get him killed.

His feet start to move of their own accord across the town center, past the general store and saloon and paddocks of roaming bighorners. He vaguely knew the path he was taking, straight up a small hill with a barbed wire fence surrounding the summit. If he wasn’t already sweating under the morning Mojave sun, he was by the time he reached the top. Stuck to the fence was a rusted sign with peeling paint that had clearly seen better days. Goodsprings Cemetary, circa 1890.

He wasn’t sure what specifically had brought him here, to the place where he had died. He was currently standing in front of his grave, the shallow hole they dug out before executing him. The events from that night kept playing in his head, the same 2 minutes on repeat over and over always ending in the same words. The game was rigged from the start.

Todd didn’t believe in fate, not really. Fate, in any case, usually came from the barrel of a gun. Still he felt like there was some reason he had been brought back here, as if the universe was trying to tell him something. He didn’t believe in fate, but it seemed that there were bigger things planned for him still. And yet, as he stood there by his grave, for a second he felt like climbing back in.

It was the light tap on his shoulder that scares him out of his thoughts. He wildly spins around, swinging his arm in case it finds purchase on anything. It did collide with something but before he can figure out what it is, he’s stumbled backwards and fallen into the hole also known as his grave. The impact knocks all the air from his lungs and sends him into a coughing fit. The sun ends up right in his eyes and momentarily blinds him. Todd tries to get back up on his feet, acutely aware that someone else was coughing too.

“What the hell, man?”

There was a man standing in front of him. Tall and lanky, neat hair, currently cradling the side of his face (presumbly where Todd had hit him). He was wearing a blue Vault-issued jumpsuit, although the top half was unbuttoned and tied around his waist. Instead, he also had an a dress shirt, patterned tie, and a leather jacket in an obnoxious shade of mustard yellow. He was staring at Todd with a degree of hurt behind his bright blue eyes. Everything about him was peculiar.

“What, no, you what the hell? Were you spying on me?”

“I wasn’t spying on you.”

“Then why are you up here?”

“Why are you up here?”

The other man visibly stiffens up, and Todd folds his arms across his chest, giving a pointed look.

“I’m… investigating. Investigating a very top secret and serious case.”

Todd raises an eyebrow. He recognizes this guy is trying to bluff his way out of the situation and doing a terrible job.

“A case, huh?” He muses, stepping up out of the grave. “So what are you, like a detective of some kind?”

“A holistic detective, actually.” The man says, smiling. His accent is strange, nothing like Todd’s ever heard before. He wondered if it had something to do with the Vault jumpsuit he was wearing. “However, I’m not the important one in this situation.” He walks over to Todd so they’re toe to toe, making Todd consciously aware of how much shorter he is compared to this guy.

“Uh, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out what role you play in this story.” He’s studying Todd’s face with a unsettling intensity. “Have you seen anything strange lately, or been at the center of any strange events? Like you knew exactly where your life was going until suddenly it’s been thrown completely off course?”

“Uh…” Todd is lowkey beginning to panic at this point, cautiously trying to take a step back in case he needs to make a run for it. Thankfully, the man has seemingly found his answer and moves out of his personal space.

“Like I said before, I’m a detective. I’m on a case.” He’s smiling again, almost beaming. “A couple days ago, there was a murder here. In the middle of the night. The body was found in the morning with no evidence of the killers.”

Oh god. Of course. Of course, of course, of course this guy is investigating the murder, his murder. Todd has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from blurting out something dumb and regretting it.

“And now you’re here, alone, at the scene of the crime. See, it’s all very suspicious. But you are definitely involved in this, I know it.” His face lights up and he gasps, like he’s had an epiphany. “Perhaps you were the one who found the body. Do you know where the body is?”

Todd lets out a heavy sigh and nudges up the brim of his hat, revealing the two wounds on his forehead. The expression on the man’s face morphs from a smug delight to slowly dawning realisation over a couple of seconds.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They’re both silent.

“Hang on, if you’re… if you got.... then shouldn’t you be….”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

Todd sighs again. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

Silence again. “So how are you, you know… not dead?”

“Apparently a robot dug me out of my grave and the town doctor patched me up.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” The man sounds rather meek, trying to verbally tiptoe around the topic. Todd looks down at his feet, kicking the dirt around into the air.

“Look, don’t apologize, okay. It’s not your fault that this happened. I was just up here, I’m not even really sure why. It just felt right, like the universe was telling me to.” When he looks up again, the man is standing next to him, in the middle of wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He gives Todd a faint smile.

“Well, good news, I figured out what your role is.”

“What?”

The man jumps around in front of him, smile even wider. “You are officially my assistant.”

It takes a couple seconds for Todd to process this, but when he does it elicits a tch noise from him. “Dude, that’s not how it works.”

“What do you mean?” His smile drops off slightly and his eyebrows furrow together.

“Your case is me, right? I can’t help you solve my own murder. That’s just not how it works.”

“True. However, you are still alive. Therefore, you are a perfectly viable candidate for assistant. As well as the only candidate.”

Todd shakes his head, toeing the dirt. A lot of weird shit had happened the last few days but this guy, he was easily the weirdest thing.

“Still, that’s not the point.” The man steps in closer to Todd, just barely, but enough for Todd’s breath to get caught in his throat. “Once I take on a case, I’m intrinsically connected to it. Everything in the universe is interconnected, one thing always leads to another. I will eventually solve it by studying the patterns between causes and effects... and also just kind of doing whatever.”

