#guess who just had a huge cup of strong real coffee before they realised?

[foreignobjecticus]

TMI bitching but also not because I firmly believe we need to get over not talking about menstruation, but also I don't care to talk about it myself because I personally loathe it, BUT

it's apparently been 7 months since the last time I menstruated which is fabulous (thank you ultimately unpredictable but still wonderful hormone pills) BUT 7 months is still way too fucking soon. Now I'm looking at my schedule like "yeah, alrighttttt, I supposeeeee I can fit you in. But you better not fuck me over too much on Monday; I've got a lot of standing up that day".

[vostokovasmelina]

— 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝟑𝐂. (𝐬.𝐰.)

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐢  |  𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢 | 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

characters: fem!reader; sam wilson; archibald the tabby cat; sarah wilson

word count: 3.1k+

warning: mentions and descriptions of alcohol, death, grief, trauma, therapy, depression – i call this post-snap realism

series summary: after the blip, sam wilson gets home to an unpleasant surprise - his key doesn’t fit the lock anymore and his apartment is now inhabited by a stranger and a grumpy feline. however, the unusual encounter is only the beginning of their post-blip lives and the reader soon learns that what life takes away, it can give back in the most particular ways.

a/n: the ending is a dark unedited mess, so proceed with caution

Taking a cautious sip of your hot beverage, you watched this absolute gatecrasher of a man trying to make up his mind about whatever he was so confused about – Sam kept looking all around your apartment as if searching for something he had left there, his slightly lost and disoriented expression sending a sudden wave of guilt rushing over you. Now that you thought about it, it really must have sucked absolute cheese for him to come home hoping he could finally have that huge cup of strong black coffee he had been anticipating ever since having defeated that enormous purple bastard from Outer Space, only to find that his coffee machine was long gone and now this random lady with a philodendron problem and a judgmental cat were inhabiting the place with absolutely no room left for him whatsoever. It did sound tragic when you put it that way.

However, it really wasn’t your fault that you had needed to find a brand new residence approximately five years before. He really should have checked in with someone to make sure he still had somewhere to go home to. You were quite clearly the real victim here. And Lord only knew how poor Archie was going to process all the excitement of the day.

For a few seconds, you contemplated whether or not to put your thoughts into words, and eventually decided against it for the time being. The man had just helped save the world a few days before, after all, and out of what? Good conscience? Personally not for you, but you could appreciate it in others. And it would have been a real shame to die right when your fan-favourite succulents and killer new posting schedule had been attracting more Instagram followers than ever before. Thanks to the savior complex flaming inside of the gentleman standing before you though, the regular civilian had luckily escaped such terrible hardships. And special thanks to approximately a thousand and one other superheroes. Oh, and to an African country filled with similarly public-spirited people.

For a few awkwardly long seconds neither of you said a word. Sam kept looking around and you watched him look around, slowly lowering your mug onto the table and tilting your head slightly to the left. Weird how Sarah had never mentioned the brother believed to be dead for the last five years was this handsome. It is unfair, really. Some people are just naturally gorgeous no matter the shitty kitchen lighting, that tiny confused frown that had been sitting on their face for the last half hour, or those shiny black bugs for eyes tearing up ever so slightly to snitch on a long repressed yawn.

“Now that the drama is over and the Avengers as such are non-existent – have you considered a career in modeling yet?”

Sam snapped his head towards you with such force and speed that for a moment you were afraid you’d have to spend the rest of the afternoon sewing it back on his neck. You grabbed your mug still pretty much filled to the brim with tea and raised it back up to your mouth to hide your lingering half-smile behind a faded portrait of baby Archie on the ivory porcelain.

“Just saying, I would buy anything for this face on the package alone,” you continued with the confidence of a woman who hasn’t got a single drop of shame left in her body. But it was fine ‘cos you didn’t actually mean it, right? It was all just a joke, an attempt at lightening the mood and snapping him out of his puzzled melancholy. And that tiny flutter of your heart upon hearing Sam’s perfect little chuckle was but a momentary malfunction of the organ. The incident was purely physiological. No contribution from any emotional factors. It was simply an innocent coincidence that these two, completely unrelated things had co-occured.

So when your gazes met, you didn’t tear yours away in embarrassment – you stood your ground, completely unaffected and unbothered, ignoring the increasingly hot sensation in your cheeks when you saw Sam raise a cheeky eyebrow at you. Before even more damage could have been done, however, you decided to cut the party short.

“Oh, no. Don’t get your hopes up, Birdman. I simply couldn’t keep watching you in your deeply disturbed state.”

Very, very smooth. Cleared of all suspicion. Good job.

“Wow. Okay. That was cruel,” Sam scoffed and gave emphasis to his words by bringing up his right palm dramatically to his chest, right above his now most definitely broken heart. The overall effect got ruined by an annoyingly goofy grin in the end and before you even realised, you had already reached out for your massive mug again to drown your own erupting smile in the hot liquid.

In the silence that followed, however, you saw Sam’s smile fall ever so slightly, as if exhaustion or worry were holding onto the corners of his lips, physically tugging them down, and you shifted slightly uncomfortably in your seat. It was time you had stopped messing around with the poor guy.

“Look, I know this is weird but I’m sure we can find a solution. Just call Sarah so she can stop worrying now,” you suggested, finishing your tea and pushing the now empty mug to the middle of the table before leaning back in your seat.

“Ugh, yeah,” Sam started slowly, squatting down to get his mobile and the charger out of his massive sports bag. “Can I plug this in somewhere?”

You blinked at him a couple of times while he waited patiently for your answer. You could only imagine the number of missed calls and unread texts waiting for Sam on his phone, but you decided you didn’t know him enough to give him a lecture on behalf of his sister. So you just gave him a tired nod and gestured lazily towards your battered kitchen counter, Sam following your direction with his gaze.

“Above the microwave. Oh, and the socket farthest to the left–”

“–doesn’t work. I remember.” Sam flashed another exhausted but friendly smirk at you above his shoulder, and you allowed yourself to return the gesture to his back once he wasn’t watching.

“Right, sorry. Forgot I was the intruder here,” you joked, delighted to earn another one of those irritatingly lively chuckles of this man’s.

You seriously needed to get your shit together.

“Okay, while your phone is doing its thing, let’s call Sarah from mine, I guess” you continued, jumping up from your chair the moment Sam returned to the table and you headed towards your worn little couch where you scratched Archie gently behind his right ear. “Where have you put my phone, you dirty old man?” You cooed, smiling softly while sliding your hands under the cheap cushions and booping your irritated cat’s tiny nose when your fingers finally touched the cold metal you had been looking for.

Once seated again, you caught Sam staring at Archie, his eyes slightly narrowed in what appeared to be deep concentration. You furrowed your eyebrows and tilted your head, waiting for your uninvited guest to notice you.

“I don’t think your cat likes me too much,” he finally said, slowly tearing his gaze away from the pet feline’s and looking into your slightly more welcoming human eyes instead.

You chuckled dryly, turning around to see Archie in all his glory on the couch. He simply gave you an unbothered look before completely losing interest in the two of you, and he hopped of the couch, slowly making his way towards your bedroom where you knew he would bundle up under your bed on the cosy carpet. He had apparently decided it was time for his beauty sleep.

“Yeah, he’s like that with everyone. Nothing personal,” you assured Sam, who offered a tired half-smile in return. You cleared your throat gently, eyes fixed on your phone’s screen and fingers already searching for Sarah’s number. Once you had found it, you handed it to Sam whose only job left was to press the call button. You raised your eyebrows at him expectantly and he let out a sigh while reaching out for your mobile.

* * *

It wasn’t like he didn’t want to talk to Sarah. Quite the opposite, actually. But he was embarrassed. Sam knew full well how furious his sister was going to be. And honestly, rightfully so. He couldn’t argue with that. After all, she did say there had been something she wanted to talk to him about. And Sam did hang up on her without a passable excuse. And he did let his phone die on his way back home to Louisiana.

Yeah, he most probably wasn't going to be nominated for this year's Brother of the Year award.

Their last call had happened two days before. Two days is a long time without any news from a brother who had just returned after having been believed to be dead for the past five years. And if you had been to ask him, Sam wouldn’t have been able to tell you what had gotten into him either but ever since the Blip, something had not been exactly right. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was going on, so he hadn’t brought it up to anyone, but his brain felt slow and foggy as if it hadn't had time to catch up yet.

Sometimes, Sam worried that the molecules in his brain had been mixed up and hadn't been put back into their original places in the process of the whole turning-into-dust-and-back-into-human-form-again thing.

It was a silly thought, yes, but with everything going on in the world, would it really be that hard to believe?

"Hey hon! What's up?" Sam's thought process was cut off by the endearing voice of his sister, and though he was aware all this affection was not directed towards him – given that he had called Sarah on your phone – his heart did swell upon hearing her again.

And then he said hi and it all went south from there.

Sarah was obviously pissed.

She asked Sam if he had any idea how many texts and missed calls she had left him, and no, he had no clue but if he had to guess, the number would have been way high up in the double digits.

Then she started going off on Sam, using different kinds of actually very creative euphemisms – which was a problem because Sam got so distracted by his sister's choice of words that her short, well-thought out rant had very little effect on him, but at least he had enough self-respect left to get his sister off speaker at this point.

"Look, Sarah, I know I messed up but I'm fine! I swear," he started, cutting his sister short while subconsciously picking at the skin around the nail on his index finger with his thumb. "What if I stop by Andy's and tell him to give me their best apple pie?" Sam added, hoping this promise would serve as an ice-breaker. Sarah did love her desserts. A lot. And Andy always gave a discount to the Wilson family, too.

When he heard his sister's tired sigh, Sam's heart gave a hopeful flutter, but he was rudely dragged back onto the ground on his way to cloud nine the very next second.

"I'm doing the shopping at the moment. Just got here and it's gonna take long," Sarah replied, annoyance poking through all her words. Then, the tension that had been dominating the pair's call suddenly seemed to evaporate as Sam sensed a weak shadow of a smile in her following sentence. "But that apple pie does sound good."

Sam couldn't help the grin that creeped its way onto his face and he didn't even care about Sarah's semi-serious threat, saying how they were nowhere near finished yet. He muttered out a quick sorry again, promised Sarah to give her regards to you and finished the call with a charming 'I love you' to which his sister replied with a snarky 'I bet' before hanging up with a promise that she would call again when she got home.

Sam let out a relieved chuckle before handing you back your phone and taking the final sip of his slightly lukewarm coffee, watching your bright red-nailed fingers tap away on the device, and he swallowed harder and probably louder than he had meant to. You just happened to put your phone down the very next second, so he tried to cover up the gulp by clearing his throat and shifting his gaze from your nails to your eyes.

Beautiful eyes.

Well shit.

"So, I guess you're staying," you started hesitantly, raising your eyebrows at Sam in a slightly impatient manner, which snapped him out of his blissful thoughts and thrust him back into reality.

Was he staying? He certainly had nowhere to go now that he was practically homeless and his sister was unable to welcome him in her own home for the next two hours, at least. But then again, you were a complete stranger whose afternoon he had just disrupted, and it didn't matter how weird it felt seeing you be so at home in his apartment because it wasn't his anymore. It was yours and you had all the right to kick Sam out and he had absolutely zero right to argue.

But, thankfully, he didn't have to.

"Which is fine, by the way. I did promise you an explanation, after all." Sam couldn't quite ignore the hint of dread behind your words and he was ready to object, to leave you alone and spend the rest of his afternoon doing God-knows-what, but then you offered him another cup of coffee followed by a tiny but honest smile, and Sam just couldn't bring himself to say no.

* * *

Sam Wilson was ridiculously easy to open up to.

It made you want to commit a crime.

His gaze was so intensely warm that after a while, you were looking at everything in your apartment but him just to avoid accidentally trauma dumping on him, especially when you got to the part about group therapy.

Because you had met Sarah at a group therapy session approximately four and a half years before.

It had been clear from the very first minute that neither of you had actually wanted to be there and that both of you had been forced into this situation. Sarah had been dragged to group by an overly enthusiastic co-worker of hers whose crush on the counselor had been probably more intense than the trauma she had suffered – she had lost a dog and her neighbor to the right whom she had always talked shit about behind his back. She was a nice enough woman, but considering that people had lost actual family in the Snap, her presence had always been mostly aggravating, to say the least.

In your case, it had been your grandmother who had bullied you into going to one of the sessions because 'she had the same rotten mentality when Miss Taylor told her to go but then she found it life-changing'. At this point, you had become so indifferent to everything in the world that you hadn't needed much convincing to go. You had told yourself it would be one session anyway after which you would have told Grandma Ethel that 'therapy was simply not for you' and could have been back to your usual Thursday evening routine consisting of a cheap bottle of red wine and depressing reruns of trashy British reality shows from the late 2000s.

The actual sessions had never worked for you. They might have if you had actually spoken up at any of them but you had never become quite ready to talk about your loss in front of a dozen other people, most of whom you had already known. But then you had met Sarah and something about her had made you feel secure, secure enough to talk about them for the first time, so you had started hanging out at a café not too far from the community center and it had become the best thing in your life.

"And the rest is history," you finished, getting up from your chair to put both yours and Sam's mug in the sink and watered your nearby plants while at it.

"I'm really glad Sarah had someone by her side," Sam commented and you could hear a hint of guilt in his words but you decided to ignore it. You simply nodded and muttered out a weak 'yeah', saying you were just as happy to have found a friend like Sarah.

Then Sam said something that made all the muscles in your body tense up and you froze completely for the next couple of seconds.

"And have you seen your family yet? Now that they've come back?"

It was an innocent question. He doesn't know the whole story. So calm down.

You slowly put down the glass you had used earlier to water your plants and tried with every particle in your body to put on the best toothpaste commercial-worthy smile you could force out of yourself before turning back towards Sam and answering his absolutely understandable question.

"Yeah!" No. "They're doing well, actually!" They're fucking dead.

Sam's genuinely happy smile was way too much to handle and if it hadn't been for a call from Sarah, you would have broken down in tears right in front of him the very next moment.

So instead of all that, you decided to turn right back around, pour yourself a huge glass of cold tapwater and down it in one breath while Sam finished his brief conversation with his sister. The stinging pain in your chest that followed was enough to distract your thoughts until he was finally at the door, saying goodbye and thanking your for the coffee and saying sorry for intruding and taking absolutely way too fucking long to finally leave.

"Hey, um... I could give you my number? If you ever need anything or..."

He can't be serious.

"Sure! You can, ugh, put it in my phone," you replied, your hands shaking dangerously as you reached into your back pocket for your mobile and handed it to Sam, who knew better than to comment on it.

Once finished, he returned your phone with one of those irritatingly joyful smiles of his and with a final 'see you around' Sam Wilson was off and you proudly patted yourself on the back for successfully holding it together until you finally reached your couch.

* * *

mini-series taglist – let me know if you want to be added

@softieyn

@mahvericks

@amirahiddleston

@fireghost-x

@samuelthomaswillson

@itsnottilly

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@srodulvroux

@annathesillyfriend

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mcu taglist – join here

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[rpd-rookie]

A Past With Her, A Future With You - Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

Author’s note: This is a sequel to “Scared of Love, Scared of Time” I decided to write after being reminded of the events of RE6 and a certain Ada Wong. Again I made the reader as generic as possible. I hope you’ll like it. PS: Even if I said it before, I have no hate whatsoever towards Ada or Aeon. 

Warning: Angst of course, maybe language. 

               It was a weird cold night for a summer month, nothing the capital had experienced in a while. The storm was raging outside, flooding the green terrace, and huge droplets of rain were pouring loudly against the large patio door.       Legs hanging from the armrest of the confortable leather armchair, you were casually sitting in the living room, half-listening to the awful weather and to the burning wood softly crackling in the modern fireplace, the dying flames gently warming your skin.           You had been reading the same page from your book over and over again for the last twenty minutes or so. The reason behind this sudden monopolizing distraction? Leon sitting on the couch opposite to you, staring at the amber whisky stirring in his crystal glass in silence. Nothing you would have found truly unusual if it hadn’t been for the ice cubes slowly melting in the beverage.             Leon always had been a sucker for a nice glass of old Glenfiddich - though he preferred the term “connoisseur”- always having one glass after dinner. He was not the kind of man to let the fancy liquor be wasted. Ice cubes melted in a thousand dollar whisky, definitely a waste. “Are you okay?” You finally dared ask him.     “Sure.” He surprisingly emptied the glass in a single mouthful. You weren’t used to seeing him do that. You observed him in silence as he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed almost soundlessly. You could tell that the events of Lanshiang were still haunting him, probably filling his mind with bloody atrocities he would tell you about only in a few weeks.         But there was something else, something you couldn’t pinpoint in spite of your many tries. And it was worrying you. The last thing you wanted was for Leon to fall in another vicious depression. The last one had already been awful enough.

