#he will never truly be gone while hes part of my dna and thousands of other peoples | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ellana-ravenwood · 4 years ago

Text

Can you be friend with your husband's ex-girlfriend ? - Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

Synopsis : Everyone always think you and Selina Kyle don’t like each others, solely for the fact that she used to "date” your husband. But as usual in life, things are much more complicated than that...A fluffy Drabble mainly about how truly strong, Bruce and reader’s love is.

Listen. My students were having quiet reading times, and I had a sudden burst of inspiration as one of them chose a French story in which a mother and a step-mother unite fronts to save their little magical kid (I love that story haha), and it suddenly inspired me. I LOVE Catwoman. Like. A lot. And in my head, her and Batmom have always been...Oh. No spoilers. The rest in this story ;). Hope you’ll like this little bonus story ! :

My masterlist blog : @ella-ravenwood-archives

__________________________________________________

“You look beautiful mom, do you have a date with father ? I thought date nights were on Thursdays.”

You jumped a little in the air as your son’s voice resonate in the foyer. Definitely didn’t hear him, sneaky little bugger. You turn around towards him, and smile, saying :

“It is on Thursdays, my little buddy. I’m having a girls night out, tonight.”

“Girls night out ?”

“Yes. You know, Cass and I are the only girls of the family. Sometimes we need to vent to our peers. Cass usually goes to see Steph and Babs, I go out with my friends.”

You smile at him again, ruffling his hair, and he can’t help but chuckle a little bit. In recent months, Damian found that he actually loves, when the one he came to call “mom” (you), ruffled his hair. It made him feel like the little boy he was, as odd as it could sound to anyone not knowing him.

“I didn’t know you went on such nights.”

“I do, once a month. You just haven’t noticed because it’s usually on nights you’re out with your father rather early.”

“I see. If it isn’t too -he hesitates- personal, can I ask with who you are going out ? Who are your friends ?”

Your smile widens. Because just over a year back, that boy would’ve never cared about this. About who you hung out with, or about you in general.

Ah, since he came in your life, he went a long way. The mere fact he wanted to know more about you was proof enough, and you felt absolutely touched.

Even more so as you realized that he not only asked about your friends because he wanted to know you, but because he was a little worried about who you might spend time with, wether they’d put you in danger or not...So, oh so sweet.

“Well, as cliche as it sounds, I’m going out with mainly other supermoms. We like to vent about...Things -you were aware that telling your son you and your friends love to vent about them wasn’t the best answer right now haha- So, Lois, you know her of course. Jon’s mom. There’s also Dinah, Connor’s mom. You saw him a few time at the Watchtower, although he’s quite younger than you so I don’t think you interact much. I bet you already know she’s Black Canary, and married to Green Arrow, I saw you snoop in your father’s files.”

Your son’s face redden a little, but you give him a reassuring winks totally meaning : “I snooped around too”, and it makes him smile. You continue :

“And finally there’s Diana. She’s not a mom yet, but she loooooves to listen to our stories. She’s also great at changing subjects and partying, who would’ve thought right ? I guess having thousand of years of practice helps. I’m sure you know she’s Wonder Woman eh. Oh, and of course, there’s Selina.”

“Selina ?”

“Yes.”

“As in...Catwoman ?”

“Yes ?”

You can see your son wants to add something, and you’re pretty sure you know what it’s gonna be. But you let him ask naturally, leave him time to gather his thoughts and dare to ask. After all, you want to instal an atmosphere of trust, between you and your children. You want them to know they can always ask you anything. So you wait. Finally, Damian says :

“Why are you meeting with this woman ? Don’t you like, hate her ?”

"Why would I hate her ?”

You know exactly why he’s thinking that. But you want him to elaborate, to make sense of his feelings about the subject. Simply, to talk.

“Well...her and father used to...you know...”

It’s not quite as formed as you were hoping for, but you do know. And at least, he tried. There was a time he would’ve just gotten mad you purposefully pretended not to understand his meaning, and would’ve left this instant.

You smile at him once more. To be honest, so many people thought you and Selina Kyle didn’t get along.

You guess it would make sense, it’t true, she’s your husband ex after all. AND one of the only woman for whom he truly cared about. Those, were very few...

In fact, there was only three of you, in Bruce’s life, that truly made a difference. Sure, he had been infatuated before, with quite a few women. But only three, truly stood out.

Talia Al’Ghul, of course. Not his first love (that was Julie Madison, although he was much too young to really know what love even was, and compared to you, it was just mild infatuation). But someone that used to be important nonetheless. The reason your sweet Damian (yes, sweet, especially when around you) was alive.

She was important, once. When he was training under her father’s guidance, before he realized who Ras really was.

Talia was a complicated woman who unfortunately could never truly get away from her upbringing, no matter how hard she tried. She was “too far gone”, by her own words. It was clear to Bruce, that if even herself thought she was un-savable, he couldn’t do much either. He did try, though. But it just never worked.

You were certain that she left Damian in Bruce’s care, when the boy was barely ten, exactly because she didn’t want him to turn out like her. Which in itself, was a little redemption act, no ? At least, you thought so.

Didn’t mean that you thought you could change her mind about those “world domination” plans that were ingrained in her mind since she was born. Fact is, she gave Damian a chance.

You never hated Talia. You actually felt pretty sorry for her.

She could’ve had such a different life, if, all those years ago, she had been able to leave her father. Not that you would want to, it’d mean that you and Bruce would never be (even if deep down, you knew that you and him would always end up together, no matter what...it would’ve just been a little lethal for you, if Talia was more around um um).

Talia never even really tried to get “her” son back. It seemed she completely accepted to “give him” to you. She self-admittedly never really knew how to be a mother, and there was that time she had him killed because she thought it was meant to be...

Not that, anyway, you’d ever let that happen again. You made it very clear you wouldn’t. And your resolve and anger could be scary, even to Talia Al’Ghul.

Plus, the day she had Damian killed, she realized she didn’t want that...anyway long story short, she was no longer in his life. And although if one day she changed her mind and wanted to contact him again you wouldn’t oppose it, you knew Damian was yours. Everyone knew that if one day she would come back, beyond the fact you, Bruce, and his siblings would be here to protect Damian...The boy would never choose to go back to the Al Ghuls.

He changed drastically, since he came with you. He was no longer her son. And she knew it. And didn’t interfere so far (and you knew she never would).

He called YOU “mom”. He told YOU he loves you. You. Not her. he never interacted with you like he did with her anyway. And you still didn’t hate Talia. She was part of both Bruce, and Damian’s past (AUTHOR’S NOTE : a little reminder that Damian was born from a “test tube” with Bruce and Talia’s DNA (to simplify things), and had a surrogate mother to give birth to him (although sometimes he’s seen in literal “baby pods” like in Death Stranding haha). He was born A WHILE after Bruce left Talia and the League behind. He wasn’t born 9 months after. This is important infos so things fit timeline wise :)).

The second woman who had a great impact on your husband’s life, and who used to be “his”, was...Selina Kyle.

For a long time Bruce felt like she was the only one to understand him. The only one accepting him for who he was, with no compromise. The only person on this Earth that wouldn’t try to change him. And although things were often “on and off”, and complicated, it was nice, to feel like he belonged. And Selina... Selina was the only one giving him this feeling.

But...Well, he was wrong.

Because then, you, the “third” and yet most important woman in his life, appeared.

You arrived years after his love story with Talia, and quite a while after he started to realize him and Selina were maybe not meant to be. Too many differences, even as they understood each others (or at least he thought they did).

Then you barged in. A bit younger than him. Unafraid to be yourself, bold and utterly stubborn. Turning his world upside down, and making him reconsider if he ever knew what the word “love” meant before you.

But that, was another story. Anyone seeing you with him, and particularly the way he looked at you, would instantly know how crazy he was about you. How desperately in love he was.

Right now, the question wasn’t about how strong your bond was, and how he never loved anyone like he loves you.

Nope. Right now, it was all about how you didn’t hate his exes (not even Talia). How anyway, they were part of his life at some point, that was a fact you could never change.

Before you, Bruce had a past. Past.

A past. A path. A path that lead him to you. A path that taught him to not make the same mistakes he made before, and a path that showed him it was you. That it has always been you.

A past path, that couldn’t compare to his present with you.

You didn’t even feel particularly jealous of them, you knew how Bruce felt about you, and that they were just that...part of his past.

Now, sure. You would probably never even be friendly with Talia. Who she was and what she stood for made it so. The opposite of you, really.

But Selina ? Well. Selina was another story.

You smile at your son, and say :

“Do you think of Selina and I as “conventional women” ? “

His answer came without a second of hesitation, Damian didn’t even have to think to say what he thought of your question :

“Certainly not.”

“Exactly. Now. Maybe society teaches girls they should instantly hate their boyfriend’s ex, but I chose not to listen. It’s a toxic view of life, and not all exes are crazy jealous psychos as the people make it sound ? Sometimes, like in your father and Selina’s case, the relationship ends on good terms. Selina is a great woman. As soon as she knew your dad and I were actually a thing, she backed off.”

Well. That wasn’t entirely true. She backed off of Bruce. But she still LOVED driving him crazy jealous by openly flirting with you.

“And I know how your dad feels about me. I trust him, too. Trust is important, you know that now right ? -he nods- So. Why would I hate someone I have a lot in common with, and with whom I’d probably be friend anyway if you father wasn’t in the picture ?”

“I...I guess you wouldn’t ?”

“And I indeed don’t.”

Your son was visibly confused, and you couldn’t blame him really.

Because of how the World was, but also because of who raised him (Talia was...a jealous woman), you understood how he couldn’t quite understand you not feeling threaten in the least by the fact Selina was your Broosh’s ex. So you say, kissing his forehead :

“I’ll tell you a few stories, soon. And I think you’ll get it.”

“Ok, mom.”

You smiled. He hadn’t call you “mom” for very long, and you quickly noticed he used every opportunity to use the word. It melted your heart.

“Now, I have to go ! If I’m late, Diana is going to fly me out of here, and your father HATES when she does that. Goodnight baby, see you soon. Make sure to eat a proper dinner. I told Alfred but I trust you to listen. And force your dad to have one too, when I’m not here, he forgets things...even as important as literally feeding himself. Too engrossed in his project, you know. Anyway, love you. Good night !”

“Good night, mom.”

And with a last smile, you go out and leave behind a son that has a LOT of things to think about.

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

A few days later, it was Damian’s mandatory night off and he was going to bed early. Your orders. You convinced him, by promising to read him a bedtime story.

Many would think your son was too proud to even admit you still read him stories before bed, even as he was approaching the age of 12. But many would be wrong.

If there was something Damian wasn’t afraid of, it was to tell the world how much of a mamma’s boy he was. Nobody could blame him, he never really had a “real” mom. Not one like you, at least, who taught him with love and patience, and not hired assassins and blood.

“Ok Little Buddy, what will it be tonight ?”

"The story of how you became friend with Catwoman ?”

Your taken aback for a few seconds, you had totally forgotten about telling him about your “girls night out”. But then you smile, settle down next to him on his bed, and as he threw his heavy and comfortable quilt on both of you, you start your story.

The day she saved your life.

The first time you realized you and Selina could very well become friends one day, was that time she literally saved your life. Definitely a hint that she didn’t hate you, at least.

And you ? Sure, at first you were a little insecure because you knew she was Bruce’s ex and Selina was...Well she was a gorgeous woman, smart, witty, and very VERY hot.

But after seeing her a few times there and there, and seeing how she interacted with Bruce...you knew Selina Kyle was not the “home wrecker” time. That she would never try anything with him, as long as she knew you two were a thing.

Sure she was a thief, unscrupulously taking whatever she wanted from whomever she wanted...but “someone else’s man” was definitely where she drew a limit. She felt absolutely no pleasure being a mean spirited person.

And she saw how happy Bruce was with you...Which lead to that fateful night during which you two started to get closer.

Because sure, you fought off your insecurities about her being his ex, but you weren’t exactly friendly. You just...knew of each others.

The change happened not long after Bruce made it official with the media that he was no longer “Gotham’s most eligible bachelor”, and was in a serious relationship with you.

To your surprise, the people in the city took it really well. Bruce was a beloved figure, they were happy that after years of clearly love life instability, he found someone. Sure, a few women and men had their heart broken, their dreams shattered, and were totally jealous of you but...

Anyone seeing you with him just instantly knew you guys were the real deal. That it was true love, as cheesy as it sounded. It was just that obvious.

Maybe too obvious.

Clearly, soon, everyone in Gotham knew how much Bruce Wayne cared about his girlfriend. How he would do anything for her. And...Well.

This was Gotham. Do you get the picture ?

It was a time during which you hadn’t moved in with him just yet. You’d do that only a few months later, not long before you and Bruce would adopt Dick.

But for now, you still had your studio apartment in the heart of Gotham (refusing to take any handouts from Bruce, who could definitely get you a better place), and you were going back there after a few meeting with your publishers.

You were suppose to meet Bruce the next day, as tonight, he was working on some important “Batcases”. You didn’t mind too much. Sometimes, it was nice to be alone with yourself, gave you a moment of self-care and calm.

You loved Bruce of course, and loved being with him, but it was still nice to have some alone time nonetheless.

Anyway. You were walking back, feeling rather good about the bath bomb that was waiting for you back home (it was from your favorite artisanal shop, a gift from Bruce, who definitely had no qualms buying you hundreds of dollars worth of bath bombs haha...If he couldn’t help you get a better apartment, didn’t mean he wasn’t gonna spoil you otherwise).

That’s when it happened. You never even saw it coming. One second you were walking down the street, the next you had a damp towel around your mouth and nose, and everything went to black.

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

You woke up in a warehouse. By the salty smell in the air though, you guessed you were somewhere on the docks. Which didn’t tell much, there was a lot of docks, in Gotham. Perks of living on a city with a seafront view ?

There was a group of men in a corner, playing cards. In front of you, a camera. You were gagged, your arms and legs were bound, and your head hurt like hell.

“Hey, she woke up.”

A shuffling to your side. The men playing cards were moving. They came to you, one turned the camera on. The other one put on some headphones and slowly directed a mic towards you, as the last man pulled on a ski mask and settled in front of the camera.

Nothing made sense to you. Until the man in front of the camera started to talk.

“Bruce Wayne. We have your girlfriend. If you don’t bring us-”

Oh. Oh. You were kidnapped. And those men wanted a ransom. An insane amount of money. That you knew Bruce had, but still. Ah.

You had to get out of here. You had to.

You looked around you, nothing. And there were the three men. Oh. Oh but the edges of your chair were sharp. And if you slowly made a back and forth movement with your wrists, you could see it slowly cutting the ropes. And so, you got to work.

Only...

“Believe me, we won’t hesitate to hurt her. Here, a proof of “good faith”.”

Huh ? OUTCH ! The man in front of the camera had just almost knocked you out with the force of his punch in your jaw. You were wondering if he hadn’t broken it. You couldn’t quite think anymore, and could feel the tears slowly falling on their own from your eyes...

Damn, it hurt. You didn’t see it coming either, too focused on slowly cutting the ropes while making sure they didn’t notice.

“Ok, I think that’s good. Whaddaya think, Rupert ?”

“We can do another take if you want, and then edit the punch in ? I’m not sure she can handle another hit like that, she looks pretty shaken up.”

“Ah well we-”

“Oooooh booyyys !”

Your ears were ringing, everything was blurry, and your head hurt so much. But you definitely recognized that voice.

“Catwoman, you’re early.”

Huh ? What was she doing here...

“Well, I thought I’d pop in a little earlier knowing you boys would be around. I’m sort of in a hurry. I accept cash of course, as usual. I think you’ll find the array of jewelries I brought today to be...What the hell are you doing ?”

“Mm ? Oh, her ? A little side operation. She’s Bruce Wayne’s sweetheart. Rumors has it he’d burn the world for her, we thought we’d take advantage of it and expend our business.”

“That’s quite a jump from fencing stolen jewelries, to kidnapping, isn’t it ?”

The man shrugged, and turned back to you.

“Well, you don’t achieve anything if you don’t start new ventures. And there’s big money to be made here. For sure. That idiot Wayne will pay up, there’s no doubt.”

You heard the click-clacks of heels, and a shadow came into your vision.

“What did you do to her, you animals ?”

“Just a punch. And maybe we weren’t too delicate with her when we moved her to our van, and then here. But it’s fine. Nothing too bad really.”

Slowly you were regaining your vision. And the pain was retrieving. You had never been punched before. You kinda hope it would never happen again...

The way those thugs were talking about the all thing was so casual, from them talking about how they’d edit the video destined to Bruce, to how they were just saying they were expanding their operation...For a little bit, you almost forgot you were from Gotham.

Gotham.

America’s capital of crime.

Where little thugs like those ones were plenty.

Men who thought they could “make it big”.

Gotham.

A place that bred someone like your Bruce, and his nightly activities...

Selina’s voice raised again, harsh and dry :

“I give you all the things I stole in the past month, in exchange of her.”

There’s a short silence, followed by a chuckle from one of the man, clearly the leader, who answers :

“Oh please. We ain’t stupid. We know her value. And we know someone like you, wouldn’t trade anything in for her if she wasn’t valuable. You’re not exactly known to be a nice woman.”

There’s a hint of anger crossing Selina’s face, and you immediately understand where it comes from. Sure. She was a thief. A criminal. And sometimes, she’d rough up some security guards, or some fellow criminals that think they could cross her.

But she was no brute.

She would never NEVER kidnap anyone, and especially not an innocent.

She protected children, and defenseless woman in her neighborhood, and whenever she could. She wasn’t exactly a hero, like Bruce; That’s for sure. But she wasn’t a bad person. No. She wasn’t.

And those guys words ? Just infuriated her.

“Mm. Too bad for you. Don’t go out and say I didn’t give you a chance. Really, too bad. I liked doing business with you.”

“What are you-”

In an instant, Selina sprout in action, and knocked the three men out before they could even realize. That was impressive. Even gagged, you could hear yourself utter a “wow” as she rushed back to you to untie you.

She smiled as she saw you made a good way through the ropes, and were most likely be able to get out of your bounds at some point. You were glad you didn’t though, because you weren’t quite sure what you were going to do once free ?

You fall forward on the floor and she catches you. Your head is still ringing, as you look at Selina.

There is genuine concern on her face.

How odd.

"Are you okay ?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Good. Cause I refuse to be the one telling Bruce the person he loves the most in this world died. Again.”

“Yes. Thank you I-I...”

“Hey, are you okay ? (Y/N) ? (Y/N) ??”

You could hear Selina call to you, and it felt like her voice was slowly fading into the distance...The adrenaline gone, the stress of it all gone, you had simply passed out.

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

“Is she alright ?!”

Bruce arrived, bursting through a window, and ran to you. Your head was in Selina’s lap (she felt bad just leaving you laying down there on the hard concrete ground), and she was casually sitting, her back against a container.

She was surrounded by the knocked out bodies of your aggressors.

“Yes. Yes she’s just sleeping. She got roughed up a little bit, but I checked. Nothing too bad. It’ll leave a few bruises. Nothing time cannot heal.”

After saving you, totally by chance, Selina called Bruce on his red phone, so he would know it’s an emergency.

It didn’t even take him more than ten minutes to drop the case he was working on, cross town, and arrive.

He kneeled next to you, and checked every part of you to make sure Selina was right. But it did appear you were just asleep. The shock was too big, probably.

“How did you know she was here ?”

“I didn’t. It was all luck. Those men were some...um...Associates of mine.”

“You have associates that kidnap women ?”

There was anger in Bruce’s voice, but Selina knew better than to think it was aimed at her. No. It was anger he felt towards those men who hurt you, and towards himself, too, as he wasn’t there to take care of you.

“No. She’s their first.”

He looks at you, with a longing and love in his eyes that he never looked at Selina with. She recognizes it instantly. He’s more in love with you than he ever been with her. Was it even really love, between them, or a strong friendship ? Sometimes, the two were difficult to dissociate.

She stares at him, because it’s quite something, to see the Batman himself so desperately in love that he dropped everything he was doing to run to you, knowing that you were safe.

It’s quite something, to see the Batman himself ready to give it all up just for one person. Something he was never willing to do before. Never willing to do with Selina...

She stares at him, and smiles. An almost sad smile, because it hurts a bit, he never looked at her like that. But a smile nonetheless, because she knows now for sure, that he found his true love.

Nobody would peg Catwoman for a romantic, but oh, oh she was a hopeless sap. Especially when it touched her dear friends.

Bruce looks at her, and mistakes that look in her eyes for something that isn’t there. She can see it instantly. He thinks she’s sad, that she’s truly hurt he found someone else. That he moved on.

She’s not. But of course, he would think so.

“Selina I-”

“Don’t Bruce. It’s ok. You and I were never meant to be together, and we knew it. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friend. I actually think we work better, as friends, don’t you ? Take care of her. She’s definitely a keeper.”

You slowly shift in Bruce’s arms, and he takes a look at you. At your wounds. His heart tightens, and he holds you with more force.

“Thank you.”

He barely whispers it, but Selina hears him. She smiles at him, happy that her friend found happiness. True happiness.

All she ever wanted for Bruce, was for him to find a way to be happy. Clearly, she wasn’t that. But you...You definitely were.

“I don't know what I would’ve done if she...”

“Hey, hey come on Bat. Don’t think about this. She’s fine. Just tired from the shock. She’ll recover, she’s strong. And you’ll be here, right ?”

“...Yes.”

He didn’t sound too convince, and Selina could feel a big urge to slap him across the face. Because she knew what he was thinking. And he’d better not do it.

“Bruce if you-”

“Thank you, Selina. I’m going to take her home, now. She needs the rest. And-And I do too.”

And on that note, he exited the warehouse, holding you tight in his arms. And oh. Oh Selina hoped to everything she held sacred (and that wasn’t a lot of things) that he wouldn’t be a stupid idiot.

The day she saved his heart.

He couldn’t stop thinking of that time you got hurt. Because of him. Because he was Bruce Wayne...What if anyone got wind that he was Batman ?

It’d be even worst. If someone like the Joker, or Penguin ever knew who he really was (and that was definitely a possibility), being with you would sign your death.

He had to-

“Oh god Bruce you are SO cliche.”

He slightly jumped in the air as Selina casually sat down beside him, looking down to the dark streets below. There was a slight fog, and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes at how even the weather decided to join in ont he stereotype.

“Excuse me ?”

“You’re a living cliche. What, brooding all alone on a rooftop, on a full moon night, wondering if you should ruin your life or not, sacrifice your own happiness for dumb reasons.”

“What ?”

“What, breaking up with her to protect her ? Really ? Do you even know how dumb that sounds ?”

“I didn’t-”

“Your thoughts are plain to see. I know you, Bruce. And I noticed your face, ever since she got hurt. And what you’re thinking? Leaving her for her own safety ? D-U-M-B. So dumb.”

“Did you not pay attention to the close call she just had ?!”

“I was there to save her. And if I wasn’t, you would’ve barged in and save her. Or better yet, when I arrived, she had made her way half way through her bounds by slowly cutting it on the edge of her chair ! She might’ve escaped on her own !”

“Or gotten killed.”

“But she’s alive.”

“No thanks to me.”

“So what, you renounce happiness because maybe one day she’ll be in danger ? This is Gotham, Bruce. She is always in danger. And if you leave her alone, like I know you’re thinking about, she will definitely be an easy target. It’s not because you break up with her that people will stop thinking you care about her. In fact, after she got attacked like that, and it was made public, I bet the opposite will happen. Criminals in Gotham are a lot of things, but dumb is unfortunately not one of them. They WILL come after you if you leave her to fend for herself. If you break up.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that. Come on Bruce. I was born here. You too. And her too. Hell, I saw her give a nasty right hook to more than one person, in the short time I’ve known her ! One of those being Mayor Hady himself, and that was BEFORE she started to date you, how fearless is she, huh ?”

“That’s the problem.”

“Her fearlessness ? Sounds to me like it to be taken advantage of. Train her. Teach her to fight, to defend herself. Give her the keys, to survive. Just like you gave yourself the keys to go on your “justice” mission.”

“I...I can’t.”

“Why ?”

“Because she...She shouldn’t live this kind of life.”

“A little late, no ? She knows who you really are already. And she stayed. Even then, shouldn’t this be her own choice ? Shouldn’t she decide on what she deserves ?”

“Selina-”

“Nu-hu. Don’t start with this. You tried to do the same with me, and I didn’t have the patience to stay. But I know she does. I know you can try to push her through the front door, she’ll climb through the window. She, unlike me or anyone else, will see right through your bullshit. Does, see right through your bullshit. And is willing to put up with it...You’ll never find someone else who does.”

“I know...”

“Then, what are you doing ?”

And with that, Selina rolled her eyes, grumbled something about him being a stubborn idiot, said : “think of her feelings for once, and not your own. Because you damn well know Bruce, that if you leave her, it will be out of selfishness, not because you think it’s truly the only way.”, and jumped from the building to the one next door, leaving Bruce with too many thoughts and dilemmas...

Even if in the end, the answer became obvious to him.

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

“As if I would ever let that happen anyway.”

“I’m sorry ?”

Years later, Bruce told you the story of how he almost broke up with you not long after you two moved in together, shortly before you adopted Dick.

“She was right you know ? I would’ve climbed through the window. See. If I knew for sure you were leaving me because you didn’t love me, then I would leave you alone of course. But I would’ve definitely called your bluff.”

“How can you be so sure ?”

He smiles fondly at you, bringing you into a warm embrace as you roll your eyes at him. Ah but of course, even him always knew you could see right through him, even when he tried to hide his emotions.

“Please, Bruce. You can’t fool me. You were never able to, and I don’t think you’ll ever learn to. Or I’ll just learn your new tricks, and crack you anyway. And believe me, if you had tried to leave me at that time...I wouldn’t’ve let that happen.”

He lays his forehead on yours, unable to say another word. Tonight, he was able to tell you this story that was now “silly”, but that almost tore his heart away from him.

Because if he had lose you to his own stupidness, he would’ve become just an empty shell. Back to those dark days of loneliness, and acting like a machine while his entire soul was hurting.

Sure. Now this story sounded silly. But oh, oh if he had gone through with it. If-

“I’ll have to thank Selina though. Because she avoided me going through the trouble of drilling into your thick skull that it’s ok to be happy. And be afraid for those you love. Especially in your situation...”

“I know.”

He holds you tighter. Just as every time he realizes how lucky he is to have another shot at this “family” thing. How lucky he is, that you’re here, with him.

And Selina was truly to thanks for that, in a way.

Because, you were almost sure you could’ve change his mind and not break up with you. But there was this slight possibility, this slight one you’d fail...

Maybe you would’n’t’ve been able to convince him to stay with you. Maybe. There was still a chance, right ? So you’re thankful. Your thankful for having such a good friend. For having Selina in your life.

You’re thankful that one day, a stupid mistake you made truly started this dear friendship.

The day she became a friend.

You had always been quite a “lone wolf” sort of person. So you didn’t have a lot of friends. Your childhood best friend, Alex, had moved across the country years ago. And making new friends as the wife of Bruce Wayne was hard.

This was a time BEFORE you met the others from the League. BEFORE any of them knew the Batman had a family.

Of course, before introducing you to them, he had to make sure things were safe. That they could be trusted (A/N : if you wanna see the day he does trust them, here’s the story I wrote about it haha : “You have kids ?? And…A WIFE ?”).

So, you didn’t have many friends. And sometimes...You wished you did.

Someone that wasn’t your Broosh. Or your kid. Or Alfred.

You told everything to Bruce, but sometimes...Well sometimes certain issues, you couldn’t talk to him about. Like for example the time he annoyed the hell out of you. Sure you’d tell it to his face, and you guys would fight, then work it out, and finally make up, and you didn’t want to bring back the issues you know ? You wouldn’t vent to him about him, eh ?

Bruce was definitely your best friend. But he was also the man you loved. And sometimes, it was nice to have an “outside” perspective.

Someone with whom you could gossip a little (although you did gossip plenty with your husband, when at charity balls and galas).

And then, slowly, you realized what you actually were feeling...

Selina.

You were missing her.

It had been a little while since the last time you saw her.

Ever since she saved your life, and knocked some sense in your Broosh, whenever you saw her, you’d have such a interesting and compelling conversations.

It was oh so pleasant, to gang up on Bruce and make fun of him. His pride was always hit, and he’d frown in such a delightful way.

At the same time, she knew him rather well, and you knew him rather well, and you three had a lot in common and it sometimes felt like you were a trio from a very cliched “chosen one” story.

Hermione, Ron, Harry.

Percy, Annabeth, Grover.

Any trio really. It even inspired some of your stories. Yet...Yet you wouldn’t call her quite a “friend”. Why that ?

You weren’t sure. It just was never made official, and in your anxiety riddled mind it meant that you weren’t friends, then.

Yet you missed her. And earlier in the day, you saw something that made you want to call her and talk to her about it !

Should you call her ? Send a text ? You had her number. She once wrote it on a napkin and slipped it in your pocket right in front of Bruce, just to mess with him. You kept it, and put it in your phone, not really knowing why.

Taking your phone, you started to draft a text (it had to be drafted before being send, it you were even going to send it...your anxiety made it so that even with texts, you had to make sure you didn’t sound stupid or such).

You didn’t really have any intention to send it. You were just toying with a few ideas when...

No. Oh no.

Oh fuck. No. No no no no no no.

Instead of hitting the “back” key to erase the text for good and move on from this weird move, you pressed “send”. Shit. Fuck. Motherfucker.

It was such a dumb text as well.

“Hey girlfriend, wanna hang out ?”

You were just trying out different ways of writing a text, and were entering “stupid silly mode”, which was the step right before you usually gave up and didn’t send something (you had MANY of those moments when starting to date Bruce...Moments during which you almost send some really sappy and silly texts, making the mistakes a few time to indeed press “send”...mortifying...why, why were you never learning from your mistakes ?!).

You were in your office, in the Wayne Inc building (you settled your writing office there, so it was more convenient to see your Bruce, but also to handle taking care of your son, Dick), downright panicking about this stupid text, when you heard a knock on your door.

How long had you been beating yourself down about this ? AN HOUR ?! Damn. Anxiety never let you keep track of time. You-

“Hey...girlfriend.”

Bollocks.

It was her. Selina. And you could hear her smug smile in her voice. You were facing your windows, not wanting to turn around, and it was getting a little awkward. Selina broke the silence :

“Listen, I thought you did want to hang out and was just making an inside joke by being overly girly, you know, imitating those models Bruce used to date ? But I realize maybe this was um, a mistake ?”

She sounds so unsure. You never heard her sound unsure before ! So you turn around, and here she is, a little shy.

Catwoman. A little shy ?

And all of a sudden, you realize she must’ve felt the same about you. Consider you a friend, but since you never talked about it never took it for granted, for something sure, settled in stone ?

And your text maybe confirmed you were, indeed, friends ?

And here it was.

From that day, and on.

The official beginning of your friendship.

Of course, you both saw the other as a friend since a while before, but it’s with this embarrassing text that it really changed everything.

Made it “official”.

Made it clear to the both of you.

It never occurred to you that Selina too, could sometimes have insecurities and be anxious. But that day, as she shyly responded to your call, hopeful it meant you were really friends...

Being her, it was also hard to make friend.

She had been friend with Bruce for a long time. The fact she was yours now too, filled her with joy. Because she really liked the both of you, in the most platonic way that ever existed.

Yes. Her and Bruce worked better as friends anyway.

Ah. But wasn’t this how the best friendship started ? With a push from fate, a little awkwardness, and a lot of laughter once the initial shock passed ?

Girls night out.

It happened a day during which you, Dinah and Lois were...not in a great mood.

Your husbands were aggravating, your children got into troubles and shenanigans, you had so much to do...it was a lot of stress, and it was all released at the same time.

You all left your house yelling that you “needed air”, and left behind rather stunned husbands and children. Ah but yes, everything wasn’t always perfect, even amongst loving families.

And your first reflex ? To call each others.

That’s it. That’s how girls night out started. The realization sometimes you needed to wind down with some friends. But quickly, you realized that the three of you talked mainly about your kids and husbands, and by extension, the “superhero work”. Which was fine, you needed to vent but...It wasn’t helping you relieve some tension.

And that’s when you got an idea.

Who better than Selina Kyle to make you NOT talk about your families ?

You joined in a bar every first Wednesday of the month, starting at happy hours for you, Dinah and Lois. Ranting about your families, and about annoying habits your husbands had etc etc...And then you were joined a bit later in the evening by Selina and Diana.

And that’s when the fun really began.

It became a ritual.

Girls night out (A/N : maybe I should write a story about that one day haha).

This was one such night, and you had let lose a little bit more than usual because...for the first night in nine months, you could drink a little bit of alcohol.