“That just sounds like you’re an incredibly lazy detective.”

“Everything is connected. The clues will come together and eventually, the case will be solved.” He places a hand hesitantly on Todd’s shoulder. “I will solve it.” The man repeats at a lower octave, an affirmation between both of them. Todd chews on his bottom lip and slowly nods once.

“I’m Todd.”

“Dirk Gently. It's lovely to make your acquaintance.” The man who was now known as Dirk beamed at him and Todd did his best to half ass a smile back.

“So then, do you have any leads?”

Dirk’s smile falters. “Oh. No. I don’t.”

Of course. Todd lets out a half sigh and weaves his way around Dirk, heading back down the hill.

“Where are you going?” Dirk calls out.

“I’m gonna go talk to that robot. Figure out where those guys who shot me went.” He yells back, not stopping or turning his head to see where the other man is.

“Great plan, Todd! You’re being an excellent assistant so far.” He can hear scrambling footsteps behind him, presumably Dirk trying to catch up with him.

“I’m not your assistant!” He calls back, thinly veiling an annoyed huff. This delivery was going to be longer than he anticipated.

#dghda #dghdafic #dghda fic #brotzly #also i don't know how tags work #post apoc desert road trip shenanigans: the fic #it'll get more shippy later on i promise #ej fics

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celebratorypenguin · 7 years

Text

Fic: A Little Folding Of the Hands

Rating: PG-13 for language and MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS Genfic

Summary: Five movements and a coda about hands, men, friendship, love, death, and everything in between.

1. 1957: George, Paul, and Louise Harrison 2. 1962: John, George, and Astrid Kirchherr 3. 1976: John and Paul 4. 1995: Paul, George, and Ringo 5. 2002: Paul and Ringo Coda, 2030: Paul

Note about this story: Louise Harrison has been my spirit animal since I heard about her inviting George's poor bedraggled fans into the house for a cup of tea.

A Little Folding of the Hands

"A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest." --Proverbs 6:10

First Movement: 1957

One thing Louise could be certain of was that she'd be hearing music at her home before she even put her key in the lock.

George was mad for his guitar, cheap, sad little thing that it was, and for a long time the whole Harrison family had worried because George would spend days on end alone in his room, practicing until his poor fingers were worn raw.

Then he'd met Jim McCartney's oldest and the two boys couldn't have been more alike if they were peas in a pod. Always practicing, always trying to one-up each other, and becoming - if Louise said so herself, which she did - quite good at their music.

Today, she was surprised not to hear anything when she brought the shopping in. Paul's bicycle was leaning against a tree, so she knew the boys were together, but why was the house so still? Had they worked so hard they'd just nodded off? It wouldn't be the first time, Louise thought as she tiptoed up the stairs.

She tapped lightly on the bedroom door, then walked in to find both boys sound asleep. George lay on his back atop top the clean bedspread; Paul was curled up in a chair next to the bed, his arms looped around his shins. When Louise came closer, she noticed gauze bandages wrapped around the fingers of George's left hand.

"What in the world?" she whispered, leaning over to get a closer look. Sure enough, each fingertip was tidily bandaged. A spot of iodine stained the gauze on George's index finger. Louise leaned over her son and kissed him lightly on his warm forehead. He stirred but didn't wake, just nestled further into his pillow.

Louise turned to Paul. Her kindly heart ached to see how much he had grown in the months since his mother's passing, how his jeans hung a bit loosely on his slimming frame, how far his wrists were sticking out of his jacket. She shook her head. She always felt such pity for the McCartney boys, poor motherless lambs, raised by a kind father who meant well but was such a bloke when all's said and done. A boy needed his mum, but the world wasn't a fair place, that's for sure.

As if he could hear Louise's thoughts, Paul opened his eyes, blinking hard in the confusion of a sudden awakening in a strange place. He struggled to sit up - Louise suspected he'd been in that position for hours - and immediately cast an anxious glance at the bed. "Is he running a fever? Is his finger infected?" Paul asked breathlessly.

"He's resting," Louise said softly. "It's all right, Paul, he's fine, you did a wonderful job patching him up."

Paul blushed, but his wide-eyed gaze stayed on Louise as he whispered, "I do this for our Mike all the time." He paused, swallowing hard. "My mum was a nurse."

Louise heard how Paul's voice, stuck in that aching place between soprano and tenor, cracked a bit at the past tense. "Well, she'd be so proud of you today, I can tell you that. Now, up with you." She held her hand out to Paul and pulled him out of the chair. "Let's have the jacket, please. I'll let the sleeves out while you have a kip in Peter's bed."

Looking doubtful as he removed his jacket and handed it to Louise, Paul said, "My dad'll be expecting me home soon."

"He won't, not when I call him and say you've worn yourself out with worry. Now get into that bed, young man, and not another peep out of you until teatime."

Paul toed his shoes off before climbing into the twin bed opposite George's. Louise noted the state of his socks and tutted, but decided to leave that for another visit. She carefully tucked a blanket around Paul, who looked up at her with so much mother-hunger in his sad eyes that she sat down next to him and drew him into her arms. Paul hugged her tightly as she held on to him, rocking him back and forth, telling him what a good boy he was, what a good son, what a good friend, while ignoring the hot tears that dampened her shoulder.

