#i do wish that work/union/moving would stop kicking into over drive at the same time tho

[theawkwardterrier]

Though It's Called Dancing (to me it's romancing)

A Steggy Secret Santa gift for @plumandfinch​! Here’s some WWII Steggy for you - hope you enjoy, and have a very happy holiday and a great year ahead. 😁✨🎁

Summary: Five times Steve and Peggy almost danced, and one time they did.

AO3 link here.

i.

The girls trust Steve to hold them up for the finale and he hasn’t let them down yet, but after three shows where he either almost gives a showstopping topple tripping on his own feet or steps on one of theirs, they tell Martin the show manager that they’re quitting unless Steve gets some help.

“You have anything to say about this?” Martin grumbles incredulously to Steve, who just shrugs and replies, “Hey, if they listened to me, you’d already be dealing with a union.”

He’s actually glad that someone’s mentioned his clumsiness, his lack of coordination, and come up with a suggestion for how to help him: he came to the theater today with his shoes flopping on his feet because he tore out another pair of laces while trying to tie them. The serum might have fixed a lot of things for him, but it’s changed them as well, and in some alarming ways. It isn’t too likely that he could have been involved in the dance number even before his body got expanded to its new awkward, confusing size, but at least then he knew how much space he was taking up, how much force to exert for simple tasks. He should have just asked the girls for help sooner, but he’s still shy with them.

They don’t let that stop them from putting together a curriculum to help him ease into the new body. Soon he’s stopped having to sew the buttons back onto his shirts, and he doesn’t keep stabbing his fingers with the needle if he does. He can help with the hair before shows if the dressing room doesn’t have a mirror and the others are rushing around worrying about their own costumes (well, he doesn’t expect to be the first choice, at least not yet).

One night after they’ve just arrived in Chicago, Steve and a group of the dancers go out to a late dinner in Chinatown. Steve shows off his use of chopsticks, something that he didn’t even know how to do before the serum.

Sheila, who’s been working on her education degree by correspondence, says thoughtfully, “I just worry that we’ve focused too much on your fine motor skills—”

“I’m happy to focus on any of Steve’s fine skills,” Erin cracks, and Steve, immune to such remarks at this point, just rolls his eyes at her.

“—and we’ve neglected the gross motor skills,” Sheila finishes, glaring at Erin across the table.

“So what does that mean, She?” asks Jackie, leaning her head against Sheila’s shoulder.

Sheila rests her head atop Jackie’s for a moment then sits up straight and grins. “I think it means dance lessons.”

Steve turns down the suggestion that they find a nightclub (he doesn’t particularly feel like showing off his lack of skill in public) and they all turn down Erin’s suggestion that Steve prove he’s truly mastered his fine motor skills by picking the lock on the theater. But the next night, they simply don’t leave after their evening performance, sitting around smoking cigarettes and chatting as the stagehands take down the trappings of the Star Spangled Show. Martin sticks around to confirm that the props and costumes are boxed up for tomorrow’s drive to Cincinnati (or is it Columbus? Or maybe Cleveland). As soon as the last crate is checked off of his list, he gets his hat and coat and heads back to their hotel with an admonishment that they’ll be leaving at 8 AM sharp, which he seems not to care to really enforce.

Susie has already snuck into the theater manager’s office and brought back a portable record player. Steve isn’t sure what they would have done if the man hadn’t had one around; danced to a faraway radio, or someone humming probably.

Jackie takes Steve’s hands in hers and leads him out of the wings toward the stage. Susan puts on a Benny Goodman record at full volume, shimmying her hips a little as the drums and horns start up. Steve suddenly feels nervous, a little wrong, and he isn’t sure that it’s only because the song is faster than he expected, or because the others have started dancing and even without choreography they’re much better than he could ever hope to be. He just...these are his friends, but this isn’t how he imagined going dancing for the first time.

“I don’t know that I—” he starts, but then he hears a throat clear behind him.

“Well, this isn’t precisely what I expected to find, Private Rogers.”

He turns. “Agent Carter,” he says stupidly. He forgets to salute or even stand particularly straight; it’s as if his brief stint of doing something actually military had never even happened. She smiles at him anyway.

“I was taking meetings at Camp Atterbury,” she says, as if he’s done the normal, conversational thing and actually remembered to ask what she’s doing around here. “And I heard that there was quite the entertainment to be had in town. Unfortunately, we were delayed, so I wasn’t quite able to catch the show.”

“Good thing you’re catching us now,” Erin cracks as she dances past. “I think this is actually our best side.” She’s kicked off her shoes, and spins away barefoot, skirt ballooning wide, with what Steve can only describe as joy.

“We’re trying to teach Steve some rhythm,” Jackie explains quietly. “And how to move those big feet of his.”

Steve adds sheepishly, “I’ve told them I’m perfectly happy just tapping my toes on the sidelines. Even I can manage that.”

Agent Carter tilts her head. “I think you can aspire to a little more than that.” Steve suddenly remembers her standing with Erskine on the field at Camp Lehigh, the two of them walking to the mess beside each other. He’s felt a lot of different things since he was declared a failure and sent here, anger and regret and shame at once again not being fit to serve, able to help, but now he feels guilt: Erskine gave his life for Steve to be what he is, and he’s wasting it.

The relentless beat of the song dies off, and Martha trades out the record because she’s the closest. Despite the brassy blare of the opening, the music is slower this time. Steve thinks he recognizes the melody vaguely from some picture show years back.

He clears his throat. “I can probably manage this one,” he tells Jackie, but even as he says it, he notices the way she’s glancing over at Sheila, who’s still twirling by herself in a more sedate solo dance rather than pairing up like some of the others. “Unless you’d rather—”

“I could step in if you—” Agent Carter says at the same time, clearly having noticed as well.

Jackie flashes a smile at the two of them. “Thank awfully,” she says quickly before she twists between the dancers and slides her arms around Sheila.

Steve watches them for a moment before he turns back. “We don’t have to,” he says. “I mean, I think this was more about letting everyone blow off some steam, maybe have a bit of fun. Being on the road all together can be sort of rough - working all the time, and under each other’s feet. Not that there aren’t good parts, and of course we don’t have it as bad as some, obviously, not nearly, but this is just—” Agent Carter is staring at him with a bit of a smile, but Steve assumes that it must just be a politely automatic sort of thing at this point; for all he knows she’s wishing she’d missed not just the show but all of this too. He takes in a breath. “Anyway, we don’t have to dance if you don’t want to.”

“And if I did?”

The simple question stuns him. He almost doesn’t know what to say. Then: “Would you join me, Agent Carter?” It’s a little startled, not particularly suave, but he knows that it’s sincere. He holds out a hand.

When she smiles at him, it is like a secret. “It’s certainly been some time since I had a little fun, so I thank you for the invitation, Private Rogers.” She places her fingers in his.

“You can...You can call me Steve,” he says as they walk over to join the others swaying dreamily. “If you want.”

“Hmm. I well might.” She places a hand on his shoulder. He knows he’s meant to wrap his arm around her waist - he’s watched enough dancing for that - but it takes him a moment to decide exactly where to slide his hand, a moment to gauge the correct angle and force, a moment to actually begin what he came here tonight to do...and in that moment, there’s a familiar whistle followed by the inevitable shout.

“Alright, break it up, there.” The police sergeant here looks nearly the same as his Brooklyn counterparts with whom Steve is familiar: not just the uniform, really, but that bit of smug power to his face. “We’ve had a call from the church about noise coming from in here far too late at night, so break it up, ladies—oh, sorry, didn’t see you there, sir.” There’s a bit of a mocking edge to the tone; Steve is wearing civilian clothes instead of the getup he’s usually forced into onstage, but these days a seemingly able-bodied man still hanging around is something to comment on, especially one who doesn’t seem to be doing much good.

Steve would stand up to him (probably more easily now that they can actually stand nose to nose) but the part about them being here when they aren’t meant to be isn’t wrong. Still, he can’t help but feel the sting of disappointment. Agent Carter is still planted firm and warm beside him. What if things had been allowed to continue, at least a few moments longer?

“Alright, we’re going, keep your socks on,” Erin yells back as Agnes takes the needle off the record. Susan runs it back to the office it came from while the rest of them scramble around, finding shoes and jackets and hair ribbons. The officer seems content to keep an eye until they’re all safely gone.

Steve stands on the side with Peggy. Her uniform is still perfectly put together; there’s nothing for her to gather. The two of them don’t speak until the whole group is ready to go. They allow themselves to be swept out of the building, watching as the cop locks up the theater and stands in front of the doors as if they might try something with him. Instead, they all turn and begin walking in the crisp midnight air.

Steve puts his hands in his pockets. The others around them are walking arm in arm or twirling gently through the streets, taking one night where they aren’t worried about whether the touring company will decide to close up shop or if they’ll hear something terrible from their brothers and beaux overseas. They hum their way along, still lit up from an evening of dancing not for work but only for themselves, and it gives sanctuary for Steve to speak. He doesn’t quite look up at the woman walking next to him, more over to the side of her, when he offers, “We’re on to Ohio next. If you want to see the show there.”

She laughs gently. “I’m afraid that my engagement here isn’t much longer either. I’m expected elsewhere tomorrow evening.”

“Of course.” That’s honest - he isn’t surprised, of course she has bigger, better things to be doing. He does his best not to sound disappointed, though. Then he remembers that he fumbled two of his lines in yesterday’s matinee (when they’re written right there in front of him, for Pete’s sake) and - despite the best efforts of his teachers and his own improvements - nearly pulled the curtain down early when he overbalanced coming in on his cue, and is a bit glad that she won’t be sticking around.

The streetlight where she’s stopped throws her face partway into shadow. “I do have to thank you for the opportunity to dance. It’s been quite a long time for me, and even if it was interrupted, it was—Thank you, Steve.”

“Of course,” he says again, and that’s honest too.

“Next time, I do hope that there won’t be any members of law enforcement to interrupt,” she says, and disappears around a corner before he can ask, with hope or astonishment or both, “Next time?”

ii.

They’ve moved most of the paintings from the National Gallery, but Steve doesn’t know when he’ll have another free day in London so he goes to see what he can see.

When he’d manage to scrape together entry fare (or sneak in) to one of the museums in New York, he’d always get disapproving stares from docents and other visitors for his fraying clothing and aching cough, the generally held knowledge that he did not belong here. And he would manage to put it out of his mind by focusing on the vivid detail on a Japanese drum or how Monet made blurriness into beauty.

Today, people stare at him for a different reason and he ignores them all the same, eyes focused forward to the canvases displayed. So much of it is about the war, ruined buildings and bomb shelters, and Steve concentrates on the brush strokes or crosshatching instead, the clever use of shadow.

He has managed this so successfully that he doesn’t even notice the line forming nearby until it is a dozen or so people deep. When he asks one of them what they’re waiting for, they look at him not with pity for his not knowing but with delight that he will now learn: “It is nearly time for today’s concert.”

Luckily, he has British coins in his pocket, so he pays his shilling and walks in with the rest. The program advertises some Chopin piece. He doesn’t recognize what it is or the player - according to the others around him, Dame Myra Hess, who began organizing these lunchtime concerts at the outset of the war, has herself played here over one hundred times but not today - and he’s never considered himself a musical expert of any means. But he finds that he is drawn in by the tired ripple of excitement that hovers over the crowd as they file in.

And then Peggy Carter seats herself at the end of his row.

He tries to focus on the playing as the concert itself begins, on the slow, spare beginning and all its promises, but he can’t keep himself from glancing toward the last seat on the row.

Ten minutes in, she starts to cry.

Since he arrived, he’s seen other Londoners shedding occasional tears on the buses and street corners (and no wonder, with their city destroyed, so many loved ones dead and the country still soldiering wearily on) and he doubts anyone would judge her for it. But she stands from her aisle seat and sees herself out anyway, quietly, her tears silent and even the click of her heels barely audible over the music

He follows her. (It is much more noticeable.)

Outside, she is leaning against a wall, her hands covering her face. He waits for a moment before actually approaching: though he followed her, had to follow her, he isn’t sure whether she will be exasperated that he has done so, embarrassed that she was even seen by anyone more than strangers. But he can’t just stay frozen watching her forever (surely that must be worse?) so he takes a step forward.

“Agent Carter,” he says softly. “Is there anything I can do?”

She sobs aloud, once, uncovering her face to wipe at her tears with her fingertips. It’s a bit beyond that. He digs around in his pocket to find a thankfully clean handkerchief (you were right, Ma). She accepts it and dabs at her eyes again, glancing up at him only briefly.

“If you’re going to see me in this state,” she says, “you should probably call me Peggy.” She takes in one last decisive sniff, crumpling the handkerchief in her hand.

“Peggy, then.” He tries to say it like any other name instead of with the softness that is his instinct. “Can I help?”

“It isn’t anything—” She smiles but it breaks in a moment. “It isn’t anything that can really be helped.” A sigh. She looks down at her hands. “I had a brother. His name was Michael.”

“I’m sorry,” says Steve, because he doesn’t know what else to tell her. “I’m sorry that you lost him.”

I understand, he could add, or I know it’s hard, it always is but he thinks about whether he would have liked to hear someone say such things to him, and he keeps his mouth shut. She looks at him with care, and he can’t help but admire the way she can evaluate him even through the remains of her tears.

Apparently she makes a decision, because she says, “It happened several years ago now. And it isn’t any sort of anniversary, I was just listening to the piano and...He played. Michael did. Just a bit, when he was young. And he never played that particular piece, but just listening to it, I had the most sudden memory of his picking out carols on our aunt Hester’s piano, making faces at me all the time. Now I know that he was mostly mucking about with it all - he certainly never could have pulled off Chopin - but back then he was the most talented player in the world. I was always following him about and for years he acted as older brothers tend to toward younger sisters. But when it counted, I was able to depend on him. There was a time when he saw me clearly when no one else did, myself included.”

“And now he’s gone.” Steve tries to say it gently, a fact laid before them, but he knows she might hear the words as cruel, regardless of his intentions.

She does, in fact, begin crying again, but more quietly. “Now he’s gone,” she agrees, once again attempting to mop up her tears. “But I know myself again, and I have him to thank for it.”

“Then I’d like to thank him too.”

She regards him with something bordering on caution, not because she is a fearful person but because she is a sharp one and because she recognizes, as clearly as he does, that whatever tender thing is growing unspoken in the silence between them, it will be ill-regarded in the middle of war, in the middle of the work they are meant to be doing together.

“Is he bothering you, dear?” The woman’s voice - pointed and piercing - startles him. He turns to find a glaring, gray-haired lady behind his shoulder. Her stout form is wrapped in a plum wool suit and she grasps a black umbrella with which it seems she would happily stab him. Instead, when he brings his eyes to meet hers, she asks, “Are you bothering her, young man?” drawing herself up as much as she can and glaring imperiously.

“No, ma’am,” he manages. “We were just—” He flounders there: talking about her dead brother, or having another one of these moments that we try to pretend away won’t work very well.

“Going to dance,” Peggy inserts smartly.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, yes.” Peggy speaks as if this is the most natural response in the world, as if she isn’t even now tucking a damp handkerchief into her pocket. “Captain Rogers saw how lovely I found the music, and as we aren’t able to see the concert ourselves, he wondered if we might take advantage another way.”

“Really.” The woman watches Steve suspiciously, as if he might be controlling Peggy through marionette strings or a gun pressed to her back. If only you knew, he thinks wryly as Peggy brushes her hair behind her ear and subtly elbows him in the process.

“May I?” he says in hasty reaction, holding out a hand. She puts hers into it graciously.

