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alltheworldsinmyhead · 5 years ago

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SOON YOU’LL GET BETTER

time's running out for Riza. and they can do nothing else, but face this truth.

ao3

{AN: This is easily the most personal story that I have ever written. My mom died of cancer almost two months ago and I needed to cope with that, hence this fic. Tbh, I don't even think it can strictly be called fanfiction - I simply used those characters to channel my personal trauma. Sorry not sorry for that. It feels very weird to post it publicly, but I decided to do it, cause the fact that this doc was somewhere on the hard drive of my laptop was driving me mad. Also... I feel like the topic of death and dying is not discussed often enough nor openly enough. I certainly hope that this story will maybe help someone who's going through something similar to what I'm going through. Or maybe will help someone to understand how it feels to say goodbye. How heavy this grief is.

The title comes from Taylor Swift's Soon You'll Get Better, cause this song is by far the most accurate description of what's going on in the head of some who has a sick parent that I have ever seen.}

__________________________________________________________

When you're feeling lost I'll leave my love

Hidden in the sun

For when the darkness comes

- Colbie Caillat

RIZA

The house’s so quiet and feels so inviting that she could cry from the sheer relief of coming inside. There are no flames dancing in the fireplace but she still feels warmth worming underneath her skin, replacing the bone-chilling coldness of the rain outside. With a sigh, she kicks off her shoes before putting them neatly in the corner and stepping on the white plush carpet in the corridor. She wiggles her toes in it, enjoying the texture against her battered feet.

Soft material makes her steps almost soundless as she makes her way through the first floor and climbs up the stairs. Even Koya doesn’t lift his little ginger head from where he’s sleeping, in his wicker basket by the doors of her younger daughter.

Riza gently pushes the door, letting them open slightly. The light from the corridor spills inside the room, framing Sara’s bed in silver; her little face so pale in the poor lighting, dark hair messy and thumb inside her mouth.

It’s been a few years since she last did it, since she last came back to the childish comfort of this coping mechanism. Riza was sure that she has it well behind her, those moths of coating Sara’s hand in foul-smelling ointments or wrapping it with ribbons.

Despite her best wishes, she can do nothing but take a few steps closer and then another few and then suddenly she’s on her knees right next to the bed. Carpet in her little daughter’s room is blue, Amestrian royal blue, deep and soft. Her girl loves this color. Wears it in her hair and on her clothes and all her pet animals are blue too. But as Riza watches her sleeping face, she thinks pink would be a shade much better suited for Sara, with her rosy cheeks and flowery innocence of a child shielded from any possible harm, any dangerous blow.

That’s what they have been doing all this time, her and Roy. Spreading an umbrella above their girls’ heads, building glass castles on the clouds for them and keeping them safe at all cost.

Riza gently touches Sara’s still-chubby hand and contemplates pulling her thumb from in between her lips, but ultimately decides against it.

Her daughter will need all the comfort she can get soon.

Sometimes she feels like she has spent most of her life waiting.

When she was six years old and her mom went into labor, nobody suspected that it won’t be a quick thing, devoid of complications. Tereza Hawkeye was a strong woman, used to hard work on the farm and running the house for her absent-minded husband. Riza remembers her red, calloused hands and freckles that would appear on the bridge of her nose during summer months; remembers her smile and the smell of her hair. There wasn’t a soul that would look at her and guess that Tereza was born in the aristocratic circles of Central City, with an army of servants ready to attend to her every whim and silk dresses in her closet, that she could rise very, very high if she didn’t decide to so-called ‘’follow her heart’’, run away with the young alchemist and settle down with him in the village on the countryside, forgotten by god and men alike.

To be honest, Riza never thought much about her mother until she became a mother herself. Trying to put together fragments of Tereza in her head the way one could play with a jigsaw puzzle, she looked through few faded photographs she had left and recollected even more faded pictures in her memory. And the more she thought about it and the more she watched Roy and Grumman playing chess together, the more she pondered of how much of a hopeless romantic really was in her mother. Because it seemed to her Tereza could be as well a perfectly pragmatic young woman who just plainly decided she preferred to be barefoot and pregnant at the edge of the world than to be pushed on the board according to the whims of her father – even as a queen.

No matter her motives, Tereza married Berthold Hawkeye and gave him a daughter before dying in childbirth along with their son.

And Riza remembers that waiting all too well; small blonde girl sitting forgotten and omitted on an armchair in the corridor, clutching her teddy bear close to her chest, her face pressed to the faded material. She remembers screams behind the wall, remembers how her father stormed inside, remembers the sound of the door shutting close. Remembers long hours of pressing her fingers to her closed eyelids just to see stars exploding. Sometimes she feels like maybe she never left this armchair, never hoped off to kiss her mother’s soft, cold cheek goodbye.

And then years and years of silence, of wind blowing inside the house and playing with endless pages of her fathers’ notes laying discarded on every surface. Of silence in which they both were trapped, like flies in a jar full of honey, which they shared for so long she thought she will never speak again. Until a pretty boy from Central City appeared on their creaking doorstep, with his laughing dark eyes and a suitcase. He bowed in front of her politely and asked about her name.

And she said ‘’Riza’’, even though only her mother ever called her that, even though she was ‘’Tereza’’ in her birth certificate.

And he smiled widely.

‘’What a beautiful name.’’

Forget fire alchemy; the warmth she felt in that moment was incomparable with any other before and after.

At least her daughters won’t be left to her own devices after she’s gone. At least she has given them a better father than hers. At least this, at least that, all bitter, all making her choke.

They tell them first thing in the morning.

Time for deception and avoiding this topic is over. They wasted it on constructing elaborate lies instead of trying to find the right words and it’s so, so hard now. Riza grips Roy’s hand tightly under the table during the breakfast and opens her mouth before he has a chance to.

“I’m sick, girls.”

The harsh, ugly truth. Cruel military honesty.

Sara whips her head up to stare at her in shock, her eyes round like coins and confused. She drops her fork; it slips from in-between her fingers and lands with a clatter on the porcelain plate, spraying her blouse with yellow of scrambled eggs. But, as Riza takes a look at her older daughter, she thinks Eli as well could’ve, on the contrary, turned into a stone. She doesn’t even blink. She just sits perfectly still, her hand suspended in the air, reaching for a bread roll.

A heartbeat passes, maybe two.

“Girls-“

Eli’s hand slaps down on the table.

“How sick?”

Sara’s bottom lip starts to tremble. Dear god, please don’t let her cry. – thinks Riza desperately, feeling something welling up in her chest. She feels like a grenade about to burst and kill everyone in the room. Maybe that’s truer than she suspected.

She tries to answer and, horrified, finds that she cannot seem to find any words.

“Very sick, Eli.” – says Roy instead; quietly, gently, he reaches out to caress Sara’s cheek and here they are, rolling down her perfect, pink skin. Tears, one after another.

Riza cannot breathe, cannot think even.

Eli slowly lowers her eyes, until they stay stuck on her plate; she is so, so beautiful like that, lost in thought. Forget blonde hair and sun-kissed complexion of Hawkeye’s, forget her blooming breasts and round face – she has never looked more like Roy right now, when Riza can almost see the gears in her head turning, her brilliant mind putting facts in order.

“I knew it. I knew it and yet… I didn’t want to know it.” – Eli’s voice is very quiet, barely above whisper, but she commands the attention of everyone. Even Sara stops biting on her lip to look at her. – “You stopped working and god, all those trips. The trip all the way to Xing, that you didn’t take us – you were visiting Al and Mai, right? To ask if they can do anything.”

Riza suddenly has an urge to laugh. To cry also, but mostly to laugh. Her eyes find Roy and there it is, their common understanding how could we thought we can ever keep anything a secret from them?

