#he’s beautiful and pathetically sad and I WILL love him and feed him soup | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ask-rogertaylor · 6 years ago

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((So deaky/Bri/jo/rog has taken over my life and I wrote this shitty ficlet starring my love @ask-johanna-deacon . Enjoy it if you can ashdjowowak !! But uhh..there will probably be more sappy ficlets like this hekowpajdowpwa)

Roger didn’t come to Jamie’s weekly garden brunch.

It did cause a few heads to turn, but everybody figured he either slept in from being his nocturnal self, and Rogerina had assumed he has a hangover and couldn’t get up, as he would only groan in response to her, but that he would be okay. But Johanna, ever gentle, and particularly towards the stubborn drummer, was worried. He wouldn’t miss brunch if he couldn’t help it—and he’d dragged his hungover ass to the brunches before, there was no way he couldn’t do it again. Right after people had started to disperse, she found herself walking towards Roger’s place.

“Roggie! It’s Jo,” She called out, not too loudly, but loud enough he would hear her should he be face planted into his pillow.

She received no response. Sighing, she toppled over a marble figure of a Rolls Royce and collected the spare key from underneath it. She shoved the key into the keyhole and turned the door open.

She scanned the area, until her eyes fell upon a lump of blankets and messy blonde hair on the couch. She tutted with amusement, smiling softly as she approached him.

“Hey, you missed brunch,” She called out softly, nudging him awake.

Roger blinked, dazed, squinting at her, trying to recognise who she was, with his poor eyesight, but as the clarity hit his eyes he suddenly erupted into a staccato burst of chesty sounding coughs, which he hastily covered with the crook of his arm.

“Jo,” He managed to choke out between coughs, “Hi.”

“You’re sick!” She exclaimed.

“I don’t..” Roger’s nose scrunched up, turning his head away from her and pitched forward into his arm with a delicate, high pitched sneeze. It was completely unlike his loud, boisterous self. “..get sick.”

“Bless you. Whatever helps you sleep at night. You get sick faster than the rest of us, you realise that, right?” She teased lightly.

“Horseshit. When do I ever get sick?” Roger asked croakily, his voice huskier than it usually was and several semitones lower.

“Uh, in this past year? 4 times,” She rolled her eyes.

She felt a little more concerned as he delayed to process what she had just said, as seen by the glazed look on his tired, drooping eyes. Frowning, she leaned forward and pressed a hand on his forehead.

“Rog, you’re so hot,” She fretted.

“Thanks, dear, right back at you,” Roger smirked drowsily, beginning to sink back into the couch.

Johanna blushed, “Roger! You..you know what I meant by that!”

He managed a mischievous smile at her, “I know, sorry love, only teasing.” His nose began to twitch again, much like a bunny’s, taking a series of breathy inhales before hastily bringing his t-shirt up to his face to cover another dainty sounding sneeze.

“Bless you. You know..I wasn’t expecting that from you. You try to present yourself as a hard rock and roller but you sneeze like a kitten,” She giggled.

Roger scoffed and shifted, “I do not.”

“When did you start feeling sick?”

Roger cleared his throat and stifled two coughs against his arm, “I got rained on two mornings ago, I didn’t check the weather forecasts and I went for a walk, and alas. Here we are. I started getting a little ill yesterday.”

Johanna raised her eyebrows, “You guys played a gig yesterday. Why didn’t you say anything then?”

He shrugged, his cheeks flushed with fever and voice laced with congestion, “Eh. Didn’t want to bother anyone. Freddie was already pretty high maintenance about it, nobody needed another problem.”

“You’re not a problem..” She pressed.

“I know—it just isn’t a big deal. It’s a cold, Jo, I’ll be okay,” His voice caught in the end as he began to cough into his arm.

“Here, I’ll make you my soup,” Johanna offered, smiling sweetly. The offer made Roger smile from ear to ear, suddenly a lot brighter than he had been a second ago.

About 15 minutes later, with nothing but humming and the occasional cough from Roger, she returned to the sick blonde, setting the soup down onto his table.

“Jo, dear, I would say it smells great but I can’t breathe out of my fucking nose,” Roger joked lightheartedly, his voice stuffed up and congested.

“Yes, I can hear it from your voice, dummy,” She chuckled softly, watching as he shakily grabbed for the bowl and tried to feed himself. He began to cough violently, his entire body convulsing as he did—to which she quickly took the bowl from him as he turned his back to her, hunching over into his arm to try and conceal his germs from her.

Roger groaned after, sniffling weakly, “Jesus. How pathetic am I? Not even able to feed myself.”

“Hey. It’s alright, I’m here, I can help,” Johanna offered gently, taking the bowl in her own hands and dipped the spoon into the liquid.

Roger raised an eyebrow, “Are you kidding?”

“Would you like 1st degree burns or what?”

Roger shut up.

She fed him slowly, until she realised this sparkly, soft look on his eyes she didn’t quite understand. His eyes were glazed and droopy, almost whimsical.

“..Rog..?”

“Sorry, Jo. It’s just that you’re so beautiful.”

Johanna blushed, clearing her throat, looking away for a moment as she tried to collect herself, heart racing. She looked back at him, and promptly placed her hand on his forehead.

“It’s your fever talking,” She choked out, mostly speaking for herself.

“You’re always here for me. You’re so kind and gentle and you always make feel needed. You do the work that nobody wants to do, for me. And you will never understand how grateful I am,” Roger slurred feverishly, a lazy, but soft smile playing on his lips.

“O-okay, Rog, maybe you should get some sleep,” Johanna cut in quickly, feeling her heart racing in both fear, but also excitement. She quickly set the soup away and rushed away from the couch, making herself busy by finding a towel to dampen, unable to face this situation right now.

Once she had found it, she had calmed down considerably. She came back to him slowly, with the drummer already lying down on the couch, cheeks flushed, eyes closed. She sighed fondly at the sight of him, placing the towel over his forehead.

“..Please..stay with me..?” Roger whimpered quietly, his face scrunching up in discomfort.

She could never say no to him.

She lifted his head, with ease—Roger was surprisingly light, and sat down on the couch, gently placing his head on her lap, her fingers immediately lacing themselves into his hair.

Roger made a sound of delight, similar to a purr, curling up against her.

“..God I wish I could..” Roger started quietly, but trailed off. She wasn’t sure if it was his sickness or if he had stopped himself. Perhaps a mixture of both.

“..yes..?” She encouraged.

Roger shook his head, “Thank you. Thank you for being here with me. This is so selfish, but I really hope the day where you realise I’m not worth all of this trouble never comes.”

“There will be no such day, Rog, c’mon..I think..I think we’re pretty good, actually, I could keep going like this for a long time,” She reassured, continuing to run her hands through his hair.

He smiled sadly at her, his eyes twinkling with this sadness that she wasn’t sure what to think of, “..I wish I could tell you..”

His eyes drooped closed just shortly after, falling into a slumber. She blinked, completely shaken and unsure of what to do. But she always felt safe when she was with him, and she might as well enjoy this moment.

They would figure it all out another day.

#jddjosaoa #queue

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awesomemarvelfanficsblog-blog · 6 years ago

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Sick (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: The mighty Bucky Barnes is sick. And he wants you to take care of him.

Warnings: *in Captain America voice* Language! And some suggestive material.

You have just finished an intense sparring workout with Steve when suddenly, the Friends theme song starts blasting from your phone. Really loud. You and Steve both jump, then laugh when you realize what has happened. Steve adorably begins to sing and clap along, even dancing a little. It tickles you to see the six-foot-three, muscular, sweaty, usually reserved man let loose. You’re laughing so hard you don’t even realize the person attempting to call you is Bucky.

You gasp when you saw the name on the screen. “He never calls me. He’s probably dying or something!”

