#know you are loved

[themalhambird]

Aaaaaand now, for a little post-bar-late-night-chit-chat between the boys....

It should be bliss. The bed is soft, the flat is warm, and for the first time in what feels like a decade or three Charles Whiteman can go to sleep with the absolute certainty that he’s not going to wake up bombed to pieces. But he can’t sleep, because he keeps straining for the tell-tale hum of the sodding luftwaffe. He’s still bracing for the sirens to start blaring, and the streetlights fading softly through the curtains are making his chest tighten, convincing him that right now, this street is thrusting its arm up in the air yelling pick me- actively volunteering to be Hitler’s prime target. He stares up at the ceiling for another ten minutes then gives up, rolling out of bed and making for the sitting room. This television thing is smashing- stuffed to the brim with rubbish that has no right to be so mindlessly entertaining and of course, a whole lot of good looking women in short skirts. Some really short skirts. Whiteman wonders-

The thought drops dead when he takes one step through the sitting room door, going for the lightswitch before he clocks Hillinghead. The man’s sitting in the armchair nearest the window, curtains open (that damned street light) but otherwise  in complete darkness. Reading. “No wonder you need glasses,” Whiteman says. 

“Whiteman. Can you not sleep either?” 

Whiteman drops his hand from the lightswitch without flicking it on. “Too quiet,” he says. Hillinghead does that hum-snort-scoff thing of his that Whiteman figures is amusement. 

“Too loud,” he counters, turning the page. 

“Mind if I get the lamp?” It’s not escaped Whiteman’s notice that the other man finds electric lights uncomfortable, even more than they make him feel. It makes sense, Whiteman guesses. They’re bright by his standards- he doesn’t know if Hillinghead even has electric lights in his home. 

“By all means.”  

Whiteman crosses to the right hand corner of the room and grabs the metal stem of the standing lamp. It comes on with touch. Fascinating. He throws himself on to the sofa and stretches out, angling himself so that he’s looking at Hillinghead. “Do you sleep in your suits?” he says. The man is, no kidding, wearing a tie at four o’clock in the morning. 

“No, I just- get dressed if I’m leaving the bedroom.” Hilinghead closes his book and stands. For a second Whiteman thinks he’s chased the guy off, but he just says

“Tea? Coffee?”

Whiteman hides a smirk. Electric lights might get on his nerves, but electric kettles, Hillinghead really seems to like. And the abundance of tea and coffee is something that they both appreciate: for Whiteman, a combination of rationing and supply problems can make tea in particular tricky to get hold of; for Hillinghead, coffee in particular was a rarely-consumed  luxury. And, Whiteman was convinced, the man just really likes using the kettle. A bit of a weird quirk, but everything about this situation is weird. “Sure,” he says, “Whatever you’re having.” 

Hillinghead nods and leaves the room. Whiteman gets up to pilfer his book and throws himself back down, studying the cover. Lady Audley’s Secret, the front cover declares- flipping to the title page, Whiteman sees that it was first published in 1862. When Hillinghead comes back five minutes later with two mugs of steaming black tea, Whiteman waves it at him “Reminds you of home?” he asked. 

“My wife- before we were married, we were…fifteen , I believe. Her mother said she wasn’t old enough to read it so she asked me to buy her a copy and to read it to her while she sat with my mother on a Tuesday afternoon.”

“Your mum didn’t mind?”

“My mother was ill, by that time, she would be asleep on the sofa twenty minutes after Charlotte arrived, more often than not,” he pauses. “She died before we could finish the book. We both did finish it, but separately - I read it myself and then I took off the cover and rebound it with-” he breaks off abruptly, and takes a long sip of his tea, avoiding Whiteman’s eye.

“What,” Whiteman prods. “What did you do? Cut a novel sized hole in the Bible and shove it in?”

