#so now every time Douglas comes in from doing her business she sits there and waits

[piratefalls]

The cruelest thing my sister has ever done to me is clue my dog into where the treats are.

[letsberealgenz]

Shoe Dog

“Let everyone else call your idea crazy…just keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t even think about stopping until you get there, and don’t give much thought to where “there” is. Whatever comes, just don’t stop. — Phil Knight

A couple of days ago, I made one of the best decision by picking up a dusty gem sitting on the shelf. Maybe it was meant to be dusty when I picked it up. It’s like a treasure that holds an encoded message specially written for you with an aim of shedding light on your journey.

The gem is none other than a book composed of 405 pages where every word is written with utmost wisdom by the one and only, Phil Knight, better known as the creator of Nike. That’s the thing about being an avid reader, you know exactly when you’re reading a really good book!

I know there’s tons of books out there where founders share their journey of starting up but the main “make or break” moment happens when the book gives you a lot of “AHAA” moment and this is exactly what Shoe Dog brings you! I am going to share with you some key moments that truly impressed me and I hope this provides value into your life. The real key is at the ending (make sure to read) till the very end.

1962

“Before running a big race, you always want to walk the track.” “You cannot travel the path until you have become the path yourself.” — Buddha “You are remembered for the rules you break.” — Douglas MacArthur “The main who moves a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.” — Confucius “Don’t tell people how to do things, tell them what to do and let them surprise you with their results.”

1964

“A tiger hunts best when he’s hungry.” “The art of competing, I’d learned from track, was the art of forgetting, and I now reminded myself of that fact.” “Happiness is a how, not a what.”

1965

“He looked at numbers the way the poet looks at clouds, the way the geologist looks at rocks. He could draw from them rhapsodic song, demotic truths.” “Running track gives you a fierce respect for numbers, because you are what your numbers say you are, nothing more, nothing less.” “Inspiration, he learned, can come from quotidian things. Things you might eat. Or find lying around the house.” “But everyone’s athlete, he said. If you have a body, you’re an athlete.”

1966

“Someone somewhere once said that business is war without bullets, and I tended to agree.” “Wisdom seemed an intangible asset, but an asset all the same, one that justified the risk.” “But my hope was that when I failed, if I failed, I’d fail quickly, so I’d have enough time, enough years, to implement all the hard-won lessons.”

1968

“I told her that I flat-out didn’t want to work for someone else. I wanted to build something that was my own, something I could point and say: I made that. It was the only way I saw to make life meaningful.” “Alcohol and time worked their magic.” “The single easiest way to find out how you feel about someone. Say goodbye.” “By nature I was a loner, but since childhood I’d thrived in team sports. My psyche was in true harmony when I had a mix of alone time and team time. Exactly what I had now.”

1969

“Penny and I were learning to live together, learning to meld our personalities and idiosyncrasies, though we agreed that she was the one with all the personality and I was the idiosyncratic one.” “Life is growth. You grow or you die.”

1970

“No news was bad news, no news was good news — but no news was always some sort of news.”

1972

“If we’re going to succeed, or fail, we should don so on our own terms, with out own ideas — our own brand.” “No matter the sport — no natter the human endeavor, really — total effort will win people’s hearts.” “Like books, sports give people a sense of having lived other lives, of taking part in other people’s victories. And defeats.” “The cowards never stared and the weak died along the way — that leaves us.”

1974

“More than a product, we were trying to sell an idea — a spirit.” “But when we did fail, we had faith that we’d do it fast, learn from it, and be better for it.”

1975

“No brilliant idea was ever born in a conference room.” he assured the Dane. “But a lot of silly ideas have died there,” said Stahr. — F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Last Tycoon

1976

“Whatever happened, I just didn’t want to lose. Losing was death.” “Money wasn’t our aim, we agreed. Money wasn’t out end game. But whatever our am or end, money was the only means to get there.” “I no longer simply made Nikes; Nikes were making me.”

1977

“Beating the competition is relatively easy. Beating yourself is a never-ending competition.” “But I liked the idea of acting as if things were going to work out.” “It didn’t focus on the product, but on the spirit behind the product.”

1978

“Obsessives were the only ones for the job. The only ones for me.” “Maybe the cure for any burnout, I thought, is to just work harder.”

1980

“I never knew that numbers could mean so much, and so little, at the same time.” “Any building is a temple if you make it so.” “You measure yourself by the people who measure themselves by you.” “To study the self is to forget the self.” “Oneness — in some way, shape, or form, it’s what every person I’ve ever met has been seeking.” “Change never comes as fast as we want it.” “Because mothers are our first coaches.”

Because here’s the real gift:

I’d tell men and women in their mid-twenties not to settle for a job or a profession or even a career. Seek a calling. Even if you don’t know what that means, seek it. If you’re following your calling, the fatigue will be easier to bear, the disappointments will be fuel, the highs will be like nothing you’ve ever felt.

Put it this way. The harder you work, the better your Tao.

Yours, Asrajjit Kaur

[mercerislandbooks]

50 Years of Island Books: Kay Wilson

Kay Wilson worked for Island Books from 2000 until 2016. Now Kay and her husband live on Lummi Island, surrounded by a field with two big gardens and many fruit trees. She helps raise money for the local library by running a book sale in the summer, partly to help the community and partly to feed her need to be buried in books. Their three children and old friends are scattered around, and Kay says going to visit them is a lovely way to be out in the world.

Miriam: Can you tell me about how you came to work at Island Books? Who did you work with, and what was happening in the world then?

Kay: Around 1982, I joined the Red and Black Books Collective, a politically progressive store that had been really important to the Seattle queer and feminist community since 1973. At first I volunteered, eventually becoming a paid staff book and card buyer. It was an incredible place to work and I was there for 16 years, but when the store was clearly not going to make it, I quit around 1998 and in 1999 went to work in a tiny green grocery that was in my Ballard neighborhood. I didn't want to work at another bookstore, partly because our family was fishing in the summers in Alaska and it seemed hard to find any bookstore that would accommodate that schedule. This little grocery served a sweet little Ballard neighborhood and it was full of regulars. Among those regulars were Roger and Nancy Page living as they did right around the corner. Roger and I especially hit it off. We had lots of things in common—roses, gardens, cooking, and so it happened, books and the selling of them. Eventually he asked me to come work at Island Books. Did I want to go to Mercer Island from Ballard every day? Did I want to mend my book-selling broken heart and do it again? I went over there and took a look. I was introduced to the staff and said okay.

This was an era when Amazon was eating independent bookstores for breakfast. So many everywhere. Roger clearly understood that in order to survive and thrive, his bookstore had to have really smart, thoroughly engaged booksellers who truly knew about both books and people. Staff there when I started were Cindy Corujo, Lori Mitchell, Wendy Crawford, Garry Jarman, and another part timer, Nancy Watkins. Not too long after, wonderful Nancy Shawn came (also a Red and Blackie) and then the unforgettable Marni Gittinger. These people each had their special way of making sure the customers got what they wanted, and many books they had no idea they wanted. We loved each other, had each other's backs, sometimes drove each other crazy. We had a lot of fun, insisted upon a whiskey in the backroom at 5pm if we weren't too busy (thank you Roger for keeping a bottle of Irish in the cupboard).

Miriam: It was such a fun time. As I recall, one of your specialties was the cookbook section. Do you remember any particular cookbooks you hand-sold time and again?

Kay: I started collecting cookbooks long before I came to Island Books, so it was always fun and easy to help folks find a good one, either for themselves, or as a gift. One of my favorites was and still is Tender by Nigel Slater, or really any of his glorious cookbooks, which can easily be used as lovely books to just sit and read, like getting a long letter from your auntie, the fantastic cook. Also, the books of Laurie Colwin, Home Cooking and More Home Cooking. These have recipes, but also stories that make you feel like having a dinner party or making an impromptu lunch for a surprise visitor is no big deal. James Beard's American Cookery is still in print and is so fantastic, a classic for a reason, and more fun than The Joy of Cooking, but fills a similar place on your cookbook shelf. Dori Greenspan's wonderful French cookbooks, books by Madhur Jaffery for her beautiful Indian cooking, Alice Waters' Chez Panisse Vegetables, as much for the illustrations as the recipes. The brilliant locals, Renee Erikson, Tom Douglas. Ottolenghi for his gifted many-ingredient recipes (forget making something with three or four items!)

Miriam: This is making me hungry. Let's walk out of the cookbook section. Will you give me a tour of the rest of the shelves? Tell us some of your favorite hand-sells of all time.

Kay: Of the other books I love and sold to many customers over the years, here are a few:

The books of Louise Erdrich, really almost anything, but I think The Master Butchers Singing Club is so very beautiful and original. It's not that her books don't have sorrow in them, but they are books of humanity and hope in the end. And if you want a whole universe to enter into, you can start with Love Medicine and just keep going.

White Teeth by Zadie Smith. Her first book was so exciting, historical fiction in a way, written with such exuberance for the words on the page.

Small Island by English writer Andrea Levy. Written from the point of view of four people deeply affected by World War II whose lives intersect, it's a moving story about who belongs and why, with insight into race and class without at all being a polemic.

Winter's Tale by Mark Helprin. Magical realism for those who think they won't like it. It's a riot, a huge, passionately told story of New York City, as if Dickens and Garcia Marquez decided to write a beautiful love story about an orphan who lives through all the ages of the city.

In the Fall by Jeffrey Lent. Historical fiction that begins at the end of the Civil War, about an escaping enslaved woman who rescues a wounded Union soldier and goes with him home to Vermont, where they marry. Lent has a few more books, all worth reading, but this one is memorable.

The poetry of Mary Oliver, especially White Pine. Just stand there and read the poem "William." If you don't buy that book, you might be dead to poetry.

Michael Ondaatje's The English Patient. (The movie is good, but oh, the book!)

Pema Chodrun's When Things Fall Apart. Life saving help for someone going through difficult times. Simple, a way in towards kindness to yourself and others, even the difficult ones.

Arctic Dreams by Barry Lopez. His writing about the natural world and himself in it is just enthralling.

A Midwife's Tale by the American historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich. This book, about Martha Ballard, a midwife in late 18th century Maine, alternates between Ballard's diary and Ulrich's commentary about life then, insightfully revealing how much the world has changed materially, but still we recognize ourselves as not so different.

Anything by Oliver Sacks, especially Musicophilia. As is his usual, multiple stories about people who have had amazing neurological conditions that are affected by music.

Swimming to Antarctica by Lynne Cox. Cox's memoir about her open water long distance swimming is just a great inspiring read. Imagine swimming the English Channel in 38 degree water in record time with just a swimsuit on. What a woman!

The Ghost Map by Steven Johnson. This book about how it was finally figured out how cholera and the London water system were interconnected will make you deeply grateful for that glass of water you can drink right out of your tap, at least if you live in the right place.

Miriam: Thank you for sharing these, Kay, and it's so good to hear from you. We all get numb to book recommendations sometimes, but this is such a cultivated list! I bet Island Books customers will find great pleasure in those books and can confidently pick them up knowing you have a lifetime of expertise informing the recommendations. You're a cherished part of Island Books' history, and we are all sending you bookstore love.

To our Island Books community: If you are interested in ordering any of Kay's wonderful recommendations, please email orders@islandbooks.com. We ask for your patience, as it may take a little extra time.

In the next 50 Years ofIslandBooksinstallment, I’ll be talking to local legend and Mercer Island children's concert musician Nancy Stewart, the founder of Sing With Our Kids, who has been involved with Island Books for forty-some years and continues to lead our regular childrens Story Times.

—Miriam

[coldshrugs]

praying that it waits for me

featuring: douglas friedman; supporting cast: alma green, verda, tina word count: 1.4k note: a @wayhavensummer entry for the 6/13 prompt first pride! doug's gay, i said so. (p.s. if you're closeted, i love you so much and it's okay not to come out. your reasons are your business and you're still part of this beautiful community)

It's a mindless thing, the way his attention searches for purchase on something, anything, in front of him. Something immediate. All the while those inescapable thoughts hover around the edge of his attempts at stimulation.

Douglas glances down at his phone. Back to the work computer. Clicks through a few links. Tries to read a stupid listacle. Back down when the phone vibrates—a text from Dad. He’ll think about that later. He swipes it off the screen as Alma and Verda come up from the lab.

They’re chattering away in a bubble of quiet laughter and relaxed touches as they hang their white coats on hooks by the station’s kitchen. There's something familial between them, an understanding that Doug’s never had with anyone.

He’s not sure if it’s something he can have. But he can hope.

It was months ago that Alma invited him in when he had nowhere else to go, even after he’d acted like an idiot. Longer still since she’d put herself between him and an attacker. Doug can’t describe how grateful he is that she cared. No one ever seems to care.

He thought he was in love, just for a moment. Thought he could finally ignore this clawing in his chest.

The part of himself he can’t face.

He buries the thought for now. They’re wandering over anyway.

“How’s it going, Doug?” Alma leans against his desk, words caught mid-giggle, and the bubble of warmth extends to him for a moment. The natural pull of her gravity is something he can’t resist—fully aware that this is not attraction—because he knows she’d care. She’d listen and tell him it’s okay.

He doesn’t say anything important. Only shrugs and offers a weak smile. “I’m okay. Ready to clock out.”

If they were alone, he could say more. Maybe even tell her the truth.

“I hear that.” She groans.

Eric pokes his head through the glass door, both daughters in tow, and Verda meets him with a quick kiss. Douglas tries not to stare. Takes a deep breath to hide the heat in his face.

There’s something else he can’t imagine having. Best not to even hope for that.

Goodbyes are said. Doug keeps his head down. It’s not long before one of the volunteers comes to relieve him at the front desk, and then he’s free for the night.

He wanders around town for a while. A coffee from Haley’s to savor at the docks; flipping through something new at the bookstore; finally, a single beer at the bar. Anything to avoid going home.

His phone buzzes for the first time since work. Dad again. Better check both texts now.

4:52 PM: Councilman Meyers and his family are coming to dinner tonight. Don’t embarrass me by being late.

Doug is way past late. That was the one that came through while he was at the front desk.

8:03 PM: You are, as always, a disappointment.

That sinking feeling in his gut both leads the way and slows his steps as he shuffles back to the north side of town. Back to the place he feels emptiest.

Doug enters as quietly as he can. There’s the clink of ice in a tumbler from the sitting room. Dad must be drowning his fury with whiskey.

“Goodnight,” Douglas mumbles from the foyer. No response.

His father doesn’t even bother to berate him to his face anymore. Doug doesn’t know what’s worse, being yelled at or being ignored.

In the safety of his room, the weight falls away. He can practice being himself.

He curls into bed with his laptop, fingers hovering over the keys with uncertainty. Every letter, every word typed into the search bar solidifies the truth of it a little more. The forums are always full of support, camaraderie, and understanding. More empathy than he's been shown in his life.

Would he receive the same love?

Doug showers before bed, wipes the fog off his mirror, and practices saying it.

"I'm gay," he whispers to himself. Then just a little louder. "I'm gay. I'm gay."

It’s not comfortable, but it’s his. Like new jeans, still too stiff when he sits, but they fit perfectly. Boots that might cause a blister for the first week, but will last for years.

He likes how it looks on him. Likes it enough to smile.

Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe he'll tell someone besides his reflection.

- - -

Tomorrow isn't different, nor is the next day. Or the one after that. But eventually, after stockpiling his courage, Doug decides it's time.

He stops at Haley’s to pick up a couple coffees. He doesn’t know Alma’s order, but everyone likes a flavored latte well enough, right? He wants to extend a friendly gesture. She’s the closest thing he’s had to a friend in a long time.

He catches her sliding out of her car in the station’s parking lot. His pounding heart protests as he moves around to the front of the car to make himself known.

It’s now or never.

“Alma,” he starts.

“Morning, Doug. Everything alright?” She heaves a messenger bag onto her shoulder and bumps the door shut with her hip. He looks for any signs of annoyance--a sharpened look, a pinched brow, a disappointed frown. Things he's used to seeing when he tries to talk to his father.

But she just looks a little confused, a little curious.

“I… I grabbed a coffee for you.” He awkwardly extends the drink, and she takes it after half a second’s hesitation.

“Thank you?”

Well, this is going spectacularly.

“Do you have a second? To talk?”

Her brows raise, curiosity shifting to something like worry, he thinks. It’s more concern than he’s gotten from either of his parents in a few years. She nods and gestures for him to follow her to the bench a few feet from the entrance.

“What’s up?”

Doug hasn’t given much thought to how to say this, only that he wants to say it. Wants someone to know him.

“There’s something I, um, want to tell you.” He sips his drink to steady his nerves. “Because you’re someone I can trust.”

He starts gathering the threads. How this started, when he knew, why he hasn’t told his parents.

Why he hasn’t told anyone.

Where he plans to go from here.

He knows the answers, but struggles to weave them into anything solid in his mind. He still has questions of his own, after all.

His sexuality isn’t something he can put into bullet points, no matter how much easier that’d make this conversation. So he sits, swaying on the edge of his truth, still afraid of becoming.

“Douglas? Are you okay?” Alma’s hand is on his arm, the lightest, warmest touch he can remember.

“I’m gay.”

The words fall out in a rush, and when he looks up, he’s met with soft eyes, a quiet smile. The hand squeezes his arm and pulls him in for a hug. His body, wiry and thin, sags against her small frame. A relieved laugh shakes through him.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “I’m so happy for you, Doug.”

The smile might as well be plastered to his face for the rest of the day. He feels lighter. Just like all the nights he's gone over it alone, this isn’t exactly what he’d call comfortable, but having someone accept him instead of dismissing him... well, it means the world.

- - -

Weeks pass. Work becomes a sanctuary, and Douglas springs to life in ways he never believed possible. He joins in their conversations, shares more of himself.

He comes out.

He invites others in.

Alma and Tina invite him to come along to the Pride festival in the big city, and even if the car ride is filled with a fuzzy, nervous haze for him, Doug sings—no, screams along with them to their favorite songs until it’s time to pile out of the car and join the crowds taking to the streets.

He’s allowed to lose himself in the electric pulse of energy, the colors, the overwhelming love of it all.

There are still questions to ask.

There is still progress to make.

Douglas shines with all the vibrant trepidation of the sun at dawn, making himself known, slowly, slowly as he ascends into what was once darkness. But he is certain this is where he belongs. For the first time, he feels like he’s part of something like a family.

[joezworld]

He is Speed

For #railpril2021, here’s an entry for the LNER J70. 

You know which one.

-

Toby the tram engine is kept very busy by his work on Thomas’ branch line. Between his runs to the Anopha Quarry, his passenger services, and any odd jobs he might be assigned, he works hard every day. 

That does cause a few problems though, as Toby is an old engine with a body made primarily of wooden planks. He was never designed for the hard work that the North Western Railway puts him through, and so his planks rattle and shake whenever he moves. No matter what the men do, the wood eventually works itself loose over time and falls out, leaving his cab even draftier than normal! 

While the men at Ffarquhar sheds can fix one or two of the planks should they fall out, major carpentry work is beyond them. As a result, Toby has to go to the works at Crovan’s Gate every six months to have his siding inspected, refinished, and sometimes replaced.

Going to the works is a big process for branch line engines - they aren’t fast enough to keep up with main line timetables, and their small water tanks means that they usually can’t get from Knapford to Crovan’s Gate without a water stop. Thomas and Percy get around this by going on a flatbed wagon, but the loading is a time-consuming process that Toby dislikes, especially because he has to do it twice a year. 

So, many years ago, he put his wheel down and refused to go on a wagon anymore.

---

 September 2005 - Knapford

“Ah still do nae see why I have to do stuff like this.” Siobhan groused. “Not having tae dawdle on the main line all day is why ah took this job. An’ I’m no’ even driving - I’m firin’ like I’m a new hire!” 

The newly-minted “Senior Steam Locomotive Driver” had walked into her first day at the job expecting to get a turn at Gordon’s throttle on the Midday Express, or maybe a nice uninterrupted day on the Little Western with her Dads, but instead was met with: Venkataramany: 0C01 [09:33] NWR 98107: KFD→CVN

“If I told you it was a hazing thing, would it make you feel better?” Robert, the Chief Traction Inspector said as they crossed the footbridge over the tracks. 

“No’ after watchin’ that harassment video from HR.” She grumbled. “An’ even if this was tha’, why would ye be here? Ye've too much seniority - ye should laughin’ at me from Gordon’s cab or something.”

“Fine,” Robert stopped and pointed at Toby, who was sitting in the goods yard surrounded by workers who were removing his side plates. “He is the reason we are here. Nobody else will go on this run except Mister Hatt himself.” 

“What? Why?” Siobhan was baffled. She’d driven Toby many times and found him to be a pleasant engine to drive, fire, and speak with. 

“You wouldn’t believe me it I told you.” He said grimly. Siobhan watched in increasing confusion as the man hopped down onto the ballast and trudged across the yard like a condemned man going to the gallows. 