“Either that or he wants to get some.” Steve teases. You roll your eyes at Steve as you pick up your phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Y/N.” Bucky’s voice sounds froggy and clogged.

“Uh, you good, Buck?” You ask, your concern growing.

“Nobe. I’b sick.” You laugh out loud when you hear his voice. “Don’t laugh ad be!” Bucky pouts.

“Sorry, you just sound hilarious.” You say unapologetically, trying to stop the laughter. “Why are you telling me?”

“I want you to come.”

“Huh?”

“Can you come to my room?” Bucky whimpers. He sounds so pathetic that you clamp your hands over your mouth to shut in the laughs. Bucky Barnes is an ex-HYDRA assassin, but the man becomes a child when he gets sick. Even so, why did he call me? You wonder.

“Why me?”

“Because I want you.” Bucky insists like a stubborn child. You groan loudly.

“You are impossible Barnes. Fine, I’m coming.” You tell Bucky, hanging up on him before he could reply. You offer a quick explanation to Steve, who merely quirks an eyebrow teasingly.

As you leave, you hear Steve say, “JARVIS, play ‘I’ll Be There For You.’��

*****

You take the elevator to Bucky’s floor. It seems deserted, the lights are off and it doesn’t even look like he came out of his room today. You knock once on Bucky’s door and let yourself in. He’s lying in his bed, shirtless. Tissues litter the covers as well as the floor. Basically everywhere but the trash can is covered with used tissues. You sigh.

“I was going to ask how you were feeling but I think the current state of your bedroom answers that question.”

“Te dracu.” He grunts. Sometimes when Bucky is really tired or angry, he’ll revert to his old, HYDRA-induced habit of speaking in Romanian. Your Romanian is a bit rusty, but you know exactly what he said. After all, who would forget how to say “fuck you” in a different language?

“Someone’s grumpy. Should I leave?” You ask him sarcastically. He mutters “no” under his breath. “Didn’t think so. I brought soup and cough drops.” You rustle through the grocery bag you brought. “What do you want?” Slowly, painstakingly, Bucky turns himself onto his back to look at you. You stop yourself from making a disgusted noise. The man looks awful. He’s shining with sweat, he has dark circles under his puffy eyes, his nose in rubbed raw and red, and his entire face is flushed. You manage to say, “Wow. You look terrible.”

“Thanks. You look a little tired yourself.” He mumbles, smiling a little.

“No, I’m just ugly.” You laugh. “Bullshit.” Bucky calls out to you, making you laugh harder. You heat up the soup on the stove and bring it to him, spoon in hand. Bucky starts to pout. “I don’t want soup.” His voice is a little scratchy. You touch his forehead with your fingers. His head is burning, but he’s shivering violently under the covers.

“I don’t care. You’re eating the soup.” You say firmly, ignoring him when he tries to argue. “Barnes, you asked me here, now you do what I say.” Even though he complains and whines the whole time, you manage to force-feed Bucky the soup.

“God, that was good.” Bucky says once he eats the whole jar. His voice sounds smoother and his head seems to have calmed down a little.

“Told you. Why you gotta be so damn stubborn?” You tease him.

“Stubborn?” Bucky cough-laughs. “Y/N, you’re the queen of stubbornness. Remember that time you got pneumonia because Tony bet you that you couldn’t swim in the pool during that snowstorm?” You turn away from him.

“Touche.” You laugh. You give him three more boxes of tissues, one more jar of soup, and two bags of cough drops. “Get some sleep, ghost story. Anything else before I go?” He laughs a little at the nickname that you give him.

“I’m freezing. Can you hand me another blanket?” Bucky asks quietly, his voice stuttering due to how cold he is. You smile and toss another blanket onto his bed. He continues to shiver, the whole bed shakes under his weight. You search for more blankets, but you can’t find any.

“You okay?” You ask softly, concern in your voice for the first time. His teeth are chattering so much, he can’t even get a word out. “Okay. You’ve left me no choice, Barnes.” Leaning over the bed, you peel off the three layers of blankets, climbing into the bed with him. Bucky says nothing, his eyes just get bigger. The bed is really hot, you can almost see the layer of sweat appearing instantly on your body. Damn. How the hell is this man still cold? You wonder. However, you decide not to say anything. You slip into the bed smoothly and snuggle up to Bucky. He lets out a low sigh of comfort, his arms wrapping around you involuntarily. As his hands graze your waist, you let out a little yelp.

“Damn, you are freezing!” You cry, making him laugh.

“Yeah, but now I’m not.” He breathes against your neck. “You’re really hot.”

“I’ve always been a warm person.” You joke.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Huh?”

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” Bucky whispers, his hands starting to trail lower. Your face starts to heat up, your heart beating faster. You stare at him for a few seconds, eyes wide in shock. Huh? Is this happening?

“You’re delirious.” You say finally, turning away from him.

Bucky moves closer to your body, craving your heat. “I mean it, Y/N.” His voice is tired, but earnest.

You refuse to let yourself hope. “Go to sleep. It’s your fever talking.” You tell him shortly, trying not to think about how his hands are all over you.

“It is not!” Bucky’s voice raises to a whine.

“Go to sleep.” You close your eyes. Bucky’s arms tighten protectively around you, drawing you closer to him.

“But I love you.” He says, his voice softening. Whoa. You turn to look at him. The look on Bucky’s face is so sweet it melts your heart. He’s looking at you with such awe, such adoration, such dreaminess in his eyes that for a second, he does make you believe that he loves you. Then you realize that he is probably delirious and that he’s not himself. Your heart drops, but you don’t want to make him sad, so you decide to play along.

“I know, I know.” You pat his chest reassuringly, putting on your best mom voice. “I know you do, honey.” You pause for a second. “And I love you too.”Bucky beams at you. After a few seconds, you rest your head on his bare chest, closing your eyes. Bucky’s arms encircle your stomach, his fingers playing with your shirt. You’re drifting off to sleep when you feel him press his lips against the side of your head. You resist the urge to smile.

******

“Y/N.” Bucky’s morning voice catches your attention the next day. You’re in the kitchen of his floor, making him some more soup.

“Oh hi, sleepyhead.” You smile, walking over to him. You place your fingers on his forehead, which seems a lot cooler than it was yesterday. “Glad to see you’re up and about.”

“Y/N.” The tone in his voice is serious.

“What?” He walks up and stands very close to you, only about a foot away from you.

His questions surprises you. “Why haven’t we kissed yet?”

Your face gets hotter. “Uhmm..w-why...”

“Because I straight-up told you that I loved you last night.” Bucky sounds grumpy and annoyed. You laugh nervously.

“Oh, that was real? I thought you were just delirious.” The words sound even more terrible once you said them.

“Nope, definitely for real.” Bucky says gruffly. An awkward silence hangs in the air. Then you tentatively reach out and hook your arms around his neck.

“Well, what are we waiting for, Sergeant?” You ask cheekily, tightening your hold on him. Bucky smirks as he leans down and presses his lips to yours. You run your fingers through his silky hair as his hands cup your jaw. Suddenly, a loud scream scares you both and you jump apart, embarrassed.

“HAIOOOOOO! HAND OVER YOUR MONEY, ROGERS!” Tony Stark hollers victoriously, holding his hand out to Steve expectantly.

“Goddammit, Bucky, Y/N.” Steve chuckles good-naturedly. You cover your red face with your hands until Bucky takes them in his.

“Ignore them. Want to take it to my room?” He’s got a sinful smirk on his face.

You smile and run your hands up his chest. “I’d like nothing better, Barnes.”

#avengers fanfiction #avengers tower #marvel #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes #winter soldier #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #awesomemarvelfanficsblog

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buckykingofmemes · 8 years ago

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Closet Softie

Or, How Bucky Barnes Nearly Ruined His Tough-Guy Rep

(On AO3)

The trail mix was gone.

