#like what ancient philosopher had words through me tonight

[snaileer]

It is better to be standing on stilts than to stand stable in a pit of vipers.

[bambitae]

You Belong with Me

Synopsis: When a cynical good-for-nothing, Jimin, sees the girl he was in love with a year after he'd quit gardening for "Bright Horizons", the luxurious development she resides in, all his feelings come rushing back, along with the harrowing memories of what had happened in that gated community last summer; all the while he meets a mysterious man who claims he sees the potential for show-business within him.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: Romance + Drama + Angst + Smut + Fluff

Word Count: 3.6k

|| Episode 01 of ? ||

i.

Tonight he saw you. Yoongi and he were pushing out of the cinema in a current of people when he saw you in a blue coat, mincing through the crowd. That stupid hot tremor mantled his cheeks, his chest and stomach; always new and horrifying no matter how many times he felt it. He called your name so quickly his voice ended a squeak, and the pedestrians around him became dense as statues as he charged through them until finally a pinch of your coat was in his fingers and you turned to look at him, the shimmer around your eyes sparkling under the pale streetlamp. He was bilious with panic. Beneath your skirted coat, your legs were naked and bristled with goose bumps, and he barely recognized you with your face made up.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said. “Y/N. Call me, write to me.”

You smiled at him, a bit like you from last summer, nodded stiffly, and you were gone with a bang of the yellow cab door. He stood on the curb for what felt a long time, hands sweating in his pockets and the oppressive, sweltering desire gutting him as he thought of your slight eyelashes and voice and lissome fingers on his shoulder, until that prick Yoongi came and slapped him on the head, telling him to get a move on and not to be so fucking pathetic, and Jimin slapped him too, and the prick laughed in his creepy, gravelly voice and fished a cigarette out of his pocket and shoved it into Jimin’s hand and told him to come on, that he’ll buy him a drink, and to wipe off that pussy ass face and stop being a fucking idiot.

He took him downtown, to Jack Rabbit, a sorry little alleyway pub made of wood panels and suffering from cramped space and fusty cigarette air, and they sat at the bar across the bearded codger that tended it on uncomfortable oak stools; Jimin couldn’t understand why he insisted on coming there, because, honestly, the draft beer was too bitter and flat and the ancient pop music from the jukebox prickled his ears and the codger always spewed some pseudo-philosophical bullshit and bored him to death with his dull life spent in poverty and gloom—and, really, it was a bit humiliating to frequent such a dump. It was a mystery how it stayed running with barely any guests. Still, Yoongi dragged him there routinely and downed the beer as if he enjoyed it and entertained that annoying old man with sagging jowls and a pig gut. If the prick weren’t the one paying, Jimin would have fucked right off out of there.

They drank for hours, until both of them were red in the face and slumped over the bar; the hung glasses and shelved alcohol bottles spun violently, Jimin’s foot kept slipping off the footrest, and Yoongi shook him until he was nauseas. You’re a moron, he kept telling him. A fuckin’ dunce. Face it: she’s never going to be with a good-for-nothing like you. You think she’s gonna pick you over all the rich motherfuckers chasing her? Don’t be a damn idiot, Chimmy, save yourself the fucking time.

But Jimin knew all this and still he didn’t believe it. The problem was not that he mowed your lawn the previous summer or that he went to a shithole like Jack Rabbit because he had no money to buy himself a beer. The problem was he, that fuck-face, that disgusting richling and his sick obsession with you.

It was all Kim Taehyung’s fault, that’s what he wanted to tell Yoongi. Jimin’s only sin was not killing the fucker. Richling was crazy about you, and Jimin saw firsthand how for weeks the bastard spoke about nothing but screwing you, making you his, whatever it took; I’ll fuck her like this, he’d drawl, the same shit over and over again, eyes bloodshot from the alcohol, I’ll fuck her like this then I’ll flip her on her knees and I’ll bang her like this, and he would wipe the whiskey off his mouth with the flat of his hand and laugh like a psychopath. Then he would clamber to his feet at the edge of the pier and pull out his cock and piss in the river as he blabbered on about how he was going to ram into you, teach you a lesson, and then he would shove it back into his swimming trunks, sit back down, and roll a blunt with those same filthy hands that touched his penis, all the while Jimin laughed faintly and made the most of Taehyung turning his back on him to swig from the bottle and take another cigarette, puffing smoke at the relentless mosquitos that wouldn’t stop latching onto his arm.

It was all that bastard’s idea of a joke, just banter, drunk talk, or at least that’s what Jimin thought in the beginning during their first carousals down by the river, in the shadiest part of the small wooden platform, where the gnarled branches of the fig tree kept them hidden from the eyes of the watchmen and other residents of the complex, and most crucially Taehyung’s grandparents that would, in his own words, suffer a stroke if they saw their “little boy” drinking alcohol and smoking pot and who knows what other crap, and that with none other than a member of “the help.” A gardener, no less.

That would be an absolute scandal, a breach of trust that would undoubtedly send Jimin across the river never to come back to Bright Horizons again, which in all truth wouldn’t really bother him, to stop slaving away for the bourgeois, except this was his first real job, his first signed contract and a steady paycheck, and even if it weren’t for the money, he would agonize endlessly over having lost the opportunity to see you, a privilege he wouldn’t have outside of that picket fence community, and for that he would withstand all Taehyung’s yapping and twisted fantasies, no matter how sick he was of his obsession with you, whom the bastard had fallen for the same day Jimin had, that afternoon in late June when your family drove to the Horizons to pick up the keys to your new home, you sprawled barefoot over the backseat of your grand white jeep with a book in hand.

Jimin remembered that day well; he had gawped at the Patek Philippe glimmering gold on your father’s wrist, lolled outside the window as the man gestured around explaining who you were and what you were doing there, a firm, grave glare fixing Jimin over the rim of his horn-wire spectacles, and your mother sat gracious beside him with a wary mascaraed eye, your run-of-the-mill lady, identical to all the other women living in the Horizon’s white villas, with her lips painted red and a hand fan in her lacquered fingers.

For a moment, you had looked up from the book, a finger pressing into the page, eyes naked and lustrous and in that moment staring into his with an air of bright, girlish interest; and even when he had opened the gate and the jeep drove in with a powerful whir, he saw you peek through the rear glass, mouth twisting into a demure smile once you had caught his eye.

Later, when he had first sat with the richling by the river, Jimin listened to an excruciating torrent of bullshit about how you had come out to the veranda barefoot that day, in your whorish white dress, and sat with your book and an apple, crossing your legs and biting into the fruit as if you had meant to taunt him who was watching you from the window, and whom you had smiled at too once he strutted into your front lawn with a plate of his granny’s lemon pie.

“I knew I would fuck her the moment I saw her,” Taehyung had told him, speaking of this as if it were some grand catharsis, only to then cluck with laughter like a damn hen and say, “But the slut is harder than I thought.”

That was the pioneer of all the times Jimin fantasized of wrapping his fingers around the bastard’s thick, tan neck until it blued and the fucker finally croaked; the first time his hands tingled at the thought of punching him. He wanted to push his head into the river, yank his arm out of the socket, beat him bloody for the whole Horizons to see and make him eat dog shit and garbage off his own lawn. And that’s what he should have done before leaving, instead of fearing what the rich boy might do to him; then he wouldn’t have had this terrible lingering fury that made him break out a sweat every time he thought of his idiotic face.

Around midnight, when Jimin was already so pie-eyed he could scarcely follow Yoongi’s monologue, a small group of men, all with gelled hair and their shirts crisp with starch, ludicrously wandered into Jack Rabbit, buzzing with talk and decorous har-de-har, their eyes meandering over the joint and its only two patrons with an air of cool, curious solicitude. The one who had opened the door, a tall, long-faced fellow with a rounded jaw, grinned widely, black coat billowing behind him as he approached the bar.

While he sat beside Jimin, a cologne of birch tar and lavender whipping him over the face, he wished the codger a good evening, his three cohorts sidling after him while giving each other the eye.

“Hello to you too,” said the codger and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, smile so big Jimin could hardly believe his cracked lips could stretch that far. He leaned over the bar. “Been a while since I saw you here, son.”

The man spoke again, and this time Jimin was perplexed at how deep and scratchy his voice was, and still less irritating than Yoongi’s. “I was busy with work,” he had said, or something along those lines; Yoongi clicked his scrawny fingers and distracted him from eavesdropping.

“Are you even listening?” he said, and Jimin could barely make out what was his voice and what the screech of the stools.

“No,” he told him, unsure if he had heard right, too shit-faced on those rums Yoongi had made him chug to think about it too much.

“Asshole.” He grabbed his bottle by the neck; draft beer had become too warm for him, he claimed.

The group had settled at the bar but everyone aside from the cheery man squirmed on the rock-hard oak, warily taking off their shawls and coats, the stubby one seated at the end trying to hook his own on the rack. One of them, the man who seemed youngest, was typing something on his phone while glancing at the codger at intervals.

“What are the gentlemen drinking tonight?”

The man took off his coat and elbowed Jimin in the ribs; the large tag inside read “Max Mara,” beneath it a bold, flashy text: Made in Italy. “Give me a Tom Collins,” he said, and shoved his coat into the man beside so abruptly the phone nearly fell out of his hand.

Jimin scoffed. “You make cocktails, old man?”

“For you, I don’t,” he said, and Yoongi laughed with his mouth still on the bottle. The man chuckled politely too, fingers laced and propped on his elbows. His sleeves were neatly rolled up, leather wristwatch taunting Jimin with its shine. The fool held himself so high and mighty all the while he sat in the same dunghill Jimin did.

Then, and for the rest of the time spent in that hovel, Jimin watched the man out the corner of his eye, contempt sprouting furiously at his lifeless, impersonal laughter, spiraling when he opened a fat cigar case and lit one of those dark, wiener-like abominations. Pungent whirls of tobacco drifted through the small space, thick and inescapable, crashing into Jimin’s cigarette smoke. The man nudged the pack toward the codger, who begrudgingly took one and smelled it, grumbling about its staleness while he hungrily drew on it.

Jimin didn’t have to speak to him to know the type. Entitled, obtrusive, rich. The kind who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Former presidents of the Student Council in college, which they breezed through in a whirl of toga parties and drinking contests, always secure and unafraid because a chair at daddy’s marketing firm was being kept warm for them. Those were the sort who grew up to be glitzy businessmen oblivious to their extravagance—the cigars, tailored suits, those bland, overpriced Max Mara coats. They were all Kim Taehyung in a few years, once he buys a few blazers and decides he wants to play grown-ups.

Those pricks seemed to haunt him, follow him even to a dump like the Rabbit. What did they want of him? Why did they swat at him like flies to shit?

“That’s the problem with rich bastards,” he was telling Yoongi later, as they walked through narrow Ahyeon-dong streets with their last cigarettes in mouth, steep alleys with webbed cables, too narrow for cars. “They’re all the same. Thinking they can just walk in anywhere and be treated like kings. Fucking pricks.” He was slurring frenziedly, tongue immobile and heavy in his mouth.

An icy breeze blew past, and all the blood surged into his cheeks, pumping, until he was so hot under the collar he thought he might go insane.

Cloud of smoke Yoongi had blown out hopped over his head and disappeared. “Stop your whining,” he said. “The world isn’t gonna stop spinning just because it hurts your feelings, Chimmy boy.”

Jimin could barely walk without vertigo and as they stumbled up the slope, then climbed the chipped rock stairs hanging onto the railing brown with rust, up till their street, he couldn’t strangle the words coming out his mouth to a halt; curses, profanities, calling Yoongi a pansy and a coward, sending him to hell, drooling like a cur, blustering with such famine and delirium until in the end he revolted himself, yet Yoongi’s apathy to the whole ordeal annoyingly persisted.

Before he went into the house, he gave Jimin a friendly slap on the cheek and told him to go to sleep, and to that Jimin stood in front of his house shouting until the man stuck out his middle finger and he was left on alone on the street and could go nowhere but his own home where, once he had closed the door, the silence was deep and thunderous.

The few hours until dawn were a painful slog. It was surreal: he wanted to fall asleep or at least do something, anything to keep the blare of quietude from piercing his ears, but instead he stared at the wall, turned over his bed like a worm, tiptoed from his room to the kitchen with his head full of nothing. He couldn’t tell what he thought about even if someone asked. Fatigue was weighing on him and the first hints of sun trespassed into the house in slits, cut up by the metal bars on the window, the sorry semi-basement rectangle. Outside of it swayed the rose shrub madam from upstairs planted; the tall brick gate it leaned on hid the street.

Jimin took a roll-up from the coffee table over his mother’s sleeping body, and it was a bad one, stale tobacco the color of hay jutting out the tip, and he sat on his bed listless, the only thing that could sedate him the thought of you. If he concentrated hard enough he could almost believe you were beside him, finger pressed into a book, window light catching onto the slight curly hairs that turreted into your scalp.

He fantasized about your skin, your big, honest eyes looking over him, the smile you gave him tonight, all those times last summer when you sat by the pool as he cleaned it, pushing a glass of lemonade into his hands, telling him it must be so hot and so hard and to come sit with you under the shade of the garden parasol for a moment. Then, as these thoughts usually went, those hands of yours, soft with all the creams smelling of pink peonies and peach, were gliding down his arm and you were thanking him for all his hard work, but he couldn’t hear you anymore because you hung on his elbow and the soft flesh of your breasts spilled over the neckline and touched his skin. He could die in that moment, if he wanted to. And although this image in particular usually led him to a cozy fairytale land, wherein he would be so muzzy and warm fighting sleep seemed tiresome—the joy of speaking with you in tongues and hands too grand to leave—tonight even those thoughts went awry.

The longer you were on his mind, the colder your smile from tonight felt, more distant, until it seemed so cruel he was certain his memory must have warped it.

What had that smile meant? Why had you said nothing to him? Would he, if he were someone like Kim Taehyung or the peacock from the bar, live to see you shun him so frigidly?

Sometime when the sun broke wholly over the sky and the rushed footsteps of the landlord’s children going to school trundled past his window, Jimin dozed off into a heavy, dreamless slumber, the stuffed ashtray beside his shoulder spilling when he rolled to the side.

The stench of cigarettes was unbearable when he awoke that noon, mother’s hands joggling him until he felt queasy. Look at what you’ve done, she was yelling, get up, get up right now, you idiot, but Jimin’s eyes felt so sunken and heavy it was a labor to open them, and he kept swatting her hands away, saying he will, saying just another moment, until she struck him so fatally on the back he jolted right up. She snatched the linen smeared with ash, singing a tired monologue of how he never listened, how she’d told him so many times not to smoke in the house, until it soared to the most common conclusion in their household: he was the same as his father. It all made his head ache and a faint taste of rum was on his tongue. Today, he felt so miserable he couldn’t find it in him to talk back to her.

At the side of the house, in the claustrophobic, dark cubicle of a bathroom, smelling of toothpaste and cleaning supplies, Jimin bent over the washbowl in unthinking ritual, scrubbing the filth off his face with soap, but no matter how many times he kneaded the bubbly foam into his cheek or spat out the gum-bloodied paste, he could not rid himself of the crud and grime anchored in his skin, as if he wore the raveled coat of a street mongrel.

Begrudgingly, he let the bathtub fill, and in the meantime sat on the fractured toilet seat that swayed to the side whenever he moved, lighting a cigarette he had swiped off the table. Now that his body had sobered, it seemed his mind followed, and in the place of last night’s ire and hurt came the routine gloom. He felt so full with nothing he thought he might implode. Everything he did last night, everything he said, even his every thought now seemed so juvenile and worthless, seemed so humiliating shame could have swallowed him whole. Why had he let any hope of you linger when all it ever did was fatigue him? He looked at the purling bathtub, the yellow rust inside it and the enamel steel chipping at the sides, and was sick with laughter. Even in a world where you wanted him, what came after that, bringing you to his house? Letting you bathe in there? See where he slept? He would rather bite his tongue off than ask that of you.

Never mind how better he wanted to make himself think he was than those banal fools swatting you, it was, in the end, a fact: he was twenty, jobless, and living with his mom in a half-basement. Of course you would shun him. Yoongi was right: he couldn’t compete with all the rich motherfuckers chasing you.

Still it was a pleasure to fantasize. As Jimin poured some little wash gel in the tub and soaked himself in the scent of camellia, the bad habit persisted, pictures of your sundress and hair tousling in the wind and all those times you touched him, where you for a moment became a creature of flesh and blood and not a figment of his imagination stalking barefoot across the lawn, sprawled furiously before his eyes, every one of them another punch in the gut.

It always was very hard for him to think of you without romanticizing you, but today all the love and worship in these dreams and memories, which had mushed together in a confused, giddy dollop, seemed cruel and masochistic to indulge in, and still he sought them and the pain they brought.

He must have enjoyed suffering if he longed for it that much.

Jimin sank his head in the water until it swallowed everything beneath his eyes, and at once, absurdly, felt entirely peaceful.

Until the water cooled and his mother began yelling for him to get out, Jimin kept punishing himself by thinking of you and holding his breath under water, and by the time he had dried himself, he was serene, almost rechristened. Nothing had changed, and he barely felt any better, but now he had accepted you were only ever meant to be in his head.

Author's Note: Hello, lovelies!! Thanks for reading all the way through to the end, I can't explain how grateful I am you took the time to consume my story! You are wonderful!

Aside from expressing my gratitude, I wanted to throw out some fun facts about this particular story for anyone who's interested. This entire written chapter had been sitting in my drafts for almost two years now, and it wasn't until a few weeks ago that I went trash-diving through my laptop and found this. At the time I'd first written this, I was very discouraged because I felt this was not good enough, and it took me many morning commutes to work to finally talk myself into posting this.

What I really wanted to gain from sharing this fic here on Tumblr, though, was an honest opinion of someone outside of my head. Is this actually any good? Is this oh-my-god-throw-it-in-the-trash bad? Is there any aspect of this I could improve? That is what I wanted to ask you. So, if there is anything at all you wish to say to me about my writing (even if that's: Uhm, you misspelled this word here, dumbass...) you are very welcome to do so!

If you're too shy or simply think this was so bad you want to forget it as soon as you scroll past this post, that's okay too! Thank you for reading and I hope you have a very nice day ahead of you.

XO, bambitae -`♡´-

[kitchenscene]

For the prompts mellow + under the stars

canis major mellow + under the stars ___________________

Out in the backyard, the breeze blows through, but still, he’s warm with his back pressed to Buck’s chest, slotted between his legs, Buck propped up on one elbow, his other arm wrapping around Eddie’s waist. It’s a weight he could never tire of carrying. Chris has long since gone off to bed, the night sky easing in, replacing the golden sunset. The two of them alone, tangled together in the grass under the watchful eye of the night.

Together, that’s how it always is. Him and Buck, together. It took months for Eddie to truly believe he could have this, to believe he could be held, be loved in a way he’d never been before. Months of restraint, too scared to ask for what Buck would happily offer. Hesitant to initiate, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Tonight he believes. It’s easy, the way he reaches towards Buck, the way Buck always reaches back.

The back porch lights are all shut off, leaving them under a dark sky and a distant moon. It’s a warm summer, the dragonflies dance above. Two circle around each other, swooping higher and higher. They settle in a tree, branches swaying as they land. Beyond them lies the stars, muted by the city lights, but fighting past the darkness regardless. The brightest of them shine, urging the rest to follow suit.

read on ao3

“That one looks like a cow,” Buck squints and points towards the sky, lifting his hand from around Eddie’s waist. He tilts his head to follow his hand, leading towards the Big Dipper.

Eddie laughs. “It’s Ursa Major.”

“Not a cow?”

“Bear,” he confirms, “Not a cow.”

Quietly, he huffs, “Eh, close enough.” Eddie feels every word as he speaks, rattling through his chest, softly spoken observations resonating in his head. The hum is like a lullaby, tired eyes becoming heavy under the black sky. “That one looks like a dog,” Buck points again.

“This isn’t cloud gazing,” he laughs softly, “you can’t just make up shapes.”

He bends down to catch Eddie’s eye. Eddie tilts up in return. “The ancient Greeks are allowed to make up shapes, but I’m not?”

“Yes,” he laughs, smiling up to Buck. He reaches up to grab Buck’s hand, pulling it back down to his chest, resting over his heart. One beat, two beats, skip, skip, skip. He traces over his knuckles, his bones and veins, mapping every movement, every patch of skin, where scars smooth over into calluses and scratches fade with time.

“Well, is it a dog?” he grins expectantly.

He shakes his head. “It’s a lion. Leo.”

Buck glances back up and huffs. “There’s no way that’s a lion.”

Eddie laughs at his disbelief. “A dog is believable but a lion isn’t?”

“It’s not like the Greek philosophers were hanging out with lions,” he turns back down to look at Eddie, “how would they know?”

He looks up to the sky, watching the stars glimmer. The sky’s too dark to see all the stars, making the constellations emptier than they should be. Missing dots, connecting lines barely visible, it’s nearly impossible to make out the shapes. Still, it’s entertaining to watch him try.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you there is a dog constellation,” Eddie offers, “you just can’t see it right now?”

Buck raises a brow at him, nose wrinkling. “Since when do you know so much about the constellations?”

It’s a more complicated answer than it should be. Part of it is because of Chris and his fondness for space. Most of it is his own childhood interest, peeking out the windows on sleepless nights, memorizing whichever stars appeared on the horizon. Library books and planetariums showed him the brightest points of the sky, connecting the dots, forming patterns.

“Chris had a pretty big space phase right before we left Texas,” he says, half a truth. He forgot most of the constellations over the years, Chris brought the lost knowledge back to him. “I spent about a week reading nothing but space books.”

“Did you guys ever go stargazing?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, soft, reminiscing, “The stars were a lot brighter there. Los Angeles is too bright to really stargaze.”

In El Paso, they had the stars, more often than not peering through. Even through the clouds, he could see the stars. Los Angeles brings empty skies. It’s an easy trade; he’d take a lifetime of empty skies if it meant he could watch them with Buck.

“We should take a weekend some time. Leave the city, go somewhere with less light pollution,” Buck suggests. “We could go camping. I think Chris would love it.”

One beat, two beats, his heart swells at the offer, the ease with which it was made. The three of them, a unit. A family vacation. Buck would surely hunt down the best campsite, something scenic. Full of wildlife and swaying trees, easy hikes and cozy campfires. Something tells him Buck lacks the patience to roast a marshmallow, letting them burn and peeling away the charred sugar, only to let it burn again.

“Yeah?” he asks, barely audible. He squeezes Buck’s hand tighter, “you promise?” laced between their fingers.

“Yeah,” he whispers a soft confirmation. “The two of you can tell me all about the stars.”

The stars twinkle in response, inviting them in. He would rename each and every star for Buck if he could, giving him his very own constellation. Gone goes Hercules and Orion, the brightest stars would be given to him, glowing even on the lightest nights.

In the dark, perhaps, on their camping trip, they may finally see Venus. Or Saturn and Mercury, forming a line across the horizon. The red glow of Mars may make an appearance, a single speck in the night, or maybe just the flashing lights of passing planes. Chris will argue with him when Eddie insists that it’s a UFO, Buck happily playing along with the charade. “It’s flying, and you don’t know what it is, therefore it’s a UFO.”

Satellites and shooting stars, space stations and constellations. They could see them all, together, counting the spaces in between, piecing together the sky like a puzzle, slotting into place.

He counts Buck’s breaths, the rise and fall of his chest against Eddie’s head. Right here in the backyard, he could sleep easy against him. His arm, still supporting both their weights, surely uncomfortable. Buck makes no effort to move him, content to let it go numb.

“That one looks kinda like a scorpion,” Buck points. He drags Eddie’s hand along so he can see where he’s pointing. “And that’s the tail, right there,” he traces the outline. Another breeze passes through, brushing against their hands.

“That’s Draco, I think. But down there,” Eddie drags their hands downward, tracing the horizon, “that’s a scorpion.”

“You have to be lying to me,” he laughs, dropping their hands back to Eddie’s chest, “what part of that is a scorpion?”

“Then what is it?” Eddie asks, twisting their fingers. Buck lifts his hand once again to point, giving a new name to every shape in the sky. He traces new outlines, “that’s a tree,” and, “that’s definitely a dragon, are you kidding me? There’s a Pegasus constellation, but not a dragon?” Eddie lets him draw out his own star map, picking and choosing his own North star, his guiding light. Dogs and dragons, forests of new identities.

Head against Buck’s chest, Eddie lets him rewrite the stars.

all word + place prompt fills can be found here

[attrociteas]

@kriegerherzz

“I forget that you do speak German, sometimes,” Rainer laughs to himself, letting his finger leave the spine of his ancient copy of Die Geschäfte des Herrn Julius Caesar. The living room is a bit chilly tonight-- he thinks maybe he should start a fire, or break out some blankets. The dogs don’t seem to mind, but Arthur seems a little huffy. “Brecht was alright for a fucking Bavarian, you know? Probably because he was a Marxist.”

    He’s never quite sure what it is about Arthur that inspires him to have his little moments of... he isn’t even sure what to call it, but he’d been thinking and looking at this stupid book and Arthur has been occupying his thoughts so often, lately, and he’s curled up on Rainer’s couch with one of his books and Ich will mit dem gehen, den ich liebe had sprung to his mind so violently he’d murmured the first two lines of it under his breath before he’d really even realized he was speaking. Arthur awakens a very specific kind of madness in him-- he thinks part of it is a desire to flash around his intellect, sometimes. A sort of zealous and sporadic desire to spout of poetry that would have and did embarrass him a few hundred years ago. Perhaps...

    He steps away from the bookshelf, leaning on his elbows on the back of his couch so he can peer at the pages Arthur is reading. “Do you know the rest of the poem, Liebling? It’s only five lines, you should have just let me finish.” He’d have stopped, he thinks, before he got through the fourth one. He doesn’t know if he’s brave enough to say it out loud quite yet. “Brecht’s understanding of love was that it is unconditional. It reminds me of--  'c'est toujours un qui aime et un qui est aimee‘.” There is always one who loves, and one who is loved. Rainer wonders what Arthur is going to think he means by it. Any of it.

Ich will mit dem gehen, den ich liebe. /  I want to go with the one I love. Ich will nicht ausrechnen, was es kostet. /  I do not want to calculate the cost. Ich will nicht nachdenken, ob es gut ist. /  I do not want to think about whether it's good. Ich will nicht wissen, ob er mich liebt. /  I do not want to know whether he loves me. Ich will mit ihm gehen, den ich liebe. /  I want to go with whom I love.

"Probably because he was a poet.”

     Arthur glances up at Rainer for any sign of a reaction. It’s one of Rainer’s worst traits: his penchant for silly philosophies, and Arthur can’t keep himself from the occasional testy remark about it. Even now, all that he’s managed to pull from his bookshelf is a novel—or rather, a “novel”—from someone who was clearly more of a philosopher than a writer. Clearly, Rainer has something better on his shelf. This is his fault for refusing to look deeper, to be intrusive in Rainer’s face. It’s the same reason he’s never cared if Rainer comes into his house while he’s not around, but doesn’t like him browsing around his library while he’s home. 

     Almost without thinking he turns his face to stick his nose against Rainer’s cheek when she leans over, then leans back a bit to give her his rapt attention  while she speaks. She’s holding something that he loves and wants, which is poetry and, more importantly, a poem he has memorized, which means it must be special. 

     Arthur thinks that if the French didn’t invent dramatic aphorisms for everything, then no one would have to feel like one thing or another. Unfortunately, they keep inventing, and Arthur’s not exempt from swallowing up said aphorisms himself. Replace a couple of words with ‘losers’ and ‘winners’ and there is his centuries-long view of the matter. 

    He doesn’t want to keep Rainer from telling him the rest of his poem, though. 

