#my mother cornered me and wants me to find 50 jobs to apply to and go do it all by the end of the week and im just. going to break i think

[arvallen]

having a hard time, rant below the cut

my parents, who i live with in a co-op, are dead-set on leaving for scotland by the end of next year, and i'm not going with them. i have been trying to get my own unit here, but it requires a stable income (i am on disability income but i also need a job on top of that) to apply to the co-op. co-op is the only choice because everywhere else is 3x as expensive I have a job, but they dont give me nearly enough hours and it is hard on my body, so i need to find another. ive also gone back to school recently (online, im finishing high school at 23 woooo) and that is going to take at least 2 years to finish at my pace, and i will be much less hireable till then. i'm mentally and physically disabled and i am forced to spend a lot of time in bed, and they constantly accuse me of "throwing this golden opportunity away" (getting into the co-op) because, in their eyes, i am being lazy/"letting my mental health get in the way". it sucks. i am sick and lethargic and cant find work that is suitable for me/would even hire me at all. they say that theyre terrified of me becoming homeless but dont realize/see that i'm really trying and its on them that i have a deadline at all. theyve put so much pressure on me and i'm cracking a bit. to add another stone to the pile my parents take $1100+ cad from me per month for rent + utilities + food and i barely see a return on that food-wise. really not sure what to do besides hope that i can somehow find a better job soon and apply to the co-op in time for a 1 bedroom unit to open up (they rarely do) before they leave. meanwhile the constant conflict here + my own issues (adhd especially) means i dont eat enough or get exercise which just exacerbates my problems with getting shit done. I know i can get this done but it will take time and i am not being given grace or time to do so, and being told to effectively not be disabled and do shit anyway sucks.

[spine-buster]

The President Wears Prada (William Nylander) | Chapter 1

A/N: To celebrate William “Thirst Trap” Nylander’s birthday last Friday, I’m going to do a double post this week!  (Also maybe because he’s technically not in this chapter).  Make sure you set your clocks for Thursday at 7:30pm cause that’s when I’ll post Chapter 2.  Chapter 3 will then proceed next Monday on our regular once-a-week schedule.

September 3rd, 2019

Aberdeen Bloom was still looking for a job.

She was still sending out her resume to companies.  She was still making follow-up phone calls.  She was still creating alert notifications for jobs she’d be interested in.  She was still going for interviews.  She was still shaking hands and thanking people for their time.  She was still writing follow-up thank you emails.  She was still getting rejection calls.  She was still submitting work to writing contests and magazines.  She was still getting “It’s not what we’re looking for right now” emails.  

She sighed.

So maybe getting the dream gig was harder than she thought.

It wasn’t like the bank had let her go.  She was still earning something to keep her afloat, but it was the bank.  It wasn’t writing, it wasn’t anything else.  It was the same stuff every single day and Aberdeen was starting to resent it.  She didn’t move downtown to stay a bank teller.  She moved downtown to start her career, and this was not starting her career.

But then a phone call came on Sunday – peculiar, she thought, since it was a long weekend and had expected everybody and their mothers to be at a cottage – asking if she wanted to come in for an interview.  To MLSE.  For the personal assistant job.  Aberdeen didn’t even remember applying to MLSE.  But she was desperate, so she said yes, and now she found herself looking in the mirror with her best “interview outfit” on ready to ace it.

She took a deep breath.  She could do this.  She packed her bag, made sure she had her wallet at keys, and left the condo, deciding to walk the short way to 50 Bay Street so she could pick up breakfast on the way.  Even while eating the ham and swiss sandwich, she could feel the butterflies in her stomach – it didn’t calm her nerves at all.  For some reason, she felt like this was her last chance to build something towards her career.  If she didn’t, she’d be stuck bank-telling forever.  When she stood outside the doors of 50 Bay Street, she took a deep breath before walking in.

“When you arrive, tell the receptionist you are looking for Frances Munro” the woman on the other line had told her when she called for the interview.  As she approached the receptionist, she tried to look as confident as possible.  “Hi, my name is Aberdeen Bloom.  I’m here for an interview with, um, Frances Munro?”

“Aberdeen Bloom?” another voice called out.  

Aberdeen looked up to see another woman lurking in the back, a clipboard in hand, dressed impeccably well.  “Yes.  Hi.”

The woman looked at her.  Aberdeen could see her give a quick up-down.  “Great.  Human resources certainly has an odd sense of humour,” she quipped, chuckling for nobody but herself.  “Follow me.”

Aberdeen did as she was told, giving a polite nod to the receptionist who was already ignoring her.  She circled around the desk and followed Frances, who walked through the door but didn’t hold it open.  “Okay, so I was Brendan’s personal assistant but I recently got promoted so now I’m looking for someone else,” Frances explained.

“Oh, so you’re replacing yourself.”

“Well, I’m trying to.  We tried to be proactive and hire early but the last two Brendan sacked after only a few weeks.  We need to find someone who can survive here – who can survive Brendan’s schedule and survive the pressure of the Leafs.  Do you understand?”

“Yes.  Absolutely.”  Aberdeen looked around awkwardly.  “Who is Brendan?”

“What?” Frances stopped dead in her tracks to look back at Aberdeen.  “Oh my God, I will pretend did not just ask me that – Brendan Shanahan, he’s the president of the Toronto Maple Leafs,” she practically hissed at her, continuing her walk.  “Not to mention a hockey legend.  If you work a year for him you can get a job in any adjacent field you want – sports, media, journalism, writing, whatever.  A million people would kill for this job.”

Writing.  Writing.  WRITING!!!!!  Alarm bells were going off in Aberdeen’s ears.  “It sounds like a great opportunity.  I’d love to be considered.”

Frances giggled, pushing her clipboard up to cover the smile on her face.  They had stopped in front of a series of doors and Aberdeen felt like she was going to have to pick the one without the tiger in it.  “Aberdeen…the Toronto Maple Leafs are a hockey club.  An interest in hockey…even just a little bit, is crucial,” she explained condescendingly.  Aberdeen wondered how someone like this could even get promoted.  “Do you play hockey?

“No.”

“Do you watch hockey?”

“No.”

Frances looked shocked.  “Do you know who the Toronto Maple Leafs are?”

“Of course I know who the Toronto Maple Leafs are,” Aberdeen huffed.  “I just don’t…I mean, I don’t…”

“If I put a picture of Mats Sundin in front of you right now could you pick him apart from Wendel Clark or Doug Gilmour?”

There was an awkward pause.  “Are those Mr. Shanahan’s right-hand men?”

“Oh my God,” Frances muttered under her breath.  “Have you ever been to a game?”

“Yes.”

“Are you lying?”

“No – no, I’m not lying,” Aberdeen said quickly.  “One of my friends – her dad gets tickets through clients or whatever.  I’ll go to maybe one a year with her family.  But it’s not – I’m not like…the experience is fun.”

Before Frances could respond with something that was ruder than the last thing she said, her phone let out a really loud notification.  She balanced the clipboard on one hand as she took out her phone.  But as she looked at the message on the screen, her face dropped.  “Oh my God, oh my God, no!”

Aberdeen’s face dropped too.  “What’s wrong?”

Frances dropped her clipboard onto the desk and ran around it, grabbing the phone receiver and dialling a number.  Almost automatically, she began talking.  “He’s on his way.  Tell everyone the story needs to be retracted now,” she barked before hanging up.  A man walked through another door and suddenly, it was complete mayhem.  People were running through everywhere.  

“He wasn’t supposed to arrive until 9:30.  What happened?” the man asked Frances.

“Those idiots at the Sun had the audacity to actually post the story about his daughter online.  God, these people!” Frances huffed.  

Aberdeen stood awkwardly as everyone seemed to go into mayhem mode.  Frances was running around like a chicken with her head cut off, that one guy had mysteriously disappeared, and men in suits were in and out of everywhere with panicked looks on their faces.  She watched as Frances whipped into the office and began putting stuff out on the desk – a glass of San Pellegrino water, a venti Starbucks, and the sports sections of all the local newspapers.  When she was done, Frances grabbed the clipboard from her desk, a pen, and ran back down the corridor they just came from, leaving Aberdeen there, standing alone.  Awkwardly.  

Eventually, she could hear Frances’s voice again – much more polite this time – and footsteps of very expensive shoes clacking down the hallway.  “Yes Mr. Shanahan, of course.”

“And tell David at The Sun that I’m this close to revoking media access to the locker room if he publishes another article to do with my children ever again,” a voice Aberdeen could only assume was Brendan Shanahan’s was echoing down the hallway.

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Then tell Ben up in the legal department to draw up the paperwork necessary for that to scare them,” she heard, and finally, they rounded the corner.  Frances and Mr. Brendan Shanahan, President of the Toronto Maple Leafs.  He was angry.  Aberdeen could tell, even if she didn’t hear any of his last sentences – his body language showed it all.  She stepped back a few steps so he could get into his office unimpeded, where he would very obviously yell at the top of his lungs once he shut the door.  

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Frances stood in front of Aberdeen, shielding her from Brendan’s view as he looked back at Aberdeen from inside his office.  “Nobody – well – human resources sent her about the personal assistant job and I was going to interview her…but, but she’s hopeless,” she chuckled out, “and totally wrong for the job—”

“Well clearly I’m going to have to do that myself, since the last two you sent me were completely inadequate,” he deadpanned.  Frances’s back stiffened at the words.  “So send her in,” he finished as he sat down at his desk.  

Frances walked out of Mr. Shanahan’s office.  “Mr. Shanahan would like to see you,” she said politely, loud enough for him to hear.  It was when she leaned in closer that she began to whisper so he couldn’t.  “Brendan Shanahan is the absolute nicest person you will ever meet,” she began, “but he is also the busiest, most intense, most dedicated hockey professional in the entire National Hockey League.  Do you understand?”

Aberdeen gulped.  “Yes.”

“And I hope you know that this is a very difficult job for which you re totally wrong, and if you mess up my head is on the chopping block.”

‘That might not be so bad’, Aberdeen thought.  She would have appreciated some words of encouragement, like what Kasha had given her this morning, rather than the shpeal she was getting now.  But Aberdeen digressed, and nodded her head.  She took out a copy of her resume from her purse before walking in.

When she did, she couldn’t help but notice all the fine detailing of his office.  A lot of oak, bookcases, a lot of framed pictures of his family, and a giant Toronto Maple Leaf logo plastered – literally plastered – onto the wall.  He even had a giant oak desk – so regal – in the middle of the room.  

“Who are you?” Brendan asked in a tone much softer, but still angry.

Aberdeen took a deep breath.  This was her time to shine.  “Hi Mr. Shanahan.  My name is Aberdeen Bloom,” she said, stepping forward awkwardly to place her resume on his desk.  “I recently graduated from the University of Toronto—”

“And what are you doing here?” he asked.

Aberdeen blanked.  What was she doing here?  “Um, well, I think I could do a good job as your assistant, and um…” she started, noticing that Brendan was putting on his glasses.  Her gave her a look as those words left her mouth.  He grabbed the newspapers off his desk and placed them in front of him, over her resume.  

‘Alright Aberdeen.  Cut the bullshit’ she told herself.  “Yeah, so, I graduated U of T and want to become a writer.  I sent my resume out everywhere, and my work to try to get published, and finally I got a call from the MLSE human resources department, and…well, basically it’s this or bank-telling.”

Brendan didn’t look up from his newspaper.  “So you’re not a fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs.”

Aberdeen’s body stiffened.  “Uh…no?”

“And before today you had never heard of me.”

“…No.”

There was an awkward pause.  Brendan didn’t seem like he had any more questions in him – if he even cared.  It was so clear that he didn’t and that she was bombing this interview.  But Aberdeen felt more words coming.  “I was recently published in Acta Victoriana, the oldest continuous university magazine in Canada – twice, actually – and was also published in the Hart House Review—”

“I think we’re done here,” Brendan said, not looking up from the newspaper.  That was it.  Cut throat.  Didn’t care.

Aberdeen swallowed her pride.  So this interview was a dumpster fire from the get-go.  But it was him that came in angry and him that came into this without an open mind.  She couldn’t help but scoff at how he dismissed her; he didn’t even have the courtesy to look up.  She turned to walk out.

‘Don’t let it end like this’ her mind told her.  ‘You have so much within you that he doesn’t want to see’.

So she turned around.  “You know what?  You’re right.  I know nothing about hockey,” she began, her voice as strong and powerful as she could make it.  “The woman who brought me in asked if I knew the difference between Matt…Gilmour and something…something Sundin, and I didn’t.  I don’t fit in here,” she continued, noticing that he finally looked up.  “I’m a girl who grew up in an old bungalow in Etobicoke with immigrant parents.  I’m an English major with a double minor in classics and film.  But I’m smart.  I’m really f…really smart, and I learn fast, and I will work hard if you give me the chance to do so here—”

“Good news – they’ve agreed to take down the story,” somebody burst into the room interrupting her speech.  Brendan looked at her until the person laid their iPad down in front of him.  “The tweet linking the article is gone and it’s completely gone off their website.  Adrienne Batra wants to call you to personally apologize.”

“There’s no way I’m speaking to that woman,” Brendan mumbled.  “Tell her I want it in writing.  And one to my daughter as well.”

“Thank you for your…time,” Aberdeen said, as if he gave her any.  She walked out of his office and out of his life forever.  

Aberdeen decided to take the stairs, slowly walking down the flights of stairs, hearing her shoes clack against the bare concrete.  There, she could at least wallow in her self-pity after that train wreck of an interview.  She could deliberate about her next choices and steps.  Keep bank-telling?  Go back and get her Master’s?  Take a new course?  Tell her parents how she was failing?  Move back home?  Never do anything with her life?  Live in her parents’ basement for the rest of her life?  Maybe she should just stay in this stairwell.  Maybe she should start living here, since there was nothing else for her out there in the big wide world.  Maybe she’d become a hermit.

As she finally reached the ground floor, she thanked the receptionist again, who ignored her again.  Typical.  As she was about to walk out of 50 Bay Street, she heard her name being called.  “Aberdeen!”

She turned around.  Frances was waving her back, rolling her eyes at the same time.  Aberdeen furrowed her brows.  Did she forget something?  What was going on?  She scurried over to Frances.  “What’s wrong?”

“Brendan wants to speak to you.”

Aberdeen gulped.  She was going to get yelled at by the President of the Toronto Maple Leafs.  He was going to completely obliterate her entire life and not-yet-burgeoning career for that little stunt she pulled inside his office with that speech, and she’d never be able to find a job anywhere in Toronto again.  She may as well just move into her parents’ basement now.  

As they both rode the elevator back up, Aberdeen’s heart kept beating faster and faster.  “Do you know what he wants to speak about?” Aberdeen asked.

“I have no clue,” Frances said absent-mindedly, typing something into her phone.

When they arrived back upstairs, Frances led her straight back into Brendan’s office.  He was working on his laptop now, instead of reading his newspaper over Aberdeen’s resume.  “Brendan, I have Aberdeen back for you,” Frances announced.

“Excellent,” he said, his voice much more upbeat than what is was five or ten minutes ago.  “Franny, I’d like you to take Aberdeen to get her picture taken for her new MLSE identification badge,” he said.

Frances’s eyes bulged out of her head.  So did Aberdeen’s.  “W-What?” Frances stuttered out.

“And after that, I’d like you to take the town car and take Aberdeen to the Eaton’s Centre to get her an iPad Pro with a keyboard so we can start the process of downloading all the necessary apps and internal mail server she’ll need to do the job.”

Aberdeen’s stomach dropped.  “I…I got the job?” she asked, completely flabbergasted.  Was he nuts?  Completely, certifiably insane?

“You start next Monday.  Is that fine with you?”

Aberdeen found herself nodding.

***

“I’m so glad Steven could get that done for you today,” Brendan said as he rounded the corner of his desk so he could sit in his fancy big chair.  Aberdeen nodded, looking at the screen of her new iPad Pro.  Steven, one of the guys from tech support, had helped her download everything she needed to have on it.  

“Yeah.  It was all really fast.”

“After you finish up here today you may need to go back to the Eaton’s Centre,” Brendan informed her.  “You’re going to need to purchase a work wardrobe.  Keep every receipt because MLSE will reimburse you.  I prefer black, but really…get whatever you think is appropriate for an office.”

“Okay.”

“No heels necessary.  When we travel, I obviously don’t mind something more laid back – especially trips to the west coast.  Do you have a valid and working passport?”

“Yes sir.”

“Make sure you have it when traveling.  Our charter plane will still need to see it.  We’ll make copies.”

“Yes sir.”

“You’ll need to be available every game day.  We usually have Sundays off, but it’s a very untraditional schedule.  You’re okay with that?”

“Yes sir.”

“And I have your contract for you,” he said, grabbing some paperwork on the desk.  “We’ll have someone from the legal department come and explain it shortly,” he handed it to her, “but you’ll see the salary at the bottom of the first page.”  Aberdeen looked down.  Her eyes bulged at the number.  “If everything is to your liking, then we can sign.”

“Okay,” she nodded her head.  She gulped.  

Brendan looked at Aberdeen and could tell she was nervous – it was obvious in her short “Yes sir” responses anyway, but she looked like she wanted to curl into her shell.  “Before Ben from legal gets here, I would like to apologize about this morning,” he said.  “A local newspaper ran an article about one of my daughters, and my children…well, my children are completely off-limits.  Everybody knows that.  But sometimes some journalists like to see how far they can take things, even though they know family is off limits.”

Aberdeen understood where he was coming from.  If anyone ever said anything bad about Siena or Camden, she’d have their head on a spike.  She couldn’t even imagine what it was like for a father, or any parent for that matter, to have an article published about their child without their permission.  “I understand, Mr. Shanahan.”

“We are like a family here, you know – MLSE, but the Leafs especially.  You will feel part of that family soon enough.”

Aberdeen nodded nervously.  “I’m sure I will, Mr. Shanahan.”

“Well…” he shrugged his shoulders, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her.  “Congratulations, Miss Bloom.  You are now an employee of MLSE.”

***

“With the Leafs?!” Kasha was shocked when Aberdeen told her.  She’d started pouring glasses of wine when Aberdeen told her she got a job, but once she revealed the specifics, Kasha was shocked.  “Gosh Aberdeen, remember when my dad would bring me, you, and Siena to games with the company season tickets?”

“I know.”

“And now you’re working for them?!”

“For the President.  I’m his personal assistant.”

“Oh my God!” Kasha exclaimed.  “Seriously though, I bet a million jocks would kill for that job,” she commented as she finished pouring the wine.  

“Yeah.  Great,” Aberdeen shrugged her shoulders.  “Thing is, I’m not one of them.”

“Well, you gotta start somewhere, right?” Kasha offered.  She picked up both wine glasses, handing one to Aberdeen.  Kasha held her glass up.  “To jobs that pay the rent.”

Aberdeen giggled.  “To jobs that pay the rent.”

[musingsofawannabewriter]

Can I Be More Than The Person I Have Become?

Here I am again. Once every few months, sometimes years I get that urge to put pen to paper or in this instance finger to keyboard.

When I was little reading my mom’s Jodi Picoult, Danielle Steele or Avon romance novels I felt inspired. I wanted to write a book people would cherish and love. Then I read Purple Hibiscus and then the doubts came.

Purple Hibiscus is one of my favorite books ever and the author Chimamanda is an inspiration to me. But the doubts came because I believed I could never write a book as amazing as Purple Hibiscus, that stirred so many emotions and feelings in me that with each rereading makes me discover something new. It didn’t help that Chimamada is that perfect Igbo first daughter who has a first degree and not one but 2 MA’s and speaks fluent Igbo.

My admiration for her was tinged with a lot of jealousy. I am an Igbo first daughter, that can barely speak/understand Igbo despite growing up in Nigeria most of my life, I only have a BA in Law, I failed spectacularly at a Masters programme that from the start I only applied to because I thought it was expected of me. 

There are so many flaws in myself I could spend hours picking on but won’t for the sake of bringing down the mood of this article/opinion piece. Despite feeling I could never measure up to CNA I still chose literature as my elective in my GCSE’s and WAEC exams. Had an A for both and was the best student in class for the former. But I still felt like a fraud. I understand English, I speak it but the technical rules stump me sometimes. Like the semicolon… No matter how many times I can’t seem to retain when it applies. I suck at writing dialogue because I am always confused where to add the apostrophes and commas. Subject verb agreement, well I stumble my way through and hope for the best which has worked out okay so far.

I used to write in notebooks fervently in Secondary School. I would craft stories which would get passed around different students and their compliments and eagerness to read my words fueled me. I was going to be a writer maybe.. Get my first degree in Law then a Masters in Creative Writing. Maybe after becoming successful I’d be the next Michaela Coel adapting my work to the screen to great critical acclaim.

Well let’s just say reality hit hard, no punches pulled whatsoever. I left my sheltered Nigerian boarding school after graduation to go to the UK full time for my A Levels. First mistake was spending my years pocket money in under 3 months. Second mistake was essentially being mute for my first year of school. I have always been quite reserved and find it hard to talk to people. Going to a full boarding school meant I saw my classmates almost 24/7 so bonding and socialisation was inevitable. Well with A levels only having 3 subjects to study and it being a day school meant I could go a week without speaking to anyone except the lovely lunch ladies in the cafeteria.

If I am being honest I wasn’t used to interacting with white people and felt self conscious about my accent so it was a perfect storm. 

Then the whopper…I have always had a complicated relationship with food. Since I was younger my weight has fluctuated heavily. It didn’t help that my mom was one of those slightly bigger women who decided to become a gym addict and drop all the weight. A lot of her insecurity from being bigger rubbed off on me, directly and indirectly.

Having your mom take you to exercise classes at 13 hurts. Having your mom be so happy to see you lose so much weight because the food at your boarding school sucked hurts. Having people complimenting your mum and asking how you're related to her cuts even deeper. Every stab at my heart at confidence got buried deep. In school, I would restrict my eating by spending breakfasts which I hated asleep in class, would skip a few lunches then binge at dinner times. This had the effect of keeping my weight stable.

Even then my mom still criticised my weight. When I look back at my size 12/14 self in secondary school who was gorgeous, a rage fills me. I was so beautiful but with zero confidence. I hurt so much and wish I could go back in time for a few minutes to tell myself I was worthy of being liked, by others and myself.

Eventually being away from my mom, the safety of my boarding school friends and siblings made it easy to seek solace in food. I was in the UK, I was living in student accommodation and for the first time in my life I had a debit card. I spent hundreds of £s a month in takeaways. Then I spent over £100 on diet pills which made me feel ill. In under a year I went from a size 14 to 24 to my mothers horror and mine. I didn’t know about the body positivity movement or Tess Holliday. I only knew that my mom was angry and sad and worried I would die in my sleep one night.

In almost a decade, that has been one of her mantras when talking to me about my weight. That she can’t bury her child and she’s afraid one night I will sleep and not wake up. In her mind its concern, but the way she says it feels like emotional manipulation.

Reading back there’s a lot of mother bashing going on, but it is not intentional. Some people are besties with their mothers and I prefer a more distant relationship. We will eventually get to the daddy issues but that will take some tears and a while before I can go into that.

I crave the catharsis of writing. The word vomit and jumbled feelings in the pit of my stomach. It helps me see myself as that idealistic 16 year old with a heart full of dreams and hopes. Not the current dried out husk I think I am now. I think of my future in abstract terms.

I don’t see a family, mortgage or dog. I just see myself barely existing. I feel this with a resigned calmness. Then I have my internal spiral of being to shortsighted and hasty in writing my life off at 25. I read tweets about people finding first love in their 30s, going back to school in their 40’s and getting into their careers in their 50s. Then I hear that voice in the far corner of my mind whispering, do I even want to make it to my 40’s…

And I answer back quietly that I really don't want to make it to my 40s. I’ll maybe hold on till my parents die so my mom doesn’t lord it over me that she had to bury her child and not the other way around. But some nights I really don’t want to be alive. Some nights I wish I was never born and just like clockwork the tears start. Those tears that I hold in and the dark thoughts I numb with the stimuli of food, YouTube and now K dramas.

For the past few years, I have made my Other World. This Other World is essentially a parallel universe. In this universe I have no issues with food, I have an incredible metabolism that means I can eat virtually anything without guilt. I make friends my first day of college and join so many student societies and actually participate. I push myself in school and get into my mother’s dream of a Russell Group. I choose LSE though she wishes I chose Queen Mary. I work hard, join the Law Society, meet a lovely British Nigerian with a great background, we date a few years and get married. I get a Masters in Creative Writing and have an amazing blog which gets adapted to a critically acclaimed series and I am fulfilled.

Sometimes my Other World self changes. She is the daughter of millionaires who is a genius, polyglot and fighter of social justice. I can sing, know martial arts and take the movie world by storm. Other times I am just pretty and living a simple but happy life. I know in my heart that these are just fantasies and sometimes I wish I could be like Buffy in that episode of BTVS and stay stuck in that Other World fully. I’m sure you’re thinking about my family who I’d leave behind. My response is I can’t miss them if I never remember I had them.

I am the first daughter, the Ada. My parents though flawed always tell me I am a great role model for my siblings. I am seemingly still a virgin, don’t drink, do drugs or rock the boat too much. And I feel even worse. I feel guilty that with all they have sacrificed that they have been stuck with an average daughter and by upper middle class Nigerian standards, if that even exists, a sub par Ada. I feel defective looking around and seeing others in the peak of their careers, vetting engaged, building houses for their parents. I am still afraid of driving!! I can’t even get that basic skill down.

4 years post LLB, no LLM to at least lessen me not being a lawyer and stuck in a customer service role almost 3 years now. I know I am at fault for not making the right decisions. Not applying for the grad jobs or vacancy schemes in time. Being so down and depressed I wouldn’t leave my room for days and weeks at a time. Failing all my LLM modules, adding back all the weight and more after boot camps with my parents, not having enough savings and having an even worse accent after almost a decade in the UK.

