#thank you for the kind message and the sweet prompt Phil!!

[sesamestreep]

nick/jess, "speculative" for the prompt thing! dw i get it dude, old prompts can be stressful. you got this!

Nick presses the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough that he starts to see spots. “Jess, please! You’ve been reading it for twenty minutes. Just tell me what you think!”

Jess scans the last few words on the screen and then hands his laptop back to him casually. “You should change the description of it from ‘dystopian fiction’ to ‘speculative fiction’,” she says. “They mean basically the same thing, but speculative fiction opens you up to new readers and distinguishes it from the YA stuff you’ve done so far.”

“You see?” He kisses the side of her head and gets a mouthful of her hair in his excitement. “This is why I married you! You’re a genius!”

Jess rolls her eyes, as she dips another pickle in the cool whip container next to her elbow. Nick does his best to hide his disgust. They’ve already gotten into several arguments about judging the food cravings that come along with her pregnancy and the last one had ended with Cece and Aly joining in to tell him to shut his damn mouth until the baby was at least five years old. Apparently that’s how long it will be before he’s allowed to have opinions on his wife’s behavior again.

“That better not be the only reason,” she says, resting a hand on her barely protruding belly.

He doesn’t know how to explain that, even though he had dozens of others, her ability to make everything in his life so much better than he ever imagined is a good enough reason that it could have been his only one and it would still be romantic. But he’d probably just end up rambling and screwing it all up somehow, so he just nods and says, “yes, dear,” and e-mails his book proposal to Merle instead.

[kerwritesthings]

Orange Blossom At The Bottom Of A Shot Glass

Summary: Salty is followed by sour, which should always be followed by sweet. 

Word Count: almost 3.7k

Warning: little cursing, little sexual tension, a bunch of sweet and fluff

Author Notes: ::taps on mic:: Soooo it’s been a GOOD while. The muse has been a little bit of a fickle bitch. Or a lot of one, actually. Also didn’t help that the last piece I wrote totally went a hard boom splat - gee thanks tall idiot Canadian one for that :P

HOWEVER, the muse decided to let go with some of the hockey boys and me play with some words for J’s Winter Writing Challenge. I’m just one day off deadline, though I still want to fill the other 1-2 I was thinking of. Thank you J for pulling this all together, you’re a peach. 

This one, is the first attempt at writing Tyler, so please be kind to a girl. It was fun to play in this little part of my hockeysphere/hockeyblr. 

I’m also maybe possibly most likely making this into a verse/series. Cause y’all should know that’s how I roll. 

The prompt from the challenge was:  “Take another step and I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“From the cute one in the three piece purple suit at the end of the bar, said to get you another of whatever you’re drinking,” Misty says, sliding the half-sugar rimmed martini glass across the copper bar top. “Wouldn’t even entertain doing this if I didn’t know most of them.”

“Thanks Mis,” you smile, pushing your empty glass towards her.

You peek down slyly towards the right. A gaggle of tall, well dressed men circle the far end. You think some look familiar. Then you see who Misty meant when he turns towards the front of the bar and towards where you’re sitting. You know straightaway who he is, know the reputation, the rumblings. It’s hard not to, as big as Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex is, it’s not at the same time. It also helps that you’ve been a hockey fan since birth, paying attention to the boys in green since you moved to Dallas a handful of years ago.

“Misty are you fucking kidding me?” you snap when she wanders back towards you.

“Nope,” she grins like the cat who got the canary. “You should go over and say thank you. Promise you, you may think you know, but he’s a good guy. The lot of them are.”

You shake your head no, downing half your drink in one sip before wiping your finger against the glass to lick at some of the sanding sugar. Misty’s blood orange martinis are your favorite, and a weakness you cannot kick when she’s got the good stuff in stock.

“Give me a blank tabcard and a pen,” you ask. “How many of them are down there? Do a round of shots on my bill, but lemme think of what to send while I write this.”

Misty places one of her pens, a card and your Visa to the right of your cocktail. You carefully fold the card in half, tearing it in two. On one half you cleanly script out your name and cell number while on the second half, you write a cheeky little note:

If you can figure out what the shot is, Misty has something for you. Thanks for the martini, the second always hits better especially when you lick the sugar rim.

“Mis, do you know how to make a reckless slut?” you snicker, capping the pen.

“Red-headed slut, but with whiskey instead of Jaeger yeah?” she questions, looking underneath the bar for a bigger, clean cocktail shaker.

“Honey whiskey if you’ve got it,” you respond, polishing off the rest of your martini before gathering your things. “Then it’s just a touch lighter on the peach. If he can guess it right, then you give him the second half of the note.”

“You got it, I’ll see you,” she waves, off to the middle of the bar to find more ingredients.

You carefully glance down towards the opposite end, noticing the boys all wrapped up so you carefully slip out to make your exit, smiling and shaking your head.

“I’m absolutely insane,” you say out loud to yourself as you head towards your car.

“Segs, my girl left this for you and a round on her for the rest of the motley crew,” Misty explains, slipping him the first card before handing out the shot glasses.

“What she say?” Jamie nudges.

“Other than I missed her licking the rim of her glass?” he chides. “I need to guess what this is and then Misty has something for me, supposedly.”

“I do,” Misty replies, handing the rest of the shots out. “She picked a bit of a good one to leave for you too. Cheers boys, bellow if you need anything.”

He lifts the glass, sniffing it at first, not having any clue.

“J, Rads you guys have any idea?” Tyler asks, they both shake their head.

“Bottoms up,” Jamie adds before they all tip the shots back.

“Anybody?” Tyler pushes again, glasses clicking on the copper.

“I know,” a voice chimes in from the back, dropping the empty shot glass onto the bar.

“Come on then Dicky,” Tyler urges.

He looks at Tyler, trying to hold back a laugh but it doesn’t work.

“It’s a reckless slut,�� he manages out between his laughter. “It’s something else dark in place of Jägermeister. Slightly fitting, eh?”

The group busts out in hoops, hollers and their own peals of laughter while Tyler shoves at the one closest to him, this time it’s Alex.

“Whiskey, honey whiskey actually, so nice one there Jason. Winner gets this,” Misty trills happily, wiggling a card in front of the group.

“Hey, wait a second,” Tyler snaps, trying to lean over to snatch the card from the bartender.

“That’s the rules she set,” she says, flicking the card over to his teammate. “Take it up with him, he got it right.”

“What’s it worth?” Jason grins, fist bumping with Misty before turning more towards Tyler.

“Not whatever you’re scheming in that brain of yours,” he takes a pull off his beer.

“I was just gonna say take care of dinner tonight, but if it’s not worth that,” Jason trails off.

“Damnit Dicky,” he sighs, hand flexing around the bottle.

“Let’s go boys, they’re ready for us,” Joe interjects from the outskirts of the group, nodding to the back dining room. “And we like it here so no bloodshed, ok?”

You’re just about to slip the key into your front door lock when your phone buzzes in quick repeated blips. You juggle everything in, snag a bottle of water from the fridge before plopping down on the couch to see what has your phone trilling.

So, Tyler didn’t win the challenge, I did and Misty followed the rules passing it to the winner! Hi, I’m Jason.

::selfie of Jason with the boys scattered about behind him at the bar::

I’m refusing for a bit to give him your number. Want to spare and maybe prepare you before I do. Plus, it’s fun to watch him squirm for a bit when it comes to shit like this.

The reckless slut shot was a nice touch, so I’m hopeful in assuming when you spotted us, him really, you kind of knew who was all down at that end of the bar. Probably have heard some things about his adventures and antics, cause who hasn’t.

I can tell you most of it is blown out of proportion, don’t get me wrong he has his fun, but he’s not an asshole.

Maybe we can all do lunch after practice? I’m happy to play buffer if you don’t want to deal with him solo. We’ll go somewhere solid and make him pick it up :)

You cannot help but smile when flipping through the messages, making sure to save both Jason’s number and ridiculous selfie to your contacts list. You fire off a quick thanks text to Misty before you settle in to figure out the best reply to Jason.

You’re a good teammate and a better friend. I would also make him squirm for a bit too, little shit deserves a bit of discomfort.

I appreciate that, Jason – thank you. I know better than to judge a book by its cover, but it’s hard when the Cliffs Notes versions are face up all over the place. Plus, a lady can never be too careful.

Want to try lunch next week, the three of us? I can’t remember what your upcoming game sitch is like, sorry. Maybe PS214? Something good that’s not too fussy, but chill. Plus, they should have enough options for whatever your nutritionist wants you boys to try to stick to or options to totally cheat out on.

I’ve got some flex in my schedule for lunches, my later afternoons get to be what’s stickier.

You know they were having a team dinner, so you don’t expect a response right away, so you pull yourself together to wash up and get to bed. You wake up to a flurry of more texts the next morning, plans for lunch Monday their practice and a video clip of the two of them, which was utterly ridiculous and adorable at the same time. It eased your tensions just a touch, but lunch would be the kicker.

“There’s my favorite foodie,” Phil the manager says, hugging you immediately. “I was so happy to see your name on the reservations. Is this a work thing or a pleasure thing?”

“Little of both, I’ve got two possibly three of Dallas’ favorite hockey team joining me which is why I asked about the back-corner alcove,” you explain. “But I also want to taste some of the new things you’ve been floating both at the bar and on the menu. Nothing formal yet, but I’m thinking of trying to pull together something around new happy hour approaches.”

“I think one of your lunch companions just walked in,” Phil responds, as you catch someone walking towards the two of you from the corner of your eye. “I know him and his wife, they’ve been in a few times. Hey Jason, nice to see you.”

“Hey Phil, wasn’t sure if you’d be here, good to see you. You’ve met one half of my lunch date already?” he shakes Phil’s hand before reaching for yours.

“She and I run in the same circles, mutual friends, some projects that have crossed paths,” Phil adds. “We’re waiting on one more, yes?”

His phone trills, “It’s Segs, he’s parking now and apologized for being late. He had to let the pups out because his dog sitter couldn’t get there early today.”