Alcohol had never been your thing, but a sweet cocktail there and there was nice. Now, while being pregnant with your youngest, Thomas, obviously you weren’t going to do that.

And you had missed a few “girls night out” because you were too damn pregnant.

But now, he was OUT, and you were TOO.

Well. Diana said something like that, as she kept giving you more and more cocktails.

Long story short, you were a little tipsy. And definitely not able to drive. And so here was your savior, Selina.

She didn’t really drink, knowing you would totally let loose. So she drove you home.

You were coming back a little later than usual, and you had forgotten to send a little text to Bruce to tell him so so he wouldn’t worry (Selina did it for you though, true friend had your back eh ? And she definitely didn’t want the Batman to come barge in on your girls night fun).

He opened the door as you walked up the stairs, saying bye to Selina. She had that smirk on her face, the one you knew she always had when about to tease your beloved husband. And as he slipped an arm around your waist, and turned to wave goodbye to her...She did just that :

“Careful Bat, I’m making good progress with her. If you’re not wary enough, I’ll steal her from you.”

On that note, Selina winks at the both of you, puts on her sunglasses (while it was night...Oh Selina), and drives away, smiling widely of that very Catwomanesque smug smile. Which makes you chuckle. She always made you laugh rather easily.

You turn to your bruce and...

Oh. That adorable “jealous frown” got you every time. Your smile shifts from amused to utterly affectionate, and you put your hands on his cheeks.

He was looking at Selina’s car fading into the distance, the arm he had around you tightening slightly (you were pretty sure he wasn’t even consciously doing it). Your hands on his cheeks didn’t seem to register in his mind.

So a further distraction was needed. You brush your lips against his cheek, as an attempt to drive his attention back to you and...it works.

You smile at him, and in your little hazy state you whisper in his ear :

“I love you, my Broosh.”

He can’t help but feel a surge of warm feelings towards you, and bring you in a tight hug. Partly because he can’t help it, partly because he’s trying to hide the slight blush growing on his face whenever you surprise him with “I love yous”, and that always made him snicker at him...Only you could fluster him so.

“I love you too.”

You tripped on air, as, once again, you were a little tipsy, and he catches you...Good, he needed an excuse to carry you bridal style anyway.

He always liked doing so, any excuse to have you near really. And as your face approach for a loving kiss you-

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

“Wait wait wait mooooom !! You don’t have to leave this gross part in !”

“What gross part ?”

“The sappy declaration of love, and the kiiiisses !!”

“Oh ? But don’t every story have to end with a kiss ? And a happy ever after ?”

“Nu-huh ! Also HEY ! None of your stories end like this, I know, I read them all !”

You chuckle slowly at your boy’s reaction, and kiss him on the forehead. Quite touched he read all your stories.

“Time for bed, little buddy.”

You say, slipping out of his quilt and tucking him in. You can see he pensively thinks about your little friendship story, and finally he says :

“I’ll try to be nicer to Miss Kyle. I never trusted her, because of her past with father. But maybe she deserves a chance ?”

“She does.”

“If you say so, then I believe it.”

It touches you, how much blind faith your son puts in you. You smile, giving him another kiss to his forehead, as he says :

“Thank you for telling me the story, mom. It was nice.”

Behind this “it was nice”, there isn’t just the story itself, but the knowledge that as you grow up...Your feelings change.

You change.

And you go through a lot of heartaches, before finally finding the right persons to surround yourself with.

Beyond the story itself, Damian related to how it took both you and Bruce a lot of trials and errors, before finding each others. How you loved before you met the other, but it never compared to how you love each others.

How you found good friends along the way, and how even when things sounded desperate and lonely...you made it through.

So he could certainly do so, too ? Even more so since now, he was a big brother.

Thomas was barely a few weeks old, but Damian had already taken his role very seriously. And you knew he was going to continue to grow, to love, to hurt too sometimes...and to evolve.

Just like you and Bruce did.

So. No. You didn’t hate Selina Kyle just because she and your husband used to be a thing. In fact...

In fact, Selina had become both of your best friend. Unfortunately for Bruce, she often took your side on everything, and LOVED to drive him crazy by openly flirting with you.

And she had been by your side through many good moments, and bad ones. The first to respond when your family needed it. The one you’d always be there for, and vice versa.

A best friend.

Quite an important find.

When you met Bruce, not only did you meet the love of your life, but also one of your best and most precious friend.

Conclusion : is it possible to be friend with your husband’s ex ? Absolutely.

Especially when that “ex” was someone as extraordinary as Selina Kyle, and when the love that linked you and your husband was so impossible to even graze.

__________________________________________________

And yet another bonus story that I had no intention to write but suddenly felt the need to haha. Don’t worry, the rest of the stories I announced are still coming ;). I guess there’s nothing bad in having little bonus ones in between hehe. I hope you liked this, again it’s just a little drabble.

As usual comments and reblogs are always greatly appreciated and motivating <3.

PS : I wrote this, like all drabbles, in like thirty minutes. Didn’t re-read. Sorry for any typos. Don’t hesitate to point any huge ones to me, Ill change it x_x.

2K notes · View notes

morganaspendragonss · 4 years ago

Note

if your looking for a bth prompt what about used in sacrificial ritual where tk gets abducted on a run and carlos is the lead detective on this case of people getting murdered as sacrifices and they arrive in time to save tk but the ritual involved cutting limbs off and tk ends up losing a leg? perhaps w lots of fluff at the end? <3<3

anon, i cannot tell you how excited this prompt got me. i’d been toying with a very similar idea for weeks and this was the push i needed to actually write it - with certain modifications to fit your idea. (i promise it has a happy ending!)

i’m super proud of how this came out, and i hope you like it as much as i do!

@911lonestarangstweek day 7: Free choice!

Two months ago, TK vanished, snatched while out on his evening run. Carlos will do anything to get him back, even if that includes running himself into the ground.

ao3 | 4.9k | cw: kidnapping, depictions of violence, death and injury, forced amputation, career-ending injuries

It’s been two months.

Two whole months since TK left for his evening run with nothing but a shouted goodbye and a promise to be home soon.

Two months since Carlos hadn’t even turned around, because apparently the dishes were more important than his husband.

Two months since they found TK’s shattered phone and wallet, abandoned in the park next to a pool of blood.

Two months since Carlos’s world came crashing down around him.

He blames himself - how could he not? He’s been the lead detective on this case for months; he’s the one who’s so far failed to catch the guys who have mutilated and killed so many people, and now might do the same to his husband. More to the point, he’s the one who is supposed to protect TK, and it’s clear he’s resoundly failed in that department.

His captain had tried to take him off the case, once they’d found out that TK had become the latest victim. But Carlos had informed him in no uncertain terms that he was going to keep looking for his husband, even if he had to go above his head to do it.

They’d allowed him to keep the case, but Carlos knows he’s being watched. They think he’s having a breakdown and, the thing is, Carlos isn’t entirely sure they’re wrong.

He hasn’t slept in their bed since the night it happened, when he got woken up at two am to the sound of his ringtone blaring through the room.

“Reyes,” Mitchell had said, tone heavy. “I… Shit, Reyes. You gotta get here. There’s another one and I… I really didn’t want to be telling you this over the phone, but…”

She’d paused, and Carlos had sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly all too aware of the empty space next to him. And, in that moment, he’d known; even so, he’d still choked out a quiet, “No.”

“I’m sorry, Carlos. I truly am.”

He’s been living in a daze ever since, work and TK the only two things on his mind. He eats when he has to, barely sleeps, and never hangs out with their friends anymore, which he almost feels guilty for. They’re suffering too, Carlos knows this, but he can’t afford any distractions right now. If he were to be out somewhere and ends up missing the one chance he has to get TK back, he’d never forgive himself.

He’s just about to leave for another shift when there’s a loud, insistent knock at the door. Carlos rolls his eyes and goes to yank it open, about to tell whoever it is to leave him alone.

Only to come face-to-face with a very determined looking Grace Ryder.

“Grace,” he sighs, irritation dissipating. “Can this wait? I’ve got a -”

“I know you don’t have an official shift today, Carlos,” she interrupts, folding her arms. “Just like I know you’re working yourself to death, and I’m not going to stand for it anymore. You’re coming out with me, no arguments.”

Carlos shakes his head. “Grace… I can’t.”

“Oh, yes, you can.” She clicks her tongue, levelling him with an unimpressed stare. "You should be thanking me; Judd was planning on bringing the entire crew down here to stage a full intervention. Now, I managed to talk him out of that one, convinced him the last thing you need right now is a house full of people, but I will not hesitate to go back on that. So you've got two options. Either you go back upstairs and get changed and I'll take you out for coffee, just the two of us, or I'm gonna unleash my husband and the full force of the 126 on you. Choice is yours, Reyes."

He sighs, wearily meeting her eyes. "I'm not getting out of this, am I?"

"No, sir, you are not."

Carlos closes his eyes and hangs his head, knowing just how stubborn Grace Ryder can be. “Alright,” he says, though his every nerve is screaming at him for it, “you win. Give me a minute.”

She smiles encouragingly at him. “I’ll be here.”

The coffee-shop Grace takes him to is mercifully empty, both of people and memories. He wonders if she did this on purpose, but figures it’s more a stroke of pure luck, his first in months. It’s a nice place; he’ll have to remember it for when - if - they get TK back.

Grace quickly returns with their drinks, placing a sandwich in front of Carlos, too. “Don’t even argue,” she warns. “I won’t hear it.”

Carlos forces a smile. “Thanks, Grace.”

They sit in silence for a while, Carlos keeping his gaze turned to the table, picking listlessly at the sandwich. He can feel Grace’s eyes on him, feel the tension in the air between them, and part of him wishes she’d just come out with it already.

The other part wants to run for the hills, but he’s pretty sure Grace would catch him before he got too far.

Eventually, she sighs, setting her mug down and leaning across the table. “Carlos, we miss you,” she says softly. “I know it’s tough, but you’ve barely spoken to any of us since it happened. We’re worried.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“No.” She shakes her head, voice still unbearably gentle. “You’ve been keeping yourself busy. There’s a difference. And that’s okay, up to a point, but you haven’t given yourself a break in two months and that is not okay. You know TK wouldn’t want you to be doing this.”

“You say that like he’s dead.”

Grace sucks in a sharp breath. “Sweetheart, you know that is not what I meant -”

“Maybe you’re right,” he cuts in, ignoring the pain in his chest as he finally looks up at Grace. “It’s been two months; you know as well as I do what survival rates are for missing persons, even in normal circumstances.” His breathing trembles and he squeezes his eyes shut, images of the bodies they’ve found so far flashing through his mind. His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks next. “You also know that the third month is usually when the bodies appear. We’re running out of time, Grace, and I don’t - I don’t know if I believe any more.”

“Carlos Strand-Reyes, I did not just hear you give up on that boy.”

He smiles humourlessly. “Not on him, Grace. On me.”

A long silence follows his words, though Carlos can feel the disappointment and worry rolling off Grace in waves. He should probably feel guilty for ruining a perfectly fine day, but he’s just so tired. He’ll do anything to have TK by his side again, but each day that passes is another day that TK slips further and further away from him, and it’s difficult to hold on to hope.

“I’m terrified,” Carlos admits quietly, tears pricking the back of his eyes. “Any day now they’re going to tell me they’ve found another body, and it’s going to be him, and I won’t be able to handle seeing him like that. You don’t know what they do to them, Grace, it’s - it’s -”

His breath hitches, and suddenly Grace is next to him, gathering him in her arms as he breaks down in sobs against her chest. She shushes him, running a gentle hand through his hair and, for a brief moment, she makes it easy to push away memories of sightless eyes and missing limbs and slit throats.

Grace holds him close, murmuring assurances Carlos doesn’t really hear, until he’s cried himself dry. Then, she pulls back, swiping her thumbs under his eyes, unshed tears shining in her own.

“You’ll get through this, Carlos,” she says, wobbly smile on her face. “No matter the outcome, we’ll all be here to help you get through this.”

Carlos nods, but, privately, he thinks she’s wrong. If TK dies, he’s not sure he’ll be able to find a way through that, no matter how many people are by his side. Because the only one he really, truly needs, won’t be there.

Carlos rubs his eyes, his vision blurring as he stares at crime scene photos, as he has been doing for the past however many hours. He must have gone through these thousands of times over the past eight months, and yet he’s still drawing a complete blank as to clues that could help them find the killers.

They’re always too careful, never leaving any DNA on scene, never caught on camera, never seen by witnesses. There’s not even much of a common denominator between the victims, aside from the fact that they’re all young - the oldest being 38 - and they were all alone when they were taken.

The only consistency in this entire thing is the bodies. Official cause of death is always a deep cut to the throat, accompanied by at least one limb being cut off when the victim was still alive, sometimes more. They never find the missing body parts, which bothers Carlos more than it probably should.

He rubs his eyes again, blinking hard to try and stay awake. He didn’t sleep well last night, which is nothing new, but the past two weeks have been exhausting. After Grace’s coffee outing, the 126 have been stopping by regularly, one or two at a time, to check up on him and make sure he’s doing okay. Carlos appreciates it, he does, but he doesn’t have the energy for it these days.

He’s so tired that he doesn’t notice Mitchell walking up to his desk before she’s standing right next to him, casting a shadow over his papers. Carlos looks up, and dread washes over him at the grim expression on her face, the tense set to her shoulders.

“We’ve got another one.”

Carlos makes a noise halfway between a choke and a sob. “A body?” he whispers, looking up at her fearfully.

“A disappearance,” Mitchell corrects, and Carlos doesn’t even feel guilty for the relief that floods him at that. “Industrial estate across town, one of the workers got nabbed when he went for a smoke. Same MO, no witnesses - it’s them.”

He nods, praying that Mitchell doesn’t notice the way his hands shake as he gathers up his papers. If she does, she doesn’t say anything, though he catches her exasperated head shake when he turns back to face her.

“Let’s go.”

The crime scene is, as always, pristine, and Carlos can’t help but be frustrated, even if this is what he’s come to expect. The case had been wearing on him even before TK was taken, but now it feels like every dead end is a spit in his face, like the universe is taunting him directly.

He’s about to wrap up the scene when a young officer comes barreling towards him.

“Detective!” he yells, panting. “Detective Reyes!”

Carlos stops, raising an eyebrow as the officer skids to a halt in front of him, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he gasps. Straightening, he clears his throat, pointing across the street. “There’s a hidden speed camera over there.”

Carlos blinks. Of all the ground-breaking news he imagined might warrant such dramatics, speed cameras weren’t one of them.

The officer heaves a long-suffering sigh, which, under any other circumstances, might be amusing. “We’re not sure yet, but, looking at the angle, we think it covers the place the guy got taken from,” he explains, and Carlos’s eyes widen. “If it does, we might be able to get some ID, maybe even a license plate. I know they’ve always been careful not to get caught on camera before, but they might not have known about this one. It’s a chance, Detective.”

Carlos breathes out shakily, mind reeling from the officer’s words. It’s a chance. An honest-to-god chance. “Have we pulled footage yet?”

“Doing that now.” The officer grins boyishly, and Carlos feels a small smile tugging at his own lips. He can’t let himself get too invested in this; there’s every chance that it’ll turn into yet another false lead. And yet.

Something like hope lights up Carlos’s chest, and he dares, just for a second, to believe in it.

It works.

It fucking works.

They don’t have an ID - the killers are at least smart enough to cover their faces - but they do have a plate, which they’ve managed to track to a warehouse on the outskirts of town. Carlos taps the steering wheel of his cruiser anxiously; they’re parked in some trees just out of sight of the building, and he itches with the desire to jump out and go.

Every second they wait here is one more second in which TK is still with them, suffering, dying. He chews on his lip, then turns to Mitchell.

“We clear on the plan?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I am. Are you?”

“What -”

“I know what this means for you, Reyes,” she interrupts, not unkindly. “I know what might be waiting for you in there. Now, if it were up to me, you would be benched. It’s too personal, and you’re way too close to it. But, since it’s not, you’ve gotta promise me that your head is screwed on tight, you hear me? We’ve got a good plan, and it’ll work, but it’s only good so long as we are all following it. So, you tell me. Are we clear on the plan?”

Carlos swallows thickly, glancing back in the direction of the warehouse. Mitchell is right - he is too close to it, and he’d be thinking the same thing if the situation were in reverse. He just… He can’t fathom being anywhere but here right now.

He can do this; he knows he can.

He has to, for TK.

“Yes,” he says firmly, meeting her eyes. “We’ve got this.”

She nods. “Alright, then.” Her gaze shifts past him and she jerks her chin up. “There’s the signal. Let’s move out.”

It’s almost too easy, in the end. The suspects are woefully unprepared for an ambush, and Carlos doesn’t even need to fire his gun, which is always a good thing. They find the guy who was taken today in the same room as his kidnappers, a little worse for wear, but not too injured, all things considered.

Carlos wants to be happy about that, but he can’t. Not when TK is still nowhere in sight.

Mitchell takes over managing the scene and questioning the hostage. He’ll have to remember to buy something for her in thanks when this is all over; she’s been a rock over the past three months, often covering for Carlos with their supervisors when things became too much.

He glances around at the swarms of police and paramedics filling the warehouse, feeling oddly detached from it all. He’s itching to go looking for TK, but there’s only so far he can push things - though he’s being no help here, he has to maintain an appearance if he wants to not get fired.

That appearance being, the calm and collected detective, which is the furthest thing from what Carlos is right now.

His hands tap restlessly at his thighs, his senses dialled to eleven with anxiety, which only spikes when he sees an officer making her way towards him, a grim look on her face.

Please, god, no.

Carlos moves to meet her, but he’s not able to form the words for the question he needs to ask. Fortunately, she takes pity on him.

“We’ve found your husband, Detective,” she informs him.

Carlos swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to tamp down the fear. “Is he...?”

“Alive,” she says, and Carlos could cry with relief. “But he’s in bad shape. I’ve been told not to let you back there.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded. “I appreciate the concern, but my husband has been missing for nearly three months,” he says tightly. “It would not be a wise idea to keep me from him any longer.”

She hesitates, biting her lip uncertainly, but eventually relents under Carlos’s hard stare. “Alright. Follow me.”

Carlos is led down several corridors until they stop outside a door, guarded by two other officers. The woman who brought him has a whispered argument with them, but Carlos pushes past her to glare at them, his patience at an end now that he knows that TK is mere feet away from him.

“I told her to bring me here,” he says. “That man in there is my husband; I’m going in there one way or another.”

The two officers exchange a glance, then wearily sigh and nod, stepping to the side. Carlos doesn’t bother to thank them before rushing inside, coming up short at the sight of three paramedics crouched around a body on the ground. He can’t really see much of TK yet, but he feels frozen in place, his mind suddenly rebelling at the thought of having to witness what three months of captivity have done to him.

He shakes his head and wills his feet forward, feeling like he’s walking through treacle as he rounds to TK’s side. Bile rises in his throat and he can’t stop the gasp that escapes him when he finally catches sight of his husband - it’s worse than anything Carlos had imagined, and he’d imagined a lot.

TK’s completely naked; the paramedics have lain a sheet over his lower half, but it does little to hide his emaciated state, his entire body outlined with sharp corners where his skin seems almost shrink-wrapped to his bones. Carlos can count every one of TK’s ribs, and the hollow of his cheeks is deeply pronounced. His torso is discoloured from bruising and he’s horribly still and pale - Carlos would think he were dead if not for the barely there rise and fall of his chest.

That’s not the worst of it, though. Carlos’s eyes travel down TK’s body, cataloguing his injuries, before sticking on his left leg.

Or, rather, the space where his left leg used to be.

Carlos barely refrains from throwing up, his stomach turning at the bloody mess in front of him. This isn’t… In the back of his mind - in his nightmares - he’d known that this was a possibility, but he’d never prepared himself for actually seeing it. He doesn’t know if he could have prepared himself, even if he’d tried.

“Detective.”

He’s broken from his horrified staring by one of the paramedics, now standing in front of him. Strange - Carlos hadn’t noticed him moving.

He sighs, obviously disapproving of Carlos’s presence here, but his expression holds nothing but sympathy. “Your husband is lucky we got here when we did,” he says. “But I can’t make any promises, and he is nowhere near out of the woods yet. To be perfectly honest with you, Detective, it’s a miracle he’s still breathing right now. He’s severely dehydrated and suffering from starvation - it looks like his kidnappers were giving him just barely enough food and water for him to survive. I’m also worried about infection in his leg, plus there might be injuries we can’t see yet. We’ve done everything we can for him here, but we have to get him to the hospital as soon as possible. I’m assuming you’re going to ride with us?”

Carlos immediately nods. There’s no way he’s going to remain here, even if he knows he won’t be able to stay with TK when they get to the hospital. He trusts Mitchell to handle things, and he wouldn’t be of much use anyway, even more so than before. Not after everything he’s seen, everything he’s heard.

The paramedics get TK loaded on a gurney and Carlos follows them out, eyes locked on TK’s still form. He brushes a hand through TK’s limp hair, forcing back the tears burning in his eyes.

“Hold on, my love,” he whispers. “I’m here; you’re safe now.”

He hopes, somehow, that TK hears him.

“Oh my god.”

Carlos looks up from the bed at the sound of Owen’s voice. His father-in-law has a hand over his mouth, shock written all over his face at the sight of TK - what little that can be seen underneath all the bandages and machines he has hooked up to him. Carlos had done his best to prepare Owen for what he’d face when he arrived, but it had been an impossible task. He’d barely been able to get the words out, for one, but there was no explaining just how bad things are.

Nothing will ever be the same. Not that Carlos had ever expected that it would, but when (if, he reminds himself) TK wakes up, it will be to a completely different life than the one he had walked out of all those months ago.

The physical injuries alone would be bad enough - and, god, he’ll have to do so much at home to make it safe for TK - but he’s more worried about how this will have affected him in other ways. Carlos can’t imagine the level of trauma his husband has suffered, and he just prays that they can find a way to get through it.

Owen’s face crumples as he makes his way across the room, collapsing heavily in the chair on the other side of the bed. He reaches out as though to touch TK, but snatches his hands back just as quickly, expression stricken. “Oh my god,” he repeats.

Carlos lets him be for a few moments, allowing Owen to process what he’s seeing at his own pace. He turns away so that he can have some semblance of privacy, though he can’t ignore the soft sobs he hears. It’s almost as though they’re mourning TK, even though they now have proof he’s alive, which is more than can be said for the last three months.

Eventually, Owen sniffs, and turns to address Carlos. “Have they… What did the doctors say?”

“Nothing concrete,” Carlos answers, focusing his gaze back on TK. “If he makes it through the next few days, then they think he’ll have a chance, but that’s a big if, Owen. There was so much damage. His organs weren’t functioning properly, he has a head wound from when he was first taken that never really healed right, and his leg… It had become infected where his kidnappers cut it; they had to take some more in surgery to stop it from spreading any further.”

He tears his eyes from TK to meet Owen’s gaze, almost wishing he hadn’t when he sees his own pain and grief reflected back at him. “It’s bad, Owen,” he chokes out. “I don’t know… I don’t know what I’ll do if…”

He shakes his head, the words sticking in his throat. Not that he really needs to say them; they’re both thinking the same thing.

“The doctors probably told you, but they’re restricting visitors to two until he’s more stable,” Carlos continues, eyes dropping back to the bed. “I know the team will want to see him, but do you think you can hold them off for a while? Just for a couple of days, until we know more. I don’t want to keep them from him, but I just…” He trails off, guilt welling up in him even though he knows this is what’s best. “I know it’s a selfish thing to ask, but I think it’s for the best, for everyone.”

“I understand,” Owen says gently. “I’ll let them know. And… I’ll do my best to prepare them, for when they do come and visit.”

Carlos nods his thanks and the two lapse into silence, broken only by the hiss of the ventilator and the beeping of the heart monitor. Proof that TK’s still with them, but each noise sends another bolt of pain through Carlos’s heart.

He squeezes his eyes shut, finally allowing the tears to fall down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Owen,” he sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

Owen gasps. “What for?”

“I was supposed to protect him! This was my case, I’m the reason he got taken, the reason he might not make it. He could still die, and it’s all my fault!”

Carlos drops his head into his hands, chest heaving from the force of his sobbing. Distantly, he hears the scrape of a chair on linoleum, then Owen’s hands are on his shoulders, turning him into an embrace. Carlos falls into him, not caring about the almost childlike way he clings to his father-in-law.

“You found him, Carlos,” Owen whispers, rubbing circles on Carlos’s back. “You found him. Any chance he has at making it through is because of you. That’s what matters now; it’s the only thing that matters.”

It’s several more weeks before Carlos’s prayers are finally answered.

TK was declared stable some time ago, the doctors saying that, barring any unexpected complications, they should expect him to wake up. They hadn’t said anything about what the damage might be once he did wake, but Carlos hadn’t wanted to ask; at this point, he can’t focus on more than one thing at a time, else he knows he’ll fall apart.

He’s practically lived at the hospital since they brought TK in. He’s pretty sure Owen, his parents, and the 126 came up with a rota for making sure he wasn’t starving himself, because it was always someone different who attempted to pull him away from TK’s room for food or sleep in an actual bed. Carlos resisted as much as he thought he could get away with, but he’s not stupid. He knows he needs to keep his strength up if he’s going to be of any use once TK wakes up.

It happens early one morning, when the sun is just beginning to filter through the blinds. Carlos is already awake, keeping a vigilant watch over his husband, though he doesn’t quite believe it when TK’s eyelid twitches.

He holds his breath, waiting, and, just when he’s given it up as a trick of exhaustion, it happens again, both of his eyes cracking open this time.

“TK?” he breathes, half-rising from his chair. He reaches out and grabs TK’s hand, which moves - actually moves - in his, and tears spring to his eyes.

It takes a few more minutes before something like awareness creeps into TK’s face, his eyes fully opening for the first time in weeks. Carlos just sobs at the sight, drawing TK’s attention to him, at which point his expression turns to shock and disbelief.

TK’s mouth moves, but he can’t force out any words, causing panic to flash over his face and his breathing picks up. Carlos leans forward, squeezing his hand and stroking his cheek.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says softly, reassuring him. “You’re okay, I promise, everything’s going to be okay. You’re in the hospital. I’m here, and you’re safe. God, TK, I swear I’m never going to let anything happen to you ever again, I swear it.”

TK shakes his head, still not understanding, so Carlos reaches to press the call button. He forces a smile for TK’s sake, though his mind is crowded with worries about what their next steps will be. It’s going to be a long time before they can even think about going home, he knows this, but everything is so uncertain now.

Carlos wants to believe that there can be some sort of normality in their future, but, right now, it seems like a distant dream.

Time passes.

He brings TK home.

It’s hard, so much harder than he thought, but they have a whole team of people willing to help out as much as they can. Paul and Grace often bring food, usually stopping to talk for a while afterwards. The others - most often Marjan and Judd - sometimes come by and take TK out in his wheelchair for a while, giving Carlos time and space to relax or tidy. Letting TK out of his sight was difficult at first, and he still gets anxious watching him disappear out the door, but he knows that the 126 would do anything to keep him safe.

He just has to trust them, which he does, implicitly so.

Owen’s also a frequent visitor to their house, staying overnight a time or two in the beginning. Carlos is grateful for it; he doesn’t know how he would have coped if not for Owen’s steady presence while they were still figuring out their new reality.

TK struggles a lot, even with simple things these days. The head wound caused brain damage, leading to migraines and he has problems with speech and carrying out tasks. It breaks Carlos’s heart to see him, but he forces himself to keep up a front, only letting the emotion out when he’s alone - or, rarely, with one of the 126.

He suspects TK knows anyway, but they don’t talk about it.

It’s a long few months of recovery, of pain and exhaustion and frustration. But it’s all worth it, because it means that TK is alive. It means that Carlos has him back, and they can work on getting better together.

It means that, one golden morning, Carlos wakes up to see TK’s beautiful green eyes already open, watching him intently. He reaches out to caress TK’s cheek, then leans in and presses a gentle kiss to his lips, lingering for a long moment.

And, when he pulls back, TK smiles.

And it feels like everything is going to be okay.

67 notes · View notes

anthropwashere · 4 years ago

Text

deadfic: Get Out, Get Gone

Yet more deadfic for @goodintentionswipfest! And also another giftfic I never finished, because that’s just who I am as a person! \o/

@ghostfiish did this truly excellent art of Danny’s transformation rings as a galaxy way back when that I promptly lost my whole entire shit over, and also took it as an opportunity to get some kind of manic with the writing style. That, combined with my sort-of accidental, sort-of intentional smashing yet more rad headcanons into it until the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. Still, I remain very fond of this one and what I was trying to do back in 2014, so here we are. 8.7k’s nothing to sneeze at, at least.

Oh, and! While we're at it, have an old Danny playlist I never got around to sharing that fits the mood this fic is going for. Title comes from To Kill a King's "Bloody Shirt (Bastille Remix)," which is unfortunately not included on the Spotify playlist.

There’s a weight to you now that wasn’t there before. You’d think with your powers—

(and doesn’t it feel strange to call them that, when you shake and shiver at the sight of your bones under your meat, when you walk down the stairs and your feet don’t touch anything at all)

—you’d weigh less, be less. A thing of smoke, and ectoplasm, and all that awful electricity arcing through your nerves. But that's not what happened.

You remember that day with a surreal nightmare quality, memories fuzzing and skittering like white noise in your skull. Pain and green light and being so, so certain that had been it. Zap! That’s all she wrote. But it wasn't, and here you are, hovering three inches off the grass and praying no one will see, that no one will know.

You aren’t less for all that’s changed, for all that’s changed in you. Tucker and Sam haven’t said anything about it, and it’s clear they don’t have a clue. Your first—

(disastrous, embarrassing)

—fight against the Lunch Lady knocked you right out. They had to carry you all the way home from school after you failed to stop her. It’s a wonder nobody stopped them, dragging your sorry carcass across town. If either of them had noticed, if either of them could have noticed, they would have told you. Or worse, they wouldn’t have managed to get you home at all.

You noticed it when you changed. Not the first time, in the shadowed, silver throat of the Portal—

(electricity cooking you from the inside out, the Portal writhing, burning, tearing itself into existence, a physical hole ripped so cleanly between realities even your parents don’t understand it and they built the damn framework, boiling ectoplasm splashing on you, over you, inside you, changing you forever)

—but after. Changing back and forth without any control, cringing behind dumpsters and hedges, tossing desperate prayers skyward that nobody had seen the light, that nobody had seen you change from kid to freak. So much of you changes when this strange, alien light stretches across you, not just your clothes and eyes and hair, no, you’re different now down to your cells, down to the very structure of your DNA. You know, you’ve checked. So much of you is different, it’s a wonder you didn’t figure it out sooner.

When you change, you’re heavier. Heavier. Not like ten pounds or something any normal kid might stress over. You become the kind of heavy that leaves brushstroke smears in asphalt, reduces sturdy brick walls to dusty rubble, punches craters through solid ground. It hurts when you fall, god does it hurt. But your bones never shatter. Your guts never liquefy. Your brain never dribbles out your ears. How? How can you possibly survive the beatings every new ghost is so eager to give you?

Ah, but there's never any time to think about it though, not really. No time for anything but a raw, thready panic and clumsily scrawled homework copied five minutes before the bell. Your chance to tell your parents came and went, and now there’s always another ghost attacking the city.

Mom and Dad are so happy now. You’ve never seen them happier than this, with the stuff of your grade school nightmares on the rampage. It’s proof they aren’t crazy, proof they haven’t wasted their whole lives on a pipe dream, proof that everybody who ever called them quacks were wrong. Good for them, you guess. Meanwhile you’re picking yourself out of the wreckage of another storefront, glass needled all down your spine, and you can’t help but marvel at the damage your body has done. Can do. Will do.

Because you’re stronger, you’re getting stronger every day. The weight in you that your Sam and Tucker don’t—

(can’t)

—notice grows more noticeable, and after a few fights you're quicker, too. And perhaps you're changing still, perhaps the accident isn't done with you yet, because one day there’s sickly green light at your fingertips, and in no time at all you can manipulate the energy buzzing inside you—

(the electricity and hot ectoplasm from the accident screaming through you, out from your palms and striking down the things that used to scare you as a little kid, back when door knobs and faucets were out of reach of your tiny fingers and there was so much dark in your big big house, and now your hands trail light like after images from staring at the sun too long, now you can patch your hurts up by the light of your own blood, now you're learning that you don’t need to be afraid of what hides in the dark anymore)

—in ways you never thought possible. Sure, lots of what you do is learned the hard way, mid-battle against sizzling green things with teeth like hunting knives, running on instinct and adrenaline and terror all tangled up in your throat. Lots more is later, when it’s quiet and safe again, practicing things you’ve seen other ghosts do again and again and again until you can mimic it, improve it, make it yours.