“No.”  Hillinghead takes another long sip of tea and then confesses, sounding a little embarrassed: “...it was a collection of Hymns, Psalms, and other Spiritual Poetry.” Whiteman starts to laugh. “When my father found out he whipped me so hard I still had the bruises a month later,” Hillinghead adds. “It was his book, I shouldn’t have taken it.”

“Still,” Whiteman says. “Neat trick.” There’s genuine fondness in Hillinghead’s voice when he speaks about Mrs Hillinghead. Whiteman wants to ask more about this “Arthur” Hillinghead mentioned in the pub that afternoon, but without that 21st century daylight, and without Hasan’s and Maplewood’ casual acceptance, it feels like a topic too dangerous to be broached. Whiteman doesn’t care, per say- he’s always been one to turn a blind eye, or even shoot off a quiet  warning to the odd blokes not quite being discreet enough with the eyes they’re  making at each other. But it’s not something you openly talk about, not for him and certainly not for Hillinghead. So instead he sips his own tea and says,

“When I was a nipper, my dad caught me eating the biscuits my mum had made to take to this meeting, her and her friends got together once a week and they took turns bringing the cake or whatnot.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“He helped me finish them off, then we figured out how to make more.” Whiteman grins. Hillinghead actually laughs. “We got away with it, too,” Whiteman says. “Mum said she couldn’t figure out what she’d done differently that time to make them taste so good,” Hillinghead’s laughter grows. “If I can get the stuff together, I should make them for Esther when I get back.” His good mood dims a little. “If I get back. If she’s alright when I get back. I gave her a couple of people to go to, if - if I went out one night and didn’t come back. The bombings…y’know. Rabbi Goldstein. Inspector Calloway. Either of them would look out for her- but only if she goes. It’s been hard enough convincing her to do what I say when I am around.”

“I am sorry,” Hillinghead says quietly. “If nothing else, from what you’ve said the child sounds like she has a knack for survival.”

Whiteman snorts. “She does that.” 

They both turn their attention to their tea, each  sinking into their own thoughts. But it’s a companionable kind of silence, the knowledge that the other man knows at least a little something of how he’s feeling is a comfort to each. Whiteman hasn’t told Inspector Hillinghead that his daughter’s name’s a household one in his time, that Vera Lynn, Charlie Chaplin, and Polly Hillinghead keep Britain marching on, and he wonders if he should. He wants so badly to know about Esther. But Maplewood has said they need to limit their knowledge of the future as much as possible, or their knowledge of the immediate future of their own times, at any rate, and Hasan had agreed - citing the authority of “science fiction” in general and “Doctor Who” in particular. So mum’s the word- he hasn’t even told Maplewood or Hasan. And much as he wants to, he isn’t going to attempt to try and  trace Esther. Right now, he can just about convince himself that she’s out there somewhere, an absolute rogue of an old lady with an army of  grandchildren, like his mum had always wanted to have. He’ll take Esther to meet his mum, when this is over. If he presents a sort-of grandkid, she might stop nagging him about a daughter in law. Well, a man can dream, can’t he?

…but he doesn’t, not for the rest of that night: the first he knows about falling asleep is Maplewood yanking the blanket off him. “Oi!” he complains, and then: “...where did that even come from?”

“Budge up, I want to eat my cereal and you’re hogging all the sofa space. You didn’t grab the blanket?”

“Nope.” They both look over to the armchair. Hillinghead has nodded off, a blanket of his own and his still open book held limply on his lap. “Soft touch.” Whitehead mutters affectionately. 

“Don’t wake him up!” Maplewood whisper-hisses. 

“Hey- you woke me up, yelling about your bleeding cereal,” Whiteman counters, but he makes room for her on the sofa as he says it. “So,” he says. “What’s the plan, for today?”

[thebeautifulsoup]

Some thoughts on Knowing You Are Loved and Bodies (2023):

I find it really interesting that Know You Are Loved is what Mannix's entire plan hinges on. It's the fulcrum on which his plan pivots.

