#goodness gracious i’ve been queued!

[dick-the3rd]

Just came to say I saw your queue tag “oh my goodness gracious! i’ve been queued!” and it is delightful!

Hehe thank youuu 💕

I love it, it never fails to make me smile (tho it's always a pain to write it everytime Tumblr forgets it lol)

[doctorstethoscope]

Moment || Aaron Hotchner x gn Reader

A/N: hiiii besties expanding on a lil prompt from the weekend due to popular demand! Thank you to @the-modernmary for  helping me with it!! If u liked this teeny bit of angst u will love her fics!!

just a little note for those of you who read The Right: I am going on vacation this coming Saturday-Wednesday. I will have the chapters queued to post for y’all, but I will not be able to respond to taglist requests or update the masterlist until I come back! Still let me know what you think about the chapters though, they’re some good ones! ok onto this fic.

contains: slight cursing, alcohol consumption

wc: 1.7k

You take a deep breath as you walk out of Strauss’s office, taking exactly one beat to regain your composure before hastily making your way over to Hotch’s office, letting yourself in without knocking. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” you said by way of greeting as you crossed his office and settled into one of the chairs across from his desk.

“Tell you what?” Hotch asks, looking up from his paperwork with confusion knit across his brow. 

“That Strauss was going to harangue me the second I walked into the building this morning. I seriously didn’t even make it past security before she nabbed me.” You told him, disgruntled. 

“I didn’t know. What did she want?” Aaron asks, and you look up and see that he’s telling the truth-- he really didn’t know. 

“Oh… I assumed she would have cleared it with you before she asked me.” You said, your boisterous energy deflating the longer you sat in the chair. 

“Is she pulling you for undercover work? She always does that, and she never asks if we have anything coming up or what your consult workload is--” 

“No, Hotch. She’s, uh, she’s not pulling me for undercover work.”

“What is it?” 

“She said the director tapped me to lead the field office in Vegas.” You confessed, looking up and seeing the air leave Aaron’s chest. 

“Wow.” Aaron says, blinking. 

“Yeah,” you agreed. 

“And you’re going to take it?” He asked. 

“I told her that I needed some time to think about it.” You answer him.

“What’s there to think about?” He wonders. 

There’s a moment where you think you might actually roll your eyes at him. There’s a moment where you consider begging him to give you a reason to stay. There’s a moment where you consider crossing the desk and depositing yourself in his lap, kissing him with the weight of all of the feelings that had you wanting to stay. 

But, after a moment, you realize that none of that’s happening. He’s sitting across from you, looking at you like you’d be the biggest fool in the world not to take advantage of this opportunity, and maybe he was right. Maybe you would spend the rest of your life wanting him one-sidedly, wondering what good you could have done for the world if you had simply accepted that he’d never love you back. 

“Nothing,” you answered, after a moment. “There’s absolutely nothing to think about at all.”

****************************

Aaron’s barely even distracted when you swing his door open and plop yourself into one of his chairs first thing in the morning. He’s used to it, by now. He may have been a less-than-willing participant in your friendship at the beginning of your relationship, but now he was glad to call you someone he was close to. His closest friend, really. 

His ears perk up when you mention Strauss. “Is she pulling you for undercover work?’ He starts to rant, already planning the tirade he’s going to deliver to Erin when he notices your demeanor change. You’re… shy, all of a sudden. You’ve never hidden from him before. He doesn’t like it. 

“She said the director tapped me for the field director position in Vegas,” You revealed. The sentence hit him like a punch in the gut.

“Wow,” is all he can manage to get out, fighting the way his throat threatens to close up. “And you’re going to take it?” He asks, although he knows the answer will break his heart. 

“I told her I needed some time to think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?’ He asked, allowing himself to hope for a moment that you’ll make some grand confession, to imagine for a moment that you might possibly feel the same way he does, to believe for a moment that he’s worthy of your love. But he’s not.

“Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing to think about at all,” you tell him, standing up and leaving with a forced casualness. 

Aaron had been married long enough to know that that tone and those words together mean the exact opposite of what they are supposed to mean-- but he was still confused. What could possibly make you stay? And how could he find it before you left? 

*****************

The following days between you and Aaron had been chilly, to say the least. You didn’t bounce ideas off of each other on cases like you normally would. You came to the opposite conclusions at every turn. You were out of sync, and everyone felt it. So when the case wrapped up on a Friday afternoon, you were more than happy to rush home to a bottle of wine, a pint of ice cream, your moving boxes and some trashy reality television.

You’d given up on packing after about an hour. Your heart just wasn’t in it. So instead, you lounged in your pajamas, sipping at your wine in the hopes that it would guide you to your first full night of sleep since you’d spoken with Strauss. You’re just about to head to bed when there’s a knock at your door. You swing it open, revealing Aaron, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. 

“I was an asshole.” He offers. “Am I interrupting anything, or?”

“Just packing,” you say, wanting to twist the knife a little bit even if it wasn’t truthful. Aaron is undeterred, and steps inside anyways. 

“I didn’t want you to leave with us still in the middle of the fight. You can be as mad as you want in the morning, but have a glass of champagne with me?” He asks, with those big brown eyes you could never refuse. 

“Fine,” you sighed, still easily won over by him, even when you were heartbroken and mad. 

“Here, you open it. Congratulations,” he tells you, handing over the bottle. You start picking at the foil, and he speaks up in the silence. “Things are going to be different without you, you know. I like that our team is structured the way it is… as a team, but you know, in a lot of ways, it was nice to have a partner in you.”

“You know, come to think of it, I’m not sure if I even have cups. They might be packed away,” you say, still picking at the foil and decidedly not looking Aaron in the eye. He chuckles a little at your comment.

 “I don’t know what I’m going to do when you’re gone. I mean, who else can rein in Derek, or get to see me the big picture, or talk Emily off the ledge when I’m sure she’s about to go rogue?’ 

“It’s going to be okay,” you tell him, setting the bottle on the counter, still unopened. Aaron heaves a sigh. 

“You should stay.” He says, after a moment. 

“What?” You say, blinking, because surely you must be drunk or dreaming or something else. 

“You should stay here. You don’t have to take the job in Vegas.” 

“Haha, very funny,” you joked, bringing your attention back to the bottle to avoid looking him in the eye. 

“I’m serious. Listen, I know I said there was nothing to think about, but I changed my mind.” 

“Oh, did you? And what if I haven’t changed mine?” You asked, getting angry now. 

Not able to hold back for another second, he takes your face in both of his hands and kisses you. “Just, think about that before you board a plane. Okay?” He says, and before you can even speak, you hear the door swing shut behind him. 

Damn you, Hotchner. 

You don’t sleep a wink.  When 8am finally rolls around, you pull yourself out of bed and get dressed, heading over to Aaron’s. As you buckle your seatbelt, you realize that you know you have to go over there but you have no clue what it is you even want to say to him. You hope you’ll figure it out without sounding completely insane as you knock on Aaron’s door, and he swings it open, still in his sweatpants and incredibly surprised to find you on his doorstep.

“I’m even more mad at you right now than I was last night,” you tell him by way of greeting.

“That’s understandable. I haven’t been very fair to you,” he agrees, and the fact that he’s being so reasonable only makes you angrier. You slip past him and step inside the apartment. 

“I don’t get it. You couldn’t just let me move on, start a new life and forget about the torch I’ve been burning for my boss the entire time I’ve worked here? You had to have the last word, even if I was leaving forever.” 

“No,” Aaron says, and you bite your tongue, trying to allow him a moment to respond even if you weren’t feeling all that gracious. “No, I couldn’t let you move on thinking the torch you were carrying ws unrequited.”

You’re struck by his words. “What are you trying to say?” 

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t matter. It’s a great opportunity for you in Vegas. I’m happy for you, and you shouldn’t let this--” 

“Hotch, what are you trying to say?”

“Just that I’m proud of you, and I know that you’ll do excellent work, and--”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to hide from me.” You call him out, and he looks at you for a moment. This time, you don’t break his glance. 

“I’m not trying to hide. I’m just too late.” He tells you, looking down at the floor. 

“Tell me, Hotchner. Tell me, please.” You beg of him, shifting to try to get him to look you in the eye.

“I love you, and I figured it out too late.” 

You draw in a sharp breath, and he’s sure he’s ruined any vestiges of friendship that still existed between the two of you in this moment, and that you’ll board your plane to Las Vegas and he’ll become a creepy old boss that you never think about again. He takes a moment to look at you, a moment to mourn what might have been, a moment to remember the way your laugh made him smile while the memories were still fresh. He takes a moment, and then you speak up.

“No,” you correct him. “You figured it out just in time.”

tagging: @choppa-style @wanniiieeee @zheezs14 @torykjamie @maureen4y

@ssavanessa22 @isthatme-thatsme @g-l-pierce @ssahotchie @infinite-tides

 @itsmytimetoodream @averyhotchner @msmarvelsmain @hotforhotchner11 @hotchinkevlar

hi besties I tried to tag everyone who said they wanted to be on my regular hotch list and a few of y’all who regularly interact with the right but if i made a mistake/u want to be removed u can lmk I will not be offended!!!

[sabraeal]

And Spring Became the Summer

[Read on AO3]

The very last of my follower fics for the 700 Followers gifts! This one was the bonus for making it to 750 before December, and I’m so glad I’ve FINALLY gotten this done...so I can do it all over again this year 🤣

The last term paper Mitsuhide writes for his undergraduate career he slips into a glossy plastic portfolio-- double-spaced and double-sided, graphs printed in full color-- and turns in personally.

It’s a wide-eyed TA that takes it, seated behind a desk that’s far too big for her. Or well, she’s not wide-eyed at first; instead she’s bent over her work, only glancing up absently to make sure she has it in hand. But a second one turns absence to alarm, eyes fixing to where he grips the plastic, and suddenly he’s all-too aware how easily how just one of his hands could swallow both of hers.

So is she; her eyes pulse wide, and then she’s tracing the line of his arm up and up doggedly, like as long as she just keeps going, she might hit the end of him. When she finally does, he offers her a sheepish smile, shoulders hunched lessen the blow.

She shrinks back, a mousey brown head peeking above an oversized university sweatshirt. So much for that.

“You could have emailed this,” she squeaks, plucking the plastic sleeve from his grip. “I mean, not that you can’t hand it in. It’s just, er...”

