#yes i’m back on my doctor/river bullshit mind your business

[brittanias]

you are loved by so many, and so much. and by no one more than me.

i tried to get these done for their anniversary, but that just did not happen!!! this is the first in a 3 portrait series of river and the doctor 💖 my eventual goal is to turn these into incredibly intricate enamel pins, but for now they’re just lil art pieces! next up: ten and river!

edit: this is now available as a sticker in my shop!

[heartbeatan]

Damned Royalty (Chapter 21)

Return to Chapter 20.

Return to Table of Contents.

Return to Desperado Series.

Return to Jimin Fanfictions.

Return to Masterlist.

Chapter 21 (Final)

Anxiety coursed through your veins as you rushed through the hospital halls. Jimin had turned down another hall just a moment ago, in search of his father while you kept on your path trying to find yours.

306, 306, you kept chanting to yourself while you searched for his room, until finally, you saw the number 308 and you knew you were there. The door was closed, but you burst through it, not yet prepared for what you might see.

And there he was… your father… sitting upright on the hospital bed, still in his suit, a small gash over his left eye while he talked casually to your mother who stood beside him. He was… fine.

“Dad,” you cried out in terror regardless. “Are you alright?” you rushed forward, swinging your arms around his neck.

“I’m fine, sweetie. They barely touched me.”

“What happened?” you looked back and forth between him and your mother.

“I don’t know. Stanford and I were in the back of the car when a truck hit us.”

“I thought you were attacked?”

“We were. People got out of the truck, approached us with guns and began firing.”

“You didn’t get hit?” your eyes began searching him for a sign of another injury – but you found none.

“No. Thankfully. Just a bump on the head from the window I think,” he touched near the gash above his forehead. “I was lucky to be wearing my seatbelt. Stanford, however…” he trailed off.

“How is he?” your voice raised in concern.

“We don’t know,” he said. “But it wasn’t good.”

“It had to have been the cartel. Right? I mean no one is coming after you, right, Dad?”

“No. Of course not,” he sounded offended at the mere suggestion. “This is what the world looks like when you’re a thug. This is what your world will look like, Y/N, if you keep seeing that boy.”

You rolled your eyes – you couldn’t stop yourself. Even sitting in the middle of a hospital, your father still found the time to lecture you.

“When are they releasing you?” you asked, changing the subject.

“They’re just going to run some tests first,” said your mother. “A scan to be sure there isn’t any bleeding and then they’ll make sure he doesn’t have a concussion or something. If all goes well we’ll be heading home soon.”

“You’ll be coming home tonight, right?” your father then pressed you and you felt an instant sense of guilt. Despite the scare, your father was fine and well – but you weren’t so sure about Jimin’s. He might need you with him, and you wanted to be with him. But on the other hand, you could understand why your parents wanted you safe at home with them.

“I… uh… yes. I mean… I’ll of course come by,” you fumbled your words. Luckily for you, a pair of nurses walked into the room – ready to take your father for his scan - and you were saved from having to complete this awkward conversation. When he was in his wheelchair and rolled out of the room, you took it as the opportune time to slip out into the hall and go searching for Jimin and Stanford.

Stepping into that hospital room was a much different story. Stanford was unconscious, in a hospital gown, covered in bloodied bandages and tied up to several tubes of fluid and oxygen. Jimin was seated at his side, his elbows on his knees and his forehead pressed against balled up fists.

“How is he?” you asked softly as you placed your hand gently on Jimin’s shoulder. He immediately reached up, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing your hand tight.

“He’s in bad shape… but they say he has a good chance of making it.

“That’s good news,” you tried to sooth him, but you feared you weren’t doing a very good job.

“Those bastards. I can’t believe it’s come to this. I don’t know how to retaliate. We’re just letting them walk all over us.”

“You’ll figure it out, Jimin. I know you will.”

He went quiet, just starring out over his father’s body as he thought.

“I can’t stop thinking about how this could have turned out differently.”

“In what way?”

“I mean… what if it was me? What if it was me and you in that car? What if it was you who was in this bed, while I just sat here. Powerless. I don’t know what I’d do then.”

“It’s not though, Jimin. We can’t deal with what-ifs.”

“But it’s important, Y/N. This is the cost of being with me. And I don’t know if I could live with myself if it was you this happened to.”

“Stop,” you crouched in front of him. “If this is some bullshit I don’t know if you should be with me nonsense, then just stop.” He looked up at you, an uncertainty and a fear in his eyes. “You and me… it’s done. We’re not going backwards. It’s you and me against the world, remember? No matter what happens.”

“I don’t know if I can do this, Y/N,” he spoke after another long pause.

“Do what?”

“This… any of this. Run the business. Sell the business. Keep us safe. I don’t know what I’m doing. I need him.”

“Just take one day at a time, Jimin. We don’t know what is going to happen, so, don’t worry about all that just yet,” you gave his hand a squeeze. “And – no matter what happens – you and I, we’ll figure it out together. I’ll be by your side the whole time.”

“Are you sure,” he said unsurely. He still didn’t get it. You were in this for the long haul.

“Of course. I’m still your girl, right?” He brought your hand to his mouth and pressed his lips firmly against your wrist.

“How is your father?”

“He’s fine. Just a bump on the head.”

“That’s good.”

“They want me to come over tonight. See him home. I think I should. Are you going to be okay here for a while?”

He nodded. And with a kiss to his lips, you slipped from the room and headed back to your father’s.

 

“How are they?” you father asked immediately as you re-entered his hospital room – a tinge of venom in his voice – letting you know he knew exactly where you had been.

“He’s in rough shape, but they think he’s going to make it,” you replied, ignoring your father’s tone. “How did the scan go?”

“We’re just waiting for the doctor and the results,” said your mother. “We’ll probably still be a few."

“On that note,” your father spoke. “Why don’t you two go get something to eat?”

“It’s okay, Dad. I’m fine.”

“Well, I’m not. I’ve been poked and prodded all day – I just want to lay down for a bit in peace.”

“Oh? I’m sorry, Dad. Of course, we’ll go have lunch then.”

“Shouldn’t we wait to hear what the doctor says?” your mother asked concerningly.

“I’ll text you when she shows up,” he insisted. “Please.”

 

An hour and a bit later, you finally received a text from your father. Against his promise, he met with the doctor already and – according to him – was cleared and ready to head home. Your mother and you left the cafeteria and made your way back upstairs.

“Oh?” a small squeak came from your mother. You looked up and saw her pointing across the hall to some nurse. She seemed to recognize him.

“Who is that?” you asked – the face seemed familiar to you as well.

“Hmm?” she hummed, now a little less certain of herself. “I thought I recognized him,” her face contorted as she thought. “Oh! Jinhyun had a male nurse. That must be him.”

“Ah,” you agreed, but you were bit with a touch of bitterness at the mention of Jinhyun’s name. All those days spent in this place for a man like that.

 

Back in your parent’s home, you sat awkwardly at the dining room table. Your mother obviously elated to have you home – but the disdain you felt between you and your father was apparent. You watched him closely as he ate his meal. There was something… wrong. You felt it all day – but you couldn’t put your finger on it. On top of that, you worried constantly about Jimin… still trapped in that hospital room – without you beside him. You resolved that after dinner you would head back and sit with him. Spend the night if needed.

As if he was summoned by your thoughts, your phone rang and his name flashed across the screen. Your parents looked up to you, and the room became immediately tense.

“Sorry,” you dismissed yourself and headed to the other room to take the call.

“Jimin?” you said when you were alone.

“He’s gone,” his voice shook through the phone.

“Oh my God,” you clutched your hand over your chest. “What happened? I thought he was going to be okay?”

“He was. He woke up. He was going to be fine. They fucking said he was going to be fine.”

“Jimin…” you didn’t know what to say. All you could heard were his heavy, laboured breaths through the phone.

“Do they know what happened?”

“Not yet. But I fucking do.”

“What?”

“The cartel. They sent someone in – posing as a nurse. I fucking saw the guy.”

“What do you mean?”

“They gave him something. Poisoned him. I’m sure of it. He was fine one minute, then he crashed after that fucking guy gave him something.”

“Are they going to do an autopsy?”

“They’re doing it now. I paid them. I want answers now.”

“Where’s the guy you think did this?”

“I’ve got my men looking for him. He’s going to fucking pay. He’s gonna tell me who sent him, and then he’ll be at the bottom of the river.”

You shuddered as he said it. You wanted to say something to sooth him. Calm him. For all you knew this was a wild speculation amidst a sea of grief.

“Heads are going to roll. I’ll fucking tear this city apart.”

“I’m coming over now. Stay there.”

“I have shit to do.”

“Too fucking bad. You wait for me. Do you hear? You don’t do shit until I get there!”

“Y/N…”

“Enough. I’ll be one hour.”

You hung up the phone – uncertain if Jimin was going to hear your pleas. You had to get over there before he changed his mind. You had to help him figure out what happened before he set the city on fire. You ran through all the details in your mind – from the car crash to the hospital, to everything in between.

Your returned to the dining room table, sitting down next to your mother and across from your father. You were like a shell of yourself – in shock as everything swirled in your mind.

“What is it, dear?” your mother asked, noticing how your face had paled.

“Stanford is dead.”

“Oh my,” she gasped. It was non-committal, but a reaction, nonetheless. Your father, however, was unphased.

“That’s a shame,” he said as he continued to happily eat his soup. You watched him again as he did. How it didn’t matter to him that a man he had just seen this morning, a man he spent years working closely with, had just died. Regardless of who he was.

“That’s it?” you prodded him.

“Is there more?” he asked you back.

As you stared him back, puzzle pieces began to come together. Pieces you didn’t like seeing – but pieces, nonetheless. You weren’t sure what they were forming, until suddenly – you remembered. You remembered the man – the nurse – in the hall. You remembered where you had seen him before, and it wasn’t because of Jinhyun.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweety?”