“I was early, force of habit, so no worries,” you reply. “He’s going to be pretty much on time in the grand scheme. Plus, I got some actual work done talking to Phil before you got here, so it’s all good.”

“Jason, you best not be trying to steal her from me already,” Tyler claps his shoulder before setting his eyes on you. “You’ve got someone waiting for you at home.”

You can’t help but half roll your eyes and half chuckle, “Nice to officially meet you, Tyler.”

He reaches out, his hand easily dwarfs yours, “You too, Clementine.”

“If you are all ready, we’ve got the table you asked for set,” Phil nods to the right, into the dining room.

“You were mentioning your work when I came in?” Tyler questions as you all sit down.

“I guess you could say I’m a lifestyle writer, mostly food and drink but I’ve dabbled in some travel,” you say. “I started out with my own blog back when I was in college trying to figure out what I wanted to do with life and it kind of got a following from there. I refuse to say influencer, cause no I’m not. Not my schtick. Actual writing pays the bills, not sponsored Instagram or blog posts. I refused to let my baby No Fork become something tainted like that, I think why it became so successful.”

“Wait, wait. You’re A Girl With No Fork? Seriously, my wife is obsessed with your insta page and the blog,” Jason exclaims. “She’s going to lose her ish that I’m having lunch with you.”

“Still blogging but keeping that a little more separate now a days. There’s more bylines with Infatuation, Food and Wine, a good deal with some the local papers. I may have a piece end up with Bon Appetite if this pitch I’m working on comes to fruition,” you explain, taking a sip of what Phil just placed in front of you. “Trying to keep a little of that anonymity left to keep Fork as respected as it is. Your wife and I need to brunch at some point then.”

Phil comes by to ask about any allergies or dietary restrictions, the rest is up to him and the chef, and you know you’re all in good hands.

“So, a pretty girl with a unique name,” Tyler leads. “Feels like there’s probably a good story there.”

“I was a surprisingly early baby, literally my Mom went into labor at 35 weeks and in an orange grove. That was her craving when she was pregnant with me, a ton of citrus. Hence the name,” you smile. “It’s rare I hear anyone other than her use my full name anymore. Even my pen name for my byline on pieces uses my initials. Friends mostly call me C or Em.”

“No Emmy?” Tyler questions.

You shake your head, cheeks flushing. You’ve never allowed that by anyone; not that anyone has ever tried that out for size. It always felt to too special to you, wanting to hold on to that for the right person.

“Let me see these puppies that made you late,” you divert.

“Once you get him started on the three stooges, you cannot go back,” Jason rolls his eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you smile, making grabby hands for his phone. “Come on I know you’ve got a ton of photos and videos on there.”

“They’re definitely a handful, and not so much puppies anymore. Though Gerry would fight me on that, he’s the baby,” Tyler grins wide before pulling up a video of three dogs running around like crazy in what looks to be his backyard pool.

Lunch was more of the same, good food, good conversation and a bunch of joking around. Smart play by Jason to recommend it this way, he’s as much of a sweetheart as his texts made him out to be and helps ease some of the worries you had about Tyler. And Tyler, you found yourself gravitating to him a lot more than you thought you would. You all didn’t realize it until the shift change was happening how long you actually spent in the back booth. As you’re saying goodbye, hugs are passed around between the group of you this time.

“We’re keeping you around by the way,” Tyler whispers in your ear. “Welcome to the crew.”

You fall into a quirky but easy friendship with Tyler and Jason after that, eventually Jamie too once the boys drag him to one of your tasting outings. It evolves quickly from random texting to grabbing meals and drinks, hanging out after games, even meeting Tyler at the dog park to finally meet his trio of crazy pups during one of your crazy timed breaks in your schedule that matched up before he needed to get into his pre-game routine.

Gerry is running amok hopping around with a German Sheppard while Cash just wants Tyler to throw a stick for him to fetch repeatedly. Marshall, however, has taken residence with his head in your lap.

“I know your younger brothers are insane,” you coo, rubbing the chocolate lab’s ear as he nuzzles into your thigh. “I’m sorry I have to leave you with them in a few.”

“So soon?” Tyler asks, tossing Cash’s favorite stick a little father. “You like just got here. He also just doesn’t cuddle like that with anyone. Feel special, so you shouldn’t leave him either.”

“Only a quick break today. Deadlines looming and a bourbon tasting that need to get done if I’m meeting you guys later after the game,” you explain, fingers digging into Marshall’s fur again.

“At some point you do need to come to a game,” he sasses as Cash comes barreling into his legs, Gerry not far behind. “I know you’re a hockey fan, you can’t hide that Em.”

“Perhaps maybe,” you tease, rolling your eyes sticking your tongue out at him. “Ok Marsh, I’m sorry buddy but I gotta go.”

Marshall just slides his head further into your lap, while now Cash head butts your free hand as Gerry crashes into your legs.

“I’m so sorry boys, we’ll have another playdate soon I promise,” you call to them as you pet all their heads.

“Where’s my goodbye pets and love?” he cheekily leans his head towards you.

“Oh Ty,” rolling your eyes as you get up.

You lean in as you were going to kiss his cheek, but you just tweak his nose and flip his snapback off, “See you tonight superstar.”

Misty is thankfully behind the bar again tonight at Oak and Cork, except this time you’re in the middle of the crazy group instead of the far end of the bar.

“You hitting that yet?” Alex grins wiggling his eyebrows and nodding to where you’re leaning against the bar talking to Misty while she makes your drink.

Tyler shoves his teammate, “Dude.”

“First off, don’t be crass. Em is in the damn room. And that’s a no by the way,” Jason rolls his eyes at Alex after handing off glasses to the two of them. “He most definitely wants to; I think that she does too. They just won’t actually talk about it.”

“She sent you reckless slut shots, I think you can talk to her about fucking,” Alex replies, taking a pull from his drink.

“Emmy. She’s not just some random girl to dick and dump, Rads. Fucks sake,” he sighs, hand threading through his hair as he looks over in your direction where you’re talking with Jamie, Joe and his wife.

“Emmy, eh? That speaks volumes. Just ask her already,” Jason interjects. “We’re all tired of your crank ass. I’m going to find my better half.”

“He’s right,” Alex taps his glass against Tyler’s. “Go to her. Ask her. Kiss her. Less cranky, more goals, more fucking.”

Tyler shakes his head, downing the rest of his drink in one go. He snags a bottle of beer from one of the buckets left out on the bar for the group before he looks for somewhere to take a breather. You catch him stalking off to the patio, amber glass clenched in his hand with his brows knitted together.

“He ok?” you ask Jamie, pointing towards the door where Tyler’s walking through.

“That’s not a good Tyler face,” he sighs. “I should…”

“No, stay. I’ll go check,” you interrupt, polishing off your martini to head outside.

“Hard to have congratulatory drinks when the first star of the game is hiding out on the patio,” you call out.

He shrugs, not turning around at first but you can see the tension across his shoulders even through his dress shirt. You take a couple steps out towards him.

“Hey, come on. Can’t be that bad. Right? Nothing’s wrong with the pups? Your family?” you tread carefully not knowing what could have happened between the dog park and that moment.

He turns around slowly, not looking up at first.

“Tyler, what’s going on?” your concern lacing through your voice clearly.

“I still think about that night here, you know?” he starts, placing his bottle on the railing next to him before leaning back against it. “I was intrigued, girl at a bar alone on a Friday night. Gorgeous one at that. She kind of saw right through me but dished it back unexpectedly and pretty well. Then, then that damn chaperoned lunch. Kind of just rolled from there.”

“Ty, what are you saying?” you need to make sure where he’s going with this.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, it’s exhilarating and unnerving,” he fights out, coming off the railing. “I still think about kissing you, wanting that, all the damn time.”

“Tyler,” you begin, trying to move closer.

“Take another step and I can’t be held responsible for my actions,” Tyler fights out, hands flexing at his side but looking you straight in the eye.

You can see the clench of his jaw clearly from there, the fire he’s holding back in his eyes. Your breath catches, your heart skips and your stomach flips.

“What if I’m ok with that?” you whisper, slipping an inch closer.

“I need you to be sure, Clementine,” he looks at you carefully, pupils flicking wider.

“Clementine? Really Tyler?” you try to tease to lighten the thick air around the two of you.

“Emmy,” he exhales deeply. “Don’t. Please, not tonight. Not now.”

You nod once he opens his eyes, stepping closer.

“Use your words, Emmy,” he murmurs, one hand grasping your hip while the other comes to cup your cheek, thumb trailing across your skin. “I need to hear you say it, babygirl.”

You’re distracted for a moment, having him that close. His words swirl around your head, your senses are slightly overwhelmed by him. His cologne lingers in your nose and makes your eyes flutter.

“You don’t need to placate me though, I’m a big boy,” he says softly. “Friends is better than nothing.”

“I wouldn’t,” you jump in carefully. “It’s why I waited, why I’m saying yes now to you Ty.”

Tyler pulls you forward and claims your mouth. His tongue wicked, swiping at yours. Your hands slip up behind his neck with fingers tangling in his hair at the nape. You lose sense of time, all you can do is sink further into the kiss, and into him, until you’re out of breath.

“You taste like those damn orange martinis you love. I like it,” he sighs, knuckle trailing against your cheek. “I’ve never felt possessive, but fuck. The thought of anyone else sipping your sugar after that makes me see red, Emmy.”

“Is that the ass backwards Tyler way of asking me out?” you tease, popping up on your toes to nip at his bottom lip.

He surges forward and knocks the breath out of you with another bruising kiss.

“Come to my game tomorrow, wear my jersey. Let me show you off properly, let me take you home after, breakfast with the dogs on the patio in the morning,” he asks, this time his thumb tracing over your bottom lip. “And the game after that and the next one after that, the next weeks and months ahead. Let me show you that I’m not that reckless slut you may think I am. You make me not want to be.”

You smile, nodding and pressing a kiss to the pad of his thumb.