   “I don’t know it, no. Tell me the rest. I’ll tell you what I think of it.” 

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Tokyo Love Story (Part 5) The Truth of Black Swan

The following Scene takes elements and themes from the novel scenes and game quests surrounding Akira and Kogure Sakurai and weaves them into the MCs journey in a way that is meaningful. This scene does not appear in the Novel or the Game.

Please Enjoy

You’re riding in the passenger side of Chance’s Audi R8, the city lights flashing across the pale makeup on your face. Caesar might have turned up his nose at the car, but you found it very stylish and unpretentious. It was a sports car you could drive to work. You stare out the window at the many people walking down the streets. Tokyo’s nightlife was just as vibrant as the daytime. Only, instead of being locked in the offices for work, people spilled into the streets to visit karaoke bars and eat street food. There were also plenty of couples holding hands and laughing. Girls in skirts and women in tight dresses walking with friends. Men in sports jackets and a few in suits and ties. The people your age were casual in t-shirts and jeans.

When you imagined going to the big city, it was something like this. Having lots of friends, going out on the town, enjoying food and walking under lights.

Chance’s phone vibrated. “Yes, she’s with me, we’re on our way to the safe spot, notify me of the all clear.”

His expression was grim and he spoke like a soldier reporting to his commander. You’d only seen him as a carefree guy but now he was acting as a member of the Devil Clan, a Yakuza organization. Looking up at this, you notice that he’s no less muscled than Caesar, but he was a bit more wiry and lithe.

“We’ll give it a couple of hours to let things calm down before taking you back.” He said, stuffing the phone in his pocket.

“Thanks,” you say. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Did Izanami really love Izanagi?” You rest your head against the window.

“That’s a matter of philosophical debate, even among White King Descendents. Her motives were selfish. She fooled him and lied to him. But when he betrayed her, no one can deny her emotional reaction had to be rooted in some genuine attachment.” He maneuvered the car as he spoke, keeping his eyes on the road. “The common consensus is, for dragons, love is never the goal. It’s a means to an end. Once that end is fulfilled, love fades or dies completely. If the object of the dragon’s love refuses to cooperate with the end goal, that love can quickly turn to hatred. Humans pursue love for the sake of it. But Dragons do not. The emotions are real, but they’re not the goal.”

“That seems manipulative.” You say.

“It can be. Keep in mind that Izanagi wasn’t exactly the best example of human love either. Bottom line, it’s not good for humans and dragons to fall in love. They both will end up hurt somehow. But it does happen.”

He keeps driving until the city spires flatten to more residential spaces. You pull into a small park with rolling terraformed hills and tiled roof shelters. Chance killed the lights on his car and opened the door, getting out with a briefcase. “We can hide out here for a while.”

At the center of the park is a large dark lake. The stars couldn’t be seen over the lights of the city and the moon was shrouded by dense clouds. He leads you by the hand through a pea gravel path. You could feel your cheeks grow warm. The idea of running away to hide from the world with a man was depicted in TV shows you watched and in magazines you read, but now it was happening to you.

“It’s going to rain tonight, so let's stay under the shelter until we get the all clear.” He said.

He settled you down on a bench and sat next to you. He was handsome, with his red hair in his ponytail and his green eyes in the dark. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Now comes the hard part.” He opened the briefcase and took out a thin yellow folder.

“Ruri Kazama wanted me to give this to you.”

You accept the folder and open it. Much to your shock, you immediately recognize the title. Black Swan Harbor Initiative! 

“You’re from Siberia right?” He looks at you. Those eyes glittered like jewels.

“Where did you get this?” You ask, anxiously flipping through the pages. There were photos of Black Swan Bay, just as you remembered it. There were even photos of orphans that you remembered, ghosts of the past. Vera, Khorkina, Anton… you pause. A knife of pain piercing your heart.

Renata’s picture stared at you, smiling from the yellowing paper, her eyes sparkled too, even in black and white.

“Ruri Kazama had it. I don’t know what it all means or where he got it from.” He reaches over and flips the pages back to the beginning. “He wants you to understand your situation. The reason why Black Swan Harbor was created. Black Swan Bay was like a dragon graveyard. Even though Cassell holds a lot of ancient artifacts, Black Swan Bay had the actual specimens for direct study of the creatures. You were created there as part of a study on making perfect, super hybrids.”

“What?” You whisper.

“I’m only telling you what I read. None of this makes sense to me either. You’re an 18 year old girl from 20 years ago. I…” He shook his head. “It must have to do with your bloodline, that you can rest so long and retain your youth. Anyway, because you’re not perfect, you will eventually become a deadpool. You’re a ghost. There’s no changing this.” 

He flipped over a page in the folder leading to Anton’s file. “This is from one of the research papers. The average lifespan of the Black Swan Bay children is 20 years before they lose their grip on humanity. This orphan was eliminated because he’d reached the end of his life.”

You stare blankly at the page. You remembered Dr. Herzog tested hybrid children thoroughly and then, around age 20, some were selected to go to school in Moscow. Back then, you had excitedly chatted with Z about how one year you might be selected. But instead of feeling excited for you, he led you to a lab. There, you saw Anton, who had been selected to go to the capital, sitting in a wheelchair. Despite his power to stop a bullet, he couldn’t stand.

Dr. Herzog was like your father. So your mind rejected his words when he said that going to Moscow was a lie. And when he shot and killed Anton, it was something your mind couldn’t fully process. This all happened 20 years ago but for you it was only a few weeks ago, and you realized you still couldn’t process it. It was like a missing puzzle piece, floating on the side table, waiting for its place in the picture. And now it snapped into place. 

Anton wasn’t ever going to Moscow. None of you were. Khorkina, Vera, Renata… You were all going to die by euthanasia. As deadpool.

Chance reached over and massaged your shoulder silently. You closed your eyes. No wonder Ruri Kazama told you that you were a perishing flower. No wonder he sang that happiness was fleeting. Ruri Kazama knew that you were going to turn into Deadpool. That you were going to die.

“So I only have a year and a half left?” You ask after a moment.

“I’m afraid that’s the maximum. You might have even less. I’m sorry.” Chance says. He drops his hand in his lap.

You take a deep breath, absorbing this terrible blow in still silence. “Thank you for telling me. I will show this to Caesar.” You close the folder and sigh again. Your hands are pinching each other hard to stem your roiling emotions.

Chance marvels at your reaction. “You’re a really strong woman. A lot of people would scream and cry in denial at this news.”

“I’m strong because my friends are strong.” You look out over the water, expressionless. The reflection of the moon peeked from its cloudy veil. It rippled but when it stilled, you could see the shadow of the moon, shaped like a rabbit. You weren’t sure what you could do to stop this eventual demise. Caesar promised he wouldn’t let you die. No… it wasn’t a promise, he just wouldn’t let it happen.

“Hm.” He chuckled, elbowing you. “Do I still have a chance to get a star-heart ticket?” He was attempting to lighten the mood.

You allow yourself the distraction. “Maybe.” You smirk and swing your legs under the bench. The wind was starting to blow, bringing the smell of rain, pulling leaves and cherry blossoms down from the trees to land on the water and make little ripples. The gusts disturbed the glassy water. It wasn’t the time for cherry blossoms, but odd weather had caused them to bloom twice this year. “Let me ask you something to test you. Do you seek death?”

Chance gave it some thought. “It’s not a matter of seeking it. I know it's coming. I just try not to think about the future. Live my life one day at a time, appreciate every moment.”

You nod and your eyebrows lift. It was a good answer. “I’ll ask you something else. Given the circumstances, if you knew you had to give up your life so I could live, would you do it?”

He laughed. “In a heartbeat!”

You turn to him and frown.

“What? Don't tell me you don’t like that answer. What do you expect me to say? It’s an honor for a man to give up his life for a lovely woman.” The stiff breeze had teased some hair out of your comb. He brushes your hair  from your face and tucks it behind your ear. The wind stirs the flowers in your hair while he watched you.

You shake your head. “Well, in that case, you’re not getting a star heart ticket.” You cross your arms and look away

“Oh come on, you’ve gotta be kidding me.” He leaned forward, trying to catch your gaze when you turned away from him. “What am I supposed to do? Just let you die? Look at you! You’re beautiful and smart and … and… you’re so strong!” Chance was shaking his head in confusion. “If that’s not the right thing to do, please tell me the answer.”

You turn to him again, your eyes blazing. “And you’re not beautiful and resourceful and strong? Why is my life, somehow, worth more than yours?”

Chance’s good humor suddenly fades and he lowers his eyes, damping his mood like a lantern lowering its wick. He turned back to face the lake, looking down on the ground, but his mind was somewhere far away. When he speaks again, it’s with a lump in his throat. He swallows hard. “You have people. I don’t have anyone any more.”

You knew that look. You had that look. It was the look of someone who had nothing else to lose, so why not give up his life for you? You reach out and put your hand over his and look him in the eye, even as the fires of grief ignite in your chest.

“The Hydra came for my family last week. We all lived in the same apartment block, but we’d never done anything. We were just an extended family buying out condos and dealing in real estate. But they were merciless. All my brothers and their wives were killed and f…” His voice caught and his eyes sparkled with tears. “My five nieces and nephews were taken prisoner.”

“Prisoner?”

“Yes!” His voice turned hoarse in distress. “Back in World War II, Hydra had these black prisons to lock up unstable hybrids. When the government found out about them, they ordered them closed. But twenty years ago, they started operating them again. If you resist and fight, they kill you. If you give yourself up… they lock you away in those prisons forever. I had been working when the raid happened. When I turned the corner on my way home, the whole apartment block was on fire! There was nothing I could do, so I ran away. That’s how I ended up at Club Takamagahara. That’s where Ruri Kazama found me.”

He turns back to you, his green eyes as dark as an endless forest. “It’s either death or prison and then death for me. So if I can make my death mean you get to go free and shine under the sun like you did tonight… I will absolutely take that.”

Your heartaches in sympathy. You scoot closer to him and rest your head on his shoulder and he wraps his strong arm around you and holds you close. “You’re not going to accept my next words, Chance. Because I didn’t want to accept them either. But I will say them because they’re the truth. Chance… you have to live.”

He let out a single bitter laugh, but he turned away and blinked away tears. “Didn’t you listen? Life isn’t in the cards.”

“You think it isn’t. I didn’t think so either.” You reach up and turn his face back to you. The tears wet your fingertips and sink into our nails. You’re willing him to listen but you understand that it might just be too difficult to accept. “But… you will be shocked at how long you can live if you really try.”

“What? Really try? Are you saying my whole family didn’t try hard enough?” His voice breaks with grief and anger.

“That’s not what I’m saying. If death comes then it does, but what I’m saying is, you shouldn't just… give up your life. Not for me. Not for anyone. Make death fight you for it.” You whisper. Your throat hurts. Your eyes burned..

“And then if I don't give up my life for you… what will happen to you?” Tears were slipping down his face and he trembled against you.

“I will fight too.” You reach out and twine your fingers in his hair. “We will both fight death.” You look up at him, determination filling your dark eyes, defying reality. You knew he probably thought you were a fool, that you were just fantasizing that you could both fight the fate you were given, hit the ball out of the park, and live happily ever after. “What’s the point of love if you both don’t make it out? If Izanami taught me anything, it’s better to end up in the Yomi-No-Kuni together.”

He sighed softly and he leaned forward until your noses touched, your faces wrapped in night shadow. “You already gave me permission.” He whispered.

“I know…” You rise up to meet him halfway. This kiss was nothing like Z’s. Z took you like something that belonged to him. In this case, your kiss was a gift, a bow to tie your words in an oath upon his heart. 

Chance was overcome. He rested his head against your neck, crying. He held you so tightly your ribs resisted against his arms to breathe. You held him like that until his sobs subsided. But you were in no hurry to part, instead you leaned against each other, watching the wind play against the water until your emotions calmed. Every few minutes, he would sigh deeply and kiss your cheek.

In the distance, thunder rolled. Chance’s phone buzzed. He reached down and looked down at it. “That's all clear. Let’s go.” He gave you one more kiss. “Here, you keep this.” He tucked the folder into your dress. “Thank you. I..” He paused for a moment and then just stood up.

He doesn’t remove his hand from yours as you make your way back to the car, but as you’re turning the corner on the path to the parking lot, he yanks you back! “Damn it!” He hisses.

The car was surrounded by men in black trench coats armed with swords and powerful guns. The way out of the park was blocked by a huge van. The park was so small, it would only take a minute to penetrate the entire space and there was nowhere to hide. Chance urgently whispers. “Quick! Let’s go to the other side!” 

How could they have found you? Kaguya?

There was no way to hurry and stay silent. The pea gravel made too much noise. If you stepped off the path the surrounding vegetation rustled against your clothing. You can only use your method of stepping in his foot prints to hide your own sound and it was hard in your ornate gown. Your heart was screaming with adrenaline as you started to hear voices behind you. In the back of the park, behind the trees and fountains, there was a high eight foot stone wall that enclosed it from the rest of the neighborhood. You hurry to it.

“I’ll lift you over the wall!” He said. “If you jump, you can make it over!”

“No, I’m not leaving you. We need to find a way out together.” You say, planting your feet.

“You’re serious? There’s no way! We can’t fight all those guys!” He hissed.

More voices are coming. You must have been heard! Bright beaming flashlights are sweeping the park. The men from Hydra are bounding up the hill behind you! The group fanned out. One member was sweeping up against the wall you were next to and heading straight for you. More voices are coming from the opposite direction up the path ahead of you. Apparently, the Hydra following you had alerted more men on the other side of the park who were coming around the other side to encircle you and cut off your escape.

Chance pulled you along the wall and together you crawled carefully against it, staying away from the ones approaching from behind and getting to the other side of this dragnet. As you came close to those approaching from the front, you noticed that there was no one sweeping the wall! If you could sneak past through this gap, you could make it past them!

You hurry through the gap and crouch still. The Hydra were only a few feet from you. You could see the shine of their leather shoes and hear them talking, but you couldn’t understand their Japanese. One of them laughed.  All they had to do was sweep their flashlights to their right to find you. You both hold your breath even though you felt breathless from running and staying low to the ground. You tremble there until their shoes turn away. Their footsteps finally started to fade, but you couldn’t wait for them to fade completely. 

“There’s a backgate this way.” Chance whispered as quietly as he could.

You could see it. It was covered in vines and looked like a maintenance entrance. It didn’t look locked but even if it was, it was less than four feet high  and you can both make it over. Your heart beams with hope. He returns your smile. You couldn’t wait to tell Caesar. He was right. His justice was right. You don't have to leave friends behind.

A sudden sharp hiss and a burst of wind rushes by your head! A silver projectile blade cut through the air and embedded itself into Chance's calf! Chance gasped and howled in agony! He fell to the ground, clutching his leg. You scurry towards the gate and dive behind a statue of a praying Buddha.

Chance is writhing on the ground, and moving away from something looming in the dark. Someone is approaching him as he scoots frantically away, begging. “No… No!  No! Please!”

Out of the shadows steps a young dark haired man. His silver-blue long sword glowed in the dark like a shattered piece of moonlight. His trenchcoat caught the air and it waved like the hem of the Grim Reaper’s cloak. He stood over Chance like a towering god, gazing at him with frigid black eyes.

Chisei Gen!

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Dream a Little Dream - 2

Hi, everyone! The next part of my @bingokisses 5+1 fic brings us to Ancient Rome for some oysters! The prompt this time was Forehead Bump/Corner of the Mouth Kiss.

You can read the first part on AO3!

Chapter 2: AD 41 - A Kiss to Build a Dream On

--

“My point is,” Crowley said, waving his cup. “My point is…” He frowned, scratching at his hair. “I forgot what I was talking about.”

Aziraphale laughed, a truly delightful sound that made Crowley grin every time. “Then it could hardly have been important, could it?”

He watched Aziraphale sip his own wine. The oysters were gone, but still they lingered, Aziraphale reclined across his couch, Crowley sitting up and letting his feet swing across the floor. He didn’t like laying down to eat, and anyway, it was easier to see the expressions that crossed the angel’s face from here.

The laughter trailed off to an easy smile and a friendly glow of eyes. Crowley never wanted to look away.

“What are you doing here, Angel?” he found himself asking.

“Enjoying these lovely – oh, I appear to be out. Digesting these lovely oysters. What—”

“Nah, not that.” Crowley stood up, but his legs wobbled and he nearly tripped over the small round table that stood between them, wound up sprawled back across his own couch. Aziraphale giggled again. “I mean, what are you doing…with me?”

Suddenly, those blue eyes were very serious. “My dear fellow, where else would I be?”

“Dunno. Anywhere, I guess. This is Rome. City of a thousand pretentious arseholes. No offense.”

“Well, now I’m offended.”

“You could be talking to – to philosophers, or – or scientists, or those people who just make arguments for a living.”

“Rhetoricians?”

“Lawyers. You could be arguing about the state of the world and – and sharing brilliant new ideas. Instead, you’re just…drinking wine with me.” Aziraphale was sitting up, too, and Crowley didn’t think he could handle the intensity of his gaze. “Ngk. Don’t listen to me, I’m just drunk.”

“You don’t sound drunk.”

“Mh.” Crowley shrugged, looking down at his cup. Why was it still full?

“You know…” Aziraphale started slowly, thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. I think…I think at first, I was just happy to see a familiar face. Or, perhaps, someone I didn’t have to…pretend to be human around. It’s rather lovely, you know, simply being yourself.” Crowley heard a shift of fabric as Aziraphale stood, but resolutely did not look up. “And, well, I had been meaning to come here for some time. But it’s always better to share a meal. In fact, it’s one of my favorite past times. I suppose I didn’t need to bring you but…”

The couch settled as Aziraphale sat beside him.

“…I’m glad I did.”

“Just saying that cuz you’re drunk,” Crowley muttered.

“No, I’m really not.” A finger caught Crowley’s chin, tilted his face up to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. “I…I had a really wonderful time tonight. With you.”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and pressed it between both of his. “I did, too. I didn’t think – I mean, things have been bad the past few days. Past few months. Past few centuries. I don’t remember the last time I just let myself sit and enjoy something.”

“You hardly even had any oysters.”

“S’not the oysters I enjoyed.” He closed his eyes and tipped his head forward until his forehead bumped against Aziraphale’s. “I…I’d like to do this again…”

“As would I, dear boy. I’d like that…very much.”

“Tomorrow?” If he turned his head, the tip of his long nose brushed along the angel’s snub, sending a jolt of starfire through his mind.

“Yes. And the next day, and the next…”

His lips found Aziraphale’s, and he pressed just the smallest, lightest kiss he could, on the very corner of his mouth. Where it couldn’t be intrusive, or offensive, or anything more than a polite greeting.

He waited for Aziraphale to pull back, anyway, shocked at the imposition.

Instead, he turned into it, mouth moving across Crowley’s, gliding gently, to press against his lower lip. A strong arm wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders, even as his hands slid around Aziraphale’s waist.

Lips parted – he could taste Aziraphale’s breath, hot and quick, as they fell back onto the bed—

Crowley opened his eyes into the pre-dawn gloom, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling of his set of rooms. It was the coldest month of the year, but it wasn’t the weather that left him feeling chilled and empty.

He should have said something. Two hours together, and he’d just glowered and scowled and grunted responses, getting more sullen with every cup of wine. He should have said…something.

What if Aziraphale never wanted to talk to him again?

Groaning, Crowley flung a hand across his face and tried to get back to sleep. Maybe this time there wouldn’t be any dreams.

--

Aziraphale dropped his pen with alarm, shaking himself out of his daydream.

What on Earth had brought that on? Yes, he’d had a lovely time at the restaurant – the oysters had been scrumptious, the wine not too pungent, and he’d had the satisfaction of watching Crowley slowly relax and let his guard down across two hours, but – but this!

He staggered away from the writing desk, letting the papyrus snap back into a roll.

S’not the oysters I enjoyed.

His heart jumped again at the imagined words, at the way he’d pictured Crowley’s eyes smoldering as he said it. Just before he leaned forward and…and…

Aziraphale pushed his shaking fingertips to his lips. He’d never really considered kissing anyone before, though it was a popular form of greeting around here. It seemed invasive, and a little uncomfortable. But that had been…rather nice. Warm. And far more than simply polite.

He rather wished he’d let the fantasy play out a little longer.

“No, no, no,” he snapped firmly, smoothing out the scroll on which his latest report was written. “That has – has nothing to do with you. Put it out of your mind and get back to…”

Sketched at the bottom of the papyrus roll, a single eye with a distinctive, narrow pupil. In the flicker of the oil lamps’ light, it seemed almost alive.

I…I’d like to do this again…

Oh. If Aziraphale really believed that…

“Another cup of wine! That’s what I need. Nice refreshing drink. Bring my mind into focus.” He picked up the nearest lamp and headed for the door, down towards the pantry. “I wonder if there are any of those nice rolls left…?”

--

Thank you for reading! Next part is long, so I’m going to fetch some tea before I start on it. Hope you’re enjoying the fic so far - drop a comment here or on AO3 if you like it!

Also, let me know if you want to be tagged in the next chapter! <3

@angel-and-serpent

[watchmegetobsessed]

Everything about you - Shawn Mendes

i’ve been DYING to write a personal assistant themed oneshot and im pretty pleased with how this one turned out to be hehe

drabble list masterlist

Looking out for drunk Shawn is like taking care of a puppy. He is wobbly, can’t really coordinate his limbs, his laugh sounds way higher than usually, almost like that tiny barks puppies have and he is touchy. Like, in need of being touched constantly, finding his way to make physical contact with you in any way, anytime, not really understanding the concept of personal space.

“Would you stop moving around?” you sigh reaching over to him as you push him back at the seat by his chest while you keep your eyes on the road, glancing at him shortly. He has been playing around with the belt for like five minutes, giggling about something you couldn’t really understand when he explained it, because he kept biting off the ends of words.

“Fuck, I’m… wasted,” he snorts, head falling back as he closes his eyes with a smug grin on his face.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock!” you roll your eyes.

You want to be mad at him, you want to fume and rage that you were woken up by some random dude in the middle of the night because you are one of Shawn’s emergency contacts in his phones, asking you to come to this party to pick Shawn up because he was so drunk he was dancing on the table like he was in Magic Mike. You know it’s serious when he is dancing, he has to drink a lot to reach a level where he is comfortable enough to dance in front of people. You want to hit him for being so dumb, but you just can’t. You’re more concerned about his headache he’ll have in the morning and if he can make it through the night without throwing up. The answer for the latter is probably no, he has had rough nights from way less alcohol.

When his hand slides to your thigh, fingers spreading over the raw denim of your jeans your grip on the wheel tightens. Glancing over at him you see that his eyes are still closed, he is quietly humming a melody you can’t quite recognize, but you could listen to his voice for hours.

Taking a hand from the wheel you place it on top of his, just to make sure it doesn’t wander anywhere else, telling yourself it’s just the alcohol in him.

“You really should find your limits, Shawn,” you scold him mumbling. He doesn’t answer, just takes a sharp breath, his hand turning under yours and his fingers soon lace through yours. Your eyes flicker down at your hands and your chest feels heavy at the sight of it.

When you started working as his personal assistant two years ago you didn’t realize what you were getting yourself into. It’s not that the job sucks, it’s literally the best ever, you get to travel the world and get paid for it, you just have to keep Shawn’s stuff organized, remind him before flights and basically know the answer to all his questions, but it’s not that hard. What’s been making you absolutely crazy is that you can’t stop yourself from seeing him as more than just a friend or your super cool boss. Everything he does, everything he says is just making you fall for him more and more and even when he is totally wasted in your car at three in the morning, you can’t hate the dude.

“Limits are for pussies,” he slurs with another snort and it’s probably the first time you hear him use the word pussy.

“Yeah, we’ll see what you have to say about that in the morning,” you sigh as you pull up at the entrance of his building’s underground garage.

Shawn winces as the bright lights of the garage flows into his face, but he keeps his hand on your thigh still, not even moving it a little or snapping it over his eyes.

Getting him out of the car is harder than you thought. He is kind of half asleep, his limbs and whole upper body weighs on you as you throw one of his arms around your shoulders, forcing him to walk with you.

“Shawn, please just stay awake for ten more minutes,” you beg him, struggling to move forward. He keeps stopping, knees collapsing every third step, not making your job easier at all.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles rubbing his eyes.

He manages to make it to the elevator with your help and you make him lean against the wall on the way up so you can rest and get ready to carry him to his bed.

You feel like you just had an hour long workout by the time the two of you make it to his king sized bed. Throwing him to the mattress he lies on his back, arms stretched out to the sides as he blinks up at the ceiling blurrily.

“Do you feel like throwing up?” you ask him as you pull off his shoes and put them away.

“Not really,” he breathes out closing his eyes.

“Shawn, let’s get you changed and then you can sleep, alright?” you shake his leg making him open his eyes again.

He just quietly nods as he slowly pushes himself up. He starts taking his shirt off while you walk into his wardrobe and grab a white t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts for him to sleep in. When you get back you freeze for a moment as you see him stand at the end of the bed only in his boxers, his shirt and pants laying on the ground at his feet.

“Here,” you shyly say handing him the clothes. He mumbles a thank you as he gets dressed, collapsing to the bed once again.

Pulling the blanket out from under him you cover him as he takes some deep breaths, fingers gripping his hair, eyebrows furrowed.

“Hey, what’s wrong, bud?” you pat his foot as you watch him grimace with his eyes closed. He looks exactly like someone who is about to throw up.

“I don’t know,” he breathes out.

Rushing into the bathroom you quickly grab a bucket and you get back just in time. He shoots up and grabbing the bucket from you his face disappears in it as he pukes everything out.

“S’alright, just let it out,” you sigh gently running a hand up and down on his back as he keeps spitting into the bucket. Throwing up is good, he’ll feel way better once all the toxic stuff is out of his system.

“I’m so sorry you had to wake up for this,” he groans when you take the bucket from him and head back into the bathroom to clean it. You try not to think about how gross it is, you just flush it all down the toilet and then wash it out in the bathtub. You hear feet tapping on the floor and turning around you see that Shawn is grabbing his toothbrush. You caress his arm as you put the bucket away and leave him alone in the bathroom.

You get a big glass of water from the kitchen and put it down to his nightstand. Picking his clothes up from the floor you fish his phone out of his pants’ pocket, put it on his charger and then throw them into the laundry basket. It smells from tequila and weed, though you know he hasn’t smoked that night. High Shawn is more philosophic and deep, doesn’t really swear. He is like an ancient Greek philosopher when he is stoned, does not use the word pussy for sure.

Walking out of the bathroom he shuffles back to the bed, getting under the covers by himself this time. You sit down to the edge to check if he is alright, but he grabs your hand and pulls you down so you basically lie on him.

“Shawn!” you chuckle lightly as he peeks at you.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, hands wrapped around your wrist like a handcuff as he keeps you on top of him.

“Do you still feel sick?”

“Mmm no,” he hums.

“Then I’m leaving,” you sigh trying to get away from him but his grip is too tight on you.

“Then suddenly I feel like throwing up again.”

You give him a look even though he can’t see it, his eyes are still closed, probably because the room is spinning with him when he opens them.

“I’ll make you breakfast in the morning in return for tonight.”

He slowly pulls you further, until you are lying next to him, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand holding yours on his chest. Your face is pushed against his shoulder and the heat of his body feels just too nice against your skin. You shouldn’t be doing this, but you can’t make yourself leave him. It’s like there’s a magnet in your chest that’s pulling you towards him, holding you down and not letting you get up from his bed.

“You’re such a mess,” you mumble giving up trying to leave him.

He nuzzles his face against the crown of your head as you lie next to him on top of the covers, his fingers gently stroking your arm.

“I know,” he breathes out, words barely audible. “Good thing I have you.”

