#so im stuck in a house of too many cats who - despite loving the humans pretty openly - are just high strung balls of disaster

[unluckyxse7en]

Watching a cat video and realizing I can't remember the last time I'd had a cat irl who had genuinely chill or relaxing moments with no baggage attached is just... kinda sucky.

[mysaldate]

(UM seduction methods anon here) Im in awe over how much you write for so many character, every day! Do you have any hc on how they live? (where they live? living conditions?) BUT please dont push yourself or anything either!

Thank you so much for worrying about me! I’m simply trying to do my very best for all of you! And thank you also for such wonderful and original requests!

The living conditions of the Upper Moons headcanons

Daki&Gyuutaro

This one will be short since we know quite a lot about them. They’ve lived in the red lights district for their whole lives. In the streets and usually with little more than just their clothes on but they had each other.

They stayed in even after they became a demons. No surprise, there’s plenty of food and nobody will really care if a couple girls disappears.

They don’t have separate rooms of course. These two are literally inseparable so of course they wouldn’t bother with something like that. There’s nobody to tease them about it either since people are not aware of there even being two of them and as for their fellow demons, those just don’t care. Except maybe for Douma but he wouldn’t tease them about it.

We got to see their room so there’s not much to be said about the decorations either. Daki is a stylish girl and she likes to show it off even in the way she sets up their room – even if nobody much gets to see it.

Kaigaku

He never really had much of a home per say. He became an orphan at a young age (if he wasn’t abandoned as a baby already) and then was chased out of Gyomei’s temple as well. Jigoro took him in but unfortunately enough, that relationship didn’t really work out either. Strangely enough, he felt most at home when he was outside, travelling from one mission to another.

After he became a demon, he stayed with Kokushibou for a short period of time but that was just before Muzan approved of his existence. After that, he had to find his own territory – which wasn’t really too hard anyway. He picked a run-down old house as his shelter from the sun for the day but he didn’t really care much how it looked, at least not at first.

It’s not that he wouldn’t like company but there’s not really anyone to share his place with. Humans wouldn’t hang out with him, other demons literally can’t. Other Upper Moons won’t.

He first didn’t care at all how the place looked but after some time, he decided that since he didn’t have anything to do during the day anyway, he could at least try to decorate the place a bit. So while the sun is up, he does little things inside, like sweeping the floors or painting the walls. He even learnt to sew to make curtains. And at night, when he’s not out hunting, he does other reparations. Even he is surprised by how much fun he can have, giving the place a personal touch.

Gyokko

Being an artist, it’s not unlikely that he lived in an open, arid room before he became a demon. Lots of sunlight too. And occassionally, a companion or two but those never really stuck around for long. His place was filled with various unfinished art pieces.

Now that he’s a demon, he can’t have the luxury of a sunny appartment. His pots, however, work as a little pocket dimension so that’s an upgrade? Of sorts? It doesn’t really have a set shape either, it’s a little bit like Nakime’s Infinity Fortress but shapeless, like the walls are made of water or another liquid and constantly change form.

He lives with plenty of goldfish. The entire place is nearly filled with aquariums of various shapes and forms. You know how people make mazes for hamsters, guinea pigs or even cats? Well, those are nothing when compared to the lengths Gyokko goes to for his fishies. It’s not just glass, coloured or plain, either. Sometimes he would use the nichirin blades or pretty hairpieces of his victims’ to decorate the elaborate fishtanks as well. If a human ever strays in, it’s the last thing they say.

Gyokko LOVES decoration. Aside from his fishtanks, he has numerous statues, paintings and just about everything else you can think of. Both handmade and stolen. For his handmade art, he usually uses bodies or bodyparts of his victims, possibly their blood too. It serves both as an artpiece and a food reserve just in case he ever gets to a position where he’s forced to starve. Surprisingly enough, his pots are great at preserving things. Oh, and let’s not forget about the amount of detail he puts to the exterior of his pots! 

Hantengu

Back when he was a human, he didn’t really have a home, naturally. He couldn’t afford it. And most people wouldn’t let him stay more than one night, chasing him out often with sticks and stones. He had to travel all the time and preferably somewhere far away where the rumors about him didn’t reach yet. Due to this, he becomes restless when he has to spend a long time in one place.

Now, as a demon, he also doesn’t stay in one place all the time. He usually sneaks in a house, kills the family and stays there for a few days before moving on to the next one. Some of his other personalities, namely Sekido and Karaku, find this a little useless and bothersome but they wouldn’t really fight him on it.

Speaking of whom, his other personalities split when they have time to be alone as well, taking care of him and the house. It’s a great way to keep him safe as well since at least one of them is always on guard for possible intruders. They get along... somewhat well. There are the usual conflicts between Sekido and the others. Karaku is careless about their cover, Yoroko likes to make pranks on them and Aizetsu tends to lock himself in his room for hours on end. Poor Sekido is left with the task of housework, making sure they don’t get discovered too soon, acting as the voice of reason... and he still has to go out hunting and stay on guard when it’s his turn.

Yoroko likes decorating stuff and Karaku loves to watch him but their taste is strange to everyone but them. Surprisingly enough, Hantengu as well as Aizetsu both can actually create rather beautiful tapestries and Zohakuten sometimes paints when Sekido is just too done with the three useless dorks.

Nakime

She used to be your typical hikikomori. Nakime spent all her time in her room, with nothing but a pile of books and her biwa. It wasn’t a big room either. While her room did have windows, she prefered them covered and read in the light of an oil lamp. As expected, it wasn’t too good for her eyes...

She lives in the Dimensional Infinity Fortress now. A place she can fully control and knows everything about, one that bends to her will and where she can transport anyone anywhere at any time, just as she wants. The only exception seems to be Muzan who comes and goes as he sees fit (at least until the current arc but y’all already know how I feel about that). It’s not that she minds it, she still knows where and when he enters and leaves and even if she didn’t, it’s not like he would ambush and kill her for no reason (right?).

Despite providing rooms specifically suited for the Upper Moons, she much enjoys her solitude. Even when they’re in and she has to keep an eye on them (I’m sorry, I’ll stop with the puns now), she keeps her distance. Try to annoy her, or even just seek her company, and you will mercilessly get thrown out. An exception, again, is Muzan. He doesn’t live there with  her though and only seeks her out when he has work for her to do.

Decoration of the rooms varies greatly, mostly based on what are they used for. Most of the Fortress is not decorated since Nakime sees no reason to waste time and effort on that. However, there are special parts that deserve special attention. Just as an example, there’s Muzan’s upside-down lab, Douma’s lotus pond, that traditional japanese area Kokushibou first appeared in... And of course, the execution platform that’s now decorated with the red of the Lower Moons’ blood.

Akaza

Again, we have a very good canon idea about his life as a human. First living with his father and then spending some time in the streets, he eventually ended up staying at Keizo’s house, taking care of Koyuki. He had his own room there too but it didn’t really matter because he spent most of his time by Koyuki’s side anyway. Rumor has it he dragged his futon to her once when she was having a nightmare and never moved out until she got all better.

He’s pretty much a street rat as of now, looking for challenges and new foes to fight for the most part. During the days, he usually stays still outside, in dense forests or deep caves. He’s not particularly picky. Sometimes he stays there during the night too, setting up a campfire and waiting for someone to wander close. For some reason, he doesn’t really like cities, especially during the festival season.

