#robert volt

[lazerinth]

[fictionalfiona]

This is my roman empire currently AAAAAAA

expect this to be one of the many series I will be recommending constantly >:D

ROBERT IS SO CRAZY....i think im in love

[monoshii-wasu]

[letterboxd-loggd]

Four Times That Night (Quante volte... quella notte) (1971) Mario Bava

August 31st 2024

[infamousbrad]

Fuck "Don't Look Up"

I finally got a chance to watch "Don't Look Up." I couldn't finish it. It was too vivid a reminder of why I despise guys like Adam McCay -- a modestly talented comedian and film-maker, yes, but he makes the same stupid mistake that so many of you probably make:

He thinks that the President of the United States, broadcast journalists, newspapers, and Silicon Valley CEOs are important.

They're not. They're really not. They're merely famous.

Look, if I thought that our only chance of being saved from full-on climate apocalypse was for the President, the news media, and (for gods' sake!) Silicon Valley to save us? I'd be just as angry and just as despairing as he is. Fortunately, it's not.

The work of preventing climate change is getting done without them. Please, please, please, believe me when I tell you these two things. First of all, despair is a luxury, an expensive luxury, one that we cannot afford. And secondly, despair is cheap cynicism, an excuse for you to check out mentally, because despite the butt-uselessness of Silicon Valley and the mainstream media, and despite the determined but ultimately impotent sabotage efforts from fossil-fueled politicians and their fan clubs, the work is getting done.

So if you're even slightly tempted to despair, I am (once again) begging, begging you to set aside the time to start listening to Dave Roberts' donation-funded podcast or reading the associated newsletter, Volts. Every week he interviews yet another CEO, technologist, inventor, university research project leader, or state or local politician about the climate solutions that are being built already.

The next fifty years are going to be pretty grim, yes, but full-on climate apocalypse is already being averted by people who don't need to wait for permission from the useless political, media, or finance people who are merely famous.

So fuck despair. And fuck Adam McCay for promoting it.

[lifewithaview]

Robert Forster in Amazing Stories (2020) Dynoman and the Volt!!

Ep3

An awkward young boy and his grandfather are transformed by the arrival of a mysterious ring ordered from a comic book 60 years ago.

*This was Robert Forster's final television acting role before his death on October 11, 2019 at the age of 78. This episode aired five months after he died.

[ttpd-chair]

This is the carbon offset podcast episode of Volts if anyone is interested. The conversation focuses on the ways rich countries are trying to use offsets to get out of taking climate action themselves but the problem with the carbon offsets that people can buy as individuals is explained pretty well too.

[moonverc3x]

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!!

Another art trade event, another commemorative artwork!! Wishing you all a belated Merry Christmas and an early Happy New Year!

Character tags are under the cut, and listed in order from left to right!

Imp @paintedplum7 starstruck Dee @starflungwaddledee Starry Dee @staring-at-a-blank-pagee Volt @hyperz0ne Kurokage @isaackkkbunn King Empatal @justalilstar Rose Dee @dreamingzinnia Vernix @sirdarkmatter Robert @clairetimes Velocity @kittenvirus Necomine @mementomarx Dazor @a-stardusted-sky Ranger @what-is-love-babey-dont-hurt-me Selene @moonsharkss Neko Knight @electric-s0da Vixie @raggedmasquerade Sonya @zombiecicada Loga @goldendragonleaf Lunch @autumnleafdraws Aphelion @hadopelagicpsi Rimuri @zeros-witness Peony @giantchasm Starlbo @ibatomik Journalist Dee @shibuyatoastedcursor

[abr]

Stralci dell'audizione del Senato di RFK Jr. per la conferma a Segretario della Salute nel governo Usa, prima che lo facciano i giornaloni.

