#pre-empting your concerned tags

[smidge-j]

Oh good lord I've forgotten to eat dinner

[magicshopaholic]

In Time (Taehyung x OC)

Summary: He's everywhere. Even months after your break-up, Taehyung is everywhere, even when you wish he would just disappear.

Pairing: Taehyung x OC

Genre: Angst

Word count: 10.6 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, heartbreak, anxiety, smoking, alcohol, fast cars

A/N: Set 7-8 months after the events of Austin, but can be read standalone. If you want to be added to my taglist, drop me a comment/ask.

Tagging: @bbl32, @ssaboala, @dreaming-with-happiness, @kflixnet, @k-radio

Credits to the loveliest beta readers @meirkive and @jeoniius: thank you so so much Mei and Tannie for all the feedback that gave me the confidence to upload a fic like this. Wouldn't be possible without you two <3

Listen to: “stormy weather” by etta james

taehyung masterlist | main masterlist

“Annyeonghaseyo!”

Dilara smiles tightly and nods, muttering the greeting back to the woman at the counter. “Kamsahamnida,” she says quietly when she hands her the bottle of water, nodding slightly. 

“Your Korean has gotten better,” remarks Lexie as they walk towards the paddock on Thursday morning. “I dunno how, since you’ve got no reason to speak it anymore, but…” She shrugs.

Dilara frowns. “I said hello and thank you,” she reminds her. “And how can you tell?”

“Well, it’s more about the confidence with which you say it,” amends Lexie easily, pulling her long brown hair into a ponytail. “Plus, Chris told me. Apparently you spoke to someone at the airport?”

Dilara rolls her eyes. “I swear, his pity is worse than his insensitivity.”

“It’s not pity,” she disagrees in an admonishing tone. “He’s just… concerned. We know this won’t be the easiest weekend for you.”

“It’s been, like, four months, Lex. I’m over it.” When Lexie answers with nothing but a look, Dilara sighs. “Fine, I’m not fully over it but at least there aren’t any surprises this time,” she reasons, thinking back to the debacle in London two weeks ago with a shudder. “It’s the Korean Grand Prix - there really isn’t anywhere else I’d expect BTS to be this weekend.”

“That’s true.” Lexie sounds relieved. “And in any case, it’s a new track for everyone except Lewis and Seb - oh, and Alonso. The rest of you will have enough on your plate trying to ace it. D’you want to do a track walk later?”

Dilara answers in the affirmative as they near the Red Bull garage. The late June sun is warm but not glaring, and she tries to appreciate the fact that she’s one of the first drivers here this weekend, meaning the paddock is still relatively quiet. As the eighth race in a twenty-two race calendar, she hasn’t given up on the possibility that the Korean GP could be her chance to finally turn things around for the season. While the start was terrible, the races in Monaco and Great Britain helped steady her somewhat. Korea, despite whatever else it may represent, is going to be about nothing but the race as far as she’s concerned.

About twenty feet away from the paddock, Chris Park, who reached before them, spots them and waves before walking over. “Annyeonghaseyo!” he greets, looking tall and positively jolly as he takes off his sunglasses.

“Happy to be on home ground, are we?” Dilara asks dryly, looking around for someone to tell them where to head. “And, no, I don’t know how to say that in Korean so don’t even ask,” she adds quickly, pre-empting his next question.

His shoulders slump momentarily. “Fine. Where’s Freddie?”

“Went to the hotel to shower,” supplies Lexie, looking impressively nonchalant around Chris. She turns to Dilara. “Do you have PR now?”

“It’s Thursday, so probably…” She trails off as she sees Vicki Lloyd, Red Bull’s press officer, striding towards them.

“Hey, you lot,” she greets in her typical fashion, giving her and Lexie one-armed hugs. A thirty-something woman, always fit and poised even in jeans and Red Bull t-shirt, Vicki is the one person everyone takes seriously, sometimes even more than Christian. 

A chorus of “hey”s go up from the three of them before she turns to Dilara.

“Dilara, we need you back in the enclosure for a PR thing with the rest of the team,” she begins immediately, reading from a list on her phone. “Then there’s a meet and greet thing with BTS -” Dilara’s stomach jolts and she deliberately avoids her friends’ eyes “- with a few pictures and stuff… meet with Helmut... Alright, then you can get back to the hotel and freshen up before the show in the evening.” 

Dilara stares at her. “Before the what?”

Vicki looks up at her blankly. “The show,” she repeats, as though that explains everything. “BTS will perform, won’t they? Apparently, you can’t have an event in South Korea with BTS and not have them perform. You and Max, as the two drivers, will have to be on stage to introduce them and do some audience work with -”

“Back up - we have to do what?”

This time, she looks slightly sympathetic. “Yeah, I know, it’s a bit much. But don’t worry, Christian will mostly do it all. That’s what a team principal is for, right?” She shrugs. “You just have to stand on stage and smile when they come up.”

It’s the one thing Dilara doesn’t think she’s capable of doing but before she can grill Vicki any further, the press officer hurries away, reminding her as she leaves to be back in the paddock by four pm.

Dilara turns slowly towards Chris and Lexie. “Well, that’s a fucked up day to look forward to,” mutters Chris, and she can’t help but scoff in agreement. They head to the garage and she drifts away to her changing room for a bit of freshening up before going straight to PR, hoping to savour her last few BTS-free moments before this shitfest of a weekend.

The PR junket is pretty fun, overall; it’s another taste test with a bunch of Korean food, the staple sketch for every race outside of North America and England. As always, she and Max as the Red Bull drivers are joined by Pierre and Jehan, the drivers for Red Bull’s junior team, AlphaTauri. It’s a good group, reinforced by how they’d had her back during the fashion show in London earlier this month, and she tries to enjoy this as much as she can. 

Once it’s done, they head back to the hotel, a reasonably basic one just outside the circuit in Yeongam. On her way back to the paddock after she’s freshly showered and appropriately beautified (but still in a Red Bull t-shirt and skinny jeans), she starts to hear noise. Well, not noise, exactly - more like the best part of any F1 weekend: fans.

It’s a familiar rush, seeing so many excited people milling around wearing F1 gear. She also spots some in BTS merchandise, but she finds she can’t even fault them for it. If she were in a position where she had no history with the band and wasn’t a public figure, she might have been one of them. There are billboards and Army bombs being waved around and she realises with a sinking feeling that even after everything, there’s still a tiny, tiny bit of excitement in her stomach at watching BTS perform live.

Dilara tries not to think about it, for it isn’t going to help. November was the beginning of something good, March was the end of it, and it wasn’t until two weeks ago during the fashion show that everything came back to haunt her again. That evening had taken her by surprise; she’d spent all day fretting about whether this would be the day that Christian told her that Red Bull wasn’t extending her contract for next year after her terrible start to the season. Even while Lexie helped her get ready, she couldn’t get her mind off the possibility of being without a seat next year.

As it turned out, Christian told her no such thing. The next worst thing happened; BTS was announced as brand ambassadors for Red Bull, as part of the company’s plan to expand further into Asia. The shock in Dilara when she’d seen them walk up on stage was unparalleled, rivaling only the discovery that Christian had told everyone to keep it from her as some sort of surprise. Fangirl, he’d humiliatingly called her in front of everyone including the band, and Dilara had wanted to die.

The rest of the night had gone in processing their presence and doing her best to ignore it. The fashion show was still manageable, but the after party was a different story, and Dilara had been left with no choice but to instruct Max to keep her steadily plied with alcohol throughout. Max, who’d listened in stunned silence when she’d told him about the break up, had found himself feeling uncharacteristically guilty for not warning her and acquiesced to her demand.

After recovering from a horrendous hangover the morning after the event, she’d done nothing but focus on the race the following weekend (Silverstone, Great Britain), managing a double Red Bull podium with Max once again. It made two podiums in the year so far: Monaco a week prior, and Silverstone, two legendary tracks. She should’ve been happy - and she was - but the only two things on her mind were whether these overdue results would be enough for her to get signed again, and the next Grand Prix, which just happened to be Korea, revived after ten long years since Sebastian Vettel dominated the sport.

Dilara doesn’t see the actual band until they come on stage to perform. She and Max are backstage with Christian while they prepare to go on. She tries not to look at them; they aren’t paying too much attention to anyone else either as they get fitted with their mics and a bunch of stylists hover around them, fixing their hair and make-up. 

She also tries not to think about how the last time she’d seen them, at the fashion show in London. The alcohol blurred everything, but her constant fear of running into any of them, especially him, is seared into her mind. She remembers avoiding them best as she could, the loud music of the after party, her singular goal of avoiding every member of that band, looking away with a gasp when she’d accidentally met J-Hope’s smiling gaze, hurrying away when she’d bumped into Jungkook in the crowd, and dancing with someone to distract herself until she had to be taken home before she passed out.

Her stomach churns at the thought; seeing them from the corner of her eye now suddenly reminds her that it was most likely Suga who helped her into the cab after the party, his ice blue hair a distinct memory. The idea of her needing any of their help, after everything, is nauseating.

When they’re announced, they go up onstage in a cloud of smoke before the song starts and they start performing their hearts out. It’s not like she can shut her ears; unlike a week ago when she’d finally decided to unblock their hashtags on social media and listen to the new single, this time she can’t turn off her phone the moment she decides it’s too much. 

She hadn’t even listened to the entire song; after a point, listening to their voices and the resurfacing of old emotions at their music was overwhelming, and she’d turned it off after the first verse. She vaguely notes that it’s like a grown up version of Converse High, and now that she’s forced to listen to it, she’s also forced to admit that it’s actually not a bad song.

The audience goes batshit crazy as usual; Christian even leans over to her and Max to whisper it, as though afraid of being overheard amidst the loud music. “They’re a big deal, aren’t they?” he remarks in mild wonder, checking his phone, she’s sure, for the script he’s supposed to follow after the performance is over.

Once the song is done, the anchor goes up to congratulate them and they do a bit of audience work, all in Korean. Dilara finds herself becoming more and more jittery with every passing moment, hating everything about this: the people involved, the awkwardness of it, not to mention facing hundreds of people on stage. When they’re finally announced, she follows Christian and Max out on stage to applause. 

On her way up, she briefly scans the faces in the audience; while most are cheering, she can also see a few frowns and eye rolls. She bites her lip; it’s not unexpected that some fans still have some resentment towards her for her public proximity to the group, as former brand ambassadors of Honda, Red Bull’s engine supplier. She resists the urge to roll her eyes, wanting to inform them that she has nothing to do with their precious boys anymore, that they’re welcome to them, estrangement and everything.

Dilara feels a nudge to her stomach; when she looks up at Max, annoyed, he mutters at her to smile. She obeys, only somewhat paying attention to Christian and the Korean anchor, a vaguely familiar guy in his thirties maybe, and RM sometimes interjecting when they mention the band. Finally, they officially introduce Dilara Komyshan and Max Verstappen and she sees Christian pass the mic to Max who greets the crowd in English, just like in every other country apart from his own. When he passes the mic to her, she feels her stomach leap unpleasantly, already knowing what’s expected of her.

Heart thumping, she swallows and faces the crowd. “Annyeonghaseyo,” she begins, pausing for the crowd to cheer before continuing in Korean. Christian and Vicki had been clear about this; at least one of the drivers needed to say something in the language and as the only one with a Korean friend, Dilara had been automatically volunteered, her own discomfort be damned. 

“I’m really happy to be here and… to race in Korea, finally,” she adds, sighing in relief when she makes it through without messing up any of the words, although she’s sure her accent is rubbish. The crowd cheers even louder and she’s glad, for she’d specifically double-checked this with Chris before getting up on stage, making him send her a voice note where he said the words slowly and clearly. 

Her eyes automatically find the group across the stage to see them all smiling or grinning - at least the ones she can see - and she’s horrified to find their approval still means something to her.

I wanted to teach you.

The memory comes unbidden to the forefront of her mind, of a pouting ex-boyfriend and freshly laundered sheets. She lets out a ragged breath which, thankfully, no one seems to notice. Sneaking a look at the band again, she can see RM, Jimin, Suga and J-Hope in front. The others, she presumes, are at the back, being the tallest except for their leader. Dilara can’t see him, for which she’s thankful, and she immediately turns her attention towards the emcee, who’s still pointing at the drivers as he talks.

There’s a bit more crowd work being done before the band is then ushered offstage, leaving just Dilara, Max and Christian to be interviewed by F1 journalists this time. Lee Ji-won, their main reporter, asks them typical questions about the circuit and the season so far, and she feels herself getting slightly more comfortable now that the discussion has moved to her domain. She deliberately averts her gaze from the wings of the stage; she’d caught a flash of blond hair behind the reporter’s shoulder and the last thing she wants is to acknowledge the band any more than she already has.

When the interview ends and they step offstage, she hurries into the wings and immediately bangs into someone’s shoulder. She gasps involuntarily at the impact and feels someone’s hands steady her. “Gwaenchanha?” 

Dilara looks up and for a millisecond, her eyes meet Park Jimin’s. The horrifying memory of her last interaction with him claws through her brain and before she can begin to process how his eyes go wide and his mouth opens as if to say something, she flinches out of his grasp and hurries away, not stopping even when she hears him call her name, sounding uncertain.

It doesn’t get too much better after that. There’s a backstage picture everyone needs to pose for and when one of the stylists enthusiastically places her between Jimin and her ex, Max grabs her wrist at the last minute and pulls her towards him and she ends up placed between him and Jungkook. 

She tries to smile but it’s so hard. The moment with Jimin especially makes her so nauseous, not just because it’s incredibly reminiscent of the fashion show where she bumped into what felt like fifty percent of the band, but also because if she thinks about it, he was the last member of the band she ever spoke to.

Dilara flees the enclosure after that, feeling rather like she’s escaped a prison with no one but the biggest boyband in the world and its devotees. The weather is thankfully nice and cool, with the sky darkening a bit. There isn’t a place on earth she’s able to blend in less than in an F1 paddock, but for once, there’s a bigger celebrity than the drivers here and she gets to leave in peace. 

Three days to go, she tells herself like a mantra, hoping she has no further reasons to interact with them again. They’ll hang around the paddock and the Red Bull garages, she’s sure, but the crowded nature of both those places will at least ensure that she can safely stay the fuck away from them until she’s out of Yeongam.

“Hey, Dilara!”

She freezes. The voice is familiar and instantly makes her stomach churn, and it takes her a moment to realise that it’s none of the seven members of the band. She turns slowly to see one of Max’s mechanics walking towards her, smiling and waving.

Dilara exhales, her heart racing in anticipation. It occurs to her only now, when she sees his face and hears his voice, that this was the person she’d danced with in her extreme state of intoxication at the after party in London. She had spent most of the party drinking on an empty stomach and socialising as much as possible with people who were not BTS… including a member of Max’s pit crew. He’d been charming and fun, and as far as she can remember, had done his best to help her hydrate when her vision had started tunneling. Nothing had happened, but she couldn't lie to herself; after the horror that was that night, she would’ve done whatever it took to forget everything.

“Annyeonghaseyo,” he says, smiling and stopping a couple feet away from her, looking far sunnier than she feels

“Oh, annyeonghaseyo… Jaden,” she guesses, hoping she’s right. 

Jaden’s smile widens at her response. “How are you?”

Dilara frowns; he’s spoken in Korean and his accent is near perfect, from what she can tell. “Gwaenchanha,” she answers, watching his reaction.

He doesn’t disappoint. “You speak Korean!” he exclaims, his accent British - British like Chris’s, or hers. “Are you learning or is it just for this weekend?”

“Oh, uh… I watch a lot of k-drama,” she answers lightly. “Oh, and one of my best friends is Korean, too. But I don’t speak it. I know, like… six words.”

“That’s cool, that’s cool. How are you doing, by the way? After…” Jaden trails off and she feels her cheeks heat up.

“Oh, uh… I’m - I’m fine. Made the rookie mistake of drinking too much on an empty stomach,” she explains awkwardly, hoping he doesn’t start reliving the night, drunken dancing, eventual incoherence, or her breakdown which spurred Max to send her home immediately, calling Lexie as he tucked her into the cab.

Fortunately, he doesn’t go that far. “We’ve all been there,” he says easily, wincing mock-sympathetically. 

“Right.” Dilara nods slowly, feeling slightly better. “But, um… thanks. I know I was kind of… spinning out towards the end.” She smiles awkwardly.

“Oh, don’t mention it. You weren’t that bad. You were… charming.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, chuckling softly. “And none of my friends were there, so you ended up keeping me company that night, too.”

“I’ll take it.” After a moment where no one speaks, she takes a deep breath. “Anyway… see you around.” She turns to leave when he says her name again.

“Um, I was actually hoping I’d run into you. Outside the garage, I mean,” he adds, one hand going to the back of his head nervously. “Um, do you… do you maybe want to get a drink or something? Like, tomorrow night, maybe?”

Oh. Truly not expecting this, she pauses. “Look, Jaden, I -” She clears her throat. “I’m really sorry if I led you on at the fashion show or if I did anything inappropriate at all. I was really, really drunk and I just -”

“No, no, it’s nothing to do with that,” he assures her quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… I dunno, I always thought you were cute, even when I was just a viewer. And you may have been really drunk, but…” Jaden shrugs, a small smile appearing. “At least it broke the ice.”

Dilara chuckles, despite herself. “At least something good came out of that disaster,” she mutters dryly. “But… I don’t know. We work together… and I honestly haven’t seen a restaurant in a five mile radius of this place.”

It’s Jaden’s turn to chuckle. “I can find one. I’m from here,” he says after a moment.

“You’re from Yeongam? Wait, you’re Korean?”

He grins. “Park Jae-won,” he says in answer, holding out a hand for her to shake. “I know I don’t look it. I’m only half-Korean.”

“No, I didn’t -” She takes his hand absently, suddenly remembering that at the aforementioned party where a transparent amount of k-pop was being played for the shiny new ambassadors, Jaden effortlessly sang along to songs she’d never even heard. “Wow. You grew up here?”

“Partly. Then we moved to Incheon, and then London.” He raises his eyebrows. “So? Is that a yes?” When she doesn’t answer, he shoves his hands back into his pockets. “It’s just free practice tomorrow. We’ll come back on time so you can get a good night’s sleep before Qualifying on Saturday.”

“I -” Dilara is genuinely at a loss as to how to answer. While there theoretically wouldn’t be any harm, she just doesn’t know if she’s ready to date yet, much as she hates the reason. She recalls a conversation she'd had with Lexie right after Silverstone a week ago, when she’d sympathetically but firmly advised her to start properly moving on - the main bit of which included dating.

“You don’t have to marry anyone,” she’d reasoned, as they sat in matching splits at the gym. “Just go out, get courted, have some fun and sex.”

It made sense then. Now, faced with the reality, Dilara finds herself getting anxious. But if she’s being honest, a distraction is definitely what she needs, this weekend most of all.

“Well… looks like you’ve thought of everything.” She shrugs, giving him a small smile.

It takes him a moment. “Really?” His face breaks out into a genuinely good-looking smile and Dilara, against all odds, feels her heart skip a beat. “Alright, then. Pick you up at six?”

So, after Free Practice the next day, Dilara gets ready for her first date in months. Lexie is beside herself with relief, even though she tries to hide it by pretending to stalk Jaden on Instagram.

“I’m your friend, it’s my responsibility to make sure he isn’t some kind of creep,” she informs Dilara knowingly, looking up at her outfit critically. “D’you want to borrow my blue top with the flowers? It’d make your boobs look good.”

Dilara laughs, surprisingly excited. “Sure, why not? I have good boobs, right?”