The nice, expensive trail mix, with twelve kinds of nuts and the big sunflower seeds and dried fruits, the kind Tony only rarely left sitting on the common floors for everyone to get at, was gone.

Clint had been looking forward to that stuff all morning.

All the way through a hellish morning “jog” with Steve, all through Nat handing him his ass on the training mats, all through firing the same batch of misweighted arrows over and over so Tony could take scans and fix the design, he’d been thinking, when this is done I get to go upstairs and hang out on the couch and watch Dog Cops and eat the good trail mix, guilt-free.

And it was gone.

Clint was gonna shoot somebody.

Just as soon as he figured out who’d taken the trail mix.

kingofmemes posted:

yesterday i saw a sad duck in the park who kept getting picked on by the other ducks so today i brought some trail mix and we had a nice lunch together. also i think he might be the duck who pooped on sam last week. if so, he is officially my new best friend.

Posted at 3:29 PM, 24379 notes

(Read More Below)

Was...was that Barnes? No way was that Barnes. There was zero chance that the huge guy teaching a swarm of kids how to throw a baseball in the park was the Winter Soldier. That was ridiculous. Barnes was probably back in the Tower, brooding or something. Definitely not throwing crazy curveballs while a six year old with a broken arm rode piggyback. There were a dozen or so kids of varying ages clustered around, trying to mimic his throw. And while the big guy did have hair about the same length as Barnes’s, Barnes’s hair definitely wasn’t done up in sloppy child-made braids and topped with a dandelion flower crown. And Barnes would rather loose his right arm than deal with a bunch of kids, right? Even if these grubby little monsters were being remarkably well-behaved.

Had to be somebody else. Clint kept walking.

kingofmemes posted:

today i learned that i can throw a baseball hard enough that it will explode on impact. and also that if you do that, you better be prepared to teach a bunch of kids how to do it, because they wont ever leave you alone otherwise

Posted at 4:47 PM, 26658 notes

Clint actually tripped over the package left in front of his door. Avenger he might be, but it had been a long day at the end of a longer week, and he was tired. And usually there wasn’t anything left in the hallway to trip over, what the hell.

Clint grabbed the box and dragged himself into his apartment. Hopefully it wasn’t a bomb. If it was, he was totally gonna get blown up, because he was too tired to check before he opened it.

It wasn’t. It was a bizarre knit shirt-thing, big enough to fit him and with a hood and hoodie pocket, but without sleeves.The whole thing was made of a soft dark purple yarn, and it seemed unbelievably warm. It was...kinda perfect. He’d just been complaining on the last op about how hard it was to find warm clothes he could wear that didn’t restrict his arms so he couldn’t shoot.

He pulled it on. It was even warmer than it looked, and softer than Thor’s godly hair. Clint loved it.

But who the hell had given it to him?

kingofmemes posted:

i dont care what anyone says, knitting is a combat-applicable skill, and if you disagree i will fight you. with my knitting needles.

Posted at 3:42 AM, 47292 notes

There were cupcakes on the counter. Beautiful, glorious, still-warm cupcakes on the kitchen counter, and Clint was gonna eat all of them before anyone stopped him.

Well. Maybe he would share with Nat. Otherwise she might make him regret it. Nat was kinda the worst.

Wait, were these cupcakes for him?? They were lavender. With purple frosting. And the other half were little dark chocolate and red velvet sandwiches. Maybe it was a coincidence? Clint mused it over as he shoved a third lavender cupcake in his mouth. The red-and-black ones had some kind of dark red filling leaking out between the layers. It looked like blood. Nat reached past him and snagged two of them. He’d jump, but he’d gotten used to her sneaking up on him all the time. She was the worst. Clint refrained from commenting by stuffing a fourth cupcake in his face. They were really good.

Nat made a little muffled moan noise. Clint reached for one of the red cupcakes, and she slapped his hand down. “Those are mine,” she grunted around her mouthful of cake, because she was only ladylike when it suited her.

“Says who?” Clint asked, even as he took another purple cupcake.

Nat pointed to the paper plate. Where Clint’s cupcakes had previously sat, there was blocky sharpie lettering: Have fun on your mission & dont die. Below was a little drawing of an arrow and a spider. There was no signature.

Huh.

Nat swallowed. “We need to leave now if we don’t want to be late for the pre-op briefing.”

Aw, no, cupcakes. There were still so many left, Clint didn’t want to leave them. They wouldn’t last a day in the Tower.

“Take the cupcakes with.” Nat ordered, sweeping out of the room.

Nat was the best.

kingofmemes posted:

cupcakes are great. you could have one really big cake or 40 tiny cakes, thats so fantastic. im gonna die if i keep making this many cupcakes somebody help me eat all these

Posted at 5:43 PM, 23749 notes

Barnes had a death wish. It was the only logical conclusion. There was literally no other reason for him to suddenly yell “Motherfucker!” during a debriefing, while Nick Fury was talking.

That was the kinda thing that got you keelhauled. Clint would know, he was a human disaster. Barnes was apparently worse, though he seemed to have balls to match, because he sat still and maintained eye contact as Fury glared him down. Weaker men and some brick walls had crumbled under that glare.

Barnes waited him out, and endured the following dressing-down with respectful yes-sirs no-sirs and sorry-sirs. And then promptly dashed out of the room as soon as the debriefing was over.

Weird.

kingofmemes posted:

ever get clawed in the stomach by the secret kitten you rescued and stashed in your hoodie pocket? because let me tell you. it 1. hurts and 2. hurts emotionally, because i love her and she hates me

Posted at 4:47 AM, 37294 notes

Clint staggered into the common room. A bad op gone worse had not at all been helped by a stint in medical, which he hated, and he’d gotten home to discover that Lucky had knocked a houseplant over and somehow gotten dirt through the whole apartment and needed a bath. And Lucky did not like baths. Plus he was still dealing with a nasty cold. So now Clint was tired, injured, sick, wet, and somehow still covered in dirt.

Aw, life, no.

Barnes was on the couch, watching with raised brows as Clint stood and contemplated the disaster that this week had been. Possibly also he might be judging Clint for being such a human train wreck.

Clint sneezed pathetically.

Barnes stood up. Clint watched him, too exhausted to be concerned.

“You look like you could use a hug.” Barnes informed him.

It took Clint a moment to separate out what he’d expected Barnes to say and what he’d actually said. And then he said, “What?” Because, no way.

“A hug. Want one?” Barnes repeated, like Clint was slow. Which, to be fair, his brain was basically operating at the pace of a drunk slug.

“I...thought you were a no-hugging friend.”

“Mostly yes, but I’m in a good headspace today and you look like you could use either a hug or a mercy killing. And I don’t wanna get blood on this knife, I just cleaned it.”

Huh. That was...huh. Should he be touched or terrified? Clint didn’t think he had the emotional energy for both.

“So. Hug. Want one?”

“...yeah, please.”

Barnes was a weird hugger. He came in slow and careful like he was expecting something to detonate, but once he was there, it was like being wrapped up by the world’s nicest bear. Strong and steady and taller than Clint, damn him, but nice.

“Thanks.” Clint mumbled at his toes.

“Yeah, yeah. Sit on the couch, I’m gonna make you some soup before you pass out.”

Barnes was such a softie, Clint thought, splayed on the sofa, and slipped into sleep.

kingofmemes posted:

it turns out that the best way to cure grumpiness is with hot food and niceness. or maybe it was the murder threat that helped.

whichever. ill keep doing both just to be sure.

Posted at 4:47 AM, 5392 notes

Mod Hell note: Please note that Bucky did not feed bread to the duck. That is because bread is BAD FOR BIRDS and you should never give it to them, as it can cause serious health problems. Nuts and veggies are good. Google it.

