#so by dusk of sunday i might get one maybe two done between then and next saturday

[tzawa-1y]

the void is loud and wants chicken @buraibanzai

fun fact at first i did think burai was his last name and that's why i called him banzai,,, then i learned it was burai actually, and much much later realized that most people went (first, last) on the name order and not (last, first) like I did ;;;;;;

[caffeinatedtimdrake]

How about ‘ i carry your heart with me’ for Jason?

A/N: here it is!! bc we all need more soft Jason in our lives!! about 1k of Jason feeling sappy after a mission and coming home to snuggle with you

i carry your heart with me 

The thin chain and silver locket slide against Jason’s skin, a cool reminder of your presence amidst the stinging pain along his abdomen and the soreness in his shoulder. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Tim arches an eyebrow, bemused, gesturing to the necklace hanging around his brother’s neck as he wraps Jason’s left wrist in gauze. 

Jason sets his jaw in annoyance, grumbling in affirmation. 

“Aw, Timmy, don’t tease the poor guy. Our Jason’s just in love.” Dick chirps from the opposite side of Jason’s mildly battered body, suavely threading a needle through the gash on his younger brother’s forearm. 

“You guys really don’t need to do all this.” Jason huffs, fighting a mortified blush. 

Damian isn’t directly helping much, but from across the kitchen, he offers, “Yes, I believe we do. If not, the owner of your necklace’s counterpart is sure to kick our shins and scold us.” 

Dick glances over at Damian and sighs, “Our endearing voice of reason.”

Jason hadn’t meant to get battered so badly tonight, but he admits his arrogance might have inhibited him from calling for help until he was beyond – as Dick would say – whelmed. 

Jason hadn’t meant to let the boys see the necklace clasped loyally around his neck, holding the jagged half-heart, half-inscribed with the words ‘best friends’.

Jason also hadn’t meant to fall irrevocably, profoundly in love with you, but strict planning never seemed to work out for him. 

The two of you had been traversing a flea market on a warm, quiet Sunday morning when you stumbled upon the necklaces. In your youth, it had been a hot commodity and an ardent proclamation of friendship – best friendship. 

A shy, hopeful smile spreads across your face. You trace your fingers across the engraved pendant and glance at him. 

“Jason…can we?” 

He blinks at you, childlike wonder igniting across his features. In any other situation, his knee jerk reaction might include a snarky remark and absolute denial, but this wasn’t any other situation. Where you were involved, things qualified as extraordinary. 

He’s quiet for a moment, a slow grin pulling at his mouth and lighting up his sapphire eyes. “Yeah, of course, Y/N.” Jason finds himself borderline bashful.

When you pull out a few crumpled bills to hand to the old lady at the stand, he shoots you a look and reaches for his wallet. 

“Jason, I swear to god –”

“Let me spoil you,” He whines.

“You can have it for free.” The elderly lady seated beneath the shade of the makeshift shop smiles at the pair of you fondly, effectively killing the bickering. 

“We could never –”

“We insist –”

“I insist!” She chortles, waving her hand dismissively and getting up to hand you the necklaces.

You and Jason look at the woman, a little dumbfounded. 

Her smile grows. “I’ve seen a lot in my years. I haven’t seen two people so in love in a long time. I know you must be more than best friends, but maybe in your darkest moments, a silly necklace meant for kids can help remind you of that.”

Jason has never really needed reminding. He knew it then and he knows it now, in the dingy lighting of the bat cave; you are his best friend and much, much more. You are his right hand, his beacon of light, his comfiest pillow, his book nerd buddy, his favorite song, and someone who could finish his sentences. You are his inspiration for adventure and muse for midnight poetry. You are his safety net. At dusk in early December, between mugs of hot cocoa and thick blankets, he learned you are his soulmate. 

Still, he wears the necklace diligently. You are very well-entangled in his soul, but this is another way of carrying your heart with him. He knows you scarcely remove your own necklace. You carry him in your heart, and you keep him close to your heart. Without him, you are incomplete; an unfinished puzzle, a fragmented sentence, a wave that can never quite reach the shore. 

You and Jason work together so easily, like the moon orbiting the earth orbiting the sun, gravity keeping him grounded even though you make him feel like his head is in the clouds. 

“You’re all patched up, Jay.” Tim pats his thigh and stands, helping his brother get up and stretch. “Keep ice on the waist and take it easy for a few days. Don’t want these stitches opening up.”

Jason makes a face briefly, but Dick gently, endearingly whacks the back of his head. “Just do it.”

“I can tell Y/N, as well, since Todd often disregards medical advice.” Damian says, swinging his legs in an almost cute way, not completely unlike a child. 

“I don’t wanna worry Y/N if I can help it, boys. I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime. But I do appreciate the help, really.” 

Dick smiles at Jason softly. “Anytime, little bird.” 

Jason’s walk home is quiet and peaceful and crime-free. He prays that you’re blissfully asleep, not awake with worry, because all he wants to do is crawl into bed and into your embrace.

He does find you asleep – sprawled out on the couch in basketball shorts and one of his t-shirts, mouth parted, as the television hums with the measured laugher of an old sitcom. 

His heart leaps in his chest; because you waited for him, because you put on his clothes, because you look so damn cute in the throes of slumber that he wants to crumble into a squealing mess of adoration on the spot. 

Jason switches off the T.V. and scoops you up into his arms. You’re so warm and so you, nuzzling into his chest and sleepily welcoming him home, that he forgets all the injuries he sustained throughout the night. He carries you as tenderly as he can to the bedroom. 

You wiggle yourself underneath the covers and when he finishes changing into cozy pajamas, he turns back to the bed to find your arms stretched widely, beckoning him into your embrace.

He’s utterly enamored, cooing that he loves you, when he crawls onto the bed and into your arms.

Jason holds you close, pressing a kiss to your head. 

He holds you – his heart, his home, his everything.

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 29

AO3 link here

They had planned to spend Christmas up in Brooklyn, but two weeks beforehand, Bucky calls and ruefully announces that the chickenpox have gotten ahold of his kids. Steve knows that there’s nothing to be done - Steve has had them, obviously, as has Peggy, but they’re the only Carters who have that they know of, and it’s particularly important that Drea not get sick - but he still lets himself groan along with the kids when he tells them at dinner that night.

“You know,” Peggy says, brushing out her hair in front of her vanity that night, once she’s gotten home from her late meeting, “Howard mentioned that he’s giving Jarvis the week off - his first vacation in years.”

“Where are they going?” Steve asks, sitting on the edge of the bed to strip off one sock and then the other.

“He promised Ana that he would take her to some exciting ski resort.” Steve snorts, and Peggy smiles at him in the mirror and adds, “Well, I’m certain that for Mr. Jarvis, it will be closer to an exciting book in front of a fireplace. Perhaps an extreme cup of tea if he’s feeling adventurous. But regardless, it means that Howard and Maria are alone for the holiday as well. We might ask if they would like for us to host them.”

Steve calls Maria the next day and asks if the Starks would join them for the holiday.

“Oh, you know how it is with the baby,” Maria says. “I don’t know how well he would put up with the trip. Why don’t you come here? I can take care of everything.”

He tries to imagine her doing all that cooking with Tony on her hip or whining from his seat - he has no confidence at all in Howard’s helpfulness - and tries tactfully suggesting that the Stark home could be the site of the festivities with all the preparations left up to him. But Maria’s hostess sensibilities simply cannot allow for a guest to take care of things that way…

It takes a bit more wrestling back and forth before they agree that they will all travel to the Stark’s home in Maine, and Steve and Maria will do the cooking together.

(“Now we’ll both be a little inconvenienced and probably step on each other’s toes, but I guess it’s a compromise,” Steve tells Peggy the next morning.)

Christmas Day is on a Tuesday this year, and the Carters leave on Saturday afternoon, sleeping over for the night in Connecticut and pulling up to the house just before noon on Sunday. The kids know the routine and join their parents in unpacking the car; several trips ferrying suitcases and the boxes of supplies that Steve had brought, and they’re done and ringing the doorbell.