My self-deprecating joke I tell is that my sister is the multi talented one, my brother the smart ambitious one and as my parents say I have a big heart. That essentially my parents would say my thing is having a big heart, like that ever helped anyone build a career. I thought if I couldn’t write then I could maybe study Social Work. That got shot down by my mother and I was persuaded to go into the path of Law for University. I applied for Social Work Schemes and got rejected multiple times over multiple years. I was too scared to sink my own money to self fund a Social Work Masters in case it became another LLM fiasco. SO now I have made Teaching my next career goal. I am resigning myself to it the way Henry the 8ths spouses and mistresses must have whenever he wanted to bed them. Powerless and without a choice. Then I think that’s  false equivalency and my pain could not be on the level of the pain they must have endured.

So many feelings, deep thoughts and memories flow out when I get the writing urge. I will likely never actually share this in full for obvious reasons except maybe anonymously. These few pages have jumped through quite a few time periods and experiences. My thoughts aren’t always linear and that ties in with something else I acknowledge but haven’t been serious about. I legitimately think I have ADHD and/or BPD. Watching the diagnosis episode of Crazy Ex Girlfriend by the amazing Rachel Bloom shone a light on feelings and behaviours I have had for a while. Maybe that’s why from the first episode of the show I was in love. She was stuck in the past, holding onto Josh who represented a time in her life of happiness. She had cutaways to magical musical numbers involving herself and the people around her.

The ADHD comes from following iconic black women on twitter who were outspoken about their diagnosis and bringing focus to how black women were being underdiagnosed. But then I think maybe I want to have ADHD as an excuse for the failures in my life and with the current NHS waiting lists I may not get a formal diagnosis for a while. So for now I manage and exist.

I like being honest in my writing. Exposing those dark parts of myself that I let fester in the recesses of my heart and mind. 

[yndigot]

Howdy! For the '50 Writers Prompts' ask, may I request 3, 11, 13, and 33, and 38?

3. What was the first story you ever wrote about?

I was a pain in the ass at naptime in preschool and the teacher let me sit at a table and write a little story -- folded into a book, complete with illustrations -- about my doll. I also wrote Alvin and the Chipmunks fanfiction in the first grade, a good five or six years before I knew what fanfiction was, and wrote a weird sci-fi/fantasy play in the second grade. I tried to compel my friends to help me produce this play. They lost interest like ... 2 minutes into me explaining my vision and it never happened.

11. What’s your favorite book?

I don’t think I have a favorite because I go back to different things again and again depending on my mood. The “literary fiction” book that’s currently occupying the most space in my brain (like ... the thing that’s very well, artistically written) is probably The Heart’s Invisible Furies by John Boyne. The dumb popcorn book that reads like fanfiction that’s taking up brain space is Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston. (I don’t want to bag on it because it’s hugely popular in certain corners of fandom ,and I probably would and will write fanfiction for it myself -- and I deeply love Alex as someone who does not see a lot of queer mixed tejanos in fiction and didn’t know how much I needed it -- but it is VERY much popcorn, improbable silliness, escapism, and little tidbits that probably could have used a fact check because they knock me out of the narrative for a minute). I also have tons of “favorite” books that I rely on for research with passages I read again and again, books I remember fondly from childhood and will go find particular passages to read over and over, a couple poetry collections I’m drawn to, short stories that really stuck with me that I’ll wander back to ... etc. It’s very dependent on my mood and what’s on my mind.

13. What’s your favorite trope?

I’m guessing this is in the fanfiction tropes sense, so I’ll say that I really like good kidfic, although the overwhelming majority of kidfic makes me cringe. But I keep trying because I love the good ones so much! Honestly most of the standards can be fun if the person writing them is good at it, though. I think some things that very clearly just ... retell canon but in a coffee shop can wear a little thin, but after 20 years in fandom, I have read and enjoyed at least a couple examples of every classic, constantly recycled trope.

33. Which themes do you like to write about the most?

Any time I answer questions like this, I know I biff “theme” in the literary analysis sense. Academically, I like to write about religious history and queer history. When I was writing a lot of creative nonfiction, it was about gender/sexuality and identity, social isolation and mental illness, and elder care (for obvious reasons). Fictionally I lean into ... slightly dysfunctional romantic relationships. Generally not horrible, explosive, abusive relationships, but ones where something isn’t quite working and everyone just keeps muddling along.

38. What is your ultimate writing goal?

I used to put quite a bit of effort into trying to be published in my late teens/early 20s (like ... trying to write things that were appropriate for specific calls for submissions and stuff), but it never really worked out for me. I had a couple small things published, but mostly I found that I wasn’t hugely motivated by the prompts, so I’d tend to give up. I got a good chunk of the way through a BFA with a memoir focus, but never completed it. The capstone for that would have probably been completing a collection of personal essays that would (allegedly) be publication ready. I got a few excellent essays completed, but didn’t ever finish enough for the collection. I might circle back to that at some point? I think, outside of fanfiction, that’s my strength, and once I finish my degree I’m working on at the moment, it might be nice to see if I could finish the BFA -- see how many of my credits are still good. I’ve dabbled in fiction (both short story and novel) but it never really clicked for me like creative nonfiction did. I enjoyed that, but I ended up dropping out of the program when my life got overwhelming and my mental health tanked.

Honestly, though, at the moment I just want to get into a headspace where I can write (creatively) as much as I used to and, ideally, finish a few fanfiction projects. I was going to try to do a Downton recap/commentary blog leading up to the release of the first movie. Maybe I’ll attempt it with the second? I’d forgot about that. It could be fun. The idea had been to use that as a sample to get some content writing gigs, but my mother and my classes I was teaching were overwhelming at the time, and I didn’t follow through. I sometimes apply for ad/social media or technical writing jobs, but those never seem to pan out. That’s not really a ‘writing goal’ so much as a type of writing I think I could do if I could catch a break, but no success so far.

Ideally, my current degree would help me get a job writing educational materials for a museum or other public history institution. Maybe that’s the real answer so far as “goals” go. “Complete my last few grad school class papers, then my thesis project, and then get a job writing educational materials.”

[lia-jones]

Growing Pains - Chapter Six - When We Dance

I removed the dress from the plastic case it was in. It was an a-line lowered back boat neck dress, made of red satin. It had a simple and elegant cut, and I would use it with a long white cape.

It had been a long time since I last worn a gown, and I used to wear them all the time. Daniel was the son of one of the wealthiest families back in Portugal, so charity balls and other events of the sort were a usual thing for me.

I put on the dress remembering the last time I had worn it, during a reception at Daniel’s parents’ mansion in Lisbon. Daniel’s mother was a painter, and she was throwing a private party for the debut of her new collection, the word private meaning it would have over 100 guests. It was also the day that I had my first big argument with my mother. I remembered her words in my room, lecturing me in Portuguese , as I looked at myself wearing the red satin.

“Andy, this is not like you. First you didn’t like his lifestyle, you said it wasn’t for you, and now your wardrobe is full of those dresses. You’re losing your identity to this boy.” She said, her tone calm and cool as always, keeping her poised attitude.

“Mom, this is important to Daniel. It’s his mother’s work, I need to be there.”

“And last week it was about the environment, and the other week was about the children in Africa. I don’t want to be judgmental, but you’re the kind of girl that would actually go to Africa and help them, not sit in a room full of snobs sipping champagne to raise money.”

“Calling someone a snob is not judgmental?” I said, raising my eyebrow at my mom.

“All I’m saying is that you seem to be losing yourself in this relationship. It’s like Daniel calls all the shots now, it’s not like you! What about your doctorate? You were going to start it this year, and now you’re working in his father’s company, and completely dropped the subject. You are living his life, following his dreams, what about yours? I just don’t want you to lose sight of who you are.” Mariana the therapist was slowly giving way to Mariana the mother.

I remember how she held me, trying to coax some sense into me, showing me that I was slowly and willing fading away, and I didn’t listen. I was too dazzled with love, with this fairytale that was happening to me, to see that the charming prince was actually the wicked witch offering me a poisoned apple. A few months later, I would turn my back on my mom. On my own mother, so full of love and concern over me.

I emerged from my own thoughts and resumed getting ready. I put on my dress, my silver sandals, and got my hair done in an updo, letting some of strands of my soft curly hair come down from it. I applied some nude makeup on my eyes, and a shimmering red lipstick, to match the dress and contrast the dark brown of my eyes. I looked at the clock, it was 7:50 pm. I had five minutes to get down. I grabbed my purse and ran for the door.

As I came down the first steps of the lobby, I noticed Victor was sitting on the sofa, waiting. He spotted me on the stairs and got up immediately.

This was the very first time I really noticed Victor. He was wearing a long black coat over a black suit and vest and a white shirt with a charcoal tie, and a silver scarf over his shoulders. He somehow looked taller than usual to me, and I couldn’t help but notice his broad shoulders and well-defined torso, hugged by his vest. And those greys eyes, framed with thick dark eyelashes, they seemed shinier than usual. For the first time, I could really notice how handsome he was. Boy, was he handsome.

I stood in front of him, noticing his eyes were wide, staring at me.

“Anything wrong? Is the dress not appropriate for the ball?”

“No.” He hurried to answer, but his voice came out horse, so he cleared his throat and then answered slowly. “It’s… suitable.”

We walked to the car, and he stopped by the passenger back door, opening it for me. I thanked him, nodding politely. He went around and opened the door on the other side, sitting next to me and motioning the driver to go.

“Who are we meeting at the ball? Any potential partner?” I asked as soon as the car started moving.

“We may meet some people there, but tonight is not about work. Tonight, we enjoy ourselves.” He said, staring at the road ahead.

“Wait, I thought this was for work! I really… Oh.” I exclaimed, remembering Miss Bates. She seemed extremely interested in Victor, and she would be at the ball. Victor surely was afraid she would volunteer to be his date for the night. “I get it now. I’m your beard. Well played.” I affirmed, amused.

“You’re my what now?” Victor asked, a frustrated frown on his face.

“Miss Bates is going to be there. And judging by the way she spoke to you today, she wants to make you her 8th course at the ball. You want a female companion to lead her to believe you might not be available after all. A beard.” I explained, matter-of-factly.

Victor looked at me like he had lost the ball in the high weeds.

“You caught up on that?” He finally said, sighing.

“Hard not to.” I said, laughing. “Don’t worry, I won’t let go of you, if that’s what you want me to do.”

“Well, you should enjoy yourself too. After all, you did a fairly decent job and you deserve a break. Besides, you’ll see that in these events there is no shortage of bootlickers and trite people. It will be good to have someone that is not a total moron to talk to, for a change.”

We arrived to the venue, being led by the staff to the ball room. It was the main entrance of an old library that had been remodeled with the purpose of holding parties. The decoration was elegant and sober, but it had an imperial feeling to it, like it was the ballroom of some king.

We barely stepped foot in the ballroom, we heard Miss Bates from afar.

“Victor! Darling! I’m so glad you made it!” She almost jumped to him in excitement. But as she saw me, her face dropped. “Oh, I see you brought Andrea.”

Victor immediately came closer to me, our bodies almost touching.

“She didn’t want to come, but I dragged her along. After all the good work, she deserves a break.” He looked at me, smiling. I smiled back, my expression one of adoration. Got to play the part, right?

“Oh indeed. Remember to save a dance for me later, won’t you, dear?” She said, slightly stroking his tie.

“We’ll see, Andrea here is looking forward to dancing, I can’t leave her unattended.” He said, taking a small step back. “Let’s go see where we sit, shall we?” He said, turning to me.

We found our table and sat. The waiter came holding a bottle of wine, filling Victor’s glass with a small amount for taste. After Victor’s approval, the waiter filled my glass and left the bottle on the table. I twirled slightly the wine glass in my hand.

“Hmmm, good wine. Maybe you should let it breath a bit more, though.” I said, smelling my wine glass.

“Since when do you know about wine?” Victor said, chuckling.

“My father would disown me if I didn’t. He’s an oenologist. Taught me everything I know.” I said, finally sipping my wine.

“You just became a lot more interesting.” He said, the corners of his mouth slightly turning upwards.

“Because I know about wine? The best man to talk to is my dad, actually. I just know a few things.”

“Interesting… So the father is an oenologist. And the mother?” Victor asked, resting his chin on his hand.

“Mom is a psychologist. A therapist, if you will. Although she doesn’t do therapy anymore, she works in research now.” I said, bracing for the reaction. Saying my mother was a therapist always made people react in some way.

“And the plot thickens… How is it like to be raised by a therapist?” Victor asked, amused.

“Lots of unwarranted therapy.” We both laughed. “No, she’s great. She means well.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“A twin brother. He’s a musician.”

“So I take it he is the underachiever?”

“I don’t know, he’s pretty happy. He is a bass player in an orchestra by day, rebel rocker by night. And in my mother’s opinion, he’s the one doing well. She raised us both to be musicians.”

“That’s pretty odd. Parents usually want their kids to be doctors and lawyers.”

“Not my old folks.” I shrugged. “They were always a bit “out of the box”, teaching us to think for ourselves and encouraging us to be creative. What about your parents?”

“My father works in investments as well, I’m sure you already knew that.” Victor said, matter-of-factly.

“Yes, I read your bio when I applied to LFG.” I said, rolling my eyes. “You’re a true overachiever. Talk about golden child.” I teased. “I couldn’t see anything about your mother though.”

“No, you’re still the golden child. Raised to be an anarchist, and still you managed to excel in very tough areas.” Victor said, ignoring what I said about his mother.

“You have your own empire.” I looked flatly at him.

“That I didn’t build exactly from scratch, like my father did. It’s my empire, built with my money and work, but I had all the help, all the tutors, all the chances I needed. Everything I needed done was just a phone call away. You had to fight for all of those things, even…” He stopped dead on his tracks. I wondered what he was about to say.

“Even what?” I asked, curious.

“Hem, never mind.” Victor cleared his throat. I decided not to insist, there was probably some not so veiled insult coming my way. “You were asking about my mother. She was an artist, like your mother likes them. She was a pianist, she stopped performing when I was born.”

“So your creativity, you take after her then?” I said, smiling mischievously.

“Oo, do I sense a compliment?” Victor teased.

“I don’t know, I always found your insults very creative. It takes a true artistic mind to find 50 different ways to call someone a moron.” My words made Victor chuckle.

“Not a compliment, then.” He said, smiling. “I’m glad my insults are creative, at least.”

“So, what does your mother do now? Does she perform, now her child is all grown up and ruling the world?”

“She died when I was 14. Cancer.” Victor’s face fell, and I felt like punching myself.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m truly sorry.” I said, rubbing my forehead. Idiot.

“You didn’t know.” Victor said, reaching for my hand. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s ok.”

I looked around and I saw the food was already being served. Another people came to sit at our table. Miss Bates was sitting at the table next to ours, shooting daggers at us, as we were still holding hands.

“If looks could kill I’d be dead by now, right?” I asked. Victor understood what I meant.

“Let’s give her something to think over dinner.” He held my hand and kissed it, his lips lingering on my skin. The touch ignited something inside me, sending electricity up my spine. “So… What exactly is your doctorate thesis about?”

“Fair trade.” I said, excited. “I have studied long and hard about fair trade, so my thesis is about the practical use of it with the cooperation of two or three small companies. Imagine you have the possibility to invest in three small companies, very recent ones. You’d take these companies, invest very little, because of their low market value, and promote a healthy cooperation between them, using the principles of fair trade. If the companies succeed, you’d only spend a few dollars compared to more established companies, and some work from your employees, who would be following them closely.”

Victor was suddenly very interested, and we discussed the pros and cons of my fair trade concept as we ate.

After dessert, the band stopped playing the easy listening tune and started playing some songs the guests could dance to. Mostly jazz, among other genres. Me and Victor sat at our tables, nursing our drinks.

“Do you want to dance?” Victor asked.

“You’re aware the minute you step on that dance floor, Miss Bates is going to hunt you down?”

“Not if I go with you.” He pressed.

“Aren’t you a bit tall to be my dance partner?” I teased, glancing sideways at him.

“I’ll dance on my knees. Come on.” Aretha Franklin’s Say a little prayer for you was being played.

The song alone would be enough to make me jump from my seat, if Victor wasn’t already dragging me to the dance floor. The height difference wasn’t as much as I expected, he was a few centimeters shorter than my brother, and we used to dance all the time. Still, Victor lowered his head a bit, probably to make me feel more comfortable.

“You’re a good dancer.” I said, seeing how naturally and effortlessly he made me twirl in his arms.

“You too.” He smiled. “I’m surprised you didn’t step on any of my toes yet.”

I rolled my eyes at him, but still laughed. I noticed Miss Bates was dancing with someone else, but coming near us. Victor held me tight, as if to show her he wasn’t letting go of me any time soon.

The music ended, and another started. When we dance, by Sting. A much slower and intimate one.

“Do you want to go back to the table?” I asked, a bit self-conscious.

“No, just this one. It’ll be suspicious if we leave now.” He said, holding me close.

I put my arms around his neck and he rested his hands on the middle of my back.

“Ok, I’m going to do you a solid. Just because I’m actually having a lot of fun.” I said, looking serious at him. He returned my look with a curious expression. “Lower your hands on my back. Just a little bit.”

He lowered his hands slowly.

“Like this?” He whispered, his eyes on mine.

“Yes. Now bring your face closer to mine.” I instructed again. He lowered his head obediently, his breath trickling my noise. For a moment I forgot what I was about to do, but I quickly regained my senses. I kissed him on the cheek. An innocent kiss, but enough to show we had some intimacy. To my dismay, Victor suddenly turned his face, kissing me full on the lips.

And at that moment, I was no longer pretending. The softness of his lips, the warmth of his body, the softness of his hands on my back and his scent were all things that were causing me to melt slowly into the kiss. For a moment I forgot I was kissing my boss, that days ago I was about to quit LFG because I hated his guts, and the way he was absolutely obnoxious. It was like I was entering a new dimension of Victor, much different than the one that usually presented itself. For a moment, I imagined that he was enjoying the kiss too, and that brought happiness to my heart.

For a very brief moment.

I broke the kiss trying not to look startled or flustered, like it had been the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant to go that way.” I said, feeling my face starting to burn.

“Don’t.” Victor whispered. “Don’t apologize.”

The music stopped and he let go of me.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” Victor’s voice sounded tired all of the sudden. I was feeling tired too.

“Yes, we have a big day tomorrow, we should go.”

While we were outside waiting for the car, Miss Bates approached us.

“Leaving so soon?” She asked.

“We have to work tomorrow.” Victor answered flatly.

“It was very nice to see you.” Miss Bates held my hands as she said it. “I’m happy for both of you, it’s nice to see Victor finally found love, he is usually such a lonely bird. And I can tell it’s true love, by the way he looks at you.”

“Thank you.” I answered, blushing.

The car arrived and we got in, saying goodbye.

“Not a sore loser. She took it with class.” I said, impressed.

“Well, we didn’t give her much of an option.” He answered, his voice soft.

“And apparently you are a very good actor, stealing glances and whatnot.” I joked.

“I have my moments.” He smiled softly.

We were silent until we reached the hotel, too tired to talk about anything.

Back in my room, all alone, I replayed the entire evening in my mind. I absentmindedly licked my lips. I could still taste him.

[cottoncandy-icedcream]

I was awoken from my dream by the sound of glass breaking. I stumbled out of bed to see a wrist hanging out of my front door grasping for the lock.

“That’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” I said, alerting the masked figures to my presence.

They looked up and the one in front started to pull his hand out from the shards of glass in my door. I walked over and grabbed his hand, wrapping my fingers around his and unlocking my door from the inside. His hand recoiled when I finally let go, and the I opened the door.

“Why don’t you guys come in for some tea?”

As soon as they were inside the one in the back took out a gun. “Give me everything you got!” His voice cracked at the word everything.

I laughed. “How do plan on carrying everything I have? I don’t see a pickup in my driveway.”

The kids looked at me for a while when one finally asked if I was ever gonna call the cops.

“All you did was break my door and wake me up. I won’t call the coos if you join me for that cup of tea.”

As we waited for the kettle to whistle, I walked to the corner of my kitchen and bent down. I pushed aside the floor molding and pulled my dad’s old lock picking kit from the compartment.

“Do y’all know who I am?” I asked. I thought maybe there was a chance they didn’t just get lucky with the house they chose to break into.

“Uh, no. Should we?”

I took a deep breath. “Well now, my name is Joan Valdez, but up until a few years ago, I was known only as—”

My big reveal was interrupted by a pierce whistling. I walked to the stove and began to pour the water into mugs.

“I was known only as Frightening Lightning.”

I boys looked at me, one was trying not to laugh. “Frightening Lightning died ten years ago after causing the fire in that old neighborhood. Thanks for the chai, Ms. Valdez, but we know our facts.”

I walked to my pantry, standing on tippy toes to get the box of light bulbs from the top shelf. I grasped the metal part and closed my eyes, focusing my energy into by right palm. It lit up.

The boys’ jaws dropped and I placed the lightbulb down. “I faked my death and changed my name to reinvent myself.” I sat down and opened the lock kit. “Before I knew about my gift, I broke into houses for cash, just like my dad did before me. You kids did it all wrong.”

“Will you teach us your ways, Ms. Valdez?”

The boys looked so hopeful, so unaware of what they could turn into. “You can call me Joan, and no. I won’t. Even though you attempted a loud break in in the middle of night when it would be most likely for the home owners to be home and armed yourself only with a toy gun, and it would be so easy to teach you how to burgle, you kids need to go home, get some sleep, and apply for a job.”

The gun was still on the kitchen table, but the kid hadn’t touched it I’m an hour. “How’d you know?”

“You didn’t remove the orange tip. And it’s plastic. Now will you tell me why you kids feel the need to steal?”

“Would you believe us if you said we have a sick mother and we need to find money for her surgery?”

“No, I wouldn’t because you’re wearing expensive, squeaky clean sneakers and shiny watches. You broke into a house in a gated community, meaning you probably know the code, because you live here too. Also, your masks still have the price tags on the inside. 50 dollars for ski masks? Really? Just use bandanas.”

The boy’s admitted they were bored and just wanted money to try weed. I wrapped the one who had stuck his hand through my glass door with new gauze, gave them some toast, and sent them home.

I looked at my dad’s lock picking kit, smiling at the memories of him showing me how to find just the right spot in the lock. He was so proud of Frightening Lightning, and he never knew Joan Valdez. Maybe it was time to visit the prison.

You are a reformed villain who was given a new identity to start over. The years have been hard, but you’ve managed to finally turn your life around. One day, a bunch of masked people break into your house and demand everything you have.

[branlovestowrite]

Complicating Factors: Chapter 1

This is my work in progress fic, which I have only been posting on FanFiction.Net. After 12 chapters, my muse has fizzled out. I hope by revising & reposting this, I can get inspired again. Your comments and suggestions (chill vibes only!) are welcome and encouraged!

Complicating Factors 

Rating: M for language and smut in later chapters

Summary: Emma Swan is a single mother trying to contact her ex and father of her child, Neal Cassidy. While she expected some awkwardness when meeting Neal's mother, Milah Gold, she never expected the undeniable attraction she feels toward Milah's younger boyfriend, Killian Jones. No Magic, Modern AU. Captain Swan.

"Swan!" Emma jumped when she heard her friend Mu call out her name. She had been lost in thought as she sat at her desk, having a slow day. She had started working at Grumpy's Bail Bonds nearly two years ago, and spent most of her time doing administrative work: helping with contracts, filing, and managing the books. Working at a bail bonds agency had a lot less excitement than what was portrayed on TV.

'Mu' was short for Mulan, but she hated using her full name, thanks to her Disney counterpart. Mu liked to remind everyone that she was born a full 8 years before that movie came out and was named after the legendary Chinese warrior, not a Disney Princess. The woman was a few years older than Emma, her features reflecting her Chinese heritage, and enhanced by her purple hair and tattoos. Mu's short stature did nothing to reduce the intimidating air she gave off as she leveled her gaze at Emma now.

"I figured you were wearing earbuds by the way you ignored me," Mu said.

"Sorry," Emma replied. "I guess I got lost in thought. I was thinking about how dull this job is compared to what we see on TV shows."

"Well, that's because you haven't been out with me to chase a skip yet. But that's all about to change. You have a date tonight."

"What?" Emma asked, confused.

"This one likes hook ups. His history showed he likes blondes, so I put your pic up on Tinder. He wants to meet you tonight."

"You used my picture as bait?!"

"Relax!" Mu said. "I'll be there the whole time. You only have to go in and keep him occupied. I'll come up and cuff him from behind. Do you have anything slutty to wear?"

Emma was flabbergasted. "I don't know about this, Mu."

"Come on Emma! You need to learn how to do this sooner or later. The payout is way better than desk duty. I'll split tonight's take with you 50/50 if that will make you feel better."

Emma was uneasy with this plan, but Mu was right that she would need to learn this sooner or later. It had been hard to find a decent-paying job after her stint in jail, and she needed to start picking up skips if she ever hoped to have enough money to give her four-year-old son, Henry, the life she felt he deserved. She took a deep breath and said "okay."

"Great!" Mu said. "Do you need me to see if Aurora can watch Henry?" Aurora was Mu's girlfriend. They met in college, finding an immediate connection through their Princess-style names.

"Maybe," Emma replied. "Let me see if Regina can get him first. He's already got things over there and he and Roland are like brothers."