[lacystar]

Hey so i've spent the past few hours reading some of your fics, and your writing style is easily one of my favourites i've come across. The attention to detail and portrayal of characters is extremely well done. I especially like But You And I Will Always Be Back Then and Sojourn.

Like,, Soujourn made me feel a certain type of way. Reading it made me feel "at home" if that makes sense, which I haven't felt in a while. It also somehow prompted me to make a cup of tea with honey (a childhood comfort that I haven't touched in years), which I promptly spat out when reading chapter five, because what the hell, you wrote Techno drinking the exact same thing before I even read it. It feels like a very big coincidence, but also I think there's something to be said about your ability to infuse your writing with that warm vibe.

So yeah, sorry that this was long and kind of odd, but the tea thing really threw me off (in a good way) and I wanted you to know how much I admire your storytelling. Thanks for writing it!

–🍓🐝

holy FUCK what a sweet ask. receiving this made me smile so much you have no idea. and YES, I'm so glad to hear sojourn made you feel like that because that's the EXACT VIBE I was striving for. I wrote it in response to doomsday because in the aftermath of that, techno and Phil taking Ranboo in seemed like the one good thing to come out of the whole day and I wanted to explore that positive. I really wanted to give a sense of home, mostly for Ranboo, that he’d never felt in l’manberg, and also to techno, but rather in a person than a place (namely the weird-ass kid that just dropped in). I didn’t want it to be overwhelmingly fluffy because I didn’t think that fit the vibe of post-war, and I also just don’t typically enjoy that type of story. whenever I sit down to write sojourn I always approach it with a mood of what I could only call “pensive healing”; hardly anything angsty really happens in the story, but there’s an overarching melancholy to the whole tone of the piece to give it that home-like feel; home isn’t perfect, but it’s comfortable and welcoming.

you didn’t ask for that analysis lmao but yeah. and WEIIIRD coincidence with the tea man. that’s wack. I'm so glad my writing made you feel so comfortable though, and thank you so much for this message!! ❤️❤️

[adorkablephil]

Fic: Magical Healing Properties

Title: Magical Healing Properties Summary: Phil’s sick and wants his mum’s chicken soup Rating: G Word Count: 1,569 Author’s Note: This was written for my @phandomficfests bingo square “cooking lessons” (to finish off my first bingo card), but I decided to use it as an opportunity to also write for a prompt @carryonmywaywardlester sent me more than a year ago. I swapped all the characters from the prompt, though, because I’m not really comfortable writing the Howell family (so I made Phil the sick one, instead of Dan).

“Hi, Kath? This is Dan. How are you? I hope you’re doing well. The thing is, this is going to sound mad, but I have a favor to ask you. Could I get your recipe for chicken soup? Give me a call when you get this message.”

Kathryn Lester called back only 20 minutes later, and was sweet as ever. “Why in the world would you boys need my recipe for chicken soup?” she asked with laughter in her voice.

“Phil has a flu,” Dan explained. “Nothing serious—you don’t need to worry—but he’s running a fever and you know how he gets when he’s really sick.”

Kath sounded knowing when she suggested, “A little delirious?”

“Yeah. He keeps asking for you and whining that he wants your chicken soup.”

Kathryn sounded honestly concerned when she asked, “Do you think I should come?”

“No, no,” Dan assured her. “I’ll let you know if it gets any worse, but right now … I just thought…”

“What is it you need, Dan?” Kathryn asked kindly. “Do you really want to try to make chicken soup?”

Dan sighed, then said, “Not just chicken soup—your chicken soup. He’s being very insistent about that. Maybe it has magical healing properties.” They both chuckled.

“Well, okay. I can talk you through it,” Kath agreed.

******

Dan walked through Tesco, pushing the cart full of vegetables with one hand and holding his phone to his ear with the other. “Do I really need an entire chicken? I mean, there are only two of us.”

“You can freeze the leftovers,” Kath replied pragmatically.

“And it has to cook … does it really have to cook for two hours?”

“Well, more or less. Until the chicken falls off the bone.”

“So … I have to just keep picking up the chicken every once in a while to see if the meat falls off?” Dan asked in frustration.

“My chicken soup is more of an art than a science, Dan. You’ll know when the time is right,” she reassured him. Then she added with amusement in her tone, “But, yes, if you have to, then pick up the chicken every twenty minutes or so to see if the meat falls off.”

“How am I supposed to lift the chicken without boiling my hands?” Dan protested in horror.

He could practically hear her rolling her eyes at him.

******

Dan stared at the disaster their kitchen had become. Normally, he would clear things as he went along, but he’d had Kathryn on speaker the entire time, and so he’d been following her directions as fast as he could, and he didn’t want to wash dishes and not be able to hear her over the sound of running water.

It seemed like he’d been doing nothing but sweating over the stove all day, except for the morning’s marathon trip to Tesco. He had no idea how they were ever going to eat this much chicken soup, but if Phil wanted his mum’s chicken soup then Dan would make it happen.

“Could you wait a minute, Kath?” Dan asked. “I want to go check on Phil again.”

“Go right ahead, Dan, dear. Let me know how he’s doing.”

So while the mass of soup was simmering on the stove, Dan ran down the hallway to the bedroom and quietly pried open the door to look in on Phil. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and he was tossing restlessly in the bed. Dan ran back to the kitchen, told Kath quickly, “I’m getting him a glass of water,” and then filled a glass to take back to the bedroom. He went inside this time and sat on the edge of the bed. “Phil?” he said softly, setting the glass of water on the bedside table. He rested a hand on Phil’s bare shoulder and was concerned at the heat. He looked at his watch and decided that it was time Phil could take some more paracetamol, so he opened the bottle he had sitting there by the bed and shook two tablets into his hand.

“Phil, can you sit up a bit to take a couple tablets? They might make you feel better.”

Phil just groaned and turned away, mumbling something about his mum and paracetamol, then Dan thought he heard the words “chicken soup” again. “I’m going to get you some chicken soup,” Dan assured him gently. “But right now you need to take these tablets to try to bring down your fever.”

Phil raised up slightly to take the tablets, then drank thirstily at the water. Dan wiped Phil’s hair away from his face and kissed his cheek lightly. It was kind of sweaty and gross, but he loved him anyway.

“It has to be my mum’s chicken soup,” Phil grumbled hazily and then turned away again, throwing the blankets off his legs but wrapping his arms and chest into the duvet. Chills. Dan hated having the chills, feeling like his body was hot and cold at the same time.

Poor Phil.

“It’ll be your mum’s chicken soup,” Dan promised, then patted Phil’s bundled up shoulder tenderly before heading back out to the kitchen.

“He’s got chills,” Dan told Kathryn over the phone propped up on the counter, “but it still doesn’t seem too bad. He needs to sleep, and I gave him some paracetamol. He complained that he wants your soup again.”

“Well, then, let’s get back to work,” Kath replied.

******

An hour later, Dan brought a bowl into the bedroom where Phil lay sleeping fitfully. At first, Dan considered letting him sleep, but then he remembered that Phil hadn’t eaten anything all day, and so decided it would be worth waking him up to give him a bit of nutrition.

“Phil,” he whispered, setting the bowl and spoon on the bedside table with the paracetamol bottle, a box of tissues, and the empty glass of water—he’d go refill that as soon as Phil had some soup. “Phil,” he coaxed, “I brought you some soup.”

“Don’t want your soup,” Phil fretted sleepily. “Want my mum’s chicken soup.” He turned away again.

“This is your mum’s chicken soup,” Dan insisted. “Just have a taste and see. Just one taste.”

Phil glared at him in mistrust, his eyes glassy with fever, but he did sit up and let Dan spoon some soup into his mouth. He closed his eyes and relaxed more than Dan had seen him do in two days. “It’s my mum’s soup,” Phil marveled, opening his eyes to gaze gratefully at Dan. “Is she here?”

Dan shook his head, but before Phil could look disappointed he added, “But I’m here. I’m always here for you, sweetheart. And your mum helped me make the soup for you, because we both love you so much. Will you have another spoonful?” Phil nodded, and then continued to eat until the bowl was empty, after which he cuddled into his blankets, looking less miserable and a bit comforted by the taste of the familiar family recipe.

Dan returned to the kitchen with the empty bowl and water glass, and Kath was still on the phone. They’d been on the phone together for hours now. “He ate the bowl of soup,” Dan told her, and they both sighed together in relief. “Apparently you helped me make it right.”

“You did wonderfully, Dan. Now, let me know if things get any worse, but I know you’ll take lovely care of my boy. You always do.”

Tears sprang to Dan’s eyes at her trust in him. “Thank you, Kath. That means a lot to me. And thank you for all your help today. I could never have done it without you.”

“Of course not,” Kath replied pertly. “It’s my chicken soup!” And they both chuckled.

“Okay,” Dan said. “I’m going to take him some water and sit with him for a while. Maybe get a cool cloth to wipe his face.”

“He’ll like that,” Kath said softly. After a moment she added, “Thank you, Dan.”

Dan smiled at the phone on the counter and said softly, “You’re welcome. I love you all—you know that.”

“We do,” Kath replied. “And we love you, too, Dan. Take good care of yourself while you taking care of our boy. Because you’re our boy, too.”

Dan felt a wave of gratitude and affection that nearly brought tears to his eyes. “Thank you for that.” And before she could say anything else sappy enough to make him actually cry, he ended the call by saying, “I’ll phone you if anything changes—whether he gets better or worse—but right now I want to go take him some water. Talk to you soon, and thanks for the help with the soup.”

“You’re welcome, Dan,” she replied, and they both hung up. They’d been on the phone together longer than Dan’s longest Skype calls with Phil back in 2009.

Dan filled the glass with water, then wet a tea towel and wrung it out so that it was just cool and damp … and then he went back to take care of his Phil.

[lizzzybooo]

ten year anniversary fluff fic. Maybe phil writes 'ahappyphil' or 'still ahappyphil' on his twitter.

i changed your prompt a little anon hope you still like it! 

(read on ao3- https://archiveofourown.org/works/12481372 )

“Still ahappyphil.”

