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mersuperwholocked-lowlife · 5 years ago

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Dead in the Water

Word Count: 5,884

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Sister!Reader, other Season one episode 3 characters

Pairings: Sam Winchester x Sister!Reader; Dean Winchester x Sister!Reader

Warnings: angst, barely any fluff, canon level violence, mentions of death of a child

A/N:i t’s finally here, enjoy!

A/N 2: I was thinking about all the plans I have for like upcoming in this..... and oof, I’m so excited

Masterlist

“When did you get that?” Sam asked, looking over to your tattoo.

“Uhm, about a month ago. Me and Dean got drunk and then I woke up with this,” you replied, looking to your arm.

The three of you were currently at some diner, looking for a case.

“Wow, well it’s, uh….. something….” Sam stuttered.

You looked at the tattoo on your arm. There was really no telling what it was. It looked like it was supposed to be a lotus flower, but then it had an arrow going through it and some other random marks.

“You don’t have to lie. I’m pretty sure Dean did it,” you shrugged.

Well, thank god he’s not a tattoo artist,” Sam laughed.

“Yeah, oh look at that! The waitress is totally hitting on Dean! Do you wanna crash it or should I?” you laughed, as the two of you looked at Dean.

Sam made his way to the table.

“Is there anything I can get you?” the lady asked Dean.

“Just the check, please,” Sam spoke for Dean, sitting next to him.

You smiled, walking to the two of them.

“You know, we are allowed to have fun every once in a while,” Dean groaned.

“Last time you had fun like that, I was locked out of the hotel room, with my wallet and phone inside, and I had to sleep next to the Impala. Not in it, next to it,” you replied.

“Heh, well that was a good night,” Dean smirked.

“Eww.” Sam scrunched his face.

“Okay, well, here, look at this. I think I got one,” Dean showed the two of you a newspaper. He circled a photo of an 18-year-old girl, who seemed to have drowned.

“Sophie Carlton, 18, last week. Walked into a lake and didn’t walk out,” Dean started.

So far, it sounded like she drowned.

“Authorities dragged the water, nothing. Sophie Carlton is the third drowning in Lake Manitoc this year. None of their bodies were found either. They had a funeral two days later.” he finished.

“A funeral?” you and Sam asked.

“Yeah, it’s weird. They buried an empty coffin for closure or whatever,” Dean replied.

“Closure? What closure?”, you asked.

“Yeah, people don’t just disappear, others stop looking for them,” Sam said to Dean.

Well, here we go again, you thought.

“Something you wanna say to me, Sammy?”, Dean asked, giving Sam a look.

“The trail for Dad, it’s getting colder every day,” Sam said.

“Well, what are we supposed to do?”, Dean asked.

“I don’t know. Something, anything,” Sam replied.

“You know what? I’m sick of this attitude. You don’t think I want to find Dad as much as you do?” Dean asked, annoyed.

“I’m the one who’s been with him every single day for the past two years, while you’ve been off to college going to pep rallies.”, Dean started, raising his voice a little.

“So? (Y/N) was there too, you don’t see her acting like a bitch,” Sam scoffed.

“You know what?” Dean started.

“Okay, stop. Both of you. First, I wasn’t there for the whole time. I took a year away from them.” you started, your face fell with the memory. You had secrets that Sam and Dean didn’t know. That only your dad knew.

“Wait, what?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, now listen, Sammy, we all wanna find Dad, okay? But, it’s gonna take some time. So, until then, we’re gonna kill every son of a bitch that we find, because it’s our job,” you said, in a calm way.

It’s weird to think that you’re the mature one.

Sam rolled his eyes before exhaling sharply.

“Okay, fine. Lake Manitoc, how far?”

----

Hey Dad, it’s (Y/N) again. Another day of me texting you, and still no reply. We’re worried. Please get back to me.

I’m almost 100 percent sure that Sam and Dean are gonna murder each other. Sam’s going crazy looking for you. We’re just trying to work any hunt we can meanwhile.

We miss you, just please let us know if you’re okay.

“Hello? Earth to (Y/N)?” you heard Dean say.

You looked up to him, putting your phone away.

“Yeah, what?” you asked.

“We’re here,” the three of you got out of the car, looking at Sophie’s house. She lived a normal, quiet life, with her Dad and brother.

Dean knocked at the door. Another boy answered the door, which you assumed to be Sophie’s brother.

“Will Carlton?” you asked as he opened the door.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he replied, looking cautiously at the three of you.

“I’m Agent Ford, this is Agent Hamill and Prescott. We’re with the U.S. wildlife service,” Dean showed his fake I.D.

Will relaxed, letting the three of you in, taking you to the lake.

You looked in the distance, seeing their dad sitting on a bench near the lake.

“She was about 100 yards out. That’s where she got dragged down,” he said softly.

“What makes you sure she didn’t drown?” you asked Will.

“She was a varsity swimmer. She practically grew up in the lake. She’s as safe out there as in her own bathtub.” he explained.

“So, no splashing? No sign of distress?” Sam asked.

“No, that’s what I’m telling you.” he shook his head.

“Did you see any shadows in the water? Maybe some dark shape breach the surface?” Dean asked.

“No, again, she was really far out there,” he replied.

“You ever see any strange tracks on the shoreline?” you asked.

“No, never. Why? Do you think there’s something out there?” Will asked.

“We’ll let you know as soon as we know,” you gave him a small smile, as you and Dean started walking off.

“What about your father?” Sam asked. You and Dean stopped, turning to Sam.

“Can we talk to him?” Sam asked.

“Look, if you don’t mind, I mean, he didn’t see anything, and he’s kinda been through a lot,” Will explained.

“We understand,” Sam nodded, as the three of you walked to the Impala.

“You think he’s hiding something?” Sam asked.

“Or maybe he’s just in shock. He just lost his daughter,” you replied softly.

“Well, Will said he’s been through a lot lately. Maybe there’s more,” Dean said.

“Losing a child is a lot, Dean,” you replied rolling your eyes as you sat in the car.

“Sheesh, who put the stick up your ass?” Dean sassed.

“Shut up, Dean,” you clenched your jaw.

“Whatever, let’s go,” you laid back in the seat, crossing your arms as Dean drove off.

-------

“Now, I’m sorry, why does the wildlife service care about an accidental driving?” the sheriff asked, leading the three of you to his office.

“You sure it’s accidental? Will Carlton saw something grab his sister,” Sam asked.

“Like what? Here, sit down please,” he said, pointing to three chairs across from him.

“There are no indigenous carnivores in that lake,” he said.

“There’s nothing even big enough to pull a person unless it was the loch ness monster,” the sheriff added.

“Yeah, right,” Dean started.

“Will Carlton was traumatized, and sometimes the mind plays tricks. Still, we dragged that entire lake. We even ran a sonar sweep to be sure, and there was nothing down there,” he said.

“That’s weird, though. That’s the third missing body this year,” you said.

“I know. These are people from my town. People I care about,” the sheriff sighed.

“I understand,” Dean said.

“Anyways, all this. It won’t be a problem much longer,” the sheriff crossed his arms.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“Well, the dam, of course,” the sheriff said.

You looked to Sam and Dean.

“The dam, right, it… it sprung a leak,” Dean said.

“It’s falling apart, and the feds won’t give us the grand to repair it, so they’ve opened the spillway. In 6 months, there won’t be much of a lake. There won’t be much of a town either, but as federal wildlife, you already knew that” the sheriff leaned in, looking at the two of you.

“Exactly,” you replied.

“Sorry, am I interrupting? I can come back later,” you heard a voice from behind you.

The three of you stood up, smiling to the woman.

“Agents, this is my daughter,” the sheriff said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Dean,” Dean smiled, shaking her hand.

You rolled your eyes, hasn’t even known her for a full minute and he’s already flirting.

“Andrea Bar. Hi,” she smiled.

“They’re from the wildlife service, about the lake,” he explained.

You saw a small kid from behind her.

“Oh, hey there, kid. What’s your name?” you gave him a small smile.

He looked at the three of you before walking away. You looked a little shocked as Andrea ran after him.

“His name is Lucas.” the sheriff said.

You continued to watch as you saw Andrea sit next to him, and give him crayons. He was drawing.

Your eyes watered a bit.

“My grandson’s been through a lot lately,” you heard the sheriff say to Sam.

You zoned out as they continued talking.

“(Y/N)? You okay?” Sam asked softly.

You inhaled deeply, wiping your face.

“What? Yeah, let’s go,” you replied.

“Okay then,” Sam muttered, walking behind you.

Dean stopped, asking Andrea for directions to a hotel, before asking her to walk you three there.

“What was that? In the sheriff’s office?” Sam asked you, as the two of you walked behind Dean and Andrea.

“What are you talking about?” you lied.

“You were about to cry,” he said.

“Cramps, Sammy,” you lied.

“Uhm, eww. Nevermind,” he replied.

“Kids are the best,” you overheard Dean say to Andrea.

Yeah, they are you thought to yourself.

“And here’s the hotel. Two blocks, as I said.” she turned to face the three of you.

“Thanks,” Dean smiled.

She sighed.

“Must be hard with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line,” she sassed Dean as she walked away.

You turned to Sam as the two of you tried to hold in your laughs.

“ ‘Kids are the best’? You don’t even like kids,” Sam said.

“I love kids,” Dean turned to Sam.

“Name three children you even know,” Sam said.

He would’ve known my kid, you thought. Shut up, (Y/N), focus on the hunt you told yourself.

He hesitated. “Well, you and (Y/N/N) are children,” he said.

You let out a small laugh before walking into the hotel.

“She’s acting weird, right?” Sam asked Dean.

“Yeah, thought it was just me,” Dean replied.

“Where was she when she was away from you for that year?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know. Only Dad does,” Dean shrugged.

“You don’t think she…. was pregnant?” Sam asked.

“What? No. (Y/N) would’ve told me,” Dean said. The two of them sighed before walking into the hotel.

--------

“So, there’s the three drowning victims this year,” Sam started.

“And before that?” Dean asked.

You sat next to Sam as he read old news articles from his laptop.

“Yeah, six more, spread out over the past 35 years. Those bodies were never recovered either. If there’s something out there, it’s picking up its pace,” Sam said, showing you the articles.

“So, we got a lake monster on a binge? This whole lake monster theory, it bugs me,” Sam sighed.

“Why?” you asked. Dean stood behind Sam.

“Loch Ness, Lake Champlain - there are literally hundreds of eyewitness accounts. But here, almost nothing. Whatever’s out there, no one’s living to talk about it.” Sam explained. He opened up a list of victims.

You saw Dean’s eyes widen.

“Wait, Bar, Christopher Bar. Where have I heard that name before?”, Dean said, pointing to the screen.

“Andrea. Her last name’s Bar.” you pointed out.

Sam clicked the article. It was a picture of Lucas, with his hair and clothes wet, wrapped in a towel.

“He’s Andrea’s husband, and Lucas’ father,” Sam read the article.

“Apparently, he took Lucas out swimming. Lucas was on a floating wooden platform when Chris drowned… two hours before the kid got rescued,” Sam said.

“Looks like we have an eyewitness after all,” Sam said.

“No wonder that kid was so freaked out. Watching one of your parents die isn’t something you just get over,” Dean said.

“Well, let’s go to the park,” you said.

----

“Can we join you?” Sam asked, spotting Andrea sitting on a bench.

“I’m here with my son,” she smiled.

“Oh, can I say hi?” you said, walking to him.

Sam and Dean sat next to Andrea, talking to her.

“Hey, how’s it going?” you asked, bending to his height.

He continued sitting there, drawing.

“You know, my brothers used to play with these,” you noticed the toy soldiers next to him.

He continued to ignore you.

You sighed, sitting next to him.

“You know, I think that you can hear me, you just don’t wanna talk,” you started.

“I don’t know what happened to your dad, but I know it was something really bad. And I know how you feel,” you said.

“When I was younger, I saw something,” you remembered, thinking back to Mary.

“Well, maybe you don’t think anyone will listen to you, or believe you. I want you to know that I will. You don’t have to say anything, you can even draw a picture of what you saw, with your Dad,” you said.

“Okay, no problem. Take care, Lucas,” you gave him a pat on his head before walking to Sam, Dean, and Andrea.

“He hasn’t said a word to me, not since the accident,” Andrea sighed.

“Yeah, we heard. Sorry,” Dean said.

“What are the doctors saying?” Sam asked.

“That it’s some kind of post-traumatic stress,” she said.

“That can’t be easy for any of you,” Sam said.

“We moved in with my dad. He helps out a lot,” Andrea nodded.

She looked at Dean.

“It’s just… when I think about what Lucas went through, what he saw….” Andrea said softly.

“Yeah, kids are strong. You’d be surprised with what they can deal with,” you gave a soft smile. Now, Mary was the only one on your mind.

“Yeah, it’s just…. oh hey, sweetie,” Andrea said, as Lucas walked from behind you.

He handed you a drawing of a cabin.

“Thanks,” you gave him a smile.

He continued looking down, walking away.

“That was….. Lucas doesn’t ever give things to people. He doesn’t communicate with them,” Andrea said, surprised.

“Yeah, well, (Y/N) has a way with kids,” Dean smiled.

You felt your heart drop but ignored it.

“Yeah, uhm, it was good seeing you, but we have to be on our way now,” you smile at Andrea, walking off as you let a tear fall, but quickly wiped away the rest.

----

“So, I think it’s safe to say we can rule out Nessie,” Sam said, walking into the hotel room.

“What do you mean?” you asked, sitting across from him and Dean.

“I just drove past the Carlton House. There was an ambulance there. Will Carlton is dead,” Sam said.

“Drowned?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, in the sink,” Sam replied.

“What the hell?” you said, sighing.

“So, this isn’t a creature. We’re dealing with something else.” Dean said.

“Yeah, but what?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know. A water wraith? Maybe some kind of demon?” Dean suggested.

“Well, I wouldn’t cross out spirit either,” you said.

“How could it be a spirit?” Dean asked.

“Well, I don’t know. It went after both of Bill Carlton’s children. I mean, who drowns in a sink?” you said.

“So, he’s probably involved somehow,” Dean started.

“Wait, I’ve been asking around, and Lucas’ dad, Bill Carlton’s godson,” Sam pointed out.

“Well, then let’s go pay Mr.Carlton a visit.”

----

“Mr.Carlton? We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Sam said, walking up to Mr.Carlton. He was on the same bench he was the previous day, still in shock. You felt his pain.

“We’re with the department of-” Dean started.

“I don’t care which department you’re with. I’ve answered enough questions today,” he replied shakily.

“Mr.Carlton,” you started.

“My children are gone,” you felt a pang in your chest.

“Sam, Dean, will you give me a moment alone with Mr.Carlton?” you said softly.

They looked at you, confused, before nodding and walking away.

“Mr.Carlton, I know it’s not easy, dealing with your children’s death. I know how you feel. But, me and my partners are trying to do everything we can to help you. You just… you need you to answer a few questions,” you said, taking deep breaths.

“Losing your children, it’s a feeling worse than death,” he said.

“I know,” you nodded.

“Just please… go away,” he cried softly.

“I-I get it. But, if you want to help us, if you want to avenge your kids, then give us a call. Me and you both know that something’s not right here,” you said softly.

He looked away from you, looking to the lake. You sighed, walking to Sam and Dean.

“Anything?” Dean asked.

“No, but he does know something’s going on,” you said.

“Wait….. Maybe he’s not the only one who knows what’s going on. (Y/N), where’s the picture Lucas gave you?” Dean asked.

You handed him the drawing from your pocket.

“I don’t think he’s the only one that knows something,” Dean held the drawing up, comparing it to the Carlton House. It was the house in the drawing.

----

“I’m sorry, I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Andrea said.

“I just need to talk to him, for a few minutes,” you said.

“He won’t say anything, What good’s it gonna do?” she argued.

“Andrea, we think more people might get hurt,” Sam explained.

“We think something’s out there,” Dean said.

“My husband, the others. They drowned, that’s all,” she said, getting upset.

“If you truly believe that, then we’ll go,” you started.

“But if you think there’s even a possibility that something else could be going on here, please let her talk to your son,” Dean finished your words.

She hesitated before answering.

“Fine, He’s down the hall, first door on the left,” she said.

“Thank you,” you nodded, walking to his room.

He sat on the ground, with his toy soldiers surrounding him while he drew.

“Hey, Lucas. Do you remember me?” you asked, squatting next to him.

He didn’t reply, as expected, but you noticed his drawings. All the same drawing of a red bike.

“Uhm, I just wanted to thank you for your last drawing, but I need your help again,” you said.

Dean handed you the drawing he drew before.

“How did you know to draw this? Did you know something bad was gonna happen?” he continued drawing.

“M-Maybe you could nod your head yes or no for me,” you said.

“You’re scared,” you noticed.

“It’s okay, I understand. When I was a child, I saw something really, really bad happen to my mom, and I was scared too. I didn’t feel like talking, just like you. But, my mom….” you took a breath.

“I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about it every day,” you could feel your eyes water.

“And I do my best to be brave. And maybe, your dad wants you to be brave too,” you said softly.

He stopped drawing, looking up at you. After a moment, he handed you another drawing. It had the red bike, a man, a church, it seemed, and another house.

“Thanks, Lucas,” you smiled, taking the drawing and standing up.

“Thank you, Andrea,” you said, as the three of you walked off.

“(Y/N), I-I didn’t know you saw Mom,” Sam started.

“I know. It’s weird when you’re that young, you don’t remember anything. That’s the only thing I remember,” you sniffled.

The three of you sat in the car and drove off.

----

“Andrea said he never drew like that till after his dad died,” you handed the drawing to Sam.

“There are cases going through a traumatic experience, could make certain people more sensitive to premonitions, or psychic tendencies,” Sam started.

“What if Lucas is tapping into it somehow?”, Dean asked.

“It’s only a matter of time before someone else drowns, so if you got a better lead, please,” Dean said.

“Okay, fine. We have another house to find,” Sam said.

“In this county alone, there’s about a thousand yellow two-stories,” Dean groaned.

You drifted from their conversations, texting John again.

This case is hard. It’s bringing up all my unwanted memories from the past, like mom, like my son.

I can’t believe I’ve kept all these secrets from Sam and Dean. Is it too late to tell them?

I just feel sick.

“(Y/N), are you alive back there?” Dean called you.

“Yeah,” you said, turning off your phone.

“We haven’t heard a peep from you this entire car ride. Are you okay?” Dean asked.

“I’m fine. Where are we going anyway?” you asked.

“We’re finding the church in Lucas’ drawing,”

----

“We’re sorry to bother you, ma’am, but does a little boy live here by chance? He might wear a blue ball cap, has a red bicycle,” Dean asked the elder woman.

“No, sir. Not for a very long time. Peter’s been gone 35 years now,” she sighed.

“The police never…. I never had any idea what happened,” she explained, looking at a photo of him.

“He just disappeared,” she turned to the three of you.

“Losing him, it was, you know, it’s worse than dying,” she said shakily.

Sam nudged you softly, pointing to the toy soldiers on the table. You nodded at him.

“Did he disappear from here? I mean, from this house?” you asked.

“He was supposed to ride his bike straight home after school, and he never showed up,” she replied.

You nodded your head softly as you looked around a bit, spotting a picture with Peter and another boy in the mirror.

You looked at the picture before looking at the back, seeing the names.

“Peter Sweeney and Billy Carlton, 1970,” you read aloud.

You raised an eyebrow, giving Sam and Dean a look.

“Okay, thank you for your time, ma’am,” Dean said as the three of you headed out the door.

----

“So, Peter Sweeney disappeared and this is all connected to Bill Carlton somehow,” Sam started.

“Yeah, it kinda seemed like he was hiding something,” Dean said.

“And Bill, the people he loves, they’re all getting punished,” Sam said.

“So maybe Bill did something? Maybe Bill killed him?” you suggested.

“Yeah, Peter’s spirit would be furious. He’d want revenge, it’s possible,” Dean agreed.

Dean drove once again to the Carlton house as you three got out of the car, looking for him.

“Sam, Dean,” you said, seeing Mr.Carlton on a boat, driving out in the water.

“Oh, shi-” the three of you ran to the dock, yelling for Mr.Carlton to turn back.

“Mr.Carlton! You need to come back! Turn around!” Dean shouted.

“Turn the boat around! Get out of the water!” you yelled.

He looked back at the three of you, with watery eyes. You heard a noise as something flipped the boat over, killing him.

“Damn it.”

----

The three of you walked into the police station, seeing Andrea sitting with Lucas, who looked upset.

“Sam, Dean, (Y/N),” Andrea said, surprised to see you three.

“What are you doing here?” the sheriff asked her.

“I bought you dinner,” she replied

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I just don’t have the time,” he sighed.

She looked at Dean.

“I heard about Bill Carlton, is it true? Is something on with the lake?” Andrea asked.

“Right now, we don’t know what the truth is, but I think it might be better if you and Lucas went home,” the sheriff said.

Lucas’ head shot up, as he gave the sheriff a worried look. He ran to you, pulling on your sleeve.

“Lucas, hey. What is it? What’s wrong?” you asked, bending down to him.

His eyes watered, as he continued holding onto you.

“Lucas, it’s okay. It’s okay,” Andrea said, trying to hold him.

“Hey, hey, Lucas. It’s okay,” you pulled away from him softly.

Andrea held him, rushing him out of the station. He turned back to you, giving you a look. You knew that look, something was wrong.

You watched him leave, looking concerned before the three of you walked into the sheriff’s office.

“O-Okay, so you’re telling me you see…. something attack Bill’s boat, sending him, who is a very good swimmer by the way, into the drink and you never see him again?” the sheriff asked, a bit skeptical at your story.

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” Dean replied, looking at you and Sam.

“And I’m supposed to believe this even though I’ve already sonar swept that entire lake and what you’re describing is impossible and you’re not really wildlife service,” he added.

You looked to him, a little shocked. Not saying he was wrong, but how did he know?

“That’s right, I called the department. They’ve never heard of you three,” he said, crossing his arms.

“See, now that we can explain,” Dean started, motioning to you.

“Enough, please. The only reason you’re breathing free air is one of Bill’s neighbors saw him steering out that boat just before you did. So we have a couple of options here. I can arrest you for impersonating government officials and hold you as material witnesses to Bill Carlton’s disappearance, or, we can chalk this all up to a bad day, you can get in your car, you put this town in your rearview mirror, and you don’t ever darken my doorstep again,” he said, raising his voice.

Well, he was clearly unamused.

You looked at Sam.

“Door number two sounds good,” you and Dean nodded in agreement.

“That’s the one I’d pick,”

----

“Dean, please. You saw his face. He was scared. Just a quick peek, please,” you begged.

“(Y/N), we told the sheriff we’re leaving. I don’t want us in jail,” Sam sighed.

“Dean?” you asked.

He froze for a minute. If he turned left, we would be out of this town. But, if he turned right, you could check on Lucas.

After a long minute of hesitation, he turned right.

