#i traced that shit like my life depended on it & just did flat color with some blending

[liddlediddy]

@aquaspiderart 's Pokecémber Day 21: Favorite Regional Variant

[justjessame]

Starting Over: Chapter 53

Laying together in our bed, the sunlight creating an almost magical glow around us, Bucky traced patterns on my flat bare abdomen while I massaged his scalp with my fingernails.  I knew my smile was a reflection of his - soft and sweet, rested even though we’d hardly napped - being together was relaxing.  

“When do you think you’ll start showing?” He didn’t raise his voice above a tone one would use in a library, yet I could hear the excitement laced through each word - it was tangible and I loved that he was so happy.  

I considered what he was asking, but honestly I had no clue.  Parenthood wasn’t really something I’d yearned for before, and while Mom had been a nurse, I was more interested in taking photos and putting one foot in front of the other than paying attention to the women around me who were glowing with the new lives they were bringing into the world.  “I think it depends -”

Propping his chin up so he could see me, he raised an eyebrow and asked, “on what?”  

My eyes went to the top of my head, searching for the best way to explain what little I did know.  “The size of the mother, for one.”  I was fairly certain that the tinier the vessel, the faster the passenger would be noticeable.  “The father’s genetics might have a say in how big the baby is, so our little bean might end up making me HUGE pretty quick.”  He chuckled and dropped a kiss below my belly button.  

“Are you saying I’m thick, Brooke?”  Bucky’s hands were framing my abdomen and I grinned down at him.  “Is that a GOOD thing?”  One eyebrow arched and I laughed.  

“I’m carrying your mini soldier, Buck,” my fingers slid through his hair and I bit my lip when his eyes closed in contentment from the contact.  “I’d say everything about you is a GOOD THING.”  

Humming, his lips quirked into a soft smile and he crawled lightly up the bed so he could kiss me.  Rolling onto his side so we could lay face to face, he traced my face with the ghostlike touch of his fingertips.  “I never thought I’d hear anyone say that everything about me was good - ever.”  He was squinting, as if thinking pretty damn far back and I wanted to smack something.  “Steve wasn’t the only Brooklyn boy who could get into trouble, Brooke.”  His smile was meant to relax me, but it only half worked.  Bucky had been shunted to the sideline for a very long time, then his time as the Winter Soldier was held over his head - it was bullshit.  “You are bearing a very strong resemblance to -”

“If Steve Rogers could carry your baby, then holy shit, Buck, Captain America was truly a scientific wonder.”  That did it, it broke the tense bubble I’d created - not without some reason, but we had happier things to focus on.  “You wish you could tell him,” I could see it as clearly as Connie had when I’d been wrestling with Bryn’s damn car seat in the Mustang.  Cupping his cheek, I sighed.  “I wish you could too.”  

“I just can’t get this image out of my head,” his smile was growing and it was contagious.  “Him meeting you and knowing without a doubt that the two of you were on the same damn page - to keep my ass on my toes.  And to remind me,” his smile was still there, but it was just a little dimmer.  “To remind me that I deserve it.  You, the baby, this life.”  He shook his head, breaking the vision and coming back to me.  “Steve and you would be a pretty scary duo, Brooke, but I really do wish I could have it.”  

“Me too,” and I did.  I wanted Bucky to have everything.  Every single thing that he wanted, because he more than earned it.  

After a warm bath, shared of course, we sat down and planned a dinner for Connie and Joey.  Bryn would be happy with just hanging out with her favorite live-action Disney prince, so I knew that on that particular part we were fine.  

“You don’t want to make that baked pasta -” my eyes went wide and I shook my head.  “What?”  

“You’re from Brooklyn, Buck.  You’ve met Joey AMORUSO.”  It seemed to hit him like a brick.  “Yeah, I’m NOT fixing an Italian meal for an Italian.  Sorry, I’d rather not live through the live critique of my sauce and why I should have made the mozzarella from scratch, but thank you for that offer.”  He grinned and I rolled my eyes.  “We could order in -”

“Doll,” he gave me a look that I swear made me wonder if he was channelling my mother.  “You can’t invite people over for something like this and give them -”

“Food from somewhere not homemade,” I sighed.  “Yeah, I know, Mom.” He grinned.  “Let me guess, that’s a Brooklyn mother thing?”  He nodded.  “Good to know that some shit is just naturally ingrained in the locale.” 

We settled on a roast and the Sunday type sides that both of us knew from our vastly different, yet strangely the same youths.  While he made the call to Connie to set the date, making our excuses for the evening - thank you little bean for being a great excuse for being “indisposed” for immediate visits - we did order in for our evening.  And I ended up having a cup of Wong’s tea before it arrived, just in case.

The bag had a helpful set of instructions, just in case a novice might not know how to brew real tea.  Luckily my mom had gone through a weird bagless tea stage in life, so I had some things on hand.  I was sniffing the contents when Bucky came into the kitchen after hanging up from Connie.  

“Well?”  He was staring at me with my nose in the bag and I shrugged.  “That’s not very helpful, Brooke.”

“It’s kind of an earthy smell.”  I sniffed again.  “Not unpleasant, but -” I sighed.  “How’d Connie take the news that dinner would be in a couple days instead of this evening?”  

The tea kettle was on the stove and I was waiting for it to start screaming to let me know it was hot enough, but we had some time.  While Bucky assured me that my best friend was more than willing to wait for dinner to be sure I was able to actually eat it, I got down the rest of my tea necessities.  He’d also ordered dinner while he was at it, because Bucky Barnes is a man of action, thank you very much.  

