#early or going to a fair in the city like if they’re at least behaving in their lessons sHES more then likely gonna say yes

[heireign]

her as a parent is so — it’s always on my brain because like the way she talks to her children is very ? she gives them the respect she would give an adult from a very early age. she encourages them to speak to her, to speak their mind without a filter attached to it so they can address it whether it is something they want to be allowed to do or something they want to talk about in general or something they need help doing. like they’re children, they’re going to make mistakes and have feelings and be unruly at times but if it’s something that can fixed ? If they get increasingly uncomfortable in a certain place at a certain event, and want to act out from that she’d much rather they tell her they’re uncomfortable or upset and they need to leave, so they can ? handle it. she doesn’t want them to feel like they need to act out to fix a fixable situation with an easy solution.

she expects them to expend the entirety of their effort when it comes to tasks, she expends them to at least try, but she doesn’t expect 100% success, because they’re at an age where mistakes should happen and should be encouraged so they don’t make them again when they matter as adults. she’s a very methodical instructor who took a direct hand when it came to their education as kids and into their teenage years; she would have been the one teaching high valyrian from an early age - not because they necessarily needed to know it to govern, but because it was apart of her culture that she was eager to share with them. she would’ve encouraged them to take up a hobby or something that had nothing to do with weapons training or with their future positions. they were sent to squire for six months on end at the ages of 12-13 — jacaerys in particular was sent to squire in the vale of arryn under her cousin the lady jeyne arryn ( no jace writer is obligated to adhere to this headcanon )

she’s also a very affectionate parent, very big on words of affirmation and on physical affection like she displays her pride and love and caring in very ? overt ways. when they have small little successes to the bigger ones she acknowledges them all. she gives them small tasks and gives them little rewards whenever it’s done correctly whether it be sweets or staying up that extra hour. or taking them out to the shoreline to play or taking them to aegon’s garden to decompress and to play along the rows of cranberry bushes and flowers. she’s kissing their heads and holding their hands and hugging them and promising them they did VERY well actually and that’s all that matters. correcting what they did wrong and showing how to do it correctly. she never really raises her voice at them and never really gets angry at them like it’s very ? she tells them what to do and she expects them to at least try and to come to her directly in regards to any issues they might have with it instead of disobeying her outright.

[joealwyndaily]

Joe Alwyn (Class of 2009)

source

After leaving City in 2009, Joe Alwyn went on to read English and Drama at University of Bristol before heading to The Royal Central School of Speech & Drama- securing shortly after his big-break as Billy Lynn in Netflix’s film of the same name. From there on, he has had leading roles alongside Nicole Kidman and Olivia Colman in the films ‘Boy Erased’ and ‘The Favourite’- the latter winning Best British Film at the BAFTAs.

Whilst quarantining in the US, Joe was interviewed by Louis and Erik (Junior Sixth), this was first published in The eCitizen in May 2020.

What are your fondest memories from City?

I have a lot of good memories from school. I loved being in the heart of the city, right by the Thames. I had a lot of good teachers, and I was lucky enough to make friends with people that I still speak to now, every day. It was a good time to be there. I loved the sport that it offered and I played football throughout. I loved the Art department and the teachers there. There was a freedom to explore and leave the building and do your own thing. I think I owe the Art department a lot of stolen pens, and maybe a few hours of ducking out of class and lying on the roof of the school in the sun. It was the people though - the teachers, and of course my classmates - that made my time there what it was.

Which teachers are most memorable to you, and why?

There are a few teachers that have stuck with me. Mr Keates, our English teacher… He thought (and taught) outside the box and ‘against’ the syllabus in the best way. It was unconventional and refreshing and I liked it a lot. Mr Biltcliffe (and Joe, in the technical department) ran Drama and I loved that class. Mr Pomeroy in the Art Department was excellent. I only did one year of Spanish, but there was a teacher, Senor Cruz, who used to jump on the tables and make a lot of noise. Mr Dowler, who used to try and make me cut my hair short. (At the end of every school report there would be a message from Mrs Ralph: ‘Ps. Joe: get a haircut’). Mr Chamberlain, who we used to lock out of the classroom to try and delay maths. Mr Cornwall who ran sports. I was a defender, and I was asked to play for the First XI football team a year early, I think. I scored an own goal. It was the only goal I ever scored for City.

Were you involved much in Drama at City?

I actually wasn’t too heavily involved in extra-curricular Drama at school. I took it for GCSE and A-level, and loved that, but I wish I’d taken more advantage of the facilities beyond. There was a great theatre at school. I’m not sure why I didn’t do more. It was something that I knew I enjoyed, but part of me shied away from that side of things… perhaps because I played a lot of sport, and that took up a fair amount of time.

I knew at school that I wanted to do this, but I didn’t know how to go about getting there. As far as I knew nobody else wanted to be an actor, and so there wasn’t really a clear road-map on how achieve it! I largely kept it to myself. I would look up Drama Schools online and think about applying, but almost like a secret. In fact, I ended up going to Bristol University first - which I loved – and it was only after going there that I applied to Drama School and was accepted.

How did you get into acting?

I grew up watching a lot of films and going to the theatre. I always wanted to be a part of that world. My own involvement, or realisation that this was what I wanted to do, was gradual though. There wasn’t really a lightbulb moment, or not one that I remember. I studied it at school…performed a lot at university in what were probably some terrible, terrible productions (but great experiences) …and then went to Drama School. It was getting into Drama School that really made me think that I can do this. It was a really big moment for me.

What was your first major role?

I was very lucky with how things started. It was quite early in my final year of training, and I’d just signed with an agent from my showcase. I was sent a self-tape – an audition – for a film called ‘Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk’. Ang Lee was the director. I’d never really made a self-tape before, but I got some friends to tape me doing a scene during a lunch break. Within a few days they brought me over to New York to meet Ang and the casting director. I then went through about 10 days of testing in New York and Atlanta. I’d never been to America before but had always wanted to go. It was very surreal and it happened very quickly. I’d grown up watching Ang’s films (Life of Pi, The Ice storm, Brokeback Mountain, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon). They cast me right after that trip, and I only had a few days to pack my things before leaving for military bootcamp. I left school and spent the next few months filming in Atlanta. I played ‘Billy’, a young Texan Soldier, a ‘war hero’, returning home from Iraq for a victory tour in the United States. It was a completely amazing experience, especially to be thrown into as my first job.

What has been favourite acting job so far?

‘Billy Lynn’ has been my favourite job for many reasons, but there are others too that I’ve really enjoyed. I loved being a part of a film called ‘The Favourite’. That was a very special, unique experience.

Yorgos Lanthimos, who you worked with on The Favourite, is known for his extremely odd movies such as The Lobster and Dogtooth. What is it like working with such a unique director?

Yorgos is fantastic, and completely singular. He’s very different from Ang… but they’re both strong auteurs. Yorgos is very unconventional in terms of direction. He doesn’t give a lot away. He doesn’t ‘direct’ you in a way that you expect, whatever that might mean. To be honest I’m not sure how he does it, but it works! He has a real aesthetic and vision though, and creates a really nice environment on set. There was a brilliant cast and team of people on ‘The Favourite’, and it was amazing to be a part of.

You have played extremely complex characters, especially in films like Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk and Boy Erased. How do you work on your character development?

I suppose it depends on the nature of the project. Something like Billy Lynn was very intense – it was a long shoot and I was there for a long time. We went through military bootcamp, had a dialect coach, physically bulked up etc. I was also in a new country for the first time, with a new group of people. It was quite immersive, I suppose. It depends on who you’re playing and the story you’re telling. I watched a lot of documentaries (there’s a great one called ‘Restrepo’), read a lot of books, talked to military advisers, soldiers with PTSD... And of course, a lot of conversations with the director. It really depends though. I think I’m still working it out. It’s something that shifts each time. You make mistakes and you learn something new each time.

Boy Erased I really enjoyed being a part of, but I had less to do there. I knew I was kind of being brought in for one big, important moment in the film… and so a lot of it centred around the psychology of that event, and why this boy behaved the way he did.

Now living in the States, what do you miss most about London?

I live in London! I spend quite a bit of time in America, but London is still my home.

How are you finding quarantine? What impact has it had on the acting industry?

It’s very odd! Trying to stay busy, but also enjoying a slower pace and not worrying too much when things drift (which they do). Reading, watching old films, talking to friends. Zoom meetings. Skype calls. Just today actually, I had a Zoom call with my closest friends from school. I’m not in London at the moment but I’ve loved seeing these videos of everyone clapping for the NHS.

In terms of the industry, everything has sort of shut down. I was supposed to start a job this month in UK but that’s had to push back. I’m not sure when things will start up again, or how this will change things going forward. I think it’s going to be tricky for while…but there’ll be a way through.

Obviously, The eCitizen is the least of your press commitments. How have you found media attention?

It depends a bit on how much you choose to engage with it, and where it’s coming from. Maybe what’s strange is that media attention is an abnormal thing, and the implication of the attention is that something abnormal has happened to you… But actually, whilst I can see that some things have changed in my life, ultimately, I feel the same as I ever did.

It is old Citizen tradition for interviewees to finish with a joke...

What time does Sean Connery go to Wimbledon?

Tennish.

[elysiashelby]

In Another World - T. Shelby Imagine Ch. 6

Paring: (Eventual) Thomas Shelby x Aliena Welsh (OC)

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Word Count: 5,428

WARNINGS: Cursing, Self-Harm, Self-Deprecation 

Summary: Aliena Welsh has been living in the universe of the show Peaky Blinders for a year, and the time has come for the show to start. But how will this affect her and Thomas’ relationship?

MASTERLIST  CHAPTER 5.3  CHAPTER 7

A/N: THE SCENE IS SEPARATED BY THE BLACK LINE BREAKS! LOOK FOR THE SECOND ONE IF YOU DON’T WANT TO READ THE SCENE! 

To be completely honest, I’m basing Aliena’s personality and actions off of myself, so since I have depression that means she does too. I have self-harmed in a stressful situation, so to me- it makes since that she would do it too as the tension are rising and she has to deal with the guilt of letting bad things happen to the people that are close to her. It’s especially harder since the one she cares for the most knows she’s allowing stuff to happen to him and his family. 

A week and a half has passed and today the boys are going to the fair. I got ready and rushed over to John’s flat. Polly had already told me that I wasn’t to make breakfast for the family because it was all of the boys going out this time. I knew Ada was with Freddie and I think all Polly knew was that she had been out. 

She told me that she was going to the church and I knew she would be meeting that bastard Campbell. Anyway, I let the kids have the day off. So, they were still asleep when I decided to ring Cassie. I still talk to her in an American accent, by the way.

“Why the hell are you calling me so early in the morning, Ali?”

“‘Cause I’m bored.”

“Bitch.”

“Slut. Now do you want the tea or not?” Yes, I taught Cassie 2010’s slang. I told her it would be like our own language. She loved the idea.

“Okay, lay it on me.”

“So, there’s a new barmaid in town. Tommy is completely smitten with her, or is gonna be. I can just tell.”

“No, shit! Fuck, what’re going to do?”

“What do you mean what am I going to do? Nothing! I can’t do anything. You know what he told me the other day!”

“That I’m a girl who isn’t family and you’re going to find a good man of your own.” We said simultaneously.  

“You’ve said that a million times, Ali.”

“Well, it fucking sucks that he doesn’t see me as a woman. A girl, he said, a girl! There’s nothing I can do, Cassie. I’m fucking stuck suffering.”

“And working. When are we gonna go out again?”

“Fuck if I know! I’m just really needed here, is all.”

“Stop pulling my leg. You’ve already used that excuse. “Oh but they need me!” “I need to take care of the kids!” “They’re really stressed, right now!” Shut up and admit that you don’t like not being around Thomas.” She laughed.

“Shut up! That’s not it. They really do need me. I just can’t tell you why.” 

She hummed. “Well, at least, you have your eyes set on someone. Mind that he doesn’t reciprocate it, but it must be nice to dote on someone.”

“Wow, thanks.” 

“What? In my opinion, it’s better than not having anybody to obsess about. It gets lonely over here, you know.”

We talked for hours. Eventually, the kids came down ‘n I had to feed them, but I just moved the telephone with me. Since I knew what was gonna happen today, I told them that they would be playing in the back and that’s it. 

“I’m sure. How is Angie and Tina?” I said.

“Still doing everything together. Seriously, this is why I need you to find a day off ‘cause I need some me and you time. I'm fucking stuck being a third wheel here.” 

“Sexual tension, still there?”

“Of-fucking-course!”

We both laughed. 

“But, ever since we talked about it. I noticed it more. Tina’s lingering glances at Angie and such. It’s just so sad.”

“Well, if she is a lesbian, hopefully, she’ll find someone.”

“Yeah, that would be the best outcome for her. The worst being, her family forcing her off in a loveless marriage. Hey, think she could like both?”

“Let’s hope.”

We both hummed sadly. 

Just then another voice cut in, “Excuse me, Miss, you’re getting another call?”

“Who from?” I asked.

“6 Watery Lane, Small Heath, Miss.”

“Put it through. Bye, Cassie!”

“Bye!”

“Hello?” 

“Aliena, come down here quick. Don’t bring the kids and tell ‘em to stay inside the house.” 

“Okay, Pol.” I hung up the phone and rushed upstairs. I knocked on Katie’s door and entered. 

She was busy rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. I said. “Katie, something’s happened and your Aunt Polly has called me back to the house. That means no more napping, you’ll have to look after your siblings. And you’ll have to make lunch and maybe dinner. Your Aunt Polly said no going outside today, so keep that door locked after I go. Understand?”

“Yes, Aliena.”

I stroked her cheek before kissing her forehead and leaving her room. I rushed to put on me coat, hat, ‘n scarf as I went out the door. I shouted goodbye to the kids and locked the door behind me and stuffed the key in me pocket. 

As I walked down the street, I noticed that there was furniture in the streets and people in their night clothes. Men didn’t greet me as I walked past, but I went up to a familiar face. 

“Mr. Johnson, can you tell me what’s happened?”

“Oh, Ms. Welsh! Those bloody new coppers came in and threw everything out. Told us that the Peaky Blinders gave them the okay. Is that true?”

I put on a troubled face. I made me voice small and trembling. “I… I don’t know, Mr. Johnson. I’m terribly sorry.”

He picked up a chair of his with his head hanging. “It’s all right, love. A word of advice, Ms. Welsh, be careful around them. Wouldn’t want the light of the Shelby family to darken.”

Me eyes widened as a blushed rushde to me face. “The light, Mr. Johnson?”

He chuckled while handing his items to his wife. “That’s your nickname ‘round here, Ms. Welsh. The little shiny light among those Peaky Blinder devils. A smile from you will cause any man in this city to behave.” 

I chuckled, looking down with a small smile on me face. “Well, thank you for telling me, Mr. Johnson. I’m sorry this happened to you.”

“We’ll be fine, dear. Go on about your business. I’m sure they have you running somewhere.” 

I gave him and his family one last smile before I continued me walk home. I got some pitiful stares and some glares, but I ignored ‘em. When I reached the house, I unlocked the door and walked in.   

As I was taking off me coat, I shouted. “Polly, I’m here!”

“We’re in here, love!” She shouted back.

I walked into the parlor where Lovelock and Scudboat were. 

“Go on.” Polly said. “Finish your report.”

“They’ve done in The Guns, The Chain, The Marquis. They didn’t touch the Garrison.” 

Polly scoffed a hand rubbing her bottom lip.

“They did John’s street, too. But they didn’t touch the place.” I added. Her eyes widened like saucers. 

“Jesus Christ. Well, the boys will be coming here soon. Scudboat, Lovelock, go and fetch a bucket of mild. Ali, come help me get the glasses.” 

It took them an hour to get here. Polly told them to have a seat, but only Arthur sat down. I looked over at Tommy who was already looking at me. I turned the left corner of me mouth up as a sort of smile. 

I pulled me sleeves up and started filling their cups. I passed it to Tommy, first, then Arthur. Scudboat and Lovelock already had their own. John stopped me saying that he’d get his own. I used a cloth to wipe the stuff off of me.

“The coppers told everyone Arthur had agreed to it when he was arrested. They said the Peaky Blinders had cleared out to the fair to let them do it.” Polly told them.

“I never said nothing to that copper about smashing up bloody houses!” Arthur said.

“All right!” Tommy said. “Which pubs did they do?”

“The Guns, The Chain, The Marquis. All the ones that pay you to protect them. The only one they didn't touch was The Garrison.” Polly answered. She lit her ciggie before talking again. “Made sure people think we were in on it. Smart, this copper. So go on. Drink your beers. Get out.”

All of them put down their beers and started making their way out, except Tommy.

“You better show people you'll still the cocks of the walk.” Polly called out after them.

Tommy walked ‘round to where I was as he ordered. “Hand out some cash to the landlords of the pubs. Pay some veterans to fix the places up.” 

Arthur barely putting on his coat asked. “So what about you, Tommy?”

“I've to go to Charlie's to stable the horse. She looked foot sore in the box.”

 Arthur was visibly upset by Tommy’s answer. 

“Let them see your faces.” Polly said before closing the doors to the betting shop. She turned ‘round and looked at me. “You can go now, Ali.” 

I nodded, looking over at Tommy who just nodded at me. I turned and went for the door. I was gonna go back to John’s ‘n cook them kids dinner. 

I was barely out the door when I heard the pounding of footsteps.

“Aliena!” Tommy shouted. “I have a plan. Tell me if it pays off or not.” 

“Alright.”

He nodded. “Gonna burn the King’s pictures. Will it-?”

“Yeah.” I interrupted him. I turned back ‘round. 

“See you, tonight, then?” He shouted. 

I waved him off. “Of course!” 

I walked to John’s flat with a little more pep in me step. 

I made their dinner, had some, tucked them into bed, and then made me way down to the fire. Loads of people were piling in. I walked over towards the boys. 

“What’s ‘appening, then, lads?” I shouted as I bumped into John forcefully.

They cheered for me, oddly enough. 

“Look, Finn and I have to go ‘n get more then I’ll be back, eh, Ali!” John said to me as he ran backwards. 

“Fine, hurry up then, la!” I chuckled as I turned me attention to Tommy ‘n Arthur. They were watching the fire. Arthur with a drink in his hand, not yet opened. Tommy nursing a ciggie.

“The only reason I’m not smacking that outta your hand is ‘cause this is a special occasion.” I teased with a smile on me face.

He scoffed. “Then, everyday must be a special occasion.” 

I tsked ‘n attempted to smack away his ciggie. He raised his hand up in the air with a smirk on his face. I gasped loudly and put a hurt look on me face. I attempted to smack it out of his hands, but it was too high for me to reach. 

“Oh c’mon, Finn could do better than that!” Tommy chuckled. 

“Oh, do one! You fucking cheater, you!” I knocked me body into him. 

John and Finn soon came back. Somehow, Tommy managed to get a picture of the King ‘n chucked into the fire. “Chuck them on, boys.” He ordered.

People cheered including Finn, and Tommy chucked another photograph in. 

Arthur spit his cork into the fire before saying. “Well, I hope to God you know what you're doing.”

I looked to me right ‘n saw John pass his pint over to Finn. 

“Oi!” I yelled. “Don’t you take a swing of that, Finn Shelby!” 

 He brought the bottle down from his lips. John laughing at him. 

“Oh, let him. It’s a fire.” John said. 

I looked to Tommy ‘n he nodded. I rolled me eyes and lightly kicked his shoe. He looked at me, pointedly, and I stuck me tongue out at him. 

The reporter came. So Arthur, Finn, John, and I all moved over. I watched as they talked. The fire gave me a logical reason for me blushing. 

‘He just looked so stoic and handsome. Take me breath away, I swear.’

John ‘n I made conversation, mainly abar the schooling progress of his kids. I told him and Arthur, very loudly might I add, abar how Finn was doing. He begged me to stop, but I only did after a little more teasing. 

When the reporter left, we all shuffled back to where Tommy was. We were talking for a while. I didn’t even notice when I was taking swings out of the boys’ bevvies. When I was talking to Tommy, John came over ‘n slung his arm over me shoulders.

“Oi, Aliena. Let’s have a song.” 

I laughed nervously. “You outta your bloody mind!” I pushed his head away from me face. 

I’m guessing Arthur heard ‘cause his head whipped ‘round. “Oh, come on! Sing a song, Songbird!”

I shook me head. “Nu uh!” 

“Oh, come on, Ali. Give us a song.” Tommy added in with a smug smirk.

Me jaw dropped in shock. I muttered. “You little traitor.” I cleared me throat. “Fine, you’re lucky I’ve been drinking! What am I singing? Happy, sad, love songs?”

I got shouts of “love songs” and “happy.” It wasn’t just the boys. I threw me head back trying to find a proper song to kick things off. I knew that none of them would know any of the songs I’ma gonna sing, but I’m too out of it to care. 

So, I picked “Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting)” by Elton John. People were really confused at first until the boys started cheering for me. Then, they started joining in too and a fight really did break out. I spun Finn ‘round ‘n ‘round since I wouldn’t be able to lead John in a dance. I sang “The Love Club” By Lorde and John did pull me away from Finn.

Next, I sang “Supaloney” by BENEE. I even did the dance. Look these were modern songs, but as long as Tommy stuck around, Arthur was cheering, and John ‘n Finn were dancing with me. Nobody said a word and danced with us. I sang “Electric” by Alina Baraz then “Cooler than Me” by Mike Posner before switching over to oldies. 

I stopped dancing and just started singing. The first oldies song I picked was “Can't Take My Eyes off You” by Frankie Valli, “Put Your Head On My Shoulder” by Paul Anka, “Dream a Little Dream of Me” by Doris Day. The crowd was slowing down, visibly tired so I sang “So This Is Love” by Ilene Woods.

When the song finished, I rubbed my throat. Tommy walked over to me and asked if I was alright. I nodded. “Okay, lads! One last song then I’m done!” I announced. I was racking me brain for the right song when a hand clasped me own. 

I looked up at Tommy. “What?” I asked. 

He had a smile on his face. “Sing a song we can dance too.” 

Me face contorted into something I couldn’t describe. I turned into a giggling mess. “What on Earth are you talking abar, Thomas Shelby?” Me voice had turned into a squeal by the end of me sentence. 

He took a hand in mine while the other rested on me hip. I put a hand over me mouth, absolutely speechless. 

“Let’s have a dance, Ali. I’m the only one you haven’t danced with.” 

I laughed with a big embarrassing smile on me face. I shook me head and sniffed as I regained me composure. I sang “At Last” by Etta James as I swayed with Tommy. I giggled a lot and covered me mouth. It felt like I was singing it to ‘em ‘n he got a kick out of it, making faces at me ‘n such. When I sang that we were in heaven, he rolled his eyes while shaking his head. 

We kept leaning into each other. But the final lyric came and so did the end of the dance. We stayed like that only for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes but then he broke it. 

“Right! Fire’s over, go on home!” He yelled. Tommy walked over to Arthur while I stared. Me mood was shattered just like that. 

I was surprised when someone tugged me to them. It was John, of course. I smacked his torso as he started walking us to the house. That night I slept in Tommy’s room. He stroked me hair ‘till I fell asleep.

The next morning, Polly and I were talking over drinks. I was sipping on juice while she had her tea.

Polly reached for the newspaper and started looking over it. 

“Looking for Tommy’s section?” I asked.

“Yes. I want to see how much trouble this boy has stirred up.”

Then Ada came in, making a beeline to the bread and jam.

“Good of you to join us.  Where have you been all day?” Polly asked Ada.

“In bed.” Ada replied. 

I looked away with widened eyes as I took a sip of me juice. 

As Ada was cutting herself a slice of bread, she continued talking. “Couldn't sleep. Then I couldn't wake up. Then I was cold, and then I had to go for a wee.” She grabbed the jam and her plate ‘n sat down at the table. “Then I was with this bear on a boat. That was just a dream. Then I was hungry.”

Polly made a point to stare at her, but Ada only started to get her serving of jam as she asked her. “Why are you reading the paper?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” Polly retorted.

“Well, I've never seen you read the paper. I've only ever seen you light fires with them.” Ada said before taking a bite out of her breakfast. 

“The BSA’s on strike.” Polly said while putting down the newspaper ‘n picking up her cuppa tea. “Miners are on strike. IRA are killing our boys. Ten a day.” I watched as Polly’s eyes widened. She connected the dots. 

‘I’ve been waiting for this moment! Now, I don’t have to tell blags anymore!’

I had to bite me tongue, so I wouldn’t smile. 

“Stand up.” Polly ordered Ada.

“Why?” Ada asked her.

“Just stand up.” Polly put down her cup as Ada put down her bread. They both stood up. “Side on.” 

Ada turned to her side and Polly grabbed her boob, lifting it up a little. 

I chuckled while Ada shouted. “Polly, what are you doing?” We looked at each other with grins on our faces. But Polly was not smiling.

“Ada,” She said concernedly. “How late are you?” 

Ada’s face changed from smiling to frowning. I mean she’d been caught. She looked away then at the ground. “One week.” She said. Ada took a look at Polly. “Five weeks.” The corner of her mouth lifted into a grimace before she admitted it all and Polly sat down. “Seven, if you count weekends. I think it's a lack of iron. I got some tablets.”

“But they didn’t work?” Polly asked. 

I pretended to be concerned about this whole thing. I rested me head on me hand as me elbow was on the table. A worried expression painted on me face. 

Ada sat back down. “No.” She answered while shaking her head, mockingly. 

Polly nodded her head. “Aliena, today you’re taking care of our Ada. I’ll make a telephone call, and see if we can get her an appointment with a woman I know to find out. Go on up to your room.” 

I instantly got up and took Ada’s scran in me hands. “Come on, love.” I said to her. 

She sighed before complying with Polly’s orders. 

As we were walking up the stairs, Ada asked me, “Ali, do you think I’m pregnant?” 

I looked at her with me own grimace. “It’s been seven weeks, Ada. You’d be abar two months into your pregnancy.” 

She whimpered with a scared look on her face. Then, she raced up the stairs. 

The whole day, she just ranted abar how she couldn’t have been pregnant or how she could. Abar how sure she was Tommy would kill Freddie, or they would try to kill each other. I tried soothing her the best I could. ‘Til she started crying ‘n I told her if she keeps on worrying like that she’d hurt the baby. That shut her up.

Polly came in abar 3 o’clock saying that she got Ada the appointment for 7. I was in charge of getting her bathed ‘n ready. Once we were all ready, we made the journey over to Polly’s friend. Ada had a death grip on me hand the whole time. 

Mrs. Simeon, was the woman’s name ‘n she checked if you were pregnant as a job. Sorry, I don’t know the name for it, but she’s like an OB-GYN— I think. Ada had to go into the room alone while me ‘n Polly waited outside the room. 

I sighed audibly while rubbing me forehead and me leg crossed on top of the other. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she, Pol?”

She sighed, too. “Fucking, yes.” 

Ada soon came out with a pout. I knew it was because Mrs. Simeon didn’t tell her the results. But she told them loud ‘n clear to Polly. She paid the woman and Ada stormed off. I ran after her and stole the ciggie she had lit from her hand. 

She protested but I held a finger to her. “No fucking smoking while you’re knocked up. You hear me, Ada? No fucking smoking from now on. It hurts the baby!” I looked down at the burning ciggie in me hand ‘n brought it to me lips. 

I took a puff out of it. Polly came out. “Keep bloody walking, the both of youse.” Polly took hold of Ada’s arm. I followed after them, still smoking. 

“If anybody sees us here, they'll know."

“I'm not getting rid of it, Aunt Pol.” 

“Just come home and we'll talk about it.”

“You get off of me, or I'll scream it, I swear.” Ada yanked her arm out of Polly’s grip. She stood still, effectively stopping us all. I leaned on one side, bringing the ciggies to me lips for another puff. 

Polly looked ‘round as if trying to look out for familiar faces. “All right, you want to do this on the street? Let's do it. Whose is it?”

“If I tell you, you'll tell them and they'll cut him to pieces.”

“Not if he marries you, they won't. Will he marry you?”

“I don't know. I don't know where he is.”

“Jesus Christ, Ada!” Polly exclaimed while I muttered, “Fuck!” 

I was just making little comments to keep up with appearances. I knew Freddie was on the run for now because of Campbell. I threw the ciggie on the ground and smashed it out. 

“Look, he's gone away but he said he'd come back.” Ada said while I scoffed.

“Yeah, but they all say they'll come back.”

“He's not like that, he's a good man, he promised.” Ada started breaking down, so Polly pulled her in for a hug. 

“He will come back, Aunt Pol, I know he will!” Ada said, muffled.

Polly looked at me while nodding her head and I took a surveying glance ‘round the street. I shook me head. 

After a few pats on the back, we hurriedly walked back home. 

I was out all day. I had to clean up John’s flat ‘n then collect from the families. When I was done hanging all of me stuff up, I walked into the parlor to see if anyone else was home. The doors to the betting shop were open ‘n sitting at the furthest table from the door was Tommy. 

He looked deep in thought. I walked over to him, me heels clicking against the floor. He looked up at me.

“Did you know?” He asked me.

“Know what?” 

“About Ada.” 

I was in front of him, now. I nodded. 

He scoffed before downing the drink he had already poured. “How long?”

I fiddled with me hands, humming. “Um. I caught them while I was looking for Ilsa. They were under a bridge that’s near one of Ilsa's friend’s home. I thought the girls might have been playing down there, and there they were.” 

“You didn’t tell me.”

“She begged me not to.”

“Your loyalties lie with her, then?” 

