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nurseofren · 4 years ago

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Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 23

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Read chapter twenty-two

Title: Choice

Words: 8200

Summary: When one is hurt, comfort is imperative.

ST Rambles: Hello! It has been nearly a month, not quite, but I have missed you all so entirely too much to admit. This story is my heart, and sharing it means the world to me. I took my first exam of the semester this morning and wanted to finish this chapter so I could upload prior to going to my first maternal-newborn clinical rotation on Saturday.

During my time away I have had the opportunity to read many amazing works, whether they be one-shots on tumblr or ficlets right on A03. One that has evoked such a strong response in me has been Three Blind Tooke by ElmiDol. She is a beautiful soul with such a gift for storytelling. I have quickly fallen in love with this story and I hope to encourage many of you to do the same.

My plan for the semester and writing is to take one week writing and then take one week to read the stories that I want. I think this will provide the necessary balance needed for me to be successful in school while also creating and enjoying other creator's content.

[MASTERLIST]

Time has always had a funny way of making itself scarce when needed most. It seemed that you could barely remember the trial, like it had never happened and all that remained to prove that it had were the restraints locked tight around each of your wrists and your neck. Above you sounded the molten, fatal buzz of the plasma guillotine, though it was mere background noise to the riotous cacophony of the rabid crowd awaiting your final moment. As you knelt, trembling against the icy durasteel, face frozen under cold-stuck tears, you tried and failed to settle into acceptance that this would be your last act of life.

“Please,” you whimpered, unsure if anyone could hear you, “I… I saved that man’s life. I didn’t hurt anyone. I don’t deserve to die for keeping my oath.” You tried to scream but the pleads were barely whispers.

Out of sight came a bellowed laugh, full and ragged just as it had been in the past. “That isn’t why you’re here, young officer.” Snoke could hardly contain his glee. “You’re forgetting, you may have saved one life, but you took another.”

Nausea waved through you and your head started pounding; Snoke’s presence was pain, magnified with each echo of his words as the arena shook against the surround sound. An uproar of cheers and chanting came from before you, the crowd booming with enthusiasm, hanging off of every word their Supreme Leader spoke.

Through the fog of terrified eyes you saw an image appear behind the audience, scaling the entire back wall and striking you with rage. A scrollbar read something you could only assume to be his First Order given name, your focus too centered on the enormous projection of Robbie’s face, smiling while he held his helmet tight against his chest. He looked too nice, just as he’d seemed when you gave him a name. He was being renowned as a hero, his death marking you as the villain.

“I… He! I was defending myself, he was going to kill me!”

“But instead you killed me.”

This voice was angelic, familiar and welcoming in the storm surrounding you. It was accompanied by the footsteps you’d become so fond of, coming closer with every panted breath that fell from your lips. Kylo crowded your view of the blinding screen, a cape trailing in his path. He stopped when he was centered in your view and crouched so he was eye level with you.

He wore no mask, nothing to conceal his beautiful visage as the sight of him constricted your heart. When was the last you’d seen him? It felt like it had been so long, yet you could barely grasp any concept of time. It was frustrating, like you were barred in your memory. Kylo’s face gave no indication into his emotions, yet for a fleeting moment you swore you saw a tear glint over his cheek.

“Yet another of your victims, yes?” Snoke remained hidden, his voice shifting between your ears, slithering like the snake he was.

“You made me! I had no-,”

“Choice.” It was a discordant wrath of voices; at first Kylo’s, then Snoke’s, trailing off with the whispers of Robbie’s and Mason’s.

Kylo brought one hand, bare and freezing, to your cheek. It hadn’t been there before, but his face was now split with the consequences of battle, a gash – open, pulsating, and weeping – ripping through his features. A shiver sank into you, you throat tightening.

The way in which he next breathed your name made you weep, his thumb catching the tear that burned into your skin. “You’ve always had a choice, remember? You just keep making-,”

“The wrong ones.” You finished his sentence, remembering the first time he’d said it. A futile attempt was made to reach for his hand, a sting coming as the restraint bit into your wrist.

The crowd was growing impatient, hordes of screams coming from behind Kylo’s shoulders. The screen behind him shifted to present the live cast of your suffering, the view suggesting that it was Kylo’s own eyes giving view to the onlookers, your face excruciatingly close, allowing every audience member to bask in the terror that plagued you.

You sniffled, nuzzling into his hand and looking between his eyes. He mimicked you, though his gaze was empty, just as it had been one of the last times you could remember seeing him. “I trusted you,” he said. “More than anything.”

Kylo began to leave you, his fingertips lingering just before he could take three steps backwards. The plasma blade above you began hissing louder with inevitability, your eyes squeezing shut as you awaited your sentence’s completion. Pain took root in your left upper thigh, a kind of burning as you continued to kneel. A string of agony tore through your throat as your eyes shot open to see Kylo’s hand shoot up.

“No, no! Please! Kylo, no!” You could see your face twist with desperation behind him now, tears willful in their presence as each one painted creaks of pain down to the durasteel.

Snoke let out another flood of evil-tinged amusement as Kylo turned his face toward the direction the sound came. “You still don’t understand, stupid girl.” Another bark of laughter. “You might have had a choice,” he said, “but your Master never did. Never will.”

And as they were spoken, you saw that crushing glimmer of humanity flicker in the face of Kylo Ren as he turned back to you. Snoke, infuriatingly, was right, of course. Hearing it out loud, accepting it as fact, calmed you down. Staring up at him, watching his fingers twitch, you spent your last remaining second pitying him for all the control he believed he had, knowing more than he did that it was a masterful mirage. Snoke had Kylo wrapped around his finger; you had only aided in tightening his grip.

More than anything. It was the last thought before you heard the overhead blade drawing near, its volume immense until it wasn’t. The next thing you were aware of was the overbearing smell of flatcakes wafting into your nostrils. Taking a few deep breaths, your attention went to the ache twisted into the back of your skull, the dryness sticking to your lips, and the warm weight present over your right leg.

Taking one more deep breath, you coughed, lungs feeling like they’d been stagnant for a while, rejecting the stretch of air. Light was obvious even as your eyes remained shut, its overwhelming presence leading you to blink a few times before adapting.

“Where am I?” you croaked out. Answering your question, you first saw the familiar polygon meal tray sitting atop a bedside table while your watch rested next to it, next catching view of the pulse oximeter resting over your left index finger. This was the medbay.

The first thing that came to mind was your dream, remembering Kylo’s wounded face. He was hurt. Where was he? Was he okay? The monitor to your left sounded louder as your heart rate accelerated. Warmth left your right leg as you saw something move in your periphery. A person.

Mason had been asleep, his hair stuck to his face when he first looked at you with shock and relief. “You scared me!” He sprung up from the chair he’d been sitting in and flung his arms around you. “The news about Starkiller came and I didn’t know where you were.” He hummed your name into your neck while rocking you back and forth. “I thought you were… I thought you had… I didn’t know…”

“Mason.” It was all you could think to say, your arms resting at your side as he kept his hold on you. Maybe you should’ve felt relief that he was here and that he was okay, but all you could feel was regret and an overwhelming sadness. Mason was none the wiser, but his very existence was a reminder of what you’d done, undeniable proof of the choice you’d made.

He finally leaned back, keeping his hand locked around yours and staring down at you with red-rimmed eyes. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his nerves settling more the longer he looked over your face. “I tried calling you—” a laugh accompanied the distant raise of his brows “—but I lost my commlink. I guess. I actually don’t know-,”

“What?” you interrupted his explanation, confused by his recall of events, wondering why Snoke wasn’t the focal point of his reasoning.

His face fell. “What? Did I say something? Are you hurt? Do you need water? Food? I actually ordered some flatcakes for me, but they’re all yours if you-,”

“You lost your commlink?”

His brow creased and his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Yeah? Yeah. I mean. I guess. It’s been crazy around here today and—” his face bloomed in horror “—oh, fuck! I didn’t mean that your day hasn’t been bad, I just. Yeah. I lost it.”

He didn’t seem like he knew anything about Snoke, or that he remembered ever enduring the pain you’d heard him scream through the communication device earlier – actually, how long had it been?

“So… There was nothing… I mean, you weren’t… Summoned? Or…?”

“Summoned?” Mason looked at you with amused confusion. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t give you any pain medicine, but you’re acting a little loopy.”

He didn’t know. He was blissfully ignorant to Snoke’s involvement in your or his life. Again, instead of relief you were met with that bleakness from before. “Maybe I was just dreaming,” you brushed it off.

Dreaming. Kylo. “I need to see him,” you mumbled, moving to stand and becoming extremely aware of your left leg once more. A hiss left you before Mason could pull your shoulders back against the bed, your hand reaching down to soothe the blanket-covered wounds.

“Not so fast,” he said. “Doctor Belkar wants to examine you before you start walking.”

“Belkar?” You couldn’t remember ever hearing that name, though your memory may not be the most reliable at the moment.

“I heard my name.” A man – shorter, skinny, and dark-skinned – peered into the door before knocking and stepping in. “Oh, good! Glad to see you’re awake. You had us worried there for a moment.” Belkar took a few more steps so he was on your left, clutching a datapad under his arm and smiling down at you. His presence was comfortable and professional. He seemed to possess a bedside manner not common of many physicians, and he’d barely even spoken.

Squinting towards his badge you found his first name. “Trace Belkar.” You sounded it out, feeling a faint sense of familiarity. Looking to his face, it finally struck you. “Oh! You’re, you are the one who… You helped me with my friend earlier.” Warmth set in your cheeks when you realized you knew him.

“Ah! My first surprise patient of the day. Funny how things seem to come full circle, isn’t it? Now-,”

Further realization hit. “You also helped me that night. I was the nurse who…” Maybe he didn’t remember who you were, and maybe he didn’t need to, given your actions that night were rather infamous currently.

“Yes! I knew you looked familiar seeing you yesterday. You are the nurse that saved my patient’s life. Great work that night, by the way. Fast-thinking, resourceful. Gives me hope for the next generation of medics.” A quick smile flashed across his face before he reached into his coat pocket. “Now, if you don’t mind following my finger with your eyes.”

It probably took too long for you to follow his request as you were taken aback by his praise for that night. The only emotions you’d ever attached to that it had been pain and fear, likely influenced by the way you were being reprimanded at the moment, thinking of that night as a crime rather than the miracle that it was for that man.

“Um, yes. Sorry.” You shook your head and followed the tip of his finger as he dragged it around – up and down, right to left, and finally in a diagonal cross.

“Any nausea, pain, weakness, dizziness, headaches?” His tone was absent while he traced his penlight in and out of sight to finish his PERRLA assessment.

“I’m really fine. This isn’t necessary at all.” You couldn’t stand being treated like a patient. Even when you were one. Knowing the inner workings of every check made it difficult not to see through their purpose. “I could probably leave now and I’d be fi-ah!” You’d tensed your wounded leg without thinking when shifting in the bed.

“How’s that leg treating you?” It seemed he was psychic in his assumptions, though you knew he’d probably had a nurse do a head-to-toe assessment while you were out.

Mason was puzzled when you looked over at him. “What’s wrong with her leg? She passed out. What’s wrong with her-,”

“Mason, will you go find me some water? And maybe a warm blanket? Please.” Your eyes were locked with Belkar’s as you quieted Mason, mindlessly squeezing his hand to encourage his leave. Mason did not need to see your brand. He wouldn’t understand, and you didn’t feel like having to explain to him, that you felt deserving of it and much worse.

There was a silent moment as you watched Belkar and felt Mason’s eyes before he squeezed your hand back and told you he’d be back soon. The door shut behind him and the quiet swallowed you.

“From what I read in your chart it seemed you’d given yourself a makeshift dressing. Your nurse was actually impressed at how well it was done. I do have some questions about the scars under it, though. If you don’t mind.” He seemed to know to tread lightly; his demeanor reminded you of the one you were instructed to use on abuse survivors.

You shook your head, but this only clued you into another pain. “Jeez! Ow!” Your hand fled to your forehead, finding a bandage sealed over a large bump. It was tender to touch, flinching as you remembered Robbie banging your head into the door.

Belkar took his datapad from under his arm and tapped away as you recovered. “There.” He pressed the screen once more before returning it to its original spot. “The nurse should be in here soon with some-,”

“I don’t want it.” You swallowed, dropping your hand and staring at your lap.

Belkar paused and shifted in his stance. He clicked his tongue, put his datapad down, and pulled up a chair. He called you by your last name, professional yet with a considerable amount of concern. “Will you tell me what caused your injuries?”

He was attempting therapeutic communication. And he was succeeding. An uncomfortable laugh left you. “What is there to tell? I’m hurt. In ways that aren’t physical. Ways that are.” Your lip began to quiver before you caught it with your teeth.

Another pause from Belkar. His hand twitched and your eyes jumped to it. He noticed this. “Can I hold your hand?”

The offer was tempting, but you declined by shaking your head and finally looking up at him. There were crinkles splayed outward from his eyes and gray hairs obvious in an overgrown stubble on his cheeks. He was a kind soul, you could tell; it was evident in his eyes, clear and green yet full of warmth. Soon after setting eyes on him you felt your throat thicken and your eyes water.

“You know,” you laughed, scraping at your eyes and sniffling, “I don’t even know what I’d say to any of the questions you mentioned before.”

A kind smile, no teeth, brought his cheeks up. “How about just one, then?”

“Yeah. One. I guess.”

He made sure your eyes were on his before he spoke again. “Do you want to report the person who did this to you?”

Another nervous laugh left. And then a sob before the heels of your hands met your face. “That’s not necessary,” you said through hiccuped words. Robbie’s face flashed into your mind’s eye, the pool of blood spreading below him before the door hissed shut. Your dream, the screen presenting his smiling face. “I… I don’t even know what to do anymore! I can’t… I have… I can’t fix this!”

Belkar squeezed your hand, bringing you back to reality. His face was blurry through your tears. “Slow down. Just breathe. Shh. Slow down.” He modeled how to do so, exaggerating when he took a deep breath through his nose.

After several breaths you closed your eyes and threw your head back on the pillow, keeping your hand in Belkar’s. “I’m sure you’ve seen the scars? Or read about them at the least, right? And then I know you were the one who caught me before I passed out so you obviously know who I work for.”

“Are those two things related?” He was trying not to assume anything.

“All that matters is that this—” you gestured to your head “—and this—” you placed a gentle hand over your wrapped thigh, petting a thumb over it “—are unrelated.” Belkar knew not to speak when you choked on your tears in search of words you weren’t even sure you wanted to say. “I was… Someone broke into my residence just before the explosion. And he.” You paused again, feeling Belkar’s grip tighten and relax over your trembling hand. You cleared your throat. “I was taken advantage of. He went down with the base. It would be pointless to report when the perpetrator is already dead.” Bloodied scissors flashed into your memory before you looked back up to Belkar.

He nodded, placing his second hand over yours. The warmth was welcome, and surprising. “Should I order an emergency contraceptive or a spermicide?” There wasn’t a fraction of discomfort when he asked the question. Complete care and professionalism. He felt safe.

“No, I don’t need that. I had a chip placed last year.” You ran your tongue over your teeth, swallowing before speaking again. “But, um. I was wondering if…”

“Yes?”

“Commander Ren,” you said, searching his eyes for judgment, “is he… How is he?” Your bottom lip would need to heal from chewing it so much.

Another warm, small smile lifted on Belkar’s face. “It’s admirable, your passion for his care. Even in your current state. Even with those wounds you only care about his wellbeing.” Fire bit at your face, your eyes falling back to the bed. “It’s the mark of a true healer. Setting aside your own pain to lessen someone else’s. Your patient’s.”

“Yeah, well,” you raised your eyebrows, “do you know how he’s doing?”

“Before I came in to examine you, I was actually on my way to see Commander Ren. Would you like to come with me?”

“I should probably…” You trailed off, finally feeling relief when thinking about seeing Kylo and avoiding Mason. “Do you think I can walk? How did the nurse say I was healing?”

Belkar scooted out from the chair and stood, offering you a hand for support. “I actually would prefer you start walking now to discourage clotting. It’s likely you can leave here tonight once its officially been twenty-four hours since your admission.”

He made sure to fix your gown so you weren’t exposed while standing before you could tie the lower fastener. He kept a hand lightly placed over your mid-back, the other now holding your hand. “How long has it been since I got here?”

He started you on a slow pace and you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Robbie may have been the one to die, but death took residence in you; a bruise splotched out over your forehead, your hair flat and knotted, exhaustion shadowing your eyes. There were multiple bruises lining your arms, their origin a mystery, though you could only suspect a majority had come from the crowd of people you’d stormed through the stairwells with. The one injury you’d grown to cherish was masked by the ill-fitting white and grey patterned gown, the article most definitely shielding an additional multitude you were still unaware of.

“The Command Shuttle arrived soon after Starkiller exploded. Ren was transferred to medbay in less than a minute and began treatment within the next five upon arrival. You fainted before then.” He led you into the hall and began walking through the maze of bustling hallways. “You’ve been resting for nearly sixteen hours.”

“Sixteen. Stars.” The pain in your leg lessened the more you walked, seeing the faces of coworkers who last saw you that fateful night.

“We monitored your intracranial pressure for the first few hours, but it seems you were only severely exhausted and mildly dehydrated. Understandably, of course.” He took a familiar left turn and the entrance to the Elite medbay came into view. “I had entered orders to start you on oral antibiotic therapy as soon as you woke up, completely a prophylactic measure, but it won’t affect anything to hold off for now.”

Belkar swiped his badge across the scanner and the doors hissed open, your heart now thumping in your chest. The last time you’d seen Kylo, you’d assumed would be the last time. Even as you kept forward, nerves twisting your intestines, you couldn’t deny the need you felt to see him again. It scared you, though, imagining how he’d react to your presence.

“Um, maybe this is a bad idea. I don’t think Commander Ren needs any more visitors than necessary.” You stopped Belkar just before he swiped to open the door to your Master’s exclusive medbay.

“It’s a good thing neither of us are visitors.” The door shot open. “We’re his providers.” Belkar stepped past the threshold. “He wouldn’t mind either way,” you followed in after him, hesitant while you stared down at the floor, “I placed him in a therapeutic coma to keep him from disturbing the stitching in his wounds.”

This news brought your eyes up as you entered the room and felt the door shut behind you. Kylo Ren, outfitted in the same gown as you, was supine on the bed, unconscious. Peaceful. His gown was left unsnapped at the shoulders, a blanket resting above his hips and tucked under his wrists. The assessment table had been replaced, an IV pole set up on his left side, a monitor reading off the contents and status of the three current running fluids: metronidazole, normal saline, and a third – separate – line running a bag of packed red blood cells. Kylo was breathing on his own, though there was an intubation kit ready on the bedside table, you noticed while routinely scanning the room for necessary emergency intervention equipment.

Belkar rid the distance between him and Ren, your own feet stopping just before the door. The physician looked at you with a creased brow but quickly dissolved his expression as he accepted your decision. After setting his datapad down he gently peeled back Kylo’s gown, resting it over the blanket and then gesturing towards him with his hands.

“The coma was a last resort,” he began. “Commander Ren was exhibiting signs of delirium when my team began his care. After nearly two hours of noncompliance I wrote a STAT order to initiate it.” Belkar sighed, this fact disappointing to him.

“When you say delirium…” Your hands strangled in and out of fists, nervous fingers smoothing over the fabric of your gown while you looked on at your sleeping patient.

The physician’s mouth had settled into somewhat of a pout, considering your question. “Ren’s health history was scattered and scant in the archives, virtually nothing resembling a family history. It was most likely the physical trauma that caused it, but…” Belkar turned his body to you while keeping his eyes on Kylo. “Whenever any of the nurses or techs would attempt to orient him during those first two hours he kept telling us he’s dead.”