When Paul's tears were spent, he lay back on the bed and covered his red, swollen eyes with his right arm. Louise cleared her throat, then took Paul's hand in hers. She opened the fingers, examining the nascent calluses and the ragged, bitten nails. "I used to do this with the children, when they were younger," she said softly as she pulled Paul's hand to her lips and gave the palm a gentle kiss. She folded his fingers again and whispered, "Keep it tight throughout the night."

Letting his fist drop to his chest, Paul nodded and turned his cheek into the pillow. Louise stroked the unkempt black hair for a moment, then went to check on George.

Compared to her other children, her youngest son, this long-legged, fine-boned colt of a boy, often seemed like a changeling to her. Louise wondered if Jim McCartney felt the same way about his Paul: if he knew, as she did, that both of these boys were destined for something far beyond the boundaries of working-class Liverpool.

Satisifed that George's face was cooler and he was sleeping peacefully, Louise gave his forehead a gentle kiss before walking to the doorway. She paused with her hand on the light switch, drinking in the sight of the two budding artists as they slept. Perhaps they would have happy dreams, perhaps they would even share the same dream where they drew energy from one another as their music swirled around them, enveloping the whole world in its charm.

She smiled at the mental image while shaking her head at her own lofty ambitions. All she really wanted was for them to be healthy and happy. As she turned out the light, Louise whispered a quiet, heartfelt prayer to Saint Cecilia to look after her beloved boys.

***

Second movement: 1962

It seemed impossible.

George knew, of course, what death was. It was something that happened to grandparents and soldiers, or in twin twists of cruel fate, to your mate's mum. Not to someone he knew as an equal.

Not to Stuart.

"Christ, he wasn't even twenty-two."

It wasn't the first time John had said that in the days since they had arrived back in Hamburg and received the terrible news, but George shuddered every time he heard John's raspy voice saying the words. To make matters worse, John was saying them to Astrid as he perched on the arm of her sofa.

"I know, John, I know," she said soothingly, patting him on the arm. She had invited them in, hugged them warmly, offered them strong coffee. She was consoling them.

George struggled to wrap his mind around it.

Astrid's face was pale, her eyes ringed with dark circles just as John's were. She was dressed in black from head to foot, just as John was. They were both mourners. George assumed that John would be more accustomed to grief while Astrid's misery would be more acute, but it seemed to be the other way around.

This visit had been a sudden impluse of John's, announced over a quiet breakfast. Brian had never met Stuart, and Ringo had only marginally known him, so they hadn't been expected to follow along. Paul, whose relationship with Stuart had been frosty at best - and George wasn't willing to hazard a guess about exactly why - had quietly requested that John "send his love" but didn't get out of his seat. After a morose silence fell on the group, George stood up and grabbed his jacket without a word of explanation. He accompanied John partly because he wanted to offer condolences to Astrid, but mostly because he was worried about what John might do in this state of mind.

It wasn't like any condolence call George had ever known. They didn't talk about Stuart, didn't trade stories, just sat and sipped their coffee as the afternoon sun warmed their faces. Out of the blue, John asked to see the garret where Stuart had been painting only days before. Astrid took John by the hand and led him up the stairs, George following on their heels. There was too much light streaming through the windows, making the dust motes sparkle through the faint, lingering haze of cigarette smoke.

Astrid stepped back and let John wander through the disordered, chaotic room full of art that would never be completed. George couldn't swear to the quality of the paintings. His preferences ran to John's art, as it did to John's music and nearly everything else about the man, but he had to admit that there was a certain raw energy in the clusters of colors.

John stood in pensive silence, his body utterly still. Even his hands, which were always fiddling with pencils, cigarettes, guitars, or girls, were limply clasped and motionless. George had never seen John so immobile. It was disconcerting.

He heard the faint click of a camera shutter and the sound of the film advance lever being cocked. From the corner of his eye he saw Astrid looking down the viewfiender of her ever-present Leica. She was photographing John as he mourned Stuart.

Christ, artists were weird.

John turned toward the camera, unsmiling, as Astrid took another photo. She pulled a chair up behind him and gently pressed his shoulders down. Unthinking, obedient, John slumped into the seat. He held his right hand loosely in his left and stared off into an empty corner. George couldn't fathom what John might be seeing, since he was half-blind without his glasses even when his eyes weren't dangerously full of tears. John made no movements when Astrid's camera clicked again in the heavy silence of the attic.

This time, George understood why Astrid wanted to capture this moment. Caustic, sarcastic, witty John had never seemed so vulnerable, so fragile. Suddenly nervous, George pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and opened his lighter. The smoke calmed George's anxiety somewhat, covering as it did the smells he would forever associate with Stuart: Jalousies and turpentine. He fleetingly wondered if Astrid would object but she smiled wistfully at him and motioned for him to stand behind John.

George stood directly behind the chair at first, then Astrid directed him to stand slightly off to the side. He wasn't sure if being in John's peripheral vision was the best thing to do, but John was a million miles away. George inched a little closer. He was startled to realize that John wasn't still after all, but trembling very slightly, struggling to control himself.

Carefully, George inched his hand along the back of the chair until it very lightly pressed against John's spine. Touching John Lennon was usually something one did at one's own peril, but George's desire to keep John sane was stronger than his instinct for self-preservation.

Astrid took a single photo at the moment George followed along John's line of sight. There was a footprint in the dust, a lonely reminder of the young man who had stood there. George was remembering Stuart in a series of mental snapshots when Astrid took a couple of steps closer until she was able to reach out and stroke John's hair. "He loved you, you know."