Emma's time in jail came after she was arrested for cocaine possession. She and her boyfriend at the time, Neal, had never done anything more extreme than some underage drinking and pot smoking, and even those cases were very rare. Emma hated the feeling of being out of control, and tended to stay away from drugs for that reason alone. She had no idea that Neal was dealing. Unknown to her, he'd hidden some of his stash inside her suitcase. He disappeared two days before the cops came to search the apartment. After their search, they'd asked Emma to identify if the suitcase was hers, and she stupidly did. They arrested her and pumped her for information about the supplier. Though she didn't know anything, she was sentenced to two years with credit for time served. She'd learned of her pregnancy shortly after her arrest. Unable to contact Neal, and having no family to speak of at the time, she'd had no choice but to let her son go into the foster system until she could finish her sentence. She was extremely reluctant for her son to be a foster child, remembering her own bad experiences, and she begged the Social Worker to find a good situation for him. He'd been placed with Regina, and lived the first two years of his life with her, until Emma was released, able to get a job, and set up a stable home.

After being reunited with her son, Emma realized she had no help. Regina offered to step in for Henry's sake. Regina was…prickly, to put it lightly, but she did truly love Henry. She and Emma were slowly starting to build a good relationship. It helped that Regina had recently married Rob, a man she met when Henry and Rob's son, Roland, were in daycare together. Rob was a widower whose wife died in childbirth. He and Regina began dating when the kids were a little older than two, and just married in a small ceremony about 6 months ago. Emma liked Rob, and though they were only a little more than 10 years older than her, in their mid-30s, Emma looked up to Regina and Rob as her surrogate parents.

Henry and Roland were very close in age and greatly enjoyed each other's company. They still attended the same daycare and had playdates nearly every weekend. It was not uncommon for Henry to spend the night at Regina's, though Emma usually did nothing with those free nights but sit around her small apartment and binge watch shows on Netflix.

She picked up the phone to call Regina and explained the situation. Regina said she was happy to help, and offered to let Henry sleep at her house and drop him off at daycare in the morning. Emma was grateful and said she would call to talk to Henry before the boys' bedtime.

With that out of the way, she returned to the situation of what to wear on her date. She didn't have anything slutty to wear, so Mu decided they needed to go shopping.

"I don't really have the money for a dress," Emma said.

"No worries," Mu replied. "I'll put it on my credit card. I'd consider this a work-related expense."

Emma knew better than to protest. She figured that whatever dress she got would definitely not be worn again unless they had another job like this one, so it was justified as work-related expense.

A few hours later, Emma stood in the back of the office, wearing a skin tight pink dress and black heels that were higher than any she'd worn before. In addition to buying the dress and shoes, Mu had dragged her to a salon for a blowout, which left her long hair hanging in soft waves down her shoulders. They'd finished the transformation by Mu dragging her to an empty office that served as a break room, saying it had the best lighting, in order to apply makeup. Emma had never worn this much makeup in her life. Her green eyes were rimmed with black liner in a cat eye shape that was just thin enough to not be garish. Her lips were accentuated with a soft pink color that emphasized their shape and made her face glow. As she looked in the mirror Mu held up, Emma couldn't help but feel pretty.

"Hot," Mu said. "I'd bang you if I were single."

Emma blushed involuntarily. "Thanks for the compliment," she said with sarcasm.

"Remind me when we get there to take a few pictures of you before we catch the guy. It will be useful if we need to pull this Tinder sting again."

They headed out to Emma's car, an old, yellow VW Beetle and the only thing Neal knowingly ever gave her. She was surprised she got to keep it once she was released from jail. She and Neal met when she was attempting to steal the Bug, which he'd already stolen. He must have gotten a clean VIN for the car, because when she got out, the keys were returned to her. Despite the bad memories from Neal, Emma loved this car. It probably wasn't the best family car, but it was reliable and had been a huge help when she was trying to rebuild her life.

Once at the restaurant, Mu and Emma reviewed the plan one final time and headed inside. Mu wore a beanie over her purple hair, and kept her distance several paces behind Emma. Emma spotted her target at the bar and walked over to him.

"Hi," she said, putting on her most charming smile. "Are you Jack?"

"Yes," he replied, returning her smile. "You must be Emma. I have to say, I'm somewhat relieved."

"What?" she said demurely. "You thought I lied on the app?"

"Well, truth be told, your profile pic doesn't do you justice."

She put her hand on his arm and leaned in a bit closer. "Same to you."

He winked at her, and Emma felt a rush of adrenaline. This was actually kind of fun. She continued to talk with Jack while they ordered drinks. The plan was for her to maneuver him to a secluded corner table that Mu picked when she scouted out the place, but Jack was proving resistant to moving from the bar. He seemed to want to show Emma off to the other men there, which made her want to scoff in disgust.

When Jack turned away to order more drinks, she let her eyes wander around. They landed on a man across the bar who was almost too good looking to be real. He had dark hair and lightly tanned skin. A scar was on his right cheek, just above the dusting of a copper-tinted beard along his jaw. Even in the dim lighting, she could see that his eyes were a brilliant blue. Though he was sitting, she could tell he was tall and muscular, and his body language exuded confidence. He met her eyes and held her gaze, raising his right eyebrow in a curious gesture. She had to stop herself from responding with a smile, remembering that she was supposed to be here with Jack. Tearing her eyes from the delicious-looking man, she refocused on Jack, who thankfully had not noticed her distraction.

Eventually she got Jack into the corner, and Mu came up and cuffed him, just as they planned. Mu told Emma that it would be better if she took Jack to the police station in the Bug and then came back for her. Emma agreed and wandered over to the bar. She was perusing the menu for something to eat when she felt someone walk up behind her.

"That was not how I expected your evening to end, love."

A shiver ran down her spine and she turned to see Captain Delicious. In addition to his amazing looks, he had one of the sexiest accents she'd ever heard. She tried her best to school her features and not give away her attraction.

"Well," she began, "I like defying expectations."

He smiled, and his whole face lit up. He gestured to the empty stool next to her. "May I?" She inclined her head and he sat down.

"So," he said, "were you in on that performance?"

"Yes. I work with the woman who took him away. She's my friend and she's training me."

"You work as a bail bondsman?"

"Bondsperson," she corrected. "It’s not official yet. Mu just started teaching me how to catch skips. Most of my days are spent at the office doing admin work."

"I see. Could you tell me your name? Or would that blow your cover?"

She smiled. "Emma. Emma Swan."

He extended his hand and she took it. As they shook hands he said, "Killian Jones, at your service."

"It's nice to meet you, Killian."

"And you, Emma."

"So, Killian, what do you do to earn a living?"

"I'm a professor. I teach History at Storybrooke U."

"Interesting," she said, dragging the word out. "How long have you been doing that?"

"Well, in my younger days, I was in the Royal Navy. But I never saw myself as a career soldier, so when my time was up, I got out. I spent some time traveling with my brother, and we went diving on shipwrecks. I started a blog about our travels, which turned into a book deal. Then I took the money from that, went back to school, and many, many years later, ended up with my PhD in History. My specialty is Maritime History, but I mostly teach World History now."

"A PhD? So you're actually Dr. Jones?"

He laughed. "Only to my students."

Their conversation continued, and Emma found herself truly enjoying the exchange. All too soon they were interrupted by Killian's phone ringing. He looked at the screen, frowned, and silenced the ringer.

"Apologies, love. I need to make my exit. I unfortunately need to go have an unpleasant conversation."

"Is everything alright?"

"Nothing dire. I just need to go talk to my sometimes girlfriend. She's been a bit hot and cold lately."

Emma's heart sank a little. Of course a gorgeous guy like him would have a girlfriend. She put on a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes as she extended her hand and said "It was really nice meeting you, Killian."

"You too, Emma. I hope I can see you again. Do you come to this bar often?"

She shook her head from side to side. "This is my first time here."

He fished out his wallet and placed one of his business cards on the bar in front of hers. "Well, if I can ever do anything for you, please reach out to me."

"Thanks," she said, unable to hide her disappointment at his departure. He put a hand on her shoulder and winked at her. Even that innocent touch was enough to fan the flame inside. He seemed to realize this, smirking as he walked away without another word. His arrogance helped her move beyond her attraction, and she scoffed out loud.

She put his card in her purse, finished her drink, and closed out her tab. When she stood to leave, Mu was there with a happy look on her face.

"All done!" she said. "Leroy will get you your cut tomorrow. Let's head back to the office so I can get my car. I need a hot shower."

"Sounds great," Emma said, following her friend out of the bar.

The next day started well, with Emma collecting her payout and finding herself $500 richer. She was tempted to spend it all on something frivolous, but she decided it would be better to save it. Nearly all of it went to her savings account, but she did set aside $50 to take Henry to do something fun that weekend.

After that she quickly finished the paperwork she had waiting, and gave a client a ride to court. When she got back it was lunch time and she was out of things to do. Mu wa in, so Emma decided to work on her personal project: trying to track down Neal.

Emma would be perfectly happy if she never saw Neal again, but she knew that wasn't fair to Henry. He was starting to ask questions about his father. Emma had considered lying and saving her son some pain, but Regina counseled her against it. After considering Regina's advice, Emma had told Henry that she didn't know where his father was, but that she would do everything she could to find him so they could meet.

The trouble was, Neal Cassidy was hard to find. There was no record of him in Boston. It was a somewhat common name, but every lead she tracked down was a bust. After a while, she started to lose hope. Luckily, her friend David, a police detective, offered his services to help.

Emma met David through his wife, Mary Margaret, a teacher at Henry's daycare. Mary Margaret was quite possibly the most upbeat person Emma had ever met, but she was so genuine that you couldn't help but like her. David was not quite as chipper as his wife, but still annoyingly positive. They were good people, and Emma was happy to have their help. She hadn't heard from him lately, but still felt it couldn't hurt to call.

"David Nolan," he answered when she called his cell.

"Have you still not saved my number in your phone, Dave? Or are you just messing with me?"

"Nope, still haven't saved it. I like the mystery of not knowing who's calling me."

"You're weird," Emma replied.

"I'm glad you called. I was meaning to call you. I got a lead on your project."

"You did?" Emma was cautious. She'd run into so many dead ends in this search.

"Yeah. I came across some arrest records from about 15 years ago. A kid gave the name Neal Cassidy at arrest, but his real name was Neal Gold."

"Of course!" She exclaimed. "He gave me a fake name. I'll add that to the list of lies he told me."

“Well, the trail runs cold there, but he was picked up by a woman named Milah Gold. She was listed as his mother."

"Milah Gold...I'll look her up. Maybe I can find her and get to Neal that way. Thanks Dave!"

"Happy to help. Oh, and Mary Margaret mentioned having you and Henry over for dinner Friday night. You in?"

"Sure. I'll let her know when I pick up Henry this afternoon."

"Great. See you then, Emma."

Emma hung up feeling refreshed. She began searching for more information about Milah Gold, and the search was immediately fruitful. Milah owned a small boutique in a trendy part of town that sold vintage clothes. Emma decided to pay the boutique a visit that afternoon, before she lost her nerve.

She parked a few blocks down from the boutique, in the first open spot she found. Taking a deep breath, she began to walk to the store. Unfortunately, she wasn't paying attention where she was going and ran right into a man carrying two cups of coffee, which were spilled all over her white shirt.

"Fuck!" She cried out. The coffee wasn't too hot, thankfully, but it stained her shirt and her bra was now clearly visible under the wet fabric. She looked up, ready to chew out the offender, when she recognized his blue eyes.

"Emma?" He asked before she could say anything.

"Killian...hi," she replied, giving him an awkward smile.

"I didn't expect to see you here."

"I could say the same."

"I'm here to-" he started, but was interrupted by the shop door opening and a stunningly beautiful woman with flowing brown hair stepping out. She was taller than Emma, and looked to be somewhere in her 40's. 

"Killian?" The brunette asked. "Is everything alright?"

"Milah," he replied. "I'm afraid there was a bit of a mishap with our coffees." He pointed to Emma.

"Oh no!" Milah replied, taking in Emma's soaked shirt. "Come inside dear. I am sure I can find you something to replace the shirt my boyfriend so haphazardly ruined."

It took Emma a moment to connect the dots. "Milah?" She asked. "Milah Gold?"

Milah stopped and stared at Emma. "Yes...and you are…?" Her tone was wary, but not unkind.

Killian stepped in. "This is Emma Swan."

"You know each other?" Milah asked. "Are you one of Killian's students?"

"Um...no," began Emma. She remembered Killian mentioning there was some tension with his girlfriend, and she chose to take his lead on this.

"Emma and I met the other night at Tony's. She had some trouble with her date."

Milah smiled, but there was definitely some jealousy there. "Always the gentleman."

Milah pulled Emma inside and found a shirt for her. She led the younger woman to the changing room and Emma gratefully replaced her shirt with the much nicer sweater. She tried to pay Milah for the item, but Milah refused, saying she would put it on Killian's tab.

"So," she said after Emma was cleaned up. "What brings you here?"

Emma sucked in her breath. This was awkward, but she would not back down. She hated disappointing her son.

"Do you have a son, Neal?"

"Yes…" Milah said.

"He and I used to date. I haven't heard from him in almost five years, but I really need to talk to him."

"Why?"

"Well, you see, he and I have a son together. Neal doesn't know about Henry. I want my son to have the chance to meet his father."

"Neal has a son?" Milah asked. "You mean to tell me that I'm a grandmother?"

"It would appear so," Emma responded. She took out her phone and showed Milah a picture of Henry.

"Oh," Milah replied. "He looks just like Neal did as a boy."

"Do you know where I can find Neal?"

"I'm sorry, no. I haven't spoken to my son in ten years. We're not on the best terms. Maybe Robert can help.”

"Robert?"

"My ex-husband." Milah replied. "He's a lawyer, but he also teaches at Storybrooke U."

"With Killian?"

"Different department, love," Killian chimed in. "He teaches contract law."

Milah seemed to have forgotten Killian was there. She stepped closer to her boyfriend and looped her arm with his in a clearly possessive gesture.

"I don't like talking to my ex, but I agree that Neal should know he has a child. I'll reach out to Robert. Could you come by again on Saturday, maybe around 10? I should have an answer then. And maybe you could bring my grandson? I'd love to meet him."

Emma was unsure, but decided to continue on this path. Milah was obviously insecure about her relationship, but she figured it couldn't hurt for Henry to get to know another family member.

"Okay," she said. "We can do that."

"Great!" Milah said. She picked up a business card from the holder by the register and circled her cell phone number. "Call me if anything changes. I can't wait to meet Henry!"

Despite Milah's territorial behavior, Emma could see she was truly was excited about meeting Henry. She gave Milah a warm smile and said goodbye. Just then a customer came through the door, carrying a box of clothes. Milah indicated this was a client who was selling some pieces, and asked Killian if he would go get new coffees for them. They gave each other a chaste kiss and Killian followed Emma out the door.

Killian and Emma stood awkwardly looking at one another, just outside the store's entrance. He began nervously scratching behind his ear before saying "she's a good woman, Milah is. She's had a hard go of it, but she's got a good heart."

"Good to know," Emma said. Even now she couldn't shake the attraction she felt toward this man. He now had his hands in his pockets, the muscles of his forearms flexing as they peeked out from his rolled up shirt sleeves. She caught herself staring a moment too late, and looked up to see him with that damn eyebrow cocked up again.

"I have to go," she said as she felt her cheeks turn crimson. "See you around Killian."

"You too, Swan."

Emma got in her car and berated herself. What was she doing? This man was dating a woman she'd just learned was her son's grandma. Was she really lusting after a man who was, for all intents and purposes, Henry's step-grandfather?

[drarrylovebot-blog]

I love you (And the Other 100 Ways of Saying It.)

Prompt: I love you (And the other 100 ways of saying it.)

It’s Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter Eight Year in Hogwarts. The new blooming friendship has started since the very next day after Voldemort died. Harry has visited the Manor to give Malfoy his wand back. They forgave each other. They let go. They moved on. Rebuilding Hogwarts for four months is also a good way to build a friendship, you know? Once school started, they have been quite close, closer than expected because apparently Hermione and Ron don’t come back. Somehow The Hogwarts Express has been awfully late.

1.      The next compartment is empty, but you’re alone. “You mind sharing a compartment? The rest is already full.”

2.      “Happy belated birthday, Potter.” Puts a small gift on his lap.

3.      It’s awfully late, I bet you haven’t eaten anything. “Stop staring, Potter, it’s rude. Here, I’m full anyway.”

4.      Idiot, stop kicking your blanket to the floor, it’s cold. Put the blanket in place and cast a sticking charm over it.

5.      “Here’s your trunk.”

6.      Cast a warming charm for the whole carriage. “What? The thestrals must be cold too.”

7.      “Welcome home.”

8.      Nonchalantly sit beside Harry in the Great Hall.

9.      Put two treacle tarts on Harry’s plate. “What? You like them.”

10. “Goodnight, Potter.”

11.  “Morning, Potter.”

12.  Slides a cup of coffee towards Harry.

13.  “Don’t forget your Charm books.”

14.  “See you later.”

15.  “How’s the day?”

16.  “Stop hogging the food, Potter.” Eat slowly, you git, you’ll get a stomachache.

17.  Casually put two glasses of water on their bedside drawer.

18.  Put an apple beside Harry’s breakfast. “You’ll die early with your diet.”

19.  Our first class is potion, will you be okay after Severus’ death? “You’re helpless, Potter. Sit back and observe, maybe you’ll learn something by being my partner.”

20.  Slap Harry’s hand away. “Idiot. Clean your hands.”

21.  “Remember, 7 times clockwise, Potter.” It will be dangerous if you stir only 6 times.

22.  “Finally, a decent result.” It’s a really good result, but let’s not feed your ego.

23.  You look extremely tired. “Stop being unmotivated git. Long day?”

24. “Don’t forget to work on your charm essay.”

25.  Smiles softly when he has finished his homework only to find Harry’s asleep on the sofa.

26.  Take off Harry’s glasses and fix his blanket.

27.  Check Harry’s charm essay and gives some pointers on wrong statements.

28.  Levitates Harry and tucks him in bed. Essay and glasses neatly put in their bedside drawer.

29.  “Wake up, Potter. Finish your essay.”

30.  “Your mood puts me in a bad mood, Potter. See you in DADA.” Cheer up, you git.

31.  “Fancy a duel?”

32.  “Impressive, Potter.”

33.  “That’s your best shot? Aim better.” Stop channeling your power without precision.

34.  “Focus, Potter. I could kill you.” Fuck you, Potter, that’s a fucking lethal curse. Thank Merlin you move.

35.  Grinning with twinkle in his eyes. “Nice duel.”

36.  I would love to see that expression on your face everyday. Don’t lose it.

37.  “Knackered?”

38.  “It’s Friday tomorrow, fancy a seeker match?”

39.  Your nightmares are getting worse.

40.  “You wish you’re the better seeker.” Whatever, of course you are better.

41.  “Nice game, Potter.”

42.  “We’ll crash the library tomorrow, Potter.” Your homework are piling, stop procrastinating, you git.

43.  Pointing the answer on the book. Rolls eyes exasperatedly.

44.  “Potter, accompany me tomorrow in the Room of Requirement?”

45.  “I’m brewing a potion. You’re here to distract me from sleeping.”

46.   You need this as much as I do, you git, that’s why you’re here. “Stop whining, Potter.”

47.  “Of course, you’ll sleep eventually.” Transfiguring the chair into something more comfortable.

48. ‘Modification of Dreamless sleep that doesn’t give you an addiction. Your nightmares are getting worse. –DM’

49.  “You are welcome, Potter.”

50.  Your nightmares are not getting any better. Are you okay? “Do the dreamless sleep at faulty?”

51.  Then why do you keep having nightmares?! “You’re still having nightmares.”

52.  “I’m so sorry, Potter. For all it’s worth, it didn’t fair.” I’m sorry. I hope they’re happy and proud wherever they are right now.

53. ‘Happy Halloween, Potter.’ Put a bag of Honeydukes sweets on the edge of Harry’s bed.

54.  “Happy Thanksgiving, Potter.” Put a large piece of Turkey meet on Harry’s dinner plate.

55.  “Look, it is finally snowing. First snow this year.”

56.  Throw a snow ball on Harry’s back.

57.  Have a happy snowballs fight.

58.  “Happy Christmas, Harry.” Put a Christmas present on Harry’s lap before leaving to the Manor.

59.  Put the charmed snow globe from Harry on the bedside drawer in the Manor. Thank you, it’s pretty. Mother and I’s miniatures look happy, playing in the snow.

60.  ‘Happy new year, Harry. May this year be good to you. –DM’

61.  “Stop slopping around, NEWT is just around the corner.”

62.  “Come on, I’ll help you with Potion.”

63.  “You don’t work hard enough.” Come on, Potter, you need to be better than this if you want to be an Auror.

64.  “Have you decided on your future career?”

65.  You’re one of the few who don’t think it’s an impossible job for me. Thank you.  Smiles softly.

66. “Do you ever think of applying to be a DADA teacher here? Or being recruited into a Quidditch league?” I just need you to know there are other options that will give you less stress.

67.  Well whatever your future job is, Harry Potter, please be safe and happy.

68.  “Stay away from dragon scale, it will trigger an explosion on your calming draught.” Stop being an idiot please, you could actually lose your life.

69.  “Good luck on your NEWTs.”

70.  “Potter, tomorrow is Charm, not Transfiguration.”

71.  “Here, have some.” Slide a box of Narcissa chocolates for Harry.

72.  “She’ll love that.” Yes, she also has been asking about you. I believe your visit would be good for Mother. Thank you.

73. “Ready for Potion? Relax, you’ll do well.”

74.  “How’s potion? Don’t tell me you blow anything.” Please remember potions can be lethal sometimes.

75.  “Remarkable, Potter.”

76.  “Cheer up, tomorrow is the last day.”

77.  “Thank Merlin and Salazar, it’s all done! How are you holding up, Potter?”

78.  “Can’t sleep either?”

79.  “Fancy a night stroll?”

80.  Rolls eyes swiftly and casually fixes the scarf on Harry’s neck.

81.  “You see that star? That is the reason Mother named me Draco.” Maybe you’ll remember the star, and you’ll remember me each time you look at the sky.

82.  “You’re a good company, Harry.” It’s nice being like this with you.

83.  Thank you for deciding in befriending me that day, you give me a new purpose to keep fighting. “Thank you.”

84.  For saving me again and again, from Voldemort, from the Fiendfire, from my own demons. For giving me a common sense to keep living. For offering your hand in friendship that day after the war. For trusting in my ability to become a Potion Master.  “Just for everything and anything, really.”

85.  You really are beautiful under the moonlight.

86.  “What do you think will happen after Hogwarts?” Would we still be like this? Could we? Is it ridiculous for hoping?

87.  “You really believe that?” Because I want that to happen too, for us to not stop being friends, maybe even more?

88.  Yeah, I like that very much. “Okay.”

89.  “Don’t forget your spare glasses, Potter.”

90.  “Seriously, you need to stop procrastinating and panicking on the last second.” Seriously, you don’t forget anything, just lock your trunk.

91.  “Tomorrow would be very different, wouldn’t it?” I’m afraid to go back to the real world. Are you?

92.  It might just be our last day meeting each other. “Accompany me to Hogsmead?”

93.  “Fancy a butterbeer? Come on, drinks on me.”

94.  “You what?” God, it must be a dream, right?

95.  “You’re being serious right now?” Cause if you’re not, I’ll saw off your balls and ship it to America right now, Harry Potter. If you’re joking, you’re a dead man.

96.  “Okay then, I would like that very much.”

97.  “Sleep fine?” You sleep as peaceful as a baby, I almost stop the train so that the bumpy ride doesn’t wake you up.

98.  “Mother said she will pick us up.” You sure want to visit Mother? It doesn’t have to be today, you know.

99.  “Mother, you remember Harry Potter? Harry, Mother. Mother, my boyfriend.” You git, stop smiling like you need to impress someone. You have a life debt toward Mother, just act normal. Salazar, help me, this is embarrassing,

100.  Marry me. “Scared, Potter?”

*

Bonus:

101.  “You wish.” Fuck you, I’ll be damned if I’m scared. I love you, you git.

[shakespeareanhoneybadgers]

Fic: Stockholm

Summary: Batman AU. Six months after the Enchanted Forest Massacre, surviving hostage Erzabel French is admitted to the ICU after what appears to be an especially brutal attack by her keeper. Her word written off as delirium, she is quickly scooped up by Mayor Mills who intends to play her as a pawn in Storybrooke's political games. Meanwhile the Black Swan is determined to keep her eye on the Dark One, who doesn't seem to be quite finished with Belle. Is Belle French crazy? Or is there more to the story of the prison librarian and the asylum prisoner?

Rating: M for very Much Mature. TW include super graphic violence, dubious consent, rape allegations, attempted rape, and torture.

((The latest entry for "Which Plot Rabbit Hole Did Shakes Fall Into?". Somehow I didn't realize the worldbuilding was going to be so intense... This is the brainchild combo of me being sick of Stockholm Syndrome being applied to Beauty and the Beast/Rumbelle and curiosity about how fitting Rumbelle into the Joker and Harley Quinn roles would look (spoiler alert: didn't really nail it). Heavily influenced by the Gotham t.v. series, the Nolan trilogy, "Skin Deep", "Mad Love", Suicide Squad, and Season 4 Belle. Mildly influenced by the rest of Batman The Animated Series and Once Upon a Time, plus a whole lot of other subconscious sources. Mood setting songs: "Crazy in Love" (50 Shades Remix) by Beyonce, "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley, "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane))

Ao3 link

I

He couldn’t feel his legs anymore, or the hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were strained from staring out the tower window unblinkingly at the road that came up to the Dark Castle. He hadn’t moved since...oh, he didn’t know the exact time she had left yesterday, but he was pretty sure before it had gotten too dark. Now the sun was rising and his mind was full of jitters. He couldn’t go spin to try and calm himself down, or else he might miss her. So he made up a jingle to sing to himself.

“Be-elle loves me, this I know. Fo-or she-e told me so. My-y heart to hers belongs. I may be weak but she is strong. Yes, my Belle loves me. Yes, my Belle loves me. Yes, my Belle loves me-” His voice broke, because he knew it was wrong. He knew she was fragile, so fragile, and she had never actually said the words to him. But she promised… She promised she’d come back and yet she hadn’t, and he felt if he sang it over and over then it’d come true, “...for she-e told. Me. So…”

III

“I think you should see this, Emma.”