“Robert!” Toby called as they walked up. “How wonderful to see you again!”

Robert grumbled something unprintable under his breath and hopped into Toby’s cab without another word. After a moment, an oil can came sailing out of the cab door, Siobhan barely catching it in time. 

“Oi!” She shouted, to no avail. 

Toby looked sympathetic. “Don’t mind him. He’s always cranky when he has to do this run. I don’t think my cab agrees with him that much.”

“This run doesn’t agree with anyone, you Sociopathic Garden Shed!” Robert bellowed from the cab. 

Siobhan and the workmen shared an astonished glance as Toby chuckled to himself. 

“You get used to that after a while.” He said quietly. 

“Okaaay...” Siobhan said slowly as she took the oil can and began working over Toby’s valve gear. 

Toby’s very elaborate valve gear.

“Toby,” She asked slowly. “Have ye always had a Walschaerts motion?”

“Why yes I have.” The tram said jovially. “But don’t worry - it’s hidden behind my sideplates most of the time, so it’s hard to notice.”

“Never thought that drivin’ Gordon would be applicable ‘ere.” She muttered to herself as she oiled the valve gears. Walschaerts motions were extremely common on steam engines around the world, but here on the island, practically every other engine on the Island except Percy had inside cylinders. Gordon and Henry were the only ones with this type of valve gear, and it was a surreal experience to service an “express engine” valve gear on an engine that, to put it politely, was deeply not. 

 After an oiling job worthy of Gordon, Siobhan clambered into the cab, waved goodbye to the workers, who were carrying away Toby’s sideplates for storage, and stoked up the fire. His coal bin and water tanks were full, but they were so small that this run had a timetabled stop at Killdane to pick up more. 

As they set off - with Robert looking even grimmer than before - she dug through her crew bag and pulled out the schedule again. The timing didn’t seem to match. 

“Rob!” She shouted over the noise of Toby’s chuffing. “How come we’re scheduled into Killdane at ten past ten? That’s express timing!” 

“You’ll see.” Robert said darkly as they rumbled onto the main line. 

“See what?” She said pointlessly - Robert was more interested in viewing the line ahead through Toby’s small cab windows, and she needed to keep the fire tended - Toby wasn’t a bad steamer, but today he seemed to be intent on keeping a rather high steam pressure considering the light run. 

As they approached the points at the station’s far end, Robert reached behind the regulator and plucked a small metal collar from its spot on Toby’s regulator. “No going back now.” He said quietly, pocketing the speed governor.

Then they rattled over the points , and Toby shifted slightly. 

“This is the fast line!” Siobhan said to Robert as they rolled out onto the center tracks. 

“I know.” Robert was the picture of grim determination, his hands turning white as he held Toby’s throttle in a tight grip with one hand, and braced himself against the cab wall with the other. 

Slowly, he inched the regulator forwards. As he did so, the excess steam pressure in Toby’s system, with some help from the engine himself, grabbed at the internal mechanism and yanked the lever out of Robert’s hand. 

Toby accelerated rapidly, and Siobhan shrieked as she was thrown backwards into the coal pile. 

“Hold on to something!” Robert cried. “He’s not gonna stop unless he has to!” 

“What?! Who’s not going to stop?” Siobhan had no idea what was going on. 

The noise level inside the cab increased dramatically in line with their speed, and whatever Robert said was lost in the clatter. Above their heads, Toby’s bell began shaking in the wind so much that it began wildly swinging back and forth, adding a further layer of sound. 

-

Wellsworth Station

“-and so then I said - Oh hello, the signal’s changed.” BoCo broke off of his story and looked down the main line. “I wonder who’s coming. The Express has gone already.” 

“I don’t know.” Replied Edward. 

They both looked down the line towards Tidmouth. The signal block that protected Wellsworth station was only a mile or so in length, so they should find out who was coming soon enough. 

“Do you hear that?” BoCo said after a few seconds. 

“I do. Whatever could it be?”

“It sounds like dinging.”

“Who dings on this railway?”

“Well, Toby does, but that can’t be him-”

At that moment, a whistle sounded in the distance. It sounded like Toby’s whistle. 

BoCo’s brows rose in surprised confusion. “If that is Toby, he just crossed the lane by the McColl’s farm.”

“But that’s half a mile from the signal, and-”

“He did it in less than thirty seconds.”

The dinging grew louder. 

“Can he even go that fast?”

The sounds of an engine became audible as it grew nearer. It was making a considerable racket, and it sounded like it was moving fast. 

The dinging continued to get louder and louder. 

Suddenly, an engine became visible from around the curve. It was brown, it was square, and it was easily doing sixty as it charged through the station. It whistled a quick “Hello!” and was gone, leaving a trail of thick black smoke in its wake. 

Both engines stared at the dissipating trail of smoke. 

“Well,” Said Edward once he picked his jaw off of his bufferbeam. “I guess he can.”

-

Killdane 

Abbey and Dane were sunning themselves in the yard. Now that the Fat Controller had brought in new electric engines for the line, everyone had a chance to rest between trains. 

Speaking of trains, one was arriving now. She lazily opened one eye to see Toby arriving at the station, as he did every six months or so. 

“Dane, look,” She whispered, causing the other engine to open his eyes. “The show’s about to start.”

Toby rolled to stop near the water tower and coal bin. Barely a second had gone by after that when his cab door was thrown open and his crew staggered out. The older man, one of the inspectors, slowly staggered off to a bench on the platform, while the other, a younger woman whom Abbey usually saw with Donald and Douglas, berated him about something. Her words weren’t audible, but the strong Scottish accent carried across the yard. 

This continued as she dragged the water hose over to Toby, and began moving coal into his bunker. Toby’s coal bunker was located inside his cab, so this involved a lot of wheelbarrows and shoveling. The woman seemed to be displeased that she was doing all the work, and emphasized her point to the inspector by dumping a shovel-full of coal over his head. 

The ensuing chase around the platform with shovels of coal had both electric engines crying with laughter, so they couldn’t quite see how it happened that a few shovels were thrown in Toby’s face as well, but that didn’t stop them from laughing even harder.

Eventually, all the coal was loaded, and the damp pair of humans (the water hose hadn’t been put away without a fight) clambered back into Toby. 

The steam tram looked over to Abbey and Dane, a mischievous smile broaching his coal-streaked face. “I hope you two enjoyed yourselves!” He called as the signal dropped.

He made it a few feet onto the main line before he surged ahead suddenly. Inside his cab, shouting and swearing could be heard as both crew were thrown off their feet. 

Abbey and Dane howled with laughter. 

-

Kellsthorpe Road

“Thomas! Funny seeing you here!” Fred the stationmaster called out. He’d previously been in charge of Dryaw station before moving to station across the Island to be with his family five months ago, and it had been almost that long since he’d last seen Thomas. 

“Fred! It’s been too long!” Thomas said, and immediately began catching up with his old friend. 

In front, Gordon rolled his eyes. Thomas was a regular chatterbox on a normal day, but when he was allowed to be dead weight on a flat car he practically metamorphosed into a social butterfly, and never stopped talking. 

At least nobody is commenting on me, he thought to himself. It was deeply unusual for an engine of his stature to be on a slow goods train, but James had wanted to try his luck on the midday express, and a complicated series of past favours had meant that Gordon had “owed him one”, and was obligated to switch jobs. 

I’d have rather owed James two than have to deal with this. 

Minutes passed, and the signal hadn’t changed, nor had Thomas stopped talking. One of those things wasn’t unusual, but the other was. The signal didn’t stay red that long unless a train was coming into the station - a holdover from when the Kellsthorpe road actually crossed the railroad tracks and time was needed to shut the gates - but there was no train scheduled to come through at this point, at least not a regularly scheduled one. 

Looking down the tracks, a plume of smoke and steam could be seen in the distance. That was equally unusual, as the only “up bound” steam train due within the next hour was James, and that train hadn’t even left Tidmouth yet. 

Presently, the source of the steam resolved itself into a distant engine. It looked strange, almost like it was pushing a van in front of it, but that was preposterous - they were moving fast enough that - oh. It was that time of the year, wasn’t it?

“I say, Thomas,” He called back to his cargo. “Have you ever seen Toby when he goes to the works?” 

“No? Why?” Thomas sounded confused. Excellent.

“Well, he’s coming along right now. Perhaps you can say hello to him.”

“Oh! Is Toby coming?” Fred asked, looking at his schedule of trains. “Why’s he doing it on the fast line?” 

“Probably to show him what it’s like!” Thomas joked. “It’s not like he can move much faster than a snail!”

Gordon eyed the approaching brown blur. “I’d rethink that statement Thomas.”

“Why? I’m not wrong - what’s that dinging sound?”

Toby rocketed through the station in a cloud of smoke and dust. Anything on the platform not nailed down was shaken and rocked by his passage. A cleaner was changing out the litter bins on the platform as Toby went by, and the contents of an open full bag of litter were lifted into the air and sent flying in all directions by his wake. 

The station was silent after that. Gordon watched as crisp wrappers settled down on every flat surface, suddenly glad he was on the slow lines and out of the direct line of fire. 

The signal dropped, indicating that Toby had cleared the station on the other end, and Gordon set off.

Thomas was mercifully silent all the way to Knapford. 

-

Crovan’s Gate

They arrived on time. 

Robert stormed out of the cab without a word, marched across the works grounds, across the main line, and vanished into the station’s pub. Siobhan meanwhile was left to hand Toby over to the works crew and fill out the after-trip report. 

“Engine working to full capacity? If no, state problem...” She mumbled under her breath as she filled out the form, giving Toby the evil eye as she did so. 

He smiled impishly back at her. “I am in full working condition, I’ll have you know.”

“Engine has incurable case of smartarse. Recommend turning him into a feckin’ henhouse.” She glared. 

“I thought that you enjoyed my witty repartee and smooth steaming.”

“I think that you enjoy this.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“Ah have a hunch.”

Toby smiled broadly. “An old engine needs to have some fun in his life. Although I am sorry about the coal dust.”

She buried her head in her clipboard, not caring that the forms were now smeared with coal dust and oil. “Jus’ warn me next time, alright?” 

The smile she got back was worrying. “You’ll probably have to take me back on Thursday. Is that enough warning?”

Siobhan considered it a moment of personal growth when she didn’t throw the clipboard at him. 

-

Thursday

“What in the everloving fuck are ye wearing.”

Siobhan stared at her employer in shock. When she’d heard that Stephen Hatt had volunteered to drive Toby back to Knapford with her, she’d expected to have a nice, quiet ride, one where Toby wouldn’t try and traumatize his driver/controller. 

But as she looked at the head of the railway, she developed a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

“I am wearing my work clothes, Siobhan.”

“So am I, but ah don’t look like ah stepped out of the Brunel Edition of GQ!”

He looked nothing like he usually did, with a pair of denim dungarees, a worker’s flat cap, and sturdy but ancient-looking work boots replacing his three piece suit, top hat, and wingtip shoes. A long railwayman’s coat, still bearing the BR Cycling Lion logo, was worn over the whole thing. A gold pocketwatch chain looped out of an interior pocket and led to a buttonhole on the dungarees and a pair of work gloves stuck out of one pocket. Worryingly, a pair of old aviator goggles was slung around his neck, their purpose unknown and hopefully decorative. 

She was wearing typical work trousers, a sturdy jacket and work shirt, and a pair of work boots that looked considerably more modern that the monstrosities adorning the Fat Controller’s feet. To complete the modern look, the belt holster for her Nokia mobile phone poked out of one side. 

They looked like people from two different centuries.

As they approached Toby, who was already steamed up in the works yard, the sinking feeling in Siobhan’s chest grew when the tram engine’s face lit up upon sighting the controller. 

“Oh hello sir! I didn’t know you’d be driving today!”

“Well, Robert has called out sick, surprisingly enough, and I was asked to fill in. I wouldn’t miss this for the world, old friend.” Stephen said as he pulled on his gloves.  

“Now then,” He said as he jumped into Toby’s cab with surprising spryness, before pulling on the goggles. “Let’s Ride!”

Siobhan wondered if it was too late to call in sick as well. 

[lilas]

kissing prompt 8 for annie & farah?

Hello! I’m so sorry for the delay, but I hope you enjoy it! :D

Kiss Prompt – A Kiss on the Nose (please send me more!)

Pairing: Farahx f!Detective (Annie Tomás)

Word Count: ~800

Annie had a stressful week.

“–Then we couldn’t find some receipts for a stupid paper shipment! We looked everywhere for it. I had Douglas and some volunteers digging through boxes in storage, I dug through every file we had–!”

Farah sits across from Annie at their favorite table by the window. By the time they got to Haley’s Bakery, the sun already sat beneath the horizon. Now, the Square’s streetlights bathe the cobblestone street in a soft, gentle glow, and the last dregs of purple sky slink away.

“I’m not even good with numbers!” Annie says as she shoves her face into her hands. “I thought I could do it since I had the entire week but it just…slipped away from me.”

Frustration leaked into Annie’s voice though she tried to stem it by biting down on her bottom lip… a little too hard, evident by the blood that came to the surface. Farah’s breath hitches, and she can’t help but tense the slightest in her seat. The blood is swiped away by Annie’s tongue before she brings her mug to her lips.

Farah smiles at the pout her girlfriend fails to hide. “It’s okay, babe, I know you tried your best.”

“I could’ve tried harder.” Annie’s reply is mumbled. “I could’ve done better.”

“Maybe,” Farah says with a small shrug, “But it’s the weekend now and we can do whatever we want! Forget about it until Monday, okay?”

Annie doesn’t reply so Farah scoots their chairs closer together with her brightest expression.

“I think Nate said something about it snowing this weekend. You can finally show me what snow angels are–“ Farah’s cut off by Annie’s sharp, rattly intake of breath. “Annie—”

A whimper escapes Annie’s tight lips. She slaps her hands over her mouth but can’t stop her shoulders from quaking and the tears from leaking free.

“I tried so hard, Farah,” she cries, “it was due today and I couldn’t get it done! I promised Mom and everyone that I could handle this!”

“H-Hey…” Farah touches her shoulder with a tentative smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Haley throw a concerned look in their direction. Farah gives her a reassuring wave. “Rebecca isn’t worried about spending audits–”

“I promised I could handle both the station and working with the team! The town, and supernaturals, and blood drives, and spending audits! What good am I to the team if I can’t fulfill even my basic responsibilities?”

Farah bites her lip, a shimmer in her amber eyes. “I don’t–”

Annie chokes down a tear soaked sob, “What if she asks me to quit again? What if Adam asks me to quit! Oh my God, I could be fired–! It was due today!”

“Annie!” Farah seizes Annie’s shoulders, turning her in her chair so they meet each other’s eyes. “Of course they won’t! You work so hard, they’ll be dumb to even think about that.” Tenderly, Farah’s fingers wipe away treks of tears. “Adam loves you. Nate and Morgan love you. Not as much as me. Obviously…”

A laugh sputters out of Annie, and Farah grins and continues, “There’s really nothing you could do to make anyone love you less. No matter how hard you try.”

“I know,” says Annie, dabbing at her eyes with her sweater sleeve, “I’m so sorry, Farah. This is ridiculous. I know I should be stronger than this by now.”

“You don’t need to be strong, Annie. You need to be loved.” Farah presses a kiss to the tip of Annie’s nose, still wet with a few stray tears. A smile blooms across Annie’s face, her dark eyes shining. Farah can feel her heart squeeze in the most amazing way. Her words take a moment to come back to her. “And I don’t know what a “spending audit” is, but that sounds boring enough to be right up Adam’s alley. He’d love to help you.”

“He’s busy enough, he doesn’t need to…”

“Annie.”

A sigh. “I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

“Great!” Farah presses another kiss to Annie’s temple, and moves to whisper in her ear, “But until then, I know what can distract you from all that.”

“Do you?” Annie drops her voice to a low whisper with those words and a shiver shoots through Farah’s core. The flush that heats her skin spreads when Annie trails her hands up her sides. “And what are you suggesting, Agent Hauville?”

“Can’t tell you. Guess we gotta get out of here and find out.”

Annie doesn’t fight her smile that grows brighter or the fresh flush of color that paints her wet cheeks. After paying for the coffee and uneaten strawberry tart, the two women walk out hand in hand, fingers laced, and the week’s stress left mostly forgotten.

[basicallywhiterice]

across the world (lucas wong, dong sicheng/winwin)

pairing: lucas x reader, sicheng/winwin x reader

genre: angst, fluff, flangst. friends to lovers, college!au, dancer!sicheng, relationships and heartbreak

summary:  You always thought a piece of your heart would belong to Sicheng, your first love, who ended things when he moved overseas. In the end, though, there’s nothing across the world except for a boy you used to know.

word count: 4.6k

warnings: cussing

a/n: see y’all next month for the last part, feel free to yell at me so i finish writing it sooner (p.s. peep the hamilton reference)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

this can be read as a standalone, but is part 2 in the on top of the world series. crossposted on ao3 here!

CHARLOTTE, NC

Charlotte Douglas International Airport, 1:42 p.m.

“Is this goodbye?” Sicheng murmurs, hugging you tighter. You strain to hear him amidst the hustle and bustle of the airport.

“I guess it is.” He’s leaving for Korea, pursuing his ambitious dance dreams. You’re staying in the states and starting college soon. There’s no time for an international relationship in either of your lives.

It’s cruel, you think, that the heartbreak from your first love will have been so worth it, that you’d have to live through the “right person, wrong time” so soon.

You nod, once. “Ah. Well. Bye.”

“We’re really over? We’re—officially breaking up?”

The words cut like a knife, but you try to stay strong for Sicheng’s sake. “Yeah,” is all you can manage without breaking down. “I guess we are.”

“Okay.”

So this is how it ends, you think. “Go and conquer the dance world.”

“I will. I—I really love you. I’m gonna miss you.”

“I love you too, Sicheng. You should go.”

“Ok.” He hoists up his backpack and raises his suitcase handle. “I—goodbye.”

“Bye.”

He starts toward the security line after some initial hesitation, flanked by his parents on either side. Trailing behind right before stopping, he turns back one last time, waving a final farewell.

After he’s gone, Lucas pats you on the back, Giselle hugs you tighter, and Ningning lets you cry into her shoulder. It helps, and it just barely holds you together as your world falls apart.

Home, 11:49 a.m.

You feel hollow.

Exactly six weeks before you leave for college, Sicheng does a routine call in the sliver of free time he has, sandwiched between his classes for the day. You’re still struggling through your acceptance of the change that was bound to happen, spending your days with your friends while you still have time. Though you’ve thrown yourself into living without him, seeing his face feels like a punch in the gut.

Even though he’s across the world, you let yourself forget for a moment, but you can’t pretend any longer when he hangs up.

Today was supposed to be your three month anniversary.

You turn down Yangyang’s invitation to skateboard and cry into your pillow.

Today was supposed to be your three month anniversary, but all you’re left with is a broken heart that Sicheng still holds.

ATLANTA, GA, FRESHMAN YEAR

Turman Hall, 11 a.m.

“Hey. How’d you like your first week?”

You spit out your toothpaste, holding up a finger and motioning for him to wait as you rinse.

“It was okay,” you say. “I haven’t really made new friends yet. I’ve, uh, hung out with a few people though, and Lucas and Giselle are in some of my classes.” Some water droplets spray out from a splash of water, and you wince a little at how low the dorm’s sinks are.

“Have you talked to the people on your floor?”

“Yeah, they’re cool. I’m pretty happy here, I think I just need more time to get to know people better,” you shrug. “Anyways. How are you?”

“It’s going pretty well. Someone from New York joined earlier this week, so she’s kind of in the same boat as me, except she’s Korean.” He’s about to continue when he yawns, words growing incomprehensible.

“You should sleep soon. When are you getting up tomorrow?”

“Late enough. I probably should, though.”

“Then why’d you call? Go to sleep, Sicheng.”

“I wanted to see you, is that really a crime?” He yawns again. “Well then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You know you’ll only get hurt in the long run, but that doesn’t stop you from texting him to set up another time to call once you know he’s asleep.

Turman Hall, 12:15 p.m.

Sicheng cancels a Facetime he scheduled earlier in the week, too tired to call after a grueling practice. It’s the first time he’s done so, and you knew he was going to get too busy for you eventually, but it still breaks your heart.

You’re staring at your laptop when a tidal wave of loneliness pulls you under. You miss Sicheng, but you also miss the rest of your high school friends, your parents, and the simplicity of life before college.

Just as you’re about to text him, Lucas calls you.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Yooo,” he greets. “Are you still coming to the student center?”

“Yeah, I was about to head out. Why’d you call?”

“You weren’t responding.”

You pause, a wave of tears suddenly welling up. “Thank you, Lucas,” you say, voice steady enough to avoid suspicion. “I’ll be there in 10.”

“Yeah, see you then.”

The loneliness doesn’t fade, but it doesn’t weigh as heavily anymore.