Phil was staring at his phone, finger hovering over the screen,trying to decide what was the right thing to do.

He and Dan had a good day. A really really good day.

They spent the first half of it in bed, touching and kissingand cuddling. And it wasn’t exactly rare. They did have those days from time totime when they just couldn’t get enough of each other. When every part of theother person looked flawless and kissable and the other’s smell was just allthey wanted to breathe in for the rest of the day.

But still, they did tend to get a little more emotional, alittle touchier, on their anniversary (not that Phil was complaining).

They were both giant saps. Sue them.  

They spent the rest of the day watching TV shows and playinggames and Dan made him the most amazing pancakes ever even though it wasalready almost diner time, because sometimes Dan wanted to spoil his boyfriendof 8 years and there was never a better way to do that than pancakes.

And while Dan was making them Phil posted their new video,feeling proud and giddy because another thing he and Dan had made was now outfor the world to see and have and appreciate.

And when he hugged Dan close from behind, interrupting hiscooking, and told him how much he loved him, how much he loved them and theirlife and the people they grew up to be, Dan didn’t grumble about Phil makinghim burn the pancakes. He didn’t complain about him being too much of a sap forDan to handle.

No. he turned off the stove and turned around in Phil’s armsand kissed him senseless, pulling back only to cup Phil’s cheeks and say suchsweet things that Phil felt a little dizzy from affection.

So he was. Happy, that is.

So very extremely happy.  

And even though there was value in keeping it close, keepingtheir relationship between them and the people they loved and trusted, at thatmoment he kind of really wanted to shout it from a roof top.

To shout and yell and let everyone know that Dan was his andhe was Dan’s and that they belonged to each other for the last 8 years and wereprobably going to belong to each other for the next 80.

Because even though not everything was perfect it was stillso so good and he was good and Dan and the life they built together were everything he ever dreamed about and he wanted to say it for the world to hear.

Wanted to show off to anyone who ever doubted him that hewas exactly where he wanted to be in his life and did it all with the person hechose and chose him.

He wanted to tell everyone that after 8 years he still felt excitementand giddiness just from waking up next to Dan. He wanted to tell them how hardhe and Dan had worked to keep their relationship good and healthy and that theynever ever took what they had for granted.

That he was thankful for every opportunity he got, everyperson who helped him get to where he was, and most of all thankful that he hadDan to share this amazing journey with.  

So when he was lying in his bed that night, waiting for Danto come out of the bathroom, and was looking at all the things their audiencesent them, all the messages and art work and videos congratulating them on the anniversaryof his and Dan’s first meeting, he had this craving, this want to share his happinesswith them, with everyone.

So he wrote it, on an impulse. ‘Still ahappyphil’.

And now he was looking at his unposted tweet, staring at hiswords. The same words he posted without a second thought 8 years ago, that nowheld so much more meaning to them, so much more baggage.

He knew, perfectly well, that this was not just a declarationof happiness. It was a declaration of everything else, and was it really theright thing for him? For them?

“What are you doing? You look very consecrated.” Dan wasstanding at the foot of the bed, looking at him intently and his voice wasamused and lighthearted and still Phil could hear a little concern hiddenbehind his words. Thinking too hard was never a good sign for either of them.

Phil gave his tweet a once over one last time before deletingit, feeling a dull pang in his chest.

“Nothing, come here,” he said with a smile, patting thespace next to him on the bed.

Dan looked at him for another moment, before deciding todrop the subject and throw himself unceremoniously onto the bed, almost hittingPhil in the face in the process.

“Oh! Be careful!” Phil grumbled, but couldn’t hide the smilefrom his face.

This was good. This was enough, it had to be for now. He toldhimself.

Dan giggled. “Sorry,” he said, and his dimples were so deepand his eyes were so shiny and Phil just fell a little bit more in love.

“Decided to kill me after 8 years? Shame on you,” Phil said,trying to hide the disgustingly adoring expression on his face by snugglinginto Dan’s chest, letting his nose nuzzle Dan’s soft T shirt.  

“Yeah,” Dan answered softly, wrapping his arms around Philand pulling him closer, impossibly tight against him.

“You’re getting too old, it’s too much work keeping youaround.” His hands were running patterns all over Phil’s arm and shoulder andcheek and Phil felt like he was melting under his touch.

“Rude,” he said, but the way the word left his mouth with asigh made it almost inaudible.

And it was good, like that. Just the two of them. It reallyreally was.

And even though Phil still wanted, wished even some of the time,that he could share this amazing thing he had with more people, with everyone,there was still no better feeling then Dan’s breath tickling his hair and Dan’sarms around him and Dan’s heartbeats under his ear and Dan so close to him.

And for now, it just had to be enough.

Besides, Phil thought as his eyes started to close and hismind became foggy, there’s always next year.

      (send me prompts)

[believermag]

ELECTRIC BLUE

All photographs by the author.

Kim Wood on David Bowie

1.

There are roughly ten blocks between the theater where David Bowie watched rehearsals for Lazarus, and the studio where he recorded Blackstar. In his last years, we both lived between them, on opposite sides of Houston Street.

My side is the Bowery, known in real estate speak as NoHo (North of Houston). On the street where I live—a two-block stretch of 3rd Street known as Great Jones—is a chandeliered butcher shop occupying the spot where Basquiat worked, and died, of a heroin overdose. Twenty years before his time, Charlie Mingus’ heroin-addicted presence on this corridor is said to have birthed the term jonesing.

I’ve passed a decade in Brooklyn, but never before now lived in Manhattan and love being a downtown kid, stepping through the door and onto crowded streets, passing CBGBs—now a skinny pants boutique I’ve never entered—on my way to buy groceries, or borrowing books from a library branch housed in the one-time factory of Hawley & Hoops’ Chocolate Candy Cigars—that Bowie lived above, in a modern penthouse perched atop the turn of the century brick building.

For twenty-four months, barring the occasional trip to Central Park, I’ve lived below 14th Street and in this time Bowie loitered here too, sipping La Colombe’s double macchiato, fetching chicken and watercress sandwiches at Olive’s, or dinner supplies at Dean & DeLuca. One day I’d catch him on the street, I figured, hailing a cab or taking out the recycling in his flat cap and sunglasses, and when I did my well-worn New Yorker discretion would be jettisoned as I tried, and likely failed, not to cry.

I didn’t, of course, know that for most of the time we were neighbors David Bowie was dying. Today I walk the familiar stretch of blocks to his building, eyes tearing, I tell myself, from the frigid, bone-dry air. At the front entrance, a group of fans stand gutted, surrounded by news trucks, generators, vulturing reporters.

A growing pile of daisies, tulips, roses, daffodils leans against the wall, along with a few photographs, a pair of silver glitter heels, a Jesus candle with Ziggy Stardust face. Tucked here and there are handwritten notes: Look out your window, I can see his light and We are all stardust and Hot tramp, we love you so.

Everyone here, news crew aside, feels known somehow, the mood is gentle, polite, quiet. Too quiet, I realize, when someone plays “Life On Mars?” from a tinny smartphone speaker. As the closing strings swell, a woman turns to me to say through tears, “I love this song!” All I can do is nod, “I know!” and take comfort among fellow kooks.

A pair behind me wonders aloud about a “world without Bowie,” and while I know what they mean—the way some people feel like a force and invincible—you could argue we’ve been living in such a world for a long while. David Jones-ing.

2.

Three days earlier, on the night of Bowie’s 69th birthday, I danced in my kitchen to the foppish, falsetto, “‘Tis a Pity She Was a Whore,” delighting in his rude lyrics and wild whooping. Later at a dinner hosted for the birthday of a friend, I commented on Bowie’s continuing fixation upon mortality, but also his energy, sly humor, return to form, exclaiming, not tentatively, “Bowie’s back!”

I was thrilled he’d finally slipped the ghost of what he called, “my Phil Collins years.”  In one of the endless interviews now flooding my screen in text and video, he explains, “I was performing in front of these huge stadium crowds and at that time I was thinking ‘what are these people doing here? Why did they come to see me? They should be seeing Phil Collins.’ And then that came back at me and I thought, ‘What am I doing here?’ It’s a certain kind of mainstream that I’m just not comfortable in.”

Like the divisiveness of fat and skinny Elvis, there were those of us who fancied ourselves glittering, androgynous, apocalyptic half-beast hustlers who bought drugs, watched bands and jumped in the river holding hands, and there were others, contentedly jazzin’ for Blue Jean.

When, in your Golden Years, your mentor of not only music but all things relevant—art, clothes, books, films—enters his Phil Collins Years, suddenly high-kicking in Reeboks and staring in Pepsi commercials, how not to feel betrayed?

I took it personally, coining the unforgiving term David Bowie Syndrome. As a burgeoning artist, I feared (a scaled-back version of) his creative arc with my whole heart—reaching the greatness of Bowie’s 1970s only to follow it up with Let’s Dance. To say nothing of Tin Machine. Like many old-school fans, I’d stopped tuning in to modern Bowie to keep my vintage Bowie flame flickering.

In my most youthfully caustic moment, I joked that Bowie’s personal Oblique Strategies deck—that famous stack of cards, creative prompts such as Ask your body, Abandon normal instruments, and Courage! allegedly used when Bowie and Brian Eno recorded Low and Heroes—should be made up of cards that all read, simply: Call Eno.

Unfair, untrue. Kindly allow this counterpoint mea culpa admission: I secretly love the ham-fisted, cringtastic video for Dancing in the Street.

3.

On the third day after Bowie’s death I step outside, wondering if I’ll still hear his presence hum. Just feet from my front door I’m greeted by his face gracing one of two large posters advertising Blackstar. Well hey there, Mr. Jones.

They’re wet with wheat paste and like a teenage fangirl I consider stealing one, but then notice a smaller poster hung next to them, featuring the Sesame Street characters peering out joyously, encouraging me to attend an event entitled… Let’s Dance!