"Yeah," John said, almost choking on the word. He cleared his throat, then repeated, "Yeah." Rousing himself, he stood up and stretched, bumping his back against George's. It was as close to thanks as George was likely to get, so he let John rest there.

Astrid took another picture.

"I'm knackered," John said, scrubbing his hands over his face as if to rearrange his features. "We've got a show tonight, so we'd better..."

"Of course." Astrid walked them back downstairs. John gave her an awkward hug and then darted in the general direction of the Star Club, leaving George behind. He felt Astrid's hands grasp his, and he looked down to find her peering up into his face. Her eyes were haunted.

"You understand now. Life, and death." It wasn't a question, and George nodded because she was right. He wouldn't be able to put it into words, not yet, but he would muse on the ephemeral nature of life during the long walk back, during their sets at the Star Club, and into the night in the little room he shared with his friends.

***

3rd Movement: 1976

***

"Please hold for Mr. McCartney."

Those were the last words John wanted to hear. He prowled around his kitchen like a caged jaguar, tugging at the shaggy hair at his nape.

As if this hadn't been fucking hard enough, swallowing his pride to Do The Right Thing and track down Mr. Wings-At-The-Speed-Of-Sound, now he was on fucking hold?

"Come ON," John muttered into the phone. His bare feet slapped against the cold kitchen tile. Tea, there needed to be tea and lots of it, so he tucked the phone under one ear and fiddled with the tea canister. His hands were shaky with nerves and his fingers slipped on the lid, which popped off at the perfect angle to spray loose tea leaves all over the counter, the floor, and a very surprised cat. "Shit! Shit!"

It was, because that was how things always went for him, the precise moment at which Paul's world-weary voice crackled over the line. "Hello?"

"Shit!"

"Nice to hear your voice, too."

"No, not shit to talk to you, shit to spill the tea. Is tea bad for cats?" John asked as he swatted a dish towel at the leaves clinging to the disgruntled cat.

There was a moment of silence, then Paul spoke again. "Did you really call me in the middle of the night to ask a veterinary question? 'Cause I'm really only good for sheep. And dogs."

Wait, that had to be wrong. "Middle of the night?"

"It's..." John heard Paul fumbling around, probably to find his watch. "It's almost two in the morning here."

"In Texas? I thought you were two hours earlier."

"John, I'm in Copenhagen."

"There's a Copenhagen, Texas?" John gave up on cleaning the cat and instead grabbed a dustpan and started getting the tea off the floor.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." More noises, the rustling of sheets and a closing of a door. "Texas is in two months. I'm in the bathroom of our hotel in Copenhagen, DENMARK, trying to talk softly so I don't wake my wife at what is now definitely two in the morning."

John got a sudden mental image of Paul in a hotel bed with Linda clinging to his side, naked. It didn't do anything to lighten his mood.

"Denmark. Well, that explains why your answering service was so shirty when I called half an hour ago."

"I can't believe they put you through to the hotel," Paul sighed.

"You should fire them. Absolutely fire them." John started wiping the counter, spilling more tea on the floor. "Oh, fuck."

"Is this about the cat, or something more sinister?" Paul asked. His voice was thick with sleep and overuse.

It finally dawned on John why he had made the call in the first place, why he had spent half an hour on hold with various irritated secretaries. "No, nothing of either sort. I just wanted to say..." He trailed off, not having practiced being nice to Paul for the better part of a decade. "That is, I heard about your dad." There was no response. Grow a fucking pair, for God's sake, John told himself. He took a deep breath. Best to spit it out all at once. "I'm sorry, man. I know how much you loved each other."

Paul cleared his throat. "Yeah. I mean, thanks."

"He was a good guy," John said, wincing at how stupid he sounded. "I'm sorry, I should've come up with something better to say. It's just...I was on the phone with Ringo a while ago and he talked about it as if I should've known. And I should've known, Paul, why didn't I know?"

Another sigh. "It's not as if we've communicated a hell of a lot, lately, you and I."

John slumped to the floor and switched the phone to his other shoulder. The truth hurt. "I'm still sorry," he said quietly.

"And I'm still grateful." Even across three thousand miles of telephone wire, John could hear the ragged quality of Paul's breathing. "I'm always grateful to hear from you, but especially now."

As John opened his mouth to ask another question, he heard Paul put his hand over the mouthpiece. "I'm on the phone."

"At this hour?" Linda. "Paul, I need to pee."

John snickered. "Ah, a slice of married life."

"Shut it, Lennon." Paul uncovered the phone. "I'm letting Linda in and then I'm going on the balcony. Gimme a few seconds."

It occurred to John that he should pass along some sort of greeting to Linda, but he didn't want to press his luck. Instead, he went to check on Sean, who was sleeping soundly in his crib. Yoko was at a business meeting so John was alone with his son, his miracle baby who he loved more than his own life.

"Okay, I'm back," Paul said, breaking into John's train of thought.

"Just a moment, okay?" John tiptoed back to the kitchen. "Sorry. I was checking up on Sean and didn't want to wake him."

"How is he?" Paul asked, sounding as if he really wanted to know.

"He's amazing. Were you head over heels over your kids, too? Did you count their fingers over and over?"

"Still am, still do. All of the kids, all the time."

That was surely a dig about Julian, and on another day John might have taken the bait. Instead, he said, "I do that thing George's mum used to do, the kiss in the hand and 'keep it tight throughout the night.' Yoko thought I was mad, but I swear it helps him fall asleep."