A single step took you further from the door. “Was.. Did he ever say who he was talking about? A name?” This information confounded you, leaving you to wonder whose death could possibly matter so much to Kylo Ren that he’d recount while his mental defenses were weakened?

A deeper, more frustrated sigh left Belkar. “There’s been so little time and the staff is already so overworked with all the new admissions.” He uncovered one of Kylo’s legs and checked the placement and setting of the compression device wrapped around it. “I appointed a droid to sift through the archives to find anything, to see if there was any information on a Ben.”

“Ben?”

“That’s who we assume is dead, as he kept repeating.”

“You assume? What does that mean?” Another step and your eyes shot to the vitals monitor, seeing his heart rate was in the low fifties. Bradycardic, hence the fluids.

“The two phrases came sporadically. At times he would say the name, and whenever any of the care team would ask him who Ben was…”

“They’d suddenly be at a loss for words?”

Belkar’s mouth quirked for half a second, falling quickly when he shifted the blanket back to its original place. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.” He looked at you again, contemplating, narrowing his eyes. “I imagine you’ve endured such acts. I only assume given—” he gestured to your leg.

Heat flared in your cheeks and your pulse picked up. Swallowing, you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and crossed your arms. “Yes.” He didn’t seem to know why Kylo Ren had left his mark, only that he had. This brought you ease. “Yes, Commander Ren doesn’t have the best handle on his…anger. I suppose.”

Belkar swallowed, watching you. “Does he scare you?”

This caught you off guard, fingers biting into your arms when you took another step forward. “Does Kylo Ren scare me?” You took a few seconds to really think about it, feeling comfortable when you met Belkar’s eyes again, only a few paces from the bed now. “It would be counterintuitive to be afraid of my own patient.”

“Do you feel safe when you are working with him?” He was subtly attempting to screen you for abuse – well, further abuse – his face trying to hide the curiosity in his tone.

“Doctor Belkar, I do appreciate you’re worried for me. But it is misplaced. Now, would you tell me more about my patient, please?”

He was momentarily taken aback by your forward effort to change the subject. “I do apologize if my questions have made you uncomfortable. I noticed your hesitancy to be near him and thought-,”

“That’s unrelated, Doctor,” maybe in too harsh a manner, you bit his words off. You didn’t feel like telling the edited version of how you believed yourself to be the abuser when it came to Kylo, and you were sure Belkar, just as Mason, wouldn’t understand if you tried. “Will you please just tell me how he’s been doing?” A crack in your voice revealed how weak your defenses were.

The physician’s head nodded back slightly in understanding. Today was good for no one. Tensions were high. He knew you had just woken up after experiencing both known and unknown traumas. “Would you help me change his dressings while we discuss his care?” A truce, gentle and acknowledging.

Your shoulders fell with a breath you hadn’t realized was waiting to escape, your throat clearing when you walked to the drawers set up behind you. Activating one, you pulled out the necessary supplies and set them up as Belkar opened them. He walked you through the various monitors connected to Kylo – leeds stuck to his chest, a cuff around his upper right arm, the pumps over his legs, the IVs placed. He uncovered Ren’s pelvis and had you assess his catheter, mentioning the drainage bag below the bed. The antibiotics were prophylactic, just as yours would be; there had been too many unknowns around Ren’s injuries to not protect against potential sepsis.

When Belkar had completed his assessment – stopping to listen to breath and bowel sounds, motioning for you to do the same with the provided stethoscope to test your knowledge – you helped him fix the gown and sheets back over Kylo’s chest, your breath catching when your fingers brushed against his skin. The doctor tucked his datapad back under his arm and walked to the door, activating it before stepping out. However, you had remained at Kylo’s side, watching him as he slept.

“Doctor Belkar?” you called after him, not looking away from Kylo.

A sigh left him, this one fond. Kind. “A true healer.” He was thoughtful in tone. “Use the assistance indicator should you become faint. Should your friend inquire about your whereabouts-,”

“Tell him I’m okay—” you licked your lips as a tear slipped down your cheek “—tell Mason he can leave if he… Tell Mason he can leave.”

There was no response before the door hissed shut, allowing you to let free the whimper which had been stuck since you first set eyes on Kylo. You realized you’d never seen him asleep. The one night you’d shared his bed your focus just on that fact, not on observing him. That night had been the only time you’d seen his full heart, or at least more of it than you had. Now, standing beside him, still reluctant to get too close, you were crying just as he had. That night seemed like a separate lifetime, like a dream you’d only ever get to revisit in your memories now.

Tearing your eyes away from him, clearing your throat and thumbing away more tears, you ran your fingertips along the hanging fluids; the saline would need to be replaced soon, and the metronidazole was running at an accelerated rate. The blood, you checked the label, had been hung just prior to your arrival, the colloid causing you to stop and gently press into its plastic confines. A huff of weak amusement left you; it had never occurred to you that this blood would ever be used for its intended purpose, intended recipient. Seeing it running into Kylo’s veins, checking the transfusion sight for infiltration and redness, you felt a sort of sick irony settle into the room. This very fluid, more or less, would be your demise; it was capable of sustaining life, replenishing it, yet would be the very thing to end yours.

The monitor blinked in your periphery, catching your attention; his heart rate was improving, finally skimming the upper fifties, his respirations coming evenly. Steeling yourself, bunching your gown in your hands, you looked down at him. Kylo Ren, resting and vulnerable, lay below for your appraisal. Belkar had walked you through the proper routine to change his dressings, his abdominal wound and the one scraping across his shoulder healing well under the soaked gauze. The wound fixed along his face, however, had been created too awkwardly to be dressed as the others. A grafting patch had been placed along the length of the injury, a black stripe of the regenerative material precise in its placement.

There was so much pain etched into him, you wondered if his outward appearance now matched his inner, the thought choking you with a sob. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. It was silly to wait for a response, to look at him in anticipation, but you did.

It took several minutes of deliberation, but you eventually joined him in the bed, gently sitting on his right side as to not disturb anything. The tips of your right index and middle finger trailed along the ridges of the unbandaged wound, feeling his pulse in the raised flesh, landing on his forehead and brushing into his hair.

“Oh.” It startled you when your fingers got stuck in a mat at his ends. Rolling it between your fingers you found it to be dried, congealed blood. It wasn’t surprising; hair care was not the priority right now, the nurses already straining themselves without paying attention to trivial duties.

But you had time and he was here with no way of objecting, your hand cupping his face before you began gathering your supplies and setting them up. The silence was comforting for only a few minutes, soon leaving you to your thoughts, those which shuddered through you with images of Robbie and Snoke and Kylo.

“I don’t even know how we got here,” you mumbled while filling a basin with warm water. A bitter chuckle, a cough chasing it. “I do, actually. I know exactly how we got here.” Placing the full basin on the bedside table, carefully wheeling it to the head of his bed, you gazed over him. “Snoke. Mason. Rob-,” the name stuck in your throat. “The stormtrooper.”

Gentle thumbs tracked like feathers atop his cheekbones, your remaining fingers pushing into his thick locks and brushing it behind his ears. After admiring him for a moment longer you collected the necessary linen, grabbing three extra towels, four in total. Setting them up – one beneath him, another two rolled and resting atop his shoulders, and the last spread over your lap when you sat on a stool – you reached for the cup you’d earlier grabbed and filled it with water.

“I should’ve told you.” It seemed you would never stop crying; a tear struck his forehead as you poured the first cup over his head, ensuring to guard his eyes and ears. “I never… Snoke threatened Mason. He threatened him and all I could think was that I wouldn’t allow someone else to endure punishment meant for me.” Kylo’s hair darkened as it wet, the towel beneath him turning pink with diluted blood. “That wouldn’t be fair. Someone suffering because my own mistakes? No. No, that would be selfish. Selfish and, and… I don’t know.” A sigh and a swallow. “I don’t know.”

With a second cup you wet the rest of his locks and lathered shampoo between your hands. “I woke up yesterday hating you, wishing I was dead so I didn’t have to see you after that day. I fucking hate him so much!” Your chin trembled in anger, imagining Snoke knowing this was happening, wondering how much he really knew, if he could see while Kylo slept. “And it wasn’t even… That’s what I hate the most. You had so little say in it, so little choice and I spent a whole month, wasted so much time, hating the wrong person. Hating you.”

Rolling his ends between your fingers, you scrubbed at the mats until they became loose. “I wish you could know that everything I told you was a lie. You were right about it all. I don’t hate you.” Words came easier, tears still streaming with ease, yet your throat clearing with each admission. “Maybe in the beginning when I didn’t know so much, when I didn’t know you. Maybe then I had wanted to, but it’s an impossibility now. Today made me realize that.” A pause while you watched his chest tide, stopping to recount the apology you’d known to give him, remembering how it felt as he held you – broken, raw – in his arms. “Today made me realize a lot of things.”

The last mat had been the toughest, your fingers rolling and rubbing for nearly five minutes until it softened. “Can I… I mean, I know you can’t answer, but…” Your throat got thick again, burning as you tried to swallow a sob. Closing your eyes, you dropped the subject, not wanting to recount the event to even an absent mind yet.

Clearing your throat, you began again, instead recalling the various mentions of Kylo Ren’s history during the past day. “Maybe I don’t know as much about you as others do, though.” Water drenched the towel below his head as you massaged the soap out of his hair, your pulse quickening as you thought about your next question. “The old man. The one on Jakku… He mentioned something about a time before Kylo Ren, or something like that. How did he even know you? How did you know him?”

Working your way through his hair, you rinsed until there were no bubbles remaining. Questioning him felt foreign; if he were awake he would have surely stopped you from continuing. Or from starting at all. But you pressed on, wanting to distract yourself from the reality that lurked in the back of your mind.

“And then later, when I…” Warmth spread through you at the memory of his bed, him setting you there, holding onto him until he left. You tried to hide the pain in your throat, knowing if you allowed yourself to sob once you’d surely lose the ability to stop. “I heard you. When you were speaking to someone, talking to your grandfather. Was he in there with you? Or were you on a commlink?” You shrugged, knowing all of these inquiries were in vain. “My maternal grandfather passed away before I began university. I never met the other one. Something about family secrets and drama and blah blah blah.”

Another tear fell to Kylo’s face, remembering the pain you’d felt losing someone for the first time, remembering how helpless you were to change anything. A sigh of desperate defeat left you. “I must be cursed. A true healer? Maybe in another life. In this one it seems I can only save a life in turn for another, be it mine or someone I care about.”

After rinsing your hands in the basin, you gathered conditioner on the tips of your fingers and began working it into the now clean ends. A whimper came in place of the stuck sob, breathing becoming difficult as you denied it life. “You said that to me, remember? The night I had gone to Mason. Not exactly but, you said something along the lines of me only listening when the things I value are threatened. It seems the two things go hand in hand; I can’t help anyone without hurting someone else, I can’t make a decision without being forced into it, without being threatened should I make one wrong choice.”

A hand smoothed over the last remaining tendril of hair, soft with the new product, your chest heavy with regret and hindsight. “You wanted me to give my whole self to the First Order. I did, Kylo. And now… I have nothing. There’s nothing left and it’s my fault.” Mason’s worried expression flitted into your mind’s eye. “And if I do have anything left… It’s nothing I want.” Closing your eyes, you ran the pad of your thumb along the rim of the cup, clutching it to your chest. “I wish I could go back. Earlier when I… When I came home. I wish I had told you then. If I had, maybe neither of us would be pawns in Snoke’s game. If I’d told you, maybe I wouldn’t have been-,”

Pain speared you with daggers of rejection. There was no easy or gentle way to confront the truth. No matter if you’d briefly mentioned it with Belkar earlier; to verbalize it, to say out loud what had gone one, scared you. It made it real, gave it power and life. But this would be the only way you’d get to confess to it; soon you’d be alone, left to relive the act over and over until it would be all that remained. It would consume you if you let it.

“I was raped.” You said it before it got stuck again. Finally, after choking on it for so long, that sob broke free, cries grating against your sore throat. “It was the stormtrooper. The one you’d set out to protect me from. The one Snoke had told me you’d been thinking about.” A shaky hand collected another cup of water and let it rinse the conditioner away. “RB-6745. Robbie. Shit! I’m so, so stupid! I’m so dumb I wish I could fucking die! It would be so much easier if I could just stop…existing, if I could just stop breathing it would all be- none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t- damn it!” A roar tore through clenched teeth before you dragged the towel set across your lap and smothered it against your face.

Scream after scream after scream left you, each one more painful than the last, more broken than the last. The towel collected what tears had set on your cheeks, your voice diminishing before you had the sense to stop yourself from continuing. With the damp cloth draped over your hands, you rested your head in your palms, heaves and hiccups unbidden and unrelenting.

“I gave him a name, Kylo. I did. I gave him a name and I started all of this,” muffled, you finally confronted the truth you had been so unwilling to acknowledge. A bitter crack of laughter left. “You will only ever be the start and end of the issue,” you echoed Snoke, voice distant and decimated. “Yeah, well. I guess he was right. I did start it.” Pulling the towel from your face, staring down at the peace painted over your Master, a cold shiver stalled your lungs. “I started it. And I ended it.”

Silence once more met you with suffocation. Studying Kylo’s face – noticing his eyelashes, the cracked nature of his dry lips, finding a fondness in the angle of his nose – you took a deep breath and settled into your new reality, accepting it as it would be, allowing yourself to begin healing as he was before you. “I killed him. I left him to bleed out just before Starkiller exploded. He’s dead.”

The last phrase reminded you as you finished your task, patting the towel into his hair, lifting his head to fully dry him. “Whoever Ben is… and if he’s dead or not –” you rested the towel over your left thigh “—I wonder if I knew him.” Another thought of Kylo’s figurative family. “I wonder if he knew you.”

Once you left here your privileges as his provider would be revoked; when he would wake and sign the proper documents, notify the necessary people, every tie you had to him would be severed. So, to indulge in one last moment, you parted a triangle of hair from the center of his hairline, separated it into three equal sections, and began the simple pattern: left over middle, right over middle, adding hair with each repetition to create a continuous, tight braid. Aside from giving you more time with him, the style would discourage any new mats from forming.

Repeating this process two more times, one more on each side of his head, you made sure that the hair that couldn’t be contained was brushed and flat beneath him. You set a towel under his head to collect any remaining moisture and prevent knotting. The clean-up process was leisurely, your focus shifting to his monitor every now and then to see he was no longer bradycardic. The last time you checked the monitor, a normal sinus rhythm tracing along the display, you found his pulse had risen to sixty-seven beats per minute.

Finished clearing the last of your mess, you sat on the stool, still at the head of his bed. No matter the new addition setting into features – though, in a way, it suited him well – you admired him; here he was at peace. Resting. Healing. The sobs had died out but tears were still liberal in their formation, another falling to hit the inner corner of his right eye. You collected it, chewing your lip before leaning down and again tracing along the outer region of the wound.

Kylo’s breath warmed over your forehead in the proximity, your own catching as it all became too much. Placing your hands on either side of his face so the tips of your fingers held loosely over his jaw, you brought your lips to rest on his. Kylo couldn’t reciprocate it, you knew, but this would be your goodbye.

“I wish I could have given you more than this,” you whispered, lips brushing against his own. “More than anything, Kylo, I wanted to give you more than this.”

Trembling lips pressed into his, your tears reviving the dry flesh, a whimper leaving when he remained still. He would never kiss you back again, the thought piercing as warmth slipped from your cheeks and onto his. However long you stayed like this, your face on his, you tried to silence the reality looming over you. But you couldn’t stay here forever, and you’d probably been gone for far too long already.

Leaning up from him your nose drew a faint line up his bridge, feather-light lips setting against his forehead in a final show of unrequited adoration. With a breath your spine straightened, eyes strict in their effort to keep forward. There was no moment of hesitancy as you passed the threshold and left the Elite wing; if you had indulged in a final glance, you knew you’d have never left.

On the journey back to your room – head hung low, teeth rooted in an effort to stop the trembling of your bottom lip – you met a stiff wall of muscle as someone exited a room, your feet stumbling back before you completely fell backwards, landing on your tailbone. The room spun when you opened your eyes after hitting the floor, a gloved hand extending down and offering you assistance. Taking it, you looked up to find General Hux.

He looked as you did, exhaustion heavy in his features before he was struck by your identity. He didn’t recoil, though, pulling you up and even steadying you for a couple seconds. Hux’s eyes darted to the bandage on your forehead and quickly over your gown, narrowing only slightly when he appraised the red rims of your own. He remained silent, retracting his hand as he nodded once.

“Officer,” he acknowledged. “I heard about your fainting spell.” His tone lacked the animosity you had come to expect.

You took hold of the wall support, looking up at him, confused at his sudden civility. “Oh.” It was the best you could do right now.

Something about him seemed off. Even as he remained more guarded than most humans you knew, it appeared as though something had him worried. Maybe it was the fall out from Starkiller that had him acting out. He had just lost men.

“Is there an official count yet?” you asked, filling the silence.

Hux swallowed, the corners of his mouth dipping before he returned to his normal façade, his shoulder going up and back when his stance shifted. “Nice work during the transport.”

“Thank…you. Uh, thank you, General.”

Another nod and he turned away from you and walked out of sight. A crease bit at your brow. How strange. Or maybe it wasn’t. The last twenty-four hours had been less than favorable for the entire First Order. Nobody could be expected to be at their best right now. Or even at their normal.

Before you started down the hall, your periphery caught view of the room where Hux had come, your heart falling. Confusion was drowned by new concern. Talia was slumped into her shoulder, asleep while she sat upright, both arms resting at her sides to reveal bruises from multiple IV attempts. There was one line running from her left forearm which led up to a bag of fluids, the contents of which you couldn’t read from a distance.

Peaking around the hall, you ducked into her room and clicked the door shut with your back, keeping the volume to a minimum as to not wake her. It seemed like a week had passed since you saw her seize, Snoke’s men abducting you before you could aid in her care. It had been less than a full day.

Walking up to her right side you noted the oxygen secured over her ears, a nasal cannula delivering two liters per minute. Nothing excessive. That was good. But still curious. The fluid bag was filled with electrolyte replacement, another bag hanging empty behind it. Looking for more clues, you found the information board to be devoid of any recent updates, only indicating her nurse and the continuation of the current fluids. There was a check mark next to a note which read sterile urine specimen, CBC, CMP.

When you kicked your foot under her bed, swinging it mindlessly while holding onto the upper bed rail, something skidded beneath your sock. In a manner which didn’t stress your wounds, you knelt to the ground and picked up the item. It was a white square, shiny material which glinted under the harsh fluorescents. Holding one corner, it unfolded to reveal a second half. Turning it over, eyes blinking back to make sure you were reading the images correctly.

Everything was in the right spot, every label and measurement and identifier correct and official. Dropping completely to the floor, your legs splayed across each other, you peaked up at your friend and back to the printed picture multiple times, not knowing what to make of the situation.

Talia was pregnant.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren imagine #st kyp #ao3

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seriouslyhooked · 5 years ago

Text

Feels Like This (Part 1)

Emma Swan is a once lost girl who is now making good. She has made a way in the world for her and her young son, Henry, and after years of hard work, Emma is in her last stretch of schooling for the career she’s always wanted. Unexpectedly, she finds herself in a tiny nation no one’s ever heard of for her last year of study. She knows nothing about the place except that it’s beautiful, has a world-renowned child life program, and is filled with possibility. Meanwhile, Prince Killian is hardly happy with the title he received at birth. As the second in line for the crown, Killian has long tried shaking his royal duties. He built a career in the royal navy, and has stayed out of the limelight, but his ship has been called to port indefinitely at the request of his brother, the King. Fate (in her many forms) brings Emma and Killian together and the resulting fic is a cute, fluffy, trope filled romp featuring heart felt moments, a healthy dose of insta-love and an assured happily ever after. Story rated M and will have 12 parts. Available on FF Here and AO3 Here.