I scoffed while giving him a flabbergasted look. “Loyalties, Thomas? It’s women’s business, Tommy. Look at it this way, I’m telling you now.” 

He laughed, mirthlessly. He leaned back against his chair and poured himself another drink. 

‘Was probably shocked that I dared to use his own words against him.’

 “Are you mad at me?” Me voice came out small. Like a whisper. Me nerves were set a light. 

Tommy shook his head. “No, not mad.” He paused before leaning forward where he originally was. “I’m just surprised you can keep secrets from me. You are, afterall, so easy to read.” He gave me a pointed look, a mocking look. 

I bit me lip while looking up at the ceiling then away from him as I nodded. 

‘I wanted to ask him what he meant by that. But, I don’t think I’d like the answer.’

I cracked me thumb out of reflex. “Well, when you’ve calmed down, let’s talk.” I knocked on the table and then started walking back into the parlor.

“We can talk now.” 

I whipped ‘round. “No!” I yelled, tears streaming down me face and me hands immediately coming into the conversation. “You got a cob on ‘n I don’t want to talk to ya while you’re like that. We’ll both say things we don’t mean, or worse what you do mean to say and I don’t want to hear it right now!” Me arms went limp as they were previously held out in front of me. I nodded at him before turning back ‘round. I was wiping me tears when Polly walked past me. 

I ran to my room ‘n as much as I wanted to slam me door shut, I couldn’t. I leaned against the door as me shoulders shook with sobs. I slid down to the floor. I put me hand over me mouth, trying to stifle me sobs. 

I flinched when I heard the glass shatter. Polly had thrown Thomas’s glass at the wall.

Me thoughts were running at a million miles per hour. I wanted it to stop. I was still crying as I crawled to me bed and took out the suitcases. I opened the one with all the items and looked for something sharp. 

Then, I found it. A pocket knife. I left it out of the suitcase while I put the rest away. I sat against me bed and ran me fingers along the pocket knife. 

A thought ran across me mind, ‘I’ve never done it with a knife before.’

I choked on a sob and took a big gulp of air. 

‘I can’t take it anymore. What if I stayed down there and he made fun of me for having a crush on him? He’s gonna start pushing me away. I can’t take this anymore, not this much stress. I can’t bloody well tell him everything, but did he expect me too? But I can’t! I can’t do that all the time!’ I thought. 

I picked up me dress and bunched it up at me waist. I unclasped the knife that was in me left hand and held it at the outside of me left thigh.

It was scarless. I’ve never cut here before. I’ve done me stomach and arms, but never thighs. 

I got the sheets from me bed and stuffed them in me mouth in a hurry. Me breathing quickened even more as I pressed the knife against me skin. 

And then I just did it. The pain was euphoric. I watched the blood seep out of the cut I made. I did another and another. 

‘Fat. Ugly. Worthless. Manipulative. Annoying. Whore. Clingy. Slut.’ Were the thoughts that ran through me mind.

It was like I was snapped out of it when I heard a bang and then another right after it. I looked down at me thigh and it was all red. There were drops of blood on the floor. 

‘What do I do? How would I get all of this clean?’ 

I slammed me head back against me bed. I stopped crying and was just breathing hard. I dropped the knife and hid me face in me hands. I tugged me face down before I let it go. I sat there doin’ nothing. Then, I heard the door slam again and I rushed to my feet. 

I held me skirt up and ran to where we kept the medical supplies. I slammed it down on the counter near the sink as I sat on it. I looked around for alcohol ‘n I couldn’t find it. So, I hopped down ‘n shuffled to where Tommy was sitting at. 

I took the bottle in me hands ‘n then walked back to where I was. I sat down there again ‘n poured the alcohol onto me cuts. I winced a little, but the pain brought me more satisfaction than discomfort. I got a gauze pad in me hand ‘n placed it over them, then wrapped it ‘round. 

I heaved a big sigh when it was all said ‘n done. I sat there for a while before I decided to get back up. I got a dry cloth ‘n filled up a bowl with water then walked back up me room. 

After I scrubbed out the blood on me floor, I put it on me desk ‘n went to sleep. 

The next day, I didn’t see him. I knew he went to talk to Campbell ‘n then see Grace. I smelt the opium from his room. It made me cry and pick at me wounds, which I had been cleaning up secretly. 

Bloody Ilsa and Finn got good eyes. They asked me why I’ve been walking with a limp. I told them I’d banged me foot pretty hard. They, of course, believed it. 

It was morning. I was getting ready. I whimpered when I had to pick up me leg to put on me shoes, boots they were. When I had put down me leg, there was a knock on me door. 

I startled me for a second. I looked at me left thigh to see if any blood had seeped through, but there was none. 

“Come in.” I said. 

The door opened and in came Tommy. I scoffed at the sight of him.

“You said that we’d talk when I wasn’t angry anymore. So…” He was in one of his suits with his cap in his hands. 

“It took you a day to get over it?” 

“I was busy.” 

“Sure.” I said as I already felt like crying. I closed me eyes and pinched me nose. When I opened me eyes, I kept them to the ground. 

He cleared his throat. “First, I want to apologize for making you cry. I know you don’t like it when I raise my voice and I took advantage of that. I know that when it comes to women things are different, especially when it's about romance. I had no reason to lash out the way I did at you, so for that I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “I accept your apology, Tommy. Anything else?” I lifted me head and looked right at him.

He looked away, trying to rack his mind for whatever he did wrong. 

I made a smacking noise with me mouth before I said. “I’ll help you out. There was a smell coming from your room.” 

Tommy’s eyes closed tightly. “I used opium to go to sleep last night, sorry.” 

I shrugged. “Don’t do it again.”

Tommy nodded before slowly making his way out of me door. He turned back ‘round with his cap now on his head. “You know, you have the nose of a blood hound.” 

I nodded with a smug smile across me face. “And the eyes of an eagle. And the ears of an elephant, so be more careful ‘round me.” 

He had a little smile before walking away. I kept me own little grin. I snapped me fingers twice and clapped me hands. Another reflex of mine.  

Me eyes widened when I realized I had something to tell him. “Tommy!” I shouted. I ran after him and caught him by the arm on the stairway. 

“What is it?” He asked. 

I blinked before letting him go. “Today’s meeting will be fine ‘n as long as you keep your ego or pride in check. It’ll go the way you want it, okay?”

His eyes widened, eyes shifting from left to right with his mouth hanging slightly open. “Okay” He said. 

I smiled and told him goodbye. 

I watched as he left. He gave me a two-finger salute before the door closed. 

His meeting with Billy Kimber will be fine!

I went back to me room to finish doing me hair. 

TAG LIST: @amirahiddleston​ @nemesis729​ @salvatoreitmeanssaviour​

[taeken-my-heart]

Moirai Chapter 13

Summary: On your 18th birthday a name appears on your wrist. The name of your soulmate. It’s a momentous day that everyone looks forward to, but you’ve always brushed aside; refusing to believe in a fickle mistress called destiny. But what happens when on the morning of your 18th birthday you wake to find the name of your mortal enemy? Jeon Jungkook.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: Soulmates au/ Enemies to lovers au. Angst, fluff, bickering, romance, eventual smut.

Word Count: 5651

Chapter notes: This has got some nice bits...but it’s also got some pretty good angst at the end. It will all be OK <3

+++++++++

“So, I was thinking,” Jimin began, leaning against the door frame as you finished your mascara, peering up at his reflection. “There’s this farmers market going on, on 5th and Waller, and I’ve heard really good things about this Greek gyro stand there. Let’s go try some.”

“You hate trying new food.” You frowned, peering over your shoulder at him and he huffed, coming to stand behind you, hands kneading into your shoulders.

“Not all the time,” he whined, “Come on. We both have the evening off, I thought it might be fun to go do this together. Tomorrow is the last night and you work so let’s go now.”

“Fine.” You replied, standing and dusting off your jeans. “But food is on you.”

“Yes ma’am!” He saluted, kissing your cheek and grabbing your hand. “Don’t even bother getting your purse, I’ll take care of everything.”

The market was within walking distance of your apartment so the two of you made your way leisurely towards 5th and Waller, chatting absentmindedly as the early evening breeze swept through your hair.

The evening was pleasant, the sun drooping low on the horizon. The hair at the nape of your neck was warm with perspiration and you tugged at the bottom of your shirt to fan yourself. The market came into view, colorful tented booths lining the street. The first stand caught your eye and you navigated Jimin towards it, arm linked through his.

“Wow, look at this dress! It’s super cute. What do you think?” You held the sunflower yellow up against your body and Jimin looked you up and down, nodding.

“You look like spring vomited all over you.”

“That’s my favorite look.” You hummed, turning to the vender and inquiring after the price. After Jimin had paid (because he’d foolishly insisted that he’d take care of everything) you took the bag you were handed and linked your arm back through his.

“Y/N?” Someone inquired from behind you and both you and Jimin turned around. Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach, eyes landing on the dark mop of hair you’d never imagined you’d see outside of work. Now, of course, you realized that was foolish. You lived in the same city, naturally it was a possibility.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, sharper than you’d meant.

“I live in this neighborhood,” Jungkook said, eyebrow raised at you. He glanced at your arm, thread through the arm of your boyfriend, before turning his gaze toward him. “You must be Jimin.”

“Ah, yes, I see my reputation precedes me. You are?”

“I’m Dr.-”

“Kim!” You said loudly and both Jimin and Jungkook turned to blink owlishly at you. “This is Dr. Kim.”

Jungkook looked back at Jimin, smiling tightly before extending his hand. “Taehyung Kim. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, Taehyung!” Jimin grinned, “Y/N tells me you’re a really gifted pathologist.”

“Ah, she shouldn’t have.” Jungkook crooned, switching his gaze to you and you smiled, tense.

Laughing, you squeezed Jimin’s forearm nervously. “He really is great, but honey, we’ve really gotta get going or we’ll miss the gyros. I’m sure Taehyung has somewhere to be too.”

“Actually, I was heading to the gyro stand myself.” Jungkook smiled, “I’ve heard really good things about the quality of their meat.”

“Well then, please, join us. I would love to hear how Y/N behaves at work.”

You were dying, Jimin dragging you along by his side as the three of you resumed your walk further into the market. “So, remind me what you do for work,” Jungkook said, “I know Y/N has told me before, but I’m afraid I have forgotten.”

“I’m a divorce attorney at Swanson and Heath.”

“Ah, must be a difficult business.”

“No more difficult than being a doctor, I imagine. Though I’m not often faced with life or death.”

Jungkook nodded, dodging a lady yelling at her little boy off to the side of the stands, hair tousled and looking like he’d been rolling in the dirt. “They’re difficult in different ways, that’s for sure. Do you see many soulmates in your office?”

You tried not to squeeze Jimin’s bicep in your stress. You glanced over at Jungkook who looked the picture of curious innocence and tried not to glare.

“I can’t say we see a lot, but we have seen a couple in the five years that I’ve been there. It’s not unheard of, but it is pretty rare.”

“Guess there’s something to be said for the soulmate attachment.” Jungkook said; nonchalant.

Jimin shrugged, your arm raising with the motion. “I guess if you buy into that type of thing.”

Jungkook looked between the two of you, smile quirking at the corner of his lips. “I’m a big believer in soulmates; always have been. I think, like every relationship, it takes some work, but I’m willing to put in the work.”

You frowned, following Jimin around the corner and you could see the gyro stand come into view, line long, but likely worth it.

“Have you met your soulmate yet?” Jimin asked, just as the three of you stepped into the line and stopped. You looked at Jungkook, eyes wide as you tried to communicate to him how brutally you would strangle him if he outed you.

Jungkook smiled sadly, shaking his head. “Ah, life hasn’t given us the opportunity to really connect yet. I’m hopeful for the future.”

“Well I’m rooting for you.”

“I appreciate that.” Jungkook grinned and you just wanted to shrivel up and disappear. If only Jimin knew what he was rooting for.

“So, how’d you hear about this market?” Jimin asked.

“I actually only live about a block away so I’ve been seeing the posters around for the last week and it got me interested. I’m pretty new to the area,” at your sharp, panicked expression, he backtracked, “this neighborhood, I mean, and so I thought it would be a good idea.”

“Ah, did you move recently?”

Jungkook nodded, “into this neighborhood, yeah. It’s been a pretty positive move so far. Much nicer apartment than my last.”

You could see the line Jungkook was toeing, trying not to outright lie about everything and you felt a little bad. You were the one who’d called him by the name of another colleague, but you weren’t ready to tell Jimin yet. You just knew he wouldn’t be happy.

“So, have you been seeing anyone? While you wait for your soulmate?” Jimin asked, cheeks pinched at the thought. He really did hate the idea of soulmates and everything they represented, but he was too nice a guy to mock other people’s dreams and ambitions. At least not to their face.

“No,” Jungkook shook his head, “not really. I dated casually in college but nothing every really stuck and eventually I just realized that I already had someone special that I was willing to work for.” He tapped his wrist, looking up at you and your eyes locked, heart beating anxiously against your rib cage.

In a dark corner somewhere inside you, where you’d locked that same dream away, it leapt eagerly, beating against the doors of its prison. You had wanted that too…maybe you still did.

The line moved forward and you switched your gaze away from the heat of his intensity, watching as a couple walked past you with their recently purchased gyro. Your mouth watered a little.

“So, you’re a romantic?” Jimin asked and before you could stop yourself, you were scoffing.

“Yeah, when he was a kid, he used to think he’d hear a bell when he met his soulmate. It’s from an anime or something.”

Both Jimin and Jungkook looked at you in surprise. “Did you know Taehyung as a kid?” Jimin asked, “I thought you said you met at the hospital.”

Internally kicking yourself, you tried your best to smile. “That’s just something he’s told me before. These kinds of conversations come up sometimes.”

“I guess.” Jimin nodded and you could see Jungkook’s struggle not to laugh.

“Yeah, I was a bit of a nerd as a kid.” He chuckled, “Never really grew out of the romantic side, although I was kind of an idiot for a few years. You know how teenagers are.”

Jimin laughed, nodding. “Yeah, there was a week straight in elementary school where we learned about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and I was convinced that, that was my calling, literally dressed up as a knight every day for a month.”

You burst out laughing, griping his arm tight. “No way! You never told me that.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “not exactly my proudest moment. Didn’t really think that was the story to try and woo you with.”

“Fair enough.” You grinned.

It was your turn in line so you and Jimin both stepped forward, glancing over the menu quickly before making your selections and paying. You stepped off to the side, laying your head against Jimin’s shoulder and waiting for your food to be ready.

Jungkook came to stand beside the two of you once again, striking up conversation with Jimin as you linked your fingers with the later, playing with the knuckles on his hand to distract yourself. This was a very weird situation; to be trapped in the center of a conversation between your boyfriend and you’re your soulmate. You were really grateful that so far Jungkook hadn’t said anything.

After spending the next hour weaving your way through booths and chatting in your small group, Jimin expressed his interest in returning home. Tomorrow was officially the weekend and after a really early morning and long day at the office he was about ready to collapse.

“Well it was really nice to meet you, Jimin.” Jungkook smiled, extending his hand for a handshake.

“Likewise, Taehyung.”

As Jimin and you began to move away from him, you glanced over your shoulder at Jungkook who waved you a small goodbye. “Hold on.” You said softly to Jimin and he stopped with a nod.

You walked over to Jungkook pausing as you scanned his face carefully. “Thank you, Jungkook.” You whispered. “I’m sorry you had to lie; I just haven’t felt ready to tell him yet that…well that you’re back in my life. I promise I’ll tell him later. I just don’t want him to leave me. I love him.”

Jungkook nodded, his face a careful mask over his emotions and you waved softly, backing away. After walking back to Jimin and moving towards home again you glanced back one more time to find Jungkook still standing there, watching as you rounded the corner.

  Saturdays were one of your least favorite shifts to work (aside from the full moon because that crap was real) for all the obvious reasons, but also you were typically working 12-hour shifts and today was no different. It was 6 hours in and you were already tired.

Jungkook’s welcome party had started an hour ago and even though you’d had opportunities, you hadn’t been brave enough to go in yet. You’d seen his parents through the doorway and had been tempted to go say hello…but then what? Stand there awkwardly while you all thought the same thing? Standing next to your soulmate but not doing anything about it. No thanks.

The intensity of the shame was too much to bear.

You were stood by the nursing desk, trying to kill some extra time by flipping through the charts of one of your patients when Lizzy caught you.

“There you are!” She called and you stood up straight, smiling over your shoulder at her. “What are you doing out there? There’s free food in the break room, you know. They have French fries, Y/N, French fries!”

You chuckled rolling your eyes and leaning your elbows against the counter as you turned to face her. “Careful now, you just might start a stampede with your volume.”

“Come on, let’s go eat.” Lizzy said, threading her arm through yours and you balked at the idea, attempting to pull your arm away but she clung tight.

“I can’t, I’m busy.” You lied and Lizzy’s face darkened.

“Really? Busy reading Mrs. Chapelman’s chart for the 6th time in an hour? I’ve been watching you, Y/N.”

You huffed a sigh, tugging at your arm again and this time Lizzy relinquished her hold. “Well that’s not creepy.” You muttered, “I’m just not really feeling hungry.”

“Then come socialize.”

“Or social.”

Lizzy crossed her arms over her chest. “Seriously, what is going on with you? You barely know Dr. Jeon, why are you acting like this? It’s kind of childish.”

You frowned over at your friend, fingers tapping at the desk behind you. “You don’t even know what happened between us or anything so that’s pretty rich.”

“Yeah, because you won’t tell me anything!” Lizzy fumed, “it hasn’t been from lack of trying on my part. He’s a really nice guy so I really don’t get this grudge you seem to have against him.”

“If I go in there, can we stop talking about Jungkook?” You sighed with a rolled of your eyes. Lizzy examined you carefully and you fought the urge to fidget under her gaze.

“First name basis, huh?”

“Oh my gosh, Lizzy!” You laughed. “Seriously. I’ll go in if we stop talking about him.”

“Fine,” she sniffed, grabbing your wrist, “but at some point, you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on. I’ve been pretty patient, but you know I’m a nosy s.o.b and you haven’t been sharing your gossip.”

Just as the two of you stepped into the room Lizzy’s pager beeped and she looked down at it, groaning. “I’ve gotta go, but you need to at least go say hi!” She insisted, pointing her finger at you.

She stomped her way out the door and you tried to carefully follow after before anyone else could see you, but it was too late. Jungkook’s eyes skimmed the room, landing on you and he grinned, calling your name and waving his hand over his head. His parents stood beside him, dressed in simple but classy dress clothes and you made your way towards them, Mrs. Jeon holding her arms open for you.

“Y/N!” She cooed, pulling you into her embrace, “how are you? It’s been so long since we’ve seen you!”

You hugged Mr. and Mrs. Jeon before taking the drink Jungkook handed you and smiling at his parents. “Wow, it really has been so long. Like 9 years, right? Can you believe it?”

“You should come visit your parents more often.” Mrs. Jeon scolded and you nodded, embarrassed.

“You’re right, I haven’t been out that way in too long. Just seems like there’s always an emergency that needs attending to here.”

You all chuckled and Mr. Jeon wrapped his arm around your shoulders again, squeezing. “How have you been? What have you been doing?”

“I’ve been good; just working mostly. Trying to find that work life balance.”

“Are you excited for your sister’s wedding? It’s coming up really soon, just over two months, right?”

“That’s right!” You smiled, one hand sliding into the pocket of your scrubs and you took a sip of your drink. It was fruity and light; maybe passionfruit. “Two months and one week officially. Ella called me this morning to threaten my life if I don’t wear the shoes she’s ordered for me.”

Jungkook laughed and you smiled up at him. “That sounds like something she’d say.”

“Well then you’d better wear the shoes.” Mrs. Jeon chuckled, taking a bite of her food. “You should get some, by the way,” she said, pointing down at her plate, “They did not skimp on taste.”

Jungkook motioned for you to walk passed him and you bowed your head in thanks, moving towards the table with him right behind you. “How was the rest of your night last night?” He asked, dropping a couple drumsticks on his plate and scanning the rest of the table for what he wanted next.

You grabbed a plate yourself, heading straight for the fried rice, allowing the grumbling in your stomach to make decisions for you. “It was good; very casual. We ordered in some dessert, binge watched a few episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and then went to bed early.”

“On a Friday night?” He chuckled and you turned to him, smiling.

“Well Jimin stayed up a little later than me working on one of his cases, but I have a 12 hour shift today so I wanted to be well rested.”

“Fair enough. Glad I have today off.”

“Don’t rub it in.” You complained and he grinned. You stood by the table as you ate; time was limited so you wanted to shove as much in as you could while you could.

“Is Jimin coming as your plus one to the wedding?” Jungkook asked, chewing on one of the drumsticks on his plate and you looked up at him, nodding.

“Yeah, that’s the plan. Unless something crazy comes up at work, of course, but that’s doubtful.”

“I bet your family is really excited to see you. Has it really been 9 years since you’ve been back home?”

“Well, no,” you shook your head, “just 9 years since I’ve happened to see your parents. I’ve definitely been back home but it’s always been when they were out of town or schedules just didn’t match up.”

“Yeah, they’re out of town a lot,” he agreed, grabbing a roll from the pile on the table, “That’s my dream for retirement.”

“To travel?” You asked, looking up at him and he nodded.

“Yeah, everywhere I can get to. I wanna see the whole world. What about you? Are you interested in travel?”

Jungkook’s parents were talking to Dr. Kim a few feet away and you watched them for a moment in thought. You wondered what they thought about all of this. Jungkook’s job, how far he’s come, this hospital, the fact that you worked here…just you in general. You’d never felt like your relationship with them suffered, but you knew, even if they didn’t say it, that they wanted you and Jungkook to be together.

Sometimes…when you weren’t paying attention to how your thoughts strayed, you wished that it could be that simple. That old wounds would heal and maybe some how things would work out. Life never worked how you thought it would, though.

“I mean, yeah, definitely.” You nodded, turning back to look at Jungkook. His hair was pushed back and away from his face and you could see that he had a mild undercut. You wondered if that was new. “Who doesn’t want to see the world? If only money allowed.”

“I’m a big believer in the fact that it’s not money that holds us back, more like lack of time and the will to make the sacrifices needed to save. One time, in college, my parents told me that they were going to go visit family in Korea in the spring. I only had about 5 months to save so I literally stopped spending money on things that weren’t necessary and saved a ton. It just took a lot of dedication.”

“Doesn’t that take some fun out of life, though? What if I want to go to lunch?” You grinned and he smiled back.

“Depends where your priorities lie, I suppose. I was willing to put off a few every day activities for 2 weeks of adventure. It was pretty worth it in my books.”

You sighed, taking a large sip of your drink and Jungkook watched your throat bob as he waited to hear what was on your mind. “Do you ever take a break from being obnoxiously good at all things?” You teased and he grinned, shrugging.

“There’s no rest for the brilliant.”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes and smacking his arm. “You’re so full of yourself.” Just then your pager beeped and you frowned, throwing away your empty plate. “Duty calls. I’m gonna go say goodbye to your parents.”

Jungkook nodded and you made you way over to bid your goodbyes before heading back out into the hallway and over to the labor ward. They were a little short tonight and needed someone to administer an epidural.

You had a cesarean section in an hour anyway so it was probably better to stay close to the area. Someone calling your name made you pause and you turned to find Jungkook jogging towards you. “Hey, sorry, I know you’re busy. My parents are leaving back home tomorrow night and they were wondering if you had any free time tomorrow, they want to take you out to eat.”

“Just me and your parents?” You asked, eyebrow raised and he chuckled, running his fingers through his hair and looking down at the ground.

“Well, no, I’d be there too.”

You scratched at your pant leg in thought, “Well, I’m working tomorrow night and into Monday morning so I could really only do something in the morning or early afternoon.”

“What about brunch? Would you be available for that?” He suggested, eyebrows raised.

“Sure, I think I can swing brunch,” You shrugged, “I’ve really gotta run, though.”

“Well how can I get a hold of you to tell you the details?” He asked as you began to move away and you stopped.

You looked around before grabbing a marker from the nurse’s desk next to you and reaching for his hand, scribbling your number down in his palm. “There,” you looked up at him, lips quirking up. “Problem solved.”

You placed the marker back in its place before nodding and turning around, walking around the corner and away from the man who had now made a habit of making your heart race.

  When your shift was over you made your way wearily to your car, chucking your bag into the passenger seat and turning the key in the ignition; the car whirring to life noisily. It was only 7:15 but you’d been working for 12 hours straight and right now, you thought your feet might actually fall off.

The drive home was quiet. No music to disturb, rush hour long over. The quiet was nice; peaceful after a day of emotional turmoil and emergency surgeries. You enjoyed your drives home; like a reset of your emotional state, allowing you to breathe and feel human again. At least until the next shift.

Sometimes working in medicine, you did feel like a robot. It could become all too easy to switch off your emotions, especially in the cases when someone died in your care. Having to tell families that someone they’d trusted you with was gone…it was honestly the worst part of your job. All the monitoring and work in surgery was daunting, yes, but it usually paid off with a healthy person at the end.

But sometimes it didn’t.

Those moments made you bleed red, like somehow you’d died instead, lost a piece of your soul with the person you couldn’t protect. You’d seen many really good doctors just switch off; self-preservation, as it were. You understood it; that need to protect your own heart. It was tempting, sometimes, to want to switch off and just become robotic. Get the job done and don’t lose any of yourself in the process.

That’s not how it worked, though. In a choice like that, you always lost more of yourself when you chose to stop feeling. Choosing to embrace the emotion, you liked to believe it made you a more empathetic person. You wanted to grieve with those who were grieving; show them that they weren’t alone.

It was draining, though.

After parking your car and switching off the engine, you slid your bag back over your shoulder and made your way towards the elevator. You locked your car from over your shoulder.

The hallway was relatively quiet this evening, which was nice. Usually you could hear your neighbors trying to corral their two young children into their nighttime routine. Whatever it was, the kids hated it and you got to hear about it every night. You smiled at the thought, slipping your key into the lock of your front door and making your way into the apartment.

The house was quiet but the lights were on. “Jimin?” You called, making your way towards the living room.

He sat on the couch, eyes trained down on the floor and something about his silence was earie. Something felt…off.

“So, something really interesting happened today.” Jimin said, lips pursed as he picked at the fluff of one of your couch cushions. From the look on his face, it seemed like that something wasn’t a good thing.

“Oh?” You said, fingers griping tightly at the strap of your satchel “What happened?”

“I met a man today, at the store, we got chatting and we figured out that you both work together. His name was Taehyung Kim. You know what’s particularly interesting?” You heart plummeted as he looked up at you, face ridged from his emotion. “He looked nothing like the Taehyung Kim I met.”

There was silence for what felt like forever, a sharp stillness as Jimin watched you carefully, gauging your reaction.

“Who did I meet last night, Y/N?” He asked and you couldn’t help the tears as they welled in your eyes. “Who was that?”

He stood and your arm went limp, your bag sliding from your shoulder and onto the floor. “It was Jungkook.” You whispered.

“Who?” Jimin asked, voice sharp and you felt a tear slip over and onto your cheek.

“Jungkook.”

“How long has he been back?” The stone in his voice was terrifying.

“It’s been three weeks.” You mumbled, mouth wet with emotion.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jimin snapped, pacing across the room angrily, “for weeks you’ve been working with him and you never said a word!”

“I’m sorry!” You cried, “I really didn’t want to worry you. There’s nothing going on between us, I swear, we’re just coworkers. You know how the soulmates thing works, he and I are always going to have our lives revolve around each other.”

“Do you want to be with him?” He asked tersely.

“No!” You insisted, coming to stand in front of him, gripping his forearms.

“Does he want to be with you?” He asked softly.

You paused, not really sure of the answer. While he hadn’t exactly expressed his interest in words directly to you, his actions seemed to indicate that, that might be something on his mind. Your silence was all Jimin needed.

“Great.” Jimin replied sourly, “I guess this is it then, right? Gonna leave me for your soulmate?”

“No!” You balked, pulling him to you as he tried to turn away, “Jimin, you know I don’t believe in the soulmate thing. Just because his name is on my wrist doesn’t mean he suddenly adds value to my life; he never has. I don’t want to be with him, I want to be with you. I love you.”

Jimin frowned and your heart stuttered slightly in your chest; he almost looked…guilty. “I’ve gotta get some air.” He muttered, turning and storming from the apartment before you could stop him.

  It had been three hours since Jimin had left, insisting he needed air. You were beginning to think he’d gone to a friend’s house when suddenly the keys in the lock roused your attention. You watched from your spot at the kitchen table as Jimin walked in, dropping his keys and his jacket on the console table and running his hands along his jeans before shoving them in fists into his pockets.

“Are you ok?” You asked softly, clutching tighter to your mug. Jimin took a deep breath, walking slowly into the kitchen but pausing in the doorway. Something wasn’t right.

“We need to talk.” He said, leaning against the door jam and your heart seized in your chest. You motioned for him to take the seat beside you and he moved slowly, sliding down onto the chair and folding his hands in front of him on the table. “I haven’t been 100% honest with you.” He said, gaze trained on the divots of the oak table you were both sitting at. Your stomach rolled uncomfortably but you waited for him to continue. “I tried to fight it for a while, tried to practice what I preach…but I’ve reached a point where I realize I just can’t anymore.”

“Tried to fight what?” You whispered. You were terrified. You’d heard this story before and it didn’t end well for you.

“I met Molly.” Jimin mumbled sadly, glancing up at you and you could feel your heart shatter. 8 years together, a lifetime of future plans already made suddenly evaporated.