    If it hadn’t been Mary Margaret saying this Emma would have seriously considered turning around and going back to bed. These late nights were going to be the death of her… That or having to get up at nine when she’d sprawled out costume and all on her bed at seven. She sighed, changing her course from the fridge to the breakfast bar. Neal was already sitting there, nursing a cup of coffee.

“Hey girl wonder,” he mumbled, offering her the tray of bagels. She took one and dropped down onto the stool next to him, glancing at the screen at the end of the table.

“...six months after the riot at the Enchanted Forest, Erzabel French has resurfaced. The only hostage of the massacre, she was used as a human shield to aid the escape of the Dark One.”

It cut from the newsroom to a clip that Emma remembered well enough; an aerial shot above the asylum, showing the swarm of officers at the gates. A small woman in heels and secretary-esque clothes held her hands up, begging them not to shoot. Right behind her, with one scaly hand around her throat was the convict in question, the only details visible his orange jumpsuit and wild mess of hair.

“Makes her sound like the only survivor,” Neal muttered.

“Well it’s not like there were a ton of workers that did. I mean it’s basically her father and a handful mor-”

“Shush, you two,” Mary Margaret scolded from her spot near the counter, turning up the volume.

“Assumed dead, Miss French was found unconscious in an alley a few blocks from Avonlea. She was rushed to the hospital where she remained in the intensive care unit overnight, treated for blood loss caused by gashes all over her body.” An image of the woman, a beaming brunette with bright blue eyes, was shown. It looked like she was just at the beach, a book in her lap and the sunlight giving her curls a halo effect, “Doctors claim that it was an animal attack, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume it was the work of her captor. We’ll update the story as it progresses.”

    Mary Margaret flicked the t.v. off, closing the panels over it so there was nothing but a seam in the wall to show where it had been, “You can be sure the mayor will be scrambling over there now that the poor woman’s stable.”

    Emma grimaced at the mention of basically her arch nemesis, “Leech.” She hopped off the barstool, “Mary Margaret, get the Bug, I’ll be ready in five.”

“No shower?” She asked.

“No time,” she glanced at Neal, “You coming, Skippy?”

“I probably should.” He grabbed a poppyseed bagel and the container of cream cheese, “I think that’s my actual job, bodyguarding.”

II

“I’m surprised you wanted to follow in your father’s footsteps.”

    Erzabel French glanced up at him, turning her attention away from the rows of cells, “Well it’s not technically following in your footsteps, papa; I’m not becoming a security guard.”

“That’s right you’re not,” he said gruffly, paying no mind to the convicts that eyed him, “And honestly even working in the library is too close for my comfort.”

“It's a government job being around what I love. You should be proud of me.”

“I AM proud of you, Belle.” He stopped, turning to face her, “...but these aren't wounded animals that you can nurse back to health. They're dangerous criminals that eat sweet girls like you for breakfast.”

She glanced behind him to see a dark-haired man watching her intently, “... they're sick, and they need help. This isn’t just a prison, it’s also an asylum.”

“An asylum that specializes in the criminally insane.” He abruptly started walking again and she jogged a few paces to keep up, “The minor offenders can go to the library under guard supervision. Heavier offenders will require you deliver them to their cells. Make sure they're on the far side when you slide the book through the meal slot; if they're too big to fit then you find a guard to go into the cell and deliver it for you. Don't tell them anything personal about yourself…”

“I’ve read “Silence of the Lambs”,” she teased, “I won't let them get inside my head.”

“This isn't one of your books,” he snarled, “These are sociopaths in the flesh. They are arsonists and thieves and rapists and murderers and everything in between. You're not on an adventure, you’re just doing your job and praying that the doors stay locked.”

Belle took his hand as they rounded a corner, squeezing it, “I know the risks, papa. I’ll be careful.”

Maurice French didn't show his love very eloquently; Belle had learned early on that it often took the form of lectures and nagging. While her mother told her stories and dried her tears, her father taught her how to defend herself and made sure she never left home with nothing less than a full can of mace. They stayed there for a moment, with only the eye of a camera to see them. His hand reached up as if to cradle her cheek...but he merely plucked a fallen eyelash and flicked it away.

“I never should have let you stay in Storybrooke,” he muttered.

They continued away from the majority of the cells, heading deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. They hit a security checkpoint that was far more thorough than the others in the Enchanted Forest; Belle had to surrender everything she had on her, and it seemed excessive to do both an x-ray scan AND a hand wand AND a fingerprint scan.

“Where are we going?” She asked as they met on the other side.

Maurice frowned, “The West Wing.” They descended a staircase to the bowels of the asylum, lit sparsely by fluorescents, “The worst of the worst are down here,” he said under his breath and Belle shivered at the sudden chill, “The Queen of Hearts, the Camelot Killer, the Sweettooth Cannibal… Left here to rot.”

“You wouldn't let ME rot, now would you, darling?”

Belle glanced to her left and was surprised to see a thick plexiglass wall instead of the usual iron bars, the cell lit like a hospital room. A woman stood near the meal slot, blood red lips hovering next to the ventilation holes. The stark contrast of black and white hair immediately identified her as Cruella DeVille, a woman neck-deep in rumors compared to only a handful of convictions. She leaned against the plastic, eyeing Belle.

“Who’s your pet there?”

“What, are you jealous?”

    Belle followed the voice to the other side of the corridor, where a woman sat cross-legged on the floor. She had to do a double-take but yes, the other prisoner had a fishbowl in her lap and within the fishbowl a brilliantly-colored beta. She swirled her finger on the surface of the water to the fish’s annoyance, not bothering to look up at Cruella's reaction.

Cruella straightened, clearly offended by the insinuation, “Oh please, I have much bigger fish to fry.”

Belle wanted to hang back, watch to see the rebuttal, but her father walked on, paying no mind to their banter.

She tried to ignore them as he did, but this wasn't the mild curiosity the inmates above showed towards a new face. It was the perverse interest of a psycho, someone already sizing you up for what you could offer them. They were high profile criminals, their front page exploits major news until the next villain stepped up to out-crazy them.

Her heart was racing as they came towards a dead end, the last cell far removed from the others. As they drew closer Belle still failed to see anyone occupying it.

Maurice’s jaw clenched, “Rumplestiltskin!”

There was no answer.

“Rumplestiltskin, show yourself!”

Belle took a step closer to the barrier, craning her neck to see if maybe he had found a cranny to hide away in. Maurice clicked the radio clipped to his shoulder on with one hand, the other trying to pull Belle away.

“We have a Code-”

With the grace of a cat, the prisoner dropped from the ceiling onto his feet before the partition. Belle jerked back and even Maurice startled, causing the creature to burst into a fit of high-pitched giggles, straightening up and flailing his hands like an excited child. It was such a contrast from his grotesque appearance and the setting, Belle gave a shocked guffaw.

“You son of a…”

“Pardon your french, Mr. French,” he chirped, “Surely you know better than for such language in front of...ladies.”

His eyes flicked from Maurice to Belle and she met his reptilian gaze. He silently took her in and she found herself holding her breath, trying to hide the nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Is she adopted?” He asked, keeping his attention on her, “I have a hard time believing such a beauty is your flesh and blood. Uh uh uh.” He waggled his finger as she opened her mouth, “A magician never reveals his secrets. I make it my business to know things; secrets are worth their weight in gold.”

“She is the new librarian,” Maurice cut in, “You will listen to her the same as any staff member, or there will be severe consequences.”

“Oh, severe consequences, I see; I was assuming they’d be mildly inconvenient consequences,” His gaze trailed down her body, resting somewhere on her hips, “...good. The former librarian didn’t like me very much for some reason. I hope we can be…” It moved up to her chest, “...close friends, Beauty.”

“All depends on how you behave, Dark One,” she said and his attention snapped back to her face, “I don’t suffer time-wasters.”

He smirked, “...no, I don’t see that at all, dearie.”

Belle felt a hand clamp around her arm as Maurice practically dragged her away, muttering a harsh “we have to go”. She still felt Rumplestiltskin’s eyes on her as she struggled to keep up with her father, fighting the temptation to glance back.

“Don’t you forget about me now, Beauty!” He cried shrilly, “I have quite a lot of reading to catch up on! Save me, Belle French, you’re my only hope!”

She didn’t know how he knew her name; she didn’t even have her i.d. tag yet. Maybe he had somehow studied up... But such details about the Enchanted Forest’s guard staff couldn’t be easy to get ahold of, right? And why was she more curious about the imp that scarcely resembled a man than terrified of him, especially knowing all he was capable of? Years had been spent trying to track him down and incarcerate him; his kill list was easily one if not the longest in the city. And yet, there was something charismatic about his mannerisms that spoke to her.

She had just got done assuring her father she knew better… But here was an enigma too tantalizing to ignore.

III

Emma Charming was not the sort of person who could slip in undetected anywhere; price of being Storybrooke’s wealthiest heiress. Honestly she didn't even know she was anyone but a foster kid who couldn't keep a home to save her life until the founders of the Charming Corporation were murdered and their will pointed to her as their next of kin. It had taken some time to figure things out, but with her foster siblings and the closest people she had to family, she managed not to bankrupt the company that she had taken on.

The only mystery she had left was why they had given her up in the first place.

Neal and Mary Margaret flanked her protectively while the media’s attention turned away from hounding the hospital staff to questioning the billionaire heiress's unexpected arrival. She ignored the camera flashes, the shouting and the microphones as she went to inquire where Miss French was. The nurses, who had been cold and tight-lipped to the journalists, quickly offered to show Emma to the room.

“She's stable,” The nurse confided once they had put some distance between them and the lobby, “Lost a lot of blood though… And a few bites taken out of her.”

“Bites?” Neal echoed.

She nodded solemnly, “Arms, legs, torso…” Her chin quivered, “I mean, it's obvious he’s not human, but to actually see the damage…”

She’d seen worse, Emma told herself. Everyday people dying in the most brutal ways imaginable at the hands of creeps like the Dark One. A few bites were nothing compared to a body post Jafar hypnosis.

The nurse had them wait outside while she checked on the freshly-free hostage. They glanced at each other, holding a silent conversation as they wondered what exactly they should be bracing themselves for. When she returned, she ushered them in.

There were no other patients in the room; just a single woman with long brown hair staring out the window. She turned as they came in, claw marks down one side of her face and a black eye on the other. Her split lips puckered in an “oh” as she recognized Emma.

“Miss Charming. I should’ve realized this would catch your eye.”

“Survivors tend to get a lot of attention,” she said dismissively, taking a seat next to the bed, “How are you feeling?”

“Been better,” she joked. Her smile wavered, “I should probably just be glad I’m alive, right?”

“No, you can whine a little,” she assured her, leaning onto the arm of the chair, “...how did you get away, Miss French?”

“It’s Belle,” she corrected softly, “And I...I don’t remember. I...passed out… Someone must have brought me here.”

Well it wasn’t the Dark One, Emma thought bitterly. Front desk would have definitely noticed if it had been.

“Do you remember the attack?” Mary Margaret asked.

Belle stared straight ahead, fingers curling into the sheets, “I was on my way back… I don’t know which street it was, just downtown, next to Mr. Gold’s Pawnshop… I thought I saw someone in the alley so I went to investigate…” Her eyes welled up with tears, “And then they were on me… I don’t even know where they came from...biting and shaking and clawing…”

“So you escaped from the Dark One,” Emma said.

Belle was snapped back to the present, perplexed by the statement. “I didn’t escape.” The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, “...he let me go.”

It was Emma’s turn to be confused. The Dark One had held her hostage for months… Why would he suddenly let her go? If he wanted to get rid of her he could’ve just killed her; he wasn’t above that. Unless he was cruelly giving her the illusion that he had let her go only to punish her, an elaborate ploy.

Her eyebrows knit together as she read Emma’s silence, “...you think he did this to me,” she said.

“He probably did,” she admitted.

She shook her head vehemently, “No...no he would never… He’s not like that.”

“He used you as a human shield.”

“Because he knew…” She twisted towards the IV in her arm, picking at the bandages that held it in place, “I have to go back, he’s going to be worried.”

Emma rounded the hospital bed, “Belle.”

“No you don’t understand, I promised him!”

    Emma rested her hand over Belle’s and she jerked back as though she had struck her instead. She glared up at her, a cobra ready to strike.

“I. Need. To. Leave.”

“Nurse!” Mary Margaret called.

    Belle sprang to her feet much quicker than Emma anticipated from a woman recovering from an animal attack. She held her by the forearms as she fought against her, machines insisting that something was wrong as Belle thrashed around.

“You don’t understand!” She cried, “If I don’t go back he’ll start looking for me! He’ll burn this city to the ground-”

“He won’t,” Emma said sternly.

“You can’t promise that! You can’t promise anything when it comes to him, only I can!”

    The nurse entered and Emma shifted around to let her get closer. Belle struck out weakly, attempting to shove her arms away.

“I won’t go back to sleep!” She sobbed, “I need to see him… I need to see him…”

“We know, sweetie,” The nurse said dully, exposing a vein to administer the tranquilizer.

    It worked quickly. After a few long seconds Emma felt the small brunette sink against her. With the help of the nurse they set her back into the bed, covering her up.

“I didn’t think she was that out of touch,” Emma confessed apologetically.

The nurse didn’t seem surprised by the outburst and she wondered if it had happened before, or if she was just used to that sort of behavior at Storybrooke General.

“They think she’s gotten Stockholm’s syndrome,” she said, checking the monitors as they settled back down to their normal levels, “You know, when the victim falls for the captor. Apparently it’s pretty common.”

“Who thinks this?”

“The therapist assigned to her case, and Mayor Mills.”

Emma glanced at Mary Margaret and noticed her pursed lips. It figured Regina was in the middle of this.

II

    Belle was surprised how fast she adapted to her new job at the Enchanted Forest. Within a few weeks she had a good idea of which inmates had no interest in books, which ones actually did, and which ones just wanted to waste her time. There were an odd lack of challenge to dealing with them… The only one who caught her curiosity was the Dark One.

“Now Keith, I know you don’t want to check any novel out,” she lightly scolded as he tried to get her attention, shifting her tablet to her other arm. She didn’t have to look back to know he was glaring at her, furious she wasn’t giving him the attention he wanted.

    If his pick-up lines were any indication, he had been in here for awhile.

    As she made her way towards the final check point, her heart fluttered. The Dark One continued to intrigue her, a mix of contradictions and opposites. Arguably the most dangerous man here, he had no escape attempts on his record. There was one assault but he had left the guard alive despite the dozens of murders he had committed outside of the Enchanted Forest. Was the isolation taming him, or was he simply biding his time?

“Darling… Darling!”

    Belle kept her eyes focused ahead, ignoring Cruella De Ville. She didn’t want to check out whatever sordid material she was interested in. She had already given her a book on taxidermy and the Donner Party; she didn’t want to see what came next. Cruella hit the glass with her fist as she continued to shout after her, causing the Sea Witch to snicker at the scene.

    Finally, she came to the last cell on her route, her stomach flipping as she saw she was anticipated. He was standing with his hands behind his back, grinning at her in a way that promised trouble.

“Hello Rumplestiltskin.”

“Mm, hello dearie. I have something to give back to you.”

“Finished already?”

“Oh I couldn’t put it down. Not that there’s much else to do.” He frowned and glanced up, “Come to think of it, it’s been something like three days since I’ve last counted the ceiling tiles.”

Belle smirked, “Well, you know the drill. Set it by the meal slot and then go to the other side of the cell.”

    He frowned, “But what if it falls on the floor?”

“I know there’s a shelf just in front of the meal slot; you’ve done this before,” she gestured towards the mentioned shelf on his side of the glass.

    Rumplestiltskin glanced at it, then looked back at her with full, concerned eyes, “I don’t trust it.”

“You don’t trust it?” She echoed, doing her best not to smile.

“I just don’t. I’d rather hand it off to you directly.”

“I think you’re full of it.”

“I might be.” He went over to the slot but continued to hold the book, an inch or so above the shelf.

    Belle shook her head, “I’m not that naive. The rules are there for a reason.” She turned to walk away, “I guess you want to keep it another day, then.”

“Wait! Uncle! Monkey’s uncle!”

    She glanced back and watched as he gingerly set the paperback on the shelf, holding his hands up in surrender before retreating to the far wall. She felt a thrill of victory as she went to pull it out, her fingers momentarily in the crocodile’s den.

“See? The book is fine.” She held it up for him to inspect. He glanced at her with such a childishly sullen expression she had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing, “Now, since you returned it, would you like to pick a new one out for tomorrow?”

“...yes,” he decided, coming out of his corner. Belle pulled out her tablet, opening up the application that showcased the asylum’s library.

    The weeks turned into months without her realizing it. Belle’s recommendations were getting better and better the more she got to know her patrons. All except for Rumplestiltskin, who went from one genre to another with each choice. He blazed through each book, attempting to get her to agree to let him hand it back to her each time. Each time she refused and, as penalty she supposed, he took longer and longer to pick out a new book.

    It was starting to get rather ridiculous one day when Rumplestiltskin met Belle’s eyes and she saw him nervous for the first time.

“...there’s no children’s books, are there?”

    If he hadn’t of looked so vulnerable Belle might have made a remark about how he really was trying to hit every genre under the sun. Instead she shook her head, “No, I don’t think so.”

    He took a deep breath, “Is there any way I could… Have one brought in? From a library branch or something? It’s almost his birthday.”

“Whose birthday?”

“Dr. Seuss. “Green Eggs and Ham”.” She waited for him to make a quip. But all he added was, “Please. It’s important.”

    Maybe it was shock that caused her to go track down a worn copy of the classic. Maybe it was curiosity. Either way she brought it to him the next day and he checked out no other book for a week. She arrived on the birthday of the celebrated author only to see the Dark One on his cot, rocking back and forth with the book in his lap, reading it out loud under his breath.

    That time, when he finally was ready to give it up, she didn’t demand he set it down and move away. She wordlessly reached into the slot and, after taking a moment to comprehend, Rumplestiltskin went to give it to her. His hand purposefully brushed against hers and it felt cool and smooth, more like a snake than a crocodile. She let the touch linger for a moment before pulling away, glancing up at him as she released a breath she had been holding.

    There was a hunger in his eyes; not the lustful gaze she was so used to getting from a lot of the inmates. A desperate desire for connection, to reach out and fulfill the undeniable need to not be alone. Belle wondered the last time he had felt that, when had he experienced someone willing to touch him and not just having to in order to do their job. Maybe he wasn’t such a monster that the isolation wasn’t affecting him… That he was a lonely man whose only interaction came from the guards and her.

“...thank you,” he murmured.

    She nodded, holding the tablet up to the meal slot so he could use his own finger to search through the library’s database for his next read.

    It was the beginning of the end of the life she knew, and the start of her journey to the Storybrooke’s darker side.

III

Emma found Neal hadn't gone far, just to a couple chairs in the hall. He was smiling so whatever had caused him to walk out wasn't too big of a deal.

“Yeah but WHICH Lost Boy? I don't want to be like Nibs or something.”

Her heart clenched as she saw who Neal was talking to. She always felt that ache when she saw Henry, especially when he was dragged along on his mother's business. He was a bright boy, charmingly precocious for a ten-year-old but obviously damaged from Regina's overbearing child-rearing. In his lap was his ever-present book of fairy tales, his personal Bible.

He glanced up and smiled when he recognized her, “Hi Emma.”

“Hey kid,” she murmured, folding her arms, “You telling Neal here who he was before the curse?”

“Yup,” he chirped, completely sincere, “The book told me today he was a Lost Boy who followed the Pied Piper and once he realized what was happening he was turned into a donkey.”

“Hey, you didn't tell me that part!” Neal protested.

Emma smirked, “Well you can be an...donkey.” She caught herself just in time.

“An donkey? That's not grammatically correct,” Neal teased. Emma kicked him and Henry giggled, the subtext going right over his head.

“Miss Charming.”

The merriment of the moment was sucked out of the air as Regina Mills appeared, all pants suit and business. Even if child neglect wasn't part of the picture, Emma was pretty sure she’d still hate this woman.

“Madame Mayor, I didn't realize you were holding a press conference,” Emma said. On instinct Neal stood, his smile gone.

“I'm not,” she said flatly, “Though I suppose you're looking for your next pet project.”

“It's not a pet project. She's been through a lot, she could use a friend.”

“And what do you think I’m trying to do?” She took a dramatic deep breath, “There are things about Storybrooke you couldn't begin to comprehend. That monster that took her? You think he’s done with her?”

“That would be why he'd toss her out on the streets…” Neal muttered.

Regina gave him a cutting look, “I for one am not going to gamble on this poor girl’s life. She needs protection, the sort even a billionaire playgirl philanthropist can't give her.”

“The playgirl bit is a vicious rumor,” Emma corrected offhandedly, “What about her father? If you think the Dark One’ll be after her then surely he’ll go after him too.”

“We’ll keep an eye on Mr. French,” she said dismissively, gesturing to Henry. He stood obediently, one hand taking hers, the other arm wrapped tightly around “Once Upon a Time”, “I'm sure Belle appreciates your effort, but she's in good hands.”

Neal snorted derisively. Emma opened her mouth to retort but Henry looked over his shoulder.

“Bye Emma,” he murmured.

The harsh words died on on her lips, “...bye, kid.”

Some days she just wanted to grab him and take him home with her and never let Regina touch him again.

A few blocks away that night Maurice French went about closing up Mr. Gold's Pawnshop and Antiquities Dealership. It would’ve been the smarter thing for him to stick with his job at the Enchanted Forest; help train all the new guards who had no idea what they were in for, spend a couple more decades dealing with the scum of the earth, receive his decent retirement package at 65 and never look back. But after what had happened to Belle… He couldn’t make himself go back and he spent six months wondering if his only daughter was dead and how everything could have changed if he had only been there that day. But Belle was alive…

Of course he had tried going to see her once he saw the story on the news, but she’d been labeled “dangerously unbalanced”, the staff at the hospital explained. They told him her captivity had taken its toll. They told him she was convinced she was in love with her abductor. They told him that she’d need extensive therapy, and to be kept somewhere secure lest he try to reclaim his prisoner. And so he felt more like an observer than family, kept from interfering in case he should trigger a bad reaction. They hadn’t even accepted his offer of Belle’s favorite book, and so he held it close as a substitute to her. “Her Handsome Hero”...and instead she had gotten her deformed devil.

He went to the back and picked up where he had left off with an old Cogsworth clock. Honestly this pawn shop was the oddest thing… A “concerned citizen” had mailed him a key after the news of his resignation had gotten out, along with the deed to the shop. Dubious at first, Maurice didn’t have much of a choice if he wanted to pay his bills, and nothing had come of it yet.

Until tonight.

He glanced up as he thought he saw something move out of the corner from his eye, “Hello?” Predictably there was no answer and yet, Maurice set down his tools and went to check the front of the store. A couple were passing by, the woman laughing so enthusiastically he could hear it through the glass.

“Where. Is. She?”

Maurice turned to see him crouched on the counter, a shadow cast by the back room’s light. His blood went cold as he watched the head tilt, teeth bared like the creature he was. There was no barrier between them; no back up that would come fast enough to save him. The Dark One was free and nothing could stop him.

Maurice straightened, trying to feel for a weapon, “Even if I knew… I wouldn’t tell you.”

The beast lashed out before Maurice had noticed he moved, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him forward. He braced his hands on the case and struggled to stand upright, but the monster’s grip was harder, forcing his knees to bend.

“That...is not a very good first sentence,” he drawled, “Now...you...are going to tell me where I can find her… Or there’s going to be a clean-up on Aisle Moe.”

“Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell it to the likes of you,” he glared up at him, “She's finally free of you, and soon whatever spell you put her under will be broken.” He had the satisfaction of watching the beast scowl at him for a moment before he had his head slammed down onto the display case.

“YOU. ARE. HER. FATHER.” He punctuated each word with another slam, “Of course you know where she is!”

    Maurice tried to focus through the searing pain and disorientation, vaguely aware that he was bleeding. The monster pulled his head back and he had just enough time to shut his eyelid before two clawlike nails rested on either side of his eye.

“Moe, Moe, stubbed toe, full of woe, Woe-y Moe-y,” he sang, “Your mind’s tooooo small to understand your little girl’s a big girl now. Everyone and their cousins think she was a poor wittle hostage but you know, there was a distinct lack of locks and chains once I got her home. She could’ve escaped at aaaaaany time if she twuly wanted to… But she stayed. She stayed because she was willing. She...she chose me…”

    He seemed to be lost inside of himself, and Moe thought he could use it to his advantage. But as he tried to move the claws squeezed and the pressure made stars dance against his eyelid.

“Shall I tell you about your daughter’s advances? I’m sure you were aware how naughty she was in the asylum. Does it torture you, how she went into my cell, without any back-up? Do you think about all the things I could have done to her, wandering into the dragon’s den so brazenly? I certainly do.”

“Bastard,” Maurice hissed.

“I’m aware.” He tightened his grip on Moe’s eye and he gasped, “Now, tell me where my beauty is or I’ll squish your peeper like a grape!”

    There was the sound of glass shattering, then the clatter of a bell as the front door was forced open. The beast giggled, releasing his eye and turning Maurice around to face whoever had broken in.

“Look! It’s Miss Swan, a grown woman who dresses up in a costume and runs around doing illegal vigilantism!”

“As opposed to assault and battery.” The dark figure moved closer.

    He blinked and then defended in a ridiculously innocuous voice, “I’m just looking for my girlfriend.”

“Let go of Mr. French before I make you.”

    He considered it for a moment then released Maurice, “I wasn’t getting anywhere with him anyway. In-laws, am I right?”

    There was a rush of air and a swirl of purple smoke, and when Maurice looked back, there was no trace of the mad creature.

