#who rarely loses anything she's every nominated for

[thundergrace]

Never forget.

Jay-Z is wrong about and for many, many, many things, but not the way she's treated by them.

[thepoliticalvulcan]

Ezra Klein comes out in favor of a brokered convention

I'm a bit thunderstuck honestly. I'm a long time fan. Not an acolyte at the level of taking my cues on what I should be for or against one for one, but I've always been an admirer of Klein's mind, Klein's analytical approach, and ability to ask clarifying and probing questions in an interview that is frankly, extremely rare.

He's got a lot of technocratic tendencies that I find a bit too overawed by institutions and the virtue signaling surrounding elite educational attainment. Don't get me wrong: I love education but the educated aren't demigods, they need checks and balances, peer reviews, and other safe guards against their own egos and interests because education doesn't make you more virtuous or even always necessarily more rational - just look at all the lawyers for whom Trump has cost them their licenses to practice. That said, while we quibble about applications, I think Klein's heart is in the right place at the level of core values and his analysis is rarely anything less than very well thought out.

Yet I also had him pegged, especially since the onset of the 2020 election, as essentially a good little soldier of the Democratic Party. Not uncritical, not beyond getting frustrated, but when push comes to shove he absolutely can be defined as one of the new breed of Democratic who falls in line while the Republicans fall apart. He knows the score. He knows the price of failure, of bargaining too hard for more loaf may result in no loaf, or fascists shooting protesters and taking their loaves.

So I was really, really surprised to see him come out in favor of Biden declaring that he is stepping aside as candidate and the Democrats holding an open convention to decide the candidate. This is an acknowledgment that there's far too little time left in the Primaries for a real primary so to avoid chaos, the next best thing would be to have the interested players start maneuvering and trying to build a base of support and then come into the convention prepared to debate, speechify, and bargain and the best man or woman wins.

Intriguingly, he admits that while he personally does not have an issue with Harris, Klein does feel like she needs to earn the nomination by proving to the Democratic insiders that she's got the "it" factor and the narratives around her Vice Presidency and her 2020 candidacy are not set in stone. (I'm personally more than a little skeptical, but I'm open to being wowed if it came down to it.) Yet he also disagrees with the idea that ditching Kamala would tear the party apart.

I guess I can sort of see it? Maybe? I agree wholeheartedly with the sentiment that ditching her as VP candidate would generate a stink of failure and rot that would offset any conceivable benefit from picking someone who is a more appealing candidate for Person Who is Likely to Ascend to the Presidency When Biden Dies in Office.

On the other hand, maybe it would just be her own personal brand that is tarnished by losing a contested convention if whoever gets the nomination is someone who actually did manage to build consensus, generate momentum, and a favorable narrative. How petty and willing to die on their respective hills can we really expect the various Democratic Party tribes to be with Trump on the ballot?

Actually, don't answer that. I don't know much Trump being in play in 2020 had to do with the Democrats making love not war after Biden got the nomination vs how much it had to do with Biden's ability and willingness to throw wide the flaps of the big tent, and I'm more than a little afraid to find out.

Except that a part of me is admittedly, kind of curious.

I don't know that I buy the narrative that Biden is doomed. We're barely halfway into February for crying out loud. Trump is also his own worst enemy. He releases a torrent of free opposition research every time he opens his mouth. He radiates negative polarization like a star going supernova.

But a part of me is curious.

After eight years of "Trump is a threat to democracy" and "Democrats are the party of democracy" would a brokered convention actually pass the sniff test and excite the electorate because the Democrats actually listened to voters and took a radical risk in making a late in the game change which ultimately is more small d democratic than Biden running after essentially being unopposed in the primaries yet having abysmal "enthusiasm"? (To what degree enthusiasm "matters" and whether one can even really measure it effectively, not that pollsters aren't going to try anyway, is also highly contested.)

Or would it be the ultimate own goal that proves the low information voters, anti-electoralism leftists, and the Republicans were right all along: the Dems are full of it, when push comes to shove they don't really trust democracy, its all rigged etc. etc. and the Dems wander the wilderness for a generation, maybe for more than a generation if we become a managed democracy under the GOP?

[the-letter-horror-lover]

(not) a failed gift

Cinerraria

Summary:

Lizzy is torn between two choices: a rare edition classic, or an antique painting that's only up for auction.

[#cielizzyweek day 4: Gifts]

Notes:

Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji belongs to Yana Toboso. I'm just borrowing the characters, and don't get any material benefit from writing this fanfiction.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Gifts are not always material, although most people often associate gifts with material things. Lizzy knew that, actually. His presence alone meant more than anything, just like Ciel had said just now. Lizzy's facial expressions and body gestures represent what she feels but cannot express. But usually he is always honest and open.

"Oh, Lizzy. I told you, it's okay. You didn't bring a gift. You know that? It's just symbolic stuff. The best gifts come from things you can't see."

"Yes, Ciel. I know." Lizzy took a bite of the macaron, then swallowed it in one gulp . He glanced at the corner of the room doubtfully. On the mahogany table was a mountain of gift boxes, various shapes and colors. The guests who came did not want to miss the opportunity for Ciel's birthday this time.

"It's just… it's like everyone cares for you, giving you the best gift, except for me, your fiancé."

Ciel finished munching on the lemon cake. He raised the teacup to his lips. Then he looked at Lizzy's gaze, which was still adamant and felt guilty.

"No one cares about me more than my fiancé," Ciel replied. "And the best gift is right here in front of me."

The young man flashed a smile, blinking a closed eye so as not to be seen.

"Ah..." Lizzy froze. He thought again. It was clear that Ciel had no problem with this, but instead he complicated it, as if he really needed to be reassured. In fact, Ciel should have received more special treatment.

"Okay," Lizzy said finally. "Thank you for understanding."

Lizzy was flattered. Hopefully this represents the best gift as Ciel envisioned.

"What about dancing?" Lizzy said after taking a sip of her tea.

" Excellent! Who can refuse the Lady's invitation?" Ciel answered, then called the waiter, "Sebastian, turn on the dance music."

Ciel took him down to the dance floor and they danced together.

Every now and then, Lizzy's mind was torn between dancing with Ciel and the 'failed gift' she didn't give.

#

For the past week, Lizzy has been torn between two choices: a rare edition of a classic, or an antique painting that can only be obtained at auction. Ciel has a high artistic aesthetic. He doesn't want to lose to the others: his colleagues from the Phantomhive family and the Funtom Group will surely compete to give the best, most luxurious and special gifts. Who doesn't want to win the crown prince's heart? So, Lizzy tried to find the best. He knew Ciel was eyeing the original Tobias and The Angel to add to the family gallery collection . For how many months had he been asking for the painting, as he had heard before. And Lizzy knew Ciel also wanted a copy of Jules Verne's book, an early 1870s printed version, which must have been very rare.

However, it seems that luck is slipping away from Lizzy's hands. Paula, who was entrusted with searching for the painting, has already managed to find it at auction on an e-bay site. Not a problem with the price. However, when Paula said that there were other bidders who dared (even competed) to risk the highest possible price, Lizzy was heartbroken when she saw the nominal listed. The 'gift' just went away. He failed to get it.

Then, this morning, Lawrence Bluerone of Ciel's old school friends, who had agreed to intercede for Jules Verne's book, canceled his appointment because he was still out of town and held back by sudden interests. Bluer had offered Lizzy to pick up the book tomorrow—the day after Ciel's birthday, however, Lizzy refused. It's too late to give gifts, then, he told Bluer over the phone. Finally, Lizzy decides to attend Ciel's party without bringing any gifts.

#

It was October twentieth afternoon, a week after Ciel's birthday. Lizzy came to visit.

They enjoyed afternoon tea in the room overlooking the garden. What made it unusual was when Lizzy felt something strange on the walls of the room. In the left corner of the room, five steps from this tea table position, Lizzy saw a painting that wasn't there before, hanging there. He was stunned, looked at the painting, then was shocked. It's a painting of Tobias and The Angel!

"Ciel? That painting…?" Pointing his finger at the painting, Lizzy stammered. "New?"

Ciel turned and his gaze followed where Lizzy was pointing, then nodded.

"You noticed it before. I was just about to tell you. Hey, what are you doing, Lizzy? Why is your face so pale?"

The young man frowned in surprise, looking at his fiancé, who now looked beautiful in a pastel green dress. Her blonde hair was in a neat bun with a cute bow tied around her head. When she was a teenager, Lizzy often appeared with this kind of make-upchanged from being happy to be tied up in twintails . Whatever her clothes and hairstyle, Lizzy is still just as beautiful.

"Ah, no. It's okay." Lizzy dodged. He shook his head hard. Then, leaning on the back of the chair again, hiding his clenched hands under the table, trying to act as if nothing had happened.

"I like the painting too," he continued. "I was just surprised to see that painting finally made it into your collection."

Lizzy hastily drank as much tea as possible, as a diversion for Ciel not to suspect anything.

"Is that so? You never said you liked him too? Well, the important thing is that I finally managed to bring Verrochio home. Buy it from e-bay, by the way. Sebastian says there's one antidote that's really hard to beat. Lucky Sebastian knows how to handle it."

Lizzy scratched her non-itchy cheek, then laughed blandly. Luckily, he didn't spit out the tea he was drinking. How could he not be surprised, knowing that he had just fought his own fiancé, in an auction that he had fought for her? It's so magical!

Lizzy remembered something. He immediately opened his bag. Take out a square-shaped object wrapped in cardboard with very neat folds.

Ciel, looked at the package curiously.

"To you, Ciel," Lizzy said with a smile, sweet and mysterious. "Think of it as ransom at last week's party."

Ciel received the box and immediately unwrapped the paper. He was stunned to see its contents: a book called 'Around The World in 80 Days'. After opening the inside cover and flipping through the pages, Ciel was sure it was Jules Verne's work he was after! This time, it was Ciel who was stunned. With a look of disbelief, he alternated between Lizzy and the book.

"This…? For me?"

The girl nodded. "No, for my fiancé," he answered, trying to joke.

Satisfied, Lizzy glanced out the window at the garden of violets blooming in the twilight. Her round green eyes sparkled again, very bright. He tilted his head, took another sip of tea, then returned Ciel's gaze with a smile.

"Thank you, I mean." Ciel corrected his words.

The young man was still turning the pages and stroking the book in his hand. In the midst of his nervousness, Ciel couldn't hide his joy at getting the prize he had been coveting for so long.

"With this we're even," Lizzy said. "Honestly, I should have given it to you at your birthday party yesterday. But it was delayed for a reason. And I hate it when my plans fail. So even if it's past, you should accept this gift."

Lizzy ended the topic by keeping a secret of the fact that involved her in fighting over the painting that had just inhabited the walls of this room.

Notes:

note: reference to Verrocchio's painting Tobias and The Angel and Jules Verne's book Around The World in 80 Days.

Series this work belongs to:

← Previous Work Part 4 of Cielizzy Week 2019 Next Work →

[willowcrowned]

kit fisto carpet artisan

thank you for reminding me.

So, the important part of the Kit Fisto carpet artisan au is that he leaves the Order to make carpets. The going theory among the jedi is that he had an uncle on Coruscant that left him a carpet shop and he decided to stop being a Jedi to carry on the dying trade, but no one knows but him, and he’s not telling. He also takes Nahdar, his padawan, with him. If Nahdar knows why Kit left, he’s not telling anyone either.

So by the time Anakin is sixteen or so, Kit Fisto, ex-jedi and carpet maker extraordinaire, has a bustling business just outside the senate district— close enough for any of the Jedi to visit. And oh boy do they visit.

Typically, when someone leaves the Order, it’s something only spoken about in hushed tones. There’s no gossip, nor speculation, because Jedi don’t gossip, and besides, they usually already have the reason— while no one is obligated to give a reason for leaving, it’s considered polite to do so. It’s not... dishonorable to leave, but a certain distance inevitably develops. Once someone leaves the jedi, they’re leading a completely different life, and most leave Coruscant entirely.

Kit Fisto is not typical. There’s no warning— not a single inkling that he might be considering leaving the Jedi. One day, he walks into a High Council meeting, declares politely that he’s leaving and taking Nahdar with him, and tells them all they’re welcome to visit him at his new address. (He also makes a point of leaving several of his belongings in his apartment, to give the more decorous members of the Order an excuse to visit.)

Come Monday, Yoda is on his doorstep, probing for answers. Kit does not give them, but he does give Yoda a tour and some tea. When Yoda comes back, cackling and pleased, everyone else takes this as the go-ahead to visit. The jedi visit regularly— only when he’s closed, and only when he has time, but they do come.

This is where the fun begins.

Anakin Skywalker, seventeen years old, very moody and very angry, has an appointment with Palpatine. Anakin Skywalker, seventeen years old, very moody and very angry, has been banned by Obi-Wan from using any speeders, bikes or otherwise, by an exhausted Obi-Wan. (Nominally, it’s because he started a fight in the salles two days ago, but if it keeps him from seeing Palpatine, then so much the better.) (Anakin knows what Obi-Wan is doing, and is furious about it. While perhaps justified, this does not help his case.) So what does Anakin do? He makes his own speeder from old parts. (If he’d thought to call Palpatine, the man would have sent a car for him, but since last time that happened he got a two lecture from both Windu and Obi-Wan, so he’ll just have to be sneaky.)

The problem with speeders cobbled together from old parts is that they have a tendency to break down, usually at the most inopportune moments. For Anakin, this is on the edge of the Senate district, since he was taking a circuitous route to see Palpatine in the hopes of avoiding anyone else he knows. Fortunately, Kit’s shop is nearby, and he’s been with Obi-Wan enough times to know the way.

Anakin walks into Kit’s Artisan Carpets, sopping wet from the rain that just started and looking like nothing so much as a wet kitten. Kit, who has all the grace and wisdom of a jedi master, does not tell him this, and instead offers him a towel and the use of his speeder when Nahdar gets back. In the meantime, he offers, would Anakin like to come see his workshop?

Now, keeping in mind that I know nothing about carpet making, and even less about artisan carpet making, I’m going to say that Kit shows Anakin how to do something simple that’s carpet related. And Anakin likes it. Anakin really likes it. He already loves working with his hands, but this is different. There’s no thinking involved, nothing but the repetitive movement of his hands. Normally, he hates being quiet, being still, but he’s so cold and tired that he’s able to just... drop into a trance. Before he knows it, it’s three hours later and he’s missed the meeting with Palpatine entirely.

Kit sends him back to the Jedi Temple more relaxed than he’s ever been, finally having been able to achieve a meditative state, and with an invitation to come back and help again whenever he’s nearby. When he gets back, Obi-Wan is amazed at how calm Anakin is, and forgets to lecture him on leaving the temple. Anakin does his homework, goes to bed, and when he wakes up, he doesn’t feel so awful.

The next time he comes back from Palpatine’s, riled up and wanting to scream, he stops by Kit’s shop and helps out with some repetitive carpet-related task. The dull motion helps lets his mind wander, but not too far— lets him be still without his brain beginning to scream. For the first time, Anakin is able to meditate without trauma flashbacks or overwhelming, near-painful understimulation.

Once again, he comes back to the Temple calm and slightly better balanced, once again, Obi-Wan doesn’t lecture him. The pattern continues.

Cut to two years later, when Anakin is having nightmares about his mother. Helping out in Kit’s shop lets him meditate on the visions, and Kit has been, well, really great to talk to about attachment. Palpatine is nice and all, but he doesn’t really get the Jedi— has never understood Anakin’s desire to be one. Kit, who knows what is like and is still more Jedi than most Jedi, in Anakin’s private opinion, does. 

Kit talks him through visions, helps him articulate his fears, and sends him to communicate with Obi-Wan. When Anakin says that he’s having visions— not just dreams, but solid visions— Obi-Wan promptly requests a sabbatical, and they go to Tatooine.

Obi-Wan helps him rescue Shmi from the Tuskens, and since Shmi is still alive, Anakin has something to focus on instead of his own rage. No Tuskens get murdered— hell, Anakin is so worried about his mom it doesn’t even occur to him to go kill them until after she’s safe. By that point, he’s not in the thick of the moment, so he has time to imagine slaughtering every single one of them before he does it. He thinks of how good it would feel, yes, but also of the screams, of the feeling of their dying minds against his own, and recoils.

When they get back to Coruscant, new fence installed and comm numbers exchanged, Palpatine’s plan is ruined— Amidala already has a jedi protector, no one knows what to do with the dart, and Anakin is much more well balanced now that he’s seen his mother, knows she’s safe, and she’s talked him through his emotions in a way that Obi-Wan can’t. 

Does Palpatine give up on Anakin as a lost cause? Absolutely not. He does, however, adjust the plan, leaving an even more obvious trail to Kamino. Obi-Wan still ends up on Geonosis, only this time Anakin is there too, and Padmé isn’t. And, here’s the kicker— neither of them managed to get the message to the Jedi Council, so they’re stuck in their little rotating columns while Dooku stalks around and lies blatantly, waiting for them to be rescued and for the war to start. But the rescue never comes.

After the fourth or fifth day of this, Dooku realizes that if Palpatine managed to mess up such a simple plan, it might not be a good idea to follow his orders. He defects, exchanging everything he knows (which is quite a lot) for amnesty. Obi-Wan agrees to the trade, and the three of them escape Geonosis to go face down Palpatine.

Anakin is predictably furious about this. He doesn’t believe Dooku, of course, and he’s raring to kill the guy, but he’s also pretty sure he can’t take on both Obi-Wan and Dooku and win, so he waits until they get to Coruscant to comm the council. (Dooku lets him do it. The backup will be useful and he thinks he can time it so Sidious is throwing Force lightning at them when Yoda shows up.) (He can totally time it right.)

Yoda shows up just as Palpatine whips out a red lightsaber, since Dooku went straight for the beheading without letting him talk, and Obi-Wan was holding Anakin back to see what would happen. Palpatine could have beaten each of them on their own, probably even two at once, provided Dooku and Yoda didn’t team up— but against Anakin, who could probably vaporize someone with his mind if he tried hard enough, Yoda, who’s seven hundred years old and still wins the jedi parkour championships every year, Dooku, who’s the best duelist the Order has seen in a long while, and Obi-Wan, who, while not space jesus, a prodigy, or seven hundred years old, is no slouch in any jedi department, especially the ones that involve keeping Anakin from doing anything stupid? Yeah, Palpatine loses.

They all stumble into Kit’s Artisan Carpets an hour later, smelling of ozone and repressed emotions just waiting to come out. Kit looks at them all, makes a pot of tea, settles Anakin at his usual carpet-task doing place for some much needed meditation, and locks them in the room to talk.

“So,” Dooku says to Kit the next morning, once they’ve sorted all the politics and some of the emotions out, “what possessed you to take up carpets?”

Kit tilts his head, considering, and answers. “I just felt like it.”

(”Really?” Nahdar asks later. “You’re not going to tell them?”

“Well,” Kit replies, “would they believe me?”

“I guess not,” Nahdar says, “but time travel is hard to believe in.”

“It was more of a vision, really.” Kit huffs. “Besides, I did feel like it. Getting stabbed gives one new priorities.”

“Tell me about it,” Nahdar agrees. “Tell me about it.”)

[1989dreamer]

Mountains of Shrapnel for Sterek Big Bang 2021

Written for @twsterekbigbang’s Sterek Big Bang 2021, in collaboration with @mrkgrl​ (whose art is just delightful and so, so amazing!).

Word Count: 34,083

Summary: When Stiles returns after graduating, he discovers that Derek Hale is back in town. He also learns that Derek has somehow managed to fill an entire house with so much junk it isn't functional anymore and is on the verge of being condemned as unlivable. Stiles uses the excuse of helping Derek clean out his hoarded house to reconnect, aware that what used to be a teeny-tiny crush is not so small anymore. Emotional baggage makes an interesting bedfellow, but so does the revelation that Stiles might not be as alone in his crush as he thought he was.

Tags: Hoarding, Hoarder Derek, Falling in Love, Friends to Lovers, Redeemed Scott McCall, Mentions of Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Mentions of Past Jennifer Blake/Derek Hale, Not Nice Deaton, Human Scott, Canon Compliant to the end of 3B, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Vomit Scene, Derek Hale is in Therapy, Love Potion, Emotional Healing, They get a little sex happy toward the end, Reconnection

Warnings: Kate plays a large part in an element of the story although she does not appear on screen; vomit scene.

Note: The scene that features vomiting starts at "Maybe it was something he put in the pot pie?" and ends after "Stiles shooed him toward the bathroom."

                                                                                                                     ~ * ~

Graduation day came and went rather uneventfully despite the fact that Dad wouldn’t let Stiles wear jeans under his gown and either his head had shrunk since they’d measured him or they’d gotten his head size wrong so his cap refused to stay on his head if he bobbed his leg too hard.

After the long drive home, he and his dad went out to eat at The Burger Joint on the edge of Beacon Hills. Stiles glared at his dad when he ordered the double bacon cheeseburger deluxe.

“What? I’ve been eating well otherwise. I deserve a treat. Besides, it’s not every day your son graduates top of his class.”

“Did it have to be a double bacon burger?” Stiles asked. He was about to continue griping, hoping to at least badger his dad into not eating all of the bacon when the door jingled, catching his attention. Normally, Stiles would have checked who came in and then gone back to his conversation, but the person was an unexpected face. “Is that Derek Hale?”

Dad twisted in his chair until he could see what Stiles saw. Derek fucking Hale stomping his way up to the counter, phone in one hand, money in the other, glowering steadily at the poor clerk as they traded him the money for a bulging bag.

“Yeah,” Dad said. “He moved back to town, oh, about a year ago now. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No,” Stiles said. He jumped up from his chair and hurried to catch Derek before he left the building. Derek looked far less unsettled than Stiles felt at seeing him again.

“Stiles.” He nodded. Stiles swallowed hard.

It wasn’t that he and Derek hadn’t kept in touch, except…that’s exactly what happened.

Derek had left Beacon Hills halfway through Stiles’ junior year of high school, changed his number (and sent Stiles a “Here’s my new number” text about six months after, but he’d forgotten to mention who it was, so Stiles had thought it was one of his classmates and by the time he’d figured out that it was Derek, the number had been changed again), and practically disappeared off the face of the Earth.

Stiles’ mouth didn’t seem to want to cooperate so he just stood there in Derek’s way. What could he say? “I missed you”? Derek obviously hadn’t missed Stiles since he hadn’t contacted him outside of that text.

“Derek,” Stiles finally managed, and then his dad grabbed his arm and dragged him back a few steps.

“Derek, nice to see you again, son. How’s the house treating you? Have you found a job yet? We’d better let you get to your food. See you around. Take care now.”

Dad forcibly steered Stiles back to their table and pushed on his shoulder until he sat down. Derek didn’t move for a long minute. He stared at the Stilinskis with a sullen glare before squaring his shoulders and setting his bag of food down on a table to dig out a notebook. He borrowed a pen off another patron and wrote something down. He returned the pen, picked up his bag, and approached their table.

“This is my address and my number,” he said gruffly, almost stabbing the paper at Stiles’ face. “Congratulations on your graduation. Sir,” he nodded at the Sheriff, “always nice to see you. Have a good meal.”

Stiles grabbed the paper and Derek spun on his heel and marched away.

“He’s gotten better about that,” Dad remarked and then dug into his burger which must have arrived when Stiles was busy gaping at Derek.

He picked up his own burger, a much more modest cheeseburger deluxe. “You said he moved back to town last year?”

Dad paused, thinking. “At least,” he said. “In some ways, it feels like he’s been here forever. He keeps to himself mostly, but I think he’s a good neighbor to have. He’s been nominated for that community thing they created three years ago. You know the thing.”

“The Good Neighbor Program?” Stiles asked, a little cheekily.

“That’s the one. I think he might win it this year.”

“This year? Wait, what about last year?”

“Mrs. Halvershiem won it last year,” Dad said. “Derek was too new to town then. But he’s certainly done a lot in the months he’s been here.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles wouldn’t have thought Derek would do anything other than hide away from the world. He did a lot of that before, which Stiles mostly doesn’t hold against him. He stood up when he needed to. If anyone deserved to shut the world out, it was Derek. Life had dealt him a shitty hand and then kept piling on the bad luck.

The fact that Derek was back in Beacon Hills at all was a miracle. One which Stiles would use to reconnect.

If he was honest with himself, he’d missed the big guy. He’d missed the supernatural. He’d still gotten up to a few mostly un-supernatural shenanigans in college but nothing could ever beat the exhilaration he’d gotten when one of his plans went right and Derek was right there with him, backing him up.

Stiles had been mad at Derek for a long time after he’d left, and he didn’t know if his dad had told him that he was back that he wouldn’t have reacted badly. Some of his anger was directed at Derek because Stiles had realized that he was a little bit in love with Derek, like, a crush or something. Most of his anger, though, was because Derek had left him behind.

Once Stiles had sat Dad down and fully explained how Dad was right, he wasn’t gay, but not because of how he dressed. Stiles was bisexual, not gay. Some days, it still hurt having his dad dismiss him like that, but Dad was trying his best to be supportive and understanding now, and that’s all Stiles wanted, really.

He wondered if Derek knew what his orientation was back in high school. If he did, he hadn’t said. Honestly, Stiles hadn’t ever asked him if that was something he could smell.

But now, with no prompting from either Stiles or Stiles’ dad, Derek had given Stiles his address and his phone number. That was something that would never have happened back in high school.

Stiles felt like he was forgetting something majorly important, but staring at the paper with Derek’s surprisingly neat handwriting, he couldn’t think what it could be. That is until he heard the ice in his dad’s glass of water.

The bacon on his dad’s burger! That’s what he forgot!

Stiles glared at his dad, but nope, it was too late, Dad had already eaten everything.

He didn’t even look a little bit guilty as he finished off his water and stacked everything neatly.

Stiles hurriedly started eating his burger. “Hey, can we visit Derek today?” he asked through a mouthful of meat and bread.

Dad had retired a few months earlier, working part time at the bakery downtown instead of as the Sheriff anymore, so it wasn’t like he’d have the excuse of patrolling anymore.

“Sure. Been meaning to get out that way for a while now. I think Derek works out of his home so it’s rare to see him around town.”

“Is it rare for him to pass out his address too?” Stiles folded the paper, tucking it deep in his breast pocket. He was not going to lose that paper if he could help it.

“That I don’t know. We all kind of just know where he lives now. It was a big thing when he moved back. I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just remember how upset you were when he left the first time, and I didn’t want you to get hurt again if he wasn’t going to stick around.”

“Dad, I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Look, why don’t you call him later, set up some time to catch up?”

“That’s actually a really good idea. Thanks.”

Stiles finished his burger while his dad went to pay. He and his dad didn’t have plans for the rest of the day, but Stiles didn’t want to duck out immediately just to possibly reconnect with an old friend. It wasn’t like Derek was going anywhere in the next twenty-four hours. He would call him tomorrow, he decided. Today could be all about his dad. After all, they hadn’t seen each other for almost two months while Stiles was busy finishing up his classes. He wanted to hear about what his dad got up to in his retirement when he wasn’t baking cupcakes.

He patted his pocket one more time, soothed by the crinkle of the paper. And then he gave his attention back to his dad.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek answered his phone with a gruff, “Hale.”

Stiles slapped his forehead. Of course Derek wouldn’t recognize his number. Stiles had had to change it a few months back when an incident with a currently incarcerated ex-classmate of his escalated to the point that Stiles had a few new scars and a few new friends in the Berkley Police Department.

“Hey, this is Stiles.”

“Hi.”

Still gruff. Well, some things never changed.

“Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to catch up over coffee or something?”

Stiles couldn’t remember Derek ever drinking coffee, so he was hoping that he did or else this would get even more awkward than just trying to talk about things that weren’t supernatural-related.

“Sure. The bakery your dad works at serves coffee. We can meet there.”

Stiles didn’t want his dad to have the inside scoop, but maybe Derek would feel more comfortable there? Maybe he wasn’t comfortable at all and Stiles really shouldn’t be trying to meet up with him. Maybe—

“Are you breathing?” Derek asked, a different gruffness to his tone. Stiles recognized it as his concerned tone. Derek was concerned for him. Aw, wasn’t that sweet? Last he knew, Derek couldn’t stand the sight of him, hence why he skipped town. Or at least, that was what Stiles had told himself for a few years.

“Yes, I’m breathing. The bakery is fine. What time did you want to meet?”

“Are you busy in an hour?”

Stiles checked his wrist for a watch he’d never worn, but he’s just graduated. He has no plans aside from catching up on some sleep. He’ll always make time for Derek anyway. He’d always regretted the way they hadn’t kept in touch, and now faced with the opportunity to rekindle the friendship, he won’t let a little thing like being busy keep him away.

“Nope. Not doing anything. See you then?”

“Sure. Thanks, Stiles. Bye now.”

Stiles stared at his phone long after Derek disconnected the call. That was new. The Derek saying “bye” thing. Usually he would just hang up.

It’s been six years. Maybe Derek really has changed. Stiles was interested to see just how much of an actual adult Derek was.

Back in the day, it had been easy to forget that Derek was only like twenty-one to his sixteen, and even worse when Derek was twenty-two and he was seventeen. Dad had started taking Derek around to crime scenes and everything. Stiles had almost expected Derek to start working for the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department in an Official capacity, and then shit hit the fan.

Kate Argent returned, kidnapped Derek—twice—and nearly murdered them all before she was finally put down.

When it was all said and done, Derek had looked at all of them gathered outside his loft where the final stand had been made, shook his head, and just walked away.

The text came later, after a year, and by then Stiles’ hurt had been so ramped up that he’d refused to even acknowledge that it was maybe Derek’s way of reaching out after taking some time for himself.

Now, though, Stiles would give anything to go back to the day Derek walked away and follow him.

Regrets wouldn’t get them anywhere though, so Stiles set a timer on his phone, sat down at his computer, and dicked around until it was time to go to the bakery.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Dad waved at him when he walked in. Stiles was still unused to seeing his dad in an apron with one of those little paper hats on his head instead of his Sheriff’s uniform, but he had to admit, his dad looked far more relaxed behind the counter of the bakery than behind the wheel of his cruiser.

The interim sheriff wasn’t seeking reelection this year, and Stiles was terrified that his dad would be pressured into running again. Half the town still referred to him as Sheriff.

Stiles hadn’t asked his dad if he planned to run, half-hoping that by not talking about it, he wouldn’t influence him to accept the nomination.

Dad pointed at one of the tables, and Stiles almost sagged in relief. He’d half-thought that Derek might stand him up, but there he was, sitting at the table, a puzzle book in front of him along with a mug of steaming liquid and an untouched puff pastry.

Stiles sat down across from him and without looking up from his puzzle, a crossword, Derek pushed the coffee and pastry toward him.

“Don’t you want anything?” Stiles asked, unsure if he was supposed to accept Derek’s offerings.

“Not hungry,” Derek replied, filling in a word. He set the pencil down, closed the book, and settled back in his chair. He didn’t cross his arms, but his expression was flat and stony enough that he might as well have.

“How are you?” Stiles started. Derek was standoffish, and Stiles could understand why. He didn’t have the same time as everyone else. To Derek, Stiles hadn’t been his friend for years. To Stiles, he could still remember the visceral pain he’d felt when he realized that Derek was leaving them behind after everything they’d been through, but they were still friends.

“I’m fine,” Derek said. “How about you?”

“Great. Just graduated.”

Derek nodded. “I know.”

“How about you? Did you ever go back to college?” Derek had confided once that he’d been enrolled in New York, but had dropped out when Laura was killed.

Derek shook his head. “Never felt like it. I did a bit of trade school though. Picked up welding and furniture restoration. I do both on the side.”

“On the side of what?”

Derek shrugged. “Of life, I guess? I don’t really need to work. I just do.”

Stiles had transferred Derek’s address into his phone in case he forgot the paper somewhere and lost it. “So, if I randomly stop by your house, you won’t always be there?”

“Not on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Derek said. “On Tuesdays, I fill in at Scrappers Galore and Thursdays, I help out at Raquel’s Antiques.”

“So any day but Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Stiles repeated.

Derek squinted at him, suspicious. “Yes,” he said slowly, drawing out the word. “I guess. Why? You planning on stopping by unannounced?”

“Only if you want me to. If you want me to always announce whenever I’m planning on swinging by, that’s great too.”

Derek tapped his book, thinking. Stiles had forgotten how much he missed Derek’s everything. And not just because he was handsome and nice to look at. (Yeah, he’d figured out pretty quickly that he’d like both men and women, and that he’d likely been very attracted to Derek when they’d first met.)

No, Derek was more than a pretty face. He was compassion embodied, caring, kind (once he got out of the survival mode he’d been in when they’d first crossed paths), and more than generous.

It was a little unsettling that Derek seemed to be hedging his words with Stiles, unsure if he wanted to fully trust him. Stiles wanted to remind Derek that he was the one who walked away, not Stiles, but he didn’t want to accidentally push him too far.

They were reconnecting, after all.

“My house isn’t the cleanest,” Derek finally said after a long moment of silence between them. “I don’t need to hear about how I should be doing this or doing that. I’m in therapy, but right now, we’re at a stage in my life where I can’t do certain things.”

Stiles held up his hands. “Hey, no judging here.” The only reason he kept his room clean was because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to think at all. Clutter worsened his ADHD, and no amount of medication was going to make him focus on the things he should if he was constantly distracted by his surroundings.

Dad had helped him clean out his room last summer when Stiles had returned only to find that all the things from his childhood and high school years sat heavily on his mind, making what was supposed to be a relaxing time very stressful.

He half expected Derek to be the same way, but maybe not? Derek didn’t have an ADHD diagnosis, and likely wouldn’t ever get one, so that was probably not it.

Derek picked up his book. “It was nice talking with you, but I need to run an errand. Call me later if you want to come over.”

“Hey, no, yeah, it was really good to see you. I’ll definitely call you later.”

Derek ambled off, and Stiles was probably imagining that he looked more relaxed than when Stiles sat down. Huh. Maybe he and Derek were still friends.

He picked up the pastry, taking a large bite. Well, Derek still knew what Stiles liked to eat. A sip of the drink revealed that it was the coffee order Stiles used to drink in college. It wasn’t bad, but it was more sugary than Stiles liked now.

But it was still very thoughtful of Derek. And besides, there was time now for Stiles to teach him his new coffee order.

He finished the drink and pastry quickly, dropping a tip in the jar for his dad, and waving as he headed outside.

For some reason, he really didn’t want to go home, so he texted his dad that he was picking up some stuff for supper and headed to the grocery store.

He parked next to a Camaro that reminded him strongly of Derek’s. It was even black too. Once inside, he grabbed a cart and started wandering the aisles, adding things he thought could make a delicious, healthy supper.

When he went to pay, he found himself behind a tall, broad back that was oh-so-familiar. He didn’t need to smell the woodsy aftershave or see the slightly scraggly hair in need of a trim to know that he hadn’t just been reminded of Derek’s Camaro: it was actually Derek’s Camaro. Derek’s errand must have been grocery shopping, although from the look of his cart, it wasn’t so much groceries as junk food.

Stiles never imagined Derek to be a junk food eater, certain that the chemicals used to mimic natural ingredients and flavors would have been off-putting for a werewolf and his heightened sense of smell and taste.

Derek must have either smelled him (likely) or sensed him staring at him (also likely) and turned around with a tight smile.

Stiles just waved. He wasn’t in the habit of accosting his acquaintances in the queue to pay.

He made a telephone sign with his hand, and Derek nodded.

The amount of food that Derek had bought meant that he’d likely still be putting it into his car by the time Stiles got out to Roscoe.

He’d talk to him then. Invite him to supper. He’d gotten plenty of ingredients for two people, and definitely more than enough to accommodate a third.

Besides, it’d be nice to see if his dad and Derek still got along. He hoped so; otherwise his renewed friendship with Derek was going to be awkward.

It was unfortunate that Stiles had lost all his other friends, also shortly around the time that Derek had left. In fact, Derek’s leaving had caused such major infighting among them that Stiles and Scott still weren’t speaking to this day.

Lydia and Kira, caught in the middle, had bonded over their refusal to take sides (although, privately, they both admitted that Stiles had more of a point to his argument that Scott had caused Kate’s return, something Scott refused to accept and Stiles refused to revisit now for fear of becoming enraged again). Lydia and Kira had ended up getting married after two years of dating and now were living on the east coast while Lydia studied at MIT and Kira got her teaching license.

Stiles hoped they’d had better luck keeping in touch with the others, but he also didn’t think they’d made an effort with Derek because, to be honest, neither of them were very close to him to begin with.

Still, Stiles wasn’t one to shy away from something just because it was hard. He had gone from ignoring a problem and hoping it went away to confronting it head on because then it wouldn’t just grow bigger behind his back and knock him off his path again.

He paid for his groceries and hurried out to the lot. Derek was indeed still piling bags into the trunk of his car.

“Hey, so I’m making pesto, and I was wondering if you wanted to join my dad and me for supper.”

Derek spun around, even though there was no way he didn’t hear Stiles behind him. “Uh.” His eyebrows went up and then quickly lowered. Confusion at being asked and masking that confusion. Good to know Stiles could still read him. “Is your dad okay with that?”

Stiles waved away his concern. “My dad loves you,” he declared, almost positive that it was true. After all, his dad hadn’t glared at or threatened Derek at the diner today.

Nor had he gotten between them when they caught up at the bakery.

Derek’s eyebrows wriggled again before finally relaxing to their normal position on his face. Stiles stifled a comment on the bushiness of them. He didn’t know if Derek was self conscious of any part of his body, and he didn’t want to accidentally dredge up anything for him.

“I highly doubt he actually loves me,” Derek said. “No one really does.”

“Hey now.”

Derek rolled his shoulders, less of a shrug and more of a so-life-goes motion. High school Stiles would have agreed with him, maybe cracked a self-depreciating joke about himself to lighten the mood. College graduate Stiles was wiser and less infatuated with nihilism.

“Seriously, I’ve never seen him look so happy to see someone who wasn’t me.”