A/N: Hey everyone! So months back I hinted that I was working on a few new AUs. I have been wanting to write this fic since the moment it popped into my head, but I held back, knowing I had two other great stories that deserved their happy ending and a proper send off. Now though both of my other fics are done, we are on to one of our first new fics. To all of you that have begged for another CS AU where someone is a prince or princess… this is for you, and for me. I can’t tell you how excited I am to be writing this. I have missed this kind of world since I finished When Love Reigns, and this time the script is flipped – it’s Killian who is royalty. This first chapter though, is building a bit of our back story. It’s from Emma’s POV and it puts us on the path to change. So without any more delay, I hope you guys enjoy the story and thanks so much for reading!

“Goooood Morning, New York! It’s that time again – WAKE UP CALL!”

The sound of sirens and clanging that blasted through the clock radio next to her bed echoed through the once silent room, slamming into Emma with a force that gave her no choice but to wake.

“Crap!” Emma screeched as she jolted from the bed, woken from an incredibly sound sleep. On instinct her body moved quickly, trying to jump from bed like she would when Henry was little and called to her in the night, but she wasn’t totally coordinated yet. Instead of landing on her feet, she tumbled, hitting the ground hard and letting out a groan. “Double crap!”

A knock sounded at the door and two seconds later her son’s voice filtered through. “Mom, did you fall out of bed again?”

“No comment,” Emma replied, checking herself for major injuries. Thankfully she would be fine, but this was not a good look.

It’s temporary, she said to herself as she stood up and stretched, willing her limbs to let go of the tension and the achiness that a fall like that would cause. The semester is nearly over. I’ve only got one summer class. One not three. One not three.

She chanted the mantra that had gotten her through this spring over and over in her mind as she went through her morning routine. It was a rushed, frantic situation, as it normally was on weekdays, but somehow, just like always, things came together in the end. She was showered and ready, dressed for her admin job in the financial district. Henry was also totally geared up for school, proving once again how self-sufficient he was. Having a son with as much maturity as Henry was a blessing on mornings like this one where she was dead on her feet from studying all night and still had to be up bright and early for the office. He was eight going on thirty-eight. Honestly most days it felt like Henry had it more together than she did, but as she walked into the kitchen to press a kiss on the crown of his head and he smiled genuinely at her, Emma couldn’t seem to care. She might not be perfect at being a Mom, but her kid was happy and well, and that was all that truly mattered.

“Someone seems chipper this morning. Did you sneak those powdered donuts I hid or something?” Emma asked as she made herself and Henry some sliced fruit. Henry, meanwhile, measured out their cereal, liking to be a part of their prep process as much as he could. He handled things with the ginger care and attention of someone trying their best, focused on the task with so much purpose and precision.

“No, I didn’t, honestly Mom, I promise.”

Emma stifled a laugh at how adamant he was. She knew the truth: her son was too good for stealing, even just a few treats. It was amazing how much of a moral compass he had. Sometimes she wondered if it was too much for a boy his age. He should be getting into a little trouble, causing mischief, doing… something, anything that wasn’t picture perfect. But Henry wasn’t like that. He preferred stories to anything else, and the look on his face told Emma that a story was exactly what had him so animated this morning.

“Well if it’s not a sugar high then it must be a good book. What’s on tap for today?”

Listening to her little boy talk about his newfound tale made Emma so happy, because his own enthusiasm was infectious. Reading had always come easy to Henry, and he was on pace for the level of a sixth grader though he was only in 3rd. It was amazing to behold, but also a little overwhelming. Emma herself had never had that yearning to read, probably because the only books in the group homes she grew up in were ripped up and torn to shreds. By the time she was old enough to go to school and use the libraries they had, Emma was jaded. Thankfully she’d been quick to learn and always got by, but by high school she’d skipped town, never to look back.

A few years later she was barely surviving day to day and her heart decided it would be a good time to give the whole love thing a chance. She met a man who claimed he loved her, but, in the end he was nothing but a tough lesson made flesh. Neal taught Emma that it wasn’t enough to love someone. You had to love someone good, someone kind, and someone who loved you enough to care for you and fight for you too. Instead of meeting that marker, Neal stole a bunch of shit, tried to let her take the fall, and, to add insult to injury, skipped town and never looked back. Nothing ended up coming from the charges made against her – the judge threw the case out when he heard about her background, only asking that she commit to a hundred hours of volunteering, and in the meantime the only good thing Neal ever gave her was her son. But, despite her rocky beginnings, and thanks to a little luck and more than a couple of miracles, here they were. Nearly ten years had gone by since she’d seen Neal and Emma and Henry were good. They had each other, now and always, and though their family was small, and at times Emma wondered what it would be like to fall in love again, she didn’t want to rock the boat or jeopardize all the good she and Henry were lucky enough to have.

“Mom, did you hear me?” Henry asked and Emma’s mind shifted back into her room instead of where it had been, skipping down memory lane.

“Sorry, kid. Coffee hasn’t hit yet,” she said with a shrug. “What did you say?”

“I said I’m almost done with my final project for Ms. Harlow’s class.”

“Almost done? But you’ve still got another month of school.”

“I know, but it’s just reading and writing. My favorites.”

Emma listened in on his update about his project, and it didn’t surprise her to hear Henry was ahead of his class. This had been happening since he entered kindergarten. Every year the teachers set objectives and every year Henry met each one, most of them pretty early. It was a great thing in one respect, because it meant Emma didn’t have to worry about him. Henry was brilliant and gifted and would clearly go far in life, but it did make Emma wonder: was she doing enough for his son? More than once she’d been told that a private school might suit him better and might challenge him more. But she simply didn’t have the money. Hell, she’d worked overtime for years just to get them in this tiny apartment in this district which was one of the nicer ones in the city.

Henry continued to tell her all about school as they left the apartment and headed out, and their whole commute in was filled with his updates about the things he’d learned and still wanted to know. Emma noted that there were very few stories involving other kids and she knew that was probably because Henry didn’t have an enormous amount of friends. Oh the other kids liked him, of course, who wouldn’t love her son who only had nice things to say and a friendly smile to offer? But he wasn’t tied to any of them closely. Instead he preferred the company of books, and of Emma and their favorite friendly neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard.

“All right Henry, so you know the plan, right? Today’s Wednesday which means…”

“School, then library club, then Mrs. H will pick me up and watch me until you get out of class. I wonder what she’ll make for dinner. I hope it’s spaghetti.”

Emma agreed, knowing that her neighbor’s spaghetti was legendary. Mrs. Hubbard had years of practice, cooking for her own family over the course of many years, but her kids were all grown now and it was just her and her husband living in the city. Her husband, though well past retirement age, loved his job down at the docks, and still went in for a few hours every evening to manage the shift change from day shift to night. Mrs. H, meanwhile, was desperate for the chance to mother people again, and she did so often with Emma and Henry. At first Emma tried to protest, but it all fell on deaf ears. Not only did this wonderful woman help care for Henry, she was always helping with the cooking and the cleaning. She was also pretty much a built-in therapist for Emma, and every time she met a challenge in her parenting she couldn’t face, Emma called Mrs. H. That woman was the closest thing she and Henry had to family, and Emma knew Mrs. H felt just as strongly for them in return.

“Whatever it is we’re going to love it and we’re going to thank Mrs. H so much for her help, right?”

“Of course,” Henry said with a nod. They’d finally arrived at his school building and now was the time to say goodbye. Last year parent drop off was in the class room, but this year they moved the kids to drop off at the door. Most kids took that as a sign to stop hugging their parents when leaving for the day, but not Henry. Instead he gave her a big hug which warmed her through and made her feel so blessed and reassured. Henry was truly the sweetest, and when he finally let go and ran into the building Emma let out a sigh, thinking to herself how damn lucky she was to have Henry as her son.

Her day from there was just about as crazy as she expected. The time she had to get from Henry’s school to work was minimal, but she managed to slip into the office just under the radar. For eight straight hours she was moving, and she barely had time to devour the sandwich she’d packed for the day while running to and from errands that the office staff needed help with. She couldn’t take lunch though, not when she had to leave early to run ten blocks to class this afternoon. Again, her ability to get there was nearly undermined, this time by a broken subway car that caused more congestion than ever on the street as people tried to walk instead. But in just the nick of time, Emma made her way through the wrought iron gates of her university, and was in her assigned chair in the Mills Center Auditorium, listening attentively to the lecture her favorite professor had lined up today.

Since having Henry, Emma had needed to work and pay bills and figure things out. At first she tried to do that with just her GED, but soon it became clear that she needed to go back to school. Thank god there had been online classes, and she’d managed to find enough scholarships for ex-foster kids to get her an associates degree. When that was done she went to the state school in the city and started taking more classes and in four more years she had her bachelors. She was so proud of herself and so glad for the bump in pay that a simple degree had earned her, but somehow school had called her back again, this time for a masters degree in childhood development and social work. It was a very focused degree, without any ties to her current financial job, but it was the work her heart wanted to do. With her MS she would qualify for a number of jobs, all aimed at helping kids in the system, and again, thanks to some hard fought for scholarships, she was managing it all at virtually no cost but time.

The two-hour seminar she sat in today was engaging and interesting, honing in on a case study of one particular city – Sacramento. Their public programming was a beacon for the American model and through partnerships of government, schools, companies, and community activists there was a significantly lower rate of teenage runaways and kids who graduated from the system with ‘bad outcomes.’ Emma noted all the policy choice that were implemented to help these kids and she applauded the effort of these experts, but she knew there were still more things that could be done. She took just as many notes on the lecture as she did her own ideas, and by the end of class, her pages were full and her mind was equipped with a few more answers and a lot more questions.

When their time was up, the rest of her cohort dispersed. They were younger than Emma and most of them were friendly with each other. They always were nice to Emma too, saying hi and asking about Henry, but Emma didn’t linger long after class. She had to get home to her son, and to get back to working on all the things she had to face tomorrow.

“Emma, would you mind coming with me to my office? I have something to give you. It’ll just take a moment.”

“Sure, Professor Hopper,” Emma agreed, not thinking much of it. ‘Doc’ Hopper was a great lecturer and a helpful teacher and there’d been many times when he gave her a book or some other sources for her work. She assumed that was what was happening today, but when he asked her to take a seat as he moved around his desk Emma started to get worried.

“I’m sorry, professor. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all, Emma. In fact, quite the opposite. The department has selected the JR Foundation Fellowship recipient this year.”

“Oh?” she asked, wondering which of the people in her class was getting the chance to travel abroad and learn from some of the best minds in childhood development and psychology. She thought maybe Ayana or Jade might be good choices. They were both bright and determined. Matthew was a wild card. But she imagined he must be up for consideration given his often out of the box ideas.

“It’s you, Emma. You’re our chosen fellow.”

“Me?”

Emma whispered out the clarifying question, not understanding what Doc Hopper was getting at. The connection to the JR Foundation Fellowship was one of the biggest selling points of this program. Students from across the world came here just to be considered for it and to say she was not lobbying for the possibility would be an understatement. Most of the time she felt she was barely scraping by. Everyone else in her program was younger than her, none of them had children, and those who had a job worked part time or entirely for the school. Emma was always on the fringes of her cohort, but all the late nights studying and reading had paid off. She learned a lot and did well when it came to grades. Still, she never imagined this would happen, and for a fleeting moment she felt pure excitement.

You can’t go, her inner voice said suddenly. You’ve got Henry to think about. How would you afford it? You could never take him out of school. You can’t move him halfway across the world just to nickel and dime things. We’ve had enough ramen to last a lifetime.

The reasons why this would never work mounted internally as Emma cleared her throat and fidgeted in her chair. She was about to turn down the most prestigious offer anyone at her level could receive and the pain of that was sharp. To know she’d earned this but that it wasn’t meant to be hurt her, but she would not allow herself to linger in the sadness. Nothing had changed from this morning – she was still a very lucky woman, with a roof over her head, food on her table, and an incredible son who filled her life more than any stop in her career ever could.

“Professor Hopper, I’m truly flattered to be chosen. But -,”

“Wait, Emma, before you turn this down, please know that the faculty is aware of your unique circumstances and we’ve made some adjustments to the fellowship terms. It’s all spelled out here,” he said, handing her a folder with papers and admission offers.

Emma opened it up, and within the bolded headlines of the first page there were all sorts of add ons. A housing grant that would cover her and Henry for more than six months, additional ‘cost of living’ scholarships, and more. Tears formed in her eyes at she looked at the stipend she would receive if she accepted this appointment. It was more than she made at city hall, and she knew already that her good standing with the city would allow for her to take this opportunity if she chose to. She could request up to a year of leave where they’d hold her job if she gave enough notice, and she had just enough time to do so. Still there was one concern – what about Henry? What about his life? Would it be right to spring something like this on him? They had only a month before the fellowship was set to start. She couldn’t do that… could she?

“I realize that you’ll need time to consider, Emma, but as you can imagine time is rather limited. I can wait a few days, but we’ll need to know by the end of the week if you accept.” Professor Hopper looked at her with a transparent sense of honesty and empathy. It was always clear why this man studied child psychology and counseling. He was quiet and patient but adamant in wanting to help. But when he looked at her like this, Emma remembered her own childhood and how little there had been by ways of help and guidance. “For what it’s worth, Emma, I really hope you’ll take the appointment. In all my years at this school, I’ve never met a student so well suited to this job. Your experience is one thing, but it’s a gift unique to you. You have a way with these kids, Emma, and a fellowship like this can help you make the most of your degree come graduation. It opens all kinds of doors and you know what that can mean.”

“Helping so many more kids,” Emma admitted aloud, and that was ultimately what she wanted more than anything. Yes, providing for her son was the most important thing, but there were so many more children out there who didn’t have nearly enough. Without family or money or hope, the world was a sad and scary place and Emma wanted to fend off some of that fear for as many kids as she could. Doctor Hopper’s point was undeniable, and people who had previously taken this fellowship had gone on to do so much, like launch successful non-profits and run whole government departments for children in need. It was a chance to learn, to grow, and to meet people who knew how to make things happen, and Emma was enticed by that, so much more than she should be.

“Take some time, Emma. Mull I over, talk to your son, and if it’s right, it’s right. You know you’ll always have my full support either way.”

Emma thanked Professor Hopper and collected her things, heading out of his office and away from school. It was a short commute back home, but riding the subway at this time of day meant being a part of the last big rush of people. She was squished into the train car, but she didn’t think much of it. Instead she read over the more than generous offer of the package the school was giving her. Usually the fellowship was generous, with the chance to go to Montenaro (a tiny European country she’d never once heard of outside of this) and a small stipend to live on with placement in student housing. For Emma, however, other arrangements had been made, including a small house that was still at least triple the size of where her and Henry lived now. The stipend was also larger (to cover the cost of any needed ‘childcare expenses’) and Doctor Hopper had written a note – he had a good friend who had a connection to a private elementary school near the University of Montenarro. There was a spot for Henry available for the fall semester, which was still a few months out, and a space for him at the University’s summer camp. Emma actually cried at how kind this offer was and how much time it must have taken and how many favors must have been called in. People had moved mountains for her and in the process they’d pulled down so many of the blockades that might keep her from saying yes.

Her heart began to believe that this might actually be possible. The timing was actually kind of perfect – her term would start in six weeks, in the middle of June and her lease on the apartment was set to end at the end of that month. She was planning to renew, but it didn’t make sense to keep the place for six months while they were away. That was money she could save for a rainy day, and when all of this was over she’d be done with her degree early and would be looking for a job anyway. Maybe they weren’t strictly bound to New York. They could end up anywhere. The possibilities seemed endless. Still, as she made her way back to her apartment Emma tried to get herself in check and school her features. The last thing she wanted was to get her hopes up. This would come down to what was best for Henry, and she’d never want to pressure her son into doing something for her that he didn’t really want. But at the same time it was such a great opportunity. The money, the living arrangement, and the work experience. It all seemed so perfect.

“Anybody home?” She asked, as she opened the door to her place and walked in, dropping her coat and taking off her shoes in the front walk as she headed to the kitchen.

“Hi Mom!” Henry said, barreling into her with another big hug and a huge smile on his face. “I missed you today.”

“I missed you too, kid,” she said, ruffling up his hair. “Hey Mrs. H. Something sure smells good.”

“It’s spaghetti Bolognese, and it’s very near ready. How was class, dear?”

“Great. Actually about that, I got some news today.”

“Big news?” Henry asked excitedly and Emma shook her head and smiled.

“Huge news. You know that fellowship I told you about? The one in Europe?”

“I remember. It’s in that tiny little country on the coast. What was it? Monta… Monta…”

“Montenarro,” she filled in and the light in Henry’s eyes burned bright with recognition.

“Oh right – you know their national fruit is called a montacari? It’s like if you mixed a strawberry, blackberry, and a raspberry. They only grow in mild mountain climates and before the berries grow the plants make flowers that are pink and red and white. Every August they have a festival there to celebrate the harvest.”

“How do you know that?” Emma asked, amazed at her son’s seemingly endless memory and then she filled in at the same time Henry did. “Let me guess: you read about it?“

“I read about it,” Henry echoed and they laughed. “So who won the spot?”

“I did,” Emma announced and for a beat there was complete silence. She watched as her son took in the news and then he was moving, jumping up and down and hugging her all over again.

“You did it, Mom! You did it! You did it! I knew you could do it!”

“You thought I’d win?” Emma asked and Henry nodded fiercely.

“Absolutely! You’re the best, Mom, everyone knows that!”

Emma laughed as she looked over to Mrs. H who had a huge smile on her face. “Congratulations, honey. But I think I must have missed something. What exactly is this fellowship?”

Emma explained the circumstances surrounding the placement. It was a six-month appointment, for two terms – summer and fall - and in that time the recipient worked for the J.R. Foundation. J.R. was an international charity with an impeccable reputation focused on helping vulnerable youth populations around the globe. They worked on literacy outreach, education initiatives, disaster relief and more, but this fellowship appointee would work with the counseling division, focusing on children’s health, wellness, and mental resilience strategies. That six months of work counted as her two semesters of full time interning which she needed to graduate, and for Emma, it would mean cutting down her time to graduation significantly. At the end of this six months, if she added in an online class or two, she’d be ready to graduate, finishing up eighteen months earlier than she previously expected.

Halfway through her explanation, Emma watched Henry leave and head to his room. She heard a lot of movement inside and she frowned, worried about what he was up to. “Henry? Everything all right?”

“Are you kidding? Everything’s awesome! We’re moving to Montanarro and I’ve got to get packing!”

“Henry, wait,” she said and her son popped his head out before she motioned for him to come closer. “We still have to talk about this. This is a really big change. It would mean you miss the last few weeks of school here, and that next fall you’re not with your friends here. We wouldn’t be back until just before Christmas. Are you sure you like that idea? I won’t be mad if you want to stay here. This is our home.”

“Home is where we are together, Mom. You know that,” Henry said, reciting a line she’d said over and over again to him, especially back when times were tougher and they really struggled to get by. His assuredness made her throat tighten. Again she was on the verge of tears but she fought them off. “Besides – every hero has a special journey, Mom, and their special journey usually starts with a new place. Think of the adventure we can have together. It’s gonna be awesome!”

“Henry it might not be that easy. Moving can be hard sometimes. Things will be different there. I know they speak English, but there’s other languages and customs too. It might not be the easiest adjustment.”

“I can do different!” Henry replied eagerly with a smile. “I’m great with different. Different is my middle name.”

