#so I had a minor physical complaint and went to my doctor

[prozach27]

.

[canyouhearthelight]

Nihilus Rex, Ch. 16: "...and Tragedy"

Pretty sure that title says it all, so I apologize in advance. Please don't kill me!

Co-written and beta-read by @baelpenrose, so he's partially to blame. But he did pick out the song lyrics!

Warnings for racism, hate crimes, off screen deaths of minor characters.

Save yourself a penny for the ferryman

Save yourself and let them suffer

In hope, in love

Mankind works in mysterious ways

Nightwish, “Planet Hell”

Lash

Despite Nils’ earlier errors, the conversation with my parents was going surprisingly well. At some point, Nils had let slip that he didn’t get along with his father, and Baba just let the floodgates open on how hard it was to deal with man.  Apparently, Mr. - sorry, DOCTOR -  Andover was a complete and utter bastard, even by Baba’s very forgiving standards.

To say Nils and Baba got along was a huge understatement. “Oh no, sir, I’m not offended, everyone knows that he’s a great surgeon and an amazingly mean person. I think there’s a running gag somewhere about not letting him near the patients until after they’ve gone under?” 

Baba chuckled - practically a roaring laugh for him - and nodded, knocking one hand on the table. “Yes! The nurses are the only people who are not intimidated, and seeing them physically drag your father away from a patient is often the highlight of my day.”

“It’s probably the highlight of the patient’s day too, they just don’t know it. Trust me, waking up to that frowny, disappointed-Catholic face when you’re already in pain…not ideal.” Nils grinned.

Mama started to say something, but I didn’t hear her as the sound of broken glass made Nils’ head jerk over to one side. “Nils, it’s a cafe. Glasses break all the - “

“Something is burning,” he cut me off. “Chemical burning, not food burning.”

Just as he said that, another crash led to one of the aunties we had been watching earlier jumping up with a scream, beating at the hem of her skirt.  Another auntie threw the contents of the nearest cup on it, steam pouring from what had been a burning piece of fabric. Nils stood, yanking me to my feet by my arm. “Start getting everyone out of here,” he demanded. “If you smell gas, find another exit.”

I grabbed my parents first. “Someone is setting the cafe on fire,” I explained. “We need to go.  Find an exit that isn’t on fire, and go through there.”

They took off, grabbing people as they went. Usually, Uncle’s shop was wide open, with doors that rolled up rather than windows, but tonight was especially chilly, so most were closed and locked down.  Each one I touched was scalding hot, and the only option was one that wasn’t on fire yet but reeked of gasoline. “Lift your skirts!” I shouted, heaving the door up and gesturing people through. “Don’t drag it in the gas!” 

Another wash of heat from behind, and I heard Nils shouting something, along with Baba and Mama. Both my parents were determined to help get as many people out as possible: Mama hurling any available liquid on clothes as they caught, Baba carrying older women out and rushing back in for another.  Nils had pulled his leather jacket’s sleeves down over his hands and wrenched open one of the latches on the rolling window shutters before shoving it up. Flames roared on the other side, and I saw my father pick someone up and rush through, shielding them from the heat with his own body.

Mama and I took the hint and started yanking cloths from tables and shoving them in a sink full of dirty water, ignoring complaints as we wrapped them around people who could not get out fast enough under their own power. Each one, Baba or Nils would lift and carry out while we found the next, dunking whatever cloth we could in any water we could find. “UNCLE!” I screamed. “You have to get out! UNCLE!”

I couldn’t see him anywhere. “Did Uncle get out!?” I shouted at Baba.

“He is not on the outside,” came the response as a young mother and her baby were wrapped and ushered through the flaming exits.

Smoke started filling my throat, and I dropped to the floor, coughing for cleaner air. Someone pulled at my arm, and I yanked it back without looking. “UNCLE!” I screamed again before another coughing fit.

“We have to get out of here!” Mama was pulling me, Nils was pulling. A blast of fire came from the kitchen as shocking cold, stinking water poured over my head. “NOW, Elakshi!”

Mama and I were ushered out by Nils and his singed leather coat, Baba on the other side. I fell into the cold night air, gasping thirstily for it, as Baba ran back in one last time, shouting something I couldn’t understand.  My vision swam as I tried to look around and count faces, desperate to find all of them.

I was still frantically looking for a handful of people - Imran, Uncle, one of the aunties who constantly tittered at me and Nils - when I was shoved to the ground by an unearthly noise. I shoved myself from the ground, hands cutting on the asphalt, to see Mama hit the ground coughing, Nils barely standing and holding up Baba.

“Lash, help!” Nils was coughing. “Press your hand down, here,” He planted a point on my father’s thigh. “Broken glass hit him. Hold it down no matter how much he yells. I have to get a belt off and make a tourniquet or he’s gonna die.” 

Hot tears streaked down my face as I did what he told me. Baba groaned, and I pressed down like I was trying to crush his leg into the pavement.  Nils ripped Baba’s belt off and tightened it around his leg, hard, twisted it, pinned it there with a pen, hard enough to make Baba shout. “Sorry, hold it here. DO NOT TAKE THIS OFF until the doctors look at it. Please.” His eyes were blazing.

“Check on Mama!” I begged, cranking the tourniquet as tightly as I could, slamming my shoulder into Baba’s chest to both keep him from moving and hide my sobs. “She can’t breathe.”

Nils sprinted over and I couldn’t see what he did, but he seemed to be giving Mama an airway check, then water, and pulled her over towards me, slowly sitting her down away from the fire. “Your dad got the worst of it. Your mom needs oxygen when the medics get here, best I can do is keep her from overexerting in the meantime. Keep her calm. I’ll keep an eye on your dad.” 

Frantically, I ran my hands over my mother, checking her for any hidden injuries.  I took several slaps to the arms and two directly to the face, but kept checking. When I was satisfied, I turned to Nils and Baba, where Nils was doing the same I had done - pinning Baba to the ground with one shoulder while cranking the tension as tight as possible on the belt around his leg.  A smaller explosion within the cafe snapped my head up, and I started running. “UNCLE!” I screamed, still not having seen his face outside the now-burning shop.

A hand darted out and yanked an ankle out from under me, just in time for a lanky, leather-clad leg to pin me down. “I have two horribly burned and wounded Botelhos right now. I do not need a third. You can’t help him. Your mother starts,” he coughed, then finished in a snarl, “screaming she’s gonna die. Her lungs can’t handle that right now. Keep her calm.” Nils' voice was furious, and panicked, but as driven as I’d ever heard it.  

I nodded numbly, going to reassure Mama while glancing around frantically.  The young mother Baba had practically carried out was bouncing her screaming baby, and my nerves unexpectedly started calming.  I don’t know that I had ever been so happy to hear a baby scream so hard in my life, but it was the reality check I needed in that moment.  Those of us out here were still alive, by inches or miles, and we had to stay that way to keep the bastards who had done this from winning.

I pulled Mama to a sitting position. “We need to keep everyone calm,” I told her, well aware of what drove her more than anything else. I saw Nils mouth something that could only mean ‘tell her not to start shouting’. “I am going to prop you up where you can keep an eye on Baba, and I am going to bring people who are upset but not hurt. Can you help me keep them calm?”

This woman - my magnificent monument of a mother - looked at me like I had deeply offended her and all my ancestors. “Set me right there,” she gestured to a spot close but in clear line of sight to Baba and Nils, “and bring them to me.”

I did exactly what she asked. As neighbors came down to bring water and blankets, Mama commanded them like a general with her armies so that I could focus on those who were injured and needed more.  Even then, Nils would shout what people needed, and Mama would command if someone didn’t listen.  Someone would start wailing, looking for a family member who was unaccounted for, and after Mama started coughing, I did my best impression of her.

“It is the living who need us now. We will attend the rest when these are in the hospital.”

Baba was the first to go in an ambulance, with Nils shouting down his objections. “You may have waited too long to save the leg already and I don’t want you throwing a clot. GO!”

Every argument of “damn the leg” was met with an aggressive “you could still die, and then who will make sure the babies stay still for an x-ray”, until Baba surrendered under a murderous glare from the three of us.  After that, it was the elderly, burn victims, smoke inhalation victims - a whole new argument from Mama, one which required sedation - and finally those of us who were part of the walking wounded were left to lick our wounds in peace.

“You should go, Lash. Your family’s hurt.” 

“I need to call Mori,” I responded before adding lamely, “My sister. In case you didn’t pick up on that. She… she’ll want to know.”

“I can drive if you need. Call on the way.” he paused, then added, “Since the hospital is on the other end of town, it’s…probably better if someone drives you anyway.”

I felt myself falling into my mother’s role, unexpectedly and out of a habit I hadn’t realized I had until now. “The apartment needs to be locked up. I need to do that. And I need to let Uncle’s widow know… she shouldn’t have to hear about this from strangers.  Baba and Mama will ask, so I can’t go to them without doing those things.”

Nils looked at me. “Lash. If you don’t want to go yet, if you can’t face it, I won’t make you. But your sister can lock up if she lives with you. Since you’re calling her. And Uncle’s widow is another call you can make. It’s a bit of a drive, it’s on the other end of the city.”

“No,” I cut in. “Mori lives an hour away, with her family. And I don’t know how it works for your family, but I do not want Uncle’s wife hearing this from a stranger. I can - and have - faced what is happening to my parents. But, when they wake up, they will ask these things, and I have lied once today. I will not lie about something so important.”  I drew myself as tall as possible and sniffed back a sob. “You may escort me, if you wish, and then drive me to the hospital. Baba is in surgery, and Mama is in triage, so I can do nothing for them right now. But I can do the right thing for other people.”

Nils looked at me for a long moment, then he nodded. “Come on, then. Call your sister on the way to meeting with Uncle’s widow. We’ll tell her first.”

His phone started ringing, and he glanced at it and hung up. I only barely made out that his father had called him. “Come on. Let’s make sure you tell who you need to tell.”

[ohblackdiamond]

little rock 'n' roll (sexswap paul, nc-17)

Always painful to lose those last precious vestiges of a body. Marbas waited until the sounds stopped and then idly rolled him fully on his back, just to check-- nothing amiss. Physically, the man was gone. Not ten minutes to get rid of twenty-five years.

Prequel to "little t&a," detailing what Paul was up to during the first days of the sexswap curse, prior to Gene showing up at his house. Weird, psychosexual.

Sexswap fic. Complete.

Notes: This was in the works for awhile after “little t&a,” mostly as something to play around with for my own amusement when I was struggling with other fics. I didn’t really intend to post it initially but received some kind feedback, so I eventually spliced what I had together. This is, basically, the prequel to “little t&a,” and chronicles what Paul was doing the days prior to Gene showing up to his house.

“little rock ’n’ roll”

A bit over a month left before the new tour kicked off. Paul was more than ready for it. He hadn’t had a really good lay since the little chick from CBGB a week or two before. It was hard to summon up the will to chase girls down when he knew that on the road, they’d give in without him having to lift a finger or even say a word. At home, it was just too much effort for too little payoff.

At home, he’d get too self-involved, too, a great recipe for depression and disaster. Hilsen had given him various antidepressants and benzos off and on, but the side effects were all just impossible, so he wasn’t consistent with them. This one caused nausea. That one caused dry mouth and sometimes hives. And every single one was inadvisable with alcohol. 

He knew Gene would think less of him if he knew that half the reason Paul rarely partook in the drug scene was his myriad prescriptions, instead of just his ear. He didn’t really care.

He finished off half his dinner (take out from a restaurant a couple miles away), then drew a bath. It was important, allegedly, to stay engaged, to stave off gloomy feelings, so he started on a mental to-do list as he soaked in the tub. He needed to re-dye his hair a little closer to the tour. He’d get Bobby for that, if Bobby wasn’t too coked out for the job. There’d probably be a few promotional photoshoots beforehand that they’d need Bobby for, too. He needed to send Hilsen a finalized (to a point) tour schedule, just so he’d have an idea on when to be on call for him. Not that he called Hilsen constantly or anything, just… just every few days. And he didn’t really have to, but he wanted to call up Bill about KISS’ rider, too, to prevent any bitching from Peter once the tour got underway.

There. All that might keep him occupied for awhile, though it wouldn’t fill out weeks. Once the tour rehearsals were underway, that would kill the rest of his free time. He sunk his head down into the water, trying to zone out, only to raise it back up at a slight, odd feeling of pain. 

Huh. His nipples were weirdly sore. Even obscured by the water, they looked vaguely puffy. Paul poked at one, getting another twinge of soreness, and sat up in the tub to get a better look. They were definitely slightly swollen. Weird. Not one of his normal complaints at all-- not a gut issue or a mental one. But it was so minor that he felt like calling up a doctor would be overkill. He got out of the tub, dried off and headed to bed, trying to think no more of it.

-- 

The first slight alterations had already begun by the time the demon entered his bedroom. Marbas was there only to speed things along to their inevitable conclusion, catalyzing the curse with a touch of one bloodstained finger to the sleeping man’s mouth. His lips closed around the finger in his sleep, tongue latching on and suckling away the blood, taking it into himself and sealing his fate.

The changes went from negligible to obvious from there, before Marbas even pulled away. In fact, the man’s body was conforming almost too easily to the magic being wrought on him. Usually, for a curse this drastic, there’d be more resistance, despite all of Marbas’ usual precautions. Marbas didn’t expect him to awaken during the transformation, but a struggle wouldn’t have been out of place as his body warped and reshaped itself. The man was just letting it happen, letting himself gradually be erased.

Marbas wasn’t interfering too much, allowing the curse itself to do most of the work for him. The girl’s offering, that smear of her blood– freely given, and freely taken– imbued with Marbas’ own power, was softening up the man’s facial features, his chest. It was like watching someone underwater. His five o’clock shadow disappeared entirely and the skin beneath reworked itself; almost blurred for vague moments before reshaping into a smaller chin and a less distinct jawline. He lost a few inches of height, shoulders and torso almost caving in on themselves, body diminishing substantially. He hadn’t been naturally lanky to begin with, and the woman he was becoming was too well-built to be scrawny. Not overweight at all, but not curvaceous, and certainly not delicate. A healthy, if somewhat ordinary frame so far, though his breasts were continuing to swell well after his hips and ass had stopped. Most of his copious body hair had vanished, except for a thin trail pointing down from around his navel. That trail was starting to spill down into a patch of dark curls at his groin. He decided to leave that alone.

The man shifted, made a sharp little cry. Smaller, still long-fingered hands scrambled blindly, then curled around his bent knees. Trembling all the way down to his toes. He was coiling into himself, tossing and turning helplessly as the transformation neared its completion. Always painful to lose those last precious vestiges of a body. Marbas waited until the sounds stopped and then idly rolled him fully on his back, just to check-- nothing amiss. Physically, the man was gone. Not ten minutes to get rid of twenty-five years.

His head lolled, curly, dark hair slipping down. For a moment, Marbas thought there’d been a mistake after all-- the man was missing most of his ear-- but then, looking at it, he judged the deformity to be much like the scars and moles, something that had been there awhile. Interesting, and not worth resolving. Marbas could have reshaped and refined him endlessly, but given no direction from the girl on how she wanted him to look, he was content to leave the man as he was, more or less as he would have been if born female.

He’d sleep for a long time yet. Transformations were too exhausting for mortals to endure otherwise. Marbas left the room, not curious enough to wait on the man to discover what had happened to him.

–

(mama, stan hit me!)

(she wouldn’t let me play with it!)

(she’s a doll! you can’t play with her!)

He shoved both chubby hands into the pockets of his overalls. Julia’s still-red cheek proved her claim. He had hit her for snatching back the doll. But he hadn’t thought she would care. Julia was a big girl. Six years old. She went to school now and she didn’t want to play with him at all anymore. And the doll was just lying in the middle of the living room untouched,with its big green eyes and long blonde hair and fancy blue ruffled dress. It had shoes and stockings-- he had taken the shoes off, but not the stockings, before Julia had grabbed the doll back from him. 

(i wanna play with it! you weren’t playing with it!)

(boys don’t play with dolls!)

He reached for the doll again anyway, gripping the hem of its dress. He heard the faint sound of ripping fabric. But the dress hadn’t ripped. He felt something very odd, very funny, tingling and hot, pulling and twisting. He was yanking at the straps of his overalls, trying to tug them down-- it was just so hot-- only the overalls weren’t overalls at all anymore. Just a dress. The doll’s dress, the cuffed sleeves like manacles on his arms, the ruffles itching against his neck, it was all so strange, so stifling, the heat in his body almost unbearable-- 

He jerked awake only briefly before falling asleep again.

-- 

Paul didn’t usually oversleep much, thanks to all the years of being on the road. They’d leave the hotels way before the ten a.m. checkout, each of them slogging out of their shared rooms, suitcases in hand, clambering to the lobby and then to what passed for their tour bus. Up until recently, that was how it had been-- now, at least, he didn’t have to carry his own suitcase. But it was midmorning before he managed to shake off the last vestiges of sleep and sort of open his eyes, turning his head to check the time. 

10:40. Pretty bad. He made a mumbling sound. Really, he was starting to feel pretty sick. Or, rather, he felt like he was getting over an illness. His whole body felt weirdly drained. He reached for the phone on the nightstand-- eyes shooting wide open at the sight of his arm.

It wasn’t right. It was too small, too thin. There was a bit of muscle, but the shape and size was completely wrong. It wasn’t his arm, even as he flexed the too-small fingers and bent the elbow back and forth. His wrist looked tiny. His skin felt funny. His breaths were catching in his throat, both hands suddenly shaking as he threw off the covers entirely, and stared, horrified, at the rest of himself.

It wasn’t just his arm that was wrong. It was his whole body. Every inch of it.

His chest-- he had actual breasts like a chick would have. They were large and heavy. Absolutely no hair on them at all. Stomach mostly bare, even. His torso didn’t have nearly its usual blockiness. His hips looked strange, jutting distinctly-- even his legs looked far more than subtly wrong, and between his legs… 

No. No way. It wasn’t that there was nothing there. Just nothing he was remotely familiar with. Not from this perspective. A shift, spreading his legs, made it obvious. He didn’t have a cock anymore. He was a girl now. Every single bit of his body veered straight towards that single, inexorable fact.

He hadn’t taken anything, so he must’ve still been asleep. That weird dream about the doll had just morphed into another dream, that was all. A dream where he was suddenly a chick. That was all. Wasn’t it? Paul remembered the bit about pinching yourself to wake up from a dream, and tried it, pinching the skin on his wrist. All it did was confirm that it was very much attached. He tried again, this time biting several of his fingers in turn, right between the knuckles, a bad habit from childhood. Nothing. And all that moving around only meant he caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror over on the other side of his bedroom. He flinched at the sight, at first, only stealing occasional, horrified glances before forcing himself to sit up properly on the bed and look at his own reflection.

He didn’t want to get any closer to the mirror, to really inspect himself. But even peering over from those few feet away, he could tell he was a little bit pretty. But only a little. He had gotten picky enough that he would have no more than glanced at a girl that looked like… like he did now. He had the same mop of dark brown curls as always. He had the same big eyes and full lips. He could still sort of recognize aspects of his face, even with most of his features (particularly, irksomely, his chin) smaller or softer. It was the coldest of comforts.

He ran his fingers down his face, the unfamiliar feel of an utterly smooth chin and jaw making his stomach churn. Down his neck, down those slimmer arms, catching sight of the rose tattoo on his shoulder. Still there. Down finally to his breasts, drawing back at his own brief touch. He didn’t want to feel past that; just looking at himself, hell, just pressing his thighs together, the dull, strangely empty pressure there, was frightening enough.

He cried for what felt like an hour. Just sobbed himself back to sleep like a little kid.

When he woke back up, body no different at all, he stayed in bed until he got hungry. Then he grabbed a bathrobe, half-stumbling to the kitchen. His center of gravity was badly off. His chest was throwing him off the worst. Each movement felt like his whole body was encased in a glove that didn’t quite fit properly. That drained feeling he’d had since he first woke up wasn’t going away at all. Nothing felt right. He felt-- he was kind of clumsy. Nothing was comfortable. Hell, even his bathrobe didn’t fit correctly anymore on him, the sleeves too long, the shoulders too broad. The ends of the belt drooped nearly to his knees.

He made himself two cheese sandwiches, followed up with a glass of water. Eating helped more than he’d expected. He was perversely glad that his appetite didn’t seem enormously different.

He’d have to do something. He’d have to figure out what the hell had happened to him. Well, he knew what the hell had happened to him, but--

Think. He needed to think. Where had he gone over the last couple of days? Had he gone anywhere? He’d gotten take-out lately, a bad habit from the road. He’d slept with… oh, four or five girls since the end of the tour, in scattered hotels rather than in his house. He didn’t really like bringing girls home; it felt invasive, and it made the girls think they actually had an in with him. He hadn’t spent the night with any of those chicks, either. Then he’d… where else had he gone? God, he couldn’t remember.

He let out what would’ve been a much lower grunt under normal circumstances, then stopped himself, caught a little off-guard from the pitch. He swallowed, morbidly curious despite himself. What did he really sound like right now? It took another breath before he was willing to test a word out.

“Fuck.” God, it was obnoxiously high. He’d always thought his real voice was too high as it was, and had tried sometimes to lower it for interviews, but this was ten times worse. At least to his own ear, it seemed like he was on the verge of squeaking. “Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it…”

Could he recognize it? Was it still his voice, the way it was still, at least to some degree, his face? The way his tattoo was still on his shoulder? Two words weren’t really enough to tell.

“She sells seashells by the seashore. Seashore. Sea-shore.” No good. The sentence was a bit too obvious for his tongue to trip over as readily, even as shaken-up as he was. He’d be better off picking words. “This. Distinct. Whistle.”

The lisp was still there. Faint while he was concentrating on the words, trying to move his tongue the right way, but present all the same. Paul took a breath, then shoved a hand through the matted curls on the right side of his face, only drawing back when he felt the familiar, awful remnant of his right ear. That settled it for certain. On some level, he had his own body, with all its failings and imperfections. Just rearranged. Tugged into a new shape. One he didn’t want to stay in. Paul closed his eyes. His throat felt tight as he tried to decide what to do next. There had to be something. What had happened to him couldn’t possibly be permanent.

He thought about it for awhile, but it was several hours before he managed to eke out the nerve to do anything at all about it. His palms were sweating when he finally reached for the phone, calling up Aucoin Management. Not Bill’s personal number-- he couldn’t face Bill now, any better than he could face any of the guys. Fuck, Bill might in some ways be worse to deal with right now than even Gene. He’d always felt like he was Bill’s favorite, the way Peter was clearly Sean’s. To picture Bill even getting an inkling of what had happened to him, or worse, thinking he was crazy-- he’d never be able to handle it.