Howard and Maria step out onto the porch, Tony forced to hold one of each of their hands because of the wind and the icy steps (he keeps straining away from them and pouting when he can’t seem to best their strength). There is a flurry of greetings before the kids slip through the doorway to choose bedrooms and set up games, somehow stealing Tony from under his parents’ noses and swooping him inside with them as well.

(Steve has the feeling that Em is going to regret thinking he is going to be a discreet and amenable accessory.)

There are plenty of trees on the property, and Howard, who had offered to pay someone to cut one down, leaves his wife behind serving drinks to Peggy and reluctantly bundles up and shows Steve to the caretaker’s shed where they find a saw and round tape measure. That evening, they all have hot chocolate while trimming the tree with a combination of decorations brought from the Carters’ home and the Starks’. If Howard is proprietary about the tree, primping its branches, making sure the ornaments are properly balanced so it can look its best, commenting every so often about how he’d spotted it behind a larger, showier one and knew it was the perfect candidate, Steve only lifts an amused eyebrow to Peggy and says nothing.

Later, he is in the kitchen, taking advantage of Maria having gone to take Tony to bed by putting away the supper leftovers that she had told him she would take care of. In the hall, the phone rings. The kids have the TV up, watching Mary Tyler Moore, and he barely registers it until his wife joins him in the kitchen. Without a word, she begins covering dishes, arranging the refrigerator, judging whether the last dinner roll is worth saving on its own.

“Who was that calling?” Steve asks after several minutes of quiet. There’s an edge to this particular silence of hers, a feeling of suspended breath.

Peggy stands with the refrigerator door open, scanning over the shelves. “Mrs. Truman,” she says finally, closing the door. “Her husband wants to see Howard and myself.”

“He doesn’t have long?” Steve leans against the counter. The newspapers and broadcasters have been reporting each turn of President Truman’s declining health over the past weeks.

“He was apparently barely awake long enough to ask for us. I expect—” Her mouth pulls inward. "I expect he will try to request our reassurance about the bomb again.” Peggy’s tone does not speak to any futility she might see in obeying such a summons, especially at this particular time, when the man in question might not be aware enough to receive them, might not even be alive when they arrive. It is as if she is already preparing herself for the visit, even here with him, setting on a mask. But then she steps toward him, taking advantage of his open arms and pressing herself against his chest. “I’ll tell the children,” she says, muffled against his neck as he moves automatically to hold her. “I know they’ll be disappointed.”“We’ll do it together.”

Their kids are old enough to handle their mother potentially missing Christmas with a decent amount of grace - even Nate is thirteen, though he would likely have accepted the news with equanimity even before - and Tony is too young to really understand what is happening and too accustomed to his father’s travel besides. Still, there is an air of slightly forced cheer replacing the natural cousin of past holidays. As dusk falls on Christmas Eve, Emma bakes several trays of gingerbread cookies, the scent filling the house warmly. Rosie lights the fireplace and suggests/pressures them into singing carols; Maria has a lovely voice and somehow manages to hit some fairly impressive notes even as she must redirect a scrabbling Tony away from the flames. Steve grins at her, one parent to another.

He had revived his old skill and crocheted the stockings for each of his children, along with ones for himself and Peggy, and though he’s offered to make new ones over the years, the most they have ever agreed to is repairs as necessary. The last thing they do before the kids head to bed is hang them over the now-cooling fireplace. The Stark stockings are far more elaborate than his simple ones, but he feels a little sad seeing Maria hanging them herself, Tony having exhausted himself several hours ago.

She sits looking at them with an afghan draped over her lap, head tipped gently to one side, while he mixes a martini and gets her one of Emma’s cookies. (He would have poured some eggnog, but he doesn’t know her feelings on it.)

“Are you alright?” he asks softly once he’s settled on the couch next to her. This might be the first time they have been alone together. He likes Maria and considers her a friend, but they have rarely had occasion to talk just the two of them, without Howard or Peggy or both. He isn’t even sure that he’s correctly reading the sadness in her expression.

She breaks off a piece of gingerbread (the point of a star: Steve didn’t bring cookie cutters, so Em did the best she could with a knife; it’s resulted in some slightly lopsided but tasty shapes) and bites into it.

After a moment, she says slowly, “I know that marriage is hard, every marriage is in its own way. But sometimes being married to Howard...It’s different, and lonelier than I thought it would be.” She breaks off another point, but sits looking at it rather than eating it. “Sometimes I don’t know what he was imagining in a wife, and I don’t know that he does either. It’s hard to build a family, a life, a home, all the traditions that come with it, when it seems you’re doing it by yourself. Not that Jarvis and Ana aren’t darling, the most wonderful, and I’m so grateful for them but—I married Howard, not the Jarvises, and he’s so busy all of the time, rarely shares his work with me. I know what he does is important, but it would be—I would—I wish things would just stop, so I could have my husband for a while. I wish he would make the time, even when things haven’t stopped.”

Setting the cookie down, she meets Steve’s eye and takes a hasty sip of her drink. “You and Peggy must have had some of the same problems, though. I know that she’s different from Howard, but the things she can’t tell you, the times when she works late or has to travel and leave you alone with the kids…”

“It is hard,” he says gently, and she lets out a breath of relief, as if she feared he would say that he’s never been bothered, it’s only her. “It’s hard knowing that something urgent can call her away when the kids need her - and maybe it’s selfish, but sometimes I need her too and she can’t be there. It’s hard being the one at home, knowing that the work can be dangerous, feeling as if no story about a dry-cleaning mixup or a good sale on cereal can match up with what she deals with every day. Going back to school, finding friends and hobbies of my own, that’s helped. We’ve also been at this a long time. We’ve learned to talk about the way we feel and, as much as we can, about the work. Sometimes there isn’t anything she’s able to say, and all I can do is make her a cup of tea or settle an argument between the kids so she doesn’t have to do it. But she always knows that I’m there to listen if she needs it.”

Maria nods, looking down at the blanket on her lap. She picks a little at the stitching before seeming to catch herself and smooth it back. “You’re right,” she says, a little overly bright. “I’m glad I’m not the only one. And it’s probably different because Peggy is Peggy and not Howard, and she’s not married to me, she’s married to Captain America.”

Steve’s instinct is, strangely, to freeze, as if he might sit still enough to rewind time. When he gathers himself, seconds that feel like an eternity later, he says, very carefully, “I hadn’t realized that Howard told you.”

“Told me?” She finally pops the little piece of gingerbread into her mouth, chewing a little puzzledly. “Oh, that you’re Captain America? Well, Howard didn’t need to tell me that. I knew that he did a lot of top-secret work during the war, it’s what brought him to SHIELD now, and you knew him and Peggy from back then. The two of them never call you Grant, only Steve, just like Bucky and his family, and that crew who attended our wedding - the Howling Commandos, even if no one introduced them that way. I didn’t realize it was meant to be a real secret.”

“You’re a smart woman,” is all Steve can manage, torn between the urge to review the last twenty years for any others who might have caught on, and the urge to laugh because despite the apparently shoddy cover story and his proximity to the US intelligence apparatus, Maria is probably the only one who ever has.

“I know I am,” she says simply. From what Steve’s been told over the past few years, she had graduated top of her high school class and gone right out to work - perfume counter jobs, secretarial work, bank teller. The academic scholarships she’d earned, in and out of state, hadn’t made a difference when there were still room and board and fees to be covered, and parents and three younger siblings to support besides. “But apparently not smart enough for my husband to want to share much of anything with me, even the identity of one of his best friends, who happens to be my son’s godfather.”

He’s still a little overwhelmed by the idea that she even knows who she is - that she has for nearly this whole time, that she just figured it out on her own and it didn’t seem to matter to her - but he knows that it’s less important right now. He rests his hand atop hers. “It has nothing to do with how smart you are, or how trustworthy. With this, and of his work, Howard—He’s my friend, and I know that he loves you, but I also know how he gets caught up in things. Doesn’t always remember the value of what he has, and it shouldn’t have to be your job to constantly remind him. So if you put your foot down, if you put in the effort, and he doesn’t really change, I hope you know that whatever decision you make for yourself, and for Tony, I’ll support you. And I think I can speak for Peggy when I say she’ll support you too.” He smiles. “If anyone can sympathize with having to deal with Howard….” She smiles back, though it is bent at the corners.