So yeah, he lives alone. At least usually he does. It’s not all that rare for Douma to find and bother visit him. He doesn’t want company. Getting attached would make him weak. The more people you care about, the easier it is to take advantage of you.

The only thing he cultivates in his surroundings is his own body. No, I’m not talking about the tattoos, though those certainly are a decoration as well. Rather, it’s his muscles and strength. However, he still prefers to have some manners over raw power, hence why he keeps refusing Douma’s more than generous offers to hunt down some girls together even if that could make him stronger.

Douma

Grew up in the temple in the forest. High up on a mountain overlooking a small town, it’s not a place with the most access to society. But cults are usually like that. When he was about three years old, his father planted two magnolia trees in the courtyard so that the place is a little more lively and the trees can grow tall to provide lots of shade in summer since the sun could be quite annoying. If only he knew...

Loyal as he is, Douma stays at the temple even now. He had it expanded a little and even had a lotus pond build right behind his room so he can calm his thoughts at least a bit after every session. He used to need it more than he does now, especially since he now also has the one made by Nakime that is way better and more spacious.

Canonically, there is at least one temple servant staying with Douma at the temple. But honestly, it wouldn’t be quite like him to satisfy himself with a single person. There’s probably a number of people taking care of the place, both temple servants and maidens. They also serve as a source of entertainment and possibly even as a last-resort snack just in case. There also used to be Kotoha and Inosuke for a short period of time but well...

While he is quite childish and it might sound just like him to go overboard with decorating stuff, that’s not entirely true. Really, the most he has is the skull closet with engraved golden door. That and the pot in which he planted Kotoha’s head but that one is a gift from Gyokko so it doesn’t really count.

Kokushibou

As with most of them, we were blessed with enough info on Kokushibou’s, or rather Michikatsu’s, homes. Growing up a samurai, he never had time to spare, little to no friends and a bride who was most likely found for him without him having any say in it, it’s really not that much of a surprise he would elect to leave it all behind and become a demon slayer since it gave him significantly more freedom.

Even as a demon, not much have changed. During the day, he stays at a mansion like the samurai lord he is, and at night, he goes out to hunt down the pests in the area, more often than not treating himself with a bountiful feast while he’s at it. He also has a room in the Infinity Fortress but like the majority of the Upper Moon demons (actually everyone but Douma), he enjoys his solitude way more.

He has a few servants at the mansion. Ones that get replaced every once in a while when they mysteriously disappear. But the salary is high enough to let any major rumors die out in a blink (I know, I promised, I’m sorry) so the most he has to deal with are whispers about him overworking his servants to the point where they rather abandon the money and run away under the cloak of the night.

You would probably find the house eerily plain but he’s used to it. The backyard is where he spends most of his time aside from his room and those two are the only actually decorated places in the house. And they’re still kept neat and practical for the most part. He rarely has anything that wouldn’t serve a purpose, both when it comes to items and people.

[allofbeercom]

The final bar? How gentrification threatens America’s music cities

Austin, Nashville and New Orleans have thrived on the success of vibrant music scenes. But as rents rise and noise complaints become more common, do they risk ruining what made them famous in the first place?

At a Sixth Street bar in the heart of Austin, Texas a pop up version of Sebs jazz club from the Hollywood hit film La La Land is being set up its blue letters yet to be switched on. Nearby, a replica of Breaking Bads Los Pollos Hermanos fast food restaurant has appeared, causing a minor Twitter frenzy.

These are just two of the attractions materialising in the city in time for the music and media festival South by Southwest (SXSW), and throughout the 10 days of the event it is hard to find someone who isnt wearing an official SXSW wristband worth $1,000.

What started 30 years ago as a celebration of Austins local music scene, though, is now in danger of harming the very thing that made it unique. SXSW brings in hundreds of artists from around the world, 200,000 visitors and $325.3m (250m) to the citys economy. Its success has helped Austin establish music as a fundamental part of its development, but at the same time, as many as 20% of musicians in this self-appointed live music capital of the world survive below the federal poverty line.

According to a recent study by the Urban Land Institute, the city is in the effective 11th hour of the endangerment of the live music scene, brought on by Austins rapid growth it is now the fastest growing city in the US in terms of population, jobs and economy.

A downtown wall mural in the shadow of new high-rise construction in Austin. Photograph: George Rose/Getty Images

Its a difficult reality for the city to confront. Austin is one of the three major US music cities, alongside New Orleans and Nashville, that have capitalised on this local culture at the risk of ruining the scenes that made them famous in the first place. In Austin, the local live music scene is now paying the price for its success. Brian Block, of the citys economic development office, says despite an apparent city-wide financial boom, local musicians income is at best stagnating, and possibly declining.

Hayes Carll, a 41-year-old Grammy-nominated artist who recently won Austins Musician of the Year, says that for most Texans, Austin is the mecca of music cities. It was where it all came together: the songs, the record stores, the community, the identity. It was the first place I went where I could say Im a singer-songwriter and they didnt ask me what my real job was.

Music lives throughout Austins 200 or so venues, the annual music awards and festivals, and the many brilliant artists including Townes Van Zandt and Janis Joplin who have called it home. It was where Willie Nelson allegedly reunited the hippies and rednecks when he first went on stage at the Armadillo World Headquarters in August 1972. Today, Austins love of local creativity is immortalised in folk singer Daniel Johnstons Hi, how are you? mural, depicting his iconic alien frog near the citys university.

SXSW brings $325m to the Austin economy each year. Photograph: Larry W Smith/EPA

But despite this rich history, long-standing venues in Austins downtown Red River District are being forced to adjust to an influx of new neighbours mostly expensive condos or hotels. Rising rents have forced venues like Holy Mountain and Red 7 to close, while noise complaints are an ongoing problem hotels offer earplugs for a better nights sleep.

Therere some less than wonderful aspects to the growth process, and I know a lot of friends who have had to leave Austin, says Carll, a Texan who has lived here for 12 years. Austin is going to have to fight to keep some of the things that made it special like the affordability and how you could be yourself and do whatever you wanted. When you become the hot cool city that everybodys moving to, some of that freedom can get pushed out.

The city government is keen to stress that theyre working to preserve the live music scene. In 2013 the Red River District was given its cultural title to highlight its local significance. Block says they are now implementing a Red River extended hours pilot programme in the hope that an extra hour of live music on the weekend will bring increased revenues to help cope with rising costs, and more paid work for the musicians.

Willie Nelson performs in his annual 4th of July Picnic at the Austin360 Amphitheater. Photograph: Gary Miller/Getty Images

The city is also revising its land development codes for the first time in 30 years in an effort to raise the profile of entertainment districts. There are other support systems that come from outside government too, such as Haam which provides access to affordable healthcare for low-income musicians. Music is very important to the culture, to the local economy and I think it will remain so. Hopefully we can get ahead of the issues we know are coming, Block says.

But some feel its too late. Im worried Austin will change negatively, says Carll. Its great that Austins identity revolves around music, and that the city government is trying to do things to correct it. But none of that will matter if musicians cant afford to live there, or the venues are shut down because of noise complaints, or you cant get to the venue because youre stuck in traffic on the highway.

