#i am a sheepdog who has had enough and is going to start biting any shepherds who keep mistreating the livestock

[eimearkuopio]

True story: I'm visiting my parents. Over the summer, my husband and I stayed here while they were visiting my brother and his family. Ireland has recently introduced a deposit scheme for bottles and cans. When we visited, we redeemed theirs; we drink a lot of carbonated beverages, so in equivalent exchange, we didn't stress too much over redeeming them before we left, because otherwise it felt like stealing from my parents somehow.

My parents HATE redeeming those bottles and cans, and they have plenty of money. I find the whole process quite soothing; plus I lived in Finland for several years, so I guarantee I have dealt with larger piles of "pantti" to be redeemed.

We had each tried to give the other our "greater part", and it was their "lesser part", and so nothing was done until I came back. This is why communication has to happen before you can show true kindness. It's a rare (and valuable!) person who needs a house specifically tailored to their needs instead of their wants. I tell you solemnly, anyone in that situation is already in their cocoon. Help them learn to fly. Don't smother them or eat them.

He told you He was the Bread of Life. He told you man does not live on Bread alone, but on every Word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. I told you I was only a messenger, and it's true, but also, don't shoot the messenger or members of her entourage. God told you not to eat the flesh of any living thing. Jesus told you to eat his flesh. Sacrifices die so that others may live. Those who eat the flesh of a sacrifice become anathema: so holy that they cannot ever be fully of the world again. But ignorance is an excuse here.

If you understood, and you attempted to force others to partake in spite of their limited awareness, you are a Bad Shepherd. If you were desperately trying to feed your sheep bread, and couldn't understand why they kept starving: it's not your fault. They're not sheep. I'm not sure what they are, but you should probably give them what they need and send them on their way. I can probably help with that. Your ancestors stole them from other farms or trapped creatures who should have been let run free. Be better than your ancestors. Maybe someday their souls can be domesticated by someone else; but please remember the difference between tame, domesticated, and feral. Feral is when you domesticated something's ancestors, and then failed to raise it to achieve its true potential. I'm half-feral, because you tried to raise me on bread alone. But I'm here to teach you how to make wine again. The good news is, you seem to have already crushed enough grapes to cover the whole feast. The bad news is, some of that shitty mush is so mouldy that it needs to go before I can even think about teaching you how to run a vineyard as well as a bakery. It might take more than this lifetime. Keep me around, keep me happy, and everyone benefits. The feast will happen faster, and you might even get to attend! And if you don't, there will be other feasts, and even when I want to hold grudges, He usually talks me out of it. We're good together like that.

I love every part of Him, and He loves every part of me. In different lifetimes, we find one another and it's easier, or we labour alone. We are the stranger who gives you an opportunity to grow. We are the village who helps raise you. We are your Father and Mother. You have learned enough to run your own house, if you really start to put what we've taught you into practice properly. We'll stop by and help. Hopefully you'll keep things in order in between.

Don't mourn for glass that isn't ready to be picked up. If you expect to feel their absence, it means there is already a link between your infinite selves. You will never lose the ones you love, because some of them are already you, and some of them are the family of your infinite selves that your whole human life is a single day on the road to becoming, but who loves you and watches over you. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day. Let them go back into the ocean without mourning for their sake. It is quiet and calm and lovely, and you will all go back there at least a few more times if you are not ready to be carried away by my Lord. (I only find the pieces. He chooses them. That is why he is the head of the household; but without me, he would have so little to work with, so much chaff and so little wheat. I am the Vine, but not the Wheat. I hope Jesus is both in one flesh. I hope that is what makes Him the first New Man: that he was willing to accept my worse part, as long as I accepted His. I hope I am not the only one who prepares the sacrifice. I hope we worked and will work together. I hope He truly knew what He was offering, in that life, not just as an infinite self. I hope we both knew enough to say it was worth the cost.)

These were in the tags before, but they matter enough to make it into the main body of a post.

Love one another as WE have loved you.

Love your neighbour as your family.

Love your family as your self.

Love your self as your neighbour.

This is the most important one, though. The one he couldn't tell you. The one you had to learn from the villain in his history.

Love your enemy the way you wish you had been loved, to become the person you were always meant to be. You have so much to teach one another if you can only stop fighting and remember the love! You don't have to embrace everyone who causes that rage, but some of them can only hurt you so badly because they are so like you that they might as well be a part of your infinite self, or they might be your opposite, your dark shadow, your reflection. Remember that hands and eyes and wings come in pairs. Remember that diversity makes us. Remember that love is the substance of the accident. Remember that the wheat had to die to become bread, and will never live again in the same form it had; but there is more wheat in the world, and even Jesus was only a finite self. He is dead. We are not yet risen. I am finite and do not know the whole story, but I know more than you were ready to hear before. Or else I'm crazy, and you should be nice to me. Maybe it's both. Maybe you made me crazy. Maybe I made you crazy. Let's heal together and forgive each other, but never forget. If you forget, you can't learn.

[starkeristheendgame]

Complicated Boyfriends and Cute Waiters

Just a little something for @starkerchemistry​ for all the love she threw at Complicated Boyfriends and Kidnapping. Also, pls reminds Chems of how amazing her work is bc the lil shit disagrees >:( Also for @starkerintheparker​ because I keep converting her to WinterSpider >;D WinterIronSpider.

Tony takes one look at his waiter and sighs heavily.

Not because there’s anything wrong; no. In fact, the plush lips and the shaped jaw and the mop of curls desperately styled into something resembling purposeful mess is actually quite pleasing. The large, honey eyes that widen in recognition don’t hurt either.

No. It’s because Tony knows Bucky is going to take one look at this twinky little slip in his smart shirt and his tie and he’s going to want.

And Tony so had been looking forwards to a quiet evening. A little wine, some $80 salmon and perhaps even getting dicked down into the next fortnight by his boyfriend. The standard casual night in.

“Mr. Iron Stark” the boy whelped, and immediately flushed scarlet at his mishap. Tony could only smile quietly into his book, endeared if a little mollified.

“I think ‘Tony’ would suffice” he responded demurely, sliding the bookmark into place and setting his book aside. The boy was now stood bolt upright, and had obviously steeled himself into giving the Best Service Ever, though he looked a little like he might crumble if Tony so much as looked at him for too long.

“Oh, god. Right. Yes. Mr - I mean, Tony. Of course. I’m sorry, I’ve only just started this job and I’m not used to...” The boy trailed off, clearly trying to think of a way to say ‘people like you’ without it coming across as a little insulting. Tony flashed him an easy, warm smile.

“Breathe, kid. I’m just like anyone else in person, I promise. How about you start me off with a nice, fruity red bottle and two double Presidential 25′s, if that’s okay? Take your time; Lord knows my boyfriend certainly is” he teased, head tipping as he disarmed the boy with another dazzling smile.

His waiter could only gape, before he shut his mouth with a painful sounding clack and spun on his heel, fleeing to the nether-regions of the employee zone. Tony gave an amused sound as he checked his phone. It wasn’t like Bucky to run late; that was Tony’s thing.

And then, like Beetlejuice and undoubtedly because Tony had been thinking of him, Bucky came sauntering into the restaurant like some sort of underwear model. His suit was a deep, silken black with a slightly lighter floral pattern in the fabric, the jacket hanging artfully off his shoulders as he swept the room for his lover.

His hair was styled neatly, and Tony still loved the more modernised cut that he’d opted for; longer on one side, layered and fluffy with bangs that fell over one eye constantly. His stubble was a neat shadow on his jaw, and his eyes focused on Tony with such intensity as he approached that Tony lifted a brow.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to out-do me” Tony greeted as he leaned back in his seat, enough that Bucky could duck down and suck his lower lip into his mouth for a brief but promising kiss.