The kettle howled and I took a deep breath.  “Here goes nothing.”  Hot water, tea leaves in the tea infuser, and into the cup to seep until the water turned a murky brownish grey.  No sugar, that was part of the instructions, no milk either.  Just water and tea leaves.  Once the coloring was right, I pulled the infuser free and steadied myself.  Bucky stood beside me and gave me a grin.  “I really hope this doesn’t taste like shit.”  A tentative sip, and I tried to place the flavor.  Nothing.  Another sip, still nothing familiar came to mind.  So I took another sip, and another, and another.  The cup was empty and I was still trying to decide what it tasted like.

“How do you feel?”  Bucky asked, taking the cup from me, and dumping the infuser so he could rinse both out.  

I considered his question, focusing on my stomach and the urge to vomit that had me rushing to the toilet before.  “I feel alright, I think.”  I was still trying to figure out what the flavor of the tea was - it didn’t linger, which meant I couldn’t really remember what it tasted like.  Damn it.  “I guess we’ll find out once I eat, right?”  

Bucky picked a local diner that had less spicy food.  We sat in the kitchen and I felt like he was watching me like he might watch a bomb waiting to see if they cut the right wires to diffuse it.  Fair, since I felt like a bomb that had wires cut, but didn’t know if they were the right ones to keep from exploding.  

Dinner finished, we put away the leftovers and suddenly we were left with loose ends.  It struck me that Bucky and I had never - not once since we’d been together - actually just had down time.  And if we did - it was filled with UP time.  

“Come here,” he’d taken the chair that I had immediately begun thinking of as his from the first time he sat in it and he was holding his arms open. When I got close enough for him to reach, he pulled me onto his lap and held me, pressing his face into my neck and just breathing the very scent of me in.  “Want to watch a movie?”  

“Sure,” I murmured, wondering what film Bucky would pick and then laughing when he hit the remote that he’d grabbed before I was perched on his lap.  “Beauty and the Beast?”  

“Connie might have mentioned you like it,” he was smiling at me and I bit my lip.  “Our ‘mini soldier’ as you called them, could just as easily be a ‘tiny doll’, sweetheart.”  Nodding, I let my head settle into the crook of his shoulder.  “Not that there’s a damn thing wrong with either watching fairy tales come to life,” I giggled, thinking I’d hate to be anyone who tried to debate the issue with my baby’s daddy.  

Bucky held me while we watched our first movie together - my favorite Disney movie.  Which we followed up with something I thought he might like - the first in the Lord of the Rings trilogy.  Isn’t that what relationships were, after all?  Sharing?  Plus, while the tea was helping with one problem, I wasn’t in a rush to take on the homework that Strange had given me.  So if I could put it off for as long as possible -

[deloresisout]

I wrote this story for a creative writing contest at my college - then shit hit the fan after the deadline [social distancing] so I don’t even know if I’ll hear back from faculty anytime soon. This was my first time writing in 1st Person (or rather converting a story into 1st person) and I was proud enough to show some people close to me in real life. So, I’m going to post this excerpt here. 

I have found that with my increasing age, those around me expect me to be a walking contradiction. Of course, they would never say this out loud, but I have watched as young women wait with bated breath: anticipating for words of wisdom to emerge from my lips. I have also watched as some of these very same women then expressed surprise - astonishment even, that I am capable of recalling years long behind me. 

The ability to recall my days spent within the walls of Julienne have brought on many gazes of wonder. But nothing brings forth an abundance of questions more than the fact that I can recall my grandfather with the same clarity.

Even as I keep to myself, the sight of menthol cigarettes neatly packaged and placed atop shelves reminds me of billowing smoke drifting through his dining room. A place I spent much of my childhood studying in. 

Then, there are times when my heart swells with warmth when I see men like my husband conceal his silver locks with a flat, rounded cap. Unless Granddaddy was working in the barbershop or, if he was within the sanctity of his own home, a hat would always stay perched on his head. Yes, it was his trademark.

But, even among the woolen flat caps, the menthols, and the strong Southern twang revealing his Alabama roots, one of the things that I will always closely associate with my grandfather would be his rings. Grandaddy possessed so many rings, but I was not given permission to do anything except look on. Once, great admiration had been tied to my yearnful gazes. However, when Ms. Bedel moved in, my days of secretly caressing thick, metallic gold ended. Like granddaddy, she too, is a person I will never forget. 

In our early days together, Granddaddy’s rotund lover told me that she was not my mother. In that very same breath, her eyes narrowed as she further asserted she would never be my mother. Despite this, she fulfilled the needs my seven-year-old counterpart required when it came to maternal care. 

Ms. Bedel, in my eyes, was a woman who was never truly appreciated by those around her. I know that she certainly wouldn't have been by today’s standards, either. Because even in my time as a wide-eyed, meek child in 1961, there were whispers of how she was too strict. Too reflective of the period that cultivated her.

Her full name was “Lucille Tallulah Masters-Bedel.” At the time, I did not know how a person could have two last names, but later I would find that ‘Bedel’ came from her deceased husband. This was not necessary for me to know at the age of seven.

During my adolescence, a child was to stay in a child’s place. Seen, not heard. Boundaries that children manage to cross today were intolerable in my time. 

Being ever obedient, I never thought of doing anything other than what I was told. Appreciation factored into my blind ignorance and how could it not? Ms. Bedel was the one who bathed me at the end of each day. De-tangled my hair. Ensured I clasped my hands together and told God of my utmost gratitude each night. I have no doubt in my mind that each day I spent with Ms. Bedel, the more she came to love me.

This belief was proven in how she provided me with the loveliest dresses. She made sure Granddaddy would use his hard-earned money so that I remained a well-groomed girl, decent for both neighbors and distant cousins to lay their eyes upon if they happened to see me. I can even remember believing that Ms. Bedel once purchased me the dress of my dreams.

It was all white, its collar delicately laced. Lilac flowers in bloom decorated the fabric gorgeously. With my anklet socks and patent leather shoes, the pious women of the community would coo over me, sweetening my self-image by calling me names such as baby doll.

