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danddymaro · 4 years ago

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Bucky Barnes x Reader | Pt.4

Word Count: 1745 | Part 4: Content

Previous part : A Single Name

Content

She could do nothing more than savor the bitter taste of melted butter mingling with liquid metal in her mouth, leaving her tongue tingling with the disgusting, pungent taste.

The scarlet fluid then began to overflow like running liquid on a clogged drain, bubbling as she tried to form words. And so, with the pool of crimson bubbling in her mouth, she only produced a symphony of unorchestrated gurgles, words trapped beneath the ooze as she pleaded for help, begging for mercy.

She felt like she was drowning, slowly slipping from existence, somehow being pulled out of her physical body by a powerful force, one much stronger than a mortal’s hold.

'This is it...' She to herself. ' This is really it,' She mused, the solace being that they were just a hair strand away from their purpose.

'Steve will come,' She told herself. 'He'll be here.' She added. 'He'll be here to get Bucky out of here.

He'll be here to save Sam...

He'll finally be here...' She thought with comfort, convincing herself that soon, it would all be better.

She knew what was to come, left waiting with helplessness for the hourglass to empty, content with the life she'd lived, fulfilled by the thought of having the final mission in her record written as a success.

By then everything had become splotches of shadows and barely recognizable figures, making her hazy eyes squint to try and focus, trying to capture the beauty of space while she took her final breaths.

She was currently at temporary blindness, fogged with such a heavy haze that even the colors of the blue sky seemed surreal, like a strange abstract painting. Far above, between splotches of white in the murky colored sky, a shining light emitted a blinding brilliance, making her eyes sting.

Her (e/c) colored drops struggled to close and her left arm trembled in a forced movement, trying to block the ray of lively shine with no avail. Her limbs only twitched with unexecuted movements, spasming as their only results.

And so, left with no other option, the sun’s rays touched her, shining over her stinging eyes harshly, he same light strangely running over her body in a different fashion, handling the rest of her with gentle creases, warming her cooling stillness with its merciful brushes of affection.

It was odd to think so, but the feeling made her somehow feel accompanied and less frightened.

It made her accept her fate with much more comfort and confidence,

‘ So why?’ she thought to herself, asking up above as she knew that by then darkness should have consumed her. ‘ Why am I still alive… why can’t I just go?’ she asked, not knowing why she still held on.

With the sunny touch comforting her and staying as a lingering presence, the comfort gave her falling energy, as though, somehow, it was trying to convince her there was much more to fight for, keeping her company for now and egging her on to muster up a hidden strength.

She had no more strength, no more will left, and yet the world was urging her to continue, refusing to let her go into the clutches and sweet relief of death.

‘ I’ve already accepted it... have I not?’ she asked herself, not understanding how she was still barely grasping at the threads of life.

'What...What am I waiting for?' She wondered, for a reason unknown to her, tearing.

As Steve arrived, he felt his heart stop as his eyes landed over his friend’s convulsing body.

She shook, a fountain of red spewing from her mouth as it frothed at the corners of her gaping mouth. Tightening his fists he tore his eyes from her, and instead focused on Sam and Bucky’s struggle.

With a firm force, he threw his shield to the back of the long-haired brunette's head, making him fly forward unconscious, falling facefirst into the dirt ground without even so much as a sound of protest as he was unsuspectingly attached by behind.

“Keep an eye on him,” Rogers said lowly, marching towards the woman, all the while his heart stayed racing, the man swallowing down hard before he took the final step to her, standing above her with the hairs at his neck springing up straight.

And it broke his heart.

The true sight of her shattered him from within, forcing him down a level as he landed on his knees, hunched over her with a grieving expression.

"(F/n)..." Steve said softly, feeling a strong pain within his chest as his vision began to blur.

"Come one, Stay with me,” He said firmly. “You’ve got to pull through,” He told her, blinking away the weakness that dared to escape him, instead, moving into action and breaking through his pained shock.

His two fingers touch her wrist, pressing against them firmly, then flying to her neck and pressing it with the same urgency, desperately attempting to find a bud of hope.

After the short inspection, his blue eyes grew wide and filled with worry as the hand checking her pulse retracted sharply. “No...” he said breathlessly, falling into disbelief as the cold body laying over the filthy ground remained motionless.

His bright eyes then dashed from the left to the right for an answer, for something to do to help her, finding nothing to his aid.

Both of his gloved hands then flew to his head, trying to calm the pressure of his pulsing brain, not knowing what to do, not having a clue as to how to proceed.

“Tell me she’s gonna make it,” he then heard Sam speak with shaken hope as he slowly approached with stumbling steps.

“Steve?’” Sam said worriedly, a hand placed at the other man's shoulder as he tried to coax an answer out of him.

He didn't even want to look at (f/n), but from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the gory mess, his own heart constricting as he tried to hold onto any measly bit of hope.

Turning his gaze to the other man, Steve closed his eyes tightly, all while shaking his head, not knowing how to answer.

He wanted to believe in a miracle, but any time he tried to force out the words, they knotted in his throat, eventually making him go silent, the ability to speak stripped from him by the sheer helplessness he felt.

(f/n) forced her eyes open, speaking with them to the worried man once he looked down at her again.

- this was a man that would sacrifice all he had for those he cared for, for the world’s sake if it came to it.

There was no limit to his sacrifices because to him they felt like duties, and she was well aware of that.

And she admired him so, followed in his footsteps to the best of her abilities in order to pay tribute to him.

By then his muscled body shielded her from the sun's blinding rays and even through half-lidded eyes, she could see him up close, barely make out his image.

From where he cradled her near him, she could see his blue colored eyes, almost identical to the sky she'd gaze at when she'd crane her head back to look at the lovely azure space.

"(F/n) I'm sorry, " he told her while seeing the color drain from her body ever so slowly. Bit by bit the natural glow also dimmed from her vibrant eyes, leaving them without the sweet light they were always accompanied by until she was stripped of even the teasing little twinkle in her eyes that was aroused every so often.

And It was like watching the progression of a painting slowly be coated by murk and grime, the beauty before him worn before it became nothingness,

"(f/n)" he said again, his voice soft and pleading as he became vulnerable, knowing that there was nothing he could do for her except bring her home after it was all over.

A hand now grasped hers, tightening over her smaller beaten one, nearly crushing it in his desperation, yet she couldn't complain, having lost nearly all feeling in it a while back, only barely recognizing a faint numbness while being held by him.

“We’re getting you out of here... " he promised her, "And..." He started, shakily speaking as he desperately tried to force the words out, " Y-You're going to make it," He said while trying to convince her she'd make it out, but moreso desperately attempting to bring life into the feeble promise.

Despite the impending death, Something inside her told her to smile, told her to put on a brave face, and force herself because that was just the way to go.

Because in her mind that was the way to leave; liberated.

It was the reason why even while having stared into the other man’s eyes as he had still held the dagger in his hand, she chose to smile up at him.

And now if anyone needed the assurance it was her good friend.

If anyone needed comfort, it was Steve.

She forced a seldom smile, just barely managing to twitch the sides of her lips upward, and decided it'd be the last she would ever muster even if he felt pain afterward.

'I don't blame you,' She inwardly spoke, wishing she could assure him that any decision she made was hers.

Any outcome that would have occurred had been because of her choices, and no one else's.

She wanted to reach her hand to his chest, but yet again failed to move, instead choosing to lay there within his embrace, attempting to somehow convince him that it was alright.

This was her fate, the end of her story, and she wouldn't leave this world bitter.

'Goodbye Steve..' She thought to herself, closing her eyes, ' Goodbye sam...Goodbye Bucky...'

And then she saw nothing but empty darkness, a quiet stillness that existed within black.

She had been walking a narrow path, weaving her way through the blinding darkness, until A burning light consumed her, blinding her with it's radiance in the process before she felt a strong grasp at her hands, forcibly taking her out of the state of calm she felt.

All in all, despite her resolve, a force beyond her own began to pull her from the depths of darkness, lured by voices she felt familiar and close to her heart.

Next Part :

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etherealwaifgoddess · 4 years ago

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One In A Million - Chpt.5

Summary: In the wake of Rose’s discovery, the trio figures out how to move on together. Rose’s growing feels throw a wrench in their plans however, making them reassess what they are, and what they want to be, to each other.

Word Count: 3.1k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! Did ya’ll like the twist last chapter? You didn’t really think I’d just *poof* her back to modern times, did you? She still has a long way to go with our boys and we’re just getting started. XOXO - Ash

Chapter Five

Neither Bucky or Steve seem to know where to start. Steve brewed some truly terrible coffee for the three of you and you’re thankful for the warm cup in your hands helping to steady your nerves. Bucky and Steve are seated on opposite ends of the sofa while you occupy the padded chair across from them. It’s divisive, you and them, and you hate it but don’t want to push boundaries for this conversation.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. You have to know that I would never do that to you guys.” you assure them.

Steve lets out a shaky breath, “Thank you, Rose.”

“You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are either. I’ve caught those sweet little looks you give each other when you think I’m not looking. You’re adorable, the both of you.”

Bucky cringes slightly, “Told ya, punk.” he chastises Steve who just rolls his eyes.

“You’re just as guilty.” you point out.

“Yeah, but you see how pretty Stevie is. How’s a guy supposed to keep his head around him?”

Steve’s whole face lights up at his words and he fidgets for a minute before gathering up the nerve to move seats to sit next to Bucky. Tucked under Bucky’s protective arm, Steve seems to fully relax for the first time since you all sat down. You dare to move over to the empty sofa seat next to him, hoping he doesn’t shy away from you. He doesn’t and you give him a grateful smile.

“So, how long have you been together?” you ask, curious.

Bucky chuckles, “Since about the second this one turned those gorgeous blue eyes on me the first time. I didn’t know what to think about it then but as soon as I was old enough to know what it was to really want someone, I knew he was it for me.”

“Buck.” Steve preens under Bucky’s affection, “I love you.” He huffs a laugh, “Never said that to you in front of anyone else before.”

“I love you too.” Bucky presses a soft kiss to Steve’s temple and pulls him even closer. “Rose, I have to ask. Why are you so okay with this?”

The truth burns in your chest but know you can’t share it. “I just don’t see why someone’s gender should matter when it comes to love or attraction. We’re all just people.”

“Do you… have you…? You don’t have to tell us, but do you like other girls?”

“No, I like men. I tried being with a girl in college but it wasn’t for me.”

“You really are one in a million.”

“So, now that it’s out of the way, you two can stop asking me out dancing.” you tease.

Bucky and Steve share hesitant glances. “Uh, well, we don’t have to.” Steve says quietly.

“I’m fine on my own. I don’t need you two taking me out on a fake date.”

“It helps though, being seen out with a pretty dame. People talk less. That’s why Bucky has earned such a reputation as a ladies man down at the docks.”

“Oh! Of course. I’d be happy to go out and be seen with either of you then.”

“I’d really like to take you. Bucky never has trouble finding a dance partner but it’s been a while for me.”

“Well you just haven’t been asking the right girls. I would like nothing more than to go dancing with you, Steve.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date.”

You take extra time to do your hair and make up before your date with Steve on Saturday. It’s silly since you know he’s not attracted to you in that way, but you want to look your best for him. You’re thankful that he has Bucky who loves him so fiercely despite having to hide it from the world. Adjusting your lipstick one last time you hurry to the door to find Steve waiting patiently on the other side, bouquet in hand. It’s a handful of beautiful white daisies and you’re delighted he put in the effort to bring them for you despite it being a ruse. You thank him, letting him come inside while you hunt for a vase. Steve tugs on the lapel of his tan suit nervously while he waits. It’s the best one he owns and even still it hangs on his slight frame, unable to afford a tailor to adjust it for him. His hair is slicked back like Bucky wears his and it’s glossy in the light of your kitchen. How he has trouble finding dates is beyond you but the other women’s loss is your gain. You will happily be his fake date any night he needs you.

Bucky is already at the Stork Club when you arrive, sipping a drink at the bar with a date of his own. You wonder how they can stand seeing each other out with another person but when it comes down to life or death, you suppose they don’t have much of a choice.

