#its bear season again folks!

[shitpostingkats]

Ah yes, it's that time of year again:

When singing little nonsense songs as you get out of your car at night changes from A Fun Little Whimsy to Bears Please Don't Eat Me

[whenmemorydies]

Lessons of a mentor: every second counts

The Bear brainrot continues unabated and a character that has been sitting at the back of my mind since I first watched 2x07 Forks has been Chef Terry. Her influence is felt in a multitude of ways throughout season 2, most notably via the impact she's had on her former chefs, Carmen and Luca. What fascinates me more about Chef Terry though are the parallels between her and Syd and the home truths that both these powerhouse women keep dropping (and which many a loudmouth dude on this show keep missing...*womp*).

Lots more under the cut. This is a long post but this show is so bloody juicy I couldn't help myself!

Who is Chef Terry?

So quick recap: Chef Terry is the Executive Chef at Ever, a 3-Michelin starred restaurant in Chicago, loosely based on and shot on location at the actual Ever. In the show, the restaurant opened in 2012 and was awarded "the best restaurant in the world" that same year.

In 2x07 Forks as Richie walks past portraits of Ever's alumni, we learn that both Carmen and Chef Luca (now based in Copenhagen, Denmark) both worked at the restaurant together, under Chef Terry. This is previously hinted at in 2x04 Honeydew when Luca talks to Marcus about working with a chef who worked "harder and faster than [Luca] ever could," and who inadvertently pushed Luca to get "better than [Luca] possibly could be, just from trying to keep up with him."

Chefs Carmen and Luca at Ever.

In 2x07 Forks, we get Chef Terry's origin story as she recounts it to Richie, who Carmy has sent to Ever to stage for a week. We learn that:

Chef Terry, like Richie and Syd, is an only child. She likely had a tense relationship with her father (who we learn was a Corporal in the military) before he passed, but is incredibly close with her mother, her only living parent.

Carm getting Richie a spot to stage at Ever was not a favour because Chef Terry doesn't do favours:

Chef Terry is quick to praise folks who try to learn. Note when she asks Richie if he'd like to peel mushrooms with her and she tells him that his first attempt is great (despite the fact that process-wise, he peels them in the exact opposite direction she does):

She had previously tried to open "a giant place" years ago when she was younger, and by her own description, "was on fire [and was] arrogant." Chef Terry then says she moved too fast and couldn't keep the place open.

She later opened Ever after coming across the building's "For Lease" sign while walking.

Its clear from her conversation with Richie about Ever's beginnings that Chef Terry is a firm believer in it never being too late to try again:

But for me, the most important thing we learn about Chef Terry in the 5 minutes she's on screen with us, is her belief in time being well spent. When Richie first sees Chef Terry, she's quietly peeling mushrooms by herself in the kitchen. When Richie asks her why she's doing this work, instead of a stage, we get this lovely bit of dialogue:

Chef Terry then goes on to tell Richie about her father and how he kept pocket notebooks in which he made hundreds of entries about different experiences while he was on military tour.

While Chef Terry never tells Richie how her father signed off on each of his pocket notebook entries, its implied by the end of the episode, that The Bear's mantra of "every second counts" originates from those very notebooks.

This was revelatory to me. Up until Chef Terry and Richie's conversation in 2x07 Forks, "every second counts" in this show was synonymous with Carmy's "sense of urgency", taped to the pass in 1x02 Hands and tattooed across his knuckles in the form of "S O U".

Prior to 2x07 Forks, "every second counts" was wrapped up in the frenetic pace of a restaurant's back of house, with Mikey dying well before his time and by his own hand, with the panicked need to fix the regret and broken-heartedness that accompanied years of estrangement, with Donna's litany of cooking timers going off every other minute in a kitchen covered in chaos and passata. It had to do with time slipping away and the persistent, but always losing battle to try and steal it back.

But in Chef Terry's conversation with Richie, it is made clear to the audience that the lesson in "every second counts" is not about speed or clawing anything back. Those notebook entries were not made for any other reason than to describe, remember, and step into a moment. Chef Terry peels mushrooms at first light in her restaurant because it attaches her to her work and connects her to those whose bellies she fills with her food. "Every second counts" is about savouring every second that we have, while we have it, and being present in each of those moments, as much as we can.

Its about realising that every second does count because every second has meaning.

Time spent informed by this knowledge, is time well spent.

Lessons and Parallels with Sydney

Like Chef Terry, Sydney also tried to run her own business, Sheridan Road, but it "got too big too fast", and she was unable to keep up with its demands. As she tells Carmy in 1x05 Sheridan,

My credit got destroyed. I mean, my whole shit got rocked.

The failures of both of their respective businesses pushed both women into the depths of existential crisis. Chef Terry tells Richie how she had been "unemployed, angry, depressed", and "blaming everybody else for all the time I'd lost."

While Sydney never makes an admission like this about the fallout of Sheridan Road, the depth of the impact of that failure on her is clearly apparent in the show, most notably in 2x09 Omelette. In this episode, Syd's father Emmanuel asks her why she is putting so much pressure on herself to be successful with The Bear. Syd responds, its because she doesn't know if she could start another business.

Later in the same episode, we hear Syd's even more vulnerable admission to Carm about her fear of failure, under that pretense for intimacy table.

Like Chef Terry, Sydney does not do favours. Recall when she fixed Tina's bouquet garni-infused cream in 1x04 Dogs after the latter kept ignoring Syd's advice on how to prep the mashed potatoes and ended up ruining her first batch of cream in the process:

Also, bonus Fak attack (lol) from the same episode:

But also like Chef Terry, Syd is generous with her praise when folks try - as opposed to only praising those who succeed. The praise is for the attempt in the moment to grow, not in the growth itself. Recall in 1x02 Hands as Syd calls out orders to Ebra, he falters and says back the wrong count. Syd gently corrects him and Ebra tries again, after which Syd says,

Gorgeous. Thank you, chef.

Its a small moment, but its one of the first times we hear the word "gorgeous" used inside The Beef. You can literally see Carmy's shock at the utterance, at the firm kindness of the exchange between Syd and Ebra. I personally like to think this might also be a moment of recognition for him, where he sees an echo of his mentor, Terry, in the woman he's about to hire as his sous chef.

And finally, of all the characters on this show, the one who seems to best understand that every second counts because every second has meaning, is Sydney. To me this is epitomised by her omnipresent notebooks in which she's always writing, clearly echoing Chef Terry's father and his will to remember the detail.

Sydney's question to her father in 2x09 Omelette is also indicative to me of a person who understands that each moment we have on this tiny blue dot is precious. When Emmanuel tells her that he doesn't think she needs to make everything "the thing" because she will always have his support, Sydney asks him,

Why can't we put everything that we have into everything that we can?

I've no doubt that Sydney's ethos, embodied by this question, is the result of the passing of her mother when she was a child. With that loss, Sydney would have learned from a young age that every second is important. She knows that you can't get more time, so you make the most of that which you have. Or in her words, you put everything you have, into everything that you can.

Its striking to me how differently Syd and Carm have interpreted the intention behind "every second counts" in the context of death and bereavement. Sydney moves through life with a drive borne out of knowing that our lives are finite and so every second contains the potential for possibility. Its why she had the guts to start her own business, had the optimism to apply to work at The Beef under a culinary hero, and had the hope to take a punt with The Bear.

In contrast to this, Carmy rails against time: at the time that he lost with Mikey, at the seconds that he might lose with each hiccup that delays a plate on the pass. For him, there's never enough time because it is constantly being snatched away.

He tells us in 2x03 Sundae that he struggles with being present in the moment and open to the world because he is always waiting for "the other shoe to drop",

I have to remind myself to breathe sometimes. I have to remind myself to be present, you know. Remind myself that the sky is not falling, that there is no other shoe. Which is incredibly difficult because there is always another shoe. I dunno, I think, you know maybe if I could provide more-more-more amusement or-or enjoyment for myself, it would be easier to provide for others, you know.

This isn't to say that Carmy isn't trying. Throughout the show, we've seen glimpses of him stopping to sit within a moment: his making time to talk to Richie about purpose in 2x01 Beef, his constant beckoning to Sydney to "say more" in both seasons 1 and 2, his return to art and drawing in season 2 - an act that physically forces you to slow down and observe detail, his repeated attempts to check in with Natalie about how she's doing despite his discomfort at the question, and most obviously, taking the time to softly, intentionally and unhurriedly comfort a worried Sydney with less than 25 minutes to open on the opening night of their restaurant.

To me, there are a number of reasons why its no surprise that Carmy is drawn to Sydney. I've mentioned a few here in this reply to @mod-doodles. Chief among them though are her consistency, her stability, and her integrity, all informed by Sydney's ethos of putting everything she has into everything she can; into making every second count, just like Carm would have seen his mentor Chef Terry do while he was at Ever.

I reckon Carmy's ultimate challenge in The Bear is going to be getting to the realisation that Chefs Terry, Sydney and even Luca (recall his chat about "openness" with Marcus in 2x04 Honeydew) have already reached: that because every second counts, happiness and peace - indeed amusement and enjoyment - are to be found in the doing, in the process, in the getting there, together. I'm sure by the end of our journey with these lovingly crafted characters, Carm will get there too.

Author's note:

Incidental to the above is this show's God-tier level casting. Storer and Calo have made it a point to cast famous and immensely talented actors in some of the smallest parts on this show...why? I'm thinking specifically of the casting of Jamie Lee Curtis as matriarch/walking emotional vortex Donna Berzatto and Olivia Colman as Capo/Chef Terry. Jamie Lee Curtis appears in The Bear throughout one full episode (2x06 Fishes) and in one scene (with everyone's favourite unproblematic king, Pete) in 2x10 The Bear. Olivia Colman appears in the show for just under 5 minutes, at the end of 2x07 Forks.

I reckon that, while the speaking parts for these characters are relatively small compared to other roles in The Bear, the casting choices here are reflective of the impact of these two characters on Carmen (in particular) and others on the show. The showrunners needed to cast folks whose reputations would precede them in order to instil in us, the audience, the same gravity of their presence as would be felt by the characters in the world of The Bear.

Donna Berzatto:

Donna's impact on the psyches of her children is huge. For evidence of this, watch the faces of Carmen, Natalie and Mikey whenever they're in proximity to their mother in 2x06 Fishes. They are constantly watching her, gauging her reactions and her levels. This is most clearly the case for Natalie who spends most of Fishes in a state of panicked fear, anticipating her mother's every move. Who better to cast as the anxiety-inducing-word-slurring-flirtatious-alcoholic Berzatto matriarch than scream queen, 80s/90s sex symbol and survivor of intergenerational substance abuse, Jamie Lee Curtis?

Chef Terry:

In contrast to Donna, Terry is a stable, consistent force of nature who has mentored successive waves of chefs that have walked through Ever's halls. She's overcome setbacks and had to relaunch herself, doing so with great success, while remaining grounded. While Olivia Colman's been plugging at acting on screen for over twenty years, she didn't reach the height of fame that she's currently enjoying until much later in her career and her life. By many public accounts, she's an incredibly talented, kind and down to earth A-lister. Also this interview with her is so Chef Terry coded I wouldn't be surprised if Calo and Storer read it and offered her the role the next day:

“There’s some amazing actors who don’t get asked back because they don’t behave very nicely,” she said. “Learn your lines, try and know everyone’s name, be on time … There’s a million people who would have your job in a second and more … who are better than you. Take your job seriously and not yourself.”

Without naming names, Colman said: “We all have actor stories of people who were unpleasant, unkind, ungenerous – and it goes around.”

Nor should actors ever become too grand to take on even a short film, she suggested: “Some people might think: ‘I don’t do that any more.’ I think that’s exciting to do. You’re going to meet new people or a new writer who might remember you later on … [Do] not get too up yourself, too grand. Work is work. If I now decided: ‘Oh, I will only do feature films,’ I might not work again.

“If you get accolades for something, enjoy it for a bit, but put it aside and pretend that hasn’t happened a week later. You still need to work and no one else will remember it either after a week. So crack on.”

Yes, Jamie Lee Curtis and Olivia Colman are fantastic actresses who could have acted the pants off their respective roles without their own personal backstories and filmographies doing any lifting...but given the limited time that they're on screen, having actresses who can bring all of that history and shorthand to the role is GOLD for quickly creating meaning and depth for the audience.

As soon as Donna first turned that corner in the kitchen in 2x06 Fishes chaotically balancing a tray of branzino in one hand and a cigarette in the other, yammering about spilling shit everywhere, I knew I was in for a ride. Likewise, as soon as Chef Terry gently suggested where Richie might find the polish he was looking for (instead of biting his head off because he was a mere stage and she was Capo), I knew I needed to be seated for the lesson that 2x07 Forks had been building up to all episode (and indeed that Richie's entire character arc had been building up to for almost two seasons). And phew...did these two brilliant women absolutely deliver.

K that's the end. If you made it this far, DM me because you are probably incredibly patient, kind and like to read and I need more of that energy in my life LOL. Thanks for spending some of your precious time with me <3.

[thecapricunt1616]

Dragon Fruit (c.b. one-shot)

Blurb (More BTC!) : It wasn’t that Carmen wanted to have such a raunchy, probably downright perverted dream about using your mouth to keep himself warm while he does paperwork at The Bear. He chalked it up to the fact that his brain was a dark scary place, he didn’t know where these images of forcing your face down until there were tears leaking from your eyes and you were drooling down your chin as you gagged with your nose against his pelvis came from.

♡ One Shot Inspo: Based on ♡this♡ ask from a dear sweet anon, I hope you enjoy it! Dragon fruit, with its vibrant appearance and exotic flavor, holds a special place in ancient mythology across various cultures. In ancient Mayan mythology, dragon fruit was considered a sacred fruit symbolizing fertility and abundance. The fruit’s striking appearance, with its bright pink or red flesh speckled with tiny black seeds, was believed to represent the balance between life and death. ♡ Summary: You tell Carmy about your fantasies of being woken up by him while he uses you, he takes it upon himself to bring that to life. ♡ W/C: 1.5k+ ♡ A/N: WOW 2 one-shots in one day?! it's one of those days yall!! What can I say I am literally anxiety from inside out personified and I think there will be a rush of folks after today due to the new season so I wanted to clear out my inbox as much as I could, I hope you all enjoy this!!! I can't freaking wait for the new season tonight i'm literally writing to distract myself hahah ♡ Warnings for BTC: Smut, Somnophelia, Swearing, Dirty talk, Wet dreams, Ownership kink

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It wasn’t that Carmen wanted to have such a raunchy, probably downright perverted dream about using your mouth to keep himself warm while he does paperwork at The Bear. He chalked it up to the fact that his brain was a dark scary place, he didn’t know where these images of forcing your face down until there were tears leaking from your eyes and you were drooling down your chin as you gagged with your nose against his pelvis came from. 

Well, he did. He did actually know where his dark perverted brain found the fantasy of using your body as a toy. You. You. It was your fucking fault. He never thought before that he would really enjoy something so… masochistic? He wasn’t sure if that was the word, but he knew it made him feel strange at first when you told him sometimes you wish instead of jacking off in the shower before work, that he used your body instead to get off. 

He chuckled and told you it was too early for you and he would feel bad waking you just to get off, and you told him again to just use your body to get himself off. He was dumbfounded for a moment, and asked “while you’re- like…when y’sleepin’?” And when you nodded, his eyes widened a bit. 

“I trust you, and I love you, and I always want to make you feel good. I don’t mind if you use me when I’m asleep… I actually think that’s really hot. I’ve had this dream where I woke up and you were inside me…or that I woke up and you were cumming on my face-“

“Christ babe y’cant…” he adjusts himself in his sweatpants and crossed his ankles over “y’cant say shit like that” he blushed a bit causing you to giggle

“What? Why not! It’s the truth. Remember when I told you I want you to own me? I was serious. That’s so sexy, I love belonging to you” you said and kissed his neck gently. He hummed in response, shrugging. 

“I’ll think about it” he said and went back to scrolling on his phone to avoid any more tenting in his pants. You could hardly fall asleep that night, this being- because when Carmy told you he’d think about something it meant he wasn’t ready to say yes yet, so you hoped that soon you would wake up to being painfully yet euphorically stretched from the lack of preparation, or to cum covering your lips and eyelashes. It actually made it hard to fall asleep, and Carmy already fell asleep, so it’s not like you could ask him for help. 

Instead of rectifying your issue, you just decided to continue pressing your thighs together until you were right on the edge, and then stopping, and working yourself right back up again, then stopping again, until you were so uncomfortably wet you had to allow yourself to cum, and then fell asleep in exhaustion with the hopes or dreams more like it that it would make it nice and easy for Carmy to slip his hard cock inside you come morning. 

It was as if the two of you were on the same horny wavelength - or there was something in the water? Because Carmy woke up the following morning impossibly hard after his dream. The clock read 3:22, great. 48 minutes until he was meant to be up, and his cock was achingly hard, so hard it was pulsing. The kind of ache that said he wasn’t hallucinating and he was on and off having intense vivid wet dreams all night long and had been cycling between hard and half hard all night long. 

He looked over to see you had tossed off your blanket in the night, figures - it’s hot as shit. He hadn’t even bothered with his, he just wore sweatpants to bed and he was fine with that. His eyes rake over your body, you were laid on your back, likely to keep cooler. You were wearing a tight cropped tank top that showed your peaked nipples, he swore at the sight he felt a bead of pre leak out of his tip. He looked down to see.. how fucking embarassing. He’d already cum tonight at least once, in his fucking sleep. There was a large milky white stain covering his tented cock in his sweatpants, standing tall and at attention, ready to go again. 

He shook his head a bit, sighing softly to himself and looking back over at you. His eyes continued trailing down, down, to your panties and woah. He leaned in, ever so carefully brushing his middle finger over your panties to gauge if they really did have a huge wet patch that went all the way up to your mound, and to his demise, in your sleep- still needy as ever attempt to grind into the touch, a soft, satisfied sigh leaving your lips at the found friction. 

He quickly moved his hand back, but remembered what you had said last night, the words bouncing around his skull like a broken record. 

‘I’ve had this dream where I woke up and you were inside me…or that I woke up and you were cumming on my face, I want you to own me’

He swallowed thickly, squeezing his eyes shut, telling himself it was wrong and that you couldn’t really know if you wanted that. But his pounding heartbeat felt like it was everywhere, and it was getting stronger in his cock. He had to do something. He thought about getting up and going to hide in the bathroom and jack off, but no - he figured that could offend you or make you more weirded out then if he was just jacking off. 

Then, he told himself in his mind how he was a man who paid bills in this house so if he wanted to play with his dick in his own bed then he absolutely could and there should be no consequence. But then he told himself that sounded assholish and was back at square one unsure of what to do. 

He knew he had to let his dick out of this cloth prison, though. The pressure was starting to actually hurt. He pulled down his waistbands just enough for his cock to spring out, and it did so in such an aggressive manor that there was a audible small slapping noise when it slapped his happy trail that Carmy didn’t even notice because he was too busy sighing in relief.

The thought of you saying you wanted to be fucked awake crossed his mind, so he figured you couldn’t get mad if he was just looking at you while he fisted his length. So that’s what he did, at first. He reached over to the bedside, pumping lube into his hand from the big bottle he kept on deck for the two of you, and got to work. 