There even came a point in which I had the honor of being among Ms. Bedel’s jewelry, that evening I was almost trembling in her lap. Watching intently as Ms. Bedel clutched onto a small key and inserted it into the jewelry box slot, I could feel my heart pounding. With a turn the box was open, and treasures were revealed right before my eyes.

As I had mentioned, I was an obedient child. If someone said, “don’t do that,” I would not engage in whatever was before me. If somebody said, “don’t speak,” I would never open my mouth. So being given permission to trace rings and necklaces and earrings with my little fingertips filled me with the utmost delight. 

While basking in this privilege, I realized there existed differences between a man’s ring and a woman’s own.

Granddaddy’s rings were thick accessories of solid colors, more often than not the dimmest shades of silver and gold. It was almost as if they were old decorations that lost what could once make them shine. There were a few bumps and prongs, but frankly, there is nothing else I can say that compares them to the mesmerizing jewels in Ms. Bedel’s prized jewelry box.

“Where do these come from?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Child, everything you see before you has a story.” With this answer, I thought I would learn about the source of the beautiful pearls of Ms. Bedel’s necklace, or where on earth the little diamonds in her rings came from. I was too ignorant to recognize the wistfulness that hung in my elder’s voice. “During the Harlem Renaissance, I held a man named Aliki Eliopoulos in the palm of my hand. He was bronze, Greek, and we thought we could make it through the odds.” The brief huff that blew from Ms. Bedel’s nostrils was strong: “one night, he found me after the curtains closed and he presented this. This necklace is dear to me…I suppose because I never quite knew where Aliki went.” Pointing out another piece of jewelry was not needed as Ms. Bedel rose whatever called to her the most.

“This engagement ring - not a wedding ring - engagement, was given to me by my first husband. To accept it would mean I would make a vow for him. He knew of my past and knew that even if I couldn’t right my wrongs, I could try to start over with his name.” 

Again, she expanded her chest with her second mighty huff. During that moment I wondered, how can this woman seem so disillusioned yet keep each belonging? Belongings that provide her with such unpleasant memories. Where did the hatred end and the sentiment begin? 

“True love is a concept,” Ms. Bedel said, the resentment never leaving her tongue. “The idea of that sort of thing existing is new, too. People don’t realize that...but Delores.”

“Ma’am?” I replied. For no reason, I was stricken with fear in how she said my name. All I had known was that she said it with such sharpness that surely my own faults were on the verge of being mentioned - whatever those faults may have been.

“Do not follow in my footsteps.” 

I believe Ms. Bedel was sixty-six at this time. The same age as I am now. Ironically

enough, I feel I can understand her without even having the full pieces of her story. My grandfather was a lover of women who were respectable and clean. Women who would not taint his image by being well-known throughout the city for scandalous tales. 

I will never say that Ms. Bedel was not a woman who presented herself with high caliber. She sang opera long before becoming involved with my grandfather. She possessed clothes in her closet that continued bearing their tags. Perhaps it was loneliness that brought my grandfather to her, but that I do not know for certain. All I know is that at the end of the day, Granddaddy felt Ms. Bedel would be the most appropriate woman to guide me through my adolescence.

Still, to think back on the many statements - the way her eyes fixed on me, lets me know she was not a pinnacle of virtuous deeds throughout her life. 

However, at that particular moment, all I knew was that I disliked the heavy silence her statement brought. It became my intention to steer away from talk of vows and purity so as I refocused on the piled riches, I noticed an emerald glistening among gold and rubies. The longer I stared into it, the more I noticed that it had lighter streaks. Appearing and disappearing depending on my movement. It was like thunder and lightning had been coursing within it. “Ms. Bedel...where did that ring come from?” I asked. “This -” Ms. Bedel lifted it, studied it. “This belonged to my mother.” “Did her husband give it to her, too?”

“My mother was never married.” With that unpleasant remark came another pause that I felt lasted forever. When Ms. Bedel spoke again: it was clear and amazingly without strain, “she hailed from a place in the South that was so unimportant that it can’t even be defined by a name.” She paused, asking me: “Do you know what slave labor is?”

Even in my discomfort, I nodded. “What is it then?” Ms. Bedel did not believe I had a wealth of knowledge. I knew it just from the strength of her gaze. Timid, my fingers slid against the hardwood of her dresser. Not knowing any better, I began recalling how at the age of five Granddaddy decided it was time I learn how Africans - not even colored people, but Africans - were chained like dogs and brought to America. After that, they were bound to pick cotton all day under the sun. That was slave labor, my young mind decided. 

“What Africans had to do...” I answered, just barely connecting my gaze with her own.

“No.” My idea was correct, but wrong.

“My mother may not have been picking cotton, but she did live under those horrid conditions. After I was born, my mother bundled me up and took me with her as she journeyed North. Of course, being a colored woman, she didn’t have the luxury of driving or possessing a fortune to get her there in an instant. She worked as a maid here and there until she reached New York...and there was one woman before that.” She paused. 

“We were in Kentucky…” Ms. Bedel refrained from speaking yet again, hissing: “I hate Kentucky...and I will never forget that woman as long as I live...she,” Ms. Bedel’s lips were curling, “she was downright nasty. That woman sat so high on her horse, that she had my mother feeding her baby through her teat.”

My face was surely pulling in disgust. I did not understand what was said just the right amount to be puzzled, but I understood enough to be both bewildered and uncomfortable.

“From time to time, my mother would take little things from her house. Sugar, flour. Things that wouldn’t be missed. But before we left Kentucky and never looked back, my mother thought she deserved something more in return, and this ring was it. After my mother passed on, I received it. This beauty has been with me ever since…” Suddenly Ms. Bedel took on a soft and tender tone, it was as if she placed her past behind her. “Try it on.”