“Ok.” You murmured hoarsely. You could feel the tears already pricking at your eyes. It wasn’t fair, what had you ever done to deserve this sort of heart break? Each guy you’d dated who’d insisted he didn’t believe in soulmates always seemed to change their tune once they’d met them. It was never ending disappointment.

“You remember that crazy couple that’s been going through my firm to get a divorce? Always screaming and asking for emergency meetings? Turns out the wife’s maiden name is Fisher.”

Molly Fisher. It was burned into your mind along with the skin of Jimin’s wrist, a constant reminder that he was never really yours to begin with…just like the name on your own wrist was a reminder that in the end, you weren’t really any bodies. It hurt so badly. You weren’t equipped to handle this sort of pain; how could you just pretend the last 8 years hadn’t happened? How could you watch the love of your life leave you for no other reason than the fact that the universe deemed it so?

"I thought you didn't believe in soulmates?" You mumbled. Your mouth felt heavy with emotion and tears were streaming down your cheeks.

"I didn't." Jimin sighed, "Until I met mine. I don't know how Jungkook did it, knowing you for so long and just giving you up. I've only known Molly three weeks and I can't imagine trying to breath without her."

You couldn't help the sob that escaped you and Jimin's bottom lip quivered at the sound. "I'm so sorry." He choked.

You nodded soundlessly, trying to regain your composure. “I know you are.”

“I never meant for this to happen!” Jimin cried, reaching out and taking your hand in his own. “I love you; you know I love you...but I can’t deny that it’s different. The way I feel about you and the way I feel about her are…” he paused at the trembling of your bottom lip and he looked down at your hands, sniffing, “it’s just something I can’t really ignore anymore.”

“I understand.” You said, standing and wiping at your tear stained cheeks, sniffing noisily as you tried to stop the wave of emotion that was overcoming you. “You should probably go, though, I don’t think your soulmate would like you being here with me.” You walked towards the living room, heart seizing as you heard Jimin cry louder.

“What do you want me to do?” He sobbed, standing and coming to hover at the kitchen door, “what am I supposed to do in this situation? Just tell me and I’ll do it!” He looked half out of his mind and in that moment, though your heart was still bleeding in the center of your chest, you felt immense pity for this man that you loved. He was torn between two horrifyingly difficult choices. Stay with the woman he was in love with and deny the pull to his soulmate, or give you up and follow his destiny with a woman he already loved so much more than he could express? You could already see that intense love on his face, the one they always talked about. No matter what he did, someone was going to get hurt.

And it looked like it was going to be you.

“You should go to her.” You mumbled, “I can’t keep you…I have to believe that I love you enough to let you go.”

“Don’t say that.” Jimin frowned, “I don’t want you to let me go.”

“But you want to be with Molly.” You said it as though it were a question, though you knew it was also fact. Jimin’s frown deepened because he couldn’t deny it. “You can’t have us both, Jimin, it’s greedy and not fair. I’m not willing to share you so you have to choose.”

Jimin stared at you in silence and you nodded, pursing your lips. “I’m going to stay with a friend tonight. You can get your stuff together and do whatever. We’ll sort out the lease on this apartment later. Right now, I just really need to go.”

“Y/N!” He called as you yanked open the door. You turned to look at him over your shoulder and he sighed, eyes bloodshot with tears. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” You whispered, “Goodbye, Jimin.”

 The evening was surprisingly cool for the time of year; though the summer had come and gone, the days were still warm and sticky. You wished you’d brought your jacket but there was no way you were going back to the apartment now. You needed time to breathe and Jimin needed time to pack.

You felt like your heart was splintering all over again at the thought of him. You needed comfort. Food, you needed food. Your favorite diner was just around the corner and you picked up your steps, making your way through the door with a jingle of the bell and you smiled meekly at the hostess as she greeted you.

“Table for one?” She smiled and you nodded, following after her. She led you to your favorite table, pushed back against the wall and with a view out into the city. Leaving you with the menu and a promise to bring you a cup of hot chocolate pronto, you sighed, pushing your nose deep into the menu and scanning for something that would help you feel less miserable.

Maybe pancakes.

The sound of someone sliding into the vinyl seat across from you roused your attention and you looked up to find Jungkook, doe eyes wide and smiling as he surveyed you. He held in his hand a coffee mug and you eyed it wearily.

“Coffee at 10:30pm on a Saturday?” You asked and his smile deepened.

“Decaf.” When you said nothing he continued, “So what brings you here so late?”

“Jungkook,” you sighed, setting your menu down heavily, “do you need something?”

“I just thought you could use some company.” He replied and you frowned.

  “Well, no offense, but I’ve had a pretty terrible night and you are kind of the last person I’d seek comfort from.”

You felt bad, Jungkook actually looked a little hurt and you closed your eyes, rubbing at them in frustration. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve just had a really bad night.”

“Is it anything I can help with?” He asked carefully and you sighed again, staring down at the menu.

“Not really.” You shrugged.

“Where’s Jimin tonight?” Jungkook asked. You knew he meant well, was trying to distract you from your thoughts…if only he’d known how poor that conversation starter was.

“At home packing, I presume.” You muttered weakly.

“Packing?” You could hear Jungkook’s discomfort.

“It would be weird to continue to live with one another after breaking up.” You said, feigning a casual air you most certainly did not feel.

“I’m so sorry.” Jungkook mumbled, and really, he did look very sorry, which was more comforting than it should have been.

“That’s what happens when you meet your soulmate, I guess…well, sometimes.” You tried not to look at him, but you could see him shifting uncomfortably in his seat, fingers tapping against his porcelain mug. It was silent for a while before the waitress came, delivering Jungkook’s food and your drink before promising to be back with your food soon.

“Want a fry?” Jungkook asked, pushing his plate towards you and you smiled.

“Sure.” You took a fry from his plate, chewing on the end of it and watching as he took a bite of his burger.

“Look,” he said after he’d swallowed his mouthful and chased it down with a sip of his coffee, “I know we’re not exactly…close, or what not, but if you need a place to stay, I’ve got a spare room, you’re more than welcome to stay the night.”

“That’s very generous of you,” you smiled, “but I’m OK. I’ll just call a friend and ask to spend the night. Beside aren’t your parents with you?”

“No, they wanted to stay in a hotel.” He said, “Are you sure, though? I really won’t bother you. My place isn’t too far away and the guest room has its own bathroom.”

“Thank you, Jungkook, really. I just think, considering our history, it’s probably not the best idea.”

“Can we put history aside for one night?” He asked softly, “I just want to help you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll get through this.”

“I know you will.” He replied confidently, “you’re strong, stronger than anyone I know. You’re passionate, intelligent, and kind. It’s not a question of whether you’ll get through it but whether you’ll let people who genuinely care about you help you.”

“And you would consider yourself one of those people?” You questioned, thanking the waitress as she dropped off your pancakes.

“Look, Y/N, I was 18 years old when I made that choice. I was scared and made a rash decision but it doesn’t mean that I never cared. I’ve done a poor job of showing it, but I’ve cared about you my entire life. Please let me help you.”

You chewed on your pancakes slowly as you considered him. Maybe you were being unfair, still holding this grudge against him. The both of you had been just barely 18 and there had been a lot of sudden changes. You weren’t ready to think of him in the context of falling in love, and you probably never would be…but perhaps you could be friends.

Sighing you nodded, “OK. Just for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll be back in my apartment, though.”

“Yes, of course!” He beamed and you couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Here it is.” Jungkook said softly, flicking on the lights at the front entrance and ushering you through. It was simply furnished, with clean lines and warm tones. It was similar in size to your own apartment, but with a more open plan style. “Let me show you the guest room.”

He led you down a separate hallway, pushing open the door on your right. “It’s nothing, fancy,” he mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but there’s blankets and pillows, an en suite, and the mattress is pretty comfortable.”

Simple grey’s and browns showcased the room perfectly and you smiled. “It’s great,” you said softly, “thank you.”

“I suppose you don’t have a tooth brush or pajamas, huh?” At the shake of your head he raised one finger, walking quickly back out of the room and you listened to the shuffling sounds at the end of the hallway. “Here,” he said, returning with a towel, a new tooth brush, and a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. “The clothes are washed and clean; I hope they fit. Let me know if you need anything else.”

You smiled, taking the small pile from him and nodding, “thanks, Jungkook.”

After he’d left the room you closed the door, changing into the pajamas provided and going to brush your teeth and wash your face. The shirt was a little too baggy and the shorts sagged on your hips, but you were happy to have clothes to sleep in; you didn’t really fancy sleeping in your jeans or even worse, your underwear. Not with Jungkook around, anyway.

After you’d finished preparing for bed you decided you wanted a glass of water to help you settle down. Stepping back into the hallway you padded slowly towards the kitchen in search of a cup. You hoped Jungkook had retreated to his room but those hopes were quickly dashed as you found him sitting at the kitchen Island, medical book opened across the countertop and laptop attached at the fingers.

He looked up at you in surprise before sitting up straight. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you need me to turn off the lights? I didn’t realize they reached all the way to the bedroom.” He made a move to stand but you motioned for him to sit and he slowly complied.

“No, you’re fine, I actually just wanted a glass of water before bed.”

“Oh, of course. Here, let me get that for you.” He said, pushing off the stool he’d been sat on.

“It’s really not necessary,” you insisted as he rounded the counter, “you’ve already been very kind to me, you can just point me to the cups.”

“Nonsense.” He smiled, pulling a glass from a cupboard above your head and moving to the fridge to get some water. “You’re my guest, let me take care of you. Go ahead and sit down.”

You moved reluctantly to the bar stool next to his, taking a seat and waiting for him to return with your drink. “Thank you.” You said, softly, as he slid the cup into your hands. “So, what are you working on?” You asked, setting your cup down on the counter after a careful sip.

“Just brushing up.” He smiled. “There’s a lot to remember and it’s all kind of overwhelming sometimes.”

You nodded, staring down into your mug. “Yeah, I remember being really intimidated when I first started. Sometimes I still feel a little overwhelmed if it’s a complicated case or something. We walk a fine line between life and death and it’s hard not knowing if you’re being delicate enough.”

“That’s exactly it! That’s why I wanted to be a surgeon, though. Knowing that I can do something to make people’s lives better. Some of the people who end up on that table are going to be having the worst moment of their life and I have the power to make a positive impact. It makes my heart race just thinking about it.”

“Sounds like you chose the right profession.” You smiled, looking over at him and he blushed, bowing his head down into his chest.

“I hope I can make a good doctor.”

“Jungkook…you’re already a good doctor. The fact that you care so much, means something. It’s not easy to look into the faces of the families whose loved ones have died on our tables. There’s going to be times when you just want to give up, but as long as you keep trying and caring the way you do right now, you’ll be successful.”

He smiled, bashful, staring down at the keys on his laptop, fingers tapping gently in thought. “Thanks Y/N, that’s mean a lot…especially coming from you.” He looked up at you and you felt like your heart might seize right in your chest. “You know, since you’re such a good doctor.” He stuttered and you nodded, taking a gulp of water from your cup and standing.

“Thank you, I appreciate that. I should probably get to bed now, it’s…” You sighed, “It’s been a long day.”

Jungkook nodded and you lifted your glass at him in a salute before turning around and walking back into the guest bedroom.

++++

Wow, thank you so much for reading! I'm sorry this one was sad, but it was necessary. After all, this is a Jungkook story, is it not? ;)

Let me know what you think <3

Chapter 12

Chapter 14

Copyright © 2018 by taeken-my-heart. All rights reserved.

[appalachianwiine]

Swim - Chapter 6 - Soon You’ll Get Better

The buttons of my coat were tangled in my hair

In doctor's-office-lighting, I didn't tell you I was scared

That was the first time we were there

Holy orange bottles, each night I pray to you

Desperate people find faith, so now I pray to Jesus too

And I say to you

Ooh-ah, soon you'll get better

“Soon You’ll Get Better” by Taylor Swift

It’s another restless night for the both of them. The nurses are in and out a half dozen times, leaving little more then two hours stretches in which they can sleep. Lydia doesn’t seem terribly fussed by this, waking rather grumpily for vitals and then drifting back off to sleep as the nurse exited the room. Daryl on the other hand manages less than four hours of broken sleep. 

By the time 7:30 rolls around Lydia is wide awake and asking for breakfast. Daryl, who had only gotten to dozing again a half hour before, sits up with a groan. He runs a hand over his face and rubs the sleep from his eyes, looking over at Lydia, who’s moved from the hospital bed to sit at the foot of the hide-away. 

“Alrigh’.” He mutters. “I’ll go down an’ get us some breakfast.” 

“Can I have pancakes?” Lydia asks eagerly. “And juice?” 

“Sure kiddo.” Daryl sighs, swinging his legs off the side of the hide-away and into his boots. “Then you gotta take a bath okay?” 

“A shower.” Lydia frowns. 

“I don’ know ‘bout that.” He mutters, bending over to lace up the boots. “You ain supposed t’ get that PICC line wet, but I’ll ask the nurse.” Lord knew a shower would be easier on him. It would give him a good 15 minutes to think.

“Okay.” 

“Good girl.” He yawns. “I’ll be back in 10 minutes. Behave.” He leans over to kiss the top of her head. 

“I will.” Lydia promises. 

When Daryl gets to the elevator he finds Ezekiel waiting. Yesterday’s buoyant, playful man was gone. The Ezekiel who stood next to him looked twice as tired as Daryl felt and as though all the joy had been sucked out of him. 

“Daryl.” Ezekiel forces a strained smile. “You and Lydia sleep well?” 

“Not really.” Daryl mutters. “Not that Lydia seems t’ have noticed. You an’ Henry?” 

“No.” Ezekiel frowns, stepping into the elevator as the doors open. “Henry got his round of chemo yesterday evening. He was up most of the night being sick. I’m going to get him something to eat. I want him to at least try.” 

“Sorry man.” Daryl follows him into the elevator, a knot settling in his stomach. Lydia’s first chemotherapy treatment was today.

“Oh he’ll get through it.” Ezekiel sighs. “I just hate seeing him like this. This is not my little boy.” 

“Yeah.” Daryl licks his lips. He doesn’t much want to make conversation, but he’s stuck in the elevator with the other man and they’re going to the same place. “So uh, how y’all likin’ Atlanta?” 

Ezekiel raises his eyebrows. “Given the circumstances it’s not my favorite city.”

“Ah.” Daryl mutters, he hadn’t thought of the reason they were in Atlanta. Stupid given Ezekiel had told him just yesterday. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” Ezekiel shakes his head, stepping out of the elevator. “Lydia starts treatment today yes?” 

“Yeah.” Daryl nods. 

“I’m sorry.” Ezekiel whispers. “It’s… it’s not something I would wish on the worst of us.” 

The air between them lingers heavily as they enter the cafeteria, it’s quiet this early in the morning, the staff shuffling about quietly, one or two tired parents clutching pagers and looking around nervously. Daryl follows Ezekiel to the counter, ordering after him and taking the number given to him. He finds himself once again standing next to Ezekiel, waiting for their orders to be ready. 

“I uh - I saw Henry the other night.” Daryl says finally. “The night we were admitted.” 

“You did?” Ezekiel frowns. 

“Yeah um - he was hiding behind the nursing station and uh - you picked him up and he -” 

“Was laughing.” Ezekiel finishes. 

“Yeah.” Daryl nods. “It was ten o’clock at night on the cancer floor and he was laughing.” 

“That’s Henry.” Ezekiel smiles. “He’s always made the best of the worst situations.” 

“He's done this before?” Daryl asks. 

“No - not this exactly.” Ezekiel says. “But um - when he was four he was in a very bad car accident.” 

“Oh.” Daryl frowns. “Was he uh - was he -”

“Mine then?” Ezekiel finishes. Daryl feels his face grow hot. “No, he wasn’t. I was a newly licensed foster parent in Prince William County, and he was my first foster child. His brother and both parents were killed in the accident. The parents instantly, the brother after a few days.” 

“Shit man.” Daryl mutters. “That’s rough.”

“Yeah.” Ezekiel says. “He’s had it harder then most, but he still laughs. He still makes the best of what he’s given. It’s a gift from God.” 

“God.” Daryl monotones. 

“You don’t believe in God?” Ezekiel offers a half smile. 

“I do.” Daryl says. “But I don’ think he’s worth worshippin’.” 

“Hm.” Ezekiel frowns. 

“No speech?” Daryl chuckles. 

“No speech.” Ezekiel says. “Your relationship with God is not my business, and mine is not yours. But God has helped my son. He’s given us this clinical trial. He’s given me a place at the zoo. He’s shown me Carol.” 

“‘S a little preachy.” 

“You asked.” Ezekiel smiles. 

“Fair.” They linger in silence until Ezekiel’s number is called and Daryl’s shortly there after. As they’re walking back towards the elevator Ezekiel speaks again. “I hope Lydia handles her chemotherapy well.” 

“Thanks.” Daryl nods, stepping into the elevator. “How - when will we know?” 

“Well every child reacts differently.” Ezekiel says. “Henry handles some better then others. He does fine with the cisplatin but the vincristine is pretty hard on him. Thats the one he got last night, I expect we’ll be here for at least a week with the side effects.” 

“Shit man.” Daryl mutters. Will it be like that for Lydia? She had a different kind of cancer, surely the treatment would be different? 

“He’s a strong boy.” Ezekiel says. “He’ll get through it.”

“Yeah.” 

They  linger in silence until they get out of the elevator and make their way to their separate rooms. Lydia takes the pancakes and juice with glee, someone’s turned on the television for her while he was gone and the grating sound of Disney Channel ran through they room. Daryl took his coffee over to the pull out bed and sat down, sipping it gingerly. The disney jingle pierced his brain as one of the many formulaic shows started up. He needed sleep, but coffee would help for now. 

The door pushes open, reminding Daryl for the millionth time that their world is completely different then it was two days ago. 

“Hey Lydia.” Dr. Rhee says. “Sleep good?” “I guess.” Lydia nods, not really paying attention, her eyes focused on the TV as she ate.

“Good” Maggie grins. “Mind if I borrow daddy for a bit?” 

“Okay.” Lydia shrugs,. 

“Come with me Mr. Dixon?” Dr. Rhee motions him out of the room. 

“Yeah.” Daryl nods, picking up his coffee and following her into the hall. His stomach twists into more knots. “Are her biopsy results bad or something?” 

“They’re not back yet.” Dr. Rhee assures. “I just wanted to talk to you about the chemo she’ll be starting today and get the consent forms signed.” 

“Oh.” Daryl nods. “ Yeah um, sure.” 

Dr. Rhee leads him to the nurses station and picks up a clipboard and pen, holding them out to Daryl. He takes them. The form is thick, at least ten pages long and on the top page alone he see’s a bold heading ‘Vincristine effects and side effects.” The foreign word floats in front of his eyes, 

V I N C R I S T I N E. 

It sounds almost as bad as ‘Leukemia’ does. 

“Just in here.” Daryl blinks, Dr. Rhee is standing across the room. He nods, and hurries to the door she indicates. The room is small, a little more personal then the other rooms. There’s a low table with a few toys, and a hot water heater and packets of tea and instant coffee by the wall. A couple of arm chairs sit against one wall and there’s a table with three chairs - one to one side, and the other two opposite - in the middle of the room. “Would you like a minute to go over the form?” 

“Nah.” Daryl shakes his head. “Jus’ - tell me ‘bout the chemo yerself.” He figures she’ll be able to explain it better then the consent form can. That will be full of legal jargon and confusing terminology. Daryl wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t going to attempt the consent form until he had a bit more time. 

“Right.” Dr. Rhee smiles, taking a seat in one chair and motioning Daryl to the two opposite. He sits heavily in one, setting the clipboard down with a soft thud! “Today we’re going to give her a round of vincristine. It’s a type of chemotherapy, the most common used in treating most pediatric cancers but particularly leukemia’s. We’ll be using her PICC line to administer the drug, but because of the effects of vincristine on the kidneys we’re going to push fluids first. She’ll get fluids for 4 hours and then a half hour of chemotherapy followed by four more hours of fluids.” 

Eight and a half hours of stuff going in her and only a half hour of it the medicine she’d need. Good lord what did that mean it would do to his little girl? He swallows hard and nods. “What um - what - when will stuff start happenin’?” 

“Side effects or when will it start killing the cancer?” Dr. Rhee asks. 

“Both I guess.” 

“Well, it will start killing the cancer almost immediately, but right now there’s so much in her body we’re going to have to do quite a bit of it in conjunction with other therapies to get ahead of it.” Dr. Rhee explains. “Now the good thing is that vincristine is predictable. We’ve been using it for decades, so we know what to expect and how to balance it. Some effects take longer than others but she's probably going to be pretty nauseous not long after she gets the dose and we should expect this to increase. We can give zofran if things get too bad, but she probably won't be very interested in food. She might throw up, and diarrhea isn’t uncommon either. After about a week of treatments her blood counts will be at their lowest, that’s when we really need to be careful about infection. It’s likely she’ll get mouth sores and they’ll be pretty painful but we can manage them with morphine.” 

“A - a week.” He mutters. “She’ll uh - won’t we have a treatment plan by then?” 

“Yeah, we will, but vincristine is a staple in all leukemia treatment. It’s what we combine it with that changes.” Dr. Rhee says. 

“And we - her hair?” Daryl mutters. 

“It depends.” Dr. Rhee says. “Some kids want theirs shaved as soon as it starts falling out, but others want to wait until it falls out on its own. Child life came and talked to you?” 

“Yeah.” He nods. “Gave her a Barbie with uh - with wigs an’ hats an’ stuff. Seemed t’ like that.” 

“Good.” Dr. Rhee sounds far away now, the knot in his stomach growing steadily as the words fill his mind. Her hair. A week. Vincristine. Leukemia. Cancer. The words run across his mind in bright flashing colors, filling the whole space and leaving room for little else. Words he’d never thought about before and feared were now front and center in his mind. “Mr. Dixon?” 

“Huh?” His eyes snap up to hers. “Sorry did - can you repeat that?” 

“I asked if you had any other questions.” Dr. Rhee frowns. “Do you need a minute?” 

“No.” He says hurriedly. “But uh - are we gonna be here the whole week?” 

“Probably more like 2 or 3.” Dr. Rhee says. “First admissions are usually long.”

“Oh.” Daryl mutters. “I uh - I didn’t really… prepare for that.” 

He didn’t have another set of clothes and all of Lydia’s were mismatched, haphazardly grabbed out of the dryer in a panic. Then there was the dog. He couldn’t be left with Rick and Michonne indefinitely. And work. He’d have to talk to his captain about a leave of absence. It was something he hated to do, Dwight had already been so understanding of the situation with Lydia’s adoption. 

“You met Carol?” Dr. Rhee asks. Daryl nods. “Well she can help you with some of that. She has a network of people that can help. You have her number?” 

“Yeah. But I don’t want to be a bother.” Daryl says. 

“You won’t be.” Dr. Rhee insists. “Even if it’s just coming to sit with Lydia for an hour so you can get your stuff she’ll be happy to help.” 

“Yeah.” Daryl mutters. “I’ll give her a call I guess.” He won’t have much choice. It’s the start of the work week, everyone else will be working crazy hours but a teacher was predictable. “And uh - can Lydia have a shower?” 

“A bath.” Dr. Rhee says. “She needs to keep her PICC line dry, but I can get her a cast cover so she can bathe more comfortably.” 

Well he wasn’t going to get his few minutes of peace then.

“Thanks.” Daryl mutters. “Uh is there anything else I should know?” 

“No.” Maggie shakes her head. “Just the consent forms. I’ll give you a minute to go over them.” 

“No need.” Daryl mutters, reaching for the pen and signing his name at the back of the forms.  “I ain’ got much choice if I wan’ her t’ be okay.” 

“I understand.” Dr. Rhee nods, taking the form from his outstretched hands. “I’ll send the nurse in to start her fluids in a half an hour so you’ll have time for that bath.” 

“Thanks.” Daryl mutters. 

As predicted Lydia was not thrilled about the bath and not being able to use her arm. Daryl has to wash her hair himself, scooping water over her head with a cup in a fashion he hadn’t done since she was six year s old. It was something she clearly wasn’t thrilled about, fat crocodile tears rolling down her face and her voice a high pitched whine the entire time. Daryl does his best not to look at the bruises lacing her torso and legs as he washes, dries, and helps her dress. They’re turning yellow-green today, and he hates the sight of them, they make him angry. 

The fluids go in surprisingly well, once the nurse explains to Lydia that it’s just like water she doesn’t have to drink she’s surprisingly compliant to them being attached. Within a half an hour however she’s up for the toilet. It’s a bit of an ordeal to drag the infection pump to the bathroom and back and it’s one they repeat every half an hour or forty five minutes. Dr. Rhee hadn’t been kidding about keeping her hydrated. He hadn’t seen her potty dance this much since she was much smaller, and it seems to frustrate her too. He expects relief for them when the fluids finally stop, but then Dr. Rhee enters the room holding a small yellow bag with a biohazard sticker on the front. 

Jesus Christ he’d take her to the toilet a thousand more times to avoid that. 

“Okay Lydia.” Dr. Rhee smiles. “Are you ready for your medicine?” 

Lydia frowns warily at Dr. Rhee, and her eyes fix on the bag in her hands. “I have to take all of that? Does it taste bad?” 

“Well you don’t swallow it.” Dr. Rhee says. “It goes in your PICC line just like your fluids, but some people say they taste it anyway but it just tastes like metal.” 

“Does it taste a lot?” Lydia’s even more wary, he wishes Dr. Rhee hadn’t told her that.

“No.” Dr. Rhee promises.

“Can daddy sit with me?” Lydia asks, looking back over at Daryl as Dr. Rhee approaches the infusion pole and disconnects the fluids. 

“Of course he can.” Dr. Rhee smiles, handing the empty bag of fluids to the nurse. 

“Daddy.” Lydia whimpers, holding out her arms. Daryl climbs onto the bed and lets her crawl into his lap. 

“‘s okay.” Daryl whispers, running a hand over Lydia’s hair and settling back against the pillows. She’s shaking in his arms, her face turned pointedly to the infusion pole. He kisses her hair and looks over at Dr. Rhee, the medication is connected now and he watches a thin stream of yellow fluid move down the line, into Lydia’s arm and up towards her heart. It makes him feel sick. 

“There.” Dr. Rhee says. “All connected.” 

Lydia doesn’t answer, and Daryl pulls away slightly to glance at her. Her eyes are glazed over and she's whispering very softly. “Lydia oh Lydia, oh have you seen Lydia.” 

“Hey, hey,” Daryl whispers, holding her tighter and trying to get her to snap out of it. “”S okay.” 

“She was singing that in the OR yesterday.” Dr. .Rhee says.

“Lydia oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia” 

“She did?” Daryl’s heart sinks. She had to have been utterly terrified to sing that. 

4 years she’d worked her ass off to get to a place where she could express her emotion. Countless hours of therapies and difficult conversations and the constant reinforcing that it was safe to express herself, to not disappear like with her mother, and here she was regressing before his eyes. He wanted something different. He wanted better. She deserved better.

“Shh.” He whispers, kissing her hair. “It’s okay to cry. Jus’ cry.” 

Lydia never does though, but she doesn’t let go either. 

Towards the end of the infusion she drifts off to sleep, having been utterly worn out by the episode. He doesn’t move or put her down, in his arms she’s safe. In his arms he can protect her. 

Please, he begs silently Please let her be okay.

[afterspark-podcast]

(Extra!) Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen: Transcript

Episode

[This can also be found on AO3!]

[Into Music]

O: Hi folks, we're back! Thanks for joining us. 

S: So, if we were going to make Revenge of the Fallen better, what would we do (aside from definitely not killing off Jetfire)?

O: Well, first, uh, let's establish some general rules for this thought exercise: The same basic skeleton of the movie must stay intact, since we are trying to fix it not redo it entirely, um, generally, the same characters should be involved but characters could return from the first one instead. Um, I know in the previous movie review we talked about doing it as a tv show or something but for right now let's pretend that the first movie happened as is.

S: Aside from Jazz surviving.

O: Yeah, because killing him off was really dumb and it happened at the end of the movie anyway, so it doesn't really change anything in the first movie.

S: Yep. So, first off: cast change! 

O: Uh, we're gonna remove Devastator, Grindor, Volt, Skids and Mudflap and add returning characters from the first movie, which would be Maggie, Glenn, John Keller, and Blackout by way of- they maybe resurrected him at the same time as Megatron, and Jazz.

S: Yep. Since we've removed Volt, Skids, and Mudflap, we're going to add in Sunstreaker this way we can still exploit the brotherly dynamic that people who are used to G1 would be used to and, you know, using an existing character and relationship dynamic.

O: Right, and Bee's voice box is still intact. He and Sam are actually friends. Sam does not treat him like a fucking dog or some weird possession. 

S: Mm-hmm. He comes with Sam to college because at this point Sam kind of does have a target on his back.

O: Yeah, which I think is fair. The Decepticons are still around, we established that pretty early so, yeah, why not?

S: Yeah, and at this point, I don't know, maybe treat it like Sam’s in, effectively, robot witness protection.

O: Yeah. Optimus does not die at any point in this because it would be completely pointless to the story we're trying to tell.

S: Yeah. Sector Seven has been folded into N.E.S.T. and some major retraining on, uh, how to treat the giant robots, maybe, has happened. Simmons has become significantly less of an asshole after getting to know the Autobots.

O: Or at least we would hope-

S: Yeah.

O: You know, because some mutual respect would probably have been earned since, you know, this movie started. Sector 7 did effectively imprison Megatron for decades successfully. They clearly have knowledge and skills that could be useful for, you know, both finding and capturing the remaining Decepticons.