“Are you alright, Mr. French?”

    He looked at the woman clad all in black, her face obscured by a mask reminiscent of a Venetian masquerade. Her outfit was a mix of armor and fabric, letting her move freely but still protecting her vital organs. The etched feather designs and the shape of the mask confirmed it was none other than the Black Swan visiting him.

“I’ve been worse,” he insisted, going to dab at the blood on his forehead with his sleeve. She brought her cape around and helped wipe it up, “He’s trying to find Belle…”

“He won’t,” she promised him.

    He shook his head, “You can’t be certain of that. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

“No, HE has no idea what I’M capable of. That disappearing act won’t work twice, and she’s got the city of Storybrooke looking out for her,” she rested a hand on his shoulder, “We’ll protect her, and help her get well.”

    Emma could see though that he wasn’t convinced.

    She hadn’t seen Neal at all that night and while thankfully she hadn’t needed backup, it was weird he hadn’t immediately responded to her text about a sighting of the Dark One. When she did see him again at home, he was nursing a drink and staring at a spot on the wall.

“Where were you, Boy Wonder? You missed a highly anticlimactic standoff with a Big Bad.”

“I was with a contact seeing if he knew where Belle had gone to,” he finished off his drink, frowning, “I don’t want you dealing with him on your own; he’s not like the rest of the crazies we deal with.”

“Then come with me next time.”

    It had been an offhanded statement but Neal gripped the glass as though he were going to throw it.

“I don’t want to face him if I don’t have to,” he muttered.

    He’d never been one for cowardice, but Emma felt she had pressed too hard already. He had his clammed-up face on, and asking more wasn’t going to lead anywhere good.

“...I do not like it, Sam I am,” he said absently.

“Neither do I,” she said, “Not on a boat, not on a goat.”

    At least that managed to get him to smile.

II

    Belle had gotten drunk off of power. Not in general; she was still plenty careful around the other inmates and only interacted with them as much as she needed to. But at the end of her rounds, when she neared the last cell in the furthest depths of the Enchanted Forest, her pulse quickened for a completely different reason. Her Rumple would be waiting for her, regardless of whether he was done with his book or not, and they’d waste time pretending he was debating on a new one. She enjoyed the hungry way he watched her, drawn to her like she was drawn to him. She knew he acted the predator but, when it came down to it, she was his master.

    She was beginning to wonder if her lust and fondness was turning into something else, something more serious.

“Belle…” She turned from where she was packing her lunch to see her father in the doorway, looking nervous. Internally she began to panic, “We need to talk.”

“...about what?” She asked, setting a fruit cup in the paper bag before rolling the top of it.

    He took a deep breath, “There are...rumors going around. That you’re...going into the Dark One’s cell.”

    She laughed, and hoped it didn’t sound nervous, “That’s ridiculous. How would I even get a key?” By stopping by the master collection and “borrowing” it until she had a copy made. The master keys were only used when a guard forgot theirs anyway, and it had been easy enough to convince security it was for her stubborn father who wouldn’t admit he lost it.

“I don’t know, but you’re a clever girl.”

“I didn’t, papa.” She lied firmly, “I know how dangerous it is.”

    And yet, she had done it anyway. Knowing the risks she had gone in after telling him to put his hands against the far wall, back to her. She had gone in and gingerly touched him, felt along his scaly skin and listened to how tight his breathing got as he stole glances at her.

    He might be called a crocodile, but he had behaved like a lamb towards her.

“I hope you remember that,” he moved closer to her, “If anything were to happen to you…”

“I know, papa,” she went over and kissed his cheek, “I love you, worry warts and all.”

    He gave her a small smile, “I love you too.”

    She brushed past him, grabbing her coat, “Off to work I go. You want me to grab anything while I’m out?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a six-pack,” he said.

    Belle giggled and shrugged her coat on, walking out the door. It was the last conversation they had before she was taken hostage.

    The details as to how the riot began weren’t clear; something had happened to the plumbing system, so major that it distracted most of the personnel. Electricity became spotty and, in between power outages, cells started to open up.

    Belle hadn’t gotten to her rounds yet; she was busy reshelving books when the lights flickered and died. She paused and waited; sure enough the backup generator kicked in and she continued. She managed to shelve a few more books before the power failed again, this time staying off.

    She opened her tablet and used its light to guide herself back to the checkout desk, searching for the phone. She picked the receiver up only to hear silence, not so much as a dial tone. She went for her cell phone, trying to remember maintenance’s number…

Gunshots rang out. She quickly sank behind the counter, holding her breath. The volley didn’t last long though, hopefully meaning that whatever the disturbance had been it was dealt with. She took a few deep breaths, and was just about to stand again when she heard it. Quiet at first, barely discernable, the noise grew louder and louder. Laughter. Cheering. Chanting. Shouting. Moving closer to the library.

The door opened and Belle jerked, wishing she had had the presence of mind to lock it. She strained to hear footsteps but whoever they were they were careful about staying quiet. She shielded the light of her phone and scrolled to her father’s number, starting to text “I lov-”.

The phone was smacked out of her grasp, skidding across the floor. Before she could move away a hand was on her throat.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for you,” Keith growled, pressing himself against her.

    Belle clawed at him, but it didn’t seem to deter him. His hips ground against hers while he twisted her face to the side, running his tongue along her cheek. She struggled to breathe and to keep his free hand away from her breasts. She was beginning to feel lightheaded when he was suddenly pulled off of her.

    Keith barely had time to process the change before his neck was snapped, body tossed aside without a second thought. Fingertips gently took her face, frantically checking her over.

“Pretty, pretty Belle,” he crooned, “Sweet, sweet Belle…”

    A sob choked out of her and while she should be relieved he had come to save her… He was out of his cell. They could all be out of their cells. She was almost… And gunshots…

    Rumplestiltskin scooped her up, carrying her out of the library. The halls had quieted, even in the few minutes since the riot began. (Because that was what had happened, right? A prison riot?) Some of the truly insane lingered even though all of the cell doors were wide open. Blood and bodies littered the ground; not just guards, but other inmates, killed either in defense or for kicks she had no way of knowing. Belle struggled in her friend’s arms, weeping at the sudden tragedy, imagining the surviving inmates scattering like cockroaches into the city ready to bring hell to Storybrooke.

“Shh, shh, pretty Belle, perfect Belle,” he cooed, “You’re mine now… All mine.”

    As they neared the entrance to the Enchanted Forest she could see the flashing lights of police cars, hear them shouting over each other. Rumplestiltskin set her down on her feet and pressed her back against his front, a hand around her throat.

“Just an act, my dear,” he assured her, “We have to make them believe.”

    Belle was not acting as she was led out, sobbing at the sight of all those guns trained on them.

“Please, please!”  She begged as the Dark One carefully maneuvered them past the blockade, keeping her always facing the danger. She didn’t know whose life she was pleading for harder and, when she had time to reflect on it in the Dark Castle later, she realized they had been so intertwined one bullet could have possibly gone through both of them.

    It was almost poetic, in a Romeo and Juliet morbid way.

III

    Sometimes Henry felt like he was the only one who really saw things the way they were, and he wondered if it was because of his book. He hadn’t met anyone else who could read it and sometimes that scared him, like he really was crazy. But no, of course the Evil Queen would want him to think he was, because it gave her control. And if there was one thing he knew about his mother, it was that she loved control.

    Belle had come to live with them shortly after she’d been found. His mother said it was because she wasn’t safe anywhere else; his book told him it was because of her relationship to the Dark One. Belle and the Dark One were a modern day Beauty and the Beast; he didn’t know who that made his mom in their story.

Belle was...quiet, and by herself a lot, when she wasn’t in the dungeon. She didn’t seem like a person; she had no energy, and there was always a twinge of sadness around her. She was a ghost that stared out the window as if waiting for someone to come find her.

When he asked Archie about it during therapy, he seemed to hem and haw more than usual. He said that the mind tries to adapt to situations in order to survive, that Belle’s mind had deceived her into thinking she loved the man that had done horrible things to her.

Henry asked if his mind did that. Archie admitted that it might.

III

    Hook didn’t like to think of himself as easily persuaded, but he couldn’t deny he had a weakness for Baeran Gold. Well, now he went by Neal Cassidy, or “Baelfire”, which Hook failed to understand the reasoning of. At least his moniker made sense.

    The bloody thing was that Bae knew he had a weakness for him, and he exploited it ruthlessly. He was his mother’s child in that regard… So when he met with Hook to ask him to check on that woman of interest’s living situation, he had reluctantly agreed, knowing that meant dealing with Regina. She wasn’t bad to look at but she was fickle and didn’t take to his charm as quickly as he’d like.

    He dropped by when it was convenient for him, which irked the mayor.

“Honestly, Hook, there’s nothing wrong with picking up the phone and calling ahead,” she scolded as she found him snooping around the hallways, not even surprised to see him.

    Hook pouted, “That would take all the fun out of it.”

“What do you want, I have an appointment,” she said, brushing past him.

    He followed her, “Rumor has it you’re the one keeping the French girl.”

“It’s not a rumor if I told the press directly about it.”

“Now why would you go and do a thing like that? Are you trying to provoke the Dark One?”

“He wouldn’t dare come after me,” she insisted, “You weren’t there to see how he was around her, it was nauseating,” she shook her head, “I think he’d cry if anything happened to her.”

“I doubt it,” he muttered under his breath. He’d probably kill her.

    She led him down a staircase to what he imagined had been a cellar at some point. There was a chill in the air with only sporadic lighting, mostly around an exam table. A woman was bound to it, quiet and still as she stared up at the ceiling.

    So this was Erzabel French. The crocodile certainly had a thing for dark-haired bright-eyed beauties, even if this one had much more of a baby face. She glanced lazily at them, as much as she could with her head being restrained.

“Who’s leather daddy?” She asked dryly.

He gave a small bow, “Captain Hook, at your service.”

She burst into a fit of giggles that, while he was used to groans and chuckles, seemed uncalled for. It persisted as Regina came closer, starting to apply electrical pads to her temples.

“Honestly she’s getting as nutty as he is,” she muttered. She sighed before leaning over the incapacitated woman, “So, Belle, is today finally going to be the day you talk?”

“What’s there to talk about?” She retorted, “How useless this is? How it’s only stroking your feminine rage boner?”

    Regina turned on a machine that Hook hadn’t paid much notice to. It was small, but with some intimidating looking gauges and knobs. Belle’s nervous giggles died on her lips.

“What do you know about the Dark One?”

“...I don’t know anything,” She said quietly, her voice quivering slightly.

“You were his captive for six months, surely you picked up on something.” Regina’s fingers traced a dial.

    Belle’s hands clenched into fists, “Not a thing.”

“I think we need to jog your memory…”

    Hook wasn’t stupid; he had a good idea of what sort of machine she was attached to before Regina twisted the dial. But to watch the poor woman suddenly convulse and scream in agony quickly put him off whatever apathy he had come into the situation with. It was perhaps a few seconds of electrical current, but he felt trapped in those slivers of time.

Her body went slack as she gasped for air. Madame Mayor seemed hardly perturbed, “What can you tell me about Rumplestiltskin?”

“He has horrible morning breath! You could weaponize it!”

Belle hardly had the time to chuckle at her joke before Regina rolled her eyes and twisted the dial further along the scale. Hook must’ve counted ten seconds before Belle’s body collapsed again.

“You tell them you keep me here to protect me.” The words tumbled out of Belle’s mouth as she tried to rock from side to side, “You put up an act with me like it’s for information, but really you just want to keep me away from anyone I might tell about your after-office-hours activities. Mayor Mills can’t be affiliated with the likes of-”

    Regina cut her off with what looked to be very close to the extreme side of the dial. He stood there motionlessly as the poor girl screamed and spasmed, pulling at her restraints.

“Regina…” He said. Her face was completely focused on Belle’s, a scowl on her lips, “Regina, stop, you’re going to fry her brain!”

    Like a pouting child she relented, clicking the machine off.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” she assured Belle, patting her on the head before going to leave. Hook hesitated, his eyes still on the dark-haired beauty.

    She was giggling to herself relentlessly, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes flicked towards him, completely vacant as if she had retreated into herself. The Dark One could go die in an acid bath, but this woman’s only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

    He turned to pursue Regina, waiting until they had left the girl behind to speak, “She has a point. Why press for more weaknesses when you know she IS one?”

“Just trying to get the most out of my investment,” she said coolly, “Anyway, it makes for good press. Mayor not only taking interest in a victim of abuse, but sheltering them? It’s downright charitable of me. Speaking of, you don’t plan on coming to my charity gala next week, right?”

“I have better things to do,” he promised.

    However, he could think of a pair that would be interested in dropping by.

II

    For six months, Rumplestiltskin felt like a man again. Belle remained in his keep, a handful of starlight to ward off the darkness. She let the world believe that she was a hostage as she kept his castle in order, stealing away to little nooks to read when he was busy. She paid no mind to his work or to the company that visited, continuing on as if there was no crime lord over for tea. He could have easily been projecting, but he was pretty sure she was happy too.

    She told him everything about her; she invited herself into his bed. She let him touch and explore and take, and with that came an even deeper devotion than he had already had for the woman who showed him kindness while the rest of the world regarded him as a monster.

    He immediately picked up on her restlessness as they approached the end of their half-a-versary of freedom, and he feared his days of bliss were numbered. When he caught her staring out the window one night instead of at the book in her lap, he knew he had to comment.

“Something the matter, dearie?” He asked from the comfort of their bed.

    She sighed and shook her head, stepping down from the sill and setting the book aside, “It’s nothing…”

“My interpersonal instincts might be a tad rusty, but isn’t “it’s nothing” code for “it’s a big something”?”

    Belle rewarded his joke with a small smile, going to sit on the bed. It took what scraps of pride he still had to keep from crawling towards her, automatically gravitating towards the center of his world. She bit her lip before finally looking at him.

“I’m worried about my father.” That’s right, she had one of those… And she even liked him. She took his silence as a cue to continue, “You see, after my mother died I’m the only family he has. I know he’s been worried sick but…” She trailed off, and even if he’d been given a multiple choice style menu to pick from he doubted he’d choose correctly what she was thinking.

    Pins and needles seemed to press into his innards at the thought of sharing his treasure. But he couldn’t deny her such a reasonable request, such a human request.

He drew in a long breath, bracing himself, “...then you should visit him.”

    Belle did a double-take and Rumplestiltskin carefully crafted his features to resemble something close to casual. She gave him the sweetest smile in return.

“You mean it?”

“Course I mean it,” he scoffed, “I don’t want you moping about because I didn’t let you run out and say “hi” real quick.”

    She rocked forward and kissed him, and it felt just as magical as the first time. “You want me to be happy,” she teased.

    He wrinkled his nose, “Well… I don’t want you unhappy.”

    She giggled and went to push him back against the bed, swinging a leg over to straddle him, “You make me very not-unhappy,” she assured him.

    He clung to those words as she prepared to leave the next day, and he reminded himself of them as he waited for her at the window to return. He made her very not-unhappy; surely that meant she wouldn’t leave for good. Surely that meant she loved him, like he loved her.

    Belle didn’t look back once she was outside the formidable stone mansion that very much could pass as a Dark Castle; she doubted she could bear the sight of seeing him watching her leave. It had been hard enough when she had been getting ready; putting her hair up, wearing a hoodie, generally just trying not to advertise the fact that the lone survivor of the Enchanted Forest massacre was going out on the town.

    Despite his act of nonchalance, she could sense his fear. Honestly it could be why she had put this off for so long, or maybe she hoped with enough time passing her father would accept her decision to stay with Rumple. Or maybe she had just been avoiding the rest of the world in favor of the seclusion being the Dark One’s “hostage” had offered. He certainly had no shortage of books...

    She took the Cadillac that sat mostly forgotten in the garage, driving out of the foothills and to the metropolis that was Storybrooke. She was careful to avoid the main roads, though she had no idea if it made a difference. She was less concerned with traffic cams spotting her and more concerned with them catching the license plate numbers; how did one register a car for a super villain?

Maybe the media had moved on; assumed she was dead or simply found another scandal to move onto. She could only imagine what they had said about the poor defenseless woman being used as a meat shield… The few pages they knew of her and Rumple’s story.

The area Mr. Gold's Pawnshop and Antiquities Dealership resided in wasn't one of the busier ones, especially this time of night. She parked a few blocks away just to be safe, hoping her father hadn’t called it an early night. She practiced what she was going to say to him as she walked. Hello, Papa… Hey Papa… I know it’s been awhile. I’m sure you’ve been worried but I’ve been alright, more than alright…

Papa, I love-

She was startled from her thoughts by someone knocking into her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s alright,” she mumbled, hardly thinking twice about it as she tried to keep going.

    A well-manicured hand rested on her shoulder, keeping her from walking away, “...is that you, Miss French?”

    Her blood chilled as she turned towards the speaker. She had never paid too much attention to the politics of Storybrooke growing up; mostly she had just listened to her father’s muttering about the corruption of the Mills family all her life, and it seemed like no matter who went up against them they always still won the election. But then as she stayed in Rumple’s keep, she started noticing how often Regina came to call on him, and the sorts of people who came with her.

“Mayor Mills,” she gave her an awkward smile, “Nice to see you…”

“And nice to see you,” Her saccharine grin didn’t quite reach her eyes, “Is he letting you out now?”

“For errands. Surprised to see you around here.”

“Needed some fresh air, stretch my legs. Can I walk with you?”

    No. No she absolutely didn’t want to walk with this wolf in sheepskin clothing. But before Belle could really object, Regina had her arm entwined with hers and was steering the both of them along the direction Belle had been heading.

“He’s quite fond of you,” she mused, “Then again he must be, keeping you around, letting you see behind the curtain of Storybrooke…”

“What curtain?”

    Regina’s grip tightened on her arm, “Oh, you know… How it really is.”

“I have no idea what you’re inferring.”

    Belle cringed as Regina stopped, twisting around to face her, “Don’t play me for a fool… You may have pretended to be reading during our meetings, but I know better than to believe that charade.”

“You flatter yourself, Mayor Mills; you nor any of his business associates are all that interesting,” she tried to brush past her, “I’m a glorified maid, that’s it.”

    She was honestly a little surprised when Regina let her, her grip sliding off like water off a duck’s feather.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she called over her shoulder, “We could work together, help each other out.”

    Belle rolled her eyes, “No thanks. I prefer the devil I know to the one that just so “happens” to bump into me at night.”

    The fact Regina let her go without another word should have been a warning.

    She didn’t have to double-check the address; a hanging glowing sign announced that this was the antiquities dealership Rumple had jotted down, her father’s new place of business. No light came from inside, the shades were drawn, and when she checked the hours she saw she had just missed closing. But maybe he was still in the back...

    She circled around to the alley beside it and spotted a back door. There were still no lights on but she tried the doorknob anyway. Locked. She sighed; all of those precautions and mental speech drafts for nothing. She’d have to catch him some other time.

    Snarls reverberated from one brick wall to the other. Belle turned to see three shadows at the mouth of the alley, blocking her exit.

“You really should’ve gotten me that book, darling.” The tallest drawled, before snapping her fingers and pointing at Belle. Her sidekicks immediately charged, their barks booming across the distance.

    Belle twisted around to flee, knocking into a trash can. She recovered and sprinted, continuing even when she saw it was a dead end.

“HELP!” She screamed, trying to find something to stand on to scale the fence, “HELP ME, SOMEONE, PLEASE!”

    The first clamped its jaws around her calf and pulled her leg out from underneath her. She hit the cement with a hard thud and tried to kick free, but that only seemed to excite the dog more. She went to claw at its face when the second caught her forearm in its mouth. She screamed as they pulled in opposite directions, playing tug-o-war with her body and shaking her about as if she were just a stuffed animal left in a puppy’s reach.

    They raked at her skin, chomping at new parts of her body and trying to rip the meat right off her bones. It was all Belle could do to scream and hope somebody, anybody would save her before she bled out.

    The only person who heard her cries was Cruella, who watched in grotesque fascination. Belle wavered in and out of consciousness, her wails turning into quiet sobs and half-thought prayers.

    She heard Cruella make a call over the sounds of the Rottweilers’ snuffling and growling. She stared at a pool of her own blood as pain rang through her.

“Alright, she’s exactly where you want her… Yes, Jasper and Horace were good boys and did their jobs… Are you sure I can’t let them kill her? ...what makes you think he still cares, he let her go.”

    It was because he let her go that she knew he cared. She squeezed her eyes shut as the stupid mutts started clawing at her face, trying to get a rise out of her.

    The last thing she heard before she finally passed out was Cruella accusing the person on the other end of the line for being tacky in deciding to have a shrimp hors d'oeuvre served at her gala.

III

“One pill makes you larger, aaaaaand one pill makes you small. And the ones that… Mother gives you. Don’t doooo anything. At allllll.”

    He hated that fucking song, and should’ve long ago taken it off the jukebox, but he’d sooner gouge his own tongue out before giving Chelsea Catone the satisfaction. Her entire life revolved around tormenting whatever patron dared to venture into the Rabbit Hole, and himself if he wasn’t careful. The regulars had long since gotten used to her, then again most of his regulars had their own annoying ticks that they inflicted on whoever was unlucky enough to engage them.

           It really wasn’t surprising that his customers tended to be a little off; he was in the heart of the party district known (only somewhat ironically) as Wonderland. Left to its own devices for the most part, at least it was cheap to live in… It had been perfect in his younger years, and he’d been so excited to take over and reinvent this bar. Now the surrealistic design and technicolors gave him a headache.

           He probably wouldn’t have paid any mind to the next fool who stumbled in if the entire Rabbit Hole didn’t freeze. The crack of table croquet stopped, and not because of the twins breaking out into a fight. Catherine’s stream of vapor leaked past her lips instead of in the rings and figures she liked to practice. The absurd confusing drinking game that was like musical chairs on crack ended as the line of racers crashed into one another.

    Jefferson took one look at the arrival and sighed, “Alright, everyone out.”

    He’d never seen all those misfits listen at the same time before. Such was the fear of the Dark One.

“You too, dormouse,” he flipped Grace’s textbook closed.

    She turned away from her staring and gave him a pointed look, “You said I can stay down here if I did my homework.”

“And you also know I have Daddy Veto Powers. Go upstairs, now.”

“Listen to your father.”

    Grace was startled to see the Dark One in all his glittering glory suddenly standing beside her at the bar. He stared back at her, raising an eyebrow. She grabbed her book, slid off her stool and disappeared through the “Hatters Only” door.

    Rumplestiltskin took her seat, folding his arms on the bar. Jefferson crossed his.

“I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again,” he muttered.

“I thought that was a hyperbole,” he mumbled, his eyes wandering towards “Hatters Only”, “...she’s grown up quite a bit.”

“Yeah… Went by too fast,” he said.

The Dark One shrugged, “At least she got her looks from her mother.”

“You going to order something or not, you scaly bastard?”

“Whatever you have that’s strong.”

    Jefferson went over to his wall of liquors, grabbing and pouring like a painter with his palette, “It’s been what, eight, nine years, and tonight you just wander in without warning?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he claimed, claws scratching at the table’s varnish, “...seeing if Cora was in.”

    Jefferson’s grip tightened on the glass, looking ready to hurl it at him, “What the fuck. Did you not learn your lesson?”

“Ew, not like that.” He waved off the notion, “Like in an intelligence gathering way. But it doesn’t matter, she wasn’t in.”

“And what information could you possibly need THAT badly?”

           His face crumpled and Jefferson almost regretted asking. He hadn’t seen lizard eyes that sad since… Well, ever, he guessed.

He tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy, leaning in as Jefferson set down his drink, “…have you ever been in love before?” He just about whispered.

           Jefferson gave a small smile and nodded, “Yeah, once. You took her seat.”

“But never the romantic sort?” He continued, “Where you’re just…sitting, minding your own business, and a butterfly lands on your arm. It’s so delicate, and perfect… You’re terrified to move, terrified to breathe, lest the moment end and it flits away. Touching it, tainting its purity… Feels wrong. But you want to… Need to…”

           No, he hadn’t felt that way towards Grace’s mother; she had been a fun fling that had ended in tragedy. Grace was the only butterfly in his life and as far as he could see she’d remain the only one. Purity was in short supply in the circles he ran in… And he’d do whatever he could to protect his little dormouse.

           Rumplestiltskin downed his drink and set the glass back on the table, tapping at the rim as if trying to crack it, “…I’d settle for just knowing she’s alright,” he murmured.

    Jefferson frowned, “...I can put feelers out. Who is it?”

    The Dark One’s attention was diverted by the small television he kept in the corner for Grace to watch cartoons. For some reason it had been switched to the local news channel, and it looked like a young lady was speaking to a group of reporters at a press conference. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

“...with Mayor Mills’ help I have been recovering from my incident, and I hope with some more time I will be able to move past what happened…”

    The bartender frowned, recognizing her, “Is that-”

    His voice was cut off by a choking sensation, Rumple’s hand held up in a clenching motion as he stared enraptured by the screen.

    Erzabel French continued, her words hollow as she read from something on the podium, “This is my first public appearance since my…abduction. I hope to continue to heal and eventually go back to being the woman I was before.” There was a pause, a glance away from the written speech, “I look forward to the Everyday Heroes Gala, Mayor Mills’ annual fundraiser for the Neverland Foster Center.”

           She stepped away from the podium and polite applause followed before Regina took the stage again and went on her usual anti-crime tirade.

           Jefferson gasped as Rumplestiltskin released his hold, giggling.

“My clever Belle. Clever, clever Belle,” he trilled, sliding off the stool, “You’ve been a great help Jeffy, we should double-date some time.”

           He glanced between the television and the Dark One’s retreating back, rapidly trying to catch up. Of course he didn’t want to believe whatever propaganda Regina was spewing this week… But he couldn’t deny that the closest thing he had to a best friend was extremely unstable. That wasn’t even touching the idea Rumple was a victim of some sort of reverse Stockholm syndrome…

“Are you going after her?” He asked.