Not only was I soothed by a far preferable tone, but I was also elated. Yes, it felt as though I was ascending to new heights. My high emotions would soon leave as the ring was placed on my finger, limp.  “Oh…” Ms. Bedel’s lips pushed out, sympathetic. “It’s too big for you…”

 “My fingers are too little…” I felt like I was an infant, helpless and insignificant.

“Maybe.” Ms. Bedel took my hand into her own, covering it in love. “One day you’ll grow into it.”

[inkedsevans]

showdown. | fabrevans

WHO: sam evans & quinn fabray ( @quinnofcastleport )

WHAT: sam finds out what happened to james thanks to quinn & stacy’s plan. whew. 

WHEN: 11/25; monday afternoon

WHERE: the maggie

Quinn felt like she'd been bracing for impact all day. Actually, from the moment she'd driven away from the facility - the swipe of the black credit card her father hadn't really bothered her, not really, though she knew it would come around eventually. 

What bothered her was Sam. 

She'd made her peace, or at least told herself she had made her peace with Sam not wanting to speak to her anymore over it. As she methodically wiped down the Maggie's bar, she reminded herself that mattered less than James getting help. 

She finished her deep clean and moved on, picking up the inventory clipboard and her pen. She had to know how many glasses that punk replacement had actually dropped, and she had to keep herself busy, because Sam was due any minute, and she couldn't keep staring at the door like that. So she brushed her jaggedy pink hair behind her ear, set the clipboard down, and started to pull (freshly cleaned) glasses down to count. The more she could do before Sam ordered her out of his bar, the better.

The day had been uneventful and short, with only a few clients on the books at the shop so Sam opted to cut out early. If he were lucky, he could manage to get a nap in before having to make his way to the Maggie for the evening. He reached the house in record time, stepping into the silence and finding nothing unusual about it. It was always quiet.  It could use some dusting, no doubt yet another thing he'd have to tackle before the holiday. Stacy would be home and the last thing he wanted was her, seeing how things had moved further into disarray. In the kitchen, he found a glass on the small table, half full of whiskey and a ring of melted ice around the base. That, that was unusual. His father almost never walked away from a drink, unless he had another nearby. It prompted Sam to look in the living room, but found no trace of glasses or bottles. It was possible James had retreated to his room but that was empty as well. Bed rumpled, curtains drawn, a stale smell of liquor and sadness emanating from it that Sam didn't linger long. He'd searched the whole house and called around to some of James' friends, the ones he hadn't managed to alienate, but no one had seen him. Sometimes, James would take walks, leaving the door unlocked, and glass in hand. Just to really give the town something more to laugh about. The headache was already forming when Sam got back into his truck, driving to all the spots his father frequented. The bench in Knights Park where James and Maggie ended their first date. The diner, where thoughts of Tina and the last time he managed to discover his father in a place where he shouldn't have been (sprawled on their front porch) hit him. The last stop and ideally the place where he would've most likely been, Sam reached the Maggie, finding not his father but...Quinn. Resurfaced, clipboard in hand, and sporting pink hair. Sam was momentarily confused at the sight, of her (and her hair) before he spoke. "Is he back there? I've been all over town and no one's seen him...can't decide if that's good or bad."

Quinn looked over her shoulder in time to catch the look on her face, which she would've been amused about, in other circumstances. 

"It's a good thing," Quinn answered, keeping her voice soft as set her pen down on the clipboard. "He's in treatment." Quinn took a folded piece of paper out of her back pocket. "This is the address and room number." Quinn held Sam's gaze, determined not to shrink or stutter. "I took him last night. He's there for at least 30 days, probably longer, depending on how it goes." Quinn swallowed. 

"He's doing it for you. And for Stacy." Quinn hesitated. "And your mother," she added something like a smile ghosting her face,  "because he knows Mrs. Evans would've kicked his ass already. His words."

"What?" Sam, who was still stuck on the fact that Quinn's hair was pink (seriously, when the fuck did that happen?) had to mentally run the tape back. Olive-colored eyes narrowed as he moved closer, noting the folded paper in her hand as she spoke of an address and a room number. For treatment. 

His reaction was slow to build, confusion giving way to anger, the heated sensation of it spreading the more Quinn spoke and he barely let her finish, the mention of his mother snapping him into focus and his gaze hardened. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He was gobsmacked by it all. 

The boldness of her butting in and the casual way she upended his life, as it were as easy as ticking off a box on her checklist. Sam would not be surprised in the least if that fucking clipboard actually had a 'butt in' written somewhere. The audacity of it all, as if his father was something to be handled, as if it were her problem, and then to bring Sam himself into it...and Stacy.... "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Your friend," Quinn answered evenly, resolutely refusing to flinch. Boys who got loud were the worst. 

"I spoke with Stacy. She and I agreed this was the only card left in our deck. He can't keep doing this. You can't keep doing this, and please don't tell me you can, because that would be insulting to both of us." 

Quinn let out a slow breath and resisted the urge to cross her arms, to ruffle her feathers and raise her hackles. She would not be angry with Sam. She simply refused to be. 

"He knows, I know, Stacy knows, you know that it's not fair or right to strap this to you like a big, boozy anchor. It's not right. So he's trying to correct himself so that you and your sister have a hope in hell of ever getting out."