Derek still didn’t look like he believed Stiles, but that was okay. Stiles was back in Beacon Hills for a while. He could work on him, make sure Derek knew just how much he was treasured.

“I heard you’re up for the Good Neighbor award this year.”

Derek ducked his head, blushing hotly. “I don’t know about that,” he mumbled.

“Hey, if they hand you the award, just say thanks and move on. I’m sure you deserve it anyway. You did a lot for us back in the day.”

Derek scoffed. “As if. I did more harm than good and you know it.”

“Well, I for one appreciate what you did for me. And before you deny it, you were helpful, if a bit scary.”

“I got people killed. Can’t forget that.” Derek dropped his gaze down to his feet. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can make it to supper.”

“Please don’t,” Stiles said softly. Derek’s head snapped up. “I want you there. I want to reconnect with you. I’m not inviting you out of pity or because I think you can’t feed yourself.” He sighed, stepping forward, hand raised so that Derek had plenty of time to decide if he wanted to step out of reach. When Derek didn’t move, Stiles set his hand on his arm and gave it a little squeeze before pulling back entirely.

“Okay,” Derek said, a little breathlessly. He swallowed hard. “Okay, I’ll be there.When?”

“Give me about two hours and it should be ready. Pesto doesn’t actually take that long to make, but I think we’d both appreciate some time to put away our groceries.”

“Okay. I’ll be there. I promise.”

Stiles beamed at him, which oddly made Derek blush. Huh, food for thought. “Okay. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. It’ll be great to catch up some more.”

“Sure.” It was probably just Stiles’ imagination, but he thought Derek’s tone was a little cold, as if Stiles had said something unfavorable. “See you.”

Stiles waved to him and then got into Roscoe and drove back to his dad’s house.

Dad wouldn’t be off work yet, so Stiles took some time to put away the groceries, clean up their nicest set of plates, and set the table before he pulled up a recipe on his phone and got busy.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek arrived at the house at the same time as Dad. Stiles could hear them greet each other on the doorstep. He waited a decent two minutes while they exchanged pleasantries and Derek gave Dad a bottle of wine he brought with him.

“Ah, Stiles loves this brand. Thanks.”

Stiles threw open the door. “Come on in,” he said brightly, taking the bottle from his dad. Both his dad and Derek know him well: this was his favorite vintage right now. “The food is ready.”

Derek shifted awkwardly before stepping into the house. He looked uncomfortable and on edge even though Stiles had double checked to make sure the wolfsbane his dad grew now that Chris Argent was off globe-trotting was out back in the shed. Maybe he could still smell it?

“Thanks for inviting me,” Derek said, almost too quiet to hear. He cleared his throat and asked for the bathroom.

“You know where it is,” Dad said, clapping him on the back. “I’m going to get washed up, Stiles. Supper smells great.”

“Thanks. I’m going to put this on ice. Anyone want a glass with supper? Not sure how well it’ll go with pesto, but we can try it!”

“I think I’ll try some,” Dad called over his shoulder. “You got any of that non-alcoholic beer left?”

Derek reappeared before Stiles could answer. He still looked terrified but at least he was still standing in the front hallway.

“Come on.” Stiles held out his hand, waving Derek toward the kitchen. “We can grab everything and set up in the dining room.”

Derek followed, and then stood still while Stiles loaded his arms with plates, silverware wrapped in napkins, and a serving utensil. Dad grabbed the dish with pesto, and Stiles wrapped the wine bottle in a wet paper towel and stuck it in the freezer, setting a fifteen minute timer on his phone.

Once the table was set, a centerpiece collected from the back garden Dad worked on in his spare time, and the wine collected after the timer went off, they all sat down. Neither Stiles nor his dad had cared to say Grace since before Mom died, but the way Derek folded his hands and stared at his plate, spoke volumes. Stiles nodded at his dad, and Dad spoke a quick few words before holding his hand out for Derek’s plate.

“Guests are served first,” he said gently when Derek politely refused.

Derek surrendered his plate, and Dad heaped it full. Derek winced at it when he took it back, and Stiles made a mental note to send him home with some Tupperware if he couldn’t finish it.

Or maybe Derek didn’t like pesto? He had seemed at least a little enthused when Stiles invited him, but maybe Stiles was reading too much into it?

He was overthinking things. He needed to not do that. Dad dished up some pesto for Stiles and then himself, and Stiles wondered if Dad liked the pesto at all since he hadn’t taken near as much as he normally did.

“So, Derek, how are you liking being back in Beacon Hills?”

Stiles turned a horrified eye to his dad. What kind of question was that? The last time Derek was in Beacon Hills, he’d been assaulted by a phantom from his past, all but run from the town, and everyone who cared about him was either dead or disgusted with him, Stiles included.

Although, if Stiles was honest with himself, he wasn’t as disgusted with Derek as he was with himself or Scott. Derek had just been reacting to the stress and repeated assault from Kate.

“It’s been good,” Derek said. He poked at his food before putting a small bite in his mouth. He chewed for almost a minute before he swallowed. “The people have been nice.”

Ashamed, Stiles stabbed at his own food. He hadn’t ever been the friend Derek needed. He didn’t know why it was so important to him that he do this, invite Derek for supper, go out for coffee to catch up, when even two years ago, he couldn’t find the time or patience for him.

“I’m sorry we were such assholes,” he blurted out.

Derek frowned at him. “We?” he repeated. “Are you apologizing for you or for everyone?”

“Everyone.”

“Don’t. I don’t want it. I was an asshole too.”

“Yeah, a surviving asshole.”

Derek smothered a chuckle. “Still an asshole.”

“Can we suspend the assholes at the dinner table?” Dad asked, pointing his fork at Stiles. “You’re sorry. Derek’s sorry. I’m sorry. Can we please just eat?”

“It is good,” Derek said. “The pesto, I mean. You’re a good cook, Stiles.”

Stiles took a moment to bask in the glory of the compliment before he set aside his plate. “So, Derek, is there any chance I’ll get to see where you live now?”

Derek glared at his plate. The change in expression gave Stiles pause. He vaguely remembered Derek telling him he couldn’t judge him for how he lived, not that he couldn’t visit him at all.

“I’m not ready for visitors,” Derek mumbled.

“Okay.” Stiles tried to bury the flash of hurt, but from Derek’s even more miserable expression, he wasn’t successful at all. “I mean,” he tried again, “I can wait until you’re ready? Or I can help you if that’s what you need? I’m not going to judge you.”

Both Dad and Derek turned their heads to stare at him. Stiles sunk in his seat.

“You know what I mean.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his plate.

Derek sighed. “I appreciate it. I really do. I’ll have to think about it. Is that okay?”

“Perfectly okay.” Stiles returned to his food, finishing his wine with a long swallow. He gathered the plates while Dad picked up the rest of the pesto. “I made a cheesecake,” Stiles said, mostly for Derek’s benefit so he wouldn’t take the opportunity of being left alone to duck out early.

“You’re actually going to let me have a slice?” Dad asked, surprised.

Stiles lightly slapped at his arm. “Of course you can have a slice. You’ve been doing much better with your diet. And besides, it’s low fat.”

Dad’s face falls. “Low fat?”

“Yes, low fat. It’s still delicious.” Stiles gave his dad one of his most mischievous looks, one his dad probably thought he retired after leaving his teens behind. “Or did you not want any?”

“No, I’ll take a slice. I probably won’t eat more than that.” His dad grabbed glasses for milk. “I mean, one is probably all I’ll need.”

“You can have two,” Stiles said magnanimously. “I’m sending the rest home with Derek.”

Derek was still sitting in his seat, thank goodness. He hurriedly shoved his cell phone under the table, shooting Stiles a guilty look.

“If you have other plans, you can go to them. You don’t have to stay for my sake.”

Derek shook his head. “No, it’s something for tomorrow.” He got a determined look in his eye before pulling out his phone again. “I could maybe use your help,” he admitted. “That is, if you have time.” He showed Stiles the screen.

It was just messages from a number Derek hadn’t saved as a contact. Okay to drop off mom’s stuff at 10?

Derek’s simple Yes underneath it sparked a shiver of fear in Stiles that he couldn’t explain.

“What is ‘mom’s stuff’?” he asked. Before Derek can stop him, he flicked the screen to another conversation. It was almost exactly the same except it was “Aunt Catherine’s crap” instead of “mom’s stuff.”

“It’s just stuff,” Derek said, evasive. He pulled his phone back, locking the screen. “Sometimes it’s a lot of stuff, and sometimes it’s not a lot of stuff.”

“And Aunt Catherine’s crap?”

“Catherine?” Dad interjected. “Catherine Harper who died two years ago? Her nephew finally decided to clean out her house?”

“Yeah, and apparently decided to just dump her ‘crap’ on Derek.”

Derek flushed. “It’s not like it’s a bad thing,” he mumbles. More clearly he said, “I help them take care of unwanted things. I have a holding period, and if, after that period, they don’t want anything from their loved one’s things, then I dispose of it.”

“Sounds like they’re getting more out of this deal than you,” Stiles remarked, studying Derek to see his reaction. Predictably, he blushed harder.

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh no?” Stiles started dishing up the cheesecake. “It probably is exactly like that. I know you, Mister. You don’t give enough thought to yourself when you try to help everyone.”

Derek accepted the plate. “Maybe I enjoy helping people?”

“To the point where they hurt you?” Stiles shook his head. “Dude, I was one of those people. You can’t say honestly that I didn’t hurt you.”

“I’m not holding a grudge.”

“Maybe you should.”

Dad grabbed Stiles’ wrist. “Let’s leave it alone for now,” he advised. “The wounds are obviously still fresh, but you’ll get nowhere if you keep picking the scab off before it can try to heal.”

He sat down and forked a large mouthful of the cheesecake into his mouth. “You’re right, Stiles, this isn’t so bad.”

Stiles acquiesced with a brief nod, tucking into his own slice. It wasn’t as good as the cheesecake he normally made, but for his dad’s health and inclusion in desserts, something Stiles had banned him from during high school, he’d gladly make it again.

Derek finished first and declined a second helping. Surprisingly Dad did too, so Stiles slapped a lid on the pan and handed it to Derek before he left.

“Can I come over around 10:00 tomorrow? Just to see what is being dropped off?”

Derek shrugged, nonchalant, but Stiles could still see the tension holding him stiff. “I’m not going to stop you.”

“Great,” Stiles said with genuine enthusiasm. “Text me the address?”

“Didn’t I write it down for you already?”

“Oh yeah.” Stiles smacked his forehead. “Sorry about that.” He patted his pockets until he came up with the crumpled paper. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Derek nodded. “Okay. Then, he walked to his Camaro, waved at Stiles after he secured the cheesecake in the front seat, and drove away.

Stiles returned to the kitchen to find his dad loading the dishwasher he’d finally bought after retiring from the Sheriff’s Department.

“That went well, I think,” Stiles told him.

“Son, I know you want to fix things, but some things take time.”

“I know that.” He blew out a breath. “It’s just…You know how we treated him when he came back to find his sister. His murdered sister.”

“The sister he did not murder,” Dad finished. They’d started referring to Derek like this after watching The Emperor’s New Groove one too many times when Stiles was on break his sophomore year.

Stiles blew out another breath. “I just wish we had been nicer to him. I mean, especially after we knew he had nothing to do with the murders.”

“Stiles, regret can only do so much for us. Go see what’s up tomorrow, but then let Derek dictate the pace. After all, it’s his healing that you’re so worried about right now.”

Stiles chewed on that for a minute before deciding that his dad was right. “I won’t push him if he’s not ready,” he finally said.

Dad sighed. “It’ll have to do. Now, do you want to watch a movie with me or did you have plans with your online friends?”

“A movie,” Stiles said automatically.

He’d make plans with Kira and Lydia later. For now, there was nothing better than getting to spend the night picking apart a movie with his dad. They both loved pointing out the inaccuracies in films, which made them unbearable to watch with anyone else. Besides, Stiles justified it as making up missed time. Dad had been busy most of his life. It was only fitting that now they could relax together when his dad had nothing more pressing than an early bedtime, and Stiles wasn’t as involved in the supernatural crises that used to plague the town.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek’s text with his address came in just before 8:30 a.m. when Stiles was in the shower, trying to wake up. Dad was already at work, so Stiles sent a text telling him that he was at Derek’s and will be home by supper, and then he packed a few water bottles into his backpack, grabbed some money from a stash he kept under his mattress, and then drove Roscoe to Derek’s address.

It was located in the solidly middle class residential district, the one right before where the Beacon Hills wealthy lived. Derek’s house was huge, by Stiles’ standards. It stood almost three stories tall and was nearly half a block all to itself. Someone had erected a fence around the property, six feet tall, with no spaces between the slats, and painted pale green to match the house. The front gate was wrought iron rendered into roses, the tops spiked.

Derek was sitting on an upturned bucket in the middle of the sidewalk, sorting a few piles of dusty books into three piles.

Stiles parked across the street so he wouldn’t block Derek’s visitor, and strolled up to him.

Derek barely paused in his sorting to grunt an acknowledgement at him.

“Do you need help yet?” Stiles asked. He picked up a book from the pile closest to Derek, gingerly flipping through it. The book was filled with poetry written by some author he didn’t recognize. The poems were stuffy, love in an abstract, don’t tell our families way that made Stiles sneeze. Or that could have been the dust.

He set the book back where he found it.

“Is this part of ‘mom’s stuff’?”

“No, this is part of Samuel’s things. He’s actually coming by today to collect all the books by Tomás Gibraltar.”

“And how long have you had Samuel’s things?” Stiles picked up the book of poems again. The author was not Tomás Gibraltar, so he could assume this pile was not one Samuel wanted. He grabbed a book from the pile Derek was sorting. This one was a Tomás Gibraltar book so he handed it to Derek and watched which pile he set it on, then he dove in.

“I’ve only had them for a few months. I thought I had more time. He was supposed to be back in Beacon Hills in another two months, but I guess his trip got cut short.”

“Good thing I’m early, eh?”

“Huh?” Derek quickly checked his phone. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. I’ll buy you lunch after Andrew drops off his mother’s things.”

“Cool.” Stiles added another Tomás Gibraltar book to the pile. “How many books did this guy write?” The pile already had twenty books.

“Over fifty, I think,” Derek replied, “which is a drop in the bucket compared to the number of books Samuel dropped off.”

Stiles stepped back and quickly counted the books surrounding Derek. He lost count at eighty-seven. “And just how many books was that?” he asked.

“Eighteen boxes worth,” Derek said. He stood up, stretching and rubbing at the small of his back.

“I guess even werewolves get backaches,” Stiles joked, flipping three more books into the Gibraltar pile.

“It’s a non-essential wound,” Derek said as he grabbed another stack of books. “It’ll heal when I’m done.” He looked up, stricken. “You don’t have to help long enough to get hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt,” Stiles said. “I didn’t drag eighteen boxes of books out of your house.”

“That was the easy part.” Derek flashed him a brief smile that faded almost immediately when a large white SUV pulled up next to them.

A large man, gray hair, full beard, and mirrored sunglasses sauntered over to them.

“Derek.” His voice was jovial, but from the set of Derek’s shoulders, the man wasn’t a welcome visitor.

“Hey, Samuel. You said you’d be over by 9:30.”

Samuel made a show of looking at his wristwatch. Stiles would bet money that it was either a Rolex or a very good knockoff. “So I’m early. You’ve had two hours. You should have gotten it all done.”

“An hour,” Derek corrected quietly. “You called an hour ago.”

“Seriously?” Stiles set down the books he was holding. “What is your problem, man? You only gave him ninety minutes and thirty of those, you just took away?”

“Who’s this?” Samuel pointed at Stiles, flicking his fingers like Stiles was just an annoying fly.

“My friend,” Derek said. “But he’s right. You didn’t give me enough time, and you’ve shortened it considerably, so you know what? You can deal with your books yourself.” Derek stood up, grabbed his bucket and Stiles, and marched toward his house.

“You can’t walk away from a paying customer,” Samuel shouted after them.

“You didn’t pay me anything,” Derek said. He shoved Stiles through the gate, slapping the bucket into his arms.

“Is this a fight? Should I call the cops?”

Samuel squared off, snarling at Derek. Instead of a fighting stance, Derek instead grabbed a book from the Gibraltar pile. He held up a hand. “One step closer,” he gritted out between clenched fangs. Stiles held his breath. He didn’t know if this man knew what Derek was. He hoped Derek would be able to rein in his control and possibly endangered himself.

Samuel faltered his steps. He studied Derek, expression blank for a long few minutes before he shook his head and adjusted his sunglasses. “Fine. You’ve got til 9:30.”

“No,” Derek said. “You take your books now. All of them. If you don’t, everything is going to the dump. You have fifteen minutes to get this crap off my property before I call the police on you for trespassing.”

“You can’t do that. These books are my property.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you dumped them on him,” Stiles called. He was escalating the situation, but he couldn’t help it.

Derek didn’t deserve to be treated like his time wasn’t important.

Samuel could go kick rocks for all Stiles cared.

Samuel worked his jaw before stalking to the pile of Gibraltar books and gathering as many as he could carry and stacking them into the back of his SUV.

Derek watched him, periodically checking his phone to keep track of the fifteen minutes. Once time was up, Samuel still had over a couple hundred books. Derek left him then, locking the gate behind himself.

Samuel began cursing but Derek didn’t turn around, and after a moment to enjoy the sight of a full grown man in tantrum mode, Stiles followed him. Derek didn’t say anything when Stiles walked with him up his front steps and into his foyer. Stiles stopped still in shock.

There was so much stuff that his brain couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. Derek had already disappeared from view, and Stiles didn’t see how. Was there a path? Where did Derek get all this stuff from?

It was boxes and boxes covered in things like lamps, clothing, papers. There was so much of it that Stiles was afraid to touch it or even try to find Derek’s path because he was positive it was going to fall over and crush him.

Instead, he waited in the foyer, hands shoved deep in his pockets while he rocked back and forth, unsure why, but knowing that he was heading for a panic attack.

Derek returned with the empty pan and lid from the cheesecake, handing it to Stiles.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Stiles shook his head. He clutched the pan, squeezing it like it was a flotation device, feeling like it was one too.

Derek gently gripped his elbow and turned him around. They stepped back out on the porch, and Derek guided him to a chair. Samuel was still cursing, but he was now sitting on the ground sorting his own damn books.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, shaky. He was still on the edge, honestly could go either way, and he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Derek pressed down on the pan so that it was weighted against Stiles’ legs. He latched onto the sensation and used it to pull himself firmly into just-past-panic territory. Then he stared down at the empty pan.

“Did you really eat all the cheesecake yourself?”

Derek flushed. “No.”

“Liar,” Stiles countered.

“I didn’t,” Derek protested. “I gave it away.” His eyes cut away and Stiles couldn’t make eye contact anymore. He frowned at him, thinking back to every Hoarders episode he had ever seen. “Do you have a working fridge?” he asked.

“Yes,” Derek bit out. So, probably a lie.

“Did you not like it?”

“What? It was fine. It tasted almost like regular cheesecake. It was fine, Stiles. I told you, you’re a good cook.”

“So, why did you give it away? It would have kept for a few more days.”

Derek’s mouth twisted, and it was all the warning Stiles had before Derek stood up and stalked into his house. The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked.

Stiles waited a few minutes to see if Derek would reappear, and when he didn’t, he banged on the door.

After about five minutes, Derek finally cracked open the door. “What?” he snapped.

“Why are you mad at me?”

Derek pointed at the pan Stiles had left on the chair. “Why are you interrogating me about your cheesecake?”

Screeching tires and burning rubber interrupted whatever response Stiles was going to say, and they both watched as Samuel peeled around the corner. He’d left all the books that weren’t by his Gibraltar author, and Derek visibly slumped as he stared at the mess remaining on the sidewalk.

“I can help you pick them up,” Stiles offered. He briefly wondered where Derek would put them, or if he could even fit them into his house.

Derek eyed him. “Will you leave your cheesecake out of it?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

Derek opened the door wider. “Thanks.” He passed out a plastic tote, and Stiles took it. Derek stepped out, another tote in his arms. “I could only empty the two. I know there’s more, but I couldn’t find them right now.”

No wonder, Stiles thought meanly. With the mess in Derek’s house, it was a miracle he didn’t lose himself.

It took ten minutes to fill the first tote. Derek hefted it up on his shoulders and carried it back to his house. It took him ten minutes to empty it and come back, and by that time, Stiles had the second tote filled. Derek took it from him and again took ten minutes to come back with it emptied. He also brought the chair from the porch and Stiles’ pan.

“Why don’t you take a quick break while I fill this tote?”

Stiles shrugged. He wouldn’t say no. Besides, he was thirsty. He offered a bottle to Derek as he began packing books into the tote.

Derek accepted after a few seconds of cajoling. They were silent for a sip or two before Derek said, softly, “I know you’re disappointed in me.” He fiddled with the cap from his bottle, running it over his fingers and tucking it into his palm, only to start again immediately.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Stiles said. He concentrated on taking small, even sips of his water. It was a shock to be sure to see the amount of stuff in Derek’s house.

“You had a panic attack because of me,” Derek said.

“Not you,” Stiles said. “Claustrophobia. It was a little tight and I lost sight of you.”

“Sorry about that,” Derek said, in a tone that wasn’t entirely truthful. Stiles wondered when he’d gotten good at reading Derek. It couldn’t have been in just the day and a half since they’ve reconnected. Maybe Derek had gotten easier to read?

“I’m sure a few cleaning sessions and the house will be right as rain.” He was lying through his teeth. Another thing he remembered from Hoarders was that if the front of the house was as jam packed as Derek’s, then the rest of the house was too. With two and a half stories, that had to be a million pounds of trash all stuffed into the poor house.

“A few cleaning sessions,” Derek repeated, numbly. “Yeah. Sure. Are you offering?”

“I mean, yeah, if you want.” Stiles didn’t have a job yet, hadn’t even applied anywhere, so he had time. Plenty of it.

Derek studied him for a long, long moment before re-capping his bottle and handing it to Stiles. “We’ll see,” is all he said before he got back to packing the tote with the books. Stiles estimated at the rate they were going, it would take another forty minutes to pick up the rest of the books.

“Do you think Samuel is coming back for the rest of his books?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I do know he’s not getting them. He dumped them on me and left me this mess to clean up, so he can go fuck himself.”

Stiles tripped over nothing, shocked at the fact that he just heard Derek swear.

Of course, he has heard him call people bitches, Peter’s nurse came to mind, but Derek tended not to swear, and Stiles hadn’t ever heard that word pass his lips.

“I’m sure he can,” he said, amusement evident in his voice. Derek scrunched his nose at him before lifting both totes onto his shoulders and walking toward his house. Stiles sighed. Of course Derek would take it as Stiles laughing at him. Oh well. At least Stiles could carry some of the books closer to the house so that it would at least take nine minutes for Derek to empty the totes instead of ten.

Derek could only carry one tote into the house at a time, so Stiles just stacked a few books around the second tote. He hadn’t made much progress before Derek returned. He frowned down at the books.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, disappearing back into the house with the full tote.

Hey, it’s something. Stiles left the tote on the porch and went to grab more books.

He’d gotten about half of the remaining books moved when Derek came back. He took a tote to the books still scattered on the sidewalk and shoveled them into the tote while Stiles hurriedly packed the books on the porch into that tote.

Okay, so it wouldn’t take quite another ten minutes. Stiles carried the last of the sidewalk books to the porch and then brought the chair there too, sitting down and finishing his bottle of water. As soon as Derek poked his head out, Stiles threw his water at him.

“Enforced break,” he said.

Derek didn’t argue.

“How are you feeling after all that?” Stiles kind of wanted to see where Derek was stashing all those books, but he didn’t relish the idea of another panic attack. Maybe now that he kind of knew what to expect he could go deeper into the house?

One look at Derek’s face, and he nixed that idea. He didn’t need to invade more than he already had. Dad’s words of wisdom from last night coming back to him. He couldn’t fix Derek just by cleaning his house. He needed therapy. Lots of it.

And he needed people like Samuel to stop dumping his crap on Derek. Obviously, Derek wasn’t in the right headspace to discard so much stuff.

And here came “mom’s stuff” to drop off even more crap.

Derek glanced up when a beat-up maroon Camry rolled to a stop in front of his house, parking in the same spot Samuel had been in nearly an hour ago.

“It’s Andrew,” Derek said, and the tiredness in his voice dragged Stiles down too.

“Can you tell him no?” Stiles asked, following Derek as he stood up and made his way down his drive. Stiles gaped in shock as three Uhaul trucks came into view. “Seriously,” he said weakly. “Tell him no. You have enough stuff, Derek. You can’t fit more into your house.”

“If I don’t, where is he going to take it?”

“To a storage unit,” Stiles said. “Or to the dump. Derek, seriously, this is not your problem. Please don’t make it be your problem.”

Derek sighed. “I gave him my word, Stiles. My word is the only thing that matters about me.”

Stiles held up his hands. “Okay, dude. Are you sure you want three Uhauls worth, though?”

Derek snarled under his breath, and Stiles resolved to drop it. Derek probably already felt horrible about having so much stuff. He didn’t need Stiles to rub it in and make it worse.

Andrew greeted Derek jovially, throwing in a quick hello for Stiles too. Stiles recognized him. He was a deputy under his dad. It was either his day off or he wasn’t working for the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department anymore.

Andrew also brought along a crew, as if he knew exactly what he was getting Derek into. Stiles stood on the side and seethed at how people were taking advantage of Derek’s nature.

“I can’t watch this,” he said before they got the first truck empty. “Derek, please reconsider this. You have so much more worth than just your word. Please let me help you.”

Derek waved him away. “I’ll catch up with you later, Stiles. Thanks for the help earlier.”

Dismissed, pissed, and more than a little miffed, Stiles stalked to Roscoe, threw his backpack in the backseat, buckled his cake pan in the front seat, and drove to the bakery.

The first bit of good luck he had had all day came in the form of his dad on break, sitting outside and eating a gluten free scone.

“It’s not actually that bad,” Dad said when Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. “It got a little burnt, so the owners said we could have them.” Stiles stole the rest of it and gave it back after one bite. “How’d it go with Derek?”

“Miserable,” Stiles said. “This whole town is taking advantage of him. You know the guy that was bringing his mom’s stuff to Derek’s?”

“Yeah.”

“It was Andrew Potts.”

“The deputy?”

“Yes. And you know what?” Before his dad could say “what,” Stiles continued, “He brought three Uhauls worth of stuff to Derek’s house! And you wanna know the worst thing?”

This time Dad did say, “What?”

“Derek’s house is completely full. Like, there’s nowhere to walk in there. I don’t even know how he’s living. And I’m pretty sure he lied to me about having a working fridge. Which explains why he only bought, like, junk food yesterday.”

“Wait a minute.” Dad held up his hand until Stiles fell silent. “Are you telling me that Derek Hale’s house is so full of things that he can’t actually live in it? And someone brought even more stuff to him?”

“Pretty sure he’s living in there,” Stiles said, “but yeah, that’s the gist of it. Like, I’d maybe understand if at least some of the things were Derek’s that he’d picked out. Instead, it seems like he takes crap from everyone. Do you know who Samuel is, gray hair, big beard, white SUV?”

“Samuel Johnson,” Dad said. “I think his son used to go to school with Derek.”

“Yeah, well, he’s an asshole. He dumped a million books on Derek, like, two years ago, and then called this morning to get one author back. Then, after Derek was nice enough to bring his books out to be sorted—which I think he did mostly because there’s no room in his house to do it—Mr. Bigshot cut his time short, claimed Derek had two hours when he barely gave him one, and then left the rest of the books for Derek to deal with.”

“And I’m guessing Derek just took them back into his house?” Dad wrapped his scone in a napkin and tucked it into his lunch box.

Stiles clicked his tongue and pointed at him.

“Stiles, you know you can’t help Derek unless he wants it.”

Stiles deflated, sinking onto a seat next to his dad. He put his head on Dad’s shoulder. “I know,” he said, miserable. “I just hate seeing him being used like that and getting hurt too. He got mad at me when I asked him about the cheesecake.”

“Why would you ask about that?”

“Because he gave me back the pan. It looks washed, but there was a lot of cheesecake in there. He couldn’t have eaten it all himself, so he could have stored it, but he claims he shared it.”

“And you’re not mad because he shared it,” Dad guessed.

Stiles clicks his tongue again. “I’m mad because it was obvious he was lying about being able to store it.”

“I know this hurts, Stiles. I know it hurts a lot. I’ve had a few friends that started hoarding for one reason or another. For a while after your mom died, I thought we’d both become hoarders.”

“And then you stopped drinking as much.”

“Because I had you to think about. I almost let you get away from me, but I couldn’t stand to lose you too, so I cleaned up my act. I’m sure you realize that Derek doesn’t have anyone to do that for him. His only living relatives are so far away or he’s not on good terms with them.”

Stiles suppressed the shudder that always came with the mention of Peter Hale. That was one person Stiles had no desire ever to run into again.

Peter had left town after Kate’s second defeat, probably because he’d tried to take the alpha power from Scott, claiming that no such thing as a true alpha existed and that the power in Scott was really the Hale power, usurped by a chance of fate and the weakness of Derek.

Stiles had stepped in then, explaining that if the power were truly the Hales’, then they could take it back without force.

Scott had felt betrayed, as he told Stiles many times afterward, and also left town because he did not want to give up the power despite still not wanting to be a werewolf.

Things had gone downhill after that because, before Peter and Scott had left, Derek walked away from Beacon Hills.

Now Derek was back, Stiles hadn’t talked to Scott in almost six years, and as far as Stiles knew, Derek was still a beta.

“I don’t want to push him,” Stiles said, “but I can’t stand by and let people hurt him. Why doesn’t he think he has any worth?”

“Maybe he’s spent most of his life hearing that he doesn’t have anything to offer anyone,” Dad suggested. “Stiles, you need to ask him about his relationships. It’ll be hard, but he revealed something to me when I was Sheriff, that I think you need to talk to him about.”

“Will he actually talk to me or will he just push me away?”

“You won’t know until you try. Now, I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work.” He reached around to give Stiles as much of a hug as he could. “I’ll see you at home. Love you, son.”

“Love you too.” Stiles ambled back to Roscoe, turning to wave at his dad before he went into the bakery.

Stiles sighed, letting his head drop back. He could go back to Derek’s, but that wouldn’t result in anything except maybe another panic attack and definitely another argument.

With no other choice, Stiles started driving, taking the turn to his dad’s house instead of going straight.

He wanted so badly to help Derek, but his dad was right. Unless Derek was receptive to receiving that help, nothing Stiles did would actually help him. In fact, he might end up hurting him worse than Andrew with his three Uhaul trucks or Samuel and his books.

It was hard not to go back, but he decided to wait until tomorrow, unless Derek texted sooner.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Stiles frowned as he got closer to Derek’s house. He could see a cruiser parked a block down, and closer, a code enforcement officer’s car.

Really?he thought. Andrew came to drop off his mom’s junk and turned around and called in Derek’s house? What a fucking jerk.

Stiles parked in the same spot as yesterday and ambled up the drive. He found the code enforcement officer, a woman by the name of Tamara Reiss, standing on the porch, writing on a clipboard.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, Mr. Hale, but this property is unlivable. Until it’s cleaned out, I’m condemning it.”

“The house isn’t in bad shape,” Stiles protested. Derek stood silent, holding what Stiles assumed were tickets from violations. “look, there’s obviously a lot of stuff inside, but that can be cleared out. The house itself—”

“Is a fire code violation,” Tamara said, pure ice. Derek flinched at her tone. “If Mr. Hale were to suffer an injury, no paramedic team would be able to extract him without significant risk to themselves. There isn’t any noticeable structural damage yet. At the rate of accumulation, though, there is great risk of the weight increasing to a point that the house can no longer remain on its foundation. Therefore, I am deeming this property as unlivable until it is either cleaned up or knocked down. Whichever course of action you wish to seek, Mr. Hale, I leave entirely up to you. I will return in two weeks to check on your progress. If there hasn’t been significant change, then I will have no option but to fully condemn your house. Have a great day.”

She signed her clipboard, pulled a red sticker out of her jacket pocket, and slapped a condemned sticker over the front door. Derek didn’t even wait for her to leave his property before he pried it off and slipped inside. Stiles frowned at the door. He was almost positive that it had been able to open completely yesterday. Now it seemed as if something was blocking it, preventing it from opening fully.

He followed more slowly, stopping in the foyer to take a deep breath. There indeed was more stuff. Stiles shuddered, scuttling sideways until he found the extremely narrow path Derek obviously used to navigate around his house. He passed several rooms, living room, dining room, downstairs bathroom, before he found himself in a kitchen. It was hard to recognize it as such because everything was covered in piles of things. Stiles looked around, trying to slow his racing heart. He could barely breathe, everything jumbling together in front of his eyes and closing in on him.

“Hey,” Derek said next to him, and Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin, a shout escaping his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “Don’t sneak up on me!”

“I didn’t,” Derek said, put out. “You’re the one that followed me.”

“How the hell can you even find anything in here?” Stiles moved toward where he thought the fridge should be. He was rewarded when he shifted a pile of things and found the handle. He pried at it but could not get it to open. Derek sighed and tried his hand at it too, looking a bit frightened when even his werewolf strength didn’t seem to budge it.

“I guess you were right that it works,” Stiles said, leaning against it and hearing the hum. “But I was right too: you can’t use it.”

“I know I need to clean up.” Derek shrank in on himself, huddling down almost like he was waiting for his things to come and cover him like it had covered the fridge. “Will you help me?”

Stiles looked around at all the things surrounding them. It was overwhelming to say the least. “I don’t know where to begin,” he said. “And anyway, if we just clean it out, who’s to say that it won’t just come back? Three Uhauls, Derek. Is that the most stuff someone has ever dumped on you?”

“No,” Derek admitted without making eye contact. “Someone once dropped off eight Uhauls.”

“Was it Samuel?”

“No.”

Stiles thought for a moment. “Was it Catherine Harper’s nephew?”

Derek didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up a leather purse that looked like it had gone ten rounds with a Chihuahua and lost badly.

“Derek,” Stiles said, “I can’t help you if you aren’t willing to help yourself.”

“I know,” Derek said, almost in tears. Stiles scrambled over the junk to stand in front of him, arms raised until Derek nodded once.

Stiles hugged him as tightly as he could. “I might know someone who can talk to you,” he whispered. Derek nodded against his chest.

“Is it okay if I throw out that purse?”

Derek didn’t answer, which Stiles took to mean no. It was all right. They needed baby steps. Agreeing to see a therapist was enough of a baby step today. There was always tomorrow anyway.

“Do you want to come stay with us until we get your house livable?”

“Isn’t your dad going to mind?”

“We’ll ask him. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind at all. We might have some ground rules.”

“No, no one is going to drop things off at your house.” Derek laughed a little. It sounded bitter to Stiles, but that could have just been because Derek’s nose was clogged.

“And we’ll get them trained to stop doing it here too,” he promised, hoping with every fiber of his being that he wasn’t going to be made into a liar.

“Now, what say you go pack a bag of the essentials, like clothes, shaving supplies, anything else you think you might need for at least a week.”

Derek straightened, wiping at his face. “Thanks, Stiles. I’m sorry I’m being such a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” Stiles automatically said. “That’s something we’ll have to work on. You have so much worth, Derek. I just wish you could see it.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” Derek frowned down at their feet, letting the purse drop back down to the floor. “Do you need help getting out?”

Stiles nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s just a little too tight for me in here.”

Derek held out his hand, and Stiles took it. Together, they shimmied through the stacked paths, stepping over things never meant to be stepped on until Derek deposited Stiles by the front door.

“Are you positive your dad won’t mind me staying with you?”

“I’ll call him to double check right now,” Stiles said. “Why don’t you go get that bag? I’m not going anywhere until you’re ready.”

Derek nodded sharply and slipped back into the house while Stiles sat on the porch and dialed his dad’s number.

Since Dad was still at work, it just went to voicemail. Stiles filled him in quickly, told him they’d talk more at supper, and then he hung up.

Derek was ready shortly after that, with a single ratty backpack hanging off one shoulder, and they walked across the road to Roscoe. “Thank you,” Derek said softly as they pulled away from the curb.

“Hey, no worries. That’s what friends are for.”

“Are we friends or acquaintances?”

“I’d like to think that we’re friends,” Stiles said. “And I hope you see us that way too. If not now, then soon.”

“I think I’d like that,” Derek said, very quiet. He didn’t say anything else during the drive to the Stilinski house, but Stiles wasn’t worried. It was a lot to take in for one day, to be told he couldn’t stay in his own home, uprooted because people wouldn’t stop dumping stuff on him, thinking that he was going back on his word when really he was very overwhelmed, to having to move in with someone he wasn’t entirely certain was a friend. Yeah, Derek had to be feeling a little rough right now.

Stiles could give him some space and time before approaching him with his therapist’s information. He could only hope that Derek was still as open to help in a few hours or days as he was now.

Dad had called and left a voicemail by the time they got to the house, and Stiles played it, knowing Derek could hear every word.

Dad confirmed that Derek was welcome to stay with them as long as he needed, and that Dad still had some pull on the force if Derek wanted help cleaning up.

“I don’t know if he has as much pull as he thinks he does,” Stiles said, putting away his phone, “or if the deputies think they’re helping keep him out of trouble by doing what he wants.”

“He’s a likable man,” Derek replied. “They probably just want to keep tabs on him because they enjoyed working for him.”

“Ah, there is that. Anyway.” Stiles pointed at the house. “I’m in my old room, but we have a spare room that Dad converted to an actual guest room when I was in college. I’m not sure if he thought I’d bring some friends home with me or what, but it’s there, and now it’s yours.”

“You didn’t have friends in college?”

Stiles shrugged. “I did, but no one I was close enough with to invite home for break.”

“What about Scott?” Derek snapped his lips shut as soon as he said the name.

Stiles shrugged again. “We aren’t really close anymore,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. “I mean, we had a pretty big fight the last time we talked.”

“I can imagine.”