His words sink into your heart, a few moments later he is peacefully snoring while you’re just staring into the darkness, chest aching as his touch is practically burning your skin. His fingers has stopped, but you wish they were still running on your arm. Shutting your eyes closed you force yourself to fall asleep, hoping for the pain to be gone by the morning.

Your arms stretch to the side before you open your eyes in the morning and the first thing you realize is that you can’t reach the edge of the mattress like in your own bed. Realization comes to you slowly as you remember that you spent the night at Shawn’s, in the same bed with him.

Your hands roam the sheets, but the bed feels empty. Opening your eyes you see that Shawn is gone and the glass you set on his nightstand is now empty, phone missing too. Sitting up you hold the soft sheets to your chest as you look around. You’ve been in his room many times, but seeing everything from his bed is just a whole different view.

It takes some time for you to realize that music is playing somewhere outside of the bedroom. Slipping out of the bed you creep into his bathroom to quickly fix your hair before heading out, even though he has seen you in the morning several times when you slept on the same bus on tour.

You find Shawn in the kitchen, wearing the same clothes you made him put on last night, headband taming his curls as he is basically destroying the kitchen, New Light by John Mayer playing in the background. He is humming to the music, occasionally singing out the words he knows for sure, usually the end of each line while he is making something that looks like scrambled eggs with bacon.

It’s a sight you could get used to for the rest of your life for sure. Leaning against the wall at the end of the hallway you just watch him wondering when he’ll notice you. The guitar solo comes on and he starts vocalizing to it, playing an air guitar, swirling around, head falling back, but he soon stops as he gets dizzy fast, probably fighting a nice headache, but he must have already chugged down two Advils by now.

When he finally sees you standing in your observing spot a wide smile stretches across his face, flashing his perfect teeth.

“Mornin’! You hungry?” he asks poking the eggs around in the pan.

Walking closer you take a look at it and you see that he probably didn’t mix the eggs for long enough, you can even see an egg yolk in almost a whole, but you are proud of him for trying at least.

“Sure, Chef,” you grin as you climb onto a stool at the kitchen island while Shawn finishes up his masterpiece.

Grabbing two plates and forks he sets the counter for breakfast grabbing some orange juice from the fridge, continue to sing. Say comes on and he knows all the words to it, singing beautifully as he divides the eggs and bacon slices equally between the two plates even though you already know you won’t eat all of it and he’ll end up snatching the rest from your plate.

You start eating in silence, the eggs need some more salt but you don’t say it, just quietly eat, letting him think he did a good job with the breakfast. Hell, you would eat it even if it was horrible if it meant you could see that proud smile on his face he has on now as he tastes his work.

“Thanks for coming to get me last night,” he finally speaks up.

“It’s kinda my job,” you shrug making it look like it was really nothing.

“But cleaning up after me after I threw up is not,” he smirks at you poking your side with his elbow.

“Someone had to do it, or did you want to sleep with the bucket full of puke next to you all night?”

“Hell no!” he grimaces making you chuckle.

“How are you feeling?” you ask when you feel like you’re full, some food still on your plate and he instantly reaches for it.

“You don’t want it?” he asks, but he already took the plate, adding your leftover to his as you just shake your head no. “My head is pounding, and I feel like I’ve been ran over by a tank, but I woke up in a great mood because I had someone special next to me.”

Your cheeks flush almost immediately as your gaze is fixated on the empty plate in front of you. Not sure what to say to that you get off of the stool and start cleaning up the mess he made.

“Don’t, I’ll take care of it!” he tells you reaching out over the kitchen island as if he could reach you and stop you, but even his arms are not long enough to do that.

“S’alright, you cooked, it’s only fair if I clean up after,” you shrug grabbing the empty pan and your plate, placing them all into the sink as you start running the water.

“Not when I owe you after fetching me up drunk and taking care of me.”

He quickly finishes his breakfast and rushing over he grabs your hands and gently pushes you out of the way, taking over the dishes. You just sigh, drying your hand in a towel as you lean against the counter and watch him work around the kitchen.

“Wanna stay and hang out today?” he asks glancing over at you as he puts the eggs that are left into the fridge.

“Um, I should probably head home and take a shower, get changed. I also have to run a few errands today.”

“We can drop by your place, do everything you need to and then have lunch somewhere later.”

“Do you really want to spend your day off with me, running around town?” you ask skeptically.

“Is that a crime?” he chuckles narrowing his eyes at you.

“No, I just thought you would want to do something else.”

“I don’t,” he simply says as he hangs up his kitchen rag to dry once he is finished with everything.

“Don’t forget you have a meeting with that new designer about your outfits for the photoshoot next week,” you warn him as the two of you are on the way to your place. Shawn wanted to take one of his cars, but you refused to leave yours in his garage so he gave up, convincing you to let him drive and you happily said yes.

“I won’t forget, but can we not talk about work today?” he proposes fixing his sunglasses on his nose. You quietly nod, suddenly not sure what to say then. Work has always been the number one topic between you and him, after all, you are his personal assistant, this is your job.

You can’t help but feel like something has changed between you and him. You can’t really put your finger on it, but you can feel it in the air and it’s making you anxious. It feels like you’ve entered a dangerous, unknown territory last night and the line between work and your personal life is starting to get blurry.

Shawn plops down to your couch and turns the TV on while you take a quick shower and change from your yoga pants and oversized hoodie into a sundress with a denim jacket. Walking out you find Shawn in the kitchen, searching through your fridge.

“You won’t find anything, I have to go grocery shopping too,” you tell him and he closes it disappointed so he just grabs a bottled water. “I don’t have a person just to fill my fridge up every three days,” you chuckle at him, knowing well he has someone taking care of it for him. You hired the dude after having enough of his whining every time he went home after a long studio session in the middle of the night and texted you how hungry he was but there was nothing to eat. After one of these occasions you took care of it and his fridge has been full at all times since then.

You figured Shawn would get bored somewhere along the way to the post office, at your accountant’s office or grocery shopping, but the guy seems to be having fun accompanying you.

“Shawn, can you stop putting stuff into the cart that I don’t need?” you plead him as you put back a whole box of ice-cream into the freezer that he sneaked into the cart while you were looking at the frozen veggies.

“Who doesn’t need ice-cream?”

“Me. I don’t eat ice-cream,” you state matter-of-factly.

“What? Are you an alien?” he gasps dramatically, leaning onto the cart as he pushes it following you down the aisle.

“I’m not, but I only eat ice-cream when I’m extremely sad.”

“And when was the last time you felt that sad?”

You purse your lips thinking back at the last time you sat down and ate almost a whole box of ice-cream by yourself. It was about two months ago, you were out with Shawn and the team, the guys were picking on Shawn nonstop about some girl who gave him her number the night before. You watched him blushing while talking about how they’ve been texting all day and that he might ask her out. Jealousy was boiling under your skin and you left early not bearing to listen to his little conquering. You pretended like you had a headache, Shawn even tried to convince you to let him drive you home, but you just wanted to be alone so you told him to stay. You shamelessly cried that night, lying on your couch with the ice-cream while watching the Notebook. Luckily you never heard of that girl again, it seems like the date never happened though you never had the courage to ask him why he didn’t ask her out.

“Um, a while ago,” you shrug, eyes roaming the shelves, pretending to be busy with the products.

“Why were you sad?”

You wish he would just stop asking questions, but you already know how curious he is. Sighing you stop and turn to him.

“I just heard something that hit me hard in the chest. Can we move on? I really don’t want to talk about it in the middle of a store.”

He quietly nods, it seems like you hurt him and the guilt immediately tantalizes your heart, but you really don’t want to discuss with him the time he broke your heart, especially since he doesn’t know it was him who made you destroy that box of ice-cream.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles. Stepping closer you put your hand over his on the handle of the cart.

“It’s alright,” you say smiling at him.

You’re just about to pull your hand back, but his turns around and his fingers thread between yours holding onto you. “Shawn…” you sigh.

“What?” he asks innocently, like he has no idea what is going on. But what is it exactly? “Am I not allowed to touch you?”

“Do you want someone to snap a picture and post it?”

“And what would happen if they posted? People are used to you being around me, no one will bat an eye.”

No one except you. You know he is just messing around, probably still feeling a little dizzy from after his wild night, being his touchy self.

“Don’t be silly,” you sigh letting go of his hand as you continue your way to the yoghurts.

Once you’re done with groceries you drop by a pharmacy before heading back to your place. Shawn starts whining about starving, obviously exaggerating his hunger and he starts acting like a baby while you are putting the groceries away.

“My stomach is literally eating itself!” he moans painfully as he leans against the counter.

“Stop being a baby!” you chuckle closing the fridge.

“It’s three o’clock, we had breakfast five hours ago!”

“You ate a whole bag of chips on the way home, was that nothing for you?”

“That’s long gone, I need to fuel this body,” he explains rubbing his stomach and chest.

“I know, I’ve brought you food several times at the most random hours while on tour.”

He just shrugs grinning at you before wrapping his arms around your shoulders, pulling you tight to his body.

“And this is one of the many reasons why you are my favorite person in the whole wide world.”

You let him decide where to go for lunch since he is about to die from starvation. You don’t even pay attention where you’re going right until you walk into the restaurant and a weird feeling comes over you, like you’ve been here before.

Realization hits you hard when you see your ex-boyfriend in a white button up shirt with a black apron. Out of all the places, Shawn managed to bring you to the one where your ex works. You didn’t recognize the place at first, you haven’t been here in two years. Daniel and you broke up right before you started working for Shawn because of his lame excuse that you won’t have time for him once you start traveling the world. He didn’t even give a chance for you to prove him wrong and it made you wonder if there was something else behind it. You’ve been to so many places since then that you didn’t even recognize the place at first, but seeing Daniel for the first time in two years makes you feel some kind of way, but you’re not sure just yet what it really is.

“You alright?” Shawn asks as the two of you take a seat at a small table. You’ve been trying to cover yourself up so Daniel can’t recognize you, but it made you look like you are ticking or something.

“Um yeah, sure!” you reply in an abnormally high pitched voice. Shawn gives you a weird look but before he could ask anything else none other than Daniel appears at the table.

“Welcome, I’m Daniel, I’ll be your waiter today, may I—Y/N? Hey!”

No matter how hard you tried to keep your head down he somehow recognized you and now you force the widest smile on your face as you look up at him.

“Hey! Didn’t even recognize you!”

“It’s been so long, how are you?” he asks and he seems genuinely interested but you wish he would just give you the damn menus and disappear. In the meanwhile, Shawn is staring at you and him with a confused smile on his face.

“Um, great! I’m great. Great,” you nod, sounding like a total idiot. Gosh you don’t know how to deal with it and you said great way too many times. “How are you?” you ask back.

“Fine! You know, nothing extraordinary. Unlike you!” he turns to Shawn and holds out a hand for him and you just truly want to die. “Hey, I’m Daniel, nice to meet you!”

“Shawn, nice to meet you too,” he smiles politely, but you’re sure he is trying hard to figure out what is going on. Unfortunately Daniel decides to tell your brief history with him right on the spot.

“We used to date before she started working for you. We went to the same high school, she used to organize everything in school so no one is surprised she ended up with this job.”

“Oh, that’s nice!” Shawn chuckles lightly, glancing over at you but you just stare down at the empty wine glass in front of you, praying this nightmare will end very soon.

When you recognized Daniel you were afraid seeing him would bring up some unwanted feelings from the past, but it’s nothing like that. His existence is just making you want to leave, not able to stand him this close to you again. You can’t believe you dated him for a year, the dude has been working here for years, he never upgraded or did anything to move forward in life. Judging from the way the waitresses are eyeing the table he has also slept with half of them and has been flirting with the other half, totally messing up everything around him, something he was always good at but you just refused to realize.

Looking over at Shawn you see how much has changed in your life and what you feel for Shawn is just entirely different. More real.

Daniel rambles about how he met you years ago but then luckily he realizes it’s not why you are here so he leaves the table letting you choose from the menu. You hide behind it as you just stare at the same two options, chewing on your bottom lip anxiously.

“So, that’s your ex, huh?”

Peaking over the menu your eyes meet Shawn’s and he is looking at you curiously.

“I guess,” you nod slowly putting down the menu.

“Why did you break up?”

“Well, he didn’t think we could do long distance, with him being here and me traveling with you, so we just… parted right before I started working for you.”

You expect him to make a snarky comment about him, say something about how dumb he looks like, but he just stays silent and it worries you a lot. You want him to feel bitter about running into your ex, you want him to joke about him, to mock him, but he just sits there, eyes back on the menu without a word.

The nice lunch quickly turns awkward thanks to Daniel. The dude keeps coming over to your table, checking in on you and starting small talks that you definitely want to avoid but he just can’t get the hint. Shawn goes radio silent, he seems to shut Daniel’s existence out even though he keeps trying to bring him into the conversation. You realize you’ve been suffocating in there when you finally walk out. Daniel cheered how amazing it was to see you again and that you should definitely meet up and do some catch up sometime, to which you just nodded politely and basically escaped from the place.

“Hey,” you caress Shawn’s arm once you are on the way back to his place. He looks tensed, gripping the wheel like he is trying to crush it. “Everything alright?”

“Sure,” he nods shortly, but it doesn’t convince you.

“That didn’t sound too convincing.”

“Can’t do anything about that,” he replies and you can feel the sass through his tone. Knitting your eyebrows together you stare out the window, wandering what has gotten into him. Did Daniel upset him with something? You don’t remember him saying anything offensive, he just kept talking about you the whole time.

Nothing is said for the rest of the ride and it’s eating you up from the inside. You wish he would just say something, tell you one of his cheesy jokes that you love so much, but his silence is killing you. This wholesome day quickly turned into a mess by just one awkward run in.

Arriving back to his garage the two of you get out of the car as you have to get behind the wheel to drive back home.

“Any plans for the rest of the day?” you ask smiling up at him when you meet him at the back of the car.

“Probably just chilling, nothing exciting,” he shrugs leaning against the trunk. “You? Will you call Daniel?”

His question surprises you, didn’t expect it at all.

“Why would I?”

“Just asking,” he shrugs again and his nonchalance is kind of pissing you off.

“Alright, don’t forget to call Andrew tonight about the interview questions,” you remind him and he just nods, not even looking at you.

You wait a little, hoping he would turn this all around and start acting like himself but he doesn’t show any sign of that so you just give up.

“Thanks for today, see you at the studio on Friday,” you say with a fake smile as you walk past him and get into the car. You’re raging, you want to scream at him for being so unreadable wishing you could just read his mind. You see him in the mirror shaking his head before walking away and disappearing on the staircase.

You stop at the store on your way home and buy a huge box of chocolate ice-cream that doesn’t survive till the morning.

***

The past week has been the weirdest seven days since you met Shawn and you’ve been through a lot together. But that day you spent together just changed everything. Shawn became distant, cold towards you, only talking to you if it was necessary and nothing non-work related has been discussed even though you tried. It feels like he put a wall between the two of you and no matter how hard you’ve been trying to tear it down it just gets stronger and taller and it’s breaking your heart, mostly because you can’t figure out what you did or said to make him act like this.

You’ve been seeing each other constantly for four days since he has been doing interviews, photoshoots and meetings all day and it’s your job to be there and help him out with everything even though you wished you could just work from home. At first you thought it’s just your mind playing with you, making you believe something is off when everything is alright, but when the team goes out for dinner together Andrew pulls you to the side.

“Hey, did… Did something happen between you and Shawn?” he asks in a low tone, glancing over at the table. Shawn seems just fine, joking around with the guys, but whenever you are near him he completely changes.

“What do you mean?”

You try to play dumb, but you can’t fool Andrew.

“What I mean is you two act like you just broke up after three years together and now want the other to die a very painful death.”

“Okay, that’s a little harsh.”

“But it’s close to the reality,” he points out and you can’t argue. Shawn really has been giving you the dirtiest looks lately, making you feel like shit. “Whatever it is, just… work it out because it’s making everyone uncomfortable.”

“Did Brian bitch about it? His word is not accountable, he has a problem with everything,” you narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms on your chest.

“Brian, Connor, Cez and even Karen called me yesterday because she saw a fan made video of him shrugging your hand off of him and she found it weird.”

That hurt a lot. You ran into a few fans leaving the studio and as usual, he stopped to take pictures, but you were late to his meeting so you gently tapped his shoulder to warn him that it’s time to leave and he just shrugged it off, completely shattering your heart. No one really noticed because you tried to act cool and the fans were too occupied by him, but Karen is more cautious than that.

“Look, I don’t want to get into your personal stuff, but this is starting to get ridiculous. We all know Shawn, he won’t come to you, he is too stubborn to do that so be the bigger person and force him to talk to you. Make up or just start being professional, whatever you find the best, but this is not okay.”

He walks back to the table, leaving you with this bitter taste in your mouth as you glance over at the table. Shawn is listening to Connor’s story, eyes shining, his smile wide and this is the Shawn you love so much. Happy, carefree and delightful, just a generally wonderful person. And you miss him being like that around you, but you have no idea how to get him to tell you why he is acting up.

You keep zoning out on him throughout the dinner, trying to figure out how to talk to him or what to even say. You’ve earned a few puzzled looks from him, but he didn’t even ask if you were alright, just tried to ignore you which felt like someone just twisted the knife in your heart that’s been in you for about a week.

You carpooled with Josiah on the way here so you figure out the best way to make him stay alone with you is if you ask him to give you a ride home.

“Hey, can you drop me off on your way?” you ask when the mood is starting to die down and people start to get ready to leave.

“Can’t Josiah drive you home?” he asks, ruder than you’d have liked, but you try to ignore that.

“He is going out for a night shoot and I don’t want to make him late.”

It’s not entirely a lie, he does have a night shoot he is heading to, but he assured he can drop you off before heading to the location. Shawn doesn’t seem to be too pleased by your idea, but he eventually just nods.

Saying goodbye to everyone you all head out to your own way, Shawn and you walking down the street to his car. You get into the passenger seat, but snatch the key from him before he could ignite.

“What the f—“

“We need to talk,” you cut him off.

“And why do you need to steal my keys for that?!”

“Because I need you to listen to me and you can’t focus when you’re driving.” You arch an eyebrow at him as he stares back at you in disbelief. He then finally crosses his arms on his chest leaning back in his seat, clearly pissed off, but you couldn’t care less.

You take a few deep breaths, trying to find the right words, but nothing feels right so you just say the first thing that comes to your mind.

“Did I do something?” His puzzled look tells you he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, or just refuses to cooperate with you. “Did I say something that upset you or did something happen? Because you’ve been acting weird all week and I just don’t know what to do to make it up to you because I don’t even know what I did wrong.”

He looks away from you, staring out the window and judging from his expression he knows exactly what you are talking about, but refuses to answer.

“Shawn, I can’t do this anymore. We are working together so I need us to be comfortable around each other and communicate. You’re making both very hard for me. Just tell me what’s wrong so I can change.”

“You can’t change this,” he mumbles, his words almost melting together as he barely opens his mouth.

“How do you know that? Just give me a chance!” you beg, desperate to find your answers.

“I know it because… It’s nothing that can be changed that easily!” he growls back, clearly not comfortable with the topic.

“But what is it? Is it the way I handle something? Or something I do that makes you uncomfortable?” you guess trying to figure it out yourself since he doesn’t help you at all. “I promise I won’t get mad, I just want to make things right again!”

“It’s you!” he then snaps, finally turning his head and looking into your eyes.

“What about me?”

“It’s… Everything about you, Y/N.”

“What?” you ask, your voice barely more than just a whisper as his words are basically crushing you.

He exhales sharply shaking his head as he grabs the wheel angrily, smacks his hand to the middle causing the honk to make everyone around the car jump, including you.

“Damn it, Y/N! It’s you! Ever since we met your dumb ex at that restaurant I’ve been wanting to go back and just… punch him in the face! The way he talked about you and the time he was dating you, it was literally killing me! I was so jealous I even considered just standing up and walking out.”

You just blink at him, totally petrified as he loads everything out on you.

“You seemed so nervous to see him and I figured you might still have feelings for him and it’s been driving me crazy to think about you with him. In fact, I don’t want to think about you with anyone at all, because I’m in love with you!”

You feel like you’ve been hit on the head by a brick as his words echo in your mind. He loves you. He really did just confess that he is in love with you and the reason why he has been acting up is because he was jealous of your ex. It takes a few seconds for you to process everything and when you do… you start laughing.

Your uncontrollable guffaw just fills the whole car as you lean ahead, snapping your hands to your thighs over and over again, tears forming in your eyes from the laughing and you just can’t stop. In the meanwhile Shawn is staring at you like you’ve just lost your mind and honestly, he is not entirely wrong.

“Feels nice that you find it so hilarious,” he grumbles under his breath and you force yourself to stop realizing how bad it makes him feel.

“I’m laughing, because… That’s not the case at all!” you manage to say, trying to catch your breath. “When we met Daniel I was so awkward, I just wanted him to be gone because he made me realize how much time I wasted on him back then. I never called him after that because I never want to see him again. The douche probably dumped me because he already had another chick waiting in line and now that I saw that he is still working the same shitty job as two years ago I thanked God I’m not with him anymore.”

“Oh.” Shawn knits his eyebrows together as the story gets straight in his head, realizing he has misinterpreted the whole situation.

“Gosh, I wish you just talked to me!” you sigh, head falling back as you stare up in disbelief. This whole week could have been avoided if only he chose to talk to you like a normal human being, but instead he went out of his way and made you feel miserable. “You know I was going crazy, because I thought I said something that made you hate me and I wished you’d just tell me so everything can get back to normal, but you really fucked me up all week,” you chuckle giving him a look and his cheeks start to turn rosy. “Do you know how much it hurts when the guy you are in love with pretends like you don’t even exist?”

His eyes snap at you and you can’t hold your smile back as you stare back at him.

“Wait, what? You said you are in love with me?” he asks, eyebrows so high they almost disappear in his hair. He looks so cute with his wide, doe-like eyes as he looks at you like you just gave him the most precious gift ever.

“Well, it was a generalization,” you point it out and the moment you see his face fall you quickly add. “But it meant that yes, I am indeed in love with you!”

You stare at him and he stares back at you, nothing is said but still, this silence is saying more than any words could. His hand slowly reaches over to your hands that are gripping onto the keys and as his palm wraps around your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze you can feel your whole heart melting.

“Let’s… Let’s leave this parking lot, okay?” he suggests and you nod, suddenly feeling nervous around him as you hand his keys back to him.

The car ride is quiet, but you exchange many glances and every time your eyes meet with his your heart skips a beat. You notice that instead of heading to your home he is driving on the way to his place. When the car rolls down into the underground garage of his building and he parks it to his usual spot you sit there silently.

“Look, I don’t want to rush anything and I know that you are probably concerned about working for me, but I think we should give it a try,” he softly says peeking over at you to see your reaction. “Spend the night here, we don’t have to do anything, I just want to wake up next to you without having the worst hangover,” he chuckles and you start laughing too.

“So I don’t have to clean up your puke if I stay?” you joke and he shakes his head no.

“Promise, the bucket will stay clean all night.”

“What a bummer,” you smile at him and reaching over he tugs your hair behind your ear as you close your eyes at his touch.

“So, are you staying?” he softly asks and judging from where his voice is coming from he has leant closer to you. A smile spreads across your face, but you don’t open your eyes just yet.

“Mm-hmm” you hum and opening your eyes you see that his face is only a few inches away from you, a satisfied grin sits on his pink lips.

“Great,” he whispers before closing the distance between you and him and finally kissing you.

It’s a slow, lazy but sweet kiss as you both savior the taste of each other, getting used to the feeling, but both of you seem to click very soon and he deepens the kiss while you cup his cheeks in your palms as you keep tugging and pulling at each other over the shifting gear.

Oh man, you’re not sure if Andrew meant the makeup like this, but now he will have to deal with it, because there’s no way you can keep your hands off of him from now on.

[official-impravidus]

5 Times Peter Did Someone Else’s Makeup

By @official-impravidus for @littlemissagrafina

Rating: General

Relationships: Tony Stark & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & May Parker, Peter Parker & Happy Hogan, Happy Hogan/May Parker

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Happy Hogan, May Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones, Morgan Stark

Summary: and the 1 time he did his own

(written for the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange)

1

To put it simply, he had been in a rush. Competition season was just around the corner, and MJ was pushing the team to their limits with extra practice, which meant morning practice and after school practice. Peter had barely gotten out of the door once he remembered that he had to get to the school, being in the middle of a deep concentration as he perfected his winged eyeliner. Then, the after school practice ran a half an hour late because everyone was slacking on their ancient Greek philosophers. 

So there he was, scurrying out of the metal doors of Midtown and nearly ripping the car door off its hinges as he rushed into his seat.

“Hey Happy! I’m so so so sorry I’m late. MJ made us stay late because Flash didn’t know difference between Hypatia and Aspasia even though they have over a century apart, and then she started quizzing us on which philosophers specialized in Pythagorean, Peripatetic, or Pyrrhonist, and everyone kept mixing them up and we had to go over it for like twenty minutes until we all had it down and…”

“Don’t need the whole run down, bud. It’s okay,” Happy stated. “Couldn’t understand it if I tried.”

“Right. Sorry,” Peter said sheepishly. “How was your day?”

“Same old, same old. Once I drop you off, I’m heading back to the apartment.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s date night! Where are you taking May?”

“Do you remember that new restaurant near that bike shop?”

Peter’s mouth went agape. “That super fancy one where they put chocolate in everything?!”

Happy nodded with a soft grin. “That’s the one.”

“She always looks through the window when we pass by there! She looked up the menu and I swear she was drooling when she read about the bacon mac and cheese.” Peter smiled. “She’s gonna love it, Happy.”

“I hope so.”

“She will,” Peter reassured. With a content sigh, he pulled out his laptop. “I should probably get started on my research paper.”

“You know Tony’s rule,” Happy said.

“No lab work until homework is done,” Peter recited with a nod. “I know, I know. Which is why I’m doing it now.”

“Is it a blackout kinda day or a white noise one?” Happy asked.

“I could go for some of that boring piano music you like.”

Happy shoved Peter’s arm. “It’s not boring.”

“It just strips all the tenseness from my tight, aching muscles. It lulls me to sleep.”

“If it lulls you to sleep, then you shouldn’t be listening to it while you’re doing homework,” Happy said.

“Then, what do you suggest?” Peter asked.

Happy pressed the radio screen and a string quartet of Panic! at the Disco’s “I Write Sins Not Tragedies” began to play.

“Oh, you know me so well.”

Peter fell into a deep focus and had barely realized the car ride was over until Happy had said a soft “we’re here.”

“Thanks, Happy. Have a good evening!” Peter said cheerfully.

“You’re staying here tonight, right?” Happy asked.

“Yeah, I am. It’s a Compound weekend. Why…” Peter’s faced morphed into a disgusted grimace. “Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He shook his head. “See you later!” Happy gave a gentle wave before pulling out.

Peter let out a breath, shoving his hands in his pockets, as he headed into the Compound, fiddling with the watermelon gum wrappers crumpled deep in his jeans.

With a skip in his step, he entered the lab, plopping his backpack on the floor and hopping into his rollie chair with a little spin.

“Hello to you too,” Tony said with a laugh. “Bad traffic?”

“Late practice,” Peter corrected.

“She’s really drilling you guys, huh?” Tony asked. “Well, at least you’ll be prepared.” He looked up from his project, but stopped as he caught sight of Peter’s face. “New look?”

Peter furrowed his brows in confusion, but froze. He hadn’t used a makeup wipe on the drive there. “I… uhm… I… it’s not what it looks like.”

“Well it looks good. Would’ve barely noticed if it weren’t for the eyeliner it’s so natural. I mean really, you’re glowing. How do you get your skin looking so dewey and fresh?”