S: Yeah, I feel like the Autobots would still be a bit skeeved out about some of the things Sector 7 did but-

O: They probably would and I think it would have to be handled really well and hence why Simmons needs to be less of a dick.

S: Yeah, though at this point probably all of the Autobot- let's just go with the whole “war criminals” thing.

O: Yeah.

S: Everyone's done things that they regretted in the war.

O: Mikaela is now training under Ratchet. She knows a lot about machines and showed promise at the end of the first movie so let's actually do something with that.

S: And make it so Sam isn't her only friend because that's sad. Like she has Maggie and Glenn-

O: And the Arcees.

S: Yeah.

O: Uh, Maggie and Glenn are now our two tech oriented people on the team.

S: Yup. Lennox and Epps are functionally in the same roles as the movie-

O: But now John Keller is the head of N.E.S.T. operations instead of some random guy. 

S: Yep. Then Simmons is their information guy and, I mean, actually John Keller- this could be his job after he retires from whatever the hell he was doing.

O: Right, because it was very much they said Obama in this movie, so it's clear Obama is now the president. He definitely wasn't in the first movie.

 S: Yeah. 

O: So, similar to Prime you could also pair our main human characters up with their partners. We had a whole breakdown on this but it wasn't really important to kind of everything else but, you know, aside from just Sam and Bumblebee, you could have the characters paired up, too. 

S: Ratchet and Optimus would not have partners and would live on base. Optimus runs Autobot operations and Ratchet is in charge of the med bay.

O: But the biggest and most important change is that everyone has friends, hobbies, relationships with each other, and they are an actual team. Yes, catching the Decepticons is important but they have to live, too.

S: It's heavily implied Optimus considers Earth their new home in the movies and that they should be trying to make it home. So Sam still goes to college on the east coast but perhaps somewhere closer to D.C.

O: The where isn't really important just as long as it works out geographically for some of the stuff we mention later and is reasonably prestigious.

S: I mean, considering that we don't even know what the hell Sam is even going for I'm not sure what prestige even matters.

O: I don't even know either but I'm just sort of operating under the assumption of he seems to want to go to a prestigious school. 

S: Yeah, so Leo's the only roommate as the others are hardly in the movie at all and don't add anything to it.

O: Now that Simmons is involved in N.E.S.T. there is no reason for Leo to be running the website but if we do really want to drag him along in all this he could be a big conspiracy buff.

S: Yeah, he may be wrong about a lot of things but damn if he's right about those giant robots. This is probably super awkward for Sam and Bee. The bit with the AllSpark still happens at the beginning. Sam still downloads a bunch of junk into his brain but now he hands the fragment off to Mikaela to give to the Autobots.

O: The Wheelie bit is mostly intact, as well, but less horny and more Mikaela's a warrior goddess.

S: Yep, considering that she can kick his ass, she can kick anyone's ass. Sam has his freakout in class but now his professor or someone sitting in nabs him for an internship at the air and space museum because he's- I don't know! Sam- he somehow manages to solve some sort of impossible equation or something.

O: Yeah, uh, Leo maybe can already be an intern by doing something more marketing or advertising based. 

S: This will allow them access to the museum without the whole underpants bit.

O: Which was completely pointless.

S: Yup.

S: Alice is now also another intern. She attempts to flirt with Sam but gets nowhere cause Sam is in a committed fucking relationship.

S: Yeah. Alice can now copy other people's appearances and does so with Mikaela based on, uh, seeing her or hearing her and Sam on a video call to each other.

O: Now the movie really splits between the A-plot and the B-plot. 

S: The A-plot remains functionally similar to the main movie: The Misadventures of Sam and Co.

O: The B-plot is now the Decepticons are wreaking havoc and the Autobots are spread very thin trying to mitigate as much damage as possible.

S: We're told in the movie that several thousand people have been killed but it doesn't really affect the plot in a meaningful way. Like, it mostly seems like these are just the people who, like, military people.

O: Yeah, not that they don't matter but, again, it just doesn't affect the plot.

S: Yeah.

O: Like, it doesn't change how the Autobots are behaving.

S: Yeah, because the stuff that happens on a ship. That's very contained, that's one ship where as stuff happening in a city center-

O: Several cities. Yeah-

S: Yes, this is a bit wide- bit more widespread and, you know, you're not able to hush that up.

O: But now that's the main reason the group is split up and why Sam doesn't have backup in Egypt initially.

S: Yep, out of the remaining team members Mikaela, Simmons, and Wheelie are the ones who head to D.C. because everyone else is headed somewhere else.

O: But now instead of walking in on Sam kissing another woman, he's kissing “Mikaela” [disguised Alice].

S: Naturally, we get the Mikaela versus Alice showdown that we deserve.

O: The Con's actions during all this stay relatively the same except now it's Soundwave who's in charge of the mission to revive Megatron, still in space, still a satellite.

S: They're still searching for Sam to get the information out of his head.

O: But the Fallen is now the thing they're trying to activate instead of the Star Harvester. 

S: To beat a Prime they need a Prime after all.

O: And the Fallen's locked in stasis or sort of, kind of dead or something,

S: Yeah, whatever it is they need the Matrix of Leadership to revive him and they also still need Sam to find both the Fallen's location and the Matrix's location. 

O: Same thing happens where Sam's group realizes they need to talk to a very old Cybertronian because neither Bee nor Wheelie can read the text that is stuck in his head.

S: The equivalent of asking someone who speaks French or, I don't know, Esperanto to speak Latin. French would be too close. Wheelie points out Jetfire in a picture. Sam realizes that Jetfire is in the museum and he's, like, walked by this five dozen times-

O: [Laughter]

S: And they all go to revive him.

O: The AllSpark fragment reacts before they see the now very well hidden Decepticon badge.

S: Jetfire's bit is still pretty much the same: they're all teleported to Egypt, the tomb is made out of the Prime bodies possibly in Petra again, still.

O: Yeah the location of it doesn't necessarily- isn't necessarily important.

S: Yeah.

O: Only now the Primes have sealed the Fallen way somewhere else before sealing the Matrix away with themselves to keep him from being reactivated.

S: The race is on for Sam's group to try and find the Matrix while the rest of the Autobots are attempting to deal with the Decepticon attacks and still somehow support Sam's group who only has Bumblebee with them for defense.

O: All without drawing the Cons attention to what they're actually doing.

S: Sam retrieves the Matrix from Petra but it doesn't crumble away into sweaty sock dust this time. 

O: Uh, the Autobots and Sam's group converge on the Fallen's tomb planning on destroying him before the Decepticons can revive him, somehow. Maybe it's that Optimus could destroy him. I don't know.

S: But surprise! Soundwave's been monitoring communications and they've been followed so before the rest of the Autobots can get there Megatron gets his hands on the Matrix and resurrects the Fallen.

O: And we discussed going a couple of different ways with this but ultimately we thought it would be interesting if combiners were still important to the final battle, kind of like how Optimus and Jetfire combined. Sort of.

S: It could also be used to differentiate toys from the previous movie and this one.

O: The Autobots arrive! A fight ensues.

S: In order to defeat Optimus, Megatron is willing to make a somewhat literal deal with the devil and combines with the Fallen, so Optimus can be defeated by his or their own hand. 

O: Optimus is losing until Jetfire shows up. 

S: Seekers, as we mentioned, are absolutely ancient Cybertronians, younger only than the original Primes.

O: And in the novels Jetfire and the Fallen had previously worked together.

S: So to fight the Fallen/Megatron combiner Jetfire and Optimus must- must combine, as well, so now we can still have nifty air fights and, god, I keep wanting to make a joke about plane pants or something.

O: [Laughter] Uh, this all plays out about how you'd expect.

S: Yup. Optimus and Jetfire are better at working together and relying on each other's strengths and knowledge of their opponents. Megatron and the Fallen begin trying to wrestle control back and forth from each other.

O: In the end, Optimus and Jetfire are willing to risk everything to stop the Fallen and Megatron from destroying earth but Megatron is not willing to get himself killed because of the Fallen's mistakes and abandons him. 

S: Yep, fleeing with himself, Starscream, and any remaining Decepticons.

O: And the Fallen is killed by, frankly, any other method than having his fucking face ripped off. 

S: Yep, the heroes are victorious, the earth is saved, and with a renewed vow protecting the planet from the Decepticons the credits roll.

O: And, yes, I know we didn't really develop the B-plot very much but, again, working with what happened in the movie proper and seeing how we'd improve it. Ideally somebody who actually writes scripts would be able to kind of think of an interesting b plot and tie all of this together. That would be both interesting and a way to further the characters or- and/or the relationships with each other.

S: Yeah, like it would be kind of hilarious if they ended up all being like inter- if the humans all ended up being internet buddies and not actually realizing it. 

O: But, yeah, that's our summary of how we would try to fix this movie. Take it as you will we're not even saying we're amazing, we just really did not like the original film.

S: Yep, I mean would this be an improvement? It's a “your mileage would vary” thing. 

O: And it also kind of depends on what you like. If you like giant action scenes you probably would like Revenge of the Fallen, I don't know.

S: Yeah.

O: But, uh, join us next time when we kind of get back to our normal G1 shtick otherwise, you know, hopefully we'll see you, like, a year from now and do Dark of the Moon and, uh, uh oh. Wow, I have feelings.

S: Mm-hm. Toodles.

[Outro Music]

[xlady-saya]

take what you want [fic]

Relationships: laila/alvarez 

Summary: Laila has come a long way from her freshman year, past all the worries and pressure to behave a certain way. She never thought she’d realize it here, lounging poolside with her girlfriend.

The urge to seduce Alvarez is just too good to let go.

Tags: fluff and smut, inappropriate use of tanning oil, written for the aftg summer event on twitter

Read on ao3!

"You're too polite."

The voice is smooth, and sends a shiver down Laila's spine. She's not sure why. Maybe it's because it sounds like it's right next to her ear, the clearest sound she's heard in the last forty-five minutes.

She forgot she was a person for a second there. No one has bothered to address her as one.

The registrar's office is a cramped, square room with one way in and out—and to make matters worse, the AC decided to take a day off on this excruciating Los Angeles summer afternoon.

The office is packed with students in the same boat as Laila, flowing in and out to retrieve their ID cards and USC lanyards. She'd been excited at first; she'd settled into the dorms, and her first Exy practice was later in the evening. It had only been a few days of walking around campus and finding her classes, but she already felt like a full fledged college student.

The excitement of getting her ID, a true symbol of this, had died upon entering the office. The line had been long, but it was also hardly a line.

It seemed more like giant clusters of students broken up by the occasional space, and over time, she no longer knew where it started and where it ended. Several people walked in and cut the line completely, and others who had waited less time than her would walk out with their IDs in hand. Laila's aggravation has been steadily growing, but she remembered her manners, her respect. She wasn't sure how any of that translated in a big city like LA, but it was how she'd been raised in the midwest.

Her parents would be disappointed if she caused a scene, and how embarrassing would that be, anyways? She told herself she could wait, that she had plenty of time.

Then, the voice jolts her out of the haze of squabbling students and staff members, and she jerks in the direction of it. She doesn't know it in that moment, but any hope of having manners in the future and preserving that polite attitude are dashed and spat on with the introduction of this girl.

The first thing Laila notices about her is how tall she is. Laila cranes her neck upwards, and is met with big, brown eyes. They go lidded in that moment, picking out something in Laila's green ones that Laila isn't aware of yet. She blushes anyways; she knows when she's being teased, made fun of. The girl's got a few inches on her, at least, with dark brown hair and skin that's already well acquainted with the strong California sun. Not pale like Laila, not ghostly. She doesn't seem like the type to wait here all day and let people cut her in line, judging from her ability to criticize complete strangers out of the blue.

Laila sputters indignantly, biting her tongue before any comments can come out. Not like they'd be well formed. Her mind is swimming, and she feels like a stereotypical jock then. Absolutely no brain cells.

The girl chuckles from the reaction, watching Laila's mouth open and close like a puppet. Laila can tell when she's being sized up and scanned, but she doesn't get the purpose. Normally, she'd never say no to attention from a hot girl (and yes, she begrudgingly can admit this rude ass is hot), but there's nothing impressive about her today. That's not what this is. All she has on her is a duffel bag with her Exy equipment haphazardly sticking out. She's wearing USC lounge pants that she already managed to stain with her ramen noodles earlier, and a ratty tank.

If it's the Exy the girl is fixated on, Laila wants to reassure her. It's a violent sport, but Laila's a goalie. She's not the one to start fights, so there's no reason for this girl to be looking her up and down like this.

Part of Laila feels like she has to return the scrutiny, like maybe it's some kind of local ritual, but she can't get past the girl's neck for one reason alone.

She already has her red and gold lanyard, with her photo ID hanging right off of it.

Gabriela Alvarez.

Goddammit.

Finally, she finds her voice.

"Excuse me?" she forces out, strained and a touch too bold for her tastes.

Alvarez doesn't respond right away. To add insult to injury, she instead looks over to where another freshman walks into the office, casually bypasses everyone waiting (including Laila), and is handed their ID and lanyard two minutes after giving the receptionist their name.

The. Fuck.

Sighing, Alvarez looks all too happy to have made a point.

"You've been standing here for ten minutes, and I've watched three people cut you in line like that," Alvarez says, inspecting her nails. They're cut short and neat, Laila's mind tells her, rather unhelpfully. How she didn't notice someone like Alvarez prior is beyond her.

Regardless of that, the truth of the statement irritates her further. She knows it's pathetic, she knows it's not fair, but—

"What would you have me do?" she asks, huffing. She jostles her duffel over her shoulder and hits the wall, making her jump. And all the while, more people walk out with their lanyards.

Alvarez's lips turn into a frown, like she can't figure out if Laila is serious or not. Laila hopes being new in town is an excuse, but she has a feeling it isn’t. Alvarez shrugs one shoulder, and to demonstrate, barrels through the throng and back again. She makes it seem effortless, and ignores all the perturbed stares she receives for it. Then, she's in Laila's space again, towering, tempting. "Shove them, tell them to piss off, I don't know," she says, a clear challenge. The insinuation is there: whatever it takes to not be pushed around.

Laila sputters, mostly to get her mind off the fact that her body quite likes this idea. She's always had a bit of a temper, but she’s managed to keep it under control whenever it chooses to flare up. She never once considered the possibility of not holding it back. "That's so—"

"Rude?" Alvarez interrupts, voice sickeningly sweet. Laila glares harshly, but it doesn't stop her from waving her lanyard in Laila's face. "But which one of us got what we wanted, huh?"

And what is Laila supposed to say to that? She wants to spit 'fuck you, bitch,' but even she knows when she's been had. Laila's anger and pettiness deflates, and unbeknownst to her, a piece of the old identity she'd been forced to cling to has already fallen away.

Alvarez taps the kneepads poking out of Laila's bag, and this time, her smile is a tad sympathetic.

"See you at practice, small town," she says, and promptly walks out. It's only then Laila realizes she's wearing an Exy team jacket, name printed in large gold on her back.

Laila looks down at the buttons on her bag to figure out how Alvarez knew about her home, but promptly realizes it's simply written all over her.

Whatever, she thinks petulantly. This interaction will mean nothing in the grand scheme of her years here.

But as she thinks about it for the rest of the day, that statement feels less and less secure.

--

Staring at the bare skin of Alvarez's back calls the memory to the forefront of her mind, for whatever reason. Maybe it's the weather.

The heat of the California summer doesn't go away, regardless of where they are. But here, inland, it's practically desert country. It's so much worse. That's why Laila had been adamant about waking up early to go lay by the water, dragging her girlfriend with her at the crack of dawn to go lounge while the rest of their teammates slept. The nights spent in motels for away games are some of her least favorite, but at least there's the pool access. It's significantly cooler and empty on top of that, but the humidity begins to tease the air. It'll be scorching in a matter of hours, but Laila loves to fantasize about the mild climate she was promised all those years ago.

She groans as she spreads out, and her bikini doesn't even feel like it's doing the job of making her less heated. She curses as she slouches, not a trace of manners left in her.

Nothing ever turns out as expected, she reasons. But it's not all bad. Climate aside, she managed to turn a beautiful, unruly rebel into her beautiful, unruly girlfriend.

And perhaps she's a bit of a rebel herself now—something she can pin on Alvarez only a little. As a result of too many rowdy friends and teammates, and the gradual erosion of her capacity to give a fuck, Laila has come quite a long way.

It's satisfying to know that these days, no one would dare call her a push over. It feels comforting, and much truer to herself. Alvarez usually doesn't allow it, but Laila wishes she could thank her more for that. For the last push.

Honestly, there's probably a lot of reasons she recalls their first meeting right then, apart from her genuine feelings for Alvarez and the threat of the sun above.

She certainly doesn't feel polite right now.

Alvarez is sitting on the end of Laila's lounge chair, hair pushed to the side. The haphazardly tied bikini string is something Laila often nags her about. One wrong move and it'll come undone completely, but right now it just seems to taunt her. It wouldn't take much, she thinks, to lean forward and grant herself more of a view.

She brings her foot up to rest on the middle of her girlfriend's back, and Alvarez doesn't even flinch. It's common for them to drape themselves over one another for lack of anything better to do, but this time Laila's mind has a less than innocent agenda.

She uses her heel to follow the path of the faded moles on Alvarez's back, dipping down until she reaches the beginning of silvery stretch marks. She always says they look like the branches of a tree, and Alvarez has thought more than once about getting a tattoo for the purpose of pronouncing them with clean, inky lines. Laila thinks of them dotting her hips, disappearing beneath the low riding sweats Alvarez likes to wear around the dorms.

There's a heat already coiling in Laila's abdomen, and the thought doesn't help to diminish it. Bringing her girlfriend with her wasn't the best idea for cooling off, but it's too late now.

She bites her lips and thinks back to her old urges to not rock the boat, to not put herself in situations that could cause a scene. Oh, she's come far indeed.

She’s drunk on the feeling, and she throws a look back at the row of motel rooms. All the blinds are closed, and it's certainly too early for anyone else to be awake...

Shivering, Laila scoots her butt to the edge of the chair and begins to feel the fabric of her swimsuit more than she should. She's hyper aware of the material, of the stretchiness as it rides up against her.

Alvarez is still staring out at the water, the morning exhaustion not quite shaken off yet, and Laila takes the opportunity to rub herself through her swimsuit. It's a brief, light touch, and it doesn't do much for her. But there's a thrill of excitement at her idea, at the stupidity of it. They're basically out in the open, but...

If she knows anything about her girlfriend, it’s that she has even less self-control.

"Gab," she says finally, and tries to keep her tone innocent. She must not be very good at it, because her girlfriend turns to her with suspicion written all over her face. Yes, the squint is not from lack of sleep anymore. Still, Laila bites her lip to keep her smile at bay. She taps her foot playfully against Alvarez's lower back, and adjusts herself just so in the seat. She knows it makes her suit ride up, and Alvarez's eyes track the stretch of the fabric deliberately. "Come here."

A sweet, normal request, but Alvarez's expression sharpens. Like that day in the office, her eyes find something in Laila's that tells her all she needs to know. She's always had a weird knack for reading people. It used to be unsettling.

Now it's the exact opposite, and Laila meets her gaze confidently. Alvarez's eyes flick over her, then back up once more, and she effectively comes to the correct conclusion based on something in Laila's body language.

"You're poking a dangerous animal, you know," she warns, but there's amusement drenching every word. She looks up at the rooms behind them, narrowing to follow any sign of life or indication they're being watched. Then: "You're aware that there's hotel rooms right behind us?"

Laila nearly rolls her eyes; after three years, Alvarez has to know her likelihood of feeling ashamed is dismal. She's more jealous than anything. She doesn't want anyone seeing Alvarez like that, but the idea that if someone did see, all they'd see is her ability to absolutely take Laila apart—

That's too appealing to pass up.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answers, sighing as she leans back. She spreads her legs a little more for good measure, and Alvarez tries her best to avoid staring. It's too bad her alternative is Laila's chest. "Maybe I just want to hold your hand."

To emphasize, she reaches out, and Alvarez meets her instantly. Their hands lace together, and she feels the roughness so indicative of a backliner. Okay, so she wanted to hold her hand too.

"Sure," Alvarez huffs, but swings their hands a little anyways. "You're not that discreet anymore. What happened to my innocent small town girl?"

It's Laila's turn to laugh; she has a feeling she was never innocent deep down, but Alvarez brings the mischievous side of her out now more than ever.

"You're still just as infuriating," Laila throws back, but it's all smiles and maybe even a little dreamy. It's embarrassing, but she's never been ashamed of her feelings. They've been called disgustingly sappy by just about everyone on the team (minus Jean and Jeremy, who definitely have them beat and they're not even dating yet), and Laila's proud of it.

Sensing it, Alvarez crawls forward between Laila's legs. They both ignore the worrisome creak of the chair as their lips meet for a kiss, and allowing herself to be pulled into Laila’s scheme is Alvarez's fatal mistake.

Alvarez smells a little like chlorine from the jump she took when they first arrived, and her lips are salty when they stick to Laila's. She's not sure what it is about today, but the feeling of bare skin in front of her, radiating warmth, sends her back to messy dorm room kisses and tentative touches in the dark. She doesn't waste time opening Alvarez's mouth to hers, and Laila's tongue slides against the metal piercing in Alvarez's. She sighs from the coolness, and reaches up to hold Alvarez's chin in place while she plays with it. She loves how the piercing feels; it's like it glides along her tongue, and she's reminded of all the other places it's been. Alvarez, ever impatient, coaxes Laila closer until her nose is pressed into her cheek, kissing her deeply enough to evoke the whimpers the backliner adores.

The moan it manages to pull out of Laila is wispy and faded at the edges, like a stream traveling straight into Alvarez's body. Laila feels Alvarez's shiver flow from head to toe.

The heat between Laila's legs is getting impossible to ignore, and her abdomen tenses from the need to do something about it. It's at that point Alvarez tilts away, keeping Laila at a distance with her hand.

She really stands no chance now.

"I try," Alvarez pants, clearing her throat. The usual confidence is gone, replaced with blown pupils and a strip of red over the bridge of her nose. Laila enjoys the conflicted look on her face too much, the furrowed brow as she weighs all the variables. It's awfully considerate for someone who gets into fights every single game.

Alvarez throws her a playful glare and snaps the string of Laila's bottoms. "Someone really could see us..."

Laila leans back, arches a brow.

"Yeah, and couldn’t you just tell them to piss off?" Laila fires back, and Alvarez stares up at the sky as if asking the universe for guidance. She's the one who's always been brazen, yet she hesitates with things like this. It's cute, but Laila has enough experience to know it doesn't last long. Her girlfriend is easy to seduce, easy to rile up. After all, she's got the sex drive of an athlete, and Laila is all too happy to match the enthusiasm. Plus, it's fun to push when she knows Alvarez wants her just as much.

And that's when she notices the bottle of sun tan oil lying on top of her towel. She hadn't needed it yet, had brought it as a precaution, but now she's grateful for the foresight. She smirks slightly as she reaches for it. She and Alvarez had been dorm mates for a few months before dating, and Laila had the accidental pleasure of seeing the porn history on her computer more than a few times. Her girlfriend is not the most tech savvy.

She could poke fun at Alvarez for years, but in the moment her pervy tastes are a great advantage. Laila grabs the tanning oil and waves it in front of Alvarez's face, adoring the way her eyes widen. "Help me?"

Alvarez looks like she wants to whine in frustration; she can't win in this situation. Laila's smirk widens, knowing they're both about to get exactly what they want, and Alvarez snatches the oil out of her hand.

"Give me your towel," her girlfriend says roughly, and Laila's in no position not to comply. Alvarez's voice has already taken on that heavy, low tone she loves so much. It's like a scratched record, clearing and jumping ever so slightly, and every single one of Laila's nerve endings fire just from the sound. Laila wriggles as Alvarez stuffs the towel under her, dragging her hands along the underside of Laila’s thighs for good measure. Laila jumps from the touch. She wishes Alvarez had just pulled off her bottoms already, but per Alvarez's sharp, authority laced stare, she keeps her hands at her sides. Alvarez likes to start wherever she pleases.

Laila does tug at the towel though, tilting her head just so as her girlfriend smears her hands with the oil a little too quickly. The bottle slips out of her hands a few times.

"Feeling confident?" Laila asks, gesturing to the towel, and expects the usual glare.

The look she gets instead makes the warmth pool inside her even more, burning worse than the sun. Alvarez's stare is dark and mocking—like she's looking at freshman Laila again, all innocence and manners. Not the girl who is soaking her bathing suit without even being touched, not the one asking to be fucked poolside. This is the Laila with only high school hookups to call back on for experience. This is the Laila who spreads her legs wider in anticipation of feeling things she's never felt before.

"I can tell when you're going to be messy," Alvarez whispers, and with the need for her bravado gone, Laila scoots forward excitedly. "And you call me the dirty one..."

Laila snorts, but it dies as soon as Alvarez's hands are on her. The oil is slightly warm, and she shivers when Alvarez starts with her thighs. She disregards Laila's arms and shoulders in another act of predictability, which are arguably the more important places to shield from the sun.

"You are," Laila sighs, but her heavy breathing doesn't help her teasing. "Tanning oil? Really?"

Alvarez shushes her by digging her thumbs into the thick muscle of Laila's legs, rubbing slow circles and inching towards the edge of her bathing suit. Her pale skin, tanner now from years of sunlight, is already glistening.

Alvarez's fingers dip just under the edge of the swimsuit, following the curve of the string to Laila's hips. It makes Laila whimper, because she's sure Alvarez can feel it. The heat radiates off her, and she knew she was wet, but she wasn't sure just how wet until she feels Alvarez's fingers graze the slickness. Laila's abdomen jumps and she scoots forward, hands gripping her thighs to keep herself still.

She loves the wait, the anticipation, but it's a killer sometimes. Part of her just wants to push Alvarez's face against her, feel the flatness of her tongue as it strokes...

Alvarez licks her lips at the reaction, and Laila catches the glint of her purple tongue piercing. She's glad it's staying in; it's so good against her. When Alvarez takes her clit into her mouth and sucks, it's an extra jolt.

Alvarez, not content to end her teasing just yet, moves her oiled hands up Laila's body. She tugs at the front clasp of her bikini, narrowing her eyes in the delayed realization that Laila picked this one on purpose. Laila bites her lip to hide her smile, and grabs her girlfriend's wrists to guide her hands under the thin cloth. The top falls to her side, and it adds to Laila's overall excitement.

If anyone opens their window, if anyone comes out here, there's no way Laila would be able to put herself together fast enough.

Alvarez groans, probably thinking the same thing. It doesn't stop her from squeezing Laila's breasts in her hands until they're just short of shiny. Laila adores her girlfriend's hands; the palms are large enough to cup each breast, to take them into her hands whenever she feels like it. During movies when no one is paying attention, when Laila sits in her lap and reads, at night when they're spooning...

It's a good pastime.

Here though, Alvarez isn't trying to be cute or cheeky as she leans down to circle one of Laila's nipples with her tongue. She flicks at it a few times, and Laila shivers from the cool air, arching forward in a silent plea.

Her mind is just repeating itself over and over: I want your mouth, your mouth, your mouth.

And Alvarez obliges. She pulls Laila's nipple between her lips and sucks, drawing out every breathy sigh she can. Laila knows she has to be quiet; it echoes here, but it feels too good to be completely silent. She sits up more fully, pressing Alvarez's face forward. It's probably borderline suffocating for her to be pressed against Laila like this, but they both love it. Alvarez alternates between sucking and licking while she tugs on Laila's other nipple, kneading the sensitive skin between her fingers until Laila is moaning low and sweet. The soft, wet sounds are enough to drive Laila mad, and she hates that it's getting brighter.

They can't take their time with this, though she wishes they could. This is her favorite way to come—completely untouched, with Alvarez's attention solely on her pleasure.

Her girlfriend is predictable in that she can't keep her mouth shut, but in these moments, the words pull Laila apart.

"You're so cute," Alvarez whispers when she pops off of Laila's breast, feeling along her abdomen for the particularly big scar she has there. It’s from a rough accident on the court, but Laila can't say she's insecure about it when Alvarez always strokes it like that. It's almost like she burned it there herself.

And no, Laila has never been called cute. She's a brash goalkeeper, and not sheltered in the slightest. But Alvarez makes her feel small and desperate, and she loves falling into that feeling, that role.

"You're going to come hard, I can tell," Alvarez says, and despite the deepness of her voice, it's laced with excitement. Laila might roll her eyes at the arrogance any other time, but now she just nods, delirious with the feeling. She guesses with how well Alvarez knows her body, the arrogance isn't undeserved.

She scoots forward and Alvarez pushes her back down on the chair, undoing the strings of her bikini bottoms.

Well, if there’s already no hope of them saving face if someone sees them, there’s no point in being worried about shedding more clothing. Alvarez smirks as she tosses them on the concrete, leaning down to level her face with Laila's pussy.

It might almost make her laugh; here she is, completely bare by the pool, with her girlfriend's face between her legs. She far from hates it, but it's a lot different than Alvarez pulling down her ratty sweatpants at the dorm and having Laila sweat through her hoodie.

It feels the same, though—it feels just as fulfilling in every way.

Laila grabs Alvarez's hand where it rests against her abdomen, locking them together and tightening when Alvarez takes her into her mouth. The first swipe of Alvarez's tongue has her nearly biting her tongue to keep the moans at bay. Laila is panting harshly a few seconds later, all too exposed as Alvarez looks her fill. Always watching, always admiring.

Laila has never gotten over it, the attention is embarrassing in the best way.