You closed your book and put it on the black Asian coffee table placed between you and Leon. Soon you approached him and went to stand before him. Your hand cupped his cheek and he looked up at you. He seemed terribly tired and almost sad, guilty even. “What is it? Talk to me.”           “Nothing.” Leon grabbed your hand and kissed it delicately. His dry lips lingered on your fingers for a while before he pulled you closer to him, forcing you to straddle his laps. “Did something happen in China? Something you wanna tell me about?” Leon froze and stared at you with an unmissable confusion. “What do you mean?” In addition to the small panic, his tone was almost harsh and angry but you chose not to react to it. “I don’t know. I… You’ve seemed… different since you came back.” You weighed your words to be sure to find the correct ones; ones that would not vex him and make him push you away. Leon was always thin-skinned and hypersensitive after gruelling missions and you had seen enough of the Lanshiang viral outbreak on national television to know that what happened there must have been very afflicting for him.       “Different?” He repeated, curious to know what you truly meant.       “Distant.” Yes, distant was the word. Since his return from China, Leon had been rejecting your affection on many occasions and had been constantly isolating himself, if not physically then in a bubble you couldn’t manage to penetrate. “I’m not distant.” He shook his head, pretending he did not know what you meant. “I’m just tired. That’s it.”

You stared at him. You wanted to believe him. You really did. But the truth was that even if Leon had been back for over two weeks, it was almost as if he was still absent, as if his mind was still in China somehow. He barely smiled at you and when he did, it was nothing like the way he used to smile at you. His kisses were different also, more rare, less tender. And sex … well, sex was non-existent. It was as if everything about Leon was almost deprived of all the affection and the love he used to give you, as if everything that made his feelings for you so beautiful and so pure had been stripped away and replaced by… you didn’t know what exactly but something that felt like your boyfriend was slipping through your fingers like running water.           Shouldn’t it have been the contrary after the beautiful confession you had finally told him before leaving? Shouldn’t Leon be even more in love with you? Shouldn’t your couple be more solid now more than ever? Shouldn’t you be both happy to be reunited again? But more importantly, should you doubt his feelings for you right now?

“Have I done something wrong?” Leon’s eyes widened as he saw the worry slowly setting in your eyes. “No.” He quickly said, wrapping his arms around you. “No, sweetheart. You haven’t done anything.” “Then what is it? Why are you almost avoiding me? What’s going on?” You begged and he gulped, his blue eyes looking down but especially away from you. “Nothing you should worry about.”     “But I am worried. And I want to know.” He sighed, annoyed, before slightly shifting in his seat to grab the bottle of whisky and pour himself another drink that you took from his hand before he could even bring it to his lips. “I want to know.” You repeated as you slammed the glass on the table. “I want to know why you’re like this. I want to know why you barely acknowledge my presence, why you barely touch me, why you refuse to have sex with me.”       “So it’s about sex?” He stared at you right in the eye and you scanned his features, not even able to tell if he was annoyed, weary or just indifferent. Truth was, he looked atrociously blank and it was scaring you. He never looked at you like that. “We can have sex if that’s what you want.” His sudden casualness left you dumbstruck. Speechless, you barely realised Leon’s hands venturing on your naked thighs until they reached the elastic of your underwear and you slapped them away. “What is wrong with you?!” You couldn’t understand him.         “Are you shitting me? You’re the one who just mentioned sex.” He replied with a tone similar to yours. Guess you couldn’t read him the same way he couldn’t read you – or was it ‘refused to’? “You don’t want to get it, do you?” He didn’t answer, staring back at you with the same emptiness as before. You shook your head, exhausted. “Fine. When you want to talk, I’ll be in our room.” You stood up and escaped in the helical stairs without adding another word.

           Leon didn’t join you that night. He even left the apartment, slamming the door loudly on his way out only to return early in the rainy morning, drenched, stumbling and more especially wasted. Curled up in your bed, you chose to ignore him in spite of the many times he almost tripped in the room, telling yourself how miraculous it was that he had been able to find his way back home safely. After he took his wet clothes off, Leon clumsily lied down on the bed and you felt his grave blue eyes upon your figure. “Please forgive me” You did not know if it was the pain in his voice or simply his words that tied your stomach in a knot. But what you knew was that Leon was not asking forgiveness for what happened earlier tonight. He was asking forgiveness for something else, something he was still hiding from you. And yet, you didn’t dare ask him what it was this time, too terrified that the truth would make you lose Leon for real.     Eyes closed, tears forming under your eyelids, you curled yourself into a ball to look for comfort and protection. “Y/N?” You shivered and soon you felt Leon’s cold body spooning you, holding you tight in his strong arms, his nose buried in your hair, his wet hair dripping on you. “Don’t you love me anymore?” The question was like razor blades on your tongue and the short silence that followed it was like a knife in the heart. “Of course I love you.” Leon finally said but despite his sincerity you could tell one thing was missing: warmth. “But …” You continued, persuaded the word was on Leon’s lips and that he was trying to keep it from you. “There’s someone else, isn’t it? Is that what you can’t tell me? That you cheated on me?” He sit up, alarmed. “I didn’t.” His response had been quick and shivering. But there was no anger in it. Leon was not even vexed. “I never will.” He could not see his future without you but he could not see his past without Ada either.      

Ada. Her name had been burning his tongue and his heart like a hot poker since China. He had wanted to tell you about her, about what happened with her, ever since his return. But telling you about Ada was admitting his feelings to himself, feelings he knew would break you and your relationship in millions of pieces. Telling you about Ada was admitting he had failed you, that he had failed your love. And he couldn’t do that you as much as he could not let her go.             The hold she had on him, in spite of all those years of manipulation and games, was scary yet intoxicating. She had him wrapped around her little finger and he couldn’t seem – or want - to escape her. Ada was a part of his past he couldn’t let go, forever sewed to the thread of his life. And he didn’t know how - or if - he could cut her from it.         A long time ago, he thought you would be the one to help him forget about Ada, the one to unstitch her from his heart. You did for a while. You breathed hope and a new love in him, something pure and sincere. In your arms, he dared imagine a bright happy future. He dared imagine the two of you building a home together, growing old together and dying together. He dared imagine you carrying his name and his child – a desire he had never thought he would have. He dared imagine a life with you and without Ada.       But now she was back and with her his feelings for her he thought he had buried deep down his chest years ago. And he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to feel… and for who.     He was lost.    

“Who is she?” Your voice was broken and exhausted as if asking this question had swallowed all your energy. Leon shivered and his silence made turned around to face him. He was looking down at his trembling hands, bracing himself to tell you the truth. “Ada.” He almost chocked on her name and you blocked a sob in your throat that Leon noticed nevertheless. Of course, it was Ada. Who else could it be if not Ada Wong?           A tear formed in Leon’s eyes. He never wanted to hurt you and god knew how much he hated seeing you miserable. But you were miserable and you were miserable because of him. And when he saw you quickly blinking to prevent your tears from falling he grabbed your hand with a firmness that meant ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me.’ But his hand was freezing, such as the flame of your dying love. “But you’re more important. To me, you mean the world, Y/N”

Once upon a time hearing that would have made you cry of happiness and thank the world for giving you a person like Leon. But tonight, nothing he could say could mattered to you. Tonight, you couldn’t believe him. Ada. Your mind had paused on her name the second Leon had said it. And your heart had broken along with it. Ada. How stupid had you been to believe that you could be the one to replace her in Leon’s heart? How naïve had you been to think there was a possibility for Leon to forget her?   And at that very moment, you told yourself you should have never opened up to Leon. You should not have trusted him with your heart because here it was, shattered and unfixable. Loving Leon Scott Kennedy was a mistake.

You managed to wriggle your hand out of his grip and got up from the bed, wiping your tears away. You wanted to be alone but you knew it was not in Leon’s intention to abandon you in the darkness of the room. You could tell by the way his guilty blue eyes were observing you in silence, waiting for you to say something, anything. Maybe was he even thinking about jumping from the bed to pull you back in his arms as well.     “I want you to leave, please.” You whispered and a tear rolled along Leon’s cheek. That’s not what he hoped to hear. However, he complied and slowly got up from the bed. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” “No. I want you. to leave” You declared, insisting on each segments of the sentence with a firm yet broken tone that stopped Leon in his tracks. You couldn’t be serious? You didn’t mean it? “Y/N” He begged but you ignored him. You couldn’t look at him right now. “You can’t…” He tried to approach you but you brutally stretched out your arm to keep him away from you. “Don’t!” You raised your voice. “Don’t come any closer.” Leon froze, astonished and scared.     “I trusted you.” You cried out, refusing to believe that this was happening to you again, refusing to believe that someone was crushing your heart again.         “I know, sweetheart. I know … I” But you were not listening. You weren’t even hearing him. You didn't want to. Lost in your thoughts. Drowning in your regrets. Seeing the future you had dared imagined slipping away. All that because of a woman you thought was part of Leon’s past.     “I told you I loved you … despite all my fears, despite all my insecurities. I opened up to you because I thought you loved me too and would never ever hurt me.” You cried out, hoping screaming would would make Leon realize he had screwed up, how much he was making you suffer. You hoped screaming would ease the pain. A silly hope. There was no escape from a broken heart, no relief. “And I do! I do love you!” He shouted as loud as you for you to pay attention to him. In vain. But you somehow managed to stop yelling to glare at him with contempt “I was wrong. Trusting you… no loving you was naïve and foolish. Gosh, I wish I had never met you.”

You took an awful delight seeing Leon crumple after hearing those words. But your delight was not enough to fix your heart. You knew that would take months, if not years.     But a question was still burning your lips. “Why wasn’t my love enough? Why wasn’t I enough?”

You got no answer. You only had a pair of miserable blue eyes staring at you with pain, begging you to stay. But you couldn’t stay. You deserved better than a half a heart, than a man. “It’s Ada or it’s me, Leon. It can’t be both.”

You can’t let go of your past. Your past made you. It built you. You can’t forget it, despite all your tries. Your past means that you have lived. But can you let go of your future? Can you let go of a life you never lived? A life you desired? Apparently you can. But not without pain. Not without one heart or two shattered on the floor among of the pieces of hope you had gathered through the years.

[ethelphantom]

Things a Pet Name Can Reveal

Scroll down to the end for the art btw, don’t miss it! Also, you’re getting pure fluffy humour again, you should consider yourselves lucky. Maribat March day 13, Pet Names. Also, this is your friendly reminder that yes, I can tag you to stuff if you ask me to do it. This month or all my Maribat content or a specific series... You decide.

Ao3

This is Maribat -- don’t like; don’t read

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So, maybe, looking back on it, Tim regretted wanting to come over to see how Marinette was doing. He really hadn’t wanted to see and know what he did now and while it wasn’t honestly that bad, he kind of wished he’d found out some other way. Such as, maybe someone actually telling him with words.

The only good thing about any of it was that he had knowledge about Marinette none of the others except for maybe Alfred and Cass had. Scratch that, the two of them definitely knew, but the rest.

Marinette had gotten commissioned by many big names in the movie industry, as well as by a lot of the Wayne Industries’ partners, and yeah, she was definitely drowning in them. Of course, she had wanted to take them all as they paid well, they were good publicity to her, and they were okay with waiting as they knew she had a ton of people wanting to commission her at the same time. Tim would have felt bad for talking so much about his favourite designer to them because he was proud of her and how far she’d come, but Marinette had said it was okay and that she greatly appreciated it.

That was why he decided he wanted to come over to see how she was doing, maybe help her if she needed take-out (because yeah, he couldn’t cook to save his life), coffee (because at least he knew how to brew actually good and strong coffee), or really, anything. She would only need to ask and say the word, and he would do whatever she asked.

As he got to the door, the one that had opened it had been Jason. Which, okay, he could understand, they were close and Jason was the reason the rest of them knew her in the first place, but it still surprised Tim. Jason hadn’t even blinked an eye and let him in. And told him were Marinette was. And was that dark turtleneck Marinette's design he was wearing?

Marinette was, as Jason had said, sitting at the kitchen table (okay, to be precise, she was sitting on top of it), biting her pencil as she had a sketchbook in her hands. Some of her hair fell on her face and shoulders though most of it had been pulled up in space buns to stay away from her eyes. She didn’t even notice Tim had come in.

There was a huge pot on the stove, and the smell hanging in the air was wonderful. It was possible Marinette was cooking — that would explain why she was in the kitchen instead of her study — but somehow Tim found that unlikely. Marinette wasn’t focusing on any clock, didn’t check the food even once, and looked a whole lot like she’d stayed in one place for the past hour or two. There were chopping boards and knives behind her, as well as a whole lot of still untouched vegetables.

Yeah, so it wasn’t her cooking. Then who…?

The answer came in the form of a six-foot man with a white streak in his hair and a scar splitting his lips. “You gonna eat, Timbo?” Jason asked, crossing the kitchen easily with large strides before getting to the food he started stirring. “We’ve got quinoa.” And, as an afterthought, he added, “And avocado, tomato, corn, tuna, carrot and a ton of spices.”

Only then did Marinette realise there was someone else in the room as well. She lifted her head, looked at Jason, and then turned to Tim. The smile that had appeared on her face when she saw Jason widened and she abandoned the sketchbook and the pencil on the table in favour of getting down to give Tim a hug. “Hi Tim, it’s wonderful to see you. Sorry I haven’t texted you or anything, I’ve just been so—”

“Busy, I know. It’s alright, I didn’t really expect anything less from you,” he replied laughing. “You’re you, and you’re like me, and neither of us really knows how to stop working. That’s why I came over as soon as I had finished the biggest projects going on at the WE. I wanted to see you and thought that I could maybe help, even if it’s only in the form of providing you with strong coffee or snacks or something.”

Marinette snorted and covered her mouth with her hand. The ring in her hand glimmered in the light and her eyes crinkled. It was only then that Tim noticed the dark circles around her eyes that were so easy to see now that he paid attention. When was the last time she’d slept?

Not that he really had any say in it, he didn’t remember the last time he’d slept more than four hours at once. The last week had gone cat napping so much Selina would be proud of him. Dick would be horrified and disappointed. Well, who cared about that, that man didn’t know how to eat anything but takeout and cereal, so he had no right to judge the rest of them. Absolutely no right.

...Honestly, Steph, Cass or Jason were probably the most stable of them at this point. Maybe Duke. It was, the least to say, disturbing.

“Well, I appreciate that. You still remember how to make that death coffee you made for me like, a year ago when I was drowning in schoolwork?”

“The one that would probably kill any normal person with the amount of caffeine it contains but that both of us crave for because of the sweet, sweet caffeine?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Definitely. Where’s your coffee and coffee grinder?”

Marinette pointed him to the direction — to the left, the topmost shelf, hidden where neither of them could actually reach. When Tim asked why, Marinette’s sharp response of “Guess once,” and pointed look at Jason had told him everything.

Which meant, he needed to either get Jason to give the things to him or climb.

His dignity wouldn’t let him ask for help with this (after all, it wasn’t a life or death situation, or even an actual mission or job they had, simply his own personal need to be able to do something without anyone’s help on the line), so he climbed.

Eventually, he managed to reach the things and set them on the kitchen counter, careful as to not damage either of them.

After that, the coffee was soon finished, and he set a cup of scalding hot coffee in front of Marinette, who inhaled the strong smell of coffee into her lungs and sighed with satisfaction. He was rather sure someone else had sighed as well, and when he turned around to look at Jason, his suspicions were confirmed. He shook his head and looked at Tim like he’d ruined something personal.

“I was tryna to keep her from coffee. Just like you should be kept away from it, Baby Bird. Neither of you needs it, especially not the amounts I know both of you are drinkin’. God.”

“Yeah, we do need it,” Marinette and Tim chorused, followed by, “It’s the liquid of the gods”, “You can’t stop us”, and “stay away from our fountain of fortune.”

Jason just pinched the bridge of his nose but refrained from saying anything more even though it was clear he wanted to. That was alright with Tim — he didn’t, contrary to popular belief, have a need to fight Jason over every single little thing. No, the one he had the need to do that was Damian, even if he got along with the little brat significantly better these days.

When it seemed Marinette didn’t need him to do anything anymore and just wanted to concentrate on her designs again, Tim took out his laptop and set to work alongside her, just on the chair instead of the table. After all, just because he didn’t have that much work to do didn’t mean he didn’t have any or a lot of work to do.