La cosa che lo fa dipingere come nemico pubblico numero uno mondiale assolutamente da abbattere, é come descrive puntualmente l'attuale FALLIMENTO DEL SISTEMA SANITARIO SU BASE PUBBLICA, valido per tutto l'Occidente (debunkando così btw il pensiero del medioman nostrano, quello che si beve che in Usa la sanità è solo privata):

“Oggi, la salute generale degli americani è in condizioni gravi. Oltre il 70% degli adulti e un terzo dei bambini sono in sovrappeso o obesi. Il diabete è 10 volte più diffuso di quanto non fosse negli anni '60. Il cancro tra i giovani sta aumentando dell'1 o 2% all'anno. Le malattie autoimmuni, i disturbi dello sviluppo neurologico, l'Alzheimer, l'asma, l'ADHD, la depressione, la dipendenza dai farmaci e una serie di altre condizioni patologiche sono tutte in aumento, alcune delle quali in modo esponenziale.

Eppure spendiamo sempre più per l'assistenza sanitaria, almeno il doppio e in alcuni casi il triplo di quanto spendano gli altri paesi. L'anno scorso abbiamo speso per la Sanità Pubblica 4,8 migliaia di miliardi di dollari (oltre il doppio dell'intero PIL italiano, ndr). Una persona sana ha mille sogni. Una persona malata ne ha solo uno. Oggi, oltre la metà dei nostri connazionali sono malati cronici.”

La risposta del burosauro globale al suo "la salute generale degli americani è in condizioni gravi"? Quella classica dei Cartabellotta in vigore pure da noi: LO STATO HA FALLITO? BEH CI VUOLE PIU' STATO.

Un senatore ha chiesto a RFK Jr. di impegnarsi a non licenziare dipendenti pubblici della Sanità. RFK Jr. ha risposto: "Senatore, ne abbiamo 91.000".

Un altro senatore ha chiesto a Kennedy se fosse un "teorico della cospirazione". Ha risposto elencando diverse "teorie del complotto" che si sono rivelate assolutamente vere.

A proposito di salute, Robert Kennedy Jr. ha 71 anni e li porta persino meglio di Clint Eastwood quando ne aveva così pochi. Ricordiamo invece il look&feel de il/la sua predecessora/e, che non avevano contestato e a cui NON avevano certo fatto domande del genere (un leader prima di tutto dà L'ESEMPIO, non pensierini belli per voi):

[ambrenoir]

LA LETTERA D'AMORE PIU BELLA CHE IO ABBIA MAI LETTO.

"Cara Francesca,

Spero che questa mia lettera ti trovi bene.

Non so quando la riceverai. Quando io me ne sarò già andato.

Ho sessantacinque anni, ormai, e ne sono passati esattamente tredici dal nostro primo incontro, quando imboccai il vialetto di casa tua in cerca di indicazioni sulla strada.

Spero con tutto me stesso che questo pacchetto non sconvolga in alcun modo la tua vita. Il fatto è che non sopporto di pensare alle mie macchine fotografiche sullo scaffale riservato all’attrezzatura di seconda mano di un negozio o nelle mani di uno sconosciuto. Saranno in pessime condizioni quando le riceverai, ma non ho nessun altro a cui lasciarle e mi scuso del rischio che forse ti costringerò a correre mandandotele.

Dal 1965 al 1975 ho viaggiato quasi ininterrottamente. Nell’intento di allontanarmi almeno parzialmente dalla tentazione di telefonarti o di venire a cercarti, tentazione che da sveglio in pratica non mi lascia mai, ho accettato tutti gli incarichi oltreoceano che sono riuscito a procurarmi. Ci sono stati momenti, molti momenti, in cui mi sono detto: << All’inferno, vado a Winterset e, costi quel che costi, porto Francesca via con me>>.

Ma non ho dimenticato le tue parole, e rispetto i tuoi sentimenti. Forse avevi ragione, non lo so. So però che uscire dal viale di casa tua, in quella arroventata mattinata di agosto, è stata la prova più ardua che abbia mai affrontato e che mai avrò occasione di affrontare. Dubito, in effetti, che molti uomini ne abbiano vissute di più dure.