“I do wish the piece were a bit better for dancing,” Peggy says as they step away to a free space farther from the wall, though they are still being observed. More quietly she adds, “And I do wish we’d perhaps had time at least to practice before we were put under the microscope, as it were.”

He certainly wishes for that practice too, or even that they didn’t have to be in this situation at all. But there is also...if he’s going to be forced to dance, he would like it to be with Peggy.

And then with a few last flourishes, the music draws to a close. There are applause from within the hall. Steve doesn’t quite let go of Peggy’s hand.

“Well,” says their overseer, giving a couple firm taps of her umbrella against the floor, “it seems that you will have to return for tomorrow’s concert. Or perhaps find a more appropriate venue for dancing than a national museum.”

Peggy says magisterially, “Of course. Thank you for that advice. For next time.”

Next time. Steve knows that she’s just making the next move in the charade, but as she gestures for Steve to join her for the walk back to headquarters, the words play over in his head: next time.

iii.

“Non!”

This is why, Steve reflects, shaking his head, they had not allowed Dernier to have a baton to use while directing his lessons: he would have certainly used it to literally smack Dugan into shape by now.

“Never mind about all this,” Dugan growls, picking up the hat that had fallen on the ground when he had been too ambitious with a turn in his last attempt. “The ladies will just have to accept that not every man can waltz and satisfy themselves with all my other talents.”

Morita holds out his hands again, palms up. ��Come on, you haven’t even really tried.” He wiggles his fingers enticingly. “Dance with me, Dugan.”

“I’d do it,” advises Gabe. “No lady should have to...satisfy herself with a badly brewed cup of coffee or the same six Irish songs performed off-key. Good to have at least one usable skill in the pocket.”

“I’ll have you know,” Dugan says, drawing himself up, “that those are ancient family ballads.”

“I’d have brought up a few positive reviews of past performance rather than defending the Irish songs,” Monty says mildly. “But that could perhaps be just me.”

Bucky, chewing on a blade of grass, eyes closed as he lies on his back facing the sky, says with drowsy vehemence, “Well, you are an English bastard.”

Steve, sitting with his back against a tree, laughs at them all. They’ll be moving out soon - they know that there are enemy troops in the area and Peggy had arrived just after dawn with more precise new target coordinates for them - but they can’t go until she’s had at least a couple of hours rest, so in the meantime: dance lessons.

Morita attempts a bit of a tap pattern in the grass and says, “How’m I going to learn now if my partner’s decided to retire?”

“Don’t look at me,” says Gabe. “My dancing talents would only embarrass you in comparison.”

“And while Jones here might take the prize in more modern dances, I was taught to waltz before I could grow chin hairs,” Monty adds.

But Dernier is already charging forward in a spew of delighted rapid-fire French, of which Steve understands perhaps one word in ten, though there’s only one that’s important anyway: “Capitaine!”

“I don’t—” Steve starts, except Dernier’s already hauling Steve to his feet, continuing his flurry of instructions? advice? as he positions Steve’s hands around Morita. Bucky must actually have truly nodded off after his night on watch, or else his radar for teasing Steve would be on alert. (Steve can't help but be grateful, both that he isn't watching, and that he's apparently finally been able to sleep.)

“Well,” Jim says, snickering, “I guess you’re leading.” Steve shakes his head, trying to puzzle out any of what Dernier’s telling him; if he’s going to do this, he doesn’t want to look like a complete fool.

“He says that you should loosen up your hips. You’re holding yourself too stiffly.”

Steve wants to cover his eyes. He’s managed to have several months of entirely normal conversations with Peggy, and now he’s back to embarrassing himself in front of her.

He looks over to where she’s standing to the side, her uniform and hair only slightly mussed (an accomplishment considering she’s had three hours’ rest on the bare ground, and a pup tent isn’t exactly anyone’s idea of luxurious accommodations). “I guess we might be making a habit of this,” he says ruefully and she smiles at him. “And somehow I still haven’t turned into a dancer.”

“Listen to Dernier and perhaps he’ll succeed with you yet.”

“Maybe,” Morita says, teasingly dubious. “So far, no offense, Cap, it’s like holding hands with a concrete pillar.”

“Perhaps I could take a turn trying,” she says, holding out her own hands in offer. She meets Steve’s eyes, but only briefly, turning her gaze over to Monty and saying archly, “Some of us who were taught early are generous enough to want to help others.”

Falsworth waves a hand toward her - go on - and she steps forward to take Morita’s place.

“You really do need to relax a bit,” she says. Even if it's the same sentiment as earlier, now that she’s close to him, it is different. One of her hands rests, ever so lightly, on his shoulder, and he feels as if he can recall the echo of it from months ago and months before that.

“It’s a little hard,” he says. “To relax.”

“Oh?” Those red lips, upturned at the very corners.

“Well, it’s—”

“Shit!”

In the moment of the first gunshot, a million things happen at once: Dugan dives to the side, cursing alternately at the hole in his hat and the fact that they’re being shot at in the first place; Bucky wakes and jumps immediately into a crouch, icy calm instead of frantic; Monty scrambles for his rifle, Morita for Steve’s shield; Gabe scopes out cover; Dernier, bent low, moves toward his explosives.

“Over there,” Peggy says. Her hands are out of Steve’s, pointing, finding her own pistol. He is beside her, focusing on the spot she’s indicated, nodding firmly once.

“Guess we’ll have to write off the lessons,” he says.

“Perhaps,” she offers, “just a postponement.”

“Alright,” Steve says to his own surprise, and he catches the shield Morita tosses him, and puts dancing out of his mind, for now.

iv.

Steve really only shows up at Rainbow Corner looking for a haircut and, if he’s being honest, a doughnut. He gets the first and is headed to the basement cafe for the second, an ASE novel in his pocket, when a hand shoots out of the dance hall and pulls him in.

“Dance with me,” Peggy says, a hiss that he somehow hears over the booming music, the rhythmic stomping of feet, the chatter of the other dancers .

He takes her hands automatically, but before moving further onto the floor he focuses on her face. She’s flushed and looks...perhaps not panicked, but aggravated.

“Can I get you something to drink first?” he asks. “It’s hot in here.”

Something flashes across her face and he thinks for a moment that she will snap a no at him and find someone else who will just dance with her like she asked with no questions asked, but instead she nods. “Only briefly.”

He starts leading her over to the corner where the bar is. It’s slow going through the crowd, and he stays close so they don’t lose each other. She isn’t wearing her uniform tonight, instead in a green dress with a swinging, silky skirt for dancing; the fabric brushes his legs as they walk. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re doing here? Or at least why it was so important that we finally have that dance?”

“Two questions with one answer, actually.” They join the back of the line. Peggy turns her back to the bar, scanning the dancers instead. He bends toward her, both for privacy and so he can even hear her over the band. “We’ve received reports of a GI who might be a spy," she says against his ear, "reporting to the Germans and perhaps even to Schmidt himself. According to our information, he’s come here tonight, and I’ve been trying for the better part of an hour to spot him and cut into his dancing. I’d like to apprehend him quietly before anyone tips him off or he’s able to do the same for anyone he might be in touch with.”

Steve nods. “And you stick out less when you actually have someone to dance with.”

“I haven’t had much luck thus far, trying to crane my neck around everyone without seeming too suspicious. It is helpful to find a partner who won’t storm off when he doesn’t receive my undivided attention.”

For a moment he wonders if he should be insulted, but then he hears the real sentiment, the trust in him, something more than a partner for a single dance would ever get. He ducks his head against a smile.

They have reached the front of the line and she orders a mineral water despite the lengthy menu.

“I’m absolutely longing for something with a little more flavor, but I am still working after all,” she says once she has drained half her glass. “Though it was kind of you to remind me to refresh myself a little, considering how beastly hot it is in here.”

“Why I don’t usually find myself in this part of the building,” he nods.

“Is that the only reason?” She tilts her head. In the dimmed lights, he watches a tiny trickle of sweat makes its way down to her collarbone.

He clears his throat as she takes another sip of water. “The kind of partner that I’m looking for isn’t usually around here.”

“Oh? I see a variety of lovely ladies here tonight, and I’m sure that any number of them would be interested in dancing with you.” She gestures around, drawing his eye for just a moment to all of the beautiful women in their careful hairstyles and pretty dresses, their smiles bright and delighted. Then he turns back to her.

“I think I need a particular teacher,” he says. “You’d know that better than most.”

But she hasn’t turned back to face him, caught instead with her eyes gleaming predatorily on a man laughing as he twirls a tall brunette into the song’s finale. Steve thinks he might recognize him from the hallways of SSR headquarters, but really he looks as if he could be one of a thousand soldiers.

Peggy turns quickly to Steve. “I apologize for dragging you in here and leaving you standing, but—”

“Go. Do what you do.”

She leaves him with a fleeting smile and her empty glass. He watches as she cuts in with a neat gesture, a nod, a flourish of skirts, then sets the glass onto the bar and, sliding his hands into his pockets, goes to finally track down his doughnut.

She’ll be busy for the rest of the night, no need for him to hang around bothering her. And they’ll have other opportunities to actually get that dance, he’s sure of it.

v.

Peggy can so clearly picture how it would all have gone. There would have been preparation first, powder and cream, holding dress options up before herself in the mirror to choose between the red or the blue, no, perhaps the green, and then landing back on the red. Tracing her lipstick on last, just before she went out the door, sliding the tube into her clutch for touch-ups, just in case.

She would likely have arrived before he did. Imagine the debrief he would have had to go through - it would be a wonder if he had a chance for a shower and shave. But somehow he would have made time, his hair still a little damp, the scent of soap on his skin. He would arrive wearing his dress uniform, and it would have made her realize that he hadn’t been home since the serum and likely didn’t own much else that would fit his changed form. She might have even had the urge to offer her services in a shopping expedition (the uniform fit him quite well indeed, but couldn’t be worn at all times, and certainly not once the war was truly over).

He would have taken her hand with care, and she would have held fast to him. It would have been new, the two of them touching like that without worry of being seen or commented upon, no one teasing around them, and there hadn’t been years of official courtship to accustom them to it besides. But that time had instead been for them to learn each other, time for things to flower quietly between them, and it would have given some familiarity. She wouldn’t have felt apprehensive about allowing herself that flashing vulnerability.

Supper first, most likely. They both enjoyed good food - he especially - and the military didn’t quite match up to a professional kitchen, but the meal itself wouldn’t have been of real importance. This would have instead been a chance for sharing stories without the threat of gunfire or Colonel Phillips interrupting, for finding new shades in her hair revealed by the candlelight, for learning what his laughter sounded like pitched soft and close above a white tablecloth.

One of them would suggest dessert, but the other would say to wait. The band would be playing something slow, and he would nod toward the dance floor. (“Sounds like our song,” he would say, or maybe, “I’ll try not to step on your toes,” or maybe nothing at all.)

They would stand among the other couples, and it probably wouldn’t be dancing as much as swaying, but that wouldn’t matter. Fancy maneuvers or fast footwork, showing off, that wouldn’t be the point at all. The dancing itself wasn’t what was important; it was about the chance for renewal and discovery, a moment to reflect on all the pain and lessons on the path here and the possibilities for the future, a time to ask all the questions and have them answered yes and yes and yes, always yes.

But no matter how clearly she can picture it, none of that happened, hadn’t and can’t and won’t. And so Peggy sighs and straightens her shoulders and walks herself onward.

+1

It’s not every night, or even every other. They are busy people, she especially, and don’t always have the time or the energy. Sometimes they have had an argument, or one of them wants to finish a book, or it's been a long day, or they aren’t quite in the mood. Those are all gifts too, in their way, the opportunity not to have to grasp every moment, to have a life sprawling out before them, to appreciate even the mundane bits of it all.

But once a week, or maybe more, they find themselves like this. In the sitting room just after she’s come home from work, or after supper, or before bed, on a Saturday morning in the kitchen surrounded by the scene of bacon and pancakes from the stove, in the midnight dark of their bedroom with the baby cradled whimpering between them. The radio, or a record, or no music at all. The specifics don’t matter and matter so entirely that they will be remembered for the rest of their lives.

Palm against palm, fingers interlocked, an easy rhythm to their steps.

“I should probably go take in the laundry. I think it’s dry enough, and it might rain tonight,” he says, and she replies, “Hmm,” but neither of them break apart.

“We have a surveillance team in the field and I should check in soon,” she remarks, knowing that he recognizes and respects the importance of her work, but they just continue to make their slow rotations.

They take these moments just for themselves, a reminder of where they’ve been and what they’ve lost, where they are and all they’ve managed to find. A moment to think of the dances that they didn’t quite get, the ones that brought them here, and to be grateful for the ones they have: this dance and all the others, a lifetime of the two of them wrapped up in each other, dancing all the while.

[faean]

Adamance of a Dragon

Collaborator: @i-am-here-with-fanfic.

Rating: T+; Language and Mild “Sexual” Content

Word Length: 1,863

Chapter 5- The Night(s) Before … And Day(s)

           “Jesus fucking Noah Aaron, do you have to knock so loud? And why’re you here so bleedin’ early,” I yawned, stepping aside to let Aaron enter my house. “Ugh, I’m regretting taking the exam now. It’s been a week and I’m still recovering. I can’t believe I let the principal talk me into it after getting in on recommendations … then again, I never took the recommendation exam.”

           He was out of breath, clearing having rushed over to my place. He certainly is excited about the exam results; which is made more evident by the lion’s mane of hair he sported, having forgone styling…

           Huh. Disheveled lion’s mane. Two large bangs framing his face. Striking blue eyes. Aaron looked like the perfect union between Aria and that skeleton man. And, if that skeleton man and All Might were … ah, fuck it. I don’t wanna think too much right now. My migraine is still terrible.

           “Well, you shouldn’t have unsealed your Prudentia form so soon after the exam. And it’s noon! Besides, I want to know our scores! I really hope I got into the general course, even though you and mom talked me into applying for the hero course as well.”

           We sat on the couch as I grabbed my letter from the coffee table. Per Aria’s request, I was tested as any other student would have been, being graded and everything, despite my recommendations from the States. If it were not for the days spent filling out paper work, I would think I actually had to take the exam. At least now I get my provisional license back, albeit with some added restrictions.

           “All right, on the count of three, Aaron.”

           “One.” Aaron and I held our letters in our hands, him sitting on the edge of his seat. “Two.” We began to tug on the envelope, excitement fueling our every action. “Three!”

           In two swift moves, we tore open our envelopes, two metal disks slipping out and onto the table in front of us. The disk projected a hologram of none other than All Might. Apparently, he’ll be teaching at U.A. from now on. Admittedly, we were hoping there would be some sort of sync up until it got to our scores, but it would seem that each video was fairly personalized.

           To summarize, Aaron and I were both accepted into U.A. Aaron got a total of 47 points, 23 villain, 24 hero. This would have almost qualified him for the hero course, if not for his current skill level with his quirk and his low scoring on the written exam (he’s prone to anxiety). Thankfully, having also applied to the general course, he was placed in the high end of class 1-C; which he was incredibly grateful for.

           I was already in the hero course, and the exam ranked me third, having tied with another student who got into the hero course. I believe her name was Uraraka? I think that’s her family name and the one I’m supposed to refer to.

           “Oh! How did unsealing your Prudentia form go? Your legs don’t seem damaged.”

           “It went well. I’m now able to use air and earth magic without repercussions to my body by channeling it properly. Although, it gives me such a migraine. And I can’t hold my form for more than an hour, otherwise it starts breaking my body down again. Excessive magic use shortens my time, too.”

           “Is that why your speech is slurred and you’re using contractions?”