He looked at that wet spot on your panties, wondering what had gotten you all worked up while you were asleep. He wondered if it was one of your dreams that you woke up to being filled with his cum, leaving you dripping the rest of the day. Maybe you were dreaming about him using your folds and your clit to get off, humping you in a spooning position while he whispers in your ear how fun your body is to use. 

He was quickly spiraling down this rabbit hole and not even noticing that he’d sat up, and was looking down at your peaceful sleeping form as he jerks his cock roughly over your stomach, grunts and breathy groans leaving his throat quietly as to not disturb you. He sat on his knees, knuckles brushing your stomach just barely as he fisted his length, breathing getting more ragged. 

You were drawn from sleep to see your beautiful boyfriend, head thrown back in euphoric bliss, veins in his neck popping out “well good morning to you too” you said sweetly and lifted your shirt a bit more so he’d spill straight on your skin. 

“Mm-fuck- morning- let me see y’tits” he rasped the order, slowing down his strokes as his cock stiffened to make sure he lasted a bit longer. 

“Of course” you eagerly took off your shirt, sitting back on your elbows “glad I could wake up to join the party” you spread your thighs, trailing one of your hands down to play with your clit 

“S’not a party- markin my property, remember? Move y’arm wanna cum on y’stomach” he brushed your hand away from playing with yourself which just got you all the more turned on by the way he was using you as you asked him to so many times before. You made sure you angled yourself so when he came just a few more pumps of his broad hand later, it coated your stomach and ribs in white creamy puddles. 

He groaned as he continued pumping his cock to milk out any last dribbles of cum, before dipping his middle finger in the biggest puddle and getting a scoop of the milky seed on his finger. You carefully watched as he drew ‘CB’ on your tit in the arousal, before getting up and heading to the bathroom for his morning shower like it was just any other Thursday morning. But not without ordering you- 

“Let that dry” 

[kcrossvine-art]

Heya folks! Its been a bit, food insecurity is a bitch, but today on the quest of cooking our way through Lord of the Rings we're gonna be making a dish exclusively mentioned in the 2007 MMO-

We will be making a Rohan Pasty! 

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes into a Rohans Pasty?” YOU MIGHT ASKBasics. Meat n potatoes of your meat-in-dough food. .

All-purpose flour

Salt

Baking powder

Vegetable oil

Olive oil

Ground beef

Garlic salt

Ground cumin

Chili powder

Dried oregano

Waxy potato

Garlic

White onion

Egg

"A delicious local pastry filled with beef and potatoes."- LOTRO Rohan is a kingdom of humans in middle-earth, and the description point towards a cornish pasty (yes, pasty not pastry). Oddly enough the image is more of an empanada but you win some you lose some. This heritage informs much of the shape and ingredients of this dish, however we're opting to cook most of the ingredients before adding them in, contrary to going in raw as a cornish pasty calls for. I chose to deviate here because cooking beforehand allows more seasoning to be crammed in. The english hate seasoning.

AND, “what does a Rohans Pasty taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASK

Tastes like the best pot pie youve had, less soggy

Excellent for an after-rugby/martial arts/soccer dinner

The potatoes are foundational

Despite needing the least work

Pasta salad (cucumber, olives, pepperocini) would pair well as a side

And would also pair well with beer

This meal bears the gold star sticker of not having any major issues! Hooray! Maybe its increased comfortability in the kitchen, or maybe its because of how very simple this one is. Chopped roasted bell pepper might be good in the filling in the future.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Get the dough ready ahead of time- its mentioned in the recipe below but i also wanted to say a foreword here that it needs to sit in the fridge for a few hours. Just so ya dont get everything out and realise itd take too long for dinner tonight. Speaking of dough, i feel like it could have more flavor added to it. Its bland and although its not part of the tradition of the meal its based off of, cornish meat pasty, it might be nice to add some spices like cumin or black pepper to the flour. 

The meal reheats perfect- wrap in papertowl and put it in the microwave for 30 seconds per pasty.

When picking your potatoes make sure theyre "new" potatoes (baby ones) or whichever potato with the least amount of starch you can get. Its important for it to cook inside the pasty that it not have too much lest it get Mushy Bad.

Another thing about its real-life inspo; Cornish pastys were workers food, stuff you could carry into the mines, stuff thatd reheat well. You could hold the crust with your dirty hands and throw it away once you ate the rest. I always feel partial to these foods. Although I'd still eat the dirty crust.

This recipe earns a solid 8/10 (with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) 

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Dough Ingredients:

370g all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

74g vegetable oil

240g warm water

Filling Ingredients:

2 tablespoons(ish) olive oil

1 pound ground beef

2 tablespoons tomato paste

Garlic salt to taste

Ground cumin to taste

Chili powder to taste

Dried oregano to taste

5 cloves garlic, minced

1 white onion, diced

Method:

Combine flour, salt and baking powder.

Add oil and water into mixer with dough hook running at medium speed. Mix for 1 minute, stopping several times to scrape the sides of the bowl.

When mixture comes together and begins to form a ball, decrease mixing speed to low. Continue to mix just until dough is smooth.

Take the dough ball, safely wrap it, and transfer to fridge. Let sit for at minimum 2 hours.

For the meat, get a large skillet, and add some olive oil over medium heat. Add the ground beef and garlic salt, cook until the beef is cooked completely.

Drain the beef and set aside.

In the same pan, add the garlic, onions, cumin, chili powder, oregano, and salt.

Cook until the onions are softened but not brown, 10 to 15 minutes. Re-add the beef and cook over low heat for about 5 more minutes.

Back to the dough, transfer dough from fridge to well-floured work surface. Roll into log and divide into 10 equal portions. 

Preheat oven to 350f.

Form each piece into a ball and flatten each with a rolling pin.

Add a layer of diced potatos down the middle of the pastys. Add the meat filling to each. Fold the sides of the dough up to seal on top in the middle.

Gently turn the pasty on its side and crimp the edge, alternating a braid pattern. Use knife to cut an "X" shaped slit in the top. Repeat for each pasty.

Place the pastys on a greased baking sheet. Lightly coat each pasty with an eggwash using a basting brush.

Cook for about 50 minutes, or until golden brown, and let cool!

[paintednailsandsoftdetails]

911, a confession

Let me start by saying that I don't really know what I'm doing here, so bear with me. If I actually go through with posting this, and you find yourself tagged and wondering who I am and why, or even if you happen upon it in the tags, I hope you take a minute to read this.

You don't know me, but you've been my community for a while now. I've checked your blogs daily for years, I've read your posts and loved your art and sent you countless anonymous asks to pick your brains- never hate though, because I'm not a Freak.

What I am, however, is a lonely lesbian with depression and (newly diagnosed) OCD, who has always needed some hyperfixation media/fandom to find life bearable. For some ~fun context, I was Raised by the glee fandom, I will die on the hill that watching queer as folk when I was 14 and discovering its fans 10+ years after airing made me who I am, I've got the most bizarrely timed stint in the 1D fandom under my belt, and I find nothing in the world more interesting and also affirming than Queer Reading (verb) media- to the extent that I earned an English degree and wrote a thesis specifically about it.

I haven't posted on here in 1.5 years, since I fell out of my previous fandom (apologies to anyone from said fandom who still happens to follow me and is seeing this, feel free to move along.) But I've been on this app every day since, because of 911.

(starting the read more here to spare you- again especially if you are tagged, I know you're probably feeling miserable rn but I do hope the entirety of this love letter reaches you)

I started "watching" mid season 5- by which I mean I was in a deep depressive state after disconnecting with previous media hyperfixation and, when I happened upon 911 trending while in need of distraction, I quickly fell down a rabbit hole. Tale as old as time, tumblr dot com convinces you that you need to tune into *insert media here* bc its fun and there are gay people! I caught myself up through all the big blogs and by the time May Day was airing I felt like I had a decent grasp on all the lore, all the fandom drama, all the places the writers were "definitely, so brilliantly" going to be taking the show that we had to look forward to, all without ever having actually seen an episode of the show (before you boo me, yes I've watched it by now, even season 1)

But I think it is important, and also a little messed up, that I fell in love with 911 through YOU, through the fans. Obviously watching the show initially through the lens of fan reactions first and not whats actually happening on screen can have some... interesting results. We've heard it all before, with the people who started watching specifically for Buddie around season 4/5 because they saw The Will and by the time they caught themselves up and watched the end of season 6 they wanted their refunds.

Here is where I want to make a clarification- the reason I got so interested, why I started coming back every day to check in on tags and certain favorite blogs I didn't even follow bc I was denying the want to become fully Involved, was because I fell in love with Evan Buckley. I won't lie, it was Buddie that caught my attention first- of course, thats what everyone here was talking about- and as much as I quickly started discover the value of the show outside of them (Henren my absolute Beloveds!!!!! Captain Dad Bobby Nash you are so special to ME. Chimney man of all time i can keep going) none of it was enough initially to bite the bullet and catch up on 5 seasons worth of a show I also knew would have elements I WASNT interested in (Copaganda and Taylor Kelly I am looking at you.)

But then I started really getting into fan's readings of Buck *insert footage of me learning the Buck Begins of it all for the first time* as a character separate from Eddie (as much as people were capable of anyway, and I will say some of yall continue to be absolutely atrocious at it) and I knew I was done for. Buck, this character so full of goodness, and his need to be Found but to also Find his own family and purpose and sense of self, for whom the show's thesis statement concerns the act of working to Make the kind of Love you want to have in this world, even if you were raised without a blueprint for it- I'm sorry but what else were me and my gay ass queer reading inclined hyperfixated brain to do other than take Evan Buckley into the folds and never let him go?

I love Buck. I was convinced by the time the s5 finale was airing before I had actually watched the show that Buck had to be bi. Even if they never did a thing with it you couldn't convince me otherwise and I was also confident that Oliver was portraying him with a similar mindset. I never wavered in that interpretation, even when the utter disappointment of the s6 finale and the failure to do anything truly meaningful character development wise through the lightning strike-Natalia speed run hit, and certainly not as I got fully caught up actually watching the show outside of tumblr live reactions during episode airings. I'll admit I was pretty ready to Check Out after the end of season 6, to the point where I hardly checked in on fandom at all going into 7 until the rumblings of possible canon Bi Buck reached me and I doubled back like "hold on, for real this time?" But when I say Check Out, I mean I was ready to walk away from the hyperfixation with a joint lack of satisfaction with canon & firm conviction that Buck was queer.

Things with Eddie are a lil different- and I want to try and keep this bit brief bc this is ultimately a post about Buck and Bucktommy and I have no interest in unsettling those of you who may have a queer reading connection to Eddie as real as the one I feel for Buck, but unfortunately this conversation cannot exist separately from the Eddie/Buddie of it all- I personally don't think Eddie is queer. I don't really think I ever did, even when I was in the thick of it with falling for Buddie. I know me saying this would cause certain audience to pelt me with accusations of fetishizing Buck or treating Eddie as nothing more than a vehicle for Queer Buck via Buddie- false! I actually think Eddie is an incredibly fascinating character, a deeply compelling representation of grief and fatherhood and masculinity, and also a hilariously weird lil bitch guy. I just don't feel like- especially having removed fanon glasses while actually starting to watch the show, and taking the time to acknowledge that the things about Buddie that appealed to me on a romantic level (this is NOT about their friendship which i stand by being beautiful and important) all boiled down elements I was reading within and onto BUCK specifically, not Eddie. Perhaps an impossible concept for some, the idea that Bi Buck could feel so real and apparent to me primarily divorced from the idea that Eddie had to be queer as well, but I won't bore you with my explanations for it, though I suspect the people tagged and still reading by this point know exactly what I am talking about.

All of this potentially obnoxious prologue to say, I've spent the last however many months falling in love with canon Bi Buck *insert footage of me speed running back into my daily fandom involvement/blog check ins the moment I knew Buck kissed a man*, with Bucktommy, and with Bucktommy fans.

For a long while there I had resigned myself to an odd, though perhaps not as unique as I thought, reality of loving and fully believing in Queer Buck, not necessarily feeling the same about Eddie or Buddie, but also in full agreement with many that already 6 seasons in with literally nothing else having remotely worked, Buddie would be the only satisfying conclusion for Buck's love story. This is again not exactly how I felt about Eddie- but a big part of that for me is that I don't think Eddie's primarily story in 911 is a love story. He's the vessel for telling other important, beautiful stories about fatherhood and forgiveness and that is OKAY bc not every characters story is a love story!!! Evan Buckley's is though (Despite some very weird and confusing things mr stark has just said about his character that actively contradict what hes previously said and what audiences have been looking at and for this entire time, but I digress)

But then! By whatever happy accident we want to call it 911 had Tommy Kinard fall back into its lap as the solution to what felt like the impossible: They found the ONE way they could introduce a non Eddie Diaz love interest for Buck that COULD be satisfying for Bucks story. Someone with connections to the 118 and the shows history and potential for further development within main storylines as his job directly pertains to their plots. Someone with such compelling connections for interweaving these two characters that it got us- including the showrunner- talking about the Red String of Fate. That it got some of the beloved tumblr pals I had been watching for years, who NEVER would have believed they'd ever root for a Buck endgame that wasnt Buddie doing exactly that, and with joy, love, and conviction. Again I'll ask, what else were me and my Buck loving brain to do but take Bucktommy into the folds and never let go? (apparently I hadn't considered that there was apparently horrifying alternative- more on that next!)

As you all damn well know, falling in love with Bucktommy has not come without its trails. I have never seen things in fandom as vile as the things I've seen go down here. And as I mentioned before, I've been IN IT with yall for a while, even if you didnt know it. I was here, lurking, and I know this fandom has had its highlight reels of racism and misogyny and harassment (despite certain factions current batshit consensus that things were "never bad" before *gasp* a couple of people, some over the ancient age *double gasp* of 30 heard about bucktommy through tumblr the same damn way the 90% of you who havent been watching since season 1 heard about buddie and decided to invest)

What happened tonight made me cry, for about 40 minutes straight. And yeah, its been a devastating week for us all for a lot of reasons. On top of the ~national dread (I'm a lesbian in the US btw) today was my 7th out of 9 straight days of open to close shifts in a demanding retail/management position, and I have a head cold so maybe this was just a Breaking Point after a whole lotta shit.

But also, maybe, it was really fucking shitty to watch this play out. I've already seen countless people say it better than I could. Yeah, its a tv show. It's a fictional ship. But its also escapism, a spot of joy many of us were extra dependent on this week. It was something GOOD, queer representation and a love story on national tv days after a horrifying reality set in for queer people, and we are allowed to acknowledge how much losing that sucks just on a general level for a second...

Second over, now lets talk not on the general level. Lets talk about how I've watched real human beings get harassed, sent death threats, be told they are faking cancer and failing to properly grieve dead loved ones, I've watched deeply homphobic language be adopted and incorporated into everyday use despite constant correction and pleas from queer men to knock it the hell off, I've watched homophia as a whole run rampant and unchecked by big blogs, with some biphobia to boot, I've seen some images of horrific anti gay violence and historical trauma invoked as a way to make fun of others, I've seen lesbianism slandered and proffered as an excuse for such vile behavior in a disgusting erasure of the beautiful solidarity that has historically existed between gay men and lesbians in the face of homophobia, and yes, I've seen graphic descriptions of child rape via targeted fanfiction attacks.

Again, others have already said it better than I can: This isn't about Bucktommy. It's about the way that everyone who was Pulling for them as a couple, who DARED to *checks scribble on hand* enjoy a canon queer mlm couple featuring a character (or two) they've grown to care deeply for, has been subjected to all the above mentioned and more, and for...what. For. What.

In the name of a fanon couple that has not been legitimized by the writers in 7 years? of a fanon character interpretation of a canonically straight man (not just assumed straight, verbally assigned straight now on multiple occasions) that people cannot fathom perceiving this show, let alone liking these characters, without? For the version of this story that, if the writers REALLY wanted to happen could have happened so many fucking times by now- especially when the show was coming to what might have been its end in s6- and still hasn't? A version that has been dismissed multiple times by the writers cast crew and every other unfortunate individual who has been harassed repeatedly about it?

And I'm not here to say Buddie is inherently bad!!!! It brought me into this same as the rest of you. I don't even believe it would necessarily be a bad or wrong conclusion for either character or the show were it to eventually, finally happen!! But for the love of god, hear me when i say from the outsider pov of someone who has experience the show in the way I did first through fandom then stepping back to watch for real and now watching it with my mother who is a near Exact representation of the general audience of this show (experienced Procedural watcher, no idea about Buddie or fandom interpretation, had no sense of gay eddie to speak of, and is not shocked but pleasantly surprised by and endeared by Bi Buck) you are SEVERELY deluded if you think what happened tonight by breaking up Bucktommy "makes sense" to any audience outside of buddies who've been writing manifestos for years about how every single thing in this show is "carefully, intentionally, clearly" leading to Buddie canon. I swear to you the people at home do not fucking see it. The people at home saw Buck in a nice, developing relationship that finally seemed to be going somewhere real for him after discovering an important part of his identity late in life, and then they saw that relationship abruptly ended and Buck heartbroken, going to sit with his best, still straight, bud Eddie Diaz. The ONLY people this makes sense for are the people who I am afraid it seems may have legimately bullied this into happening.

And if that is the case? We are sooo far fucking past the point of no return here. There is no true satisfaction in a Buddie canon endgame here for anyone who's lived through the past half a year in this fandom unless you were a perpetrator of any of the horrific shit mentioned above. I mean that with my whole fucking chest. If, and i do think it is a Big Fucking Fat if, Buddie does happen, and you find yourself no qualms happy and satisfied with it as your well earned endgame, I hope you know how rotted you are. And while I'm at it, I hope some way some how you come to see that this was not the carefully crafted beautifully developed loved story of all time you were gods bravest soldier in waiting for. Its just what left after years of meandering storytelling and cyclical character "development" with a bow slapped on top at the last moment because the gift giver was afraid you might kill them if they presented less.

Anyway. I said a million words ago that this was a love letter, and I do mean that. As much as its also been an mental health exercise for me to write this all out. So,

@kinardbuckleys @bucksboobs @kirkaut @tevankinkley @userautumn @sunglassesmish @tommyscurls @ohithankyou @buckxtommy @princessfbi @bigfootsmom @firewasabeast

(And so many other people I'm surely forgetting, and the few artists and writters on other platforms I dared to venture to- maybe never opening twitter again after this xoxo)

Thank you. You don't know me, I never quite got over the anxiety of trying to re-enter a fandom space after a time away, or maybe some of the imposter syndrome or embarrassment I felt accidentally falling in love with this show and Buck by just watching you all talk about him before anything else. But for the last few months, some of you years, you've been my community, my escape. I've loved watching your brains and your hearts work to discuss and create, even amidst the absolute shittiest fandom behavior Ive ever seen. And I am as grateful for getting to experience it from a far as I am devastated at the thought of losing it, of not individually typing in all your blog names (I was too anxious to even FOLLOW you guys truly rip) to see what new content or spec or art or love you had to share about Buck / Bucktommy every day.

In another life- one where idk perhaps people were kinder or showrunners weren't bullied and actors weren't dropped last minute after months of torment and a satisfying canon queer love story for a character who genuinely needs it could just Be in peace- I would have loved to one day put on my big girl pants (aka saved Buck url) joined the fandom for real. To have directly talked to any of you in a way that wasnt... this.