Later, he was alerted back to the real world from his work by Jason who informed him food was done. A quick glance at the clock told him it had been forty-six minutes since the last time he checked it, so a little bit after he started working.

Reluctantly, he put his laptop away and accepted the plate full of the quinoa thing — whatever Jason had done — that was set in front of him. Marinette didn’t even move.

“Sweet Cheeks, you’ve got to stop working on that design before you burn yourself out. At least eat something.”

Tim’s gaze literally snapped at Jason. Sweet Cheeks? What was even going on?

Marinette groaned and let her face fall into her hands, but she missed and hit the table instead. That must have hurt. Then she gave Jason the finger, somehow perfectly aware where in the room he was located. “See, you started off saying that as a joke to annoy me and now I think you got so used to it that you're saying it unironically, and it's getting to be a problem.”

Jason just raised his eyebrow. “Does it still annoy you, Sweet Cheeks?”

“Yes!”

“Then I fail to see the problem here.”

“You are an asshole, Jason. Asshole.”

“No shit. We’ve been married for, what, half a year and you’re only noticing now?”

Tim’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He could not believe his ears. The fork in his hands falling to the floor, he finally got his brain to cooperate and asked, slowly, as to make sure he didn’t say something wrong and would actually be able to understand what was going on, “You’re what now?”

“We’re married, I just said so. You seriously didn’t know? I thought that out of all of the people B’s trained in his life, you would have been able to figure it out on your own.”

“And you — neither of you — thought to invite us to the wedding?”

“Nah. It kinda happened in the spur of the moment and well. I mean we did have a suit for me and a dress for her so maybe it wasn't that impulsively done but yeah. Forgot to tell you after that and then we started betting on who would notice and when.”

“Of course you did. I shouldn’t probably be surprised even, now should I?”

“No, no you shouldn’t.”

Marinette, that little shit, just laughed. Tim sighed.

“Well, congratulations, you two. I hate you both.”

“We love you too, Tim.”

The rest of the visit was spent discussing the hows, whens and whys of their relationship and marriage. It was cute, he supposed. He was most definitely sure that he was happy the two of them were happy together, though. They clearly deserved one another.

Also, it would be fun to see the rest of the family’s reactions because they told him that if they didn’t figure it out by the end of the month, the two of them would come over and tell them, in some way or another. Tim kind of hoped the family would not figure it out.

A week later, Marinette received a package that contained a card and a framed picture of herself and Jason, taken by Tim on the day he had visited. Under the picture, there was a quote from one of the few plays Tim knew for certain Jason favoured. What the card said was lost in the wonder that was the gift Tim had sent them.

“Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.”

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@kris-pines04​ @thethirdwheelfriend @daminett4life @abrx2002 @persephonebutkore​ @rebecarojas07 @corabeth11 @freshbark @maribat-march2020 @catsandfanfic @fertileleaf @eat0crow @cutechip

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Help Wanted (chapter four)

Huge thanks to my amazing betas @spiky-lesbian and @minky-for-short!

Please consider leaving a comment on Ao3 if you’d like to support my writing! 

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4

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WARNING: This chapter and the next few will deal with Fjord coping with his own sexuality and internalised homophobia. Avoid if this is a trigger for you.

Caduceus and Fjord start coming closer, when something comes roaring up to pull them apart

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“So...Caduceus, huh?”

Beau wasn’t very good at difficult conversations. She knew that. Whenever she had to have one, whether it was navigating her relationship with her girlfriends, letting Jester know when she needed some quiet time or getting Yasha to be more open about how she was feeling, the person she usually turned to was Fjord. He’d never say it himself but he was good at feelings talk, at least when he was out of his own head. Even when he’d been far away, the two of them had texted whenever he was docked, and he’d always been able to help her figure out what to say. Not that she could tell him that. He’d have cringed and gotten awkward about it and insisted he was really no good at ‘soft stuff’.

And Beau would have felt that urge to slap the hell out of that Vandran guy. And Avantika. And everyone else who’d ever made Fjord feel like he was worthless if he wasn’t ‘strong’. But that would have taken a long time.

But this time, she couldn’t ask Fjord what to say or how to make her smile look less like a grimace or how not to come off like a grumpy asshole. Because the person she wanted to have this tricky conversation with was Fjord himself.

And so far it was going as well as she’d expected.

Fjord gave her a puzzled look from across the counter, “Caduceus. Yeah, I know the fellah. Tall, furry, dresses like a college age stoner. I only see him every day but Sundays.”

“Damn, that is exactly how he dresses…” Beau muttered, looking across at where Cad himself was standing, seeing his drop crotch pants in an eye watering geometric print in a new light, “Anyway, I just mean...he’s nice, right?”

Fjord narrowed his eyes, “Uh, yeah. He is nice.”

“And you’ve been getting on really well?”

“I guess, yeah. We talk a lot, we’ve actually started texting. I don’t think he’s ever done it before but he seems like he’s getting the hang of it...I know he seems a little slow but he’s actually way smarter than people realise, he knows more about plants than, well, anyone I think and all this stuff he just remembers off the top of his head, his memory for some stuff just crazy. Last night when we were texting, he was describing how to make some real complicated stew thing and I know for a fact he didn’t have the recipe book because that's here and he wasn’t googling it because I don’t think he knows how to do that but he remembered everything about it…” he stopped, like he’d just realised how long he’d been talking and flushed, “Beau, when are you getting to your point?”

Beau cursed internally. The answer was she had no idea. But she had to try.

“Just sayin’... seems like you’ve got a bit of a...a thing going on with him. A connection.”

That had definitely been the wrong thing to say. Fjord’s shoulders immediately hunched, his jaw set in that stubborn, defensive way. The blush became a fire across his face, turning his green skin splotchy. He looked like a teenager caught spray painting a wall.

“What? He’s just a friend,” he said, more curt than he probably realised, “Like I said, I see him every day. I’m allowed to have friends, ain’t I?”

Beau held up her palms, getting the strong sensation that Fjord wasn’t talking to her anymore, not in his head anyway, “Sure, sure. Course.”

“You and Jess said I should work here, you wanted me to get to know him, that’s all I’m doing-”

“Right!” Beau raised her voice a little, frowning, “I know, Fjord, I know. Jeez, I was just asking…”

“Well maybe don’t next time,” he snapped, “He’s just a friend...here’s your coffee.”

The last part was muttered a little resentfully as he pushed the biodegradable cup towards her more forcefully than he needed to, quickly turning on his heel and nearly fleeing into the kitchen, with a half caught comment about having work to do.

Beau groaned and slumped on her stool. She knew exactly what was going to happen now, Fjord would spend a day being cold and awkward around her then would snap right back to the way they’d been before, as if the botched conversation had never happened. That’s how it had gone every other time Beau had tried to steer him into talking about...well, anything even remotely adjacent to that.

She’d tried before Caduceus was ever in the picture. She’d tried to bring it up around bonfires they’d set on the beach on weekends Fjord had stayed with her because the orphanage was crushing him, on the nights they’d sneak onto the school field when her own home became unbearable to be in and she needed to talk to someone who didn’t treat her like she was a mistake for being herself. She’d waited expectantly when she’d come out to him, at their usual booth in the cheap diner they both frequented, like there was a second half to the conversation in the wings.

None had worked. How were you supposed to tell someone you saw something in them when they didn’t see it themselves? When other parts of them, parts that had been transplanted in against their will, would hate it and punish them for it?

As little as she liked it, Beau realised all she could do was sit back and hope against hope that something would grow in Fjord.

Well, she sighed as she jumped down and went to head to class, if anyone could make something grow in the harshest conditions it was Caduceus.

It happened so slowly.

It started with side glances, Fjord clearly noticing things he hadn’t before. Things like the tattoo at the base of Caduceus’ neck that was only visible when he wore his hair with his undercut exposed. Things like the swirl of smooth oak he wore through the hole in his ear. Things like the markings he shaved into the fur around his wrist on certain days, namely the week when the seasons were shifting, as spring became summer. They’d always been part of him, of course but now Fjord’s eye seemed drawn to them more than ever.

And then it became questions. Not big questions but small ones that betrayed a much bigger curiosity. One day, when Fjord came in to find Cad meditating on the floor in the middle of the cafe, he politely tiptoed around him and left him to it. But he spent the morning clearly chewing over a question and finally, as the two of them sat and ate lunch in the kitchen, he burst out and asked if Cad thought about anything in particular when he did that or if he just let his mind wander. Cad had smiled and happily ran him through some meditation basics, breathing and thought exercises and such. Fjord had listened intently before quickly busying himself with his sandwich and mumbling something about it sounding interesting but not really for him.

The next day, he’d asked Cad if talking to the plants as he did counted as talking to his goddess too. Then he’d asked if she had a particular special day or if she had a temple of some kind somewhere. Then he’d asked if the way Caduceus did his hair had something to do with her whole spiral thing, the way he usually did it in braided buns on either side of his head.

Cad answered every question patiently, as if simply indulging his friend’s curiosity. After all, she was a lesser known deity in these parts, of course she’d seem interesting to someone who had grown up in a city. But each one lit a hope in his chest, like fireflies buzzing in his ribcage.

And then it wasn’t a question, it was a realisation.

“That’s a wave, isn’t it?”

Caduceus looked up from where he was lounging on one of the sofas, sewing a torn cushion back together, “Hm?”

Fjord was over in the corner, one of the carved talismans in his hand. There were several dotted around the store, looking just like indoor rockery amongst the plants or interesting art sculptures. But if someone knew what they were looking for, they’d see them everywhere. This one was a palm sized river rock, carved with the Wildmother’s spiral and painted in watercolours. His sister had made it for him before he’d left, pressing it into his palm as he’d been packing, when the rest of his family had already started keeping their distance.

Clarabelle had always been a favourite of his.

It seemed to fit perfectly in Fjord’s palm and he was studying it like he had no idea how it had gotten there, the watering can hanging limp and forgotten in his other hand.

“The symbol,” he murmured, face creased in a gentle, curious frown, “It’s a wave, isn’t it?”

Cad leaned forward, setting his needle and thread to one side, lazily resting his chin on his knees, “It is. Melora’s of the sea as well as the forest. Where’s wilder than the sea, after all?”

“I...I didn’t know that,” Fjord’s voice was small and his eyes hadn’t lifted from the talisman.

Cad nodded, “She guides the passage of ships and protects those who sail the waves, anywhere in the world. Particularly from storms.”

That snapped Fjord’s eyes up, as if one of the words Cad had spoken was a fishing line that he’d jerked, “Really?’

Cad tried to feel nothing at the sudden intensity in the half orc’s stare, “Yes. She’s all about protection and balance when people travel through wild places. Keeping things as they should be.”

Again, something about that tugged at Fjord. Enough to make him set down the watering can and come to sit on the sofa opposite Caduceus’, leaning forward on his knees. The quiet of the cafe after hours seemed to intensify, wrap around them as if they weren’t just the only two people in the building but the whole world.

“You said she’s about healing,” his voice was raspy, like he was having to fight to keep some emotion out of it, “But what about...forgiving?”

Cad blinked slowly, ears twitching, “Forgiving?”

Fjord lowered his voice, “Like if you’d...done something you weren’t proud of. Or thought something or...or you were something you weren’t proud of...or at least you thought you should be...would she still…” he seemed unable to keep going, like he was grasping for words that weren’t there.

Cad took a moment to really look at him before he answered. It was like he was seeing him in a different light, the way the colour of some eyes could look completely different depending on where you stood. There was a fear in Fjord’s face he’d never seen before, a kind of raw and innocent fear that belonged to a child. A child who didn’t understand why he’d been hurt as badly as he had. Who’d spend his life trying to reason out that hurt, finding flaws in himself that weren’t there, just to justify it all. Because if it wasn’t there then the world was just plain cruel and that couldn’t be true.

Cad was good at reading people, he was good at understanding faces and the feelings behind them. But he hadn’t seen this. And it broke his heart.

“Fjord,” he eventually murmured, wanting so badly to reach across the table to him but knowing that would do more harm than good, “Nothing is unforgivable. Certainly nothing you’ve done. And some things...some things don’t even require forgiveness, no matter what other people have told you.”

Fjord swallowed hard, “And she...she’d think so too?”

“Without hesitation,” Cad answered immediately, never breaking his gaze.

At that, something in Fjord seemed to recede, pull away. Something that didn’t have form or shape or colour so it was hard to say how it did it, but the sensation was unmistakable. A kind of...darkness had withdrawn ever so slightly.

And he managed to nod.

Thank you, thank you, thank you Cad chanted desperately in his head as he kept his face in a gentle smile and reached over to Fjord, putting his large hands over the half orc’s callused ones and closing his fingers over the talisman in.

“Why don’t you keep that, Fjord?” he murmured, “I want you to have it.”

Fjord opened his mouth to insist he couldn’t but Caduceus was already shaking his head, “It’s not a promise or anything, it’s just...a gift. It’s just a gift. From one friend to another.”

Fjord bit his lip, though the anxiety in his eyes was bleeding away, “I…”

Cad’s hands were still on Fjord’s, somehow he’d not taken them away yet, “Just use it as a reminder that...you’re good, Fjord. No matter what you’ve been told, you’re fundamentally good. And change is always possible.”

“Caduceus…” It was part question, part plea for help, part just saying his name because he wanted to hear it out loud.

There was so much more he wanted to say in return, words beating in his mouth like a second heartbeat, straining for flight. Words that would chase that darkness away for good, make it flinch so he could catch it in his hands and show Fjord how small and twisted and wrong it really was, how he didn’t have to believe what it said ever again. How it had never been part of him but something he’d been forced to take.

And then everything broke into a hundred pieces as a car horn blared outside, again and again like an angry heartbeat. Both of them jumped a mile, Cad’s ears flattening against his head and Fjord whipping around as if expecting a blow.

“Oh…” he eventually said, when the shock had died down to just an unpleasant buzz in the nerves, “It’s Avantika…”

Sure enough, past the windows and the doodles of plants and mushrooms Jester had done for Cad in glass paints when he’d first opened, out on the darkened street was a car. The horn blared again, a shout into the previously calm twilight.

“She never normally comes to get me this late,” Fjord looked lost, still childlike and terrified, “Why…I should go…”

There was a pause then, a pause that could have lasted a lifetime to the two men caught in it. A possibility bloomed between them, a road opening up in a held breath. And then a choice was silently made. Fjord stood up, a different man, broader shouldered and with a set jaw and a mask on his face he’d worn for so long.

“I’m sorry, Cad,” this other man said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Right,” Cad murmured, still reeling, “Tomorrow.”

He went to stand too but then he felt it, the talisman. Not in Fjord’s hands but his own, left there, abandoned like a broken promise.

And for a moment, the other man was gone as Fjord whispered, “I’m sorry, Cad,” and fled, taking any unspoken words with him out into the night.

The door falling shut behind him sounded louder than it had any right to.

For a long time Cad stayed sat down, looking at the talisman left in his hands, all strength to stand gone out of him. He heard the car door slamming shut outside, the tyres screeching against the road as it drove away but he didn’t look to see it happen.

He didn’t understand.

Caduceus was still yawning as he walked from where he parked to the front of the cafe. He hadn’t slept well in the night, for obvious reasons, and was feeling every minute of tossing and turning as he walked through a chilly dawn.

The tiredness wasn’t helping him work out how he was going to approach Fjord today. He didn’t want things to be awkward, he didn’t want to lose a friend. But he couldn’t figure out how on earth he was supposed to keep that from happening after things had gone so disastrously wrong. Had he pushed him? Had he come off controlling? Had he seen a desire in Fjord that hadn’t really been there, that he’d only wanted to see?

Caduceus was used to being so sure of his decisions. Even when they’d been the rash, impulsive decisions of his youth, even when no one else seemed to follow his reasoning, at least he’d always been secure in his next step forward. Like the paths through the grove he’d walked so many times, he always knew where he was setting his feet.

Now he couldn’t even be sure there was ground underneath him at all. And if he didn’t find it soon, he’d lose sight of Fjord completely.

As he rounded the corner, out onto the quiet little street where his cafe stood, he realised with a sinking heart that he had no time left to figure it out. Because Fjord was already there, under the still glowing street lamp outside the door, hunched against the chill in that threadbare hoodie of his.

Cad’s ears drooped and he prayed for wisdom as he crossed the space between them, trying to smile.

“Morning, Fjord,” he called when there was still a few yards between them, “You’re early…”

The closer he got, the more his tiredness was replaced with a cold, heavy dread. Because Fjord looked fine. Far too fine. Like he was holding it that way quite deliberately because behind it all was something else.