“Hi, I’m Mr. Stanley’s secretary.”

Bill’s secretary, Linda West, sounded like she was smiling, even over the phone.

“He has a secretary now?”

Paul choked out something like a giggle. 

“He, uh, wanted me to get some books on the occult sent over.”

“What kind?”

“Oh, ones on magic and summoning spirits.” Paul’s knowledge of the occult only went about as far as Dark Shadows, a couple Night Gallery episodes and seeing an interview with Anton LeVay on T.V. as a teenager. He knew some kids in high school that dabbled in magic and Ouija boards, that kind of thing--back then, it was really in. He’d had his palm read a couple times, and even now, he checked his horoscope pretty regularly, especially on tour. He’d always figured there was something to it, probably, but it wasn’t something he’d wanted to get involved in. Now he was involved in it. “Could you get a spellbook, maybe?”

“A spellbook?”

“He’s trying to do some research. Look, just--get it, okay? Have it expedited over to his house. A couple books. It’s really important.”

“I think this is a little unusual for Mr. Stanley.”

“I do, too.” A nervous laugh. “Would… would you like me to, uh, have him authorize--”

“No, that won’t be necessary. We’ll have some books sent tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up the phone, exhaling hard. Amazing that it had actually worked. There. He’d do his research, find out what could be done about it, and, well, go from there. They still had a little over a month before the new tour started. Whatever happened to him might even wear off before the books even got to his door. Yeah. Yeah. 

-- 

The next morning, he was still no different physically. The only thing that had started to fade a bit was that sickly, sapped feeling. He was moving around a little better, too; he didn’t feel like he was quite as off-balance, though his strides still weren’t completely smooth. Somehow, he was adjusting to whatever new female baseline he occupied now. That was terrifying in itself. 

He put on the bathrobe again. Then he dug in his drawers for underwear, deciding it probably wasn’t that hygienic to be up and about without it. The thought of trying to wear briefs in his current state was depressing, so he put on one of the few pairs of boxers he owned instead, trying not to think too much of what they used to contain. It was hard not to when he had to tighten the drawstrings so much just to keep them from falling off.

The books were at his doorstep by noon, and he spent the next four hours reading them, stopping only to eat his leftovers from two days before.. He’d ended up with an assortment of what he realized was the real stuff. Translated grimoires. Paul was fairly indifferent even to Judaism, and a little antagonistic towards the fading remnants of the Jesus freaks, but on the same token, he didn’t feel great looking at all those weird sigils and pentagrams. Knowing, or figuring, anyway, that something in these books had to have been responsible for his current form made him queasy. It didn’t help that most of the demons in the book seemed relegated to alchemy, discovering secrets, and, weirdly, battlefields. 

The Secret Lore of Magic had an index. He turned it to “transformations” and started flipping through the references.

“Like  the  previous  spirit,  Ose  is  able  to  transform  people  into  whatever  form  they  will.  He  causes  delusions  and  insanity  if  required.  Those  who  have  been  changed by him may not know it, and continue to behave as they normally do, in spite of their altered appearance.”

Huh. Well, it probably wasn’t Ose, then. He definitely knew what had happened to him. 

“Zepar… a strong Duke, he can change people into any shape they desire. He can make a woman love any man, at the magician’s command.”

Terrifying. Hopefully Gene never got hold of this book. He reached for the next one, The Lesser Key of Solomon, which, when he opened it up, had a subtitle: Goetia: The Book of Evil Spirits. Paul swallowed thickly. This one was even worse, with its explicit instructions on exactly how to invoke and cast away dozens of demons.

His mother would kill him for owning a book like that, much less reading it. Then again, his mother probably wouldn’t recognize him right now. The thought made his heart drop suddenly to his stomach, and he shoved the book off the table to the floor.

Only for it to open by itself a second later, right to one short entry.

“The fifth Spirit is Marbas. He is a Great President, and appeareth at first in the form of a Great Lion, but afterwards, at the request of the Master, he putteth on Human Shape. He answereth truly of things Hidden or Secret. He causeth Diseases and cureth them. Again, he giveth great Wisdom and Knowledge in Mechanical Arts; and can change men into other shapes.”

Just a paragraph. Just a paragraph, but it was enough that his palms started to sweat.

-- 

He read up in the other books about Marbas, but didn’t get much more information. He reread the summoning ritual, but it still made him too nervous to even think about attempting. What would he even do, if he summoned him? He didn’t need to contend with the demon, who probably hadn’t done this to him just for kicks. He needed to figure out who had made the demon transform him, but that had its own problems. Nobody would benefit from Paul being a woman, nobody. He had enemies, sure– every band they’d opened for probably had a bone to pick with him and the rest of KISS– but he couldn’t think of a single person willing, and crazy enough, to inflict this on him. 

He kept mulling it over anyway. The guys in Blue Oyster Cult were pretty weird and geeky (Gene had sort of liked them), but they weren’t malicious and as far as Paul knew, they didn’t actually practice black magic. He didn’t even know the guys in Black Sabbath. Alice Cooper? He didn’t know Alice, either, but he’d always been pretty sure his schtick was just a schtick. Paul pursed his lips. Had to be somebody. Maybe one of Neil Bogart’s rivals was jealous– no, that made no sense at all– Paul jerked a bit in his chair when he heard the phone ring. He had already gotten up and reached for it by the time he remembered not to answer it. Three rings. Four. Five.

His answering machine was in his bedroom. He padded off to check, hearing his own recorded voice just before the caller started up.

“Hey, this is Paul Stanley. If you’ll leave me your name and number, I’ll be reaching out as soon as possible. Thanks.”

“Hey, Paul. This is Peter.” There was a short pause. “I just wanted to say hello. I haven’t seen you much since the tour. Call me back when you can.”

Peter. Paul groaned. It seemed as if that one phone call started an avalanche. Six calls, from everyone from Bill to Hilsen to Bill’s secretary again, among others, in three hours. Eventually he couldn’t stand it anymore, either hearing the messages or hearing the rings. He had to get out of there, had to escape the reminders that he wasn’t himself right now, that people were already reaching out to him, wondering about him. 

He didn’t get far. Just downstairs, where he didn’t have a phone installed. But there were still plenty of reminders there. KISS’ gold albums. More tour junk, albeit mostly in boxes. He tried to push that out of his mind, focus on his album collection instead, mostly bought in bulk after KISS had hit it big. Every record he’d ever wanted, and more than he had time to play. 

He had time now. He had, officially, been stuck like this for over twenty-four hours. He swallowed and started looking through his collection. His latest on-again off-again girlfriend (now off, with no hope of reconciliation if this continued) had given him an old Four Tops record he didn’t feel like playing. He also had one of Cher’s albums, and, for whatever reason, Olivia Newton-John’s latest effort, although girl singers, on the whole, never had appealed to him much. No, right now he wanted something rough, something with an edge to it. He settled for the Stones’ “Exile on Main Street,” plunking down on the couch to the in-out weaving of Richards and Taylor and Jagger’s craggy, agitated vocals. 

(i only get my rocks off while i’m sleeping)

(only get my rocks off while i’m sleeping) 

Paul shifted on the couch. More lyrics. Mick’s girls, at least in songs, were always giving him problems. He never seemed willing to bare whatever was left of his heart for them, with the possible exception of “Angie.” Mostly he and Keith wrote about one-night-stands. The old fuck-me suck-mes that Paul was so prone to himself. Only theirs were better. Grittier. Paul always felt like there was something that, as a writer, he could only imitate, and never really reach. 

Maybe this forced perspective might give him some ideas. His nose wrinkled at the thought. Mick couldn’t even be appealing talking about one of the things he’d always been curious about with girls. 

(i can’t seem to stay in step, ’cause she come every time that she pirouettes on me)

He knew they could do it. Come more than once in a row. It wasn’t a girlie magazine myth-- he’d seen it happen. He’d done it to about a dozen groupies that he knew of, and at least one girlfriend. He ought to be able to do it to himself. He pursed his lips, shifting from his side to his back, stretched across the length of the couch as the next track played, untying his bathrobe. He hadn’t really even looked down there any more than he’d had to earlier, but he reached down, beneath the boxers, cupping his pussy with his hand for a few seconds before letting a finger delve inside. Almost instantly, he could feel himself tighten up, way too much, strange and sore, like he’d gone in too far, even though he’d barely gone in at all. Curiously, he wasn’t even wet. He tried again, meeting the same conclusion, and finally just stopped, shifting and readjusting his position on the couch, spreading his legs wide, knees bent, one resting against the couch, the other dangling towards the floor.

He pushed the boxers down further, too, and, nervously, leaned forward for a better look as he prodded around with his fingers. He at least found his clit, nestled, tiny and useless, between his folds. Touching it wasn’t helping; it was too sensitive. Nothing about this whole experience was anything like masturbating with a dick, or anything like his experiences fingering actual women. 

Maybe he needed to use his imagination a bit to ease himself in, although that wasn’t typical for him.  He didn’t usually have to start off with a fantasy. He could let his mind wander as long as the mechanics were there. But already, he could tell that wasn’t going to work now. He was just too dry. 

Maybe something was wrong with him. Stuck in a body that couldn’t even orgasm. Another part of the curse. He flinched, trying to concentrate. A fantasy, okay. Paul would usually pull out a mental composite of a Playboy playmate, wavy blonde hair, green or blue eyes, with heavy, heaving breasts and a tiny waist. It was hard to get as excited over that picture now that too much of it mirrored himself. He couldn’t even imagine properly fucking her while he was shoving a finger inside his pussy.

Okay. Okay. Maybe something a little off his usual preferences. Paul had fooled around with guys a bit, primarily Ace and Peter and the occasional gay bar denizen. He felt weird fantasizing about either of them, though. Ace would probably laugh at him right now, and Peter, well, he just didn't fit the bill. Maybe… maybe someone he made up. He shut his eyes, going at himself a little easier, sketching out the features in his head. Tall, masculine. Not like the pretty boys Bill was so fond of, nothing effete or weak. Swarthy complexion, dark eyes. Hell, he didn’t even have to be handsome, just have that reassuring presence, that feeling of security–

His breath hitched as he realized who he’d started to conjure up, his hand stilling to a stop. He shoved his boxers back up, retied his robe, and headed for the bathroom, washing his hands, trying to avoid looking at his own face in the mirror, the flush in his cheeks. He had to get hold of himself a little better. Had to.

--

By the third day the phone had started ringing almost constantly. He was starting to get nervous, really nervous, about everything. If this was permanent. How he’d explain himself if it was. What would happen to the band. Just thinking about all that crap was enough to make him want to cry or vomit. 

He’d taken to napping during the day, half-hoping he’d wake up as his normal self, and half-hoping for solace, only to find he couldn’t escape there, either. He’d started having weird dreams. His sister and the doll again, only now the dream would just keep going. He’d be in the doll’s dress. He was nearly Julia’s size, despite the two years between them. Julia was sitting beside him, there in her neat blouse and skirt. She had a school satchel, too, and brown patent leather school shoes. They made a little clacking sound on the linoleum when she’d come home. 

(you want to play?)

(you’re gonna play with me?)

(you don’t play with me anymore)

Julia looked offended, but she nodded.

(you’re my sister)

(no i’m not)

(yes you are)

(i’m not)

(then why’re you wearing that?)

(i don’t know)

(don’t you want to play?)

He did. Enough that he scooted up closer. 

(what are we going to play?)

He never found out. Time swirled forward strangely. Julia yelling at him. He’d goaded her into it. He picked at her sometimes. It was easy. Julia was doing worse in school than he was when she even bothered to show up to class. Julia was embarrassing the whole family with all her crap. Running around with not just hippies, but freaks, smoking dope-- he’d only tried it once himself-- sleeping around. It made him feel better to push her buttons. Like less of a failure. Nothing had turned out right for him, either. He was just as much an outcast at his fancy art school as he’d been in his regular public school. He’d thought he could escape himself, be new, and instead he was still some half-deaf, fat kid that couldn’t get anyone’s attention, good or bad, that was poorer than anyone else going to that damn school, that had a sister who was nuts, that– 

(shut up!)

(shut up!)

(you’re just like me anyway! you bitch, you’re fucked up the same way!)

(i know why you see that shrink! i know all about that!)

(no you don’t! you don’t, you don’t!)

But she did. Paul was certain she did. Forward just slightly. He was in the backseat of a ’63 Chevy with a girl. He had three of his classes with her. They’d never talked too much, but he felt warm around her, wanted to take her out, if she’d go out with him. She had a boyfriend, but that didn’t really matter. Sometimes they just fooled around anyway. He got a bit of a thrill out of that, even if she wouldn’t ever go close to all the way, a thrill and a stab of guilt. She was on his lap, nearly-bare thighs pressed soft against his jeans, her skirt’s hem just a crumpled whisper of fabric. 

(we need to stop this, it’s not right) 

God, he was dying. His jeans were so damn constraining; she was on his lap and here she was worried about cheating when he was the one taking her scraps. He groaned, trying to think of a line, like those old movies that’d come on during the weekends. 

(of course it’s not right, baby)

(i don’t mean him.)

(it’s sick)

(this is really sick)

Forward, forward. Julia in her second trimester. Hadn’t even seen the guy in months, of course. More shame. She was rarely around, but his parents were praying that would change once the baby came. They were hoping Julia would just sign her parental rights over. That was how bad things had gotten. Paul fumed whenever he thought about it. He was probably going to have to forfeit his room for the baby. Money was going to be tight. He might not even get anything from his parents to help foot college next September. His father pulled him aside before dinner one evening.

(don’t you dare put our family through this)

(don’t you ever get pregnant)

Paul stared at him stupidly. He was already taller than his father. Had a mustache and the start of mutton chops at seventeen.

(what are you talking about?)

(i’m not, i can’t--)

He woke with a start, the afternoon sun peeking through the blinds, shivering, and the same. Mechanically, he got up, washed his face, made a sandwich. His new routine was nearly his old routine, off-tour, only now he didn’t have the stage and the grandeur to look forward to. No mass of screaming fans. No pretty girls in his bed. His whole world yanked out from under him, all the hopes he’d obsessed over since he first saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Every ring of the phone and every unplayed message made it clear. He was out. As long as he had this body, he was out entirely. 

He heard a car pull up. He had no intentions of answering it, not at first, but he peered out through the kitchen blinds. It looked like Peter’s car, and then, suddenly, he realized it was Peter’s car. His pulse started to speed, just a little, and despite himself, he crossed over to the living room, aiming to get a better look from the open windows there. Peter got out of the car and headed up the walkway, towards the front porch.

He’d come alone. What had he come for? What did he want? He had called, sure, but he hadn’t sounded urgent. Was he pissed off at him? Had something happened with Bill or Ace or, hell, even one of the roadies? 

Would he tell a random girl? 

In the end, his own curiosity and loneliness got the better of him. When Peter rang the bell, Paul opened the door. 

“Hey.” 

“Hello.” Peter looked mild enough, for Peter. Only a little perturbed. He was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and three or four cross necklaces. Typical Peter. His lip curled a little as he surveyed Paul, there in just his bathrobe. Peter had no idea he’d seen Paul in far less at least a hundred times on tour. “Is Paul here?” 

“No.”

“He let you stay here without him?” Peter frowned. “That ain’t like him.”

“He’s not here, Pete.” Oh, shit. Peter raised an eyebrow. Paul’s heart felt like it caught somewhere in his throat as Peter’s eyes searched his face, sizing him up yet again. He could feel his face flush, and he had to shove his hands in his bathrobe pockets to keep their trembling from being noticeable.

“Have I seen you before?”

“No! No. He’s not here. Go away!” Louder than he’d meant it. More scared. Paul bit his lip, watching as Peter stiffened up but didn’t turn to leave. Totally undeterred.

“Hey, c’mon, do you know when he’ll be back?”

“I-I don’t know. I’ll tell him to call. Okay?”

“Okay. Have him call. Jesus, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Peter looked like he was considering something. “Tell him it’s not urgent, okay, kid?”

“Okay.”

“Tell him to get you your own bathrobe, too. He could do better than that shit these days.”

--

It was awhile before he could calm down from seeing Peter. In the end he managed by writing up a grocery list, deciding he’d have a neighborhood kid pick up the stuff for him later.

The next day, driven by boredom as much as anything else, he opted to take a drive. He had to steel himself up for it, digging through his wardrobe. The colorful ladies’ blouses he wore felt too jaunty and flippant. In his real body, they were glam, a little subversive. Now they just wouldn’t do at all.

He pushed aside pair after pair of jeans– he could tell without even trying them on that they were now too wide at the waist, and definitely too long– until, at the back of his closet, he found the dress from his birthday, just a couple months back. Black with red flowers. It was long-sleeved, sure, and would still be baggy, but that didn’t matter. It would work. He pulled it on grimly, then dug around until he found the matching black pumps, stuffing the toes with tissue paper. Thank God he’d done the drag party. It kept him from being stuck wearing something he actually liked. From there he grabbed his wallet and keys, heading out the door, not really caring where he went, as long as he could escape for just a little while.

He ended up driving to Peaches. The record store wasn’t the distraction he’d hoped it would be. He’d tried not to look at the Casablanca promo display posters, feeling sick at the sight of himself and the other guys in the new costumes, painted there against a backdrop of half-naked girls. “KISS - LOVE GUN” in bright red letters above them, and then, below, “THE ONLY ALBUM TO PUT ON YOUR REVOLVER.”

The album was due to release at the end of June, one week before the start of the tour. “Christine Sixteen,” Gene’s song, was supposed to be the lead single. Another suck-me-fuck-me song– Gene had wrote it to make fun of him– only he didn’t have anything to suck right now. His throat felt like it was full of acid as he mindlessly thumbed his way through the new releases. The Eagles had put out a new album, but he’d never liked them. 10cc, too. Gregg Allman, per Gene, purportedly had a solo album coming out this month, but it wasn’t in stock yet. He couldn’t focus anyway. Eventually, he found himself wandering to the cut-out bin, knocking into a pimple-faced boy on accident. 

“Sorry.”

The kid was staring at him. For the barest moment, Paul forgot that he wasn’t in the right body; he thought the kid recognized him, and was about to try and brush him off. 

“Something wrong?”

The kid was staring at him, all right. The kid was staring at his tits. Paul inhaled, rolled his eyes, and turned away, deciding not to bother with a response. They’d done all those bra-burnings, what,  ten years ago, hadn’t they? What did his lack of a brassiere matter anymore, as long as he was covered up? He glanced down for about the first time since he’d put on the dress, belatedly realizing how obvious the outline of his nipples was through the thin fabric. Damn. Well, whatever. It wasn’t like he planned to go out at night or pull anything stupid. 

Not long after, he drove home from Peaches without a single record, still thinking. If what had happened to him wouldn’t wear off on his own, and he wasn’t willing to use black magic himself, was there a way he could pay someone else to fix him? Get his body back? But where would he even begin there? All that seemed apt to greet him were the same round of suspects who might have screwed him up in the first place.

But then there was Gene.

It was a long shot. A serious, serious long shot. It felt pretty desperate, but Paul was pretty desperate. Gene had studied religion in college, and had once planned to become a rabbi. He had been vaguely fascinating to Paul, as one of only a handful of Jewish guys he’d ever known that was actually devout. 

Was being the operative word. Gene still kept kosher, but Paul was pretty sure everything else about his upbringing had been surrendered. But maybe he knew something. Some Jewish mysticism… it wasn’t that far-fetched, was it? A purifying ritual, maybe?

He kicked off the tissue-stuffed shoes just inside the front door and yanked off the dress, leaving it there on the floor, putting the bathrobe back on like a security blanket. Purifying rituals. Yeah. Maybe. It was better than doing nothing. Gene knew a lot, and even if he didn’t know anything that could solve his plight, he’d do his dead-level best to find someone who did. He had to. Both as a friend and as a fellow quarter-sharer in the behemoth of KISS.

He sat down at the rolltop desk at what could’ve been his office, if he stayed in his house for more than a few weeks out of any given year, tugged open a drawer full of cards, invitations, and paperwork. Dug around some more, until he found a book of stamps and a fat stack of postcards. Some he’d written and never bothered to send, but most he’d just bought as souvenirs, silly mementos from when he couldn’t really afford much past a keychain when they’d traveled, but burned through Bill’s credit cards anyway. A blank Buckingham Palace postcard from their first European tour. He pulled out a pen and began to write.

“Gene, do you know anything about curses? 

“Write me back soon. Paul.”

He stuck the postcard in the mailbox. Just sending it off-- just reaching out, no matter how understated-- felt really good. Gene might even get it today. Tomorrow, definitely. He felt confident that Gene would notice it, even. Gene would have been counting on some of those dirty letters from fans to tide him over during the dry spell. He’d be sifting through his own mail right now.

Gene would help him. He’d write him back, hopefully (Paul was terrified he’d call instead, or worse, show up), figure out exactly what he needed to fix things, and then, well, then he’d be back to normal. No more hiding out and living in bathrobes. No more dealing with a body he didn’t recognize. Back to himself, just in time for the tour. With any luck, no one else would even know what had happened. With any luck at all.

[inscrutable-shadow]

Mediwhump May Day 8 - Scared of Blood

@mediwhumpmay

Cassiel belongs to @painful-pooch! Based on the fact that I broke my wrist in fifth grade, treated it as a sprain even though it def wasn't (no fracture on the x-ray so guessing it was a hairline) and then developed a ganglion cyst ten years later lol my wrist is still fucked up it's so fun (i went over my self-imposed word count on this one ack) Content Warnings: needles, minor surgical procedure

Another transfer case. The Doctor was considering making it look like they’d retired to avoid these. At this point, it was usually minor outpatient procedures that were incredibly annoying to perform and even though they could charge the insurance their usual “nameless doctor” rate (which was still less than other doctors would have), having to deal with legal processes at all made them want to spend an afternoon performing unsavoury experiments on a corpse. Not that they didn’t always want to do that. 

Between that and the fact that the espresso machine had broken down and they’d been forced to fuel their morning on drive-through coffee, they were already in quite a bad mood when their patient arrived, all shyness and deference and looking out of place, and they couldn’t bring themselves to demur back. 

“Mr Belanger, I presume? Do come in. I do not have all day to waste. The outreach programme has sent you over, no? I do wish that they would not send their excess to me…” “Oh, I can just… I dinnae have to…” Cassiel was slightly shorter than the Doctor, and despite his broad shoulders appeared to shrink back into the doorframe. They identified his accent as Scottish, though pulled at and smoothed over around the edges by proximity to other regions like the Doctor’s own mostly-English, sometimes-Swedish intonation.