I would have loved to love Bucktommy with you.

[marimoscorner]

A Witch’s Hearth: Finding Home in Nature

In our Disconnected, Urban World

Written by Autumn (she/her) 🍁

To most witches, pagans and druids, the nature around us is as much of a home as our own domiciles. It’s healing to go out to an old growth forest, to bathe in the wisdom of beings who lived before you and will likely still stand tall when you are amidst their soil.

However, not everyone has immediate access to the lovely blessing of a deep forest.

I myself recently moved from the deep, lush forests of the PNW to just about as far south as I could go in my car, chasing the light that I need to function. The move has helped with my daily functions and mental health, yes—but I have been left feeling a bit lost without the forests of home.

Join me as I plan some ways in which I can adapt anew to the nature around my new home, how I may incorporate it in my magic, and how I may carve out a new spiritual hearth for myself.

Perhaps this can help inspire folks to tackle their own homesickness with nature, and to reconnect with the world in which they live (whether or not they’ve made a move).

Once again, please take this with a grain of salt—as this is just from my own experiences. I am not a teacher, I am simply recording my thoughts in the hopes to add my voice to the pot. With that, let’s begin! 🌿

A Deep Homesickness

This photo is one my partner took at our engagement up in WA, right before we ran into a bear

The above photo is how I think of home. The deep green of the forest, the blue of the mountains on the horizon. Moss on just about every surface. The rich dirt that sustained it all. Were it not rainy and dark most of the year, I wouldn’t have left.

Now, I find home in a biome all its own. I’m living deeper into a city than I ever have, and I’m feeling isolated from nature. While the beach is close by, any deep woods that remind me of the edges of the wilderness up north are at the very least two to three hours away by car.

Though I have a hard time remembering this, it is not a bad change. Any plant that is uprooted from the earth it’s known its whole life is bound to feel a bit uncomfortable. But perhaps it can flourish if moved to soil better suited for its intrinsic needs.

Though my experience includes a physical move, this can apply to a homesickness you feel due to a simple displacement of nature in this society. Perhaps you aren’t seeing enough nature, or aren’t able to connect with what’s around you.

Let’s forge ahead to tackle this feeling of loneliness head on!

Finding Similarities

This is a photo I took at a hike about 2.5 hrs out of the way down here. Though without as many trees, it felt much more familiar and was beautiful in its own right

In our modern society, we’re left with a longing to return to nature—to our home. You may find yourself longing for a specific kind of view. Perhaps you’re looking for prominence of a particular element—like a roaring river to enact water or plenty of clover to help you feel the earth. The following is a list of steps to tackle this:

Make a list of things you want to see or things that would help you feel at home in nature. Think of your dream location when it comes to the outdoors. What does it look like? What features does it have? How do you feel?

Go online and find trails nearby with as similar to these features as possible. AllTrails has the ability to search for trails with waterfalls, forests, wildflowers, wildlife, etc. for free. Make good use of the wonderful web of resources provided to us.

Make an effort to connect with nature at least once a month, if you can. Be sure to pack for safety—and take a nice hike, or sit under an old tree and journal in your grimoire. Ground yourself and notice the seasons around you

In this way, you’ll help your soul settle and feel comfortable, which will help with our next steps.

Bring a Piece of Nature Home

Here’s one of my cats, Pagan, enjoying our newest garden box arrangement. I’m so proud of how far she’s come since we rescued this tiny baby

Many times, it’s near impossible to find the time in our busy lives during the week to go deep into nature. Thus, we need to take this connection into our own hands, and build our own miniature wild sanctuary.

NOTE: Do not remove plants or creatures from nature. They are there for a reason.

Take inventory of your available space. Is this your entire patio? A shelf? A portion of your altar? A garden box? A whole backyard? Take measurements so you can better plan

Remember your list of natural things you enjoy. Brainstorm some ways to include them in this space. It could be a photo or painting of your dream location. It could also be an actual plant for a tiny breath of fresh air. If you have the space, you could plant a whole garden! It is whatever matters most to you. Try and incorporate your local biome to help enmesh the two worlds, if they are different.

Thrift and shop around to fulfill the needs of this space. The more you can get secondhand or from smaller businesses in your community, the better. You may even be able to ask your neighbors or friends with impressive plants for a cutting to propagate!

Consider the safety of any children or animals in your life. A lot of plants and flowers can be toxic to certain creatures. Utilize the web to determine what is safe for your situation.

Set up your space and enjoy! You may utilize spells or ritual to fully enact the space and help it to feel more magical, but it is really your choice.

For my family, we live in an apartment. We haven’t had a backyard in years. Still, we’ve found way to turn our patio into a spot of natural respite. We utilize a tiered planter in order to make the most of our patio space. Though we’ve included small flowers that remind us of our old home, we’ve embraced the biome we’re currently in and have an entire row of beautiful succulents. Of course, we also added catnip for our babies, and herbs for our kitchen witchcraft. We also put down these outdoor tiles from IKEA that mimic a lawn and wooden patio. On our table, we’ve put a hummingbird feeder to help better support local wildlife, and are discussing an actual bird feeder.

Embracing the Nature Around You

A photo I took of a playful wild crow. He was an excellent little model!

This is a step I still need to complete myself. When biomes don’t match up with how you picture nature in your craft, it can be frustrating! Especially if you’re in a fairly urban area, you may not have much access or choice in which nature you interact with.

Here’s the good thing, though: it’s all nature, regardless of how it shows up in the world.

Start researching your local biomes. Take account of your local parks and community gardens. Study the history of the land that you’re on, and how it played into the lives of the people that it truly belongs to (of course, do not culturally appropriate. This should go without saying). Explore native biodiversity. Find volunteer programs at local organic farms. Visit a farmer’s market. The list of possibilities goes on.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed or don’t know where to start, this is how I’ll be organizing my journey through this step:

Make a list of natural sights in your area that are easily accessible to you. I’m talking within a 30 minute drive or closer level of close. These don’t need to match up perfectly with your perception of nature—you may be pleasantly surprised in what you find when you open yourself up. This could include: parks, hiking trails, state parks, plant nurseries or shops, local/community gardens, farms that allow for visitors, farmer’s markets, local watersheds that allow for visitors, etc.

Visit these locations safely, documenting what you find beautiful and/or spiritual in each one. List aspects of local nature and how that could make an impact if you were to include them in your craft

Create a mini encyclopedia of local spots that you end up loving for days where you’re feeling disconnected and need a quick pick-me-up. You might even create a jar full of folded papers to pick them at random.

Increase the amount of local natural elements that you include in your craft instead of/alongside elements of your idealized natural space. You may find this area around you feeling more like a home or hearth than you ever have before.

Once you start practicing awareness in nature more and more, you’ll start to notice it in more places. This can not only help with your connection to your location, but can help you build your magical hearth in the energy around you.

Giving Back

This is a photo I took at the San Diego Zoo of a weaver finch building its nest

Nature takes care of us, even when we’re detached from it in our cities. We need to take care of it in turn. If you have the means, find some way to give back to the nature around you if you so wish. Here are some ideas:

Give back to the plants with your energy, or make an offering of compost to replenish the soil

Purchase a Membership at a local zoo or aquarium that prioritizes conservation. This way you get to visit, too, while giving back! I love having memberships because I know on each visit I can really take my time and don’t have to rush about.

Volunteer to help reforest, or to help plant at a local garden. This can even be done by donation if you do not have the access or ability to physically participate

Consider giving homegrown herbs/plants to family and friends—or prepare them to help feed those in your community, if you have the means to donate

Teach others in your community how to properly dispose of waste and how they can help keep our natural beauty alive

Simply compost and recycle when the option is available to you

Etc. There is no one right way to do any of this! Just with your intent, you make your community a better place. Thank you for being in it

Thank you for taking the time to read through my little magical journal and ideas. Even if we don’t fully align, I hope that our paths crossing has contributed to even a slight net-positive in your day. I look forward to writing again soon.

[naivesilver]

Self-fulfilling prophecies, or: I think Rumple and Blue messed up big time, folks

Disclaimer: I am a comparatively recent OUAT fan, so while smarter people probably thought this through before I even watched the show, I have never seen it happen and thus can't know if I'm stating the obvious. Please bear with me, this is going to be a long post.

So prophecies! OUAT has a lot of those. There is an entire wiki section about them, and most of the early ones are offered to us by Rumpelstiltskin, because as we know, he gained the power of foresight from the Seer. But what exactly did said Seer tell Rumple, when she relinquished her power to him?

What we gather from the (cryptic) explanations that we get is that with foresight, you can see all the ways the future might untangle, and practising+physically approaching the time of the events make you able to discern which of those paths will ultimately be the right one. Bae's destiny after the Seer's first on-screen prophecy proves that while the future is highly dependent on people's actions, they cannot forcefully steer it in the direction they want - Rumple thought he could avoid losing his son by crippling himself, but in doing so he followed EXACTLY the road that had been paved for him.

We don't know, however, what would have happened if he hadn't spoken to the Seer. SHE knew, presumably, that by drawing him close she would put the doubt in his mind, but it's unclear whether he would have still left his son fatherless by dying on the battlefield or something entirely different would have happened. We don't know - and Rumple doesn't, either.

Here's the catch, though: everything he does in the first few seasons follows the same pattern of that night in the army, blindly assuming that it makes a difference. He micromanages every main character's life because he sees them as pieces of the bridge he HAS to build to reach Bae. He doesn't account for things going wrong because he thinks they can't, and he's fucking EVERYWHERE anyway, so nothing can slip out of his fingers.

But what if THAT is what actually cements this timeline as the "definitive" one? The Seer told him he would find his son again, he could have simply bid his time and waited knowing this would be the result anyway. When his first apprentice disappoints him as the curse-caster, Regina and her grudges still happen, after all. He probably didn't need to do anything to ensure it - if he'd just leaned back and spun his little wheel, the future would have come around on its own, one way or another. But he doesn't, and instead sets in motion a very specific chain of events, and thus the show happens.

Why would he do that? Maybe he didn't learn how to parse through his visions correctly and he thinks this is a "will be" future and not a "can be" one. Maybe that first prophecy didn't teach him anything, and he still thinks he can cheat destiny (as proven by the fact that when learning that a boy will be his undoing, he refuses to accept it, believing he can just kill said boy before it happens). Maybe he thinks he's like MCU Doctor Strange, who sees thousands of possible outcomes and makes sure the one that leads him to Bae the quickest will happen. I have no clue. But what I think has happened is that for any of these reasons, he made this destiny happen by KNOWING it would happen (or believing it would, as you'd have it), thus fulfilling the prophecy by willingly acting on it.

So Rumple fucked himself over, big deal. We have seen it happen multiple times after s3. But you know who else might have unknowingly led the future where she thought it'd go, in this endless loop we have just described?

At this point in the story we don't really have proof of whether Blue has prophetic powers of her own or she's just going off Rumple's words, but it does seem to me that the way she's telling the story has a bit more nuance than his version did during the Charmings' visit to the cell. So either she went back to pry further, from a man that she generally does NOT trust...or somehow, she's autonomously privy to details most of the others don't have.

But what does she DO with that knowledge? Does she work with what she has to guarantee Emma will fulfil her destiny? Does she trace very clear boundaries for everyone to stay within to adhere to her plan? No. She lets Geppetto convince her to lie. She allows him to risk jeopardizing the safety of an ENTIRE kingdom in the span of five minutes, which makes no fucking sense considering she has never shied away from weaponizing her influence for the sake of what she thinks is the greater good (which in turn is what made people think she was the villain all along, but I digress).

Moreover, some of my friends once had a discussion that, everything else aside, made me realize how fucking dumb it was of Blue to just LEAVE when Geppetto had threatened to do as he pleased with the wardrobe. What kinda preparations did she have to do, literal HOURS before a curse where she would lose all her free will and magic anyway? It was pointless at best, detrimental at worst, and the way I see it, PREMEDITATED to begin with, because while I utterly despise Blue and would have no problem calling her an idiot, this would objectively be a bad move. She could have literally lied to Geppetto about what kind of person could go in the wardrobe, or used magic to prevent the worst from happening. She has done similar things, before AND after that moment.

If she indeed knew, either because of Rumple or her own abilities, how shit was "meant" to go down, it's not too far-fetched to assume she might have acted accordingly in an attempt to guarantee the success of this plan. Even if there had been other possible paths to take, e.g. worlds where Emma might have gone to the LWM with either of her parents, and EVEN IF Rumple hadn't already prevented those variables from happening by that point...if Blue thought the only way for it to work was to stick to the timeline she had envisioned, then there was nothing anyone else could do.

To sum up this theory: Rumple sees the chain of events that develops through show canon, and either decides or mistakenly believes it will be made true, putting all his effort into ensuring it does. Blue makes the same mistake (depending on how you see it, obviously) and instead of forcing people's hands to change the course, allows Geppetto to make what she thinks is an unavoidable decision. By doing so, BOTH of them fulfil what they think is an already written future, but might have still only been one of the various options available among endless variables.

Besides, if they HAD realized that they'd fucked up in hindsight, I doubt they would have admitted to it. It would have been too late by then: knowing them, they would have felt forced to stick to their guns, to avoid considering the possibility to have made a mistake - ESPECIALLY Blue, who was already responsible for the start of this avalanche, what with giving Bae the bean and suggesting the curse to Rumple. It's hard to believe they would have been able to live with themselves, if they'd taken the option into account.

And in the end, what are the results of this proactive decision? Rumple and Bae's reunion is angry, unsatisfying and with catastrophic consequences for the whole family. Emma grows up alone, forced into a destiny she did not sign up for, having been ten minutes old at best. And as for the third victim of prophetic crimes...

Without these beliefs, solid or imaginary that they might be, there is a chance nothing would have gone as we know: the 28 years gap might have meant something else entirely, a lot of people would have been spared the pain, and an external hand would have prevented Pinocchio from being sent on an impossible mission, with a baby and no tools to navigate this world in his hands. Another child lost to the Land Without Magic as a pawn in a game played by two magic users who each thought they were outwitting the other - at least Emma got to grow and heal throughout the show, as an ADULT.

Did Pinocchio?

(OOF. This is almost certainly not what the writers had in mind when they planned the plot of this series. I am, unfortunately, aware of that. But I still think it's worth being put into words as a theory - I probably didn't formulate it as coherently as I hoped, but maybe the message will still filter through, despite the fact that I am 1) overtly verbose 2) tragically Italian. Unforgivable sins, both of them LMAO)

[fractured-shield]

as promised, the letter from chapter 10, plus part of Therien's reaction to it:

(starts after this section. also, CW for mentions of suicide in the last few paragraphs)

It was a letter, it seemed: written in walnut ink in a firm, slanted hand. The first section was in Ikhanan, and she cursed herself for being unable to read it, or to recognize more than just a few letters. Whoever had written it had switched to Cenaith after a few lines, though, and she started reading.

I will bore you no further with news that will surely find its way to your desk once you return for the next council session. And yet the tides of war move so slowly now, and this dull senseless waiting takes its toll. I expect Linna will be unable to take the long road north until at least next winter, as preoccupied as he is—rightly and admirably so—with affairs in the south. Yet Silorn is so far a distance that his absence weighs heavier.

With this winter barely half passed I find myself growing weary of weathering the mountain cold alone. Perhaps it is weakness, but no doubt Linna would tell us both otherwise. I ask you to have the grace to imagine this weakness is mere practicality instead. The officers seem ill at ease to spar with me with full vigor, whether from fear of breaking themselves or me I cannot say, nor do I know by which to be more offended.

I only jest, though it may surprise you to know that I am able. Yet such frivolity does not extend to this, which I say with full truth: your absence is felt all the more sharply at times such as these, and like Linna’s it is an unwelcome pain to bear. I will speak plainly. I miss our bouts, both in the training rooms and in gentler quarters. Though I suppose any such trysts can hardly be called gentle without Linna’s presence to temper them.

Yet you are far from me, and Linna is further, and even the most stonehearted of folk may find companionship steadies their resolve, or at the least eases the chill of these mountains. I would not ask it of you, not as a lord or even as a friend, but if you are able, I would remind you that you are welcome in Nar-thelyr without cause, regardless of the season, just as you are welcome in my company.

Linna finds this arrangement agreeable as ever, and though I do not expect you to doubt this I offer reassurance just the same. I believe his words at our last correspondence were professed gladness at someone to ‘tend my stubbornness and keep the edges filed down for the council’s comfort,’ which I think unnecessary, but will repeat just the same. He also added that his happiness that such ‘tending’ extends to my bed as well, though he urged me not to repeat it as it would no doubt embarrass you thoroughly. Regrettably, I find such embarrassment to be rather endearing on you, and must amuse myself with the pleasure of imagining it upon your fair features until I may see you again, until the three of us can be joined for whatever time we can find, not through your ever-dutiful deference to those of higher station, but as companions. I wish that—

Therien stopped reading, and folded the letter closed all at once. Despite having exactly no interest in such things for herself, she wasn’t clueless, and at that last line she’d been unable to interpret the letter’s meaning any other way than her growing suspicions had suggested. She felt a bright red flush heating her face and her ears: it was terribly private, of course, but more than that—well, it was sent to her papa, so it was awfully uncomfortable to read in the same way as she’d feigned disgust at her mother’s whispered teasing. Though it seemed she wasn’t the only one so easily embarrassed.

Her mother—Therien knew her parents had joined only after the third war had ended, waiting until peacetime…and from what she’d read, this was well before then—not that she’d doubted it. She wondered, though—the letter had spoken of Nar-thelyr, the northern fortress where the Alliance’s joined armies had met, where her papa had—as she’d learned from Aestarn—apparently mediated the war-council. Was this apparent past tryst with some council-member there, some lawmaker or tactician of a noble house whose work apparently required year-round presence in the fortress—

The letter continued onto the back of the page, the last few lines visible even though she’d folded it closed. She looked at the signature without thinking. In the same bold hand, with letters small and exact and unadorned:

With considerable fondness, and as an ever-welcoming host,

Dragonbrand

…Dragonbrand. It took a moment for her to recall her studies. That wasn’t a name found often in any book or song: a sensitive topic, probably, for all except the one who used it. There was, of course, only one person who could claim it.

‘You are welcome in Nar-thelyr without cause.’

Huh. Her papa and Warmaster Maithyr. That was certainly a picture, and one she’d prefer not to linger on. But still she wondered what that mighty near-mythic figure had been like in life, even more so now.

Details about the death of Nar-thelyr’s final leader were hard to come by, as touchy a subject as it seemed to be. She remembered reading that his body had never been recovered.

And then—Linna, of course, that would be—Lineirthon, king of Silorn and Maithyr’s husband. He’d slain the Aureate with Maithyr. He’d died when Silorn fell. There hadn’t been a body to bury then, either.

Therien thought back to their conversation in Lairnil, to the broken statues, to the song that had seemed to her like terribly personal grief as she’d looked upon the half-crumbled faces of stone.

Of course. Right. He’d… Oh, gods, and she was sure that hadn’t been the half of it. She’d asked what Maithyr had been like. Her papa had seemed happy to answer her questions. Maybe she should ask more, maybe it was—something like Malin’s form of remembrance of the old kingdoms, almost.