“Uh, yeah,” even his voice was measured, like an actor delivering lines, “I came in a little early because...because I need to talk to you about something.”

“Well,” Cad turned to unlock the door, “We can talk inside, it’s a little too chilly to-”

“No,” Fjord interrupted, “I think I need to say this now, Caduceus.”

He stopped, the dread crystallising into a full on fear in his stomach, key freezing halfway in the lock, “...oh?”

“I’m leaving.”

And there it was.

Fjord broke, unable to look at him anymore, eyes falling to the pavement between them, “Avantika bought a ship. Well...we bought a ship, really but...thats why she came to get me last night, to tell me. She got tired of waiting for another captain to take us on so...so I guess we’re just doing it ourselves. We won’t be setting out right away but I need to go help get everything ready so...tomorrow’s going to be my last day.”

There was a second long pause, before the key turned in the lock with a sharp click. Cad stepped inside, still not having said a word, calmly slipping off his coat and putting on his apron, the only sign he’d heard being a tremble in his hands as he knotted it in the front.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he finally said, voice quiet, “We can talk more about the logistics of that but I need to go and get the produce out for today. You can sort out the tables. I’ll be in the store room if you need me.”

Fjord’s eyes were up, looking shocked and confused, like he’d been waiting for an explosion that hadn’t come, “Sure...yeah, I can do that…”

“Right,” Cad stepped away into the back room and down the steps into the basement, walking quickly, keeping his head up and his jaw still just in case Fjord was still looking.

It was only when the heavy door of the store room closed behind him, so he knew that he had a good ten minutes before anyone would get suspicious and enough distance that no one would hear, only then did he stop and sit down heavily on a wooden box.

Only then did Caduceus allow himself to sob.

[skznct127treacting]

My Stalker Bang Chan 2/4

And so, just as the end of September bled into the start of October, your friendship with Chan began to escalate and grow. The weather became cooler in temperament, as skirts became accompanied by tights and your t-shirts by jackets, seasonal drinks came in with pretty pictures taken on the gram with equally pretty orange nails. Dark lipsticks and warm tone eyeshadow, pumpkin patches, Halloween displays in the shop windows and a general cosy warm feeling in the pit of your stomach that this time of year brings.

Only the weather and the festivities of the season weren’t the only thing leaving you feel light and reinvigorated. You and Chan had established a strong friendship, which while only classroom based, it was definitely a noticeable change from before. He sat next to you every class, and teased you for being such a nerd (even though he was totally one himself), sulked when you didn’t use the pencil he fixed, complimented every little change in your appearance, you gossiped and joked in person and soon turned to social media when a friend request from Chan popped up. He constantly poked you for details about your life, who were your parents, what job did they do, where you lived - sometimes you felt as though you were on a date with him and that you were playing 21 questions. You treated it as such, taking more care in your appearance and constantly fixing yourself up in whatever reflection you could find. When he asked whether you were in a relationship and you replied no, you swore you saw him breathe a sigh of relief.

And of course he constantly badgered you to hang out with him outside of class for a study date, where he promised he’d buy you food in turn for you teaching him, but you turned him down - always having something that busied you. He’d shrug it off though and laugh “another time maybe Y/N?”

Through all the questions he asked of you, a number of which were personal, he never answered himself. Not that he would shut himself off or anything he was just very good at deflecting the conversation. Of course in your eyes this just made him more alluring. The one thing he did love to talk about was the scare house and about the carnival and how when you came down he would love for you to visit him. His character was a white masked character in a red jumpsuit that eerily followed people around one of the rooms, and snuck up on them as opposed to jumping out on them, it was more a B side character, but he seemed content with the role. He’d often talk about how he loved to scare people and how the role was fun because it didn’t require that much theatrics, just stealth. You often pulled a face when he became so excitable about such a thing, but he ignored your discomfort and continued to ramble.

Eventually the general small talk and memes on messenger became deep conversations that lasted until the early hours of the morning. This was another huge turning point in your relationship, and perhaps cemented him from just being a petty crush to somebody you had fallen deeply for - he could hold deep conversations on the world and people and on you and your problems and simplify them in a way which only drew you to him more. He made you feel safe. 

“You’re seriously not talking to him are you?” Eve grimaced as you were all at your local coffee shop one weekend - you had tried to be subtle to replying to his texts but you had been busted. “He’s creepy as fuck. Cute, but creepy.”

“He’s a nice guy okay?” You shot back rather defensively.

“Hm nice guys don’t pick up broken pencils and slowly glue them together… or talk about how much they enjoy scaring people,” Josie said as you gave her a frustrated glare, regretting telling them about some of the conversations you two had, had.

“I think he’s just a bit socially awkward,” You replied as a new message shot up on your screen. You had just told him that you were bored in the coffee shop listening to your friends rant about their relationships and this was his reply-

Chan 10.51 am - Oh my god I’m literally here myself.

“Yes he’s very socially awkward and that means he’s clinging to you because he knows you’re a nice person and will put up with his bullshit.” Eve said in between sips of her drink

“He hasn’t done anything bad you guys are acting like as though he’s killed somebody.” You shot back exasperated as you darted round the coffee room trying to find him until you noticed in the back corner a man doing work on his laptop. Quickly you lowered your voice “Shit guys he’s here!”

“What the fuck do you means he’s here?” Eve said widening her eyes and glancing around the room as you just had. Until she spotted him. “Oh shit.”

“What do I do?” You asked trying to pull your chair further behind a column and out of his sight.

“You run.” Josie said as Eve nodded, pursing her lips together.

Chan 10.53am - Are you going to come and say hello then?

“Fuck he’s seen me I’ve got to go, you guys can go into town and I’ll catch up with you later.” You said grabbing your bags as you pulled the chair out of the table.

“And leave you alone with him? No chance in hell, we’re staying here.” Josie said, a defiant look in her eyes as Eve nodded. 

Flustered you did little to argue and walked over to Chan who got up and pulled the chair out for you, you didn’t have to see Eve and Josie to feel the full force of their cringe.

“So those are the boring friends,” Chan said nodding over to the conspiring duo across from you.

“Well they’re not boring, it’s just the conversation was, y’know, because I can’t relate,” you laughed awkwardly as Chan placed down his half empty cup and looked up at you, that intense look in his eyes again that you hadn’t seen since you first spoke to him. He looked more intimidating out of school, having shed his boyish presence for something that felt more serious. 

“Well let me go and get you another drink,” He said getting up despite your protests.

“Oh nononono it’s fine I have to get going,” You argued but he brushed you off and walked over to the counter anyway, completely ignoring the presence of your friends who rushed over to you.

“Y/N is that you staying here with him then?” Eve asked as she shared a concerned glance between her and Josie, and one of normality between yourself.

“I think so..” You replied watching the barista begin making your drink. “You shouldn’t stay though guys really.”

“We’re just worried about you Y/N, we just don’t want Chan to take advantage of you in any way,” Josie said flicking her dark hair over her shoulder.

“It’s fine guys really just go I’ll catch up later,” You said, and sensing that you would protest and really begin to argue with them if they tried to stay they both vowed to keep in touch with you, darting off before Chan brought a hearty mug of hot chocolate back for you.

He laughed as he noticed you eyeing up the squirted cream and the tiny marshmallows.

“What? I figured you’re too cute to be drinking coffee, and also who dosen’t like hot chocolate,” He said as you smiled and cupped the drink in your hands. “I get the feeling that your friends don’t like me.”

“What? Nooo.” You said, confused as to how he had been able to so easily infer such a thing. “Their just protective of me.”

“Let me guess, they think big bad Chan is going to steal you away and corrupt you,” he said, the tone of his voice sarcasm, but the look on his face notably irritable. 

“I’m not sure, I’m sure they’ll come round once they realise just how much of a cool person you are,” You said which lit up his face instantly into that smile as he shut his laptop lid and cupped his mug as well and leaned over, making the coffee shop setting seem more intimate all of a sudden.

“I can’t believe I got the Y/N to consider me as a cool person. My life has been made,” He teased back as you just shrugged, the smiles still clinging to both of your faces. “Well it’s nice to have finally dragged you out from school and the books.”

“I didn’t know you were so intent on hanging out with me,” You joked rolling your eyes.

“More than you know,” He said, letting his stare falter for a second as he looked past you momentarily. “Anyways I wanted to ask you something Y/N. Will you go with me to the monsters bash?”

“Yes I’d love to, but it’s not really like people go with each other, it’s not like a ball or anything like that if you get what I mean,” You said tripping over your words, trying to establish both for him and yourself the expectations - you weren’t a couple, it wasn’t a date. It hurt but you had to pinch yourself a few times around him, almost to remember it was a dream, and not real, you weren’t together, no matter how forward his advances were.

“Oh okay I see,” was all he said, as he showed no sign of annoyance or relief. The conversation continued to flicker between you to for what must have been a couple of hours until the sky began to darken, in such a way that is common in October. Towards the end of your coffee visit, just before you got a text from Josie and told him you had to leave he reached forward and touched your hand - still resting on the luke-warm mug.

“Y/N, we have to do this some other time, or something. I really like hanging out with you,”

“I like hanging out with you to.”

It was as if in that moment you had both admitted in code that you liked each other, although not far enough to confess, this filled him with a new form of confidence as he got up and hugged you before you left, telling you to take care on the walk home. He wanted to walk you back but had a family event which inhibited him from doing so. Even so, when you left he texted you, telling you to tell him to text when you’re home safe. All of the points made up by your friends disappeared into vapour. Bang Chan was perfect, he was so chivalric and such a gentleman from pulling your chair out to buying your drink to wanting you to get home safe.

Walking home you put your headphones in and found Chan in the lyrics, you found him in your reflection in the shop windows - having dusted your cheeks a glisten of pink, you found him in your pocket where your pencil still remained, but where you didn’t find him was a couple of metres behind you watching your every move, following you in his car from the bus station, to your friends meeting up with you, to the bus ride to finally your home. Delighted with the fact that he finally knew where you lived he grabbed his red notebook and scrawled the address down, as pages and pages were littered with facts about you from your favorite food to notes about your personality to even bullet points on your biggest fears, wedged in between the pages were the receipt he had just gotten from the café, a tissue you had dropped from your pocket, even your perfume which he had taken out of your bag and sprayed the pages with so that even from opening the book it embodied you. He smelled the scent and hugged the book close to him, as though for a split moment, it was you in his embrace, he still remembered the way you felt in his arms, small and weak, like a baby bird in the claws of a cat. Meanwhile the funnel of grey clouds slithered across the sky, drowning the moon out into obscurity. Time was running out . . .

So begins the first week of October and things were going great, you and Chan, had, had more outings together, they had just been usually study based or casually drinking coffee but tonight he had invited you out to a movie, and as typical of October - a horror movie. For some reason this felt way more like a date setting and so you were now fawning over your clothes trying to not be too casual… but also not too dressed up… but also not like you were making an effort… but also not like you were making too much of an effort. The only off putting thing was that throughout these outings you had been getting these phone calls every couple of days, nothing happened during them, but you could just hear somebody breathing for around a minute before they would put the phone down. This was incredibly creepy, and while you would have turned to Josie and Eve for help you had grown apart from them as you grew closer to Chan. They strongly disapproved of him and shut down any conversation with him in, this in turn made you feel like you couldn’t talk about your other problems, and so you turned to Chan. Who came up with the logical explanation that it’s October, and kids do fucked up pranks during this time of year. This logical explanation led you to ignoring the calls until they disappeared entirely, perhaps you should have reported it to the police but Chan was probably right, it would just be kids.

Finally you settled on an outfit that you felt comfortable in and waited on Chan’s text that he was here to pick you up. He should be only 15 minutes away. You sat on the end of your bed impatiently, adjusting this and that, twiddling with your fingers, and checking your phone every few seconds.

Meanwhile, Chan’s car hummed along the side roads leading up to your house, despite being only 5pm the sky had already bleakend, as all that illuminated the night were the soft orange hues of lamp-posts and that of Chan’s blinding headlights. Tonight was the night he thought to himself. Deep breaths. You liked him didn’t you? He knew that much from your body language, the way you’d tilt your neck towards him, the way you’d touch him without apprehension, your subtle flirting and the way you looked at him with dilated pupils - as though trying to swallow his reflection. . So why on earth was he so anxious? Oh well.. Tonight’s the night… tonight’s the night… all the while the little red book sat in the glovebox, well thumbed and beginning to tatter, the newest edition a log of all of the times he had called you and how long for, those breaths he may have brushed off as that of teenage delinquents, was actually that of a desperate man in longing. He wasn’t a psychopath.. n o! He couldn’t be!  He was a poet, a dreamer, a true gentlemen who wished to court rather than engage in society’s tinder culture where romance was merely a commodity. No , he smiled, tonight’s the night.

“You look great,” Chan beamed as you slammed the car door and sunk into the seat, your nerves and anxieties of the night instantly fading away once you were in his presence. 

“Thanks..” You said a small smile on your face as he started the car up again. The radio in the background played at an almost muted volume, to the point where it was hard to work out what it was. You strained forward trying to make out the words. Noticing this Chan turned the dial up ever so that you could make out your favorite musician playing.

“Wow I did not not know you were the type of guy to be into ___.”

“Yeah there’s a lot you’d be surprised at Y/N.” 

“Well tell me your favorite song then?! What did you think of their latest album, I like the transition in style but at the same time I’m not sure,” 

“I like their first album personally..”

“Oh my god I’ve never met somebody with an appreciation for that!”

“I know right?? It’s such an underrated record.”

Outside the first of the evening’s promised showers began, hitting the windshield at a furious pace, until your view became a  watercolour view of the town’s urban lights. Lost in the kaleidoscopic illumination the song drew to a close.

[elichatterarchive]

Dave stumbles into the lab one night, crimson eyes half closed against the lamplight Dirk works by. ‘Saw the door was open. What’re you doing?’

Dirk doesn’t look up, face inches from the wiring that he’s tinkering with. ‘Working.’ 

‘Is that what we’re calling it? Looks to me like you’re obsessing,’ Dave tells him. 

Dirk is almost knocked out by the realisation that he is, in fact, obsessing, and that his younger-older brother is most definitely about to save his ass.

‘Fuck,’ he breathes, quiet in the murky dark. When Dave flicks the lightswitch, Dirk has to glare behind his shades, teeth clenched for the duration of his adjustment. ‘What time is it?’ He grimaces a little harder. ‘What a dumb fucking question. We’re -’

‘-On a meteor, drifting through space,’ Dave finishes, pulling up a chair and sweeping a few pieces of metal out of the way, like they mean nothing (like Dirk hasn’t spent the better part of two days trying to make them mean something). ‘It’s half past go-the-fuck-to-sleep o’clock, dude. It’s a quarter to ‘you look like shit’. It’s-’

‘Bro,’ Dirk says, in a tone that isn’t quite as stoic as usual, and Dave clams up. They have a sweet little groove going at the moment -- ever since they talked things out, they’ve been twisting in tandem, a machine so fuckin’ sick it doesn’t even need oiling. They’re the rhyming words of the sickest bar this side of the apocalypse. They’re either end of a metronome. They’re Striders, for fuck’s sake. 

Dave leans his head on the crook of his elbow, flat on the workbench. He (poorly) stifles a yawn. ‘Seriously, man. How long have you been holed up in here? You’re, like, drenched in shit. It’s nasty as hell. Not in a good way, either, like some mechanic working tirelessly to save his spaceship from the endless caverns of a dead planet. Like, you just look bad.’ 

Dirk takes a look at his grease-stained hands, curses the callouses on them to the old husk of Dave’s Earth and back. ‘A day or two.’

Dave whistles, low. ‘Shit.’

‘It’s not that bad. When I made him the stupid scrumbot, I was up working for almost a week. It was-’

The expression on Dave’s face cuts him off long before his own brain has the sense to. Shit, indeed. He says as much.

‘You’re making Jake something?’

He hadn’t specified, but Dirk supposes he doesn’t need to. The bent and singed scraps in front of him look very ugly in the light. ‘I’m trying to, I think. I keep running out of steam, which is very fucking stupid. You’d think I would know what to do when faced with a room full of robotic parts and pretty much all the fucking time in the world, but, you know something, Dave? I’m stumped. Completely and utterly goddamn stumped. Stumped out of my fucking brains.’ 

There’s a quiet that feels very heavy. Dirk doesn’t look up, and Dave doesn’t move for a long while.