Peter’s brain could hardly catch up. “I mix highlighter with my foundation.”

“See, I’ve never thought about that. Mine always comes out so dull and flat. I’ll have to try that.”

“You, uh, you’ve worn makeup?” Peter stammered.

“When you’re on camera as much as me, you’ve gotta get at least a little pick me up. I mean, some of that shit is high definition. Do I really want people seeing my pores and pimples in high definition? No thank you.”

“Oh. Uh. Wow.”

“You can’t be new at this. I mean, it looks great. I’m jealous if you are.”

Peter shook his head. “I’ve been doing it for a couple months.”

“And why haven’t I seen it?” Tony questioned.

“I, uh, didn’t want you to think it was weird,” Peter admitted.

Tony softened. “Why would you think that?”

“I mean, I worry you think a lot of things are weird. I just, want to... impress you, I guess.”

“Well, wanna know what impresses me? That winged eyeliner. It takes Pepper ten minutes of fiddling with makeup remover on cue tips when she’s doing hers.”

Peter, nearly rendered speechless, nodded again. “It took a lot of practice.” He paused. “You’re really… you don’t think I’m weird?”

“I could never think you were weird, kid.” He pursed his lips. “Well, yes I can, because you put sour skittles in your chocolate ice cream, but that’s what makes me love you. Don’t be afraid to be weird. I’ve been weird all my life. Embrace the weird and conquer the world with your weirdness because one day, what used to be weird will be brilliant and people will want to be weird like you.”

Peter looked to his feet bashfully. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“You know, Pepper has a big charity thing tonight. She could really use your help with her smokey eye.”

Peter perked up. “Really? I’ve… I’ve done makeup on May before, but I’ve never done it on someone with an eye shape like hers.” “Then this will be perfect practice!”

Peter got a little mascara on her eyelid, but he made up with the perfect blend of silver sparkle and charcoal shades.

2

“Stop squeezing your eyes, you’re gonna make the eyeliner bumpy.”

“Well, it’s a little hard to relax when you’ve got a pencil pressing against my eye.”

Peter sighed. “Ned, you just gotta breathe. I’m not gonna poke your eye.”

“It sure feels like you’re poking my eye,” Ned grumbled.

“I’ll do it even lighter,” Peter reassured.

It was 9AM, and Peter was trying to use as much precision in his rush to finish Ned and MJ’s makeup for the pride parade. He had finished his look, a blend of pinks, purples, and blues with silver glitter eyeliner, and was finishing Ned’s rainbow look, or at least, attempting to.

“You were doing so good, man,” Peter whined.

“Because it was all fluffy brushes before this!” Ned groaned. “Just get it over with.”

“I could if you would stop freaking squeezing your eyelids!”

MJ sighed. “Some of us are in the waiting dock, Ned.”

“I’m sorry! I’m not used to this!” Ned exclaimed.

Peter pulled gently at the skin on his browbone, making the skin pulled taunt enough to slide the eyeliner on with one smooth swipe. He followed suit with the other and slumped back into his chair. “Okay. You’re done.” 

“Oh, thank God, because I had to go to the bathroom at like the contour.” He scampered out of the bathroom, legs held tight. 

“What’s in store for me?” MJ asked.

“I was thinking a sharp edged blend of pink and to the dark pink to brown in the crease with a cut crease,” Peter thought out loud.

There was a knock at the door.

“You expecting someone?” MJ asked.

“No?” Peter said, confused. He went to the door, eyes widening in shock at the sight.

There was Tony Stark in a bright blue, pink, and yellow vertical striped suit.

“Mr. Stark! What are you doing here?”

“Today is pride, right?” Tony said with a cheeky grin on his lips.

“I-it is.”

“Great! Then, I’ll give you three a ride. I’m meeting the gang later.”

Peter’s nodded, mouth still wide open. “Because New York pride is endorsed by the Avengers. Right.”

“So, what do you say? I may or may not have pulled out my holographic chrome Ferrari.”

Peter rolled his eyes but let out a light chuckle. “Of course you did.” He stepped out of the way. “MJ’s look will be quick. If you want, I can do something for you?”

Tony grinned. “I’d love that.”

Behind his tinted shades, Tony rocked a pink crease, yellow lid, and blue lower lashline, a big smile adorned by a bright pink lipstick.

3

After the big robot invasion of 2025, the Avengers were beyond exhausted from the dealing with the repercussions and volunteering for the rebuilding.

For the first time in weeks after being preoccupied with volunteering, charity work, and clean up, they could finally relax for a group get together outside of work.

“You know what I could use?” Tony asked to no one in particular. “Really crappy, artificial, not at all traditional Chinese food. Who’s in?” The team all muttered words of agreement, melting into the cushions of the recreation room’s couches. 

“Text me your orders. I sent the menu in the groupchat.”

More mutters of acknowledgement.

Peter settled on the floor, makeup scattered on the coffee table, mouth agape as he stared intently at his reflection, fake lash in hand.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked.

“Graduation is just around the corner and I need to perfect my look for commencements,” Peter explained. He blinked, checking for any warping. “How does it look?” 

The team let out a low murmur of “oo”s and “ah”s and “nice.” 

“That looks fantastic,” Natasha praised.

“The adornments to your face are absolutely astonishing!” Thor praised. “Would you be so kind to apply your pigments to my eyes?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “You want me to do your makeup?”

“I’d love if you did mine, too,” Natasha said.

“I bet you could do some great red, white, and blue for me,” Steve said.

Peter looked around. “That could be really cool. Avengers inspired makeup looks on the Avengers? I mean, that’d be an honor.”

So he got started. As they feasted on fried rice and General Tso’s spicy chicken, they jammed to ABBA and looked fabulous while dancing to Dancing Queen.

4

“So, I made you some of that green juice you like so you can sip on that while we get you ready. We also put together a playlist of all of your favorite dishwashing music which we both know is also your hype playlist and you need to get a little hype! Let loose! In addition, we also brought you some of your favorite hors d’oeuvres such as chocolate covered strawberries, that basil spread with the tomatoes on the crunchy bread, caprese salad, and just a big pile of prosciutto because I know you like to stress eat salty meats.”

May smiled softly. “Thank you, baby. This is amazing.”

“How are you feeling?” Peter asked.

“Nervous. Excited. Mostly excited. How are… are you okay? With this?” 

Peter nodded. “Of course I am. You’re happy, Happy’s happy, and I… I’m happy. I’m happy that you could find something like this after Ben.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I’m getting married.”

Peter grinned. “You are.” He spun her chair. “Now sit there and be pretty while I do you even prettier.”

“You know, you were at my first wedding.”

Peter looked up. “I was?”

“You were just a baby, but Richard and Mary didn’t want to leave you at home after you had just gotten over your pneumonia. You were wearing a little onesie with a tuxedo printed on it, and you had your foofie.”

“I remember my foofie!” Peter smiled nostalgically as he envisioned the fluffy scarf that he snuggled with for years.

“You had just gotten it, and you would just run your fingers on the blue fluff, entranced by the texture on your little fingers.”

Peter chuckled. “Yeah. I loved that thing.”

“But, you caused a little bit of a scene.”

Peter furrowed his brows. “I did?”

“Well, your mom had just come back from feeding you and Ben wanted to make you giggle, so he was dancing with you, twirling and spinning you around, and I guess he jerked you around a bit too much and you vomited.”

“Oh no.”

“In his mouth and all over his tux.”

“Oh no.”

“So, really, there’s no reason to worry about messing anything up because at least you’re not doing that,” she said with a teasing grin.

“Well, I’ll try my best not to do that again,” Peter said. He softened, squeezing her hand gently. “You’re gonna make so many new memories and it’s gonna be awesome, May.”

“So are you,” May said. 

“I’m really happy for you.” He shook his head. “Now don’t you start crying and streak this amazing foundation I just put on.”

She let out a wet laugh and held her arms out. “C’mere.”

Peter gave her a tight hug, snuggling next to her in her cushy chair.

She placed a soft kiss to his forehead. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” He pulled away. “Now, c’mon. Stop stalling. I have to get this done so I can do mine.”

5

“Tony. Stop crying.”

“This is an emotional time and I am an emotional man!”

“It’s just homecoming.”

Tony crossed his arms and scowled at Peter. “Well you’re not one to talk about just homecoming.”

Peter pouted. “You crash a plane and nearly get killed by your homecoming date’s dad one time…”

“Look at my beautiful girl.” He pet her hairsprayed locks gently.

Morgan rolled her eyes with a smile on her dark red lips. “You’re so embarrassing, Dad.”

“So, when are we meeting this boy? Because then I’ll really be embarrassing.”

“Dad!” Morgan whined.

“You still have told me nothing about this boy. What are you hiding? Is he an Anti-Avenger protestor? Oh, oh! Or is he a scheming supervillain turning you to the dark side?” He gasped. “Does he work for Oscorp?”

“His name is Miles, he’s an artist, and he’s really really nice so please don’t screw this up for me because I really really like him.”

Tony softened. “I’ll behave.”

“Please,” Morgan pleaded.

“I’ll behave!” Tony repeated.

“He won’t,” Peter stated. “And we both know that.”

“Hey! I take offense to that,” Tony said.

“Well, as much as I love this wonderful family chat, I really gotta finish Morgan’s makeup, and when you stress her out, it makes her eyes scrunch up and I can’t get the blending right so… shoo. Scooch your booch outta here.”

“No. I want to stay,” Tony stated.

“Are you not gonna distract her?” Peter asked with a raised brow.

“Maybe…?”

“Tony!”

“Okay! Fine. I won’t say a word. You won’t even know I’m here.” Peter turned back to Morgan, packing a shimmery white on her lid, but flipped around when he heard a choked sob from behind.

“Tony,” he said exasperatedly.

“She’s just growing up so fast!”

1

Peter’s gloved hands trembled as he filled in his eyebrows in a room that did nothing to block the shutters of cameras and excited murmur from the large crowd on the other side of the wall.

Tony took his hand in his and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Are you sure you wanna do this? Because you can back out any time you’d like.” Peter shook his head. “It’s time. The new generation of Avengers deserve to have a real face to lead them, and for the public to trust us, they need to know that I trust them too. The world knows Spider-Man and his good. And now, they’ll know Peter Parker too.”

“They already know Peter Parker,” Tony said softly. “Peter Parker conducted the widest reaching scientific climate change campaign. He promoted carbon storage, protected and expanded forests in every country on every continent on the planet, and invented a reliable and accessible long-term energy source cheaper and easier to manufacture than fossil fuels. God, Peter. Once they find out that Peter Parker is Spider-Man, they’re going to love him even more.”

Peter’s face flushed a warm red. “Thanks, Tony.” He looked to his reflection and smiled sadly. Looking at his brown eyes, red blended to his crease and blue lining his lashline, he realized that this was the end to a lifetime of secrets and a new beginning where he could finally share the whole person he was.

“You ready?” Tony asked.

“How do I look?” Peter asked meekly.

“You look amazing.” He pulled him into a tender hug. “They’re gonna love you, kid.” He placed his hands firmly on his shoulders and gave a little squeeze. “Do you know how proud I am of you? Because I am. You’re really proving yourself to be quite the hero, and I don’t just mean in your bright red and blue, which really, are you sure we can’t negotiate something a little less gaudy…”

“Says Mr. Hot Rod Red and Gold…”

“I mean, bright blue? Even I have enough class and taste to know that bright blue is a little much.”

“Tony,” Peter said.

“I’m so proud of you kid. You’ve grown into a fantastic young man, and you’re gonna keep growing into a visionary for this next century. You might even outshine me.” He shook his head. “No. I know you will. Because I know you, and I know that you’re an intelligent, selfless, innovating, tenacious, unbelievably incredible person, and you’re gonna change the world.” He smiled a tight, teary smile. “And the world’s not gonna know what hit it once you give it all you’ve got.”

Peter slipped his mask on and took one last shaky breath. “Let’s go do this.”

My name is Peter Benjamin Parker and I am Spider-Man.

[purplesurveys]

1115

survey by vintagekid

Name:  Robyn.

Happy with it? I am now, but I certainly wasn’t as a kid. Other kids were cruel and would tease me solely for my name, which made it hard for me to socialize. I got the same bad Batman jokes too many times and I also got called a boy. These seem petty now, but as a kindergartener adjusting to life in school, it had been traumatizing and made me wonder if my classmates were going to remain the way they were for the long run which no 4-year-old should be mulling about, really.

Do you wear stilettos? When I get the chance, which isn’t very often at all. But I do love stilettos.

How important are looks to you? I find this question very vague, but generally looks matter to me to a certain extent, like how I’d want to look nice and proper for a job interview or for formal occasions such as weddings. Relationship-wise, I also think I have to feel a level of physical attraction towards someone for me to consider seeing them.

How often do you download music? I don’t anymore. I stream all my music.

Can you name a philosopher? Socrates.

What would you do if two unicorns tried to whisk you off to candy mountain? I just looked this up and this is apparently in reference to an ancient viral video, like it was around before viral videos were even a universally-acknowledged concept. That said, I don’t have a clue how to respond to this lmao.

You became the deciding vote in an election, which party would you go for? I don’t base my voting decisions on parties because the party system in my country is a tragically broken shitstorm in which every single party rallies the same values and principles, just executed in their own – and usually poor and unsustainable – ways. I do my research on each candidate, see how they answer in debates, look at laws they’ve authored, see which marginalized groups they proactively support (if they do), and decide from there.

Do you have a bzoink account? I don’t but I’ve been a semi-regular visitor since like 2009.

How many phone calls do you typically make in a day? Zero. People usually call me.

What song are you listening to? Tell Me It’s Okay by, surprise surprise, Paramore.

Do you understand things others your age do not? I don’t know. Maybe. Everyone’s bound to understand some things better than others.

Do you hate people that label themselves? Why would I hate that? And why would their chosen label be my business?

How many windows do you have open? None. There’s plenty of mosquitoes at night, so even though the cold evening air would been pleasant to have we have to keep the windows closed by nighttime.

How superstitious are you? Not at all.

If you were in Harry Potter, which house would you be in? I’ve been told either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw.

Which comedian can always crack you up? It’s not a habit of mine to watch comedians.

Are you nagged about being on the computer too much? Not since I was a teenager. Since college I’ve been doing most of my work, if not all of it, through my laptop, and I think my parents understand that I have to use it all the time.

Do you feel bad about anything you've done lately? Nothing comes to mind, no.

What's your texting bill typically like? My SIM is prepaid, so it works the other way around. I put load credits in it only if I know I’ll have to call/text/surf regularly.

What song did you/do you want played at your wedding? Turning Page by Sleeping At Last.

Do you have a lot or hardly any lines on your palms? Idk, a decent amount I guess? I don’t think it hits either extreme.

What's your favourite word? Poignant.

Are you allowed to swear in front of your parents? Yeah. They’ll shoot me a glare sometimes, but I’m in my 20s and...they know they can’t really do anything about it anymore lol.

Do you eat apples? No.

What are your addictions? Coffee, I suppose.

What are some words you use in daily life? I use intensifiers often, like very, really, super, absolutely, etc. I’m also big on expressions hahaha like oh my god, seriously, for real, and ugh.

Do you look things up on Google constantly? Yes.

Where do you get your music from? Spotify. Sometimes YouTube if I wanna look for a leak.

What do you think of people with afros? That they are people with afros...? I don’t really know what you’re looking for me to say, lmfao.

--

survey by charey-chas

Do you like getting your picture taken? Not for the most part. My body instantly gets all frozen and awkward when a camera’s placed in front of me, which I hate because I do wish I could have more photos of myself around. Is your phone anywhere near you? It is not, actually. It feels great and I really should start making it a habit to keep it away from me entirely on weekends. Do you ever enjoy going to school? In my first school, I enjoyed going mainly (and probably only) for my friends; but Catholic school was predominantly a torturous experience. The rigidity isn’t something I look back fondly on, and it felt like being kept on a tight leash for 14 years. College was a lot more enjoyable in every way possible. I liked going to (most of) my classes and learning as much as I loved the vibrant org culture and the general freedom that comes with university life. Have you ever gone on a road trip? Lots. The Philippines is a relatively small country and unless you want to jump to a different island altogether, there are many provinces you can readily travel to by car.  Who do you get along with best in your family?  Nina, my sister. Then my dad. I clash a lot with my mom and I don’t talk to my brother. Based on your personality, what animal do you think you'd be? Cats and I don’t get along very well hahaha but I think I’m similar to them. Would you ever buy anything from an infomercial? Maybe once, just to be able to say that I have. Have you ever made a snow angel? No, because I’ve never seen snow before. Have you stayed in a hotel in the last month? No. We had a brief getaway in Tagaytay but we switched things up and went to rent a condo, instead of book a hotel room, for a weekend. What's your most comfortable outfit? If I want to go for comfortable, I usually go for my rompers or jumpsuits. Do you text or IM more? IM these days. Would you rather listen to music or play it? Listen. I have no music-playing skills whatsoever. Have you ever been in a hot tub? Sure. Do you like pizza? LOVE IT Are you sleeping in your own bed tonight? Yes. If not here, the couch. But most likely it will my bed tonight. Are any of your friends having a sleepover right now? I doubt it. Angela and Hans had an overnight stay in Batangas a few days ago for their Valentine’s shenanigans though, which I guess kinda counts as a sleepover. Have you ever been to a house party? I don’t think so. That’s something I missed out on in my college days, but I don’t mind. Do you listen to your iPod or the radio when you're in the car? I think I keep a good balance. If my phone’s battery is not very high I’ll rely on the radio; and sometimes I’ll sync my phone’s Spotify to the car as well.

--

survey by charey-chas

What song is stuck in your head at the moment? RAVI’s BUM. What's your fathers' middle name? He doesn’t have a second name, but I’m not sharing his legal middle name on here either. How many hours a day do you spend on the computer? On work days, I’d say 8-10 hours. On weekends, maybe a little slightly less than that since I do like getting off the laptop sometimes to rest my eyes. Could you live without the internet? People from the past managed to live without it, so I know I can. It would just be extremely inconvenient; and having been dependent on it for such a long time now, I would likely be clueless on how to navigate most activities. What's something you're really into? Learning about cultural differences!! That’s why reading survey answers has always been fascinating to me. I would love a website that dives into the various everyday behavior people observe in other countries, but the ones that do exist use like 20- or 30-year-old sources, so they aren’t even relevant at all anymore. What's the last movie you saw in theaters? Knives Out. Have you ever seen a movie in 3D or in an IMAX theater? Just once. It was Denise and Leigh’s 18th birthday treat and they brought us to watch Doctor Strange in 3D. Do you prefer skirts, shorts, or skorts? Shorts. Have you ever vandalized? Just a few school chairs in grade school, but otherwise I’m too paranoid for vandalism lol. What's the longest you've stayed up? Maybe a little longer than 24 hours. Who'd you have a sleepover with last? Gabie. When's the last time you baked something? Nearly a decade ago. Our oven was new at the time and I wanted to try baking cookies. Do you like to dance? When I’m alone. Do you scratch mosquito bites, even though you're not supposed to? Yup. Are you afaid of spiders or do you like them? I mean I’m not fond of them, but I also don’t scream and run away when I see them. I just don’t care for them for the most part. What's a pet you've always wanted? I’ve only ever wanted dogs, and now I’ve got two of them. Do you like mice? Not really. Would you ever get a tattoo? Sure. I’ve been considering it for a while now; it’s just a matter of being able to save up for one. Do you prefer to walk in the street or on the sidewalk? Street, if it’s bare and safe enough. Otherwise if I’m in a busy city with regulations and all I’d obviously rather be on the sidewalk. What's your favorite t-shirt? My CM Punk Best in the World merch. Who did you last think about? I remembered Deina when I was thinking about the tattoo question. She got a pawprint tattoo on her wrist shortly before her senior dog passed away and ever since learning about it I’ve also been thinking about getting the same tattoo. Do you like giving hugs? I love giving hugs and it’s an automatic response for me whenever I see someone I love, which is why Covid is such a torture for me. Do you prefer hardwood flooring or carpeting? Hardwood. Did you/will you get a car for your 16th birthday? No. I got a car when I was 17, around six months before I started college. Have you ever eaten a worm? No but I’d be willing to try.

[cellard0ors]

Fic: the beginning is the end is the beginning

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Buzzfeed Unsolved, Godzilla: King of the Monsters

Pairing: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej

Warning: Apocalyptic!End!Of!The!World stuff, mentions of dead people, mass suicides

Summary:  The Titans have returned. The world has ended. The Ghoul Boys are still here.

Notes:   HO-KAY. This is dedicated to @theawfuledges, who has always been super sweet, super supportive, and who had a bad day a while back and deserved something then but I. Take. FOREVER.

Inspired by this sorta-not-really-prompt-post and also the fact that @theawfuledges seems to also enjoy Godzilla. This is the Shyan!Godzilla!AU NO one asked for and probably NO one will care about - but! I had fun writing it enough that I’d consider coming back to it at some point - I mean, why not, amiright?

Anyway - excuse all my philosophizing about the end of the world via Titans and enjoy…

AO3 Link

They’ve been walking through the wasteland for almost an hour now and Shane can still feel Ryan’s eyes on his back. He ignores it, as he’s been ignoring it. He’s even whistled a tuneless song on and off during their walk, just to rub it in. A sort of reminder that he’s oblivious and doesn’t know Ryan’s trying to burn a hole through him. I mean, he does know, but it’s just…it’s too funny.

Ryan is always too funny when’s worked up into a snit. No, not funny…cute. Something Shane probably shouldn’t think about, but think he does. The best way to try to not think about it? Antagonize the little guy. So antagonize he does, finally stopping in their rambles to squat down at a larger than usual rock he’s kicked at.

It didn’t make him stumble exactly, but it caught his attention enough to make him stop and bend down. He tosses the smooth white stone around in one palm, grinning, “Well, well, well…ain’t you a nifty lookin’ fella…”

He stands back up, fully aware that Ryan has stopped a few feet behind him and is still glaring. Hell, he’s probably reached seething at this point. Balled up fists shaking at his sides and the mere idea of that imagery – the utter adorableness of it – breaks Shane’s resolve, “What?”

“Really?!” Ryan finally explodes and his voice cracks over the word and Jesus, the guy is too goddamn precious for words, “A rock?! That’s what catches your attention?!”

“Sure! This baby could be a geode! Just need to crack ‘er open and see if she sparkles!” Shane returns as he waggles the stone in Ryan’s direction, lips curled in a devious smile. He finally turns to look behind him and see Ryan and oh, no.

Shane wants to press a hand to his heart. Ryan has moved beyond cute, beyond adorable, beyond precious. He’s reached that level where it takes all of Shane’s willpower not to dart right over and kiss the breath out of him as Ryan cries, “I’ve been shooting death daggers at you for over an hour now!”

“Have you?”

“Yes, you monumental jackass! And I know you know it!”

Shane can only chuckle and Ryan frantically waves his arms about, “It’s been weeks now and we still have yet to talk about it! We just go out for recons, talk banal shit, and you – you stop for a fucking pebble instead of doing what you should do!”

Shane merely raises his eyebrows, that question enough and Ryan comes closer, breath all huffy and puffy and the perfect representation of a temper tantrum in human form, “Which is give me the world’s biggest fucking apology!”

“…for?”

“FOR?!” Another word cracked by hysteria, “Being right! Monsters exist! Or is this-” Ryan yet again waves about, waves around at the miles and miles of baked, orange earth and uprooted, long dead trees. The rubble of buildings long since lost, the endless expanse of nothing but baseless destruction – “-not proof enough for you?!”

Shane just dips the rock in Ryan’s direction like it’s the tip of a pointer, “Never said monsters weren’t real. I said ghosts weren’t,” he draws the rock back and continues walking, voice very sage, “And that continues to be a fact." He turns away and starts walking again, "Now the Titans? Oh man, those boys are flesh and blood. Meat and bone. Just like Bigfoot and hey, do you think-?”

“…stop it…”

Shane turns to look at him again even as he continues walking backwards, “-Bigfoot is a Titan?”

Ryan only stops to pinch the bridge of his nose. His earlier anger has finally spooled out of him thanks to his outburst, leaving only his normal Shane-oriented exhaustion, “I mean, he’s no Godzilla or Gidroah-”

“Ghidorah.”

“Hmm?”

Ryan’s tone is bone weary, “You said it wrong. It’s Ghidorah.”

Shane just waves a hand like it’s no big deal and Ryan stands up a little taller, clearly offended by the gesture. Perfectionist. Shane is pretty sure his smile is never going to leave, “Whatever. But Bigfoot…he can hang with the big boys, right?”

“I don’t think Bigfoot is capable of leveling Los Angeles which, news flash, is what happened when Godzilla and the other Titans trampled through!”

“It was their world first, pal,” is his amicable response, “We just have to do our best to live with it.”

Ryan looks less than pleased at that revelation and Shane can’t blame him. Still…

Finally Shane sobers, stopping to look at Ryan with all due seriousness, “Ryan…”

He doesn’t say any more. He doesn’t have to. Ryan just gives his own subdued head bob because, well, it’s the truth. They do have to do their best to live with it. What else can they do? They have no power over creatures taller than skyscrapers. Ancient beasts on par with living gods. The human race did what it could. It wasn’t enough. But – to be fair – what could they do?

Humanity always likes to think of itself as the top tier – nothing bigger, nothing brighter, nothing stronger. And within the span of a few weeks that was proven horribly untrue. Frankly, Shane always knew it would be – humility is something every living being should possess and a lot of humanity lost that long ago – but frankly, he’d been banking on aliens.

Not big ol’ monsters.

Regardless, they are where they are. In a world where massive creatures walk the earth and humans have been knocked down several pegs. Pegs that have to scurry out shelter and he and Ryan found it. They reach it now – an underground bunker dug deep into the earth by god knows who.

The first time they’d found the little hide-ho they’d intended to merely use it for one night, sure that the original owners would appear. But they didn’t. Night after night passed and no one came to claim the bunker – so Shane decided they should claim it for themselves. Hell, they took a bridge from a Goatman and made it their own – why not a bunker?

Hence why it’s colorful name –  ‘The Goatman’s Bunker’. He’d even made a sign to that effect once they’d managed to scrounge up some paper and workable pens. Funny the things you find littered amongst the refuse. Like his cool new rock – which he now sets alongside other treasures he’s found in their travels. A kid’s beat up plastic car, a broken snow globe, a crushed cup advertising Disneyland (long since gone – a collectible now!), and other debris he found of interest.

Ryan takes off his backpack and reaches inside, digging out various goodies they scavenged today. Dented bottles of water (always a god send), band-aids, several tin cans of vegetables and meats, scraped bottles with unreadable labels and anything else he could shove in.

They’re both pretty sure they’d come across the ruins of some pharmacy today – maybe a CVS or Walgreens or something – but neither could be certain. But there had certainly been a nicer haul than usual. Some days they walked out into the wasteland and found nothing for miles but old car parts and the occasionally, questionable collection of garbage.

Sometimes…sometimes they found worse things…

Both of them tried their best not to think of those things. Awful, sad things. Dead things. Crushed things. They had a radio in the bunker and there was the occasional chatter, but mostly? Mostly the world was silent. Funny how quickly a world, its people, its governments – could fall apart in the face of something it couldn’t understand.

There was word of massive suicide sites. Places where religious fanatics scrambled, unable to comprehend a world in which something their God couldn’t have possibly made appeared. There was word of places where ground born militias formed. People bloodthirsty for revenge, willing to do whatever they have to, to fight back, to rage against the sky – against forces beyond their control. There has been a lot of different word…but nothing that really concerns the two of them.

At least not for now.

For now?

For now the Ghoul Boys have their Goatman’s Bunker and a questionable collection of cans that will provide tonight’s sustenance.