It was the thing he hated, what Quinn had always done, even when they were younger. Speaking in that bossy way she had, as if everyone else were merely the pieces she had to move to suit her needs. It grated him then, but over time, it hovered been irritating and amusing.   But today it needled him. He didn't need her pushing her way through, behaving as if she were the only one who knew best, roping his sister into her nonsense and then pretending like she cared. "You disappear for weeks, with nothing but a text, and then show up pulling a fuckin' move like this without telling me.  And you drag my sister into it? And I'm supposed to think you've got my best interests in mind? Seriously? That's bullshit, Quinn." Sam took a deep breath, his tone still hard and flat, voice rumbling in that quiet, angry way he hated to be. "Whatever the issue with my father is, that's my business. I was already looking into some places Hunter gave me a list of. Which you would've known had you bothered askin' instead of doing what you always do. How the fuck is hiding this from me helping? What, did you need to be the one who saved my father from himself? First the bar now the owner? What the fuck else are you planning to overhaul in my family's life? Just so I can know when to move out of the way, since apparently you're the one calling the shots now."

It took a godly amount of restraint to keep from rolling her eyes at him, but she did resist the urge, if just barely. She let him snap at her, fine, sure, and moved around out from the bar to stand properly across from him, nothing in between. "Tell me this," Quinn said, "tell me what 'having your best interests in mind' would look like. If not this, what? Letting you skulk around like a bad Sam impersonator for the rest of our lives? Letting your sister tell me that this needed to happen and proceeding to do absolutely nothing in response? Which, just so we're clear, I didn't drag Stacy anywhere, and haven't since she was ten years old and I wanted to go shopping and babysit at the same time. She's an adult. We had a conversation, one that wouldn't have been the least productive with you and me, or with you and her. So was I supposed to argue with you about it, even though you apparently already knew it was true?" Quinn snorted. "That's the bullshit part, Sam. That you're pissed that you weren't 'the one who got to' kick his ass to get clean." Quinn used the air quotes, and then she did roll her eyes. "It doesn't matter who kicked what. It matters that he got into the car instead of knocking back a shot. It matters that he's actually following through with it. There's no 'credit' except his credit for getting up and making a change." She rested her hands on her hips and met his gaze. "Furthermore. You are my business, as long as you are my friend, Sam. You know that. You know I wasn't trying to sneak anywhere or hide anything. I'm standing right here. You know that if I was really trying to be underhanded about it, I'd be underhanded, and no one would know anything about it for a very long time." Quinn sighed, her expression going just a little soft. "I understand that I--that I disappeared on you. I understand that I hurt and disappointed you when I did that. I apologize for that, Sam, I do. I won't apologize for doing what needed to be done."

"Everybody's an adult, who can make decisions. Except for me. I'm the one that's gotta be handled around the issue and shut out of the big kid conversations? You did something with my father and didn't even fuckin' discuss it with me, and took it to my sister like I'm some irrational asshole and I need to be grateful? 'Cause he actually went with you? Do you even hear yourself?" Sam could feel himself getting worked up and he took a step back, needing to put some distance between them. "You're never fuckin'  sorry, Quinn. So I don't ever expect you to give an actual fuck about invading my family's space or guilt tripping or threatening my father into following your orders. You overstepped. Plain and fucking simple. I don't give a shit what you talked about with Stacy. You had no right to do what you did. And if you didn't want to swoop in and play savior, answer me this: Who's footing the bill for this massive change? 'Cause my sister's a broke college student and no one bothered to clue me in on anything. So unless my father managed to hit the numbers in the time it took for you to drive him to this life changing facility, I'm guessing this sober sweat out is sponsored by the bank of Fabray ." Sam scoffed, shaking his head as he pushed out a tired, bitter laugh. "We should be so lucky. Castleport's favorite daughter, returning home and making my family her personal fuckin' charity case for the holiday. I'll look out for the write-up in the Gazette. I know how your family's paper loves to keep tabs on my old man's public antics."  Sam stalked past Quinn to move behind the counter, his face hard and expressionless as he threw a passing glance in her direction. "We're done here."

Quinn could have snapped back. She could have argued each and every one of Sam's points until they were both furious and going for the jugular. She could see it - she could feel it, the words heavy on her tongue, exactly how she'd fight it. Fight him. How she'd say, oh, you think you're angry now? You think we're done? We're just getting started, Evans, and don't think you can go round for round with me about this, because she was Quinn Fabray, and Quinn Fabray didn't lose arguments. No, Quinn lost friends. Quinn lost family. Quinn lost jobs and boyfriends and futures and pasts. That was part of who she was, part of how she was, and she'd accepted it a long time ago. Fabrays were lonely creatures by nature, the sort that never really ever had the capacity for anything like companionship. They were built, on their best days, for partnership, but even that was a stretch, a rarity. Frannie and her husband were outliers, and even then, Frannie made every important decision for the two of them. Quinn was just so damn tired of losing things. She was so, so tired of trying to do what was right and getting screamed at for it. She was just tired. "It wasn't an order," Quinn said, without bothering to turn around and look at him, because if she did, she'd probably lose it. "And you're not a fucking charity case." Maybe that was what she was angriest about. Or maybe it was the mention of her family and their finances. Or maybe it was the accusation that Quinn didn't actually care. Because she did. "I do hear myself. I never heard myself tell you you had to feel anything." Now she did at least tilt her head toward him, slightly over her shoulder, though she kept her gaze firmly fixed away from him, because her nails were digging into her skin in a bad way, in a way that told her to just walk the fuck away, to walk away from the whole damn friendship because it was crashing and burning anyway and as per usual, it was her fault.

She was really tired of losing people, but away was the only direction people walked anymore, so she turned around to look at him. 

"You don't care what I talked about with Stacy - fine. I'm not sorry - sure. I don't care about invading your family's space - you're three for three. I'm a rich girl who's just here to flaunt how together her life is, how much I love taking people under my wing, as long as I get my name in the paper or mentioned in someone's early Sunday gossip. If that's honestly what you think is true about me, then maybe we are done here." Quinn's nails dug deeper into her skin. Focus. 