‘You want me to appearify you a coffee?’ Dave asks eventually, and he blinks his huge red eyes like he’s actually bothered about the answer, and Dirk feels very much like he can’t breathe on this meteor anymore, like space is compressing him into a tiny little ball, like all his worst traits are surviving the squash. Fuck. Fuck, this sucks. He’s suddenly very thankful for his shades. 

‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks.’

Dave gets up, pats Dirk’s shoulder a little awkwardly (like he’s worried that Dirk’s going to bite him, or something) (but that’s fair, honestly), and vanishes to acquire two cups of extremely shitty coffee. Good. Every appendage Dirk happens to be able to feel at the moment is shaking at a different frequency. He’s a radio turned to a station of static, buzzing away in his own brain. Almost against his own will, Dirk rests his head against the worktable and closes his eyes. 

When he dozes, he dreams that, somewhere on Derse, a fire is engulfing a forest. He panics until he realises that he is holding a match. 

--

The next morning, Dirk’s coffee is undrinkable. Literally. The film atop the drink has solidified into a kind of gelatinous mass, and Dirk has to kind of fight it out of the cup in order to rinse it out. It’s annoying, and not how he wants to be spending his time, but it makes for an easy life, and he’s found himself craving a little bit of simplicity recently. 

Dave doesn’t mention the previous night, even though it must have been real fucking annoying to force that moronic machine to make two cups of sludge and carry them back before they grew skin only to find the second party snoring like a particularly old walrus, anime glasses askew. Dirk feels a surge of something strong for his fellow Strider, though he doesn’t label it just yet. Neither of them are ready for something like that.

Roxy greets him with a smile he feels somewhere in his hippocampus, sharp and hot. He nods back, has to keep himself from scanning the rest of the faces in the room. Instead, he sits by his friend, steals the first edible thing he sees on her plate and stuffs it into his mouth before she can snatch it back from him. With Roxy, things are certainly more painless than they could be (that is to say, he’s still trying to teach himself to look Jane in the eye. That is to say, Jake is not one of the faces in the room). He can sit shoulder to shoulder with her and across from Rose and know that he’s going to do better today. 

From the doorway, Dave, who’s ushering the Mayor forward by their tiny shoulders, offers an expression that edges on unreadable. Dirk reads it, considers, gives it a five star review on Troll Goodreads and places an order for the sequel. Instead of a totally kickass and not-money-grabbing version two of a brotherly half-smile, the Mayor skitters over and delivers a dusty bottle of orange soda. 

As Dirk twists off the cap, Jake and John join the group. His hands are too occupied to go white knuckled. He’s too busy thinking about building public transport for Can Town to choke on his first mouthful of Fanta. That’s progress.

It’s when he’s ready to go that the paranoia kicks in -- Jake has robbed him of his indifferent exit. If he gets up and leaves now, it’ll seem like he can’t wait to get out of any room Jake has entered. If he hangs around, it’ll look like he’s desperate to linger, like some sort of English-specific creep that gets his rocks off by lurking in the shadows and watching Jake do things. Dirk’s throat starts to close up, the way it does when he doesn’t know what to do. 

He has to stress that this isn’t about Jake, or the fact that he still loves Jake (and probably always will), it’s about the feeling he’s getting in his head -- his entire head, behind his nose and between his teeth and curling through his eye sockets -- the feeling of being pulled apart, losing his grip on something. It’s the feeling he gets when he stops paying attention to his dreamself, but tenfold, twentyfold, fuckzillionfold; he’s somewhere between two places, stuck fast, anchorless. 

He is, in fact, totally fucked. 

Okay, that’s an exaggeration. He’s just unsure. It’s a new feeling, and one he’s not fond of at that. 

He stands up. No eyes follow him. His shoulders don’t relax. 

Dirk finds himself en route to the lab. 

--

‘You still in here, Bro?’

‘Yeah. Hey.’ 

Dave pushes open the lab door with a little more uncertainty this time. Dirk doesn’t blame him. It must look to Dave like he’d regressed straight back to making mindfuck-bots after the heart-to-heart that never was.

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Finishing something up. Check this out.’

Dave sits obediently (that rubs Dirk the wrong way, but there’s time for that later), blank expression the perfect canvas on which Dirk gets to throw his latest creation. 

‘It only took me a few hours,’ he hears himself saying, as if he needs to justify doing something he enjoys, ‘so it’s not perfect, but I think it’s pretty cool.’ 

‘Just show me,’ Dave says, and Dirk nods. Right. Showing. 

The small tin train blows a harmless puff of warm air before it starts to worm its way around the track, weaving, silver and snakelike, along the bends Dirk had carved from the shards and scraps of his last effort. 

Dave can’t help but grin as he watches the carriages roll by. ‘Dude, sick.’

Dirk shakes his head. ‘Look in the windows, bro.’ 

‘You’re kidding me,’ Dave breathes, pushing himself out of his seat and kneeling hurriedly by the still-moving train. ‘Shit. Awesome. You even got John’s vacant fuckin’ expression. Wow, who’s that kid sat next to John? He’s hot as Hell, dude. Smokin’ as all the irons after a blacksmith pulls them from the fire with his fuckin’ catcher’s mitt bare ass hands. Hey, who’s that? Must be the cool kid’s ecto-brother. They got similar badass shades on. They’re taking this train to Biznasty City, population three, Mayor one.’ 

‘No, dude, they’re coming from Biznasty City. This is the train to-’

Dave’s mouth drops open, a soft little ‘o’ of surprise. ‘Can Town,’ he breathes, and Dirk nods.

‘You know it.’

‘This is awesome, Bro.’ Dave hovers for a second, and Dirk knows (almost instinctively) that this is where good brothers would hug, but they both seem to baulk at the last second, like wary horses sensing a storm. It’s alright. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

Dave grins, effectively waving away the awkward air. ‘You should show everyone else. We’ll move it to Can Town to show the Mayor. The little dude’s gonna straignt up fucking flip.’ 

Dirk nods, lets his brain bounce against his skill a few times. He feels like a car ornament. ‘Yeah. That was the plan.’

‘You should show him.’

‘I know. I will.’

‘In the morning?’

‘Yeah. I think so.’

Dave nods. Now they look like matching car ornaments. ‘Cool. You should get some sleep, Bro. You still kinda look like shit.’

They smile, quiet, tentative. 

‘See ya,’ Dirk says to the back of Dave’s head, and stops the train with a flick of a switch. Once the wheels stop turning, he takes up Dave’s position, squints through the tiny windows at the figurines sat inside the carriage. It’s the best replica he could manage, pieced together from fragments of pictures and logical guesses. The mechanics of the room itself don’t matter all that much. 

What matters is the miniature figurine of himself, sat serenely next to the figurine of a grinning Jake E.nglish. 

For some reason, Jake’s smile had been easy to recall, but almost impossible to recreate. 

The figurines don’t have history. The figurines aren’t even looking at each other. The figurines are vague, yet unconfusing, and, even if they are confusing, Dirk is going to be right here to clarify. Dirk is going to be the one to spread his hands in surrender, ask truce? and act like he could handle a refusal.

His finger lingers on the light switch. 

It’s not nearly enough, but it’s a start. 

Dirk turns off the light, takes himself to bed, and wakes up on Derse to the sound of rain.

[howlsmovinglibrary]

So i noticed you reblogged a lot of got. I followed you bc of your book reviews. I wonder if you read ASOIAF? It'd be cool for you to review it. And also it'd provide me see your stand towards the writing of the last season, & your perspective towards Arya as retconned Night King slayer, the dull (and abusive) romance bw jnerys, jon's character assassination and the lack of his POV, and the show being Dany's show (at the expense of other chars).

Oh wow anon, it’s very rare that I get asked to go off, but I’m more than happy to take you up on the invitation to rant!

In answer to your first question, I have read the first book of ASOIAF, but unfortunately I personally feel George R.R. Martin’s strength is his plotting, and now that the show has kind of unmasked the plot of those first books I find it difficult to slog through his writing style, just because it’s not suited to me. I got to 100 pages from the end where Ned Stark is wondering whether or not he’s gonna die and was like…I kind of know how this ends.

As for my manifold problems with the writing of this last season, I have them, although they don’t seem to be lined up with yours exactly. I have placed this under the keep reading tag, because Long Post. And Spoilers.

Arya

Ok, so as for the Arya plotline, I actually didn’t mind this. I realise it goes against a lot of the material of the books (which I haven’t read), but I think that however much of a retcon it is it makes a lot of logical consistency within Arya’s storyline itself. I was personally getting to the point, with Arya going around Winterfell and not really doing much, of wondering “why did she go to assassin school again?” I think that her getting to kill the Night King validates a lot of her plot arc, whereas before her training was slowly becoming useless and irrelevant to the current situation the writers had put her in - of course this goes out of the window come the last war.

I would actually argue that this decision, bar its illogical and rushed execution, had elements of why I loved GoT’s more established plot twists. You had a strong fantasy genre trope, the Chosen One, in Jon, and then reality intervenes and breaks it. Jon is trying to fight a fucking huge dragon, and is therefore, logically, preoccupied. So someone else gets the kill. I liked that. I mean, it seems like prophecy has just been UTTERLY DISREGARDED in this entire season rather than twisted or subverted, so I guess if we’re feeling particularly generous (which no one is) it might even be “making a point”.

 And yes, we haven’t seen any of her assassin powers over the course of this season (because the writers are retconning her into a nicer ‘antihero’ and not outright eviscerating psychopath), which makes me wonder why she even has them. But I’m actually ok with her getting the Night King kill.

And I’ll dream of the alternate universe where Arya kills Cersei wearing Jaime’s face, actually utilising her skills, getting her ‘green eyed’ kill, and fulfilling Cersei’s prophecy.

Danaerys

So, I hate Danaerys, but I don’t really agree with your viewpoint of her. I don’t really feel like this became ‘her’ season at all. In fact, I feel like this season was just a lesson in how to gaslight a woman into madness and relegate her entirely from her own fucking story.

I will outright state that, I wanted Danaerys to go Mad Queen. I think her character has had problematic elements from very close to the beginning: regarding her sense of entitlement which is not underpinned by an actual competency in regards to ruling, her idealism, and her tendency as a white character to weaponise the brown people she essentially colonises for her own goals. These are not the reasons D&D give to justify her ‘madness’. In fact, they say she’s always been mad for punishing abusers. It just shows now…because of a bad break up.

Danaerys’ “descent into madness” was so badly written that I get mad just thinking about it. It essentially comprises all the men around her having conversations with each other saying “I think she might go mad”, and then her doing a Bad Thing for no discernable reason. This is 1. BAD WRITING, because SHOW NOT TELL. Also, NARRATIVE CONSISTENCY. If you have to have Tyrion outright narrate what you are retconning as her evil past, which is what he did in the final episode, you have not written a consistent plot. Viewers are not stupid. And 2. It’s just awful in terms of gender. Literally, Dany is a woman who becomes isolated and the men around her pathologise her as mad rather than communicating with her and allowing her the agency to authorise her own existence. It’s like The Yellow Wallpaper. There’s so much gaslighting! Everyone says she’s mad for thinking people will betray her as they betray her in the same breath! Jon says he loves her and then punishes her for desiring him! It’s just absurd. I wanted this to happen and they still fucked it up.

Once her sexual desire is just for her and no longer consumable by the male viewer, because its incestuous, and her ambitions outstrip the men around her, suddenly she’s evil. 

And do not get me started on all the awful racial connotations of her story a) being fuelled by the pointless fridging of the only named black woman and b) being utterly endorsed by all the people of colour within the show unquestioningly while all the ‘good’ white men suddenly have their doubts. The way Dothraki war cries were basically used as background music to signify evil savagery made me sick. They literally weaponised race as a way of connoting fear and evil. The fact that her “evil speech” was basically a straw feminist recycling of her liberation rhetoric in a way to condemn all her thoroughly understandable and initially intentions from the very beginning was just a way to validate every Incel’s fear about SJW discourse. Instead of, I don’t know, CRITICISING HER AS A COLONISER. Maybe unveiling her hypocrisy? Nope! All black people are evil and will never question orders because they have been consistently stripped of their humanity! They are a faceless army of non-whites! And oh yes, all women are evil for wanting to enact violence on those who want to abuse them!

Honestly, I think this season of the show has been as much at the expense of her character as anyone else’s. Because it’s not been written well, or believably, and it feels like a complete reduction of the very real potential she had as a critique of imperialism. She’s just a mad woman. 

Jon

I can’t really talk that much about Jon. I kind of cover it above. I’m not sure if you think Jonaerys is abusive to Dany or to him, I would argue the former because of the gaslighting. 

But I will say, he must’ve taken his refresher course in Stark Honourable Stupidity after actually being competent in Season 7. According to D&D’s logic, if he had simply slept with Dany, a woman he loves, she wouldn’t have gone mad. It’s only in GoT that I can justify incest, but he should’ve taken one for the team. 

And maybe kept secrets better.

Just…the show in general

Really, I’m just so disappointed with the show in general. The plot, like Jaime’s characterisation, is so profoundly circular.

We still have an iron throne. We still have an utterly corrupt council elected through nepotism (although I guess we’re supposed to like them now?) Fuck, we still even have a wall even though ALL THE WHITEWALKERS ARE GONE.

Everything was so rushed and irreverent to the point of incompetency - I mean, everyone has seen the coffee cup. Prophecy and foreshadowing was utterly disregarded (I’ve spared you my Jaime Lannister rant because you didn’t ask), nuance was completely lost. I cannot believe that Cersei’s death was an anticlimax, that she didn’t do anything in that final battle but shed a manly tear, had barely any lines of dialogue despite the fact that she is one of the strongest characters of the entire series. And yet EURON GREYJOY got a triumphant death. It is so disingenuous. I really don’t think the fanbase would’ve been that hard to please but it seems like everything was denied us in the name of ‘subverting expectations’.

And however well shot the battle scenes were, I found it profoundly boring because there was no real motivation to drive the action. It was just screaming, and death, and oh yes some gratuitous rape because that’s what every viewer is here for, right?! I watch Game of Thrones for the character intrigue, not the violence or the blatant misunderstanding of what “authentic medievalism” entails. The fact that I watched the finale of my favourite show and did not cry once - me, who cried four times in a single Critical Role episode - is just a testament to how hollow and heartless the writing became.

[canyousevmyheavydirtysoul]

Bodyguard II: Familial Ties (Part II - Chapter 6) (Brendon Urie x Reader)

Cars, pick-up trucks and SUVs were parked all along the perimeter of the massive crater, the sounds of a boisterous party emanating from the pit. Inside, locals sat on lounge chairs, drinking beers from coolers as they laughed and talked, all the while watching the centre of the crater, where large men had formed a line to take a turn with the mysterious object embedded in the ground.

One by one the men attempted to lift it, struggling before eventually giving up and stepping aside to let the next one have a go at it, as other townies stood on the sidelines and snapped pictures with their phones.

They heard an approaching rumble, then cleared a path as a large pick-up truck backed its way down the crater’s edge. An eager townie hopped out the passenger side and pulled a thick chain down from the back of the truck. He fastened one end around the foreign object, then securely affixed the chain to the bumper and rear of the undercarriage.

“This’ll do it!” he yelled to the driver. “Okay, let ‘er rip!”

The townsfolk looked on as the pick-up’s engine roared, then strained, its wheels spinning futilely, until finally the rear of the truck along with the back wheels and axels broke off and went flying.

People dove out of the way, ducking down for safety as the pick-up driver stuck his head out of the window. The elderly man – with greyed hair styled back and aviator glasses on his face – looked back, shocked. A silent moment, then the townsfolk laughed as the party recommenced.

They didn’t notice as on the crater’s edge above them an imposing government vehicle pulled up to a stop. A man in a suit climbed out and peered down at the boisterous gathering below, his eyes fixed on the object at the centre of the crater.

Agent Coulson stared down at the object, which glowed with an otherworldly blue energy – Mjolnir. He pulled out his phone.

“Sir, we’ve found it.”

✧ ✧ ✧

S.H.I.E.L.D HQ. Washington, D.C.

“Good. We’ll move in immediately,” The Director spoke into his cellphone, pacing the length of his office toward the window overlooking the city; you stood behind the sofa, clutching the backrest with a tight grip as you kept your gaze steeled on your godfather, trying to listen as closely as you could, “I want a camp set up by sundown.”

Fury lowered the phone from his ear and disconnected the call, turning around to look at you. He raised one brow as he pocketed the device. “Looks like your cousin brought a little piece of home with him,” he chided, causing you to exhale loudly, “Any idea what it could be?”