“Henry, you don’t have a middle name,” Emma teased and he shrugged.

“Well now I do, and it’s Different. So can we go, Mom. Please? I promise I’ll be so so good.”

“You’re always good, kid.” Emma said softly, running her fingers through the hair that was shadowing his brow. “Are you sure, Henry? It’s a really big step.”

“Can’t you feel it, Mom? Don’t think with your head. Use your heart, like you taught me.” Emma was quiet for a moment as she took in her young son’s sage advice. “You feel it too, I know you do. This is right for us. It’s our path.”

“Why don’t I sleep on it, okay, kid? In the meantime you go wash up for dinner all right?”

Henry seemed to accept this non-answer, though he muttered under his breath about always having to wait for adventure. Emma smiled despite herself and then looked to Mrs. H who was watching her closely.

“So what do you think? I know we’d be leaving you and Mr. H in a bind. You weren’t expecting to have to look for new tenants and -,”

Mrs. H interrupted Emma by taking her hand in hers and silently commanding her attention. Emma looked up and listened carefully. “Honey, you don’t worry about that at all, you hear me? My Horace and I are golden. We don’t need to rent this place out, but we took one look at you and Henry and we knew you were going to be like family. And you know what family does, Emma? They support each other always. This fellowship sounds like everything you’ve wanted. You can make a difference and you and that darling boy of yours can see the world a little. In the meantime we’ll keep this place here for you. No one else is renting it and you don’t need to worry about paying anything at all. The payment has been getting to know you two these last few years. That’s better than anything money can buy.”

“Are you sure?” Emma asked, half wondering about her generosity but also asking if she should go at all. She was excited, to be sure, but she was also terrified. What if she failed? What if something happened? What if –

“I am, Emma. And deep down you are too. Henry was right, this is an adventure, one you should meet and embrace every step of the way.”

Emma appreciated the counsel and though Henry came barreling back in soon and the conversation shifted, Emma had all evening to think about the choice in front of her. She grappled with her options – to take the safe path and pass up on a once in a lifetime opportunity, or to take a little risk and have a taste of adventure and fulfillment with her son in a brand new place. By the end of the night, as she was drifting off to bed, Emma knew she had her answer: this was going to happen. She was going to take this step and take a chance, and somehow, despite her less than stellar origins, she trusted it would all work exactly the way that it should.

Little did she know how true that was, and just how much purpose and hope she would find in a tiny country halfway around the world.

Post-Note: So there we have it. Just in case anyone is curious about the title, I actually got a creative burst in conceiving of this AU plot line when I heard the song ‘Feels Like This’ by Maisie Peters. If you haven’t heard it before, you should definitely listen, as it’s a lovely one with all kinds of feels. Anyway, I know that this chapter was all from Emma’s POV, but as you might have guessed, next chapter we will see Killian and where he is at when we begin this story. I’m so excited for this AU and to build this dynamic and I am hoping to share the second chapter with you all next weekend. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you all think, what you might like to see in this fic, and what your general thoughts on this kind of AU are. As always I appreciate you all so much, I hope that you’ve enjoyed, and I wish you all well and happy! Thanks again!

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ahiddenpath · 4 years ago

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Combating Writing Paralysis with Successive Drafts

Hey all! It’s been a long time since I’ve written about writing, but a switch flipped in my brain while I was drafting this morning. Suddenly, I had to share my thoughts on utilizing successive drafts to split the copious concepts writers juggle into manageable loads.

This is a long, but practical post. I hope you’ll read on below the cut!

It’s common for writers to feel overwhelmed, and no wonder. There are so many narrative elements to consider, and there’s usually far more content to write before you have a complete work of fiction.

My advice is to never attempt to nail every aspect of your story in the first draft. Instead, try approaching each draft with specific goals, lightening your expectations and mental load for each iteration. The idea is to make writing less intimidating, and to polish every element by giving each one individual attention.

I’m not a professional writer, so I can only tell you how I approach the drafting process. I encourage you to experiment with these ideas and find what works best for you; there’s no need to limit yourself to my template.

Annnnd here we go!

Draft 1: Plot and Movement

The purpose of my first draft is to simply move the characters through the plot points/action of the chapter or scene.

I’m not suggesting that you exclude dialogue and characterization, or that you write a plot outline. Simply write a rough draft in its entirety, but don’t worry about the quality. Your goal here is to iron out what happens.

Draft 2: Herding the Plot Bunnies, Staging

In this draft, I focus on:

-Refining the plot: At this stage, I consider concerns such as: do the plot points obey the work’s internal logic? How does this scene contribute to the overall plot? How does it lead to the next scene? Am I properly setting up/providing info for future scenes?

-Tracking plot details: If timeline/dates/the current time are important to your story, double check them. Make sure no important objects materialized from the ether. Confirm that no plot points were dropped or forgotten; if a character lost her shoe last scene, then it should still be gone.

-Scene staging: Did a character appear in the scene without explanation (ie, where did he come from)? Where is everyone standing? Where are any important objects? If there’s an animal in the scene, where is it (it’s so easy to forget to mention a pet, who should be included in scenes set in the character’s living area)? Are there important environmental features?

Draft 3: Setting/Description, Characterization, and Pacing

Now that the basic details are handled, it’s time to dig deeper! In this iteration, I focus on:

-Adding information about the setting. In the previous drafts, you established where the characters are (for example, at a library). Now, you can focus on the details and engage the senses. What does the library look like? Are patrons being quiet, or is someone obnoxiously talking? Does it smell like old books? Is the protagonist handling a mass produced book with thin pages that stain fingers with printing ink, or a hefty tome meant to last for generations?

-Enhancing dialogue and characterization and marrying them to the plot. For example, in the library, perhaps the most bookish or research-oriented character should lead the scene. Alternatively, maybe a less scholastic character is out of their element, and needs help or feels uncomfortable. Choose the character best suited to move the plot along and generate the mood you desire.

Ideally, you want the characters to lead the plot (ie, have agency), instead of the plot seizing the characters (ie, the characters have no choice but to flounder along with what is happening). Plot-driven stories are absolutely a thing, so if that’s what you’re writing, then go for it. Generally, though, audiences respond best to characters making their own decisions.

This is the perfect time to examine your previous drafts and play around with the characters, shuffling them among scenes or reassigning lines of dialogue as needed. Which character has the skills or personality to handle this challenge? Which character needs to be here to learn a pivotal piece of information, or to witness the scene and be changed by it?

-After you address the above points, take time to consider the chapter’s pacing. Does anything feel bogged down and repetitive? Rushed or unclear?

Draft 4: Character Growth, Theme and Mood

Ah, now we’re getting to the juicy bits!

You might have noticed that these drafts focus on increasingly difficult concepts. Now, we’re striking at the heart of narratives: what the story aims to say, and how it aims to make readers feel.

Here’s what I consider at this stage:

-Character growth. What did Character learn from this? What new idea is churning in her head? What pressures are building that might explode later? How did I show Character displaying her growth or regression?

-How did I reinforce the thematic goals I have for this scene, and for the entire piece?

It’s pivotal to identify your themes before you begin work on a story. At this stage, I briefly identify how the chapter or scene supports the work’s themes.

Everyone has specific themes that matter to them. I tend to write about: dealing with trauma, surviving and healing from abuse, the importance of seeking and giving support, found families, self-actualization, setting up and balancing your life according to your specific needs, feminist issues, establishing boundaries, acceptance, and independence vs dependence. Even my works with lots of shenanigans and comedy, like Four Years, circle around these ideas.

I also “level” my themes in this draft. I want to avoid being too heavy-handed or too oblique. People tend to go too hard, rather than too soft, so I usually dial back. You want to guide your reader to your point, not write it on your knuckles and deck them.

-How does this scene make me feel?

Influencing the emotions of your readers is... possibly a writer’s loftiest goal? If readers experience an emotion as a result of your writing, then they’re invested, they’re absorbing it. And, to some degree, they’re resonating with your words and message- and with you.

Consider what mood best suits your intentions, and play close attention to your execution.

Editing and Proofreading

I edit and proofread during every draft stage, except for draft 1 (here’s a resource on the difference between the two, if you’re interested).

Stephen King’s On Writing is a must for folks who want to learn more about editing. I’ve read many writing books, but his taught me to edit with a single sample, so it’s the one I recommend. Basically, you must learn to excise words that aren’t adding anything (adverbs are frequent offenders), replace words with more direct/relevant/evocative ones, and replace hefty phrases with shorter ones. Here’s a sample of that last concept from my Seeking Resonance draft:

“Koushiro moved out of the doorway” became “Koushiro moved aside.” In the prose, I already established that Koushiro was in the doorway. There was no need to specify where he was both coming and going, so I was able to express the idea with three words instead of six and avoid repeating the word “doorway/door.”

Once you see this logic in action, everything will click. Give On Writing a read! I guarantee that your library has copies, probably physical and digital.

Whew, I am out of steam, so I’ll wrap this up! Remember, trying to hold the many aspects of narratives in your hands and carry them simultaneously is an enormous mental load. It’s so much to carry that you might walk away instead of writing. I hope this encourages you to pick up a few pieces at a time, in whatever order and combination makes sense to you.

Additional Writing Posts

-Dishing with an artist

-Tips for Fanfic Authors

-More Tips for Fanfic Authors

-Tips for Winning Nanowrimo

-Resources/Advice for Digimon Adventure Fanfic Writers

#writing talk #faves

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years ago

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Best Part of Me -Chapter 62

Warnings: none

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @ocfairygodmother

She stands on the patio area; where terracotta and highly polished stone and faux games of various colours -laid out in intricate patterns- meet rich, luscious green grass. A fussy and cranky Addie lying along on arm and a hand over her eyes; shielding them from the bright, powerful sun as she watches TJ and Millie -supervised by their uncle- entertain themselves on the elaborate wooden playground. Their exuberant and lively conversation floats on the breeze, accompanied by their giggles and occasional bickering; Millie successfully teaching Saju how to climb the stairs to the slide and slip down it. Less than a hundred feet avail one of the handful of nannies -Diya, an elderly woman who had helped raised both Anil and Saju and speaks both Hindi and Bengali but very little English- keeps a firm on hold on the back of Declan’s shirt as he crouches dangerously low to one of the many ponds; attempting to get a better look at turtles and frogs.

The three of them are settling in well; random tearful moments of missing home and school and their daddy, yet making the best of the situation. Always finding something to do to keep themselves busy and always managing to laugh and smile despite the tremendous changes to their young lives. TJ and Millie are especially adept at accepting new challenges; never struggling with transitions or upsets to their daily routines, simply taking things as they come and ‘rolling with the punches’. Rarely paying attention to the heavily armed guards that continuously patrol the perimeter and line the roof of the house. Their nerves don’t seem frazzled by the open display of weapons; never asking questions regarding just who these men are and why they’re always watching them.

Tanner is an entirely different story. He’s always struggled with change; becoming incredibly anxious with even the slightest tweak to his usual routine. Seeking comfort in familiar surroundings and finding it in sights, smells, and sounds. Needing advanced warnings before switching from one activity to the other; a sudden, abrupt change enough to bring on frayed nerves, irritable behaviour, stomach issues, and even tears. He’s easily overwhelmed by new and unfamiliar situations and is easily annoyed by crowds of people and too much noise or activity going on around him. He loves his version of normalcy; the same faces and voices surrounding him, the comforts of home with his own belongings and the sound and the smell of the ocean. And while he loves his siblings and shares an enormous, powerful bond with his twin brother and doesn’t shy away from playing with the others or sharing in adventures, he’s happiest when left alone; comfortable and content doing the things he loves.

It would be easy to force him to be more like brother and sister. To just throw him into sports as opposed to always having his nose stuck in books or engrossed in school work. To be more ‘kid like’ and pursue being a social butterfly instead of secluding himself. And while they encourage him to at least try and broaden his horizons and to experience new things and attempt to join in the fun that his siblings are having, they refuse to push him out of his comfort zone. Both had had parents that weren’t happy with how they acted or behaved and had been forced into becoming entirely different versions of themselves. Made to ‘fit in’ by society’s standards instead of being encouraged to be who they were meant to be. And they adamantly refuse to do that to their own children; knowing too well the kind of temporary anguish and long term negative effects that are inflicted when you’re forced to be something and someone you’re not.

He lounges under one of the many trees that form a border around the yard. Using a dozing and complacent Mac as support for his back; bare feet dug into the grass and his knees bent, impossibly thick and heavy hardcover novel resting on his thighs. Those wayward locks of hair falling across his forehead; brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in concentration. A facial expression identical to one she's seen many times in the course of nearly seven years.

Satisfied with the level of safety and security being provided to her other children, Esme moves a whimpering and grumpy Addie to her chest -a hand on the back of her head when the baby immediately nestles her face into her shoulder- and journeys over to where Tanner sits.

“What are you doing, nugget?” she inquires. “You look pretty comfy.”

“Just relaxing,” he replies without looking up. “Reading some.”

“You don’t want to go play with your brother and sister? Maybe go swimming? Or go and see the animals?” She often wonders if he’s lonely during his frequent moments of solitude. Unable to stop herself from worrying that he is. That he’s somehow missing out on his childhood even though he’s always expressed just how happy he is doing what he loves, not what others expect him to do.

“No, I’m happy where I am,” Tanner says. “Mac’s keeping me company. Besides. I’m kinda tired today. I did lots yesterday. And the day before. I just want to hang out.”

It’s easy to forget that he’s only five. So well spoken for someone so young; words always coming so easily to him and his tone always low and calm and his face and eyes so serious. Phenomenally intelligent and intuitive. And sensitive to a fault; always worrying about things that are way behind his years. Like his father in so many ways; allowing very few people to get close to him but fiercely protective of those who ‘make the cut’. Loving so deeply and so profoundly. Traits that his father successfully manages to hide from just about everyone, but Tanner is so open and honest about.

“What are you reading?” Esme asks, as she sinks down onto the grass beside him, stretching out her legs and laying Addie along her thighs.

“Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You’re reading a Harry Potter book?”

Tanner nods.

“You’re five.”

He shrugs.

“Where did you find that?”

“When I was talking to Anil yesterday, I told him that I really like to read. But not little kid books. Older kid books but not too much older. When I woke up this morning, there was a box of books by the bed, with my name written on it. Anil got them for me. All of the Harry Potters. I picked this one ‘cause I like the picture on the front.”

“And you can actually read and understand it?”

“Mom, I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid. In fact, you’re insanely smart. Almost too smart. But you’re also only five, nugget. A five year old being able to read that well?”

“You and daddy always read to me, even when I was a baby. I remember how you guys always made me repeat words, even when I was small. They’re in my brain and I recognize them when I see them and remember them. That’s how my brain works. I know what things say and I know what they mean. Is that weird?”

“Not weird. Just...I don’t know...just...wow.”

“Daddy said next time we’re in town, I can get The Hobbit. And then maybe Lord of the Rings for my birthday.”

“Can you read me some of Harry Potter?”

Tanner frowns. “You think I’m lying? I’m not making it up. I CAN read it.”

“Just humour me. Pick a random page and read me a bit of it, okay?”

“Alright…” he huffs dramatically, then grabs a leaf off the grass to use a bookmark before flipping to a different place in the book. “Now? Start now?”

Esme nods. “Just pick something. Anything”

“Okay…” one of his fingers rests on the page, the tip slowly following each word. “...it is a strange thing, but when you are dreading something and would give anything to slow down time, it has a ….” he pauses, frowning up at her. “I don’t know how to pronounce that word.”

She peers down at. “Disobliging.”

“...it has a disobliging habit of speeding up.”

Esme’s eyes widen.

“What? What’s wrong, mom? What did I do? Was that wrong?”

“No. It was right. Every word of it. I just...I don’t know...I think maybe daddy and I need to talk about sending you to a different school.”

“One for smart kids? ‘Cause no offence to any of the other kids, but they’re all stupid. I know how to read words like ‘cat’ and ‘dog’ and ‘ball’ and I can write sentences with those words in it. With my eyes closed! I know my full name, my address, my phone number. I even know daddy’s full name and his cell number and when he was born; day, date, and year. I even know how to tie my own shoes. A lot of those kids don’t do that stuff. Not even TJ knows how. Why can’t I be in a bigger kid class? Where the work is harder?”

“I don’t know if that’s allowed.”

“What? The school doesn’t like smart kids or something? It’s so boring there. I could stay home and you and daddy can teach me. You guys are both smart. You went to college.”

“I don’t think either of us can give you what you really need,” she admits. “Learning wise. But we’ll talk about; daddy and I. Okay?”

Tanner nods, then flips back to the page he’d been engrossed in when she’d interrupted him. “Hermione’s my favourite,” he says. “I read it for her mostly. I don’t care much for Ron or Harry. I think they’re whiners. Who’s your favourite?”

“I don’t have one. I’ve never read them.”

“What?” He looks mortified at the mere suggestion. “You’re how old and you’ve never read Harry Potter? That’s shameful mom. Maybe daddy’s read them.”

“I highly doubt your dad has read Harry Potter. He’s not really into that kind of stuff.”

“Daddy’s into cool guy stuff. Like UFC and football and beating people up.”

“Well he doesn’t necessarily LIKE beating them up. Sometimes he doesn’t have a choice.”

“He kills people sometimes too.”

Esme nods. “Sometimes.”

“Is he going to hell for doing it?” Tanner inquires. “For killing people? Isn’t killing people bad?”

“Most of the time it is.”

“But they deserve it, yeah? The people daddy kills? They deserve it?”

“Why are you talking about this? You’re five.”

“I’m not a dumb little kid. I know what daddy does; I know what his job is. I do hear people talking, you know. I know he gets paid to hurt people. I know he gets money to kill them. I know he’s a mercenary.”

Esme scowls. “How do you even know that word?”

“I hear things. And they stay in my brain. I don’t care, that's what he does. It’s just his job, it’s not who he is. He’s daddy. That’s all that matters. That when he’s with me, he’s just my dad. He only hurts bad people. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

“That’s the last thing he’d ever do. Hurt you.”

“I know. And I know he won’t let anyone else hurt me either. I feel safe when I’m with him. Because he’s big and strong and I know he’d protect me no matter what. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt me.”

“No. He definitely wouldn’t.”

Tanner sighs heavily. “I really hope he’s not dead.”

“What? Why would you even say that?”

“He hasn’t called in two days. Daddy always calls. ALWAYS. Right before bed. But two days and no calls. What if the bad guys got him?” He draws in a shaky breath as tears well in his eyes. “What if he’s dead and I never get to see him again?”

“Your dad is NOT dead.”

“What if he’s gone and I never get to hug him or his voice again? Or I never get to apologize for all the times I was bad and made him angry.”

“Tanner...oh my goodness…nugget…” she reaches out to brush his hair from his eyes. “Tanner...what in the world goes in that head of yours, baby boy?”

“I don’t mean to be bad. I don’t make daddy mad. I don’t mean to make him yell sometimes. I don’t mean to make him hate me.”

“Okay, first of all…” shes gives an appreciative smile to one of the other caregivers that rushes over when she sees Tanner in distress; taking Addie and giving Esme the freedom to scoop the now sobbing five year old into her arms. Cuddling him as she would a baby; across her body with one arm under the back of her legs, the other around his shoulders. “...daddy could never...EVER...hate you. He loves you. More than anything else in the world. He always has and he always will. Just because he gets mad and yells, doesn’t mean he hates you. And how often does he actually get mad and yell?”

“Not much.”

“It takes A LOT to get daddy THAT mad. And even if he does get angry, he still loves you. And it’s really not you he’s upset with. He’s just frustrated more than anything. And sometimes, that frustration isn’t even about you. It’s about him. He’s frustrated with himself. Because he struggles and it makes him sad and angry with himself and unfortunately, it gets taken out on your guys. Or me. Do you remember what I told you? About daddy’s brain?”