Ho lasciato il National Geographic, nel 1975 e da allora mi sono dedicato soprattutto a fotografare ciò che piaceva a me, prendendo il lavoro là dove potevo, servizi locali o regionali che non mi impegnavano mai più di pochi giorni.

Finanziariamente è stata dura, ma tiro avanti.

Come ho sempre fatto.

Buona parte del mio lavoro lo svolgo nella zona di Puget Sound. Mi va bene così. Pare che invecchiando gli uomini si rivolgano sempre più spesso all’acqua.

Ah, sì, adesso ho un cane, un golden retriever.

L’ho chiamato Highway, e lo porto quasi sempre con me, quando siamo in viaggio, se ne sta con la testa fuori dal finestrino, in cerca di posti interessanti da fotografare.

Nel 1972 sono caduto da una rupe nell’Acadia National Park, nel Maine, e mi sono fratturato una caviglia.

Nella caduta ho perso la catena e la medaglia, ma fortunatamente non erano finite lontano. Le ho recuperate e un gioielliere ha provveduto ad aggiustare la catena.

Vivo con il cuore impolverato, Meglio di così non saprei metterla. C’erano state delle donne prima di te, qualcuna, ma nessuna dopo. Non mi sono votato deliberatamente alla castità: è solo che non provo alcun interesse.

Una volta ho avuto modo di osservare il comportamento di un’oca canadese la cui compagna era stata uccisa dai cacciatori. Si uniscono per la vita, sai. Dopo l’episodio, ha continuato ad aggirarsi intorno allo stagno per qualche giorno. L’ultima volta che l’ho vista, nuotava tutta sola tra il riso selvatico, ancora alla ricerca. Immagino che da un punto di vista letterario la mia analogia sia troppo scontata, ma è più o meno così che mi sento anch’io.

Con la fantasia, nelle mattine caliginose o nei pomeriggi in cui il sole riflette sull’acqua a nord-ovest, cerco di immaginare dove sei e che cosa stai facendo.

Niente di complicato…ti vedo in giardino, seduta sulla veranda, in piedi davanti al lavello della cucina. Cose così.

Ricordo tutti. Il tuo profumo e il tuo sapore, che erano come l’estate stessa. La tua pelle contro la mia, e il suono dei tuoi bisbigli mentre ti amavo.

Robert Penn Warren scrisse: << Un mondo che sembra abbandonato da Dio >>. Non male, molto vicino a quello che provo per te certe volte. Ma non posso vivere sempre coì. Quando la tensione diventa eccessiva, carico Harry e, in compagnia di Highway, ritorno sulla strada per qualche giorno.

Commiserarmi non mi piace. Non è nella mia natura. E in genere non me la passo poi tanto male.

Al contrario, sono felice di averti almeno incontrata.

Avremmo potuto sfiorarci come due frammenti di polvere cosmica, senza sapere mai nella l’uno dell’altra.

Dio o l’universo o qualunque altro nome si scelga di dare ai grandi sistemi di ordini ed equilibri, non riconosce il tempo terrestre. Per l’universo, quattro giorni non sono diversi da quattro miliardi di anni luce. Per quanto mi riguarda, cerco di tenerlo sempre a mente.

Ma, dopo tutto, sono un uomo.

E tutte le considerazioni filosofiche non bastano a impedirmi di desiderarti, ogni giorno, ogni momento, con la testa piena dello spietato gemito del tempo, del tempo che non potrò mai vivere con te.

Ti amo, di un amore profondo e totale. E così sarà sempre."

“I ponti di Madison County”, R.J.Waller

[fotelasarokban]

Csak semmi rockandroll!

“Eredetileg HOPSZPOLKA volt a neve, német néptánc.

Hogy miért hopsz?