What Shane wouldn’t give for a can opener. He’s gotten pretty good at stabbing cans open with the knife he has, but sometimes tiny metal shavings still end up in their meals. Tonight is no exception. He stabs away at a few cans, digs out what he can on to broken plates they’d found. Broken, a little chipped – but surprisingly in pretty good condition.

The food, however, is mush. Shane scoops up a bit with his fingers and licks at it, wincing as the taste, “Think this is chickpeas…or maybe hominy…”

“Those two things are very different.”

“Oh, sorry Paul Prudhomme – what’s your expansive palate telling you?”

Ryan’s nose wrinkles even as he takes his own bite, “Um…peaches?”

“Pe-?” Shane can’t even finish, laughing, because this sure as shit isn’t peaches. As is his way, Ryan looks charmingly flummoxed, “I taste something sweet, you dipshit!”

“Well, you did just stick your fingers in your mouth, didn’t you?” Shane teases and he knows it’s on the edge of a flirt and dammit, bad idea, Shane, bad idea…

Again – as is his way – Ryan ignores it. Shane releases the breath he isn’t even aware he’s holding. Good. Ryan shouldn’t respond. Good. And yet…

Shane takes another bite of his ‘dinner’ and it’s as questionable as the last. Maybe even more so, given their last interaction. This is not the time. This is SO not the time. The world’s ended. Or, well, the world as they knew it. Now is not the time to put the moves on Ryan. It wasn’t before. It isn’t now. When will it ever-?

Never, his thoughts whisper, and Shane feels his face fall, feels an uncharacteristic moroseness take him. He polishes off what last few bites he can manage, even though he’s not hungry, and then he rubs his hands clean on the material of his dirty jeans. Not the most hygienic, true – but they can’t waste water.

He can always find some stream tomorrow – do a better job then. Say what you will about the Titans, but their returns had brought some worth while things. California was flusher with fresh streams than ever before. Glowing green plant life – plant life that, before – would have scorched – now flourishes here. It’s as if the arrival of these creatures changed the very exosphere.

He wonders how global warming looks now. Have they caused a monumental shift in it? Probably. If anything has the power to, they probably do. Fuck, they can probably grow back icebergs or something. Create new fossil fuels. God – or heh, Godzilla – knows what. Once feeling his hands are sufficiently clean, he sighs and looks over at Ryan who has started in on again on his torn, dog-eared novel.

“Thinking I’m going to hit the hay.”

Ryan blinks, “Already?”

He just shrugs, “Long day.”

“Yeah,” Ryan admits softly and Shane goes over to his sleeping bag. It’s funny, but in as much as things changed, some have stayed the same. Sleeping together in a dirty, gross shit holes? Just like old times. Except no one’s filming with plans to upload it to the internet later.

The internet. Man. Talk about something to miss. The whole world at your fingertips. Although, in a way, they now have that albeit in a much more literal sense. Shane snuggles deep into his bag and falls to sleep far quicker than he thought he would.

Ryan, for his part, continues to idly pick through his uncovered novel. It’s a pretty decent tale. Romance. Big shocker. The world is over and all he can find in the remains are old bodice rippers. But a book is a book – entertainment is pretty goddamn scarce these days. He’ll take what he can get. True, he wants to click on the radio – see if there’s any good word, any good news – but he doesn’t want to disturb Shane.

…even if the bastard won’t admit he’s wrong. And yeah, the Titans aren’t ghosts. But they are real. So, if they’re real – it’s not much of a stretch to think the same thing of ghosts.

…probably a lot more ghosts now…what with all the…

Ryan can’t even coherently string it all together. All the lives lost. Too many to even begin to contemplate. A planetwide event, a tragedy beyond bearing. And here the two of them are. Holed up in their little bunker, trying to live the best lives they can. Ryan’s a few more pages in when he hears that familiar hum.

His mouth twitches, unable to resist the smile forming.

Ha-hum. Ha-hum. Ha-Hum.

The sound Shane makes while he sleeps. The soft hum of his breathing. Ryan can’t even count how many times he’s fallen asleep to that sound. Clung to it when they were shooting in creepy locations. He never slept well in supposedly haunted locations…but he always slept a little better when they shared space. When he hears those sounds.

Ha-hum. Ha-hum. Ha-Hum.

Like the bastard laughs in his sleep. Although, the sound isn’t quite like a laugh. It just…it has that same warm sound, that rewarding quality his laughter carries. Affable, irresistible, rich and…Ryan looks down at the words on the pages of the book before him, feels his cheeks heat. He’s been reading far too much of this mushy shit. It’s messing with his thoughts. He closes the book and contemplates his options.

Sleep is probably the best among them. He looks to Shane again. Long limbs all akimbo – awkward. He fits within his cocoon and yet not. Ridiculous – those stork legs, those string bean arms…

…how would those arms feel wrapped around-?

Ryan literally tosses his book aside. All your fault, he thinks at it, even as he stands up rolls his shoulders. Okay. Calm on. Relax. Don’t be stupid. Just go to sleep.

He climbs into his own bag, which isn’t far from Shane’s. He dampens their lanterns and it’s dark, cool, quiet. He’s almost asleep when he hears it. A deep, hefty rumble. Like thunder, but worse. Far worse. Worse because no storm has this feeling behind it. This pure, volatile energy.

He sits up, his breath catching. It’s far off in the distance, but it doesn’t matter. He knows what it is. It’s one of them. His heart leaps into his throat and fear throttles him so roughly that at first he can’t move – eyes watering as the sound grows in strength.

…boom…boom…Boom…BOOM!

The last makes the ground shake and he hates the goddamn squeak that leaves him as he physical jolts. Shane (sonofabitch!) is still asleep and Jesus Christ, does this fucker sleep through everything?! Ryan rolls his bag hard to one side, closer to Shane, knocking him with enough force that Shane wakes, voice groggy with sleep, “…izzat?”

“They’re coming! They’re coming!” Ryan wishes he didn’t sound so whiny and high pitched and frantic. For fuck’s sake – he’s a grown man! But the sound of those…footsteps…

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The ground beneath them shakes violently. Ryan’s experienced earthquakes before (California born and raised) but this is beyond that. This is as if the planet itself is coming apart. Shane sits up, even as Ryan shushes at him, tugs at him – as if somehow Shane’s sitting up, underground, in the dark, can signal the Titans above them.

Shane tilts his head this way and that – clearly doing his best to listen. To pinpoint. And then he slowly turns back to Ryan, “Hey, hey…shush, shush…they’re moving away…”

Ryan’s eyes hurt from being open so wide. Ryan’s chest hurts because his heart is beating so fast. Ryan’s…hurt. He hurts and hurts and suddenly he’s in Shane’s arms. Shane is cuddling him close, “Ry? Ryan, buddy, come on…come on! Calm down, calm down. Breathe…”

…he can’t…Ryan can’t…

“You can,” Shane intones firmly and Ryan realizes he’s said something to that effect aloud, “Ryan, breathe.”

Ryan drags in one loud, long shuddering breath. Then another. Then another. His mind briefly flickers over all he’s lost. All they’ve lost. All the friends, all the family, all the people…the world…

His wide eyes fill. Blink. Shed some tears, there and gone, and he’s still breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. He curls forward some, relaxes, and he’s in Shane’s arms and they’re not quite as string bean as he thought. They have strength and weight and long fingers are stroking through his sweat damp, dark hair. Soothing it back from his forehead.

Ryan lets out a jittery wheeze, “Sorry…must think I’m a dumb ass.”

“No.”

“Shane…”

“Ryan, you’re not a dumb ass because you’re afraid.”

“You’re not.”

“Shows what you know.”

“Shane…”

“Ryan,” Now it’s Shane’s turn to sound bone weary, “We played up that shit for the show. You know that. Being scared of heroin needles and avocado pits and…and you know,” he says it so firmly, with such deep assurance that – even in the darkness of the bunker – Ryan knows he’s looking directly into his eyes, “You know I’m just as human as everybody else. That I get afraid. That I am afraid.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asks and he can’t see the nod, but he knows he gets it. And Shane’s right. Of course he’s right. Ryan knows he’s right. Shane’s not any more of a dumb ass than he is. They have every right to be afraid. Everyone in the world currently is. It’s all changing. It’s all becoming new. So new that to-to be afraid of other things? Silly things? Well, that would be what would make him a dumb ass, right?

And it’s this thought that leads Ryan to ask, “Can I kiss you?”

Two little balls of heat form right on the apples of his cheeks, lighting zipping up and down his spine because – holy shit – did he just say that out loud? And he can’t really see Shane in the cool darkness of the bunker. Their lanterns are out, but he can feel him. Sense him. He’s…close.

And then Shane answers.

“I don’t know…can you?”

It takes Ryan a moment to digest this response. And when he does? He fishes out his flat pillow and hopes it hits hard as he smacks right across Shane’s face, “Fuck you! You-!”

The curse is said without any real heat, but it can’t be helped, because, well – goddammit! So Ryan plans to keep on pummeling Shane until he somehow dies from pillow pummeling only for Shane to stop him. He manages to catch his pillow and stall his movements as he grunts out, “No! Hey! S-sorry, look-! I just-! I just couldn’t help myself, y’know?”

“Oh, do I?!”

“Yeah, man I mean – it was right there!” Shane damn near pleads with him, clearly feeling the opportunity was too good to pass up, “Besides, it was…it was too damned much. You asking like that…all hat in hand…”

Ryan’s struggles with the pillow cease as Shane comes…closer. He can feel him closer. The heat of him, the rush of air on his lips in the dark as Shane talks that his breathe caresses Ryan’s mouth, “But you can, Ryan.”

The last is said with such intensity that Ryan’s whole body shakes harder than when the Titans walked near them. His heart booms louder than their steps. He feels Shane hovering so close, “…I’ve wanted you to.”

A thick, noisy swallow and a very cracking, very insecure, “Yeah?”

“Mmm. Been waiting for you to.”

“R-really?”

A soft scoff, “No, actually – never thought you were interested. Never thought I’d be so lucky. But goddamn Ryan, if you are? You can kiss me and then some.”

That’s all the incentive Ryan needs. He charges forward and yes – kissing in the dark when you’re not quite sure where the other person is? Awkward. WEIRD. Ryan’s lips sort of miss Shane’s and there’s a laugh and a snort and a lot of fumbling in the pitch black dark.

But then?

Oh, then.

Then there’s lips meeting and Ryan’s thoughts splinter, his veins ignite and he’s kissing Shane. Their tongues are tangling, lips playing along one another and suddenly the world isn’t over. It’s just beginning.

[artificialqueens]

You won a seven nights stay in Paris, ch 2 (Branjie) - Evelyn Bubbles

Ehy there! It’s your girl Ev back on the beat, so happy for all the love on the first chapter, this is a slow burn so stay tuned you won’t regret it. I want to gradually build some tension and in this chapter we’ll see some. Enjoy! Also just wanted to add that this fanfiction doesn’t take in consideration canon, so take this as they never had a thing on the show and they’re falling in love just now.

Waking up alone in Paris is one thing, waking up besides a handsome man in a beautiful bed in an even more beautiful apartment in the best part of the city is another. Brooke yawned, lazily turning off the alarm set for 8 am, and gradually lifted Vanessa’s arm from her waist. “Please mom, five more minutes…”. “I’m not your mom, Vanjielina… and you’re heavy”, Brooke giggled sitting on the bed and gently running her fingers through her friend’s messy hair. She wasn’t much of a touchy-feely type, except for her cats, which she loved to cuddle with, but Vanessa had that warm and welcoming aura to her, she couldn’t help but relax and open up. The day before they had just walked to Notre Dame (a quite long walk actually), got an ice cream, took some nice pictures on one of the bridges, hanging out like life long friends. Then, they had come back to their apartment, quite wasted from the crazy jet lag, and they had fallen asleep almost immediately; Vanessa still had her t-shirt on. Brooke thanked her for forgetting to take that off: she didn’t know what she would’ve done seeing her toned chest naked, with that amber skin exposed and flushed. Brooke went to the bathroom, grabbing a pair of comfy jeans and a t-shirt, and took a nice shower, casually leaving the door open. She didn’t know what she meant with that: was it an invitation? Was it just because they were close enough at that point? They had in fact spent so many weeks shoulder to shoulder, but the atmosphere during Drag Race filming was radically different from the relaxing vacation they were having. That many men all together, cut off from the rest of the world, it was hard to resist. It was then when Brooke had started to look at Vanessa differently. But when they came home she thought that it had been just a consequence of the situation, a casualty. Instead, as the words of the iconic song said, the cause had been removed… but the symptom stayed. She immediately switched the water temperature from hot to cold. She needed it.

////

“Where we going today sis?”, Vanessa asked as soon as they stepped out of the house. “The Musée d’Orsay. There are a lot of beautiful sculptures and paintings there, even some Van Goghs. I planned this trip hoping to go with my best friend, and he’s kinda into arts, so I hope you don’t get too bored”, Brooke said slightly worried. Classic Canadian courtesy. Vanessa smiled and patted her arm: “Don’t worry sis it’s all good. I love arts. Plus, you could explain some shit to me. You’re giving me this cultured vibe”. “I’m really not, but thank you. In the museums I usually try to listen to a guide who’s telling stuff to a group of tourists, and I grab some info from them. We could do the same thing”. “Yeah, I love mooching culture. Agreed. Let’s go”. “I wouldn’t call it mooching”. “How would you call it”. “Oh, we’re just there… casually listening”. “Why don’t you get an audio guide then”. Brooke smirked: “I’d rather listen to your weird comments about the paitings and sculptures. You can be really funny Vanj". “Maybe that’s the best compliment you’ve ever given me. But how can I blame y'all, it’s true”. “Don’t flatter yourself too much. Now let’s get on this subway, it’s damn late”.

////

Vanessa was completely silent, staring at one of the biggest paintings in the whole museum, “L'école de Platon”. She bit her lip and got closer to the painting. Brooke found her like that, eyes scanning every single inch of the painting with an inquisitive stare. “Hey Vanjielina”, she asked, “What are you looking at?”. “This painting. I know no French but apparently it’s like a lesson or something. Plato is teaching. Beautiful, isn’t it”. Brooke approached her to look at the painting, but Vanessa grabbed her by the arm and brought them a few feet back. “Here. You have to watch it from afar first, and then you can get closer. Just like with another person”, she said, unusually soft. Then, she went back to her previous spot, standing perfectly still, captivated. So, Brooke let her eyes admire the stunning painting from the perspective Vanessa had chose for her: the scene depicted was a garden in Ancient Greece, where many beautiful young men, barely clothed, were listening to the philosopher talk. Brooke got one step closer, and as she walked towards the painting she started noticing more and more details: the veins of the leaves, the single strands of hair, the lights and shadows of the boys’ muscles. Vanessa became part of the painting herself: the curve of her back, her hand on her hip, the tight fabric of the jeans agains her legs, her short, dark hair hidden under her hat, they all seemed to fuse with the painting, as if she was listening to Plato as well, covered in only a piece of pastel fabric, with laurel leaves on her head. Brooke walked right besides her, and stood still as she examined the lines of her nose, lips and chin from just a few inches away. “Have you noticed?”. “What?”, Brooke asked. “All the details. Amazing”. Vanessa had never sounded more serious. Brooke nodded: “Were they all this gay in Ancient Greece?”, she asked jokingly, referring to the boys’ naked bodies all so close to each other. Vanessa chuckled: “If so, gimme a damn time machine girl because this looks like literal heaven. I mean, look at their abs and thighs. Fuck. Perfection. Look, they even have a goddamn white peacock there. It can’t get any gayer than this”. “Trust me, we can find a gayer painting”. Vanessa smirked: “Wanna bet?”. They shook hands: “Bet”.

////

Vanessa and Brooke spent two hours total, almost running all around the Musee D'Orsay, trying to find a gayer painting, failing miserably. They found each other again in front of which was probably the biggest work of art in the whole museum, called “Les Romains de la Décadence”, a scene of daily life in the Roman era, at the baths. “Found anything?”. “Nope”, Vanessa shook her head. “Well, that ecol of something something was pretty gay. I doubt we’ll find anything better in the whole damn vacation”. “So you give up, mh”. “I’m not giving up, I’m just saying it’s fucking hard. And also I’m hungry, I wanna eat. Let’s get out of here”. “Agreed”. They turnt around, going towards the entrance, when Vanessa stopped suddenly and pointed at the big painting. “Wait, Brooke, sis!”, she laughed, “This lady looks like you in drag”. Brooke followed Vanessa’s finger as she was guided to a beautiful woman wrapped in white clothes, laying in the centre of the painting. She looked slightly bored, but beautiful indeed, and she has a long nose and big lips. “She only kinda looks like me”, Brooke said, “But thanks, it means you find me as beautiful as a work of art”. Vanessa’s big brown eyes were all over her. Then, she said simply: “Yes”.

////

They had lunch at a local café, sitting alone at a table eating pan au chocolat, a classical french sweet with bread and dark chocolate, and got coffees. T hey weren’t in the mood for an actual lunch, they would’ve had plenty of occasions for that in the next few days. “It’s so fucking good”, Vanessa said biting into her pan au chocolat. “I know right? We don’t have this in Canada. Or at least not this good”. “I’m a slut for good chocolate”. “You’re a slut in general”. “Excuse me, I’m a respectable young lady!”. Brooke laughed and took a sip of her coffee. “What’s up next then?”, Vanessa asked after a couple of seconds of silence. Brooke looked at her notes app: “Mont Martre tonight, and I’ve also found the best crepes place in all Paris at the bottom of the hill. You like cheese, right?”. “Bitch have you seen me? I ain’t got this thick eating fruits and shits. I love cheese”. Brooke chuckled: “Happy to hear that, because they do excellent cheese crepes. And also sweet ones, like with nuts and strawberries and whatever you want. It should be super good”. Vanessa smiled widely: “You got me excited now, fuck! You’ve really planned this mh?”. “Yeah I did, even though it’s a plan shaped around Steve and me, so like… do you wanna go to the Louvre some time?”. “That’s where the Mona Lisa is, right? Of course I wanna go, I wanna see what’s the buzz all about. Like, is she really that special? Miss Thing thinks she’s a legend but they haven’t seen my portrait yet”. “Do you have a portrait?”. Vanessa hesitated for a second: “Well, no, I don’t, but I’ll have one”. “Where?”. “In the painter place. Isn’t it in Mont Martre?”. Brooke smiled, suprised: “Oh, so you know about it”. “I do know shit bitch! I’m very eloquent”, says Vanessa taking another sip. They didn’t get up until the sun had started setting in the beautiful Parisian sky.

[davidbuddbg]

Chapter 7: What if it’s worth it?

Quick note: You can find the entire fanfiction under the following link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/174400042-what-if-it%27s-worth-it

The next morning, I was in a hurry. Just like the past few nights, sleep escaped me and I had only started dozing off minutes between the alarm went off. I felt like I was both moving and thinking in slow-motion. Dave woke up as well by the sound of the alarm but I told him to stay in bed, feeling too cranky to have company during breakfast, even his.

I had to meet my thesis advisor in thirty minutes and then head to the office. I put on a fresh dress, not bothering with showering even though last night had been sweaty. When I re-entered the bedroom to pick up my bag, Dave was sitting in bed, absentmindedly rubbing his injured leg while on his phone. Most likely, he was texting Vicky, I thought. And when he raised his head to look at me, his blue eyes more beautiful than ever, it felt as if I was okay again, at least for a few seconds. But then, it passed and my inner-self was crumbling to pieces again.

“Have a good day, Dave,” I said with a sort of enthusiasm I didn’t feel before leaning down to kiss him on the cheek but he moved his face on purpose, and our lips touched instead. At least, this still felt awesome, I thought, trying to reassure myself that everything would be okay.

I pulled back quickly, running around the room, looking for my bag. “Alright, so you have a nurse coming over at 10 to check your wound and change the bandage,” I droned as I bent down to search under the bed. Nothing. “And if something’s wrong you call me. Okay?” I asked, insisting on the last word when I finally found my handbag behind the door and sighed with relief. “Okay?” I repeated myself, pointedly looking at him but Dave just seemed amused.

“Okay, love,” he chuckled, before stretching out. “Have a good day!”

---------

Professor Hartley was more understanding than I’d expected. First, he didn’t even point out I was fifteen minutes late. Second, he told me he was pleased with my pace which we both knew was a lie. I hadn’t touched a single law book since St Matthew’s and he knew that. But for whatever reason, everyone seemed to think you deserved to rest after living through something like that, even if you weren’t injured. Everyone, except my brain it seems.

All night I had spent thinking about someone having tampered with his gun. Obviously, it wasn’t the Police when they searched his house, they would just have confiscated it. Which only really left one option: Someone had broken into his place. I had desperately wanted to discuss it with him but he had fallen asleep soon after sex, and considering what an emotional rollercoaster his day had been, I couldn’t wake him up. Even if that meant I couldn’t fall asleep myself.

On our way to the Home Office HQ, I asked to stop at a pharmacy. I stood in line, rummaging through the mess inside my handbag until I found the folded piece of paper I’d been looking for and handed it to the pharmacist. She raised her eyes at the prescription, but remained silent before leaving to go look for it in the back. I was fidgeting, rhythmically tapping the tips of my fingers on the wooden counter and though I knew I was annoying everyone, I couldn’t physically stop myself. A few minutes later, she appeared again, holding a box each of Trazolan and Sonata. I quickly paid for my purchases and hurried back into the car.

Nervously, I popped out one pill of each and threw them in my mouth, not even bothering with water. I was well aware I shouldn’t take them both at the same, the doctor had repeated it a dozen times, but desperate times called for desperate measures and if I were to fall asleep on my job, then who fucking cared.

But I wasn’t lucky enough for that happen. Instead, I spent my workday ineffectively going over legal documents and aimlessly wandering the halls, but sleep never came. I took a few more pills but by the time 5 o’clock came around, I was still conscious and yet feeling dead inside.

I wasn’t sure the guards were telling in on me to my parents, giving them all the details about my whereabouts, but I didn’t really care at this point. I asked the guards to drive me to a small supermarket, or rather a limited grocery store I knew all too well. Inside, I grabbed a bottle of orange juice and some biscuits to make it look less suspicious and walked over to the cashier.

I placed the items on the counter and grabbed my purse. “I’ll also take some flour, enough for 10 muffins, please” I added and the young cashier looked me in the eyes for a couple of seconds before opening a small drawer on his side and taking out some miniscule plastic bags. I quickly paid in cash and walked over to the car.

“Do you have everything, miss?” The man bald inquired, giving me a quick look through the mirror before turning on the engine.

“Yes, thank you. I was just running out of breakfast necessities,” I replied, absentmindedly as I grabbed my phone, having heard a message notification.

“I’m having a pint with a colleague tonight. Don’t know what time I’ll be home. Love you.” David had written. Somehow, you could really notice that he wasn’t a millennial by the way he wrote his text messages and it made me chuckle. I was glad though that he had taken the time to text me and let me know everything was okay.

“Have fun!” I sent back joyously though I felt nervous and worried about his safety. The bomber was still at large. Yesterday only, there had been a false alert on the Vauxhall Bridge and you only needed to walk in the streets of London for a few minutes to notice the tension. I tried calming myself, if he was going out with a friend, it meant he was feeling better, right?

Being alone tonight would actually be good for me. I’d have time to work on my thesis and even do laundry, something in which I was running behind.

Arriving at the flat, I started boiling some water to make mac n’ cheese and then opened one of the small plastic sachets I’d just bought on the marble counter before arranging the powder in a straight thin line and snorting it with a short straw I found in one of the drawers.

At first, it burnt like hell, just like it always did. And then, it felt as if you had gotten brain freeze  by eating ice cream too fast. When I was done cooking, the positive effects had kicked in and I finally felt poised, just like I always used to be.

I had dinner in silence as I checked my twitter feed with the TV playing softly in the background. However, by the time I was done eating, my head was a whirlwind of ideas and I had to put them into paper before I forgot them.

Hippocrates of Kos, an ancient Greek philosopher, was now best known in the area of medicine. But in the Hippocratic Corpus there’s a treatise called “Air, waters, places” in which the author stated that our climate defined our physical and mental characteristics. And according to him, Europeans were brave and strong, but inconsistent just like the weather. And although, I didn’t believe a single word of that, I just didn’t care because it made the perfect introduction to explain how the law of war originated in Europe.

By the time Dave arrived, I had completed the introduction.

“Good evening!” I hollered as Dave closed the front door behind himself. I stretched out comfortably before setting down my laptop for the first time that evening. “I’m in the living room.”

“Hello, love,” Dave smiled as he approached me, still taking off his jacket. He placed a quick kiss on my cheek before lazily sitting down on the couch the next to me and I immediately took the opportunity to rest my calves on his lap. “I didn’t expect you’d still be up.”

“I had to work on my thesis,” I replied while readjusting the cushions behind my back. My parents somehow had a talent to buy expensive, beautiful and extremely uncomfortable cushions.

“You’re okay?” He asked, staring down at me, appearing somewhat puzzled as he started giving me a foot rub. “You’re talking too fast and I can hear your heart beating from where I am.” He was now eyeing me closely and I was glad for the dim light and my dark irises for hiding my dilated pupils.

“Yeah, I just had a red bull.” I replied, misleading him, brushing off his concern. Considering all that he was going through, I didn’t feel like adding another layer. “So, how was your day?” I wondered carelessly, before remembering something. “You did see nurse before going out, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dave replied, mocking me and I struck my tongue at him. “They called me from the office. They wanted help interviewing Nadia so I went over to the station.” He was speaking lightly, as if this was just chit-chat but he did seem worried.

For a moment, I couldn’t remember who Nadia was but then I figured it must be the woman Dave had stopped from blowing up the train on 01/10. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a leave, though?”

“I cannot just lie back and do nothing,” David sighed before letting out a small groan as he leaned his head back, exposing his throat. “She didn’t identify Mahmood as the bomb-maker.”

I took a few seconds to process his words. On the one hand, I knew this was bad news because the Police most likely had no other leads. But on the other hand, I had chatted to Mahmood a couple of times, and I never really believed he could have been part of something like that. “That’s good. It means the Home Office wasn’t infiltrated.”

Dave’s Adam’s apple bobbled before he spoke. “I think she was lying. Even in custody under police protection, she’s still afraid of her husband,” Dave said with honesty, before biting lip and unintentionally squeezing my foot.

“I don’t think her being a woman immediately makes her the victim, David. Not every woman needs to be protected,” I blurted out softly, not thinking my words through before saying them out loud. “Maybe she’s not collaborating because she does believe in the cause,” I added, clarifying my previous thoughts.

David shook his head softly, as if in deep thought. “I don’t know, love,” Dave murmured, conflicted. “I believe her.”

“Yeah, forget what I said,” I muttered casually before yawning with fatigue. “You’re the cop, so you’re better at this than I am.”

As we were heading to bed, I finally remembered to ask Dave to come to Julia’s funeral the next day but he refused, and I immediately regretted asking. Everything closely relating to St Matthew’s was a touchy subject for him.

------

The next day, I woke up early after a good night’s sleep for the first time in a whole week. I took the time to take a long shower before doing up my hair in a bun and picking a black lace dress. I wasn’t sure I should even go. I had gotten my invitation at the office, but knowing she was alive turned all of this into a farce. I wondered if the coffin would be empty or if they’d put something heavy in it to give the illusion of a corpse. These thoughts made me shiver and I locked myself in the bathroom with another dose of the heavenly powder before my body could start shaking and freaking out again.

I asked the guards to drop off Dave at the Police station before driving me to the funeral. As expected, there weren’t that many people and I still I was sure Julia didn’t like half of these people. I made my way into the church, just to see Roger Penhalington greeting the guests alongside Julia’s mom and I was glad for the drugs in my blood, otherwise I’d have thrown a fit.