Turman Hall, 7:14 p.m.

You’re pulling on your shoes, about to head out to meet with Winter at a nearby restaurant, when Sicheng calls you. After a bit of hesitation, you reason it won’t take long and pick up.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Sicheng says, hair sweaty and face shining. “I’m on break right now. How are you?”

“I’m doing alright. Why’d you call?” you ask. He almost never calls during his breaks. “Isn’t it busy there?”

“I felt lonely,” he says, and you’re not sure why it hurts to hear that was the only reason. “Is anything interesting happening?”

“Uh.” It’s been a while since he last called, and you forget what you’ve told him already. “Well, Karina’s been encouraging me to rush next semester. I’m not sure if I want to do it, though.”

“That sounds really fun. You could meet some new people there.”

“Yeah, but it seems really time consuming, and I’ve made friends already. I just—”

“If you want to try it, I don’t see why not.”

“Yes, I just don’t know if I can handle it on top of my classes.”

“You need to decide what you want,” he says, and you blink, startled by his sudden outburst. Your first instinct is to apologize, but you have nothing to be sorry for, and you wonder if something major or stressful happened recently.

“I have been,” you mumble, trying not to sound defensive. “I declared my major last week, the joint bachelor’s and master’s thing here. I talked to my advisor about it and I’m trying to graduate in four years. I have a plan.”

“Oh.” He pauses, head tilting. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to tell you over call.”

“Ah. You should’ve said something.”

You just shrug, wanting to move on. “I’m excited. How are you, though? Why are you feeling lonely?” You know it’s pointless to ask when he only has a few minutes of free time, but you still want to give him an option to answer.

“I’m alright, getting busier now but—”

The door opens behind him, a dancer clad in black clothing walking on screen. They speak a string of Korean to which Sicheng nods, standing up and stretching his legs.

“Sorry, break’s up,” he says, face coming back into the frame as he bends down to pick up his phone. “Text you later?”

You’ve gotten used to it by now. “Okay. Good luck. Bye.”

His face is replaced first with your text history, and next with a black screen. You stare at it, wondering if he even loved you in the first place.

You don’t decide on an answer during the 15 minute walk to dinner, but when you meet Winter there, you find that there are better ways to fill your time.

Turman Hall, 11:15 p.m.

Your hands shake as you press the FaceTime button under Sicheng’s contact. As your phone rings, you set it down to wipe your palms on your pants.

After tonight, you’ve decided to cut Sicheng out of your life. The timing is less than ideal, but with exams just completed and an abundance of time to reflect, it’s the best you can do. All you want is one final call with him, and you’ll rip off the bandaid.

Sicheng answers quickly. He’s sitting at his desk, a pillow propped up between him and his chair. “Hey,” he says, waving. An easy smile hangs from his face, and he looks the most relaxed he’s been in months.

“Hey,” you breathe. “How are you?”

He eats lunch as you talk, almost making you regret your decision to distance yourself. Your resolve never crumbles like you thought it would, though, and you think your conviction signals the point of no return.

Tonight, you hang up first. It feels like you can breathe again when you press the ‘end call’ button, but your heart crushes under the weight of your lungs.

Turman Hall, 11:57 p.m.

“I’m moving on,” you say, resting your elbows on the windowsill and looking up toward the looming night sky. The moon hangs high above, its gentle glow drawing out everything you’ve been bottling up.

“I can’t wait for him to come back when he’s happy without me,” you tell the moon. “I need to live my life without him. Otherwise, it’s not fair to me, or him, or anyone who cares about me.”

A tear traces its way down your face, plopping down onto the ledge. “I used to love him. I don’t know if it’ll ever go away, but I know that someday, I’ll be able to look back at it as something in the past.”

The stars wink back at you, silently, and you wonder if the moon ever gets tired of orbiting the Earth.

CHARLOTTE, NC

Home, 7:09 p.m.

Sicheng texts you every day during the first week of winter break. Each time, you ignore him for hours before responding, and it feels horrible, but there’s no other way around it.

Today’s texts come when you’re sitting in your room with Giselle and Kun, waiting for the sugar cookie dough to chill in the fridge. He asks how you are, if you want to call in the pocket of free time he has right now and tell him more about your future plans. You stare at the messages on your lockscreen, waiting for your phone to turn off before limply tossing it on your bed.

“What’s going on?” Giselle asks eventually, pulling you out of your reverie.

“What?”

“Y/n,” she says, scooting closer. You look up from the miniature Christmas tree nestled in your lap, having fiddled with its flimsy branches to distract yourself from replying. “What’s wrong? Talk to us, we’re here for you.”

You glance over at Kun. “I can tell the rest of them not to come because Giselle and I got food poisoning or something, if you need to vent to us.” He pulls his phone out, ready to text Yangyang, Lucas, and Ningning at a moment’s notice.

You wonder how long they’ve known, even when you kept quiet and tried to shoulder your pain alone. Your phone’s ringing saves you from answering immediately, lighting up with an incoming Facetime from Sicheng, and it hurts not to pick up, but it would hurt even more if you did.

“He said he has 20 minutes to call,” you relay to Kun and Giselle dully, your cover blown. They share a sideways glance, but neither of them say anything. “Should I? I don’t even know if I want to talk to him, but y’all probably haven’t called him in a while.”

“Don’t think of us, think of what you want,” Giselle urges.

You nod, reaching for the phone again. It’s still ringing when you silence it, throwing it back on the bed.

“Yeah. That’s what I want.” And then you fall over onto Giselle’s lap, desperately wishing for the pain to end, and she holds you as you sob for the first time in a week. “He’s—it’s—different now, and—s’okay, b-but it’s…” you choke out before you start hiccuping.

The room is quiet as you cry, only the sounds of sniffling and gentle consoling present, as you shed a semester’s worth of tears. You start talking once you’re coherent enough, putting your heart on full display, and it’s cathartic. It’s cathartic to ugly cry, to retell your love story to two friends who love you deeply, to release of all the hurt and longing you’ve been holding onto just to remember how you and Sicheng were.

And when you’re done, letting go gives more room for hope to come in.

ATLANTA, GA

Waffle House, 1:01 a.m.

“What do you mean, of course you were gonna get a bid, you idiot,” you exclaim around a bite of waffles. “I can’t believe you’re a frat boy now.”

“I was worried! I thought that one dude hated me, remember?” Lucas grins. “And don’t worry, I’m not an official frat boy yet.”

“Don’t fucking get hazed when you pledge.”

He raises his hands, still holding a syrup-covered pancake piece speared onto his fork. “I won’t. Don’t fall into the whole ‘frat boys are dumb’ thing on me, now, I know how to look after myself.”

“I’m not, I’m just worried,” you sigh. “Just—stay safe, y’know?”

“Aw, you do care after all.”

“Shut up before I make you pay for your pancakes.”

He doesn’t shut up. “Anyways, enough about me. You don’t have to, uh, say anything, but are you—are you doing okay?”

You can’t tell if he’s talking about Sicheng or life in general, but you offer an honest answer to both. You’ll find out which one he’s referring to soon enough. “I’m doing better.”

“I can tell.”

You stare at him for a second too long, the harsh fluorescent lights glaring down, and you think that maybe Sicheng came into your life at exactly the right time.

Three truths arise at the exact same time: You don’t love Sicheng anymore. You’re happier without him. And you see the light at the end of the tunnel, the day quickly approaching when you are perfectly satisfied with what was, and have no grieving for what could have been.

Clairmont Road, 6:08 p.m.

When it arrives, it’s any other spring day. You’re sitting at a bus stop, scrolling through social media, helping Winter finalize the Airbnb booking for your upcoming spring break trip, and discussing your summer internship applications with Ten at the same time, when Giselle scrolls back up your feed.

“Isn’t that… Sicheng? He went viral?”

“Hm?” You glance down at a dance trend, the dancer vibing onscreen alongside a popular filter. Then your eyes land on the several hundred thousand likes beneath the video. “That’s him?” you finally realize. You haven’t kept up with his dance account in a few months, and it seems like you’ve missed out on a lot.

“Oh my god, he made it, didn’t he?”

“Holy shit. All because of a TikTok dance? That’s insane.”

You call Lucas over, and the three of you rewatch the video.

As you watch, you wait for your expression to fall again, for your heart to drop and your stomach to twist when you think about him, but nothing happens. And as you feel nothing but happiness for his success, the last scratch on your heart heals itself, and you smile.

Then the epiphany hits you: you and Sicheng may never talk, meet, or be okay with each other again, but it doesn’t matter. It hasn’t mattered for a while, not when your heart is bursting with love for your own life and stays silent for a boy who was once in it.

He’s in his own world—leaving you happier now that you’re done learning what you needed to from him, wiser and more content—and you’re in your own, taking over the world with only those you choose to share it with.

It’s solitary on top of the world, but it will never be lonely, not when you fight for everything you want and hold the people you love close to your heart.

You let go of Sicheng a long time ago.

ATLANTA, GA, SOPHOMORE YEAR

The Quad, 7:30 p.m.

The day Lucas asks you out is the day the flowers outside your window start to bloom.

“I really like you,” he says, his beaming expression matching yours, “and I was wondering if you’d like to go out? On a date with me?”

He’s awkward, but carries himself with confidence. His fidgeting hands give away the nervousness he tries to hide, but his grin catches your attention. There’s a lot of things you like about him, but you think his smile might be one of your favorites.

“I would love to.”

Main Street, 8:15 p.m.

By the time your three month anniversary with Lucas rolls around, you’ve started bringing down your heart’s defenses already. There’s no reason to keep them up: he doesn’t make you cry when you worry about the future, is never gone for long enough to make your heart ache. He’s safe, and you want to stop keeping him at arm’s distance.

And you’ll be okay. You’ve lived through one heartbreak already and emerged stronger than ever. And if your vulnerability with Lucas means it will heighten your next heartbreak, then it’ll be worth it a million times over.

You hand parts of your heart for him to hold, dropping your defenses day by day. This is the point of no return, and you choose to walk past it with Lucas by your side.

ATLANTA, GA, JUNIOR YEAR

The Quad, 10:22 p.m.

“I’m in love with you,” Lucas confesses. Grinning from ear to ear, he swings your clasped hands together, practically restraining himself from skipping down the park path. Your hand slips an inch before he catches it, oblivious to the sweat coating your palms inside your gloves.

The right words never come, and slowly, the smile melts off his face. “Baby?”

Your throat constricts as you swallow hard around your dry tongue.

“Baby, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it before you were comfortable, I…”

“Lucas.” Pausing, you bring a shaky fist up to your mouth, covering the lower half of your face as you stall for time. “I… don’t know.”

Your hand slips out of his. “Oh.”

“Lucas, I love you very much. But there’s a difference. I… don’t know if I’m in love with you.” He stares at you, expression tight, and your stomach turns. “This doesn’t mean no. I really don’t know, but I do know that you make me happy. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“I thought I had been clear in how I felt.”

You wince, slightly. “I’m—”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize.” He swallows. “Can we please go back to the dorms? I’m not mad, and I don’t want you to feel bad, but I really need to be alone right now.”

“Can we work this out first?” you ask, panic settling into your voice.

“I don’t know if we can do that right now.” “Have—have you been open with me? About how you feel these past few months?”

“Can we at least try? I—” Your voice breaks, and you clench your jaw to ground yourself before continuing. “Of course I’ve been open. I made the choice to communicate everything I felt, I overcame my fear of heartbreak. Just because I’m not sure if I’m in love with you yet doesn’t mean I haven’t tried and cared.”

“I don’t—can we please go back? I need some time alone.”

“You can’t just walk away like that,” you say, voice shaking. “You—you’re not trying to solve this together.”

“I don’t know,” he says, and it hurts to hear when it’s all he says, but not as much as it hurt you to say.

“Lucas,” you say, and it feels horrible pleading for him to listen. “Please work this out with me. Show me that you’re choosing me, too.”

He stares at you, motionless. Your worry compounds when he stays there, heart ripping apart at the seams as you resign yourself to the fact that this is the beginning of the end. Jaw clenching, you let your tears trickle down your face, the frigid wind sending pricks of coldness down your face.

Then he steps closer, blurry silhouette growing bigger. You furiously wipe away your tears, wool gloves scratching at your cheeks, to get a good look at his expression, when he hesitantly reaches up for your hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says, slowly lowering your joined hands. “I know you’re hurt. I need you to trust me when I need some time to process this, and I know you want to work on this together, but I need to be alone first. Would you be okay with going back to your dorm, but staying in different rooms for a while so that I can still be close to you?”

It’s not okay—not if he’s giving up on solving it together. “You get the bathroom.”

“Deal.”

You don’t get the chance to tell him that night, for you fall asleep before he talks to you again.

His absence speaks for itself, and you think this might be the point of no return.

Woodruff Hall, 12:12 a.m.

Lucas gives up over winter break, and you want to blame him, but you’re too busy blaming yourself for breaking up with him to be angry.

“Why?” he demands, gaze cold. You look away.

“You knew this was coming,”

“You were the one who talked about choosing each other and working on our relationship.”

And you were the one who gave up first, you think, but you’re too tired to be bitter. “Lucas, I don’t think you can change my mind at this point.”

“Are you—is it because I’m in love with you?”

“Lucas, please, just go.”

“Did you ever love me?” You hate that you can’t comfort him the first time he cries in front of you.

“We can talk about this later, but please, I need to be alone right now.”

You start sobbing the moment he walks out the door.

The Quad, 11:32 p.m.

Were you in love with him?

Woodruff Hall, 1:57 a.m.

You were not in love with him.

Woodruff Hall, 11:29 a.m.

When Sicheng Facetimes you for the second time this year, you’re not expecting it. You certainly aren’t expecting the news he drops.

“You’re dating someone?” you ask as he blushes.

For a horrible moment, all you can think is what if what if what if before you blink, and then your guilt over your past evaporates.

“That’s awesome. What are they like?”

“She’s really cool. She joined the studio a year after I did and we started talking recently. It’s going really well.”

“I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Me too,” he grins. “How are you, though? Anything interesting happen?”

“Nah, I’m just pretty stressed,” you half-fib. “Just—life, you know?”

“I see. How are you and Lucas?”

A cross between a laugh and a sob rips out of your throat unexpectedly. “We—we broke up earlier this month.”

Sicheng goes still. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

“He—it’s—I’ll be okay. I trust myself enough to end up okay,” you babble. “It’s chill. It’ll be chill eventually.”

“Things will get better,” he agrees, “but you shouldn’t ignore how you feel right now. Are you alright? Wanna talk about it?”

You tell him an abridged version, one that’s probably still too personal for him, and he consoles you the best he can.

You still feel the finality when he hangs up, though, the sense of obligation he felt to inform you of his girlfriend obvious from the start. It’s an unspoken agreement that neither one of you will contact the other so as not to intrude on his new relationship, and you imagine it’ll be the last time he calls you this year.

And you’re okay with that—have been okay with it for years by now. Sicheng’s gone, not the one that got away, and you feel a deep peace settle in your bones.

One day, you’ll feel the same about Lucas, too, and that victory carries you through the week.

ATLANTA, GA, SENIOR YEAR

Oxford Road, 4:28 p.m.

“Hi, Lucas.”

He looks up from his laptop, pulling his textbook from the cafe table to make more room for you. “Hey, it’s good to see you again.”

The awkwardness you’ve been preparing for in your meeting never comes. “You too,” you say, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. “How have you been?”

“I’m doing really well. How ‘bout you?”

“Me too. I’m glad you’re doing good. How’d that internship go, by the way?”

“Oh my god, it went great,” he recounts. “Ten told you how he was interning under a different department, right? And that he worked on the floor above mine?”

“He did. Did y’all see each other often? He didn’t really mention a lot other than how he got wasted with you.”

“Yeah. He’s less of a lightweight now, did you know? Anyways, I shared an apartment with a few guys, and one of them was from his hometown, and he was doing analytics as well and he mentioned that he had interned with you last summer. Do you remember a Hendery?”

“I remember him! Does he still have a bunch of questionable ties?”

“So many. We got him a Shrek tie that Ten ended up picking, and he wore it on the last day, it was great.”

You and Lucas are okay again.

You only realize that you never ordered a drink by the time you head out.

Executive Park, 10:42 p.m.

Sicheng calls for the first time in a year right when Winter leaves your college apartment for the last time. It’s not the last time you’ll see her before you move out, but it brings about a sense of finality.

“Hello?” you ask after a moment of silence.

“You’re still going to school in LA next year, right?”

“Hello?” Winter glances over, one hand on your doorknob, and you shake her head. Covering your phone, you mouth “I’m fine.” She doesn’t look convinced, but closes the door behind her anyways.

“Please,” he says, and his sense of urgency grabs your attention. “I’ll explain, but I need to know.”

“Yeah, I am. Why? What’s happening?”

“So. I might be moving there to teach at a dance studio.”

“You’re moving back?” you press. “Why? When? Which studio?”

“Millennium, sometime in the fall,” he says, loud chatter on his end briefly drowning out his words. “Shit—I don’t have a lot of time right now, but I got confirmation that I’ll be teaching there just now, and I—I remembered you were gonna be there, and, you know? Can we talk about this sometime later? I’m at the studio right now, I just—”

“Sicheng, that’s fine,” you say when you hear the talking in the background pick up again, worried that he’s missing out on a class or practice. “I’m proud of you for making it there. We’ll talk later?”

“Thank you, yeah, we should.”

You nod, not knowing what to do. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he says, and you hang up as soon as the syllable has left his mouth.

Sicheng’s moving back. He’s moving back, a stranger behind his familiar smile, and it’s difficult to think about meeting him when you’d assumed you’d never see him again.

Against the backdrop of surprise, your curiosity stands out the most. You wonder what kind of person he grew into—wonder if he ever found something besides dance to chase, what his most recent catchphrase is, how his girlfriend is doing, if he still listens to the SoundCloud rapper after he went into pop, how often he calls his parents—and you miss the ease of being able to ask him, no sour memories to impede even the simplest of conversations.

This is the price you have to pay, you suppose, for knowing you were meant to outgrow each other.

[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

“Are you hurt?” “No.” “Then why are there bruises all over your face?“ / “Why are you lying to me?” / “OH you’re jealous!” For Rowaelin?😍 (and no, I‘m a just little obsessed with Rowaelin😇😅)

Yeah, I'm a little obsessed with them too. Thanks for the request, this was super fun to write.

Full Masterlist

Oh, You're Jealous.

Rowan Whitethorn wondered if his fiance was that oblivious or if she really loved screwing with him. Either way, it was torture watching her bounce from one group to another, greeting them with a smile. He didn't miss the way people looked at her, his only consolation being that her answering smiles weren't half as sincere.

He knew how hard she'd worked to organise this gala. It was crucial to gain investors for her projects so there she went, trying to please every last guest she could.

With the bright smile she was flashing around and the way her eyes came alive, Rowan would have handed over his entire business to her if she asked.

The night was coming to an end, and if her face was anything to go by, it had been a huge success. Aelin looked tired when she came to sit beside him. "You won't believe how many—" she was cut off by another voice.

"There's the lady of the hour," the man said. Rowan knew him from school. Fenrys Moonbeam grinned at his fiancèe.

She squealed, rising from her seat and the next thing he knew, they were hugging each other like crazies. Rowan knew they'd been best friends in school and that they kept in touch; he hadn't realised they were still this close.

Aelin pulled away and punched him in the shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me you planned to come?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise, but there was traffic and I got held up." Rowan didn't miss the fact that he was still holding her hand. "You look so pretty, Ace, I have to say adulthood agrees with you."

Aelin snorted, "Flatterer."

Fenrys huffed, as if he couldn't believe she didn't believe him. Looking at him, Rowan couldn't help but scowl. He'd always looked nice, but adulthood agrees with him too. Almost as well built as himself and dressed with a careless grace, he looked like he belonged in some fashion magazine.

Rowan cleared his throat.

If Aelin knew how put out he was, she didn't show it. "Right, Rowan, meet Fenrys: my long distance best friend and Fenrys, meet Rowan, my ex boyfriend."

Fenrys raised an eyebrow. "Ex?"

Rowan growled, pulling her closer. "She means current fiancè." Sometimes, he didn't know what to do with Aelin.

"Oh," The intruder looked surprised for a moment, then barked out a laugh. "I'm surprised, Ace. I thought you got over your crush like, years ago."

Rowan blinked. "Crush?"

"Why, she spent all of recess staring at you! Didn't you ever wonder why no one ever took the lunch table you sat at?" Fenrys' dark eyes twinkled with mischief. "Aelin made everyone promise they won't, because from her seat, that table was in perfect—" he was cut off here when she jumped at him, her hand clamped his mouth shut.

When Aelin pulled away, her face was flushed red. She buried her face in Rowan's shoulder and whined.

Fenrys ran a hand through his dark curls, then after exchanging numbers with Aelin and promising to meet up with her again soon, he went off to god knew where. The brightness of her smile could have rivalled the fucking sun and Rowan found it hard not to smile back at her.