“I think,” she tells him, “that nearly anyone else would have said that there was no decision to make, that it was simply my lot to stand by him, for our child or whatever status our marriage grants me, or because that is a wife’s duty. Even with all the change in the last decade, all the lectures I’ve gone to, the legislation I supported, the women who I know do things differently, it sometimes seems as if that’s only for other people - stronger women, or more exceptional ones.”

“I’d say that you’re a strong woman, and an exceptional one,” Steve says in return. “But you shouldn’t need to be. All the changes being made are important, of course they are, they’re necessary, but you don’t need to think about it as setting an example or being an inspiration for others. You can just be a person making the right choice for herself.”

She takes down the last of her drink, the remains of the ice chips tinkling in the bottom of the glass as she gestures to the mantle. “Good advice, handy with a needle - those stockings you made are darling, I saw how much the children adore them - and you say you cook too,” she jokes. “Peggy’s lucky to have you.”

And although he knows that she’s trying to change the tone of things, he shakes his head. “I’m luckier to have her. And you deserve to have the same, whether it’s Howard or someone else or no one.” She looks past him and her breath catches, but finally she meets his eyes and nods.

“And I don’t say I cook, I’ve proved it more than once,” he says, teasing now, allowing things to move forward. “But we might want to head to bed ourselves if we want to be awake enough to pull off the menu for tomorrow.”

They tidy up a bit, making sure the fire has entirely burned itself out before they walk down the hall together. As Steve goes to turn the knob on the guest bedroom where he and Peggy are staying, Maria puts a hand on his wrist to stop him.

“It’s hard finding someone who understands,” she says, coming up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Steve, for listening.”

How strange to hear her say his name. It’s been such a long time since someone new called him by it. He smiles. “Any time. Really.”

The next morning, as the kids are unwrapping presents and Tony is collecting the wrapping paper to hoard, Maria looks to see what’s been added to her stocking in the night. Along with a small box of chocolates, there are three crocheted stockings, a little hastily made and clearly with some yarn remainders patched in where certain colors have run out, but in corresponding plaids with names stitched at the top. The note inside reads, Always time to start new traditions if you want to.

Steve is bent over the open oven with a meat thermometer, listening with one ear to Tony who is ignoring his new Fisher-Price farm set and play telephone in favor of crumpling, uncrumpling, and tearing up his wrapping paper stash, when he hears footsteps entering the kitchen behind him; probably Maria coming back from showing the kids where the plates are.

“Do you want to take care of dessert, or getting the Brussels sprouts ready to roast?” he asks.

“I hope you didn’t think I’d learned to bake in just a day.”

He closes the oven and puts the thermometer on the counter before turning to see his wife standing, arms crossed, in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says, the smile coming to his face without thought at all. His chest is filled suddenly with a tenderness. He hadn’t even fully realized how much he missed her until he has her back here with him.

She steps forward and he does the same, meeting her in the middle of the kitchen tile. Her kiss is brief and sweet, so sweet, against his mouth.

“Do you want to talk?” he asks softly, knowing without having to be told that she’s come back troubled, and her head barely considers a nod. “Well, I have a lot to tell you,” he murmurs into her hair, and she steps back to look at him, seeing something in his face that makes her nod and put a hand to his cheek.

“Later tonight, we’ll talk,” she says, as good as a promise. And he feels lucky, so lucky, not just at everyone together for the holiday, the warm smells of food around them, his family laughing in the next room, but because he is able to have this woman by his side, all of their yesterdays and today and the tomorrows too. He turns his head just so, and touches a kiss to her palm, and hears her breath catch for just that second.

“I’ll—I’ll cut the sprouts, shall I?” she says, indicating the knife and cutting board on the counter. He nods, pressing one last kiss to her hair before she moves to rinse her hands and roll up her sleeves. “What exactly are you looking at?” she asks, concentrating on the vegetables, when he still hasn’t moved a minute later, still watching her.

“Merry Christmas, Peg,” is all he says. She smiles over at him before saying mock severely, “Not if there isn’t cake, it won’t be,” and he laughs and goes to gather ingredients. He’ll make her favorite, but he knows that it will be a good day either way. With their kids all safe and healthy and her back with them again, it already is.

More chapters here

[ferricadooza]

50 questions you’ve never been asked before

miss mars bar (@larryscurves) thank you for tagging me in this ♥

1. what is the colour of your hairbrush? i have one pink one and one black one

2. a food you never eat? thanksgiving stuffing

3. are you typically too warm or too cold? always too cold, but that’s what layers and blankets are for :)

4. what were you doing 45 minutes ago? working on a final while facetiming the aforementioned miss mars bar

5. what is your favourite candy bar? ??? idk like a 3 musketeers maybe ???

6. have you ever been to a professional sports event? yeah, i’ve been to baseball games and hockey games before

7. what is the last thing you said out loud? mar says i said “BELLA” and threw my hands up in the air. sounds about right.

8. what is your favourite ice cream? mmmm i don’t really eat ice cream, but maybe neopolitan? or cookie dough? actually wait no, i love a good coffee flavored ice cream

9. what was the last thing you had to drink? coffee

10. do you like your wallet? i can definitely say this is a question i’ve never been asked before. uhhhh, yeah i do, but i also feel like i could really use a new one (preferably with more pockets)

11. what was the last thing you ate? peanut butter filled pretzels

12. did you buy any new clothes last weekend? no ?

13. the last sporting event you watched? i think....... i think i saw like a portion (by a portion i mean like five minutes before i got distracted) of a pens game sometime within the last year

14. what is your favourite flavour of popcorn? movie theater butter (from the actual movie theater) with lots of salt babey

15. who is the last person you sent a text message to? my friend katie after she tried to call me while i was on a facetime call

16. ever go camping? do i seem like the kind of person who would go camping ? no really i want to know

17. do you take vitamins? is a serotonin pill a vitamin? discuss.

18. do you go to church every sunday? HA. no.

19. do you have a tan? it snowed this week

20. do you prefer Chinese food or pizza? why not both.meme

21. do you drink your soda with a straw? not usually, no

22. what colour socks do you usually wear? y’all wear socks ?

23. do you ever drive above the speed limit? HA. yeah.

24. what terrifies you? the unknown babey.

25. look to your left, what do you see? an empty glass that had some water in it and my headphones on the nightstand.

26. what chore do you hate? mmmmm probably dishes

27. what do you think of when you hear an Australian accent? @ltwalls2020 and @lightwoodsmagic

28. what’s your favourite soda? mmmmm vanilla coke is my weakness

29. do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive-thru? ugh i hate drive thrus but i also hate eating in fast food restaurants. go in and order it to go.

30. who’s the last person you talked to? miss mars bar @larryscurves right before she went to sleep

31. favourite cut of beef? do i look like a culinary expert to y’all? no really i want to know

32. last song you listened to? ashley by halsey

33. last book you read? like a real book? dumplin’ by julie murphy. but i also read this fic this week and it’s basically a novel.

34. favourite day of the week? saturday

35. can you say the alphabet backwards? yup

36. how do you like your coffee? good coffee? black. mediocre coffee? splash of cream and sugar. bad coffee? down the drain.

37. favourite pair of shoes? fuck shoes

38. at what time do you normally go to bed? anywhere between 11pm and 5am :))

39. at what time do you normally get up? anywhere between like 8am and 1pm.

40. what do you prefer, sunrise or sunsets? dusk, but like if i had to choose then sunrises i think (even though i’m rarely awake to see one)

41. how many blankets are on your bed? one, sometimes two. three if it’s really cold

42. describe your kitchen plates? ??? might be some cherries on them? they’re kinda like beigey with maroon and blue rings

43. do you have a favourite alcoholic beverage? i’m honest to fuck not all that picky but maybe wine? wine’s the easiest

44. do you play cards? cards against humanity, sure. also go fish. maybe some war if i’m feeling spicy

45. what colour is your car? red, but she’s old so idk what color my next car will be !