“(Y/N), this job’s over. Peter killed Bill, it’s over,” Sam said, annoyed.

“Well, what if we’re wrong? What if we missed something, and we leave? More people get killed,” you sighed.

“Oh, come on (Y/N),” he groaned.

“You saw Lucas’ face. He was really scared. I’m not leaving town till I know that he’s okay,” you said, crossing your arms.

You saw Dean mouth something to Sam, as Sam went quiet.

“Fine,”

----

You walked to their front door, along with Sam and Dean.

“It’s late, are you sure about this?” Dean asked you.

Before you could ring the doorbell, Lucas opened the door, hyperventilating.

“Lucas? What’s wrong?” you said, panicking

He ran up the stairs, to a locked door, which you knew to be the bathroom. There was water leaking from under it.

He started banging at the door. You pulled him back, as Dean kicked the door open. He and Sam ran into the bathroom, pulling out Andrea from drowning. You held on Lucas, trying to calm him down.

----

You and Dean looked through their books, trying to find anything on the sheriff. It wasn’t an accident that Peter went after Andrea.

“(Y/N),” Dean said.

“Yeah?” you were looking in the bookshelf across from you.

“You tell me everything, right?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course,” you said. You hated lying to him.

“There’s no big secret you hid from me?” he asked.

“No….. why?” you asked.

“Sammy thinks you were pregnant once,” you felt your body go cold.

“But then I told him, there was no way. Because you tell me everything. And you would’ve told me if you were pregnant,” he said.

You felt a few tears fall, but you ignored it.

“Dean,” you said softly.

He put his hand on your shoulder, turning you around. He wrapped his arms around you tightly.

“Dean, this isn’t the time for this. Please, let’s talk later. We’re on a hunt,” you sniffled.

“Okay, fine” he nodded his head.

You two continued looking, as he called you again.

“(Y/N),” you went to him, seeing him hold a book. Jake - 12 years old

Your eyes widened, as you saw a picture of an old boy scout troop.

With the sheriff, and Bill Carlton.

----

“Do you recognize the kids in this picture?” Dean asked Andrea, putting the book on the table in front of her.

“What? Uh, no, except that’s my dad, right there. He must’ve been around 12 in these pictures.” she pointed to the picture.

“The connection wasn’t to Bill Carlton. It must’ve been to the sheriff,” Dean started, looking to you and Sam.

“Maybe it was Bill and the sheriff, they were both involved with Peter,” Sam realized.

You looked to your side, seeing Lucas look out the window.

“Chris… what about my dad, what are you talking about?” Andrea asked.

“Lucas? Lucas, what is it?” you asked, walking to him.

He turned to the door, walking out, motioning you to follow him.

“Lucas?” Andrea called, also following him.

He led you four to the middle of the yeard, which was surrounded by trees.

“Take Lucas inside and stay there,” Dean told Andrea.

She nodded her head, pulling Lucas to the house.

The three of you took your shovels, digging into the dirt. You heard a clang as Sam hit something.

He looked up at you and Dean before the three of you pulled something out of the ground.

It was a red bike. It was Peter’s red bike.

“Peter’s bike,” Sam breathed out.

“Who are you?” you heard the sheriff’s voice from behind you, as he cocked his gun, pointing it at Sam.

“Put the gun down, Jake,” you said as Sam raised his hands up.

“How did you know that was there?” he asked.

“What happened? You and Bill killed Peter, drowned him in the lake, and buried his bike?” Dean said.

“You can’t bury the truth, Jake. Nothing stays buried,” you said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” the sheriff asked.

“You and Bill killed Peter Sweeney 35 years ago. That’s what the hell we’re talking about,” Dean replied.

“Dad!” Andrea yelled, running to you four.

“And now you have one seriously pissed off spirit,” Dean finished.

“It’s gonna take Andrea, Lucas, everyone you love. It’s gonna drown them,” Sam said.

“It’s gonna drag their bodies to god-knows-where, so you can feel the same pain Peter’s mom felt. And then, after that, it’s gonna take you, and it’s not gonna stop until it does,” you tried to reason with the sheriff.

“And how do you know that?” he asked.

“Because that’s exactly what it did to Bill Carlton,” Sam said.

“Listen to yourselves, all three of you. You’re insane,” he said, continuing to point the gun at Sam.

“We don’t really give a rat’s ass what you think of us, but if we’re gonna bring down this spirit, we need to find the remains, salt them, and burn them,” Dean said.

“Just tell me you buried him. That you didn’t just let him go into the lake,” you said.

“Dad, is any of this true?” Andrea asked, her voice shaky.

“No, they’re liars and they’re dangerous,” the sheriff said quickly.

“Something tried to drown me. Chris died on that lake. Dad, look at me,” Andrea yelled.

You tried to focus on the rest of the conversation, trying to ignore your pounding headache.

Not again, please, not again you begged.

You scrunched your eyes closed, grabbing your head.

“A-Andrea, w-where’s Lucas?” you groaned.

“W- he’s in the….. Oh my god!” she gasped, seeing Lucas by the lake.

The five of you ran to the lake, calling for Lucas to get away from the lake.

You saw Peter pull him into the lake.

You ran, jumping into the lake with Sam and Dean.

You dived your head underwater, looking for Lucas.

“No, Jake!” you heard Sam yell. You saw Peter grab his leg, drowning him.

You heard Andrea let out a cry.

“Oh my god,” you said quietly.

You went underwater, trying to find him again. When you came back up for air, you saw Lucas, unconscious in Dean’s arms. You let out a breath of relief.

He was okay

----

“Okay, the case is over. You said we’ll talk when the case is over,” Dean crossed his arms, leaning against the wall in the motel.

“About what?” Sam raised his eyebrow, looking between the two of you.

“Dean,” you started.

“(Y/N)” he replied.

He walked to the bed, holding your hand and pulling you next to him. Sam walked to you two also, sitting on your other side.

“O-Okay, well,” you took a deep breath, looking forward, away from Sam and Dean.

“A-After….uhm, when I left….” you stuttered, not sure where to start.

“It’s us. You don’t have to keep this from us anymore,” Dean said softly.

A tear fell from your eye.

“I found out I was pregnant, and Dad said he’d help me get out of this life. That it wasn’t safe f-for me anymore,” your voice was shaking.

Sam and Dean were quiet, listening to you.

“I-I don’t… it happened so fast…. I-It was,” you tried to speak, holding in your cries.

Dean wrapped his arms around you, rocking you gently like you did when you were kids. Every time something was wrong, the two of you would hug each other, rocking each other softly, calming down one another.

“I’m so, so sorry, (Y/N),” Sam said, hugging you too.

You cried softly, holding onto Sam and Dean.

“I-I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Dad told me not to tell anyone,” you started.

“It’s okay,” Dean replied softly.

“It’s okay,”

----

The three of you walked to the Impala, getting ready to leave.

“Sam, (Y/N), Dean,” you heard Andrea call you three.

You turned around, seeing her and Lucas walk over to the three of you.

“We made you some lunch for the way. Lucas insisted on making you these sandwiches,” she smiled down at Lucas.

“Can I give it to them now?” he asked.

“Of course,” Andrea replied.

“Well, let’s go load these into the car, yeah?” you smiled to Lucas, holding his hand and walking off with him.

“Alright, since you’re gonna be talking now, you have to remember this phrase. I want you to repeat it back to me,” you told him. You leaned onto the car.

“Zeppelin rules!” he exclaimed.

“That’s right. Up high,” you gave him a high five as he smiled.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” you said.

You looked to the side, watching as you saw Andrea kiss Dean.

You smiled, before looking back to Lucas.

“We have to go now, it looks like. Take care, kiddo,” you said. He nodded, running off to Andrea.

“Let’s hit the road. We’re losing daylight,” Dean said, walking to the front seat.

“You’re blushing,” you teased him.

“Shut up, Let’s go,” the three of you sat in the car, driving off.

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agerefandom · 4 years ago

Text

Books and Pigments

(art by @sparrowinged, story written for @sparrowinged)

Fandom: Critical Role

Characters: Regressor!Caleb, regressor!Jester, featuring Mama!Nott, caregiver!Ford, and the rest of the Mighty Nein in the background (Beau, Yasha, and Molly)

Words: 3,000

Summary: Upstairs, Jester gives Caleb a bath and they both find the process nostalgic. Downstairs, the others discuss ‘somechildren,’ people who never fully grow up. They’re well-known in Wildemount, but much more accepted on the Menagerie Coast.

Content warnings: ‘Little’ is used as an adjective, but not a noun. Caleb’s backstory is briefly alluded to, as is memory loss from trauma. There is drinking (done by adults). Nott is considered a mother and is referred to as such.

Note: I’m only on episode 47, please excuse any backstory gaps!

Nott was the last to join the table, crawling onto a chair and grabbing a drink that was already on the table, downing most of it in one go.

“Nott!” Molly greeted her from the other side of the table, raising his own tankard to her. “Are the others not coming?”

“Jester has insisted on giving Caleb a bath,” Nott said once she was finished with her beer. “I left him in her capable hands.”

“Capable at many things,” Fjord pointed out. “I hope she’s feeling kind this evening, or Caleb may be in trouble.”

“He’ll be fine.” Nott crawled partly onto the table to drag a plate of meat towards herself, tucking some of it into her pockets. “He does have magic, after all.”

“So does Jester,” Beau said from across the table. Nott flapped a hand at her dismissively.

“Caleb is better.”

“Okay, but if the two of them were in a fight,” Beau started, leaning forwards.

“Jester would win,” Yasha finished.

Nott glared at them both, crossing her arms. “You don’t have enough faith in him,” she said reproachfully. “He’s a very powerful wizard!”

“Yeah, but have you seen Jester’s biceps?” Beau asked.

Nott gave up on the battle in the interest of fitting as much ham as possible into her mouth, and the conversation moved onto arm wrestling shortly after that, shifting with the usual chaos of the Mighty Nein’s evenings off.

Meanwhile, upstairs:

Jester was gentler than Caleb had expected, double-checking the temperature of the water and adding another half-bucket before gesturing for Caleb to undress. She hovered around him, snatching his clothes as he removed them and folding them to lie on the bench by the door. Once he was naked, she ushered him towards the washtub.

Sure enough, the water was perfect as Caleb sank into it, not hot enough to scald but warm enough to turn his pale skin rosy as it met the surface.

“Look at your freckles!” Jester cooed, poking Caleb’s shoulders as she bustled around him, preparing the soaps. Caleb hunched forward, self-conscious despite himself. They had all been in the public baths together, and had helped each other with their armour many times. Nevertheless, he was aware of his scars and spots, and didn’t appreciate Jester’s wandering hands.

“Relax,” Jester ordered, as if sensing Caleb’s wandering thoughts. “I am a good girl, I can keep my hands on task.” This was apparently all the warning she deemed necessary before dumping a bucket of lukewarm water over Caleb’s head, plastering his hair over his face until he spat it out of his mouth and tried to push it back.

“Leave it!” Jester’s hands batted Caleb’s away, and she guided him to lean against the edge of the washtub, combing his hair back with sudsy hands. “You’ll just get it more dirty with your stinky fingers.” Caleb was about to protest her wording when she started to dig her fingers into his scalp, and he abruptly found himself melting into the touch. He had not had someone else wash his hair for a very long time, not since far into his childhood. He closed his eyes, although he wasn’t sure if he wanted to chase the memories or push them away. Parts of his childhood had been missing when he’d returned to himself, gaps in his memory that led to disorienting echoes like Jester’s fingers in his hair. Jester’s voice brought him back from the confusion, humming a quiet tune that Caleb did not recognize.

Caleb found himself drifting through the rest of the bath, with Jester’s hands shielding his eyes from the suds she rinsed out of his hair, guiding him from position to position so that she could rub sweet-smelling lotions into his hair, his cheeks, his back. She even washed the bottoms of his feet before smearing a handful of soap into his palm and gesturing for him to finish the rest of his body. Through every motion, her humming got louder, until she was singing little pieces of foreign songs to herself as she brought over the final bucket of water.

The washing water had become quite dirty, and Jester rinsed Caleb’s body with the last fresh water as he stood up from the tub. She wrapped a soft blanket around him and tugged him out of the bath with a giggle. Caleb followed where she led, feeling pleasantly distant and oddly content.

Jester sat him on a stool and started to comb out his hair, making tiny braids as she sang those little snatches of simple but unfamiliar songs.

Jester had been singing for long enough that her speaking voice almost startled Caleb when she put down the comb. “Do you want to take a nap?” She ran her hands through his hair. “Or I could give you a haircut.”

“Nap,” Caleb said quickly. It was the preferable of the two options: Jester had been gentle enough with the comb, but he didn’t want to test their luck with a sharp blade near his ears. “Nap is good.”

“Naps are the best,” Jester corrected, pulling Caleb off the stool and towards the door without sparing a glance at his clothes. “Come on, let’s go!”

“Clothes,” Caleb managed to protest.

“Who needs clothes?”

“Me!” Caleb managed to pull his wrist free of Jester’s grasp and scoop up his abandoned clothes with one arm. His outer layers and everything important were back in his room, but he didn’t want to leave things in the bath room to get taken.

“We’ll get fresh clothes in your room, but I want to nap in my bed,” Jester said, in a tone that invited no challenges. Caleb nodded and followed her down the hallway, watching Jester’s skirts swish as she skipped past each door, her tail bobbing behind her. She stopped outside of Caleb and Nott’s room, gesturing for Caleb to go in and get changed. Caleb wandered into the room, sat down on the bed, and decided that he didn’t want to get up. The warm water of the bath and the gentle washing had made him too sleepy, and there was no way he was budging.

“Caaaaleb,” Jester whined from the doorway. “I want to go to my room!” Caleb ignored her, leaning back on the mattress and wrapping his blanket tighter around him. It was soft and perfect and he wasn’t leaving, no matter how loudly Jester protested. “Caaaaleb!!” Although her voice was rather disturbing the tranquility of the room. “Nap in my room! Get your clothes!”

With a huff, Caleb rolled sideways off the bed and managed to collect a few items of clothing, stumbling towards Jester in the doorway and accepting the hand she had stretched out towards him. She pulled him down the hallway and into the room that the girls shared, shutting the door behind them before jumping at the double bed with an impressive leap and rolling across it in a blur of petticoats and skirts.

“Sleepover, Caleb!” Jester popped back up to sitting, and patted the bed beside her enthusiastically. Caleb wandered over and she pulled him down on the mattress with a little more force than necessary. It was very comfortable, Caleb acknowledged. Maybe even more comfortable than the bed in his room. He wiggled back and forth to get himself properly wrapped up in his blanket, and then let his head rest against the covers of the bed. Jester was arranging herself beside him, wrapping one arm over his swaddled side and pulling him back against her. She was inhumanly warm, impossibly cozy, and as she started to hum a quiet song, Caleb felt his eyes drifting closed.

“Oh, that was nothing, remember the time that she decided to drop a box of manure on that priest of the Allhammer?”

“Classic!”

“Y’all think Jester is a troublemaker now, you should see her when she’s feeling little,” Fjord offered to the discussion. “No one is safe.”

“Jester’s a somechild?” Molly asked, leaning forwards. “I’m surprised I didn’t realize sooner.”

“Oh yeah. She isn’t little often.” Fjord finished his drink and wiggled it in the air for a refill. “Sweetest thing but a handful for anyone. I met her when she was little, actually.”

“Are somechildren more common where you come from?” Nott asked.

“Yeah, the Menagerie Coast is a lot better about them,” Fjord said. “Nicodranas has a whole district dedicated to them, and it’s the loudest part of the city. Empire kids come there all the time for a break, I hear.”

“Most of the Empire’s not big on them,” Beau confirmed. “Never understood why, I think they’re sweet. And it doesn’t stop Jester from being the most badass tiefling I’ve ever met—no offence, Molly.”

“Jester can have the baddest ass as long as I have the sweetest,” Mollymauk laughed. “Also, I bet I could take Jester in a fight.” Beau made a doubtful sound. “What, don’t believe me? I’ll go and get her now, settle it here.”

“Fuck yeah!” Beau sprang to her feet. “I’ll come with you and get her.”

“Two gold on Molly,” Nott muttered to Fjord.

“I’ll take that bet. He’s gonna go easy on her.”

“You clearly don’t know him well enough,” Yasha interjected. “He doesn’t go easy on anyone over the age of fifteen.”

“Either way, I think we’ll be spending our bet money repairing the bar if we don’t convince them to take it outside,” Fjord pointed out, and made to follow the two who’d already left. The others brought their drinks, but trailed obediently up the stairs to watch the outcome.

“They only need to drink every few days, and retrieve much of their hydration from the plant matter they consume.” Jester giggled at Caleb’s fancy words, focused on the drawing that she was working on. “They can eat up to seventy-five stones worth of vegetation in a single day, but do not kill the trees they feed on.”

“They eat stones?” Jester asked, reaching for a different colour.

“Nein!” Caleb laughed. “Die bäume! Leaves!”

“Ohhhh.” Jester added a rock anyways in the grass. “Keep reading!”

“Um… The trees of the area are best known for their wide leaves, and their layered appearance.” Caleb’s voice was different when he was reading, his accent lighter with the care he used in pronouncing each word. Jester looked critically at the tree she had already drawn and was about to start on another one when the door opened.

“Here they are!” Molly’s voice came from behind her.

Jester turned with a smile, putting down the stick of pigment that she had been using to draw. “Hi Molly! Caleb is teaching me about South Marquet! Have you ever seen a giraffe?”

“Can’t say that I have, sweetheart.” Molly leaned himself against the doorframe, all sparkly and pretty. Jester wanted to draw a star on his cheek, but she would have to wait until he was asleep, probably. “Have you?”

“I saw one in a cage once! It looked like this!” Jester showed Molly her drawing.

“Hmm, that’s pretty neat.” Molly came closer to look at it. “You’re a very good artist, Jester.”

“I know I am!” Jester had to lean around Molly’s legs to look at Caleb. He was curled up on the bed with a pile of blankets around him, a big book open on his lap. He’d stopped reading when Molly came in and now he looked like he was trying to hide himself in the blankets. “Caleb, what are you doing?”

Jester received no answer, only a muffled squeak from the pile of blankets. She pushed herself to her feet, ready to go extract her friend from his hiding place, but Fjord walked in the door and she froze, tucking her hands behind her back and puffing out her chest.

Fjord’s gaze travelled over the room before landing on her, and he sighed. “Jester, you know you’re supposed to come and find me when you’re little.”

“I’m not!” Jester protested. “I’m big!”

“Uh-huh. Because I know for a fact that big Jester wouldn’t be very happy to get pigment all over her nice blue dress, and tends to use paper like a big girl, and not draw on the walls of an inn that she’ll have to pay for.” Jester glanced back at her drawing, which was indeed on the wall of the room.

“That was Caleb,” she tried. “I didn’t do it.”

“Oh.” Fjord nodded understandingly. “And did he get pigments on your dress as well?”

“Yep!” Jester bobbed her head. Thank goodness, he was going for it! Maybe Caleb would get in trouble and she would get to watch.

“Alright.” Fjord got really close to her, all unfairly tall and wide and green. “Let me see your hands.” Jester hesitated, but when Fjord put his hands out, palms-up, she obediently put her hands into his. He traced the lines of colour on her palms, showing where she had held the sticks of pigment. “That’s what I thought.” He dropped Jester’s hands and she hunched her shoulders, embarrassed at being caught in the lie. It wasn’t her fault! Fjord was just really smart. That was why he was going to the Academy when they got there!

“You ready to be honest with me?” Jester nodded her head wordlessly. “That’s good. Are you little, Jester?” Jester couldn’t help pouting at the question, but she nodded anyways. “Thank you. And why are you supposed to come and get me when you’re little?”

“Cause it’s dangerous,” Jester sighed. “And I could get hurt.”

“That’s right.” Fjord put a hand on the top of her head, right between her curved horns. “We’re visiting the Empire right now, and they aren’t as friendly as in Nicodranas, so it’s important to stick close.”

“Okay.” She didn’t know why they were visiting the stupid Empire anyways when people in Nicodranas were so much more fun. Stupid Empire. Stupid Fjord.

“Where’s Caleb gone, anyways?”

Jester lifted her head to see that Molly had left the room at some point, and Caleb had effectively hidden himself in the blankets, with only the still-open book poking out from the pile.

“He’s playing hide and seek!” She shook off Fjord’s hand and bounced towards the bed. “Caaaleb, I’m coming to find you!” Caleb stayed quiet, but Jester knew where he was. She pounced on the pile and sure enough it squirmed underneath her, trying to push her off.

“Lass den Quatsch!!” she heard Caleb protesting, and she rolled off with a giggle, helping him remove the blankets. Once Caleb was revealed, he was pouting, his hair a staticky mess from the struggle.

“Found you!” Jester pulled him in for a hug and he allowed it, wrapping his arms back around her. When she finally released him, he wriggled backwards into the blanket pile again, pulling one around his shoulders. Caleb sure liked blankets a lot!

Jester glanced over her shoulder at Fjord, who was watching them curiously without saying anything.

“Do you want to play with us? You can hide next if you want!”

Caleb made a sound like a deflating balloon and flopped forwards, his blanket covering his head.

“Stop that!” Jester pulled him back up to sitting. “You’re not supposed to hide anymore, I found you.” Caleb whined, tugging against Jester’s grasp on his blanket.

“Caleb?” Nott appeared in the doorway as if summoned by the noise, and was pushing Jester away before she could even blink.

“Hey!” Jester protested, trying to get back to Caleb.

“You were hurting him!” Nott accused, standing between them. She was eye-level with Jester like this, with Jester kneeling on the bed, and she looked super mad and scary.

“I wasn’t! He was hiding!”

“Mama?” Caleb’s voice was quiet, but Nott immediately turned to him. “She’s nice.”

“Okay. I believe you.” Nott gave Jester a second look, still not looking very friendly, and then swept Caleb up in a hug, her arms and legs wrapping around his shoulders and torso. Caleb buried his nose in her shoulder, and Jester subsided onto her butt, letting them have their moment.

“Do you want me to send them away?” Nott asked, her voice quiet. Jester was still close enough to hear the question.

Caleb shook his head, and Nott detached from him, lowering her feet to the mattress and keeping one hand on Caleb’s cheek. “Okay.”

“I understand why you were asking about the Menagerie Coast now,” Fjord said from behind them. “Didn’t realize you were a caregiver.”

“Mother,” Nott corrected him, stroking clawed fingers through Caleb’s newly clean and shiny hair. “I did tell you that he was my boy.”

“Right, right.” Fjord nodded. “I’m sorry for intruding, I didn’t know he and Jester were playing together.”

“He was telling me about giraffes!” Jester said, pointing to her art again.

“He’s a very clever boy, isn’t he?” Nott sounded proud. Jester thought she was probably a really good mom. She could tell those kinds of things about people.

“He can read all kinds of books and he doesn’t even sound really funny most of the time when he’s reading!” Jester said. Caleb made a ‘hmph’ sound. “I mean, he doesn’t sound funny at all ever!” she added. “He’s really smart.”