Even if they don’t know, they do. Sara’s finger stuck in her mouth, how big of a crybaby she became lately, her ever-brave and ever-bold firecracker of a girl. The stare of Eli’s watchful eyes analyzing every action and change in their daily routine.

“You are too smart for us, darling.” The corners’ of Roy’s lips twitch as if he was about to smile. “We never give you enough credit.”

Eli takes a shaky breath and barks a sad, little laugh before burying her face in her hands for a moment. When she raises her head up, her amber eyes are shiny.

“I don’t think I am, honestly. If I was, I would know what to tell you –“

“Are you going to die, mommy?”

Silence falls like a knife, cutting Eli’s sentence in half and freezing Riza’s brain. Sara is standing now, hands planted flat on the table and she leans towards her; tears still rolling down her cheeks and nose already red, she asked her question with the dead seriousness, crashing violently with the high, birdy pitch of her voice.

Ishbal was one, never-ending bloodbath that she will never manage to atone for. Working under Bradley was a constant, day by day struggle, when her body felt like a taunt bow-string, never relaxing, always on alert. During five minutes when she thought Lust had killed Roy she barely felt alive at all. Promised Day was a nightmare. Her first miscarriage sent her into the very depths of despair. Sitting with Roy in that room and hearing the results of the tests, seeing his face and the light gone from his eyes, she was sure there will be nothing more harder than that. But having lived through it all, Riza realizes has never felt more broken, more helpless and devastated, than now; when she has to gently cradle her youngest daughter’s face in her hands, look her in the eyes and say, without any turn-backs or bullshit excuses:

“Yes.”

There are more than a few things that she loves about her life. She loves their house in Central; cozy, bright and without fancy high ceilings and big windows that would put her bodyguard instincts into overdrive. She loves her dogs; their simplicity and loyalty, how they always come over to greet her home, how they appreciate a good scratch between their ears and how they all remind her of dear Hayate somehow. There are days that she even loves Central City, its hustle and bustle, and all the memories – good and bad alike – that she made here.

But above all, she loves her family and each and every person that form it. She suspects she will never stop marveling at the miracle that happened to her at some point; that the lonely, sad little girl growing up as alone as a child can possibly be, ended up surrounded by so many people loving her and caring for her. So many people to say goodbye to.

She considers herself lucky. More than lucky – the luckiest.

It doesn’t think any of this makes is easy. On the contrary - she thinks it would be easier if she was not so generously gifted by fate. The biggest struggle, as she learns in time, is to not say I’m fine all the time, not repeating it as a foolish parrot round the clock. She respects Roy and girls too much to maim them with this fool’s gold phrase, but it’s so difficult. She finds herself biting on her tongue more often than not, several times a day, until there are scars on the soft tissue that refuse to heal.

Cause she is not fine.

Where it hurts most, asks her Roy one time, desperately, in the dead of the night; his arms around her, holding her upright from behind and his lips on the back of her neck as she sags above the toilet. At this point, she can’t remember how much time has passed since she started vomiting, the room is spinning in front of her eyes and she too bone-deep tired to even try faking anything, and so maybe that’s why she actually answers him.

She slowly wills her arms to raise up, until her hands are up in the air, high enough so he can see.

“This.” She says, voice small and throat scraped raw, but she knows he would understand anyway.

This never-ending shaking, twitching, trembling, as if somebody was electrocuting her limbs all the damn time. Her treacherous hands that used to be so sure and reliable holding a gun, finger concrete-still on the trigger, and which now did not even allow her to braid her daughters’ hair. She misses their sureness and, even more than that, the sign of them simply makes her scared. Everything is more real, more tangible, seeing this tremble.

And then she starts to vomit again, with blood this time, and she doesn’t want to remember anything else from what followed, but she recalls how it ended; the blissful, cool sheets, the wet rag on her forehead. Roy on his knees by the bed, kissing her every finger and knuckle and line on her palms.

They go to Dalisay in June, just four of them. The road is longer and harder than Riza hoped it would be, with pain running up and down her spine like an electric current, her hands struggling to turn the pages of the book - but it’s nice anyway, so nice.

She cannot read and is too tired to talk really, so she just sits with legs resting on the opposite sofa and head nested on Roy’s shoulder, listening to Sara’s baby-bird-twitting. Her girl spends the whole journey standing up with her palms pressed to the glass, looking out of the window and asking about everything – what is this station, what is this city, how many hours ahead of us, are these sheep, mommy look, mommy look. And Riza obliges, slowly turning her head in the direction of the outside and nobody has to know that she doesn’t look at the sheep, or horses, or little farms, but she just watches Sara; her eyes gleaming, her cheeks cherry pink, dark hair curling around her face.

Eli has an alchemy book on her lap, opened right at the middle, but it’s more for the show as she’s not reading either. From time to time, she scratches Mochi’s head or pets Koya gently, but most of the time she just stays silent. Riza feels her eyes on her, as her skin tingles from the intensity of this state, with the familiar desperation, love, and longing. How to burn someone’s face in your memory, in your heart? If you stare long enough, can you remember for forever?

So, the only voices in their compartment – a nice one, really, with comfortable sofas and wooden floors and curtains, private, for what she’s more than thankful – are Sara’s questions and Roy’s answers. He knows everything about the landscape outside and Riza wonders how weird it must feel for him, going down this old memory lane with them, taking the same train that he used to take as a little boy and then teenager, but many years later, with his family and his dear, dying wife. She doesn’t know what kind of feelings it must evoke – she was always the one waiting on the train station after all, static and longing.

He tells Sara – this is river Enola, do you know where it starts? This village is called Priam, they have a sunflower festival every summer, yes, we can go see it. Yes, this blue thing is a lake, lake Moore. It’s very big. Like, hm, from your school to the park? No honey, I don’t think whales live there. Dolphins neither. But there are many other fish.

Riza skids closer to him, feeling his arm gently wrapping around her, his fingers rubbing circles on her hip. He must take comfort in knowing at least this, answering at least those questions. For Roy’s action-driven nature it must be torture to drift with her like that, time slipping from in between their fingers like water. But he slows down to stay by her side as long as they have left, wills his blood and heart to match the rhythms of hers. He is no longer her wildfire, but a rock, solemn and still.

Unflinching.

Dalisay’s somehow just like in her memory and completely different at once, and it makes her head spin. The streets are busier, livelier – with the opening of new train lines and the discovery of rare elements in the area nearby, her sleepy little village has never been so awake. But the air still smells like honeysuckle and strawberries, the grass is so shockingly green compared to the one in Central.

It’s a new world, altogether. It’s almost like they crossed some barrier and entered a foreign land.

And her daughters explore it eagerly, even Eli losing that worried expression from the train in order to curiously peek around the corners and listen to people talking with a melodic, longish intonation that Riza has abandoned long ago, somewhere between the first and second year of the Academy. Sara basically vibrates with energy as she runs from one stall to another on the farmer’s market, begging Roy for sugared almonds or a pack of mint candies.

As the girls lead the way, the two of them slowly stroll, step by step. Riza holds onto Roy’s arm, but she feels so light that it surprises even herself. The pains more bearable like that. She can almost convince herself that the girls are a little smaller, that they are still a First Family, that it’s just a regular Saturday like thousands before and thousands after. The sun’s so warm and honeysuckle so sweet, and they take a break here and hide in the shade for a second.

“I have dreamed of taking you on that damn market, you know.” – Roy whispers into her ear and she just has to laugh at the irritation at his voice. –“ But I never had enough money or guts to do it.”

“To be honest, I think guts were the bigger issue.” – she waves her hand at the crowd and the stalls. – “ The only thing you could’ve bought me here back then were carrots probably.”