"But that's - frankly, I knew that. I knew doing what I did might make us go back to whatever we were before. Or worse. I accepted that. It was less important than the good this will do you in the long run, whether or not you ever say so out loud or even to yourself. If you keep throwing a tantrum about this for the rest of our lives, so be it. I'll walk out that door and not look back or so much as darken your doorstep again if that's what you want. I'm willing to do that not because I don't care about you or this place, but because I do, and I know that in the long run, this will help. Even if he can't stick with it. Even if it's not lifechanging. I'm willing to do it because I know if the situation were reversed..." 

Quinn trailed off and shook her head. 

“Never mind. I'm sure you'd be perfectly respectful and let me have all the space I needed to drown myself in guilt and the appearance of responsibility while the misery chipped away at my soul. But - well, I guess I wouldn't have that problem, because I'm Princess of Castleport who doesn't know what hard work or suffering is like, and everything I do is either calculated, careless or intentionally hurtful, right? You wouldn't ever need to do anything like this, because Quinn and the Bank of Fabray don't have any real problems, so I just want to glide in, wave my magic wand and fix other people's, specifically people who I don't care about and who I'm secretly just using for...attention, I guess, or the rush of pretending at being a good person or...whatever it is you think motivated this. You, known for being so level-headed and wise, would never dare overstep with me if you thought it would help me and that I was too stubborn to take the steps myself. You'd never be so...what, hateful? Disrespectful? Insert whatever adjective you like, I don't care. If you don't want him there, you have the address and a car. Go get him, if you don't think this will actually help him, and you, and Stacy. If you genuinely think it was a mistake, go undo it. Tell me to get out or tell me to finish the inventory and I'll do whichever one you like." 

She let the challenge hang there for a long minute and tried to ignore the regret she already felt creeping around the pit of her stomach. 

Goodbye, Sam. It never made sense that they were close anyway, did it. They shouldn't have been. Maybe this was just the natural order coming back to itself. Maybe Sam was just a blip, a glitch - someone whose feelings she'd been apparently only imagining to understand all these months. Maybe Sam hadn't actually seen her the way she thought he did. It was a disquieting thought, but one she had to wrestle with - maybe he was the one who'd had her fooled, instead of the other way around. 

And people thought she was a good actress.

Sam's jaw tightened, teeth clenched so tightly it felt like he'd snap in half if he didn't ease up. He pressed his palms to the bar, needing that bit of grounding as Quinn spoke, completely twisting his words and if Sam wasn't so damn furious he'd probably be impressed by the spin of it. "Knock it off," he told her, broad shoulders as he pushed off the counter. "Don't tell me you care about me and then dismiss my feelings to a tantrum 'cause you're not getting the reaction you wanted. What did you think would happen, Quinn? You went behind my back. I don't care how great the good was, I would've never--" His words caught in his throat, and he took great care to swallow down the rising emotion.

"I never said your life was together. Or you didn't have problems. Otherwise you would've never been back in this bar or have that hair and no one, not even your parents, I'm guessing would've heard from you in months. But you made me feel like this project you had to take on. And maybe if the situation were reversed, I would've reached out to you. But you didn't do that. You treated me like an obstacle, instead of the friend you apparently give a shit about. And you can justify it however you want and explain it whatever way's gonna ease that guilt and call me a hot headed asshole, but I would've never made you feel this way." Useless, as if all the work he'd been trying to juggle, and the effort it took to maintain everything, to keep the bar afloat, to manage his father, look out for his sister, boiled down to nothing when someone else, someone he once trusted could yank the rug out from under him. Could make the burden he carried for years disappear with a swipe of a card. As if it were that easy. And he supposed it was with money and connections. And that gnawed at him, the anger and bitterness rising in his throat, tasting sour. "What's done is done. You did what you wanted, like you always do." He pushed the paper back at her, uncaring about the location, the name of the place, or how long James would be there. "I didn't have shit to do with this, so we'll just keep that energy. You can take Stacy if you want, since y'all are making the decisions now. Whether it helps or doesn't, it's not my problem or concern. You started this. You can see it through. I'm done."

Quinn sighed. He was probably right. Because friends don't make friends feel 'this way'. Sam was much, much better at being a friend than she was. And she had treated him like an obstacle, because he sort of was one, since he already had too much on his plate to give it the attention it needed, and anyway he would've just told her to fuck off, which was counterproductive. 

Quinn took the paper, tucking it back into her pocket. "Fair enough." Her voice came out flat, and she couldn't argue with him. She knew he'd be upset, angry, furious - there wasn't any point in trying to change that. 

It would just make it worse. She would just make it worse. 

She let the silence drag, then shook her head. "I'm going to do inventory," she said, only getting close enough to him to grab her clipboard and pen. "I'll be in the back if you need anything." 

With that, Quinn made her way past the bar and into the stockroom, determined to keep the shaky feeling in her hands and the terrible disappointment in her heart to herself, at least until she was alone.

Sam refused to look in Quinn's direction, hearing the slide of her clipboard across the bar when she went to collect it, and the sound of her footsteps retreating to the back. There was a headache forming behind his eyes, the throb of it all pounding at his temples and making it hard to see. And he hated that his initial gut reaction to feeling so keyed up and crappy was to consider taking a shot of something. The last thing he needed, in the moment or in general, considering where his father currently was. He was still wearing his coat, and he dug his hands into pockets, fishing out the keys for his truck. There was no way in hell he'd be in any shape to deal with customers today. He'd get Marie to come in or see if Alexis was free. Anyone but that new kid, Barry and his goddamn butterfingers. Moving from behind the bar top, Sam headed for the door, remembering to lock it behind him. It had seemingly gotten colder in just that span of time he'd been inside but he'd rather be anywhere but the bar at the moment. He'd settle things with a replacement and then take the night off. Take a drive somewhere. Anything that would help clear his mind.