Mert ugrós, forgós tánc. A lányokat ugráltatják, emelgetik, forgatják a férfiak. Ez bizony a 1800-as évek végén Magyarországon is ismert tánc volt, a paraszti mulatságokban szívesen járták. Egy gond volt vele, túl sokat mutatott a lányokból. Ekkoriban - még főleg nyáron - nem feltétlenül hordtak bugyogót faluhelyen a hajadonok, persze alsószoknya volt, de hát ilyen forgós, pörgős, ugrós táncoknál az nem sokat takart.

Nem csoda, ha a harmincas években és előtte erkölcstelennek tartották ezt a táncot, hisz a század elején még hosszú ruhában jártak a nők, és az is nagy csoda volt, ha a boka villant...”

ViaFB Robert Adam

[lazerinth]

Ughhhh…. The part of the series where SteamHeart is confronted by her past, and has to confirm she worked for the citadel and initially was manipulating Robert ughhh!!! (~_~ ) My fav part of the series!! So edgy!!

[greenteaforbreakfast]

2024-es lista

Folytatva a hagyományokat, megint elfelejtettem tegnap posztolni, pedig a szöveg már meg volt írva. Nem voltam igazán formában, de az látszik is. Mindegy, read more után minimál vélemény.

Robert Galbraith: The Running Grave - 4 és fél nap alatt olvastam el az 1200 oldalt, szóval nem volt baja. Mármint a könyvnek, nem az írónak, még mielőtt.

V. E. Schwab: The Fragile Threads of Power - Tök jó, hogy ez idén jelent meg, mert pont tavaly olvastam el végre a trilógiát, amihez kapcsolódik. Nagyon jó kis folytatás volt, találkoztunk régi szereplőkkel is, de nem éreztem erőltetettnek, jó volt velük újra együtt. Hozta az első könyvek szintjét.

Erlend Loe: Doppler - Minden évben olvasok Loe-t, a Dopplert most olvastam talán ötödjére.

Harper Lee: To Kill a Mockingbird - Régen el akarom olvasni, hiszen klasszikus, amiről ódákat szokás zengeni. Megérdemli. Nagyon intelligens könyv.

Margaret Atwood: The Edible Woman - Ez tőle az első könyvem. Olvasás közben is tetszett, de a végén visszagondolva az egészre még jobban. Durva, hogy mindezt a hatvanas években írta.

Kurt Vonnegut: Slaughterhouse-Five - Tizensok éve olvastam utoljára Vonneguttól, olyat akartam, amit még nem. Az értékelések meg az ajánlók szeretik a megrázó, gusztustalan, megdöbbentő jelzőkkel illetni ezt a könyvet, de nekem annyira nem volt úgy kirívóan egyik sem, hogy a végén utánajártam, hogy nem-e valami cenzúrázott változatot sikerült-e olvasnom. (Nem.)

Émile Ajar: Előttem az élet - Újraolvasás. Szép és jó még mindig.

Kazuo Ishiguro: Never Let Me Go - Erről meg már annyi jót hallottam, hogy mondom akkor bepótolom gyorsan. Annyira azért nem mennék messzire, hogy azt mondjam, fölösleges időpocsékolás volt, de hogy semmit nem tett hozzá az életemhez ez a könyv, az is biztos. Nem jött meg a kedvem ehhez az íróhoz.

Haruki Murakami: The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle - Elkezdtem angolul, bár Murakamit legtöbbször magyarul olvastam eddig. Annyira out of place volt az egésznek a hangulata, és annyi félrefordítás-szerű értelmetlenség volt benne, hogy muszáj volt utána járnom (redditen kurvajó beszélgetéseket találtam róla), meg magyarul is elkezdenem, hogy kiderüljön, mi folyik itt. Kiderült: borzalmasan szar az angol fordítása :D

Murakami Haruki: A Kurblimadár krónikája - Magyarul jobb volt :) Nem a legjobb könyve, de könnyen lecsúszott.