           The Dark One considered his question, head tilting to the side, “Yes, I’m going to make her suffer… Suffer more than she ever knew was possible. She’ll be begging for death by the time I’m through with her,” he glanced over his shoulder, “Unless you’re talking about Belle, then not yet. I don’t even know what I’d wear!”

           He giggled, slipping out of the Rabbit Hole. Maybe if he liked Regina better, or maybe if he thought Rumplestiltskin was capable of rape, he would’ve tried harder to stop him. Instead he turned the television off and noticed the empty glass.

           Bastard didn’t pay his tab. Could pull gold out of his ass, but apparently preferred drinking and dashing.

III

           Henry knew the drill by now; his main job was to stay out of the way while everyone else set up for the night’s party. Bored, he watched the small army prepare for battle against the…what was the word Neal had used? The bushwa? The upper class, basically the royalty of Storybrooke.

           Only some of them were actual royalty though, at least from what he could figure out. It was like playing detective, but he had to be very careful about getting new clues. Most people thought he was crazy, but they were just cursed. He was the only believer, but Neal seemed to want to believe.

           The world couldn’t really be like this, Henry insisted. It couldn’t really let the bad guys win while the good guys were screwed over. That just wasn’t right.

“It wasn’t bold, it was brash.”

           The voice sent a shiver down Henry’s spine. He quickly ducked into the nearest room, leaving the door open a crack. Sure enough, his mom and grandmother stepped into view, raven black and blood red.

           What kind of crummy luck did he have, with the Evil Queen being his mother and the Queen of Hearts being his grandmother?

           Cora turned towards her daughter, her bright lips pulled into a frown, “You’re antagonizing him.”

“I’m making a statement,” Regina folded her arms, facing her mother head on, “It’s an open secret how he feels about her… And now she’s in my possession. Soon enough he’ll know it too.”

“And he’ll destroy you if you aren’t careful.”

Regina scoffed, “Coming from the woman who boasts about how she outsmarted him.”

“Because I knew what I was doing. You, however, don’t.” She reached out and rested a hand on Regina’s shoulder, and Henry tensed up as if she were touching him, “I say this because I love you. Turn this around; offer her to him. Blame the puppy butcher for the attack.”

“No,” she brushed the hand off of her, “He needs to know that I’m not his apprentice anymore. This is my city, and he’s just another criminal I need to keep under my thumb.”

“Regina-“

“Mother,” she cut her off, “You had your terms as mayor. Now it’s my turn. If I want your opinion I’ll ask for it.”

           Cora’s mouth twitched, clearly wanting to continue the argument. Instead she gave a tight smile, “Yes dear.”

           Henry slowly, quietly closed the door. He didn’t want to listen anymore about evil plans, especially ones where the Dark One would be coming after his mother. As bad as she was, everyone seemed to think he was worse. And a beast without his beauty…

           A derisive snort warned Henry he wasn’t alone.

           He nearly jumped out of his skin, twisting around to see where the noise had come from. In the corner like a forgotten doll, their “guest” sat, back against the wall and legs spread out in front of her. Her long curls hung from her bent head but he could still see her smirk and vacant eyes. A book was in her lap as if she had been reading, but she looked as posed and lifeless as a marionette.

           Her head slowly lifted and her eyes flicked up. They sat in silence, regarding each other, until he finally spoke.

“So you’re Belle.”

           She mulled over the statement for a moment, “I suppose I am… I don’t feel very Belle-like right now, though.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re not with your Beast,” he offered.

“Maybe,” she said, in that gentle adult “no but I’m not going to treat you like an idiot” way.

           Maybe the Evil Queen had stolen her heart, and that’s why she looked like a cracked porcelain doll, one more fall away from breaking.

III

           It wasn’t the first time Emma had ever seen Neal in a monkey suit, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But there was definitely something to be said about his innate ability to pull off a three-piece. It was like seeing the boy-next-door skater punk suddenly on the cover of GQ adjusting his cuff links. He glanced up at the uneven click of her heels and took her in.

“You clean up nice, Girl Wonder,” he commented.

“You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“Oh Emma,” Mary Margaret gushed, unable to keep from brushing stray strands back into her up-do and smooth creases that came from something as simple as walking from the bathroom to the Autoswan, “You look stunning… I knew that dress would look lovely on you.”

“Thanks Mary Margaret,” she mumbled, a little embarrassed.

           Eventually her assistant stopped fussing over her, standing back and glancing between the pair, “I feel like I should be taking pictures of you while Neal slides a corsage on your wrist.”

“As great as smuggling a flask of peppermint schnapps in sounds, I don’t think “prom” is the theme Regina’s going with.”

           The trio made their way to the garage where Emma’s baby sat. It was a goofy stretched-out Bug painted bright yellow, modified to at least attempt to look like the sort of sports car a celebrity would have. But Emma hadn’t let her technician go too crazy; yellow bugs were special to her and Neal and besides, no one suspected Herbie’s drunk cousin of being anything more than tacky and fuel-efficient.

The Autoswan’s twin doors rose Delorean-style and Emma followed Neal around to the passenger’s side. Mary Margaret paused for a moment, then gleefully clapped her hands together.

“I can text David to come up here and he can give the Overprotective Dad Speech!”

“NO!” They snapped in unison. Mary Margaret pouted as she slid into the driver’s seat, Neal taking the passenger’s and Emma getting into the back.

           The ride to Regina’s estate was quiet, and shorter than Emma would’ve liked. Not that she wanted to get there after shit had gone down, but she wasn’t exactly looking forward to schmoozing the other socialites while she waited for the explosions. She wasn’t a great schmoozer to begin with and every one of these events came with the mild threat of her offending someone she shouldn’t have because she was a little too blunt.

           Mary Margaret had tried her best to teach her the ways of the upper class, but Emma was starting to think it was something you either got or you didn’t. It wasn’t her style to sweep things under the rug.

           She pulled up to the beginning of the expansive walkway that led up to Regina’s mansion, twisting around in her seat and looking at both of them in turn, “Now don’t have too much fun you two. I have a novel I’d like to finish reading, and honestly I don’t much feel like having to carry your unconscious bodies out of a burning building.”

“Yes, Mary Margaret.” They drawled in unison. The doors rose and Neal slid out, offering his hand to Emma. She took it and let him help steady her.

Time to enter the fray.

As she suspected, there were tons of press lurking near the mansion’s entrance, swarming each new arrival like ants on dropped fruit. Neal stayed a step behind, keeping an eye on the crowd while Emma picked and chose the snippets of interviews she’d engage in.

Yes, she was excited to be here, supporting this worthy cause that was close to her heart. Why yes, Neverland was where she had grown up, and she wished it wasn’t as crowded as it was. Every child deserved a chance to grow up in a safe environment, and sadly most of the adolescents were all but forgotten when it came time for adop- Who made her dress? She’d have to ask her personal assistant, haha. Yes, still single. Please excuse her, and have a lovely evening.

Rinse. Repeat. Until she was finally inside and could breathe for a moment.

“Is it the blonde hair? Or do I just have “bimbo” written on my chest?” She vented as Neal stepped into his more natural position at her side, “Seriously, you’ll never hear them ask a male CEO if he’s thinking about starting a family.”

“It’s the lack of suits,” he insisted, “I keep telling you that.”

“I shouldn’t have to wear a suit to remind them of my position,” she protested, glancing around. This might’ve been a living room in a standard house, but she didn’t see any furniture that suggested what this giant place was used for when parties weren’t being thrown. Right now it seemed to be the church foyer, a place for meeting and greeting before heading into the main event.

“So what’s our game plan?” He asked, lowering his voice.

“We find Regina,” Emma said simply, “She doesn’t take a step without us knowing about it. Where she is, I’m sure the Dark One will follow.”

“Sensible enough,” Neal scanned the crowd, “Bet she’s in the ballroom.”

“I’ll go check it out,” she offered, “You should scout for the catering trays.”

“You want your bodyguard to abandon you for snacks?”

“What, I’m hungry,” she raised an eyebrow, “Do you really care how you earn your paycheck?”

“I just really hope nothing happens in the five minutes it’ll take me to hunt it down. I’m pretty sure it’s Emma Charming writing my checks, NOT the Charming Corporation,” he shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around, “...I bet she sprung for the good stuff. You know, for the orphans.”

    With that epiphany Neal was off, weaving his way through the crowd. Emma smiled to herself, because he was being so Neal in that moment, but it immediately vanished when she noticed a man with a cane staring after him as if he were witnessing the second coming of Christ.

    There was something very familiar about the man and yet Emma’s mind was drawing a blank at a name. He looked as though he belonged there in his tailored suit and his kept appearance, but the other patrons had given him a surreal berth. An island in the middle of a sea of people, only his eyes moving as he watched after Neal. They stayed fixed for a moment and then, reluctantly, they broke away.

    He didn’t seem to see her at first; more like stared through her. But his dark eyes came back into focus and he gave her a humorless smirk.

“Miss Swan,” he mouthed across the distance.

    Emma’s heart raced. If it had been any other random surname she would’ve brushed it off as him confusing her with some other blonde in a dress. But paranoia about her crime-stopping activities refused to let her just dismiss it. She cut through the distance, keeping her sights straight on him.

    And yet, as she got within whisper-hissing range, he vanished as if he had taken the opportunity of a blink to disappear.

    Regina was pleased with the turnout, she decided as she looked over the ocean of influence that flooded the ballroom. The band swelled over the multitude of conversations and slowly pairs started to dance. She stood above them, on a platform near the pledge table where she thanked each additional donation that the attendees offered. At this rate they might actually be able to do something about that old orphanage, and she wouldn’t just be spouting empty promises.

    Assuming some miscreant wouldn’t force her to use it as hush money. Try as she might, it seemed like that was where the majority of Storybrooke’s funding went to. Maybe she should consider cracking down on readmittance to the Enchanted Forest…

    ...honestly the little hostage might be the first one she sent. She may have pushed the poor thing too hard in their sessions; it seemed like something had snapped and disconnected her from the rest of the world. The whole evening she hadn’t even tried leaving her side, staring vacantly across the room, shifting her focus every so often so as to not be mistaken for a mannequin.

Regina was wondering if she had been wrong, that Rumple really didn’t care about the asylum librarian, though she’d never admit it to her mother. For such a powerful being, he sure was taking his time.

    She frowned as she realized she hadn’t seen Henry in awhile. Hopefully he hadn’t gotten into any trouble, what with the mixed company of the honest and corrupt socialites. Maybe he had disappeared back to his room to read that book of his (which, by the way, she did NOT look like the illustration of the Evil Queen).

    Another man wrote down his name, contact, billing information and the amount he was giving so he could sign off on it on next year’s tax return. From the emphatic thank yous of the volunteers manning the table it must’ve been a fairly impressive amount. Regina plastered a smile on her face and turned to greet the man.

“Thank you so much for your donation, Mr. …?”

“Gold,” he said, shaking the offered hand.

“How fitting,” she joked.

    Beside her, the blue-eyed puppet stirred.

“Well I like to do what I can for children in unfortunate circumstances.” The words rolled off his tongue with a delightfully thick brogue, “Seems odd that the previous Mayor Mills isn’t here tonight, or have I just missed her?”

    Regina’s smile tightened, her teeth clenching momentarily, “Unfortunately my mother couldn’t make it,” she lied. Cora hadn’t wanted to make it tonight, claiming she wasn’t in the mood for the masquerade.

    Or she thought the event would flop, even though Regina had been doing this for five years now.

“That’s a pity,” he said, his thumb running over the grooves of his cane’s handle, “...honestly I was hoping that your partner might honor me with a dance.”

    It took her a few moments to realize he meant Belle. She glanced to her side, trying to see her through an outsider’s perspective. Belle seemed equally surprised, sizing up the man.

“Well I suppose it’s up to her,” Regina admitted, “Belle?” It would free her up to go make a quick tour of the room, see if she could find Henry…

Her voice cracked as if she hadn’t spoken in a week, “...alright.”

    Mr. Gold grinned, “Excellent.” He offered his hand to her and she took it, letting herself be led away from Regina.

    Elsewhere, Emma was also scanning the room, half looking for Regina, half looking for the creep who might’ve been hinting at her vigilante pseudonym but had definitely been gaping at Neal. There wasn’t much in the way of raised platforms in the room except for where the band was playing and where donations were being accepted (as if the tickets weren’t pricey enough). She dodged conversations as politely as she could, playing with the bracelet on her wrist and thinking maybe she should’ve field-tested it before tonight.

“Good evening, Miss Charming.”

    She turned to see who was addressing her...and then looked down when she heard giggles.

“Hey kid,” she greeted Henry, looking him up and down, “Look at you in your little monkey suit…”

“I know, Mom made me wear it,” he explained, “I like your dress, it’s pretty.”

“Mary Margaret made me wear it,” she joked.

    He rocked up onto the balls of his feet, “Do you wanna dance?”

    She looked at him dubiously, “Do you even know how?”

“No,” he admitted, “But you can teach me.”

“But I don’t know how either.” She scanned the room again, but unless Regina was wearing 12-inch heels she wasn’t going to spot her that easily, “We could always try to get the electric slide going.”

“What’s the electric slide?” He asked.

“A relative of the cupid shuffle. Come on, we’re going to need room for this…”

    Rumple’s mind felt as if someone had taken his skull and shaken it like a snowglobe, but he forced himself to focus. Forced himself to remember to limp, to go first to the donation table instead of grabbing his Belle immediately and taking her away. He saw her heeled to Regina, and he wanted to destroy the Mayor.

    Instead, he made small talk to ensure Cora wouldn’t be a problem. Regina didn’t notice anything amiss about his request to dance with Miss French.

    His precious, precious Belle… She was so far retreated into herself it was like no one was home. Her gold silk dress, laced with rhinestones, cut in such a tempting way… Her long brown curls cascading over her pale shoulders, blue eyes staring.

    They started to focus on him and he could see she was trying to place him. His heart thrilled at the fact he was showing her that she didn’t have to put up with crocodile chic; he could look nice and ordinary for her, be seen in public with her, have everyone stare at her beauty instead of his beastliness like she deserved.

    Lightning shot through his blood when she took his hand, and he led her deep into the mob. No one took notice of his prop cane disappearing, not even his precious Belle. He turned to face her when they were in the dead center of the room, unclasping her hand to rest both of his on her hips.

    She stared up at him as her own rested on his shoulders, her brow knitting together, “I know you,” she murmured.

    He nodded, maybe a little more enthusiastically than called for, “You do...you do,” he promised.

    A new song began and they swayed, eyes locked. He didn’t dare miss a moment, even if her gaze was powerful enough to make the Dark One shy away.

“You came for me,” she stated.

“Of course I did.”

“Why?”

    He frowned, “Because I had to. What other choice is there?”

    The tempo picked up and Belle moved closer, closing the chaste distance between them. Her nails dug into his shoulders, chin trembling, “Why did you wait so long?”

“I’m sorry. If I had known there was a problem I wouldn’t have wasted that first night. I looked in all the wrong places, thinking a woman who ran a city would have more brains than to touch you.”

    Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, breasts pressed against him. He held her tightly, feeling their hips move in sync with each step and twist. They writhed as one, the strings of the music swelling and climbing in time with each turn.

    Tears spilled out, “I’m not the same. Something’s...broken.”

“Dearie dearie dear,” he cooed, “You will never be broken. Only a little chipped.”

    She fisted his hair in her hand, forcing his head down to meet her mouth at the song’s crescendo. Their teeth clacked together, and they were both kissing as though it was all that could save them. Their bodies stilled, clinging to each other while their lips said everything words failed to. He felt the glamour slipping but couldn’t summon a damn, the magic peeling back the mask to expose what he truly was. Belle’s hand squeezed as crimps rippled along the formerly straight hair.

    She pulled away and he opened his eyes, ready for her disgust. Her face split into a wide grin, bringing back his true love as she started to cry and stroke his ugly glittery cheeks.

“It is you,” she said emphatically, “My beastie.”

He pulled her back into a tight embrace, feeling his own sobs spill out. Hysterical laughter bubbled out of her, mixing with her tears of joy. The other guests were starting to notice the transformation and were retreating as far as they could from the couple. Rumple felt the beginnings of panic and reveled in it.

He leaned close to Belle’s ear, his voice a deep growl, “What would you have me do, my beauty?”

Still laughing, still crying, she exclaimed, “Burn it. Burn. It. Down!”

As much as she would’ve liked to forget why she was there, Emma couldn’t. While she smiled and laughed as she and Henry cut a rug off to the side of the main party, she was also keeping an eye on the donation table Regina and Belle were hovering by. Chained pet or bait? Either way, Belle being stuck to Regina’s side was alarming, and not just because of the mayor’s sheer arrogance. The woman she had met in the hospital didn’t seem particularly passive, despite the mental conditioning the Dark One had put her through.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

    Emma turned to her dance partner, whose face was uncharacteristically emotionless.

“I think you’ve got some crazy moves,” she said, sidestepping the question. He stared her down and she relented, “I think...we all have our way of coping with things.”

    Like how she dressed up and fought criminals. Not the healthiest but a coping mechanism nonetheless.

The way he looked at her, with the quiet solemnity of a sentenced prisoner, told her that her tactful answer wasn't what he needed to hear.

“That's alright if you don't believe,” he murmured, “The hero rarely does at first, or else it wouldn't be much of a story. But you'll see… Your parents gave you up because they had to.”

The scabs over her heart felt like they had been picked off with his words. How many times had she told herself the same lies? And with the grand reveal of her origins it only seemed more likely that she had just been an inconvenience, that she hadn't been tragically ripped from their arms and lost or whatever other story she had concocted to comfort herself.

Henry, bless him, was still young enough to believe that where he came from was better than where he was as a Mills.

She reached out and took him in her arms, holding him the way she wish she had been held when she had gotten lonely. He hugged her back, generously not complaining about the beadwork pressing into his face. The world was theirs for a moment, two lost children finding solace with each other.

Then the screams started.

Emma turned to see the crowd clawing away from the center, desperate for the doors. They shut and locked without explanation. There was a single pair of giggles weaving through the growing hysteria, manic and pleased. A split second glimpse between passing bodies showed the Dark One had appeared in the middle of it all, dressed to the nines and clutching some poor woman. Was that-

The curtains caught fire, and the tablecloths. The potted plants and decorations went up next, including a giant “welcome” banner. Equipment started to explode and the poor musicians went flying.

The panic only grew, and people were starting to shove and barrel through. Emma shielded Henry with her body, rushing him to one of the fallen speakers.

“Hide behind this,” she said, “I’ll come back for you.”

Wild eyes looked up at her as she pulled away from him, “What about my mom?!”

“I’ll get her out too, just stay out of the way.”

The smoke was thickening, only sending the trapped into a larger frenzy. Even in this chaos she couldn't switch personas, and hoped Neal was in a better position.

She covered her mouth and nose, one look telling her she wasn't getting anywhere near the door. The windows though… Some of the men were using chairs to try and break them, but there were openings. She ran across the room, fidgeting with her ring. The diamond rotated in its setting, a sharp point of it now protruding. The layperson, had they been watching, might've thought Emma punched the glass with her bare fist, but it was the diamond edge that met with the window. A spiderweb of cracks formed, reaching to beyond Emma's height, and when she pulled the ring out the shards of glass rained down, leaving an adequate gap.

“Hurry!” She yelled, shepherding whoever she could find to the opening. Gratefully they poured out onto the mayor's lawn, running as far as they needed to for safety. She coughed and blinked back tears, but refused to leave until she could no longer see any stragglers.

She stumbled to where she had left Henry and found him, his head turtled into his dress shirt. She tried to pick him up but she couldn't, he was too big.

“HENRY!” She shouted, but either he had passed out or he was too frozen to comply, “Henry you gotta help me buddy…”

A second pair of arms joined hers and when she looked up, she looked into the determined eyes of her partner.

“I’ve got him!” He yelled and Emma let go. Neal scooped him up into a fireman's carry and rushed towards the escape, Emma only a step behind.

She gulped in air as they hit the outdoors, neither of them stopping until they were well clear of it. Neal bent to set Henry down, checking him over.

Emma took a quick survey of the group who were standing nearby, trying to come to terms with the sudden sequence of events and watching the mayor's home slowly go up in flames. Without a head count Emma couldn't tell for certain who all they were missing… But there was at least one obvious person who wasn’t out.

Before she could make it two steps Neal had grabbed her arm.

“Regina's still in there!” She protested, “She could be stuck!”

“You’re not going back into that death trap!” He snapped.

Emma tried to break free. Neal twisted her around to face him, “You know what my job is, right?”

“To protect me…” She muttered.

“To protect you,” he agreed, “And sometimes that means I gotta save you from your own stupid self.”

“I promised Henry,” she defended weakly.

Neal didn't budge, “I’m sure she'll make it out. Cockroaches survive practically anything, right?”

Emma couldn't even fake a laugh. She stared helplessly at where she had been dancing not that long ago. Regina may have been a heartless narcissistic diva… But she didn't deserve to go out like that.

Regina's evening might have been literally going up in flames around her, but all she could hear was her mother's “I told you so”. As the fire continued to eat up her home, she attempted to focus enough to conjure water to try and put it out. All she could manage was wind, which only exacerbated the problem.

If she didn't know any better, she would think it was a coincidence that the fire was pressing her farther away from the exits and deep into one of the corners. She wondered if he was going to kill her. She knew it had to be him, and not just a bad wiring job. Her mind turned to Henry. Oh god Henry…

           The fire stopped its advance and even the smoke kept a respectful distance. The curtain of flames parted and her former hostage stepped through, the gold dress shimmering as though she herself was on fire.

“They say Emperor Nero played the fiddle while Rome burned around him,” she remarked calmly. Behind her Regina could see the Dark One, the ordinary suit a jarring contrast from his glittering complexion. He paced back and forth, his eyes fixed on her predatorily, “Most historians today disagree; Nero wasn’t even in Rome at the time. But that’s not nearly as compelling an image, is it?”

           Belle walked closer and Regina pressed herself against the wall, causing a sinister giggle to slip out of the brunette.

“You’d know all about propaganda though, wouldn’t you? Exaggerating and lying to make a sensational story, working it to your advantage...”

“His brainwashing was not my doing,” Regina protested, “You can’t blame me for that.”

           All it took was a glance and suddenly Rumple was at her throat, choking her and snarling like the rabid animal he was. She clawed at his hand, unable to breathe.

“From the moment I stepped into the Dark Castle I haven’t done a thing that I didn’t want to do,” Belle insisted, “Which is more than I can say since coming back from the hospital with you.”

“Please,” Rumple hissed, “Pleasepleasepleaseprettyprettypleasewithsugarontopletmeripherthroatout.”

           Silence filled the small battlefield. Regina tried to look past her hate-filled mentor, to the woman she was beginning to feel she had underestimated, but Rumplestiltskin refused, forcing her to look into his eyes. He loathed her for this, and clearly wanted that hatred to be the last thing Regina ever saw.

“No.”

           Rumple’s face scrunched up, “But…but poopsie-kins… She deserves to die.”

“Yes, she does,” Belle agreed, “But I’d much rather her live and know that her comfortable ivory tower is going to come crashing down one day. I want her to exist to fear our retribution, to wake up every day wondering what on earth is in store for her.”

           He trilled at her words, looking over his shoulder, “Have you always been this devious, dearie?”

“Yes, so don’t cross me. Now I’m tired, hungry, in need of a hot shower and a hard fuck. We’ll play with our mouse later.”

           Regina was dropped like a piece of trash, and the Dark One pranced over to his mistress’s side. She took his hand and wrapped the arm around her, nestling into him as intimately as any couple. The fire’s smoke pillared around them, growing thicker and thicker before it rushed out, putting out the inferno that had once been her ballroom.

           The ambulances and fire trucks arrived as the inferno mysteriously went out as suddenly as if it was just a candle. Emma looked up from where she had been cradling Henry and sighed in relief at the sight of medics. She wasn’t liking how he was breathing, or how he was pretty out of it, and didn’t have anything on her to help. Neal immediately went to scoop him up again.

“He’ll be alright,” he assured Emma, “Kid’s as tough as they get.”

“I should have gotten him out first,” she muttered, walking with him to the line that was starting to queue for EMTs.

“You got him and everyone else out, that’s what matters.”

           Ready to contradict him, Mayor Mills stormed towards them, “Miss Charming, Mr. Cassidy, may I ask what you’re doing with my child?”

“We’re hoping they’ll use chest compressors on him, ma’am. Otherwise he’s a goner,” Neal deadpanned.

           Emma fought the urge to roll her eyes, “We were just looking out for him. Not planning on kidnapping him or anything.”

           Regina opened her mouth but Henry let out a rough cough, glancing towards her, “Mom, you made it out…”

           The mayor’s demeanor softened, “Well I had to make sure you were okay, didn’t I?”

           Neal gently set Henry down and he went to hug onto his mother. He looked up at Emma with a reverence that made her insides squeeze together.

“You saved us,” he murmured.

Emma shrugged, “I guess so,” she admitted.

“I knew you were a hero.”

           And, despite the fact she had saved hundreds of lives before this doomed event, his words warmed her heart.

III

“Well that was a waste of time,” Commissioner Lucas declared as she started the patrol car. Her deputy buckled her seatbelt, “Can’t say I feel too sorry for her, and she’s lucky no one died. You hungry, Ruby?”

“A little,” she admitted, even if it was 3 in the morning. The fact her grandmother asked her was a formality; cases like this meant the Widow Lucas wasn’t going to sleep, and when she didn’t sleep she went to her favorite haunt, a 24-hour diner called Granny’s.

           Ruby had pointed out on several occasions the irony of that being her favorite restaurant, given what Ruby had always called her. The humor was lost on the old wolf.