           I nod, leaning back into the plush cushions of the couch. We spent some time just talking about our expectations of the school, as well as some of the rules we have to follow. I haven’t been in an actual class in a few years and having to wear a uniform is rather annoying. Fortunately, Aaron did some research over the week (he read the paper letter in the envelope) and he schooled me.

           I should also mention that I told him that pun and it earned me a punch to the shoulder.

           “In any case, you rushed over the moment you woke up, didn’t you? I bet you got the mail when mum was still at work and didn’t tell her yesterday. C’mon, let’s make some lunch, then head out to the mall later. We need supplies for school, and maybe a few extra clothing items.”

           With that said, I made a zucchini casserole for us to share as we continued to plan out our day. Aside from the mall, I need to head to the market to pick up groceries, Aaron and I need our uniforms, and we want to visit mum at work.

           After washing the dishes, downing about … 17 cups of espresso, and taking stock of what I need from the market, I went to go change, too tired to use my magic to shift my clothing.

           From across the house, Aaron began to talk about his ice-skating try-outs tomorrow. “Hey, Faian, do you think you could take me to the ice rink tomorrow? Try-outs are in the afternoon and I don’t want to bother mom while she’s at work.”

           Shouting from my room, as Aaron lacked my enhanced senses, I let him know that I would. After all, I need to take some leisure time lest I wish to miss the first day of school. Perhaps Todoroki would like to hang out, or I could meet up with some of the people I met during the exam. Whichever option I chose, I would undoubtedly require some support, evident by my donning of several compression bands and my glasses.

           With both Aaron and I ready to head out, neither of us bothering to fix our hair, we made our way to the garage.

           “Gods, there are a lot of people.”

           That was the first thing to leave my mouth after I drove us to the mall (after stopping at Aaron’s so he could pick up his wallet). In fact, Aaron was nervous about us getting separated and asked if I could unseal my tail to wrap around him; which I agreed to do. We wandered around for a bit, window shopping and trying to find a place where we could get clothes.

           We did have an accident, though. We passed by a place that had a load of All Might merch. Aaron had entered, hoping to get something for Aria, but quickly returned empty handed.

           His face the same color as his hair, he wrapped my tail around himself rather tightly. His voice was shaky when he demanded, “Do NOT let me go again. I didn’t realize that was an adult shop…”

           With a small chuckle, I replied. “Well, considering the shop is called ‘Hero’s Fantasy’, you probably should have known better.”

           “At least you aren’t slurring anymore. Anyway, let’s continue. There’s a map over there that we can look at, just … there were so many molds of-”

           “Moving on!”

           Continuing on our merry way, we found a pants store. I enjoyed the selection available, settling on several pairs of blue jeans after trying them, and listening to Aaron make jabs at me for choosing form-fitting jeans. Unfortunately, I could not make any retorts without incriminating myself.

           Spending the next few hours exploring and buying supplies, and stopping for some smoothies, we decided to call it a day; however, as we made our way to the parking lot, we got caught up in a villain attack. It was small scale; the villain having robbed a shop from the mall. Security was struggling to keep them contained and maintain the perimeter. With merely a glance, Aaron and I sprung into action (after storing our stuff in the car).

           Aaron aided security in the attempt to keep people from getting hurt. He placed his needles around the scene so police tape could be set up. I unsealed my Prudentia form, wanting to get more practice with it (it was also the only thing my quirk could sustain at the moment).

           Fortunately, from what I could gather, the villain had a simple augmenting quirk that boosted their strength and speed; the perfect combination for me to practice against.

           My body changing with each step I took; I began to resemble what most would call a Greek figure. I stood about 2 meters tall, my silver hair extending past my waist, a pattern of auburn dreadlocks and various flora adorning it. Wearing a Greek fustanella, knee high gladiator sandals, and bronze vambraces, my look was complete with a literal lightning bolt etched across my bare chest. Well, there was also the fact that my left eye was composed of a lightning storm while my right eye looked like a forest with mountains in the background (magic is fun).

           Flashing my provisional license to the head of security, he approved my involvement so long as I kept collateral damage to a minimum. Easy enough.

           Confronting the villain, I attempt to resolve the situation with diplomacy. “How unfortunate, I must say, that you got caught so very quickly. Let us avoid a brawl and you return what was stolen. Perhaps we may come to an agreement with the authorities, no?”

           Nope.

           Not even bothering to answer, the villain charged me recklessly, ‘dropping’ their bag of pilfered goods in the process (I slipped it from their grasp via some vines). Once in range, I swept their legs before doing an electrically charged hammer kick, slamming them into the ground. Unfortunately, the villain’s quirk also gave them some added durability, otherwise they would not have been able to retaliate.

           Grabbing my leg while still on the ground, they tossed me towards the gathering crowd. Rolling my eyes, I caught myself in midair, solidifying the air by my feet to make footholds. With a meager wave of my hand upward, a gale of wind encircled the inner perimeter Aaron helped create. Using the villain’s momentary confusion to my advantage (they also noticed they no longer had the stolen items), I deepened my focus and cast a powerful entrapment spell.

           “Shattered Mind.”

           Just like that, the battle ended. The earth rose around the villain to restrict their movement while an electrical charge surged through their brain to force them into a nightmare-plagued slumber. After that, I helped restore the area to normal before taking my leave with Aaron. I sealed my form once we got into the car, returning into my previous state and dealing with a headache.

           “I forgot you created that form when you were really into Greek and Roman myth back in elementary school. Are you sure you’re fit to drive?”

           “Yeah, just need my sunglasses and some Beethoven. Or maybe Queen.”

           “Definitely Queen. You’ll probably fall asleep listening to Moonlight Sonata.”

           Agreeing, I gave my phone to Aaron to make a selection before driving off towards the grocery store. After, we will visit Aria at work and I will drop Aaron off at his house, returning to mine after. Then, I am going to rest in bed until school starts. I cannot be bothered to go out again.

           Except to take Aaron to his tryouts and watch him perform.

Beta Reader, Collaborator, Owner of Aria and Aaron Granchester, and Creator of the Illegitimate Son storyline- @i-am-here-with-fanfic.

[whatliesabove-blog1]

small, quiet room

Chapter sixteen | ao3

Joyce, in a move that's nearly unprecedented for her, leaves work early. She tells Donald she has some family issues to deal with, which is a half-truth so she doesn’t feel bad about the half-lie, and leaves to pick Will up from school.

When he's called into the office and sees his mother standing by the front desk, his eyes widen. He looks around the room, gaze darting subtly from one person to the next as if to figure out what’s going on. 

He hesitates only for a second longer before making a beeline for her.

"Mom, what's wrong?" 

The fear is evident on his face, reflecting back at her in those eyes.

She smiles and rubs his shoulder, shakes her head. "No, honey, nothing's wrong," she promises. With one last nod to the woman at the front desk, a polite farewell, she gently guides Will towards the door. "Come on, let's go."

He waits until they're outside to halt their movements, to tug on her arm. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"You're taking me out of school early," he retorts as if that’s cause enough to be alarmed. Which, okay, it’s true; she rarely takes the boys out of school early. This is probably the second time in so many years. "You never take me out of school early."

Joyce sighs. "Let's talk in the car, okay?"

Will looks like he’s about to object but, after a moment of thought, he nods. There's not much else he can do, really, and he follows his mother to the tiny green pinto. She opens the door for him, palm brushing his back as she ushers him inside. Once he's buckled and settled in, she rounds the car and slides into the driver's seat.

Quiet as he may be, she can still feel the heat of his gaze on her from the second she’s beside him in the car. He’s still looking at her when she finally turns towards him. 

The expression on his face breaks a laugh from her throat, a real laugh, because he just looks so grave. It's as if the entire world must have ended because she's taken him out of school a few hours early.

"Will, sweetie, nothing's wrong," she assures him again, a smile on her face.

"So you're not letting me out early to tell me something's happened to Jonathan?"

“Of course not; Jonathan’s fine. He’s still in school.”

“And you’re not here to tell me you’re sick or... or dying, or—” 

Joyce shakes her head immediately. “I’m not sick, and I’m certainly not dying.”

His expression falters a little, but his mouth twists uneasily to the side. “Are you sure, Mom? Because... if you’re sick, or something, you can tell me, and we’ll—”

"Hey, stop," she cuts him off, grabbing his small hand in hers. 

She swears there are traces of tears welling up in his eyes and she’s about to climb over the center console and wrap him in her arms. This poor kid has been through so much he can’t even accept the fact that nothing earth-shattering has happened. 

"Baby, I’m fine. I promise, okay?" Tipping his chin in her direction, she coaxes him to look at her. “I’m no less healthy than I was yesterday or the day before. Nothing to worry about.”

Sure, she’s still a little frazzled. She’s absolutely not looking forward to the conversation she has to have with Will or the inevitable union of Hopper and Jonathan with their new knowledge of their relation, but physically... she's fine. 

The last thing she needs is to add something else for her boy to stress about.

"Okay..."

Joyce puts the car in drive and takes off, the two of them making their way towards Benny's diner instead of home. She snorts at the shock on Will's face when it occurs to him that they’re going in the opposite direction, but it soon gives way to a grin when he realizes they're actually going out for food.

Like getting out of school early, eating out is not something they do often. They don't have the money to treat themselves to restaurants and fast food places more than on occasion, but she'd classify this as an occasion that deserves a diner meal.

After Benny's death, a few of his friends, other classmates that have stayed around Hawkins and sometimes worked at the diner in their teen years, decided to continue working there with the blessing of Benny’s living family. She doesn't know who's dealing with the business side of things—that was Benny's forte—but that it's still open and serving his signature burgers is heartwarming. It's what his legacy deserves.

"We're going to Benny's?"

Joyce nods. "We are."

"Okay, Mom, seriously, you can just tell me if you're sick or something..."

Huffing, she gives a good-natured roll of her eyes and glances over. "What, a mother can’t treat her son to a nice spur of the moment lunch anymore?"

Will ignores the rhetorical question. "We're going to have a weird talk, aren't we?"

"You could say that," she breathes, pulling into the parking lot. Best to just be honest; she has a lot of time to make up for in that arena. "You know how there was something I had to talk to Jonathan about? That I said would affect you, but I couldn't talk about it yet?"

Will nods. "Yeah."

"Well, I've talked to Jonathan already, and I thought it would be nice to have an afternoon just the two of us. So I could tell you, too, and you can ask any questions that you have about it."

"Okay."

Will runs ahead of her and practically swings the door back into the wall, but he doesn’t go any farther. He stands there and waits for her to catch up, holding the door open for her. After greeting her former classmates with a polite smile, she and Will take a seat at one of the tables and get their orders ready. 

A burger and fries are put in for the two of them and Joyce even nudges Will's knees under the table, encourages him to choose a milkshake instead of the water he’s accustomed to ordering because it’s free.

She may be going over the top, just a little, but she doesn't want Will to have to hear this in their kitchen over leftovers. Maybe it's a little strategic; in the house, he can get up and lock himself in his room if he wants to. Here, he can't exactly run away.

Truthfully, she doesn't think that’ll be anything close to his reaction. He's more subdued than Jonathan; more pensive, sensitive. More quiet. But she still wants to have some kind of insurance policy, something that allows her confidence that he won’t take off.

When their food comes, she spends a few minutes chatting normally, asking him about the day he’s had so far and what's going on with the party. Will launches into a whole explanation of this new game they've played, using animated gestures and words she doesn't understand. She has no idea what he's talking about but she smiles along anyway, genuinely interested despite her limited knowledge. The light in his eyes is enough to have her hanging onto every word, desperately trying to get some of it.

Halfway through the meal when the conversation experiences a lull, Joyce wipes at her mouth and chews on her nail.

"You can tell me, Mom." When she looks up, Will's regarding her with those soft eyes of his. So much like hers. "I'm not a kid anymore. I can handle it."

Joyce laughs, nods. "You're right, you're not a little kid anymore."

His chest puffs out with the confirmation. Proud.

"Okay," she exhales, wringing her hands in front of her to get the feeling back. She's a little numb, a lot nervous. "When I was in high school, I was friends with Hopper. You know Hopper."

Smooth, Joyce. Of course he knows Hopper.

"Yeah, Mom," Will laughs, "I know Hopper."

"Good, good." She could smack herself. Be normal, she chastises herself, but this is so far from normal. "Well... after graduation something happened between the two of us, and I got pregnant."

Quick, like a band-aid. 

Will's eyes widen. "You... have a kid with Hopper?" Something lights on his face, and his mouth opens. "Wait, is that what this is? Do I have another brother or sister? Where are they?" When she's silent, mouth flapping because she doesn't know what to say, he continues in a whisper, "Are they dead?"

"No," she says immediately, shaking her head. "No, they're... they're not dead. But Hopper and I... do have a child, yeah."

"Okay.” His forehead creases as he plucks a fry from his plate and tosses it into his mouth. “So, where are they? Is it a boy or a girl?"

"It’s a boy," Joyce manages, taking a second to breathe through her nose and exhale through her mouth. 

Giving a slow nod, Will takes it in. “I have another brother,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question, and she can tell he’s trying to wrap his head around the information. To figure it out. 

She wishes it was as easy as just saying he has another brother. 

“Well,” she starts, her heart kicking into high gear. Unsure of how to continue, she just blurts out, "It's Jonathan."

But that doesn’t work because now Will’s looking at her again, all concerned eyes and innocent face and she wants to scream.

"What's Jonathan? You said nothing was wrong with him."

She shakes her head, eyes falling shut. She wonders if it’d be possible to be any more frustrated with herself, but she doubts it. This was supposed to be the easy conversation, and the thought alone now makes her want to burst into hysterics. She’s already told Jonathan that his father’s not the man he thought, she’s already had a blowout with Hopper over the same piece of news, so telling Will should be a walk in a park. 

For some reason it’s not, not at all, and maybe it was naive of her to think otherwise. 

Thinking about it now, she’s almost positive it’s because of how he looks at her. He may be growing up, a teenager now who should start resenting her for her hovering and excessive mothering, but he doesn’t. Not yet. He still looks at her with such adoration, such sweet, kid-like love, and she doesn’t want it tainted. 

She doesn’t want him to look at her differently. 

"Nothing's wrong. He's—it's him, Will. Jonathan is my child with Hopper."

Will's silent for a moment, his face painfully blank. For such a sensitive kid he has one hell of a poker face when he wants to, but usually she can read his tells. She can generally tell when something’s off, but right now she can't read anything. He looks down at the table, blinking, his mouth twisted a little to the side while he thinks.

The lack of response is driving her just a little insane, but finally, finally, after what seems like an hour but is likely five minutes, he breaks the silence.

"Hopper is Jonathan's dad."

Joyce nods. "Yes, he is."

"Is Hopper... my dad?" Will asks, his voice quiet and oh, bless him, filled with a little hope. 

A part of her wishes she could say yes. He already idolizes the man—she knows it makes Hopper uncomfortable, but she finds it sweet—and looks up to him more than he’s ever really been able to look up to Lonnie. 

She wishes she could tell him that his father isn't really a deadbeat, a no-show who didn’t even care enough to call when they thought their boy was dead.

"No, sweetie," Joyce says softly. "Your dad is still your dad."

"Oh," he says with a little nod. "Okay."

When he doesn’t say anything else, just continues to pick at the last of his burger, she reaches over and wraps his free hand in hers.

"Do you have any questions?"

Will shrugs. "I don't know, I mean... it's kind of weird," he admits, looking anywhere but at her. "Did you just find out or something? How come we never knew before?"

It's a valid question, but it still tears at her. No. Because I can be a coward sometimes.

"Because I didn't tell them. I lied for reasons that seemed to make sense at the time, and I never told Hopper about Jonathan, so I never told Jonathan about Hopper."