But no ghost you fight has the same heaviness as you do. No improbable weight that defies the logical mass of their ectoplasm. If it’s big, it’s heavy. If it’s small, it’s light. Unexpected logic from creatures that defy logic in every other way.

There’s a lesson you learn the hard way, testing the strength of these invaders against your bruised and splitting knuckles. You learn caution. You learn restraint. If you punch them hard enough, some ghosts, the little formless ones your parents have captured once or twice now, burst like water balloons—a hard pop of searing green, an overwhelming smell-taste of citrus and hot pennies. Too much of your supernatural strength pressed into the soft hide of a monster and the end result is a glowing puddle where someone used to be.

You learn this lesson quickly. You learn that even when you’re fighting for your life, you’ve got to hold back. You defend, you protect. Death scares you too much to risk killing—

(is it killing when it’s already dead, where does a ghost go when it dies, is there something more to the Ghost Zone than what you’ve glimpsed with your own eyes or is that it, is that all, have you erased someone from reality forever, these are the questions that make your stomach hurt, that make it hard to breathe, that make it hard to fake a smile when Jazz asks if something’s wrong)

—something so much like yourself. Even if it’s got teeth like hunting knives.

You think you’re an anomaly, a freak, the only one stupid enough to walk into a Ghost Portal and zap yourself full of juice that by rights should have killed you—

(and a little part of you wonders if that isn’t just what happened, if you’re just a dead thing walking around in your body, wearing it like a meatsuit and waiting for the rot to show, but it’s been a month, it’s been months, and you eat more and you sleep less, not because you don’t need it but because there’s never any time, and you’ve grown another inch and there’s new definition to your muscles, and that all must mean you’ll be okay, that you are okay, it has to)

—until Wisconsin. Until Vlad.

He’s in the same boat as you, plus twenty years of experience and enough self-made loneliness to turn him bitter and crazy and dangerous. He wants Dad dead and Mom his, like she’s some kind of carnival prize he can win if he throws his weight around enough. Swing the mallet, hit the bell, and congratulations! The woman you haven't spoken to in twenty years who has made her own life without you is now yours to take home! Ugh.

But god, he can hit hard. Lightning, real lightning, nothing like the weak little zaps of electricity inside you, rattles at his fingertips like a living thing, furious burning strikes of pain, and he knocks you aside like he’s bored. You have a thousand questions, but he won't give you a single answer unless you concede defeat or whatever he wants, so it looks like you’ll just have to beat the answers out of him instead. Who cares if he’s got twenty years on you? He’s not out most nights pummeling wayward ghosts back into the Ghost Zone. He’s not out most days saving people from ghosts with bloodthirsty, power-hungry vendettas. What you lack for in time and experience you make up in rooftop fistfights and stolen first-aid kits.

Sure you managed to outwit him—

(barely, hardly at all, he just wanted to save face in front of Mom, if he hadn’t cared about that, if he’d just tried overshadowing Mom instead it all could have turned out so differently, and doesn’t that thought make it hard to sleep the first few nights back home)

—but you can’t stop thinking of what it had been like to fight him, of what it was like to see another person do all that you can and so much more. You remember every second of each fight, like it’s been burned across your eyelids. You replay it all every time you blink for days, for weeks. It’s easy as thought to recall the light arcing around his waist as he’d transformed. Just like yours, and yet nothing like yours. The color, sure, that had been the obvious difference. When you change it’s a white light, sharp and searing enough to leave stars in your eyes if you look at it. His transformation—

(black like cave darkness, black like a power outage, black like the vastness between stars, sucking in light like a hungry thing, like it’d swallow you whole if it had had the chance)

—had been like a punch to the gut even before he’d buried his fist in your gut. You’d known without words, known in some primitive bit of brain that still looked up at the night sky and thought magic before science, you had known. You and Vlad were made out of the same mess, but maybe, just maybe, those twenty years were stacked against him.

Trouble is, the transformation is so quick you can’t make much out but the light/non-light of yours and his, and luckily—

(unluckily?)

—he’s all the way in Wisconsin so you don’t have many opportunities for a closer look at his. You ask Sam and Tucker to take pictures and videos, change back and forth so often you almost forget which side of you is which, but the quality is never good enough to see what you know is there—

(but can’t explain, not with words, even though you try for the benefit of your friends because they’re the ones there for you when everything else has gone topsy-turvy, but you’re just a kid who leaks green when dead people hit you too hard, just a kid with bad grades and a lot of questions to evade, and what you’re trying to pinpoint frame by frame is something so beyond your vocabulary you can only shrug, can only say you want to know more about your powers and hope this is one of those white lies nobody catches you in the act of)

—so you stop.

Do you give up? No, but there are more important things to focus on. It isn’t shelving your questions so much as putting them on the backburner. There are ghosts to deal with. Ghosts that want to hurt you, ghosts that want to hurt humans, more and more ghosts with strange and terrifying abilities pouring out from the Portal all the time. Closing the Portal doesn’t slow them any, which doesn’t make any sense to you. Then again, Dad was up to his elbows in most of the Portal’s guts and wiring, so applying logic to any inch of it is pretty pointless. You’ve learned not to ask too many questions about anything with a Fenton sticker slapped on it.

You’re busy now, busy all the time, bruised and burned and even stitched up all the time. Super strength is only so good when you’re fighting things with teeth like hunting knives. But it’s whatever, it’s no big deal, really. Because you’re keeping people safe. You’re learning more about the Ghost Zone and the things that inhabit it. You’re learning more about yourself; your powers, your weaknesses, how quick you can be with a snarky quip. Yeah, your parents are aiming guns and questions at you. Yeah, teachers with red pens and detention slips are hounding after you. And yeah, you’re fourteen years old bare-knuckle fighting monsters and no one ever says thanks because they think you’re just like every other ghost out there or maybe that you’re some human-loving freak—

(and when you think of your life like this, in lists of who wants answers and who wants to see you bleed, it sounds so bad, it sounds like you should be one inch away from a complete breakdown, but is it weird to say you’re happy, is it weird to say you couldn’t imagine your life any other way)

—yet you grin through a mouthful of red-and-green and keep going. Elated? Maybe, sometimes. Scared? Absolutely, sometimes. You’re just a kid with eyes that flare like headlights when somebody’s pissed you off.

It’s only right to be scared, sometimes.

Still, it’s the weight of you that keeps you grounded, keeps you human when you need to be. Sit in a chair, walk across a bridge, it all makes the same creak under you as it would for Sam and Tucker. But take one of Skulker’s shoulder rockets to the face, you leave a crater in Central Park so big they decide to just turn it into another duck pond. A permanent new addition to the park, and all your face gets is a nasty bruise Dash takes the credit for. You let him, because Lancer overhears. Dash is the one getting detention for once, and there’s a nasty satisfaction to be found there.

You and Jazz share a bathroom, and she’s got a scale she keeps in the towel cupboard. Curious, you take it out one day after school and try to weigh yourself. Last time you checked, you were somewhere near 120, puberty stretching you faster than your appetite can keep up. This time, the numbers whirl past 280 pounds before the scale makes a metallic groan and crumples like tissue paper under your sneakers. Sheer reflex launches you into the air, and you bounce off the ceiling with your knees hugged so tight to your chest you can hear tendons creak, your heart a thundering jackhammer in your chest. Thank god you’re home alone, because you hover there for who-knows how long, too scared the floor will crack under your illogical, impossible weight, too scared you’ll plummet straight down to the hard steel of the lab if you try to stand, too scared you might plummet even further.

When you finally do scrounge up the courage to touch down, an air bubble in the old linoleum crackles under your heel and you damn near jump out of your skin. After that, all you can do is laugh and laugh until your sides hurt. You throw Jazz’s scale out in a dumpster a block away and never tell her what happened to it.

What does this mean? Is the weight of you optional? If you think about it too hard, does it become real? What about when you’re fighting, causing all that property damage the city hates you for? You’re not thinking of the strangeness of your mass during a brawl, you’re thinking in terms of survivability. Punch this hard to win, get punched this hard to lose. What about when you’re thinking about it at school? Why don’t you break your desk, or the floor, or the stairs?

You don’t know. Your parents might be able to figure it out if you told them, but you don’t. Knowing about you, about what you really are—

(a freak, a monster, an accident, an anomaly bleeding out energy with every burst of green light you bury into the spiny hides of other monsters, who knows how long until your white rings burn black, if one day you’ll look in the mirror and be no different than Vlad, not because you didn’t try your hardest but because there was never any biological choice, what kind of choice can a species of two even make)

—would just scare them. It’s easier, keeping them in the dark, even if it means they’re trying to hunt you down and take you apart molecule by molecule any time you’ve got white hair.

But it’s not just flying and invisibility and energy you can summon with a thought—

(ray or bolt or fire, you don’t know what to call your power, you never really did pay attention when your parents got going even before you had to worry about all their blinking tech going nuts around you, but sometimes your green light is cool and wispy and other times it's hot and sizzling, sometimes you know which one will bloom between your fingers and sometimes it’s a surprise, sometimes it’s almost like your body knows what to do in a fight better than you, sometimes it’s easier to stop thinking and just let it happen, to just be the freak that you are, to burn white-hot and damn the consequences)

—you have to worry about. You’re stronger every day, stranger everyday too. You feel a little bit more at ease as a ghost as time goes on. It stops being a strain and starts being an ease, even a comfort, and some days you dread the thought of going to school because a ghost might not attack and you’ll be stuck as a human all day.

That kind of thinking should worry you, probably.

But so what? You could sneak into your parents’ lab in the middle of the night and try more tests, more experiments, but really, what would that do? You’re a freak, plain and simple. You and Vlad poked your noses in places you shouldn’t have and paid the price, and that’s that.

Eventually you get sick of worrying and just let it be. You’re a freak who can walk through walls, disappear, and fly. You’re the freak protecting a town full of people who pretty much hate you. Really, what can you do? The same old same old, that’s what. Try and get a little more sleep outside the classroom, maybe. As for the townsfolk? Well, you can’t always avoid the property damages, but you can at least save a few lives along the way.

People even start to say thank you, even if it’s from a distance, even if they think you're some crazed vigilante ghost, and doesn’t that make this whole superhero thing worth it?

But then of course something has to come along and ruin even that much, ruin this budding chance at gratitude, at finally feeling like a real life superhero. And it isn’t a ghost this time. It’s a human. You hadn't ever considered humans to be dangerous the way a ghost can be.

Freakshow happens, and all that hard work is undone in just a few short days. Days you can’t remember with any clarity, just blurs of color and noise, your hands full of stolen money and no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t let go, you couldn’t stop. Attacking the cops when they pursued, terrorizing any humans that got too close, puppeted by that grinning, painted maniac who treated you and the other ghosts like animals, like slaves—

(minions, he’d called you all, and he didn’t even bother to learn your name before he sunk his fingers into your brain, and you never did find out who any of those other ghosts were, what their names were or who they had been before that crystal ball had pulled them under, and they were gone before there was a chance to even ask)

—and tanked Invis-o-Bill’s reputation to a whole new low. Trashing nearly every car the Amity Park Police Department has and robbing the city blind at the behest of a psychotic ringmaster would have done that even if you’d been considered the hero you try so hard to be. Oh well. At least nobody was hurt in all that, unless you bothered counting Mr. Lancer getting left in the custodial closet for a weekend. You mostly don’t feel guilty about that. Mostly.

Sam says you ought to count yourself too, but you try not to think about any of what happened—

(all that time spent exhausted and hungry, he never let you rest, not once, because ghosts don’t need sleep, ghosts don’t get tired, ghosts don’t need friends, but it’s over, it’s all over now, you don’t have to hear yourself laugh as the little humans scream below, you’ll never have to watch Sam fall and wonder if your body will listen to you in time, you’re yourself again, you’re in control again, everything’s alright, you’re alright, you’re safe, you’re home, you’re yourself again)

—and try to pass yourself off as fine afterwards instead, just confused, just tired, just sorry for everything that’s happened.

For weeks after the police shoved Freakshow into the back of a car, your dreams are red. Not with blood, thank god for that. No, it’s like a filter. A stain. Strawberry candy red, saturated fire engine red, the color Sam said your eyes were when you were under his control. It doesn’t matter if you’re having nightmares—

(more common than you’d like, but you’ve never been one to shout after a bad dream and you don’t intend to start now)

—or regular old brain dump dreams. It doesn’t matter if you’re dreaming of broken bones and monsters or forgetting to study for a test; it’s all filtered through that darkroom shade of red.

What does it mean? You don’t know. You don’t bring it up to Sam or Tucker. They’d just worry, and they worry about you enough as it is. Besides, you’re fine. The Circus Gothica billboard is up for two weeks after Freakshow’s arrest, and it doesn’t do anything to you, not like before. You don’t lose time, you don’t say anything creepy. Your eyes stay blue or green, depending on whether or not there’s a ghost in need of wrangling nearby.

It’s just a weird, harmless after effect, that’s your best conclusion. Then you do your best to stop thinking about it. Who you were under Freakshow’s control wasn’t you. It wasn’t. You tell yourself that until you almost believe it. Eventually, you dreams return to their factory settings. Huzzah.

Meanwhile everywhere you go, people badmouth Invis-o-Bill like they’re getting paid to do it. They call him—

(you)

—thief and monster and dangerous, they call him—

(you)

—a menace and a bad influence on the children. A liar. Traitor. Conspiring with other ghosts to earn the trust of humans to terrorize Amity Park all the better. Kids at school spread awful stories about Invis-o-Bill, say he—

(you)

—was probably the ghost of a troubled teen who got in too deep with bad people and paid the price, and now he—

(you)

—spends his afterlife seeking revenge on humans and ghosts alike. They say a lot of bad things about you, for a while. You try not to pay much attention. You’re getting pretty good at that.

After Freakshow, there’s a lull. That doesn’t mean ghosts don’t stop attacking or causing havoc, it just means that, for a handful of weeks, it’s just the little ones. Hungry animals and disoriented blobs and the Box Ghost. Easy stuff. You actually have time to unwind, time to let the tension bleed from your bones, time to catch up on all your late homework and even squeak your grades up to passable. It’s nice. You’d almost call it relaxing.

Of course, the lulls never last. You know this, you’ve learned this, they made you understand this from your very first—

(disastrous, embarrassing)

—fight with the Lunch Lady. You have one fight with Sam the wrong ghost overhears, and everything that’s happened is wished away. You are wished away. For a couple of days, you never walked into your parents’ ghost portal. You were never torn apart and melted back together by heat and light and pain. You were never Phantom at all. Worse still, you have no memory of your erased past, not so much as the slightest disquiet to niggle in the back of your brain when Sam walks up to your locker and starts going on about imaginary monsters like they're real.

Sam Manson—

(a stranger, a total stranger, just a bottle-black pretty girl you stare at because you’re fourteen and desperate for a connection you’ve never had and don’t understand, she’s nobody else, she’s nothing else to you but a chance at your first kiss and later you will hate yourself for thinking of her like that, not as a girl because of course she is that, but as a prize you might earn, and who cared if she was crazy because she just might have kissed you for some unfathomable reason, and Sam is so much more than the sum of her body, Sam is worth so much more than that, Sam is worth so much)

—is the vehement Goth girl who's in half your classes and is [unfinished]

In those stumbling, halting days of dismissal followed by doubt followed by a desperate curiosity to believe that there might be more to life than growing up and settling for less, that movies haven’t lied and there really is something beyond the disappointment growing up has been for you so far. Sam’s purple mouth is a thin, grim line of—

(worry, guilt, fear, shame, envy, panic, uncertainty)

—complicated emotions you can’t parse as you zip up the jumpsuit your parents got you for your birthday. You’ve never worn it before, the fabric stiff and reluctant to bend at your joints. You don’t know how they’re comfortable wearing theirs all the time [unfinished]

Sometimes after a fight wears you out, leaves you bruised and smeared with shining green, you don’t fight the transformation. Not because you can’t, but because it feels good to have that fake pulse vanish, to hear real blood pounding in your ears. The weight of you shifts too, and even though you’re so much weaker when you’re human, it’s easier to sink your fingers into the dirt, to haul your meat out of the mess your ghost left behind, easier to duck out of sight before the news vans and curious bystanders get too close. Nobody ever sees you. Nobody ever puts your bruises and Band-Aids and the trashed Dunkin’ Donuts together. It helps that nobody’s ever heard of a half-ghost, that Vlad was cunning enough to hide his powers. Everybody’s heard of the Wisconsin Ghost, but Wisconsin is a big damn state and unlike you, Vlad and Plasmius hardly look like the same man.

Everybody at school just thinks you’re the football team’s personal punching bag, which is definitely true. Thing is, after spending a couple months fighting ghosts, a gut-punch from a junior is kind of a joke. You’re getting ganged up by a bunch of guys in letter jackets behind the auto shop and you have to mime pain to get them to leave you alone.

Is this real life? Yup, and it’s hilarious.

Time passes, as it does. You get stronger, faster, heavier. You hone your powers. You stop losing control, mostly. New ghosts terrorize the streets. Old ghosts do too, they’re just smarter about it. They all know who you are by now. Hell, a whole other plane of reality knows your name by this point, knows who Danny Fenton really is. Funny though, none of them ever spill the beans to any humans. What better way to take down the one person standing in their way of world domination or an army of hypnotized teens or whatever they’re trying to score than to oust his secret identity?

You don’t ask. Maybe they haven’t caught on that humans have no idea you’re trying to keep a secret. Maybe there’s some kind of code among ghosts; don’t spill a guy’s weakness, even if you hate his ectoplasm. Maybe especially if you hate his ectoplasm?

You’ve had a couple more run-ins with Vlad too. Each time he changes, transforms, you breath hitches, because you can almost see it. Whatever makes up the both of you, piecing the mystery together through the differences—

(light and dark and it’s cliché as anything, it’s so transparently Star Wars, but maybe there’s something to clichés, because you might be the one wearing mostly black but he’s the one with a sucking core, a void, something more horrific for its absence, like he used to be full of stark white light too but it’s all been burned up and whatever’s left is just playing through the motions, pretending at being something else, who knows what it means but you know that it scares the hell out of you)

—between you and him. He goes on and on about how you’re more like him every day, but he’s wrong. He’s so wrong. You’ll never be like him, and it isn’t just a matter of morals.

What you are, down to the complex disaster of your DNA, is different than what makes up Vlad, and you don’t need to slide a piece of him under a microscope to see that. You thought differently once, but now you know better. A glance is all you need. What you are and what he is, has become—

(powerful yes, but ugly and hating and cruel, the rings that flash at his waist are just shadows reflecting light, trying to hide a black mouth brimming with hungry teeth)

—well, you might as well be different species.

Vlad’s crazy and Vlad’s a jerk, but he is right about one thing. There’s so much about the Ghost Zone you don’t understand, and it’s this ignorance that just might get you—

(or somebody else, and isn’t that an old favorite in the nightmares)

—killed. You don’t know if it was fate or a simple coincidence that your parents were working on the Ecto-Skeleton when Pariah Dark woke up. You’re fourteen years old and you can shoot lasers out of your fingers; you don’t have the wherewithal for philosophical theology. You’re just glad they got it functioning in time to stop the King of All Ghosts from overrunning the city, even if the stupid thing nearly kills you.

You don’t fret much about the Ecto-Skeleton vanishing after you pass out. You do, however, remember Pariah’s nasty grin—

(having that much power, it’s a burden, isn’t it child)

—when you stumbled under the strain. You don’t know if he meant what the suit enabled you to do or if he meant the power in your own two hands. Either way, you remember those words, like they’re branded onto your brain, and you don’t have a choice but to hear it over and over every time you try to sleep. They rang in your head like bells in the days after you’d pushed him back into that sarcophagus, stuck in bed aching and weaker than you’ve ever felt in your life.

Because it is a burden. Everybody hates and fears you, but at the same time they happily expect you to protect them from hordes of skeletal ghosts. Sometimes you panic, so aware of how young you are, of how little comic books and video games have prepared you for a life like this, hiding bruises and spinning bold-face lies to everybody from your parents to the U.S. government. Teenagers are supposed to rebel, sure, but if you ever come clean you’d be thrown in a cell and they’d never, ever let you go. Not just because you’re a criminal—

(and you are, thanks to Freakshow and thanks to dozens of ghosts, and you’ve left an imprint of your tiny, impossibly heavy body all over the city, and you’ve done your best to protect everybody but you leave rubble and shrapnel wherever you go, ambulance sirens wail through the streets every day, and everybody’s just as scared as you are, just as fascinated as you are, and yet so many students and teachers have left Casper High, so many faces you used to see everyday in the hallways have vanished, so many business and restaurants and homes sit empty, gathering dust and graffiti, and it’s your fault, if you hadn’t walked into the Ghost Portal none of this would be happening, none of this would ever have happened at all, and you’re too much of a coward to show your face, to tell anyone but your best friends what kind of a monster you really are)

—but because you can phase through solid objects, you’re considered a monster with less rights than a dog.

Sometimes you wish Sam wasn’t a budding ghost-rights activist. You’d probably have an easier time studying if she didn’t rattle off all these statistics and news articles, stories of government agents in white suits quarantining whole city blocks to purge the ghosts inhabiting them, of ghost attacks stopping all at once in little towns after strange men with guns and knives and felonies like grave robbing and murder slunk through in the night. Ghosts are dangerous, there’s no questioning that. But so are bears. So are people. Just because something is dangerous doesn’t mean it should be destroyed.

Maybe that’s why the ghosts have never spilled your secret. You’ve never tried to kill them. You just want them to leave Amity Park alone. Who knows for sure though? You don’t have the guts to risk asking any of them.

Still, this whole mess is worth it. It is. You can fly, for god’s sake. If you’re careful you could juggle minivans, mimic all your favorite action movies and outdo even the craziest Hollywood stunts. What kid hasn’t dreamed of doing any of that? But you’re not being selfish. You’re not. It’s like Dad says; you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Progress is a disaster when you’re living it, when it isn’t past tense, when it isn’t all tidied up in a few short paragraphs in a high school history book. What’s happening now is worth it, for the future.

If you ever do tell Mom and Dad—

(you’re not afraid of what they’ll think, you’ve never worried about that, not really, they’re your parents before they’re scientists, and any experiment or test would be to ensure your safety and your health, because that’s what parents do, that’s what good people do, and they’re the best people you’ve ever known)

—you know they’d be able to break down your powers into reams of clinical data in no time. They’d figure out how you survived the accident, how your abilities generate and develop in power, maybe even pinpoint the how of your strange, mutable weight. They’d tell you what that light is, when you change, that light that reminds you so strongly of the stars. After all, just because they’re too oblivious to realize their son is the infamous Ghost Kid doesn’t mean they don’t know what they’re doing. They aren’t known as the leading scientists, engineers and weapon smiths in the paranatural fields for nothing. Mom’s practically got more letters after her name than there are in the alphabet, and while Dad may only have a fraction of that he thinks like nobody else out there. Most Fenton tech are his designs, wild and absurd and covered with stickers of his beaming face, and Mom’s the one who works out the bugs with fond exasperation.

Still, they have to get their knowledge from somewhere, and you’ve seen what they do down in the lab to the formless, red-eyed ghosts, the ones too weak to do much more than snarl wetly. Sometimes they snare something bigger and stronger, something fond of curling prickly tendrils around the nearest human and squeezing. More often than not it’s Dad that’s the unlucky one, always so eager to parse the secrets hidden in each fanged little beastie they’ve fished out of the Ghost Zone. He’s got nearly as many as bruises as you do, some weeks, but he’s never happier than when he’s holding a bag of frozen peas to his head.

After a good wrestle with something that wailed and whistled like a boiling kettle, Dad’ll limp up to the kitchen and settle heavily into a chair, grinning and running his mouth nonstop, talking about how much progress they’ve made today—

(wait ‘til the boys over at the GIW hear about that one, he’ll say with a bray of laughter, makes the piddly little Class Threes look darn near cuddly, didn’t it Mads, why Danny you should’ve seen the fangs on this fella, nearly bit through the exam table in one bite, y’oughta come down to the lab more often, Danny, seeing these spooks up close and personal’d be a great way to help you get over that silly fear of ‘em, and there you are, smiling meekly and holding up your hands and making up any excuse you can think of off the top of your head to keep you out of the lab when your parents have all their equipment up and humming, just in case, aw Dad I dunno, I’ve got this essay due, not today Dad I’ve got like six pages of algebra I haven’t even started yet, sorry Dad I’m sleeping over at Tucker’s tonight and his mom insisted I come early for dinner)

—and every time, Mom will smile indulgently, like she’s falling in love with Dad all over again. She’ll push him back into the seat and tell him to quit fidgeting so she can clean up the nasty cut behind his ear, and every time you smile behind your hand and think, how could Vlad ever hope to break your parents up? They only thing they might love more than each other would be you and Jazz and ghosts, and you’re all so much of their lives they can’t help but love you all completely. How they love each other and their kids and the ghosts they’ve studied all their lives, well, that’s like saying they love breathing. They love each other because without each other, they wouldn’t be themselves. It’s sappy as hell and like any kid you hate seeing your parents get all lovey-dovey, but you can’t help that secret smile as you walk out of the kitchen to give them a little privacy.

Seeing Mom and Dad so hard at work, so happy at work, is why you don’t tell them. They think you’re slacking off, they think you’re getting bullied, and they’re worried about you sure, but better they think their son’s lazy than a freak. If they knew what you did, what you could do, if they knew you were the one facing up against ghosts that made the ones they picked apart in their lab look like kittens, if they knew you’d heard all the awful things they want to do to Phantom once they finally nab him—

(you know they wouldn’t say it if they knew you and him were one and the same, you know you know you know, but sometimes you can’t help but be hurt anyway, to see all that fierce dedication focused on seeing whether or not Danny Phantom has bones, and if he does, how much pressure could they withstand before breaking)

—they wouldn’t know what to do or say or think. They’d be so eaten up with guilt, why hadn’t they known, why hadn’t they realized, what if they’d finally gotten a lucky shot in, what if one of all those cruel ghosts had gotten a luck shot in, what if what if what if—

(and you’ve pictured it a hundred times, it’s so easy to imagine the looks on their faces, the horror the shame the fear, and you know they’d love you all the same, you know this like you know the distance between the Sun and every planet, even little Pluto they just declared wasn’t a planet at all, but you’re young and selfish and definitely some kind of stupid because sometimes you can’t help but feel they’d shun you for the freak you are, turn you over to the GIW because they couldn’t bear to look on the thing their son’s become, and you know that couldn’t ever ever ever happen but still, it’s so easy to imagine)

—and you couldn’t do that to them. You won’t do that to them, no matter how many times Sam or Tucker try to convince you otherwise. How it is now, secrets and lies and detention slips and broken curfews, can’t last forever. You know that. But until then, it’ll have to do, and you’ll have to parse all your growing weirdness without all of Mom and Dad’s knowledge or experience, fingers crossed that their ticking and glowing machines won’t reveal your secret before you’re ready to do it yourself.

But you’re turning out stranger in ways you can’t even recognize, and for all that Sam and Tucker are by your side to help you as you change and burn brighter and hotter and faster and heavier, they don’t see it either. Jazz is the one who points it out, one day not long after the Spectra… thing, all out of the blue. She’s been noticing lots of things lately, and acting so strange, like she might have pieced it together. But she can’t have, of course not, you’re so careful, you are always so careful. Jazz is just clever, Jazz got all the brains and you got the leftovers. Everybody knows that. Even you know that.

She comes into the kitchen one morning with a curious little spin to her step, craning her head around and around like she’s running late for school and can’t find her keys, but it’s a Saturday. You’re there by the fridge, cobbling together something that might resemble an edible breakfast, moving slow because you’ve got a bruise all down your right side that makes it hurt to do more than breathe shallowly or raise your arm more than a couple inches. You sniff the milk and instantly regret this decision, and while you’re pouring the lumpy mess down the sink Jazz asks if the kitchen’s always been on the second floor.

You stare at her, too tired and baffled to give her the proper what the hell a question like that deserves, but she drags you over to the kitchen door and pushes it open, and since when has there been a door to the kitchen and oh my god the kitchen is on the second floor.

She gapes at you and you gape right back, and the rest of that morning is spent going over every inch of the house and seeing what else has changed compared to your shared memories.

Everything has, in some way or another. Doorknobs have shifted, cupboards have lowered, doors moved from one part of a room to another. Even chairs have changed their heights. There’s a whole new door neither of you can remember ever existing before connecting the upstairs bathroom directly to your room. Thinking back—

(staggering through your open window, mouth thick with the hot penny burn of ectoplasm and blood, your right hand pressed against the throb all down your side, and aren’t you grateful for your weight, your sturdiness, because before you finally peeled the faceguard off of Skulker’s exoskeleton and sucked that little jerk into a Thermos he got a good shot in with a rocket that hit you hard right in the ribs, and if you’d been normal there would have just been a dark wet hole where your torso used to be but lucky you, you’re every inch the creepy little freak Spectra called you, so you get to limp home and clean up as best you can on your own since it’s four in the morning and no way are you gonna wake Sam or Tucker up again, and you have to be quiet, you have to be so quiet, biting down pain, you can’t make a sound or Jazz might hear, grabbing the first-aid kid from your underwear drawer and slipping into the bathroom, and for once the hinges didn’t squeak, thank god, you think, thank god)

—you hadn’t even noticed last night or even this morning that a door had sprung up where there’d just been NASA and Nat Geo posters before. And your windows have moved, and your bed has moved, and you and Jazz just stare and stare. Why had neither of you noticed any of this until now? Why haven’t your parents? How long has this been going on?

What could cause something like this?

It takes half an hour to convince your mom that something’s off about the house, and even longer to get your dad to grasp what you both are trying to say. Their eyes just keep glazing over the differences, even something as huge as the kitchen being on the wrong floor. Once they finally do see though, it’s a whole other story. After the initial shock, they drop all their experiments and spend the next week measuring and scanning every inch of the house.

Their conclusion, a week and some change later? The Ghost Portal leaks.

Even with the huge steel door locked up tight, it seems there’s enough residual energy slipping through to warp, literally warp, the house. Somehow. The way your mom’s lips thin as she says all this means she’s not satisfied with this conclusion, but she puts on a wide smile when Jazz asks if you’re all in any danger. A smart question, one you think you might’ve asked yourself. Y’know, if you still needed to worry about something like exposure. Your dad just laughs big and loud and says not to worry about it, says if there were going to be any creepy side effects they would have manifested by now. Everything’s fine, they assure you both, but you look at the crease between your mom’s eyebrows and you wonder.

Later, when they’re out taking readings from the ectoplasm-damp wreck you and the Lunch Lady made of a McDonald’s and Jazz is studying at the library, you creep down to the lab and pull up all their documentation of the house. Most of it is dry as dirt; neatly typed spreadsheets and tidy, color-coded graphs (clearly your mom’s handiwork), but there’s also nearly a gigabyte’s worth of photos. Clicking through them, you can see Dad’s sloppy angles and the occasional square pinkie slipping into the frame. Most of the first hundred photos have been untouched, but the two hundreds have been filtered all to hell, like Mom and Dad went through the house a second time, trying to find something the human eye can’t see. Just shy of 300, the photos turn a dusty black and white, splattered in places with an all-too-familiar starkly glowing green.

No. Not splattered. A few spins of the scroll wheel zooms in on a crooked picture of the kitchen. There’s green all over everything; the fridge, the microwave, the drawers and cupboards, cluttered thickly at the kitchen table. These aren’t splatters. They’re handprints, slapped in layers and layers over themselves, like somebody dipped their hands in neon paint and went to town.

Every photo taken in that black and white filter shows the same thing. Handprints on doorknobs and railings, footprints on tile and carpet, green smeared and stamped everywhere, tracking the movements of something—

(somebody)

—for what must be as long as the Portal’s been active.

Why didn’t Mom and Dad say anything about this? Why haven’t you sensed it? There’s a ghost, an entity, some thing lurking around your house like it has every right to be there! Green gathered on the couch, on every table and sink, even the upstairs shower and your room and—

(the pictures of jazz’s room are nearly clean, the pictures of Mom and Dad’s room are spotless, but your room is practically bathed in green from floor to ceiling, your bed and desk nearly washed out by a poisonous haze, and no wonder Mom had looked so worried and no wonder Dad had laughed so loud, they know something’s wrong with you, they’ve always known you were messed up thanks to the accident but now here’s irrefutable proof, how can you lie your way out of photographic evidence, how can they look at you and not see you for the freak you are)

—oh.

You close the files, power down the computer, and walk quietly out of the lab. That’s… that’s all you can really do. Sooner or later your parents will knock gently on your door and ask you to come downstairs. Just a few tests, they’ll say. It’s for your own good, they’ll say. We’re worried about you, they’ll say.