Steve really is a terrible dancer. You had expected him to at least be competent but he’s a mess on the dance floor, having stepped on your toes several times before the first song is over. Embarrassed and blushing Steve leans forward to whisper in your ear, “Bucky usually leads when dance at home.”��

“Why didn’t you say so?” you whisper back, “I can lead, no one will be the wiser.” Having enjoyed dance classes at the rec center as a teenager you can just as easily lead as follow. You set the pace to the floating instrumentals that fill the dance hall. A trilling of French flows through the speakers and you recognize the song. La Vie En Rose. It’s impossibly romantic and you lose yourself in the dance. A quiet baritone interrupts your reverie and you realize Steve is singing softly. His voice is beautiful and you’re speechless listening to him as he sings. The song ends and you’re standing still on the dance floor. “The pain and bothers fade away. Happy, so happy I could die.” Steve translates softly, “When he takes me in his arms, he speaks softly to me, and I see life through rose colored glasses.”

“Steve.” your voice is hushed, breathless with wanting what you can’t have.

“You’re my rose colored glasses.” he whispers as he moves even closer in your arms. You’re the same height but the small wedge of your heel has him tilting his head up when he leans in and captures your lips with his own.

It’s as close to perfect as a first kiss could ever get but you find yourself pushing him away. He’s in love with Bucky and you’re just their cover. It’s too much, too painful for your traitorous heart to bear. His name is a harsh admonishment on your lips. You flee the dance hall, stumbling out into the chilly December air, unsure of where to go. You take a minute in the entrance of an alleyway next to the dance hall to clear your head. The clattering of shoes on pavement skid to a halt as Bucky spots you leaning against the brick wall of the alley.

“I’m sorry.” you sob as Bucky takes you into his strong arms, “I can’t do it. I just… I can’t. It’s not fair to Steve and I’m sorry. But I can’t.”

“Shh.” Bucky soothes you, rubbing a hand along your back. “It’s alright, Rose. You don’t have to do this for us. Neither one of us will hold it against you.”

“I’m sorry.” you apologize once again, “I know you’re together and I love that you two are so perfect for one another but Steve is… And I…” you sniffle, unable to piece together the words you need to explain your outburst to Bucky.

He knows though. “He really is something, isn’t he? It’s impossible not to love him once he lets you really see him. But Rose, this doesn’t have to be a problem.”

“How can it not be?” you snap, frustrated, “I can’t do this fake dating thing. Not when I’m fighting off very real feelings.”

“Oh, sweet girl, who said Stevie was faking a thing back there?”

You blink at him myopically. Your brain struggling to process his words. “But he loves you.”

“He does. But he’s been smitten with you since the day you saved him in that alley.”

“I don’t get it.” you shake your head, too stressed and upset to follow what Bucky’s telling you.

“Why not? You can handle two men being together just fine, but someone wanting to share that love with more than one person is too much?” Bucky’s tone is light, teasing, but the weight of his words hit you hard.

“You want to… share?”

Bucky’s slow, easy smile is back and your knees are weak under its radiance. “Yeah, doll. Stevie and I share nicely. It hasn’t happened very often but when it does, well, we both like dames too. And we always come home to each other in the end. You’re the first we both wanted to pursue though.”

The last admission has you swaying on your feet. “Both of you.”

“Yeah, both of us. But you seemed so sweet on Steve, I didn’t push the issue. He deserves a little extra loving, if you ask me.”

“But what if I wanted… both.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows almost to his hair line in shock. “You were interested in us both? Before you knew about me and him.”

“I couldn’t have picked if you held a gun to my head.” you admit with a shrug and a helpless chuckle.

“Oh, doll, that changes everything.” he murmurs pulling you back into his arms.

You let yourself breathe in the comforting scent of him, basking in it until he pulls away again. “We need to go find Steve.” he tells you gruffly, “Then we can finish this conversation at home.”

You let Bucky lead you by the hand back to the Stork Club where Steve is talking with Bucky’s date over a tumbler of whiskey. “I found your girl, Rogers.” Bucky calls out cheerfully.

You smile nervously at Steve, unsure of what to do next.

Bucky pulls his date off to the side for a minute and you can hear him telling her that he’s going to have to call it a night. That his best pal is about to be dumped and he needs to be there for him afterwards. The girl nods sagely, telling him he’s a good man and that maybe she can find a friend for Steve the next time they go out. She hurries off, leaving Bucky, you and Steve staring at each other over the small club table. “Come on you two. We have a lot of talking to do.” Bucky announces, throwing back the rest of the whiskey in one gulp and heading for the door. Steve waits until you move to follow and then falls line a step behind you.

The walk back to the guys’ apartment is quiet, tension thick in the air. You know of polyamory, it’s not a completely foregin concept in your time, but you never expected to be considering it yourself. If that’s even what Bucky was hinting at. Back inside the safe seclusion of their apartment Bucky heads for the kitchen, rustling around the cupboards until he comes back with a mostly full bottle of scotch and three low tumblers. He pours doubles for you and Steve but a single for himself. “You two need to catch up so we can talk about this.” he instructs, pushing the glasses at you.

You drink yours down quickly, disliking the burn of cheap scotch now that you knew what the good kind could taste like. It helps though, after a few minutes of idle chit chat you can feel the loosening of your limbs as it takes effect. Bucky fills your glasses again before he finally speaks up. “First things first. Rose, please tell Steve why you ran off so he stops looking like you kicked his dog.”

You force down your nerves, “I’m sorry for running off. I couldn’t keep pretending to like you when I really did. Like you, that is. I would never do anything to disrupt what you and Bucky have, I care about you both so much. But being out with you tonight was more than I could bear, thinking you were just pretending while I was falling for you for real.”

“Steve,” Bucky resumes his role as moderator, “Please tell Rose that you weren’t pretending.”

“Not for a minute.” Steve says earnestly. “Rose, I really do like you. And you wouldn’t be hurting what Bucky and I have at all. We’ve talked about this and it’s not the first time one of us has dated a girl since we’ve been together.”

“Now for the reason we’re all sitting here. Steve, Rose can’t choose between us.” Bucky sits back with a smug smile as he watches Steve try to process what he’s telling him.

“She can’t choose?” he parrots back.

“She likes us both, pal. Equally.”

“We’ve always hoped we’d find a girl…” Steve trails off, stunned.

“I know, I know. I never thought we’d get so lucky.” Bucky leans over Steve on the sofa, pulling your hand into his. “So what do ya say, Rose? You wanna give us a chance? You could still only date one us in public but we could all be together behind closed doors. We could still hang out in public as a group, just with one of us as a third wheel.”

You hate that you’ll have to limit your affections to behind closed doors but it’s the times you’re living in. Steve and Bucky have been doing it their whole lives and yet they’re still happy together after all the years of hiding. You give yourself a minute to think if it’s worth it. Especially knowing the risk you’re running with the timelines. Looking at the two of them, wanting them more than anyone else you’ve ever been with, it seems your heart made up your decision long ago. You nod, your heart and brain aligned. “I want to try.”

Both men’s faces light up like the sun, “But,” you warn, “the second I think the three of us being together is hurting what the two of you have, I’m out. Permanently. Your relationship comes first no matter what. As much as I want to be part of it, I won’t risk what you have.”

Bucky and Steve both nod, glancing at each other nervously.

“Can I…” Steve starts and stops, looking between you and Bucky hesitantly. “Can I have a do over of that kiss?” he asks finally.

You fight back a laugh. Sweet reckless Steve, always jumping head first into things despite how nervous they make him. “Of course.” you tell him leaning in closer.

Steve looks back at Bucky one last time before meeting you halfway. He’s less hesitant this time, eagerly slotting his lips with yours before deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue tentatively in your mouth. You’re breathless, dizzy from the kiss and intrusion of his tongue. He tastes like cheap scotch and something deeper, something undeniably Steve. When he pulls back and leans into Bucky’s waiting arms you can’t even think. “So this is happening.” you say lamely before your brain can catch up to your mouth.

Bucky laughs, “Yeah, doll, it is.” he shifts out of his seat and Steve moves into it, leaving the spot next to you open for Bucky to occupy. Bucky brushes a stray lock of hair away from your face, cupping your cheek gently in his hand. “My turn.” he murmurs before moving in to claim your lips for himself. Where Steve was all rush and excitement, Bucky is delicate and slow. He presses his lips to yours like a question, waiting for you to respond before continuing. You meet his kiss happily, lost in the tenderness he’s showing you. It’s impossible not to compare the two, but neither is better than the other, just different. You feel like you’re made of glass the way Bucky is so painfully careful with you, tasting your lips gently, letting you steer the kiss where you want it to go. He tastes like sugar and you giggle a little, it figures with the sweet tooth he’s got. There’s a rawness under the sweetness though, like a campfire and you want to lose yourself in him forever. Bucky pulls back at the sound of your giggle, studying you curiously.

“You taste like sugar. I should have known with the giant sweet tooth you have.” you explain with a smirk.

Steve nods, knowingly, and Bucky just laughs it off seeing Steve’s agreement. “You’re both crazy.” he tells you.

“Do you have the whole day free tomorrow?” Steve asks you.

“Yeah, I do. I don’t want to mess up whatever plans you guys have though.” you tell him.

“Well, you’ve already seen what our day off plans normally are. Walked right in, in the middle as a matter of fact...” Steve grins, the feisty little shit that he is, “But we didn’t have any plans for tomorrow yet. We’re probably just going to stay around here and relax.”

“Stay with us, darlin’.” Bucky pleads, pulling you into his arms.

“How can a girl say no to that?” you concede, “But, I insist on taking my guys out properly. I have a spare dollar or two and I want to see that new Wolfman movie that just came out.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Steve starts to protest.

“I know, but I want to. I would spoil the pair of you rotten if I had my way.”

“You already do so much for us though.” Bucky chimes in looking concerned.

“I have old family money to fall back on.” you bluff easily, “It’s not a hardship on me and you two deserve a break for once. Let me do this for you.”

“What d’ya say, Stevie? Want to go see a film tomorrow?”

Steve nods, smiling, finally getting on board with the plan. “Do we get popcorn?”

You return his smile, “Of course! And sodas. And red licorice. Maybe snow caps, too.”

“Sounds perfect.”

#one in a million #steve rogers #bucky barnes #reader insert #stucky #steve rogers x bucky barnes x reader #named reader #captain america #stucky fanfic #steve rogers fanfic #captain america fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic #time travel #marvel #marvel fanfic

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psychosistr · 4 years ago

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The Stars of the Stage- Chapter 1

Summary: Jonathan Joestar is an accomplished playwright currently working on his next big production: Phantom Blood. During the auditions for the lead actors, though, a certain blond Englishman catches his eye.

Notes: So, this story was inspired by this piece of art by @corgi-shorts that I saw back when I did one of the Jonawagon weeks where Jonathan was a playwright and Speedwagon was an actor. I felt a HUGE need to write this as it was such a cute idea x3

In the midst of the already bustling heart of New York, a large theater within the appropriately named Theater District is packed with several hopeful actors currently reading over and practicing lines from sample scripts. Some are seasoned veterans of the theater while others are hopeful new-comers. Despite their level of skill and experience, each one seems eager to land a part in the production.

Through the chattering crowds and lines of people waiting to enter the main theater for their audition, an extraordinarily tall and muscular man with dark hair carefully weaves his way through the crowd, throwing out a “pardon me” or “oh, excuse me” every now and then to be polite as bumping into people in such a crowd is unavoidable given his size.

He reaches the theater doors and turns to the crowd, cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard properly. “If I may have your attention, please!” The chatter of the crowd slowly dies down as the actors turn to look at him curiously. Once he knows he has their attention, he smiles and gives a quick bow of his head. “Thank you all so much for coming out. My name is Jonathan Joestar- I am the writer and co-director of this production. In a moment we will begin the auditions, so please give it your best. I will be looking forward to seeing what all of you can do!” He finishes with an encouraging smile. He opens the doors long enough to walk in and close them behind himself, nodding to the two men standing behind the door to take the actors’ resumes and headshots. “Dire, Straights, afternoon. Ready to start?”