‘I worked in Nar-thelyr for a while. I was there seasonally as a councillor, chosen to be a neutral voice for the unsteady alliance during the last war.’

Oh, you fucking liar. She felt the strange urge to laugh. Yeah, I would’ve wanted to leave out the details too, in a place like Lairnil, and with the new Aureate right there undoing Maithyr’s famous fight and all that. Shit.

‘I spent near another year helping his aides and officers tidy everything up, and then we left.’ No wonder her papa hadn’t wanted to talk about the details.

And—oh, gods, that meant—

She put the book back in its place, with the letter tucked back inside, her hand trembling.

Warmaster Maithyr, Dragonbrand, the stalwart flamekeeper of Nar-thelyr—had, according to all accounts preserved through the centuries, thrown himself from the wall of his fortress on the eve of the final day of the feast celebrating Alliance victory in the third Lochieru war.

Warmaster Maithyr had, according to all accounts, been one whom history had assigned the weighty title of a Forsaker of particular offense as well. By those whose grief was allowed to fade to mere dusty books and children’s stories, his choice marked him a coward even among a people known for weak wills and abandonment.

‘…I don’t mind if you think I’m a coward.’

She wanted to cry.

Somehow it didn’t surprise her to know beyond doubt—which she had for a while, really—that her papa had once found something appealing in that same fate. She wondered if he’d been kept from it by any choice of his own, or just by chance.

tag list: @just-emis-blog @orions-quill @honeybewrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle

[tonydaddingham]

LWA: Back again to be a bit contrarian--not against you! There's a line of thought I've seen circulating that incorporates "Aziraphale has more faith in Crowley than God," "Crowley is so good for Aziraphale," and "there wasn't any point in Crowley explaining withheld information to Aziraphale, because he's so stubborn," and they're puzzling me, because to endorse them means rejecting both the novel's and series' arguments about mature moral and political thinking? If you're going to do that, /do that/--"why does GO ask us to like Shadwell?" raises hard questions about its ability to deal with bigotry beyond the self-affirmations of Mary Hodges or Aziraphale in his "THE Southern Pansy!" moment--but if you're just trying to work out what GO-the-series is arguing, then I think we need to think about these readings for a second.

In the novel, Adam refuses to restore the whales because that won't change how humans treat them: "Seems to me, the only sensible thing is for people to know if they kill a whale, they've got a dead whale." It's after this speech that Aziraphale prevents Crowley from running off by insisting that the two of them are responsible for causing "trouble" for humanity by carrying out their orders, which Crowley tries to weasel out of by retreating to a Nuremberg Defense. These two moments are a one-two punch in what I suppose you could call the novel's Dead Whale Theory of moral deliberation, in which you move people towards change by asking them, first of all, to contemplate the material consequences of their actions. Free will and human nature, as Gaiman and Pratchett see them, may make the process of negotiating change difficult (seeing the whale doesn't mean agreeing on what it means, there are legitimate reasons for killing some whales, etc.), but if there is no appeal to divine authority, then the dead whale is where you start. For Aziraphale and Crowley, facing the dead whale means owning up to their complicity in the repercussions of Heaven's and Hell's plans. The novel does not allow for "the system made me do it" as an excuse. As of the end of S2, the TV series is slowly moving in the direction of the novel's conclusion, in the form of Nina's and Maggie's warning about interfering in human lives, but it has not reached the point of Novel!Aziraphale's and Crowley's moral epiphanies. Nobody is fully facing the dead whale in the room. Hence why Crowley is trapped in "go off" mode, an endless repetition of the moment that in the novel, Aziraphale nips in the bud. In this respect, he is "behind" the novel equivalent's character development, much as Aziraphale is.

TV!Crowley and Aziraphale are both terrible at seeing dead whales, for different reasons. Crowley, as you've heard from me umpteen times before, a) takes no responsibility for any of his actions and b) is constitutionally incapable of predicting the logical outcomes of any of his choices. Aziraphale is much better at thinking about consequences--S1 ultimately proves him right about being caught collaborating with Crowley, and S2 shows that he correctly saw where questioning God was going to lead--but all of his thought processes are rooted in a hierarchical model of deference to authority. To ring my equivalent of your 1941 truther bell, the reason I get so frustrated with the fandom's unwillingness to face the massive dead whale of S1, namely, the child murder subplot, is that it goes directly to the most problematic aspects of /both/ characters' inability to fully think through moral questions. (It's an important change from the text! It runs through the whole season! It drives the bandstand breakup! This is one stinking whale corpse, folks.) Crowley not only genuinely believes that he bears no responsibility for asking Aziraphale to kill a child for him, but also fails to think about what will happen to /Aziraphale/--you know, whom the script asks us to believe is the central figure in his life--if he goes through with it. Aziraphale, meanwhile, isn't capable of formulating a strong moral objection in response, even though he is obviously troubled and, in a vacillating way, resistant all the way through to the airfield (where Crowley finally yells at him to shoot). As both S1 and now S2 show us, Aziraphale /cannot/ appeal to Heavenly authority in order to solve the problem, because Heaven explicitly allows for killing children. Instead, he ends up deferring to /Crowley/, until Madame Tracy steps in.

This is where my puzzlement comes in. The fandom keeps arguing that Crowley is both entirely good and entirely good for Aziraphale, but the /scripts/ (and sometimes the acting) keep warning us that these are dangerous over-generalizations. He is good often, but not always. He is good for Aziraphale often, but not always. (And vice-versa.) About the only thing I correctly predicted about S2 was that the logical outcome of Aziraphale being liberated from Heavenly oversight would be some sort of mental breakdown that Crowley /wouldn't/ understand. The lockdown video was actually pretty telling about Gaiman's thinking in this respect: Aziraphale turns to "the rules," even though they hardly apply in his case, as the quickest way of alleviating mental discomfort. In the first few minutes of S2, we find out that Aziraphale's explicit substitute for reporting to Heaven is reporting to /Crowley/...which Crowley teases him about, instead of having a five-alarm fire bell going off in his head. (At which point the show would be over, so.) S2 is a battle between Aziraphale trying to assert himself as an individual living free from cult-like authoritarian coercion /and/ trying to reconstruct the hierarchical structure of authority with which he is most comfortable. No can do! We can see the former coming out in the brief moments where Aziraphale manifests resentment/outright anger/frustration about behaviors that he has always tolerated or even encouraged from Crowley: the burst of rage that comes out in the dialogue about the apology dance, or the visible upset when Crowley pulls the "I've got this" during the demon attack on the bookshop. In S1, Crowley's moment of distraction when the Bentley explodes both forces Aziraphale to drop the "I'm the nice one!" bit ("nice is different than good," Stephen Sondheim comes by to remark) and reveals that Crowley's pretentions about being the knight to Aziraphale's distressed damsel are much shakier than either he or Aziraphale is willing to admit. They have been playing this game for longer than is good for either of them. That's the dead whale about the damsel-ing game: Aziraphale has to admit to himself the truth of his own strength and /use/ it, and Crowley needs to admit to himself that he isn't Aziraphale's savior or superior. In S2, Aziraphale tries to escape being the damsel, but /Crowley/ can't let go of the game, much as Crowley is more amused than troubled at Aziraphale reporting to him for praise (which we see happening on screen).

The point here is that the possibility of Aziraphale's full liberation into independent moral thought, outside of the hierarchical system in which he has always existed, means...moving /away/ from Crowley in some crucial respects. (This goes back to the points you've made about Aziraphale's idolatry.) In fact, S1 literally moves him away from Crowley when he asks what turns out to be the right question at the airfield, and Crowley's initial non-verbal response is dismay, not support. Similarly, /pace/ Crowley's marriage proposal, Crowley isn't represented as always reliable. We have literally just watched him promise to handle a situation that he conspicuously fails to handle! The multi-car pileup of the last fifteen minutes reflects, I think, the script's invitation to see Aziraphale's decision in light of both his in-character need to fix the system from a position of authority (becoming "the right people," as he says in S1) /and/ those brief outbursts of resentment at Crowley's behavior. There's that really jarring moment in the 1941 flashback where Crowley's response to Aziraphale saving his life is to hurt his feelings about his sleight-of-hand skills, but I think in context this ungraciousness tells us something about Crowley that isn't all that complimentary. Crowley saves Aziraphale from /paperwork/ with a big miracle that involves blowing up a church and killing people; Aziraphale saves Crowley from /eternal torment/ with human sleight-of-hand that, by definition, nobody sees at all. That Crowley doesn't seem to like this very much is something that we should probably sit with for a bit. Aziraphale's hierarchical marriage proposal is obviously YIKES OH HONEY NO, but it also sure looks like a way to invert what both he /and/ Crowley are shown thinking about how their relationship "ought" to work, even when the script also shows that it doesn't really work that way at all, and that they really function best as fully-egalitarian partners.

LWA✨ i have dithered so much over this response because there is so much that could be talked about, but i think the conclusion ive come to is that it basically needs a separate post as to not make this response a frankly horrible length!!! so in the interest of keeping it relatively brief:

i think what we sometimes forget is that these are indeed characters that are thinking, feeling, and acting more and more like humans - and that along with the romantic and idyllic side of this humanity come the parts where, whilst they may not be objectively and irredeemably evil individuals, they can do incredibly bad things - not just in general, but to each other. I find it personally interesting how prevalent analysis on aziraphale's actions is (and they are usually very balanced, i'll be clear) but i personally haven't seen much analysis that actually looks at crowley in any kind of critical light, nor have i seen much analysis that looks at their relationship overall as one that, beyond the obvious miscommunication issues, is perforated with hurtful and damaging incidents perpetrated by the both of them.

to my mind, we can't look at these two supernatural beings that by all accounts are having Very Human Experiences, and then not recognise that - like any human, or any human relationship - they are both riddled with poor choices and questionable traits that have been papered-over and buried, leading directly to the situation we left them in at the end of s2.

we collectively like to romanticise the theme that they are not so different from each other as heaven/hell would have them believe. of course, in some ways that is true, but as sheer individuals they are fundamentally different. that's not down to their 'species', for lack of a better term, but down to them literally having had different experiences, making different choices, and suffering different consequences. in this respect, they literally cannot relate to each other - aziraphale can never understand the fall and the mark that left, to be cast out and reviled, and (by crowley's account) not knowing the reason why... and crowley can never understand being so indoctrinated that despite being ostracised and ridiculed, and later emancipated from it, you cling to the institution because its safer than the unknown. they might understand the other's plight on paper, but the very fact that they do not relate to the other one's way of thinking in the very narrative we're shown tells us that, on a profound level, they are on very different, even if closely entwined, wavelengths.

it's so human to have these kind of reactions to major changes and experiences in our lives. just because i might have a similar moral blueprint to my partner does not mean that we won't conflict and disagree on other things, hold the other accountable for their actions, and potentially hurt each other both inadvertently and sometimes purposefully in the process. we are human, and this is part of being human. so if we're going to paint crowley and aziraphale with the same brush, we have to accept that they are both problematic, they both do horrible things, and maybe are just as bad for each other in some respects, as they are perfect. these are compelling elements of their characters that should not be willfully ignored or excused.

all of crowley and aziraphale's more reprehensible actions as concerns the main plot of the story directly feed into the consequences that they end up facing in their relationship... a rather inarticulate way of saying that they do some pretty awful things, and they do some of them in the guise of loving or protecting the other, but fail to see how these contribute to what makes them so fundamentally different from each other that it frankly results in them being, in pretty major ways, currently rather incompatible. let's consider the Dead Whale Theory (big love for this) as a systematic process:

consider killing a whale

kill whale

have dead whale

learn maybe to not kill whales

crowley and aziraphale are firmly in the "kill whale" stage throughout the Final Fifteen - and have been leading up to, and in, this stage for a long time. even more specifically, to my mind the whale corpse isn't even apparent until we see them outside the bookshop in the last few minutes; all the way through the Final Fifteen they're flinging words at each other, making requests that totally ignore and demean the other, and result in, i think, critically hurting and alienating the other person.

but this comes back to the same problem; they are so intrinsically linked with each other, and have been for so long, that what has transpired- as i see it - is that they've built up versions of each other in their heads that the true them cannot, and arguably don't want to, live up to. they spent years assuming things about the other, communicating in riddles and covert gestures, not actually talking or listening - and all this has led to is that the resultant person that they think the other is - maybe not false - but is certainly not the whole picture. the tragedy is that if either of them had paid a bit more attention, or had seen beyond their own personal ends and means - had thought to stop and think about what killing the whale might actually get them - they might be in a different situation than they currently are.

of course, the narrative needs this dilemma (and im a firm advocate for tragedies of both the preventable and inevitable kinds in storytelling), but when analysing what has led these characters to this situation in the first place, it is absolutely the case that both of them were 'in the wrong', just as much as they were both 'in the right'. crowley has been equally questionable in how he treats aziraphale as how aziraphale treats him. and in my opinion outright justification* of either of their actions sets, for me, an alarming precedent of essentially saying that either one of their traumas, begotten from their very different experiences, is more important or has more weight than the other's. that's... not okay. the reasons why they act horribly can be empathised with, but should not be excused.

*it is absolutely the case that their traumatic experiences would inform on how they act, think, and feel. and i am not saying they do not have weight, or should be dismissed. but explanation should help us understand the action, not outright excuse it and deem it warranted or legitimate. doing something horrible as humans because of trauma does not automatically mean that we are vindicated of that action, or absolved of the consequence, and that same rationale should apply to these two as well.

the bottom line that, at this point, ive personally reached is that im not convinced that aziraphale and crowley aren't in love with a certain, rose-tinted glasses version of the other. in fact, i don't think - given the incredible amounts of miscommunication they have accumulated between them - they even fully know the other person. they each have a vision of the other in their heads, and when they are actually confronted with the whole of the other person, quite a few of those beliefs and assumptions are broken by the end of s2.

[avissapiens]

Jockbull Summer Week 4 Set C (3/12/23-10/12/23)

Model used is Onome Egger

1.

I have continued the trend of fasting+cardio day. It’s actually not that bad. What was bad was the decision to bake while fasting. It’s not that I wanted the food. I don’t eat most of what I bake. But I couldn’t realistically test things too much to make sure they came out well. Luckily they were quite good the next day. Only half of one. It’s still cutting season.

2.

I got two in again! The first one was just kind of a general muscle flash. Brain producing lovely images for myself. Who needs AI when your head is already so full of muscle.

The second one however was a deeper introspection done together with Abg. We’re both POC but in many senses we are atypical. And yet still the presence of stereotypes still kind of gets in the way of both of our minds, and in particular our muscular journeys. We are both dead-set on breaking stereotypes and still coming out on top, so that was the seed for this meditation. There’s a lot of stereotypes for Black folks. And I know they are nonsense because not only do I not embody them, but most of my friends, relatives, peers etc from back home don’t either. But every time that one encounters a situation where you do meet that stereotype in yourself or in others, you pause for a second. Because especially while living in a mostly white country, you become extremely aware of the fact that everything you do is a form of ambassadorship for anyone who looks like you and visa versa. Which is a shitty burden to bear. Even after coming from a background of Black excellence in the Caribbean, there’s still so many stereotypes that come to mind. The perception of black people being unattractive, or if we are, it can only be in a brutish, animalistic, unrefined non-aesthetic way that doesn’t adhere to societal norms.

The mental stereotypes of underperformance and stupidity. The lack of ambition.

So many stereotypes are strangely contradictory too

That we're just needlessly loud and confrontational all the time but still get portrayed as servile slaves.

That we can only be good at sports but still deserve to be excluded from them. That we can't perform well at anything else. The strange juxtaposition of the athletic achievement that many POC are forced into because they lack the resources to pursue other interests and the idea that Ethnic food is unhealthy, dirty. And the very real reality of unequal access and outcomes for healthcare. The idea, often reinforced within the community, that we do not belong in certain places. In certain professions. In nature, in the world at large. That we should remain forever in this conservative slave mentality while we exist in the west.

Frankly, I see muscle and hypnosis as ways of outgrowing and defeating these stereotypes. Of changing perceptions not only for me but for my community. Perception is everything because it means that those who come after can see something different for themselves.

3.

Anyway on a lighter note. Yup, we’ve entered an edging period. It always feels so fucking good after a full week of building that erotic energy. It takes you to new and darker places and makes you vulnerable to things you might not have been before. Sometimes thats good. Sometimes its dangerous. But even that danger comes with a certain appeal.

4.

Its been a rough and busy week working on the first comm. I have some ideas brainstormed with Jockrs for an avis abstraction, it’s just always a whole different story putting pen to paper. Wish me better luck for the next week.

5.

So this one’s been interesting. It’s less been a process of drafting and then sticking. More a progressive building of momentum. Incorporating more and more things until the morning and myself feels more whole. I’ve ordered a bunch of supplements to take. A bunch of skincare stuff to harden my routine. I’ve expanded my already existing routine and even incorporated some new concepts from the world of Looksmaxxing. Truthfully, there is this deep desire in me to grow so much more in so many dimensions.And the himbo programming has definitely made one of those dimensions my aesthetics. Not for anyone else’s pleasure but for my own. I already know i’m gorgeous to other people. I want to be brilliant for myself and to be able to use that element of me like a tool and a weapon.

[whenmemorydies]

Ancestors and The Bear

Phew, the discourse in season 3 of The Bear on legacy was STUNNING to me. This post by @gingergofastboatsmojito and episodes 3x01 Tomorrow and 3x07 Legacy have been sitting on my heart since I finished my binge of the show. Some thoughts under the cut. (I say "some" but this is another long ass post, soz).

If seasons 1 and 2 of The Bear went into the impact of our birth families on each of us, season 3 shifted pretty squarely to talking about the impact of our professional mentors on our lives. I've described those mentors as culinary ancestors, which as a concept I get into below. I loved this aspect of this season and the show generally. It is so rich and I feel like I'm only going to scratch the surface of it here. Keen to hear others' thoughts on this too.

Legacy and Ancestry

In 3x07 Legacy, Carmy talks to Marcus about the idea of legacy in the context of chefs he had worked with - how those chefs had talked to him about how their work would carry on through iterations and generations of subsequent chefs and restaurants that came after them. I'll include both a transcript and screenshots of this conversation below:

Carmy: Like, um, something would start somewhere, and then, uh, people would take that thing and then they would take it somewhere else. So, all these parts of an original restaurant, they would end up at a new restaurant and that kind of thing. That would happen over and over again. And then all these parts of all these restaurants, they would sort of-- You know, they would find each other. And then new people would take those parts and they would put 'em into their restaurant. And the whole thing, it would, um-- It would start to happen all over again.

Marcus: So, like a family tree or something?

Carmy: [looks to Syd who has her back to him, closing her locker] Yeah. Yeah, exactly.

Most folks understand ancestry to refer to our family or genetic lineage. When I was in university, I learned about intellectual ancestors or genealogy: where one can trace your intellectual lineage - the thinkers and creators that have shaped your understanding of the world and/or your chosen profession. I think its useful to take this concept and apply it to The Bear to help understand what the show is saying about legacy. I wouldn't limit the concept to "intellectual" ancestry though. It might be more helpful to talk about culinary ancestors in this context because the process of creating food - crafting dishes - isn't solely an intellectual exercise. It engages our intellect yes, but also each of our senses, our memories (recall that chocolate banana from 2x10 The Bear), and the need to nurture and be nurtured.