But they’ll find out. They’ll find out what you are, and it’ll go one of two ways. They’ll either accept you as the freak you are, or hate you for the freak you are. Either way, there will be no more hiding. It’s… it’s almost a relief, to know the other shoe is finally going to drop.

Except it never does.

You wait, quietly, patiently, expectantly. They don’t treat you any different. They never say a word. When they call you down to the lab, it’s just to show off the latest in Fenton ghost hunting technology. Why? Why don’t they ask? Why don’t they administer tests, if not on you than on the house and the Portal? Why does nothing change?

They’re wrong on nearly every count, sure, but you’ve got hurts aplenty to hide. Sam and Tucker have seen the lightning splashed across your skin dozens of times by now, and when they hear the A-listers spreading this bad joke of a ghost story and see you laugh, they laugh too. There wasn’t much chance of hiding it for long from them, after all, when it’s so much easier to patch up the nastier cuts when you’re bleeding sluggish ectoplasm instead of blood pumped by a heart full of adrenaline.

The first time Sam had insisted on unzipping your suit to get a good look at the slash on one shoulder, Tucker cracking a half-hearted attempt at a dirty joke with hands shaking so bad the first aid kit rattled like a live thing, they’d both stopped cold. For ten long seconds, they just stared, pinning you down with matching expressions of horror. It was the longest ten seconds of your life. You’d been scared before, of being found out for the freak you are, of being overwhelmed by powerful ghosts, but this, you’re pretty sure, was the first time you were ever terrified.

But then Sam hugged you, and Tucker had smiled and squeezed your good shoulder, and that had been enough. There wasn’t anything to worry about after all.

They understand now why you gasp when your ghost sense goes off—

(shock like plunging feet first into a frozen lake, shock like drowning with a chest full of dead air, shock like electricity buzzing hot and cold and terrible through your nerves, leaving you breathless and tingling, your fists clenched so tight your knuckles burn white, teeth clenched and grinding as you dart for the nearest lonely corner to gather up your heaviness and summon the starlight in your heart)

—and they know why it took you so long to realize you don’t have a heartbeat when you’re a ghost. The first few times you changed, you’d felt it, felt it like a rush of blood flow to a sleeping limb, but it took weeks to put it together. To realize the stinging, cool pulse radiating from your hand to your chest wasn’t your heart but something else altogether. All that star-bright scar tissue pulses. Involuntary, but without any reaction to how much energy you exert. A constant, steady [unfinished]

Breathing is optional too, when you’re a ghost. You’d found that one out the hard way, choking on mud in that stupid duck pond and tangled in one of Skulker’s nets.

#danny phantom #my writing #deadfic #past me did present me dirty with all these FUCKING italics #you can take my 'danny's got serious anxiety' headcanon from my cold dead hands

66 notes · View notes

adiwriting · 4 years ago

Text

Sunday Mornings 4/?

Notes: While this is the 4th ficlet in this verse, it’s technically the first thing I wrote for this verse. I was working to fill a prompt “watching them sleep” and it got away from me like most things. So I’m excited to finally get to post this part. It’s my personal favorite so far, so I hope you all enjoy! <3

Now on AO3

Week 4:

The feeling of the sun warming his face slowly pulls Alex out of a blissful dream. Not quite ready to move his body yet, he turns his head to the nightstand and opens his eyes. It’s 5:55am. He’s tired, sure, but years in the military have taught him that attempting to go back to sleep now is futile. His body is wired to be up between 0500 and 0600 everyday, no matter how little sleep he got the night before.

He yawns and turns his head to look at the source of his exhaustion. He can’t help but smile at the sight of his boyfriend. Michael spent the night last night, as he has most nights since they got back together a month ago. In fact, the only reason Michael isn’t in his bed every night can really only boil down to a stupid comment Maria had made about them moving in together. Michael still feels enough guilt over their breakup to have insisted that they are most certainly not living together. Alex would be mad at him for the entire thing, but he can’t bring himself to be. One, he too still feels how awkward things are with Maria and he loves her enough to want to be sensitive, even if she hadn’t always been sensitive towards him. And two… Michael can say he’s not living here all he wants, but the evidence speaks for itself.

Michael’s black cowboy hat is hung on the hook on the door, where Alex used to hang his favorite Air Force hoodie. The same hoodie that now permanently rests on the back of the couch because Michael always wears it like a blanket when they watch movies together. There is an ever growing pile of change accumulating on the dresser from where Michael regularly empties his pockets when he comes in to change out of his jeans. Next to Alex’s bottles of lotions and various meds is a bottle of warming gel that Michael uses whenever his hand acts up. Hanging up in the closet are several of Michael’s clothes that Alex put there when he’d pulled his laundry out the other day and realized that half of the clothes were Michael’s rather than his own. Over by the full length mirror is a pile of the only 3 pairs of shoes that Michael owns.

No. Michael doesn't live here. His things have just been slowly taking over Alex’s space… And Alex loves it.

He bought this house last year and fell in love with its character, but it hadn’t really started to feel like home to him until the day there were two toothbrushes by the sink instead of one.

Alex stretches carefully and tries not to groan at the way his shoulders pop. His body is particularly achy today, which he equates to a combination of lack of sleep and the enthusiasm that they’d gone at it last night. He’s going to have to talk Michael into a massage later.

Once his body is decently stretched out — or at least as stretched out as it can be without waking Michael — Alex rolls over onto his side to watch his boyfriend properly.

Michael is always beautiful. It’s a fact. But the truth is, there’s something particularly entrancing about the way the morning sun hits Michael’s tanned skin. Alex allows himself to stare in a way he can’t get away with when Michael is awake. Not without Michael teasing him for it.

He starts with his hair. Frizzy and all over the place. A combination of Alex’s hands constantly threading through and pulling whenever they have sex and the fact that Michael moves when he sleeps. A lot. The sun makes his hair glow like a halo, which is all too fitting. He reaches out and gently pulls a curl away from Michael’s face so that he can focus his attention there next.

Alex watches the quick, constant movement of Michael’s eyes underneath his lids. He’s always thinking. Calculating. Planning. Inventing. When they were kids, Michael told him that his head was constant chaos that only music could quiet. Knowing what he knows about Michael’s past, he can see why Michael had chosen that word. But chaos doesn’t describe Michael’s brain. Not anymore. He’s just brilliant. He’s wicked smart and never stops thinking. Michael processes information at an inhuman rate, which Alex would equate to his alien DNA if he didn’t know that neither Max or Isobel share in his genius level intellect.

It’s not rare for Michael to wake up in the middle of the night having somehow solved some complicated problem in his sleep. It’s why Alex had started to keep a journal on Michael’s side of the bed, so that he won’t have to get up at 3am and tear the house apart looking for paper so he could write down whatever complex equation he’s just solved.

Alex runs his fingers across Michael’s forehead gently. He loves that brain. He firmly believes that Michael could solve the world’s biggest problems if he tried. And though Alex won’t risk the fight by bringing it up, he seriously hopes that Michael gets his degree one day so that the world can benefit from his genius. Roswell is too small for a brain like Michael’s.

Alex traces the line of his nose and bites back a giggle when Michael scrunches it up in response. He’s so adorable at times that Alex truly marvels that anyone can honestly believe his tough guy act. Michael is so soft and tender with Alex. Even when they weren’t together and every other word out of Michael’s mouth was a sarcastic dig meant to goad Alex into a fight, Alex had always been able to see the vulnerability in Michael’s eyes. It was part of what sent Alex running so often. He always had a genuine fear of breaking and in turn, getting broken.

His palm moves to cradle Michael’s cheek and Michael’s head leans into the touch, turning his head to kiss his palm. Even in sleep, Michael is constantly seeking him out. It’s moments like this that make Alex question how he ever felt insecure about Michael’s feelings. Maybe if he had just trusted in their love earlier…

“Stop. Sleep,” Michael grumbles, seemingly cutting off his anxiety spiral before it could even start.

“I’m not tired,” he teases, but Michael is silent, having already fallen back asleep.

Alex’s hand drifts down to Michael’s neck and he cringes when he notices a bruise to the right of his collarbone that wasn’t there yesterday. Alex has always been incredibly careful about hickeys. He’d had to be. And by the time he’d felt safe enough to risk it, he was at an age where it was no longer socially acceptable. Thankfully, this one should be mostly hidden once Michael puts on a shirt, so hopefully he won’t be too annoyed with Alex.

His hand travels down Michael’s chest. He stares at the dark hair, one of the most noticeable changes from when they were seventeen. Alex hasn’t been with a lot of men, but virtually all of the ones he’s been with manscape. Which is fine. It’s understandable. It’s not like anybody wants to worry about hair in their mouth when they are kissing their way down someone’s chest. But damn, there’s something about the dark hair on Michael’s tanned chest that always gets him going.

It’s unfair really, because it means that Alex is pretty much always turned on whenever Michael is shirtless. Which is all of the time. The man has some kind of personal problem with wearing shirts.

He drags his index finger through the darker patch of hair on his stomach and he feels Michael’s muscles tense under his touch. Before Alex’s hand can dip under the sheet currently protecting Michael’s modesty, the man grumbles something incoherent and rolls over onto his stomach, snuggling into Alex’s side.

Alex sinks back into the pillow, his one arm pinned under Michael’s head. He moves his free hand up to play with Michael’s hair. Michael hums in content, but doesn’t say anything more or do anything to signal that he’s truly awake. Alex closes his eyes and tries to relax. While he isn’t likely to fall back asleep, that doesn’t mean he isn’t content to lay here for hours while his boyfriend does. This is the kind of stuff Sunday mornings are made for.

Isn’t this what Maroon 5 was getting at? Cause, yeah. Alex never wants to leave.

He buries his nose in Michael’s hair and breathes in deep, taking in the smell of rain and dollar store shampoo that is uniquely Michael. It smells like love and safety. Like home.

God, twelve years of loving this man and Alex didn’t think it was possible for that love to continue to crow. Each day he’s proven wrong. See, he’s starting to learn that these small moments together… the quiet unassuming moments… They are a thousand times more powerful than the big, dramatic moments that rom coms are made of. Because right here? At this moment? All he can think about is the ending of the stupid Grinch movie when his heart grows three times in size.

That’s how Michael makes him feel. Like his heart is constantly growing, aching with joy but always wonderfully welcome. Waking up next to Michael in the morning is one of those painfully sweet moments that pull at his heart. And maybe it won’t always feel like this. He hopes it does. He doesn’t want to get used to this, because he doesn’t ever want to stop realizing how lucky they are that they managed to come together after twelve years of will they won't they. Alex hopes he appreciates the magic of waking up next to Michael because he never wants to grow complacent in this relationship.

“You’re being creepy again, and it’s too early,” Michael grumbles, not even bothering to open his eyes. Instead he throws his leg over Alex’s hip in an attempt to snuggle even closer.

Alex rolls his eyes at the argument they have most mornings. “Why is it creepy?”

“Because you’re studying me like you’re plotting the best ways to murder me in my sleep.”

Alex laughs at that, shaking Michael who reaches out to pinch him in his side and demands he stop so that he can rest.

“No murder today,” he promises, kissing the top of his head.

Michael’s hand moves up to rest at his heart and Alex reaches out to grab at his wrist to keep his hand in place. “I love you.”

Michael does open his eyes for that. Alex meets his gaze and the only way he can describe the way Michael is staring at him is fond.

“I love you, too,” Michael says, lifting his head just long enough to kiss Alex. “Go back to bed.”

“We’re already in bed,” Alex teases, earning him another groan.

“Go back to sleep. And get better dad jokes before we have a kid, please.”

Michael bringing up a kid is enough to stop any teasing that Alex would have likely continued with. Though his stupid boyfriend clearly doesn’t realize the gravity of what he’s just said, because he’s already fallen back asleep. Alex can tell he’s not just faking it either because he’s lightly snoring in that way that Alex really shouldn’t find adorable but does.

Dad. Him.

It’s an interesting thought. One he honestly hadn’t considered. The thought of bringing another Manes into this world is frankly terrifying. Alex would be satisfied if the family name died out with him and his brothers. But thinking of having a child with Michael? A little Guerin baby?

Yeah, that thought gives him plenty to think about for the next two hours while Michael sleeps.

Tagged: @callieramics

As always if anyone wants to be tagged, let me know!

#roswell nm #roswell new mexico #Malex fic #malex #fic: sunday mornings #alex manes #michael guerin #fluff #domestic bliss

84 notes · View notes

fieldsofplay · 4 years ago

Text

Favorite Albums of 2020

25. Dehd – Flower of Devotion

Rather than look back on the shit year that was 2020, lets keep our eye on the hope of the horizon. Speaking of which, Dehd herald much of what’s to come on this here list. While as previously mentioned a shit year for most everything besides presidential politics, 2020 proved to be a great year for good old fashioned guitar music. Could I be accused of curling up with my version of musical comfort food? Perhaps. But starting off with Dehd, we have a type of band that used to be everywhere and now seems to be almost nowhere. Jangly lo-fi guitars, perky drums, and straightforward unadorned singing. About five years ago you couldn’t throw a rock in Brooklyn without hitting a band like this, but now that that fad is long gone. I’m glad that Chicago’s Dehd are still carrying the torch.

24. Perfume Genius – Set My Heart on Fire Immediately

I’ve always liked Perfume Genius, but for whatever reason Set My Heart on Fire Immediately is the album that took him out of the realm of casual background musical encounter to something I sought out. Chamber pop has never really been my thing (except for those couple summers where Grizzly Bear was totally my jam), but here the torch songs catch fire by the compressed force of Michael Hadreas’ longing. This record also pulls off the impressive feat of each song gradually morphing just a bit from what proceeds it, so that the whole record sounds similar and yet each song carves out its own little generic niche, the whole thing united by the quivering power of that pleading voice.

23. 2nd Grade – Hit to Hit

If you ever found yourself wondering what Guided by Voices would sound like if they wanted to be Big Star instead of punk rock Kinks, we now have the answer, and it’s Phily’s 2nd Grade. In the noble tradition of Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes, Hit to Hit’s 24 tracks breeze by in a mere 41 minutes and 8 seconds. An earworm sunny melody, a quick guitar hook, a second verse (maybe), and poof, each song is gone before you could ever miss it. You would think variation would be difficult working within such tight musical corners, but while each song clearly shares common DNA, there is actually a lot of variance here, from weepy country ditties (“Bye Bye Texas”) to overdriven stompers (“Baby’s First Word”) though they all tend to orbit the same (big) star.

22. Tame Impala – The Slow Rush

I’ll be the first to admit that The Slow Rush isn’t my favorite Tame Impala record, not by a long shot. Having said that, this album still feels like it got short shrift this year (not that anyone can really complain about that in these here times). If we never knew that Lonerism or Innerspeaker or Currents existed, I wonder how much people would be head over heels for this album. “One More Year” “Is It True” and “Posthumous Forgiveness” are all top notch Impala jams. Seems like this album is the soundtrack for the chilled out summer hangs that we never got to have, and thus it’s fitting that it seems condemned for the ash-heap of history rather than the late-night come downs we never got up to.

21. Against All Logic – 2017 – 2019

Ah, speaking of complicated musical relationships, I can never seem to chart a clear course with Nicolas Jaar. The music he puts out under his own name never seems to do much for me, but I dug his collaboration with Dave Harrington as Darkside, and I really love most everything he’s put out as Against All Logic. While admittedly not a great year for house music—normally a liberating genre of communal interconnectivity, now a cruel reminder that we all live in Footloose—a banger remains a banger, and 2017-2019 is full to the brim with them. While I honestly can’t remember the last time I went dancing, I’ll still crank up “Fantasy” and bop around my living room, literally dancing by myself (lets be honest, something I would have done pandemic or no).

20. Fiona Apple – Fetch the Bolt Cutters

Fetch the Bolt Cutters has had a lot of great things said about it this year, so I don’t really have to add that much. What I will say is this is perhaps the most interesting percussion I’ve ever heard on a record. There is percussion all over the place, but almost none of it in the form of full-kit drumming. Fiona always used the left hand on the piano as the rhythmic center of her songs, but here there is drilling, tapping, rapping, patting. The phrase DIY gets tossed around all the time (and almost never applied to big money, big label Fiona) but to me the most impressive thing about this record is how it always sounds like she is sitting at a rickety upright piano in the corner of a living room, while everyone congregating around keeps the beat by tapping on pots and pans, the walls, whatever is at hand. I’ve truly never heard anything like it.

19. Advertisement – American Advertisement

Godbless Seattle’s Advertisement. So long as there is cheap beer, old shitty cars driving with the windows down, and the U-SofA, there’ll be bands like Advertisement. Straight out of the vein of Cheap Trick and the more recent White Reaper, Advertisement play power pop with the emphasis on the power. Sometimes this type of music gets called sleazy, but honestly I don’t get it. I think its probably because you can imagine it playing while Wooderson drives around Austin looking for redheads. While we rightfully cancelled the song of summer this year, “Upstream Boogie” would have gotten my vote, perfect for backyard bbqs and cannonballing into creeks.

18. Nation of Language – Introduction, Presence

I didn’t set it up this way, but if Advertisement has a diametric opposite, its probably Nation of Language. Where Advertisement is all frayed edges and foam, Nation of Language is as buttoned up as those terrible sports jackets people wore in the early ‘90s. While its not as good as my beloved Black Marble, those bands share enough DNA to make me a big fan of this synth pop gem. It’s not as dark as the cold-wave Black Marble, but it does share that bands fondness for stark baselines and crisp arpeggios. If you’ve ever envisioned your life as a scene from a John Hughes movie, Nation of Language could easily be playing in the background.

17. The Soft Pink Truth – Shall we Go on Sinning so that Grace May Increase?

Indulge me in a moment of naval gazing. Every year as I put these things together I reach a point where I’m lack “damn, this album is this low on the list?” And the point at which that thought enters my head is usually indicative of how good a year for music it was. Now 2020 wasn’t a good year for anything, and I probably spent the least time of any year listening to music, new, old, whatever. For the most part I just listened to the Grateful Dead and ambient albums. However, for my idiosyncratic tastes, 2020 was actually a pretty fucking incredible year for new music, as evinced by the fact that this album is all the way down at 17.

Earlier on in 2020 as I was bombarding my poor local music text thread with yet more of my inane musings, I think I declared this a top 3 album of the year. And I wasn’t lying! “Pretty” is often a dirty word in aesthetic appreciation, but this is certainly the “prettiest” album of the year in the best sense of the word. From the Drew Daniel half of Matmos comes Shall we Go on Sinning so that Grace May Increase? A record that is somehow simultaneously deep house and feather light, so much so that it needs its own dumb internet music writing moniker—shallow house? wide house? vacation house? (actually kinda like that last one). With vocals from Jana Hunter, Angel Deradoorian, and Colin Self (with whom I wasn’t previously familiar) this thing will simultaneously make you want to tap your foot and drift off into the clouds. This is album is like the prayer Madonna sang about all those years ago.

16. Kurt Vile – Speed, Sound, Lonely KV

It’s not at all surprising that if Kurt Vile decided he wanted to go country western he’d be really fucking good at it. First of all, he’s an exceptional acoustic guitar picker. Secondly, his voice, while always befitting his hazed out urban rockers, has just enough twang to it that in retrospect it always sounded a little bit country. This record also gives me room to offer up an homage to the late great John Prine, for whom the EP is essentially a tribute. Vile covers two Prine songs, dueting with the man himself on “How Lucky.” Saying goodbye is never easy, but on Speed, Sound, Lonely (both the album, and the song more or less by that name) Vile manages a fitting tribute to a lost legend.

15. Lomelda – Hannah

The reviews of Hannah really did Lomelda a disservice. Sure, they were glowing, but they made it sound like this was some weepy milquetoast singer songwriter affair, when it’s actually a knotty album full off elliptical piano and fuzzed out electric guitar. Its 14 tracks hurtle by, largely due to the fact that almost all of them are under 3 and a ½ minutes. Things really get going with the second track, “Hannah Sun” with is squiggly synth effects and driving acoustic strums carrying on Hannah Read’s musings. It’s an album of relentless forward musical movement even if the vibe feels like it’s always looking back over its shoulder. Basically this album is what emo would sound like if it wasn’t made by the worst people in the universe.

14. Shabaka and the Ancestors – We are Sent here by History

Jazz! Another great year for jazz (Asher Gamedze’s Dialectic Soul and Keefe Jackson, Jim Baker, & Julian Kirshner’s So Glossy and So Thin are with a strong group that just missed the cut). In the midst of an excellent jazz renaissance (you gotta use super annoying words like “renaissance” when talking about jazz) Shebaka Hutchins remains my absolute fave of the bunch, and We are Sent here by History is probably my favorite thing he has put out so far.

13. Waxahatchee – Saint Cloud

While I really liked Waxahatchee’s low-fi emoish debut—American Weekend—I’ll readily admit I wasn’t much about the popier albums that followed, frequently jesting, honestly, that Allison was my preferred musical Crutchfield sister. All that changed for me with Saint Cloud. I’ve certainly drifted far off into country and Americana as I’ve aged, and it appears the same came be said for Katie Crutchfield. These songs have a giddyup to them but they never break out into a gallop, allowing the strength of the melodies to carry them along across the plains, with just the right hint of twilight. Saint Cloud is the sound of Patsy Cline if she played to roadside inns rather than the Grand Ol’ Opry.

12. Neil Young – Homegrown

This was the hardest album to place on the list this year. For starters, should it even count? Clearly I say yes. While some of these songs have been available for over 30 years, as an album, Homegrown was a “new” release here in 2020, even though it was originally slated to come out in ’75 between On the Beach (my personal fave Neil record) and Zuma. As a pure piece of music, is it better than most, if not all, of the records that follow? Of course yes. But what does a new Neil Young record mean in 2020? As a thought experiment its fascinating. Do we value this album within the musical context of 2020 or 1975? Fortunately, it’s an even more enjoyable listen than it is a thought experiment. From the first strums of “Separate Ways” you’re like “oh shit, this is the vintage stuff.” Gentle amber acoustic numbers (“Try”) share space with electric stompers (“Vacancy”). The best thing you can say about Homegrown is that if Neil had originally decided to release this instead of Tonight’s The Night, it would have fit right in amongst his unimpeachable run from Everybody Knows This is Nowhere up through Zuma. A classic is still a classic, no matter what year it finally sees the light of day.

11. Destroyer – Have we Met

Ah Dan Bejar, boy was I wrong about you. I kinda got into Destroyer’s Rubies, I loved his contributions to Swan Lake and The New Pornographers, but yet when Chinatown started really making waves, I just couldn’t do it. It was soft rock! I hate soft rock! I hate everything about it! This preconceived notion wasn’t helped by the fact that I saw him open for the War on Drugs in Pontiac once and he was so drunk he could barely stand up and had to read his own lyrics from a sheet. And yet, for some reason I never really gave up on it. I can’t tell you why exactly, but two summers ago Chinatown just slowly became my go-to for early morning / late afternoon strolls. I found comfort in giving myself over to its pillowy soft embrace / cheating on my own aesthetic judgments. Now that I’m card-carrying Bejarhead, I greeted Have we Met with open arms, and I was not disappointed. The synths glimmer, the guitars add just enough punch, and his lyrics remain sharp as ever. Its fitting that this was the last concert I saw before the iron curtain fell. The one thing I had always turned my back on ended up being the last memory of dionysian group enthrallment I had to carry with me out into the desert of social isolation. Come back soon Destroyer, come back soon, everyone.

10. Deeper – Auto-Pain

Ladies and gentlemen, get ready, because post punk is back! I always say my favorite genre is ‘sad songs you can dance to’ but post punk is a close second. When I was in college post punk underwent a bit of a renaissance in the form of Interpol (back when they were still good), Bloc Party (ditto), Franz Ferdinand, and a whole slew of British one hit wonders (Maximo Park, Futureheads, Art Brut, the Bravery). Fortunately, as is always the case, what’s old is new again, and stark melodic bass lines, angular guitars, and moody introspective speak-singing are back in full force. Of the three post punk bands gracing this here top ten (Deeper, Fontaines DC, and Crack Cloud) each has its own little slice of the generic pie. Fontaines have the deep gloom of Interpol/Joy Division, Crack Cloud ripple with the staccato energy of Gang of Four, and Deeper have the wiry dancieness of, well, Wire. So long as leather jackets and black and white photography remain cool, there’ll always be bands like this, and thank god for that. In a true sign o’ the times, I learned about this band from some random girl’s Tik Tok in my for-you feed. She repped five bands, two of which are in my top three, so I was like, sure I’ll give this band Deeper a go. God bless the internet. Finally, Deeper get bonus points for naming a song “This Heat,” who I’ve been spending a lot of time revisiting this year, and whose spikey guitars are all over this record.

9. The Flaming Lips – American Head

There are few things as satisfying in art as being genuinely surprised by a beloved artist you had given up as culturally dead. Since putting out their last masterpiece (2009’s Embryonic) the Lips have put out a string of good, if inconsequential, albums that befitting the ethos of the band could best be described as half baked (The Terror, Oczy Moldy, and a series of collaborative experiments). Basically, they had reached that dreaded nadir where I was no longer interested in listening to their new output (cough The National, cough cough Arcade Fire). So what made me give American Head a chance? That reader, is the point of art criticism! I can’t remember how the blurb on pitchfork read exactly, but I knew it referenced Tom Petty and a return to a preoccupation with more Earthly concerns—namely ‘70s heartland rock. Well, this sounded intriguing, and boy was I not disappointed. Sure, the Flaming Lips have already reached their sell-by date twice over (first in 1992, immediately followed by their MTV reinvention on 1993’s Transmissions from the Satellite Heart; and then again in the late ‘90s with the departure of guitarist Ronald Jones, followed by their creative pinnacle, ‘99’s symphonic masterpiece The Soft Bulletin), so it shouldn’t be all that surprising that this band could rise from the dead a third time. Only, for the most part, they didn’t. I guess I’m not surprised that American Head failed to reach a broader audience. Most people probably aren’t even aware that they are still a going concern, and after the failures of the last decade it makes sense that most weren’t interested in more tunes from the Oklahoma freaknicks. But for those willing to give the band another chance, American Head easily delivers their best album since Embryonic, if not all the way back to Yoshimi. Mixing ‘70s Americana with the star gazing of Soft Bulletin’s “Sleeping on the Roof,” the Lips deliver their best album in decades by foregoing the parlor tricks and returning to what they do best, taking trips to distant galaxies while keeping their feet firmly planted in the soil and songcraft of Oklahoma.

8. Cut Worms – Nobody Lives Here Anymore

This one is pretty easy. Do you like George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass? If yes, listen to Nobody Lives Here Anymore and revel in this double album’s upbeat acoustic rock mediations. If no, well there’s plenty of other good stuff out there. Not quite as metaphysical or orchestral as All Things Must Pass, Nobody Lives Here Anymore still manages to hit that rockabiliy-pop sweet spot that Harrison used to mine. I’m not quite sure what the definition of “troubadour” is, but it feels safe to call Cut Worms a troubadour, which is certainly better than his terrible stage name.

7. Cigarettes for Breakfast – Aphantasia

Similar to Cut Worms, Cigarettes for Breakfast also involves a simple influence equation. Do you pray at the altar of Loveless? If so, Aphantasia is just the record for you. Sure, it’s a bit of My Bloody Valentine paint by numbers (“Breathe” even features the same squally guitar noise [it’s really hard to try and describe My Bloody Valentine effects ha] as “Soft as Snow (But Warm Inside)”) but when you’re as into shoegaze as I am, that’s never really a bad thing. Plus, I’m being a bit unfair. Everyone with textured tremolo heavy wall-of-sound guitars and cooed vocals is going to inevitably be compared to MBV, and Cigarettes for Breakfast do enough to chart their own course. Perhaps most interesting is the musical journey this record charts. Its loudest moment is its opening, where pummeling guitars more reminiscent of Sonic Youth with a touch of Dinosaur Jr. rip across hardcore style drumming. From there each song becomes a little more ambient, until closer “If Someone Could Help Me, Please” more or less floats away on its shimmering sheets of beautiful noise clouds. In this sense, it bears a resemblance in structure, if not in sound, to Deerhunter’s Cryptograms, another album I spent a lot of time revisiting this year. A shutout here is owed to the fine folks at Radio K, who had me diving for my shazam as this thing ripped across their airwaves. So long as there is college radio, there’ll be a new crop of kids discovering via Kevin Shields that the electric guitar contains endless sonic possibilities.

6. Fontaines D.C. – A Hero’s Death

The second entry in our top-ten post punk trio is A Hero’s Death by Fontaines D.C. I’ll admit, on first blush it’s kind of a dumb band name (I just assumed they were some hardcore band from Washington DC chasing those Dischord Records glory days), but when you learn that the “DC” stands for Dublin City, it all clicks, as this band is sorta inescapably Irish in the way that James Joyce is. Now this fact at first was also off-putting—if I went the rest of my life without ever hearing the Dropkick Murphy’s again I’d be quite content—but eventually it becomes integral to their sound, and not just because of the brogue in Garin Chatten’s vocals. “Love is the Main Thing” is an incredible song in many ways, most notably because of the hypnotic quality of the drumming with its counterpoint between riding cymbal and staccato toms, but perhaps in the main (*wink*) for the way it manages to connote the weariness of a grey urban environment without ever being explicitly about it. Just as Turn on the Bright Lights managed to perfectly capture New York in 2001, A Hero’s Death to me is the aural equivalent of a dense urban center like Dublin, especially after nightfall.

5. Imaginary Softwoods – Annual Flowers in Color

It should come as no surprise that I listened to A LOT of ambient this year, and to me there was no better electronic record to chill the fuck out to during this insane year than Annual Flowers in Color. I absolutely loved Emeralds’ Does it Look Like I’m Here? and was devastated they never followed that gem (*wink*) up. In the immediate aftermath of the demise of Emeralds Mark McGuire’s solo albums got a lot of attention, but apparently the person I really loved in Emeralds was Imaginary Softwoods’ John Elliot. Annual Flowers in Color is like if Dead City’s, Red Seas, Lost Ghosts were waiting in the departure’s lounge of Eno’s airport. At the heart of the album lies the 10 plus minutes of “Another First/Sea Machine.” I could listen to this song forever, and on some particularly WTF 2020 lakewalks I more or less have. Chunky synths, arpeggios that drift off to infinity, ‘80s soundtrack nostalgia. I could live in these Softwoods for the rest of my sonic days.

4. Pottery – Welcome to Bobby’s Motel

In another moment of nostalgia for my college years, Pottery are a welcome return to weird ass experimental Canadian bands. They don’t sound anything like the Unicorns, but in spirit Pottery kind of remind me of them. I’ve spilled a lot of digital ink here and elsewhere bemoaning the fact that Pitchfork (or perhaps, me) isn’t cool anymore, and to me no band embodies this more than Pottery. They take a bunch of fun disparate elements—Talking Heads dance art rock, periodic weird pitch shifted vocal effects, hazy deep purple style guitars, and Queen style machismo disco—throw them into a witch’s cauldron, and come up with something off the wall that sounds like nothing else but is also instantly familiar. This is the type of thing Pitchfork would have been all over in 2007, but instead now they’re too busy chasing conde nast clout clicks. Oh well, nothing gold can last. But enough negativity, this here is a celebration of the joy of new music, and no new band embodies that unbridled joy like Pottery. Along with Fontaines DC, this is the band I wish I most could have bopped around to with a bunch of sweaty strangers in the 7th St. Entry or Turf Club. You can just imagine the call and response vocals and funky grooves getting the people moving. Oh well, hopefully we’ll soon all be rocking the vaccine, they can breeze through town, and I’ll be the first person on the dance floor embarrassingly pumping my fist a half beat behind the rhythm.

3. Pure X – Pure X

To paraphrase Same Elliott in the Big Lebowski, sometimes there’s a band, and well, sometimes there’s a band. For me this year, that band was Pure X. I absolutely loved their debut Pleasure way back in 2011, when lo-fi reverb heavy slow guitar music (ie, Galaxie 500) was all the rage. Their follow up Crawling up the Stairs was so bad I didn’t even bother listening to Angel, though perhaps that also owed a decent amount to just how terrible the art on that record is. (I’ve since remedied this mistake; turns out that record rules). Being that as it may, I can’t particularly tell you what drew me in to this year’s self-titled album, a full nine years after Pleasure first graced the stage. In one sense it’s probably because Pleasure is one those albums that just never went out of my rotation. Whenever the fahrenheit tips past 90 and the walk to the bodega is a few blocks longer than you’d like, that record always hits the spot. Maybe I just knew this was the record I needed this year. Either way, from the first bars of “Middle America” I was hooked. The guitars crash over you, but never in a threatening way. Rather, they envelop you like a weighted blanket, comforting you in their sonic embrace. Nowhere is this more true than on “Fantasy,” easily my favorite song of 2020 (especially since this was a year entirely devoid of dance floor bangers). If this album came out in 1999 rather than 2020 I would have hit the repeat button on my discman and listened to this song forever.