Obviously it's a clear and not-even-disguised allegory for the cycle of abuse: it just so happens that in this case, and through time travel shenanigans, the cycle of abuse is being perpetrated time and again by a man towards himself as a child. Being and feeling unloved is what leads to the bomb in 2023 and Mannix's rise to power in the future (and the past), which is what leads him to what he desperately craves: feeling loved, however false and helped along by power and fear that might be. So he engineers his own upbringing to be as unloving as possible, in order that he might continue to be. Because genuine love would ruin that.

But what has really been scratching at my brain the last couple of days is the phrase "Know You Are Loved". Obviously, it's the calling card of a cult. But nothing about this cult is loving, not even this phrase. If we look at it:

Know You Are Loved

It is so passive.

No one here is saying "I love you". The love here is not active, and I just think it's amazing hearing that - cold, casual, passive - and having it compared to the vital and active love we see throughout the series: with Shaharah and her son, with Karl and Esther, Alfred and Henry and his family. And yes, those loves end tragically (in one timeline at least), but there is no argument that they do not make the characters' lives richer.

And then we look at what Mannix is doing to those around him and his younger self: he gathers people around him, but we can see there is no actual love there. He never tells them "I love you", they never say it to him. To the extent that Mannix mocks Hillinghead for sacrificing himself for love, which Hillinghead rightfully calls him out on.

"Know You Are Loved."

But not by me, and not I by you. It's just enough of a sign of affection for people to feel momentarily comforted by it, but it does not stand up to any kind of scrutiny.

[thechurchboyniall]

Only man I need in my life 🥹

[caxycreations]

To everyone I haven't talked to in a while

And especially to those I tag

I have not been talking with y'all much, and I'm sorry.

I wish I had some big, grand excuse that justified it and made everything okay.

I wish I had the words to make you all smile and forgive me and feel better.

But there is no excuse.

There are no special words like that.

So I'll settle for explaining it, and if you want to forgive me or forget me, it's up to you, and there will be no hard feelings held towards you for it.

I am forgetful. I am forgetful, and I follow my whims, and I follow what is most directly presented to me. I am focused on one thing or another at all times, and I recognize that hurts some relationships more than others.

It's something I've been trying to fix for years and can't seem to sustain for very long. None of you are obligated or expected to put up with it, or to try and maintain a friendship with me if you don't feel I'm putting in the effort needed for it.

What I will say, however, is that on my end, just because I'm not reaching out doesn't mean I'm unavailable to you. If you were my friend once, you'll be a friend in my eyes til I stop drawing breath. My friendship doesn't decay, it doesn't have dues that need paying, there's no conditions to my support or my love.

If you need me, if you need a shoulder to cry on, if you need someone to yell at or scream to or hit or vent or just *talk with* so you're not alone for the day, you are 100% always welcome to come to me.

I may not be the best option. But if I'm the option you want to take, or the last option, don't be afraid to reach out to tell me you need something, or that you want something. If I can provide it, I will, and if I can't, I'll sit with you and listen to what you need so that, at the very least, you aren't bottling it all up.

My life is a cycle of hyperfixated relationships and bonds on the backburner, but absolutely none of you are forgotten or beyond my attention. I am, and always will be, a single text away.

And if you need me, I will pick up right where we left off, and show you the same care and love that I never stopped feeling for any of you.

But if you feel it's not worth it, if you feel spurned or abandoned or unwanted, I understand, and I am sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry.

You don't have to invest your energy in anything that you don't want to.

Just know that at the end of the day, I do care about you all, and even if I never hear from any of you again, I will still find you on my mind once in a while, and I will still hope the best for you.

You are my friends.

Even if the feeling isn't mutual, even if you don't believe me, even if hearing it makes you angry

You are still my friends, in my heart.