"How come?"

"It's complicated, baby," she says, offering a small smile. "I'll explain it sometime, but right now I just need you to know that I made a mistake back then and I'm trying to fix it, okay?"

Her boy nods, accepts her answer even though she can tell he wants more details, wants to know why she chose to withhold the information. She told Jonathan, and she told Hopper, but she doesn't feel Will needs to know all of it right now. 

As long as he has the gist of what's happened and what's going on, it's okay for now. That’s all he really needs. 

"So, is the Chief moving in with us?"

Joyce laughs. "No, no. Nothing like that is going to happen right now," she promises, squeezing his fingers. "The only thing that's changing is Jonathan and Hopper's relationship, maybe. They'll have to decide how they want to move forward."

"But you said it'd affect me," he points out, shoving another one of the fries into his mouth.

"I—I wasn't sure how Hopper would take the news, and I was worried that he might decide he didn't want to talk to me,” she tells him honestly. “If that happened, I was concerned that might affect your friendship with El, but we've talked it over and he's—well, he's upset, but it won't reach that level. You have nothing to worry about."

"Oh," Will says. "I'm glad that's not happening. I like El, and it'd really suck to have to stop talking."

"I'm glad too, baby." She takes a moment to pick at a few of her own fries, left neglected for most of the conversation. Her appetite seems to be slowly returning now that everything appears to be going all right with Will. "I know this is a lot to take in, and it's going to be really weird for a while, but I want you to know you can come to me with anything you feel about it. Deal?"

Nodding, he takes a breath. "Yeah, deal.” 

“Promise?”

“I promise."

"Good. Now, what do you say we finish our food and head home? Maybe we can put in a movie."

It's a quick change of topic, but she can tell he has nothing else to say right now. Nothing he's willing to part with, anyway, and she doesn't want to sit through the remainder of their meal in an awkward, tense cloud. He'll come to her if and when he has anything else to ask, and so right now her main concern is putting that vibrant smile she loves so much back on his face.

Her son perks up, the smile a little smaller but there as he gives an enthusiastic nod. "Yeah! Can we watch ET?"

She laughs. Should’ve known. Oddly enough, ever since he saw it for the first time a few months ago and then asked her to record it onto a VHS tape for him, he’s been practically begging her or Jonathan to watch it with him again. She hasn’t had the energy or time lately and she may not be bursting with energy now, either, but this is something she can do.

"Sure, ET it is," she agrees, beaming at the excitement on his face.

The knots in her chest continue to loosen. 

[glenngaylord]

MY MOMENTS OUT OF TIME IN FILM 2019

Instead of a Top 10 List, every year I like to honor a long-discontinued but influential annual column from Film Comment magazine. I couldn’t wait for my father to come home from work with the “Moments Out Of Time” issue.  The writers would cite their favorite scenes, images, or lines of dialogue, even from films they may not have liked, because let’s face it, even bad films may have a great moment or two.

The year brought us so many wonderful films.  Parasite wowed me with its ability to surprise while telling an important story about class divisions.  I think Once Upon A Time In…Hollywood will stop me in my tracks over and over again with its immersive deep dive into late 1960s Los Angeles.  The female-on-female gaze gets a workout in the stunning Portrait Of A Lady On Fire, while Jojo Rabbit masterfully walks a tightrope between hilarious and moving.  Watching Eddie Murphy return firing on all cylinders in Dolemite Is My Name remains one of the most joyous movie experiences of the year. Yet, even I can’t see them all, but here, in no particular order, are my Moments Out Of Time in film for 2019:

A door opens, someone calls out “Honey?”, as the plot veers off in a jaw-droppingly unexpected, biggest WTF of the year direction, turning a light class comedy into something far, far, deeper- Parasite

Upon the assassination of JFK, his enemy, Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino) orders the half mast flag in front of the Teamsters' Union to be raised back to its standard position.  As Hoffa looks up at the flag, this chilling, diabolical scene feels like the end of civil society as we know it - The Irishman

“Climb in my fur” - my favorite line of dialogue last year, cementing Jennifer Lopez’s Ramona as an iconic film character who can take sexual innuendo and turn it into an invitation for friendship - Hustlers

“That was the best acting I’ve ever seen in my whole life” - dialogue runner up as a young actress (Julia Butters) whispers into the insecure but committed actor Rick Dalton’s (Leonardo DiCaprio) ear, causing him to weep uncontrollably and giving him the recognition he’s always craved - Once Upon A Time In…Hollywood

A boy spies a flitting butterfly and stands up to get a better look, notices a pair of shoes next to him, and in an instant his entire life heartbreakingly changes - Jojo Rabbit

A vacationing family looks out their window to see…themselves…lined up and waiting to invade their home - Us

A gate which will no longer close on its own.  Two estranged parents and their child manually slide it shut with the barrier separating them from each other.  The battle lines have been drawn with deft precision - Marriage Story

A woman stares at another across a theater.  They have a history.  The symphony plays a striking, propulsive piece which both women know so well.  A searing two minute close-up of the women she sees betrays her anguish, the pain, the missed opportunities, and the suffering of a woman who society demanded could not be herself - Portrait Of A Lady On Fire

Best final scene of the year: Two best friends sit in a car curbside at an airport.  They awkwardly exchange awkward pleasantries even though we can tell they’re really going to miss each other.  A delicate cover of “Unchained Melody” plays over stellar performances of Kaitlyn Dever walking away and Beanie Feldstein looking forelorn, both conveying that painful moment when high school besties part.  Then, suddenly remembering it’s a hilarious comedy, Feldstein almost crashes into Dever, who gets back in the car and they decide they have enough time to get pancakes.  Feldstein yells, “F*ck yeah!” as we smash cut to black - Booksmart

While he’s wanted inside at his premiere, Rudy Ray Moore can’t walk away from the fans waiting outside the theatre, choosing instead to give himself over to them and melting everyone’s hearts, including mine, in the process - Dolemite Is My Name

Wait!  This guy is at your Passover Seder?  You’re related to him?  Now I’m scared - Uncut Gems

A milked cow.  A barn.  A dogfight up in the skies above.  A knife. Two soldiers foraging for food, safety, and a chance to survive the next minute.  Everything changes. - 1917

Matthew McConaughey as Baker Dill (!) spends most of his time howling to the heavens or completely naked, and for these reasons, I will never forget this terrible, amazing film experience - Serenity

When she forgets the words to her signature song, the audience sings them for her, making us all realize that even though she was close to death, the memory of her will never fade away - Judy

Normally, I’d be delighted to open my window and see Isabelle Huppert staring at me from across the street, but here, it’s a hauntingly nightmarish image - Greta

Julianne Moore sings along to an Air Supply song in her car and somehow manages to make her lapse in taste seem heartfelt - Gloria Bell

I love comedic moments built from repetition or missed connections.  When Jack (Himesh Patel) can’t get his parents to sit still for a moment so that he can convince them he wrote the song “Let It Be”, his incredulousness and frustration strikes comedy gold - Yesterday

A young writer negotiates her terms with a publisher, gloriously finding her voice and her power at a time where such bravery seemed impossible - Little Women

A drunk, lonely, middle-aged woman dances alone in a small town honky tonk to Leon Russell’s “Out Of The Woods”, giving us a glimpse into her less austere past - Diane

A dildo with a retractable switch blade - Knife + Heart

What do the sounds of Elton John and Bernie Taupin’s songs look like?  A man crashing out of a window and joining a dancing flash mob at a carnival to “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting” felt alive and electric, Yet, even more so, in a moment achieving some level of transcendence, Elton (a fantastic Taron Egerton) falls sideways off of a diving board into a pool where his boyhood self plays the title song on a piano at the bottom.  That we somehow end up at Dodger Stadium where a sparkly Elton greets his fans and flies up into the stratosphere makes his classic soar - Rocketman

A grunge pop star/recovering addict (Elizabeth Moss), not too dissimilar to Courtney Love, sits at a piano and performs a sober rendition of Bryan Adams’ “Heaven”, stripping away the outrageous bravado to quietly break out hearts - Her Smell

“Agency” seems to be on everyone’s lips when describing dynamic, plot-driving lead characters, but Leo’s (star in the making Félix Maritaud) choices don’t fit into a standard box.  His decision, like it or not, is all his. - Sauvage/Wild

In a film filled to the brim with unforgettable, emotionally-laden images, its final shot of a man rowing a boat across turbulent waters moved me to tears - The Last Black Man In San Francisco

To learn from a documentary that the Ten Commandments monuments on display in front of many City Halls across the U.S. resulted from a Charlton Heston-led publicity tour for his 1956 movie epic is to realize, painfully so, that sometimes Hollywood and not the Churches, ruins everything! - Hail Satan?

Although, sooner or later, most of us will end up in a patch of dirt, some long for that moment more than others and find beauty in it - High Life

Watching Laura Dern pull off one of the most notorious literary scandals of modern times gives us one of the most original kicks of the year in a scene with an interviewer.  She hides in plain sight as a novelist pretending to be the terribly British Manager to Kristen Stewart’s fake face of the same novelist in order to build mystique and sell more books - J.T. LeRoy

Who knew that a CGI-animated film for the whole family would have the most bone-chilling sequence of the year?  But there it was in an antique store with Gabby Gabby and the creepy ventriloquist dummies - Toy Story 4

A woman enters her drab Chinese hotel room only to be asked if the U.S. is better by the anxious bellboy.  Afraid to offend him, she merely tells him it’s different.  The things we do to ease the pain of the less fortunate. - The Farewell

Three women.  An elevator on its way to the chairman’s office.  The sideways glances.  The knowledge they all have of what awaits them.  A silent sisterhood until Nicole Kidman’s Gretchen Carlson awkwardly comments, “Hot in here”.  The year’s best calibrated scene - Bombshell

An out gay actor, Mark Patton, confronts the writer of the film which ruined his career and gets an apology.  The years of pain written across his face don’t go away, but a little weight of the world gets lifted from his very relieved, very courageous shoulders - Scream Queen!  My Nightmare On Elm Street

While Tarantino played around with historical revisionist wish fulfillment, director Mary Herron and writer Guinevere Turner tapped into female rage in telling the story of the Manson murders.  When Hannah Murray as Leslie Van Houten carries out one of the murders, screaming as she plunges a knife into someone, we get a rare glimpse into finally understanding what brought her to that point - Charlie Says

After Lily Collins’s Liz demands, “ Release me…what happened to her head?” as a way for doomed serial killer Ted Bundy (a chilling Zac Efron) to admit his guilt, he finally writes with his finger on the glass prison visitor’s window which separates them, one frightening word, “Hacksaw” only to wipe it away immediately - Extremely Wicked Shockingly Evil And Vile

A gay white man and his straight, non-English speaking Latino handyman bond over Madonna’s “Borderline” in the back seat of an Uber.  Matt Bomer’s angsty character finally relaxes and connects with this adorable man (Alejandro Patiño) doing ridiculously cute seated dance moves - Papi Chulo

A young woman rushes to her apartment bathroom and in a seamless transition, she emerges down the aisle of a plane headed for Sweden - Midsommar

Sometimes one can derive great pleasure from a film by simply listening to how Adam Driver says the word “ghouls” - The Dead Don’t Die

An actress known primarily for her own murder gleefully watches herself on the big screen in a Westwood Village movie theater, and in that moment, we finally experience the gorgeous humanity and not the horrendous end of this lovely person - Once Upon A Time In…Hollywood

When you have an icy, almost robotic main character, you need Alfre Woodard to masterfully play drunk and show you all of her other shades - Clemency

I don’t care if the film felt like a xerox copy of the original or if the CGI ruined everything, because Billy Eichner’s Timon arrives at a now barren, picked apart Pride Rock and blurts out,  “Talk about a fixer-upper. I think you went heavy on the carcass.”  - The Lion King

When was the last time you saw a film where a character stops the action to demand of another, “I want you to know about me!”? - The Peanut Butter Falcon

A young Irish indentured servant in 1825 Tasmania watches helplessly as a soldier kills her baby just to stop its crying, and that’s only the beginning of a long line of justifications for her rage - The Nightingale

Nothing like a well-placed coffee mug to illustrate your main theme in the final image of your movie - Knives Out

Tracy Letts’ Henry Ford II feels the sheer power of one of his race cars and provides the most beautiful, unexpected crying scene of the year - Ford v. Ferrari

The funniest crossing a busy freeway scene since Eddie Murphy attempted it in 1999’s Bowfinger - Good Boys

A split second choice at what should have been a routine traffic stop changes the lives of our unlucky, racially profiled, sweet, smart but “not a match” Tinder date protagonists - Queen & Slim

A passport inspector asks, “Purpose of your visit?”  The young man replies, “I’m going to see Bruce Springsteen’s hometown.”  As he stamps his papers, the inspector responds, “I can’t think of a better reason to visit the United States than to see the home of The Boss” - Blinded By The Light

A horribly brutalized gay man wafts to shore only to see the haunting image of a scary clown reaching out to perhaps save him?  Nah, he’s a midnight snack - It Chapter 2

A young child, caught between his parents arguing over the phone, conveys painful messages to the supposed adults in the equation - Honey Boy

Sometimes an unreturned text can send you spiraling so far out of control that you ruin your life and everyone else’s around you - Waves

That last moment of bliss between a husband and wife right before their quiet mountaintop hamlet gets invaded by the sounds of planes overheard and the Nazis arriving to recruit them - A Hidden Life

You may have gotten in shape, but without true growth, the fat girl inside you won’t hesitate to shame another - Brittany Runs A Marathon

Gabriel Luna wins the award for sexiest performance in a terrible movie as a new killing machine decked out in tight pants and a killer stare - Terminator: Dark Fate

A mentally disturbed aspiring comic turned homicidal maniac disastrously makes his late night talk show debut, posing ominously backstage, skipping out with a bizarre tap twirl flourish, and then…well…like a true comic…he kills - Joker

Alec Baldwin, in a stunning monologue, basically shows us the early rise of people like Donald Trump, as all sense of hope gets sapped away - Motherless Brooklyn

An old sailor and his new charge stare down the camera right at us, somehow letting us know that we have no idea what bleak is, so hold on tight - The Lighthouse

A farmer (a never better Bill Camp) barges in on a corporate lawyer to get him to investigate the dying cattle in his hometown.  From such humble beginnings comes something which affects every single one of us - Dark Waters

An aspiring Scottish country singer sneaks away from her Grand Ole Opry tour group to sing alone on the main stage and perhaps get discovered. When she learns that everybody does that, she realizes she isn’t that special after all - Wild Rose

Biggest cinematic moment of dread: When a Chinese billionaire reopens a shuttered Ohio GM plant and hires back some of the workers at half their salaries and without benefits, you know you’ve just boarded a slow moving train to hell - American Factory

Did he do it?  Is he a terrorist?  Or is he a good guy?  How much of his tragic past is still present within him?  That final image will keep me guessing forever - Luce

A devoted Chinese Communist Party Member and abortion specialist knows she can never redeem herself from the part she played in ruining so many lives - One Child Nation

You may take issue with the implications that her real life character traded sex for intel and that she’s no longer alive to defend herself,  but Olivia Wilde gave one of the most vivid, exciting, ballsy performances of the year - Richard Jewell

An actual minute of silence in a film would normally be its death knell, but when Tom Hanks as Mr. Rogers demands it, we rethink our own hurried, impulsive lives - A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

Sure she overdid it.  Yes she had an odd, hairy, uncanny face and strangely manicured nails for days.  Overwrought doesn’t even begin to describe it, but when she hits that big note and belts out, “Touch me / It’s so easy to leave me / All alone with the memory / Of my days in the sun”, damned if I didn’t snot cry right along with her - Cats

[my-fanfic-soul]

No Need to Regret: Chapter 20

From the Beginning

When I was a kid, Brad was typically the one that would comfort me when I was upset.  My parents couldn’t be bothered and Abi just always seemed to be missing that natural instinct to be nurturing.  He did his best, but in all honesty, he didn’t have much to base his attempts off of.  But, when things went bad he would always tell me, “Things always have to get worse before they get better.”  A phrase he had seen on the wall in his elementary guidance counselor’s office wall.