“Just waiting on William at this point.” Dire says with a nod of greeting. “I think he’s taking care of the lighting or something.”

“More like finishing off his pre-audition glass of wine.” Straights comments indifferently while glancing away. “Though I can’t say I blame him. This is always such a hassle..”

“Necessary evil of the industry, my friend.” A voice greets the group and the trio of men turn to see a man in a white suit and checkerboard top-hat. He offers them a smile and a tip of his hat in greeting. “Ready to summon the horde, gentlemen?”

“Ready as we’ll ever be, William.” Jonathan says with a grin as he walks with the older man down towards the table waiting in front of the stage with two seats for the pair.

________________________________________________________________

The theater is packed, the auditioning actors having taken up the seats in the order in which they’d come into the room. Quite a few of the seats are already empty, as some of the actors had to leave after their auditions while others have opted to stay and scope out the competition.

The process has been long and grueling, but it is necessary for casting the right people for the parts. Jonathan was glad, though, that he was working with William as the director- the older man often listened to his input regarding casting more than other directors did. As he often said, “Who knows a character better than the man who wrote them?”

Jonathan looks down at the piles of resumes and headshots in front of them. He has kept them organized into a few basic groups: People who had not gone yet were on the far left, closest to himself. The “wouldn’t call them back in a hundred years” pile, as William secretly called it, was beside the first one in the middle. The maybe/later consideration pile was next to that one and closer to William. The last pile on the far right was the smallest of all, reserved for the ones the two had agreed would definitely get the part they’d auditioned for.

Jonathan takes the next resume off of the pile on the far left and calls out the number pinned to it. “Number 157!” He looks at the headshots that accompany the resume, noting that every picture seemed to be taken from the right side of the actor’s face.

As the man in question approaches the stage, he can see why: There was a scar across the left side of his face. Not to say that that was a problem in anyway- the man was still quite handsome (from a purely aesthetical perspective, Jonathan tried to remind his wandering thoughts) and besides, that’s what cosmetics were for. Still, he knew how tough some directors could be and how they tended to avoid actors with visible marks as they couldn’t always visualize a way around it.

“ ‘ello.” The man says with a quick bow of his head once he is in place on the stage and looking down at Jonathan and William. “The name’s Robert Speedwagon, an’ I’ll be readin’ for the part o’ Sir Haste Dray.”

Jonathan is a bit surprised by the man’s accent. He’s clearly British like Jonathan himself, though with a cockney dialect rather than Jonathan’s own aristocratic manner of speaking.

While Jonathan is more surprised by the accent, he can hear others making quiet, hushed, snide remarks about it.

“He does know that’s one of the main characters, right?”

“Talking like that, he’d be a better pick for one of the extras..”

“This outta be good for a laugh.”

Jonathan ignored the comments, curious to see how the actor would do with his own eyes. “Very well then, Mr.Speedwagon. Which section will you be using for your audition?”

The blonde haired man lifted his own copy of the script that had already been opened and turned to the part he wanted to use. “Page 57, line 8. Can I get a read-in?”

“Of course.” Jonathan turned the copy of the script in front of himself to the aforementioned page and cleared his throat before reading the line. “This battle shall be a dangerous one, my friend. I fear we may not escape with our lives. If you wish to turn back, now is the time. I would bear you no ill-will for such a decision.”

Speedwagon closed his eyes for a moment. “I know..yet this decision is beyond me alone.” The earlier chatter and snide laughter was dead in an instant. “It is a decision that must be made by every man, woman, and child of this plane of existence. Unless I were to have every single being upon this world in attendance to answer, then the decision is not truly mine to make.” The man opened his eyes again, looking out in front of him as if speaking to the target of the monologue and only taking brief glances down to see his lines. “Since they cannot be here to tell me not to do so, then I shall take it upon myself to fight on their behalf. After all, if we were to stand by and not do a thing, then who would be left to protect the innocent, unknowing lives of this realm?” Without the earlier accent, his voice held a calm seriousness that perfectly captured the tension of the scene. “I am afraid this daunting task is for us alone to face, lest the evil that hides itself within the darkness of both the world and the hearts of mankind be free to unleash its reign of death upon us all.” The serious expression on his face softened ever so slightly, almost turning into a sad smile that tugged on Jonathan’s heart strings. “Still, even without the threat to all we hold dear in this world, do you truly think that I, of all people, would turn from you at the eve your greatest struggle? Whom do you take me for, old friend? A coward? A fool?” He gave a short laugh, more of a broken chuckle born of melancholy and sadness rather than joy. “Well…perhaps I am both these things. I do admit to fearing the fate that lies before us, yet it is not myself I fear for- rather, it is you. I fear what would become of you if I allowed you to so gallantly face these forces on your own. As for the fool..” His expression softened again, the smile on his face beautiful and sad and full of love and adoration conveyed in a simple quirk of his lips and the gaze in his eyes. “I suppose I have been a fool since we met that one cold, dark winters’ night. With but a touch of your hand, you shattered the reality which I built so flawlessly for myself. I thought myself strong, yet in your presence I am weak. I thought myself a king, yet to you I would gladly play the role of vassal. I thought myself wise, yet the very sight of you fills me with confusion that renders me as foolish as a drunkard lying on the streets. Still, I do not wish for these beliefs to be returned to me. For, in their place, I have gained far more than I ever dared to dream before: Inner-peace. Conviction. Loyalty. And love.” He closed his eyes again, the tragically beautiful smile still on his face. “So, yes, I may be a coward and a fool..but..I am the cowardly fool who will follow you to the ends of the earth and down into the depths of hell itself without fear..for, without you, there would be no point in fighting for this world at all. Above all else, you shall survive. I shall see to it, even if it costs me my very soul- the devil may have it, so long as your radiance remains to shine the light of hope upon this undeserving world.”

Everyone in the room was stunned by the performance, not saying a word as the man opened his eyes once more and gave an elegant bow.

Jonathan, who had been staring at him with stars in his eyes, was the first to react. He quickly stood from his seat, placed his hands upon the table in front of himself, and excitedly declared. “The part is yours!”

William yanked his sleeve hard and pulled him back down into his seat, whispering harshly to him. “You do not say that aloud in front of everyone else here, Jojo. I thought I taught you better than that.”

Jonathan’s face flushed at the realization of his blunder, his voice hushed to the same level as his mentor’s. “Oh..my apologies, William..it’s just..that was perfect! The delivery, the execution, the emotion- I felt as if I was looking at Sir Dray in the flesh!”

“I agree, but there is still a certain etiquette one must follow in these matters.” He chastised the taller man before turning his attention back to the man on the stage. “My apologies for my associate, he became a touch too excited. That being said, that was an exceptional performance. We have a few more auditions to go through and discussions to be had before final casting, but we will certainly be in touch.”

Speedwagon offered them a polite smile. “I’s quite alright, sir. I’m glad ‘e liked it. Be seein’ y’, then.” He tipped his hat politely before walking off stage and back out through the doors leaving the theater.

Jonathan watched the man leave, his heart still thrumming from the effect the blonde actor’s performance had on him. He’d never been so taken by a mere reading before.

Without even looking back to the table, he grabbed Speedwagon’s resume and moved it to the “definite” pile, ignoring the look he was sure to be receiving from William for reaching over him so rudely to do so.

Next Chapter->

End Notes: Speedwagon: *shows up, introduces himself, reveals his accent*

Everyone else: *laughs and mocks him*

Speedwagon: *delivers a flawless read that lands him the part instantly*

Everyone else: *jaws on the floor*

Jonathan: *instantly in love*

#JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #Jojo no Kimyou na Bouken #jonathan joestar #robert edward o speedwagon #jonawagon #Modern!AU #stars of the stage

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hayleysstark · 6 years ago

Text

Title: Heart on His Sleeve

Words: 8,805

Summary: There's a complication on the way to Bergentown. Well, actually, there's about a dozen complications, beginning with a pack of spiders and ending with Branch's heart on his sleeve in nearly every sense of the term. Mid-film AU.

Read on Fanfiction or AO3

Notes: dghtghbfgb still not pleased with that ending but this is actually based off a writing challenge - and I can't remember where I read the prompt for the life of me, so please don't ask me to source. anyway the challenge was basically to write a story that doesn't have a happy ending, or it had to leave something, or everything, completely unresolved. then I got wind of a prompt going round the Trolls fandom - and I can't source that either hjtrfgbfdfv im gARBAGE - where either Branch or Poppy reveals their feelings to the other, whether accidentally or intentionally. both ideas intrigued me, so I decided to double them up into one. it didnt come out the way I wanted it to, but it's all right I guess.

It's been three hours.

It's been three hours, it's been three long, awful, unbroken hours since Poppy went running off on this stupid suicide mission of hers in the first place, and so much can happen in three hours—anything can happen in three hours—she could be hurt—or sick—or even dead—or what if the Bergen came back, and found her wandering around out here, probably singing at the top of her damn lungs, and what if the Bergen captured her, too? What if the Bergen ate her?

Or maybe she got lost, or maybe a predator caught her—maybe a predator caught her, maybe she's being devoured painfully, right now, and Branch can't do anything about it because he was so stupid and stuck-up and waited thirty minutes before he left the bunker and started after her because he told himself he ought to make her wait, ought not to seem too worried about her—he should have just swallowed his damned pride and gone straight after her—caught up with her—made some excuse—said one of her was better than all two hundred of them, back in the bunker—

God, he shouldn't have let himself get so caught up trying to think of an excuse to follow her in the first place—he should have just done it, and damn the consequences—who cares if Poppy knows—

Oh, if he could just find her—

A brief, bright flash of vivid pink, barely peeking out between two towering, lavender trees grabs his eye, and his heart does a funny little leap in his chest.

It's her.

It's actually her—he'd know those colors anywhere—no one else in the village, no one else in the world, can compete with her radiance—he rushes through the trees—the low-hanging limbs scratch at his face, and he shoves them out of the way—he doesn't have a second to waste—he doesn't—

Oh.

Shit.

Okay, so there are spiders. There are a lot of spiders. And Poppy—Branch doesn't even think she's conscious, lying there like she is, flat on her back on the ground, wrapped up in a silken web—her eyes are shut and from this distance, it's hard to tell if she's breathing, but she has to be—she has to be—spiders like their prey alive, or at least recently dead—they wouldn't come near her if she—but she's only been gone three hours, so maybe the spiders don't mind if—no, no, no, he can't think like that, he can't—

Branch throws out a thick tendril of coal-black hair, and loops it firmly round the web, dragging the limp princess toward him.

The spiders go still, momentarily perplexed by the loss of such an easy meal—then, in eerie sync, they turn to look at him, their eyes glistening like jewels.

Fear rises up in his throat, scorching like fire, but he swallows it down, and pushes Poppy behind him—he's got something bigger than himself to worry about, someone more important to protect.

He's got a few knives strapped to his pack—grabbed them from the bunker before he left—he'd be damned if he went charging off to Bergentown, completely defenseless, just because Poppy had got it into her head to try and give him a heart attack—but looking away from the spiders is a risk he isn't brave enough to take; he reaches blindly for his pack—maybe, by some miracle, he'll grab one—and his fumbling fingers close around something cool and heavy and—and decidedly not a knife, but he's got no time to be picky about this. It'll have to do.

He hefts the frying pan up; the spiders don't seem to know what to make of it. Chances are, they've never seen one, and probably think it's a weapon—if he could keep them at bay through fear alone—if he was on his own, he'd chance it, but the unconscious princess makes him even more cautious than usual. He can't let anything happen to her, no matter what happens to him.

He tosses the pan at the spiders and, marvel of marvels, it actually hits one – strikes it full in the head with a satisfying, resounding clang, and for a minute, he lets himself hope—but the creature shakes off the blow, and takes a step forward, clicking its pincers threateningly.

Okay, shit.

No time for knives. No time for pans.

He ditches his pack beside Poppy's motionless form, and shakes out his hair; the dark, bristly strands respond immediately, lashing out at the spiders—driving them together, driving them back—for a second, he's almost elated by the easy victory—and then a flash of movement from the corner of his eye cuts his premature celebration short—he stops—turns around—his heart jumps into his throat at the sight of the spider, somehow broken away from the rest, dipping its head down toward Poppy, pincers clicking rapidly, and mouth opening as it prepared to—

"No!"