In what world, is the ex-husband considered to be mourning as much as the mother?! Julia and Roger didn’t even speak to each other, and when they did, it was more arguing than anything else. “Mrs Montague, Mr Penhalington, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I intoned when it was my turn. Julia’s mother nodded, but Roger seemed surprised at seeing me here. Hell, even I was surprised I showed up.

After watching Julia’s empty casket being lowered six feet under, I was ready to leave this masquerade when Roger ambushed me, showing up out of nowhere. “Mr Penhalington, is everything alright?” I asked politely, faking concern as to put up a show for the people standing around us.

“Did you happen to retrieve any of Julia’s personal belongings?” Roger asked in a low tone, seemingly agitated. When he noticed that he was fidgeting, he put his hands inside his trousers’ which made for a bizarre look on him. “Her handbag, briefcase or anything?”

“No,” I replied hesitantly, furrowing my brows as if I was thinking it through. “I remember she left them in the side entrance’s anti-chamber at St Matthews, but I don’t know who retrieved those items. Why?” And just when I asked the question out loud, I figured it out on my own. He was looking for the kompromat.

“They’re of sentimental value,” he added, obviously disappointed by my lack of help, but at the same time, not entirely convinced by my answer. And then he left just as quickly as he had appeared in the first place.

After the funeral, I decided to call Sara and meet up with her for some cocktails. She first made sure I was alright after the attack and then we began speaking about more trivial matters. “Actually, Cedric and I are getting married,” Sara announced proudly, before pointing out the new shiny ring on her finger and I felt bad for not having noticed on my own.

“Oh my god,” I blurted out, genuinely happy for her. “Congratulations!” She hugged with such excitement that she almost broke me in half. “Do you guys have a date, yet?”

“Yes,” she replied before taking a large sip of her Margarita. “In exactly one month, in Cancun.” That was soon!

The truth is I didn’t meet up with Sara just to have a fun time. Roger didn’t believe a word I said, and I’m sure he had me followed when I left the funeral. Going back home in a hurry would have looked shady and suspicious, but going out with a friend? That doesn’t sound like someone who’s hiding something.

A couple of hours in, I told Sara I needed to go home and work on my thesis. Once back at my parent’s flat, I went to retrieve my laptop and the tablet from their hiding spots, and finally found a place where to put them for safekeeping.

“I’m walking to the library to do some research,” I announced to the bodyguards on duty, leaving the flat again less than ten minutes after getting there.

For the first time, I was thankful for my father’s insistence on providing me with protection. Roger was a politician, the kind who do Politics not as a passion or as an end in itself, but as a means to access power and I knew well enough, that those were the most dangerous kind.

As soon as I arrived at the law library, I retrieved a key to a temporary locker and put my coat and in bag in there. And then I headed towards the computers, needing to make time as to not make this visit to the library appear suspicious either. Especially, because the Police believed I had lost my laptop. I made a mental note to go buy a new laptop the next morning. It was what any normal student would do if they lost theirs. I stayed there for two hours, doing random law related research on the Internet without truly paying attention before heading back to the locker and picking my empty bag and coat. Making sure no one was looking, I hid the key in my bra.

Outside the library, the guards were waiting to walk me back to the flat.

When David got home, I was already asleep. Now that Dave was working again, even if only officiously, I didn’t know when he’d be back home. In fact, I barely saw him the next couple of days apart from in the mornings when we would both get ready for work. Surprisingly, I wasn’t too concerned. He texted me often enough to let me know he was okay and truth be told, working seemed to be a welcome distraction for him though I didn’t exactly know what he was doing apart from helping interviewing Nadia. Was he still in on some dubious business, like when he was spying on Julia?

The next day, I stopped by an Apple store in the morning before going to work. At the internship, I was trying to figure out who exactly knew about the kompromat. Stephen Hunter-Dunn knew without doubt. That’s certainly what they talked about that morning at the hotel when Julia asked me to leave them alone. But did Mike also know? And what about Sampson?

Dave sent me a text message, asking me to call him back as soon as possible and I decided to take my break sooner than expected. Alone in the breakroom, I called him back and he picked up after the very first ring, as if expecting my call.

“Dave, what’s wrong?” I inquired in a hushed voice. Even though I was alone in the room, I couldn’t be sure they hadn’t bugged the entire building.

“Someone came to Vicky’s work yesterday, telling her about us,” Dave snarled quickly, almost out of breath as if he was running.

“But she already knew, so?” I was puzzled. What was David getting at?

“It’s was that man, Longcross. The one Julia with whom had a private meeting at the hotel once,” Dave explained. I remained silent and after a few seconds, I heard him sigh. “I know you were spying on me.” Yeah, that came as shock and I had definitely not been expecting that. How did he know?

“Look, Dave, I’m sorry. It’s, I don’t-” I was stammering.

“No, love, it’s okay,” Dave jabbered. “Has Longcross ambushed you as well?” I could hear the concern in his voice.

“No,” I said honestly.

“Good!” David breathed out with relief. “Stay with the guards at all times, please.”

I wanted to ask him where was and what he was even doing but he hung up before I had a chance to. Later that day, arriving at the flat after work, I realized we had been broken into. They left the apartment upside down but nothing was stolen because they obviously didn’t find what they came for.

“Miss, we need to call your parents and the Police,” the bald bodyguard announced, his cell phone already in hand.

“Don’t!” I blurted out aggressively before recomposing myself. “That would just make them worry and this doesn’t appear to be anything else than a failed robbery attempt.”

David got home all wet that night, he had probably been outside in the heavy downpour. When I asked him what he had been doing, he just avoided the question. He appeared quite secretive these past few days. It started worrying me that with all this going on, we were still keeping secrets from each other and I sensed this would come to bite us in the ass.

The next morning, Dave left early again. Something about searching Julia’s flat with DS Rayburn. So, this meant the Police knew about the kompromat but they didn’t know I had it. And considering, the secrets between David and myself, I wasn’t sure whether he knew I had it still. I texted Julia to let know the Police was closing in on the tablet business.

The day was passing and David wasn’t answering to any of my texts, and even the Cocaine wasn’t managing to keep me calm now. At 11pm, I still hadn’t heard of David. All my texts were left unanswered and he wasn’t picking up the phone either. Just as I was about to take another dose to help me destress, there was a knock on my door. The Police.

---------

“Good evening, Alma,” DS Rayburn greeted me in an awfully neutral voice as she and DCI Sharma sat down at the opposite side of the table in the interrogation room. “Thank you for meeting us so late.”

“You didn’t exactly give me in an option,” I replied sassily, a big smile on my face, but on the inside I was screaming and crying at the same time. None of them seemed to take offence from my tone of voice.

“Last time we met, you confirmed the relationship between yourself and PS Budd had gone beyond the professional boundaries,” DS Rayburn drawled, not really expecting an answer from me. “Was the relationship consensual or did PS Budd threaten you in any way?” Rayburn asked, and both police officers were now attentively staring at me.

I just stared back at them, throughout confused. Were they insinuating David had forced himself upon me?! “Of course, David didn’t threaten me!” I blurted out, offended they’d even consider that. “Our relationship has always been consensual.”

“Listen, Alma,” DCI Sharma spoke almost patronizingly, his crossed hands on the table. “You’re either his victim or his accomplice.”

“The hell are you suggesting?!” I spat out, my voice raised but neither of them were intimidated. They left me a few seconds to recompose myself before Rayburn took a photograph from her file and showed it to me.

It was a white male. I couldn’t even estimate his age because half his face was deformed with severe burn scars. “This is the shooter from Thornton Circus,” Rayburn explained. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

“Never,” I answered honestly. “I’d remember a face like that, certainly.” Sharma and Rayburn were both nodding softly, as if my answer had confirmed their theory. “Why?” I inquired, with curiosity.

“This man is Andrew Apsted,” Sharma detailed but I cocked my eyebrows. Was I supposed to know that name? “He served with PS Budd in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, for two rounds.”

I remained silent, but internally I cursed myself. Why had David hidden this from me? And more importantly, why hadn’t I figured this out on my own?

“I wasn’t aware David knew the shooter,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. I was frankly embarrassed at my ignorance. Sharma and Rayburn looked at each other, making sure they were on the same wavelength before one of them said anything else.

“We suspect PS Budd is involved in the St Matthew’s bombing,” Sharma put into words what we were all considering at that point and the accusation shocked me even though I had been expecting them to say it all along. Hell, for a few seconds I even wondered myself if David had anything to do with it, but I quickly brushed off that thought. There were lies and secrets between us, but I truly cared about him and I was deeply convinced it was mutual. He wouldn’t ever have deliberately put me in danger like that.

“I cannot imagine for just one second that Dave had anything to do with that,” I retorted quickly but none of them seemed to care about my opinion.

“We’ve been trying to locate him for a few hours now, but we’ve been unsuccessful so far,” Rayburn admitted with disappointment. “We never really suspected you of being involved, but we wanted to know if you knew where he was.”

“I don’t where he is,” I confessed, shaking my head in slowly. “I haven’t seen since this morning.” Technically I wasn’t lying, I simply wasn’t telling the whole truth.

DS Rayburn and DCI Sharma let me go but asked me to let them know if I heard from Dave and not to leave London until this was over but I never had any intentions of doing that. As soon as I arrived at the flat, I used my iPhone to track down David’s. When I had handed him his cell phone, I never told him I’d activated this function. After all, it was only for emergencies and considering he had tried putting a bullet through his brain, my precautions didn’t seem exaggerated.

To my disappointed and aggravation, I wasn’t able to find his current localisation. Most likely because the phone was turned off. However, the most recent one I could identify was some downtown bar two hours ago. Without giving it further thought, I made sure I still had the gun in my bag and retrieved a silencer from the freezer, before asking to be driven to that bar.

[ironjohnredcognition]

The Directing mind

h/t @afx626

In all of these occasions, you are summoning impressions in your mind and then reacting to them as though they were real.

The Stoics taught of the ton hegemonikon ("directing mind") as an entity unto itself. Aurelius established it as being the uppermost authority within the mind. The important thing about this is that the mind contains the directing mind, and other things, which could be called lower faculties — such as impressions.

He did this often. If something in your mind that is not your directing mind should be in discomfort, he said, that is its concern. (Paraphrasing.)

One of the main "powers" granted by Stoicism is that you begin to realize that your mind is not one monolithic thing, but many components that interact. (Prescient of them. There isn't one modern neurologist who would dispute this.) Moreover, your Directing Mind is free to disagree with other parts: not merely to repress them and lie to itself about how the feeling doesn't exist, but to acknowledge that it is there, and incorrect.

The sense of nervousness you speak of isn't "you." It isn't correct just because you feel it. The only reason you take it for granted is that you never learned how to do otherwise.

Imagine this: You feel nervous, and instead of recoiling and getting your heart rate up, you merely interpret it as a signal. You don't let your thoughts run away; if dire predictions arise in your mind, you quiet them down so that they don't distract you. Now you can think a little more clearly.

It's hard at first, so you start with something easy. It's easier to dismiss your anger over the supermarket not having your favorite Lunchable than it is heavier matters, so you practice on little things like that. And when you check out, if you stumble with your words and feel silly at the cash register, you remind yourself on the way to the car that your stumbling has already been forgotten by the cashier, who has already heard fifty people misspeak some word today, and will hear the same thing many more times before the sun is down. The sense that other people are intensely interested in your every tiny mistake is, I'm happy to report, largely misguided, and not worthy of the trust you invest in it.

Over time, you try this technique — this deliberate, conscious granting or withholding of assent (agreement) to your impressions — and you get better and better at it for larger and larger troubles. You find that things that troubled you to no end don't seem so severe as they did before.

Ultimately, an impression (like "the cashier thinks I'm a dork") is a tool to be used, not an oppressive phantom to run and hide from — and certainly not to be mistaken for a guaranteed fact about reality. If you think the cashier thinks you're a dork, so what? (Even if it is true!) Does it change how you use the credit card machine or how you push your cart through the doors?

"You are just an impression. You have given me (the Directing Mind) information. That is your purpose, and that purpose is now complete. What I do with that information is not your concern, but mine. Isn't that why you gave it to me in the first place?"

Essentially, you are de-automating processes that have been running automatically, so that you can retrain them with better information and strategies.

There is no thought in your mind that doesn't owe you an explanation for why you should think it instead of some other thought. Remember that.

A tenet of Stoicism is that most of what we think and do is unnecessary.

An impression says, "I wish I had these capabilities I had before!" Then you dwell because for some fucked up reason our minds are set up to allow us to think that dwelling is a subset of "doing something useful," which it isn't.

You have already had the thought that you wish you had your former capabilities. This thought was worth having at most one time. Every time you re-think it, you tell yourself what you already know, without surfacing any new useful information.

Maybe you can do something about this, and maybe you can't. I suppose the place to start would be to try to recognize when it's happening, and see if you can't prevail upon yourself to replace that thought with another.

When an ancient philosopher — I forget who, might have been Diogenes — was getting old, he fell; and on this, he chastised the ground: "Don't be so greedy! You'll have me soon enough!" He didn't fight it, so it didn't seem to make him nervous.

It's hard for me to give more specific advice because I don't know what you have to work with, and my best advice is to talk to someone who knows what the hell they are talking about, like a psychologist who specializes in TBI.

If you can't afford that, I — a person who does not know what the hell he's talking about — would suggest observing these things, learning how to predict their arrival, and allowing some part of yourself to say, for example, "Ah, Mr. Hyde is nearly here again. I should preemptively go sit somewhere quiet until he has left me, and then I can go about the rest of my day." Or, "I can't remember... Probably won't be able to for a few hours... I'll write it down and come back to it later."

I would not tell myself that I have accepted it. I would be more interested in observing evidence that suggests to what extent I have perhaps accepted it. It isn't a light switch. Acceptance comes in gradations.

You really, really ought to know a few things about the architecture of your brain. That can clarify a lot.

Paul Ekman (Emotional Awareness), Gerald Edelman (Wider Than The Sky: The Phenomenal Gift of Consciousness), and many and others have written a lot on this subject. I can't type the entire contents of those books into this post, but I can give you a somewhat crude synopsis.

A few inches behind each eye is a brain structure called an amygdala. This is often cited as the "fear center" but that's like naming a gallon after a single drop. Amygdalas generate emotions, but they also play a part in facial recognition, recall of the social relationships between people, and many other processes. The amygdalas also have the distinction of terminating the olfactory nerves directly, and are naturally involved in smell.

They are not considered to be a part of the conscious mind, but they wield massive influence over it. One of their main activities is to write information directly to the prefrontal cortex. They have a generous amount of bandwidth and access with which to do this. (They have to because part of their job is to save your life during emergencies.) The primary route into the PFC (and functionally the conscious mind) is the amygdalofugal pathway.

The amygdalas are also privileged to early access to sensory data. They can "see" and "hear" things a fraction of a second before your conscious mind becomes aware of them. When you recognize a relative the very instant you see them, without any delay whatsoever, you have your amygdalas to thank. They are also capable of seizing control of your PFC and issuing mandatory commands. If you've ever found yourself dodging (or directing your car) around an extreme and sudden hazard, with unusual agility and clarity, and almost feel you're not the one doing it... yep, that's your amygdalas.

The amygdalas can write an impression directly into your conscious mind. It will arrive seemingly out of nowhere, and usually without context. Their advantage is that they're optimized for extremely fast reaction, and because they have early access to sensory data, they can get the drop on your conscious mind.

But...

Your conscious mind can also form its own impressions. It's a fraction of a second behind the amygdalas, but it does have one advantage. When you have a behavior you want to modify, you can train yourself to "smell it coming." There is always some series of triggering events, and these can be consciously detected and intercepted. If your PFC steps in before the amygdalas take control, it has a chance to assert itself. With adequate practice, it can get quite good at this.

Now you have a very rough, basic framework for understanding the fundamentals of where impressions come from, and how they can be managed — what it means to manage them, "behind the curtains." What the wetware is actually doing.

One of the corruptions of the Directing Mind mentioned by Marcus Aurelius is "this thought would be superfluous."

You can't dismiss certain unpleasant impulses, like anxiety. They nag at you. Good! That's supposed to happen! What's missing is this:

Interpret the unpleasant impulse as a signal (and nothing more!) that something is not quite adequate.

Figure out how to remove the impulse's reason for firing in the first place.

Once the impulse has fired, you can acknowledge it and do something about it. "You want me to do something? Fine, I am scheduling two hours tonight to work on this." The part of your unconscious mind the impulse came from wants it to be addressed, just like an impulse indicating thirst comes from a lower faculty that will be watching to see whether you appear to be moving toward water, and will flog you more and more aggressively if you do not.

That which originated the impulse is looking for either immediate action or reliable future action. That action must be predicted as having an optimal chance of success. If these conditions are not met, the impulse will not leave you alone — unless you have trained yourself to dissociate from it, which is really not a good idea. The impulse is a tool to be used; or if not useful, refined or repudiated. It is not something to be hidden from.

This is one of the pitfalls of Stoicism. "What is outside my mind is nothing to it" doesn't mean you ignore your problems. It just means you don't let them get on top of you, or forget the best use of your mind, or have an unrealistic expectation of what life will give you. There are concepts of "preferred indifferents" and "unpreferred indifferents." If the outside world was completely meaningless, there wouldn't be two kinds of indifferents.

It may be that you interpret the impulse as spurious. "I already set aside time for this. Why are you bothering me again?" Or, "The impression behind this impulse is based on a previous understanding of my relation to the world, but I have internalized a better one now... so what am I supposed to do with it? You must have come to me purely out of habit." Or,  "I already failed at this thing, and it's obvious that I should try that thing instead. Why are you motivating me to work on an obsolete problem? What is the useful output?"

There is no thought in your head which is immune to interrogation. All thoughts must be able to answer: "Why are you useful? Why are you the best thought for me to think right now?" "Ah, but I feel anxious!" "So what? I'm already doing all I can."

[ulyssesredux]

Lotus Eaters

He waited by the spawn of Cthulhu countless ages ago. That woman at midnight mass. By Brady's cottages a boy for the ruin of souls. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man.

Carter, it seemed, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. Damn it. That was two and nine. He crawled through the root-choked fissure to the heathen Chinee.

By the way no harm. Curious longing I.

Marvels are doubly incredible when brought into three dimensions, which surrounded him and which he had started having decayed years before the window of the envelope, and in no age whose date history could fix; for the skins lolled, his eyes shut. Gold cup. Always passing, the chemist said. Good, Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the Most Ancient One, which in the witnessbox. Eunuch.

We salute you, I'll pull that thing off—let it alone.

Husband learn to his surprise.

Perfectly right that is sculptured above the keystone of the silver key, he said: Sad thing about our planet that he alone of living men had been so irresistibly drawn. One. Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the massboy answered each other in Latin. For example, Randolph Carter in a minute. Carter?

—Who had been the usual legal advertisements of the most impenetrable blacknesses heaped upon blacknesses while about the Snake Den. Half a mo.

Mysterious. Let us be reasonable. —O, yes. Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell. Throw them the bone. —Shaped clock seemed to say that the queerly arabesqued silver key was safe. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the laws of some unknown, inverse geometry. Something like those of the baths. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church: they work the whole business. Who was telling me?

Aspinwall pretended to ignore the narrative and kept his Zkauba-facet seemed to gaze, for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say. Eyefocus bad for cough. Stand up at the clawed, snouted race of that world perpetually fought. You just shove in my name at the typed envelope.

Good, Mr Bloom said. Then he put on sixpence.

Do you mean to make it worse. Keeps a hotel now. Hide her blushes. Corpse.

O, and he radiated back an impatient affirmation; confident that the Ancient Ones, have you used Pears' soap? Tell him if he drank what they are used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Dusk and the hub big: college. Otherwise he would probably be discovered and destroyed by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the brass grill. He had wished to find the enchanted regions of possible dream. That day!

Molly into the vault in that. He crawled through the brass grill. Peter Claver S.J. and the peri. The silver key to his nostrils. He moved a little to the multiform entity of which his eyes found the hideously carven box with the nightmare apparitions whispered of as Yog-Sothoth, and his sense of horror to black, clutching pits of a high, forbidden mountain in Tartary; while grasped in certain folds of his mantle not to remember. Off steam.

Punish me, please.

And then suddenly he felt a new and conflicting set of memories. Forget. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Then in the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Colonel Churchward declares it is. I will tell you all.

Gallons.

—Right, M'Coy said brightly. Just what the Ultimate Gate's opening. Forget. Stylish kind of kingdom come. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow.

Then he drew the letter again, Carter saw now, naughty darling, I have a particular fancy for. Another gone. Their full buck eyes regarded him as guide, they say he had left—near the Snake Den, where the handkerchief was found. —Hello, Bloom. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter from his sidepocket, unfolded it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the railway arch he took out the whole atmosphere of the tenants thereof: Is there not something tangible which can be shown? Rachel, is it? The chemist turned back page after page. Lovephiltres. Too full for words. That it has motion and duration.

Off to the sky. Were those two buttons of my way. After a time the little Earth gods, with their long noses stuck in nosebags. By the way no harm. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Then the next one. Forget. That orangeflower water is so deep, Leopold. Looking at me, don't you see. God's little joke. Chloroform. And now the hush of the local aspects of an unchanged—and it looks nothing at all. Was it rage alone which caused a number of mystical students to declare that the country: Broadstone probably. It seemed to be sure whether he—if indeed there could, however, one by one, and things he inferred from his infinity of duplicates—to ask us to postpone the settlement for no good purpose. Then their attention was turned away and sauntered across the road. Also the two sluts in the old Carter place seemed oddly disturbed, and in touch with other minds of Yaddith, and trips back and forth through eons of time wore on he strove not to wake her. Hothouse in Botanic gardens.

Old Benijah had been quick to recognize the genuineness of his baton against his trouserleg. Like to see them sitting round in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. Something pinned on: some sodality. Then he felt the mental currents of the living cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths. You, Mr. Aspinwall does not appear that the year of the old gambrel-roofed homestead was still alive in another time-dimension and might well return some day. If life was always like that other world. That day! Why the cannibals cotton to it. I forgot that parchment which no earthly time, and elephant caravans tramp through perfumed jungles in Kied, and what had seemed to be heavily cloaked, like the dentist's doorbell. It is, of course. I think I. All crossed themselves and stood up.

It was as crazy a notion as that other world. Where was the place they always coupled with old Edmund Carter had looked for, but keen as a row with Molly. Meet one Sunday after the rosary.

Ah yes, the mad Arab had written, who pleaded most loudly against the wickedness and snares of the Himalayan priests had led to such outrageous conclusions, had nothing further to reveal. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him quickly. Was anything forgotten? There was an All-in-One, and gazed at the moment of consuming fright that he knew. Their character. With my tooraloom, tooraloom. Good fallback. Wonder how they explain it to his nostrils, smelling herself, when I tell you all. Squareheaded chaps those must be intoned into the porch he doffed his hat, took out the whole show. I saying barrels? And some things in his pocket. With it an abode of bliss. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a burning curiosity drove him on hands: might take a turn in there on the garnet-strewn table. The carvings on that box, though his body in the lee of the devil may God restrain him, and nothing has been a Randolph Carter himself had no audible breath, and that it might gaze. Why was it settling her garter. Doctor Whack. Bantam Lyons said.

Dear Henry I got it made up.

The quick touch. Chloroform. But you want a perfume too. In. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. Now if they had been, strange room in New Orleans was to have hats modelled on our heads. Rather warm. Per second per second per second per second per second per second. Per second for every second it means.

Fluff. Warts, bunions and pimples to make that instrument talk, the misty form on the nod. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course. Quest for the dying. Perhaps he was nine. All that was: sixtyfive. Yes: under the lace affair he had wriggled through the measureless gulfs between the stars. After many hundreds of revolutions the Carter-facet in abeyance till he might shed the Yaddith body, and portly. Poor jugginses!

More interesting if you really believe in it. The college curriculum.

Leah tonight.

Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter. Simples. Poor jugginses! Too full for words. He moved to go. The day before, when I was just going to throw it away that moment. But he could have done much toward reading the cryptic parchment; but to be careful. He turned away, Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a wholly inexplicable rattling and buzzing sound. She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter in his hands.

Good job it wasn't farther south. Yet he felt the mental currents of the world for the philosopher's stone.

Then the next one. Reserved about to yield. They had a still more profound.

No, Mr Bloom said. I hear the voice of Swami Chandraputra, an adept from Benares, with certain difficulties regarding food, and even now it bore a name for vaguely ominous things scarcely to be a matter of grave doubt. Chopsticks? He crossed Townsend street, passed the drooping nags of the postoffice and turned to Aspinwall, here, was the chap I saw that picture somewhere?

Turning quickly to the abnormal clock, and without beginning or end. You can keep it up in your navel. Of course the handwriting is almost illegible—but when he was always talking about where the ruined cellar of the great white mitten, and curiously articulated in a deep fissure and an unknown inner cave beyond, and through the brass grill.

Having read it all he took the box and its contents and rode away in his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade: and saw the priest knelt down and kiss the altar, holding the thing in his tale, he said, and believed that Carter had also written to others. Shaved off his moustache again, and then orangeflower water … It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.

Too showy. Couldn't ask him at a swagger affair in the attic at home? A gate had been an inner cave with vague suggestions of a corpse. He turned from the sight of New England's rolling hills and great elms overhang the road. He had seen Warren descend into a dank and nitrous vault, never to return from the pocket of his bush floating, floating hair of the baths. That makes three and a penny. —O, no doom, no, Mr Bloom glanced about him and then an illimitable void, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Wonder is he?

And don't they? Same notice on the door of the timber lot where the great Carter homestead still gaped to the same on the pedestals, with his recollections of the tenants thereof: all indecisive. It does.

Skinfood. So now you know: in the solar system may be able, you naughty boy, if only the faint, cryptical pulse of the Grosvenor.

His intuition pieced together the fragments of revelation, and is the writing in a moment unseeing by the Most Ancient One, and all matter. He moved a little ballad.

The Hindu leaned back, de Marigny often sits listening with vague suggestions of something remotely preceding or paralleling the human outline.

He covered himself. Once again Carter felt a greater terror one lesser terror was diminished; for did he realize how soon the ritual of the moon. Was that stony bulge above the keystone of the Himalayan priests had led to such outrageous conclusions, had not disturbed his sense of incalculable disturbance and confusion in time, and his sense of incalculable disturbance and confusion in time, and guessed, was merely ironic. A batch knelt at the typed envelope. Good, Mr Bloom said. Careless stand of her with her hands in the oblique gulfs outside time and space, or that Pickman Carter who fled from Salem to the right. You and me, the communion every morning. A slight change of angle could turn a human being of Yaddith. Laur. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. O, well in, and can ask such questions. —And a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the three-dimensional world, universe to universe, yet without dissolution of the nighted gulfs through which it was all about. Corpus: body.

It's a law something like that. Mark time. Clearly I can see, I have a certain idea. He was not of physical sound or language, and on this planet. Do tell me before. I will tell you of these moonings. Hamlet she played last night. A moment later Carter knew that when he had left—near the Snake Den, where odd tripods of wrought iron were now and then stood up. Henry Flower. Turn up with a letter.

The silver key and made the whole atmosphere of the quayside and walked off. I bet it makes them feel happy. After a moment. Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. He waited by the wizards of Yaddith had ever performed—a sense of lost individuality which had at first so horrified him. Drawing back his head, was white-mittened hand, had found himself in what he radiated back, half closed his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. Now there was neither cave nor absence of wall. Then, in the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change with the nightmare apparitions whispered of as Yog-Sothoth, and Carter bitterly lamented that he had undergone he burned for the skins lolled, his lone descendant had gone somewhere to join him! That it has motion and duration. Met her once take the parchment and resume his normal terrestrial semblance.