Caleb’s hands reached for the book, pulling it onto his lap and hugging it to his chest.

“Would you read to me again?” Jester asked, scooting forwards on the bed. “I was really enjoying it.”

“Do you want some paper for your illustrations this time?” Fjord asked, already holding it out in her direction.

“Yeah!” Jester stretched her arms out and waited for Fjord to bring it over. “I can make you more pictures!”

“Mm-hm.” Caleb opened the book and spent a few seconds flicking through the pages before settling on one, looking up and waiting for everyone to settle down. Fjord closed the door and took a seat on the floor by the bed once Jester’s paper had been delivered, joining the audience for Caleb’s story. Caleb glanced nervously at him, and then up at Nott standing beside him.

“You are very good at reading,” Nott told him. “But you don’t have to.”

Caleb cleared his throat, put one finger under the line he was reading, and started again. “The trees in the region are best known for their wide leaves and layered appearance.” Jester started on her drawing, all four of them settling in for an unplanned quiet evening.

#critical role agere #agere fanfiction #fandom agere #sfw age regression #sfw agere #agere art #critical role #my writing #cr #cr agere

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connorandersons-blog · 5 years ago

Text

He Didn’t Miss

Rating: Explicit Word count: 6452 Ship: Convin (Connor/Gavin Reed)

Summary: Connor and Gavin are forced to work together on a serial killer case. Someone is killing androids with bat and doesn't seem to leave a trace. Can the two figure out who the murder is and somehow get along?

-----------------------------------

"You gotta be fucking with me," Gavin growled, crossing his arms. Connor stays standing behind the chair, looking between the Captain and Reed.

"I am not. While Hank is away you two will work together. Connor is still not allowed to work alone and you're my next best detective." Fowler sighs, rubbing at his face.

Connor had guessed this was going to happen so he was already prepared for the news. Gavin turns and glares at Connor like this was his idea, which it wasn't.

"Fuck, how long will Anderson be gone?" Gavin sighs.

Connor cuts in before Fowler can answer. "He will be gone for two more weeks and three days."

While Hank was gone he left the house and Sumo for Connor to take care of. Connor was happy to do so, and since he already practically lived there it wasn't much change.

"Fuck. Fine, but don't expect us to get along." Gavin says. He doesn't wait for Fowler's dismissal before stomping out of the office.

"Is there anything else, sir?" Connor asks.

Fowler just shakes his head. "No. Well… Reed isn't so bad. Just try not to kill each other and you'll be fine. Now get out."

Connor nodded and walked out, closing the door softly behind him. He went back to his desk, pulling up the case he and Reed would be working on.

There had been four murders already and one that had just been found. They'd have to go to the crime scene soon, but Connor thought it best to let Reed cool down a bit.

It took the detective exactly 28 minutes and 32 seconds before Gavin walked over to Connor's desk. "Let's get a fucking move on."

Connor quickly stands, making sure his tie is tight before following Reed. He's half-expecting for them to get a cab or just use one of the cars the dpd has. Instead, Reed leads them to the parking lot and a red 1971 Ford Mustang Convertible.

"This is an old car, 68 years old to be exact," Connor says, looking it over. It's clear that Gavin takes good care of it; the car is completely clean and polished.

Reed glances at him, eyes widening before he scowls. "Yeah, what about it?"

"I'm simply appreciating it." He tries to smile warmly but it probably comes off a bit awkward.

Gavin furrows his brows before shaking his head and getting in. Connor follows suit, sliding into the passenger seat. The seatbelts are already buckled behind them so Connor just sits there while Gavin starts the car.

"Never gonna say goodbye

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you"

Gavin's eyes went wide and he quickly turned the music off. "Shit! Uh, I…it was, I wasn't actually-" Gavin trailed off. "Don't you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me?"

Connor quickly put his hands up. "I won't, though I don't see why you would be embarrassed about your song choice."

He had experimented with every genre of music available, and listened to all the songs Hank deemed as 'classics'.

"I'm not fucking embarrassed. Just-just shut the fuck up, ok?" Gavin said before pulling out of the parking lot.

Connor stays quiet as requested for the rest of the drive, mentally going over what they already knew. There was very little available while also having too much.

They get to the crime scene and Connor quickly leaves the car. The silence had been too heavy and too awkward for his liking.

The house looked like a cut out from Architects Today magazine. It was beautiful, but not in the olde-worlde quaint kind of way. Everything was geometric, which he guessed you could say about almost house with square windows, but on this house, he couldn't help but notice it.

The roof was flat for a start and the door was wide as it was tall. The windows took up entire walls with only polished steel beams to break them into yet more rectangles.

The look would have been entirely metallic like a mini downtown skyscraper had it not been for the cedar beams of the external porch and the matching raised plant beds that contained only white blooms.

It was definitely crafted after the revolution and for androids. Markus had set up lots of funding for housing from money Carl had gifted him along with selling his own paintings. He would do his best to help any androids who wanted to buy their own homes instead of staying at Jericho. He also knew Carl Manfred donated most of his art to the cause as well.

The door was already open and officers walked in and out. The floors were polished concrete and the furniture scandinavian in style. The only mess was the wet footprints the police tracked. That is until they reached the living room.

The living room is decorated the same but now it also had blue blood everywhere. The humans couldn't see it, but he could and it sent a shiver down his spine.

The android, an ST200, lies on the ground the body completely mutilated. She's stripped completely bare but that doesn't mean much at this point with how her body is.

She's almost unrecognizable with how badly damaged she is. "Shit." Gavin grumbles and Connor nods numbly.

He walks over, careful not to disturb any evidence before crouching down. He scans over the body making notes in his head of any important details.

Her eyes are still open, staring lifelessly up at the ceiling. Connor reaches out and closes them, not being able to handle them open. He hated remembering Daniel's eyes just staring at him as he kneeled on that roof.

There is no way this Chloe could be repaired. Her memories would be far too damaged to do so. Not to mention the amount of trauma she must have gone through.

Once he finds everything he can he slowly stands and looks around the room. There is a small shrine set up for rA9 near a window and Connor glances at it. He hadn't thought much about rA9 but it had become common to say 'oh rA9' like humans would with God.

There isn't an obvious murder weapon lying around so it's more likely that the killer had brought it with them.

"I believe the killer brought a bat with them, so this could definitely be from the same killer as the other four," Connor said once he had looked through the rooms.

"Nah dip," Reed said, looking down at the body then grimacing. "So we got a serial killer who beats androids with a bat. Wonderful."

"I don't agree, this isn't wonderful in any way." It was horrifying and gruesome. It made his stomach churn and he couldn't even get sick.

Gavin snorts but quickly cuts it off. He looked around them before glaring at Connor. "I was being sarcastic."

Connor slowly nodded, hiding his own grin. He knew Reed was being sarcastic, and his response got the reaction he was hoping for. Reed may not like him now, but he made it his mission to become at least on friendly terms by the time Hank gets back.

He wasn't as clueless as many thought. Sure there were things he didn't instantly understand, but he had the entire internet in his head. Even then there were some things that he still didn't understand, but that was fine. Not knowing the answer to everything was a part of being alive.

"Oh, I will try to remember that. Sorry for the misunderstanding, Detective." Connor nods. "I believe I may be able to get more information from the other bodies."

There had to be some DNA evidence somewhere. The person may not be in the system, but the evidence would be used once they got a suspect.

Gavin looks down at the body again before wincing. "Hopefully they aren't as bad as this one. I'm gonna take a look around the rest of the house."

Connor follows along even after Gavin started bitching about 'stupid androids' and 'acting like a lost puppy'. Connor took it in stride, making small comments when Reed would say something particularly stupid.

"You're the most annoying android I've ever met. Aren't you supposed to just obey and not talk back?" Gavin snaps at him.

"Sarcasm is just one more service I offer. If you'd like to make a complaint I'm sure Cyberlife won't give a single fuck either." He grins. Then he's shoved back against the wall, and Gavin is glaring up at him.

He almost feels satisfaction from getting Reed this worked up, but most of his attention is directed on how close they are.

Gavin holds him against the wall even though Connor could easily get away if he wanted. They both knew who would win in a fight. "Shut the fuck up. I am your superior and you will not talk back to me while at work."

Oh, he made it too easy. "So that means I get to talk back when we aren't working?"

Gavin quickly pushed away, wiping down his clothes like he thought Connor had cooties. "Fuck off!"

"What a way with words, I'm so impressed." Connor deadpans. Messing with Reed was just too easy. "We have searched the whole house, I believe we should head back."

Gavin clenched his fist before slowly relaxing it. "Fine. Let's go, Tincan." He hit his shoulder as he stomped away.

Connor couldn't help but roll his eyes as he followed after. At least he had a good view from back here.

He wouldn't deny Gavin being… aesthetically pleasing. He often hid behind baggy shirts or jackets, but Connor could tell he kept very good care of himself.

He just didn't have the best of personalities. He was impulsive and crude. He made comments on basically everything he didn't agree with or disliked. Though, he seemed to lie a lot when it came to androids.

Connor had yet to figure out why he lied or why he was so angry. There was a suspicious lack of background in his file, so perhaps something happened in the past. How he could completely cover something up was beyond him. He didn't have any hacking skills from what he saw.

He had to find out what Gavin was hiding. Hank hadn't told him anything even with all his pushing. He couldn't ask Chris or Tina, he wasn't close enough to them to even bring it up.

So that left asking Gavin. He'd either have to get him angry and frustrated enough or he could try to get closer. He'd prefer to later, but there was a very low success rate of that.

He still wanted to try, though. He wanted to get to know Gavin. He wanted to become friends and have him to turn to if he needed help. Maybe they could be more, though that was laughable.

If Gavin couldn't get over his prejudice then it would never work. He couldn't be close to someone who hated his people. He could try to change his mind slowly, but until then he couldn't let himself dream.

The ride back was just as uncomfortable and awkwardly silent as the ride to the scene had been. Gavin never looked over at him as he drove, he didn't even turn on any music.

Connor didn't try to make conversation. Small talk would just make things more uncomfortable. Connor pulls his coin out and rolls it across his fingers.

Gavin jerks the car slightly and the coin drops to the ground. Connor glances over as he bends to grab his coin and sees a small smirk on Gavin's face.

Connor goes back to doing his coin trick and having to pick it up whenever Gavin is a bit rougher with his driving.

That lasted the entire way back and Connor had dropped his coin exactly seventeen times. Neither says anything as they get out of the car and go into the station.

Connor goes to the evidence room while Gavin goes back to his desk.

The android parts are no longer just hanging, but they now are treated similarly to humans.

Connor goes over the bodies, taking samples when necessary. He's gotten good at compartmentalizing so he does his work without letting his emotions get in the way.

That didn't mean it was hard to see. Anyone would have problems seeing their own people brutally murdered.

From the looks of it, the androids had been alive when most of the damage was dealt. Their death didn't stop the killer from continuing to beat the bodies until they were unrecognizable.

Whoever did this really hated them, and from what he could tell the only connection was that they were androids.

He was on the last body and had very little hope left. He hadn't found one spec of DNA so this was looking more towards an android committing the crimes. Definitely wasn't the first time an android murdered, but it was odd to see this much rage directed at their own kind.

He was about ready to give up until he saw something. A small spec of dried red blood.

He pressed his finger against it, and then brought it to his lips. He found DNA. He could jump for joy, but he keeps his cool. There was no match in the system, but they needed this.

He could find a lot out just from the blood, so that would narrow down their suspect pool.

He stands there for a few seconds, analyzing the blood. Once that was done he quickly jogged out and to Gavin's desk.

Gavin was sipping on coffee and talking to Officer Chen. He slowed his pace as he got closer. He didn't want to interrupt as that had a high chance of simply pissing Gavin off.

Chen looked up and gave him a slight wave. "Connor, how has worked with grumpy pants been?"

Connor walked up, leaning slightly against Gavin's desk. "Not the worst. I just found a break in the case. How have you been?"

"Not bad on my end. This fucker won't stop whining about how sn-” she's cut off by a hand over her mouth. Gavin glares at her, and then quickly pulls his hand away.

"Ugh, that's disgusting Tina. You're such a bitch." He sighed, wiping his hand onto Tina's arm.

She squeals and jumps away, flipping him off. "But I'm your bitch. Talk to you boys later; don't get into any extra trouble." She laughs as she runs off, waving at Connor.

Gavin sighs and shakes his head fondly. Then he turns his attention back to Connor and his expression quickly changes to one of irritation. "You found something?"

"I did. I found a small drop of red blood on the body that most likely came from the killer." He starts. Gavin nods along, propping his feet up on his desk. "The blood belonged to a white man, 24 years old, with AB+ blood type."

Gavin raised an eyebrow. "Anything else? Maybe you can get this man's name too."

"The most common boy names born in 2014 in the US are Noah, Liam, Mason, Jacob, William, Ethan, Michael, Alexander, James, and Daniel. There is a chance that he would be named one of those."

Gavin stared at him for a few seconds before slowly bring a hand up then slapping his own forehead. "Right. I shouldn't have said anything. Is there anything else you got?"

"There is. The man appears to have had gastrointestinal cancer in the past." There couldn't be that many with all of those requirements.

"Damn, that sucks. Doesn't give him the right to murder though." Gavin says, rubbing his face.

Connor has to go over that again a few times to make sure he heard right. He'd never heard Gavin say an android's death was murder. He rarely even said they were killed. Now he had agreed they were murdered.

He was quickly snapped out of his thoughts when a hand was waved in front of his face. "You still in there?" Gavin asks.

Connor nods and quickly pushed Gavin's hand away. "I'm fine. I'm just simply shocked. You said they were murdered."

Gavin freezes before shrugging nonchalantly. "And? That's what happened, isn't it? Beaten to death equals murder."

"Right, of course. Do you have any leads?" He changes the subject. He didn't want to push Gavin too far with that line of questioning.

Gavin nods and moves his feet off his desk, tapping on the computer until three files are pulled up. "This fucker is Jonathan Beek. He was arrested for assault using a bat. This one is Abby Willmore; she's works at the same hospital as the other androids. And this ugly fucker is Leon McKenny, he was just released from prison. He was busted for trying to drug androids. Though he may have something to do with it since he was cellmates with Beek."

"Wait, the androids all worked at the same hospital?" He quickly moves to stand behind Gavin, leaning in to see the screen.

Before Gavin can say anything he's interfacing with the computer and downloads all the information. He pulls his hand back, setting it down on the desk so he can lean on it.

His fingers brush against Gavin and Gavin quickly pulls his hand away. Connor hadn't meant to do that, but it still sent a jolt down his systems.

All of the androids had worked at Karmanos Cancer Institute and they all worked in the same area. This was definitely a lead.

"Fucking hell, you didn't have to do that weird android thingy. I was gonna answer you." Gavin mumbles, standing up.

"It's called interfacing, and it's faster that way." Connor points out.

"I know what fucking interfacing is. God damn, how does Hank stand you? You must be really good in bed if he willingly keeps you around." Gavin snorts.

Rage builds up and Connor grabs one of Gavin's arms while slamming his down into the desk. Gavin yelps but doesn't struggle in Connor's hold.

He leans down slightly, tightening his hold. "I don't care what you say about me, but I will not stand for you disrespecting Hank."

His relationship with the Lieutenant was purely platonic and he never even thought of him once in that manner.

Gavin's face turns bright red, but from what Connor isn't sure. He shifts slightly, before letting Gavin go. Even then he stays still for a few seconds longer, staring wide-eyed at Connor.

"He has some people we need to talk to. But I need to check on Sumo first. I can meet you at the hospital or you can join me." He smiles politely and Gavin finally stands back up on shaky legs.

"I'll come with," Gavin mumbles, staring at the ground. The officers around them quickly turn away when they see Connor looking their way.

Connor nods and turns on his heel, walking back out of the station. There were a few more hours until the change in the shift so they didn't have too much more time off they decided to end their day with everyone else.

Neither had taken a lunch break, so Connor really needed to at least let Sumo out to potty before they could continue.

Gavin followed after Connor, keeping his eyes trained onto the ground and hands shoved into his pockets.

Gavin drives and doesn't even try to make Connor drop his coin this time. His eyes almost seem glazed over as he stares at the road.

Connor doesn't question it, just like he doesn't question it when Gavin silently follows him into Hank's house.

He drops to the ground to pet Sumo before letting him out back. He closes the door and slowly turns when he hears Gavin walking towards him.

He's ready for whatever Gavin is going to say. What he isn't ready for is for Gavin to push himself against Connor, rolling his hips forward.

"You think you can just do that and get away with it?" Gavin sneers, pushing Connor back against the wall. "You're a fucking prick. Do you know how much I hate you?"

Connor stands there shocked for a few seconds. Out of everything Gavin could do—punching, yelling, shooting—grinding against him didn't seem like an obvious choice.

"You are too perfect. You got this stupid puppy dog eyes, and you can never do wrong. Fuck that, and fuck you." Gavin growls out.

Connor wasn't exactly opposed but he had hoped this would happen some other way. Maybe after Gavin finally got his head out of his ass.

"Will doing this make you more agreeable?" Connor questions. He doesn't want to do this just because Gavin is angry. If he was simply pissed then he could go off and find someone else to sleep it.

"Fuck off. Maybe. I don't know. Just don't slam me into any more desks." Oh, so that's why.

It made sense, but Connor hadn't thought about that possibility when he had done it. Was it the slamming into a desk or that he did so publicly that got him excited. Perhaps it was both.

Instead of answering out loud, he grabs Gavin and easily flips them around so Gavin is the one against the door.

Then Connor pushes their lips together, grabbing him by the hips and one hand around Gavin's throat. He doesn't actually squeeze, but he does put enough pressure for Gavin to feel it a bit.

Gavin gasps and Connor takes the opportunity. This was far from his first kiss, so he had no problem taking the lead.

He had experimented after his deviancy and he had found what he liked. There was always more to explore, but that could wait. For now, he focused on kissing Gavin until his knees were weak.

That goal was soon accomplished, and the main thing holding Gavin up was Connor's body pressed against him.

So Connor broke the kiss to reach down and pull Gavin up. Gavin yelps and wraps his legs around Connor.

He easily moves them to his own bedroom and dumps Gavin onto the bed, not even trying to be gentle. If Gavin liked it rough then that's what he was going to get.

Connor pulled down Gavin's pants and underwear in one motion. He didn't even let Gavin take a breath before he took him in hand.

Gavin moaned and gripped the blanket under him. "Fuck, Connor."

Connor smirks at Gavin before leaning down and takes his cock in his mouth. Gavin bucks up into him, but Connor shoves his hips back down.

Once he has Gavin full-on withering he sucks him to the base. Then he uses his throat and Gavin reaches down and grabs his hair, yanking on it hard.

Connor hums and continues for a few seconds longer before pulling off with a pop.

"When the fuck did you learn to do that?" Gavin pants, letting go of Connor's hair.

Connor pulls his clothes off and throws them towards his hamper. Gavin sits up quickly and pulls his own shirt off before reaching out to touch Connor.

He lets him explore his body before pulling Gavin into his lap. "Behind a bar." He mutters before nipping down Gavin's neck.

Gavin drags his nails down Connor's back. He would have broken skin if Connor was a human. Sadly he wouldn't be able to leave a mark on Connor. Though, Connor could leave many marks on Gavin.

He did try to keep them under where his shirt would be.

"Fucking ass! Too fucking perfect." Gavin says, once again yanking on Connor's hair. He pulls Connor away from his neck to crash their lips together.

It's far from gentle, and Connor bites Gavin's bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. In return, Gavin reaches down and grabs Connor's cock, roughly pumping his hand.

"Didn't know you had one of these." Gavin manages to get out between kisses.

"I thought you were being a dick to overcompensate, glad to see we were both wrong," Connor smirks before pushing Gavin to lie on his back.

"Fuck you!" Gavin sneers but spreads his legs. Connor reaches over and opens the small drawer beside his bed.

He didn't need lube for himself, but he kept it just in case he slept with a human. "I was planning on fucking you. You seem like the kind of slut to like that. You like to be used."

Connor could relate, though. If he was bottoming then he loved that. He loved feeling used and worthy. He wouldn't judge Gavin for what he liked.

"Yes! Fuck me. Please fuck me," Gavin begged, spreading his legs even wider. Connor opened the lube and spread some over his fingers.

Without any warning, he pushed a finger all the way in. Gavin let out a shout but didn't ask for Connor to stop.

He prepped him as fast as he could, adding fingers in without warning. Gavin didn't seem to mind, actually seemed to enjoy it quite a lot considering all the cursing and moaning that came out of him.

"Fuck me already you piece of shit!" Gavin snapped and Connor pulled his fingers out.

He was half tempted to slap Gavin's ass but he holds back. "So needy. You're such a slut for me." Connor murmurs as he lines himself up.

Gavin half-heartedly glares up at him but his expression quickly changes to one of pain and pleasure as Connor pushes in.

He only waits a few seconds before he starts to move. He'd instantly stop if Gavin asked him to, but that didn't seem to be happening any time soon.

Connor grabbed Gavin's legs, pulling them so they were hooked over his shoulder. Gavin was babbling nonsense as he sped up, hitting his prostate with each thrust.

Connor was so close to the edge, but he wanted Gavin to come first. That doesn't seem like that'll take much longer.

Gavin comes with a shout, and Connor doesn't slow. He spends up just slightly and soon he's coming inside of Gavin. His hips keep rocking until he's completely spent.

Gavin is completely limp on the bed, staring up at Connor through glazed eyes.

Connor pulls out slowly and drops onto the bed beside him. His energies are far lower than he'd like. He hadn't thought he'd go through this much exercise and emotional strain so he hadn't actually gone into stasis for a few days.

"I need to sleep for a few minutes to regain my energy. You can stay here if you'd like." Connor mumbles. A large part of him wants Gavin to stay. He wants to curl up and pull him to his chest.

He doesn't get his answer before he falls asleep, but he doesn't feel Gavin leave the bed either.

He's abruptly woken up by a wet, large tongue being dragged across his face. His internal clock tells him he had only slept for thirty minutes.

He gently pushes Sumo away, wiping his face off before opening his eyes.

The bed beside him is cold and Gavin's clothes are no longer on his floor. He must have let Sumo in at some point while Connor was asleep.

Connor climbs out of bed, grabbing his clothes and putting them in the hamper before pulling on clean ones.

He walks out of the room, Sumo following along beside him. The house is completely silent and empty.

Connor's heart sinks and he stares at the door. He should have expected Gavin to leave. He should have known this was just a way for him to get his frustration out. Yet he couldn't stop the tears that threaten to spill over.

It wasn't like he hadn't had one night stands before, but this was different. He actually knew Gavin, at least somewhat. He thought there was the chance that Gavin really knew him, and wanted to be with him.

But of course, he was wrong. Of course, Gavin didn't want him. Who would? He was only good for a quick fuck. Why had he thought this time was different?