“You remember that guy we saw in the hall? The nurse. You thought you recognized him?”

She thought for a moment, then with an “Oh, yes!” she recalled the exchange.

“I think I remember where we know him from.”

“Oh? Where?”

You watched your father as you spoke – he kept his focus on the food before him, but you could tell his ears were perked as you spoke.

“He was our gardener. Last year – when we had the north gardens redone.”

“Oh! That’s right!” she cheered as if she had solved an unsolvable puzzle. “Oh, yes, yes. And he helped build the firepit in the back just a few weeks ago. Geez, how could I forget?”

“So, he’s not a nurse.”

“Hm? No. Not that I know of. He works for that landscaping business, oh you know the name,” she turned to your father. “What is it?”

Your father sat still, glaring at you over his glasses as your mother twitted about trying to recall the landscaping business she had hired. That’s when you knew.

“Why were you sitting behind the driver?” you directed your question to him.

“What do you mean?”

“Your cut,” you brushed your forehead, imitating where he had banged his head. “You said you hit the window. It’s on your left side, meaning you were sitting behind the driver. You never sit behind the driver.”

Your mother froze, a look of confusion on her face as her eyes flitted between the two of you.

“Stanford wanted to sit on the right side,” he shrugged eventually.

“Why were you wearing your seatbelt? You never wear your seatbelt when you’re being chauffeured. Mom always criticizes you for it.”

“I guess I decided to heed her warnings.”

“And it’s a good thing,” your mother chimed in. “What are you trying to say, dear?”

“I’m just trying to figure out why coincidentally on the same day that you’re in a car with Stanford Park, you’re hit by a truck, shot at by thugs, and you come out scot-free because you happen to be sitting where you don’t normally sit and wearing a seatbelt which you never wear… and on top of all of that, our landscaper is found wearing nurse scrubs in the hospital after I tell you Stanford is going to live?”

“That’s a pretty big stretch, Y/N,” your mother scoffed. “Do you really think your father would do such a thing?”

“They’re getting the toxicology report soon, you know,” you ignored her. “Is something going to show up in it?”

“How would I know?” your father grumbled.

“How about when that man you hired starts to speak? They’ve already found him,” you lied. “Are you confident he won’t say anything?”

“Y/N!” your mother shrieked trying to silence you.

“You won’t have an issue if I go to the police and report his connection to us?”

You were caught in a starring contest – both of you trying to wear each other down – until he blinked, then finally spoke. “I suggest you don’t do that, Y/N.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you got the confirmation you needed but didn’t want.

“I can’t believe you,” you whispered, trying to prevent a sob from escaping your throat. “Why?”

The room fell silent once more. Your mother even kept quiet, noticing something was off, something was wrong. Noticing your father wasn’t refuting your claims. The finally, he broke the silence.

“Because I need the Park’s gone,” was all he said. Your mothers mouth fell open as she looked back to him.

“What do you mean?” she asked him.

“Those fuckers have had to big a hold over this city for too fucking long.”

“What does that have to do with you?” you asked.

“They interfere. With everything. With property. Construction. Labour. The rest of us have had to pay our dues to them and for what? We build only where they allow us to build. Pay only what they allow us to pay. They’re a hinderance. They always have been. It’s time they get out. Bring a new player into town. One we can control.”

“You mean the fucking cartel?”

“They only want to sell their drugs. A small price to pay for our freedom.”

“You’ve been working with them?”

He didn’t respond. But you could tell by his expression that you had uncovered yet another secret.

You felt an instant headache. You could hear Jimin’s voice in your head as he recounted his story of poverty and triumph against the powerful. A criminal, yes, but a protector of the people. And you felt a sense of guilt as the rose coloured glassed you had been wearing all your life shattered to your feet. Your cushy livelihood had made you the enemy – and you never knew, nor did you ever care. You wondered then, how Jimin ever found it in his heart to love you.

Jimin…

“That’s what is so strange about this whole thing. There’s no ransom – no obvious endgame. We don’t know why they did this…”

“It was you…” your voice lowered as yet another realization came into being. “You had Jimin abducted.”

“He’s no good for you, Y/N.”

“And you fucking are?!” the legs of your chair screeched across the floor as you stood up.

“I extorted, blackmailed, stole to get him back. And you were the one who made it happen. You made me a criminal!” You began pacing the room, unsure of what to do with yourself. Tears began to sting your eyes and a knot formed in your throat as you held back the sobs that threatened to escape you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you began chanting like it was a mantra. You didn’t know. How would you go back to Jimin with this information? Or should you go to the police. Could you save your father? Did you want to save him?

“You don’t fix it, Y/N,” your father said simply. “You keep your head down. You leave that boy. And our life goes on.”

“How can you say that to me?” you sniffled, unable to hold back your sadness.

“Because that’s what you have to do. This is the cost.”

“I have to leave,” you reached for your purse. “I have to fix this. I need to talk to him.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Y/N,” your father now stood up from his chair, causing another unbearable screech of the chair against the floor. “You’re not to see him anymore. It’s over.”

“That’s not up to you. Especially now,” you turned and began to walk out of the room.

“Y/N!” he bellowed. It was enough to make you jump then turn to face him. “If you walk out of this room… it is over! Do you hear me?” Your eyes darted between your fathers reddened face and your mothers shrouded with tears. “You walk out now - you are walking out of this family. You can kiss the business goodbye. Kiss your money goodbye. You’ll be cut off. You walk out now, and my next phone call will be to the bank.”

 

“Y/N,” Jimin greeted you immediately as you walked into the hospital room. He was alone. The room was dark, somber. He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face into your neck. You felt his body tremble in your embrace. He was fighting back tears – he didn’t want you too see them – so you just let him hold you until he was ready.

“The toxicology report came back,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was right. I was fucking right. Those bastards.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m going to fucking kill every single one of them. You should get out of town for a while. I’ve already made plans for somewhere you can go. You’ll be safe there…”

“Jimin…” you interrupted him, your heart beginning to pound in your chest. “I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?” he asked softly, noticing how tensed up you were. You stepped back from him and out of his reach. You watched as his expression changed as he became more wary of what secret you were harbouring.

“We said no secrets between us, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I have a big one. I don’t want to tell you… I don’t want you to hate me, but… we promised.”

“What is it?” he asked again, concern raising in his tone.

“The cartel… they did this… I mean… they were involved. But behind them was someone else. I know who killed Stanford and I know who ordered you to be abducted.”

“Who?” his eyes darkened and his jaw clenched. “Fuck, Y/N, just tell me who.”

“…it was my father.”

 

At first, he didn’t believe you. Didn’t want to believe you. But the tears you shed, the way your body shook, the details you recounted, finally had him convinced. His father was murdered by yours. He crouched into one of the hospital chairs, folding his head in his hands, his veins tensing as he became increasingly enraged. You saw the droplets of tears spill from his eyes and onto the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, unsure of what else to do.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” he said, barely audibly, you weren’t sure you had heard him right.

“What?”

“I said I’ll fucking kill him!” he growled through his tears. He stood up from his chair and stormed towards the door.

“No! No!” you jumped in his way, grabbing a hold of his arm which he promptly flung off.

“Jimin, stop!” you cried again, jumping in front of him so he had no choice but to stop or barrel through you. He chose the former.

“You can’t!” you cupped his face in your hands. “Please Jimin. You can’t.”

“Why the fuck not?!”

“Because then I can’t be with you!”

He breathed heavily through his nose, a fire still coursing through him – but your words caught his attention. He finally looked into your eyes and away from the door.

“I can’t be with you if you kill my father. I can’t. You know I can’t.” He didn’t reply – but he didn’t shrug you off either, so you continued. “He’s given me a choice. He wants me to choose you or choose him. If I choose you, then I lose my job, lose my inheritance. I’ll be disowned and I’ll lose my entire family.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head in defeat – you could feel the agony within him as you held him in your hands. “I chose you, Jimin.” He looked back up to you. “I unequivocally chose you. But I need you to choose me. That’s why you can’t kill him. You fucking can’t…” it was your turn to tear up. “Because I’ll never be able to forgive you for that. So, I need you to choose me, please.”

Your eyes, your words, your body pleaded with him. You had never felt more terrified in your life. You were on the brink of losing Jimin for good. Losing your family for good. Of all the times you two thought you were at a breaking point, now was most weighted. The most crucial. Now of all the times, you needed him to say the right thing.

You held your breath as you waited, until he finally opened his mouth to speak.

“I choose you.”

 

Your heels clicked along the tile of the hallway floor – but this time they were accompanied by the click of another pair of shoes. The man beside you. The man who held your hand in his, the rose gold band decorating the fourth finger of his left hand – the one that matched the band which decorated yours. He squeezed it slightly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, letting you know that it was okay to be nervous, because he was beside you. You and him, against the world.

Security lined the facility, heavier than usual – or so you were told. You were guided up the stairs, to another hall lined with factory offices and storage bins, until you reached the broad double-doors at the then end.

We the doors were opened wide for you, you were greeted by a room of men, standing behind their chairs which lined the boardroom table, their heads bowed in respect as they waited for your arrival. At the end of the table were two chairs. One for him. One for you. He walked you, hand in hand to take your place beside him. To take a seat on your throne. To take your seat next to your king.

As if rehearsed, the room followed suit, taking their places at the table – waiting patiently for their instruction. So you cleared your throat, pulled your shoulders back and began…

“Firstly, we’d like to formally announce that we are no longer looking to sell off any of our assets – to anyone. From here onwards, the Park’s will only be looking upwards.”

You looked back to Jimin beside you, his features stoic, strong, intimidating, but with a simple nod you knew you had his support.