Culinary Ancestors

Carmy's culinary ancestors are varied given his work history. We know he's cooked under some of the best chefs in the culinary world of The Bear, including: Daniel Boulud (of Daniel), René Redzepi (of NOMA), Thomas Keller (of The French Laundry), David Field (a sociopathic Joel McHale, of Eleven Madison Park), and Andrea Terry (a sublime Olivia Colman, of Ever). I'd also include here Mikey, Donna and Natalie Berzatto. I'd include cousins Richie Jeremovich and Michelle Berzatto as well. These are the home and line cooks Carm grew up with, watched in his mother's kitchen and at The Beef. He took his lessons - the good and the bad, learnt voluntarily and involuntarily - from all of these people, incorporated them into his working self and transmuted them into his food.

In particular, I've talked here about Chef Terry and the valuable lesson of "every second counts" that she carried with her as she mentored waves of chefs through her restaurant, Ever. That post also talks about the parallels between Terry and Syd (which were even more evident in season 3), the latter of whom I'd argue is also one of Carmy's culinary ancestors ("you make me better at this").

I wish we had more information about Sydney and her influences. We know that prior to The Beef, she worked at restaurants Smoque BBQ, Alinea and Avec. We meet at least one of her mentors, Chicago restauranteur Donnie Madia in 2x03 Sundae and 2x10 The Bear, as well as Nayia at the fictional Verdana French Bistro (which ends up closing by 2x09 Omelette). They each offer up small insights into Sydney: that her food is amazing and that she is always "trying to be the best." Carmy is also undoubtedly one of Sydney's culinary ancestors, as infuriating and withholding as he can be. I'm also certain that Sydney's parents and the cultural history/ies that she's inherited through them are part of her culinary lineage as well. I really, really hope that we get much more insight into this side of her next season.

Respect, mentorship and lineage

One of the things that first drew me to The Bear was the respect that the show gave its characters of colour. In particular, the opportunity and support given to people of colour from a working class operation like The Beef to continue into the fine dining world of The Bear. I've spoken a bit about this here.

I haven't seen a dynamic on television before, where folks from the backgrounds like the POC characters in The Bear are from, are backed in the way they are on the show. Where there are mentors who will invest in them to train them up, and who will take those folks with them as they move into more elite and skilled spaces. Hell, I have barely seen this happen in the roughly two decades that I've been in wage-earning employment myself. Lets be clear, capitalism does not incentivise this kind of shit. Its why certain industries, including the world of fine dining, remain largely if not completely exclusive, demarcated by gender, race and class.

Yes this season was fucked in terms of which characters were getting prioritised for screen time over key Black characters like Sydney and Marcus (the Faks can genuinely go fuck). The lack of care given to Marcus, in particular, whose mother's passing was treated almost perfunctorily in comparison to a wholly unnecessary conversation amongst the entire crew about Cl@ire in 3x02 Next (quoting Richie: "who cares?!"), was also fucked. I would have preferred to have spent more time with Syd, Marcus, Tina, Ebraheim, Sweeps, Manny and Angel than listening to Neil, Ted and fucking Sammy (?!) Fak blather their way through precious minutes during this show.

But even with the above, The Bear regularly manages to floor me with beautiful moments of mentorship, leadership and love featuring characters of colour on the show. This is particularly the case in the relationships between culinary ancestors Carm and Sydney with "descendants" Marcus and Tina.

Birth of the The Bear lineage

Recall 1x08 Braciole where Sydney tells Marcus that after she finished culinary school, she spent all her money eating her way through New York. She says that she had the best meal she's ever eaten while she was there. With Marcus' gentle prodding, we find out that the person who created that meal, was Carmy.

Its not until the first episode of season 3 when we see how this actually played out, for both Carmy and Syd. I won't rehash the details of this scene because it is truly beautiful filmmaking to behold. Please if you haven't already, go watch 3x01 in its entirety. Have tissues nearby.

I will say, that in the best meal Syd ever had, Carmy literally served up his heart and lifeblood (check the cut of the fish, the crimson of the blood orange decoction).

That meal - that seed of inspiration from Carmy - birthed something in Sydney, something that would push her to find Carmy much later, working at his brother's sandwich shop.

Together these two incredibly talented chefs started their own lineage, taking what they knew and investing it into The Beef and eventually, The Bear:

And then, the next generation of collaboration and inspiration emerges:

This is why the visuals in 3x01 Tomorrow, with Syd sitting in quiet contemplation of Carm's dish, are so poignant. From 1x01 System, Carm and Syd have been growing their branch of their shared culinary family tree, nurturing it alongside those of their respective ancestors:

In 3x01 Tomorrow, we see that tree literally emerging from the moment Sydney meets Carm, on a plate.

It all starts when Sydney leaves culinary school and decides to make the most of her time in New York, eating at every place she could think of including, at Eleven Madison Park. And when Carmen, after losing Mikey, decides to make a few seconds count, taking ownership of a dish that he knows is going to be stolen from him and bastardized otherwise. The rest is history, or legacy.

Author's note:

I just wanted to draw attention to the fact that this show is also an exercise of mentorship and collaboration: Ayo Edebiri directing 3x06 Napkins under the guidance of Calo and Storer. Ramy Youssef directing 2x04 Honeydew under the guidance of Storer who had previously directed him on and produced Ramy. The fucking force of nature that is veteran Liza Colón Zayas being directed by Ayo. Jeremy describing the filming of 2x06 Fishes as akin to watching masters at work. Of course any television production is a collaborative effort and there are countless names I'm not familiar with who have put their precious time and energy into making this beautiful thing. I just thought it worth mentioning that at times, this show glimmers with truths, and I think thats because, in some way, they're in the marrow of the thing.

[00queasy00]

9 Fandom Folks To Get To Know Better

Thanks for the tag @cealesti!! :3c

Three ships you like:

oh god this is hard okay okay uuhh the ones on my mind rn 1. tomarrymort / soulseeker (hp) - i find them so iconic, you know? their ideals, their parallels, their similarities, there seems to be new things to discover about them at every turn, just keep putting them in situations and watch them wreck havoc. the soulseeker fandom is filled with so much amazing amazing people so kind and creative, i feel like i have accidently stumbled upon the holy grail, the paradise that never ends <3 2. radiodust (hazbin hotel) - i ship them as literally the queer-coded villains that have nothing in common, yet they bond over being the meanest hottest couple in the hotel together and know the ideal make-up brands to go into territory battles in. theyre like two drama queens on different ends of the spectrums. i like them toxic, i like them dramatic af, i like them in pink and red hahaha XD 3. lawlight (death note) - tbh im fairly new into the ship, despite being a longterm death note fan :0 i was more into mellodramattic before lawlight era hit me recently lol. i love how people, pretty much, turn them into their personal anime yaoi dolls and force them to kiss lol.

First ship ever:

uuummmmm im thinking hetalia ??? XD uh England and America <3 i can never get over the angst. the sunshine gay and the grumpy gay dynamic.

Last song you heard:

La Vie en rose (alastor cover) by Paranoid DJ Please check out PARANOiD DJ's fan songs for hazbin / helluva, theyre so good!!! The Lucifer, Alastor, Stiker, and Verosika songs are my faves!

Currently reading:

Vicious Circle by Bakuko, cyberslut404, estnedo I barely started chapter 1, so no thoughts yet besides I am excited to check this story out !! The Emporer and The Star by wynnebat I am rereading this story <3 I enjoy it so much and the confusing and deadly feeling Harry is having with his Seer abilities.

Currently watching:

I am actually watching a few things rn, I jump around a lot depending what I am watching with who: -Gurren Lagann - my lovely partner never seen it! i had to change that! one of my fave fave core animes. -Toilet-bound Hanako-kun - a comfort show with gorgeous. gorgeous designs and a fun twist of traditional ghost folklore. -Heartstopper Season 2 - my wife loves the comic, so here we are. -Trolls Dreamworks Movies - watching with friends <3 the designs are so adorable and are very fun! i am always so blown away with how creative the team uses different craft textiles throughout the movies! the second and third movie are my fave <3 theyre like an hour and half long each! fairly short, but i HIGHLY RECOMMEND for a good time!! -Harry Potter Movies - watching with friends on saturdays <3

Currently consuming:

Water!! Stay hydrated folks!! <3

Currently craving:

to listen to magnus archive from the beginning again -- but rather wait for the whole story to be revealed first before restarting it again x_x

Tagging (no pressure!!): @raehb336, @i-dream-of-libraries, @liquidluckandstuff, @laserswordtraining, @chaos-bear, @theonceandfuturequeenoftarts, @tommarvoloriddlesdiary, @isalisewrites, @cloverwoodss, @kagariasuha @duplicitywrites @crowcrowcrowthing and whoever wants to join! if you havent been tagged and see this, I TAG YOU! come join its fun :3

[jittersbitters]

Splintered Hearts (1)- "First Impressions"

Story summary: Two people of differing backgrounds; Both religiously traumatized (in different ways), both college friends of Foggy, and both not having the most stable of lives- romantic or otherwise. One looking to become a lawyer (and a savior) for the people of Hell's Kitchen, while the other chooses to be a doctor for those entering an early grave. Two vastly separate lives finally starting to collide- for better or for worse? Secrets and lies always did make kisses far more sweet.

Chapter summary: Foggy has a friend at the hospital that Matt has been dying to meet. Through circumstance and luck, he finally gets the chance to meet them one-on-one. Hopefully, the chicken and dumplings he brought are enough to smooth things over.

Word count: 7k

Chapter Mood board

Tropes: Strangers to lovers, friends with benefits to lovers, daddy issues, might be some friends to unknown enemies to lovers (We'll see how I feel when we cross that bridge), friendship to love to hate to love again, Food is the easiest way to anyone heart (Trope or just facts?). Catholic x Pagan (guilty pleasure), lawyer x doctor, vigilant x reformed criminal (pending...), sex first love later, Oops we fell in love type story, slow burn, mutual pining, both fell first and then fell harder

Content Warning (Strap in folks; bolded is what appears in this chapter): FMC is named (I can't do that Y/N shit or constantly typing just she/her and vague gender descriptions, I have war flashbacks from my Wattpad days. Sorry fam oc is being slapped in here- I don't care it feels better), Possible Inaccuracies (I'm reading the script sue me), The subtlest hint of daddy issues, Vaguely mentioned age gap between Matt and Amilia (FMC), Religious trauma, Matt went one-way and Amilia went the other, mentions of drug use, Descriptions of drug use, Mentions of addiction recover, Falling off and going on a bender, Mentions of past criminal active, Descriptions of murder scenes, Descriptions of violence, FILTH, SMUT IS TO COME I promise, Just got to sit through the slowest slow burn ever, Detailed descriptions of dead bodies, She's not like other girls she likes to play with the dead, I'll add more when we get farther into this- editing has transformed this from the original plot- its BETTER

part one

A/N: If you would have told me 3 years ago I would be posting this, I would have laughed in your face- but here we are. Special thanks to @knightofthieves and a couple Matt Murdock pages for giving me the confidence to edit and post this. It turned out better than expected, I hope you like it. I'm hoping to post this on the same schedule as my therapy visits. We will see.

"It isn't the red ribbon that binds us together.

The root that unifies us, does not derive from a tree on the wall.

This bond knows no genetics.

Friendship is a peculiar seed.

No matter the season, the weather,

nor the time of the day.

When planted on a nourishing soul,

it will always bear fruit." -Clairel Estevez

~-~

‘240 N. Pleasant Ave. Bronx, NY 10462’

This had been the place her nurse had mentioned. Taking people in, like her, with nowhere else to go. Wayward kids and adults with habits that made them undesirable to society. 

That's what she was at this moment, unwanted and pathetically useless. 

With no skills to manage a normal life, this was the last choice she had - rehabilitation with nothing more than a voucher and a bag of belongings. She had been lucky an attending had been nice enough, kind enough, to her to shove a piece of paper in her hand before ushering her out the door. Three simple lines containing the information and resources to get somewhere safe.

 Now, the letter with the address card was held, crumpled, in her hand. Thinning for days spent reading the smudged words, a reminder of a fresh start. A start that had the slouched woman, draped in the shadows left by the broken lamp post, looking up at the old Georgian-styled house in front of her. Sticking out like a sore thumb, presenting as some sort of illusion made from the smog and grey drizzle. Potted plants and windchimes hung from the porch rafters, the sound of the crystals sitting almost eerily in the air. The glow of the interior lights giving a warm backwash that set shadows across the front lawn, reached the tips of her shoes.

It made her anxious. Being out, prancing up to a random stranger's house. It was almost uncanny. A normal house, a normal neighborhood. Complete with the green yard and a slowly aging white picket fence. Flowers were even planted to perfectly line the bottom... It was an oasis in the New York chill, made to allure those passing by. It was only a thousand miles from home and the complete opposite of everything she had grown to know. It made her feel insignificant and self-conscious, small. Worried that her clothes would have the lady of the house turning up her nose in disgust. Button up wrinkled and disheveled from the bus ride, obviously heavily slept in and smelling of humid sweat. She had done her best to freshen up at the bus stop, nervous about making the right impression for the first time face to face. She just worried that the effort hadn’t been enough.

She’d think it was excitement, butterflies fluttering in her gut like a teenage girl going to prom if it wasn’t for the acid that was climbing up her throat. Burning bile that had her stomach in knots, turning over and over till she felt like she was about to lose her lunch. A clammy, cold sweat dripped between her fingers. She cringed at the salty texture; hastily patting her palms dry on the sides of her legs and shoving the paper into her coat pocket. Finally looking around at something other than the house, she peered around the dead residential street becoming acutely aware of just how long she had been standing out front. Tsking crudely at her absurd behavior, calling herself a child as she picked at the fraying seam of her pants.

“Fuck, FUCK,” she said bitterly through her teeth. Hearing the grind of them in her ears as she fixed her sack. The strap dug into her shoulder, loaded with all her earthly possessions, as she finally stepped into the light of the driveway. Making the agonizing journey to the front door, stalling on the steps of the porch as she saw all the trinkets and planters. Not being able to help herself, tutting at the stereotypical rocking chair by the front door - fit with the dog bed sitting beside it. The rattling of the bench swing creaked next to it as a breeze swept through, chimes ringing behind her. 

Guess she really was a Grandma…

When she came to the front door, she remembered to breathe, steeling her overzealous nerves, and taking one last look around before knocking on the door. Making it quick with false vibrato before she lost her edge. Instantly, she regretted it as someone seemed to bounce up and shuffle toward the door, obviously expecting her arrival. It had her inching side to side, smoothing down the wrinkles in her button-up, tightening her ponytail to hide tangled hair. Still fussing over her appearance like a schoolgirl, when the door opened- stomach sinking to her feet. The light from the entrance basking her pale face, the smell of some type of cookie wafting through the air. Her stomach growled as she felt drawn inside forgetting she hadn’t eaten since she stepped foot on her bus here. Mouth watering at the same time her lips felt parched, her throat begging for a glass of water.

“Ah, Darling! You must be Ms. Boteo! Rachael told me to be expecting you tonight.” An elderly woman opened the door, tanned skin wrinkled with age and blotted with freckles. A smile that could rival the sun brightened her face as she took in the young woman's tired appearance. A small frown twitched at the sides of her lips as her eyes scanned the bags under the lady’s even darker eyes. Growing the tiniest bit unsettled, disappointed, by the dead look behind them. Not even the light from her house was managing to brighten them. Somehow just made the amber look hauntingly soulless, fading into the black ring of her iris. It had the woman pushing down a shiver, rubbing her hands together like the chill of mid-October was getting to her. Hiding a frown in a brightened smile.

“Why- Why don’t we get you out of this cold? I’ll introduce you to everyone…” She led the newly arrived women inside with a hand on her shoulder, shocked when she felt nothing but ice. Even with the leather jacket, she shouldn’t have been that cold. “And maybe a nice cup of tea, hmm?”

~-~

Seven years later…

“Nelson,” The sharp voice of his boss cut through the air like a knife. It made both men freeze in the middle of their work. Both turned to answer her, Foggy feeling like a deer in headlights as his pen slipped from his hand and the office phone pressed into his shoulder dangled precariously. The air felt thick in their closet of an office as she looked between the two interns with a passive gaze. “I need you to sit in on my meeting with the Agnelli accounts.”

The panic that went through Foggy was palpable. “Yes ma’am.” He gave an awkward nod of his head, enough to satisfy his boss. He looked between her departing back and his notepad, finishing his call- obviously disgruntled. “Yes, Yes, thank you, Bobby.” 

*Click* 

Foggy fell back into his chair, tense as he pushed the phone away from him in a huff. “Shit! I was supposed to go to the hospital for lunch…”

“You still haven’t got the list?” Matt turned his head toward Foggy’s voice, hands grazing over the documents before him. “I thought you went to see them on Monday?”

“No,” He pulled the word out, turning inward to their shard desks. “They were called to a scene as soon as I arrived. Walked out the door with a pat on the back and a ‘I’m sorry, I'll see you whenever Franklin’ before whipping out the door and leaving me with TWO servings of Taiwanese noodles. With all our overtime, today is the only time we both have available for a while. I won’t be seeing them till after the trial at this rate.”

Matt’s fingers stopped mid-page. 

Foggy was desperate. The case was going to court in 3 days, and while they had a case without paperwork from the hospital, it wasn’t perfect. It had holes, and their boss didn’t like holes. The records would be the cherry on top. Impress the boss and make the trial MUCH easier to breeze through. Two birds, one stone. Besides... Matt had never been allowed to know so much as the name of whoever this friend was at the hospital. This could be his chance, as selfish as it was- he was far too curious to care anymore.

“I…Could go?” Matt tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. Leaning in his chair as he swiveled to the side. Without paying attention to anything else, Matt could still feel the disdain at the idea, heavy in the air like smoke. The way Foggy fidgeted and gave him a shrewd once over to discern Matt’s intentions. However, before Foggy could shoot him down like usual, Matt raised a hand to interrupt him. Let him try and convince him. “Think about it. I don’t have that much work and you have this meeting now. When’s the next chance you’re realistically going to have to go to the hospital?”

“...”

Silence was good. Silence wasn’t a no. As long as he held it long enough, he was bound to break eventually…

“... You’ll need to pick up the order from MeiMei’s.” That was NOT entirely too far from the hospital. “It's Friday so she will be counting on the usual from there, she’s particular about these things.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Matt gave a little shrug of the mouth but got nothing but silence again in return. He sensed Foggy becoming more anxious about the idea, having to contemplate if he was actually going through with this. Was the report really worth exposing his ‘mystery man’? Years of excuses going down the drain, opening a door he wouldn’t be able to close.

“You’ll behave yourself?” Even without context, Matt got the subtext in that accusation. It was the first domino tipping, sewing the downfall of all the rest.

“So they’re a woman, then? Interesting” The upward twitch in his lips gave Foggy all the proof he needed not to trust his friend. Resigning with a sharp glare and an exaggerated sigh that Matt couldn’t help but laugh at. It didn’t help his case, only ended in another sharp look shooting his way.