@moremysteriesthantragedies @thetruearchmagos @filthymcnastyass @mikathewriter @a-scaly-troublemaker @shepardsherd @likegemstone @sithbelle @serafyyn @the-secondborn-of-seven @sleepywriter00

[captainpunchmerica]

I don't think we give hillinghead enough credit for being such a fantastic bitch that he literally changed the timeline

talk about wrecking someone so hard their ancestors feel it...

[nu-fin]

Please forgive me for being stupid but I’m so confused about KYAL in the 1940s.

Is literally all they want from Karl for him to rid of the body and/or be framed for the murder? Or was it also part of Elias’ plan for Karl to kill him and Polly? If it was (and it might very well have been bc of Polly saying “it isn’t time yet” or whatever she says when Karl has her in the synagogue ruins) - why?????? Why wouldn’t he make it out so that he doesn’t have to be murdered?? I’m sure he could prevent it if he knew that’s what was going to happen, right? And what on earth did Hayden mean when he said “you’ve still got a role to play” to Karl in episode 6(? I think it was episode six?), because based on his reaction in the altered timeline when Karl kills his parents I don’t think he’d been told that was going to happen. Maybe he’d just been told Karl was important but hadn’t been told why? Maybe he was talking about pinning the murder on him? I don’t know. I’ve thought myself into too many corners. Help.

[superat626]

[pinkygall]

Just wanna let you guys know! You may have disappointed god but I cannot be any more proud of you! Keep doing what you do or hell if this is the sign you need to clean your shit up and get yourself together then please do so. But know you are loved and it doesn’t matter how much you mess up so long as you keep trying. ❤️

[tv-moments]

Bodies

“Know You Are Loved”

Director: Haolu Wang

DoP: Paul Morris

[murderonthedullexpress]

guys oh my god i am so full of love right now

i was on the verge of a panic attack just thinking about being trans and how there are so many loud voices that want us dead

and then i check my notes and see that one of my posts has over 10.000 notes. and it has 22 last i checked

i’ve just been scrolling through and reading all the notes from trans people and just

i love you all so much

i love trans people <3

[thingsasbarcodes]

Bodies 1x08 - Know You Are Loved

[themalhambird]

(from the same universe as this, chronologically proceeds it. Picks up almost immediately after the final episode of Series 1)

Shahara is not going to miss her Baba’s birthday party because her taxi driver turned out to be a mad woman. She’s still not sure why she let this Iris Maplewood person keep driving her while she rambled on about time travel and quantum whatever, except that she’s been a copper long enough to have a sense for when she’s in danger, and she didn’t get that from Maplewood. So it was easier to take the taxi ride and put up with the rambling than it was to try and stop the cab, get out and walk -  and Maplewood refused to take a fare which was a bonus. So Shahara gets to the party exactly when she’s supposed to, and she revels in the hug she gets to give her son, and the hug her Baba gives to her. She revels in the crowd of family and friends- the Aunties and Uncles she can never remember if she has a blood connection to or not. That’s never been important. What’s important right now is good food and good music and good talk, and how good she’s gotten at distraction when the question of whether she has a man in her life yet or not comes up.

Except, throughout the night, at the back of her mind, is this nagging feeling- this unease about the fact that, well, this unease about the fact that she didn’t feel any unease when when some random cabby sprouting conspiracies about the Kyal corporation somehow knew a whole ton of personal details about Shahara’s life. And then there’s that sense she’s had all day, this- what’s the opposite of deja vu? The sense that suddenly you were in a place you hadn’t been mere moments before? She’d shrugged it off as tiredness- the stress of the job- she’d spoken to her inspector earlier about maybe putting in for some leave. And perhaps that’s an even better idea than she’d already been thinking. If she’s taking Iris Maplewood seriously, she’s cracking. 

I’m not taking this seriously, she tells herself firmly, sipping at the mocktail as she watches Jawad run about with the other kids.  I’m not going to think about it at all. I don’t believe-

“-a word you say,” Shahara tells Maplewood as she gets into the front of the woman’s taxi. “Just for the record. I’m agreeing to this because- I don’t know. I want to prove to myself that you’re talking nonsense, I guess.”