“Firstly,” you continued. “We address the issue of the cartel. They’ve been given too much slack for far to long. It’s time to crush them. Run them out of town. It’s time we take back our neighbourhood.”

The men at the table nodded along with you as you spoke.

“You have one week. Then… we move on to taking back this city. From now on, nothing happens here without it going through us first.”

“Are we all in agreement?” Jimin spoke, leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. Each of the mean nodded and grunted in accord.

“Good,” you said as you flipped open the file you held before you, and the room followed suit. “Let’s begin.”

Special thanks to The Turtle Team for helping me out a lot with this one. This was a big project for me and I'm thankful for all their feedback!

[riversofmars]

Here is part two, just needed a bit of extra time on the second half but happy with it now, just a bit too long to be a oneshot lol. Enjoy! <3

At the End of the Universe Part 2

“Get myself together? That’s rich coming from you.“ The Doctor unscrewed a bottle and took a swing. “If one of us has impulse control issues it’s you, isn’t it.“ She jabbed her finger at Missy. “And to think I wasted all this time on you.“ She laughed in a bitter sort of way and shook her head to herself as she recalled all the time she had spent on trying to rehabilitate Missy. She had given her a chance. She had tried her best to reconnect with her childhood friend and to help her become good… But she had betrayed her in the end. “Seventy bloody years and you actually had me going, didn’t you. Actually had me believe you were willing to change. Only to abandon me.“ She had tried so hard to talk Missy around at the time, to stand with her, but she had turned her down and gone to save herself instead, leaving her - well him at the time - to be mortally wounded and forced to regenerate. Missy just stared back at her, looking confused, so the Doctor carried on with her rant. Maybe if she let it all out, that would make her go away. “That was such a disappointment but hey, I was naive back then, wasn’t I. But then you just had to come back, didn’t you, to outdo yourself and prove you hadn’t changed one bit. If only I hadn’t been so stupid. I should have executed you when I had the chance. But hey, hindsight is always 20/20, isn’t it.“ 

“What are you talking about?“ Missy frowned feeling uneasy. Had she abandoned the Doctor, taken the opportunity and run? Maybe she could fill in the gaps, retrieve the memories she was missing. But why would she have done that? Things had actually been going so well… But she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t have just seized the moment if the chance of freedom presented itself. She had only entertained him because she had been his captive, right?

“Oh what, don’t tell me because you’re still Missy you don’t know what you’ll end up doing when you regenerate again. Bullshit. You’re in my head, of course you know.“ The Doctor wasn’t even sure why she was still carrying on but the words just kept tumbling out of her mouth.

“Doctor, you’re not hallucinating.“ River said calmly, taking a step towards her. “We’re here.“

“Of course you are.“ The Doctor sighed sarcastically and turned her attention to River. “You know how much I miss you, River? Do you have any idea how hard it was to let you go when our night on Darillium was over?“ The memory still haunted her. Having to part ways with her, knowing, that she would be going to her death in the Library shortly. It still chilled her to the bone. 

“Yes, actually, I do, I…“ River’s heart lifted a little. If Darillium was the last time the Doctor had seen her, this was the next encounter for both of them. The stories had been wrong. Clearly a lot of time had passed for the Doctor but it didn’t matter now, they could pick up where they left of. 

“You and me, our time together is just one cruel cosmic joke isn’t it. I mean, come on. Imagine meeting this mystery woman who seems to know every last thing about you and you watch her die. And of course, I just brush it off like I always do and carry on. But then I meet you again and again and again and of course I fall in love with you across the centuries. All the while knowing how it’s going to end.“ Angry tears sprung to her eyes. “How and when and why you will die and knowing that I was no comfort to you whatsoever, because I didn’t even know you then. And Darillium, oh how I dreaded it… knowing it would be the last time I would see you before the end. I put it off and put it off and then suddenly, there we were. And now I would give anything to go back, anything! But it’s too late now, our time is up.“

“Doctor, that’s where I’ve come from, Darillium, 24 years, I have no intention of dying just yet.“ River tried to intervene without letting the weight of her words crush her. The sadness in her eyes was heartbreaking. If this was true - and why wouldn’t it be? - the Doctor had been carrying this burden for such a long time, it was no wonder she was breaking under the weight of it. 

“Don’t. Don’t, River. Just stop talking.“ The Doctor held up her hands defensively before wiping the tears off her face frustrated with her own weakness.

“Doctor, the Professor is right. You’ve come to the end of the universe to blow of some steam. Well, so have we. And you know that’s possible, we’re all time travellers here. And frankly, you have to admit, partying away the end of everything is something both of us are likely to do.“ Missy tried to reason with her. 

“No, no, no, you're not really here, I'm making this up.“ She shook her head definitely. She took another swing from the bottle. “You know what, this was a terrible idea, this is proper messing with my head, fucking hell.“ She put the bottle down and buried her face in her hands. 

“Yes, this was a pretty bad idea.“ River tried to sooth her. “What happened, Doctor? What brought you here?“ River wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to ask what triggered her coming here today. Clearly there were a lot of contributing factors but something must have set her off. Seeing the Doctor like this broke River’s heart. 

“Don’t try and make me talk about it, I’m sick of everyone wanting me to talk and share, I’m not gonna have this out with my subconscious. You can pretend as much as you like not to know and try and make me talk but that’s not what I’m here for.“ Why was she even doing this to herself? The Doctor closed her eyes, trying her best to regain control of her mind.

“What are you here for?“ Missy asked.

“Fuck knows.“ The Doctor exclaimed and stumbled, nearly falling over her own feet. She caught herself on the back wall and leaned against it to steady herself. “I don’t even know why I thought this would help. This has been a disaster, look at me, talking to the two of you like you’re actually here.“ She started laughing. There was nothing else she could do at this point.

“Doctor!“ River snapped in frustration and circled around the counter. “For the last time, we’re here.“ She reached out and the Doctor scrambled back, nearly falling over. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t try and trick me and try and give me hope, that’s not fair.“ She sobbed. She went for another bottle of drink.

“Doctor!“ River ripped the bottle out of her hand and threw it against the wall airing her frustration. 

“How did you…“ The Doctor stared at her in shock, her brain was slower than usual, struggling to catch up. How did she do that if she was a hallucination?

“Stop acting like an idiot and get yourself together.“ River grabbed her by the collar of her coat and gave her a shake, proving beyond a doubt that she was real. 

“You’re here… River, I…“ Tears sprang to the Doctor’s eyes again and her stomach turned. All the things she had just said to her - to both of them - and they were really here. She couldn’t think or see straight anymore but she managed to fling her arms around her wife. How many years had it been since Darillium? She wasn’t even sure anymore. Suddenly, her brain was racing with possibilities. What if this was her chance. Even after all this time she had never figured out a way to get River’s consciousness out of the Library. What if she never would? What if the only way to save her was if she never went and this was that opportunity. “Come with me River, right now, come to the TARDIS, let’s go, let’s run and never look back.“ She pleaded burying her face in her curls. She would just never let her go to the Library. They would push it further and further away from them, further into River’s future. 

“Well, I’ve actually got a very exciting expedition lined up.“ River chuckled, relieved by her enthusiasm. 

“Don’t go to the Library.“ The Doctor burst out unable to stop herself. She wasn’t thinking at this point. Her head was swimming with alcohol, drugs, hormones and the most dangerous thing of all: Hope. “Promise me, don’t go. Never go to the Library, that’s where it happens, that’s…“

“Doctor.“ Missy interrupted realising what she was saying. She would be creating a paradox. If River Song never went to the Library, she would never have met the Doctor…

“Don’t, this is none of your business!“ The Doctor barked at Missy and pulled away from River grabbing her wife by the shoulders. “River, listen, time can be rewritten, it will be fine, I’m still going to travel with Amy and Rory, they will still have you, we will still meet, maybe a bit later but…“ She tried to justify it to herself just as much as to River. Surely undoing River’s death wouldn’t effect any other part of their timeline, would it?

“Doctor…“ River didn’t know what to do or say, she was still trying to wrap her head around what she was saying. Had she really just told her where and when she was going to die? How was she supposed to chose to go to her death? How was she supposed to cope with that knowledge? She knew she couldn’t change her personal timeline, not like that, and the Doctor had to know that too, didn’t she? No matter how intoxicated, desperate and impulsive she was being, she had to know that simple fact. How could she put this burden on her? Why would she tell her? Anxiety swept over River as she pushed the Doctor away, she felt like she couldn’t breath, she needed space.

“River…“ The Doctor tried to pull her into her arms but River wouldn’t let her.

“Why would you tell me that?“ River exclaimed. “It has to happen. You can’t just undo something that’s already happened cause you didn’t like it. But how am I supposed to go there now knowing I’m going to die? Why would you tell me that?“

“Yes, really, why would you.“ Missy knew the Doctor wasn’t thinking straight, but she still couldn’t believe she would do this to her wife. And perhaps to the universe. All sorts of things could happen if River didn’t show up to her own death. Missy turned to River who looked helpless and lost, just staring at the Doctor. Missy wasn’t entirely sure why she chose to get involved. This was the Doctor’s mess to clean up but maybe the seventy years she’d spent with him had left a mark after all. Why else would she do something that could be considered kind? “Sorry about this Professor but it’s for the best.“ Before River could protest or the Doctor could intervene, Missy grabbed a hold of River’s face and placed her fingertips on each side to wipe her memory of this encounter. 

“NO!“ The Doctor shouted when River collapsed to the floor. She gave Missy a shove with surprising strength knocking her back against the counter. The Doctor dropped onto her knees to check on her wife. She breathed a sigh of relief when she realised she was just unconscious.  