He chuckles lightly, gently sneaking one arm around her waist to stabilize her, as the smooth street turns into a cobblestone path. She wonders briefly if he even notices those small acts of care that he performs or if they are something completely instinctual. Her heart swells at the thought and she turns her head slightly and presses a kiss just below his jawline.

“What was that for?” he asks softly, caressing her cheek with a free hand in return.

“Everything.” She simply states and rests her head on his shoulder as they continue to stroll at snail’s pace, in silence this time. She is sure he understands. They never really needed many words between them anyway.

Bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, they make their way forward.

There were snakes in Ishbal. Or, she supposes, there are snakes in Ishbal, since they have proven to be far more resilient than Ishbalans.

Upon entering the front, the first thing higher-ups did, was presenting her with a pair of military boots and forbidding her to ever take them off. They were monstrous things, made from tough, boiled leather, with an extra protective layer around the ankle; they weighted a ton and made her feet cook inside, turned her skin white, slimy and wrinkly. But she and everyone else would dutifully wear them every day, even in their sleep, mindful of the alternative.

Sand vipers like dark and cool places, just like humans in the desert. They are small and sleek, their bodies fashioned for zig-zaging through the golden dunes and escaping from sunlight. If they bite you, you don’t even feel it at first; you go on with your life, resume your duties. But after two hours or so, you start to shiver violently. Then, in mere minutes, you lose your balance. Then your sight, your hearing. And then you die, just like that. It takes maybe an hour from the first tremble. You don’t have any time to say goodbye, to write a letter to your loved ones. You are gone before you can feel yourself slipping away.

More Amestrians died from this goddamn venom than from any Ishabalan resistance, that’s for sure.

Riza’s sickness is kinda like that.

It takes time to unravel, gives her a room to breathe, gives Roy and the girls and even herself some hope against all reason, because how can she die if she still can walk and talk and smile? If she cooked a dinner yesterday and tended to the flowers in the garden in the afternoon?

Yes, she can.

Yes, she does.

One morning, she doesn’t get up.

I still have time to say goodbye, I still have some time, I still do. - she keeps on thinking right until it runs out.

ROY

In the end, after Havoc and Catalina take sobbing Sara away to their flat, it’s only Roy and Eli, alone. Her, curled on the bed by Riza’s right side. Him, kneeling on the floor next to the bed by Riza’s left side. Each holding her hand.

It’s very late and very quiet, no sound besides Riza’s heavy breathing. She has lost consciousness days ago and ever since then, Roy has been staring into her unseeing eyes and trying to spot just a spark of awareness in them, just a little bit of brightness. It’s all for naught, of course. Her eyes are still brown, but they are no longer hers. He doesn’t know where his wife went to, but she’s not here. He told that Eli a thousand times and more and she would always nod in understanding and then lay back down on the folded sheets and resume tracing gentle circles on Riza’s limp hand.

So he gave up trying to talk her out of staying. Besides, her presence gives him comfort, he cannot deny it; she’s the other set of heartbeat in the room that is not going to go silent any time soon. And she’s the only one who can possibly come close to understanding what he feels, no matter how different was Riza’s role in her life compared to the one in his.

Riza, Riza, Riza. Slipping through their fingers so damn quickly. He keeps on begging for just one more smile from her, just one more word that means anything; not the delirious babbling that she sometimes lets out, not those screams full of fury when they try to move her. She just went under so quickly and violently that it makes his head spin.

‘’Life is no more than a candle burning in the darkness, about to get blown away at any moment.’’ – Eli whispers, breaking the silence.

Roy almost smiles at that. They’ve been playing this game of quotes ever since she was six, but recently, she started to win more than lose. His bright girl.

“I don’t know.’’ – he admits, his eyes trained on Riza’s face. God, she is still so beautiful. Her skin is clammy from sweat, lips half-opened and cheeks hollow and she remains the only woman he has ever had eyes for. – ‘’Who wrote it?’’

‘’Mom said it.’’

Eli’s voice is heavy and, when he takes a look at her, he realizes she’s on the verge of tears.

“She did?’’

‘’Yeah. She also said I should cherish the light as soon as it lasts. But - papa, this is - so hard.’’ – his daughter lowers her head, her hair falling down and obscuring her face from him, but he can still hear her choked sobs. Her shoulders are shaking. She hasn’t called him ‘’papa’ since Sara was born.

She does not deserve this, crosses his mind. Maybe it’s my punishment for all the things I did, but she’s innocent. She’s good. She does not deserve this.

He wonders what he can say to her to make it easier for her and finds himself empty-handed and terrified. So he settles for the only thing he can say.

‘’I know, baby. I know.’’

He holds out his free hand and she takes it. Her grip is strong and sure, and he thinks, once again when did she grow up, when did it happen? Five minutes ago she used to have two long braids and missing front teeth. Ten minutes ago she used to be a sleeping babe by Riza’s breast, cheeks pink and brows constantly furrowed, as if she was pondering about the universe’s biggest questions. And now she’s here, they’re both here, holding hands in a circle and waiting in silence for the candle to burn out.

‘’She wanted to say goodbye so badly. We had so much time and wasted it all.’’

‘’We did not waste any time, dad. I don’t think you can ever really say goodbye to someone like that.’’

Riza dies before the morning comes, choking on the blood flooding in her lungs and flashing the whites of her eyes in desperate attempt to catch yet another breath. Roy does not cry; instead, he stays solemn and still as a stone, his voice loud and clear, telling her how he remembers when they first met.

“What a life we had, my love. You can go now, rest.”

He can feel his heart beating in his throat.

Eli sobs helplessly, clutching Riza’s hand to her chest.

“I love you mom, I love you, I love you.”

Maybe Eli is right. What more can you say than that? I love you, I will miss you. And Riza already knows all of that, wherever she is.

“You don’t have to be brave anymore, Riza.” - He tells her, every word dipped in honey of years well-lived.

And then there is only silence, uninterrupted, ringing in his ears like a gunshot.

He can swear that his wife last breath was a sigh of relief.

ELIZABETH

Dawn finds Elizabeth curled on the swings in the garden.

She has laid down here after mom died, hours ago; slipped out of the house just when the lights of uncle Jean’s car appeared on the driveway. In part, she wanted to give them all the space to say their goodbyes and didn’t feel like she was needed inside. In another part, she just wanted to be somewhere else for a while.

Nobody told her that death had its own smell.

And nobody told her that her mom’s corpse will still be soft and warm after she passes away. That, if one would not look for it, you could even not notice she wasn’t breathing.

Elizabeth sat on the bed and felt as mom’s hand in hers was growing colder and all she could think of is that it’s still her mom.

And so she fled, her feet wet from the morning dew and sobs still tearing through her body.

She’s not crying now; it feels like she has run out of tears, to be honest.

Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she’s thinking: there are mom’s clothes hanging in the closet. Her shoes put neatly on the shelves by the door. Her favorite mug, the one with chipped rim, on her bedside table. Her favorite perfume, the one in a blue glass bottle, in the bathroom.

What we’re supposed to do with all of that?

What am I supposed to do, when she’s gone?

Now it’s only her and sunrise, light caressing her face like her mom sometimes used to do, when she was tucking her in. She closes her eyes and she can almost see that; moonlight coloring mom’s hair silver and her soft, low voice wishing her goodnight. The smell of her shampoo. The quiet rhythm of her steps on the carpet as she was leaving, the sound of the door shutting close because Elizabeth never wanted the ajar.

Mom used to sing to her when she was sick. Soon you’ll get better. Soon it’ll get better.

Elizabeth pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Maybe she can pretend it’s not real, if only for now. Maybe she can forget that their time has run out.