New Orleans: music from cradle to grave

Louis Armstrong and his All Stars in a still from director Arthur Lubins musical New Orleans. Photograph: Frank Driggs Collection/Getty Images

Across the state border in Louisiana, New Orleans is facing similar problems as it develops and gentrifies. There are fears that without local government actively supporting musicians, the scenes survival could be at risk.

How do you keep a [music scene] real and authentic and yet encourage people to get involved? Its a paradox, says Jan Ramsey, editor of local magazine OffBeat. Theres an authenticity to the music and the people who make it, and the integration of black and white culture here we never want to lose that.

John Swenson, journalist and author of New Atlantis, Musicians Battle for the Survival of New Orleans says the music accompanies you from the cradle to the grave; its born out of the neighbourhoods and permeates all levels of society. Jazz was born here, tracing back to the mixture of African drums and European horns played by slaves in the late 19th century; and part of its musical heritage is a long list of prodigious artists, from Louis Armstrong to James Booker.

The Spotted Cat. Photograph: Alamy

This culture attracts some 10 million tourists to the city each year. But what is unique about it and gives the scene greater strength is how it has become an invaluable lifeline for the citys regeneration after the devastation wrought by Hurricane Katrina in 2005.

In the Spotted Cat, one of the long-standing venues on Frenchmen Street, manager Cheryl Abana talks quietly as a jazz singer performs to a crowded room. For a couple of years [after Katrina] it was pretty sad here and the music scene really helped out with trying to get everyones spirits up. It really helped build the city up again, she says.

One of the most successful programmes to support the creative community following Katrina was Musicians Village, devised by Harry Connick Jr and Branford Marsalis alongside Habitat for Humanity. Situated in the Upper Ninth ward one of the places hardest hit by the hurricane it is a community of homes built by volunteers to support displaced musicians. Its a symbol to musicians that my community will be there when I get back; were going to keep that tradition alive, says Jim Pate, executive director of the New Orleans Area Habitat for Humanity.

A decade on, and artists of all genres and ages live in the village, including some of the godfathers of New Orleans heritage like Little Freddie King. The musicians came back to New Orleans because music lived here, says Swenson.

People listen to music at a home in Musicians Village. Photograph: Mario Tama/Getty Images

Nashville: the original music city

In Nashville, Tennessee, just a few blocks away from the famous honky tonk highway of Broadway, mayor Megan Barry sits in her office overlooking the state capitol. She is surrounded by motifs of Nashvilles music history: theres a framed photograph of DeFord Bailey sitting on the steps of the Ryman auditorium, the first African American to perform at the Grand Ole Opry; and in the foyer hangs a painting by Chris Coleman of Kings of Leon. He gave it to Barry as a gift.

Music is everywhere. Although it has a heritage as influential as New Orleans, here it spreads further: from inside the mayors office and the governments music council, to pretty much everyone you meet in the city who either plays it, writes it or listens to it (every taxi driver I meet is a musician; my Airbnb host is a songwriter).

As soon as I mention the phrase music cities, Barry interrupts jovially: Well, I think theres only one! Music has been part of Nashvilles foundations since the 1800s when it established itself as a centre for music publishing. Its heritage goes back to the Fisk Jubilee Singers who were based here the African American a cappella band who were the first musical group to tour the world, raising money for freed slaves. Upon hearing them, Queen Victoria allegedly coined Nashvilles title as a music city, which is now plastered across Tennessee billboards.

Bars and honky-tonks line Broadway in Nashville. Photograph: Brian Jannsen/Alamy

In 1925, WSM radio station was founded, which went on to broadcast the Grand Ole Opry now the longest running radio show in the US that gave rise to some of the greatest names in country music. Music Row, the 200-acre area near downtown at its peak housed 270 music publishers, 120 record production agencies, 80 record manufacturing companies, 80 booking agencies and more. Elvis Heartbreak Hotel was recorded here at RCA in 1956; Bob Dylans Blonde on Blonde was recorded nearby at Columbia Recording studios 10 years later.

Now, the $10bn industry music industry provides 56,000 jobs, supporting more than $3.2bn of labour income annually. We cant undersell its importance to our overall economic viability and continued growth and prosperity, says Barry.

Nashville is projected to grow by 186,000 residents and 326,000 jobs in the next 25 years, and like Austin, has to confront uncomfortable growing pains in the form of gentrification. But music is firmly intertwined with the citys municipal plans for how it will develop in the future.

DeFord Bailey was the first African American to perform at the Grand Ole Opry. Photograph: GAB Archive/Redferns

The city provides affordable housing for musicians, and music programmes for school children, as we know our graduation rates go up when kids are involved in music, says Barry. They go on and they have a career in music and then it feeds the job creation. Its about feeding that pipeline.

I think that although music evolves and changes, the ability for Nashville to grow and change with it has been part of our success.

At Dinos bar in east Nashville, 26-year-old musician Cale Tyson is sipping on a beer. He is one of thousands of artists who moved here because of its history. I feel like Nashvilles a town where musicians are treated really well. I dont think anythings closed off here, says the Texan singer-songwriter. In Nashville the competition and being around so many good artists forces you to work a lot harder.

People continue to migrate to Nashville because of this (about 100 a day), and this influx has inevitably changed the music scene for better or worse. The country music capital of the world which ignited the careers of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn and Kitty Wells to name just a few is now home to a burgeoning hip hop scene in the citys so-called DIY clubs. Jack White moved in and set up a branch of Third Man records in 2009, while bands like Paramore, Kings of Leon and the Black Keys have all migrated here.

Nashville has even spawned a genre called bro country, where burly men sing about chewing tobacco and celebrate being a redneck (with lyrics that repeat red red red red redneck), their odd rap verses a world away from the original country music that formed the soul of this city.

But the commercialisation of Nashville has led to accusations that country music is dead. A few years ago US country singer Collin Raye made a heartfelt plea for the city to get back to its roots and remember the musicians who built and sustained the Nashville industry and truly made country music an American art form, he said. It needs to be that way once again. God Bless Hank Williams. God Bless George Jones.

And people are still trying to keep this alive. I dont think traditional country went away, says Brendan Malone who runs a traditional honky tonk an event celebrating country music in the east of the city. The fire was still kindling. It just needed to have some gasoline poured on it.

At Malones Honky Tonk Tuesdays, a man in a check shirt is barbecuing some ribs in the car park of the US army veterans club. Inside, ageing regulars sit at the bar nursing whiskeys to the sound of Hank Williams on the juke box.

In the main room, men and women of all ages wearing Stetsons and western shirts take turns two-stepping with each other as the band covers songs of Ernest Tubb and Red Foley. They perform against a backdrop of the US flag laid out in fairy lights.

Theres a sincere sense of pride in Nashvilles history here, despite how far the city and its culture has changed. With support from the mayors office to the local community, it seems Nashville took a bet on music and it paid off.

Follow Guardian Cities on Twitter and Facebook to join the discussion, and explore our archive here

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/the-final-bar-how-gentrification-threatens-americas-music-cities/

[qqueenofhades]

So are we going to get another addition of the garcy accidental marriage AU? Because IM DYING HERE! Garcia Flynn is literally the human scum and I want to know how much further in the dumpster of his life he can go. Also I'm loving the flynn/Wyatt interaction so PLEASE MORE- garciiaflynn

After 500 years, I am finally getting to this. The rest of this fic is here. On AO3 here.