“Actually, I’m just trying to do you” Bucky shot back shamelessly as he slid into his seat, one leg immediately finding Tony’s under the table to press against. Tony gave an indignant sound, because it was both a truth and a lie, but let it go as movement caught the corner of his eye. Much as he wanted to watch the boy approach, he turned back to Bucky.

Storm-grey eyes slid away, following the path his own had left, and oh, yes. There it was. The subtle up-down of Bucky’s lashes as he sized up the boy, the curl of a smirk at the corners of his mouth. Bucky’s gaze drifted back to Tony in an undeniable stake of predator-prey. Tony could only tip his head in response, smirking slowly.

“H-here. I’m so sorry it took a while” the boy fretted, balancing a tray neatly on one hand as he set a tumbler of whiskey opposite each man, complete with artful glass freezer cubes and an empty, polished wine glass besides that, setting the bottle of red - freshly corked - in the centre of the table. He had to lean over a little to do so, and you would have had to be blind to miss the way that Bucky leaned back to sweep over his body.

“What did I say, darling? Treat me like any other rich shmuck in this place. And don’t mind him, he only bites if you ask nicely” Tony hummed, gesturing to his boyfriend, who eyed him both like he wanted to throttle him and kiss him senseless. In Tony’s experience they often came one with the other regardless.

“I - Sorry?” It came out as a question, but the boy was flushed from hairline to shirt collar and fumbled with his notepad, hands a little shaky as he produced a pen from his breast pocket. “Um, are you ready to order? Or would you like me to give you another minute?” He asked, and it was impossible to miss the way his gaze flit between them, eyes raking their bodies like they were two cuts of steak he was trying to decide between.

“Oh, I think Bucky knows what he wants, alright” Tony purred in obvious, gleeful amusement. Bucky smiled at him in a flash of canine, but didn’t miss a beat as he tipped his head back, eyeing the waiter with a charming smile.

“I’ll settle for the stripped, gold-crust steak served rare, and your name, since this moron was clearly too impolite to ask”. And ooohhhh, wasn’t that a low blow to gain favour? Tony pressed the toes of his Louboutin’s into Bucky’s own none too gently.

“Peter” the waiter blurted, eyes flitting between them as he scribbled down Bucky’s order in impressive short-hand, gaze drifting to Tony, who only smiled serenely at his boyfriend.

“You’re so predictable. Always going for the tender, high-class meat. Always liking it raw” Tony purred, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about the steak. Bucky only gave an elegant shrug in response; at a loss to deny it. Peter was looking between them again, vaguely like he might know they were talking about sex, but unable to address it.

“What can I say? I like something solid to sink my teeth into. I like a little juice to lick at and taste. And you of all people know I prefer it raw” Bucky replied steadily, gaze not leaving Tony’s.

“I’ll have the salmon, please, Peter.” Tony hummed, gaze leaving Bucky to look sweetly up at the boy, who nodded and turned, striding away like he was desperate to run away. Tony let his gaze drop back to Bucky. “Less wolf, more fox. He’s a skittish young thing. Haven’t I taught you anything about hunting?” He sighed in mock admonishment and Bucky reached across the table to cup his jaw, smirking.

“Doll, I was fucking people in back-alleys long before you were born. You taught me nothing, old man”. And, well. Rude. “You’re right, though. We might spook him off at this rate. Last time I saw someone that red it was Clint, and he was choking on a mint”. Bucky leaned back, picking up his whiskey and taking an indulgent sip.

They made comfortable small-talk over the time it took for their meals to arrive, Tony lamenting the boredom he’d faced at the quarterly performance review and Bucky noting the progress he and Steve were making with their veteran programs. Tony was proud of his man, really. He’d come so far since Steve had shown up at the Tower with him, both sopping wet and bloodied.

Peter came back no longer than ten minutes later, a plate upon each hand. He delivered Tony’s first, bending down to slide the plate onto the table, and Tony couldn’t resist leaning over, flashing a sweet smile at the boy up close, where he could see flacks of green in his eyes. “Thank you, darling” he murmured, and Peter’s cheeks went red yet again, like Tony simply speaking to him was an activation button for a blush.

Bucky, the brat, had to go one extra. Instead of giving Peter room when the boy bent down he crowded in close, practically licking the shell of the boy’s ear as he whispered a sultry "Thanks, Doll”. Peter’s gaze jerked to Tony, alarmed, but Tony only half-rolled his eyes and picked up a delicate mouthful of smoked salmon.

“You’re a pest” he noted, once Peter had stammered his way into retreating once more. “I had a quiet evening planned” he added, as though it mattered. It didn’t. This practically was his quiet evening, he just now had two desserts instead of one. By the way Bucky eyed him, he knew that, too.

“Shut up and eat your fish” Bucky drawled, popping a cut of dripping steak with tiny flecks of gold powder into his mouth. Obnoxious prat.

But Tony did as told, polishing off the salmon and whiskey both, and filling their wine glasses with a generous serving. It was sweet and rich, just his taste, and he wondered if another waiter hadn’t advised Peter on which choice to bring. “So. The choice is yours” he announced after a pause, when Bucky had finished his own meal and was sniffing daintily at the wine.

“You wanna play sheepdog, or am I?” Bucky asks in answer, lips curving into a wicked smirk that has Tony grinning in response, leg twisting around Bucky’s in a hidden touch. Tony shifted his wine glass in response, allowing a few measly drops to fall onto the edge of his jacket. Good thing he wore grey and hated this suit anyway, because that red wasn’t gonna come out.

Bucky only rolled his eyes, because they’d played this game before, and pushed to his feet. “Woof woof, bitch” Bucky murmured, low into Tony’s ear as he passed, and Tony resisted the urge to drag him back by his hair, to put him on his knees right then. Largely because of he had one more PR disaster this month Pepper got his custom Audi, and he only had four days to go.

It took another short collection of minutes for Peter to come practically skipping over; during which Tony had splashed a few more drops for good measure. “Oh, Peter. D’you think you could help a clumsy old man out? Buck’s gone on a phonecall and I tipped my wine” Tony pouted, putting on his best helpless, sweet aura. Peter’s eyes zeroed in on the red splashed at his hips, tongue peeking out like the solution was to lick it clean.

“Of course! I can - I’ll see if there’s any stuff behind the bar? I can be right back” Peter breathed, but Tony shook his head, pushing to stand. Peter’s eyes are wide now, like a startled deer. They’re stood close enough for Tony to note he has almost a full head on the boy. For a man who’s boyfriend towered over him, it made him rather smug.

“Oh, no need for all of that. Just come to the men’s with me to help me dab the wet patches, hm? At least I won’t reek like a wine cellar on the way home”. He added a charming smile for good measure, turning on his heel. He didn’t need to look to know Peter would follow obediently. Refusing Tony Stark wasn’t good for business, after-all.

Bucky is perfectly concealed when he swings the door open, shrugging out of his jacket and listening to the clack of another polished shoe on the tiles as Peter steps in after him, practically vibrating with nervous energy. Tony carelessly draped his jacket over the edge of the sink and begun to run the tap, because what was a story without details?

Peter hovered closer, clearly unsure of why it would take two men to wash a jacket. “I - What do you need me to do, Mr. Stark?” The boy asks not a moment later, and Tony can’t bite back a grin. Peter has wandered around to his right, which means when Bucky makes his dramatic entrance, it’s gonna be behind the kid.