[raindropmendes-blog]

Ten Days- Day 2

The next morning, the sound of crisp patter again my window woke me up. Images of painting-worthy landscapes swam beneath my eyelids with memory and I fluttered my eyes open.

The sunlight caught something in my room through my opaque curtains, drawing rainbows around the four-walled space. It looked extraordinary and I immediately caught my breath. Maybe the world was beautiful after all.

Mesmerised, I walked over to my wall and placed my hand flat on the cold, pimpled surface. The rainbow patterned itself onto my hand, into every crevice and imperfection. I didn’t notice how deeply the moment had captured me until another stone hit my window.

I quickly scrambled to my feet, rushing over to pull the curtains apart from each other. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I felt excitement to be facing a new day.

“Shawn Peter Raul Mendes .” I called out, his middle names rolling off of my tongue for some reason. I widely opened the window and looked down at him. “You are going to scratch my window.” I laughed, watching as he sheepishly continued to stare at me.

“Sorry Rose…uh.” He stopped to think. Then, giving up, he looked back up at me.

I chuckled.

“You don’t know my middle name do you?” I asked, always careful to keep the volume of conversation below dangerous level.

“No.” He answered, playing with the stones in his hands. “And how did you even know mine?”

I bit my lip.

“Ten days, Shawn. No questions.”

-

“You know, just because you’re small and light, doesn’t mean you should climb up on every ledge you see.” Shawn laughed, grabbing my elbow as I balanced on yet another ridge.

“Can’t I be allowed to do whatever I want Mendes?” I asked, jumping down since we had reached the opening leading to the metro station. “Believe it or not, I don’t get to do that very often.” I smiled, playing the guilt card.

Shawn just shook his head, removing his sunglasses and placing them on top of his head, allowing his luscious curls to intertwine with the plastic.

It was one of those days were not one cloud dotted the sky and the deep hue of the atmosphere was a fierce blue.

We descended into the heavy-aired metro station, buying our tickets and passing through the filthy metal gates.

“So where are we off to today?” I asked, my voice heavy with curiosity. Looking up at Shawn’s face, I couldn’t help but notice how well the white t-shirt he was wearing suited him. His eyes seemed so vibrant and alive, making my heart jealous that a type of happiness so raw could exist.

“Ah.” He said, licking his teeth. “But that would ruin the surprise.” He laughed looking down at the ground.

After walking past dozens of torn and vibrant posters advertising who-knows-what movie or musical, we finally arrived at a huge map.

Roads twisted into each other like they were lost, each one wearing it’s own color. The intertwined routes were studded with white circles representing the different stops of the metro.

Shawn leaned forward, tracing different paths with his finger, his mouth slightly apart. Confused, I tried to follow his finger trying to understand where we were and where we were going.

“Shawn? Where are we going.” I whispered, for some reason afraid to break his concentration.

After a few more silent moments, he stood up straight again and smiled widely.

“Let’s go.” He said.

“But-.” I began, wanting to understand. But before I could do so, something caught my attention. In the distance, a strum of a guitar and a voice to accompany it sparked my attention.

“I love this song!” I screeched with eyes as wide as the ocean. I grabbed Shawn’s hand in mine without another thought and sprinted towards the music, Shawn lagging behind in an amused state.

A man dressed in tattered clothes and a beautiful, dirty smile stood adjacent to the vertical dusted tiling of the metro station, strumming his guitar as if his life depended on it- which it probably did.

An open guitar case stood in front of him, cradling a sad amount of leftover change that a few citizens were kind enough to toss in.

Despite this, sunshine shone on the middle-aged man and he was smiling all the way up to his light blue eyes, and therefore so was I.

“Shawn! Dance with me.” I smiled, grabbing Shawn’s arms. He laughed, looking slightly concerned.

“I can’t dance Rose.” He whispered.

I snickered, looking around. “There’s no one here.” I whispered back.

“I don’t think you can dance to Viva La Vida.”

“There’s no harm in trying.” I giggled, pulling him closer. I opened my mouth and began singing along, flailing mine and Shawn’s arms around the narrow corridor randomly.

After a few eye rolls, Shawn began to sing too, eventually even louder than me, his wide smile competing with mine. My whole body felt infinite, almost like it didn’t exist anymore, but I was aware that it was moving somehow.

Suddenly, Shawn’s hand left the small of my back and he approached the man, grabbing a second guitar that was sat neatly against the stained wall. In seconds he had matched the man, and was playing roughly and singing along loudly, not caring who stopped to watch.

I took half a second to admire him, before completely losing myself in a dance that I was sure didn’t exist- and for good reason. When people stopped to drop some money, I twirled them in my arms or bowed before them, thanking them.

We were so lost that we almost didn’t notice the low rumble and screeching noise of the upcoming metro that filled our ears. We immediately stopped what we were doing.

“Shit.” Shawn muttered under his breath ripping the guitar from off his body.

In an instant panic I quickly pulled out whatever money I had in my pocket and threw it into the man’s guitar case, tipping my imaginary hat at him before being whisked away by Shawn.

Everything passed in a blur as we ran towards the metro with all the energy with could master, throwing ourselves towards the fast-closing doors.

Shawn made it in, making sure to never let go of my sweaty hand. My heart leapt into my throat as I hurriedly turned sideways in an attempt to fit into the tiny gap, falling inside in a huge wave of relief.

-

I sipped my Starbucks mango black iced tea slowly, enjoying the feeling of the cold liquid running down my throat. The air conditioner was massaging the base of my neck which was an amazing relief from the beating hot sun outside.

I eyed Shawn’s caramel iced coffee, a part of me wishing I had ordered that instead.

Sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting gorgeous shapes all throughout the coffee shop. My mind felt alive.