“Absolutely.” Lexie hurries to her suitcase to retrieve the blouse, a really nice top that she enthusiastically pairs with high-waisted jeans. 

One fallout of this unceremonious break-up was Lexie’s disappointment in the band. While Dilara’s had been mostly centred around heartbreak and humiliation, hers was closer to rage and genuine betrayal, partly as her friend and trainer, and partly as a fan. During the handful of times that either of them had even mentioned the band in the last few months, she’d been so savage in the way she spoke about them that even Dilara found herself wanting to defend them, feeling strangely guilty that she’d lost an artist she loved so much.

When Dilara’s finally ready, she heads down to the lobby of the hotel. As usual, the entire hotel is booked out for the F1 attendees, drivers, trainers and all other staff included. She wonders for the first time where BTS is staying, when she spots Jaden near the glass doors. He compliments how she looks in a very gentlemanly fashion, pressing a light kiss to her cheek, before leading her to his motorcycle parked outside.

“Wow,” she comments, taking the helmet he hands her. “Sexy bike.”

He grins, faded leather jacket making him look genuinely handsome. “Thanks. I watch a lot of MotoGP, too,” he confesses.

Dilara nods, warming up to him a bit more. “Me, too. I mean, If people think F1 is dangerous…” She shakes her head and lets out a low whistle. “MotoGP is a class apart. They can literally die at any moment.”

“On that encouraging note,” he says, climbing onto the bike, “hop on.”

They ride around fifteen minutes away from the hotel, a nice and cool wind blowing as they do. The more they ride, the better she starts to feel about her decision to say yes. Jaden ends up taking her to a pub quite literally in the middle of nowhere; it’s nice, though - quaint - and even though she’s dressed fairly conservatively (a jacket, jeans and boots), the crowd seems to be young enough to not care even if she wasn’t. There’s most motorcycles parked outside, along with one hatchback and a large black SUV.

They get a table near an old fashioned jukebox and right across from a dartboard; the first thing she does is pick up a lone dart and aim it at the board, smirking when it hits the bull’s eye.

“Athlete reflexes,” notes Jaden, coming up behind her. His chest brushes her back and she feels an old, familiar sensation of butterflies in her stomach. The fact that she can still feel it takes her off guard, a sign that moving on might just be possible. She leans back very slightly, turning up to look at him when he places his hands on her shoulders. 

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks. “Might help me to lower your reflexes a bit.”

Dilara laughs. “Okay, but just a beer. I still have to race tomorrow.”

It’s objectively a reasonably fun date. As it turns out, breaking the ice through her drunken escapades during the fashion show actually does help, because they seem to have made it past the awkward touches phase, automatically comfortable making physical contact. Casual nudges and playful pulling of the arms doesn’t feel strange at all, not even when she’s aiming a dart and he comes up behind her, gently pulling her back into his chest, hands light on her waist.

They kiss during the only English song that plays during the date; out of nowhere, Don’t Stop Me Now by Queen starts playing and they sing along to it, fortunately in a corner of the pub so no one quite pays any attention to them. During the guitar riff, there’s a moment of meaningful eye contact and, without making a big deal of it, Jaden leans forward and softly kisses her on the lips. She kisses him back but given that they’re in a public place in a fairly conservative country, they stop before it gets too heated. 

She expects to feel something; some nostalgia at a fun first date on a race weekend, or a hollowness at saying goodbye to a quick, rushed chapter in her life. But the kiss is too quick and she’s been consciously blocking out the events of March for months now. By the time she even registers that his lips are his, Jaden’s, and not the ones she’d dared to consider might be the last ones she’d ever kiss, the song changes and the moment is over.

They don’t have tons to talk about, if she’s being honest. It’s fun anecdotes and jokes here and there, but she can already tell that there’s nothing long term here. Still, it’s nice to have a night of fun with a nice guy - and he is a nice guy. It’s only towards the end of the date when he excuses himself to use the men’s room, kissing her on the cheek, that she finally has a moment to herself. Running her fingers through her hair, she looks around at the other patrons, a calm crowd mostly keeping to themselves. 

She half-expects to see someone she knows; people like Lewis Hamilton, Daniel Ricciardo or Charles Leclerc sometimes tend to head out on a race weekend to loosen up, especially if it’s a country they don’t visit very often. She tries half-heartedly to identify faces, until she does a double-take and, for the first time in six months, she makes eye contact with V of BTS.

Dilara’s heart stops. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, which makes her think he’d already seen her. He’s in a black hoodie with the hood up, presumably to blend in, but there isn’t a single doubt in her mind that it’s him, especially not with the way he’s staring back. His long blond hair peeks out, framing his face, brushing his cheekbones and leaving his forehead partly exposed.

Weren’t you dating one of them? The tall one, with the blond hair? Max’s confusion had been understandable, given how she’d swept out of the hall the moment she’d had the opportunity, hoping with all her might that she wouldn’t have a panic attack here, in public - and because of him. It had felt like an ambush, how casually he’d waltzed back into her company event, her domain and her life, with his members flanking him in suits and more confidence than she felt they had any right to.

Christian had tried to force conversation, naturally: keeping brand ambassadors happy meant that money would keep flowing in. Money meant a good car and a real chance at the championship. Dilara knew it, of course, but at the moment it had meant nothing to her. She’d done her best to ignore their existence entirely, hoping to savour some savage satisfaction but instead feeling only cornered and humiliated, to the point where she’d considered faking a headache to leave early.

It was all talk, though. She was a racer; even at her worst, she wouldn’t hide. She couldn’t. It would be too hard to look at herself in the mirror. But there was nothing to say she had to bear it with a smile, which was when she’d enlisted Max to have her back, something he’d done loyally all night. Even seeing the members here and there during the party hadn’t been so bad while her vision swam… until she spotted him.

V of BTS was blond now - that much she had gleaned from Max. Her greatest achievement of the night, though, through all the ignoring and drinking, had been her ability to avoid him. She had managed even, during Christian’s small talk, to position herself such that he was somewhere behind her. On stage, he’d been standing at the back, and during the party she hadn’t caught a glimpse of him until the very end.

She’d reached the stage of the night where she’d started stumbling. Max had left her side for a few minutes to greet a sponsor’s kid somewhere, and Dilara had ventured to the bar alone and ordered a whiskey on the rocks, her least favourite drink. The bartender had nodded and started shuffling behind the bar, when she’d felt a brush behind her and an old, familiar, heartbreaking scent wafting over. 

Her body’s immediate reaction had been to give up; she had to grip the bar to keep from crumpling to the ground while her mind struggled to take in every ounce of it, every bit of the lotion and spicy cologne that she’d tried her best to repress over the last three months. Using nothing but her peripheral vision, she’d done everything in her power to not turn her head and keep it trained in the direction of the bartender. The new entrant had come up from behind her to stop at the bar to her left, approximately five feet between them. 

The first thing Dilara had noticed was the blond hair. There was a dark grey pinstripe suit, well-fitted, and a flash of red; her guess, a tie. He’d placed one hand on the bar and a familiar ring glinted on his index finger. Her chest had felt like it would literally close up and the moment she’d noticed his shoulders tilting towards her, the bartender had placed her drink on the bar and she’d let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. Without a second thought, she’d picked up her drink, turned around and left. 

She’d allowed herself a few moments of weakness since then, wondering if he’d been about to say something to her. After everything, she couldn’t fathom for the life of her what he would want to say to her, or why he would even want to acknowledge anything between them. Even now, the entire pub could burn down and she doesn’t think he would have the inclination to say anything to her - or the nerve.

She feels an old, familiar irritation at how difficult his face is to read; there’s a hint of a frown on his forehead and his eyes are heavily lidded, his face tilted up slightly since he’s sitting at a booth and she’s on a bar stool. It’s then that she realises he’s not alone. She can vaguely make out Jimin next to him, but it’s too hard to tear her eyes away from V. She expects something to happen - tears or something. But the shock is too much, especially at how they’ve somehow managed to find each other in a crowded pub in a South Korean town. 

She still can’t place his expression; a shadow suddenly passes over his face and his eyes flicker. A moment later, she feels an arm go around her waist and Jaden kissing her cheek, making her jump.

“Shit, did I scare you?”  he asks, chuckling as he takes the seat opposite her. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m… I’m fine.” Dilara’s gaze meets V’s momentarily, and she wonders if he’s seen them this whole time, if he’s seen Jaden kiss her, if he’s seen her laugh with him… she looks away before she can go down this rabbit hole. 

“Hey.” Jaden’s voice breaks through. He waves a dimsum in front of her. “Aren’t you hungry?”

She shakes her head, glad for the distraction. “No, I…” She exhales and forces a smile onto her face. “It’s a race weekend. I have to make sure I don’t fuck it up.”

They leave soon after that. On the way out the door, she catches a glimpse of the same blond hair and diligently looks away, suddenly eager to just get back to the hotel and sleep. Despite a two hour date, neither she nor Jaden actually had much to drink; she, because of the race weekend, and Jaden she’s sure just wanted to keep her company.

When she reaches the hotel, Lexie’s in their shared room, eagerly awaiting details. Dilara tells her what she wants to hear: she had fun, he was hot, they made out in the parking lot (she leaves out the fact that she heard the door to the SUV slam shut and the car zoom away while they were), but she doesn’t see it going anywhere.

“Oh, well.” Lexie shrugs, flipping over onto her front on her bed. “At least you tried. And you had fun, so it wasn’t a total waste.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Dilara thinks about what she really wants to tell her closest friend, deciding that she needs a second opinion. She’s folding her jeans and tries to sound as nonchalant as possible. “By the way,” she begins, anticipating Lexie’s reaction, “guess who I saw at the pub?”

“Valtteri drowning his sorrows?” she guesses, referring to how the Alfa Romeo driver crashed his car out during Free Practice earlier today.

“Uh, no. I saw… well, I saw V.” Dilara looks up at her, trying to ignore how strange it feels to be saying his stage name.

Lexie’s eyebrows shoot up. “V… as in, V? As in Kim T-”

“Yes,” she cuts her off, swallowing. “Can you believe it? I mean, what are the chances?”

“Damn. Did he say anything?”

“No, we just spotted each other and looked away.” Dilara shrugs, realising in hindsight that while it felt like a huge moment, it wasn’t really one of any significance. “I guess I should’ve expected it. It doesn’t look like there are too many places around here for people to hang out.”

“Hm.” Lexie considers this. “Did he see you guys making out?”

Dilara stares, marvelling briefly at her ability to get to the point. “I - probably. I don’t know.”

“Good. I hope he did.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not like he gives a fuck. D’you think I should hit the gym in the morning?” she asks, successfully changing the subject. Honestly, Dilara is quite certain that she doesn’t want to get into the mess of jealousy - not because she doesn’t care, but because if she were to go by recent events, he doesn’t care. 

Lexie doesn’t seem fooled but she lets it go, going into trainer mode for their schedule tomorrow. The next day, Freddie Richter enters Dilara’s changing room while Lexie helps her stretch before the Qualifying round.

“Um, why did a mechanic from Max’s pit crew just ask me how you’re doing?” Tall, blond and German - and uninvited - he takes a seat on the couch. “And not like a supportive team member, but like he knows you?”

Dilara doesn’t answer, but Lexie takes over for her. “She went on a date with him,” she supplies. “Wait, we’re talking about the dark-haired, part-Korean guy, right?”

Fred nods. “Wow. What is it with you and Korean dudes?”

“She has a type.”

“It’s not a type until I date Chris,” disagrees Dilara, voice muffled against the mat. “And that’s never going to happen, so…”

Lexie and Fred snicker, and the latter whistles in a low voice. “Speaking of Korean dudes…” When she looks up questioningly, he cocks his head towards the ajar door. “Seven pretty famous ones just pulled up.”

“Fantastic,” she mutters, straightening up. “You guys will stay with me, right? I can’t get distracted before today’s session.”

They promise, and Dilara successfully avoids the group all afternoon. There’s a slightly sticky moment where Jaden comes up to talk to her while she’s next to her car, under the pretext of showing her how they’ve altered her car’s suspension slightly so that she gets maximum downforce, and when they straighten up, he asks her how she’s doing. She smiles a bit, of course, until she glances behind his shoulder to see V turning around and walking away. Despite her best efforts, she loses track of what Jaden is saying, wondering despite herself if he was really coming over here.

Qualifying is a blast. Given that it’s only an hour-long session on the whole and each driver doesn’t end up doing more than five or six laps, the fact that it decides the starting order for the race makes this session almost as important as the race itself. Twenty cars, going their absolute fastest - and Dilara is no exception. 

Despite whatever’s going on in her personal life, she drives the lap of her life and secures the first pole position of her career, beating McLaren’s Lando Norris by two-tenths and her own teammate Max by five-tenths of a second. The elation in her in starting first tomorrow is unprecedented, beaten only by her first race win in Austin last year.

Karun Chandok, one of the regular journalists on the paddock, takes her interview after, congratulating her on being the first female driver and the first Asian-origin driver to be a race winner and pole sitter in the history of Formula 1. After a personal congratulations on being a South Asian driver to make a mark on the sport, he finally bids her goodbye and she skips back to the garage.

Lexie is the first person to come up and hug her, followed by Christian, Chris and Fred. She’s not the first Red Bull pole sitter by any means, but it makes her feel warm that they’re still so happy for her. After Fred squeezes her hard enough to crack a rib and sets her on the ground, she catches Jungkook’s eye from over his shoulder. He’s smiling and clapping, eyes crinkling, and her own smile freezes on her face. She wants to look away but she’s suddenly aware of the same warm feeling creeping through her chest… like seeing another friend happy for her. 

Dilara holds his gaze for a moment and he seems surprised as well. The moment Jungkook realises she’s not looking away immediately, he stops clapping and lowers his hands, his smile transforming from the formal, chocolate boy camera smile to his real, genuine toothy one. He gives her a small wink and instantly, she feels tears prickling at the back of her eyes at the friend who followed her career even more than her boyfriend did, and who consequently hurt her almost as much as he did. She can feel her smile fading and before she can alert anyone to the fact that something’s wrong, she looks away, wiping her eyes and hoping it’ll look like happy tears.

The next day, everyone wakes up to weather reports of impending rain. It isn’t raining yet, but the sun isn’t out either, making everyone on the team slightly jittery as strategies are discussed on how best to deal with rain, should it come. In circuits like these, driving on dry tracks is hard enough without adding water to the mix. It makes for exciting viewing and racing, but it also means far greater potential for accidents and unexpected results.

Dilara tries not to think about it too much. She puts on her earphones the moment she’s on the paddock and in her race suit, focusing solely on warming up and getting in the zone, wanting more than anything for this pole position to convert into a win. The pressure is enormous, she discovers, when you’re in prime position to zoom ahead and build a steady lead. When all the drivers strap into their cars on the grid, she spots more than one driver glancing up at the sky surreptitiously.

Dilara doesn’t have a good start, though. As the pole sitter, the lead is already hers - or it should be. But Lando in P2 releases his clutch better and in the clean air, overtakes her straight away on Turn 1. It’s humiliating, especially when Max from behind him manages to get ahead of her as well, dropping her down to P3. With the sudden change in track position, she finds herself amidst a flurry of cars and the minute everyone goes into Turn 4, she feels a jolt when a car grazes hers on the front and she spins out onto the grass.

“Fuck!” she exclaims into the radio, trying to reverse and get back onto the track. Next to her, also on the grass, she sees a Ferrari and an AlphaTauri as well, the latter of which has stopped its engine. Without any further ado, with her race engineer Jonathan rattling off track positions into her earphones, she gets back on the track and into the pits for a new front wing, discovering with a sinking heart when she’s back on the track that she’s down to P14, all because Aston Martin’s Lance Stroll decided to pull out his dick and attempt some kind of overtake on another car.

Dilara is now stuck behind Sebastian Vettel who, as the youngest world champion in F1 history, is notoriously hard to overtake. At the same time, she has potential future world champion Charles Leclerc on her arse, his gleaming red Ferrari appearing menacingly in her rearview mirror. This goes on for nearly twenty laps, the first five of which are behind a safety car; she’s sandwiched between two prodigies of the sport, just about managing not to lose track position any further but also unable to move ahead. 

Fortunately for her, through another series of events including a safety car and a puncture ahead, she’s able to pit for fresh tyres again, arriving in P11, now one position away from at least getting points. In the next twenty or so laps, she steadily overtakes Esteban Ocon, Nick Latifi and Lance fucking Stroll to make it up to P8. Jonathan is still being encouraging on the radio, informing her that Max is in the lead at the moment. 

Of course he is. Max is her friend, but in the car and on track, that means nothing. He’s Max Verstappen, and him maintaining the lead is neither surprising nor well-received. In Formula 1 at least, there’s nothing worse than your teammate doing well when you aren’t.

She tries not to resent it too much; more than her own abysmal race, she’s also sure that should any adverse circumstances occur, she will be sacrificed to get Max his win. It’s an occupational hazard of being Max Verstappen’s teammate, one that led Daniel Ricciardo to quit, and Pierre Gasly and Alex Albon to be demoted for not being able to keep up with him. She has no doubts about the fact that if needed, Red Bull will be happy to replace her with either of the junior drivers next year - especially since her contract for next year still hasn’t been renewed.

In a bizarre turn of events, with seven laps to go, she feels droplets. As if on cue, she hears Jonathan’s voice crackle on the radio. “We’re getting reports of rain in Turn 5 and Turn 7. Do you want to pit for inters? I repeat: pit for inters.”

“I -” Dilara swallows. It’s a gamble at this point, not knowing how hard the rain’s going to come down. Either she pits now and loses track position or she stays out and risks skidding on a wet track, possibly crashing. I need points. Her heart starts racing. “Where will I come out if I pit?” she asks.

“P15,” comes the reply. “But we think others will come in to pit as well so you can make up track position. The rain will get stronger.”

In a sport where everything is determined by fractions of a second, she doesn’t have the luxury of weighing the pros and cons. If she’s the one of the first people to pit, she can get back her lead. If she’s one of the only people to pit… well, Pierre and Alex are doing just fine. 

She makes the decision in a split second. “Alright, I’m coming in.”

As Jonathan predicted, nearly every car in front of her comes in to pit for inters as well, the ideal tyres for a wet track. The only ones that don’t are Lando, who predictably skids and falls out of the points, and Lance Stroll. Even Max comes in too late, by which time she’s already in a podium position, in the top three. In an epic twist, the Korean Grand Prix is won by Sebastian Vettel, Daniel Ricciardo in P2 and Dilara in P3.

When she jumps out of the car and takes off her helmet and balaclava, only to immediately get drenched in the rain, she can’t even bring herself to care. The entire Red Bull team is standing at the barriers, waiting to cheer for not only her, but other two as well. Photographers are going crazy clicking all three podium sitters, but Dilara is too winded to care. 

Even hours later, when she’s on her way to Christian’s office for a late meeting, she’s still dizzy with happiness. From pole position, to being out of the points, to snagging a podium in a wet race is classic, iconic even. She hurries up to his office, waving at staff leaving the paddock under umbrellas as she takes the stairs two at a time. The rain has slowed down but hasn’t stopped; after a rainy podium celebration combined with sticky champagne all over the podium sitters, she hurried to her changing room to shower quickly before heading to Christian’s.

She’s hoping it’s him telling her that she’s signed for next year; it’s the only thing she can think he’d want to tell her that he wouldn’t need Max for. Lexie has been invited, too, which can only mean it has something to do with her driving or her training. Hair wet from her shower and getting wetter from the rain, she jogs up the wet stairs, careful not to slip.