Maybe she can just – close her eyes and think about her mom, about her face and her voice.

Ooo-ah, you’ll get better soon.

Despite the morning chill, for a moment, all she feels is warmth.

#royai #royai fanfiction #royai au #royai fic #fma #fma:b fanfiction

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bananonymity · 6 years ago

Text

Based on this au

“So,” said Ludwig, “you’d like to drop Music Theory.”

Student Advisor Ludwig Beilschmidt’s office was orderly, clean, and devoid of distraction. It was a wonder how it hadn’t driven anyone mad yet. Emil found it calming to a point; it made him somewhat nostalgic for his comfort zone of Icelandic minimalism, except for the lack of spacious windows.

Emil nodded.

“Not your liking?” said Ludwig.

“It wasn’t bad,” Emil said. He had no real complaint against the course. The first day of class, Professor Edelstein spent the entire hour and fifteen minutes teaching the students how to find the cheapest textbooks on Amazon. “But I already know music theory.”

“So you’d like to challenge yourself,” Ludwig said.

“I guess,” Emil said.

Ludwig nodded with approval, missing or ignoring the glum note to Emil’s tone. The real reason that he wanted to drop out was in fact the very opposite; the moment he stepped into the music building, he felt such oppressive intimidation that he actually texted his older brother for comfort, which went something like this:

LUKAS: How are you liking your classes?

EMIL: [thumbs down emoji]

It was a risky move, because goodness knew if this amount of unprecedented emotional vulnerability would worry Lukas. Emil regretted the raw honesty immediately afterward, but by then it was too late.

“That’s one of the great things about university,” said Ludwig. “It gives you avenues to study subjects you wouldn’t have thought of before. Now, dropping this course would mean you need to take up another course to fulfill the minimum amount of credits to be a full time student in this semester. Have you thought of what you would like to add?”

“Not exactly,” Emil said, staring at the corner of Ludwig’s screen where about seven new email notifications from frantic students at the edge of add-drop period scrambled to change their majors.

“Well, I can tell you that you still have some gen eds that you would have to fulfill,” said Ludwig. “One social studies and one art course. That would be good to take care of while you are still a first year.”

“Mm,” Emil said.

“And if you’re up for a challenge, or have interest in specific topics, there are certainly some classes in the one thousand level that have extra space.”

“Mm.”

“Or since you’re already quite ahead in your credits, you can explore a topic for your own enrichment.”

“Mm.”

Ludwig gave Emil a look of pleading exasperation. Emil fixed his gaze stubbornly on the window.

“What is your preference?” Ludwig said.

Emil pursed his lips. He knew that it was harder on Ludwig than on him to deal with his unhelpful indecision, but it did not give him any clearer opinion on what he ought to do. Maybe he should have bitten the bullet and stayed in Professor Roderich’s class. Maybe he should have thought of this before the semester started. Maybe he should have never applied to a university so far from home. Maybe he should have never graduated high school, in general.

“I guess finish my gen ed courses,” Emil said.

Ludwig nodded with enthusiasm for the both of them.

“So, an art course and a social studies course,” said Ludwig. “We have several art courses that are available for you here. Let’s see…”

Ludwig pulled up all the available courses for the semester that would fulfill an art credit. The array of choices made Emil’s eyes blur.

“How about Intro to Film?” said Ludwig. “That would cover your art credit, and also give you an extra English credit if you’re looking into pursuing a certificate.”

“A certificate?” Emil said. “What for?”

“Certification for Digital Media, if that interests you,” Ludwig said.

Emil sputtered.

“I don’t even know what my major is!” he said. “What’s a certificate going to do for me?”

“You don’t have to take it for a certificate,” Ludwig said quickly as Emil buried his face in his hands. “I just meant that it was a nice way to kill two birds with one stone if--”

“But I don’t want to kill birds,” Emil said. “I don’t even know what birds to kill. What kind of person am I if I went around killing random birds just because society tells me that’s how to get a job?”

He slumped back into his seat, letting out a huff of distress. He supposed that he needn’t yell about it, but he had to affirm himself that he made a solid point. Ludwig, in the meantime, only rubbed his brow wearily.

“No certification then,” said Ludwig. “But if we just look at art credits, would that interest you?”

“What is the class like?” Emil said.

“Well...”

“Class, I want you to write this down. Soviet cinema banks on violently killing off every character that has a face on screen. You can quote me on that, I have a doctorate.”

Leon Wang, Emil’s roommate, scribbled this down on his notebook, if only because he knew it would make a solid tweet later on. Professor Alfred F. Jones paced about the front of the room, whizzing through his PowerPoint presentation faster than any of the students could actually take notes.

“Battleship Potemkin? Dead,” said Alfred. “Strike? Dead. A five-second example of the Kuleshov effect? Dead baby. Basically, if you want to make a Soviet montage, kill a bunch of farmers from different camera angles.”

“Professor Jones?” One student raised their hand in the back.

“Call me Alfred,” Alfred said, flashing a dazzling grin. “What’s up?”

“Can you go back to the last slide with all the notes?” they said.

“Fine, but you all gotta catch up faster than that,” Alfred said.

He backspaced on the PowerPoint, skipping through the past fifteen or so slides that he had flew through in half a minute until he reached the slide of haphazard bullet points.

“So, to recap,” said Alfred. “Soviet montage wasn’t necessarily trying to break the rules of cinema. Leave that to the French in the sixties, God help them. But Eisenstein and Kuleshov in particular wanted to use editing differently, to create a synergetic meaning through editing shots together that, by itself, wouldn’t communicate that. Sort of like how on Instagram, you can either build a collage or just have multiple photos in a post, and the effect of it is different depending on how you arrange it, right?”

“What?” said Leon.

“So there you go,” Alfred said. Leon sighed and wrote Instagram = Soviet montage (?) in his notebooks, and hoped that Alfred upload the slides onto Blackboard later today.

“But here’s the wild thing,” said Alfred. “Soviet montage outlived the USSR. Stalin is dead! But even in the play-it-safe boon of Hollywood, we still use those seemingly weird and non-linear montage editing for our movies. Take Arrival. Has anyone here not seen Arrival?”

Several hands went up in the air. Alfred threw a dry erase board marker on the floor.

“Too bad! Spoilers alert,” he said. “The reason why you go into the movie thinking that it is being told in a linear manner, and that Amy Adams’ daughter dies in the beginning of the story, is through the Kuleshov effect. You see her in the beginning of the movie watching her daughter die, and then the scene cuts to her going to work. And you--the audience, you think she looks so sad and distant and uninterested in the news about these octopus aliens because of the recent death of her daughter. But actually you only think that because the two scenes are put back to back. Her face was really just neutral, but because of editing you think they are related, when it is actually a flash forward--or flashback. Dead baby!”

Leon nodded fervently, writing with a little more vigor in his notebook. Maybe Alfred actually did know what he was talking about. He made sense, which was more than he could ask for in a college course. This course made him feel excitable, to relish the honor and merit of his favorite medium, handing back to it the dignity it deserved.

“Or like in this one episode of Lizzie McGuire,” said Alfred.

Leon blanked immediately.

“There is this one scene I remember,” Alfred said, his eyes widening with nostalgia. “I don’t remember the characters’ names at all, or the plot, or if this was even an episode of Lizzie McGuire, but I’m kind of certain that it was on the TV when I was about ten years old. Anyway, there was a scene where this boy, no idea who he was, maybe he was like, Hilary Duff’s little brother or something? Anyway, he had a dirty nose and his mom was like, you got a dirty nose and when and licked a napkin or something to clean it off, and then it would suddenly cut to an unrelated, non-narrative shot of a lion licking her cub’s face, and then cut back to the mom wiping the dirt off her kid’s face. The lion has nothing to do with the story, but it was edited in there to make a more symbolic comparison, to emphasize the overbearing nature of the mother. Disney Channel was flexing its Soviet montage, baby!”