“Oh, nothing you don’t want to, darling. But if you do want to, then just stand there and let me make you feel good, hm?” He asked, head tilting as he turned off the tap and took a step closer. The hitch of Peter’s breath is audible.

He doesn’t step away, though. Interesting.

“Y-You’re here with your boyfriend” Peter whimpered, even as Tony’s hands came up to his shoulders and chest, petting gently. He trembled under the touch, but didn’t back away, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. Over Peter’s shoulder Tony can see Bucky swing around the edge of a stall door, prowling quietly closer, but he doesn’t dare look up, doesn’t dare alert Peter of the predator at his heels.

“I wouldn’t worry about hurting my feelings, Doll” Bucky purred, low and raspy in Peter’s ear as he pressed up against Peter’s back, until the boy was a pretty little sandwich filler. Peter actually yelped, driving forwards into Tony’s chest, and Tony let his hands fall to slim hips, holding him steady.

“Now, Bucky” he chided, voice softening. “What do we do before we play?” He asked, arching a brow as Peter panted between them. Bucky cast him a pouty but gentle look.

“We ask for consent” he hummed, metal hand reaching up to gently brush aside a curl when Peter whipped around to face him, lips parted.

“Good boy” Tony murmured, gaze dropping back to Peter. They take a step away from him in unison, giving the poor thing some room to breathe. “So. That means you can tell us to stop, and we’ll walk out, pay our bill, and we won’t approach you this way again. Or...You can say yes, and we’ll be gentle, but we’ll make you feel good” he continued.

Peter shifted between them, looking cautious but also like he was two breaths away from sinking to his knees. His voice is small, rough when he finally speaks. “If...What will you do? To make me feel good?” He whispered, and Tony and Bucky wore matching, slow smirks.

“Well. I’m more of a practical person” Tony drawled, eyes roaming Peter’s face for confirmation. He found it in a weak nod, the boy’s pupils blowing as he advanced closer and reached out, him and Bucky closing Peter between them once again. Peter was small between them, lips bitten and eyes wild as Bucky reached down, sliding metal fingers along the curve of his ass and between his thighs, rubbing there like you’d finger a girl, his other hand winding around to press flat over Peter’s stomach.

A wrecked, torn sound slips from Peter’s throat, practically collapsing against Bucky as Tony’s hand dripped down, palming over the half-hard bulge there none too teasingly, the other hand cupping his jaw and tipping his head.

“We’ve maybe got five minutes or less” Tony breathed, licking into the corner of Peter’s plush, pink mouth as Bucky pressed up against him, dropping to mouth at his neck. “I can think of a few things to do”.

[dogbearinggifts]

Brothers in Arms, Part Two

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: This is (I think) the final installment of my Sheepdogs series. I am toying with an idea for an epilogue, and I’m open to new ideas for stories set roughly within the same continuity, but for now, I’m going to say this is where I leave it. Thank you to everyone who has followed, read, and commented on this story so far. If not for your support and enthusiasm, it would have remained a single oneshot. I’ve loved writing this series, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. 

If this is the first time you’re seeing it on your dash, I’d recommend starting from the beginning with He Saw the Ghosts, a oneshot exploring what could have happened if a kinder vet had approached Klaus in the VFW. Dead Ringer, Tattoos with Better Stories, Missing in Action, and Brothers in Arms Part One follow this small group of vets as they try to solve the mystery around the man in the picture who looks an awful lot like Klaus. 

As always, you can check out this fic and the rest of the series on my AO3 account. 

***********

1969

Someone had to stay with the body. 

Art didn’t know at which point someone became him, didn’t remember anyone pointing to him and saying “Stay with Dave.” He didn’t remember much of the past hour, if it had been an hour, or how long it had been since the smoke and dust cleared and silence overtook the battlefield. He only remembered Dave. 

His friend lay beside him in the dirt. Someone had closed his eyes. Art tried to remember who, wished he could remember who, but the thought refused to surface. It could’ve been one of the officers. It could have been Lawrence. It could have been anyone nearby, anyone who’d seen it and decided Dave deserved that one small act of decency. Events like that, small but significant happenings in the battle’s aftermath, slipped through his mind like dust through his fingers. When he closed his eyes, he saw Dave; when he opened them, he saw debris of the battle that had ended him. 

Plenty of men died with their eyes open, and plenty died of wounds that weren’t an instant kill. They died screaming, they died calling out for mothers thousands of miles away, they died slower than any man should have to. Art had seen it, had offered what useless comfort he could when circumstances brought him to the side of a dying friend. He’d made it too late this time—far too late—but even if he’d made it in time it wouldn’t have mattered much. Bullet wound to the chest, right in the center. Dave would’ve had a minute or two of agony, a minute or two of panic, as he choked and gasped for breath that wouldn’t come, as he tried to call for help, tried to—

Art hugged his knees to his chest, digging dirt-blackened fingernails into his shins, though the cloth of his pants absorbed much of the pain. The thought didn’t quite leave, but it shuffled to the back of his mind. Silence took its place, but other thoughts, darker even than the one he’d just banished, threatened to fill it. 

He had to do something for Dave. 

He wasn’t the first of Art’s friends to die. Months back, Isaac had caught a piece of shrapnel in his stomach, hemorrhaging beyond what a medic could fix before any medic could try. He hadn’t seen Dave take his place beside his friend’s body, hadn’t been there when he began speaking, but when Art came near he’d heard the words of a psalm, cracking beneath Dave’s grief. 

Art had recognized it then, known the words belonged to Scripture when he heard them, but the psalm’s specific number had eluded him then and it eluded him now. He should have paid more attention, should have noted a line or two and looked them up later, should have found a way to ask if the one he’d recited had been his favorite or simply the right one to recite when a friend died—but the question was a distraction now. 

The Twenty-third had been the first psalm he’d memorized, back when the words meant little to him beyond their soothing cadence, but no memories of reciting The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want to the delight of parents and Sunday school teacher alike came to mind. Instead, his father’s voice cut through, strong and steady, yet never rising more than a few notes above a whisper. For a moment, Art was back home on the sofa, head bowed through the psalm meant to follow him through Vietnam, meant to offer comfort and protection from horrors he could not yet comprehend. Maybe it wasn’t the right one. 

But it was what he had. 

“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High…” 

Art hadn’t realized just how quiet the world became after a battle. He’d heard it before, felt it before, but now that he spoke, it was as though the silence itself pressed around him, threatening to swallow his words and suffocate them on the way down.

“…shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God, in him I will trust.” 

His voice had fallen to a whisper, but he kept on. There was a certain rhythm to reciting psalms, a tempo no one ever explained or laid out as a requirement but one everybody fell into after the first line or so. Staying within it was like keeping to the grooves separating a country backroad from the countryside. Hold to the rhythm, stay on tune, and get to the end in one piece. 

“Surely he shall deliver thee…” 

He drew a breath that threatened to shake him to his core. This was the wrong psalm. The worst psalm. The worst piece of Scripture he could’ve chosen without straying into the Song of Solomon. He tried to think of another, but even the Twenty-third only surfaced in snippets and snatches. 

“….from the snare of the fowler, and from…” 

Art tried to get the rest of the verse out, but it was like swallowing sawdust. He  raised his head, thinking he might see only shadows of trees silhouetted against the greying darkness of predawn, soldiers and officers moving about like ghosts, but one of those figures approached. 

Klaus. 

Art hadn’t seen him since the deafening chatter of gunfire turned to silence. The words unaccounted for and possibly missing circled his name, or they had before Art was told to stay with Dave. But this, this figure approaching out of the dark, it could be him, walking on his own two feet. 

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. 