#sometimes sams bird telepathy #just means birds understand him when he calls them assholes #Clint and bucky get along #still not shipping but you can take this as you will #sniper bros #special thanks to Nimitz #who just clawed me in the gut.#verisimilitude #bucky barnes #clint barton #Team Naptime #bucky king of memes #Tales from the Tower

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

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PureBS

KQED, the local PBS affiliate in San Francisco, hired me on three separate occasions. Perhaps my first four month stint of lambasting pledge; mocking the union slugs; and wearing a “I Hate Public Television” button didn’t alienate enough of the self-righteous to not ask me back.

During the second stretch at KQED, Yan Can Cook, a favorite cooking show of mine, ended up as one of my management responsibilities. Martin Yan, a charming and energetic man, had still not mastered the English language. While this elevated the whimsical personality of the brand, it did cause some consternation amongst his underwriters and sponsors.

One day, after rousing the stage manager from her stupor, we shot promos for the show.

Angry Stage Manager: “Fisherman’s Wharf Consortium. Promo! On. 5, 4, 3 . . . “

Martin Yan: “And dis time of yee-ah, you can take a trip to Fishahman’s Woof, where you can enjoy fresh Dungeness CRAP! And—”

Angry Director: “Cut!”

Martin Yan: “Problem?”

Legend has it that KQED lost the Fisherman’s Woof sponsorship. In the interest of keeping the stupid racism accusations to a minimum, I won’t cover the shoot day with the guest Thai chef who came on Yan Can Cook to make something with peanut sauce.

And if Martin Yan’s questionable diction were the only issue at KQED, and by extension PBS, the very concept of public broadcasting wouldn’t be so irksome. But in addition to top-heavy management, labyrinthine union rules, and the whiny production personnel, KQED’s programming, more of it on the public dime than any stooge at MSNBC will ever admit, ran tried and true to its appeal to aging hippies, angry minorities, guilt-ridden Caucasians.

In other words, less than 50% of the potential market at best.

A typical spate of an evening’s fare, consisting of 99% national feed and 1% of the pathetic excuse for local programming, laid out, with some embellishments as follows:

6pm – 7pm – The McNeil-Lehrer News Hour(of some clone thereof) – Tonight our two Woodward and Bernstein Wannabes present the news of past week with an emphasis on sticking a thumb in the eye of traditional Americans. Our field reporters, recently returned from their internships at the Kremlin, go on location to cover obtrusive American Imperialism in the four corners of the world.

7pm – 8pm – TWIT BAY AREA – This Week In The Bay Area.A series of featurettes on the topics that interest the residents of Kooktown, USA (In fairness, KQED does refer to the city as San Francisco) and its environs. Among tonight’s topics: The concept of White Privilege will be beaten to death by a KQED producer of color who couldn’t make it in the private sector. An inside look at the local burgeoning activist community. And our weekly expose on some rich, white people who just don’t pay their fair share of taxes.

8pm – 9pm – Beverly.A documentary produced by our sister station, WGBH/Boston. It’s the story of a young hermaphroditic transsexual who always felt, deep down inside, that they were a little ‘different.’

9pm – 10pm – Enrico.A documentary produced by our sister station, WGBH/Boston. It’s the story of a young hermaphroditic transsexual who, in addition to being an undocumented person of color, always felt, deep down inside, that they were a little ‘different.’

10pm – 11pm – Masterpiece Theater, Midsommer Murders or Agatha Christie Mysteries.

****

The beauty of KQED programming, and by extension PBS, is that you could fill out the viewing schedule in a matter of minutes for all seven days of the week. A name or title change here and there for the documentaries produced by WGBH, and a veryshort list of the topics that The MacNeil – Lehrer News Hour (Or some clone thereof) and TWIT BAY AREA dared touch and whoever had the job of scheduling at KQED had a very cushy job.

As mentioned earlier, KQED hired me twice in the early 90’s. They also brought me back in the mid-90’s for one more go at mind control assisting with The MacNeil – Lehrer News Hour, but after a third lunch with the local producer of the show did not yield the appropriate responses from Yours truly, the Che Guevara fan club, also known as Human Resources, gave up.

My last lunch with said producer went as follows:

Edward R. Murrow: “I just love Bill Clinton.”

Me: “He’s a lecherous, morally-repugnant layer of veneer. Putting him the White House was bad enough, but now that we’ve lowered the bar for entry, I think anyone can get in.”

Edward R. Murrow: “Check!”

It may have lasted longer than that, but by the time Ed Murrow stomped out of the sad excuse for a watering hole in which we dined, my membership in the Go Along to Get Along Club had been officially rescinded.

****

The sheep mentality engendered by employment within PBS aside, another aspect of working at KQED involved dealing with NABET, the labor union at the station started by the Cromwells. Given the work ethic and attitude with which the membership approached their jobs, the acronym stood for Not A Bit of Effort, Toots.

KQED’s scheduling department, with I which had to deal on an hourly basis, presented the only upside to this situation. The three main people, Jim, Jerry, and Simon must have gone home every night and beaten the dog, given the obstacles consistently put in their way. Their boss, Larry, should have been canonized during his tenure.

Requesting even an hour’s time of one of the 682 skilled laborers present at the station on a daily basis generated enough paperwork, Prilosec, and Sturm Und Drang to mount a summit meeting between superpowers.

Simon: “Scheduling. Dis is Simon.”

Me: “Simon, it’s George in unit managers. I need an hour of audio this afternoon.”

Simon: “I don’t have anybody.”

Me: “I saw a couple hundred of the NABET guys down at the Slo-Club, great name for a hang out for them by the way, having a 27 course lunch.”

Simon: “Yes, Dey on break.”

Me: “I get it. When dey back from break, can I get one of the audio guys or gals to record some V.O. in the booth at three o’clock?”

Simon: “Two.”

Me: “Okay, two o’clock, but I don’t think they’ll even be through the soup course by then.”

Simon: “No. You need two people to run audio in booth.”

Me: “First of all, I didn’t think you hadanybody. Second, that booth isn’t big enough for one person, let alone two. What are theygoing to do?”

Simon: “One to adjust microphone. Other runs tape machine.”

Me: “Are you F&$KING kidding me?”

Simon: “No. Is in NABET rules book. Section 22, para—”

Me: “What does the microphone adjuster do while the other person is running the tape machine?”

Simon: “Fills out timecards for session.”

Me: “Okay, fine.”

Simon: “Send me FAX, two copies of session script, name of actor on AFTRA contract, AFTRA contract in triplicate, radio and TV buy, and name of good place to buy miniature television set.”

Me: “What?”

Simon: “Kids want TV for car. It runs off cigarette lighter input. Very clever. I—”

I made up the part about the 27 course lunch. Might have only been 22.

****

KQED’s staff of producers, as befits the personality of a bunch of touchy-feely Marin County types, had zero interest in actually lodging consistent complaints about NABET. As such, when any of the production people complained to me in Unit Managers, I requested that a discussion with scheduling and the shop steward might be in order.

No one ever wanted to do that. In time, and long after I left, the union, the feckless producers, and their helpmates in top-heavy management cratered the station’s General Ledger and led to even less effective local programming and even fewer documentaries for which the station could claim credit. That trend continues to this day.

But by golly, trotting Bill Moyers, or some clone thereof, out to slam conservatives, and binge-running(No one binge watches PBS, except for Downton Abbey) alternative lifestyle short films, satisfies the sanctimonious and the self-proclaimed superior types.

And I ain’t talking about the viewership.

****

Can’t properly say farewell to this section without a few words on Pledge, the scourge of anything worthwhile to watch on PBS. It is the interrupter of any rhythm and appreciation of public television. If Pledge could be taken outside and shot, I’d be breach loading the shotgun and walking into my backyard to do it.

Pledge runs about 52 weeks out of the year, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Or, perhaps it just feels that way. During whatever air time is left, the local affiliate or national feed consists of worthwhile educational programs and family oriented fare that crosses all borders of gender, faith, ethnicity, and sexual orientation. Hah!