“... probably taking pictures or something…” She hears Christian’s muffled voice from his office. “... with Driver of the Day…”

“I’m coming!” Dilara calls, and a bunch of voices laugh. She can make out Lexie’s husky one and realises she’s the last one to arrive.

“Careful, don’t injure yourself!” Christian’s trademark voice is unmistakable. 

“I’m sorry I’m late!” She yells as she hurries down the wet corridor. “Got caught in the rain and - whoa!” She almost slips in the doorway of the office and catches the doorknob just in time. The laughter gets even louder and Dilara can’t help but laugh as well, sweeping her wet hair out of her eyes and off her face.

“There she is!” Christian exclaims, smiling proudly with his arms outstretched. There’s a smattering of applause in the room and she’s immediately engulfed in a rare fatherly hug from her team principal. “Pole and a podium! You deserved being voted Driver of the Day, darling,” he says, kissing her on the cheek.

“Aw, thanks, Christian,” she says, her cheeks hurting with how much she’s smiling. “Wouldn’t have been possible without the team and the pit -” She breaks off, finally noticing the others in the room. Apart from a few Red Bull staff members milling about, and Lexie, one side of the long table has none other than all seven members of BTS seated at it.

Dilara can feel her smile fade slightly and she looks away before it can become too obvious. She turns immediately to Lexie, widening her eyes at her friend in a what the fuck way, but all Lexie does is give her a small shrug and an apologetic shake of the head, meaning she has no idea what this is about either. Dilara moves towards the empty seat next to her, directly across from the band, certain that even BTS can’t dampen her mood today. 

“Alright, now I know you’ve probably had enough champagne to last the rest of the night,” says Christian, waving a bottle of Moet in his hand, “but I think we all deserve one more drink before we’re done with this weekend.” Before Dilara can respond, champagne flutes are filled halfway and being passed around. 

Christian raises his own glass and beams at her. “I know you didn’t have a great beginning to the season. March and April were…” he trails off, shaking his head sympathetically, while her cheeks burn because she’s sure it’s sinking in for the seven men across the table as to why those months might have been bad for her. “In any case, you recovered like a champ. Monaco was splendid, Silverstone was… well, you remember what Silverstone was like,” he grins, and she can’t help but smile at the memory. “And this weekend, you proved how right we were to sign you. To the driver of the day… Dilara.”

“Dilara,” everyone choruses. Dilara’s cheeks are burning with pleasure but for some reason, when everyone raises their glasses, she glances over at the band. All of them are looking at her with various kinds of formal smiles, but her gaze seems to gravitate towards V. He’s smiling at her with what looks like pride; the sight almost makes her want to throw up and she begins to wonder in disgust just how much he’s getting paid to sit here and put on such a show.

“Thank you,” she mutters in their direction, noticing how Christian frowns when she looks away from them. Everyone drinks and she downs hers instantly; a few people chuckle and she realises that she and Jimin have finished before everyone else. She almost - almost - slips and gives him a small smile, when she remembers the last time she’d had champagne with the band: the night of her first race win in Austin last November - the night she and V had got together.

Her heart lurches and she looks away again, wanting Christian to just get on with it so she can leave. 

He has no such intentions, though. “So, are you two taking the red eye back to London tonight?” Christian asks her and Lexie. “D’you want a ride to the airport?”

“Oh, no, we’re actually not going back tonight,” she answers. “Our friend Chris is from Seoul originally so we’re driving down to his place after this for a few days.”

“Oh, it’s a really cool city,” chimes in Vicki, acknowledging the seven Seoul residents that Dilara, until this very moment, had not remembered would be there. “You’ve never been?”

She shakes her head. “First time in South Korea.”

“Great,” says Christian jovially, voice still dry as ever, “now you have the most famous band in South Korea to show you around, too.” 

Dilara gives a half-hearted chuckle, hoping to all ends that he won’t say anything that will force her to hang out with BTS in Seoul. Fortunately, he doesn’t, and when she sneaks a look at the band, she spots Jungkook with wide, almost hurt eyes and V biting his lip and looking down. A memory surfaces without warning, of a boyfriend promising to show her Seoul at night, the beach at Incheon, his family’s farm in Daegu, a weekend away on Jeju Island…

Her eyes meet V’s for a moment and she imagines he’s remembering the same thing, but she looks away before she can read too much into his expression. There’s no point hashing out the past, especially when it changes nothing. She looks up at Christian again and exhales, hoping he finally gets on with it.

“Alright,” he begins, clapping his hands in a businesslike fashion, “so you’re probably wondering what this is about. Don’t worry, Max was already briefed about this before he left, but since you two will be involved marginally more than him, I thought this was the best way to let you know.”

Dilara frowns in confusion. It can’t be the contract extension he’s talking about, because why would Max need to be briefed about that? Moreover, why would Lexie need to be briefed about this? And why in heaven’s name is Bangtan fucking Sonyeondan here for it?

“As you know, Red Bull has put in a lot of money into marketing this year,” he continues, apparently not noticing her internal struggle. “With you and Max as a legendary pairing in the team’s history, along with world-famous brand ambassadors,” he nods at BTS, but Dilara doesn’t move her gaze from him, “they’ve got a two month-long PR stint planned that will start right after summer break, with Belgium and end with…” He looks around at Vicki.

“Japan,” she supplies. 

Japan… so, Suzuka. Dilara’s still processing why the name of the circuit makes her stomach roll, when she remembers that she hasn’t the faintest idea what Christian is talking about. “Wait, um… so what’s the - the PR plan?”

“The drivers and the band,” he answers simply, as though the answer should be obvious. “You and Max, along with BTS, for a bunch of PR things - junkets, photoshoots, adverts, some of those Instagram whatchamacallits -”

“ - lives -”

“- and - yes - and anything else that they might need, all to launch over the next few months.” He claps his hands again and gestures warmly towards BTS. “Two months of content, rolled out over the next quarter. This is the best time slot we could get, before the gentlemen here need to start preparing for their tour and you -” He points to her “- will need to get rid of all distractions before the final races of the season.”

Dilara can’t help but wonder why distractions can’t simply be eliminated altogether in that case, but Christian leaves her no room to respond, plowing on with vigour.

“As a result, Red Bull has offered to make it an all expenses paid experience - hotels, food, travel - the whole shebang. Oh, and of course, Lexie is also included,” he adds generously. “Can’t have your training interrupted during this or who knows what -”

“Um, hang on,” she says suddenly, cringing when she realises she’s interrupted Christian. “Sorry, but is…” She wants to frame it in a way that doesn’t let on that she has any inside knowledge at all. “Big Hit is okay with this?”

“Big Hit -” Dilara almost chokes when she hears RM respond, and grudgingly turns to look at him. “Big Hit and Red Bull came up with this together. They think it’ll be really good exposure for both sets of fans.”

The irrefutable nature of this logic makes her want to hurl. RM had himself told her, months ago when they were at the Austin GP for publicity, that just being spotted and photographed in an F1 paddock alone had led to an unanticipated rise in their sales and numbers. Moreover, it had introduced a whole new demographic of listeners for BTS: F1 fans, which included an overwhelming percentage of men who were pleasantly surprised with BTS’s music and the fact that it wasn’t as boyband-y as they thought.

Dilara tears her eyes away from him and looks at Christian again, dreading his answer to her next question. “What did you say about… all expenses paid?”

He grins, as though relieved she’s getting to the good stuff. “Yes, they mean all expenses paid. Hotels, obviously - oh, and I think there’s a beach house in one location, too -” He looks over at Vicki for confirmation, who nods. “Obviously, you’ll still have to live in a motorhome for part of the Europe leg, like the other drivers,” he adds apologetically, “but since BTS will be living out of rented accommodations, I insisted on a home gym in each place and full access for you in every one of them.” He gestures magnanimously to Lexie. “With Lexie there as well, there should be no interruption to your training.”

There’s something odd in the way Christian is phrasing his words, almost like he’s customised this arrangement for - and only - here. “What about Max?” she asks after a moment.

“Well, he’ll be there off and again,” he answers nonchalantly, “but he’s a contender for the world championship. We can’t let him get distracted. It’s in his contract.”

Of course. Red Bull’s golden boy gets to focus on his career while Dilara is left to pick up what’s left of her own and also carry out a majority of their rubbish marketing plan all on her own. She tries not to seethe too openly, and takes a deep breath. “So, me and Lexie… maybe Max and Dean…” she says slowly, “... and - and BTS?”

“That’s right. Alright, now Vicki’s going to talk logistics - although I suppose we can always email that to you. Vick, d’you think we should get Big Hit on a conference call…”

Dilara’s blood runs cold. She feels like she’s frozen to her seat, silently amazed at how the universe has managed to find the one thing that could, in fact, successfully ruin her mood after one of the best races of her life. She can’t even fight this; with all the times Christian has made sure to mention that Red Bull is pouring shit tons of money into this project, it’s fairly clear that if she has any hope of getting signed next year, she can’t mess with their precious marketing plan.

Two months of hanging around her estranged ex-boyfriend and his loyal friends, working with them… to get signed next year. It’s Red Bull, the reasonable, ambitious part of her says weakly. It’s a Red Bull seat… if you have any hope of fighting for a championship, ever… this is it.

It takes her a few moments of sitting in silence among chattering voices to realise she’s already resigned herself to this. Her chest feels like it’s closing up again, the unfairness and injustice of it all creeping up her throat. But she refuses to let anyone, especially her newest colleagues, see how much it’s affecting her; the only thing worse she can think of than being dumped is showing her ex she still cares.

She looks up at Vicki. “Um… can I be excused for a moment?” she asks, somewhat relieved at how calm she sounds.

Vicki nods and Dilara stands up from her chair; without looking at anyone, she walks out of the office at a steady pace until the door closes behind her and she’s standing at the railing, the rain slowing down outside. Without thinking about it, she slips out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her hoodie and places one between her lips, flicking the lighter on and taking a long, desperate drag.

She hears footsteps behind her and a “Don’t!” that she recognises as Lexie’s voice. She turns to see her trainer hurrying towards her with a determined look on her face. Behind her, V stands just outside the door, eyes wide and expression sombre. Just when their eyes meet, Dilara feels herself getting shoved.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Lexie whispers furiously, forcing her into the room next door and snatching the cigarette from her hand, putting it out against the wall and chucking it in a dustbin. “What if someone sees? What if you get photographed?”

She’s right, of course. It’s reckless and stupid to smoke in an F1 paddock and Dilara is so angry with herself that finally, after months of trying to be strong, she starts to cry.

“Oh, fuck.” Lexie sighs and hugs her immediately, holding her tight. “Fuck, I know it sucks, D.”

“It’s not fair!” Dilara exclaims, pulling away. “After everything - I have to see him again? I have to - what? Work with him? Pretend we’re friends? Act like he didn’t -” Here, her voice breaks.

“I don’t understand it,” says Lexie quietly, shaking her head. She looks almost as troubled; her dark eyes are unfocused and she’s biting her lip, as though wondering where she went wrong. “Maybe they’re trying to make the European leg of the calendar and their European PR coincide? I don’t know...”

“I can’t believe this,” whispers Dilara shakily, furiously wiping at the tears escaping. “How could they say yes? How could -” There’s too many questions that can’t be answered so she kicks the dustbin with as much force as she can, watching it get thrown against the wall and its contents spill out on the floor. After staring at it for a moment, she sighs and gets on her knees, picking them up.

Lexie joins her. “We won’t talk to them. We won’t do anything with them - not unless we have to,” she says in a low voice, encouragingly. “You’ll have me and Max - and both of us have your back when it comes to this. Alright?”

Dilara nods, feeling wretched, but knowing she has to do this for her career. “Yeah,” she mutters, her voice hoarse, standing up. “Come on, let’s go back inside. It’s not like this can get any worse.”

~

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[laurelsofhighever]

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Fereldan Politics, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels,  Hurt/Comfort Chapter Summary: Eamon faces the consequences of his actions, and Cailan reflects.

--

Nineteenth day of Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon

The trial began an hour before noon. The guildhall had been cleared on the order of the king, and the guildmaster had reordered what furniture there was into a more suitable arrangement: the largest, most ornate chair she could find at the far end opposite the doors for Cailan himself, a set of smaller to his left and right for officials and the few nobles in attendance – Alistair, Rosslyn, Ferrenly, Loren, Franderel; and plenty of space remained in the middle of the room for the accused to feel isolated. Rain pattered on the roof as the large double doors groaned open to admit Arl Eamon, not in shackles, but still flanked very closely by the two guards who walked behind him. Such banal duty ought to be beneath Captains Morrence and Mhairi, but Cousland Blue flared next to royal Red all the same, the pair of them having decided that the honour of watching Eamon fall should belong to no one else but them.

Cailan, dressed with utmost formality in red velvet and a trimmed mantle of finely tooled leather, shifted in his seat as Eamon bowed, ignoring the scratch of the scribe in the corner, and cleared his throat. “This judgement is convened today to answer charges against Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, who stands accused of acts amounting to treason. Ser Brantis, if you would read out the specifics.”

The old chamberlain did not rise from his seat. The summer’s campaign had taken its toll on him, leaving his hair thinner than ever and pitching his voice at a faint nasally wheeze that every now and then broke out into a cough. Every one of Cailan’s attempts to ease him into retirement at Redcliffe had been brushed aside with an efficient exasperation perfected over almost three decades of royal service. After all, he had argued, nobody had a finer understanding of the law than him, and he did not need stout legs to exercise it.

“The accusation against Arl Eamon Guerrin is on three counts,” he announced now, the scroll shaking in his hand. “First, that he did in full knowledge of his actions intercept and waylay royal correspondence. Second, that he did lie on multiple occasions to a member of the royal family about the aforementioned interference. And third, that he did withhold information from the Crown pertaining to State affairs in order to promote his own interests. Such acts, should my lord be found guilty, would together constitute an act of treason, with the punishment to be determined by His Majesty, in attendance.”

An uneasy silence descended over the hall, all eyes on the king, all breaths held for his response.

“Well, Arl Eamon, what do you say to this?” His voice, usually so light, fell like a stone into a still pool.

Eamon lifted his chin. “I have a right to know my accusers.”

“You know very well who we are,” Rosslyn snapped from her place on Cailan’s right. “Answer the question.”

“Peace, Your Ladyship. We are waiting, Uncle.”

Glancing at his audience, the old arl rolled his answer over his tongue, his cheeks sucked in sapped bellows beneath the neatly groomed length of his beard. “All I have ever done has been done for the benefit of Ferelden,” he declared. “Whether that be shedding blood in the rebellion that ended the Orlesian occupation of this country, or through the use of diplomatic skill to prevent bloodshed in the first place.”

“Your record on that count is somewhat less than perfect, my lord,” the king answered coldly. “Given the current political climate. Is this a denial?”

Eamon bristled. “Berate me if you must, but I am no traitor.”

Silence again. Someone shifted on their feet, uncomfortable, and still the rain came down upon the roof. Cailan sat in his chair with the cornflower blue of his eyes hardened on the defiance seething in the man before him. The outcome of the trial was more formality than anything; he already knew the story, and the parts of all the players.

“We will hear the evidence, and decide,” he said at last, and turned away. “Ser Brantis, the witnesses, please.”

The chamberlain nodded and called the first name on his scroll, and looked up as Eamon’s valet appeared in the escort of another guard, wringing his hands and refusing to look at his master as he came to stand before the king. Cailan opened his mouth, but the man pre-empted him. Stuttering, he spilled testimony about conferences overheard between Eamon and the king of Orzammar that discussed ‘progress’ with an unnamed venture where the names of both the dwarf princess and the human prince were dropped; he recounted a time he witnessed Alistair put a letter directly into Eamon’s hand for inclusion with the post, only to have the arl tuck it away in a desk drawer once the Prince was out of sight; he even mentioned the keenness with which his master praised His Highness’ decision to take lessons in the Shaperate, and plotted excuses to first meet with him and Valesh Aeducan and then leave them alone together.

“It was not my place to ask,” he wailed. “Bt it was clear he was trying to engineer a match between them. I offer this testimony now to try and repair the damage wrought in part through my ignorance, to a most honourable lady.” He offered a trembling bow to Rosslyn, who gracefully returned the gesture with a nod.

“Tell me what happened on the final morning before your departure,” Cailan ordered.

The man shot a worried glance at Eamon, but despite the twist of his lip, the arl remained stoic and only waited for his judgement.

“The tradition in Orzammar is for a servant to sleep outside their master’s chambers, you understand,” he began. “I was woken early by his Highness storming into my lord’s quarters, but he ignored my protest. I’ve never seen a man in such a fury, and with Warden Commander Duncan behind him – with that way Grey Wardens tend to have about them – all I could do was follow. His Highness demanded to know the whereabouts of the letters from Her Ladyship, and then threatened to have his guard search the place when my lord did not answer. My lord then took two stacks of paper from his desk, and from the look on His Highness’ face, they were what he was looking for.”

“Did His Highness confront Arl Eamon about his possession of these letters?” Cailan asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And?”

“He… he called His Highness selfish and foolish, Your Majesty.” The valet gulped. “And spoke openly about separating His Highness and Her Ladyship in favour of… other matches.”

Alistair glanced at Rosslyn. She had taken hold of his hand during the questioning, heedless of the eyes already upon her, squeezing his fingers so tightly he felt the tendons shifting beneath her skin. Her resolve remained undaunted in the set of her jaw, but the scrutiny of so many interested parties grated on her, the intimacies of their relationship pared away and batted about as evidence to be quarrelled over, like dogs fighting for bones, and then fed into the rumour-mill for the gossips to thread and weave into whatever tapestry they liked. The letters, after all, sat at the heart of the matter. Eamon’s true condemnation lay within their lines, buried among private hopes and despairs that could too easily be turned against them.

“I have the letters,” he declared now, stepping forward out of her reach and missing the grip of her hand. His other held the evidence aloft for the watchers to see. “Her Ladyship’s last, in her own hand sent with Warden Commander Duncan, speaks of having received no correspondence from me for months prior to the letter’s date, when in fact I wrote many, and asked a number of my contingent to see them delivered to the messengers.”

“You may read it out, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn supplied, as the unassuming slip of paper was pressed into Cailan’s hands. “The beginning of the second paragraph deals with the current concern.”

The king’s gaze lingered on her for a moment of sympathy as he unfolded it. “Dated on the ninth of Harvestmere, and it is in Her Ladyship’s hand. The first paragraph recounts the fall of South Reach. The second… This is the last letter I will write. It is clear either you aren’t receiving my letters, or are ignoring them, and time will tell which is the truth. Fortune has allowed me one final chance, and so I am sending this to you with a messenger I can trust, rather than through the usual channels, and he promises to see it safe directly into your hands. This messenger was Warden Commander Duncan?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. His Wardens happened to be passing through the Southron Hills tracking a party of darkspawn and heard what happened at South Reach.”

Cailan refolded the letter. With the scribe’s pen still scratching out the moments, he shifted in his chair so he could lean his chin on his fist, his frown directed at a whorl in one of the floorplanks at his feet.

“The evidence is damning,” he said at last. “However, before I pass judgement, I wish to know the motive. Why would one who supposedly values loyalty to the Crown above all things go to such lengths to undermine its authority?”  His voice rose with every word, outrage matched by incredulity. “What could be gained from making the private affairs of two people the subject of sport? Am I to declare war on King Bhelen in retaliation for meddling in the affairs of Ferelden’s crown? Answer, my lord Eamon. Those were not rhetorical questions.”  

Faced with the king’s true, righteous fury, Eamon at last let his mask of indifference drop. He hung his head, lacking the contrition of a true apology, but enough to admit defeat. “I accept all responsibility for this matter,” he said. “I proposed the matter to King Bhelen, and he took the understanding that Your Majesty endorsed our actions. No reprisal is necessary for his part.”