“Are you forgetting that I didn’t know shit about Asgard until last year? I have no idea how things work over there,” you sassed, pursing your lips and lifting your hands from the backrest. “My guess is as good as anybody’s. It could literally be anything.”

Choosing to ignore the subtle jabs at himself and S.H.I.E.L.D hidden in your words, Fury folded his hands behind his back and raised his head a small amount.

“If I’m not mistaken – which I never am – Doctor Ross mentioned something about a… hammer?… that Thor never goes without. You think it could be that?”

Recalling the conversation that Fury was referring to, you nodded in agreement. “Mjolnir? Yeah, could be. I mean, he definitely wasn’t lugging around a hammer when we saw him, so it’s a possibility.”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yeah,” you breathed out, stressfully combing your fingers through your tangled hair; you’d been so out of sorts lately that you’d even forgotten to brush the nest on your head that morning.

Picking up on your standoffish attitude, your godfather posed a question.

“What’s bugging you, sweetie?”

You’d expected that question to arise sooner or later, but your awareness didn’t dampen the arrival of it at all. Raising your brows, you slowly darted your eyes all around the room, shaking your head as you did so.

“I just…” you shrugged, “This is all too much. I can’t-“

With a small pant for air, you shut your eyes and held your head in your hands, which resulted in The Director hurrying forward to talk you down from any potential panic attacks that threatened to arise.

Letting him coax you out of your overwhelmed state, you took a seat on the sofa and rested your palms on your knees, leaning forward slightly.

“It’s been one major thing after another,” you remarked once he’d finished speaking, “My parents, Hydra, Brendon…” you trailed off, solemnly staring out of the window for a moment as your thoughts betrayed you by drifting off to your bodyguard; fortunately it only lasted a couple seconds, before you turned to face Fury, “And now this? Can’t I ever catch a break?”

“Welcome to my world,” he wheezed, placing a hand around your shoulders as he slinked into place next to you on the sofa. “But you’re strong, sweetie. One helluva survivor. You’ll make it through this – and any other pains in the ass that might come your way. But it’s no use hiding; this is something you gotta face, and you’re the only one who can do it – not for me, not for any of us, but for you.”

Your response didn’t come immediately; you allowed time for your godfather’s words to properly sink in and weave their way into your fragile mind. He was absolutely right about everything he had said, and you knew it, too. Which meant that you also knew that the first step in eradicating the problem you were faced with, was to contain it.

“We can’t let this go public, Uncle Nick,” you said carefully after a few minutes, giving him only the feeblest of glances.

“You’re telling me?” he scoffed, cocking the eyebrow above his one good eye, “Sweetie, why the hell do you think we’ve kept you a secret from everyone? Can you imagine the chaos it would cause? If the public found out that actual Norse gods were among us?”

Gently chewing on your bottom lip, you voiced your concern. “I’m afraid that there’re some people who are very close to finding out just that.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Isabela’s Diner.

Thor, Selvig, Darcy, Aaron and Jane sat at a table in the local diner; the two doctors and the intern watched as Thor ate ravenously from a huge mound of steak and eggs. A couple other full plates – pancakes and biscuits and gravy – were piled high before the god. Jane sat eagerly, her notebook at the ready.

“Now tell us exactly what happened to you last night,” she interrogated.

Thor looked up and into her eyes, staring in intrigue. Jane became flustered and looked away.

“Maybe start with how you got inside that cloud,” she tried again, this time keeping her gaze slightly lowered.

“And how you could eat an entire box of Pop-Tarts and still be this hungry,” Darcy added, marvelling at the appetite of the man. Jane shot her a withering look, whole Thor downed an entire cup of coffee in one go.

“This drink,” Thor looked at the empty mug, “I like it.”

“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?” Darcy grinned. “Isabela makes the best coffee in town.”

Thor hurled the mug at the ground, shattering it into a hundred tiny porcelain pieces. “Another!” he demanded.

The ruckus captured the attention of Isabela, the diner’s proprietor, and she glared at Thor from behind the counter.

Jane turned to toss her an apologetic look. “Sorry, Izzy. Little accident.”

Isabela muttered something in Spanish as a response before turning to a waitress and venting quickly, also in Spanish. (“Did you see that? The first time she brings a man in here, and he’s a lunatic!”)

“What was that?” Jane demanded, gazing expectantly at Thor.

He didn’t understand.

“It was delicious,” he stated simply. “I want another.”

“Then you should just say so!”

“I just did!”

“I mean ask for it. Nicely.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

“All right, then no more smashing, deal?”

“You have my word.”

Satisfied, Jane leaned back and nodded once. “Good.”

A few townies, looking bedraggled, entered the diner and took a seat at the counter; they were amongst the men who had tried (and failed) to lift Mjolnir out of the crater. Isabela greeted them by name, and they ordered two coffees.

“You missed all the excitement out at the crater,” the one Izzy had called Jake spoke.

“What crater?” she frowned.

Aaron, Selvig and Jane overheard Jake’s words and after exchanging a look, all turned to the townies with interest.

“They’re saying some kind of satellite crashed in the desert,” the one named Pete explained.

“We were having a good time with it till the Feds showed up, chased us out,” Jake grumbled, slurping some coffee.

“Excuse me,” Jane interjected, “Did you say there was a satellite crash?”

“Yep,” Jake nodded, “They said it was radioactive. And I had my hands all over it.” Realisation dawned on him, then, and he looked down at his hands uneasily. “I’m probably sterile now…”

Thor, unconcerned, prepared to dig into the giant pile of pancakes. Darcy was amazed by the sight and whipped out her cellphone.

“Oh my god, this is going on Facebook. Smile!”

Thor looked puzzled as she snapped a photo of him and his massive stack of food.

“What did the satellite look like?” Aaron asked the townies; Jake answered.

“I don’t know nothing about satellites. But it was heavy. Real heavy. Nobody could lift it.”

This got Thor’s attention and he immediately sprung to his feet, headed over to drunk townie Jake and jerked him around to face him.

“Where?” the god demanded.

“About twelve miles east of here,” a slightly shaky Jake replied.

Thor grinned widely, his spirits soaring, as he quickly strode out of the diner. Once outside, he studied the position of the sun, gauging his bearings. The rest of the group caught up to him moments later.

“Where are you going?” Jane asked.

“Twelve miles east of here.” Thor started to stride down the street purposefully; Jane and Aaron walked after him.

“Why?” Aaron queried, picking up his pace a little bit.

“To get what belongs to me,” Thor said determinedly.

“So now you own a satellite?” Jane scoffed, tossing him a disbelieving look.

“It’s not what they say it is.”

“Whatever it is, the government seems to think it’s theirs. You intend to just walk in there and take it?”

“Yes.” Thor stopped walking. “If you take me there now, I’ll tell you everything you wish to know.”

Aaron perked up, the doctor in him coming out, and Jane did the same.

“Everything?”

“All the answers you seek will be yours, once I reclaim Mjolnir.”

Aaron sucked in a harsh breath at the mention of Mjolnir – fully aware of what Thor was talking about – as Darcy looked to the others, scrunching up her face. “’Myeu-muh?’ What’s ‘Myeu-muh’?”

Ignoring her, Jane studied Thor. He looked sincere and she was almost swayed to give into him, but then Selvig pulled her aside. Thor watched as the doctor spoke to Jane, and he could tell that Selvig didn’t care for him much.

With Darcy standing to the side and struggling with the new, Asgardian word and Jane and Selvig engaged in a heated discussion, Aaron took the opportunity to step up to the god.

“Mjolnir?” he spoke in a hushed tone, “As in your mythical hammer? It’s here?”

Thor nodded in confirmation. “It appears so.” The god narrowed his eyes and tilted his head as he observed the smaller man. “You seem to know quite a lot about Asgard, Aaron Jacobson.”

Aaron pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and waved a hand. “I specialise in Asgardian mythology.”

“So you are able to help me retrieve Mjolnir!” Thor’s face lit up.

The doctor’s face dropped, and his eyes widened in panic. “What? No, no, no, I didn’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you heard what the townie said,” Aaron gestured back at the diner, “The government has already claimed it.”

“Ah, so you are a coward.”

“What?! No! I just-“

“I’m sorry,” Jane cut him off, re-joining the conversation and focusing on Thor, “I can’t take you.”

Thor bowed his head slightly. “I understand. Then this is where we say goodbye.”

He took her hand and kissed it, making her entire body flush.

“That’s…” she started, “Thank you.”

The god looked to each of the members of the group and gave each a small bow. “Jane Foster… Erik Selvig… Aaron Jacobson… Darcy. Farewell.”

He turned and headed off down the street. Selvig breathed out, relieved. “Now…” the doctor said, “lets get back to the lab. We have work to do.”

He and Darcy started for the car and after stealing once last look at the strange man, Jane turned and join them, leaving Aaron to stare at the god as he walked down the street with a worrisome face, his gut feeling telling him that things were undoubtedly about to take a turn for the worst.

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

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[allyinthekeyofx]

Love is a quiet voice 3/4

CHAPTER ONE - HERE

CHAPTER TWO - HERE

CHAPTER THREE

Just for a moment I expect Scully to argue with me, to tell me to get the hell out of her apartment; to stop being such a presumptuous fuck and there’s actually a part of me that hopes she does. Because it will at least give me some kind of evidence that she hasn’t given up completely; that her spirit is still in there somewhere fighting to get out; even though it will speak to emotion, raw emotion that she keeps so tightly drawn inside her; because after all, emotion equals weakness; or at least in her book it does.

And briefly, her eyes flash across at me and she shifts slightly, as though she is about to take a step forwards, to take control and regain her territory, igniting a fire that for a mere moment in time returns her to me; the woman who fights, not the watered down version who seems to be dying even more from the apathy than the actual tumour living inside her. Because she’s fine isn’t she? Always fine. Because fine is good and fine is safe even though fine is a million miles away from what she actually is. 

But then she just stops. Literally just stops and that brief moment of animation is gone, replaced with a tired resignation that makes my stomach clench involuntarily as I realise once again as I have realised on innumerable occasions that she is dying; that she is withdrawing from me in degrees but this time I also gain a tiny measure of clarity – that by denying me access she is protecting me as much as she is protecting herself, because maybe, just maybe, losing her will hurt me less if she can just make me hate her a little before she leaves.

“Scully...”

But she holds up a hand before passing it briefly over her eyes. Oh Christ, the headache. The fucking headache. The reason I brought her home in the first place and which, in my self-absorption I’d actually forgotten about. And right then I feel like the biggest shit in the universe because I’m playing mind games with her when she is in pain; instead of trying to alleviate it, to help her, to offer comfort, I am mentally dissecting her internal rationale.

It’s a fine moment for me and one to add to all the other fine moments I’ve amassed over the years.

She is swaying ever so slightly on her feet, almost imperceptible but now I’ve actually taken the time to open my eyes and truly notice, it’s obvious that, while not dizzy exactly, she is clearly feeling a little unsteady; a combination probably of the pain, the exhaustion and most likely the medication taken on top of a lack of real food. She has dropped probably around fifteen pounds in weight during the recent punishing bout of chemo and radiotherapy and with no one around to encourage her to eat; to find something she actually wants to eat, I’m guessing that she probably doesn’t eat. It’s not something I’d really considered before. And as always I just don’t know what to do; getting her here was the easy part but I find myself paralysed in front of her, waiting for a verbal cue from her that I know isn’t going to materialise while at the same time wanting so badly to offer her something, anything, that my hands are literally clenched in to fists at my side.

I am painfully aware that I don’t know how to help her; that I am so emotionally stunted that because I can’t break this down in to digestible chunks of cause and effect, can’t categorise her in to neatly transcribed behavioural profile, can’t rationalise what is happening to her, that in fact, I am failing her on every level imaginable because even if she won’t let me in I should at least be able to vocalise something to offer her a tiny shred of comfort.

Maybe she sees me struggling, I don’t know. But she drops her eyes down to the floor, avoiding me again, embarrassed almost.

“I need to lie down Mulder. Stay or go. Whatever.”

And that’s when I hear it. The slight inflection in her voice that tells me she wants me to stay. That even if she can’t bring herself to admit it, the subconscious desire not to be alone outweighs the conscious one to keep hiding. She has given me a choice when of course there is no choice to make.

XXXX

I am smart enough- just- to give her the space I know she needs, that she is drained both emotionally and physically and as she retreats to the bedroom I know that putting that physical barrier between us is actually the right thing to do for both of us at the moment. She knows I’m here and I know she knows I’m here and for the moment that’s enough to offer us both a measure of comfort; so after wandering in to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, using the strong Columbian blend she keeps in just for me, I return to the living room and just sit, warming my hands around the mug as I sip the burning liquid.

I don’t switch the TV on; in fact I don’t really do anything because Scully’s apartment has always had an effect on me that I’ve never really been able to fathom despite the amount of times I’ve been here. It calms my mind, allows me to just empty myself of the myriad of thoughts that usually jostle for position inside my brain, a brain that hardly ever switches off. But when I’m here, surrounded by the essence that is my partner, I always find myself quieting. Maybe it’s the decor I don’t know; and while I’m not exactly blessed with creativity when it comes to interior furnishings even I can recognise the care, love and meaning that Scully has poured in to every room of this place. From the personal and sometimes quirky nick-nacks that grace every surface of the honeyed antique wood furniture to the many different lamps that mean the lighting can be adjusted to perfectly mirror the mood of the moment. Even now, even as sick as she is, her home is spotless, tidy and ordered which now I think of it, describes Scully herself pretty well. My apartment on the other hand is a cluttered mess most of the time; a haphazard collection of thrown-together possessions that don’t really mean anything much to me. I’m not one for material comforts and my living space is barely even functional and certainly I could never classify it as a home. I use Scully for that. She has become my home; my safe place, a place that can always be relied upon to offer a sense of peace in my often chaotic life. She is the blanket I wrap around myself against the bitter chill of life, my centre, my touchstone who grounds me when no one else can and I know that had she not walked in to my life, I would have pressed the self-destruct button long ago. Hell, even since I met her my finger has hovered dangerously close to it on occasion, but she has always been there to pull me back from the brink. And even though I try not to, I can’t help but wonder who will care enough to pull me back when she’s gone.

It’s a sobering thought and I push it right out of my mind because thinking about the potentials doesn’t ever change the inevitable and I need to stop thinking about the ‘what ifs’ all the time.

Half an hour has passed since Scully removed herself to the bedroom and I decide that maybe now would be an appropriate time to check on her, that enough breathing space has been afforded that she probably won’t throw something at me and tell me to get the hell out.

My fears though are groundless because in actuality, the first thing I see when I softly crack the door open and peer round the jamb is my partner, facing away from me, curled up atop the bed, just about as small as she can get in a horribly tense foetal position, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other clutching the edge of the pillowcase. I know without looking that her knuckles are white and I know without seeing her face that she is crying. The sight of her quite literally freezes me to the spot because I had honestly expected her to be sleeping, not trembling like this in the midst of pain and fear and I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to fucking do to make this better for her. My every instinct says to go to her, but I hold back for just a heartbeat because she is clearly in a world of hurt and I’m terrified that my presence might make it worse. And then I hear it, the word so muffled, so broken that it is almost inaudible; but this is Scully and I think I could hear her whispering my name in a room full of people all talking at once; in fact I know I could.

“Mulder”

And I am across the room in an instant, falling to my knees on the hardwood floor so that I am almost on a level with her position on top of the bed, no longer second guessing myself as I let my instinct take over, covering the hand that is clutching at the pillowcase with mine and feeling as she transfers the pressure of her fingers from the cotton covering to my own skin. The other hand I gently cup around her jaw, carefully caressing the side of her face with my thumb, ever conscious of not hurting her more than she is hurting.

“I’m here.” I whisper, wiping some of the wetness away with my thumb, smoothing the damp hair away from where it has fallen on to her face. 

Her eyes are bloodshot, her pupils huge and her chest is rising and falling far too rapidly as the pain renders her incapable of drawing adequate breath. She is certainly panicking at this point and while I’m in no way a medical professional, I know all about the crippling effects of hyperventilation. Enough nights where I have literally bolted upright feeling the vice across my chest, delivered by whatever nightmare chose to pay me a nocturnal visit, squeezing the breath from me, have taught me well. But in all the years I have known her, never have I seen her like this. Her eyes have locked with mine, frightened and intense, their delicate colour now darkened almost to navy. Those beautiful eyes that I have lost myself in more times that I can even count.

“It....hurts”

“I know. I know it hurts but first you have to get your breathing under control okay?”