“No one does,” another adds, rolling across the floor with a level of curiosity that he’s pretty sure an in-person paper doesn’t warrant. When she measures him with her gaze, she enjoys every inch. “Pretty old fashioned, if you ask me.”

He recognizes both of them; their names had been on the syllabus at the beginning of the semester. He’d found them both on the department website, Amanda wearing the same Clarines sweatshirt she had on today, and Holly’s clearly from some beach vacation, cropped from the shoulders up.

(“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a stalker,” Obi says, hanging upside down from the armchair.

“I’m-- I’m not!” Mitsuhide sputters, heat creeping up his neck. One day, Obi would slip up and say these things in front of someone who mattered, someone with a much more rigid sense of humor than Professor Gazelt, or didn’t know to take every word of his with an ocean of salt like Dean Haruka, and then it would be him that got seated in front of a disciplinary committee. The last thing he needed to do before even finishing law school applications was explain his brother’s poor taste in jokes on the record. “It’s just...”

“That you’re compelled to look at cute girls on the university website?” he offers, so casual. “I could think of hotter majors, if you wanted. Psych seems like it’s the sort of place real tens might hand out, right? Maybe, uh, Education? Kindergarten teachers always are cute--”

“It’s polite,” Mitsuhide grits out, shoulders hunched up by his ears. “You should know everyone on staff in your department, just the way you should know everyone you work with. It’s the proper way to network.”

Obi watches him with wide eyes, like he’s some kind of zoo animal or-- or one of those really bad cooks on TV, the kind who tries to pan fry a chicken whole. “God, you don’t actually do that, do you?”

“It’s the secret to good business.” At least, that’s what his parents always told him.

“You must be...” Obi savors the moment, looking positively euphoric as he says, “Really fucking creepy at the department Christmas party.”)

“No one did,” says the first-- Amanda, graduate summa cum laude from Columbia-- tone aimed to shush. “I’m, uh, happy to take that, though.”

He gives her his most gracious smile. “Thank you.”

“No,” Holly-- Penn State, no honors-- mutters, casting him a speculative glance from the corner of her eyes. Hers go up and up too, but seem to come to a much more amicable conclusion. “Thank you.”

“Stop.” Amanda’s hands flex on the thin plastic; she has soft hands, a callus only on the knuckle of her middle finger, where a pen might rest. Like Shirayuki, only without the thousand nicks and cuts that dot her fingers, battle wounds from wrangling recalcitrant plants.

Her chin pulls up, set in a determined line as she says, “Congratulations on graduating.”

“Ah...” It’s a kind thought, and meant well, but knowing he’s about to spend the next three years earning the degree that counts softens the blow. “Thank you. I hope you have a nice, um, summer?”

“Definitely will be nicer not to grade papers,” Holly offers, immune to Amanda’s shushing. “Do you have pl--?”

“We should get back to grading,” Amanda says, just to the left of too loud. “Have a nice summer.”

Never repeat yourself, Mama always told him, it weakens your position.

You can never be too polite. That’s what Papa would say, when he thanked the cashier for a third time.

Mitsuhide winces; he’s always hated this, being stuck between his parents. It’s clearly time to leave. “Right. Bon été, Amanda.”

“Was that French,” he hears hissed the moment he’s stepped out the door; the same moment another voice says, “Did I tell him my name?”

He should have just emailed it. Mitsuhide can make any number of excuses about the joys of collating and color printing, about face-time and networking, but at the end of the day, he has to call a spade a spade: this has all been an excuse. A thin one too, to keep him out of the house. To put off what he knows need doing.

Mitsuhide steps into the cool air of the foyer, shivering as it catches the sweat that beaded at his hairline on the walk. His courage peaks as he stands there, right next to the shoe mat, grand stair stretching up before him, still in his oxfords--

And immediately effervesces when he catches sight of smooth, bare legs on the coffee table, fuzzy slippers worth more than his phone perched up on the mahogany. This is it, the moment of truth, fight or flight, and he-- he doesn’t know which way to run.

So he doesn’t. He’s drawn there with inexorable motion, a magnet to a lodestone, the hard soles of his shoes clacking against the wood the only thing keeping him grounded. It takes only a few steps before long, tanned legs lead up to sleep shorts; not the clingy kind that curve and cup, but the ones that hang like boxers around the tops of her thighs, rucking up as she moves. After that it’s a hoodie, worn loose and baggy, like it’s supposed to fit someone twice her size, its hood drawn tight against her face. Nothing...sexy, not the way Obi might say, with far too much eyebrows involved. But still, his mouth runs dry, tongue heavy behind his teeth.

How on earth is he going to do this?

“Kiki.” He speaks before he thinks, sinking down on the table. It creaks beneath him, ominous. “I owe you a date.”

“Oh shit.” Obi flops over on the recliner, wide gold eyes peeking over the arm. “Check out the balls on this kid.”

This is a terrible idea. He should have known not to do this in a-- a common room, one where other brothers might be hiding.

“Sorry,” he creaks, levering himself up. “I didn’t realize-- you’re clearly busy--”

“No.” Kiki’s lays her feet right on his thighs, pushing him down with a thump. “You were saying something important.”

He darts a glance to the shadow squirming obnoxiously on soft leather. “But Obi--”

“Obi,” she informs him, as imperious as any C-suite member, “can leave.”

Obi doesn’t so much bark out a laugh as honks it. “Not unless I got time to make popcorn.”

Her head doesn’t move an inch from where she’s got it, chin tilted up to meet his own gaze. Her eyes though, those slide pointedly away, fixed at their corners, radiating malice. Kiki is slow to speak, deliberate when she does, but her eyes-- well, there’s a wealth of words in every look, and right now they’re reading Obi the riot act.

It would have worked better if Obi wasn’t already so used hearing it.

“Ignore him,” Kiki decides, attention snapping back to him. “He’s furniture.”

“Oh, Ms Kiki,” Obi drawls, barreling towards a mistake, “you could sit on me any--”

“You were saying?” she says, every word iron. Obi takes the hint, for once.

“I, uh...well, you paid for a date,” Mitsuhide manages lamely, darting a worried look to where Obi lounges on the chair. “I mean, you paid a lot for a date. And I understand that you may have just wanted to donate to the frat, but if you wanted to--”

“I told you,” Kiki says, dry, toes flexing firmly on his knee. “I expect you to make it worth my while.”

“Ah, y-yeah.” Her saying that while looking at him like she did-- well, his brain had that queued up every time he blinks his eyes. Sometimes it changed venues, and there were some, uh, costume changes at times, but if he shut his eyes right now it’d spool up with perfect fidelity. “I thought it might, um, d-distract you if we tried before finals, but since you’ve finished-- we’ve finished--”

“As of twenty minutes ago,” Obi adds, so helpful.

“--I thought it might be a fun way to relax.” He’s honestly never felt less relaxed in his life just sitting here, contemplating it. Half of it he can chalk up to Obi, curled over the recliner like a gremlin, waiting to wreak his version of chaos the second he can weasel his fingers in, but the other--

Well, it’s hard to ask someone on a date when you know they’ve already got someone in mind for the position. Even if it’s just-- this. As friends.

His heart’s in his throat. At least, that’s what he thinks until Kiki’s mouth curves; then he knows it’s never been in his possession at all, but always utterly hers. “Sounds like fun.”

Tension rushes out of him on a sigh. “Ah, great. I though we might, er, go to Boston? You know,” he hurries to spit out, before any words can fall from her parted lips, “since there’s not much out here we haven’t seen.”

She hesitates. Of course she does. Boston’s practically her hometown, and he’s sitting here, thinking it’ll impress her. Like she hasn’t seen everything that’s worth seeing there twice over and in private. That she hasn’t just told him no outright is a testament to how well Mr Seiran’s raise her, and--

“Let’s make a day of it.”

Mitsuhide startles, nearly tipping off the table’s edge before he glances up, right into her row of perfectly straight teeth. Her mom’s smile, she always told him, but he’s only ever seen it on her. “I-- yes. That’s..good.”

Her lips curl, hiding her teeth. “Let me handle the accommodations.”

“Ah, no.” His head sweeps through big, nervous back-and-forths. “I couldn’t possibly ask you to--”

“You’re not,” Kiki informs him. “I’m telling you. I’ll handle accommodations. You’re seeing to the rest of the weekend, correct?”

“Y-yes.” He tries to fold his arms across his lap, but with her feet right on his thighs, it ends up with his hands covering her ankles. He expects her to move them, but instead her legs still, tendons relaxing under his palms. “That’s the plan, but, really--”

“It’s the least I can do.” She shifts her macbook off the couch’s arm, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “One night?”

“I...” He should decline. He should tell her that if she can drop a whole K on a date with him, he can shell out for one night at a hotel with a higher rating than a Holiday Inn.

But this is Kiki Seiran, heir to Seiran International. She’s not just used to five stars but the penthouse suite. He could book four star cheap on Hotwire, but imagining her in one of those suites, the sheets starched and thread count insufficient--

“Yeah,” he grunts, “one night’s fine.”

“Perfect.” Her teeth snap around the word. “Leave it to me.”

“So,” Obi starts before Mitsuhide’s even hit the last step. “We have a bet going on.”

He grimaces, shifting the duffel over his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.”

‘Pretty sure’ turns to ‘certain’ once he catches Obi’s grin. “It’s about whether you’ll get your dick wet.”

“Sorry, not interested.” He heaves the bag beside the front door, brushing off his shorts. “Isn’t it too early for you to be up? I thought you didn’t know about the hours before ten.”

“I had motivation,” Obi assures him, slinking up beside him with a grin a mile wide. “You know, Shiira says that you won’t on the grounds that you’re a gentleman.”

More like the lady isn’t interested. “I already said I wasn’t--”

“Kai says you will,” he continues blithely, “and you’ll come back on time. Shuuka agrees, except that he thinks you’ll miss check out with all the boning down and won’t make it back until evening.”

“Isn’t this breaking the bylaws?” Mitsuhide grunts, slipping on his sneakers. “Don’t we have something about betting...?”

“For money,” Obi agrees. “Zen still wouldn’t put a bet down though.”

That’s assuring at least. “Of course n--”

“Shiira already took his.” Obi shakes his head. “And we wouldn’t allow him to say the same thing except that he thinks it’s because you’re and idiot.”