46. can you change a tire? HA. no

47. what is your favourite state/province? kentucky is really cool, but like just louisville

48. favourite job you’ve ever had? i looooooved my office job that i had at school. wish i could’ve finished out my last semester there :(

49. how did you get your biggest scar? i’m not sure about specifics, but i have a few scars from burns over the years. they’re not huge, the skin’s just like much paler there

50. what did you do today that made someone else happy? i turned in a final which made me happy

i’m gonna go ahead and tag: @thepeacering, @canyonemoon, @femstyles, @lightsupwithharry, @coldkofe, and @peterpanlouie if you haven’t done it yet/want to :))

[idkthisisjustforfanfic]

Chapter 14 part 1 - Come Sunday

I don’t know what hurt more--the knowledge that there was a possibility that Peter didn’t actually think my catalog was worth that type of money, or the fact that Harry thought he needed to meddle with my business deal to ensure some sort of financial success for me.

Didn’t he not want anything to do with my financial success? Our entire break up seemed to solidify that in my brain, it solidified the fact that I had made the mistake of focusing so much on the money part of my life that I didn’t focus on the actual relationship in front of me.

It felt like one of those typical situations--you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, right? But what about when the person you ‘had’ was a famous musician and and I didn’t really even feel like I ‘had’ him to begin with?

When Harry and I actually were together, I felt stupid for thinking that it would last, no matter how invested he seemed. Maybe that was on me--maybe he could make the argument that my self esteem was too low and maybe he was right, but recognizing that now didn’t change the past.

And what about the fact that I needed to make a living? I wasn’t like Harry--I didn’t have enough money in some mysterious bank somewhere to just throw the towel in and call it a day. I was financially well-off, sure, but I couldn’t necessarily afford to just never work another day in my life.

As I heard the back service door to the restaurant shut behind me, I finally let out the breath in my lungs that seemed to burn against the cooler air. It was dusk--the city lights were on and glowing around me, but the moon had yet to take its place in the sky, high above the dark alley I found myself in.  

My thoughts were racing a mile a minute, trying desperately to make sense of the words I’d heard inside. Did Peter think my catalog was actually worth the money, or was it a pity purchase because Harry had talked him into it? Did the label actually want to buy my catalog at all?

To think that I was stupid enough to let myself sit on the idea that Harry--somehow--believed in me or would be willing to talk tonight--to think that I was daft enough to get my hopes up for anything short of disaster.

Things felt okay on the phone the last time we spoke, and somewhere in preparation for seeing him tonight, I’d gotten it in my head that maybe things would be okay. Maybe enough time had passed between our fight and my drunk calling him for us to actually interact like two people who maybe actually were friends or at least civil.

The door opened slightly, Chelsea edged quietly into the fresh air, her lips sealed in a tight frown--one that reeked of pity and uncertainty.

I realized that running away from Peter Bouchard was probably unprofessional and definitely impolite, but my thoughts were spinning too fast to process what was appropriate business etiquette. I also figured that Harry deserved to talk himself out of that one.

“Hi,” I said quietly, keeping my eyes on the ground as she sat beside me on some sort of shipping container.

She let out a deep breath, keeping enough distance between us. “Hi.”

We were quiet for a second, and I was thankful that she didn’t launch into some sort of petition against my anger at Harry. Instead, she stared at nothing with me, letting my thoughts circle in my head until someone came out back to have a cigarette.

A London alley at the wrap party for a big album didn’t quite seem like the place that dreams were made of. Chelsea let out a laugh all of a sudden.

“What?” I looked up at her quickly, hoping she had a good explanation for her untimely emotion.

She shook her head and shrugged. “I just find men to be so fucking mental sometimes, you know?”

I blinked twice--unclear as to why she was the one about to have a breakthrough in regards to the opposite sex.

“They think they’re doing things that are nice--they think they know what’s going on in our brains so well. Yet they never ask and they certainly don’t think things through.”

I was quiet again, but apparently my eyes on her face was enough permission for her to continue. She ran a hand through her hair, letting out a tired sigh and rolling her eyes again.

“Harry’s stupid enough to think that he was helping you,” she said matter of factly.

Chelsea’s narration was enough to at least help me think. Sure--Harry probably did think he was helping by putting in a good word for me with Peter. But what he didn’t realize, though, was that this was my chance to actually make a name for myself, without his help, without the boost of One Direction and without any sort of connection to him.

But he’d gone and ruined it.

I wondered, for a half second, if I should just pack up my bags, head stateside, and forget about the life I’d tried to build in London. It wasn’t really seeming like it was going to get off the ground. Sure, it’d been a few years and I’d had a good run, but with the pending sale of my catalog and the money I’d saved, I had enough to move home with my parents and maybe just take some time off (which would surely leave to a major depressive episode where I didn’t shower for three weeks).

Chelsea let out another sigh, “he got mad when he actually was helping you and giving you work, and now he’s trying to do that but he should have just stayed out of it.”

“I definitely should have stayed out of it,” Harry’s voice sounded from the door to the restaurant, his eyes hopeful as both Chelsea and I--and the waiter who’d been having a smoke break--turned to look at him. “It was wrong and stupid but I was just trying to help.” He kept himself positioned in the doorway, holding it open but not fully committing to stepping into the alley, which struck me as a metaphor for our current state.

“No,” I shook my head, holding up my hands to stop him from saying any more as I stood. “No, no, you don’t just get to waltz out here and say the right things and expect that this is just going to,” I searched for the right words, but he cut me off.

“I’m not trying to just say the right thing. I’m trying to say the real things. The things I think and feel.” He rolled his eyes as he spoke, stepping out fully now to come closer to me.

Chelsea seemed to tense in anticipation of my response, her eyes shooting back and forth between us as if someone might throw a punch.

“We’re not doing this, Harry, okay? You fucked up,” I shrugged, too annoyed to be more articulate.

“You fucked up, too,” he said--his voice calm and quiet as he kept his eyes trained on mine.

Did I, though? Sure, I could have done a thousand things differently and not made Harry feel like my real goal was money. I could have stopped to realize that while I wasn’t actively getting paid, I was finally experiencing the type of connection with someone that I’d wanted since I moved to this stupid city in the first place.

And I get it--did I over value money instead of my relationship with him? Maybe I did. But I couldn’t change what happened, I couldn’t make Kyle unspeak those words, and I couldn’t make Harry unhear them. All I could do was apologize and try to explain myself. But he wouldn’t listen.

Harry let out a sigh when I didn’t respond, he shifted on his feet and looked from Chelsea to me and then down at his feet. He cleared his throat, brought his eyes back up to mine, and shrugged.

“All I can say is that I’m sorry I spoke with Peter. I was just trying to help and I get that you didn’t want my help, but I just--I love you, I want you to be successful,” his eyes seemed to plead with me, and the words that left his lips seemed to sink in my stomach like concrete. How could he say that when he hadn’t really spoken to me in two months? How could he feel that way when things were clearly not working in our favor?

Chelsea, whose eyes were now wide, seemed to shift her body to be out of Harry’s view. When I looked over at her, she mouthed say it back! but I shook my head quickly.

“We can’t,” I paused, my thoughts were moving too fast for my mouth to catch up. I looked back up at him, the sadness is his eyes left a pang of guilt in my chest. “Don’t say that.”

He didn’t say anything, he just stood there, silent, hoping that I’d change my mind. But it felt only fair that if he’d left me standing in the driveway and wondering what the world had in store, I deserved a chance to do the same to him.

to be continued...