I accept Bowie’s cosmic joke, had it coming I suppose, and briskly hoof it to Union Square where at the farmer’s market I find apples, apple cider, cider doughnuts and not much else. My gloveless fingertips smart as I pocket change and consider the possibility that the visitation was an invitation to dance through the sorrow. A bit maudlin perhaps, but then, so was Bowie.

When I return home the Blackstar posters are gone. In under an hour someone has pasted them over with clothing and gym ads—leaving all the posters on either side for the length of the street untouched. Like Steppenwolf's Magic Theater, the message—whatever it was—had appeared and just as quickly vanished.

My feet walk me to Bowie’s memorial, which has exploded in a heap of bouquets, black bobbing Prettiest Star balloons, cha-cha lines of platform heels, disco balls, eye shadow, quarts of milk, British flags, drawings and paintings of Bowie’s many incarnations, fuzzy spiders, bluebirds, boas, vinyl copies of David Live annotated Forever in thick silver marker.

A giant orange tissue paper flower hangs from a nearby tree, electric blue eye at its center, petals edged in lyrics: Give me your hands, because you’re wonderful! Let the children lose it, let the children use it, let all the children boogie.

Here and there are tucked personal notes: You taught me that weird = beautiful, and: When I was a teenager I wished I could check off “David Bowie” for both my gender and my race. I still do.

“Taking away all the theatrics…” Bowie said, “I’m a writer. The subject matter…boils down to a few songs, based around loneliness, isolation, spiritual search, and a looking for a way into communication with other people. And that’s about it—about all I’ve ever written about for forty years.”

Perhaps, then, my “Let’s Dance” visitation was an anti-message, a warning against wasting creative juju by pandering for cash. Of course, Bowie made not a dime (relatively, and thanks in large part to shifty management) from his artistic era I find most inspiring. The seed of the fortune that brought him financial security was that very song. So what then?

When I return home, Bowie’s spot on the wall has been papered over yet again, all white this time, as though to say, as he has when pressed to interpret his lyric’s meaning, “nothing further,” “you figure it out,” “space to let.”

4.

I rise before the sun, pull on bright turquoise tights and red clogs and walk the cobblestone of Lafayette Street in the dark. Collar up, breath ghosting, I feel as I secretly do in all such moments, like the cover of Low, or The Middle-Aged Lady Who Fell to Earth. Car headlights slide over me as I approach the memorial that is, it appears, being dismantled.

I quickly make the photograph I awoke imagining: my platforms meeting Bowie’s shore of flickering candles, cigarette butts, stray boa feathers, sea of glitter. Beside me a sweet lone man sorts out the dead flowers, shuffling handmade things to one side, candles to another, not tossing it all as I first suspected, but tidying up, preparing for another day.

What drew me into this frigid darkness, half dressed in pajamas? Perhaps a need to meet Bowie toe to toe, promise to honor the contract, all in, heart wide, funk to funky.

Put on my red shoes and dance the blues.

“I don’t think (the act of creation is) something that I enjoy a hundred percent. There are occasions when I really don’t want to write. It just seems that I have a physical need to do it...I really am writing for myself.”

Before Blackstar, the last time I know of Bowie creating under extreme duress is when making the album Station to Station—which coincidentally also opens with an epically long titular song wherein a man yelps from the darkness, singing with pride and pain about a fame that has isolated him beyond measure.

As the Thin White Duke, Bowie sings with bitter irony, It’s not the side effects of the cocaine! I’m thinking that it must be love! It’s well known that Bowie, living for a year (1975-1976) in his despised, self-chosen, wasteland of Los Angeles, had fallen victim to a kind of Method Writing, unable to escape in life the character he’d crafted to hide behind on stage.

Subsisting on a diet of cocaine, chili peppers and milk, he grew paranoid, hallucinating, allegedly dabbling in Black Magic and storing his jarred urine in his refrigerator. I was six years old at the time, living less than a mile from Cherokee Studios where Station to Station was in session, and smudging my mother’s brand new Young Americans vinyl with powdered sugar fingerprints.

He said of the following album, Low, “It was a dangerous period for me. I was at the end of my tether physically and emotionally and had serious doubts about my sanity. But I get a sense of real optimism through the veils of despair from Low. I can hear myself really struggling to get well.”  

It’s the pale, shimmering hope that makes Low my favorite of all of Bowie’s offerings, but for Station to Station’s Duke of Disillusion it’s too late—for hate, gratitude, any emotion. It’s not, however, too late to lay himself bare in the work: there’s no reach for sanity, just a man collapsing while still directing, as the camera rolls.

Blackstar has been called a gift, and on “Dollar Days,” a song that describes his effort to communicate in the face of death, Bowie breaks the fourth wall to address this directly: Don’t think for just one second I’ve forgotten you/I’m trying to/I’m dying to(o).

I believe as an artist he had no choice, no other way to confront his circumstance other than to talk himself through it, put it in the work.

The profound generosity of Blackstar, and a vast swath of Bowie’s creative output, is that in this most intimate conversation with death, god, time, himself, we’ve been invited to listen in.

5.

What makes a good death? Bowie withdrew from the public in the last decade and was characteristically silent regarding his illness, in this tell-all age (that owes him not a little for its status quo “tolerance” of Chazes and Caitlyns). He was also, in his time post-diagnosis, compelled to make his most raw and exposing work in years, and between the play and album, likely spent a long part of each day in their pursuit, while presumably also tending to his needs as a father, husband, friend, man.

In Walter Tevis’ book The Man who Fell to Earth—the basis of Nicholas Roeg’s film that inspired Bowie’s production Lazarus—stranded, despondent space alien Thomas Jerome Newton records an album called The Visitor: we guarantee you won’t know the language, but you’ll wish you did! Seven out-of-this-world poems! Newton explains it’s a letter to his family and home planet that says, “Oh, goodbye, go to hell. Things of that sort.”

Bowie’s seven-song swansong, Blackstar, is rather more generous, and from a writer notorious for lyrical slipperiness, layered meanings, a cut-up technique (copped from Burroughs) that spawned lines about Cassius Clay and papier-mâché, its text is frequently plain-spoken and direct.

Even my favorite frolic sounds a combative calling down of his illness, time: Man, she punched me like a dude/Hold your mad hands, I cried/She stole my purse, with rattling speed/This is the war. It would not be the first time Bowie referred to Time as a “whore.” (see: Aladdin Sane.)

In the title video’s most vivid sections, Bowie becomes god—less vengeful than dismissive—singing, from heaven’s attic, a swaggering takedown of Bowie himself: You’re a flash in the pan, I’m the great I am. (From Exodus: And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you.)

His button eyes in both videos suggest a puppet, and so the presence of a puppet master, but I don’t read these images as signs of deathbed conversion. Bowie was a spiritual seeker who borrowed magpie style—in this case from Egyptian, Kabalistic, Christian and Norse iconography—to create a language to give voice to his fears and dark entries.

“If you can accept—and it’s a big leap—that we live in absolute chaos, it doesn’t look like futility anymore. It only looks like futility if you believe in this bang up structure we’ve created called ‘God’.”

In his last gestures Bowie answered not God, but himself, regarding the way he’d lived, and in particular, as an artist. The pulse returns the prodigal sons suggests that the characters he inhabited—some regrettable, but not irredeemable—are with him as he assesses the intentions behind, and perceived short-comings of, his creative offerings: Seeing more and feeling less/Saying no but meaning yes/This is all I ever meant/That's the message that I sent/(but) I can’t give everything away.

In his almost unbearably haunting last video, it seems we’re finally invited to meet David Jones, or Bowie playing Jones. Jones the man lies in bed, clutching a blanket with those mortal, frightened hands. Nearby the writer manically, fretfully reaches for immortality, while Bowie the performer, dutifully dances to the end.

“There’s an effort to reclaim the unmentionable, the unsayable, the unspeakable, all those things come into being a composer, into writing.”  “You present a darker picture for yourself to look at, and then reject it, all in the process of writing. I think that’s what’s left for me with music. Now I really find that I address things to myself. That’s what I do. If I hadn’t been able to write songs and sing them, it wouldn’t have mattered what I did. I really feel that. I had to do this.”

This morning I remembered where I'd seen the writer's austere, black and white striped costume before: the program for the 1976 Isolar tour, wherein Bowie self-consciously poses with a notebook or makes chalk drawings of the Kabbalah tree of life. Isolar is a made up word—and name of his current company—said to be comprised of isolation and solar.

I love this costume—a kind of artisan worker-bee uniform. There are satin kimono-sleeved ass-baring rompers for when its time to present the work, but when making it, roll up your revolutionary sleeves and get to it.

1976 saw the success of Station to Station, the premiere of The Man Who Fell to Earth and the recording of The Idiot and Low. It was not the most grounded time for Bowie personally (to understate it), but arguably his most vital creatively, and this nod to the continuum of creative spirit seems to suggest that the artist dies, but through the work, like Lazarus, rises again.

6.

So what, then, is a Blackstar? Perhaps a marked man, a sly reference to Elvis’ song of the same name whose lyrics include, Every man has a black star/A black star over his shoulder/And when a man sees his black star/He knows his time, his time has come.

Although Bowie did not, as rumored, write “Golden Years” for Elvis, he did find (somewhat bashful) significance in their shared birthdays, took pains to catch his concerts, had his white jumpsuit copied to wear while performing “Rock and Roll Suicide,” modeled his own costume in Christiane F after Elvis’ ensemble in Roustabout, and perhaps his Aladdin Sane red/electric blue lightening bolt was inspired by Elvis’ signature gold one. Which is to say, he likely knew of The King’s “Black Star.”

Blackstar could also suggest the theoretical transitional state between a collapsed star and a singularity—a state of infinite value in physics, a metaphor for immortality.

I’m not a gangstar/I’m not a film star/I’m not a popstar/I’m not a marvel star/I’m not a white star/I’m not a porn star/I’m not a wandering star/I’m a star’s star/I’m a blackstar.

“Sometimes I don’t feel as if I’m a person at all...I’m just a collection of other people’s ideas.”  Is Bowie simply claiming his right to throw off all mantles?