We sat in silence for a while, the type of silence that was beautifully comfortable. I admired how he didn’t feel the need to bombard me with questions about my life.

“Shawn?” I said finally, watching him lift an eyebrow at me.

“What is it?” He asked.

There was one question that had been lingering in my head since he had approached me two days ago and I needed to let it out.

“Are you doing this because you feel sorry for me?” I asked. “I mean, I hate thinking that you’re throwing your vacation days down the drain for me when you could be doing better stuff with your friends.” I rambled, focusing on the plastic flower surrounding my green straw.

“What?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows. He brown eyes pierced through mine as he looked at me.

“You feel sorry for me. Because I don’t want to be alive.” I told him.

“No.” He shook his head, moving away the bits of curly hair that had fallen out of place. “No.”

I stared back, shocked and confused.

“Then why-?”

“Ten days.” He began, fighting the urge to smile.

I smiled softly, and slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“No questions.” I finished for him.

He nodded, sinking into silence once again. Having taken in my surroundings, I decided to focus on the boy sitting in front of me.

His clear eyes were distant, looking at something outside. His curls foamed luxuriously, the ends being illuminated by the sun shining through the window behind him. In the brilliant light, I could see that his cheekbones were lightly sprinkled with freckles that were barely noticeable. Shawn’s athletic body was hunched forward leaning on the small table, his large hand wrapped around his drink.

My heart skipped a beat as he met my gaze.

“Are you staring at me?” He laughed, raising his eyebrows.

I opened and closed my mouth, words unable to come out.

“I uh I wasn’t.” I stammered finally, playing with my fingers. “You had a bug on your shoulder.” I added stupidly, wincing as soon as it came out.

Why couldn’t I just admit that I had been staring? It was purely innocent! It wasn’t as if I was drooling over him!

“Right.” Shawn chuckled softly.

“So. What are we going to do?” I asked, pushing my now empty cup to the side.

“Well.” Shawn said, copying my actions. “I thought we could have a nice-off. We already started it on the way here with that musician so I thought that would be something fun.”

“A nice-off?” I asked.

“Yeah. We take it in turns to do a small act of kindness. There’s really no winner but I thought it would be a greatly rewarding challenge.” He laughed.

“Ok.” I giggled, standing up from my chair. “I’ll go first.”

I walked over to the counter and placed a few dollars into the jar labelled ‘tips’. I looked over at Shawn with a pleased expression on my face.

“You’re up.” I said, biting my lip.

He nodded, motioning over one of the baristas.

“Hey could you do us a favor?” He told the stocky young man. He pointed to a young couple sitting across from each other across the cafe. “You see that couple there? Could you give them the best slice of chocolate cake you have? On me of course.” He handed the barista some money. “Keep the change.”

Then, he leaned across the table and whispered. “It’s their first date. Look how the woman is sitting. Very straight and elbows off the table. Legs pressed together.” He smiled, standing up. “Now let’s go before the cake gets there. That intensifies the mystery and the surprise.” He said, eyes twinkling.

“Hey.” I called out, as soon as we left the coffee shop. A young woman with dark, curly hair stopped in her tracks to look up at me expectantly. “Your hair looks beautiful! I’d die for hair like that.” I smiled.

The young woman’s cheeks dimpled with a smile and she quickly thanked me before continuing on her way.

Joy burst through me, filling my veins with the most exhilarating fuel I could imagine.

“Shawn.” I breathed, taking his hand and putting it on my chest. “Look how fast my heart’s racing.”

He looked down at his hand on my chest and met my eyes.

“That’s the most beautiful thing I have felt in a long time.” He told me. “Your heart’s racing and that means you’re alive.”

“It’s amazing isn’t it.” I told him, letting his large hands stay there a little longer. “That out of nowhere you came into my life and made my heart race when I didn’t want it to beat at all.”

-

After hours filled with handing random strangers flowers and compliments, putting sticky notes with positive messages on restroom mirrors and even putting a quarter in a few cars’ expired meters, we were finally ready to go home.

“Last stop Rose.” Shawn promised, quickly running into the nearest supermarket. He emerged with a heavy bag filled with canned foods, drinks and a few blankets. “I thought we could end this nice-off by doing something kind together.” He smiled, turning me in the direction of a homeless woman who was leaning against a wall surrounded by her belongings.

I nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in my throat. Shawn handed me the bag, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze.

“Hi.” I said cautiously, approaching the woman. My hands were shaking but I looked back and saw that Shawn was right behind me.

“Hello.” She croaked, attempting to give me a smile.

“I…uh. We got you some things…” I told her, undoing the knot on the bag and unloading it.

I handed her everything inside the bag and watched as her glossy eyes grew wider with everything that came out.

She took hold of my hand almost immediately and closed her eyes. Tears began to slip down her dirty face as she wiped them away with her other hand.

“You have no idea.” She told me, her blue eyes glistening with the tears. “How much I needed this today.”

I drew a breath as my own tears suddenly began to well up. My heart swelled with compassion.

“What have I done to deserve this?” She asked, looking up at the sky.

“You deserve this.” I reassured her, letting her give me a weak hug.

“You are a gift from heaven, my child.” She whispered, wrapping herself up in the new blanket. “The world needs more people like you, God bless.” She looked behind me to squeeze Shawn’s hand.

“Take care.” We told her, almost too choked up to talk. I felt a certain unique serenity within my body as I walked away with Shawn towards the metro station.

By this time, the sun had begun drowning in the horizon, and the whole world looked a deep golden color.

Shawn realized that I was crying, so he stopped me suddenly and just hugged me tightly, resting his head on mine. I let the tears slip out then, and we just stood there in the middle of the road.

“Reason number two.” He told me, pulling back and wiping away my tears. “Touching the lives of the people you know.” He whispered pointing at his own chest, “And the people you don’t.”

-