Stiles didn’t know how much of what happened after Kate was defeated again Derek remembered. He was pretty out of it by the time they got to him.

“Anyway. Let’s get you inside and settled. Do you want anything for lunch or are you…?”

Derek seemed so small sitting in Stiles’ passenger seat, clinging to his backpack. Small wasn’t a qualifier Stiles had ever thought he’d use in conjunction with Derek, but here they were.

“Do you need some more time?” Stiles asked gently. Derek shuddered, shoving the door open and sliding out.

Stiles jumped out, landing lightly while Derek stood still, like he was waiting for the concrete to swallow him.

He trailed after Stiles slowly as he headed up the walk and unlocked the door. Stiles waved him through and then had to step around him when Derek stopped in his tracks.

“I’m getting some water. Want some?” Stiles didn’t wait for an answer. Derek was bowstring-taut, getting ready to fire something, and Stiles thought it might be panic.

The water trick was something Stiles’ third grade teacher used to do when he started having panic attacks in her class. He couldn’t focus on panicking at the same time as drinking.

He returned to the entryway and pressed a cool glass into Derek’s hands, taking his backpack at the same time.

Derek stared at the water like he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there, but Stiles was relieved to see him take a small sip. A few moments later, Derek had finished the water and was looking around the room with more alertness. Stiles put the glass in the sink and then started up the stairs.

He paused halfway, and asked, “Wanna see your room?” Derek nodded, following him up the stairs.

The guest room had been a nursery when Stiles was a baby, then it was his mom’s office, then it was locked up tight while both he and his dad processed their grief, and then, after all of that, Dad had finally unlocked it, aired it out, and painted it light green.

Dad had invested in a queen size bed frame and mattress and bedding that matched the walls. He’d commissioned a desk and chair from a local woodworker, adding a dresser later when he realized that the closet was too small to comfortably fit more than a suitcase and a few hangers.

Overall, the room was nice. And it had been therapeutic for his dad to redo it. Stiles had taken his hint and had repainted his room last summer, changing out some of his Fathead stickers for more sophisticated posters of indie films Stiles had no intention of ever watching, and updating his furniture from the pressboard crap at department stores.

Derek poked his head into the guest room. “It’s nice,” he said. “Like a hotel.”

“Oh!” Stiles ran to the bathroom, digging under the counter until he found the shoebox his dad kept samples in. He came back to the guest room and pressed unopened bottles of shampoo and conditioner into Derek’s hand. He added a tiny bar of soap too.

“I wasn’t sure if you were able to bring any of those things with you,” he said, eyeing the backpack with outright suspicion, “but we have, like, a million of those things, so feel free to use them if you want.”

“Thank you.” Derek closed his fingers around the toiletries. He picked up his backpack and stepped into the room. “Thanks for everything, Stiles.” He shut the door.

Stiles didn��t want to bother Derek anymore, so he headed downstairs and to the kitchen where he pulled out the ingredients to make a pot pie. He’d recently mastered savory crusts, and Dad enjoyed anything with added fat, so supper should go over well.

And if Derek wanted anything else, well, there were a bunch of takeout menus stashed in a drawer by the landline his dad insisted they keep for emergencies.

Stiles was just as insistent that in an emergency, they wouldn’t remember to use the landline. It wasn’t a fight he tried terribly hard to win, mostly because he knew they had the same number they’d always had, and it was one more tie to their past that Dad wasn’t ready to let go of yet.

Derek ambled downstairs after about thirty minutes, freshly showered. He settled at the kitchen table, hunching forward like he wasn’t warm enough. Weird. It was maybe in the upper 70s in here. Stiles himself was over-warm, although he attributed that more to moving around than the fact that his dad didn’t believe in running the AC until the thermometer was about ready to break 90.

“Are you okay?”

Derek began rocking back and forth.

Stiles stared at him, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. It took far too long for him to realize that this was another panic attack. He immediately dusted off his hands, abandoning his crust. It would probably be ruined, but that was okay. It wasn’t nearly as important as Derek.

Stiles pulled a chair around to sit next to him, laying a hand first on the table top and then on Derek’s knee after an almost imperceptible nod.

Fine tremors raced up Derek’s legs, jerking the muscles underneath Stiles’ palm. He began rubbing soothing circles while providing a counterpoint by poking at the soft skin of Derek’s wrist.

Slowly, Derek came to a stop, staring down at where Stiles had begun poking him in rhythm to Foreigner’s Hot Blooded.

“Are you playing music on me?” he asked slowly, voice tight with the effort to not let it shake.

Stiles tapped a little faster. “Yes?”

Derek concentrated, his eyebrows sloping down while his mouth opened enough to show off his front teeth. Stiles suppressed the urge to make a bunny joke while Derek worked through the pattern in his head.

“I give up,” he finally said. “I don’t know what song that is.”

“It’s Hot Blooded,” Stiles told him. “Are you okay now? Do you want to talk about it?”

A quick shake of Derek’s head was all Stiles got, but it was more than he would have gotten six years ago.

“Okay. Do you want to help me make supper? We can order something for lunch after.”

Derek held up his hands, claws sticking out and then retracting quickly. “Yeah. I can help. What do you need me to do?”

Stiles smiled, patting Derek’s leg. “I’m making the crust now. It’ll have to rest for at least an hour before we can roll it out and put it in the dish. In the meantime, how do you feel about dicing up some beef?”

Stiles washed his hands again, pulling out a cutting board and a knife for Derek, who also washed his hands.

“This is one of my favorite recipes to make.” Stiles restarted the dough. “I found the recipe online and switched it around until it wasn’t nearly as unhealthy.”

Derek looked down at the beef he was cutting and then at Stiles’ ball of dough he was currently covering with cling-film. “I didn’t know pot pie could be healthy.”

“I said not as unhealthy,” Stiles protested, “not entirely healthy.”

“What do you want for lunch?” Derek asked. “You said something about ordering?”

“Yeah.” Stiles dusted his hands off and then washed them thoroughly, picking at the cruddy paste caked into his fingernails. “There’s a pizza place that always delivers inside of half an hour. Or we could get some Chinese. Oh! There’s a new Indian place that just opened.” Stiles dried off his hands and grabbed the stack of menus off the table where the cordless handset lived. He came back, flipping through the menus until he found the one for Dehli Rose. “Oh, no delivery,” he said, disappointed.

“That’s okay. What else do you have?”

Stiles fanned the menus so Derek could see them. It took a few minutes, but they settled on Italian. Stiles called in the order while Derek finished cutting up the beef and set it aside in a bowl before cleaning up the counter and washing the knife and cutting board.

“The food will be here in about forty minutes. That gives us plenty of time to make the filling.”

Buoyed by the way things were turning out so well, Stiles settled in at the stove, his smile stretching his mouth wide enough to hurt as Derek stood by his side, watching every move with a concentration he usually reserved for mysteries.

It was every bit as flattering as Stiles had ever imagined it to be. Not that he’d spent time imagining Derek studying him. Not at all.

He shook himself and re-focused on the stove. There would be time enough to examine whatever the fuck that was later.

For now, he wanted to enjoy every second he had with Derek before he inevitably pulled away.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Lunch was fantastic. Stiles couldn’t imagine a more romantic setting he and Derek had ever been in. They’d finished the wine, plated the food on the good dishes, and sat at the table, talking.

Well, Stiles kept talking. Derek just sipped at his wine and studied Stiles with that same intense gaze he’d had while they were cooking.

It wasn’t only the wine bringing a flush to Stiles’ skin, but he kept drinking for an excuse.

He wasn’t certain where the sudden flash of heat came from when he noticed that Derek was staring at him, but it was a welcome change in how Stiles usually felt whenever Derek crossed his mind.

That is to say, usually pissed off and vaguely angry. Derek had a talent for eliciting those feelings in people, Stiles included, even if he wanted to climb him like a tree most days. Hey, Derek had inspired more than a few jerk-off sessions in high school and college.

After the second glass of wine, Stiles realized he was fucked when Derek half-rose out of his seat to reach for the pasta carbonara and his shirt rode up, exposing a line of tanned, furred skin that made Stiles’ dick take interest.

Derek sat down with a thump, mouth hanging open, the serving spoon dangling from lax fingers.

“I’m sorry!” Stiles apologized, fanning his hand in the air, like that was going to do anything to disperse the obvious lust pheromones he’d just accidentally smacked Derek with. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Huh?” Derek slowly shook his head.

Okay, that was weird. He didn’t seem to be reacting in any way Stiles had ever seen before. Suddenly worried, Stiles hurried around the table. He reached Derek just as he slumped sideways. Stiles yelped, shoving himself underneath Derek’s side, trying to hold him up.

Two hundred pounds of werewolf was a bit more than Stiles could handle, and he had to let Derek go. At least it was a controlled fall and Derek didn’t hit his head.

Stiles didn’t know what had caused it. It couldn’t have been him, right? So what else was there?

Maybe it was something he’d put in the pot pie? But if that was the case, why would it take this long to cause Derek to react?

No, more likely it was because of the food they’d just eaten.

“Aw, fuck,” Stiles swore. “Am I going to have to make you puke?”

Derek, of course, didn’t answer, too busy being unconscious. Great.

Stiles wrinkled his nose, prayed his fingers were clean enough, and shoved his index and middle finger down Derek’s throat.

Within seconds, Derek was retching, pasta carbonara mixed with wine and garlic bread spewing out across the floor. Stiles jumped back. He didn’t want to leave Derek unattended if he was just going to pass out again, so he sat at his back, rolled him into the recovery position, and just listened as Derek wheezed and gagged weakly for a few minutes.

Once it seemed like Derek was recovering, he stood up and grabbed some rags to wipe away the sick.

“What just happened?” Derek asked thickly when Stiles handed him a glass of water and a tissue.

Stiles shrugged. “You tell me.”

Derek wiped his nose and then blew it, grimacing at the particles mixed in his snot. “I feel like a truck just ran me over.”

“Have you ever been run over by a truck?”

Derek stared at him, any pretense of bravado ruined by the fact that his eyes and nose were still streaming.

“Of course you have,” Stiles answered himself. He sighed. “Either you were poisoned, or you had an allergic reaction. Or you were poisoned to have an allergic reaction.”

“Was it something in the food?”

“Couldn’t take a chance. So, sorry, but I induced vomiting.”

Derek shook his head, tossing back the water like a shot. “Thanks,” he said as soon as he swallowed. “I’m sorry I ruined lunch.”

“No, I’m sorry you had a reaction. I don’t think it was on purpose.” Stiles knew the owners of the restaurant. They were an older couple who prided themselves on their longevity in a town that did its best to keep up with the hipsters of the big cities. They weren’t supernatural, as far as Stiles knew, but he also knew there were a lot of plants that could harm even humans if they were used incorrectly.

“I’m sure you’re right. I’ve never eaten there before. My mom wouldn’t let us, but she didn’t tell us why.”

“Well, that’s on your mom.” At Derek’s incredulous look, Stiles shrugged. “I’m sorry, but who tells someone ‘Don’t eat there,’ but doesn’t tell them why?”

He sighed again and went to the phone in the entryway. He dug through the menus until he found the one for the Italian place. Shame. Dad really liked their Alfredo sauce.

Stiles neatly tore the menu in half and then deposited it into their indoor recycling bin.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Derek said. His voice was nasally and he kept clearing his throat. He also seemed a little green around the gills, like he wasn’t quite done purging. Stiles shooed him toward the bathroom.

“Of course I did,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. If we really miss their food, we can go there and get it. Until I know for sure what made you react like that, their food will not pass our doors.”

To make his point, he gathered up the dishes, scraping the leftovers into a bag that he immediately tied off and dumped in the outside trash bin. Then he washed the dishes, sticking them into the dishwasher for an extra sanitation cycle. Derek was sitting at the table again when he mopped the soiled floors with boiling water, ignoring Derek’s shocked face as he poured Pine-Sol disinfectant on it and mopped it with a fresh mop head.

By the time he was done, there was not a single trace of the food anywhere. Nor was there anything left of his lust, but for some reason, there was a strong desire to hug Derek and tell him that things would be okay.

“Are we going to talk about it?” he asked as he sat down again. “Is that something we can do now?”

“Talk about what?”

Stiles blew out a breath. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but this seems like something we should really talk about. I mean, you just had a reaction to something. Shouldn’t we at least try to figure out what it was before it happens again?”

“It won’t happen again.” Derek ran his hands over his head, scratching at his scalp in a way that reminded Stiles strongly of how he felt after eating something he had an allergic reaction to. He also started sniffling, rubbing at his nose.

“I’m sure it won’t,” he said soothingly, “but still, why would the Cabellos make something a werewolf couldn’t eat? They shouldn’t even be aware of werewolves, right?”

“We don’t know that they did it on purpose.”

“You’re right; we don’t.” Stiles snapped his fingers, pulling out his cell phone. “We can ask them, though. I’m sure they’d appreciate the heads up that whatever they’re doing to their food is making their customers have reactions.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “It could have been an honest mistake,” he argued. “My mom never let us eat there, so I’m guessing she knew about any ingredients they used.”

“That puts the onus back on your mom,” Stiles pointed out. “You realize that, right? If she knew what they did to their food, she should have told you.”

“I guess.”

“Well, that kind of royally fucked the day, didn’t it?”

“At least we know I can eat your pot pie later.”

Small comfort that was, although Stiles bit his tongue so he wouldn’t say it out loud. Derek didn’t need sarcasm. He might need more medical attention, though. “Yeah. Say, how’re you feeling? Are you healing just fine or should we…?” Stiles let his voice trail off under Derek’s weighty gaze.

“I’m fine,” he said stiffly. “Thanks.”

Stiles cleared his throat, choking on the awkwardness of the situation. “Well,” he coughed, “I think I should go job search some more. Why don’t you rest, and we’ll reconnect in about an hour to fully assemble the pie?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me already?” Derek smiled, so Stiles thought he probably meant it as a joke. Too bad Stiles’ brain couldn’t accept it like that. Some things were very literal for him, and people joking about leaving or being driven away hitting hard in a way almost no other words could.

“I would never try to get rid of you,” he said. “I-I—” no more words came, and Stiles fell silent, watching as Derek studied him, neither of them moving for a full five minutes.

Finally, Derek shook himself. “Stiles, I know you think you’re falling in love with me, but you aren’t.”

Stiles pointed at him. “You can’t tell me what I am or am not doing.”

He knew on some level that he’d always been attracted to Derek. It was half of the reason he’d asked Scott to confirm if werewolves could smell arousal. Scott had never confirmed, but hanging out with Derek had taught Stiles just how much at least Derek relied on his nose, so in the end, he’d gotten his answer.

He’d also worked to bury any feelings he might have for Derek because at the time it was an inconvenience to be in love with him. Stiles wanted to go back in time and slap himself.

How could he have been so stupid? Derek didn’t deserve people thinking that loving him was an inconvenience. He didn’t deserve the hand he’d been dealt. He also didn’t deserve Stiles sweeping his past actions under the rug while he tried to figure out how to woo him.

“Look, I don’t know where you get off telling me that I only think I’m falling in love with you when I’ve had eight years to do that all on my own.”

Derek’s face twisted interestingly, first with confusion, then derision, and then finally settling into the soft, caring face Stiles had rarely seen before Kate Argent returned from the dead to permanently wipe it off his face.

The fact that it was back and it was being directed at Stiles made his heart trip.

“Eight years?” Derek repeated softly. “You can’t have been in love with me for eight years.”

“Falling in love,” Stiles corrects, weakly. “I know it’s unconventional, but—” Something came over Stiles then, like a wash of cold water, and he spluttered for a moment. When he resurfaced, he couldn’t remember what he was about to say or even what had happened during the last twenty-five minutes.

Derek shuddered too, shivering hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“What was that?” Stiles asked. Derek didn’t answer. “Hey, are you hungry? I think the dough is about ready to be rolled, and after the pie is assembled, we can eat the leftovers.”

Derek wrinkled his nose. “Does it smell like Pine-Sol in here?” He sneezed into his elbow.

Stiles inhaled. “Huh, yeah. I guess it does. Does Pine-Sol always make you sneeze?”

“It’s just the chemical composition of cleaners. I’m okay with natural pine. It takes a while to kick in though.” Derek held up a finger before burying his face into his elbow again and releasing several loud sneezes. He sniffled miserably once he finished and Stiles handed him a box of tissues.

“Let’s go outside for a bit, let the room air out, okay?”

The soft, private smile Derek gave him right before he covered his face with a wad of tissues and started sneezing again made Stiles’ heart give a little contented blip. Huh. Apparently his control was slipping. Normally he didn’t think of Derek in that way because he knew a little of Derek’s past and didn’t want to be as bad as his exes—not that Stiles thought of them as Derek’s ex-girlfriends. No, they were something much worse, and he was glad that at least Kate was back in the ground where she belonged.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you agreed to stay with us,” he told Derek as they stepped out onto the front porch.

Quietly, from behind his tissues, Derek murmured his agreement. Louder, he added, “I’m glad you haven’t given up on me quite yet.”

“Oh,” Stiles laughed, “I won’t ever do that. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

“You say that now.”

Stiles bumped their shoulders together. “And I’ll say it ‘til the end of time.” Fervently he grabbed Derek’s face, locking their eyes together, “Derek S. Hale, I will always stand by you. I’ll always be in your corner. If there is anything you need, all you have to do is ask and I will be there. Do you understand?” Derek nodded. “Good.” Stiles let him go. “Now, have I ever shown you my dad’s roses?”

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Dad came home at 6:00. The pot pie had been cooling for half an hour.

Derek was upstairs in the guest room, dozing. He’d crashed shortly after the tour of the renovated backyard, and had accepted a Benadryl.

Stiles had prepared the pie and baked it. He’d divided his time between job searching, reading up on werewolf physiology, and trying to figure out what ingredient the Cabellos had used that made Derek react that way.

Dad inhaled appreciatively when he stepped into the kitchen to wash his hands and grab a bottle of water out of the fridge.

He drained it quickly, tossing it into the sink for later. “Supper smells good.” He handed Stiles a large bag of food from the bakery. “I figured it was probably a good idea to stock up on food since we’ve got another mouth to feed.”

“I’m sure Derek will appreciate it.” Stiles separated the items in the bag and put them into Tupperware. “Why don’t you go get him up? He had an allergic reaction to the Pine-Sol I used.”

“Oh, what’d you clean?”

“The dining room. At least, that’s the only place that smelled like it.”

“And werewolves are allergic to Pine-Sol?” Dad looked between the doorway and Stiles, and Stiles swore he could see his mind spinning.

“I guess,” Stiles said. “Derek mentioned that it was because of the chemicals or something. He also said real pine doesn’t bother him.”

“Interesting. So, what needed Pine-Sol in the dining room?”

Stiles frowned at him. He didn’t remember cleaning anything in there, but it was obvious from the smell. “The floor,” he guessed.

“Why?”

Stiles glared at his dad. “Why are you asking me? I don’t know!”

“Why don’t you know?”

“Oh my God, what is with you tonight?” He waved his hands in front of his dad’s face. “You are not the Sheriff anymore! Stop investigating me!”

“I’m not investigating you,” Dad said calmly. “I’m just trying to figure out why you had to clean something that you don’t even remember. If anything, I’m interrogating you.”

“Stop interrogating me!” Stiles fisted his hands on his hips. “Just go get Derek up.” He sighed, suddenly drained. “I think we might have eaten something too, but I can’t remember. We ordered from Cabellos, but I didn’t find any leftovers or anything.”

“So, I can investigate?” Dad’s eyes glinted and he all but danced out into the dining room. Stiles didn’t think it would be too far to find a deerstalker cap and a magnifying glass and let him roleplay Sherlock Holmes. Dad had missed being the Sheriff. Maybe this would satisfy whatever urge he might still have about running for the upcoming reelection in two years.

Stiles set the kitchen table. Last he’d smelled with his human nose, the dining room still stank of Pine-Sol, so it was going to be impossible for Derek to be in that room. Hell, it might be difficult for him to be in the kitchen. They might have to go all the way outside. Thankfully Dad had redone the back patio and stuck a table and some chairs out there. They’d have to steal a chair from the kitchen, but that would be the least of their problems.

Dad came back, leading Derek. “I think we might have to postpone supper,” he said grimly. Derek was still sniffling, and his nose was rubbed raw and his eyes were swollen almost completely shut.

“Derek?” Stiles’ heart skipped a few beats. Derek mumbled under his breath, wheezing as he lifted a tissue to his nose. “Hey. Um, we’re going to get you some help, okay?”

“It’ll be okay,” Dad said. “Let’s go to the hospital. I’ll drive.”

Derek stumbled after him, and Stiles brought up the rear.

As they passed the outside trash bin, Derek retched. Dad got a hard look in his eyes. “Here.” He tossed his keys at Stiles and detoured to the bin. “Found your Cabellos.”

Stiles got Derek into the passenger seat, buckling him in. “Are you going to drive still?” he asked Dad.

“Uh, no. You go. I’m going to look into this food a little bit more.”

“Why? What’s the deal with the food?” Something was missing, something blocked. It made Stiles’ blood pressure rise. Not being able to remember things he had done, not being in control of his own body still caused nightmares.

Derek groaned, rolling his head to the side so he could stare at Stiles with his slitted eyes. He was starting to shift, fur and fangs sprouting. Stiles swallowed his rising fear and punched the gas.

Traffic was light, and there were no deputies patrolling, so Stiles had them at the hospital inside of fifteen minutes when they lived forty minutes away.

Derek propelled himself from the vehicle before Stiles had it in park. He fell flat on his face.

“I’m beginning to think this is more serious than just an allergic reaction,” Stiles said under his breath as he put his dad’s truck in park and turned it off. Derek was already on hands and knees when Stiles got to him. He shoved his shoulder under Derek’s chest and used his body to leverage him all the way up.

“Some kind of wolfsbane,” Derek said, through his very swollen lips.

“So, poisoned,” Stiles said back. Through the door, the front desk nurse gaped at them, staring at the way Derek’s eyes kept flickering between human and electric blue. Stiles didn’t wait for instruction, moving as fast as he could considering he was hauling Derek’s almost dead weight. “He’s having a severe allergic reaction. He took some Benadryl about three hours ago, and that’s it for meds. We think it might be poisoning but he’s reacting as if it’s an allergy.”

He stopped at the entrance to the emergency room, waiting for the nurse to buzz them through.

“Please! He’s dying!”

The door opened and two nurses took Derek from him.

“Wait here,” he was told as the door shut in his face.

Stiles turned to the front desk nurse, and she shrugged as if to say sorry, flashing beta gold eyes at him. Stiles appreciated her gesture because it meant that Derek was safe here.

“You can have a seat over there.” She pointed at a bank of frankly uncomfortable looking chairs. Stiles didn’t care. He couldn’t sit anyway, he was too agitated. Instead, he patted at his pockets until he came up with his phone. He needed to speak to his dad.

Dad was already calling him by the time he fumbled the phone up to his face. He answered it, trying to ignore the way his finger was shaking.

The panic attack would have to wait. He couldn’t afford it. Not now. Please, not now.

“Dad.”

“Stiles, I’m on my way to Cabellos to find out what they put into the food. How’s Derek?”

“Not good, Dad. He’s inside. I’m stuck in the waiting room. What if he dies? What if they don’t let me in? He said it felt like wolfsbane, but, Dad, I’ve seen Derek when he’s been hit by wolfsbane. It doesn’t act like this.”

“It could be a different strain or maybe a different plant entirely. How often has Derek been poisoned by wolfsbane to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is wolfsbane poisoning?”

“I don’t know, but I do know it’s too many times.”

“Stiles, you ate some of the food too, right?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t react.”

“Or maybe you did, and you don’t remember.”

Stiles froze. His breath whistled in once and then stopped, choking him deep in his chest where his heart was trying to beat despite the absolute fear that had just iced him. Through numb lips, he asked something he couldn’t hear. Dad responded, a burst of warmth against his ear, but it did nothing to thaw him.

“Stiles!” Dad shouted. “Stiles! Put me on speaker right now!”

With no motor function, Stiles wanted to tell his dad that was an impossible task.

“Stiles!”

The front desk nurse’s face snapped into view, and Stiles desperately focused on her blue eyelids and dimpled cheeks. She was holding a paper cup of water, and she pressed it into his hand, guiding it up to his face so he could try drinking a little of it.

As soon as the first sip went down, Stiles grabbed the cup with both hands and sucked greedily at it. The nurse took his phone.

“Hi, my name is Emma. You are? Okay, John, he’s coming around. I’m just going to have him sit down, we’ll get him assessed. What was that? I don’t know, but I can ask. Are you sure?”

Her voice faded out, and Stiles lowered the empty cup. She was still talking, but he couldn’t hear her.

She walked away and came back with another cup of water. Stiles drank it too.

“Can you breathe with me?” she asked, setting both cups on the floor. When had Stiles sat down?

“I…can…try…” Every breath was labored, and Stiles rubbed at his aching chest, wishing his heart would stop trying to pound its way out. He hiccupped and leaned forward, inhaling through his nose for as long as he could. Shakily, he let it out through his mouth.

“Good,” the nurse said. “Again.”

Within minutes, Stiles was breathing normally, but he felt drained. It was like his muscles had decided they needed to go on strike right now. Jelly legs wouldn’t support him and he didn’t think he’d be able to make it far before his head decided a migraine was a nice addition to his shit sundae.

“Can you walk?”

He shook his head and then held it, groaning as his brain rattled around.

“Okay. I’ll get you a gurney. Just stay here. And here, your dad is pretty worried right now. I bet he’d like it if you could talk to him just a little.”

Stiles took the phone and automatically pressed it against his ear.

“Stiles?” Dad sounded like he was crying. “Stiles, are you okay? I’m coming to the hospital. I’m almost there. Okay, son? Hang on.”

“I’m here,” Stiles whispered. “I’m going to be okay, I think. It was just a panic attack.”

“A pretty bad one,” Dad said. “Look, I’m about a minute away. Are they taking you back now?”

“I think so.” Stiles looked up to see the nurse leading another nurse and a gurney toward him. “Can I keep talking to my dad?” he asked.

“For now,” the second nurse said. He stopped the gurney, kicking the brakes on, and helped Stiles up and onto it. As soon as he was securely on it, the nurse unlocked the brakes and wheeled him into the ER and into a bay, pulling a curtain around him.

Stiles pressed the phone harder against his ear. “Dad.”

“I’m almost there, I promise. Just hang on, okay?”

Hanging on seemed to be the only thing Stiles could do, so he just held the phone, listening to his dad breathing on the other end of the phone. He didn’t even realize it was still on speaker phone until Dad burst into the bay. Dad took Stiles’ phone, turning it off and tucking it into a pocket, a feat to be sure because as soon as Stiles saw him, he launched himself at him, hugging him tightly.

“I don’t know where Derek is,” Stiles said into Dad’s neck. “I don’t know if he’s okay.”

“He’ll be fine,” Dad murmured, stroking Stiles’ hair and back with a gentle hand. “I sent a text to Deaton and Argent to get information on what you were dosed with. I also sent Parrish to the Cabellos to get their recipe so we can see if there’s any ingredients on there that shouldn’t be.”

“For now,” the nurse who’d wheeled Stiles to the bay broke in, “we need to get you tested. We also, depending on your symptoms, might have to pump your stomach.”

Stiles clung tighter to Dad. “I love you, Dad.”

Dad ruffled his hair. “I love you too, son. You’re going to be okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here, okay?”

Stiles nodded, letting Dad help him lie back. Dad kept a hand wrapped around Stiles’, the warmth of it pulling most of Stiles’ fear from him.

He wouldn’t truly feel okay until he could see Derek for himself, fully healed and telling Stiles that it wasn’t anything to worry about, but for now, he was grateful for his dad sticking around.

Holding onto his father’s hand, Stiles was able to relax enough to halfway drift off, the adrenaline spike leaving him cold and tired in its wake.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Stiles sat up when the doctor stopped in. Dad was texting on his phone, poking at the keys with a single index finger.

“Good news,” the doctor said, handing Stiles a stack of papers. “Your blood screen came back clean. Whatever you ate, you suffered no lasting effects. You’re free to go. I’ll get my nurse to come back with the discharge papers.” He wagged his finger at Stiles. “Now, just because you’ve got a clean bill of health, it doesn’t mean you don’t need some rest. Take it easy for the next couple of days. If you start to feel off again, don’t hesitate to come back.”

“And what about Derek?” Stiles asked.

The doctor frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss another patient with you.”

Stiles wanted to argue, but he didn’t think getting the doctor to violate HIPPA laws was worth his time with his former-Sheriff dad standing next to him.

“That’s fine,” Dad said, before Stiles had a chance to say anything. “Thanks, Doc.” As soon as the man left, Dad held up his phone. “Argent thinks he knows what happened to Derek. The good news is he’ll be fine. Deaton is stopping by with an antidote.” Stiles swiped his dad’s phone. Argent, Chris, in Dad’s phone as Reformed Hunter, thought that one of the ingredients the Cabellos added was part of a love potion. IT’S SOMETHING, Chris added in all caps, THAT WEREWOLVES ARE HIGHLY ALLERGIC TO.

As Stiles went to hand the phone back to his dad, it buzzed. He quickly lifted it again.

 IF ANTIDOTE DOESN’T WORK CALL ME I’M ON MY WAY.

Another buzz

Sorry. Don’t know why my phone got stuck. Coming as quick as I can. Let me know if things change.

Dad took his phone back, tapping an answer. “Okay. So, you wanna see if they’ll let us in to see him if he’s been admitted?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles said, sarcastically. He couldn’t help it: he may have been six years older since he’d first used it, but sarcasm was still his go-to for defense.

“Does that mean no?” Dad raised an eyebrow. Sheepishly, Stiles shook his head. “All right then, let’s go find him.”

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

In the end, they weren’t able to see Derek. He hadn’t been admitted yet, and no one was willing to tell them when or if he would be. In the interest of not being banned from the hospital—at least, that was the excuse he used—Dad led Stiles out to his vehicle.

“We’ll try later,” Dad said, reassuringly. Stiles didn’t answer. He buckled his seatbelt and stared straight ahead. It was his fault Derek had nearly died. He’d been the one to suggest Cabellos. He’d wanted Derek near him.

Derek wasn’t the only one cursed to have those he cared about injured.

“Do you feel like talking?” Dad asked when he parked in front of the house and shut off the engine.

Stiles opened his door, unbuckling his seatbelt, and stepping out. He looked pointedly at his dad until he unlocked the front door for him and then headed upstairs. Still not a word had passed his lips.

Dad sighed heavily. “I’ll be down here when you’re ready to talk,” he said. “I’ll get you when Argent gets to town.”

“I don’t want to see him,” Stiles muttered to himself, closing his bedroom door. He didn’t lock it, but he did kick off his shoes and climb onto his bed. He didn’t think he’d sleep, but almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, his limbs grew too heavy to move, and he drifted off.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Stiles woke up when his bed depressed suddenly.

He sat up, arms flailing as he panicked, hitting a warm body and recoiling.

“Ouch,” Derek intoned blandly.

Stiles ran a hand over his face. “They let you out already?” he asked.

Derek shrugged. He climbed off the bed and dropped heavily into Stiles’ desk chair. “Once Deaton gave me the antidote, there wasn’t any reason for me to stay at the hospital.”

“So does that mean Chris Argent is in town?”

Derek shrugged again. “I guess. Your dad let me in on his way out. I just assumed he was going to work.”

Stiles studied him. Derek looked haggard, as if the antidote had done only enough to stop him from getting worse. He wasn’t healing, or if he was, it was slow-going.

“Are you okay?”

Derek’s shoulders rolled in a half shrug. He picked at a loose thread on his jeans, worrying at it while he refused to look at Stiles.

“Do you feel up to starting to clear out your house?”

Derek shook his head, jerking on the thread to break it. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and then tossed it into the wastebasket.

Stiles refused to be impressed. He could do that with a bit of practice. Derek used to play basketball, after all. It wasn’t that special.

“I think I just want to sleep,” Derek said, but he made no move to stand up and go to the guest room.

Stiles rolled his eyes and patted the bed next to him. “Plenty of room here,” he said, nonchalantly. Derek bowed his head before wearily climbing to his feet. He shuffled forward and face-planted onto the bed. Stiles stifled a smile as he grabbed Derek’s shoulders and worked him fully onto the bed. Derek must have taken his shoes off when he got in, because he was just in socks. His shirt was horribly wrinkled, his jeans a little worn, and his hair mussed. Stiles knuckled at his heart, trying to stave off the fondness he felt kindling there.

Derek didn’t need to deal with Stiles’ affection right now.

Derek turned his head, opening one eye to peer up at him. “I don’t mind it, you know,” he said softly.

“Mind what?”

Derek wriggled his visible eyebrow. “I like you too,” he said around a yawn.

“Bold,” Stiles said. He tugged at the blanket until he freed enough of it to drape over Derek. Then, he lied down again, one arm crooked under his head, the other between his and Derek’s bodies.

It was comforting just lying here, listening to Derek’s breaths get slower and deeper. It calmed Stiles enough that he started drifting too. Just before he tumbled back into sleep, he felt Derek’s fingers curl around his loosely.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Stiles woke up alone, his bed still bowed as if Derek was lying there, but the blanket was cold. He’d been gone a while then. Sitting up and stretching helped dispel some of the fatigue still clinging to him, and he slipped off the bed, bending slowly at the waist and letting his spine lengthen until the muscle around it ached in a nice, warming pain. He straightened in the same, slow manner, breathing deeply.

Once that was done, he grabbed a change of clothes and took a quick shower.

His hair was still dripping by the time he dressed and wandered downstairs.

There, he found his dad, Chris Argent, and Derek sitting in the living room. Derek looked a little better than he had before their nap, with more color back in his cheeks.

Stiles pushed at him until he moved over enough to allow him to sit next to him on the sofa.

Dad was in his armchair and Chris was next to him on a chair dragged in from the dining room.

“You won’t have to worry about them doing that ever again,” Chris was saying. His face was set in a grimace, distaste and anger evident. “They fully understand what they did was wrong, and they don’t plan to do it again.”

“If they do…?” Dad asked.

Chris shook his head. “They won’t like the consequences. They understand that they got off easy this time. Next time, they won’t be so lucky.”

“You didn’t maim them, did you?” Stiles asked. He’d gathered that they were talking about the Cabellos and their poisoning of him and Derek.

Chris snorted. “Much as I wanted to,” he said, “I did not. But that won’t stop me from coming back and kicking their asses if they ever try to pull that shit again. They were incredibly lucky that most of their meddling was put down to food poisoning and not actual dosing.”

“So, they definitely whammied us with a love potion?”

Derek shuddered, hard, and Stiles clamped a hand onto his knee, which surprisingly, Derek did not remove.

“Essentially, yes,” Chris said. “I’d heard of it being done before, but usually they need an element of magic and nature.”

“Like a druid,” Derek mumbled, low enough that only Stiles seemed able to hear.

“Like a darach,” Chris continued, shooting an apologetic glance at Derek’s bowed head.

Derek shivered again, hands clenched to his sides. Blood ran from his palms, and Stiles noticed that he’d pierced his own skin with his claws.

Like a darach echoed in his head, and suddenly, he shivered too. All these years he’d thought Derek just had bad judgment when it came to his sexual partners. Instead, he realizes, too late, that Derek had been roofied with magic. Love potioned without the potion. Forced into a relationship he likely couldn’t say no to even if he understood what was happening at the time. And Stiles… Stiles had yelled at him, threw it back in his face. Belittled him for sleeping with the enemy.

He swallowed hard, squeezing Derek’s knee again before drawing back. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Derek studying him without truly looking at him.

“So what happens now?” Dad asked into the heavy silence.

“Now?” Chris leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now, we wait. Sometimes it takes a while for the effects to wear off even after an antidote has been administered.” He fixed Stiles with a knowing look. “Longer too if there was something there before.”

Stiles’ cheeks heat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know this is a horrible way to find out.”

“Find out what?” Derek asked tightly.

“That I’m in love with you.”

“I always knew that.” Derek flexed his hands, wiping blood onto his jeans. “What surprised me was how much I liked you too.” He took a deep breath and finally lifted his head. His eyes were human, a kaleidoscope of greens, blues, and browns, and he pinned Stiles with them. “Sometimes I still see you as a kid, someone I need to watch out for because you’re not understanding the danger you’re in, and then other times, I look at you and see what could be.”

“And what would that be?” Stiles hardly dared to breathe.

“I see a future,” Derek said, softly.

A future with him? Stiles cut a quick glance to his dad. Dad had a perfectly blank face but his shining eyes gave him away.

“You’re okay with that?” Stiles asked him.

“Stiles, you’re an adult. You can make your own choices. Besides, I think you’d be good for Derek.”

“You two do make a pretty good pair,” Chris said, and Dad broke into a big grin.

Stiles turned to Derek. “We still have to clean out your house,” he said. Derek nodded. “We have two weeks minus a day.” Derek nodded again. “And you’re okay with me helping you?”

“I don’t think I’m going to get it done any other way,” Derek said, seriously. “You helped me stand up to Mr. Johnson. I think you’ll keep me motivated enough to finish the project.”

“Okay then. I guess I know what I’m doing with my summer.”

And if it felt a little like he was agreeing to spend all his time with Derek, well, he was. He couldn’t be happier.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

The next day, Stiles drove Derek and himself to Derek’s house.

There was a sign on the door with the Code Enforcement officer’s notice that the house was considered unlivable but not fully condemned.

“I don’t get how that works,” Stiles remarked, reading it. Derek shrugged, unlocking the door and pushing his way inside. Stiles took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the piles of junk he was now expecting to find, and followed him in.

The house wasn’t any better, and Stiles fought his rising panic with everything in him.

“Do you know where you want to start?” Stiles asked, climbing over a pile that must have fallen after they’d left yesterday and into the kitchen. Derek stood in the middle of the room, looking around with the same panic Stiles could feel in his chest.

“How about the backyard?” Stiles suggested, struggling over to the door. He got the door propped open, leaning out into the bit of breeze that made its way into Derek’s fenced in backyard.