And I have no clue as to whether I’m doing the right thing or not, but I perch on the bed anyway, still maintaining as much contact with her as I can, manipulating her until she is half on my lap, her upper body pressed close to my chest, head tucked beneath my chin as I stroke her hair in a rhythmic motion that I hope will calm her, speaking soft words of reassurance, words that just somehow happen; words from my heart I guess.

“I know I haven’t been there for you in the way that maybe I have wanted to be and I suspect you are afraid to ask more of me that you think I am able to give.  But I am your friend and I can’t keep allowing you to protect me at the expense of yourself, of your health and of our partnership because no matter where you are I will always follow you if only you will let me in.”

I am rewarded as she relaxes slightly, just the merest softening of her body against mine and I press my lips to the crown of her head, her hair still soft and fragrant despite all that has been taken from her and somehow, I find a release for words that have been quietly clamouring to be heard for so long.

“Because no matter what life has thrown at us, will throw at us or how difficult things might get, we can survive each day if we keep sight of each other, because we have proved that over and over again; and right now you just need to breath; just breathe with me Scully and trust that you can survive this one moment in time because I’m right here to keep hold of us both.”

My words have taken a sort of lilting cadence, whispered softly, so softly, reminding me of the night I held her as she almost disintegrated in my arms when Penny Northern died. It seems like a lifetime ago, but now, as then, my words have the desired effect and I blink back the tears as she finally takes a deep shuddering breath, pressing herself deeper in to me as I tighten my arms around her. She won’t look at me. I don’t expect her to and I think on some level, I feel her hesitant entreaty before I hear it.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Continued chapter 4

@science-mulder you didn’t have to wait long!

[lovemesomesurveys]

1. Can you remember what you were doing at 8:15 this morning? I had just gotten up again. I woke up an hour before, but I ended up falling asleep again.

2. In your phone’s contacts, who is the first person listed under the letter ‘R’? When did you last see that person? I only have one person, which is my brother, Richard. I last saw him on Christmas Eve-Eve.

3. If someone is sticking their nose into your business where it isn’t wanted, how would you deal with that? Would you say something to them? I likely wouldn’t say anything to be honest.

4. What did you have for lunch today? Or, if you haven’t had lunch yet, what do you think you will have? Ravioli stuffed with ricotta cheese and spinach.

5. Is there someone you desperately want to see/speak to atm, but you can’t? I want to catch up with Ty and grab some lunch or coffee or something soon, but I don’t know when that can happen. We haven’t hung out since back in October. We were hoping it would be the start of us hanging out more often again, especially once he was on winter break. Of course something came up on my end regarding my health, so that hasn’t been able to happen so far. It sucks. :/

6. Do you and your significant other have a special song? What is it? I’m single.

7. If you HAD to sing something on karaoke, what song would you choose? Ahhh you won’t catch me doing karaoke.

8. Can you remember the last time you felt ill? What was wrong with you? I feel that way all the time on some level for one reason or another. I have chronic health issues, physically and mentally.

9. What time is it now? Are you tired? It’s 6:16PM (it feels so much later), and yes of course I’m tired. Always.

10. If you wear make-up, do you take it with you, to reapply throughout the day? Does your make-up stay for a long time after you first apply it, or do you find that you need to reapply often? Are you wearing any make-up atm? I only keep lip gloss with me, but even that I hardly ever reapply. My eye makeup stays, but the eyeliner smudges a little at the corner of my eyes sometimes. All that requires is me wiping it away. I don’t ever bring any of that makeup with me to touch up. I am not wearing any makeup at the moment, no.

11. What if you found the last person you kissed, in bed with the last person you texted? Uh... that would be Joseph with my younger brother. No. Just no. My brother is seventeen first and foremost, so no. For two it would just be messed up to have my ex with my brother. Just not cool.

12. The last person you held hands with - have you ever kissed them? On the cheek.

13. Can you remember what your parents bought you for Christmas last year? Yes, as it was only last month. My memory can be spotty sometimes, but I do remember that. One of the gifts I got was a Ninja Coffee Bar, which is awesome. I bought a few different Torani syrups to make flavored lattes and such. Sometimes I’ll get fancy and add whipped cream and toppings, ha. Oh, and it came with a built in frother for the full latte effect.

14. Think about the person you fell hardest for. Why do you think your feelings for this person were so strong? How is he/she different compared to everyone else you’ve had feelings for? I never had a connection with anyone like the one Ty and I had. We just...clicked. We brought out good things in each other, and uplifted one another. We supported each other. He seemed to genuinely care about me. He seemed like he really did want to get to me, like who I really am. My likes and my interests and such. When we talked, he really listened. He’d remember little things I told him about myself. We used to text each other everyday for hours. He’d send me things he saw that reminded him of me. We hung out a couple times a week. It was always him who initiated it, so I knew he really did want to see me and it seemed like he really did enjoy being around me. We’d go out for lunch or grab coffee at Barnes and Noble and look around. He’d come over sometimes and we’d watch a movie or play board games. He’d invite me over for coffee and dinner. He included me in his life, and introduced me to people that were important to him. That meant something to me. We often talked about trips we wanted to take together someday. We wanted to plan a road trip. Things were SO good between us at one point, and I guess that should have been a clue. They were too good. I really thought it could have been my first real relationship. I definitely saw it going in that direction. Then it all changed, and now it’s gone. Time has never been on our side. I want to try and get back to where we were, but I worry that it’s too late. :/ I want it all back. 

30. Have you ever caught your friend cheating on their boyfriend/girlfriend? If you have, what did you do about it? If you haven’t, what do you think you would do? I didn’t catch her because I knew it was happening. She told me. I didn’t do anything about it except offer my advice when she asked for it. I don’t support cheating, but I couldn’t tell her what to do. Like I said, all I could do was offer advice and my opinion when she asked for it. Other than that, I did not get involved.

31. When your last relationship ended, how long was it before you felt ready to think about being with someone else? I was heartbroken over Joseph for a year thinking no one else would ever come along and have interest in me again, and then towards the end of that year Ty came into my life. I was afraid to go down that path again with someone else and before Ty, I didn’t have any interest in doing so. Then he came along, and turned it all around.

32. Has any of your friends ever had a boyfriend/girlfriend that you found attractive, and you would secretly have liked to have for yourself? No.

33. How many guys do you know named Matthew? I don’t know any, actually.

34. Think about the last person that made you cry. Would that person be there for you if you needed help? It was myself and things that I’m dealing with.

35. Who was the last person you talked to before you went to sleep last night? Do you remember what you talked about? It was my mom. We were just watching a show together and talking about that.

36. Has someone of the opposite sex made you cry at any point during the last 24 hours? No.

37. Is there anything you would like to say to your most recent ex? No.

38. If your friends are sexually active but you aren’t, does that bother you? Have you ever felt pressured to have sex before you were ready, because your friends had done it? It doesn’t bother me that they’re sexually active and I’m not, it would just bother me when they’d make comments about it. They’d say things about how I need to “get laid” and need to just do it. How they’d set me up with someone. They’d make comments about my lack of experience whenever they’d talk about theirs. Or about what I should do with so and so when I was talking to a guy. Pushing me to do things with that person. That’s what bothered me. It’s none of their business. I have my reasons for why I haven’t yet, and that’s my own personal decision. When the right person comes along and I am ready, then it will happen. I’m not rushing it or doing it just to do it.

39. In your opinion, what is the difference between having a crush and being in love? Have your own experiences helped you to realise that there is a difference? There’s a huge difference between a crush and being in love like seriously?

40. Did the last person you hugged have any of these letters in their name: T, R, K, P, J? Not in their first name.

41. What’s the most unhealthy thing you’ve eaten in the last 24 hours? Well, today I had a big cinnamon crunch muffin with my coffee this morning. After lunch sometime I had loaded cheddar potato wedges with a Dr. Pepper. Soon I’ll be having a burger and onion rings. After that, I’ll have my nighttime treat of Oreos and coffee.

42. What was the last compliment you received from someone of the opposite sex? I don’t recall.

43. Who did you last say ‘I love you’ to? What colour are that person’s eyes? My mom; brown.

44. If you took away the first and third letters of your name, what would you then be called? Tphanie.

45. Name 7 things that make you happy, and explain how it might affect you if you had to give them up. I’ll do the first part of the question. <<< Same.

1. My family.

2. My morning cup of coffee with a muffin or donuts. Having one of those with my coffee has become apart of my morning cup of coffee routine, and I look forward to it everyday.

3. My favorite foods.

4. Alexander Skarsgård.

5. Taking trips.

6. Giraffes.

7. Fall and winter related things.

46. Think about your Facebook profile photo. What kind of assumptions do you think a stranger might make about you, from seeing that photograph? Would any of these assumptions be correct? Well, right now it’s a photo of my chocolate lab, Brandie. I’ve had it as my profile since a few days after she passed away last month. Someone would likely assume that that’s my dog, which would be correct. They’d also think she was a beautiful dog because she was.

47. You buy a bar of chocolate, but you decide that you don’t want to eat it now, and put it in the fridge. When you go back later, half of it’s gone - someone else has started eating it! Who are you most likely to blame? My brother or my dad. Probably my brother.

48. Choose 5 friends, and talk briefly about each person’s longest/most serious relationship. Who was the relationship with, and how long did it last? Naaaah.

49. Do you think it’s wrong for someone to commit themselves to a long-term relationship at a young age? Explain. I wouldn’t say it’s wrong.

50. Is there something happening in the near future, that you’re looking forward to? Yes, actually. It’s nice having something to look forward to.

[harrison-abbott]

Uncle Paul Short Story

UNCLE PAUL

 I

 I’m packing the boxes away in my new flat. We’ve just moved in. My flatmate isn’t here yet, so it’s me alone trying to build a new place to stay. It’s good to change, and I’m looking forward to the new semester. My phone then rings in my pocket – it’s an unrecognised number.

    “Hello?” I answer.

    “Hello, there, I’m not sure if I’ve got the right number … Is this Polly?”

    “It is, yes.”

    “Hi Polly, it’s your Aunt Dell calling. I have some things to ask you … If that’s okay?”

    I don’t recognise the woman’s voice; I know that I’ve met my ‘Aunt’ Dell maybe twice in my life. By her staggering, nervous tone I anticipate that what she’s going to ask me won’t be fruitful.

    “Do you know that your Uncle Paul died?” She says.

    “Uncle Paul? … He died? How?”

    “He had a heart attack, last night.”

    “I’m so sorry … for your loss …” and I wonder if this sounds callous, because it seems like I care less about my own Uncle than a woman who has been his wife for barely three years – and it’s more callous because that’s exactly how it is. But Dell sounds broken, and I’m ready to listen.

    “I’m so sorry for calling you,” she says, “but I know that you study in the same city as John worked. And I just didn’t have any one else to ask of a favour …”

    “That’s okay, just ask away?”

    “I feel stupid for asking you – because I know that your Mother and your Uncle didn’t get on … But would you be able to come and help me move some things out of his flat? Just moving a few things of his into the car. It will only take a little while, and I’ll give you some money; I know what it’s like to be a poor student – haha!”

    “Eh, yes, sure I can do that … When can I come help?”

    “This evening? Around 6?”

    I look at the time: it’s 15:50.

    “Do you remember where he lives?” Dell says. I say no, I never visited him at his house. She gives me the address and I write it down on my hand. I’m about to ask if I’ll just give her a call if I get lost, but she hurriedly bids farewell and hangs up. Remaining standing in the flat, I marvel at how lives can change so instantly.

   II

      As I’m sitting in the tram on the way to Uncle Paul’s house, I think about him, and the family. Wow, I never would’ve thought Paul would die; he seemed too huge and rollicking for death. Everybody always seemed scared of him, but I wasn’t – at least not in my student years. They were scared because he was loud, clever, and used his acerbic tongue to hurt a lot of people. As he did with my Mother – and Dell was right – my Mother and Paul had some underlying feud not many people could understand. They’d barely spoken to each other for about a decade; my memories of Paul were fragmentary, from childhood Christmases, where something dramatic always seemed to happen. After a time, the infamous John disappeared.

   So when I moved to this city here to study, I was aware that Paul worked here as well. I knew that he lived alone; he’d had to move here to find work, thus had left Dell living elsewhere, but they were still together. He lectured at the other University – not my one. I never expected to see him; I just figured he wouldn’t want to see the daughter of his sister, who he seemed to hate. Until one random afternoon he called me up. Don’t even know how he got my number. Suddenly here was this man, who’d always been mythical in my mind, outpouring all these words. A real powerful talker; the phone-call lasted 25 minutes and I enjoyed it. He invited me out to dinner, and I accepted.

    We sat down to order in the restaurant and the first thing he did was mock me because I’m a vegetarian. Then when I asked for just water as a drink, he laughed out loud – not even because he was amused, he was just being mean. I was mildly offended, but not really. As soon as I started talking about books and music with him, he warmed to me. We knew all the same material; he respected my taste. Now and then he’d say something inflammatory about my mother or my brother, and I’d just ignore it because I didn’t have a response. I could see how intelligent he was, and also how rude he could be: those were the two main sides with Paul.

    He gave me a lift home afterwards. Soon as we got in the car he put on a CD of the blues-rock band Little Feat. He blasted the volume up and we zoomed down the main street with this music blaring. I would remember the song from then on, and it sounded terrific. I remembered his chain-cigarette-smoking, too, and his bizarre road-rage. I mean, the streets that week-day evening were silent, yet he’d get angry at the slightest thing. I was trying to direct him to where I lived and he’d be shaky, crazy over nothing. I finally said, “Okay just pull over here,” and he violently veered the car to the roadside. With a gruff handshake, we said bye. And I haven’t seen him since then: three years ago. And now he’s dead.

III

      I get off the tram and set toward Paul’s neighbourhood. It’s a fair hazy evening. I find the house easily – it’s modest and motionless; I wonder what Dell’s doing inside, or if she’s even there. As I say, I barely know her, and don’t know how she’ll react when I see her …

    Ringing the doorbell, she appears a second later (she’s obviously been waiting), and when I see her face there’s a controlled pain in her face. She tries to smile and she hugs me with a certain warmth. Once again I give my condolences. She’s small and thanks me but I can tell nothing’s going to comfort her for a long time.

    Inside the house, she makes me a cup of tea, and stands, watching me drink it, making conversation. I can tell she wants me to drink it fast so we can get to work with the packing, so I do, and ask her what the job is.

    “Oh, right, yeah. So we have to move a few boxes from his study … Because I knew they were important to him. Some of his writings. That okay?”

    “Yes let’s do it.”

    Paul’s office is a half of what you’d expect for a university lecturer. A litany of books hang by handsome shelves; stacks of papers ram a desk with shiny wood. The other half is almost childish, or forgotten, somehow; two defunct PCs sit in the corner; cigarette ends are stuffed myriad into ashtrays; unwashed glasses of wine, mugs of coffee linger wherever. He also has a great collection of music with hundreds of CDs.

    “I know he would have wanted the things from his desk … All of these papers,” Dell says, “So can you help me with these? And there are his journals on the shelves up there; I’m so small I can’t reach them – haha.”

    “No problem, let’s go.”

    I take my shoes off and use a chair to stand up and get the shelf journals. There are so many of them, and John has been an author within them so often; some from the 80s, 90s in faded yellow jackets. I put them in one of the cardboard boxes Dell has brought. They’re quite small – the boxes – and in fact there are only two. Dell fills the other one with the things from Paul’s desk. I begin to realise that Dell hasn’t needed any ‘manpower’ with asking me to come here and work boxes. It’s that her husband’s just died last night, and she needs somebody to be here with her. I’m guessing that they called her from the hospital and she came last night, and stayed over here in the house. Then the house must’ve been unbearable without Paul’s presence. She was close enough to him to know he would’ve wanted his journals and papers preserved. But not strong enough, after his departure, to move them away by herself.

    “Wow,” I say to her from the chair-top, “I didn’t know Paul published all this material.”

    “Yes, he was a very clever man …”

    I’d meant it as a compliment, but obviously it didn’t work. Dell hangs her head, with that same wince in her brows. I wonder what she’s thinking; about her own life? Or what she’s going to do next? She’s old herself, in her 60s – if indeed that’s old. Doesn’t have kids herself, I don’t even know if she has other family. Paul was married twice before Dell, and those women, alongside the children he bore with them, didn’t speak to him after separation. Maybe Dell’s just sad, and I shouldn’t judge. But I can’t think of anything else to say, and we pack the things up in silence.

    After I’ve finished moving the journals, I offer to help Dell at the desk, but she waves me away. I’m then left hovering in the room, so I wander towards the music collection, for something to occupy me. Looking over all Paul’s music, I witness the same joy and intrigue over each album I know: that wealth of art. There are collections here I’ve always wanted to own, and with horror I find myself thinking well if Paul’s dead now I can surely take them for me? but the thought vanishes with shame.