“You know she can’t know about this, why would you tell her how she has to die? That’s cruel, even for you.“ Missy shook her head in disbelief as she pulled herself upright, bracing against the counter. Suddenly, she felt another surge of regenerative energy rush through her body. The mind wipe her taken more out of her than she realised. “Not. Now.“ She growled clenching her fists, forcing the process to a halt again, she wasn’t sure how many more times she would be able to. 

“You’re dying.“ The Doctor looked up at her in disbelief, cradling River’s head on her lap.

“It would appear that way.“ Missy ground her teeth, the Doctor was the last person she wanted to see her like this. 

“When is this for you?“ The Doctor asked with a frown, trying to put the pieces together. Holding River close, she felt calmer now. “What happened?“

“Oh, I don’t know.“ Missy waved it off. “Don’t even remember… We went aboard that colony ship reversing out of a black hole, things are a bit fuzzy after that.“ 

“Crossing of timelines… you were there, younger you…“ The Doctor answered slowly. This was Missy after she had left with her younger self. Somehow she had gotten herself killed on the way off that ship by the looks of it. Just like the Doctor had. But if Missy didn’t remember what had happened, chances were they would never find out. 

“I guessed as much…“ Missy mused as there weren’t many other options for such perfuse memory loss. The lost time bothered her but there was only so much the Doctor could help her piece together. “Is that where I abandoned you? Is that what you’re cross about? Because I’ve got to be honest, I can’t justify actions I don’t remember. Or ones I haven’t done yet.“ 

“Why did you come here Missy?“ The Doctor asked avoiding the question. She had revealed too much already but the temptation was certainly there. Like with River. She stroked her hair softly. Would the Master reconsider if she told her now she would commit genocide and kill their entire race? Probably not… She would find out about the secret of the timeless child regardless, that explosive anger would be the same and no foreknowledge would stop that. And if she stopped her now, killed her here… Then the Doctor herself would never have came here struggling with the memories of Gallifrey burning after the Master had destroyed it, creating a paradox. It was no use. She shook her head to herself, disappointed in herself for even thinking it.  

“A last hurrah I guess.“ Missy shrugged looking around. Somehow, the raving party had lost its appeal rather in light of more serious revelations. “Just like your wife… who thought she would never see you again.“ She added in an off hand sort of way.

“She won’t remember now…“ The Doctor mumbled stroking River’s hair. “Which is probably for the best.“ She felt incredibly guilty. She could blame it on her intoxication but that wouldn’t be entirely fair. It had been impulsive and thoughtless. It had been about seeing a way out and bolting for the exit.

“You can thank me later.“ Missy retorted.

“I’ve been trying for so long to work it out, to find a way to save her, I was jumping at the easy solution…“ The Doctor admitted, looking at her wife absentmindedly. 

“Some things just can’t be done. You have a thing about hopeless cases, haven’t you.“ Missy retorted, squaring her jaw. 

“You might have been, River is a different story.“ The Doctor shot back, she didn’t want to go down this road with her. If Missy didn’t even remember what she did, there was no point. “

“It was all very touching, your star-crossed lovers story but word of advice, I think it’s time you stopped torturing yourself and let her go and move on. Look at what it’s doing to you.“ Missy pointed to her, barely keeping it together, sitting on the floor of an underground club at the end of the universe, cradling her unconscious wife. It was a ridiculously pitiful image. 

“You don’t know the first thing about this, about me.“ The Doctor snapped, her eyes shooting up. Missy had no right talking to her like that. Not after everything she had contributed to her fragile state of mind.

“Well, I preferred you when you were all sulky, dark and moody. What’s happened since? Have you gone soft in the head?“ Missy retorted, feeling like picking a fight now. The hadn’t said as much as thank you for her surprisingly well-meant and actually helpful intervention. 

“You have no idea what I’ve been through since we last met.“ The Doctor growled. 

“No clearly.“ Missy took a step forward and crouched down across from her. “But when I last saw you, River Song was already dead. And she’s dead now. Her death happened centuries ago and you can’t change that. You couldn’t then and you can’t do now, so why beat yourself up over it now? Just cause she’s here looking all pretty on your lap?“ It made the Doctor snap, she let go of River and lunged forward throwing herself at Missy. Caught off guard, Missy crashed onto the floor and the Doctor was on top of her pinning her down with her weight.

“I wish I could just kill you.“ The Doctor shouted in wild rage. Her memories of Gallifrey flashed before her eyes, devastated, empty, burning Gallifrey. All the pain and death Missy would cause if she was allowed to regenerate… 

“Then why don’t you?“ Missy shot back with a mad twinkle in her eyes. She could feel the regenerative fizzing inside of her, trying to bubble to the surface. What was one more death?

“Like you pointed out already, I can’t mess with fixed events.“ The Doctor pressed through gritted teeth. 

“You didn’t care about that with your wife a minute ago.“ Missy retorted with a laugh. Until tonight she had never seen the Doctor like this. Desperate. Angry. Unhinged. 

“I clearly care more about saving her, than about killing you.“ The Doctor growled. 

“You’re not going to save her, Doctor.“ Missy laughed. She couldn’t believe that she still hadn’t accepted that. 

“I will find a way. You have no idea what I’m capable of.“ The Doctor growled. “The things I’ve done… You’ve only caught a glimpse.“

“Go on, Doctor, go off the deep end, why don’t you. I’d pay good money to see that happen.“ Missy tried to push herself up a little and the Doctor pushed her back down.

“I always control myself, always hold back, be kind, be measured, keep the universe safe.“ The Doctor laughed bitterly. “Well quite frankly, the universe can get fucked for all I care. All the times I’ve saved it, and what have I ever gotten in return? For every crack I fixed I got one in return. For every life I saved… the universe is a cruel place.“

“Yes it is.“ Missy couldn’t help but agree, marvelling at how the Doctor’s expression went from fury to resignation. 

“I’m so sick of it.“ The Doctor let go of Missy and sat up, her anger fading away. 

“So what are you going to do? Are you just gonna forget to get back into your TARDIS? Put an end to it.“ Missy pushed herself up. 

“If only it was that easy.“ The Doctor mumbled, getting off Missy. 

“It could be. I mean, it would be a shame but if I’m dead in your future, I suppose I shouldn’t care.“ Missy shrugged. 

“No, there’s still things I’ve got to do.“ The Doctor looked back to River. She would have to get her to safety on the off chance she didn’t wake up before crunch time. She had to take her back to Luna University, she would be fine there. And she would be able to go to the Library, she would be back on track… She was thinking more rationally now. She knew it was a fixed point that had to happen. She would have to find another way and rescue her from the Library, like she had always meant to. That had always been the plan after Darillium. She had bought herself time by saving her consciousness to the data core. She just had to figure out what to do now. Somehow. There had to be a way. One day she would find it. The universe owed her this. “I guess I’ll just keep trying. I have to keep going.“ She crouched next to River and lifted her up, cradling her in her arms, she would have to carry her back to the TARDIS. “Maybe one day I will find a way, change the punch line on that cruel joke that was our time together. I will find a way.“ She was talking more to herself than anything else as she pressed a kiss to River’s hair with her head cradled against her chest. “You’ll be seeing me again soon.“ She told Missy and turned to leave.

“So I gathered… I’m looking forward to it.“ Missy smirked. “Tell me though, Doctor, was it me? That did this to you? That made you come here today.“ She sat up and gestured around herself. Desperation, fear and sorrow were almost palpable in the air now as the end drew nearer. “Because I really want it to have been me.“ 

“Die already, Missy, save the theatrics.“ The Doctor huffed. 

“Not here, imagine if I fall asleep after regenerating and don’t leave in time. No… I think this time, I’ll go home to die.“ Missy slowly stood up steadying herself again the counter.

“To Gallifrey?“ The Doctor questioned without looking around, she didn’t want her to see her reaction.

“I’ve not been back for a long time now… Will you ever go back, Doctor? Come home?“ Missy asked almost hopefully.

“I can’t.“ The Doctor retorted curtly. 

“Why not?“ Missy sounded confused and the Doctor wanted to tell her it was because she would lay waste to it soon but she didn’t. She wouldn’t be that cruel as she went there for comfort. Even if it probably meant that this was when she learned the timeless child secrets and set this whole chain of events in motion. 

“Because I have other things to do first. Sometimes I forget the reason why I’m still going.“ The Doctor turned back to face Missy one last time. “I had forgotten when I came here earlier. I was so wrapped up in it all, in myself and sometimes I just forget… The need to keep going is there, always urging me on but I lose sight of what it is I’m still going for…“

“And what’s that?“ Missy asked. 

“I haven’t saved her yet.“ The Doctor looked down at River.

“You sentimental idiot.“ Missy huffed and shook her head as the Doctor turned and carried on on her way out of the club without looking back. She held on tightly to her wife, enjoyed the feeling of her skin under her fingertips while she could. She carried her like she was the most precious thing in the universe. As the TARDIS came into view she realised that it didn’t matter who exactly she was and what had happened to her. In time, the images of Gallifrey burning would stop haunting her and she would accept that it wasn’t her doing. She would move past this in time. This had been a trip worth making. At the end of the universe she had found the one thing no-one else around here had: A reason to keep going. 

[aleapoffaithfiction]

VIII.

“And you? You my destiny.” - Shyne

“More wine Mr. Marshall?”

Whether you’re from New York City or not, we’ve all in some way, shape, or manner ogled over the renowned skyline and created our own fantasies of everything that it is supposed to represent. Whether we’ve fed into the brutalizing gangster narrative painted in The Godfather or tried to figure out life and love along with the famous four in Sex and The City, it’s meaningful and will always represent either a new beginning or the backdrop of your wildest journeys and dreams. Tonight, as I’m in the midst of its beauty, it’s serving as a testament to either a potential new beginning or a distaste of some sort. I’ve been too focused on the soothing waves lightly rolling along the Hudson River and the patrons dinning around me to be able to figure out which predicament I’m actually in.