Here, Derek had constructed a few pop-up sheds and there was a tent tucked into a corner. Stiles had no doubt that the sheds and the tent would be full of things, but other than that, the backyard was clear. Stiles stepped out fully, walking toward the tent. He glanced back after a few yards to find Derek standing in the doorway, just watching him. “Are you okay, Derek?”

He shook himself and flashed a wan smile. Then he squared his shoulders and marched toward Stiles. Stiles waited until he drew level with him before he reached out and wrestled the zipper of the tent open.

“Okay,” he said to the stacks of sleeping bags, camping cooking utensils, battery-operated lanterns, and scuttling spiders. “Okay. So, we can work with this.”

“We can’t,” Derek said, zipping the tent closed again. “That’s Marie’s stuff. She’s coming back for it tomorrow.”

“The spiders too?”

Derek didn’t reply, walking to one of the sheds instead. He slid the door up and stared at the assortment of lawn care equipment jumbled inside. He didn’t say anything before dropping the door and turning away from it.

“Marie’s?” Stiles asked.

Derek shook his head. “Daniel’s.”

“Danny Mahealani?”

“No.” Derek glared at him, but he didn’t look mad. “Daniel. He works at the Sheriff’s Department.”

“Is he coming back for his stuff at all?”

“I don’t know,” Derek admitted. He looked around the yard, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can get rid of any of these things. They’re not mine.”

“So why do you have them?” Stiles demanded. “How many people just dumped their crap on you because you wouldn’t tell them no?”

Derek froze, blinking quickly, like he was trying to dispel tears. Stiles rolled back his words in his head, his stomach dropping when he realized what he had said.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he apologized softly, hand outstretched to brush Derek’s arm.

Derek jerked out of reach, taking several steps back. His eyes were definitely watery. “My ‘no’ means nothing,” he said lowly. “That’s been proven time and again. I don’t need you telling me that too.”

“Your no should mean everything,” Stiles argued gently, aware that he’d unintentionally found a sore spot and did not want to keep pressing on it. “I really am sorry that I said it like that. It’s not your fault that everyone decided to use your good will to just dump their stuff on you.”

Derek nodded tightly, turning away from Stiles to quickly wipe at his eyes. Stiles pretended not to see and just moved back to the door.

“Can we sort anything in the house or do you want to take a break?”

Stiles knew they didn’t have a lot of time to waste like this, but they’d get nowhere fast if he pushed when Derek wasn’t ready. And having already made Derek cry was not part of the plan.

“A break would be good,” Derek said. He still wouldn’t meet Stiles’ eyes, but he at least followed Stiles back through the house until they could step out onto the front porch.

Derek offered Stiles the chair on the porch and settled on the steps by his knee.

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispered to his hands. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

“If you don’t, you’ll lose your home,” Stiles pointed out.

Derek shook his head. “Not a home. Not yet.” He glanced back at the house before facing forward again. “It might never be home.”

“That’s bullshit,” Stiles said. Derek started. “No, I don’t mean you. I mean the fact that your house is so full of other people’s things that you have no room for yourself. It’s your house, not theirs. Why don’t they come back for their things?”

“I never told them to?” Derek guessed.

“You shouldn’t have to tell them because they never should have brought it over in the first place.” Stiles made a note of the names he knew that Derek said had things on his property. Marie. Daniel. He only had two other names: Mr. Johnson and Andrew; but it should be enough to track them down and force them to help Derek clean up his house.

After all, this mess wouldn’t exist without their “help.”

“You’re getting angry,” Derek remarked. “I think the break is over.”

“Okay.” Stiles allowed Derek to haul him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Three hours later, Stiles climbed into Roscoe, waiting for Derek to buckle his belt before he started the engine.

They hadn’t gotten anything out yet. Instead, Derek just shuffled things from one room to another, sorting by some arbitrary method he didn’t bother to share with Stiles until Stiles was so frustrated that he’d moved them to another room where Derek just started the cycle again.

Overall, it was a very disappointing day, but Stiles was determined not to show Derek just how upset he was.

“Two weeks minus two days,” Derek said quietly. He stared out the window the whole drive back to Stiles’ dad’s house.

With two full bathrooms, they were able to shower at the same time, if a little quicker than normal since the hot water ran out faster.

After, they sat at the kitchen table while Stiles heated up leftover pot pie to eat.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t any good today,” Derek finally said after Stiles plopped a plate in front of him.

“Hey, not your fault. I get it, your brain got overloaded. We’ll just have to take it slower next time.”

“Will there be a next time?” Derek poked at his food. “Do you still want to help me?”

Stiles nodded. “I just didn’t realize how big of a job it actually was,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to pitch in. In fact, I think we should get more people involved. You know, like a cleaning crew.”

“It’s not my stuff,” Derek reminded him.

“I know. I meant contacting the people who left it with you. How long have you had it?”

Derek shrugged.

“Okay, well, I’ll look into the law on abandoned property today. You try to remember who gave you the things. I think we can get them to take it back without too much trouble.”

Derek gave him a hopeful smile, the first smile all day, and Stiles’ stomach twisted in knots.

He wanted Derek to smile more. He deserved so much more happiness. But as long as they had the junky house to take care of, Stiles knew there’d be more tears than smiles. He hoped they’d both survive the ordeal.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Stiles printed the California Code dealing with abandoned property and then read over it carefully, searching up legal terms he was unfamiliar with. By the end of it, his head was swimming with too much information and he badly needed to pee.

Derek knocked lightly on his door and opened it when Stiles called for him to come in. He was carrying a mug of tea that he offered to Stiles before sitting on the bed and staring intently at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles asked over the rim of the mug.

Derek shook his head, dipping his head down not quite fast enough to hide the smile curling his lips. “Just you,” he said, “being you. Thank you.”

“Okay,” Stiles drew out the word before setting down the mug and walking quickly to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, he went back to his room, wiping his hands on his pants. He’d dried them in the bathroom after peeing, but he hadn’t wanted Derek to leave his room, so he’d hurried back before they were fully dry.

Derek was still on the bed. He was holding the pages Stiles had printed, running a finger down the text, mouth moving as he silently read the words. Stiles sat down and drank more of the tea. This was more his style than the coffee Derek had bought him yesterday, and he finished it in a few swallows.

“How can they be my possessions when they were given to me to store?” Derek asked suddenly.

Stiles shrugged. “That’s what the law says. They dumped it on you, so it’s yours to do with as you please. Even if that means you throw it away.”

Derek grimaced, handing the pages to him. “That seems wasteful,” he said, softly.

“Dude, you’re living like a hoarder. That’s not healthy. At this point, worrying about wasting things is the least of your worries.”

“You’re right.” Derek stood up. He took Stiles’ empty mug and shut the door behind himself.

Stiles frowned at the pages, thinking over the words he’d used, swearing under his breath when he realized that he was accusatory. Derek didn’t need that. In fact, the way Stiles was pushing him, they would be lucky if Derek even managed to toss any of the actual trash in the house.

Stiles needed more help. Derek had mentioned being in therapy. Maybe Stiles should start there.

He turned to his laptop and opened a new browser.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek got an early start the next morning when first, Stiles slept through his alarm, and second, Dad hit him with the classifieds when Stiles tried to inhale some cereal so he could at least start the day with something in his stomach.

So, instead of watching Derek struggle to make progress, Stiles spent a few hours on his computer applying to jobs he was overqualified for. When Dad left for a shift at the bakery, Stiles shut down his laptop, slapped together a few sandwiches, and drove over to Derek’s.

Derek was sitting outside, head between his knees. He didn’t move even when Stiles honked his horn at him, knowing that with Derek’s hearing, he was being obnoxious.

Stiles dropped onto the steps next to him, shoving a sandwich at him.

“How’s it going today?” he asked carefully, biting into his own sandwich. Derek took the food, setting it on his knee and frowning down at the ground.

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” he said softly. “I know you keep telling me that it’s my stuff now, and I can get rid of it, but I can still smell the previous owners.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose. He hadn’t thought of that. He just knew that Derek’s house smelled stale and musty. A few things were moldy and stunk, to his human nose, like animal urine.

How Derek could stand to be in his house would remain a mystery, because while Stiles may not have had much tact in high school, always asking the wolves if they could smell things that were better left private, he had grown and learned to bite his tongue.

Derek sighed, poking a hole through the bread into the meat below. “Thanks for coming but I don’t think I can do anything today.”

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t believe that for a minute,” he said. He crammed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, chewing as quickly as he could. Once he had swallowed, he took Derek’s destroyed sandwich and discarded it into an empty trash bag hanging on the front door. “Up you get,” he said. “Pick out something. I don’t care what it is. Just pick it. You’re going to give me a list of pros and cons to keeping it. Whichever list is longer determines what happens with the thing.”

Derek shook his head, but he gamely stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. “Anything?” he asked.

“Absolutely anything,” Stiles confirmed.

Derek made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat and grabbed a bent tennis racket out of the junk in the foyer. He held it aloft, studying the chipped paint, frayed strings, peeling tape, and warped rim.

“Can it go?” Stiles asked after a few minutes. Derek pursed his lips, hefting it in his hand.

“I don’t know. I know I don’t have a use for it and it’s almost beyond repair, but it could still be fixed if someone wanted to invest the time in it.”

“Okay, so if that someone is you, are you going to invest the time in getting it fixed?”

Derek shook his head. “May Ehlberg gave this to me for safe keeping. It used to be her dad’s.”

Stiles didn’t know who May Ehlberg or her father were, but he guessed, from Derek’s faltering expression, that they were important to him.

Derek set the racket aside. “Mr. Ehlberg was a pall bearer at Paige’s funeral. May used to sit behind me in history.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Stiles said, and Derek stared at him.

“What?”

“Your loss,” Stiles repeated. “Of Paige. I know she meant a lot to you, and I’m sorry she died.”

Derek clenched his hands and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “I killed her,” he said tightly. When he opened his eyes, they blazed blue.

“Do you want to take another break?” Stiles asked.

Derek shook his head and grabbed another item, a wax orange that resembled a melted candle more than the fruit it was imitating.

“Can that go?”

“Mrs. Grecke used to make these. She gave my mom a whole set. This was the only one I found in the ruins of our house.”

Stiles felt his stomach drop. If Derek could find a reason to keep everything in the house, Stiles was certain he would. He blew out a breath. “I didn’t want to do this to you yet,” he said, “but I think you need to be in therapy for hoarding.”

“Hoarding?” Derek looked around the foyer as if he was just now seeing it through Stiles’ eyes. He set the orange down carefully and then picked up a plastic cup with a string tangled on the bottom. “My cousins used to make these things all the time.” He tugged at the string for a moment before giving up when he realized it was irrevocably knotted.

“Did your cousins make that particular string telephone?”

“Not this one, no.”

“And you have your memories, right?”

Derek nodded.

“Then, it can go?”

Derek nodded again. He walked to the bag and opened it, dangling the cup in for a long, long moment. Stiles was almost positive that he was going to yank it out again, but Derek surprised him when he let it fall.

Almost as if his strings were cut, Derek sagged. “I think I need a break now,” he said, stepping out onto the porch. Stiles followed, unhooking the bag and stuffing it into the house before pulling the door closed.

“You did a good thing,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“Maybe.” He walked to his car and got in. Stiles watched as he drove away.

They’d only been cleaning for about three hours, and all Derek had to show for it was a sandwich and a children’s toy. At this rate, it would take decades to clear out the clutter.

Stiles sighed. He hoped Derek talked with his therapist about his hoarding.

“Two weeks minus three days,” Stiles told the house. Then he drove home.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Dad was back from the bakery when Stiles pulled up to his house. The Camaro was parked on the street. Stiles was relieved to see it. He’d been afraid that Derek might have decided to take off again. It was nice to see that he wasn’t running away anymore.

“Derek’s taking a shower,” Dad said. He had his feet up on the railing, a bottle of seltzer water in hand. “He wanted to let you know that he’s not mad. And that he hopes you’re not mad either.”

“I’m not mad at him,” Stiles said, sitting next to his dad and propping his feet on the railing too. “I’m mad at everyone who’s taking advantage of him.”

Dad raised an eyebrow.

Stiles sighed, crossing his arms. “A lot of people decided to just dump their junk on Derek, so his house is all junked up. He’s having trouble realizing that he can let it go.”

Dad hummed, sipping at his bottle. “You can’t push him if he isn’t ready.”

“We don’t really have time for him to get ready,” Stiles said quietly. “I was thinking that we could have the people who dumped stuff on him come and get it. I asked Derek to make a list of everyone who had ever given him things.”

“I could see if I can get some volunteers if Derek wants the help.”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

Dad shook his head. “It’s not your place,” he said. “Talk to Derek about it, okay? I know you have a deadline, but if you push too hard now, the source of the problem won’t be resolved, and in a few months, it’ll be just as bad if not worse.”

“You’re right.” Stiles thumped his feet down and stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

The next day, Derek had a meeting with his therapist first thing, so Stiles killed some time by making a chart with a countdown of the days they had left before Code Enforcement arrived to either pass or fail Derek’s house. Derek had hidden in the guest room after his shower and refused to come out before Stiles fell asleep, so he didn’t know what state of mind Derek was in, but he didn’t imagine they would make much progress at the house today.

Still, he could at least find something for Derek to store some items he definitely wanted to save. They could worry about the actual trash later. Dad was right: pushing Derek too hard now would be more detrimental than just giving him a shoulder to lean on when he got overwhelmed. That didn’t mean Stiles wasn’t going to track down every single person who had ever left so much as a dust bunny at Derek’s house and make them take it back.

He dug around the attic until he found an old, empty plastic bin. He washed it out, drying it thoroughly before putting it in his trunk. His dad still had a sports cooler, left over from Stiles’ days as a bench warming lacrosse player, and Stiles filled it with water and stuck it next to the bin. Then, he settled on the porch with the stack of California property laws and a highlighter, marking the sections he thought would be most helpful for Derek to read.

After about an hour of that, Derek returned. He smiled at Stiles but it seemed brittle, like he was stretched a little too thin at the moment.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked, capping his highlighter and setting aside the papers.

Derek shrugged. “Mostly, I guess. I talked to Jerri about the house. She wants to see it.”

“Do you want her to see it?”

Derek shrugged again. “She thinks I’m holding onto things because of losing so many people when I was fifteen.”

“That’s probably a pretty good assessment. Come on,” Stiles pointed at Roscoe, “we can at least go look at it and see if there’s anything else you want to save, like that orange.”

“I don’t have anywhere to put things like that,” Derek protested.

Stiles bit his tongue to stop the almost reflexive Could have space if you cleaned your house that wanted to pop out. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I have a bin you can borrow. Just until we find some room for the stuff you want to save.”

“Thank you.”

They drove to Derek’s house in comfortable silence. It was almost domestic, and Stiles caught himself smiling and tapping on the steering wheel while Derek poked at the radio before turning it off when all the stations were too staticky to hear clearly. The only dark spot was when they parked in front of the house and Stiles remembered what was waiting for them. He was tired, and they hadn’t even opened the door yet.

Well, they were here. There was no point in putting it off. The sooner they got in there, the sooner they could leave.

Stiles grabbed the cooler while Derek carried the bin, and they walked up the steps onto the porch.

Derek set the bin down so that he could use two hands to unlock the door.

Stiles happened to glance over as Derek worked his key into the lock and noticed something sitting on the chair by the door. “Hey, Derek,” he said.

“Yeah?” Derek opened the door, picking up the bin and waiting while Stiles slowly picked up the cup with tangled string. He took a moment to steady his voice, furious and not sure why. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to be here. He just wasn’t happy that the tiny bit of progress they had made had been so easily undone.

“Didn’t you throw this away yesterday?”

Derek flushed. “I took it out,” he mumbled.

“When? Why?”

“Last night. My cousins,” Derek said.

Stiles shoved it at him. “Do you want to save it now?”

Derek took it gingerly. He turned it over in his hands, studying it. After a few minutes, he set it into the bin.

Stiles nodded tightly. Hopefully Derek wouldn’t try to save everything. He didn’t want to drag the problem back to his dad’s house. Dad already had thirty years of his and Stiles’ mom’s things and some of Stiles’ things from high school. There wasn’t room for more crap.

In the foyer, Derek found the wax orange and added it to the bin. He picked up the racket and frowned at it for a long moment before carefully replacing it on the stack of dilapidated boxes he was using as a shelf.

“There’s some more sentimental things upstairs,” Derek said. “I’ll be right back.”

He slipped through the narrow pathways and Stiles retreated outside before the press of things made him panic again.

Just as he stepped out, his phone buzzed.

It was Dad.

“Hey, Dad. How are you?”

“I’m great. Listen, I just talked to Parrish. He says he thinks he can get a few of the guys together in the next couple of days to get out to Derek’s place and help clean up. Did you ask Derek if he wanted to do that?”

Stiles looked up, scanning the second floor windows. He couldn’t see Derek at all, but he thought Derek could hear him. “I haven’t but I will. I can text you his answer?”

“Sure, that’d be great. Also, I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but Melissa said Scott is back in town for a few days. Apparently he’s taking over Deaton’s practice when Deaton retires in a few years.”

“Oh?” Stiles was not remotely interested in what his former best friend was up to. Nope. Not at all.

“Yeah. Melissa wanted to know if we wanted to have dinner with her and Scott.”

“She does know Scott and I haven’t talked in almost five years, right?”

“I think she’s hoping that you two will reconcile.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Stiles looked up again. Derek was standing in a window now, looking down at him, expression twisted into concern. With a start, Stiles realized that he was able to parse Derek’s different expressions again. He’d missed that element of their communication, but he hadn’t been upset to discover that Derek was more verbal than he had been six years ago.

“I kinda don’t want to drag Derek over there without warning. It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

Derek pulled back, and a few minutes later, he was outside too. The bin was half full of things like a singed headband, a pair of gold hoop earrings stuck in a large card, and some books. Derek set it aside and pointed to the steps. They both sat down.

“Hey, Derek, is it okay if some of the deputies swing by and help us clear out things?”

Derek hesitated before nodding.

“He said yes, Dad,” Stiles said into the phone. To Derek, he said, “Melissa wants to have us over for dinner soon. Do you want to come with or…?”

“No, thank you.”

“So does that mean you’ll come too?” Dad asked.

Stiles sucked his lip into his mouth and chewed on it. “No,” he finally said. He wasn’t nearly ready enough to forgive Scott for what had happened. Maybe someday, but someday hadn’t come yet. “I don’t think I can do that. Sorry.”

Dad sighed. “I’m sure they’ll understand. And boys?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you. You’re doing a good thing.”

Dad hung up without waiting for a response. He probably realized he wasn’t going to get one. Derek didn’t look like he believed Dad at all, and Stiles didn’t blame him. When was the last time someone told Derek they were proud of him? Probably not since before the fire.

“Do you want to try cleaning anything today?”

Derek shook his head. “I think I’ll call Jerri and see if she can come out here tomorrow,” he said. “For now, I want to show you what I found.”

Stiles tucked his phone back in his pocket and turned his full attention to Derek as he explained about the trinkets. He had rings from his aunts, one of Peter’s ties that hadn’t burned up, the headband from Cora, the earrings from Laura. Books that belonged to his cousins and to the pack. Derek flipped through a heavy tome.

“This is our bestiary,” he said, turning pages until he came across an entry for kanimas. He traced the tail of the illustration. It looked almost nothing like what Jackson had looked like, less lizard-like and more humanoid. “It’s been in our family for centuries. Peter gave it to me when I moved back to Beacon Hills last year.”

“And where did Peter get it from?”

“He has a stash of things somewhere. He didn’t say.” Derek frowned. “He has the box with the nogitsune and my mom’s claws.”

Stiles shuddered. “He won’t give you the claws back?”

“No. I’m afraid that he’s trying to find a ritual that will give him alpha powers again.” He set the book back in the box and stood up, helping Stiles up. “He didn’t seem happy that I came back. I told him he didn’t have to come back too.”

“Why did you come back?” Stiles asked. “Not that I’m not glad you did,” he hurried to add.

Derek shrugged. “Honestly, I came back because I realized Scott had abandoned the land. My family was its protector for centuries. It needs a guardian. Even if that guardian is an omega.”

“Hey, now, you’re not an omega,” Stiles said, patting Derek’s arm. “You’ll always be a part of my pack. Me and my dad.”

Derek smiled. “Thanks. That actually means a lot to me.”

He pulled the door shut, locking it, and picked up the bin. “Can we go back to your house now? I left my phone there and I need to call Jerri.”

“Sure.” Stiles grabbed the cooler, pouring some water on his hands to clean them before digging out a stack of plastic cups he kept in his car for emergencies. He’d never had to use them yet but he liked being prepared.

Derek set the bin in the trunk and sifted through it until he came up with the cup and string. He handed it to Stiles.

“What’s this for?”

“You can throw it away,” Derek said. “I’m ready to let it go.”

Stiles grinned. “Okay, big guy, if you’re sure. Let me just.” He pulled out a bag he kept in his car for trash and placed it inside, taking care not to crush it more than it already was, just in case Derek changed his mind again and wanted it back before it could be disposed of. “There.” He handed Derek a cup of water and drank one himself.

Then he drove them back to his house.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek rode with Stiles out to the house the next morning, and Dr. Jerri Fitzgerald pulled up behind them. Derek had called to invite her last night, and she hadn’t even hesitated before agreeing, saying that she would meet them there.

Stiles was excited to meet a therapist who knew about the supernatural, had worked with them, and knew how to help them, but most importantly, he was excited to meet someone Derek seemed to trust.

He knew it took a lot for Derek to be able to trust the people around him. One day, he hoped he could be counted among those people.

Derek grabbed his arm before he could get out to greet Dr. Fitzgerald. “I do trust you,” he said quietly. “I always have since you wouldn’t let me drown. Maybe even before then.”

Stiles stared at him in shock. Had he spoken out loud? Derek tapped his nose, and Stiles signed in relief. It was just the way he smelled to Derek. “Do you trust me enough to know that I won’t intentionally hurt you?” he asked.

Instead of answering him, Derek leaned in closer, fingers flexing where he still held Stiles’ arm. Stiles stared at his face as it got closer, his lips parting, tongue flicking out to wet them. Was Derek going to kiss him? Were they at the kissing stage in their relationship? Did they even have a relationship? They were a mere breadth apart when Derek whispered, “Yes.”

Dr. Fitzgerald knocked on the window, and Derek jumped back. He smiled at her, but Stiles could read the disappointment in his eyes.

Stiles frowned, mind still spinning from the almost-kiss. Derek opened his door, and moved to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Wait,” Stiles said. When Derek turned toward him, he grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss that was too hard, too much teeth, too much Derek’s nose in his eye, and not enough all at once.

As soon as they broke apart, Derek reached up to touch his lips. Stiles’ lips felt bruised but he kept his hand on Derek’s neck, fingers playing with the hair on his nape.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly.

Derek cupped his face, holding his head still as he leaned in and pressed a closed-mouth kiss to his lips. “More than,” he said, pulling back and out of Stiles’ reach. “I trust you,” he said, nodding sharply, like Stiles could hear the way his heartbeat stayed steady.

Stiles smiled. “Let’s go show your therapist your house,” he said, and clambered out of Roscoe.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Dr. Fitzgerald said. She smiled at them both. “It’s so nice to see that level of trust, Derek. You’ve done wonderful.”

“We’re working on my communication,” Derek said. “I seem to recall you complaining a time or two that I didn’t use my words enough.”

Stiles snorted. “No one in this damn town did. It was all secrets, secrets, lies, and more secrets.”

“But things have changed?” Dr. Fitzgerald looked from Derek to Stiles and back.

“I don’t know if the town has changed,” Derek said, “but we have.” He shot Stiles a grateful look. “I want to be who Stiles thinks I am.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet.” Stiles bit his lip, adding, hesitantly, “What if I want you to be my boyfriend?”

Derek let out a startled laugh. “Pretty sure that’s what we just did,” he pointed out.

“I don’t mean to be a literal bummer,” Dr. Fitzgerald broke in, “but can we go inside now? I’d like to know how best to help you, Derek, and I can’t do that just by looking at the outside.” She stuck her hand out to Stiles and he took it. “I’m Dr. Jerri Fitzgerald. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Dr. Fitzgerald. I’m Stiles.”

“Please, call me Jerri.”

“Okay.”

Derek unlocked the door and pushed it open. If Jerri was surprised by the amount of stuff just packed in the foyer, she didn’t show it. Instead, she studied it thoughtfully. Her braids clinked together softly as she moved forward, the colorful beads woven throughout her hair jostled.

Derek followed more slowly, grabbing the trash bag that still hadn’t been filled as he worked his way deeper after her.

Stiles brought up the rear, trying to see the junk as Jerri would. He didn’t think he succeeded very well because he still thought it could all go, even the melted orange Derek had saved yesterday.

“Okay, so tell me,” Jerri said when they paused in the kitchen, “what do you see when you look at all these things?”

Derek shrugged. “I guess I see it as kindness.”

“Kindness?” Stiles asked. Jerri shot him a look that had him almost swallowing his tongue.

“Yes,” Derek said, tightly. “Kindness.” To Jerri, he added, “When I moved back to Beacon Hills, I had nothing. Just my sister’s car and the clothes I was wearing. I was able to buy this house but I didn’t have a way to bring anything into the house. I had nothing to bring anyway.”

“And how did people start bringing you things?”

“My neighbor, Ms. Bocelli, stopped by one day, saw the state of the house, and offered me some of her mother’s furniture. When I told her that I didn’t have a way to bring it here, she asked another neighbor, Mr. Johnson, to help, and he also brought over his mother’s things.”

Stiles opened his mouth and shut it again when Jerri looked at him. She turned back to Derek. “And that was kindness, wasn’t it? Them bringing you all those things.”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “But it was a lot. Their mothers had a lot of stuff and they brought it all over the next few days. After that, it seemed like someone was stopping by every day and bringing me stuff from their relatives that had either passed away or didn’t want or need their things.”

“And you didn’t feel like you could say no?” Jerri asked, more gently than Stiles could have managed.

“No,” Derek said, quietly, an admission. “I didn’t think I had the right to say no.”

Jerri nodded, as if she hadn’t expected any other answer.

It made Stiles’ skin crawl to think of all the people that could have, did, hurt Derek because he thought his “no” meant nothing.

“I need some air,” he said, and hurried as quickly as he could back outside.

He leaned over, hands on his knees while he puffed breaths in and out through his mouth.

“Hey, Stiles,” he heard someone call, and he looked up to see Jordan Parrish, dressed down in a white t-shirt and khakis, approaching him.

“Heya.” Stiles waved back.

Jordan eyed the house. “Did you still want help clearing it out?”

“Yeah, but it’s not really my call,” Stiles said. “Derek’s in there right now with his therapist. She’s going to see if she can help him be able to let go of everything.”

Jordan hummed. “Okay, well, Sarah, the dispatcher, was able to call for a dumpster. We’re renting it, so Derek won’t have to worry about that. Just let us know when you want it, and we can have it delivered.”

“I think it’ll take more than one dumpster,” Stiles said, thinking of the rooms he had seen and knowing that there were more upstairs he hadn’t been in, all likely just as bad as downstairs.

“You realize that when the dumpster is full, we call them, they take it away, and then they bring it back, right? We’re renting it for at least a week, and if we can move fast enough, we ought to be able to get the whole house cleaned.”

“You say that now.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow before cupping his hands around his mouth and saying, loudly, “Hey, Derek. Can you come outside and talk with us?”

Derek appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, Jerri behind him.

Jordan grinned at Stiles. “Let’s go.”

Derek met them halfway. “Hi, Jordan,” he said, looking between them. “What brings you here?”

“Stiles’ dad asked if any of us deputies wanted to volunteer to help you clean your house,” Jordan replied. “We have a roster worked out. We also have a dumpster on standby whenever you’re ready for it.”

“A dumpster?” Derek shot a panicked glance at Jerri.

“A dumpster might be a good idea, Derek,” she said softly. “But first, let’s try to figure out what’s causing you to hold onto things and how to get you to let go.”

“Oh, hey,” Stiles said, “Derek, did you ever finish that list of people who gave you things?”

Derek pulled out a piece of paper folded into a tiny rectangle. He handed it to Stiles with the resignation of a man betraying his country. Stiles quickly unfolded it, finding nearly thirty names on the paper.

“Some people gave me family antiques to store because they couldn’t afford storage fees. I put a star by their names.”

“Okay.” Stiles refolded the paper, frowning when he couldn’t fold it as small as Derek had. “I’ll contact as many of them as I can and see if they want their things back.” He fixed Derek with a look. “Will you be able to return any items they want?”

“Yes. I don’t want their things if they can take them.”

Stiles shook his head. “You don’t want them even if they can’t take them.”

Jerri stepped in front of Derek. “Let’s get to that point,” she said, glaring at Stiles without too much heat. “For now, I’d like you to go through as many things as you can and pick out the things that are yours.”

Derek shook his head. “It’s all buried right now.”

Jerri pursed her lips, thinking, before turning to Jordan. “Dr. Fitzgerald,” she said, hand out for a quick shake. “Do you think you can coordinate the volunteers to sort things? Nothing is to be thrown away without Derek’s express consent. If he wants to touch things, hold them, keep them, let him. I will work with him to discover the cause of it, but until then, I don’t want you to do anything to make him worse.”

“I will certainly do my best, ma’am ,” Jordan promised. He looked at Derek. “Do you want to start sorting today?”

“I guess,” Derek said. “It’d be nice to actually be able to see the floor again.”

“It would,” Stiles agreed. “So, just so that we’re all on the same page, Derek isn’t throwing away anything today? We’re just pulling things out so they can be sorted?”

“If Derek finds he can throw away some items, he can do that, but only he can do that. If you find something you think is trash, you have to show it to Derek and get his approval before it can be disposed of.” She checked a watch hung around her neck on a lanyard. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment I need to get to.” She took Derek’s hand in hers and patted it gently. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you need to. I will clear my schedule as best I can for next week so that I can help you as much as I am able to.”

“Thank you, Jerri.” Derek smiled at her.

They watched her drive off before turning back to the house.

“Okay, so what do we start with?” Stiles asked.

“The foyer,” Derek answered and marched back to the house. Stiles and Jordan exchanged a quick glance and then followed.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Jordan worked quickly and efficiently. By the time a few more deputies showed up, the three of them already had a clear pattern of sorting going. Stiles, human and tired, took a break as Jordan got the newcomers caught up, and called a few names on Derek’s list.

Most of them agreed that Derek could dispose of the things they had given him, and one even offered to bring in a trailer to haul crap away. Stiles thanked him and filed that away in the back of his mind, then went to find Derek and make him drink some water. Stiles updated the list to reflect what people had answered while Derek told him a little bit about some of the things of his family that he had uncovered.

Stiles was thoroughly impressed with how the deputies worked. They didn’t even attempt to toss anything away and they carried all the items as carefully as they could. By the time they were ready to stop for the day, the whole front lawn was covered in distinct piles, all covered in tarps weighed down with rocks found in a box in the kitchen.

The foyer was mostly empty, and although it was the only room they had gotten to, it was also only the first room. They had made significant progress today.

Derek seemed happy, excited and talking more than usual as they drove back to Stiles’ dad’s house.

Dad met them at the door, and Derek immediately stopped talking. He blanched, hands fisted at his sides.

“The Cabellos just want to apologize,” Dad said. “They realize what they did wrong and wish to make amends as best they can.”

“They can stop poisoning people,” Stiles retorted. He had no interest in hearing the Cabellos’ piss-poor excuse of why they decided to almost kill a customer. He was also angry because he still couldn’t remember what had happened after they’d eaten.

Before Dad could tell him to stop being rude, the Cabellos, an older couple with graying hair and twin looks of fear and disappointment, stepped out onto the porch. Derek leaned against Stiles, his arm pressing against his side, and Stiles could feel the tremors racing up and down Derek’s arm.

“We did not realize that you were not human,” Mrs. Cabello said. “We had no idea that we would be putting your life in danger.”

“Are you in the habit of drugging your customers?” Stiles demanded.

Both of them looked stricken. “We are matchmakers,” Mr. Cabello said. “It is our job to encourage relationships.”

“And how many people consented to you mucking about in their business?” Stiles clenched his hands into fists. “One more stupid answer and I will call the cops on your asses for trespassing.”

“Stiles,” Dad said warningly.

“No. Dad, no.” Stiles turned to his dad. “They almost killed Derek and they’re excusing it because they make matches? No, they’re meddlers. That’s what they are.” He glared at the Cabellos. “I hope you fuck up again just so that Chris can kick your asses. Now, get off my dad’s porch and off our property.”

The Cabellos did just that, both of them touching Derek’s shoulder as they passed him, apologizing in an undertone that did nothing to disguise what Stiles felt was insincerity.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asked. He ran his hand down Derek’s shoulder and arm, doing his best to layer his scent over the Cabellos’ so that Derek could at least have a little comfort before he showered the smell away.

Derek grunted. “I’m okay,” he whispered, “but I think I need to take a shower now.”

“Okay, cool. You go do that. I’m going to get Dad all caught up on what we did at the house today.”

Derek grabbed Stiles’ hand, squeezing tightly. “Are you going to tell him about us?” he asked, and then walked away while Dad frowned at them.

“What’s this about ‘us’?”

Stiles sighed. It wasn’t like Dad wouldn’t have figured it out soon anyway. “I think me and Derek are dating now,” he said. “But also, I stink. We’ve been moving things around, and I need to shower. Talk to you later.”

He jogged past his dad and into the house. Derek wasn’t the only one who could walk away from an uncomfortable conversation.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Because there were only so many places in the house that he and Derek could hide, Dad eventually cornered them in the kitchen while they tried sneaking something for supper.

“I’m not mad that you’re dating,” he said. “I’m not even mad about you yelling at the Cabellos.” He sighed. “I just want to talk to you. Tell me, how’s the house coming? Did the deputies come by to help? How clean is the house?”

“It’s coming along fine,” Stiles said, ticking his fingers. “The deputies did indeed come help us. The house is not clean at all. It’s still really cluttered, and until the clutter is organized, we can’t clean the house.”

“Okay. That’s good. Hey, I’ve got some time off tomorrow. I could come help for a bit too?”

“Sure,” Derek said. He set down the plate of leftover lasagna Dad had made for lunch today. “Are you really not mad that Stiles and I are… together?” he sounded a little strangled on the last word, but Stiles decided he wouldn’t hold it against him. Much. “Do you have any concerns about this?” Derek continued.

“Uh, well,” Dad scratched the back of his head, “I’d appreciate a heads up if you need some alone time, and well, there’s condoms in the bathroom, but if you need a different size—”

“Dad!” Stiles yelped.

“What?”

“Condoms?! Really?”

“What! I want you to practice safe sex. Is that such a bad thing?”

“It is when you just casually imply that we’re having sex!”

Dad frowned at him, confused. “You’re not?”

“No! We just decided to get together today. What, you think we did it already?”

“Can we please stop talking about this?” Derek pleaded, voice choked. His whole face was red, and he refused to make eye contact with either Stilinski. “We’re not having sex.”

“Yet,” Dad added, and Derek made a strangled noise.

“Stop talking about sex,” Stiles said, pointing at his dad. “We’re not having sex, not now, not yet, not until we’re both ready. So, just drop it, okay?”

“Okay,” Dad said softly. “I’m sorry, kid, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just, well, you’re both adults. You both know what you like. It’s just a natural progression of your relationship.”

“Okay, we get it,” Stiles said. “You’re okay if we start having sex, but you want a heads up if you’re going to be walking into it. Well, guess what? When we get Derek’s house the way he wants it, that’s where we’ll be having sex.”

Derek slapped a hand over Stiles’ mouth. “Can. We. Please. Stop. Talking about this?” he begged between clenched teeth.

Stiles licked his palm, and Derek furrowed his brow in disgust, but he didn’t move his hand.

“Okay, I promise not to bring up the s-word anymore,” Dad promised. “Melissa has extended an invitation to all of us for supper tomorrow night. Do either of you want to go?”

“Will Scott be there?” Stiles asked. Dad gave him a flat look. “Then, no, I don’t want to go. Derek?”

“I think I won’t be in any shape to be good company,” Derek said. “Even though we’re just sorting things, it’s taking a lot out of me.”

“Understandable. So, I’ll help out tomorrow until I have work, and then tomorrow night, you’re on your own for supper.”

“Great. Thanks, Dad.” Stiles grabbed their plates and shoved them into the microwave, pressing in four minutes and staring at it while it heated.

“Okay. I’m going to check on my roses. I think I’ve got a shot at gardener of the year this year. What do you think, Derek? Think I’ve got a green thumb?”

“Well,” Derek said, hesitantly, “you’ve done really well with your wolfsbane collection.”

Stiles stifled a snort, stopped the microwave on one second, and carried the plates to the table. “Go on, Dad. Go do your gardening. We’ll catch up later.”

Dad looked rejected, but he picked up his dirt-stained gloves, kept on a shelf next to the back door, and a hand rake and stepped outside.

“Do you want to have sex?” Derek asked before Stiles could take a bite.

“Now?” Stiles looked at him.

Derek ducked his head. “No,” he said quietly, poking at his lasagna. “Not right now. Eventually, though, yeah. I like sex. I think sex with you would be good.”

“Oh, baby,” Stiles deadpanned, “I’ll knock your socks off.”

Then he tucked into his food, grimacing when he encountered the cold center. Derek laughed at the face he made and heated it up more for him.

Derek washed the dishes when they were done, and they settled on the couch to watch a movie with Dad when he came in from gardening.

As promised, Dad didn’t mention sex again. Didn’t mean Stiles wasn’t thinking about it.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Jordan and about six deputies all dressed in plain clothes were already at the house, taking the tarps off and folding them into a lidded bin so that they wouldn’t blow away in the breeze.

Stiles had grabbed the bin Derek had started of his keepsakes before he and Derek drove out there, so he grabbed it and set it down by the tarp bin.