And, as much as I’d like to post a typical Pledge Pitch, I haven’t taken nearly enough Xanax in my life to pull myself out of the pit of despair into which I would plummet. I don’t think I can bring myself to recount the dialogue from the usual tag team combination of the effeminate Castrati and the cloyingly solicitous Manhattanite doyenne trying their level best to separate us from $50 for a copy of The Mario Lanza Diet Book.

I am moving on from PBS. You should too. I realize there is a dearthof educational, activity, and alternative viewing stations out there such as The Discovery Channel, NatGeo, Hallmark,

SCI, The History Channel, Ovation, Animal Planet, NASA TV, C-SPAN (Cough), The Travel Channel, The Golf Channel, NFL Network, MLB, NHL, and the various international feeds from other countries that any basic cable package will provide.

And there’s just so darned little On-Demand and on PPV that making a $50 donation to the elites seems like a fair trade. That and the Gazillion Dollars sent to those losers every year, some of which is hoovered out of your taxes, whether anyone at the CPB will confess to it or not.

Yes, the American public should just keep falling for the “Could you really take Sesame Street away from your children.?” Or as the sanctimonious PBS Pledge hosts would put it, “Can you allow the blood-thirsty, evil Republicans to take away the only access to fine, commercial-free programming poor little children of minority parents have? Can you? To those same programs also available to the spoiled-rotten, glow-in-the-dark, pale and washed out spawn of Satan? Can you?”

And now back to the private sector.

0 notes

cryokinesisandlight · 8 years ago

Text

Maybe if I skip Dinner (21)

pairings: xiuchen and baekyeol. xiumin and baekhyun centric, though.

genre: angst

rating: nc-17

warnings: eating disorders (bulimia and anorexia), self-harm, self-hatred

please take care of yourself if you choose to read.

Minseok is sleeping when a shrill tone suddenly snaps him out of sweet dreams. At first, he thinks it's the fire alarm, then he realizes it's his phone.

The screen flashes with Joonmyun's name on it and when he finally picks up, the first thing he hears is a sob. Joonmyun is unable to tell him anything though and it isn't until the manager's voice fills his ear that he finally gets the news.

Baekhyun is dead, he died at 4.43 AM according to doctors and the manager is going to talk to the hospital so that Minseok can attend the funeral. When he hangs up he's filled with a bitter sadness. It doesn't really occur to him that Baekhyun is actually dead until Jongdae calls him and cries.

Jongdae rarely cries but there is nothing left of the strong man that has been telling Minseok to start caring about himself when he sobs over the phone. Minseok feels horrible. He can't be there to support his band members and he can't even be there to mourn Baekhyun when he should have been.

It's also slightly terrifying, he realizes, a few minutes later. That it could be him. That life could be taken away so quickly.

Minseok knows of Baekhyun's problems with food. Jongdae told him. He's not sure if it was supposed to scare him but it hadn't. He had felt sorry for Baekhyun, of course he had. The other was too precious to even worry about food.

Now, however, he's just left with a weird sort of numbness. His band member has died yet he hasn't even shed a tear yet. Minseok kind of hates himself. He doesn't leave his bed for the entire day.

Instead, he stares at the ceiling and when the clock is 8 PM he feels the tear tracks drying on his cheeks and knows that he has been crying.

He loved Baekhyun, they all did. Baekhyun was perfect no matter what he did, his voice a gift from heaven and Minseok knows for certain that maybe being stubborn about losing weight was a wrong choice when all it lead to was unhappiness.

Now he'll never get to tell Baekhyun that the other was perfect. He'll never get the opportunity to apologize for not noticing, for not caring. The sob that wrecks his body is so pathetic that Minseok wants to hate himself for it, but he can't. He just wants to cry.

They remove the NG-tube a day before the funeral. He's told not to walk around, preferably being in the wheelchair despite being allowed to walk around in the hospital on his own for an hour every day.

The doctors are sympathetic and even agrees to cut down on the aggressively sized meals they've been giving him.

Minseok still kind of refuses to eat, it's not that easy to suddenly change, but he's actually making an effort to change. It's not that Minseok is particularly proud of himself.

He wishes he could stop eating and lose the last few kilograms but the doctors are also very clear with him - if he doesn't gain more weight, they're putting the NG-tube back in and they'll force feed him until he weighs 50 kg. The number is absurdly high, Minseok is sure he'll collapse long before he actually gets there.

For now, he weighs 44 kg. and that is still horrifying, but it's definitely better than 50. He wishes they won't go over 45 but he's also pretty sure that he can't negotiate with the doctors so they let him stay there.

The manager picks him up an hour before the funeral and he gives Minseok a sympathetic look as if the suit is too big on him. Minseok knows it hangs a little loose but it's better than filling it out completely because that would mean he is fat.

He isn't, though and his cheekbones are still horribly visible on his cheeks and his collarbones still create deep valleys. It's okay as long as his bones don't disappear underneath a layer of fat again.

There's silent in the car. He's been told it's a private affair. The members are going to be there, the same is Baekhyun's family. A few other friends are probably coming as well to pay their respects.

The fans have not been notified of time and place of the funeral and Minseok hopes they won't come. He doesn't want to be seen in the wheelchair that is now lying in the back of the car, waiting for them to arrive so Minseok doesn't have to walk.

When they arrive the members are there. They're all dressed in black and few acknowledges him. The manager wheels him closer to the coffin and Minseok feels a lump in his throat. He had promised himself he wouldn't cry, just to honor Baekhyun's beautiful smile, but looking at the picture on top of the coffin is so hard that he cries anyway.

He gets off of the wheelchair and steps closer only to bow down in front of the picture so he can pay his respects. He wants it to be a nightmare, he wants the nurse to come to wake him up any minute now. But there is no nurse to wake him up, only the soft cries of his members and Baekhyun's family.

As he rises from where he's bowing, he wipes away a tear.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the picture. What he's sorry for he isn't sure. But he's definitely sorry. He feels a soft hand grab his own and when he turns he finds Jongdae. The other has been crying as well and Minseok doesn't say anything that could ruin it. For once, Jongdae needs him just as much as he needs Jongdae.

They move a little away, closer to the group but there's silence amongst them all. Nobody knows exactly what to say. To bury a friend is something Minseok had hoped he would never have to do, at least not while he was still young, but here he is, along with the rest of them.

Chanyeol is staring blankly ahead of him, Joonmyun is crying into Yixing's chest and Sehun, Jongin and Kyungsoo are just standing there. It is as if the world has suddenly stopped moving, but Minseok knows that isn't the case.

He doesn't like being here so when he turns to Jongdae he tells him he wants to go back to the hospital.

Eating is terrifying. Eating on his own is more than terrifying and Minseok can't do it. His hand is shaking, the soup on the spoon splashing back down in the bowl in front of him.

He hasn't even taken a sip but the thought of actually consuming calories is so horrible to him, that just holding the spoon is a huge step. He wants to do it, though, he wants to eat the soup.

He somehow wishes to prove to the doctors that he isn't anorexic but something inside of him has already given up on that. He's sick, he's sick enough to be admitted to the hospital and he isn't going to get any better if he keeps denying.

The psychiatrist smiles at his efforts and Minseok sort of kind of wants to punch him the face. It's not that doctor Hwang isn't a nice man, he's a great man. He's very optimistic, something Minseok sometimes finds a little annoying. Like right now where his big smile is supposed to indicate that Minseok has taken a huge step towards recovery when he hasn't even been able to take a sip of his soup.

The knock on the door is a thankful welcome and Jongdae sends them a smile as he bows his head a little in greetings.

"Come on in, come on in," doctor Hwang says and Jongdae nods as he closes the door after him. He takes a seat on the other side of Minseok's bed and Minseok puts the spoon back into the bowl of soup.