Paul chuckled, low and warm. "I still do it to our Stella. I don't know why it works, but it does. I wish I'd thanked Louise for that." He sighed again. "Fucking cancer, eh? And you know George's dad has it now, too."

"No, I didn't," John said, not sure why he was shocked. He and George spoke even less than he and Paul, and much more acrimoniously when they did. "You're in touch with George?"

"Not often, but he phoned yesterday. Told me how much he'd miss Dad's custards, if you can believe it, then said we'd all meet again someday because death is just temporary, which I KNOW you will believe. He'd gotten the news from Ringo. And before you ask, Ringo told me he found out from Maureen because she still subscribes to the Liverpool Echo."

Frustrated, John banged his head against a cabinet. "Fuck, Paul, we couldn't have a more complicated communication system if we used fucking smoke signals."

"That's true." Paul hummed a fragment of a tune under his breath, which John knew was a sign that he was thinking. A moment later, Paul murmured, "I miss just being able to talk to you. To all of you. But mostly you."

GOD, ME TOO, John thought. "We should phone more often. And you should get your ass on a plane and come see me. Us. Me. Whoever."

He could imagine Paul's smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and took ten years off of him.

"Anyhow," John continued, "I really am sorry about your dad."

There was a moment in which John was sure he heard a sob, then Paul whispered, "Thank you, Johnny."

"You're welcome, Paulie." John swallowed against the rising lump in his throat. "Now get to bed, or you'll disappoint your adoring fans on the morrow."

"Can't have that. G'night, John, and thanks."

"Night, then." When John hung up the phone he realized that he'd twisted the cord into figure eights that would take Yoko half an hour to untangle, but he didn't care because he remembered what he'd wanted to say, what he would say the next time he talked to Paul.

"I owe your dad so much," John said to the ceiling, or to heaven. "Because he gave me you."

***

Fourth Movement: 1995

For being outside on such a gorgeous day in his own garden, George was remarkably tense.

At least, Ringo was remarking on it.

"George, relax, would you? We've already done the hardest bit. This shouldn't have you as...weirded out as it does."

Ringo was right. The "hardest bit" of the whole Anthology ordeal had been months ago, when they were in the studio, listening to John's disembodied voice on the demo tapes. Ringo had broken down more than once before they even started talking about which songs to use and how to arrange them. Paul had been pale but stoic, the only sign of his distress showing when his voice utterly shattered when he demonstrated the middle eight he'd written for "Free as a Bird."

George had done what he always did: played his heart out while keeping his head down and his mouth shut.

Now that they were finished with the project except for this one last little jam session on the lawn with ukuleles. It should be a piece of cake. And yet George had been puttering around the kitchen all morning, shooing Olivia and Dhani away as he tidied the room that really didn't need any tidying at all. Ringo had openly laughed at him when he realized George had re-strung three different ukuleles - "even our Paul can only play one at a time, you know" - and that contributed to the inexplicable anxiety George was feeling.

Even now, stretched out on the lush spring grass, George felt as if something should happen, something extraordinary. He just couldn't put his finger on what.

He looked over at Ringo, who was sitting tailor-fashion, tipping his face toward the sun with a giddy grin that made him look like the youngest instead of the eldest. Then there was Paul, all smiles as usual, but with graying hair and that look of unfathomable sadness in his wide eyes when he thought no one was watching.

Oh, Paul, thought George, they're always watching.

Only two cameras were on them, both at a respectful distance. An assistant came out with the three re-tuned ukuleles and fanned them out in front of Paul. Paul picked out a beauty and had his hand on a tuning peg to remove a string when he realized that it had been done for him already.

"Ta, George," Paul said, and for an instant he was the cool older kid on the bus, the boy as mad about guitars as George himself, not the aging hippie who would go to his grave burdened with so many regrets that he'd be reborn a dozen times before getting it right.

Maybe that's what was burdening George on this project, his own regret. Ringo had stayed friendly with everyone, Switzerland with long hair and peace signs. After years of painful (and yet, George had to admit, sometimes hilarious-in-a-schadenfreude-kind-of-way) public sniping, Paul and John had patched up the frayed cord of their friendship. But George had taken pains to alienate himself from Paul, possibly to keep from being hurt by him again, and his relationship with John had hit the skids over the "I, Me, Mine" book and had never recovered.

Would never recover, not in this life.

Oh, John.

He heard Paul tuning up. Music. Yes. George began to strum a few simple chords. Paul joined in, looking at George's hands for guidance while Ringo tapped out patterns on the rough denim of his jeans. It felt so right, yet so weird, to be together after so many years but with John's absence darkening the edges of the sunlit sky.

"Just a couple more minutes, guys, then we're done," said an assistant director.

All three men looked at each other.

Done.

Christ.

Paul's hands, usually so sure, skittered along the instrument and he stuttered to a stop. Ringo nudged his arm, but Paul just shook his head and laid the ukulele down carefully in the grass. "You play us one, George," he said softly, that LOOK in his eyes again, the one he tried to hide when he saw that the cameras were about to roll.

George started a gentle old song he'd heard his dad sing to his mum a lifetime ago. Paul smiled as he recognized the beginning of the old familiar tune, and chimed in with his gentlest voice. "Ain't she sweet?" he crooned.

Then there were harmonies, and Ringo stopped drumming on himself so he could listen. Paul flubbed a lyric, recovered with a self-deprecating grin, and ended on George's cue.