Branch charges at the creature, fury bringing his blood to a boil in his veins; he swats the spider aside—the force of the blow sends it halfway across the clearing—its hairy purple body slams against the trunk of a nearby tree, and it doesn't move again, and a sense of savage satisfaction burns in Branch's chest at the sight. Bet the rest of them will think twice now before getting too close to her—

Pain.

Grey skin splits clean under snapping, woolly pincers, and hot blood bursts from beneath, streaming thick and inky down over rough brown cloth—there's suddenly soft grass under his knees, and it takes him far longer than it should to realize he's fallen—there's a weird sort of sound in his own ears—like screaming—he thinks maybe it's him screaming, but his vision's going splotchy and white, and he can barely see a foot in front of him, and every breath is a new lesson in agony, so his screaming doesn't stop—can't stop—oh, God, please, just stop—he's going to die if it doesn't stop—no—no, wait, he can't die—he can't—he has to—he has to keep Poppy safe—keep an eye on Poppy—he has to—he has—Poppy—

Poppy.

He wrenches his eyes open—he can still see then, even if the world's blurrier than it should be—he looks around for the princess—there she is, barely three feet from him, still wrapped up in the web, her pink hair still peeking out the top of it, surrounded by spiders—surrounded by—surrounded by—no.

He rips himself free of the spider atop him, its pincers still clamped firmly round his ribs—and another burst of burning pain races through him, but he clenches his teeth, tight so he won't scream, and forces himself to keep going—the skin tears further, and fresh blood rushes instantly to the surface—he rolls away when the creature makes another grab for him—its forceps close around air, and it swings around with a snarl, glittering eyes locking on him, but he scrambles over to Poppy anyway, plunging into the mass of spiders, tossing them aside with his hair, dashing them away when they try to get close, felling them, until the ground's littered with their motionless, hairy bodies, skinny green legs spread at odd angles, until he's gasping for breath.

He slumps to the ground with a soft cry—he can't keep it in anymore, hard as he tries—he lifts his vest to examine the bite—it throbs horribly beneath the fabric, pulsing an angry, vivid red—his dull skin looks even duller against all that scarlet.

Branch struggles to remember all he can about these sorts of spiders—he knows he's read about them—he recognizes the intricate patterns in their many webs—wait—wait a second—how could he have forgotten—?

"Poppy!"

She's—she's okay, right? She's got to be okay—the spiders didn't get close enough to actually start eating her—and she was safe, cocooned as she was in that web the entire time—but if something happened to her before she got trapped in the web—if she was hurt before that—

Branch pushes himself to his feet—he's not sure how—his ribs protest, and violently at that, every time he even breathes—but somehow—somehow, he makes it over to her side, and presses his ear against the silken wrapping, where her chest must be—he can't hear anything—he can't hear anything—what if she's—what if she—okay, okay, don't panic—don't panic—can't help Poppy if he panics—he can't help Poppy if he panics, and he has to help her—okay, he needs to get her out of the web—find a way to get her breathing again—she's probably suffocating in that web—

"Hang on!" His voice comes out weak, and hoarse from all the screaming, and the words burn on their way out, but they fill the silence, and that helps—silent and Poppy just don't belong in the same sentence, ever—and he'll never tell her to shut up ever again if she opens her eyes—never—

He pushes the pain to the back of his mind, and bolts over to the other side of the clearing—that flower over there, by that tree—a nelda—petals like knife blades, just as sturdy and twice as sharp—if anything can free Poppy from the web, it'll be that—and glowbugs—glowbugs love neldas, don't they? Yeah, he can see a few on the tree trunk right next to it, scuttling up and down the mossy pale wood, buzzing and droning—the glowbugs can—the glowbugs should—he doesn't know, he's never tried—he's never had to try—but he's heard—he's read—he's read something about glowbugs, and how they can jump-start somebody's breathing—he repeats the instructions under his breath to himself—rub the bugs together—press firmly down on the victim's chest—as he grabs one of the needle-sharp pastel petals, and seizes the glowbugs by their rock-hard, iridescent shells.

The nelda's petal, when he returns to Poppy's side, slices neatly through the thick, strong silk easily as warm butter, and the sight of her in full has him letting out a breath of relief. She's fine—she's absolutely fine—not hurt—a little dirty, maybe—there's a smear of mud on her cheek, and some sort of greenish goo clinging to the hem of her dress—but she's fine, she's fine—she's not hurt—she's—but she's not breathing, either, and fear sets his hands to shaking so badly it's a miracle he hasn't let go of the glowbugs yet—wait—the glowbugs—

Rub the bugs together, that's how the book said you were supposed to do it, so he does, raking the creatures against each other by their soft, unprotected underbellies—if he wasn't losing his mind over Poppy right about now, he'd probably worry about how much this could be hurting the bugs—a faint, green-blue spark flares up momentarily between them, there and gone in an instant, but it's enough—press firmly down on the victim's chest—Branch jams the bugs, probably a little harder than he needs to, over Poppy's heart—her chest swells beneath her dress, blue fabric stretching taut for a moment, and Branch almost begins to hope—and then—and then she drops back to the ground, body slack as a doll—it didn't work—it didn't work it didn't—he didn't do it right—he messed up somewhere—maybe there's something else, something he's supposed to do afterwards—something to help her wake up—maybe he just missed a step—maybe he just forgot something—it's been a long time since he read the book—what else had it said—?

"GET BACK UP AGAIN!"

Poppy's awake.

Oh, God, Poppy's awake—she's awake, she's okay, she's singing—he should probably hush her before she can attract some sort of predator—he doesn't know if he's up to another fight so soon after those spiders—no, never mind, she's fine, she's not singing anymore, just looking at him—

"Branch! My man!" Her face lights up, the corners of her mouth rising into a dazzling grin. "You were right on time!"

Right on time? Wait a second, was she expecting him this entire time? Seriously? How can she have seen through him so completely? Does she—does she know? No, there's no way she can know—he's good at hiding things, like the stupid, funny little flutter in the pit of his stomach every time he looks at her, or the verses that write themselves when the sun catches her hair just right, or her voice carries all the way to the edge of the village where he can hear it, too. She can't know. Can she?

"Oh, right," Branch scoffs, and even rolls his eyes for good measure – she doesn't know anything, and so long as he just acts natural, it'll stay that way. "Like you knew I was coming." He realizes, as he says it, that he's still clutching the glowbugs—whoops, sorry, guys. He puts them back on the ground—they can find their way back to the nelda from here, he's sure. Nothing could keep them from the flower they love so much.

"Yes," Poppy says, breaking through his thoughts.

Horror floods him at her response—she knew he was coming—she's been counting on it, even—but there's no way she can know—no way she can have figured out—

"I figured, after the third hug time, getting eaten by a Bergen wouldn't seem so bad." She shoots him a small, snarky smile—well, snarky for her, anyway.

The panic drains away, replaced instantly by relief and something a bit like irritation—well, if he'd known she was just going to hand him a perfectly good excuse on a silver platter, he wouldn't have wasted half an hour agonizing over her smug, satisfied face when he did finally break and follow her. Okay, so she doesn't know. She doesn't know, and one more nasty comment should drive the point home.

"And I figured there was no way you could do this by yourself." It takes him about half a second to come up with it; he knows he's cycled through at least a dozen variations of that one by now, but she swallows it every time. He even throws in a smirk, and folds his arms over his chest—okay, okay, ouch, vest dragging over injured side, ow. "Guess we were both right." He should probably—probably tell Poppy he got bitten, right? He needs to get a better look at it—maybe wash it out, and if it's bad enough, break out the herbs and ointments in the front pocket of his pack—only if it's really bad, though, he can't go using that stuff left, right, and center—he needs to save it for if they really need it—on the inexpressibly slim chance that Poppy's friends are still alive when they get to Bergentown, they'll probably be badly hurt—and if Poppy gets hurt—no, no, he'll forego the medicines. He'll be fine without them. He can handle a little pain.

"All right!" Poppy doesn't look at all bothered by his previous comment—which, okay, fine, he should have seen that coming. She usually doesn't let him get her down for long, even when he's at his absolute worst. "Let's do this!" She turns on her heel and sets off between the trees—way too happily for somebody heading for certain death.

Branch moves to follow her, but his ribs throb again with the motion—he really should just tell her he needs a minute—it won't take him long to wash and dress the bite—but—well—he doesn't like it when anyone knows he's hurt. Even Poppy. He doesn't like anyone thinking he's—he's weak, or fragile—doesn't like anyone thinking he needs them, because he doesn't—and he doesn't like it when they try to help him, because he doesn't need that, either—he doesn't need anyone trying to help him—he doesn't want anyone to help him—he doesn't want people to be nice to him—he's worked so hard to make them hate him because that's what they should do—after what he's done, everyone should hate him—even Poppy—especially Poppy. He doesn't want her to help him, or be nice to him.

He can take care of the bite later. By himself.

Even overzealous, pink-haired princesses have to sleep sometime.

And speaking of overzealous, pink-haired princesses, this one is still skipping merrily on ahead of him, and he did not drag himself out of his bunker just for her to get into another life-threatening situation so soon after he got her out of the first one.

"The sooner we get to Bergentown," she chirps, her small form slipping between two close-growing trees, "the sooner we can rescue everyone, and make it home safely!"

The words set off more than a few alarm bells in his head, and he hurries after her, ignoring the pain this time. "Wait, wait!" He pushes between the two trees to keep her in his sights – she's moving so quickly, it's hard to keep track of her. "What's your plan?" Please let her have a plan, at least…

"I just told you," Poppy turns around to give him an incredulous look, like he's the one acting like an imbecile. "To rescue everyone, and make it home safely."

…Or not.

This is going to be a long day.

"Do you have to sing?"

Okay, it comes out a little harsher than he really meant it to—and she's actually doing a pretty okay job of keeping it quiet—quiet enough that, on any other day, he'd pretend he didn't hear—let himself listen, for a few minutes, to her voice, savoring the sweet and silvery sound—but he's got a weird kind of pounding in his head, so bad he can barely think, so bad the soft, distant trilling of faraway birds is agonizing—and his side's been throbbing for the last hour, and he doesn't think he can handle her voice, beautiful as it is, on top of that.

"I always sing when I'm in a good mood!" Poppy objects.

Branch swallows back a groan. Of course she does. "Do you have to be in a good mood?"

"Why wouldn't I be? By this time tomorrow, I'll be with all my friends!" Though he's got his back to her, he can hear the soft patter of her feet on the ground, and knows she's close behind. "Ooh, I wonder what they're doing right now!"

"Probably being digested." He doesn't know why he says it – maybe it's just that he wants her to be quiet, and reminding her that all her friends are more than likely dead at this point seems a pretty good way to make that happen. Or maybe he's just a jackass looking to make her as miserable as he is.

Poppy huffs. "They're alive, Branch! I know it!"

All right, now—now he's pissed.

"You don't know anything, Poppy!" He turns to face her – she's closer than he expected, and he doesn't like it. How did she get near enough without him hearing it? "And I can't wait to see the look on your face when you realize the world isn't all cupcakes and rainbows! 'Cause it isn't!" Even the sound of his own voice makes his head ache anew, but he ignores it – he can't stand another second of this. He can't let her go on thinking like this—the way he did, before he lost the last person in the entire world that had ever mattered to him, and had to build a whole new life out of his own broken pieces.

"Bad things happen." He turns away from her – he's scared she'll see something in his face – and keeps walking. His ribs flare up with fresh pain, demanding his attention, but he ignores that, too. He can't stay still, not when he's thinking of…of… "And there's nothing you can do about it." He can still taste the lyrics on his lips, and hear her last screams echoing endlessly in his ears, crying out for mercy that would never come. Mercy that would never come because of him. Because he'd been stupid—he'd been careless—he'd been singing—why had he been singing—?