The car crash that is the documentary Cracked Actor opens with a reporter asking, “I just wonder if you get tired of being outrageous?” “I don’t think I’m outrageous at all,” Bowie throws back, miffed. The reporter persists, “Do you describe yourself as ordinary? What adjective would you use?” Bowie searches his brain for an appropriate response to the inane question and finally lands upon: “David Bowie.”

Or perhaps, as Isolar suggests, a Blackstar is someone hidden in plain sight. In an interview that seems more therapy session, with Mavis Nicolson in 1979, mostly drug-free and grounded Bowie speaks of the appeal of life in Berlin, whose physical wall seemed to mirror his psyche. Without referencing himself or the characters he’s inhabited, he describes an isolated figure who finds no home in the world, but instead creates “a micro world inside himself.”

When Nicolson suggests that as an artist Jones must keep himself from love, he rejects the idea outright, but when gently pressed about the demands of relationships in actual life and not “from afar,” he concedes, extending his arms before him like a shield, “No, love can’t get quite in my way, I shelter myself from it incredibly.”

The moment is so resonantly raw that the two break into manic humor, shifting to the story of his eye injury in a childhood fight over a girl, wherein he laughs and says, “I wasn’t even in love with her.”

In “Lazarus,” the dying Jones sings: everybody knows me now, and perhaps that is so, as much as it ever could be for a man who spent an artistic career in self-sustained exile.

And why shouldn’t David Jones have been—with the exception of a few deeply druggy years—free from the curse and blessing of being Bowie? What are we owed by our artists?

7.

Blue, blue, electric blue, that's the colour of my room.

The Bowie song that forever circles my brain describes a writer waiting for the muse, describing the loneliness and blessing of the electric blue of creation. Vishuddhi, or the electric blue throat chakra of Hindu tantra, is associated with the vocal cords, communication, creative expression, one’s inner-truth.

For sixteen months I lived in Berlin’s Schöneberg quarter, around the corner from 155 Hauptstrasse and the apartment that song was composed in and of. I’d pedal my bike past and nod to the ghost Bowie inside, still wondering and waiting for the gift of sound and vision.

It’s the seventh day since Bowie’s death, the final day of shiva I’ve sat beneath his window. I’ve never much understood funerals, always felt they were for a “living” that didn’t include me, but this has been different.

Over this week I’ve shared glances with occasional bleary-eyed oldsters coming or going from where I’m headed or have just been–there have been no young folk to speak of and no platform boots necessary to recognize the kooks.

Today, from a block away, I spy a pair of women making the pilgrimage. The taller of the two—who for one moment I mistake for Patti Smith—has Smith’s hair, a floor-length bright blue shearling coat and an armload of exquisite orange, flame-tipped roses.

Trailing my comrades I think of Smith’s line in Woolgathering when, upon being given a dandelion, she asks, “What could I wish for but my breath?”

At Bowie’s door the energy feels less personal, dissipating. After the roses-bearers depart, a lone woman and I stand shivering before the diminished pile of offerings framed by narrowed police barricades: plastic-wrapped bodega flowers and a few handmade items, the most prominent being a cigar box shrine with a Halloween Jack eye patch and what seems a bunch of random stuff tossed in. The woman plays “Starman” on her phone, and rather than poignant, it’s just sad.

A years later follow-up to his first solo release, “Major Tom,” “Starman” takes the isolation of planet earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do and turns it into an anthem where a cosmic DJ messiah tells us misfits not to blow it, ‘cause he thinks it’s all worthwhile.

The 1972 Top of the Pops performance famously featured Bowie’s flirty finger wagging at the viewer, and casually intimate embrace of Mick Ronson, which blew the minds of much of Britain and beyond and marked Bowie as a more than a one-hit wonder. I silently give thanks to many, including Bowie, not to live in a world where a rock and roll arm thrown over a shoulder can cause a stir.

Over the song’s fade out the woman shrugs and says something about bears—at least I think that’s what I hear. I smile and nod remotely, then realize she’s drawing my attention to the carefully rendered Ziggy Stardust teddy bear—complete with lightning bolt and guitar—hanging from the police steel.

This bear abrades me for no good reason. A few young women pass by on their way into American Apparel. “That was David Bowie’s house,” one says over her shoulder, and the other makes an “awww” sound like she might at the sight of a teddy bear, or the memorial of that musician guy that died the way people do—other people, older people. As they pause to take a selfie in front of Bowie’s memorial offerings I turn and nearly sprint downtown.

I learned in this week of Bowie Internet inundation that he trailed these streets too, often at dawn, in solitude, but right now I need Chinatown’s chaotic, smashing life. I’ll buy those killer clementine from that vendor on the corner, I think, and eggplant, scallion and ginger for supper.

I weave among cardboard boxes of dried silver fish and lotus root, tourists linked arm-in-arm in matching New York pom-pom hats, Chinese grandmas pushing plaid shopping carts in (Harold and) Maude braids. A man exits a hallway, arms loaded with red-ribboned funeral flowers. A chef in a paper hat leans against a wall, smoking beneath a pumpkin-sized, spinning dumpling.

Beneath crisscrossing wires strung with giant, glinting snowflakes, I warm my hands on a cup of milky tea and wonder when we’ll get winter’s first snow. Glancing up to cross Mott (the Hoople) Street, I wonder when the city’s details will cease to conjure Bowie.

I tuck dragon fruit into my sack, humming “Starman”—whose chorus melody is plainly lifted from The Wizard of Oz’s “Over the Rainbow.” Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly/Birds fly over the rainbow./Why then, oh, why can't I?

In performance, Bowie sometimes coyly sung a mash-up of these anthems of longing for belonging. On “Lazarus” he sings, seemingly of his death, This way or no way/You know, I’ll be free/Just like that bluebird/Now ain’t that just like me.

Blackstar begins by naming the Norse village of Ormen. In Norse mythology, the rainbow bridge that connects this world to that of the gods is Bifrost, which translates as tremulous way. Tremulous—as in trembling—as Bowie does so heart-wrenchingly as he backs into the armoire and out of this world.

When he heard the call, David Jones, who could walk the streets of Manhattan undetected, slipped over the rainbow and into his own imagination.

But with generosity and courage it seems he did not fully recognize, David Bowie spent his life pulling back the curtain on the Great Oz, showing the man, his frustration and fallibility, questioning art-making and then making it anyway.

I fear in the end he imagined himself “a very bad man but a very good wizard,” when in fact the opposite was true. The droves of people gathered at his front door and around the world may have found the masks fascinating, but only as much as the man, and heart, behind them.

I imagine catching David Jones wandering past shop windows plastered with red New Year monkeys, beneath golden, swaying lanterns. I would thank him for Ziggy Stardust, whose hair my mother copied and Scary Monsters, whose poster graced my eleven-year-old bedroom wall. I’d say thanks for Low and Hunky Dory, which got me through hard times. Thanks for The Man Who Fell to Earth and The Hunger, Aladdin Sane and the Thin White Duke. Thanks for Diamond Dogs, Heroes, Lodger, Station to Station. Thanks for creating a soundtrack for my life and the lives of my favorite people.

Thanks for being a fierce, literate libertine, giving permission when I so badly needed it and inspiration always. Thanks, from the strange kids, for saying, No love, you’re not alone! You’re wonderful!

On the afternoon of January 10th, in what I later learned were the last hours of Bowie’s life, a double rainbow drew me from my desk and to the window. It arced across the skyline and ended at the Empire State Building, so strikingly that fire fighters in the station across the street took to the emergency dispatch microphone to exclaim to the neighborhood, “There’s a rainbow!”

As the first snow falls over Chinatown’s back alleys, I think: rainbowie!

There’s a Starman, over the rainbow, way up high, and he told me—let the children lose it, let the children use it, let all the children boogie.

Kim Wood's writing has appeared in Out Magazine, McSweeney’s, Tin House's Open Bar, and on National Public Radio. She has received grants from the Jerome Foundation and is a MacDowell Colony fellow. She is working on a book, Advice to Adventurous Girls, based upon the unpublished archive of a 1920s motorcycle daredevil. Her documentary film on this subject has screened internationally in festivals and museums including Sundance and the Guggenheim, where it double-billed with an episode of ChiPs.

[irphanfic]

We Will Meet Again

prompt: I was invited to a friend’s wedding a week ago and now I’m going through the pictures and you are literally making eyes at me in /every single one/. I don’t even know you. I barely remember seeing you there. But you’re kind of, um, well really hot, and you appear to think the same of me so now I’m asking around everywhere trying to get your contact information who knew this was sO HARD

summary: when Phil is checking the photos of Sarah’s wedding he finds out that an attractive brown haired boy couldn’t take his eyes off of him. How can he contact this boy to see if he is THE ONE?

word count: 2.4k

read on ao3 - (x)

no trigger warnings

‘’Hey, how is the married life going in Mykonos?’’ Phil spoke through the phone excitedly, ‘’I heard it is magical’’

‘’Hello Phil!’’ Sarah responded excitedly. His friend Sarah had gotten married a week ago, and she was now on her honeymoon. ‘’It’s going fantastic! The food is great, people are amazing, I am really enjoying it’’

‘’I’m glad’’ Phil responded, but before he could speak more Sarah cut his sentence.

‘’Phil, could you do me a favour?’’ Sarah asked, knowing Phil would already accept even though he didn’t know what she wanted.

‘’Yeah, what is it?’’

‘’Could you get the wedding pictures for me later this week? We decided to extend our trip and the photographer said he would have them ready by Thursday, and we won’t be there. Could you?’’ Sarah asked him.

‘’Of course Sarah, don’t worry about them! I will pick them up and give them to you when you come back. Enjoy the trip while it lasts!’’ Phil happily accepted Sarah’s request, knowing he couldn’t say no.

‘’I owe you a big one, Phil. Thank you so much.’’ Said Sarah before hanging up the phone.