Well, that’s a little rich, coming from Zen. Mitsuhide was loath to remind anyone that besides Obi, he is the most experienced, but-- some people should be taking that into account. Even if nothing is going to happen.

“Don’t worry, Big Guy.” Obi claps him on the shoulder, smile somehow drifting towards kindly. “I gave you until Monday.”

“Obi--”

“And Kiki will walk in with a limp.”

“Obi, you know that’s not...” His breath hisses between his teeth. “That’s not what me and Kiki are like.”

“You keep thinking that, Big Guy, but--” he leans in, cupping a hand around his mouth-- “my original bet was gonna be Tuesday. Too bad Kiki had already taken it.”

Mitsuhide stares at him, slack-jawed. “W-what did you just--?”

“I should have known, you’re already here.”

His head jerks up, right to the top of the grand stair, the beginning of a quick glance-- but it’s no use. There’s no possible way he could make his eyes focus anywhere but on Kiki, not when she’s wearing-- when she’s--

“Ooh.” Obi’s mouth curls, matching Kiki’s knowing smirk. “Is that a skirt?”

It is. And not-- not her field hockey kit, mid-thigh with shorts beneath, but and actual skirt, one that floats just above her knees, gauzy and floral. A single flash of leg tells him there’s nothing else beneath. Ah, well, besides the obvious. Mitsuhide swallows hard, mouth dry.

She raises a brow, hand trailing sinuously down the banister beside her. “It is a date, isn’t it?”

Her heels clack when she takes the last step into the foyer, clack because it’s the cork of her wedges that hits the floor first, because-- nom de Dieu-- she’s wearing shoes that tilt her a few inches close to him. Close enough that he could just bend at the neck and--

“Ah,” he coughs, fingers clenching in his shirt. “You might be a little overdressed. At least for this first part.”

Both her brows raise now. “Am I?”

“God,” Obi mutters at his shoulder, head buried in his hands. “You could at least say she looks nice.”

Well, when he’s right, he’s right.

“You look, ah, great though,” Mitsuhide hurries to add. “Beautiful.”

Kiki, to his surprise, beams. “Well, I brought a few outfits. I’ll change at the hotel.”

“Ah, sure.” He scoops up his duffel, holding out a hand for her bag as she passes. “You’re ready to go?”

Her mouth quirks at a corner. “As I’ll ever be.”

He hums, uncertain, suddenly left-footed with her so close. They should leave, but that involves a number a movements he’s suddenly stymied by.

Thankfully, Obi opens the door, practically shoving him onto the porch. “All right kids, be safe now.”

“Obi...”

“Don’t worry,” Kiki drawls, sashaying over the threshold. “I packed plenty of condoms.”

The door cuts off Obi’s laugh, but Mitsuhide can’t escape the pounding of his heart.

“You know,” he sighs, trailing after her, “you’re only encouraging him when you say things like that.”

“Oh that’s too bad,” she hums, floating past. “I was trying to encourage you.”

[vespertine-legacy]

I got to lead an ops today!

Someone in endgame wanted to know if some gracious soul was willing to lead their group through Temple of Sacrifice, so I whispered them to ask what role they needed and let them know that I could probably lead a group through it (I’ve never been an official ops lead, and I have done every story mode operation from every role, so I theoretically know all of the perspectives/mechanics, but I haven’t really had to explain them).

They needed a dps, so I brought Kestrel along, and by the time I got into the group, it had turned into also TC and Hive. Both of those went fine, but then the group member who had recruited me went afk right before we queued to actually run ToS, and we failed the ready. Which locked our group into the queue with only him able to decline. Technical difficulties ensued, but once he got back we were able to get it worked out.

Overall, ToS went very well! We had a weird glitch feature on Malaphar where after he died, we got one last set of adds. Sword Squadron went perfectly--like, I had never seen them go down more perfectly in terms of their percentages, no one went near the trail the tank on Walker 1 was leaving, no one exploded a grenade on the group, perfect. The Underlurker jumped too close to the wall and made us fail the cross a couple of times (but dps was high enough and healing was good enough that we did fine). The Revanite Commanders did their “are they or aren’t they down?” game. The main tank refused to point Revan’s attack at the pillars on the first floor because “you don’t have to in SM” (okay, but that’s the easiest way to keep the dps from getting their faces cleaved off, but you do you I guess?), but otherwise, folks did really well on the first and second floor. Third floor was a little rough with the aberrations and folks wanting to stand in the pretty purple circles, but otherwise, things went fine.

They thanked me for leading them through, and I told them to let me know if there were other things I could help them with.

“It’s funny you should ask. Wanna teach us Gods?”

Edited to add:

I forgot that during the Revanite Commanders, when they all three came down, I got Sano’s attention, but ended up with also the attention of two of the adds that do conal attacks and one of the adds that drops an orange circle, so I was just like, “oof, sorry healers, I’m standing in like seven stupid things right now.” @astrifer-bound was walking by and just started laughing their ass off, so I added, “and you should know my wife is cackling at my stupidity now.”

Also asked the tank who had Kurse how he was doing while we were finishing off Deron, and the response was, “ah, it’s fine, he hits like a kitten.”

[sunriserose1023]

Like Bogie and Bacall

SUMMARY: You and Bucky, once inseparable, have drifted apart, and you’ve got one last chance to see if you can get back what you had or give it up for good. PROMPT: “Key Largo” by Bertie Higgins. Give it a listen HERE. WORD COUNT: 3298 WARNINGS: Angst, canon-adjacent, talk of divorce, implied sexual content

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Quarantine got me with this one, had me thinking today was the 26th instead of the 27th, but the ever-so-gracious Mimi (aka @captain-rogers-beard​) let me post it for her One Hit Wonder Challenge anyway. “Key Largo” is one of my mom’s favorite songs, so I’ve listened to it for years. I was super pumped to see it on Mimi’s list for this challenge, and this fic is both based off of the song and has some of the lyrics interspersed into the story. Hope you enjoy!

*THEN*

“Babe?” “In here!”

Bucky smiled as he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders, hanging it on the back of one of the chairs in the little kitchen. He locked the door behind him, toeing his shoes off, pushing a hand through his hair as he walked in his socks towards the den. His smile grew when he saw the pile of blankets and pillows, and your head popped up, grinning at him. He shook his head, a soft laugh leaving his lips. 

“What is all this?” “Unlimited comfort items. I’ve got a cooler over here with your favorite beer and my seltzer things, I’ve got snacks, and I’ve got a movie queued up and waiting for you.”

Bucky nodded.

“Which movie?”

Your grin never faltered. 

“Key Largo.” “What’s it about?”

You motioned with your head and he moved closer, laughing as he caught the sweatpants you tossed at him. He started unbuckling his belt and you turned towards the television, cheeks warming as you spoke. 

“It’s Bogie and Bacall’s last movie together. We’ve seen all the other ones.” “To Have and Have Not was our favorite, right?”

You glanced over your shoulder, smiling and nodding at him. He walked over and leaned down, kissing your lips. 

“Hi there.”

You giggled. 

“Hey. Come sit with me.”

He nodded, now wearing the sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He groaned as he sat beside you, lifting an arm to let you snuggle up to his side, kissing your temple. You fixed a blanket over the two of you and powered up the television, which had gone to sleep while you were waiting for him. Bucky kept his face near yours, his breath tickling your forehead when he murmured to you. 

“Popcorn?” “You can’t watch a movie without popcorn.” “Did you get some—“ “M&Ms are already in the bowl, melted just slightly.” “God, you’re the woman of my dreams.”

You giggled. 

“And don’t you forget it. Now hush.”

Bucky smiled as the film began and you snuggled closer. He shook his head, giving a sigh. 

“Man, there’s just something about Lauren Bacall.” “Did you like her back in the day?”

Bucky shook his head, lifting his metal hand to scratch at his chin. 

“Nah, she wasn’t around back then. I mean, she was, but not where I’d know her yet.” “Yeah, I think her big break was To Have and Have Not, and I think that premiered in ‘45, maybe?”

Bucky smiled a sad half-smile. 

“Just missed her.”

You wrapped your arms around him, putting your face in his chest. Bucky rubbed your shoulder, kissing the top of your head. 

“I’m here now.”

You nodded, lifting your head and staring into his blue eyes. He moved his metal hand to let the backs of his cool fingers brush over your cheek and you leaned into the touch. He turned his hand over to cup your cheek and brought his mouth to yours, giving you a slow, deep kiss. You moved with him, laying down on the pillows and blankets you had around, laying your hands on his hips as he moved over you. You watched him as he leaned down, kissing your lips once before he began kissing down your cheek to your neck. You shook your head, eyes drifting closed at the soft press of his lips to your skin. 

“We … we’re going to miss the movie.” “We can restart it later.”

You sucked in a breath as his metal fingers slid under the shirt you were wearing, one of his that you’d stolen. You nodded as the shirt began raising higher, revealing more skin for his lips to explore and your voice went breathy. 

“Much later.”

You had a smile on your face and your eyes closed as you rested your head on Bucky’s chest. He was eating cold popcorn by the handful, listening to the music swell as the movie ended. 

“That wasn’t too bad.” “Not as good as The Big Sleep.”

Bucky shook his head. 

“Nothing’s as good as The Big Sleep.” 

You smiled, snuggling closer to him and sighing. Bucky’s flesh hand moved to card his fingers through your hair and you yawned. He smiled, metal hand moving to gently rub your back. 

“Sleepy?” “You wore me out.”

Bucky gave a soft laugh, kissing the top of your head. You shivered and he grabbed another blanket, draping it over you. You moved closer to him and he smiled. 

“Want to go to bed?” “I’m good.” “You’re shivering.” “Just my back. You’re like a space heater.” “Is that why you keep snuggling closer?”

You nodded and he gave a soft laugh, letting it trail into a sigh. 

“It has been damn cold lately.”

You nodded again, feeling yourself start to drift to sleep. 

“Buck?” “I’ve got you, babe. Go to sleep.” “I don’t want you to have to carry me.” “Sweetheart. It’s fine. I’ve got you.”

You nodded, feeling your body relax as you drifted off. Bucky looped his arms around you, taking in a deep breath and exhaling as he let himself drift, too.