"Hey, I know it's not all cupcakes and rainbows!" Poppy catches up to him easily, planting herself in front of him. "But I'd rather go through life thinking that it mostly is instead of being like you!" The way she says the last word, spitting it out like some kind of curse—now that kind of stings, to tell the truth. Not like he doesn't deserve it, though.

Another round of pain rips through him like a blade, fierce and sharp and sudden—every step sends a pang roaring through his ribs like fire, and he nearly goes to his knees—he's not sure he can keep going—he's not sure he can—no, he can still hear Poppy—somewhere beneath the aching in his head and the throbbing in his side, he can hear her—she's saying something about singing and dancing, and how he won't do either—he's got to hold it together as long as she's here. They'll make camp, and she'll fall asleep, and he can deal with it then.

Right. Okay. Now he's just got to keep moving—just—got to—keep—

He falls.

The ground is soft and mossy beneath his palms—he tells himself all he's got to do is give a little push, dust off his shorts, pretend it was only a stumble—he can do that—he can—he can—Poppy's here, and he's got to protect Poppy—he doesn't have time to be acting so weak—so frail—he's not weak—he's not frail—he's fine—he's fine—

Dark spots dance across his vision, so big they blot out the sky—then the trees—

"—so grey all the time! What happened to—Branch? Branch, what's wrong? Oh, my god, are you okay? Branch? Branch—oh, my god—Branch—!"

There's lots of light.

That's the first thing Branch notices when he wrests his eyes open—they don't want to do it—they want to stay closed, mostly because it feels like someone's resting a few hundred pounds on their lids—but he makes them open anyway, because he's pretty good at ignoring himself when he doesn't want to do something—but he doesn't even get to feel accomplished, because there's lots of light, so much, and it's so bright, that his eyes start filling up, flooding with reflexive tears. He snaps them shut again with a groan he can't quite stifle.

He feels…weird, he realizes, after a second of thought. His head feels fuzzy, like somebody reached in through his ears and stuffed his brain with cotton—cotton soaked in molasses, maybe—that would explain why his thoughts are so slow—

"Branch?"

Wait! He knows that voice! It's beautiful, captivating, and he wants with everything in him to answer it—give it whatever it wants—the entire world—the sun, the moon, the stars from the sky, anything—

He opens his eyes again.

Poppy's leaning over him—her face in shadow, so he can't read her expression— her body blocks the light, and it forms a kind of halo around her— a warm golden glow—it makes her look like—makes her look—

"Angel," Branch breathes. "Y'look like an angel."

Poppy draws back slightly, and presses her lips together. "Branch, what happened?"

He shouldn't—he shouldn't answer that, right? He has a sort of nagging feeling that he shouldn't answer it—that maybe he shouldn't want to answer it—but Poppy wants him to answer, and he wants to give Poppy everything in the whole entire world, and then he'll give her everything in the whole entire universe, and he'll get to see her face light up in that special way it does whenever she's really, really happy, and that'll be everything in the whole entire universe to him.

Except when he tries to answer—he can't.

"Y'look like an angel, Poppy," is what comes out instead.

Poppy looks, for a second, like she's going to shout at him—he hopes she doesn't, because the weird fuzzy feeling in his head is starting to fade, only that means his head is starting to hurt a lot, and he's pretty sure shouting will only make it worse, but he doesn't have the energy, or the words, to tell her so—and he knows if she knew how bad his head hurt, she wouldn't shout, because she's the nicest troll in the whole entire universe.

But then Poppy swallows, and says in a strange, tight, not-Poppy voice, "Stop it, Branch."

"You do, though." It's suddenly really important, the most important thing in the whole entire universe, that she knows this. "Y're so beaut'f'l. The most beaut'f'l troll in the whole entire univ'rse."

Now Poppy's starting to look, if he's reading her right, a little bit worried. "Branch, are you okay?"

"I think so?" Is he? He hasn't really stopped to think about it—his head's hurting pretty bad, and his side is, too—he thinks maybe his side is even bleeding—he frowns, rubbing lightly at his ribs—yeah, the skin is wet—a warm kind of wet, but wet nonetheless, and a little bit sticky, too—oddly bare—he looks down—oh—his vest is gone.

That should probably upset him. He's never liked seeing his skin—never really been able to stomach all that grey staring back at him—just another reminder of how hopeless and unlovable he is—but he's too tired to care all of a sudden—too tired to hide everything he's supposed to hide—

Oh, Poppy's touching him—she's put her hand, palm down, on his forehead—like how his grandma used to check his temperature when he was sick—her fingers are cool against his burning skin, and he presses closer—it's like he can't stop himself—how he loves to be touched—

"Okay, buddy," Poppy smiles at him, but it looks forced, "you're—you're pretty warm, huh?" She takes her hand away again.

Branch wants to ask her to keep touching him, and never stop, but he can't—he can't ask that of her—even with the murky haze in his head, he knows that—if she's not touching him, it's because she doesn't want to, and he can't blame her one bit—who would ever want to touch a grey troll—so instead he just says, "Guess so."

"All right, Branch," she drops down into a crouch until they're eye-to-eye, "I know you gotta be really tired, and you're probably not feelin' your best, and I'm real sorry 'bout this, but I'm gonna need you to tell me what happened to your side, okay?"

"My—my side?" Oh, right, yeah, his side is hurting. His side is bleeding. His side isn't supposed to be bleeding. Blood's supposed to stay on the inside. What happened to bring it to the outside again—? Oh. Right. "Sp'er's."

"Wait, wait," Poppy narrows her eyes, "the spiders? The ones back near—?"

"Mm-hm." Branch tries to nod, but his head hurts too bad. "One of th'm bit me. R'ly hard." He rubs ruefully at his side again. "It h'rt."

"Branch." There's something in the way she's looking at him that makes him wonder if he said something wrong, and her voice is suddenly strange and tight and not-Poppy again. "That was hours ago!"

"Mm-hm."

"What the—why didn't you say something?"

That's a pretty good question, now that he thinks about it. Why didn't he say something?

Oh.

Right.

"I was taking care of it by m'self."

"Taking—taking care of it?" Poppy raises her eyebrows, and they practically disappear into her bangs. "You passed out, Branch."

"Didn't mean to," Branch protests. His tongue is thick, and heavy, and so much slower than he'd like. "I was g'na take care of it." He's not—he's not really taking care of it, is he? He should get on that. Just as soon as he can sit up again. Just as soon as—just as soon as—but he's so tired—and his body feels so heavy—and the ground is so soft…

"Branch!" Poppy's voice sounds like it's coming from really far away—like maybe they're standing at opposite ends of the forest—like maybe they're standing at opposite ends of the whole entire universe—but Poppy's calling for him, and he'll always answer her when she calls, no matter what—

He opens his eyes—he didn't realize he'd closed them in the first place. "Wh't? Wh't s'it?"

"You gotta just—you gotta stay awake for a few more minutes, buddy." She says it more seriously than he's ever heard her say anything in his entire life. "You gotta answer a question for me. You think you can do that?"

He's tired—he's so tired—more tired than he's ever been, except for maybe that time when he was awake for almost five days straight because the nightmares about his grandma were getting too bad—he's so tired—and now that Poppy's asked him to stay awake, it's suddenly the last thing in the world he wants to do—but Poppy wants him to do it—Poppy needs him to do it—so he forces his eyes to stay open, and he nods.

"Great!" She beams at him, and it makes him feel warm and nice and good all over—she's so amazing and incredible and good—an angel—

"Can you tell me anything you know about those spiders that bit you? Anything you know that can help treat their bite?"

"The—the sp'ers?" Branch frowns. Why does she want to know about them?

"Yep, you got it! The spiders!"

"U-um…okay…" He does know stuff about them—he knows he does—he's pretty sure he read a book about them once—a book that mentioned their bite—he shuts his eyes again—he can see the page in front of him—little black letters on a yellowed page—if bitten, follow these steps—he opens his eyes.

"W'ter…" He swallows, and starts again. He tries to speak more clearly this time, but his mouth doesn't want to obey. "Gotta rinse the bite with—with w'ter…then take s'm more w'ter…mix it with s'm…s'm salt…"

Poppy laughs. Incredulous, from the sound of it. Like he said something funny. He doesn't think he did.

"Sorry, what?"

"Salt," Branch says, and it actually comes out sort of comprehensible this time. "It helps—helps s'm'ne not die."

For a long time—long enough to be eternity, he's sure, long enough for the entire universe to live and die and live again—for a long time, Poppy doesn't say a word. Then—finally—staring at him like she can't completely believe what she's seeing—

"You're serious."

"Ab't—ab't the salt?" Branch frowns. What about that is so hard to believe, anyway? "What—what's wrong with salt?"

"It's—it's salt! You can't ask me to rub salt in your side, Branch! That'll hurt!"

"But I'm n't askin' you to…?" Where did she even get the idea that he was—?

"Okay, um," Poppy bunches the hem of her dress up in one fist, pink knuckles going pale around the soft blue fabric. "Um, what happens if we don't put any salt in it? Do you know what happens to the bite then?"

Branch tries to picture the page again. "Death, I think."

"And with the salt…?"

"Not death. St'l s'm weird side 'fects, tho'."

Poppy wrinkles her brow. "What kind of side effects?"

Branch has to think about it. "R'ly high f'ver," he says at last. "S'm p'pl act kinda giddy 'cause of the ven'm, but s'm of 'em just get really confused…s'm of 'em get really talk'tive—say stuff they shouldn't…" He's pretty sure there's more, but he just can't remember them all, and the look on Poppy's face makes him think it probably wouldn't be a good idea to recite them even if he could.

"Okay, well," she unclenches her fists and smoothes out the wrinkles in her skirt. "we'll, um…we'll deal with that stuff as we go, yeah? First let's get that bite taken care of."

Branch doesn't want to do it—he wants to shut his eyes, and go back to sleep—he's tired—but it's really not a good idea to leave his side the way it is—he really hates it when Poppy's right—he rolls over onto his knees—braces his palms flat against the ground—pushes himself to his feet—okay, ow—

"What are you doing?" Poppy gets up, too; she's got her hands on her hips, and a disapproving little frown on her face, and for a minute, he gets distracted thinking about how much he'd love to lean in and kiss it until it turns back into a smile—no, focus, Branch.

"Taking care…" The whole world starts to spin, but he steadies himself, and continues speaking. "Taking care of this." He presses a hand to his side and whoa, the world's spinning even faster—maybe he's dancing round and round—no, that's crazy—he doesn't dance—

"Taking care of—?" Poppy's looking at him like he's crazy—and he'll admit the thought has crossed his mind before, but he's pretty sure that's just thanks to the weird, godawful panic that sets in when he spends too long thinking. "Branch!"

"What?"

"I meant—oh, my god, Branch, I meant I was going to take care of it!"

What the—?

"D'nt be rid'c'ls, Poppy." He has a nagging sense that he could probably win this argument if he could just speak a full sentence—oh, God, the world's starting to spin again—maybe he should sit down—just for a minute—just—just long enough to get his bearings—just long enough to—no—no, he's fine—he's had worse than this—he can handle this—it's only a bite—wait—hang on—what was he saying? Oh—oh, right—

"D'nt be rid'c'ls, Poppy, it's my probl'm, and I'll take care of it."

"You're the one being ridiculous!" She gestures at him. "You can barely stand!"

"S'not true!" Oh, he is kind of hunched over though, isn't he? He should probably fix that—maybe then she'll believe him—he stands up a little straighter and—oh, God, no—that was a bad idea—that was a terrible, awful—the worst idea he's ever had in his entire life—including the time he tried to survive on dirt and tree bark—oh, God—he doubles over, one hand still clamped over his ribs—and then his legs start to shake, and the world's spinning even faster, and he can't keep his eyes open any longer, and he can't stand up at all—he crashes back to the ground—he can't help it—Poppy's panicked cries echo in his ears—he wants to answer her—he just needs a minute—he just needs a minute, and then he'll get back up—and he needs to tell her so, but somewhere between his thoughts and his tongue, the words get lost, and nothing comes out at all.