Flynn’s first instinct is to reach for his gun. His second instinct to remember that he doesn’t have one, and that even if so, he is not exactly going to be able to shoot his way through a hospital and however many goons Rittenhouse must have outside. Especially when, as the realisation chokes his throat, he doesn’t know where Lucy is. If they’re holding her hostage in her room upstairs, if they’ve already done something worse to Wyatt and Rufus – and yet, even if he did have a gun, even if he was prepared to blast the entire place, he wouldn’t. He remains frozen, knowing that this is absolutely a trap or trick or lie of some sort, but unable to do anything else than stare back at Benjamin Cahill. “What?” he says croakily,  too stunned to pretend. “What about Lorena?”

“Do you want to listen to me, then?” Lucy’s father – how could this man have ever made anything, anyone like her? – arches an eyebrow. “Because we can, Garcia. We can talk this through. You just have to do your part.”

Flynn hates this chummy, favorite-uncle act with his entire heart, even more that the bastard thinks he can call him by his first name as if they’re old friends, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He casts an eye at the paper-towel dispenser, calculating his odds of tearing it off the wall and using it as a makeshift weapon – he could possibly concuss Cahill with it, yes, but it wouldn’t do him any good against the legions outside. It’s not exactly bulletproof. He’s still reeling with jet lag and sleep deprivation and emotional exhaustion, and he knows himself well enough to admit that there is no way he can bash his way out of this one. His fists have been clenched, but at that, they slowly, feebly unfold.

Seeing it, Cahill looks satisfied. “That’s better. You know, this really isn’t any place for an important conversation. How about we go get a drink somewhere, and – ”

“No,” Flynn grates out. Like hell is he letting Rittenhouse squirrel him off somewhere alone, possibly with a nice chaser of cyanide in the cocktail if they feel he isn’t being amenable enough to their ideas (which it is almost guaranteed he won’t be). They must need him alive, they must need something from him, which is why Cahill didn’t just pull out a sidearm and take quick and decisive advantage of finding his organization’s biggest enemy alone, unarmed, and disoriented in a public restroom. “We talk here.”

Cahill blinks. “Are you sure you don’t want to – ”

“What did you do with Lucy?”

“As I said, my daughter is currently receiving the best care that money can buy. I went by the front desk – it seems she checked in under the last name of Wallace, that of her stepfather – and told them that anything she needed for her treatment, I would be sure it was paid for. Anything she needed. I’m not a monster either. I’m also a father who loves his daughter.”

Despite himself, Flynn flinches at that. He scrubs his hands over his face again, struggling to muster up any kind of witty or coherent reply. He feels toyed with, the mouse scuttling to and fro under a cat’s batting paws, and he doesn’t like it at all – he is the one who hunts Rittenhouse, not the other way around. “You’re taking your sweet time to get to the point, aren’t you?” he rasps at last. “Just tell me what the fuck you think you have that matters to me.”

Cahill looks straight at him. “The identity of the operatives who killed your wife and daughter. And what happened – or can happen – to them, if you’re interested. Are you?”

Flynn feels punched. At last, all he can manage is, “And you’d ever sell your own men out, why?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Cahill presses a button on his watch, presumably to deactivate some secret alarm that was supposed to go off if he had been in the bathroom with Flynn too long without responding. “You see, strictly speaking, they’re dead.”

Flynn was just briefly beginning to entertain the notion that he might have any idea what’s going on. At that, he has to dismiss it again post-haste. “The hell do you…”

“You killed them,” Cahill says, with a slight shrug. “You don’t remember?”

“Of course I don’t, because I never – ”

“As a result of you changing history on the Sarajevo mission in 1914,” Cahill says, talking over him, “it bled over into the Lusitania mission, the next year in 1915, and where you killed the men who had carried out the order on Lorena and Iris. So – ”

“Don’t you dare say their names!” Flynn is even more lost, because he doesn’t remember any Lusitania mission, but he’s not about to get hung up on such triviliaties. He wants to throttle Cahill up one side and down the other, but he still can’t. It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash unfold, hurtling and hurtling toward what inevitable end (or cement wall) the son of a bitch has in mid. He can just stand here, in a nightmare, and let it happen.

“In the new timeline, therefore,” Cahill finishes up, “that is how you and my daughter appear to have… ended up together. After you killed those men and apparently found it within you to move on. She never told you, did she?”

Flynn has been wondering how on earth he and Lucy would have ended up married – he would have guessed a number of other things, but not that – and he can’t help a flicker of curiosity, not that he’s going to trust any version of events they give him. Still, he’s unable to deny it as easily as he wants to, for any number of reasons. “Lucy would have told me,” he says at last, reflexively, not even knowing why he believes it. Not as if he’s given her much opportunity, or hint that he’d be open to hearing it. “She would have told me.”

“I’m afraid she didn’t.” Cahill shakes his head. The faux sympathy is nearly thick enough to slip in, Flynn thinks loathingly. “As you can imagine, Rittenhouse has quite sophisticated mechanisms in place to track any changes or alterations to the timeline and our own operation, and I can independently verify everything I’ve just told you. You must have known that either Lucy didn’t want to tell you, or was afraid to tell you, and either way, that’s no foundation for a relationship, is it? It’s just an accident of fate that has thrown you together, and seeing as you’ve been trying to reject it as hard as you can, I know you’ll do what both of us know is the right thing. Difficult as it may be for you to comprehend,” he adds, rather scathingly. “You know, there were plenty of the brass who just wanted you dead, but because I do care about Lucy and want to see her happy, even in an unfortunate matter like this, I proposed a different approach.”

“You know,” Flynn says, lip curling, “that’s the what – third or fourth time in this conversation that you’ve insisted how much you care about her? It’s almost as if you think I might not believe you when you say it.”

“I wish it could have been different,” Cahill says, in the tone of a candid admission that is clearly supposed to make Flynn think he is being humble and reasonable about this. Flynn himself is not an expert on being reasonable about anything, but he is still perfectly capable of smelling bullshit. “But for once here, our interests are united. Do one small thing for us, one favor to reset the timeline to the one where you aren’t married, just as you want. Right now, the operatives who killed your family are dead, but your wife and daughter aren’t back, because you killed them after they already had carried out the hit. I will give you their names and their birth dates, as well as the names of their parents. We will allow you twenty-four hours of no interference, for you to do exactly as you wish with this intelligence. Once you have, I presume, killed their parents, they won’t be born, the Lusitania mission won’t take place as it did, and history will unbend. You will no longer be married to Lucy, and Lorena and Iris will be back. Just as you want.”

Flynn’s mouth is dry as sand. He wants to say Cahill is lying, because he’s Rittenhouse to the bone, of course he’s lying. “So you’d just let me kill two of your men. Why?”

“We have plenty of men.” Cahill shrugs. “You know that. These two aren’t anything special or irreplaceable. They’ve had a few disciplinary problems anyway. As the CEO of my division, I can make a decision which employees are expendable.”

“Usually that means handing out pink slips,” Flynn sneers. “Not death sentences.”

“Do you suddenly have a problem with killing our members yourself?” Cahill snaps, dropping the urbane, nice-suburban-dad act for a moment. “Please, don’t try that to my face.”

“I don’t, no.”

“So…?”

“What do you want from me?” Flynn knows this isn’t being offered freely, knows there must be a poisoned hook dangling somewhere, but he’s tempted. God, he’s so terribly tempted, and he has no idea what he’s going to end up doing. “To go away and pinky-promise never to interfere in Rittenhouse’s business ever again?”