Lately, I’ve been aggressively willing the universe to get around to the “better” portion of this roller coaster.  I had found myself obsessively checking social media, particularly twitter and tumblr, to keep up with what people were posting about Niall.  While the initial fervor had died down around the whole “Kendra is a manipulative user” there was still frequent discourse over my very existence.

Naturally, reading the negative things about myself and watching the rumors expand about the depth of my internal ugliness, I started feeling even more negative about myself in general.  With more and more gossip magazines picking up the story and paparazzi yelling at Niall on the streets, looking for a comment on what my mother had said, I was feeling guilty on top of it all not just about not being with my brothers and sisters, but putting Niall in a bad light.  Making someone “problematic” in the fandom who previously had not been.

This only caused issues between me and Niall.  “Keni, I’m trying to make you feel better about yourself but it’s damn near impossible if you’re still reading that crap all the time,” he had snapped after listening to me argue against him on a supposedly good trait he claimed I had.  Maybe snapped isn’t the right word, but he was definitely getting snippy and losing his patience with me.  We had less time to talk than usual, with him getting ready for the first leg of his tour and being in rehearsal and he didn’t like spending so much of it hearing me rehash the worst parts of my day and the internet.

If work was normally a reprieve, because at least I was busy, the tides had definitely turned there, as well.  Samantha was always asking a million and one questions about Niall and our relationship.  When she wasn’t asking about Niall, she was wanting to know about the relationship between me and my mother and the full back story.  She meant well, and I knew she was concerned because the image my mother painted in the magazine was worlds different than the Kendra she knew, but it was exhausting to have to keep evading her and being as vague as possible when I couldn’t escape.

School had finally started, but it was only a bit of a welcome distraction.  I felt like I was under a microscope everywhere I went.  Even if they weren’t look at me and whispering comments that I could still faintly hear, I felt like everyone was staring at me.  It was enough to drive a girl insane and school had only just started… it would only get worse from here.

The best part about the entire thing was that Michaela had gone from the friendly barista I talked to whenever she was free to being an actual friend that lived in the same town as me.  She didn’t know my full backstory, and made a point of letting me know she didn’t actually want to know.  “With a mom like that, it can’t be pleasant,” she had said when I offered to fill her in on why my mother was a pig. 

“I went off on a girl on Twitter earlier,” she casually mentioned as she leaned against the counter in my tiny kitchen.  She was currently watching me do my best Jenga impersonation as I attempted to pull out a few mugs for us without pulling everything else out of my crammed kitchen cabinets.

I blew a strand of hair out of my mouth as I finally climbed back off the counter and placed both mugs on the counter.  “Oh?  Why’s that?”

Michaela snorted as she watched me methodically prepare our tea.  She was still a skeptic about my technique making a difference.  “She was being a total bitch about you.  I couldn’t take it anymore and I freaked out on her.  Told her she obviously didn’t know who or what she was talking about if she was saying those things about you.”

“I appreciate the support, but it won’t change anything.  It’ll just make you a target.”

“You should tell that to your sister.  Abi has been going off ever since the article was released.”

I sighed, remembering reading a post where my sister was blistering a girl for painting my mother in a positive light.  “I know, and I’ve tried to stop her.  As much as she wasn’t the sweet sister you’d go talk to about boys while you painted each other’s toenails, she is extremely protective of all of us.  I almost think she’s enjoying having a reason to rage at all of the assholes that inhabit the internet.”

Michaela shook her head as she grabbed her mug and pulled it closer to her, swirling the tea bag around in the rapidly darkening water.  “What’s Niall got to say about all of that?”

It was my turn to shake my head.  “He’s still royally pissed about the article, but there’s nothing we can do about it.  He really wishes Abi would back off her one-man Twitter rampage, but he knows we can’t control her.  He’s got enough on his hands as it is.”

Her look was sympathetic now.  We don’t talk about my relationship much.  She knows I’m private and she won’t press for details.  “When are you going to get to see him again?  Ballpark estimate.”

“Spring break.”

She tutted as she went to pull her tea bag out of her mug.  “I don’t know how you can manage it, only seeing him every few months.”

“It’s not easy but what choice do I have?  He travels the world for a living and I’m still in college.  I can’t exactly become a groupie and follow him everywhere.  I think we’d start to get on each other’s nerves if I tried that.”

---

Even without my siblings to take care of, school and work were both kicking my ass.  I was taking as many hours of classes as I could and working as many hours as I could, despite the awkwardness of dealing with people on campus.  The first few days I tried to hide as much as possible to avoid the stares, but eventually I decided that it just wasn’t practical.  It didn’t matter if I was crammed into a corner on the floor in a building I didn’t even have a class in, people would stare.  At least I could be comfortable while people treated me like a zoo exhibit.

I was sitting in the student union building struggling through some readings when my phone rang.  I glanced at it, expecting for it to be Niall or Michaela, but my stomach dropped when I saw Bethany’s name on the screen.  It felt like I stalled, shocked to see her name and worried it might be my mother’s latest trick to get me to listen to her yelling.  Most recently she had decided that I owed Mike an apology.  From an outsider’s view, I probably dropped my book as soon as I saw her name as I scrambled to find my phone.

“Hello?” I said, my voice sounding miles away.

For a moment, my shoulders relaxed as I heard my sister’s voice reply, “Kendra!”  But then my mind connected with the stress and strain in her voice and the tension came back.

“Beth, what’s wrong?”

There was no missing it now, there was panic in Bethany’s words.  “It’s Olivia.  She’s sick again and she just won’t quit coughing.  I’ve been home with her for a week and she just keeps getting worse.  I don’t know what to do.  I tried going next door, but they’re out of town…”

I was already shoving things in my backpack.  “Where’s mom?” I asked her as I heaved the straps over my shoulders.  

My stomach turned to ice as she replied, “I don’t know.  I haven’t seen her in two weeks.”  I could hear the coughing in the background get louder, like she was moving closer to Livy.  “Keni, I think her lips are turning blue.  I’ve been trying to use her medicine from the last time she was sick, but I ran out.”

Now wasn’t the time to play twenty questions and it definitely wasn’t the time, or place, to start screaming about our useless mother.  “Bethany, I need you to listen to me.  I’m going to hang up because I need you to call 911.  I’ll take care of calling dad and I’m on my way down there now.  It’s going to take me a couple of hours, but I promise I’m on my way.”

I don’t remember getting off the phone.  I don’t remember what she said.  I don’t remember calling my dad, only the beep as it was sent to voicemail.  I was on the edge of campus when I remembered that I don’t have a car.  A brief moment of panic settled over me as I scrambled for some solid way to get to my sisters.  I didn’t have the money for a cab all the way to my hometown.  That was a once a year luxury.  I had a close friend now, but it was too far away for me to ask to borrow Michaela’s car.

Staying here wasn’t an option.  Abi was at a wedding out of state, so she couldn’t go to the hospital.  Brad loses money he can’t afford to lose when he misses work.  Even if they were available, I need to be there.  My terror was overwhelming and only getting worse the longer I stood here.  Mom hadn’t been home in weeks.  Bethany hadn’t told me, for whatever reason.  Livy is sick enough to need an ambulance.  I’m hours away from them.

The only option was clear, but I hated resorting to it.  I took a deep breath and swallowed my pride, though.  My sisters were in a bad spot and it wasn’t time to let my ego get the better of me.  A weird feeling filled my veins as I opened my contacts, something between being numb and being sick to my stomach, except all over my body.  It was probably dumb, but part of me felt like this phone call was more than me just asking for a favor.  A thick accent answered after the third ring.  “Ken, I’m busy, can I call you later…”

“Niall,” I rushed, praying he wouldn’t hang up.  “I need you to hire a car for me from here to my hometown.”

It came out wrong.  Like I was demanding that he had to do this.  The silence from his end only lasted a beat though, and he picked up on the things I wasn’t saying.  “Kendra, what’s wrong?”  Quickly, I explained that my mom had left the kids alone and that Bethany was having to take Olivia to the hospital and I needed to get home, I just didn’t have the money to get there.  I heard him telling his assistant to schedule the car to pick me up as soon as possible from my apartment, so I started walking.  “Any idea where your mother is?”

“I have no clue,” I seethed, checking traffic as I crossed the street.  “If I think about her right now, I’m likely to break something, though.  I know this is going to be expensive, though, Niall.  I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“No, you won’t,” he says smoothly.  “I don’t care about the cost.  Just let me know when you need to head back up to uni.”

I hadn’t really put much thought to my classes.  I’d need to email my professors, let them know that a family emergency came up… “I don’t even know when I’ll need to head back.  I’m probably going to take a few days’ worth of clothes.  There’s no way I’m going to leave if Livy’s in the hospital overnight.”

“I know you won’t.”  There’s something in his voice I can’t identify and I don’t get the chance before he says, “I hope you know that I’m buying you a car now.”

I don’t even know how to argue about it anymore.

---

It was hours later before I was walking to the information desk in the ER in my hometown.  I spent the ride bouncing my foot and checking my phone constantly.  Brad was upset, but he couldn’t leave work.  Abi was too far away to do anything.  The minutes seemed to tick by as I wondered how other people my age could have so few responsibilities.  What it would be like to not have the weight of the world on my shoulders.  “Olivia Freeman?” I ask the middle-aged woman behind the desk, who looks at me with shrewd eyes.  “She’s seven, came in on an ambulance a few hours ago.”

Before the woman can open her mouth, I hear, “Kendra!”  I barely have a chance to turn around before Bethy is colliding into me.  I can tell she’s spooked and my arms wrap around her immediately.  All of the emotions of the last few months try to force their way to the surface and I have to fight them back down.  It didn’t matter, all that mattered was my younger sisters.  “Olivia’s back getting x-rays right now.  They wouldn’t let me go with her.”

“How is she?  How are you?” I demand, holding her at arm’s length so I can get a better look at her.  She looks exhausted and terrified and I have to swallow my anger again.  “You look like you haven’t slept in ages.”

Beth shrugged, avoiding the questions about herself.  “I don’t know,” she said, her face screwed up in annoyance.  “I’ve been out of the room a lot.  Social workers and the police have been asking me a bunch of questions about mom and why we were alone.  I know they had a hard time getting her to stop coughing and she’s on oxygen.  I think I heard a doctor say something about pneumonia.”

Beth led me back towards the patient rooms.  A nurse intercepted us just before Beth stepped through the curtain and asked, “Are you Olivia Freeman’s older sister?”  I nodded.  “You’re listed as her emergency contact and we still haven’t been able to get in contact with either of your parents.”

There’s a big surprise. “My dad doesn’t answer his personal line during work,” I lied.  He probably saw that I had called and decided to ignore all of his calls until he didn’t have an excuse any longer.  “He’ll be fine with me making decisions until we can get him to answer his phone.  How is she?”

The nurse is just finishing filling me in on what’s wrong with her and scaring me with the talk of how low her oxygen saturation was when she came in, when the curtain is pulled back and they push a wheelchair through with Olivia hunched over in it.

“Liv!” I choke out, realizing just how scared I’ve been, too.  She looks… awful.  Pale and so small in a much too large wheelchair.  It’s a small town, they don’t have a children’s ER or children sized wheelchairs.  The worst was the tubes in her nose, attached to the oxygen tank and just how weak she looks.  Miserable wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the way she looked.

She reached her arms out to me as she said my name and the nurses didn’t argue as I picked her up to transfer her back to her hospital bed.  I sit down next to her, brushing her hair out of her face and trying not focus on the IV in her arm and the monitor they were reattaching to her finger.  She was uncomfortable after having to be moved around for the x-ray, so I gave a nurse permission to give her more medication.

“My chest hurts,” she whined, her voice as small as she looked on the large bed.

“I’m sure it does,” I soothed, tucking in the blankets around her.  “That’s why the nurse is giving you medicine.  It’ll kick in soon, I promise.  Try to get some rest.”

“I don’t like this thing in my nose.”

“I wouldn’t either, but you have to keep it in for now.  Close your eyes and pretend you’re somewhere fun.”  Once she had relaxed next to me, I turned my head to Bethy, who looked miserable as she watched Livy.  “This isn’t your fault, Beth.  You shouldn’t have ever had to make this call.”

Her mood wasn’t improved.  “I should have tried to get help sooner.”

It broke my heart seeing so much of myself in her.  I had tried so hard to make sure she didn’t have the life I had growing up, but she had been put in a situation even I had never had to deal with.  “This is all mom’s fault.  It’s not on you at all.  The only thing you could have done differently is ask Noah to tell the school so they could call on your behalf.”

She picked at the corner of the hard-plastic chair she was curled up on.  “I couldn’t do that.  I haven’t seen him since before mom left.”

“What?!”

“Mom kicked him out a few days after Mike left.  She went crazy.  She was screaming at us constantly.  Noah got sick of it and told her that he was glad that Mike left.  That our lives would be better without him.  Mom threw his stuff out on the yard.  He put all he could in his backpack and gym bag and went to stay with one of his friends.”

My anger was boiling under my skin again.  It didn’t improve as Beth spoke.  “I would have told my school except the first day she stayed home I thought it wasn’t that big of a deal.  Just a dumb cold or something.  By two days ago I knew it was bad, but I couldn’t leave her alone and I didn’t want to scare Ethan.  He hasn’t been taking things well at all.  He’s mad about Mike leaving, you know he always hoped that he’d warm up to him.  He’s mad about mom leaving.  He’s mad about dad not checking in on us.  I haven’t been able to get him to do anything since Noah left.”

The curtain pulled back a few inches and a female voice asked, “Is it alright if I come in?”  I said yes and a doctor stepped in and introduced herself.  “Are you the big sister?”

“Yeah, I’m Kendra.”

“Olivia’s been a real champ through all of this, but I know she’s glad that you’re here.  We have the results from her x-rays and lab work.”  She opened an envelope and held up an x-ray.  “This is Olivia’s chest.  If her lungs were healthy it would be mostly black except for her bones.  This white bit here shows us that she has fluid build-up, which is not good.  This combined with her lab work is really telling for pneumonia.”

I stared at the scan, wrapping my head around the fact that it was my little sister’s x-ray that I was looking at.  “Is it definitely pneumonia, or is there anything else that it could be?”

“We plan to go forward like it is in fact pneumonia at this time.”

The words made me feel like I was about a thousand years old.  “So, what do we do?  What’s the plan?”

“We’re going to send a specialist down here to talk to you and take a look, since she’s so young.  I can tell you that it is very likely that she’s going to be in the hospital for at least a night based on her oxygen saturation when she came in and the look of her scans.  There’s a very good chance that due to her age and the severity, she’ll be transferred to a children’s hospital an hour away.”

“Would the children’s hospital be better for her?”

The doctor nodded.  “They will be better equipped to deal with a child, and she’ll most likely be more comfortable, as comfortable as she could be in a hospital.”  I nodded, wishing that I could curl up and take a nap, too.  “Do you have any questions for me?”

I shook my head and she excused herself from the room.  It wasn’t a minute later that a nurse was sticking his head in and letting me know that they had finally been able to get ahold of dad and that they were sending a police officer to pick up Noah from school after practice and Ethan from the house.