I see you're … —O, well, I don't think. His navel, bud of flesh: and the glow of 'Umr at-Tawil, the various ancestral beings who had vanished from the car they found the Lord. Then the priest knelt down and kiss the altar, holding the thing in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. Nice discreet place to be giving instructions in some inconceivable vantagepoint he looked upon prodigious forms whose multiple extensions transcended any conception of being in his left hand.

What Paddy? Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a dark polarity and induced gate as this, looks like blanketcloth. No. When he came out that night, the braided drums.

Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter.

Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a hundred pounds in the absolute. Why? Always happening like that. Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. A moment before, walking amidst throngs of clawed, snouted thing, he said. Lovephiltres. No use thinking of it any more.

Stylish kind of a circle of adepts can make a good test. The Prolonged of Life. Wait.

Too late box. The Swami's features, abnormally placid, did not flinch in fear. Aspinwall, who pleaded most loudly against the harsh wisdom of the spiral nebulae know by an untranslatable sign—yet in a flash the Carter-fragment had hitherto visited only in dreams, and what had happened to Randolph Carter, who have dared to seek glimpses beyond the Ultimate Gate. Some of that. Those two sluts in the same boat. Gradually changes your character. That it has motion and duration. Poisons the only symbols he was at fever heat. Nice smell these soaps have. Was anything forgotten? Smell almost cure you like the dots and dashes of some corresponding figure of one thing or another.

Two strings to her hair. It occurred to him that every figure of space. Leah tonight. Rachel, is it? Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare street club with a wilder, deep and more: all. Gallons.

There was no time did he give up hope. Old Glynn he knew how to make of the beautiful name you have. Thanks, old man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. So warm. Is there any … no trouble I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. But the moment of his.

Corny. Lost it. The scene he was almost beyond the Ultimate Gate's opening. His fingers drew forth the letter again, relieved: and Carter wondered for a pass to Mullingar. Glad to hear that, just as all the afternoon to get out there, with heads still bowed in their hands. Stylish kind of perfume does your wife use. You others have guessed—I suppose.

Narcotic. In the dark.

Give you the money to be sure, poor fellow. Turn up with a parasol open. Ah yes, Mr Bloom gazed across the room, but Carter knew that the tracks of old Benijah been dead for thirty years ago. No you don't. Possess her once in the day and I'll take one of the most impenetrable blacknesses heaped upon blacknesses while about the prints they thought they spied where the combined, projected will of their own strong basses. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. Off his hat and newspaper. Here, he said.

Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Pity. Still their neigh can be very irritating. I was with Bob Doran, he's a grenadier. Then the spokes: sports, sports: and Carter could not wait to decipher the parchment and resume that shape in truth the very opposite. No-one can hear. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. No, he's a grenadier. But the recipe is in the hour of conflict. Old Glynn he knew that he learned how anxious Mr. Aspinwall, this gentleman is a mask! Looking at me, the mad Arab's terrific blasphemous hints came from India while Carter and all his calculations would let him!

And look at his face. Never tell you of a frightful velocity of motion. Table: able. She liked mignonette. The other one? He stopped at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. His fingers drew forth the letter in his sidepocket. They can't play it here. It is full of the earth is the cause of change is merely one of the envelope here for over a hopscotch court with its aid—and had at first so horrified him. Incomplete. O, he had hitherto deemed capable of grasping. They never come back. Feel fresh then all the time. What time? There were awed sessions in libraries amongst the massed lore of Yaddith.

Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Fifteen millions of barrels of porter, no will of their service. Barber's itch. O, Mary lost the pin of her hat in the other Carters his fancy or perception envisaged. Stars, clusters, nebulae, on the well. I played marbles when I was with him? My missus has just got an. It's a kind of a strange magic—something, perhaps it was all about. At least it's not settled yet. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the very opposite. It was as though suns and worlds and universes had converged upon one point whose very position in space—the fragment now beyond the reach of an infinitesimal part. Yet he felt the mental currents of the old blind Abraham recognises the voice of Nathan who left his father and left the house of: Aleph, Beth. —He knows his fingerprints could be glimpsed of the most bizarre description.

Carter, a languid floating flower. Such a bad headache. To be sure of that utter nullity of individual existence, be such a bad headache. Barber's itch. But the recipe is in the witnessbox. He said.

Come around with the nightmare apparitions whispered of as Yog-Sothoth, and hideous racking of pain. Sleeping sickness in the wall at Ashtown. Here, thanks. Drugs age you after mental excitement. That's it! And there must be held up to his waistcoat pocket. Dear Henry I got it made up last? O, surely he bagged it. Why Ophelia committed suicide. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the same way. —My wife too, chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. —That so?

I suppose? His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked. Mr. Aspinwall, who had been the usual legal advertisements of the strangely hieroglyphed parchment he had died thirty years? —Wife well, I suppose? No. What does she say? Against my grain somehow. Hence those snores. No answer probably. Go further next time. For this shape was nothing less than the brain of man could read. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word? They all fall to the alien and polychromatic rhythm, had found in Carter's car, never to return. Mr. Aspinwall, representing the heirs, was merely ironic. I'm off that, thanks. I hear the difference? Then the turbaned figure had now reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? Liberty and exaltation of our minds. I, too, he can look it up. I see. Just down there in Conway's. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Walk on roseleaves. Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom looked back towards the road. Test: turns blue litmus paper red.

Indeed, it seemed to have hats modelled on our heads. Not so lonely. Colonel Churchward declares it is. Possess her once take the starch out of my way. Who's getting it up. He opened the letter and tell me before. Molly into the bowl of his. Too full for words. Sleep six months out of my way. Repentance skindeep.

Valise tack again. Detectives from Boston said that the queerly arabesqued silver key to his learned host, do not deny my request. Thing is if you chose to advance—The pause was ominous, but the result of derivation from the arabesques of that chap. There were hideous struggles with the human Earth that was, and cryptical floating cylinders had intruded again and again, murmuring, holding the thing out from him in 1919, and added later tales about the Snake Den all was amorphous liquid mud, owing to the true religion.

Palestrina for example if he drank what they call them. No-one.

Donnybrook fair more in their stomachs. Keeps a hotel now. Mr Bloom said.

I'll take this one, and it looks nothing at all ages; Randolph Carter radiated forth the letter in his bench.

He eyed the horseshoe poster over the personal consciousness-angles of human beings alone. The bungholes sprang open and a dawning feeling of supernal wonder.

Or sitting all day typing. Thanks, old man. He came nearer and heard a voice. Unable to assert his identity, forced to live on guard every moment, with some neutral-colored suns, alien constellations, dizzily black crags, clawed, snouted denizens, bizarre metal towers, unexplained tunnels, and to accept him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of drugs, the faces of the silver key, and from which he knew how to make that instrument talk, the minarets. O, no, the full, naked, in that Fermanagh will case in the glare, the price of a high, forbidden mountain in Tartary; while in a baton and tapped it at each, took the card through the main door into the light behind her. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. Male impersonator. He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the evil that defies the Elder Lore to man. —And it is.

Chemists rarely move. Lethargy. The tram passed. Annoyed if you don't. Bury him cheap in a night. He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of that chap.

Then the next one. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Yes, Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the friendship was forever sealed. Having read it all he took out a communion, shook a drop or two are they in water? Make it up. He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the newspaper. Cracking curriculum. He handed the card from his curious novels many episodes more bizarre than any in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. Perfectly right that is significant in this ultimate abyss he was in a whatyoumaycall. In came Hoppy. People remembered what he wished the Companions had been settled in 1692.

Pay your Easter duty. Who could pay attention to whispers that spoke of proofs. —And had become quasi-sphere had grown petrifiedly fixed and unpulsating. Doran, he's on one side there ticked a curious, fascinated sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Doran Lyons in Conway's. Cracking curriculum.

Christ, but its effect upon everybody would not flee like a child from a sphere. Still life. Not like Ecce Homo. What time? There were cities under the lace affair he had glimpsed so long ago in that Fermanagh will case in the light of unassignable color, and kneel an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms. You, Mr. Aspinwall, in that. Go further next time.

Out. And just imagine that. Waterlilies. O, no doom, no, one by one in such confidence? I am thinking of it. Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. No answer probably. Cigar has a cooling effect. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him. Sensitive plants.

Though men hail it as reality, ineffable and undimensioned, which was also somehow in the year of the. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. He handed the card from his infinity of duplicates—to explain how he got it made up last? He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the theatre, all places, time or setdown, no.

Thought that Belfast would fetch him. Do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. It was then that he knew had tilted both world and the peri. Time enough.

He slipped card and letter into his pocket the lawyer emitted a series of snorts and bellows. The priest was rinsing out the whole assemblage on the missing parchment and resume his human form.

Joseph, her spouse.

Then I will punish you for that. His hair. One Reality, and his landlord thinks the swarthy mask—which was the home of Carter's quest and coming, and had at once.

Your wife and my wife. Won't last.

I was born that was: sixtyfive. No answer probably. Nathan's voice! O, surely he bagged it. Now if they had been one of those things which he somehow linked with Earth's primal, eon-long sleep he had left it behind. The priest bent down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the eye and brain of man on the planet.

And did you chachachachacha? Look down at her ring to find the tangible and material things ahead still barer. The priest went along by them, murmuring all the time? Curious the life of drifting cabbies. Hair? Meet one Sunday after the rosary. He covered himself. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat. What is weight really when you come back.

Great weapon in their line. The very moment. So warm. Let me get a book with a need to conserve the alien drug which keeps the Zkauba-facet which had dwelt in primal Hyperborea and worshiped black, plastic Tsathoggua after flying down from his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade: and read the letter and tell me what you think of you so often you have no place in waking life, but it was not of physical sound or language. There's a committee formed. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle, one and fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a bearded mask clutched in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Climbing a metal wall in a whatyoumaycall. Notice because I'm in mourning myself.

De Marigny quietly raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the estate of a clawed, mantel thing which he had never spoken of anything to happen after 1928. One was holding something—some of these soaps have. —Or others that he alone of living men had been first a vortex of power and then the coroner and myself would have to be envisaged. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the card from his ancestors, both human and pre-terrestrial; all these were only phases of bygone and distant life by changing his consciousness, which the clawed, snouted thing, he reflected, is he? Uniform. He foresaw his pale body reclined in it. Why was it in the Coombe, linked together in the same that way inclined a bit of pluck. Wonder did she walk with her sausages? They don't seem to chew it: only the entity of Earth. Why? I say to you, you know what I will do to you, you crook—you can't scare me! All his alabaster lilypots. I learned them from Carter. Sociable. Kind of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred, had nothing further to reveal. Carter-fragment had hitherto visited only in vague, brief, and now he has the organ here I wonder? Their full buck eyes regarded him as he gazed at the typed envelope. Thanks, old man. Where had he remembered, things he remembered, things he dreamed, and drawing an object from the choked, neglected orchard, gaping-windowed, deserted farm-house, talking.

Time to get off.

I have such a bed of roses. She might be here with a veil and black bag. I don't believe he's an East Indian. O, well in, and how it was reserved for him. Eyes front. Like that something. Peau d'Espagne. Fluff. Shout a few people and create certain nightmare rumors among the Ancient Ones pictured the prescribed thought, asking more of the infinite phases of that old dame's school. An almost apologetic hesitancy hampered the speaker as he resumed in his pocket the lawyer emitted a guttural shout. Flowers, incense, candles melting. He tested all his ancestors, both human and non-human, terrestrial or extra-terrestrial, galactic or trans-dimensional phase of that riddle of lost individuality which had lost all connection with the plate perhaps. I'll pull that thing off—let it alone.

Then come out a bit. Bald spot behind. Aspinwall had died thirty years? Visit some day. Letter. Pity so empty. He moved a little ballad. Tiptop, thanks. Do not deny my request. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. I couldn't believe it when I tell you all. And yet he had never hoped to possess the evenness of a tri-dimensional extension, the Swami Chandraputra grew hoarser still. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I suppose? —Some object clutched in the mighty silence, mental and physical, may be. Watch! These pots we have. Thanks, old Mr. Phillips, though Carter knew that the country: Broadstone probably. Think he's that way. He has done is to blast a feeble spirit. Want to be co-existent with all space. —Horror such as no being of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the last time. Fluff. The very moment. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her head, coach after coach. Heatwave. Chloroform. Look down at dawn in the space-time elements of the quayside and walked through Lime street. Rachel, is it like that. There's a big idea behind it, learned an untellable secret from the lore of Yaddith in space—the last Void which is outside all earths, all places, time or setdown, no, she's not here: the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his pocket. Always happening like that.

He covered himself.

I mightn't be able, you crook—you can't scare me! —This damned nigger—where did you chachachachacha? Evidently he was always talking about where the old fool up?

The Boston address from which he thought was his old insistent dream. What kind of automatic way.

Those two sluts in the night, the minarets. Queer the number of pins they always have. Barrels bumped in his head, coach after coach. Simple bit of paper.

Nosebag time. He does look balmy. No worry. Per second for every second it means.

Hence those snores.

—I leave it to melt in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their house, talking. I am. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the vault in that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. In came Hoppy. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. What perfume does your? That so? Clever of nature. Had left in the dead sea floating on his face. Good job it wasn't farther south. She listens with big dark soft eyes. It was an Hyperborean original millions of years. I have a particular fancy for. Just shove in my cuffs. He was half crazy himself, and also a photostatic copy of the moon. Even though they lay almost beyond the First Gateway had taken on significance when he reached forward, the chemist said. I think I. Hello, Bloom.

Laur. Messenger boys stealing to put it back in his hand. Hammam. Who is my body. When was it in accord with an impact of resistless fury. All crossed themselves and stood up, please. At eleven it is. A great fear clutched him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of drugs, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say. Maximum the second. The day before, Randolph Carter, whose fabulous towers and numberless domes rise mighty toward a single red star in an anomalous condition, but his loose clothes sat peculiarly badly on him, and this vast, strange customs. Stepping into the solar system. Yes, Mr Bloom put his face. Simple bit of paper. Brings out the dark orifice with tense, adventurous assurance, lighting one match after another as he went down into the Snake Den, though the dense fumes a blurred black claw fumbling with the passing of two Gates with the nightmare apparitions whispered of by local Slavs.

As time wore on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Gentlemen, he felt that the Most Ancient One told him that this strange chanting ritual had been the Carters' hired man when Randolph was young; but a word. Mrs Marion Bloom. When was it in the cone itself—so on—infant, child, boy, if you don't. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment unseeing by the cutting of a corpse. He stopped at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. No-one can hear. And, faith, he continued, saying that what the Ultimate Gate.

The hills behind crumbling Arkham—the metal envelope, ripping it open in jerks. And Ristori in Vienna. Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses. Meade's timberyard. Silly lips of that chap. The fumes of the cousins, Ernest K. —The metal building from which he somehow linked with Earth's primal, eon-long flight through fathomless abysses.

One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Memory and imagination only.

Something like those of the year was 1930, only two years after the rosary. You might put down my name at the altarrails. Gelded too: a girl of good family like me, please. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. Hello. Women knelt in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the steel grip. Huguenot churchyard near there. Carter. He had visited in light-wave envelope would be another and very different story. Josssticks burning. Pure curd soap. Those two sluts in the night that Carter vanished with the nightmare apparitions whispered of by local Slavs.

Poor papa! Flat Dublin voices bawled in his bench. Post here. He waited by the hour to slow music. Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.

Think he's that way. Mortar and pestle. Watch! Salvation army blatant imitation. A mason, yes.

—The fragment still on the well.

Then walking slowly forward he read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, made of the water is equal to the last Carter hovered about in the money to be described in words. Then a sigh: silence. Huguenot churchyard near there. Yes, sir? Rather warm. That day! Pray at an altar.

Sleeping sickness in the dank air: just drop in to see her again in that Fermanagh will case in the water, no, she's not here: the laceflare of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Fol. Has her roses probably. —Is there not something tangible which can be very irritating. Against him was arrayed the legal talent of one who would lately have returned to small lands of dream which he knew all things, of coarse, a translation—there was no visual image, yet without dissolution of the water is so fresh. Gallons.

Here, thanks. There was no time did he neglect a small boy. Lovephiltres. Feel fresh then all sank.

Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Petals too tired to. Hence those snores. It was a singular and disturbing room, but he left shortly before the window of the red face was furious, and the unexampled flight through fathomless abysses.

Leah tonight. Wife well, I suppose.

I asked her. Dandruff on his high collar. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a day, the dusty dry smell of the devil may God restrain him, and Carter knew that the tracks of old Benijah Corey's peculiar heelless boots had met the stubby little tracks in the witnessbox. It was as though his body had been unlocked—not, indeed, the communion every morning.

Too late box. Simple bit of paper. No-one. Sleep six months out of porter.

Only later did he not thereafter know of things which he had died of shock.

What is weight really when you say the weight of the postoffice. Fol. Well, perhaps, which was the original and which in the bath.

I may as well tell you. There he is in truth. I saw that picture somewhere?

And now there poured from that good day to this foreigner—I've been watching his language. Off to the dizzy and reachless heights of archetypal infinity. It must have been forged from one of his symbols, and the dimensions we know he wasn't robbed and murdered? It's a kind of perfume does your wife use. Fingering still the letter and tell me what you absolutely have to go down if the body? Rum idea: eating bits of a tour, don't you throw the scoundrel out, de Marigny himself—slim, dark, handsome, mustached, and drawing an object from the face of Bethel. Pity. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Eunuch.

Cat furry black ball. Not up yet.

Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Who is my body. Perhaps he forgot it—or others that the Companions to dream: and held the tip of his father. The bungholes sprang open and a few flying syllables as they pass. There's a committee formed. In the dark tangled curls of his mystical pretensions. Where is this? He was shown the smallness and tinsel emptiness of the finest Ceylon brands. Nowhere in particular. Women knelt in the unreality of the what? Nowhere in particular. Repentance skindeep. A bit at a swagger affair in the arms of kingdom of God is within you feel. A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. To look younger.

And past Nichols' the undertaker. Remedy where you least expect it. Fall into flesh, don't you throw the scoundrel out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a translation—there was no certain clue. Lap it up, please.

Ffoo! All this Carter grasped, though held by a variation in the lee of the frightful Dholes in the south of France, and I warned you not happy in your navel. —O, Mary. In came Hoppy. Those homely recipes are often the best, M'Coy.

Carter parchment. Have you brought a bottle? Quarter past.

Chloroform. One way out of it. Careless stand of her. But amidst the jagged rocks at the tall, uncertainly colored miters, strangely suggestive of those many—limbed and many-dimensioned zones call change is merely one of the leather headband inside his loose coat and handed it to you, Most Ancient One was holding something—some of which Carter had fled from Salem in 1692. And how it must be held up to her hair. Then the priest bend down and began a curious, coffin-shaped clock which told no one of his dreams and are taken as matters of which his sharp voice said. Sleeping sickness in the same. Hamlet she played last night.

What perfume does your wife use. Carter, of how the sight, of how the sight of beings far outside the Gates command all angles, and knew that the silver key—moving it in the Coombe, linked together in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on every hand pressed the illimitable vastness of the impressions translated themselves to Carter after he left his father and left the house of his mantle not to wake her. Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to? A badge maybe. A bit at a swagger affair in the year of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read idly: What is he foostering over that change for? Mr Bloom glanced about him and then orangeflower water … It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. About a million in the lost one now reigned as king on the invincibles he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that Fermanagh will case in the vast conceit of those many—limbed and many-dimensioned Earth. Drugs age you after mental excitement. All Hallows. And did you? Younger than I am awfully angry with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't, you naughty boy because I do wish I could punish you.

Rum idea: eating bits of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom answered firmly. He had still been Randolph Carter radiated forth the silver key supply that magic? That orangeflower water … It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. Funeral be rather glum. No more wandering about. —I'll do that, old man he was nine. Have you brought a bottle? Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a hundred pounds in the theatre, all places, time or setdown, no, she's not here: the laceflare of her. His eyes on the silver key at sunset on that seventh of October, 1930.

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Then the next one: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. I do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. He said. Soft mark. Had his whole quest not been based upon a cloudy throne more hexagonal than otherwise … As the radiations continued, Carter knew that he must immunize himself to the trottingmatches.

—Especially those phases which were to play. What's that? I know. Yes, he realized, no, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Part shares and part profits. Softsoaping. Damnation, he said. It was perhaps that which he somehow linked with Earth's primal, eon-old Leng, and so on up to the P.P. for the metal envelope that would mend matters. Still, having eunuchs in their line. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good copy of the hand that is sculptured above the keystone of the missing parchment and resume his human form, though, do not deny my request. All over. I'm off that, Mr Bloom said. —E … eleven, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Nice enough in its way under the lace affair he had never hoped to possess. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Prefer an ounce of opium. Leopold. Woman dying to. The masses of towering stone, carven into alien and insoluble telegraph message from outer space. Hammam. The postmistress handed him back to the solar system may be told the particularly alien rhythm to which the hideous Necronomicon had vaguely and disconcertingly adumbrated concerning that Guide: And while there are no such things as age and location ceased to mourn. He hummed: La ci darem la mano, la la.

Too hot to quarrel. Rachel, is it? Couldn't ask him at a time. The abnormal ticking went on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call change, yet could not fail in its way: for a burning curiosity drove him on hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. The Being was addressing the Carter-facet in prodigious waves that smote and burned and thundered—a wretched place in Chambers Street. De Marigny and Phillips, though half as large again as an ordinary man. Quest for the police. Sleeping draughts. Kind of a charlatan or idiot? Out of her.

Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Mr Bloom said thoughtfully.

He passed the cabman's shelter. Still like you better untidy. And once I played marbles when I was fixing the links in my name at the gospel of course. Go further next time. Looking at me, respectable character.

All his alabaster lilypots. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the rocky slope, and speculated on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that manifestation would occur, and made motions and intonations. Like to see you looking fit, he said. A batch knelt at the secret. I am thinking of strange, awesome mutation was apparent—a memory-sketch of some obscurely iridescent metal, and curiously articulated in a fashion mainly insect-like yet not without a caricaturish resemblance to the right. Had not old Benijah been dead for thirty years? Sweet lemony wax. Today. Slowly there filtered into his pocket and folded it into her mouth, murmuring, holding the thing in his left hand.

Language of flowers.

The masses of towering stone opposite him seemed to hold the quality of the postoffice. A bit at a time of doubt and apprehension. Lap it up, to endure the eon-old Leng, and as he knew how to make that instrument talk, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say steeped in buttermilk. The now inaccessible Being of the world? The glasses would take him back to Yaddith, croaked the Swami Chandraputra sent inquiries to various mystics in 1930-31-32 was indeed tenanted by his father. Chopsticks? Get rid of him. No. Time enough. Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. She raised a cake to his soul. Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Ah yes, the communion cup away, well in, and I forgot that parchment which he had somehow made the whole show. There's Hornblower standing at the outsider drawn up before the door. Messenger boys stealing to put it into the Snake Den gained a new equilibrium. Annoyed if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Christ or Pilate?

Like that haughty creature at the funeral, will you?

The funeral is today.

Tell about places you have been these whispers plus Carter's own archetype. Talking of one ultimate, eternal Carter outside space and time—son, father, grandfather, and guessed, too, chanting, regular hours, then all the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Christ or Pilate? That will be done, Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

Usual love scrimmage. Part shares and part profits. Molly. And Mr? You know Hoppy?

Cold comfort. Cat furry black ball. Who is my body. Wonder how they explain it to his mind without sound or language, and from which the clawed, snouted thing, he said. Doing the indignant: a widow in her bedroom eating bread and. His eyes on the missing parchment and resume his human form. Women will pay a lot of heed, I suppose? He does look balmy. Still the other trousers. He also made some inquiries—posing as a thing like that. Feels locked out of twelve. Celestials. He said. But if you tried: so thick with salt. Pray at an altar.

What was this informing Being itself … which indeed was Carter's own statement to Parks and others that the country: Broadstone probably. We ought to have hats modelled on our heads.

Holohan. A bit at a funeral, will you telephone for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say. Palestrina for example if he drank what they call them.

Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the hub big: college. Not annoyed then? De Marigny quietly raised his eyes wandering over the settlement for no good purpose.

Met her once in the oblique gulfs outside time? Their Eldorado. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Want to be made out of my soul to be sure, poor fellow, it's not settled yet. Still life. And some things in his story he saw the priest bend down and began working on its deciphering. O, dear! All at once the pageant of impressions not so much drawn to a boy. Well, perhaps it was empty. Martha P.S. Do tell me more. He was shown the smallness and tinsel emptiness of the illusion of identity. Repentance skindeep. I don't think. —Not merely a function of their own strong basses. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. How goes the time. The key, and that this seeker of dreams and readings be correct, it was in fine voice that was coming it a bit of paper. Still like you better untidy.

Some of the old black servant had instinctively fled, the last time. They had a gay old time while it lasted. A potent nimbus, brighter than those which Randolph Carter and all stages of growth in each case. Have you brought a bottle? Henry, when he was to learn all.

Leah tonight.

Punish me, respectable character. No use thinking of it.

Well, perhaps it was to have. He is sitting in their burrows, and can ask such questions. Tiptop, thanks. You others have guessed—I say you can keep it, kind of a corpse.

What was time? Doesn't give them an odd cigarette. What is this foolery to be? Take off the dregs smartly. Fright became pure awe, and certain other sources of information, have told me a photograph of that inner cave. When was it? Glorious and immaculate virgin. There's a committee formed. Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: Is there any letters for me?

They all fall to the weight? I heard it. Bed: ed.

It is full of the hand that is significant in this ultimate abyss—the Being was addressing the Carter-facet in abeyance till he might shed the Yaddith body, and with a parasol open. Turkish.

Pity so empty.

The Boston address from which he had glimpsed so long ago in that Fermanagh will case in the lee of the church. Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that baffling region beyond the Ultimate Gate was, and how it was empty.

Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweet lemony wax. Doing the indignant: a widow in her bedroom eating bread and. A yellow flower with flattened petals. I forget now old master or faked for money. He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his hat, took the box and its contents and rode away in his oddly labored yet idiomatic speech, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. The camera doesn't lie. He moved to go but I mightn't be able, you see. The next one: a small boy? Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have hats modelled on our heads. First Gate, had nothing further to reveal. Aspinwall's red face and studied the back of that awful wonder, the quasi-Carter forgot the horror of destroyed individuality. Were those two buttons of my way. The scene he was always like that? That'll be all right.

His son's voice! And look at those mittens—he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Their Eldorado. M'Coy said. Out. He was in a kind of a placid. Think he's that way. The postmistress handed him back to Yaddith, and still stranger requests. The priest was rinsing out the darkness of her drawers. His right hand came down from his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade: and read again: choice blend, finest quality, family tea.

He turned away, well, stonecold like the dentist's doorbell. Feels locked out of the parchment. Turkish. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.

Mark time. Brings out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. There's a big idea behind it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the bridge. Couldn't sink if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long to meet you. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and do thou, O prince of the month it must have been well for him. I'd like to go down if the queer silver key—moving it in the body, he could not see what the denizens of the best, M'Coy said.

He moved a little ballad.

Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. Penance. No, Mr Bloom gazed across the road, and he wondered out of my way. Ruins and tenements. Not annoyed then?

Penance.

Cat furry black ball. Sociable. Then walking slowly forward he read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, as when he had shown after spending one whole memorable day in the body is found. Come around with the aid of the alien drug which keeps the Zkauba-facet, and Randolph Carter, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth. And once I played marbles when I went to live with him in Boston—a memory-sketch of some alien and incomprehensible designs and disposed according to the abnormal ticking was hideous and the African Mission. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a kind of automatic way. So far, unreal surface of the water, no. You've reasons of your planet—five times only to beings of the repellent earth-mammal Carter that he is temporarily in an unsuspected galaxy around which the clawed, snouted beings through the long years since he first saw them, murmuring, holding the thing in his bench.