Ringo got sentimental on them when he thanked George for having them over, as if they had been a burden on him, and George lobbed a terrible joke that they didn't need to see one another for another forty years. He saw Ringo's shoulders slump a little, and the slight tremble of Paul's lips, and he hated himself.

Another flat tire on the Karmic wheel. Well done, Harrison.

The crew filed out quietly afterward, leaving the three of them alone. George heaved himself upright, dusted off his trousers, and sat down in the middle of the bench that had been behind them. He patted the empty spaces on either side.

Ringo, of course, came immediately and sat at George's right hand, leaning just a little against his arm. "You didn't really mean that forty years stuff, did you?"

"Nah." George's voice sounded rough even to his own ears. He cleared his throat. "Tried to lighten the mood."

"Failed," Ringo said, but his smile was warm and forgiving.

Paul stood up slowly, picking up the ukulele and sitting with it on George's left. He began to remove the E-string. George stopped him with a gentle hand on Paul's wrist.

"Leave it," he whispered. Paul didn't answer, but his eyebrows went up. "For when you drop by," George continued.

Suddenly Paul's arms were around him, and Ringo's arms were around them both, and they were all holding onto one another for dear, dear life.

"Why does being an ex-Beatle have to be so complicated?" George murmured into Paul's hair.

"There's no such thing as an ex-Beatle, son," Ringo said in a suspiciously shaky tone. "Being a Beatle is something that sticks to you, like DNA."

"DNA doesn't--" George began, then he started to laugh, because a wise man had once said that if you love each other, it's all you need.

***

Fifth Movement: 2002

Some would say that it was too cold a November night for a couple of aging men to be sitting on a London balcony with only a flickering candle for warmth.

Ringo couldn't have disagreed more. There was no place he'd rather be after singing his final goodbye to George. He was in the perfect spot, looking out over the city that had been his home during the crazed Beatle years, sitting with the only other man on the planet who could possibly understand how he felt at the end of the concert. "God, the energy, the LOVE in that place," Ringo mused, sipping his soda. "And Dhani, man, what a trouper!"

Paul nodded. He followed Ringo's line of sight for a moment then turned his gaze back to him. "But can you imagine how much George would've cringed, being the center of that much attention?"

"He'd have fucking hated it," Ringo chuckled. He could see George in his mind's eye, making himself as small as possible as if he could hide from the crowd, shaking his head and making sarcastic comments at the outpourings of affection. Yet George had, in his way, been the most affectionate person Ringo had ever known, and Ringo would never, ever, get over this loss.

Paul took a long swallow of his champagne. His face had a drawn, pinched quality that worried Ringo. Sure, Paul had a pregnant wife - whom Barbara had instantly disliked, which was censure enough for Ringo - and his kids were unhappy with this second marriage, but Ringo knew it wasn't his domestic problems that weighed on Paul tonight.

When Paul lowered his head and sighed, Ringo saw a few rose petals were still clinging to his hair. "Here, lean over a bit, you've still got flowers in your barnet." Ringo plucked the petals out and put them on the little table. "It's like George didn't want to let you go."

To his horror, Ringo saw tears start to track their way down Paul's face. "Shit, Paul, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"No, it's okay," Paul gasped, his voice coming out in little hiccups. "I haven't been able to cry over him much, but I need to, I really NEED to."

"Ah, Paul, c'mere." Ringo opened his arms and let Paul sag against him. He knew that Paul hadn't been able to weep about John for a year after his murder, and that Paul had been struggling valiantly to hold himself together during all the rehearsals and hubbub surrounding the concert for George.

"I did love him, I always loved him, ever since we were kids together," Paul sobbed into Ringo's shoulder. "But I did such shitty things to him, to you, to John, and I didn't mean them, I was scared about losing the band and so I just started lashing out..."

"Ssh, ssh, I know. We all knew." Ringo patted Paul awkwardly on the back. "The shit we do is just the shit we do. It's not who we are. George sued me once, y'know, and I still loved HIM, and I know he loved all of us." That thought brought tears to Ringo's own eyes, which he didn't bother to wipe away. The art of existing became less unbearable when he allowed himself the luxury of expressing his grief, still scalpel-sharp a year after George had left this life. "Don't dwell on anything but the love. Remember all the times lately where you'd drop in at his house, and the two of you would grab ukuleles and sing all night? He loved when you did that, he told me so. He loved YOU, and he forgave you even when you couldn't forgive yourself. I promise he did, Paul. I promise."

A gust of winter wind blew across the balcony, scatting the rose petals that Ringo had placed on the table. He pulled away from Paul long enough to retrieve two of them. He held one out to Paul, whose fingers trembled as he touched it.

Ringo held the petal to his lips, then put it into the candle's flame. He looked over at Paul as the petal sizzled to ash. Paul mirrored Ringo's gesture but lingered over the flame as if reluctant to let go of this final connection to George. Ringo smelled the singing flesh and grasped Paul's hand, pulling it to safety and examining each finger for possible damage.

"Happens all the time," Paul said, unconcerned. "It's the calluses - I can't feel much on my fingertips."

"All the same, mate, that's not too bright an idea." Ringo relaxed his grip on Paul's hand and was pleasantly surprised that Paul didn't pull away.

Paul's eyes, dark and heavy, were focused on their joined hands. "Funny, I'd known George over fifty years but apart from bandaging his fingers when he practiced too long, I never really TOUCHED him until just that last day when I held his hand."