           She picked at the fabric of her pants, staring out the window, “…he took her again, the French woman.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re going after him this time, aren’t we? We know she’s alive, we can’t just let him get away with, with what he’s doing to her.”

           The Commissioner was silent, watching the road more than strictly necessary, “…I would have gone after her right away if I could have,” she confessed, “He’d be back in the Enchanted Forest, they all would be. But it’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is,” Ruby insisted, “That’s our job, isn’t it? To serve and protect?”

“And not be foolish,” she pulled into a parking space, turning off the car and looking at her granddaughter, “I’ve seen the Dark One take out small armies; I’m not sending my men and women on a half-baked suicide mission.”

“It really makes it that much better to let someone suffer?”

“The needs of the many, Red. You can’t just focus on one person.” She stepped out.

           Ruby huffed, jamming the release on her seatbelt, “Don’t give me that “childhood nickname” crap; you’re still wrong,” she muttered under her breath.

           Granny had been in the system too long; she was a regular bureaucrat. They needed a little less pussyfooting and a little more actually doing something to help the people of Storybrooke.

           She trailed after her grandmother, “You’re gonna be sorry when I work my way up the ladder a bit more and have actual power,” she warned, hopping up on the stool next to her, “Because I won’t just sit on my thumbs and hope for an opening. No ma’am, I’m going to actually-“

“Hush.”

           The severity of the command was harsher than usual, which was saying something. Ruby turned to her only to watch her staring intensely at the napkin dispenser. She tapped a finger against her forearm twice and Ruby glanced in the direction she was “pointing”. Sitting in a booth plain as day was Erzabel French, a little sooty and still in her gala get-up. Outstretched clawed scaly hands showed who was sitting across from her.

           Belle watched her partner, unable to keep a straight face. Her hands, hovering underneath his, suddenly twisted up to slap his. He was too quick however and pulled them away, causing him to giggle and flail his arms like a small child. They had to take a break from whatever game they were playing when the server dropped off a strawberry shake with, naturally, two straws.

           It almost looked like a normal couple having a date… If it wasn’t for that pesky arson crime a few hours ago.

           Ruby reached for her belt but her grandmother rested a hand on her arm.

“Granny,” she hissed, “He’s right there, we could end this.”

“You’ll get both of us killed.”

“Not if I get him first.”

    Commissioner Lucas looked her in the eye, “You might be going after the victim.”

    Granny had lost it. There was no way that a woman used as a human shield and held hostage could be the one with the power. But while Granny had her decaf coffee, Ruby watched the pair as much as she could. And while Belle seemed happy, Rumplestiltskin was the one hanging on her every word and movement.

[bigyack-com]

Modern Black Friday Work Force: Postal Clerk, Influencer, Robot

A postal employee who processes one Amazon return after another. A part-time stockroom clerk who works spotty hours for minimum wage and no health benefits. A social media influencer who pitches products to her 83,000 Instagram followers. A robot that scans the shelves at Walmart. Meet America’s retail work force in 2019. Nearly five million people are employed in traditional retail jobs. Many still work in stores, selling stuff, but the reality is that today’s retail industry is powered by a variety of staff employees, gig workers and artificial intelligence. The changes reflect shifts in what shoppers want — lower prices and more convenience. Shopping, even in stores, now involves technology that is altering the way we interact with the sales staff. Here are six stories of modern-day retail work. — The Luggage Salesman — Sterling Lewis, Macy’s, Manhattan There are not many retail workers left like Mr. Lewis. He started at Macy’s 37 years ago and he’s still selling luggage in the Herald Square store. Retailing was not the career Mr. Lewis expected to pursue when he moved to Brooklyn from Trinidad at age 13. He attended college briefly, but dropped out when his son was born and he needed a job. He went to work in the Macy’s stockroom, racking up overtime to support his family. “You do what you have to do,” he said. Today, Mr. Lewis earns about $70,000 a year, which includes wages and 2 percent commissions on each item he sells. It can be tempting, he says, to immediately steer shoppers to a Tumi bag that costs $1,000, but that only leads to more returns. “I start low and come up,” he said. “I want the customer to say ‘show me something better.’” Mr. Lewis, 63, met his wife while she was working in the shoe department. Together, the couple saved up enough money for a down payment on a house in Jackson Heights on a corner lot with a backyard big enough for three fig trees, a grape arbor and vegetable beds with sweet peppers, garlic, collard greens and strawberries. Mr. Lewis wears a gold hoop earring in each ear and a blue lanyard around his neck to show off his membership in the Retail, Wholesale and Department Store Union, which he credits with providing him and his colleagues with financial security. Would he ever encourage his 3-year-old grandson to work in a store one day? “Hell no,” Mr. Lewis says. “You can’t grow in retail anymore.” — The Robot — Wall-E, Walmart, Phillipsburg, N.J. Wall-E starts the day at 4 a.m., rolling through the aisles, scanning the shelves and looking for “outs” — any item that needs restocking. The robot has a long white neck, bright spotlights and 15 cameras that snap thousands of photos, which are transmitted directly to its colleagues’ hand-held devices telling them exactly which shelves need restocking. After it finishes scanning, Wall-E parks itself in a remote corner of the store, next to a bright blue sign that says “Our People Make the Difference,” and takes a “nap” to recharge its batteries. Wall-E works two shifts, seven days a week, in the Walmart supercenter in Phillipsburg, a former railroad and industrial hub on the Delaware River. Designed by the robotics company Bossa Nova, Wall-E is one of 350 robots at Walmart stores across the country. Their purpose is to free up employees to interact with customers or focus on other initiatives like Walmart’s push to deliver groceries to customers ordering online. This month, the store in Phillipsburg hired 22 employees and it is looking to hire 25 more. Employees have embraced the robot, said Tom McGowan, the store manager, because it performs a tedious task no one likes — cataloging out-of-stock items. (Walmart allows store employees to name each robot. Wall-E wears a name badge like every other worker.) Customers have different reactions: A few children have tried to ride the robots, while many adults ignore the devices and keep shopping. Some ask whether robots are taking jobs away from humans. “I tell them ‘No, I actually have openings,’” Mr. McGowan said. “‘Would you like to apply?’” — The Stockroom Worker Nevin Muni, T.J. Maxx, Queens For Ms. Muni, life as a part-time worker in a stockroom in Astoria can be unpredictable. Most weeks, Ms. Muni is scheduled to work either 12 or 16 hours, but she is often asked to come in on her days off. Ms. Muni, who earns the local minimum wage of $15 an hour, never turns down work. “I have to make ends meet,” she said. “Whatever job I find, I take.” An immigrant from Turkey, Ms. Muni, 52, takes multiple train lines to reach the store, leaving her house in Elmhurst, Queens, and her husband, who is recovering from a stroke, before 6 a.m. Hoping to save money one recent month, Ms. Muni bought a 30-day MetroCard instead of paying for single rides. But she ended up losing money on the card because the extra shifts never materialized that month. She has no health insurance, but manages to be resourceful. She recently had a cavity filled by dental students at New York University. Ms. Muni moved to New York eight years ago and recently joined the Retail Action Project, a worker group and job training program affiliated with the retail employees union. She has degrees in media economics and human resources management from a university in Turkey. But those skills are not needed in the cramped, windowless stockroom on the third floor of the T.J. Maxx., behind the men’s underwear rack and the bin of Christmas-themed pillows. Ms. Muni unpacks boxes from delivery trucks and arranges last season’s pajamas and dress shirts on hangers, for display in the store. Her co-workers in the stockroom include women from Peru, Ecuador, Morocco and the Dominican Republic. “We laugh. We talk about family,” she said. “My job is hard, but I love these friends.” — The Postal Employee — Eric. C. Wilson, post office, Greenwich, Conn. Mr. Wilson has watched the internet upend how Americans shop and communicate from a unique vantage point: the service window of the post office where he has worked for more than 30 years. When Mr. Wilson, 58, started in the business, his job revolved around processing letters, cards and flat parcels. But those have fallen off in the age of email and text messages, he said. Now, his window is bustling with a specific type of package: returns of online purchases, which have become an enormous part of his days. “We get hundreds and hundreds of those, especially this time of year,” Mr. Wilson, a father of two, said in a telephone interview as he drove to his home in Stamford, Conn. The change is a side effect of the boom in online shopping, which results in far more returns than purchases made at brick-and-mortar stores. It has been a boon for post offices and employees like Mr. Wilson. “At one time, they thought the internet was actually going to kill the Postal Service, but it’s been very helpful because of the way people order packages online now,” he said. Mr. Wilson’s post office will operate four or five service windows — up from its typical two — between Thanksgiving weekend and Dec. 24, he said. Sending packages to Amazon is a shift from handling letters but Mr. Wilson is not sentimental about it. “I don’t really miss it at all,” he said. “You just adjust to what the change is.” — The Influencer — While Ms. Johnson doesn’t technically work in retailing, she’s one of the many social media mavens who have become central to the industry by making product pitches to her roughly 83,000 Instagram followers and 355,000 YouTube subscribers. Throughout November — which Ms. Johnson, 37, calls “Black Friday month” — she estimates that she will participate in about 20 sponsored campaigns, in which brands pay her for certain promotional posts. She also earns commissions from retailers like Best Buy and Target when her followers click on a link she provides and buy an item. “At this point, what I’ve created has turned into a media and marketing company,” said Ms. Johnson, who lives outside Salt Lake City. “I’ve talked to multiple brands who said they don’t spend as much money on TV ads and have put it all into marketing with influencers or online marketing because they just get a bigger return.” Ms. Johnson, whose posts sometimes feature her 10-year-old daughter and 7-year-old son, started blogging about bargains a decade ago on a site, now sold, called Freebies 2 Deals, as a way to work from home. On Instagram, her calls to buy cardigans on Amazon and toys at Target are interspersed with date night selfies and relatable fare about parenting. “The people who follow me or watch my stories feel like we’re best friends,” she said. When she recommends a great deal or product they love, “it builds another layer of trust.” — The Quasi-Fulfillment Worker — Sherika McGibbon, Zara, Manhattan When Ms. McGibbon started working at Zara six years ago, customers seemed to have far more patience. “Today many people are in a hurry,” Ms. McGibbon said. “They don’t take time to touch and feel the material. They just want to buy it and leave.” Ms. McGibbon, who has worked all over the retail industry, including at the Gap and the now-defunct Daffy’s, attributes the change to online shopping, which prioritizes convenience over the experience. E-commerce has also altered Ms. McGibbon’s daily routine and turned her Zara near Union Square into a miniature fulfillment center. Ms. McGibbon, who earns about $16 an hour, spends the first part of the morning on the sales floor interacting with customers. After lunch, she reports to the stockroom and packs FedEx boxes until her shift ends at 5 p.m. The delivery service picks up online orders twice a day. Ms. McGibbon, 31, usually packs about 50 such orders a day. During the Black Friday weekend, her store expects to ship 2,000 orders. A single mother raising a 12-year-old son, Ms. McGibbon says she still enjoys the challenge of helping customers put together an outfit. As a hobby, she advises friends and family how to dress. “Stylin’ by Sherika,” she calls her consultancy. She would like to turn it into a business someday. “Retail is fast,” she said over the throbbing music at the Fifth Avenue store. “There is a lot of adrenaline. But if it ever gets slow, I got to go.” Source link Read the full article

[i-dont-dj-sammy-g]

Plee

Hey. 

You there.

Whoever is left.

I don’t know who you are, but hello, and thanks for stopping.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to accomplish with this post other than to just put it out in the air, somewhere, that I am NOT okay. These last four years of my life have been far worse than I could have ever hoped for myself. I feel like I’m drowning and whenever I try to swim to the surface for a breath of air, the ocean just gets that much deeper. Sure, life’s had its ups, but the majority of it has been downs. I am not happy. I never realized that I was ever in this position until about a week ago when I got more drunk than I ever have been before in my life. I could not move. Everything was spinning at the speed of a top and I could. not. stop. crying. I called everyone in my family, and cried and told them how scared I was and how much I miss them (since they all live far away.) I don’t know what I’m so afraid of. Maybe being alone. Maybe death. Maybe life. Honestly, I think I’m afraid of it all. This post is going to be long and riddled with rambling that won’t make any sense. I’m sorry, and if you stay through it all, thank you for your time. I wish I could give something back to you.

I don’t know where to start with this. Maybe I’ll start where all of this began...ha ha Sam, way to go. 

My parents were never happy. I never realized it until it was over and the mushroom cloud of the divorce was already halfway round the world, but they weren’t. Mom, she works. She works all the time and I feel bad because I haven’t seen it really pay off for her. She sits in front of her computer from 5am to about 6pm typing medical notes. She’s been doing this for just about as long as I remember, and this has taken up a large part of my life. I remember waking up in the morning to her typing and coming home from school to her typing. I’m not sure if she actually likes the job, or if she’s been hiding from something...distracting herself.

Dad has been retired a couple of times and had to come out of retirement once to try to keep the family afloat. It was never something I saw but we were struggling. He specializes in landscaping and amateur astrophotography, though amateur may be an understatement. I don’t honestly remember much of him working because it was never anything at home and he would never bring it home with him. Other than the poison ivy. Mom didn’t like that. 

I’m going to spare a lot of personal and family details that nobody but us need to know, but the years went on, we moved from Kansas to Massachusetts and I could see them growing apart. It was obvious. They would fight more, Dad would sleep on the couch more often than not because of his “restless leg syndrome,” and the spark was gone. Dad spent all his time up in his office while we would be downstairs watching our favorite TV shows, me and my mom. *I want to add a little side note here that I am not angry with any member of my family. I am happy that they are all doing seemingly well for themselves now, but more on that later* It was in the air that they weren’t together anymore.

Fast forward about 3 years. All of a sudden mom wants to go to our cabin up in New Hampshire a lot more. She needs time to herself. One day my dad brings my sister and I up to his office and gives us each a hug and says,

“That’s it. The marriage is over. Your mother is having an affair.”

My favorite author, Chuck Palahniuk once wrote in Fight Club, “We have just lost all cabin pressure,” and I have never related to a set of text more in my life. Right around the same time, and a week before my birthday, my girlfriend of 7 moths decided another guy was more suitable. Whatever, I was learning life lessons a lot this year it seemed.

Now, to be fair, to this day I don’t actually know what my mother was doing and it’s not really any of anyone else’s business. Both of them were unhappy and it needed to end for both of them so that they could be where they are now. My mom is happily living in New Hampshire at the same cabin, and my Dad is putting around the country with his lady. Good for them, right?

Backing up a little bit, before my dad met his new lady, we lived in several different places. We lived in a quiet little town that held the high school that I graduated from, then we moved back to the town we lived in when we moved from Kansas all those years ago. We went on like that for about three more years, trying to repair ourselves as a group after the divorce, my father, sister and I. We didn’t abandon my mother but there was a lot of confusion at that time and my sister and I didn’t know what to think and my mom was too far away to form our own ideas based on her story. So we were quiet for a little bit. I finished high school and was in a relationship for the majority of these three years. I was trying my best to be happy and I didn’t realize that I was cramming all of these emotions down and away until now. And then my dad met Her. Thats when it REALLY started going downhill for me, and it hasn’t gone far back up since.

My dad was 50 years old when I was born. He didn’t want to have children but then woke up one day and decided he wanted his family name to go on. I was 17, I think, when he met Her. I’m 21 now. If he was 50 when I was born, I’ll let you do the math. He realized he may not have too much time left and decided that he wanted to start living for himself. He moved to Florida with Her, and my sister moved in with a friend. I went back to our broken family home, which was on the market at the time. I’m not mad at him. I’m happy that he’s able to finally start living his life the way he’s wanted too.

I worked. I worked a lot while living in this house at a race track about 10 minutes up the road. I loved this race track as if I owned it, like it was mine. It was a newly built facility and I became a part of the crew at the end of its first year of operation. It was bittersweet work because while watching amazing pieces of machinery race around 2.3 miles of some of the best racing surfaces you can find in New England, I was stuck out in the sun and the heat. This is where my anxiety really started to get ahold of me. I stayed at this track for 2 years.

If you’ve never been through an anxiety attack, you’re more lucky than you may know. I thought my heart was stopping. I remember being hunched over in my chair on my corner of the race track telling my GM on the radio that I needed to get down and that I was having a serious problem. I felt like my heart was stopping, dear reader. I was hunched over in that fucking green folding chair with no feeling in my hands staring at a rock on the ground waiting for my life to end.

A small part of me was okay with it and I’m just now admitting it. That racing season ended and I haven’t been back very often since. This was 2016.  Hold on tight, we’re moving a little quickly now.

After the racing season ended I ran out of an income and I couldn’t qualify for unemployment based on how much I had made from the track. I couldn’t afford to heat the house I was in for the winter because it was too big, and again, I didn’t have any income. Nobody was hiring. At this point I was still with the girl I had been with since the beginning of the divorce. I had a lot of feelings for this girl and she was kind enough to let me kind of go back and forth between her parents for a while but ultimately decided that she needed to do things for herself. That’s fine. Good for her. Noticing a pattern? This was December of 2016. 

Well, now I’ve got nowhere to live. Look what you did for yourself, Sam, save your money you stupid fuck.

Lucky for me I’ve got some DAMN GOOD FRIENDS. Honestly, I don’t know what I did to deserve my inner circle in my life. My friend, Bej, we’ll call him for fun, and his amazing mother decided they could put me up for as long as I needed. I was infinitely grateful obviously but felt terrible deep down in my gut. I know that I have these friends but I felt like I had nothing. My family was all over the place when I thought for my whole life leading up to this point that I would always have the support group of my family right there behind me. They were there, but so, so fucking far away. I was newly out of a relationship and felt like everything was going against me. 

I stayed with Bej and his mother for 3 months until I was able to find work at a new chain restaurant that was opening not far away. The second that I heard this place was opening I was the first to apply, the first to be interviewed, and the first to be hired to this new store. I was finally doing something for myself and felt amazing about it. I willingly drove an hour every day to go to the proper training for the new store and worked as hard as I could as often as I could. I actually ended up landing Bej and another friend their first jobs here and we’re all still with the company as of Sept, 2017. I was still lonely, though. 

Remember the race track that I worked at? I went back for a regional event for a club I was a member of. It was a two day event. The first day wasn’t very eventful, cars raced, cars spun, people won awards. It was normal. We went down for lunch at noon.

There she was.

She was literally a fucking angel.

She was wearing a white BMW sweatshirt, white pants, and white Rosches. Literally an angel, guys.

I didn’t think I had a chance, honestly, so I didn’t fucking bother.

I tried to forget about her during the day. I got lost in the smell of race fuel and the loud engines until the end of the day. That’s when the Flag Chief told me who I’d be stationed with the next day.

Guess.

Okay, Sam, you don’t have a chance buddy but you’ve got nothing to lose.

“Hi, I hope you like sarcastic assholes!” -Nailed it.

We hit it off. I have said it before and I will say it many more times. I have NEVER. NEVER had any sort of connection like I do with this girl. It went well enough that I asked her out for ice cream after the event, and even though it was far too cold for it, I had to ask. I could not pass this opportunity up. She said yes, and we went, and even though it wasn’t exactly a date because of some other friends that were there from the track, it went amazing. I knew that day that good things were going to come of it. You’re probably sitting there thinking things are turning around, huh? Ha, me too. 

I don’t know how to really explain the next whole bit without giving out too much personal information that I’m not at liberty to give, so I’m just going to try to wrap this up.

Legally, we can’t be together. Nothing to do with age or anything, we’re both the same age, but things are going on in her life that are keeping us apart. In addition, she has attempted school before but got caught up in social/love lives and school fell through because of it. She and I don’t want that to happen again. We’re taking a break. It’s a bit more of a break than I thought but I will do everything I can to be here on the far end of it. I don’t know how long this break will be and the lack of communication scares me. I fell HARD for this girl, reader. And as far as I know she fell hard for me. Why does this look so easy for her?

Basically, this has just been a sob post about how much of a mess I think my life is but its all really starting to weigh on me and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m getting to the point where I don’t really want to be here anymore. I left out a lot about how the multiple jobs I have/am trying to keep up, aren’t working due to abusive bosses because I suck at writing and this whole post is a shitshow anyways. I don’t know. I should shut up. Sorry for the anticlimactic ending. I’ve been at this for several hours and took a long break to work in the middle. I just wanted to let something out somewhere. 

Thanks for reading. I hope you’re well, whoever and wherever you are. Better than I feel, at least.

[reasons--to-blog]

                   My name is Alyssa, on the internet I go by Andrew though most of you call me Andy. I'm 22 years old (ftm) transgendered, disabled, & soon to be out of a home.                    I've been disabled since I was sixteen years old, a few months after I got a restraining order on my mother. She had been mentally & physically abusing my grandmother & I since I was two. I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder & depression. A few years later I was diagnosed with anxiety, as well. Due to these emotional complications, I had a hard time attending my junior year of high school. When they told me I had to retake the year, I dropped out completely.                    It took me a really long time to rebound from it all. I sunk into a really deep depression for quite a number of years between then & now. Most of that time was spent convinced that I'd be dead before I was twenty-five & that living without my grandmother wasn't a necessity I'd ever have to plan for. I had become very delusional & utterly dependent. The change started in December of 2016, when I suffered from a Deep Vein Thrombosis in my right knee.                    Due to my depression, I lived a very sedentary lifestyle & because of that, I developed a blood clot in my right knee. Luckily the doctors caught it before any major complications occured, but now I have to be on blood thinners for a while & can no longer sit in one position for more than a couple hours at a time: which makes looking for a job even more difficult, paired with my other disabilities. The experience was a wake up call, however. Since then, I've been working arduously towards a healthier lifestyle.                    All that seems to be in my peripheral now though, as I face living on my own for the first time in my life. I've been living with my grandmother throughout this all & she's become fed up with my dependency. She wants me to move out as soon as possible, though due to my emotional & physical circumstances, that's much more difficult a task than she seems to understand. She's helped me substantially throughout the years & I don't hold this against her, which is why I'm taking it upon myself to seek help elsewhere, through the kindness of strangers.                    I do get a disability check & food stamps, though if anyone reading this out there is on those aids, they know that the help provided is meager. I receive enough to survive each month, but not nearly enough to save & rent a place of my own: which is where the goal on this Gofundme comes from. $5,000. Enough, hopefully, for the initial rent on a place of my own.                    I couldn't begin to express how thankful I'd be for any amount of donation I receive from this. My life is moving in a very terrifying direction & I honestly don't have a clue how much longer I have in this environment before I find myself without a bed. Even the smallest aid would mean the entire world to me.                    Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you'd like to commission me instead of donating, please continue reading the second part of this post.                                                                                                    Alyssa.

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[ursafilms]

My First Teamster!

The white-hot arc of my production career started during the Fall of 1984 with Suzy Miller at the NBC affiliate in Philadelphia. In December I reluctantly left that unpaid internship at KYW-TV  to move back to New York City. My entreaties to find paid work in the City of Brotherly Love turned up absolutely nothing and my follow up to job postings on the NBC “Employment Opportunities!” site included more than one suggestion to “Perhaps look into the internship program at your local affiliate to gain some experience,” I returned to what is always touted as the world’s largest job market, The Big Apple.

I sent out 200 hard copy resumes. But since most of the people that received them didn’t get past the “G” in “George” at the top of my CV, I concentrated on getting the proposed recipients on the phone . . . yes, this was long before the millennial ideal of speaking with no one from the time you turned seven, through the moment of your untimely passing, invaded our work culture.

A typical conversation with a gatekeeper would go as follows:

Reception: “Good Morning. Big Enormous Productions.”

Me: “Hi. I’d like to speak with Joe Producer, please.”

Reception: “Who’s calling?”

Me: “Uh. Tell him it’s his mother.”

Reception: “You have a very deep voice for someone who’s been dead for six years.”

Me: “Uh, yes you’re right, and you might want to tell him it’s urgent.”

Reception: “This isn’t very funny.”

Me: “It’s not?”

Reception: “No. His mother isn’t dead, but you’ve tried this same routine three times now.”

Me: “I have? I must have lost track.”

Reception: “Oh, I believe Joe just got off the line. I’ll put you through.”

Me: “Ulp.”

Reception (SHOUTING): “JOE! IT’S THAT WISEASS P.A. LOOKING FOR WORK!!”

Joe Producer: “Did he use that bit about my mother again?”

Reception: “Yes.”

Joe Producer: “Let’s put him on the Maalox shoot, and tell the Teamster captain he called him a fairy.”

Reception: “Will do. (To me) Call time is 6am at Mothers Studios 2.”

This exchange has been embellished, and the end result is that I usually did not get hired, but once in a while someone would take pity on me and put me on a gig. Either that or they got sick of hearing from me every week or two.

At this point in the process, which was the first two months of 1985, I don’t know which I liked better, the pity hire or the annoyance hire. They both have certain characteristics.

The Pity Hire telegraphs to the producer and coordinator that you are a weak, sniveling wuss raised in a vacuum and owning a lot of bow ties. You will be humiliated publicly over this.

The Annoyance Hire connotes some strength, but at least one revenge job awaits you, and you will have to learn to throw a left jab, if you want to survive.

****

Bill Cote, owner of the cleverly named BC Studios on West 25thStreet in NYC gave me my very, very first P.A. job. He actually called me and offered lunch and no pay to work on a marketing video in his studio, which was a very nicely kept, smallish (1000 square feet?)  photo stage. 

Bill: “Crew call is at 8am.”

Me: “Would you like me to come in before them?”\

SILENCE

Bill: “This really is your first job, isn’t it?”

Me: “North of Philadelphia, yes.”

Bill: “New York is also east of Philadelphia.”

Me: “I worked in Atlantic City once.”

Bill: “In production?”

PAUSE

Me: “7:30am okay?”

Bill: “Make it 7am. There might be some gear to unload.”