“That would be the gist, yes. As long as you remained totally removed from our operations in any capacity, you, Lorena, and Iris would be guaranteed your safety, as well as a large payout  for your trouble. Starting at seven figures. Enough to buy you all new identities, a new house, a new start. We’re very good at that sort of thing. Anywhere in the world you want to go. Paris penthouse? Malibu mansion? You can give them everything, Garcia. You still can.”

Flynn turns away, gripping the edge of the sink until he’s half afraid it will break off. He never got into this insane mission intending to kill all of Rittenhouse. Just as much as he needed to to ensure that the events of the night of July 7, 2014 never happened. He thinks of dancing with Lorena on the balcony of a new house, of seeing Iris turn six, seven, eight, more. Thinks of watching her graduate from high school, from college. Of walking her down the aisle at her wedding. Of all the time she should have had, paid back to her. Rittenhouse owes them that, at least. If they’re willing – they’re liars, but if they’re willing –

“Are you interested?” Cahill says, when Flynn has no answer. “Well?”

“I…” His voice is a croak. “Lucy. If I said yes. What’s going to happen to Lucy?”

“Lucy will have the wonderful life she was always meant to. She can get out of this terrible, draining business of running here and there through time. She’ll be a renowned and respected history professor. Just like you, she’ll have everything she wants.”

“Everything Rittenhouse wants, you mean.”

“I think we’ve established that doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

Have they? Flynn isn’t sure. No wonder Cahill thinks this is a good deal – the lives of two low-level grunts, who are technically already dead, in exchange for Rittenhouse having a clear playing field. He must be unable to believe his luck, thinking that he might be able to purchase world domination so easily, because Garcia Flynn – the single greatest nemesis Rittenhouse has ever had – is standing here seriously considering their settlement offer, to take the handout and go before they change their minds. When you can give even your sworn enemies exactly what they want, no wonder absolute power is almost, tantalizingly within your grasp.

He wants it. He can’t deny he wants it more than anything, if only he could forget who was offering it. The possibility that if it suits their needs, they could yank it away for a second time, as nonchalantly as they gave it back. Flynn doesn’t trust any Rittenhouse guarantees of safety as far as he could wad them up and throw them. And yet, at the very heart, that is not what is forming the core of his final objection. It’s the idea that he would buy this, his happy ending, his returned family, the one thing he has always sworn he’d do anything for, by hand-delivering Lucy to these bastards. Made to live the life Rittenhouse wants, writing the history Rittenhouse makes, doubtless marrying the handsome Rittenhouse doctor they match her with and having several Rittenhouse children. To exist in Rittenhouse’s machine, and to know the entire time that he was just fine with putting her there. After everything.

Flynn tells himself that this should not matter.

(It matters.)

“Well?’‘Cahill says. It’s clear that he considers this all over except for the haggling. He holds out his hand. ’'How about we do some business, Mr. Flynn?”

Flynn stares at that hand. There is a possibility – remote, but still a possibility – that if he takes it, his long nightmare will be over. He will wake up in bed next to Lorena, and Iris will run in to jump on them. They will all eat breakfast and talk about ordinary things, not time travel and murder and sinister intergenerational organizations and the rewriting of history. They might not know anything was ever wrong, and he’s briefly curious as to how a restored timeline would explain his nearly three-year absence, if they’ll have happy memories of an uninterrupted existence, or something else. He can find out. He can find out everything.

All he has to do is shake Benjamin Cahill’s hand.

“Come on,” Cahill says, as if coaxing a skittish dog out from under the bed. “We both know it’s the best thing for Lucy too, for you to take this. Things got a little mixed up, you thought some things that weren’t real, and so did she. Just let us sort it out. Rittenhouse is a family business. That’s our values. We’ll do right by her.”

“Family business?” That, somehow, strikes something through Flynn’s catatonia. Sounds like the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar energy conglomerate at the site of an oil spill, lying though his teeth about how much they care about this disaster and everyone it’s affected, pledging to never do it again. As if. “A family business. Just like the mom-and-pop hardware store on Main Street, that’s you. If only you had brochures. Glossy posters. I’m sure it would go great on the front.”

“Well,” Cahill says again, with a forced chuckle. “Not really our style, but I suppose there’s always room to – ”

“A family business,” Flynn repeats, for a third time. “That sent a squad of hitmen armed with military-grade automatic weapons to my house in the middle of the night, to kill my five-year-old little girl in her princess pajamas, and my wife, because I cottoned onto them. In case it escaped your notice, Benjamin, that’s who you work for. That’s who you’d ask me to trust with their future.”

Cahill is starting to sweat. “I agree. That was an excessive response. I didn’t give that order, and we disciplined the asset who did. So – ”

“Disciplined? A write-up in his file and a few percentage points off his stock share?” Flynn’s roar rattles the mirrors. All at once, whatever trance he’s been in, this sweet, sweet impossible dream, it snaps. He doesn’t know if he’s throwing away his last chance to save Lorena and Iris, but he does know that he’s not, he’s never, he can barely believe that he was actually so terribly close to doing it like this. As Cahill senses danger an instant too late and fumbles for the buzzer on his wrist, Flynn grabs his arm, yanks it over his head, and with the other hand, crushes his fist violently into the bastard’s smug, avuncular expression.

Cahill yelps as his nose breaks with a crunch, flailing at him ineffectively, as Flynn hoists him by the expensive suit jacket and throws him bodily into the wall of sinks. There’s a crash of breaking porcelain and a hiss of spouting water, Cahill’s head slumps, and Flynn is left to consider luridly that if this is not actually the worst it has ever gone when meeting the in-laws for the first time, it has to be pretty damn close. He has an utterly ridiculous urge to laugh. Then he runs.

He bursts out of the restroom, remembers in the nick of time that the lobby must be crawling with Rittenhouse agents and there are about thirty more seconds until they discover their boss bashed over the head with a urinal, and if he surfaces in the middle of them like a surfer among a posse of great white sharks, this will all be useless anyway. He skids to a halt, reverses direction, and runs to the back corridor and one of the service elevators. He slams the button and swears at it, just before a harried and overworked resident in scrubs rounds the corner, sees a large and agitated man with bloody knuckles, a rumpled suit, and a, to say the least, unbalanced expression, and stares. “Sir. Sir, this is not a patient or visitor area, I have to ask you to – ”

“GET IN THE ELEVATOR!” Flynn is going to need some sort of expert help or override to get into Lucy’s room, and if this puny underling makes a single move for his walkie-talkie, he is going to deeply regret it. “NOW!”

“Sir, one more warning, and then I’m – ”

Flynn lunges for him, shreds the buzzer off him, and snatches for his hospital ID/access card, just as the elevator door dings and opens. A few nurses shuffle out, at the end of their shift and too intent on making it to the hospital cafe alive to even notice their sputtering colleague being literally held up by a lunatic, and Flynn forces him inside before they have time to remedy that oversight. “Floor 8,” he snarls, jabbing the button and swiping the card. “Or else!”

The door shuts, they start to rise, and Flynn sees the resident eyeing the emergency call button. “Don’t,” he advises, “even think about it.”