“Bring the bottle.” As my lips curved, my eyes panned over to the barely touched glass on my side of the table and they eventually landed on him. I’m assuming that was supposed to impress me and it might of if we were a bit more acquainted with one another. I’ve never been cozy with overindulging with any type of alcoholic beverages while on a date, because I need to be of sound, mind, and body in order to properly comprehend body language and most of all, the dialog between myself and the person I’ve chosen to go out with. Even with this so-called history that Quinton believes we have with one another, I still don’t trust him enough to expose my comfort zone with him. He’s not Taylor.

The River Café. It’s uniquely right under the Brooklyn Bridge and literally over the river. I’ve heard more than enough people rave about it for it to be in contention as one of the elite restaurants in borough and there’s no hiding the reality that it is also one of the most expensive places to have a bite to eat. Its romantic ambiance sets the mood with the dim lighting and panoramic views but in my opinion Dom Salvador, the Brazilian samba funk innovator, is the true main attraction. I’ve found myself nodding my head and occasionally snapping my fingers along to many of the tunes the celebrated pianist played since we’ve arrived. Quinton deserves credit for taking my stomping ground suggestion into consideration. Being in Brooklyn is a reminder of where we’ve come from, but sitting in this stunning restaurant in the heart of Dumbo, is a testament of how far we’ve come. Touché.

“How is your fish?” I chose the black sea bass as my main course. There was something about it being sautéed with lobster brown butter that attracted me to it over everything else. It was served with grilled artichoke ravioli and fresh artichoke. It’s pretty good, I can admit. The gnocchi I had for an appetizer may have been slightly better, but I’m not complaining. Quinton began his dining experience with an ounce of caviar that immediately cost him a hundred and eighty bucks. Caviar tastes like shit, so I wanted no parts of that.

“It’s really good. I’m enjoying it. And your steak?”

“It’s decent. I’ve had better.” I didn’t expect him to show up in a suit, but he did, in politician blue. In that field, your head can never leave the game. Who’s to say that he won’t run into some multimillionaire that he may need some campaign contributions from or maybe he’ll shake hands and kiss babies with a few supporters before we call it a night.

“Have you eaten here before?”

“Once before. It was a business dinner.”

“It’s my first time here. I’ve heard about it, but I never kept it in the back of my mind to come. I’m impressed for the most part. The location is literally perfect.” That it is. I can even say hello to our France gifted Statue of Liberty from here.

“It is right?”

“Absolutely.”

“So, let me ask you this. Why sports?”

“Why not sports? Don’t get me wrong, the sports industry within itself has a lot of bullshit within it but what industry doesn’t? You just have to learn how to move amongst the vultures. Overall, I don’t think a lot people realize how sports are one of the primary aspects of life that brings people together. When you step into those arenas, stadiums, or fields, you see people of all ethnic backgrounds sitting together, uniformly, and basking in the moment. Sports drive our emotions, serve as our conversation starters and endings, are reasons for our road trips, and bring tradition within our families. They began lifelong friendships, cure pain, and have served as a shift within this country and many others for centuries. I fell in love with them. They’re what thrilled me ever since I was a child and I had a parent who advocated for that.” I’ve gotten that question a lot; sometimes in a sexiest manner and on occasion, out of genuine interest. I’d like to think it’s what I was meant to do. I have a high regard for our nation’s doctors, lawyers, business people, artists, and everything else, but I’ve never had a passion to be anything else other than who and what I am right now.

“I don’t know. I’ve always thought you’d end up being an actress or some type of model.” Should I be insulted by that? I don’t know. “Why?”

“Of course, you’re beautiful, but you’ve also always been great at speaking and being expressive.”

“So, then we can attribute that as to why I’m so good at my job now. Why politics?”

“It wasn’t always my passion. Initially, I wanted to be a forensic scientist. Well, now that I think about it, I guess I always wanted to be involved with the justice process in some aspect. I’d like to think that’s what politics is but just in a much grander fashion.”

“Justice? So that’s all you’re in it for? The justice aspect of things?” I find that hard to believe. Sure, politicians have power but, in my opinion, it’s typically for all of the wrong reasons when it comes to most of them. I’ll give credit when it is due to those who actually do bring about the shifts in culture, growth, and renewal that they speak of but other than that, I’ve never been drawn to anything about it. I’m no American flag waving, super patriotic chick. Most would say I’m living the modernized American dream since I have no husband or children within my home seemingly by choice, but what the hell is the American dream anyway? What makes it the ultimate goal?

“I’d be liar if I said that is the only thing on my mind. I do want to make a difference, but not only within this city, but also within this country. For me, that’s a duty much like it is for a military officer who willingly signs up to protect and serve, but politics comes with networking unlike any other and that’s the type of networking that I need so that I can continue to take not only myself but also my businesses to new horizons.”

“I see.”

“You sound displeased.” His soft chuckle followed the sound of his fork hitting the plate. He then took a sip of his wine and leaned in to get a better glimpse at my facial expression.

“I’m not displeased. I can’t or won’t knock your hustle.”

“My hustle?”

“Everyone has a hustle.”

“This is true. I haven’t heard that word in quite a while but we know it well, being from here and all. Let me ask you this about your hustle Sarai. We all know and see how well you’ve done for yourself. We’ve applauded it and continue to do so. But is that it? All that you want to do with that powerful voice of yours is use it for sports? You only want to lend your voice to analyze, occasionally critique, and celebrate a bunch of pompous athletes who will never do the same for you in return?” This man has a lot of nerve.

“I lend my voice to what moves the world no matter what is going on. As I said, sports are a vital part of the culture of not only this country, but the entire world. People turn on their televisions every day, tune in through mobile devices, tablets, and whatever the hell else, just to be able to hear what I have to say. Those pompous athletes you speak of approach me whenever they’re able to catch me out somewhere and they either thank me or humbly admit they can understand why I critiqued something they did. I have no problem lending my voice to them, because they’re ordinary people with once in a lifetime talent, who live their lives under microscopes of misjudgment and scrutiny. As a politician, shouldn’t you understand that? Aren’t you supposed to be a voice for the people?”

“Yes, for the people.”

“And they’re people just like anyone else is.”

“I see bigger things for you. I always have. Why do you think I’ve been so adamant about us having a moment like this? It’s not only because I’ve always been attracted to you and interesting in having something more, but also because I want you with me during this journey. I believe that we can really get out there and make a real difference within this world. The Obamas were just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to black faces like ours being in positions of power. I don’t want what Barack accomplished to be a one and done because that’s what these white motherfuckers are working their hardest to make sure of. No one’s pushing back enough as far as I’m concerned but I’m going to be the one to do so.”

“You just said that you saw me becoming an actress or a model and now all of a sudden, I’m Michelle Obama’s successor? That’s funny. Ultimately, I’d like to believe we’re both already making a difference. No?”

“We are, but we’re just in the early stages of it. We’re still gold fish in a world full of sharks. You want to get ahead in this world? Not only do you have to be a shark too, but in our case, we have to be the sharpest ones because we don’t get to slide by with mediocrity like the others do.”

“I agree with that in some aspects.”

“Sarai, I don’t want to do this alone and this country prides itself on the foundation of family. I need a family. I can’t continue running for these higher offices without a wife by my side and eventually, a couple of children too.”

“You just said Sarai I don’t want to do this alone, and then you went on to explain all of the political reasons why you need me. What am I supposed to be? A prop? I’m not into politics. I’m a Democrat by default and it’s only because it’s the lesser of two evils. That’s all I have in that department and as far as I’m concerned, I’m fine with it. In addition to that, is that what our foundation is supposed to be? You’d be sliding a ring on my finger, when? Tonight? Next week? Maybe a month or two from now? And it’ll all be for the sake of you continuing to catapult your political career? Excuse my French, but you must be out of your fucking mind Quinton.” The octaves within our voices hadn’t shifted whatsoever and if anyone were closely observing us, you’d think we were two people gleefully enjoying one another over a candlelit dinner and yet the reality is, propositions are being laid out on the table and underhanded insults were being slipped in somewhere in between them.

“Your mother said you would say that.”

“My mother? You spoke with my mother about this? Oh yeah, you are the idiot that I’ve always thought you were.”

“An idiot? So, you’re calling me an idiot for having yearned for you for all of these years while you deliberately ignored me? I’m an idiot for ignoring the advances of women of many different statures all for the sake of having Sarai Nazaire, the around the way girl, as my wife?” I nearly spit out the wine swirling around in my mouth onto the table in response to the manner in which he said my name. He’d said it like I was some damsel in distress who needed his rescuing.

“Are you blaming me for decisions that you made on your own accord? You chose to ignore those women. You could have done whatever you liked. Also, I wasn’t ignoring you. I had a lot going on and I wasn’t in a place to nurture a relationship.”

“But you were in enough of a place to be with Shamel?”

“I didn’t do much nurturing of that.” And neither did he. I tried. If no one will give me credit for it, I certainly will give it to myself. I tried to be a lot of things for that man but from his perspective I came up short in every category. There wasn’t a single aspect of me that he believed to be more than or even just enough for him.

“And even with our history, there isn’t anything about you and I that makes sense?”

“What history? Are you speaking of our friendship or the one time we slept together? I hope for the sake of us walking away from this table with somewhat of a decent connection to one another, that you’re speaking about our friendship.”

“I’m speaking about everything; everything that happened and everything that you resisted. You’ve never given me a chance.”

“What do you think I’m doing right now? Why do you think I’m sitting here? I’m trying to give you a chance and yet you’re sitting there propositioning me instead of courting me. Am I supposed to be flattered?”

“I am courting you. I want to court you. I’m not trying to jump into all of this as quickly as you assume. I’m simply letting you know my intentions. I don’t want to date you just for the sake of dating. I want us to work towards having a future together.”