______________________

Phil was on his way back to his home after collecting Sarah’s wedding pictures. He was lost in thought, the wedding of his friend in mind. He was almost 30 and with no partner, no one he could share his life with. Was it too late to had found that person? People often married his high school or college sweetheart, but he hadn’t dated a lot in those years.

‘Well, I still have a bit of time’ Phil thought, not so sure about it to be honest. He didn’t want to be alone, he wanted to find the one and share all the aspects of his life with them. He wanted what Sarah had achieved.

Soon, he arrived to his flat, threw himself on the sofa, greeted and pet his big dog Buster and with the wedding pictures in hand he decided he would take a look at them, just to see if they were okay.

The first ones were at the church, oh they were beautiful. You could clearly see the groom and the bride with wide smiles and a few tears in their eyes.

He passed a few ones, mostly of Sarah’s and (his now husband) Mark’s family. They made such a good couple, Phil realized. ‘’I wish I looked so good next to someone’’ he quietly voiced into the room.

Oh, the banquet and the party photos. Oh no. Those were the worst! He didn’t want to see himself red faced after having too much wine and cake he nearly exploded. ‘Well, they can’t be that bad’ Phil shrugged.

And he was right, they weren’t that bad. They were amazing. He found one where he and Sarah were laughing at something he didn’t even remember. He found himself in another few photos with other friends he met at the wedding. Oh, more group photos where he didn’t even recognize half of the people.

Phil decided he would scan those and see if he could recognize someone in those. Wait? Was that attractive brown haired boy looking at him on that? Was he actually looking at him affectionately?

He decided that it was probably a coincidence, since it was a photo and the photographer had probably caught him making that movement.

Phil found himself in another group photo, this time all the people in the photo were actually posing formally, so you could see their nice outfits. Oh, and mysterious brown haired boy was also here too. ‘Wow, he has a nice body, gotta say’ Phil thought, while unconsciously biting his lower lip. Wait a minute. He was also looking at Phil on that one too. What was wrong with him? Could that be another coincidence? He didn’t even remember seeing the guy at the wedding, but he probably had had too much wine to remember anything.

‘’Okay Buster’’ Phil said to his dog, who was now looking at him curiously, ‘’if I find him looking at me one more time in another photo I will contact someone and try to get his number’’

Phil looked through a few more photos, not finding any more pictures of himself till the last one. Oh, the last picture. You could see Phil, with shiny eyes from his almost shed tears. He remembered the moment. Mark and Sarah were giving their speeches, repeating why they loved and respected each other. It was so emotional Phil remembered crying a few tears after it ended.

He let a small smile appeared on his face till he noticed him again. There was the brown haired boy again. He was looking dreamily at Phil now, he could be the embodiment of the heart eyes emoji to be honest.

With a frustrated groan, he took his phone out and texted Sarah.

‘Hey, I got you photos. They look amazing really, don’t worry. Also, you said you owed me one, remember? Can I ask you for it now?’ Phil read the message multiple times before sending it. He didn’t know if Sarah would agree to it.

He got an instant reply ‘Oh, thank you so much Phil!’ and before he could answer another message came through ‘What do you want, my sweet friend?’

‘I’m kind of embarrassed about it but anyway… I was looking through the photos and I noticed there was a brown haired boy looking at me in almost all the pictures and he seemed like he was into me? I was wondering if you could get me his number?’ Phil sent, clutching the phone to his chest waiting for a reply.

Two minutes later his phone vibrated ‘Which brown haired boy? Send me a picture now Phiiiiiil!’

He took one of the group photos and took a picture, pointing his finger at the brown haired boy. He sent it to Sarah, and not expecting an early response he left his phone abandoned in the couch and decided to take his dog for a walk, just to clear his mind.

______________________

When he came back home, he found himself looking the Sarah’s multiple messages. ‘I don’t really recognize his face, let me just ask Mark’, said the first message.

‘Mark said he was one of his cousin’s plus one, but apparently was just a friend so don’t worry’.

‘Oh and Phil, I will try to get his number for you or even set you two up on a date if you want to ;)’

WAIT A DATE!? But he didn’t even know the guy’s name, how was he even gonna go on a date with someone he didn’t even know? ‘Well, Phil, that’s how blind dates work you idiot’ he thought.

But, was he ready to have a date with this guy? He seemed nice enough, but he was still unsure… He looked at Buster who rapidly came onto him, tackling him to the couch, liking all his face. He started laughing, how couldn’t he? Probably his dog and him were making a scene and he wanted someone who he could share this kind of moments with.

Finally, his dog set him free and decided that yes, he could have a date with that guy. He might be the one if he was lucky enough.

‘Okay, set us for a date then. Tell him my name is Phil’

______________________

Two weeks later he got a new message. Sarah had finally managed to contact the brown haired boy and apparently his name was ‘Dan Howell’. Sarah had sent him also a second message, indicating where the date would take place and what he had to wear so Dan could recognize him. So, that’s what he was doing right now, staring at his wide wardrobe searching for black skinny jeans and the plaid red button up shirt.

Once he had dressed up, he checked the time and picked up his keys and wallet, pet Buster one last time and flew out of the door.

‘’Well, let’s meet this Dan Howell guy’’.

______________________

Phil arrived at the park fountain where Sarah had set them up. He was looking around and saw that no one was coming. He checked his clock and saw that he was on time. Well, he could wait a few minutes.

He decided to sit down near the fountain, so if he spotted a brown haired boy he could stand up and introduce himself.

It was getting darker, meaning he had been sitting here for a long time. It was getting cold and he wanted to go home, to be honest. It seemed like he had been stood up. ‘Great, one more time.’

He let a tear slid down his cheek, and decided to go back home. Apparently he wasn’t good enough for this Dan guy. He remembered the longing looks he had seen in the pictures and in the back of his mind he actually though he could be the one but it didn’t seem like it.

He texted Sarah on his way back. ‘Apparently I’m not good enough for him so he stood me up. I actually thought we could be something, you know? I’m sorry for asking you this favour and thank you.’

Phil arrived at his flat, took his shoes off and decided to hide under the duvet, silent tears rolling down his cheeks while his loyal dog at least gave him company.

______________________

When he woke up the next day, he checked his phone to see the time. Wow, it was late. Oh and he also had a few messages. They were from Sarah, he had forgotten he had texted her.

‘Phil, first I’m sorry but I didn’t even remember to trade your phone numbers so it is partially my fault. I’m sorry Phil.’ Oh, she was right. They didn’t even manage to know each other’s phone numbers. He continued reading ‘Dan sent me this before your date, I didn’t see it before it was too late and I read you latest message, I’m so sorry’

Phil continued reading and saw what apparently Dan had texted Sarah ‘Hey Sarah, Dan here. Could you sent me Phil’s phone number, please? I had to go with my little sister to the hospital since she chocked on something (she is alright now, don’t worry) and I want to tell him before thinks that I stood him up. I really like him and I want to still meet him some other day? Thank you’

This whole confusion was because they didn’t have each other’s phone numbers. How could they have been so stupid?

Phil texted Sarah back ‘Hey, don’t worry Sarah. It was a mistake not asking for his phone number, it wasn’t your fault. But, could you text it to me now? Thank you’

She responded immediately ‘Phil I might have done someth…’ was all he could read before his doorbell was ringing. Who could be at his door at this hour? He ventured into his front door, barefoot and still wearing the wrinkled clothes he had slept with.

He unlocked the door and he definitely wasn’t expecting the other person at the door.

‘’Dan…’’, Phil let out in a breath.

‘’Hi Phil’’ Dan began, ‘’I’m sorry for yesterday, I’m extremely sorry. I guess Sarah has told you what happened and I really wanted to apologize so here…’’ Dan took out a bunch of flowers from his back and handed them to Phil.

Phil, still surprised took them in his hands and opened the door wider so Dan could go in. He muttered a quiet ‘’thank you’’ and as Phil made his way to the kitchen to the flowers in water.

Dan had found himself a seat on the sofa, waiting for Phil to return. He was nervous. He had stood up the only guy he had noticed since his last breakup and he had really fucked it up. ‘Way to go, Dan!’

He was deep in thought when Phil entered the lounge and sat up leaving a space next to Dan and started speaking, a shy smile appearing on his face ‘’Thank you for the flowers Dan, you didn’t really need to’’

‘’Oh no, I had to. They don’t really show how sorry I am. I forgot to ask Sarah your phone number and then my sister happened and I’m sorry I made you feel this way’’ Dan looked at Phil with honesty in his eyes. You could really notice he was extremely bothered about the fact that he had made Phil feel like he wasn’t worth it.

Phil, noticing Dan’s distress grabbed his right hand with his left one and reassured him ‘’Hey Dan, it’s okay. Now I know the reason why I don’t need more explanations. Not asking for each other’s phone numbers was a mistake, I guess that we already have in common’’ he laughed a bit at that fact, and Dan let a tiny laugh too ‘’but, why don’t we try again? I mean, we never got to go on a first date, so, what do you say?’’

‘’I would love to’’ Dan responded, grabbing Phil’s other hand in his.

______________________

They had decided to meet up at the fountain again. Now, they had walked around while holding hands, had a coffee in a nice café and also got to check the newest books in a library while both recommended books to each other since they had realised they had pretty the same interests.

It started raining, Dan’s hair slightly curling so they decided to walk back to Phil’s flat, where they had put on comfy clothes and they were just watching a movie while laying down, Dan on top of Phil, comfortably resting his head on the others chest.

After a few minutes, Dan lifted his head from Phil’s chest and without warning he moved Phil’s head so he looked at him instead of the movie and kissed him. Dan separated their lips for a moment before whispering ‘’thank you for giving me another chance after I had fucked up’’.

Phil, in the same intimacy murmured a sweet ‘’Always.’’ Before grabbing Dan’s head by the head and resting his other hand in his lower back, bringing the boy closer so he could taste his lips and now his tongue.

They were passionately making out on the couch, Dan straddling Phil’s hips and one of his hands finding his way under Phil’s hoodie when suddenly Buster jumped on top of them both, liking Dan’s face while the both of them burst out laughing.