[smovlov]

S240 - Quickbeam to Marshall

This is a write-up I posted to the Rivendell Owners Bunch. I rode from SF to marshall Saturday July 1 to Sunday July 2. Click the break if you would like to read it!

all dressed up and somewhere to go

Started on July 2nd around 4:00 in the afternoon. Took the BART over to Embarcadero station and went to the ferry building where I got an empanada and a coffee ice cream in a sugar cone. snacked on those and took a few photos.

Ferry Building with Quickbeam foreground

Made a quick stop at the marina Safeway to pick up some bananas, protein bar, avocado, 4 pack of Hawaiian rolls, and a vegan chocolate chip cookie. After that I did a quick visit down to fort point where I encountered a pod of humpback whales breaching and lobtailing under the Golden Gate Bridge! I spoke to a woman named Elizabeth who was snapping some photos and she sent some to me! 

Humpback lobtailing in the SF Bay, photo credit: Elizabeth

under the Golden Gate Bridge

I stood under the bride for a while until it got too chilly. it was after I got over the bridge that I realized that it would be dark by the time I got to the campsite. I was planning on riding through the Marin headlands and going to Samuel P. Taylor the back way but did not feel like riding later into the night. I pressed on to Corte Madera.

Mt. Tamalpais in the distance, Quickbeam again, foreground

I took the highway route which I had not done before, feels scary facing traffic on 101 separated by a chain link fence, low guard rail, and an emergency lane. I think ill take my chances with traffic on Camino Alto next time. The ride on the trail through Ross and San Anselmo is always nice. I especially like Shady Ln, even more when there is no traffic. I stopped shortly in Fairfax to do a little snacking on a banana, bar, and some bread. I was thinking that whites hill was a little closer so I switched to my lower gear (36,21). Only when I started riding did I realize it was much farther, especially when you're spinning 45 gear inches! I didn't mind it though as it was a nice change of pace, even slowed down a little bit. Finally I hit the hill, its not terribly long or steep but it is a climb, especially with a load and riding a fixed gear in flip flops. I reached the top and spun downhill to a little turnout next to a raving where I switched into the high gear. From here, I rode through the San Geronimo valley. By this time is was dusk and the hills were turning into images that should be painted, photographed, and cherished. I thought about taking a photo but decided to take it all in and keep pedaling with the slight downhill to Lagunitis. 

I arrived in Lagunitas, home of the brewing company of the same name, and jumped onto the Marin cross trail. I tilted the light back just a little to capture any stray branches that were at face level. The ride was pleasant and I didn’t see anyone on the trail. Come to think of it, I hadn't ridden next to anyone since Sausalito!

cycling the Marin Cross Trail, B&m Eyc provides good light

I pulled into the hiker biker site at Samuel P. Taylor state park around 8:30, had dinner and a chat with two groups there. Two dads had brought their 4/5 year old daughters form Corte Madera on the back of two Yubas (think xtracycle/big dummy). The other group parked at Lagunitas and rode in by bike to score a site. I slept without a tent (don’t own one) and listened to the raccoons quarreling down by the stream.

In the morning had a breakfast of banana, oatmeal, and earl grey tea. Bid everyone farewell then headed to Pt. . Reyes Station. the Marin Cross Trail is a great trail with wonderful scenery I hit the bottom of the hill and switched into the lower gear.

Marin Cross trail in the morning light (if 9am counts as morning)

Base of climb up to Bolinas Ridge trail head

Topping out at Bolinas ridge and back into the higher gear, I spun down into the valley, heading towards Pt. Reyes Station.

Top of Bolinas Ridge, ready for the downhill. Drying laundry on the saddle bag.

Arrived at Bovine Bakery and got a fruit slipper (blueberry and cream cheese), armando bun (blueberry and walnuts), and a hot coffee. Sat out front for a while then purchased some more food at the grocery across the street. When I returned to pack everything up I met a man named Jody. We talked bikes, mountain bike history, architecture, construction, and the state of the SF Bay Area in general. Jody had to help his friend unloading a truck so I headed to Marshall for some seafood. There’s a series of rollers that don’t quite fit into my high or low gearing. It was at this time I found out that I have a third gear right in the middle cross chained between my 36 front and 17 rear. I named it the roller gear. I cruised the narrow highway 1 and turned off at the Tomales Bay trail for a little exploration. Bumped down the trail to meet the foot of the marshy bay. Changed out of my pants and into some shorts then headed back to hwy 1 in a tiny exploratory loop.

Trail out to Tomales Bay

Foot of Tomales Bay

Got back on hwy 1 and an appetite was gaining on me. Finally got to Marshall store and ordered six BBQ oysters and a crab sandwich. The oysters were great and by the time I was finished I was wondering how I would find the room to finish the sandwich. Luckily the sandwich never came and I got a refund. I spoke with a couple visiting from Sacramento and gave them a few suggestions on things to do then headed off on my way back to Pt. Reyes. On Saturday I was considering heading up to Jenner but decided against it as it would take too long to ride back the following days.

These were excellent and surprisingly filling, maybe it was the bread!

Note: not a normal sized fork but larger than a standard cocktail fork

It was on the return leg that I started to feel some tightness in my right Achilles tendon. At one point, I stopped to strectch on the side of the road and found in the grass a Stanley 6 1/12 block plane! What luck! Back in Pt. Reyes I grabbed some ibuprofen and WD-40 (not great but it works). One helped the heel and the other helped the squeaky chain. I continued down highway 1 through Olema Valley, accompanied by a consistent headwind

Olema Valley, equipped with great road surface and strong headwind.

Bolinas Lagoon

Made it to Stinson Beach where I laid out in the sand, stretched my legs, then soaked my feet in the chilly Pacific. When leaving I saw a young teenager getting his book bag raided by the park service. Nearby there was a paper plate with pot and an big fat in progress joint.

By the time I left Stinson it was starting to get chilly

From Stinson I decided that instead of taking the detour up Panoramic highway, I would try to dodge the barricade at the Steep Ravine landslide on highway 1. I watched the highway from the beach and saw some cyclists riding down and a few cars driving up so I figured there might be a way around. It was a beautiful exposed climb. Felt like I was riding into the sky!

Stinson Beach below, Pelicans above, magic all around!

When I reached the barricade, I found a lot of fence, a lot of signs, and a police vehicle on the other side. I briefly considered portaging through the Dipsea trail but with a mildly large load and a narrow trail I felt like my best bet would be to descend and take the detour route. Switched back to high gear and spun down to the base, stopping briefly to ponder the pacific ocean and watch some sport climbers attempt a route down at Mickey's beach.

This approach has worked a total of one times, Authority vehicle in background.

unspecific Pacific pondering

At the base of Panoramic I put some water in my bottle and switched into the lower gear. I changed into pants and a shirt as the fog was rolling in and it was getting chilly. I had driven the road before and thought that it would be difficult on a bike, what I didn’t realize is how LONG it was! The climb for me was not easy by this point and I could have sworn it was over seven or eight switchbacks earlier! I think its around 1300' in about 5 or 6 miles. Finally, after climbing out of the fog I reached Pantoll, hot and tired with the fog gaining on me. I ate some bread and nibbled on the Armando bun, refilled the bottles, and switched back into high gear. Almost didn’t make it over the first hill out of parking lot!

foggy and chilly panoramic highway

Spun down Panoramic towards Mill Valley riding the brakes. Traffic was heavy due to the detour and I felt the need to pull off to let the cars pass. Conditions turned epic when I hit the ridge with fog and 25mph winds whipping though. Dropped into mill valley and put on wool socks, changed batteries in my rear light, and switched to the middle gearing. At the Tennessee valley intersection I met Mark, who slowed and allowed me to pull alongside. He asked me about my bike and my tour (not much of a tour, more of an extended ride). He was riding a very nice silver Davidson with a Dura-Ace group. He was preparing for a tour in northern Californian around the Trinity Alps. We talked about riding and a little bit about bikes. He also showed me the back way to get through Sausalito which was pretty cool. Less traffic and a little slower paced which I was completely fine with by this point. After we crossed the foggy, wet, windy Golden Gate Bridge we stopped and chatted for a bit. Hes been riding since moving to California in the 1970's and was turning 78 soon! At the end he said I was doing good for riding on a fixed gear, but I think he was doing much better!