Alfred sped through several tens other PowerPoint slides that looked like they held vital information. Leon leaned over to the student sitting next to him.

“What the hell is Lizzie McGuire?” he whispered.

“All right, fifteen minute break commences now,” Alfred said, closing his laptop while students desperately scribbled the last of the bullet points with their aching hands. “Second half of class, we’ll get right into the film. Unfortunately, if you graduate from this school with a film degree and not know what the Odessa steps are, you aren’t going to make it out alive in Hollywood or wherever the hell you guys want to go. So we’re going to have to watch some Eisenstein. I’m so sorry, everyone.”

While other students went to use the restroom, or checked their text messages on their phones, Leon flipped through the syllabus for this course once more. He was hopeful that they would watch a John Woo film in this course, which did not seem like a far cry from what Alfred would assign. Apparently, one of their midterms would include writing a paper applying an advanced film theory to Die Hard.

“Come on, kids!” Alfred said. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to stretch your legs. This is a four-hour course, you’ve got all the time to sit around. Don’t you know that sitting is the new smoking?”

He promptly took a bite from a box of Chick-Fil-A strips waiting for him on the podium.

(tbc?)

#hetalia #hetalia au #university au #aph america #aph germany #aph iceland #aph hong kong

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thetypewriterimproviser · 6 years ago

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Believe [Jack Kline x OC]

My first original post on tumblr. This is exciting and terrifying at the same time. This has been hanging around in my ‘Writing’ folder for a few months and figured I should do something about it. I guess it was meant to be a oneshot, but it would be so easy to make it a more-than-one-shot.

It’s been a little while since I’ve had reliable WiFi to watch SPN on Netflix, so this is going to be pretty canon-divergent. Deal with it.

Title : Believe Pairing : Jack Kline x fem!OC Warnings : Nothing to bad, mentions of some serious homophobia and the death of a family member, some OOCness maybe Summary : Jack meets a girl while out for a walk. Basically some agnsty fluff I own nothing but my OC. Please be nice to me.

“Can I go outside?”

The question broke through the silence of the bunker.

It was late afternoon and it had been quiet all day. No one dared to do more than turn a page in a book or type on a laptop; none of the men wanted to jinx or break the calm that had settled over the unconventional home.

The question asked by the young Jack Kline had been the first words spoken in hours.

“Uh, yeah, Jack.” It was Sam Winchester who answered. “Go ahead.”

Grinning at the hunter’s words, the half-angel leapt to his feet and pulled on his jacket.

“Hey—Stay close,” the older Winchester called as Jack ascended the metal stairs to the door.

“I will, Dean,” Jack assured with a nod of his head. “I just want to stretch my legs and get some fresh air.”

Sam and Dean made soft grunts to indicate they heard the Nephilim, but they had already gone back to their respective quiet activities; Sam was reading a book (he was working his way through the series Game of Thrones was based on) and Dean was doing something on a laptop.

Once outside the bunker, Jack took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs rather than the stale air of the bunker. After looking around, contemplating in which direction to walk, he set off to the wooded area just across the dirt road the Impala roared down when the hunters came and went.

During his short life, Jack realized it was normal for one to spend time by themselves. Dean worked on his beloved Baby, Sam read fiction books, and Castiel left for short periods of time, side-stepping questions about where he had been. Jack read all the time, and he didn’t know anything about cars, so he opted for a Castiel-like approach; going off somewhere.

Like he told Sam he would, Jack stayed relatively close to the bunker, taking great care not to get lost. Every now and then, he reminded himself that he could simply pop back into the bunker with the powers that came along with his grace, but after some thought, the Nephilim chose the human way. He also chose not to think about his grace, aside from the errant thought. After spending so much time trying to gain more control over the power within him in the recent months, Jack wanted to take a break.

All I’ve done is give myself headaches and bloody noses and moved a pencil a few feet. Jack shoved his fists in his pockets and kicked a pine cone as the thought came across his mind.

Jack chose to focus on the trees and environment around him; with his heightened senses, he could see the small droplets of water on the leaves and suspended between pine needles. His feet made soft crunching sounds on the ground, and he found the sound oddly satisfying, almost calming. Now and then, the chatter of a squirrel or the song of a bird rang clear in his ears, causing Jack to stop walking and try to find the animal from which the sound came. The tiny creatures amazed him; they were so small, so breakable, yet the species continued to survive for millions or years of years.

While he listened to the song of a plump bird with an orange breast, Jack heard the sound of tires screeching to a halt on gravel in the distance. It was soon followed by the slam of a vehicle door. The bird flew away when the slam echoed through the woods, bouncing off trees in a way Jack found very distracting.

When Jack heard the footsteps stamping through the trees, his first impression was that the footsteps sounded angry. The angry footsteps began walking in the general direction of the half-angel, so he made a slight turn so his own path didn’t cross that of the angry footsteps.

It wasn’t until Jack stopped to watch a mother rabbit and her small brood under a tree that he noticed the angry footsteps were quite close. It wasn’t hard for his sharp eyes to make out the shape of the person stomping through the woods. They had their hands in fists at their side, shaking with absolute rage. His curiosity was piqued, but Jack hesitated in following—Sometimes people wanted to be alone, and, as Dean put it, Jack could be annoying at times.

He hadn’t even taken a step before a particular sound hit his ears; a sob. The angry footsteps belonged to a person who was crying. The sadness in that sob seemed to contradict the anger expressed in their cadence. Jack took a couple steps towards the sobbing, angry-footed person out of sympathy and curiosity, debating if he should approach them.

Suddenly, a scream pierced the calm.

Jack flinched in surprise at the sound. He quickly jogged towards the sound, questions flashing through his mind. Where they hurt? Was someone attaching them?

When he broke into a clearing, he took in the sight before him in a matter of seconds.

An octagonal sort of building, which was little more than a floor and roof held up with slim pieces of wood, a low railing was along the floor, and led into the railings of the three small steps. The owner of the angry footsteps was a girl. She looked about the same age as Jack’s body, but was much smaller—more petite. Her little hands where in tight fists, shaking at her sides as she leaned forward slightly as another scream ripped out of her throat.

When she stopped to take a ragged inhale, Jack spoke.

“Why are you screaming?”

The innocent question made the girl jump around and let out a short, high-pitched shriek. She looked at Jack with a tear-stained, confused face as she clutched her hands to her chest.

“I’m sorry,” the boy said earnestly, ducking his head slightly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The girl sniffed loudly, shaking her head. Her hands, no longer clutched to her chest, raked her hair back from her face, as the strands were getting stuck to her wet cheeks. “No, no it’s ok…I just wasn’t expecting anybody to be out here.”

Jack nodded at the explanation. “Why were you screaming?”

She let out a laugh that didn’t sound all that happy, and harshly wiped the tears from her face with the cuffs of her sweater. “I…I’ve had a very hard day, and-and I just had to scream. Let it all out, you know?”

The brunet boy simply tilted his head slightly to one side and furrowed his brows in confusion. “Did screaming help?”

The girl laughed again, but it sounded a little more genuine than the previous one. “I dunno…Kinda, I guess…Sure didn’t make me feel worse.”

There was a pause.

“I-I’m Harlow,” the girl said, moving to sit on the steps of the funny little building. She gave a tight-lipped smile that she tried to portray as genuine, but it made her look like she was in pain.

Jack realized he was supposed to say his name, now. “I’m Jack.”

Harlow had her elbow on her knee, and her chin on her hand. She sighed heavily. “What’er you doin’ way out here, Jack?”