Time started to blur from that point.  Liv fell asleep and I sent Beth to the cafeteria to get something to eat.  Niall called and I gave him an update.  Dad finally showed up and was questioned by the police officer and a social worker.  Then I was questioned by the police officer and the social worker.  They were nice enough, just asking about what I knew about the past three weeks and the history of the home, but I just wanted back with Olivia.

I spent most of my time on Olivia’s bed next to her.  Even with her medicine, she was calmer when I beside her.  Dad never even came up to her.  Beth had just finished explaining that she had been digging through mom’s closet looking for more medicine that she may have been hiding when she found the cell phones when Noah and Ethan came through the curtain.  Ethan looked as grumpy as Bethany had described him but he hugged me willingly and even through his tough boy act, I could feel him relax.

Noah didn’t even try to hide it, though.  “I am so glad to see you,” he sighed as he wedged himself onto the small space left on the bed, Ethan sitting down on the only other chair in the cubicle next to Bethany.  “I had no idea she was going through this at all.”

“I know you didn’t, but why didn’t you call me when she kicked you out?”

“I didn’t have my cell phone and I don’t have your number memorized.”

It was hard not to take my anger out on Noah.  He was almost 18, a selfish part of me wanted to know if I had spoiled him by not making him be more responsible sooner.  I knew it was unfair and that I had done what was best, but in this moment, I wasn’t the most reasonable.  “Doesn’t your friend have a computer?  You could have found me on Facebook.”  His ears turned red, a sure sign that he was embarrassed.  “What about the school?  I’m listed as an emergency contact for all four of you.”

I could barely hear his mumbled, “I didn’t think about it…”

Deflating immediately, I said, “It’s not your fault, Noah, I’m sorry.  Where have you been staying?”

Time accelerated again as an emergency court order was issued giving dad temporary primary custody of the kids.  I was signed as a person officially allowed to make decisions on Liv’s account through the hospital.  The specialist told us that he wasn’t comfortable keeping her here, so he was going to transfer her to the children’s hospital in dad’s town.  I sent the kids up to the cafeteria again, there were just too many people in too small of a space and things were about to get even crazier with us being transferred.

Dad finally came in the room after signing the transfer papers.  He barely glanced at Olivia and my mind traveled to the knowledge that in a normal dad, that might be because he didn’t want to see his little girl like this, but he isn’t a normal dad.  He cleared his throat and said, “Someone has to ride in the ambulance with Olivia.  Will you do it?”

“Of course,” I answered, honestly surprised he even bothered asking instead of just assuming.

“How long are you staying?”

That should have been obvious.  “As long as Olivia’s in the hospital.”

“Can you stay with her, then?  I have to work.”

Anger billowed up in me again.  I couldn’t swallow it, not with him.  Not with someone who actually deserved to feel my rage.  “Right, I forgot.  Everything in the world comes before your kids.  It’s not like your youngest child is hospitalized or anything.  Heck, you don’t even seem that concerned with the fact there hasn’t been an adult in the house in weeks.  Wouldn’t want to interrupt your precious meetings!”

He shook his head dismissively.  “You don’t understand.”

I laughed humorlessly.  “Of course, I don’t!  It’s not like I’m the one who basically raised her while you and mom pretended like you didn’t have kids at all.  It’s not like I don’t have a job or college or anything important like that.  It’s not like I’m the only one willing to actually sacrifice anything for you children.  I don’t want to understand how you’ve managed to justify this.”

His face was turning red.  He knew people could hear through the curtains.  “That’s enough, Kendra.”

“Actually, I don’t think it is.”  Twenty years of frustration was too much to keep contained.  I didn’t care who could hear.  “You’ve never wanted to parent.  I don’t think you even know what being a parent actually is.  It’s not just paying child support on time, dad.  It’s definitely not pawning them off on your older kids and vaguely hoping nothing bad happens.  You haven’t seen your kids since Christmas, not even during their mandated weekends, and you don’t care.  You were fine with not hearing from your ex or talking to your kids, meanwhile a fourteen year old was left to take care of the youngest two.  Then one of them got sick and didn’t receive medical care.  In your head that might seem normal, but I promise you that it’s not.  She could have died and your teenage daughter would have had to live with that for the rest of her life.  Do you even care?”

Someone cleared their throat and I looked up to see the nurse who had originally talked to me standing there, side eyeing my dad.  “The ambulance is here to transport Olivia.”

“Will you stay with her?” he asked me again.

“Of course, I will.  It’s not like you’re going to.”  He stalked out of the room and I could have sworn the nurse gave me an understanding nod.  I turned to Olivia who had woken up as the EMT’s started getting her ready to move over to their gurney.  “You’re going to go for another ambulance ride, ok?”

She looked at the gurney uneasily.  According to Beth her first experience hadn’t been the best.  The EMT that gave her an IV hadn’t exactly been gentle.  “Do I have to?” she asked quietly, her hand wrapping around mine.

I nodded and squeezed her hand back.  “They won’t need to give you another needle though, I promise.  And I’ll be riding with you to the new hospital.”  She only let go of my hand long enough to be moved over, and then she grabbed my hand again.  I talked to her brightly as we made our way to the ambulance, explaining why they were moving her and that the new hospital was geared towards kids, so she’d be more comfortable there. Dad and the others followed us out to the ambulance and I hugged the other kids while they got everything secured inside.

“Be good for dad,” I told them.  “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”  Liv fell asleep pretty soon after the ambulance started moving.  I spent most of the ride making small talk with the EMT sitting in the back watching her vitals and texting updates to Abi and Brad.  At the new hospital, it was several hours before we were moved into our room.  Once Liv was settled and asleep again, I stepped out into the hallway to call Niall.

“How is she?” he asked before he even greeted me.  It was the first thing that brought me comfort since I got to the hospital earlier that day, what felt like a million years ago.  Niall cared for my family and nothing meant more to me.  This is how every other adult in their lives should be reacting.

“She’s stable,” I tell him as I move away from the nurse’s station.  “We’re in a permanent room.  They want her here for at least three days.  She’s sleeping now.”

“Good.  Sleep is good for sick people.  How are you?”

I played with the edge of my hoodie, glad I thought to bring it with me.  “I’m drained, in every way possible.  I even ripped into dad at the other hospital because he doesn’t want to be uncomfortable in any of this.”

Niall snorted.  “Good, he needed it.  He’s a shitty parent.”

I grinned, my first all day.  “Yeah, he is.”  The grin fell from my face as I said, “I think he’s not going to get much of a choice in it, though.  The court has done an emergency order to keep the kids away from mom and everyone from social services to the police are involved.  They told dad they’re looking at possible child abandonment and neglect charges.  They may have to move in with him.”

“I’m not sure that’s much better.”

I sighed, leaning my head against a wall, the cool tile feeling good against my skin.  “In the grand scheme of things, no it’s not.  But we don’t have much of a choice.  At least he won’t cut me off from them, though.”

Niall is quiet for a minute before he says, “I just hope he doesn't start taking advantage of you.  You have work and school to focus on.”

“He doesn't care about those. He's made that perfectly clear. And it's not like I can turn him down. They need someone that cares about them and that's me.”

“I just don't want you giving up everything that is just yours to parent your siblings.”

“There's probably going to be a lot sacrifice for the next few months, Niall. It's the nature of living and change. Things have to get worse before they can get better.”

Master List

Chapter 21

[pinkfan-gurl]

Moving Up the Totem Pole

chapter eight of a 1oo au

"So what did you two do in school today?"

Clarke looked up from her phone which she had concealed in her lap. Her mother had her elbows on the table, hands laced together expectantly. Clarke set her fork down on her plate as she slowly chewed the hunk of steak that had been setting in her cheek. "Not much."

Abby rolled her eyes while Marcus stifled a chuckle. "Something interesting must have happened," she insisted.

Clarke looked to Jasper for help, her eyes warning him to speak up instead of her. He shook his head and Clarke's features stiffened threateningly; she didn't want to engage in conversation so as far as she was concerned, he should take one for the team this time.

She was perfectly aware of the exasperated expressions of her mother and Marcus as they watched them, but she was more focused on getting Jasper to say something. Every time she silently scolded him, he'd shake his head violently and then fork mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"Jasper," Marcus said after what must've been a minute of silent glaring, "anything new in school?"

Clarke grinned, satisfied that she didn't have to answer. Jasper sat up a bit straighter in his chair. "I signed up for a robotics tournament with Monty. Prize is ten G's plus college scholarships," he said proudly.

"That's great, sweetie." Clarke watched her mom's eyes light up in delight. "What kind of project are you and Monty planning on making?"

Jasper shrugged. "Not sure yet. I think Monty is drawing up some ideas tonight."

"Well that's great, Jasper." Marcus turned toward Clarke, a twinkle in his eyes. "And what're you doing in student council, Clarke? Anything interesting?"

Clarke clutched her phone in her lap, forcing herself to ignore the text messages waiting to be read. "Um, we have to finish planning homecoming and our next project is putting together a Quiz Bowl team to compete for the school."

Marcus grinned brightly and Clarke tried for a small smile. She had always had a rocky relationship with Marcus—the divorce between her parents had been hard enough on her, but when her mom started dating again Clarke didn't want anything to do with Marcus or Jasper.

In the years since, she'd gotten used to Marcus being around and grew to develope a strong affection for Jasper. Even though she made it very clear that she didn't hold a grudge against Marcus anymore, he still continued to try hard to win her over.

He always made sure her favorite cereal was in the house, he made Jasper do the majority of the chores around the house, and he tried to take an interest in her career choice as a doctor. Not that she was complaining about having an endless supply of Special K, but Clarke wished he didn't try so hard all of the time.

"Quiz Bowl?" Jasper asked around a bite of steak. "What's that? A bowling game?"

Abby said, "It's an academic-type tournament."

"So it's like Jeopardy?"

"Very similar."

Clarke's leg vibrated suddenly and she tuned out of the conversation to read the last few texts that had come through.

6:32pm.

haha i don't know about that.

Finn.

6:45pm.

Clarke? You still there?

Finn.

6:49pm.

Did you do the math hw?

Harper.

6:53

I'll be there in five.

Finn.

A breath caught in Clarke's throat as a small smile settled across her face...then it faded as she heard the doorbell ring. He was here already?

"Who could that be?" Abby mumbled to herself, but before she could even push her chair back, Clarke was already standing up.

"That's for me," she said, slipping her phone into her back pocket. She hoped jeans and a sweatshirt qualified for whatever Finn had in mind because she didn't have any time to prepare.

"Who are you going out with?" Marcus steepled his fingers together.

"Finn. You know, my history project partner."

Jasper's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't say anything further which Clarke was grateful for. Last thing she needed was for Jasper to get a big mouth and tattle on her.

By habit, she grabbed her wallet and keys on her way to the door so she slid them into her sweatshirt pocket. "I'll be home in a few hours."

"Back by ten," Abby's voice called from the kitchen before she materialized at the kitchen doorway.

"Okay, fine." She finished slipping her shoes on, then flung the door open. Finn looked casual, almost more casual than she did which was reassuring. Maybe they were just going on a drive. That'd be a nice surprise. "Hey."

"Hey," Finn smiled. "You ready to go?" He stepped down the porch steps, leading the way to his truck parked in the driveway.

Clarke closed the door behind her, then jogged after Finn to keep up. He was already in the driver's seat by the time she reached the passenger's door. "Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

Finn started up the engine, and pulled out on the road in the general direction of the high school. She hoped he wasn't taking her on a walk around campus. "You were probably just eating dinner," he commented, drawing Clarke's attention from the window, "but did you wanna stop and get something? Coffee maybe?"

Clarke rested her hand over her stomach; she'd eaten quite a bit back at home and she was feeling pretty content as it was. Coffee didn't sound like it would settle well at the moment either. "No, I'm good. Thanks, though."

Finn raised his eyebrows, casting her a playful smile from his seat. "Are you sure?"

Clarke forced down her blush. "Yeah, Finn. I'm fine."

"O-kay," he laughed, dragging out the first syllable.

"So you've got me all curious. Where are you taking me?" Clarke sat forward in her seat.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yes, I would."

"I guess you'll have to wait and see."

…

Bellamy stared down at his blank notebook sheet.

He was fully aware that staring at it intensely wasn't going to write his essay for him and that he should get to work, but he just couldn't bring himself to picking up his pencil. He was tired, irritated at life in general, and his two best friends and little sister were being obnoxious in the same room.

"Can you turn that down?" Bellamy hissed from the table. Murphy, Miller, and Octavia all had Wii remotes in hand and were doing their best to follow along to the dance mannequin on the screen.

"No can-do big bro," Octavia answered in a singsong tone that matched the harmonies of Lady Gaga's Born This Way.

"She's right," Miller huffed, sounding out of breath as he tried to match dance moves. "We've got a five dollar bet going right now and Murphy is kicking our asses."

Bellamy's eyebrows shot up. "Murphy?" he asked incredulously. "He's beating you guys at your own game?" Sure enough, when he glanced up at the TV, Murphy was scoring nearly all 'perfects' while Octavia and Miller struggled to get 'okays.'

"Can it Bellamy," Murphy growled, but his threat came off as barely intimidating since he was mid-dance move that reminded Bellamy of a child pretending to be a pony.

"Can't you guys be quieter? I'm trying to write a paper."

"It's a Friday night," Octavia said, "live a little."

"No it's not," Miller huffed. "It's Monday, O."

"Live everyday like it's a Friday night," she amended.

"Getting wasted every day doesn't sound so bad…" Murphy mumbled.

"Hey," Bellamy grunted sternly, "impressionable seventeen year old is present."

Murphy rolled his eyes, but fortunately enough Octavia had been too distracted by the TV and her score catching up to Murphy's to even bother herself with chit-chat.

He looked down to his notebook paper that was empty except for a few doodles of spears, shields, and Greek warrior helmets. He always found the ancient Greeks and Romans interesting, even so far as reading the Iliad and the Odyssey on more than one occasion.

Maybe he could write his English paper on them...all he had to do was compare and contrast two topics using the essay structure they reviewed in class.

With a new vigor, Bellamy started brainstorming everything he knew about each civilization. He only stopped once when Octavia broke out in an excited cheer, telling him that she managed to whoop Murphy in Just Dance at the very end.

…

Clarke would admit, she was very surprised when Finn parked the truck in the parking lot of Trikru Union.

Of all places, it would never had occurred to her that Finn might take her to one of the biggest rivaling high schools to West Arke. She knew he went there for the previous few years, but he seemed hardly the sentimental type.

The door on Clarke's side of the truck jerked open, making her jump. Finn had a chipper smile on his face, but she was still too startled to even think about how attractive he looked. She hadn't even noticed him slip out of the car so she needed to put her observations pants on.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, staring up at the ancient looking building. Other than Mount Weather, Trikru Union was the oldest building in the district so the big, ominous windows and brick features were a bit unsettling.

Finn glanced up at the building and then shook it off. "We're not here for that." He nodded toward a faint path leading into the woods. "That's where we're going."

Even though every instinct in her told Clarke that this was a bad idea and to run, she still found herself keeping pace with Finn as they approached the woods. "You're not planning on killing me and making a human sacrifice are you?" she asked in a teasing tone.

"The thought did cross my mind," he conceded in an equally joking tone. Clarke watched as his composure broke and a smile overtook his face again. Then she felt something intertwining with her fingers only to find he had slipped his hand into hers.

He led her down the path about twenty-feet where the trees thinned out into a small flat field full of blue, iridescent flowers. "Woah," she breathed, leaning in close to one of the flowers. "This thing is actually glowing."

Finn fell to his knees beside her, so close that they were touching. "Yeah. Pretty neat, right?"