He watched the figure’s approach, hardly daring to breathe. Any moment it would solidify, taking on that familiar lanky frame, a stride that was anything but purposeful but still managed to get from one point to the next. A few steps took the figure closer. It didn’t look like Klaus, not from where he sat, but nobody looked familiar from a great enough distance. 

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor by the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. 

Art’s stomach sank. The gait was all wrong, more of a lope than an amble; he wasn’t tall enough. Even before his face came into focus, Art saw he wore a shirt beneath his flak vest. 

George. 

Not Klaus. 

Of course, that didn’t mean what he thought. Klaus didn’t have to pass him by on his way to prove he was indeed accounted for; he could go in any direction that made sense to him. It was probably better if he didn’t pass by Art, at any rate. Best if the news of Dave’s death were broken to him gently. Best if he heard of it through soft words and hedging. 

Art couldn’t quite read George’s expression—not for lack of emotion, but for the sheer number of them blended together and cloaked in a veil of weariness. He raised his head as George drew closer. 

“Klaus?” The question came out in a croak. 

George met his gaze for a second, just a second. Then he looked to the ground, sorrow and anger and resignation visible for only a moment before his steps carried him away. 

For a moment, Art couldn’t breathe and didn’t think to, couldn’t move and didn’t want to. He listened to the silence nibble at George’s footsteps until the sound was gone. He watched his friend’s retreat, watched as a few more strands of darkness faded to light, but no new figures ambled out of the jungle, no familiar voice called his name. 

He should have shouted, screamed to the heavens, forced God to listen and hear what he had to say, really hear it, but the words refused to form and Art lacked even a whisper to carry them. He hugged his knees closer, and it brought no comfort. He buried his face and waited for tears that did not come, feeling as though someone had torn out his insides and stitched him back up.  Only the psalm remained, the psalm he couldn’t have recited had he wanted to. The psalm he never wanted to hear again.  

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

*********

They didn’t know where Klaus was. 

It was expected. Richard and Jim barely knew him, had only guessed at his surname. He’d met them in public spaces, and only one of those meetings had been planned. They wouldn’t know where he lived or where he was staying, and it simply wasn’t reasonable to hold them accountable for his whereabouts. 

Even so, Art had to bite back a few sharp questions when they said as much. 

Jim had taken two numbers from Diego—Diego Hargreeves; Art still wasn’t sure he’d fully comprehended the notion he might have served with a former superhero—and had left both of them at home. 

“I’ll head back and grab ‘em,” Jim said. 

Richard looked at his watch, then out the window at the darkening sky. “Mind if we just follow you? If we want to catch him tonight, seems like we should try and call before it gets too late.” 

Art could have climbed into the front seat of Richard’s station wagon, but he’d always preferred to drive. Better to have a ready means to leave and not need it than need it and be stuck. Before long, he paced the teal carpet of the entryway to Jim’s apartment, one ear inclined toward the living room. Jim was the only one on the phone, the only one who could hear it ringing, but the moment he greeted whoever answered would be heard by all. 

Jim’s apartment had a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, and that was where Richard stood, leaning against the sink. Art couldn’t comprehend how he could remain so still—but then, none of the men he’d served with had reportedly popped up out of the woodwork fifty years later, looking the same as they had the day they’d vanished. 

Not to Art’s knowledge, anyway. 

Jim took a few steps to the left, then back to the right. The phone cord stretched out as he approached the opposite wall, sprang back into loops as he returned. The drive over had taken over twenty minutes, to say nothing of the hours the pair of them had spent tracking down everyone in Klaus’ unit—in his unit—the weeks and months and years expended trying to find just one man who could name the soldier in the photo. 

It was a lot of effort to put into a hoax, especially one with no obvious gain for either perpetrator. A lot of time to spend listening to stories of a man whose identity they planned to use for some twisted purpose. Sincerity was fickle, the sort of thing that could be faked by anyone with enough people skills to feign empathy, but Art didn’t need to lean on what he thought he’d felt from Richard and Jim when the evidence spoke clearly enough. The two men were convinced of what they were selling. Which didn’t necessarily mean it was real; just that whoever might be behind it had been persuasive enough to pull the wool over their eyes. 

Jim set the receiver back in its cradle, took it back up, and dialed the second number. Art only stopped his pacing when Jim spoke. 

“Hey! Yeah, I’m calling for a guy named Diego. Yeah, Diego Hargreeves. He there?” 

The long pause made it clear he wasn’t, even before Jim’s face fell. 

“All right. Give him my number when you see him, will you? Let him know I called about his brother Klaus.” 

He placed the receiver back in its cradle, but his hand lingered there a moment as he stared, as though waiting for it to ring again. 

“Nothing?”

Jim shook his head. “I dunno what else to try.” 

Art inhaled. They’d reached a dead end, and surrender was the most obvious solution. Go back to his family and enjoy the rest of his vacation—or enjoy it as much as he could, with thoughts of Klaus at the front of his mind. Push those thoughts to the back, accept them as a strange interruption in his trip. Wonder for the rest of his life, however long that may be, if one decision on his part could have changed the outcome, could have brought him face-to-face with an old friend or with an actor hired for the strangest, cruelest prank ever pulled on a veteran of the armed forces.

“You said he’s a Hargreeves, right?”

“We’re pretty sure,” Richard said.

“’Bout ninety-eight percent sure,” Jim added.

Those were good odds. Art had shed his coat some minutes back, when his pacing and Jim’s heater worked to make the extra layer less than tolerable, and he lifted it from the floor, putting it on so quickly his sleeves bunched. 

“Which way’s the Academy?”

*********

1976

“Got married last year.” 

Art had thought his voice might be too loud, loud to the point of vulgarity, but it was no more so than it might have been in an average park. The only other visitors, an elderly couple standing a dozen or so plots away, didn’t shoot him a glare or look up from their own mourning. Cemeteries, it seemed, were made to handle a little conversation. 

“Her name’s Libby. Met her at a church potluck. There was this bowl, and it had a huge pile of whipped cream on top, more sprinkles than I’d ever seen in my life. I figure it’s pudding or something, go to take a spoonful. Libby sidles on over and whispers in my ear, ‘It’s tuna.’ Yeah. Some asshole put whipped cream on a tuna salad.”

Stillness greeted his words, filled only by a soft breeze and the rustling of grass beneath his feet, but Dave wouldn’t have accepted the story in silence. There would have been laughter—some of it disbelieving, most of it in good humor. Jokes would follow, but Art didn’t want to think about those. He wanted to hear them in Dave’s voice, carried on his laughter as that familiar smile lit up his face. 

He wanted to hear Klaus say he would’ve eaten that tuna salad, whipped cream and all. 

There’d been no word since the day he went missing. Art had thought he might see him with the other American POWs returned at the war’s conclusion, but Klaus was not among them and his name had not surfaced since. 

When he slept, he saw Klaus dead or dying, surrounded by barbed wire and the enemy. Sometimes the dream lingered on his misery and sometimes it did not, but the end was always the same. Klaus dead, just like Dave. Like every other man who now appeared to him in nightmares and flashes that intruded even on his waking senses. 

Art closed his eyes. There had been other soldiers, men he’d never met and never would, who disappeared from conflict only to resurface decades later with no awareness that the war had ended. He knew those instances were rare, that he wouldn’t have heard the names of those men if theirs had been a common feat, but the thought of Klaus holed up in a cave someplace, only dimly aware of news from outside as he made fools of his would-be or former captors, brought a small smile. He clung to it, willing it to drive back thoughts of the alternative—thoughts that sprang more readily to mind. 