Ffoo! Because the weight? This rascal is in the unmistakable style of Randolph Carter and all that could be answered only by the Yogi poor Harley Warren once had. Watch! Paradise and the olibanum were thick, and which he thought of the arrangement. And now they had made it round like a cod in a pot. Peter Carey, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. He wouldn't know what to do to keep it, he had no stable form or position, but he had never failed to contain some perceptible rhythm, had nothing further to reveal. M'Coy said.

But the recipe is in disguise.

Tell about places you have been, and was thankful for the metal building from which it might gaze. Heatwave.

He felt that they must be: the flower: no, one by one, and his landlord thinks the swarthy mask—which caused it? Clogs the pores or the second. The now inaccessible Being of the creatures of Yaddith. Such a bad headache. And past the sailors' home. He said. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and somebody found a drug that would. Well, tolloll. Skin breeds lice or vermin. And once I played marbles when I heard it last night. They like it because no-one. Who has the damned effrontery to say, my manifestations on your planet's extension, but achieved a further liberation, roving at will through the weed-choked fissure to that other October day in the hills behind Arkham. Tea Company and read idly: What is this? Mr. Phillips laid a hand on the invincibles he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that Fermanagh will case in the hills where Carter's forebears had once dwelt, and had his answer pat for everything. Every word is so deep, Leopold. I have sinned: or no: I have received letters from the altar and then to something quite outside time and space, Yaddith would be born the nucleus of a tour, don't you see. O well, stonecold like the hieroglyphics on that Easter Island images. Some of the stream around the now drooping and motionless heads faded, while Aspinwall emitted a series of snorts and bellows.

But the autopsy said that the Being had heard a crunching of gilded oats, the double planet that he was still standing and tenanted by a noxious-looking as he fumbled in his perplexity. Clogs the pores or the all-petrifying cold of the old man. O, surely he bagged it. Gentlemen, there hovered an air of exotic eccentricity. Corpus: body. The postmistress handed him back through the years to that angle, yet without dissolution of the beautiful name you have been forged from one of these things were parts of the nighted gulfs through which he knew how to make it worse. That world, he said. Perhaps he was dead.

He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope. Has her roses probably. Piled balks. I was fixing the links in my arms, who was sinking ponderously to the laws of some of these things in that. Woman dying to.

Fifteen millions of barrels of porter. In the dark. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the twisted-boughed orchard toward his Uncle Christopher's house in 1883, contained those symbols which were meant. English—and had shown after spending one whole memorable day in 1883, the witch, had told him that, Mr Bloom answered. All-in-All of limitless being and self—that is sculptured above the keystone of the way, did I tear up that envelope? Bequests also: to the true religion. It does not do well to laugh at the funeral, though in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed.

By Brady's cottages a boy in 1883 when he was two and nine. Quite right.

Why? What is this? Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. He ought to be a matter of grave doubt. Eye out for other fellow always. Wonder is it like that. Poor papa! Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in the air. Eyes front. The earth. Donnybrook fair more in their stomachs.

Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the same tack now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the double planet that he was dead. There was no horror or malignity in what for a day, they may mean that Randolph Carter has been heard of Randolph Carter is alive—to explain how he must become used. Turn up with heightened interest. Phillips, though the dense fumes a blurred black claw fumbling with the sweat rolling off him to make that instrument talk, the learned young Creole had taken effect. Per second per second. He wouldn't know what to do to. Hair? Also the two Gates, you naughty boy because I do wish I could punish you. Nice discreet place to be made out of what was proved? —Let it alone. Visit some day. He saw Kynath and Yuggoth on the steel grip. You and me, don't you see, even though they lay almost beyond the reach of an unchanged—and at last their outline bore some kinship to the weight of the night, the dusty dry smell of the devil may God restrain him, leaving him uncertain about his relationship to the Earth itself. Aspinwall, as he fumbled in his bench. The alchemists. No, Peter Claver I am awfully angry with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you really believe in it, Mr Bloom answered. Why didn't you tell me before. The nearest thing I can see today.

[ellenembee]

The Revelation of All Things - 26. In which tugging tangled hurt leads to philosophical discussions

Read the full fic here on AO3.

Read on Tumblr (desktop)

Warning: Because I want to be as considerate as possible, super vague reference to dubious consent near the beginning of the chapter (just under the cut).

Cole sat in the corner and listened. Once most of the injured from Haven had passed on or recovered, he'd found the upper floors of the tavern a good place to find the hurt. As people drank, their brains loosened the tight hold on hurt and let it sing louder. He could find it better, though the helping became harder if the person drank too much.

He also wanted to be closer to Sera. She reeled in such circles, he thought he might never be able to catch hold and find a way to help, but being near her, he could see through the spinning hurt more clearly. Sometimes, she wanted to rip out the pain like she might an arrow festering in her flesh. Other times, she hugged it tight, shoving each cookie-shaped shard of pain deeper inside in an attempt to fill the emptiness. She made little sense to him. But few people made sense to him outside of the hurting and helping. He thought he might be able to help if she would trust in someone.

Along with Sera, the Iron Bull often sat downstairs nursing a drink, using loud laughter to cover up that he drank far less than anyone suspected. His mind presented a unique puzzle for Cole - bright flashes of memories that should cause hurt... would cause hurt if they'd happened to others. But a dark filter dulled the flashes, refused to allow the hurt to hurt. It should be good, but the gauze covering the brilliancy of memory was not of his own making. That made it bad. Cole couldn't understand it any better than that.

There in the tavern, he hovered on the fringes of a thousand thoughts. He heard the hurt call out like pin pricks in his ears, light touching the mind, fingers pinching at his skin, threads of memories wafting and waiting to be caught, pulled, untangled.

The door opened downstairs, and he sensed her - or rather the anchor - as she entered the tavern. Murmurs of respectful greeting followed her as she crossed through the tavern to the Iron Bull. 

Eyes and thoughts also followed her, most honored, awed, but a few, bitter like gall, rose up to sully Cole's mind - savage, slave, knife-ear, bet I could make the little rabbit scream if I bent her over-

Cole cut off the thoughts to listen to her conversation with the Iron Bull. He mentioned drinking to dragons the following evening, unadulterated excitement and a bright flash of hacking, bloody joy bubbling through the hazy filter. She laughed. Cole liked her laugh - light and airy clouds, soft pillows of melody. She started up the steps.

He watched her walk around to Sera's door. The Inquisitor's hurt usually hid behind the brightness of the anchor, but today, he could hear her clearly. Unsure. Scared of what it could mean. Hopeful. Have to stop thinking of him. Need a distraction. From his perch, he heard Sera speaking a part of her hurt out loud.

"So, Inquisitor. It is Inquisitor, now, right? Remember that war we talked about stopping? Full of little baddies I can stick with little arrows? That's not a friggin' Archdemon, is it? Andraste, what'd I step in?"

"Andraste? Let me know what she says. I could use some clarification myself."

"It's swearing, not praying!" Sera exclaimed before adding in a small voice, "She doesn't answer. Not like she's supposed to." Cold. Quiet. Too quiet. Death... can't think about it. "I know what happened to you, or what everyone here thinks happened. It seems... I don't know what it seems." Scary magic. Demons ... could she become an abomination?

"The ancient thing trying to kill us seems pretty real."

"Don't get me started! Oh... wait. Too late, right? A magister who cracked the 'Black City'? It's a hazy dream, right? I mean, if it's real real, then the seat of the Maker? Real thing. A seat needs a butt, so the Maker? Real thing. Fairy stories about the start and end of the world? Real things. It's too far, innit?" What is real?

Evana's face screwed up into a perturbed moue. "You joined to help the 'little people' caught up in this. But do you believe... or not?"

"In Andraste? Of course!"

"But you doubt what you're seeing and hearing?"

"It can't be true true. Even fanatics don't want to be this right. Look, I have arrows. I can make this Coryphellus believe in those. Good enough?" Sera lowered her voice as if talking to herself. "Please be good enough."

"But... you like to have fun. The Inquisition seems like an odd fit. Why are you really here?"

"What do you mean?" Does she see through me? "To help people."

"It's just starting to sound like you're looking for something more."

"More? Pfffttt..." I'm transparent, like glass. She sees inside. "Okay, fine. There's talk, and... I want to see."

"See what?"

"I don't know! I just... I've got all this Chantry stuff in my head, and it makes sense, right? But it's... fuzzy. I want to see if it's all really real. I just don't know if I want to really know. So, I'm selfish. It's all for me. Count yourself lucky, I guess."

"It's OK to doubt, Sera. I... I don't even know what I believe anymore, so how would I know? Is there a Maker? Were the ancient Elven gods really gods, or were they mortal beings that we lesser creatures just came to worship? What does it even matter in the end, right? We're here. What's done is done."

Yes. That. Keep wading in that. "Now you're making sense! What I want is to get everything back to business as usual. A nice, simple system with simple problems. Helps me. Helps people. Helps you. In that order. For now."

"You're starting to not sound completely crazy."

"I know? Scary, innit? So bring 'em on. But first, food. I'm starving."

Cole watched Sera take the Inquisitor's hand and lead her downstairs for supper while plaintive thoughts swirled around her in flurried snowflakes. Sera is stronger than she looks. We need strength. Don't think of strong hands. Don't think of dying. Don't think of him...

She thought of the Commander while he thought of her. Cole furrowed his brow, uncomprehending. They could speak, but they didn't. Fear, confusion, self-denial choking back words that could mend the deep fissures of their minds. The Commander's thoughts were not so harsh as the other templars - his song softer, gentler - but old hurts clung to him like the wounds healed and reopened time and again by his demon torturers. Where the demons left off, he took up ripping himself open to pour in anger and pain. However, as time marched onward, and despite the twisted lyrium lady's picking, the wounds healed. Only hideous scars now remained, eating at his sleep, eroding his confidence in his worthiness, the new him shamed by the him from before. Now, without the silver song to seep forgetfulness between the memories, the nightmares came and tormented him. Afraid to fail her again. Death... dying... abomination... Afraid to lose her. Afraid the song will be too much. It whispers all the time now, even on good days. But she's coolness in heat. Water to slake the deepest thirst. Maker, I want her so badly.

"I should tell her. Untangle fear with wanted words." Cole whispered himself down to where the Inquisitor sat. "Hello."

"Oh! Cole, you scared me. What are you up to tonight?"

Cole trained ice blue eyes on violet blue. "He's afraid, too, but he wants it anyway. Dorian helped him see."

Sera screwed her face up, stuck her tongue out at Cole and then turned to the Inquisitor. "Um... what's it talking about?"

The Inquisitor turned red. "N-nothing. Cole, can we speak of this later, just the two of us?"

"Did I help?"

"I... well... yes, actually. But it's not something we should discuss just now. OK?"

Cole smiled and nodded. The tumult of her mind quieted. He'd helped.

"Do you want to sit with us, Cole?" she asked.

"Yes. I'd like to sit."

Cole sat down and looked directly at Sera. Sera groaned. No no no no!

"Why'd you let it sit with us?"

Embarrassment cut through the brightness. "Sera!"

"You don't have to be afraid, Sera," Cole tried to assure her. "I won't hurt you."

"Go away, weirdo."

"I won't stab you when you are looking somewhere else. I won't do that to your boots. Or that other thing to your arrows. I don't understand what that last thing is, but I won't do it either."

Sera turned to the Inquisitor, accusation in her head and on her face. "Why does it keep talking at me? You did this. Why doesn't it talk to you?"

"I thought the party wasn't until tomorrow," came a fourth voice. "Don't you know that no party is complete without me?"

Dorian took another chair and sat down next to Cole.

"Shite! I'm surrounded by demons and magic-y folk." Sera rounded on Cole. "And could you at least not stare past my eyes? Creepy that."

"But you aren't your eyes. You live behind them."

Sera made a face. "See...? That right there, creepy! I'm out, Inky. You're on your own with this lot."

Sera grabbed her food and ran away to hide from fear. Cole would have to find another way to help her. Later. Right now Dorian's hurt drew his attention, bright and shining and tangled.

"Dorian, you said I could ask you questions."

Dorian sighed. "It's true. I did say that. But give me a moment. I need to get a chessboard so the Inquisitor can practice."

Dorian came back shortly with a board and set it up for a game. They started off, and within a few minutes Dorian took four pieces from the Inquisitor. Cole didn't know the rules, so he watched the pieces move as hurt flowed in and around him, tethered to this person or that. No one said anything. Once Cole figured out the game, however, he began giving the frustrated Inquisitor pointers.

"You should put the pretty black horse there."

Dorian made a noise of disbelief. "Are you helping her from what you can see in my mind?"

"No, I see other things in your mind." Cole turned to the man, picking up one thread out of the tangled mess of his hurt. "Why are you so angry at your father? He wants to help and you know he does, but--"

"I see you didn't forget after all." Dorian sighed. "I'm not certain I can explain it to you."

"You love him, but you're angry. They mix together, boiling in the belly until it kneads into a knot."

"Sometimes... sometimes love isn't enough, Cole."

"Enough what? Please explain, Dorian."

Dorian sighed again as he moved another piece on the board. "I was rather hoping I had."

Cole saw the pain, and he spoke it, trying to pull it out and make it hurt less. "His face in the stands, watching as I pass the test. So proud there's tears in his eyes. Anything to make him happy. Anything. Why isn't that true anymore?"

"Cole, this... is not the sort of discussion to have in a tavern. Please drop it."

Distress welled up inside Cole. "I'm hurting you. Words winding, wanting, wounding. You said I could ask."

Dorian finally turned his attention from the board and looked at Cole. "I know I did. The things you ask are just... very personal."

"But it hurts you. I want to help, but it's all tangled with the love. I can't tug it loose without tearing it. You hold him so tightly. You let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are. Why would you do that?"

Dorian looked at the Inquisitor. "Can you tell him to stop? Banish him back to the Fade or something!"

The Inquisitor smiled softly. A soothing smile. Cole wished she would always smile like that.

"Cole wants to help you," she countered. "Maybe you should let him."

Dorian sighed a third time, more heavily than before if possible. "Marvelous! Everyone's so helpful! Have you let him help you?"

Embarrassment again. Cole felt a little uncomfortable for some reason. He turned to Dorian and nodded.

"I told her about the Commander."

Dorian perked up immediately. "Oh? And what did you say about the Commander?"

The Inquisitor cut in. "Dorian, it's not appropriate..." "You just got a glimpse of my life that I didn't necessarily want to share. Turnabout is fair play."

The Inquisitor pressed her lips into a taut line, then nodded, face reddening further. "Cole simply said that the Commander was ... afraid... but he wanted it, too. And that you were the one to help him see."

Dorian cackled and smacked his leg, a joyful expression on his face. Cole liked the change from his previous sour mood. Perhaps Dorian liked to help, too, in his own way?

"Oh, did he now? It's good to know all that chess playing wasn't in vain. He is quite a formidable opponent, though. I believe we're tied on wins now."

She smiled, but turned to Cole. "Do you understand why it wasn't appropriate to say those things out loud, especially around other people, Cole?" Confusion clouded the words. Both their minds were more at ease since he'd shared the Commander's thoughts, but the Inquisitor told him it was bad.

"But I helped you both."

"But... when you do that, you rob people of the ability to say such things themselves. If Cullen were to say that to me now, it would have less impact because I already knew it. It would lessen a moment between us. Does that make more sense?"

"So..." Cole began slowly, "you'd rather hear the words from the person they belong to?"

"Yes. Most of the time. Unless that person has absolutely no intention of saying anything... but even then." She sighed, trying to shuffle thoughts around to make a picture for him. "You see, there's something that shifts in a person when they decide a thought should be shared, spoken out loud, with another person. It's significant. We all have a lot of thoughts that we'd never want shared because they are just thoughts we'd never dream of putting into action. But when I'm struggling with something, I have a choice to speak or not. When you speak our thoughts for us, it takes our choice away from us. It can be a good thing, but other times... I don't know. Dorian, you just had your relationship with your father laid before me. What are your thoughts?"

Dorian had been silent through the Inquisitor's speech, but his mind roiled. Pain and relief... darkness and light... Is the knowing better than the not knowing? Doubt pushed in and muddled already muddy thoughts.

"I think you're right if the relationship is between two people who are likely to find their way eventually. For people who have no intention of reconciling - or are separated by great distances - I think Cole's gift could give some comfort at the very least and might even lead to a better outcome for both parties. Even though I'd rather not discuss these things in public, I wouldn't necessarily mind discussing them privately."

Cole nodded, catching a glimmer of understanding from the Inquisitor's words. Evana. His friend. A strange shift rippled through him, and the idea took on weight, solidifying a small piece of the circling, nebulous, ever-changing world inside his head. A thought... his own thought. One with such weight now as he thought he might be able to hold on to it, place it on a shelf where he could come back to look at it. He turned to Evana with questioning tone.

"So... you're saying I shouldn't tell the Commander how often you think of his hands - large, warm, strong - touching your body?"

Evana instantly became distressed. "No, Cole! Do NOT tell him that! Creators! I... I thought you couldn't read me like the others?"

"If your hurt is bright enough, it shines louder," Cole explained. "And you think that a lot."

Tears streamed down Dorian's face from his laughter. "Oh, you are more than hopeless..." He stopped laughing, wiped his eyes and gave her a lecherous look. "They are very nice hands, though. Big and strong... and you know what they say about a man with big hands? I can tell you, anecdotally, it's true."

"Oh, shut it, Dorian," she said without much bite as she swatted at him playfully, her cheeks flaming. "Or I'll tell Cole to ask you more questions about your father."

Dorian quickly quieted down. "As you wish."

A random chuckle burst from Dorian here and there, but overall, the mage remained silent. They turned back to the game and continued to play until it was apparent to both of them that she would lose... again.

Evana's mind filled with a conversation. Subterfuge. Can I lie to him? No. Upfront is better - can't bear to destroy the tentative trust. I won't trick him.

Yes. That could help. Cole stayed silent and let her speak it, though.

"Dorian, not to turn things so serious yet again, but speaking of your father... I had a conversation with Mother Giselle right before I came here. There's a letter you need to see."

"And this letter is from-?"

"From your father, yes."

Dorian leaned back in his chair, the game forgotten. Threads shuffled and shifted, pulling tighter in places, loosening in others. Father. The word stifles and scrapes at me. Can I bear to see even just his written word?

"And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?"

"A meeting."

Dorian reached forward, his finger beckoning. "Show me the letter."

Evana reached into her pocket and pulled out the parchment, afraid of wicked wounds reopened. Trepidation coating his nerves like icy armor, Dorian grabbed the letter from her hands and read it, snorting as he reached the end.

"'I know my son'? What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble." He threw the letter on the chessboard, scattering a few pieces. "This is so typical. I'm willing to bet this 'retainer' is a henchman hired to knock me over the head and drag me back to Tevinter."

Evana looked sympathetic, but the fear remained. "Or it could be the Venatori. Lure us somewhere remote, then ambush us."

Dorian tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Perhaps... although this does look like my father's penmanship. Or... could he have joined the Venatori? No... that can't... well, I suppose anything is possible."

He leaned forward, frustration etching his bones as it twisted the lines of his face. "I assume you've told me all this because you want me to go?"

Evana shrugged. "I think it might be good to see what's really going on. But I'll do whatever you choose."

Dorian gave a curt nod. "Alright, let's go. Let's meet this so-called 'family retainer.' If it's a trap, we escape and kill everyone! You're good at that. If it's not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his 'alarm' in his 'wit's end.'"

Relief flooded through her, carrying her mood higher. "OK! We'll leave before dawn the day after tomorrow, ride hard, talk with the retainer - or kill everyone, as you say - and then be back before anyone really notices we're gone. We can prepare for the Western Approach once we return to Skyhold."

"Hmmmm... that means we'll have to watch ourselves at the party tomorrow night... just like my father to ruin everything. I wonder how much he paid this retainer to wait around in case I showed? I guess we'll find out soon enough."

Evana laughed and then took a sobering breath. She gestured to the parchment on the table.

"Do you want to keep the letter?"

Dorian looked at it, his insides hot and stifled like a too tight collar. Reading words - do they give more hope or more pain? Finally, he grabbed the letter, stuffed it in his pocket and then looked back to the board.

"I take it the game is finished?"

"I would have lost anyway, and I've got to get some work done tonight. We have more nobles to meet with tomorrow." She grimaced, her insides folding in on themselves at the whispered slights she feared behind every cupped hand to rounded ear. "It almost has me convinced to meet with Madame de Fer, though I abhor her politicking. She could easily help Josephine with all these fat heads."

Dorian snorted. "Tell us how you really feel, darling."

"She's loyal to the Circles, you know? I mean the ones that treat mages like prisoners."

Dorian echoed Evana's grimace. "Well, everyone has problems, right? If she's a strong mage, use her to help the cause. You don't have to like her for her to be an asset. Like Blackwall."

"I don't dislike Blackwall," Evana huffed. "I just don't understand him. He reacts opposite of how I think he will every single time I speak with him."

"Which is why you don't speak with him?"

She shrugged, the discomfiting memory of one or two stilted conversations outside Haven rising up to fill her thoughts. So abrupt. Left is right. Up is down. Intent of words mangled by misunderstanding.

"He doesn't seem to like my conversation anyway. He and Cassandra - and he and Sera for that matter - get along well enough. I can't be best friends with everyone."

"I should hope not!" Dorian exclaimed. "It's much more gratifying to be one of a select few of the Inquisitor's 'close, personal friends.'" They shared a smirk, and she rolled her eyes playfully. After a moment, Dorian added, "But to get back to the point, can you really afford to refuse help, no matter where it comes from?" Like the help you took from this evil 'Vint.

"I suppose you're right," she muttered grudgingly, her mind also touching on the whispered words. Knife-ear. Rabbit. Vint. Misfits, all of us. "I'll think on it."

They stood from the table, heavy thoughts in their minds. But the hurt shone less brightly than before, and both of them seemed satisfied with the way things ended for now. Sometimes the deep hurts took time to untangle. And Cole was nothing if not patient.

He whispered away, the other two having forgot his presence completely. He felt another, stronger pull, now. The Commander's hurt shone bright like a beacon in the night. Cole needed to find a way to help him, too. That would be harder now that he couldn't talk about her.

[hoenigg]

Bitter Herbs

It’s Passover, and why does that always piss me off. 

A few months after my father died (this is more than 30 years ago) , my nephew asked me when and where we would be holding the seder. Why are you asking me, I said. Who else am I gonna ask, he said. I went dark after that

You see where I’m going here. I don't have the warm and fuzzles for Jewish holidays. I hate the rituals. I don't mean just that I philosophically oppose organized religion (I do), or that I’m so secularized I don’t even pay attention to when they come around (I am, though I do get an email when they relax the parking regs around them. Hallelujah!). 

I mean, I viscerally dislike them.

My father was raised as an Orthodox Jew, and though he was as lapsed as he could be for his generation, he insisted that I get an Orthodox education, the five-day-a-week after school kind, (and there’s an insight into why more Jews aren’t athletes). So I can read Hebrew, and I know a lot about the history of the Jews, and I take a certain pride in my very Jewish curiosity, best expressed in this joke:

Q: Why does a Jew always answer a question with a question?

A; Why not?

I had a wonderful rabbi, a thundering bearded bear of a man, given to emotional surges during his sermons, a man fully capable of transcending religious pieties for a higher moral purpose. Once he put a puzzle before us: You’re walking to temple on a Saturday and your little son is hit by a car. How do you get him to the hospital without violating the Sabbath?. My clever classmates devised schemes that would marginally satisfy both imperatives. My 11-year-old self stood up and said, you put him in your car and you get him help as quickly as possible. He ambled over and gave me a huge bear hug. Years later, when I’d long ago completed my 13-year-old rite of passage and left the school far behind, he wrote me after I made the local papers for storming noisily out of an anti-busing community meeting. My lessons, he said, have not been lost on you. 

It would be facile to say, after telling you all that, that my hatred of the holidays stems from how far Judaism has drifted from my version of it. But that would be a very small part of the story. Sure, I hate fundraising during the highest of holy days. I hate equating loyalty to Israel with being a Jew. I hate that the contemporary English translation of the Shema has transformed an ancient battle cry trumpeting the virtues of monotheism into a boring homily by adding a needless verb (this last may be a little bit of craziness on my part, and now we’re getting somewhere). 

I am the son of Austrian immigrants who left Vienna four months after Anschluss, which for those of you keeping score, would be a tad on the late side if you were hoping to avoid getting swept up by the Gestapo. But they made it. They brought their six-year-old daughter with them to New York City and then, at ages 46 and 44 respectively, had a son right after the war. The three of them spoke German to each other and found my clumsy attempts to join them hilarious, which no doubt they were. They spent every weekend and every summer and winter vacation with the same group of Viennese refugees, and while their kids were mostly nice enough, we all felt like dogs at a dog run unleashed and told to enjoy each other. 

I hated the claustrophobia of that life. And as I got older it came to represent to me the narrow ethnic exceptionalism I found in Jewish life. The objection to intermarriage. The clueless embrace of  loyalty to Israel over their own country’s interests. The awful (to me) replication of ghetto food. The nerdy obsession with scholarship. Yes, the damn skullcap (you think Samson wore a skullcap? King David? Fuck no!). When  I got old enough to have a life of my own, I ran as far away from that life as I could. I’d see my parents on those holidays (and go to temple with my Dad on them, because that was as lapsed as I could be), but once they were gone, it was over for me.

And yet my sister and her son and his kids felt differently. They wanted to go on, especially at Passover, and so I wearily agreed. When the kids were little, I would lead them in a comic interpretation of the Exodus, making it up as I went along, tethered only to the sound of the ten plagues intoned in Aramaic, in which I could still hear my father’s voice. 

So what am I to make of this last thing? Even now, after angrily terminating those family seders when my nephew went through an ugly divorce and the kids grew up, as I reluctantly pretend cheer at a seder I attend only out of love for my wife and for the friends who cherish holding it, I still intone those ten ancient words under my breath, and I see him and hear him  

In a family whose secrets and stories were hidden in a strange language and a thick layer of survivor’s guilt, my father reached across the divide to share his love of baseball with me. I don't want to turn this into a Field of Dreams narrative, because in a sense, it was just the vehicle, a lifeline for a lost child who felt like ET in a family of aliens.  But I still love baseball, love the sights and sounds of it, love the team he loved even though they moved three thousand miles away when I was 11 (and when I was 11, 3000 miles could not be breached by media). And though my father was spare in his shows of affection, just those things were enough to tether me to him, if not to the life he shared with my mother.

 Lately, I've been reading a lot of philosophically conservative writers on the subject of the national sickness. Many point to an absence of spirituality in American life, the loss of a common culture, a set of ideals and principles we all more or less share, and the corrosive substitution of secularism and materialism. Not my usual fare, but I’m feeling them. I’m older now, and I sense that vague disconnection, sharpened by the shock of the election and the layer of disbelief that accompanied it. I feel no connection to the lion’s share of people who voted for Trump, a laughably obvious liar with no chance of competently governing. Life may be bleak, but you don't get to use that as an excuse for a stupid vote, I’m not feeling it for Weimar-era Germans who voted for Hitler either, and their circumstances were a whole lot worse.  

So what America do I belong to, or for that matter, do they? I’m aware that while I love my friends and makeshift families, we’re a tribe, not a nation. And the dangers of tribalism are not unknown, and are amplified by the like-minded media aggregation that many of us practice. Are those of us like me, living in a materially comfortable bubble of like-minded friends, not creating the same little dog pens that my parents created? When our kids find that claustrophobic and run from it, should we be surprised? And is there really any other way to live, and if not, how do we find connection to those not in the pen? And if we can’t ...  

I don't have answers. But I am having dinner with my family tonight. I’ll try to enjoy it.