Ringo had heard the story before but he knew that Paul needed to tell it again.

"And he held mine," Paul continued, "and I could feel how weak he was, and oh GOD his hands were cold, they were so fucking cold..." Paul ran his thumb across the back of Ringo's hand. "He said he forgave me, and he asked my forgiveness, too, then we just talked about Liverpool and meeting John and stealing you away from Rory, and all the good parts of the madness." Paul's eyes met Ringo's, begging for absolution. "And there were good parts, weren't there?"

Not trusting his voice, Ringo just nodded and squeezed Paul's hand tightly. Ringo hated crying, hated that his nose was going red from tears and cold, but he made no move to go indoors or even to distance himself from Paul. It was just such a comfort to have this moment, this contact, painful though the reason was.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Paul managed a wobbly smile. "Look at us, crying like a pair of teenaged girls."

Ringo snorted a laugh. "Can you imagine what John would say if he could see us now?"

"'Christ, Macca, you're worse than the sodding fans.'" Paul mimicked John in a reedy voice that sent chills of memory up Ringo's spine even as it made him laugh from the heart.

"Very good impression, that," Ringo said, squeezing Paul's hand again. "But seriously, we've got to stop meeting like this."

Paul's face drained of color.

"What?" Ringo asked.

Paul opened his mouth but nothing came out. He was shaking, not with cold but with fear.

"We won't meet like this again," Paul said after taking a long, ragged breath, "because the next time a Beatle dies, it'll be you or me."

Fuck.

Desperate to re-route this conversation, Ringo quickly waggled his eyebrows and countered with, "Well, I sure hope it's you."

He expected a good-natured argument, but Paul simply tilted his head and looked at Ringo as if memorizing him. "I hope so, too," Paul whispered as he started to rock back and forth in the chair, his exhausted voice tearing through the cold night air. "I don't want to be...I CAN'T be the last one!" Just as Ringo was certain that his heart couldn't take any more, Paul spoke again, softly, pleading. "Ritchie, please, don't leave me all alone."

That plea broke the last strand of Ringo's reserve. He jumped out of his chair and knelt in front of Paul, taking Paul's trembling hands between his own and willing them to become strong and capable again. "It's okay," he murmured as he ran his thumbs over the fragile skin of Paul's wrists. "I won't leave you, Paulie," he murmured.

Paul looked at him, color returning to his pale face. "You'd better not," he said half-jokingly even though his voice was thick with tears. "'Cause if you leave me behind with Yoko, I swear to God I'll fucking end you."

There, that was Paul coming back to life. Ringo stood, his cold joints protesting loudly, and tugged Paul to his feet. He planned to make a big pot of tea to warm them up and he knew Barbara would insist that Paul stay the night. In the morning they would hug goodbye, and try not to think of what it would be like to be the Last Beatle.

***

Coda: 2030

"I'm old, not fucking deaf," Paul barked to the people who were whispering outside the door of his New Orleans hotel room. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, all performing variations on the same theme: Is it safe to leave him on his own, you know, after today?

Paul considered flinging the door open and telling his nearest and dearest to fuck the hell off, but moving from his comfortable chair was simply not going to happen. Not after today.

After today.

What a fucking, fucking awful bugger of a day.

The day that marked the last time a Beatle would play at another Beatle's funeral.

Ringo had died, unexpectedly but peacefully, in his sleep just a few days after his lavish 90th birthday party. Unlike John's and George's departures, which had been followed by quick cremations and private dispersals of their ashes, Ringo's was a far more showmanlike exit from this life. When Paul had first heard that Ringo was to have a full-on New Orleans jazz funeral with a service at the St. Louis Cathedral, his only thought was that Ringo would be sorry to miss the spectacle.

All along the streets people had lined up to say their farewells, to offer signs of peace and love, peace and love, as the black-clad band played "Just a Closer Walk With Thee" and "Didn't He Ramble" in lush, mournful harmonies. It had always been music that left the greatest imprint on Paul's soul, and today, with the last of his Beatle companions gone, music was all that gave him the courage to keep looking out of the limousine window and wave solemnly at the thousands of fans standing in the muggy July heat.

Paul had come close to tears twice: once as he got out of the limousine and bent over to accept a single red rose from a tiny girl whose spun-gold curls reminded him of Linda, and again when he stopped to pay his respects at Ringo's polished mahogany coffin.

"You promised not to do this to me," he had whispered as he patted Ringo's cold, stiff hand, "but I love you anyway."

Advancing age had long since robbed Paul's voice of sweetness but not of pathos, and he had gratefully accepted Barbara's invitation to sing "Let it Be" at the end of Ringo's service. Against the advice of his doctors, his family, and pretty much everyone in the world who had seen his arthritis-afflicted hands, he had given the grand piano his all. Every stroke of his gnarled fingers on the keyboard had sent spikes of pain through his entire body. Even so, he had been determined to do this last ritual, no matter what it did to his aching bones for the rest of the day.

This fucking, fucking awful shitfest of a day.

Now Ringo's body was on a plane back to England, and Paul was - finally - alone in his hotel room, longing for peace and quiet after the agonizing stress of the past week.

The room was silent where normally music or news would be playing. Paul had diligently avoided reading or watching any broadcasts since hearing of Ringo's death. He was holding his dignity together with the finest of threads, and the sight of the inevitable "Moptop Mourns!" and "And Then There Was One!" headlines would have snapped it like a soap bubble. As for hearing the Beatles songs that were surely crowding the airwaves, Paul knew that he would shatter into a million pieces before the middle eight.