For a minute, he lays where he's fallen, eyes screwed shut, and teeth clenched tight until the worst of the pain has passed—and he knows he needs to get back up—he knows he does—but—the silence—the stillness—it all feels so good—

"So," Poppy's voice is so much closer than he thought it'd be, and he startles, eyes snapping open—she's standing over him, with her hands on her hips—she looks like an angel again, standing with her back to the light. She drops to her knees on the ground beside him, and raises her eyebrows. "You about ready to let me help you now?"

She doesn't look like an angel anymore, now that she's out of the light—but she looks like Poppy, and that's even better—she's just—she's just Poppy, just kneeling beside him, being Poppy, face all scrunched up against the sun, high ponytail drooping slightly to the left, stray wisps of rich, rose-colored hair glistening momentarily golden in the light—her dress has a little tear near the collar—her cheeks are smudged with dirt—and she's never looked more beautiful—never looked more like her—he's always dreamed of seeing her like this—not singing—not dancing—not putting on a show—not painting on a smile—not performing for anybody—just being Poppy—and it's the best thing in the world that she could ever be, and the sight of her like that, the sight of her just being Poppy, pulls words from his mouth before he even knows he's going to say them.

"I love you."

He doesn't really mind that he said it—not really—everyone in the village loves her—everyone in the world would love her if only they met her—he only wants to add his love to the pile now—while she's sitting there being Poppy, and no one and nothing else.

She stops.

"What?"

"I love you," he says again, but it comes out all weird, his voice too slow and slurred to really sound like him. Did it sound like that the first time? Is that why she's looking at him like that? Because she can't hear him? He swallows and says it again. "I love you." And then—just because he can—he says it again. "I love you." And it just keeps coming out, messy and garbled and the farthest thing from perfect. "I love you I love you I love you I love you s'much. I love the way when you hear a new song, you don't stop singin' it for a week—and you tell anyone who'll lis'n how much you love it, an' try and make everyone sing it with you—and I love the way you wrinkle up y'r nose when y're 'nnoyed…and the way y're so good to ev'ryb'dy—even me—even when I'm n't good to you—even when you know m'not g'na be good to you…and you inv't me to all y'r p'rties even when you know m'g'na say no—but you keep inv't'n me anyway—and I love the way you get all 'cited when you see a r'nbow in the sky, or a flower at the end of winter 'cause then you know spring's c'min'—an' I love the sound of y'r voice—even when I say I hate it—s'the nic'st voice in the whole village—an'…" He wants to keep going, but his voice gives out on him.

And then he sees she's staring at him. She's staring at him—and she's completely still—and she's not moving—she doesn't even look like she's breathing—and he wonders, for a minute, if maybe she didn't hear him this time either—if maybe she needs him to say it again—'cause he will—he'll say it all again—every word—if that's what she wants—he'll say it all again—and he opens his mouth to do it—but—

"What?" Her voice comes out quiet—and breathless—and uncertain—more uncertain than he's ever heard it—more uncertain than he's ever wanted to hear it—and she's looking at him like she's never really seen him before—like he's something new, and unknown, and a little bit frightening—and he doesn't know why—but he knows he doesn't like it—and he knows she must have heard him—she must have—did he do something wrong?—he's always doing something wrong—always saying things he doesn't mean—but he meant this—he meant it more than anything—

"I…" Poppy swallows. Leans back. Leans away from him. "I think maybe your fever's getting higher." And she smiles at him again but it's not really a smile—it's all forced and twisted and wrong—she doesn't believe him—she doesn't believe him when he says he loves her—why doesn't she believe him—why doesn't she believe him—?

He'll just have to say it again—say it better—

"I love you—I love you s'much, I—

"Branch." Poppy isn't smiling anymore, not even that forced, twisted, wrong smile. "Just—just stop it—please, just stop."

"But I do." Why doesn't she believe him? Everyone loves her—they can't help but love her—and she might think he's different but he's not. "More than anyth'n'. I love…" He has to think about it for a second – he wants to be specific, but it's so hard to pick just one. "I love y'r eyes," he finally settles on. "Y've got…y've got the most beaut'f'l eyes I've ev'r seen—like—like two pools—so deep—'f I dive in—I'll n'ver come up f'r air." Okay, he didn't mean to repeat that stupid poem—definitely not his best work and he knows it—but maybe Poppy will finally listen to him now—finally believe him. "And y'r smile—the sun 'self turns j'lous…r'fuses to come out from beh'nd the clouds—

"Okay!" Poppy's voice sounds much higher than it should, and beneath her freckles, her cheeks look pinker—is she getting a sunburn? She should put some cream on that—wait a minute, did he even pack the sunburn cream? "Okay, so, um, you need—you need to stop talking! Save your strength! Am I right?"

"No, wait…" He doesn't want to save his strength—he wants to tell her about how her smile is the brightest and prettiest smile in the entire world—how she's the brightest and prettiest troll in the entire world—how he wants to hold her hand and braid her hair and hug her and pick her sunflowers because they're her favorite—and he wants to tell her how he only started planting sunflowers in his garden in the first place because she said they were her favorite—and he wants to tell her he was lying when he told her he only planted them because of their medicinal properties.

"Water!" Poppy grabs his pack up off the ground—he doesn't know how he didn't see it—she lifts the flap and starts rummaging through it. After several seconds, she pulls out one of the small brown canteens he'd thrown in there before he left, and it sloshes loudly when she sets it down. "Water! Right? To rinse the bite? Yeah! Water! Yes! Okay!" Even for her, the aggressive exuberance is more than a little over the top—and she can't seem to keep a hold on the canteen—she fumbles with it—drops it on the ground a few times—

"H-here," Branch smothers a cough, and reaches to pick it up for her—her soft, smooth pink fingers brush briefly against his own callused grey—and she snatches her hand back like he burned her—her cheeks are even pinker now—almost red—he really hopes she takes care of that sunburn—it's getting worse—

"Thank—thank you." She takes the canteen from his hands, but she won't look at him. "Let's—let's get a look at that bite now, okay?"

"Hey! Feelin' better?"

Before he's even opened his eyes more than a fraction, Poppy's chirping out the words like some kind of overexcited, early-morning songbird—not that he'd tell her that—she'd probably just take it as some kind of compliment—oh yeah, she asked him a question—didn't she—wait—what does she mean—?

"What happ'ned?" His voice sounds weird—kind of slurred—and there's a godawful pounding in his skull, and a dull sort of ache in his side—like a couple Bergens used him for a kickball—but he forces his eyes open anyway because he needs to hear the answer—and—

And Poppy's leaning over him—way over him—really, really close to him—her nose is practically touching his nose and he can count every glimmering freckle on her face he can count her every eyelash he can feel her warm breath on his neck and her lips—her lips are so close to his lips—he can still make out a faint, shiny smudge of pale pink gloss from the party the other night—before the Bergen attack and all and—

The Bergen attack. The other trolls in the bunker. The way to Bergentown. The spiders—

His memory shorts out, and gets fuzzy a few minutes after that. He got bitten by the spiders—he got Poppy out of the web—and they kept going—and then—and then Poppy—Poppy stood over him—her back to the light—looking like—looking like—

"Angel. Y'look like an angel."

No—no—God, no—he didn't—

"I love you I love you I love you I love you s'much."

No—no, there was no way he actually said that, right—?

"…Like two pools—so deep—'f I dive in—I'll n'ver come up f'r air…"

Oh, God, he did.

He said it—he actually said it—and Poppy's—Poppy's still here—of fucking course she's still here—she's too damn nice for her own good—she probably wants to leave, but she won't—she wouldn't—Poppy's here—Poppy's here, and she's really, really close to him, and he can barely think with her this close to him so okay get her away from him get her away from him—he meets her eyes—and he refuses to think of all the stupid shit he must have said with that spider venom in his system—if he thinks about that, it'll be impossible to hold her gaze—and he needs to keep looking at her—needs to make her think he's not embarrassed even if his cheeks are burning—needs to make her think he's not scared even if he's going out of his mind.

"There's this new thing going around." His breath hitches, his voice threatens to give out, but by some miracle, he manages to keep it together. "Called personal space. Maybe you ought to try it."

Poppy huffs out a laugh – not the reaction he was expecting – but she leans away from him, and sits back on her heels. "Guess you are feeling better, huh?"

No, actually, he's kind of dying inside, considering how last time he was awake, he made a complete ass of himself and told her he was in love with her—God, he can't believe he actually said the words—recited his goddamn romantic poetry to her—probably with a stupid grin on his face the entire time—and what the hell is he even supposed to do now? Should he—should he say something—should he say something about—about it—?

No, no, no, no, no, there's no way he can do it, no way he can look her in the eye and remind her of all the stupid, sappy shit he said—even if it's just to apologize for it—even if it's just to tell her he didn't mean it—no—there's no way he can do that.

So—what, then? Don't say anything? Pretend it never happened? Just keep going like everything's fine, like everything's totally normal, like he didn't tell her all the things he told her—oh, God, he can't believe all the things he told her—she probably can't, either—she'll probably try and bring it up—what if she tries to bring it up—?

Okay, no, wait, he can handle this—he can handle this. He can do this. He won't say anything, and he'll pretend it never happened, and he'll just keep going like everything's fine, and he'll be awful to her, he'll be so awful to her—worse than he's ever been—and by this time tomorrow, she'll have forgotten everything he said—and if she remembers, she'll write it off—she'll never believe he meant a word of it if he just makes himself as horrid and unforgivable as possible—

Okay, yeah, he's fine. He's got a plan, and he can work with anything the world throws at him if he's got a plan. He pushes himself up on one elbow. "We should get moving." Pretty good start – short and sharp, no room for a response. Now he just has to make her absolutely hate him, and everything should be fine. He struggles to sit up—he smothers a gasp at the sudden flare of pain in his ribs, tearing through him like a lance—

And then Poppy—

Poppy reaches out, and puts her hand on his chest—she tries to push him back down—and he's pretty sure he should be fighting her, but under her hands, his every last ounce of strength deserts him—just take it easy, Branch—you've still got a low fever—and you don't want to make the bite any worse—and he's pretty sure he should be arguing with her, too, but he can't stop staring at her fingers on his skin long enough to listen. He hopes to hell and back that she can't feel how hard his heart is beating all of a sudden.

He lifts his eyes to hers—it takes so much more effort than it should to look away from her hand, and when he finally does, she's right there, so close to him, at least as close as she was when he opened his eyes—closer, even—he could swear it—he can see the smudged gloss on her lips again—and he could kiss her right now—he really could—oh, God—she's leaning closer—she's actually leaning closer—this is really happening—he doesn't even know how to kiss anyone—he never has—he should stop this—he has a plan—he has a plan, and he should stick to it—he swore he'd never tell her—he swore he'd never—but God, he wants to—

Poppy's mouth is barely an inch from his own when she speaks. "Branch…"

"H-huh?" Oh, God, this is really happening—this is really happening—they're really going to—

"Did you—?" She's so close to him. "Did you mean—? Did you mean what you—?" She stops—she doesn't finish the sentence.

But Branch hears the last word, as clearly as if she'd spoken it aloud, along with all the others.

Did you mean what you said?

He already knows the answer—he can feel it rising readily to his lips—yes, all of it, every word—behind his lips the truth burns to be spoken—and he—

He swallows it back.

"No." He shuts his eyes – now that he's not looking at her, it's so much easier to breathe. Now that he's not looking at her, it's so much easier to remember why he can't tell her the truth. "Definitely not." All right, maybe he didn't need to add that last part—it's one thing to lie—to say whatever it takes to get her to believe him—whatever it takes to put her at ease again, to get her to relax—whatever it takes to spare her feelings—even if it means burying his own—he can't imagine how she'd feel if she knew he actually—somebody like him—and somebody like her—and—no—just no—even in his wildest fantasies he can't—

"I didn't think so!" Poppy leans away from him—as far away as physically possible. She scoffs again, and laughs a little. "Of course not!" Something in her voice sounds off—and when he looks up at her, there's something in her eyes—in her face—in the way she's smiling—in the way she's looking at him—something just doesn't add up—but she's laughing—and she sounds nothing short of relieved—so—

"Yeah," Branch sits up again, and this time, she doesn't try to stop him. "No."