They sighed. “My apologies. That was unprofessional of me. Just an annual physical, yes? Please, have a seat. I shall have you in and out in no time.” 

He hesitantly took his seat on the examination table while the Doctor pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. “It’s… you dinnae need money frae me, right?” Yes. He did not appear to be the sort of person who could afford them: his clothes were in tatters and his shoes full of holes. They were used to a clientele with large amounts of ill-gotten gains. 

They raised an eyebrow. “Correct, my compensation is covered by an agreement with the clinic you came from. Verify your name, date of birth, and medical history on that tablet over there, will you?” They rolled over the cart with the medical supplies on it while he did so, frowning and exchanging one tool for another just to kill the time. “Any particular complaints?”

Cassiel watched them warily as they brought their gloved hands up to check his lymph nodes. “Nay, nothin’ I can think of…”

Liar. “Oh? And does it hurt when I do this?” They bent his right wrist forward at a completely reasonable angle, which made him flinch and a spark of vindicated mischief flare in the Doctor’s chest. “That is what I expected. How long have you had the ganglion cyst?”

Cassiel blinked. “The what?”

“Ganglion cyst. A pocket of fluid found on the top or bottom of the wrist. Cause unknown, though they are common for patients who perform repeated wrist motions or have a history of wrist trauma.” They held up the hand, running a gloved finger down the scars on his arm. “You engage in some form of martial arts, no? I assume you fractured your wrist at some point in the past, perhaps a hairline, and you treated it as a sprain. This is quite a lot of fluid, I am sure it hinders your daily activities. How long have you had it?”

“Oh, er… Couple o’ years, I think… Is it dangerous? It does bother me a bit…”

“Not dangerous, no, but if it is impeding your activities, I do recommend aspiration, especially if it is multiple years old and has not gone down. It is a minor outpatient procedure, I could have the whole thing done for you before you leave today.” They rolled over to the supply cabinet to begin withdrawing the materials even before receiving an answer.

The colour had drained out of the man’s face by the time they turned around again. “H-hold on, wait… what’s… aspiration?”

The Doctor was too busy comparing needle gauges and deciding which one would be appropriate to really pay this any mind. “Quite simple, needle goes in, fluid comes out. Local anaesthetic is all that will be necessary. Just take care with the hand in question for a couple of days.”

“It… doesnae have to be a needle, do it? I, er…” Oh. Needle phobia. How annoying.

They tilted their head at him. “Well, I could excise instead. A bit more involved, I would need to use the scalpel, but should still have you in and out in an hour or so.”

He seemed to like that idea even less. “No, ah, it’s… all right, ye can, aspirate or wha’ever it is…”  

“Very good.” They began preparing the implements. “To reduce anxiety during the procedure, you can feel free to talk about whatever you would like. Keep your eyes on the chart on the back wall, yes?” 

The patient was silent for a moment as the Doctor began swabbing the site for the lidocaine injection, but eventually, he took a breath and blurted out, “I thought yer voice didnae match ye, when I walked in.”

“What?” The word came out strangely, as if their voice didn’t know how to behave when attention was called to it.

“Ye didnae seem like a purple person. I can… I see sounds.”

“Ah. Chromesthesia. Continue.”

Cassiel swallowed hard. “Is that… blood?” They tracked his eyes to the barrel of the syringe, which was now drawing up fluid.

“No. I told you to keep your eyes on the wall, did I not? If you stress yourself into syncope, I will not be pleased.”

He shifted uncomfortably, but relaxed after moving his attention. “See? That’s it. I thought ye’d be redder, but yer purple is very blue.” They didn’t really know how to respond to that. “Chromesthesia rarely has any tangible logic behind it, though I have been described as ‘cold’ and ‘rigid’ repeatedly by others in the past. I prefer to think of myself as efficient. There we are, all done. Not so bad, was it?” They’d done the steroid injection without him even noticing, and all that was needed now was the splint.

“That was… fast.”

“Like I said, I am efficient. Now, let us continue with the examination, yes?”

[mathsbian]

As a nice direct comparison (under a read more cause I’m not trying to speak over the fat people on this post, I just have experiences that show the difference in care very well):

Three years ago, I (24, 5’4”) weighed just 130lbs. I had a healthy pudge around my stomach and a healthy amount of muscle in my arms, thighs, and butt. Then I started having a lot of financial issues because of being disabled and unable to work. It affected my ability to get food. I also can’t cook anymore, which makes feeding myself even more difficult on such a tight budget. So I’ve been slowly starving the last three years.

In 2022, I lost access to my parents’ insurance plan and had to get on Medicaid and also had to find an entirely new care team. I have cognitive issues and was struggling to use the Medicaid search system to find providers who still took Medicaid, actually were taking new patients, and who’s contact information was still up-to-date. The PCP I was assigned had a phone number listed on my card, but when I called I was told no such doctor worked at that office. It took me a year and a half, til fall 2023, to get back into regular care. And I hadn’t physically seen my previous PCP since 2020 because she kept putting me on Telehealth appointments. So when I went in for my intake at my new PCP’s office, it was the first time I’d been weighed in 3 years. I was 95lbs.

The nurse weighing me made an offhand comment about wishing she could be that tiny. But then we got into the exam room and she was able to look over my history more easily and asked about the drop in weight and reacted with appropriate concern when I told her I lived a sedentary lifestyle and was not trying to lose any weight. The doctor was also concerned. At my most recent appointment, for my annual physical, it was snowing and I didn’t take off my boots or coat when I got on the scale. 99lbs. The nurse’s reaction? “Oh, he’s going to be pleased at the higher number and it’s almost all due to the heavy clothes you have on today, that’s disappointing!”

Thin privilege is real. If I’d weighed 230 and dropped to 195 without trying, in all likelihood, they wouldn’t have nearly any of the same concerns they have for me now. The difference is I look sick and too thin. They immediately checked my CBC and liver function and iron levels and all kinds of stuff. I saw a neurologist soon after who tested me for heavy metal exposure and vitamin B deficiencies. I’m on multiple supplements and a monthly B12 shot. It’s helped quite a bit. I’m not so shaky anymore. Knowing what vitamins I was struggling to get has helped inform my choices at the grocery store, and encouraged my partner and I to branch out with the veggies they cook with.

None of that would have happened if the doctor hadn’t expressed concern and had me do multiple blood tests. And I don’t know for sure that he would have cared if I’d been 100 (or even just 50) pounds heavier to start with.

It’s disgusting. I’m not doing anything to be this thin. Fat people shouldn’t have to spend all their time counting calories and exercising in order to get the care they deserve.

(And I know what it’s like to have problems ignored in favor of recommending exercise. My pediatrician ignored my mom’s complaints about my fatigue levels until I was no longer her patient due to not being a minor anymore. My mom had to force her to test me for mono and lupus and Lyme disease and whatever else, and when everything came back negative every time, she would smirk and say “See? She’s just out of shape and needs to exercise, and carrying a 25-30lb backpack back and forth while running between classes at her giant high school doesn’t count.” One year with the PCP I had to leave on Medicaid, I went in after spending a weekend unable to move due to intense pain. She asked about fatigue and family history of fibromyalgia and almost immediately diagnosed me, after confirming I didn’t have RA markers in my blood.)

I work at a daycare with infants.

One of our baby girls is fat, in the 99th percentile for her age. She is super cute and sweet. Lately, she has been sick with various breathing issues, so she has been reluctant to take her bottles. Normally, she’ll take 4 ounces of formula at lunch and 8 ounces in the afternoon. Today, I was lucky to get to her take 5 all day.

There was a substitute covering a lunch break in my classroom today. We emphasized to her that we need to keep trying to get the baby to drink her bottle until she finished it. She said, “Why are you guys so worried about taking her bottle?”

My coworker replied, “That’s where all her nutrients are. She needs the nutrients and the water.”

To which the substitute replied, “But she’s so fat. She doesn’t need it.”

Thin privilege is a small, pretty baby getting better childcare because the caretaker doesn’t think she’s too fat to be allowed to eat.

[prorevenge]

Coworker tried to get me fired over breast implants, so I pulled a reverse uno card.

4 years ago now, when I was 24, my mum died of breast cancer, and as both my grandmothers had also died of it I saw a specialist for a screening. I found out I had some cells in one of my breasts that could have turned cancerous at any given moment.

I was told I had a few options:

I could have regular screenings every 3 or 4 months until it does develop into cancer (I was told the risk of the cells becoming cancerous was very high due to family history) but it could also potentially never could turn so I'd just be getting these screenings for no reason

I could get a single mastectomy on the breast with the bad cells, but they'd need to keep an eye on the other one, so I'd still need regular checkups for the other breast

I could get a bilateral mastectomy and remove all of my breast tissue, basically eliminating the risk.

I went for the bilateral mastectomy. It was admittedly the most drastic option but after seeing what cancer did to my mum and grandmothers I didn't want to risk it.

I was warned about scarring but told it should be fairly minor. It wasn't and I was left with 2 huge, pink, jagged scars on either side of my chest, each about an inch long and half an inch wide, and it caused me to go into a severe depression, where it got to the stage of me not even leaving my flat because I didn't want people to see me, throwing out my mirrors, and getting physically sick looking at myself.

I went to a therapist, who suggested a plastic surgeon. The therapist said they'd never normally do that but it was clearly something I was struggling with and I might never get over it, and the therapist could see why I struggle with it. Although I'll admit the therapist did send me to ask about scar reduction. The plastic surgeon suggested a cream, a laser or implants. The cream didn't work, and the laser was both expensive and risky, so I went with the implants. My natural boobs were an F cup so I went with a slightly smaller DD. Since then my mental health has improved and I feel a lot better about the way I look. My confidence has gone up, as has my self esteem. I know I shouldn't put so much into my appearance but I wasn't exaggerating about these scars. Huge, bright pink, jagged, raised, just really awful to look at and I hated seeing myself, and they are now nicely hidden away and you can barely feel them.

​

In the present day, I'm 28 years old and working in an office. I'm doing a lot better than I was. My coworker, Jill, found out I'd had a boob job (but not about the cancer thing), when myself and my friend from years before the mastectomy were planning a holiday and she made a joke about me going on a plane with my implants, and Jill overheard. By the end of the day, the entire office knew I'd had a boob job, but not why, and half a dozen people confirmed Jill had told them.

Over the next few months Jill made many "jokes" and comments about my chest to coworkers when I was in earshot, at one point saying I had "more plastic than Barbie" and calling me "fake in two ways". I didn't hear this one myself but a friend in the office told me that Jill had at one point referred to me as a "sack of silicone".

IDK what her problem was exactly but at one point she mentioned the NHS so I assume Jill thought that I'd got my tits done for free on taxpayer money (I'd gotten the mastectomy on NHS but gone private for therapy and implants).

I asked her to stop more than once, but unfortunately the places I'd talked to her were places like the lift and the women's bathroom, where there weren't any cameras, and Jill just kept making comments no matter how often I asked her not to. I wouldn't say it was every single day, but I heard at least 3 comments per week for 3 months.

I hit my breaking point when me, Jill and a few other coworkers were having lunch, I referred to something as being shallow and Jill said "you'd know all about being shallow" while gesturing to my chest. I snapped.

I said "do you know why I have these? A few years ago the doctors found potentially cancerous cells in my breast tissue, I was advised to get a mastectomy and was left with huge ugly scars on my chest. I went to see a therapist who sent me to a cosmetic surgeon, who advised me to get implants to hide the scars, and I did just so I could look at myself in the mirror without crying. So maybe next time you want to judge someone for having cosmetic surgery, you should ask them why they had it first". And feeling like that was a mic drop moment I picked up my food and left.

For the rest of the day I had about 1/3 of my office come up to me and offer support, and the rest tell me that Jill was just joking around and I was being a bitch. I replied that Jill was being a bitch long before I was.

I then got an email from HR saying they wanted to talk to me the following day, and when I called for clarification they mentioned a "hostile work environment" (note: this is apparently an American term and holds little weight in England but it's what was said over the phone). I knew the person who signed off the email and I'd spoken to. Her name was Debbie, and she was Jill's friend in HR so I was fairly confident on who had reported me.

​

I realised that if this was already being sent to HR, I needed as much ammunition as possible, so I went about collecting my information.

As Debbie had dealt with me so far, it was safe to assume she would be the person reviewing the complaint with me, and if that was true I was fucked. However, I vaguely remembered a section on complaints that was in my contract when I first signed with the company. I flicked through the contract and there was a part in complaints section that said I was contractually allowed to request a change of reviewer if I felt my allocated reviewer was biased. It was called an "impartial overseer". I photocopied the page and highlighted that part.

Then I messaged the people who had offered their support over facebook, and said basically "HR have asked to see me. Do any of you remember Jill insulting me to your face and are you willing to write and sign something saying what you heard and when?". Not everyone was willing to help as Jill is somewhat feared in the office due to her befriending HR and management but about 20 people were willing to help me.

I guessed roughly when I'd asked Jill to stop previously (the 4 asks over the last few months, some timings were easy to guess as they'd happened on my break or when I'd first arrived at work) and I wrote them all down, along with a rough time of when the lunchroom confrontation happened and a list of names of who was there for the lunchroom confrontation.

​

I got to work slightly early the next morning. I went round everyone who had messaged me and most of them managed to give me a printed and signed letter (some didn't manage to write one but nbd). This isn't exact words as there's 16 letters to sum up here but the gist was:

"My name is [their name]. I work with Jill Lastname and OP. On [date] at [time] (approx), I spoke with Jill Lastname, during which she referred to OP as [quoted insult]. I felt this was inappropriate as it directly related to OP's appearance and am willing to go on record further to establish that Jill Lastname has been discussing OP in the workplace in the same manner for 3 months now, causing me discomfort and creating what I feel is a hostile work environment. Signed [their name]"

I wound up with about 16 letters, all from different people, and one of them was in the lunchroom for my conversation with Jill. Some even had bulletpointed lists of everything Jill had said to them about me or other people, as it turns out Jill has issues with a lot of people's appearances. She apparently made comments about one coworker's weight, and something antisemitic about a different coworker's nose, all of which were put in these letters. There are about 45 people in the office so while 16 wasn't a majority, it's still a decent amount. The letters weren't hugely long, most were only a paragraph, but they had all the necessary information.

​

I was asked to come to HR at 10am. I took the letters from coworkers, the photocopy of the page in my contract, and my dates and times in a little folder with me.

I got there and Debbie was the one overseeing the interview. She got up from her desk, ready to lead me into another room.

I immediately turned to the other HR worker that was currently there and said "so is my meeting with you, then?"

Debbie said "no, you're with me."

I replied that this wouldn't sit well with me, as "my contract states I have a right to an impartial overseer" and as I said this I took the contract page out of my folder. Debbie read it (I wouldn't let her take the paper when there was a shredder so close by) and said she could be impartial. I replied that I really didn't mean to be a pain, but I had it on good authority that the person on the other end of this complaint is her friend, and my contract does say I'm allowed an impartial overseer.

Debbie stomped off to get Supervisor. Supervisor asks how I know she can't be impartial and I tell him that I have it on good authority that the Jill, who was on the other end of this complaint, is a close friend of Debbie. He asked Debbie if this was true, to which she only replied "I can be impartial".

Supervisor took a deep breath, asked the other HR rep to come with him, and the four of us all went to review the complaint. I thanked them for being so accommodating (I was worried I'd annoyed them), Debbie took out the complaint and all 3 of them went through it with me. Debbie looked homicidal the whole time the interview was happening, as she had clearly anticipated firing me (or at least recommending me being fired).

​

The interview went something like this. It took like over half an hour and they kept asking me the same questions but phrased different ways so this is a really drastically condensed version.

Q: You said outside that you think Jill Lastname reported you. Why is this?

A: Jill has had an issue with me for about 3 months now

Q: Why didn't you come to us when you realised Jill had an issue?

A: I had no issue with her

Q: What issue does Jill have with you?

A: Four years ago a specialist identified potentially cancerous cells in my breast tissue. I had surgery to remove my breast tissue, thereby removing the cells and the risk. After the surgery I was left with large scars on my chest. I went to a therapist for low self esteem and depression. The therapist suggested a plastic surgeon who suggested breast implants to cover my scars. All of this is in my medical history which you have a copy of in my file and my full permission to review. Jill found out about my breast implants but didn't know about the cancer. Jill had a problem with my breast implants, and decided to communicate this problem to our coworkers.

Q: Why do you feel this is true?

A: Here's 16 signed statements all from different coworkers, all testifying that Jill told the entire office I'd had breast implants on the day she found out and has since made comments about these implants frequently. They have quotes of what Jill said to them about it and rough dates and times.

Q: Rough dates and times?

A: No one knew this would be escalated to such an extent so no one really took notes as and when it happened.

Q: What event or events do you think directly led to this complaint of harassment?

A: For me harassment began when Jill told everyone about my breast implants without my consent, but as to the complaint placed against me, it would probably be what happened at about [time] yesterday in the lunch room. Jill made a comment about me being shallow while gesturing to my breasts and I replied by giving her an abridged version of my relevant medical history and ending with a comment about the importance of getting the full story. There are cameras in the lunch room, so I'm sure you'll be able to find that conversation. I'll admit I could have handled the situation better, but after 3 months I felt I had to put my foot down. Here's a list of names of people who were also present. There were 6 people at the table, including myself and Jill. One of these people is also in those letters, and has written their account of the conversation and signed it.

Q: Had you had a conversation with Jill prior to this regarding her comments about you?

A: Several, spaced out over the last 3 months. Each time I communicated to her that I felt uncomfortable and upset with these comments she was making and would appreciate it if she were to stop.

Q: To your knowledge, was Jill made aware of your former cancer at any point in this time?

A: No. It wasn't mentioned in the conversation with my friend she overheard and I didn't tell her because frankly it's none of her business and I did not feel the need to detail my medical history to a coworker in order to avoid further sexual harassment.

Supervisor stands up and says "well I think we're done here". He shakes my hand and sends me back to my desk saying that I'd hear from them after they reviewed the evidence (letters, CCTV, medical history and anything they had already) and made a decision on the case.

​

I got back to my desk, pulled up my CV, and prepared to start the job search again.

About an hour goes by, then the person who wrote the letter and was there for the lunchroom conversation gets called for a meeting with HR. They come back 10ish minutes later.

The other people who were also there for the lunchroom conversation get called one by one, except Jill. All of them are gone for about 10 minutes then come back, find a coworker, and say that HR wants to see them.

Then the people who wrote letters but weren't there yesterday are also called one by one and are each gone for about 10 minutes each, some longer, some shorter. By about 3:30 it looks like everyone who wrote a letter or was there in the lunch room has been interviewed.

Then, finally, Jill gets called in. She's gone for about 30 minutes and comes back fuming. She glares at me while I work, but I ignore her.

4:30ish, Jill gets called into HR again. 5 pm rolls around, everyone is either leaving or getting ready to leave, when Jill storms back into the office. She glares at me the whole time she packs up her desk. She then starts telling anyone who will listen that I got her fired before shoving her way onto the lift.

An email comes in from HR. My case is closed.

(source) story by (/u/3240278189)

[writingithink]

Tangled Timelines Chapter 3 Rated: T Chapter Word Count: 5,010 Chapter Summary: The Doctor and Rose try to track down some ghosts. Notes: Hey look! It's an update!! Hopefully they'll be happening more regularly now. I'm semi doing NaNoWriMo, and by that I mean that I'm attempting to write 50,000 words this month spread across any project (including this one). I'm starting to find my groove with this fic, so *fingers crossed*

As always, many hugs and thanks for @hey-there-juliet , my lovely beta. && all mistakes are mine.

READ IT ON AO3 [copy/paste link]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686090/chapters/67268401

<-- Ch2

Ch 4 -->

As soon as he entered his ship, the Doctor collapsed onto the jumpseat and stared blankly at the time rotor for a few moments. And then he glared at it.

“I somehow manage to happen upon the exact coordinates for the beginning of an invasion, and for some reason you’ve put me smack dab in the middle of it?!”

The answering hum was … frustrated.

He furrowed his brows, frowning. It would be exceedingly bad, incredibly bad, astonishingly bad bad bad if something else was influencing the TARDIS. The Doctor sprang to his feet and immediately sonicked open the grating, taking a moment to place a temporary barrier around his panic before he could worry Rose.

Back at the flat, she was having tea with her mother. She’d only just managed to get Jackie to stop complaining about his apparent need to ‘make everything about aliens’, and they were now talking about the wedding. Apparently she’d found a baker who said they’d make up cake samples that all somehow incorporated bananas. Best news he’d heard (well, technically) all day, and he couldn’t properly appreciate the sentiment when he desperately needed to check his ship and parse out exactly what he was going to do about these ‘ghosts’.

First things first, he needed to make sure that the TARDIS was physically fine. That she was healthy. And actually, it wasn’t so bad. There were some minor repairs he should take care of before they next left Earth, but nothing he couldn’t leave until after they’d saved the planet. The Doctor pulled himself out from under the console and bounced over to the navigational matrix, pulling a screen with him as he went.

His mouth dropped as he looked at the recording of their last flight path. A time track seemed to just- just pop into existence, pushing them months away. His ship had immediately landed due to the unexpected error. It literally looked like a glitch in the Vortex - but there were no such thing as glitches in the Time Vortex. A whole dimension doesn’t glitch - not without some outside force acting on it.

And any outside force meddling with time was even more dangerous than whatever these ‘ghosts’ were.

One bloody thing at a time, though.

The Doctor pushed himself away from the console and began pacing.

Ghosts ghosts ghosts ghosts ghosts.

Not really ghosts. Getting stronger from the psychic energy of the entire human race. Incredibly unpleasant when one walks through you - really do feel dead. Worse than dead. Likely nothing good, and all over the world.

But they appear in shifts. There’s shifts.

So someone had to be in charge of that. Probably multiple someones. But still, there would be a central location connected to them, giving them whatever help they need to press themselves onto the Earth from wherever they really are. To do that, all around the world, they would have to have an incredibly strong signal.

An incredibly strong, traceable signal.

“Alright then!”

Headfirst into danger was just what it was going to have to be.

The Doctor sonicked open a different panel and began rummaging around for the equipment he’d need. It wasn’t long before he heard the TARDIS' door open.

“According to the paper,” his wife announced, “they’ve elected a ghost as MP for Leeds. Now tell me about this plan you’re tryin’ so hard to keep secret.”

He popped out of the grating with a backpack full of equipment.

“Who you gonna call?” he joked.

“Ghostbusters!” Rose laughed, more amused by the voice he was using than his shockingly similar looking technology.