He slowly slides to the ground, tears running down his cheeks. How could he be so stupid? Why had he let himself think Gavin would have stayed?

He buries his face in Sumo's fur, letting out choked sobs. It was like someone took a hammer to his chest and beat him with it until his thirium pump was in tiny shards all over the ground. If he moved he'd step on a shard and just cause him more pain.

He stays on the floor until he can finally pull in a breath. He stumbles back into his room and curls up on the bed. Sumo jumps up and lies at his feet, laying his head on Connor's legs.

He closes his eyes and slowly drifts off into sleep.

He drags himself out of bed in the morning. He goes through the motions with limbs that feel as heavy as lead, but he has to work. They still have a case to solve, no matter how much it's going to hurt to be around Gavin.

He'd be completely professional. No snark, no sass. He could do this. He just had to solve this case and hopefully, Hank would be back early.

Then he could eat all the thirium ice cream he wants, while curled up on the couch rewatching Finding Nemo for the hundredth time. Hank would sit with him and Connor wouldn't even scold him for the beer he would drink or the pizza he would order.

He made sure Sumo was well taken care of before calling a cab. Part of him wants the cab to get in some accident so he doesn't have to face Gavin.

Sadly the ride goes quickly and smoothly. He gets to the precinct in record time which makes him just want to smash his head into the cab.

Instead, he climbs out and makes his way in. He doesn't even look at Gavin's desk, heading straight to his own. He had nothing to apologize for. Gavin hadn't given him any indication to stop, and he definitely would have if Gavin had.

Gavin didn't really have anything to apologize for either. It wasn't like he was required to stay afterward. He didn't have to at least wait until Connor woke up to leave.

Yet Connor wanted to wake up with Gavin lying beside him. He had done exactly what he didn't want to do until Gavin stopped hating his kind.

He hadn't even thought of that when they kissed. He hadn't even thought to really think if he was honest. So if there was anyone to blame it was himself.

He sat down at his desk and clocked in. He'd have to question people at the hospital but for now, he simply logs all the information they had already gathered.

He goes over the victims and finds some interesting information. The first one to die was an android made specifically to help patients with cancer. The android–Goa–had continued to work as a doctor even after the revolution.

Another one–Sierra– had been a consulting doctor that often helped Goa after the revolution.

The other two had been nurses while the ST200 had been a receptionist. Perhaps a human had been angry about being cared for by androids.

It seemed a bit excessive to beat the androids as much as he did if it was just because of that. There had to be something else he was missing.

"Let's go to the hospital," Gavin says, causing Connor to practically jump out of his skin. He hadn't heard him walk up, but he had been incredibly focused.

He can't even look up to meet Gavin's eyes before he stands and pushes his chair in.

If he thought the car rides had been awkward before, they had nothing on this. Connor wasn't going to be the one to break the silence. If Gavin wanted to talk about what had happened, then he would. Until then, Connor would keep his mouth shut and to himself.

The hospital is pristine and has that odd smell only hospitals could have. The floors and walls were white and the lights bounced off them a bit too much.

The two flash their badges and ask the receptionist a few questions. Apparently, the ST200 had kept the name Chloe and everyone loved her. Even the humans that had been unsure of androids had quickly warmed up to her.

They then move on to question the other nurses, but they get the same results. No one had any idea as to who could have wanted them dead.

There was the possibility that it was another nurse, but none fit the requirements.

They pull a human doctor aside when the man has a break.

"So, do you know of anyone who fits this description?" Gavin asks curtly. His arms are crossed and he stands as far away from Connor as possible without seeming odd.

The doctor thinks for a second before his eyes light up. "There is one man, he just left. His name is Noah Alexander Smith. His son had same cancer as him and was treated here. He sadly didn't make it, but he went into remission shortly after his son's death."

"You said he just left?" Connor asks, quickly glancing at Gavin. The doctor nods and gives them a brief description before the two run towards the parking deck.

The man fit the description perfectly and he had a reason to kill. He probably blamed everyone at that hospital for his son's death.

"Noah Smith puts your hands up," Connor calls out once they finally find him. The man turns to glance back at them before taking off running.

Gavin and Connor both let out a sigh before they start chasing after him. They chase him until they get to the top of the parking deck.

Before either can truly react the man turns and fires a gun at them. Both Connor and Gavin reach for theirs, but it's Gavin who makes the shot.

The man drops to the ground and Gavin quickly runs over to check his pulse. There isn't one but Gavin wasn't surprised, he had gotten him in the head. He pulls his phone out and quickly calls for help, but Connor can barely think over the pain.

Gavin does a quick check over himself, glad to find no bullet holes.

Connor stumbles closer, pressing a hand against his stomach. It hurts so much but he can't seem to say anything.

"Can't believe that. We were right there and he still missed." Gavin sighs, shaking his head, but still not looking towards Connor.

Connor sways on his feet, his vision glitching and warnings flashing in front of his eyes. "He didn't miss, Gavin," Connor mumbles before his legs give out.

"Shit!" Gavin yells, quickly moving to catch him before he hits the ground. Gavin slowly lowers them until they are sitting, and Connor keeps his hand over his wound. "Fuck, hey it'll be ok, right?"

Connor blinks a few times to try to clear his vision. The warnings and alerts won't stop and the timer to shutdown starts. "I need, I need to go into stasis. It'll give me more time." He breathes out.

"No, no you need to stay awake. Connor, come on. I can't lose you." Gavin pleads, pressing his hand against Connor's. He winces at the pain, body jerking slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Have to keep pressure, ok?"

Connor nods and leans heavily against Gavin. "Yeah. Did you call for help?"

"Of course I did, you fucking idiot. They'll come and you'll be fine. Just gotta fix you up." Gavin says, pulling him closer.

Connor's eyes fill with tears as he checks his time. "I really need to go into stasis. Stay with me?" He pleads his arms and legs slowly going limp.

"Of course, I won't leave you, Connor," Gavin says, before frantically calling for help.

Connor snorts and nuzzles closer. "But you left yesterday. I fell asleep and you left me."

Connor can hear how fast Gavin's heart is beating as he brings a shaky hand up to touch Gavin's face. "I didn't think I was wanted. But I'll never leave. I want to stay by your side."

"Why do you-" his mind is flooded with more alerts and he quickly brushed them away. "Why do you hate androids?"

"I-I don't hate androids. I hate the man who created them, you. I was just angry and scared. I promise I don't hate you." Gavin says.

"Oh, well you can tell me more about tha-" he's cut off by his systems forcing him into stasis. The last thing he hears is Gavin yelling his name.

He slowly wakes up in a bed that's definitely in a hospital. His internal clock tells him he's been out for five hours and forty-two minutes.

The main in his stomach is almost completely gone, but it does feel a bit different.

Once all of his systems are up he slowly opens his eyes. The lights are bright so he turns his head. Gavin and Hank both sit in chairs beside his bed. Hank is asleep while Gavin is fiddling with a coin.

"I can teach you if you'd like," Connor mutters. Gavin jerks and the coin drops to the floor, but neither of them cares.

Gavin jumps up and slams their lips together. It's a bit uncomfortable and there's way too much teeth, but Connor loves it anyway.

Gavin slowly pulls away and presses their foreheads together. "I thought I lost you."

"You can't get rid of me that easily." They both keep their voices down for Hank. Connor stares at Gavin, not being able to get enough. "Though, I still want to know about why you hate androids, or well, why you hate Elijah Kamski."

Gavin sighs and sits on the bed, interlacing their fingers. "It's a long story, but basically, Elijah is my brother. We had a big fight and yeah. I promise I'll really explain it later, but for now, I think Hank should be woken up."

"How about this. You tell me about you and Kamski later but you kiss me a few more times before waking Hank." Connor says, grinning up at him.

Gavin pretends to think for a second before nodding. "I think I can agree with that." Then Gavin leans back down, cupping his face gently.

It's much softer than before and Connor feels like he's floating on a cloud.

"Oh, Jesus Christ Connor!" Hank shouts and both Gavin and Connor burst into laughter.

61 notes · View notes

ziracona · 4 years ago

Note

so can u tell us a little about ur characterization of Lisa?? What's she like inside and outside of trials? Does she have a lot of lucidity, what were her relationships with others like, would she ever get better, do you think? ( im SAD.) Just. What's she like!! Also, same for Sally? Oh! And I'm rly enjoying two songs by Meg Myers which maybe you'll like? Running up that hill (Cover) and Desire. Maybe check em out? :3 - Sleepy

Sure!

My Lisa is from a bit before the archives for her placed her (early 1970s), because I wrote ILM back when there was no date given for many killers or survivors, so I just hoped they were historically accurate with the things they did mention & went through a fairly exhaustive list of drained swamps in the Southern US & paddleboat makes & placed her according to that data (it’s been a bit so I don’t remember the exact date without looking up my notes) in the 1920s-1930s, I believe? And in her early 20s, since she’s described as a girl & young woman, which DbD usually does only for characters in their early 20s. (Which I’d still assume is her age, bc even though her archives, if you go by them, have her in her teens, they’re not connected to the events of her disappearance/definitely happened before them.)

In trials, Lisa has like 0 lucidity. I talk about this some in chapter notes, so I’ll try to give a quick overview instead but sry if I restart myself. She’s so starved that any time she sees a living being, she is just completely overcome with hunger and can’t do anything but operate on it. Very scary. Feral. Like being attacked by a starving animal. She’s super out of it, and is completely wild and violent and has no control, only the need to eat. Outside of trials, if no one is around, she’s lucid again, but will remember trials and what she did to people, and spends that time in horror and despair. She’s tried to kill herself before, because the last thing she ever wanted was to become the thing she swore vengeance on (the Entity’s a real cruel motherfucker. Did the same to Rin, to Philip, to everyone it could. Likes to really twist decent people into what they would most despair to be), but in the realm, she’s stuck as it. She’s not really aware for trials, but remembers them with decent clarity, and is in constant agony over what she’s done. Unfortunately, suicide does not take in the realm, and every one of her attempts failed, just like her attempts to maim or tie herself up so she wouldn’t be able to hurt people did. She’s horribly alone and despairing, and also in physical agony. She’s at the worst end of what a human can be at as far as emaciation and starvation while still being alive goes, and that’s physically awful. It fucks up your brain chemistry too, and everything is just really fucking miserable all the time. It hurts to move, it hurts to breathe, your breath smells tastes like rotten fruit but in a way that’s so much worth than that can sound. She’s so hungry, her addons are things like dragonfly wings consumed to give her extra stamina. That’s the kind of bare sliver of relief she ever gets. God, poor Lisa’s life is hell. She’s completely heartbroken and isolated and almost dead. As far as relationships go, she didn’t have any for a long time. No one can really interact with her, because she goes feral at the sight of food. She’s kinda utterly alone. But briefly, when Alex, Philip, Vigo, Benedict, and Sally were a group, she kind of got stumbled into, and after a kind of nasty first encounter, was able to regain lucidity around other people, and had a truly sweet and memorable and invaluable bit of time with love and friends and other people. She was kind of in love with Sally, who did her hair for her and was really kind to her, and Sally liked her too. They were close. Lisa was close with all of them. But when things ended the way they did, the Entity took that away. Lisa remembers it, but she could never get them or it back, and was cast aside and left behind until the end of ILM, when she finally got peace and found happiness in finally getting to be at rest in the arms of a friend. Overal, she’s a fairly young and wide-eyed, bright, cautious, fun and sweet girl by nature, now massively traumatized and hopeless and broken, but still with a truly incredible amount of that kind nature retained. She would have really loved reading fantasy novels aloud and exploring the worlds of lore and history, travelling, seeing other cultures and geographic features and animals. Enjoys fashion too, and has a heart for designing and making cool, personal and cultural and symbolic tied designs, and would have been both great at that and loved it if she’d lived long enough. (Shoutout to @artianaiolanthe who inspired the fashion take & it is so suited to her I love it). A little shy, but an extrovert at heart under it, just a nervous one. Loved people. Liked climbing trees and fording brooks and baking bread and throwing rocks and baseballs to knock a target out of a tree and win a prize at little town fairs. Didn’t get the length or quality of life she was owed, and it’s just not fair or okay at all. Liked to watch the stars.

As far as getting better goes, mentally, totally. If they could get her out of the realm or break the Entity’s connection, she’d immediately stop killing. She has never done it of her own free will. She’s a sweet small town kid who was just trying to live her life. As far as physically goes though, Lisa is in one of the worst possible spots. Unlike say Amanda, who was on death’s door but healed by the Entity, or the Legion, who weren’t injured at all, Lisa was on death’s door and like Adiris, did not get healed. Just preserved in that near-death state and forced to work in it. Honestly, it’s possible she could survive long enough to get to a hospital and be saved, but at best, she’d probably live another year. When you starve, your body begins to catabolize/eat your own tissue to save itself, starting with fat, and ending with muscles and organs, which, when it reaches the heart, kills you. Lisa was so close to dead, the organ damage was probably awful, and would leave her with complications that would take her very young. The most likely thing, since she was saved literally seconds before death, would be for her to step outside the realm and immediately die. However, it’s possible she got lucky on body damage and could be saved—kinda up to interpretation—and if say, she was around for Quentin’s Vigil going healing batshit, and got some organs repaired that way, she’d have a real shot. (I also am sad. Lisa was actually the only determinate character in ILM to me/that I wasn’t sure the ending for, and while I am very happy with what ended up being her closure, I also would like to see her live for even more love and peace TuT. Lol, if I ever end up doing my goddamn four fate route fics like I’ve joked now a truly dangerous number of times about doing [>.> me @ me] then maybe she will get a variety of lives in the end). I’m glad you wanted to know! I really like and pity her. This poor kid really did nothing wrong, much like Rin, and just got eternally tortured for asking for help and justice against the monsters who took her life so violently. Fuck Brittany. (Read: the Entity.)

Ahhhh Sally. My sweet, sweet girl. Uhhh, not sure which of the Lisa questions you meant for her too, so I’ll try to speed-answer them all? Sally’s intelligent and understanding and thoughtful, patient, polite, almost elegant despite how impoverished she spent most of her life—she just tries to act like a lady and treat people with as much respect and esteem as she can (unless they suck lol). She’s also very mentally damaged and not there though, and has extremely unstable mood swings, especially into despair. Her relationships with the other killers were limited. She talked to & was on polite terms with any who would talk to her and not be condescending or a dick so openly she’d pick up on it (so like, on cordial terms with Evan, Herman, Caleb if she’d been there that long, but not like, Kenneth or Freddy or someone who wouldn’t bother to put up an act). But mostly, after figuring out she wasn’t really of any use to them, they quit communicating with her. Sally has been extremely isolated since shortly after being taken. She believes that the survivors are innocent and suffering and knows that they don’t deserve the hunt, but has no way to stop the whole system, and has been convinced by the Entity that if she does a good job and earns moris, the ones she strangles to death get to stay dead instead of coming back after death to suffer endlessly again, so she works very dedicatedly and slowly trying to earn kills to save them. It took her physical eyes when it got her and lets her see through it’s powers, and uses that to randomize what survivors look like in her memory so she doesn’t catch wise it’s the same people over and over and she’s not saving them at all. It’s extremely tragic. God it’s one of the most cruel Entity tricks, which is saying a lot. Poor gentle woman is Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill day after day year after year and she doesn’t even know how hopeless and meaningless it all is. : (

When the Vigo-Philip-Alex-Benedict team was going, though, she met and attacked, then was convinced to instead befriend them, and quickly became very attached and well liked by them. Met Lisa while with the group, and became extremely fond of her and loving towards her and was truly, truly happy for a brief period of time. Still remembers her, even as lost as all her memories are. Not her name, but what she looked like to Sally, and how her hair felt, and how nice it was. Sally would have considered everyone in that group a dear friend, and in ILM, Philip most definitely becomes her deepest, closest, and best friend, just like she does to him. She’s a very faithful woman to her soul. Loved her family, loved her husband and mourned him, worked as hard as she could. Cared for her patients, and did her best in that hell until the Entity slowly whittled away at her sanity until it broke her mind and left her convinced the only way to end their pain would be to give them death, and she had to do it to save them. Sally loves little pretty things and neatness and collections. Flowers, bows and ribbons, china and colored glass. She would have treasured gifts like decorative holiday cards and carved animal figures and left them on her mantle or carefully tucked in lovingly organized and decorated books she could open to revisit the memory. Likes dresses and skirts and the way the wind feels. Hopeful and very enduring. Loving. Had a mom heart, and will never really get entirely over the loss of her children, but is strong and kind and will find new love that makes life still worth living in other people. Will remember both kindness and cruelty a long, long time. Loved Quentin from the second he gave her flowers (Dwight: Quentin, why did the entity let you have three moms? Quentin: Because I fucking earned it >:[“ [author’s note: he did. God that poor kid...]). Loved Kate from the day she sat with her in a hospital and held her hand. Is like that. Remembers small kindness and treasures them.

Sally could definitely recover. Not all the way probably, physically or mentally, but by far enough to be complete and happy and realized and who she wants. She never meant to hurt people, so she really just needs some stability, and I think she finds that with her new family. I mean, it is a lot to adjust to. It’s been like nearly 100 years. The Entiry broke her mind, and she’s got some damage that just probably can’t ever be fixed, but a lot can be, with drugs and treatments and therapy and kindness and a good support system, and honestly, the biggest things she needs are people to keep her memories together and herself present, and influences to protect her from being manipulated and controlled now that she’s so suggestible and easy to hurt, and she’s got that. I am 100% certain that while some things—the scatteredness, the ease of slipping into other moods especially deep sadness, the different way of thinking altogether—never leave her, she gets better in the most important ways and is truly happy and quite functional and what she wants to be. While there’s no way (yet anyway lol. Cybernetics that good when?) to give her new eyes since the Entity ripped hers out, and she’s blind now, and can’t be changed, her seeing eye dog does a great job for her, and she’s very happy and adjusts well. She has a lot of friends to be her eyes, and learns to lean into what she can do and has a quite fulfilling and blissful life outside the realm in ILM.

Also: thanks for the recs! I’m going on a run soon, and I’ll add those to my iPod and give ‘em a listen if I can. Hope this answered what you wanted to know! ^u^

#ask #sleepy #in living memory (fic)#in living memory #ilm spoilers #dead by daylight #Lisa Sherwood #Sally Smithson #long post

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impressivepress · 4 years ago

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Rivera, Kahlo, and the Detroit Murals: A History and a Personal Journey

The year 1932 was not a good time to come to Detroit, Michigan. The Great Depression cast dark clouds over the city. Scores of factories had ground to a halt, hungry people stood in breadlines, and unemployed autoworkers were selling apples on street corners to survive. In late April that year, against this grim backdrop, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo stepped off a train at the cavernous Michigan Central depot near the heart of the Motor City. They were on their way to the new Detroit Institute of Arts (DIA), a symbol of the cultural ascendancy of the city and its turbo-charged prosperity in better times. The next 11 months in Detroit would take them both to dazzling artistic heights and transform them personally in far-reaching, at times traumatic, ways.

I subtitle this article “a history and a personal journey.” The history looks at the social context of Diego and Frida’s defining time in the city and the art they created; the personal journey explores my own relationship to Detroit and the murals Rivera painted there. I was born and raised in the city, listening to the sounds of its bustling streets, coming of age in its diverse neighborhoods, growing up with the driving beat of its music, and living in the shadows of its factories. Detroit was a labor town with a culture of social justice and civil rights, which on occasion clashed with sharp racism and powerful corporations that defined the age. In my early twenties, I served a four-year apprenticeship to become a machine repair machinist in a sprawling multistory General Motors auto factory at Clark Street and Michigan Avenue that machined mammoth seven-liter V8 engines, stamped auto body parts on giant presses, and assembled gleaming Cadillacs on fast-moving assembly lines. At the time, the plant employed some 10,000 workers who reflected the racial and ethnic diversity of the city, as well as its tensions. The factory was located about a 20-minute walk from where Diego and Frida got off the train decades earlier but was a world away from the downtown skyscrapers and the city’s cultural center.

I grew up with Rivera’s murals, and they have run through every stage of my life. I’ve been gone from the city for many years now, but an important part of both Detroit and the murals have remained with me, and I suspect they always will. I return to Detroit frequently, and no matter how busy the trip, I have almost always found time for the murals.

In Detroit, Rivera looked outwards, seeking to capture the soul of the city, the intense dynamism of the auto industry, and the dignity of the workers who made it run. He would later say that these murals were his finest work. In contrast, Kahlo looked inward, developing a haunting new artistic direction. The small paintings and drawings she created in Detroit pull the viewer into a strange and provocative universe. She denied being a Surrealist, but when André Breton, a founder of the movement, met her in Mexico, he compared her work to a “ribbon around a bomb” that detonated unparalleled artistic freedom (Hellman & Ross, 1938).

Rivera, at the height of his fame, embraced Detroit and was exhilarated by the rhythms and power of its factories (I must admit these many years later I can relate to that response). He was fascinated by workers toiling on assembly lines and coal-fired blast furnaces pouring molten metal around the clock. He felt this industrial base had the potential to create material abundance and lay the foundation for a better world. Sixty percent of the world’s automobiles were built in Michigan at that time, and Detroit also boasted other state-of-the-art industry, from the world’s largest stove and furnace factory to the main research laboratories for a global pharmaceutical company.

“Detroit has many uncommon aspects,” a Michigan guidebook produced by the Federal Writers Project pointed out, “the staring rows of ghostly blue factory windows at night; the tired faces of auto workers lighted up by simultaneous flares of match light at the end of the evening shift; and the long, double-decker trucks carrying auto bodies and chassis” (WPA, 1941:234). This project produced guidebooks for every state in the nation and was part of the Works Progress Administration (WPA), a New Deal Agency that sought to create jobs for the unemployed, including writers and artists. I suspect Rivera would have embraced the approach, perhaps even painted it, had it then existed.

Detroit was a rough-hewn town that lacked the glitter and sophistication of New York or the charm of San Francisco, yet Rivera was inspired by what he saw. In his “Detroit Industry” murals on the soaring inner walls of a large courtyard in the center of the DIA, Rivera portrayed the iconic Ford Rouge plant, the world’s largest and most advanced factory at the time. “[These] frescoes are probably as close as this country gets to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,” New York Times art critic Roberta Smith wrote eight decades later (Smith, 2015).

The city did not speak to Kahlo in the same way. She tolerated Detroit — sometimes barely, other times with more enthusiasm — rather than embracing it. Kahlo was largely unknown when she came to Detroit and felt somewhat isolated and disconnected there. She painted and drew, explored the city’s streets, and watched films — she liked Chaplin’s comedies in particular — in the movie theaters near the center of the city, but she admitted “the industrial part of Detroit is really the most interesting side” (Coronel, 2015:138).

During a personally traumatic year — she had a miscarriage that went seriously awry in Detroit, and her mother died in Mexico City — she looked deeply into herself and painted searing, introspective works on small canvases. In Detroit, she emerged as the Frida Kahlo who is recognized and revered throughout the world today. While Vogue still identified her as “Madame Diego Rivera” during her first New York exhibition in 1938, the New York Times commented that “no woman in art history commands her popular acclaim” in a 2019 article (Hellman & Ross, 1938; Farago, 2019).