Mark riding at a good clip across the windy, foggy bridge

I finished the ride in my middle gear through the Presidio and ended up getting take out at Osha Thai. Padang curry and coconut rice. Returned to Berkeley via BART at around 9:30pm.

back in "civilization"

Great trip and always great to meet so many nice people. For the most part the cars were polite. I had a few close passes but nothing too bad. I only had one kid yell something at me while riding. Other than that smooth sailing! Next time I might drop my chain rings down 2 teeth each for the "touring" load. I found after the first day, the only reason for the highest gear was for the downhills. Hopefully I can get that freewheel on there before the next ride...

Additional photos here: https://goo.gl/photos/QDize276hRjdi23Y7 

[melforbes]

cold, ocean, phonebook

post Drive

What she needed was a local dive, some seedy diner with busted red vinyl booths and laminated menus featuring blue plate specials and eggs any way you would like them. As dusk settled over the Californian sea beyond her, she flipped through a phonebook, thought of keywords for what she wanted: milkshakes, family-owned, titled as Chuck’s Place or Beverly’s Diner or even The Greasy Spoon. Biting her lip in concentration, she counted the waves beyond her little payphone, measured time with them as she looked over all of the listed restaurants from here to San Francisco. Loleta was an odd combination of seaside and rustic, rich and unpopulated; if she wanted a diner, she would have to drive, and after that day, she didn’t want to be stuck behind a wheel any longer than was absolutely necessary.

And Kersh had been called, and their asses were on the line, and their return flight to D.C. would be filled with her last moments of reprieve before an inevitable hailstorm of paperwork, liability, and unfortunately both metaphorical and literal manure rained down upon her desk, but somehow, she had the inkling that a good plate of corned beef hash at a checkered palace where neon lights claimed open twenty-four hours and where blonde waitresses scooted around on roller-skates would at least take Mulder’s mind off of exploding eardrums and the fragility of human life. Of course, the inkling was hardly backed up by solid scientific fact, and just last week, she’d told him that he needed to better his diet for the sake of his heart’s health, but nonetheless, she needed to find him respite, a place where he felt most in his element. First, a diner came to mind even though Loleta seemed void of any diners.

Back in her second year working with him, they’d been stranded in a snowstorm in Burlington, the roads closed and all of the native Vermonters snuggled beneath flannel sheets while she’d phoned her mother to say why she couldn’t make mass on Sunday. That night, they’d holed up in one of the few bed-and-breakfasts that had power, the lake effect wind rustling the shutters on her window, the television’s rabbit ears barely picking up a signal, and at two in the morning, when she’d somehow still been awake, he’d knocked heavily at her door, shouted to her, “I’m starving. Want to get dinner?”

And then, they were in a Ford Taurus - rented, of course - barreling over snowdrifts while plows on all kinds of cars - most commonly trucks but also Jeeps and Yukons and even the occasional S.U.V. - cleared what they could, silent and fat flakes of snow still falling well into the night. From the reckless turns Mulder made, and from the crunchy way the brake pedal on that car had felt even before the snowstorm, she clenched her fists on her lap for the whole ride, her mind repeating I cannot die in a snowstorm with this man, for that’ll be the most tragic way for me to go. While Mulder sought out a diner, they both realized that, apparently, there was a culture surrounding the idea of a diner and that so-called diner culture didn’t exist in Vermont, where shops closed at five in the afternoon and dared not reopen until morning. Stomachs empty, they made it back to the motel, where they managed two candy bars out of a vending machine and where they sat together on his bed, her boots left at the door while his were kicked off haphazardly in the middle of the room, and watched local programming on the fuzzy television. Unsurprisingly, Vermont news was tame to the point of hilarity; over processed chocolates, they laughed at how Mrs. Roberts’ grandson’s visit was the breaking story of the night, and when Scully fell asleep alongside Mulder, he was polite enough not to wake her until morning.

And now, she once again found that, when they needed a diner most, one would never appear.

Stepping over to where she stood at the little payphone off of the side of the road, he looked over her shoulder, asked, “Why don’t we just find a place to stay for the night?”

She took a deep, quiet breath, her eyes cast down at the Yellow Pages.

“We need dinner,” she said coolly.

“There’s a burger shack two miles up the road,” he commented; she wondered how he knew that while she’d been left oblivious. “Let’s just go there.”

She sucked her lips into a near-smile, went to nod when he quipped, “Unless that’s not up to your standards for my diet.”

But his little smile fell flat, held solemnness beneath it, and suddenly, her mind blanked, then centered on one thought: it was absolutely up to her to protect this man, to comfort him, for she was the only person in the world who could, yet she couldn’t even find him dinner when prompted to do so.

“It’s fine,” she managed, then set the phonebook back down, headed for the driver’s side of their rental car.

At the passenger’s side, he climbed in, and with the radio off, she pulled away from the ocean in silence.

They were lucky for the summer weather, for the lack of youngsters mulling about the shack’s picnic tables, for the fact that the place was still open even though the sun was beginning to set. Benji’s Burgers, a hand-painted sign on top of the place indicated, and the menu was simple, just five separate burger titles and their ingredients listed on a propped-up chalkboard. Two teenagers worked the place, and when Mulder asked if either of them was Benji, he received shrugs and the excuse that Benji was out of town on business.

“Burger business?” Mulder asked incredulously as they later sat alongside each other at a picnic table, plastic baskets of burgers and fries in front of them. “What kind of burger business do you have to go out of town for?”

In between bites, she commented, “Maybe this is just his side business.”

The sky formed a shade of bright orange, remarkable and vast above them; cars would occasionally buzz past the roadside shack, but mostly, the only sounds were the summer insects around them and the transistor radio that the two teens had set up in the shack. Currently, some staticky Spencer Davis song played, and she kicked off her heels beneath the table, let her feet rest bare against the earth beneath them.

“Benji’s Burgers,” Mulder enunciated, hovering his burger in front of his mouth, “a front for Benji’s Blow and Dope. This, of course, is just a side business. Doesn’t make nearly as much money.”

For his sake, she quirked a lip at that even though her face felt heavy with woe, her eyes tired, her uncertainty making her hands shaky as she went to take a bite of her own burger. Extra mustard, hold the pickles. He’d ordered for her.

“Do you think at all about dying nowadays?”

The question left her gagging on her bite, one of her hands coming to her mouth while she forced herself to chew, swallow, find words. Before she could speak, he smiled to himself at her response, admitted, “I didn’t mean to make you choke.”

Embarrassed, she defended, “It was an abrupt change of subject.”

“We can’t lie as though it wasn’t on our minds.”

She took a deep breath, said, “No, we can’t.”

“With the cancer and all, it must’ve been hard not to think about it,” he said, “but do you ever thinking about it now?”

“About dying?”

He nodded softly, honestly, so she shrugged, offered, “Sometimes, I guess. When we thought Crump-”

“Mister Crump,” Mulder corrected, then took another bite of his burger, Benji’s so-called special sauce leaving a red stain alongside his lips.

“Well, when we though that Mister Crump had been infected with something bacterial,” she repeated, “I thought about dying.”

“How did it feel?” he asked. “The concept, I mean. The thought of it all.”

She weighed her words, gave, “Horrifying. Uncomfortable. But in the end, your only option is acceptance.”

“It’s not your only option,” he said. “You could be kicking and screaming until the very end, right until that profound plug is pulled. You’d don’t need to accept a thing.”

“You need to accept it if you want peace of mind.”

“Who cares about peace of mind?” he asked. “If you’re going to be dead, then why does it matter?”

And to that, she had no response, so she stared down at her lap, the fries in her basket going cold, a sedan driving past at a speed that deserved a ticket. Uncomfortably, he shifted his weight, finished off his meal, kept his eyes down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being an ass.”

“You had a rough day.”

“He didn’t deserve to die, Scully.”

“Does anyone?”

Humorlessly, he laughed.

“You don’t want to know my answer to that,” he admitted, meeting her eyes.