“In that, at least, you retain your honour,” Cailan allowed, sighing in relief. “But it still doesn’t answer why.”

“I thought the two of them a poor match,” came the slow reply.

Rosslyn advanced. “And what right does an arl have to determine suitability between a teyrna and a prince who bear no relation to him?”

“Your Ladyship –” Cailan warned, but Eamon was already snarling back.

“The right of a king’s advisor with enough experience to foresee and want to avert disaster. Forgive my candour, Your Ladyship, but you have proven yourself to be rash, even brutal in your approach, and such wildness ought not to be left unchecked. His Highness is easily led –”

“Now wait just a –”

“– and when I saw your undue influence over him I sought to stop it, to save him from the bull-headed determination of a child entirely too used to getting her own way in everything, who came into power –”

“Enough!” Teagan was standing. He had stayed silent as the court revealed the evidence against his brother piece by piece, but now the wan surprise had fled in favour of anger as he stared down the man he had toddled after as a young child. “Eamon, you go too far.”

“No,” Rosslyn interrupted in a light voice, as full of promise as the first breath of winter. “It’s good to finally hear the truth. My lord is all concern for the wellbeing of his country and his charge, naturally. I’m sure it’s merely coincidence that had his interference succeeded, he would have benefitted from a very lucrative trade deal with an untapped foreign power, and would have in the same blow regained his usurped place as His Majesty’s closest advisor. How much more difficult it would have been for Prince Alistair to voice his disagreement, trapped under a mountain with a new wife to anchor him there.” She flashed a feral smile. “And of course, there is the threat of an independent Highever, loyal not to the crown but to the teyrna who has shed blood for them, who herself has too much of the Clayne in her to ever submit to any authority but her own. What better way to deal with her than ambush her into a marriage of convenience that would secure power in the north and condemn the actions of a traitor?”

Eamon glared at her.

She folded her arms and shifted her weight onto one hip, an easy stance to betray the sarcasm dripping from her words. “Of course, such considerations never entered my lord’s head. His thoughts are only for Ferelden, after all.”

“As they always will be,” he growled.

As the pair stared each other down, Loren whispered to Franderel behind his hand, and others in the room craned forward, eager to see what would happen next, noting how Alistair moved closer to Rosslyn, as if to shield her from the ire cast in her direction.  

“At this stage, isn’t motive a moot point?” he called across the silence. “Arl Eamon has confessed – to everything.”

Nodding, Cailan sat forward and steepled his fingers, deep lines creased between his eyes. When he began to speak, his voice barely rose above a mumble, as if he had forgotten everyone else around him. “Once, l would have thought my uncle incapable of such manipulation, but this action does have precedent.” His gaze shot to Eamon. “I should have checked you before when I caught your meddling in my affairs, and perhaps we might not have come to this. But it is treason, for all the worst effects have been avoided. The punishment for that is death.” He sighed. “Arl Eamon, if that were the ruling, would you accept it?”

The old man steadied himself. “So long as my wife and son do not share that fate – they had no part in this.”

“Connor is safe in the Storm Giant’s court, and Isolde is not on trial. Ser Brantis?”

“Mitigation relies on intent, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain replied in his reedy voice. “And it is clear there was intent here to unduly influence those outside his guardianship.”

“I am left with a difficult choice, then. A man with decades of loyal service to his name, and an example to make of him.” Cailan sat back. “However, I am not the injured party. Brother, Your Ladyship, what do you have to say?”

Startled at being addressed, the pair glanced at each other, a silent conversation passing between them in the strength of their gazes, and the small, soft curve of a smile for reassurance. Rosslyn touched Alistair’s arm.

“He should be punished according to the law,” she said. “And yet, whatever remains of his life, I would have him spend every day contemplating that whatever his intentions, his actions amounted to nothing. He lied baldfaced to all of us for months, and all he has to show for it is this. I will defer to your Majesty.”

“So will I,” Alistair agreed. “I’ll always hate myself for not doing more to expose what was going on, but now we’re here, and everyone knows.” He turned and took Rosslyn’s hand, raising it to his lips. “I have all I need.”

Such a public display of affection was unexpected. Cailan looked away and rubbed at his lip, and for a moment, silence fell once more.  

Then Teagan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, may I speak?”

“Always, uncle.”

“A wise king shows mercy when it is due, and there has been enough killing. Both His Highness and Her Ladyship have advocated for my brother to live – with his guilt, and the knowledge he has lost your respect.”

“We have nowhere to hold him,” the king pointed out.

Teagan shook his head. “Not imprisonment. Exile.”

“Exile is a legal equivalent of death,” Brantis mused. “Estates and titles are passed as normal to the next of kin, unless the entire line is barred – and Your Majesty has already said that will not be the case here.”

“A death that is not a death,” Cailan repeated slowly. “Very well. Arl Eamon, given the weight of evidence against you, and your own testimony, you are found guilty of all charges. Be assured, your long years of service to my father are the only reason the sentence is not a summary execution.” He stood. “You will be escorted to Redcliffe and there given a month to set your affairs in order, and by Wintersend, you will be beyond the borders of Ferelden, never to return under promise of death. Do you understand?”  

The look Eamon narrowed at him had yet to relinquish its defiance. “You’re more like your mother than I realised,” he offered. “Maric would have acted more impulsively, as he did with everything.”  

“Get him out of my sight.”

As one, the two guard-captains saluted and took an elbow each to haul the disgraced arl from the room. Even before they made it through the door, Cailan was moving, slipping away with surprising quiet for a man so used to being the centre of attention, making the side door before Brantis finished rising from his chair. Alistair watched him go with a frown, wanting to follow but distracted by the hand that settled on his arm, the comforting warmth radiating from it. Rosslyn leaned into him, the concern in her grey eyes revealing that she, too, had noticed the parting glare Eamon had shot his way when he mentioned Maric’s name.

“It’s over,” she breathed, and he couldn’t tell if it was a question.

He tucked an arm around her waist and drew her against his side, pleased when she dropped her head against his shoulder. “It’s over,” he agreed. “You were incredible.”

“I couldn’t let him stand there and insist he did it for the greater good.”

“I should go after Cailan,” he murmured, without moving.

A sigh. “And I still need to organise the preparations for tomorrow. All I want to do is sleep.”

“That does sound tempting.” He chuckled. “We could sneak away…?”

“No,” she replied, in the same amused, drawn out syllable she used when she caught her dog eyeing a plate of food that wasn’t his. “Duty first. Otherwise Eamon would have been right.”

“Ugh, fine, you win.” He pulled back to make sure she could see his pout, and couldn’t help brushing a hand along her cheek. “You make too much sense and I love you too much to argue. But no more hiding.”

She stilled his fingers so she could turn a kiss onto his palm. “None at all. I’ll find you later.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

She threw him a smile over her shoulder as she walked away, and after a moment more watching her, he tore his thoughts guiltily away from the lithe sweep of her legs and went in search of his half-brother. He ignored the chatter in the hall, Franderel’s congratulations and Loren’s platitudes, breathing a relieved sigh when he made it into the deserted side corridor that wormed its way through the recesses of the guildhall.  The vestibule where Cailan had donned his formal clothes was empty of all but his valet, who tutted over the haphazard way the king had scuffed the leather and crumpled the goldwork in his hastily discarded mantle.

The valet bowed. “The king has gone to the yard, Your Highness, if you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you, Villers. Did he, uh, take his greatsword with him?”

“I was otherwise occupied, Your Highness,” came the reply, with a meaningful nod to the mantle.

“Of course, that’s probably –”

“Your Highness!”

He turned to see a young man not much older than him in a plain suit of mail, holding out a waxed paper package.

“The report you asked for, Ser,” the messenger said. “I would’ve had it to you sooner, but the trial –”

“I’ll take it now,” he said, holding out his hand.

And that was how the rest of his day started. Two more messengers found him in his office before he had finished going through the first report, one with a requisition form, and the other with an update from the quartermaster, and he pored over his desk until the fading light forced him to stand and retrieve the glowstone from over the fire. Someone else knocked on his door, but before he could tell whoever it was to go away, the guard turned the handle to admit a servant carrying a tray.

“Teyrna Rosslyn said if you hadn’t eaten, I was to bring you some lunch,” he explained, as Alistair’s stomach rumbled. He spotted bread fresh from the oven, two apples, and a round of the soft goat’s cheese laid down the previous spring. “She also said to say yes, she’s remembered to eat, too. She sends apologies, but there’s been an injury among the archery stands, and her assistance is needed.”

The gesture warmed him more than the pot of herbal tea the servant left with the rest of the fare. He picked at it for the rest of the afternoon, only a little sorry for the crumbs he spilled over the papers, until at last, with Ferrenly’s clockwork striking the fifth hour, his door burst open once again and Cailan wandered over the threshold. Mud still caked his boots, his hair frayed loose from the braids at his temples, and he had stripped down to a plain linen shirt and simple coat to keep out the chill. Eyeing him as he sank into one of the chairs by the hearth, Alistair rose from the desk, shuffled his papers, and called for Lloyd to see them to the right people, before crossing to the dresser in the corner where Ferrenly kept his stash of brandy.

“Ho! Now there’s a good idea.”

“It’s been a long day,” Alistair offered, along with a full glass, and sat down opposite in the opposite armchair.

Cailan snorted. “Truth be told, this whole business has left me rather wrong-footed.”

“I’m sorry it came to this.”

What else could he say? After the revelation that Eamon had been hiding his letters, and the fraught escape from Orzammar, he had spent the hours between fighting demons and organising an army in introspection, where he recounted every slight of his childhood. The new understanding had soured him, leaving little energy to spare to feel anything more than relief. Rosslyn was safe, and he was free.

But Cailan was shaking his head, his eyes lost on the fire. “My problems with my uncle began long before this. If not for him, this war might never have happened.” A wry smile tilted in Alistair’s direction. “Did you never wonder where Loghain got the idea that I would forsake Anora? It’s a little ironic that if not for the commotion he caused, I would never have considered it at all.”

“What will you do now?” Now that Rosslyn turned you down flat, he did not add.  

The fire cracked. Instead of answering, Cailan sighed and took a long pull of the brandy, grimacing at the burn as he swallowed. It felt odd to ask such a casual question at all, given that not even a year ago, Alistair might have been cuffed around the ear for deigning to even sit in the king’s presence. He couldn’t tell if it was the low light or the cold outside, or even just the wear of the day’s events that dulled the edge of formality that always stood between him and the king, but the air felt open, easier to breathe, and Cailan himself cut a sympathetic figure, haggard and drawn and removed of all the trappings of his station. Like he was just another person, like an equal.

Like family, he thought, and dropped his gaze to his drink.

“I don’t know what I will do,” his brother murmured. “Truly. My feelings for Anora are… well. There is love there, of a sort, but our fathers always meant us for each other, and now I cannot help but wonder how much of my affection arose because it was easier to craft those feelings than forge my own path. You can make a man envious of choosing, you know,” he added, with the ghost of a rakish smile that faded quickly. “I have not been the best husband, over the years, but with time and distance…”

Alistair waited and Cailan drained his glass.

“I was not ready to marry when I did. I barely remember any of that month Father died. He wasn’t old. And suddenly there I was with a kingdom and voices in my ears telling me to lay aside my grief to do what they said he would have wanted, and before I knew it, the deed was done and my life was no longer my own. On two fronts.”

“I’m sorry.” An uncomfortable squirm of sympathy stirred in his chest, but he had little else to offer. When Teagan had told him about Maric’s disappearance, the hope that his wrecked ship might still be found and Ferelden’s hero saved, he had been stung by a feeling that wasn’t quite grief but which ached all the same. His distant dreams of one day being acknowledged for his merit had vanished like smoke in the wind, but he had still had the training yard, his duties as a knight, and Teagan’s respect. Nobody had ever had any higher expectations for him.

Cailan swatted away the apology, and regarded him closely. “I wanted better for you, you know,” he confessed. “It’s why I did not simply order you and the Aeducan princess together. When Eamon suggested it, I remained adamant that it must be your choice, freely made. If I had known the steps he would take to engineer such a choice…” A curse escaped his lips. “I am sorry, brother, for everything I’ve done.”

They lapsed into silence. Thoughts swirled in Alistair’s head, each buzzing with their own insistence like flies on a hot day. It had never occurred to him to ask what Maric was like, either as a person or as a father, because until that moment nobody had ever spoken if him as anything less than a figurehead, an idol so remote he could never be truly real. How much of that remoteness had been crafted by Eamon, so that he would never ask for more than the scraps he was given? How much, in the end, had the old arl taken? As a child, the possibility of another life had never occurred to him; he had assumed his lot was that of all bastards, once he was old enough to understand the concept. It was only years later under Teagan’s guidance that that belief began to erode away, but even then he hadn’t wondered how things might have been different if he had been acknowledged from the beginning. He could see parties, galas, grand hunts in his mind’s eye, and hours of lessons in statecraft and history, so readily handed to him he would find them boring. He would have met other noble children, played with them, learned how to rule. He might have gone to Highever, would have met…

“Where would Rosslyn have been in all of this?” The question was rude, but thought of her woke a shade of jealousy in him, something big and dark and prowling that hovered around the image of her like a guard dog by its master’s gate, regardless that she didn’t need it of him. “You said you wouldn’t have made me marry Valesh, but what about her?”

His suspicion must have leaked into his voice, or else the question was just insulting. Cailan gave him a long, flat look.

“I would never have forced her.”

“I wasn’t suggesting –”

“She is happier with you,” his brother snapped, and sagged. “It’s a relief to see her so.” For a moment, his eyes glazed beneath his frown, thoughts far away, and something clicked in Alistair’s mind.

“How bad did it get over the summer?”

“Bad.”

He remembered, from her letters, I must really be low if even His majesty has noticed. Perhaps exile was too light a punishment after all.  

“You really do love her, don’t you?” A note of wonder crept into Cailan’s voice, matched by the speculative, almost wistful tilt of his head.

The words to reply stuck in Alistair’s throat, his muscles tensed without quite knowing why. Shortly, the answer was yes, but such a small word could hardly encompass the way his chest tightened whenever Rosslyn smiled at him, the calm when he touched her, the singing in his blood on their first night back, when he had kissed her neck and drawn that lovely, desperate noise from her tongue…

“I…”

“Good,” Cailan chuffed, as he poured them both another drink. “Because if you only wanted to bed her, I’d have had to send you away to Kirkwall in disgrace.”

“What? I don’t want – I mean –” A glass was pressed into his hand. “Maker’s breath, please tell me we won’t be talking about this.”

His brother only smirked. “So you haven’t made it that far, then?”

“Cailan, you asked her to marry you. Don’t you think it’s a bit inappropriate to talk about – about that?”

He hated how high his voice went, but that spark of anger got lost under the certainty that Rosslyn would not want them discussing the subject – discussing her – in such base terms. After the conversation they had shared in the meadow, he wanted to be worthy of the trust she placed in him, even if it meant losing whatever strange rapport he found himself building with his only living relative. He braced himself for whatever lurked behind the soft pity in Cailan’s eyes, but before he could say anything, the door opened and a clatter of claws signalled Rosslyn’s arrival, with Cuno at her heels.

“There you are!” he cried, rising to greet her. He hoped his blush could be blamed on the alcohol, that she hadn’t been waiting in the hallway and overheard. “Your hands are like ice.”

“Ah, but I’m not drenched today,” she replied. “Which is an improvement. Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“You know the sky won’t split open if you call me by my name.”

“Even so.” A smile touched her features as she watched Alistair chafe her fingers between his own. “I’m not staying – I met Lady Raina in the hall and promised to tell you dinner won’t be long.”

“You should at least warm up a little before you go,” he insisted.

She let herself be pulled closer, smiled at the tender hand settling against her waist.

“There are only two chairs,” she pointed out.

Cailan winked. “Don’t worry, Alistair can sit in my lap if he likes.”

“What?”

Rosslyn laughed. “I’ll spare you both the chivalry, I think. There’s a fire in my room, I’ll be warm enough.”

“You’re sure?”

Amused, her gaze darted to his mouth, a still-cold hand at his jaw. “I’ll see you later. And Your Majesty – you may want to get changed, since I hear Lady Raina has made a special effort for our last night.”

“I am rather dishevelled, aren’t I?” Cailan allowed, glancing down at his bare shirt and muddy boots.

Alistair wished him gone. Between one thing and another, he had barely seen Rosslyn all day, and never then alone. He wanted to kiss her, wanted her fingers laced in his hair as he warmed her up head to toe. He wondered if, without their audience, she could have been coaxed towards the hearth, and down into his lap, to let him lay more of those gentle, open-mouthed kisses against her neck. In the morning, they would push onward into territory controlled by Howe, and after that, only long days of marching and battle awaited, with no time for softer, quiet moments. Everyone sensed the nearing end to the war, but Loghain would never truly be brought to bay until Highever could be retaken to cut off his escape, and she had the scent in her nose like a hound on the hunt, implacable. It was his job to make sure she survived.

“See you at dinner,” he murmured, because there was nothing else to do. Her touch lingered against his skin for a moment, but then she was gone. He only realised he was still stood in the doorway, staring after her, when Cailan grunted and hauled himself up from his seat. The king drained his glass and set it on the desk.

“That’s my signal to move, as well. I’ll see you at dinner, and –” He hesitated as he stepped close, but shook off whatever reservation lurked in his mind and laid a broad hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “This is a strange situation in which we find ourselves, with… one thing and another. I will not pry, but if you ever wish for advice from a married man – even one whose marriage started a war – you will always have my ear.” He offered a brief smile. “We are brothers, after all. I think of you as such.”

“I’ll… Thank you.” Alistair faltered, struck by a sudden wave of affection for the man he had spent most of his life resenting. He wanted to repay the sincerity, but didn’t know what to do with it. “I don’t know about – about marriage. Isn’t that something I should talk to Rosslyn about, first? I don’t even know if she wants…” His mind flashed to an image, hazy and indistinct, of Rosslyn, smiling, with white flowers woven into her hair, and his heart stuttered.

“There is time,” came the steady reply. “We’ve a war to win first, after all. I was, uh, thinking along slightly different lines, actually. To… get things, uh, moving along, if you…”

“Maker’s breath.”

“Well –” Cailan’s face blotched crimson. “It’s not like Teagan would be much help! And there’s ways – not at all like the boasts in the guardhouse – and you… you both should –”

“There’s a book!” Alistair squeaked, if only to make him stop. Please, please let her not be listening outside the door.

“What?”

“It was on the shelves of my room in Orzammar. I was curious.” When he had first found it, he had thought it a mistake, but saying something would have meant admitting he had peeked inside, and by the time that embarrassment had worn off, his squeamishness had given way to a certain kind of fascination. “It’s very thorough and… it has diagrams.”

Understanding dawned on Cailan’s face, delight mixed with no small amount of relief. “You still have it. You stole it!”

“After I found out what was going on, I wanted to be petty,” he admitted. No doubt the book had been placed there to encourage his infatuation in an entirely different direction, and by the point of leaving, he’d had hope again. “It seemed like the best way.”

“Well,” Cailan tried. “Huh. And here I thought you got up to no mischief at all. Has she seen it?”

“She – she doesn’t know about it. Yet. I haven’t mentioned it. I don’t know what she’d say.” I always thought people were exaggerating, she had told him, like it was a game and I was the only one who didn’t know the rules.

“As much as they like to make us think otherwise, women cannot read our minds. Talk to her, let her know what you’re thinking, so you can both be happy.”