She said, "This is so great, I can catch up with Fenrys! Maybe you could come too?" until Aelin noticed the look on Rowan's face. "What happened?"

"I don't like him very much."

Aelin's brows furrowed as they always did when she was thinking hard, then she dropped that expression. "Oh, you're jealous." It wasn't a question.

"I am not," Rowan insisted.

Her eyes twinkled with mischief, and the expression looked so similar to Fenrys', if Aelin had any chance of believing him, it was lost now.

She raised an eyebrow. "You aren't?"

"Nope."

"Not even a little?"

"I'm not."

"So you'd be completely okay with me spending the night at his apartment? Like a sleepover, for old times' sake."

He growled before he realised she meant it as a joke. "Fine, maybe I am."

Aelin sighed through her nose, then plopped up on the table in front of him. She took both his hands in hers. "Why?"

"Why won't I be?" he asked. "He-he looks nice, he's-he's rich, he knows you longer than I do."

"But he's not the one I was staring at all through high school, or the one I blackmailed so many people for, just so I could sit next to him sometimes, or the one I cheered for at every football game." He was sure she was joking until he looked up.

Sincerity was such a rare look on her face, it erased all his doubts. "You did?"

"Mhmm," she said, and kissed him. "But I'll torture you to death if you ever bring that up again." Rowan laughed.

──────✧❅✦❅✧──────

tags:

@thesirenwashere // @courtofjurdan //@fangirltrash74 // @the-dark-swan // @queenofgreenbriar // @clockworkgraystairs // @julemmaes // @rowaelinforeverworld // @mymultiversee // @queen-of-glass // @strangely-constructed-soul // @mijaldraws // @http-itsrebecca // @aesthetics-11 // @lord-douglas-the-third // @flowersinvegas // @towhateverend17 // @aelinchocolatelover // @justabunchoffandoms // @cool-ish-nerd // @faerie-queen-fireheart // @sad-book-whore // @didsomeonesayviolin // @atozfantazyxx // @hizqueen4life // @the-gods-killer // @booknerdproblems // @annejulianneh111 // @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln // @b00kworm // @mysweetvillain // @curlyredqueen06 // @moondancer-204 // @thesurielships // @witchling-leonor // @ladywitchling // @amren-courtofdreams // @ifinallygavein // @jlinez // @faequeenaelin // @df3ndyr // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @bitchy-knees // @superspiritfestival // @xx-fiona-xx // @stardelia // @maastrash // @miihlovesnoone

[malikmata]

Notes from a Brown Boy - Kansas Diaries

*Author’s Note: Some people’s names have been changed to protect their identities

The rain was the first thing to greet me when I landed in Wichita. Overhead the gray clouds loomed, shadowing the farmland that yawned in the distance. Distance. At first glance, the city seemed like one long stretch of prairies and cracked parking lots, occasionally punctuated by billboards of grinning injury lawyers and lit up restaurant road signs.

If you spend enough time here amid the crumbling old buildings, watching the weeds sway in the vacant lots, you’ll feel the slow, inevitable creep of dread or something like it.

It’s easy to feel lonely here.

But, if you’re receptive enough, you’ll run into many friendly folks. Sometimes too friendly.

For example: During my first week, I went to Freddy’s, a local fast food chain, and ordered a crispy chicken sandwich with fries. The cashier, a young woman with glasses and short blonde hair, suddenly started confessing her fear that her 8-year old chihuahua wouldn’t live a long life.

“I still think of him as a teenager,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s a chihuahua. They live long lives.”

Out here, in the most middle-of-the-road cities, you sometimes get a chance to show an act of passing kindness. While waiting in line at one of the hip, new cafes downtown, a place called Milkfloat, a tall elderly gentleman recommended which coffee and pastry to get.

“My wife says this place has the best cold brew in town.” Afterwards, grabbing his pastry and coffee, he wished me a good day. Most folks here always do and you better hope it comes true. Because here, like elsewhere, a day is filled with ordinary heartbreaks.

I will simply call her “Tita.” She works as a tailor at a department store, the only tailor working there, hemming and tapering racks full of suit pants under fluorescent lights. The nature of the job requires exact measurements and a keen eye for detail. She works hard, often skips lunch, and comes home dead tired. Her husband is recovering from 4 broken ribs after a car repair job went awry. Nothing can be done but wait until he gets better.

They live in a languid suburb on Wichita’s east side, a street with few sidewalks but plenty of lawn.

And noise. Plenty of noise. The neighborhood sits next to a car dealership. The skies overhead rumble continuously with airplanes and thunderstorms. Dogs bark at anyone who gets too close. A pickup truck blasts a corny country song as the cicadas and frogs belt out their lonely mating calls. Occasionally, a child’s laughter rises above it all.

Gossip is one of the great pastimes in towns like these. Even if you shut yourself up in your home, stories trickle in.

The neighbor across the street shot himself in the head.

The elderly couple that used to live next door got committed to a nursing home.

A fellow around the corner is on his third attempt to grow weed.

A college student starves himself morning to night so that he can save money for college.

Down the street, a kid lifts weights and punches the heavy bag hanging on his front porch.

Here, dumb luck seems, more so than in the big cities, the providence of God.

A man told me he got a job installing new carpets at a friend’s house. He was in desperate need of money, having sent most of it to his mother back home, who proceeded to gamble it away. When he ripped out the old carpet, he found a bundle of $10,000 dollars just lying there. His co-worker said, “We should split it.”

“No, no, we can’t take it.” the man said. He gave the money to his friend.

Sometime later, he went to the casino and couldn’t stop winning jackpot after jackpot. He brought home close to $16,000 in one night.

“So, if you do something good,” he told me, “God will remember that.”

Many people have come to live and die here, all of them wrapped up in the melancholic churning of faded ambitions and familial obligations.

Some people here have found something that returns them to the placidity they once felt in their youth. Sometimes that’s enough to keep them going.

For example:

I met Phil Uhlik, the namesake of the music store on E Douglas. He heard me playing an old Martin acoustic in one of the rooms. He shuffled in slightly hunched over, wearing a blue paisley shirt and brown shorts. He looked at the sunburst guitar in my hands and said, “It’s got a little beauty mark there.” He pointed to a small nick just above the sound hole. “All girls have beauty marks.” He pointed to his cheeks and smiled.

Uhlik started this music store 51 years ago and enjoys every moment of it.

“When you go to work for Boeing, that’s work,” he said. “But this, it doesn’t feel like work.” He motioned to the instruments all around him.

“How’d you get started?” I asked.

“I started off playing one of these,” he said, taking one of the accordions off a nearby shelf. As he strapped it on, all the years seemed to disappear. With a big crooked-teeth grin, he breathed life into the old accordion, his hands dancing up and down the keys. The smile never left his face as we bid farewell to each other.

I wish everyone in this world were as lucky as Phil.

I’m always seeking indie bookstores when I travel. Eighth Day Books provides much needed shelter from the summer heat. The shop was built 33 years ago and used to be located about half a mile east, in Clifton Square Village. About 17 years ago they moved to their current location, a 1920 Dutch-style colonial house on the corner of E Douglas and N Erie. Its blue trimmed windows peek through the foliage of neighboring trees.

When you walk in, you’ll see shelves of books on Christianity and Theological studies, most notably in the Eastern Orthodox tradition. I’ve never seen a bookshop with a section dedicated to Iconography.

Wichita, despite its size, feels like a small place. And with that cramped spaciousness, you’re likely to run into someone you may remember or who may remember you. Here I ran into my girlfriend’s 8th grade English teacher. A bald, bespectacled man with a gentle demeanor. After a bit of catching up, he said to us with a smile, “I hope all your dreams come true.”

The short story writer, Raymond Carver, once wrote: “Dreams… are what you wake up from.”

Wichita is a land that hypnotizes you; it makes you dream, dream of something beyond the miles of strip malls and airplane factories, beyond the shocks of wheat and windswept plains, beyond the doldrums and ennui. But it also shakes you awake, reminds you that you’re in it, that you better stop dreaming.

I’m not the religious sort anymore, having survived the regime laid down by my Catholic parents. But there is something enthralling, maybe even inspirational, when I look at the rows of beautifully painted portraits of saints and martyrs. Such solemn faces surrounded by golden halos. According to the Eastern Orthodox tradition, such paintings transcend art; they’re supposed to be windows through which you can glimpse the divine. They remind me of my grandparents with their judging eyes and moral seriousness.

My book haul for the day:

Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata

The Diary of Anne Frank

Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries by Marina Tsvetaeva

Near to the Wild Heart by Clarice Lispector

In that last book, I found this lovely little passage:

…”in the Revolution, as always, the weight of everyday life falls on women: previously--in sheaves, now in sacks. Everyday life is a sack with holes. And you carry it anyway.”

From Earthly Signs, P. 40

According to the 2019 United States census bureau, 15.9% of Wichita's population lives below the poverty line. That’s higher than the state average, which hovers around 11.4%. That’s not the lowest nor is it the highest in the country. As befitting its location, Kansas is right in the middle.

The minimum wage in Kansas is still $7.25 despite efforts to increase it to $15. When Covid-19 hit, city and service workers bore the brunt of the impact. You can keep all your empty slogans like  “We Love Our Frontline Workers.” Congratulate me all you want for my hard work but where’s my pay?

When you see that business here has returned to normal--people freely walking around without masks, no longer socially distancing--it still feels all too strange; we spent an entire year under lockdown. There’s still a pandemic by the way.

Loved ones fell ill, died alone, hooked up to ventilators in closed off hospital rooms. I believe every interaction now carries the weight of all those deaths. My family, like so many others, didn’t escape unscathed from the pandemic. My grandpa, Amang, caught Covid. Since he was an elderly citizen (and suffering from emphysema to boot), he was among those considered most at risk. We all feared the worst. Somehow he survived. The doctors called him a “trailblazer.”

Now, with businesses back to 100% capacity, I’m afraid that, just like the 1918 Flu epidemic, the past will fade like a nightmare upon waking. But it was so much more than that; it was an avoidable tragedy.

If you want to know what this pandemic has done to people and their livelihoods, is still doing to them, take a ride through downtown.

Things were already going bad before Covid hit. Back in 2004, the writer Thomas Frank wrote,

“There were so many closed shops in Wichita… that you could drive for blocks without ever leaving their empty parking lots, running parallel to the city streets past the shut-down sporting goods stores and toy stores and farm implement stores.”

What’s the Matter with Kansas: How Conservatives Won the Heart of America, P. 75

What led to all this blight? Frank attributes the decline to:

“the conservatives’ beloved free market capitalism, a system that, at its most unrestrained, has little use for smalltown merchants or the agricultural system that supported the small towns in the first place.”

-P. 79

The same story happens in a lot of places. A megacorporation keeps eating everything around it and leaves nothing else at the table.

The people are left hurting, a pit in their stomachs, and some asshole somewhere profits off of it.

While at the DMV, I overheard this:

“You have a good day now,” the security guard said.

“I’ll try my best,” a woman said.

My girlfriend heard them too and laughed.

“You really do have to try your best in order to have a good day here.”

At some point, we hit the town with a couple friends: Monica, and her boyfriend Will. Both are musicians trying to carve out their niche in a place that, on the surface, seems apathetic to creative pursuits.

It’s impossible to not be captured by their energy. As soon as we walk into their house, Monica, with her dark blonde hair draped over her shoulders, reached in for a hug. Will, a tall and bearded fellow with a bear-like presence, also went in for the hug.

“Ready to experience some Wichita nightlife?” Monica asked.

What is the nightlife here like? A group of high school punks wanted to fight us over a couple movie theater seats. Bored kids play rounds of “Chinese Fire Drill” at stop lights. I heard a nazi biker gang rolled into town at some point during my stay. Regular things like that.

At a low-key bar downtown called Luckys, I met a guy named Cory. He told me how he met a 15 year old kid loitering here, looking lost and forlorn.

“I don’t know what kind of advice I can give you but I’ll do the best I can,” Cory said.

This is the spirit I’ve often come across during my stay: A sort of slightly intrusive compassion. For a cynical Californian like me, the behavior seems a little strange, maybe even a little annoying. But I’ve come to appreciate the candor of it.

“Guaranteed we’ll know half the people here,” Will said.

Right away, he shook hands with the bartender—a high school friend of his—and asked him how his band was doing. Afterwards, we sat down and talked. Talking, after a year of pandemic lockdown, has become a lost art to me. But a little alcohol loosened the lips and suddenly I talked as though I’d known these people my whole life.

Will sipped his whisky on the rocks and told me:

“If everything in this world is meant to break down eventually, then any act of creation becomes an act of defiance.”

It may sound naive but to me, it’s true. I think about the words of the writer, John Berger:

Compassion defies the laws of necessity. To forget yourself and identify with a stranger has a power that defies the supposed natural order of things.

--The Shape of a Pocket, P. 179

Making art has to be, in some way, a compassion act, because it involves letting the environment and the people you meet speak for themselves, allowing a collaboration.

“When a painting is lifeless it is the result of the painter not having the nerve to get close enough for a collaboration to start… Every authentic painting demonstrates a collaboration.”

--The Shape of a Pocket, P. 16

You need to open yourself up, feel what someone is saying behind their words, and hopefully, feel what they feel.

Art, like Compassion, is defiant.

Among the 4 or so Asian markets here, you can find all the ingredients you need to cook up something good. During my first week, I stopped at a place called Grace Market. Like a lot of small Asian markets, it’s family run. A father from Taiwan. A mother from Korea. The son usually helps out when he can. Today (June 23), On this warm Wednesday morning, the son is manning the cash register.

“You’re from California? I’m from there too,” he said.

“Where at?” I asked.

“Sacramento. How about you? So Cal?”

“Nah, Bay Area.”

“Funny. That’s where my parents met.”

“Small world.”

On a different day, we met the father, a jovial man who never fails to say hi when you walk in. He came here over a couple decades ago from California, doing work for the US Army in Garden City. Once his service was over, he decided to stay in Kansas.

“I think you know why,” he said.

More and more young folks these days are leaving California. The high cost of living is presumably what’s driving this exodus. I told him I was also thinking of leaving the Golden State, as much as I love the place.

“Well, a town like this has a lot of potential if you want to save money,” he said. “If I tried to start this business in California, I don’t think I could’ve done it.”

The summer heat can, with the suddenness of a lightning flash, give way to thunderous storms. Speaking as someone from California, whose home has gone through excruciating periods of drought and wildfire, these nightly downpours are a startling yet relaxing sight.

The distant boom of thunder in the distance reminds you of how much of our lives depend on the weather, how small we are in comparison, how we are never separate from the goings-on of nature. The rain doesn’t come down lightly here. At night, it smacks and drums against the window pane with all the force of an animal trying to get inside.

But I don’t find myself frightened by it so much as awed by the combined power of wind and rain colliding against our rickety old house.

Kansas lies in the Great Plains, where layers of cool and warm air often combine into a low-level jet stream. Unimpeded by any natural obstacles on the wide flat plains, the wind roars across the expanse. Thunder growls over the prairie. And lightning flashes on the horizon in a fearsome red tinge.

The storm rages throughout the night, the only source of light in an ocean-sized plain.

“In general, the gods of the Wichita are spoken of as "dreams," and they are divided into four groups: Dreams-that-are-Above (Itskasanakatadiwaha), or, as the Skidi would say, the heavenly gods; and (2) Dreams-down-Here (Howwitsnetskasade), which, according to the Skidi terminology, are the earthly gods. The latter "dreams" in turn are divided into two groups: Dreams-living-in-Water (Itska-sanidwaha), and the Dreams-closest-to-Man (Tedetskasade)”

From The Mythology of the Wichita, P. 33

If you go downtown, you’ll see a sculpture called “The Keeper of the Plains.”

It’s almost 9 o’ clock when I get there, so large crowds have gathered to watch the ring of fire lit around its perimeter.

The statue was designed by indigenous artist and craftsman, Blackbear Bosin. Born in Cyril, Oklahoma, but living much of his adult life in Wichita, Kansas, Bosin was of Comanche and Kiowa descent and almost entirely self-taught as an artist.

When you come upon the Keeper of the Plains, standing tall on the fork of the Arkansas and Little Arkansas Rivers, you can’t help but feel a mix of admiration and sadness. It’s a striking statue, especially when set against the beautiful orange and lavender hues of the setting sun. But monuments like these end up reminding you of the Wichita peoples who were killed, displaced, driven from their land, and left to die in reservations, forgotten. The tribes that once lived here along the southern plains still show traces of their culture but now, you’ll see it mostly as a memory in a museum or as art hanging on the walls of a library.

I learned from a video by the Wichita Eagle that the last speaker of the Wichita language, Doris Jean Lamar, died back in 2016. It must be indescribably lonely to be the last speaker of a language. There is no one to have a conversation with, no one to whom you can confess your hopes or your regrets. But in the video, Lamar, even knowing that she is the last speaker, expresses hope that future generations will know what the language sounded like.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ScPkN_xGRI

Is forgiveness even possible when injustices are still committed today against native peoples everywhere?

Not enough can be said about the skies here, which seem at times so brilliantly marbled with peach and lavender colors that you begin to walk with your head perpetually craned upwards.

It’s this aspect, the overwhelming sense of the sublime, that will probably stay with me long after I’ve left Kansas.

I think again about the nature of dreams. It isn’t such a sin to dream about things, about things that haven’t happened yet, and about things that have happened. To quit dreaming seems too cynical, like admitting from the outset that everything is screwed, that you should stop trying.

During my stay here, I’ve met many people who aren’t so irony poisoned yet, people who are achingly sincere and kind. They haven’t stopped trying. There isn’t much room for cynicism here. I appreciate that a lot.

Farewell to you, Kansas, you and your clumps of cumulus and vast fields of cows and grass. I’ll see you again.

Check out Will’s music! It’s gloomy, melancholy, and LOUD!: https://teamtremolo.bandcamp.com/album/intruder

[wolfcha1k]

It’s Our Nature

["You know, Grug. Eventually, Eep and Guy, they're going to want to start their own pack. Just like we did, it's our nature."] Grug is confused about when his little girl stopped being so little, perhaps its time Gran and Ugga tried reminding him it wasn't too long ago he was just like Guy and Eep are now. [Pre!A New Age, contains Guy/Eep and Grug/Ugga fluff/One-Shot]

You can read it here on Fanfiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13785964/1/It-s-Our-Nature

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28525908

Please leave a read and a review ~ Thank you ~It was really hard sometimes for Grug to accept his little girl wasn't so little anymore. She'd always been stuck like tar to his side and would demand stories as a young child. The old cave walls were filled with tiny hand prints he never realized had grown bigger until Guy came along and forced him to be reminded Eep was indeed a woman. She was nineteen summers old and the fact wasn't lost on anyone who had functioning eyes in their head. 

Fathers only saw with their hearts though and inside Grug's his daughter was still that rambunctious sweet little girl who needed him to protect her. That also included suitors.

"Grug you're brooding again," he heard Ugga say from behind him.

"This is just my face." Grug shifted his weight from where he sat lounging against his favorite rock. 

"Trust me, I can see them just as clearly as you can." 

Grug couldn't help but stiffen at her call out of his snooping. Was it really spying though if the two were out in the open? They were together by the beach with Chunky playing third wheel. The demanding feline squeezed his way between them when he felt they were being too touchy. Or maybe it was just Grug self projecting, his cat generally liked being the center of attention. Guy and Eep were fishing by hand in the water but it soon turned into a game of seeing who could out run the tide first whilst trying to knock the other down. Chunky kept getting confused by this activity as he shook droplets off his wet paws. 

Eep was in the lead by at least seven points, it wasn't like Grug was keeping track though. "Why didn't you tell me sooner Eep was all grown up?" Grug side eyed his mate who just laughed at him. 

"She's up to your shoulder and gives you a hard time like every teenager, I thought it was obvious." Ugga nudged him with her elbow, her small hands were busy threading a bone needle with sinew as she sewed new clothes for her family. 

"Well… she was always a stubborn girl and big for her age," he quipped as he crossed his arms.

"And then she got that doe-eyed look when mister-you-know-who showed up." Ugga batted her eyelashes playfully in emphasis and folded her hands beneath her chin a moment. It was hard to keep a straight face, Ugga quickly laughed it off. Grug set his jaw in a very uncharacteristic pout.

"Never should have stuffed him in the log," Grug said with less heart than he actually felt. Sure, he enjoyed roughing the kid up sometimes and making a big show of being upset seeing Eep with Guy but in truth he was fond of the… guy. It was still his job as a dad to scare Guy a little. 

"Oh don't say that, he's practically our son now."

"Does that mean I need to protect him from Eep then?" He kept the edge of hope out of his voice the best he could as he faced his mate.

Ugga rested her chin on her fist thoughtfully, she put the needle safely away as she watched the two lovebirds chase one another on the beach. "You might, honestly," Ugga said with a warm voice. "She's a handful."