My emphasis will be on Rivera and the “Detroit Industry” murals, but Kahlo’s own work, unheralded at the time, has profoundly resonated with new audiences since. While in Detroit, they both inspired, supported, influenced, and needed each other.

Prelude

Diego and Frida married in Mexico on August 21, 1929. He was 43, and she was 22 — although their maturity, in her view, was inverse to their age. Their love was passionate and tumultuous from the beginning. “I suffered two accidents in my life,” she later wrote, “one in which a streetcar knocked me down … the other accident is Diego” (Rosenthal, 2015:96).

They shared a passion for Mexico, particularly the country’s indigenous roots, and a deep commitment to politics, looking to the ideals of communism in a turbulent and increasingly dangerous world (Rosenthal, 2015:19). Rivera painted a major set of murals — 235 panels — in the Ministry of Education in Mexico City between 1923 and 1928. When he signed each panel, he included a small red hammer and sickle to underscore his political allegiance. Among the later panels was “In the Arsenal,” which included images of Frida Kahlo handing out weapons, muralist David Alfaro Siqueiros in a hat with a red star, and Italian photographer Tina Modotti holding a bandolier.

The politics of Rivera and Kahlo ran deep but didn’t exactly follow a straight line. Kahlo herself remarked that Rivera “never worried about embracing contradictions” (Rosenthal, 2015:55). In fact, he seemed to embody F. Scott Fitzgerald’s notion that “the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function” (Fitzgerald, 1936).

Their art, however, ultimately defined who they were and usually came out on top when in conflict with their politics. When the Mexican Communist Party was sharply at odds with the Mexican government in the late 1920s, Rivera, then a Party member, nonetheless accepted a major government commission to paint murals in public buildings. The Party promptly expelled him for this act, among other transgressions (Rosenthal, 2015:32).

Diego and Frida came to San Francisco in November 1930 after Rivera received a commission to paint a mural in what was then the San Francisco Stock Exchange. He had already spent more than a decade in Europe and another nine months in the Soviet Union in 1927. In contrast, this was Kahlo’s first trip outside Mexico. The physical setting in San Francisco, then as now, was stunning — steep hills at the end of a peninsula between the Pacific and the Bay — and they were intrigued and elated just to be there. The city had a bohemian spirit and a working-class grit. Artists and writers could mingle with longshoremen in bars and cafes as ships from around the world unloaded at the bustling piers. At the time, California was in the midst of an “enormous vogue of things Mexican,” and the couple was at the center of this mania (Rosenthal, 2015:32). They were much in demand at seemingly endless “parties, dinners, and receptions” during their seven-month stay (Rosenthal, 2015:36). A contradiction with their political views? Not really. Rivera felt he was infiltrating the heart of capitalism with more radical ideas.

Rivera’s commission produced a fresco on the walls of the Pacific Stock Exchange, “Allegory of California” (1931), a paean to the economic dynamism of the state despite the dark economic clouds already descending. Rivera would then paint several additional commissions in San Francisco before leaving. While compelling, these murals lacked the power and political edge of his earlier work in Mexico or the extraordinary genius of what was to come in Detroit.

While in San Francisco, Rivera and Kahlo met Helen Wills Moody, a 27-year-old world-class tennis player, who became the central model for the Allegory mural. She moved in rarified social and artistic circles, and as 1930 drew to a close, she introduced the couple to Wilhelm Valentiner, the visionary director of the Detroit Institute of Arts (DIA), who had rushed to San Francisco to meet Rivera when he learned of the artist’s arrival.

Valentiner was “a German scholar, a Rembrandt specialist, and a man with extraordinarily wide tastes,” according to Graham W.J. Beal, who himself revitalized the DIA as director in the 21st century. “Between 1920 and the early 1930s, with the help of Detroit’s personal wealth and city money, Valentiner transformed the DIA … into one of the half-dozen top art collections in the country,” a position the museum continues to hold today (Beal, 2010:34). The museum director and the artist shared an unusual kinship. “The revolutions in Germany and Mexico [had] radicalized [both],” wrote Linda Downs, a noted curator at the DIA (Downs, 2015:177). Little more than a decade later, “the idea of the mural commission reinvigorated them to create a highly charged monumental modern work that has contributed greatly to the identity of Detroit” (Downs, 2015:177).

When Valentiner and Rivera met, the economic fallout of the Depression was hammering both Detroit and its municipally funded art institute. The city was teetering at the edge of bankruptcy in 1932 and had slashed its contribution to the museum from $170,000 to $40,000, with another cut on the horizon. Despite this dismal economic terrain, Valentiner was able to arrange a commission for Rivera to paint two large-format frescoes in the Garden Court at the new museum building, which had opened in 1927. Edsel Ford, the son of Henry Ford and a major patron of the DIA, pledged $10,000 for the project — a truly princely sum at that moment — and would double his contribution as Rivera’s vision and the scale of the project expanded (Rosenthal, 2015:51). Edsel also played an unheralded role in support of the museum through the economic traumas to come.

A discussion of Rivera’s mural commission gets a bit ahead of our story, so let’s first look at Detroit’s explosive economic growth in the early years of the 20th century. This industrial transformation would provide the subject and the inspiration for Rivera’s frescoes.

The Motor City and the Great Depression

At the turn of the 20th century, Detroit “was a quiet, tree-shaded city, unobtrusively going about its business of brewing beer and making carriages and stoves” (WPA, 1941:231). Approaching 300,000 residents, Detroit was the 13th-largest city in the country (Martelle, 2012:71). A future of steady growth and easy prosperity seemed to beckon.

Instead, Henry Ford soon upended not only the city, but much of the world. He was hardly alone as an auto magnate in the area: Durant, Olds, the Fisher Brothers, and the Dodge Brothers, among others, were also in or around Detroit. Ford, however, would go beyond simply building a successful car company: he unleashed explosive growth in the auto industry, put the world on wheels, and became a global folk hero to many, yet some were more critical. The historian Joshua Freeman points out that “Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932) depicts a dystopia of Fordism, a portrait of life A.F. — the years “Anno Ford,” measured from 1908, when the Model T was introduced — with Henry Ford the deity” (Freeman, 2018:147).

Ford combined three simple ideas and pursued them with razor-sharp, at times ruthless, intensity: the Model T, an affordable car for the masses; a moving assembly line that would jump-start productivity growth; and the $5 day for workers, double the prevailing wage in the industry. This combination of mass production and mass consumption — Fordism — allowed workers to buy the products they produced and laid the basis for a new manufacturing era. The automobile age was born.

The $5 day wasn’t altruism for Ford. The unrelenting pace and control of the assembly line was intense — often unbearable — even for workers who had grown up with back-breaking work: tilling the farm, mining coal, or tending machines in a factory. Annual turnover approached 400 percent at Ford’s Highland Park plant, and daily absenteeism was high. In response, Ford introduced the unprecedented new wage on January 12, 1914 (Martelle, 2012:74).

The press and his competitors denounced Ford — claiming this reckless move would bankrupt the industry — but the day the new rate began, 10,000 men arrived at the plant in the winter darkness before dawn. Despite the bitter cold, Ford security men aimed fire hoses to disperse the crowd. Covered in freezing water, the men nonetheless surged forward hoping to grasp an elusive better future for themselves and their families.

Here is where I enter the picture, so to speak. One of the relatively few who did get a job that chaotic day was Philip Chapman. He was a recent immigrant from Russia who had married a seamstress from Poland named Sophie, a spirited, beautiful young woman. They had met in the United States. He wound up working at Ford for 33 years — 22 of them at the Rouge plant — on the line and on machines. They were my grandparents.

By 1929, Detroit was the industrial capital of the world. It had jumped its place in line, becoming the fourth-largest city in the United States — trailing only New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia — with 1.6 million people (Martelle, 2012:71). “Detroit needed young men and the young men came,” the WPA Michigan guidebook writers pointed out, and they emphasized the kaleidoscopic diversity of those who arrived: “More Poles than in the European city of Poznan, more Ukrainians than in the third city of the Ukraine, 75,000 Jews, 120,000 Negroes, 126,000 Germans, more Bulgarians, [Yugoslavians], and Maltese than anywhere else in the United States, and substantial numbers of Italians, Greeks, Russians, Hungarians, Syrians, English, Scotch, Irish, Chinese, and Mexicans” (WPA, 1941:231). Detroit was third nationally in terms of the foreign-born, and the African American population had soared from 6,000 in 1910 to 120,000 in 1930 (WPA, 1941:108), part of a journey that would ultimately involve more than six million people moving from the segregated, more rural South to the industrial cities of the North (Trotter, 2019:78).

DIA planners projected that Detroit would become the second-largest U.S. city by 1935 and that it could surpass New York by the early 1950s. “Detroit grew as mining towns grow — fast, impulsive, and indifferent to the superficial niceties of life,” the Michigan Guidebook writers concluded (WPA, 1941:231).

The highway ahead seemed endless and bright. The city throbbed with industrial production, the streetcars and buses were filled with workers going to and from work at all hours, and the noise of stamping presses and forges could be heard through open windows in the hot summers. Cafes served dinner at 11 p.m. for workers getting off the afternoon shift and breakfast at 5 a.m. for those arriving for the day shift. Despite prohibition, you could get a drink just about any time. After all, only a river separated Detroit from Canada, where liquor was still legal.

Rivera’s biographer and friend Bertram Wolfe wrote of “the tempo, the streets, the noise, the movement, the labor, the dynamism, throbbing, crashing life of modern America” (Wolfe, as cited in Rosenthal, 2015:65). The writers of the Michigan guidebook had a more down-to-earth view: “‘Doing the night spots’ consists mainly of making the rounds of beer gardens, burlesque shows, and all-night movie houses,” which tended to show rotating triple bills (WPA, 1941:232).

Henry Ford began constructing the colossal Rouge complex in 1917, which would employ more than 100,000 workers and spread over 1,000 acres by 1929. “It was, simply, the largest and most complicated factory ever built, an extraordinary testament to ingenuity, engineering, and human labor,” Joshua Freeman observed (Freeman, 2018:144). The historian Lindy Biggs accurately described the complex as “more like an industrial city than a factory” (Biggs, as cited in Freeman, 2018:144).

The Rouge was a marvel of vertical integration, making much of the car on site. Giant Ford-owned freighters would transport iron ore and limestone from Minnesota and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula down through the Great Lakes, along the St. Clair and Detroit Rivers, and then across the Rouge River to the docks of the plant. Seemingly endless trains would bring coal from West Virginia and Ohio to the plant. Coke ovens, blast furnaces, and open hearths produced iron and steel; rolling mills converted the steel ingots into long, thin sheets for body parts; foundries molded iron into engine blocks that were then precision machined; enormous stamping presses formed sheets of steel into fenders, hoods, and doors; and thousands of other parts were machined, extruded, forged, and assembled. Finished cars drove off the assembly line a little more than a day after the raw materials had arrived at the docks.

In 1928, Vanity Fair heralded the Rouge as “the most significant public monument in America, throwing its shadow across the land probably more widely and more intimately than the United States Senate, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Statue of Liberty.... In a landscape where size, quantity, and speed are the cardinal virtues, it is natural that the largest factory turning out the most cars in the least time should come to have the quality of America’s Mecca, toward which the pious journey for prayer” (Jacob, as cited in Lichtenstein, 1995:13). My grandfather, I suspect, had a more prosaic goal: he needed a job, and Ford paid well.

Despite tough conditions in the plant, workers were proud to work at “Ford’s,” as people in Detroit tended to refer to the company. They wore their Ford badge on their shirts in the streetcars on the way to work or on their suits in church on Sundays. It meant something to have a job there. Once through the factory gate, however, the work was intense and often dangerous and unhealthy. Ford himself described repetitive factory work as “a terrifying prospect to a certain kind of mind,” yet he was firmly convinced strict control and tough discipline over the average worker was necessary to get anything done (Ford, as cited in Martelle, 2012:73). He combined the regimentation of the assembly line with increasingly autocratic management, strictly and often harshly enforced. You couldn’t talk on the line in Ford plants — you were paid to work, not talk — so men developed the “Ford whisper” holding their heads down and barely moving their lips. The Rouge employed 1,500 Ford “Service Men,” many of them ex-convicts and thugs, to enforce discipline and police the plant.

At a time when economic progress seemed as if it would go on forever, the U.S. stock market drove over a cliff in October 1929, and paralysis soon spread throughout the economy. Few places were as shaken as Detroit. In 1929, 5.5 million vehicles were produced, but just 1.4 million rolled off Detroit’s assembly lines three years later in 1932 (Martelle, 2012:114). The Michigan jobless rate hit 40 percent that year, and one out of three Detroit families lacked any financial support (Lichtenstein, 1995). Ford laid off tens of thousands of workers at the Rouge. No one knew how deep the downturn might go or how long it would last. What increasingly desperate people did know is that they had to feed their family that night, but they no longer knew how.

On March 7, 1932 — a bone-chilling day with a lacerating wind — 3,000 desperate, unemployed autoworkers met near the Rouge plant to march peaceably to the Ford Employment Office. Detroit police escorted the marchers to the Dearborn city line, where they were confronted by Dearborn Police and armed Ford Service Men. When the marchers refused to disperse, the Dearborn police fired tear gas, and some demonstrators responded with rocks and frozen mud. The marchers were then soaked with water from fire hoses and shot with bullets. Five workers were killed, 19 wounded by gunfire, and dozens more injured. Communists had organized the march, but a Michigan historical marker makes the following observation: “Newspapers alleged the marchers were communists, but they were in fact people of all political, racial, and ethnic backgrounds.” That marker now hangs outside the United Auto Workers Local 600 union hall, which represents workers today at the Rouge plant.

Five days later, on March 12, thousands of people marched in downtown Detroit to commemorate the demonstrators who had been killed. Although Rivera was still in New York, he was aware of the Ford Hunger March before it took place and told Clifford Wight, his assistant, that he was eager “not [to] miss…[it] on any account” (Rosenthal, 2015:51). Both he and Kahlo had marched with workers in Mexico and embraced their causes. Rivera had captured their lives as well as their protests in his murals in Mexico.

As it turned out, they missed both the march and the commemoration. Instead, the following month Kahlo and Rivera’s train pulled into the Michigan Central Depot, where Wilhelm Valentiner met them. They were taken to the Ford-owned Wardell Hotel next to the Detroit Institute of Arts. The DIA was the anchor of a grass-lined and tree-shaded cultural center several miles north of downtown. The Ford Highland Park Plant, where the automobile age began with the Model T and the moving assembly line, was four miles further north on the same street. Less than a mile northwest was the massive 15-story General Motors Building, the largest office building in the United States when it was completed in 1922, designed by the noted industrial architect Albert Khan, who also created the Rouge. Huge auto production complexes such as Dodge Main or Cadillac Motor — where I would serve my apprenticeship decades later — were not far away.

Valentiner had written Rivera stating, “The Arts Commission would be pleased if you could find something out of the history of Detroit, or some motif suggesting the development of industry in this town. But in the end, they decided to leave it entirely to you” (Beal, 2010:35). Beal points out “that what Valentiner had in mind at the time may have been something like the Helen Moody Wills paintings, something that had an allegorical slant to it. They were to get something completely different” (Beal, 2010:35). Edsel Ford emphasized he wanted Rivera to look at other industries in Detroit, such as pharmaceuticals, and provided a car and driver for Rivera and Kahlo to see the plants and the city.

But when Rivera visited the Rouge plant, he was mesmerized. He saw the future here, despite the fact that the plant had been hard hit by the Depression: the complex had been shuttered for the last six months of 1931, and thousands of workers had been let go before he arrived (Rosenthal, 2015:67). His fascination with machinery, his respect for workers, and his politics fused in an extraordinary artistic vision, which he filled with breathtaking technical detail. He had found his muse.

Rivera took on the seemingly impossible task of capturing the sprawling Rouge plant in frescoes. The initial commission of two large-format frescoes rapidly expanded to 27 frescoes of various sizes filling the entire room from floor to ceiling. Rivera spent the next two months at the manufacturing complex drawing, pacing, photographing, viewing, and translating these images into large drawings — “cartoons” — as the plans for the frescoes. He demonstrated an exceptional ability to retain in his head — and, I suspect, in his dreams — what he would paint.

Rivera’s Vast Masterpieces

Rivera’s “Detroit Industry” murals are anchored in a specific time and place — a sprawling iconic factory, the Depression decade, and the Motor City — yet they achieve the universal in a way that transcends their origins. Rivera painted workers toiling on assembly lines amid blast furnaces pouring molten iron into cupolas, and through the alchemy of his genius, the art still powerfully — even urgently — speaks to us today. The murals celebrate the contribution of workers, the power of industry, and the promise and peril of science and technology. Rivera weaves together Aztec myths, indigenous world views, Mexican culture, and U.S. industry in a visual tour-de-force that delights, challenges, and provokes. The art is both accessible and profound. You can enjoy it for an afternoon or intensely study it for a lifetime with a sense of constant discovery.

Roberta Smith points out that the murals “form an unusually explicit, site-specific expression of the reciprocal bond between an art museum and its urban setting” (Smith, 2015). Over time, the frescoes have emerged as a visible and vital part of the city, becoming part of Detroit’s DNA. Rivera’s art has been both witness to and, more recently, a participant in history. When he began the project in late spring 1932, Detroit was tottering at the edge of insolvency, and 80 years later, the murals witnessed the city skidding into the largest municipal bankruptcy in history in 2013. A deep appreciation for the murals and their close identification with the spirit and hope of Detroit may have contributed to saving the museum this second time around.

I still vividly remember my own reaction when I first saw the murals. As a young boy, the Rouge, the auto industry, and Detroit seemed to course through our lives. My grandfather Philip Chapman, who was hired at Ford’s Highland Park plant in 1914, wound up spending most of his working life on the line at the Rouge. As a young boy, I watched my grandmother Sophie pack his lunch and fill his thermos with hot coffee before dawn as he hurried to catch the first of three buses that would take him to the plant. When my father, Max, came to Detroit three decades later in the mid-1940s to marry my mother, Rose — they had met on a subway while she was visiting New York City, where he lived — he worked on the line at a Chrysler plant on Jefferson Avenue.

One weekend, when I was 10 or 11 years old, my father took me to see the murals. He drove our 1950 Ford down Woodward Avenue, a broad avenue that bisected the city from the Detroit River to its northern border at Eight Mile Road. Woodward seemed like the main street of the world at the time; large department stores — Hudson’s was second only to Macy’s in size and splendor — restaurants, movie theaters, and office buildings lined both sides of the street north from the river. Detroit had the highest per capita income in the country, a palpable economic power seen in the scale of the factories and the seemingly endless numbers of trucks rumbling across the city to transport parts between factories and finished vehicles to dealers.

We walked up terraced white steps to the main entrance of the Detroit Institute of Arts, an imposing Beaux-Arts building constructed with Vermont marble in what had become the city’s cultural center. As we entered the building, the sounds of the city disappeared. We strolled the gleaming marble floors of the Great Hall, a long gallery topped far above by a beautiful curved ceiling with light flowing through large windows. Imposing suits of medieval armor stood guard in glass cases on either side of us as we crossed the Hall, passed under an arch, and entered a majestic courtyard.

We found ourselves in what is now called the Rivera Court, surrounded on all sides by the “Detroit Industry” murals. The impact was startling. We weren’t simply observing the frescoes, we were enveloped by them. It was a moment of wonder as we looked around at what Rivera had created. Linda Downs captured the feeling: “Rivera Court has become the sanctuary of the Detroit Institute of Arts, a ‘sacred’ place dedicated to images of workers and technology” (Downs, 1999:65). I couldn’t have articulated this sentiment then, but I certainly felt it.

The size, scale, form, pulsing activity, and brilliant color of the paintings deeply impressed me. I saw for the first time where my grandfather went every morning before dawn and why he looked so drawn every night when he came home just before dinner. Many years later, I began to appreciate the art in a much deeper way, but the thrill of walking into the Rivera Court on that first visit has never left. I came to realize that an indelible dimension of great art is a sense of constant discovery and rediscovery. The murals captured the spirit of Detroit then and provide relevance and insight for the times we live in today.

Beal points out that Rivera “worked in a heroic, realist style that was easily graspable” (Beal, 2010:35). A casual viewer, whether a schoolboy or an autoworker from Detroit or a tourist from France, can enjoy the art, yet there is no limit to engaging the frescoes on many deeper levels. In contrast, “throughout Western history, visual art has often been the domain of the educated or moneyed elite,” Jillian Steinhauer wrote in the New York Times. “Even when artists like Gustave Courbet broke new ground by depicting working-class people, the art itself still wasn’t meant for them” (Steinhauer, 2019). Rivera upended this paradigm and sought to paint public art for workers as well as elites on the walls of public buildings. By putting these murals at the center of a great museum in the 1930s through the efforts of Wilhelm Valentiner and Edsel Ford — and more recently, under Graham Beal and the current director Salvador Salort-Pons — the Detroit Institute of Arts opened itself and the murals to new Detroit populations. Detroit is now 80-percent African American, the metropolitan area has the highest number of Arab Americans in the United States, and the Latino population is much larger than when Rivera painted, yet the murals retain their allure and meaning for new generations.

Upon entering the Rivera Court, the viewer confronts two monumental murals facing each other on the north and south walls. The murals not only define the courtyard, they draw you into the engine and assembly lines deep inside the Rouge. The factory explodes with cacophonous activity. The production process is a throbbing, interconnected set of industrial activities. Intense heat, giant machines, flaming metal, light, darkness, and constant movement all converge. Undulating steel rail conveyors carry parts overhead. There were 120 miles of conveyors in the Rouge at the time; they linked all aspects of production and provide a thematic unity to the mural. And even though he’s portraying a production process in Detroit, Rivera’s deep appreciation of Mexican culture and heritage infuses the frescoes. An Aztec cosmology of the underworld and the heavens runs in long panels spanning the top of the main murals and similar imagery appears throughout the frescoes.

On the north wall, a tightly packed engine assembly line, with workers laboring on both sides, is flanked by two huge machine tools — 20 feet or so high — machining the famed Ford V8 engine blocks. Workers in the foreground strain to move heavy cast-iron engine blocks; muscles bulge, bodies tilt, shoulders pull in disciplined movement. These workers are not anonymous. At the center foreground of the north wall, with his head almost touching a giant spindle machine, is Paul Boatin, an assistant to Rivera who spent his working life at the Rouge. He would go on to become a United Auto Workers (UAW) organizer and union leader. Boatin had been present at the Ford Hunger March on that disastrous day in March 1932 and still choked up talking about it many decades later in an interview in the film The Great Depression (1990).