There was so much fraught behind that simple advice, subjects that weren’t Cailan’s business, despite the sincerity in his eyes. Alistair had no plans to confess his conversation with Rosslyn in the meadow, or the interrupted one in her room when they had stood so close and she had leaned closer into him still, but overlaid with that sweetness was the shadow of fear that his wanting would go too far.

“What if I ruin everything?”

“Brother…” Cailan sighed. “She loves you. There’s no better place to start than that.”

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You will generally have the ability to feel the full outcomes by ninety days after the treatment. Outcomes differ from person to person, as well as depend on the variety of treatments you have actually gone through. " Offered the great space of proof of the value of such treatments, as well as correctly handled investigatory work by specialist specialists in sexual medication and also health, I would certainly prompt wonderful care in going after such treatments.

Are You prepared To schedule Your Free appointment?

Fat Melting Vs Fat Freezing treatment outcomes.

90% of the people that took part in the research study claimed they experienced a substantial improvement in their lifestyle. Speak to your specialist in detail concerning your symptoms as well as, if you're experiencing symptoms that can't be aided with vaginal laser tightening up after that review your choices with your GP or speak with a gynaecologist. The outcomes of laser vaginal area tightening up are long long-term, yet they are not permanent, as you'll need regular treatment top ups every one to two years to preserve the results. As a female, you should be ready to begin experiencing increased satisfaction and vaginal feeling after the therapy. Possibilities are that genital lubrication will certainly likewise increase, causing you to experience extra extreme climaxes. The treatment aids by resolving common concerns that can hinder your intimate partnership and day-to-day life such as genital dry skin as well as vaginal tightness.

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" They're extremely small research studies," stated Teacher Joyce Harper, supervisor of education as well as head of the Reproductive Wellness Division at UCL's Institute for Women's Health and wellness, that has considered several of the study with Refinery29 UK. Late in July, the United States Food and Drug Administration, the federal government body responsible for securing public wellness in America, provided a caution versus tools and also treatments that promise to "revitalize" ladies's vaginas. " These products have significant threats as well as do not have ample proof to sustain their use for these purposes. We are deeply concerned females are being damaged," the FDA said, provoking an in a similar way damning decision in the UK. The FemiLift therapy gives durable renovation in vaginal experience and also control of urinary system incontinence. Outcomes typically last from 18 months to 2 years depending on your individual health as well as pre-existing laxity.

Not only that, however any treatment to change the outside look of a lady's vaginal area is more than likely clinically unnecessary, Teacher Harper added. Gynaecologist as well as vocal Goop movie critic Dr Jen Gunter made this point loud as well as clear on Twitter just recently. " The term rejuvenation is normally utilized for advertising for women who have no other medical condition past aging," she composed. According to Teacher Harper, the vaginal area doesn't constantly shed tightness with age, especially if a lady hasn't had an infant, and also there is a massive variant in the appearance of the vulva. " The research studies I've seen have actually located that there isn't any kind of difference in a lot of these women contrasted to other women. It's mainly just their understanding that they've had a baby therefore for that reason needs to have a loose vagina." Teacher Harper said she is additionally right away questionable of treatments that assure to 'take care of' many inconsonant signs at once, from vaginal laxity and agonizing sex to rigidity, dryness and also urinary incontinence. While a handful of centers do supply citations and also links to clinical study on their web sites, the researches are usually very restricted and also have been considered not enough by the experts we spoke to.

is There An Age limitation For This sort Of surgical Treatment?

New technology has permitted us to supply an innovative technique for tightening up the vaginal walls. Utilizing the FemiLift laser to stimulate collagen growth, it will tighten up the genital wall surface, thus restoring a more younger feel. On top of that, comments has revealed that Laser Vaginal Firm using FemiLift also helps those that struggle with dry skin as well as recurring vaginal infections. If you have Femilift laser genital tightening up for signs such as the above, after that it's unlikely to function to any type of wonderful level as well as you might be let down with the outcomes. Just because the HIFU treatment therapy is non-intrusive does not suggest that it can't pass through the SMAS layer.

Following your FemiLift procedure it is suggested that you do not have sexual intercourse or usage tampons for approximately 5 days to enable the genital wall to clear up. At LBPS we offer a comprehensive range of Womens Wellness Providers. Your consultation may include a smear test, pregnancy test, bust examination, menopause suggestions and hormonal agent screening before laser vaginal renewal. Customers coming for hair elimination additionally have their choice of electrolysis and also laser in irreversible choices in addition to all the specific waxing basics. Situated around an 18-minute stroll from West Finchley tube station, Aesthetics Residence Limited is experts in complex skin clinic treatments accomplished by certified experts.

We recognize that any type of treatment including the vagina as well as surrounding locations is extremely personal in nature and our expert and mild method means that your dignity and also convenience is of utmost importance. We have a specialized female specialist that will ensure that the treatment fasts, pain complimentary and comfortable.

If still wondering that a suitable prospect for the procedure is, you ought to note that it's only advised for women who are past thirty years. A factor to consider undergoing this treatment is to aid you in boosting the health, wellness, as well as vigor of the genital cells.

You may experience inflammation and tenderness in the genital location for a couple of days after the treatment, however this will discolor. This is the most typical Genital Tightening Frequently Asked Question. The treatment is not painful, nevertheless you might really feel some discomfort when the probe is placed right into the vaginal canal. At Harley Ultrasound, we constantly put a condom on the probe and lube it for your safety and also convenience. Our professionals are committed to your well-being, as well as can adjust the probe so it is not put as deep into the vaginal area to make the procedure extra soothing. I was repeatedly guaranteed genital renewal was secure, although I was never described any clinical researches to back this up. The specialist at Vivo Center ensured me there had not been any type of main public health warnings versus it throughout the world and that there were no long-term adverse impacts. The medical and also clinical expertise of the group at LBPS is unrivaled.

Is a liquid facelift worth it?

Liquid facelifts are more subtle than surgical facelifts. The results won't be as dramatic. However, they can make your skin look more plump and youthful. It is effective at reducing the appearance of wrinkles and sagging.

To figure out even more regarding FemiLift genital tightening up laser treatment, visit this site to return to our FemiLift guidance centre. There have been a variety of scientific research studies right into the effectiveness of laser vaginal tightening up treatment, such as Femilift. As laser genital firm is a reasonably new strategy, it has actually been tried and also examined by many journalists in traditional media, every one of which have offered the treatment positive evaluations.

Is 60 too old for a facelift?

The optimal age for a facelift though is during your mid-40s; while most people wait until they are in their 50s or 60s to have work done, by pre-empting your skin losing the majority of it elasticity, the results achieved will appear more natural – you will look rested, and people may not even notice you've had work

If you are worried about its safety, you should note that there's nothing to fret about. It's a treatment that has actually already been evaluated and located to work on different aesthetic treatments. Superficial Tightening targets the outer layers of the skin in the vaginal wall. This does tighten the vagina, yet the results will just last in between six to 8 weeks. Muscular Tightening likewise targets the muscle layer that is deeper within the genital wall surface, tightening the vaginal area for as much as eighteen months.

What To expect From A Cryotherapy, Fat Freezing Coolsculpting procedure?

While non-surgical genital firm will certainly not have an impact on how you look, it's a therapy that can significantly affect your lifestyle and also total joy. The HIFU vaginal tightening up FemiWand treatment is the best choice to going through invasive and medical surgery. Planning for a genital tightening up session does not require too much preparation work. However, it's recommended that you don't engage in intercourse twenty-four hours prior to you have it performed. While the objective of this therapy is to tighten your genital muscles, not all females are taken into consideration suitable candidates for this procedure. A lady who will deliver, or that has just recently delivered and began to nurse ought to not undergo this procedure.

What surgery makes you look younger?

A facelift, which is also known as a Rhytidectomy, will give an individual a relaxed and younger appearance. In order to be a suitable candidate for a facelift, an indiviudal should have adequate skin elasticity to ensure the procedure is effective.

This stress, combined with the boosting normalisation and schedule of surgical and also non-surgical treatments, and the absence of guideline in this area, has actually contributed to a boom in "genital restoration". After an appointment to ensure that you appropriate for the FemiLift treatment, the procedure is quick and also pain-free. Utilizing a. speculum, a tiny pole including the laser is carefully put right into the vaginal canal. It is after that very carefully pulled back to ensure that the laser covers the complete size of the vaginal wall surface.

Refinery29 got in touch with the Advertising and marketing Requirements Authority to find out its position on the way vaginal rejuvenation therapies are being advertised, given the cautions. " We would need to judge specific instances depending upon the level of the case," a speaker claimed, including that "unbiased cases would need to be backed with evidence". Goodacre is likewise requiring better understanding of women's sexual health, which positions much less onus on the body. He stated the "treatment asserts to invigorate the vaginal canal by enabling the vaginal canal to naturally generate brand-new collagen" which it "is done in a secure and controlled way adhering to the most strict standards and cleanliness regulations". He defined the absence of law around such therapies in the UK as "regrettable" and said Vivo Center's treatments are covered by insurance coverage "and please widely known insurance coverage companies that our procedures will not hurt the public". So is it any kind of marvel that some women are seeking hasty treatments to obtain their vaginal areas a step closer to pornstar "perfection"?

What is the best treatment for deep wrinkles on face?

Wrinkle TreatmentsRetinoids (tretinoin, Altreno, Retin-A, Renova, Tazorac). Alpha-hydroxy acids. Antioxidants. Moisturizers. Glycolic acid peels. Deeper peels. Dermabrasion . Laser resurfacing . More items•

exactly How Will Your Skin Tag Be removed?

For lots of ladies, they just need to undertake a single treatment session for them to obtain optimal results. However, for others, it might be needed for them to return to the center for in between 2 as well as three sessions for them to totally profit. HIFU is the go-treatment for females wanting to tighten their vaginal areas. While it's a topic that few individuals, particularly females are positive talking about in public circles, it can assist rejuvenate their exclusive components. FemiWand is a non-surgical treatment that has been created to recover firmness and flexibility. The innovation we make use of is risk-free and also non-invasive meaning there are really few negative effects, every one of which are short-term.

Astudy of 28 post-menopausal females with signs and symptoms of genital atrophyby gynaecologist Scott Evan Eder MD, discovered that "nearly all VVA signs and symptoms were significantly enhanced at one month adhering to the very first therapy". In 2018, Julene B Samuels, MD, Cosmetic Surgeon and Martin A Garcia, MD, Obstetrician Gynecologist, checked into the performance of lasers for signs of vulvovaginal atrophy in postmenopausal ladies. The outcomes revealed that signs and symptoms of dry skin, itching and also pain during sexual intercourse enhanced significantly, which the thickness of the vaginal tissue had actually enhanced. Follow the link toread extra concerning the study as well as before as well as after pictures. A 2017 studyfound that laser therapy was an "effective as well as easy-to-perform treatment technique for menopause-related vaginal atrophy as well as stress and anxiety urinary system incontinence".

Prior to being utilized in tightening genital cells, it was being used on treatments that entailed enhancing and tightening up the complexion on different parts of the body including the face. At Pro-Moi Center the HIFU Genital tightening also known as the Femiwand is a non-surgical genital tightening up therapy. This therapy functions well for looseness, dry skin and bladder weakness. If childbirth or menopause has actually created some modifications in the health and wellness and makeup of your vagina, after that this might be your answer. If you would love to complain regarding the method genital restoration therapies are marketed in the UK you can send a complaint to the Marketing Requirements Authority. The procedure is fairly simple yet you'll need a picture, video clip or screenshot of the ad, which includes advertising on a business's web site or social media channels.

[joelyjo]

Fic - Everything in its Place

Author: joelyjo

Rating: Strong R (sex and birth)

Summary: Scully is determined that the new baby will be born at home. Will it be peace and calm and everything in its place? Or will it be drama-filled all over again?

Author’s Notes: Written for the Nursery Files Labour (Sorry, I can’t bring myself to miss out the U) Day challenge, although it’s a bit late because I’m a bit rubbish at deadlines. Any feedback is very welcome. I’m fairly new to the fandom on tumblr, if not to writing, and eager for anything, be it positive or negative! Thanks, all.

 Tagging: @marinafrenzy and @today-in-fic

 William came into the world like a storm. When Scully thinks back to that night in Democrat Hot Springs, all she remembers is the white-hot pain and the burn of anxiety. She’d never felt more alone in a room full of people. Never been so terrified.

This time, she is adamant. It will be a peaceful birth. It will be at home and she will have Mulder with her through every contraction and every push. She tells her doctor all this and he listens, calmly and patiently.

“It’s lovely that you have such a clearly outlined birth plan, Dana. But you must remember that babies come when they are ready and things rarely go to plan. Be prepared for your plan to get shot all to hell.”

Scully sees Mulder looking from the doctor to her and back again and can read his thoughts like an open book. He does not fancy this doctor’s chances at appealing to Scully’s sense of reason and logic. “Mulder,” she says, pre-empting his interjection. “You know this is what I want.”

“Oh, I know it, Scully.” He glances again at the doctor, their gazes conspiratorial. She knows they will speak when he can get her out of earshot. Well, let them plot, she thinks. She will have this baby at home and everything will be in its place.

Six weeks before her due date, she begins to nest. The house is cleaned from top to bottom. She gets down on her knees and scrubs things that haven’t been scrubbed in decades, turns out cupboards and drawers, vacuums until she breaks the vacuum. Mulder tries to help, but most of the time his efforts end in him failing to meet her exacting standards and giving up before they come to blows over the right way to fold tiny onesies and stack diapers.

Her mood is alternately calm and zen then raging like a hurricane. She can’t sleep properly, can’t get comfortable in any position… and, just when she thinks things are at their nadir, they have a heatwave. July sun pounds down on the house and every room is hotter than hell. She curses Mulder for not fixing the AC and casts him from the house to find an engineer, but every engineer in the state is booked up for weeks. So instead she basks in front of a desk fan, takes to wandering the house in her underwear. Mulder stares and spends the week trying to hide a series of persistent erections. She is almost ready to climb into the refrigerator when the heat breaks in a massive thunderstorm that lasts most of the night.

In the morning, he brings her coffee and rye toast in bed and she feels like a different woman. She realises why when she stands naked before the bedroom mirror and sees that the baby has dropped. Mulder comes from behind her and wraps his arms around her, his big hands cupping the massive watermelon of her abdomen. “I can breathe again, Mulder,” she tells him, almost dizzy with the rush of oxygen. He smiles and kisses her neck.

“Not long now,” he murmurs and she smiles back at him. She is ready.

But nothing happens. Days pass and her due date approaches. Her bad mood returns and Mulder does his best to keep out of her way. Even that is not enough, though, and one day she follows him into work, waddling down to the basement to complain about the mess and try to take over his latest investigation. Skinner finds them arguing an hour later and nothing can hide the expression that passes across his face when his eyes fall on her swollen belly.

“Agent Scully, what are you doing here?”  His voice is full of concern, but there’s just enough chastisement to make her blood boil. She rounds on him.

“This is my office. I can be in it if I wish… sir.”

Skinner glances at Mulder and the two men share a beleaguered look. Scully’s fury mounts. She is standing behind the desk, her hands on her hips, and she knows she is more intimidating than an angry bull.

It takes them two hours to convince her to go home.

Two days later, the midwife comes to the house. Her name is Joy and she is a sweet, middle-aged Hispanic lady with amazing hair and a no-nonsense manner. She wastes no time at all in scoping out the house, sizing up where to place the birthing pool, the foetal monitor, the weighing scales, the gas cylinders. Scully is heartened by her professionalism and tells Mulder how pleased she is that they found the extra $500 for a nurse-midwife. “It’s not that I’m expecting anything to go wrong,” she tells Joy. “I’m a medical doctor myself and I’ve done this in somewhere with no electricity and no running water.” She leaves out the bit about being surrounded by alien witnesses. Joy may appear no-nonsense, but that detail is likely to send her packing. “But I am glad you are going to be here.”

“It’s nice that you’re happy and feel secure, Miss Scully,” Joy replies. “But I want you to remember that birth is a funny old game. It happens when it happens and how it happens can be anybody’s guess. Be prepared to find yourself back in the hospital because I won’t allow anything to happen that puts you or your baby at risk.”

Mulder nods in the background.

That evening, they fire up the grill and Mulder cooks steak and spicy vegetable kebabs. Afterwards, they sit together on the porch swing in the gathering darkness and watch the night insects crowding around the lamps. Mulder cradles her belly, rubbing gentle circles over the taut skin and Scully finds herself softening with his touches. “I’m sorry if I’ve not been very easy to live with these last few weeks,” she confesses.

Behind her, Mulder chuffs out a laugh. “I think I preferred being dead.”

She scowls at him and bats his bicep with her hand. “I’m huge, my feet are so swollen I can barely get my shoes on, my whole body aches, I want to pee constantly, I can’t get comfortable, I can’t sleep but I’m so tired. It’s enough to put anyone in a bad mood.”

“Yeah,” says Mulder ruefully. “I guess I never thought about it before. I didn’t really pay attention last time – there were other things on my mind.”

“I know.”

She twists and leans up to kiss him. He is warm and there is the lingering taste of spices on his breath. “I love you,” she says against his mouth. He doesn’t reply, but he takes her face in his hands and kisses her thoroughly and she hears him anyway.

Three days later, she wakes with backache and an odd feeling in her abdomen. It’s not pain, as such, but a kind of tightness. She goes to the calendar and crosses off the previous day, a habit she got into around 30 weeks and mulls the sensation over. Her due date is tomorrow. The day after Labor Day. She can’t remember clearly feeling anything similar before, but then, she muses, everything happened so fast towards the end that, like Mulder, she didn’t notice much of anything with any focus.

She showers and dresses while he goes out for a run, setting some coffee to brew when she thinks he’s been gone about his usual time. Taking her own mug of green tea out onto the porch, she unfolds one of the loungers and is dozing in the sunshine when he bounds up the porch steps, sweaty and breathing hard. He greets  her with a kiss and a cheerful, “Enjoying the holiday weekend, Scully?”

She opens one eye and regards him critically. “Ugh. Go shower and then we’ll talk. There’s coffee in the pot.”  

He nods, grins and withdraws upstairs. A moment later she hears the water start in the bathroom, then some time later, he returns in chino shorts and a tank, hair wet and with the scent of shower gel on his skin. He hoists himself up and perches on the porch rail with the kind of nimbleness that makes Scully ache with jealousy. Sitting there with his tanned, muscular limbs on show he looks all of twenty-five instead of fifty-something. “It’s Labor Day, the weather’s great,” he says. “What shall we do?”

“Have a baby?” she suggests.

“Well, yeah, there is that,” he agrees with a grin. “But what if baby’s not playing ball?”

Scully sighs. She is done with being pregnant, done to the point that any activity other than giving birth seems an unattractive option.

“I know you’re sick of this, Scully,” he says.

She makes a face. “No kidding, Mulder.”

“Yeah… No kidding. But is it better to be sick of it stuck indoors sniping at each other or sick of it outside in the sunshine with a chance of being distracted?”

Considering his suggestion, she thinks that she could quite easily hunker down here on the lounger for the rest of the day, but she can see the look in his eyes and knows that if she chooses that, he might just go anyway, without her, and that she absolutely does not want. “Okay,” she agrees.

“A walk and an ice-cream at Burke Lake?”

The idea surprises her with how good it sounds. “Yeah… Okay. You’re going to have to help me tie my shoes though.”