Tanner nods. “That it hurts. That it’s sad and in pain.”

“Well he’s working very hard at making his brain better. And the doctor is helping him and I’m helping him. And so are you guys. Because it’s you and your brothers and your sisters that make him the happiest?”

“Can’t he take some medicine to get better?”

“It’s not that easy. But he IS working on it. He works on it every day. And he’s tough and he’s strong but sometimes he needs help. He needs us to help him. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The five year old nods.

“Daddy always loves you. He could never hate you. He helped make you. You’re part of him. You’re part of his new life; his second chance. There is no way he could ever hate you. Could you ever hate him?”

“Never,” he sniffles. “I love him too much.”

“Well that’s how he feels about you. And no. He’s not dead.”

“How do you know?”

“I would know. Trust me. He’s just busy, nugget. He’s got a lot going on. A lot on his mind and a lot to do.”

“He’s too busy to call us?”

“Sometimes he has to go places where he can’t use his phone. Where it’s not safe to call. But he will when he can. But he’s not dead. I promise.”

“I hope you’re right, mommy. ‘Cause I’d miss him. So much. I’d miss his face and his voice and smile and the way he tucks me in. And the way he always teases me about being so short. I get mad when other people do it, but not when daddy does it. It’s funny when daddy does it.”

“Well he makes fun of me for being short, too. I always tell him he's just ridiculously tall and has ridiculously big feet.”

“He DOES have really big feet,” Tanner declares, then giggles. “And his hand is bigger than my whole head, I swear. I bet he could kill someone with one punch. Do you think he could? Do you think he could break the guy at the grocery store in half?”

“What?” Esme laughs. “What guy at the grocery store?”

“The one that touched your bum. That guy with the weird hair and the Mustang. Do you think daddy could break him in half?”

“Well maybe not literally. But he could definitely hurt him pretty bad.”

“Could he kill him?”

“What is this obsession with your dad killing people?”

“I’m just curious. I wanna know how he killed someone with a garden rake. How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” she says, as she combs her fingers through his hair. “I wasn’t there. I just know he did it. I don’t need the details.”

“And it was two people, yeah? How? I don’t understand it. I’ll have to ask him.”

Esme laughs. “You can ask, but I don’t he’s going to tell you.”

“Because you’ll tell him NOT to tell me.”

“Exactly. You need to know the details. Not with that kind of stuff.” She presses a series of kisses to his forehead, then his tears away with gentle fingertips. “Want some lunch?”

“I could eat. Can we have normal food? Like our normal? I miss our stuff.”

“I’ll see what’s in the kitchen and we’ll go from there.”

“Can I help? I wanna help. Remember when I used to always help you when it was just me, you, Millie and TJ? When daddy didn’t live with us for a bit? I was little but I still helped.”

“You were a big help,” she praises. “You used to love to fold laundry.”

“And you used to wrap me in the warm towels from the dryer. I liked when you did that. And I used to bring you tissues when you were sad and you would cry. Do you remember that?”

“I do,” she presses a kiss to his cheek. “You were like a knight in shining armour.”

“I slept with you all the time when you were lonely. Because you missed daddy even if you were really mad at him and didn’t want him around.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want him around. I just…”

“I know why he wasn’t there. Why he had to leave. It’s okay, mommy. I don’t blame you. Daddy wasn’t daddy. And it made me sad. I didn’t like him very much. He was really mean. He yelled a lot. Especially at you. I didn’t like it. I wanted to punch him in the face.”

“My little protector.” She kisses his cheek once more, then tousles his hair. “You know too much for someone so small.”

He pouts. “I’m not small.”

“Yes, you are.” She nuzzles the tip of her nose against his temple. “And you always will be to me.”

***

It’s shortly before one in the afternoon when Tyler arrives; stepping out of the chauffeured car provided by Anil. Eyes surveying the enormous white stucco ‘Spanish hacienda’ inspired home; immaculately kept lawns and gardens and an elaborate marble and gold fountain in the middle of the circular interlocking brick driveway. By normal standards, Mahajan’s had been lavish and large; sleek and modern, sparsely furnished and feeling cold and empty. Anil’s is unlike anything he’s ever seen; the gigantic home somehow welcoming with its turquoise colored front door and matching shutters on every window. The grounds are equally sprawling; everything well maintained and expertly manicured; gardens bursting with various types of flowers in a wide variety of colors. Not the kind of place that you’d expect someone ex military to reside in. Hell, even his own home is far beyond anything he could have ever dreamt about or hoped for. The five million from the IRA making it possible to afford a place like that, and with Anil’s generous initial offer and the constant flow of money going into the bank, he won’t ever have to worry about living expenses ever again. No more lying awake at night wondering how the hell he was going to pay a mortgage and all the bills, never mind how he’d put clothes on his kids’ backs and food in their bellies.

He shrugs a simple black backpack onto his left shoulder, the simple movement causing him to wince to when the fabric of his shirt presses and rubs against his upper arms. The injuries are noticeable now, and far worse than he’d expected them to be; the knees that had pressed into his biceps leaving purple and black bruises that he can feel right down to the bone. In a futile attempt to spare his kids the sight of the worst of the damage, he’d worn a long sleeve shirt to hide the marks, only to find that even the softest and smoothest of fabrics and the smallest of touches irritate his arms. His right is in a sling; forearm immobile across his chest, the shoulder long popped back into place yet still relatively useless and needing support. And his throat still throbs; rows of visible finger marks and solid area where a forearm had been placed against his neck in hopes of holding him still or rendering him unconscious.

It’s an all over body ache like he’s never experienced before; pain that seems to travel right to his very core, settling in and gnawing incessantly. Thankfully the after effects of the drug he’d been injected with have almost disappeared; only hampered by moments of temporary memory loss, confusion, and brief episodes of dizziness. He’d slept for two days. Only waking long enough to make trips to the bathroom and to get as much liquid into him as possible. No energy for anything beyond that. Battling crushing fatigue and an incessant migraine that saw the need for the curtains to be tightly drawn and all lights and television turned off at all times.

As much as he wants to be in on the action and feel useful to the team, the fact remains that right now, he’s anything but. Knee still throbbing and limp much more pronounced, a store bought brace doing little to immobilize it or help alleviate some of the pain. He’s able to use his right hand, but has very limited movement in the shoulder itself, making even the smallest of tasks like dressing himself almost impossible. Deep bruises travel along the small of his back and into both kidney areas; the physician Anil had brought in the day after the attack believing the bruising most likely affects the organs as well. Each piece of damage already done to a broken and tattered body making him the weakest link and forcing him to step back for a couple of days. And for once he’d been relieved at the thought of being benched until the doctor declared him ‘medically fit’ to get back into the thick of things. And when Anil had assured him that the team would be fine without him and told him to take the next forty eight hours to spend with his family, he hadn’t stuck around long enough to question the decision.

One of the armed guards leads him to the backyard, and he can hear the kids before he sees them; their excited chattering, squealing, and giggling accompanied the sound of splashing water and Kyle’s deep, calm voice. And it’s his brother in law that sees him first; giving him a broad smile and a nod in greeting, then whispering something in Millie’s ear as she clings to his neck. Her wet hair sticks to the sides of her face and her forehead when she glances over her shoulder; eyes immediately sparkling and a bright, wide smile spreading across her face.

“Daddy!” She shrieks, and abandons holding onto Kyle’s neck in favour of a frantic doggy paddle that takes her to the nearest ladder. “Daddy!”

Tyler had promised himself that he couldn’t crack. That he wouldn’t allow his tattered and fragile emotions get the better of him. His kids don’t need to see that; him bursting into tears and having a complete emotional meltdown. But he’d come so close...so fucking close...to never seeing them again. To never hearing their voices or feeling their hugs. To never seeing them grow up. And it’s impossible to completely hold back the desperation and relief; his throat feeling incredibly tight and tears burning his eyes as he manages to drop down to one knee as his daughter comes rushing towards him.

“Daddy!” Millie throws both arms around his neck, body drenched from the pool. “You’re here early! Mommy said you wouldn’t be here for a couple of days! But you’re already here!”

“I was able to get things done early.” Tyler explains. “Thought I’d show up and surprise you guys. What’s going on? You having a good time?”

“There’s lots of stuff to do here. Lots of cool stuff. But I still miss you. I wish you were here to do cool stuff WITH us.”

“I’ve got two days to spend with you guys. We can do all kinds of cool stuff.”

“Two whole days?”

He nods.

“Daddy gets to spend two whole days with us, Tyler,” she says to her younger brother, as he practically shoves her out of the way to get to his father. Another set of arms wrapping his neck; a second wet body pressed up against him. None of that matters. The dampness of his clothes, the wet hair against his skin, the smell of chlorine. The only thing that matters is the press of those tiny bodies against his, the sound of their voices, and the smiles on their faces and the tears in their eyes.

“What happened?” Millie gingerly touches his shoulder. “You hurt it? Again?”

“Just banged it up a little. I need to keep it in this thing for a couple of days. It’s nothing serious. Hey…” he lays a hand on the back of her head and presses a kiss to her brow. “...it’s okay. Don’t cry. I’m fine. I’m here, right?”

She nods, valiantly holding back a flood of tears as her gentle and curious fingertips trace the bruises on his neck. “A bad guy did this to you?”

“A very bad guy.”

“Did you kill him? ‘Cause he hurt you? Did you kill him?”

“Don’t cry, Millie,” TJ implores, perched upon his dad’s thigh, an arm still around his neck. “Daddy’s fine. He came to visit. That means the bad guy lost. That daddy was stronger and meaner than the other guy was. He’s alive, right? No bad guy’s ever gonna kill daddy. He’s too strong and too smart.”

“Does it hurt?” Her voice cracks as she continues her exploration.

“A little. The other guy looks worse.”

“How come?” TJ asks. “Is he dead? Please tell me he’s dead. ‘Cause that’s what he gets for messing with you.”

“How about we NOT talk about killing people?” Tyler suggests, and accepts the hand that Kyle offers; able to pull himself to his feet without too much or the dizziness setting in.

“You look like you’ve been to war and back again,” Kyle remarks, then hands over Declan’s small yet solid and strong body, wrapped in a towel.

“Feels I’ve been to hell and back.” he admits, and runs a hand over his son’s damp hair and places a long, gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Well if you look like that but you’re here, I take it the other guy is in a body bag.”

Tyler nods in confirmation, then lets TJ and Millie pull him towards the house via the side pockets on his cargos; talking over each other as they prattle on about the home theatre and the playground and the animals and all of the things they can’t wait to show him.

“How close did it come?” Kyle asks. “To you NOT being here?”

“Too close for comfort, that’s for sure. Needed to get away for a couple of days; clear my head. Figured this was the best place to do it.”

“Only place that matters,” Kyle reasons. “Things were starting to get a little tense around here. Wasn’t too bad when you didn’t call the first day, but when you missed the second? I thought my sister was going to have a mental breakdown. Then I see this…” he nods in the direction of Tyler’s injured shoulder. “...they didn’t get a hold of you, did they?”

“I’d look a lot worse if they did. And I definitely wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Tyler...oh my God…” The patio door slams shut behind Esme as she rushes out of the house in her bare feet, and he barely has time to pass Declan to his brother in law before she’s tossing her arms around his neck; her position on edge of the deck making them nearly the same height. Careful not to embrace him too enthusiastically; mindful of the injured shoulder, feeling the press of his immobile forearm against her. “...oh my God…” her hands are in the hair at the back of his head, fingers pressing into his scalp. And he can feel the way her body trembles against his and her tears against the side of her neck, not even trying to hold it in. Audible sobs of relief that have her shaking. And Kyle whisks Millie and TJ away; sparing the kids the sight of their emotionally fragile parents and giving them some sense of privacy. “...I was worried sick about you. Where the hell have you been?”

“It’s a long story.” He manages to hold back in his own tears, but the relief is evident in his voice. “I should have called. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I thought something happened to you. That they got a hold of you. And neither Yaz or Koen or Ovi would tell me anything but I could tell something was wrong. I figured it couldn’t be too bad if they weren’t showing up to tell me you’re dead. Are you okay? Both hands are still in his hair when she pulls back to look at him. “Jesus Christ, what happened?”

“Not right now, okay?” He rubs the small of her back, then covers her lips with his in a long, slow kiss. “Later. When the kids are in bed. I don’t want them hearing them. I don’t even want YOU hearing it.”

“This goes way beyond someone just jumping you, doesn’t it.”

Tyler nods.

“What the fuck happened?” Gentle fingertips travel over the top of his shoulder and onto the side of his neck. “Never mind that. HOW the fuck did it happen? I don’t understand how someone could get THAT close to you? How…?”

His hand moves to the side of her face and he silences her with another kiss. Longer this time. Deeper. Harder. It’s desperate and it’s needy; fuelled by the realization that he comes so goddamn close to never getting a moment like this again. IF they’d managed to get a hold of him, he would have spent days, weeks, even months, being put through unbelievable agony and torture. Knowing his family was still out there; completely vulnerable without him to protect them. And he knows that Mahajan would have not only let Esme know that he was still alive, but he would have made sure she knew exactly what was being done to him. With no hope of him ever surviving it.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Her voice is just shy of a whisper as she embraces him tightly, and she presses her lips against the side of his neck. “That you’re okay and you're here and I don't have to worry about you anymore. How long can you say? Overnight?”

“Couple days.”

“That’s more than I thought,” she sniffles. “I’ll take it.”

“It’s okay now,” Tyler places a kiss on her temple. “I’m here. Everything’s okay now,”

“It’s so far from okay. I’M so far from okay. But you’re alive and you’re in one piece and that’s all that matters right now. I was so scared, Tyler. I was so fucking scared.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you, baby. That’s the last thing I wanted. It was out of my control. Believe me when I say that..”

“I do. I do believe you. I just…” she pulls away once again and takes his face in her hands. “...I’m just so happy to see your stupidly handsome face.”

He gives a small chuckle and pecks her lips. “Where’s the baby? And Tanner?”

“They’re both napping. Tanner had a rough night. He’s having a hard time. And we really need to have a talk about him. About how smart he is. I can’t wrap my head around just HOW smart.”

“We’ll talk about it.”

“Go and see him,” she urges. “He’s in the living room. On the couch. He’s going to be so happy to see you. I’M so happy. And relieved. So fucking relieved.”

“It’s alright, Esme. I’m here.” He kisses her once more, then pulls her tightly against him with his one good arm. “I’m here.”

*****

Tyler spends a half an hour standing at the side of Addie’s crib. Watching her as she sleeps and reaching out to gingerly remove the soother than dangles precariously from her lips. The hand is soft and gentle that he lays against her hair; palm cupping the back of her head, thumb brushing repeatedly over her ear and then along the top of her cheek. And it’s then that he allows the tears to come. In that still, quiet room with the breeze fluttering the curtains and Addie’s tiny body rising and falling with each slow, steady breath. The enormity of what happened...what COULD have happen...finally hitting him. It’s the closest he’s been to death in nearly seven years. Had Farhad been successful at his attempt on the bridge and had Esme NOT been there to save him, his death would have been relatively quick; bleeding out in minutes and likely losing consciousness from shock before that happened. If his assailant had gotten a hold of him, death would have eluded him. At least until Mahajan felt he had learned his lesson.

He almost didn’t get this chance. The opportunity to see his infant daughter again. To see the way those long, dark eyelashes brush against the tops of her cheeks or how those soft, pink lips as if suckling from a bottle. To hear her soft breaths and the little murmurs and sighs. He’d come within minutes...maybe even seconds...of never experiencing her first birthday or seeing her take her first steps or hearing her call him daddy for the first time. It’s a sound -an experience- that always brings tears to his eyes and takes his breath away; the moment each of his children looked at him and smiled and finally knew exactly who he was and what to call him. Nothing on earth can possibly come close to that feeling.

He leaves her to sleep. Pressing the tips of two fingers to his lips before softly placing them against hers, then using a forearm to clear the tears from his face as he leaves the room. He’d slept for two days yet he’s still so fucking tired; body feeling as if it’s on autopilot, as if he’s simply going trough the motions of living. And while it’s a tremendous relief to be with his family and it was desperately needed, he hates that the sabbatical has been forced upon him. That some fucking asshole hired by Mahajan had not only gotten that close to him, but had been able to inflict the damage he had. It makes Tyler question everything; his confidence, his abilities, his skills. Whether or not he’s reached the end of the line. Forty is considered relatively old and washed up as far as mercenaries are concerned. And even without his underlying health issues, he can’t help but wonder if the attack is a sign that he’s lost his age and it’s time to let go. To leave field work behind him and just concentrate on running things in the background.

Tanner is still fast asleep on the couch; flat on his stomach with both arms wrapped around a throw pillow and a pout curving his lips. And he groans and grimaces as he kneels alongside his son, combing his fingers through his hair and pushing the wayward locks off his forehead; palm against his cheek, thumb brushing along the slope of his nose. And it isn’t until he leans in to press a kiss to his temple that Tanner stirs; giving a long, almost sad sigh and his eyes opening slightly.

“Daddy?” He breathes.

“Hey,” Tyler gives a soft, comforting smile. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“No, mate. You’re not dreaming. I’m really here.”

Those big blue eyes slowly widen; tears filling them, lower lip and chin quivering. “Daddy…” it comes out as a choked sob. “...you’re here...you’re okay...I was so worried about you. I was scared you were dead.”

“Well I’m not.” He lays a hand on the back of Tanner’s head and presses his lips to his brow, then his temple as those tiny arms circle his neck. “I’m here. With you.”

“You didn’t call. For two days! It scared me. I got worried. I thought the bad guys got you.”

“I’m sorry, Tanner. I didn’t mean to scare you. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. Things got a little crazy and I couldn’t get to my phone. I am so sorry, mate. You forgive me?”

Tanner nods. “I was dreaming about you.”

“You were? What were you dreaming about?”

“We went to Disney World. Remember how you said we could go when I was old enough? And that we could go on rides together? Do you remember?”

“I remember.”

“That's what it was about. Going there and going on rides. And eating lots of joke food. And watching the fireworks. You let me sit on your shoulders. I like when you let me do that. Maybe we can go soon to Disney World?”

“Maybe. I’d have to talk to your mom about it.”

“You got hurt?”

“A little.”

“The bad people hurt you?”

“Just a bit.”

“What did you do to them? Did you hurt them back?”

Tyler nods.

“Did you kill them?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I did.”

“Does it make you sad? To kill people?”

“Sometimes, I guess.”

“Why? If they deserve it, why would you be sad?”

“It isn’t an easy thing to do. Even when they do deserve it.”

“Don’t be sad about it, daddy. You kill people so you can come home and see us. That’s why you do it, right?”

Tyler nods, swallowing around the painful lump of emotional sitting in his throat, tears sparkling in his eyes. Feeling regretful. Ashamed. Embarrassed of the person he’s become and the things he’s resorted to. The damage that his own hands have been able to inflict. The pain. The torture. The death.

“I don’t care if that's what you do,” Tanner continues. “For your job. I don’t care if you kill people. They're not good people. But YOU are. Only good people help. Only good people fight back. That’s what you always TJ when he fights the bullies at school. You said that good people always stick for people who can’t stick up for themselves. And that’s what you do, right? You help people who can’t do it themselves.”

“I guess that’s part of it. There’s so much more to it, though.”

“I don’t care what you have to do. Just as long as you come back. That’s all that matters. I don’t care what you have to do when you’re gone. As long as you’re daddy when you come home.”

He sniffles loudly and wipes away the tears that manage to escape. “You…” he presses a kiss to Tanner’s forehead. “...are way too pure and perfect for this world, you know that? This world doesn’t deserve someone like you.”