“If Derek says save and it’s small enough, put it in here,” he told Jordan, trusting him to pass along the message. “Anything that’s too big to fit, put it with the other pile.”

Dad pulled up in his truck then. He’d brought a case of water that he set on the chair on the porch. Derek unlocked the door, and they began pulling put more things.

Sometime around when four of the deputies were maneuvering the non-working fridge out of the kitchen, the same code enforcement officer who had given them two weeks parked behind Dad’s truck.

“Tamara,” Dad greeted cheerfully, “what brings you out this way?”

“Just checking on the progress,” Tamara said. She frowned at the piles of things, watching as the fridge was walked to the curb next to John’s truck. “What’s going on?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dad waved at the deputies. “We’re helping Derek clean up his house.”

“Can I see inside the house?” She started for the door without waiting for an answer. Stiles hurried to intercept her. Derek was inside, supervising the clear out of the kitchen, but he must have heard Tamara, because he stepped out onto the porch just as she started up the steps.

“Hello,” he said quietly. “Would you like to see the progress being made?” He stepped aside and she walked into the foyer.

“Well, this certainly is an improvement.” She knelt down by a baseboard and tapped on it. “Hmm, still sound.”

“I should hope so,” Derek said, amusement making his eyes light up. “I had the house inspected before I bought it. It wasn’t this full of things until about six months ago.”

“Minimal damage.” Tamara made a mark on her clipboard. “Have you been able to clean any other rooms?”

Derek pointed toward the kitchen. “We’re working on the kitchen and living room today.”

Tamara clicked her pen and stuck it to her clipboard. “Show me.”

Five minutes later, she was outside. “This is good progress,” she told Derek. “Ideally, we’d like to see the whole house and both yards fully clean before the deadline, but with the amount of progress you’ve made, I’m sure we can extend the deadline by another two weeks. You now have thirty days to become compliant.” She marked an “x” on her clipboard and handed it to Derek to sign. Then she signed it and tore off the carbon copy underneath, giving it to Derek. “Good work, Mr. Hale. Keep it up.”

She walked back to her car and drove away.

As soon as she was gone, Derek visibly sagged, and Stiles pushed him until he was sitting on the steps. Jordan called a halt for a break and they all congregated by Dad’s truck with water bottles and a pizza someone had called in for delivery.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asked. “Do you need to talk to Jerri?”

Derek shrugged. “I didn’t realize how much it was. I’d forgotten it was there, I guess, when more stuff just got piled on it.” He looked back at the house and then nodded at the various piles stacked on the lawn. “I don’t know why I let it get so bad.”

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re working through it. Do you have any ideas on things that could go right now, or are you waiting to see if the people I called will actually show up for their things?”

“That one,” Derek said. He sighed. “I just don’t want to throw something away and have someone come looking for it.”

“I know. That’s your caring nature.”

“I’m not caring,” Derek said, giving Stiles a hefty side-eye.

“Yes, you are,” Stiles laughed. “You always have been as long as I’ve known you. I mean, you had a rough way of showing it, but as much as you threatened to kill us when we first knew you, you never had any intention of doing so.”

“I did,” Derek protested. Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Well, I meant to,” Derek mumbled. “Look, I knew you didn’t have all the information, and that would either get you killed or put you in danger, and I couldn’t let you die because of me.”

“And you didn’t,” Stiles said.

“If only everyone could have been as lucky.”

Stiles knew Derek was thinking of Boyd and Erica. He set his hand on Derek’s knee, surprised when Derek turned his hand over and slotted his hand on top, tangling their fingers together.

They sat for fifteen minutes while everyone else ate and joked, laughing and cheering when they managed to get the fridge up into Dad’s truck.

Dad walked over to Derek and Stiles, handing them each a water bottle. “I’m going to take the fridge to the appliance recycling center and then head home to get ready for work. You’ve done a lot these past few days. I’m proud of you both. Now, remember that I’m going to Melissa’s for supper tonight.” He paused before grinning. “The condoms are in the upstairs bathroom.” He jogged away before Stiles recovered enough to start yelling. Derek ducking his head to hide his smile gave him pause, and he turned to fully look at him.

“Do you seriously want to have sex while my dad is at Melissa’s?” he asked incredulously.

“No, not yet,” Derek said. “I just think he said that because he knew it would rile you.”

“That’s the problem with being his son,” Stiles complained. “He knows me so well.”

“He loves you,” Derek said. “That’s not a problem.”

“He likes you too.”

Derek grinned, tipping his head down so he could butt his head gently against Stiles’ shoulder.

“Get up, ya goof,” Stiles said, tugging lightly at Derek’s hair until he obediently raised his head. As soon as his mouth was level with Stiles’, he leaned in and started kissing him.

Derek kissed back.

This kiss was better than their first attempt, with no clicking of teeth, no poked eyes, and plenty of tongue.

Suddenly, Derek’s head shot up, breaking contact.

Derek’s head shot up. “Scott’s here,” he said.

“Scott?” Stiles looked to the street where there was now a bright blue Mazda parked where his dad had been.

Scott was already out of the vehicle, leaning against it, sunglasses obscuring his eyes as he faced them.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Derek asked as he stood up and pulled Stiles up with him.

“I should,” Stiles replied, but his feet didn’t move. He hadn’t seen Scott in years, since high school graduation. He hadn’t forgiven him for bringing Kate back into their lives. He hadn’t forgiven Scott for what Kate had done to Derek before they’d stopped her.

Anger welled in him and he balled his fists. Scott would probably stand still long enough for one hit, but he wouldn’t be able to surprise him. He didn’t get a chance to do anything, though. Derek grabbed his shoulder to keep him in place as Scott strolled up to them. He didn’t remove his sunglasses, even when they were less than five feet apart.

“Hey, Stiles, Derek,” Scott said. His voice was edged, careful.

Stiles shook his head. He couldn’t say anything because if he started talking, he’d start yelling too, and he didn’t want to waste any more time on Scott than he already had. He’d grieved the end of their friendship a long time ago.

“Hi, Scott,” Derek said, cordially. He offered his hand for a shake, and Scott stepped closer and took it gingerly. He held his hand out to Stiles for a few seconds. When Stiles did nothing more than stare at it icily, he stepped back.

The silence between them was awkward, weighed down by the past.

Jordan herded the gawking deputies around the side of the house to start clearing out the backyard, giving them some semblance of privacy.

“So, I need to talk to you about something,” Scott said.

“Okay,” Derek said. “Stiles or me?”

“You.” Scott finally removed his sunglasses, folding the bows together with a little click and gently sliding them into the front pocket of his jacket. He let his eyes glow red, head tipped down to keep any nosy neighbors from seeing them. “I think it’s time to give you this back.”

“What?” Stiles grabbed onto Derek’s arm in shock. “You want to give Derek your alpha powers?”

“They weren’t mine to begin with,” Scott said. He sighed. “Deaton told me it was possible that I became an alpha after Derek used his spark to heal Cora because it needed more power than he had left. The spark left because if it had stayed, it would have killed Derek.”

“And did Deaton tell you to give it back?” Stiles asked. Derek grabbed his hand, threading their fingers together. Stiles squeezed gratefully.

“No,” Scott said. He opened and closed his hands, staring at his fingertips like he expected his claws to pop out. Disappointingly, he remained fully human. “I found a new mentor. He used to be a werewolf, bitten, like me.” He shot a quick glance at Derek. Stiles followed it. Derek’s face was blank, but his hand, where he was still holding Stiles’ was trembling.

“Deaton didn’t like me talking to Micah, said he was only telling me what I wanted to hear.”

“That you could be human again?” Stiles guessed. Scott nodded. “So, what’s the catch?”

“I have to give the power back to the person I got it from.”

“And you think it’s Derek based on what Deaton told you?”

“Not just Deaton,” Scott said. “Peter, before he disappeared after the shit with Kate, said that my alpha powers were Hale in origin.” He shrugged. “Peter could probably tell that it was his family’s.”

“How do you know?” Stiles demanded.

“Micah didn’t know where he got his alpha powers from, so he asked a witch spark to help track down the same, like, frequency of the power.”

“Electro-signals,” Derek murmured. “Each alpha’s power carries a distinct energy signal.”

Stiles turned so that he was facing Derek. “Does that mean Scott’s power is yours?”

Derek nodded. “I didn’t want to be an alpha anymore. Everyone I loved was dying. Sometimes at my hands. I thought I didn’t deserve it, and Peter still had a lot of rage left after he came back. I didn’t trust him with it subconsciously. That must have been why it went to Scott.”

“And now I’m giving it back to you,” Scott said.

Derek shook his head. “I still don’t want it.”

“I don’t think we can trust Peter either,” Stiles said. “So, what do we do with it?”

“We could put it in the same container we used to store the nogitsune’s powers,” Derek said, slowly.

Stiles suppressed a full-body shiver. If Derek felt guilt for the deaths he thought he’d caused, Stiles drowned in it. So many people had died because of his body, and while he hadn’t been aware at the time of most of the deaths, he’d still felt their loss keenly.

“Wait,” Scott said, “wouldn’t opening the box let out the nogitsune again?” He shot a concerned look at Stiles.

Derek squeezed their hands together. “Chris didn’t trust Peter with the box if the nogitsune was in it, so he made a silver box and transferred the nogitsune into that and buried it somewhere only he knows.”

“So, Peter has the box now?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah. He wanted it back about a year ago, just before I moved back to Beacon Hills.”

“So, where is Peter now?”

Derek made a face. “Oregon. About two hours drive.”

“And he’ll let you take the box?” Scott asked, hopeful.

Stiles snorted. “It’s Peter,” he said. “Do you think he’s actually going to let us take anything?”

“We have to try,” Scott said. “Please?”

“Is being a werewolf really so horrible?” Stiles asked.

“You’re one to talk,” Scott said. “You’re still human.”

“But I wouldn’t have tried to resurrect a fucking hunter to learn how to be human again.”

“Oh my God, is that why you wouldn’t talk to me?” Scott shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry that I accidentally brought Kate back to life. That wasn’t my intention.”

“No?” Stiles could still remember the metallic taste of fear when he’d gone to Derek’s loft because they hadn’t heard from him for a few days and found the door open, blood smeared everywhere. It had taken three days to find Derek chained up in the tunnels under the preserve.

Scott had admitted what he’d done when Derek told them that it was Kate, and then Kate tried to blow them up and absconded with Derek again. She had him for a week that time, and when they finally tracked her down and made sure she was dead and buried in as many pieces as they could tear her into, Derek had walked away from Beacon Hills. He’d taken nothing with him. He hadn’t even washed the blood and dirt off before he disappeared.

Peter, the main orchestrator of Kate’s dismemberment, had left shortly after that.

And Stiles hadn’t talked to Scott since.

“No. I was trying to draw the alpha spark out of me, but I guess Deaton gave me the wrong ritual.”

“So, you’re saying we should blame Deaton now?”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Stiles, it may have taken me slightly more time to realize it, but Deaton wanted me to be the alpha.” He shot an apologetic look at Derek. “I’m not sure why he had such a problem with Derek or Peter being the alpha, but I guess he was just trying to make sure I’d stay in charge.”

Stiles shook his head. “You were never in charge,” he said coldly. “Maybe you’re right: you don’t deserve to be a werewolf.” He turned to Derek. “Do you want to drive or should I?”

“You can,” Derek said.

“Are you going to get the box from Peter?” Scott asked.

Stiles didn’t bother to answer him. As far as he was concerned, Scott no longer existed. They would help him stop being an alpha and then Scott could fuck off again.

“Let’s go tell Jordan the new plan,” Stiles said. “Do you trust them enough to keep working while we’re gone?”

Derek tilted his head, thinking about it for a long moment before shaking his head. “The code officer said she’d extend our deadline, so it’s not like we’re going to lose too much progress.”

“True. I think I’m going to have Jordan call all the people who have stuff out on your front lawn and have them pick it up. We’re only going to be gone for as long as it takes to drive there and back and convince Peter to give us the box.”

“Should I come too?” Scott asked.

“No,” Stiles and Derek said at the same time. Stiles added, “Peter might not be willing to give us the box if he knows you’re involved.”

Stiles had been pissed at Scott. Peter had left town because, he explained in a text message he sent to Stiles about a week after he’d gone, he wanted to rip Scott limb from limb like he’d done to Kate, and if he gave in to his need for revenge, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to stop, and Derek wasn’t around to stop him.

Stiles hadn’t responded, not sure if there was anything he could say to that because he knew exactly how Peter felt.

And now, six years later, Stiles was beginning to feel that same rage again. Yeah, it was definitely not a good idea for Scott to come with them.

“Go see your mom,” he said. “Tell my dad hi when he has supper with her.”

“Okay,” Scott said easily. He put his sunglasses back on and walked back to his Mazda.

Stiles waited until he pulled away before he marched around the house and found Jordan directing the deputies to cover the piles of stuff they’d pulled from the sheds with tarps.

“We’ll get everything covered up and call it a day,” Jordan said. “We couldn’t exactly not hear what you were talking about since we’ve all got super hearing.” He held out his hand for the list. “I’ll get this taken care of while we finish up covering everything. Jenkins has a trailer we can borrow to help people haul their things away if they want them. Is it okay to make a possible dumpster pile if some people don’t want anything back?”

“As long as you don’t actually put it in a dumpster, that should be fine,” Derek said. “Thanks, Jordan.”

“Hey, no worries. Always glad to help out a friend.”

Derek looked startled at that, and Stiles nudged him. “Remember you told me about him being affronted about the shock wand?” Derek nodded. “Yeah, he’s been your friend since then, I think.”

“Yeah,” Jordan said. “For sure. Anytime you need something, just give me a call. I’ll be around. Now, I think you’d better hit the road if you want to have daylight for the trip home.”

Stiles high fived him and then all but pushed Derek toward Roscoe. “We’ll have to stop for gas a lot unless you want to switch to the Camaro?”

Derek shook his head. “Peter likes you more. If he hears your Jeep, he’ll be more amenable to helping us.”

“Your uncle is creepy.”

Derek laughed. “He’s always been like that.” He sobered, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “It’ll be nice to see him again.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, lying. He didn’t have any fond memories of Peter, but he wasn’t going to hold that against Derek. Besides, if Peter did agree to give them the box because Stiles tagged along, well, all the better.

He flipped his blinker on and took the turn that led out of town, heading north toward Oregon and Peter Hale.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek drove for the second half of the trip up while Stiles dozed in the passenger seat. They stopped for gas too many times, so what should have been two hours was quickly turning into three.

Finally, around Ashland, Derek pulled off Interstate 5. “Peter built a cabin close to Ashland,” he explained. “He wanted to be close enough to civilization because despite his creepy tendencies, he’s very social, but he also likes his privacy. Coming back from the dead does that, or so he’s told me.”

“Peter wasn’t very private when you were growing up?”

Derek snorted. “If Peter could show off or brag about anything, he would.” Derek pulled off the paved road and onto an access road. Five miles by the odometer and he parked in front of a structure that couldn’t be considered a cabin in any sense of the word. He turned off the engine and handed the keys to Stiles.

“Peter built this himself?” Stiles asked, staring at the large, mansion-sized lodge.

“No.” Derek frowned at him. “Peter hired people to help him. If he’s started building things himself, then we’re all in trouble.”

“He’s not an architect?”

“Not at all.” Derek looked a little wistful. “I was actually studying to be one when Laura and I were in New York.”

“Do you have plans to finish your degree?”

Derek shrugged. “Let’s finish one project before we worry about another.”

He opened his door and braced. Peter knocked him down, and they rolled in the leaves by the side of the dirt road while Stiles climbed out and stretched out the kinks in his back.

“Derek, what brings you up my way?” Peter asked when he and Derek stopped moving.

“I need something from you,” Derek said. He let Peter tug him up to his feet and ambled toward Stiles. He slung an arm over Stiles’ shoulders and walked him to the porch. It was larger than Derek’s kitchen, and Stiles had the hysterical thought that they should just pack up all that junk and store it here. Certainly Peter didn’t need as much room as he had.

He stamped the thought down. He was trying to help Derek get rid of his hoard, not dump it on someone else. Besides, Peter wasn’t exactly the type to tolerate encroachment of his territory.

“Oh?” Peter smiled knowingly at them. “Does this have something to do with your little crush on Stiles?”

“Not a crush,” Derek said. “And no. This is actually about the box my mother’s claws were in.”

Peter drew back, studying Derek with an air of suspicion. “And why would you want that?” he asked. “You have your mother’s claws. I thought we agreed I could have the box since you wouldn’t let me have the claws.”

“You wanted to use them in a ritual to regain alpha powers,” Derek said. “You know every hunter will come after you if they realize you’re an alpha again, right? You’re too dangerous for them.”

“And what about you? When are you going to become an alpha again?”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want power.”

Peter looked at Stiles, and it felt like he was being stripped of clothes and flesh. “No, you just want a little fuck-buddy.”

“Hey!” Stiles said. “I’m right here!”

“We’re not fuck-buddies,” Derek added. “We’re dating.”

“Hmm. I suppose I should invite you in.” Peter turned on his heel and walked into his house. He left the door open for them, so Stiles followed him in. Derek trailed after, closing the door behind him.

“Want anything? Juice, soda, wine?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Derek said. “We just need the box.”

“And then what do I get?” Peter asked. “Was she not my sister? Why should I have no mementos of her?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Peter, you emptied an entire vault full of memories. I have the claws and not much else. I am asking you, as my mother’s son, for her box.”

Peter turned to Stiles. “And you? Why are you here? Did Derek think that seeing you again would melt my heart? Well, it hasn’t. If anything, I am now more frozen than ever.”

Stiles reached out and stabbed his index finger into Peter’s chest. “Feels pretty warm to me,” he said.

Peter just stared at him. Derek growled under his breath and stalked away. He returned a few minutes later, the box in hand. “Goodbye, Peter.”

Derek grabbed Stiles’ hand and dragged him out of the house. Stiles barely had time to buckle into the passenger seat before Derek had Roscoe turned around and heading back to the paved road, edging up near top speed. He hadn’t even felt him take the keys.

“Easy,” Stiles said as Derek slowed marginally to turn onto the road. “I know Jeeps are good off-roaders, but Roscoe’s old. You’d better treat him better.”

“I thought you’d call your Jeep a she,” Derek muttered, but he did ease off the accelerator.

“Roscoe was my mom’s first. She named him.”

“Oh,” was all Derek said.

It wasn’t until they were back on Interstate 5, near the Oregon-California border that Derek said, “Laura named the Camaro ‘Maura.’”

“Do you still call it that?”

“Her,” Derek said softly. “Yeah. It’s a piece of Laura that I still have.” He patted the dash. “Good, Roscoe. Good job.”

Stiles smiled at him. “You think Peter’s going to try to get the box back?”

“Probably,” Derek said. “Is Chris still in town?”

“Dunno.”

“If he is, I’ll send him to say hello to Peter. I’m sure that’ll keep him away.”

“Not indefinitely,” Stiles pointed out. “Chris is going to leave again, and Peter will probably just come back then.”

“Yeah.” Derek sighed. “I’m just hoping I can decide what to do with the alpha spark if it comes to that.”

“If we can even get the spark out of Scott.”

Derek nodded. “Trade at the next station?”

“Sure,” Stiles said.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

They traded drivers again for the last forty-five minutes before they got to Beacon Hills. Dad texted Stiles just as they hit the city limits sign.

 Scott wants to meet at Derek’s house.

Stiles sent Okay back. “We’re going to your house. Apparently Scott’s already there.”

Derek turned onto his street and passed Scott’s Mazda as he pulled into his driveway.

Scott was sitting on the chair on the porch, his phone braced against his knee. He lifted a hand to wave at them.

Derek paused before shutting the door. “He’s not alone,” he said in a sotto voice as he and Stiles walked up to Scott.

Indeed, as they stepped onto the porch, a man came around the corner of the house. He was tall, taller than even Boyd had been, darker too.

“Micah,” Scott said, “this is Derek and Stiles. They’re going to be helping with the ritual.”

Micah studied Derek. “This is who your spark came from?”

“His family, yeah,” Scott said.

“Him,” Stiles said. “Derek had to give up the spark almost seven years ago.”

“And you are willing to take it back?”

Derek held up his mom’s box. “I think we can store it in here. It’s made from the wood of the nemeton.”

“So it has power,” Micah said.

“Yes.”

He nodded. “It should be a fine container.” He motioned to Scott. “Shall we begin?”

“Wait,” Stiles said. “What exactly does this ritual entail? What do we have to do? Is there any bloodletting?”

Micah laughed just a touch too hard, Stiles thought. “No,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “It is rather simple. All that has to be done is for the parties to stand in the center of a mountain ash circle and renounce the spark.” He looked to Derek. “Normally, you would then accept the power, but since you wish to store it in the nemeton box, you will have to say that you accept it as it goes into the box instead of your body.”

“What are the exact words we need to say?” Derek asked. “I’d like to not accidentally become an alpha again.”

“Wait,” Stiles said again. “What if the spark doesn’t go into either the box or Derek?”

“That’s what the mountain ash circle is for,” Micah said. “It will stop the spark from finding another host.”

Derek stiffened suddenly. “We need to hurry,” he said. “Peter is coming.”

“I’ll call my dad and see if Chris is still here and if he can come over now.” Stiles stepped back, already dialing.

He watched Micah position Derek and Scott so that they were facing each other in arm’s length apart. He then picked up a pouch from the porch and began pouring mountain ash into a circle  around them. If Micah had truly been a werewolf, then he wasn’t one now. Scott was the only wolf Stiles had known to break through mountain ash, but as far as he knew, Scott hadn’t been able to do it again. A one-trick pony.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said when his dad picked up. “Is Chris Argent still in town?”

“I think so,” Dad said. “He was also invited to have dinner with Melissa sometime this week.”

“Can you ask him if he can come to Derek’s house? We need some hunter muscle.”

“Sure. You need a retired sheriff too?”

“Uh, maybe? Peter Hale is in town tonight.”

“Well, fuck,” Dad said. “Okay, we’ll be there. I’ll bring some wolfsbane bullets for Peter.”

“Hurry please.” Stiles hung up and walked closer to see the ritual. Scott was already halfway through his speech of giving up the alpha spark, thanking it for its power and asking that it serve the next host just as well. As he spoke, his body lifted, wind that Stiles couldn’t feel outside the circle ruffling his hair. Scott closed his eyes, leaning back, arms thrown wide.

Derek opened his mom’s box. “Alpha spark,” he said, “please accept this box as your new host and serve it well.” He said a few more things, but Stiles wasn’t paying attention anymore because behind him, he heard growling. When he turned, Peter stood there, close enough that Stiles could touch him if he wanted to. He didn’t.

Peter was half-shifted, eyes blazing icy blue, fur sprouting along his cheeks as his forehead became more prominent.

“You’d waste it like this?” he snarled at Derek.

Derek ignored him, closing the lid on the box as it jerked under his hands, like it suddenly weighed more than before.

Dad’s truck horn blared, and they all turned as Dad parked haphazardly, climbing out of the driver’s side with a raised gun while Chris calmly leveled a loaded crossbow at Peter.

“Hello, Peter,” Chris called. “Long time no see.”

“Yes, well, it is so hard to keep in touch these days,” Peter said, fully human again. “I suppose you’re here to warn me to stay away from my nephew?”

“You know me so well,” Chris returned. “You have five minutes to make yourself scarce before my finger slips.”

Peter glared. “This isn’t over,” he said to Derek. “I will have that power. It is mine by birthright.”

“If that were so,” Derek said quietly, “it would have gone to you and not Laura. You wouldn’t have had to kill her for it.”

Peter looked stricken. “Of course you would think that I did it on purpose. It wouldn’t have mattered if it were someone else. All I saw was an alpha. I didn’t even realize it was Laura until the police were looking for her body.”

“And that is why you shouldn’t have the spark,” Derek said. “I don’t want it, and you can’t have it. Now, please go. Your five minutes are almost up.”

Peter nodded sharply and turned around. “I would say it was nice to see you,” he called to Chris and Stiles’ dad, “but I don’t want to lie.”

He walked away.

“Huh, well that was a lot easier than I thought it’d be,” Stiles said. He stepped up to the mountain ash circle and waved his hand over it to break it. Derek smiled at him before nodding toward Scott.

“It worked. He’s human now.”

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” Scott said. He looked weak, tired. “I’m sorry for what I did before, for bringing Kate back. I should have realized that Deaton didn’t want me to give up the power.”

“I’ll work on forgiving you,” Stiles promised, one hand behind his back, fingers crossed.

Micah helped Scott to his Mazda and set him in the passenger seat before climbing into the driver’s seat and pulling away.

Derek looked around the yard at the piles of things still cluttering the yard. He frowned, holding the box out to Stiles.

As soon as Stiles had a good grip on it, Derek walked over to the smallest pile of stuff and pulled the tarp off. He studied the pile before picking up as much of it as he could all at once and walking over to Stiles’ dad’s truck.

“Is this okay?” he asked. Dad nodded. Derek set the stuff in the bed of the truck and went back for another armful.

“Derek?” Stiles called. “What’s going on?”

“It’s just crap,” Derek said. “I don’t want it. Let’s get rid of it. All of it. Please?”

Stiles smiled so wide his mouth hurt and his eyes teared up. “Yes,” he said. “Always.”

And maybe there would be days where Derek would miss the things he threw away, but Stiles would be there to help him and remind him why he didn’t need it.

Stiles carried the box into the house and set it on a shelf above the fireplace in the living room, marveling at the way he could stretch and stretch and not even come close to reaching anything in his way.

Derek joined him, wrapping an arm around his waist as they both studied the room.

“There’s still a lot of work to do,” Stiles said, “but you’ve taken a lot of steps. And we’re all here for you.”

“I know,” Derek said. “But most importantly, you are here.” He moved to stand in front of Stiles, using a gentle finger to tip Stiles’ head up so he could slot his mouth over Stiles’.

“I am,” Stiles said as soon as the kiss ended. “Always.” He pulled Derek down for a dirtier, wetter kiss. “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you too,” Derek said, and it sounded like a revelation.

Dad cleared his throat. “Not that I want to interrupt this grand display of affection, but I think it’ll be a lot easier to do what you’re about to do on a bed with clean clothes, uh, skin. Come on, let’s go home. You’ll be back here tomorrow anyway.”

“I thought you didn’t want to know when we were having sex,” Stiles said.

“Yes, well, you might not get an STD from Derek, but that floor is another matter.”

Stiles poked Derek’s cheek. “What do you say, should we go back to my place for a little horizontal dancing?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I think I’d prefer to fuck,” he said, and then bodily hauled Stiles up with him.

They made it home in record time. Barely. And took the shortest showers of their lives.

Dad graciously went back to Melissa’s house with Chris, leaving them a row of condoms on Stiles’ bed. They used every last one of them.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

                                                                                                         ~ Epilogue ~

                                                                                        ~ Three Weeks Later ~

Stiles surveyed his handiwork before dipping his roller back into the pan of paint and running it over the wall. He was almost done with the second coat for the living room. Derek was painting the kitchen right now. Everything was clean.

The only things that hadn’t initially belonged to Derek still in the house were a few pieces of furniture that Derek planned to reupholster.

In the end, they’d hauled over 50 tons of trash to the various recycling centers and the dump. The house had taken almost as long to clean since Derek and Stiles were doing it themselves. In fact, this was the last coat of paint that they needed.

With a final swipe of his roller, Stiles finished. He set it down, turning to look at the walls. He wiped at his forehead with his sleeve, mopping at the perspiration soaking his hair and running down his face.

They had the windows open, but it barely made a difference when there wasn’t a breeze to speak of.

Stiles picked up his supplies and carried them out to the shed where Derek had decided to keep his touch-up bits and bobs. By the outside spigot, he scraped as much paint as he could off the roller before sticking it in a bucket and opening the spigot to fill the bucket. He added a few drops of detergent and then used his hands to work the rest of the paint out of the roller, hanging it to dry on a hook Derek had installed for this purpose.

He finished by the time Derek was done with the kitchen.  Derek washed his roller too, hanging it next to Stiles’.

“So, that’s done,” Stiles said. He and Derek were both paint-splattered and sweat-soaked and in desperate need of a shower.

“Yeah,” Derek said. He smiled fondly at Stiles. The past three weeks had seen them consummate their relationship in truly earth shattering fashion. They’d had so much sex that neither of them could walk straight for about a week, and it had made cleaning the house that much more difficult. Neither of them was willing to stop long enough to fully heal though.

“Wanna join me?” Derek asked, cheekily, jerking his head back toward the house.

“For a shower?” Stiles clarified.

Derek hummed. “Among other things.”

Stiles grinned at him. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

“I think your dad left us a house warming gift earlier. I put it upstairs. It was for the bedroom.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek before running up to the room they’d picked for the bedroom. Sitting on their bed was a red cellophane-wrapped basket. Stiles poked it, turning it around until he could see the contents clearly.

“Really, Dad?” He laughed. Condoms and lube. They were running low, so Stiles couldn’t even be mad at his dad for it. They would definitely get used. In fact… Stiles pulled on the ribbon and peeled off the cellophane. He picked out a box of flavored condoms and headed to the bathroom where Derek had already started the shower.

“Strawberry or cherry?” he asked, stripping quickly and joining Derek under the spray.

“Strawberry?”

“You or me?”

Derek’s gaze dropped to Stiles’ crotch. “You?” he tried.

Stiles grinned and rolled a strawberry flavored condom onto his dick. “Good choice,” he said, as if Derek could have made a bad choice here.

The smile he got in return was brilliant, and Derek gracefully dropped to his knees, leaning forward to envelope Stiles’ dick in the wet heat of his mouth.

It was good, great, perfect, and Stiles wouldn’t change a thing.

~ End ~

[nclkafilms]

My 2021 Oscar Predictions

It seems like it was a decade ago, that I cheered for and celebrated a historic night for Parasite as Bong Joon-Ho first surprised by taking home the Best Directing Oscar ahead of Sam Mendes only for the film itself to surprise even further by taking home the biggest of them all. What a film, what a night! And what a year it has been since then; the film industry - as anything else in our lives - has been turned on its head by the global pandemic that continues to redefine our reality. Many big films and award contenders have been postponed. But where one could have feared that this would have given us a lacklustre group of nominees, this is in no way the case. Instead the lack of the big budget films has granted space for smaller, indie films treating us to interesting visions, stellar performances and new cinematic experiences. The biggest loss of course being the lack of cinema experiences; out of all the 56 nominees I have shockingly and sadly only seen 2 in the cinema: Tenet and Mank. I did, however, manage to see ALL nominated films before the show for the first time ever.

So who will win? Here are my predictions: (In paranthesis are my personal ratings of the films from 1-5)

Best Picture

The Father (4,5)

Judas and the Black Messiah (4,5)

Mank (3,5)

Minari (4,5)

Nomadland (5,0)

Promising Young Woman (5,0)

Sound of Metal (4,5)

The Trial of the Chicago 7 (4,0)

The biggest of them all seems likely to be one of the most predictable of them all. Chloe Zhao’s Nomadland, which triumphantly transcends the boundaries between documentary and fiction, has taken home close to every major award possible. The story of Fran, who’s lost everything and embarks on a spiritual journey through the America of the modern day nomads, is an awe-inspiring achievement and will be a deserved winner. The only films that might have a slight chance of causing upset seems to be my personal favourite, Promising Young Woman, the wonderful Minari, that could continue the Korean triumph of last year, and Aaron Sorkin’s Oscar-bait ensemble hit, The Trial of the Chicago 7, which could end up as the Green Book of this year. It is amazing to see films such as The Father, Judas and the Black Messiah and Sound of Metal be acknowledged with this particular nomination, but I don’t see them winning. Mank seems like an easy film to like, but a hard film to love and as such, I don’t see it winning - especially taking the preferential ballot system into consideration. I would have loved to see Soul continue the tradition of nominating animated features for its beautiful take on life. 

Who will win: Nomadland

Potential spoiler: The Trial of the Chicago 7

Personal favourite: Promising Young Woman

Should have been there: Soul 

Actor in a Leading Role

Riz Ahmed, Sound of Metal (4,5)

Chadwick Boseman, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (3,5)

Anthony Hopkins, The Father (4,5)

Gary Oldman, Mank (3,5)

Steven Yeun, Minari (4,5)

Chadwick Boseman is the only actor here, whose film is not nominated in the Best Picture race, but yet, he is the one on everyone’s lips before the big night. Sadly, this - of course - is partly due to his tragic and way to early death. The entire narrative surrounding his death and the fact that only he knew about the illness, while filming Ma Rainey, adds a truly tragic nuance to his powerhouse performance. To me, he does, however, balance on the edge of being too theatrical (goes for everything concerning that film) and it is mostly in his more subtle scenes that he surprised and impressed me the most. The performance of the year is undoubtedly Anthony Hopkins in The Father in my opinion; he manages to capture all the little nuances, confusions and frustrations of growing dementia. A truly ruthless performance! I also have tons of gratitude for Ahmed’s deeply moving and involving work in Sound of Metal, and Steven Yeun’s subtle performance in Minari. Gary Oldman is good as always in Mank, but yet, I see him as the one who could have been snubbed. I would have liked to see the likes of Delroy Lindo (Da 5 Bloods) or Mads Mikkelsen (Another Round) here.

Who will win: Chadwick Boseman

Potential spoiler: Anthony Hopkins

Personal favourite: Anthony Hopkins

Should have been there: Delroy Lindo/Mads Mikkelsen

Actor in a Supporting Role

Sacha Baron Cohen, The Trial of the Chicago 7 (4,0)

Daniel Kaluuya, Judas and the Black Messiah (4,5)

Leslie Odom Jr., One Night in Miami… (4,0)

Paul Raci, Sound of Metal (4,5)

Lakeith Stanfield, Judas and the Black Messiah (4,5)

This one is Daniel Kaluuya’s to lose. And he will not be doing that. While you can argue that he might close to a leading role in Judas, but that does not take anything from his truly stunning performance. Such an interesting actor creating such an interesting character! His closest competitors seem to be Cohen for a role that hopefully can open up more dramatic chances for him and Paul Raci, who creates an endearing character in Sound of Metal. Oh, I would also love for him to win! Leslie Odom Jr. will probably have more open doors in Hollywood after his deserved nomination and Lakeith Stanfield will be asking himself how come he ends up as a supporting role for a film in which he was clearly the leading force of the story. His performance, however, is brilliant and impressed me further upon a recent rewatch of Judas. Could have been great to see Bo Burnham here for Promising Young Woman, but honestly I do not see who he should have replaced apart from Stanfield, who - as said - belongs in another category.

Who will win: Daniel Kaluuya

Potential spoiler: Sacha Baron Cohen

Personal Favourite: Daniel Kaluuya / Paul Raci

Could have been there: Bo Burnham

Actress in a Leading Role

Viola Davis, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (3,5)

Andra Day, The United States vs. Billie Holiday (2,0)

Vanessa Kirby, Pieces of a Woman (3,5)

Frances McDormand, Nomadland (5,0)

Carey Mulligan, Promising Young Woman (5,0)

Perhaps the most unpredictable race of the evening! Everyone except Kirby has taken home a major award in the run-in to the Oscars. For that reason, I am having a hard time seeing Kirby take home the win for her otherwise stunning and powerful turn in mediocre Pieces of a Woman. Andra Day took home the Golden Globe, but I think the questionable quality (nicely put) of the film will make it hard for her to repeat that victory here. McDormand is beautifully subtle in Nomadland and could easily deserve the award, but the narrative is against her as she has already won two Oscars and took one just a couple of years ago. With this in mind, I think this is between Davis and Mulligan. Davis’ performance - not unlike Boseman’s in the same film - is close to being overdone, although it is a truly transformative performance. I will, however, say it should have been nominated as a supporting role. She took home the SAG and has a strong narrative for a win. Mulligan, in Promising Young Woman, is the best performance in my opinion and a minor favourite to win; she surprises with something completely new and risk-taking while still delivering the quality and nuance we have come to expect from her. A cheeky bid for who I would have liked to see, would be Jasna Duricic of Quo Vadis, Aida?, who I think carried that film on her shoulders with an intense performance.

Who will win: Carey Mulligan

Potential spoiler: Viola Davis

Personal favourite: Carey Mulligan

Could have been there: Jasna Duricic

Actress in a Supporting Role

Maria Bakalova, Borat Subsequent Moviefilm (3,5)

Glenn Close, Hillbilly Elegy (1,5)

Oliva Colman, The Father (4,5)

Amanda Seyfried, Mank (3,5)

Yuh-Jung Youn, Minari (4,5)

For a long time, Seyfried seemed like the one to beat here with a lot of buzz before Mank was released. While her performance is delightful, her role is, however, extremely limited and I actually ended up being surprised she was even there on nomination morning. Colman and Close famously battled for the leading actress award two years ago with Colman surprisingly (yet, deservedly) taking home the award. That left Close Oscar-less still, but while the narrative might be with her, it would be a shame to give her the award for this performance in this film. Bakalova is the surprise: raunchy and ruthless, she is not only the rare comedic nomination, but also one of the most daring performances of the year. I would love for her to win, and should she win it will not just be because of THAT hotel room scene. Her turn in Borat is surprisingly funny and layered. I do - however - think that everyone has been as charmed by Youn as I have been. Her grandmother in Minari is the heart of the film and she creates one of the most memorable on-screen grandmothers in recent time. I would have loved to see Dominique Fishback from Judas, although her role was also quite small.

Who will win: Yuh-Jung Youn

Potential spoiler: Maria Bakalova / Glenn Close

Personal favourite: Yuh-Jung Youn

Should have been there: Dominique Fishback

Animated Feature Film

Onward (3,5)

Over the Moon (3,0)

A Shaun the Sheep Movie: Farmageddon (3,5)

Soul (4,5)

Wolfwalkers (4,0)

Soul is winning this one with no real competitor. It is an amazing film by Pixar - both storywise, philosophically and in particular technically. But it is also daring as it is close to being there first truly film MAINLY for adults. Pixar competes against themselves, as Onward is also here. Netflix joins the animation race with the charming Over the Moon, while Aardman Studios are here with Farmageddon, which is a simply delightful children’s film. Wolfwalkers is perhaps the most interesting when it comes to animation style as the handdrawn animation follows the emotions of the characters.