The lake is glorious in the early September sunshine and after she manoeuvres herself out of the car, she has to stand a moment, flexing the muscles in her back and admiring the expanse of twinkling water. Scully wonders briefly why he chose here, of all the places he could’ve picked, but can’t put her finger on a reason why. The place is sort of familiar and she figures she must have visited before with her family or maybe with Daniel or Jack – it’s the kind of place you might come with a romantic partner. He comes to stand behind her and looks out at the lake too. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” She nods. “You up for a short walk, then?”

There are other people here, but it is not as busy as she imagined it would be, so they set off on one of the flat, easy trails along the lakeside. She feels huge and ungainly and walks so slowly she is sure Mulder must be frustrated, but he seems content to fall into pace beside her. She reaches for his hand and he takes it, interlocking their fingers and then smiling down at her, his eyes obscured by sunglasses. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

They walk for a mile or so, then she has to stop. Her back is still aching and although she had thought the exercise might have helped it, it doesn’t seem to have had that effect. She perches on a boulder and rolls her shoulders, stretching herself out. Mulder leaves her alone and jogs down to edge of the river to skim stones across the gently lapping surface. “Hey,” she shouts after a few moments. “You promised me ice-cream!”

He turns and grins up at her. “I sure did, Scully. You want to head back?”

“I want ice-cream.”

On the way back to the car, Scully spots a picnic area and a kiosk selling snacks and ice cream and instructs Mulder to make good on his offer. While he goes to fulfil his duty, she wanders vaguely amongst the empty wooden tables then beyond through the parkland. She finds a shady spot beneath a tree and eases herself down onto the grass, feeling a little like a camel trying to get its awkward limbs folded in just the right way. Mulder returns with two enormous cones of ice-cream drizzled in strawberry sauce and drops down beside her. They sit and eat in silence for a while, then Mulder pauses and frowns. “You are sure about this home birth thing, aren’t you?”

She blinks and turns to him. She had guessed this was coming, in fact, she’s surprised he hasn’t said something already. It’s felt like he’s been holding back since Joy visited. “It’s just… If I’d had to place a bet on where you’d want to have this baby, it wouldn’t have been our lounge.”

She is half a breath away from snapping at him, tired and defensive as she is, then stops herself. Instead, she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Mulder, when William was born, I was surrounded by aliens, in a place I’d never seen before, with nobody I loved nearby. It was the most frightening experience of my life.” Mulder’s face is still, but his eyes are locked on hers. “I don’t know why I’ve been given this second chance, why we’ve been given this, but I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that things are as far removed from that first experience as I can make them. So I don’t want a roomful of people, and a strange hospital suite. I want home…” She reaches out to take his hand in hers. “And us.”

“Even if it’s dangerous?”

“There’s no reason to think that it will be dangerous,” she assures. “I’m fit and healthy, all the scans have shown the baby is fit and healthy too. We have Joy. We’re not hundreds of miles from civilisation with an alien threat hanging over us. I’ve done this before.”

He stares at her for a long time, then starts to nod. She smiles as she realises he is acquiescing to her wishes and squeezes his hand. He returns the gesture and then places his hand on her belly, palm flat, and holds it there. Scully watches him, remembering another time when he touched her in the same way, when she lay in a hospital bed and neither of them was sure about anything. “Home,” he says, and his voice is rough with emotion. “Us.” He leans in to kiss her, softly at first, then with a growing passion.

Breaking away, she looks around them. It is quiet but still a public place, and she can hear the distant sounds of children whooping and yelling down by the lake, the hum of a motorboat. The sun glints off faraway car windows. She hunkers closer to him and presses her mouth to his neck. “You know,” she murmurs against his skin, “they say that one of the most reliable ways to bring on labour is to have sex.”

Mulder pulls back and regards her amusedly. “Here?” She arches her brows. “My, my, Dana Scully, what has got into you? I’m not objecting, but…” Her hand closes around his crotch and his breathing hitches. “But… wow. You must really be sick of this.”

“You have no idea, Mulder,” she tells him and kisses him again. Desperation has made her bolder than she’s ever been and right now, she couldn’t care less if her priest spotted her across the parking lot.

“I’ll warn you now, Scully, I’ve had several fantasies about this.”

He bites her lip and watches, looking somewhat punch-drunk, as she straddles him, the fabric of her dress stretching and rucking up so her knees are revealed.  “Tell me about them,” she commands, and grinds down on him. Mulder’s answering groan is like fire coursing in her blood. Sex has been the last thing on her mind for months but suddenly she is consumed with aching desire. She wants him and she wants him bad.

Mulder rubs his hands up and down her thighs. “You really want to know?”

“I do,” she replies. She is rocking herself against his leg now, and she can see him through his shorts, hard like a bar. Her hands are on his button. It is crazy that she’s contemplating fucking him right here, in a public park, but her entire body seems to be humming with need for him.  

“I’ll be honest, Scully,” he says, breaking her train of thought. “Doing it outside hasn’t been in that many fantasies of mine. But…” He glances around them, listening dog-like a moment. “Making love to you somewhere where we might get caught… Now we’re talking. That one has always been high on my list.”

She’s hot now and can feel herself throbbing with eagerness. She slides his zipper down and reaches in to feel him, stroking hard from root to tip. His eyes flutter closed a moment. “Have we ever been caught?” she asks. “In these fantasies of yours?” He lifts himself and she undresses him so that he’s free. A moment later and her hand is on his cock, skin to skin, and she revels in the way his face changes. She is pretty sure she could ask him to deny that aliens exist in this moment and he’d lurch to his feet and shout it as loud as his lungs could make him.

“I did once imagine that Skinner caught us,” he says, his words made breathless by what she’s doing to him. “But all I could see after that was his face and it kind of ruined it for me. So, no, let’s say not.” He thrusts into her hand. “Is there anybody about?”

“Not a soul,” she tells him with a smile and eases up his body. His hands reach and pull aside her panties so he can push inside her. “Now shut up and fuck me, Mulder.”

And he does.

Later, they lie curled up together in the haze of orgasmic bliss, alternately kissing and dozing. He strokes her belly and teases for more until she has to push him away because her back is driving her mad now. He pouts a little, but relents and uses the rejection to rise to his feet, button himself back up and stretch. “Why here, Mulder?” she asks him as he holds out his hand and pulls her to standing. “It’s lovely, but there were lots of other places we could have gone – fireworks displays, outdoor parties, concerts…”

They start to walk back towards his car.  

“You don’t remember, Scully?”

“Remember what?”

“Long time ago… eighteen years ago, actually. I came here on a lead. There’d been a bigfoot sighting in the woods on the other side of the lake – it was a load of bull, but it was something to do on a Saturday afternoon. And you called me and we talked about stuff. We made arrangements to go for dinner that evening.” He looks down at her, his smile years away and drifting on the recollections of memory. “And when we finished up talking, just before you hung up, you told me you loved me.”

She can’t help the grin that breaks on her face. “So I’ve never even been here before?”

“Well, no, I guess not.”

A laugh burbles out of her. Mulder looks wounded.

“It’s not that funny. It’s a special place to me.”

“Oh Mulder,” she giggles, “that is so perfectly you.”

“The hazards of a eidetic memory…” He holds out his hand and she takes it. “Come on, let’s go home. We can pick up a pizza on the way back.”

They take a detour into DC to get her favourite pizza and while they’re waiting for their order, watch as a fireworks display over the Potomac kicks off. He suggests taking the pizza and going to listen to the National Symphony Orchestra on the West Lawn but she’s been before and so has he and all she really wants now is to get home, take off her too-tight sneakers, put on her pyjamas and feast on garlic stuffed crust double pepperoni and mushroom pizza.

So he takes her home and juggles the pizza in one hand as he offers the other to her to help her out of the car. The light is failing now and after he dumps the pizza on the coffee table, he goes around flicking lamps on while she climbs wearily upstairs to dress for bed.

She’s at the top of the stairs in her pyjamas when she feels a popping sensation in her abdomen and seconds later, fluid pours down her legs and onto the floor. Scully starts and takes a step backwards, gasping involuntarily as she observes the puddle she is now standing in. “Mulder!” she shouts.

“Yeah?” he calls back from the kitchen.

“I need some help here.”

He appears at the bottom of the stairs, beer bottle in hand and frowns up at her. “What’s the matter?”

“Um… I need a cloth, I think.” She looks down at the pool on the floor. She feels a bit dislocated, like she’s hovering above her body and watching rather than actually being here.  

“Oh,” he says, realising. “Okay, um. Yeah.”

Mulder makes a move to go up the stairs, then seems to remember he has a beer bottle in his hand and goes back down, darts into the kitchen and returns with a roll of kitchen towel. Working with an obvious sense of panic, he mops up the pool of fluid then looks up at her. “Are you okay?”

“Mm… Yeah?” She frowns as her abdomen tightens in a clear and obvious contraction. “Ohhh, I think this is it, Mulder.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course it is. I, er… I’ll call Joy. Can you get downstairs okay?”

She nods and, gripping the bannister, she descends slowly. Another contraction hits as she takes the final step and she balks, groaning. Things are happening faster than before, she thinks. That was just about thirty seconds between contractions. She’s about to open her mouth and explain this to Mulder, when he appears in front of her, pale-faced. “Scully, I’m making my panic face. Joy’s not answering. Her phone is going to answer machine. I’ve, I’ve left a message, but I don’t know what else to do. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“No!” she barks and Mulder flinches. She does not want an ambulance, because ambulances take you to only one place, the ER, and there is no way she is having this baby on a gurney in the ER. “No,” she repeats, steadier. “Keep trying Joy. She’s maybe out at some kind of party and can’t hear her phone.” Drawing in a deep breath and feeling her uterus relax, she adds, “We’ve got time. This isn’t happening right away.”

Mulder nods. He looks a little lost, which strikes her as vaguely amusing. A man who has faced mutants and alien bounty hunters and serial killers is overcome by the prospect of the birth of his own child. She reaches out a hand and pats his arm in what she hopes is a comforting gesture. “It’s going to be fine, Mulder. We got this.”

“Hm, yeah, you got this, Scully. Me? I’m not so sure. I’ve never delivered a baby before.”

“You won’t have to. Joy will answer her phone soon.”

Her belly tightens again and this time she has to close her eyes with the strength of it. How long was that apart, she thinks. “Mulder, you’ve got to time the contractions. I need to know how far apart they are.”

“Okay. Okay, I can do that.” He pulls up his sleeve and glances at his watch.

“And we need to fill the pool with water.”

Thirty minutes later and the pool is inflated and filling with water. Mulder, happy to have some distraction to keep him busy, is standing over it in a slightly proprietorial manner, watching the water rising up the sides. “You going straight in, Scully?” he asks, turning to see her in the grip of another contraction. She nods, breathing too hard to reply. She’s been walking about the lounge and kitchen, stopping only when contractions hit. Sweat is pearling on her brow and she reaches up a hand to wipe it away. She’s naked but for one of his t-shirts, her hair scraped back in a scruffy ponytail. It’s undignified, for sure, but right now, she couldn’t care less.

She climbs over the side of the pool and sinks down in the water, the t-shirt darkening. It’s warm and soothing and when the next contraction grips her, it feels a little less like she’s being held by a vice. “Have you tried Joy again?” she asks.

“Still the same.”

Scully closes her eyes and wills calm to embrace her. It’s all right, everything is fine, she can do this. Mulder can do this. She does her best not to see the anxiety behind his eyes. “We need to think of what to do if she doesn’t answer.”

Mulder takes a deep breath. “It’s pretty clear what needs to be done, isn’t it? Either I help you, or we call an ambulance. And since you seem quite against the latter option, I guess it’s you and me, Scully.”

She hums her way through another contraction, shifting position in the pool. “It’s not going to be long, Mulder.”

And it isn’t.

Forty minutes later, the contractions are unrelenting and she’s feeling an intense need to push; Mulder is behind her, hands on her shoulders, his voice in her ear, coaxing, urging, breathing with her.

It’s coming.

She can feel it in her very centre.

She shouts his name, gets up on her knees and holds his arms, vice-like, desperate. He’s still as a rock. She leans forward, presses her forehead to his, breathes his air. “Push, Scully,” he tells her. “Come on, you’re doing this. Push.”  

Behind them, the door clicks and in walks Joy, but neither of them notice. With one last, tremendous effort, the baby is born and Scully looks down to see the water blooming pink and twists around. Joy lifts the tiny body from the water and the air is instantly filled with that beautiful sound of a newborn cry. “Here you go, Mama, take your baby.”

Scully brings the squawking, bluish child to her chest and laughs deliriously, her eyes filling with sudden tears. “Oh my God, Mulder, look…”

She looks up at him and the wonder on his face is worth every hardship she’s ever endured. “She’s beautiful,” he whispers. He kisses the top of her head, then with his thumb, strokes the wet, dark hair on the baby’s forehead.

“What you going to call her?” Joy asks from the side-lines.

Their eyes lock. “Ellen,” replies Mulder. “Ellen Margaret.”

“Ellen Margaret Mulder,” Joy repeats. “Born on Labor Day 2018.”

“Kid’s already got a sense of the apt.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here earlier,” explains Joy, reaching into her bag. “I was at the concert on the West Lawn. It was just by chance that I checked my phone and realised I’d put the ringer on silent. What an ass I am!” She stands with hands on hips beside the pool, smiling down at them. “But look at the three of you! What a bit of teamwork! You going to cut the cord, Dad? Then you can hold her if you like, while I sort Mom out.”

Mulder looks at Scully and smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.” She can tell he’s nervous and that he’s thinking back to that time in her apartment all those years ago, when he first held William, only to have to run and leave him mere days later. For his sake, she wants him to hold this child and never have to let go. She wants it too, but for Mulder, even more.

Joy clamps the cord, waits a moment, then instructs him to cut. “There we go,” she says. “Good job, guys. You’re an independent being now, Miss Ellen. You go on to your Daddy now while we get your Mama all cleaned up.”

Leaning down and taking the naked baby, Mulder wraps her in a soft muslin blanket. He cuddles her into his body and Scully thinks that her heart might explode from the look on his face. She’s seen this scene in her head over and over, in a thousand dreams and daytime fantasies. Sometimes the baby is William, other times she’s been unsure whether the baby is even hers. But every time, it’s been the smile on his lips that has remained with her, long after the rest of the vision has gone. And so she watches, and takes it all in… the silence in the room, the tick of the ancient clock in Mulder’s study, the creak of the floors as he waltzes aimlessly about the lounge, the softness of the light and the gentle sounds of a newborn baby, the murmur of his voice as he breathes words of love in her tiny ear, and as she watches, the undimming smile on Mulder’s face.      

 The End.

[all-gabs-bloomic-fanfics]

Warning Tags

Note: NOT ALL of my fanfics will have each of the content warnings listed here; it varies per fanfic.

I'm just providing this list so you know whether to add them to your filter settings here on Tumblr.

#CW: foul language

#CW: name-calling

#CW: past violence

#CW: assault

#CW: stalking

#CW: mentions of cheating

#CW: implied sexual content

#CW: laughter

#CW: affirmations

#CW: asystemic optimism - explanation: Systemic pessimism is not something easily solved by being told, "you're worthy," etc. because personal/asystemic pessimism isn't the problem. Personal/asystemic optimism may address personal pessimism (e.g. lack of confidence in oneself) but not systemic pessimism (i.e. lack of confidence in policies and how things work) and may put the affected person in a position of reassuring those around them while glossing over their concern. A concrete example: Quest's problem in There's an Elephant in the Room and It's as Big as Quest isn't just that he "lacks confidence" or "hasn't forgiven himself;" it's that there's a very real prejudice/stigma against his past. Reducing the systemic problem to a personal/asystemic one not only leaves the issue unsolved, but also makes it a non-issue (invalidated) and tends to make the troubled person ironically take the role of comforting the asystemic optimist.

Is there a tag not listed here? You can try to pre-empt it since my CW tags follow the same format:

#CW: inexperienced optimism - explanation: Inexperienced optimism is optimism coming from someone who hasn't been in the character's shoes. For example, it's easy to tell someone it will be okay if you aren't suffering in the same specific way they are. Do I recommend blocking this tag? Not really, unless you relate to the main character of the story, or you dislike inexperienced optimism in general. For example, if reader A has never been convicted, they'll see the server interaction as cute and wholesome. But if reader B has been convicted and gotten discriminated for it, it might not be as wholesome for them. At the same time, reader A might not appreciate inexperienced optimism regarding relationships while reader B does. If either reader blocks the tag, they might miss out on something that's not even disturbing for them. CW: inexperienced optimism is a general warning tag, not independent of context. I'd make specific sub-tags (e.g. CW: inexperienced optimism: crime) but either I need more fanfic to use that tag on, or just have statistically considerable reach.

#CW: detached optimism - explanation: It's similar to inexperienced optimism, but this time it's from someone who was in the character's shoes a long time ago. When time passes, wounds are no longer fresh, pain no longer stings. So even though you have been there once, you're no longer emotionally familiar with the situation. You might remember feeling sad in the past, but you're not feeling sad remembering that you were sad. You're detached. This is how detached optimism can be disturbing content.

#CW[colon][space][disturbing content], or

#CW[colon][space]mentions[space]of[disturbing content]

Note that "mentions" is plural, not singular, regardless of how many mention/s there are/is of whatever content.

Did you add a tag to your filtered words but it's not being used on the blog? You can suggest tags via asks. Don't forget to specify the specific fanfic/s you think the tag should be on, or whether it's a general suggestion. Especially if you have a somewhat niche trigger, take advantage of the anonymous ask feature. IDC if you're open about the things that affect you; anonymous ask is there, so just use it.

[jestbee]

June 10: Three Sleepless Nights With Dan

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Floating, Pt13

Word Count: 3128 Tags: @medicatemedrmccoy, @from-kitten-to-kitsune @suzen23smith @outside-the-government @sistasarah-sallysaidso @nymphadora-blurryface @bluebird214

Katie slipped under the covers and snuggled into my side, just like she’d done when she was a little girl. I lifted my arm and settled it over her, drifting back off to sleep without waking fully. In the morning, I gave her a squeeze and shoved her away. She was suffocating me with her heat.

“You can’t do that every night, Katie,” I yawned. She stretched out and nodded.

“First night jitters, Mama,” she agreed.

“Are you sure you’re okay getting to the education centre on your own?” I asked as I sat up at the side of the bed, scrubbing my hand across my face.

“Of course, Mama! I’m not a baby anymore!” She sounded so exasperated that I realized she really wasn’t.

“Then get your tush out of my bed and make me a coffee while I shower,” I teased. She groaned and got up. I made sure she ate breakfast and had her supplies for school before collecting my own things for my day.

“So are you coming for me after shift, or do I come to you?” She asked for what felt like the millionth time. I sighed.

“You come to me,” I replied. “Comm me if you need anything.”

I looked down at the message on my comm and frowned. It was cryptic and poorly spelled. Katie wasn’t normally that way. I didn’t have much of a chance to puzzle through it, as she came through the doors in Mr. Yim’s arms. I dropped my comm and my PADD and ran to the nearest biobed.

“Here, Jung!” I gestured to the bed and he made directly toward it, placing Katie down gentle on it. She was clutching her arm, but frightningly silent. And filthy. Covered head to toe in filth. And smelled suspiciously like a campfire. “What happened?”

“Well, we were testing the combustive properties of various chemicals and apparently the bromine was mislabeled,” Mr. Yim answered. I started cutting Katie’s clothes away from her arm.

“Just the arm?” I asked. “Bromine isn’t normally combustible, what was in the container?”

“Not sure at this point. It extinguished easily with a chemical suppressant and is not continuing to burn, but Katie is already a little shocky,” he offered. He rattled off the assessment he’d done at the education centre, and I focussed on what he was saying as I ran the scanner across her arm.