Ross Welford: The 1000 Year Old Boy - Ez nagyon aranyos sztori volt. Okos, érzelmekkel teli gyerekkönyv, szerethető karakterekkel. 10-12 éveseknek ajánlják, de szerintem a nagyobbaknak is élvezetes.

Franz Kafka: Metamorphosis - Egyike a rengeteg kötelezőnek, amit még sosem olvastam. Részleteket belőle talán, de azokra sem emlékeztem. Ez is a gusztustalan, gyomorforgató, borzalmas jelzőket szokta kapni, de én már soha többet nem hiszek másoknak. Mondjuk én bírom a bogarakat. Egyébként tetszett nagyon, biztosan el fogom még olvasni párszor.

Jane Austen: Pride and Prejudice - Na ha már olyan jól mentek idén a klasszikusok, próbáljunk rá erre - gondoltam én, balga módon. Kb 120 oldal után feladtam. Fuh te. Ennyi üres, semmitmondó, idegesítő beszélgetést én még sosem láttam egy helyen. Értem én, hogy a maga idejében ez volt A Könyv, és még a lövészárkokban is ezt olvasták, de hát a Fifty Shades of Grey is mekkorát ment már... :)

Khaled Hosseini: A Thousand Splendid Suns - A Kite Runner jobban tetszett, ez sokkal kevésbé tűnt valósnak nekem, ami rontott az élvezeti értékén.

Louis Sachar: Holes - Ez magyarul a Stanley, a szerencse fia címet viseli, és az egyik legjobb ifjúsági regény evör. Nem először olvastam.

Margaret Atwood: The Handmaid's Tale + The Testaments - Megmondom őszintén, én már ezt a két könyvet így 4 hónap távlatából sem tudom ketté választani, egyáltalán nem emlékszem, melyikben mi történt. Az Ehető Nő után, mivel ez kapta mindig a hype-ot, jobbat vártam, de ez legyen az én bajom.

Carlos Ruiz Zafón: The Labyrinth of the Spirits - Azt kicsit megbántam, hogy nem a másik három után olvastam tavaly, így majdnem egy év kihagyás után már fogalmam nem volt, hogy a régi szereplők közül ki kicsoda. De így is nagyon élvezetes volt, pörgött a sztori, és a lezárás sem volt borzalmas. (Az utolsó fejezetet leszámítva, arra nem tudom, mi szükség volt.)

Mark Haddon: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Nagyon ritkán mondom könyvekre, hogy ezt mindenkinek el kéne olvasnia. Na ezt mindenkinek el kéne olvasnia.

Arthur Golden: Memoirs of a Geisha - Már a Hosseinivel is az volt szerintem a bajom, hogy nagyon érezhetően a női közönségnek írták férfiak, ebből meg egyenesen üvöltött. De legalább nem az a fajta, aki teljesen hülyének néz :) Nem volt benne fölösleges, csöpögős romantika (plusz pont), viszont olyan túlzottan hihetőre sem sikerült (m��nusz pont, ha már memoárként tálaljuk). Rossz mondjuk nem volt, de azért sokat nem veszít az ember, ha sose kerül a kezébe. 1001 könyves listák ide vagy oda.

Andy Weir: Project Hail Mary - Ezt az embert én nem tartom kifejezetten jó írónak, igazából nem tudom, mit vártam ettől a könyvtől, vagy hogy miért vettem a kezembe. A kis alien haver cuki volt benne, amúgy azért nem az év sci-fije, pedig szokás dicsérni.

Arto Paasilinna: Az akasztott rókák erdeje - Nagyon finn, nagyon sarkvidéki (fun fact: pont azon a szélességi körön játszódik, ahol élek), nagyon vicces kis abszurdum. Kicsit olyan, mint egy népmese, csak nem a legkisebb királyfiról, hanem egy bűnöző és egy alkoholista őrnagy kapcsolatáról szól a finn vadonban, ahol mindenféle váratlan és fura dolog történik velük. Fogok még a szerzőtől olvasni.