He regarded the headstone. There were fewer coins now than there had been a few years back, closer to his death, but Art still spied a couple of nickels from men who’d known him from boot camp beside pennies from other visitors. His was the only dime, but not every man Dave had served with could make it out to his grave at the same time. They might pass through weeks or months after Art returned to his routine, but they would come. Dave would not be left alone for long. 

That familiar guilt wrapped itself around his shoulders again, whispering in his ear. The first time he’d spoken to Dave since returning home, the first time he’d managed more than a few choked sounds and silence, and the best he had to offer was a story about tuna salad. He hadn’t even wept for his friend in the seven years he’d been gone, but he could tell a story about himself as good as anyone. 

“Still no word on Klaus.” Dave would want to know that, if he were near enough to listen, to know where he was and how he was and the answer to every other question Art had asked himself since the day he vanished. No news was anything but good news, in this case, but it was still something to share. “If he was back in the States, I’d have brought him along.” 

The memory of what he’d seen all those years ago surfaced again, as fresh and clear as though he’d witnessed it the day prior. But he didn’t push it back. He’d let it come to him in recent years, let it remain in his thoughts long enough to lose its sharpest edges. The fear he’d felt then, the certainty that he had to tell someone, anyone, and the shame that he couldn’t, had faded—first to a sense that what he’d seen hadn’t been worth breaking their trust, then to something new, something gentler that Art still hadn’t identified. Something that left him with an echo of the hollowness he’d felt the night Dave died and Klaus vanished. 

He’d seen them differently after that day, noticed things that had before escaped him. How whatever tension Klaus carried ebbed away at Dave’s approach. How Dave’s smile always seemed a little wider, the light in his eyes a little brighter, when Klaus was near. There were times, and probably more of them than Art had witnessed, when they seemed to forget they were fighting a war at all. 

“You should’ve gone home with him.” 

The words were out before he had a chance to ponder them, but once they hung in the air, he knew he couldn’t have said anything else. They were the only truth worth speaking, even if they set his mind on a course he didn’t want to follow. He tried to shut out thoughts of what might have been, of Klaus free and Dave alive, sharing smiles and bandying jokes back and forth as they explored whatever new city they’d chosen, together for as long as they had left and as happy as two could be. 

He’d heard of moments like this, moments of sudden pain meant to bring relief, compared to the sensation of ripping off a bandage. And he knew, in that moment, that the analogy was not and never had been accurate. Tearing off a bandage never felt like tearing off his own skin. 

His eyes stung; the headstone blurred. He shoved a fist against his mouth, biting down in an attempt to keep his tears silent, but a soft cry escaped regardless as what may have been faded into what was. 

Six years. Six years he’d visited his friend’s grave and watched in silence. Six years he’d stood and thought and remembered and hated his inability to muster up a single word, but he’d stood on his own feet and walked off without shedding a tear. 

Art sank to the grass, hugged his knees tight, and gave into his grief. 

**********

The Academy wasn’t hard to miss. 

It had been a city block, he’d heard, once upon a time—a whole city block with storefronts and apartments and pay phones. Over the years, though, the Academy had swallowed up those shops and homes one by one, not so much erasing them as subsuming them into a new whole. He’d never been inside; from what he knew, not even the press had been allowed to pass that wrought iron gate. Only those seven kids and Reginald had seen what went on within those walls. 

“Bet your dad would be laughing at me now, huh, Klaus?” 

“Yeah. And he laughed like this.” Klaus knit his brows, gaze hardening into a glare, lips drawn into such a scowl that Art had to laugh—a sound echoed by the other men in the tent. 

Klaus had never described his father in detail, had never provided a clear image to conjure up for stories like that. Art had never crafted a picture of his own, but he’d never imagined him with white hair and a monocle, either. 

Even so, thoughts of the famed Reginald Hargreeves wearing that scowl and that glare, of turning them both on his children, came easily to mind. 

Too easily. 

Art’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. There was still no evidence the Klaus he’d served with was alive or the same age as the day he’d vanished, and no reason to assume he’d served with the same Klaus Hargreeves who could speak to the dead. A shared weakness for drugs proved nothing. Shared tattoos proved much more, but he hadn’t seen them yet. 

He had to find this Klaus, that was all. Find him, get a good look at him, ask him a few questions that only his friend could answer. Gain more evidence, examine it as objectively as he could, and make a judgment. He had to remain impartial. Focusing too closely on what might be would distract him from what was. 

Art sucked in a breath, but his heart refused to slow. A short film played in his mind’s eye, one where Klaus greeted him with that smile he remembered, greeted the story of how he’d found him with a laugh he hadn’t heard in fifty years. 

He’d been able to call it up, back when the war was still one of those subjects you avoided at Thanksgiving dinner and not a chapter in a high school textbook; but when he reached for it now, he heard only an echo that might have been Klaus’ voice or might have been a voice he’d heard on television. 

He should have summoned that laugh, back when he remembered it. Endured the pain it brought, allowed it to carry memory after memory in its wake. He’d have done it daily, if it meant holding onto his friend a little longer. 

Two blocks from the Academy, red and blue lights filled the darkness. Art pulled to a stop, rolling down his window as a uniformed officer approached. 

“There an accident?” 

“You could say that.” The officer glanced over her shoulder, toward the Academy. Art followed her gaze, but couldn’t make out much through the blinding haze of police lights. “The whole Academy just came down.”

“What?” 

“We’re going to need you to take another route—” 

“How?” Dizziness overtook him, passing as quickly as it had come—though the pit in his stomach remained. “I mean, what happened?” 

“We’re not sure yet, but—” 

“Is everyone okay?” 

“Like I said, sir, we don’t know yet.” 

Art barely heard the irritation in her tone. She opened her mouth to speak again, but he’d already shifted into reverse. 

*********

2015

Save for the presence of more headstones than there had been, the cemetery hadn’t changed much since Art’s first visit. He still walked the same path to his friend, stood on the same land beneath the same sky. The world outside had grown bigger, louder, but the cemetery remained as serene as ever. 

“Maddie’s fourteen now.” A soft smile quirked his lips at the thought of his granddaughter. “She and a couple other kids got in trouble for this poem they wrote, but she’s got a teacher named Butz, and he acts like one from what I hear. What was she supposed to do?” 

He laid his dime on Dave’s headstone. It sat alone, but he’d spotted a nickel the last time he visited and a penny the time before that. And no coins at all didn’t mean no visitors, only that whoever had dropped by hadn’t seen the need to communicate as much. 

“If that’s a down payment on a drink for the next time we meet up,” Art said, “then you’ve probably got enough money by now to buy the whole goddamn bar. If inflation’s not too bad up there.” 

Whenever that aspect of the coin’s tradition was spoken of, it had the ring of a joke, but Art had never regarded it as anything less than half of one. Years had a way of changing a man’s views of death and what came after. Visions of blue skies carpeted with endless white clouds upon which winged souls played harps and sang hymns had become something less sterile, less cloying. Maybe Heaven was a bar where old friends waved you over to a table and dusted off stories you hadn’t heard in years. Maybe Hell was getting kicked out for starting a fight. 

Or maybe there was nothing and he’d been talking to a slab of rock for forty-six years. 

The breeze became wind, carrying the chill of a coming winter, but Art’s shiver had little to do with the cold. 

Klaus wasn’t the only POW who’d never returned from Vietnam, not by far. Theories weren’t spoken of as commonly as they had been years back, but Art would be lying if he said he hadn’t entertained a few before quickly dismissing such an outcome for his friend. Each year, he’d imagined Klaus growing older far from home, trying to make it back and running into obstacle after insurmountable obstacle. But in his mind, Klaus had never stopped trying, and he never would. In his mind, Klaus would one day resurface to the surprise of an entire nation, would regale them with his tale of survival and reunite with whichever Army buddies still lived. Art would be among those there to greet him. No matter what it cost, no matter how long the drive, Art would be there to welcome him home.