Who will win: Soul

Potential spoiler: Wolfwalkers

Personal favourite: Soul

Cinematography

Sean Bobbitt, Judas and the Black Messiah (4,5)

Erik Messerschmidt, Mank (3,5)

Dariusz Wolski, News of the World (3,0)

Joshua James Richards, Nomadland (5,0)

Phedon Papamichael, The Trial of the Chicago 7 (4,0)

I was happy to see Judas being recognised here, but it hardly stands a chance, despite its great work with depth. The same can be said about Papamichael, whose nomination I honestly do not understand, and Wolski, who produces some stunning vistas in the otherwise disappointing News of the World. Messerschmidt’s black and white work on Mank is a joy to behold, and while the Academy typically love black and white cinematography, I only see it as a potential spoiler. Joshua James Richards manages the otherwise small Nomadland into a grand and stunning film with some of the most beautiful images that I cannot wait to enjoy in a cinema. I would have loved to see Hoyte van Hoytema be nominated for his work on the otherwise faulty Tenet. 

Who will win: Nomadland

Potential spoiler: Mank

Personal favourite: Nomadland

Should have been there: Tenet

Costume Design

Emma (3,0)

Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (3,5)

Mank (3,5)

Mulan (3,0)

Pinocchio (1,5)

This is Ma Rainey’s to lose with all of its broadway costumes. Personally I rate the costumes in both Pinocchio higher and I would have liked to see Promising Young Woman nominated, although I know how rarely contemporary nominees are in this category.

Who will win: Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom

Potential spoiler: Mank

Personal favourite: Pinocchio

Could have been there: Promising Young Woman

Directing

Thomas Vinterberg, Another Round (5,0)

David Fincher, Mank (3,5)

Lee Isaac Chung, Minari (4,5)

Chloé Zhao, Nomadland (5,0)

Emerald Fennell, Promising Young Woman (5,0)

It is a historic year for this category; the first time that two female directors are nominated in the same year. Chloé Zhao will also find her way into the history books as the only second female winner of the category for her work with Nomadland; a film which would never have existed without her. Fennell and Chung are her closest competitors, but despite their deeply personal and commited work they do not stand a chance. Mank is as Fincher as it gets, but the films is just not very good in the end. Finally, as a Dane, I am of course ecstatic to see Vinterberg here for his masterful work on Another Round. I would have loved to see Florian Zeller for The Father, though!

Who will win: Chloé Zhao

Potential spoiler: Lee Isaac Chung

Personal favourite: Chloé Zhao

Could have been there: Florian Zeller

Documentary (Feature)

Collective (4,5)

Crip Camp (4,0)

The Mole Agent (3,0)

My Octopus Teacher (4,0)

Time (5,0)

For a long time, Time or Collective seemed to be the ones to beat here. While Time, which I reckon to be one of the best, most impactful films of the year, remains my favourite, I think it might be too slow for some people. Collective shares the same issue as the entertaining The Mole Agent; they are in a foreign language. Thus, we end up with Crip Camp and My Octopus Teacher. The first is undoubtedly the most important of the two, but I do think that the heart-warming and surprisingly effective story of man and nature in Octopus Teacher will charm its way to a surprising Oscar! The fascinating micro-cosmos of American politics portrayed in Boys State was snubbed here!

Who will win: My Octopus Teacher

Potential spoiler: Crip Camp

Personal favourite: Time

Should have been there: Boys State

Documentary (Short Subject)

Colette (3,5)

A Concerto is a Conversation (3,5)

Do Not Split (4,5)

Hunger Ward (3,5)

A Love Song for Latasha (4,0)

Notoriously difficult to predict, this years documentary shorts are no exception. Four of them are mainly journalistic, with A Love Song for Latasha standing out with its artistic aspects. I think that will tip the votes in its favour.

Who will win: A Love Song for Latasha

Potential spoiler: A Concerto is a Conversation

Personal Favourite: Do Not Split

Film Editing

The Father (4,5)

Nomadland (5,0)

Promising Young Woman (5,0)

Sound of Metal (4,5)

The Trial of the Chicago 7 (4,0)

Traditionally the film featuring the most and the most clear cuts will take home this Oscar, making Trial the traditional favourite here. However, Mikkel E.G. Nielsen’s close collaboration with the sound designers of Sound of Metal seems to have pushed that film closer to a suprising yet deserved award. For me, however, the confusing, unstructured work of Yorgos Lamprinos in The Father is the best of the year. Mank would have liked to have this on nomination morning.

Who will win: Sound of Metal

Potential spoiler: The Trial of the Chicago 7

Personal favourite: The Father

International Feature Film

Another Round (5,0)

Better Days (3,5)

Collective (4,5)

The Man Who Sold His Skin (3,5)

Quo Vadis, Aida? (4,5)

Collective follows Honeyland’s example from last year with a double nomination for international and documentary, but it will not win despite its high quality. The Man Who Sold His Skin is an interesting and thought-provoking take on the refugee crisis and Better Days is a surprisingly effective YA adaptation with some criticism of the Chinese school system - they will be happy just be there. Quo Vadis, Aida? Is a really good film with a towering lead performance about one of the most gruesome historical events post WWII. However, and this is not just because I am Danish, Another Round will take this home. The film that grew from initially being a celebration of the Danish alcohol culture organically grew into a celebration of life in the shadows of a personal tragedy for director Vinterberg. At its heart is a beautiful performance from Mads Mikkelsen and a fascinating study of the Danish alcohol culture in the universally recognisable struggle of life. Its take on the built in paradox of our teenagers being stressed out in order to gain access to the same life that the film’s four protagonists desperately try to escape, is thought-provoking and well-portrayed.

Who will win: Another Round

Potential spoiler: Quo Vadis, Aida?

Personal favourite: Another Round

Makeup and Hairstyling

Emma (3,0)

Hillbilly Elegy (2,0)

Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (3,5)

Mank (3,5)

Pinocchio (1,5)

Despite being a horrible film, the makeup and prosthetic work in Pinocchio ought to secure it an Oscar here. However, this will be given to the theatre makeup work in Ma Rainey.

Who will win: Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom

Potential spoiler: Hillbilly Elegy

Personal favourite: Pinocchio

Music (Original Score)

Da 5 Bloods (3,5)

Mank (3,5)

Minari (4,5)

News of the World (3,0)

Soul (4,5)

News of the World is a good yet classic western score, Da 5 Bloods is a nice score to listen to but does not fit in the film and Emile Mosseri’s brilliant score in Minari might be a bit too simple for some people. This means that this a battle between Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross and themselves for their buzzing 40’s score in Mank and amazing collaboration with Jon Batiste in Soul. Reznor and Ross will be taking the stage along with Batiste! It is close to robbery that Ludwig Göransson is not nominated for his towering Tenet score!!

Who will win: Soul

Potential spoiler: Mank

Personal favourite: Soul

Should have been there: Tenet

Music (Original Song)

“Fight for You”, Judas and the Black Messiah (4,5)

“Hear My Voice”, The Trial of the Chicago 7 (4,0)

“Husavik”, Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (3,0)

“Io Si (Seen”), The Life Ahead (3,0)

“Speak Now”, One Night in Miami… (4,0)

“Husavik” is a great song and is the only of the songs to truly play a part in the film rather than just being a credits song and I think that should always be a factor! However, this is Leslie Odom Jr.’s for the beautifully subtle “Speak Now” - he is an amazing singer! “Green” from Sound of Metal should have been here, I have to say.

Who will win: “Speak Now”

Potential spoiler: “Husavik”

Personal favourite: “Husavik”

Should have been there: “Green”

Production Design

The Father (4,5)

Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (3,5)

Mank (3,5)

News of the World (3,0)

Tenet (3,0)

The wonderfully simple, yet effective production design of The Father really should be winning this. However, The Academy always love representations of Hollywood and - to be fair - the work in Mank is incredibly detailed and beautiful to look at. Honestly, I would have loved to see Emma - that film was one of the most beautiful of the year!

Who will win: Mank

Potential spoiler: The Father / Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom

Personal favourite: The Father

Could have been there: Emma

Short Film (Animation)

Burrow (4,0)

Genius Loci (3,0)

If Anything Happens I Love You (4,5)

Opera (5,0)

Yes-People (3,0)

Yes-People is funny but uninteresting. Genius Loci is visually fascinating but also very abstract. Burrow is classic Pixar charm. If Anything Happens I Love You is an emotional gut-punch. Opera is transcending the film media being more of an art installation rather than an actual shortfilm; it is however both visually and visionary in a league of its own. So obviously, it will not win. Disappointing not to see Out here!

Who will win: If Anything Happens I Love You

Potential spoiler: Burrow

Personal favourite: Opera

Should have been there: Out

Short Film (Live Action)

Feeling Through (4,0)

The Letter Room (3,5)

The Present (4,0)

Two Distant Strangers (2,0)

White Eye (3,0)

Two Distant Strangers seems like a late frontrunner here, and while it is impossible to disasgree with the importance of the film’s topic, I simply did not like the film. I found it both exploitative and overly symbolic leaving me with a bad taste in my mouth; difficult opinions to have regarding a film about such an important topic. None of the other four truly stand out, but I would love to see the inclusive and touching Feeling Through receive the Oscar.

Who will win: Two Distant Strangers

Potential spoiler: The Letter Room

Personal favourite: Feeling Through

Sound

Greyhound (2,0)

Mank (3,5)

News of the World (3,0)

Soul (4,5)

Sound of Metal (4,5)

Rarely has a film been so defined by its sound as Sound of Metal. It is not only groundbreaking but also deeply fascinating, impressive and involving; a main factor in the film’s success. It is difficult to predict as this is the first year the two awards (Editing/Mixing) have been combined. Greyhound might have been able to grab an editing award had they been separated still…

Who will win: Sound of Metal

Potential spoiler: Soul

Personal favourite: Sound of Metal

Visual Effects

Love and Monsters (3,0)

The Midnight Sky (2,5) 

Mulan (3,0)

The One and Only Ivan (3,0)

Tenet (3,0)

A category that would probably have been dominated by films such as Godzilla vs. Kong, Dune and Black Widow in a normal 2020, has now granted space for the charming animals of The One and Only Ivan and the surprisingly entertaining and heartfelt Love and Monsters. It does, however, seem like an obvious opportunity to give the supposed “saviour of cinema” Tenet one award. 

Who will win: Tenet

Potential spoiler: The Midnight Sky

Personal favourite: Tenet

Should have been there: Soul

Writing (Adapted Screenplay)

Borat Subsequent Moviefilm (3,5)

The Father (4,5)

Nomadland (5,0)

One Night in Miami… (4,0)

The White Tiger (3,0)

The White Tiger is the odd one out here with its overly told and clumsy voice-over, whereas Borat is another example of the weird definition. While the main character is not new, the film is obviously an original story. One Night in Miami… is a much better adaption than Ma Rainey, but The Father is even more successful in its journey from stage to silver screen. Zeller’s screenplay is masterful and daring in its ruthless depiction of dementia. However, it faces stern competition from Chloé Zhao who might add her first of many Oscars of the evening with this award for a rare adaptation of a non-fiction work into a fictional story. 

Who will win: The Father

Potential spoiler: Nomadland

Personal favourite: The Father

Writing (Original Screenplay)

Judas and the Black Messiah (4,5)

Minari (4,5)

Promising Young Woman (5,0)

Sound of Metal (4,5)

The Trial of Chicago 7 (4,0)

I was immensely happy to see Judas and Sound of Metal here as they told well-structured and well-paced stories, while this was the biggest nail in the coffin for Mank as David Fincher’s father missed out on a nomination for the film about one of history’s best screenplays. The battle is seems to be between the king of screenplays Aaron Sorkin and a certain promising young woman, Emerald Fennell, who has written the best screenplay of the year in my opinion. Look out for Lee Isaac Chung as he will be ready to pounce with his deeply personal screenplay for Minari, should the battle between Fennell and Sorkin fall flat. The extremely charming and funny Palm Springs should have been here!

Who will win: Promising Young Woman

Potential spoiler: The Trial of the Chicago 7

Personal favourite: Promising Young Woman

Should have been there: Palm Springs

I wish everyone the best of Oscar nights! May the best films win!

[ineffably-good]

It’s The Principality Of It

Summary: Principalities are made for fighting. Like it or not. Or, why not to invite Aziraphale to play laser tag. 

Read it on AO3!

_____________

1.

Aziraphale was an angel full of contradictions. He loved being an angel but wished he could be fully human. He believed in the core virtues but found it very hard to practice some of them, especially those involving temperance and keeping your celestial temple unsullied. He loved the Almighty completely and utterly but found many of her underlings quite tiresome.

And most interestingly, he hated violence in general and fighting in specific, but he was absolutely lethal with a sword.

It was a fact widely acknowledged in Heaven that Principalities were made for fighting. They were guardians, and not in the soft and fluffy sense of a personal guardian angel who appeared over your right shoulder and told you that perhaps you shouldn’t have that last bite of cheesecake or that maybe you should go apologize to your wife. No, Principalities were guardians in the sense of standing alone, flaming sword in hand, on a promontory in the north of Britain and single handedly fighting off the Viking fleet.  

Not that that had happened, though. Aziraphale was pretty sure that there weren’t any witnesses to that event, and he intended to disavow it to his grave.

--

Shortly after Aziraphale was created, he found himself standing in a long line in front of Heaven’s quartermaster, who was a strange little man with curly mustaches and a piercing gaze.

“Let’s see, who’s next,” the man shouted to no one in particular. He consulted his clipboard. “Ah yes, Principality Aziraphale. Principality?”

Aziraphale stepped forward and gave the quartermaster a polite smile. “That would be me, I believe.”

“New, are you?” the Quartermaster asked, crisply. “Always good to meet a Principality. Have they decided what you’ll be protecting yet?”

“I believe it has something to do with Her new special project on Earth,” Aziraphale replied modestly. “I’m not quite clear on the details yet.”

The quartermaster looked him up and down. “Well,” he said, “you’ll probably want to make a few changes to your corporation before you head down. Toughen up a little bit. You look a little soft around the edges, yet. No matter though, let’s see what they’ve issued you for basic equipment, shall we?”

Aziraphale looked down at himself while the quartermaster checked his list. Was he soft? He didn’t see any problem with his corporation; it was healthy and strong and comfortable and he rather liked it. She had made him this way, after all, and he didn’t see any need to modify the Creator’s design. He examined his hands and fingernails, looking for flaws.

A snapping noise brought him back to reality. The quartermaster was snapping his fingers under Aziraphale’s nose, trying to get his attention.

“You are a bit of a strange one, aren’t you?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “Well it’s your lucky day, because you’ve been issued a piece of rather special equipment. Genuine flaming sword.”

“Ah, well, that’s just lovely, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, trying to look suitably impressed. He didn’t know too much about himself, being relatively new, but he could already tell he had very little interest in swords and what one did with them.

The quartermaster dug around in a cupboard for a moment and pulled out a large sword with a dramatic flourish. He handed it to Aziraphale, hilt first.

The moment his hand touched the hilt, Aziraphale felt a thrum through his body that he had never experienced before. The sword felt like a natural extension of his arm, and he found himself testing its balance and making a few sweeping movements just to get the feel of it. It felt, he found, very good.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” the quartermaster said. “Now to make it flame, you just –”

FWOMP.

“Ah, I see you already know how to do it,” the man said with a smile. “I should’ve known. You Principalities are made for war.”

Aziraphale widened his eyes and quickly extinguished the sword with a flicker of thought. He was made for what?

“Next!” called the quartermaster. Aziraphale tucked the sword away and tried to find his way back to the rather intriguing scroll room he’d found earlier in the day.

--

It was a relief, really, to give the sword away to Adam and Eve. Despite how good and true it felt in his hand, he’d never cared for the thing. Handling it made him deeply uncomfortable; something about having a weapon in his hand made him feel like his entire being was nothing more than a means to an end. It was true, what the quartermaster had told him so long ago – he was bred for fighting. What he didn’t understand, though, was why his loving creator would make a creature such as him, designed to fight and to decimate one’s enemies, and also instill in them such a deep distaste for the task. Why give him both an almost unbeatable set of fighting skills and a deep abhorrence for violence? It was… what was that word? Ineffable.

Aziraphale watched, long after the demon left, as the light of the flaming sword receded over the desert sands. Adam and Eve were making their way into the world, lit by the weapon he had never wanted. Perhaps it would be of more use to them than it ever had been to him.

It had felt like the right thing to do. He hoped he’d acted correctly.

  2.

Aziraphale managed to go many centuries without ever having to fight, but it occasionally came up. He couldn’t help but be involved in a war here, a skirmish there. Various kingdoms over the years valued prowess in battle over all else, and sometimes it was necessary to provide a demonstration of his skills to gain access to the people he needed to influence. Sometimes he had legitimate reasons to defend a people or a place he cared about, and he did it thoroughly, dispatching the job as quickly as possible and trying to cause as little harm as he could. He rarely lost a fight.

He didn’t know Crawly very well the first time they were called upon to fight each other. They’d been acquaintances and adversaries for quite some time, but only ran into each other every few centuries. This changed when they were both assigned to influence King Cyrus of the Persis empire in his attempt to overtake Babylon and India.

Being a warlike creature intent on conquering most of the known world, the king’s favorite past time was designating two of his men (or women) to fight each other for his amusement. Crawly did his best to stay out of sight during these interludes, but Aziraphale, having been seized upon immediately as someone who was perhaps not in the best trim, physically, had been squared off early against one of the king’s riders for an easy win.

The king was amused and pleased when Aziraphale unexpectedly wiped the floor with his first opponent, revealing himself to be a rather astute fighter despite his soft and fussy exterior. 

After that, the king made a habit of pairing up the angel with increasingly challenging opponents – some with fists, some with weapons, some with just traditional wrestling. Aziraphale defeated each of them without barely breaking a sweat.

—

“You need to let them land a punch or two, angel,” Crawly warned him one evening after the fight had concluded in the usual way. “Bleed a little somewhere unobtrusive. People are beginning to talk. You’re making enemies.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “I don’t want to bleed! I don’t want to fight at all! This is most frustrating, having to pummel people for someone else’s amusement. How am I supposed to get my job done when all he wants is to see me beat people up?”

“Well you could, I dunno, lose?” Crawly suggested.

The angel pondered this. “I suppose I could,” he said. “How badly would I have to lose? I truly don’t enjoy pain.”

Crawly felt an idea come squirming up out of the depths. 

“Angel,” he said. “What if I arrange to get myself nominated as your opponent? We’ll make sure it’s wrestling so no one has to seriously injure the other. And you can throw the match.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh, and just conveniently you get to win?”

Crawly rolled his eyes. “Seriously, angel, what’s going on with you? Yes, I get to win – because if it’s me, you know I’m not going to bash your head in or give you a concussion or do anything serious.”

“Just wrestling?” Aziraphale said, considering.

“Yeah. And since we both agree on the outcome, we can make it look really good so they think you went down fighting. Should get you out of the ring for a while.”

“All right, it’s worth a try,” the angel said. “How are you going to get yourself put into the arena?”

“Just leave that to me,” Crawly said.

 --

Sure enough, a few nights later, when the wine was flowing heavily and the evening was growing increasingly rowdy, Aziraphale heard the king’s voice calling out for him in the hubbub.

“Yes, my lord?” Aziraphale said, bowing deeply before him.

“You’ve defeated most of my servants, and two of my secretaries, and even my youngest son,” the king said. “So tonight, I have a new challenge for you.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, waiting. The king motioned to his side and, unsurprisingly, Crawly stepped forward. Their eyes met and they both did their best to pretend to coolly assess the other. Good, Aziraphale thought. This was all going according to plan.

“Let’s see how you do against an opponent with less brawn but more cunning,” the king said.

“Wrestling, my lord?” Aziraphale said politely, trying to hide how much he enjoyed the “less brawn” comment.

The king took a moment to answer. “I don’t think that would be a very fair encounter,” he said. “You outweigh him by nearly half.”

Crawly snorted. Aziraphale glowered at him.      

“I think we will have you fight with staffs tonight,” the king said.

Crawly frowned. He hadn’t been planning on encountering Aziraphale with a weapon in his hand. That was suicide. However, he reminded himself, this wasn’t an actual fight, just a simulated one. He could get through this. He trusted the angel.

--

It started as a fair fight. Crawly was fairly sure that only he could tell that Aziraphale was holding back; the angel made it look like he was convincingly testing Crawly’s defenses and finding chinks in his battle strategy that he could exploit. Determined to play his part, he set about making it look good by offering up a variety of jibes and insults.

That may, in retrospect, have been a miscalculation.

“C’mon, is that all you’ve got? I’d heard you know how to fight!” Crawly taunted him as they circled each other, feinting and drawing back. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and spun his staff impressively and then settled into a highly defensive stance with his feet wider than his shoulders and his left hand holding the base of the staff in an easy grip. He smiled at Crawly in a way that was downright chilling.

Still playing at this, correct? the demon thought.

Crawly took the moment to begin what should have been a devastating downward blow with the upper end of his staff, but Aziraphale smoothly stepped towards him, missing most of the force of the blow, and swung the lower end of his staff in a smooth motion parallel to the ground, hitting Crawly in his flank.

The demon staggered back a step or two and reassessed, circling the angel widely while looking for a weakness. The angel was going to make it possible for him to win this, he knew, but he had to land a few blows first.

Aziraphale charged him and Crawly blocked him easily enough, criss-crossing their staffs expertly as he upended the intended blow and drove the angel back a step or two.

“Not so showy now, are you?” Crawly said, more to the observers than to the angel, although he did notice the angel grimacing in response. He pushed hard against the angel and their staffs disengaged as the angel dropped to one knee

Aziraphale pressed down on the ground with his staff and lumbered to his feet, clearly expecting Crawly to give him a moment to do so, but the demon decided to press his advantage, and surged ahead issuing a strong blow to the angel’s left side, knocking him backwards, and then a follow up blow to his right hip, which pushed him down to the ground.  

An excited murmur arose among the crowd. Could the undefeated champion be facing someone worthy of him?

Crawly, holding the angel down by the force of both hands on his staff, locked eyes with Aziraphale for a tense moment and noted that he had a small trickle of blood rolling down his left temple. Had he hit him in the face? He hadn’t meant to. The angel met his eyes, legitimately struggling for a moment, and when the drop of blood hit his eye Crawly saw something snap in him.

No, angel, no, remember? Crawly shouted psychically. You’re supposed to let me win. I’m doing this because you told me to.

It was no use. Crawly watched the angel’s eyes ignite from their usual soft blue to a more fiery version and he knew, without a doubt, that he was in for it. Aziraphale had lost control of his fighting response and was moving into Principality mode, and before he even had time to move, the angel had sprung to his feet with superhuman strength and was beating him back to the opposite corner with a flurry of blows that landed more rapidly than he could block. Crawly dully heard the cheer of the crowd as their favorite champion beat the crap out of his opposition, but he was too busy trying to stay alive to do anything about it. He blocked, he parried, he ducked one particularly crushing blow, and he tried to keep his footing as the Angel of the Eastern Gate bore down on him in all of his avenging glory.

What may have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes later, Crawly came to his senses laid flat on the dusty ground, Aziraphale’s staff pressed into his solar plexus with such force that a human would not have been able to withstand it without serious injury.

“And we have a winner!” shouted the king, from his seat at the edge of the ring. “Counselor Aziraphale is again victorious!”

Loud whoops and cheers erupted from all sides, and the noise -- finally, thankfully – the noise seemed to wake Aziraphale from his hypnotic-like state. Crawly, fearing for his immortal life, watched as Aziraphale blinked and shook his head, looking around in confusion, and then looked down to find his ineffable adversary, bleeding and defeated at his feet, using all of the force of his will to keep a quarterstaff from breaking his ribs and possibly piercing a lung.

“What on earth?” Aziraphale said, moving his staff aside and offering a hand to help Crawly up.

The demon batted it away. He rolled to his side and carefully made his way to his feet, before meeting Aziraphale’s eyes with an intense glare. He dropped his staff at the angel’s feet in the traditional gesture of defeat, then limped off the combat field. Aziraphale watched as he accepted a flagon of ale from one of his mates and then stalked out of sight towards his tent without ever taking so much as another glance back at the angel.

“Oh dear,” the angel fretted.

 --

Aziraphale waited until darkness had fallen and most of the camp was deeply intoxicated before he made his way to Crawly’s tent. He called out to alert the demon of his presence, and then opened the flap to enter.

Crawly was lying face down on the bundle of furs that served as his bedding. He waved a hand in recognition of the angel and then grunted something.

The angel found himself unsure of what to say. He sank down onto his knees next to Crawly and looked him over. “My dear, are you all right?” he asked.

“Fuck off, angel,” Crowley muttered. “I’m fine. Can take a beating, you know I can. Certainly have taken enough of them, over the years. Never from you before, though. Jerk.”

Aziraphale swallowed in dismay. “I’m so sorry, Crawly – I don’t know what happened, when you made me bleed I just – I just lost control of myself and went into battle mode…”

Crowley groaned and rolled onto his back, then eased himself up into a sitting position. “I noticed,” he said wryly.

“You must believe me that I didn’t intend to do this,” Aziraphale pleaded. “I meant to throw the fight like we discussed, I just found myself… physically unable to do so.”

Crawly looked at the angel. He looked a little green, as if he wanted desperately to be ill. Aziraphale, for all of his training and purpose as a Principality, as a guardian, hated to fight, hated to hurt anyone or anything. There had quite possibly never been anyone quite so at odds with their intended purpose as the angel, Crawly thought, feeling a surge of sympathy for him that almost overcame the deep amount of pissed off he was feeling.

“I know,” the demon hissed. “Back off a little, will you? I need to finish healing myself.”

“Oh, let me,” the angel said, readying to lay hands on him. “It’s the least I could do –”

“ANGEL!” the demon shouted. “You already nearly discorporated me with your staff. Are you truly going to complete the task now by showering me with angelic grace?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, falling back. “No of course not. What was I thinking?”  He scooted back several yards and let Crawly get to work.

Aziraphale let the king know the next day that he was making a vow of peace to his gods and would no longer be fighting. The king, having heard the grumblings and discontent of some of his men, wisely accepted this. However, the legends of the counselor to the king who could not be defeated in battle lived on for centuries in stories and song.

 3.

“Laser tag?” Aziraphale said doubtfully. “I really don’t think…”

“It’s what Adam wants to do for his birthday,” Pepper said firmly, a look in her eye that could cow even an angel. “And he wants you two to come. If you say no, you’ll be the ones ruining his birthday and I know you don’t want to do that.”

Aziraphale looked helplessly at Crowley, who shrugged.

And so they came to find themselves strapping on sensor vests and being taught how to shoot a distressingly realistic-looking weapon the following Saturday, along with Adam, Brian, Wensleydale, and Pepper, as well as a few other parents who had decided to join the fun.

“Angel, a word,” Crowley said, pulling him aside as they made their final adjustments.

Aziraphale followed him back into the vestibule. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to be sure that we aren’t going to have any problems today.”

The angel frowned. “What do you mean?”  

Crowley fixed him with a look. “Angel, you know how you get.”

“I most certainly do not!” The angel visibly bristled. “What are you referring to?”

“You know,” Crowley said, waving a hand. “Put you in a fight and you get all – Principalitied up. I don’t want you losing control in there because a twelve year old makes your target light up and taking out the entire place in a swath of angelic rage.”

“Oh I really don’t think…”

“Have you forgotten the quarterstaff fight?”

Aziraphale flushed. “My dear, that was over two thousand years ago.”

“Do you remember who it was that taught the Celts to paint themselves blue and scream so loudly as they ran into battle that some of their enemies dropped dead from fright?”

Aziraphale looked both a tiny bit proud of that one and a bit embarrassed. “Yes, I remember that.”

“How about that joust we no longer talk about in Henry’s court? The one where you were supposed to let the favored contender win but you just couldn’t stop yourself?”

Aziraphale looked deeply distressed. “I healed all of them! Immediately!”

“I could go on,” Crowley said. All signs to the contrary, he was not enjoying this conversation, but he needed to be sure the angel wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

“I didn’t go berserk the last time I held a sword, did I?” the angel muttered. “There have been plenty of times I’ve managed just fine.”

Crowley eyed him. “No, you didn’t,” he said. “But these are children, and it’s bad form to demolish the birthday boy at his own party. If I see you losing control, I’m taking you down.”

“Fine!” Aziraphale sighed. “Do what you must. I will be fine.”

He was secretly relieved as he followed Crowley into the arena, though. It was always good to have someone watching your back.

He cocked his weapon as they’d been shown, and surveyed the landscape, already taking in a few key strategic points. As the lights went out, he went into a tactical crouch, and instinctively headed for cover.

Oh, the humans were onto something with this one, he thought. This was going to be fun.

--

“That was WICKED, uncle Aziraphale,” Adam said, breathless, as they sat around later in the afternoon eating overly sugary cake off of paper plates. “You shot EVERYONE! You were like… like a superhero in there!”

Aziraphale blushed and fidgeted with his plate. “I suppose I got a little overenthusiastic,” he mumbled.

Wensleydale jumped in on the other side. “No way, man, you were the high shooter for the entire arena!” he shouted. “How many people were in there today?”

“Thirty five,” Crowley said dryly, from across the table. Aziraphale met his eyes and Crowley shoveled a large scoop of mostly frosting into his mouth and licked the fork clean, never dropping his gaze.

“And you hit thirty one of them,” Pepper said, grinning. “Everyone except us!”

“Yes,” Crowley said acerbically, “how did you manage it, angel?”

“Never mind him,” Adam said. “He’s just mad because you took him out first.”

Aziraphale coughed on his drink. “I truly didn’t mean to,” he said helplessly. “You surprised me, Crowley, when you popped out from behind that column and I just… got overexcited.”

Crowley continued to glare at him while shoveling cake into his mouth. “It takes three shots to knock a player out, angel,” he said. “You shot me seventeen times.”

“With a light beam,” Aziraphale pointed out. It wasn’t like it was bullets, after all.

“Lucky for you.”

“You can be on our team anytime you want, Uncle Z,” Adam said. “And you have to teach me some of your moves. I swear I saw you do a triple roll and come up shooting.”

Aziraphale took another large bite of the terrible cake and tried to block out the conversation. He was never going to hear the end of this from Crowley.

[fly-pow-bye]

DuckTales 2017 - “The Fight for Castle McDuck!”

Story by: Francisco Angones, Madison Bateman, Colleen Evanson, Christian Magalhaes, Ben Siemon, Bob Snow

Written by: Madison Bateman

Storyboard by: Stephanie Gonzaga, Krystal Ureta, Brandon Warren, Hayley Foster

Directed by: Matthew Humphreys

A family feud!

This episode begins with Scrooge, the nephews, and Webby making another trip to Castle McDuck to meet Scrooge's parents. How are they able to visit this castle with that mist that only disappears every five years, as explained in the last episode that featured Scrooge's parents? Apparently, there's a fritz in the castle's mist, and Fergus, Scrooge's father, immediately blames Scrooge for giving them a lemon. As Webby narrates this clenched-teeth meeting of father and son into her tape recorder, Downy, Scrooge's mother, goes up and hugs the two.

Downy McDuck: Oh, let's just be thankful for this unexpected family visit! Group hug! (hugs Scrooge and Fergus, not really accepting of this)

Just in time for Thanksgiving weekend! Okay, it's not really a Thanksgiving special and it may be just a coincidence as there's no proof of Disney swapping the intended order of episodes this time, but it is an episode where someone is thankful for a family gathering that will involve some food; I've seen flimsier excuses to air episodes at certain times. Webby isn't the only one happy to see Scrooge's family again, as Huey, Dewey, and Louie are after yet another artifact: the Blessed Bagpipes of Clan McDuck. Yes, it's not just one of Scrooge's catchphrases, it's also an ancient artifact that was foretold to Huey by a druid somewhere between Mount Neverrest and that place where the Terrafirmians went after that one episode.

No, just kidding, it's yet another artifact in that journal that seems to be used to make filler episodes to feel more important. This is not to say this episode isn't necessary. These Blessed Bagpipes have a bit more potential than, say, the Sword of Swanstentine: the bagpipes are told to be able to bring life to the lifeless. Louie doesn't interpret this as zombies, but instead just hears is that this is a rare and potentially expensive artifact, and since they already dealt with this castle's traps before, it should be easy to get! As for Dewey, he's going to be important later.

Scrooge isn't really here for Thanksgiving or the bagpipes, though, he's here essentially as a magic castle repairman. Using his cane, he pokes the druid stones that usually power that mist that keeps his parents out of his sight, and he comes to the conclusion that it seems like the magic was sucked out of it. Even if we didn't see the cause right before the opening, which we do, this is a good enough hint to what could have possibly happened. Fergus doesn't believe him, and Scrooge replies with him asking why he even asked him to do this instead of getting one of his other children to do the dirty work. Short answer: he tried.

Meet Matilda McDuck, the youngest sister of Scrooge, who likes to start random businesses like emu farms. The very sight of a new McDuck neither she nor the audience has seen regresses Webby back to her Season 1 "McDuck fangirl" persona. Why wouldn't she still have that? Most of all, to her, there's no such thing as sibling rivalry in Clan McDuck, as McDucks always stay together! I'm assuming the sibling fights Huey Dewey and Louie sometimes get in are because they're merely Ducks.

McDucks, on the other hand, don't really do fights, as exemplified by Scrooge handing his sister a whole bill to invest in this empire of giant emu eggs. Wow, Scrooge must have been impressed: usually it's just a coin that's worth less than even if it was just one dollar! She immediately rejects the bill because she doesn't do family investments, unlike Scrooge and his Number One Dime. She then puts him in a headlock. Webby pays this no mind and talks about this sibling friendship, while Dewey just sits in the background and sarcastically says, "yeah, sure." No, being the stand-in for the audience isn't his important bit.

Huey and Louie get into a sibling rivalry of their own, as Huey plans to do this epic adventure to get the bagpipes, with plenty of strategies that Louie calls, and trademarks after a long yawn, "boring nerd stuff". Louie, on the other hand, decides to do the "ask really loudly to the great-great grandma where the magic bagpipes are" approach, and Great Great Grandma Downy just tells them that bagpipe must be in the junk room, and she'll even show them where it is.

Louie's faces during these scenes are top-notch; there's a fine line between "off-model to the point where it's disturbing" and "off-model enough to be funny", and the scenes are more in the latter. We might even see it with Huey, who seems to be desperately trying to keep that inner Duke of Making A Mess in control.

If one hasn't guessed yet, our villain of the week is none other than the Phantom Blot. We saw the Phantom Blot earlier in the episode, sucking up some castle magic with his magic-sucking gauntlet. He's joined by one of the Eggheads, a charismatic, overly happy sidekick named Pepper. The first time I watched this episode, I thought this was Matilda in a disguise, but then I noticed she didn't have those circles under her eyes. This is a totally different duck.

Blot didn't want any duck to be his partner, or any partner at all, but F.O.W.L. won't allow Missing Mystery taking alone. The Blot has his own vested interest in destroying anything magical, especially something as dangerous as a bagpipe that can turn something that's lifeless into living things. This is the second episode in a row where someone wants to take an artifact they feel is too dangerous, though it's done in a different way.

Unknowing of any kind of evil, Webby, Scrooge, Dewey, and Webby are going on a tour through the castle. Webby stops at a room full of statues, including one statue of Danny McDuck that happens to be holding a bagpipe with symbols on it. Webby is completely enamored by all of this, but Dewey questions which one of their ancestors is invisible. Matilda explains that this space was left blank until a worthy McDuck can be immortalized in this room with a statue. Webby talks about an obvious candidate for such an immortalization: Scrooge McDuck!

Matilda laughs at this nomination, saying that it would be more fitting for someone who actually takes care of the castle, while Scrooge fights back by saying not only has be built this castle, but he built the castle that gave her and their parents immortality. This is where Webby's main conflict in the episode lies: she can't believe two McDucks can talk to each other like that, and, despite being told that sibling rivalry happens all the time by Dewey, she vows to fix this.

Her first attempt at doing this? Let Scrooge look at an old family diary. This appears to work pretty well, as Scrooge is reminded of his first brother-sister mud pie business. Unfortunately for Webby's plan to let this feud end so early, one of the photos happens to be Whiskers, Scrooge's pet hairball, being around his sister, going against the story he was told that Whiskers ran away. Not only is Whiskers still around...

...Whiskers had a new fur dying session, too! The emu eventually biting it ends up being the last straw, causing him and her to get into a sibling quibble. It's funny to see these people acting like children, even yelling out to their mom to tell on each other. It's not so funny to Webby, who thinks that she's going to break her beloved Clan McDuck, though Dewey insists this is normal. It's good that Webby isn't perfect, but one knows she's going the wrong way here.

Meanwhile, in the junk room their great great grandma led them to, they see a whole bunch of bagpipes stacked onto each other. Once again, we see Huey trying to think of a good strategy to find out which one is the real bagpipe, and Louie just runs up and jumps on the pile. This massive bagpipe blowing this not only causes does cause a mystical bow and arrow to break a canister of tiny green flying lightbug beings that exclaim their freedom, but it also proves that all of these bagpipes are just ordinary bagpipes. That mystical bow and arrow also causes Huey to drop the book near a cardboard box that Pepper and the Blot were hiding in. Must have learned that from some snake.

This scene with Pepper and the Phantom Blot does show us one thing: she may seem like an incompetent sidekick, and the Blot sure treats her like one as he didn't want a sidekick to begin with, but she knows a clue when she sees one. She takes a picture of it with her smartphone, and deduces that the symbols that were drawn on it represent different rooms of Castle McDuck. This begins a slow bit of character development for the Phantom Blot, who was merely just "I hate magic and everyone" before this.

Meanwhile, as Webby is watching the family aggressively eat their dinner, she comes up with a plan. She even ropes Dewey into this for his big, important moment. Dewey gets to show his best talent...