“I’m not, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll see for yourself soon enough,” Maplewood said. The car is sitting at the top of Longharvest Lane, headlights illuminating the alleyway. “I don’t know which of them it will be tonight, but one of them will show, I’m sure of it.”

Right. Either a detective sergeant from world war two or a detective inspector from the victorian era is going to materialise out of nowhere. Kyal, one of the biggest finance….trading….look, Shahara has never really been sure what Kyal is or does, and honestly she can easily believe that a corporation that big, handling that much money, is corrupt somehow. What she can’t believe is that it’s a Doomsday Cult and that Iris Maplewood comes from the future, and has travelled back to 2023 so she can get Shahara Hasan, and two blokes she’s sent others to fish out from the past, in to the same place to help bring Kyal down because together they already managed it once (sort of) by stopping an explosion that decimated the world…today, but also a few days in the future. Something. This is nuts.

“I hope it’s Hillinghead,” Maplewood muses. “He seemed- easy enough to reason with. I think. I don’t know, the memory’s blurry. It didn’t really happen, but also it had to have happened for it not to have happened. Bootstrap paradox, or something. I don’t know. There are echoes…I was sorry for him. I can’t remember why.” 

Shahara clenches her fist tight. She is resolutely not remembering some kid sitting at the table of a fast food place with a gun in his hand. She isn’t-

“Thirty seconds,” Maplewood says. “I’m going to just,” she switches the car headlights off. “Don’t want them exploding,” she explains. 

“Exploding?” Shahara exclaims. “You didn’t say anything about anything-”

The streetlamp outside flares white hot. Glass shatters, smashes some more as it falls to the pavement. There’s a red glow, almost like a bleeding wound, in the darkness ahead- for the briefest of moments. Shahara squints, trying to see properly, but the glow is too bright and everything else too dark…

And then it’s gone. There’s nothing but darkness and the rowdy sounds of London late at night behind them. Shahara stares, stunned, through the windscreen into the blackness beyond. Iris flicks the headlamps back on. In the two, brilliant beams of light, the blocky shape of a body can be seen crumpled in the road. “Oh my god,” Shahara breathes. 

“I’ve got a blanket, there’s a torch in the door your side,” Iris says. She’s already got her door open, pulling a blanket that had been folded up on her lap with her. Shahara fumbles to catch up, grabbing the torch and stabbing for the switch with her thumb. 

“Why a blank- oh,” there’s no need for the rest of the sentence. As they hurry over to him, Shahara can see that the man who appeared from nowhere is completely naked. He’s already stirring, running one hand through tousled black hair as he starts to bring himself onto his knees, coughing. 

“What the hell-”

His cockney accent reminds Shahara of the teenagers she’s spoken to on occasion- kids trying a little too hard to sound hard, to fit in. 

“Hillinghead?” she asks cautiously

“The hell is a Hillinghead?” He looks up at her. In the torchlight Shahara can see that he’s quite a handsome man- kind of dapper, except that there’s soot on his face. 

“Charles Whiteman?” Iris says. She hands him the blanket. Whiteman takes it with a frown- blanches when it apparently hits him that he’s naked, and hastily wraps the blanket around his waist like a towel as he wobbles to his feet. 

“Yeah? Who the hell are you? What the hell-” he looks around. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

*** 

So, time travel is, apparently, real. 

Iris has got a flat- they take Whiteman back to it, and Shahara…Shahara has to go back to work. She has to go to her job and deal and…honestly, it’s easier than it should be. The whole thing doesn’t seem real, even when she stops on her way home to drop groceries off to check in on the woman from the future and the man from the past. Even when she goes for drinks in the coppers’ pub, and she goes and finds the photograph from Whiteman’s era, just out of curiosity, and immediately finds a face she knows. Whiteman doesn’t seem bothered by the fact he’s in the future so much as grousing that his Inspector’s going to do his nut about his disappearing, and grumbling that ‘Esther’- whoever Esther is, kid sister, Shahara thinks, from the irritated-fond way of talking- is going to cause chaos if left unattended for five minutes. She likes him- she’s getting to like Iris too, truth be told- and he’s entertaining on a stakeout. Because they’re still missing a Victorian. 