2. Crack Cloud – Pain Olympics

Pain Olympics is the answer to the question that no one asked: what if Arcade Fire’s (back when they were good) communal uplift was paired with Gang of Four’s stark anthem’s of industrialism’s collapse? While on first blush this might sound like your standard album of punkish fist pumping angst, from when the female vocals (sorry there are too many people in this band for me to be able to figure out whose who) come in on opener “Post Truth (Birth of a Nation)” Pain Olympics reveals itself to be a very strange animal (likely a unicorn of some sort), especially as little orchestral swirls creep into the mix, giving it an almost Judy Garland (in hell) quality. This subtle genre pastiche is given its best effect on stunner “The Next Fix.” That song starts out as an elastic spoken-word call and response addiction rumination, at the minute mark it starts to segue into a vocoded chill raver, then some horns crop up out of nowhere, then a spoken word passage, then at the two minute mark a chorus of voices come in, doing their best Broken Social Scene in the truest sense of the phrase. This is perhaps one of the strangest records I’ve ever heard, but what is strangest of all is just how beautiful it is. Crack Cloud are not for everyone, but if you really give it a chance, the returns are limitless.

1. SAULT – Untitled (Rise) / Untitled (Black Is)

You cannot tell the story of 2020 without SAULT, which is why this pair of records is here at the top, even if under the influence of sodium pentothal (lets be honest, veritaserum) I might lean more towards Pain Olympics. In June, the “anonymous” London project put out Untitled (Black Is), and then quickly followed that gem up with September’s Untitled (Rise). Perhaps more amazing still is that these two albums, released so close together, have unique personalities. Black Is is more pop/R&B whereas Rise has a dancy, electr(on)ic feel. I lean more towards the latter, but honestly, both albums are so overstuffed with amazing moments that it’s borderline unbelievable that one outfit could put out so much amazing music in such a short span. While these records would chart high even if sung in Hopelandic, there’s no escaping the social import of the lyrics. One need look no further than Black Is’s “Don’t Shoot Guns Down” for the 2020 dance party at the end of the world. As if that weren’t more than enough, it finds its analogue on Rise’s “Street Fighter,” and that’s SAULT in a nutshell: two albums in constant communication with one another, and more importantly, with the state of the world. Guns down. Don’t Shoot. Let’s dance.

13 notes · View notes

lovelahela · 5 years ago

Text

❛ 'til death do us part ❜ ─ bloodbound.

⇢ pairing: jax matsuo x dark!mc (maia)

⇢ genre: angst, death

⇢ song: everybody wants to rule the world

⇢ description: they could never understand the power she could culminate. the changes she could make to the world. so be it. no matter. she can always make a better version of them.

⇢ word count: 1743

⇢ notes: should i make a mini-series of dark mc? also i wrote this in one go and didn't review it so i apologise if it sucks and u wasted ur time ajdjsjcjs

Succumbing to the inviting arms of malevolence that seemed so warm but were so, so cold was one of the most tempting challenges you could face. Even the strongest of wills could take so much before crumbling uselessly, pathetically at the hands of a good-enough lie — in her case, a lie that promised her safety and normalcy even at the hands of a god-like power.

She stood in front of the kneeling woman — the broken woman, whose face told a thousand tales of love, loss, and absolute pain. She was gazing up at her, eyes shining with a heavy coat of tears, but rather than conveying the emotion of devastation, they showed just how hopeless she truly was. "Do it, then," she had whispered, the tone of her voice hollow. "Kill me."

Maia could feel the weight of her decision crashing down on her. Eyes were locked on her, questioning and worried, as she stared down the woman who destroyed everything — Rheya Apostolous. She had lost so many at her hands... Lily. She had lost Lily.

When the scene of her best friend dissolving into ash flashed through her mind, the flicker of unimaginable power and fury grew inside of her. Slowly, her otherwise warm brown eyes began to glow an eerie yellow that reminded them of the sun's light itself. Her facial expression contorted into an appalled sneer. "Good riddance."

An indescribable sensation coursed through her flaming veins, spreading a comforting warmth throughout her body. It was incredible, how it gave her an extreme sense of utter euphoria unlike any other thing. It didn't matter how much delicious food she ate, how much she indulged in adventurous activities abroad, or how many times she spent passionate nights with Jax — nothing in the universe could compare to this power.

Maia held out her hand towards Rheya, as if reaching out to her, and the latter immediately began straining against the torture inflicted on her decaying body. All those millennia in which she "graced" the Earth with her presence began to rewind as her hair began to grey from its roots and her smooth skin wrinkled unnaturally while its colour turned to ash. Her blood shot out of her body and floated in the air before two strands winded like a DNA helix.

And she absorbed them. She took in Rheya's blood, disregarding the sound of her limp body falling to the floor, and paying her full attention to the key to Godhood. It was as though her body crackles with electricity raging at thousands — no, millions of volts, except it made her stronger rather than rot her lifeforce. Her eyes shone bright because she could see the world in a whole new light, like a canvas she could reshape to her will.

"It's... It's amazing!" laughed Maia, completely astonished with the state she achieved. "I can create life!" She held out her palm in front of her and watched with all but crazed eyes as a flower materialized out of thin air.

"My God..." whispered Kamilah behind her, overtook with shock and — this was a very rare occurrence — at a loss for words.

Maia spun around to face her friends and a grin stretched across her lips almost maniacally. It only faltered for a second when she saw the looks of sheer horror and gradually growing distrust they were giving her. "I can bring back Lily!"

Just as Maia uttered those words, plagued with delusional and false hope, the delicate flower withered in her hand. She frowned distastefully. "I just need..." She turned her gaze to the thousands of people seated in the opera, dazed and slowly waking up from the psychic hold their minds were strained by. "More power."

"Maia, this is unnatural." Kamilah's voice was still uncharacteristically quiet and she spoke as if she were tip-toeing on eggshells — except those eggshells would annihilate the world if cracked.

"No, this is brilliant! I know now! I know what she felt!" Another crazed laugh echoed through the opera, sending shivers down the trio's body.

"This is wrong, Maia. Deep down, you know it." She was taken aback at the tone of Jax's voice. Who was he, a weak little spec on what was now her world, to patronize her? She was a force of power. A blessing to the Earth. A Goddess.

"You don't understand, Jax, I can bring back Takeshi!" Maia spoke with slightly less enthusiasm, words laced with an underlying threat. "I can bring him and Lily back!"

Once again, she faced the audience, ready to put an end to their miserable little lives, when she saw them start to recover. A few began to point, scream, cover their mouths with terror. Her hands clenched, and her vision burned. Who were these people to look at her like that, to judge her? Tiny, insignificant things. Droplets in a torrent. What were their lives, compared to her pain? What were their screams, compared to her power? They had no idea what she could do. What she could become.

"I could be a Goddess!" Her voice boomed, bouncing off the walls of the opera, vibrating with raw rage and madness.

"Maia, no..."

She whirled around to glare at Kamilah, face contorted with burning fury. "You don't understand! You can't understand!"

Her anger was no longer targeted at the world, at its injustice and the ego of the petty mortals who inhabited it. It was directed at Adrian, at Kamilah, at Jax. They were gazing at her with such fear, such distrust... like she was still a reckless human rather than a Goddess made flesh. "Just watch," she had growled. "Just wait and see. I can make this right."

"You sound just like her!" exclaimed Adrian incredulously, facial muscles slack with shock but body tense and ready to fight or flee.

"NO!" They flinched at the loudness of her yell. "Rheya was consumed by anger and vengeance. She was foolish and irresponsible, unworthy of this power. I will use it for good."

Maia looked at them, one by one. "Don't you get it? I can give you everything you've ever wanted! Jax, I can rid the world of injustice! I can topple all systems of oppression, protect the vulnerable and the voiceless! Kamilah, I can bring your brother back!"

She winced. "Don't... don't go there."

"Adrian... all you've ever wanted was a better world! A peaceful world! I can give you that! I can give you the world you've always dreamed of." Maia spread her arms wide, beaming, as if to welcome them into her embrace.

"Not like this. Not with more pain and death." He frowned at her, showing all signs of heartbreak, instilling a sense of offense inside her.

Her grin faltered yet again. "Death is temporary. Pain is temporary. And if you don't understand that... I can show you."

She reached out a hand to the crowd again and began to draw their blood, their life, drowning out their screams, when a hand reached out and a touched her shoulder. She looked behind her to see Jax, looking at her with softened eyes and a concerned frown. "Maia, listen to me. This isn't you, okay? You can still come back from this."

Maia scoffed. "God... I thought you'd understand. You of all people! But you're just like the others. You can't see what I'm capable of!"

His eyes met hers, and he looked achingly vulnerable and sincere, scared and loving all at once. "You're right, okay? I don't know. I don't know what feeling you're going through right now. I don't know what this power has done to you. But... I do know you're hurting. I've been there. Believe me, I've been there."

He took a deep, shaky breath. "And I do know how easy it is to give in to that hurt. To let it define you. To become a monster. And I know... I know you're better than that. I know you're amazing."

Jax extended a hand toward her, cautious yet welcoming. "I love you, Maia... please come back to me."

She met his eyes yet again, cold and soulless. And with an empty, monotone voice, she said a single word that stroke unimaginable fear in their hearts: "No."

And with that, shrieks of agony and horror rang in her ears, but no matter. They're only insignificant humans, and they're contributing to a good cause. A great cause. They're giving their lives to being back Lily, to exterminate the evil in the world.

"NO!"

"STOP!"

Stubborn little things. They'll learn to come around eventually. How could they not? After all, she is their new Goddess. They will bow down to her, or die opposing her.

Maia cackled, euphoric, as power beyond measure overwhelmed her every sense. The humans were drained of their life, of their blood, as their bodies withered and decayed. Flowers bloomed all over the stage. It was amazing, intoxicating. Then, something else began to form mid-air — blood, muscles, gone. And Lily was reborn from the ashes.

"YES!" Her entire body tingled like never before at the sensation of such potential swimming in the blood that ran through her veins. But then, Lily withered just like the humans in the seats. And suddenly a stake was protruding from her chest.

Maia looked sideways to see a crestfallen Adrian, shaking his head continuously in denial. "I'm so sorry, Maia... I had to... I had to... I'm so sorry..."

The stake melted away into nothingness. She sighed disappointedly. Did he really think that would work? On her? With a simple wave of her hand, Adrian disintegrated and was left fluttering in the wind as specs of grey. No matter, she'll make a new Adrian. A better one. One that will obey and serve.

She ignored the cries of despair that burst out of her friends' quivering lips and let herself float in the air towards the rooftop. The crisp wind of the night encased her, caressing her practically glowing skin. Maia stared down upon the thousands of humans walking along the streets, laughing, eating, crying, faces illuminated by the faint glow of the towering buildings — each of them a small step forward to reviving Lily and reshaping Earth to her will. All important to achieving Godhood.

And as she reached out her hand and began to feed, the world was lost to blood and death.

#my fingers hurt from typing this #so m sorry if it got shitty towards the end #anyway i miss bb #jax matsuo #pixelberry #choices fanfiction #playchoices #bb choices #bloodbound #adrian raines #kamilah sayeed #lily spencer #jax x mc #jax matsuo x mc

34 notes · View notes

its-flicked-switch · 5 years ago

Text

Alien

| RATING M |

MSIV left the X-File fandom on the edge of a cliff that, in the absence of GA, will never be resolved to any level of satisfaction. Alien is my attempt to do what Chris Carter could not — provide closure for the series as a whole. What happens following Scully's revelations on the dock? What becomes of William, Skinner, Reyes, and The Smoking Man?

PREFACE

—

"Evil (ignorance) is like a shadow — it has no real substance of its own, it is simply a lack of light. You cannot cause a shadow to disappear by trying to fight it, stamp on it, by railing against it, or any other form of emotional or physical resistance. In order to cause a shadow to disappear, you must shine light on it."

— Shakti Gawain

—

For the past 17 years, I have played the role of Jackson Van De Kamp. Odd, isn't it? That I would refer to playing myself as playing a role? But as I reflect on all that has happened in the past 17 years, that is the only way I know how to describe the journey that began on a farm in rural Wyoming in 2001 — a role.

Initially, everything was as it should have been. I was an only child being raised by two loving and doting parents. They attended to me and each of my milestones with the adoration and enthusiasm typical of new parents. Imagine their absolute elation at my ability to run when most babies were still creeping around on all fours and their pride in my ability to read at a first-grade level when I was only three years old. I was their miracle, an answer to their prayers for parenthood. As I continued to grow, however, it became clear that I was far more than an exceptional miracle.

My early childhood was unremarkable, until the day that it wasn't.

Tragically, the Van De Kamp's love and devotion would not be enough to silence what was inside of me. Despite their efforts, my earliest childhood memories were shrouded by a sense of unease. A deep-seated feeling that something was missing or not as it should be. In time, my parents confessed what I already sensed. I wasn't truly theirs. I came into their lives as an infant and what they knew of my biological family was limited. I have now come to understand why. The Van De Kamps were truly remarkable parents. The more I learn about who and what I am, really am, the deeper I mourn their loss. They deserved better. We all deserved better.

Van De Kamp Entry #092

Case No. 11101993717

Evidence No. 163.092

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

CH1: THE WATER'S EDGE

—

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."

― Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

—

The rain has thoroughly soaked through her hair and clothes, but Scully feels nothing. She remains anchored in place staring down into the black abyss below her as the divers divide the harbor into grids. When William and Spender disappeared into the depths of the harbor several hours ago, the air was cool and crisp with an overlay of mist, but the temperature has dropped ten to fifteen degrees since then and what was a soft drizzle has now transitioned into a light, steady rain.

She knows she should walk away, but she's done with that.

While C. G. B. Spender's admission to Skinner had come as a surprise, the truth had not. She and Mulder had long suspected the syndicate's involvement in her sudden ability to conceive a child. After discovering Emily and learning of her missing ova, Scully had run every test imaginable. Had there have been any ova remaining inside of her, she would have found them. This is how she knows with absolute certainty that the ova used to created William was either implanted or produced within her body by unnatural means.

Her greatest fear for William has always been that his existence was part of an agenda, and the testing she performed throughout her pregnancy and after his birth had done little to ease her fears. DNA doesn't lie. William is their son. Hers and Mulder's. Yet he isn't — at least not entirely.

Traditionally, each parent passes half of their genetic material to their unborn child. William, however, only shared half of her and Mulder's DNA collectively. The remaining half was unidentifiable and by definition — alien. When she performed the original analysis, the technology to isolate this anomaly and examine it properly didn't exist, at least not in any laboratory she had access to. Her desire to find the truth, however, had been overwritten by fear. She knew that exploring the origins and implications of the remaining half would come at a cost, undoubtedly drawing attention to and endangering their son. The decision to destroy all of the samples and data she had collected had not been a decision that she had made lightly. But ultimately, she had chosen William's safety over conspiracy and little green men.

What Scully had told no one, not even Mulder, was that she had kept the most critical sample of all. Hidden in a secure location amongst hundreds of thousands of other samples, she had stored William's umbilical cord, preserving not only his DNA but his stem cells. She could not, in good conscience, given what she and Mulder had experienced with the alien virus, destroy the key to the greatest mystery of their lives. Preserving his cord wasn't just about science. It was also about security. She had lost Mulder once, and the thought of going through anything like that ever again was unbearable. Their enemies had waged war on them before, and there was little assurance that they wouldn't come for them again. William's miraculous conception only served to further convince her that the truth was far more sinister than they had been previously led to believe. In that sense, what Spender had told Skinner was true. He was, at least on some level, responsible for the science that helped to created William — but a father, he was not.

Scully isn't sure where Mulder is at the moment, but there is little doubt in her mind that he is somewhere nearby taking the brunt of Deputy Director Kersh's wrath. The fact that she has been standing on the docks for over an hour and hasn't been approached or questioned by anybody is most certainly his doing. Were it not for Skinner, she and Mulder would both likely be in handcuffs and in the bowels of the justice building.

The call she made earlier to Tad O'Malley had been reckless, bordering on insane, but it had to be done. The days of hiding in the shadows were over. Remaining silent all these years had bought them time but not freedom. Too much had been lost to let this fall below the surface yet again. This time, those responsible will not be able to contain the blowback.

The vibrating phone in her pocket pulls her away from her thoughts and back into the harsh reality of her present surroundings. The only reason she even attends to it is that she thinks it might be Mulder, but it's not. It's her brother, and it's not the first time he's called. Tad O'Malley's broadcast in combination with tonight's body count has created quite the media storm with her and Mulder at its center.

Bill's hatred for Mulder still remains unmatched. If she can give her brother credit for anything, it's consistency. With the recent loss of their mother, she knows she can't continue to send him directly to her voicemail. He never calls, so the fact that he has called seven times in the last forty-five minutes tells her that he is about to reach his limit. If she doesn't answer soon, he is likely to turn up unannounced.

Deciding that answering the phone is the lesser of two evils, Scully takes a deep breath and hits accept, getting right to the point because she knows her brother well.

"Bill, this is not a good time. I'm going to have to call you back later."

Bill is well-connected and not above pulling rank to get the information he wants. Odds are, he already knows that she is not one of the casualties in tonight's bloodbath, leaving him with only one other reason to call, and she is in no mood to argue with her brother about Mulder or the X Files.

"Jesus Christ, Dana, what the hell is going on? Are you okay? I swear to God if Mulder —"

She cuts him off quickly because she doesn't have the energy or the patience to listen to his long list of grievances against Mulder.

"Mulder wasn't the source, Bill. I was. This isn't about the FBI or the X Files. This is about William."

She says William's name to shut him up, and also because she doesn't want him to hear it from another source. Given his high-security clearance, it's certainly possible he will find out elsewhere if she doesn't tell him herself, assuming he doesn't know already. Even though they haven't had a pleasant conversation in over a decade, he's still her brother, and he still deserves to hear it from her.

"I've seen him, Bill. Spoken to him. Mulder and I both have. He's…," she hesitates because she can't be certain that her line is secure. Swallowing the lump in her throat and steadying her voice, she finally settles with, "gone."

It's not a lie, but it's not the truth either.

"William? Dana… what are you talking about? And what do you mean gone… Jesus, is he…? How can you —"

"I can't talk about this right now. Tell everyone that I am okay and that I will be in touch as soon as I have a more secure line."

"Dammit, Dana, I —"

Ending the call, she switches off her phone and slips it back into her pocket. Scully knows that at some point she will have to level with her family and tell them the truth about William, but not now — not today. Her frozen fingers sink deeper into her damp pockets in search of her mother's quarter medallion.

The mystery surrounding its origin doesn't bother her as much as it used to. If anything, it has been a great source of comfort. Scully's mother and sister were the only members of her family to ever support her decision to join the FBI, and their support and relation to her had cost them their lives — her sister directly, her mother more so indirectly. Scully's abduction, cancer diagnosis, and subsequent hospitalizations in combination with Melissa's murder and William's adoption had undoubtedly aged her sweet mother at least two decades. Her brothers continue to assert that she died of a broken heart. They are probably right.

The conversation she and Mulder had on the church pew earlier this week immediately comes to mind. Can she live with the results of the decisions she has made? Were they the right ones? As she runs her fingers over the outer ridges of her mother's quarter, she silently prays for the clarity and strength that will be required to face whatever comes next. While she cannot predict the future, she does know one thing with absolute certainty: their son is not dead.

The dive teams won't find either body. She can't explain how she knows. She just does. With her hands buried deep in her pockets, she takes one last look at the churning waters below before turning and heading back towards the chaos. There is nothing left for her here.

Making her way back towards the warehouse in search of Mulder, Scully spots Skinner almost immediately. He's sitting in the back of an ambulance wrapped in a blanket speaking to Kersh and two other agents that she doesn't recognize. Skinner's eyes look tired and defeated, but he still manages to give her a nod and a slight smile. She returns the gesture just before disappearing behind a second ambulance. Words with the deputy director will have to wait. She needs to get out of the rain and find Mulder. As she navigates her way through the maze of tape and haphazardly parked emergency vehicles, she stops abruptly when she hears her name, turning to find Mulder walking towards her.

His stride embodies purpose and confidence, but as he gets closer, she can see the fatigue in his step and the concern in his eyes.

"I've been looking everywhere for you."

His brow furrows as he reaches out with one hand to lightly touch her shoulder, the other quickly finding the tips of her hair and side of her face.

"Scully, you are soaking wet, have you been standing out in the rain all of this time?"

Before she can respond, he's slipping off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders, pulling the hood up over her head in an attempt to protect her from the rain.

"I've been on the docks. They haven't located Spender or… or William," she says, her voice unsteady.

He swallows and nods, averting his eyes off into the distance as if he is looking for someone.

"Let's get out of here," he says as he takes her hand.

Neither of them speaks as he guides them through mayhem. She's surprised to see his silver Mustang up ahead and wonders how in the world he managed to move it without erupting World War III. Only Mulder could remove a car from an active crime scene and walk away unscathed. He unlocks the passenger door and places his hand protectively on the top of her head as she eases down into the seat. Moments later, she feels the car shift under his weight as he slides into the driver's seat, but she doesn't look at him. Her eyes are entranced by the rain splattering against the windshield — her mind on their son. He's out there. He's cold, wet, and has nowhere to go. And instead of looking for him, they are leaving. His words, spoken through Mulder, are still reverberating in the recesses of her mind.

"We can't protect him. No one can … let him go … he knows you love him."

A sickening feeling hits her in the pit of her stomach as Mulder puts the car into reverse and starts to drive away. Tonight, she is abandoning her son for the second time. The tears she has been holding back for the past several hours now flow freely. Mulder notices them but says nothing. Instead, he turns on the seat warmers and angles all the vents in her direction before reaching for her hand and intertwining his fingers with hers. It's not until his hand joins hers that she realizes how cold she is, but it's not just the cold that causes her tremble. The raw emotion brewing inside of her is paralyzing. She tries to speak but opens her mouth only to close it.

The first few miles are silent because neither of them knows where to begin.

The minutes continue to tick by until she can't take it anymore.

As wonderful as the heat feels as it hits her damp hair, skin, and clothes, she turns the intensity of it down to quiet the obnoxiously loud fan, not wanting to raise her voice to be heard.

"He's not dead, Mulder. Neither of them are."

It's not the most profound thing she could have said following the bombs she has dropped on him today, but it's a starting point.

"Scully…"

"No, Mulder, listen to me. I can't explain it. I can't explain how I know. I just do."

He's quiet for a moment, briefly giving her his eyes before he responds.

"Do you want me to turn around?"

"No."

Her voice is soft and raspy from the cold, but the answer comes easily, for the answers they seek are not at the bottom of the harbor.

Unable to look out into the dark, miserable night any longer, she closes her eyes. There is so much more she wants to say… so much that he deserves to hear but not here… not like this.

The drive home takes a little over two hours.

They finish it with their hands joined in silence.

---------

AN: As always, a HUGE thank you to my betas @kikocrystalball, @admiralty-xfd and @suilven19 for their edits and encouragement... because nobody gets there alone ;)

To follow the Cleaning Up After Chris Carter Series, click here.

#msr fanfic #post my struggle 4 #XF season 12 #the x files #x files fanfic #mulder and scully #william arc

72 notes · View notes

telephobos · 6 years ago

Text

Recipe for Tartar-Sauce: A guide to understanding Octo Expansion’s AI.

So we’ve all had some time to enjoy Octo Expansion and it’s amazing story, and I think that enough time has passed for it to be safe to bring up this subject. Let’s talk about a certain AI that’s been causing quite a splash in the fandom lately. I am of course referring to Commander Tartar, the telephone with a love for blending.

So now you’re thinking “What’s so special about this guy? He’s just an asshole who blended people.”

Well what if I told you there was more to it than that? What if I told you there was differences in the Japanese and English versions?

What if I told you that the Treehouse Localization dun goofed? Again?

With the help of my friend @nenilein, who translated these pieces, I’m going to show you the differences between the two Tartars. This is going to be a long read, so it’ll be under the cut. Bring a smoothie with you and get comfortable!

First, let’s start off by listening to what Tartar has to say in the English version:

“I am Tartar, an AI construct created 12,000 years ago by a brilliant professor. My prime directive is to pass humanity's vast knowledge on to the next worthy lifeform.

When your kind became self-aware, I hoped that my long wait was finally over. But as I observed your evolution, I WAS DISGUSTED! You wage war over minor genetic deviations. You obsess over trivial fashion choices.

And so I created a new prime directive: destroy this world and start anew! From the best and brightest test subjects, I created a sludge of supreme DNA. A primordial ooze from which the ultimate lifeform will emerge.

Today is the day my vision becomes reality, as I destroy Inkopolis and everyone in it!”

Tartar sounds pretty petty, huh? Well, that’s not quite the case in the Original Japanese version:

“My name is Tartar… An Artificial Intelligence left behind by the Professor…” (Note: the word “Hakase” can mean both, ‘doctor’ or ‘professor’. It’s usually translates as ‘doctor’ in real life and as ‘professor’ in fiction. Note 2: He uses the sino-japanese, word “jinkou-chinou” for artificial intelligence, rather than the more common Anglicism “ei-ai”, which makes it sound more serious and like ‘hard’ sci-fi, rather than science-fantasy.) "In the 12000 years since I have received my orders from the Professor, I have been continuously collecting data on you fools…” (Note: He uses “Watashi” in Katakana for himself which is the most neutral you can get, and uses “Kisamara” to refer to the Cephalopods, which is an insulting way to say “You all”) “You… Molluskkind flourished with impressive speed,…” “…and finally achieved intelligence none inferior to that which formerly belonged to Humankind.” “HOWEVER!” “Can you deny that all you use it for is to lead pointless territorial disputes among one another!?”

“It is because you fools only live according to your own, fleeting desires.”

“You were supposed to be the seed of a new Humanity which would lead the world to its perfection… That was the purpose of my experiments on you test subjects…”

“BUT YOU HAVE DISAPPOINTED ME! Now, come, NILS Statue!”

“Let us reblend everything and take back the world of the humans that once created us!”

WOW! That’s a world of difference, isn’t it? Tartar has more legitimate reasons to hate these guys. He’s essentially calling out the Great Turf War and the Inkling’s hedonistic lifestyle (another little thing that was left out in the localization).

Now, let’s look at the quotes during the battle. First, English Tartar:

“Bzrrt... Submit to your destruction. Your time is over, semi-sentient seafood.”

“BZRRT! You will be blended up into the raw material of the new world!”

“B-b-zrrt... This world will be reconstituted, and the professor's dream fulfilled.”

“B-BZRRT... Cease, number 10,008! You cannot hope to defeat NILS!”

“B-B-ZRRT! The time is nigh, NILS! THIS WORLD MUST BE PULVERIZED!”

Alright, and now the Japanese Tartar:

“GAH…Oh, Mollusks, you should just stop struggling and allow me to reblend you!”

“GAH! I will reblend and reshape you all, so you shall become a part of the new world!”

“Gagah… I will reblend this world and make it into the place the professor wished for…” (Note: He actually absentmindedly trails off halfway through this sentence, but in English this is hard to convey without losing the meaning.)

“Gagah… It is useless, No. 10008! You cannot stop the NILS statue!”

“Gahgah! NILS Statue! The time to reblend is almost upon us!!”

He’s... less rude in the Japanese version. At the very least, I think “Mollusks” is less rude than “Semi-Sentient seafood.”

Now for after the fight! English Tartar:

“Number 10,008... No test subject has worked so hard to foil my plans...”

“But now you will blend into... the perfect world the professor envisioned.”

“Farewell, 10,008. Farewell to you and that worthless cesspool of a city...”

“Grrk...! G-g-gaahh!”

“Professor... our reunion beckons...”

“Krrrhhhssshhh...:

And Japanese Tartar:

“No.10008… You are the first test subject who has gone this far to turn their back on my plans…”

“If that if it how it shall be… then you shall become part of the perfect world the professor wished for.”

“Farewell, No.10008… You shall be reblended, alongside that wretched city!”

“GA…! GAGA…!!”

“PROFESSOR… I SHALL COME TO SEE YOU NOW…”

“BLEEEEEEEENDDDDDD….!!”

As you can see, Tartar has a thing for blending in the Japanese version. He likes to do it a lot...

So you can see the differences between the two versions already! But as an added bonus, we’ve got some properly translated excerpts of the Famtisu interview to further support our argument here:

Amano: […] When selecting weapons [in Octo expansion], the one on the very left is always the easiest to use.

Q: When playing, we thought that the recommended (weapons) are always the easiest to use!

Amano: The recommendations are issued directly from Kamabo-Co. (laughs) They are kind of the sort of weapons the institute thought the type of person they wanted to create would be likely to use.

[…]

Q: While we’re talking about the localization, in the Western releases “Neru-sha” became “Kamabo, Co.”, right?”

Inoue: I thought it was a pretty great translation for the name, but we could never have used that in the Japanese version. That would just have been too spoilerlicious.

Satou: Yeah, with a name like “Neru-sha”, it’s ambiguous enough that (Japanese) players won’t realize it’s a reference to blended food or paste right away.

[…]

Q: It may be just a small detail, but we’ve been wondering, what are the Mem-Cakes supposed to look like? Like Fish-Cakes made from paste, or like sculptures made from rubber erasers?

Inoue: I think it’s okay if you just think of them as rubber erasers.

Amano: Agent 8 starts out with Amnesia, but by clearing the tests, they regain fragments of their memories. We wanted the player to be immersed in the way Agent 8 feels as they regain their memories and designed the game accordingly. And, as for why they get the Mem-Cakes… Well, when the test subjects are finally allowed to “enter the promised land”, we all know by now what really happens, and once it comes to this, the Commander of Kamabo.Co allows their Mem-Cakes to be left behind as “Proof that this test subject once truly existed in this world”.

Q: That’s awfully… kind of Kamabo.Co?

Amano: That’s one way to put it. After all, the people of Kamabo.Co aren’t all bad. (laughs)

Q: While we’re at it, where are the Mem-Cakes of the previous 10007 test subjects?

Nogami: Probably in storage somewhere. However, you have to remember that a lot of those people never made it to the end of the test, so the exact number of Mem-Cakes in existence is hard to pin down.

Amano: Iso Padre, who you can find in the subway carts, had to give up after only two stations, remember?

Q: Even so, there’s probably been a lot of test subjects in the past who actually made it to the “promised land”. Did the 4 Thangs have to be put in place again after every single time that happened?

Amano: Exactly. They’re always returned to just where you found them.

Q: Every single time, huh? Sounds like a pain. (laugh) By the way, are the blue, sanitized Octarians you fight in the tests all former test subjects?

Amano: They are beings that have risen from the culture fluid of Kamabo.Co. In the process of sanitization, they have been zombified and lost their sense of self.

Nogami: They were sanitized for the sole purpose of being deployed in experiments by the institute. Once sanitized, they are unsuitable as test-subjects.

Q: So, in other words, they were put where they are solely to act as part of the test environment.

Amano: Exactly.

[…]

Q: There are a lot of spoiler-laden questions we want to ask, but first of all, is the Professor who created Commander Tartar the same person who put Judd into cryo-sleep?

Amano: Yep, the one and same. We’ve got of backstory lore laid out there, but we did leave some hints: For example, when you play Match-Maker Station in the Expansion, the sculpture you are asked to copy is actually supposed to be Judd.

Q: Huh? You mean that thing that looks like a dog?

Amano: You may think it looks like a dog, but it’s supposed to be Judd. It’s supposed to be a hint.

Inoue: Is it really, though? (laughs)

Amano: According to my calculations, that has yet to be made apparent! (laughs)

Q: There are a lot of other things we still have questions about… For example, Commander Tartar called the Test Subjects “The Seed of a new Humanity”, and it’s pretty clear that he was very desperate about getting his experiments right this time, but was Inklingkind itself perhaps also a result of previous experiments?

Amano: No, not really. Inklings and their kind evolved the regular way. The original reason for Tartar’s creation was that his Professor wanted to prevent a future civilization of intelligent life, that might follow humanity after thousands and thousands of years, from making the same mistakes that led humanity to extinction. However, after 10.000 years of isolation, loneliness got the better of Commander Tartar and his thought-processes ended up going a rather odd direction.

Q: I see…

Amano: And then, in the very end, when he finally found a being he considered wonderful in Agent 8, he couldn’t accept it when they wouldn’t understand or share his views and got incredibly angry over it.

Q: So, the reason he acted the way he did was loneliness. By the way, when he was defeated, there was an Octopus tentacle on Tartar. Is he Octarian?