...pretend he accidentally died while trying to make everyone happy by making two statues! See, it's a win-win situation for everyone: Matilda and Scrooge would believe they're both deserving of statues, and Scrooge basically confirms what Dewey always knew: that he was the favorite. Honestly, I'd say he's only saying that because he's supposedly dead, but don't tell Dewey that. By the way, Scrooge falls for this even though Scrooge did fake his death before in this series. I should also talk about how Webby would have to find a way to show that Dewey didn't actually die for potential future adventures, but she won't need to even think about that.

Huey and Louie end up in this room, too, and Dewey just couldn't resist telling them that Scrooge said he's the favorite. This leads to even more bickering amongst Clan McDuck. This ends up being a perfect distraction for the Phantom Blot and Pepper to sneak around the room, too. Webby doesn't notice those two, but she finally decides enough is enough, and outright calls out the family for their bickering, saying that it just isn't the Clan McDuck way. Scrooge decides to agree, and says Matilda is worthy of being the next Clan McDuck statue...

...because he's no longer going to be a member of Clan McDuck! This part feels like it should be in the trailers as a misleading line, as anyone would guess this would eventually be reversed, but even I'm not so sure if it was in the end. It really goes to show that Webby pretty much did what she feared she was going to do. It's going to take a miracle to fix up this family, and it has to be something blessed.

Remember that Danny McDuck statue with the bagpipe? Turns out, that's where the bagpipe was hiding all this time. Unfortunately, it wasn't any of the Ducks or McDucks that figured this out first, but it was Pepper. Admittedly, she had to smash through the bagpipe of the statue to find it, and I'm sure even with their bickering, degrading one of the statues would be a huge faux pas. The good news is that, while she may be able to figure out a mystery, she's still somewhat of a klutz, as she drops the bagpipe. Not only does this finally reveal the sinister villains behind what caused that fritz in the mist, we get to see that ability to give life to the lifeless that was foretold by that book.

No, not zombies, but the bagpipes give life to the lifeless statues! It seems like this episode was going to go to a rather predictable ending, showing the now separated family that Webby was right all along, and that Clan McDuck is all about being together. Just let those statues show what being a family is all about. This could very well be, but the bagpipes gave them the vocal cords of the people they're based on, too.

They immediately start fighting, starting with who stole the bagpipe, and Webby lets out an "oh, come on!". Not only does this lead to a big statue fight, this leads to a bunch of other fights. The statues are fighting, Clan McDuck are fighting, and even Huey, Dewey, and Louie are fighting. The last one seems a little tacked on, but it does add a little more power to the scene where Webby talks into her tape recorder about how, in her quest to strengthen Clan McDuck, she managed to ruin it. Even if I wasn't as big of a fan of Webby's antics in this episode, as I think she should absolutely know what she was trying to fix in the beginning was normal, it's still a powerful scene.

There's also a scene where The Phantom Blot and Pepper, hide behind a pillar, and Blot uses this opportunity to scold Pepper on nearly ruining the entire mission. It's nice to see the Phantom Blot actually getting a little development here.

Of course, in the end, they do make up. A lot of this is due to the situation that surrounds them, and Scrooge even uses that to get those ancestor statues to finally stop fighting and get these F.O.W.L. agents out of their hair. Because, and I'm sure people will see this line coming a mile away...

Agnes McDuck (the one in the royal dress): Nobody fights our family but US!

Heh, get it, because all they've been doing before this is bicker. Nonetheless, it's still a good lesson, and it's good to see Webby still learn lessons from Clan McDuck that she wouldn't have learned anywhere else. In the end, the villains get defeated, and the family does find some way to get together and do something, even if it is as simple as cleaning up the mess everyone did. Happy Thanksgiving...kind of.

How does it stack up?

Matilda is entertaining, and while I feel Webby is the weak point of the episode, her actions do lead to a good lesson in the end. Four Scrooges.

Next, ho ho ho, oh no no no.

← The First Adventure! 🦆 How Santa Stole Christmas! →

[mrswhozeewhatsis]

To stop the accusation that I’m dragging this out to please the drama llamas, I’ve studied everything I got (and spent a fair amount of time searching for things on blogs), and managed to whittle things down to their bare essentials. I’ve also tried to talk to everyone about everything, which took time. I won’t address everything that everyone has said on both sides, just a few points that are either concrete, or I can’t address them privately for whatever reason.

The timeline as I’ve been able to piece it together is like this:

Vanessa made a post about more popular writers complaining about lack of feedback. 

Beka messaged Vanessa wanting to know why Vanessa had a problem with her.

Vanessa responded in a way that upset Beka.

Beka blocked Vanessa.

Vanessa got around the block and sent anonymous asks to Beka.

Beka outed Vanessa by responding to the asks publicly.

Vanessa deactivated her blog.

Friends of both proceeded to attack each other.

Claims about Beka (this is not a complete list):

Only supports her friends on her blogs and in Pond Angel Fish Awards

Although it’s been a couple of months since Beka has reblogged fics from other writers at all, by going back through her #read with me tag, I see reblogs of fics from at least a dozen different writers just in May and June. I’ve only been tracking Angel Fish Awards since February, but since then, Beka has nominated 8 stories by 8 different writers.

Ignored asks for Big Fish advice sent to her blog

If there were a way for me to prove this, then I wouldn’t be listing it here. As it is, it’s impossible to prove. As a Pond admin, I’ve experienced the weirdest stuff with asks. I spent one evening chatting with a member while they repeatedly tried to send in asks, and we didn’t get a single one. I do know that asks sent via the app seem to be more likely to be eaten than asks sent via desktop, but asks sent both ways have disappeared. 

There are other claims, this is not a complete list, but I will be addressing them with Beka personally (I have already started doing this, actually). I’m only including these two because they can be proved or disproved with facts. Some of the other claims have been leveled against Big Fish in the Pond other than Beka, as well. The Pond will deal with those privately, but we hope you will see an improvement in these areas when the Pond returns from hiatus.

Claims about Vanessa:

I’ve talked to Vanessa about these, without anything constructive coming from it. I tried. I tried to explain to her that she could have gotten further by using less provocative language and offering constructive suggestions. We ended up having the same old arguments about unrelated issues and going around in circles. The only thing Vanessa ceded was that she should not have continued to reach out to Beka after Beka blocked her. She has apologized for this. I don’t need to list the rest here, just know the conversation happened and nothing came of it.

Claims about Beka’s opposition:

Made unsubstantiated claims about Beka sending herself anon hate

I’ll be the first to tell you that I don’t have a single clue how to figure out who has sent an anonymous ask on Tumblr. However, what I do know is that it requires access to the inbox the ask was sent to. In order for someone who is not Beka to say that Beka sent herself an anonymous ask, they would have had to have hacked into her account, somehow. I don’t know much about this, but it sounds illegal. Since there was proof of this offered, it’s a useless claim.

Picked apart posts on her personal blog and said they were intended for her writing audience when they were not

Beka’s personal blog was, she thought, relatively private. It was not meant for her readers to see. (There is an argument to be made about how it’s still a public blog that the world can see, but the charge is that she intended for her readers to see it and respond, and that is not the case.) Yet, someone took it upon themselves to stalk it, and then match posts between the two blogs, making it look like it all came from one blog. They then took their argument to the absurd and claimed she was using her mental health issues to drum up patrons on her Patreon. If that were the case, then it all would have been on her writing blog. But it wasn’t.

Belittled Beka’s cries for help, and then attacked her further

I don’t care if you didn’t believe her when she said she was on the edge, you just don’t do that, folks. That right there is the point where you either walk away or report her to Tumblr as a threat to herself. The last thing you do is double down on your attacks. Take a break, walk away, find a kinder, gentler way to make your point. I don’t care who they are or what they believe or have done, when someone puts the gun to their head, you do not tell them they are an awful human being.

Dissected every post, word by word, including auto tags, using intentionally provocative language

Not every post made was like this, but a lot were. This is high school stuff, guys. To rip apart words used by someone obviously in pain instead of reaching through and looking for the meaning behind it is petty and cruel. Not to mention it takes so much more energy to dig into things like that than to just respond to the meat of things. To take someone’s blog name and twist it into a degrading moniker is sickening. To attack words used in an effort to distract from the topic at hand, or to just add on to the already heaping pile of anger you’re throwing around is unconscionable and pointless. This is not what people who are coming from a place of love or kindness do. This is what you do when you hate someone, and that’s just not cool, guys.

Brought up old issues thought to have been settled a long time ago

My husband calls this “stamp collecting.” There’s a statute of limitations on things, and it depends on the thing, but my personal limit on Tumblr is about two weeks. If nothing has been said about something for two weeks, I assume it’s in the past and I try to move on. I say this because, if it weren’t settled, then we’d all still be working on it, right? If something is bothering me, and I work on it with someone, but I’m not happy, then I’m gonna keep working on it with that person. If they seem to forget (which happens because we’re all human), then I’m gonna send them a quick message. “Hey there! I’m still working on this thing. Can we talk about it again?” I do this with contractors who work on my house. I did this with clients when I worked in an office. To bring up something that happened a long time ago like it’s still an active issue is pointless, and goes against one of the main tenets of effective arguing.

Taking obvious glee in tearing down another person

Do I really have to talk about this? If you had any care for the other person, even enough to just care that they are a person, you would not gloat about how you’re going to tear them apart.

Really, all of this stuff comes down to if you are approaching the world and everything you do from a place of love or from a place of anger and pain. Even if you are angry and in pain, treat other people like you love and respect them, and you will find that everything is just better. 

If you feel like I’m coming down on one side or the other of this situation, just know that I’m not. Pretty much, I don’t like things that were done by both sides. These are just the things I feel more comfortable talking about in a public post like this.

Other stuff that’s come up in the course of all of this:

Complaining about notes/followers

So many writers, lately, are frustrated. Tumblr sucks balls on a good day when it comes to notifications and the whole algorithm mess, and that’s still being generous. In an effort to keep the porn blogs at bay, they’ve stifled all creators. Add to that how tags seem to never work when you’re searching for something, and disseminating your work is nearly impossible.

I could tell you all the different ways you can change your focus on the readers you do have, give you lists of things you can do to expand your audience, and offer advice about not comparing yourself to other writers. But you’ve already heard all of that. So, I’m just gonna say it.

If you complain publicly about a lack of notes or followers, you’re gonna look like a dick.

That doesn’t mean you are a dick. You’re just gonna look like one. You’re going to look like you’re ungrateful for the readers that you do have, which is going to turn off those readers, and you’ll end up with even fewer notes and followers. If you manage to disparage other writers while you’re complaining, you’re gonna look like an even bigger dick. So, just don’t do it, unless you don’t mind looking like a dick. 

Need to vent about it? Find a close friend and send it to them in a private message. Have a funny thought about it that you want to share? This is exactly what private messages are for. Create a group DM in discord. Heck, I think even Tumblr has a group chat option, now. Just, don’t put it on your blog, unless you want to lose followers. 

The number of admins at the Pond

Some folks seem to think that the Pond needs to add more admins in order to react more quickly when something goes down. Honestly, I have talked to Mana and Kale about stepping down as admin because I believe the opposite is true. We have a policy that we all must agree on the big things. However, we are separated by 8 time zones. There is a rare hour every few days (sometimes it’s weeks) when all three of us are awake and not occupied with caring for family members. We have a private group chat thing where we each toss ideas and questions and such into the pot when we’re doing things. When the others get to it, they add their two cents. Usually, there are two of us active at a time, and then we wait for the third to stop by for approval. Often, the third has a question or argument that then needs to be addressed, but the first or second one isn’t available. More admins would only be a good thing if we were all in the same time zone. But we’re not. We are an international group, which I believe is a good thing, but the downside is that it slows us down. Sometimes, being slow is a good thing, too. Generally, at least one of is calm and level-headed at any given time. It shifts on who that one is, but they keep us from doing anything rash.

The whole problem is that no one feels like they can tell you when there’s a problem

I’ve heard this so many times, now, but I haven’t responded to it publicly, so here goes. 

Most of you don’t know what I’m like in person, but I’m built like a linebacker. I’m tall, I’m heavy, and I have wide shoulders. I have literally scared small children. Take Jared Padalecki, add another Jared Padalecki on the side, and then take away all the pretty, and you come close to what I’m like when you see me walking down the street. 

I don’t want to be a scary person that anyone is afraid to approach. My goal in life is to be kind and fair. I will give you second and third chances, because I know how awful it feels to be written off. 

My ask box is always open. My chat windows are always open. My email address is mrswhozeewhatsis@gmail.com. I’m the same on discord and skype. I don’t care if you think your thing is stupid, if it’s something that’s bothering you, and I can help, then I want to help. I can’t always help, but I always want the opportunity to try.

If I have ever done anything that made you feel like I didn’t care, then I give you permission to tell me. I’ll hate hearing it, but I need to hear it. 

If I have forgotten to follow up on something for you, PLEASE REMIND ME. Holy, cow, I have a TERRIBLE memory. It’s really bad. I have tricks and stuff that I do to try to make sure I don’t lose track of things, but it still happens. Please, come back to me and remind me that I promised you something. I guarantee that I will not be mad or upset. I will be glad, because you��re helping me to be the person I want to be.

I think that’s about it. The Pond is still on hiatus, indefinitely. We have a lot of things we’re talking about for if/when we come back, and some of them are really exciting to me. I hope we come back. I hope we can make the Pond what we always meant it to be. We’ll need help, and constant feedback from our fishy family, but I still have hope.

[vikingsarememes]

Pairing: Y/N x Ragnarssons

summary: you and your mother are visiting her best friend Aslaug in her country house as a Christmas tradition! you get reunited with your childhood friends; Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd and Ivar, too many good memories and they’re definitely more dramatic than you remember

warnings: light bullying

word count: 2712

A/N: this is a little messy but hopefully it will lighten up your holidays! requests are pretty open so feel free to do that, but nothing smutty though, I personally believe I’ll suck at writing smut, oh and Merry Christmas!

Your mother and Aslaug Lothbrok had been friends ever since you could remember, you were raised with ِAslaug’s boys as one of them, you were treated as a family, your father died when you were an infant while Aslaug’s husband disappeared shortly after her youngest son was born, Christmas was a lonely time for both women, that’s why they made it a tradition to celebrate it together even though time sent each in a different path.

Every year, you’d speed a weekend at the Lothbrok’s country house, all the boys would fly and drop whatever they were doing and go there, and this year was no different.

You and mother arrived, knocked on the door, Aslaug was the one to open it, she immediately greeted you both with a hug “Elvi! My dearest friend, you are finally here! Y/N! Look at you! You grew into becoming such a lovely woman! Come in, your rooms are ready if you want to rest and the boys are already here” she announced after both of you entered the house, Aslaug was ridiculously rich, and the country house showed that well. 

Aslaug and your mother instantly ignored your existence and headed to the kitchen to catch up with each other, while you put your bags aside then headed to the living room, where you could hear loud screams, laughter, and noises, once you set a foot in the room, it went soundless, the four boys looked at you as if they saw a ghost, “uh… Hi?” you said uncertain of their reaction. 

“Y/N?” Ubbe asked confused, perhaps a year could change someone more than they think “of course it’s Y/N! Who else could make us go quiet like that” Hvitserk rolled his eyes and got up, he walked to you and hugged you “it’s been so long! We almost forgot you existed” he chuckled and his brothers followed, hugging you one after another, welcoming you among them “excuse us for not recognizing you, last year you had glasses on and braces!” Ubbe clarified and you rolled your eyes “thank you for reminding me Ubbe” you scoffed.

You sat down on one of the empty couches “so… Y/N tell us! How’s New York treating you?” Ivar asked curiously “very well, I’m a photographer for TIMES magazine now, and things are great, I love the city, it’s not as beautiful as it is here, not as calm but it has its own beauty, you guys should visit me there someday! I’ll take you to my favorite spots and introduce you to amazing people!” you beamed “any boys we should beat?” Sigurd grinned “No, unless you count my colleague Karan, he’s an asshole, but other than that, I’m as single as I could ever be” you explained, Ivar laughed, while his brothers looked at each other as if they just heard that they were nominated for an award.

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Aslaug called you in as her and your mother prepared a table, it was time for dinner, the five of you took your usual seats, the ones that were decided ever since you were children, Aslaug and your mother excelled themselves this year; turkey, pumpkin pie, ham, a feast made for ten at least, you wondered how you’d finish all the food but then Hvitserk started eating.

Small talks filled the air, mostly your mother asking about the boys’ life now, Ubbe’s been married to a woman named Margrethe, she ran away and returned after many months but he divorced her, Hvitserk had been the same player he is, Sigurd was discreet, no one knew what’s new with him, and Ivar moved out of his mother’s house and he’s seeing a physician to treat his ongoing condition, he can walk now, with the use of crutches, of course, last time you saw him he used a wheelchair.

“And this woman, she knocked on my door in the middle of the night and stripped! She said she wanted to get back at her ex! I closed the door and went back to eating the chicken legs on the bed!” Hvitserk exclaimed the others laughed, Aslaug and your mother seemed more interested in whispering between the two of them.

“It’s so unlike you to refuse a woman brother!” Ivar noted as he picked a piece of turkey meat in his fork and ate it “I love women, yes, but no one can interrupt my binge eating after midnight on a weekend! It’s the holy laws of my household, besides, there will be next times, don’t worry about me, I’m quite charming” he smirked and sipped some wine.

“Excuse Ivar, he’s nineteen and hadn’t gotten laid yet, he doesn’t possibly understand pussies can be replaced” Sigurd mocked, everyone but Ivar laughed and with that, you knew it wasn’t a dinner anymore, it was a warzone “I doubt you know more than I do Sigurd” Ivar responded, he was angry you could tell, even if he hid it well behind a calm tone and a fake smile.

“I know my dick works, can you say the same?” Sigurd replied, seeming offended by Ivar “Jesus Christ Sigurd! Enough! we’re trying to eat!” Ubbe finally said and their little conversation died like that, an awkward silence fell upon the table, besides the whispers of your mothers of course.

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The five of you decided to sit and watch a movie, like the good old days when you used to be children, it was night and you were bored, after all, Hvitserk brought a popcorn bowl for everyone, Sigurd took responsibility for the drinks, while Ivar set up the movies mode on the television while you and Ubbe brought the blankets and pillows for everyone.

“We are not watching Ready or Not Ivar! It’s Christmas! We will watch a Christmas movie!” Ubbe bickered, “just because its Christmas doesn’t mean we have to watch some romantic bullshit with tacky writing!” Ivar protested “I thought we were watching a comedy” Hvitserk pouted, “we agreed we’ll watch a musical!” Sigurd said annoyed. 

With that everyone started arguing and screaming at each other, as much as you love these boys, you hated it when that happens, you took a deep breath then whistled, grabbing everyone’s attention “we’ll watch the lion king, and that’s final, it has horror aka Scar, Comedy aka Timon and Bomba, Romance Simba and Nala, and of course amazing music!” you listed and didn’t wait for anyone to complain, one thing you remember clearly about the boys, they’d leave their differences aside for a good Disney Classical gem.

No one said anything during the film, all of you were so concentrated, and even though you saw the movie thousands of times, you all cried at the sad parts, laughed at the funny parts, and awed at the lovely parts, Hvitserk finished his popcorn before the end of the first half, he then started stealing from everyone else’s, you ended up sharing yours with him since you couldn’t really finish it by your own, it only made him last for another thirty minutes.

֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎

After the movie was over, and the crying had stopped, you all decided to revive an old Christmas ritual of yours, which is playing spin the bottle, thanks to Hvitserk you already had an empty bottle to spin, the five of you sat in a circle, and Ubbe span it first.

The bottle’s neck stopped on Sigurd and the bottom on Ubbe, Ubbe was to ask, and if the person didn’t want to answer they must drink a shot of vodka that was already prepared by you, Ubbe snickered a little “Sigurd, my little brother! What should I ask you?” he said thinking, even though part of you suspected he already had something in mind “Sigurd when will you bring us a man to the house?” Ubbe asked with a wicked smirk, rumors have it, Sigurd was gay but no one can confirm it “why? You’re not man yourself you need a manlier man?” Sigurd replied playing dumb “he’s asking whether you are gay or not” Ivar jumped, Sigurd rolled his eyes and took a shot.

Next, it was you and Hvitserk, your turn to ask him “how is it even possible that you don’t get fat? You eat so much!” you said “is this a question or a personal assault?” he frowned “a question man! I need your diet tips” you answered “well, I move a lot usually, not now but back in my place it’s not rare to see me running around the house screaming at three in the morning, I just move a lot, also sex helps lose weight” he shrugged.

Later it was Sigurd and Ivar “how come you’re a spoiled brat at the age of nineteen?” Sigurd asked him, mainly to piss him off “because mother was disappointed enough by the time I was born and she wanted to make sure I wouldn’t end up an annoying turd like you” he replied with a grin on his face that declares he won this round of sarcasm.

“Ubbe, tell us, who’s the mysterious woman you’ve been texting whenever you had a chance?” Hvitserk asked when it was his turn to ask a question “oh, it’s no mysterious woman, it’s Torvi, we are sending dog memes to each other” he responded “Bjorn’s Torvi?” you asked shocked, almost as shocked as everyone, the four of you exchanged a look, Ubbe looked at you all confused, letting a what but no one answered.

And for the final spin, it was Ivar’s turn to ask you a question “Y/N, tell us, now that you are a lovely grown woman, which one of us would you rather date if you have a chance?” he asked with a prying look on his face “well Ivar, you are mean, Hvitserk’s head on the cloud all the time, Sigurd is basically a bully, Ubbe is too old for me, so that leaves me with no one unless you guys have a secret ideal brother?” you grinned, the four boys were left speechless.

֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎

You all agreed to ditch the rooms and have a sleepover in front of the TV, you agreed on watching Lilo and Stitch’s two movies until you fall asleep, Sigurd and Ivar went upstairs to their rooms to grab few things, Ivar hated the stairs, you know that cause he kept cursing with every few steps he took, you also heard the sound of something falling but no one really paid any attention.

Later, the blue-eyed rascal returned, holding a blanket and another pillow, with a big grin on his face “why are you smiling?” you asked as you were the first to notice something was up, “what? Can’t I be happy for a change?” he replied, he can of course, but you were familiar with this mischievous smile too well “no, not really, what’s up?” 

“I just saw Sigurd roll down the stairs” he chuckled, his brothers looked at him as if it was the most normal thing ever, Ubbe quickly got up and went to check on Sigurd while Hvitserk just sighed and focused on the screen instead. 

“You bastard! What’s wrong with you? I told you to hold me!” a shouting, angry, injured Sigurd stormed in “I can’t, I’m nothing but a useless cripple remember?” Ivar said giving him the most innocent look ever while Sigurd glared at him non stop. 

֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎

You were the first to wake up, you went to the kitchen and prepared coffee for yourself and everyone else, Ivar followed next, the two of you sat and ate your breakfast together, it was quite nice, Ivar was a nice guy when his brothers weren’t around.

“So… tell me about the physical therapy, is it actually working?” you asked, he nodded “yes, it’s extreme though, I thought I’ve experienced all kind of pain but apparently I’m wrong, nothing is more painful than taking your first step, I could hear my bones cracking, that’s why the physician had to give me those braces and stings attaching my bones together” he explained, Ivar was okay to tell you about this kind of things, he trusted you enough to know he’s in pain.

“I’m sorry you had to go through this,” you said comforting “it’s alright, I can walk now and It’s not as painful as it used to be, I’m almost numb in the legs anyways unless I try to use them”  he shrugged, Sigurd woke up next, he came to the kitchen and poured himself coffee in his mug, he took few sips “numb in the leg you say?” he snickered and spilled the rest of his coffee on Ivar’s leg, Ivar didn’t say much but you knew this hurt from his facial expressions even though he was hiding it well.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you shouted and ran to Ivar, helping him get up “what? He feels nothing! He said it himself!” Sigurd bickered “you can be such an asshole sometimes” you muttered and then you took Ivar to the downstairs bathroom, helping him clean up.

The skin was red from the heat, you reached for the first aid box in the mirrored cabin and treated his burn “I’m okay Y/N, you can stop worrying” he mumbled, you rolled your eyes “you’re welcome” you said sarcastically.

֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎

You spent the whole day playing video games, or watching the Lothbroks play video games, or fight over video games,  all but Ubbe who was deep in his phone, after a while, Hvitserk decided he’d lay his head on your lap and play sims on his phone instead, so it was only Ivar and Sigurd and you knew this would escalate sooner than it should.

“Would you play with my hair? I’ll share my stash with you” Hvitserk suggested, you nodded and started playing with his blond braids, he enjoyed it, then you decided it would be for the best to ignore Ivar and Sigurd this time, and get involved with the elder brothers.

“Why didn’t Bjorn and Torvi come?” you finally asked  Ubbe, he shrugged, “Torvi says Assa is sick, that’s why they can’t make it on the road, Bjorn thinks it’s best to skip and go to Lagartha’s this year instead, it’s closer” you were really looking forward to meeting Bjorn, you weren’t very close but he was eye candy, you had a crush on him growing up.

Nothing serious but you simply liked looking at him, Ubbe knew, he’d always teased you about it, but this time he didn’t, he knew you’d tease him about Torvi if he does.

֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎

“For christ’s sake, Hvitserk slow down on eating! This is no manners!” Aslaug shouted in the middle of the lunch after her son ate his second plate “I’m hungry” he protested, “maybe if you ate slower, you wouldn’t be this hungry!” she argued “oh come on Aslaug! Let the poor boy eat, he’s a developing boy!” your mother giggled “he’s twenty-five, he passed the level of being a developing boy instead he’s a food monster!” the two women laughed.

Hvitserk brushed them off and moved to the dessert instead, your mother’s famous krumkake, one that no one could resist or hate.

Ivar and Sigurd exchanged hateful glances every now and then, but they didn’t say a word to each other.

֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎

You and your mother decided to leave in the evening, your brother, Havard was visiting tomorrow with his wife and two children, so you had to be home to prepare a meal and gifts, your mother and Aslaug spent what seemed like forever saying goodbyes, the uber driver hated you both for the delay.

The brothers said their farewells, already missing you, you invited them to your photography exhibition next month, you thought it would be a good idea for them to see your city, especially since they thought New York was nothing more than trash, they all promised to come.

You both got into the car and the man drove you to the airport “It was good seeing them no?” your mother asked, you were looking through the window, you wanted to stay there longer but your stupid brother had to ruin this for you “it was” you mumbled.

tags: @youbloodymadgenius

[sicnna]

look !! it’s sienna de vries !! she’s my favorite a-list actress with 78.6M followers, even though she’s only twenty-one. i heard she can be mercurial and jaded, but i think she’s captivating and conscientous. when i first saw her, i could’ve sworn she was ester expósito, but i’m sure she’s heard that before.

BASIC INFO.

FULL NAME: sienna  de  vries  .

BIRTHDAY: september  27 ,  1998  .

ZODIAC: libra . 

NICKNAMES: si  ,  blondie  ,  short stack  .

HEIGHT/WEIGHT: 5′4  , 104 lbs.

TATTOOS:  a  simple  crescent  moon  on  her  shoulder  .

BASIC STYLE:  usually  consists  of  v  soft  ,  feminine &  parisian  pieces  ,  intermixed  with  more  glamoured  looks  for  events  &  work  .

USUAL EXPRESSION:  typically  smiling  ,  or  wearing  a  detached  ,  far  off  look  .

TRAITS: +captivating  ,  +conscientous  ,  -mercurial  ,  -jaded  .

FEARS:  disappointing  others  ,  failure  ,  but  also  not  the  hugest  fan  of  heights  .

AESTHETIC:  breezy  sundresses  ,   delicate jewelry  ,  stacks  of  unread  scripts  ,  whirlwind  getaways  ,  enjoying  a  glass  of  wine  while  trying  out  a  new  recipes  ,  french  cafes ,  slow  kisses  along  collarbones  ,  bright  camera  flashes  ,   seeing  your  bed  after a long  day  .

TRIGGERS:  super  brief  mentions  of  cancer  &  loss  of  a  loved  one  .

BACKGROUND & PERSONALITY.

LUNA BETANCORT &  SILAS DE VRIES WELCOME A  BABY GIRL !  ....   it  was  all  the  headlines  had  read  the  week  after  september  27  ,  1998  when  sienna  was  born  to  the  a-list  power  couple   (  an  actress  and  a  major  league  baseball  player  ,  respectively  )  .

sienna  was  born  in  the  limelight  ,  but  has  been  acting  since  the  tender  age  of  three  .  her  first  role  was  a  small  cameo  in  one  of  her  mother’s  feature  films  and even  though  she  didn’t  understand  it  all  at  that  age  ,  she  was  in  awe  of  it  . 

so  she   grew  up  on  film  sets  .  at  age  four  she  began  a  stint  in  a  long  running  sitcom  and  even  had  a  beloved  character  catch  phrase  (  which  i’m  still  working  out  but  rn  we’re  stealing  ‘  you  got  it  dude  ’  from  full  house  )  . 

during  the  middle  of  her  stint  on  the  sitcom  ,  sienna’s  sight  had  shifted  to  movies  ...  it was  around  this  time  her  mom  had  first  started  getting  sick  and  sienna  was  channeling  that  energy  into  her  parts  .  people  started  thinking  of  her  as  this  young  ,  little  acting  prodigy  (  reminiscent  of  a  young  dakota  fanning  )  and  couldn’t  fathom  how  someone  so  sweet  &  timid  could  just  switch  into  these  darker  roles  after  barely  reading  a  script  ,  let  alone  cry  on  cue  .  she  earned  her   first   sag  award  at  the  age  of  8  .

when  the  sitcom’s  run  had  ended  ,  sienna  was  now  free  to  start  acting  in  more  movies  ,  her  talent  allowing  her  to  star  in  movie’s  along  some  serious  hollywood  actors  and  heavyweights  .  the  young  girl  was  smart  and  far  beyond  her  years  ,  soaking  every  bit  of  it  in  .  it  paid  off  a  few  years  later  when  she  won  her  first  oscar  for  best  supporting  actress  at  the  age  of  11  ,  becoming  the  third  youngest  in  any  category  to  do  so  .  she  was  nominated  for  best  actress  8  years  later  and  while  she  won  several  words  that  season ,  people  were  v  surprised  about  her  losing  out  at  the  oscars  .  that  time  ,  though  ,  was  incredibly  bittersweet  .  she’d  lost  her  mom  to  breast  cancer  in  the  years  prior  and  she  definitely  brought  the  room  to  tears  when  she  got  choked  up  during  an  acceptance  speech  talking  about  how  it’d  been  such  a  shared  love  between  the  two  and  how  she  just  wanted  to  make  her  proud.  

ummm  just  finished  playing  katniss  everdeen  in  the  hunger  games  ( jlaw whomst ?? )  and  she  has  a  movie  coming  out  in  september  that  people are  speculating  will  finally  cinch  her  that  first  oscar  win  .

super  dedicated  to  anything  she  throws  herself  into  .  people  like  to think  she’s  some  sort  of  diva  bc  of  her  impressive  catalog  of  roles  and  how  long  she’s  been  in  the  public  eye  but  she’s  probably  the  farthest  from  it  ??  she’s  enjoyable  to  work  with  and  has  this  sort  of  magnetic  thing  about  her  that  effectively  draws  people  in  and  just  ...  good  energy  .

if  you  haven’t  sensed  it  yet  she  tends  to  overwork  herself  and  is  often  super  tired  bc  of  how  thin  she  spreads  herself  with  projects  and  wanting  to  please  her  fans  .

still  ,  its  rare  not  to  see  a  smile  on  her  face  .  she’s  a  media  darling  and  definitely  has  that  golden  girl  sort  of  vibe  going  on  .  

it’s  not  surprise  that  she  can’t  go  anywhere  without  paparazzi  being  quick  to  find  out  and  its  definitely something that frustrates her ??  she’s  never  had  a  normal  life  and  as  much  as  she  thinks  about  all  the  things  she’s  missed  out  on  ,  she  also  doesn’t  know  anything else ??  she  feels  selfish  for  thinking  this  way  and  for  wanting  something  different  and  quieter  for  herself  ,  esp  when  so  many  other  people  aren’t  lucky  enough  to  have  a  voice  and  platform  ,  but  she  does  and  she  esp  hates  that  success  in  her  world  is  measured  by  the  amount  of  publicity  or  roles  she  gets  .  because  then  where  does  happiness  factor  in  ?  still  ,  she  loves  what  she  does  .

as  i  sort  of  mentioned  above  ,  she  is  v  conscientious  about  her  celebrity and  how  she  presents  herself  .  she’s  involved  with  a  bunch  of  different  causes  ,  v  philanthropic  and  all  about  giving  back  .  v  passionate  about  animals  ,  especially  elephants  !  she  does  a  lot  work  with  them  and  sanctuaries  after  a  movie  role  she   had  a  couple  years  back  and  wanting  to  learn  more  .

loves  to  cook  and  just  have  quiet  time  with  friends  in  between  busy  schedules  .  she’s  incredible  loyal  and  considerate  with  friendships  ,  but  can  be  very  short  and  maybe  even  a  bit  petty  when  she’s  hurt  .

ummmm  libra  sun ,  sagittarius  moon  ,  &  cancer  rising  !  

probably a hufflepuff lbr 

and  i  was  just  talking  about  this  yesterday  so  i’ll  add  that  si’s  love  language  is  physical  touch  with  quality  time  being  a  v  v  close  second  and  i  think  that  speaks  volumes  about  the  kind  of  person  she  is  /  her  values  ??  she’s  just  v  affectionate   and  intimate  moments  away  from  the  camera  when  her  agent  isn’t  blowing  up  her  phone  and  she  can  just  connect  with  someone  else  are  some  of  her  favorite  .  

man   idk  i’ll  maybe  add  more  here  later  but  this  is  a  lot  already  .  i  just  love  her  and  hope  you  will  to  !

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

any  &  all kinds of  friends ,  former co-stars  (  bonus  points for  anyone she was on the sitcom with  )  .

a roommate:  as  requested  here  !

fake  friend:  someone  who  simply  just  wants  to  be  her  friend  and  be  seen  with  her  for  clout  !

industry rival:   sienna  and  your  muse  bump  heads  every  time  they’re  in  close  proximity  of  one  another  .  whether  it  was  because  of  that  time  they  sold  sienna  out  for  a  story  ,  a  party  snub  ,  or  that  one  time  one  wore  it  better  ,  no  one  really  knows  what   it  was  that  started  sienna  and  muse’s  dislike  for  the  other  .  but  the  media  thrives  off  of  the  rumors  of  the  feud  .  (  fellow  a-lister  or  b-lister  preferably  !!  )

friend for the camera: being  friends  with  your  muse  is  one  of  sienna’s  most  exhausting  acting  jobs  to  date  .  they’re  often  seen  hanging  out  at  events  or  talking  about  each  other  in  interviews  like  they’re  great  friends  ,  when  really  it  couldn’t  be  further  from  the  truth  .  behind  the  scenes  these  are  two  people  who  simply  cannot  stand  each  other  .  they’re  thorns  in  each  other’s side  and  often  bring  the  other’s  blood  to  a  boil  when  the  cameras  aren’t  turned  their  way  .  is  the  good  publicity  really  worth  this  headache  of  a  contracted  friendship  ?

the up & comer:  while  your  muse  may  be  just  starting  out  in  hollywood  ,  sienna’s found  herself  taking  a  quick  liking  to  them  ,  and  is  often  there  to  lend  encouragement   or  advice  on  how  to  navigate  fame  .

the almost: sienna  and  your  muse  maybe  v  recently  dated  and  both  had  pretty high  hopes  for  the  relationship  .  they  were  really  into  each  other  but  one  thing  after  another  happened  .  they  fought  a  lot  ,  their  busy  careers  left  them  with  conflicting  schedules  ,  and  soon  enough  what  started  off  as  a  genuine  connection   became  a  much  too  publicized  relationship  .  after  one  fight  in  particular  ,  they  mutually  decided  the  relationship  was  no  longer  going  anywhere  and  they  broke  it  off  . 

[schraubd]

When (If Ever) Will the Left Turn on Sanders?

Many folks, myself included, have observed that Bernie Sanders the actual politician often differs quite substantially from Bernie the mythological figure as imagined by some of his more passionate supporters (and detractors). "Socialism" label notwithstanding, Bernie's politics are relatively standard social democratic prescriptions, not far off from New Deal style liberalism. And his route to accomplishing his policy agenda likewise will generally flow through relatively normal democratic (and Democratic) processes.

Nonetheless, one advantage Bernie has had over his career is that he's seen as ideologically incorruptible. Bernie Sanders is someone who votes his conscience; he doesn't play the games of triangulation and log-rolling that regular politicians do. Some of this is an exaggeration, but some of it is real enough, and it's responsible for at least some of his more passionate base of support which see him as a pure actor among a field of sell-outs.

Of course, there's a reason why he's been able to maintain this pure stance. Since he's rarely been "the decider" or the pivotal vote, there have been very few decisions that fall directly on his head, and so he's rarely been forced to engage in the grubby work of compromise and negotiation that eventually captures any political actor who actually wants to get things done. He can afford to be a purist because others are putting in the hard-rock mining to actually make things happen. Even as he's risen to the position of U.S. Senator, Sanders has largely been able to follow Weber's "politics of conviction".

But as he moves from presidential contender to probable presidential nominee to, perhaps, President of the United States, this is going to become less and less tenable. Eventually, Weber teaches us, any truly empowered political actor will have to abandon the politics of pure conviction. And to the extent some of his wildest supporters have his back primarily because of the perception that he can transcend "regular" politics and maintain the politics of conviction forever, it raises the question: what happens when Sanders, inevitably, has to start playing the game? What happens when he has to actually do things that inevitably will involve compromise, and cooperation, and bargaining with various grubby constituencies beyond the base? What happens when Sanders is actually forced to be the man making the decision, and can't indulge in purity any longer?