“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,” the Doctor finished with a little jig before dashing out of the TARDIS.

“My mum’s on her way down,” she informed him as he looked around the playground for the best area to set up the cones. Actually, should do nicely right where they were.

“Oh?” He turned on his heel and went back into their ship, pleased that she’d seen fit to set out the rest of the equipment they would need. “Let’s get these outside.”

“Doctor,” his bondmate huffed, even as she took a cone. I don’t think we should tell her yet. About the lifespan thing. Not until after we’ve gotten rid of the ghosts. Like, way after. Next trip back.

That’s fine, he agreed as he sat down his roll of wire and cone and began plugging everything in.

“We’ll still have to stay for awhile, though. Because we said we would.”

The Doctor paused what he was doing, dramatically raising his eyes skyward. It was quite a nice day, really. You’d think, with London having nice weather for once, that he’d be able to enjoy it. He opened his mouth, planning to vocalize his many complaints, but as soon as he turned back towards Rose, he saw Jackie walking up.

After the ghosts, yes. Sometime during this trip, though, please . 

He wasn’t ashamed to beg. Well … a little ashamed.

“Why’d you park all the way over here?” Jackie asked as he began plugging the wires into the cone Rose had placed.

“Got tired of the alley. Bit dingy,” he quipped. It was a lie, but better than telling his mother-in-law that not only had the flight gone wrong time-wise, but also slightly by location.

His wife shot him a worried look as she caught the thought.

Later, he promised, rushing back into the TARDIS for the final cone. He would worry about all of that later - they had important things to do.

“When’s the next shift?” he asked as he sat the cone down.

“Quarter to,” Jackie answered, “but don’t go causing trouble. What’s that lot do?”

“Triangulates their point of origin.”

“I don’t suppose it’s the Gelth?” Rose asked, visions of their spectral forms playing across their bond for a moment.

“Nah,” the Doctor responded, and she quickly shrugged off the idea. “They were just coming through one little rift. This lot are transposing themselves over the whole planet. Like tracing paper.”

With the final cone plugged in, he ran over to make sure they were all in the proper position.

“You’re always doing this,” Jackie complained. “Reducing it to science. Why can’t it be real? Just think of it, though. All the people we’ve lost. Our families coming back home. Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”

He paused to give his mother-in-law an honest answer. 

“I think it’s horrific.” 

And then the Doctor bounced back into motion, unrolling the cable that would connect the triangulation devices to the TARDIS console. They were on a time crunch, after all. “Rose, give us a hand, love.”

His bondmate sighed before following him into the ship.

She’s so upset.

The Doctor remained silent, aware that the thought wasn’t really meant for him and even more aware that there wasn’t anything he could say that would help. He plugged in the cable and turned to Rose, aware that her mother had followed them inside. This is how they could help.

“As soon as the cones activate,” he explained quickly, pointing to the monitor, “if that line goes red, press that button there. If it doesn’t stop,” he continued, reaching into his jacket to pull out the sonic screwdriver, “setting 15-B. Hold it against the port, eight seconds and stop.”

“15-B, eight seconds,” she confirmed.

“If it goes into the blue, activate the deep scan on the left.”

“Uhm … oh!” His wife leaned over the console, which he found much more provocative than the situation really called for. “This button there?”

“Hmm close.”

And he’d really, sincerely intended to send her a mental image of the correct button, but some wires must have gotten crossed there. Instead what he sent was a memory of their return to the TARDIS right after the Rhibelini festival. Eh. Oops?

“That one?” Rose smirked, pointing to another button that was definitely not close, while sending some very, uhm, creative suggestions that, unfortunately, weren’t actually feasible.

“Eehh, now you’ve just killed us,” the Doctor told her with a theatrical grimace.

With the button, or- ?

They both laughed, but only for a moment.

“Er, that one.” She confidently pointed to the correct button, telepathically informing him that she knew the whole time.

“Yeah!” he smiled before turning to Jackie. “Now, what’ve we got? Two minutes to go?”

Jackie looked down at her watch, and the Doctor was glad that she didn’t realize that he was just trying to make her feel needed. That he was a Time Lord and didn’t need her help to check the time. Because his wife had to be right - there’s no way her mum actually enjoys the act of doing laundry. She enjoys being a mum.

You like her, Rose teased over the bond.

Shush.

He gave her a peck on the cheek before exiting the ship to do the final prep work on the triangulation cones. It was go time. The Doctor raced around, calibrating each one.

“What’s the line doing?” he shouted through the door.

“It’s alright,” came his wife’s answering shout, though she really didn’t need to with his superior hearing. She could whisper and he’d be able to hear her from this short of a distance. “It’s holding!”

“You even look like him,” Jackie said to Rose, and he could hear her just fine. Not that he understood what that was supposed to mean.

“How do you mean? I suppose I do, yeah,” his wife responded, sounding pleased, though he still didn’t know what it meant. Rose didn’t look at all like him. What a strange thing to say. He tried to refocus on the triangulation equipment.

“You’ve changed so much,” Jackie sighed. “All grown up and married to an alien, living in a spaceship.”

The Doctor almost said something to Rose about her mother acknowledging that they were, in fact, already married, but then caught himself. If she didn’t already know that he was eavesdropping, no need to make it obvious. Not that it would matter either way. He wasn’t going to stuff cotton in his ears just because the humans in his life couldn’t be bothered to remember all of his biological differences.

“For the better,” his wife replied with confidence. “We have an amazing life, and we’re in love.”

“I suppose. It’s just barmy. Seeing you two like this in this box of his. Makes it hard to pretend everything’s even a little normal.”

He wondered what exactly Jackie imagined their life was like when they weren’t around. Things had actually gotten shockingly domestic lately, though it would still probably be too alien for his mother-in-law.

“Mum, I used to work in a shop.”

“I’ve worked in shops. What’s wrong with that?”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” Rose sighed.

Once again the Doctor made himself refocus on the task at hand, all the while hoping that they weren’t about to have a row.

“I know what you meant. What happens when I’m gone?”

“Don’t talk like that,” Rose ordered, distress flooding their connection, making it nearly impossible for him to pay attention to the cones.

How exactly was he supposed to save the Earth with these working conditions?

There was a smug voice in his head, with a distinct Northern accent, very pleased to point out how they were right about avoiding domestics.

“No, but really. When I’m dead and buried, you won’t have any reason to come back home. What happens then?” Jackie asked her.

“I don’t know,” Rose mumbled, as she tried and failed to imagine their future life without her mother in it.

The Doctor frowned, realizing that he couldn’t quite picture it either.

“Do you think you’ll ever settle down?” her mother continued.

Their connection was now awash with all sorts of negative emotions, and he could tell that his bondmate was near tears, which was completely unacceptable. He turned away from the cones, ready to march back on board before stopping himself.

“The Doctor never will, so I can’t,” Rose told her. “Wouldn’t want to. We’ll just keep traveling.”

“And you’ll keep on changing. And in forty years time, fifty, there’ll be this woman, this strange woman, walking through the marketplace on some planet a billion miles from Earth. But she’s not Rose Tyler. Not anymore. She’s not even human.”

Their bond somehow managed to pulse mauve.

It’s going to be okay, love, he tried to comfort her, fighting to send soothing, positive thoughts over their connection just as he finished up the calibrations. A distraction, that’s what she needed! It was certainly what he needed.

“Here we go!” he shouted.

“The scanner’s working!” Rose called out. “It says Delta-One-Six!”

“Come on then, you beauty!” the Doctor laughed, firmly resolved on drowning out all of the pain present in their shared mental space with adrenaline fueled glee. After all, he had always wanted to use these cones - they were state of the art!

He watched with wide eyes as the cones connected, immediately trapping one of the so-called ‘ghosts’ within their quasi-electric field. And then he reached into his pocket, carefully blocking their bond as he pulled out and put on a pair of 3D glasses - this was the part of his speculations that he really would rather not worry his bondmate with. At least, not yet. Not until he absolutely had to.

The ghost … thing he’d just trapped was absolutely riddled with Void particles. Completely covered, blurry head to blurry toe. Blimey.

The Doctor knelt down, adjusting the controls in order to get a more accurate read. If he was lucky, he would be able to figure out which parallel world these creatures were trying to come from. Likely a parallel Earth, but which one?

It began writhing, though nothing about the triangulation device should cause a living thing pain.

“Don’t like that much, do you?” he couldn’t help commenting. “Who are you? Where are you coming from? Woah!” He jumped back as the ‘ghost’ attempted to break out of the containment field. “That’s more like it! Not so friendly now, are you?”

He looked on as the creature faded away and the cones deactivated. While some more time would have been helpful, the Doctor had enough information to get started. After quickly picking up all of the cones, he ran back inside. Once he’d dumped them all out of the way, he raced up to the console, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto the railing.

“I said so!” he exclaimed. “Those ghosts have been forced into existence from one specific point, and I can track down the source. Allons-y!”

With that, he slammed the dematerialization lever, the coordinates having been inputted by the triangulation device. So handy! Finally got to use it.

The TARDIS shook violently.

Well, maybe he could make some improvements ... if he ever got the chance to use it again. The Doctor sprung to his feet and stabilized the flight.

Things seemed abnormally silent in the console room and over their bond. He was uncertain as to why, but still gave over to his natural inclination to fill the silence.

“I like that,” he told his wife as he moved around the console. “Allons-y. I should say allons-y more often. Allons-y. Watch out, Rose Tyler. Allons-y. And then, it would be really brilliant if I met someone called Alonso, because then I could say, ‘Allons-y Alonso’ every time.” He finally reached Rose and wrapped his arms around her before pausing. “You’re staring at me.”

“My mum’s still on board,” she whispered, squeezing his arms.

The Doctor looked up to see Jackie Tyler sitting on one of the platforms.

It was terrifying.

“If we end up on Mars, I’m going to kill you.”

Absolutely, bone-chillingly terrifying.

Stop being a drama queen, his bondmate chastised.

Oh, the domestics of it all! Worse than living in a house! Traveling with his mother-in-law?!

You’ll be fine, it’s hardly traveling . We’re in the same city, in the same time, Rose reassured him, rolling her eyes before giving him a proper hug.

What was he supposed to do now, though?! Bring Jackie with them? Leave her in the TARDIS? It would likely be dangerous wherever they ended up, invasion and all. The alternative was having her stay in their home to snoop around and get up to who knows what. There was no winning!

“Welcome aboard, Jackie!” he said with a wave, his smile showing a bit too much teeth.

“Where exactly are we going, anyway?” her mother asked.

“Come down, mum. You can watch the landing on the view screen with us,” Rose encouraged, releasing him so that she could meet her halfway. “We’re gonna land at wherever they’re controlling the ghosts. Are you fine to stay on board? There’s a pool, you could have a nice swim. Or watch telly in the media room. We’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’m just supposed to hang out in this weird ship of his while you’re off trying to get yourselves killed?”

“We do stuff like this all the time,” the Doctor piped in, trying to reassure her. “Only this time you’re on the TARDIS instead of at home in your flat. Which, really, is much better, when you think about it. Best ship in the Universe.”

Jackie still didn’t look thrilled as they all gathered around the view screen. She looked even less thrilled as they watched the TARDIS land in a hanger before immediately being surrounded by armed gunmen.

“Oh, well, there goes the advantage of surprise,” he sighed. “Still, cuts to the chase.”

Now he was going to have to deal with soldiers. Really, every time he thought that the day couldn’t possibly get worse. The Doctor turned to his mother-in-law as he made his way around the console.

“Jackie, stay inside. Doors shut. They can’t get in.”

“I’m not staying here! Take me home!”

“It’s too late for that,” he told her. “Shouldn’t have come aboard if you didn’t fancy a trip.”

“I was kidnapped!”

He rolled his eyes, deciding not to dignify that with a response as he took Rose’s hand. She pulled him to a stop before they reached the door.

“Doctor, they’ve got guns.”

The Doctor mentally reminded his wife that they’d been surrounded by much, much worse. Daleks couldn’t help but come to mind. 21 st century Earth guns were really the least of his concerns at the moment. Jackie Tyler accidentally breaking his precious timeship was more of a worry than guns. Whatever these creatures had planned, definitely more of a worry than guns.

“And we haven’t,” he delightfully informed her. “Which makes us the better people, don’t you think? They can shoot us dead, but the moral high ground is ours.”

With that, he tugged her out of the TARDIS behind him and closed the door as casually as he could manage.

Honestly, with all of the emergency programs he had installed, why couldn’t he have made one to deal with this scenario? A program that would immediately take Jackie home and then bring the TARDIS right back - now that would be nifty.

 They barely had a chance to look around before the soldiers surrounding them cocked their guns. He and Rose quickly raised their hands to prove they were unarmed.

Y’know what this reminds me of?, his wife casually asked across their connection.

What?

Utah, 2012.

The Doctor’s eyes swept the area as much as he could without moving his head. He could see her point.

Do you think they’d fire if I knocked on wood right now?, he asked her, just as a blonde woman in a suit rushed into the hanger.

“Oh! Oh, how marvelous!” she exclaimed, clapping.

I think she may’ve gone ‘round the bend, Rose laughed in his head as she fought back a confused smile.

The soldiers slowly began to lower their weapons as they joined in on the … clapping? Really, why were they clapping?

“Oh, very good. Superb. Happy day!”

Really, the Doctor felt inclined to agree with his bondmate on this one. Still, now that guns weren’t being pointed at them he was inclined to just go with it.

“Uhm, thanks. Nice to meet you,” he greeted. “I’m the Doctor, and this is my-”

Probably not the time to introduce me as your wife.

“- this is Rose.”

“Hello,” his wife waved with a wide grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, I should say! Hurray!”

And there they went again with the clapping. Honestly, what the bloody hell was going on?

Think you’ve got more fans, Rose teased.

“You- you’ve heard of me, then?”

Really, where had his ship landed them?

“Well of course we have,” the overly enthusiastic woman replied. “And I have to say, if it wasn’t for you, none of us would be here! The Doctor and the TARDIS.” 

Everyone started clapping yet again. He was starting to get used to it, actually. It was kind of nice.

“And his companion, of course,” the woman continued.

Okay, not as nice. Then again, Rose was the one who didn’t want him to say she was his wife. Which was probably the smart thing to do, mid-invasion, but still. Just … didn’t feel right. As it was, she had had to cover her mouth with her hands in order to keep herself from laughing - out loud. Their bond was awash with her amusement. The Doctor found himself fighting the urge himself as he tried to politely make them stop.

“And- and- and you are?” he asked as the noise died down.

“Oh, plenty of time for that,” she evaded. Huh.

I think she thinks she’s the boss of you, his bondmate informed him.

She also thinks that I’m the boss ofyou, the Doctor couldn’t help but point out.

Bless.

“Aaaaaaanyway lead on, allons-y. Will there be nibbles?”

He fought the urge to take Rose’s hand as they followed the woman away from the TARDIS, surrounded by armed guards, stuffing his fists into his pockets. A moment later she tugged on his sleeve. The Doctor glanced over, taking out his hand when she rolled her eyes. Their fingers slotted together, perfect fit, as always.

We’ve been holding hands since the moment we met, she mentally chastised. Memories played across their bond.

She certainly wasn’t wrong.

Sorry, he told her, squeezing her hand. Not sure how to pretend to not be married, I guess.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Rose smirk.

Well, I took off my ring. Think all we’ve got to do now is not say it outright.

Before he could properly respond, something on the tip of his tongue (or whatever the telepathic equivalent of that idiom might be) about how he could do a much better job than that, the mystery woman started talking.

“It was only a matter of time until you found us, and at last you’ve made it,” she said. “I’d like to welcome you, Doctor. Welcome to Torchwood.”

With that, she flung open the doors and they entered a massive warehouse. A massive warehouse that was full of alien technology. And since this definitely wasn’t UNIT, this was very, very not good.

Blimey , he told his wife, you’re right. This really is frighteningly similar to that bunker in Utah.

Gonna nip over to that crate and knock on wood?, Rose asked, only partially teasing.

He really was considering it, actually, but … (he peeked behind him at the armed soldiers following uncomfortably close) better not. Instead he focused on the spacecraft in front of them.

“That’s a Jathar Sunglider,” he realized.

“Came down to Earth off the Shetland Islands ten years ago,” the woman explained.

“What, did it crash?”

“No, we shot it down,” she stated. “It violated our airspace. Then we stripped it bare.” 

Oh, this was really not good. The Doctor tried to sense the timelines, but they were all still so jumbled and wrong that he couldn’t make out the consequences of it, this technology that Earth really shouldn’t have right now. Not yet.

“The weapon that destroyed the Sycorax on Christmas day?” the woman continued with pride, “That was us. Now, if you’d like to come with me.”

That’s what Harriet said, Rose realized, replaying the memory over the bond, Torchwood. I didn’t even think about it, though.

No, me either, he agreed as they were led further into the warehouse. Why hadn’t he noticed anything off before? He should have felt it. On Christmas, maybe not - he’d just regenerated. But apparently this organization has been active for at least a decade, if not longer.

“The Torchwood Institute has a motto - ‘If it’s alien, it’s ours’,” their ‘captor’ slash ‘tour guide’ explained. “Anything that comes from the sky, we strip it down and we use it for the good of the British Empire.”

“Excuse me, the what?” Rose interrupted.

“The British Empire,” the woman repeated, turning around and looking his bondmate up and down, sizing her up.

“There hasn’t been a British Empire in ages,” Rose informed her, and she wasn’t wrong.

“We’ll see,” their hostess replied, a little too condescending for his liking. “Ah, excuse me,” she continued as a soldier handed her a particle gun?! “Now if you wouldn’t mind. Do you recognize this, Doctor?”

“That’s a particle gun.”

Now that he was here, now that this had his full attention, the Doctor could feel the strain on the timelines. This whole building was a threat to the entire causal nexus. His wife held his hand tighter when he showed her just a smidge of it over their connection.

“Good, isn’t it?” the woman smiled, unaware of the impending disaster that he wasn’t yet sure how to fix. “Took us eight years to get it to work.”

“It’s the 21st century,” he calmly tried to explain. “You can’t have particle guns.”

“We must defend our border against the alien,” she replied, as if that somehow gave them a free pass.

The Doctor didn’t know what to say to that, which apparently was fine, as their guide wasn’t really paying attention anyway as she handed back the gun.

“Thank you, Sebastian, isn’t it?”

I think it’s best if we just, you know, let her talk, he told Rose, studiously not looking directly at her - and really, there was a lot to take in, the warehouse was packed with advanced tech. Much too advanced.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Think she’ll give us an evil monologue?

Well, I don’t think she’s evil, he admitted. I think she’s … some sort of, I don’t know, business woman? I think she truly believes that what they’re doing here is good . Which makes them even more dangerous.

It would also make stopping them even more difficult.

“Thank you, Sebastian.”

He refocused as she turned back to them.

“I think it’s very important to know everyone by name,” she said. “Torchwood is a very modern organization. People skills. That’s what it’s all about these days. I’m a people person.”

Well that’s … nice?, Rose commented across the bond as she gave the woman a very forced grin.

“Have you got anyone called Alonso?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“No, I don’t think so. Is that important?”

Eh, oh well. It was kind of nice, though, having her asking a question for once.

“No, I suppose not,” the Doctor replied, just as he noticed a crate of Magnaclamps. He’d always wanted some, hadn’t gotten around to it, though. “What was your name?”

“Yvonne,” she told them (finally). “Yvonne Hartman.”

He let go of his wife’s hand, giving into the urge to inspect a clamp.

“Ah, yes,” Yvonne said with a smile. “Now, we’re very fond of these. The Magnaclamp. Found in a spaceship buried at the base of Mount Snowdon. Attach this to an object and it cancels the mass,” she explained, as if he didn’t already know. “I could use it to lift two tonnes of weight with a single hand. That’s an imperial ton, by the way. Torchwood refuses to go metric.”

Of course they do, Rose scoffed over the bond. British Empire, I mean really.

“Well, that’s handy,” is what she said aloud as he tossed the clamp back into the crate, wandering away to try to get a better idea of all of the other alien technology they’d managed to scavenge, commandeer or steal. His wife wandered in the opposite direction, giving him a second set of eyes even if she didn’t know what everything was. It really was a devastating amount, and the Doctor had to assume that this wasn’t all of it.

Really, it was about time they got back on track.

“So, what about the ghosts?” he asked.

“Ah, yes, the ghosts. They’re, er, what you might call a side effect,” Yvonne admitted.

“Of what?”

“All in good time, Doctor. There is an itinerary, trust me.”

Ugh, of all the things to add to this no-good-very-bad-day, he was stuck on a tour. With an itinerary.

It was his personal hell, really.

And to make it even worse, there went the TARDIS on the back of a lorry.

“An itinerary?” Rose scoffed. “And what are you lot doing with the TARDIS?!” My mum’s in there!

Oh, seriously?! He’d just managed to forget that they’d left Jackie Tyler unsupervised on the ship. Really, truly, worst day ever.

Seriously? Could you just grow up and get some perspective?, his wife snarled over their connection.

“If it’s alien, it’s ours,” Yvonne replied confidently.

“You’ll never get inside it,” he told her with just as much confidence, if not more.

“Hmm, et cetera.”

Once she turned away, they both glanced back at their ship to see Rose’s mum peek out through the doors - which he distinctly remembered telling her to keep shut.

Really, why did no one ever listen? He didn’t understand it.

With a sigh, and all of his unflattering thoughts about his mother-in-law safely behind a barrier, the Doctor turned away to continue their ��tour’. At least the ghosts were on the itinerary. So this day had to turn ‘round at some point … right?

[seriousbusinessforhumans]

Jun 6 

As someone who went through the training, hiring, and socialization of a career in law enforcement, I wanted to give a first-hand account of why I believe police officers are the way they are......I believe that if everyone understood how we’re trained and brought up in the profession, it would inform the demands our communities should be making of a new way of community safety.

One night during briefing, our watch commander told us that the city council had requested a new zero tolerance policy....against homeless people collecting cans from recycling bins. See, the city had some kickback deal with the waste management company where waste management got paid by the government for our expected tonnage of recycling........Sarge called me over to assist him. He was detaining a 70 year old immigrant who spoke no English, who he’d seen picking a coke can out of a trash bin. He ordered me to arrest her for stealing trash. I said, “Sarge, c’mon, she’s an old lady.” He said, “I don’t give a shit. Hook her up, that’s an order.” And… I did. She cried the entire way to the station and all through the booking process. I couldn’t even comfort her because I didn’t speak Spanish. I felt disgusting but I was ordered to make this arrest and I wasn’t willing to lose my job for her.