“Are you crazy?” The resident clearly decides that is a stupid question the instant it is out of his mouth. “You’re in so much trouble, man, I don’t know who you think you are, but – ”

“Just call me Dr. Kovac,” Flynn grunts, wondering if all hospital elevators go this slowly or it is just a conspiracy against him. If this stops at another floor, he’ll – well, he’ll solve that problem later. After forty-eight of the longest seconds of his life, they reach the eighth floor and march out into the recovery ward. Flynn can’t physically drag his hostage without setting off a full-house alarm, but he keeps the pace brisk and the looks threatening. If she’s not here, if they’ve already moved her –

They turn down the hall to Lucy’s room, where Wyatt is perched on an uncomfortable chair – or rather, just getting off it, as he is clearly under the impression that Flynn has absconded again and will need to be dragged back by his ear. Upon seeing Flynn racing toward him with a very unhappy employee of this fine medical establishment instead, he goes blank, then furous. “Jesus Christ, what are you – ”

“Shut up!” Flynn restrains himself from throttling the shorter man with a terrible effort. “They’re downstairs, they’re here, they’re all here! He’s here too! Her father!”

Wyatt’s eyes flick from Flynn’s bloody knuckles to his face to his general demeanor. For once, mercifully, he is quick on the uptake. He wheels around as Flynn swipes the card into Lucy’s room, more than half expecting to see some Rittenhouse agent propped up in her bed and wearing her nightgown, like the wolf after eating Little Red Riding Hood. But it’s just her and Rufus, apparently none the wiser, as they stare and Rufus jumps to his feet. “Flynn?! You have the absolute hell of a lot of nerve to just – ”

Flynn is aware of the fact that he will be and probably deeply deserves to be yelled at in great detail, but now is not the time. “Rittenhouse,” he says. “They’re downstairs. They’re waiting for us. It was a trap. We need to get out of here right now.”

“Lucy isn’t – ”

“They’re here?” Lucy interrupts, looking stranger – and angrier – than any of them have ever seen her. “What, to collect me?”

“I’ll tell you. Later.” This is the least thing from a tactful or tender reunion, not that Flynn was expecting one of those anyway. “Your wretched father, he – ”

“Benjamin Cahill’s here?” At the mention of the donor of (unfortunately) half her DNA, Lucy’s nostrils flare. She goes ice-white, momentarily mute, as Flynn casts an edgy eye for any SWAT teams rappelling off the roof and through the window. Then Lucy spins to face the resident, who has clearly been hoping that if he closes his eyes and blinks hard, this will all go away. “Take me off all this. Now.”

“Mrs. Wallace, the hospital still has not recommended you for discharge, and even if they had, it would be a serious breach of professional standards to allow you to accompany these total – ”

“I am ignoring medical advice. You can put that on the record.” Lips grim and furious, Lucy holds out her arm with the IV and heart monitor. “Now!”

She sounds impressively like her husband when she says this, which is possibly what makes the resident jump, scuttle over, and obey. He unhooks Lucy as fast as he can from the various machines and drips, as they can hear raised voices in the corridor outside. Lucy slides off the bed and runs to Flynn, who gathers her up automatically, and Wyatt draws his gun. Then, with Rufus grabbing a fistful of syringes off a nearby tray, apparently to porcupine any oncoming Rittenhouse agents to death, Wyatt jerks the door open, they leave the resident to probably be put into Lucy’s vacated bed in her place, and book it.

They reach the end of the corridor, force their way through a secured door after Rufus disables the alarm in ten seconds flat, and race flat-footed down the back stairs. Lucy clings to Flynn’s neck, his arms hooked around her back and under her knees, and he briefly considers carrying her fireman-style instead of bridal-style, but decides that that would put too much pressure on her still-raw gunshot wound. It’s been cleaned and stitched and bandaged, of course, but she’s not about to compete in any triathlons or anything of the sort any time soon. She catches his eye as they reach the landing, clatter down the next flight of steps, and pick up speed, and he can tell that when and if they get out of this alive, she is very much intending to shout at him thoroughly. Fine, then. He’s almost looking forward to it.

They reach the ground floor, spill out a fire exit into an alley, and realise that seeing as Rittenhouse probably has all the hospitals in the city, and the entire Bay Area, under surveillance, there’s no way they can just drive to another one and check in. There is only one way to buy them some time, literally. They can’t go back too far, as there is a certain point at which medical care will regress to the prescribe-strong-opiates-and-hope-for-the-best sort of thing, and since Flynn, the oldest member of the team, was born in 1974, they have to go before that if they’re traveling together. As to where, or when, that might be, well –

He holds her tighter. They can hear sirens. It’s odd, and it’s terrible that it’s happened like this, but they are all, at this moment, finally and unquestionably on the same side. Go figure.

They need to get to the Lifeboat. If Rittenhouse hasn’t found it already. It’s their only chance.

And so – the Time Team in arms, for the first time, as a full and formidable foursome – they do.

—————–

Where ends up being a small town in Saskatchewan, Canada, and when is 1967. This is about the most out-of-the-way place anyone can think of, nothing interesting happening for miles, nothing major of any kind to draw Rittenhouse’s attention, and while it’s not a permanent refuge, it may at least allow them to catch their breath. Lucy is checked into the tiny local clinic with a farmer whose foot was run over by a tractor, and Flynn, Wyatt, and Rufus sit tersely in the wood-paneled lobby, listening to the clack of the beehived receptionist’s typewriter as she regards them judgmentally from behind her cat-eye glasses; it could not be any clearer that they are Not From Around Here. But since it’s Canada, she’s polite about it. Besides, it’s ‘67. Young American men aren’t exactly an uncommon sight up here, draft-dodging from 'Nam. As for Flynn, she probably thinks he’s a commie, but Flynn gives that unavoidable impression wherever he goes.

At last, since sexism is also what the sixties are about, the doctor comes out in his Coke-bottle glasses and white jacket, and asks which of them is Lucy’s husband. Flynn glances almost diffidently at Wyatt, giving him the chance to volunteer – it seems to make more sense, that way, especially after Wyatt has gone through on her behalf. But Wyatt stares just as determinedly back at him, perhaps also intending to be sure that Flynn gets the chewing-out he properly deserves, and so, Flynn sighs deeply and gets to his feet. He follows the doctor back to an even tinier office, where the man turns and asks, “How did your wife get shot? It’s clearly been tended already, and quite well, but for the purposes of the record – ”

Flynn mulls a number of potential answers to that question, among them a certain annoyance that he is expected to explain, when Lucy is a bit drained and tired and has lost some blood and her father is a raging dick, but otherwise compos mentis and perfectly capable of doing it herself. So he shrugs. “She was shot in 1876, at the Battle of Little Bighorn,” he says. “We were there because we were trying to stop Rittenhouse from changing the outcome, with Custer. We managed that, but she was hurt in the process. So we traveled back to 2017 in our time machine and got her to the hospital, but after some… difficulties, her father, who’s one of the highest-ranking evil bastards in Rittenhouse, found us there. We had to jump here because we hoped it would be the safest. Oh, and nobody is ever going to wear mustard-colored tweed again after this abortion of a fashion decade is over, so burn those trousers, and next time, try asking the woman herself. I promise she can actually talk.”

The doctor stares at him for a moment, completely flummoxed, until a dawning realization crosses his face, and he nods understandingly. “The Harvard Psilocybin Project,” he says. “I see. Dr. Leary certainly had some interesting ideas, but there have been a number of issues raised in regard to all that. I can give you some literature. Are you all right?”