She stuck a cold, unsatisfying fry into her mouth and wondered where they would stay tonight as she chewed.

“I just think that today’s injustices were avoidable,” he said, unbuttoning two buttons on his shirt and ruffling his - dirty, she might add - hands through his hair. “You said that everyone in that home area was dead. There’s no way a government can rationalize that.”

“A government can rationalize anything,” she mumbled as he chose not to listen.

“How many more people have to die, Scully?” he asked. “How many more innocent civilians have to get in the way before someone, anyone, realizes that this is unjust?”

“You’re assuming they don’t already realize that this is unjust.”

“I can’t keep doing this anymore, talking to rednecks about their beets and pretending I’m making a difference,” he said softly. “There’s so much more out there, so much more I could be doing.”

“We’ll find our way back to cases like this,” she assured, bringing her palm to rest on his leg. “We’ll solve x-files again. We’ll be able to help again.”

“But what have the x-files done for either of us?” he asked, his tone stark. “They caused your abduction, your cancer. They’ve attacked our families, and for what, Scully? For next to nothing. If we do something, people die. If we don’t do something, people die. There’s no way out of this.”

As Jim Croce crooned hazily through the teens’ radio, she folded her hands on her lap, swallowed hard. Though she wanted to offer something, to say that everything would be fine and that no one would ever die again and that the world, though he had never been able to see it in such a way, was, at its depths, a good place, she couldn’t offer any of that without knowing her statements would be lies. Breathing in, she closed her eyes, felt the soft touch of a breeze, could smell the sweat and grime heavy on his skin; when she thought of their flight home in the morning, of the inevitable meeting with Kersh, her heart began to race, so she pushed those thoughts away, forced herself to find something that would comfort him. Her search for a greasy spoon had failed; her consolation efforts were nonexistent; though she thought she knew him better than anyone else did, she still couldn’t find words to take his mind from the injustices of the universe. The injustices of men, she corrected herself. The injustices of the world were mauled animal corpses left to rot in the savannah; the injustices of men were a slew of deceased bodies as a product of government experiments.

Opening her eyes, she reached out, took his sticky hand in hers, entwined her little fingers between his thick, calloused ones. The sky was fading to darker tones, and by now, she knew he needed somewhere to rest and wash, but she still searched for something to say, some little compliment or inside joke or anything else that would bloom a smile of his, but her search continued to be fruitless.

“You’re pensive,” he said with a dry laugh, but she could hear a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Softly, he curled his fingers against hers, so she sucked her lips into a smile, spoke the first words that came to mind.

“Some of my best memories are with you,” she said, the compliment absent-minded and unrelated, but as she looked up, she saw the stunned look on his face, the deep blue-grey of his eyes, the way he looked at her as though everything else had momentarily faded away, leaving only her dry and freckled face in its wake. With sauce still on his cheek, he was messy and unshowered and himself, and she wanted to curl her arms around him and reassure herself that, even though death seemed to follow them wherever they went, it had yet to touch them and that that was a good thing.

Glancing down and breaking their eye contact, he smiled toward his shoes, said, “Let’s go find a hotel, Scully.”

Exhaling, she nodded, said, “Somewhere nice.”

“On the bureau card?

She gave him a look, said, “We’ll call it repayment for the talking-to Kersh’ll give us in Washington.”

Smiling, he stood, pulled her up as well. She picked up her heels and dangled them from her open hand while he led her back toward the car, but before he could go around to the passenger’s side, before he let go of her hand, he added, “Scully?”

She hummed a response, looked up at him with new perspective; she so rarely stood next to him flat-footed, so the positioning reminded her of the moment when he’d held her in the hospital after Penny Northern had died, of how warm and alive he’d felt alongside her dying body. Absently, she wondered how his arms would feel now, California nighttime surrounding them, unrighteous death behind them and personal anger ahead.

Looking down, he admitted, “Most of my best memories are with you too.”

Then, he ducked over to his side of the car, and as she opened her own car door, as she slid her shoes back on, she didn’t realize that she’d begun to smile.

[lothiriel84]

Of love, bears, and icicles

Or that one time I went to London to see The Mighty Fin January Christmas show. 

Hello there, my hypothetical reader. I’m taking a short break from writing Sherlock (and Time Spanner) fanfic in order to give you the account of my latest (but hopefully not last ever) trip to the UK. You know the account no one asked for? Yeah, that one. 

First things first, I’m ever so grateful that this year’s - well, last year’s, theoretically - Mighty Fin show was in January rather than December. There was no way I would have been able to attend in December, but the one upside of being currently unemployed is that I don’t have to stress about my supervisors forbidding me from taking time off when I most need it (read: when there’s a show I desperately want to attend in the UK).

Anyways. January is probably not the best time of the year when it comes to travelling. I was aware of that, of course, but I still wanted to try - both because of the Mighty Fin show, and the fact that I’m not so sure how free to travel I’m going to be once I actually go ahead and ask for unemployment benefits. (Also, Brexit. But whatevers.)

As it turned out, England was for once a tiny bit warmer than Italy. (And by warmer, I mean slightly-less-freezing, obviously.) The rain definitely didn’t help, but as the less unastute of you might have divined (yeah, this is in fact a Cabin Pressure reference, no need to get offended) it was after all January, and seriously, I think I’ve been exceedingly lucky on all my previous trips to the UK as far as the weather is concerned. (Well, to be fair I’ve been lucky about too many things too count when it comes to each and every one of my trips, but I do believe I have already dwelt on many of those aspects in my previous posts.)

I’ve been to London so many times I’m kind of running out of ideas about what to do on a rainy day. My first day in town was spent between wandering a bit around the Gherkin, then seeking refuge into the Museum of London (which I had already visited, in point of fact). In the end I was only too glad when I could finally check in to my hotel room and happily pay for the wifi in order to watch episode 2 of Sherlock. (Which I believe I watched two more times in the following days. Yeah, I know.)

The next day I very cleverly accidentally decided to go to Dorset. (I blame this entirely on John Finnemore posting a picture of somewhere in Dorset on Twitter, and I’m most glad that he did because that was an excellent idea even for a day trip.) So I took a train to Wool, and then spent quite some time trying to figure out how to reach Durdle Door; I had googled pictures of the beautiful limestone arch on the coast there, and I was really looking forward to see it. 

Bless the bus driver, he sounded a bit concerned when he repeatedly asked me if I was aware that there wasn’t going to be a bus for the return journey; but I had kind of figured out I would somehow find a way to get back to Wool, so I happily walked the distance from the bus stop to the coast, then scrambled my way down not one, but two distinct flights of muddy, slippery steps in order to get a better view of both sides of the arch. (And quite miraculously I didn’t fall or slip, not even once, though I definitely got mud on my shoes and trousers.)

You know, there is quite something about standing on a pebble beach listening to the waves gently lapping at the shore. And that particular corner of the Jurassic Coast is quite stunning, as you can see for yourself.

In the end I had to walk for over an hour along a narrow country road at nightfall in order to reach the nearest village where I dearly hoped I could get a bus back to Wool. Luckily I somehow managed to do that in spite of the fact that my phone ran out of battery when I was nearly there, and I had neither a map nor a torch with me. 

(I actually had my old phone with me as well, but as it turns out it’s not good for much except maybe listening to the radio - though it took me approximately three quarters of an hour to finally tune in to Radio 4 on the train back to London, so once more thank goodness for the BBC iPlayer.)

On Wednesday I had a bit of a wander in Hampstead Heath, though it was quite muddy and windy, especially on Parliament Hill. In the evening I went to the dress rehearsal for A Midwinter Night’s Dream, which I immediately loved - I had never been to a Mighty Fin show before, though I’ve listened to the songs from a few of them, and I’m now the proud owner of three (soon to be - whatever the total number is, hopefully). Greg and Maddi were there too, and I kind of followed them when they went to say hi to John after the show; but I was quite tired and completely out of ideas as to what I could actually say to John, so I’m not even sure I managed to greet him back when he finally spotted me as I was hiding behind someone else. I’m really sorry Mr Finnemore - I’m not rude, just very awkward, I promise.