We used to have informal contests for who could cite or arrest someone for the weirdest law. DUI on a bicycle, non-regulation number of brooms on your tow truck (27700(a)(1) of the California Vehicle Code)… shit like that.

In fact, let me tell you about an extremely formative experience: in my police academy class, we had a clique of around six trainees who routinely bullied and harassed other students: intentionally scuffing another trainee’s shoes to get them in trouble during inspection, sexually harassing female trainees, cracking racist jokes, and so on. Every quarter, we were to write anonymous evaluations of our squadmates. I wrote scathing accounts of their behavior, thinking I was helping keep bad apples out of law enforcement and believing I would be protected. Instead, the academy staff read my complaints to them out loud and outed me to them and never punished them, causing me to get harassed for the rest of my academy class. That’s how I learned that even police leadership hates rats. That’s why no one is “changing things from the inside.” They can’t, the structure won’t allow it.

I knew cops that intentionally provoked anger in suspects so they could claim they were assaulted. I was particularly good at winding people up verbally until they lashed out so I could fight them. Nobody spoke out. Nobody stood up. Nobody betrayed the code.

Every police academy is different but all of them share certain features: taught by old cops, run like a paramilitary bootcamp, strong emphasis on protecting yourself more than anyone else. The majority of my time in the academy was spent doing aggressive physical training and watching video after video after video of police officers being murdered on duty.

I want to highlight this: nearly everyone coming into law enforcement is bombarded with dash cam footage of police officers being ambushed and killed. Over and over and over. Colorless VHS mortality plays, cops screaming for help over their radios, their bodies going limp as a pair of tail lights speed away into a grainy black horizon. In my case, with commentary from an old racist cop who used to brag about assaulting Black Panthers.

Many cops fantasize about getting to kill someone in the line of duty, egged on by others that have. One of my training officers told me about the time he shot and killed a mentally ill homeless man wielding a big stick. He bragged that he “slept like a baby” that night.

DO THE BASTARDS EVER HELP?

Reading the above, you may be tempted to ask whether cops ever do anything good. And the answer is, sure, sometimes. In fact, most officers I worked with thought they were usually helping the helpless and protecting the safety of innocent people. During my tenure in law enforcement, I protected women from domestic abusers, arrested cold-blooded murderers and child molesters, and comforted families who lost children to car accidents and other tragedies. I helped connect struggling people in my community with local resources for food, shelter, and counseling. I deescalated situations that could have turned violent and talked a lot of people down from making the biggest mistake of their lives. I worked with plenty of officers who were individually kind, bought food for homeless residents, or otherwise showed care for their community.

The question is this: did I need a gun and sweeping police powers to help the average person on the average night? The answer is no. When I was doing my best work as a cop, I was doing mediocre work as a therapist or a social worker. My good deeds were listening to people failed by the system and trying to unite them with any crumbs of resources the structure was currently denying them.

Instead of wasting time with minor tweaks, I recommend exploring the following ideas:

No more qualified immunity. Police officers should be personally liable for all decisions they make in the line of duty.

No more civil asset forfeiture. Did you know that every year, citizens like you lose more cash and property to unaccountable civil asset forfeiture than to all burglaries combined? The police can steal your stuff without charging you with a crime and it makes some police departments very rich.

Break the power of police unions. Police unions make it nearly impossible to fire bad cops and incentivize protecting them to protect the power of the union. A police union is not a labor union; police officers are powerful state agents, not exploited workers.

Require malpractice insurance. Doctors must pay for insurance in case they botch a surgery, police officers should do the same for botching a police raid or other use of force. If human decency won’t motivate police to respect human life, perhaps hitting their wallet might.

Defund, demilitarize, and disarm cops. Thousands of police departments own assault rifles, armored personnel carriers, and stuff you’d see in a warzone. Police officers have grants and huge budgets to spend on guns, ammo, body armor, and combat training. 99% of calls for service require no armed response, yet when all you have is a gun, every problem feels like target practice. Cities are not safer when unaccountable bullies have a monopoly on state violence and the equipment to execute that monopoly.

(Selected segments of the article)

[actuallywlccan]

Hi, I'm another person with chronic pain and I'm gonna tell my story bc doctors totally screwed me over--starting when I was a child

I was diagnosed with scoliosis at the age of 8. It was around 18 degrees at that point, which is not terrible but is not minor. It wasn't too surprising that I had it, since my dad has a mild case too, but the thing with scoliosis is that it can get much worse very fast when you grow a lot during puberty, so it was possible that mine would do that. (Also I'm female and it's generally worse for us no i dont know why)

But my doctors weren't worried because it wasn't very bad, and as long as I just kept coming to the doctor and we checked if it got worse, I'd be okay! I'd only need a brace if it was 25 degrees.

Ok, great, so the next few years, I come back to the doctor, they'd sometimes take an xray (not every time cuz radiation) and compare, and as long as it didn't get too much worse, I was fine!

When my spine reached 25 degrees, they told me I'd only need a brace at 30.

When my spine reached 30 degrees they told me I'd only need a brace at 35.

Then when I was in 6th grade (12 years old) this weird pain started in my tail bone where I could stand or sit, but standing up from a seated position was excruciating. I had to have people pull me up bc I couldn't force myself to feel that pain.

So huh, that's a problem. We go to the doctor, they prescribe physical therapy. I go, and it's helpful! They manage to stop my tail bone from hurting! And it still doesn't years later! Except now the pain is in my upper back. Hurrah.

I continue going to doctors, plural bc we try different ones, and they all basically say the same thing: PT is good, I should try massage therapy and yoga and accupuncture, but I don't need a brace bc my degree isn't large enough.

Then, once my body is done with the growthspurt part of puberty, the doctors change their tune! Suddenly it changes from "You don't need a brace" to "you should have had a brace"

Also of note, there's this thing almost every doctor I saw told me: "scoliosis of this degree does not cause pain" which is... just so clearly false I don't even know where to start

So the next few years SUCK. Bc now I'm in constant pain and every time we go to a doctor they tell me basically nothing helpful: "Keep swimming, keep going to PT, keep getting massages, try these other things that will reduce your pain somewhat but not for very long and then we'll just tell you to keep doing them the next time you're here!" One doctor had me get an MRI and the big revelation was nothing else was wrong! (Do i blame him for that? No, but it was definitely frustrating as shit) So yeah, I learned to fucking hate going to see doctors for my back.

And this is coming from someone whose entire childhood was defined by relying on doctors since I had pretty bad asthma and truly an insane number of allergies (13 now but it used to be way more). Doctors got my mom through cancer when I was 10! I was a product of artificial insemination, i literally would not exist without doctors. But every time we would drive to Baltimore or DC to see some new back doctor I would cry on the way home bc they offered NOTHING helpful and we wasted all of that time and money and HOPE on nothing.

Some reading may be saying "why didn't they give you spinal fusion?" And the answer is the one thing I agree with my doctors on. My scoliosis is not impeding any bodily functions, and it's truly not bad enough to warrant cutting me open and tampering with one of the most important parts of the body. Also, as my main complaint is chronic pain, doing an invasive surgery where most people who have it continue to have intense pain is not a great plan. So yeah, everyone agrees no surgery.

The ONLY good experience I've had with a doctor for my spine was when I was 18 and trying to get a letter for accommodations at college. I went in thinking "all I need is an accommodation letter, I do not expect anything else" but once I was at the appointment i realized she was the first one to be actually helpful. She suggested I try schroth, and performed trigger point injections (both of which have helped). She listened when I told her that doctors had screwed me over and BELIEVED ME and then explained why other doctors had told me scoliosis doesn't hurt.

The reason: the pain is not in the bones. It's in the muscles that have to compensate for the wonky spine. So they say scoliosis doesn't hurt because the bones don't hurt and my spine wasn't pushing on any organs in a way that would cause pain. THATS IT. And she agreed with me when I said that was idiotic.

She also agreed with me when I told her I should have had a brace as a kid, but told me at this point, my scoliosis hadn't been getting any worse for years, so a brace wouldn't help. Is that definitely the case? I dunno. I'm 20 now, so I have plenty of years to learn if that's also wrong.

So yeah, I love doctors, they are over and over the reason I'm not dead. But they truly fucked up when it came to my spine. Is it a coincidence that most of my back doctors were white guys and the one helpful one was a black woman? Probably not, but who's to say.

So thats my story, make of it what you will, im going to go eat some waffles now.

This ABSOLUTELY works.

I have used this for many years. Definitely b do it.

[bucky-smiles]

C’est La Vie: Chapter 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: minor character death, mentions of sex, alcohol, and college parties.

This is my chapter for the ficwars!! My lovely partner is @delicatelyherdreamsand the prompt for this chapter is “You’ve dated all my friends it’s been over 5 years and I may have feelings for you now. This is getting personal.”

It only took 5 years for you to come to the conclusion that everything you felt and the fact that nothing was ever going to be the same was, in fact, for the worse.  

Bucky and you had remained close, obviously. You needed the emotional support what with your parents divorce and then the tragedy that was high school. Miraculously enough, both of you managed to get into the same college as well.. Attached at the hip really did describe the two of you as there’d not been a moment of separation for so long. It was nice, to have such a rock available to you at all times. Nearly 15 years of friendship was all the proof necessary that Bucky had the best shoulder to cry on. 

However even then, being so close to him only hurt you more.

Why?

Because anytime he’d talk, it’d be about how pretty some girl in your grade was.. Or how pretty one of your friends was.. Or how he kissed Wanda Maximoff behind the basketball courts… Or managed to touch his on again off again girlfriend, Natasha Romanoff, in places you never were even sure if Bucky knew existed. The list could go on forever, really, that’s how many escapades Bucky Barnes had.. And it was probably the one constant thing, aside from your emotional distress, in the years of friendship where your feelings fell deeper than just platonic. 

No one outside of you or Steve knows how he became so desirable and outgoing in such a short time. It seemed that one summer, Bucky Barnes was just your best friend and then the next summer, he came back ripped and in a leather jacket. Most people chalked it up to a summer glow up, except that was far from it. 

It was in the school year that your parents filed for divorce. In that time, Bucky was your #1 support system and everything seemed like it’d be okay. He helped you with homework and kept you focused while you studied. Your mom got the house and there was joint custody on you. You stayed the week at your mom’s and then over some weekends, you stayed with your dad. 

It was in that summer, within the first couple of weeks, that Winnifred Barnes suffered from a heart attack right in the middle of the hospital she worked at. The best of the cardiac surgeons were working on her through the night and even then, it seemed that she couldn’t be saved. 

Bucky had called you almost as soon as they got the call and you’d been there holding him as he did nothing but pray for his mother’s sake. When his prayers weren’t answered, you held him and Rebecca tightly, letting them cry into your shoulders. You mourned quietly for your second mother. In that moment, it was about being there for Bucky and Rebecca more. 

After that, while Bucky was still the Bucky you knew and loved, so many parts of him weren’t him anymore. He started worrying a lot about the public opinion.. And then to add to that, he started going to the gym and seemed to be a natural in the art of flirting. You and Steve sat on the sidelines as he went through nearly every single one of your friends. No one was safe and honestly, sometimes you felt it just better to not to talk to anyone that wasn’t Steve or Bucky.. Because if you did, Bucky would ask you questions on them and then they’d ask questions about you.. An endless, torturous cycle that you’d recently started growing more and more impatient with. 

You were snapped out of your thoughts and recount of your life till now at the sound of the door to your shared apartment slamming. You jolted just a bit, eyes drifting from where you’d focused them to the door. The sight of Bucky wasn’t surprising.. After all, you, him, and Steve were all roommates. It was fitting, really, that life has kept you all together for so long and that it continues to do so. The three of you had gotten into your respective programs of choice at the university that happened to be the top choice for all three of you. From there, it was all pretty simple. 

“Y/N/N” Bucky speaks first as he sets some groceries onto the counter. 

“Yes, James?” A little jab to hint at the fact that he was annoying. He knew that he was, he was purposely so just to annoy you.. And the fact that you called him by his real name was just proof of that. 

“I’m throwing a party tonight.. Can you help me clean the place?” And there was something that was actually annoying: the fact that he never communicated about any plans. What? Did he expect some sort of telepathic connection making you aware of everything?

“What the hell? Where do you expect me to study?” To add to the circumstances, you even had a test tomorrow. It was the introduction to physics course by Doctor Banner than everyone seemed to fail. You weren’t going to be everyone and on the roommate calendar on the fridge, you’d explicitly stated the existence of said test. It was a process between the three of you.. All important events were put on the calendar and everyone would respect everything on the calendar. 

“What do you me-Oh yeah, Banner’s test..” He cursed under his breath quietly as he looked to the calendar just to confirm that you weren’t lying. “I already got the word out on this though, Y/N/N.. Natasha is gonna be there and I’m gonna-” 

“Get her back, yeah I know. You’ve said and done that God knows how many times,” That was more filled with jealousy than anything else. But Bucky was oblivious as he continued to fish things out of his grocery bags. “So you’re not cancelling? Bucky what the fuck about the rules?” Why you were reacting this way, who knows. Probably a mix of stress from the test in addition to the fact that your feelings for Bucky Barnes were a pain in your ass. 

“Can you make an exception this time, please?” He abandons the groceries as he makes his way to you, pulling up a chair by where you were sitting and closing your physics book for just a moment. “I promise it won’t happen again, Y/N/N.” He links his arm with yours before nudging you playfully, “I know you’re the captain and all, but you gotta let your sidekick have some fun too.” A callback to the adventures of Captain America and the Winter Soldier, obviously. 

Fuck, you hated how nostalgia ruined your resolve. 

A loud groan escapes your lips and you throw your head back in the chair which basically gave away Bucky’s victory, “Fine.. But I’m going to the library. If there’s still a party when I’m back I swear, James Buchanan Barnes, I’m going to-” 

“Have my head on a stick? Kill me? Eat my ass?” More jokes, more banter, more of yours and Bucky’s relationship. 

Your nose wrinkles at the last one, “Gross.. The first one is more my style..” 

“You’ve been watching too much Game of Thrones, Y/N.. Okay so people are going to start showing up in an hour-ish so you’ll probably want to disappear by then.. Good? Good. You’re the best, Y/N, I love you..” He kisses your cheek and your eyes widen. Sure, this wasn’t abnormal of him, but he had such an effect on you. 

“Yeah yeah you better..” You’ve rarely ever been able to say ‘I love you too’ back to him.. It’s frightening, really, because yours means so much.. He says it so often sometimes you can’t help but wonder if he loves you the way you love him. 

Once more, you shake yourself out of your thoughts before packing up your textbook and notebooks into your bag, getting up. Best leave now and not have to worry yourself with getting caught up in the moment when people start arriving.. You really need to study. 

---- 

Studying was.. Strangely productive for you this time around. You got a dinner from your favorite place on the way to the library and ate while you studied. Time went by like a blur. You started at 6 and then the next time you looked at the clock, it was 11 pm. All notes were revised and understood and you really felt like a champ. It was getting late, obviously, and you knew that the party probably wouldn’t be over yet.. But your room was also off limits as always so you could go and hide there and possibly get some sleep too. 

Music was quietly playing in your earbuds as you took a scooter back to your apartment. One look up from the outside to your floor was all you needed to know that the party was still 100% going. The bright lights were visible and since the moon was covered by clouds, it seemed all the more vibrant. It was probably going to rain soon so you quickly got inside. 

The bass could be heard through the walls of your floor. Thank God everyone around was a college student.. The business was to do it was to invite the entire top, bottom, and normal floor so that there’d be no noise complaints. Judging by the sound, it was a big hit. 

You pushed through the sweaty bodies to your room.. This time, partying didn’t seem to be the top thing on your mind. A good night’s sleep was what you needed, especially with all the studying you’d done. 

When you unlocked the door to your room, you stopped dead in your tracks at the sight. 

Bucky was sitting on your bed, Natasha at his side. There were lipstick stains covering Bucky’s cheek and neck. They seemed to be talking about something when you entered, stopping at the sound of the door opening. 

Your bed had been made when you left and now, coming back, it was a disorganized mess with pillows everywhere and your blanket half on the floor. It smelled like booze and something else that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

A look of shock must’ve passed your face or something. Here was another rule that Bucky broke. No, 2 rules. One, your room was off limits in parties. And two, no shenanigans in your room.. Ever.. And there was Bucky, withs stupid sex hair and lipstick stains, sat in your room. Bucky stood up almost right away. 

“Y/N it isn’t what it looks like, I swear I-”

You didn’t let him finish as you backed out of the room, turning on your heels and pushing through all the bodies once more to get out of the apartment and somewhere else. 

You’d been right earlier, when you thought that it’d be raining soon. Because the minute you stepped out onto the sidewalk you were drenched. Whatever, that was the last thing on your mind anyways. The first move was to get as far away from this place. You began moving but were immediately stopped by the feeling of a hand holding onto your wrist. 

You turned, ready to tug your wrist away and punch whoever had grabbed onto you, but stopped at the sight of the one and only man who’d been hurting your heart for so long. 

Bucky Barnes.

[venus-says]

Kamen Rider Ex-Aid Episodes 16-30

Insert COIN to Continue.

If Ex-Aid hadn't clicked with me in its first 15 episodes, it's with much joy that I come here to say that I think I finally get this show and I'm here for it!

Yes, I still have quite a few of problems, and a lot of the complaints I had in my previous post are still present in here, but my enjoyment of the show has only been growing more and more with each new episode I watch to the point where now only very few aspects of it still annoy me really hard and I can let go of things more easily like, for example, the weird dialogue and the comedy style that while are still aspects that I don't like but that now I can get past that without being bothered.

Honestly, what bothers me the most is that I didn't know the show had such a clear break into two parts and that I divided the episodes for the reviews in a way that will make a bit weird to talk about, especially in this post. I didn't expect episodes 1 through 23 would end up being a big arc, with episodes 24 onward being kind of a different thing, a step-up from the previous arc. But oh well...

Since these episodes were clearly divided into two separate arcs I'll do the same here and comment on them separately.

This first part, going from episodes 16 to 23, are a bit weird to comment on because even inside them there's also a mini division we can make, episodes 16, 18, 19 and 20 are like a mini-arc to give Brave and Snipe power-ups while 21, 22, and 23 have more like an end game plot going on, and episode 17 is kinda just hanging around there, a bit out of place that usually would be considered a filler but that introduces a character that is used later on so while we can't completely disregard that episode we also can't really put it in the same basket as the others.

The first portion is the weakest of this whole section, being completely honest I don't remember much about it, I know Brave and Snipe get their asses kicked and they lose his gashats and that was pretty cathartic, but then Genm did his thing again and gave them Level 50 power-ups and I was a bit disappointed, not really in aesthetic levels or powers, like I don't care for Snipe's but I love how Brave looks and I think is really cool that he can command a troop of minions, my biggest problem is that the power-up is in one of those double gashats with that ugly circle thing and they have to share it but the division isn't really fair since Snipe has been keeping it for way more time than Brave did. But oh well.

Oh also during this part my hate for Kuroto was constantly raising, I really despise this man and whenever someone wipes the floor with him is like I'm having an overdose of serotonin because he's an awful human being and that's what he deserves and seeing him being fucked up brings me a lot of joy.

The mini-arc of episodes 21 to 23 is when things start to get interesting as we see the plot unveiling mysteries and the gears grinding in incredible speed making these three episodes feel like the end of a season. Now, as interesting and exciting that it was to watch this climax payout I do have some problems here. My biggest one is that, once again, they made Emu WAY too special, now he's not just a doctor, a genius gamer, and patient 0 from the game illness, but he's also the reason why Kuroto is like this nowadays, and different from what we thought he's been incubating this virus since he was a little kid because Kuroto is such a shit human being that he sent an infected game to a kid because apparently, he thinks only him can be a game developer in this world and come up with ideas for games. And yes, this is very in-character, Dan Kuroto would really do stuff like this, is the fact that they make so many things focused on a single person that bothers me.

Another thing I have a problem here, although it's a much smaller one if compared to my previous point is just how convenient it was for the show to put a way to reprogram the virus in Kiriya's computer. I think my problem here is just how easy they got the information, you know? They knew from that detective that Kiriya was digging up something and Hiiro decides to look for information and in the first place he looks he just happens to find his computer and the files in his research were there. Again, it's a minor thing, but I felt like I had to comment on this.

One thing that I really enjoyed in this mini-arc was Kuroto's plan to avoid the Ministry and still get data in his hands by infecting himself with the virus to appeal to Emu's emotions. Again, a very in-character decision and the way it played out was very fun even though it was pretty clear he allowed himself to be caught seeing how easy it was for them. The way things escalated leading to his death was also pretty good, it's a bit annoying that his death gets reverted only a few episodes later, for a show that is constantly talking about doctors dealing with death having a death be reversed is a bit counter-intuitive.

As a result of this conflict, we get Ex-Aid's Level 99 power-up, and while it's cool that is a gashat he made it himself and that he used Kiriya's driver after his was fried up by Genm, holy jesus how ugly is this thing. It's so huge and bulky most of the scenes with him moving have to be done in CGI because that looks like hell to walk on wearing it. This just isn't the ugliest power-up of this season because Snipe still has the worst designs, but oh gosh.

After episode 23 we enter in the Kamen Rider Chronicle arc, where being led by Parad they gather data from the missing games by reviving Graphite and brainwashing Poppy, and Ex-Aid becomes a light novel with a battle royale/survival game that actually kills people when they get a game over (or upload them to the cloud and erase their physical bodies apparently because now they're saying those people can be revived).

Attempts of joke aside, while it's not anything new that they're doing here I do like how they implemented the concept in the story. It's pretty cool having regular people acting up as the players while the Riders we follow are like special NPCs that drop rare items when defeated, it's a fun gimmick and it's also a way to the villains to put another obstacle to the riders without having to do much.

I think what I liked the most in this plot was the mini-arc they had for Poppy, up until this point I didn't really have a strong opinion on her but what they had with her in these episodes was pretty cool. To begin they gave her a pretty dope song, at first I questioned what they were trying to do there but when we get to know that her whole singing scene was part of a brainwashing process it turns things really interesting. But is the journey of her freeing herself from this brainwash that really does it for me, when she starts remembering memories from the person that she took over she gets in this existential crisis and it gave us some great moments, I really like that scene in episode 28 when she's there trying to tell everyone AND herself that humans and bugsters are enemies and Emu puts himself in the line kinda with a wake-up call for her, it was pretty awesome. I feel like she also got way more agency after the events in that episode and I hope they keep that with her. Oh, we also got Kamen Rider Poppy which wasn't a thing I necessarily needed, but that was still pretty cool.