He heard a startled yelp from the shore and got to enjoy the sight of Guy yet again face planting in the sand. Eep pounced over his toppled form, he was spitting sand from his mouth.

"Gotta be faster than that!" She shouted with a victorious smile. 

Guy mustered the energy to mockingly look at her like he was bothered but the toothy grin that spread on his face afterward said otherwise. 

"Lovesick idiots," remarked Gran as she hobbled over to join them. She watched Eep and Guy fondly despite her toughness. "What I wouldn't give to be their age again. Especially with a boy like him, where was he fifty summers ago?"

"Ugh, I don't need that mental image," Grug mumbled with a shudder, his face surly. 

"Aw Grug. Don't you remember what it was like to be young and in love?"

"I do, and that's why I'm worried!" Grug jutted a thumb behind him and caught the confused blank stare Guy gave the group at catching their gossip. "Young and hot blooded, Ugga."

Eep went over to haul Guy back up by the scruff of his neck. She shot Grug an embarrassed and irritated look that was muffled by her wild mane of red hair. "Ugh… Dad, we can hear you!"

"Good! So keep your hands to yourselves! You don't want little Eeps!" Grug paused. "I don't want more little Eeps, one of you is plenty!"

Guy gaped at them like a suffocating fish, Gran guffawed and shook her head. "Let them be, lunkhead. Not like they'll do anything in front of us, eh?" The two younger children of the Croods clan, Sandy and Thunk, looked up in confusion from where they were busy playing with Douglas a short distance away.

Eep pulled the curtain of hair over her eyes and wished for the ground to swallow her. Guy rubbed the back of his neck at the narrow eyed look Grug shot him. 

Ugga rolled her eyes and began to try shooing the old woman off. "Mom, please."

"Come now, it's my generational right to tease the youngsters." Gran reached forward with her staff to hook it under the back of Grug's pelt shirt. She jerked it up with more speed than a lady her age should have, causing Grug to choke a moment as he grabbed for the shirt collar. "See? Like that! Sides, I got plenty of blackmail about you two turtledoves too. Grug was pathetic."

Grug eyed her with a pointed glare once he was free of her pesky walking stick. Gran was unbothered, only grinned a toothy smile as she flopped comfortably onto the sand. She glanced towards Eep who perked at the potential to embarrass her father for once. It was hard to miss the mischievous wink she sent her granddaughter. Grug didn't like the curious glint in those green eyes as his spunky daughter practically skidded to seat herself near Gran. Guy followed clumsily as she had a vice grip on his hand. How Eep hadn't pulled his shoulder out along the way, Grug would never know.

It wasn't long until the entire family were seated in front of Gran. Thunk had Douglas in his lap and Sandy was curled around Belt who cooed at the attention. Ugga gave her mate a look that was screaming 'you brought this on yourself', Grug resigned himself to his fate out of pride. Real men didn't run from such things and as the patriarch he refused to be cowed by silly stories of when he was courting Ugga. 

"What was dad like with mom?" Eep asked as she leaned forward, grinning. She looked at Grug who just huffed. 

"Like I said, utter mushy rotten fruit. You think Guy is tooth rotting, you should have seen your father in his day." Guy pouted at being the butt of the joke as usual, he cast his dark eyes at Grug. He smirked as if to boast at the boy, smug that he wasn't going down alone in this evening razzing. "I wanted to chuck a rock at him every time he came to see Ugga."

Some of Guy's pride was built back up again though when Eep fondly rubbed shoulders with him. Grug began to wonder if it really was self-projecting this time when Chunky nosed his way between the young couple for a snuggle. Guy looked startled whilst Eep just scratched the Macawnivore between the ears.

Ugga decided to play traitor this night. "Mom how about you tell the kids about that time when Grug went on that big errand you gave him."

Grug couldn't help but wince and gave Ugga a scowl. The little minx had the nerve to grin innocently at him despite the betrayal. 

"Big errand?" Guy echoed, he was barely visible from under Chunky's massive form.

"That story is my favorite," Gran cackled with a devious gleam in her eye. "And see Guy, back in our day if you wanted to court a woman you had to do something for the head of the family! Gramp was dead so I got to pick the task. Bless that heart attack he had."

Eep and Guy shared a look before both teenagers gazed questionably at Grug. He fidgeted before rolling his eyes. "That was Yesterday stuff. Besides, Guy saved us from The End with all his weird ideas so… consider the tab paid off."

"That brain thing of yours is really useful," Eep agreed with a girlish tone. 

Guy blushed red at the compliment but didn't shy away from it. If anything it just made him glow proudly. "There's more where that came from," he quipped and knocked his knuckles lightly against his temple.

Grug almost wished he'd missed the bright, lovesick smiles the two shared despite Chunky barring them apart to the best of his ability. The desire for his daughter's happiness won out though, luckily for Guy who beamed. Even protective fathers and clingy Macawnivores weren't enough to stop true love it seemed.

"Anyway… it's no secret I didn't like your dad. So I came up with the most impossible task ever to earn Ugga." Gran licked her dry lips as she grunted, "Of course Grug had to go and actually do it."

"What did you make dad do?" 

"Told him to go get a hair off a naked molephant."

Guy blinked. "But naked molephants don't have hair."

"Well, this is Grug so of course the nincompoop found the one blasted molephant that had hair." Grug let himself puff his chest out like a peacock preening its feathers. 

"Yeah, well, you should have known better when you set me out on a job, Gran." He gave his mother-in-law a catty grin, for now he could relish in a past victory that smarted her way back when.

Eep looked at her grandmother mischievously. "So… when does the story get good?"

Ugga snickered, by now she had abandoned her sewing to sit between Thunk and Sandy. Thunk leaned against his mother as the woman combed her fingers through his scruffy mop of hair. "When he came back with his tunic ripped apart by a tusk," Ugga interjected.

"Wow," Thunk said in awe, turning his eyes to stare at Grug. Grug appreciated at least one Crood wasn't laughing at him. "How'd you do that?"

Gran cocked an eyebrow with a chuckle. "Yeah Grug, tell them."

Grug crossed his arms moodily. "Just for the record, it was a real life or death battle getting that stupid hair."

"Ugga was sewing his left buttocks for weeks," Gran said with a slap to her knee, the memory made her lifetime, really. She lifted her bony hands up to gesture with those old curled fingers of hers a measurement. "He's got a scar like this—"

"—ANYWAY! Like I was saying," Grug grumbled. He turned his attention back to his family. He scooped up a clump of sand and clay from the ground below and drew a vaguely person-like shape into the rock he had been lounging on. Then he drew a beast with tusks and a long nose next to him. "It was a battle of life and death, there I was, twenty two summers old—"

It was pure spite that kept him going hours after setting forth into the desert. Gran was convinced he couldn't win her daughter as his mate, and so when the old lizard raised the stakes he was determined to prove her wrong. He would get Ugga, she was something special and worth more than daylight itself.

He loved her and if it took getting a stupid molephant hair to be with her then so be it. Gran had been making him jump through hurdles since the day he'd met Ugga, it was no secret they shared a mutual loathing for each other. It also came from the same selfless affection the two had for Ugga, though Grug would have thought knowing he made her daughter happy was enough for her. Growling under his breath, he wiped the sweat from his brow. 

There was still a good five knuckles before the sun would set, he'd find it before then. Either that or he was going to face the dangers night brought—

“You? Staying outside at night?” Eep sounded doubtful.

“...yes,” Grug huffed. 

“See? Big mush,” Gran interrupted.

"Can I finish? Nobody interrupted this much back in the cave," he grumbled moodily.

—He was sure the beast was around here somewhere as he took a cautionary sniff of the dry, dusty air. Grug could see footprints inbedded in the barren and broken ground that sand didn't cover yet. Running onwards, he pressed his knuckles into the ground as he paced himself. 

Grug crossed the desert quickly and ignored the aching in his palms and feet from the hot tough earth. He was built strong and a little pain wouldn't stop his pride. He paused when the scent grew stronger, flaring his nostrils he climbed up a nearby tree to survey what was around. The sun was strong against his eyes and Grug strained through the bright rays of light to see a dark speck in the distance. In a nearby canyon below, Grug finally found what he was looking for—

"What about never being afraid?" Thunk asked his father.

Grug looked at Thunk before settling his dark eyes on his beloved Ugga. "I was afraid," he admitted with a chuckle. "But I wanted to impress your mother more. Being stubborn and hormonal is a terrible mix."

"You stubborn? No!" Eep exclaimed with a teasing grin. Guy gave her a playful look from where he was walled by Chunky.

Grug made a vague gesture with his hand and he relished in the confused faces Eep and Guy made when Chunky pressed his full weight against both of them. Guy yelped for mercy as Eep tugged on the cheeky feline that was crushing him into the sand.

"Grug! Please call him off!" A large paw cuffed his head, Guy's words quickly muffled.

"Dad!"

Grug suppressed a grin as he went back to his story. "I found the molephant so what was next was getting the hair—"

Grug couldn't say how long it took climbing down that cliff wall to reach the level the molephant was at. It was risky and went against what Grug practiced in his beliefs. Caution and fear kept him alive this long, yet here he was about to go harass an molephant for some hair it might or might not have. Dread pooled in his belly and made him cold, going after more beasts was not how he wanted this to go. Breathing heavily through his gritted teeth, Grug crept as quietly as he could across the canyon. There were many tall and small rocks around that would provide cover should he need to hide.

Grug didn't have a brain, cavemen didn't use those. At least he didn't and it showed when he found himself running full speed away from a rampaging molephant. He relied on his gut instinct to weave and dodge its massive tusks that were swung at him. Grug scrambled and whenever he managed to get close, the creature stomped it's way towards him with a vengeance.

He bit back a curse when a tusk just barely ripped part of his tunic at his chest—

"—so this is when the story gets to the best part," Eep interrupted with a cheeky hum. She'd since rescued Guy from the weight of Chunky and had him cuddled protectively in her arms. She rested her chin on his mused up brown hair. Guy idly stroked one of her hands that were interlocked at his neck and chest.

"I thought it was always at the best part," Thunk quipped in a confused voice to his sister.

"If I say anything else I'm worried I'll become Macawnivore food," Guy said and tipped his head to the side with a huff. 

Ugga smiled at her children as Grug shot them a look to be silent. "Look if you want to laugh at me can I finish this up then first?"

Gran reached her staff out to bop Eep over the head, her bushy red hair cushioned the blow. "Yeah, hush your tongue." 

Eep huffed when she felt Guy trying to muffle his grin into her arm. Grug shook his head at the sight, feeling a fond nostalgia swell within him despite the protective instinct. He looked at Ugga and she just arched a brow at her mate. Grug turned back to telling the story, large fingers drawing more on the rock.

"The molephant was putting up a good fight but your old dad was better—"

—He was swearing aloud and screaming as he hung onto the tusk by his shirt. Grug was glad he didn't feel wounded but this was just a disaster waiting to happen. Even the molephant seemed dismayed at the fact he now had the man stuck on his face. It kept rampaging and Grug strained against the beast in order to sink his feet forcibly into the hard earth. Dust filled the air and with his innate strength, Grug managed to swing his body around to grab it by its tusk. The molephant slowed and leaned back to buck, swinging Grug off after a lot of effort. 

He was thrown through the air and scrambled to find his feet as he rolled like a big boulder. Dazed, Grug just barely got out of the way of the molephant as it charged him. Panting, Grug finally saw the hair on its angrily swishing tail. It groaned in frustration and Grug realized the molephant had gotten its massive body stuck between two rocks. Panicked and running strictly on adrenaline, Grug reached forward to yank off a clump of hair from its tail. It trumpeted its distress, Grug began to rush away but there was the sound movement. He dared to look behind him, yelling out he did all he could to escape the incredibly pissed off beast.

It only took one stupid stumble to find that in that split moment he was thrown into the air. Pain flowered under his back and rump. The last seconds felt like they were slow motion as he landed harshly into a patch of huge, prickly brambles. Everything went blurry and before he knew it, there was nothing...

He'd awoken to darkness and the scent of blood in his nose. He was tangled upside down in a bramble bush and covered in an uncomfortable amount of burrs. There was also pain in his rear end and back, Grug noted with a groan. However the panic he felt for that hair won out his concern for his current state. He couldn't go back without that blasted hair!

He froze his struggling at a sound in the distance and cowardly he hunkered down the best he could whilst suspended in the air head facing down. However, it soon turned into a voice. "...Grug! Grug?!'

"Ugga?!" He whispered harshly and in the moonlight he saw the cavewoman trotting cautiously on all fours. "I'm over here!"

Ugga hurried towards him and gave him a worried once over. Grug grinned at her concern until she scowled, harshly tugging on his ear like he was an impudent child. "Are you asking for a death wish, Grug?! Look at you! I can't believe you took mom seriously!"

"...it's good to see you too, Ugga," he grunted, pressing a hand to his ear to drown out the headache she gave him.

Ugga circled him with careful gray eyes as she tried to figure out how to get him down. "You are lucky no hungry predators sniffed you out first before I did," Ugga continued to scold.

Grug stiffened at the mention of such a risk and reached an arm to grab her shoulder as if it would protect her. "You shouldn't even be out here," he grumbled back.

"I know but after hearing mom laughing it up with the tribe about this stupid errand I needed to find you," Ugga hissed, pulling away to give him another stink eye. "I'm so mad at you right now."

"Yeah well once I find where that dumb hair went I'll be the one laughing at her!" Grug exclaimed, wiggling in an attempt to dislodge himself. 

"Would you hold still? You're just going to make yourself worse," she complained and began to tear at the thicket with her strong, calloused hands.

Grug, being the stubborn man he was, continued to squirm this way and that. "I can get down myself," he huffed.

Ugga threw her hands up in frustration before yanking at a cord of bramble. "You have a head made of rocks, Grug."

Grug opened his mouth to argue back before suddenly falling. He cried out when his head hit the ground, grabbing at his neck in pain of the impact. Nursing a bump that felt like some giant goose egg, Ugga examined his tunic.

She made a noise through her teeth in fret. "How are you not dead right now?"

"I don't know!" He said with a growl, shuffling to sit up. Everything hurt from his skull to his toes that spread out in the pulse of his blood. "But between you, your mom and that molephant, all of you are really trying to bury me!"

Ugga rolled her eyes and spun him around, she pulled up his shirt before Grug could even protest. "You're lucky," she sighed, relief warming her voice. "That molephant tusk missed a major arterie. Really ruined your tunic though."

He softened and reached a hand out to touch her arm. "I got other shirts."

"It's probably going to scar. Can you walk?" Ugga faced him once again, he couldn't help but frown as he watched her wipe her bloody palm in the sand. My blood, Grug thought with a pained wince.

The adrenaline of the moment and even beyond it was wearing off, Grug really wanted to go back to his cave to nurse his wounds and ego. "I think so. Um… help balance me?" 

A smile lit up her face and Grug wondered if it was the blood loss or her that made him sway breathlessly. "Sure." Ugga offered her arm to him which he took.

However, he stopped with a groan. "Ugh… wait. The hair, I'm not going back without that hair!"

"Forget the hair, Grug. Mom will get over it."

"Oh no! Ugga, I'll never hear the end of it if I don't give her that stupid hair!" Grug let go of Ugga to try peering through the darkness on the ground, crouching on his knuckles.

Ugga put her hands on her hips. "What is so important about getting my mom this hair? Naked molephants don't even have hair."

Grug just stuck a finger at her triumphantly. "Yes, yes they do and I swear to the sun it's not just me getting loopy from all this blood loss."

"Grug, you're scaring me," Ugga said in a deadpanned tone, brows arched.

"That old lizard can't keep us apart anymore after this," he continued to ramble on and on.

"Grug…"

"If it's a hair that ancient fossil wants in order to get her out of mine for good then so be it," he continued.

"Grug!" 

"What?!"

"If you want to be my mate so bad why don't you just ask me yourself?"

Grug stopped his frantic search and stiffened up like a ribbit being hunted by a liyote. He turned to face her and saw she looked disappointed, arms crossed over her muscular chest. "Um… excuse me?" He wanted to kick himself for stuttering, he wasn't a boy anymore.

"I'm not something to trade for, and the fact you actually went through with it astounds me." Ugga shook her head with a sigh. 

Grug shuffled his weight uncomfortably, he'd never been good at addressing his feelings out in the open like that. Even if it was for Ugga whom he loved dearly. "I know you're not an object, Ugga."

"Then why ask mom?"

"I… I don't know. I guess… I got tired of her talking badly about, you know… us." Grug looked at her with a frown, uncharacteristically vulnerable. 

Ugga reached out to cup his cheek in her hand as she stood in front of him. "Mom says a lot of things, you really need to tune her out."

He turned his head to brush his nose against her palm in a fond gesture, slouching. "She always says I'm no good for you, Ugga."

"Well, lucky for us mom isn't the one you have to court. It's me." She leaned back on her heels, still stroking his face with a gentle touch for a woman as fierce as Ugga. 

"I'm just saying, getting her to shut up would be a win win to this mess." Grug shrugged his shoulders in a dismissive way, a small grin on his face.

Ugga rolled her eyes at him. "You and your manly pride are going to get you into trouble."

"If I'm already in trouble I might as well finish up," he quipped. Grug found his molephant hair amongst the broken debris the molephant had left in its rampaging wake, he’d lifted it up triumphantly in the moonlight. Ugga shook her head. “Okay, now, we can go back!”

When they returned, the sun had started to rise over the desert as dawn chased off the night. Gran had stood outside the dwelling she shared with Ugga, her scowl etched deep into her wrinkled features. The other families were creeping out of their dens in preparation of the morning hunt and foraging, their curious eyes were shocked to see Grug limping back into the canyon with Ugga supporting his hulking mass.

Grug shoved the wad of hair into Gran's face with a low growl, "Here's your stupid hair!" The old woman took it with muted shock for once, gaping mouth wide as she looked between Grug and Ugga. With a burst of adrenaline and pride, he looped his massive arm around Ugga's waist to haul her over his shoulder.

She gave a startled laugh, lightly smacking her fists into his back. "We're going back to this tradition, are we?"

"I gotta make sure your mom doesn't try anything again, you're as good as mine now," Grug huffed, limping with his Ugga secured in his grasp like she weighed light as a feather.

"You're too much, Grug."

"You've never complained before," he shot back with a grin.

"C'mon big guy, I think all that blood loss is affecting your head. Let me patch you up."

Grug headed for his cave, merry that he'd gotten Ugga and at the same time shut that awful lizard of a mother-in-law up. It costed him his pride, he noted, it was hard to ignore the snickering of the families around them. He only bared his teeth at them which seemed to work for the moment. Once his back was turned the whispering and giggling continued.

Ugga merely pressed her forehead into the back of his neck and it made everything better… least until Gran moved in but that was a different story for another tomorrow. 

Grug finished his story with flourish, loosely drawing what seemed to be a lopsided circle around the two images presenting Ugga and himself. 

"I like that story," Eep said, a bit dreamily as she looked at the pictures. "It wasn't really embarrassing though."

"It was if you were there," Grug scoffed as he wiped his clay covered hands on his pelt.

"Well, it still makes me laugh at least," Gran said from where she sat, cackling. 

"You laugh at anything that has me getting beat up," he pointed out, surprisingly with a much more amiable tone.

"Not true, now that you learned some jokes I laugh at other things too."

Ugga smiled fondly at her mate, letting Thunk sit up so she could go wrap her arms around his bicep in a hug. "Thank you," Ugga said, rubbing her nose into his cheek. 

Grug softened and felt his ears burn, giving her a small smile. His eyes fell to his audience and he couldn't help lingering on Eep who still had Guy draped in her lap. They were gazing at one another like nobody else existed around them for the moment, Guy lifting a finger to fondly boop her nose.

Ugga shook her head. "Let them be, you remember what it was like still." She patted his arm fondly with a knowing smile.

Grug huffed but said nothing, just reluctantly looked away from the two lovestruck teenagers. "I've been lounging around too much anyway." He tried shrugging off the blatant teenage romance going on right in front of him. "Since they're busy, dinner duty is on me now." The plan had been fish but he knew that failed disastrously from the word go. 

He grabbed Thunk by the shoulder and the boy protested a moment, Douglas scampered between their legs as Grug lead the way towards the woodland hugging the beachfront. Ugga watched Grug go, sighing like she was a girl of twenty summers old again. She reached down to grab Sandy who wiggled in her arms, Ugga tucked her under her elbow without batting an eye over the feral snarling. She cast one last look at Eep and Guy before walking off herself, intending to put Sandy down for a nap.

"C'mon you little scamp," Ugga told her daughter. "You need all the rest you can get for when Dada comes back with food."

"Hey… where did everybody go?" Eep found a moment to look away from Guy to realize the clearing had been well… cleared out. Only one that remained was Gran, the old battle ax of a woman rolled her eyes.