“No. No! The answer is no.” Foggy turned away, starting to pack up papers for the new meeting. Surrending himself to the absence of that report, not like they needed it. It would be fine. There was always the next case, another opportunity to impress the boss would always arise

“Okay, Okay,” Matt put his hands up, showing his capulation. Though, still smiling at his friend's obvious discomfort and exasperation. “I promise it will be nothing, but my best behavior.”

Foggy rolled his head toward Matt. Even though he knew Matt couldn’t see him, it didn’t stop Foggy from giving his office mate a ‘do I look stupid to you’ stare. Looking the most unamused he had ever been with Matt, it was almost a shame Matt didn’t get to witness it. “See, that?” he thrusted an open hand toward his partner. “That is the problem.”

Matt snorted, raising his eyebrows. “What now? How is that the problem?”

“With you it is. You’ll talk nice and butter her up, then next thing I know I’m being canceled on for lunch because you wooed her, or whatever it is you do,” he was waving his hands around, becoming more eccentric as he continued to shove papers and files he needed into his case.

“Wooed her? Foggy-”

“No, I’m not losing my only client before I’ve even started.” He clipped his briefcase shut, doubling down. “Took me way too long to convince her lawyers aren’t the devil, I’m not letting you take that away.”

“Hey, now. I’m just trying to help,” Matt leaned farther back in his chair, a convincing smile never leaving his lips. “I will keep my distance, I swear it.” The uptick in his tone told Foggy not to trust him, track record not being taken into consideration… but he did trust Matt, even if now it might have been misguided. If he made it clear she was off limits then, he was more than sure that Matt would stick to it… Right?

It was a beat before Matt heard the victorious spleen sigh of Foggy relenting. Leaning over his desk to write a note, scribbling it quickly before stuffing it in Matt’s shirt pocket. “Give that to her boss, he asked me to look into the legality of something for him.”

“Oh?” His satisfaction was quickly replaced with confusion. What could that mean?

“You’ll... Find out soon enough…” Foggy gave a shrug, nodding his head side to side. “Probably.” He stole his briefcase from his desk, reaching for the door. “Go to the hospital and head to the morgue, she’s a resident there.”

“The morgue?” Matt gave him a befuddled look. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that.

“Yeah,” Foggy laughed, finding his own amusement. His turn to smile now. “The morgue.”

Matt was left with nothing else as Foggy left quickly after, not fully closing the door to their office in his rush. He didn’t know what he felt more, surprise Foggy gave in and let him go in his stead or that uncomfortable feeling that has your skin crawling when you look down your basement stairs. Matt chose to focus on the surprise, for his sake.

~-~

Upon entering the Morgue, Matt is hit with a strong wave of chemicals and burnt coffee. It was thick enough in the air to make his temples burn with an unpleasant ache. The strong smell of the hospital had hit him a floor up and two blocks away, down here he could taste it on the back of his tongue. It made his throat clog with a metallic taste, it was nasty. How anyone could stomach even the lightest waft of this smell was beyond him. He could hear the whirling of a centrifuge buzzing off to the side, someone sitting next to it was tapping their pen against the table. He hears the click of the top before the scratch of it gliding against a piece of paper. No doubt jotting down some sort of note, the person too absorbed in work to take notice of his presence.

Stepping farther in, his cane hit the edge of the doorway, leading into a sunken room with a couple of stairs going down to it. The woman in front of him had a steady heartbeat but her breathing was shallow.  She's exhausted, he can hear it in the slight cracking of her back and joints when she shifts in place. He almost feels bad for disturbing her while she is in such a state, it barely being passed 1 p.m. no less. The burnt coffee smell stong in her direction, she practically reeks of it. No creamer, maybe a spoon full of stale sugar. The mild soap and linens smell a mild undertone compared to the caffeine aroma staining her white coat… and… Pomegranates.

Matt doesn't get the time to reconsider, not that he would. Not when his chance to find out more was being served to him on a silver platter. He is barely a step down into the main room when the woman suddenly becomes aware of his presence. A sudden, hungry, chirp cuts through the space between them, like a knife through a crisp fruit. 

“Chicken and rice dumplings?" She sounded as tired as she felt, a dry mirthy tone accompanied an even drier laughter. A meer chuckle as she lifted her head at the smell of the food in the bag hanging in Matt's hand, though not turning her head to see who was behind her. "I’d say you spoil me Percy, but we both know that's not the case.” 

The heavy sarcasm is obvious like a slap in the face. The technician half turned in her chair, still writing down her final notes as she expected Foggy’s usual quip back. Something about how much he needs her, he wouldn’t be able to do half his job without her, voice laced with some sort of exaggerated desperation and false adoration. Something to butter up her ego even more. And Matt being, well, who he was- the gentlemen he is, couldn’t help but feel obliged. In his own way, of course. 

So, with a wide smug smile spreading on his face, showing teeth while replying all too smoothly.

“I’m not this, Percy,” Matt tried not to laugh at the fact that this girl called Froggy by his middle name. “But, I have no problem spoiling you, if that's what he does.”

He expected to scare her a bit, maybe jump in her seat. That he expected. What he didn’t expect was her to shriek like a dying seagull before devolving into a coughing fit as she choked on her spit. Terror shot through her as she was rendered vulnerable in a moment of fear.

That was definitely not her usual lunch buddy.

Horror evolved into shock and embarrassment when she looked over to the door. Finding an older, than her, man with a heavy 5’oclock shadow and a cheeky smile that had her heart skipping a beat in both their ears. Struck silent for a moment as she twiddled the pen in her hand, chewing herself out for her twitterpation. Over nothing but a stranger who had found his way into her lab. Instantly drawn to his striking red glasses that glinted in the fluorescent light, giving him a devilish expression. It caused her a moment of pause before she pointed her pen at him, an eyebrow raising as she tried to figure out who the hell this random man at her job holding her lunch was. “You’re not him…”

She dragged out her words a bit as she attempted to settle her fluttering heart, eyes flicking all over his face. Abashly noting to herself that he had dimples, seeing them very clearly even part-way across the room from her. Etched deep into his scruffy face, accentuating his smile lines.

Pushing out air through her nose, she had to remind herself that staring wasn’t nice. Remebering her manners enough to throw a nervous, flirty smile his direction (aware he couldn’t see it)- setting down her pen to give Matt her full attention. Notes could wait, this was far more interesting.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what happened to him? Finally, bribed the wrong police officers?” She laughed at her joke, standing from her seat and using her foot to push in her stool. Stepping around the room, venturing closer with a drag in her step. Giving Matt time to answer before she got too close, too comfortable.

“No, nothing, like that.” He laughed, shaking his head. Walking farther into the room, taking her movement as an invitation. Careful, after scaring her, not to go too far into her personal space without another enticement. “Our boss called him to sit in on a meeting with a client.”

Matt received another bemused chuckle, listening to her rub her hands in sanitizer before stuffing them into her pockets. "So he sent you?" She was walking around the exam table between her and Matt, both lucky he hadn’t come in while she was in the middle of an active case. "That's… New.” Underneath all her bravo and charm, she was put off. Anxious. The masked stims and raising pulse; rubbing her thrumb over the seams of her pockets, the swinging of her elbows, biting her lip. She wasn’t as happy about his presence as she portrayed.

Matt chose to tread lightly, considering her reaction carefully. Leaning against his cane at his side, using it to balance as he put all his weight on one foot. Mimicking her chuckles, smiling boyishly again to try and soothe her over. Becoming as none threateningly as possible. “No,” His voice was a bit softer, the word coming out as only a breath while shaking his head. “I just happened to volunteer at the right time to bring you your food instead.” Shifting on his feet, he lifted her food, dangling it in front of her. If memory served, Foggy did say that food was the quickest way into her good graces. “I didn’t think it fair for Foggy to keep our best source of information to himself… Plus” He shrugged his mouth, not being able to stop himself from teasing her a little. “Someone needed to pick up your very, specific and particular order.”

He can hear her heart rate jump unexpectedly again as color rushes to her cheeks. Knowing, beyond a doubt that Foggy had said something of her tastes. He always did find her compulsion for routine amusing, if not a little worrying at times. If it was coming from anyone else she might have felt hurt, offended even. Scoffed in their face and told them to scram, she’d rather go hungry. But she couldn’t, not to Franklin and by extension his friend. Not when she knew there was no malice, just humor. Like old friends picking at each other- trying to lighten her mood and her more than obvious discomfort at the sudden change in her lunch plans. If there was anything she was, she liked to at least consider herself decent at social awareness. Even if she tended to be a little dramatic at times. So instead, she took the teasing with an open heart and grinned, laughing even. Stepping closer to him as a moment passed and her inner monologue seemed to cause an epiphany. Curiosity sank in its claws; realizing who exactly she was conversing with.

“Ah!” She snorted, finally close enough to take her food from his raised fist. The crinkling of the bag as her hand brushed against his. Making him jump a little at how cold she was, hands of ice with what he could only assume was connected to a very warm heart. “So you're his partner-in-law, I was wondering when you’d wiggle your way here." She gives him a look over before moving past him to a small office kitchen attached to the morgue, far enough away it wasn’t a health hazard. The smell of pomegranates and that old coffee made him take a deep breath, turning to follow her. 

She set down her food unceremoniously on the rickety discount table, the blue resin top scuffed and stained from years of occupants. Humming at the smell of spices and chicken, she threw a glance over her shoulder to catch his slow creeping approach. Seeing nothing but a confused puppy trying to navigate a new house. The warmer fluorescent lights of the breakroom seemed to cast softened shadows down his face, bouncing through his finger-brushed hair. The first words in her head spilling out before she could stop them. Coming out with all the confidence in the world before they had the chance to go through that liiiittle mental filter everyone was supposed to use.  "He was right, you are pretty." 

It was Matt’s turn to blush, taken aback for a moment; for several reasons. One, the compliment, for him, came out of nowhere. Not entirely unappreciated, is smugly accepted even. Inflating his ego a bit. Two, this made his promise to Foggy a little harder. Foggy hadn’t been exaggerating the fact that this friend had a brass, awkward but charming personality it seemed. Turbulent in regulation, like a kitten falling out of bed kind of way, flipping between overly skeptical and anxious to loose-lipped with unfiltered compliments. She was awkward, and out of her element, but her approach was endearing. Sweet in its own clumsy way. 

And three, the most rather obvious one; Foggy had called him pretty? That ol’ dog. He’d have to remind himself later to bring it up when they had a moment. Real answers could wait, right now this was all far too intriguing not to ride on the coat tales of. Grinning, he laughed at the proclamation, blowing air out his nose as he raised an eyebrow in amusement. “He called me pretty? If I had only known, I would have proposed sooner.” Matt grasped his cane firmly with both hands, planting in front and center of him. Receiving what could only be described as a chortle from the tech.

“Well, you two deserve each other. Bribing a state worker, who taught you two such questionable morals," She tutted in faux disappointment. Practically calling him a kettle, as the documents he would be expecting sat in her purse in the office next to them. If anyone had questionable morals it was the women sneaking confidential information for their boss’s trust fund, business clients. All her ‘big corporations must die’ beliefs going down the drain as soon as her college buddy pops up with tacos from some obscure restaurant she loved. Pushing passed the self-critization, she started to rip open the plastic bag and look through the boxes of steaming food. 

“I don’t think my morals are that questionable,” Her pursed his lips mockingly, causing her to roll her eyes and blow air out through her nose again.

“If I had questionable mortals, I wouldn’t acknowledge it either,” She admired the golden dumplings before shoving one whole into her mouth and looking through the rest of the food. Finding the juices and meat inside better than anything else at this moment. It had been a couple of days, maybe a week, since she had had good and proper food; so maybe it was her neglected pallet talking. “(Mmmm, So good.)”

Catching himself, admiring her sounds a little too much, Matt switches thoughts. Remembering the paper Foggy shoved into his shirt. Fishing it out while drawing her attention again with a cough, clearing his throat. He dares to step closer, edging into the kitchen little by little. She heard her mumble something to acknowledge him as she chewed her big mouth of food. “Mmnnhh?” 

“Foggy said he was asked to look into the legality? of a few things for your boss?” He handed her the paper, taking the opportunity to get closer. Stopping when he was in the area of the table, the strong scent of her perfume and the food hitting him where it hurt. Reminding him he hadn’t eaten lunch, his stomach happy to voice its abuse to him and his surroundings. The sweet smell of pomegranates and cherries, and what he could mistake as mint, not helping the saliva accumulating on the back of his throat.

It was sweet and musky.

Hearing his stomach,  she scrunched her nose. Holding in a laugh she looked up from the quickly jotted legal jarb to give him the once over. Looking at him through the curtaining of her fringe, a gaiety squint of her eyes as she saw him shift slightly. He was aware she had noticed his stomach’s dramatized famine. “Well… “She started awkwardly, swallowing her bite before she had fully finished it. “...This food isn't going to eat itself.”

“Smooth,” He huffed at her, switching his cane from hand to hand.

“I am anything if not smooth,” she waved her hands like she was showing off a painting, bowing her head. She made herself laugh again as she pulled out her chair, pulling the other out for him by leg with her foot. “Sit, you may not be my usual company but you’ll do.”

Matt gave a light-hearted gasp, sending an all-to-chipper smirk her way. Folding up his cane and stowing it in his jacket, he reached for the back of the chair- guiding himself to sit. She wasted no time in planting herself on her own, rubbing her hands like a fly eager for its feast. Rummaging through the remains of the shredded bag for the chopsticks. Tapping them on the table to open them, made it easier for Matt when she handed them over.

His fingers brushed hers again, this time intentionally. Making her heart flutter and bounce against her rib cage. She was swift, pulling her hand away and grabbing for her own utensil to eat. Tapping it on the table again to rip away the plastic. Cheeks burning as Matt took in her reaction, cracking his sticks apart. He smoothed his hand across the table till he found an unopened box of dumplings and noodles, pulling it towards himself.

Now that he was sitting down with her, in a moment of silence, he thought back on his momentary conversations about her with Foggy. He had talked about how proper she was to people, overly so. Awkward and put off by normal social interactions, so much so that she puts up a vague and distant front. Living a very private life, with a very tight schedule. One of a hundred excuses made by Foggy as to why Matt was never introduced. Why Foggy kept his friendship with her so secluded. 

Sitting here with her now, listening to her talk. He didn’t see any of that. Figuratively speaking of course.

She stuffed her face with food in an attempt to distract herself from him, slurping her noodles and shoving a whole dumpling in her mouth with no shame. She didn’t seem to care about manners as she all but demolished her mountain of food. The stereotype of an overworked student resident is all but perpetuated. Too tired to care about her anxiety, too nice to turn him away. Going far enough as to invite him to eat, given it was Foggy’s portion it would have become leftovers or gone to waste anyway. 

He was only left with his questions as he ate his food, a silence settling between them. Only the crunch of food being shared.

Matt had been kept blatantly in the dark about this woman since he caught Foggy on the phone with her back during their first year at L&M. One of their first cases and they were collecting information, simply helping facilitate a deal between two companies. Foggy claimed to know someone vaguely connected to business, apparently, they took courses in college and knew the son of the owner through them. Asked her to talk to the son and convince his dad to ease up on his conditions, and take the next deal that was proposed. Two days and a meeting later, a deal was signed. The man had mentioned that his son was the one to persuade him as he was shaking his new partner's hands.

When he asked Foggy about it later that day, he kept it vague. When pressed even more as Matt followed him through the halls, pestering him with theories and ridiculous questions, Foggy just said they wouldn’t like him. With such a response Matt was, understandably, caught off guard, but relented when he sensed how serious his friend was. However, he would be lying if he said that Foggy’s comment wasn’t the start of a perpetual cycle of agonizing curiosity. His brain itched with questions that started to pile higher and higher the longer Foggy disappeared during lunch or after work for his secret rendezvous, ones that always ended in Foggy having some sort of new edge. Any time Matt tried questioning it, no matter how innocent the question was, he was met with the same answers. ‘They wouldn’t like you’, ‘They’re too busy to entertain both of us’, “They’re very private’, or simply ‘They’re not a people person’. 

It wasn’t till a couple of months ago, did Foggy started to become a bit more lenient about what he said. Letting it slip they worked at the hospital nearby. Sometimes it was just a tossed-in comment that his friend insisted on having authentic Italian pasta with a mountain of parmesan cheese to rival Everest- for just a missing patient record for the case they were building. Sometimes it was more personal, letting it slip that they crashed at his place after Foggy had joined them in attending a fundraiser party for said friend's hospital- in exchange for sneaking him into a person’s room to serve them or get papers signed.

 For months, he lived off small tidbits of information. Slowly forming a picture in his mind of who might have been helping Foggy. Someone who had known him for almost as long as Matt had. He was never able to pry out specifics, Foggy kept all that good stuff to himself. Where in the hospital they worked, how they met even remained a mystery. The simplest of stuff like did they go to the same college as them or if they were a man or woman was impossible.

He was given no clues on how to find them because Foggy, or as he constantly blamed- they, never wanted it…but today had been Matt's lucky day. After so long, Franklin had finally relented. Matt had left L&M’s with a pep in his step. Going over a list of questions he had accumulated over this whole period. However, now with his opportunity to have every one of them answered, he drew a blank on what to start with. 

Indecisive. Matt had so many questions ricocheting through his head, all jumbled up like scrabble. 

‘How did she meet Foggy?

Why did they never meet in college?

Why did she first start taking bribes? Why continue?

Had she been from New York her whole life like them?’

And of course, the newest as of this afternoon: ‘Why work in the morgue of all places?’

A healthy curiosity. 

He had a long time to prepare his questions, with as much as he bugged Foggy some days he should have had them ready to go, but all of them died on the tip of his tongue. So, he was lucky when his new lunch buddy was the one to break their silence. Matt was so lost in his own head he hadn’t noticed how tense it had gotten in the moments passed. 

“I am very aware Franklin made excuses on my behalf," She said through a half mouth of food, speaking through her cheek. "He asked on many occasions to introduce us. I always, adamantly, said no.”

That made Matt pause, lowering his chopsticks back into the box. “So he wasn’t lying when he said you weren’t a people person?” He smiled at her, turning his head slightly in her direction. “Or is it you just wouldn’t like me?” He teased, sensing her coil when he called her out and trying to lighten the mood. 

It seemed to work.

“No,” She rushed to breathe out, after swallowing her bite, with a shake of her head. “Well, I mean, Uh-” She blushed as she started to stumble over her words. Tripping up over her own tongue. “I mean, yes to not being a people person. No to not liking you.”

“So you like me?” The way he said it, the suggestive undertone coating the bottom of his words. It had her shifting in her seat and clearing her throat, hiding for a second in the bottom of a cold coffee cup she had taken the liberty to sip off of during their meal.

“Well, that is... That is to be determined.” She shot back after a moment. Setting down her cup in favor of twirling her chopsticks in her noodles.

“Oh?” He didn’t mean to lean closer, but he found himself doing so. Still staying aware of her obvious personal bubble. “Almost sounds like a challenge,” He braced his arms on the table slightly, chair scooting against the ceramic floors.

She laughed, it was joyful and bemused. It had her setting down her chopsticks fully, leaning back in her chair to look at him. Arm over the back as she held on to her wrist with her other hand. “I suppose it would, to you.”

“To me?” 