In the foreground, leaning back and pulling an engine block with a white fedora on his head may have been Antonio Martínez, an immigrant from Mexico and the grandfather of Louis Aguilar. A reporter for the Detroit News, Aguilar describes how fierce, at times ugly, pressures during the Great Depression forced many Mexicans to leave Detroit and return to their homeland. The city’s Mexican population plummeted from 15,000 at the beginning of the 1930s to 2,000 at the end of the decade. If the figure in the mural is not his grandfather, Aguilar writes “let every Latino who had family in Detroit around 1932 and 1933 declare him as their own” (Aguilar, 2018).

A giant blast furnace spewing molten metal reigns above the engine production, which bears a striking resemblance to a Charles Sheeler photo of one of the five Rouge blast furnaces. The flames are so intense, and the men so red, you can almost feel the heat. In fact, the process is truly volcanic and symbolic of the turbulent terrain of Mexico itself. It brings to mind Popocatépetl, the still-active 18,000-foot volcano rising to the skies near Mexico City. To the left, above the engine block line, green-tinted workers labor in a foundry, one of the dirtiest, most unhealthy, most dangerous jobs. Meanwhile, a tour group observes the process. Among them in a black bowler hat is Diego Rivera himself.

On the south wall, workers toil on the final assembly line just before the critical “body drop,” where the body of a Model B Ford is lowered to be bolted quickly to the car frame on a moving assembly line below. Once again, through his perspective Rivera draws you into the line. A huge stamping press to the right forms fenders from sheets of steel like those produced in the Rouge facilities. Unlike most of the other machines Rivera portrays, which are state of the art, this press is an older model, selected because of its stylized resemblance to an ancient sculpture of Coatlicue, the Aztec goddess of life and death (Beale, 2010:41; Downs, 1999:140, 144).

On the left is another larger tour group, which includes a priest and Dick Tracy, a classic cartoon character of the era. The Katzenjammer Kids — more comic icons of the time — are leaning on the wall watching the assembly line move. The eyes of most of the visitors seem closed, as if they were physically present, but not seeing the intense, occasionally brutal, activity before them. Rivera, in effect, is giving us a few winks and a nod with cartoon characters and unobservant tourists.

~ Harley Shaiken · Fall 2019.

#diego rivera #frida kahlo #detroit industry murals #painting #exibition review #review #clas berkeley

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need-a-fugue · 5 years ago

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Why Not? - Chapter Two

Summary: With a garage to run and a young daughter to, well… run after, Bucky Barnes doesn’t exactly have time for dating. And with his relationship track record – and the constant meddling of a certain overbearing best friend – he’s not so sure that’s a bad thing. But then he meets Annie – a rather insistent, pretty damn cute fellow car enthusiast – and it’s got him asking himself, despite all his hesitations, why not?

Author’s Note: Written for Little Darlin’s Mystery AU Challenge. Thanks to @sourpatchkidsandacokecan for triggering this… sprawling thing simply by supplying me with the prompt of Mechanic!AU for Bucky. It’s taken on a life of its own already… look at what you’ve done!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: Bit of angst, mostly fluff.

Chapter Two

“We just want to check the throttle shafts,” Bucky murmurs, bent low and looming over her tiny shoulder, pointing at the carburetor. “See? Right here. See that groove in it?” He cocks his head to watch her as she closely investigates, bright blue eyes a mirror of his own as they narrow, searching for the divot. A hint of her bubblegum tongue peeks out from the corner of her mouth as she tries to find the elusive mark. He feels a sudden swell of warmth collect in his center – in his chest, where this precious little girl lives, forever entwined with his heart – and the corner of his mouth pulls up into a crooked grin.

She nods firmly, one single, definitive bob of her head. “Yep.”

He pulls upright, dropping a steadying hand to her back as she leans even closer to get a better look. “That is our problem.”

“Oooh,” she breathes out, tone utterly genuine.

He takes a step back and watches as she gingerly pokes at the carb, careful not press too hard with her perfectly pudgy forefinger. And again he smiles, crooked and wistful, as he thinks back to the very first thing his father ever taught him about cars – and damn was there a lot that the old man had taught him. It was how to clean the carburetor. He was nine, maybe ten years old. And since that time he’d cleaned out, rebuilt, and replaced hundreds of carbs.

Of course, most of today’s cars are different beasts altogether, fuel-injection engines taking over and all but eliminating the pleasant pastime of solving puzzles like this. Nowadays it seems like he barely gets to solve anything at all. With a million and a half electronic sensors over every inch of every vehicle, always spinning out error codes and warnings, most of his time at the shop is spent plugging in a computer to read an error and then ordering some ridiculously expensive new sensor for a pain-in-the-ass repair that should take little more than twenty minutes, yet somehow takes up the whole damn day because some genius engineer decided to bury the tiny damn sensor under a dozen other damn parts that are damn near impossible to remove!

If Bucky had a dollar – even just one measly little dollar – for every time he chucked a tool and stormed off in frustration when working on some Mercedes or Audi or other fancy piece-of-shit car, well, he’d be able to buy Steve out of his half of the garage.

He’s pulled suddenly from his wandering reverie by the steady tap-tap of hard-soled shoes on the concrete floor. He straightens quickly, tearing his eyes away from his little girl just long enough to catch a glimpse of the woman approaching.

A subtle, ahem falls from her lips, followed by an almost nervous sounding, “Oh, hi,” when she sees him peek out from behind the car. “Hi.”

Bucky recognizes the woman immediately, despite the form-fitted suit and classy looking heels she’s wearing in lieu of her more typical cutoff shorts and T-shirt. “Hey,” he says, wide grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Bronco, right?”

She nods, bright smile splitting her face and setting off the deep dimples that he – for some inexplicable reason – remembered resided on either side of that pretty, full-lipped mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, you remember me?”

“Course,” he says with a nod of his own, his hand falling down to the shoulder of the little girl beside him, tugging her back a bit as she pitches forward on her stool and nearly topples into the engine compartment. “’75 Bronco wagon,” he announces, casually righting the kid and holding her steady without ever taking his eyes off of the woman. “Don’t see many of those around. Especially in the city.”

Her expression falters just a bit at the realization that he remembers her car more so than her. But she recovers quickly, flipping her long dark hair over her shoulder and stating simply, “Yeah, that’s my baby.”

He frowns suddenly, quickly wiping down his hands and stepping around the car to approach her. “Something wrong? Everything looked good when we did the oil change a few weeks back.”

“Oh,” she nearly exclaims. “Yeah. No. I’m… I’m not here for…” She steps closer, her fingers lazily trailing along the side of the Cobra, eyes ticking down to her feet as her cheeks gain a peculiar rosy blush. “I’m Mr. Stark’s personal assistant.” She reaches out a hand as though prepared to shake – as though they hadn’t already met before… over a blown-out tire, some rusted paneling, a busted transmission, and an oil change that she damn well could’ve done herself. “Annie.”

His eyes linger on her outstretched hand for a long moment before finally accepting the greeting. “Annie, huh?” he asks, kicking himself for not knowing that already, for having somehow committed her face to memory – and her car – but not her name.

She sputters nervously for a beat, about to correct herself – Angela – mentally tearing herself a new one for using her childhood nickname instead of the adult moniker that a woman should go by, when a scuffle and a squeal sound from behind the hood of the car as the little girl awkwardly hops down from her stool, shouting at a rather piercing level, “I’m Lana!”

Bucky steps back and grabs her by the arms to steady her and settle her on the firm ground, nudging the wobbling stool to keep it from tipping. He shakes his head fondly as she scurries over to the woman, bouncing on her heels in front of her.

Annie’s face seems to light up, her bright green eyes going wide and crinkling at the corners as she drops down to the four year old’s level. “Lana, well it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, extending her hand for a shake.

The girl accepts, dark ringlets bouncing in time with the body-quaking handshake she offers. And the corners of Bucky’s lips inadvertently tick up.

“Lana,” Annie repeats languidly, letting the two syllables dance over her tongue. “What a beautiful name.” The little girl lets out another giggle and releases her hand, hopping away, back to her father’s side. Annie watches her go for a moment, still grinning sunnily, before rising and slinking around the car, lazily tracing a finger over the fenders until she gets to the front and peeks under the hood. “How’s she coming along?”

“Not bad,” Bucky breathes out as he leans back and wipes his hands on a rag. “Think we might need to replace the throttle shafts. Right, baby?” he asks, glancing down at the kid by his side and giving her a little bump with his hip.

She hops back to avoid the hip check and gives her father a pointed don’t do that glare, the look being almost identical to the one he’s received on countless occasions from her mother. He stifles a laugh and rolls his eyes, ticking his chin at her to indicate that he’s still waiting on a response. She heaves a giant sigh and gives a definitive nod, lips tightly pursed, brow slightly furrowed. “Yes,” she states, very matter-of-factly before returning her gaze to the woman now reaching into the engine compartment.

“It’ll probably just be another day or two,” he tells her. “We should have everything I need, but I still want to check out the turbo.” He bends down, dropping a knee to take a quick glance beneath the car. “And I’d like to get her up to take a look at the suspension.”

“As long as you can get her driving like she used to,” she says. She looks down at him for a brief moment before her eyes narrow and tick to the side, a rather mirthful glow filling them to the brim.

Before he can turn to catch a glimpse of what she’s looking at, tiny arms attack him from behind, his little girl throwing herself into his back – from a full run, he’s sure – and gripping tightly around his neck. He pitches forward, awkwardly catching himself with one hand while his other moves to loosen her fingers and free his windpipe. Maniacal giggles echo in his ear, but all he can see is the bright, gentle smile of the woman standing above him.

He clears his throat once Lana’s grip slackens and reaches around to hoist his baby higher on his back, standing effortlessly and letting out a single rich laugh when her giggles turn to a swift shriek of excitement. She lets out a small oof and settles her arms around his shoulders, curling her warm body around him. “Sorry,” he murmurs, a bit bashfully. “There was an incident at daycare. We don’t usually let little monsters run free around here.”

Annie bites back a laugh, actually chewing the corner of her mouth to do so, and says simply, “I wondered why we hadn’t met before.”

He cocks his head at the woman, only just now registering what she had said about the car a moment ago. “You drove this?” he asks her, his voice carrying a hint of surprise as he casually bounces in place to keep his monkey-girl amused.

She chuckles lightly as she watches the little girl’s face continue to shine. “Yeah,” she breathes out. “Got a soft spot in my heart for Mustangs. We’re a Ford family.” Her eyes flicker over to meet Bucky’s. “My dad had one… a ’67 Shelby GT.”

“Ooo,” he intones with a hiss. “Nice.”

“Yeah. We restored it together. He’s still got her, though she’s trapped in his garage,” she says with a frightful countenance as she looks over at Lana and successfully pulls a giggle.

Bucky gives his girl another bounce and cranes his neck to look behind him. “Wanna tell her what’s living out back in our garage right now?”

She shoots her head out from behind her father’s, giant toothy grin on her face as she states proudly, “Stingray. 19…” Her voice fades off as she gives a dismissive shrug.

“68,” he supplies.

“Wow,” Annie responds, drawing out the word and nodding appreciatively, never taking her eyes off of the little girl’s satisfied face. “You’re really lucky.”

“Well,” Bucky starts, self-deprecating smirk blooming, “it’s not exactly – ”

“Lana!” cuts him off mid-thought, the call tumbling in from the back bay. Bucky spins to see Peter hopping towards them, goofy smile on the disheveled teen’s face as he approaches. “Hey,” he says, locking onto the little girl’s eyes as she peeks out over her dad’s head. “It’s lunch time. I thought you were gonna eat with me.”

She twists and tugs in an attempt to scurry off her father’s back, and he grunts out a, “Wait,” as he awkwardly dips to lower her to the floor. “Pete,” he mutters, standing back up and glancing at the kid. “How’s the Mazda going?”

“Oh, fine, Mr. Barnes,” he declares simply, giving a small nod as Lana takes a firm hold of his hand.

“Pete-er,” she corrects haughtily. “There’s a er, Daddy.” She tugs and pulls at Peter until he relents and lets her drag him over to her new friend. “That’s Annie.”

“Hi, Annie,” he says with a grin and a wave.

“She’s Stark’s assistant,” Bucky mutters with a raised brow.

“Oh, wow,” he intones, countenance lost somewhere between shock and intrigue. “That must be… something.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes it’s hell. Sometimes… heaven.”

“Pete,” Bucky starts before staring his little girl down and tacking on the, “er… wants to work for your boss someday.”

“Well, I mean… yeah…” the kids stutters out. “You know… maybe… I mean…”

Bucky chuckles lightly, catching a glimpse of the boy’s bright pink cheeks from the corner of his eye. He rocks back on his heels, shit-eating grin on his face as he goes on to say, “It’s all he’s been talking about since he showed up here with that Vette a few weeks back.”

Annie’s eyes narrow. “He brought the Corvette here?” she asks, brows furrowing in confusion.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Needed some body work. Passenger’s-side door, some paneling.”

The narrow gaze flips in an instant, eyes blowing wide. “He damaged the Corvette?” she asks, tone positively aghast.

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters, looking down as Lana grabs hold of his wrist and gives a swift, firm tug. “Something about parking in the city. What, baby?” he asks distractedly.

“I’m hungry,” she whines, hanging off of him and leaning back so far that her hair almost touches the ground.

“Your lunch’s in the fridge. Peter’ll help,” he tells her, voice low and soft as he gives the teen a swift nod and hands her off, watches as the two head back to the office. He turns back around just in time to see the shock on Annie’s face finally begin to wane, utter bewilderment filling in behind it. He laughs despite himself, the twist of her features, subtle crinkle of her nose as the gears so obviously click and sputter and turn inside her head. “No clue, huh?”

Her eyes pop up to meet his, suddenly freed from their ruminating. “Sorry,” she sputters. “No.”

His own brow twists in confusion as he recalls something the cocky billionaire had mentioned on that first visit to the shop. “He said his assistant recommended us. Was that you?”

Her mouth gapes open, bobbing helplessly for a long, silent moment as a deep red blush begins creeping up her neck. “Well, I mean… yeah. I… I mentioned you… Because I use you. I mean… not use you. I mean…”

He feels a laugh bubble up his chest, his jaw suddenly aching from holding a smile so wide and stretched. “You okay there, doll?” he asks through the chuckle, for some reason absolutely delighting in her sudden discomfort.

“What?” she bleats. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, sorry.”

He narrows his eyes at her suspiciously, though he’s not quite able to keep them from crinkling at the corners as amusement continues to wash over him. “What exactly did you mention to him?” he asks coyly, taking a single deliberate step forward. The blush blazes then, firing up her cheeks, extending to the very tips of her ears as her eyes dart frantically around the room.

“I don’t… what do you mean?”

It had been a long, long time since Bucky had made a girl blush, made her practically buzz with nervous yearning just from a look. Or at least it had been a long time since he’d taken notice of it. Natasha and Steve were always telling him, trying to point out to him the effect he has on women. She was totally flirting with you. That woman was eye-fucking your brains out. Stop being so dense. But, really, those two are more desperate to get him laid than he’d ever been himself. They’d say just about anything to get him to move on, move forward with his life. And let them live theirs.

And besides, he knew. Back in the day – the days before dirty diapers and marital strife and a struggling business – he hardly ever spent a Saturday night in his own bed. Or if he was in his own bed, there sure as shit wasn’t a cold, empty spot beside him.

But that was the old Bucky Barnes. It might’ve been a mere five or six years in calendar time, but to him it seemed like a lifetime ago.

And yet, when that old grin he used to wear – the cocky, teasing, suggestive crooked tilt – perks his lips in a familiar pull, it feels utterly natural. Just like muscle memory.

He takes another step closer, his eyes trailing down to Annie’s exposed clavicle, the part of her body where the blush tapers off to show subtly tanned flesh peeking out from beneath a pale pink silk blouse. “You said you mentioned me,” he reminds her, quirking an eyebrow as he locks onto her deep green eyes, the color eerily similar to the pristine paint job on the Cobra at their side. “To Stark… what’d you tell him?”

She clears her throat, blinking only once to collect her composure. The bright red remains splashed across her skin, but her eyes settle on his, her once agape mouth pulling into a tight, firm line, twisting up at the edges to show off the effort being put into biting back a smile. “I told him,” she starts, small, subtle lilt to her voice. “That you were great with the Bronco.” His brow lifts higher, a silent invitation for her to go on, and she cocks her own high to match. “And that you were cute. And that I might… I don’t know…” She shrugs, her gaze ticking away for just a fraction of a moment. “Be… interested.”

He nods slowly, appreciatively, and does his best to shift his face into an impassive mask. “You told Tony Stark I’m cute?”

She snorts out a laugh, loud and utterly undignified. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

His brows twist together, face pinching tightly in a sudden realization. “He was checking me out. Sizing me up,” he mutters vaguely, lips parting as he huffs out a quick, “Huh.”

“I didn’t tell him to,” she says abruptly, pitching forward onto her toes, seeming a little too enthusiastic with her denial. “I never asked… I mean…” She shakes her head and breathes out a laugh. “He gets sort of attached to his assistants. The ones that last anyway. He’s getting ready to marry one of them.”

Bucky’s mouth clamps shut, lips curling into a frown.

She laughs again. “I didn’t mean…that made him sound sort of creepy. No, it’s just… when you devote yourself to work all the time, the only real friends you make are, you know, at work.”

“So Tony Stark is your friend. And your boss. And your… matchmaker?”

“No,” she bleats out. Then, “Maybe,” amid a rather perplexed look. She shrugs. “He means well.”

“He put me through the fucking inquisition,” he mutters, feeling suddenly nervous. He brings an open palm to the back of his neck, scratches wildly at his scalp as his face twists. “Did he… did he tell you that? Or… tell you anything?” he asks, thinking back and trying to recall just how many bullshit answers he gave the man, how many irritated glares and fabricated stories.

A brilliant smile rolls over her face, one that somehow manages to immediately put him at ease, his fingers slowly slipping from his hair and back down to his side, casually tucking into his pocket. “He just told me that he gave me an in… and then said I should go check on the Cobra.”

“Ah,” he breathes out simply, rocking back on his heels.

“So,” she drawls out languidly before beginning to awkwardly pivot back and forth on the balls of her feet. Her hands clasp tightly behind her back, eyes nervously roaming the floor for a brief moment before rising to meet his. They seem to lighten two full shades as they lock onto his – admittedly – curious gaze. “Can I buy you dinner?”

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #ldamc #dad!bucky #bucky barnes x original #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes imagine #marvel fanfic #avengers fanfiction #bucky x oc #avengersau #marvelau #bucky x original female character #bucky barnes x original female character #bucky barnes x oc

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neargaztambide · 5 years ago

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Stan and Ford Pines: A Melancholic Story (Chapter 2)

Prologue, Chapter One

Words: 3.549 approximately:

2: Happy Birthday!

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It is a beautiful day. Outside the birds sang. The sun illuminated everything it touched. It was a perfect day, with a nice breeze, an ideal climate. Little by little, one of the brothers opened his eyes, finally being able to enjoy the benefits of the morning.

Stanford pulls the covers aside as he feels the warmth of the sun settle on his eyes. Stan is still sleeping. The boy gets up and looks at the beautiful clear blue sky, with hardly any clouds in the afterlife, with the people of the district strolling, going to work or taking advantage of the first hours to go shopping. “Wow. Stanley, wake up: you should see ...” He stopped talking. Ford erased his smile. Out of the corner of his eye he began to perceive that in microseconds the sky turned gray, dark clouds making shadows in his room. Laughter, teasing approached his head. Stanley was white as a sheet, his chest full of blood. His corpse was completely violated, as if a true beast had devoured him without contemplation. He was going to scream: Ford was going to scream, he already had it about to do it...

“... Ford, c'mon, wake up. Guess what day is today.” Stanford quickly opened his eyes. He felt cold for a few moments, like he was still in that nightmare. Stanley was alive. It was just a bad dream. "Wake up, Sixer, today’s our birthday!" Saying this, Stan punches his brother in the face with a pillow. Without opening his eyes, Ford searches for his glasses on the nightstand. Upon finding them, they are quickly put on. “You know what your gift is, don't you?” Stan asks in a mischievous tone. Ford leans against the head of the bed. He didn't ask his brother for anything; would it be a joke or something? He remembers absolutely nothing, not even the slightest hint that he wanted something on specific.

Stanley sits on the edge of the bed, putting his hand on Stanford's hair and ruffling it to finish waking up him. Ford is finally ready to listen to Stan, who looked certainly happy. He was looking expectantly at Stanford's possible reaction. He bent down and rummaged under the bed, placing a red paper-wrapped gift in Stanford's hands. –Yup, there is no reason to thank me. Enjoy it. - Ford smiled. The mere consideration made the gift something perfect. He didn't know what to say. He was stunned. -Hey! What are you waiting for?: open it! - Stan shakes Ford's shoulder a little to cheer him up. Ford breaks the paper with force, leaving the paper that was taking out stacked. The result was to bare a case, which when opened revealed a necklace that Stanford took. It was an owl, of tyto breed. He spread his wings like he was going to take flight. It was highly detailed on the head up part. The body disintegrated into a metal vine that firmly held a small capsule of non-translucent plastic. He even had his little legs made down to the last detail. “A few months ago I saw that you were really interested in this when we were passin' by Crab Avenue.” And I thought it would be a good gift.” Stan approaches the curtain to close it.

Suddenly, the owl's body began to flash a soft green light. Shining and accompanying the little darkness that was thanks to the curtain. It was peaceful and calming to see the light illuminate the room. It was as if something was accompanying them. It was weird, but it's as if someone was watching them closely. They couldn't feel it, but a strange presence was with them, watching. The light in seconds went out. “Wait, are you kidding me?” The effect of the necklace stopped working. Little by little it flickered and the light faded. Stan grabbed Ford's necklace, and tapped it a few times to try to activate it again. It didn't work. “Oh, hell. Sorry, Pointdexter: it's just a trinket.” Ford didn't care. Anyway, he liked the gift. He smiled and said: “It doesn't matter, Stanley. I will repair it. I'll find out how. Oh, right- Stanford got up and went behind the nightstand. He gave Stan his gift. The package was slightly larger than Stan's (it was decorated with blue paper). Stan ripped the paper, leaving a photo frame on his legs. It was flipped. "Um… thanks?" The little Ford did was sneak roll his eyes while smiling. He couldn't believe that his brother was unintuitive. Stan finally turned the frame over, only to stop smiling at the photo.

It was Filbrick. He had two lumps in his arms (it looked like his brother and he when they were babies), smiling. Smiling like never before. Smiling at the camera. The blue frame was full of beautiful decorations. For example, some colored crystals stuck in some corners. In another was a pretty seashell. “Stan... do you like it?” Ford asked with a certain tone of regret when he noticed that Stan only stared at the frame without an apparent smile. But, Stan only lunged at him to give him a big hug. “I-it's the best gift you could have ever given me ...” Ford sighed inwardly, and welcomed the hug. “-I'm glad you liked.” Stanford thought. The two separated. “Are you crying?” Stanford asks quickly, to which Stanley raised a fist to his eyes and began to wipe away: “No: asbestos entered my eyes.”