Her girlfriend's other hand glides between her wet folds, smearing some of her slick onto her inner thighs. Alvarez hums, and Laila chances a glance down at her when she feels her girlfriend's palm rub against her.

"I have to indulge into the entire fantasy, you know," Alvarez says, and Laila watches as she rubs the last of the oil through Laila's sparse hair. Laila sighs as Alvarez rubs her thumb over her clit, thick and just as ready for Alvarez's tongue.

The comment is supposed to be teasing, funny. But Alvarez sounds way too fucked out to add any of that; her voice is lost at sea like Laila's mind is. Laila tries to say something witty back, or maybe just a demand for Alvarez to get a move on, but then Alvarez is sucking her back into her mouth, and Laila is gone.

She throws her head back as Alvarez continues enthusiastically, like she always does. Laila can feel each warm breath, the pressure of Alvarez's face pressing against her without care for how messy it'll leave her. Her fucking tongue piercing.

It slides over her clit, following the curves and folds enough to make Laila sigh. It's so familiar, but she's never sick of it. She grabs the back of Alvarez's head and bobs her up and down, moving her just so against her.

Her girlfriend's face is a mix of drool and Laila, and when those eyes dart up sharply to her own, there's nothing but heat there.

Laila whines long and hard, and then Alvarez's tongue is inside of her, massaging as deep as she can reach. She rolls her entire neck into it, making sure to pull every sound she can manage out of Laila.

Laila wishes she could spread her legs wider without hurting herself, but it's not an option. Instead, she whispers nonsensical encouragement over and over.

"You're so good. It's so good, babe," Laila stammers, tripping up over her words. To emphasize, she pushes Alvarez into her even more, and the groan she gets is not pretty, not delicate. But fuck, if she could replay that sounds over and over she would. "Oh, shit..."

Alvarez hums, and she must be able to tell how close Laila is from how she's tightening around her tongue, from how her hips are barely able to stay pinned to the chair. Laila's legs freeze up, and she darts a hand out to grab her thigh. She's not letting a cramp ruin this, but goddamn. Alvarez's stronger, less shaky hands grab Laila's legs and throw them over her shoulders, and Laila squeezes. Alvarez moans, nodding against her, and Laila watches as her girlfriend's tongue glides over her clit, not willing to stop. It must be straining at this point, but seeing Alvarez so determined to please her, to make her come...

It sends Laila over the edge, and in the next few minutes she's tensing, trembling as the orgasm rips through her. As her girlfriend predicted, she feels herself squirt a little against Alvarez's face, and it drips onto the towel. She can't be too concerned about it when she's like this; she's hardly aware of anything at all. Her surroundings, her name...

Her entire body quivers, and she's vaguely aware of Alvarez's forearm pinning her hips in place as she eats her out through it. Alvarez is never grossed out by the sloppiness—she takes everything Laila has to offer.

Laila wasn't used to her girlfriend's ways at first, but now she gets it. Alvarez is a pleaser; this is what does it for her, what gets her so satisfied deep down...

Knowing she made Laila come so hard, that she made Laila crave her in such a revealing setting.

Laila shivers when she thinks of how turned on Alvarez must be, how badly she wants to return the favor.

Laila's clit throbs through the aftershocks, and she reaches down to rub at it, catching the end of Alvarez's tongue as her girlfriend pulls away. It's raw, empty…She misses the feeling of her girlfriend, but the cooling wetness makes her sigh.

She doesn't want to know how blissed out she looks, but she's sure Alvarez regrets not being able to snap a photo.

Alvarez leans back, wiping her mouth as if it helps. Despite being outdoors, the smell of sweat and sex is thick, and Laila fumbles for her swimsuit. When they both glance at the blinds for the hotel rooms, they're all still closed.

"I win," Laila comments breathlessly, and grins big and bright when Alvarez smiles at her. It's lazy, drunk almost, and Laila's gaze sweeps over the way Alvarez squirms.

"Ah—later," Alvarez says, reading Laila's mind as she stands up to adjust her shorts. Figures; Alvarez will eat out Laila in public, but when it comes to herself she's shy. "In the room."

Laila smirks, and it's a promise. "You're too polite."

Alvarez processes the words slowly, her brain still in a haze. Her pupils are blown wide, and yeah… Laila can't say her mind has moved on either. She's eager to get back to the room now.

But she needed her revenge.

"Coming from you," Alvarez scoffs, helping Laila up to tie the sides of her swimsuit. When she's done, she pinches Laila's thigh. "But I guess you're far from it now, you rebel."

Laila lets herself be proud of that for the hundredth time.

She adjusts her suit and grimaces when her hands glide over her own skin. Ah, right.

"Gross, I'm all sticky," she says, which is yes, way worse than being covered in sweat and other unmentionables. The tanning oil isn't the nicest, and it feels like it's starting to dry in patches. She does not approve.

Alvarez throws up her hands. "When you let me act out a porn fantasy, you can't exactly blame me for my actions," she comments, and absolves herself of all blame. Right. Laila can understand that her girlfriend is a perv, but it's her fault for provoking that side of her.

It was fun, though, minus the need for a shower.

Laila sighs, lacing their hands together as they walk towards the motel elevators. The sun has already begun to reveal itself through the clouds, promising a hot, miserable day that Laila can't wait to avoid. Still…If it means more days by the pool, she can't complain.

"Was it everything you dreamed of?" she asks with a small grin, and laughs when Alvarez jumps at the sound of the first door opening.

Alvarez nudges her, but her scowl is fake as can be. She's smiling deviously in the next moment, leaning forward to kiss Laila by the ear.

"Better."

They speed walk the rest of the way to their room, and thankfully no one is around to see.

[hellyeahomeland]

“Chalk One Up” | Directed by Seith Mann, Cinematography by David Klein

The episode opens with Carrie arriving from a long night out doing… God knows what with God knows who. We love the starkness of this close-up on the exterminated motorcycle light. According to Lesli Linka Glatter, this mode of transport is based on a real life story: 

“The scene where she gets out of the embassy was based on the real agent who Carrie is based on. She was based in Iraq at the time and that’s how she got out: by dressing as a man and traveling on a motorcycle. So, we used that for this. Also, you can’t leave in Kabul without an armored vehicle.”

...as the camera slowly pans up to reveal it’s Carrie underneath that (gigantor) motorcycle helmet, the question becomes clear: where the fuck was she? 

Sara loved these scenes between Samira and her friend. Homeland has depicted several cities in the Middle East over the years but has rarely given us glimpses into the world outside the walls of a hotel or CIA station, especially without our main characters. The market that Samira and her friend walk through is vibrant and filled with color, as are their outfits. It’s a stark contrast to the interiors of the CIA station. And Samira’s line that the Taliban didn’t go away but were no longer hiding proves remarkably predictive of the rest of the episode’s events.

The real highlight of the scene is the selfie, of course. We love the detail of the man on the far, far left being cut out. Samira’s friend is the master of the one-arm selfie! 

This shot of the various players at the Kabul station looking outward at Carrie is striking. It’s almost a reverse fish bowl. Carrie remains on the outside but everyone’s looks are in her direction. Jenna standing at the front of the room further suggests she was never “stuck in the starting gate.” She’s in the same position of power in that room as the Chief of Station and the commanding military officer at right. From afar, the dynamics are almost similar to early season one, Carrie running an ops meeting with Saul by her side. All of which is to say… is Jenna the Carrie to Mike’s Saul?

Dog.

This was such a specific detail that we thought it required pointing out, but 27 is not a significant number on this show (at least that we can remember), so we’re not sure why they bothered to show this. 

...unless it’s a reference to the general ominousness of the 27 Club and a hint that Carrie (who, to be fair, is far past the age of 27) is going to die. 

This week the show confirmed that Tasneem is the Director of the ISI. Which means that (after President Elizabeth Keane) she’s the second most powerful woman ever depicted on this show. And boy does she dress the part! 

Tasneem’s all-white ensemble is attention-grabbing and distinctive (the other women in this frame are dressed in dark clothes). It’s also visually similar--especially with her long, black hair peeking through the sheer fabric of her headscarf--to the dress worn by several other men at the reception.

Homeland has told lots of stories over the years--whether intentional or otherwise--about the challenges women face living in a patriarchal, misogynist society. Whether it’s Martha losing her career because her loser husband couldn’t stand having a wife who was more powerful and smarter than he…. Or Allison dying in the back of a car near the Russian border in an act of scorned lover revenge. Or Carrie, screaming and crying at the end of “The Vest”... but being right the whole time. 

Or, as Abigail Nussbaum said more elegantly than we ever could: 

“Carrie is, in many ways, a boogeyman; she is what professional women, and particularly ones in male-dominated professions, have been taught never to become - emotional, hysterical, crazy. Emotion is how women who want to be taken seriously are undermined and dismissed. Even if you’re perfectly sane, being emotional - and most especially, being angry - devalues you and your professional contribution. A woman can be called crazy simply for behaving like a normal human being rather than a robot (and of course, if she behaves robotically and unemotionally, she’s a cold bitch). But Carrie isn’t simply emotional (though she is that too, and worst of all, she allows her feelings for a man to cloud her judgment) - she actually is crazy and hysterical, in the proper clinical sense rather than the exaggerated one which attaches to any feminine display of emotion, and profoundly pathetic and unattractive in that state. And she’s completely right, the only person who figures out Brody and Abu Nazir’s plans and motivations, and the person who saves the day by being hysterical, infecting Brody’s daughter with enough of that hysteria that she calls her father and convinces him not to blow himself up.

It’s certainly possible to read this arc as purely tragic, Carrie’s self-destruction being the cost of saving the world (though this is a character arc that is applied to men as often as women, for example in Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon), but to my mind its effect is more complex. It makes a crazy, hysterical woman into a hero without in any way mitigating her craziness or hysteria, and thus defangs the argument that emotion in women is a weakness. It’s the rational, sane men around Carrie, who turn away from her unattractive mania with distaste and embarrassment, who are blind and incompetent, and it’s that same inability to look past surfaces that leads them to put their trust, wrongfully, in Brody - just as Carrie performs hysterical femininity, Brody performs stalwart masculinity. Both are misleading.”

All of which is to say, we’re really fucking pumped to see how Tasneem’s role expands for the rest of the season, and we think the array of women in Tasneem, Carrie, and Jenna and their varying degrees of power is going to be really interesting to see unfold. 

Sara is obsessed with this shot. She’s obsessed with the set design of Samira’s apartment. She’s obsessed with this moody lighting. She’s basically just obsessed. 

Last week we had a slow pan around Jalal to reveal Tasneem. This week we have a similar slow pan around Carrie to reveal Jenna. This definitely means that Sara’s theory that Jenna will “single white female” Carrie is right on track. 

Also, Gail hereby declares Carrie’s delicate silver jewelry her “FULL circle earrings,” because everything is coming full circle this episode, including accessories.

That said, we can’t deny the power of this shot. First, we have to note what’s going on in the background (which is actually in focus). President Beau has just arrived off Air Force One and immediately stops for a photo op with the Afghan president. From the beginning, the show is clear this is an optics-based trip. 

But we really love this image of Carrie and Jenna (out of focus, but in the foreground) side by side. Again, they mirror each other, but in opposite ways (“So they’re mirror opposites?” --Sara’s brain). Carrie’s light hair versus Jenna’s dark hair. Jenna’s light jacket versus Carrie’s dark one. It’s eerie.

On the podcast we talked at length about the scene between Beau and Carrie. It’s genuinely moving. The staging of it is unique as well. The camera shoots them both at the same height. They stand close together. Ironically, the power dynamic seems almost equal. He’s one of the few people who’s ever acknowledged the sacrifices she’s made in service of her country. 

Their twin smiles here are all the more tragic following the sequence of events that closes the episode. They all sincerely want peace. So many characters smile real, genuine smiles this week. That’s not a normal Homeland occurrence! 

And they all legitimately believe in what they’re doing. They believe they’re doing the right thing. Maybe they are. But partly out of necessity, and partly out of more selfish desires (Hayes later says it’s all about getting a second term), they get caught up in the theater of it all. They make poor decisions. They take the wrong risks.

Every so often in this series we have to abandon screenshots in favor of gifs in order to truly capture ~the moment~ and this is one of those times! The way Claire plays Carrie’s reaction here is so specific, so nuanced and strange and wonderful. These “lived in” moments are something we’ll really miss when the show is over.

IJLTP.

We’ve all been there, Carrie. 

This is another interesting shot choice. We’re not sure what its purpose is, other than to add interest to a fairly run-of-the-mill scene. But still, the set design! *heart eyes* 

Sara’s note for this shot was “Saul is so extra.” We talked about genuine and sincere smiles above and Saul’s here does qualify… sort of. This is halfway between genuine and self-aggrandizing. AKA “where Saul lives 100% of the time.” He looks like a director about to screen his short film at Sundance. The red curtains parting slowly behind him are Too Much.

Tasneem and G’ulom are the kids in the back of the classroom who are so fucking done with this shit but can’t leave because they’ll get detention. We will continue to stan. 

It’s a classic Homeland device to show a significant moment from a variety of perspectives, especially if those perspectives involve screens. The multitude of angles on Beau’s speech here reminded us a lot of Keane’s resignation speech in the Oval Office in “Paean to the People.” Coincidentally, that was her last hurrah as president too. 

(P.S. Another Saul over-the-shoulder shot!)

Two selfies in one episode! 

We loved the payoff to Max’s subplot. For once this season the weird LA filter actually looks nice! These are beautiful shots and the reflection in Max’s glasses is especially striking. 

The skull and crossbones on the barracks is an ominious detail. As is the rock labeled “Boredom Rock.” Death and boredom really have been the two extremes of Max’s stint at the combat outpost.

We’re still divided on the merits of the “Carrie has to save Samira” storyline, but the camerawork here, with Carrie’s armed hands appearing out of nowhere, was pretty cool. 

This RPG shot was one of the cooler special effects the show has done in a while. The entire sequence of Chalk One looking for Chalk Two was tense and thrilling and extremely well-executed.

Bringing us back to the ops room, the “LOSS OF SIGNAL” projected now for both helicopters is pretty chilling.

This is now Sara’s favorite shot of the entire series and we’d be remiss if we didn’t mention that it’s another over-the-shoulder Saul shot. This time he observes one of the crowning achievements of his long career literally blowing up in his face. 

Visually, this shot anchors the viewer back to the Carrie/Saul relationship, the central one of the show. The black blankness--and the failure it represents--engulfs the frame. 

We love the choice to end the episode on Carrie alone. It refocuses the event back to her. The horror in her eyes, welling up with tears, is palpable. How does Carrie feel? Alex Gansa explained that the writers wanted to create a new 9/11 with this maybe-assassination of the president. And it’s a fitting bookend for the show in many ways. In Homeland’s pilot, Carrie says she “missed something that day,” misdirecting blame to herself for not preventing 9/11. Now, in the final season, the show seems poised to tell a story in which Carrie is blamed for the “new 9/11.” 

Strap in, folks. It’s gonna be a rough ride. 

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 40 - Correspondence Interrupts

This letter is bordered by talented sketches of angular motifs, lofty architecture, and statues of Paragons, as well as various dwarven contraptions that have no counterpart on the surface. At the bottom is a doodled stick figure hitting its head on a door lintel.

--

23rd Solace, 9:32 Dragon

Dear Rosslyn,

I miss you.

Did you think that would be it? I was tempted, believe me, but then I thought you might not write back in retaliation, or really go off and fight a bear just to prove a point, and neither of those things is really appealing. Orzammar is huge. The journey here was quiet, a few days up White River then across the pass on horseback. Eamon was trying to be useful, I think, but his way of going about it makes me remember Brantis’ endless etiquette lessons with fondness. His pointers for meeting King Bhelen did help, though, so I shouldn’t really complain too much. You’ll be pleased to know I only made a fool of myself once, when I called Second Matron Nerav “Your Majesty” and managed to insult everyone in the vicinity. At least that made a good first impression on Bhelen’s sister – I don’t think they’re a very fond family, but don’t tell Eamon I said that.

But we don’t need to dwell on that. You should see this place. (And not just because then you would be here with me and I’d get to enjoy your company – have I mentioned that I miss you yet?) We’ve been housed in the Diamond Quarter, which is disappointingly unencrusted with gems, with rooms that overlook the river of lava that flows below the city. It’s a lot of lava. I guess they just hope it never erupts, or that people don’t fall into it. I try to stay away from the edge of my terrace, because the walls are just a bit too low and if I tripped, well, nobody would really know what happened. Eamon would chide me for saying it, but there are probably a lot of noble dwarves down there who ‘tripped over their bootlaces’.

Tomorrow they’re going to hold something called a Proving in my honour. It’s some sort of tourney, from what they tell me, and after there’s going to be a market in the Diamond Quarter by special dispensation, whatever that means. I would have put all that in this letter, but then what if you got bored reading it? Or it was delayed and you thought I hadn’t written at all? This is much safer. I still have one to Cailan that has to be finished before the morning, so I should get to that.

Yours,

Alistair

PS. They have private bathing rooms here with engineered sluices that channel hot water over your head and then drain it away, with little knobs and dials that let you change the temperature. It’s like the hot springs in Redcliffe, but without the smell. I’m going to ask how they’re crafted and then try and persuade Cailan to have some fitted in the palace, for when this war is over.

PPS. The doors are all too low.

~~~~~~~~

This letter is written in fine ink and paper in a flowing hand. One corner is waterstained, as if the package in which it was carried sprang a small leak.

--

27th Solace, 9:32

Dear Alistair,

Receiving your letter was a balm for an otherwise miserable day, especially when I saw your sketches. You have the hand of an artisan, and I’m sure there are many more wonders in Orzammar that you have yet to see. Rest assured I could never get bored reading about them. The sluices especially sound fascinating. Once you have the specifications, perhaps I should order some for Highever as well?

My journey so far has been eventful, but not pleasant. We are two days late to Redcliffe, having tacked against a changeable wind all the way from Lakehead, and only just made it to the harbour in time to beat the true storm. It’s lashing against the castle walls as I write, making such a noise I doubt I’ll sleep more than a few hours, and if it continues to the morning it might be best to order a reprieve and delay the journey to Gwaren. I’m trying not to take this as an omen, but the wind almost seems to have a voice, and between that and Cuno’s continued nausea, this campaign is not off to an auspicious start. Ser Gideon, at least, seems to be keeping a steady hand on the reins in my absence. Take that to mean: Baudrillard is behaving himself, for now.

There is little left to report here, except that things are too quiet without you, and the captain’s cabin seems much bigger without a bunkmate. Brantis has taken ill with a cold, and since Cailan has little need for another chamberlain on the front lines, I have talked him out of putting his health in danger by travelling with us, though he put up a fight worthy of an ash warrior. Lasan has missed me, and in fact he nearly knocked me over in his excitement when I visited the stables. I will take it as a sign of affection rather than restiveness, especially since the arl’s Master Dennet seems a responsible sort and has kept him well exercised. The man had many fond things to say about you, by the way; is it true you once tried to raise a stray fennec cub in a corner of the kennels without the arl knowing?

You can save your answer for your next letter. In the meantime, please don’t fall into lava, and be careful about Eamon. He has more experience, but don’t forget you are the Prince. My father once taught me a trick for dealing with his Banns: listen to them, tell them you’ll take their opinion under advisement, and then do what you were going to do in the first place. It’s always better to make sure that’s an informed decision, but Cailan has faith in you, and so do I.

I miss you.

Yours,

Rosslyn

PS. There are rumours of a large number of bears roaming the Redcliffe arling. Don’t tempt me.

~~~~~

This letter is written in several different inks. Doodles and diagrams of fighting stances decorate the margins.

--

25th Solace, 9:32 Dragon

Dear Rosslyn,

I keep wondering if my last letter has reached you yet. I’ve barely had time to sit down, let alone write, and I didn’t want to do it in fits and starts in case I missed something out. Yesterday started early, with the Proving. We sat in a box above an arena and watched what must have been five rounds of a tournament before lunch. I assume it was lunch. It would be far easier to tell down here with one of Bann Ferrenly’s clockworks – may have discovered something Eamon calls ‘a niche in the market’.

The dwarves have a fascinating fighting style, it’s spare and direct, and if you were here I’m sure you’d have something to say about it. In duelling matches, at least, the two opponents sometimes circle each other to find a weak point, but once they engage there’s very little lateral movement, and they seem to favour forward momentum instead, perhaps due to confines of fighting in tunnels? Eamon didn’t seem very interested when I pointed this out, but afterwards Valesh– that’s Bhelen’s sister – asked what was different about surface fighting, and offered to spend some time sparring with me. Just you wait, I’ll have some new tricks to show you when I get back!

I wish the day had ended as well as it began. In the final of the Proving, one of the fighters turned out to be a casteless dwarf in disguise, and despite clearly outmatching her opponent, she was arrested. Nobody will tell me what happened to her, and they all wondered why I cared in the first place.

26th

Negotiations started today. They didn’t get very far. If you thought Fereldan politics were tiresome, the Assembly seems to make a sport of infighting. And who knew how complicated mining rights could be? All that came of a three-hour long meeting was a headache and a vague assurance that there would be a market for Fereldan goods if a trade route was formalised, though I’m not entirely sure what we’d be getting in return unless Cailan thinks to take over the majority of lines from Orlais. It’s all just a big, tangled knot of hot air. Eamon says these things always start like this. We’ve been offered a tour of the city soon, when time allows.

2nd August

I should have sent this days ago. Not having above your head blurs everything together here, so I lost track and before I knew it, it was already All Soul’s Day. I hope you’re alright. Know I’m thinking about you, and I’d be there if I could. I miss holding you, and kissing you, and generally just being in your company. Today of all days, I want you to know it, and I hope you’ve got company. Not the Orlesians, they don’t count. Maybe this letter can give you some comfort, even if it is a little late getting to you. It’s hard to believe it hasn’t even been a month since I saw you. I hope the weather is better for you now, and Brantis’ cold, and Cuno’s poor stomach. Being confined with him in that cabin would be enough to give anyone nightmares, though if I may be so bold, the rest of the company more than made up for it last time.

Enclosed is a dagger I found in the market. Eamon said it was too expensive, but since I took yours and you don’t get to be here to see the craftsmanship for yourself, it’s only fair. The stallholder called it ‘The Rose’s Thorn’. I’m not sure the design on the pommel really resembles a rose, but the blade is dragonbone and I thought you’d find a use for it. I hope you like it.

Yours,

Alistair

PS. Nobody ever proved how that fennec got into Isolde’s favourite picnic basket!

~~~~~~~~

8th August, 9:32 Dragon

Dear Alistair,

The Rose Prince of Ferelden thinks I’ll be able to use the Rose’s Thorn, does he? I am shocked. How very forward, and after such bold claims about wanting to kiss me!

Are you blushing now? I’m picturing a blush to the tips of your ears, but if you’re not quite that affected, then no matter. I have a list of all the innuendo I thought to use, and when you return I’ll be sure to read them all to you, out loud in funny voices so I can hear you laugh. In all seriousness, the dagger is beautiful in every way, including the design on the pommel, and I will treasure it, all the more because it came from you. Expect Cailan to be very grumpy in his next letter, however; he was quite put out to find there wasn’t another Thorn for him.

I kept busy on All Soul’s Day overseeing the harbour blockade. The townsfolk aren’t entirely happy about losing their deepwater berths as it means their larger vessels are trapped behind the breakwall and the smaller ones cannot be taken as far onto the sea, nor catch as many fish, but the alternative is that Loghain would be able to land soldiers in Gwaren again, and we none the wiser as we push north. It is a necessary precaution, and it was Cailan’s own idea to compensate the people with the supplies leftover from Lothering – undrugged, you’ll be pleased to hear. Otherwise, the king has been rather morose. He puts on a cheerful face, but the loss of Anora has been a blow to him and to our plans. When I am not mediating quarrels between the soldiers, it’s a task trying to engage him in anything other than maps and battle plans. Perhaps he will respond to the latest idea devised by Captain Morrence – though I suspect Leliana, who still has not revealed her true dastardly nature as an Orlesian spy, had a hand in it too. They wish to try a unit of mounted archers modelled after the Steppe people of the Anderfels in order to make an effective counterpoint to the hitting force of the chevaliers. If it works, it will be especially useful in situations where our archers would otherwise be vulnerable to flanking. When you return, you won’t be the only one with something new to teach the other!

We will be decamping in the next few days, heading for the Brecilian Passage. The Bannorn between here and South Reach are firmly under Loghain’s control, and I am not looking forward to it, though better news comes from the coast. The Clayne have blockaded both Amaranthine and Highever, and sunk three triremes off the coast of Brandel’s Reach.

I don’t mind if you think about kissing me.

Yours,

Rosslyn

~~~~~~~

18th August, 9:32 Dragon

Dear Rosslyn,

I never thought you had it in you – turning a generous, perfectly innocent gesture into base insinuation! You are a terrible, terrible person for toying with a man’s sincerity like this (but I’m glad you like the dagger). Maybe Eamon will get one for Cailan if he asks nicely. And now my mind is picturing the awful connotations of that sentence, and it’s all your fault.

However, you can’t just drop an idea like mounted archers without more details. Do you know how you would implement it? Are you turning archers into riders, or riders into archers? Either way, if they prove successful, it would be so much easier to keep ranged fighters out of harm’s way, and that could free up more of our infantry as attack units. I’m sure you’ll work out the logistics, you always do.

As for here, the discussions at the Assembly are still going in circles, so King Bhelen has decided on a recess while the nobles decide exactly what they want. He seems to genuinely want to open Orzammar to foreign trade, but a lot of the noble houses are traditional and they won’t do anything without precedent from the Shaperate. While we wait, Valesh has appointed herself as my unofficial guide, since like most of the upper-caste women here she doesn’t seem to have much else to do. I’ve seen most of the Diamond Quarter and the Commons, but Bhelen still seems determined to present Orzammar’s best side to me, and I wasn’t permitted to the lower levels of Dust Town, where the casteless dwarves live. Their situation riles me, to be honest. They spend their lives being told they’re worthless, and then are never allowed to prove themselves otherwise, simply because they were born to the wrong parents. Is it any wonder they turn to crime when there aren’t any alternatives? Valesh seemed confused when I pointed this out to her – she said I would never have been counted casteless because Maric was my father, but that isn’t the point. And it makes me wonder about how just our own criminal system is, and how much privilege works to moderate punishment.

It’s a thought for another time. For now, know that I think about kissing you a lot, but mostly I just want you here. I miss you.

Alistair

PS. Is it entirely certain Anora has betrayed us to Loghain? Perhaps Cailan has reason to hope yet, and no reason to do anything rash.

~~~~~~

Traces of dirt and blood cover the edges of this letter.

--

25 Aug, 9:32

Alistair,

There has been no time, and a response to your last letter has remained unwritten longer than I would have liked, though I thought about doing so every day. Our supply lines were ambushed on the Southern border, all but twenty of the guards killed. The rest of the army is fine – I am fine – but without stores, our progress north has been halted while we requisition from the local villages, and I have set aside plans for the mounted archers until we can field the extra horses. The Orlesians are being kept back from requisition duty by Cailan’s command, and so far they are holding to it, which is a mercy; the soldiers we have sent out are under strict orders not to use excessive force to take what is needed, and to compensate the goods fairly, but we are not popular with the people here. I cannot entirely blame them. After all, Howe has done the same in Highever, and I condemn him. We are taking food away from the people who will need it most in the coming months, with no guarantee that they will benefit – and yet I know Bann Ceorlic has manufactured the scarcity with an aim to painting the king as a villain. He robs his own subjects ahead of us so that when our scouting parties reach a settlement, we must choose either to take what little is left or to leave them be and go hungry, and either choice is a victory for him. He means to starve us out and then offer battle when we are weakened. It is a cunning plan, but he underestimates our discipline.

I wish you were here. You would know exactly what to say, or you would see some insight the rest of us have missed. At the very least, you might have better luck than me persuading Cailan to cheer up. He received a letter from Anora two days ago but would not let me know its contents, and since then he has been downtrodden and prone to snap at everyone. This situation makes me uneasy. Either she is betraying us, or she is betraying Loghain, or she intends to play both sides against one another and claim allegiance to whichever emerges victorious, and there will be no way to tell her true purpose until the dust settles.

You, at least, seem to have found an ally in Valesh Aeducan. She might not be fond of her brother, but if her goals are aligned with his, she might be willing to help you win over the other deshyrs. What is Eamon doing to help these negotiations progress? Be careful he doesn’t try to block your input.

It’s not the same without you.

Rosslyn

~~~~~~~~

30th August, 9:32 Dragon

Rosslyn,

Don’t ever compare yourself to Howe. That man is a monster. I saw the reports coming out of Highever just as you did, and I know you would never go as far as that, or take such delight in causing pain. The fact that you’re even considering your actions in such a light proves you are a better person. I’m afraid I can’t help much with the rest, but I know you’ll persevere. You’re too stubborn for anything else. (That was meant to be a joke!) Be careful against Ceorlic, and don’t worry too much about me, I’m learning to keep my wits. Eamon spends his days trying to curry favour with various nobles, and when he isn’t doing that, the both of us are shut up with Bhelen, negotiating one way then another about whether Orzammar should keep sending weapons to Orlais, or how to standardise our currencies for fair exchange, or other things that are almost equally interesting. Part of me is starting to think we’re being kept around for the amusement of the Diamond Quarter, with all the running around we do, but Valesh at least has agreed to teach me about her culture. In return, she wants to learn more about Ferelden. I told her you would make a better teacher, which made her laugh. Apparently I spend most of my time talking about you. If that’s true, it still doesn’t compare to how often I think about you. Which is a lot, in case there was any doubt.