"These have to be toxic with, like, radiation or something. How else would this happen?"

"I've looked 'em up, actually," Finn said, crouching his face ever closer to the blue petals. "They're a predatory plant from Brazil and the iridescence helps them catch their food. They smell really nice too, but don't eat them. They're also poisonous to the human body unless bitten by a specific breed of Brazilian anaconda. In that case, it's the antidote."

"Invasive species?" she asked slowly.

Finn nodded. "More likely than not. How plants that traditionally survive in the humid Brazilian climate are growing in eastern New Jersey is beyond me though."

Clarke sat back on her heels, watching the boy before her with new eyes. She had always thought of him as a delinquent when he first started going to school with her, but then this project ordeal had given her the chance to glimpse his softer, more strategic attitude on things.

And here he was again, keeping her on her toes with glowing plants and information to actually back up his findings. It was a turn on if she was being honest with herself.

Everything about him was just so immensely attractive, she just wasn't able to fight her feelings for him anymore. Clarke Griffin had a ginormous crush on Finn Collins and she was about ready to scream it to the world.

Fortunately, Finn caught her soft stare and his eyes fell to her lips. He leaned in closer to her, and Clarke eagerly followed suit until they were sitting with their noses brushing each other's cheeks and their lips less than an inch apart.

"Clarke?" His voice was husky.

"Stop talking," she whispered, and then closed the gap between them herself.

chapter nine 

[dreamingcellardoor]

Always blame the witch

For the lovely @mrasayf who asked for an arranged marriage au where A and B start of hating each other (and apparently lives in a country where Western Union doesn’t work). It took me a while to figure out an arrange marriage/royalty au set up that was different from all the other ones I have sitting on my hard drive. But I managed in the end.

One did not simply refuse the demands of witches or fairies.

Especially not ones that had recently saved your country from a drought.

For the budding monarch, it might also be wise to remember that it was equally unwise to point out how the witch looked like a water-logged kitten or how she was getting water all over your floors.

That was just asking for the sort of trouble that involved futile, national banning of integral textile production equipment that doesn't actually stop anything except exports.

The king simply nodded at the servants who were quick to bring a towel, the way he simply <I>nodded</I> when the witch said, "I will arrange your son's marriage prospects."

It was auspicious to have a wedding that was blessed by a witch. Some monarchs sent out hundreds of invitations and only ended up with a hedge wizard who was only good for growing humourously shaped vegetables.

King Umar was trying to explain this to his son who looked less and less impressed the longer he talked.

"No." Prince Altair of Masyaf, known by some as the Eagle Prince of Masyaf for the striking colours of his eyes (but more often known as the Royal Pain of Masyaf when people thought he couldn't hear him). "Why should I marry a woman some hag chose?"

But he was not the Eagle King of Masyaf (would not be until his father unfortunately passed away from choking to death on an olive) and "Royal Pain of Masyaf" did not actually carry with it any sort of real political power (except maybe the sort that led to break down of international trade).

So, five months later, when they received a message from the witch in the form of a twitchy toucan telling them to start the wedding preparations and have it all ready in three days there was nothing he could do except scowl and glare as everyone rushed to get everything prepared.

~ + ~

Altair did not want to get married. The sight of the filthy beggar youth that tagged along behind the witch had about as much effect as a trikle of water on a mountain.

"He is missing an arm." Altair said before his father shushed him

The youth hesitated then had to hasten his steps to catch up with the witch again. He licked his lips as the King and the prince bowed at the witch, standing there akwardly.

He said, "my wife is here?"

"Your husband, actually." Altair corrected as he straightened up and looked him up and down. The cool, blatant arrogance in the prince's face made him unattractive and piggish. Then the implication caught up to him and his eyes widened.

"Fuck." he said and the witch grinned.

~ + ~

The youth's name was Malik, and as soon as he stepped foot int he courtyard there was a group of women ready to whisk Altair's bride to be away so he could be made presentable.

"He probably has lice." Altair pointed out, seeming bored (but he was furious).

"The witch chose him. You and I have no choice in the matter."

~ + ~

At least under all the grime Malik wasn't entirely ugly, though it was hard to see past the scowl on his face. He jingled as he walked, from the numerous silver ornament sown into his elaborate clothes.

"This is women's clothing." He sounded so insulted and Altair, who was lounging at the window in his own wedding clothes only smirked at him.

"Well, we thought you'd be a bride."

Malik glared at him.

~ + ~

It was not ideal, but Malik had been ready to put up with the arrogant asshole, up until the point where Altair stepped on his foot while they danced.

Malik scowled at him. "Watch where you're stepping."

And Altair looked down at him (the prince had a few years on him as well as inches), "or you can just not put your foot where I'm going to step."

For that, Malik kicked him and was thankful for the skirt that hid the motion.

~ + ~

If Altair had been aware of the sort of petty revenge Malik was capable of he might have stepped on him harder.

During the course of the wedding reception, Malik had spilled wine on him three times ("A wife must pour the wine for the husband." he had said with a smile that was a slash of sharp white across his face that matched his sarcasm), as well as nearly stabbed his hand with a knife. It was lucky that the knife had lodged himself in the space where his ring finger was already missing.

By the time they made it back to their bedroom, it was clear that love was nowhere in sight.

They were glaring at each other even as Malik all but ripped the headpiece off.

Then Altair snorted and got ready for bed. There was no verbal agreement on the issue, but Altair settled on the bed and Malik settled himself on a pile of pillows in the corner that also happened to be the one furthest from where Altair was sleeping.

And then they slept (and both of them thought, at least he doesn't snore.)

~ + ~

Altair woke up while Malik still seemed to be sound asleep, but he rolled into sudden awakeness when Altair walked towards him, before he even got close enough to nudge him awake with the toe of his boot.

Malik stood up, his hair sleep mussed, but his eyes aware like he had only slept lightly. He frowned.

"What do you want?"

"You're expected to come down to dinner with me." He looked Malik up and down like he had every right in the world. "Should I call the servants?"

"I can dress myself." Malik snapped back.

But Malik had underestimated how complicated his new clothes were, how unecessarily covered in tiny buttons it was.

Altair had watched only as long as it had amused him to do so before he said, "I'll send someone to come help you."

(But later, during lunch, Malik had upended an entire container of spices in Altair's soup jsut for the satisfaction of watching his face pale, then flush before he choked himself on water.)

~ + ~

"Both your behaviours are disgraceful." King Umar had said after a thrown clump of horse manure had escalated into a brawl out in the courtyard.

In the aftermatgh of it, they'd both been to see the doctors before being shepherded to the King's study by guards. Altair had acted like it was an every day occurence while Malik had tried not to feel cowed.

Altair's mouth had to be stitched shut where it had been cut open when Malik knocked him into a fence hard enough to break it.

As they stood before King Umar's desk, Malik couldn't dregde up any regret for what that. He took not small satisfaction in the knowledge that he'd have trouble smirking with the wound bisecting his mouth. It was even better if he stayed perfectly still to not further agitate his bruised ribs while he celebrated this small victory. He could only hope Altair's pride was similarly bruised.

"You are not getting out of this. You need to make this work." The King waved at Malik. "I wish to speak to my son alone. You're dismissed."

Malik bowed, holding in the grimace of pain until he was out of the room.

When his footsteps faded off, King Umar glared at his son.

"Are you pleased with yourself?"

"Very." Altair said.

"If the witch finds out she will be displeased."

"Then she can marry him."

~ + ~

But despite Altair's dismissal of his father's words, he was intrigued.

His face ached whenever he moved his jaw. The nobles who had been his classmates at school would probably be equal parts pleased and humiliated to know that a boy a few years younger than them and with only one arm (and who didn't even have any noble blood in him) had done what all of them had never managed to accomplish in all five years of their schooling.

It did not mean that Altair was not also humiliated himself.

The walls vibrated with the echoes of that when he slammed the door to his room open.

Malik didn't startle, just calmly turned the page of a book he had gotten for himself before Altair got there.

The door closed with the same sort of violence it was opened with and Malik looked up, closing the book. "Do you mind?"

"This is my room." Altair said, "you are not wanted here. If this whole farce wasn't the will of the witch you'd have been punished for laying hands on me."

"What?" Malik said, "Your Highness couldn't take a hit?"

Altair tackled him because their fight had been interrupted, because Malik looked so damn <I>smug</I>. Because he was furious at the fact that he was stuck this way and that he had been beaten by a one armed peasant boy.

Malik yelped, but they were soon wrestling and trying to hit each other. In the heat of the moment, when Altair had him pinned, Malik bit him on the forearm hard enough to draw blood.

"You bastard!" Altair did not get off him but did sit back with a hiss.

"Actually," Malik said, "I do know who my father is. And if you wanted a fair fight you should go pick a fight with your noble friends instead of a slum rat."

<I>Slum rat</I> was something the nobles and even the middle class sneered about the beggars and thieves living in the allyes and streets that were where the ones who could afford nothing went off to live.

It was nothing more than the worst sort of insult but Malik, his teeth pink with blood, said it like it was a badge of honour.

Altair thought, the witch must be looking to humiliate their family and kingdom by forcing him to marry, not only a peasant, but a possible criminal as well. He stood up and only then did Malik sit up and wipe his mouth.

Malik licked his lips, grimaced at the taste of blood (and missed the way Altair stared). "Your father is wrong. This arrangement is temporary. After a year my obligation to this charade will be over."

"Why a year?"

"That is between the witch and myself." Malik leaned back on his hands and tilted his head, "I can play nice until then if you can."

Altair nearly smirked, but partway there his mouth changed into a wince. "Are we calling a truce, then?"

The answer he got was a shrug. "Call it whatever you want." He picked up the book and then gathered all the pillows within arm's reach back into his pile. "I just want to sleep."

~ + ~

They began to ignore each other after that. Altair was usually gone by the time Malik woke up and Malik made it a practise to not return until after Altair had gone to sleep.

But Altair knew Malik did not sleep right away, because in the nights when he thought no one could hear, he'd crack open a book and quielty sound his way through the pages (he'd guess the words he didn't know and Altair always fell asleep before he could decide if he wanted to bother to correct him). And Malik knew Altair sometimes tossed and turned at night, as if he were having a nightmare (and Malik turned onto his side and told himself he didn't care what a spoiled princeling dreamed of).

~ + ~

The kitchen began to complain about missing silverware, mostly knives. Altair, being prince, was notified of the issue and how no one could find the culprit.

Altair found their thief at the back of the stables, hurling cutlery at a tree.

"It's not as if you can't afford to buy more." Malik said as he walked over the pull the knives out of the bark. The holes were mostly collected in the same fist-sized area with only a few landing outside of it.

They didn't speak, but Altair stayed until Malik turned and threw the knife at him. It flew over his shoulder and buried itself in the wood wall of the stable with a solid thunk. "What are you staring at?"

Swordsmanship was something expected of the prince, but he was kept away from other forms of combat. Knife throwing was considered dishonourable. Something more fitting for an assassin than a prince.

So he said, "teach me how to do that."

Malik's brow went up as Altair turned around and pulled the knife back out. He walked it back to Malik and held the handle out to him. He hesitated to take it but then grabbed it.

"I'm not going to coddle you. If you can't stand the thought of being yelled at then you should leave."

But Altair didn't leave. Even when Malik insulted the way he couldn't seem to hold his wrist right, even when his arm ached from the unfamilalir movements he still stayed until the sun was nearly setting.

It was Malik who finally said, "let's call it a day. It's time for dinner."

~ + ~

Altair thought about offering to teach Malik to read, but there was a realization he came to between getting into bed and falling asleep, that said if Malik had wanted his help he would have asked for it already.

~ + ~

They were married during an oddly warm autumn that led into a bitingly cold winter.

"We could find you another room where you won't need to sleep on the floor."

Whatever deal he had made with the witch must have prevented him from accepting because Malik rolled his eyes and said, "I can handle a bit of cold. Not all of us are used to sleeping in beds with think blankets."

But the palace was high up in the mountains where the cold seeped into your bones and the first night the temperatures dropped to winter conditions, Malik was shivering from his spot on the floor. Altair could hear his teeth chatter, and he sat up.

"Malik."

"What?" He glared at Altair. "I'm trying to sleep."

Altair lifted the blanket in invitation, shivered at the cold and waited patiently as Malik stared. Pride battled against the temptation of warmth Altair offered and eventually lost.

Malik's body slipped under the blanket like a cold breeze. He kept his distance from Altair. Right before he fell asleep he said, "thank you."

~ + ~

The next night, Malik had the servants bring up a pile of furs. "I told them I was restless before I slept and did not want to bother your sleep." Was his explanation when he caught Altair frowning at him. "Our sleeping arrangement remains between us."

That was good because if his father ever realized they slept separately he'd never hear the end of it. (All the same, he couldn't help but be disappointed.)

~ + ~

They only shared a bed once more that year, weeks later when Altair had been caught in the grips of a nightmare (of drowning. Always it was the water closing in, filling his mouth and lungs until there was no room for air and--)

"Altair." There was a hand at his shoulder shaking him and Altair grabbed it like it was a lifeline, his grip tight enough that he could hear Malik's bones creak. Instead of complaining, Malik only said his name again, more softly. "You were dreaming. You're safe."

Altair released him, slowly, waited to be mocked only to find Malik's hand stroking over his hair.

He did not ask what he had dreamed about and Altair did not say. But Malik followed when Altair dragged him down into bed with him.

In the morning he'd be embarassed by the needy way he'd grabbed a hold of Malik (so it was just as well Malik had extracted himself from the bed long before Altair was awake), but in that moment, he hadn't wanted to be left alone.

~ + ~

He brought Malik a horse when the snow was thick and furs as well as a reliable pair of boots were necessities.

It was an even tempered mare with a lineage to be proud of. He wasn't sure how much Malik could appreciate her quality, but he seemed awed at the sight of her.

"She's yours." Altair said and watched the way Malik's eyes turned even wider (horses were rare in the poor district, even when there were any they tended to be old, sickly things maybe better suited to the slaughterhouse than to be ridden).

"....I do not know how to ride a horse." Malik admitted, as he reached for the horse as if he were afraid he was going to be bitten.

Altair took his hand in one of his. Malik's fingers were indistinct under the padding of the glove but Altair could feel the way his fingers twitched beneath it as he pressed it asgainst the horse's nose, "Then I'll teach you."

~ + ~

In return, because Malik hated to owe anyone anything, he taught Altair how to cut purses.

"Though I can't imagine what you'd do with this skill. You are a prince. What could you possinly need to steal?"

And Altair said nothing.

~ + ~

Spring was slow to arrive but Malik's pile of furs grew smaller as the days grew longer again.

It was still cold enough for him to wrap himself in furs as he read by what little light remained in the hearth and Altair watched him surreptitiously as he did. Some dying coal in the hearth crackled as Malik was trying to sound out a particularly long word and it made him jump, pulling the book close to his chest.

He looked up (to see if it had woken up Altair) and Altair hadn't anticipated the move fast enough to feign sleep again.

They were left staring at each other in mute shock, both of them caught in the act of something they weren't yet ready to talk about.

"What?" Malik shrunk back and he clutched the book more tightly. "Why are you awake?"

Altair got out of bed and moved like Malik were a skittish rabbit, ears perked up and ready to flee. What he had learned in the last months was that if he said anything wrong, Malik would clam up.

Malik did not run, but was supicious even when Altair slowly reached out and touched the book's spine, hooked his fingers over the top and slowly pulled it back down into Malik's lap.

"This is how you pronounce this word--"

He was surprised when Malik relented, breahed more easily when Malik settled beside him, even allowing Altair a space beneath his blanket of furs as they slowly worked their way through a book that was probably too hard for someone who was just learning to read.