“Did you get to say? Overnight?”

“I get to stay for TWO nights.”

His entire face brightens. “Really?”

“Really,” Tyler confirms.

“We can do things together?”

“Yup. But I just gotta be careful with my shoulder. And my knee. It’s kinda messed up too.”

“Maybe you’re getting too old to fight the bad people.”

Tyler frowns. “Excuse you? How old do you think I am?”

“Uncle Koen said you used to ride a dinosaur to school.”

“He did, did he?”

Tanner nods.

“Remind me to flush the toilet the next Uncle Koen is in the shower.”

Tanner giggles. “That’s savage, daddy.”

“You want to come outside with me? So I can’t spend some time with everyone? Wanna show me the animals?”

Tanner nods enthusiastically, then tightens his hold around his father’s neck when he tries to stand. “I love you, daddy. I’m sorry for the times I made you mad and I made you yell. That you hated me.”

“Mate, I could never…ever...hate you. You’re my son. I helped your mom make you. No way I could ever hate you. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel that way. For ever yelling at you. I shouldn’t do that. You forgive me?”

“Of course I do. You’re my dad.”

“I love you, Tanner,” Tyler wraps an around his son’s tiny frame and draws him tightly into him; eyes closed and his chin resting on the top of the five year old’s head. “You have no idea how much.”

#Tyler rake #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #extraction #extraction 2020 #best part of me #chris hemsworth character.

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dailytomlinson · 5 years ago

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“There were times I struggled to find my place in the band,” Louis admits today.

But it’s often the quiet ones you’ve got to look out for.

Behind the scenes he was very much centre stage: Louis was the mouthpiece, constantly fighting the boys’ corner and acting as chief negotiator between band and management.

“Being from Doncaster,” he says, “I’ve never had a problem with telling anyone ‘no’.”

“There was a while when I was worried I was getting left behind – some of the boys are on to their second album now,” he says, taking a draw onthe first of several cigarettes. “At times, I’ve been swimming against the tide, working out who I am. I was trying to find a way back into the industry, thinking of it mathematically rather than going off feeling and emotion.”

He’s referring to collaborations with Bebe Rexha and Steve Aoki in 2016 and 2017 respectively, which, although successful, weren’t where his heart lay. With Kill My Mind – the exhilarating ’90s-inspired opening track of the album Walls – he sets his stall out with a clear departure from anything he’s done before.

Walls is about regret, reflection and ultimately, hope, and feels like Louis, who sings in his still-broad Doncaster accent, has finally found his voice.

“I’ve always wanted to be autobiographical and honest. And in the last six months the songs I’ve written and recorded are of a better standard because there’s an honesty there,” he says.

Honesty certainly characterises the album, sometimes devastatingly so. There’s no escaping the fact that Louis, 28, has faced unimaginable pain over the last few years.

“It wasn’t until after I’d written it that I realised how much vulnerability I’d put in there,” he says. “When I first performed it… I had fans coming up to me in tears telling me their stories, and that’s not something I’ve ever had before. And to do it on that level about something so delicate… It was really cool to take something so dark and make people feel like that.

“I had to get a song like that off my chest. It was difficult writing about things that felt trivial compared to what was going on in my life. There was, I think, a necessity to write that song before I could move on creatively.”

Understandably, Louis won’t talk specifically about Félicité. But when asked about how grief has shaped him both as a man and an artist, he pays tribute to Jay.

“I think it’s a credit to how my mum brought me up that I have a resilience,” he says. “There’s nothing I want less than to have people feel sorry for me, so having that mentality has helped me through the hardest of times.

"I’ve also felt a real support system through my fans. I’d always felt it on a lower level, but when it’s something so impactful and life-defining, I really did feel it from them.”

Days after Jay’s death, Louis appeared live on The X Factor to perform Just Hold On with Aoki.

He was clearly in pieces and it was hard enough just watching, but somehow he held it together, presumably thanks again to that resilience.

“Sometimes it’s fight or flight,” Louis explains. “And the way I was brought up and because of where I’m from, I only see one option in that situation. I also wanted to put myself second and do it for my mum.

"That moment was bigger than me and it was actually incredibly liberating. It used every bit of strength and power and I look back on that performance as one of the proudest moments of my career.”

He says he tends not to suppress emotion and is able to share his darkest points with those he’s closest to.

But as the eldest of Jay’s seven children (five girls and two boys), he also feels a huge weight of responsibility towards his younger siblings and hasn’t had any professional therapy himself.

“No, no, nothing like that. That might be down to a bit of Northern pride, but I have a lot of responsibility on my shoulders and that drives me. I’ve got siblings who look up to me and I’ve got my grandparents as well. So all those things keep my head screwed on.

“My mum had a massive influence on me and I lived with a lot of sisters in the house, so I do find it easier to speak about my emotions. But I’m also from Doncaster, where to be a guy is to be tough and traditional and I feel like [there are] times where pride kicks in and I just say I’m all right.

"I’m lucky that I’ve got good people around me who I can trust and who I can be completely vulnerable with and say how I feel. Nine times out of 10, I don’t bottle things up. I wear my heart on my sleeve.”

They sold 20 million albums worldwide, earning over £40million each, but the pressures of fame were, at times, intolerable. Louis says they were only able to keep their heads screwed on because they had each other.

“You can never be prepared for that. It was such a head f**k. But we grounded each other so the minute one of us acted like a d**khead one of the others would say: ‘Stop being a d**khead’. I see people in this job surrounding themselves with superiority and they lose the concept of the real world.”

He remembers doing a shoot with the band for Pepsi over in the States with American footballer Drew Brees.

“This guy was like a god and we were insignificant when he was around, which we understood. But I’ve never seen anything like it. Every sentence that came out of his mouth he’d have an audience of hangers-on in hysterics.

"These people were so far up his arse and he didn’t have one good joke. He had no banter! I still hang around with my boys from Doncaster and I hear real stories all the time, which helps me understand the world that unfortunately I don’t get to see. Having empathy with people and a connection with the world is imperative for any songwriter.”

Harry Styles recently said that he never touched drugs during his time in the band (although he’s made up for that since), because he didn’t want to “mess it up”. Louis smiles as he confides that he can’t say the same.

“All I’ll say is that I did my fair share and enjoyed my time in the band. It’s right what Harry said and it was smart of him, but I definitely had a lot of fun in the band. I was always aware of how amazing the opportunity was, but also enjoying the moment for what it was. I lived like anyone else my age – the difference was that I was in One Direction.”

He’s in touch with Harry, Niall and Liam “sporadically” (we’ll come to Zayn shortly), but they’re all on very different paths for now.

“If we all went to a pub tomorrow it’d be like we’d never left. The enormity of what happened in One Direction creates a massive bond and we’ll always have that.

"There have been times when we’ve done each other’s heads in. There might be something I say in an interview that bugs Liam or vice versa, but we all know what each other is like and we can call each other up and say sorry for being a d**k. We’re like brothers.”

But that’s not necessarily the case with Zayn, who quit in 2015 and with whom Louis has had a turbulent relationship since. He was hurt when Zayn was the only one not to turn up at the X Factor studio to support him through his performance after Jay’s death, despite promising to be there.

Then there’s Zayn’s apparent repeated digs. In one interview he branded 1D’s music “generic as f**k”. There’s a difference between making a break from the past and dismissing it completely, and it’s a line Zayn perhaps hasn’t always managed to walk.

“Hmm,” agrees Louis, cautiously. “Other than maybe Niall, there is no one who is prouder of the band and the songs we created than me. But while what I did with One Direction is relevant, it doesn’t define who I am and I don’t struggle to make that dissociation.”

Does he think some of what Zayn has said has been disrespectful?

“Yeah, I do. But I can understand it. We have a lot of situations where we’re sat in interviews and if you’re in a certain mood you might run your mouth. The older you get the more you can tell if these things actually carry any malice or if they’re just a prod in the back. That’s life, innit? Sometimes people chat s**t and that’s the reality.”

He’s not ruling out resolving their differences in the future, but there’s no olive branch on the horizon.

“No, but I’ve not actively tried. We’ve all got a lot on our plates and there might be a day where I wake up and think: ‘OK, I want to right that wrong’, but not yet.”

After being in his company for a while, it’s not hard to see why Louis was 1D’s driving force backstage. He’s thoughtful, articulate, open and self-aware, but there’s a steeliness to him and the requisite pop-star swagger, which doesn’t seem to spill over into arrogance.

And that is reflected in his music, which is heavily influenced by the Arctic Monkeys, The Smiths and Oasis. In fact, the title track and latest single Walls sounds so similar to Oasis B-side and fans’ favourite Acquiesce that Louis’ manager flagged it as a potential issue.

“These kinds of things happen. There are only so many melodies you can write and if you listen to a band all the time like I do with Oasis…”

Anyway, says Louis. He had to make a choice.

“I was ready to risk it, but everyone said we should get in touch with Noel [Gallagher] so we did. Often the industry, and especially Noel’s world, can be a bit snobby and say: ‘F**k you you’re not using this song’. But he was really cool about it, signed it off no problem and although I’m sure he’s not happy about this, I f**king am, I’ve got a writing credit from Noel Gallagher on my album. That is some sick s**t so I’m buzzing.”

Is he nervous about going it alone? “I think I’ve got a good record so I’m confident. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t little bit nervous – there’s three and half years work gone into it so there’s a level of anticipation.”

The most overwhelming emotion though, is relief.

“Because it’s taken such a long time. I’m excited to go on to the next phase of my career.”

#louis tomlinson #tw death #020220 #wpress #tw drug #fizzy tomlinson #the sun #fabulous magazine #im tired alrady #stunt mention #i cleared it up

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sethnakht · 6 years ago

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For the character ask meme -- Anakin Skywalker!

ahhhh, i’m dying to ask you this! can i? ahhHHHHH

!!!!!

… these answers are going to be completely unsatisfying, i fear … I’m only going to talk about the PT, not because I think Anakin and Vader are separate entities, but because I talk too much about Vader already

First impression

Given how important this character is to me, you’d expect me to have one. The strange thing is that I don’t. I was twelve when I saw TPM in theaters, and remember very little about it - my father took us to see it once, expressed his disappointment at the end (I think I’d been reasonably entertained, but hadn’t loved it either, and in any case his opinion had weight), and that was that. So my memories of the film are almost entirely blank. Only almost entirely, though, because I had access to the trailer.

The trailer lived in public spaces. The first time I saw it was in a computer store featuring Apple iMacs (the original green and white plastic ones). The iMacs were all lined up in a row and playing it on eternal repeat. Everything was silent and forbiddingly beautiful. Something happened to me while gazing at those iconic shots of Theed (from the air), of Padmé staring out the palace window in her red dress. Somehow, the combination of those images and the source - the coolest-looking computer I’d ever seen - produced a wellspring of longing. Naboo became an unreachable dream, the scenery tinged with melancholy, an air of death. Padmé - whom I could imagine later in life on Alderaan, hidden with Leia, disguised to be unrecognizable - exerted mysterious power over my imagination.

Anakin, by contrast, never even figured.

This is getting too long, so I’ll end by noting that my first conscious impressions of Anakin were mediated by clever adult fans writing meta and fiction over on TheForce.Net, back when fandom congregated around discussion boards. Fernwithy’s stories about Anakin had an enormous impact - stories like this short little piece from 2000, which presented Anakin’s relationship to Obi-Wan and to his mother and to Padmé in a prescient nutshell. By the time AotC came out, I was prepared to find him conflicted, struggling to communicate, cowed and haunted and bursting from holding too much inside - Hayden sold me instantly.

Impression now

Conflicted! Anakin is someone whose frustrations and conflicts I can understand on an almost visceral level - but the choices he ultimately makes are deeply alienating to me when not flat-out horrific, and no level of understanding can excuse how he chooses to take choices away from others (murder being only the most extreme form of how he does that). I identify with him more deeply than with any other character and am also repulsed by him just as deeply, I think of him as desperately in need of intervention and support but also as someone who chose not to compromise or listen, who shut out what he didn’t want to hear. It’s that polar relationship that keeps me fascinated, though: I love the discussions he generates about choice, freedom, politics, morality, toxic masculinity, love, loyalty, blindness, identity, communication, perception, storytelling, etc.

Favorite moment

Difficult, but I think it has to be from RotS: that sequence of him alone, isolated, shunted aside in the temple, staring out at the cityscape and crying as the sun sets, face lit in contrast as he weighs whether to follow Mace to the Senate - there’s an emotional heaviness to it all that I love, but what’s best about the sequence I think is how it creates this space away from the constant action, this space to breathe and think - none of this is inevitable. He could go to Padmé, he could follow orders and wait things out, he could talk to healers. He’s in a room full of windows to all sides, and at the same time, his gaze is shown fixed, unwavering, blind to other possibilities as he lets himself be overwhelmed by premonitions of grief. So I love this moment for how it silently frames his ultimate choice as a choice while also allowing one to see that in his mind, there is no other choice

Idea for a story

I’ll be honest, every single one of the stories in my head revolves around Vader in some shape or form. I’m not particularly creative, either. I suppose I’d love to see more stories where he would ordinarily clamp up and keep secrets and do his typical x but is instead forced into a different y - much along the lines of this particular AU from @darth–nickels - I love scenarios where his communication issues are at once given an outlet and compounded and complicated!

Unpopular opinion

This isn’t unpopular, per se, but I really do think Anakin is responsible for his choices, full stop

Favorite relationship

… so I was going to say “Obi-Wan” because I love how conflict is baked into their relationship from the start and how flawed they both are and how complex that relationship becomes over time. I love reading about these two - about the imbalances as well as their co-dependency - I love what you write about these two - I have an internal cheer whenever he shows up in Vader’s thoughts, especially. Vader completely alone in a room talking to himself and yet also trashing Obi-Wan in the same breath is one of my favorite things.

But I think there’s another answer, and that’s Shmi. This is the relationship that proves that things didn’t have to end the way they did, the key to his heart, the wedge that separates him even from Padmé (who could have freed her but didn’t), the lash that binds him to Palpatine … I love stories about Anakin and Shmi prior to TPM, and I love stories that address what could have gone differently had she not died. There’s also something particularly special to me about the moments where she rises in his thoughts even as Vader, however horrifying

Favorite headcanon

When puberty hits, he begins to hate how he sounds. His voice was always the boundary that marked him as different, apart, but now it’s worse. He thought he would grow up to sound powerful. Sometimes he thinks his voice is the main reason Obi-Wan can’t take him seriously. And that’s not fair, and yet he also feels like a failure for thinking that, because isn’t everything also his fault, isn’t the world waiting for him to save it? But then someone snickers because of something he’s said, and it sends him into a rage …

(Only much later, when he hears himself speak as though for the first time, does he feel empowered - liberated, at peace with himself.)

#long post #character meme #gffa #thank you for the ask!!!#i am humbled #anakin skywalker

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kindafooey · 3 years ago

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Hiya, you don’t know me, but I’ve got a whole pseudo-palship going on with you! Sounds weird, but surely you get wilder professions from your fans. Still—i’ve been re-∞-reading your works lately & it got me thinking “wherever does Fooey even begin concepting these masterpieces‽” If not confidential or overwhelming—mind sharing your behind-the-scenes? How do you go about writing your works from start to completion? Anyhow, thanks for doing what you do, without you i wouldn't be who I am today.

Heeeyyyy! Finally getting around to answering this, haha ^^; I'll spare you the usual excuses, but I'm really sorry for the delay.

(Also, side note, suuuuper flustered about the fact that I apparently still have, um, fans out there. Thank you. .////.)

EDIT: Better put this under the break because dang this turned into a Text Wall(TM)

Hmm... so where to start? Well, first off, my approach to this is probably going to be somewhat Blood Chains-centered for obvious reasons. Almost all of my other works dance around similar themes, minus the smut - and I guess it goes without saying that smut fics are just fundamentally a different class when it comes to the writing method, haha. :D

Sooo as is typical for a fanfic author, I tend to get my root concept for a story, or at least the inspiration for it, from someone else's work. With Blood Chains, the entire main premise was crafted by my collaborator of the time. My other fics have been inspired by quotes, specific lines from canon that hold massive potential for further study and elaboration, things like that. Also, I tend to latch onto characters that are either underdeveloped in canon or whose storylines never got a satisfying conclusion, and if I'm able to dissect the parts of their canon character arcs that were left hanging AND figure out how to address them and wrap them up in a way that does the story justice, I quickly grow hellbent on doing just that. Mental fic crafting is kind of inevitable and involuntary at that point. ':D

After that, I guess it all burns down to my obsessive hyperfocus-y tendencies? All I need for a functional story structure is a starter premise, a somewhat clear understanding of where I want to go with it and the characters, and at least a vague idea of an ending. The rest of it tends to work itself out as I go. The most important thing, I've found, is to write down every single stray thought that has the potential of taking the story forward by any means necessary. Paper, arms, phone notebook, anything goes. The form doesn't have to be perfect, either, tbh most of my notes are weird stream of consciousness type shit. As long as it's down and you'll be able to recall your thought process from it later on. Oh oh! Also, if I get stuck, my solution of choice is to pace around and talk myself through, preferably with a voice recorder, the problem point and everything that led up to it. It's weird as fuck how I've always come up with a solution using this method. Of course, it would be even better to have someone to bounce things off of, but, well, you know.

Then there's self-projection, of course... Writing Ford, and Bill to an extent, was always stupid easy for me simply because Ford is one of the more relatable characters I've come across, and I could draw a ton from my own similar experiences. With him, I was sort of in the zone by default - with certain other characters, I actually have to put in enormous amounts of mental energy to get in the zone where I can understand their shortcomings and internal processes. And sometimes... uh... you sort of get sucked too far into the zone and realize you may not be that different from said character after all? Which can be, uh, bad, in certain situations? ^^; That's what made the cabin trip last week so horrible, actually. I could elaborate, but this answer is already long enough, so uh. Let me know if you want to hear the gritty details. XD

Also, as frustrating as it is to both the author and the readers, sometimes it just takes hella time. I'm writing a fic for a different fandom now (very secret), and it took me almost a full year to get the third chapter out, regardless of the fact that I thought about it feverishly on a semi-daily basis. Circumstances can be a bitch sometimes, and it's something I've sort of had to come to terms with. Still majorly burns me up when I can't write even if I want to, though.

I... think that's it? The last thing I can think of is that when a large-scale writing project is approaching its end, it's good to already have something of a draft for your next project on the backburner. Your creative identity is gonna need something to fall back on. I guess that's more of a pro tip and less an actual part of my writing method, but if we try to extend it into that area, I'd say that this sort of like... continuity is really something to aim for? Back in my most productive days (and I'm talking literally over a decade ago), I had a rule of writing for at least an hour each day. Nowadays, even one sentence per day would be an excellent little routine to keep the wheels whirring, but I'm ashamed to say I've completely fallen out of that habit. That's probably the reason why my mojo fluctuates a lot more than it used to. But it's def something to aim for.

Well, there ya go! A ridiculously long reply to a simple ask. Classic Foo. But it's been a while since I've gotten an ask related to my writing, so I just took it and ran. I hope that's okay. Thank you so much for this wonderful opportunity to reminisce my golden days! (Also, if you ever want to try tweaking that para-palship into a, uh, non-para-palship, just hit me up! I tend to be a bit of a letdown and unrelatable in person, but I'd love to chat and give that good ol' human interaction a try. :D)

#how to tag this... hmm #writing #how's that? at least I'll be able to find it later #yeah that'll do #thank you again this ask gave me life

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corrahdarling · 6 years ago

Text

Blood Donor- Chapter 2- The Feed

Story Summary: Harper Chase is a young woman that is unwillingly drawn into a world that she didn’t know existed. She quickly meets Adam, a vampire, and becomes his life source. Will she discover that she likes his lifestyle, or will she run for the hills?