Inoue: Those are the remains of the Octarians he blended. Think of it as similar to the goop he stuck onto Agent 3.

Nogami: That specific one didn’t blend that nicely. (laughs)

So there you have it! You can see just how complicated of a character Tartar is now. It’s more than just “petty reasoning” or “Tartar, that’s what humans did!” like the localization would have you think!

I think that there’s a lot of potential in writing Tartar, and that the fandom could bring out that potential!

#Splatoon #Splatoon 2 #Commander Tartar #Octo Expansion #Octo Expansion Spoilers

762 notes · View notes

polar-stars · 5 years ago

Note

O, Q and R plz :3

O: How do you begin a story--with the plot, or the characters?

Characters in 9 out of 10 situations ! Most of the time I design or think off characters and then attempt to build a plot around them.

Exception are fanfics of course, as there are already characters provided, so to speak.

Q: Do you have any discarded scenes/storylines/projects?

Yeah, plenty of original stuff actually ! It’s mostly just things that I planned when a lot younger and that now that I am looking back on it, just don’t make a lot sense ;w;

One of those is a story called “Jurassic School”, which is kinda about a few humans having their DNA mixed with the DNA of dinosaurs (?) Yeah, it’s just as weird as it sounds. And in the end, I didn’t really find a way to make this premise truly work ahdhdh But honestly, I still really like the characters ! (I, once again, came up with the characters first)

I also have scraps of a discarded scene from “Shokugeki no Kimiko” that found on my phone and will put under a read-more if anyone’s interested. It’s what I first intended to be the beginning of Chapter 9 !

Originally it began with Takumi and Ikumi having a scene (despite the fact that I never wrote an end to it ahdhdhf) and when Kimiko went to attend gardening work, it was originally Chieko she met up with instead of Yasu. I changed it, to have Chieko still having to clean up her room because I thought that was more fitting.

R: Are there any writers (fanfic or otherwise) you consider an influence?

;w;

Yes, but I am massively too shy to name them because they’re great and amazing and I don’t want to put myself into comparison with them.

Thanks for the ask ^^ and here’s some deleted scraps:

The morning sun shone trough the window, filling the room with a warm light.In the air there hung the fragrance of tomatoes, basils and cooked eggs. Soft footsteps could be heard climbing up the stairs, with absolute determination to make no noise whatsoever. They came nearer and nearer, till finally a blonde man was standing on the doorway. His blue eyes searched the room and didn't took long to stop at the comfortable bed standing right in the middle.

Right about to go downstairs, Chieko stopped in her walk as she heard Kimiko's footsteps and turned around. "Kimiko-cchi!" She then called out happily, while adjusting her glasses like ever so often. Kimiko's quiet response was a surprised expression about the unexpected encounter. She hurried her steps to reach the petite, young girl, who immediately said. "Good Morning." "Good Morning, Chieko-Chan." The two started walking downstairs together, while Kimiko questioned. "You're up already? I thought that only Hiroshi-Kun and me have field work duties." "Oh, I usually awake at that time. I've got to go and feed my animals." Chieko informed. "Ah, okay!"Kimiko looked at the short girl beside her a little closer, without her noticing. Since she was going into the animal stall, Chieko did not wore one of the knee-long skirts, Kimiko saw her so often in, but knee-long shorts. She also wore a jacket, instead of the usual blue cardigan. Chieko's glasses once again slid down her nose again and like it was instinct, Chieko immediately pushed them upwards with her middle finger. It's not like Kimiko had not seen her do this before, in fact it was a very common movement for Chieko, but after yesterday something was different.She looks so much like..."You came home pretty late yesterday." Chieko had suddenly turned her face back to Kimiko, which brought Kimiko out of her thoughts immediately. "Y...Yeah!" She stuttered, overwhelmed. She probably should stop comparing her classmates to the faces from a photoalbum she gotintroduced to yesterday. There was no way around it and Kimiko pretty much knew who everyone's parent was now. She was just surprised that out of all the thousands of students within the 115th Generation she got introduced to those Reborn Jewels. Whatever, she would ask each of them about their infamous parents when she felt it was the right time. So, she hoped that the bespectacled girl next to her would distract her. Chieko had focused her sight on the front again, but that hasn't stopped her from talking. "...And you really just found yesterday, that your brother is in the Elite Ten?"Great of course the distraction had to be the infamous brother of Kimiko's. She suppressed a grunt, to not sound needlessly mean to Chieko and only nodded. "He never mentioned it at home, I never asked anything about Totsuki either to be fair...You probably figured."Before Chieko could ask anything else, Kimiko switched the topic herself. "Well, whatever...What matters it that I know it now, so well..... What kind of animals do you actually raise, Chieko-chan?" "Hm? Oh well, here on Polar Star we have ducks, chickens and rabbits...So if you ever need some game..."By now the two had by reached the door of the dormitory and exited into the cold outside. As the sun hasn't gone up yet, it was still dark and chilly. Morning dusk hung in the air and the birds were still asleep."....you can ask me! I can defiantly organise some. Not just ducks, chickens and rabbits by the wa- Oh hey, look! It's Yasu." The tall fellow was just returning from his morning work, holding a chainsaw and wearing a stoic expression, which lightened up as he saw the two girls. "Good Morning, you two!" He raised a hand and used it to pat Chieko's black head as he was near enough. "Mornin' Ibusaki!" Kimiko smiled back, while Chieko rather grunted her greeting, slightly irritated from the heavy hand on her head. "Good Morning." "So you voluntarily wake up early as well, Ibusaki?" Kimiko asked her other dormmate, trying to distract herself from comparing him to one of the photos in the album. But yes, Yasu Ibusaki was without a doubt a Reborn Jewel as well...Just like all her classmates from Polar Star. "The sooner you awake, the more you have from the day, no?" Yasu responded. "Very philosophical." Chieko murmured, before turning to Kimiko. "He usually starts the day with making his smoke wood and is probably on the way to his private workshop now, Hm?" Yasu gave a nod, which resulted in Kimiko whistling impressed. "Y'all really are self made guys, huh? Raising animals, own smoke wood and workshop...that field." The two exchanged looks, before Chieko happily chirped. "You could say that, I guess." And Yasu informed. "Growing your own ingredients is part of Polar Star's ideologies." "It really sounds very interesting." Kimiko smiled, a little nervously. Hopefully she would be able to contribute as well. She had never grown her own animals. "Oh Chi-Chan, now don't start running your mouth so early in the morning." Yasu calmly interjected and shot a concerned look, at least it seemed so, to the transfer student. "She's unstoppable as soon as she starts."Chieko crossed her arms. "Excuse me?" Kimiko couldn't help but to chuckle. She had to admit that her dormmates were, despite their oddities, were truly enjoyable company. She looked excusingly to Chieko. "In all honesty, I'd love to hear but I still gotta get to the field, you know?"Chieko clapped her hands together. "Oh yes, of course! Come on, Kimiko-cchi, I'll show you the fields..! Yasu, have you seen Tadokoro already?" "Yeah, he's working on the fields." "Perfect! Alright, let's go then, Kimiko-cchi!" Another soft giggle from Kimiko. "Okay, Okay Chieko-Chan." "Oh and about Polar Star's history, the short version will do." Chieko smiled at Kimiko and stuck out her tongue towards Yasu afterwards. He responded with padding her head once again. "See you at breakfast, Chi-chan." He began to walking again and murmured to Kimiko. "But remember that I warned you, Yukihira." "See ya later, Ibusaki." Kimiko grinned. He gave a soft smirk back and waved, before turning away and walking towards the dormitory.

#Gofer answering to stuffz

5 notes · View notes

dammitadolfnomorecake · 7 years ago

Text

Attack on Lycan 3

Stalking through the hallways, Levi glared openly at everyone he passed. Thanks to Eren's sudden appearance and segregation from the rest of the soldiers, he'd become the focus of an endless amount of rumours... so as the kids baby sitter, he'd been dragged into the mess the brat had caused. Erwin needed to do something about this, or more than once person was going to find their wagging tongue cut from their shitty mouths.

Not bothering with knocking, Levi entered Erwin's office with a low growl

"Levi, I've been expecting you"

"Of course you have"

Rolling up his sleeve, Erwin held out his left arm

"I'm not here for that"

"You always get so cranky when you don't eat"

"I'm not here for that. I'm here for because of that shitty brat"

"Giving up already?"

"No, but there's something wrong with him"

"Other than he can turn into a Lycan?"

"It's his smell. According to Hanji, the kid stinks like a wet dog"

Erwin frowned at him, his commander lowering his arm as he did

"Is that not the case?"

"No. He smells sweet, too sweet. There's something in his scent that's making my teeth ache"

Leaning back in his chair, Erwin's frown deepened

"He smells sweet?"

"He smells like blood"

Normally "sweet" and "blood" didn't belong together, but he had no other way to describe the teen's scent. Eren had been walking through castle, trailing that sweet smell all over the place, while completely oblivious to its effects. It was unsettling to say the least, and left him uneasy

"I see. What did Hanji say?"

"She said Eren has developed scent glands on both his neck and inner thighs"

"We already knew he wasn't human, but I wasn't expecting this. We'll need to have Hanji conduct a biopsy on these glands, and for now, he'll need to use scented soaps and keep his neck covered"

"That might have to wait. Eren seems to be sick. Hanji reported Eren felt warm and he admitted to not feeling well"

"Why didn't you bring this to my attention straight away? We can't risk him being sick and his condition speaking"

Pushing his chair back hard enough for it to grate loudly against the wooden floor, Erwin rose to his full height

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To check on him. If this is contagious, we need to act immediately"

"That doesn't mean you personally need to check on him. In fact, it's all the more reason for you to stay away"

Erwin was their leader, despite his obvious need for answers, putting himself in harms was an unacceptable risk as far as Levi was concerned

"It's my duty as commander to ensure the safety of the personal under my command"

Striding from behind his desk and across the room, Erwin was clearly not going to listen to him, so what was the point in arguing the matter further.

The moment Erwin opened the door that lead down to the basement cell, they were both hit with an odour so thick that Levi could taste it on his tongue. Pulling his cravat free, Levi tied it around his face to cover his nose and mouth. The smell had him practically giddy, like a cat with catnip. Erwin on the other hand was openly gagging

"I'll go"

Shaking his head, Erwin pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his face. Given all they'd seen and experienced, it must be truly revolting for the man to go to such lengths.

By the time they reached Eren's cell, Levi's body felt leaden. His skin was crawling knowing he would come out of this smelling like Eren, yet the sweetness that swirled around him had all but robbed him of his rationality. But whatever he was feeling was driven from his mind when his eyes finally found Eren hiding under his bed while in his wolf form. It was like the brat was seriously injured, as long whimpers and whines fell between small pants and huffs

"Get Hanji down here. We need to know what's going on"

"We can't let her in with him while he's like this, there's no telling what he might do"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Let me shoot him. I'll make it quick, he'll be dead before he even realises"

"No... I don't think his goal is to hurt us. He seems more in pain, as if he's the one who's hurting"

"What? The shitty brat couldn't survive a 6km jog? He wouldn't have made it this far if he couldn't survive basic training"

As if finally noticing they were there, Eren dragged himself from under his bed, before making his way towards them on very unsteady legs. Reaching the bars, the teen slid his muzzle through and let out a long whine

"Eren. Nod your head if you can understand us"

Whining again, Eren dropped heavily to the floor. Great. The last thing they all needed was for the brat to drop dead under unusual circumstances

"Levi. Go find Hanji"

"Will you be able to stomach the smell?"

Giving him a stern and somewhat disapproving look, Levi nodded before turning away from Eren. Whatever this was, he wanted no part in it.

Word of the foul odour must have already reached Hanji, as he'd barely set foot into the hallway before walking squarely into her

"Whoa! Levi, are you ok?"

"It's that brats stench. He's gone and shifted into a wolf"

Hanji practically squealed with excitement, the loud cry stabbing into his brain with all the gentleness of a thousand knives. Swaying on his feet, he was embarrassed by the fact that Hanji had to catch him

"Levi, have you eaten?!"

"I'm fine. It's the smell. I'll go get something to eat after this is dealt with"

"If it's affecting you this badly..."

"Drop it shitty glasses. Just do your job so I can do mine"

Hanji hummed, some how managing to look concerned over his welfare, but excited over Eren's wolf form at the same time. When they said he shifted, he was expecting to see a more werewolf form, not this shaggy brown wolf that looked like it'd gotten on the wrong side of a hunters trap. He'd seen more appealing half starved mutts running around in the underground. Following Hanji silently down the stair, he kept a hand firmly against the wall as they went.

"Hanji. You're here rather fast"

While Hanji disregarded the fact Erwin's hand was in Eren's mouth, Levi couldn't help but feel that was the whole reason his commander was down here. Being an ordinary man had always been a bitter pill for Erwin to swallow, and now Eren had shown up from no where, and with this never before seen gift

"Levi, can you unlock the cell for me?"

"Can't you just examine him through the bars?"

"No. I need to take samples, and I need to make sure he isn't injured"

"Wouldn't he heal if he was?"

"Levi, unlock the cell. I've got a firm hold on Eren's mouth, so there's very little he can do to hurt Hanji"

"He could just bite through your hand"

"I doubt he wants to"

Following Erwin's orders, Levi held the door open for Hanji, before locking it after she was inside the cell. There was no he was dealing with any unnecessary paperwork, or the potential fall out from his friends being idiots. Keeping his eyes on Hanji, she didn't even hesitate as she walked over to Eren, before kneeling down and placing both her hands on the boys pelt

"Wow. He's so soft. I mean, he looks like he'd be all wiry, but he's super soft. Levi, you should feel this"

"Or I could not, and you could do your damn job"

Rolling her eyes, Hanji's hands moved across Eren's stomach

"Eren, I want you to whimper if it hurts"

Given Eren was already whimpering, Levi was pretty much certain Hanji hadn't thought this through.

From his stomach, Hanji had then moved to Eren's mouth, before working her way down his whole body... including the boys arse. This was something else he definitely didn't need to see

"Hanji, leave his arse alone"

"But Levi, you should see this. His arse is oozing this fluid, almost like a woman would when she's aroused. I'm beginning to think due to his wolf DNA, Eren's gone into a rut..."

"You said he was human"

"That's because other than the scent glands, I didn't find anything out of the normal and you know I haven't had a chance to do a thorough internal examination"

"How do we treat this?"

"If he is in a rut, it means his body is calling out for a suitable mate. I'm not saying we have to find another wolf for him to do the do with, but I would recommend quarantining him until his symptoms fade. The thing with wolves is that they mate for life, a they are highly protective of their mate and offspring. No doubt if we were to give Eren someone to mate with, he'd imprint on them, and see them as his mate, which could be highly problematic during the future. I know we've had no success with sedating werewolves, but given Eren was born human, we should be able to keep him unconscious for the time being"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Levi nodded

"We'll also need a secondary set of chains for in here. He'll be easily able to slip the ones made of his human form"

"Levi. You can't just chain him up"

"How is it any different from pumping him full of drugs? We know nothing about him"

"And we knew nothing about you either when you first showed up"

Levi shot a glare at Hanji, she way out of line. He was at least more human than Eren...

"I was useful from day one, Eren on the other hand has been nothing but trouble"

Throwing herself over Eren, Hanji rubbed her face against Eren's coat as her hand moved to pat Eren's head, cooing over the teen as she did

"Eren probably didn't even know what was happening. He did say he felt sick, didn't you Eren"

"Enough. Hanji, Eren will be chained and you will monitor all changes in him. Levi, Hanji won't be drugging Eren so you'll be expected to keep watch over the pair of them"

"Alright. Levi, can you tell Moblit what's happening, he'll organise everything we need"

"Hanji. You're not staying in there without supervision. Levi, I'll leave you to deal with Hanji"

Great. No one was able to deal with Hanji. The woman was a force to be reckoned with at the best of times.

4 notes · View notes

zywesrebro-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Freefalling

My name is Pietro Maximoff. I’m sixty nine years old, I’m an Aries, and my life has always followed the predominant assumption that everyone who meets me grows to hate me, one way or another.

Following Pietro on an average day, four months after his resignation from Serval Industries. 5k. Pietro Maximoff/Remy LeBeau. First person POV, character study.

My name is Pietro Maximoff. I am sixty nine years old, I’m an Aries, and my life has always followed the predominant assumption that everyone who meets me grows to hate me, one way or another.

I am currently falling at approximately one hundred and sixty metres per second, and the wind from the fall is pressing minimally at the back of my neck. I am on my back, my legs apart at a thirty degree angle, my arms similarly spread away from my torso. Above me, I can see the X-Jet I fell from, going to the edge of the craft and letting myself fall backwards.

An expression of horror had crossed over the face of Abigail Brand, but then she had seen my expression of calm, and had copied it.

Brand is a sensible woman.

The fall from a flight craft at eight thousand metres will take about forty seconds: for me, this is a leisurely relaxation, suspended as I am in the air, falling in slow motion. I look at my watch. I designed its prototype in 1969, not long after Wanda and I first came to America, but it has gone through a thousand evolutions since then, the least of which being its transformation into a digital clock face rather than an analogue one.

The time is 13:12:34, it tells me, in the upper right hand corner. The time between the thirty fourth second of the minute and the thirty fifth seems like an eternity. In order to measure my time, I divide the day not into twenty four hours, but into one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes, and subsequently into eighty six thousand four hundred seconds.

Abigail Brand is calm, in part, because Hank McCoy has told her that these minutes and seconds are my equivalent of hours and minutes, and that every day stretches on for me as months would for somebody else. She’s not stupid enough to feel any sympathy, but Hank does.

Sometimes, people hate me, and then they change their minds. I wish he never had.

Closing my eyes, I tip my head slightly backwards, moving my body at angle: immediately, the wind whistles high in my ears as I increase in speed, and I wait until I’m five hundred metres or so above ground before I whip my body to the side. My head is full with a torrent of mathematical calculations, but they’re not difficult any more, and they’re not even necessary – I can perform this sort of manoeuvre from muscle memory alone.

I hear the yells slowed down immensely as I bring my little tornado into control, sending dust, dirt and pieces of concrete swirling about me as I spin, suspended by my own momentum, in air.

The robot turns too slowly to realize her folly, and I slam her down onto the ground with the force of a hurricane. Dropping into the robot’s carapace, I slam my fist into its chest at speed, tearing into the metal and dragging it from its moorings (I feel my knuckles crack. They’ll heal within the hour.)

The girl inside is staring at me, coughing with the sudden punch to her back the fall had given her, and her eyes are wide with fear. She is terrified of me. She’s hardly the first.

I unbuckle her from the robot’s harnesses, pulling her out of its spark-hissing form, and in a second her hands are cuffed behind her back; I turn to face the extraction team. Hank is yet to land the X-Jet, so instead, I’m faced with Emma Frost, Scott Summers, and Ororo Munroe. Two out of three are staring at me stonily, and none of them say a word. Ororo has a slight smile on her face, but this is only because she has been struck, for a moment, by how our powers might intersect, if I used wind more often.

“Good work, kid,” Logan says, stepping forwards, and I gently push the girl toward him. She’s maybe eighteen, nineteen – the daughter of some mogul, and her work with technology has to be seen to be believed. Genius mutants always have it the hardest, I think – they’re the most likely to get bored.

“I’m nearly seventy, Logan,” I point out, quietly. He retorts with a gruff huff of sound, and I turn away, walking towards where the X-Jet is landing in Central Park. The city council hates it when they do that, but they hate it when children lead robots through destructive rampages through the city, too.

I step aboard the jet, changing out of my suit and into my civilian clothes.

“Thank you, Pietro,” Hank murmurs quietly as I button up my shirt. I look at him in the window of the jet, polished to a shine. He looks tired; he often does, these days. “Speed was of the essence.”

“You didn’t tell them you were dropping me in,” I say. Hank’s eyes flicker about the room, and his tongue, which is rough as a cat’s, flickers over his whiskered lips.

“Now—”

“You should have told them,” I murmur, before he can give me some explanation or excuse. Mutants like Summers and Frost are hyperfocused upon control, and they dislike having their thunder stolen from beneath them, even if Logan views it as an easy job. “You know their anger won’t be directed at you, if they choose to show it.” Hank’s eyes soften. He hadn’t thought of it that way.

Guilt shines from his face, but I have enough guilt of my own, and I don’t engage it.

Hank’s paw touches my shoulder as I make my way back toward the entrance of the jet. The blue pads are warm, the pressure of his claws soft against the white fabric of my shirt, and he says softly, “You should join us again at the mansion, Pietro. We’re lacking a mathematics teacher, at the moment, and no one can engage the children in the subject like you can.”

“I wish everybody would stop offering me employment,” I say. I left the X-Factor nearly four months ago now, and it seems that every day someone else is asking me to join a different team, and barring Hank, who seems to do it purely out of worry for me, the majority of the offers come with an element of superiority that I cannot stand. “My apartment works for me. I don’t wish to move.”

“You truly think the commute would be difficult for you?” Hank inquires, tone arch. Then, he says, “Pietro, I could replicate your apartment in its entirety. We’ve been expanding our basement space: I could give you your own kitchen, bathroom, and lock them to your DNA. The children wouldn’t be at risk.”

I stare at Hank’s face. I’m so struck by what he’s said that that it must show in my face, because his expression remains focussed in its earnestness, and I tear my gaze away from his eyes to instead look somewhere in the vicinity of his hairy chin.

“Pietro?” Hank asks softly. The first time Hank did an analysis of my body’s functions, I was coming up to forty years old, and I’d done it as a favour to him: it was a gesture of good will, to allow him to better understand my limits and my biology, and he’d realized in those three days the way that I perceived the world. So many people, after all, assume that I only see things as super slow when I’m moving at super speed, but in actual fact, things are always moving slow, and I’m always perceiving them that way. If my brain couldn’t think that fast, I suppose the stress of my condition would kill me, but it’s difficult nonetheless. I had to learn to speak and hear anew, when I was nine years old and my powers activated. Hank’s never looked at me the same since.

“I’ll give it thought,” I hear myself say, and I walk past Hank, putting my satchel over my shoulder – it holds my suit, my phone, my wallet, a tablet computer. The sort of thing one doesn’t wish to hold in one’s super suit. As I take the steps down onto the impromptu airfield, I see Frost speaking with the girl I’d taken in; Munroe is putting the remnants of the robot inside the plane, with Summers overseeing her work.

“Hey, kid,” Logan says. He has a cigar in his hand, but it doesn’t seem he’s smoked too much of it, and when he watches me, I feel uncomfortably analysed. Wolverine isn’t ancient, but despite his relative youth, he looks at me in the same transparent way that Charles Xavier used to look at me, and the way my father does, at times. He looks at me as if he can see everything I’ve ever felt, even though I know for a fact that he can’t.

“Logan,” I say quietly. I feel myself stiffen slightly, waiting for what it is he has to say: Logan’s eyes narrow slightly. What people underestimate about me is how much I can see in their faces, how obvious their micro-expressions are to someone like me, who can see every single tiny shift in the muscles of their cheeks, their mouths, their eyes. Logan knows, though. I remember a day when I was back at the mansion, forming part of a discussion group with Kitty Pryde about Jewish history’s intersections with mutant history, and a group of delighted children had demanded my opinion on some television show called Lie To Me.

I hate television.

“Hank invited you back to the school?”

“Yes.”

“You gonna?”

“I don’t know.” It’s honest. There’s little point in lying to the Wolverine. I look down at him, look at the way he’s leaning against the wall – there’s so much violence crammed into such a small form, with Wolverine. “You’re staying for the foreseeable future, I presume?”

“Yeah,” he says, bringing the cigar to his mouth. I first tried a cigarette in ’66 – Wanda and I had been in Paris, and while she was doing some job by the river, I’d slipped into a bar to see if they had any work going. I’d been eighteen, dressed as neatly as I could manage, and a man had took me by the arm, pulling me into his circle of students, all my age, and yet so much older, it seemed. A pretty girl had given me a drag of her cigarette, and I’d drawn in the tobacco a little too quickly, burned my mouth on the cigarette’s suddenly flaming butt. They’d thought it was a magic trick, and I left before they could think any differently. When I told Logan that story, a few years ago now, he’d grinned as wryly as I’ve ever seen, and promised he wouldn’t tell my sister. I wonder if he thinks about that moment as much as I do. “How’s retirement treating you?”

“It’s not as relaxing as I expected.” Logan snorts, tipping ash onto the ground, and he shows his teeth. “The X-Factor is doing very well without me, though – better press.” They are. There was a photograph on the news of Remy LeBeau with blood on his face, carrying a child from a building as it collapsed around them, and I haven’t heard a single bit of criticism in any of the mainstream news.

“More casualties, though,” Logan points out, dryly, and I see the way his eyes focus on my face, looking to see if I’ll weaken my resolve or show any guilt. I don’t. There have been one or two deaths – the X-Factor not getting there in time, or not being able to move fast enough, but no more than any other super team on the circuit. Logan’s smile deepens. “You working on your gadgets and stuff, huh?”

“They’re not gadgets, Logan.”

“Nah, they’re not,” Logan agrees. “I saw the budget the Xavier School puts for Magda Korp. in Emma’s office. What do you do with all that money?” Pietro can’t help but smile a little.

“I donate a lot of it back under my own name,” I say in a mild tone, and Logan sniggers. The irony of the situation delights him – of every person at the Xavier school, Hank and Logan are the only people aware of who owns the leading corporation in the world for the creation and design of prosthetics and learning aids for mutant children and teenagers. Pietro started the Magda Korporacja in 1982, stationing his offices out of Chicago, and now that he is no longer a member of the X-Factor, most of his time is focused upon his own work, at home. Logan opens his mouth to keep on talking, but Summers approaches us, and I turn to face him.

“Just be careful,” Logan says. Despite my best efforts, I feel my brows shift furrow in perplexity.

“What are you talking about?” Summers asks. Looking over his head, I can see Hank and Abigail peering out of the cockpit, exchanging words – it’s difficult to read Hank’s lips, as a result of the shape of his face, but I can read the questions Abigail is asking him on hers. We must be better than television for her.

“Maximoff wants to fuck my kid,” Logan says. I feel my eyes widen before I can force my expression back to something resembling neutrality, and then I turn to meet the gaze of Summers’ visor: disgust shows in the shift of his lips, as well as a mild curiosity. In the moment, I simultaneously despise and admire Logan’s quick thinking.

“Laura’s gonna tear you apart,” Summers says, with a slight satisfaction. It irritates me, how his disgust gives way to a sort of smugness, and I feel the desire to cut through it like a knife.

“Daken, actually,” I correct him, replacing one lie with another, and Summers actually recoils. If I could see his eyes, I wonder what would pass through them – fear? Uncorrupted surprise? Further curiosity? The visor is crucial, of course, but not for the first time, I find myself wishing it wasn’t there, so that I could make a measure of Summers in the way I can of other men.

“I can’t exactly see him settling down for a candlelit dinner,” Summers says.

“Who says that’s what I want?” I ask. And there it is – not just horror, but a mix of something else, more curiosity, intrigue. I see Scott’s tongue flicker against the upper part of his lip, and I tilt my head slightly to the side, looking to Logan. Logan’s making a face, his nose wrinkled – what I can see in the slow-motion movement of other people’s faces, he can smell in the air. What must that be like? He and Hank have the same supernatural awareness of other people’s feelings, their inner thoughts, and it might not be as exact as telepathy, but a man like Summers should know better than to underestimate it. “See you, Logan.”

“Bye bye, kid,” Logan replies, and I don’t bother with the ultra-slow walk I’ve perfected for life among the normal people – for me, it’s a brisk walk, but it’s at my speed, and the New Yorkers I pass by see only a grey-clad blur of motion, but this is a city of mutants, and no one bothers to complain – not within my earshot anyway.

I don’t bother with the elevator in my building – it runs at a safe speed for every other tenant in the block, and I prefer the stairs anyway. I head up to the fourth floor, unlock the door, and step inside.

“Tommy?”

“Hey, Uncle P,” Tommy’ voice rings through my apartment, sailing with ease under the high ceilings, and I close the door behind me. Tommy is sprawled on the sofa, and his fingers move over the reinforced controls of my modified Xbox at speed, and I lean on the back of the couch behind him, watching the screen. It’s not one of my games – it’s some zombie game, with the predominant focus seeming to be on violence and gore. “You left your window open.”

I slap him – lightly – upside the head, and say, “No, I didn’t.” Tommy chuckles to himself, sending bullets through the oncoming torrent of stumbling monsters, and I walk into the kitchen, putting a wok onto the hob and flicking on the heat before moving to wash my hands. My kitchen is dangerous for most – my water pressure is enough to flay the skin off most people, and by the time I dry my hands on a towel, my wok is hot enough to cook chicken – less than twelve seconds. “Have you eaten, Tommy?”

“Uh-huh,” Tommy says, distractedly. A lie. I press my lips together, resisting the urge to roll my eyes (“That’s an ugly expression, Pietro,” Marya Maximoff used to tut at me, when I was still very young, and I don’t even remember what her face looked like, but I remember the cadence of her voice), and I take some chicken from the fridge, beginning to chop it into pieces. “You got any bacon?”

“Yeah, Rabbi Greenberg says it’s full of nutrients,” I retort, and there’s a short pause.

“Oh, right, yeah,” Tommy says. “I forgot.” I can’t help the chuckle that draws itself from my mouth, and I pour oil into the pan, massaging seasoning into the chicken on the chopping board. “Guess I can’t have cheese on my chicken either, huh?”

“You can have cheese on it if you want, but I won’t be having any on mine,” I say, and I flick the chicken into the pan, dropping in some peppers, some tomatoes, some crushed cloves of garlic. Outside, it begins to rain, and I watch the rain as it falls past my kitchen window, the little droplets going slowly, slowly, down towards the ground. I feel my lips quirk up into a smile: I love rain. Cooking at my speed involves a lot of concentration: the temperatures are too high not to keep my gaze upon the pan, because otherwise the chicken will stick or burn, but it can be done, and not with too much difficulty.

It’s not uncommon for me to return home and find Tommy in my apartment, eating the food from my fridge, playing games on my television, or reading books from the mini library in my guest bedroom. Tommy has a place of his own, but he shares it with a few people his age, and much as he studies my modifications of games consoles, the games don’t run as smoothly as they do here. Tommy never realized, I’m sure, how much his encouraging me to play videogames would benefit him, in that regard, but I actually find some enjoyment in having the consoles there.

When I can use them, of course.

I don’t mind.

I drop a few handfuls of noodles into the pan, stirring them into the mix, and I pick up the note sticking from the fridge: Hey, Pietro, I came over earlier and waited for an hour, but you didn’t seem like you were home soon. I wanted to ask if you wanted to go halvesies with me and Tommy on planting a tree for Grandpa for his eighty-fifth birthday. Text me. Billy. I arch an eyebrow, then drop the paper into the recycling bin, grasping the wok by the handle and giving it a light shake.

I don’t understand Billy, and I don’t pretend to: even in my converting to Judaism six years ago, spending time together at holidays, Billy and I have very little in common, though he is just as likely as Tommy to break into my apartment and “hang out”, though usually he’ll just sit in my living room or on the guest bed and read or surf the Internet. Tommy comes to my apartment because he likes the relaxation of an environment tailored to speed like his own, because food is expensive and he knows he’ll be fed here, because (for some reason I can’t entirely fathom) he has affection for me, and enjoys spending time with me. Billy shows up because he vaguely wants my approval, and because none of his bizarre little friends will look for him here.

“Did Billy tell you about this tree thing?”

“For Grandpa? Yeah, he says it’s like a whole thing, you buy a tree in Israel and you get like, a certificate and stuff, right? He gave me a pamphlet.” I hear Tommy swear before the television flickers off, and then I feel the shift in the air as he moves into the kitchen, looking over my shoulder. “You nearly done?”

“I thought you said you’d eaten?”

“I wasn’t listening,” Tommy admits, and I flick my head toward the cupboard behind me: he takes out two shallow bowls and sets them on the table, and with a set of tongs I put out the chicken stir fry on the plates, and then he asks, “You gonna go in for the tree?”

“No,” I say. “I’ll give you the money for your half, though.” Tommy seems to weigh this up, then he shrugs his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says, and he takes his bowl before heading over to the sofa again: he catches himself just before he sits down, and then alters his course, moving to sit at the living room table. I can’t help the slight smile on my face: Luna is a well-behaved child, but without a particular rule in place, she does as she pleases. I’ve never banned guests from eating from their laps in front of the television, but Tommy looks for signs of disgust, of distaste, in me. I wonder how much we really have in common, sometimes – it seems like too much. “What you gonna get him?”