In speaking of Ringo, Paul had chosen his words carefully and granted interviews only to a few trusted journalists. To this day (this godawful shitbucket of a day), fifty years after John's murder, Paul still feared being cornered in a moment of grief and sleeplessness and saying "the wrong thing" about a Beatle's passing.

Although that wouldn't be an issue anymore.

Well, fuck.

The pain, which had started in his hands and had been radiating all the way to his shoulders, was now in his back. His body finally, finally hurt more than his heart. With a heavy sigh, Paul worked his way out of the chair and began rummaging around in his flight bag for the medication that did precious little to comfort him anymore. The bottle was nowhere to be found.

Rolling his eyes, Paul shuffled to the door and flung it open to see who was sitting on Dad Guard. Sure enough, it was Mary. She looked up and gave her father a guilty little smile.

"My pills," Paul said. "They're not in my bag."

"I have them," Mary said softly. She pulled the bottle out of her handbag and dispensed a single pill into her father's palm.

He chuckled. "That's just to give me something to do while I wait to pass out from the pain." Mary dropped a second pill in his hand. "I didn't sleep last night and I'm too knackered to keep getting up every four hours. Just give me the bottle."

"Dad..."

"Mary..."

With a shaking hand, Mary passed him the bottle, then gazed at him with such terror in her dark eyes that Paul's next breath was ragged.

So, the McCartney brood thought he was planning to off himself.

"No, no," Paul whispered. "Mary, love, I'm not gonna..."

She launched herself into his arms and held him tightly around the waist. Paul stroked her long gray hair, breathing in the scent of his first-born the way he had when she was a baby.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Paul said as he lifted Mary's chin and looked deep into her eyes. "Your old Dad's body is hurting, that's all. I promise."

Mary nodded. She dropped a kiss on the back of Paul's hand, then caught herself mid-yawn. "I'm going to bed, then," she murmured.

"Good night, sweetie."

"Good night." Mary started to walk down the hall, then turned around again. "I'll see you in the morning, Daddy."

He smiled at her, understanding that he was making a vow to be there in the morning. "Absolutely."

After a searching gaze, Mary smiled back and went to her own room a few doors down. Paul swallowed his two pills dry, coughing slightly as the rough surface abraded his tired throat, then closed his door and went back to the big chair to rest.

He thought about checking his phone, but he knew that there would be a hundred "Are you okay" messages that he didn't trust himself to answer without a hefty dose of John's razor-sharp sarcasm.

Oh, Johnny.

He made a mental note to call Olivia in the morning. Years ago he had told her she was the only "Beatle Widow" he felt close to, and she had countered that the choice between her and Yoko surely couldn't have been all that hard. She had learned a lot from George, about patience and about facing the world with humor.

Oh, George, my little brother.

And poor Barbara, who had seen Ringo through thick and thin and loved him every minute of it, Paul would talk to her tomorrow as well. She had been composed and quiet at the service today, but Paul knew all too well the rush of fresh grief that came once the flurry of ceremonies was completed. Despite many rocky moments, Barbara had loved Ringo, had grounded him and helped him stay the cheerful, loving lad that the whole world was mourning.

Oh, Ritchie.

Paul wiped away a stray tear and leaned back in his chair, "closing his eyes for a minute" as he often did these days. The metallic air conditioner noises were lulling him into a doze when he suddenly recognized familiar scents that were so out of place here and now.

Sweet, heady pot. Sandalwood and garden soil. Expensive cologne and green vegetables.

His eyelids fluttered, only to be kept shut by a hummingbird wing of a touch. "Don't open your eyes, Paul, or we'll have to go," said the deep growl he'd heard just a few weeks before. Ringo. "We knew you'd be lonely, so we just wanted to let you know that we'll be waiting for you."

"We'll watch out for you, the same way you've always done for us and ours," George murmured, and Paul could feel George's feather-light fingers in his hair.

Senses alight, Paul tried to find John. At first there was nothing, then Paul felt a tiny, cool diamond of a spark on his wrist where an ethereal tear had fallen.

"Ah, Paulie, your poor hands," John lamented.

Even with his eyes closed Paul could visualize John's slim, strong, perfect hands. He winced at the idea of his misshapen talons alongside those elegant fingers.

"It'll be okay, you'll see. God is everywhere, Paul, and there's so much love. You'll be whole again when you're with us." George's voice was mild and encouraging.

Paul sighed and let himself sag deeper into the chair. "I want to go with you."

"No, you don't really, not yet," John said gently. "You're just tired. We should let you rest."

"But you'll come back? Sometimes?"

"Don't you know?" George asked, leaning so close that Paul could feel a ghostly hint of breath on his face. "We never left."

Paul nodded, his head heavy with the need to sleep. There was so much to say, but he was so tired, and he felt so protected and loved, that he could only smile and hope that his friends knew how deeply he felt for them.

Ringo pulled away, then George, but John lingered. Paul felt a warm sweetness brush across his palm, then his fingers were gently shaped into a firm grasp.

"Keep it tight throughout the night," John said, and Paul could hear the emotion behind the familiar words as he drifted, at long last, into painless sleep.

*** END ***

Thank you to everyone who reads this. While it was written in a dark place, there is eternal hope to find the light.

#Beatles fic

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