“I’m going to need to know what it is.” I looked across the room until I saw Christine. “Chapel, I need a burn kit.”

“Dermaline gel or the regenerator?” She asked, opening the supply cupboard.

“Bring both,” I called. She grabbed the dermal regenerator from the cupboard and stopped at the med room for the gel while I gave Katie a pain control hypo. “You’re going to be fine, Katie-cat.”

“It hurts so much I can’t breathe,” she whispered. I looked at Chapel, who nodded and popped an oxygen mask on Katie’s face. I tried to breathe through my mouth. The smell of seared flesh had always bothered me, and was made worse by it being Katie.

“Lay back and breathe, sweetheart, your mom has got you.” Christine smoothed her hand across Katie’s forehead. I cleaned the wound and applied the dermaline gel to the worst part of the burn. Katie shrieked when the gel touched her skin. It was reassuring that she was feeling pain, but the sound knifed into my heart and I struggled to blink back tears.

“This is going to take some time to work, my love,” I murmured. “I’m going to put you to sleep for a bit.” I gave her another hypo to sedate her and went back to work, smoothing the pink gel across the skin. Once the worst burn was coated, I went to work with the dermal regenerator healing the lesser, minor burns. I was just assessing the skin beyond Katie’s arm when I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder.

“You should not be treating your daughter, Doctor Erikssen.” McCoy’s voice was stern, and I looked up at him in confusion. He only ever called me doctor when he was trying to be professional. And that was fairly rare.

“You were meeting with the captain, Doctor McCoy. Who else could have -”

“You could have had Chapel comm me,” he interrupted. “Step aside, I’ll take over.” I felt my hackles go up and and I turned to face him, placing the regenerator on the tray table beside me.

“Doctor McCoy, I am perfectly capable -”

“You are her mother. If for no other reason, recognize that I am more experienced at treating,” he paused and looked at the burns on her arm, “nitrogen burns than you are.”

I sighed and stood up, handing the dermaline gel tube to him. “I’m not leaving.”

“I didn’t say you had to,” he snapped. I moved to Katie’s other side, and held her limp hand in mine. I felt a wave of nausea hit me as the adrenaline of treating her started to ebb. The smell of the burned flesh combined with the chemical scent of the gel to become even worse than it initially had been, and I gagged. Leonard looked up at me with a raised eyebrow and softened. I felt a little lightheaded, and imagined I was probably kind of pale, and dropped my head on the biobed.

We stayed like that for hours, Katie sedated on the biobed and me holding her uninjured hand, head laid down beside her. I had somehow already failed her, and she’d only been mine again for a day. Regret washed over me and I wondered if I’d made the right decision, bringing her out into the black. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up into Jim’s concerned blue eyes.

“Bones told me you haven’t moved in hours,” he started.

“I don’t want to leave her.” My voice was dry and cracked with the words. Jim nodded.

“Let’s get you fed. Christine has offered to stay with her, and Bones is planning on keeping her asleep. She’ll never know you were gone.” He laced his fingers in mine and pulled me to my feet.

“I don’t know.” I looked between him and Katie, eyes lingering on my little girl, sleeping peacefully. Her arm was already looking better.

“Captain’s orders,” he insisted. “Come along, Lieutenant.”

I allowed Jim to lead me out of Medbay and down to the commissary. We ate, mostly in silence, not speaking until he brushed a tear from my cheek. “You can’t blame yourself for this.”

“She’s been here one day, Jim,” I countered. “One day.”

“It was just as likely to happen with your parents as it was here.” He was trying to comfort me.

“But that’s the point. No matter where she is, it’s my fault,” I sighed.

“Bryn, Katie is a gifted child. I saw her records. She was going to a science academy this year, regardless of where you wound up. That accident could have happened anywhere. We just need to be grateful it wasn’t worse.” Jim squeezed my hand as he spoke. I flicked at my food and sighed again.

“I’m not really hungry, Jim,” I admitted.

“I don’t know what to say to make you feel better, Bryn,” he shrugged. “But this wasn’t your fault.”

“I appreciate the effort,” I smiled. It was the first real conversation that we’d had, and I thought it was a good start. “I think I’ll go check on her though.”

McCoy glared at me as I walked back into Medbay and took my seat at Katie’s bedside. I picked up her chart and started reading. He snatched it right back out of my hands before I got past my last notes.

“I’m pretty sure I told Jim to keep you away for at least an hour,” he grumbled. “And as you are not her doctor, but her parent, you can’t be looking at her chart. You know that.”

“I am -”

“Not working as a doctor right now,” Leonard interrupted. “So take a deep breath and just be Mama.”

“I hate you,” I grumbled. He smiled.

“Good. That means I’m doing my job.” He winked and squeezed my shoulder. “You don’t have to like me, you just have to trust me.”

“You already know I trust you with my life,” I argued.

“Then trust me with hers,” he chided. His tone softened. “This isn’t a bad injury, Bryn. It’s just a time-consuming and painful treatment.”

“I know.”

“Then go get some actual rest. I’ll comm you at the first sign she’s coming out of sedation,” he ordered. I glared at him again, but went back to my quarters and took a shower, and changed into a clean uniform. I tried to stay away, and prove to him that I did trust him, but I was drawn back to Medbay before the start of Gamma shift. I held up my hand to stop him from chastising me and just sat in the chair at Katie’s bedside.

“I swear, I’m not going to interfere, but I can’t stay away,” I pre-empted him. He nodded.

“Mama, I’m fine!” Katie protested as I fussed over her. Leonard had discharged her when the burn was nearly completely healed, and I had been assessing her range of motion and level of pain every morning since. “It’s been a week. I’m fine. You need to trust Uncle Bones.”

“Uncle Bones?” I laughed. “When did you start calling him that?”

“He asked me to come in every day after your shift so he can check on me without worrying you. I probably was not supposed to tell you that. Anyhow, a few days ago, Jim came in looking for you. So he talked to Uncle Bones about me and you, and kept calling him Bones. It’s the best nickname ever,” she explained. “But he’s grumpy and fussy like Pops is, and it just felt right to call him uncle. Like I call Kara auntie.”

“And is he okay with that?” I questioned.

“He hasn’t told me not to?” She asked back. “He kinda seems the type that would tell me to stop, you know?”

“He definitely is.”

“I like him, Mama. He gives great hugs and -”

“You hugged him?” I was astonished. He was always so uncomfortable when I threw my arms around him. And I’d done it to him a lot. I got a somewhat perverse pleasure from making him squirm, so any time I thought a situation called for a hug, I would wrap my arms around him.

“He hugged me,” she corrected. “And he’s good at it. He gives Dad hugs.”

“Dad hugs?”

“The kind of hug you give, only he’s a guy, so it’s a Dad hug.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Honestly, Mama, keep up.��

I sat back and watched her finish getting ready for school. After her accident, she hadn’t even hesitated to go back and try more experiments. She had waved off my concern with a nonchalance that I initially thought was foolhardy, but really had been quite brave. She hadn’t got that from me. I’d been carefully avoiding my anti-grav drills with Leonard since my panic attack. She was an excellent lesson in determination, and I realized that I was learning more from her than she might be learning from me. It was time to face my fears and emulate my ten-year-old’s behaviour. I rose from the couch and kissed her forehead.

“You’re okay getting to class?” I asked, as I did every morning.

“Mama!”

“Have a good day.” I gave her a squeeze and headed to Medbay. Leonard was already at his desk, reading his PADD. I couldn’t see a cup, so I made us both coffees and headed into his office.

“Katie thinks you’re awesome,” I offered, putting the cup down in front of him. He glanced up, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” he muttered.

“She said you give Dad hugs,” I pressed on. His cheeks flushed, just a little.

“She’s a good girl,” he deflected.

“Are you available tonight for an anti-grav drill?” I asked. He hadn’t pressed my avoidance, like he somehow sensed it was too much. His head shot up in surprise, and he put the PADD down on the desk.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Katie’s got plans to work on some robotics thing with a couple of the other kids tonight, so I’m free,” I offered.

“And you don’t want to spend that time with Jim?” He asked.

“I’d like to face this fear again before it becomes insurmountable,” I explained. He nodded.

“Okay. I have time.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bones,” I teased with a wink. He rolled his eyes.

“No.”

“I think it’s cute.”

“From Katie, sure,” he agreed. “Not from you. Go check on Ensign McKay.”

I forced myself to stay busy all shift to keep my mind off the drill, and keep my anxieties at bay. Katie and I went for a run when she got in from school, an activity I’d only just learned she enjoyed. Keeping up with her definitely kept my mind off the drill. I let her have the shower first so she could get ready for her study group, and then dragged myself through the sonic myself. We headed to the education centre together.

“How late do you figure you’ll be?” I asked.

“A few hours at least. We’re building fighting robots,” she explained.

“And this is for school?”

“It’s basic robotics, Mama.” She rolled her eyes. “If we can make these robots, we get to move on to trying out our skills robots. I’m going to start with a housebot that will change sheets and make beds.”

“Okay, comm me when you are done.” I watched her run to her friends and start talking excitedly about their plans. Mr. Yim stepped over to me and smiled.

“She’s fitting in well, and she’s exceptionally bright,” he started. “She may qualify for early entry to the academy if she keeps this up.”

“Well, we’ve got a few years before we need to be concerned with that,” I laughed.

“Now’s the time to start, Doctor Erikssen,” he contradicted me. “She could go at thirteen or fourteen.”

I sighed and felt my mouth turn down. “But I just got her back,” I sighed.

“The sooner she goes, the sooner she can come back as an officer.” He winked. “You’re right. She’s got a few years before the option opens. But with your permission, I would like to challenge her as much as she can manage. Because she is bright enough.”

“Is there anyone on board who was an early entry?” I asked. “It would be nice to talk to someone who’s experienced being that young at the academy. For me and for Katie.”

“I’ll try to find out for you.” He agreed. I excused myself and made my way to level seven to meet Bones. He was looking at the time on his comm when I stepped off the turbolift.

“You’re sure about this? You’re late.”

“I was talking to Jung Yim about Katie.” I nodded. “She’s doing well.”

“She’s very bright,” he agreed.

“It’s only been a week,” I protested.

“She’s very bright, Bryn,” he laughed. “Come on.”

I followed him to the cargo hold and waited for the gravity to turn off. I took a deep breath when Scotty’s voice informed us the gravity was going off, and closed my eyes. I forced myself to think about swimming instead of the gravity being gone, and the nausea wasn’t quite as extreme. I opened my eyes and saw Leonard staring at me. I took another deep breath and pulled myself forward like I was doing a breaststroke from one side of the room to the other. Every time I felt a wave of vertigo or panic, I stopped, closed my eyes and breathed until everything started to settle. I was halfway back across when Scotty’s voice warned us that the gravity was coming back on. I felt the panic well up inside me.

“Trust physics. Trust physics. Trust physics.” I repeated it over and over and over, my voice barely above a whisper, my eyes squeezed tight shut. I let out a startled squeak as I felt myself moving faster than I thought I should be. “Trust physics. Trust physics. Trust physics.” I must have been saying it louder than I realized because suddenly Leonard was holding my hand. The tips of my toes grazed the floor, and I opened my eyes and looked down right as my feet settled completely. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and then felt a wave of triumph wash over me.

“That was much better,” Leonard commented, letting go of my hand like it was on fire. I looked down at my feet and up at the ceiling of the cargo hold in wonder. Then back to my feet. Then at Leonard.

“That was fucking horrible!” I exclaimed. “But I didn’t die!”

“If you can keep your shit together consistently, maybe we can consider a medbay simulation.” Leonard was getting ahead of himself. I laughed, still giddy from my first success.

“How about we see if I can do this a second time before you start planning the scary shit?” I asked. “Now gimme a Dad hug!” I threw my arms around him and he pulled me in close, resting his head on the top of mine. I laid my cheek on his chest and sighed, content.

“You should try to catch up with Jim while you have some time.” His voice rumbled against my cheek. I leaned back, still in the circle of his arms, and smiled up at him.

“You’re a good man, Leonard McCoy,” I told him. He rolled his eyes.

“Hardly. But I’ll take the compliment while you still think so,” he retorted. I shook my head and turned out of the hug. I checked my comm for messages from Katie, saw that I had none and sent one to check in with her. I got a short response from her that basically told me she was having too much fun to be worried about how long she was going to be. I send Jim a quick message to see if he wanted to meet for a drink and was gratified by an near instant response inviting me to his quarters, which was followed almost as quickly with a response that he would he happy to meet me at the cantina for drinks if that was what I preferred. I had already selected his level on the turbolift and just kept on course. He opened the door and smiled, gesturing for me to enter.

[feedbaylenny]

First, I want to go thank and apologize to everyone who read my last post. It was way too long. Yes, it contained what I think was good information on several subjects. It happened to be on a snow day and I had nothing better to do then let out some of what I was thinking. It took a good ten hours, but I learned how to use gifs to make the radar show the storm in action in the beginning, and the white leaving Philadelphia at the end.

A lot of what takes so long is gathering all the tags and categories. If you saw the old sitemap page on this site, I had to keep a list of new categories, then publish and go through those new categories you see below the post. I had to physically cut and paste them on the sitemap page, in alphabetical order. The links did come along, but I decided since you already get that on the bottom right (if you’re reading on a desktop, and the very bottom, if not), then I can get rid of that page to save time. That was just a duplicate, so that’s what I did.

Also since that last post, I made changes on the right side (again, if you’re reading on a desktop, and below the posts if not). First, I changed some of the headings and got rid of the link to that sitemap page.

Second, I added a Category Cloud that WordPress is now offering. It shows the 30 categories I’ve used the most. The more I use a category, the bigger it looks. I can’t say I’m very proud of what I’ve written so far, based on the categories I’ve used, if this Category Cloud is correct.

(There is no list of tags but I can assure you, the search box will find anything that has been used in a post. WordPress’ search capability is much, much better than Lakana’s for both users and behind-the-scenes people. Surprisingly, at WTXF-Fox 29, we’ve had to use Google searches to find articles we, ourselves, wrote!)

Third, I really improved weather\ and it actually updates on its own!

  While on the subject of extras on this blog, I also don’t know why the Twitter feed doesn’t appear on tablets, but am looking into it.

I don’t really want to be remembered by writing about a job I had, no matter how good it was. There are other parts of life. Of course, TV news is something that I’d been interested in since I was a child and studied it on my own, from growing up through college and to this day. Then, two years after college, I finally got my first job in the field and spent my career — minus the eight years I took teaching — in news, so it’s natural I will write about that a lot.

That’s a good segue to the headline of today’s post. The Sinclair attempt to buy Tribune has really been bothering me. I don’t know what you think, but I know what you should think. I’ve seen veteran journalists at stations being bought by Sinclair leaving for the competition, stations in other cities, or just retiring so they could keep the benefits they’ve earned at the other company.

Instructions from Corporate (thanks to Esquire):

“Please produce the attached scripts exactly as they are written. This copy has been thoroughly tested and speaks to our Journalistic Responsibility as advocates to seek the truth on behalf of the audience.”

Millions of Americans will soon be watching promotions that begin with one or two anchors introducing themselves and saying,

Script:

“I’m [we are] extremely proud of the quality, balanced journalism that [proper news brand name of local station] produces. But I’m [we are] concerned about the troubling trend of irresponsible, one sided news stories plaguing our country.”

“The sharing of biased and false news has become all too common on social media. More alarming, national media outlets are publishing these same fake stories without checking facts first. Unfortunately, some members of the national media are using their platforms to push their own personal bias and agenda to control ‘exactly what people think’ … This is extremely dangerous to our democracy.”

Then the anchors are supposed to strike a more positive tone and say that their local station pursues the truth.

“We understand Truth is neither politically ‘left or right.’ Our commitment to factual reporting is the foundation of our credibility, now more than ever.”

CNN reports, “Internal documents call the new initiative an ‘anchor delivered journalistic responsibility message.'”

But some TV news anchors forced to read it at Sinclair’s 173 stations said, * “At my station, everyone was uncomfortable doing it,” * “so manipulative” and * “I felt like a POW recording a message.”

Also according to CNN, “The instructions sent to station news directors say that the 60- and 75-second spots should run frequently ‘to create maximum reach and frequency.'”

  It’s apparently the brainchild of Scott Livingston, the company’s senior vice president of news. Last year, he starred in an almost identical one. This year, the local news anchors get even more attention.

He wrote in a statement to CNN:

“Promo messages, like the one you are referring to, are very common in our industry. … “This promo addresses the troubling trend of false stories on social media [Livingston’s emphasis], and distinguishes our trusted local stations as news destinations where we are committed to honest and accurate reporting. This promo reminds our viewers of this mission.”

Then CNN reports, “After this story was published, Livingston sent CNN another copy of the script. It had one big difference: The word ‘national’ was missing. Instead, it said ‘some media outlets’ publish ‘fake stories.’

You work so hard on something and then realize there’s something wrong with it.

Wait. It gets worse.

CNN says another document went into great detail about how the promos “should look and sound.”

“Talent should dress in jewel tones — however they should not look political in their dress or attire. … Avoid total red, blue and purples dresses and suits. Avoid totally red, blue and purple ties, the goal is to look apolitical, neutral, nonpartisan yet professional. Black or charcoal suits for men…females should wear yellow, gold, magenta, cyan, but avoid red, blue or purple.”

CNN concludes its description with,

“At the end of the promo, viewers are encouraged to send in feedback ‘if you believe our coverage is unfair’ and ‘Corporate will monitor the comments and send replies to your audience on your behalf,’ so ‘In other words, local stations are cut out of the interactions with viewers. Management will handle it instead.'”

This is just indicative of the type of company Sinclair is. I strongly feel TV stations are there to serve the public interest. They use the public airwaves and therefore the rules are different. TV stations should be run by their general managers who live in and are part of the community. And this is exactly the opposite.

Google Maps: 76.6 miles to Philadelphia, just 45.0 miles to New York (Lower Manhattan)

So should other department heads like news directors. At least one in the Philadelphia market lives in the northern half of Monmouth County, which looks right up at New York. If cities and states can have residency requirements, I think there should be one here, too — not for the financial reasons governments have, but to live among the citizens and serve them better. I wonder whether people in the neighborhood watch New York or Philadelphia TV (if they even get both), and whether they care more about New York or Philadelphia issues and events.

It shouldn’t matter much whether GMs come from the sales side or the news side, as long as they’re serving the public interest. There should be hardly any interference from a major corporation’s headquarters.

Sinclair ordered all of its ABC stations not to air April 30, 2004’s episode of Nightline in which Ted Koppel read the names of the more than U.S. troops killed in action in the Iraq war, while their pictures are shown to viewers. According to CNN, ABC News said in a statement:

“We respectfully disagree with Sinclair’s decision to pre-empt ‘Nightline’s’ tribute to America’s fallen soldiers. …The Nightline broadcast is an expression of respect which simply seeks to honor those who have laid down their lives for this country.”

Sinclair saw it differently. In the same article, CNN wrote the Sinclair group put a statement online that said the Nightline program

“appears to be motivated by a political agenda designed to undermine the efforts of the United States in Iraq. … Mr. Koppel and Nightline are hiding behind this so-called tribute in an effort to highlight only one aspect of the war effort and in doing so to influence public opinion against the military action in Iraq.”

It also quoted Sinclair general counsel Barry Faber confirming his company told its ABC affiliates not to air the program because, “We find it to be contrary to public interest.”

Of course, those TV stations not airing the program the rest of the country got to see got many complaints from people who could not.

ABC said it aired the names and pictures of all those killed during the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, on the first anniversary.