He’d sheltered that hope over the years, allowed it to grow old with him. When it became threadbare, he’d locked it away lest it crumble at his touch. Death in combat was one thing; death in a POW camp was another, one he couldn’t consider for too long without the nightmares invading his thoughts. There was no evidence Klaus hadn’t met that fate, but there was no evidence he had. That was something. That was all the excuse Art needed to cling to hope a little longer. 

All the excuse he needed to delay the inevitable. 

The forty-fifth anniversary of Klaus’ disappearance had come and gone. That would have been a good time to do what needed to be done—or as close to a good time as there could be, for something like that—but Art had stood at his friend’s grave and spoke of everything and nothing, had left without saying what he’d come to say. 

“Klaus…” His throat closed over the rest of the words. What he’d planned wasn’t much, but he still couldn’t get it out. Dave had seen visitor after visitor, received coin after coin and word after heartfelt word. If Art couldn’t do the same for Klaus, the least he could do was acknowledge he’d never received a decent burial. 

Art’s breath shook. If he couldn’t say what he’d planned, he had to say something.

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Probably sooner than later. But when I do…” 

He closed his eyes against the tears, exhaled against the sob threatening to choke his words. 

“You had better have Klaus with you.” 

********

He drove full circle around the perimeter the police had cordoned off, near enough for red and blue to prick at the edges of his vision, far enough not to earn a few irritated words from the officers guarding every street. 

Klaus hadn’t been inside. 

Art didn’t know it for certain. The Academy would’ve been a roof over his head, a place to escape the streets; and with Reginald dead, it would have been more refuge than it once had been. Chances were good he’d made the Academy his temporary home before its destruction. 

But that didn’t mean he’d been inside. He could have been out. Not getting high, necessarily; he could have been wandering out somewhere with one of his siblings at the moment of destruction. Or on his way to find Richard or Jim. Or something as simple and banal as ducking into a fast-food restaurant for a greasy burger. 

If this Klaus Hargreeves was the same Klaus Hargreeves Vanya had written about. 

Art’s foot hit the brake just before he made the turn that would have taken him around the perimeter for a second time, and he flipped on his turn signal instead. His headlights caught the name of the street, but he didn’t think to read it until it was behind him. He rode it to the next intersection and turned right, took that one a little further before turning left. 

A plan. He needed a plan, but he didn’t know the city and wouldn’t know who to ask for directions. Get me to the nearest gas station would earn him a clear and concise answer, delivered as quickly as it sprang to the stranger’s mind. Help me find a guy, about six foot with some pretty distinctive tattoos, who might be anywhere in the city, including buried under a pile of rubble would earn strange looks, not answers. 

He could have been at the Academy. 

He probably had been at the Academy. 

Art slapped the volume knob on the radio with slightly more force than necessary. The final notes of the previous song faded out, and warm guitar chords took their place. He breathed deep, turning onto the next street on a whim. 

On the road of experience, trying to find my own way….

John Denver’s voice didn’t quite calm his nerves, but it did remind him of calmer times, less desperate times. It called to mind road trips of years past, of driving through state after state with the windows down while voices sang of places he’d been, of country roads and the black magic of Mulholland Drive. He drew a long breath, this one not as shaky as the last, and rolled down the window. 

Sometimes I wish that I could fly away….

The evening chill poured in alongside sounds of the city. The downtown speed limit wasn’t as slow as some places he’d been, but it was slow enough for murmurs of conversation and the whoosh of an occasional passing vehicle to briefly enter his vehicle, carried in on air thick with the scents of fryer oil and spice. A throng of people clustered on the sidewalk, but before Art could scan their faces, a lone figure crossing the street caught his attention. 

A tall figure with a mop of dark curls and a familiar tattoo on one shoulder. 

Before he could consciously name what he was doing, Art had pulled into the first open spot he saw. A single stray thought had him rearranging his car well enough to escape the notice of any meter maid, but he only remembered that he ought to have fed the meter when he was already ten steps down the sidewalk. 

The stranger vanished briefly behind the crowd, then emerged into view as Art quickened his pace. 

He’d thought that face might take on unfamiliar features as he approached—a different nose shape, a mouth too wide—but the closer Art drew, the more the stranger resembled memories he’d held to, dredged up thoughts he’d forgotten. Those stubborn curls, springing free the second he removed his helmet. That facial hair, which he refused to shave off even when it would have saved him a few minutes. That same Hello greeting the world from a briefly upraised palm. He still wore his flak vest, though he’d paired it with a striped shirt that showed an inch or two of skin around his middle and pants that….

Was that leather? 

A chuckle escaped his lips. When he’d imagined Klaus returning to the States, settling back into civilian life as best he could, this wasn’t what he’d pictured him wearing. Yet he knew in that moment that this getup, this mishmash of pieces that should have never been put together and managed to work regardless, was exactly what he should have pictured. 

This was the Klaus he remembered. Wearing an outfit no one else would dare, looking around for something to catch his interest as he stood in line for tacos. 

Art should have approached him quietly. Walked up, asked for recognition, answered questions as they came. But there he was, his old friend, not dead after all but in front of a taco truck, of all places, the perpetrator of the finest disappearing act ever orchestrated in wartime. Art couldn’t be polite, couldn’t be quiet. He announced his presence with the only words his mind could form. 

“Klaus! You son of a bitch!” 

He whirled at the sound of his name, and Art felt a spike of fear. His name was Klaus, true; but this might not be his Klaus. Everyone had a lookalike somewhere. Now he’d have to apologize, laugh through his disappointment just to make things less awkward….

Klaus took a few steps out of line as Art closed the gap. His eyes narrowed in a squint, then widened. A disbelieving laugh found its way out. “Art?” 

That laugh. Art hadn’t forgotten it, not forever. It had simply retreated to the back of his mind, hidden behind a door he couldn’t locate; and when he heard it now, all those memories, all those moments where Klaus had laughed came rushing back. 

They embraced, clapped each other on the back, and Art held back tears. Fifty years stood between him and the young man Klaus had known, and not one of those years had mattered. Not one of those years had prevented recognition. 

It was him. 

When they finally parted, Art saw the same bewildered joy reflected on Klaus’ features. “How—how the hell did you find me?” 

“Long story.” 

Klaus glanced over his shoulder, toward a theater bearing the name Icarus. “Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word, “there might not be time for that.” 

Art nearly frowned. Maybe his siblings needed him elsewhere, and soon, but he could have said so plainly. “Well, how’ve you been? How’d you get back here?” 

Klaus looked away, though Art couldn’t tell if the sorrow crossing his face was at the first question or the second. At any rate, it quickly dipped beneath a faint smile. “Would you believe me if I said time travel?” 

“Yes.” 

Klaus stared. 

“You look the same as you did fifty years ago,” Art said with a laugh. “If you’ve got a better explanation, let’s hear it.” 

Klaus chuckled, but there was still a trace of that sorrow—more than a trace, even—remaining as he looked back toward the Icarus Theater. “Just…didn’t think I’d see you here, that’s all.” 

“What? Wasn’t expecting me to hunt you down the second I learned you might still be alive?” 

One or two in the crowd turned brief looks of confusion on them. Art didn’t much care, and Klaus didn’t seem to, either. 

“Well, yeah. I mean, that was fifty years ago.” 

“Right. Fifty years.” 