Remaining where he stood at the edge of the trees, the Nephilim answered honestly. “I’m out for a walk, I wanted some fresh air. What about you?”

Curiously, Harlow didn’t answer Jack’s question. Instead, she looked around at the worn wooden building. “You know, my dad built this gazebo.”

“What’s a gazebo?” Jack asked innocently. The confused, disbelieving look on the girl’s face made him shift on his feet. “I…had a very sheltered upbringing.”

Sam had said something similar to a waitress while Jack was in awe of the honey-comb pattern in his waffle, having never had or seen one before.

Harlow seemed to accept the answer with a slight nod and gestured to the octagonal building behind her. “This is a gazebo…Well, it’s a very run down gazebo…My dad built it for his wedding to my mom—They got married way out here with just a priest, themselves, and a handful of close friends.”

Jack nodded, and slowly approached the gazebo. He raised a hand to touch one of the railings. It was covered in chipped varnish that flaked off at his touch, and at least two decades of dirt made a film over it. The railings on seven sides of the gazebo were held up by intricately carved flowers, spirals and spokes.

“This is a beautiful creation,” Jack commented. He found it amazing that the trees around Harlow and him could be turned into the small building—a gazebo—with human hands. “Your father is very talented.”

“Yeah, he really was.” Harlow’s voice was soft with emotion, but slightly raspy from her crying and screaming. She looked over her shoulder at the floor of the gazebo. She dragged her fingers through the dirt on the smooth floor, making pattern of wavy lines. “He’s gone now.”

Jack’s heart filled with sympathy once again. He took a step so he stood next to Harlow as she sat on the worn wooden steps. “My mother’s gone, too. She’s in Heaven now.”

“I’m sorry,” Harlow croaked out, coughing once and clearing her throat after. Jack could feel the honesty and warmth from her words, and it made him feel oddly safe. Her voice was smoother the next time she spoke. “How old were you?”

A conversation with Dean and Castiel came to Jack’s mind. They told him that he shouldn’t say some things to ‘normal’ people, his actual age being one of them. Because Jack didn’t want to outrightly lie to people, Dean told him about ‘half-truths.’ “She died when I was born.”

“Oh…I’m sorry.” Harlow was just as sincere as before, looking up at Jack with wide brown eyes. The color reminded Jack of whisky. When he held her gaze, Harlow’s cheeks turned pink and she looked down at her skirt. No longer holding each other’s gaze, the half-angel took the opportunity to look at Harlow more carefully.

She was a small human; shorter and slimmer than Jack was. Her hair was a deep, dark brown—almost black—and hung far past her shoulder blades in a natural way. There were some pins stuck in the thick waves, and Jack could smell something vaguely chemical from her hair; Harlow apparently wanted to tame her brunette mane with product and pins. He had an inkling that it would look much nicer if she had left it in its natural state. She was dressed quite formally in a black skirt, a white collared shirt under a black sweater, sheer black tights, and black shoes that were probably once shiny, but stomping through the woods had made them less so.

Harlow looked up at Jack again.

He had been caught staring, felt an uncomfortable heat creek up is cheeks, and he pursed his lips whist trying to smile. While Harlow’s irises were a warm whisky brown, her eyes were red and puffy. He recalled the sobs he heard earlier. “Why were you crying?”

She looked down at her hands, picking at the pale purple varnish on her fingernails. Harlow’s gaze flickered to Jack, and a smile tugged at her lips briefly. She sniffled. “You can sit down, you know. Don’t have to stand around like scarecrow.”

Although he didn’t completely understand what he meant, Jack sat on the steps next to the human girl. He was significantly taller than Harlow even while sitting; the top of her head was level with his shoulder.

Neither spoke as Jack settled on the squeaky step and the silence continued for a while after. He supposed that she would speak when she was ready, so he admired the woods while he waited.

“I came here from my brother’s funeral,” Harlow said, seeming to answer Jack’s question. She began picking at her nail polish more aggressively. “We were really close…He was my best friend, really. I’m having a hard time trying to imagine my life without him.”

“I’m sorry.” Jack parroted the words she’d said earlier, but with the same sympathy and earnestness she had.

Harlow let out a gross sniffle, wiped her nose and mouth with her sleeve and shrugged. “He’s with our dad now, I guess…Better him be there with him than here with our mom.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked, both curious and confused by her words. Even if Harlow’s brother was in Heaven, how was it preferable to remaining living?

“My mom is very religious, and Beau, my brother, was gay,” Harlow mumbled, glancing to Jack, who still had a confused look on his face. She managed a small smile of amusement and let out a chuckle. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about being sheltered, were you?”

Jack’s cheeks turned pink, and he looked at his lap with a closed lipped, embarrassed smile.

“Beau was homosexual. He liked boys, not girls. Romantic-liking, you know?” Harlow explained briefly, then trailed off. She sighed heavily. “Beau liked boys and not girls like my mom said he should…He liked boys, and my mom just hated him for it.”

Jack nodded slowly as he absorbed and processed the information. “What does your mother’s religious beliefs have to do with her hating your brother for being gay?”

“Oh, I am not the right person to ask about that.” Harlow had a wry, bright smile on her face. “I’m an atheist.”

She preemptively answered the question she just knew Jack would ask. “I don’t believe in it—Religion, I mean. None of them. I don’t think there’s any higher power out there with some master plan for everyone.”

Before he could stop himself, Jack blurted out a question. “What about angels?”

Harlow shrugged. “I believe in what I can see, and I’ve never seen a guy in a white robe with a halo and fluffy wings.”

Jack remained quiet. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Harlow’s words; she didn’t believe in half of him. But, she also didn’t know she didn’t believe in half of him. As far as she was concerned, Jack was as human as she was. Suddenly, the Nephilim had an illuminating thought. With her, he could be human. They could have a human, uncomplicated, natural friendship. No angels or demons, no angel blades—It was very hard for Jack not to smile at the idea; a normal friendship.

The human girl had nearly removed all the nail polish on her right hand, so she turned to her tights, beginning to pick at the thin strands. Quickly, there was a large run over the left knee. “She said it was good he was dead.”

The half-angel’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“At Beau’s wake…People get up and say all sorts of nice things, you know? Well, everyone had great things to say about him. He was really smart, played football in school, and he volunteered at the animal shelter on the weekends. His football coach talked, most of his teachers, the guy who oversaw his volunteer hours at the shelter, all of his friends—Everyone was crying because he—Beau was so good and he’s gone.” Harlow sniffled, and roughly wiped her hands over her face. “Then dear old mom stood at the podium, and in front of everybody—There had to be a hundred people crammed into that room—She-She says she’s glad Beau is dead and-and now he can’t embarrass our family anymore and that the Devil was whispering in his ear and that he’s-he’s burning in Hell and-and she’s happy about it!”

Jack could only watch helplessly as the human girl dissolve into tears.

Suddenly, the Nephilim felt something rub against his grace. Curious, Jack reached out carefully, and he nearly gasped at what he felt.

He was feeling Harlow’s soul.

Because of the grace he possessed from his angelic side, Jack had the ability to feel people’s souls. He couldn’t naturally feel anything, but because he was tuned into humans in a way that angels were not, if he focused hard enough, or a person was feeling hard enough, flickers of the soul would peek out and his grace could feel it. He spent a lot of time with Sam and Dean, so feeling flickers of their ragged, resilient energy was common for Jack.

That was nothing like Harlow’s soul.

Harlow’s soul was bright; Jack swore it was illuminating her eyes from within her. Her soul was bright, kind, and warm. When his grace brushed up against the aura of Harlow’s soul, he felt like he’d just drank a cup of hot chocolate on a cold day; it warmed him from the inside. Seeing someone with such a pure soul expressing such utter sadness broke his heart. This wasn’t a flicker like Jack had felt before, this was like Harlow’s soul was exploding from her petite body and his grace was just standing in the way.