“Oh yes- you might not know me, but I do know of Foggy’s college roommate turned office colleague,” She shrugged her shoulders, licking her lips nervously as she glanced around the room, squinting at the incessantly flickering buzz of the fluorescent lights that seemed to fill her head with cotton “Though maybe not as much as I thought, now that we're sitting face to face.”

“We are? Jeez, I thought we were face to back,” His joke earned him a heavy scowl, one he could feel across his face. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the heavy, cardboard takeout box, he listened to her puff out air at him. Suppressing a laugh, not knowing if she was allowed to or not.”Really shows a guy, huh?”

“Wow, blind jokes already. Have to say, I’m honored our friendship is moving so fast,” She huffed at him again, tone dry but not humorless as she turned back to the food. Deeming it far more worthy of her attention.

“Friendship, you’ll make Foggy jealous.” Matt jabbed lightly.

“He’ll live,” She stuffed her face again, chewing a bit faster this time. Something obviously catching her train of thought. “However…”

Matt raised a brow, stabbing a dumpling in favor of actually picking up the food properly this time.

“Friends usually know each other's names,” She pushed around the scraps in her box, sneaking a glance at him. “A tidbit I assume Percy failed to mention on either of our parts.”

“Well,” Matt turned his chair with a scrap. “That’s easily fixed,” He raised his hand, offering it for her to shake. Finally able to introduce himself. “Matthew Murdock.”

He felt her smile before anything else. Oddly warming his skin like he had just stepped out into the morning sun after a shady night. Then came her hand. Softer than he thought it would be, just as cold as before, slightly dried out from the hand sanitizer. Small compared to his but still shaking his firmly, experienced one would say. Her voice was last. Smooth and ivory.

“Amilia Boteo, just call me Lia.”

-----------------------------------------------------------

Chapter one is done baby. The next chapter is to come in the next two weeks. My editor (love you bestie) refuses to beta for Matt Murdock so it's gonna take a minute.

Tag list of cringe: @xxjuviajawbreakerxx

[natterghast]

𝟑-𝟓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘.

& DASHBOARD FUN ; Geid -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ;

Oily Black.

Necromancer Green.

Peat Brown.

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 ;

Dampened earth after rainfall, or dew.

Rot like old wood.

The sulfurous decay of a swamp.

A forest carpet of fallen leaves in autumn.

𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍 ;

(note* Geid uses a glamour and doesn't wear real clothes. He's a living ooze. They modeled their clothes off of the common folk of the time.)

Well-used boots with overshoes of rubber, whose soles have waded through marsh and thicket.

Work shirts of muslin that liken to centuries past, with rolled sleeves and an undone and rumpled collar.

Muddy pants worn low for comfort, with the cuffs rolled high.

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒 ;

A large, rough-hewn, rope hammock that's noticeably discolored.

Old, rusty bear traps with lichen growing on the edges.

A chipped tea set.

Handmade wreathes and bowls of potpourri, with bark, herbs and wildflowers.

A faded deck of cards with bent edges.

𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄 ;

Running gentle hands over objects, both the familiar and new, to memorize their shape — their beauty and imperfections.

The apprehension of one too large for a space, of taking up too much room; of making others uncomfortable or frightened. Open hands, tight shoulders, awkward smiles.

Absent, wordless singing along with the wind, wood, and brook during busywork or trap setting.

Seeping when under duress. Often begins with large dollops from the hair as it falls out of shape.

𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 ;

Retribution, and the necessity in responding with violence when all other options have been exhausted. How heavy a burden it rests when compassion for your fellow creatures is not returned in kind. How war, no matter how just, leaves destruction in its wake — and the deep scars that follow.

Healing as a long path with each stone placed by hand. As a cumbersome task with difficult steps and many failures. Of choosing, again and again, to continue forward. Of seeing the coming of spring even in the harshest of winters.

Decay not as a death but a continuation of life; a rebirth, life taken to new form. Appreciation for even the smallest of creatures and how their bodies nourish all.

Repose after a great violence. Gentleness borne under the unlikeliest of circumstances.

Nature. Forests, both young and old; great plains, marshes, valleys, and all. How structures of old inevitably fall to the seasons. Speaking a language lost to many, knowing the names. Paying respects to the bounties given.

tagged by @dynamoprotocol!.. this took me so long to fill out today, haha!! really had to think about some of these. tagging @jfouler (for mae?), @abysswarden, @15-44 - and anyone else can always nab it from me and tag me!

[arcanarix]

The Plot Thickens! // CONTESTSHIPPING / SHUUKURA

AO3 || FFN 

Harley taps onto the mic and cringes from the sharp feedback. “Testing, 1, 2, 3! Testing, 1, 2, 3! Ugh! This sounds awful! Someone fix–!” 

–his wish is granted, as the sound check folks do their jobs. One of them casts a thumbs up as a queue for him to start over.

He clears his throat, eyes scanning the impressive size of the crowd. If he has to guess, the amount of people who have arrived for this heist may fill up the entirety of the Indigo League stadium up to five times! Might he be exaggerating–he often is–he doesn’t really know or really care. This is not just a publicity stunt, you see. As always, there are ulterior motives in the world of Harley Davidson. 

“Excellent!” For emphasis, he clears his throat once more, shielding his mouth with a balled fist. “Welcome to the Slateport Grand Heist! I know the Ribbon Cup season has ended for the Hoenn region yet again, and things have gotten far too quiet to our liking. So let me set the scene–you are all cordially encouraged to embark on a scavenger hunt for a rare breed of a shiny Zorua. Its beauty is unmatched, and it’s a perfect addition to your team if you’re needing a new teammate! Not only are you going to win that Zorua to add to your party, you also win a delicious sum of cash! Don’t miss out! Sign up here! And please welcome my dear sponsor, Maybella Maple!” 

He gestures wide, loud, and proud to her as she steps onto the podium. Behind her, a huge projection screen to showcase her true ethereal beauty. She has grown well into herself in the last decade, establishing herself as a five-time Ribbon Cup winner and even upstaging Soledad and Drew! In this moment, she looks like a Queen gazing down at her subjects with a softness in her eyes, and a twinkle of that fiery, lively energy she has always possessed in her soul.

She has never dimmed in her light–not even when Harley tried to before.

Harley can’t help but respect that now.

May beams at the crowd as they roar and cheer, even earning a few wolf whistles which makes her blush just a bit from embarrassment. She lowers the mic to her level. 

“Hi everybody! If you do decide to enter this exciting heist, then we’d be more than honored to have you here! This Heist is also here to help fund for future Ribbon Cup seasons and local Pokemon Centers in the region. We hope to enhance the experience for new and old coordinators and the care which is provided in Pokemon Centers which has helped us for centuries! This is a great cause, and we wholeheartedly accept any additional donations!” 

As she steps away, Harley takes the spotlight once more, not without mouthing a ‘thank you’ to her as she gives him the space he requires to spread his arms out wide, like he’s giving the crowd a big bear hug for showing up for them. 

“We sure hope you’re ready! Sign up ends at 5PM sharp! The scavenger hunt for the Zorua begins tomorrow morning at 7AM sharp! Don’t miss out on the fun! Toodles~!” 

Harley steps away and takes in the applause, as he’s always lived for it. That’s the whole reason behind becoming a coordinator for him–the applause! The adoration! The admiration! The fame! It’s all important to him to a certain extent. It’s not as prominent of a desire now, but he still loves to gloat and showboat whenever he gets a chance to soak it all up like a sponge.

The roaring of the crowd dies down and soon they are dismissed to take care of sign ups and registration, which are held at the Pokemon Center here in Slateport. It’s good to be home. He’s forgotten what peace and relaxation is like. But he’s reminded every time he relaxes at the local beaches here. 

Harley and May retire to the back of the stadium, where they share some of the confection foods available. 

“Thanks for doing this for me, sugarplum,” he says from the bottom of his heart. This time, his sincerity is genuine. Well it has been for a long time. They’re no longer enemies or frenemies or whatever the heck people call it. “I can’t believe people actually showed up.”

“Well, why not? You’re a hot shot,” May teases, “It’s not like you to play humble.”

It’s not like her to be that observant . . . Harley only hopes she hasn’t figured out another underlying scheme of his. He may have spread a little rumor to the male identifying coordinators that winning the Zorua and the money also includes a date with this four course meal and dessert just before his eyes. If she isn’t going to date Weed Hair, then he may as well try to up the ante a little by forcing them into a little tight spot. Drew has refused to confess his feelings for the last decade or so of them all knowing each other and Harley’s grown exhausted from all of the dancing around the rosy bushes between them or whatever.

He’s had to take matters into his own hands. This time as a friend and not as some insecure POS who can’t accept there’s always going to be someone better or more talented than he is. Yes, he friggin’ says it! Leave him friggin’ be. 

Bringing a powdered donut to his lips, he hums in agreement. “No kiddin’. I’m not! So who do you think will be joining the heist?” 

“Probably everyone and their mothers,” May laughs earnestly. “It seems so fun too. I kind of wish I could enter to win that Zorua, but that doesn’t seem right since I’m helping to sponsor this event.”

“You’ve already got a golden team, hon. But I can always find a way to get another one of those Zoruas from a breeder if that’s what you want.”

“You don’t have to, but I appreciate the offer.” May sighs, bringing her glass of water to her lips. “I can’t believe how far we’ve come together. I’m really glad we became friends, Harley.” 

Harley lifts his own drink, offering a toast. “To us, hon.”

She giggles, raising her glass as well. “To us.”

Their drinkwares join together and clink, the sound seemingly reverberating through the room like a windchime. Maybe a spell has been casted–a blessing. This friendship is a blessing to them both.

Drew does learn of this Heist Harley’s hosting. He has to admit his interest is piqued. If not for any other reason, than the fact that it’s someone like Harley hosting it. 

Anything involving Harley is often a prescription for disaster in Drew’s world. He doesn’t trust that someone like him can change. Call him a skeptic. Call him a hard-ass. He doesn’t give a single crap. He’s always going to have May’s and Soledad’s back, and he’s always going to keep Harley at something much longer than an arm’s length. But no amount of space between them will ever be enough. 

Anyway, what leads him to sign up is because he’s been brought to light by an underlying motive in Harley organizing this event. Because that’s how he’s always operated before, and he’ll continue to operate that way for the rest of his life. Drew’s been raised on the philosophy of trusting patterns of behavior over someone’s words. 

Words themselves don’t sell someone’s character, after all. Anyone can say anything they want. 

Everyone with even the teensiest bit of critical thinking ability can come up with that conclusion on their own. 

Unfortunately, upon learning May is assisting him in sponsoring this event, and given May’s history of often giving Harley the benefit of the doubt in spite of knowing better . . . no one can blame Drew for wishing to investigate this event further. He’s putting on that tin hat. There’s never a pure reason behind Harley’s intentions, and those suspicions have been confirmed on his way to the Slateport Pokemon Center!

“I can’t believe Harley admitted we can ask May on a date if we win,” one contestant exclaims as he walks with his group of friends, just within earshot of Drew, who happens to be scrolling through his news feed. 

‘Old habits die hard,’ he thinks, scowling. Does he really have to rescue May AGAIN?

“Yeah, it’s not an official event but who cares? Gal’s single, gal’s famous, gal’s hot . . . “ Jackass #2 numbers off the merits of dating someone like May with those grimy probably oily as fuck disgusting fingers of his, and Drew can’t help stewing in pure agony at the thought of someone OTHER than him dating May. 

Especially if they don’t know how to treat her or appreciate her! 

“Whatever helps advertise the heist, I guess,” Jackass #3 comments, “I might decline, if I win, though.”

May not be that much of a jackass, with a little inkling of common sense and dignity! 

“Hello Drew. Good to see you again. Are you here to register?” Nurse Joy greets upon approaching the counter. 

“Yes, I’d like to enter the Slateport Heist.”

“Excellent. I have you all set up. If you’re looking for your friends, they are staying here, so you’ll run into them soon.”

Drew nods. “Thanks.”

He accepts his token and retires to his cabin. 

Yes, let the games begin, indeed. 

7 A. M. the following day comes along, and everyone’s gathered around the small stadium the city put together for Harley’s event. In the center, a medieval inspired gong, which Harley strikes to initiate the beginning of something either grand or something anticlimactic. 

Watching the contestants scramble around like headless chickens for the Zorua has been nothing short of entertaining for the Cacturne trainer, and he sits back and enjoys the show while May’s fucked off elsewhere for the time being. She monitors other areas of the city to make sure no one’s up to mischief. 

Speaking of May, she’s giggling at the prospect of all these younger trainers arguing over who deserves that Zorua. With its perfect IVs and fully trained EVs, its shiny new color, its cloaking ability . . . Zorua’s likely hiding in plain sight and these trainers are too busy arguing to see what’s right in front of them. 

She strolls through one of Slateport’s main streets and swears under her breath when she catches a familiar flash of green. A particular mossy shade of green. 

Approaching him from behind, she addresses him. 

“ . . . Drew?” 

Whipping around, Drew’s eyes widen for a brief moment before they soften immediately upon realizing that it’s her. Perfect. Just the girl he’s been looking for all of this time since the heist began. 

He needs to get her away from Harley’s scheming, grimy hands! 

“I take it you’re here because you really want that Zorua.” 

“An excellent guess, but no,” he replies, and May can’t help picking up on how his usually tense expression fades into one of pure softness. For her? Why, though? “I’m actually here for you.”

“Me?” May’s tone indicates incredulousness. Even after all of this time!? “What do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Um, why are you working on this with Harley?” 

May frowns. “We’ve established that we’ve outgrown that weird frenemy stage we had. We’re really good friends now, Drew. What’s going on?” 

Drew sighs, deciding against telling her the truth. Collaborating with Harley–or even being within Harley’s proximity–is never any good. He offers her a rose from seemingly thin air, which May graciously accepts.

“Never mind. Anyway, what’s in it for you?” 

“Nothing! It just seemed like a fun way to raise money for the Ribbon Cup.”

Things fall silent between them, but it’s comfortable. They decide to look for that Zorua together. 

They find themselves near the Slateport beach, close to where they first met. Drew looks off at the private beach area where he found May, and he can’t help but chuckle to himself. 

“What’s so funny?” May then picks up on it. “Oh. You’re thinking about how we met, huh?” 

“Yeah. On this very beach,” he says, “Hard to believe how far we’ve come.”

“Hard to believe we can stand to breathe the same air as each other.” 

Drew splutters, “I more than can just tolerate breathing the same air as you.” 

In fact, he dearly wishes to be with her for the rest of his life. He’s damn sure of it. He’s not going to admit that to her yet because he doesn’t want to scare her off.

A splash of salty water on him catches him off-guard. He turns to ese May with a mischievous grin on her face, and Drew shakes his head. 

“You rascal,” Drew teases as he joins her by the water, splashing her back. 

Suddenly, in the sand, Zorua pops out from hiding under it. Once he notices it, Drew’s mouth falls open. 

“Oh! There’s the gorgeous Zorua!” 

Zorua hops right into Drew’s arms upon recognizing him. 

Drew and May exchange a look. 

“Uh . . . do we go back to the stadium, then?” May inquires. Drew nods and they walk off, ignoring the icky wetness of their damp clothes. 

Eh. They’re going to dry off, they think. 

When they arrive back at the stadium, Harley’s relaxing on a lounge chair and enjoying the sun shining down on him. His goal must be a tan, as he’s angling a mirror to have the sun hit on his body. 

He hears the rustling of their footsteps, and he raises himself from his seat, resting his sunglasses over his head to get a view of them. 

“Oh! Excellent! Just as planned, Randy, you found Zorua!” Harley exclaims. “Well, I should say Zorua found you guys. I told it not to appear to anyone else except Drew. No one was going to be able to find Zorua by the end of the event.”

“Huh?” May cuts in, placing her hands on her hips. “Then what was the purpose of this heist anyway?” 

“Yeah,” Drew adds, “Why were you getting the male winners the opportunity to ask May out if they won?” 

“What?” May glares at Harley. “You conveniently left out that little detail! What in the world?!” 

“Sounding a bit envious there, Randy,” Harley snorts, “If you must know, I knew you were going to sign up for this heist if I put May in a jeopardizing situation. Of course nothing life-threatening. She’s just been single for too long after that jackass Brendan dated her. Lo and behold, you do enter the hunt, and not only do you earn the Zorua and the money, but you’re the one getting to ask May out on a date.”

“What were you going to do if the winner was a girl? This wasn’t well thought out,” May says, “Which is a first, coming from you.” 

Harley steps back, striking a defensive pose. His tone does indicate some sincerity but there’s no telling with Harley quite literally ever. 

He shakes his head as he vehemently disagrees. 

“I only told the men about that little addition. No girl was going to ask you out. And by the way, it wasn’t going to be a bunch of random guys, just the winner of the heist,  and I orchestrated everything so that Drew would win anyways. Like I already said, Zorua was not going to be found. Not easily. Zorua’s great at keeping itself hidden. Everything’s worked out in favor of you two finally biting the bullet and just going out already. We’re sick of you two dancing around the bush.” 

“I–!” Drew can’t even begin to express himself at that moment. He has to admit–he’s been fooled. Maybe Harley has changed for the better, in some aspects. In others, that’s still up for debate. 

Despite this, Drew may never completely warm up to Harley. 

Not even the fact that he’s dating Soledad. 

“So, Randrew Gayden, aren’t you going to finally roll for initiative like this is DND and finally give May the lovin’ on she deserves?” 

“Uhhhh . . . “ Drew’s brain may have short-circuited at that point. Picking up on that little brain fart of Drew’s, a rare moment for him indeed, May takes charge like the woman she always is because she always feels like she has something to prove. 

“Drew,” she begins, twiddling the rose he gifted her just moments prior to this interaction. “Will you take me to dinner?” 

Yep. That brain fart then escalates to a complete meltdown. His circuitry is failing him. There’s probably steam out of his ears from that system overload. 

System overload! 

May’s forehead creases. “. . . Drew? Do I have to do everything around here, or do I have to drag you to the nicest restaurant in this region?” 

“No! No, I, uh . . .” Taking a deep stabilizing breath, he finds that confidence he works so hard to fake the majority of the time. Yeah, you hear him right–fake. He’s not the sauviest of the suave, he has come to accept that. 

Especially if he can’t ask the most beautiful girl in the world out and she has to make the move first! 

He clears his throat, and meets her eyes, careful not to get too lost admiring how much those sapphire eyes resemble the deepest depths of the sea. 

“Yes, I’ll take you to dinner. Only if you let me spoil you rotten.”

Harley grimaces. “Damn, you really are living up to the name, Randy.” 

“Stop calling me that,” Drew counters.

“Over my dead body!” Harley then approaches May. “Don’t I get a thank you, hon?” 

“I’m not sure if I should thank you or slap you, but I’ll let you get away with it this time. Thanks, Harley. Now if you’ll excuse us, this is long overdue.”

“Of course, of course! Have fun ye hooligans! Farewell now!” 

Drew hooks May’s arm around his. “Where to? We’ll take a ride on Flygon.”

“I can go for something exotic and new, so surprise me, Mr Fancy Pants.”

“Anything for you.” Drew casts a dirty look at Harley over his shoulder, as if to say, ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ 

For now, he’s going to enjoy a wonderful date with a wonderful girl. 