“I – what?” It is Flynn’s turn to be baffled by this response, until it hits him that the doctor is convinced, not without reason, that he is tripping the light fantastic on a whole pharmaceutical cornucopia of LSD, magic mushrooms, and God knows what else. After all, it is the sixties. “Look, can I see my wife or not?”

The doctor nods again, puts a sympathetic hand on Flynn’s arm as if to assure him that they will deal with his raging drug problem later, and leads him to the small white-washed room where Lucy has been set up. They can’t really do anything for her that hasn’t been done, but they’ve fixed her bandages and made her comfortable and given her some morphine, and she flashes a tentative smile as Flynn hovers awkwardly in the doorway. Then the doctor shuts it behind him, unfortunately, which leaves them together. Flynn wonders if he could fit through the window. He’d have to do it right in front of her, though, and that seems… well.

Once she’s sure they are alone, Lucy’s smile fades. She stares at Flynn for a long and excruciating moment, as he tries to brace herself for – he has no idea what. Curses, anger, even thrown objects. Finally, all she says, very softly, is, “You son of a bitch.”

That, somehow, stings the worst of all the possible rants she could have gone on. Flynn looks down at the off-white linoleum, which is clearly not going to age well. He looks back up. She is still watching him with that calm, level dark gaze, not overflowing with fury, but still not about to kiss and make up without a damn good explanation, which he currently completely lacks. Finally he says, “I’m sorry.”

Lucy’s lips tighten again, as she brushes a thick lock of hair out of her face. His fingers itch with the sudden need to do it for her. He is not sure if he has been granted permission to approach, however, so he just stands there, looking at her, small in the white bed. He left her. Fell directly off the cliff, and left her behind, and whether or not there is love of some sort between them, somehow, she cannot excuse that at once. Nor should she.

“Cahill,” Lucy says at last, her voice rusty. “What did he… what did he say to you?”

Flynn supposes that this will be a conversation easier to have sitting down, so he moves forward and takes the chair across from the bed. To his surprise (well, it’s only taken weeks, multiple fights, several beatdowns both literal and verbal by Wyatt, her serious injury, his running away to Tokyo, them nearly all being caught by Rittenhouse, and the rest), he finally sees no reason to be anything less than forthcoming with her. Quietly, he tells her what Cahill told him, about her knowing that in this timeline he had supposedly killed the men who murdered Lorena and Iris, the offer made for him to get them back. That he doesn’t know what has happened, isn’t sure if he can have gotten his revenge if he doesn’t remember doing it, and still isn’t sure how all of this was snarled enough to wind up with them married. But if she wants, even apart from anything to do with Rittenhouse, he can find a way to un-twist it. Or, they can just do the simple and logical thing, rather than cooking up another half-baked plot to alter reality, and go their separate ways. If she wants that, if she does not want to be married to this broken and half-functional (at the high end) and damaged and otherwise deficient version of the man she thought she was taking till death do us part, Flynn will more than understand. If there are papers to sign or other legalities to attend to, he will do them. She just has to say so.

Lucy’s lips go tight again. She leans back against her pillows, taking this in, reserving judgment. “I’m sorry,” she says at last, as well. “I should have explained all of this to you, right away, when it became clear that things had changed. How we had ended up together, and what had happened, and… all of it. But I – ”

“This is not your fault.” Startling both of them, Flynn reaches out and catches her hand. “This is not your fault.  It’s mine.  All of it, it’s mine. And I’ve hurt you – I wish I could say unintentionally, but too many times, I meant to, I wanted to – I don’t even know what I wanted, other than to just…” He trails off, staring down at their fingers. “You can slap me now.”

Lucy laughs, more than a little painfully. “I’ll save it until I won’t break my stitches.”

Both of them are quiet then, listening to the tick of the clock on the wall. Then Flynn says, “I wish I could be him. The man you… the man you married. I’m sure he wasn’t worthy of you either, but at least he might have had enough sense to know it.”

Lucy glances at him sidelong, under her eyelashes. After a long pause, she says, “I’m not sure. The man sitting next to me now looks at least a little familiar.”

Flynn is startled. “You… you recognize me?”

“Yes,” Lucy says. Her thumb circles on his palm, her eyes too bright. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Flynn’s gaze takes her in, long and soft and slow. “And I recognize you.”

They remain looking at each other for one last moment, and then, at once, they lean forward. Flynn’s thumb traces Lucy’s chin, and he tilts her face up and kisses her lightly and gently, combing through her hair with his free hand. She sighs and puts her arms around his neck with a muffled grunt of pain, and he is careful not to put too much pressure or weight on her side, even as he draws her forward. They turn their heads, deepening the kiss, aware that this is not the time or place to get any more carried away – but both of them can sense the renewed possibility, the spark between them that is more than just their physical attraction to each other, which has been there from the start. This is stronger. Deeper. Truer. Real.

“Well,” Lucy says at last, when they pull back. She giggles breathily, painfully. “Garcia, are you…” She hesitates. “Are you all right?”

Flynn supposes wryly that this is a fair question for her to ask after kissing him, given his recent reactions to such an event. It surprises him, therefore, that he – well – he almost thinks he is. And he isn’t. And he is, and it’s the most confusing thing he’s ever known. There is a deep, unspeakable, unbearable grief welling in his chest until he can’t breathe, the ever-present ache of missing Lorena and Iris, of wondering forever what might have been. Yet he also has an unexplainable and overwhelming sensation of standing with them on something that looks like a beach, and there is brightness to every side, and Lorena has kissed him, and Iris has hugged him around the waist and told him that she loves him, she always will. And then, even as he watches, his girls take hands and start to walk. He’s not sure to where. Away from him, yes, but it doesn’t feel like defeat, sundering, severance, agony. It feels like… peace.

Flynn only realises that his eyes have been closed, that he can barely catch his breath, that his world is swimming in tears, when Lucy touches his hand in concern. “Garcia?” she says again, clearly bracing herself for another meltdown on the spectacular side. “Did I…”

“I’m all right.” Flynn heaves down a deep, shuddering breath, and knuckles his hand across his eyes. He’s not, and he is, and he’s not, and he is, and it keeps filling him up, until he gulps in another breath, and another, and marvels what it feels like to do that. “I can – you know. Go.”

Lucy’s tender expression turns exasperated, as if to remind her that she wouldn’t be dealing with Garcia Flynn if he ever drew the correct conclusion from all this. “If you want to,” she says at last, carefully offhand, as if it doesn’t matter. “If you wouldn’t force me to stay married to you, I’m certainly not going to do that either.”

“But… could I?” Flynn doesn’t want to suggest it too quickly, feels like a child trying to be casual about telling their parents what they want for Christmas. “Stay?”

Lucy’s eyes sparkle somewhat more brightly. She glances away. Both of them know that this will not erase everything, wipe the slate clean, take away the weight of his transgressions and his failures, the trust that remains to be rebuilt, if it can be at all. They are fifty years and however many hundreds of miles from home, Rittenhouse is still out there, and the war is not won. This does not mean a happy ending. This does not mean it all goes away.

And yet.

It does mean a beginning.

It does mean a chance.

“Yes,” Lucy whispers at last, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, as they lean together, foreheads touching, sharing their breath, their hope, their future. “Yes. You could stay.”