In this moment, Phil thought he had found the right one.

[okimargarvez]

HURT- open wounds- 21

Original title: Hurt.

Prompt: Luke’s dark thought, destiny, contrasted love.

Warnings: sexual content, dark thoughts.

Genre: angst, drama, romantic, smut, dark, mistery, frienship.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, BAU team, O.C.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: multichapter.

Legend: 💏😘😈🔦🐶❗🎈👻.

Song mentioned: La tua vita intera, Tiziano Ferro.

Hurt- Masterlist

GARVEZ STORIES

Chapter 21-

Another exhausting day. A series of exhausting days. Everyone works thinking only of Spencer. They don’t stop for a second, they spend the night, until sunrise and beyond, in that interrogation room. Who by marking the locations where executions of homicides happened with a modus operandi attributable to Lindsey, who by calling, asking for favors, blackmailing (almost) their own acquaintances, and who even putting at risk their career (Emily) and who by tormenting judges. But in the end, all those sacrifices had had made sense, because now Spencer was out of jail, he was no longer accused of any crime, he just had to wait to be reinstated. Once an obstacle was overcome, another one remained: Reid's mother was in their hands.

Prentiss had said to take a moment of calm, of silence, of hope that Spencer would be strong enough to get some information with Cat, a chick who he had helped to put in prison, deceiving her; a contract killer who pretended to be Mr. Scratch. Lewis had never been there. She had made fun of them.

Then she had added to forget that moment and focus only on her: Cat.

But maybe they really needed that moment.

Luke can’t help but think about it, while his eyes continue to analyze documents.

Especially if he thinks back to certain things, certain repercussions, consequences of this continuous search, this anxiety that hadn’t even let them breathe.

 It had seemed strange to him that Penelope wasn’t there with them to discuss. Everyone was there, she was the only one wasn't. He was about to get up to go check in her office when he noticed Emily with a weird espression as she read a message on her cell phone and then walk away. Something had given him confidence that this was about his girlfriend. He had then waited, showing an interest in what his colleagues were saying that he didn’t have, because the only thing he could think of was her. And when Prentiss had returned, he had been sure: something bad had happened. So, he had pretended to go to the bathroom and instead he had gone to the offices and found her outside. Completely still, the gaze fixed and distant.

-Penelope… Are you?- she hadn’t shaken and probably hadn’t heard him. -Penelope?- he had shaken her shoulders and finally she had returned to earth. -What happened?- Luke knew she had understood his question perfectly.

-Nothing important...- but he had seen the tears on either side of her eyes.

-Hey, do you think you can get away with this?- then his eyes had noticed for the first time the folder that she held in her hands. He hadn’t asked any more questions. He had torn it from her without much ceremony. -Do you want to leave the team?- he had felt almost fainting.

-I don’t have to stay in the BAU because we are together...- she had almost shouting. Too many almost in his memories. -Luke, do you know what Reid did today?- he shook his head -He hurted himself, to be put in isolation and to make Shaw accused! It's in danger! He risks dying at any moment!- she had swallowed before adding the last part. -If he dies, I'm leaving!- then she had finally burst into tears in his arms. The sobs had been strong and deep even more than the previous times. Luke had stroked her back and her hair gently. When she had finally calmed down, he had laid his hands on her face.

-But this job is your life...- always with shining eyes, she had shook her head.

-This job is killing me.- so she gad managed to get rid of his grip and had quickly left.

When she had returned to the meeting room, there were hardly any signs of her cry. Only Prentiss and Luke knew the reality. And there wasn’t time to think about it. They had to free Spencer and there was less and less time.

Next to him Penelope was frantically typing at the computer. From the corner of his eye he had saw that she was writing yet another email.

Emily had then returned with the court's green light and so, along with JJ, they had left immediately to get him out of the prison. Finally, they didn’t have to pretend, the blonde in fact already knew something, they took advantage to update it. So, they had could holding hands while Luke drove. And that contact had helped them. Then they had parted: JJ had immediately went to Reid, Luke to Shaw and Penelope had remained alone to wait outside.

The waiting was exhausting. She feared that from a moment someone came back saying they arrived too late. And then, instead, here they were. She loved Luke with every part of herself, but in those moment her eyes were fixed on the boy wonder. She didn’t notice that, otherwise, the man who was her boyfriend was looking at her carefully. That his gaze turned on right at the moment when he saw her, finally with that smile on her face, liberatory. And her watery eyes, even if he was distant, he wa able to saw them. But Penelope didn’t look at him, never. He was been a little sad for this, but he had made an effort to pretend nothing. What matters was that she felt fine and now they had Spencer, so there was much hope that it could happened. He was been jealous when he had saw them hugged, because he would have wanted to be in his place, to benefit from a such serene expression. And then they had also walked hand in hand. He had felt deeply stupid for being envious of one who just went out from the jail. He then had looked at JJ, who had looked at him back, but she was too moved to understand what he was thinking.

The return trip was very different than the rouward journey. Reid didn’t know that they were together and clearly Garcia wasn’t going to let him find out. Not yet, she would have added.

When Emily had said that, taking a moment, etcetera, Luke had immediately looked at Penelope. He had an immense need to make love with her, to feel her, to be one thing with her. To have a moment, yes, a moment only for them, free from these thoughts, from pain. A moment to dream of the future that, since he had misunderstood her when she asked him if they could take Twisty, it hadn’t stopped tormenting him. It was no longer enough for him to live under the same roof. When he could sleep, he dreamed of rings, wedding dresses, Roxy as a damsel, Tara catching the bouquet. Or even worse: children, or rather, a dark-haired girl like his but the face has her mother. A dream, especially the second, impossible, absurd. They were too old to think of becoming parents, especially biological ones. But Penelope, she had to become a mother, she was too good with children (he had happened to see her with JJ's sons).

Luke is awakened from his thoughts by an exclamation of the woman next to him. That even beats a slap on the desk, making him jumps. -I found it! I found a connection!- she takes him by the face and kisses him. They are in her bunker, waiting for the show to start, which is the direct questioning of Cat by Spencer. Nobody in a situation like that will notice the fact that they are collaborating, although Garcia in theory has always expressed the desire to keep him at a distance.

-Honey, if you act in this way it will be difficult for me to concentrate...- at the beginning it's a joke, but it soon becomes much more serious. -Seriously, Penelope- and now she is staring at him worried -I don’t remember the last time I have sleeping, I start to be quite dizzy. I drank too many coffees in these last hours. I know we can’t give up, because we have to find Diana, but... I need a refill.- his eyes perfectly reveal what he means. Yet a minimum of doubt remains in the woman.

-What kind of charging?- how much her voice sounds innocent. But Luke knows perfectly well that she is innocent, naive and sweet at least as sexy, tempting and provocative. An explosive mix that makes his head spin. -Luke, is that the case?- he nods.

-Yup. I am convinced that after it, we will succeed in thinking more lucid in mind. You know how they say, when you are desperately looking for a solution, even if it's only a definition of the crossword puzzle, the best thing you can do is divert a moment attention, do something else and then come back. The solution will appear as if by magic.- he smiles at her, and hell, that kind of smiles should be illegal. Although she still shows herself indecisive and contrary, within herself she already knows she has surrendered. -We still have a quarter of an hour...- he says, pointing to the clock.

Fifteen minutes before Spencer returns to a prison. -What happened in Yemen?- but she still has a card to play and she uses it immediately. Luke, who was already preparing for the attack, is shocked by a similar question. Where did she find…?

-Did Emily say that to you?- she shakes her head. But his girlfriend is a hacker, he must never forget it.

-No. I was in the next room, looking for a document, and I heard you. It must be something bad, if that guy, Kevin, took it so badly...- for a moment the man finds himself catapulted into the past, at that time when he was determined not to let her know anything about what he had experienced in war and afterwards, the ghosts that tormented him and only thanks to her, had considerably reduced their daily visits. He had managed to tell her about Phil before their paths crossed with that of Daniel Cullen. This meant admitting his faults. And he was terrified by the idea that by doing so he would have revived those thoughts and shadows that seemed to have subsided.

-Yes... so many bad things happened there.- an evasive answer, that could be true for anything. He takes her face in his hands and begins to caress her, further confusing her, aware of this. -I've seen so many horrible things in the war. You may have seen all the documentaries you want, even tear-jerker or super-convincing like those of Michael Moore... and I don’t say that they only tell lies, no. But war, living the war, is another thing. No one can manage to describe what one feels, not even the greatest poets, no matter how some of them arrived so close...- a pause. She hangs on his lips. -I could talk to you about civilians massacred in the name of a state that thinks only of its profits. Or innocent children, used as a shield from their own country. Of sleepy consciences and others deeply active, among those who fought in the front line. I could tell you that, anyway, Orwell was right: the war is not made to be won (or lost), but only to never end.- the tone becomes low and sad, any trace of malice disappears, despite he feels more and more the desire to make love with her now, in the last ten minutes that remain. -I could say many other similar things, banalities that are worth for any conflict, whether it be the First, the Second World War, or that in Vietnam, any war. These are trivial things, it's true, but they don’t cease to be correct.- another pause. -A great part of the people return from the front and show signs of mental collapse, PTSD and other similar symptoms. And the reasons are so few that you can count on the fingers of one hand.- he squeezes that of Penelope. -You could look for documents about it and find out everything about Yemen, with your skills, but those files would contain only digits and inert words. The reality of the facts is in the spirit of whoever was in that place and I don’t think it takes that you know the details.- Luke's speech is so serious and long, that she is astonished, like she was mouldable by his hands.

That's why in those little more than seven minutes that remain before someone will knock on the door, Penelope lets herself go to the guide of him, accepts any of his choice, even to exorcise everything with a role-playing game in which she is the political prisoner and he is... the guard charged with watching her. Although it should be a liberating, stupid thing, a game, in fact, she perfectly grasps the implications of each gesture and sees a truth film in the eyes of her lover. A film that no documentary could replace.

_____________

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