[sergeant-spoons]

130. This December

Verity/Victor Rich

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​ @chaosklutz​ @wexhappyxfew​ @50svibes​ @tvserie-s-world​ @adamantiumdragonfly​ @ask-you-what-sir​ @whovian45810​ @brokennerdalert​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​ @claire-bear-1218​ @heirsoflilith​ @itswormtrain​ @actualtrashpanda​ @wtrpxrks​

And so the time has come at last for the final chapter of IDOC. It has been a remarkable journey over the last 20 months writing this fic. I will forever be grateful to the readers I’ve seen come, go, and stay, to the commenters whose kind words I’ve screenshotted time and time again to boost my spirits on a tough day, and most especially to my friends in this fandom who have encouraged me to write - @chaosklutz​ @tvserie-s-world​ @itswormtrain​ @penguinated​ @thoughpoppiesblow​ @wexhappyxfew​ @50svibes​ @actualtrashpanda​​ and @phoenixes-and-wizards​, I love you all so very much. 💕 P.S. Most of these folks ^^ are writers too - go check out their works!

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An Alton Autumn always seemed to skip through the season. Leaves changed and fell so rapidly that half the trees had gone bare before October was up. September had started to cool the air, and now the time had come for zip-up jackets and corduroy pants, for wool sweaters and shin-high socks. Little by little, Verity adjusted to life back home. Her father poking his head through her bedroom door to wish her goodnight no longer startled her. Her breathing became easier as time went by. The aches in her chest that wracked her senses and shot sparks through her vision whenever she sat up too quickly or turned her torso too far slowly began to fade. She got her old job at the flower shop back, mostly stocking flowers of the red and orange variety and ferns of the deep green, plus a few mini pumpkins to boot. The manila folder in her bedroom sat dormant more often than not, for the poetry that used to pour from her pen like a river carving its way across a landscape ripe for creation now evaded her. She knew perfectly well why the going was so slow—writing about anything but the war seemed insignificant now—but knowing why didn't much help her solve how. Besides, she'd promised Shifty she wouldn't write about the war. So she stewed, stumped, and let the folder be.

She called Perry just as frequently as Perry called her, which could be anything from twice a day to twice a week—it all depended on when Perry could find a spare minute. She'd been busy as a bee the moment she set foot in California. For a while, she'd had trouble finding work thanks to the invasive press coverage of her family's ongoing lawsuit, but in time a local newspaper gave her a chance, and now they called her the best secretary they'd ever had. A little more courageous in a position of steady employment, Perry braved the witness stand not once or twice but four times throughout October. Halfway through the month, she was thrilled to report to Verity that she'd heard from Buck Compton, and the news was as good as it could get. Buck had gone into law school as soon as he'd come home to California and was doing well. From what he'd told her, Perry guessed that he had figured her and Joe Toye out when Toye got hit but never mentioned it to a soul. When he saw the Blommes' court case in the papers along with a photo of Perry and her father standing on either side of Clyde's wheelchair, Buck recognized her and the pieces finally clicked. He called the next day and offered Perry his help with any legal challenges or issues the army might force upon them after the war. Verity cried a little to hear the kindness had been extended to them both.

For quite some time, Verity didn't understand how Buck could have possibly known about her. She guessed at first that Perry had let it slip, but Perry swore she never had, and Verity was never inclined to disbelieve her. A few years down the road, Lt. Lipton—who never failed to check up on Verity every few months for the rest of his life—let slip that he knew the answer. Buck had realized about Verity right before they entered the Bois Jacques (the one time Verity had let her hair grow a little too long) but Lip had sworn him to secrecy. Buck never said a damn word about the matter, not after the war, not even at the reunions where half the men would forget and wonder why Eugene Roe's girl looked exceptionally like Victor's twin. Verity never forgot his sure heart. She swore to herself that if Buck ever needed help with anything at all, she'd be there. Many years down the line, she would keep that promise, coaching his wife through her second childbirth in the backseat of Buck's car as they fought their way through L.A. traffic. Perry and Joe made it to the hospital before they did—

But Perry and Joe weren't always in California. There was a time when a country's worth of land and longing still separated them. Neither knew what their future held nor if the other would want a place in it.

It was three days after Halloween when Joe Toye finally took the leap.

"We won, Red!" Perry shouted tearfully into the phone, and Verity jumped for joy, accidentally hitting her elbow on the kitchen counter. "We won the case! Clyde's safe!"

"That's wonderful!" Verity managed to get out, gripping her elbow and wincing. "Oh, Perry, that's amazing."

"Isn't it?" Perry giggled and sniffled with charged elation. "Oh, and Clyde says hello and thanks for the baseball cap. He loves it."

"I'm glad. Should keep his face out of the sun when he's playing on the court."

"He wears it every day. Where'd you find that basketball pattern anyway?"

Verity cracked a smile, leaning around the partition to see her father dozing in his armchair in the living room. He'd gone to seven different stores in three different cities to find that pattern for Clyde.

"Just a little something Pa picked up while he was out and about one day."

"Well, tell him thanks, from me and Clyde both."

"I will."

A beat.

"Verity?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"'Course, you can."

"Okay."

Perry considered, and Verity settled her excitement, sensing the tone shift in the conversation.

"It's- Well, it's about Joe."

Verity's smile crept back up into being.

"Go on."

"I got a letter from him yesterday. I'm gonna write him back as soon as I can get myself to sit down for longer than ten minutes—aw, to hell with it. You know just as well as I do that I'm in love with him."

"I do."

"It seems simple enough-"

"Mhmm."

"-but is it, though?"

Perry sighed.

"I love him, but I don't know what to do about it."

"Him, of course," Verity teased, and she could picture the red blossoming on Perry's cheeks as her friend gasped a laugh.

"Verity Miranda Rich!"

"Sorry. I couldn't resist. But really, here's what you do—you tell him." Verity wound the cord around her finger, smiling faintly as she remembered that first time she told Gene she loved him. "You tell him, and you let him know you want to be with him if he'll have you. Which he will."

"You think so?"

"Yes, because he loves you, too."

"He does?"

"He calls you Lovely Summer, doesn't he?"

She could almost hear Perry smiling.

"Yeah, he does. He, um... He called me that in the letter. Five times. I counted."

Verity's lips tugged up at the corners, and she leaned against the wall, balancing the receiver on her shoulder.

"Then have a little faith, Perry—he loves you, too."

They talked a little more about this and that, and then Perry hung up to write that hopeful reply. Verity hadn't even gotten the phone back on its hook when it started to ring again, and when she checked her watch, she realized it was already two in the afternoon. David Webster was right on time. He and Verity had taken up the habit of calling almost as often as they wrote as soon as they'd both settled in back home. Accordingly, their spoken and written messages often crossed, and every few weeks, Verity would receive a letter with information Web had conveyed two days ago on a call and had changed since. It was good to hear he'd taken up sailing again and begun saving up for a bigger ship. So far, he'd gone out on the Atlantic six times since his return to Massachusetts and invited her to come with him someday. The academic year at Harvard was already in full swing, but Web was planning to re-enroll and complete his degree the following Autumn. Verity made him promise to send her a copy of his notes every now and again so she could learn a little something, too.

A postcard from Austria arrived on the same day as Perry's fourth and final time on the witness stand, a little over a month after Verity had come back to Alton. Though she hadn't expected any sort of missive from Major Winters, she hadn't known she'd needed to hear from him until she did. His note was brief but heartwarming, conveying that he'd be home by Christmas, that she was welcome to visit at any time, and most importantly, that she could rely on him even out of the service. She supposed he'd sent the same to every Easy veteran, but that only served to make the sentiment seem ever the kinder. Best of all was the note tacked on to the bottom, scribbled in minute handwriting far messier than Winters' but still fairly legible—an addition solely for Verity. All it said was "same here", but it took a kind of pinching weight off Verity's chest she hadn't even realized was still there. She hadn't been sure where she and Captain Nixon stood. Now she had relief; now she had closure.

Bill Guarnere called out of the blue a week into November. He and Verity talked and laughed and caught up for several hours, then several more once he got Babe Heffron on the line. Verity asked if Heffron had heard from Perry, and he told her they'd been writing. He and Bill knew about her by now, from the newspaper clipping she'd sent him, but they both seemed to have taken it well, once they got over the shock. Babe had settled the facts with himself far quicker than Bill, who started reeling all over again when Verity told him she'd known about Perry all along. Thinking it the wiser decision, Verity didn't correct them when they called her 'Victor' and teased her about still not having a girl of her own. When Bill asked about Perry and Joe Toye, her two cents were simply that it was "about time".

"I'll say," Babe said. "It all makes sense now, don't it? The way they'd look at each other."

"I still can't square it with meself," Bill laughed. "That kid's as much a dame in my head as you are, Rich."

Verity laughed a little harder than she probably should have, but Bill just roared along, and even Babe chuckled a bit.

"You'd better visit," Bill urged her, "you and Bloom. Together, if ya can."

"We will. Maybe sometime after Christmas, yeah? I've still got a few things to settle up here at home-" Including puzzling out how to tell you the truth without causing you to shortcircuit. "-but I'll call Perry and see if her and I can work something out."

"'Her'," Bill marveled, clucking his tongue. "Jesus. 'Her'."

"Don't think about it too hard, Bill," Verity said gravely, "you'll give yourself a headache."

"Hey-"

The next few weeks passed by without much incident. It was nice to have a bit of peace like that. The first time Verity went out by herself was right after Thanksgiving to get a wreath from the local Christmas tree farm. She took a hammer to the front door and tapped the nail into the same hole they'd used for the past twenty-some years, then adjusted the wreath until it no longer looked quite so crooked. The wreath was nice, and the Riches thought it was enough, wordlessly deciding against a tree. Maybe next year, they thought as they passed by the living room, looking at the empty window-side corner where, once upon a time, twinkling lights gleamed against the shadows and an angel's cloth halo brushed the ceiling. Verity hardly remembered the sight. They hadn't put up a Christmas tree since the year her mother passed away. Maybe next year, and their eyes made empty promises and their hands patted shoulders a little stiffer than before.

After she put up the wreath and it started to sink in that Winter was on its way, Verity took to occupying her every spare minute with some task or preoccupation. She sent a letter to Joe Liebgott right before Chanukah to wish him a happy holiday and to see if he'd settled in alright back in California. She knew Perry had been to see him once, but her friend had been oddly reticent about Lieb, and Verity had been nursing a walnut of worry in her chest ever since. All she wanted to hear was that Liebgott was doing fine—well, even—and she'd be satisfied. If he wasn't, then perhaps a trip to California was in her near future. She'd been dying to see Perry, after all, and Liebgott, whether he knew it or not, had stood by Verity's side when she needed it the most. She would be hard-pressed indeed to let distance interfere with the loyalty she owed him in return. It was almost funny, how she'd consider buying a ticket cross-country when just three or four years ago, she never would have imagined traveling outside the Northeast. Now she was ready to hop a train to Oakland at a moment's notice—and all it took to get her there was a war.

Her letter to Lieb was far from the only correspondence she cooked up that early December. Most afternoons, Verity could be found fiddling with paper, pens, felt, and glue, crafting Christmas cards for her friends from Easy. Once she finished her list and leaned back in her chair to examine it, she was surprised and humbled to realize just how long it was. She even penned a snowflake-adorned note to Captain Speirs, who was still somewhere out in Europe, continuing his career with the Airborne. Though she had her doubts about the card's timely arrival, she knew Winters would know how to reach Speirs (whereas she did not) and so sent the card through him. The rest, she could address herself. Nearly fifty cards went out over the course of a week, each personalized to its recipient, some more so than others, and for every single card she sent, she received one in return, and then some. She even heard from Floyd Talbert, who (rumor had it) had gone all but radio silent since his return to the States, and Smokey Gordon, who was finally able to write her back from that letter she'd sent him from Austria last May. He enclosed a copy of his latest villanelle, asking her advice on its rhythm and rhyme schemes, and in doing so began a lifelong correspondence between two kindred poets.

The first card to arrive bore Gene's return address, and it showed up the same day she put her card to him in the mail. He must have been thinking about her to have sent it so early. She couldn't help that fluttery feeling in her chest as she ran her thumb over his endearments and well wishes, wondering how his handwriting could be so pretty and fine. They wrote so often already, but this card felt different, in a way—he'd drawn a little dove in the margins of the card, and in its beak was a ribbon tied around a ring. She knew a promise when she saw one. He still wanted to marry her, and that was the best Christmas gift she could have asked for.

The next few cards came from Winters, Webster, Lipton, and Frank Perconte, all linked to Verity by the same time zone and postal service. The Southerners were quick to follow, with Shifty and Popeye sending a sweet and simple angel-adorned note while Bull's triple-folded memo included a dozen signatures from his whole family, including his fiancée Vera and Vera's parents. Babe and Bill sent theirs together, and Verity got a laugh out of how they'd stuffed three different cards into the envelope as if they'd squabbled so much about which to send that they'd resorted to making no decision at all. Then the West Coasters converged on the Riches' mailbox all at once, starting with Malarkey, all the way out in Astoria. Liebgott was next, and though Verity was surprised at how peculiarly thick the envelope seemed, she understood once she saw the four-page folded letter he'd enclosed with the card. It was his response to her how-do-you-do, and though Verity couldn't be more pleased to hear he was doing well for himself, when he asked her to come and visit if she could "get away from fucking work"—even in his letters, he couldn't help but cuss—she knew she'd be off to buy a railway ticket just as soon as the holiday rates went down.

But no card—besides Gene's—could bring Verity greater joy than that of Perry and Joe Toye's, whose signatures sat side-by-side under a flurry of well-wishes. Verity placed that lovely card, its cover a vision of a snow-blanketed steam train puffing through a starry night, right in the center of the mantel, packed in with all the others. By the 16th of the month, the windy day that blew George Luz into town, that mantel appeared to have sprouted a veritable forest of cardstock pines.

George had been planning his visit for months. He came prepared with a suitcase and a broad, unfailing smile, and Verity could not have picked a better war buddy to be the first to meet her father. They hit it off, especially once they discovered they both loved to work with their hands. George had resumed his handyman's work upon return to Rhode Island and was perfectly satisfied with his career; Nicholas, though retired, was still an avid leatherworker. He came this close to giving George a fully-stocked tool chest before their guest politely let slip that he (unsurprisingly) had his very own. Then they got into a conversation comparing wrench and socket manufacturers and Verity started to wonder if she'd ever get a minute to talk to George herself. Her father was quick to notice her antsiness, however, and refused to keep them any longer from their reunion.

That first day, Verity kept touching George's arm or shoulder or ruffling his hair in teasing, half because she'd missed him so dearly and half to make sure he was actually here, telling her all his old jokes and talking to her like he'd known her—the actual her—for years. He brought his Christmas card to give her in person, partly because he was good like that and partly because he wanted to see her reaction to the terrible tinsel-themed joke he wrote on the inside flap. They were light and happy and glad, but there was still snow on the ground outside, glaring frosty and unforgiving in the sunshine. Verity and George stayed indoors most of the week. The one time they went and stayed out was to ice-skate on frozen Lake Winnipesaukee on Verity's twenty-fourth birthday, and after that, they bundled up in blankets and cupped hot cocoa mugs so tight they almost burned their fingers.

It was no secret among the veterans still in contact that Winter was proving difficult for most of Easy who served in Bastogne. Verity bore the added weight of her mother having passed away just a few days after Christmas. Twenty-one years ago this December, she and her father had laid Marguerite Rich to rest in that hillside plot in the only cemetery in town. The only thing Verity remembered from the funeral was how it had begun to snow, white flakes peppering the casket as they lowered it into the earth. She took George to see the headstone, and if he cried an icy tear or two as he knelt there, let into a facet of her past not even Gene knew much about, she pretended not to see. They walked close together, shielding each other against the snow and ice delicately painting the lakeside landscape, already mumbling promises to see each other again once the frost had broken and the forest was green again. So Winter was not easy, but they made do with each other and a warm house to get back to at the early end of the day.

There was one thing Verity wanted in particular to show George but was too nervous to bring it up until the day before his leaving. Right before her friend's arrival, she'd had a breakthrough with her poetry. She'd realized one sleepless night, staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom as visions of the rolling flowering fields of Holland swept through her head, that if she put aside the war years, she'd be ignoring the greatest emotional period of her life. She didn't have to write about the war part of the war. She could write about the parts that were good, the parts she'd look back on and smile because she was there with her friends and she was important and loved and protected. When she settled it with herself that she wouldn't be breaking her promise to Shifty after all—that's what set her in motion. She barely slept that night. When her father came in and found her on the carpet the next morning (again), he was pleasantly surprised to discover her surrounded by dozens of penned pages and an ink stain that had bled into the bottom hem of her sleep shirt.

She showed those poems to George, tucked neatly into their manila folder as she passed them over a dropped-egg-on-toast breakfast table. She could barely eat another bite, tapping her foot under the table in her anxiety, and as George flipped through the loose leaf sheets, she watched the minutia of his expression for any sign of his opinion. To her utter relief, he seemed to like her work, and when he told her how impressed he was, she turned several shades of pink. He insisted that she send him an autographed copy of the collection once she'd had it published; with a new sense of purpose blossoming in her chest, she humbly promised she would.

George left for Rhode Island on the morning of Christmas Eve, wanting to be with his family for the holidays. Verity hugged him goodbye and didn't care how obvious she made it that she didn't much want him to go. He kissed the top of her head in the kind of brotherly fashion that made her heart ache for the siblings she might have had if cancer hadn't taken her mother so soon, and when he waved goodbye, leaning out the train window despite the freezing morning, she watched him until the train was gone, leaving trees and empty tracks and Verity behind.

The morning of the 31st was growing late when the Riches' doorbell chimed through their home. Verity and her father had taken to the kitchen, making peppermint cookies and preparing to stay up until midnight. Bing Crosby crooned "Jingle Bells" from the radio in the living room, almost drowning out the I'll get it that Verity called over her shoulder as she swept past the archway. She wiped her hands off on her apron, its grey stripes now dotted with sticky red candy cane residue and clingy white flour. She paused in the foyer to tug it off and tossed it onto the little bench they kept to help her father put on his shoes, curiosity getting the better of her neatness. Then she opened the door and there he was, cracking that slow, content smile she didn't think she'd ever get to see like this, silhouetted by the snow and a thick beige scarf.

They'd discussed him visiting, playing with dates, but none sooner than Springtime next year. And yet, here he was, promises on paper fulfilled as he stood before her. There was a small rose in the buttonhole of his jacket. Verity wasn't sure if he meant to impress her or her father but didn't much care because he was here, on her doorstep in Alton, his eyes wide and wet with emotion.

"Gene," was all she could manage in a gasp before she simply had to throw herself into his arms.

They stayed like that for some time, just standing on the porch, breathing in the moment. The cold pressing on their lungs felt insignificant now that they had each other again. Footsteps came up behind them, followed by a chuckle.

"I think I could probably guess our company, but if you wouldn't mind the interruption..."

Verity slowly stepped back but did not let go of Gene. She kept his hand in her own, and having him there, at her side, was just so right that she nearly started to cry. Gene brushed away a stray tear of his own and she squeezed his hand, a smile growing on her lips as she looked between her beloved and her father.

"Pa," she said, breathing in deep the frosty air, "I'd like you to meet Eugene."

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