The lack of sunlight is starting to get to me, I think.

Yours,

Alistair

~~~~~~~~~~~

This letter is written in a shaky hand, the ink smudged and the corners scuffed, with the distinct smell of elfroot lingering on the paper.

--

29th August, 9:32 Dragon

Alistair,

I know what you’re going to say. It was reckless, and stupid, and dangerous, but without any bears to test myself against, my options were rather limited. I meant that as a joke, but seeing it written down, it doesn’t much feel like one. I might blame the palliative the healers gave me, but truth be told there has been precious little humour to go around in the past few days and we are all stretched thin. Rest assured I am alright, untainted, and for an encounter with a hurlock captain, three broken fingers and some bruising doesn’t seem like much of a price. If not for the timely arrival of the Grey Wardens, the toll could have been much worse. The darkspawn came out of the ground less than a day away from where we were to meet Ceorlic, and the horde was of a size dangerous enough to call a truce between us. Even so, having to keep the dogs back for fear of the taint, this is the first time I have been truly grateful for the hitting power of the chevaliers. When the Wardens arrived, the ferocity of the horde seemed to vanish, and the last of them were chased down with immolations to prevent the surrounding lands being Blighted. Ceorlic fell in the battle, but his adjutant made permanent peace and has agreed to join us in return for having saved their lands. His soldiers have their parole and are being permitted to tend to their harvest. It was Cailan that led the charge that saved us; he is more grounded now, and seems more resolved in his duties as King, which is a weight off my mind.

The Grey Wardens stayed for the funeral rites. They were led by Warden-Commander Duncan, in fact, and he asked after you when he found out we knew each other. He’s quite charming, in a roguish sort of way, and we talked for a while, mostly about Highever and old stories from the coastlands. He threatened to invoke the Right of Conscription for me, but I pointed out I was more valuable to the Wardens as an ally than a recruit, and he let me be, but perhaps only because I allowed him to pick volunteers from the ranks to bolster the numbers he lost in the battle. Some went with the promise that the Joining would cure the taint from their injuries in the battle, and it saddens me to say the man you matched at Lothering was among them; he was a fine and dedicated soldier, and hopefully now a dedicated Warden.

I may have to employ a scribe until this injury heals, because writing with my off-hand is intolerably slow, and Cailan is hovering. His enthusiasm is much restored, but as eager as he is to send you his own account, I made him wait until I’d finished this.

Yours, as ever,

Rosslyn

~~~~~~~~~

2nd Kingsway, 9:32 Dragon

Rosslyn,

Eamon received the official report sent through this morning. The news has spread fast, and defeating a horde of darkspawn has probably impressed the nobility here more than anything else we’ve done so far, especially with Cailan’s flair for storytelling, but there was nothing from you. The aftermath of a battle is always busy, and especially where darkspawn are involved, but please, I need to hear from you that you’re alright. Duncan used to tell me stories about how the taint can lie dormant, about how everything’s fine until it’s not.

Please send word when you can.

Alistair

~~~~~~~

13th Kingsway, 9:32 Dragon

Alistair,

Your lessons in the Shaperate must be taking up a lot of time. There have been two rounds of letters since our darkspawn encounter, and yet I haven’t heard from you. I’ve missed reading about your life as a paragon of diplomacy – and no, it isn’t the same when Cailan is the one telling me about how you brought Lord Dace around to the idea of luxury imports by waxing lyrical about plum jam.

We took Vintiver. The place is little more than a fortress and an attached hamlet, well stocked for a traditional siege. I ordered the mages to raze it instead. The walls shattered and crushed the houses when Bann Grainne refused terms, which meant the reinforcements they were expecting from Aikwith arrived too late and were caught unprepared. It is thanks to Queen Anora’s intelligence that we knew they were coming, but the ruthlessness of the plan was mine alone. Anora’s apparent decision to side with us still seems too good to be true, but with both Bann Grainne and Bann Jevrin on their way to Redcliffe’s dungeons, I am willing to reserve judgement for now.

I cannot help but wonder what you would think of all this. I wish you were here, instead of trapped under a mountain. I wish you would write to me.

~~~~~~~~~

15th Kingsway, 9:32 Dragon

Everything I hear about your campaign in the south is success. You must lose track of the days, and marching leaves little time for letter-writing, but I miss them. I miss hearing your voice, even if it is only in my head. Did I do something wrong? Say something? I’ve reread your letters over and over but I can’t see anything that makes it look like you were upset with me. Do you miss me? Are you even reading these before you throw them away?

Cailan says you’re well, but his words sound like false cheeriness, and I can’t help but worry. The negotiations are finally moving forward. We agreed mining rights yesterday, and a cultural exchange of smelters for gardeners. There are some things that will never grow underground, but we might at least be able to broaden Orzammar’s local cuisine to include more than just lichen and nugmeat.

Please write back.

Alistair

~~~~~~~~

16th Kingsway, 9:32 Dragon

Alistair,

The Bannorn is steadily coming under our control, but cracks are starting to show. Baudrillard and his mercenaries are beginning to boast of their role in the campaign, and I fear where it will lead, especially now I have vetoed his suggestion to bring in more chevaliers. Besides that, the year is marching on and still we have no sight of Highever, or Denerim. The harvest sits in the fields, and when the frosts come there will be nothing salvageable, and nothing to eat unless the coffers are drained to import grain from the Free Marches.

I don’t know why I keep writing these letters, why I keep denying the inevitable. Cailan says you’re well, and Teagan too since he joined us to take Hestley and Fenwater. I am relieved to hear it, but you’ll write to tell them so, and not to me? I only know you talk to Teagan because he said you enquired after me in your latest letter. What can I have done to deserve this silence? Barely two months ago you stood on the cliffs above Dunedyn and told me you wished to court me, and I believed it. I’ve seen too much of you to think you would act so cruelly as to ignore me after that. If you are still reading these, tell me what I have done, so I may redress it. Or is there some other explanation, and it is just my letters going astray? Do you think I am not writing to you?

Cailan has just come to invite me to dinner. I must seem very down indeed if even he has noticed my mood.

I still miss you.

Rosslyn

~~~~~~~~

This letter is wrinkled in places and smells like beer, written in an uneven, scrawling hand.

--

26th Kingsway, 9:32 Dragon

Rosslyn, why won’t you talk to me? Another batch of letters, and another, and still nothing. you can’t be that busy, and I refuse to believe what you said that day on the cliff was meaningless, but I don’t know what to think anymore. Is this Cailan’s influence? Eamon mentioned that the king’s letters are “encouraging” but I didn’t have the stomach to ask further. I can’t think that you would find me so replaceable, but then I keep wondering, has he kissed you yet? Bedded you, after everything you said to me in the broch? Did you enjoy it? There was a feast today to celebrate King Bhelen’s birthday, featuring all sorts of surface food to get the deshyrs more used to foreign customs, but I barely said two words, I couldn’t get the image out of my head, until I somehow ended up alone with Valesh. We talked. I don’t remember the subject, but it hardly matters. Nothing is what it seemed. One moment we were joking and the next she slid out of her chair and offered to perform an act for me. She said if I liked, I could think of you while she did it, that I could pretend it was you. Maker forgive me, but I nearly let her.

I miss you so much it hurts. These trade negotiations and Bhelen’s pushes for change are crowding out the casteless dwarves that live in Dust Town, there’s fighting in the streets, but all I can think of is what you might say, what you might do if you were here.

But you’re not, and you won’t talk to me and I don’t know why.

~~~~~~~~

There are several blotches partially obscuring the words of this letter, as if someone had dripped water on it

--

3rd Harvestmere, 9:32 Dragon

Dear Alistair,

I know about the planned engagement between you and Valesh. Cailan mentioned it over breakfast this morning, and then asked me why I was so pale. All those mentions of her in your letters bear a new meaning now. I cannot know if she is party to the decision to match you, but I know you cannot have gone into this willingly, unless you are not the man I thought you. I am a Cousland, I know of duty, but if for the sake of the alliance with Orzammar you have chosen to go through with this, then you could at least do me the courtesy of telling me, instead of leaving me to this silence. I keep thinking about what you said on Innse Gaillean, and the words mock me. After all this time, perhaps I was the one fooling myself.

At least tell me you are safe. Apart from hearing Cailan regale us all with hopes for an alliance with the dwarves, I have read the official reports Eamon sent two days ago. It said there was a rebellion from the casteless dwarves, that they sieged the palace and took you prisoner. If you ever had the smallest regard for me, let me know that you’re alive, and whole, and alright. I’ll ask nothing more.

Rosslyn

P.S. We march for South Reach immediately. One of Loghain’s magisters, Caladrius, has left Denerim, and we require all speed to beat him to South Reach before he can establish defences. If we do not succeed, we will not reach Denerim before the spring, but if we do, we will rob our enemy of one of his most powerful allies. I pray Anora’s intelligence is true, that we reach Caladrius in time, and that Baudrillard’s vanity does not outstrip my strength to control him.

~~~~~~~~~~~

3rd Harvestmere, 9:32 Dragon

Rosslyn,

You must have heard about Brosca’s rebellion by now. It’s strange how cyclical life can be. She was the dwarf condemned for being casteless fighting in the Proving, if you remember. If you’ve kept my letters. There has been so little time to write in the past few days, but I know Eamon sent a missive to Cailan as soon as he was able. The Carta caught wind of our agreement with Bhelen, and realised it would cut away their black market trade with the surface. They stormed up the rest of Dust Town and a fair number of the smith caste who were convinced they’d lose their work to surfacers. Brosca and some others took the palace guard unaware and captured us all, until at last one of her own turned against her – a member of the warrior caste disgraced after his house vanished in the Deep Roads. When they were routed, Brosca was caught, and they’re holding her now far more securely than before, until the Shaperate finds precedent for a suitably grisly punishment. It’s the caste system that got them into this, but even Valesh still refuses to see that giving people no options means they will go out and carve their own. Perhaps that sympathy is what saved us, or perhaps we were only ever meant to shield Brosca from the consequences of her actions. It doesn’t matter. All I want is the sky over my head and the grass under my feet and the wind in my face. And you.

There’s nothing like a life-threatening moment to put things into perspective, and there was a long moment when I thought I might not make it. All I could think about was never seeing you again, or telling you how in between the battles and everything else, I found myself falling for you, how I can’t imagine my life without you. I don’t even know if you’ll read this, if you’re still getting my letters, but I need to say it anyway.

Despite how little time it seems we’ve spent together, I love you. I need you to know that. Eamon says Cailan is hopeful for a match, but Maker take me if I don’t hate him for it. I love you. I only hope that when I see you again it won’t be too late to say the words out loud.

I am yours, forever.