The brothers left their room feeling hungry and after thanking each other. They were in the living room: nice and comfortable. It is years old, with soft yellow wallpaper. Her television was on top of a library (filled with various things: horror books, science fiction in the right dose, comics painstakingly collected by Stanley, and music. Lots of music). In the kitchen was Caryn, who was busy cooking something. They both go to the dining room, and wait for their mother. She is wearing a football shirt, with the number 04 on the back. In addition to pants of different scales of blue. “Well, who's having a birthday today?” Her mother finally looks up to say good morning. Stan thinks: his mother has slightly reddish eyes. Maybe she fell asleep with tears still on her face. Why haven't she told them how she was feeling, or at least to someone else? She must have been the most emotionally charged to deal with. He felt very sorry for his mother. Is she trying to pretend that she is supporting herself for them?

“So, what’s the breakfast?” Asked Stan when it comes out of his musings when they were starting to bother. Her mother tells her that they are going to eat waffles (which they ended quite quickly). Stanford was engrossed in seeing his new possession. “Ford, where did you get that necklace?” Asked Caryn when noticing his son. He said that it was Stanley’s gift. Their mother looked at her children: they always take care of each other, no matter what. It is a relationship of real mutual affection. Stan's light went on and he went back to his room. “–Where is that dwarf going? -” Caryn wondered mentally when the boy left and returned a few minutes later. He gave her Ford's gift. His mother had almost the same reaction as Stan when opening the gift: she was left for a few moments with absolutely nothing to say, and then moved. “Ma...” Stan said suddenly, who looked at his mother, who was already starting to have watery eyes. “Look, boys: I'm going to go get some things for the cake” Caryn says to her children to explain what they could do. “. And so that you don't get bored when you're locked up, why don't you go to the beach? Let's see if you get some color, pair of vampires.” Caryn makes a graceful movement to grab the nose of Ford, who smiles at the little joke. “Do it, or I’ll make you carry all the bags.” After a while, the twins walked out the front door. Stanford stood for a few seconds at the door before following Stan. He turned to see his mother. “Ma...” “What's the matter, honey?” “Are you okay?” Caryn was silent for a few seconds. Her smiling didn’t change. Caryn replied, after shaking her head almost imperceptibly to react: “Of course I am, Mousy. See both sides before crossing the streets, fine?” With this, Ford gives him a bigger smile, and finally, he leaves.

Caryn is undaunted. Sharpen her ear to know if her children finally left home. She finally hears the twins when they close the door. Caryn erases her smile, ceasing finally. She couldn't take it anymore. She didn't want to pretend, but she should. Caryn did not want to worry his children. She ... she honestly tried to be good, to try to be fine for them. But acting like a happy mother was tearing her apart. I really needed to tell them that she ... Caryn sighed. She took a deep breath before getting up. She needed an escape. Caryn went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of wine. A cup, and then she returned to the table. Caryn poured herself a good squirt, and took a sip. For a few moments, she saw her husband's photo. She just couldn't stop thinking about Fil. It was catching her. She wanted to continue: she couldn't stand it anymore because it was too painful for her to remember the facts. But it was constant comings and goings that her own memory used to torment her with the fact: “-Filbrick is dead, and now you are alone.-” With certain bitterness, the widow remembers how her story with her Fil, with her man began. And it was, at Glass Shard beach.

It seemed like a déjà vu: one of the most important places for Caryn was the beach. From that day on, that place took on a kind of magical importance after she saw him, and that same interest for the beach was conveyed to her children in the same way. Caryn took a drink to accompany herself to confront her memories a little better. It was exactly the day she left work. Caryn resigned from The Drunk Clam. Caryn barely received less than acceptable pay for her services -other than that the bar was a dump that preached a bad death.- She walked near the edge, barefoot. She could feel the salty waters of his feet. Caryn was stunned, thinking of one thing: “-now what?-” She walked and walked, until she collided. She hadn't realized it. Caryn immediately demanded: “Hey, don't you see where…” Caryn couldn't finish her complaint when she saw Filbrick: he was there, looking at her. May a lot of people don’t believe that love at first sight exists: it seems to them an invention worthy of tales like Cinderella , Snow White , or any story that wasn’t written by Carlo Collodi. Although, Caryn didn’t care at all that millions thought about the subject: she believed from that moment that this type of affectionateness existed.

After that day, Caryn was only dreamed of by that man: he looked perfect. His body, his broad shoulders, his well-tanned features , all of him incredible for Caryn's taste. For a week, with what can be described as a kind of not-so-healthy obsession, she searched as best she could for the number of that stranger, or at least something that could get her to see him again. She was able to hear from him little by little: he was working in a construction as just another little helper. Caryn more or less knew where to locate him, and when she saw him, Caryn asked if he could make a date with her. To his surprise, Filbrick accepted. They confirmed the day and hour, and separated at the crossroads. When she was alone, the woman jumped for joy: she did it, dammit: she did it. It should be clarified that Filbrick only accepted for one reason; which was that for one day he wanted to escape his tedious routine. He admitted that Caryn was pretty, although the date could help clear his mind. But hey: that, or having to carry concrete bags to the mixer with hot sun stalking. The expected date night came, and they both went to a karaoke bar. Before that, they went to dinner. Caryn was damn nervous: it was her first time on a date since high school, and she didn't want to screw up. Filbrick concealed his boredom as best he could. Between accepting the date, or having an arduous workday, he preferred the latter.

By the time they reached to the bar, the two of them went to a room so they could be alone (Fil, despite being on the point of falling asleep from the bluntness, he had enough chivalry to invite drinks from his own pocket ). Caryn approached the screen. Filbrick looked completely neutral, but to himself he said: “-I'm sure this girl is one of those people who think they sing amazing, but they are a complete junk.-“ “Have any preference?" Caryn asked , and turned around. Filbrick replied quickly: “Whatevah you want.” Caryn felt overwhelmed: she felt Fil's discontent. She quickly searched for a song she might know. And she did find it: Maybe , by Janis Joplin. The woman's eyes flashed upon finding her. She selected it, and began to listen to the beginning of the song.

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It all started with that hippie rhythm, the typical rhythm of the late sixties. Trumpets were quickly introduced after strumming a guitar. There, the song became much faster. Filbrick prepares for disaster, seeing Caryn imitate Janis in her smooth, wave-like movements. But, inevitably, Caryn opened her mouth to barf the words: “Maybe ... Oh, if I could pray, and I try, dear, you might come back home, home to me.” Filbrick opened his eyes. His surprise was huge when he saw Caryn sing, but not regular , but incredible. Her voice wouldn’t be the most appropriate for the blues genre, but she was setting the nail in every way: Caryn was feeling it, understanding what each word meant, and taught it with her voice and movements. “Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, dear, I guess I might have done something wrong, Honey, I'd be glad to admit it! Ooh, come on home to me! Honey, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe yeah!” For God’s sake: she seemed wild, rude, and strong, she had an almost unreal authenticity. She contorted with almost every part of his body: neither arms nor feet were indifferent to the emotion . She looked like a reincarnation of Pearl. Caryn just let go. It looked like a lioness.

Caryn flew to the following verse: “Please, please, please, please, oh won't you reconsider, babe, now come on, I said come back, won't you come back to me!” And there, in the final part of the penultimate strophe, the presence of the Texan girl known as Janis Joplin in Caryn Pines was felt for a few seconds: that same essence, the same characterization was in her for a while. “Maybe, dear, oh maybe, maybe, maybe, lemme help you: show me how. Honey maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe, yeah! Ooh!” The song decreased. It went out, but the spark was still felt in the twist movements of the feet as it turned slowly off. Caryn just felt weightless at the time. She had done the best she could. Caryn stopped playing the dead character, to turn to see her date. Which was applauding her. They were not ironic applause: they were authentic. They both left after a while, and walked next to him. “Wow: you have talent.” Caryn muttered a somewhat shameless "thanks". Filbrick was looking across the street . "So… did you have fun?" Caryn asked. Well, it was the moment of truth. “Well, yeah, of course. It was fun… it wasn’t” Caryn stopped. She thoughts he had ruined it. “: I must admit that I was ... bored.” Caryn's soul fell to her feet, and she began to apologize. Fil interrupted her.

“It wasn’t fair to you: I noticed that you tried your best. I'm sorry that I didn't recognize that. ” Caryn was speechless. So: was it a disaster or not? Caryn was confused as she needed time to swallow those words. Now that Filbrick think about it, he partially enjoyed the date. “But... how do you know how to sing so swell?” Filbrick asks. Maybe he was trying to remedy his pedantic attitude. Caryn replied that she had taken singing lessons as a child, and the talent was completely natural to her. Filbrick listened. Throughout the date, he had not paid as much attention to his companion until that moment. "And ... do you see hope on this?" Asked Filbrick; without wanting interrupting Caryn. And like a lightning, Filbrick was embarrassed by that question. Caryn, however, didn't mind at all. That phrase had a very special meaning, a special intonation. The reason for that question was to introduce them to a moment full of palpitations and excited hormones. “W-what do you mean?” The woman asks stupidly, since her feelings make her completely drunk with confusion. "I mean" Filbrick had started to blush. His ears flushed with his cheeks. “, you are ... pretty, you have talent, and...” Between each word Fil was blushing at every step, and Caryn laughed at the nerves, the emotion ... the feeling of ridiculousness, discomfort -and to be frank- the kitsch of silence that was presented. This is love, this is how it works: it is as unpredictable as the victory of a paraplegic over a professional runner in the hundred-meter-flat . “Well, this is getting awkward...” Caryn joked poorly. Filbrick agreed with her on that point, shaking his head quickly. “Yes it is.” “You asked if this was going to ... work. Why are you sure about it?” Caryn muttered, nervous. Her heart was going to be catapulted out of her chest in a daze. She tried to chill, without success, as Filbrick tried the same. He thought for a few seconds. If it would work, effectively? They barely even had a date, but they could both have some chemistry together. “We… could make it work it out.” He dropped it like a bomb: that melted the woman's heart, and her eyes lit up. There was a simple moment, when they just they drowned in each other's eyes. Some showed true love. Others showed a certain spark that gradually became a powerful flame. It was a silent moment of tension, not of discomfort. The silent between them were so fragile, that it could be cut it by a knife. Filbrick see her. Filled with something.

And it was Filbrick who took the first step. The date perfectly could have been a complete fiasco. It could all have been a terrible mistake, where Caryn could have been smashed. By pure luck he rectified. Caryn's voice and Filbrick's reflection caused them to be given an opportunity. There could have been an awkward silence in the car because of the failed date: so much that it would have been worthy of comedy for misfortune. But, Filbrick made the first step with Caryn. How?: he kissed her. It was a delicate, nervous, fragile kiss. But Caryn liked it: that kiss was full of poesy, full of no enough words to describe love, the great passion. And Filbrick, ridiculously started to blush one more time. His kiss was an action driven by desire, by the pure feeling of a blossoming romance. But, who cared about it?: they were happy. Filbrick noticed it: he loves Caryn as a singer loves the music. She felt like the most pleasant woman in the world: she didn't seem to care anymore. The least possible love, the least realistic love was being fulfilled. With those last memories, recalling the sweet memories, Caryn got up, not without taking another sip of a sweet wine. She was shedding tears. She stroked her husband's face in the photo. Every second seemed to be an ordeal, a very painful burden. Caryn saw the cup: she hardly touched it. She walked away, and left the photo on the nightstand. Caryn remembered that she had to buy to make a famous meal, and… she needed to collect the grades. Oh, the school grades: the executioner of almost any student.

Caryn got ready (she did what she could to hide her dark circles with her makeup), took the car keys and drove away. She drove, and she drove. Caryn had something in mind, but would she be able to do it? Could be, for real? She couldn't go on. Filbrick was like a part of her body she lost in an accident: it was phantom pain that haunted her. She, with all her might, despite everything, misses him ... for every single saint thing in this world: she miss him as a slave miss his freedom, as a flower miss the sun when it gets dark. She miss him. And there was –for her- not enough words to describe that feeling.

So tell me: did you like it? If so, leave your Like, and comment. I plead you, please. XD. If you see a strange word, I apologize. Inform me of that and I will correct it myself (just because I don't have a good command of English it doesn’t mean that I leave a job with mistakes of grammar, however small it may be). From the bottom of my heart, I hope you liked it, and remember to clean your hands, keep your distance, greet like the people of Wakanda, and have your vitamins on hand! Salvete ignotum est a terra.

#young stanley pines #young stanford pines #gravity falls #gravity falls au #my fics #My writing #Stanley Pines #stanford pines #stan and ford pines: a melancolic story #reblog if you wish

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stupendoustrashmagazine · 5 years ago

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Four Poems

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Ether Call Failure Bulldozers alert the camps it’s a cleaning day. The army on foot ran along disappearing rails For paths; the mud run down in steep collapse. They use machetes: light, agile, easy to Use; it’s plays often an important social role. Government personnel shake hands, exchanges Lilies; it was said that a whole shelf sank & there weren’t, as far as was known, survivors. There remains a brightness in the flags cause To catch wind, trust its semeiotics & a sheet’s Just fine. Boats are the only way out. People stack people on their backs. Unmarked bodies, many after many after many, go on, pulse In ways unavailable to the living. Satellite verifies, a purpled Amoeba which represents the destruction of 288 villages. Watching watching so the “what” is cradled &, often, turned against Another. Archaeopteryx in the bum glum de- flared subjectivity. Extinction sounds like zinc & sun—zinc oxide effectively prevents UV burn. The surveillance data is encrypted in a locket. It’s for a special someone but leaves dying A whole history dying in bodies & wouldn’t That it may later be written, wouldn’t that have— These flourishes sweet-tongued during tragedy.

Double Sonnet The loan depot’s a long trailer fit With brick & a yellow tin aluminum roof. Inordinate trust in newly formed banks Gave way to banners, bowls of bitter rinds, Noise ordinance turned to housing gas- Light promise of pair inside pentagon, Taxes levied in multiples, oak wagons Sidgel’s with rubber, tobacco, sassafras, Pig faces, drawndried deer strips, hide. The man was forced to use oxygen tanks To make his escalator pitch, the rubric Was a ruse, anyway, he shan't be forgiven. At the trading depot the chorus splinters. Namesakes, objects, quiet markets, gore, An electric car battery, superenlarged By a 3-D printing machine, speeds beneath Interstices of highway overpass heard By bats taking in the heat of the scene. The fires dealt with, eventually, a tonic To easy fractures of sleep, stitch’d with worry About furniture, security systems, Systems with formidable letter & weather. Weapon in kitchen, weapon pillow bed, Fred Astaire calls the arboretum An Omaha Classic, prairie & pillory Glitches between tomato plants, phonics On elliptical drive, a pressure to foliage, The battery a fire of boys lost whole.

Walking Room “e” [perpetuity icon in rainbow refrain apple neuron] Wool robe; off-white; wrap’d over a body. Dust, cloak’d figures, shops, Stands. Sign—NO GNATS, PLZ—back & forth incomplete audio disturbs— as stone does water’s surface tension— medium required for it being it. The wharf work far from done; the war in a state of income. Pliés data, perm manhunt aunt?— Ferry’d Enkidu, open courseware data: ”apocalyptic cyprus” in a jar. Glas refracts, trans- mutes & replies with a specter; specter is on special, comes with no .location data-boost package. Car sin car son No ma, nomae, no men... Memorialization Way©☠ Disappearances celebré sates senses’ Sorry needs. It’s a generative startup whose value increases with each amnesia. Social units form groups, the plastic parameters of which burst. [broken link] The museum tactile, crumbs, kids, glass, Things on screens things incased with glow; with aura. Insecurities abound. [Curator: Brutality in the collection… [Museum Outreach Rep: Gotta get smiles on the faces of our patrons after the “Slavery, Genocide, & the America’s Hope” exhibit.) You ain’t shit Siyanda used to say to me. Good thing we’re not friends anymore. So few in the prairie; miss the south south loves. The moon drops a scythe onto fallen canopy network, utility lines mix’d with Gary oak & Doug firs, splitting off Looking a corridor of heads- Up pennies to paddle through— in a valley then. Loss fabricated for marketplace— NOW WITH FREE INSULIN PUMP + DIABETES ZIP.DRIVE! Passing playpen Little Tik_s Pathogens, pandemic COMING TO YOU SOON, old roman. Figueora to pull a chain from uvula untrain’d singer this user “laryngeal something or other” tries to sing sliver of silver, algal XY galaxy, deletes. The warp’d reflection in stainless foldable legs of kitchen tables. ‘Fata. Oblit- eration fetches origin—oubliette. —Weeping in evening. P-trap repair, cradle the toilet-seat, polarities Kissing near a fountain in Philadelphia Dive to reef’s bottom, see lemon sharks. Park car. Hardwood floors – maple? – I own seventy properties in – kitchen floor sags, the hill – it’ll go quick - lucky to’ve passed on a rental. Yoga studios, old fun in the Oldsmobile, in Sherlock’s Ford A DdoS attack. Drifting toward death is death of a subject. The unbearable present is birth. From then on, recovery is a cybernetic venture, a necrophilic urge to simulate the birth of loss. Returning to anything estranges user from the familiar. The lives of others offer a chance to strike; to ask if the state should face execution. If dying should contain a direction; if weapons are necessary.

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cliffike6-blog · 5 years ago

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Ernest was driving behind the largest vehicle he had actually ever before seen, when ... ... ... CHINK!!! A crack the size of everest crossed his windscreen. Ernest swerved into the opposite lane and also stumbled onward as the side of his cars and truck his hit the concrete exterior siding of a barricade! Ernest was stunned but with the haze he saw his split guest window. In his dizzy amazement he exhaled, recognizing that he had decided out of the broken windscreen insurance, as well as would certainly now require to obtain a new windshield replacement quote. Fumbling for his t-shirt pocket, he medication his phone up and out. The screen was fractured, however the point still worked thankfully. He wincely rested up and also began typing, auto glass repair near me.

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They began strolling in a sluggish shuffle, as Evie supported him on her shoulders. He felt his phone ping in his pocket and dug his hand right into his t shirt pocket. He took out his fractured phone and also checked out the little alert. He scrunched up your eyes at the little manuscript and also blinked numerous times. He assumed it had located his search of auto glass repair near me, however all he might make out was repair and something that looked like auto beer me. Ernest blinked numerous more times, then gave up and also pushed the phone back in his shirt pocket. "So the length of time has your papa worked autoglass?" his vision had actually begun swimming and he was doing his ideal not to stumble. Evie eyed him, with a stressed appearance. " ... he's been doing cars and truck glass repair for as lengthy as I remember," she reduced as Ernest sagged, "do you need to take a break? I understood it I'm calling for aid!"

"No," Ernest mumbled, "I'm fineeeeeee." He was starting to have some difficulty seeing where he was walking on account of all the black openings that kept showing up in his vision. He felt himself dropping and also heard Evie stating something, and afterwards all was black.

Ernest was driving behind the largest vehicle he had actually ever seen, when ... ... ... CHINK!!! A split the dimension of everest crossed his windshield. In his lightheaded stupor he exhaled, recognizing that he had opted out of the broken windshield insurance, and also would currently need to get a new windshield replacement quote. "Windshield Replacement Come to You! "There is an automobile windshield replacement store around the corner, I understand the proprietor, so we can at least obtain ya out of the car," she stated and smiled, "after that you might also get an auto glass replacement quote, as well as a cheap windshield replacement."

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sirkkasnow · 5 years ago

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02 Always Take the Nickel Tour

Ao3 link

07/01/13 Monday

Morning dawned with a pleasant chill. Between Stan, Soos and Ford, they got the old station wagon - a sky-blue Ford Fairlane - rolled away from the house and tucked in at a shallow angle next to the Stanleymobile. The S still leaned forlornly against the dented siding. They’d get it hauled up and nailed back into place later.

Stan swept the road-trip debris off the front passenger seat and cracked the glove compartment. He set aside the age-yellowed manual and the service records, most of them crisp and fragile on ancient transfer paper, one new, extensive and computer-printed.

He then flipped through everything else, scanning with an expert eye for items of interest.

Brand new insurance card in the name of Clara Jane Merrick. A small collection of much older insurance cards in the name of Charles and Caroline Merrick. Vintage pressure gauge, matte black LED flashlight, heavy-framed designer sunglasses, can of pepper spray.

Photograph in a gold-stamped cardboard frame. Stan fished that one out, curious. The photo stock was the old-school linen textured stuff. Three blondes of varying shades grinned back at him, lined up like nesting dolls by age – forties, twenties, preteen – with matching sunhats and huge smiles. The smallest and darkest-haired was instantly recognizable as Clary. She was maybe twelve years old here, a beaky girl still growing into the aquiline nose neither of the others shared. He flexed the frame in one hand, squinting in to read the penned inscription on the photo's back - Carrie, Charlie, Clary.

Stan filed that away for later reference, returned the less-relevant stuff to the glove compartment, then leaned way over along the bench seat to pull the hood release.

The sun had slipped past noon by the time Clary finally emerged from the house, looking far less threadbare than she had the prior night. She was crisply dressed in yesterday’s Bermuda shorts, a fresh button-down shirt and a silk scarf patterned with dragonflies - wrapped twice, snug, knotted off-center at the throat. “Good afternoon, Stan.”

“Hey, Clary. Feelin’ better?” He was elbow-deep in the car’s guts by now, a few unsalvageable bits laid out on an old towel to one side. Grease streaked his forearms. The engine was pretty nice for something near the age of his own wheels, a huge V-8 that had seen very little use. This must have spent most of its life in a garage.

Clary stepped in alongside Stan, peering despondently into the engine compartment. “Sore, but rested, at least. What’s the diagnosis?”

Stan hissed in thought. “Drive belt assembly’s shot, electricals are kind of a mess. Radiator hoses of course. Think the engine block’s okay. The body damage isn’t too bad.”

Clary ran exploring fingers along the battered chrome of the front grill, mouth set in an unhappy line. “Except for the concave hood, I suppose. What can I do to help?”

“Know anythin’ about cars?”

“Repair? Not a thing.”

“It’s gonna be a while.” Stan glanced sidelong to study her profile.

“Ford said it may take weeks.” Clary’s tone was conflicted, teeth catching lightly at her lower lip, brow furrowed.

“Ford doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about when it comes to cars, but yeah, he’s not wrong. This thing’s old and the parts are gonna be a pain to scavenge up.” Stan straightened and toweled off his hands. “Orderin’ stuff in would take a while and I know from experience that you don’t always get the right widget through the mail. Might have a couple ideas about local sources…we’ll see. You okay?”

That air of pinched distress was tight around her eyes again. She rolled her shoulders back, looking up and out into the forest. An unhurried breeze set thousands of green-velvet branches into whispering motion. “Okay enough. It’s gorgeous here,” almost as an afterthought.

Stan flicked his gaze heavenwards for a weary moment. Yeah, she’d be staying for the duration. What the hell was it with tourists and pines? “Y’get used to it. Check out the Shack yet?”