The CNN article found,

“According to campaign finance records, four of Sinclair’s top executives each have given the maximum campaign contribution of $2,000 to the Bush-Cheney re-election campaign. The executives have not given any donations to the campaign of Sen. John Kerry, the presumptive Democratic nominee, the records showed.”

Keep in mind this was more than six months before the election.

Sinclair should not have the right to do what it did. The decision should’ve been made on the local level. It appears Sinclair’s owners are far right-wingers using their assets (and our airwaves) to get what they want politically. That’s not the public interest.

Looking back at that same election, The Seattle Times wrote in 2013,

“Most notoriously, the company ordered its stations to air a documentary critical of Democratic presidential candidate John Kerry right before the 2004 election. … After an uproar, the stations ended up airing just a few minutes of the documentary, Stolen Honor: Wounds That Never Heal, as well as excerpts from a pro-Kerry documentary and interviews with veterans.”

But Sinclair did not care to learn. It fired Washington bureau chief and reporter Jon Leiberman for publicly questioning the company’s decision to air it! The article continued,

“In 2010, several Sinclair stations aired an infomercial about President Obama intended to sway voters in midterm elections. The 25-minute piece, funded by a Republican political-action group, said Obama “displays tendencies some would call socialist” and claimed the president had accepted campaign donations from Middle Eastern terrorist organizations.

“In 2012, on the Monday before the election, viewers in some swing states found their nightly news or other programs replaced on Sinclair channels by an ‘election special’ produced by Sinclair that was biased against Democrats.”

Pretty sneaky! Like those examples weren’t “to influence public opinion,” as Sinclair said about Nightline way back in 2004?

The Seattle newspaper article, more than eight years after Sinclair was forced to cave in on the Kerry documentary controversy, came as Sinclair was preparing to buy that city’s ABC affiliate, along with Fisher Broadcasting’s other stations.

The article back then added,

“Even without the Fisher stations, Sinclair is the largest independent TV broadcaster in the country, according to its website.”

So who has been running Sinclair the whole time? The article reports, “The company’s top executives are the four sons of Sinclair founder Julian Sinclair Smith.” He died in 1993, but he and his family incorporated Sinclair Broadcast Group earlier, in 1986, and one of his four sons, David, became CEO in 1988.

SIDEBAR: The Baltimore Sun reported David Smith was arrested “and charged with committing a perverted sex act in a company-owned Mercedes” in August, 1996. It happened “in an undercover sting at Read and St. Paul streets, a downtown corner frequented by prostitutes.” Smith and Mary DiPaulo “were charged with committing unnatural and perverted sex act.” Police said “they witnessed the two engage in oral sex while Smith drove north” on Baltimore’s Jones Falls Expressway. Neither Sinclair nor its local flagship station WBFF-45 would comment.

People in the media have lost jobs over less. It looks like Smith used his power and influence to keep most of the media quiet. How do you think Sinclair would have handled another company’s executive in a similar situation?

BACK TO BUSINESS: The Seattle Times article described the four sons.

“They have contributed thousands to the Republican National Committee and conservative candidates, even forming a political-action group more than a decade ago to donate to the campaigns of former President George W. Bush and Sen. John McCain, R-Arizona, among others.”

That said, I should note McCain was angry at the company’s 2004 decision forcing its ABC stations to preempt Nightline due to our victims in Iraq. The CNN article reported McCain, a Vietnam veteran and prisoner of war, wrote in a letter to David Smith:

“Your decision to deny your viewers an opportunity to be reminded of war’s terrible costs, in all their heartbreaking detail, is a gross disservice to the public, and to the men and women of the United States Armed Forces. … It is, in short, sir, unpatriotic. I hope it meets with the public opprobrium it most certainly deserves.”

There is no more Fairness Doctrine, which from 1949 to 1987 required the broadcast license holders to present controversial issues of public importance, and to do so in a manner that was honest, equitable, and balanced. Turns out, the FCC ended it because it supposedly violated those owners’ First Amendment rights! In other words, to hell with the public and their airwaves.

Even without the Fairness Doctrine formally, what it stood for should be maintained. Good journalism requires both sides to be heard on an important issue.

(To avoid confusion, the equal-time rule deals only with political candidates and has been around, in one form or another, since 1927.)

These days, you can continue to call Sinclair the king of the “must-runs,” which The New York Times reported this May arrive every day at its TV stations. The paper defined them as

“short video segments that are centrally produced by the company. Station managers around the country are directed to work them into the broadcast over a period of 24 or 48 hours.”

So much for local control over content! The Times gave these examples:

“Since November 2015, Sinclair has ordered its stations to run a daily segment from a ‘Terrorism Alert Desk’ with updates on terrorism-related news around the world. During the election campaign last year, it sent out a package that suggested in part that voters should not support Hillary Clinton because the Democratic Party was historically pro-slavery. More recently, Sinclair asked stations to run a short segment in which Scott Livingston, the company’s vice president for news, accused the national news media of publishing ‘fake news stories.’”

Does this sound rational or unnerving?

Then, the article mentioned that Seattle station the company bought less than five years ago.

“Eight current and former KOMO employees described a newsroom where some have chafed at Sinclair’s programming directives, especially the must-runs, which they view as too politically tilted and occasionally of poor quality. They also cited features like a daily poll, which they believe sometimes asks leading questions.

“The journalists at KOMO described small acts of rebellion, like airing the segments at times of low viewership or immediately before or after commercial breaks so they blend in with paid spots. They all spoke on condition of anonymity, citing fear of reprisal from the company.

“Those interviewed said that being on the other side of the country from the corporate headquarters outside Baltimore gave them some breathing room. But not always.

“In late 2013, for instance, after The Seattle Times wrote an editorial criticizing Sinclair’s purchase of KOMO, Sinclair ordered KOMO to do a story critical of the newspaper industry, and of The Seattle Times in particular, according to two of the people interviewed.

“KOMO journalists were surprised in January when, at a morning planning meeting, they received what they considered an unusual request. The station’s news director, who normally avoided overtly political stories, instructed his staff to look into an online ad that seemed to be recruiting paid protesters for President Trump’s inauguration. Right-leaning media organizations had seized on the ad, which was later revealed as a hoax, as proof of coordinated efforts by the left to subvert Mr. Trump.

“Only after reporters had left the room did they learn the origin of the assignment, two of them said: The order had come down from Sinclair.”

Seattle is a progressive city. Imagine how all this would fly in New York, Los Angeles and Chicago!

Scott Livingston, the company’s vice president for news, told The Times his company isn’t right-wing. Instead,

“We work very hard to be objective and fair and be in the middle. … I think maybe some other news organizations may be to the left of center, and we work very hard to be in the center.”

I interpret that to mean Sinclair works very hard to be to the right of maybe some other news organizations. And again, refer to what I wrote about local control. (Don’t you think conservatives who insist on local control of children’s schools would also want local control on broadcasting?)

In March, while Sinclair was fighting to take over Tribune, and apparently hoping to sway public opinion, Livingston forced Sinclair stations to run a segment featuring him that blamed everyone else:

Remember, this year, the company is making local news anchors do that work.

   Mark Hyman, from http://stopthecap.com/2017/05/15/consolidation-sinclair-broadcasting-acquires-42-tribune-tv-stations-3-9-billion-deal/

Sinclair had its former Vice President for Corporate Relations Mark Hyman give “must air” right-wing commentaries for years, and some still run. Variety magazine said “commentary segments on politics and culture from Mark Hyman … typically offer a deeply conservative perspective.”

Sinclair’s Boris Epshteyn, via Microsoft Word clip art

Then, last April, it hired former Trump campaign spokesman and advisor Boris Epshteyn as its chief political analyst, a month after he left the White House, according to Variety. His last titles were Special Assistant to the President, and Assistant Communications Director for Surrogate Operations for the Executive Office of President Trump.

Livingston said having Epshteyn serve as a commentator on Sinclair’s 173 television stations’ political news coverage is part of its efforts to provide “political context that goes beyond the podium” for viewers, and

“We understand the frustration with government and traditional institutions. … Mr. Epshteyn brings a unique perspective to the political conversation and will play a pivotal role in our mission to dissect the stories in the headlines and to better inform and empower our viewers.”

He must’ve liked what he saw in the “Bottom Line with Boris” segments. Just two months later, Variety reported instead of three per week, Sinclair planned to deliver nine Epshteyn commentaries per week to stations.

According to the magazine:

“His segments have so far been a mix of cheerleading and defensive arguments on behalf of the Trump administration’s agenda.”

That’s not exactly “fair and balanced” as Fox News used to proclaim to be.

Sinclair does not offer commentaries from the other side, but tells you the news programming their network-affiliated stations air is left-wing liberalism.

Also, a month after the presidential election, President Trump’s son-in-law and advisor Jared Kushner said Sinclair executives worked with the campaign to spread pro-Trump messages in Sinclair newscasts. Sinclair vehemently denied that and claimed it offered equal amounts of airtime for in-depth interviews to Trump’s rival, Hillary Clinton, and she declined the invitation.

I think most journalists try to be fair and leave their own opinions at home because they tend to be good people who try to do the right thing, unlike a lot of the corporations that only look out for shareholders and in Sinclair’s case, the owners’ political views.

It used to be that a company could not own more than five TV stations. Remember that? But slowly and slowly, the rules were loosened and loosened, more and more.

According to The New York Times,

“Last April, the chairman of the Federal Communications Commission, Ajit Pai, led the charge for his agency to approve rules allowing television broadcasters to greatly increase the number of stations they own.”

It got the UHF discount rule reinstated, and that’s not a sign of the times. These days, most people have access to about 100 stations. It used to matter if your local TV station was VHF or UHF, due to antennas and how old TV sets were made for the UHF band. UHF stations were not as accessible, so the FCC decided the amount towards the cap should only be half for those stations, compared to VHF stations.

But now, the signals are digital and most people watch their local stations on cable, satellite, or on the internet. It makes no difference, so the UHF discount is unnecessary. And again, unlike the other 90 or so stations available to most people, local TV stations use the public airwaves and are required to serve the local communities’ interest. If the owners of these corporations don’t like that, then they are in the wrong business. Let them work for a cable station.

But concerning the UHF discount being brought back, The Times immediately said,

“A few weeks later, Sinclair Broadcasting announced a blockbuster $3.9 billion deal to buy Tribune Media — a deal those new rules made possible.”

Ajit Pai (Wikipedia)

Now, Pai is under investigation by the FCC’s inspector general but it takes two to tango. If he’s guilty, then who did he work with? Sinclair? President Trump, due to Sinclair’s good coverage of him?

I wonder. This is what The Times thinks:

“A New York Times investigation published in August found that Mr. Pai and his staff members had met and corresponded with Sinclair executives several times. One meeting, with Sinclair’s executive chairman, took place days before Mr. Pai, who was appointed by President Trump, took over as F.C.C. chairman.

“Sinclair’s top lobbyist, a former F.C.C. official, also communicated frequently with former agency colleagues and pushed for the relaxation of media ownership rules. And language the lobbyist used about loosening rules has tracked closely to analysis and language used by Mr. Pai in speeches favoring such changes.”

An FCC spokesman representing Mr. Pai countered the allegations of favoritism were “baseless,” and

“For many years, Chairman Pai has called on the F.C.C. to update its media ownership regulations. … The chairman is sticking to his long-held views, and given the strong case for modernizing these rules, it’s not surprising that those who disagree with him would prefer to do whatever they can to distract from the merits of his proposals.”

You decide.

Still, Sinclair would have to sell stations and Variety reported “Sinclair surprised the industry” by proposing to sell two of Tribune’s biggest gems: WPIX in New York and WGN-TV in Chicago.

But can you believe who agreed to buy them, and the prices that will supposedly be paid?

WPIX-New York would go to Cunningham Broadcasting Company for a mere $15 million. That’s pennies on the dollar!

And about Cunningham Broadcasting: That company is mostly owned by the family that runs Sinclair, specifically 90 percent by the estate of Carolyn Smith, the late wife of Sinclair founder Julian Sinclair Smith and mother of Sinclair chairman David Smith!

Cunningham has 20 stations, according to its website, but Sinclair is actually the company that runs most of them. That’s a sneaky way to use a shell corporation in order to get around the rules. It’s completely unethical and the FCC should really throw the book at them, but it looks like something similar is about to happen.

Then, Variety reports “The buyer for WGN-TV is listed as Steven B. Fader, chairman of Baltimore-based Atlantic Capital Group. Fader is a business partner of David Smith in Atlantic Automotive Corp., which owns dozens of car dealerships.”

Again, somebody close to the family. Again, a tiny price. This time, $60 million, which is four times as much as the bigger New York station.

Big city stations don’t get bought and sold so often, but according to Variety, “Back in 2002, Fox paid $425 million to acquire WPWR-TV Chicago, a UHF station that was not nearly as strong in the market as WGN-TV” which is on Channel 9 and much more prominent as the former superstation that carried Bozo the Clown and Chicago Cubs baseball games.

Another station part of the deal is KTLA in Los Angeles, which Tribune bought for a record $510 million way back in 1985. NBC bought WTVJ in Miami for $240 million in 1987.

Do WPIX-New York for $15 million or WGN-TV Chicago for $60 million sound at all reasonable?

I think the FCC should insist Sinclair itemize every TV station it plans to buy from Tribune, tell everyone how much it values each and how it adds up to $3.9 billion.

The New York Times recently reported Sinclair submitted a proposal that

“would put many of the stations in trusts, an arrangement that has raised some concern from consumer groups that the company will try to operate them through partners down the road, because it runs some stations that way now.”

And Sinclair had said WPIX-New York and WGN-TV Chicago would be sold “to third parties that it would partner with later.”

Doesn’t Sinclair running TV stations that are really owned by shell corporations sound familiar, especially for a company that wants to be seen all over the country?

Sinclair now, without Tribune

What Sinclair is willing to accept for WPIX and WGN-TV is outrageous and makes no sense. As Judge Judy says, “If it doesn’t make sense, it’s not true.” And if you believe Judge Judy’s phrase, then the people who run the largest broadcaster in America are liars and therefore unfit.

Sinclair is also asking for permission to own more than one station out of the top four in Harrisburg, Indianapolis and Greensboro. It already owns TV stations in those cities. Why should it get special permission to break the rule and own more, after all it has done?

Speaking of violations, in December, the FCC proposed fining Sinclair for – as the company put it –

“apparently airing certain public service segments by the Huntsman Cancer Foundation about cancer prevention, treatments and cures, without certain sponsorship identification. … Any absence of sponsorship identification in these public service segments was unintended and a result of simple human error. … We disagree with the FCC’s action and intend to contest this unwarranted fine.”

The proposed amount of $13.4 million was really “for not identifying paid programming as advertising,” according to USA Today.

It continued,

“The FCC said … Sinclair’s Salt Lake City station produced news story-like programming for local news broadcasts and longer 30-minute TV programs for the Huntsman Cancer Foundation. The FCC said these spots that weren’t properly identified as ads aired more than 1,700 times in 2016 across 64 Sinclair-owned TV stations and also for 13 other stations not owned by the company. The FCC said Sinclair apparently didn’t tell these stations that it didn’t own that it was providing an ad.”

CNN said,

“The segments looked just like independent news stories, but Sinclair failed to disclose that they were paid for by the Huntsman Cancer Foundation.”

So Sinclair doesn’t know the difference between public service segments, done out of generosity, and ads they charge to air? If that’s the case, then they’re dumb, and dumb people should not be overseeing news. (Just wait a paragraph!)

The proposed fine is supposed to be a record. Some say that’s evidence the FCC is being tough on Sinclair. On the other hand, considering the severity and number of times they did it, others including two FCC commissioners said the fine was too low.

Also, you would think the largest broadcaster in America would do news right. It claims it buys new equipment and really helps local stations provide the best local news to their audiences.

What about Pittsburgh? It’s a large city and Sinclair owns a Fox affiliate, WPGH-Channel 53. It used to produce its own newscast but no longer does. Instead, it runs a newscast produced by a competitor. That’s one less local television voice. Doesn’t Pittsburgh deserve a fourth station offering its own local news? Isn’t the city and region big enough?

Then, what about Sinclair pretty much closing up shop in Toledo, Ohio? Its NBC affiliate there has a few people left in news but production is done out of its CBS/Fox stations in South Bend, Indiana. That includes its anchors and weather people. Who knows if they’ve ever been to Toledo, know anything about it, its history, what’s popular there, etc.? How can they do a decent job and how many people were laid off when Sinclair made that decision? FTV Live’s Scott Jones has shown an example after example of technical problems that happened because of Sinclair going cheap.

(The Fox affiliate in the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre market is a little different. It’s not as bad since the station finally stopped outsourcing news to the competition and started doing its own for the first time last year, except with those same South Bend anchors who would have the same questionable knowledge of northeast Pennsylvania.)

But those South Bend anchors can’t do three newscasts at once. Some things we see live everyday would have to be recorded. Does the weather person say the current conditions, or are they simply put on the bottom of the screen. Can you see live-shots during snowstorms, or what it was like an hour ago?

When there is breaking news and very little information, a good news anchor will be able to ad-lib around about the area the news is taking place. That anchor will tell you where it is, what’s nearby, major places to avoid, etc. The weather person will know the nuances and micro-climates of that area.

Sinclair has shown none of that matters.

Furthermore, several states’ attorneys general have spoken out against the sale, ironically including Maryland where Sinclair is based and Illinois where Tribune is based. That says a lot!

For all of these reasons, including less competition, the FCC should deny Sinclair the chance to buy Tribune. As Nancy Reagan said, just say no. Let this awful waste of time (ten months so far) and money become history as quickly as possible.

This is information on the FCC. The party of the president gets three of the five commissioners, and the other party gets just two. Two recent votes — bringing back the UHF discount and getting rid of net neutrality – have gone party line. The Sinclair-Tribune decision should not go the same way, although the Justice Department has to also make a decision.

I suggest you make a case and email each of the five, letting them know the danger that Sinclair poses by its size, its power, and its ethics. A few clear sentences with your name address and phone number will help. You can even copy and paste this post, write a sentence and add this post’s URL, or look for other sources if you trust them more than me.

Just copy and paste whatever you do. Then, look at the bottom-left of the FCC’s website under Leadership. You’ll have to click each commissioner and look at the left side to email each one.

Don’t forget Congress created the FCC, oversees it and confirms FCC appointments.

They can even use the Congressional Review Act (CRA) to review new federal regulations issued by government agencies and overrule them by passing joint resolutions. Congress enacted it while Newt Gingrich was House Speaker as part of his Contract with America, and President Clinton signed it into law in 1996.

Click here if you need to find your Congressional Representative (you may need your ZIP+4) and click here to find your senators. Just look for your state at the top of the site.

Then, send what you sent the FCC commissioners.

We are the public, the American people. I don’t think we have been listened to by most of the people in government on any level for far too long, with just a few exceptions. It’s time to make a change and take charge. The FCC has revoked licenses before. In Boston, a whole new channel 5 was established in 1972. It forced the owner of New York’s channel 9 to move to New Jersey and then let it sell instead of revoking its license. In the 1960s, after a several-years long investigation, KYW was brought back to Philadelphia from Cleveland. The FCC can do big things. Let’s have them do this as the start of a new era.

Now for the fun. If you don’t believe me, maybe you‘ll believe John Oliver. Watch his take here.

(OK. This was longer than I intended, probably the longest of any blog I’ve published, but there are so many reasons I feel the way I do (hope you agree!), and that’s just what always ends up happening to me!

Call to action: Help stop Sinclair from taking over Tribune First, I want to go thank and apologize to everyone who read my last post. It was way too long.