“Can I hug you?”

Still crying, Harlow looked at him. She was a bit surprised, but nodded slowly. She turned a bit to face Jack and leaned her body towards his until her forehead was resting on his shoulder. Jack wrapped both arms around Harlow, carful not to squeeze too hard. She didn’t wrap her arms around him in return like he expected. He was about to let her go, but the comfort and thankfulness that bled through her soul and into Jack’s grace prompted him to hang on. He moved his thumb up and down over Harlow’s sweater-clad arm. He’d seen couples embrace on TV in a similar way; he copied them farther by gently resting his chin on the crown of the human girl’s head. Harlow eventually embraced him back, her hands coming to rest on his sides, under his jacket. The heat from her palm seeped through the white t-shirt he wore.

As if the universe knew what needed to happen, when Harlow’s hand touched Jack, only a thin layer of cotton between them, the Nephilim felt her soul more intensely than anything he’d ever experienced. It was like her hand touched his grace, not him, and the contact made Jack shiver in an unfamiliar way. He hugged Harlow closer in response, his eyes closing and brows furrowing as the feeling consumed him. The power he struggled to contain and control was calm. He no longer felt like a glass bottle struggling to keep the cork from bursting out the neck, or that there was an inner battle raging inside him with each side urging him to make a good or bad choice. He felt at peace. Harlow’s soul felt warm in comparison to the comfortable temperature of his grace, and he couldn’t recall a moment he felt so normal.

After some time, became used to the feeling and Jack felt like he needed to say something. “I’m sorry what your mother said made you cry.”

The human let out a teary laugh. “You’re a special guy, Jack. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

He nodded in response, his chin moving against her hair. “They have, yes.”

That made Harlow laugh even more, genuine laughter. She leaned back and again wiped her face with her cuff. “I’m sorry to just…To unload all this on you. If you’re walking through the woods alone, you must be going through your own stuff.”

Jack’s brows furrowed as he thought. “I’m not really supposed to tell people about it.”

“I get it,” Harlow sighed softly, very aware that although Jack had dropped one arm, his other remained over her shoulders. She scooted closer to him; the sun we setting and the temperature was dropping, and Jack absolutely radiated warmth. “According to my mom, I’m not supposed to tell anybody that Beau is gay. But it’s not like he kept it a secret, most people knew anyway.”

“If you’re not supposed to talk about it, why’d you tell me?” Jack asked curiously. “If my father told me not to talk about something, I wouldn’t.”

“No, no I get it,” Harlow mumbled, playing with the run in her tights. It spanned her knee and up her thigh. “But sometimes things are just too…They’re just too heavy and you just gotta tell someone.”

Jack nodded, his thumb still moving slowly against Harlow’s shoulder.

“Given all that…I gotta ask that you don’t tell anybody about what I told you.” She seemed ashamed that she had to ask that of him.

“I won’t,” Jack assured her, a closed lipped smile on his face.

Harlow smiled, this time it was playful. “Pinky promise?”

Looking between her face, and the hand held towards him with a pinky finger, with the remains of the light purple varnish around her cuticle, extended from a closed fist. “What’s a pinky promise?”

Harlow smiled softly at his naiveite. “It’s like…It’s like a stronger promise. Just wrap your pinky around mine.”

The Nephilim put his hand out in the same position as Harlow’s and curled his little finger around hers. Jack glanced at her for approval, which was given by way of Harlow’s gentle smile and nodding head. She shook their interlocked fingers once, then let his go. “Congratulations, Jack. You just took part in your first pinky promise.”

Jack responded by grinning wide, making Harlow smile as well. She eventually blushed and ducked her head. “You know, I probably should’a left a while ago…I should technically be at the stupid buffet planned after the wake.”

“Why didn’t you go earlier, then?”

The human girl looked away shyly. “I dunno…I like talking with you…Makes me feel happy, and I’m not happy very often.”

Jack’s grin turned into a softer smile; he was honored Harlow felt that way, but when she said she wasn’t happy very often, his concern grew. He watched Harlow tuck her hair behind her ear; Jack saw four earrings in the revealed ear. Two small gold stars, a small dark blue stone, and at the top curve of her ear, was a small gold hoop. “I’m happy I can make you feel happy.”

Harlow looked Jack in the eye. Her whisky irises were still swimming in red, but were brighter than before. “Good.”

It was quiet for some time after that, both Jack and Harlow feeling comfortable in each other’s silence as they sat on the gazebo steps. The sun was just a sliver on the horizon now, but neither felt the urge to leave right away.

The human was the one to break the silence. “I really should go now.”

“I should return home as well,” Jack admitted.

After taking a second to compose herself, Harlow got up. She let out a little disgruntled sound that Jack found very amusing as she inspected her tights. He stood as well and watched as she took her phone and car keys from the gazebo floor.

“Can I see you again?” Jack asked, smiling hopefully at the human girl.

She shyly smiled back and bit her bottom lip so she didn’t smile. The boy looked like a puppy, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands at his sides, eyes shining and brown hair flopping over his eyes. “Yeah, yeah I’d like that…What’s your number?”

Jack stopped his puppy-like antics, and looked from Harlow with his confused, slightly tilted face. “What number?”

Harlow laughed a little, ducking her head. “You phone number, Jack.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding in understanding. “I don’t have a phone.”

The human girl smiled wider and nodded after a moment of thought. “That actually doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Can we meet here again? At your gazebo?” Jack looked hopefully to Harlow, and there was no way she was going to find the willpower to deny the sweet boy.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Great! Can you come back tomorrow?” Jack was grinning once again and radiating hope. “Same time?”

Harlow nodded, her cheeks pink, and spoke softly. “Yeah…See ‘ya tomorrow, Jack.”

“See you tomorrow Harlow!” Jack responded enthusiastically.

The Nephilim stood by the gazebo, waving briefly, as the human girl walked away. He stood there until he couldn’t see Harlow’s dark brown hair through the trees anymore. A few minutes later, a vehicle door opened and closed. Jack let out a sigh as the sound of an engine and tires on gravel faded into the distance.

“Hey kid,” Dean greeted, hardly looking up from the book open before him. “How was your walk?”

“Very nice,” Jack answered, trying to suppress his smile. “I’m going on another one tomorrow.”

Worth continuing?

#jack kline #jack kline x oc #fem!oc #sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural #SPN #team free will 2.0 #alex calvert #supernatural one shot #jack kline oneshot #nephilim #slight jack kline x oc #jack kline fluff #jack kline x reader

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jenmedsbookreviews · 7 years ago

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So. You will all be delighted to learn that I survived my two day meeting. So did my management team so that’s nice. For them. For now … Other momentous achievements in the week, as there have been few I have to be brutally honest, I achieved the ‘Approved’ badge on Netgalley where in one day I doubled my auto approval status from two to four publishers. Go me. exciting times ahead.

Or something.

In more exciting news, for the first time since around Christmas, I received book post. Not one book. Not even two books. Four books! Yes folks, four lovely jubbly books. I am beside myself with excitement. Well I am beside the cat who is lying across my feet as I work on my laptop, but if I rename her ‘Myself with Excitement’ then I am strictly not lying. It is harder to remember than Luna and in all honesty she doesn’t look exactly impressed, but I’m sure with time we’ll both get used to it. It’s more polite than the names I usually call her when she bounces off my head at three in the morning.