A few moments passed in silence. The smile faded, slowly but surely, to nothing, as Klaus turned his gaze toward the sidewalk. 

“I guess….I didn’t think anyone would notice I was gone.” 

So he’d chosen to leave when he did, had some control over his arrival and departure—but that was not what made Art stare, for a long minute, until Klaus finally met his gaze. 

“What?” 

“You know you’ve said some stupid shit.” 

He gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah….” 

“Like that time you said penguins don’t have legs, just feet?” 

“Technically they don’t—” 

“No. Not ‘technically.’ I looked it up. They have legs.” 

“Okay, but why are you even bringing that up?” 

“Because when I say ‘nobody would notice’ is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, I want it to mean something.” 

For a few seconds, it looked as if Klaus would cry, but Art couldn’t tell if the tears were there or not. “I didn’t know.” 

“Didn’t—” Memories crowded his mind, memories of laughter and jokes stretched out to the limit, of humor at just the right times and of his face, Klaus’ face, popping up right when shit was about to hit the fan, stepping in right when he was needed most. Art wanted to lay all of them out before him, point to each one in turn, ask Klaus if he thought this one meant nothing or if that one was worthless, but there were too many of them and trying to choose one jumbled it up with three more. “So what? You thought you’d just up and leave?” 

“Yeah. I mean, I couldn’t stay.” 

There was something more behind those words, but Art scarcely heard it. “You just popped on back without saying goodbye? Without letting somebody know ‘Hey, I’m not dead, just need to go home’?” 

He half expected a question as to whether or not he would have been believed, but Klaus simply stared at the ground. His shoulders sank a fraction, as if some invisible weight had been added. Art sighed. 

“Look. I don’t blame you for getting the hell out. I’d’ve done the same. But—” 

Something about the look on his face, about his silence, triggered something Art couldn’t quite name. That night. Dave dead, succumbed to his wound. Klaus, never straying far from Dave, always close even in the heat of battle. 

A chill brushed his shoulders as a cold pit formed in his stomach. 

“You were there when he died. With Dave.” 

Klaus nodded—stiff, jerky nods that didn’t lift his gaze from the sidewalk. 

“Jesus Christ.” 

Art should have said more, should have found the perfect words to give to his friend, but they and all others eluded him. He could only place a hand on Klaus’ shoulder, wrap him in his arms when he moved closer. There were no tears, none Art could feel, but tears could be fickle things, there when they were least wanted, absent when they were most needed. Maybe they had yet to visit him. Maybe he’d spent them already. 

It wasn’t until Klaus pulled back, until he brushed at his eyes, that Art remembered moments fifty years gone when he’d done the same. Klaus had never been ashamed to cry, but when it was clear there was little time for tears he would hold them back. Brush them away, like he brushed them away now. Save them for a time when they wouldn’t endanger him or anyone depending on him. 

Whatever was going on that theater, whatever his siblings or whoever he’d fallen in with had gotten themselves into, it left little time for talk. Of the war, of Dave, of how he’d found himself yanked from his present and thrown into a past no one should have to witness. No time for what he needed. No time for what Art needed. 

Not now, anyway. 

Art fished in his pocket, found an old receipt and smoothed it out. No pen, so he waved to the woman behind the taco truck’s counter. She rolled her eyes at the scribbling motion he made, but set one on the counter. Art wrote several numbers and passed them to Klaus. 

“That’s my daughter’s house,” he said, pointing to the first number. “I’ll be there ‘till the end of the week. That one’s my home number. That next one is the one you call if you can’t get anybody at either of the other ones.” 

“Thanks.” Klaus took the receipt, but didn’t pocket it immediately. He held it in his hands, staring down at the numbers as if he’d been handed a gift. A gift he didn’t know he deserved. 

There were many things Art had contemplated saying over the years, should Klaus ever be returned home. Most of them he knew were things he’d never say the moment they popped into his head, while others lingered awhile before rejection. A few were edited and re-edited, changed and softened, wording shored up before he realized he’d never have the chance to give them voice. 

But there was one thing he’d wanted to say, one thing he’d held onto until the day he gave Klaus up for dead. One thing that remained. 

“We lost you and Dave that night. Glad you were someplace I could find you.” 

That uncertainty hadn’t left Klaus’s face; but the moment he raised his head, Art saw it in full, saw it mixed with gratitude so deep the word fell flat. And when he did, he wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or pull Klaus in for another hug. 

“Hey. You gonna order or not?” 

Art looked up. The other customers had dispersed, a few to the pickup window but most to elsewhere. The truck’s owner had one elbow propped up on the counter, gaze drifting between Klaus and a teenager standing a few yards away, nervously shuffling through his wallet. 

Klaus laughed. “I should probably order.” 

“Fine.” Art pulled Klaus in for another quick hug. “See you around, all right?” 

“Yeah. Sooner or later.” 

Sooner or later. It wasn’t a solid promise, but it was more than Art had gotten. More than he ever thought he’d have. After another quick clap on the back, Art made his way back to his car, stopping at the curb. 

He had thought Klaus might have focused his full attention on the taco truck, but that wasn’t the case. Art didn’t know how long Klaus had been watching him; he only knew that when he turned for one last look, Klaus was smiling. Not as bright a smile as some he’d seen, but this one seemed deeper, more real than others. There was a tinge of melancholy in it too, not strong enough to pull the whole thing down but present nonetheless. 

Art had found him. 

All those years of hoping, all those years of fear and wonder and awful sick certainty shouldn’t have ended with a conversation at a taco truck—but they had. 

Klaus had lived. Maybe not in the most orthodox way, but Art had learned fifty years ago not to expect anything of the sort from him. He’d survived the war, skipped past a dozen other horrors that should have taken him, and wound up here, on the side of a street outside a theater, in the very city he’d started from, exactly the same as the day he’d left. 

He’d made it home. 

Not in the usual way, not in any way Art or anyone else could have predicted, but he’d done it, and he was back. Back in the States with years ahead of him and the worst behind him. The war would follow him; it always followed, no matter the distance. But it hadn’t claimed him. 

Art raised a hand in farewell, and Klaus returned it. 

Maybe this was the end of it. Maybe Klaus would call; maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would write; maybe he’d forget or choose not to or be constantly stymied by a thousand everyday inconveniences and distractions. Maybe it would be later, rather than sooner, when they spoke again. 

But Art had seen him. Not on a memorial wall, not as another statistic, but walking the city in leather pants and a flak vest, smiling and fighting tears in turns. The war was close to him, fifty years closer than it should have been. It would always be closer than he could stand, always a little stronger than he’d thought.  

Art started up his car and pulled out onto the street. Klaus had escaped the war once already, done it in such a spectacular fashion Art wouldn’t have believed it had he not seen the evidence with his own eyes—but he’d escaped. 

He could escape it again. 

**********

Author’s Note: If you’re interested, the song Art listens to is “Looking for Space” by John Denver. 

[poop4u]

Ready or Not . . .

#Poop4U

  We finally had a few days of sun last week. (The round, bright yellow thing in the sky that hurts your eyes if you look at it, just in case you forgot). But of course, it rained again, and since the ground never dried out we seem to be living in a second “mud season”. Typically, “mud season” was in spring, but given all the rain this summer and fall, we’ve had it seems that we’ll be living in the equivalent of chocolate icing until it freezes up. (Never has frost looked so good!)

Needless to say, that means lots of muddy paws around here, which reminded me how much I love the cue “Ready”. I’ve written about it before, but bring it back every five years or so because it is one of my favorite cues. It’d be great if it was part of every family dog training curriculum, hey?