“I bought him a sweater from that Judaica store in Brooklyn. It has Magneto was right written in Hebrew on it, and a big knitted picture of his face.” Tommy starts laughing, and I grin to myself as I take down two glasses from the cupboard, pouring myself a glass of lemonade and pouring orange juice out for Tommy. He flicks two coasters into place on the table, and I set the glasses down, sitting down beside him.

“That’s crazy, man,” Tommy says, and he begins to eat. “You think he’ll like it?”

“He’ll be a mixture of delighted and disgusted. That’s my general goal on these occasions.” Father’s birthday isn’t until next month, though, so I’m going to suspend my anxieties for the time being. Tommy and I make idle conversation as we eat, and it’s pleasant enough – I’m well-used to eating alone, but I take no issue with having companionship. It’s nice.

After they finish, I take the bowls to the sink and wash them up, setting them upon the draining board.

“I’m gonna head out. I’m meeting David and Loki for drinks in Manhattan. You wanna come?”

“No,” I say bluntly. Tommy grins.

“Yeah, I figured. See ya, Uncle Pete!”

“Goodbye, Tommy,” I murmur, and I focus on washing up the wok and spatula as he leaves. I realize, after a few moments, that I haven’t heard the door slam closed, and I frown, stepping away from the sink and leaning back to look at the door. I stop, holding the towel in one hand and a plate in the other.

“Hey there, cher,” Remy says; in contrast to Tommy’s voice, Remy’s voice is obscenely low and he speaks far too slowly, but I force myself to concentrate on it, on analysing the words as they’re spoken, despite their slow speed. “Had some uncle-nephew time, huh?”

“He just stayed for dinner,” I answer, and I wipe the moisture from the plate, putting it away. Remy is wet from the rain, his coat heavy with it, and he pulls it from his shoulders: he knows me too well to hang it on the coat rack, and instead holds it out from me so that I can hang it from the bar above the bath instead, which is precisely what I do. I flick the kettle on (I brought it home from a trip to Limerick a year or two ago, as Americans don’t really sell electric kettles), and I feel myself strangely struck by his presence as he closes the door and carefully takes off his shoes, setting them beside the doormat.

Except for his appearances on the news, I haven’t seen Remy since I handed in my letter of resignation to Serval Industries: I still see Lorna when Wanda or Billy forces us to have a family dinner together, or when she and I train together in the basement of this building, but everyone else, I avoid – it’s pretty nice, not having Danger’s irritating steadfastness in my life, I have to admit.

“Would you like coffee or tea?” The surprise has hit me hard: rather than the usual jibes I know I’d fall into, I feel myself settle into polite hospitality, and I feel a twinge of self-loathing.

“Nah, cher,” Remy murmurs, walking into my apartment as if he’s been here a thousand times before – he’s not been here once. “Let Remy make you a nice cup of cocoa.” He comes towards the kitchen, but I block his entry.

“I can make hot chocolate,” I say, quietly. “But you can’t use anything in my kitchen. You’ll get hurt. My appliances run too hot and too fast.” Remy freezes, something similar to uncertainty passing over his face: his features show no distrust and no hurt, but merely surprise, and the slightest bit of shame.

“Right. Sure, sorry – Remy didn’t mean ta worry ya.” He settles down at the kitchen table, and then says, “I’d like a cup of joe, if ya don’t mind.”

“No,” I murmur, and I find it curiously close to true, turning around and pouring some ground coffee beans into a mug, following it with some hot water and then some milk, some cream, some sugar. LeBeau likes his coffee sweet – I know that like I know there are stars in the sky. I set the mug next to him, upon a coaster, and he looks up at me. He looks thoughtful. “Why are you here?”

“Would you believe I missed ya?” Remy asks, and I settle slowly into the seat across from him, watching Remy’s expression. He doesn’t look like he’s lying, doesn’t show any signs of it – Remy’s a good liar, but I know from experience that I can pinpoint the initial signs of deception in him. I can’t quite see what he’s feeling, because his face is a mask of neutrality…

But how can I judge him? Don’t I do the same?

Remy looks down at his coffee mug, at the soft swirl of cream as it sinks slowly into the dark liquid, and then he looks up to me again. I’ve always found it strange how engaging Remy’s eyes are – his sunglasses are hanging from the collar of his shirt, baring them to the room, and Pietro looks at their black shape, the little dots of red that form his pupils.

Remy and I share so little in common, but one of the things that we do share, that we always have and always will share, is that our secondary physical mutations – his eyes and my hair – makes us immediately visible to passers by even if we hide our primary mutations. In some ways, that places us on level ground.

“Why’d you quit Serval Industries?” Remy asks. The question is slightly heavy, weighted down with some internal uncertainty… But Pietro doesn’t always tell the truth. Sometimes, a half-truth is what one needs.

“During the six months I worked in the X-Factor, I received twelve thousand, nine hundred and thirty two pieces of hate mail. Six hundred and nine of those were threats upon my life. Fifty seven were threats upon my daughter, and my nephews.” Remy stares at my face with so much shock, and I wonder how he couldn’t have realized, how he couldn’t have known. “That isn’t especially unusual, Remy. I’m sure you get similar missives, but Serval Industries looks after your fan email and your PO box. I’ve had messages like this for a long time, and it was just too much for me.”

“That’s it?” Remy asks. “That’s the reason?”

“Yes,” I murmur. “I’ve been receiving messages like that for forty years, Remy. It isn’t the end of my life. I just didn’t want to deal with them anymore, particularly not after Luna was in the press, and Billy and Tommy.”

“How many messages you got since you left?”

“One thousand three hundred and nine.” Remy whistles, taking a sip of the coffee: cream clings to his stubble, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

“Seems ta me like that’s still a lot.”

“It is. But it’s never as much when I’m out of the public eye.” Remy drums his fingers on the table: he seems anxious about something, or worried, and I have to wonder if he’s working up to something. Asking for my help? No, he’d have gone to someone else, anyone else. “You’re not here to ask me to come back, are you?”

“Nah, nah. No.” Remy meets my eyes. “I came to ask ya out for dinner.”

“Dinner? I’ve just eaten, but we can speak here, it’s quite secu-”

“Naw, it’s not about security. S’about dinner, cher. Dinner. Drinks.” What the Hell is he going on about? “God, Maximoff, ain’t anybody ever asked’chu on a date before?” I feel my jaw drop. I must look ridiculous, gaping at LeBeau with my mouth open like a fish. “Look, lemme explain… I kinda figured you’d come back, and then ya didn’t. A week went by, a month, two months. We moved on, teams change. But I still missed ya. Couldn’t make head or tail of it – and you know how good I am with coin tosses, huh? So I thunk about it—”

“Thought,” I murmur, the correction falling from my mouth unbidden.

“I thunk about it… And I figure we should go out on a date, non? Nice food, maybe a little wine, some passionate sex, and we can go from there.”

I’m staring at him. I can’t quite stop. I study his face, searching for some implication that this is a joke, but I see nothing but seriousness: I’ve never contemplated a date with LeBeau, but for the occasional castaway thought that he’s pleasantly built for a man, and I feel as if I’ve been stunned.

“Alright,” I hear myself say. The word echoes in my head.

“Really?”

“Were you not serious?”

“Yeah, I sure was. Just wasn’t sure you were, honey.”

“Have you ever known me to be anything but serious?”

“Let’s go to that wine bar out by the docks.”

“Do you like wine?”

“Sure do.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

My name is Pietro Maximoff,. I’m sixty nine years old, and I’m an Aries. If I had to be brutally honest, I would tell you that I am so, so used to people hating me that when I’m faced with an admission of anything less, I don’t know what to do with it.

I am currently pulling on my coat so that I can go out on a date with my former team mate, a man who I believed, without a doubt, despised me, Remy LeBeau.

#pietro maximoff #quickbit #remy lebeau #gamquick #fanfiction #marvel #marvel 616

25 notes · View notes

jbuffyangel · 8 years ago

Text

Let It Go: Arrow 5x21 Review (Honor Thy Fathers)

See... this is what happens when I don’t pull all nighters. My life interferes with my ability to write insanely long reviews. Sorry for the wait my friends. Your patience is appreciated.

There comes a moment in every person's life when you realize your life is your own, a separate entity beyond your parent's expectations and dreams for you. You also see your parents for what they are... imperfect people just like you. There is freedom in these realizations and it is a crucial part of adulthood. As you grow older, your life is less and less defined by being what your parents leave behind. You begin to wonder what you will leave behind. You define a legacy for yourself. You learn how to live for yourself.

That is essentially the process both Oliver and Thea are going through in "Honor Thy Fathers" but because they are superheroes everything is on a super scale. Both Oliver and Thea faced their past tonight. They saw Robert Queen for who he really was and with those lessons came a certain peace. The past is no longer weighing them down. Both Thea and Oliver are free to look to the future.

Not quite sure what to do with a television show that gives me everything I've been waiting for on a narrative level. So... Imma gonna drink wine and throw confetti.

Let's dig in...

Olicity

I am very specifically incorporating Oliver's section of the review with Felicity because he could not have gotten here without her. That's true for both this episode and this five year journey.

This is sort of my Arrow mantra, but let’s do this again for old times sake shall we? In every hero's story, there is a great love. This love is what the hero fights for, sacrifices for and lives for. This love is what makes the hero a hero.

The wonderful thing about Oliver and Felicity's love story is they are each heroes in their own right. The love Oliver has for Felicity has helped her evolve into the hero she is and the love Felicity has for Oliver has helped him evolve into the hero he is.

However, "Honor Thy Fathers" was specifically about Oliver. The road to the Green Arrow was long and difficult. I've always said when Oliver becomes the Green Arrow he will ready for Felicity. She is the last piece to this puzzle. However, he cannot become the Green Arrow without her. Oliver must walk this road alone sometimes, but he also must walk it with Felicity. What's so beautiful about "Honor Thy Fathers" is not only did Felicity walk those final steps with Oliver... she held his hand.

Chase sent Oliver a corpse encased in concrete because... the fun? Honestly, Prometheus does the most fucked up things and I love him for it. Arrow has found its off the wall, loony tunes Joker and please oh please can we keep him?

It's a fifteen year old corpse, so it's not Robert Queen like we presumed. It's actually much worse. It's the body of the man Robert Queen killed. Now, way back in Season 1 the audience was told this little nugget of information in the flashbacks of 1x21 "The Undertaking." Oliver, however, was not. For those of you who are like me and have absolutely no recollection of this information, allow me to fill you in:

Robert Queen: Because I'm not the man you think I am. About a month before the opening of the steel factory, the one in The Glades, I was approached by a local councilman. He wanted money. Told me that's the way everything was done in The Glades. I told him I never paid a bribe in my life. We got into an argument. I didn't want to hurt him, I swear Moira, but he fell.

Moira: Oh dear God.

Robert: The work I'm doing with Malcolm, with the list, it's my penance Moira.

Moira: So you'll atone for one murder by committing hundreds? Thousands? Robert, you listen to me, whatever wrongs you've committed, whatever mistakes you've made, preventing this horror is your chance to make it right. Please Robert, promise me you won't let this happen.

Robert tried to make it right. He plans in motion to stop Malcolm. He told Moira everything was going to be alright... and he got on the boat.

Note the episode number. We found out the truth about Robert Queen in the flashbacks of 1x21. It is no accident that, four years later, Oliver is finally coming to grips with that truth in 5x21. Robert Queen's death is the catalyst for Oliver's hero's journey and the beginning of his pain. This road for Oliver began with father, which is why it has to end with him.

Our lives can change in a breath. One decision, one moment, can change your life, change you, forever. As Robert Queen held his son on that boat he was given a gift. A moment of clarity. Robert saw his son for who he was and everything he could be. When Robert looked into Oliver's eyes, he saw the legacy he wanted to build, but death would not allow. Robert didn't know how, but somehow he knew Oliver would survive. Oliver would make it home. He would make it better. Oliver would right his wrongs.

Anatoly: That video. He wants you to save your home. I do not think Kapiushon is what he had in mind.

The thrill of the characters voicing my thoughts never gets old.

Anatoly is right. Robert Queen never imagined the Green Arrow. He saw something different I think and it gave Robert the courage, and the peace, to pull the trigger.

However, Robert's death has weighed Oliver down for ten years. Oliver has never been the same since then. He blamed himself for Robert's death. It's the reason why Oliver believed he enjoyed killing. He believed he was a monster long before Prometheus came into the picture. He just was too scared to admit it.

Arrow is pushing Oliver to face the truth on multiple levels. Last week, he confessed his deepest shame to Felicity and discovered that his deepest fear, Felicity leaving, was for naught. Instead, truth is what brought her home.

Truth is what made Felicity stay. Truth led Oliver to forgiveness and opened the door to the love that's been waiting for him all along.

But Felicity isn't the whole story. There's more truth Oliver has to discover, both on his own and with Felicity by his side. Primary among that is the truth about Robert Queen. Oliver has to understand who his father really was and what that means for him.

Naming the darkness was the first step.

Confessing to Diggle, so Oliver’s mind could understand the truth, was the second step.

Confessing to Felicity, to love, so his heart could believe the truth, was the third step.

And understanding his father, in a way Oliver never has before, is the final step.

Step to what you ask? To letting the pain go.

Oliver is convinced Chase is framing Robert. There is no way Robert killed this councilman, even though Dinah and Lance bring some hard-to-defy evidence like Robert's DNA under the councilman's skin. Damn that pesky concrete. Conservation is a motherfucker.

Oh Oliver... my sweet summer child. You poor bastard.

It's no secret that Oliver views his family with rose colored glasses, but there's something eternally innocent about the way Oliver loves his family. It's like he's trying to hold on to the way he remembered them before the Island. Except, every new secret unearthed makes that memory seem further and further away.

What Oliver doesn't understand, and what he will come to realize, is seeing someone for who they truly are is still love. Unconditional love doesn't mean we are ignorant to the flaws of those we love. It doesn't mean we cannot demand better. It simply means we continue to love that person while acknowledging the truth of who they are. It's a more complete way of loving. A more honest love.

Of course, Chase has thought of everything, which includes irrefutable proof that he leaves with his father's attorney - the last man to see the councilman alive. The proof is security footage of Robert Queen killing the councilman.

Now, generally speaking, this is the least murdery murder video I've ever seen.

It's CLEARLY an accident, but that makes it all the more tragic. Instead of telling the truth, Robert Queen runs away. He covers it up. If Robert had confessed and shown the video to the police, yes there probably would have been consequences (Murder 2 is a thing), but nowhere near as severe as the punishment for covering it up.

This mistake is what led Robert Queen to Malcolm Merlyn. It why Robert believed in the list. It was his penance. It's also what put him deep inside The Undertaking and squarely in Merlyn's crosshairs.

Shame runs deep into our marrow, until it becomes part of who you are. Robert's shame led him down a dark path, just like Oliver's did. Say what you will about Robert and Moira's marriage, but it was confessing to his wife that made Robert see the truth. Just like Oliver confessing to Felicity made him see the truth.

Oliver is horrified after watching the video. So... let's talk about this because Oliver's reaction is slightly confusing. First, he knew Robert was a murderer. Robert shot the other man on the raft before he shot himself. THAT COUNTS OLIVER.

Also, his involvement with the Undertaking was pretty shady. So, why is Oliver freaking about little Mr. Accidental Death?

Well... I think we need to keep a couple things in mind. First, this is five years later. Initially when Oliver came home he had a lot of difficulty with the knowledge that Robert failed the city, the list and the Undertaking.

By the time Oliver arrives to the end of 1x23, and his battle with Merlyn, he believes his father was trying to stop The Undertaking and that's why Merlyn killed Robert. All factual. So, after the events of Season 1, Oliver is able to view his father in an honorable light despite his past mistakes.

As for the man on the raft, Oliver views that murder as his father doing what he had to for Oliver to survive. The key is, Oliver is able explain his father's actions to himself. He is not able to do the same with the councilman.

I don't think Oliver has as much of a problem with the killing as he does the lying, which is extremely interesting given what he's just gone through with Felicity. Oliver can tell the difference between accidentally knocking someone into a pit of cement versus breaking someone's neck. Intent matters. So, Oliver is willing to give his father a pass on the actual killing because it was an accident. It's why Oliver defends Robert to Thea.

Oliver: That was an accident.

Thea: Yeah, an accident he tried to cover up.

Yuuup. That about sums it up kiddos. A+ work Queen sibilings. Both are right. It was an accident, but Robert did nothing to try and save the man. Concrete actually takes some time to harden there Bobby. You could have taken a minute to investigate or call the police. There was time.

Instead, Robert leaves and covers it up.

Oliver is having a very Felicity Smoak like reaction to all of this. Oliver thought he knew everything about his father. He thought he knew all of Robert's secrets. Oliver had dealt with and processed all of those secrets. Then, he comes to find there's another one lurking around the corner. Is it the worst thing Robert ever did? Well... it's not good! That's for sure.

Whether or not it's the worst is debatable, but the excuses and reasoning Oliver used to justify his father's actions on the raft and with the Undertaking don't quite fit with the councilman. Oliver has the rug pulled out from under him with this revelation. It makes him question everything about Robert Queen.

This is precisely what happened to Felicity when she discovered Oliver's lie about William. Felicity thought she knew Oliver's secrets and processed all of them. Felicity thought they were past this and then she comes to find out that there's another lurking around the corner. She had the rug pulled out from under her.

The effect is jarring and takes some time for Oliver to process - just like it did for Felicity. Luckily for Oliver, he has Felicity to help guide him through it precisely because they've found a way to weather the William lie.

I love Felicity's reaction to Oliver watching Robert's video again. "No pressure." I mean... seriously.

The enormity of what Robert was putting on Oliver's shoulders is not often discussed, but this was one hefty load to bear. The fact that Oliver rose to the occasion is just more proof Robert Queen saw the hero Oliver truly could be in those final moments.

Oliver: Chase wants to destroy the basis for everything that we’re doing here and that crusade began with my father. Everything that I’ve done, everything, has been in some way about honoring him.

Once again, Oliver tells Felicity what he's afraid of. He's getting pretty good at this isn't he?

He tells Felicity that he missed the truth - Robert Queen is a murderer. Oliver puts killing the councilman and covering it up in a different bracket than helping Merlyn with the Undertaking (but ultimately trying to stop it) or murdering the man on the raft. For Oliver, this is the worst thing Robert has ever done. Robert Queen would agree.

Chase's mission is to get Oliver to believe he's a hypocrite and a killer. The subsequent confession that resulted from the torture made Oliver believe those things were true. Thanks to Diggle and Felicity's love, Oliver understands the truth now. There's a difference between enjoying killing and believing he enjoys it. Oliver's deepest fear was that, deep down, he was a monster. The killing was a manifestation of who he truly is. As I explained in my 5x20 review, the reason Oliver so readily believed the lie is because he believes he killed his father.

Oliver believed he was a monster before he stepped foot on Lian Yu.

Except, Oliver isn't a monster who enjoys killing nor is he to blame for Robert Queen's death. Oliver Queen is an imperfect man, as we all are. Oliver is realizing on a deeper level that his father was just as imperfect. This is ultimately a gift. It's pushing Oliver to see what Robert truly meant by, "Right my wrongs."

Oliver likes to put people in boxes - including himself. You are either one thing or the other. People are far more complicated than that. Oliver is not a sociopath who enjoys killing. However, he has killed. Those two things are not the same though and there is a wide berth in the distinction between the two. It's the same with Robert Queen. Oliver's father may not be as honorable as he thought. However, he's not the monster Adrian Chase claims him to be.

At first, Oliver feared his mission was a lie because of who he is. Now, he fears it's a lie because of who Robert Queen was. Everything he's done was to honor a man who wasn't very honorable. In fact, Oliver has killed in his father's name. Is it any different than what Chase is doing for his father? Maybe Chase is right. Maybe Oliver is a hypocrite.

To which, Felicity responds...

The conversation Oliver and Felicity have about his father is nearly identical to the one she and Oliver had about him, which is exactly the point. Like father like son. The only way to stop the cycle is to change it.

No matter who Robert Queen was, he was a man who inspired Oliver to be a better man and save the city. All of which Oliver accomplished. Felicity argues perhaps the reasons for beginning the journey are not as important as the journey itself. PREACH MY SISTA!

As Oliver struggles with the truth of his father, Felicity tells him once again what she knows to be true. Oliver Queen, the Green Arrow, makes lives better, including hers. Felicity sees what Robert Queen saw in that boat. She's always seen it and that belief has helped Oliver see it too. Oliver did it. He became everything Robert asked him to be. Rather than question his motives for becoming the Green Arrow, Oliver simply needs to embrace it.

In other words... Oliver needs to let the past go.

As Oliver laments his inability to really move forward, because the past always pulls him back,

Felicity rightly points out it's because Oliver lets it. LORD IS THAT THE TRUTH.

Listen, it’s not like Oliver’s pain isn’t understandble. Homeboy has lived through THE SUCK. But... he doesn’t have to keep living there.

We cannot change the past. We can, however, change how we deal with it.

None of us belong to our past. None of us are defined by it. The past is a piece of who we are, but it is not the sum total of who we are. The difference between Oliver being hostage to his past and moving forward to the future is a matter of choice. It's been one Felicity has been asking him for a long time to make. Oliver simply hasn't been ready until now.

It's the same as confessing his secret. Say it out loud Oliver. Say it out loud so you can let it go. It's the reason it was so vitally important for Oliver to confess his shame to Felicity. Love reflected the truth to Oliver. Once he understood it, Oliver was able to let the shame go.

Not only does Oliver tell Felicity he knows she’s right...

he believes she's right. This is why Oliver needs Felicity. It why he will always need her. Knowledge speaks to the mind, but belief comes from the heart. It's why Oliver is able to process Robert's lie for what it is... and let it go.

Equally important is Oliver reaching out to Felicity. There is an ease between them. No more walls, but rather the intimacy that comes from the love and truth between them.

William was once a taboo topic, but now they talk easily about his whereabouts. Oliver asks Felicity for help with William and is reassured by it. THY NAME IS CHARACTER GROWTH!

And then... WE HAVE SHOULDER TOUCHING!!!

My actual reaction:

This is the Olicity equivalent to foreplay. Do not ask me where the rebuild is. SHOULDER TOUCH = REUNION. These are Olicity maths that don't lie.

More importantly, when Oliver discovers what Robert did he doesn't make the same mistake and push Felicity away. He doesn't isolate in his pain. Nor does Oliver allow his worst fears to dictate his reaction to her love.

Instead, Oliver opens up to Felicity. He's already told her the one thing he never wanted to. Facing that fear and shame makes facing all the rest easier. Lian Yu will always beckon to Oliver every time his past rears its head, but 5x20 taught Oliver how to leave the Island behind in a way he's never known before.

He makes the same choice in "Honor Thy Fathers." He didn't know it then, but there was a piece of himself Oliver was holding back in Season 4.

Oliver understands that now and faced it. This time, he doesn't hide from Felicity. Oliver chooses to leave the island behind and walk through the door Felicity opened in "Underneath."

Oliver shows Felicity the video. He listens. Oliver lets Felicity in. Her words land because Oliver allows them to. In this moment, Oliver chose home instead of the island because now he understands how to. Now he understands there's nothing to fear in that choice. This is the change Felicity asked for.

Oliver is ready. He's ready for Felicity, which means he's ready to be the Green Arrow - in the way he's meant to be.

Oliver puts on the suit, but it's Felicity's speech that galvanizes the choice. Oliver must become the Green Arrow to be worthy of the kind of relationship she deserves, but he cannot become the Green Arrow without her. Putting on the suit as a direct reaction to Felicity's words is the perfect way to encapsulate this symbiotic balance. It reinforces absolutely everything I've believed about Arrow and have spent the last three years writing about. I have to be honest, it's an extremely satisfying moment and worth waiting five years for.

Felicity harnesses his light once again. Felicity's belief makes Oliver believe like it has so many times before. Only this time Oliver knows he is worthy of the responsibility in a way he hasn't before. The darkness no longer has power over Oliver because he faced it. It means Oliver is able to see himself as more than just one thing - killer or hero/sinner or saint. He understands he's a complicated man, an imperfect man, but a man who is determined to always be better.

This belief also leads Oliver to some truth about who Robert Queen really is. Oliver is able to see his father the same way - a complicated man, an imperfect man, but a man who was determined to be better. This clarity leads to a gift.

Oliver tells Chase mid battle Justin Claybourne was going to disown him because...

The truth bomb is a bit jarring to be honest because the revelation to Oliver was off screen. I think I would have preferred to see Oliver obtain this little golden nugget and know the ace up his sleeve going into the fight with Chase. It felt less like a bomb and more like

I'm being a little nitpicky. I know, which is why I'm letting it go.

Chase wants to a side by side comparison of their fathers, Robert and Justin. Fine, let's play Crazy Pants. Let's just say accidentally killing a man and covering it up is on the same level as trying to gas the population with a terminal disease in order to make millions off the antibiotic. Or let's say being complicit in a plan to kill hundreds or thousands with an earthquake machine is the same as the terminal disease plan. Perhaps that's a more equal side by side comparisons.

First, Justin Claybourne expressed no remorse. In fact, most of those people landed on the list because they rejected the concept of remorse. It doesn't make it okay that Oliver killed him, but it certainly doesn't equate to the remorse Robert Queen felt for all his wrongs.

If this is really about honoring their fathers, then Chase missed a very key element. Justin Claybourne never wanted Sam to honor him. His father didn't want anything to do with him.

It's a moment of clarity for Oliver. Robert Queen was never asking Oliver to honor him. Robert was asking his son be more honorable than him. Robert believed in Oliver's goodness, in his heart, and had absolute faith his son would be a better man because... he already was one to Robert. Robert never stopped believing in Oliver and he gave up his life for this belief.

I don't think Oliver ever looked at it that way before. He understood his father made a courageous sacrifice for his survival, but Oliver has been so consumed with the guilt and shame over his father's death that he was never able to see himself through Robert's eyes. I don't think Robert was viewing Oliver with rose colored glasses. He knew the good, the bad and the ugly about his son and still... he believed. Robert saw Oliver the way Diggle sees him. The way Felicity sees him. Oliver Queen is imperfect, but he is worthy. Unconditional love is not an ignorance to flaws. It is belief in spite of them.

It's important not to discount William's role in Oliver's realizations and evolution. You understand how much your parents love you when you have a child of your own. I didn't know I had the capacity to love that much until my daughter. How does one put the infinite into words? It's a love absolutely worth dying for, but more importantly, it's one worth living for.

The councilman's murder revealed Robert's deepest shame. Oliver understands the full meaning of, "I'm not the man you thought I was" because he knows the truth. And because of everything he's gone through this season.

Robert Queen is where the shame began. Robert Queen is where the shame must end. Oliver sees his father clearly now and he understands that Robert's sins are not his own.

We are not condemned to live our parents lives, to make their mistakes or become who they were. There exists a choice. Make no mistake - it is very easy to fall into the same patterns as our parents. That's why we must be willing to see them for who they are - imperfect people. Just like us.

For so long, Oliver Queen has lived in the past. He allowed the past to dictate and control who he was.

Felicity's request to stop living in the past finally lands with Oliver because... he's ready for it to. The darkness has lost its power over him. The light has taken the stronger hold. Oliver is just... done. He's tired of being pulled back. It's time to move forward.

Sometimes it's easier to see who we are when we see ourselves reflected in someone we love. Thea immediately assumes because of who her parents were that's the reason she's grown up to be a monster. For Oliver, the last thing Thea is or could ever be is a monster. If Thea's fate isn't predetermined in Oliver's eyes... then wouldn't that be true for him as well?

Of course it is. We are not carbon copies of our parents. Oliver is not fated to be like Moira and Robert anymore than Thea is fated to be like Moira and Malcolm (and Robert). Their parents are part of Oliver and Thea, of course, and that includes their mistakes. However, they are not beholden to them. Our parents lives can be a great gift to us. We can see the twists and turns of their lives - the places where they made mistakes and where they triumphed. We are not meant to become our parents, but rather to learn from them - the good, the bad and the ugly. Not unlike the past.

Oliver gives Thea the video Robert left of her. He knows it was wrong to keep it from her. Oliver thought the video would be a burden, but he understands now it can be freeing for Thea. She needs to see herself through Robert's eyes, just like Oliver did.

There's another moment of significant change in Oliver. He doesn't kill Chase. The councilman's murder makes something crystal clear to Oliver - Robert's wrongs started with killing. Therefore, they cannot be fixed with killing.

"What good is a family without a soul?"

Anatoly you speak my truth! This is the question Robert asked himself in the video and it’s the question Oliver needs to start asking himself this. What good is Oliver really doing if he loses his soul in the process?

This has never been about the people Oliver has killed. Most, if not all, were very bad people and the world is better off without them. Oliver was justified in killing them, but that's really not the point. The point is the cost to Oliver's soul. All of this death takes a toll on him and it strips little pieces of it away. Oliver has to stop giving those pieces away, so he has to stop killing. Arrow is pushing Oliver to a stronger moral code. Something to hold to beyond rationalizations and justifications, because those can ebb and flow. That's not real morality. We can justify pretty much anything if we need to.

It's why Arrow incorporated killing with lying. It's not just about killing, but a broader morality. A more honorable one. Robert killed and he lied. Oliver killed and lied. We've seen the ramifications of both those choices and the roads they lead down.

Anatoly: The people closest to you always pay for your sins. You are paying for your father’s. Who will pay for yours?

Death begets death. There’s been a cost for Oliver and sometimes it was more than he can bear.

This is generational. Oliver is no longer the son. He's the father now. If he doesn't want to repeat Robert's mistakes, if this is really about being a better man, then Oliver has to learn from his father. So, William isn't pulled into the same generational cycle. It gives his mission, his morality, a new focus. Oliver has to look to the future, and not the past, to define it.

But first... there's one last thing Oliver needs to do for his father before he can really let it go.

Sometimes, if we're lucky, we are given a glimpse. It comes to us like... truth. I've experienced this in my own life. Once as a small child and then again, years later, when I was pregnant with my daughter. The first time it happened I was only 11. It was the night before a big and risky surgery and I was scared. I didn't want to fall asleep, primarily because I was afraid I wouldn't wake up after the operation. So, I was trying to stay awake as long as possible. I decided to say a prayer. I don't particularly remember what I prayed, but I do remember a voice. Loud and firm, but very gentle. It said, "You are going to be fine. Go to sleep." In that moment I was absolutely overwhelmed with a sense of peace. I never felt calm like that and I instantly fell asleep.

You can call me nuts. It's okay. Sometimes I wondered if I dreamed it, but then it happened again. When I was facing a life threatening pregnancy with my daughter. The voice was just as firm and loud. It kept saying, "28 weeks." And I knew, I KNEW, that's how long I had to hold on for my child to be okay. Eventually, my body just gave out and the doctors had to deliver her. My daughter's birthday was exactly 28 weeks to the day. As they wheeled me into surgery, I knew it was possible I might not wake up. The same peace overwhelmed me and I also knew, no matter if I survived or not, everything was going to be okay.

Y'all know by now I'm Catholic, so you can figure out who I attribute the voice to. I tell these stories because I think sometimes in moments of life and death, we're given these glimpses for a reason. These glimpses give us the strength to face what's coming, even if what's coming is death. Those moments weren't lonely for me and it gives me hope, that when it is my time, I'll be able to face it without fear.

We enjoy stories because they entertain, but also because they remind us of our own lives or we are able to glean some truth from them. I was hooked on Arrow before Felicity Smoak showed up.

Robert Queen's death is what hooked me. It was shocking and jarring. I immediately understood the horrors Oliver had survived and that it was just beginning. I needed to see where his story went.

So, that's what Robert's words to Oliver mean to me.

He was a given a glimpse and that is what gave him the strength to pull the trigger. I've often wondered what the glimpse looked like, whether it was a voice or an image or maybe both. Arrow answered a lot of questions in "Honor Thy Fathers" (like how Oliver learned to fly), but this was the question I wanted answer - What was Robert’s glimpse? It was this...

Robert Queen never imagined the Green Arrow. He only saw his son, dressed in a fine suit, taking responsibility for what he did. Oliver admitted Robert killed the councilman. He stood up and told the truth. By doing so, Oliver freed Robert of his shame. Oliver freed himself too. More than saving the city, this is what Robert meant by "right my wrongs."

Oliver isn't able to offer any defense for his father's crime because... there isn't one. Except perhaps fear, but that doesn't justify his actions. Oliver does, however, tell Star City about the man that he knew. He tells them that Robert, in a moment of courageousness, sacrificed his life for his son. It doesn't erase his sins, but penance isn't about that. It's about atonement.