“How can I feel good about hearing something like that when I know that it comes with a motive?” If he and I were to choose to move forward after this date tonight, I’d know that there may possibly be only a small portion of our union that has some authenticity to it.

I’ve never considered myself to be the hopeless romantic type of woman who idly sits around waiting for my prince charming to show up at my door in shining armor and sweep me off of my feet. I don’t even know what I want or need out of love. Far more than anything else, I believe that aspect of life is the most complex and it doesn’t seem to have the patience for me, and that’s alright I suppose because the feeling is sort of mutual.

Even in admitting that, I can’t fake it until we make it with Quinton. I’m not capable of smiling until my cheeks feel like they’re going to shatter, while I pageant wave at crowds of people as a figure within his enormous shadow. We’d eventually become something more corrupt than Watergate and more scandalous than Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. We’d unravel in a manner that this country has never seen a First Couple ever do before. He’s barely tolerating my resistance now, so imagine the reaction he’d have to it once his ego is unbearably and uncontrollably colossal.

“With the places that we’re at within our lives, everyone who we encounter that shows interest will have some sort of a motive.” I, too, have had thoughts that mirrored his. I’ve observed women toss out all of their integrity for a chance encounter with someone prominent and affluent enough to raise their stature within society.

I’ve had men offer to buy me a drink at bars just to be able to speak about their glory days as a high school athlete while noticeably slipping in desires that they believe I can help them with. There are family members who I’ve probably only spoken to once or twice since my birth who have given odd interviews to tabloids for a few bucks about aspects of my life they know nothing about. So, while his statement holds its truths, how can I ever live comfortably if I believe anyone who I encounter has it out for me?

“Well Mr. Politician, let that be so. I won’t applaud you because you’ve made your motive known, but I will politely decline your offer. You’re not a bad guy Quinton. You’re just not my guy. I don’t know who that is or where he’ll come from, but I’d rather wait a lifetime for a man that I’m going to actually have undeniable chemistry with rather than force something for the sake of political bliss. You’re asking me to sacrifice everything about who I am and what I stand for, for you. I’d never ask that of you or anyone else. As you said, there are women out here who would love to be on your arm. Stop turning them down and open yourself up to finding the one for you. Do that for yourself, because this is a cold world and I’d hate for you to have to lay next to someone at night who you don’t even love because you want to sit in the highest office in this country. It’s not worth it, at least for me it isn’t.”

While staring at him, I raised my arm to move one of my tight curls out of my face. Suddenly, my lips rose into a grin that quickly erupted into a giggle. The morning I woke up against Beckham’s chiseled chest with his arms tightly wrapped around my body, he joked about my hair being in his mouth at one point while we slept. As we lay there, he switched my name during every sentence that spilled from his rose toned lips. I was Diana Ross, Donna Summers, and Chaka Khan. He even joked that if I’m going to keep my hair like this, then I’d have to put on one of those bonnets that black mothers wear outside to embarrass their kids. I hadn’t laughed so hard since the last time we were together. It seems like all of my laughter comes from him being around him these days.

“You’ve made your choice. I guess I have to live with that.” He grabbed the bottle of wine off of the table and refilled his glass to the edges of the brim. He then tightly gulped it down while my eyes washed over the motion of his Adam’s apple. The tension radiating from his frame snatched what was left of my appetite. We certainly don’t have to bother with dessert.

“You’ll be living with a choice that’s what’s best for both you and I. You don’t want me. I’m sure if I allowed it, you’d climb into bed with me tonight, but anything more? It’s not realistic. I’ve never felt wanted by you and you’ve never felt that from me. We both deserve more. If you don’t believe so, then I do. I deserve someone who looks at me like I was born to be his. I’d prefer to be with a man who indisputably wants me and only me.”

“Well I hope you find that, Sarai.”

“I’m not looking for it. If it comes my way, then that’s amazing. If not, I’ll be alright.”

Silence fell between us and once again, my eyes were gazing out at the striking scenery surrounding the restaurant. As fucked up as it sounds, this would have been a beyond perfect date if that unknown man that I speak of were sitting across from me tonight. Instead of tension, there’d be flirtatious giggles and glances of affection. My heel clad feet would be intentionally grazing against his calves to entice him just as much as he’d be doing to me simply by existing.

While speaking, my ears would be listening to anything he chose to say while my eyes would be reading the clear message of him having every intention to have me gripping the sheets and crying out his name in our bedroom, within his. Not being able to take it anyone, we’d call for the check with half eaten plates in front of us and would waltz off into the night with a care or concern about anything or anyone other than one another. In a perfect world, that’s how things would be, but this world isn’t perfect and neither am I.

“Check please.” I guess he wants to get out of here just as bad as I do.

“Quinton, I’m going to go. I can cover this if you’d like.” I ruined his night. It’s the least that I can do, right?

“There’s no need for you to do that. You’re here by the way of my invitation. I have it under control. Enjoy the rest of your night.” Everything about his tone reeked of dismissiveness and yet I’m unbothered. I get it.

“I’ll see you around, okay? We usually catch one another at church from time to time.”

“I suppose so.”

Upon my arrival to the restaurant, we greeted one another with a huge hug and yet as I’m making my exit a few minutes short of an hour and a half later, I can feel his cold glare following my every move. I insisted that we meet here instead of allowing him to come and pick me up from my place. I’m not comfortable with too many people knowing where I rest my head at night. I know him well enough to know he’d surprisingly pop up at my door and that would easily leave a bad taste in my mouth, so I saved him the future embarrassment and myself the annoyance. With the way this evening ended, my driving here was clearly God being on my side.

Though the night was barely young, boredom coerced me into cruising around Brooklyn for the hell of it. It was my favorite past time in my hooptie Honda Civic during those summers when I’d be on break from college and had time to spare after putting in the necessary hours for whatever internship I was working for that particular summer. There’s something about it that makes me feel close to my father. I’d turn corners on familiar blocks and those great memories of the two of us taking this borough by a storm would come to the forefront of my thoughts. I’d remember the conversations we’d have with him endlessly dropping knowledge for me to carry with me on life’s journeys and the constant words of reassurance so that I’d always know how proud of me he was. We’d playfully debate about who is greater between Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson, why the Fresh Prince of Bel Air is better than the Cosby Show, and why Allen Iverson will never be my husband. In his neighborly manner, he’d speak to everyone sitting out on their porches and would even buy ice cream for whatever kids were outside if the Mister Softie truck was around. Though my mother would scold him for spending so carelessly, he did it anyway.

It’s cold now. The sidewalks don’t have girls jumping double-dutch, boys aren’t riding by on their bikes, nor are people sitting out on their porches scoping the scene and gossiping about what’s hot on the block. Those memories aren’t coming to me either. Instead, my mind is consumed with something or rather someone else. It’s funny how that works; do you call it a crush or infatuation? Interest or just simple attraction? I don’t know how to define it but this is the first time I’m learning just how out of control our emotions can be.

On the surface, you can put on a performance like you have it all together and absolutely nothing can faze you, but internally? There’s this train wreck on an endless loop. This doesn’t feel like a train wreck though. Instead, there are flutters within the core of my body. Chills trickle up my arms and onto the napes of my neck, and trigger goosebumps that linger around enough to unnerve me. My toes curl, chest tightens, and taking breaths becomes a task to focus on. My duties and concerns for those beyond myself now includes an additional person. How has it come to a point of me not wanting to fail him? How did I get here?

I don’t know how to navigate any of this. I’m a small fish taken out of a pond and thrown into an ocean of the unknown. What now? Do a swim and explore what may be one of the most beautiful experiences of my life? Do I stay right there in the one place I landed and resist learning or exploring everything out of fear? Do I hopelessly swim and end up getting viciously eaten up by something that is beyond me? Shamel was easy, frustrating as fuck, but easy nonetheless. Easy became toxic but in the midst of that, I never had to think this much. We just co-existed. I fear the expectations. I may not live up to the fantasy style of hype that circulates about me.

Just as Quinton had mentioned, I’m the cool around the way girl who can carry a conversation with the dudes probably even better than I can with the chicks. I’ve seen men on social media deem me to be the type of wife who can make the platter of hot wings and then come and flop down on the couch to watch the NBA Finals with my man. It’s possible, but I’m so much more than that. I have my baggage and bullshit with me too. Is that okay? When the make-up is off, my hair is up in the sloppiest ponytail ever, and a t-shirt three times my size with some socks and Nike slippers are covering my body, will I still be the fantasy? When I’m nagging about something that’s irritating me, having one of those days when I don’t want to be bothered with anyone or anything, or having some sort of a mood swing because Mother Nature is running her monthly course, will everything still be all good? I don’t know.

“Oh, fuck you Fantasia. Fuck you.” I’d been letting Apple Music do its thing by allowing my own playlists to flourish while I drive. Having the formatting on shuffle made the transition from Biggie’s “I Got A Story to Tell” to Fantasia’s “When I See You” completely catch me off guard. I’d quickly gone from being lost in my thoughts to listening to Fantasia sing them.

“Screw that.”

I switched to a playlist filled with the Best of The Bad Boy Records Era. I kept the sappy and moody vibe, with just the right amount of Hip-Hop added in for the drive back into Jersey. I saw my home in my rearview mirror as I slowly drove past it. Though I should have parked in my garage and called it a night, my hands remained attached to the steering wheel and my foot pressed on the gas to continue the journey to the person and place invading and conquering my every thought. In one of our many conversations we’ve had, we discussed how many cars he owns and all three of them were very much parked in their usual spots, but the additional cars were a warning that he had company in the house. Somehow, in the back of my mind, I knew that he did, and yet I’ve come here anyway.

I remained unnoticeably parked in his cobblestone driveway for minutes in an attempt to gather my thoughts. It feels like I’m the one who’s pursuing him nowadays. I’m the one in an odd chase.