*NOW*

You stepped into the room, lifting the sunglasses from your eyes. You looked at the two queen beds and sighed, setting your purse on the small table and tossing your sunglasses into your bag. You walked to the window and crossed your arms over your chest, staring out at the beach. 

You felt a tickle on the back of your neck a second before you heard the footsteps, and you stayed looking out the window as Bucky carried your bags inside. 

“Wow. This is nice.”

You nodded, not turning away from the window. You heard the soft plops as he put the bags on one of the beds, heard his soft groan as he twisted and his back popped, heard the mattress creak as he sat down. 

Silence filled the space between you, making you feel uncomfortable. You shifted your position, turning your back more fully to him, and Bucky spoke softly. 

“Thank you for coming with me.”

You nodded, your voice just as soft. 

“I needed a change of scenery.” “Talk about a change, New York to Key Largo.”

He chuckled softly and you swallowed. 

“Not to mention, it’ll be good for us to hash everything out before we meet with the lawyers next week.”

You ignored the stuttering of your heart, sneaking a glance over your shoulder to see Bucky’s face pale and drawn. He nodded as he looked down at his hands, staring at the left one for just a moment, clenching his fingers into a fist. You still weren’t used to seeing his left arm “normal,” flesh instead of metal or vibranium, but Shuri had worked overtime to perfect the veil he now wore. 

You lifted your eyes from his hands to meet his, the blue now a stormy gray. He nodded and stood up, walking out the door neither one of you had closed. You closed your eyes, giving a shaky exhale, turning back to the window and blinking back tears. 

You were sitting on the steps of the beach house when Bucky walked up behind you. He sat on the step under yours, handing you a beer. You nodded your thanks, taking a sip as he twisted the top off his own beer, taking a long drink and sighing. 

“It’s pretty here.”

You nodded, looking out over the sand, watching the waves crash into the beach. 

“It’s peaceful.” “Nothing like the city.”

You shook your head, taking another drink from your beer. You swallowed, staring at the bottle in your hands before you spoke. 

“What made you want to come to Key Largo?”

Bucky was quiet, and you lifted your eyes to find him looking at you. He lifted a shoulder, speaking softly. 

“Sentimental reasons.” “Have you ever been here before?”

One side of his lips quirked up in a sad smile. 

“Not in person.”

You raised an eyebrow and he shrugged again. 

“Only seen it in the movies.”

You nodded, going still when recognition hit. The movie you two had watched so long ago, Bogie and Bacall’s last hit together, Key Largo. You’d always said you wanted to visit the Keys, always joked with Bucky about how he was your Bogie, and he’d always answer that you were so much prettier than Lauren Bacall. You swallowed, looking down at your hands, feeling your cheeks burn. Bucky was quiet, staring out at the waves along the shore until he softly spoke again. 

“What happened with us?”

You sighed, lifting your eyes to stare at the waves again, setting the bottle on the step beside you, wiping your hands on your knees. 

“Everything. Nothing. Neither one of us has been the same since we got snapped.” “Is it my fault?”

You closed your eyes. 

“I think we can share the blame.” “But it’s more on me.”

You gave an exasperated sigh, snatching up your beer and drinking from it. 

“Quit being such a martyr.” “A martyr?”

You shook your head, pushing your hands through your hair. 

“People grow apart. Not everything is your fault. Quit trying to take the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Bucky nodded slowly, and you sighed, crossing your arms over your chest as you spoke softly. 

“Maybe this was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”

Bucky slowly nodded, picking up his beer and draining it. 

“Maybe not.”

He pushed himself up, leaving the empty bottle on the steps as he walked towards the beach. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head and muttering under your breath as you grabbed his bottle and brought it inside with you, stomping all the way to the kitchen. 

Bucky chewed the bite he’d taken, glancing across the table at you. You had a glass of wine in your hand, just holding it as you stared out the window at the waves. Bucky licked his lips, being the one to finally break the silence. 

“So the meeting’s on Tuesday?”

You slowly nodded, setting the glass on the table. 

“One-thirty, at the office downtown.” “What’s it about?”

You shook your head. 

“I don’t know. Getting the ball rolling, I guess.”

Bucky pushed the food around his plate as he spoke, suddenly losing his appetite. 

“So … you’re going to be the one to file? Or am I supposed to do that?” “Whichever. I think we may can do it together.”

Bucky snorted. 

“One last thing we can do together, huh? File for divorce.”

He shook his head, pushing his chair back from the table. You huffed out a breath and he stopped, turning his head to look at you. 

“What?” “You’re constantly doing that.” “What?” “Walking away. Every time we talk and get the slightest bit uncomfortable, you walk away.”

He nodded, laying his hands on the table. 

“Well, I don’t want to talk about it.” “Well, we have to.” “Why?” “Because I can’t keep being the second thing on your mind.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. 

“You’re not the—“ “You’re telling me if Sam or Sharon called right now, you wouldn’t drop everything to go to them?” “That’s different.” “It’s really not.”

The two of you just stared at each other until Bucky set his jaw and nodded. 

“Well, let’s hash it out, then. You want the apartment?” “Where will you go?”

He shrugged. 

“Sam’s got a couch.”

You swallowed, looking back to your wine glass. 

“There’s the … the stuff in the apartment.” “Take it.”

You looked back across the table and Bucky shook his head. 

“You can have it.” “Buck—“ “Sorry to disappoint you yet again, but I can’t do this.”

He turned and left the kitchen, and you jumped when the door to the beach slammed shut. You put your elbows on the table, face in your hands, finally letting the tears flow. 

Your eyes shot open a little after three in the morning, feeling disoriented as you looked around the unfamiliar room. You sat up and rubbed your eyes, glancing over to find the bed beside yours empty. You swallowed and made a face, pushing the covers back and going in search of something to soothe your parched throat. 

You tiptoed down the hall, coming to a hard stop in the kitchen doorway. You could see through to the den, where the glow of the television broke through the darkness. You could hear a rough voice even with the low volume, blinking when you recognized Humphrey Bogart on the screen. The next shot was of Lauren Bacall, and you lifted a hand to your chest. 

You hadn’t watched those old movies in years. You and Bucky used to watch them all the time, because they held an air of familiarity for him, taking him back to a time he missed terribly. 

And now here he was, watching them, trying to find that little slip of comfort that you couldn’t give him anymore. 

You blinked back tears as you walked to the fridge, silently pulling it open and finding a bottle of water. You twisted the top and drank greedily, giving a shaky exhale once you’d swallowed. You decided to carry the bottle back with you to the bedroom, and you closed the refrigerator, going back towards your bed. 

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You shook your head, speaking as softly as Bucky had. 

“No, I … I was thirsty.” “It won’t bother you if I keep watching, will it?”

You shook your head, voice thick when you spoke again. 

“No, it’s okay.��

The movie stopped, and Bucky turned from his spot on the couch. 

“Are you okay?”

You nodded, staring down at your hands. You did your best to swallow back the tears, speaking softly. 

“What are you watching?” “Oh, this is To Have and Have Not. I already watched The Big Sleep.”

You nodded, feeling a tear slip down your cheek. 

“Babe, are you—“ “You’re watching out of order.”

A soft smile came to his lips. 

“I know. I just love The Big Sleep.”

You nodded, still staring at your hands as he spoke again. 

“You can come sit with me and watch them. I’ll start over.”

You let out a sob, covering your mouth with a hand and shaking your head. Bucky leapt over the back of the couch, moving to stand in front of you, catching the water bottle you dropped. You grabbed hold of his arms, the metal cool under your palm, since he didn’t bother with the veil when it was just the two of you. 

“Easy, honey. Just breathe.”

You shook your head, moving your hands to his chest as he closed the distance between the two of you. You sobbed again, and Bucky closed his eyes, resting his forehead against yours as he spoke softly.

“Do you remember when we watched these movies together? It was right after you moved in, right before I proposed. Remember how fucking cold it was, and how we tried so hard to stay warm? We stayed wrapped up together.”

You slowly shook your head, but of course you remembered. That first cold winter together was the best of your life. 

“Remember that night you dressed up for me? God, you were my very own Lauren Bacall, with your hair and that dress and that lipstick.”

He gave a quiet laugh. 

“You told me I was your hero, and you were my leading lady. Remember that? Just like Bogie and Bacall.”

You moved your hands to the back of his arms, clutching him closer, his hands gently rubbing your back as he held you close, his voice barely a whisper. 

“I know we missed a step somewhere, but god … we can find it again. Please. Please don’t give up on me. I need you.”

You cried as you moved the slightest bit, resting your forehead against his chest. You felt the shaky exhale, heard him swallow before his voice rasped out the words. 

“I love you. Baby, this can't be the end.”

Your hands moved to his cheeks, pulling him down until your lips met his. Bucky pushed you as close as he could, one hand at your hip, the other holding the back of your head. You let your hands slide into his hair, and he lifted you until you wrapped your legs around his waist. 

You stared out the bedroom window, watching the waves gently lap against the shore in the early morning sunlight. You smiled at the snore coming from beside you, laughing to yourself when Bucky grunted and shifted, the arm around your stomach pulling you closer to his warm chest. 

“Buck?” “Shh. I’m sleeping.”

You giggled, rolling onto your side and gently stroking your fingers through his hair. He grunted again, then moaned softly, burrowing closer to you. You sighed when he pressed his lips to your collarbone, speaking low. 

“You know this doesn’t fix anything.” “I know.”

He lifted his head, shifting where the two of you were laying side-by-side. He let his fingers drift through your hair as he spoke. 

“Whatever you need, just tell me. If we need to go to therapy or buy a house away from the city or whatever, I’ll do it.” “This isn’t just about me, Buck.” “It is for me.”

You shook your head and he leaned forward, kissing your lips and your forehead. 

“I know we need to talk and hash everything out, but we can do it without lawyers. Without going forward with this divorce.” “Do you really think we can get it back? What … what we had?”

He nodded. 

“I do. Just like Bogie and Bacall.”

You snorted softly. 

“Starring in our own late show?” “Late, late show. No one in their right mind would watch us anytime before midnight.”

You giggled and snuggled closer to him, and he wrapped his arms around you. You closed your eyes, letting out a long, deep breath. 

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

You snorted again. 

“Wrong movie.” “It’s Bogie, though. Still counts.” “Well, in that case, ‘Play it again, Sam.’” “You know he never actually—“

Bucky laughed when you cut him off by surging forward and kissing him, holding you close as the two of you sank into the bed. 