Octavia E. Butler: Xenogenesis trilogy - Így kell sci-fit írni. Apokalipszis, fura földönkívüli lények, hiteles emberi karakterek, jól felépített világ, értelmes, komoly, intelligens, váratlan sztori, de sosem wtf. Még csak pár órája tettem le, de már hiányoznak.

2023-as lista

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Bed hair for the soft prompts if it inspires :3

@zahlibeth also asked for this one! On ao3 here!

It's easy to rely on habit in times of crisis. It’s been a long while since Athena has been put on security detail but her body still sinks into it, easy. Think of a grocery list, or a mediocre book you read, or try to remember all the rules of Risk — something to keep you from inattentive boredom, but not something so engaging you’ll be distracted. Feet a little apart, legs stiff but not locked, settle into your own bones because you’ll be here awhile.

It’s wrong, though, because if she were actually working she’d be in uniform, and she’d be by the door facing out instead of across the hall looking in, and she’d never be assigned to this room. She isn’t a doctor, there aren’t any hard and fast rules about family members, but any captain worth a damn would bench her for being too close to the situation to keep a clear head.

In the room, Eddie Diaz sets a plastic grocery store bag down on Evan Buckley’s bed. Buck shifts his thigh just a little to make room for it, gazing up at his friend with a smile that Athena can’t quite manage to look at without hurting. Every smile on that boy’s face since he woke up has hurt, for reasons Athena can’t quite explain to herself. Bobby has been shaking with relief, giddy with it, grinning down at the kid in awe whenever he’s in the room. Maybe that’s it; while Buck was unconscious she was needed as a rock, she had to be the solid foundation everyone could build themselves around. It’s okay now. Buck is awake — alive — and still sore, still not well, but he’s going to be okay. They can all relax. But here she is, standing guard, because everyone is alright and she can take her turn giving into paranoia and catastrophe.

She doesn’t think that’s quite it, though. It’s… she’s having trouble with the timeline. The facts of the case don’t feel like they’re adding up right, though she knows they’re true. Sunday afternoon: Evan Buckley was at the home of Robert Nash and Athena Grant. He was there for lunch. He sat at the kitchen table and he laughed, and he smiled. Monday night: Evan Buckley, in the regular course of his job, climbed a ladder to aid in putting out a fire in an apartment building. He was struck by lightning, and he died. Bobby, the one time she convinced him to come home and sleep in a bed, wept that he had again held the body of his son. Thursday morning: After four days in a coma fighting organ failure and other yet unknown effects of being hit by 300 million volts of electricity, Evan Buckley woke up. He woke up. He laughed with his father, with the rest of his family. He smiled, bright as he always has.

He smiled, he died, he’s smiling again. That’s what happened, indisputable, but each part of it feels wrong, feels tainted by the central event. How could he have smiled so happily on Sunday, when that was going to happen the next day? How can he smile so happily now that it has? He was in her house. She shouldn’t have let him leave.

“Alright,” Eddie says, pulling wet wipes, a spray bottle, various other things out of the bag. “I’m not gonna lie to you; after a few days of this your hair is going to feel as disgusting as it does now just in new and exciting ways, but hopefully by then you’ll be home. Or- at least they’ll let you take a real shower.”

Buck laughs, running a finger over the spines of a hair brush. “Dude, anything will be better than this. I feel like I’m made of grease.” He reaches a hand up — to run it through his limp hair, maybe — but winces and lowers it carefully again. Athena holds her breath yards away as Eddie freezes, minutely, just a tiny second of stillness before he’s smiling and opening the wipes.

“Well,” Eddie says, voice just as cheerful as before, “Luckily for you I am a master of the unsatisfying hospital hair cleaning routine.”