Guy lingered his gaze on her still. "I don't know but you are still here so it's not a problem yet for me."

She fought off a smile best she could but failed at his widening one.

"About time the two of you joined us back in this world," she grunted in a teasing tone, her joints creaking as she pushed herself to her feet.

"Oh, hey Gran." Guy waved a hand idly in her direction. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Eep inquired, huffing.

"Oh, you know very well what I mean," Gran replied, stretching a kink out of her back. She gave a satisfied sigh at the pop, leaning comfortably against her stick. "Anyway lovebirds… I want my afternoon nap now. Laughing at Grug really wipes an old lady out."

"Hold on a second!" Eep exclaimed, springing up to her feet. She unceremoniously hefted Guy up in her arms as she did so, his dark eyes only startled for a second. "Why is that story your favorite, really?" Eep asked with a squint.

She put Guy back on his own two feet though clung to his bicep. He leaned against her solid form without a thought, it came as easy as breathing air. "You and Grug didn't seem to have the best relationship," Guy added thoughtfully as he looked at her.

Gran huffed through what was left of her teeth, shaking her head. "It reminds me of how foolishly in love you two are," she chuckled at the matching blushes on their faces. "Being so devoted that you go and do something stupid to prove it. I'd watch your back Guy, Grug knows he can get you to climb in Chunky's mouth if it means Eep is your reward for it."

"Eep isn't a thing," he sputtered.

Eep couldn't help but playfully jab his ribs. "I'm not a catch then?"

"Of course you are!" Even at her most gentle, Eep knocked the wind out of him and he was wheezing.

"See! That is what I mean," Gran cackled as she reached out to pat Guy fondly on the shoulder. "Lovesick idiot. Eep has you down pat. That's okay though, us ladies like a man who's easy to boss around." She winked at Eep and Guy.

She heard Eep's disgruntled scoff as she turned away, a mischievous grin tugging her old lips. "Do try to behave yourselves. Well, I'll say ta-ta for now, loves." Leaving the two to their own devices at last, Gran began to hobble off after the direction her daughter Ugga had gone.

Guy stared at the pathway until Gran was a mere speck and turned to look at Eep. "Am I easy to boss around?"

"Behave ourselves," Eep said, pouting. "She's acting like we have no restraint!"

Guy chuckled with a teasing grin, leaning down to brush his lips against the hinge of her jaw. She immediately melted. "Maybe she's kinda right about that, at least," he mumbled against her chin. 

Eep nuzzled herself closer to him, feeling his breath fan her neck. “We probably shouldn’t prove her right, you know how Gran is.”

Guy just huffed and began to pepper her neck and face in kisses, Eep had no complaints despite her playful refusal. Rebellion just came with being young, even if the old codger would relish in teasing them later for it.

[agentfreckles]

Hey, hello! How are you? I wanted to tell you that I like how you write and I really liked the story you wrote about Farah and the gender neutral detective! do you remember when F asked if they could have the goodbye kiss? Can you write one where Felix asks again about the kiss at the M!Detective, please? (I need some fluffiness sigh)

Thank you both so much for the kind words and these requests! This one was a little more challenging than I had hoped, but I really like how it turned out in the end so hopefully it was worth the wait. Enjoy!

Pucker Up 

Rating: T for smooching and Mason’s potty mouth 

Word Count: 1,724

Pairing: Felix x Male!Detective (Lucas Kingston)

Summary: Lucas gets called back to the station and forgets to give Felix a kiss goodbye before he leaves. Felix isn’t having it.

Notes: F is the biggest drama queen and you will not convince me otherwise. Based on Sera’s goodbye kiss ask that we all went feral for. I want to extend a massive thank you to @lilyoffandoms for letting me borrow their hunky detective Lucas for this. He really helped this story come alive and I can’t thank you enough!

Felix hates goodbyes. Like really, really hates them. 

They’re sitting on the couch in the warehouse living room in their usual position, with Lucas’ arm slung around Felix’s shoulders while his hand rests firmly on the detective’s thigh. Conversation flows easily between the two of them and the rest of Unit Bravo — maybe even a little too easily for some of the team’s more senior members given some of the subject matter that’s managed to crop up here and there — but, hey, any gab session where he and Mason have managed to make Nat sigh in exasperation and pinch the bridge of her nose multiple times is pretty damn good in Felix’s book. Hell, even Ava, perpetual hard-ass that she is, managed to get in a joke or two. It’s been a great day, the best day. And it’s times like these where Felix takes a look around the room at his family and the love of his life and just feels...happy. Really, truly happy. And he knows in this moment that there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than right here. 

But then that all too familiar buzzing noise pierces the blissful atmosphere in the room and Lucas removes his arm from Felix’s shoulders, taking the warmth with him as he reaches into his pocket to fish out his phone and Felix’s heart sinks because he knows what’s coming. 

Lucas heaves a heavy sigh, frowning at his phone’s screen. “It’s Verda. I’ve got to get back. Apparently there’s a bit of a dispute going on at the station involving a couple of disgruntled fishermen and Douglas is the only one around to handle the situation. You can image how well that’s going.” 

Felix visibly deflates. “You’re leaving? But you just got here.” 

Mason scoffs from his spot perched against a side table in his preferred dark corner of the room, lit cigarette dangling from his lips. “He’s been here since this morning.” 

“Well, it feels like he just got here. Not that anyone asked you anyway,” Felix retorts, tossing Mason an unamused glare before fixing his focus back on the detective. “Are you sure you have to go?” 

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” Lucas says with a soft smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he stands and begins collecting his belongings from the nearby coffee table. 

Felix frowns at the sudden distance between them, eventually giving a resigned nod. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

It sucks, but honestly he gets it. Lucas is a busy guy; he can’t just stay and laze around with Felix forever. But, man, does he wish he could just wrap Lucas in his arms and never let go instead of having to sit idly by as he gets called away once again to go off and be this badass crime solver extraordinaire. God, he’s amazing. And handsome and funny and smart and — 

He misses him so much already and the guy hasn’t even left yet. 

Felix shakes himself out of his lovesick haze before he makes things even worse for himself, instead rising up to his feet and positioning himself in silent preparation for the one event that makes these goodbyes even remotely bearable. 

Goodbye kisses may be born out of less than ideal circumstances, but they sure are enjoyable. Especially the way he and Lucas do them. They’re soft and tender yet charged with heat and every one gives Felix just enough to get by in Lucas’ absence while also leaving him eagerly waiting for their next meeting so they can come together all over again. 

“Let me get your coat,” Nat offers, reaching for the trench coat she’d folded over the back of a nearby arm chair and stepping behind Lucas as she helps him slip it on. He hums absentmindedly in thanks, his focus zeroed in on his phone and a deep frown settles onto his face as he reads through his texts — Verda’s updates on the dispute at the station, no doubt — but Felix’s focus is only on the excitement bubbling in his chest as the kiss draws near.

Any moment now Lucas will put his phone away and those blue eyes will lock on him. They’ll sparkle with heat as he strides over to Felix with slow and steady purpose and a small smirk will rest on his lips because he knows all too well the effect he has over him. Then he’ll take him in his arms and- 

And…he’s heading for the door.

Wait, seriously? 

“Babe!” Felix calls out automatically, mouth falling open in disbelief as the fantasy he was losing himself in shatters.  

“Hm?” Lucas responds in surprise, spinning on the spot to face him. The phone in his hand chimes with another incoming text. His eyes fall back to the screen and he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Sorry, Felix. I need to get back before Douglas gets himself killed. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Don’t you think you’re forgetting something?” Felix presses, halting the detective’s movements once more. 

Lucas’ brow furrows in confusion and he begins patting himself down and checking his pockets in earnest. “Uh, no…? I don’t believe so.”  

Felix can hardly believe what he’s hearing. His head swivels around to the other members of Unit Bravo looking for someone to back him up on the cruel twist of fate life has handed him, but he’s met with three faces displaying the same sheer confusion as his boyfriend currently is. “Is anyone else seeing this right now? I can’t be the only one who noticed, right?”

“None of us have any fucking idea what you’re talking about, Felix,” Mason snarks, followed closely by a disapproving click of the tongue from Nat. 

“Felix, the detective clearly has important matters to attend to,” Ava scolds and wow, okay, maybe Felix really is alone in this after all. “I suggest you save your concerns for-“

“You’re really just going to leave without a goodbye kiss? Babe!“ 

Felix swears he feels the ground shake under the combined forces of Ava and Mason’s groans. He ignores them, striding across the room with his head held high and determination set on his features as he prepares to confront his boyfriend for this most heinous of slights. 

He comes to a stop in front of where Lucas stands by the door. Channeling his inner Ava, Felix folds his arms and tries his best to peer down his nose in disappointment at Lucas despite their rather large height difference. “Well, detective? What do you have to say for yourself?” 

Lucas sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, his gaze sidelong and woefully apologetic. “It appears I was forgetting something after all.” His blue eyes shift back to catch his and Felix feels his breath hitch at the intensity in his gaze. “Please allow me to make it up to you before I go.” 

Oh, well, now there’s a thought. 

“I don’t know…” Felix trails off in faux consideration, determined to milk the moment for all its worth despite the somersaults his insides are currently doing at the implications of the request. It’s a little much, he knows —and Lucas really needs to get over to the station like now — but then again, Felix never has been one to waste an opportunity to charm his way into a larger payout. And something tells him this reward is going to be big if he plays his cards right. “That was a pretty big offense, babe. You’re going to have to come up with something pretty special for me to forgive you.”

“Special, huh?” Lucas grins, all too ready to accept the challenge Felix has laid out before him. He shortens what little distance remains between them, one hand snaking its way around Felix’s waist while the other gently comes to rest on his cheek. Felix swallows heavily under the heat of his stare. “I think I can manage that.”

Lucas closes the distance between them and Felix gasps in surprised delight as he feels himself being lowered horizontally into a dip, suddenly feeling very much like one of those couples from those black and white romance films they’d sometimes show on movie night at the Facility. He used to call such dramatic romantic displays cheesy and unrealistic, but this is…wow. It’s heady and delicious, a perfect blend of yearning and desire and love that’s just so right that his brain just kind of short circuits from the intensity of it. He hopes that Lucas will be able to resolve that problem at the station quickly because there is no way in hell Felix is going to be able to focus on anything else until he gets back. 

Distantly he feels himself being placed upright again as Lucas finally breaks the kiss and releases his hold on him. The detective’s breath is ragged as he straightens his tie and runs a hand through his red hair before fixing Felix with a smile. “So how did I do?”

“I…uhh…heh,” Felix stumbles, unable to form words thanks to the pile of mush his brain has been reduced to. He blinks back the dense fog just enough to reply with a breathless, “You’re forgiven.” 

“I’m glad to hear it.” A sharp ringing sound fills the air. Lucas swipes the screen on his phone and answers the call. “Yes, Verda. There was a small matter that needed attending to, but I’m on my way now.” And with a small nod of his head and one last dazzling smile, Lucas departs, the living room door closing behind him with a soft click. 

“That was quite the parting gift,” Mason remarks, giving a small nod in approval as Felix all but floats back to the couch.

“The best gift,” Felix corrects him as he collapses onto the cool leather. His eyes flutter closed, mind dancing with images of red hair and blue eyes and impossibly soft lips that leave him breathless and aching for more. 

Nat chuckles fondly nearby. “One that’ll make the wait much more bearable until Lucas’ return, I’m sure.”

The sentiment has a grin tugging at Felix’s lips. He’s not sure anything could ever make waiting to see the detective again not feel like an eternity, but straight-out-of-the-movies kisses are one hell of a good try. 

Maybe goodbyes aren’t so bad after all. 

[waywardimpalawriter]

Hey luv! It's been a long time since we've talked! Hope you're doing fine!

Led astray

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x ReaderRating: PGWarnings: Angst, sadness, being bumped, anger, Seb’s a bit of an ass in this one, curse words Word count: 1,441Notes: Requested by the very lovely @chrisevansthedoritobastard I’m so very sorry it took me over a year to get this written out. But better late than never right? *looks hopeful* Hope you enjoy sweetie. The idea actually came from listening to the radio one very early morning. The local station has a segment called ‘2nd Date Update’ the rest as they say is history.  

Forever:

@winters-buck @angryschnauzer @feelmyroarrrr

 @aquabrie @fandommaniacx  @supernaturallymarvellous  @smoothdogsgirl @becs-bunker

This story: @not-another-fangirl

You’d given it thought, rolled it over in your head for the last few days, asked friends, hell even your sister, all agreed that this idea would come back to bite you in the ass. But you just had, no needed to know and hopefully understand why he hadn’t returned your calls or texts. Sure the same old thoughts came to mind, he’s busy, sick, working or just plain dodging your calls. Enough is, enough you needed answers and this seemed to be the only way to get them.

Though now as you wait for the host to come back your nerves start to get the better of you making you pace the short distance between the kitchen island and stove. Cell pressed between your shoulder and ear, hands wringing like a wet washcloth, till a male voice comes back to the line.

“Good Tuesday morning to ya this is Jason Douglas joined by my cohorts Megan Wright and Michael Masters on 93Q country. It’s 6:45 just this side of the dawn, on a fine morning and we’re bringing you 2nd date update.” There’s a slight twang in his voice while speaking, flipping switches and taking a sip of his coffee. “Morning Y/N thank you for joining us this fabulous morning.”

Clearing your throat, “You’re welcome,” swallowing to try to coat your dry throat once more, “Thanks for having me.”

“So I hear you went on a date a few weeks ago and the guy hasn’t called you back?”

“Yeah, yes,” rolling your eyes at how stupid you sound thinking this may be the disaster everyone warned you about. “Sorry, I’m just a little nervous.”

“Don’t be, we’ve had many people call wanting help trying to find out why calls haven’t been returned. It’s only natural,” pops in Megan, voice bright and cheery for how early in the morning it is.

Nodding though no one can see, you’ve finally sat down on a barstool, cell in hand now. “I thought we’d hit it off, the conversation flowed, we laughed, shared things about each other.” Shaking your head not wanting the tears to come and clog your voice. Had you been wrong about him?

“Tell us more about your date and how the night went? Did he seem put out by how the date went? Had you done something to offend him or him, you?”

“NO,” the one-syllable comes out louder than intended laced with a small amount of anxiety. “I mean I don’t think so like I said it seemed to me the date went well. For my part I thought we hit it off from word go. It’s why I’m so confused as to why he hasn’t called me back.”

“Well alright then let’s get this settled and call up Sebastian,” flipping a few more switches, Jason brings up what he needs. “Now remember Y/N you’ll be listening in try not to say anything till I cue you. He won’t know until that moment so if you want answers, you’ll have to be patient.”

Nodding, realizing they couldn’t see you, your voice cracks as you answer, “Understood.”

“And we will get to that call right after a few words from our sponsors,” sitting back the three of them talk while you’re on hold hearing nothing but elevator music for almost two minutes.

Weather finished up and Jason comes back, “Time is now 6:55 and we have Sebastian on the line, welcome sir and good morning to you. I’ve got my cohosts, Megan and Michael with me.”

Both give him a welcome before Sebastian himself speaks, “Morning.”

“Do we have your permission to talk with you and ask a few questions? This is on air and being recorded of course so if you aren’t comfortable with that speak now or forever hold your peace.” a soft chuckle leaves his lips at the corny joke he makes.  

Puzzled and curious as to what the radio station could want, Sebastian gives consent knowing he might get in trouble with his agent and manager later for this. As there are no movies or TV shows to promote at the moment. So that little voice in the back of his mind keeps poking. Saying this could bring trouble to his door.

“Can I ask what this is about? I didn’t win anything did I? Especially since I didn’t enter,” he jokes seeing the confused looks from his friends beside him.

“Well, it seems there’s someone out there that thinks you’re amazing and wanted to let you know. Do you remember going on a date with someone a few weeks ago?”

Thinking over his schedule, everything he’s done in the past few weeks, he remembers one and wants to smack himself. “There’s one that comes to mind.”

“Y/N?”

Sighing, running a hand through his hair, Sebastian steps away from the group to make the call a little more private. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“You don’t sound so happy to hear the name, did something happen?” Megan chimes in.

All the while you’re listening to the conversation trying to keep yourself from interfering, wanting to have this answers to put this behind you.

“No, nothing happened; Y/N’s a sweet girl I just didn’t feel any sparks with her. The thing I regret the most is giving her so much hope by agreeing to the date.”

Shaking his head, Michael speaks, “I don’t follow you, dude.”

Not wanting to sound too harsh but knowing the truth is always better than a lie, “We met at a party one night, thought she was a nice girl that we could have chemistry, I was wrong. We talked on the phone for a couple of nights before agreeing to a date. In that time I learned from a friend of mine that she’s a very clingy person, needy and always wanting to be the center of attention.”

“What the f*ck,” you couldn’t hold back your tongue anymore and let slip a curse word that Jason told you wouldn’t be allowed. “I’m sorry Jason it slipped out.” Breathing deep to regain yourself, “If your friend told you all that about me then why did you even agree to the date you asshole.”

“Yeah sorry Sebastian, Y/N has been listening in the whole time we’ve been talking,” butting in to explain just making sure to bleep the curse word.

Shrugging to himself, “Thought it would be fun, you’re a sweet girl Y/N just not my type is all. Besides you did talk way more about yourself than I did, I couldn’t even get a word in edgewise.”

“That’s a lie Stan and you know it you jerk. Why make up stupid crap like this if all you truly wanted was a good fuck. That’s what it truly was about, man up and tell the truth.” Anger building now as you jump from the stool sending it backwards to pace the floor, “And here I thought you were a better man than that Sebastian Stan.”

“Whoa, whoa there is this true y’all had sex and what that wasn’t good enough for you Sebastian?” Megan asks wondering if they were talking to who she thinks it is.

“Listen she called my cell, no blew it up more like it with calls and texts, every half hour wanting to know when and where we’re going back out. I told her when she left that morning, things wouldn’t work,” trying to push the problem in your lap, making things your fault rather than his.

“You know what fuck you, Stan, your dick wasn’t big enough anyway to satisfy a goldfish,” done with the whole thing you don’t wait for any answers. Instead deciding to hang up on them, grab the pint of Ben and Jerry’s you stashed for times like this and headed to your bed to cry it out over Pretty Woman and other chick flick movies.

Clearing his throat to get the shock out, “Well then, I take it there will be no second date huh?” laughter clearly in his voice as he looks at his cohosts with a shake of his head. “I guess being an actor and trying to find love isn’t as easy as people would have you believe.”

“So not funny asshole,” hanging up Sebastian shakes his head going back to the main part of the gym to finish his workout and forget the stupid call even happened.

“You know they air that shit on the radio these days? Your fans are going to hear it,” one of his friends states a smirk on his lips.

“Who listens to radio anyway?” is his comeback while flipping his friends off to lift weights.

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 11

Filming for Steamboat had wrapped by the first Saturday in September. Weeks of cutting still remained on the horizon, but Buster could do that from the comfort of his production room at the Villa. The cutting was precisely why he was now knocking on Joe’s office door. If he had anything to say about it, the words ‘Supervised by Harry Brand’ would not appear anywhere in the credits. Once was more than enough. 

“Come in,” said Joe. 

Buster walked in and seated himself in the chair in front of Schenck’s desk. 

“What’s on your mind?” said Joe. He was drinking coffee.

“The picture. What’s on anyone’s mind right now?” said Buster affably.

“Sure,” said Joe. “Still on track to finish tomorrow?”

“That’s the plan,” said Buster. 

Joe wasn’t stupid and Buster could see that he was trying to figure out what the visit was about. He seemed a little uneasy as he sipped his coffee.

“So,” said Joe. 

“Sew buttons,” Buster said, the witticism lame and off-handed, before getting down to business. “Anyway, I was thinking about how we’re going to cut the picture and that got me to thinking about the credits. About how we’re doing things in general.”

Joe looked at him, waiting for him to go on.

“So you’ve got a picture. Say it’s a Doug Fairbanks picture. For example, Doug comes on and you say, ‘Douglas Fairbanks supervised by Joe Doakes.’ It’s bad on the face of it. You’re belittling Fairbanks. Fairbanks, not Doakes, is what you’re selling.” Buster leaned forward and knit his hands on the desk. 

“I’m listening,” said Joe. A frown was creeping onto his face. 

“When you’re talking about a picture, what do you really need? Three things. One man writes it, another man directs it, and a star acts it. Those three people are responsible for every great picture that was ever made. In some cases one man is all three—Chaplin,” said Buster.

“I see where you’re going with this and I disagree,” said Joe, giving a frown. “Supervisors are the big thing. All the big studios are using them.”

“Maybe they are,” he said. “But they can be wrong. It’s not going to last long. The whole damned thing’s a bad joke.”

Joe shook his head, looking displeased.

Buster laid the trump card on the table, poker-faced but confident. “There’ll be no more supervisors in the pictures Buster Keaton makes.”