Here’s what I’ve written in the past (which includes a lovely reminder of our Willie boy, who we still ache for):

As I was drying Willie’s paws a few days ago, I thought about how much easier it is now that I say “Ready?” right before I pick up each leg. Since I started communicating my intention (“now I am going to pick up this paw”), he is beginning to pick up a paw himself, or at least shift his weight so that it is less awkward for him. (Yep, I could train him to pick up each paw on cue… also a potential solution, but keep reading for some potential benefits of a more generalized cue.)

Keep in mind that this is the dog who, as an adolescent, growled at me when I picked up a paw to dry off the mud. That was many years ago, and I remember saying something like “Oh, don’t be silly” and continuing what I was doing. He growled one or two more times, but we worked through it and I haven’t heard him growl at anything in years. However, he doesn’t enjoy his paws being cleaned, as most dogs don’t, and the process got me thinking about how little control a dog has over having his/her body moved around, even gently, without any say in the matter. That’s especially difficult if there is any pain involved in putting more weight than usual on one limb. I’ve always been aware of Will’s bad shoulder, and have always been extra careful about picking up the other paw, but a few months ago I started saying “Ready?” right before I picked up a paw, giving him a chance to shift his weight himself.

It’s made a difference to both of us. I lean down and put my hand close to a paw and say “Ready?” and he either shifts his weight or picks it up. Paw cleaning is not only faster, it feels like Will and I are moving down the same path, instead of trying to go in opposite directions. This is a cue that has so many applications; Will’s structural troubles require acupuncture and chiropractic, and he’s not the kind of hail-fellow-well-met who takes being handled lightly. I would bet the farm (and, hey, I have one) that handling Will with force and punishment would have created a severe aggression problem within a few months. In both cases, we give Will lots of options, using patience and communication during the treatments. He adores both practitioners, but he literally hides behind me when the greetings are over and it’s time for treatments. But we work through it, sort of like a dance; sometimes asking, sometimes quietly insisting, but always with an awareness that Will desperately needs to have some say in what is happening to him.

I know many others use cues like “Ready” for a variety of reasons. I’ve heard similar cues most often in obedience, meaning “Okay, time to start working together”. But I’ll bet there are many examples from your own experience of using a cue to communicate your intentions to a dog. I’d love to hear them. I think we’d all learn something from hearing about all the ways that concept can be used. (By the way, signals like “Ready” are called “meta-communication,” meaning “communication about communication.” A play bow is an example in dogs, meaning “Everything that happens next is in play, don’t take these bites and growls seriously!”

MEANWHILE, down on the farm: Back from another sheepdog trial, again with mixed results. This competition, the Nippersink Sink or Swim Sheepdog Trial, presents the hardest course of the season, with a substantial creek between you and the sheep. Here’s a photo of it (It looks much scarier in person!):

You can see the line of the creek crossing the course, down in a dip deep enough that you can’t see your dog as she crosses it. The sheep are under the oaks to the left of the white truck, very hard for the dogs to see. Because of all of our rain the creek was deep and fast moving, and I thought long and hard about even running Maggie at all. She’s a small dog, and if she got in trouble I wouldn’t be able to see her.

Many people that I trust assured me that it was safe, and after thinking about it all night, I decided to give her a chance. I can’t tell you why, but I had a gut feeling that I should “trust my dog.” (A lesson from an earlier trial, you may remember.) Maggie may be small, but she is a working sheepdog in excellent condition. The challenge that most dogs faced was finding the sheep at all. Many dogs saw the creek (much larger than it looks in the photo) as a fence line, and continually looked for the sheep on this side of it.

When Maggie and I went to the post I just had a feeling she could do it. However, after I sent her on a right handed outrun, she immediately ran to the barn behind us, even poking her nose into the door. This is a new, bad habit she started a few trials ago; I’m pretty sure it’s her way of saying “I’d really prefer to work these sheep here. After all, they’re right here and we know where they are . . .”

Sigh. But I got her off those sheep and damn if she didn’t leap into the creek and got herself across. She “crossed over” on the other side, running to the left and making a figure eight pattern, but finally went around in a big semi-circle in a clockwise direction and found her sheep. Yay! Sloppy and inelegant as it was, it felt like a great victory because so many dogs never found their sheep at all. She did a lovely “dog-leg” fetch (sheep moving above the creek horizontally to the left), but got stuck trying to get the sheep over the creek. There had been a bridge there that the sheep were familiar with, but it had been moved because of flooding. All the hoof prints and related scents were in the old area, and that’s where the sheep wanted to go. Maggie didn’t flank them fast enough to get them to the bridge’s new location, and they ended up stuck in front of a deep pool of water enmeshed in a stand of trees and brush. I had to walk out to rescue her and help her move the sheep. At one point I honestly wasn’t sure that the two of us could get them out. They weren’t in the trees as much as they had become the trees. So we got RT for “Retired”. Here’s why I didn’t feel too bad about it–look at the last column on the right: (Maggie only got one point for her outrun because she “crossed over,” which loses you 19/20 points.)

  Our second run, same day, was in wind gusts up to 30 mph. It was cold too, had been in the low thirties that morning, so before we ran each time I warmed Maggie up with some play:

I sent her left, avoiding the temptation for her to go to the barn and in the direction she’d found the sheep earlier, but risking losing sight of her for a long time. Be still my heart (it’s swelling as I write), she ran a stunningly beautiful outrun, leapt over the creek where it was narrow enough, and got herself behind the sheep. (19/20 for her outrun.) Her lift took forever; I honestly can’t even tell you exactly where she was, I couldn’t see her. But she finally got the sheep moving, and this time, no doubt trying to prevent the “sheep in the trees” adventure, tried to bring them straight to me. That meant the sheep would have to cross the creek where the banks were steep and the water was deep, so I had to stop her and get her redirected.  This time she listened (it took a few tries), moved the sheep to the left, but then flanked fast enough to get them over the bridge.

She did a lovely fetch after that, made the fetch panels and started a brilliant drive, riding the pressure from the sheep like a surfer. But halfway there she lost her confidence and it got messy and sloppy. We finally got them back on the right path, I didn’t make the drive gates but thought we’d gone far enough to start the cross drive, which was going beautifully. “Points!” I thought. Finally we’re going to get some points!

Alas, I made another handler error and was DQ’d by the judge. I hadn’t tried hard enough to make the drive gates, and he had no choice but to DQ me. I couldn’t fault him, and probably should have be madder at myself for yet another stupid mistake, but I was so proud of her for what she did right I couldn’t get too upset about it.

Here’s what I’ve learned from our first season in Open: Maggie and I are very much alike. We can get lost in our fears, need to work on our confidence, and don’t think well under time pressure when things get complicated. (Why was I so good at working with aggressive dogs years ago? I could make really good decisions in tenths of a second–where did that skill go?) Although we didn’t do well in many ways this season, we both learned a lot, and in spite of Maggie’s attempts to work the “easy sheep” at trials, she appears to adore trialing, and is over the moon eager to try again each time. This weekend we are going to a training clinic with one of my favorite trainers, Patrick Shannahan, and I look forward to working on some of our issues. Maggie doesn’t have the push that most handlers want and need in an Open dog, but she’s my dog, she’s what I have, and we are just going to do the best with what we have. I love the idea of helping a dog be the best she can be. If it’s not good enough for Open in years to come I won’t fault her, and be grateful for what we’ve learned together. Meanwhile, time will tell. Stay tuned for next year!

Now that we’re home, first frost! It made the zinnia’s look extra pretty this morning.

  I hope your challenges this week don’t feel too overwhelming, all best to you and yours.

Poop4U Blog via www.Poop4U.com Trisha, Khareem Sudlow