Buck almost giggles, shoulders wiggling like the way a child laughs. “Oh, please, show me your ways.”

Eddie holds up the wipe first. “Sorry this smells so flowery, but it’s the wettest brand of wipes I‘ve found.” He starts to hand the damp square to Buck, but hesitates. “Uh- I was going to let you- but it’ll be uncomfortable for- do you want me to just…”

“Sure,” Buck smiles. “I trust you.”

Eddie only made it in the room once while Buck was out, as far as Athena is aware. He’d haunted the hall like a ghost or a watchdog, though she supposes she’s not really one to talk while she’s posted out here. She watches as he directs Buck to scoot closer and stands as far to the back of the bed as he can get so he’s sort of behind Buck. She wonders if he’ll hesitate to touch him. She did. Since he woke up nearly 24 hours ago she has put a hand on his shoulder, once. It had been warm. He’d been moving, a little, half dead and even then unable to keep still. Eddie squeezes the wipe above Buck’s head, dripping faintly floral dampness, and then starts moving the cloth around his curls, and he doesn’t hesitate at all. Athena breathes in and out. Not half dead, she reminds herself. Mostly living.

Buck isn’t moving much now. He looks utterly relaxed as Eddie cleans away days of hospital grime. The man is so gentle about it, movements incredibly soft and slow, a hand supporting Buck’s head any time he needs to reposition to get at a new spot. She’d assumed this is a trick he’d learned after getting shot, but wonders now if this is an older skill, perfected on his child’s curls after any of Christopher’s hospital stays.

“Alright,” Eddie says, several discarded wipes later. He sets the last one on the mattress with a little flourish. “Step one complete.”

Buck opens eyes that drifted shut at some point, laughing quietly. “God, I feel better already.”

“Well, now it’s time for detangling, so don’t be too happy with me yet.”

Buck snorts, gingerly passing back the hair brush. “I’ll be brave, do your worst.”

Buck can’t see Eddie’s face with the way he’s standing, but Athena has a clear view. Sort of sad, kind of frightened. Athena is suddenly sure that he’s only ever going to do his absolute best for the man in the bed before him. “Okay,” he says, a warning before he starts, and she’s surprised that his voice doesn’t shake.

He begins with his fingers, pulling them so very carefully through the knotted strands, and it’s so intimate that Athena looks away on instinct. She counts all the chairs she can see in the waiting room, she reads all the signs on the walls. She doesn’t look in the room again until Buck speaks.

“Thank you.” He’s looking up at Eddie, neck craned as he tilts his head back, and she knows all the jokes about our Buckaroo, resident golden retriever, but it makes her think of a cat she had when she was younger. The tiny thing would plaster herself to your side and lean her head back up against you, so much love in her gaze you couldn’t help but smile back. Eddie smiles back, now.

“It’s no problem, Buck.”

“I can still thank you,” Buck says as Eddie leans over him to grab the spray bottle. Dry shampoo. He mists Buck’s head with it, ruffling his hair to get it evenly coated. “It’s polite.”

Eddie laughs, and Athena hadn’t realized his laughter before had been a little muted. “You don’t have to be polite to me.”

Buck grins. “Fine. Gel me up, peon.”

Eddie laughs again, loud and cackly, as he grabs the last tub from the bag. “Yes, sir. I got a pomade, it’s a little lighter than your normal stuff so hopefully the build up won’t feel so bad.”

“Okay.”

Eddie moves so he can see Buck’s face again, working the product into his hair and doing some light styling. The pomade doesn’t have much hold, his curls remain more prominent than they usually are, but he looks cleaner, a little neater, and definitely happier once Eddie is finished.

“There you are.” Eddie says, sitting back down in the chair pulled up to Buck’s bedside. He raises a pointed eyebrow, lips curved into a smirk. “Remember to leave a five star yelp review.”