He waited for Joe to reply. As the seconds ticked by in silence, he began to wonder if he was in for a real fight. He’d said he was taking the pot, but maybe Joe didn’t know that he wasn’t bluffing.

At last, Joe cleared his throat and said something. Buster had to lean forward to catch it. His brain grappled with the words, not comprehending.

Buster Keaton isn’t going to make any more pictures.

That’s what Joe had said. 

He sat back in stunned silence as Joe continued. 

“No, no,” said Joe. “That didn’t come out right. What I mean, Buster, is that you’re not going to make any more pictures for me. I’m dissolving the studio.”

“Why?” Buster managed to say. His lips felt tight and dry. 

“Now I don’t want you to worry,” Joe said, holding up a hand in a benevolent way. “I’ve gotten it all straightened out. You’re going over to M-G-M. That’s where Nick is. He’ll take great care of you. Look, I know it’s not what you want, but just think about it for a minute. You’ll have ten times the opportunities. A whole staff of writers working for you, helping you with cutting and production and stories. The money’s bigger. The pictures will be better. You can’t lose, it’s a chance of a lifetime.”

Buster couldn’t make his mouth work. Joe was now waxing poetic about the settlement Buster would be getting for his interests in the studio. The studio? His studio. Buster Keaton Productions. Five thousand dollars for eight years of making millions for Joe, and now he was finding out in the worst possible that he didn’t have the power in his own enterprise that he thought he did.

“Nick will treat you just like his own son. I’m telling you, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Joe was more animated now as he reviewed the details. It was clear that he had been chewing on this decision for a while now and there was no appealing it.  

Buster listened on in disbelief. An image was crystalizing in his mind of a theater trunk sitting in an alley, left behind and forgotten. He’d felt exactly the same way the day he’d split up The Three Keatons. 

He didn’t remember what he said to Joe before leaving the office. He didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just found himself walking east on Romaine Street toward 1025 Lillian Way. His thoughts couldn’t seem to coalesce. He supposed he was in shock. Part of him wanted to think that it was all a dirty joke, but Joe—Joe, who attended the Sunday barbecues at the Villa faithfully, who had been so worried for Buster when he’d returned from France that he’d emptied his wallet for him, who’d lent Buster money to buy his first house—had never been that kind of man when it came to serious matters. Buster was torn between wanting a stiff drink and wanting to jump off a bridge. 

He did neither, of course. Back at Lillian Way, there was a film to finish. He now knew what the crowning gag would be. Tomorrow, the Saphead Would Face Down Certain Death. Whether he survived, he didn’t much care at the moment. *** Nelly had never worked on a Sunday before, but the Sunday before Labor Day was the final day of shooting and she couldn’t object even if she wanted to. Of course she didn’t want to. She’d been with the picture from almost the first and couldn’t think of a greater honor than finishing it out. The other actors and much of the crew had departed since they’d left Sacramento, and now it was just her, Bert, Buster, and a skeleton crew. A small set had been built on the United Artists lot and she was presently furnishing a small two-story house. The second story needed only to be filled with boxes, but the main floor required homey touches, so she and Bert arranged a rug, a sofa, a chair, and pictures on the wall. She set a lamp on a table in the center of the room. The house had a breakaway facade that was lying face-down in the dirt, but had hinges enabling it to be drawn up. 

As she decided whether a fringed floor lamp should go to the left or right of the sofa, Buster and one of the crew walked up. They both got on top of the flat facade and she watched, pretending to be busy with the lamp, as Buster stood in the frame of an open second-story window and looked to the top of the house. She positioned the lamp to the left of the sofa and slid the cord under it and out of sight. When she glanced at Buster again, he was hammering a nail into the dirt inside the window frame. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing. Plumping one of the throw pillows on the sofa, she looked again. He was hammering a second nail. “This’ll do it,” he said to the crewmember.

Bert came through the back door of the house with an armful of curtains as Buster and the crewmember walked away. 

“What’s he doing?” Nelly said to him under her breath.

“Buster?” said Bert, sounding a little out of breath as he dumped the curtains on the sofa. “Figuring out where to stand. The facade’s gonna come down right on top of him. Except he ends up in the window and doesn’t get hurt.”

“On top of him?” said Nelly, her innards seeming to go cold. The breakaway facades weighed a ton. The crew and cast had been warned to stay well away from them when the previous breakaway scenes were filmed, since getting caught underneath one would spell catastrophe.

“That’s right,” said Bert. “It was just supposed to fall down near him, scare him a little bit, then he’d run toward another building and it would fall down too, but he got the idea to have the window pass over him last night he said.” Bert didn’t seem to be at all perturbed by the nature of the stunt as he set to hanging a curtain.

“He’s going to get killed!” Nelly said, rooted to the spot. “That facade has to weigh at least a ton.”

“Two tons,” Bert said, walking across the room and pulling down another curtain rod. He eased a curtain onto it.

Nelly felt panicked. “He’s crazy. He’ll get killed. Has anyone tried talking him out of it?”

Bert laughed. “You think anyone has ever talked Buster Keaton out of anything once he’s got an idea in his head?”

“He’ll be killed,” she said. She was starting to feel almost hysterical. 

“Trust Buster,” Bert said, stretching up to hang the curtain on his tiptoes. “He’s always fine.” Nelly sat down on the couch, trying to calm her thoughts. Bert was probably right, but suppose …

All of her supposes, like the hinges failing or a wind machine shifting the facade just inches in either direction, ended up with Buster crushed to death. Bert walked back out the back door and she barely noticed. She tried to think of some way to stop the maddening act, but couldn’t. She didn’t know Buster as well as Bert, but she knew Bert was right. Nothing stopped Buster once he was set on something.

“Better move, sweetheart, we don’t want you in the scene.” She looked up and Buster was at the corner of the house peering in at her. 

It was her chance to beg him to reconsider, to throw herself on him, scream, and rend his clothes. Instead, she apologized and let herself out the back door. There was nothing that causing a ruckus would do except delay filming and possibly get her kicked off the set, spoiling her future chances of working for the Buster Keaton Studios. The facade gave a titanic creaking as it was eased back into place. Outside of the set, a couple crew members were wetting the dirt in front of the house with a hose so that it was slick and muddy as if from a cyclone. Nelly made her way toward some other crew members clustered off-camera to the right of the house. As she got closer, she noticed they were huddled in a funny way. 

“...hallowed be thy name

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done

On earth as it is in heaven.”

They were praying. The realization almost made her sick to her stomach. She didn’t go in for religion, but as she stopped in their midst, she made the decision to join them. If there was any chance the prayer would spare Buster, it was worth it. The ending lines had a foreboding potency they’d never had before.

“But deliver us from evil

Now and at the hour of our death.”

The hour of our death. She looked up and saw Buster a few feet from them, looking placid in his baggy pants and suspenders. Was she seeing a man in the final hour of his life? If she had any sense, she’d leave. There was no reason to watch this. Yet she felt duty-bound to stay. A superstition said that maybe it would help preserve him from the stunt going wrong. 

She watched Buster helplessly as the minutes went by and the final preparations were made to the set and the cameras. The wind machines were turned on and Buster walked in front of the house. He went down to his knees and sprawled out flat onto his chest in the mud.

“What’s he doing?” she said to one of the electricians.

“Continuity,” the electrician replied. “He was muddy in the scene we shot yesterday.”

The cameraman yelled something she didn’t hear and Buster walked in front of the house. He faced one of the cameras. Nelly felt almost light-headed. What if the wind had blown the nails out of place? What if—

Buster rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his jaw. The house’s machinery groaned and the facade heaved forward. At the last second, she turned her head. There was a gut-wrenching thud as the facade landed. Tears sprang into her eyes. 

After an interminable second or so, a roar went up from the men around her and they began to clap. She looked back. Through the glaze of her tears, she could just make out Buster, still rubbing his neck and rolling his jaw nonchalantly. A great cloud of dust had sprung up. Buster pretended to suddenly realize what had just happened and dashed out of the ruined facade, stopping once at a safe distance to stare at the house in terror. 

“Cut!” shouted the cameraman over the wind.

The group of men headed toward Buster at a clip. There were hoots and handshakes and claps on the back, and Buster was grinning. Nelly shielded her face with her hand and cried, overcome with relief. She still felt weak and sick. 

“Why are you crying?” said Buster.

He had crept up without her noticing. She turned her face away quickly, shaking her head. “Because you’re a damned idiot!” she said, not caring now whether speaking her mind would ruin her chances of staying on with him. “You had no business doing that.”

Buster touched her shoulder. “Look, I’m okay, ain’t I?”

She shied away. “No gag is worth your life,” she said. 

Buster looked surprised. His hand fell from her shoulder. “Okay.”

He left to go talk to the second cameraman and Nelly stole away, tears still coming, feeling downright dreadful. She wished she hadn’t stayed on for the final day of filming. It hadn’t been the celebratory end she’d expected. It had been awful, like seeing a man trying to commit suicide but by a miracle failing. Note: The dialogue with Joe Schenck is adapted from Rudi Blesh’s biography.

[glorifiedgpjfic]

Glorified G - Chapter 46

January 22nd 1992

Over the past few weeks Joanne had had her first few CPT sessions, they seemed to be going well and they helped her to keep the nightmares and flashbacks at bay, she did however still struggle to sleep and the people around her were often victims of her angry outbursts- which Dr Isles had assured her were a side effect of the PTSD. Joanne hadn’t rushed to ask the director to take her out of the field as she was apprehensive about it and she didn’t want to risk losing her job by asking to be moved out of the line of fire, and she certainly didn't want to be sent back to London to go back to Interpol. She hadn’t told Eddie this of course, as far as he knew the wheels were truly in motion for her to be taken out of the field, she felt awful about lying to him but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it, not yet.

Eddie and Jo had spent every free second they had together looking at houses, they’d managed to find three contenders- all were relatively central to both potatohead and the FBI building, meaning that their commute wouldn’t be any longer than it currently was. The house that Jo liked the most had a large gate on the driveway and high walls that she felt would be good considering Pearl Jam were gaining popularity, she’d done a project on celebrity stalkers when she was at university so she was armed with enough evidence to convince Eddie that although it is rare, celebrity stalkers can indeed be violent, for example Mark David Chapman who shot John Lennon in 1980. Having high walls and a gate offered her piece of mind, Eddie hadn’t seemed opposed to it, which was something Jo was grateful for, she didn’t want to have to argue with him on this.

The guilt of hiding the truth from Eddie was starting to get to Jo, so she had asked William to have a meeting with her so she could discuss the prospect of her getting out of the field, she was concerned that this would make her seem weak to her boss and that he might even suggest her transferring out of the office into a full time teaching role, which as much as she loved her teaching experience with John Douglas, she didn’t fancy it full time as she found it rather tedious. She hoped that she would be able to stay exactly where she was just without going out into the field, but she knew that being in the field was a big part of her job description and the only real exception to getting out of being in the field was if you were injured and generally even then that was only a temporary thing. As she took a seat in the director’s office the nerves began to pool in her stomach,

“Good afternoon Agent Taylor, how are you doing?” William asked while making the two of them a cup of coffee,

“I’m doing okay, I’ve been seeing Dr Isles, and I think that it's helping- I’m still struggling to sleep ya know?” William nodded at the young woman in front of him, the truth was he knew exactly how she felt he knew exactly what she’s going through,

“You know, everyone on this team has cases that have stuck with them, mine was one of the first cases I was on-” He paused, a brief look of sorrow graced his features, “There was a serial killer abducting young children, little girls- his type just so happened to look exactly like my daughter, each time we got a report of another girl being taken my mind always assumed it was my baby- it struggled so hard to stay focused on that case. And weeks after we found the guy a part of me still expected him to come back and get my girl, the images of the children he killed stuck with me for years, i used to see Louise’s face ion the faces of those we didn’t save- Dr Isles helped me through that so I know you’re in good hands.” Jo gave him a small smile as he sipped his coffee,

“I uh- I’ve been thinking, is there any chance I can have some time out of the field? I’m not sure how long I’ll need, I just- I’m not as focused as I should be in the field and I’m worried I’m putting everyone at risk.” Jo searched William’s face for a hint as to how he was going to respond, she took a sip of her coffee as he pondered what she was saying for a few moments,

“Do you want to be out permanently?” He asked, Jo shook her head violently,

“No! Just for a little while till I get back on top of things.” He nodded before speaking again,

“Do you mind if I make some calls and see what I can arrange for you?” Jo raised an eyebrow,

“Could I not just consult on cases and do paperwork? I’ve got a stack that will probably take me a while to finish,” The director shook his head,

“Jo, if you do that you’ll be bored out of your mind, I’ll see what I can find you- if there isn’t anything then you can do that.”

“Why are you going out of your way just to make sure I don’t get bored? If you don’t mind me asking, sir.” Jo knew that he didn’t have to find her an alternative to field work, yet for some reason he was making it his duty,

“If I’m honest it’s because you’re one of the best agents I’ve seen in a very long time, and I’d hate for you to leave us when you’re such an asset to this team.” He spoke slowly as though he was pondering the weight of his words, “and I can’t help but feel responsible for what you’re going through, you were right when you said it was me- if I could change it I would believe me-” Jo was quick to silence her boss,

“Sir, I was upset that day and it was all such a shock to me, I promise you I didn’t mean any of what I said- it was out of order for me to say that.” She offered him a small smile as a silent apology,

“I know, but you weren’t out of line I completely understand, and I would’ve been just as upset if I was in your position.”

Jo left William’s office feeling less guilty than when she entered, she was glad he valued her for what she did as much as she loved Eleanor and her colleagues she knew for a fact that her paperwork was always done to the highest standard while they generally rushed to get it done so they could go home, occasionally they asked Joanne to finish for them. She sat at her desk trying to tackle some of the paperwork, but at the same time she didn’t want to start it if she was going to be working on something else for the foreseeable so she decided to sit and stare off into space for a while.

William Webster racked his brain trying to think what he could get Joanne to do, there wasn’t anything in the office that would be a good use of her time, so he decided to give an old friend a call.

After an hour or so of Jo staring into space and trying to busy herself she was summoned into William’s office once again, she took a seat opposite him eagerly waiting for him to tell her what she was going to be doing for the next few weeks or months. He grinned at her as she sat down,

“So, I’ve made some calls, and how would you feel about doing some research for John Douglas? It’s local so you won’t have to move or travel any more than you already do,” Jo nodded before thinking about how she’d felt during the time she had spent teaching alongside Douglas,

“Is it a teaching role?” She questioned and William gave her a smile and shook his head,

“No, I know how dull teaching can be- John is doing some research that I think you might be interested in, I’ve told him you’ll give him a call,” William paused briefly, “He can explain it better than I can.” Joanne gave an awkward smile, she began to ponder what the research could possibly be, was he going to study her and her plethora of trauma?

“I’ll go give him a call now, thank you Sir.”

Eddie was on the phone to Mike discussing a potential song when he heard Jo’s car pull into the driveway, he watched with caution as she seemed to skip to the door - he quickly brought the call to an end, puzzled by his girlfriend’s sudden change in behaviour. He put a pot of coffee on to brew as Jo beamed stating that she had ‘so much’ to tell him, she quickly changed out of her work clothes into some joggers and an old Motley Crue band tee, Eddie handed her a mug of coffee before taking a seat opposite her,

“So? What’s got you in such a good mood?” He asked with a curious smile,

“Well, John Douglas wants me to help him with some of his research! He’s interviewing violent offenders to try and see if they have anything more in common that can be used to help law enforcement when searching for offenders. So, I get to go into prisons and conduct interviews on his behalf, so we can cover more ground between us if that makes sense- I’ll probably be only meeting with a handful of the prisoners, but he wants me to try and build up some sort of rapport with them, ya know? Try and gain their trust and not antagonise them, see if they open up to me. The best bit? I’ll get an acknowledgement when he publishes his findings!” Eddie smiled at Jo’s enthusiasm, it amazed him how she could be so passionate about something that would scare him half to death, he wouldn’t even dream of speaking to one of the monsters that Jo would be interviewing, but that was one big difference between the two of them; Jo tried to see them as more than their crimes, she wanted to understand them, help them. Whereas Eddie saw them as animals, monsters who should be locked up.

Joanne had been briefed by John about how to behave in the prison setting, she knew that they would most likely lie to her about their crimes, and that when they did, rather than calling them out on it in an accusatory manner she should simply state that she’d read the case file, she knew every detail about the case. She knew how vital it was that she’d learnt everything about the cases, so she wouldn’t be shocked or disgusted by anything they told her. He had also informed her that they were more likely to open up if she wasn’t making notes during the interview and that taping the interview could often distract them or prevent that from divulging certain details. She knew all of the theory that would help her for this research, however no amount of studying could prepare her for what she was going to face when she sat down across from serial rapist, Marc O’Leary.

[lothiriel84]

Fairytale

I'm in love with a fairytale Even though it hurts 'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind I'm already cursed

A Cabin Pressure ficlet. Arospec!Douglas, pre- to post-canon. Inspired by this post. 

For a long time after Helena, he makes no real attempt at dating. Sure, he does go in for the occasional, mutually satisfactory one-night stand; he may be world-weary and cynical, but he’s not dead yet, if you catch his drift. And yes, deep down under his carefully constructed Sky God persona, he’s only too painfully aware that he’s getting on a bit, and he would do better to start looking for a new potential long-term partner sooner rather than later; he just feels like he could use a bit of space, after going through the motions of yet another messy divorce.

To be perfectly honest – which he rarely is, even in the privacy of his own mind – his marriage to Helena had been withering away long before the Tai Chi teacher even entered the picture. Like clockwork, all of Douglas’s relationships invariably reach a stage where he can’t seem to meet his partner’s emotional needs, no matter how hard he tries. After that, it’s only a matter of time before the relationship itself starts to sink to its untimely end; even now, with three failed marriages under his belt, he doesn’t feel remotely closer to figuring out how to stop it from happening.

Always one for grand gestures, he can’t seem to get to grips with the fabled happily ever after, so to speak. Sweeping the woman of his dreams off her feet is easy, always has been; keeping up with the daily grind of playing the part of the loving husband, not so much. And for all that he’d very much rather not unscrew the cap on that particular period of his life, he’s still plagued by the niggling doubt that it wasn’t so much his drinking problem that caused the dissolution of his first marriage as it was the strain of living up to societal expectations with regard to a happy and fulfilled married life that pushed him towards drinking in the first place.

All those romantic movies Linda was so fond of watching, back in the day, they never showed you what comes after your significant other says yes, and you finally settle into a life together. He always assumed everything would fall into place, once you’re sitting in your picture-perfect house with your beautiful new wife and a little bundle of joy on the way. What those movies usually failed to mention was that you were basically signing in for what felt like a lifetime of proving your worth as a romantic partner, regardless that you were long past the courtship stage by that point.

And, well, frankly it all started feeling a bit too much, no matter how adoring his wife or how spectacular the sex. They had kept it up long after that, mainly for Verity’s sake, but in hindsight it was a terrible decision, not least because rather than owning up to his share of the blame, he started to hit the bottle as a way to numb his feelings of inadequacy. It had taken a decade of sobriety and the failure of his second marriage for him and Linda to be back on speaking terms, and by then, he was barely more than a stranger to his elder daughter.

When he and Karen got married, he thought he had it all worked out; she was his closest confidant as well as his lover, and they were on an equal footing in pretty much every aspect of their relationship. And above all, she didn’t require constant proof of his unchanged feelings towards her; no need for him to put on an act for her benefit, he could just be himself in her presence, or so he thought.

By the time Emily was four, they were sleeping in separate rooms, and he was seeing more of Helena than he did of his own wife. He never cheated on Karen, that much was true, but it did very little to assuage his guilt when he eventually bowed to the inevitable and manifested his intention to split up with her. She called him a bastard and a liar, even accused him of carrying a torch for ‘that bitch’ ever since their wedding day, five years prior; and while he would maybe go as far as admit to a certain level of sexual attraction dating back to that first meeting, he had only been entertaining the idea of acting on it for the past six months.

And oh, sex with Helena was everything he’d imagined it to be, and more. She was significantly younger than both Linda and Karen, happened to be a fitness enthusiast, and even more importantly, she was under the impression he was the best thing since the sliced bread. Which was precisely why he elected to omit the finer details when it came to his reasons for exchanging his prior position at Air England for an otherwise unspecified job at a small charter firm that – quite conveniently – operated out of Fitton. And yet, somewhere along the way, even their shared belief in the terrificness of Douglas Richardson turned out to be not enough.

“At least he loves me,” Helena had spat back at him, when he’d lashed out at her for having an affair behind his back. He’d let go of her then, his mind floundering helplessly as she moved around the room to gather her things, only coming back to his senses when the front door slammed shut after her.

How could she even suggest he didn’t love her, after he’d bloody left Emily’s mother to be with her? And yet, even now, with his third divorce long finalised and yet another flavour of alimony putting a dent in his savings, he cannot help but wonder.