But because not everything can be flowers I have two major issues for this part as well, the two are things that I already mentioned so I won't take too long with them. The first one is obviously the "making Emu too special" thing since it gets established that Parad is the bugster that Emu incubated for all those years and that Parad is actually Emu's "second personality". Again, it's a cool concept, and there's one episode in which Parad gets control of Emu's body and they have a fight between each other while in Ex-Aid's Level 20 form and it was cool as heck, is just the fact that they keep adding layers to Emu like he's the center of the entire universe that makes me feel kinda iffy about it.

The second aspect I don't like is the reversibility of death. I get that this is a show for kids so they would come up with a way to bring everyone that died in Kamen Rider Chronicle because this doesn't seem like the type of show that would just obliterate a lot of people out of existence like that, my problem is with bringing back characters that have some sort of impact with the characters. Yeah, so far we only had Kuroto and he's back but not really since now he's a bugster and Poppy can keep him under control with her drive, though let's be honest this won't last too long, but they're raising the possibility of bringing Hiiro's girlfriend back and I'm sure they would try to bring Kiriya back too and is this thing that I feel like it goes against some of the messages this show is trying to pass to his main character. Emu is constantly facing death and as a Doctor he will face it many times in different contexts and part of the process for him to learn how to deal with this he needs to feel the effects of mourning for those who passed away, but when you bring people back from that while it doesn't revert what he went through makes it feel like death isn't as serious. This is a thing Rider likes to do a lot honestly, I mean look at Ghost, and it never sat with me well, but I feel like in this season in especial, as I mentioned, it's very counter-intuitive.

And I believe that's all I have to say for now. I feel like I'm way too repetitive, and that's a problem I should work on, but I have to say this again, I'm still having my problems with Ex-Aid but these problems aren't cutting down my enjoyment of the show and I'm really excited to see how all of this will come up together in the end. If you have anything to say about my comments or these episodes please let me know in the comments, I'll be very happy to have other people insight into this show. Stay healthy, stay safe, never stop resisting, thank you so so much for reading and until the next time. See you in the next game!

[salmonthestoryteller]

It’s cold. Is it supposed to be this cold? Malex spooky prompt.

I combined your prompt with the first week of All Hallow’s Roswell - Hauntings (locations) and Possessions (people), plus it’s a continuation of…

Two Plus Two Equals…

Four Minus One…

A Roswell New Mexico Fanfic

Michael hadn’t thought anything was odd at first. He kept misplacing things, but he put it down to not being used to having so much room. Certain rooms in the house always felt cold to him, but the house was old.  It was possible certain walls weren’t properly insulated.  He made a mental note to check into it, but it seemed like a minor concern.

Then Alex started accusing him of moving his things, and he knew he hadn’t touched them. Not physically.  The suggestion he was doing it subconsciously didn’t sit well with him. His powers were only hard to control in moments of anger, that had been true even in childhood, and he wasn’t angry. If anything, he was the happiest he’d ever been.  He didn’t want to believe he could suddenly develop some sort of issue with his abilities. But the fact was, Alex’s crutch hadn’t moved across the room on its own. He moped on Max’s couch for hours, stubbornly refusing to talk about the fight between Alex and him.

Liz was not as indulging, and after she arrived at their home started pestering him with questions.  He eventually secured the promise he could stay for the night before he caved in and told her what was going on.

“How large were the items that you noticed being misplaced?”  Liz was in full science mode even as she forced him to make supper with her and Max.  Apparently, if he planned to eat supper with them, he had to help make it.  A part of him would have protested that Isobel never made him do that, and had in fact barred him from her kitchen.  But he wanted to have Liz’s opinion on what was happening at the house, so he chopped the vegetables she put in front of him without complaint.

“Small items.  Keys.  My hat. My notebook once.”

“What about Alex’s items?”

“I’m not sure what items he lost.  He said his crutch was against the far wall.”

“Anything else odd happening?”  Liz grabbed one of the sliced pieces of green pepper of his chopping board to munch on.

“Things are falling.  Pictures off the walls.  Things fall off the kitchen counter.”

“Huh.”

“Maybe you have a ghost.”  Max suggested from where he was setting the table.

“Right, Max.”  Liz rolled her eyes.

“In horror novels, poltergeist activity often are early clues of a haunting.”

“Well, there have been no random stacks of objects.” Michael informed him.

“I said horror novels, not B rated paranormal movies.”  Max responded.

“Hey, they’re based on true stories.”

“Can we go back to the scientific side of things?”  Liz broke in.

“Please, do.”  Michael told her.

“You only lose control of your powers when you’re angry.”

“Yeah, exactly, but I’m not angry.”

“But things are moving, and you do have telekinetic abilities.  Logically, it would make you the culprit.”

“That’s what Alex said!”  Michael slammed down the knife, glowering at the cutting board as if it were to blame for the problem.  “But I don’t lose control of my powers unless I’m angry, and I’m not angry!”

Liz shot him a pointed look.

“I haven’t been angry.”  Michael corrected, though his shoulders relaxed again, and his look became more petulant than anything.

“Look, you’ve had to keep a tight rein on your powers for your own safety for a long time.”  Liz reminded him.  “But now you have your own house, and you’re with someone you trust.  Someone who knows your secret.  Maybe this issue isn’t because you’re angry.  It’s because you feel safe, and your powers are leaking out when you are at your open.  During sleep.”

“…That makes more sense than I like.”  Michael sighed, dropping his chin down onto his chest.  “Okay, how do I stop it?”

“We can run some tests.  Maybe some baselines while you’re awake.  And then again while you’re in an REM sleep.”

“Great.  Back to being a labrat.”

“If something is going on with your powers, we need to know about it.”  Max pointed out.

“Why aren’t you randomly blowing up stuff in your sleep?  You and Liz have been doing the living together thing longer.”

“We have blown things up before.”  Liz’s grin was wicked. Max burst out laughing.

“Gross.”  Michael complained.  “I could have done without those details.”

“That wasn’t detailed, I can give you detailed.“  Liz offered.

“No.”

“It was really hot.”

“Stop.”

“Do you want to guess which room we were in?”

Michael threw a handful of vegetables at her.

——

"I’m sorry.

I spent the night at Liz and Max’s. She and Kyle are going to run some tests to see what’s going on with me. I’ll be here all morning, but I’ll bring lunch home.”

Michael sent the text off as Liz wired him up.  Kyle was there already, having brought what equipment Liz didn’t have.  The two of them had slowly stocked up on equipment over time, seeing as they were pretty much the only alien qualified doctors around.  They’d already drawn blood, and Kyle was glancing at the result in the microscope.

“What’s the verdict, Doc?  Will I live?”  Michael joked.

“You’re still an alien.”  Kyle rejoined.

“Too bad, I was hoping I’d mutated.”

“Nothing seems unusual about your bloodwork.  You’re a healthy alien.”

“Okay, first we’ll get a baseline on your readings, and then you’re going to try to fall asleep.”  Liz told him, moving to sit down and record whatever the monitors on the table were showing in her notebook.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep with this stuff on.”  Michael admitted.

“Just try.  If we can’t get it today, we can plan a different day.  Use a type of sedative that works on your biology.  But, I’d honestly feel better if Isobel was here for that.”

Michael glanced at his phone, but so far Alex hadn’t texted back.  He had the day off, so maybe he was sleeping in late?

When he attempted to fall asleep per Liz’s instructions, he expected it to be difficult.  Instead, he slipped into unconsciousness almost instantly.

—–

The house looked different in his sleep.  Newer.  He couldn’t remember what color they painted it, and a thick mist obscured the landscape.  It made no sense, but then he knew he was dreaming.  He entered through the front door, only to find the mist filled the inside rooms as well.

“Alex?”  He called out, but didn’t receive a reply.  He searched the rooms - the kitchen, the den, the downstairs bedroom they used most often.  Alex wasn’t anywhere to be found.

It’s just a dream, he told himself.  It didn’t mean anything that he couldn’t find Alex, but he could feel his heart begin to pound heavier in his chest.  “Alex!”

He hurried up the stairs.  The mist swirled about his feet as he began to go room by room, searching - feeling more and more desperate.  “Alex!”

The whispers had started out small, but they began to get louder the farther he went.  He couldn’t make out words, and yet he felt as if they were so loud he should.  When he got to the last room, a familiar figure stood at the window overlooking the land below, and he sighed in relief.  “Alex.”

Alex didn’t turn, didn’t look at him - he continued to gaze out the window.

“Alex?”  He tried to step into the room, but suddenly a man appeared out of nowhere right in front of him - his face unfamiliar.

“He’s mine!”

The door slammed shut.

—–

“Alex!”  His eyes shot open, and he sat up.  He was on the couch at Max’s, and Liz was by his side a moment later.

“Michael, are you okay?”

“I just…”  He looked around the living room, sunlight pouring in through the windows - so different from the misty horror of the nightmare it was disorienting.  “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay.”  Liz reassured him.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Not long.  Maybe half an hour.” Kyle had risen from the table, but had hung back to allow him space.

“I’ve never had a dream like that before.”  He admitted.

“With everything we’ve all been through, there’s nothing unusual about nightmares.”  Liz pointed out.

“Yeah, but this was…”  He glanced at his phone, and felt a chill when he didn’t see any notification light.  “Alex didn’t text me back?”

“I didn’t hear it if he did.”  Kyle told him.

“Maybe this wasn’t the best day to run the test.”  Liz started to peel the sensors off of him.  “Why don’t you go see Alex?  We can try again later.”

“Was there any unusual spikes?”  He asked her.

“There were some spikes, but you were having a nightmare.  We would need a normal REM reading to compare because of your biology.”

“Right, of course.”  Michael continued to stare at the phone - willing it to show a message notification that never came.

—–

Despite the promise in his text, Michael didn’t stop for lunch.  The dream plagued him, and when he parked in front of the house a part of him was irrationally grateful to see no mist or fog around it.  He entered the front door, glancing around - there was no immediate sign of Alex in the living room, but that wasn’t unusual.  They’d converted one of the downstairs rooms into a study for him, and he spent more time there than the other rooms.

The house felt chilled, and Michael noted that no fire was burning in the fireplace.  That seemed strange, as Alex often lit one when he was home.  His SUV was outside, though, so he was almost certain he was still home.

He glanced into the fridge, confirming that - yes - they did need to go shopping or eat lunch out.  Maybe Alex would go to the Crashdown Cafe with him.   He just didn’t want to stay in the house today, even though he knew it wasn’t logical.  Liz was right, nightmares weren’t unexpected given everything that had gone on in their lives - his and Alex especially.  Illogical or not, though, he was starting to feel uncomfortable.  He heard the creak of the floorboards from the hallway, and turned - expecting Alex - but no one was there.

“Alex?”  He called out, but no response came.  He stepped out into the hall, but didn’t see anyone, but the creak came again from the living room.  He followed the sound, but the room was also empty.  The front door was open, and he glanced around suspiciously, moving forward slowly to get a look out the front window.  No cars were outside, and he didn’t see anyone on the porch.

Closing the door, he locked it, feeling chilled again.  When he turned, Alex was directly behind him.  “Shit!”  He placed his hand over his loudly beating heart, taking in a steady breath.  “You scared the crap out of me, Alex.”

“Who was outside?”  Alex asked him, his eyes on the front windows.  There was something odd about his tone.  It seemed flat.  Maybe he was still angry with him?

“Nobody, I must not have shut it properly.”  Michael assured him.  Alex didn’t say anything in reply, just moved away toward the kitchen, Michael followed him.  “You didn’t reply to my text.”

“No.”  Alex was studying the room slowly, as if looking for something.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t stop for lunch.  I was worried.  I had this strange nightmare and…”  The temperature in the room dipped, and he rubbed at his arms.  “It’s cold. Is it supposed to be this cold?”

“Tell me about the nightmare.”  Alex’s voice still sounded odd, and he still wasn’t looking at him.  Something about the whole situation was starting to feel wrong.

“Alex, are you still mad at me?”  He reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, and the next moment he was flying through the air and slamming against the wall.  Instead of falling, he stuck fast - as if an invisible force was holding him there.

Alex turned to face him, and Michael felt a chill run down his spine.  On the worst night of his life, a stranger had looked out at him from his sister’s face. It had haunted his nightmares for years.  Now a stranger was looking at him out of Alex’s eyes, and he was certain it was a sight that would never leave him.

“Alex doesn’t need you anymore.”  It didn’t sound like Alex at all.  He didn’t recognize the voice coming out of his mouth any more than the look in his eyes.  “Alex is mine.”

End…?

[bountyofbeads]

What It Took for a Fox News Psychiatrist to Finally Lose His License https://nyti.ms/2MbUGZu

What It Took for a Fox News Psychiatrist to Finally Lose His License

Keith Ablow was a popular fixture on the cable channel until 2017, and a high-profile therapist. He left a trail of vulnerable female patients who claim he abused them.

By Ginia Bellafante | Published Dec. 20, 2019 | New York Times | Posted December 21, 2019 |

Late in 2009, a 28-year-old woman not long out of graduate school found herself in a stressful job at a Bronx hospital and decided it would be useful to talk to someone. Searching online, she came across the name of a psychiatrist, Keith Ablow.

Dr. Ablow was familiar to her from his writing, both his journalism and the best-selling thrillers he turned out — “Denial,’’ “Projection,” “Compulsion,’’ “Murder Suicide.’’ She had read all of those, as well as “Psychopath,’’ a book about a psychiatrist who prods the interior lives of strangers only to kill them, baroquely obscuring the distinction between patient and victim.

The woman — who has asked to be identified only by her confirmation name, Monique — found Dr. Ablow just as his media star was rising. That year, Roger Ailes had hired him as a regular contributor on Fox News, where he would remain until 2017, speculating about the mental states of political figures and presiding over viewer segments like “Normal or Nuts?”

Dr. Ablow offered counseling in the conventional sense, but he also conducted life-coaching via email. Monique engaged with him this way at first, but after she answered various questions about her past, mentioning adolescent bouts of depression, she agreed to see Dr. Ablow in person. His busy schedule meant that she would have to go to his primary office, in Newburyport, Mass. He was impressive to her, and so Monique made the five-hour trip for her first visit.

Over the next year and a half, Monique saw Dr. Ablow two or three times a week, at the reduced rate of $350 an hour. During this time she found herself coming unwound.

Her anxiety about work did not recede. On the contrary, she felt increasingly addled and insecure, and problems that had been latent for a long time resurfaced. She began cutting herself, something she hadn’t done in years.

Monique came to believe that Dr. Ablow had not only failed to help her; he left her more damaged than she already was. For his part, Dr. Ablow would maintain that whatever boundaries she thought he violated — the frequent texts and emails, the intimate revelations about his own life — were in the service of her treatment, well within the standard of sound psychiatric care.

As Monique would discover, it would take years — and several other patients coming forward with their own stories of manipulation — for Dr. Ablow’s transgressions to be taken seriously.

The case represents a core challenge of psychological treatment. At a cultural moment in which all kinds of relationships are policed for abuses of power imbalance, psychotherapy takes place in seclusion: two people, alone in a room, with one holding extraordinary influence over the other, just as it has been since Freud. It remains a world with murky oversight, and if you are harmed, it is not obvious what can be done.

By the time Monique left his care, her new marriage had fallen apart and she had developed a dependency on Valium, Xanax and Adderall. She also said she had drained her savings of $30,000 to pay for the treatment.

Most alarming, she had become obsessively, insidiously reliant on Dr. Ablow’s affirmation, a circumstance she and her lawyer would later suspect he engineered.

On an unusually hot late-summer morning, in a coffee shop just north of the city, Monique recounted how she had come under Dr. Ablow’s thrall. When she finally disentangled, she filed a complaint with the disciplinary board in New York that oversees psychiatrists — a body that works secretly and can take years to respond to charges. In this case, when it finally completed its initial review of Dr. Ablow, it found no reason to sanction him.

As we spoke over several hours, Monique’s caution gave way to a fluid and emotional narrative. It was easy to imagine her on the other side of conversations that played out this way hundreds of times. She was, in fact, a therapist herself.

That she had this training compounded the embarrassment anyone in her situation would surely feel. Monique was reflexively skeptical about human motivation. As a child she had resisted authority. How had she landed here?

From the beginning, Dr. Ablow presented himself as an idealized caretaker more than a guide. “As if he said, ‘Let down your guard, let go of everything and completely fall on me, because I will give you everything you ever needed. And you need nothing but to trust me,’” she reflected.

This was intoxicating to Monique. Her childhood had been marked by her father’s volatility, her mother’s emotional absence, a difficult relationship with her brother. With Dr. Ablow, she found herself in the strange state of feeling both further weakened by her past and protected from it.

If therapy is the project of overcoming, Monique belatedly came to believe that Dr. Ablow urged her neither toward strength nor self-reliance. “He did make me feel beautiful and precious and special,’’ she said. “But very broken.’’

On May 15, Dr. Ablow’s license was suspended in Massachusetts after an investigation determined that his continued practice was a threat to the “health, safety and welfare” of the public. He is appealing the ruling.

This article is based on interviews with Monique and others, including her current therapist as well as legal and medical documents obtained by The Times. Dr. Ablow did not respond to attempts to speak with him directly, but his lawyer, Paul Cirel, issued a statement on his behalf, writing in an email that his client would not “breach the ethical/confidentiality standards of his profession” and comment further.

Earlier this year, Dr. Ablow referred to the claims Monique made in her legal complaint to the health department in New York as “groundless.” He has categorically denied all allegations of sexual misconduct against him that have come up in subsequent cases. And he has said, as he did with Monique, that to whatever extent he revealed personal information with patients, he did so in the effort to help them work through issues of psychological importance.

On Feb. 5 next year, a hearing will take place in Massachusetts that will ultimately determine the future status of Dr. Ablow’s medical license.

From the outset, Monique had inklings of doubt about Dr. Ablow, but she easily suppressed them. Her first meeting with him ended with a prescription for an antidepressant. Although she found it curious that he would administer drugs so quickly, she deferred to his approach.

The boundary between patient and doctor was permeable from the start. Dr. Ablow took Monique to a taping at Fox; he connected her with a literary agent when she wanted to write. On one occasion, she mentioned she was near his office with her dog. This was in Newburyport, where she still went for treatment on occasion, running up bills in local inns, in addition to seeing him in New York. She knew Dr. Ablow had expressed an interest in meeting her dog, and he briefly left a session with another patient to come outside and play with him, she said.

Their sessions had an improvisational, transgressive tone. According to her official complaint, Dr. Ablow twice wondered, for no apparent therapeutic purpose, whether Monique had genital piercings. At one point, when she was describing a conflict with her father, Dr. Ablow responded: “Why don’t you tell your father to come stick a gun in my face and see what happens.”

Money was an ongoing problem for Monique, and she eventually questioned why so much of her costly time in therapy was spent listening to Dr. Ablow talk about issues he confronted in his own life — that his sister was drawn to broken men, that his son did a lot of pacing.

These confidences nonetheless made Monique feel as though she held outsize status with Dr. Ablow. Which made it all the more painful for Monique when she felt dismissed by him — when he would arrive late for their sessions, she said, or text and email during them.

Any of these incidents might have given her pause, but it took what she regarded as an explicit act of cruelty to compel her to leave. Early on, Monique had told Dr. Ablow that she feared, above all, being physically trapped — imprisoned, taken somewhere and locked up.

Many months later, during a disagreement about something relatively minor, she said, Dr. Ablow suggested that he might have to hospitalize her. Hospitalizing a distraught psychiatric patient is not an unreasonable course in certain circumstances, but Monique was certain he was preying on her vulnerabilities.

“I couldn’t trust him after that,” Monique said.

When Keith Ablow was in medical school at Johns Hopkins University in the 1980s, after graduating from Brown, he hoped to become an ophthalmologist. It was a mentor at Hopkins who suggested psychiatry, recognizing someone profoundly curious about other people’s lives.

His ambition was evident early on. He wrote the first of his 16 books, “Medical School: Getting In, Staying In, Staying Human,’’ while he was still a student. A paperback edition featured a blurb from The New England Journal of Medicine.

In the mid-1990s, Dr. Ablow was interviewed for a book, “In Session: The Bond Between Women and Their Therapists.’’ The author, Deborah Lott, had met him at a gathering of clinicians and found him to be insightful on the subject of boundaries and transference. Ms. Lott thought of him “as one of the good guys,’’ she said recently, “an advocate for women.”

Before his emergence at Fox, Dr. Ablow was a familiar presence on daytime talk shows, where he delivered advice with a brash compassion. Ms. Lott had lost track of him until his television appearances. As a Fox commentator, she said, his persona was radically different from the one she remembered. (A spokeswoman for Fox confirmed that Dr. Ablow’s contract was not renewed in 2017 and had no further comment.)

On TV, Dr. Ablow’s habit of diagnosing political leaders, particularly President Obama, who he believed suffered from abandonment issues that made him a weak leader, sparked criticism from a profession that maintains a fierce distaste for this sort of conjecture.

In 2014, Jeffrey Lieberman, chair of the psychiatry department at Columbia University, publicly denounced Dr. Ablow, who in turn responded with a clever press statement: “I am apparently joined by my nemesis Dr. Jeffrey Lieberman in rejecting the position that psychiatrists ought not comment on public figures. Lieberman condemned me as a ‘narcissistic self-promoter’ — yet he has never interviewed me.”

In November of that same year, Ms. Lott received a circumspect email from a young woman who had read her book and had questions about Dr. Ablow’s involvement. It was Monique. She was wondering what Dr. Ablow was doing in a book about boundaries. “She had no ax to grind,” Ms. Lott recalled, “other than trying to make sense out of what had happened.’’

Two years earlier, in 2012, Monique had outlined all of her allegations against Dr. Ablow in a lengthy complaint she made with New York State’s Office of Professional Medical Conduct, the agency empowered to suspend and revoke psychiatric licenses.

In these documents, she claimed that Dr. Ablow had crossed multiple boundaries, overwhelming her with details about himself — that he had been attracted to his children’s babysitters, for instance, and that his marriage was unfulfilling.

He asked her to coffee frequently. He encouraged her to move in with a female friend of his in Manhattan when Monique separated from her husband, only to later tell her that the roommate he recommended was “nuts.” He mentioned to Monique that he wanted to send a former all-star running back for the New York Giants to her as a patient. He also suggested that she date him.

At one point, while she was still seeing Dr. Ablow for regular therapy, he offered her a job with his life-coaching business. She took it, counseling people remotely. For a few months, she was both his patient and his employee.