*NINE MONTHS LATER*

“Well, would you look at this?”

You smiled from your place in the bed, achy and sore and incredibly happy. Bucky lifted his head to meet your eyes, smiling widely. He shook his head, walking to you, sitting on the edge of your bed. He met your eyes again, shaking his head before he looked back at the sleeping bundle in his arms. 

“I can barely believe this.” “Oh, believe it. I’ve got the stretch marks to prove it.” “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You raised an eyebrow and Bucky winced. 

“Okay, maybe second most. This little angel definitely takes top billing.”

You laughed, moaning softly at your sore muscles. 

“Don’t make me laugh.” “I’m sorry.”

The baby squirmed and whimpered, and Bucky gently bounced her. 

“Everything’s okay, Lauren. Daddy’s got you.”

You lifted a hand to rest against the pink blanket. 

“I’m just thankful she turned out to be a girl.” “My sweet little Lauren.” “I just couldn’t see us naming a boy Humphrey or Bogart, no matter how much you insisted.”

Bucky smiled, moving the baby to his shoulder. 

“Maybe the next one.”

You gave a laugh. 

“Well, when you can have it, we’ll do ‘the next one.’ I’m tapped out.”

Bucky laughed, leaning over and kissing your lips. You held a hand against his cheek and he spoke softly. 

“I told you we’d get it back.” “All thanks to Key Largo.”

Bucky grinned at you, the two of you looking to your daughter sleeping in his arms. Bucky shook his head, murmuring softly. 

“Just like Bogie and Bacall.”

[shadowmcfly]

Calgary Expo

I cannot even BEGIN to process all that happened on this adventure. This will be a long post!

I made new friends from Canada and Australia! I was very thankful to be included in a wonderful dinner with the local DeLorean club, where everyone was so warm and welcoming.

Canadian hospitality is real, and the kindness I was shown meant so much to me. This was my first time out of the US and using my brand new passport, and I know for sure it will not be my last.

I cannot even begin to express my love and gratitude to Oliver and Terry for all that they've done for me, and continue to do. It's hard to explain, but some human beings are just... special. And these two are like Walt Disney magic. And sometimes, if you're lucky, that magic will touch your life. So much that happened was a beautiful byproduct of that magic.

My trip started off extremely rocky, with waking up to my 3:30am alarm to see my flight was canceled. I panicked and got on the phone with the airline. If I wanted to get into Calgary that day before 11pm, I had to leave NOW to catch a 6am flight. An hour earlier than my 7am original flight.

I somehow made it. And when I checked in saw the airline put me in first class for the inconvenience. Now that's a way to fly into Canada for the first time! This was my first weird divine streak of luck that would carry throughout the trip. Little did I know.

I went straight from the airport, luggage and all, to the Calgary Stampede where the con was being held to meet Oliver and Terry at the booth. From there we decided to visit the Calgary Tower which was right across the street from the hotel.

We had an INCREDIBLE and tasty dinner at the top of the tower, where the floor slowly rotates so you can see the whole city. From there we went up to the top of the tower. I stepped on the glass floor which was SCARY, but pretty damn cool.

I've been to quite a few cons, but it was a first to see a casino right next to the event center!

The DeLorean was located right between the Celebrity Autograph area and the Photo Op area, so I sure didn't have to go far to get both of mine done! That was pretty cool.

The first day I got to meet James Tolken (who came by the booth), who played Strickland in BTTF, and is also well known for his work in Top Gun. He is such a delight, and a very sweet person. He proudly sported a Flux Capacitor pin from the booth during the big BTTF panel on Friday night.

Friday morning was the Parade of Wonders, and as we pulled up in the DeLorean I was told that both Christopher Lloyd and Lea Thompson were riding right in front of us in the parade. OH OK?!?!?! NO BIG????? I had a lot of fun posing for photos with the car, and chatting with people. If you're wondering, when Chris and Lea arrived later on I did not approach. I was there representing Team Fox, and I wanted to remain professional and courteous. My time with them would come later, and it was very cool to watch them arrive and be so close to that. Lea loves doing Instagram stories, and I was thrilled to find out I ended up being a part of them from the parade! When I saw she was taking video I enthusiastically waved at her and got acknowledge with a "Hi!!!!!!".

The parade was beautiful, and I had so much fun getting to be a part of it. We ended up on the news, photos on news websites, and Troy was gracious enough to bring me a copy of the newspaper we were in, which I brought back with me. The route through downtown Calgary was beautiful, and what a way to see it!!!! So many people came out to both participate in it and watch it! Truly unforgettable.

The big BTTF panel on Friday night was absolutely fantastic. Michael walked out on stage and I got choked up at how grateful I was to be seeing this and watching this cast come together. Tom Wilson was so incredibly hilarious and personable, and guided the panel amazingly. He's very good at that, and offered some really insightful answers to questions these guys hear all the time. It was special to hear Tom talk about how he was bullied in school, and hearing him talk about how he had to search deep to be able to play the other side of that line. Christopher Lloyd was hilarious in how utterly over it he was with some of the questions. He's happy to let the others take over, and watching him and Tom is a gift.

Each one of them did their favorite line/lines from the movie, and hearing Michael do Marty quotes made my life. He's just as smart and witty as ever. Truly.

Michael: "Ok, you're playing this slacker kid who loves to play guitar and wants to take his girlfriend alone up to the lake. And I was all, ok I got this!"

Friday was a great day raising funds at the booth, and little did I know what exactly was going to happen Saturday.

The first thing that happened that day that led to something amazing was that I missed Michael's first autograph session. I walked up with my two tickets I had gotten taken care of in ADVANCE, and was told to come back at 4.

I was pissed but let it go, because then I could go ahead with my plan of one of those autographs being on our new photo together. I was hoping I could get my behind the scenes photo signed at the earlier time, then go back again for my 2nd. I wanted a few more seconds during that autograph time to connect that first time vs the rush and go of the photo ops.

That was the first divine thing that happened that lead to the vest. Getting turned away from that earlier time.

Even though I met Michael in 2016, I was in line for our photo trying to shake off the nervousness I felt. One of the staff members looks at me and says, "YOU have to wait in line?". I laugh and say yes. When it was my time, Michael looked at me very warmly and I think my eyes were wide as saucers.

I ask him if I can put my arm on his shoulder and he's ok with it.

"Let's do one of these." He says, and quickly makes the watch gesture I know all too well.

Oh yeah. Let's go. I've waited years for this.

Click.

I spend so much of my time making that shocked expression, but I couldn't do it for probably the first time ever. I was too happy. I smiled and beamed like the happy fool I was. Looking back, I kinda wish I did it, because that would have been hilarious. But I let the Master take the reigns. I thanked him and left, eyes wide and whispering, "Holy shit." under my breath over and over.

My duo photo op with Michael and Chris was about 40min later, so I queued back up in line.

When my time came I took a moment to be completely and utterly star struck by looking at Marty and Doc here in front of me. What even IS that??? How can you process that???

Michael warmly regards me.

"Hi again!" He says.

"Hi Michael, hi Chris!!!".

I ask Chris if I can put my arm around him, and he says I can. Michael looks at me talking to Chris in that moment.

Click.

I thank them and go whooping all the way to pick up my printed photo.

I go back to help at the booth until that 4pm autograph time.

The line is like being packed into a can of sardines, and the staff member laughs and remarks that I'm number 100 in line.

There is a strict NO PHOTO policy. You can't take a photo of Michael signing.

I have two photos for Michael to sign: our brand new photo together and a rare behind the scenes photo that I loved so much when I saw it, I asked my friend if I could get it printed and signed on the promise I wouldn't post it to social media, ect.

My time comes. One of Michael's handlers sees the behind the scenes photo.

"I've never seen that one before."

And takes a photo of Michael signing it. The second divine thing that happens.

I panic, but turn my attention to Michael quickly because I've got a few seconds. Go.

He's signing and as he is, I say:

"Hi Michael. I just wanted to say that it's an absolute honor using this costume to volunteer for your Foundation."

Michael looks at me.

"Thank you. I certainly appreciate that."

I thank him and leave, slipping back into the booth.

But the photo.

Would it have been the worst thing ever if it got posted somehow? Probably not. But I can't shake it.

I tell Terry what happened.

She walks me over, warmly greets everyone, and explains the situation. The photo is deleted, and as we're here getting this sorted, Michael is... there.

He's right there.

The line is gone. The only people there are the handlers, staff, and Terry and I.

Somehow... Michael was still there even though the line was gone.

Michael looks at me. Bright blue eyes. Recognizes me.

He's sitting but puts his hands on the table and stands.

"Your jacket."

"Wh.... what??"

"Your jacket... your vest. I wanna sign your vest."

"Wh....???" My eyes WIDE.

I take it off, it's laying front side up in front of him on the table.

I see he's going to sign the front and I remember I can form words if I try.

"Oh... oh uhhhhh Michael? I'm so so sorry but uh, could you sign the inside??? I use this a lot for charity work."

Oh my GOD. Who the hell do I think I am?!?!?! I panicked because I needed to keep using that vest.

I squeak out my name, when he asks, I think Terry echos me because she's much more composed and professional than I am right now.

With an elegant swoop of a black sharpie, he signs the vest. Right side on the inside.

I think I squeaked out a thank you or was just mute by that point, I don't remember.

Michael disappears and the most shell-shocked I've ever been, look at the vest.

It has my name on it.

He signed my name.

"Shannon

Love,

Michael J. Fox"

I lose it. I somehow make it back to the booth and call my mom. Crying and squeaking.

It sounds like she might be crying too.

It snowed. A lot. We walk out of the con center into a blizzard. Honest to god. That was a first.

Our friends graciously give us a ride to the dinner we're all going to with the local DeLorean club members as well as other DeLorean owners. A truly great group.

I'm told I must try something called "poutine". Never heard of it. It's french fries, gravy, and curd cheese. It's really good.

I'm pretty sure this was fit in at some point Saturday. When Chris came in the booth for his photo op session, I was able to briefly thank him for being here. I kneeled down, and shook his hand. But.. I didn't want to let go.

"Chris, could we hold hands for our photo?"

"Yes, absolutely."

He is so wonderful and special. He regarded me with nothing but warmth in our moment.