Was he really, truly in love with Helena when he married her? He thought he was at the time, and with each of his previous wives before her, but now he’s not so sure anymore. Not after he had to sit through an eight-hour flight with Herc describing to him in painful detail how Carolyn makes him feel, never mind that she’s not even remotely his type and he very nearly gets a heart attack every time he lays eyes on that terrifying-looking stuffed sheep that lives in their house.

And now Martin has announced he and Theresa are finally getting married – his Liechtenstein citizenship test passed with flying colours, and on his fifth attempt no less – Douglas is beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, this relationship malarkey might not be for him after all.

It’s not as if he isn’t happy enough now, back in the captain’s seat, flying the old girl all over the world with Carolyn and Arthur – and yes, even Herc – at his side. And he still gets to tease Martin by text in his spare time, send him new word games when he’s particularly bored, or even fill him in on Arthur’s latest culinary exploits.

He’s going to go up to Barrow-in-Furness in two weeks’ time for Emily’s birthday, and he’s actually looking forward to seeing Karen again; they’ve settled into the beginnings of a tentative friendship of late, what with his most recent divorce and her splitting up amicably with her second husband, and she jokingly told him over the phone he’s welcome to stay for the duration of the weekend so long as there are no further attempt on the life of her surviving koi carp.

As for Verity, their relationship may still be more than a little frayed in places, but he gets the feeling she’ll come round in her own time, whenever she’s ready. He was positively delighted when she emailed him last month, explaining she moved in with her girlfriend and that he should send her birthday and Christmas cards to the new address.

As one of the greatest philosophers of our age put it, you’re hardly ever blissfully happy with the love of your life in the moonlight; and when you are, you’re too busy worrying about it being over soon. He smiles, closes his laptop, and decides he may as well run himself a hot bath.

[chickensarentcheap]

Best Part of Me - Chapter 26

WARNINGS: mentions of PTSD, panic attacks, profanity

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @alievans007​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​

They haven’t spoken since they left the house; a rather brief and terse conversation about where Millie had left not only her shoes, but the noise cancellation headphones she likes to use on trips out of town. That was twenty minutes ago; halfway into their drive to Port Douglas and not one single word has been exchanged, nor even a sidelong glance. They’re both on edge; the aftereffects of the long and exhausting night before, Esme’s brief yet intense battle with a PTSD ‘flare up’, and now the raw and anxious nerves surrounding the visit with Tyler’s father.

The nightmare plays on a continuous loop in his mind; the old man’s booming voice and vicious words, his mother’s tearful begging and pleading that only cease when the beating begins, Austin’s appearance as a grown man and his refusal to lave Millie behind. It’s all there; every vision, every sound. Even the feel of his heart breaking deep within his chest and the scalding sting of tears as they rolled down his face. And the cravings linger, his brain and body desperate for those old vices. The only coping mechanism he’s ever known or practiced. It’s the familiarity of the old life that he misses; not the dirty work or the blood on his hands but the escape the job had provided him with. He’d constantly been on the go; jumping from place to place, relying only on his skills –and his confidence in them- to get him through each day. He hadn’t had time to think; too busy trying to keep himself and others alive.  Now it seems as if he has all the time in the world to think. To dwell.  And it’s slowly tearing him apart inside. He knows he should be grateful for what he’s been given; a second chance at life, a normal existence surrounded by people who love him and depend on him. And he IS. Yet at the same time, the past won't leave him alone. It had been his way of life for half of his years on earth, and both his brain and his body are struggling to let go.

Guilt. So much guilt. Over the fact he just can’t it go. That he can’t leave the past where it belongs and be content with a normal existence. He’s one of the lucky ones; he’d gotten out of the game relatively healthy and with most of his sanity still intact. He was able to find someone to have a family with; someone that not only understood the hardships and the horrors of the job, but didn’t judge him for the things he’d done or the mistakes he made or the number of broken and often dead bodies he left in his wake. Tons of mercs would give anything to be in his shoes, they’d kill –figuratively and some probably literally- to get even a taste of love and happiness and domesticity.   And yet he was taking it all for granted and practically pissing it away.

He casts a glance through the rear view mirror. Millie with her earphones on, her face intense and her eyes riveted on whatever game or movie she has playing on the tablet in her lap; her baby sister fast asleep in the car seat beside her.  She’d forgiven him quickly. He’d sat down next to her on the patio and had never said a word; giving her the time and the space to brood and to get over her temporary hate for him. And in a matter of minutes she’d been climbing up into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck and he in turn had been apologizing profusely for hurting her.   He’d never meant to pull her hair or yell at her afterwards; explaining that he had a lot of things on his mind and they were making him angry and anxious –and even sad- and that he never should have taken them out on her. And even though she’d held his face in her hands and kissed his cheeks and said “I still love you, daddy” in that little voice of hers, he had still felt like complete and utter shit for what he’d done.  

He looks over at his wife next; sitting with her elbow resting on the window ledge, her eyes closed with her palm pressed against the side of her face and two fingertips massaging her temple. The color has returned to face; she looks healthy again, vibrant. But her shoulders remain incredibly tense and her jaw tightly clenched.  

“It’s why you have a headache,” Tyler points out, and she glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Your jaw. Clenching it like that. It’s why you feel like shit.”

He braces for it. A smart-ass comment or just a ‘fuck off, Tyler’, but neither come. Instead she gives a shaky smile and closes her eyes once more; thumb and forefinger moving up to rub at the bridge of her nose. But he notices her jaw relaxes and her shoulders drop slightly; it’s a good sign, he figures. She hasn’t told him where to go and how to get there and she’s finally starting to relax. So he takes it one step further, dropping a hand from the steering wheel and reaching across the middle console to lay it on her thigh. Feeling his own sense of relief when she doesn’t shoot him a dirty look or yank her leg away.  

“You look really nice,” he says, giving her a soft smile and squeezing her knees as he admires her simple cotton sundress. A light orange that reminds him of the tail end of the sunrise, with a neckline that sits off her shoulders and a hem that just skims the bottom of her knees.  It’s hard sometimes; finding just the right words, even when it comes to the simplest of comments or what should be the easiest of compliments. He knows what he wants to say but doesn’t always know how to get the thought across. Usually he’ll rely on body language and facial expressions; she’s always been on expert on reading them, right from the start.  That second morning in Dhaka when she’d told him that his eyes did all the talking for him.

Her eyes open once more and this time she turns her face towards him and gives a smile of her own. Then lays her hand on top of his own and pushes her fingers through his.  

“I didn’t mean it,” he says. “What happened with Millie. I didn’t mean to pull her hair. It was an accident. My mind completely wandered and...”

“You know what’s not what upset her, right?” Esme gently interjects. “It’s not that you pulled her hair. She knew you didn’t mean to do it. It’s that you yelled at her. You hurt her feelings. You scared her.”

“I didn’t mean to do THAT either.”

“What’s going on with you? First last night, now freaking out on Millie.”

“I had a nightmare. I’ve had nightmares before.”

“I’m not talking about the nightmare. I’m talking about other things. When we were...you know...” she peeks over her shoulder, making sure that Millie isn’t paying attention. She’s fallen asleep; her head resting on the side of her booster seat, hair falling over her face and those long, dark lashes brushing against the tops of her cheeks.  “You were rough,” Esme continues. “And I’m not talking about your usual rough. The rough that I like. I mean like hard core rough. It wasn’t you, Tyler. It was...I don’t know...scary.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Or if she even wants him to say anything. At first, he’d thought it was all part of the game she likes to play; how she gets when she’s egging him on to be aggressive and manhandle her. It wasn’t uncommon for there to be pain involved; hair pulling, choking, bite marks and bruises left behind. It hadn’t even occurred to him that her resistance and her fighting back were genuine; not until she’d started to cry, and he realized that not only were the tears real, but so was the fear in her eyes. Suddenly it wasn’t a game anymore and he felt sick. That he could ever cause that kind of reaction in her when he’d spent years doing everything in his power to protect her.

“I know we joked about this morning,” she says. “But that? Last night? That was not you. That wasn’t even Dhaka Tyler. I don’t know who that was.”

He swallows heavily. There’s bile sitting square in his throat and he’s not sure he wants to vomit or cry.  “I said I was sorry.” Tt sounds lame, even to his own ears.  

“I don’t want you to say you’re sorry. I want you tell me what’s going on. And don’t say nothing. Because it’s been building and building. For days. You’re like this wire that’s being pulled too tight and you’re ready to snap. Things were fine. Things were good. So good. Is it us? Is there was the real issues? You’re not happy and you don’t want there to be an ‘us’ anymore?”

“What?” He can’t help the incredulous laugh that escapes. Of all the fucking things she’d think, that is the most ridiculous. At least in his eyes. “Baby, you know that’s not it. That it’s not us. You and I are the only thing that’s NOT going to shit right now.”

“Then what is it?” she presses. “I know you, Tyler. Better than you know yourself most of the time. I know there’s more going on than you’re telling me. What is it?”

“It’s everything,” he admits. “Every single fucking thing. It’s Ovi and it’s Nik and it’s Millie’s birthday and it’s my father and it’s...everything.”

“Then tell Nik you’re not doing it. Call her and tell her you changed your mind. That she needs to find someone to train him. Because if it’s going to tear you apart like this...”

“I can’t. I can’t back out now. I bailed on her once. I can’t do it again.”

“Fuck Nik. You did what you had to do to keep your sanity and come home to your family. You CAN back out. And you need to know if you feel you can’t do it or if it’s only going to make things worse for you. Stop being so fucking stubborn and like yourself for once. Jesus Christ. Why do you do this? Why do you not care about what you’re going through?”

“I have to do it,” Tyler insists. “It’s Ovi, I can’t let him down. No matter how pissed off I am. No matter how much I want to fucking strangle him. If I don’t help and something happens to him, I’ll never forgive myself. And that’ll be a hundred times worse than what I’m going through right now.”

“I don’t want you doing this if it’s going to break you, if it’s only going to tear you apart from the inside out. I don’t want that happening to you. Because there’s six people that you need you, Tyler. Whether you think we do or not. I do not want this destroying you.”

“I just need to get through it,” he reasons. “I just need to bust his ass and hope it either breaks him and he gives up, or that I did a good enough job to keep him alive.”

“And if you have to go in and get what? What then?”

“Then I pray I don’t fuck up and I make it home.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” she mutters, then inhales deeply and exhales slowly, grip on his hand tightening. And minutes pass before she speaks again. “Do you miss it?” she asks, her eyes focused on the road ahead. “The job. Do you miss it? I want you to be honest with me. I want you tell me the truth even if it’s going to hurt. Even if you know I’m going to hate what I hear.”

“Esme...”

“Tyler,” her tone is firm. No nonsense. “Tell me the truth. Because lying about it will only make it worse. For both of us. Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes,” he admits.

“How often is sometimes?”

Sighing, he releases the hold on her hand and scratches at the back of his head. A nervous habit. “Lately? Every day.”

“Wow...” her eyes widen, and she nods slowly. “...I was not expecting THAT.”

He’s immediately on the defensive. “You wanted me to tell you. You told me to tell you the truth. So I am. You...”

“Every day, though? Every day for how long?”

“A couple weeks. Maybe more. A month at the most.”

She blinks in disbelief. “A month? A fucking month? Addie isn’t even a month old You’re telling me that I was still pregnant with her...trying to keep her inside of me so she’d stand a chance if she was born too early...and that entire time you were missing the job? While I’m trying to keep your daughter safe and alive, you were thinking about THAT? Are you fucking kidding me right now?!”

“I don’t want to fight,” he keeps his voice and calm and even, despite the fact he feels every remaining of control being chipped away. “You told me to tell you the truth and that’s what I’m doing.”

“I mean I expected you to miss it and a hard time giving it up. But a month? You’ve been away from it for half a goddamn year. So five months you were fine and now all of a sudden...”

“It’s just because of Ovi. If he’d never come to me with that shit....”

“That was a week ago. Not a month ago. What explains the three weeks before he said anything? Are you serious right now, Tyler? What the fuck?!”

“I don’t know what more you want me to say. Do you want me to say I’m sorry? That it makes me sick that I miss it? That I fucking hate myself for even thinking about it? Is that what you want to hear? That I feel like a shit human being because of it?”

“I want you to hear you say that you don’t want to go back to it!”

“I didn’t say that’s what I wanted. I said I missed it sometimes.”

“What is there to miss? Getting stabbed? Getting shot? Getting fucked over by guys like Mahajan? Killing people?”

“No,” he scowls. “I don’t miss that. What the fuck? Is that what you think of me? That that’s who I am? That I enjoy that shit?”

“Then what the hell is it? Because it didn’t end well, Tyler. It didn’t end well in New Zealand and it sure as hell didn’t end well in Dhaka. What is there to miss?”

He struggles to keep his composure.   “Esme, I don’t want to fight. Can we do this later? Can we not wait until we get home to talk about this? Can we just get this visit out of the goddamn way before talking about anything else? I just want to get to my dad’s, stay for a bit, and then leave. Then we can talk about whatever you want.”

“A month? A fucking month?”

“Esme...stop...please...I don’t want to fight.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why didn’t...”

“I said I don’t want to fucking fight!”  He roars, and his foot slams down on the brake. Bringing the truck to an abrupt and violent halt in the middle of the backwoods country road; tires crunching on stones and gravel, sending plumes of dust and dirty swirling and dancing around them. His chest feels impossibly tight; his heart races and his lungs with every breathe he tries to draw in.  He’s dizzy, nauseous; sweat gathers across his forehead and at his temples and back of his neck. And he’s suddenly aware of how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel; knuckles turning white and cracking, wounds reopening.

*****

“Tyler...”

He’s vaguely aware of the hand on his bicep and the sound of her voice; urgent and concerned. It seems as if she’s far away; distorted and muffled, as if he’s underwater and can’t quite make out what she’s saying to him. And as the pressure in his chest builds, it becomes fight of flight. He chooses the latter; throwing the truck into park and reaching for his seat belt, fingers numb and hands trembling as he struggles with the release. Frustration sets in; profanities slipping from parched lips, hot, bitter tears streaming down his cheeks.

He feels as if he’s on auto-pilot, no longer in control of his actions. And the gravel cracks and pops under his feet as he finally escapes, fresh air feeling as if it’s scalding his already aching as he draws it in large, choking gulps. Wobbling slightly with each step he takes, hands on his hips as he repeatedly paces the length of the truck. The simple counting begins to settle him; one foot in front of the other, reciting the number of steps in his head. The same way he had almost seven years ago on the Sultana Kamal Bridge. When he’d first stepped onto its war zone and began that long and tedious journey to freedom. He’d been in agonizing pain; quickly losing blood, growing weaker with each inch, yet continuing to advance. Spurred on by what he had waiting for him once he finally made it.  

And then Saju’s dead body and the sniper and his useless right leg forcing him to drag himself to safety. A tearful Ovi at his side, begging him to get up.

Dhaka. Fuck. Fucking Dhaka. It makes the panic build again. Makes it all so seem real; like he’s right there again. Tasting his blood in his mouth and feeling that absence of strength and hope. But he hadn’t been ready to give up just yet. Because he had something...someone...to lose and was going to fight for them. And there’d been that glimmer of hope; when he’d gunned down those last two assailants and limped his way towards the finish line. But that little bastard Farhad had shot him from behind and...

Fuck Farhad. Fuck Dhaka. Fuck Amir and Gaspar.  

He forces all thought and memory of it out of his mind; closing his eyes as he leans back against the grill of the truck. Concentrating on better things...happier things. Getting married, experiencing the birth of his ‘rainbow baby’ and all the others that came after her. Reminding himself that he has people who love him. Unconditionally. That rely on him and depend on him and make him want to be a better man. He would have given up a long ago; had he NOT had them. If Esme hadn’t have been there when he woke up in the hospital nearly seven years ago.

His breathing has returned to normal and the dizziness and nausea nonexistent when he hears one of the doors open behind him. The sudden press of her shoulder against his is comforting; it grounds him. Brings him back to the here and now. She’s done this before; talked him down from many a ledge. And he has no idea why she sticks around and keeps giving him chance after chance, but he’s thankful she does.

“Hold your daughter, Tyler,” she says, as Addie lays along her arm. “Hold her and feel how real she is. Feel that she’s here. That YOU’RE here. Not wherever your brain is telling you you are.”

“I can’t. Not like this. What if I hurt her? What if I...”

“Take her,” Esme insists, and he relents, bringing that baby...HIS baby...up to his chest; one hand on the back of her head, a forearm under the bum. She’s so tiny...so light...so fragile.  So perfect and pure. And he places his nose against the side of her head; feeling her hair against his skin, taking in the soft scent that clings to her clothing and hair, feeling her warm and the beat of her heart against him.

“That’s your reason,” Esme tells him. “Your purpose. Why you have to keep fighting and not let this destroy you.”

The tears come again, a mixture of shame and guilt. That he can have so much but not even realize it or appreciate it. That he was even given these things in the first place. All the bed decisions, all the blood on his hands...

“I’m sorry.” he manages. “I am so fucking sorry.”

“For what?” Her hand is on his back, resting between his shoulders. He can’t bring himself to look at her; afraid of what he’ll see her eyes. Disgust. Disappointment. Regret. “What are you sorry for?” she asks.

“Everything. Everything fucking things. All the shit I’ve put you through. That I STILL keep putting you through. I fucking hate myself for it.”

“I know you do. And I don’t' want you to. You have no reason to hate yourself.”

“Dhaka.” He says simply.  

“Dhaka has nothing to do with this. I’ve told  you a million times that I don’t blame you for how things went. You did everything you could that day. For Ovi. For me. It was out of your control. There was nothing more you could have done. You don’t think I realize that?”

“On the bridge. You shouldn't have had to do what you did.”

“That’s not your fault either. I don’t blame you for what I had to do or what I saw. I don’t you responsible for that. And I sure as hell don’t hate you. What will it take to make you realize that? To stop all that guilt and all that blame and all that hate for yourself. What more do you need me to say? Because I’ll say it. Whatever you need to hear, I will tell you.”

“I don’t know,” Tyler admits. “I just don’t fucking know.”

“This has to stop. The way you shouldn’t try to deal with every goddamn thing on your own. Stop keeping shit inside and letting it eat you alive.”

“Why do even stay with me?” he asks. “When I’m such a fucking mess?”

“Because I love you. Because you’re my husband and my lover and my confidant and my best friend. Because you have a huge heart and you’re a good man that was forced to do terrible things.”

“But my brain...”

“Is troubled and beautiful and it’s going to be okay. You’re not only in this Tyler. Stop acting like you are. Let me help you. Let me love you. Please.”

Esme curls her arm around his waist and rests her head against his arm, and for several minutes never of them speak. And eventually the tears subside, and he takes a long, shaky breath and places his lips against the side of Addie’s head.  

“Are you okay?” she asks, and presses a series of light, feathery kisses to his shoulder.

“Yeah...I’m okay.”

“We should just go home. You can call your dad’s and tell them that something came up and reschedule. I don’t think...”

“I’m fine. I told Millie I’d do this for her.”

“You know,” Esme muses. “You’re going to have to eventually say no to her. She's going need to learn about disappointment at some point in time.”

“Not today though. Let’s just do this. For her. Okay?”

“Okay. Do you want me to drive or...”

“You are NOT driving my truck,”

She smirks. “I think you love your truck more than me some days.”

“There’s nothing I love more than you.”

She smiles at that, and he kisses her softly. “I’ve driven your truck before,” she reminds him.

“And I’ve had it every time. You know how long it takes me to reset everything? Mirrors? Seat? I get in and my knees are up by my ears.”

“I have little legs! I can’t help it. Just because you’re absurdly tall...”

“Have you ever considered I’m normal height and you’re absurdly short?”

“You’re not normal height,” she laughs.  “Not even close to it. You’re all legs and torso. And so are you kids. Well, except for this little nugget,” she smiles down at Addie. “This one is all me.”

“Poor kid.”

“Hey!” she objects and pinches his side. “That’s not nice!”

Tyler grins. “Can we still be friends?”

“Maybe. Depends how you make it up to me.”

“I’ll buy you tacos for lunch.”

“That’ll do,” she says, and stands on her tip toes to kiss him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He nods.

“I just want you to be healthy, Tyler. That’s all I want. Because I love you and I worry about you and I don’t anything happening to you. You need to stop torturing yourself so much about Dhaka. I’ve never blamed you. Or hated you. What happened is not your fault. I need you to realize that.”

“I’ll try,” he promises. “I’ll try remembering that.”

“You saved my life. Not just there. In general. In every way a person CAN be saved. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I love you,” he says, and kisses her once more. “So much.”

“I love you too. Which is why I stay. Don’t ever ask me that again.”

“I won’t.”

She presses a kiss to his shoulder and rubs the middle of this back. “When you’re ready,” she says, and gives him a small smile before returning to the truck.

He wonders if he ever will be. Ready. If he’ll be able to truly let the past go.