In the course of her efforts to establish her own practice, Dr. Ablow encouraged Monique to move to Newburyport, which would be cheaper than New York.

She almost went through with it.

Monique had recently married a man after a four-year engagement, yet her ambivalence about him persisted. Dr. Ablow knew all about this. In fact, when she emailed him on the eve of her wedding, he gave her confounding advice. In his reply, he implicitly encouraged her to go through with it, at the same time remarking that marriage itself was “absurd.”

On the day she planned to move and leave her husband behind, in January 2011, a tremendous storm hit the Northeast. She decided to stay in New York, where she continued to see Dr. Ablow for another six months.

Once she made the decision to leave Dr. Ablow, Monique met with a Manhattan lawyer, Audrey Bedolis, who has concentrated in psychotherapeutic malpractice since the early 1990s.

Ms. Bedolis knew that cases without accusations of sexual misconduct, clear physical abuse or some other singular, dramatic incident are typically hard to litigate; she and her client eventually abandoned plans for a lawsuit. But Ms. Bedolis believed that the sheer volume of Dr. Ablow’s boundary trespasses would surely result in disciplinary action from state authorities.

In the dynamic between Monique and Dr. Ablow, Ms. Bedolis saw something all too familiar. Though she knew only Monique’s side of the story, it seemed to her a clear case of exploitation that, while it did not involve sex, was just as devastating. “First he medicated her when she never thought she should be medicated,’’ Ms. Bedolis said. “Then he lured her in as the only person who could help her.”

For several years, Monique waited to hear something from the conduct office in New York. In October 2017, the office finally wrote to say that it had found “insufficient evidence’’ to bring any charges of misconduct against Dr. Ablow.

One week after the New York board wrote to Monique saying that it would not sanction him, it sent a separate letter to Dr. Ablow, stating that in her case, he had failed to render proper care and treatment and that he prescribed medications inappropriately. He was told to refrain from boundary violations.

But there was no punishment for this; his license to practice psychiatry in New York remained in good standing.

This spring, however, based on Monique’s claims and the testimonies of four other female patients, as well as several former employees of Dr. Ablow’s, the Massachusetts Board of Registration in Medicine ruled that Dr. Ablow practiced “in violation of law, regulations, and/or good and accepted medical practice.” As a result of that suspension, he consented to cease practice in New York, where a renewed investigation by the conduct office is underway.

Three of the women — like Monique, all young — told an investigator for the Massachusetts board that Dr. Ablow had become sexually involved with them during the course of their treatment. One of them said that he introduced her to sadomasochism and hit her with a belt during their encounters, exclaiming, “I own you.”

In a formal written response to the board, Dr. Ablow denied this, as well as the charges that he had been physically intimate with the other patients involved in the case.

In a statement issued in August, Dr. Ablow’s lawyer, Mr. Cirel, addressed the charges in a series of malpractice lawsuits brought against Dr. Ablow, which were settled out of court this year, as well as the allegations in the complaint to the state, writing: “We are pleased that the civil matters have been amicably resolved. Dr. Ablow can now focus his attention and resources on overturning the Board of Medicine’s order of temporary suspension, so that he can restore his medical license and resume helping patients into the future, as he has countless times in the past.”

Last winter, before the suits were settled, Dr. Ablow appeared on a Boston-area news show, where he addressed them and claimed to be a target of cancel culture. “A male, a public person and a Trump supporter,” Dr. Ablow said in the interview. “So am I surprised? Yeah. But shocked? No.”

In his rebuttal to the Massachusetts board, Dr. Ablow said that one of his accusers had a history of falsely accusing men of sexual misbehavior and that she had essentially confused what happened between them with the actions of a recurring character in his novels.

The documents filed in conjunction with Dr. Ablow’s suspension reveal something else as well — that in three separate instances in which his medical license came up for renewal in Massachusetts, between 2013 and 2017, he failed to notify the state that he was under investigation in New York. During the renewal process, an applicant is asked specifically if he or she is under investigation in a different state. Dr. Ablow said that he wasn’t.

After her time with Dr. Ablow, Monique was apprehensive about trusting a new therapist. Eventually she returned to the psychoanalyst she saw during her first year of graduate school, Robert Katz. Recently, she gave permission to Dr. Katz to speak about her experience with Dr. Ablow.

Monique entered treatment with him shaken by what had happened to her under Dr. Ablow’s care, he said. Dr. Katz viewed the boundary violations she described as a means of grooming her for a sexual relationship.

Of everything she brought up, Dr. Katz added, one detail stuck out most in his mind: that Dr. Ablow had suggested to Monique that she become an escort to earn the extra money she needed. (Dr. Ablow has denied ever saying this, and denied it again when another patient made the same claim.)

In recent years Monique has settled into a successful private practice (this is why she insisted on anonymity in exchange for participating in this article).

Still, even now, after all she has come to understand, she finds herself occasionally missing the connection she had with Dr. Ablow, longing again to experience how much she imagined she meant to him.

When a psychiatrist, psychologist or social worker is barred from practicing, it does not necessarily mean that they are prevented from dispensing advice, in an office, for profit. Life-coaching is a career open to almost anyone; requiring no credentials, it is largely unregulated.

After the suspension of his license, Dr. Ablow repositioned himself. The Ablow Center for Mind and Soul in Newburyport identifies Dr. Ablow on its website as someone who “practiced psychiatry for over 25 years before developing his own life-coaching, mentoring and spiritual counseling system.” Over the summer, he took courses in pastoral counseling at Liberty University, the evangelical Christian college in Lynchburg, Va.

The Ablow Center is expanding its services, including free therapy for veterans once a month. It also announced an essay contest for high-school and college students considering a career in counseling.

Beyond that, visitors to the center’s website can find regular blog posts from Dr. Ablow, like a recent entry with the headline, “Why a Depression and Anxiety Consultant Could Be the Key to Recovering.”

For anyone “still’’ feeling anxious or low, Dr. Ablow had some wisdom: “It may have nothing to do with you,” he wrote, “and everything to do with the treatments being offered to you.”

______

Ginia Bellafante has served as a reporter, critic and, since 2011, as the Big City columnist. She began her career at The Times as a fashion critic, and has also been a television critic. She previously worked at Time magazine. @GiniaNYT

[idreamofhazeleyes]

Ties in Blood -- Chapter 14

So, accidentally posted ch. 15 first. It’ll be back up in a minute, I promise. Tag lists are open. If you do/do not wish to be tagged, shoot me a message, and I’ll do the thing.

@mrswhozeewhatsis @revwinchester @percussiongirl2017 @winchestergirl-13 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @impala-dreamer @because-imma-lady-assface

Chapter 14

Aaliyah noticed a tray of food on the roller table that came over the bed before turning her attention to the doctor from earlier. “Doc?”

“I’ve talked it over with our specialists in neurosurgery, physical rehab, and neuropathy,” he said. “And they all agree to give you the chance to do a high level of physical rehab.”

Aaliyah straightened in the chair at hearing the first good news of the day. “They did? What’s the catch?”

“That you make no complaints about the work. There is the hope that your paralysis is just temporary like what we talked about before. And with the rehab plan being put in place, you will regain the use of your legs.”

“When do I start?”

“After you eat. I understand you’ve asked for a menu but haven’t ordered or ate.”

Aaliyah looked down at her stomach. “Yeah, I guess.” She reached out for the bed in the effort to pull herself out of the chair and into a sitting position on the bed. Both the nurse and doctor rushed to help, but she held out a hand. “Let me do this. Even if the rehab doesn’t work, I need to do this.” She pulled herself onto her feet, using the bed as support and ever so slow brought one knee up onto the mattress, then the other. She wasn’t positive, but she swore she felt the cool tiles through the socks on her feet. The injured ribs protested her movements, but Aaliyah pushed through it as she settled enough on the bed to eat the food on the table.

***

“That’s it, you’re doing great, Bri,” the rehab nurse told Aaliyah. “A few more steps then turn back around.”

Aaliyah had a bit of guilt telling the nurse a fake name, but it felt safer than her real name. The nurse had her on the support bars that were up to aid in walking for the better part of an hour, and Aaliyah pushed past the pain of the lactic acid build up in her muscles and the cramp in her lower back. Her toes dragged with each step she took, but that drag lessened just enough for Aaliyah to notice with each pass on the bars. She turned around at the end and looked at the waiting wheelchair. With a grounding breath, Aaliyah started again. One toe dragged, then the next. She looked down when she didn’t feel the drag on a big toe half way down the bars. Her toe was a couple inches off the floor.

“Wonder, Bri,” the nurse said, clapping. “Now, don’t rush it, but see if you can do that again.”

Aaliyah took a step with the one foot and eased the other up in the air and took another step. No dragging. She pushed down the urge to jump and cheer at her ability to not dragging her feet any more. It was too early to celebrate.

“Great job, Bri,” the nurse said when Aaliyah got back down to the wheelchair. “That should be enough for today.”

Aaliyah turned herself back around. “A little more.”

“You don’t wanna over work yourself,” the nurse cautioned.

“It’s nothing new.” Aaliyah put a bit more weight on her feet from her arms and moved to take a step. A breeze brushed by her, stopping her from moving forward. The sense of not overexerting herself passed through her. She pushed it away and went to step forward when the sensation came again. “On second thought, I think I’ll call it for the day.” She settled into the wheelchair and swore she caught an outline in one of the big mirrors on the wall as the nurse wheeled her out of the rehab room. “Is it possible to go see my brother?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please? I know he won’t know I’m there, but it makes me feel better. Besides, I’ll just go to his room when you leave anyway.”

“Only if you go to your room and eat first,” the nurse offered up. “Don’t want you wasting away, do you?”

“No, ma’am.” Aaliyah accepted the fact that the roles had been switched on her and she was now the patient.

Aaliyah spotted a folded board on the bed table as the nurse wheeled her up to the bed. She pulled herself up to her feet and eased herself onto the bed, setting in before picking up the menu. Aaliyah made her dinner order and waited for the nurse to leave before opening the board and found a piece of paper tucked in it.

“Dean’s here, as a spirit,” it read in Sam’s handwriting. “Hunting a reaper.” Aaliyah crumpled up the note and looked to the bathroom that was in the room. She debated on if it was worth it to walk over there with the wheelchair as support. Not when her thighs were having minor spasms from the past couple of hours in rehab. She tucked the note under her before opening up the board on the table. Ouija board. So that was how Sam was able to give her the note. Aaliyah put the pointer on the board and against her better judgement put her finger on it.

“Dean, are you here?” she asked just loud enough for him to hear. Aaliyah watched the pointer, half expecting it not to move. Nothing seemed to work for her. She drew in a breath when the pointer moved to YES. “It’s good to hear you,” Aaliyah said. “Hunting a reaper, huh? A good place as any. Were you with me at rehab?” The pointer moved back to YES. “Shouldn’t you be after the reaper?”

“Are they after you?” Aaliyah asked, hearing the worry in her voice.

I think so, the pointer spelled out. I got this. Take care … you. The pointer stopped when Sam walked into the room.

“You’re up,” he said.

“A break from rehab,” Aaliyah said, folding the board up. “Dinner should be here soon enough. What’s up?”

Sam walked over and sat on the edge of the mattress. “I’ve been looking in Dad’s journal, but there’s nothing in it about …”

“Reapers,” Aaliyah finished. “I …” She reached for her duffel bag just out of her reach. “I’ve been so busy with my own thing…” She accepted her father’s journal from Sam and flipped through it for any sign of reapers before giving up. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’ve been…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he attempted to reassure her. “You just worry about getting better. I talked with Bobby, and he’s willing to let you stay with him for a while after you’re out.”

“Remind me to thank him when I see him. Come on.” Aaliyah gestured to the wheelchair. “I wanna go see Dean.”

“What about…”

“Dinner? It can wait.” Aaliyah eased a foot down to the floor before shifting herself into the chair and pulling the other foot after her. She started to wheel herself when Sam started to push her. Aaliyah heard coughing from Dean’s room and took control of her chair. With a tight turn, she saw Dean struggling against the ventilator that had been inserted in his throat.

“We need some help in here,” Sam called out.

“Whoa, Dean, calm down,” Aaliyah told him. “It’ll be out in a minute. Just hang on.” She was pulled back from the bedside when the nurses rushed in to tend to Dean. Panic set in as she watched the team worked on removing certain items from Dean. Time slowed to minutes before the nurses finally cleared the room and Dean recovered, turning his attention to Sam and Aaliyah.

“I’ll go get the doctor,” Sam said.

Aaliyah nodded before she rolled back over to Dean. “Your throat’s gonna feel a little raw from the tube,” she told him.

“How do you… Right, I forgot. Former nurse. What happened to you?”

“I got pretty banged up in that crash,” Aaliyah said with half a smile. “Bruises, a rib or two cracked or broken. And right now, paralyzed from the waist down.”

“Paralyzed?” Dean pushed himself up off the bed before Aaliyah put an arm out to stop him.

“Don’t, Dean. I’m fine. I had rehab, and I’m gonna talk with the doc about using crutches once I get outta here.” Aaliyah heard footsteps enter the room.

“I can’t explain it,” the doctor said, going through Dean’s charts. The contusions are healed, vitals are good. You have some sort of angel watching over you.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Dean said.

“I coulda told you that,” Aaliyah muttered under her breath. “So a Reaper was after you?”

“Yeah,” Sam spoke up.

“How’d I ditch it?”

Aaliyah shrugged as Sam answered. “You remember anything?” Aaliyah asked.

Dean shook his head. “No. But I got this pit in my stomach. Something’s not right.”

Aaliyah turned when a knock announced John’s presence. “Dad. What’s up?” She frowned, not liking the expression on his face.

“How you all feeling?” John asked.

“Fine, I guess,” Dean answered. “Alive.”

“That’s all that matters.”

“Where were you last night?” Sam asked, anger in his voice.

“I had some things to take care of.”

“Here we go again,” Aaliyah said, rolling her eyes. “Can we not just for once?”

“Did you go after the demon?” Sam questioned.

“Can we not fight?” John pled. “Half the time I don’t even know what we’re fighting about. We’re just butting heads. I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve done the best I could do. I don’t wanna fight any more.”

“Dad, are you alright?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, just a little tired. Would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam looked over at Aaliyah before leaving the room.

Aaliyah caught John’s glance over at her. “I got food waiting for me in my room, anyway.” She managed to get out into the hall and hovered just out of eye sight of Dean’s room.

“You know when you were a kid and I came around after a hunt,” John said. “And you’d come up to me, put a hand on a shoulder and tell me it’s okay? Dean, I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Aaliyah frowned even as she heard the confusion in Dean’s voice. What was John getting at?

“You shouldn’t have told me that,” John continued. “It shoulda been me telling you that. I put too much on your shoulders, making you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy and me. You did it with no complaints. I … I want you to know I’m proud of you.”

This wasn’t the John that Aaliyah met a week and a half ago. What had gotten into him to be saying this to Dean?

“This is really you talking?” Dean asked, voicing Aaliyah’s thoughts.

“Yeah, it’s really me.”

“Why are you saying all of this?”

Aaliyah strained to hear John’s voice before hearing footsteps. She pushed off in a rush to avoid being caught eavesdropping. Her food was waiting for her on the bed table when Aaliyah rolled in. She adjusted the table down to where she could eat comfortably before reaching for the television remoted. Shouts from down the hall started just as Aaliyah took her first bite of food. One of the voices sounded like Sam’s. Daring to peek out from her room, she eased herself out into the hallway just as the nurses and doctors on call rushed for John’s room. Aaliyah rolled herself as fast as she could to the room just as Dean came up behind her. She could hear him pleading for John to pull through before a doctor stopped all attempts and called time of death.

Aaliyah looked over at John’s body, willing him to show some sort of motion. The staff filed out of the room, leaving her and the brothers alone. With a sigh, she managed to turn around and retreated back to her room. The food that held some temptation fifteen minutes ago was no longer appealing. She hit the call button and waited for a nurse to show.

“I wanna be discharged,” Aaliyah told the nurse. “I know it’s probably against doctor’s orders, but …” Her voice caught in her throat just as her cell rang. She debated on answering it until she saw Xander’s name on the display. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I haven’t heard from you in a few days,” Xander commented. “Thought you said…”

“Something happened and I hadn’t been able to talk until now.”

“Aaliyah, you’re scaring me. What happened?” Worry seeped through the phone. “Aaliyah, please tell me this isn’t hunting related.”

“I can’t really do that,” Aaliyah fidgeted in the chair.

“Aaliyah?” Sam’s voice drifted into her room. “We’re gonna… Sorry.”

Aaliyah glanced over her shoulder at Sam while she moved the cell from her. “It’s Xander. I’m just waiting for the doc to show up to give me discharge papers. What?” She put the phone back to her ear.

“Boyfriend?”

“No. It’s Sam, Dean’s brother. Hang on.” Aaliyah looked back over to Sam. “What’s up?”

“Dean called Bobby, he’s gonna come get the two…three of us. That’s if you need a ride.”

“Yeah, I think I do. Hey, Xander.”

“Yeah, Lirya? This better be good.”

“Can you meet us at Bobby’s? I’ll send you the address and explain what happened.”

“It better not result in you being hurt in anyway.”

“Injuries are gonna happen during hunts, Xander.” Aaliyah heard a sigh from her brother.

“That’s what I don’t like about you hunting. But … I’ll be there. Love you, Ass Pain.”

“Love you too, Ass Kicker.” Aaliyah hung up and sighed. Guilt started eating at her for not telling Xander how bad she was messed up from the crash.

“Aaliyah,” Sam walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “You don’t…”

“I gotta tell him. He’s the only family I got.”

“Ms. McGillcutty?” the doctor called from the door. “I understand you wish to be discharged.”

“I sure do, Doc. I get that it might be against your better judgement…”

“I don’t see why you can’t be,” he cut in. “Aside from the rehab, there’s really nothing we can do. The bruises and cracked ribs are just going to have to heal on their own. I’ve got the papers all set here. And if you just sign these few papers, you’ll be set.”

Aaliyah picked up the pen and signed the papers before making them all neat. “One question…”

“Crutches are right here.” The doctor took the plastic wrapped crutches in his hand and held it up for Aaliyah to see. “If you want…”

“I wanna try walking out.” Aaliyah scarfed at her food in the attempt to eat as the doctor pulled the plastic off the crutches. “First, I wanna get dressed.”

Sam rifled through her things and pulled out some clean clothes. The doctor ducked out to give Aaliyah some privacy to get dressed.

“You don’t have to stay,” Aaliyah told Sam. “I’m …”

“Too stubborn to ask for help,” he finished. “You’re a bit like Dean.”

“I am not…” Aaliyah popped her head up through the shirt collar. “Like Dean. I’m just … wanting to do things on my own.” She eased one leg than the other into her pants and secured them before nodding to Sam. Her shoes were just within eye sight, but decided against them.

The doctor stood before Aaliyah and held the crutches in a way so she could grab hold and pull herself up to her feet. She waved off Sam’s attempt to help her as the doctor held out the crutches. She wavered a little on her feet, the slight fear of falling flat on her face crept through before she got the crutches comfortably under her armpits.

“Now, just slow and steady down the hall,” the doctor instructed as Sam grabbed Aaliyah’s things. “Go ahead and follow after her with it.”

Aaliyah slid her feet along the tile, using the crutches more for support in her attempt to walk. She hadn’t really taken the time to focus on to walk before, just one of those things one learned when they were a toddler. She mentally started walking herself through taking a few steps. One foot up a few inches off the floor, reach out a little, heel down first, then roll just enough to the ball of the foot. Now the same with the other foot. Aaliyah focused on lifting each foot those few inches and rolling the foot from heel to toe all the way to the elevator. Her leg muscles screamed in protest and the wheelchair behind her was a looming temptation.

She forced herself onto the elevator car then outside where a beat up looking pick up truck waited by the doors and Bobby coming around the front of it.

“Damn, girl,” he greeted. “You’re all sorts of messed up.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Aaliyah worked her way over to the open door and propped the crutches against the truck. She held herself up between the seat and the door, and with a deep breath to brace against the looming pain, Aaliyah lifted one leg up she hoped high enough to get into the truck. Beside her, Bobby moved to help, but with a cough from Sam, he stopped. Aaliyah bounced a little on the foot that was still on the ground before pushing off and into the truck. She tasted blood on her tongue from biting her lip through the pain of the ribs and still swollen knee. Aaliyah put a hand up behind her, stopping any help. She grabbed her other leg by the pant leg and pulled it into the truck before reaching for the seat belt. Sam and Dean climbed into the back as Bobby looped back around to the driver’s side.

***

Aaliyah eased into the kitchen as the brothers shared a look as if they were in a silent debate. After the past two weeks, Bobby’s home had that sense of warmth and welcome most hunters didn’t get.

“Aaliyah, go ahead and take the couch,” Sam said. “We’ll take the bedroom upstairs.”

“You sure? It’s not like I need the workout up and down the stairs.” There it was, the hand out, the sympathy.

“Just take the couch, will ya?” Dean half snapped. “Sorry, Aaliyah. It’s been a tough few days.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Aaliyah said, her voice drifting off. “Hey, Bobby.” She shuffled into the living room. “My brother’s supposed to be stopping by.”

“A civie? What do you expect…”

“He knows I’ve been hunting,” Aaliyah cut in. “We … We learned a couple years ago that our dad hunted after a djinn took and killed our mom.”

“Whatever you say, kid.”

Aaliyah eased herself down onto the couch, closing her eyes as she leaned back. She could hear the voices of Bobby and the boys drift in from a different room. Bobby argued against her staying even for the night. Why was he against her staying when he helped just days ago with Meg? Aaliyah heard a car approaching the house before the voices from the other room went completely quiet. A house door opened and someone stepped out.

“I want to see her,” a voice shouted from outside. “You can’t…”

“Stop you? This is my house, boy,” Bobby’s voice cut in.

“Bobby,” Aaliyah called out. She struggled to get to her feet, using the crutches to shuffle over to the open door. “Just a minute ago you weren’t willing to let me stay, now you’re trying to protect me.”

“That’s not …”

“I’m not stupid, Bobby.” Aaliyah turned her attention to the person Bobby was blocking to see Xander. “Hey, Xander. Meet Bobby. Bobby, this is my brother, Xander.” The uneasy feeling the two of them were sizing each other up passed through her mind.

Bobby turned back into the house with a muttering about something.

“Okay, spill,” Xander asked as he stepped inside. “Clearly you’re more hurt than you can play off.”

“You saw a crushed up Impala out there?” Aaliyah asked with a nod from her brother. “That’s the result of a semi t-boning it. The driver was possessed by a demon that tried to kill us.”

“And your injuries?”