On Sunday for Lea Thompson's photo session at the car I did a brief TSA as we call it: handling bags and making sure they get back to their owners. As she was walking out of the booth I told her thank you, and got a, "You're welcome sweetie!" in return.

I'll tell you what guys, I couldn't shut my brain off Saturday night. I couldn't sleep for the best reasons possible. Which was a very welcome change for once.

I helped tear down the booth as normal on Sunday, and that was it.

This trip was magic.

[exception-witch-proves-the-rule]

Update! (kind of long and rant-y)

I was about to get this blog back on track, as seen a day or so ago when I had a full day’s worth of queued posts. Then the asshole leech of a housemate decided to prove to the rest of the household (aside from the one who worships the ground he walks on) that he’s a massive jerk.

I can provide more details tomorrow afternoon if needed, but basically this guy was given a year to live with us and get back on his feet. It’s been nearly a year and a half and he’s done absolutely nothing to improve his situation, while still owing the household money. He also gaslights me, puts words in my mouth, never concedes a point/changes his view due to new insight, he insults gracious housemates behind their back, is a raging misogynist, and has philosophies/political opinions that are extremely hypocritical given his situation.

I just had a discussion with him that turned into a full-blown argument. It ended poorly and I’m sure I’ll see the fallout over the next few days. The good thing from all of this, I guess, is that the whole household witnessed it and agree he’s in the wrong, which should give us enough momentum to secure a set move-out date that’s not too far away.

TL;DR I’ve had a super stressful past few days and it will likely stay that way for the next week or so. I’ll try to keep up good content here, but positive vibes, thoughts, wishes, etc, are definitely welcome.

[mariedemedicis]

maximumphilosopheranchor replied to your quote “The glorification of Elizabeth’s memory became a popular means of...”

Imo de Lisle simplifies and distorts things a lot in James's favour in this paragraph. That Elizabethan state was rotten is a disputable point.That James showed far more care for the Church than Elizabeth ever had is a gross overstatement. Elizabethan settlement, Thirty nine articles, publication of the Bible in Welsh etc. anyone? I assume that James's unnecessarily lavish lifestyle paid by English taxpayers is presented as an insignificant issue here.

It wasn't meant to be an attack on you. :)

no worries, i didn’t take it that way! 

this is from the last chapter/conclusion of the book so it’s less about nuance and more about reinforcing the argument she wanted to make. i’ve been posting quotes i find interesting but obviously for anyone reading them, they’re generally without context. 

de lisle is chiefly interested in the transfer of power from elizabeth to james as well as how their legacies are seen to the modern day.

here’s another quote i posted from the same about james’ money spending,

James had requested large sums to cover the costs of his journey south. The figure of £5,000 was circulating in London–money that the English Treasury simply did not have. Cecil and Buckhurst had been through the accounts and found no credits whatsoever. Cecil, however, was loath to pass on the bad news and money was raised to present to James in Berwick. It allowed James to persist in the belief that he had inherited enormous wealth–and what a glorious change in circumstances that must have seemed. James was virtually bankrupt and even before Elizabeth was dead he had been asking Cecil for an advance on his annuity. A flurry of activity in the Scots Council provided James with some money for his immediate needs. He ordered a purple velvet cloak lined with fur, and matching purple coats and breeches lined with taffeta, in an effort to upgrade his modest wardrobe. The cost of such outfits was, however, a drop in the ocean to what he intended to spend.

this is from a quote in my queue for tomorrow,

And James's personal behavior further diminished his prestige. In the months before he was crowned he had already revealed many of the flaws by which he is remembered: his incontinence with money, his intemperate attraction to young men, his arrogance and lack of charm or dignity. Above all, ordinary people complained that they missed 'that generous affability that their good queen did afford him,' and Harington came to concur. 'We did all love [the Queen], for she said she loved us,' he recalled, and James's Privy Councilor, the Earl of Suffolk, acknowledged: 'These things are no more the same.' One of Scaramelli's successors as Venetian ambassador recalled that the consequence of the King's failure to 'caress the people' was that James was 'despised and almost hated.' There was never any national cult of King James and attempts to turn the figure of Arthur from a chivalric symbol to one of British Union failed.

&

Those who hoped for a revival of the mythical glory days of the past and a monarch who could embody the old national aspirations looked to Prince Henry, the rising sun on the political horizon. Harington was one of those involved in the young Prince's education, but it was old members of the Essex faction such as Cromwell, who held the position of Master of the Prince's Game, who were at the center of his court. Prince Henry grew to be loved and admired for being everything that his father was not: he was gracious and elegant, a young man who enjoyed sports and soldiery. While James's policy of peace with with Spain came to be seen as a threat to national security and the national religion, Henry was held up as a future champion of Protestantism in Europe and of a sea-borne empire.

and then the very last pages of the book, queued up for thursday,

But the verdict of history has generally been harsher on James than on the son, who led England and Scotland into civil war. If the first Stuart King of England could defend his reign, he might point out to us that when he first arrived in London he announced that he had three specific aims: the preservation of religion, peace and the unification of his three kingdoms. He proved to be remarkably successful in the first two. Although James's ecumenical hopes were well ahead of their time his interest in the Church of England left in a considerably better state than he had found it, with a well-educated and confident clergy. His success in keeping his three kingdoms at peace earned some respect, even from Sir Anthony Weldon, and at his death he was lauded as 'James the Peaceful and the Just.' If his biggest regret was his failure to found a united kingdom of Britain, James did help create a British identity by continuing the process of integrating the great families of his kingdoms begun with the Nottingham-Lennox marriage in September 1603.   In the end, however, we are left with Weldon's image of the 'wisest fool in Christendom.' James's lack of dignity, his self-indulgence, his evident contempt for ordinary people and his failure to appreciate the importance of Elizabeth's role as a symbol of national aspirations counted for more than his good intentions and high intellect. 'It is a true old saying,' James informed Prince Henry in the Basilikon Doron, 'that a King is as one set up a stage, whose smallest actions and gestures, all the people gazingly do behold: and therefore although a King be never so precise in the discharging of his Office, the people, who seeeth but the outward part, will ever judge of the substance, by the circumstances and according to the outward appearance.’   The contrast between the vulgar James and the iconic Elizabeth was so startlingly and the perceptions of him so negative that the political nation never learned to trust him. The respect in which the English crown was held was thus diminished and the nation that shaped and worshiped Gloriana has never forgiven him for it.

the main crux of de lisle’s argument (at least as far as i understand it) isn’t so much that james deserves to be venerated above elizabeth but rather that at the end of her reign, the young noblemen were yearning for a king, a male ruler, and that was the biggest strike against arabella stuart and isabella, lady of the netherlands as candidates. there was also a lot of derision about the corruption of the elizabethan regime although of course as de lisle points out there was plenty under james as well. james had all these hopes pinned on him from a widely divergent spectrum of groups and interests, which he of course encouraged before ascending to the english throne but which, of course, meant he was bound to disappoint many.

the expectation of toleration of catholicism beyond what elizabeth herself had done was probably the most castle in the sky type hope given that james had already clearly laid out his policy in scotland and his policy in england turned out to be the largely the same.

the unhappiness with james came from many of the same who had been so eager for him to cross the border and as a backlash against james, many began to yearn for elizabeth again but of course a glorification of what had come before.

i personally think (and this is not stated by de lisle at all) that perhaps the difference in position and sense of the vulnerability or lack of in their positions is what explains the cult around elizabeth versus the much less positive image of james. elizabeth benefited greatly from watching mary’s failures and successes before her and was keenly aware of her status in the eyes of most of europe as a bastard and a heretic and a woman. she played into the weak, indecisive woman stereotype, listened to her advisors, and then did what she wanted. james, however, largely became king at birth even though initially regents were ruling in his name. as a result, james saw himself as having the right to rule and expected everyone else to see it too. he also (as de lisle points out) made much less of an effort to be beloved of the commons then elizabeth.

anyway, sorry for the essay, it’s a very interesting argument and i think the book is worth reading but you certainly don’t have to agree with her.

[prorevenge]

My kid does 13K in damage to studio equip, we handle it like lunatics.

[Part 1]

Some background:

I'm an audio engineer and score arranger full time in my self-owned business. It's how I provide for myself, my fiancée (also CF), and my mother. I record, mix, and master for bands, voice-overs for local commercials, and write music for people's weddings, college films, indie games, etc.. It was my passion since I was a child and every day I ask myself why I get paid to do what I do.

You know, until today.

I had a woman schedule to come in because she wanted me to record her monologue for an acting class. I thought it was going to be easy enough. I set up a mic and a music stand in the sound booth and got my workstation prepped for tracking. She was supposed to show up at 3:30, so when 4:00 came around, I called her to ask her if she was still coming. It was my last contract for the day and I was wanting to get home to my fiancée, dogs, and dinner.

"Oh, sorry sweetie, I'm going to be there soon. I just had to get my son from ex-boyfriend."

Uh oh.

4:12, she showed up with her child.

To preface, I've never really wanted kids, and don't really hate them either. But I've been childfree of mind for a decade now in league of several bad child experiences in public.

Anyway, I sat her down at the conference table and tried to talk to her about the contract and billing, etc., and just couldn't because of the six-years-old pile of ovary droppings next to her.

"Mommy it's cold in here." "Mommy, I'm bored." "Mommy, that guy has girl hair." "Mommy, I want to play on the phone."

The incessant whining went on for the entirety of the discussion. She did nothing about it. I had an ache in my stomach that this might be a rough session.

I was right.

I showed her to the sound booth, positioned the mic at face level, told her the basics of mic use, and then she floored me with a question.

"Can my son stay in there with you while I do this?" I insisted that he wait in the conference room (across the hall from the control room) because the control room wasn't a very kid-friendly place considering the 120K of equipment at arms reach.

"But he's a little angel."

I shouldn't have taken her word for it. I SHOULD NOT have taken her word for it. This kid was ANYTHING but. I let him in, told him to sit in one of the office chairs and don't touch anything. Needless to say, he touched. I queued the recording arm and signaled her to start. She got three lines into her take before I hear a deafening screech and crash.

That little shit machine had just knocked over a $4,000 Korg into a rack with $9,500 of equipment. Completely shattered the touchscreen on the Korg, busted the dials off of half of the effects, and totaled my distressor that I use for almost all the vocals I track.