*Warning: As this fic is about a vampire (Tom Hiddleston’s Adam in Only Lovers Left Alive) it will contain copious amounts of blood… Please be aware before reading!*

A/N: Hi guys! I’ve been thinking about this story for awhile. I have a love for Tom Hiddleston’s Adam, and wanted to write a little story about him. Let me know what you guys think! -C

_____________________________________

Adam paced the hallway in his large, decrepit Detroit home. He had received a call on his television/phone contraption, alerting him that the Blood Bank had received a lovely, young, female specimen. Most importantly, she was O-negative… his favorite. Normally, Adam didn’t get excited about much. After all, he had already lived for hundreds of years, and the state of the world today disgusted him. He thought about the greed and ignorance of the human race and the utter waste they caused…

“Fucking zombies…” He muttered, as he walked back and forth down the hallway, his striped robe billowing behind him. He normally received filtered blood from the hospital’s blood bank, as he didn't trust human blood straight from the source. There were too many medications and nasty drugs that made most humans taste revolting. He was fine with feeding from bags of uncontaminated blood from his refrigerator, but he was a vampire. That instinct to hunt and feed from a living human would always be at the forefront of who he was. He was made to hunt, quite literally, hundreds of years ago.

Adam felt the old oriental rug crush beneath his feet as he walked to the window one more time to see if she was here yet. He knew that this encounter would more than likely be terrifying for her, but thankfully, vampires were given a special gift. They could make sure that their meals didn’t remember being meals. Tomorrow, she wouldn't even remember it, and he’d still be sated.

He had a standing request with an organization called the ‘Detroit Blood Bank,’ that when they came across clean, pure, O-negative blood, he would have first choice. Those opportunities didn’t come around very often, but when they did, he paid the Blood Bank handsomely for it.

Over his many years, Adam had become wealthy, and spent his money now on vintage musical instruments and recording equipment. He was brilliant in all things, but especially science and math. He loved to tinker with electronics, and had invented things that were useful for his everyday life. After living for that long, you tend to pick up a few things, after all.

His head whipped around as he heard a car purring from outside his home. He hurriedly went to the window again, and pulled back the drapery just enough to see that he had a delivery…

_________________________________________________

“What’s your name, sir?” Harper asked from the back of the Mercedes. The man’s bald head tilted toward her as he listened.

“The Courier.”

“But… don’t you have a name?”

“No…to you, I am the Courier. I pick you up, make sure you get there safely, and deliver you. That’s it. That’s my job.”

She sighed as she looked through her window at the passing scenery. They had left the downtown area and entered an industrial area… or at least it used to be. Now, it was full of empty and collapsing automotive plants, that were so spooky at night. It was quite a bit different than Ann Arbor, where she and her friends were from. If she hadn’t come to the conclusion that this was all a dream, she’d be terrified.

After a few moments, the car slowed as they pulled into a driveway, or lack of a driveway, as the grass and weeds were so tall that there was no way of seeing what was underneath. Harper looked up at the enormous home that lay in front of them. It was built from red brick, and at least three stories tall. Most of the windows had been boarded up, except for a large window in the middle of the house. If she had passed this house on the street, she would swear that it had been abandoned many years ago.

Suddenly, pale fingers wrapped around the edge of the covering in the window and moved it aside slowly. She saw a glimpse of black hair, and as quickly as it had moved aside, it went back into place.

“We’re here. Watch your step.” The Courier said as he opened the door and took her hand, helping her out of the car.

“We’re… where, exactly?” She looked at the creepy scene, noticing a worn path that went through an overgrown trellis around the side of the house.

“We’re where you are meant to be.”

“Um… no, I’m not meant to be here, since I don’t even know where here is.”

“You signed a contract, Ms. Chase. You could try to run, but you wouldn’t get very far. Just do as you're expected, and it will all be over soon. You might even find it exciting.” He chuckled darkly.

“I don’t think this house is saf-” When she looked back to The Courier, he had disappeared… just like that. The car and everything! What in the world?

She sighed as she looked back toward the house. This was so weird. She really hoped that she’d wake up soon… she’d have a very interesting dream to tell her friend, Lainie, about.

Oh… Lainie! Harper could call her and ask for a ride! She had to get out of this hellhole that she had found herself in. She reached down to pat her pockets, looking to find her phone, but found nothing. All she wore was the short, black, silk dress Cassandra had put her in… she had no bag, no phone, none of her belongings… nothing.

She felt a deep pit in her stomach. She was completely lost on this dark corner in Detroit, alone. She looked down the desolate street, and back up to the house, weighing her options. Maybe there’d at least be a phone in the house that she could use. She decided that she’d take her chances, as she breathed deeply and ambled up to the house.

It was in the midst of summer but it was cool at night, and she felt goosebumps erupt on her skin as she approached the large structure. The concrete porch steps were hard beneath her feet, and the worn wood of the porch creaked as she stepped onto it. She had seen horror movie scenes just like this one, and she could just picture Freddy Krueger or that creepy guy from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre popping up and ax-ing her. That thought made her move a little faster.

She knocked on the door once, twice, three times… still nothing. She knew she had seen someone in the house when they pulled up in the car. Maybe they had left?

When she twisted the doorknob, the door opened easily, giving her access to the house. She could hear soft electronic music wafting through the air, and as she placed one foot inside the house, she realized that it wasn’t abandoned after all. Someone lived here…

She slowly made her way past a set of stairs and down the hall Adam had been pacing just a few moments before. She didn’t see a phone anywhere, and she got the overwhelming feeling that she shouldn’t be in there. One quick look around, and she’d be out of here.

She walked back down the hallway, and entered a large room that was packed to the brim with things you didn’t normally see every day. In the center of the room lay a mauve-colored, suede couch, and around the couch lay… everything else. In rich tones of reds, golds, and blues, she saw stacked books, vinyl records, recording equipment, guitars, dusty lamps, candles, magazines… and the air was so electric that she could swear the hair on her arms was standing straight up.

She lost her way for a moment, as she walked over to the vinyls and began to thumb through them. What was she doing? She needed to get out of here. “If this is a dream, I can’t really die can I?” She whispered to herself.

Adam leaned against the wooden door jamb behind her, and watched intently. She moved quietly, smoothly, and with a grace that many humans just didn’t possess. His eyes moved with precision and stalked her frame as she stepped over to one of his boxes of vinyl records. She thumbed through them for a moment before pulling one out.

“Huh…Bob Dylan… I know this album.” Harper could remember her parents playing the song ‘Sara’ repeatedly when she was a little girl. She turned the large album around in her hands to look at the track list on the back, and hissed as the stiff cardboard corner cut into her middle finger. She watched a small drop of blood begin to bead on her finger.

Adam’s body stiffened as he smelled her, suddenly she was more overwhelming than before. He closed his eyes for a moment and willed himself to stay in control. Things got messy when he couldn’t control his actions… this was going to be a quick feed, just something to sustain him for a while… a treat, even… and that was it. No muss, no fuss… she was just a simple meal.

“What are you doing?” He asked, startling her. She jumped around to face him.

“Um… I’m sorry. I’m kinda stranded. I thought I could use your phone to call my friend? I didn’t mean to be snooping.”

“I’ve got no phone, so you’re out of luck.”

Harper watched as the mysterious, tall man began to saunter toward her. His bare chest was pale, his shoulder length hair was as black as coal… and there was something in his light eyes that petrified her. This dream was getting a little scary.

Before she knew it, he had stopped mere inches from her and looked down to her hands. “You’re bleeding all over my Bob Dylan.”

“Oh, yeah… I’m so sorry. I cut myself on the cover. It was an accident.”

He nodded as he took it from her. “I would expect nothing less...” He wiped the album cover on his black jeans, as he muttered “…zombie…” under his breath.

She was becoming even more uneasy as they stood there together, and he could tell that she was beginning to shake slightly. Time to get to business. “What is your name?”

“Uh, Harper.”

“Harper. Do you know why you are here? Or who I am?” Normally when a human was sent to him, they already knew what was expected of them. In fact, most humans that were involved with the Blood Bank had volunteered themselves willingly… some humans even got off on the whole thing. It was strange that this girl was so un-informed.

She shook her head. “I wasn’t told anything… I was just dropped outside of this house. I have no idea what’s going on. I keep thinking it’s a dream, but I never wake up, and-…” She spoke quickly as her voice began to quiver.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Do not start crying.” Adam knew he didn’t do well with human’s emotions. He had no time for it.

“I’m just really scared. I don’t understand any of this…”

“There, there.” He stepped forward, placed his large hand against her cheek, and let his powers work to his advantage. Suddenly, every ounce of fear in her mind was replaced by warmth and comfort. Even though she was in a strange house, with a very strange man, on an abandoned street in Detroit, she was precipitously calm and happy. She was now toasty warm, where before she had been cold, and she felt like nothing could harm her in her sheltered bubble.

“Now, that’s better, is it not?” He smirked as his hand drifted from her face to her neck. He knew that it wouldn’t be long before dawn. After that, his ability to feed would diminish and this opportunity, and money, would be totally wasted.

He was racing the sun and promptly needed to find the spot on her body that he’d feed from. Humans were built uniquely… some had veins and arteries that were easy to access, and some did not. He could distinguish how close the blood was to the surface of her skin, just by smelling her. He could sense her pulse quicken, as he delicately placed his nose against the soft skin of her neck and inhaled deeply… mmm, divine… but that wasn’t the right spot.

He could feel her body quiver as he moved to the other side of her neck and then inspected each of her arms, none of the spots seemed right.

Adam had a gift of making humans feel at ease when he wanted to, and Harper was definitely feeling it. He knew that while she watched him move with glazed over eyes, that feeling wouldn’t last forever and she’d eventually wake from her daze. He needed to hurry.

“Would you lay down, Harper? It will make this easier.” He asked, as he gestured to the suede couch. He watched her eyes move from his to the couch and back again. He could tell that her uneasiness was creeping back in. Adam made his way to the side of the room, took a vinyl record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. Soon, Bob Dylan’s gritty voice flowed through the air and the words to ‘One More Cup of Coffee’ began. “There. That better?”

She shrugged as she watched him amble over to the couch. Why did he want her to lay down? What would it make easier? This was so weird.

He held his hand out to her. “Well, come on. My patience is wearing thin.”

She unconfidently did as he asked, and he helped her get perfectly placed on the couch. Even though Adam was strange, he was so beautiful. Lovely, delicate facial features that were sharp at the same time, and his voice was like velvet. It seemed as if she could hear several dialects in the way he spoke, and he seemed wise far beyond his years. His demeanor was unexplainably calming, and he made her feel immediately better about her situation.

“Now…” He spoke, as he knelt on the floor beside the couch. “You don’t know what I am?”

“No.” She shook her head and stiffened as he placed his nose against her collarbone, slowly inhaling her. He let out a long breath as his jaw clenched tightly. Control, Adam.

“My name is Adam. I am a vampire.”

She snickered. “No, there’s no such thing. Oh, I’m definitely dreaming, and it’s becoming more and more unbelievable. Wait, is it Halloween in my dream? ‘Cause that might explain all this…”

Adam was dumbfounded. “No, it’s not Halloween, and that is an incredibly rude insult.” He continued to smell her as he chastised her words. His nose wandered up her right leg, and back down. He was getting closer.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. It was just that you said you’re a vampire. We all know that vampires are just medieval fairy tales. I mean, if you think about it, nothing can survive on just blood… it’s scientifically impossible and silly.”

“Silly? You’ve got to be joking. Vampires are terrifying deliverers of death…”

“Mmm, yeah, right. You know, Bram Stoker’s Dracula was modeled after Vlad the Impaler… he never actually drank blood, did he? Let me guess, are you from Transylvania? Can you turn into a bat? Do you actually have a reflection?”

Adam rolled his eyes and scoffed as he listened to her words. “I’m aware of those myths, they’re untrue.”

She raised her eyebrows cockily. “What about this-- do you burn in the sun?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, and it fucking hurts. I can see that I’m going to have to request a less mouthy meal from the Blood Bank next time. You’re distracting me.” His nose trailed up her left leg, and when it reached her inner thigh, he stopped. This was it. That was the spot, and he couldn’t contain himself any longer.

“…and why are you sniffing me like that?”

“Oh, I’ll show you why.” His voice had taken on a deeper, grim tone, and Harper watched as his eyes changed from a pretty blue to an amber gold. He hissed, opened his mouth wide, and two fangs erupted from the top of his mouth like forceful springs.

Harper gasped and moved up to her elbows. “How did you… do… that?”

“Here’s a medieval fairy tale for you-- Dracula wasn’t real, but I am.” He growled as his fangs sank into the fleshy part of her thigh.

She screamed and tried to move her legs to get away, but Adam had wrapped his arms around her hips and was entirely too strong. She heard him moan, and when her eyes met his, she realized that this was no dream. It was reality. Vampires were real.

A trail of deep red blood began to trickle between her thigh and the side of his mouth, providing a stark contrast against his pale skin, and she felt herself begin to grow weak. Was she truly going to die here?

Adam extracted his sustenance from her thigh, and even though he was in a blissful feeding frenzy, he knew to watch for signs that he had taken enough from her. Her skin began to grow paler and the blood flow slowed… he knew he had to stop.

He pushed himself from her, and lay supine on the floor. What he was feeling was something that he rarely experienced. This was the ultimate high for him, and nothing else could ever come close.

After a few moments, he had come down from his high and pulled himself up to check on Harper. She was alive, but still unconscious from the blood loss. He should have stopped before she became unconscious, but he felt lucky to have stopped when he did.

The dawn was hastily approaching, but he sat there and watched her for a few moments. Her chest rose and fell in a methodic rhythm that put Adam in a trance. Her lovely heart was pumping blood throughout a body that was quickly trying to recover from a vampire feed.

He looked down at himself and noticed a thick trail of blood that had dried as it ran down his chest. His face was probably atrocious! He found the mirror in the hallway and wiped all the dried blood from his chin… he did, indeed, have a reflection. He wished he would have told Harper that. Maybe, if there was a next time, he would.

*******

“Harper, wake up! We need to get packed up… hotel check-out is in an hour!”

Harper slowly opened her eyes and found the drab wall of a hotel room.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you, Lainie.” She said as she slowly sat up. Sure enough, her best friend was sitting on the bed next to her. Maybe that was all just a dream? She was relieved, and a little bit disappointed.

“Girl, you look pale this morning. Where did you go last night? I assume you found some hot guy, right? You left the bar and I never saw you come back… but you were in your bed this morning.”

“Um…” Her head ached, but other than that she felt absolutely fantastic. “I really don’t know…”

“Since when do you have a Bob Dylan shirt?”

Harper’s eyes grew wide as she looked from her friend down to her body. She was wearing a t-shirt that she had never seen before… oversized and black, with a white silhouette of the gritty singer that she had listened to the night before. It all seemed so hazy, but she suddenly remembered cutting her finger on a Dylan vinyl cover. Surely, that had all been a dream. The man… or vampire… couldn’t have been real.

She let her hand drift under the bedsheet to her thigh, and there she felt two small divots in her skin—perfectly spaced like a vampire’s fangs.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #Tom Hiddleston fandom #vampire #only lovers left alive #adam #blood #tom #hiddleston #HIDDLESTONERS #Thomas William Hiddleston #corrah

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cubelelo · 3 years ago

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He Invented the Rubik's Cube. He's Still Learning From It

Erno Rubik, who formulated one of the world's generally well known and suffering riddles, opens up about his creation in his new book, "Cubed."

Erno Rubik, who created the Rubik's Cube, composed his book "Cubed," he said, "to attempt to get what's occurred and why it has occurred. What is the genuine idea of the cube? Video by Akos Stiller For The New York Times

The primary individual to settle a Rubik's Cube went through a month attempting to unscramble it.

It was the riddle's designer, an unassuming Hungarian engineering educator named Erno Rubik. At the point when he created the 3D shape in 1974, he didn't know it might at any point be settled. Mathematicians later determined that there are 43,252,003,274,489,856,000 approaches to mastermind the squares, however only one of those blends is right.

At the point when Rubik at long last did it, following quite a while of dissatisfaction, he was overwhelmed by "an extraordinary feeling of achievement and utter alleviation." Looking back, he understands the new age of "speedcubers" — Yusheng Du of China set the worldwide best of 3.47 seconds in 2018 — probably won't be dazzled.

"Be that as it may, recollect," Rubik writes in his new book, "Cubed," "this had never been finished."

In the almost fifty years since, the Rubik's Cube has gotten perhaps the most suffering, flabbergasting, goading and engrossing riddles at any point made. In excess of 350 million solid shapes have sold internationally; in the event that you incorporate knockoffs, the number is far higher. They enrapture software engineers, rationalists and craftsmen. Many books, promising pace settling techniques, dissecting solid shape plan standards or investigating their philosophical importance, have been distributed. The 3D square came to epitomize "significantly more than simply a riddle," the intellectual researcher Douglas Hofstadter wrote in 1981. "It is a keen mechanical development, a side interest, a learning device, a wellspring of illustrations, a motivation."

ImageErno Rubik, right, at a Rubik Rsquo;s Cube big showdown in Budapest in 1982. The competitors included, from left, Zoltan Labas of Hungary, Guus Razoux Schultz of the Netherlands and Minh Thai of the United States.

Erno Rubik, right, at a Rubik's Cube big showdown in Budapest in 1982. The competitors included, from left, Zoltan Labas of Hungary, Guus Razoux Schultz of the Netherlands and Minh Thai of the United States.Credit...via Rubik's Brand

Be that as it may, even as the Rubik's Cube vanquished the world, the exposure disinclined man behind it has stayed a secret. "Cubed," which comes out this week, is halfway his diary, part of the way a scholarly composition and in enormous section a romantic tale about his developing relationship with the creation that bears his name and the worldwide local area of cubers focused on it.

"I would prefer not to compose a personal history, since I am not inspired by my life or sharing my life," Rubik said during a Skype meet from his home in Budapest. "The key explanation I did it is to attempt to get what's occurred and why it has occurred. What is the genuine idea of the shape?"

Rubik, 76, is exuberant and energized, motioning with his glasses and bobbing on the love seat, running his hands through his hair so it stands up in a dim tuft, giving him the vibe of a surprised bird. He talks officially and gives long, intricate, philosophical answers, much of the time following off with the expression "etc" while circumnavigating the finish of a point. He sat in his family room, in a home he planned himself, before a shelf brimming with sci-fi titles — his top choices incorporate works by Isaac Asimov and the Polish author Stanisław Lem.

He talks about the solid shape as though it's his kid. "I'm exceptionally near the 3D shape. The 3D shape was growing up close to me and the present moment, it's moderately aged, so I know a great deal about it," he said.

"Here's one," Rubik said, recovering it from the end table, then, at that point tinkering with it missing mindedly for the following hour or thereabouts as we talked.

Rubik Rsquo;s introductory plan was made of wood, then, at that point he added shading to the squares to make their development noticeable.

Rubik's underlying plan was made of wood, then, at that point he added shading to the squares to make their development visible.Credit...Rubik's Brand

"While heading to attempting to comprehend the idea of the 3D shape, I adjusted my perspective," Rubik said. "What truly intrigued me was not the idea of the solid shape, but rather the idea of individuals, the connection among individuals and the block."

Pursue The Great Read Every work day, we suggest one piece of outstanding composition from The Times — an account or exposition that takes you somewhere you probably won't anticipate going. Get it shipped off your inbox.

Perusing "Cubed" can be an unusual, bewildering experience, one that is similar to getting and winding one of his solid shapes. It does not have an unmistakable story construction or circular segment — an impact that is intentional, Rubik said. At first, he didn't need the book to have sections or even a title.