Me: “Gear? I—”

Bill hung up, after not assuaging my fears of actually working on a set in New York City, which I realized was about to happen for the first time in my career. I had been on a set, but as a craft-service (That term I did know) gorging dancer.  

The next day, a very cold typical January day for New York City, I sprang out of bed and joined the subway commuters on the 6 train at 77th and Lexington Avenue. If any of you survived the adventures of the videogame also known as the Metropolitan Transportation Authority of the 80’s, you know how much fun commuting with a bunch of Wall Street Yuppies can be. Given that I was, more or less, sleeping with one of them, I was sorta thrilled to be crushed by humanity as the already packed train pulled into the station and every doofus with an Ivy League degree turned the platform into a rave. 

Made a promise to myself after this first morning. If rush hour commuting ever made it back into a regimen for me I was heading to the middle of as many women as possible. Their clothes at the time weren’t any nicer than the suits the men wore, but at least they smelled good. 

I survived the subway ride and showed up at 6:55am in front of a bell/buzzer that read “X$#&%,” but appeared to be in the approximate area of the main door to Bill Cote’s studio on West 25th Street. I rang, and straight from the scene from FX, a window opened and a set of keys that would have made the managing monk at a Benedictine monastery proud, plummeted from a window. The ring included a genuine skeleton key about the size of Johnny Depp. The key ring cracked the sidewalk. I noticed several other weekend golfer sized divots nearby.

“It’s the copper colored one.” Came a voice that had just finished gargling razor blades.

There were six copper colored ones, not counting the Johnny Depp sized skeleton key. I tried three before I got in.

I stared at a second door that could have helped Ripley hold back the creatures in Aliens. I took the bold move of throwing the security bar off the jamb and turning the latch.

It opened, and not a single retractable-jawed alien stood on the other side. Just a hardwood floor room with several flavors of wall surrounding it. One brick. One wood paneled. One with a piece (Later I would be told this was called seamless) of gray paper covering it. And one wallpapered relic from the 50’s that held a multipaned door.

In the far corner, directly away from the Alien barrier, sat a man with an Ozzy Osbourne hair style. At least a dozen empty wine bottles in front of him at a kitchen table. He folded the lead foil from their necks into neat little blocks. 

Me: “You must be Bill Cote.”

Bill Cote: “Why?”

I took it as an auspicious way to start my film career.

Me: “No reason."

Just as this in-depth conversation about German Expressionism, or was it Minimalism, was about to continue, the Alien barricade door swung open once more and slammed into the brick façade wall of the studio. Shortly thereafter a parade of cholesterol-challenged leg-breakers waddled in. 

My first Teamsters.

One at the lead, wore the haute couture of a black T-shirt that read, “Mama’s Pizzeria, because someone has to work in this family,” a pair of bluejeans once owned by Levi Strauss, and work boots with the bloodstains from the body of the previous owner. During the man’s hour long trek across the forty foot studio floor, a sandbag in his left hand exploded, its contents spilling onto the hardwood. He stopped, which had the same effect as the QE2 trying to back up. His colleagues also applied their brakes at the rate of local government, and the five of them gathered round the sand pile.

The killer of the sandbag, looked down, dropped its cloth corpse onto the sand, and turned his head in the direction of Bill Cote. It might have been the most exercise the man had in a month. 

Sandbag Killer: “Pffffww.” 

Bill Cote: “George will take care of it.”

Sandbag Killer: “Who F$&K is George?” 

Bill pointed his non wine bottle arts and crafts finger at me.

Sandbag Killer: “Pffffww.” 

He turned and looked at his colleagues. They erupted into laughter that sounded like a half dozen tugboats competing for space in the East River. The lot of them turned like a fleet of 747s on a tarmac and waddled back out again.

Me: "Where are they going?"

Bill Cote: "Hennessy's. A place around the corner. They'll be back at wrap."

Me: "What will they do all day?"

Bill finally stopped obsessively folding lead foil and stood. He put his hands on his hips and gave me a quick up and down.

Bill Cote: "Yep. Your first job. Let's get started. You'll figure it all out as we go."

And in hindsight, two firsts for that day. Teamsters and a very prescient statement about the production industry. You just sorta figure it all out as you go.

NEXT SUNDAY: A seemingly harmless TV spot for Frito-Lay lands an actor in the Loeb Boathouse Lake and sets a personal record for Yours truly for hours worked. See you then.

[friendlyadviceuniverse-blog]

I’m having an issue with my age. I am 30 years old, still working on obtaining a career, and divorcing. It really sucks but I know it’s the best thing for me. The thing is, I’m so afraid that I am old now, it will be harder to find love again... and, honestly I’m not ready to look for love but I feel like It will get harder if I wait too long. I want to find myself again but I’m scared that I should have already done this in my 20’s.

First off, I’d like to commend you for doing what you know is best for you even if it can often be a difficult and scary transition.

Some of this is going to sound cliche; please try to bear with me.

You say you’re having an issue with your age, but I don’t think you actually are. Your age is literally just a number - a symbol that we’ve decided equals how many years you’ve been alive. I think the real issue is what you think that number means. Am I past my prime? Will I find love again? How much time do I have to find myself? 

This is a pretty normal reaction. I should know. I’m in a fairly blah job, I have dated one person, ever, for about a month, and I live with my mother. I turned 28 this year, and I feel like 30 is waiting around the corner for me with an axe raised ready to chop off my head. I lie in bed at night worried about what’s going to happen to me, and if I’m wasting my life.

But, y’know, when I think about it, it sure seems like other people I talk to who seemingly have their lives way more together than I do have these exact same worries. And to others, I’m the one who has it all together (which is wild, right?)!

I think these kinds of thoughts and anxieties are less about our individual circumstances and more of a natural tendency that’s simply part of being a human being with finite time in this world. When we’re single, we worry we won’t ever meet anyone. When we’re dating, we worry we’ll never meet anyone we actually like enough to pursue a long-term relationship with. When we marry them, we worry that the spark will die, or they’ll cheat, or they’ll die. When and if the relationship ends, we revert to worrying we won’t ever meet anyone. It’s a cycle.

So, to address some of the points you brought up.

Being Past Your Prime

I’d actually argue that, despite some of the drawbacks, we actually improve as we age, at least generally speaking. I think we become wiser, get better at going after what we want, at knowing what we want, and often have a better, more stable sense of who we are. All of which applies to dating as well as many other things. Instead of only looking at what you fear to lose, try taking a look at what you might gain.

Never Being Able to Find Love Again/Dating Being Harder

Well, first of all, it’s definitely not impossible to meet people and form lasting relationships, both romantic and platonic, at every stage of life. I know because it happens all the time. I guarantee you, whether you end up single at 20, 40, or 80, there are others in your age range also interested in dating.

The bit about dating being harder when you’re older is actually a bit of a trick question because dating is just hard, period. You have to sort through a lot of bad matches before you even find a potential partner, let alone someone you’re sure you’d like to spend your life with. When we’re young, it’s hard because we aren’t usually experienced in romance. When we’re older, it’s hard because everybody comes with baggage of one variety or another. But I don’t think it’s ever easy.

When I’m faced with the fear of eternal singleness, I remember my father, who has been married 4 times - one right out of high school, then my mother, then a third marriage - none of them worked out. His current relationship, which seems to me to me to be the healthiest one so far, began when he was around 55. My uncle married his wife when he was in his 50′s as well.

Love can happen at any age. I don’t think it’s guaranteed, but I also don’t think it’s as rare as some fear if one puts themselves out there, dates the right kind of people, knows what they want, and takes a generally healthy approach to relationships.

And are there people who won’t be interested in you? Of course, but not all. Will it relate to your age, former divorces, career situation, etc…? Possibly, yes, but in those cases, it’s a bad match anyway, and I generally don’t recommend that people date others who are A.) not interested in them because there are better uses of your time and energy, and B.) fixated on things like money/past divorces/age because those people tend to be assholes (I am, of course, not talking about situations where someone twice your age hits on you when you’re 25, which can be rather creepy).

Finding Yourself

Since we, as humans, are lucky enough to exist in a constant state of change, growth, and evolution, we are actually finding ourselves at all times and adapting to the new person we are becoming. I think the need to find ourselves becomes especially important to us when we’re at a crisis point or a transitional period (such as a breakup/divorce). I give you full permission to spend time finding yourself, which may include taking a break from dating for a while. If you aren’t in a place where you feel like dating, you won’t be doing yourself or your dates any favors by pursuing relationships you aren’t yet equipped to handle due to still sorting through the remains of the last relationship. Take the time to rebuild your life a bit so that when you’re ready to invite others into it, you can give them the attention they deserve.

Best of luck! :) 

[adelindschade]

So since in my previous post I touched on some of the bullshit my dad put us through, I’m going to reiterate some of our last ‘transactions’ before that bridge was burned - one of the many pivotal awakenings I needed to throw those rose colored glasses away. By then I had taken them off and started seeing shit differently but this moment was probably one of the few that prompted me to stop giving a fuck and call it quits for good.

By this point, dad and I are in a rough patch. I gave him an ultimatum about a year from now - right before thanksgiving - to stay off mom, she wasn’t in a position to be losing income for child support when custody was 50/50, etch. - and he’d rather lay into me about not knowing my place (despite me being a 22 YO independent adult) and gaslighting me about not knowing the full situation (bullshit). So we’re not on speaking terms.

I’ll let you know now - family or not, if you piss me, I’m done. I quit. There ain’t no tantrums. There aren’t conversations. After that last text and you ain’t wit the program, I’m duecing out. Peace sign, have good life, motherfucker, I’m out. Adios. Fuck off forever. I had my last straw and I stopped talking altogether. It was mutual. No one was lifting a finger to initiate any sort of discussion after that debacle. .

I ain’t the person who sends holiday or birthday texts. Nah. When I’m done, it’s cold turkey. I cut it off in an instant and I don’t look back. None of this “I’m always here” bullshit or “call me if you have a change of heart”. Nah, fam. Not even with my ex-bestie. She was all about that life after our blow out but I said what I said, I meant it, and I’m not turning back on my words just to re-engage an awkward & inevitably change friendship. That bridge was incinerated and same goes for my Dad.

Also - blocking - I’m all about that life. None of that ‘weak’ shit excuse. I don’t want to be hearing from you. I don’t want to be seeing shit from or about you. I don’t want you creeping on my shit either so your nosy ass can talk about something to your friends. Nah. We’s dead to each other. I blocked a hella ton of people because they nosy AF and messy and I’m not going to enable that shit. My profile is private, too, so they can’t hire their friends to peep for them either. Communication is low so mutual friends or family can’t be talking shit if I don’t have anything to say about the matter. I stay in my fucking lane, you bet your ass you ought to do the same. I ain’t gonna make it easy for you to weave in between the lines so don’t even bother.

I also learned that if people are a) bitching but b) not blocking - that door is still open for more bullshit. That girlfriend of yours talking shit about her on-and-off ex for a billion reasons but still refusing to block his ass? You bet they’re going to be back together by the end of the week. It’s inevitable. They ain’t ready to cut that cord.

My dad was one of those people. His (last I heard, ex) GF was a piece of work. So many stories were born from that messy relationship but he wasn’t dumb AF and continued to justify or make excuses as to why he wanted to work on it. At the end of the day, he made it known he valued her over his own kids, and that was that. He bankrupted himself to support her even though she already had income coming in three different ways and he used that excuse to make all these expectations that were never realized.

This is semi-important. All of this ties together.

When I cut contact, I cut all of it. No birthday text, no happy father’s day text, none of that. I was a making a point and it struck a nerve. He went through mom to tell me I needed to bounce TF off his phone plan (as if I wasn’t paying my portion?? which I learned was MORE than what I actually owed!!). Hmm. Ironic. I was asking him for months to cut me off his plan because he was the account owner and he had to give the approval but all he did was give BS excuses to wait or that I wasn’t financially ready to take on another burden (What?? I was meticulous about my budget and planned ahead for it! I realize now it was because I was paying for part of not just my plan but his, too - hmm). So suddenly now, I’m an ungrateful mooch and need to bounce ASAP.

Luckily I anticipated this but unfortunately had to wait for his go ahead. Because no matter how times I attempted to do it, they still needed certain information only he could give, and it was infuriating that I couldn’t do shit unless he went ahead from HIS account to release the line.

Now, let me input this: I love my phone. It’s old (4+ years) but it works, it functions, and it still in pretty condition because I forked out a shit ton of money for a grade A case that lived up to its reputation (otterbox FTW). So, the only thing I was (or should have been) paying for was just the plan and my ass was grandfathered in so I wasn’t paying for shit for unlimited. However, I was paying twice that amount until this moment. My upgrade was never used because I didn’t need one - it was only for an emergency just in case some shit happened to my phone. I didn’t ever want a new one because the one I had (and still do) does everything I need it to. (Shout out to Samsung!)

Dad, however, was the exact opposite. Constantly upgraded because he HAD to have the new iPhone after it’s release (same applies to my brother which he always catered to) and stealing everyone’s upgrades while still forking out money for the phone he just ditched.

So after days in finagling for the fucking information I needed to just finish the job, he finally makes me the account manager to just take care of it. First it was, oh I haven’t paid the bill yet so I still owe x amount before they make any account change (abet lowkey suggesting I take care of the $400+ invoice - TF I will! Hell no! I’m not the one to be tried today - fuck that noise!) Then it was - oh, well, uh, I couldn’t cover the total so wait until next week so I have the entire bill take care of...

Here’s what went down:

This man never, ever paid the bill in full. He had late fee after late free applied because he was cutting corners.

On top of that, he was constantly adding new devices  - like a new set of Dre Beat wireless headphones - hmm - while apparently not having enough to cover the bill. That’s some piss poor management right there.

Here’s the bonus:

I finally ask the rep to take me off. Wait, there’s a new charge. What? On my line? Repeat that, please??

This man used MY line, MY UPGRADE, while the account still under his name to buy a brand new $1100 iPhone - in payment plans no less! So either someone pays the difference (which is pretty much the whole thing) before I can ever transfer my line to an independent one or - at this point - my mind stopped listening because I was fuming.

Wanna guess where, or rather who, that phone went to? Take a guess - it’s pretty easy - if you thought, hmm, Dad, so did I - but no, it went to his pretty little neurotic piece of a GF. *I learned this later on from my brother who was lamenting about how she got the phone and not him (after his took a nasty fall & cracked the screen).

Folks, I don’t remember how TF I did without forking over money but I did - I got my ass off the plan within a week of the original message, kept my beloved phone (which he can pry from my cold, dead hands) and my number with a manageable plan.

Now, let me tell you, I did not block my dad. My number is still the same as always because it’s damn near connected to everything in my name. I couldn’t bother with a number change because too much inconvenience. I sent him an e-mail saying the deed was done (literally 5 words or less) and he never replied back - that was that.

Fast forward about.... rounded, a couple months. Karma is beautifully served and she kicks his ass to the curb after mooching off what she could without having to do the same. (He’s still a dick and probably did some shit to deserve the restraining order). He crawls back to my mom looking for pity. She reminds him said-ex-GF is not worth it and primarily one of the reasons why he’s estranged with his eldest (me!).

He has the audacity to say the following - oh, I was going to ask her eventually if she wanted to get coffee. (Haha! Hell no! As if I’d be anywhere in the same zip code as this man! I ain’t gonna be trapped listening to his woe-is-me bullshit. Fuck that!)

Mom shakes her head - she knows me well enough. That ain’t gonna fly. She’s not going to respond to that.

He probably scratched his head - what should I do? (*Uh, dumbass, I literally wrote you an e-mail with plain-as-day instructions. First step, apologize, second step, acknowledge your wrong doings, third step, make an vocal and actual effort to fix x amount of issues which I’ve bulleted! Look at your Goddamn archives!)

Mom literally says - show an effort.

He replies - okay... is her number the same??

Bruh. Bruuhh.

At this point, it’s just comedy. I can’t make this shit up.

I’ve never blocked this man. I never changed my number. If he asked, idk, my brother?? He’d confirm - yeah, it’s still the same.

Now under this context, which my mother forewarned me about, he sends me a BS text - oh, thinking about you, hoping you’re doing well, text me, love ya.

What bullshit. Mind you, had his (ex) GF not kicked him to the curb, he’d still be at her side, and I’d still be in exile - so no - not happening. You made your bed, lie in it. See - I look at the bigger picture - it helps with retrospect.

Mark to present: Mom is now on the train which she’s almost always finds her way back on - forgive and forget! He’s your father? Yadda-yadda - you know the naive shit that gets her into trouble because she forgives wayyy too easily the shit no one should put up with. (*I’m all about the resent-and-remember and boii has it served me good).

Mom - has your father texted you yet? He told me he tried again. (As per use, telling one thing, doing another - actions ain’t lining up, pops. Typical).

My inbox: void of any such message(s).

Me - Nope! (proceeds to monologue about his douchebaggery and my intolerance for such antics and how forgiveness is absolutely out of the question.)

Mother  - who is very passive - immediately weans off the topic. She’s the soft spoken but persistent type. (I’m the opposite. I’m the ‘cuss your ass out’ + end of fucking discussion type).

I see things for how they are and I’m ain’t about that bullshit. I know how things operate and I’m not playing the fool this time.

[biofunmy]

Modern Black Friday Work Force: Postal Clerk, Influencer, Robot

A postal employee who processes one Amazon return after another. A part-time stockroom clerk who works spotty hours for minimum wage and no health benefits. A social media influencer who pitches products to her 83,000 Instagram followers. A robot that scans the shelves at Walmart.

Meet America’s retail work force in 2019. Nearly five million people are employed in traditional retail jobs. Many still work in stores, selling stuff, but the reality is that today’s retail industry is powered by a variety of staff employees, gig workers and artificial intelligence.

The changes reflect shifts in what shoppers want — lower prices and more convenience. Shopping, even in stores, now involves technology that is altering the way we interact with the sales staff. Here are six stories of modern-day retail work.

— The Luggage Salesman —

Sterling Lewis, Macy’s, Manhattan

There are not many retail workers left like Mr. Lewis. He started at Macy’s 37 years ago and he’s still selling luggage in the Herald Square store.

Retailing was not the career Mr. Lewis expected to pursue when he moved to Brooklyn from Trinidad at age 13. He attended college briefly, but dropped out when his son was born and he needed a job. He went to work in the Macy’s stockroom, racking up overtime to support his family. “You do what you have to do,” he said.

Today, Mr. Lewis earns about $70,000 a year, which includes wages and 2 percent commissions on each item he sells.

It can be tempting, he says, to immediately steer shoppers to a Tumi bag that costs $1,000, but that only leads to more returns. “I start low and come up,” he said. “I want the customer to say ‘show me something better.’”

Mr. Lewis, 63, met his wife while she was working in the shoe department. Together, the couple saved up enough money for a down payment on a house in Jackson Heights on a corner lot with a backyard big enough for three fig trees, a grape arbor and vegetable beds with sweet peppers, garlic, collard greens and strawberries.

Mr. Lewis wears a gold hoop earring in each ear and a blue lanyard around his neck to show off his membership in the Retail, Wholesale and Department Store Union, which he credits with providing him and his colleagues with financial security.

Would he ever encourage his 3-year-old grandson to work in a store one day? “Hell no,” Mr. Lewis says. “You can’t grow in retail anymore.”

— The Robot —

Wall-E, Walmart, Phillipsburg, N.J.

Wall-E starts the day at 4 a.m., rolling through the aisles, scanning the shelves and looking for “outs” — any item that needs restocking.

The robot has a long white neck, bright spotlights and 15 cameras that snap thousands of photos, which are transmitted directly to its colleagues’ hand-held devices telling them exactly which shelves need restocking.

After it finishes scanning, Wall-E parks itself in a remote corner of the store, next to a bright blue sign that says “Our People Make the Difference,” and takes a “nap” to recharge its batteries.

Wall-E works two shifts, seven days a week, in the Walmart supercenter in Phillipsburg, a former railroad and industrial hub on the Delaware River.

Designed by the robotics company Bossa Nova, Wall-E is one of 350 robots at Walmart stores across the country. Their purpose is to free up employees to interact with customers or focus on other initiatives like Walmart’s push to deliver groceries to customers ordering online. This month, the store in Phillipsburg hired 22 employees and it is looking to hire 25 more.

Employees have embraced the robot, said Tom McGowan, the store manager, because it performs a tedious task no one likes — cataloging out-of-stock items. (Walmart allows store employees to name each robot. Wall-E wears a name badge like every other worker.)

Customers have different reactions: A few children have tried to ride the robots, while many adults ignore the devices and keep shopping. Some ask whether robots are taking jobs away from humans.

“I tell them ‘No, I actually have openings,’” Mr. McGowan said. “‘Would you like to apply?’”

—

The Stockroom Worker

Nevin Muni, T.J. Maxx, Queens

For Ms. Muni, life as a part-time worker in a stockroom in Astoria can be unpredictable.

Most weeks, Ms. Muni is scheduled to work either 12 or 16 hours, but she is often asked to come in on her days off. Ms. Muni, who earns the local minimum wage of $15 an hour, never turns down work. “I have to make ends meet,” she said. “Whatever job I find, I take.”

An immigrant from Turkey, Ms. Muni, 52, takes multiple train lines to reach the store, leaving her house in Elmhurst, Queens, and her husband, who is recovering from a stroke, before 6 a.m. Hoping to save money one recent month, Ms. Muni bought a 30-day MetroCard instead of paying for single rides. But she ended up losing money on the card because the extra shifts never materialized that month.

She has no health insurance, but manages to be resourceful. She recently had a cavity filled by dental students at New York University.

Ms. Muni moved to New York eight years ago and recently joined the Retail Action Project, a worker group and job training program affiliated with the retail employees union. She has degrees in media economics and human resources management from a university in Turkey. But those skills are not needed in the cramped, windowless stockroom on the third floor of the T.J. Maxx., behind the men’s underwear rack and the bin of Christmas-themed pillows.

Ms. Muni unpacks boxes from delivery trucks and arranges last season’s pajamas and dress shirts on hangers, for display in the store. Her co-workers in the stockroom include women from Peru, Ecuador, Morocco and the Dominican Republic.

“We laugh. We talk about family,” she said. “My job is hard, but I love these friends.”

—

The Postal Employee

—

Eric. C. Wilson, post office, Greenwich, Conn.

Mr. Wilson has watched the internet upend how Americans shop and communicate from a unique vantage point: the service window of the post office where he has worked for more than 30 years.

When Mr. Wilson, 58, started in the business, his job revolved around processing letters, cards and flat parcels. But those have fallen off in the age of email and text messages, he said. Now, his window is bustling with a specific type of package: returns of online purchases, which have become an enormous part of his days.

“We get hundreds and hundreds of those, especially this time of year,” Mr. Wilson, a father of two, said in a telephone interview as he drove to his home in Stamford, Conn.

The change is a side effect of the boom in online shopping, which results in far more returns than purchases made at brick-and-mortar stores. It has been a boon for post offices and employees like Mr. Wilson.

“At one time, they thought the internet was actually going to kill the Postal Service, but it’s been very helpful because of the way people order packages online now,” he said.

Mr. Wilson’s post office will operate four or five service windows — up from its typical two — between Thanksgiving weekend and Dec. 24, he said. Sending packages to Amazon is a shift from handling letters but Mr. Wilson is not sentimental about it.

“I don’t really miss it at all,” he said. “You just adjust to what the change is.”

—

The Influencer

—

While Ms. Johnson doesn’t technically work in retailing, she’s one of the many social media mavens who have become central to the industry by making product pitches to her roughly 83,000 Instagram followers and 355,000 YouTube subscribers.

Throughout November — which Ms. Johnson, 37, calls “Black Friday month” — she estimates that she will participate in about 20 sponsored campaigns, in which brands pay her for certain promotional posts. She also earns commissions from retailers like Best Buy and Target when her followers click on a link she provides and buy an item.

“At this point, what I’ve created has turned into a media and marketing company,” said Ms. Johnson, who lives outside Salt Lake City. “I’ve talked to multiple brands who said they don’t spend as much money on TV ads and have put it all into marketing with influencers or online marketing because they just get a bigger return.”

Ms. Johnson, whose posts sometimes feature her 10-year-old daughter and 7-year-old son, started blogging about bargains a decade ago on a site, now sold, called Freebies 2 Deals, as a way to work from home.

On Instagram, her calls to buy cardigans on Amazon and toys at Target are interspersed with date night selfies and relatable fare about parenting.

“The people who follow me or watch my stories feel like we’re best friends,” she said. When she recommends a great deal or product they love, “it builds another layer of trust.”

—

The Quasi-Fulfillment Worker

—

Sherika McGibbon, Zara, Manhattan

When Ms. McGibbon started working at Zara six years ago, customers seemed to have far more patience.

“Today many people are in a hurry,” Ms. McGibbon said. “They don’t take time to touch and feel the material. They just want to buy it and leave.”

Ms. McGibbon, who has worked all over the retail industry, including at the Gap and the now-defunct Daffy’s, attributes the change to online shopping, which prioritizes convenience over the experience.

E-commerce has also altered Ms. McGibbon’s daily routine and turned her Zara near Union Square into a miniature fulfillment center. Ms. McGibbon, who earns about $16 an hour, spends the first part of the morning on the sales floor interacting with customers. After lunch, she reports to the stockroom and packs FedEx boxes until her shift ends at 5 p.m. The delivery service picks up online orders twice a day.

Ms. McGibbon, 31, usually packs about 50 such orders a day. During the Black Friday weekend, her store expects to ship 2,000 orders.

A single mother raising a 12-year-old son, Ms. McGibbon says she still enjoys the challenge of helping customers put together an outfit. As a hobby, she advises friends and family how to dress. “Stylin’ by Sherika,” she calls her consultancy. She would like to turn it into a business someday.

“Retail is fast,” she said over the throbbing music at the Fifth Avenue store. “There is a lot of adrenaline. But if it ever gets slow, I got to go.”

Sahred From Source link Business

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