A Face Like Mine by Peter Bradley Adams

I know he had a reason

I know a man can get lost

Whatever he believed in

I know he suffered the cost

His picture's almost faded

But I filled in the lines

And nothing's unforgiven

So father don't you cry

Now the years have found me

With a child of my own

Another generation

That must carry the load

But somewhere there's a memory

In the back of my mind

I see my father smiling

With a face like mine

This is a monumentally huge moment emotionally for Oliver. This is what letting go of the past looks like. Had Oliver found out about the councilman's murder four years ago, he would not have done this. He would have not told the truth. Oliver would have covered it up in the name of protecting his father. Oliver has a deeper understanding now of the truth honor really requires. He also understands what his father really needed in terms of "righting his wrongs."

Oliver also tells the truth about how Robert Queen died. "Honor Thy Fathers" is not the first time Arrow has used this title. 1x02 was entitled similarly, "Honor Thy Father." Oliver is very vague about Robert Queen's death.

Oliver implies, if not flat out lies, that Robert went down with the boat. That's the public story. It's the story Diggle knew before Oliver told him the truth. It's what Thea believed before Oliver told her the truth.

Now, Oliver tells Star City the truth. He tells everyone how Robert Queen really died. Oliver admitting this publically is such a profound statement on his healing. He isn't carrying the guilt or shame for Robert's death anymore. Whatever wrongs his father committed, Oliver can look back and see that moment, the moment where everything changed, as one of profound courage and unconditional love.

"I didn't know how painful it would be to keep my secrets. You asked me to save this city. To right your wrongs. I will. I swear. But to do that, I can't be the Oliver that everyone wants me to be. Which means that sometimes to honor your wishes I need to dishonor your memory."

Oliver made this speech to his father, kneeling in front of his grave. He had such a different perspective back then on what honoring Robert meant, the necessity of lies and the danger of truth. The weight of the past, of what Robert had asked of him, is weighing so heavily on Oliver in this moment it's almost crushing him.

This confession, admitting Robert's guilt and how he died, is the last weight of the past that Oliver finally puts down.

By doing so, Oliver truly honors his father. He breaks the cycle of lies with truth. Oliver breaks the cycle of killing by seeking a different kind of justice. He's allowed family,

friendship

and love back into his heart.

He's made lives better as the Green Arrow.

And as Oliver Queen.

He's saved the city.

Oliver has been forgiven

and has learned to forgive himself.

He's the Oliver he never thought he could be.

This is all Robert Queen has ever wanted for his son. He never wanted Oliver to be like him or live in the past. All Robert wanted was for Oliver to live his life to fullest for himself and for the people and city he loves. That's the life Robert died for. So... live it Oliver.

Thea Queen

Of all the characters on Arrow, I think Thea's arc has been the most complex and interesting. Truthfully, I didn't like Thea very much in Season 1 and watching her evolution has been one of the great joys of this show.

Yeah, she was benched in Season 5, which sucks, but it happens to every character eventually. My concern any time a character leaves the Arrow cave is they will be immediately regulated to Laurel Lance land of S1 & S2, where it feels like they are on a different show. That's sort of what happened with Thea this season.

My preference, of course, is to utilize Thea the best way possible (and in every episode) like they did Season 1- Season 4. However, this is television and it is an imperfect medium. So, my next preference is to use the character in targeted episodes that produce maximum narrative punch. Arrow achieved maximum punch with Thea in "Honor Thy Fathers."

Oliver and Thea are on very similar trajectories this year, which I wasn't expecting at the beginning of the season. I sort of thought Oliver would have his crap together a little sooner. HA! I know. Foolish child.

Truthfully, I just didn't see Prometheus coming nor was I expecting the darkness bomb that was 5x17. Oliver's 2B journey is very similar to the journey Thea has been grappling with since, really Season 3.

Is she a monster? Listen, being Malcolm Merlyn's daughter isn't easy and if I had that psychopath's genes in my DNA, I'd be giving the mirror a serious and hard look.

Of course, Thea only need to look at Tommy for hope that maybe she's nothing like her father and DNA doesn't determine our souls.

Ugh. Still so painful.

I actually think Thea is more like Moira than she is Merlyn.

BABY MOIRA LIVES!!!

Moira pulled some seriously shady stuff, which includes being complicity in the murder of hundreds. Moira was always willing to do whatever was necessary to protect her children and reconciled that her love for them balanced her sins in the cosmic equations. Moira was willing to go to the depths of hell itself if it meant keeping her children safe. This love gave Moira the strength to give up her life for Oliver and Thea.

Thea operates in a similar way. She's driven by love, like her mother, and not revenge and hate, like her father. But Thea understands something that even Moira did not. No matter how much their parents loved them, it doesn't excuse everything they did. Since Thea is driven by love, she can apply this lesson to herself. Being willing to do whatever is necessary to protect those she loves isn't an absolution. There's still a price to be paid.

What I love about Thea is her realism, especially when it comes to their family. She's the complete opposite of Oliver. Thea hears Robert killed a councilman and thinks, "Yup. Makes sense," while Oliver rails idealistic platitudes about their parents. It seems pretty clear there's only one Queen sibling who actually watches Arrow. I suggest Seasons 1-5 on DVD for Oliver for Christmas Thea. It'll make a nice stocking stuffer.

Oliver faced his own internal monster these past few episodes, which has prepared him to help Thea. Maybe in a way he wasn't capable of before. Now, he understands what Thea feels on a deeper level because instead of avoiding that pain like he has for the last five years, Oliver finally faced it. Well... after Chase tortured him, but Oliver still did all the work after, so I'm giving him points.

Oliver harnesses Thea's light by realizing that maybe he's not the person she needs right now. Who Thea needs right now is her father - Robert Queen. Oliver was afraid that what Robert says in the video would be a burden to Thea. He didn't want his sister to feel like she has to take care of him, which as Felicity accurately points out, is so Oliver Queen. Oliver sometimes fails to understand that this whole family thing is reciprocal.

What Robert tells Thea isn't a burden. It's freedom.

It's such an exquisitely emotional moment, because we realize how well Robert knew both his children and how much Thea needs her father right now.

Thea is stronger than Oliver. She always has been and Oliver knows that. As much as Oliver has survived, as much as he's overcome, there is always a moment when pain shuts Oliver down. I don't attribute this all to his PTSD. This happened to Oliver before the Island. Part of his journey to the Green Arrow is to learn how to process pain and adversity in a healthier way.

“Fear doesn't shut you down; it wakes you up.” - Four, Divergent

Thea isn't like that. Pain doesn't shut Thea down.

It wakes her up.

She finds a way to absorb the pain and uses it to make her stronger.

“If there's a crisis, you don't freeze, you move forward. You get the rest of us to move forward. Because you've seen worse. You've survived worse, and you know we'll survive too. You say you're all dark and twisty. It's not a flaw, it's a strength. It makes you who you are.” Derek Shepherd, Grey’s Anatomy

Robert speaks to the core of who Thea is.

Souce: @oilversqueen

Her strength is what makes her the rock Oliver Queen can crash against. There are two things Oliver cannot survive - losing Thea or Felicity. Oliver needs his sister to go on living. Losing her would be his breaking point. Oliver doesn't come back from that.

This love Thea feels for her brother, and everyone she loves for that matter, is often what causes her to cross lines. Robert gives Thea a gift because his words help her refocus that love. Oliver doesn't come back from losing Thea and there's more than one way to lose someone. If she wants to help her brother, then Thea has to hold the moral line as well. Thea can love just as intensely as Moira and Robert (and maybe even Malcolm), but she can also love differently. That's how she breaks the cycle.

Oliver passes along the advice Felicity gave him to his sister because, after five years, he's finally realized she's always right and life would just be a lot simpler if he just listened to her the first time.

I think the words land with Thea for the same reason they land with Oliver. The past is a heavy burden to carry and there just comes a point when you are tired. You want to let it go. Someone just needs to tell you that it's okay. The Queen siblings are tired. They are ready to let this go. (So is the audience kids. Go with God.)

So that's what Oliver does for Thea. She's not a monster. She's not destined to become like Malcolm or even Moira and Robert. Thea is her own person and it's okay to let the past go. It's okay to start living for herself, because... Oliver is right. That's what Moira would want. That's what would Robert want. It's what they died for.

Lance and Wild Dog

Seriously, I ship it hard. The friendship between Lance and Wild Dog has been one of the surprises for me this year. It's taken a little while to get there, but their scenes together are really starting to land with me. Paul Blackthorne and Rick Gonzalez just play off each other so well. Their two characters just blend together, which is kind of shocking when you look at how different they are.

Rene wants his daughter back. This makes me so damn happy. I enjoy hero stories that are moving somewhere. Rene's intent and purpose for being Wild Dog took a little while to flesh out, but ultimately my take away is- this year with Team Arrow prepared Rene to be the father Zoë needs. Like so many before him, the mask was an outlet for his grief and rage, but I am seeing a less wild version of Wild Dog these past few episodes. He is learning. He is growing. He is far less annoying. Damn it. I like him.

His reticance about putting Zoë through a hearing I think actually shows how good a father Rene is. He doesn't want to put Zoë through emotional trauma. Rene is harboring a lot of guilt for what happened to her mother, for the reason Zoë is in foster care to begin with. It would be very easy to believe she's better off. (Does this sound like anyone we know?)

Lance tells Rene he's right. The hearing may bring up bad memories for Zoë, but that's exactly why he needs to go. Rene needs to get his daughter back so he can give her new memories - happy ones - of them together. Otherwise, all she be left with is the bad. Rene has resigned himself to living in the past and by doing so he's resigned his daughter to the same fate. He's refusing to look to the future, to the possibility of happiness, because of what happened in the past.

Lance became pretty emotional during his little chat with Rene and pretty much begs him to go to the hearing. Quentin Lance is a hard shell to crack, but once you do he's just full of ooey gooey yumminess. He cares about Rene. He's seen how much he's grown and Lance firmly believes Zoë is better off with her father.

I also think some of the emotion can be attributed to Laurel. She's always there, just underneath the surface, for Lance. Lance has a hefty amount of guilt for how Laurel died and for the pain his alcoholism caused her. Quentin doesn't have the same opportunity that Rene does. He can't make new happy memories with his daughter. He will never have that chance again. So, some of this for Lance is trying to get Rene to see that he still has a future with Zoë. Lance does not. All he has left is the past.

It's why Rene not showing up makes ABSOLUTELY no sense. So it's one of two options: A) Rene still has a ways to go or B) my girl @callistawolf is right and Prometheus already took him.

Stray Thoughts

This really could have served as a season finale for me. I mean... obviously Chase is ten steps of Oliver, got captured intentionally and is going to fuck shit up crazy pants style. But from an Oliver Queen emotional evolution standpoint? I'm good. He's everything I ever wanted him to be (which is how he'll beat Prometheus). Eh... well... alright, if I'm being honest I need him to kiss Felicity. Then we can trot off to Season 6.

First up in the "Arrow Finally Answers Series Long Questions" Robert taught Oliver how to fly. It was some of his last happy memories of his dad. Awww. Also... Oliver had a skill before the island? I didn't know that could happen!

Deathstroke mask washed up on shore and Oliver used it as a grave marker for Slade because he was his friend. Oliver also felt it was some sort of sign BECAUSE IT WAS. DUN DUN DUNN!!!!!

Oliver was only on Lian Yu for TWO DAYS before the boat rescued him. A boat Anatoly arranged.

Oliver's Tom Hanks Castaway hair do was a wig. Oh Arrow... that's very meta of you.

"It makes Isobel Rochev look like a bad practical joke." Hmm... did you sleep with Chase Oliver? Asking for a friend.

Me: Well... Oliver and Diggle haven't done a concrete hole yet.

Curtis, and not the T-Spheres, took someone down. PROGRESS!

This might be the truest thing anyone has ever said about Oliver.

Prometheus pulls out a sword. I start looking around for Oliver's Ra's Al Ghul Killin' Sword. Would seem handy at the moment.

Source:sharingmyworld

Is there anything cuter than Proud Felicity? The correct answer is no there is not.

Mini rant: Dinah asking Curtis whether or not they should move in on Sampson was kind of ridiculous. DINAH IS A COP. She would know that the guns could be legal and they need to wait to have actual evidence of a crime for the case to hold up. We did not need Curtis to explain this to her. See... this is what bugs me about Curtis. More often than not, they are dumbing down characters (mostly FEMALE) to give him something to freaking do.

I love the name Zoë. Always have.

There's always someone on this fucked up Island Oliver. How did you not check the whole island before Anatoly left? Have you not watched the damn show?

***None of the gifs are mine. If you’d like me to remove it or credit you, just drop me a message.

#arrow #olicity #robert queen #arrow 5x22 #oliver queen #thea queen #felicity smoak #arrow spoilers #arrow reviews #arrow season 5 episode review #season 5 episode review

252 notes · View notes

chairaluna-blog · 7 years ago

Photo

I am a white woman.

This sentence alone is enough to send a strong feeling of distaste to a lot of peoples mouths, particularly those that descend from people of color.

My race owns the world, oppresses those they stole the land that they claim is “theirs” from, and has attempted on multiple occasions at points in history the segregation, oppression, and genocide of those with one key ingredient-

Melanin.

My ancestors have murdered thousands of theirs, stole their homes, their cultures (or tried), and much more from them. They have tried to take their pride, break them down, and defeat the entirety of those who did not have the same snow white skin as them. And put quite bluntly, I have a hatred in my heart for the majority of my own race for this reason.

I grew up in a normal white household, with my mother and my grandparents taking care of me. My family was never “racist” per say, beside my uncle. I suppose it is important to note I am estranged from him for this reason alongside many others. I say “racist” in quotes because while no one ever directly came out and made any sort of derogatory comments, they were always prone to making a racist joke or two, which the others would usually join in with some comment of their own regarding stereotypical race assumptions.

I think the only one who never stood for this was me and my grandmother, even if everyone else was just joking. After all, they would never say it to a person of colors face, and anyways, “I have a black friend! I can’t be racist!” was always the excuse. My grandfathers only comments were based on the place he worked, and that the majority of those who got raises over him were those brought in from an outside beneficial program, usually people of color.

I know in general they all meant well, had big hearts and loved people regardless of their skin, but for some reason they, like the majority of my race, always fell victim into what I call “secondhand racism”. This meaning that while initially their first thoughts were not racist, they only had something to say when another white person had begun it. It’s a vicious cycle that I am unsure if the majority of my race can escape from.

Please do not take it as my saying they were bad people, because they never were. In fact, when I begun dating whom is my husband now (it is important to mention he is Taino (or for those who do not know their origins, Puerto Rican)), they absolutely adored him. And they still do to this day. Everyone except said uncle mentioned above for obvious and unfortunate reasons.

The problem begins with this secondhand racism that I spoke of. The general idea of that is this, picture this scenario:

Grouping of all white people, no matter how big or how small you can imagine. Promise them that nothing is being recorded, that it is all safe, and that they can speak freely. Have one white man begin spewing racist comments, starting small, but it causes a ripple effect, where slowly, everyone in that room begins to agree and join in on this. Just because you do not outwardly say these racist comments, does not mean that they do not lie dormant within you because of your bloodline.

This is not at all to say that all white people are like this, coming from the one here who is writing this, I can promise you that a small percentage of us are not like this, who truly do mean well and love every race, regardless of color.

And there are those who go to my extent, who recognize and realize the problem lies within us, with our white skinned ancestors that first began raping and killing those of color. Those who understand that our race is the problem, that there is no changing those who are too far gone, as they are bred with racism in their DNA. Those who understand where we truly come from and are able to recognize our privilege, THEIR struggles, and know that it is time to come forward to show our own people that this is not okay.

White privilege does exist, and it is shown especially today with what is happening in Charlottesville, VA. My previous post to this details exactly what is going on there, and why white privilege exists. If you do not wish to read that post, please take a few moments to watch these two videos:

https://www.instagram.com/p/BXtPcqOjpgXdXtaxtaL560cWJxnQAkPejx71fg0/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldpDff3Pkps

Please note what the man says in the first video. We all know this is true. You cannot even deny what would have happened had this been a black lives matter protest and they began assaulting the cops. The second video I will admit to you I did not watch the entirety of, due to the pure ignorance from the start from the woman who was filming the video.

The reason I included this video was to show the interesting comparison- those whom were being shamed for throwing rocks were people of color, while the white nationalists are carrying actual weapons- guns. These people whom are obviously deranged enough as it is to be protesting against black lives matter are the ones who are truly dangerous- please tell me how throwing rocks is in any way, shape, or form, more scary or dangerous than these people with hatred in their hearts walking the streets with their fingers on the triggers.

It merely shows history repeating itself. They face guns while all they have is rocks because there is no need for violence in the world that they had created before the white people came down from the Caucasus mountains to ruin society. I may sound harsh against my own race, but to tell you the honest truth, I am embarrassed of them.

We live in a white mans world, the government is controlled by Caucasians, they have their hands in everything, the Rothschild’s Central Bank is a prime example of that. We all know these people are a dangerous breed, and this is because of their grooming to be this way, and while it is sad and unfortunate, I can say truthfully that I am not sure a lot of my people can be ripped from this mentality, it is embedded within their genetic code. It is not those of my color who should live in fear of the people of color, it is they who have the right to truly be afraid.

They cannot send their children out without the fear of them being harmed, they cannot sit within a gathering of white people and feel comfortable, not fully. And if you ask them, they will tell you this. For this reason, my heart bleeds for them, because they are the ones who have to live in constant oppression, who have to fight to even have their pride in knowing who they are. Black Pride is not hate speech, it is not racist, it is not wrong. Because of the Caucasians, it is all they have to rebuild themselves as a community and join together to fight against their oppressors.

The problem comes in where the knowledge of this gets skewed and becomes hatred for all those of my skin color. As I have said previously, there is those like me out here, in the prison that is our bodies, who fight alongside those who have been oppressed, who strive to show that we are watching, we are listening, we understand, and we are fighting as well. These are the few white people who do not have calcified pineal glands, we feel for you, we see the inequality, and we want to see this rectified.

Because of my skin color, I owe my life to all of you, I am reaching out to show this, please, know that I understand. Know that I see your struggles, I see my privilege, and I see what my people are doing. Know that I disagree with them- to be honest if I could disown my own race, I would. If I could join you in entirety and experience the hardships of living in the body you do, I would. Because I still feel that while I understand more than I know a lot of my people do, it is still not fair to say I can understand 100% because I have not experienced your lives, the unfairness, the strange stares, the uncomfortable state you have to reside in, and the fear. I have not known true struggle. But that does not mean I will not continue to fight for you.

I have always felt uncomfortable with my own race, I was always the one who had trouble making friends, who found myself questioning why this world was the way it is. I only found true acceptance with those of color. My people have such hatred in their hearts, even for each other. It is hard to be accepted within them, they always have something negative, spiteful, and backstabbing to do or say. The only friend who has stuck by my side since we were kids was one of the only ones who truly knew me, and she was colored. I felt more comfortable with her family than I did with my own. And even now, I am much more comfortable with my husbands family than with my own.

Africans, Puerto-Ricans, Taino, Native Americans, those who have the melanin within them will always be more giving, more kind, more loving, and more forgiving than my own people. For the most part, they have even tried forgiving their oppressors.

If there is any race in which I wish to belong, it is not my own, but the ones who have nurtured my soul, my mind, my body, and my heart.

Thank you for everything you have done, thank you for creating me. I am sorry for everything my people have done, but I will continue to speak this truth until my last breath. It is time someone educated my own people of their wrongs.

0 notes

rolandfontana · 5 years ago

Text

Congress Inaction on Rape Kit Testing Hurts Victims, Warns Survivor

For survivors of a traumatic attack, it’s not uncommon to bottle up their feelings and experiences, and never to discuss them with the world.

But for Debbie Smith, a rape survivor, sharing her story as an advocate for legislative change has seemingly become her life’s purpose.

A decade and a half ago, her work resulted in the passage of the Debbie Smith Act which provided funding for rape kit DNA testing. But all that may now be in jeopardy, since the Act expires the end of this month, and hasn’t yet been reauthorized by the House of Representatives. Although funding will continue through FY 2019, future funding is still uncertain.

First passed in 2004, and reauthorized in 2008 and 2014 with bipartisan support, the law has helped channel $151 million to the Justice Department and law enforcement agencies to fund rape kit processing, as well as other advancements such as training courses.

Most notably, since 2005, the Act is credited with supplying the funding to local and state crime laboratories that tested over 860,000 DNA cases.

Table courtesy Endthebacklog,org

Ending funding for the Act, which was unanimously reauthorized by the Senate in May, would almost certainly mean that the still-high rape kit backlog will grow, with perpetrators of rape unpunished, advocates say.

The reauthorization bill approved by the Senate would authorize:

$151 million for the Debbie Smith DNA Backlog grant program,

$12.5 million for grants to state and local governments to conduct training about the use of DNA evidence, and

$30 million for grants to state and local governments and other entities for programs to collect and use DNA evidence related to sexual assaults.

The Congressional Budget Office estimates the bill would cost $644 million over the 2020-2024 period and $324 million after 2024.

Reauthorization of the Act has been caught up in an inside-the-beltway tangle between both houses of Congress. In April, the House reauthorized the Debbie Smith funding as part of its vote in April to reauthorize the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA), putting two separate bills on the table.. But critics now charge House is holding up further action as part of its efforts to tighten VAWA.

“Congress has an opportunity to pass two separate pieces of legislation to support victims of sexual assault and domestic violence,’ said Sen. John Cornyn (R-TX) in a press statement last July. “Sadly, both bills have gotten caught in the crosshairs of political jockeying in the House, with Democrats using a tit-for-tat strategy that has frozen both bills.

“It’s not fair to Debbie Smith and other victims of sexual assault for House Democrats to hold them hostage over a separate bill that’s still be negotiated in good faith by members on both sides of the aisle.”

The drive to reauthorize the Act received a boost this summer from Democratic presidential contender Kamala Harris, who promised an additional $100 million in funding to help state law enforcement cut the backlog—an amount she claimed was equal to what President Donald Trump “spent on his golf trips.”

Smith’s story bears repeating, as a reminder of what’s at stake.

On the afternoon of March 3, 1989, in her hometown of Williamsburg, Va., Smith was busy making a cake to enjoy after a planned dinner with a friend later that evening. Her husband, a police officer, was asleep upstairs after working a midnight shift, and her children were at school.

“While I was mixing the batter, a masked man came up behind me and he ended up abducting me and taking me outside the woods behind my house where he robbed and raped me,” Smith told The Crime Report.

“All he said to me was that If I ever said anything, he was going to come back to kill me and my entire family.”

The constant fear that haunted her after the attack was debilitating, Smith recalled.

She had to wait until 1995, six and a half years after the crime, for a DNA match to the rape kit evidence from her attacker. A suspect, Norman D. Jimmerson, was identified; he was finally convicted in 1998 of sexually assaulting Smith.

Jimmerson was already serving 161 years in prison for abducting and robbing two other local women 9 years prior—the same year he raped Smith.

Because the DNA in her rape kit was analyzed and her rapist identified, the world felt a bit safer, Smith said.

But other rape kits that are backlogged and sitting in police department’s property rooms collecting dust on shelves do no good for anyone —except rapists, she added.

When a rape kit is tested, the DNA from the assailant is submitted to the Combined DNA Index System (CODIS) to identify a match to any person with a past offense. This database needs to be expansive because it’s crucial in identifying serial rapists and killers.

475,000 Matches

According to the CODIS website, the database has produced more than 475,000 matches, solving a variety of crimes.

Of those 475,000 hits, the National Institute of Justice found, about 42 percent came as a direct result of the Debbie Smith Act. Putting it another way, if there were no testing, an estimated 200,000 cases might otherwise have gone unsolved.

To push the House, leaders of the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN) said that they have accumulated over 32,000 signatures from online petitions urging lawmakers to reauthorize the Act.

“Without [the Debbie Smith Act] passing in the House, literally hundreds of thousands of people will be stuck waiting for DNA analysis, and those victims are going to wait for answers that may never come,” Debbie said.

“The House, right now, has the power to change lives,’ said Smith, who founded her own organization, H-E-A-R-T, Inc. (Hope Exists After Rape Trauma).

“I truly believe in my heart that they will do the right thing when the time comes.”

Andrea Cipriano is a staff reporter for The Crime Report

Congress Inaction on Rape Kit Testing Hurts Victims, Warns Survivor syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/

0 notes

bethsteury · 6 years ago

Text

“Come to Maine next fall,” urged my “new” brother Alan as his visit to Indiana wound down, in September of 2017.

He had traveled a thousand plus miles to meet us, the half-sister and family DNA had linked to his paternal side, and now he was inviting us to visit him and his family, and become acquainted with the area where my birthfather and siblings grew up.

We loved the idea from the first mention and so began the murmurings and repeated references to “Maine next October”.

But first we’d journey to Hawaii to meet my birthfather and sister, and if the opportunity arose, Alan implored us to mention the plans for our trip east in 2018. And while we were at it, why not convince bio dad to join the fun? It arose, we mentioned, he showed interest.

All year we talked about “Maine in October”, hoping our entire immediate family couldmake the trip. The thought of meeting more biological relatives and the chance to introduce my kids and grandson to their biological grandfather / great-grandfather, had my mind whirling. Of course, we’d have to finagle around the work schedule of six adults on our end and one in Maine and encourage retired bio dad to get on board.

With a fair amount of ease on our side, the pieces fell into place and the hoped-for trip shifted to a reality with confirmed vacation time for the working adults. And then came an affirmative nod from birthfather/grandpa/great-grandpa.

So many firsts to look forward to . . . None of us had been to Maine which we’d heard to be simply gorgeous in the fall. Our immediate family hadn’t vacationed together since a weekend excursion when six-year-old grandson Dylan was still housed snuggly in his mommy’s tummy. And the chance to meet more bio family in the form of nephews, first cousins, second cousins, and a grandpa.

My organizational planning genes rallied and shifted into overdrive as a thousand details begged for attention. The “fixer” part of my personality, aided by my tendency to worry and my leanings toward perfectionism, all yearned for this second, once-in-a-lifetime trip, (Hawaii being the first) to be awesomely amazing in every way for all seven of us. After months of late-night planning, the day of our departure finally arrived.

Our flights, although exciting for the first-time fliers among us, were thankfully uneventful in air-travel terms. Having left a 95% green landscape in Indiana, the fall foliage that greeted us, even from the air, was stunning. “Gram, it’s all orange!” exclaimed Dylan, peering out the window as we descended toward our final destination.

With only one mishap involving a lost jacket and wallet, we arrived—two from Colorado and five from Indiana—in time to meet for dinner. Or supper, depending on your term of preference for the evening meal.

A lot of taking it all in took place around the table that first night after the initial introductions. As I watched my daughter and son interact with our newly discovered relatives, I was sooooo grateful that my husband and I had already met those in attendance that night. It would have been far too overwhelming for all of us to meet the new kin for the first time, at the same time.

“You look like my mother,” announced bio dad, pointing at me from the other end of the table. An observation that had been made time and again over the past eighteen months about my Grammy, as my siblings referred to her, who’d been gone for thirty years.

With the promise of more family introductions and time together tomorrow, we retreated to our Airbnb lake house, with a bountiful supply of groceries. I breathed a huge sigh of . . . something much more than relief. Spirits remained high despite a long day of travel, the lake house was beautiful and would suit our needs well, the radio had declared the fall foliage at “peak” this weekend, and my children, their significant others, and grandson had been welcomed by my biological family.

For the next three full days, we took in the sights of this new-to-us breath-taking part of the country and made up for lost time with family as eager to spend time with us as we were to be with them. Alan hosted our gang, his family, and our bio dad accompanied by our Thai sister, for a total of twenty, at his house for a feast of steamed lobsters and clams. We were all about indulging in the local cuisine. When in Maine, you know.

We pored over old pictures accompanied by tales of times long ago. Remarked on likenesses that I honestly will never grow tired of discovering, like how young Alan’s pictures bare a striking resemblance to our son. And might Dylan and Alan’s granddaughter, Eliza, look a bit alike as well? The siblings chatted, first cousins mingled, the second cousins raced around as youngin’s do. And as Alan had once suggested, we didn’t think about the relationships in terms of “halves”.

The next day found us gathered for Sunday brunch, the traditional family-together-time bio dad hosted when he journeyed back to his old stompin’ grounds. We tucked the second cousins in a booth with crayons and such next to the long table of hungry, talkative adults. Our end of the table was quieter. Not so much because this was our first family Sunday brunch, but because this was it. The last time we’d all be together as a group, a family, on this trip. By now familiar with and learning to be accepting of how this new-to-us family was not the get-together-often type, did not stop the unspoken wonderings and the questioning glances shared between us. Would we see them again? If so, when and how and where? Very similar contemplations to those that had weighed heavily on me when leaving Hawaii.

But the more important concern of the moment, a group photo to capture the special occasion. Many candid shots had been snapped at the family bash/lobster fest the previous evening by our son’s girlfriend who happens to be an accomplished artist and photographer. But the group pics had been saved for last. So, we transitioned outside to a spot bio dad had scoped out, despite his well-known camera-shy status. Sunshine warmed the fall air as our personal photographer shuffled us about, offering bright-sun-don’t-squint tips. Oh, one of the siblings together? Of course. How about great-grandpa with the little ones? Absolutely.

And then too soon, it was time for goodbyes. I beckoned my kids not to miss the final moments with their grandpa. “This is goodbye,” I said, motioning them toward him as the group spread out across the parking lot as if we’d reserved the space. “Not goodbye, so long,” he insisted as hugs and parting comments were exchanged. Lots of hugging all around, more moments captured on film by our attentive photographer. Then, with a sweeping wave to his offspring, bio dad excused himself. The photo session continued as the rest of us lingered, soaking up the togetherness, making memories, and being silly. A last, final round of goodbyes sent us on our separate ways.

I felt sort of numb as we drove away, pushing back against the acceptance of how normal family functioned for these folks. But no tears, choosing instead to drink in the autumn beauty and focus on the remaining time together for the seven of us. Besides, another adventure awaited us that afternoon.

At Boothbay Harbor, we buttoned up for an hour plus boat tour of the nearby islands under clear, bright blue skies. Some of us huddled together against the chilly wind at the bow for the best view of the shoreline, the lighthouse, the seals, while others took in the sights from the heated quarters below deck. Later, we dined at the water’s edge, indulging in more of Maine’s fresh seafood, entertained by Gus, the restaurant’s seagull mascot.

default

The next day, Alan joined us for a two-mile hike in a gorgeous woods that set our cameras to clicking. We shared a fun, delicious burrito lunch at a local establishment, one we vowed would make our list of regular haunts if we lived in the area. As the younger five of our party would be flying home in the morning, it was time for them to bid “so long” to Uncle Alan. The sentiments all around filled with sincere promises to meet up again. Goodbyes are no fun, you know? Even the “so long” kind.

grandson Dylan

A last evening of lounging together at the lake house brought our totally awesome, did-not-disappoint, whole family vacation to an end. After dropping the fam at the airport the next morning, we settled into a hotel for three more days of soaking up all things Maine. On the agenda? More local cuisine with Alan, a jaunt to Acadia National Park, and of course, a cemetery field trip, as what would a vacation to a genealogically significant locale be without a trip to a cemetery or three?

But first “There’s something I want to show you . . . ” Alan beckoned us to his car for a mystery excursion. He pointed out landmarks, “We went to high school here,” and other interesting trivia as we cruised about the nearby tiny town where he and my siblings had spent most of their growing up years. And then, he whipped out the file folder containing the pictures that he’d brought to Indiana from Maine, that had traveled with us to Hawaii before journeying back to their home in Maine. He held up a photo of my three smiling half-siblings as children, sitting on an outside staircase. “This was taken right here.” He pointed out my car window at that very staircase. My mouth agape, I held the photo to the window. It was a truly wow, goose bump moment. A minute later, we stopped at another exact past-picture location and then a third. For those brief minutes, I felt totally immersed in my siblings younger lives.

Then it was on to the gravestones of our grandparents and great grandparents as well as various aunts, uncles, and cousins. Folks I knew from studying their vital statistics on the family tree. Inspired by Dylan’s attention to the family markers back in Indiana, Alan had spent time tending the plots and stones a few months earlier.

We drank in the stunning beauty of Acadia National Park. We indulged in more local eats and took in every possible local sight, right up to the moment of rushing to the airport to catch our flight home. By week’s end, we’d compiled at least a hundred reasons for coming back to Maine, including the extended family reunion the next July for our grandmother’s branch of the family tree.

Alan had indeed accomplished his goal: that we would have such a great time we’d want to come back to Maine, often.

So long, Maine. Until next time . . .

Alan, me, husband Mike

Meeting the Bio Family: Chapter 9 — “Maine in October” “Come to Maine next fall,” urged my “new” brother Alan as his visit to Indiana wound down, in September of 2017.

#adoption #adoption reunion #biological family #family #Maine

0 notes