"I had a few thoughts, and I thought to share this combination of thoughts that I have to me and pass on it to the peruser to discover which ones are significant," he said. "I'm not taking your hands and strolling you on this course. You can begin toward the end or in the center."

Or then again you can begin toward the start.

Erno Rubik was brought into the world on July 13, 1944, about a month after D-Day, in the storm cellar of a Budapest clinic that had become an air-strike cover. His dad was a specialist who planned flying lightweight flyers.

As a kid, Rubik wanted to draw, paint and shape. He contemplated engineering at the Budapest University of Technology, then, at that point learned at the College of Applied Arts. He became fixated on mathematical examples. As a teacher, he showed a class called distinct math, which included helping understudies to utilize two-dimensional pictures to address three-dimensional shapes and issues. It was an odd and obscure field, yet it set him up to foster the solid shape.

In the spring of 1974, when he was 29, Rubik was in his room at his mom's loft, fiddling. He portrays his room as taking after within a kid's pocket, with pastels, string, sticks, springs and pieces of paper dispersed across each surface. It was likewise brimming with shapes he made, out of paper and wood.

Keep perusing the primary story

At some point — "I don't know precisely why," he composes — he attempted to assemble eight 3D squares with the goal that they could remain together yet in addition move around, trading places. He made the blocks out of wood, then, at that point penetrated an opening toward the sides of the shapes to connect them together. The article immediately self-destructed.

Erno Rubik, the creator of the Rubik’s Cube, at his home in Budapest. “I’m exceptionally near the cube,” he said. “The solid shape was growing up close to me and at the present time, it’s moderately aged, so I know a great deal about it.”

Erno Rubik, the creator of the Rubik's Cube, at his home in Budapest. "I'm exceptionally near the 3D shape," he said. "The 3D shape was growing up close to me and this moment, it's moderately aged, so I know a great deal about it."Credit. Akos Stiller for The New York Times

Numerous cycles later, Rubik sorted out the novel plan that permitted him to fabricate something incomprehensible: a strong, static item that is additionally liquid. After he gave his wooden solid shape an underlying turn, he chose to add tone to the squares to make their development apparent. He painted the essences of the squares yellow, blue, red, orange, green and white. He gave it a bend, then, at that point another turn, then, at that point another, and continued curving until he understood he probably won't have the option to reestablish it to its unique state.

He was lost in a bright labyrinth, and did not understand how to explore it. "There was no chance back," he composes.

After the 3D square turned into a worldwide wonder, there would be mistaken records of Rubik's innovative cycle. Reports portrayed how he isolated himself and chipped away at the 3D shape day and night for quite a long time. In actuality, he went to work, saw companions, and chipped away at tackling the 3D shape in his extra time, for no particular reason.

After he broke it, Rubik presented an application at the Hungarian Patent Office for a "three-dimensional coherent toy." A producer of chess sets and plastic toys made 5,000 duplicates. In 1977, Rubik's "Buvös Kocka," or "Sorcery Cube," appeared in Hungarian toy shops. After two years, 300,000 solid shapes had sold in Hungary.

Rubik got an agreement at an American organization, Ideal Toy, which needed 1,000,000 3D squares to sell abroad. In 1980, Ideal Toy carried Rubik to New York to a toy reasonable. He wasn't the most appealing sales rep — a bashful engineering educator with a then-restricted order of English — however the organization required somebody to show that the riddle was reasonable.

Deals detonated. In three years, Ideal sold 100 million Rubik's Cubes. Advisers for addressing the block shot up the success records. "There's a sense wherein the 3D shape is incredibly, basic — it's just got six sides, six tones," said Steve Patterson, a logician and writer of "The starting point: The Foundations of Knowledge," who has expounded on the 3D square as an epitome of mysteries. "In an extremely brief timeframe, it turns out to be fantastically unpredictable."

Right away, Rubik didn't have a compensation from the toy organization, and for some time, he saw little of the eminences. He lived on his educator's compensation of $200 every month.

#rubik's cube #cubelelo

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definitely-not-5urreal-w4nderer · 3 years ago

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Buffy Reaction season 3 episode 18 Earshot:

This episode is A LOT. Like if I wanted to share even most my thoughts from this episode I'd have to have taken notes, some topics I hardly feel qualified to get deep into, but I'll dip my toes.

Easy thoughts first. As a nuerodivergent person depictions of mind readers often resonate with me, at least the ones that explore the downsides of such a power. It's the reason I relate so strongly to Sookie in True Blood, and could relate especially to Buffy as she went through this. My whole life I've been extremely sensitive to microexpressions, and minute changes in verbal tone and body language. Which on its own sounds advantages, but not when you don't know what they mean, or are unable to pick out what's useful out if the static of the massive amounts of information coming in. The world just becomes to overwhelming to function at times, I think Buffy's need to withdraw from people is similar to the the reasons many autistic people do the same. I know it's a reason I need alone time to recharge. Ironically this also makes the episode harder to watch as an autistic person, hearing all the chatter that buffy is hearing at once is exactly the kind of stimuli I have to wear headphones to block out in a busy cafeteria, so those scenes are pretty overwhelming.

I loved hearing what all the Scoobies were thinking. Cordelia of course saying exactly what she's thinking, after all "tact is just not saying true stuff. I'll pass." Willows insecurity coming out more clearly than her sad little expression, homie I feel you. Oz just quietly having an existential crises and/or philosophical epiphany, and just outwardly being like "hmm" also same. Xander of course struggling most with not thinking about exactly what he doesn't want Buffy to hear, horny teenage thoughts. Which like, I'm generally ready to roll my eyes at Xander but he wasn't thinking anything sexist or objectifying that I caught, just about sex, which fair, adolescence is a horny time, and attempts to repress intrusive thoughts generally aggravate them.

Now the intense stuff. This episode aired only months after the Columbine shooting, so the issue of gun violence and mass shootings, particularly in schools would have been very present in the cultural awareness at the time. I think the show was really trying to do something meaningful but fell short, from cinematic language to writing. I think about conversations I've heard about responsible reporting on gun violence, and how it's important to center discussions on victims of the violence and minimize focus on perpetrators of the violence in order to decrease copy cats, and I see the ways those attitudes have rippled outwards into fictional media. In this episode we see not just our hero's searching for the supposed killer, but interlaced shots of a person taking a gun to school, and assembling the weapon, scored with suspenseful music. We also see this narrative of the bullied lonely kid getting revenge on peers who didn't see him or treat him well. The same narrative that quickly formed and was extensively perpetuated about the perpetrators of the Columbine shooting, when in reality they were fairly social well liked kids.

Which looks very different than some of the more recent depictions I've seen of mass shootings. For example in the episode Death and All His Friends s6 e24 (may 2010) there is a shooting in the hospital where a number of characters are lost, heavy in drama and suspense as you'd expect from the show of course, but an enormous amount time throughout the following season is centered around the fallout of the event. Ranging from administration grappling with how to respond to keep patients and staff safe, to the immense trauma the cast of characters wrestle each in their own ways. Some of the strongest follow through on a Traumatic event I've scene on tv, although personally I think Cristina's PTSD arc needed a little longer follow through, in that PTSD doesn't just go away when you don't feel like writing that arc anymore 👀 but that's a whole other conversation.

*skip next paragraph if you don't want The Foster's spoilers*

It also looks fairly different from what I remember from The Foster's which kicks of season 4 with a student coming to school with a gun. It's interesting because in this case the student who comes to school with a gun is an established character, Nick, Mariana's boyfriend, so it does explore the motivations of the perpetrator, in what I feel is a nuanced way. Ok so I actually stopped writing a sec to go back and watch a number of scenes from the first two episodes from season 4, and I really am blown away. (all over again.) Cinematography, writing, costuming, acting are all working together to tell a strong nuanced story. The first one, where the school goes into lockdown is very focused on the emotions of the students and staff going through lockdown protocols as the alarm blares, elevated by details like Jude taking an extra moment getting into the classroom to tell Steph he loves her (heart ripped right out of my chest send help 😭) and the parents wanted to get into the school for their kids, and the pain in their voices. In the following episode Nick finally turns up in none other than Mariana's bedroom, still armed, now venting grievances about having caught Mariana kissing Matt as well as the abuse inflicted on him by his father. Now this is interesting, because without glorifying Nick or his choices they at this point are doing some to humanize him. Which is a delicate task but I think really grounds it in reality in a way Buffy doesn't do. It's at this point Nick turns the gun on himself, saying he doesn't want to hurt Mariana, although he has by this time pointed it at her several times, but that he wants to hurt himself. The end of the scene where things have been diffused focuses on the relief as Steph hugs her daughter and tells her to go find Lena, but Steph still talks gently to Nick, reassuring him it's over. It really highlights the fact that he is still young, this isn't a person with a fully developed brain. What I really like about the episodes and consequential l arc as it continues through the show is they hold Nick responsible, while also placing some responsibility on Nick's dad and society, and we also see Mariana struggling to not feel responsible.

There were creative choices I think were not ideal, although very much a product of where cultural understanding was at then, but what a really found disappointing is how the plot really walked up to the line, setting itself up to say something powerful and then... Just didn't. Like 'ha plot twist no school shootings here, just a lonely suicidal kid, but the lunch lady did poison your weirdly broad selection of cafeteria jello!' and maybe it was trying to say something but I'm really not clear on what. The thing is, a kid who's game to take a rifle to school to shoot himself partly for attention is liable to be the kind of kid who would also use it on other people. I had to look up Jonathan's name and just came across the fact that the episode was actually aired out of order so as to actually not air as soon after the Columbine shooting. I try to let these be my initial reactions before I listen to Buffering or read further about the episode, but I think that is interesting to note. Considering this episode was likely wrapped before Columbine I'd say that maybe they weren't trying to make a larger commentary on gun violence? But when Xander's having trouble wrapping his head around someone coming to school and Gunning everyone down Cordelia sarcastically quips "yeah because that never happens in American high schools" so I really don't know what to make of it.

Omg long winded, sorry for the fucking novel, but this has me thinking so many thoughts. I'm really fascinated by the evolution of depictions of gun violence in fictional media, if anyone knows some good literature on the subject hit me up!

#buffy the vampire slayer #first watch #Buffy earshot #Buffy season 3 episode 18 #gun violence #Gun violence in media #The fosters

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lizzizzie-blog · 7 years ago

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At the Bottom of Everything

Well, Saturday the 10th was my 31st birthday. I am officially in my thirties. Last year, my unexpected existential angst about turning 30 drove me to write the first post for this thing, and like I wrote in the last post before this one, a lot happened in 2017. Too much.

In my first post, I wrote some thoughts about what I might accomplish in year 30. Let’s review:

“Maybe 30 will be the year that I grow up and address my physical health.” Nope.

“Maybe 30 will be the year that I get it together enough to clean my shower with minimally acceptable frequency.” Also no. Oh well.

“Maybe 30 will be the year during which I finally give in and start budgeting like a responsible person should.” This is a yes, but only because things got tighter than ever with purchasing a business, and we haven’t had a choice. It’s still not even budgeting, though. I’m great at expense tracking, but my version of budgeting is just… not buying anything except food.

“Maybe 30 will be the year I stop spilling shit and running into shit all. the. time.” NOPE, definitely not. I am currently rocking eight bruises on one leg, from thigh to foot. Six of them are from one fall (I failed to notice a step), and the other two are from running into the edge of same glass-top desk two days in a row last week.

“Maybe 30 will be the year I will give myself permission to do less.” I actually did pretty well with this one. I’ve gotten better at making decisions based on what I actually need and want, rather than what I feel I should do. I’ve started to say no when I can’t do things. This has been partly out of necessity, but also partly out of my commitment to (try to) love and forgive and not judge myself the way I easily love and forgive and don’t judge others. I’m doing what I need to do, and I’m saying no… I’m doing those things, but it still feels wrong. It still hurts and still makes me feel guilty and like a shitty friend/family member. But… baby steps. I’m working on it.

“Maybe 30 will be the year during which I grow completely out of trying to guess what my mom would think (but not actually asking her because I’m a #grownasswoman who values her own opinions) as a means of decision-making.” I’m getting better at this, too! Not just with my mom (whose opinions are still usually right), but in general. Related to the above, I’m valuing my own opinions and instincts more highly than I ever have, and I’m getting better at not apologizing for having them.

...So, I don’t know. I guess I was hoping for better/more personal improvement, but really I’m just proud I survived this year. It was hard. It was exhausting. It still is. I am so, so tired. There is way too much happening. My husband is working his ass off to make our store work, making difficult decisions and stressing, and I don’t see him very much. My job is still fully overwhelming and way too much for one person, and it’s totally kicking my ass. I’m always behind and the deadlines keep coming and more work keeps getting added and I feel like I’m failing all the time. I don’t have as much time or money or energy for my friends and family as I once did, and I feel like I’m letting everyone down. But I’m surviving, and I’m trying to take it one day at a time. And life keeps happening.

Saturday, March 10th was my 31st birthday. On Sunday the 11th, I got sick. I slept all day Sunday, and took the day off work on Monday. We also experienced a really shitty setback with the store on Monday (which I will leave cryptically vague because that’s not my story to tell). On Tuesday, I flew to Puerto Rico for work. If you’ve ever traveled while sick, you know just how awful it is. It was not a good day. Tuesday afternoon, after my coworker (who had to put up with my pathetic ass all week; she’s the best) and I found our way to our Airbnb (which didn’t have power) is when I missed the step and fell. It hurt. I was so tired, but I couldn’t sleep that night. Wednesday afternoon, I lost my voice. I spent all of Thursday and Friday fully unable to communicate above a whisper, which was incredibly frustrating since I was supposed to be training people and just, you know, functioning as a human person. We were staying in San Juan overnight on Friday to catch early flights on Saturday, and I tried to remain pleasant with my coworkers as we hung out and went out to eat, which was exhausting in itself. But then the week was finally over.

Saturday the 17th, I got on a plane to Atlanta at 6:20am. I dozed on and off throughout most of the flight in my well-earned Comfort Plus seat just behind first class. When I woke up the final time, I checked the flight tracker on the in-flight entertainment screen, and noticed we only had 20 minutes left in flight. That struck me as bizarre, because there hadn’t been any announcements about beginning our initial descent or returning our tray tables to the upright and locked position etc etc. As soon as I had that thought, the pilot came over the speaker and told us we’d be landing shortly, but that they would need us all to remain seated for a while after because they were “dealing with an issue onboard.” Oh shit. Then the flight attendant came over the speaker to repeat the message and clarify that they were “assisting a passenger who wasn’t feeling well” which, in retrospect, is a ridiculous euphemism. Then I noticed the relative commotion in first class, and the beeping of what turned out to be an oxygen machine. I noticed a passenger standing in his seat, looking concernedly at his seatmate and speaking with the flight attendant in the aisle. Then I saw another passenger from first class stand up from where he’d been crouching in the aisle, stethoscope around his neck. His expression was morose. It became clear that this passenger who was “not feeling well” was traveling alone and not doing well.

Next, the flight attendant looked around first class and said, to no one and everyone, “we’re going to need to lay him down in the aisle for landing.” I watched as several first class passengers stood up immediately and gathered around the person’s seat. There was suddenly a “we” as they all helped to lower the person (who I could now see was a man) to the floor. The flight attendant continued to crouch with him in the aisle, presumably holding the oxygen in place. I overheard the woman across from me turn to the person she was with and report to them that he was “an enormous man,” as if that was a relevant piece of information.

We landed and sped to the gate. The paramedics entered the plane and immediately began CPR. I heard the flight attendant tell them that he’d had no pulse for 25-30 minutes and that “the machine wasn’t working.” The pilots and all the flight attendants were gathered watching, some comforting one another. After a few minutes, they lifted the man and took him off the plane. The pilot came over the speaker again and told us they were continuing to do CPR in the jet bridge and asked for our continued patience. We sat for another ten or fifteen minutes. The two men in my row were talking to one another (but not me), criticizing the way the flight attendants had handled the situation, and swapping medical-situations-they’d-witnessed stories. The woman across from me reiterated how large the man was, and asked her travel companion two different times when their connecting flight was and whether they could make it, after he’d assured her the first time that they’d be fine. I was keeping to myself, taking deep breaths, hoping like hell that they’d revive the man, and steeling myself for news to the contrary.

Eventually, the pilot came over the speaker again. He mumbled a bit, and then sighed and said, “I don’t know what to say. I’m really at a loss for words over this tragic situation” (at which point the tears I’d been holding in finally spilled over) and thanked us again for our patience and cooperation. I sniffled and cried my way off the plane, and one person from the row in front of me kindly asked if I was okay. I said “of course I’m fine, it’s not about me, it’s just really sad.” I cried my way through the Atlanta airport to my connecting gate, including hiding in two different restrooms to sob. After I got to my gate and sat down and continued to cry into my hands, a woman offered me tissues. She must have noticed I’d used them, because she also went and got me napkins from the restaurant across from our gate. It was really kind of her. I was surrounded by people. But no one said anything to me.

I cried for a lot of reasons. I felt so awfully for the flight attendants who tried to save him, and for the pilots who likely felt responsible but were powerless to help, and for the random strangers in first class who tried to help and had to see all of that up close, especially for the person in the seat next to him who was so intimately involved the entire time. I felt so badly for the man’s family and friends who’d have to find out that their loved one had died alone… tragically, publicly. I felt angry that while he was dying, strangers discussed his weight and turned it into a pissing contest about other things they’d seen and worried about their connecting flights. I felt confused because, although two people showed me kindness, I was politely ignored by countless others while in obvious emotional distress. I felt upset with myself that I was allowing it to affect me so much, when it didn’t even really happen to me. I felt resentful of my overly empathetic nature. I felt tired. I felt really, really sad. (I still feel all these things.)

Anyway, I managed to make it through my last flight, to baggage claim, and out to my car, and cried again on the drive home, while listening to Bright Eyes. Because obviously. It’s always events like this that shake us up and remind us of how focused we are on the day to day, on getting our jobs done and planning for the future. Right when life is totally overwhelming me, when I’m caught up in resenting how hard it all is, I’m reminded again that the future is not promised. That all the day to day BS is really pretty meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

We must blend into the choir, sing as static with the whole We must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul And in this endless race for property and privilege to be won We must run, we must run, we must run

We must hang up in the belfry where the bats and moonlight laugh We must stare into a crystal ball and only see the past Into the caverns of tomorrow with just our flashlights and our love We must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge

(And then we'll get down there, way down to the bottom of everything And then we'll see it, we'll see it, we'll see it)

Oh my morning's coming back The whole world's waking up All the city buses swimming past I'm happy just because I found out I am really no one

As of today (Monday the 19th), I finally have a little bit of my voice back. I’m not coughing up green stuff as much, and my nose is not quite so raw from blowing it. There is work to be done, meetings to be facilitated, and deadlines to be met, and I don’t have time to take time off, but… it’s too much. I woke up and I couldn’t do it. I’m too exhausted, physically and emotionally. I was in tears before 9am. I had to tell my boss everything and, thankfully, she is wonderful and took pity on me. She offered to help with my work and told me to take the time I need to rest and process. So that means I took this afternoon off. And while I realistically need more than half a day off work, this is what I can get, and I am making the most of it. So… I guess this is processing? It’s definitely resting. I’m on my laptop in my bed, with my sweet kitty curled up next to me. My eyes are finally clear of tears because I’m focused on writing this instead of just thinking all these thoughts to myself.

It was a horrible week. Life is hard. I am tired, and this post was mostly a huge bummer. But… for once, I’m not going to apologize for it. It’s true. And it is what it is.

Take care. I love you.

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