Hey. Are you busy?

Seconds later, the bubble appeared at the bottom of the screen.

No. What’s up?

I’m not sure what vibe he’s giving. There’s something about that reply that seems short or rather standoffish.

I’m in your driveway.

And looking desperate as hell while at it.

Come in the house. I’ll have someone unlock the door.

I’d be uncomfortable and fearful of what could or would go behind the walls of his home. One innocent slip up with the wrong person could easily cause a world of trouble for me more so than him.

You think maybe you can come outside?

What am I thinking? The man is on crutches. That wouldn’t be fair.

Never mind. I know you have company and I don’t want to disrupt. I’ll just come by tomorrow.

It’s what I should have done in the first place.

Give me five minutes. I’ll come outside.

It was less than five minutes. Despite the crisp cold air, he crutched himself out of the door in a pair of Nike shorts and a hoodie. There was one Virgil Abloh designed Jordan I on his one foot and of course his protective boot on the other. I suppose the beanie hat covering his blonde curls is what is supposed to serve as his protective barrier from the chill. Once he opened up the passenger side door, he tossed his crutches into the back, and carefully slid into the front seat. For the sake of comforting his ankle, he used the side panel on the bottom of the seat to adjust it further back from the normal position it’s usually in.

“Sarai. What’s up?” He finally closed the door and I couldn’t be any more thankful. The fall air was beginning to win against the low heat I had going in the car.

“Nothing major. How are you?” His large hands reached up to readjust his hat as he responded with a shrug.

“Chillin’. Nothing major for me either. I went back home to Louisiana for a couple of days. That was cool.”

“That’s good. I’m sure it was good to get a change of scenery since the injury has had you so cooped up in the house.”

“Yeah, it was a nice little visit. I got to kick it with my brothers and my sister. We even did a family dinner and both my momma and my pops were there. That shit rarely happens these days, so, I’m pleased with how it all turned out.” 
“Did you visit LSU?”

“Not this time. I’m going to visit later on in the month. I’m designing an exclusive Air Force I with Nike and I plan on giving the whole team pairs. So, while I’m down there, I’ll probably kick it at a game.”

“That’s dope. I’m sure they’re going to appreciate that coming from you. Not only are you a hometown hero, but you’ve certainly cemented your legendary status within the LSU history books.”

“For sure. I care about giving back but in this case, I definitely care about inspiring those boys to know that I haven’t done anything that they aren’t capable of achieving.” His humbling spirit is a major part of the foundation that draws me to him. It exudes itself during any conversation he’s having.

“That’s real.”

For the first time since he sat inside of the car, our eyes met and he slowly panned his own down to assess every aspect of my frame. His lips flattened as he tightly pressed them together and with a slight nod, he turned his head forward just as it had been before.

“How was the date?”

Breathless; it’s how he left me. I opened my mouth to speak and whatever words I thought I mustered up to tell him instantly fell flat.

“You’re not wearing a dress like that to church.”

“It was thought provoking and extremely disappointing.”

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here? Let me correct that before you assume. I’m not bothered by your presence. I’m anything but that. You’re just confusing. I spend a lot of time trying to figure you out and I feel like I understand some areas and I come up short in others. I’m just wondering if you’re here because things went badly with him.”

“I’m not here because of that. I already knew how things would go with him before I even went but I needed to, because he’s been in this weird state of limbo and has been filled with hope for years and I needed to know why. Now I know.”

“And that’s all it was?”

“That’s it.” It’s been years since I explained myself to a man. Shamel and I ended damn near four years ago and I despised explaining myself to him because I was made out to be a liar no matter what I said.

“So, you’re here now. Now what? We talk and you run depending upon the way the conversation goes? Or is this the official moment when you friend zone me?”

“Odell, I’m not friend zoning you.” A huff escaped my lips as my fingers trailed from the top of my head and through the curls cascading over my shoulders.

I couldn’t bear to look after him after blurting out what I’d been so afraid to say. Early on, I attempted to keep him as nothing more than a random figment within the professional realm of my life. That failed. I then chose to view him as an acquaintance I run into from time to time and that flopped before I could put it to the test. After spending all of those days in the hospital, the friend zone felt appropriate and as if it could be a success between he and I, but I’d been telling my mind a disastrous lie that my emotions refused to adapt to.  

“I just don’t know how any of this works. You say I’m confusing and I can be, but this is just as confusing.” I motioned between he and myself for emphasis.

“Well let’s figure it out.” The intensity of his glare silenced the mental clutter. The tone of his voice created a safe and comfort zone unlike any other.

The warmth of his palm met the top of my hand and I instantly flipped it over so our palms could meet. Our fingers laced, interlocking everything we weren’t saying and sealing a deal we’d yet to make.

As the faint music played, the clock grabbed my attention.

“I have something for you.”

“You have something for me? Like what?” His lips curved into that all too familiar smirk of his and his eyes blissfully gleamed. Rather than saying it, I exited the car and quickly made my way to the trunk. I’d been riding around with the box and garment bag in there for over a week and now I can finally cure my anxiousness.

“What’s that?” Again, I didn’t say anything as I leaned in from my side and passed them over so he’d be able to place them on his lap.

“Open the box first.” Once I closed the door, I turned the heat up just a notch more. I didn’t think fall would be hitting this hard. Usually the weather is all over the place, but this year, that shit seems to be no joke. We’re going to be brutalized with snow at the rate things are going.

“Okay.” Like a kid on Christmas, he rubbed his hands together in glee and quickly lifted the lid off. In an instant, he erupted into a booming fit of laughter. I had to join him, because it was so infectious.

I have decent friendship with Angelo Baque, who is more the former brand director of Supreme. We met two years ago at New York Fashion Week and we’ve remained in touch ever since. He even had me model in an ad campaign for the brand last year that was plastered all over New York City in anticipation for fashion week. So, though his Supreme days are behind him, it doesn’t mean that he isn’t in good standing with the brand. It ended up being fairly easy to have a custom Supreme x Louis Vuitton printed walking boot created for Odell.

“Sarai. This is fire.” He closely examined it with bits of giggles that eventually turned into laughter once again. It amused me just as much when I picked it up. It’s fashionably loud and just as gaudy as he can be sometimes. If he’s going to have to wear a big ol’ medical boot, why not make it something representative of himself?

“You like it?”

“Hell yeah. This is perfect. You already know that I sometimes get frustrated as hell when I look down at that boot and you just fixed that problem.”

“I know. That’s why I got it.”

“I love it. I love it so much.”

“I know you have so much of the collection in your possession already because I’ve seen it on your Instagram, but you don’t have this. It’s a sample piece that never made it into the collection. I asked your mom for your size and by a miracle, one of the two jackets of its kind can fit you.” I held the box to make it easier for him to unzip the garment bag and he pulled out the vivid red bomber style of jacket. Everything about it screamed his name when I laid my eyes on it and I had to have it for him, no matter what the price tag was for it. Luckily, it wasn’t as overly hefty as I thought it would be. It’s the perfect piece to pair with the walking boot. Just because he’s injured, doesn’t mean that he can’t be as on point as he usually is when he’s out and about.

“And I thought I had connects. Whew! This is crazy. And it’s a one of one? At least for me it is. I’ma have to stunt with this one. It’s only right.”

“I know a few people.”

“Shit, a few more than me. Sarai, this is amazing. You got me cheesing like a kid on Christmas right now.”

“I know.”

“Oh, so you know me huh?” Why did he have to bite his lip after such a question? My backside shifted in the seat as my thighs pressed together much tighter than they already were.

“I know some things.”

“I want you to know everything.” Our hands met again as I reached to turn the heat off. I didn’t need it anymore.

In an attempt to mask the fluttering radiating throughout my body, I slid further down into the seat.

“I’d like that.”

My eyes panned over to the clock once again. Just as I did, midnight was finally upon us.

“Happy Birthday Odell.”

All week long, I’d been contemplating how I’d go about acknowledging him on his day. I didn’t want it to be the typical call or an impersonal text message. It certainly wasn’t going to be some social media post with a long heartfelt caption like I’m sure he’s going to receive from many throughout the day. Since I’d be bearing gifts, I knew it needed to be done here, but the exact timeframe was a silent debate. Finally, I settled on coming right around this time.

“Thank you, baby.”

Like he’d been doing since he was finally able to trap me into his world at the Bleacher Report party, he leaned over to invade my space. As my head turned, his plush lips brushed mine in a fiery passion and demand. He took possession of all seven of my senses and shifted us into a place where only he and I exist. The warmth of his minty breath rid our space of any bit of cool air trickling into the car.

“Sarai.” He huskily whispered my name; savoring every syllable as if he’d never heard anything more beautiful. Our breaths mingled as his lips pressed into mine.

I would have thought after all of the footage I’ve watched, all of pictures I’ve looked over, and all of the time we’ve spent speaking that I’d know quite a bit about his lips because they’re certainly my favorite part of him to look at thus far, but absolutely nothing could prepare me for this. Nothing.

His tongue sensually brushed over both of my lips in a plea for entry and I granted it. The warmth of his tongue grazed mine and his arm wrapped around my waist and drew me closer in a ravenousness that could not be ignored. He awoken parts of me that have been ignored for nearly four years. I yearned for a type of touch that I haven’t been able to properly satisfy through my own store-bought measures. I’ve laid awake at night wondering how his kiss would feel and as he sucking on my bottom lip in a tease that is sure to send me to an early grave, my wonder didn’t have a chance of measuring up to what I’m feeling right now.

“Take me home with you.” My heart thrashed against my chest as I pulled my quivering bottom lip in-between my teeth. Dear, God.

“Not for anything more than just me spending time with you. That’s it.”

“You have company in your house. You can’t leave them.”