“Not yet. I was promised an expert guide.” She stepped away, heading around the back of the wagon to unlatch and hoist down the mountain bike from its rack. A faint residue of reddish dust clung to the tire rims. “Maybe when I’m done unpacking the basics? Since I’m going to be here a few days, there are people who need to know my plans have changed.”

“Thought you were on vacation.”

“Money never sleeps, and unfortunately it’s easy to get some things done on the road.”

She trailed back and forth for a while, parking the bike and hauling a larger duffel bag into the house. Stan worked methodically through the last few items on his engine checklist and jotted down an occasional note. By the time she returned he had a more or less complete catalogue of what needed work. He lowered the badly-dented hood into place and latched it. “Fixin’ this is gonna be an adventure.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. Let me know what you need in terms of parts, I can cover whatever – “

Stan ducked his head, stifling the wide flash of his grin behind one hand. “Careful, kid, don’t leave yourself quite that wide open. This is pretty much on Ford anyway so I’ll take most of it out of his hide. C’mon.” Clary paced in his wake, looking up and out across the Shack grounds like she hadn’t bothered before – probably a fair enough assessment after yesterday’s chaos. “So car repair’s not your bag, no shock that. How about arts and crafts? Tall tales? Improv?”

“I’ve had to put on a song-and-dance routine for the IRS a few times. Does that count?”

That startled a laugh out of him. “Depends on whether you pulled it off.”

“I definitely pulled it off. At least no one’s come looking for me yet.”

“Maybe you help me help Soos around the Shack, then, put those tap-dancin’ skills to the test. A favor for a favor.”

Clary frowned at him in puzzlement. “I’m game to try. This is all a bit outside my wheelhouse.”

“Honestly, you could get stuck in way worse places than this. We’ve got tons of stuff for the discernin’ passerby. Merchandise, magic, mystery, uh, mayhem, you get the picture.”

They walked through the house and he held the showroom door open for a moment. Clary peeked through at the flock of tourists trailing after Soos like happy ducklings. “You interested in this kinda stuff?”

“Interested enough to read the bumper sticker. Not enough to actually plan you into my itinerary.”

“Damn shame, that, you’d be missin’ out on the ninth wonder of the world.” He managed to time it in sync with Soos’ patter, the rhythm of the show familiar as breathing, and got a chuckle in return. “They’ll wrap up in a few, we’ll take a quick look at the gift shop until they clear out. Then you get your Founder’s Tour.”

“That’s you, then, not Soos?”

“Got it in one. I built this place from the ground up! Sure, the house was here and the junk was here, but I’m the one who spun it into a wondrous house of mysterious junk.” His hands swept up and out in a marquee arc. Clary gave him that wry, oblique glance he was getting used to.

The gift shop was temporarily abandoned. Stan made himself comfortable leaning against the counter and watched her pace the periphery, trailing careful fingertips over the snow globes. “Take a look around! If you see an impulse buy, make it.”

“I’ll pick out a few things before I go. If I don’t have physical evidence, no one will believe that I was here.” She picked up a snow globe, flipped it over to stir the flakes into motion, then set it down with exaggerated caution and headed for the freezer.

“Just because you’re stayin’ over does not mean you get to sneak in here for an ice pop.” He watched her peer through the glass at their collection of frozen novelties. “This as far out west as you’ve gotten? I mean, we’re off the beaten path and you’re just passin’ through, right? Most folks would’ve taken the main route north of here.”

“This is my fifth state in - “ She frowned, then sighed. “Three days with the overnight, I guess. I’ve been taking it slow and sticking to the state highways, since I’m traveling solo.”

“Long way to drive alone.”

“Yes.” Clary skimmed through the T-shirt rack and plucked out a question mark to hold up against her chest. “You started this place up, then. Can I ask how long you’ve been at it? There’s some history here, I can see that much.”

“Thirty years.” Easier to say now that the long wait was over, that was for sure. He studied her thoughtfully; she was a tough read compared to the usual Gravity Falls crowd. “Can’t say that I ever thought I’d start to enjoy this line of work, originally the idea was just to get the mortgage paid, but go figure. Built a pretty nice business out of tellin’ lies – ‘scuse me, stories.”

A bare sliver of a smile curled along her lips. “You did. I can tell this is a local institution. You’re retired now?”

“More or less. My brother wanted to haul me off on an expedition. Couldn’t say no.” Stan ducked his chin, smiling to himself. “Couldn’t up an’ close the place either, so I left it all to Soos. Been nice to come back and see what he’s made of it, stick my hand in again. You can take the man out of the Mystery Shack, but you can’t take the mystery out of the man, I guess.”

Clary came to rest at the counter next to him, hands empty, he noted. “So I get a rare chance at a tour from the original Mr. Mystery.”

“What, nothin’ here inspires you to drop a wad of cash?”

“I think I’ll make my purchases after I have a functioning car.”

“Fair enough. You’re about to witness a true master in action.” The excited murmur of shopping-primed tourists was beginning to build at the interior door. “We’ve got maybe twenty minutes before the next gaggle rolls through, so you get the short form. Anythin’ specific you want to see?”

They slipped out of the shop as the current group started to trickle in, ducking into the showroom. Stan couldn’t help sweeping an arm out to indicate the entire collection. “Behold, the Mystery Shack!”

Clary appraised the exhibits with cool cynicism. “Which one of these gets the least attention? I’ve always loved the half-hidden displays best.”

She strolled at his side, hands in her pockets, lips twitching now and then as he spun familiar stories. Coaxing a laugh out of her at the right points, a smile here and there, felt like a little victory. There was a customer like this in every tour, the one who’d been dragged along by family or friends. If that one could be won over the rest of the group would be eating out of his hand.

“I have no idea what this is. Must be a Soos addition.” Stan peered at the tiny huts shingled with pine cone scales built into a series of branches suspended from one of the ceilings, glittering with well-concealed LED lights. “All right, the Village of Cannibal Pixies, to whom we’re apparently now rentin’ space in the showroom. They’re out huntin’ their fellow fairies for the rest of the day, but they’ll be back this evenin’ and no doubt throwin’ quite the party, which is just as well, because most of the other fairies ‘round these parts are about as much fun as a root canal….”

She had to bite her lip against a horrified laugh. “I thought these were all your creations?”

“Nah. You’ve gotta keep the mix fresh. Throw in somethin’ new and the tourists will flock through the doors. It’s been almost a year since I got to add a new exhibit, actually.” Stan nudged her in the side with an elbow. “And you are gonna help me put my mark on the place again. Think you’ve soaked up enough inspiration?”

“I’ve soaked up something. Inspiration for what, exactly?” Stan ushered her through another door, one tucked into the shadow of a larger display’s curtain. They wove together through a twisting hallway and he savored her blink of surprise when they emerged a few steps down the hall from the kitchen.

“We’re makin’ another attraction for the showroom.” He’d already laid out most of the basics earlier that morning, with a vague plan towards taking stock and maybe patching some bits and bobs together, but the prospect of testing their new guest’s creative skills – not patience, that’d be rude – was too good to pass up.

The contents of the kitchen table were pauper’s choices, honestly. A handful of pelts, odds and ends left over from birds long since parted out for other projects, a couple of smaller skulls, coils of heavy aluminum wire for armatures. Clary sifted through the remnants with a careful hand and a dubious expression.

“Surprise me.” He dropped off a tack hammer and a few brads on his way past. She made a faint incredulous noise, her head swiveling to follow, and Stan shot her a flat look of challenge: Show me what you’ve got, bean-counter.

Her shoulders stiffened, and she settled cautiously into one of the kitchen chairs. “Pliers?”

“Toolbox under the table.”

The toolbox jangled heavily as she hauled it up into easy reach. He tuned out the low noise of her work for a while. His own projects kept him plenty busy – sprucing up the display cards for a couple of the new oddities Soos had incorporated, reviewing the merch inventory and a couple of new concepts, moving on with a hum of pleasure to update the current supply list for the Stan O’War.

It was the better part of an hour before he heard the chair scrape back. “Tinfoil?” Clary asked.

“Two drawers over from the fridge.”

A few clunks and a crinkle, then he heard her muttering spoon, spoon under her breath, clattering through the silverware drawer. She paced back over to the table and dragged the chair back in with a shallow sigh. Stan glanced over and saw her hunched over an armature, brow creased as she padded out the shape.

“You all right over there?” He was trying not to laugh. This was not the kind of focus he’d been expecting.

“Flashbacks to high school art class, nothing too traumatic, I promise.”

This went on for a while. Stan drifted out of the kitchen to track down one of the Shack ledgers and his last box of spare critter bits, which he set wordlessly at her elbow. She ransacked the contents and didn’t look up when she spoke. “Putty?” He rattled through a drawer and dropped off half a jumbo packet of the plumber’s two-part type on the table, which Clary pulled in and unwrapped.

It was well past five when something mostly complete sat before her. She had come up with a compact little mustelid nightmare, something weaselish in build with elaborate grasping talons pieced together from every sharp claw remaining amid the sorry leftovers he’d dumped out of his dwindling box of tricks. Wings scavenged from a sharp-shinned hawk he’d collected on some roadside ages ago were anchored in half-furled at the shoulders. The mink skull had been carefully if inexpertly re-skinned. Brow ridges and tiny, twisting horns sculpted out of plumber’s putty crowned the toothy head.

The thing was cute in an amateur way. He thought, bemused, that it might make a decent plush toy.

Clary flipped the critter over, features creased in complete concentration as she stitched in the last bits along the belly. “Got any paint?”

Stan folded his arms, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “Y’know, normally I’d just patch together bits from a fish, a squirrel and a chicken, and call it good.”

“Hell with that, we’ve got tourists to impress.” Clary hissed under her breath as she stabbed herself with the needle. When she finally stretched, he heard her neck pop and saw the wince. “What time is it anyway?”

“Half past time to pack it in, kid.”

She sat up straight in surprise, glancing out the window into the saturated deep-golden light of late, late afternoon. “Oh no.”

Stan tilted his thumb her way, letting the grin widen. “So I think you might be on the hook for pizza tonight. Seein’ as how you’ve been dead to the world for hours and we’d be goin’ with cereal otherwise.”

An indignant pause hung in the air as her brows rose sharply. “There’s still plenty of time for me to call my insurance company. I might well have whiplash. Those old-school bench seats with no headrest are infamous for that.”

He slung a dirty look over his shoulder as he retrieved the paintbox from a cupboard. “Ford said you were fine.”

“I don’t think I heard him mention a medical degree in that list he rattled off.”

“All right, fine, we’ll split pizza for the gang.” Her eyes narrowed to calculating slits. “Lady, you drive a hard bargain. Howsabout you tell me what this thing is and then we’ll talk.” Stan opened the paintbox and sorted through half-empty tubes of acrylics. “You know how to drybrush?”

“Nope.” Clary studied her spiky-clawed creation, somewhat at a loss. “Let me mull this over a moment….”

“It helps to have some idea what you’re doin’ before you start stitchin’ things together, y’know.” Stan picked out a dark chocolate brown and laid down a quick basecoat on the horns. “You’ve outfoxed the IRS? Then all you gotta do is think on your feet.”

There was a brief quiet. The weight of her gaze lingered on him as he dipped into a deep purple and started shading along the inner edge of the brow ridge.

“This is the lesser Northwestern horned hawkweasel,” she said at length, adopting the deep, plummy tone of a nature-documentary narrator. “Or the midnight mink. Fierce far out of proportion to their size, these crafty, fearless creatures feed mainly on fish and whatever birds they can catch. Usually solitary, as the moon wanes they gather up in gangs to hunt their favored prey – nightmares. The bigger, the better.”

“Where’s a winged weasel gonna find nightmares in the depths of the Cascades?” Stan plucked out a liner brush and limned the eyes with a perfect pinstripe of metallic teal.

“Everything that can think has dreams. These little fellas like the blackest, bleakest ones they can find, and some of the denizens of these forests have deep and terrible dreams. If not for these guys, some of those denizens might wake up.”

Stan snorted in soft amusement as he laid highlights in along the horns. “Not terrible for a first shot. Soos might dig the idea, and hell, at least Lovecraft’s long since out of copyright, yeah?” He sat back, assessing, then touched on a last few dots of color. “This is about as show-ready as it’s gonna get. Hang on a sec.”

He toted the not-quite-weasel down to the office, setting it on the least cluttered file cabinet for later – it was going to need a story card at the very least – then swung by the deserted gift shop, cracking the vending machine open to fish out a couple of ice-cold Pitts. Clary was packing away tools by the time he returned to the kitchen, and he set a can within easy reach. “Nothin’ like a cold one to finish up the day. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” She picked up her can, popped it, then tapped its edge against his. “I’ve got to wonder.” He eyed her, momentarily wary, as he dropped into his own chair. “What possessed a man from New Jersey to land way out here in the hinterlands of Oregon? It’s certainly pretty, but this is about as close to the absolute middle of nowhere as I’ve ever been.”

“You actually interested in me? Or do you ask everyone these kinda questions?”

“I’m mainly interested in you.”

That was a bit of a surprise. A chuckle snagged in Stan’s chest as he met her frank regard. “Usually the longest I can get people to listen to me is when I’m sellin’ somethin’, and even then it’s tough luck.”

“I don’t buy that for a second.” The faint curve of her smile was half obscured by the rim of her soda can. “No way you kept this place running for so long without knowing how to string an audience along in suspense.”

“It’s, ah, it’s a knack. I’ve been good at it ever since I was a kid.” He cleared his throat and took a lingering sip, buying a moment. Her brows quirked in expectation. “So, you’re serious?”

“How long do you plan on leaving me in suspense?”

“The last time someone started askin’ personal questions, she tried to eat me,” Stan muttered. “Can you imagine? I’m practically skin and bones.”

That bought him a sharp laugh, right on the beat. “Come on. You can’t just leave it there.”

Stan took a long look at her, then drew breath, fired up the cockiest grin in his repertoire, and launched in. “So, y’see, there’s this irresistible thing called ‘revenge’….”

Clary was a good listener and a better interrogator, absorbing whatever outrageous half-truth he had to offer without scoffing, pressing with well-targeted questions at every opportunity. Every time she cut close to the bone he’d flash her something shiny to distract. Verbal sleight-of-hand was so second nature by now that he barely noticed doing it. Stan couldn’t tell how much of it she was buying, which was disconcerting as hell.

In the end he paid for the pizza. She slipped in behind him to press an overgenerous tip into the delivery driver’s hand.

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There are plenty of repair records in the glove box, the old manual, and some other potentially interesting odds and ends.

Just take the repair records and the manual.

Go through all the personal paperwork.

Is there any money in there?

#Gravity Falls #gfdatingsim #DDtMMW #Swooning Over Stans #Stanley Pines #oclicious #fanfic

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j0x06ber · 6 years ago

Text

Stream of Consciousness #1

Thirteen years ago I was ten. At the time I was a seventy five pound, bright eyed little boy. I had big plans for my life. I was going to do well in school, go to college and begin a career writing fiction novels. I looked up to the likes of Stephen King, Edgar Allen Poe, and H.P. Lovecraft. Easily scared, I recall when I was six or seven, I slept in the spare room on the second story of my grandmothers house.

One night, my parents had left for the night and I was in bed. The darkness of the room was overwhelming. It felt as though tendrils were reaching up the bunk bed I slept in from all sides. Waiting for me to fall asleep. A delusion of my young mind to be sure, but it felt real at the time. I could almost see them, swaying back and fourth and snaking their way up the wall. What really scared me though was the fire alarm. It looked like like an evil red eye and it would blink as it watched me. As I stared at it and attempted to slow my breathing I could have sworn I saw teeth forming around the edges of the alarm, slowly creating a distorted and twisted grin around the eye and in a fit of fear, I ran out of the room.

Afraid I would get in trouble with the babysitter, I snuck down to the second landing that lead to the entry way, and curled up on the off-white carpet. I was just out of her sight, but close enough to the light and noise from the living room to bring me at least a bit of comfort. I watched the swinging chair my baby brother was in and listened to the soft clicking as it swayed back and fourth. Eventually I fell asleep and was found on the staircase. My family still has pictures of me huddled up the corner against the rafter and wall. Like a scared puppy.

This was a reoccurring theme throughout my life. I would regularly wake up and see stuff in the night. Even into my early teens, I would wake up and see the figure of a man standing outside of my room, or tapping at the window. I would hear disturbing whistling coming from the streets and manic howls. I was always scared.

This followed me throughout my life. The fear is no longer a result of the figments of my imagination, but rather something tangible. I no longer fear the figures in the night. They’ve long since stopped appearing to me. I fear my life direction at this point. I fear the people around me. I fear failure and the thought of having to live a whole life alone and in perpetual destitute.

When I was ten my brother was hit by a car. I was a bright student and had caught the attention of my teachers that year, and they had extended the offer to send me to The Tech Academy. My parents, ecstatic at the thought of their son attending what amounts to summer school at San Jose University didn’t so much as blink before signing me up, and that summer I began attending a course on robotics and hydroelectric power.

On the last day of summer, I returned home from San Jose to the flashing lights and sirens of an ambulance and police cars. On the grass in the front yard my youngest brothers bike was sat out, mangled. The bike was essentially bent in half; the tires and handlebars twisted. He had been riding his bike without a helmet, and in a dare with the neighbors kid, attempted to ride across a busy street that was at the end of our road. For context, we lived on the outskirts of town near a mushroom farm. Because there weren’t police actively patrolling this area and there was almost never traffic, people would drive down this road faster than they would the freeway. One such woman was doing eighty when my brother attempted to ride across the street. She slammed on the breaks, but it was too little too late, and hit him as he attempted to recross the road.

He would spend the next year in a coma at the hospital. The doctors repeatedly told us it was unlikely he would ever come out of it, and that even if he did, with the damage to his brain he would probably spend the rest of his life in a vegetative state. My parents decided to foot the bill though and hold out hope. In the end it paid off for them. He began to display movement in his fingers, and in the following months he was able to lift his head and move his arms.

He essentially had to start from scratch at 6 years old. He needed to relearn how to walk and talk. It would take years of physical therapy before he was, for the most part, functional again.

My parents weren’t around then. The issues I already had with depression and social anxiety would get worse during this period of time; as I stopped talking to people at school to avoid conversations related to my brothers accident and opted instead to spend most nights alone in my room, working on school projects or reading.

As time went on my feelings of detachment from the people and world around me would continue to worsen. It was no longer a case of just not wanting to talk. Instead it felt as though an impenetrable wall had been constructed between myself and everyone around me. I couldn’t relate to anyone, I didn’t know what to say in casual conversation, and the very act of speaking to others evoked a fight or flight response. If you are familiar with the borderlands series, my response to social interactions was similar, albeit less exaggerated, to that of Patricia Tannis. During this time I also regularly felt like I wasn’t in control of my body or actions. Everything I did felt like it was being done by an outside force, and I was just a spectator to it all. Despite all of this, there were people that refused to give up on me and they would go on to become close friends throughout high school and part of college.

Everything came to a head during my senior year. My friends were all distant and I felt it would be best if I transferred schools. I decided to take online courses to finish my final year. This was when I met Stephanie. She would be my anchor to reality, my best friend, and for a while, my girlfriend. Come graduation I experienced a psychotic break and began hearing/remembering conversations that never happened and people shouting my name. As my mental state deteriorated suicide stopped being a distant thought and became an appealing means of escaping. A permanent exit from what felt like some sort of an extended nightmare sequence straight of a David Lynch film.

June 8th I drove to an abandoned parking lot and parked under a tree illuminated orange by the streetlights just twenty feet away and grabbed out a benchmade knife I kept in the center console of my dingy orange ford. I started slashing everything I could My wrists, my arm, my shoulders, my chest, legs. Everything but my throat. I fully intended to kill myself that night. I sat there, globs of blood dripping off my arm onto cracked pavement and the side of the my seat.

I didn’t die that night. My typing this as proof. The bleeding stopped, at which point I was too light headed, weak, and scared to finish the job. Instead I fell asleep, woke up the next morning, put on my jacket, and drove home. Eventually my family found out what I had attempted to do. It was summer and I couldn’t wear my jacket all the time. Eventually they saw a couple, and demanded to see them all. Most of them weren’t too bad, but the ones on my wrist and chest were deep, with the cut on my sternum going all the way down to the bone. I carry hideous scars now as a reminder and have to be conscious of what I wear so as not to make the people around me uncomfortable. and I was hospitalized for the first time.

Stephanie was a sweetheart and everyday would drive three towns over where I was being kept to visit. Bringing healing stones, snacks, and much needed company. If you’re not familiar with wards, they are lonely and often times scary places. You have a routine of therapy, but outside that, there’s nothing to do but walk the halls, and when the clock hits 8, it’s lights out and you have to go to your shared room. I had been roomed with a violent schizophrenic that never acknowledged me when I tried to speak to him.

During my time there I was diagnosed with Bipolar and agraphobia. For the next three years I would be subjected to a number of heavy duty anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, and mood stabilizers. In tandem they dulled everything. I felt like a zombie. I no longer had emotional range and was tired all the time.

I started college a month after release. It was at this point I found out that the college funds my grandparents had been setting aside to put us through college had been used to pay my brothers hospital and therapy bills all those years ago. No one had told me this, and throughout school my parents discouraged me working, stating that my job was to focus on school and extra-curricular activities. I began working three jobs to pay for my courses, but after two years of this, my car broke down and I ended up shelling out five grand to repair the engine, only to have the transmission break soon after, leaving me no mode of transportation. Stephanie moved away to start her dream job as a forest ranger.

This was probably for the best. She was a sweet girl and I was bad news. I broke up with her shortly after getting the news that she was moving, and ended up reconnecting and getting into a relationship with Leilani. Leilani was also a very nice girl and supported me in more ways than she should have. We had similar issues, and she was able to understand what was going on with me better than most people, but our relationship was short lived. I isolate and cut off contact with everyone when I have a depressive episode. I was under the impression it would be better for everyone if I dissapeared when this happened. That I shouldn’t burden my friends with my own personal shit. It’s what I was taught growing up, to man up and deal with the problem. Don’t make it someone elses. During one of these episodes, she found someone else, and we fell out of contact. I remember the last thing she sent me was “Please don’t cut me out again”.

Shortly afterwards I was hospitalized once more. I had been out of college for a year and was working on paying for a new car and getting the debt I’d been accumulating through medicine costs and therapy when this happened. I was slapped with almost ten thousand dollars worth of debt, and that leads to today.

I will soon be twenty four. My friends and those that supported me for so long are gone. They have been for years. I’m living at my parents and am working a dead-end job as a QA engineer. I wont pretend like none of this is my fault. I’m self aware enough to know my own actions have lead me to this point. I should have dealt with my problems rather than trying to bury them. I should have accepted the help and support my friends had offered. I should have, in general, been a better person. I’m hoping that somehow, typing this all out, I can make peace with everything leading me to this point. If not that, to at least make sense of it.

#stream of conscience #writing

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