Doctor Hwang seems to be able to feel that something is unsaid between them so he gets up and sends Jongdae a blinding smile before he tells the other to help Minseok eat a little of his food. Minseok sends him a scowl when he leaves and sighs heavily as the door closes.

"I can't even eat a fucking spoonful," he says frustrated and Jongdae takes the spoon from him.

"You know, it would probably be easier if you didn't shake that much." Minseok glares at him and Jongdae just smiles. "Here, let me help you." And he does.

The first spoonful is horrible. It tastes like fat and Minseok almost wants to vomit but he doesn't and Jongdae's eyes glint beautifully and Minseok thinks it's worth it. He eats another two spoonfuls before he gets enough and the taste of fat becomes too much.

"I've been thinking..." he says and Jongdae puts the spoon back in the soup as if feeding your band member is the most normal thing he has ever done. He tilts his head as if to ask Minseok to continue and Minseok does.

"I ... After Baekhyun ..." He can't get himself to actually say 'died' so he skips and hopes that Jongdae understands. "I don't want to die, so I've been thinking that maybe I should ... you know, give this whole ..." He gives up midway and sighs but Jongdae seems to understand anyway and he nods.

"I'm glad. I really am." He sounds so sincere that Minseok turns to look at him, only to get full eye contact. His heart skips a beat but he ignores it when he nods.

"But you know, I don't think being in the industry is going to do me any good and I would hold you guys back so much because of this..." He gestures towards his body that is still on the slightly slimmer side. Jongdae sighs a little.

"I get it," he says and Minseok actually thinks he might be getting it. "Quit." Jongdae suddenly says and Minseok stares at him incredulously.

"What?" He's pretty sure he didn't hear what Jongdae just said. He must have been dreaming it. The other wouldn't possibly be encouraging him to quit EXO, to quit his dreams and ultimately disappoint all of them. But when Jongdae repeats himself, it's exactly what he's suggesting.

"The industry is tough and you know it. Minseok, if you want to focus on getting better, quit EXO, be Kim Minseok again." He doesn't say 'I love you' but it lingers in the air and Minseok knows it's there. Because Jongdae loves him, even when he's not supposed to because Minseok is not worth loving.

Minseok lets the thought simmer and Jongdae feeds him another spoonful of soup.

The company isn't exactly happy when Minseok enters the office and declares that he wants to quit EXO. It's his only wish. He doesn't want lawsuits and money and the promise of being able to work in the entertainment industry again, he just wants out. He just wants them to null his contract so he's not with them in the next couple of years where he's going to focus on recovering. It wouldn't do them any good either.

He tells them all of this, has brought documents from several doctors to back up his points. He's suffering from severe Anorexia Nervosa with severe physical complications such as osteoporosis and bradycardia, he won't be of any use to them.

At the end, the board agrees with his decision and terminates his contract. The fans are going to hate him but Minseok doesn't care when he finds Jongdae and lets the other follow him back to the hospital.

They've been in the room for 30 minutes when doctor Hwang enters with a big smile and asks if it's true that Minseok wants to talk to him. Minseok nods.

"I want to admit myself long-term. I want to be here on my own."

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acolove · 8 years ago

Text

A Trip To The Unknown

Chapter One: Glad the train introduced us

It would be a long night. After spending 2 hours in a cab to get to this train station, there would be more 18 hours on the train itself. That’s absurd. I have never ever heard of a trip so long., especially by train. But it has to be done. Why did my family have to live so far away? Well, actually, I moved out. But it doesn’t change the fact that we live so apart from each other.

Is has been 3 years since I last saw my family. I remember how my father told me to never return, to leave them and never look back. I guess he won’t be very happy in seeing me. I’m the younger daughter of a broken man. My mom died when I was little, so it was just me, father, Nesta and Elain. My sisters were really close, a true family. Maybe it was because of the age difference, but their little family never included me.

Now, I’m going back to that house empty of love and solidarity, and without any warning. I wasn’t planning a family gathering, but the circumstances asked for it.

I found my seat by the window. If I were lucky, no one would sit next to me and I could spend the next hours sleeping or thinking about what would I say when I get home. Home. That house was not my home. I realized I had no such thing.

Apparently, I was not a lucky person. The person sitting next to me was the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He was tall and had a muscled body, his hair was dark as the night, but his skin was brown and tan. His violet eyes were staring at me as he offered his hand to me.

”I’m Rhysand” He smiled at me.

I took his hand and offered a smile, so obviously fake. “ I’m Feyre”

He took his seat next to me as I turned to the window, watching as people passed through the gates and into the train. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything that happened and how much of it I could blame on myself. Maybe everything.

I heard the man next to me clearing his throat “ So, what makes you travel all the way to Prythian?”

“Reasons” I didn’t even bothered looking at him.

“That’s quite vague”

“That’s quite none of your business”

After my response, he seemed to understand that I was not looking for small talk, or any talk at all. I fell asleep the second the train begun to move. Only 18 hours to go. I can do this.

I woke up with someone gently shaking me, but with all the bruises on my body it hurt and I groaned at the touch. Rhysand, apparently, pulled away at the sound.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you” He looked sincere, but it made nothing to improve my humor “I just wanted to say that they’re serving food right now. Some sort of dinner, if you find this eatable”

I murmured thanks while waiting for an attendant to bring me some soup, or whatever it was.

Rhysand was looking at me while I tasted my soup. It wasn’t all that bad. “I didn’t know they served food here”

“It’s to make the costumers more comfortable. After all, it’s a long trip”

“Indeed” I guess they weren’t so preoccupied with the costumers comfort judging by the side of the bowl. It was enough to feed a little bird, but not me.

“They also put together who they think will be the most compatible” he was now smirking.

“Really?” I looked up at him

“Yes, and since they were right about the soup, maybe they’re right about us”

“So you’re telling me that this is not just a train, but a love train?”

“Yes it is, Feyre darling” His smile only grew “And I intend on asking you out on a date by the end of this little lobe journey”

“I don’t think this will happen, Rhysand” I was smiling now.

“Rhys”

“What?” I looked confused at him

“Call me Rhys” He explained, “That’s how my friends call me”

“Okay, Rhys” I saw something shining in his eyes for just a moment because of the use of his nickname. “But I must warn you: friends don’t go on dates together”

“Maybe I want us to be more than friends”

“So I guess I will just have to call you something different. Maybe prick”

I heard his laugh as I looked back to my soup and finished eating it. When I turned to the window, I only saw trees passing by in a blur. Maybe sitting next to Rhys was my share of luck.

Rhysand and I talked for the next 3 hours about all the possible light subjects. I told him I was taking an arts course but I was also taking a break to visit family. I didn’t told what was the real reason, or who was the real reason. He told me he just graduated on business and was returning to his hometown to take care of his family company. We were from neighboring towns but never met.

I told him all about my family: how my father was never the same after my mother died, how Nesta was the most difficult person I know, how Elain is the exception to our family, how she is kind and naïve. He told me his parents died when he was little and their company was taken care by his uncle, but now he was read to lead. He told me about his friends ate the city, whom he called “The Inner Circle”, and how he missed them while he was away.

I tried not to look sad when he told me about them, but I’m sure Rhys noticed. I got jealous because I didn’t have anyone to miss. I was not close to my family, I was never the friendly kind of girl. Well, until I met him. Tamlin made me feel like no one ever did. He loved me so fiercely and I loved him back. Then we moved together to the other side of the country and I never talked to anyone again. Since now I was going back, it was safe to assume that it didn’t end well.

Think about him ruined my mood and I decided I should sleep some more. Rhysand understood and went to sleep too.

Only 8 hours left. I woke up again at the middle of the night. Rhysand was sleeping, just like everyone else on the train. Seeing him sleep brought me so many bad memories I couldn’t help crying. I thought about the hell I’ve been through and all the nights I’ve spent crying while Tamlin slept next to me as if nothing had happened.