    The CDs are lined alphabetically, and I come to the letter L; tracing my finger through the spines I find an album called ‘Sailin’ Shoes’ by Little Feat. It’s the same album Paul put on when I was riding home with him years earlier. I stand looking at the spine, and I want to pull it out and just hold it, but I don’t.

    Dell proclaims that she’s finished packing. I elect to take the boxes down stairs: “No, no, Dell! Let me lift the boxes – I’m strong.” She smiles and accepts; the boxes are of course massively heavy but I pretend they aren’t. Dell leads me outside and opens the boot of her car, thanking me all the time.

    We stand awkwardly after I’ve put the second box in, with she fidgeting, holding her car-keys.

    “Thanks for your help, really – did you leave anything inside the house?”

    She’s wanting to head off, I catch on, so I say I have my coat inside; she waits by the front door and when I return, locks it. What will become of the rest of the house, who will come for the rest of the stuff? I’m unsure. Dell opens her car door and says she has to shoot. There is a brisk hug and cold kiss on the cheek. I tell her “see you soon” but I know that’s as likely as I’ll see Paul again soon. Dell whips into her car, then drives off. I wave foolishly on the pavement. I wonder whether she could’ve offered me a lift, but then, what exactly would I say to her during the car-ride …

    I make my way back to the main street to get the tram.

 IV

      It’s early evening as I ride back home. I text my flatmate with the day’s story; I want to talk to somebody about it, but she’s not answering. I don’t text my mother about it for obvious reasons; there’s a shame there in knowing that her brother has died before she knows.

     The soothing metallic sound of the tram is all there is, and I think about Paul. About his life. Why was he so mean, when he could be so intelligent?

    His father – my grandfather – used to beat him when he was a boy. Him and my grandmother, and my mother, too, but not so much my mother. He beat up Paul almost every day, I’m told. It usually happened in the mornings, for some reason, or at the dinner table: grandpa would just thrash him for the slightest thing. Mother would talk about it sometimes, very rarely. I asked her what she would do when the beatings took place, and she said she would go outside the house and scream. A little girl and she had that much moxie, or rather only terror and indignance. Then when the beatings kept going she went down to the local church finally and told the Minister about it. This was the 1950s wherein the dark secrets of urban households were overlooked or merely acknowledged. The Minister came to the house and spoke to grandfather about it. But I’m told it didn’t stop – the violence – until one day when Paul was 15 he fought back against his father. He was big by then, and I didn’t see the fight but apparently grandfather didn’t go near Paul again, at least not in that way.

    Then Paul became this renowned academic man. But lots of people wondered why he could be so unpleasant, many were afflicted by his meanness.

 V

      The flat is even more silent when I enter it. I put the radio on because it’s eerie and my mind needs company. Should probably unpack the rest of the boxes away before my flatmate gets back tomorrow. I enjoy the energy of unloading the stuff, putting it away: gives me something to focus on. But I find I’m getting angrier as I’m doing it, flustered: I keep dropping things. Then when I’m moving the plates into the kitchen cupboard, I drop one of them and it smashes on the floor.

    It’s time to do something else. I go into my room and open the window and look out across the city; the flat’s quite high up and it’s a glorious view. At my desk I stick some music on the laptop, but it’s not loud enough: I unpacked my speakers earlier. I find them and set them up. Then with the new volume, I think which song I’m going to play … And there it is: Little Feat of course! ‘Sailin’ Shoes’ – I press play and I jump up, whilst the theatre of noise relays.

    I watch out the window at the sky and how the sun’s ending light works against the dreary high-rise flats. This song is so good: Paul will never hear this song again. There’s a sound frankness of that. There is no ‘but’, or, ‘oh but he was a great man’: Paul’s gone and that’s it. He died in this ugly city, wherein the sky and things like music have only temporal distractions. That’s what Paul sought for his whole life, and what he never found

[pleasedontbelame]

Table for two: Lunch

‘The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.’

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

I wake up smiling. Before showering, I play my morning tune. Sun is shining and the weather is sweet, make you wanna move your dancing feet … It’s impossible to say no to a Bob’s morning session. In fact, every human in this world should experience – at least once – getting out of bed with that sweet melody. A mellow mood will linger for the rest of the day. Once the shower is part of the past, my next duty is to quietly march to my nearest café. Compulsory to have my coffee nearby, no more than a five-minute walk. My only real ‘must’ when moving to a new place: my café. I must have the impression my barista’s waiting for me. My barista knows me. My barista knows the perfect temperature of my coffee. My barista doesn’t ask if I’m going to have the coffee there or if I’m going to take it away. My barista doesn’t ask me if I desire a large or small cup. My barista knows I’m going to have a flat white on their premises. Sitting down at a small rustic wooden table with my computer or my book or my magazines or just my music.

Literally, that royal morning, the sun was shining. After so many failed attempts, Matteo was going to cook lunch for me. He was going to pick me up near my house, at a bus station at 10am but between an Argentinian and an Italian, time starts to lose sense and relevance. At 9:50 I text him. I’m going to be twenty minutes late. Instantly he answers back saying he’s going to be a late as well – perfect bouquet. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable around Italians. We are identical when it comes to punctuality. We appreciate similar things in life. We talk out-loud. We have exaggerated body language. We transform a simple conversation into a deep and passionate symposium. We talk about food as if we were members of the Nobel Prize jury. We will never be gratified with our coffees. For some strange reason, we always end up talking about football-fútbol–calcio and remembering the latest ten World Cups. We love to extend – infinitely – a reunion, because there’s always time for one more coffee or one more glass of wine or one more coffee. The day before, Matteo told me he would take care of the food and drinks. My only concern was to enjoy – amen. Without even noticing it, I arrived ten minutes late to the bus station and he picked me up ten minutes late – another perfect blend.

Exquisite temperature. Dazzling breeze. I get into the car and put my window down. Matteo sets the destination in the GPS and slightly accelerates. The Sous Chef was going to cook for me in a remote open-air spot. No restaurants, no menus, no waiters, driving to his favourite place on the Gold Coast. A place where he’s able to connect with nature; where he’s able to unplug himself from the kitchen; where he plays with his daughters; where he isolates from his daily life and unleashes his mind. I just had to lay back and appreciate the ride.

*

While chatting about our past lives, women, experiences and dreams he remembers I was listening to my ipod when he picked me up. I guess those tiny details are the ones which make me not young anymore. An ipod.

‘Play some of your music!’ Matteo urges. The highest compliment I could ever receive. Not so long ago I attended a music festival and was fixated with Gary Clark Jr. A flawless mixture of blues, rock and roars of liberty. I plug in my device and without anaesthesia I set the beast free … when my train pulls in … Matteo stares at me, smiles and raises the volume. Delightful ether. Our destination: Hinze Dam. It’s going to be my first time there and I totally trust his taste. We take a fairy-tale road. Enormous ancient trees on both sides drawing beautiful picturesque shadows along the pavement. The air seems skinny and pure and fresh. The music slowly stabbing my heart. Sunglasses, 70’s attitudes and smiles. The sun caressing my skin. Life passing by.

The GPS reveals we are getting closer. We look like two fugitives exploring the outback, looking for a place to hide. Suddenly we arrive.

‘So, this is the place my friend.’ Matteo sighs. A peaceful area dressed in green. Just a few humans, mostly families with children. Blue sky. Barbecue area. Short thick grass playing between strong immense trees. On the horizon, a huge peak made of stones captures my attention. A beautiful human invention. A beautiful place. Thanks Matteo. I help him to grab all the things from the car and we conquer one table improvising a cleaning kit for the filthy barbecue. First things first, we open a couple of beers. Cheers. Salud. Chin Chin. Once we have the first godsend sip, we start toasting the breads for the bruschettas. I’m trying to create the right setting where he can feel at home. Once I feel he is submerged into his cooking-world I dare to shoot.

‘Are you happy at work?’ Matteo prefers to think before vomiting words or opinions. Thank God but he isn’t entirely prepared for that question while gilding those breads. He contemplates and without gestation and to my surprise says no. For the last couples of weeks I’d had the feeling he was not having fun at work, he wasn’t feeling complete and I totally understand why. Matteo is the genuine traditional Italian chef. He cares about ingredients, flavours, colours, textures, blending, seasoning, cooking, temperature, platting … he cares. He fully compromises himself with every single plate the kitchen delivers. Everything should look balmy and picture-perfect. He intensively stares at every plate searching for something he feels is not in the precise place. The outcome should be spotless – there are no greys. For Matteo, perfection isn’t negotiable. But there are always ‘buts’ in life. Cucina Vivo doesn’t strive for the same kind of perfection. The business-view overcomes the love-for-food. Frankly, I do understand. Having more than three hundred guests in just one night requires a mind for business not food. Matteo was jammed in between his two selves. Trying to find an equilibrium and he was having a rough time. Sometimes working fourteen hours in a twenty-four hour day, waking up, having a coffee and saying to his family “I’ll see you tomorrow” isn’t a life at all.

Italy. Torino. Matteo was seventeen years old and his parents decided to invest all their money in a restaurant. Both architects. They’d enough money to move to Hawaii or the French Polynesia and live the rest of their days drinking coconut water, grilling fresh fish and wearing Panama hats.

‘But it was their egos that forced them to build something for me.’ Matteo mumbles. He didn’t even ask for it and they did it anyway. He remembers by that time he’d finished school and hadn’t been the classic bright student. Young Matteo was completely lost and his dad asked him if he would like to become a chef.

‘That’s kind of cool! Why not?’ Young Matteo replied. Now he jokes out loud when he remembers that moment with his father. His parents decided to buy an already functioning restaurant. A successful business in a beautiful place next to the river. A Godsend place for a teenager who has just finished school. Matteo realises now it wasn’t a smart move. Without any experience they tried to tame a business they didn’t know a damn thing about it. Matteo, who was supposed to have his first encounters with the kitchen, was not even there. Along with his cousin, they were waiters.

‘We didn’t even know what to do or where to put the dockets! It was a complete disaster!’ He laughs serenely while he remembers. His father had an artistic mind and honestly didn’t know how to run a business. They had the restaurant for one and a half years and by the end they were just paying bills. But I can feel Matteo’s enthusiasm recalling an experience that marked his professional career. Food has always been protagonist in his life. The memories linger: helping his family in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, asking the names of different species, his first contact with spiciness, the aromas … his relationship with the kitchen has been always there. Latent.

*

The loafs for the bruschettas are ready. We wander to our table where the rest of the ingredients are waiting for us. Smashed avocado with chords of garlic and chilli. Slow cooked tomatoes and on top, gorgeous balsamic vinegar. While devouring the bruschettas I’m distracted by the dam, mesmerised by that intriguing massive wall. An impressive human creation in the middle of a hypnotising landscape. The bruschettas are simply majestic and the entire scene makes them even more stylish. The Italian recipe: simplicity, noble ingredients, vibrant colours and enchanting flavours. Sounds easy and it’s not. For those who believe cooking isn’t an art, as Jules Winnfield would say: ‘I dare you, I double dare you motherfucker!’ I dare anyone who doesn’t appreciate food as art to prepare me some delights. But I just don’t want to force food into my body, I want to have a slight orgasm while tasting it.

Born in Torino and brought up Christian, my Sous Chef has lived 33 years in this world and now practises Buddhism.

‘There’s no God’s will, it’s just up to you.’ Matteo strikes. His father became a Buddhist a long time ago. ‘I thought he was out of his mind when he started practising and meeting Buddhist people.’

Growing up in Italy, most certainly, means growing up Christian. Easy to understand for an Argentinian. I also grew up Christian. Attending church once a week, every Sunday for one unsexy hour.

Then one arbitrary day in Rome, Matteo was enlightened. Standing in the middle of the Piazza San Pietro he remembers the Pope saying that younger generations shouldn’t use condoms because everything happens for a cause. In that exact moment his mind cracked and Christianity was demystified. He decided to leave religion behind and continued on his own journey.

‘I respect it, if God makes you happy, good for you! But I needed to believe in something.’

I sense he’s being sincere. He isn’t surprised when he realises I’m an atheist. In a way being a Buddhist means you’re a part time atheist. There are no Gods to worship. No Popes. No ‘religion’. There is no hell or heaven. Buddhism has strong philosophical roots and the main pillar is to believe in our personal development as enlightened beings. Is it egocentric? Yes. Do we live in an egocentric era? Yes. Do I think religions are old fashioned and are a true impediment to human evolution? Yes. But If I would have to choose one religion, I’d definitely step into Buddhism. No hesitation.

Don’t misunderstand me, I tell Mateo, I do respect religion. But sometimes I struggle to maintain a fluent conversation with people who adore and idolise a God because every single discussion ends up with ‘it’s God’s will’ or ‘it’s our destiny’ or ‘thanks be to God’. Such a simplistic approach to life. I guess there are different grades of idolatry: Matteo firmly agrees.

A couple of years ago he met an Asian girl living in Sidney. Online dating. She was so gorgeous he booked a ticket and flew down. She was ultra catholic. He felt so out of place that within twenty-four hours he was back home. We laugh. I asked him if he knows that the Pope is Argentinian. He looks puzzled.

‘For me the last Pope was German.’ I laugh and tell him he resigned a couple of years ago.

‘Now they can resign? It’s too hard to be Pope!’ Between laughs we punch the table with heavy fists. Then Matteo takes out a plastic container with fried rice, I explain to him the ‘new’ radical approach of this Pope. His openness to other religions, gay marriage, condoms, blah blah … the topic fades away when he shows me some lovely fresh prawns. Our main. Thanks Buddha.

Fresh silky prawns bought during the sunrise. Salt, pepper and olive oil. We move back to the barbecue to cook them little by little until they gain a biblical golden skin. Already tipsy, we open some more beers. To the prawns Matteo adds coconut milk with garlic, masala and parsley on top – tremendous fragrance. Salud. Chin Chin. Cheers and we attack those prawns without mercy. The Sous Chef is deeply in love and married to Setsuko, a stunning Japanese woman. They have two daughters with a terrific blend of features. A beauty that pains. A future beauty that will destroy Matteo’s jealousy. He loves to take care for them, to protect them and enjoy quality time with them. When I warn him that both girls are going to have so many suitors, he just closes his eyes trying not to imagine the situation. Matteo, my friend, you are going to have a hard time. Mark my words.

I love multi-cultural couples, says a lot about them and the way they tackle their lives. How they challenge their own boundaries, cultures and languages. I was intrigued with his fascination with Asian women.

‘When did you realise?’ I ask taking a sip from my Mexican beer. He remains silent for a while making himself restful.

‘I was 19,’ he says, perfect low pitch tricky tone and shiny eyes. After his family business extinguished, Matteo moved to Ireland, Dublin. He didn’t know why. Living there he met several Italians friends. I would say he used to be a good-catholic dude. A dude who avoided troubles and lived on the bright side of the moon. One night, his best temporary friend convinced him to go to a strip club – his first strip club ever.

‘Let’s go, only for ten minutes!’ His friend convinced him and Matteo found himself in a small underground place in the core of the city. He almost changed his mind when they were told to pay fifty euros just to get inside. They paid and went downstairs. Step after step he was regretting his decision but unexpectedly, he was mesmerised by the interior, not expecting to encounter such a good taste. Perfect illumination. Elegant, extravagant and … the women. He was struggling to breath normally. That precise instant when he decided he wasn’t going to stay just for ten minutes. They sat at the bar and ordered some drinks – classic move. An Asian girl approached him. He was already dripping sweat. She was pure class, pure magnificence and pure ecstasy. Chinese. He shyly ordered a glass of sparkling wine for his goddess but she was a professional in the art of love and made him feel comfortable. After some chitchat and with a rehearsed sensual smile she asked if he would like a private dance. Always an awkward moment. They walked to the room at the back and she explained how everything was going to work.

‘I was in love with her, I wanted to marry her!’ Matteo vigorously exhales. ‘She was the most beautiful girl I’ve ever had in that particular moment of my life. Extraordinary. High-class. Natural beauty. She knew how to talk and how to touch. She made me feel comfortable. I stayed for the whole night. I was a backpacker. I was young.’ His breaking point. The reason why he loves Asian women. The reason why he kept chasing Asian beauty. I love that Setsuko knows this story and, maybe, she should feel grateful for it. An innocent memory that – at the same time – marked those next years of Matteo’s quest. Now they’ve built a family that should be hung in the Louvre. My congratulations.