"Totally not!" Poppy shakes her head emphatically, and laughs again—she's making this so easy for him—swallowing down every word without even hesitating—

He should be over the fucking moon.

But—

"Right." He nods. "Yeah. Exactly."

"Exactly!" Poppy echoes. "I—I mean—ew! Right?"

—he isn't.

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #this is the worst fucking thing ive ever written in my entire life enjoy #emrys' spellbook

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chasmfriend · 7 years ago

Text

I am still not entirely sure how to put most of this into words. I won’t give a blow-by-blow account of all of my thoughts and reactions -- just the upsetting parts. The ones that almost made me give up on the series, and the ones that haunt me still. Much of it is deeply personal and I worry about being so vulnerable in this space, but I’m going to try anyway.

This is raw and very long.

(Despite how this will sound, I did not hate the book. This doesn’t capture all of my feelings towards it. Sometime I’ll talk about the things that I loved as well. There are many of those.)

Oathbringer reactions in detail below the cut. SPOILERS for the entire book.

When I first read The Way of Kings, I was thrilled to find an accurate portrayal of living with depression. The way Kaladin’s mind lies to him, the way that even if external things are going well, it doesn’t really change his mood. It’s not a cure. He can’t always control when he stumbles. That spoke to me, and is the main reason why that book became my favorite.

Then Words of Radiance came along. I found myself identifying with Shallan’s avoidance strategies as well, but instead of feeling happy about that, I was furious with her. I’ve worked hard to stop being avoidant and learn to deal with difficulty, and seeing those same behaviors in someone who is NOT learning to be better, only better ways of not facing things, really angered me. I’ve talked at length about her character and my frustrations with her.

So, when Oathbringer started with Shallan getting worse instead of suddenly being all fixed, I was delighted. She hadn’t earned a way out of the mess, after all, through one moment of confession at the end of WoR -- it should take time and effort to fix. Watching her fall to pieces because of her fragmenting herself gave me joy because it makes so much sense.

Then there’s Chapter 82, where Shallan talks with Wit in Muri’s house.

I know the place Shallan is. I know the regret and self-hatred she’s feeling. Not because I’ve been responsible for multiple deaths, but her emotional state rang true to me. It’s familiar.

Then this:

WIt stepped over to Shallan, then quietly folded his arms around her. She trembled, then twisted, burying her face in his shirt.

“You’re not a monster, Shallan,” Wit whispered. “Oh, child. The world is monstrous at times, and there are those who would have you believe that you are terrible by association.”

“I am.”

“No. For you see, it flows the other direction. You are not worse for your association with the world, but it is better for its association with you.”

I was moved by Wit’s concern. But he is wrong. Shallan IS actually worse for her association with the world. It is beating her up. She can’t handle it well. He acknowledged that earlier, and then downplays it here.

After that, Wit continues the story. He explains that “beyond the Wall was God’s light.”

The light brought hardship but also illumination. Wit justifies this by asking if Shallan would rather go back to not being able to see.

She says NO.

Aauggh. This is so frustrating to me.

Any avoidant person would so much rather go back to the time before light, because they are so focused on trying to escape the hardship that the sacrifice of the learning would actually be a good trade to them. I’m not saying it’s the correct perspective, but it is much more accurate psychologically than Shallan instantly deciding that The Suffering Is All Worth It, based on a few words from a tricksy not-Herald.

I have no complaints about Wit telling her to accept her failures and herself. There’s really not much else to do; we can’t change who we are and what we’ve done (which is a major theme of this book). Nothing to do other than accept it and keep trying to do better.

I hope this doesn’t end up being an instant fix for Shallan. This and her later conversation with Adolin felt so...inadequate to me.

I’m going to touch briefly on Dalinar’s character arc before I get to where I nearly gave up reading the Stormlight Archive altogether. He had escaped being haunted by his past as a way for him to grow into being a better person (this is brilliant -- well done, Cultivation), then his memories returned when he was able to deal with them. He was pained, but accepted the responsibility for what he’d done, accepted the pain as the cost for his actions, swore the next Ideal, and Ascended. So wonderful. I couldn’t identify with his path at all, but I applauded that it worked for him.

That’s a little dishonest. I’m honestly mad at Dalinar for figuring it out. He’s a totally different kind of person from Shallan, and from me, and he’s the kind who could figure this out a bit more easily. Following along with his recovered memories, seeing him crippled by the pain and regret, was brutal for me. Because I empathize with the pain but haven’t found the resolution, so when the characters work things out, I don’t always follow along with them and then I find their ability to figure it out and find peace, frustrating. It’s a shadow of a possibility for me, leaves me with the pain of the struggle without the catharsis. Instead of triumphant, I end up melancholy and kind of jealous.

A few days after I finished the book, I told my husband about what I was experiencing. He is much wiser than me, and doesn’t have the tendency towards avoidance that I have; he encourages me to be honest and face things. What he said in response to everything I tearfully told him, was so close to what Dalinar actually did in the book, that it annoyed me. (We both laughed about this.)

So, that was basically where I was as I read through to the end of the book. Very strong reactions, lots of rawness and pain.

What I should have done was stop reading for a few days. I should have spent some time getting back on my feet. The last thing I should have done was keep reading.

But when you’re in the middle of the avalanche, you don’t have a choice. I didn’t know what was ahead. I couldn’t have known, though I feel like I should have known better. I was not in a good place to deal with it.

Reminder that second only to Kaladin, my favorite Stormlight character is Renarin. I love his quiet steadiness, how supportive he is, how determined to do the right thing...

Renarin Kholin was a liar. He was no Truthwatcher.

...I could not believe it. This went against so much that I had believed in that my heart cracked and I got ANGRY. Did Brandon actually expect me to go along with this?...

It was such a deep betrayal that it tore me right out of the book. I didn’t care what was going on with Lift or Szeth or Kaladin. The Renarin parts were so far between, but I was frantic to get to them.

I was sure I was going to see Renarin, my lovely sweet boy, turned into an enemy and killed by Jasnah. I cannot describe how mad I was at Brandon for this.

We had been promised a Renarin POV in the book. And this is how it began:

Renarin Kholin knew he wasn’t actually a Knight Radiant.

WHAT. Just...what…

Everything was falling apart in me. This was not the world I thought it was.

I was sure in those moments that if Renarin died by Jasnah’s hand, I was done. I was not willing to grow so attached to a character I saw so much value in, only to have it ripped away.

I’ve read Sanderson before. I know that characters aren’t always as they appear. This was so different. I didn’t know I had this line drawn in me, and I felt that if Brandon crossed over it, I didn’t care to keep reading, because the risks were too high. It was too deep a cut.

I kept reading.

Jasnah didn’t kill Renarin. Brandon stepped right up to that line but didn’t step over it.

I suppose I should feel like it’s all okay then, but that unexpected rise of emotion, the horror and anger, I can’t explain what that did to me as a reader. The disillusionment persisted. The book ended, with moments where I should have felt triumph, but I was still reeling.

Did I like the book? It was a good book, I think, with lots of amazing parts. Teft’s journey was great. Kaladin’s not finding the Fourth Ideal was fantastic (I should probably explain this at some point). But I hated the experience of reading Oathbringer. It was dark and confused and left me angry and full of pain. It brought up far too much feeling without resolving it. I don’t blame the book itself; it’s how it resonated with me on a personal level.

I am sure my perspective will be a bit clearer with rereads. Already, with several days of processing this monster, I feel better than I initially did towards it. But it was not the journey I had imagined.

#this book was so rough for me #i know all of this is visceral and not rational #no idea if this makes sense #i was surprised by the depth and fierceness of my reactions #but i have gone from uncertainly about the book #to liking it quite a bit #the dust from these internal catastrophes is starting to settle #damn you Brandon #damn you for bringing up this much emotion #oathbringer #stormlight archive #cosmere #spoilers

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just-my-onion · 7 years ago

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Goodnight Dr. Forceps – a Bughead One-shot

Written in response to @jokerscrown ‘s prompt on bughead-fanfic-wishlist " A fic where Betty got injected with an anaesthetic because she broke her arm, and feels a little loopy after the operation. Jughead is the nurse in charge to take care of Betty, and loopy Betty kinda asks Jughead to marry her, and says she loves him. They both are strangers.” Read it on AO3 here The world was a little different during night shift. It often ushered in intoxicated demons; shadows stretched their gnarled fingers across the little hospital garden; and on the worst nights, when sleep had failed him completely, strange shapes danced along the edges of Jughead’s vision making it hard to be sure what was real.

So, it didn’t worry him quite as it perhaps should when he saw an angel in the ER waiting reception. He was rushing through, a car accident to attend to, so an impression of white gown, blonde waves and radiance was all he had a chance to capture.

Still, it stayed with him throughout the night.

*****

A few hours later, Jughead was in the middle of trying to calm down a shrieking five-year-old with a very painful ear infection, when his best friend Archie walked over.

“Jug, would you mind swapping and taking over the aftercare for my patient? She keeps asking for you”, Archie asked in a surprisingly sulky tone for someone asking a favour.

Archie was a good nurse, but sometimes Jughead couldn’t help but feel there was more than a little truth in his friend’s jokes about going into the profession because of its high female to male ratio.

“Asking for me?” he asked suspiciously. “It’s not Mrs. Wyndham again, is it?” The elderly and somewhat hypochondriac librarian had taken a shine to Jughead and would barely allow anyone else to tell her that there was really nothing wrong.

“No, a cute blonde. Solid 8.5. She’s said I was cute but then started insisting on speaking to, and I quote, ‘the glarey dark haired boy’. No idea why she wants you, but I think the anaesthetic has messed with her head a bit.”

“Gee thanks Arch, when you sweet talk me like that, how can I possibly say no?”

Jughead handed Archie Timmy’s notes and headed over to the bed his friend had just come from, where an angel was sitting, waving at him.

The angel turned out to be Betty Cooper, a beautiful blonde girl, who looked about the same age as Jughead and Archie. Big green eyes looked up at him from a heart shaped face that wore ever so slightly smudged lipstick. She must have tried to tidy her hair one-handed – it had been flowing in gold waves over her shoulder earlier but now was in a very lopsided ponytail. She was wearing a white lacy dress, pale blue ballet shoes and a large cast on her left arm.

“Hooray, it’s you!” she beamed. She looked a little drunk, but any alcohol she’d consumed would surely have all but worn off by now.

“Hi Betty. Err, do we know each other?”

“Not yet, but we will. We’re meant to, I can tell”, she smiled up at him.

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he concentrated on her notes.

“So, you broke your arm huh?”

“Yes, my best friend insisted I join her at this stupid fancy nightclub that makes me feel like a total hick, so I drank a few too many glasses of the champagne she ordered – I don’t even really like Champagne! – but then Ronnie disappeared, I think with this very boring man she spent way too long talking to, while I just got to know the champagne.”

Throughout her ramble, Betty pulled a series of increasingly animated facial expressions – it was hard not to be charmed.

“But then I was a bit worried and I wanted to go home so I went to find her and I guess I tripped on the stairs and this happened”, she raised her arm, “ouch!”

Jughead quickly helped her resettle her broken limb into the best position for her to hold it.

“Theeeeeeeeeeeen”, she took a deep breath, “I looked a bit more but I still couldn’t find Ronnie, so I walked home but she wasn’t there either and my arm was still hurting so I figured I’d better come to hospital.”

“You did all that with a broken arm?” Jughead asked, concern mixing with admiration. Who was this adorable but formidable young woman?

She shrugged. “Owww. Yeah, I figured it’s an arm not a leg and I don’t usually walk on my hands too much, so I might as well just wander in.”

He double-checked the very decent job the doctor had done and gave her the usual fracture after-care spiel, combined with the finer points of her own case, though it was clear she was struggling to maintain attention. He’d look up from the notes to find her gazing at his lips, before suddenly whipping her head around to stare in seeming wonderment at some of the more mundane equipment, then looking up and giggling, inexplicably, at the fluorescent overhead lighting.

She had an air of innocence and preppiness that would usually make Jughead bored or sceptical, or both, but her open demeanour, obvious intelligence despite the adorable anaesthesia dizziness, and kind, classically pretty face were utterly disarming.