Aaliyah slid a foot across the floor. “Bruises, a couple bad ribs, and a spinal injury that I may not recover from.”

“But you’re walking.” Xander’s face contorted just enough in confusion.

“Full of determination,” Bobby chimed in. “Docs said the likelihood of her fully regaining the use of her legs is small.”

“And I’m gonna prove them wrong,” Aaliyah stated. “Just you watch.” She shuffled back into the living room.

“Now you’re really starting to worry me, Lirya,” Xander said. “What exactly happened? And start from beginning.”

Aaliyah sighed as she regained the couch. “Well … Dean had called asking for help looking for his dad. And I agreed.”

“And what about the hospital?”

Aaliyah shook her head. She heard worry in Xander’s voice. “They let me go before I got that call. The higher ups didn’t like how I did things. The guys picked me up there at the hospital and made good time picking up John’s trail. He really didn’t like me being there…”

“But he accepted you,” Sam added in.

“It was that or I went my own way,” Aaliyah said. “I think he was impressed at the end there.”

“Where’s he?” Xander asked. “John? I’d like to ���”

“He … um … died,” Aaliyah dropped her voice. “Not sure of what. His injuries weren’t that serious. It was Dean I was worried about.” There was no way John could have died of a minor leg wound and whatever he had from the crash.

“You’re skipping details,” Xander pointed out. “What are you leaving out?”

“We found the demon that killed Sam and Dean’s mom. It had possessed John and started to kill Dean before Sam shot his leg with this gun.”

“A colt,” Sam added.

Xander rubbed his forehead. “And I thought I heard everything. What did the demon do you, Aaliyah? And what’s so special about this colt?”

Aaliyah glanced over to Sam and received a nod. “Nothing, just let me hang there while he focused more on the guys. As for the Colt … Way back when in during the frontier years, Samuel Colt made a gun – the Colt – and special bullets that only worked with the gun. It’s been rumored that the Colt can kill just about everything; save for a few things.”

“You’ve gone crazy.” Xander moved for the door. “I don’t know why I didn’t try harder to stop you from hunting.”

“Like you’ve stopped since we parted ways,” Aaliyah called after him. “Don’t play stupid with me; I’ve heard stories of someone matching your description hunting.” Aaliyah stared her brother down. “So, don’t lecture me about hunting and the inherent risks of it. I have that proof on my body as scars.”

“She’s got a point,” Bobby jumped in. “From what I hear, your sister kicks ass as a hunter.”

“I had help along the way,” Aaliyah brushed off. “Not like I did half of it alone.”

“Not from what I heard,” Bobby countered. “You got guts leaving a quiet life on a wild goose chase. And that’s after dealing with the people that went through your hospital. And the hunts you went on in college.”

Aaliyah shot a glare over to Dean, who had a beer in a hand.

“What?” he asked, opening the beer with a shrug. “He’s right. You kicked ass.”

Aaliyah pressed her lips in an attempt to stop a smile. “Well, I need to rest up if I’m gonna get back out there to kick ass.” She managed to reach the couch and planted herself on it.

“If you’re gonna be camping out, might as well read up on some lore,” Bobby told her, pulling a book off the desk and handed it to her. “You’re good with shooting guns, not so much lore.”

Aaliyah accepted the book with a sigh as Xander sat down next to her. She heard Bobby talking with Sam and Dean in the kitchen before they disappeared. “I’m sorry I didn’t call before,” she told her brother. “The past few days had been a clusterfuck. Between dealing with demons and trying to find their dad … Facing the yellow eyed demon scared the crap outta me.”

“Yellow eyed demon? There’s more to the story.”

“Yeah, so much.” Aaliyah opened the book and flipped through the pages. “It’s the one who killed Sam and Dean’s mom. It had possessed John – their dad – a few days ago and had tried to get Sam to kill him through John. It disappeared after nearly killing Dean and getting shot in the leg.”

“What about your…”

“Injuries? Car got t-boned by a semi. I was dealing with Dean when it happened. Shows me that I can’t be kneeling in the back seat with a leg out to brace myself.” Aaliyah stopped at a page that depicted a representation of an angel and what lore the book held on the same page. “Tell me I did the right thing in trying to help the Winchesters,” she asked Xander. “That I didn’t fuck up by getting involved.”

“I think you did good,” he assured her. “Who knows what might have happened if you weren’t there.” Xander pushed himself off the couch and wandered somewhere in the house, leaving Aaliyah on the couch.

She stared at the page with angel lore, the feeling that some…thing had been there in the house where the yellow eyed demon revealed itself. There was no way that angels existed. If there were, why were they hiding? Aaliyah put the crutches on the floor before shifting and stretching out on the couch, nesting the book in her lap. The lamp behind her turned on at one point during her reading, and a small pile of books sat within reach had started soon after that.

“Nah, let her sleep,” Bobby’s voice drifted into Aaliyah’s dream. “After what she’s been through, she needs it.”

“We’ve done hunts on less sleep,” Dean half argued.

“But your body’s not trying to repair itself after getting into a serious crash.”

Aaliyah shifted just enough to feel a weight on her body and something soft under her head. When exactly did she fall asleep last night? The last thing she remembered was reading the Book of Keys that they used against Meg. Footsteps reached her ears before a door opened then closed. Daring to open her eyes, Aaliyah found a blanket on her and an out of focus pillow under her head. She used the couch to curl her legs up and closed her eyes in an attempt to fall back to sleep. The sound of bacon cooking in its own grease soon hit Aaliyah’s ears before easy going Saturday morning music started up. Sleep slipped once more out of her reach, and Aaliyah finally gave up.

“Is that breakfast I hear cooking?” she called out as she turned over, fighting her legs to move.

“Look who finally decided to wake up,” Xander’s voice called out.

“Hush, you.” Aaliyah struggled to sit up and braced herself against the armrest of the couch, the book she had been sandwiched between her and the back of the couch.

“Yeah, it’s breakfast,” Sam answered. “Bacon, eggs, toast, hash browns, and sausage. Want a plate?”

“Make it two,” Aaliyah said over her growling stomach. “I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

“Don’t go overboard,” Bobby told her. “Your body will go into shock from too much food.”

“Yeah, I know.” She pulled the book out between her and the couch and attempted to smooth out the pages. “Not my first time going without food for a while.”

Sam walked in with a plate loaded with food and a tall glass of milk. “Let me know if you want more.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Aaliyah accepted the plate and silverware as he put the glass of milk on the floor within reach. “Where’s Dean?”

“Out working on the Impala,” Xander answered. “How the hell the three of you survived that is beyond me.”

Aaliyah took a bite of the sausage, unsure how to respond. She had seen bits and pieces of the car when the EMTs and other rescue crews pulled her from the wreck. How she survived was just part of the question. The main part was how did Dean pull a full recovery when he was basically at death’s door. “Hey, Bobby,” she called out. “What’s the possibility of someone making a deal with a demon to ensure the survival of someone else?”

“Low,” he answered as he came downstairs. “Usually deals done with demons are done for personal gain. What’s in your head, kid?”

Aaliyah sensed Xander’s attention shift from his own breakfast to her and rolled her shoulders to free herself from her turning stomach. “I …” She lowered her voice so Sam couldn’t hear from the kitchen. “I think John made a deal with the yellow eyed demon.”

Xander half choked on his bite of food before swallowing. “You’re joking, right?”

“Why else would Dean have fully recovered from his injuries without any known reason?” Aaliyah waved her fork around with a bite of egg on the end of it. “Or that John had died soon after? What normal parent wouldn’t give themselves for their kid?” She put the fork in her mouth then pulled it out, leaving the egg in her mouth.

Xander shrugged. “Wrong person to be asking those questions, sis.” He finished off his food and worked himself off the couch.

Aaliyah pulled a leg in toward her and balanced the plate of food on it before reaching for the milk. She thought back on the short time she had been with John and the boys. In that whole time, they had been worried about getting the Colt and killing the Yellow Eyed Demon in an act of revenge. But was it really worth it in the end? John was dead, Aaliyah believed he made a deal with the demon to save Dean’s life at the cost of his own and the Colt. So they were all back to the point when Aaliyah got the call from Dean nearly a week ago. Or was it two? The time between leaving the hospital with the brothers and arriving at Bobby’s all blended together.

“Hey, Bobby,” she called out, cheeking the bite of food in her mouth. “How long were the three of us out there looking for John and the Colt?”

“Oh … about a week and a half,” the seasoned hunter answered. “Why?”

She shrugged. “It all seems a bit of a blur to me. All that happened is a mess of events I’m still trying to piece together.”

Bobby walked into the room with Aaliyah’s duffel bag before pulling out her journal. “I hope you don’t mind I went through it,” he said, handing the book to her. “From what I read, you’ve got a knack of surviving.”

Aaliyah accepted her journal. “Thanks, Bobby.” She flipped through the pages to her last entry that told what happened with the nest of vampires. “Geez, that was a week ago?”

“What was a week ago?” Xander asked, coming back into the room.

“Dealing with a nest of vampires to get the Colt,” Aaliyah answered. “Then John being taken was a couple days after that, and getting him back about a day or two after that.”

“Then the demon revealing himself,” Xander finished off with a nod from Aaliyah. “How the hell did you survive?”

“How the hell do you expect me to answer that? Like you’d believe me if I say I got angels looking over me.” Aaliyah took another bite of food before searching through her duffel for the pen she kept with her journal. “I shoulda been dead when I went up against that werewolf. Or turned into one.”

She found the pen and dated a new page before finishing off her food. The plate disappeared from her lap as she adjusted the journal and started to recap the events after the issue with the vampires. The same plate reappeared out of the corner of her eye before being put on the floor. The house grew quiet after a while with the exception of the music playing and Aaliyah’s pen scratching at the paper.

Aaliyah finally stopped writing and rolled her back over the arm rest in her effort to stretch out. With a glance around the room, she noticed that the sun’s angle had changed. She looked down to see the plate of food still there on the floor, now gone cold, and the milk that had most likely gone bad. Closing the journal, Aaliyah put it on the small table behind her and shifted across the couch in the hope of getting to her feet. With crutches in hand, she got her feet in a comfortable spot to push herself up. On the count of three, she stumbled across the floor in a few steps before stabilizing herself on the crutches; the feeling of pins and needles shot through her feet. Aaliyah took it as a good sign that she was slowly regaining the use of her legs.

“Where are you going in a hurry?” Xander asked as he came in from outside.

“The bathroom,” Aaliyah called over her shoulder, swinging herself on the crutches. “Can’t remember the last time I peed. Oh, bring my duffel please? I think I need a shower.”

[shakespearesglobeblog]

The Lord Chamberlain’s files

Professor Stephen Nicholson from the University of Sheffield was one of the speakers at our recent panel discussion, Theatre Censorship: Then and Now, part of our current series Shakespeare & Censorship.

Here he delves into the Lord Chamberlain's files on theatre censorship.

When you start to read through the Lord Chamberlain’s files on theatre censorship you soon realise that they tell you a lot more than which plays were turned down or had cuts made in them. In fact, they’re an incredibly rich resource which offers all kinds of insights into the period and some of the attitudes and assumptions.

It’s striking how ‘difficult’ playwrights are spoken of. When Samuel Beckett refuses to make a change to the script of Endgame he is ‘a conceited ass’. John Osborne is a ‘naughty little smart-alec small boy... scribbling words on lavatory walls’. Tennessee Williams was ‘pathologically biased’ with ‘an inflated sense of his own importance’, who ‘vomits up the recurring theme of his not-too-subconscious’.  

We can also see the arguments and negotiations that went on - not to mention the strategies and tricks used to get around his rulings. So when in 1964 the Lord Chamberlain refuses to allow ‘Jesus’ as an expletive in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, the management seek (and receive) permission to substitute ‘Cheese us’. Which, as his secretary reported after watching a performance, ‘sounds exactly as one would imagine an American female would say “Jesus”. ’ Or when cuts were made to the ‘barrackroom language’ of John McGrath’s Events While Guarding The Bofors Gun, the banning of the ‘f’ word was circumvented by the invention of inventing an offstage character called ‘Kinell’ whose name could be shouted aloud as required. Harold Pinter even persuaded them to allow ‘Stuff this mangle up your arse’ in The Homecoming; ‘Mr Pinter says that after searching his mind diligently he just cannot find an effective substitute’, reported the Lord Chamberlain’s secretary. Given what he called ‘The physical impossibility of stuffing a mangle up an arse’, Lord Cobbold reluctantly decided that ‘in a play of this sort [he] might have to let it go’.

The files also show that the Lord Chamberlain’s claim to be ahead of public opinion is not necessarily without foundation. Certainly, there are plenty of objections to what he allows, both from individual members of the public, and organisations such as the Public Morality Council, who were convinced Britain was on its way to hell in a handcart - and that the theatre was largely to blame. In 1963 he licensed Oh What a Lovely War with relatively minor changes, and received a string of complaints and dire warnings about what would follow from allowing ‘dangerous anti-British propaganda’ which ‘attacks everything that is sacred and decent’, and which was being presented by ‘the most deadly enemies of our country’. As one letter put it: ‘What a misbegotten philosophy to feed to the hundreds of younger people of our own country who appear to flock to this kind of thing ... I call upon you either to exercise your functions or resign’.

Sometimes people overestimated the extent of his authority. In 1961, for example, a doctor felt ‘compelled to complain in the strongest possible fashion about a programme of African dancing’ he had seen on television. Of course, this had nothing at all to do with the Lord Chamberlain, but the letter is revealing:

Although as a doctor the human body comes in my view often, I have never seen it portrayed in such a sensuous and revolting manner. To show African teenage girls virtually naked except for a flimsy loin cloth struggling and writhing sensuously all around the platform was in the lowest possible taste and completely unprofitable and unnecessary... The fact that these primitive and ignorant dances take place in countries where the people as yet know of no better way of life is absolutely no excuse for making them cheap entertainment.  

Worst of all,

We had in our house at the time some teenagers who were viewing with us at that early hour in the evening... I would calculate that the damage done to young people who saw this programme was impossible to estimate. In these days with the dreadful decline in morals in our nation, such things can only worsen the situation.

One thing I hadn’t quite anticipated was that Lord Chamberlains had so many other duties that they often had no real interest in theatre and were happy to leave their staff to deal with most of it. Actually, by the 1950s and 60s,  their main concern was to avoid bad publicity in the press. They didn’t always manage this. In 1958 the Office was widely pilloried when Samuel Beckett’s Endgame was licensed to be performed in French, only for the Reader to notice when the English version was submitted that Nagg not only calls God a ‘bastard’, but also denies He exists. The censorship tried claiming it was different in French: ‘I feel that people erudite enough to go... to a French play can take a great deal more dirt... than an average English audience’, but Parliament and the Home Secretary became involved as the Lord Chamberlain’s competence was questioned and mocked.

Another embarrassing - and damaging - incident occurred when it came to light that a Joan Littlewood production had illegally added new lines and even scenes (one of them involving Sir Winston Churchill and a public urinal) to the licensed script. The Lord Chamberlain had a performance secretly inspected to gather evidence, and then brought an official prosecution against Littlewood and the actors. But even though he technically won the case, the fines the court imposed were derisory - and the press had a field day:  ‘Perhaps the Lord Chamberlain is slightly less familiar with real-life speech than with the speech which he hears in the apartments of St James’s Palace which he is privileged to occupy’, wrote the Daily Herald.  While under the headline, ‘THE ST JAMES’S EAVESDROPPERS’ the Daily Mirror described ‘it as ‘one of the most ludicrous prosecutions we had seen for months’, and his inspectors as ‘a couple of Professional Earholes’. The paper was not the only one to recommend that ‘the Lord Chamberlain, in his capacity of “Examiner of Plays” should be scrubbed out completely’.

It was experiences like these which made the Lord Chamberlain increasingly keen to get out of the censorship business. People sometimes imagine him fighting a desperate battle to hang onto his powers, but it turns out that nothing could be further from the truth.  Both Lord Cobbold and his predecessor, the Earl of  Scarbrough, actually did their utmost to persuade government ministers to change the law. You could say that all Harold Wilson ’s government and Roy Jenkins as Home Secretary really did fifty years ago was to put the Lord Chamberlain out of his misery.  

[wellnessinmotionchiropractic]

The Pink Kit Method for birthing better™ goes well with chiropractic care.

The following blog post The Pink Kit Method for birthing better™ goes well with chiropractic care. was first published to: Wellness In Motion Chiropractic Center, Inc

The Pink Kit Method for birthing better™ goes well with chiropractic care.

Common Knowledge Trust approached Jeanne Ohm, Executive Coordinator of ICPA to write some articles about The Pink Kit Method for birthing better™ for ICPA. When asked what aspects of childbirth, ICPA has concerns about, Jeanne wrote back ‘We are concerned about all aspects of birth—1) a woman's right to choose 2) the importance of her being aware of her options 3) the physiological relationship of pelvis and birth’.

For Common Knowledge Trust the goals are slightly different, yet heading toward the same alignment … more positive births and a decrease in birth trauma for us, the mother and our children. CKT’s goals would sound like this 1) Absolutely all of us, as expectant parents, must have both labour management and coaching skills 2) These skills must work for us in absolutely all birth situations. 3) We all share the same human body which we can prepare and develop skills for this unique exercise … childbirth with The Pink Kit Method for birthing better™.

CKT is the collective voice of thousands upon thousands of us … women and men. This does not mean that thousands of us gathered at a conference to nut out how to prepare for childbirth or what skills we could use that suited all births. CKT reflects the stories, the questions, solutions, ideas and musings that we tell each other about our own experiences of childbirth. We remember giving birth and anyone who is with us remembers the experience as well. Childbirth is BIG and remembered.

At the same time, childbirth has been removed from us in several ways over several generations.

Modern families have left behind their diverse cultural knowledge, ‘know-how’, and family support during pregnancy, childbirth and after birth. Although statistics clearly show that we are more likely to die or be injured at any other time in our lives, pregnancy and birth has been embraced by a modern health system including midwives and doctors for several generations. Modern childbirth preparation is entirely different from childbirth preparation in our diverse cultural backgrounds. Labour and coaching skills have not been highly developed in modern societies.

Childbirth in traditional communities varies significantly as to where or with whom a woman gives birth, just as in modern communities. For example, there are cultures where women go alone to birth or are excluded away from their village for months. Cultures vary as to who is present. In some cultures birth is exclusively ‘women’s business’ while in others the whole family is involved and fathers take an active part. Although many cultures have individual people who attend births, this is not a profession. The number of children born into most communities is relatively small, so attending births occurred periodically.

In most cultures, women birthed with relatives rather than a specific ‘birth attendant.’ If a problem occurred a healer or spiritual guide would come. Some cultures had no concept of birth attendant, whoever was there at the time helped. In some cultures, the birth specialist were men, while in other they were women. Although special birth attendants were highly regarded, in some communities they were the unclean because they could touch human waste. Because of all this diversity, no wonder modern birth is confusing about where, with whom and how women should birth.

Layered over all of our histories is the development of modern maternity care and its use for the past 3-4 generations. Complete the complexity around childbirth by adding ‘choice’, ‘informed consent’, defining what are medical childbirth interventions and natural childbirth, whether an obstetrician, midwife (CNM or direct entry) is the best care provider or whether home, hospital or birth centre is the best place to birth. So many issues, yet as you read this millions of women are giving birth around the world … one contraction at a time.

Common Knowledge Trust grew by shear accident. A woman who had broken her tail bone at the birth of her child 10 years earlier compared her tail bone to the founder of Common Knowledge Trust. One had a long tail bone, the other didn’t. Several insights occurred from this simple exchange of body knowledge.

Some women had long tails and others didn’t. The woman with the long tail bone had hers damaged in childbirth whereas the other woman hadn’t. Two women from very, very different backgrounds had something in common …tail bones and their birthing body.

Bingo! We could develop body knowledge that any woman could benefit from by knowing about her own birthing body. That one insight led to ways to get the tail bone out of the way in childbirth. Other childbirth stories and physical complaints among pregnant women led to more discoveries about our amazing birthing body. The Pink Kit Method for birthing better™ started to evolve. This occurred in the early 1970s. In 2005, The Pink Kit Method resources are now available to you.

The insights along the way have been many, yet occurred over time.

Telling our birth stories were the source of knowledge and important. They were told on several levels. We spoke about what time we went into labour, when our waters broke, when we got fully dilated and what time we delivered. We spoke about what ‘they’ did to us … both what we liked and mostly what we didn’t like. Our own perception of the experience. ‘My back hurt all the time.’ ‘It didn’t hurt as much as I imagined’, ‘It was worse than I could have imagined’. etc Men had the same body, so they could feel the same things in their body which helped them coach us better. All women had the same body with minor differences. Those differences were very important and helped us focus our own preparation and labour management. All women laboured the same way … one contraction after another until our baby came out of the same hole. We exhibited behaviours in labour that indicated whether we were coping or not. All birth professionals admired women who managed their labours well and loved to see couples work together. When women, birthing in hospitals, birth centres and at home, managed labour well, the birth professionals were more relaxed. Women with health issues still wanted to manage their labours and have positive birth experiences, as did women who chose hospital and doctor care. Women planning or requiring a non-labouring delivery still wanted to feel part of the process.

If we stuck to the body, passed on practical, real, effective and easy to use labour management and coaching skills, people were willing to learn them regardless of the diversity in ethnic background, religion, beliefs, health issues, choices, education or other. The skills worked in absolutely all birth situations.

The evolution of The Pink Kit grew from the stories that we told about our physical experience of birth (the other issues such as what ‘they’ did or didn’t do are not the scope of CKT) and what each of us could do to:

Manage our labours better. Have our partner, husband, friend or relative be a very good labour coach. Resolve the ‘too intense’ sensations of labour. Know what we were doing rather than being carried by the experience. Prevent or lessen physical and emotional birth trauma. Increase a positive birth experience in and around all the medical assessments, monitoring and procedures.

There were many other people and organisations working on broader issues that have changed maternity care: women’s options, birth plans and choices. There were many people working on the changes that focused on diversifying birth professionals, while others focused on creating birth place options.

From the Stories, The Pink Kit Method for birthing better™ evolved. Common Knowledge Trust became the charitable organisation under which The Pink Kit Method developed the resources now available. We remained focused entirely on preparing our own birthing body, the birthing skills that reflect a woman’s positive childbirth management and coaching skills for our partners/husbands so that they can help us when we are finding the sensations of childbirth challenging.

The Pink Kit Method for birthing better™ goes well with chiropractic care. is republished from: https://yelp.com/biz/wellness-in-motion-chiropractic-center-park-ridge