(But Malik helped lay him down when he nodded off, and they slept like that, with a book between them and by the dying hearth).

~ + ~

"I have a brother." Malik said when they were stuck inside due to the first spring rain. Altair looked up from the trade agreement his father had told him to follow up on. Malik's forehead was pressed against the glass, looking a far cry from the skinny, filth-covered youth he'd been when he came to the castle. There was a smile tugging at the corners of his lips that seemed too private to be shared.

And yet, he tilted his head away from the window to look at him when Altair said nothing.

"Do you miss him?"

Malik looked outside again, and maybe his thoughts taking him far away (but maybe because Altair's participation in the conversation reassured him). "I will see him again." Was apparently his idea of an answer.

(And Altair thought, it the disappointment that shot through him seemed out of place in this moment).

~ + ~

Winter saw them spending far too much of their days indoors, but by the time the weather turned warm, Altair deemed Malik competent enough to ride out into the forest and they were often found together outside. Even when they didn't take the horses out, it was easy enough to find them in the gardens

The landscape seemed to change daily until the buds that grew on the barren winter branches settled into being mature, green leaves. The changes in the gardens were as fasinating for Malik (who had never seen so much green in one place) to watch as the careful way he walked through the garden, touching all the young shoots and the blushing pink flower buds was for Altair

~ + ~

It was late spring when Altair found out about Malik's birthday.

Mostly because the palace had begun to prepare to celebrate it.

"You never said anything." He said while Malik was rearranging his fingers to correct his grip on the knife.

"I wasn't aware it mattered so much." Malik stepped back, "there. Try throwing it again. Like how I showed you."

~ + ~

There was a large feast the night of Malik's birthday that he didn't really appreciate. (He did not enjoy feasts but tolerated them.)

Afterwards, back in the privacy of their room, Altair handed him a wrapped set of throwing knives.

"You shouldn't have." Malik said as he pulled one out. Altair didn't listen to his words, knowing that Malik was not often honest with them, but focused on the way his fingers cradled the blade, the way he tested it for balance and the smile that lit up his eyes even as it met resistence in settling in the curved of his mouth. "Thank you."

"You're wselcome."

~ + ~

Malik did not ask when Altair's birthday was because it was a public holiday.

If it were as easy to figure out what to get him.

~ + ~

Altair was tied up with the trade agreements by mid-summer, which neatly dropped an oppurtunity into Malik's lap.

That he then promptly threw into Altair's lap.

"What is this?" He said as he pulled open the leather pouch Malik had thrown at him.

"A birthday gift." Malik said as Altair unrolled the parchment. "I had considered working in town to get some money to buy you something, but this seemed more practical."

Altair's mouth quirked up in a smirk. "You stole this?"

"What a stupid question." Malik said with a roll of his eyes. "Will this give you leverage in the upcoming trade talks?"

Altair rolled the paper up again. "It will."

And Malik had never felt more pleased by his own success than when Altair took his hand and thanked him.

~ + ~

Altair hadn't thought much about the anniversary of their wedding, or the agreed upon one year of forced marriage they had both decided to endure.

It was easy to forget when he was busy arguing with Malik about the whether or not table manners were important.

(Altair had never been in favour of them. He expected Malik to agree, but he seemed to care more for appearances than Altair had ever managed to.)

But then, there was Malik, who had a list of things he could or should take with him in his head and a bag buried in the pile of pillows he had thought would be useful.

When he finally grew tired of thinking about it, he said, "I'm not sure where I'd put a horse. We don't have a stable and even if we did I think she'd be stolen and sold overnight." He was reading with far more fluency now with Altair's help, but the words didn't make an impression on him tonight.

Altair's arm, that had settled so naturally on his waist drew him closer. "Well." He said slowly, "I could always settle you somewhere else. Somewhere with a stable where no one will steal your horse. Or your boots." Because Malik had become inordinately fond of footwear that could be worn out without fear that it would wear out in a matter of days.

"Where would that be?"

"The rich district is nice. But if you want the best security there is nowhere better than the castle."

"Are you telling me to stay?" If Malik had wanted to be convincing in his sarcasm he might have tried not leaning into the curve of Altair's body until they fit snugly against each other.

"If you want." Altair shrugged. "I just realized, we've been married for a year and I've never even kissed you."

Malik arched a brow, "well. It hasn't been a year yet. We could still fix it."

"Yes," Altair's hand rested on Malik's cheek, "we could."

~ + ~

They had not kissed at their wedding. It was clear to the entire court that married was the last thing they wanted to be. Making them kiss in public would have been pushing an already strained situation and it was possible one of them would have bitten the other person's tongue off.

It was a sharp contrast to their anniversary celebration where, against all Malik's warning glares, Altair had pulled him in and kissed him deeply to the catcalls of the entire banquet hall. Malik might have hit him for it (he knew from his readings that this was completel inappropriate and that all of Masyaf would be gossiping about their prince's lack of shame for days), but instead he tilted his head up and grabbed a fistful of Altair's clothes in a fist and kissed him back.

[qqueenofhades]

Sick anon here to say that should you feel so inclined to write more, I would be the absolute last person to object, but no pressure

well because you are so sweet and you are sick and your message made me happy, i mean

parts one, two, and three

The winter of 1838 in the state of Illinois is the coldest that anyone remembers. The rivers and ponds are frozen over a foot thick, and it snows every two or three days. The whiteness would be almost pure, if it wasn’t pocked and pitted with bloodstains from the starving, straggling, nearly-barefoot Cherokee Indians being forced to march by armed U.S. militiamen, evicted from their ancestral homelands east of the Mississippi River, to accommodate a gold rush and expanding settlement in the states of Georgia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. President Andrew Jackson signed the order; President Martin Van Buren is seeing it carried out. It will become known as nu na hi du na tlo hi lu i. Or rather and more simply, the Trail of Tears.

Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus, dressed in layers of fur and wool and greased leather and blankets, are still freezing solid. They are face to face with one of the ugliest and most unforgivable episodes in all of American history, and none of them are entirely certain what to do. Flynn went here straightaway after saving the Titanic, and he hasn’t turned up just yet. Wyatt and Rufus are staring at the huddled, shivering, sick Indians, herded by armed men on horseback, with looks of total horror, and Lucy can’t blame them in the least. She is the one who’s along to make sure history happens as it is supposed to. That is her job.

This, though.

This is absolutely terrible.

“I – ” She clears her throat, chokes on the cold air, and coughs. “I’ll go looking. Flynn might want to prevent the Indian removals from happening, provoke an outright war between them and the settlers. That way, the country is even more divided running up to the Civil War, and the Union won’t be able to – ”

“Probably,” Wyatt says, clearly not listening, as he keeps staring at the Indians. “Lucy, we… are we really supposed to just – what? Leave them like this?”

Lucy flinches. She is very close to grabbing a musket and shooting down one of the soldiers herself, like that’s going to do anything. This is the same paradox as with the Titanic – do they still have to stop Flynn if he does something objectively decent, saves lives, even if it’s in the interest of further destabilizing American history? What cost – her soul? – is it going to take if she stands and turns a blind eye and lets this happen, because America might be destroyed altogether by the Civil War if she doesn’t?

Doesn’t this deserve to be destabilized?

“I’ll go look for Flynn,” she repeats, barely above a whisper. “You guys sneak in there and at least see if you can – “

Rufus gives her a strange look. “Go look for Flynn,” he says. “Again. By yourself.”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Is that all it is?”

Lucy opens her mouth, doesn’t know what to say, what she can possibly. She can’t tell them, but she hates keeping secrets from them. Surely they must suspect something. They spend enough time together, they know she’s turned oddly evasive and noncommittal on the whole subject. Still, though. This –

She’s still trying to say something, anything. She’s interrupted by a gunshot.

All at once, the camp turns into chaos as half a dozen men on horseback, dressed in black with bandanas over their faces and cowboy hats pulled low, gallop in, opening fire with the distinctive rat-a-tat-tat of modern machine guns. Lucy’s heart vaults into her mouth as she, Wyatt, and Rufus duck and run, preparing to try to shield the Indians, only for them to realize that the newcomers – they must be Flynn and his cohorts, who else would have AK-47s in the nineteenth century? – aren’t shooting at the Indians. They’re shooting only, and intently, at the soldiers, who are yelling and scrambling and bracing to fight back, but whose balky single-bore muskets are barely a match for the weaponry they’re faced with. And at that, somehow, something in Lucy snaps.

She breaks from cover, runs, grabs one of the muskets from where it’s leaning against a log, and doesn’t even know how to fire it, apart from the rudimentary. Points it, manages to cock it, and feels the incredible, jerking kick through her entire body as it goes off, almost deafening her. One of the soldiers yells and somersaults off his horse. She did that. Shot him. Like she did Jesse James, but this – James was going to die anyway. Who knows if this man was supposed to. It doesn’t matter. She’s crossed the Rubicon, she’s acted to consciously interfere and change history because she wasn’t going to let the injustice stand.

It’s happening.

She’s turning into him.

Just like he said.

Lucy’s frigid hands are numb on the polished-wood barrel. She has no idea how to reload, even as someone yells, points at her, and appears to take exception to the death of his friend. But then the next instant, one of the men on horseback gallops up, almost casually shoots him through the back of the head, and holds a hand down to Lucy. Familiar dark eyes gleam at her beneath the snowy brim of the cowboy hat. “Morning, ma’am.”

Lucy wants to say something, wants to yell at him – but the camp is still in total uproar, and instinct drives her to grab his hand, as he hauls her up on the horse in front of him and puts his arms around her. “Take the reins!”

“What, so you can shoot more people?” Lucy has to raise her voice over the crack and strafe of more machine-gun fire, even as the Indians, realizing this is some sort of rescue, are grabbing up their things and trying to run. “Are you –”

Flynn gives her one of those looks he does so well, shrugs, and swings the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, even as Lucy has no choice but to grab the reins or be pitched off in the tumult. She catches half a glimpse of Wyatt and Rufus trying to get the Indians to go, for however far they’ll get before news of the attack spreads. She feels numb and stunned (or maybe that’s just the searing cold) as Flynn takes aim, shoots down the guard in the rough-hewn watchtower built at the perimeter of the camp, and regards his handiwork with satisfaction. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says in her ear. “Destroying the bastards who deserve to be destroyed?”

Lucy doesn’t answer, in part because she can’t deny that this is exactly what she feels. It might not alter the entire outcome of the Indian removals, of the injustice of it – but try as she might, she can’t bring herself to wish that she did differently, even knowing that she’s on the verge of becoming the same sort of historical wrecking ball as him. Oh God. Oh, God. It is happening.

Flynn slings the rifle back over his shoulder, then canters off through the snow, her still clutching to the saddle, to the small log cabin on the far side of the clearing. He reins in, swings down, and pulls her off after him, shoving through the door and into the one tiny, dank, woodsmoke-smelling room beyond. Lucy stands shivering and dripping snow as he bends down, stacks some of the damp sticks of wood in the earthen hearth, takes out a modern lighter, and gets a fire going. “There,” he says, with considerable self-satisfaction. “Unless you wanted to get warm some other way?”

She chokes slightly at his presumption, even as she can’t resist moving closer; she is absolutely frozen through, and the warmth is heavenly. She stretches out her hands, feeling sensation slowly return, as he watches her with hooded eyes, leaning with studied casualness against the wall. Wyatt and Rufus will come back any minute, unless they haven’t realized just yet that they lost her in the uproar. Or they could be making sure the Indians get to safety. Anything.

“You shot the man, Lucy,” her companion says, after a moment. “You’ve gone past the point of no return, now. I told you.”

“I’m not interested in having this conversation.”

Flynn raises an eyebrow. “Fine. We don’t have to talk.”

“What – what happened in New York, it was completely a – “

“An accident?” He laughs, low and rough and derisive. “An accident, Lucy? Do you really think that? After everything that’s happened between us, do you think anything about this is accidental? You and I – we’re destined, somehow. I don’t know how, I don’t know why. But you knew all the places I picked out in history. I care about it as much as you do. I know why it matters. And now you’ve had a taste, you’ve seen you don’t have to just sit back and let stupid and terrible and pointless things happen in the name of some evil, idiotic larger purpose. This is power. This is what you’re meant for.”

“That’s what my father said to me.” Lucy doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t dare. “About Rittenhouse. About how I’d come to it, one way or another.”

Flynn considers, then shrugs. Takes a step. She is horribly aware of his proximity, and the way her heart is racing madly beneath the shawl. “I think you’re choosing a side right now, aren’t you?”

Lucy turns to look at him, which is a mistake. He is very close to her now, and the expression on his face is – soft, almost. Utterly intent. She can feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, the warmth of the flames still on her back. He reaches out both hands, puts them flat against the wall on either side of her head, leaning down. And she’s lifting up her face, rising on her tiptoes despite herself, meeting him halfway, as they – for the first time, slowly, conscientiously, carefully – bring their mouths to touch.

Flynn is almost gentle as he kisses her this time, as his hands start venturing beneath the still-dripping wraps, getting just enough of the clothes out of the way to find his way in, and she gasps as his warm, rough hand cups the cold curve of her breast. His fingers trail down, seeking an invitation, not opposed to creating their own if necessary, and her leg comes up, foot braced on the woodpile, to lift her skirt. She is so very, very cold, and she wants so much to be warm, in any way that might present itself. Her fingers clutch at the wet wool of his jacket, sliding beneath, running along his chest, urging him closer.

He drops to his knees in front of her, pushing aside her skirts and drawers, hands bracing her thighs, as he leans forward and licks a rough stripe between her legs, in her wetness, that makes her moan. She can feel the buzz of his dark chuckle against her exquisitely sensitive folds, as he sets to his work with his customary cool, deliberate thoroughness. He does seem to enjoy this, giving her pleasure without thinking to ask any particular reciprocation, the relentless heat and pressure and insistence of his mouth like nothing and no one she’s been with before. Her breath stutters. She grips at his hair, pushing him deeper, as his tongue enters her and plays about. Kisses her inside, then moves up in slow, light motions to her clit. He has plenty to do to that too.

Lucy gulps, feeling nothing but searing heat dazzling through her, any idea or memory of cold completely obliterated. Once Flynn is finished with his very thorough exploration of her, he kisses the cut of her leg, running his hands down the backs of her thighs. Seems almost at peace, as if he might not quite care so much about what he does wherever he goes, but rather in that the knowledge that she will follow him, and this, however much she is still trying to deny it, is very likely to happen again. That he has ever so slightly altered his tactics, until she’s started to support him. Act of her own volition to help him.

This is surreal. She could still stop it. She could.

She doesn’t.

She tugs him to his feet, tastes herself on his lips as he leans in to kiss her, and starts to fumble at the complicated buttons of his trousers. Wants him in her, roused and slippery and quivering and wet as she is, wants whatever this is, wants it. He shifts, tugging them down over his hips, and she reaches for him,  caresses him with her thumb, hears him actually gasp as she circles the tip. Then he claims her with a quick, deep, matter-of-fact thrust, and she cries out.

Flynn lets out an even more self-satisfied sigh as he slides fully into her – the third time now, this is hardly a novel experience, and yet its attraction does not appear to be waning in the least. Both of them take a moment, as he closes his eyes and allows himself to absorb the sensation of completion, of possession. He is preparing to start to move, as Lucy rolls her hips on him, urging him to it – when, just then, the door of the cabin flies open.

Flynn jerks out of her lightning-fast, yanks his trousers back up, and spins around. Not quite fast enough.

“You,”  Wyatt Logan says, grim and furious, pointing the gun. “Get away from her right now.”