“You really care about my health don’t you – ” she squinted at the hateful name tag Dr. Masters insisted all the nursing team wore, “Dr. Forceps?”

He couldn’t help but laugh, “It’s my job to care about your health, plus you’ve not called me emo or goth as yet, not racially abused anyone or spat in my face, so you’re officially on my nice list. But I’m a nurse, not a doctor I’m afraid, and it’s Forsythe, not Forceps.”

For a moment ‘normal’ Betty – or what Jughead imagined she must be like – seemed to resurface. She shook her head and blushed. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry Forsythe – I can read, honest! I’m actually an English teacher, would you believe.” She buried her face in her hands, wincing as she lifted her left arm.

She was even cuter when she was embarrassed and Jughead had the sudden stupid urge to run away. Instead he gently corrected the position of her arm again.

“Short of risking my job by failing to wear it, I’ve done everything I can to ruin the integrity of this stupid badge – it’s been through the washing machine more times than my actual laundry, I’ve tried scratching the letters off, I even got Archie to run over it once – so it’s no wonder you found it hard to read. Anyway, Forsythe is not really my name. It’s Jughead.”

“Jughead. Juggie Jug Jug Jughead”, she mused. “Ooooh and Archie! Was he the cute ginger boy who was in here earlier?”

Of course she was attracted to Archie really. Jughead was ashamed by how deflated he felt.

“Yup, Archie is our resident hottie.”

“He was cute but you’re beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful”, she slurred, gazing at him lovingly. “And he kept staring. Stupid dress. Staring at me, then getting distracted by all the other girls around. And he says he’s a musician really. I don’t want a musician, I want a nurse. Like you. You want to make me better. And your eyes are the best, Juggie. And you look like you like books. Good books. Not Dan Brown and Marian Keyes like Polly reads. And I want to touch your hair, very badly.”

She grabbed his hand, “Jughead … er… Nurse, will you marry me?” Her earnest, slightly tearful face was the loveliest thing he’d seen. Her ‘proposal’ should have been funny, and he knew it was just the drugs talking, but his heart was pounding.

“Hey, of course I will”, he replied in what he hoped was a light & breezy tone. It was hard to tell as he’d never felt light and breezy in his life. “Let’s get you all better and clear away this anaesthesia fog and then we can start planning.”

“How do you feel about kilts?” she asked.

There was little left to do now, and, even on quiet nights like this, the hospital was stringent about maintaining bed availability. It was time to discharge Betty, but he hated the idea of turning her out while the weird effects of the anaesthesia clearly hadn’t lifted.

And there was something else. Jughead loved his job, loved feeling like he was doing some small measure of good in the world, but he didn’t always love spending so much time with other people. They exhausted him, sometimes depressed him, and almost always compounded his sense of not-quite belonging. Yet right now he desperately wanted the world to just stop for a while, so he could simply sit here with this strange and wonderful girl for the rest of the night, without responsibilities pressing in on them.

“How are you going to get home Betty? Do you have someone that can pick you up?

“Oh, I’ll walk. I walked here, I can walk back no problemo.” She began saying “o, o, o” repeatedly, mouth like a fish’s.

“No way I’m letting you walk home at this time of night with only one arm.”

“Do you think I might be attacked by wolves?”

“Wolves or worse. Archie could catch up with you and ask your opinion on his new songs. I’d love to offer you a ride, but I’m on my bike and I don’t think you could hold on with that arm. What about your friend – Ronnie was it? – could she come and pick you up?”

“Phone is –” she blew a raspberry.

“Ok, well my shift is almost over, so if you don’t mind waiting just a little while for me, I can call you a cab and then sit with you until it’s here.”

She was still quite wobbly when he walked her to the car park, so he let her lean on him with his arm wrapped around her waist. They were almost at the bench when she suddenly wheeled around and up into him and clumsily crashed her lips onto his. He tried not to notice the softness of her lips and the crush of her breasts against his chest, tried not to notice that she tasted like strawberries, tried to concentrate only on the fact that this was his patient and she was only marginally in control of her own body and mind right now.

“Hey there Betts, you don’t want to do yourself anymore harm”, he said, very gently nudging her away from him and sitting her down on the bench.

It wasn’t a cold night, but in her flimsy dress, Betty was soon shivering.

“Here, take my jacket”, Jughead helped her into the soft fuzzy-lined denim. He’d never lost his teenaged tendency to hide himself in over-sized clothes, and the coat swamped her. She still looked cold so he leaned over and retrieved his beloved crown beanie out of one of the denim pockets. He pulled it down over her scruffy golden ponytail, and stroked the hair out of her eyes.

The image of her cuddled into his over-sized jacket, beanie almost falling down over one of her eyes made his chest ache. He hoped, suspected, he’d never forget it.

She slipped her hand into his, their fingers interlaced. Holding her hand felt so right somehow, the perfect fit, but she still wasn’t in a fully lucid state and he had a duty of care to her. Her wellbeing and his dedication to his profession were a lot more important than any pathetic feelings he might be having over someone who likely wouldn’t remember his name in an hour.

Squeezing his hand tighter before he could pull it away, she gazed up at him.

“Jughead? I love you.”

His heart stopped; he knew she was still in the anaesthetic fog, but he’d never before had those words spoken to him by anyone but family or Archie, had almost given up on it ever happening. The world felt suddenly wide open and vast and yet simultaneously shrunk down to the size of a hospital car park. The stars pressed in around them and glittered from her beautiful angel’s eyes.

Her taxi was approaching. He squeezed her hand softly before gently disentangling their fingers, “I’m pretty sure I could love you too, Betty Cooper.”

#bughead #bughead fic #bughead fanfiction

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chicagoindiecritics · 5 years ago

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New from Every Movie Has a Lesson by Don Shanahan: MOVIE REVIEW: Little Women

(Image: vanityfair.com)

LITTLE WOMEN— 5 STARS

Not to borrow out of context from George Harrison’s Beatles lyrics, but, when it comes to Greta Gerwig as the director of Little Women, there is something in the way she moves. Scene after scene in the adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s beloved classic penned by her own hand, there is an enchanting manner by which the ensemble is allowed to carry on, as it were. For every segment where a performer is hitting a mark of precision to deliver their speech, there are four or five others where Alexandre Desplat’s sumptuous score will rise, mute the conversation, and lead the audience to simply watch. The characters commiserate and move freely within their relationships and surroundings. We too then live and become absorbed in the beauty of those moments.

The endearing brilliance of Little Women is earned in those quaint sways and movements as much as, if not more than, it is by its crests of high drama. With masterful leadership and bold thematic choices applied to well-worn ideals, Greta Gerwig continuously captures an uncanny vibrancy out of a literary setting that otherwise would be frozen in stagnant despair. Every fiber and morsel of this movie swells with this sense of spirit to embed radiance in resiliency.

The titular Chatty Cathys are the four March sisters of the 1860s at different coming-of-age stages. The two youngest, Beth (newcomer Eliza Scanlan of Babyteeth) and Amy (rising star Florence Pugh), look up to their older two sisters, Jo (three-time Academy Award nominee Saoirse Ronan) and Meg (the now nearly-30 Emma Watson) with shifting notes of reverence and jealousy. With a short-sighted “tired of being poor” feeling, all four lament living within their reduced New England means during the American Civil War. The family’s pastor patriarch (Bob Odenkirk) has been away for years with little contact while his dauntless wife Marmee (Laura Dern) cares for the rapidly maturing girls.

The Marchs are not alone with the tough times. With a shared “I know what it is to want,” they are in a place to tighten their skirts and give to help a poor and struggling single mother nearby. At the same time, they are supported from above by their huffy elder aunt (a perfect feisty Meryl Streep, well within her element) and the wealthy Laurence family next door comprised of Mr. Laurence (the kindly Oscar winner Chris Cooper) and his nonconformist son Theodore (Call Me By Your Name’s Timothée Chalamet). With an alluring young man like “Laurie,” as he is called, nearby, affections grow and hearts swoon.

Swinging the chronological narrative pendulum to and fro, the plight of the March family is being remembered in episodic portions by Jo. She has moved away years later to New York City with the uphill aspirations of becoming a published writer for the discerning editor Mr. Dashwood (Tracy Letts, with the right amount of curmudgeon). Jo is enterprising and determined to be taken seriously.

LESSON #1: GIRLS HAVE TO GO OUT INTO THE WORLD — Independence is highly valued and celebrated with “love my liberty” in Little Women. For our central guide Jo, fond reflection forms the confidence that her own story is compelling sort that will inspire others. Despite what society deems suitable and how they are kept from property and prosperity, women are fit for more than love and marriage. They deserve to play out their ambitions. Along the same lines, Alcott’s novel itself presents a great passage on wealth that is echoed in the film in its own way:

“Money is a needful and precious thing, — and, when well used, a noble thing, — but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

LESSON #2: NEIGHBORS HELPING NEIGHBORS — In many wonderful displays, these are noble and generous people who care to hear and tread in the stories and needs of others despite their personal wants. Furthermore, respectfully knowing the arduous realities present keeps them from being truly ungrateful for what they have. That level of empathy will remain in them into their own families. When rewarded, their own pulled-up bootstraps will transform how “pretty things deserve to be enjoyed.”

LESSON #3: TO PINE, OH WHAT IT IS TO PINE — Nevertheless, even with a giving heart, the longing for deeper wants is hard to truly curb. We have multiple characters in this melodrama that pine for love, marriage, position, dreams, or freedom within their unfortunate and trying situations. The definition of “pine” reads “to yearn intensely and persistently especially for something unattainable” followed by “to lose vigor, health, or flesh.” So much of Little Women, is this languishing pursuit towards personal and emotional fulfillment.

LESSON #4: THE STRENGTH OF FAMILIAL LOVE — To borrow this time from the Greeks and a dollop of The Bible instead of the Fab Four, the level of “storge” love in this saga is exquisite. When family is in need, the annoyances and competitiveness of these sisters go away and bonds are renewed. As they say in the dialogue, “life is too short to be angry at sisters.” Once again, thanks to Gerwig’s tonal choices, you see it, plain as day, in the way the cast in character interacts. The emotional wreckage that results is incredibly genuine.

The performances of this exceptional cast make this journey of pining sacrifices and kindred challenges palpable. Saoirse Ronan accomplishes the quick wit and stubborn strength of the lead role without making it a Katharine Hepburn imitation. Timothée Chalamet uses his smiling charm at full wattage where his piercing gaze and strong words can convey soulfulness under the rude, edgy, and volatile arrogance of his romantic catalyst. Laura Dern flips the privileged acid of her Marriage Story lawyer role to play uncompromising earnestness here with complete and utter grace. Lastly and hugely, Florence Pugh is the spinal cord to Ronan’s backbone. She makes the nerves and savage passion of her tug-of-war middle daughter position stunning.

More and more, there is a pep here higher in this eighth adaptation of Alcott’s novel compared to its predecessors. Springing its winter steps, this Little Women strolls rather than plods. French Cinematographer Yorick Le Saux (Personal Shopper, A Bigger Splash) captures the textured array of period ambiance created by production designer and veteran Coen brothers collaborator Jess Gonchor. Le Saux’s framing choices are absolutely perfect and the slow-motion occasionally employed to freeze time in happy, blissful moments adds even more impact to its ravishing cinematic layers.

LESSON #5: A WOMAN’S TOUCH IN ALL THINGS — This task to recreate Little Women for the 21st century landed in the right hands, namely HER hands. Greta Gerwig’s elevated her work from Lady Bird in sweeping, grander fashion without losing any of her keen and insightful voice for humanistic commentary. To have this epic tale of powerful gender-driven truths that still resonate in the present day move with such whimsy and gumption is extraordinary and important.

And there’s the best word of all: important. The timelessness of Little Women matters. Gerwig matches the dreams of Alcott’s quote stating “Writing doesn’t confirm importance, it reflects it.” Her stewardship and screenplay deserves every compliment that can be paid. She brings forth the full vigor possible of this story and now owns the poignant love it expresses as much as Alcott.

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