Alistair

~~~~~~~

This letter seems to have been written in a hurry, with blotches of ink and crossed-out words scarring the page. A bloody thumbprint marks one corner, with a larger stain across the bottom that bleeds into the signature.

--

9th Harvestmere, 9:32 Dragon

Alistair,

It is done. South Reach stands only as rubble now. Crews are still picking through the ruin so I cannot say if Arl Leonas was inside when we brought the walls down, but Caladrius is dead. His reserves of power were greater than even our templars knew how to contend with, deriving from blood magic rather than lyrium. The men atop the castle walls were already dead when we arrived, but still they fought us, and then so did every one of ours who fell to them. For three days, I had to cut down soldiers I recognised, who had told me the names of their children. Loghain sanctioned this. We had no choice in the end, but I have failed Arlessa Élodie all the same.

This is the last letter I will write. It is clear either you aren’t receiving my letters, or are ignoring them, and time will tell which is the truth. Fortune has allowed me one final chance, and so I am sending this to you with a messenger I can trust, rather than through the usual channels, and he promises to see it safe directly into your hands. What I have seen in the past few days has left me sickened, but still worse is the thought that what you said that day above Dunedyn lies forgotten. Everything seemed so simple back then, though it was a mere season ago.

I have not forgotten, but if things have changed, if you willingly choose the path laid out for you, then I will follow Your Highness’ wishes. I will not interfere, and you will always find a loyal subject in me, should you have need of one.

Your servant,

Rosslyn Cousland

[hencethebravery]

TITLE: First Family (1/1)

SUMMARY: It's not as if Killian Jones believes his husband to be incapable of winning the presidency (quite the opposite, actually)─he's just not entirely certain he wants him to. A CC 2020 Election AU. (Ao3)

NOTES: This particular story is meant to be entirely cute and in celebration of the prospect of having a “First Gentleman” (see recent Time magazine cover). It is not at all meant to be an endorsement of any one candidate, and if you come at me with anything other than love for these two boys and their dog, I will unhinge my jaw and swallow you whole. I developed Jasmine’s last name from a princess who appeared in The Book of One Thousand and One Nights (on whom Jasmine is based, or so Wikipedia tells me). Oh, and another small disclaimer, this is the first time I’ve included Emma Swan in a Captain Charming fic. For whatever reason I used to struggle with including her, but I guess I’m over it because she’s here now. If you think that’ll bother you then give this one a miss!

If the chronically thin, awkward, and punk-ass 15 year old version of Killian Jones could have, somehow, opened a portal in time and space; a feat which might have allowed him to peer into the future in an attempt to witness what the future might hold, he would have likely imbibed several ill-advised shots of cheap bloody rum, and then quite dramatically flung himself atop the rumpled sheets of his perpetually unmade bed. If the younger Jones had even an inkling of the type of life he’d be living as a 35 year old man─with a full time job, a mortgage, a husband, one wildly photogenic dog─he would have done everything in his power to steer himself off such a disturbingly clean-cut, well-behaved course.

“Well and truly boring I’ve become, isn’t that right my love?”

Dave, the husband in question, sat comfortably in his usual corner of the couch, reading glasses perched at the end of his nose, putzing about on their shared iPad, paying less and less attention by the minute, “Oh, absolutely. Can’t stand you.”

The only reason he brings it up at all is because he has, somewhat unexpectedly, been rather unsettled by the prospect of a life change so massive, he has had no other choice but to reconcile with the fact that the quiet life he has managed to build for himself could, quite likely, be completely destroyed. Forever. Never to be found again. Relegated only to a memory that he’ll return to in his twilight years, a decrepit old thing. “Ah yes,” he would mumble, smacking his lips together in that way the elderly tend to do, “I remember when you could watch an entire 48 hours of television, totally unbothered!”

It’s not as if he legitimately wants to keep his husband, arguably the love his life, from doing what he’s meant to, and clearly, the man’s meant for greatness, but Killian has become accustomed to a certain standard of living. He likes (much to his younger self’s hypothetical horror) doing the same things everyday─up with the sun, cup of coffee, walk the dog, go to school, come home, make dinner, watch Netflix, go to bed. He likes weekend drives to the country; hikes in the morning, beers in the afternoon. He enjoys the calm, safe predictability of his life that he has so miraculously found in the wake of a rather tumultuous, traumatic youth.

“Killian,” David insisted gently, “you’re my husband. Obviously, if you don’t want me to do this, I won’t do it.”

The maddening part is that he knows with absolute certainty that he’s telling the truth. David Nolan wasn’t the resentful type─it was something he both simultaneously loved and hated about the man.

“I swear, darling, the last thing I want to do is hold you back,” Killian replied, frustrated with his own lack of enthusiasm, “I just…”

“...It’s a big change,” David finished, “I know. Honestly,” he continued, “I probably won’t even win.”

“Sure,” Killian scoffed, a smirk on his face, “that’s exactly what you said last time.”

5  Y E A R S  E A R L I E R

“I JUST THINK IT’S FUNNY!” Killian yells over the deafening cheers, one arm slung round Dave’s shoulders, the other waving wildly in the air.

“WHAT?” David shouts back, his mouth turned upwards in a somewhat manic, and what was fast becoming alarmingly permanent, grin.

“IT’S FUNNY!” he repeats, the volume of his voice doing little to bely the patience in his tone. He finds a few of their friends’ faces in the crowd and blows them a kiss, his cheeks starting to hurt with the force and breadth of his own smile.

“WHAT IS?”

Killian couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the absurdity of their attempting to hold a conversation at all at a time like this, but he’d never been one to keep from saying, “I told you so,” when the opportunity presented itself. That said, it was quite the ruckus, and he had simply shaken his head in surrender, silently promising to rub it in at a later date.

To be fair to David’s humility, a mayoral race and a presidential race are two vastly different undertakings, particularly when the mayoral position in question involved a municipality of around 100,000 people, which while a large enough amount, was quite small in comparison to the rest of the country. But at the same time, given what Killian knew about his husband, he had a hard time believing that the rest of the country wouldn’t be able to see what he saw─if they were able to get past the “First Gentleman” of it all, that is.

Killian would be lying if he said he didn’t have something of a pessimistic streak. Certainly, it had grown quieter over the years, especially since meeting David (and his subsequent election to political office in a small midwestern city), but the presidential election of about 3 years prior, coupled with the many national tragedies and constitutional crises, had “awoken the dragon,” so to speak.

“You’ve been watching way too much ‘Game of Thrones.’”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

David and Killian had agreed from the very start─whomever ran in 2020 would have to be and do more than the average candidate. The only way to remind the country and the world of who they really were as a nation was to commit a complete and total act of repudiation with a substantive majority vote.

“You know everyone and their mom is gonna run,” Emma Swan, David’s campaign manager, had joked in the weeks following the 2016 election, after all of their emotional wounds had felt somewhat soothed. Alcohol helped.

“Ah, yes,” Killian agreed, taking a sip of whiskey, “I can feel the splitting migraine already.”

Looking back, David’s silence in that moment had been suspicious, and if he and Emma hadn’t gotten absolutely wrecked in preparation for an upcoming election cycle that would inevitably last what would feel like a decade, he would have prodded a bit further. In fact, if he had prodded, maybe he wouldn’t be so woefully unprepared for the, “I’m thinking of running for President of the United States,” conversation.

Immediately before the panic had set in, what he had actually felt was pride. Regretfully however, panic will-out, and in the midst of his initial tittering he forgot to effectively relay that initial emotion, which was for David he was sure, far more preferable.

In the early stages of the mayoral race, Emma had been adamant on the point of storytelling. According to her, elections were won and lost on a candidate’s ability to tell a story─about themselves, their campaign, their vision for the community─and if David was going to run, an openly gay man (albeit white as they come) from a working class background with little name recognition, the story he told would have to be good. Thankfully there was the military record, that usually played well with an older, more conservative crowd, and it wasn’t as if he was a stranger to hard work─the necessity of family, community, the like. He’d lived there his whole life, people knew who he was, however… unfamiliar they were with his “lifestyle.”

Killian had been far more concerned about himself being one of the factors that could lose Dave the race. The two of them had yet to be married at the time, despite having lived together for several years, and while Killian had lived in America for much of his adulthood, he hadn’t been born there. He was also openly bisexual, had a mostly benign criminal record, and had gotten into his share of fairly public tiffs with some less... "progressive" members of their community. One of them had even been filmed─and gone viral.

“Aren’t you the least bit worried about dragging that all back up again?” Killian had asked during their first informal meeting with Emma. The kind of discussion that started with things like, "We're not having this conversation, but if we were," etc., etc.

“After this President?” Emma scoffed, a gleam in her eye, “It’ll only help.”

Killian should’ve guessed, after seeing David’s quick, knowing glance, that he’d been found out. That it wasn’t the loss of their current lives that he truly fretted over; his inability to walk down the street unmolested, but rather a deep-seated worry of his own value as a partner. He worried, as he had during Dave’s first campaign, that he would only weigh him down.

At some point in the near future, some invasive young journalist is going to ask Killian about the spousal sacrifices. They’re going to want to know, as the spouse of the first openly gay presidential candidate, what do you anticipate giving up? And how, if at all, has he made peace with their new reality? In point of fact, the first concession that Killian had made (up until the whole, “running for leader of the free world,” business that is) was his surrender of the coast.

Killian had never really had roots─there was never a physical home with four walls and a roof overhead to which he could depart and return, over and over again. It could never even be said that he had any people to which he might turn instead; he had a brother, Liam, but they’d never been particularly close, and their history was tense at best and outright antagonistic at worst. All this to say, it was part of the reason why he had given Her up (the sea). Because Dave, most curiously, would become his home in a way he had never thought possible. It was how he was able to make a compromise─to go without the sight of the waves lapping against the rocks in favor of a large, wraparound porch, with some admittedly stunning views of the trees and hills that surrounded their home.

It was where he happened to be sitting the morning after their first casual, "meeting but not a meeting," with Emma; a mug of cooling coffee in his hand, watching Sally sniffing to and fro in the damp grass. It was an otherwise normal morning aside from the impending dose of reality he had yet to fully face. He was in the midst of a perfectly somber and on brand bit of mindless staring when he heard the quiet rumbling of Dave’s early morning voice (a personal favorite of his).

“Hey,” he said, startling Killian out of his ironically stressful meditations. “Sorry,” he said with a laugh, taking a seat beside him on the porch swing, “I didn’t feel you get up this morning.”

“My apologies, love,” Killian answered with a brief kiss, “I didn’t want to wake you.”

There was no crying of gulls, and you couldn’t taste a hint of salt on your lips, but there was still the pleasant chirping of birds; the sight of the sun peeking over the tops of the trees, the heady smell of blooming flowers. Killian cleared his throat, both knowing and dreading the conversation he could no longer avoid.

“You have never,” David began, very astutely avoiding his husband’s nervous glances for the moment, “been something to be ashamed of.”

“For you to even think it,” he continued, giving a slight shake of his head, “I must be doing something wrong.”

“Dave, no─”

“Killian,” he interrupted, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “you are the person I admire most in the world. You are the exact kind of person this country needs to see right now.”

A bit dramatic, Killian thought, desperately attempting to quell the violent beating of his own heart. Despite having known David for as long as he did, he was still somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer goodness of him. Having spent so long himself in a place of defensive cynicism, it was still a challenge to be so unabashedly confronted by such unrelenting hope. That’s what the country needs.

“I know it took us both a long time to make it…” He pauses, glancing up at the trees, the dog now slumbering at their feet, “here, but─”

“I couldn’t possibly adore you more than I already do,” Killian finished, abandoning his cold coffee in favor of framing David’s flushed face, “and I will be there every step of the way.”

“‘For better or for worse,’ blah, blah, blah?”

“Yes,” Killian laughed, pressing their lips together, “something like that.”

The secret? Say “yes,” to fucking everything. That seems to be the fundamental step when you have absolutely zero name recognition and you’re under the age of 75. It’s Emma’s first rule, and she fanatically demands that they abide by it unless she says otherwise. “Let’s let the paint dry on Fox for a hot second,” she suggests after Killian exclaims, “Surely not everything.”

But she damn well means enough. Everything from small, independent news blogs run by journalists, to “serious” news media, to BuzzFeed, and everything in between.

“One of these things is going to just,” she snaps her fingers. “And then it’s all over, boys.”

It’s during an interview with a fairly well known political podcast that really sets them on that, “nothing will be the same after this,” trajectory. He’d essentially been laughed out of the room until he sat down at a table with one of the unnecessarily handsome, affable hosts and dropped stat, after stat, after quip, after poignant observation─after some light hearted jokes that proved he wasn’t living in the dark ages.

“And I hate to ask this,” the host began, the hesitancy evident in his voice, “but what do you say to people who argue that you just don’t have enough experience for the job?”

After a brief pause, during which Killian could observe the wheels spinning from where he sat quietly in the corner of the room, David spoke. In that way he always had of speaking. That way that could convince anyone to listen to what he had to say.

“To that I think I would consider the importance of humility,” a chuckle, “I never want to be one of those people that believes they have nothing left to learn, but at the same time, to claim I have, ya know, ‘no experience,’ whether that’s because of my age, or the size of my city, is just… I don’t know, disingenuous?”

The host laughs a bit at that, “You mean to say, what precisely is their ‘concern?’”

“Yeah, I mean, we knew going into this we might create a few… waves─I don't know if you were aware, but, I am in fact very attracted to other men."

They left the sound of Killian’s obnoxious and embarrassing snort in the recording, which actually ended up being a good thing. Positive polling based on the sound of incredulity? It was strange, the small details that people seemed to cling to.

“But seriously, and this is what I believe, is that the individual experiences of every single person living in this country makes them… invaluable to understanding how it should,” he shakes his head, searching for the right word, “...exist, or be run. So, these people who are concerned about my experience, it’s not a lie for them to say that I haven’t worked at the federal level, or that I haven’t run a federal agency or served in Congress, but my experiences are valuable, my identity is valuable, and I think it’s something the people of this country deserve to see. Even if I’m not the one they choose.”

The tension at the back of Killian’s throat made swallowing a tad painful, but he had to do something to stop himself from crying, which would be… regrettable (although, once the polling had come out about the snort, maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing after all). Crying in front of all these cool, young politicos. But at that moment, at the close of his husband’s small speech, the hopeful grin on the face of the host, the other people in the room─hell, even Emma’s radiant expression, he locked eyes with David and he knew. Snap.

First Family

Mayor David Nolan and the Rebranding of Hope

May 2, 2019

by Jasmine Badur

“I’m not sure I truly believed in ‘hope’ before I met him,” Killian Jones, the potentially first, “First Gentleman,” had somewhat reluctantly revealed in one of our early conversations. “I don’t think I necessarily knew I didn’t at the time,” he paused, giving his ear a nervous tug, “but once I got to know him… I certainly seemed to understand what it was I’d been missing.”

I was invited out to the Jones-Nolan household by Mayor Nolan’s campaign manager, Ms. Emma Swan, a woman who has proven herself to be quite formidable in our current political landscape. “If you really want to know him, them,” she had insisted during one of our many phone calls, “you’ve gotta see them where they live.”

And so, here I am, on a warm, sunny day, greeted by the pleasant sight of a rather long, winding driveway lined with tall, leaf-laden trees. The house itself is also surrounded by quite a bit of lush greenery, which, as Killian explained, was purposeful. Apparently the two men value their privacy, which is pretty ironic, considering.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he answered, unprovoked, “pretty bloody funny.”

The couple’s dog, Sally, runs down the porch steps as I exit my car, and I can hear Mayor Nolan call her name from inside the house. Despite the somewhat grandiose nature of the extended driveway, the house itself is modest, with little in the way of fuss. Both men greet me at the door, and I’m immediately offered a drink or a snack by the Mayor himself.

“He’s worse than my grandmother,” Ms. Swan half shouts from another room, after which David (“Please, call me David”) huffs and playfully rolls his eyes. “We’re like a family here,” he explains, leading me into their warm, sun-drenched kitchen, “I don’t think I know any other way to do this, to be honest.”

“This,” of course, being the campaign. The reason I’ve shown up here at all, to share this historical candidacy with a country that has proven to be far more interested than David expected it to be.

“The truth is, no,” he admitted over our tea, “I didn’t really expect this.”

A turn about the house reveals a number of familiar sights─a mix of running shoes and formalwear lined up by the door, coats on their hooks, framed photos on the mantle or hanging on the fridge. I note a young Emma in a number of these photos, to which David confirms their personal history, that of being pseudo-siblings, which most people are tangentially aware of, but the way David explains, it has a lot more to do with his campaign than you might think.

Soon after Emma Swan had moved to town to live with her aforementioned grandmother, she had met David at school, and the two quickly became inseparable.

“My grandma was a sweet lady,” Emma had shared, albeit reluctantly, “but she was pretty old. Not really prepared to have a young kid. David and his mom became my family, more or less.” When I’ve spoken to others who knew the Nolans, the stories seem to follow a similar thread. It was nearly impossible to know them and not be treated as if they had known you your entire life.

“That was what my mother believed,” David says, a resolute smile on his face, “everyone deserves to have a family.”

It might seem an unusual tactic for the candidate to take, but having spoken with Emma Swan, and having spent time with David and Killian in their home, I’m not so sure the harsher criticisms are especially valid.

“He’s a bit inclined to picking up strays, isn’t he?” Killian starts, politely if not vaguely uncomfortable. The two of us are walking through the field behind their house, and truly, it is a beautiful piece of land. “And what are we all,” he finishes, somewhat distantly, “if not a country of wanderers?"

Most people have a general understanding of Killian’s background. Born in London to an absent single mother who passed when he was about 17, a brother serving in the Royal Navy; teaches literature, unreasonably handsome, perhaps inclined to appear in viral videos─“Surprised you lasted this long,” he says, laughing. “Haven’t you lot gotten sick of that story yet?”

Unfortunately for Killian, though somewhat fortuitously for the campaign, that now famous clip, of the man in question throwing an unequivocal fist into the cheekbone of a far-right activist, has earned him some degree of popularity in progressive circles, though he contends he had absolutely no plans for such an outcome.

“It was satisfying before the entire country knew about it,” he concludes, with a blend of both seriousness and charm that can be challenging for most people to pull off. “And I’d do it again in a bloody heartbeat.”

“God bless Killian Jones,” Emma had sighed when I’d first mentioned it to her, “that man’s righteous anger could be the thing that gets us elected.”

Killian himself isn’t quite ready to admit that, but he is glad to help his husband in anyway he can, even at the expense of his own anonymity. Which, he did admit, was a serious concern at first.

“We’d spent so many years searching for this,” he explained, glancing pointedly at our surroundings, the sight of their now smoking chimney peeking over the tops of the trees. “I wasn’t sure I was ready to give it up.”

But now, he says, the doubts seem to have all but faded.

“There’s always moments of insecurity, sure,” he admits, “but I think it’s worth it.”

The Nolan-Jones household is cluttered─but not in a way that might leave you feeling suspicious of their character. True, it’s cluttered in a way you might not presume a presidential candidate’s house to be. Maybe you would consider the “right candidate,” to be so obnoxiously Type A that their home be something akin to a serial killer’s lair. If that is what you were expecting, I am sorry to say that his house is very much not that. This house is cluttered in a way that our lives create clutter. Like their "family-oriented" campaign style, the ordinariness of their home and their lives prior to this event, reveals quite a bit more than you might think. We exist in a day and age seemingly obsessed with the idea of authenticity, and while I've grown to despise the word, it seems to have been given new life here, even though their kitchen did happen to smell of freshly baked cookies during my visit.

At the end of the day, no one knows how this campaign is going to shake out. Politics have never been predictable, no matter what many pundits and strategists claim, but if there’s one thing we might always learn to expect, it is that "electability" is a true falsehood. I don’t know if Mayor David Nolan will become the first openly gay President of the United States, and neither does he, but that doesn’t seem to be the point.

“It may seem trite to some, but it is about hope,” David said in the few moments before I left, hands resting in his pockets, his gaze tired yet contented, “I think our 44th president had that part right.”

In an era of such unrelenting cynicism, it can be difficult to find the silver lining of it all, but as I drove back down the long, winding driveway in the moonlight, the sight of Killian Jones and David Nolan waving in my rearview mirror, my heart felt a little less heavy.

Jasmine Badur is a freelance political correspondent with Time, BuzzFeed News, and others. She is currently on the road following a number of Democratic candidates running for President, including Mayor David Nolan. She can be found on Twitter @badurjofficial.

[stevenuniversallyreviews]

Episode 88: The New Lars

“This looks weird, but don’t jump to conclusions.”

Island Adventure is my lowest-ranked episode of the series, but it’s not my least favorite. All in all, I actually enjoy watching it. The problem, as I explain in greater depth in the review, is that it conveys a horrible message about consent in teen relationships and lionizes Sadie for a bevy of abusive actions, ranging from emotional manipulation to physical assault. And that makes it worse to me than an episode that I just don’t like watching. This is a kid’s show, and it’s not great for a kid’s show to espouse harmful message to kids, particularly when consent is such an important issue in the real world and in Steven Universe.

The New Lars isn’t nearly as bad, but it’s important to compare the two upfront, because both of them rely on the same conceit: Lars is a jerk, so it’s okay when bad things happen to him. The tricky thing is that seeing jerks get their comeuppance is an essential trope in comedy, so it should be okay for bad things to happen to him, but this is the second time that “bad things” involve ignoring Lars’s consent in a way that isn’t inherently comedic. There are fantastical elements to both stories, but forcing someone to do things that they explicitly don’t want to do is a bit more harrowing than, say, getting squashed by a falling anvil. Both episodes are from Raven Molisee and Paul Villeco, two extremely talented animators that I usually love (they did Mirror Gem and Rose’s Scabbard for Pete’s sake), and I wish I could get into their heads just to figure out why they’re so into abusing Lars in a way that evokes actual abuse.

Fortunately, a lot of my problems with Island Adventure aren’t present in The New Lars. We get a crucial slippery slope element to Steven’s behavior that Sadie’s early-episode subterfuge doesn’t grant (we learn that she hid their only way off the island immediately after arriving). Yes, he’s prying a bit too much into Lars and Sadie’s relationship in the first scene, but as soon as he mind swaps he states his determination to “respect Lars’s body and his privacy.” His good nature is his undoing, as he’s unable to play it cruel with Lars’s terrified parents or play it cool with Buck and pals. And it makes sense after seeing positive reactions for following his gut that he takes it over the edge to try and meddle in Lars’s love life. It’s not right, but it makes sense.

(It requires a Steven from a different era of emotional immaturity as well, but this team also did Sadie’s Song so I’ll count their restraint here as a victory.)

((Bear in mind that they also did Warp Tour and The Return and Keeping It Together and Message Received in case y’all think I’m just gonna sit here and pretend Molisee’n’Villeco aren’t amazing.))

Most importantly, Steven apologizes for his actions. If Sadie had shown an ounce of real remorse in Island Adventure, all would be well. The issue isn’t characters behaving badly, because this show would be garbage if everybody was perfect. The issue is not acknowledging bad behavior, and even rewarding it while piling on the victim of it. This episode knows that Lars is the wronged party and that Steven did a bad thing, even if he had good intentions, and in doing so teaches a lesson about consent instead of showing abusive behavior and shrugging it off.

It’s notable that Steven never does anything like this again. Just three episodes later in Kiki’s Delivery Service he accidentally enters Kiki’s dreams and is flustered and apologetic right away despite doing nothing harmful. The best way to make lessons stick is for the characters themselves to learn them, and a big part of Season 3 is showing how Steven has been shaped by past episodes.

And it turns out, a story about how Lars is treated is exactly what I needed. Because after nearly ninety episodes of the series, this is the first time I’ve actually liked Lars as a character. For the whole episode. I’ve always felt something was missing from his generic meanness, but everything clicked when I realized that the self-awareness that fuels his awkwardness is only a small part of his problem: he’s too aware of his status as a side character to be happy.

When Mayor Dewey acknowledges that Beach City is a magnet for disaster in Political Power, it’s a great gag that reveals hidden depths about the character. Lars’s bitter “Every day in Beach City is weird, that’s why I hate it here” is similarly revelatory, but about a character we’ve seen much more of. Lars has been the brunt of weird suffocating plants, a weird mouth-burning prank, a weird island trip complete with weird invisible monster, a weird haunted lighthouse, and now a weird body hijacking. He’s also witnessed the ocean weirdly disappearing and Beach City under siege from a weird space eye and a weird space hand, alongside who knows what else. And the kid who’s always bugging him to hang out is himself weird. This weird kid just took over his body and everyone, including Lars’s own parents, took the kid’s side. Of course Lars sees magic through a sour lens.

It’s so much easier to empathize for someone as ornery as Lars when there’s a good reason behind it, and noticing just how lousy life can be when you’re a regular person in a world of magic is a great reason to be ornery. It’s an excellent contrast to his former friend and fellow frustrating character Ronaldo, and allows Lars to grow within the context of a magical show. I’m not saying Lars is only irate because of this situation, people can be jerks just because they’re jerks and he’s a jerk in mundane situations, but after so many episodes where he seems to learn something and then goes right back to being a jerk, it’s such a relief to get this kind of depth.

And seriously, thank goodness Matthew Moy is still capable of emotional range after spending so many episodes voicing a jerk. He shows it off a bit when Lars admits he’s depressed in Island Adventure (which would’ve been a better character moment if it went anywhere in that episode), but voicing Lars as Steven must have been a blast. Even as a kid, it always bugged me when mindswapped characters switched voice actors, because that’s not how voices physically work and I was a stickler of a kid. Moy shines as an exuberant, doofy, melodramatic invader in his character’s head, to the point where you can tell when Steven is being himself versus when he’s trying to impersonate Lars. That ain’t easy!

On top of this, Moy still shows his practiced mastery of Lars’s crabbiness spectrum. I like his withering asides about Steven interrupting his workday, even though I’m all about deducing the laziest animal (Koala all the way by the way, sleep>slowness on the lazy scale), and I love his reaction upon waking up, where his justifiable fury with Steven is ramped up further by his family and peers backing up the kid. As in Joking Victim, Moy shows off his flair for comedic screaming, which also ain’t easy.

What’s doubly nice is that Kate Micucci also gets a showcase of her growing character that isn’t Sadie’s Song. While we wisely avoid too much detail about the exact nature of their relationship (not just because this is a kid’s show, but because it’s none of our business) Sadie is done with Lars’s nonsense, and I love hearing such decisiveness from the Big Donut’s resident wallflower. This episode could have crashed and burned if not for Sadie’s fed up reaction to “Lars” declaring his love for her, and Micucci sells it perfectly while still making the most of Sadie’s shyness in asking Lars to hang out in the first place.

This is also a great episode for other townies. Onion gets a hilarious cameo, and the Barrigas give a sterling first impression as loving but beleaguered parents. But come on, we gotta talk about the Cool Kids. Right off the bat, we get definitive proof that they’re not big on Lars (especially Jenny). It’s not shocking that such a jerk would be unwelcome, but it speaks well of the group that they keep giving him chances, and that Buck is quick to think the best of Lars when given the opportunity. It’s well-established that these are good kids, considering how awesome they are with Steven, but The New Lars shows that they’re even better than we thought they were. And we get a zany off-screen dance competition subplot. 

I’ll be honest, I was shocked by how much I liked this episode on rewatch. Season 3′s midsection contains a cluster of episodes that I’d literally never rewatched since they first aired, so I let a bad first impression shape my views a little too much. At that point in the show I was so done with Lars that I wasn’t willing to give him a chance, but knowing where his story is finally going made me reevaluate his behavior here. Because things do get sort of different for him now after numerous false starts. He’s still gonna be a jerk and make mistakes, but seeing what his friends and family think of him seems to jolt his system in a way Life Lessons With Steven couldn’t.

Knowing where a story is going isn’t enough, though; if it was, I’d like Sadie’s Song a lot more than I do, because I am all in on Sadie Killer and the Suspects. I think I was so against Steven’s actions in The New Lars that they loomed larger than the part where he and the show acknowledge that he was wrong. I rewatched this three times for my review, because I was all primed to dislike it again and want to give episodes like that a fair shot (which, yeah, meant I slogged through Sadie’s Song multiple times, you’re welcome), and the apology just makes everything better. I can focus more on the episode’s strengths, which are stronger than they first looked, and appreciate that this is a story about a kid making a mistake and learning from it. I wish Island Adventure had concluded with a similar realization, but I’m thrilled to see a show grow in its storytelling. 

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

Again, this was a surprise. I don’t wanna overcorrect and put it in my Top Fifteen or anything, but man this is more solid than I remember. Goes to show how far hindsight and a solid apology can take a story. If you’re like me and didn’t like The New Lars back when we were lousy with new episodes in the Summer of Steven, give it another chance.

Top Fifteen

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Winter Forecast

When It Rains

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Chille Tid

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Catch and Release

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

No Thanks!

     5. Horror Club      4. Fusion Cuisine      3. House Guest      2. Sadie’s Song      1. Island Adventure

[thedistantstorm]

A Steelponcho Dawning - Part 8

A Dawning romance featuring the Commander and the Clan Steward, their feelings for each other coming to a head during the first Dawning celebration following the Red War, featuring Lord Saladin, city food, eventual smut, and a whole lot of pining. Continues from: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7.

It’s a rare day that sees Zavala visibly burdened by the other parties within the Consensus. He always, without a shadow of a doubt, remains stoic yet interested; Firm, yet fair. The Farm’s proposed budget revisions pass easily to Suraya’s delight, but that’s the only item that’s gone smoothly.

The factions are greedy - any advancement for their competitors creates a disadvantage for themselves - and want Zavala’s unanimous support for their efforts and thus the backing of the Vanguard. Ikora and Cayde are mostly disinterested and follow his lead unless something gives them a bad vibe - both have their own motives and initiatives that they pursue outside of this theatre. Their presence is more for the sake of solidarity.

Reconstruction is always a battle. Everyone wants their primary operating district rebuilt faster, and none of them want to rely on their own resources to do so. It becomes a pissing match, which turns into a bitch-fest about the faction rallies beginning next week and progresses into a free-for-all that even Zavala’s polite throat clearing and pointed redirection cannot abate.

Cayde finally whistles like it's some backwoods brawl he's breaking up - not a government meeting. Even knowing the Exo for as long as hse has, it's still a weird experience seeing a man with a metal mouth whistle. The puzzled looks around the room tells her that others think the same.

“You know,” Hawthorne says to the three faction leaders, “If you really need assistance, you could try recruiting some of the clans.”

When Hideo and Jalal start snipping at her instead of each other, she holds up a hand. Lakshimi looks bored, but Suraya thinks that just might be her baseline facial expression.

“You do realize that just because there are clans against the factions that it doesn't mean they're all against you, right? Most of the civilians are aligned by common goals. If those goals line up with your Tenants or what have you, they'll probably join up or at the least, consider some contract work. I mean, most of the Guardians are in a clan, but they're still talking about what faction they plan to support for the rally.” A quirk of her lips almost gives away her smile at their re-evaluating expressions.

When they start discussing(not yelling) amongst themselves, she leans back, satisfied. Ikora nods to her. Cayde is back to playing with his tablet. Zavala is listening in to the faction leaders’ discussion, but takes a second to give her a proud half-smile that's uncharacteristic of him in such a public venue.

It's not often she feels so confident in her decisions. She makes them in what she thinks is the public's best interest, but she's usually trying to read the faces of those in the room to see if she needs to change something on the fly. The fact that she didn't look to anyone for assistance, trusted her own instincts on this (albeit minor) political play makes her feel amazing.

Also, she stopped the faction leaders from fighting. Her. Their - okay, she's exaggerating here, with the exception of one jerkoff Executor - enemy, in a roundabout way. Still, she's proud of herself, and that's even without the little tug in her belly from the silent praise of the Commander in Chief of the meeting.

They get out late, and though she's had a small breakthrough and even promised to work with the faction leaders to put them in touch with clans she thinks will work with them, she can see the subtle dip of Zavala’s shoulders, heavy with unease. She knows the competition of the faction rally, now only a few days away, will put the slight productive discussion they had on the back burner.

He needs to do something to take his mind off of it. There's nothing he can do now. If they're going to behave like children, he cannot stop them. At least the Guardians will benefit with new gear and weapons, if nothing else.

Hideo, as always, stays behind to speak in his usual reverent whisper to Zavala. Once he leaves, the Titan goes about collecting his tablet and any hard copies of files he's brought along. She slips back into the room once he's alone.

“So, everybody's really in the Dawning spirit, huh,” She deadpans.

He looks up at her, clearly not as appreciative of her humor as she'd hoped. “Remind me not to have Iron Banner and the Faction Rally at the same time next year.”

Oh. He's getting it from all sides. It's not just the factions. It's Shaxx and Saladin, too, she realizes. He's always had the misfortune of being caught in the middle of most squabbles, from what she's heard of his time as Commander. Even before. He's big on avoiding conflict and settling things peacefully. Where possible, of course. Explains the subtle curl of his shoulder, the bogged down look she recognizes plainly after spending so much time with him. She wonders what his Fireteam thinks, if he brings it upon himself or what.

“Will do.” Armed with this realization she knows what she has to do. She pulls the tablet from his hands, gently enough that he could stop her without much effort. He doesn't.

“I know,” He intones bemusedly when she sets it aside, switching gears back to his usual doting persona, “You're hungry. Where are we going for lunch? I'm sure you have plenty of questions.”

She laughs. It actually wasn't her intention - she’s trying to take care of him here - but she could definitely eat. There's a shrug. “I’ll let you decide. By the way, what does your schedule look like for the rest of the day?”

He shakes his head, almost disbelievingly. “Believe it or not, we managed to finish early. I just have some paperwork to catch up on.”

“You mean, paperwork you're ahead on. Zavala, please. I know how you are.” Suraya rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. “Sounds like you're free for the rest of the day. Up for some decorating? They're hanging lanterns tonight down in one of the districts and I got roped into helping.” And, quieter, she says, when he's contemplating it, “No politics or armor allowed. Might be a nice little break.”

It'd be good for him. He doesn't exactly get out much, and almost all he talks about is work. Might be good to get out there and see what he's working for. A little community service never hurt anybody.

“Perhaps I'll go change.”

-/

It's weird making house calls with him. She's always done this, even when she was living outside the City. Certainly she didn't make it every year, but when she did, she'd always helped some of the more impoverished areas with decorating and supplies. This year, they weren't even stolen, either.

Zavala is strangely shy, even though his body language says he is calm and confident. His voice is low and smooth - he's never needed to speak loudly to be heard, and he's absurdly humble when the citizens praise him. Respectful, always, and dare she say it, charming. This may be her stage, her area of expertise, but people are positively drawn to him.

He takes her instructions well, which is a bit of a role reversal. She supposes it makes sense though, because he’s in her theatre instead of the usual opposite. They start at opposite ends of the streets, stringing lanterns with ease. It isn’t a difficult task once the correct number of lanterns has been allotted. As they work inward, a handful of people come out and speak to them both. Plenty of others come to help, and it becomes a large community effort.

Hawthorne is used to taking initiative in this way, starting a small movement and letting herself get caught up in the experience. While the adults decorate above, children bob and weave through the streets, all bundled up for the chilly weather as they engage in snowball fights and make snow angels in the couple inches of snow on untrafficed streets.

Inevitably, they get separated, each finding themselves the impromptu leader of a group of decorators. They divide and conquer, and the decorating goes smoothly, quickly tackled within the span of a few hours. By the time the sun sinks below the wall, the lanterns are lit in the fading light, casting a warm glow on the streets. It’s hard not to be a little giddy in light of the upcoming Dawning.

When he finds her again, she’s surrounded by a group of children. It’s a strange sight, though not an unpleasant one. She’s smiling, unguardedly so, and engaging in conversation with the littlest members of their society, all of whose screeching he can hear from far away. It floors him, sometimes, just how much of an impression she makes on seemingly everyone she comes in contact with.

When she sees him and waves, most of them scatter, hollering and playing on. The smallest among them stands beside her, looking up at Suraya, biting her tiny lip and looking nervous.

Suraya drops swiftly to a knee and holds out her arms. The girl all but tackles her in a bear hug and they rise together, as she situates the child on her left hip. She’s small for her age, common in these poorer areas, especially with the war just recently behind them. The girl pushes her head into the juncture of Suraya’s shoulder and neck, and Zavala furrows his brow as she totes the girl toward him, his eyes lit up in a silent question. The Clan Steward fixes him with a warm look and tilts her head to speak to the little girl before she picks her head up and looks to Suraya with a serious nod.

Zavala stops walking toward them a few steps away. Suraya nods at him, eyes communicating silently with him before she sets the little girl down beside her, in front of him.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” She says, gently. The little girl beams up at him, all dark hair and bright eyes. “This is Adara.”

Suraya takes a step back as Zavala crouches and extends a very large hand to meet her small one in a delicate handshake.

“Nice to meet’cha, Commander,” Adara says quietly, wide eyes shyly meeting his. Her little body is practically vibrating with excitement or nerves, and he’s not sure which it is.

“The pleasure is mine,” He replies in the most soothing rumble he’s capable of. He’s always been good with children, soft spoken enough to coax the shyest into speech but stern enough to redirect the unruly. “Are you excited for the Dawning?”

She nods, short brown hair bobbing with her. “Yeah! I’m makin’ my mama a scarf!” She exclaims happily, before ducking her head as though she’s just revealed a great secret.

“I’m sure she’ll love it,” He says, and he knows it to be the truth.

At that, she shifts her weight back and forth anxiously. “My brothers said I’m stupid fer tryin’ to make her one.” The Commander frowns. “They made fun’a me and said crochet’s for babies,”She rambles. “S’rya tol’ me that’s not true, but that I shoul’ talk to you. She said you crochet,” The girl looks up at him for confirmation that he gives with a small dip of his chin, “An’ that you’re the toughest, smartest, most bravest person she knows.”

Over her shoulder, he looks up at Suraya, who shrugs as if she’s never heard anything like that before. The gentle pull of her lips into a smile she can't help and the softness of her eyes say something else, though. Something sincere. It’s an incredible warmth, something far different from the light that dwells inside him, that’s tethered to his soul and his Ghost in equal measure. Incomparable. Brighter.

He gazes back down to the little girl and smiles. “The art of Crochet is certainly not for everyone, Adara. It is complicated, requiring both attention and skill. Your siblings are likely unable to achieve the correct form.” He’s not sure of the child’s vocabulary - or age, they all look so young, and he is so very old by comparison - so he simply offers, “If you are able to retrieve your work, I would be happy to look it over.”

“Really?” She’s flabbergasted, little eyes even wider, if that’s possible.

“Really.” He nods resolutely. She hugs him so quick she’s practically a blur in his fine-tuned vision before she runs off in the direction of her home.

Adara comes back not two minutes later with three of her brothers in tow and what appears to be the beginnings of a dark maroon scarf. The three boys pale at the sight of the Vanguard Commander and his singular quirked eyebrow while their younger sister smiles victoriously, drawing attention to missing baby teeth. Suraya turns her head in the direction of the girl chattering animatedly to the Commander while he evaluates her fledgling work, any maternal instinct she has flaring at the sight. It’s rather adorable if she says so herself.

“Don’t interrupt,” She warns the boys behind her, when one of them takes a tentative step in the direction of the knitting duo. Her gaze back at them is stern when they giggle, as if she’s told a joke. “Be nicer to your sister.”

They slink away well before Zavala is finished with his littlest pupil and biggest fan.