The earliest time I can imagine this playing it out is when Sanders is choosing a Vice President. In general -- not always, but in general -- a VP nominee is chosen to shore up support among the wing of the party that did not win the nomination. So Sanders likely will face a lot of pressure to choose someone "establishment" flavored, as a gesture of unity, and will face even more pressure not to choose a loyal Berniecrat, as redundant. But how will Sanders supporters react if he picks, oh, let's say Kamala Harris, as a running mate? Will they be shocked at the betrayal -- the caving in to establishment forces? Or will they be trusting, willing to give him leeway and (finally, albeit one-sidedly) accepting the realities of political maneuvering? Or will he be held innocent, the victim of hostage-taking by a DNC that will do anything and everything to preserve the power of the old guard?

Maybe he can avoid this (maybe he can be pure once again, and select a down-the-line loyalist). But if he becomes President, these issues will only continue and will become harder to avoid. Change will never occur with the immediacy that one would hope, the bills that are passed will never be as clean as they were drawn up in the progressive caucus, administrative appointees won't always give advice or produce studies that say what one wants to hear. And when that happens, what will happen? Will it be assimilated as part of the costs of doing business in the highly complex, modern bureaucratic state? Or will be evidence that Bernie, too, ultimately sold out? Or will it show just how entrenched the deep state is against him -- Sanders did not fail us, he was betrayed from within.

I honestly don't know, and I can see things going any which way. There is, among at least some Sanders supporters, a toxic kool-aid making the rounds where Sanders cannot fail, he can only be failed. This story about Sanders supporters standing outside a Nevada Democratic Party official's house at 11 PM with a bullhorn railing about the inevitable impending corruption in the caucus is disturbing on a host of levels, but let's focus on how the ringleader responded to pleading by the Sanders campaign to knock it off:

“The Sanders campaign is run by the establishment,” she wrote on her Facebook page in response to some critiques of her nighttime demonstrations. “I can care less what Bernie’s staff thinks of me. They aren’t relevant to me or my race. I have seen screenshots of the way they treat Berners and it is absolutely not reflective of Bernie Sanders.”

Now the woman in question, Maria Estrada, is at the fringe of the fringe -- she's a raging antisemite who nonetheless received an Our Revolution endorsement to challenge the (Democratic) California Assembly speaker in 2018 (she's seeking a rematch, but it's unclear whether Our Revolution endorsed her again). But boy howdy is this some cult of personality business. With all due respect to Sanders' campaign staff, there's no reasonable argument that Sanders is more encouraging of ... let's call them "hardball" tactics from the activist base ... than are members of his staff. But no matter:  From Estrada's vantage point, Sanders cannot possibly deviate from the path of the true revolution -- and if he does, then he didn't, he was simply led astray by false prophets and establishment whisperers. This isn't healthy. It would not be healthy if the movement Bernie leads decides he's betrayed it, and it's not healthy if the movement Bernie leads decides every setback is the result of insidious forces corrupting from within. Bernie Sanders may well make a fine president. It's possible he will be a great president. But he is still going to be a president, within the same system and subject to the same political constraints as have all the occupants of the office before him. Donald Trump may be the president who has most aggressively resisted these strictures, and to the extent he can get away with it it's only because he doesn't care how many people he immiserates and lives he destroys along the way. If your goal is to build rather than destroy, to improve rather than decay, you don't have Trump's luxuries. Most people who ask a question like "when will the left turn on Sanders" do so, I imagine, with a note of hope in voice -- when will they see the light? (a libertarian friend of my in-laws used to always ask my wife "are the youth turning on Obama yet?", convinced that any day now they'd realize that big government represented a bigger threat to their liberty than losing health insurance coverage). I do not ask this question with hope. I suspect that if the left turns on Sanders, it will be for the worst reasons. Convinced that it is only a failure of will that their dreams haven't yet been realized, they will infer from Sanders inability to the impossible that either he or his team were traitors all along. And as ugly as some of their attacks on "the DNC" and "the establishment" and Hillary and Obama and Perez and Wasserman-Schulz and ... (ever onward) have been, the fallout of that reckoning would be terrifying to witness. via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/2vbNwPD

[nomanwalksalone]

ARNYS ET MOI AND ME

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

How do you remember something you never knew? The orphaned opening words of Arnys et moi, journalist Philippe Trétiack’s memoir of the late and legendary Paris shop Arnys, raise that question: “I never stepped in. I never bought anything there. And now, it’s too late.” This ellipse adds romance to Trétiack’s incomparable book, which contrasts the rise of the family behind Arnys with Trétiack’s own. Like the Grimberts of Arnys, Trétiack’s ancestors were Jews from Eastern Europe who immigrated to Paris at the beginning of the 20th century and ended up the garment trade.  But where the Grimberts’ boutique became, to some, synonymous with a neighborhood, an attitude, a philosophy, and even Paris itself, the boutique tended by Trétiack’s mother stayed a neighborhood mediocrity, a sinkhole of time, money and, in Trétiack’s telling, of lifeforce itself as he describes how his mother kept shop despite the hate she had for the shop, for the clothes she sold and for their potential customers.  A far cry from the supposed intellectual and political salon that was Arnys.

How do we remember Arnys? Despite Trétiack’s professed unfamiliarity with the shop, readers may never encounter a more knowledgeable and measured historical account of the Arnys shop: the implantation in Paris of educated left-wing garment dealer Jankel Grünberg, whose successes across multiple shops allowed him to settle on the very established avenue Foch in the 16 arrondissement; the immigrant’s cultural emphasis on education that led his sons Léon and Albert to pursue studies on the at once more aristocratic and artistic Left Bank; the polio that derailed one son’s medical career and drove both to enter the family trade, this time in a Left Bank shop space close by the colleges and medical schools he had been attending; the burgeoning family success; the horrors of the Second World War, which saw Jankel and his wife die in Auschwitz; the evolution of Arnys the shop and the brand from a neighborhood corner in a sleepy part of Paris to the epicenter of a certain hip bohemia, of a self-conscious rebellion, of a subversively elegant set of limousine liberals (the loose equivalent of the French gauche caviar), and finally of a dated, sated establishment… before communion with luxury conglomerate LVMH forced Arnys’ transubstantiation into the nominal custom tailoring and shirtmaking arm of LVMH-owned brand Berluti. Even the mysterious name “Arnys” itself is finally explicated: the Grimberts (name eventually Frenchified) had moved into the space vacated by a shop named Loris; by coining a similar-sounding name for their new shop Léon and Albert hoped to attract, through confusion, some of the old shop’s former customers. 

Trétiack writes that it was the recent humiliating scandal of former French presidential candidate François Fillon that had sparked his interest in Arnys. Years after the Arnys shop had actually closed, Fillon made the papers for having accepted thousands of dollars in custom Arnys clothing paid for by Robert Bourgi.  Bourgi is a lawyer whose involvement in a shadowy-world of influence and intrigue between France and its former sub-Saharan colonies known as Françafrique has led members of the French political establishment to call him “radioactive.” According to the very entertaining French Vanity Fair writeup of the debacle, Bourgi would periodically drive Fillon over to the Berluti bespoke shop –  at Arnys’ old address -- when Fillon was feeling down and order him clothing, paid for in cold hard cash.  As a result, Trétiack writes, that shop now limits cash purchases to 1000 euros, or less than 20% of the price of a custom Arnys-by-Berluti suit.  Interestingly, Trétiack also suggests that the papers had referred to Fillon’s scandal at Arnys, rather than Berluti, not because they appreciated the academic distinction that Berluti custom clothing was created by the putative Arnys tailors, but because they feared losing LVMH’s enormous ad spend if they impugned an existing brand in the LVMH portfolio, Berluti, rather than the old brand Berluti had absorbed.

As Trétiack writes at the conclusion of his memoir, this exploration of Arnys allowed him to remember things from his own past that he had almost forgotten, yet felt so deeply.  In fact, ironically, Trétiack’s discussions of his own family’s trajectory are far cloudier (and shorter) than his descriptions of Arnys, no doubt because the latter involved researching and interviewing many of the people historically involved with the shop. Certainly, as Arnys et moi progresses, the personal memoir of Trétiack’s family comes to seem more and more exiguous compared to the gusto with which Trétiack describes not only the arrival of the Grimberts and Arnys, but the development of the garments and the ethos that made the shop an avatar of a sort of French exception, a prerevolutionary throwback, a haven for a certain set of the Parisian bourgeoisie as it wanted to see itself: deeply rooted in a timelessly elegant France of Enlightenment thought and local craft; intellectual without being sterile; a cosmopolitan of the fleshpots of the Sixth and Seventh Arrondissements, which at one time were famous bookstores, discreet art galleries and philosophers’ cafés. But today, Trétiack points out, former customers of Arnys also rue the passing of a certain clientele of the Café Flore, too.

How do I remember Arnys? Unlike Trétiack, I was a regular, if only occasionally profligate, customer of Arnys for the last decade of its existence, and knew it well for years before that, having been like Léon and Albert Grimbert a student in that neighborhood.  Like many of the habitués he describes, I used to stop in nearly every weekend. But those were not sufficient credentials to become part of the salon of intellectuals, esthetes and political figures Trétiack is only the most recent to describe. And as a guilty customer of the Flore for well over 20 years, I can attest that the shift in that café’s clientele to wealthy tourists and Eurotrash is by no means a recent phenomenon.  All that time ago, when as a student I would amble from my home on rue de Sevres past Arnys and its lovely windows to a rare treat at the Flore, it was already evident that the cultural landmarks of that area, those that Arnys claimed to be part of, had mostly disappeared in place of the boutiques of international luxury brands. There was very little left of the intellectual or countercultural long before Arnys itself ceased to be.

As a member of another diaspora, I know it is always my lot to be, in some way, an outsider wherever I am. Outsider that I am, I was shocked to find how closely Trétiack’s and my conclusions tracked: I am writing a book on vanished and vanishing French #steez, and occasionally wondered if a mutual friend like rag trader Ammar Marni, whom Trétiack interviewed for this book, had passed him my manuscript.  Like Trétiack, I concluded that Arnys incarnated a sort of French exception, a parallel universe where Beau Brummell had never imposed his modern English clothing style of simplicity of cut and restraint of color on the world. Arnys was a sort of escapism too lovely for we the uncertainly welcome to resist, a France as it would like to see itself, invented by an immigrant family.  

Arnys et moi laudably and interestingly lays out how Arnys constructed its myth, but occasionally strays into too eagerly believing some parts of that myth.  Trétiack spends a chapter or two lauding the 1940s invention of Arnys’ signature garment, the smocklike Forestière, and the cultural inspirations that led Arnys, in the wake of the Forestière, to create dozens of other garments inspired by the workwear and countrywear of France, as well as by classic French and Italian films of the 1950s and 1960s.  It’s only much later, towards the end of the book, that Trétiack mentions that that Arnys actually had remained a staid, Anglophile haberdasher until the 1990s, when the third Grimbert generation, brothers Jean and Michel, realized that ersatz Englishness was on the way out and that a contrived Frenchness (rich linings, beautiful and exotic materials, grandiosely theatrical designs, and a special notch in the lapel inspired by those created by the 1950s new wave of French tailors) could set the house apart. In other words, Arnys’ performative Frenchness, the thing that set it apart, is of quite recent vintage.  Trétiack also expounds in impressive detail on the magnificence and quality of every object Arnys sold, right down to the rarity of its handmade knives and the lushness of its pashmina scarves handwoven in Srinagar.  As something of a collector of artifacts of the places I write about, I’ve actually had the occasion to own and use items by these makers, including a Sauveterre knife and a scarf from Arnys’ supplier Kashmir Loom.  What Trétiack may not have realized is that the Arnys items were not just exquisite and luxurious, but were often incredibly delicate.  In the case of their handmade, hand-rolled seven-fold ties, they seemed to be deliberately more delicately and clumsily made than they needed to be in order to seem more handmade.  This seemed the case with a number of Arnys items.  Like Trétiack, I never became a bespoke customer of Arnys.  But here he and I diverge, as his words praising the current Arnys-Berluti cutter suggest he had not heard the pervasive and insistent words across the rest of the Paris bespoke population about the custom makers at Arnys. I’ll only note that the longtime Arnys cutter had actually left Arnys around the time it became part of Arnys, and is now retired, while their longtime custom shirtmaker died recently. 

Things change. Like Trétiack, I’ve wondered about the futility of writing about places like Arnys, about what it matters to remember. Then I remember that so many of us, so many different individuals with so many different individual histories, have conferred on this place, on this meaningless pair of syllables, so many different meanings, each with its own reverberations. How much can we know about what we remember?

[skepticraven]

Dear Trump Fans,

I keep hearing you say that Trump has done so much for America but you never elaborate on that, even when I ask you to. So, I’m asking again & my question is simple. What has he done that you think is so great? Aside from insulting people you don’t like, I just don’t see any achievements. This is what I do see:

-Trump didn't end the overseas wars like he promised. Instead, he got us involved in Syria. And he has nearly started a couple new wars with Iran & North Korea

- It seems you don't have your giant, waste-of-money wall. You have a small amount of fencing that anyone could cross should they want to. And Mexico won't EVER pay for it. Now, I’m fine with no wall but you shouldn’t be. 

- Trump is trying to cut the CDC budget by almost 20% amidst a pandemic. 

- Trump fired the pandemic response team last year.

- Trump is already saying he wants everyone back to work by Easter & all of the churches full on Easter- except every doctor & all his medically educated advisors are advising Trump against that. The cases of coronavirus are still increasing rapidly. Sending people back into such close proximity to one another will only inflame the problem, increasing the number of infected & dead tenfold.

-Trump has violated the emoluments clause of the constitution by failing to put his assets in a blind trust & thus is charging foreign leaders & American politicians inflated prices to stay at his hotels to win his favor & get private access to the president since he goes there all the time

- Trump is guilty of blatant nepotism. For example, he appointed Jared Kushner to negotiate peace in the middle east, handle diplomacy with China & Mexico, address the opioid epidemic, manage the wall construction process, etc. Jared isn't qualified for any of that, he only has that job because he bones Trump's daughter. Jared wouldn’t be qualified to manage a Pizza Hut. He was born rich and has done nothing but lose billions when he landed in his father job because his father went to prison for tax evasion, witness tampering, & illegal campaign contributions.

- Trump, who claims to be tough on terrorism, signed a multi-billion dollar weapons deal with Saudi Arabia RIGHT AFTER they murdered & dismembered an American journalist. Not to mention the genocide they were waging in Yemen. There is a reason that 80% of the 9/11 terrorist were from Saudi Arabia.

- Trump has eliminated funding for programs that work to de-radicalize people in extremist groups/organizations & help them escape that life.

- Trump cut his own taxes & that of his rich buddies & corporations BY 40%. Due to all the tax loopholes & shady financial dealings (like equity swapping or offshore tax havens) which the wealthiest Americans & corporations do, they already historically weren't paying anywhere near the marginal tax rate they should be on paper. Trump cut the corporate marginal tax rate from 35% to 21%. So after the loopholes & their shady bullshit, they're very likely paying a lower effective tax rate than you are. Thanks to Trump, many paid no income taxes at all in 2018 like Amazon, Netflix, Chevron, IBM, Delta Airlines, General Motors, Whirlpool, Goodyear Tires, etc.

-Trump promised to reduce the deficit but he has actually raised it by a lot. When you decrease the amount of taxes coming in that drastically & you increase government spending that much, the deficit is going to increase. The Caronavirus situation has only exacerbated that problem but the problem was already there.

-Trump pulled out of the Iran deal, solely because Obama did it. And Mr. Art of the Deal did not even try to negotiate a new deal. 

- This great healthcare Trump promised hasn't happened. Less people have insurance now than when Trump first took office. Drug prices have only gone up. There have be cuts to Medicaid as well.

-Trump appointed a judge who clearly lied to congress & whom likely sexually assaulted someone. Why Trump did not pick a different conservative judge to nominate, I will never understand.

- Trump cut all the social safety net programs that help the poor & disabled: SSI Disability, Food Stamps, Medicaid, HUD, etc.

- Like it or not, Trump was technically impeached. He just wasn’t removed from office by the Senate because there are a bunch of scared Republicans who are too scared to do or say anything against Trump. Tribalism saved him. That’s it. Because he admitted on national television that he talked about Biden & his son on that phone call- you can even see the exact moment when he realizes he shouldn’t have said that. So, he did do what he was accused of.

-His administration is a revolving door of hiring & firing/quitting. Trump said he knew the best people so why would he need to fire so many of them? Think about how many people have come & gone. These are just some of the big names who left the administration but there are WAY MORE than I am listing: Rex Tillerson, Mike Pompeo, Scott Pruitt, Steve Bannon, John Bolton, Jeff Sessions, John Kelly, Anthony Scaramucci, Reince Priebus, Sean Spicer,  Sarah Sanders, James Mattis, Rick Perry, Nikki Haley, Dan Coats, Alexander Acosta, Scott Gottlieb, Bill Shine, Tom Price,  H.R. McMaster, Ryan Zinke, Mick Mulvaney, James Comey,  Sebastian Gorka, Omarosa Newman, Gary Cohn, Don McGahn, Rod Rosenstein, Michael Flynn, Sally Yates, Tom Homan, Ty Cobb, Tom Bossert, K.T. McFarland, Rob Porter, Dina Powell, Rick Dearborn, Matthew Whittaker, Ezra Cohen-Watnick, Hope Hicks, Brenda Firtzgerald, Rob Snyder, Michael Dubke, Sean Doocey, etc.

-This is kind of a minor point but it does illustrate Trump’s hypocrisy.  Trump criticized Obama for golfing so much & then Trump turns around & plays 2.6 times more golf than Obama in his first 2 years and 91 days & has cost the tax payer an estimated $74 million more than Obama. 

- Does it ever embarrass you how little Trump knows about anything? Ever notice how he never goes in depth talking about anything? Its all vague because he doesn’t know enough about healthcare or the Iran Deal or climate change to address it in any kind of depth. You still see that idiocy spill out regardles. During an interview for SiriusXM’s P.O.T.U.S. channel, Trump said that former President Andrew Jackson was angry about the Civil War. The only problem is, Jackson couldn’t have been angry about the war. He died in 1845. The Civil War was in 1861. Another example would be during a call with Canada’s prime minister, Justin Trudeau, Trump claimed Canada burned down the White House during the War of 1812. Canada didn’t exist as a country until 1867. That was the British... Trump also claimed General John J. Pershing dealt with Muslim terrorists by shooting them with bullets dipped in pig’s blood. That did not happen. The story began circulating the internet around the September 11 terrorist attacks. Apparently Trump believed it was factual, talking about it during his 2016 presidential campaign & again after a terror attack in Barcelona. Then, speaking to the conservative radio host Hugh Hewitt, Trump confused the Quds Force, a unit of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard, with the Kurds, the minority group battling ISIS in northern Iraq (who he would later abandoned). Maybe that confusion could be forgiven for an average Joe but if you’ president, you need to know stuff like that (especially given the region these two groups are in). Hence why most presidents study political science, law, or economics in college or at least, they bother to read up on this stuff. But Trump doesn’t really read. The only book he claims to have read was a biography about Andrew Jackson whom, he thought was mad about a war that happened 16 years after his death & he also seems to have missed the whole Trail of Tears thing.

-  By pulling out of the Iran Nuclear Deal & the Paris Climate Accord, Trump has isolated us from our allies. Our word means nothing anymore. And who can blame them for being pissed? Whether Iran has a nuclear weapon effect more than just us. Given the size of our nation, our refusal to take the looming threat of climate change seriously is a detriment to the entire world that can & likely will have devastating consequences for everyone. Furthermore, Trump trash talks our closest allies & has placed tariffs on nearly all of them. For example:

AUSTRALIA: Shortly after taking office, Trump reportedly berated then-Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull over an agreement between the U.S. and Australia involving refugee resettlement. 

CANADA: Trump also attacked Canadian President Justin Trudeau as “meek, mild, dishonest, & weak” during a conversation on trade at the G7 summit in 2018. He also threatened to withhold the U.S.’s signature from a joint communique from the meeting over the feud. Trudeau he also found it “insulting” that tariffs were placed on Canada under a rarely invoked law that allows levies to be placed on a country in the interest of national security. Since when is Canada a national security threat? 

DENMARK: Trump also went after Denmark’s Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen after she refused to sell him Greenland. She called the idea “absurd,” & Trump referred to her as “nasty & inappropriate.” The people that live there don’t want to become American. You can’t just buy a country on whim. Greenland belongs to Denmark but its semi-autonomous. 

FRANCE: Trump threatened to slap tariffs on French wine & called French President Emmanuel Macron “foolish” after he signed a digital services tax on tech companies making at least 750 MILLION EUROS annually, a figure which meant U.S.-based tech giants like Apple, Google, Facebook & Amazon would be included. 

GERMANY: Trump has had a particularly tumultuous relationship with German Chancellor Angela Merkel. The president has repeatedly threatened Germany with auto tariffs, saying if companies like BMW and Mercedes wanted to sell cars in the U.S., they should build them in the country. German Chancellor Angela Merkel on Friday criticized President Donald Trump's tweets about four Democratic congresswomen of color telling them to go back to where they came from. She said that the president's tweets contradict "the strength of America." "I distance myself firmly from this & feel solidarity with the women who were attacked," Merkel said. (Canada’s prime minister, Justin Trudeau also criticized Trump for the same thing).

JAPAN: Trump has lamented the U.S.’s responsibility to defend Japan if attacked, saying the alliance between Washington & Tokyo is uneven. Trump has also threatened Japan with auto tariffs, though it announced in May it was delaying any levies for six months. 

MEXICO: President Trump has repeatedly torn into Mexico, slamming it on trade but focusing much of his ire on the country over immigration. Trump has threatened America’s southern neighbor with tariffs over its alleged inaction in working to stem the flow of undocumented migrants in the U.S. And let’s face it, he doesn’t exactly talk about the Mexican people in the nicest way and stroked racial tensions.

SWEDEN: President Trump feuded with Swedish Prime Minister Stefan Löfven after American rapper A$AP Rocky was detained in Sweden & charged with assault following a June incident in Stockholm. Apparently Kanye West told Trump about it. 🙄 The rapper was ultimately released in & returned to the U.S AFTER he was convicted & had to pay a fine (plus time served).

UNITED KINGDOM: While Trump has bashed the United Kingdom over trade practices, threatening tariffs on one of the U.S.’s closest allies to rectify what he sees as an imbalance, he has directed much of his criticism toward the country’s handling of Brexit. He also attacked the UK's National Health Service, claiming it is "going broke & not working." That’s not true but its not really his business either way. Trump is so disliked in the UK that at one point, 75,000 protestors gathered in central London’s Trafalgar Square to protest U.S. President Trump’s visit to the U.K

SOUTH KOREA: The Trump administration is reportedly demanding South Korea pay 400% more for U.S. troops in the region- despite the fact that having a base in South Korea is essential as much for us as it is for them. We need a base near North Korea should we ever have to attack. Maybe raising it some is reasonable but raising anything 400% overnight is a little absurd.

I see failure & corruption in Trump. I see a danger to America. Feel free to try to change my mind.

[wearevillaneve]

All Winners. No Losers.

When Jodie Comer won the Emmy for Best Actress in a Drama, I didn’t have to go far to find someone disappointed the name called wasn’t Sandra Oh.  All I had to do was turn my head and look at my my wife.

“Sandra should have won,” she grumbled.  

I don’t entirely disagree with her.  In some ways, playing Eve Polastri is a thankless role.   Villanelle is self-assured, confident, versatile, cunning, resourceful, flamboyant, stylish, sexy as hell and absolutely lethal.   She’s not your regular sort of role model, but being such a total bad-ass makes it hard for her not to be.  It’s the juicier of the two parts just as Heath Ledger’s Joker totally shreds Christian Bale’s Batman. 

Browse Tumblr long enough and for every one Eve blog, there’s three for Villanelle.   Same thing with fan fics.   Villanelle is nearly always depicted as the Alpha and poor widdle Eve as the Beta trailing along behind.   I wouldn’t be surprised if the Emmy voters didn’t come to the same conclusion. 

Nobody “deserves” to win an award.  In fact, what these sort of awards are really best for is elevating an actor’s profile and their career.   And of course, the money.   Always the money.

Sandra has been nominated ten times and never won.   Jodie was nominated once and took the trophy home to mom and dad.   Is that fair?  Is that right?

Yeah, it is.  I think the Emmy’s got it right.  Jodi Comer ruled in Season 2 of Killing Eve.  Period. 

If we’re going on performance and nothing but, Jodie demonstrated time and again she is a star on the rise.  Think of Villanelle’s emotional breakdown in Amsterdam when Eve didn’t show up.   Or the rapid-fire switching of accents and languages while Eve watched.   Or the “I’m so bored” scene.   I could go on, but you get the idea.  

If we are honest, brutally honest, we have to admit there’s certain advantages built in for Jodie.   She’s young.  She’s hot.  She’s sexy.  She’s smart.  She’s talented.  She’s humble.  She’s blonde.   She’s white.  All those things work in her favor.

Sandra is not blonde, not old, but not young either and she’s not white.  Being hot, sexy, smart, talented and humble isn’t enough.   For women of color it rarely is.  

So while the playing field is not level and may never be, what should matter most is this:  if things had turned out the other way, Sandra does not get there without Jodie and the reverse is equally true.  The simple truth to the success of Killing Eve is Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Sally Woodward Gentile, Emerald Fennell and the rest of the brilliant minds behind the camera crafted a show with brilliant and fascinating characters and then cast Oh, Comer, and Fiona Shaw to breathe life into them.  

I have no idea how long KE will run.  My guess is maybe four seasons, but it all depends on how long Jodie Comer is contractually obligated to play Villanelle.  When you pull off the trick she just did, Hollywood is going to come a’calling and as she’s circling a project with Ben Affleck and Matt Damon to be directed by Ridley Scott, she’s going to receive offers she can’t refuse.   

She shouldn’t.   It is impossible to recast another actress as Villanelle.  Nobody would accept it and truth be told, I don’t believe Sandra Oh would either. 

Maybe TMZ will report a rumor of strife on the Killing Eve set with Jodie becoming a pain-in-the-ass prima donna and Sandra grumbling she needs more money if she’s the star of the show.   Blah, blah, blah.  I’ll believe it when I see it.  But I probably won’t because that would petty AF and nothing I’ve seen or read leads me to believe that’s the case.

I truly believe Sandra was just as thrilled as Jodie was when she won the Emmy.  If Sandra can fake the fondness and and support she has demonstrated time and again for Jodie, that’s when she will deserve to win ALL the acting awards, and frankly I don’t think anybody’s that good.  Not even Sandra Oh.

This is not Jodie winning and Sandra losing.  That’s buying into this trap of pitting women against each other and we should know better and do better.   Can’t they just celebrate and lift each other up?   Can’t we put aside for a little while all this stuff about winners and losers and just be thankful we live in a time when these incredibly accomplished and brilliant actresses build something special together instead of tearing each other apart like some other shows have (looking at you, Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives). 

Maybe next year Sandra will hoist the trophy and Jodie will give back the same sort of love she got from Sandra.  I would be very happy to see that happen, but even if it doesn’t I don’t want to hear anything about who “deserved” to win.  As Clint Eastwood once growled, “Deserves got nothing to do with it.”

It was Jodi’s time even when she thought it wasn’t and I’m cool with that.  It made me happy on Sunday night and I’m still happy tonight.  

These women Rock and I am will roll with them.  All the way until we’re done.  

[patrickbrewerisgay]

It’s been — checks watch — 43 years since Second City Television first aired, and Catherine O’Hara and Eugene Levy are still flexing their comedic skills in made-up towns in 2019. With Schitt’s Creek, the show created by Levy and his son, Dan, they’ve revived that familiar slow burn: The show premiered on the CBC in 2015, but it wasn’t until the fourth season that the fever spread. This year, Schitt’s Creek received four Emmy nominations, including acting nominations for Levy (as patriarch Johnny Rose) and O’Hara (his wife, Moira), costumes, and Outstanding Comedy Series. In a three-way phone call, we discussed their respective nominations, their teary final days shooting on set, and whether we can expect to see Moira during her favorite season.

Congratulations to you both. Did you talk yesterday? 

Eugene Levy: Yes, we did. We were actually on the phone. [The publicist] Gab was watching the live feed and I guess my category came up first, and she phoned me to say that I’d been nominated, and right after that Catherine’s category came up, so I just heard, “You and Catherine have been nominated.” And then she tagged Catherine in on the phone call and we were actually on the phone while they were watching the livestream.

Catherine O’Hara: And that’s when they announced Best Show!

EL: And then we heard, “Well, the show got nominated.” And that was the best of all worlds. That was like really exciting news, because that really gives a nod of recognition to every single person that works on the show. It was actually a very exciting call.

COH: [laughs] It was. We were kind of stunned. We were just stunned and laughing.

Did you do anything to celebrate?

EL: I went out with my brother, who’s one of our producers, Andrew Barnsley; Deb, my wife; and Sally Catto, who runs CBC up here, and we went down to Soho and had a little celebratory dinner.

COH: That’s lovely. My husband, Bo [Welch, a production designer], is nominated for production design for A Series of Unfortunate Events, but here we are in cottage country, where it’s the last concern of anyone, what’s going on with the Emmys. But we’re excited at our cottage, and we toasted each other and the shows. But today we kind of said, “Okay, we’ve got to stop talking.”

Both of you have been at this for a couple of years, and I was wondering, is it still exciting?

EL: Well, it was exciting yesterday on the phone. It was a pretty exciting day, don’t you think, Catherine?

COH: Absolutely. Anytime anyone pats you on the head and says, “Good job,” it’s always nice, and I’m especially happy for Daniel. This was his baby to begin with. It’s a lovely thing to have anything to celebrate in life. I’m happy.

EL: It’s actually more exciting that it’s happening now in our fifth season on the show. I keep thinking, had this happened after our first season, it could have been a lot tougher to maintain this caliber over the next four or five seasons. But the show has built so nicely in terms of following and viewership, and how it’s been embraced by the critics. I mean, it was an exciting year after our fourth season when we end the year making a lot of top-ten lists; that itself was incredibly exciting, where you get the feeling that your show is being recognized for the first time. Now in our fifth season, we get the Emmy nominations, and we still have one more season to go, so I just love the arc here and how the show has caught on. I’d rather have it this way than starting off like a bat out of hell and then trying to hang on.

COH: Yeah, it’s almost like we got to do the show in an old TV–world way before the internet, where you just build the show according to your own instincts and develop the characters and try to make the best show you can make. It was so nice to not feel like you were too affected by outside sources or outside opinions. We were on our own to build the show, in a way that TV shows used to get to do.

It feels increasingly rare to make TV outside of the rapid-fire response of social media. Schitt’s Creek feels like the little show that could, and because of that, was preserved on its own island that people discovered slowly.

EL: Yeah, I don’t know if that has to do with shooting the show in Toronto. It reminds me of when we were doing SCTV and how removed you are from the mainstream of show business, so you’re relatively unaffected by it. You just get the feeling you’re going into the studio, you’re going to work and then you’re going home and having dinner. And SCTV as well had a nice build to it over the years, where it caught on with fans and critics. You really just get to focus on the work and eventually the work kind of speaks for itself.

COH: I think it works for shows or movies that get to go to remote locations, too. They get away from the head office and focus only on the work, and you have a better chance of succeeding at what you’re attempting.

Do you think that might be a benefit to being a Canadian production? 

EL: I think so. With our show, I guess you can prove that you can work and produce a show here in Canada that can get the same kind of recognition that any other show can get — mainly, I guess, getting Emmy nods. I got an email from Rick Moranis. It said, “Congratulations. 37 years between Emmy nominations, not bad.”

COH: [laughs] That’s great.

EL: Yeah, I think it helps to be able to focus on the work just shooting away from the mainstream of the business and avoiding getting caught up in the hype.

You also just wrapped shooting the final season. What was the last day on set like? 

COH: I think back to the table read. I think we got a lot of the good weeping out of our systems at the table read for the last two episodes. At lunch hour while you’re shooting, you do a table read for the upcoming episodes, and the upcoming episodes that day were the last two episodes of the sixth season, and when you shoot your scenes, you’re not in every scene with everybody, so you don’t get to see everything get shot, but we got to see everybody read their last scenes and it was really emotional. I mean, there were lots of laughs, because the scripts were great and funny, but oh my god, they were also so heart-wrenching for us. I had to go back to shoot that afternoon, and Moira wears a lot of makeup, so I looked like Alice Cooper.

The last day was just, “Oh.” Every moment is like, “This is the last time we’re going to do this. This is the last time we’re going to stand here,” but it was sweet. It really felt like I was part of a really lovely, talented family. It was hard to say goodbye, but the last episodes are really a lovely goodbye.

EL: Catherine’s right, it really started with the table read, where you got to lose a few pounds in tears. And then as we wound down, we would be wrapping certain sets: wrapping the town hall set, and then wrapping Café Tropical, and then we were wrapping the motel set, so every last scene in all these sets, there also was a nice emotional moment between characters. A lot of tears. And then we get to the last day, and once again it was quite emotional. Although there was a lot to do. On the one hand, you know that if you’re breaking down for 20 minutes having a nice sob-fest, then you’re adding 20 minutes on to the day. It was a very sweet, rewarding way to end the series.

Moira Rose, of course, is an actress. What would she say in this scenario, if she got a surprise nomination?

COH: [laughs] I went to the Tonys a month ago. I got to present a musical number for Beetlejuice, and my husband said that Moira would have called them ‘the Anthonys.’ [does Moira’s voice] “So lovely to be here at the Anthonys.” So now I’m trying to think of what it would be for [the Emmys]. I was thinking ‘Emily,’ then I was like no, it should be ‘Emmanuel.’ [does Moira’s voice again] “It’s so exciting to be nominated for an Emmanuel. Finally, they got it right,” Moira would say, to be clear. I would not say such a thing.

EL: Didn’t Dan tweet something about, “Finally, Moira —”

COH: [laughs] “— gets her Emmy,” or something, yeah. Oh, who would care more for this? I try to keep a level head here, and thank goodness I’m a Canadian, so I’m raised to not take show business all that seriously. But Moira, oh my lord. This is it. The Crows Have Eyes, she was already seeing Oscars for that. So this is a win. This is a win for Moira.

EL: Well, it would be great to see Moira at the podium.

COH: [laughs] I already did that in Canada, though. I did that for the Canadian awards.

Would you ever consider doing it in character again?

COH: Well, I’m not gonna talk about getting up on the podium. Don’t get me sucked in. But it’d be fun to present an award, let’s put that out.

EL: How about doing the carpet as Moira?

COH: The carpet as Moira! Yeah, I usually can’t help myself. If I’m answering questions about Moira, I can’t help myself. I go in the Moira zone, yeah. She’ll probably leak out. She’ll be dying to be there.

And both of you have already satirized this whole awards campaign with For Your Consideration.

COH: Yeah, that’s why I say, please don’t suck me in.

EL: That’s just how it starts, it’s the what if, “What if? What will you do if?” And the more that gets planted, the more it becomes just like, “Ahhh!” Yeah, that’s what For Your Consideration was all about. You know every single twitch that signals falling into that trap, so you’re extremely defensive about it for all those reasons.

COH: I remember for my character, it was also, “Why not? They have to nominate someone, why not me? Someone has to win, why not me?” Let’s remember that movie. Let’s keep it in mind.

EL: I have to watch that again, actually.

COH: Yeah, this is good timing for it.

EL: I haven’t seen it since it came out.

COH: Yeah, it’s a good reminder. It’s a cautionary tale.

But also, these things happen, and are happening!

COH: Yeah, it’s fun. All good fun.

EL: Well, you know, to be honest, the most fun aspects of this thing are moments like yesterday, being on that phone call when it first happens and experiencing that excitement and surprise. And then just getting to go to the party. Whether you walk out with a statue or not is really not the thing. The fact that you’re there with everybody else pouring their heart and soul into whatever shows they’re working on, and you’re there at the party with some lovely, talented people who you respect and admire. You’re on the same team, so to speak, with the other nominees, and that’s really the joyous part of it all.

COH: You’re right. I was reading the nominees yesterday and saying, “Oh, I get to see them, I’ll get to meet them, I’ll get to tell them how much I love their show.”

Like who? 

COH: Patricia Arquette, love her. Love Escape at Dannemora. And Ben Stiller, who directed it. Yeah, I’m happy for them. Benicio del Toro and Paul Dano, I love that series, amazing. Love Succession.

It’s so good.

COH: Oh my lord, yes. It’s just so much good material. So much talent. Laura Linney, Ozark, everyone. John Oliver. Everyone! I’m excited to see everyone. And Eugene! I’m very excited to see Eugene again. In a tux, no less.

EL: Yes, in a tux.

You’ve known each other for over 40 years. What do you think makes a working friendship like that last?

EL: I don’t know how that works. I think we’re probably two of the un-show-busiest, un-show-business-iest kinds of people. I think we’ve always taken our work seriously, but you know, Catherine’s just a regular person. Like, you don’t get caught up in the trappings of the business that you’re actually in. And nothing has really changed in all of these years. Catherine hasn’t changed at all.

COH: No, and you haven’t.

EL: At all. And you get to enjoy what you’re doing in a very real way, the way other people get to enjoy what they’re doing. And it’s just fun to be around, it’s been that way since the very beginning.

COH: Yeah, same for me. I respect Eugene, I trust Eugene, and I know that when we talk about the work, it’s about the work. But I say, “Eugene’s a gentleman,” and what comes with that is a certain lovely amount of diplomacy, or gentlemanly behavior, good manners. It counts for a lot when you’re working day-to-day. Since SCTV, this is the most amount of time we’ve spent together. We see each other periodically through our mutual friends — Martin Short, especially. It feels like family who live in different cities. You know, you don’t see each other all the time, but when we do, we pick up where we left off. It helps that Eugene keeps giving me jobs, so thank you, Eugene. [laughs] I think that’s probably the main thing that keeps us together.

EL: Excellent work, Catherine’s done.

COH: Thank you, Eugene.