All of this, by the way, was the room's length apart from where I told the crotch goblin to stay.

The kid, because of the loud noise, started full-lung screaming. Not crying. Not yelling. Screaming.

The mother, with no hesitation, ran over to the control room and DEMANDED to know what I did to her child. She cussed at me and accused me of hurting her little snot monster. Threatened to sue and even swung at me. When I told her that her precious angel had just racked up at least twelve grand of damages, she said "good", spit on me, then stormed out, slamming every door on the way. So I pulled the security camera footage and had filed a police report. Grand total: $13,504.25. I also mailed her the bill for her session for good measure.

Of six years in the studio, this is my only truly terrible experience. Fuck mombies. Fuck having children. Thanks for making my vasectomy decision that much easier on me.

[Part 2]

I'm going to start off and say that this community is bad ass. With legal advice, moral support, and inquiry of the trade, you guys/gals/other have made this whole endeavor a bit easier on me.

Cheers.

Okay, since Sunday, I've managed to speak with my insurance company, my lawyer, some repair techs, the police (again), and my urologist. For the sake of good storytelling, I'll organize this chronically.

Monday:

I left a message for my insurance agent about all this. I then called some repair techs about getting my Korg and the distressor repaired to potential working order, and to no avail. The distressor would have costed two grand to repair (on a $1,320 piece), so I wait on my insurance payout to replace it. Korg, apparently, has no replacement parts available anywhere in the US for their flagship keyboard, so another $4k down the drain. The dials on the rest of the effects rack can be easily fixed. May not look as stellar, but what can you do. At least it survived an attack from an over-metastasized cumshot. I ordered replacement dials from my local electronics store and mailed out the session bill to Mombie. Beyond that, I got in touch with a friend in Memphis who was gracious enough to lend me his Portico 5042 in the meantime. Should be arriving some time Friday.

Tuesday:

Boy oh boy. I went to my lawyer's office to see what could be done about Mombie's actions. He's thinking it'd just be best to let the insurance company go after the property damages, and that it'd be too expensive for me to recruit him for what the insurance company will do by themselves. As per the assaults are concerned, he asked me to gather all evidence (Video, contract, police report) and said that since no bodily harm was caused, it'd be the best idea to go to civil court rather than criminal, and file for a protective order. The words "emotional damages" were emphasized. He was very specific about not posting any of the evidence. As long as what I post remains vague, doesn't mention any identifying information, it doesn't stand in court.

"Make sure you can say it is a made up story if asked."

We also discussed revising my contract, more info on that when we get to it. Beyond that, I decided to jump the gun and inquire about a vasectomy. I have an appointment with my GP on the 7th of March.

Wednesday:

Reader beware, this is where it gets cringy. I'd grab a stiff drink if I were you. I opened the studio back up and got back to work. I had a voicemail left for me on the studio phone. A "lawyer", toting the most deep fried country accent I've heard, called me from a "Ford & Handcock" law firm (which I couldn't find anywhere on the internet) threatening "Immediate sueing" for "Sexual rape harassment" for filing a police report against his "client."

Here's the transcript of what I could understand through his dumpster fire of an accent: (I swear I'm not making this up) "Yeah, this is [withheld] from Ford & Handcock callin' to tell you that you're gonna get immediate sueing for what you did to my girlfri- client and her baby boy. Y'all know as well as I do that [unintelligible noises] was nothin' short of sexual rape harassment and that you're goin' ta be in a lawsuit if you don't delete the cop report you made up(?)."

I couldn't breathe, I was laughing too hard.

Once I regained my composure, I called back to inquire about this impending doom that I was promised by this product-of-incest harbinger. The call was forwarded to their voicemail inbox, where it opened up with the aforementioned accent, saying:

"Hey, this is [different name than the "lawyer"] and [mombie's name] and we're not here right now so if you could leave..."

So on.

So I just hung up and called my fiancee, emailed her the voicemail and asked her to listen to it, just to hear her sniffling and cackling like a maniac at the sound of this guy's six-inches-deep-in-cousin accent and overall misunderstanding of the american law system. I recorded the voicemail onto a thumbstick and giving it to my lawyer along with the video, police report, etc..

Thursday:

As of this morning, no call back from my insurance adjuster, so I'm just going to wait on that. I'm sitting by the phone, so if I get another call from "Ford & Handcock", I can deliver the "Do not call back/stop harassing me" line, so I can add that to the list of potential charges if it becomes a thing. Not very much else happened beyond that, and I'll keep you lot updated. Thanks for your support. *Edited to fix a phone auto-correct, what was supposed to say "Ford & Handcock" said "Ford & Hitchcock". Sorry all.

[Part 3]

There has been a... development with the mombie, dr /professor/lawyer/part time absent-father from Ford and Handcock.

I said in the update I posted before (Links at the bottom) that I had a call from a "lawyer" from one "Ford and Handcock", and am practically on standby for another call from said "lawyer".

Well, that call came on Friday.

So, guy called back, my fiancee was in the studio with me while we were taking turns playing Dishonored 2 on a "workstation" pc doing very important adult-like studio work, and his message for me was practically a carbon copy of the last one. I gave him the "Do not call back/stop harassing me" bit, to which he said

"That law don't apply to me. I'm a laawwyyeerr. I can do whatever the hell I need to do to do the law, even if it takes lethal deadly force" [sic]

Given the threat, I called the police, filed a report, gave them the original recording of the call and kept a copy for myself.

My wife-to-be did notice that the inbred gave the pseudonym "Conrad McMasters", which she recognized from the TV show "Matlock". Go figure.

So, skipping on to tonight.

We came back to the studio to pick up a laptop for my mum to use while in the hospital (just a minor fall injury, she'll make a full recovery), and noticed that the handle on the exterior door had been jerked loose. So, I told Fiancee to get back into the car and park down the street, have 911 dialed, don't come out until the all clear, call the police if she heard gunshots. I drew my handgun and looked around the place.

I didn't find anything, but the windows and outside door were damaged with what seemed like an attempted break-in, and a "Cash Express" post-it-note stuck to the stoop that said "U fucked up".

Shout out to U/VanillaG6790 (hope I'm formatting this correctly) for suggesting that I put cameras outside the studio alongside the interior ones. I only have one installed as of yet (DIY), facing the front door. So, I made sure nobody was around, waved Fiancee back to the studio, we got in, locked up, and backed up the security footage to see what we could find.

Lo and Behold, Mombie's car. A man (maybe the singletoothed re-imagining of Mr. McMasters from before?) yanked on the outside door with the veracity of a chimpanzee in the prime of mating season, walked out of frame (in the direction of the aforementioned windows) and stayed out of frame for about fifteen minutes, before returning just to scribble on the note and stick it on the stoop. He then saw the camera, shot the biggest 'O SHIT' face, and scurried back to his methmobile and sped off.

So to recap, we have a clear-view copy of:

His license plate

His attempted breaking-and-entering

His face. The pez-dispenser looking motherfucker practically spiked the lens for five seconds.

Police were called for this too. Details will be submitted post-trial, and I'll contact my lawyer first thing in the morning.

I tried doing it just now, but, DUH, it's Sunday, his office is closed.

Anyway, you guys are awesome. The advice I'm getting from you lot is saving me so much grief. I'm contacting the Bar association to tell them about the actions of Dr./Professor/Matlock-Impersonator/absent-father.

By the way, Meeting with GP (and then hopefully my urologist) next Tuesday in attempts at getting snipped.

Oh, and I've gotten most of the dials my equipment repaired, I ordered another KRONOS, another distressor, and got the Portico 5042 on Friday as a temporary stand-in. I have to give it to the Portico. Not bad. Not bad at all.

I'll keep you all updated as things happen, but I'm not sure when it may be. I'll post a micro-update on how the appointment goes on the 7th.

(source) (story by deleted)

[globalvoices]

In A Greek Refugee Camp: A Volunteer's Notebook

By Mai El-Mahdy

Licensed as Creative Commons Attribution 3.0.

Syrian refugees in Greece. By now there are thousands of blog posts, newspaper articles and eyewitness accounts that tell the stories of entire families drowning in the ocean, in desperate hope for a life free of warfare and poverty. I’m sure there are even more on those who eventually survived the ferocious waves, only to move into inhumane, “temporary” camps where they end up spending years. But for better or for worse, I’m not going to talk about the refugees, the lives they left behind in Syria or how they ended up in Greece. I want to talk about the current conditions and the role—or lack thereof—of those of us who try to help them, in bringing an end to this humanitarian crisis.

Recently I spent a couple of weeks at Greece’s Ritsona camp, a hub for five different humanitarian NGOs, alongside the UN operations. Ritsona is an old military base located outside Chalkida, the chief town on the island of Euboea, about an hour’s drive north of the centre of Athens. Its population is roughly two-thirds Syrian, with the remaining third made up of Kurds, Iraqis, and Afghans.

Sunken dignity

One of the harsh realities about life in the camps that is hard to fathom, let alone survive, is the absence of self-respect—dignity that has dropped so low it’s as if it was eaten up by the fierce waves before sinking to the bottom. It’s the dented sense of dignity that makes a person happy to move out of a tent into some makeshift caravan container box that becomes your “temporary” shelter for months and months. It’s the type of dignity that is all but lost when your entire livelihood is at the mercy of NGO workers who, through their authority and the decisions they make on people’s behalf, teach the refugees to accept the little they get, and be happy. Why do this, when these people are already broken? Do we volunteers always know what’s best for them? Would we allow others to make similar decisions on our behalf?

It’s not about freedom of choice; it’s not about allowing people the space to make their own decisions and mistakes. It’s about self-determination. Refugees take every single imaginable risk, relying on factors way beyond anyone’s control, only to arrive—miraculously—at a camp and submit to someone else’s decision-making, regardless of how good or bad those decisions are.

“Let’s teach English!” Everyone needs and wants to learn English, right? “Let’s buy toys for children,” overlooking the desires of parents, and the children themselves. Queuing up for food or clothes is part of the harsh reality of accepting that, due to circumstances beyond your control, you have become less valuable of a human being.

Refugees don’t want to queue for ages for food or clothes: they want to be treated as human beings, just like a black man in Apartheid South Africa, a Palestinian in the face of the Israeli occupation, or a woman anywhere in the world today. Part of the pain is acknowledging, while you stand in line, that few outside of your war zone would ever have to endure this or even entertain the thought. It is the frustration of being offered the non-choice of either being grateful that you’re in a queue with food at the end of it, or of being featured in a photo shared on social media that makes people feel sorry for you.