I had half a mind to go to Hastings the following day, but I had to put that off given how the weather forecast promised a snowstorm for the day (though in the end it mainly just rained in London). I would have liked to visit the London Aquarium for Sherlock-related reasons, but tickets were far too expensive for my tastes; so I took a bit of a walk along the Thames in the rain, stood for a while on the Vauxhall Bridge for reasons (though if I have to be honest I was far more impressed with the MI6 building that stands nearby), and then sought refuge in the Museum of London Docklands mainly because I deemed I had got enough rain on my coat and shoes for the day. (That, and the DLR. Don’t tell the Train Driver though.)

On Friday I decided that the weather was good enough for a trip to Hastings, and so it was in spite of a little snow we encountered on the train journey. (And by ‘we’ I mean us people on the train, which I somehow find funny now that I’ve listened to the St Ives sketch from JFSP - which I had actually had the privilege to see at one of the tryouts last Autumn, but there you go.)

It was a bit windy in Hastings, and most definitely cold - someone might have spotted me wandering along the shore in my winter coat, hat, scarf, and gloves - but otherwise a lovely day, and apparently I have a soft spot for pebble beaches anyway. Sadly the gate to the castle was locked; but there was quite a lovely view from up there, and the old part of the town is nice too. 

On Saturday I took a bit of a wander around Notting Hill (mainly Portobello Market) and then Little Venice, which I had quite liked on a previous visit. In the evening I had tickets for my second viewing of A Midwinter Night’s Dream, which was brilliant for more than one reason, and I will now explain if you bear with me. (You see, John played a bear in the musical, so I simply had to make a joke about that. Arthur Shappey would definitely - and very much enthusiastically - approve of this, so you definitely have to bear with me even if you don’t want to.)

What was I saying? Ah, The Mighty Fin, yes. I loved the show just as much as I had done the first time around; it’s a beautiful retelling of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, centred on the theme of the different kinds of love and how you most definitely shouldn’t try and force someone to love you, Fairy King or not. 

(’Trapped by a man / That’s my tragedy / Or was my tragedy / It ends today’, that’s how a line from one of the many brilliant songs went - bless Robbie Hudson and Susannah Pearse who created such a thing of beauty.)

All the actors were really good, and this time around John’s part was a bit longer than it had been in the dress rehearsal, and had an even more distinct Since You Ask Me feel to it. (When I went to ask him after the show John confirmed he had in fact written his own part, and the reason why it was shorter at the dress rehearsal was that he hadn’t finished writing it back then. Bless him.)

Oh, and one more brilliant thing, though strictly speaking it’s not entirely about the show. Simon was among the audience this time around, and I think I have already mentioned how much better that makes anything you might be watching. (I swear the man has the best laugh ever. You can’t possibly hear it and not feel like laughing yourself.)

I had actually spotted him before the show, and I was most definitely hoping I would maybe get to talk to him at the end of the play. Well, as it turned out he kind of recognised me as someone who had probably bothered him before, for he was the one who said hi to me as he walked past where I was standing during the interval, offered me a hug, and then had to listen as I rambled on about how much I loved the pilot for Time Spanner. He said they will probably try crowdfunding if the sitcom doesn’t get commissioned (seriously though, I hope the BBC knows better than that), so I now know what I should save my money for. 

(And, um, I should have probably refrained from walking back in when I was already halfway through the door after the show, and awkwardly waving Simon goodbye. But I’m not even sure if and when I’ll be able to go back to the UK, and - oh well, never mind. I’m not going to dwell on Ms Mayhem in this post, thank you very much.)

Sunday was my last day in London, and given that the weather was not very much on my side, I spent some time in Greenwich Market, had some amazing fish and chips for lunch, and a bit of a stroll through Greenwich Park at dusk. As it turned out, by complete coincidence (I know, I know, Mycroft, no need to expand on that) my trip actually included the day when the Sherlock series 4 finale aired, so in the end I made up my mind and booked a ticket so that I could go and watch it on the big screen. 

(To be honest I was really confused - and more than a little worse for the wear from an emotional point of view - when the final credits rolled on to the screen. I watched it all over again on my phone once I was back to my hotel room, but I think I only decided I actually quite liked it after watching it a third time back at home.)

And, yes, I guess we’ve come to the end of the road. I don’t know how or when, but I promise I will try and go back there at some point, no matter what. Dear UK, you might not return the feeling, but it’s my choice whether or not to keep doing what I love. Or trying to, at the very least. 

[nlvhunter]

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!

I wake up and turn on my phone to check the time.  There is four percent juice left, so I snap some photos of the Yakima River and let it die.  I’m on vacation.

I don’t need to know the time, anyway.  I go to bed when it’s dark and wake up when it’s not. That’s camping. The only bad part is the midnight walk to the bathrooms – it’s too crowded to piss in the river, as I would prefer.  The walk is only a hundred yards, shorter if I cut between campsites, which I do during the day, but I feel shameful doing so at midnight. Don’t wanna spook anybody, a 300 pound bear trampling between campsites, because he is 55 and has to piss once a night.

The last three Perkins muffins were outstanding for breakfast.  I will buy them again when I return.

Fun Facts: The urinal in the men’s bathroom/showers is the tallest I’ve seen in 55 years of urinating on earth.  I’m six-foot-two, and the bottom rim (the lip?) is even with my Elrod P. Johnson.  I almost have to tilt upwards, away from the center of the earth, to avoid a direct splash back. For whom was this urinal constructed? Was it designed for use by Coach Dean Nicholson’s excellent Central Washington University basketball teams of the 1950s and 60s?  Maybe the floor has somehow been lowered, but I doubt it. Coach Nick is a hall of famer.

The family forty feet away is arranging camp chairs in a circle.  One guy has three or four black books in his hand. This is gonna be a church service at the KOA Campground in Ellensburg. Which seems weird, until I realize it’s Sunday, which is when you have church services, most Americans, anyway. One of the Moms is hot. I’m going to hell.

Jezebel is a word I would like to use more often. As a 6th grade teacher, it doesn’t come up, the situation to use “Jezebel.” One time Grady was in town and he kept calling this woman a succubus, might have been Trump’s wife. He said it over and over. He noticed that I noticed, and said, “Look it up.  What it means. She’s a succubus.” If this is true, why would 60 million people make her the First Lady? Is this the End of Days? I prefer to remember my Led Zeppelin: “Dancing Days are here again…”

And how are the Garden Herb Triscuits, you ask? Why, they’re terrific; savory and delicious! That’s Garden Herb Triscuit crackers. Pick some up, today!

“Isn’t it supposed to really windy here in Ellensburg?” I asked Brie, she works here. “Yes,” she says. “Then why isn’t it?” “Because we got lucky.” There hasn’t been a puff of a breeze all weekend.  Not one. “It was blowing, maybe forty miles an hour on Wednesday,” she says.  “White balls of cotton covered the ground.  We blew it off to the side,” she added, “hoping the winds would stop before the weekend.” She’s a student at Central, on her way to becoming a teacher; a double-major, elementary education and P.E. She student-teaches in the fall, could be hired by January.  It happens; teachers quit mid-year all the time. When you are done teaching, it is hard to stick it out until June. I told her it will be hard the first year, much easier the second, piece of cake the third.  I asked her if she is an organized person and she said yes. That goes a long way.

The two foxes – and by foxes I mean attractive women holding beer bottles wearing Daisy Dukes and bikini tops and sunglasses and not chasing kids – were about to sunbathe just a hundred yards away. A stout fellow in a pink sleeveless t-shirt stopped to chat up the brunette.  I was like, “Scram, Tommy, don’t give her the weight room thing.” But he didn’t hear me. Moments later, the foxes were coaxed between the parked cars, where legalized smoke signals soon appeared, dissipating into the windless dusk. Guys with the smoke get all the chicks, except for that guy in Caddyshack. It was his weed and he still gets no run. Disgraceful!