I turned to the window again, and tried to be the most quiet as possible, Unfortunately, I was not capable of suppressing some sobs. After a few minutes, I felt someone holding my hand. It only made me cry harder.

He didn’t ask me what was wrong, which only made it worse. I decided I would tell him the truth, I would tell him everything. I don’t know if it was the fact that I was never going to see him again, or if it was just him, but it felt easy to tell my story. And I felt lighter.

“His name is Tamlin. We met in high school and he was my first love. I’ve never felt so beautiful, or desired, or loved as I felt when he looked at me. So it was easy loving him. We dated for a year and it was perfect, he was perfect. But then we graduated and he was moving to somewhere so far away and I was afraid no one would ever look at me like that again. So when he asked me to live with him I said yes, never hesitated. My father told me to never come back, to make a living far away from them. And so I did.”

I would stop eventually to drink some water or look at Rhys for a response, but he was serious, and his face didn’t give anything away.

“Everything was so perfect at the beginning. I thought I was dreaming. But after a year, he started to change. He became so jealous and possessive, never letting me meet the few friends I made, to a point that I had no friends at all. He was getting aggressive when I confronted him. That’s when he started hitting me” I saw anger on Rhys’s eyes, but I didn’t stop. “He would punch me or kick me in places no one could see and I just got lost. I stopped caring, confronting, asking. I just did what he wanted. But it was never enough. So he would hit me and make me “compensate” him in the bedroom for all the discomfort I caused. To make sure I never left the house, he locked me in our room and he would leave me there all day long. I couldn’t call my family because I chose to leave them. I chose this life”

I stopped for a moment, looking to anywhere but Rhys. I couldn’t meet his gaze, not after admitting I knew it was my fault. God, I felt so pathetic.

“It lasted a year. Until- well, until today. There was this party at this amazing gallery, and the owner and a lot of artists would be there. It was a great opportunity to make contacts or maybe even get a shot at an exposition. But he had a football game and wouldn’t let me go without him. I guess I just wanted it so bad I thought it was worth fighting for. I’ve never seen him so angry.” I took off my scarf so he could see the marks on my neck, probably deep purple by now. His eyes widened at the sight. “He tried to kill me, so I stabbed him. I don’t know how the knife got in my hands and I don’t know how I managed to escape, but I did. I grabbed a few things and took a cab for that train station and just bought a ticket to the only place I could think of. And I don’t know how I will face my family after that, because worse than being with someone like him is accepting it. And I did”

After what appeared to be hours in silence, I looked up at Rhys and saw only kind and understanding. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I realized how tired I was after telling all this and leaned onto Rhysand, falling asleep right after, with my head pressed against his chest and his arm over my shoulder.

He was stroking my hair while we told each other the worst jokes we could remember. We’ve been like that for the past hour. He didn’t say anything about what I told him and I was glad. I didn’t want to hear his judgment, or worse: his pity. It was easy to just talk about nothing, but never stop talking. We shared headphones listening to his ipod. Our tastes were so different, but I liked what he introduced me to.

It was morning already and we were just 2 hours from our destination. We ate some fruit salad they gave us and we just spent the rest of the trip like that.

I was waiting for a cab with my bag hung on one of my shoulders when Rhys told me his car arrived. He offered me a ride but a just needed a time alone.

“I want you to know that it was not your fault, it could never be your fault. I think you’re very beautiful and very brave” His words didn’t surprised me as much as the kiss he placed on my cheek. His lips were soft and warm and I wished he had kissed me for a longer time. He pulled away and got into his car, not after waving ate me by the window.

My cab came few moments later and I got myself comfortable on the back seat. Now, I was certain having Rhysand sitting next to me was a luck sign.

#acomaf #acotar #feyre #rhysand #feysand #fanfic

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

Text

“Tommy, are you even listening to me?”

Thomas snapped out of his daze and focused on Newt, who’d been talking for who knew how long; Thomas hadn’t heard a word of it. “Yeah, sorry. Couldn’t sleep last night.”

Newt attempted a pathetic smile. “Can’t blame ya there. Went through the buggin’ ringer, you did. Probably think I’m a slinthead shank for gettin’ you ready to work your butt off today after an episode the likes of that.”

Thomas shrugged. “Work’s probably the best thing I could do. Anything to get my mind off it.”

Newt nodded, and his smile became more genuine. “You’re as smart as you look, Tommy. That’s one of the reasons we run this place all nice and busylike. You get lazy, you get sad. Start givin’ up. Plain and simple.”

Thomas nodded, absently kicking a loose rock across the dusty, cracked stone floor of the Glade. “So what’s the latest on that girl from yesterday?” If anything had penetrated the haze of his long morning, it had been thoughts of her. He wanted to know more about her, understand the odd connection he felt to her.

“Still in a coma, sleepin’. Med-jacks are spoon-feeding her whatever soups Frypan can cook up, checking her vitals and such. She seems okay, just dead to the world for now.”

“That was just plain weird.” If it hadn’t been for the whole Ben-in-the-graveyard incident, Thomas was sure she would’ve been all he’d thought about last night. Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to sleep for an entirely different reason. He wanted to know who she was and if he really did know her somehow.

“Yeah,” Newt said. “Weird’s as good a word as any, I ’spect.”

Thomas looked over Newt’s shoulder at the big faded-red barn, pushing thoughts of the girl aside. “So what’s first? Milk cows or slaughter some poor little pigs?”

Newt laughed, a sound Thomas realized he hadn’t heard much since he’d arrived. “We always make the Newbies start with the bloody Slicers. Don’t worry, cuttin’ up Frypan’s victuals ain’t but a part. Slicers do anything and everything dealin’ with the beasties.”

“Too bad I can’t remember my whole life. Maybe I love killing animals.” He was just joking, but Newt didn’t seem to get it.

Newt nodded toward the barn. “Oh, you’ll know good and well by the time sun sets tonight. Let’s go meet Winston—he’s the Keeper.”

Winston was an acne-covered kid, short but muscular, and it seemed to Thomas the Keeper liked his job way too much. Maybe he was sent here for being a serial killer, he thought.

Winston showed Thomas around for the first hour, pointing out which pens held which animals, where the chicken and turkey coops were, what went where in the barn. The dog, a pesky black Lab named Bark, took quickly to Thomas, hanging at his feet the entire tour. Wondering where the dog came from, Thomas asked Winston, who said Bark had just always been there. Luckily, he seemed to have gotten his name as a joke, because he was pretty quiet.

The second hour was spent actually working with the farm animals—feeding, cleaning, fixing a fence, scraping up klunk. Klunk. Thomas found himself using the Glader terms more and more.

The third hour was the hardest for Thomas. He had to watch as Winston slaughtered a hog and began preparing its many parts for future eating. Thomas swore two things to himself as he walked away for lunch break. First, his career would not be with the animals; second, he’d never again eat something that came out of a pig.

Winston had said for him to go on alone, that he’d hang around the Blood House, which was fine with Thomas. As he walked toward the East Door, he couldn’t stop picturing Winston in a dark corner of the barn, gnawing on raw pigs’ feet. The guy gave him the willies.

Thomas was just passing the Box when he was surprised to see someone enter the Glade from the Maze, through the West Door, to his left—an Asian kid with strong arms and short black hair, who looked a little older than Thomas. The Runner stopped three steps in, then bent over and put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He looked like he’d just run twenty miles, face red, skin covered in sweat, clothes soaked.

Thomas stared, overcome with curiosity—he’d yet to see a Runner up close or talk to one. Plus, based on the last couple of days, the Runner was home hours early. Thomas stepped forward, eager to meet him and ask questions.

But before he could form a sentence, the boy collapsed to the ground.