(Fin.)

[somedaypast-thesunset]

im in this like .. cycle i guess. 

i want to reach out for support because i feel a lack of support but to express a lack of support offends people around me (despite their lack of support) and i lose even the smallest amount of support i had 

i’m really sad lingering on feeling depressed. and im trying hard to reprogram my brain to see it as feeling depressed and not being depressed because its like acting out the emotion of depressed as your character and i just want to feel it because im not in a movie. 

i had an issue with my roommates dog while being in immense pain from a stupid cyst and literally no one would help. as i laid on the floor in pain i knew no one would actually help. it wasnt until 11pm that he returned a phone call i made at noon and when i said i was in pain he offered to bring me to his house and take me to the doctors tomorrow. 

but his whole attitude had changed like i was really burdening his life now and i guess he was calling to tell me he was leaving like the next day or somethng and now ive interrupted it. of course he didnt “say” this but it felt heavily implied and i never really felt comfortable being around him. he didnt want to show any affection and seemed to avoid it, slept through the day and had us go to bed at 10pm 

he had mentioned briefly that he would take me to the doctors again today but pack up and leave in the evening. this morning it was the same awkward uncomfortableness and he had like little desire to talk to me. i thought like if that was our last night and this is our last morning i guess it really says alot. like i guess if im ever severely injured he will begrudgingly help me in some way but he’ll have a really shit attitude about it and i can be nothing more than grateful i guess?

i told him i would take myself to the doctors. he said okay. i said i was leaving in 10 minutes and he said okay. i sat feeling really sick and i understand, a bit, that alot of this sickness comes from feeling really alone in other areas of my life. so theres like this giant hole and immediate panic when the person who was atleast occupyng space in the hole leaves. but if i had other people i wouldnt feel such panic - i’m thinkng like wow i’m fucked if i’m actually hurt. or if i get sick. like i cant expect any help from anyone even though they all receive some kind of help from other people. i cant even make a call to anyone and express anything at all without them having to go or do something else in their life that im not apart of. and its not just bad timing -  i could wait and wait and im just waiting for someone to make the time for me and i have to be grateful that anyone would set aside even one hour of their day for me and ive not been around other people who understand the complexities of this. like, of course im grateful. im extremely grateful. thats like all i think about for that hour that thank fucking god there was a single human being willing to give me this time so i could even help myself in some way. 

and its not like i dont give this. ive given soooooooooo much of this an got nothing in return. except that i have to feel super grateful for the hour i get in return for my huge investment into their lives. and its like at nooooo point can i ask my mom for 20$. i cant ask my dad what credit card i should get. or if this person is ripping me off. like i get that i can (an will) do all these things myself but i dont even get the priviledge of receiving valid learned advice from a trusted source - i get jack offs and reddit commenters explaining how a mortgage works. or how to buy a car. or the best tips on a driving test. and when im sad and lonely? i get to turn to strangers on the internet or i guess worse, this. even though its likely no one at all will read this. when im really sick? i make chicken soup for myself. i go to the store for myself. i maybe find a ride to the doctors and mabe get lucky the pharmacy is there too so i dont have to ride the bus.when i feel like everything is chaotic? i return to cats. 

but hey - i’m going to be a “stronger, smarter” person right? thats what it all boils down to. lacking soo much will somehow make me stronger and smarter than the next person who already has these things. doesnt that seem so dumb? to me, i just worked 10x as hard to get to the same place that someone else did with half the work. but im “stronger and smarter” for the effort. i think you’re wiser and more resilient. because you become wise through experience and knowledge of the experience - but you can still be dumb as hell. you arent stronger - you just learned to put up with more; that’s resilience. you couldn’t use resilience like you could use strength. it just means you didnt give up. 

and thats not a negative but when you place it in this light i think it conjures a different respect for the lack of priviledges that it takes to reach “wiser and more resilient’. 

right now im really.... alot of things. i feel sad and angry and frustrated and bitter and envious. im trying to respect other peoples journeys but its leaving me really fucking alone. i told him i was leaving and he said bye. that could very well be our last personal encounter and i guess i appreciate that i left it as is. instead of trying to shape it into something it wasnt going to be, i just accepted that this was the choice he was making. of course, its easier to leave when you disconnect from someone/the things around you. 

i personally feel that this is the end of the relationship and my expectation is that he’ll be gone in the next 24 hours. i think i would prefer to leave our last encounter as this. although he “asked” multiple times how i was feeling or why i didnt feel good - i knew that he wasnt even the person to be talking to about it. how could i explain any of this to him? he has really not understood it and its doubtful he ever will. i expect nothing from him now - maybe i did before. maybe i wanted to have something real with him, like how we pretended to have. and i guess he showed his ‘support’ but like - youre leaving anyways. what happens when youre gone? does it matter? 

i cant ask these questions because theyre already answered. nothing happens, life goes on. you got what you got for the time being, be grateful. 

its not just him i feel this way with - i actually feel this way with multiple people ive been around. i cant talk about these things beacause it implies they dont care. and they do care otherwise they wouldnt have given me a ride or a sandwhich or bus change or sat wth me for an hour or smoked me some weed. BUT NONE OF IT MATTERS TO My ACTUAL LIFE. when you give a homeless man a dollar, do you think you just changed his life? like you changed 5 minutes before he had to go ask for another dollar from someone else because not a single person wants to give him actual legitimate help. just smile and nod. 

ths morning his mother literally shut the garage door on me. i have no idea how she did not hear the door open or the garage door open standing 10 ft away but she literally shut the door and i sat in the dark. i said nothing because no one cares. 

and he bitchs and moans about all these things and its like hes just discovering no one cares  and his solution is to also stop caring for anyone but himself. and its like he doesnt even see this because hes ‘going to get better and help so many people’ but hes not. he literally is not. and its infruiating that he cant even signficiantly benefit one persons life and his solution to this is to stop any attempts and focus just on himself before i guess inviting the world in. 

am i not fucking worthy or deserving? i’m not some runaway kid. i’m not a fucking drug addict. i’m not a single mom. if not me, then who deserves to benefit? i guess everyone above. you know, i didnt add to everyone being fucking dead and deserted with severe trauma and ptsd and little coping skills by taking hard drugs and fucking strange men. i didnt have unsafe sex. but i guess i should have so i could have the attention that other people seem to get for these acts. i stayed “strong” and “smart” and i’m alone and struggling. i guess i deserve to be. 

when i say this its not like i want people to immediately become my family and do all this shit with me and include me an talk to me all waking moments. i want this person who has been in my life but has remained in a neutral position by their own decision to remain neutral as i express the lonliness that i feel being in this position instead of take it personal or trying to make me be optimistic about it. i am sitting with a person and still expressing this - optimism is not what i need. nor do i need to argue that this person hasnt fulfilled the needs i have when they consider themselves a ‘friend”. to be a friend now is to remain in the position youve already taken and allow me the space to now be myself - this sucks. its hard. when i speak, no one is really listening. when i need someone, i have to wait until “a good time” which could be days. and its not just one person. if this one person was doing this - fine. it’s sad but bareable. it’s so many encounters that i feel like im in highschool floating through the halls unnoticed. i have no significance or importance to anything. and its not like oh god i have to be loved and have attention but like theres litereally none. there is zero. nothing. 

thats when “anything” looks better than nothing and you get stuck in even shittier situations.