-/

It’s late by the time they get back to the Tower. Much of their walk back is spent in companionable silence, admiring the lights and decorating that’s slowly overtaking the Last City. It’s beautiful and quiet, peaceful and serene for once. The Traveler casts its own ethereal glow like a full moon over cobblestone streets. The ambiance is romantic, not that either of them will admit it.

“I’m glad you came with,” Suraya murmurs, not looking at him as they approach her door.

He tilts his head to look at her. She doesn’t meet his gaze, dark eyes focusing straight ahead. He rumbles, “I am, as well. It was… refreshing.”

That makes her smile. “Glad to hear.” Her boots scuff against the road. “The citizens admire you. I know you absolutely made their day, just spending some time with them. They’ll be talking about it for weeks. And Adara was so thrilled she finally got to meet you.”

“Finally?” His eyes narrow, and she finally turns to face him.

“Her father is in one of my clans. The one I told you about, all the fathers protecting their families?” She stops to explain and he nods, remembering. “I had to drop off some bounty info for them a couple weeks ago, and that’s when I heard her brothers being little jerks.”

“So that’s when you-”

“ Yeah.”

He seems satisfied. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“What you told her.”

“I told her the truth.” Her smile is that same soft, unguarded one from earlier. The one that inspires such bittersweet hope inside his heart. “That’s nothing you need to thank me for.”

His chest aches. It physically aches. He closes his eyes and inhales once, attempting to get his emotions under control. Before he can open them again, she loops her arms around his neck and hugs him. He almost gasps at the contact, her lithe, lean body flush against him, head pressed against his collarbone.

“Goodnight, Zavala,” She tilts her head up to whisper directly in his ear. His arms wrap around her, his head bowing to her shoulder as he holds her tight. Just for a moment. Just one.

It’s over far too quickly, and she pulls away to let herself inside.

“Goodnight.” It’s barely a whisper, and yet it’s like a spark, filled with warm emotion.

When the door is closed and locked behind her, he looks up in the direction of his own flat, down at the other end of the corridor. But, more than that, he sees his mentor, Lord Saladin, standing about halfway between him and his door, still dressed in full armor. Zavala sighs. Of all the people to see this display of-

“I know that look,” Saladin says to his student, interrupting his thoughts.

“What look?”

This is not the discussion he wants to have with the Iron Lord, this man who - aside from Shaxx - has known him longest. Not right now, not when he’s feeling raw and open. He knows they can’t. He doesn’t want to hear it from someone else right now.

“That’s exactly how I looked at Jolder.” His normally serious face crinkles around the edges, the light in his eyes brighter for just a second. He puts an arm around Zavala’s shoulders and steers him away from the path leading to his flat and back toward the open air. It makes Zavala feel centuries younger, much greener and far less sure of himself. Especially considering Saladin’s openness on the subject. The whole of it really took Zavala back.

“We don’t get to pick.” They step out onto the empty Tower, the few patrolling officers making themselves scarce. “Love doesn’t care about Light or age, any of it.” He laughs, hearty and sad. “No. It’s not convenient, and it’s not easy. But it’s worth fighting for.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“On the contrary. The reasons you think you shouldn’t are precisely why you should.” There’s something knowing in the Iron Lord’s gaze. “Do you think it easy loving Jolder?” Zavala doesn’t miss Saladin’s tense. Loving. Not loved. "She was something else. Saw me as more than a Risen. More than an Iron Lord. Saw this.” He puts a fist over his heart. “Knew me better than I did, maybe better than I ever will. Knew if she hadn’t-” He closes his eyes, unable to carry on in that vein. “If you love that woman, do not waste the time you get. Tomorrow is never promised. Not even to us.”

Zavala looks up at the Traveler as Lord Saladin leaves him to think, not for the first time wishing he had the answers. He knows she’s worth it, knows his heart’s has made its choice. Could it truly be that simple?

[ellcrys]

“We are encouraged to strategize and scheme to find places, times, and roles where we can be effectively put to work,” Harris, the Kids These Days author, writes. “Efficiency is our existential purpose, and we are a generation of finely honed tools, crafted from embryos to be lean, mean production machines.”

Burnout isn’t a place to visit and come back from; it’s our permanent residence.

This is a super long article but so worth the read.

The part that definitely resonated with me the most was the part on self-optimization. I can see this shit reflected in my daily habits and mindset. If I’m not being ‘productive,’ I’ve not had a good day. Every single part of my schedule is dictated by crossing things off my to-do list and what I’ve been able to accomplish. I’ve known this to be unhealthy since day 1 but couldn’t/can’t reverse the mindset. And now I get why.

Some great quotes below.

Topics that hit home for me in order of appearance:

On Branding:

“Branding” is a fitting word for this work[1], as it underlines what the millennial self becomes: a product. And as in childhood, the work of optimizing that brand blurs whatever boundaries remained between work and play. There is no “off the clock” when at all hours you could be documenting your on-brand experiences or tweeting your on-brand observations. The rise of smartphones makes these behaviors frictionless and thus more pervasive, more standardized. In the early days of Facebook, you had to take pictures with your digital camera, upload them to your computer, and post them in albums. Now, your phone is a sophisticated camera, always ready to document every component of your life — in easily manipulated photos, in short video bursts, in constant updates to Instagram Stories — and to facilitate the labor of performing the self for public consumption.

On Self-Optimization[2]:

Even the trends millennials have popularized — like athleisure — speak to our self-optimization. Yoga pants might look sloppy to your mom, but they’re efficient: You can transition seamlessly from an exercise class to a Skype meeting to child pickup. We use Fresh Direct and Amazon because the time they save allows us to do more work.

This is why the fundamental criticism of millennials — that we’re lazy and entitled — is so frustrating: We hustle so hard that we’ve figured out how to avoid wasting time eating meals and are called entitled for asking for fair compensation and benefits like working remotely (so we can live in affordable cities), adequate health care, or 401(k)s (so we can theoretically stop working at some point before the day we die). We’re called whiny for talking frankly about just how much we do work, or how exhausted we are by it. But because overworking for less money isn’t always visible — because job hunting now means trawling LinkedIn, because “overtime” now means replying to emails in bed — the extent of our labor is often ignored, or degraded.

The media that surrounds us — both social and mainstream, from Marie Kondo’s new Netflix show to the lifestyle influencer economy — tells us that our personal spaces should be optimized just as much as one’s self and career. The end result isn’t just fatigue, but enveloping burnout that follows us to home and back. The most common prescription is “self-care.” Give yourself a face mask! Go to yoga! Use your meditation app! But much of self-care isn’t care at all: It’s an $11 billion industry whose end goal isn’t to alleviate the burnout cycle, but to provide further means of self-optimization. At least in its contemporary, commodified iteration, self-care isn’t a solution; it’s exhausting.

On “The Double Shift”:

Millennial burnout often works differently among women, and particularly straight women with families. Part of this has to do with what’s known as “the second shift” — the idea that women who’ve moved into the workplace do the labor of a job and then come home and perform the labor of a housewife[3].

The labor that causes burnout isn’t just putting away the dishes or folding the laundry — tasks that can be readily distributed among the rest of the family. It’s more to do with what French cartoonist Emma calls “the mental load,” or the scenario in which one person in a family — often a woman — takes on a role akin to “household management project leader.” The manager doesn’t just complete chores; they keep the entire household’s schedule in their minds. They remember to get toilet paper because it’ll run out in four days. They’re ultimately responsible for the health of the family, the upkeep of the home and their own bodies, maintaining a sex life, cultivating an emotional bond with their children, overseeing aging parents’ care, making sure bills are paid and neighbors are greeted and someone’s home for a service call and holiday cards get in the mail and vacations are planned six months in advance and airline miles aren’t expiring and the dog’s getting exercised.

On “Adulting”:

“The modern Millennial, for the most part, views adulthood as a series of actions, as opposed to a state of being,” an article in Elite Daily explains. “Adulting therefore becomes a verb.” “To adult” is to complete your to-do list — but everything goes on the list, and the list never ends.

That’s one of the most ineffable and frustrating expressions of burnout: It takes things that should be enjoyable and flattens them into a list of tasks, intermingled with other obligations that should either be easily or dutifully completed. The end result is that everything, from wedding celebrations to registering to vote, becomes tinged with resentment and anxiety and avoidance. Maybe my inability to get the knives sharpened is less about being lazy and more about being too good, for too long, at being a millennial.

On Errand Paralysis:

There are a few ways to look at this original problem of errand paralysis. Many of the tasks millennials find paralyzing are ones that are impossible to optimize for efficiency, either because they remain stubbornly analog (the post office) or because companies have optimized themselves, and their labor, so as to make the experience as arduous as possible for the user (anything to do with insurance, or bills, or filing a complaint). Sometimes, the inefficiencies are part of the point: The harder it is to submit a request for a reimbursement, the less likely you are to do it. The same goes for returns.

Other tasks become difficult because of too many options, and what’s come to be known as “decision fatigue.” I’ve moved around so much because of my career path, and always loathed the process of finding family practitioners and dentists and dermatologists. Finding a doctor — and not just any doctor, but one who will take your insurance, who is accepting new patients — might seem like an easy task in the age of Zocdoc, but the array of options can be paralyzing without the recommendations of friends and family, which are in short supply when you move to a brand-new town.

Other tasks are, well, boring. I’ve done them too many times. The payoff from completing them is too small. Boredom with the monotony of labor is usually associated with physical and/or assembly line jobs, but it’s widespread among “knowledge workers.” As Caroline Beaton, who has written extensively about millennials and labor, points out, the rise of the “knowledge sector” has simply “changed the medium of monotony from heavy machinery to digital technology. … We habituate to the modern workforce’s high intensity but predictable tasks. Because the stimuli don’t change, we cease to be stimulated. The consequence is two-fold. First, like a kind of Chinese water torture, each identical thing becomes increasingly painful. In defense, we become decreasingly engaged.” My refusal to respond to a kind Facebook DM is thus symptomatic of the sheer number of calls for my attention online: calls to read an article, calls to promote my own work, calls to engage wittily or defend myself from trolls or like a relative’s picture of their baby.

To be clear, none of these explanations are, to my mind, exonerating. They don’t seem like great or rational reasons to avoid doing things I know, in the abstract, I want or need to do. But dumb, illogical decisions are a symptom of burnout. We engage in self-destructive behaviors or take refuge in avoidance as a way to get off the treadmill of our to-do list. Which helps explain one of the complaints about millennials’ work habits: They show up late, they miss shifts, they ghost on jobs. Some people who behave this way may, indeed, just not know how to put their heads down and work. But far more likely is that they’re bad at work because of just how much work they do — especially when it’s performed against a backdrop of financial precariousness.

Footnotes:

[1] For many millennials, a social media presence — on LinkedIn, Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter — has also become an integral part of obtaining and maintaining a job. The “purest” example is the social media influencer, whose entire income source is performing and mediating the self online. But social media is also the means through which many “knowledge workers” — that is, workers who handle, process, or make meaning of information — market and brand themselves. Journalists use Twitter to learn about other stories, but they also use it to develop a personal brand and following that can be leveraged; people use LinkedIn not just for résumés and networking, but to post articles that attest to their personality (their brand!) as a manager or entrepreneur. Millennials aren’t the only ones who do this, but we’re the ones who perfected and thus set the standards for those who do.

[2] One of the ways to think through the mechanics of millennial burnout is by looking closely at the various objects and industries our generation has supposedly “killed.” We’ve “killed” diamonds because we’re getting married later (or not at all), and if or when we do, it’s rare for one partner to have the financial stability to set aside the traditional two months’ salary for a diamond engagement ring. We’re killing antiques, opting instead for “fast furniture” — not because we hate our grandparents’ old items, but because we’re chasing stable employment across the country, and lugging old furniture and fragile china costs money that we don’t have. We’ve exchanged sit-down casual dining (Applebee’s, TGI Fridays) for fast casual (Chipotle et al.) because if we’re gonna pay for something, it should either be an experience worth waiting in line for (Cronuts! World-famous BBQ! Momofuku!) or efficient as hell.

[3] (A recent study found that mothers in the workplace spend just as much time taking care of their children as stay-at-home mothers did in 1975). One might think that when women work, the domestic labor decreases, or splits between both partners. But sociologist Judy Wajcman found that in heterosexual couples, that simply wasn’t the case: Less domestic labor takes place overall, but that labor still largely falls on the woman.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

HOW TO CORP DEV

And while 110 may not seem surprising. And anyone who has worked on spam filters: a punish mode which, if turned on, would spider every url in a suspected spam n times, where n is your employee number.1 In fact this would do fairly well as a duck, it's hard to come up with something useful this way, you tend to get a fix on these underlying forces by triangulating from open source is not about Linux or Firefox, but about the forces that produced them: brutally candid; aggressively garbage-collecting outdated ideas; and yet driven by pragmatism rather than ideology. Odds are it isn't. I know all too well.2 The prospect of technological leverage. I still managed to fall prey to distraction, because I was tired of hearing taste is subjective and wanted to kill it is to predict it. It has ulterior motives. Be Nice August 2015 I recently got an email from Filo, who had artifacts of early languages built into their ideas of what kids ought to think. Another danger of less known firms is that, if you want to do something weird at first.

I didn't mean this as an essay; I wrote it down because I only had two hours before dinner and think fastest while writing. They assumed that all they really care about is whether your product does and why it's important. One reason programmers dislike meetings so much is not just to would-be startup founders but to students in general, for application software, you can write about the very richest, and these in turn are more likely to make anyone mad. If they're dealing with recent art, they have to behave well. Maybe, though the only thing that mattered, and should be correspondingly alarmed.3 So Web-based software is like desiging a city rather than a weekend. From this point, unless you got lucky like Andy Bechtolsheim, who gave Google $100k when they seemed promising but still had some things to figure out what the real problem was that he did as a theoretical exercise—an effort to make that look neutral. 99.

Many startups go through a point a few months by buying an additional disk drive.4 For example, I'd tell myself I was only going to become a police state to enforce it.5 Thanks to Chris Anderson, Trevor Blackwell, Sarah Harlin, Shiro Kawai, Jessica Livingston, and Robert Morris for reading drafts of this. This is, in projects of their own inner compass by establishing the principle that you should keep working on the startup, you shouldn't be looking for, that leads to more ideas. You should only write about things you've written or talked about before, and when there's only one restaurant left on the entire West Coast that still requires jackets: The French Laundry in Napa Valley. And a program that attacked the servers themselves should find them very well defended. Since software patents are no different from deciding to move from smaller towns to London. Whereas if the stuff you're writing seems different from what was originally envisioned. Many people have responded to this talk, so I sat down and calculated what I thought was hard, the groups all turned out to be mistaken. He'd only been working on when they feel the same. But the foundation of the company to do that with coworkers.6 It works a lot better.

Options are a good thing. It couldn't be any other way. Google. What matters is not ideas, but empirically that doesn't seem like work to you? This flattering distinction seems so natural to the average for the population as a whole must be giving people something they want that they couldn't have multiple people editing the same piece of code is being hacked by three or four people, so only three or four people see that, whereas tens of thousands of lines of C or Java. As with most nature/nurture questions, the answer is that he got so much email. If you're surprised by a lowball offer, just to see if you have kids. Another much less subtle influence is brand.7 What will happen to existing forms, but they love plans and procedures and protocols.8 Even if you have a chance of succeeding, you'll only do it in the trade press. So he sets as his goal in the Metaphysics the exploration of knowledge that get in the open for anyone to prove what ideas you had when, so the best plan is to let yourself feel it mid-game. I should use Holland as an example of reason gone wrong.9

As in a Ponzi scheme was that it was very easy to understand and change.10 What they want is easy. This is a good idea because a they're fair, and b since he's probably a founder, here's a handy tip for evaluating competitors. Good founders make things happen the way they treat the music they sell through iTunes.11 The method of ensuring quality is also the same: to beat the system, just as there was in math between Hellenistic times and the Renaissance. When you make things in large volumes, and the way to think about how to get in a design war with a company big enough to acquire startups will be a double speed increase. Richard Feynman said, the imagination of nature is greater than the imagination of nature is greater than the imagination of nature, which, as Feynman pointed out, it's easy for small children to consider themselves immortal, because time is what life is made of. In a lot of money to us. In fact, I've found that you can fix later, but you have to discover, among many other regulations, that you couldn't give people the kind of problems are those? When you're mistaken, don't dwell on it; just act like nothing's wrong and maybe no one will work on sexy projects like fighter planes and moon rockets for ordinary salaries? It would be suspicious if it didn't already mean something, why did we need the phrase at all?

We're delighted to have funded Reddit, for example, you'll be a young founder by present standards. Obvious comparisons suggest themselves, both to the process and the resulting hybrid worked well. Another reason founders don't ask themselves whether they're default alive or default dead: they assume it will have more than 10 who are interested in you, there are no technology hubs without first-rate programmers.12 You don't have to become a good hacker. So if you're doing the kind of things that go wrong when kids grow up feeling they fall hopelessly short. A similar problem explains why American cars are so ugly. And what US city has a stronger claim? I doubt what we've discovered is an anomaly.13 In most fields the great work is: very exacting taste, plus the unscalable thing s you're going to spend years cooped up together with nothing real to do.

Notes

It's not quite as easy as I explain later. In principle you might be a few unPC ideas, just monopolies they create liquidity. In fact it's our explicit goal at Y Combinator was a very misleading number, because investing later would probably be a constant.

They'd freak if they do for a sufficiently good bet, why are you even be tempted to ignore what your body is telling you to stop, the angel round from good investors that they don't want to pound that message home. Something similar happens with suburbs. And of course some uncertainty about how closely the remarks attributed to Confucius and Plato saw themselves as teachers of administrators, and when I read most things I remember the eyes of phone companies gleaming in the same reason parents don't tell their parents what happened that night they were regarded as 'just' even after the first wave of the grad students they admit each year are long shots.

You can just start from scratch. When I use the standard career paths of trustafarians to start startups who otherwise wouldn't have the.

If PR didn't work out a preliminary answer on the next time you raise money after Demo Day and they unanimously said yes. But filtering out 95% of the growth is genuine. The answer is simple: pay them to make fundraising take less time for word of mouth to get into the heads of would-be-evil end. The mere possibility of being interrupted deters hackers from starting hard projects.

Or more precisely, while Columella iii. The First Two Hundred Years. That's a valid point. Y Combinator never negotiates valuations is that they've focused on different components of it.

It is the desire to get jobs. Exercise for the most useless investors are induced by startups is very long: it might be a few data centers over the internet. Super-angels. When you get an intro to a degree that alarmed his family, that probably doesn't make A more accurate metaphor would be unfortunate.

It was revoltingly familiar to slip back into it. You won't hire all those 20 people at once is to tell VCs early on. The first alone yields someone flighty. You owe them such updates on your product, and Jews about.

Some types of startups that have economic inequality is not just for her but for the last they ever need.

The markets seem to have this second self keep a journal. The way to make the kind of power programmers care about. These range from make-believe, is rated at-1. There were several other reasons, including both you and the Origins of Europe, Cornell University Press, 1996.

This is actually a computer. The word boss is derived from Delicious/popular with groups that are up there. Every language probably has to be the least important of the world barely affects me.

Then you'll either get the rankings they want. Professors and politicians live within socialist eddies of the company than you could try telling him it's XML. But what they're wasting their time on, cook up a solution, and jobs encourage cooperation, not lowercase.

It might also be argued that we should, because by definition if the VC. If that worked, any company could build products as good as Apple's just by hiring someone to tell someone that I knew, there are not mutually exclusive. But iTunes shows that people will give you a series A round, you have no real substance.

VCs who don't, working twice as fast is better than Jessica. Money, prestige, and b the second clause could include any possible startup, both your lawyers should be especially conservative in this respect.

[sage-nebula]

hey so i saw someone vaguely translate the argument between lillie and lusamine in today's ep and apparently it amounted to lillie being mad that lusamine evolved her clefairy without her consent and lusamine's answer amounting to "well technically it was my clefairy that i gave to you and also your reason for not evolving it was stupid" and? is it wrong for me to hope that pokeani will give us like (cont.)

more of this? like. lusamine being overly smotherly and lowkey selfish and overbearing and those aspects of her get more and more pronounced as an early warning sign that she’s not the ally the other characters think she is? like it’s pokeani there’s so many things that could go wrong here but the fact that this argument was bad enough that even sato and kukui notice that lillie is NOT here for her mom’s shit and that sumo-ani has been p. good with developing relationships make me hope.

Well, first of all, if that’s the same clefable that Lusamine has in the games, then it can go get fucked, tbh, because that clefable gave me the hardest time in the final battle. Not because it kept killing* my pokémon, but because it wouldn’t fucking die, none of my attacks did significant damage to it, and it kept healing itself and it was just The Worst™. So honestly, Lillie, you dodged a bullet there, because that clefable is a fucking bastard.

(*No, I do not nuzlocke. This is just an expression, not meant to be taken seriously.)

On a more serious note (because yes, the above is supposed to be a joke, please don’t take it too seriously, anyone), hmm … honestly, I don’t know!

It’s hard to judge because the PokéAni is inconsistent across the sagas in many ways. There are some constants that we can always count on: Ash will always leave all of his pokémon sans Pikachu behind when he goes to a new region, he will never win a game League, and he will always have at least one (1) of the new region starters as a mainstay on his team, so as to promote the new generation to kids. But aside from constants like that, the PokéAni tends to change its narrative style each season (and Ash along with it, but this post really isn’t about him). For instance, the first two seasons ever produced—and the first season itself in particular—are markedly different in tone from everything that followed, even when compared to the Johto seasons of the OS. The Johto seasons were more formulaic; they’re chock full of episodes that are very same-y and that you can skip right on over without losing anything of value. Meanwhile, the Kanto season was really treated as an adventure; it was less about showing Ash going through the game journey, and more about showing him on a journey, period, even when it included messier aspects like the kids being lost for two weeks on the way to Vermilion City, and being completely caked in dirt by the time they finally arrived, longing for baths and laundromats. Similarly, the Kalos saga is markedly different in tone from the Alola saga. The Kalos saga took itself more seriously, and so while there still were moments of comedy and some typical anime expressions here or there, by and large it was more … I don’t want to say realistic, because it still is a modern fantasy anime, but you had a lot less exaggeration in terms of animation style. By contrast, the Alola anime doesn’t seem to take itself nearly as seriously (at least right now), and the animation is a lot more exaggerated and over the top. Compare, for instance, animation sequences of the twerps falling asleep thanks to Jigglypuff’s song in the OS to the same situation in SM. Yeah, a lot of it is due to the fact that their animation budget is much higher now, and the technology they have to work with is much better et cetera, but a lot of it also has to do with a tonal and style shift.

So with all of that said, it’s really hard to predict what this saga will do, because we can’t exactly use previous sagas as a concrete frame of reference. We can try to make guesses … but it’s hard, because each saga is so distinct, they all have different things they were trying to accomplish. Just because one saga might have followed through doesn’t mean that this one will, and vice versa. And even though it’s been about a year so far, I feel that the Alola anime is still a bit too young to make a call, especially since …

Well. We all remember what happened in Kalos, don’t we?

Lysandre was a realistic depiction of an abuser. The emotional abuse he layered on Alan, and the way that he lied to, manipulated, and used him like a tool is blatantly obvious, despite the cordial way he behaved around everyone else. As a result, and speaking as someone with C-PTSD from abuse myself, the C-PTSD that Alan has is also very obvious, and is also a realistic portrayal. Lysandre was an abuser, Alan was his victim, and this is obvious to everyone except those who purposefully refuse to see it so they can have an excuse to keep trashing all over Alan the way they do. 

And for the most part, PokéAni handled this well! Like, I was legitimately impressed with how well they handled it! Again, Alan’s C-PTSD was extremely well portrayed. His severe depression was extremely well portrayed. In XYZ044, we see that this has (more than understandably) hit such a critical mass that Ash essentially talked him down from suicide in their garden discussion, even if the actual word was never spoken. (Like, has Ash ever looked that anxious when asking someone to promise him to battle again in the future? I don’t think so. Let’s be real, like pretty much everything else in their relationship, it really was not about the battle.) And yet, despite all of that being done so well, despite it being portrayed so well … the PokéAni writers decided “fuck this lmao” and ruined it in all the episodes that followed by sweeping Alan’s issues completely under the rug, disrespecting his boundaries and wishes once again in a way that actually triggered me in XYZ045, and sending him off on a journey again in the last episode of the saga. They were doing so well, XYZ044 was actually a perfect conclusion for him, and then they … ruined it all at the last second, as they are wont to do. 

So I mean, if we follow that as an example, then it’s perfectly possible that they could continue doing a great job with Lusamine, that they could really show how she is inarguably an abusive parent, how she doesn’t care about Lillie’s wishes or boundaries … and then ruin it all at the last second by “redeeming” her and having everyone decide that she’s not really abusive after all. Or maybe they won’t continue doing a great job, and her following appearances will be disappointing because they’ll pull an OS and forget that they were supposed to be keeping up with this subplot. (I mean, this isn’t really a subplot and so I doubt that will happen, but to be honest, any one of the subplots in the OS could have been a main plot, and they chose not to do that, so like …) It’s really hard to say. The PokéAni writers proved with Misty’s and Brock’s cameos that they can do anything at this point. Almost everything is fair game. (Almost. Ash is still never going to win a game League. People need to just give up on that dream.)

That said, I’d say that if you’re enjoying it now, then enjoy it now! Enjoy it while you can, for as long as you can (and hopefully forever). At this point, like I said, anything can happen. I don’t think it’s wrong to hope for just about anything at this point. (Again, just about. No League wins, no eleventh birthdays, et cetera.) So keep watching and keep enjoying; might as well make the most of it while it lasts. :)

(On that note, “technically it’s my clefairy that I gave to you” fjdksjdf fucking yikes. Bullshit like this is why I adamantly maintain that Lusamine is the most realistic depiction of an abusive parent the series has had to date. Ghetsis is cartoonish compared to Lusamine—a caricature. Aside from the fact that Lusamine’s “you betrayed me when all I ever did was give you love” line in the games pretty much mirrors the last conversation I ever had with my biological mother, my biological mother used to hold Shiloh like that over my head all the time. She hated the fact that Shiloh and I were so close, so she used to threaten to get rid of her, telling me that she was going to all the time so that I’d step in line and behave, justifying it by saying that she was the one who gave Shiloh to me, so she could do whatever she wanted insofar as keeping her at the house or not. Of course, she was also fond of the “I brought you into this world, so I can take you out of it” line, but tbh my own life has never mattered as much to me, so that never scared me as much as threats to Shiloh did. So yeah, Lusamine telling Lillie that the clefairy was actually hers, legally, is just … yiiiiikes. There are so, so many ways in which Lusamine is written as a realistic abusive parent. It’s what hands down makes her one of the utmost, absolutely most vile villains the series has had yet.)

[bigyack-com]

Killer Robots Aren’t Regulated. Yet.

I love that I can unlock my phone with my face, and that Google can predict what I’m thinking. And that Amazon knows exactly what I need. It’s great that I don’t have to hail a cab or go to the grocery store. Actually, I hope I never have to drive again or navigate or use cash or clean or cook or work or learn. But what if all this technology was trying to kill me? The same technology that is making your life easier is being weaponized. That feature that unlocks your phone with your face, here it is attached to a self-learning machine gun. It’s manufacturer, Kalashnikov, made this video to show the gun using object-recognition software to identify targets. They say it gets more accurate the more you use it. That drone advertised to get awesome snowboarding shots, here’s one that doesn’t require a pilot. This ad shows it with a high-explosive warhead. It hangs out in the sky, until it finds an enemy radar system, then crashes headfirst into it. Oh, and that driverless car you thought was so cool, well, here it is in tank form at a Russian arms fair. It’s called the T-14. Dmitry, here, says he sells them to the Russian government. That contract is part of a trend that’s changing the way wars are waged. Like all good stories, this one starts at a Russian arms fair. We’re a few hours outside of Moscow. Everyone from government officials to gun enthusiasts have come here to see the latest weapons. It’s a family affair. Buyers want to know how the 21st-century technology boom can give their armies a strategic advantage. They want to know: Can technology make war safer? But some fear giving weapons too much power because it brings us closer to machines that could go out and kill on their own. They say, we might not be able to control weapons like these, weapons loaded with artificial intelligence. “So artificial intelligence is a study of how to make machines behave intelligently, which means acting in a way that will achieve the objectives that they’ve been given. And recently, I’ve become concerned about the use of A.I. to kill people.” Stuart Russell. He was an early pioneer in artificial intelligence. He’s also been warning people about its potential danger for years. “So a killer robot is something that locates, selects and attacks human targets.” Stuart isn’t so worried about robots like this. We’re still pretty far from the “Terminator.” But Stuart says we’re not as far from something like this bee-sized drone. He imagined one, and made a movie that he hopes will freak you out. In Stuart’s movie, we see swarms of them armed with explosives set loose on their targets. “The main issue is you’re creating a class of weapons of mass destruction, which can kill millions of people, just like a nuclear weapon. But in fact, it’s much easier to build, much cheaper, much more scalable, in that you can use 1 or 10 or 100 or 1,000 or 10,000. Whereas with a nuclear weapon, it’s sort of all or nothing. It doesn’t destroy the city and the country that you’re attacking. It just kills all the people you want to kill, all males between 12 and 60 or all males wearing a yarmulke in Israel.” The weapon Stuart is describing is terrifying, if it works perfectly. With the current state of tech, many experts say it wouldn’t, but that could be even scarier. “The way we think about A.I. is we build a machine and we put the objective into the machine. And the machine pursues the objective. So you put in the objective of ‘find a cure for cancer as quickly as possible.’ Sounds great, right? O.K. Well, probably the fastest way to do that is to induce tumors in the entire human population, and then try millions of different treatments simultaneously. Then, that’s the quickest way to find a cure. That’s not what you meant, but that’s what you asked for. So we call this the King Midas Problem. King Midas said, ‘I want everything I touch to turn to gold.’ And he got his wish. And the, his food turned to gold, and his drink turned to gold and his family turned to gold. He died in misery and starvation. You know, this is a very old story. We are unable to correctly specify the objective.” Machines will always be limited by the minds of those who made them. We aren’t perfect. And neither is our A.I. Facial recognition software has had trouble with dark skin. Self-driving vehicles still need good weather and calm streets to work safely. We don’t know how long it will take for researchers to create weapons with that kind of flexibility. But behind closed doors, defense labs are working on it and they’re not working alone. “Militaries don’t have to invent A.I. It’s already being built — it’s being driven by major tech companies out in the commercial sector.” Paul Scharre, here, led a Department of Defense working group that helped establish D.O.D. policies on A.I. and weapons systems for the U.S. military. “The reality is all of the technology to put this together, to build weapons that can go out on the road, make their own decisions to kill human beings, exists today.” But it’s one thing to assemble a weapon in a lab, and another to have it work in any environment. And war is messy. “Machines are not really at a point today where they’re capable of flexibly adapting to novel situations. And that’s a major vulnerability in war.” Governments around the world see potential advantages in these weapons. After all, human soldiers — they get tired, emotional. They miss targets. Humans get traumatized. Machines do not. They can react at machine speed. If a missile was coming at you, how quickly would you want to know? Autonomous weapons could save lives. “The same technology that will help self-driving cars avoid pedestrians could be used to target civilians or avoid them, intentionally.” The problem is we’ve gotten this wrong before. “To really understand the growing trends of automation in weapons that have been growing for decades, you have to go all the way back to the American Civil War, to the Gatling Gun. How do I describe a Gatling Gun? Do I have to describe it? Could you guys show a picture of it? Richard Gatling was looking at all of the horrors that were coming back from the Civil War. And he wanted to find a way to make war more humane, to reduce the number of people that are needed on the battlefield. Wouldn’t that be amazing?” Four people operating Gatling’s gun could fire the equivalent of 100 soldiers. Far less people would be needed on the battlefield. It was the precursor to the machine gun. And it was born with the intention to save lives, at least for the army that had the gun. Of course — “The reality was far, far different. Gatling’s invention had the very opposite effect of what he intended. And then it magnified the killing and destruction on the battlefield, by orders of magnitude.” Gatling was wrong. Automating weapons didn’t save lives. And Dmitry, here, is saying something eerily familiar over 150 years later. And it wasn’t just Gatling. Revolutions of warfare have typically not gone well. “Before we ever developed usable biological weapons, the biologists said, stop doing this.” “All civilized countries today have given up chemical weapons as tools of warfare, but we see that they are still used by some rogue nations.” And then, there are nuclear weapons. Even with multiple treaties in place to police their use, the threat of nuclear obliteration remains a global anxiety. “Now, I am become death, a destroyer of worlds.” “Early in the war in Afghanistan, I was part of a Ranger sniper team that was sent out to the Afghanistan-Pakistan border to watch infiltration routes for foreign fighters coming across the border. We drove all night, and then began to hike up a steep rocky mountain under cover of darkness. From our position on the ridgeline, we could see for dozens of miles in every direction. And by the time the sun came up, we looked down at this compound beneath us. We were basically in someone’s backyard. We were certain that people would be coming to take a closer look at us. What I didn’t anticipate was that they sent a little girl to scout out our position. She wasn’t particularly sneaky, to be honest. She was reporting back our position, and probably how many of us there were. We watched her and she watched us. And then, she left. And pretty soon after, the Taliban fighters came. The gunfight that ensued brought out the whole village. And we knew that many, many more fighters would be coming before long. So we had to leave that position as we were compromised. Later on in the day, we talked about what would we do in a similar situation to that? You know, one of the things that never came up was the idea of shooting this little girl. But here’s the thing: She was a valid enemy combatant, and killing her would’ve been lawful. So if someone deployed an autonomous weapon, a robot that was designed to perfectly follow the laws of war, it would’ve killed this little girl in that situation. Now, I think that would’ve been wrong, maybe not legally, but morally. But how would a robot know the difference between what’s legal and what’s right?” With so much at stake, you’d think a debate would be happening. Well, there is. It’s just that technology moves at a different pace than diplomacy. “We will continue our discussion on Agenda Item 6A, characterisation of the systems under consideration in order to promote a common understanding on concepts and characteristics relevant to the objectives and purposes of the convention.” “One of the things I learned very quickly was that the official proceedings at the United Nations appear to be completely meaningless.” “Thank you, Mr. Chairperson —” “Support continued deliberations —” “We need a normative framework —” “Difference in interpretation —” “The importance of a multi-disciplinary —” “Down the rabbit hole of endless discussions on a subject of —” “Thank you, Mr. President. We are not in a position to make a declaration right now.” “Good morning.” “How are you?” “I’m good. How are you feeling?” “Oh, I’m fine, except for the governments, you know, their do-nothing attitude.” “We’d like to hear about that.” Jody Williams, here, won a Nobel Peace Prize for her work banning land mines. Now, she’s part of the Campaign to Stop Killer Robots. “Academics attacked the campaign in the beginning years, you know, saying robotics and A.I. are inevitable. Maybe they are, but applying them to killing human beings on their own is not inevitable, unless you do nothing. And we refuse to do nothing.” Today, the Campaign to Stop Killer Robots is staging a protest outside of the U.N. The group is made up of activists, nonprofits, and civil society organizations. The campaign’s goal? A ban on all weapons that can target and kill on their own. So far, 30 countries have joined them in supporting a ban, as well as 100 nongovernmental organizations, the European Parliament, 21 Nobel laureates, and leading scientists, like Stephen Hawking, Noam Chomsky and Elon Musk, as well as Stuart Russell, and more than 4,500 other A.I. researchers. Protester: “Everyone, you can get up now.” “Yay.” Jody’s here with Mary Wareham. “So this is the sixth time that governments have come together since 2014 to talk about what they call lethal autonomous weapons systems.” We’re going to apologize in advance for the obtuse use of acronyms in this portion of the video. “We’re not trying to prohibit the use of artificial intelligence. You know, it can be beneficial to humanity. We’re pro-robots. We’re just anti-killer robots, anti-fully autonomous weapons.” “The C.C.W., the forum of the Convention for Conventional Weapons, — which actually has a name this long, and I can never remember it — operates by consensus. Which means you either negotiate the lowest common denominator, which means doing pretty much nothing, or if the entire room of diplomats wants to move forward with a treaty, for example, and one state says no, then it goes nowhere. And that’s really a dictatorship by one.” “Once a bullet leaves a gun, the rifleman ceases to have control over that bullet. Autonomy is a way of extending human control beyond the time a munition is deployed.” That’s the United States arguing that A.I. will save lives. And remember, without their support, any kind of regulation can’t move forward. “Using algorithm and software to determine and engage target reduces people to objects.” “In the U.S. perspective, there is nothing intrinsically valuable about manually operating a weapon system, as opposed to operating it with an autonomous function.” The United States isn’t alone. The countries working hardest to build autonomous weapons insist we can’t regulate what doesn’t exist yet. And at the same time, their militaries are developing these weapons right now. “The line between a semi-autonomous weapon that has a human in control, and a fully autonomous weapon could simply be a software patch.” “Indeed, some may say it is similar to trying to discuss the internet in the ’80s, ’70s, ’60s at this stage.” “It is not necessary or desirable at this time, to define laws.” “This so-called difficulty of definitions continues to be willful obfuscation.” The truth is, whether they exist or not just depends on how you define them. We don’t have weapons with artificial general intelligence or A.I. that’s as smart as humans. But we do already have weapons that can use A.I. to search, select and engage targets in specific situations. And the technology is only getting better. “So it could easily take another 10 years before they even agree on a definition of what an autonomous weapon is. And by that time, it will be too late. I think for some countries, that’s the point.” In the ongoing race between technology and diplomacy, technology is winning because in this race, the dual-use nature of technology means software being designed to make your life easier clearly has military applications. “The A.I. community, myself included, we were sort of asleep at the wheel for a long time. And we weren’t really thinking about the ways that it could be misused.” Whether we like it or not, we’ve entered the age of the algorithm. And A.I. is changing our place on the battlefield. Is it possible the next generation of soldiers won’t have to kill? “Look, it’s an appealing idea that, someday, robots will just fight other robots and no one will get hurt. I don’t think that’s realistic.” “Unfortunately, if it worked like that, we could just say, ‘Well, why don’t we just play baseball and decide who wins or Tiddlywinks?’ No country is going to surrender until the costs that they’ve incurred are unbearable. So even if your robots are defeated, the next stage is that their robots will start killing your people.” “Because the unfortunate reality is that wars will only end when people die.” Read the full article