Perhaps we should look at the treatment of refugees as a right they have earned for themselves, not as charity that we choose to give to them. Perhaps we should focus our efforts on allowing them to fight for themselves. Perhaps it is simply about paving the way for their self-emancipation, regardless of where it leads them, and especially regardless of where it leaves us. We need to focus on educating them about their rights based on the country they are relocated, caring for their health, providing education for them and their children, etc.

Perhaps we should look at them the way we want them to look at us: with dignity and self-respect.

Are we really helping?

It’s funny how, as volunteers, we’re expected to arrive on the scene and push, along with everyone else, to get the wheels in motion. As though we’re not part of the story, but instead temporary outsiders brought in to perform a specific mission. But whether we like it or not, we are part of the narrative and influence it, significantly.

As individuals, we struggle with our egos. It’s one thing to recognize that—and in fact, very few volunteers are strong enough to do even that. Suppressing our egos, however, is a totally different story. It’s probably inevitable that volunteers find it easier to feed their egos than feed the needy. And the reward is so tempting that many forget to stop for a minute and ask themselves: are we really helping?

It’s no wonder so many volunteers pay special attention to children, who become quickly attached. But how does that help?

Volunteers can’t help but feel superior. In the camps they stand out like a sore thumb, and that’s not always unintentional. Volunteers often see themselves as providers of a valuable service, as making a great sacrifice of time and expertise. And they expect others to be gracious and remind them what great human beings they are for doing what they do.

But it’s not a service—it’s the refugees’ right. And this shouldn’t be debatable.

Once, at one of the stores where we shopped for the people of Ritsona camp with donated funds, I tried to bargain with the cashier to get more for my donated buck. The cashier, a fellow Egyptian making a living across the Mediterranean, agreed to “hook me up.” But instead of reducing the cost, she offered to write me an invoice for a higher sum. According to her, many volunteers and NGO workers accepted the fake invoices and pocketed the difference, so it was clear to her that I was new to this. And no, she did not budge on the price.

That’s only the tip of the iceberg. Some volunteers finance their travel out of the donations they receive. In spite of pleas for greater transparency, few NGOs actually publish the details of their finances. And even fewer donors ask for the details. If it’s change we’re after, this is probably a good place to start.

In my opinion, the best way to help refugees is by bypassing the NGOs altogether. It’s not difficult for us to connect directly with refugees. They’re human, just like us, just with different circumstances that suck. Treating them as patients with some disease or disability doesn’t help.

A friend of mine has a different take on this. He relates the story of a German doctor, an older gentleman, extremely professional and meticulous about his work. It’s his job to treat patients to the best of his ability given the facilities provided. From morning till night this doctor receives patients, diagnoses them, treats them. He doesn’t speak the language of the country where he works, and is very distant, almost cold. But he treats every single person he comes across, and he sets up and develops the medical facility and trains the workers so that the project can sustain itself after his departure. Many might not know him, care about him, or even remember him, though he is the one who directly helped and advanced the community. No credit. No showiness. No emotion. Just pure problem-solving.

I don’t necessarily disagree. NGOs impose strict rules on volunteers, one of which prohibits staying at the camp past 5pm. I hated this rule, so after a couple of weeks, I moved out of NGO housing and into the camp. I stayed with a refugee friend and her two daughters in their container. I would never argue that I was living their life, but I will say that I was observing it through a sharper lens.

While I agree that being distant and professional may be highly efficient and effective, I think that closeness also helps. Yes, we eventually leave; and sure, we may invest more time and effort in forming emotional bonds with the refugees than in providing tangible deliverables. And I won’t deny that I’ve learned more from the refugees about the Syrian cultural and political context than I’ve shared my own knowledge.

But by establishing close bonds we remind others—and ourselves—that they are human. And we become more human in the process.

Hospitals Don't Always Speak Your Language

The day to-day medical needs of Ritsona camp residents, of which there was an abundance, were left pretty much unattended. In emergencies, however, the Greek National Emergency Medical Services (EKAB, Ethniko Kentro Amesis Voitheias) would transport residents of the camp to and from the nearest hospital.

No one likes to go to the hospital, but when you’re a Syrian in a foreign country, it’s even worse than you imagine. Refugees are immersed in a sea of loneliness and fear of the unknown. You can see it in their eyes. And the harsh conditions of the journey to the camp leaves the majority of children, especially, with severe respiratory problems.

Many of the Greek doctors, however, didn’t even speak English nor did they have translators, and most patients could express themselves only in either Arabic or Kurdish. Often, residents would spend hours awaiting emergency care at the hospital, only to lose hope of ever understanding what they needed to do to get treatment, and leave.

At the camp my Arabic came in handy, as my job was to accompany the patients. Last May one of the NGOs at Ritsona pioneered a unique initiative dubbed “Hospital Runs”; that was the team I worked with. It’s a program organized in collaboration with the Red Cross that operates under the license of the Greek Army. They provide medical transportation, English, Greek and Arabic interpretation, and intercultural and medical assistance. The team also helps with bureaucratic procedures.

I was proud to be a member of that team. Each day we’d hop over to Chalkida or trek all the way to Athens, returning in the evening after having handled whatever problems, cases and complications had been thrown at us.

Sometimes the hospital staff made us feel unwelcome, scolding us about coming in with muddy shoes, indifferent to the fact that the camp is basically built on mud. I remember arriving at the hospital one day to find a young woman, clearly Arab and most probably from the camp, all alone, with nobody attending to her. She had clearly given up on trying to communicate or to save herself from whatever pain had piled on top of everything she had brought over to the continent. She gave me her details and the number of a loved one, so that I could communicate to them in the event she didn’t make it. Thankfully, and against the odds, she survived.

I guess I just can't fathom how borders and bodies of water can ultimately decide who's granted the opportunity to climb to the top, and who will be left to drown, and sink to the bottom.

Mai El-Mahdy is an Ireland-based Egyptian who works in tech. She was one of the millions who took part in the #Jan25 revolution, and she looks forward to being part of the next one.

[hereisdelina]

Good or Bad? You are the one who choose it.

Bismillahirrahmanirrahiim  –in the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

We never know what will happen in our live, as well as every encounter we will experience. Each of those could be classified as one of these three categories, the first is positive-impact meeting, second is no-impact meeting, and third is the bad one which has a negative impact on ourselves. Let's talk about those categories more deeply!

The bad one. Have you ever met someone new which is super duper annoying? Has anyone ever been cursed or mocked by someone we just met without knowing what our fault is? How many times your line has ever been cut by someone else? Tbh I've experienced some of the above. I've ever been cursed just because I asked for a chance to cross the street. I've ever queued for a long time to pay something then there is a person who just arrived immediately stand in front of the cashier and paid for the goods he wants, and leave. Why did I call it a bad meeting? Because it brings bad impact on the next minute of our live, e.g. cursing him back, mocking or scolding the queue thief, etc. See? We start the day with a super nice mood, and suddenly turn into emotional person because of that unexpected meeting.

Meeting that has no impact whatsoever. That's it. We meet people without any tendency, without any intention to establish communication, or even we are too ignorant to care about the circumstances of people around. I've experienced it. 

Positive meeting. Anyone ever met a very friendly person by accident? Have you ever exchanged ideas with someone you just met in a public place –the bus stops, stations, markets- which later bring you into deeper thinking? Then I will be the first person who shouts ‘Me!’ This kind of meeting seems to be a dream scheme for everyone. Your gloomy days can be amazingly fun due to the kindness of old woman who sells a drinking water near the bus stop where you usually wait for the pickup, don’t you?

You know what? After reading the paragraphs above, you will presume that this post is about the types of meeting with strangers. You would be mistaken if you think this article was about it. What I really want to say is how we should behave over each of it. Because how we respond is the one that actually affects the ending of those meetings. All manners –good or bad- that people show against us at the beginning may give an additional positive effect in ourselves at the end. How can?

It's all in our hand.

For example, when a stranger suddenly cursed us, what do people usually do? Cursing that person back or cursing that person all the way home? You choose –don’t tell anyone I am the one who give the options.

Relax, try to understand more deeply and restraint ourselves first. When people do bad to us, we have two options,

the first one is to be as bad as they are by following our desire to avenge as they do –even more cruelly, or

second, take a deep breath, feel the air, hold your ego, and pray for that person so that Allah will give her/him a guidance soon. Congrats! You just did a great deed, fellas!

When we decide to do the second option, it doesn’t mean we lose because we don’t respond to her/his act equally, nor does it mean that we agree with what she/he has just said to us, but because we have the rights to sense of peace in our hearts. And that peace will leads us to the better positive things. How can we let stranger change our entire mood in a day or week or month? She/he is not worth taking the peace in our hearts. By changing our perspective slightly, we can get benefits of it, we can stay happy in a whole day, the possibility of having high blood pressure is also low (lololol), we also get reward from God for overcoming our nafs, and a long-term effect that may not be realized by us is God’s guidance that may comes to the person due to your good deed. Masha Allah.

Let’s move to the second category, no-impact meeting. At this kind of situation, we are the one who should open the door of kindness. As an example, start saying ‘Assalamualaikum –peace be upon you’ to the people next to us or ‘Hey, how is your day? Hope it will be great for you!’ The first possibility, we will be ignored by them –it’s okay, our skin doesn’t peel off if they do that. Best possibility? We'll get a new friend! That means new stories, new points of views, and new thoughts will please our leisure time!

Next, the ideal positive meeting. Not much to be discussed because what you get from this meeting is bunch of positive energy for your beautiful day! Maybe you just need to maintain a good communication with this kind of people.

Whoever you meet, whatever they did to you, it must has been written by God in Lauful Mahfudz long time ago before you were present in this world. And we should be grateful for it, because each of those meetings will give you a better understanding and bring you into a better person –as God wants, depending on how you react to it. Be kind to everyone you meet, you never know that Allah will give hidayah for someone through your kindness.

I was inspired to write about this topic because I never think that my ordinary meeting with stranger will bring a major change in my life, especially my deen. Maybe, that’s what’s called hidayah –guidance from Allah. May Allah make it easy for us to do good deeds. Aamiin.