Buck throws his head back in laughter, and Eddie sways forward into the orbit of it. The look on his face is- he’s lovestruck. She’d wondered about that — with more and more frequency lately, every story from Buck starting and ending with the other man — but she doesn’t know Eddie as well as some of the others on Bobby’s team and hadn’t wanted to assume. There is no doubt, though, looking at him now. Strangely, it makes Athena feel a little better. She definitely hadn’t known Eddie when his wife had passed but she knows it happened. She remembers Emmet, thinks of Marcy. Michael, and then Bobby. Buck and Eddie. The timeline — smiles, death, smiling again — is one she knows, after all, just in a different context, on a longer timeline.

When Buck leans forward again after his guffaw Eddie hasn’t moved back, so they end up very close to each other, matching grins reflecting between them. Eddie spots a bit of product near Buck’s temple and reaches up with a thumb to wipe it away, and it’s such a casual gesture until, suddenly, Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. When he falls apart he does it with a swift efficiency that something in Athena admires. His face shatters, his whole body slumps forward like a puppet with cut strings, a sob rattles up out of him with no preamble.

Buck’s eyes are wide, but he doesn’t necessarily look surprised. “Oh, Eddie…” he breathes, leaning even closer on his pillow.

“S-sorry,” Eddie gasps, scrubbing at his face like the touch of his palm will put him back together, sucking in air to try and stop the weeping. “Sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Buck’s tone is so gentle, so patient. Athena realizes she still thinks of him as a kid — a fool kid much of the time — but he doesn’t seem so young as he rests a calm hand on Eddie’s arm.

“For- I- I shouldn’t fall apart like this.”

“Why not?” Buck asks, laughing just a little. “You know I was a mess when you- it’s fine, Eds.”

“But-“

“You want me to forgive you?” Buck asks, eyebrows raised, a look on his face like he’d wanted the same, once. “I will. You’re forgiven.”

“I couldn’t- I couldn’t-“ Eddie takes a few more shuddering breaths and Buck just waits him out. “I couldn’t come in here. You were in here and I couldn’t- I left you alone.”

“I forgive you,” Buck says, easy as anything. Eddie’s face pinches up again, and he shakes his head sort of desperately even as Buck’s hand soothes up and down between wrist and elbow.

“I broke your ribs,” he says, voice cracking like the bones must have under his frantic compressions.

Buck’s free hand travels to his chest, and his fingers tap a little heartbeat rhythm there. “I forgive you, Eddie.”

“I love you,” Eddie says, in a voice Athena has heard in interrogation rooms and the priest’s box after Sunday mass. Buck’s inhale can’t be very loud, but she hears it all the way from the hall.

“I’m not forgiving you for that,” he says, a little winded but very firm. He sits up in his bed, ignoring Eddie’s worried hands hovering around him as he puts his own on either side of Eddie’s face. “I’m not- please, don’t apologize for that.”

“Sorry- I- I mean-“ Eddie smiles like he can’t help it as Buck’s gentle amused huff hits his face, even as tears still stream across his skin. “I won’t. I just wish I’d told you sooner.”

“You can tell me now,” Buck says, sliding a thumb over Eddie’s wet cheek. “Again. You can tell me again, and- and tomorrow, and the next day- I’m right here. It’s not too late, Eddie. I’m right here.”

Eddie nods, breathing unevenly again, and then they sort of fall into each other, holding and being held, so carefully but tight enough that Athena isn’t sure of the force it would take to pull them apart again. She inhales long and exhales slow. She can sort of see Buck’s face, smiling into Eddie’s shoulder, and it still hurts but she can maybe see how it might not, eventually. Right here, and tomorrow and the next day. He’ll still be in the hospital for a little while but- maybe, when he’s settled back at home, he’d like to come over for lunch.

Athena stands up straight, takes one last long look, and leaves Buck in safe hands.

[nyuszimotor]

Vitya összetört szívvel konstatálja, hogy hiába volt az a sok seggnyalás :(

[infamousbrad]

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