But you probably aren’t interested in my domestic arrangements so I’ll tell you about the books instead. First up was a double header from Orenda, two books I am very excited about reading. One was We Were The Salt Of The Sea by Roxanne Bouchard, the second, and this induced a small amount of bounciness to be fair, was Keeper by Johana Gustawsson. I know right? Super happy book blogger over here then. I also received two more books, no less exciting than the first two, in the shape of Evidence of Death by Peter Ritchie and Kate Riordan’s The Stranger, although technically that one is for Mandie who is taking part in the blog tour on behalf of Jen Med’s.

Aren’t they pretty? I’ve concluded that book post is like buses. You wait for weeks then loads come along at once. I am going to assume the bus/bookpost union is going to declare a strike agin now for a few weeks but it was fun while it lasted. Not to be deterred, and because it would be a shame not to use my new found auto-approved statuses, I may have downloaded a few books from the old Netgalley. Purely for blog tours – lets not go mad now.

I found it absolutely necessary to pick up the following treats: Found Drowned by BK Duncan; The Craftsman by Sharon Bolton; The Pact by SE Lynes and The Little Cottage On The Hill by Emma Davies. Blog tours books. Each and every one, I swear.

Depending on your point of view (i.e. whather or not you own Amazon) I’ve been pretty good purchase wise this week. Sort of. Just a few new preorders and books I realised I hadn’t preordered that i should have. You know? The essentials. First up was Blue Night by Simone Buchholz; a Quick Reads title – Clean Break by Tammy Cohen; Killer On The Run and Hidden Agenda by MA Comley; Finders Keepers by KT Finch and White Lies by Lucy Dawson.

A couple of audible purchase may have fell into my shopping basket too. This Is How It Ends by Eva Dolan; The Wicked Cometh by Laura Carlin; The Silent Wife by Kerry Fisher.

Lots of road trips coming up. I need the company. As I was quite bogged down with meetings this week, I’ve been struggling with the reading. Still managed to clear a few, and fluffing good reads they were too. One confused the fluff out of me mind as the central family’s name was Lucas, the character had and Aunt Jenny (Lucas) and her father was Patrick (Pat). Pat happens to have been my mother’s name. Talk about yer deja vu moments …

Books I Have Read

Perfect Death – Helen Fields

There’s no easy way to die…

Unknown to DI Luc Callanach and the newly promoted DCI Ava Turner, a serial killer has Edinburgh firmly in his grip. The killer is taking his victims in the coldest, most calculating way possible – engineering slow and painful deaths by poison, with his victims entirely unaware of the drugs flooding their bloodstream until it’s too late.

But how do you catch a killer who hides in the shadows? A killer whose pleasure comes from watching pain from afar? Faced with their most difficult case yet, Callanach and Turner soon realise they face a seemingly impossible task…

The third book in the Luc Callanach series, I’ll be reviewing this as part of the blog tour this time next week. perhaps slightly slower in pace than the others, or maybe that was just me, it was no less tense nad the risks for Luc and Eva as high as ever. You can order your own copy right here.

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The Reunion – Samantha Hayes

They were all there the day your sister went missing. Who is lying? Who is next?

THEN – In charge of her little sister at the beach, Claire allowed Eleanor to walk to the shop alone to buy an ice cream. Placing a coin into her hand, Claire told her to be quick, knowing how much she wanted the freedom.

Eleanor never came back.

NOW – The time has finally come to sell the family farm and Claire is organising a reunion of her dearest friends, the same friends who were present the day her sister went missing.

When another girl disappears, long-buried secrets begin to surface. One of the group hides the darkest secret of them all…

This is it. The book that confused me. Doesn’t take much. Tense and littered with secrets, this book gripped me from the off, taking only a few hours to devour. My review will be published soon but you can preorder your own copy here.

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The Collector – Fiona Cummins

Jakey escaped with his life and moved to a new town. His rescue was a miracle but his parents know that the Collector is still out there, watching, waiting . . .

Clara, the girl he left behind, dreams of being found. Her mother is falling apart but she will not give up hope.

The Collector has found an apprentice to take over his family’s legacy. But he can’t forget the one who got away and the detective who destroyed his dreams.

DS Etta Fitzroy must hunt him down before his obsession destroys them all.

I have been sitting on this book (not literally) since the summer, promising myself I would read it, but thinking I should wait a little closer to publication. I loved Rattle. Could The Collector leave me with the same feeling? Well, you’ll find out very soon when I publish my review but you can order your own copy for Kindle right now. Hardback is out in a couple of weeks and can be ordered here.

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Quick Reads: Inspector Chopra and the Million Dollar Motor Car – Vaseem Khan

An enchanting Baby Ganesh Agency short story: a million-dollar car is missing. Chopra has two days to find it, or the gangster who bought it will not be happy.

The Premier No.1 Garage is the place to go in Mumbai if you want a luxury car. Even Mumbai’s biggest gangster shops there – he’s just ordered a classic race car worth millions.

But now the car is gone. Stolen from a locked room, in the middle of the night.

Who stole it? The mechanic who is addicted to gambling? The angry ex-worker? The car thief pulling off one last job?

And how on earth did they make it vanish from the locked garage?

Inspector Chopra has just days to find the culprit – and the missing car – before its gangster owner finds out … and takes violent revenge.

Does exactly what it says on the tin. About an hours worth of a very fun Chopra and Ganesha adventure here which had me chuckling and smiling. If you love the series as I do, you won’t want to miss out so you can orders your own copy here. If you haven’t read any Chopra books, it’s a really goo taster of what you are missing.

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Quick Reads: Cut Off – Mark Billingham

Step into a thrilling Quick Read from number one bestselling crime fiction author Mark Billingham. It’s the moment we all fear: losing our phone, leaving us cut off from family and friends. But, for Louise, losing hers in a local café takes her somewhere much darker.

After many hours of panic, Louise is relieved when someone gets in touch offering to return the phone. From then on she is impatient to get back to normal life.

But when they meet on the beach, Louise realises you should be careful what you wish for…

Another quick read title but one which will certainly make you stop and think about how over connected we are to our phones and technology and what happens when you lose it. Do you also lose sight of the danger right in front of your eyes if only viewing the world through the sight on your camera phone? You can order your own copy here.

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That was it. Not too much, not too shabby. Probably just right all things considered. I had a pretty full on week on the blog as well, sticking to my resolution of cutting back and posting every day …

Bloody Scotland: Stars of Scottish crime writing to get bloody in Kolkata

Guest Review: Dancing Over The Hill by Cathy Hopkinsths

Review: The Legacy by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

#BlogTour: Little Liar by Clare Boyd

#BlogTour: We Own The Sky by Luke Allnutt

#BlogTour: Black Heart by Anna-Lou Weatherley

#BlogTour: Dark Angel by Helen Durrant

Cover Reveal: Rachel Amphlett – Kay Hunter is back … soon

No so busy week coming up but still managed to shoe-horn in a couple of blog tours with Killed by Thomas Enger on Wednesday, Blue Night by Simone Buchholz on Friday and The Lying Kind by Alison James on Saturday.

This week is a bit mixed. Health and Safety meeting tomorrow morning (boo hiss) followed by the afternoon off and a trip down to London for First Monday Crime (yay!!!!!!). Back to Londinium on Wednesday as I am visiting a unit but otherwise I will be desk bound, no doubt messing with something in excel. I usually am and as month end has been and gone while I was in other meetings, I have quite a bit to catch up on. My life is so glam. Not. Did manage to book tickets for the Orenda Roadshow in Warwick in a couple of weeks though, so not all bad.

Have a fabulous week all. See you on the other side.

Jen

Rewind, recap: Weekly update w/e 04/02/18 So. You will all be delighted to learn that I survived my two day meeting. So did my management team so that's nice.

#Rewind Recap #Weekly Round UP

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