CHAPTER 12

Thomas didn’t move for a few seconds. The boy lay in a crumpled heap, barely moving, but Thomas was frozen by indecision, afraid to get involved. What if something was seriously wrong with this guy? What if he’d been … stung? What if—

Thomas snapped out of it—the Runner obviously needed help.

“Alby!” he shouted. “Newt! Somebody get them!”

Thomas sprinted to the older boy and knelt down beside him. “Hey—you okay?” The Runner’s head rested on outstretched arms as he panted, his chest heaving. He was conscious, but Thomas had never seen someone so exhausted.

“I’m … fine,” he said between breaths, then looked up. “Who the klunk are you?”

“I’m new here.” It hit Thomas then that the Runners were out in the Maze during the day and hadn’t witnessed any of the recent events firsthand. Did this guy even know about the girl? Probably—surely someone had told him. “I’m Thomas—been here just a couple of days.”

The Runner pushed himself up into a sitting position, his black hair matted to his skull with sweat. “Oh, yeah, Thomas,” he huffed. “Newbie. You and the chick.”

Alby jogged up then, clearly upset. “What’re you doin’ back, Minho? What happened?”

“Calm your wad, Alby,” the Runner replied, seeming to gain strength by the second. “Make yourself useful and get me some water—I dropped my pack out there somewhere.”

But Alby didn’t move. He kicked Minho in the leg—too hard to be playful. “What happened?”

“I can barely talk, shuck-face!” Minho yelled, his voice raw. “Get me some water!”

Alby looked over at Thomas, who was shocked to see the slightest hint of a smile flash across his face before vanishing in a scowl. “Minho’s the only shank who can talk to me like that without getting his butt kicked off the Cliff.”

Then, surprising Thomas even more, Alby turned and ran off, presumably to get Minho some water.

Thomas turned toward Minho. “He lets you boss him around?”

Minho shrugged, then wiped fresh beads of sweat off his forehead. “You scared of that pip-squeak? Dude, you got a lot to learn. Freakin’ Newbies.”

The rebuke hurt Thomas far more than it should have, considering he’d known this guy all of three minutes. “Isn’t he the leader?”

“Leader?” Minho barked a grunt that was probably supposed to be a laugh. “Yeah, call him leader all you want. Maybe we should call him El Presidente. Nah, nah—Admiral Alby. There you go.” He rubbed his eyes, snickering as he did so.

Thomas didn’t know what to make of the conversation—it was hard to tell when Minho was joking. “So who is the leader if he isn’t?”

“Greenie, just shut it before you confuse yourself more.” Minho sighed as if bored, then muttered, almost to himself, “Why do you shanks always come in here asking stupid questions? It’s really annoying.”

“What do you expect us to do?” Thomas felt a flush of anger. Like you were any different when you first came, he wanted to say.

“Do what you’re told, keep your mouth shut. That’s what I expect.”

Minho had looked him square in the face for the first time with that last sentence, and Thomas scooted back a few inches before he could stop himself. He realized immediately he’d just made a mistake—he couldn’t let this guy think he could talk to him like that.

He pushed himself back up onto his knees so he was looking down at the older boy. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what you did as a Newbie.”

Minho looked at Thomas carefully. Then, again staring straight in his eyes, said, “I was one of the first Gladers, slinthead. Shut your hole till you know what you’re talking about.”

Thomas, now slightly scared of the guy but mostly fed up with his attitude, moved to get up. Minho’s hand snapped out and grabbed his arm.

“Dude, sit down. I’m just playin’ with your head. It’s too much fun—you’ll see when the next Newbie …” He trailed off, a perplexed look wrinkling his eyebrows. “Guess there won’t be another Newbie, huh?”

Thomas relaxed, returned to a sitting position, surprised at how easily he’d been put back at ease. He thought of the girl and the note saying she was the last one ever. “Guess not.”

Minho squinted slightly, as if he was studying Thomas. “You saw the chick, right? Everybody says you probably know her or something.”

Thomas felt himself grow defensive. “I saw her. Doesn’t really look familiar at all.” He felt immediately guilty for lying—even if it was just a little lie.

“She hot?”

Thomas paused, not having thought of her in that way since she’d freaked out and delivered the note and her one-liner—Everything is going to change. But he remembered how beautiful she was. “Yeah, I guess she’s hot.”

Minho leaned back until he lay flat, eyes closed. “Yeah, you guess. If you got a thing for chicks in comas, right?” He snickered again.

“Right.” Thomas was having the hardest time figuring out if he liked Minho or not—his personality seemed to change every minute. After a long pause, Thomas decided to take a chance. “So …,” he asked cautiously, “did you find anything today?”

Minho’s eyes opened wide; he focused on Thomas. “You know what, Greenie? That’s usually the dumbest shuck-faced thing you could ask a Runner.” He closed his eyes again. “But not today.”

“What do you mean?” Thomas dared to hope for information. An answer, he thought. Please just give me an answer!

“Just wait till the fancy admiral gets back. I don’t like saying stuff twice. Plus, he might not want you to hear it anyway.”

Thomas sighed. He wasn’t in the least bit surprised at the non-answer. “Well, at least tell me why you look so tired. Don’t you run out there every day?”

Minho groaned as he pulled himself up and crossed his legs under him. “Yeah, Greenie, I run out there every day. Let’s just say I got a little excited and ran extra fast to get my bee-hind back here.”

“Why?” Thomas desperately wanted to hear about what happened out in the Maze.

Minho threw his hands up. “Dude. I told you. Patience. Wait for General Alby.”

Something in his voice lessened the blow, and Thomas made his decision. He liked Minho. “Okay, I’ll shut up. Just make sure Alby lets me hear the news, too.”

Minho studied him for a second. “Okay, Greenie. You da boss.”

Alby walked up a moment later with a big plastic cup full of water and handed it to Minho, who gulped down the whole thing without stopping once for breath.

“Okay,” Alby said, “out with it. What happened?”

Minho raised his eyebrows and nodded toward Thomas.

“He’s fine,” Alby replied. “I don’t care what this shank hears. Just talk!”

Thomas sat quietly in anticipation as Minho struggled to stand up, wincing with every move, his whole demeanor just screaming exhaustion. The Runner balanced himself against the wall, gave both of them a cold look. “I found a dead one.”

“Huh?” Alby asked. “A dead what?”

Minho smiled. “A dead Griever.”

CHAPTER 13

Thomas was fascinated at the mention of a Griever. The nasty creature was terrifying to think about, but he wondered why finding a dead one was such a big deal. Had it never happened before?

Alby looked like someone had just told him he could grow wings and fly. “Ain’t a good time for jokes,” he said.

“Look,” Minho answered, “I wouldn’t believe me if I were you, either. But trust me, I did. Big fat nasty one.”

It’s definitely never happened before, Thomas thought.

“You found a dead Griever,” Alby repeated.

“Yes, Alby,” Minho said, his words laced with annoyance. “A couple of miles from here, out near the Cliff.”

Alby looked out at the Maze, then back at Minho. “Well … why didn’t you bring it back with you?”

Minho laughed again, a half-grunt, half-giggle. “You been drinkin’ Frypan’s saucy-sauce? Those things must weigh half a ton, dude. Plus, I wouldn’t touch one if you gave me a free trip out of this place.”

Alby persisted with the questions. “What did it look like? Were the metal spikes in or out of its body? Did it move at all—was its skin still moist?”

Thomas was bursting with questions—Metal spikes? Moist skin? What in the world?—but held his tongue, not wanting to remind them he was there. And that maybe they should talk in private.

“Slim it, man,” Minho said. “You gotta see it for yourself. It’s … weird.”

“Weird?” Alby looked confused.

“Dude, I’m exhausted, starving, and sun-sick. But if you wanna haul it right now, we could probably make it there and back before the walls shut.”

Alby looked at his watch. “Better wait till the wake-up tomorrow.”

#MazeRunner

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