By Iris’ calculations, Hillinghead should have materialised the night after Whiteman. But it’s almost a week later, and they’ve been watching each night, and there’s nothing.

***

“Hasan! Case for you! Take Rick.” She catches the slim file that’s thrown at her by the Inspector. “John Doe, Royal Hospital. Doctors reckon he’s well enough for talking. Need to find out who he is, need to find out how he ended up badly beaten and stark naked in Longharvest Lane.”

The folder drops from Hasan’s hands. “You what?” she says, but the Inspector’s already moving on, assigning other cases to other detectives, and Rick’s making his way over to her so she shakes herself and picks the folder up off the floor. She opens it, and finds a few cursory notes from the uniform officers that first attended: IC1 male, contusion to the right temple, assorted bruises, broken bones…found the night before Whiteman showed up. There’s a page of photos paperclipped in- she focuses in on the close up of a handsome face,if dishevelled face: reddish hair and a beard- a nasty bruise on his right temple. And there’s a photo of his wrist, as well, and it’s got the same mark that Iris Maplewood and Charles Whiteman both have. She manages to snag a photo of the page of photos on her phone before Rick reaches her, then hastily shoves it back in her pocket “You up for driving?” she asks. Rick grins. 

“Hell yeah. Thought I’d have to fight you for it.” 

“Nah. Jawad’s off school - stomach bug or something. To be honest, I could do with the time to message dad a bit, check in on how they’re doing.”

“Ah mate.” Rick says sympathetically as they head out to the parking lot. “Sorry. Hey, if you wanna swing by once we’re done at the hospital. We can always say we were chasing up a lead.”

“Nah, it’ll be alright. Mostly I wanna make sure he’s not conning Grandad into letting him eat nothing but ice cream all day. If we were closer maybe, but it’s out of the way. Besides, we might actually have leads.” 

She’s pretty sure that they won’t. She’s pretty sure that the man they’re about to speak to is from the 1800s and she really, really hopes he hasn’t told anyone at the hospital that because he’ll get himself sectioned faster than he can blink. She gets into the passenger side of the car, fastens her seatbelt, and sends the photo to Iris. This him? She writes underneath.

Fifteen seconds later, Iris pings a simple message back:

Fuck.

[thebeautifulsoup]

Hello Bodies (2023) fans!

Thanks to the catalyst of @templeofxian 's suggestion, we now have a discord server! Please do join us for chats, discussions, encouragement, etc etc (all the usual discord stuff).

Strictly 18+

The majority of users are adults and it's a more comfortable experience. If anyone would prefer to start an under-18 friendly server, please feel free, you won't be treading on any toes.

[skzosh]

Why does KYAL still exists at the end of Bodies? Why is Iris in 2023? What is she doing in 2023? Why does KYAL exists in 2023? What happened to Dafoe?

[just-a-wandering-poet]

ALSO, please know that this is normal. It’s okay to have a bad day, or bad week, month, year, and it’s okay to not always feel your best. Just know, that even when you feel like your getting worse at what you love, there will always be someone who will love your writings, someone who will be emotionally impacted when reading it, someone who will admire it, someone who loves your story, and most importantly, someone who loves you. And in the end, people change, your writing isn’t getting worse, you might have just adopted a bit of a different writing style, that is not a bad thing, it is not a bad thing to write how you feel comfortable, it is not a bad thing to be yourself.

please please please please reblog if you’re a writer and have at some point felt like your writing is getting worse. I need to know if I’m the only one who’s struggling with these thoughts