“Yes, I can and I am. Drive.” It wasn’t a request but rather an order.

He settled back into the seat and boldly pulled the passenger side seatbelt over his body and properly secured it. For the sake of my own comfort, he removed the box from my lap and placed it back onto his.

I gazed into his tempting dark chocolate eyes for just a minute to see if he’d change his mind, but he sat patiently waiting for me to make my move and so I did.

I slowly pulled around his driveway and drove off into the night.

[pengiesama]

Too Many Cooks (Fic, Gen)

Title: Too Many Cooks Series: Tales of Zestiria Pairing: Gen Characters: Rose, Alisha, Malfore

Summary: Rose and company help Alisha protect a vital shipping lane from attack by a rampaging drake. "Luckily" for them, Rolance has sent their own Shepherd to help.

(Or, "The One Where Everyone Involved Learns a Lesson in Patience and Self-Control, and Also How Not to Stab People.")

Link: AO3

This was my entry for day one of the TOZ 4th Anniversary project, at @tozanniversary! Day two's prompt was “I’m the son of a provincial lard!”.

Check out the other fic and art entries here:

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Rolance and Hyland were now working together on a variety of initiatives. Rebuilding destroyed towns, reseeding blighted fields, purging the land of the hellions that still roamed and of the lingering pockets of resistance to the kingdoms’ treaty. Alisha, of course, worked tirelessly; alongside Sergei, when he was available, but always Rose. Rose was still styling on the Shepherd Incognito thing – she was just used to working in the shadows when it came to things outside the Sparrowfeathers business, and it was easier besides.

There were those who remembered the Shepherd Sorey, and tales of his deeds were spreading; tales made larger than life and more wild by his sudden disappearance, at the very same time hope returned to the land. Surely he will return when humanity becomes pure enough. He sleeps under the mountain, waiting for this day. Leave offerings at the mantle for his seraphic helpers to bring to him each night. Rose was kind of worried about how Sorey would react to having a religion built up around him when he finally woke up.

Rose knew that taking up the Shepherd gig wouldn’t be easy. Sure, Sorey was stuck handling the really hard stuff. (She sent up a little prayer every night to wish him well – she never prayed in the past, never thought anyone would listen, but now she knew that Sorey would and was and always will.) But she was stuck handling the really annoying stuff.

The political stuff.

The political stuff that you couldn’t solve by stabbing with a knife.

The political stuff that you could solve by stabbing with a knife but now you’ve got a very delicate truce situation to navigate and so you can’t.

“…and I tell you this in utter sincerity, and above all, humility: the moment I appeared on the scene, the hellion took a single look at me and turned tail! I spoke naught a word, but the foul creature surely understood the overwhelming holy power at my command.” Malfore nodded gravely, and adjusted that stupid fucking beret on his stupid fucking skull. “It is a heavy burden. I do not intend to upset your delicate feminine composure with my travel accounts – please do let me know if you feel that you are about to faint from terror. But I tell you these tales for a reason. Understand, ladies, that you are safe under my protection as we travel.”

“Cool story, bro,” Rose said. Alisha was stiff as a rail, walking several paces ahead of them, clearly too infuriated to trust herself to speak. “I bet that was totally a hellion and not just like, a fat raccoon you saw knocking over the garbage cans behind the Shrinechurch one time.”

“Yes, it was truly a saga for the ages,” Malfore said, clearly not having registered a word she said. “I am indeed writing a memoir about my experiences, so please, do be patient while the creative process works. Ah, but that brings to mind another encounter…”

The mission they were on today was, indeed, dangerous. They were out to investigate a string of destructive landslides that threatened to dam up a major shipping highway between Rolance and Hyland – which would bring trade, not to mention transport of relief supplies and doctors, to a screeching halt. Preliminary scouting around the area led to the grim conclusion that they were probably dealing with a drake. An impossible task for the Hyland princess and her troop of ordinary soldiers (and her totally ordinary merchant pal who was only tagging along to make sure their supply train kept running smoothly) to be expected to deal with herself. And so, Rolance had graciously allowed Hyland to borrow their Shepherd (who was Totally Legit, and definitely not a fake asshole who didn’t know a hellion from a hole in the ground) to help with the process of retaking the river.

Rose was used to humoring pompous windbags – it was part of the customer service gig. Even Edna and Lailah had learned to live with the situation for the time being. But Alisha…well. She’d been condescended to and insulted and disregarded by people all her life, and had taken it with a kind of martyr attitude; as if it was simply a test to make her a better knight. But Malfore seemed to really be stretching her patience to the breaking point. She’d hardly said a word the past few days – as if Malfore had even let them get a word in, with all his yapping, but even when they were in their tent alone together, she was as silent as a stone, and as prickly as a pufferfish every time Rose approached.

“May I explain Alisha’s struggle?” Lailah asked politely.

Rose jumped a mile at the sudden sound of Lailah’s voice in her head. Malfore laughed magnanimously, and gently patted Rose on her head like a scared puppy. He removed his hand before Rose could break his fucking fingers.

“Fear not, for as I am standing here in front of you today, you can be assured that this story has a happy end. Now, as I was saying, I was wooing the beautiful water seraph who had rescued me from my sinking vessel, when the pirates attacked…”

“I’m going to bury him in dirt and bugs tonight while he sleeps and you can’t stop me,” Edna said.

“Now, now,” Lailah said mildly, not even pretending to dissuade her. “Regarding Alisha’s stress, it is clear that she is upset by Malfore’s falsehoods above all.”

“That makes approximately all of us,” Rose whispered back under her breath. Gesticulating wildly as he mimed the pirate battle, Malfore didn’t notice one bit. “But she’s spent her whole life working with politicians. I’ve seen her with them before, and she’s never gotten like this even when they’re lying through their teeth.”

“It is the nature of Malfore’s falsehoods, specifically. She is clearly quite upset at the thought of him taking credit for your and Sorey’s hard work and sacrifice.”

“And she can’t even call him out on it, or bury him in bugs and dirt,” Edna added. “This Rolance treaty is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I don’t remember ever fighting off a hellion raccoon,” Rose said dubiously. “Or wooing a water seraph. Unless bringing that stack of books for Mikleo to read on his downtime counts.”

Mikleo was usually too preoccupied with tending to Sorey’s light in the ruins to come along on these missions, but this time it was probably for the best – he’d probably be stomping along ahead, fuming at Malfore’s bullshit right alongside Alisha.

Which, in turn, would have resulted in them both getting caught up in the sudden landslide that knocked Alisha off her feet and sent her tumbling down the mountain. Her form rapidly became a white and pink speck as it was swept away under a tide of mud and stone, down into the river below. Rose heard the telltale shriek of a drake, and jerked her eyes away from Alisha just in time to see the creature charging at them from the woods.

“Hepsin Yulind!”

Edna’s stone fists grasped the drake by its curled, goat-like horns. Rose dug the ornate heels of her boots into the ground; only barely managing to halt the drake’s charge with the armatus’ strength before it knocked her down the mountain and into the drink with Alisha. The drake, undaunted, thrashed its head in an attempt to break Rose’s grip.

“Think fast!” Edna snapped at her. “You can’t expect me to keep this up forever!”

Even if Edna’s grip remained true, their footing was becoming less and less existent, with every stomp and thrash of the drake’s cloven hooves. If they didn’t get on solid ground fast, both she and the drake would wind up careening down the mountainside – she had no idea where Alisha was down there, and would have no way to keep her from getting crushed by ten tons of malevolent scales. That would ruin her day even faster than Malfore rambling about pirates and racoons. She had no idea where that idiot had run off to – he certainly wasn’t helping, not that Rose would have wanted to have to deal with whatever his idea of “help” would be. Alas, Rose was the only Shepherd on call today. What a tragedy.

In situations like these, Rose liked to go by the mantra: What Would Sorey Do?

“Yeehaw!” Rose yeehawed yeehawingly, and flipped herself onto the drake’s back.

She held on for dear life as the drake shrieked and bucked. With the horns in her grip, she was able to steer them – inexpertly, and clumsily, but it was enough to get the drake to tangle itself in the trees and crash headlong into the mountain face. It was stunned, stunned long enough for Rose to summon Lailah’s power and get to work.

“Here,” Rose said hurriedly, lowering the unconscious earth seraph to the ground in front of Lailah. “Keep an eye on them, I’ve gotta—”

“Thank your radiant Lady Edna for her compassion?” Edna asked. She had Alisha held aloft in a bower of vines and flowers – Rose hadn’t noticed her slip away while she and Lailah purified the drake. Alisha was soaked from the river, and covered in scratches and bruises, but was conscious, and struggling against the vines that held her tight. “You’re welcome. Here’s your special delivery.”

“I—I’m so sorry,” Alisha managed to get out. Rose helped her down from the vines, and slung Alisha’s arm around her shoulders to steady her. “If I hadn’t been acting so childishly, I…I wouldn’t have put everyone in danger…”

“And we would have had no heads up that the drake was two seconds away from charging us flat.” Rose thumped her on the back, and Alisha grunted at the feeling. “Believe me, that could’ve gone way worse…speaking of worse, did you see if our friend came tumbling after you? We were down one Shepherd in that little scuffle.”

Alisha’s eyes narrowed, and her expression darkened at hearing of Malfore’s…lack of participation. “…no, I did not see whether he was knocked down alongside me. I suppose we must form a search party.”

“Don’t bother,” Edna said. She pointed into the trees with her umbrella. A telltale fallen beret pinpointed the location. “He’s cowering under a bush over there. Better go get him before the poison ivy does.”

Rose sighed. “Sometimes I really wish this Shepherd gig really was just fighting hellions. C’mon, I’ll help you walk…”

To his credit, Malfore only screamed a little when Rose drew back the leaves covering his hiding spot. He stared at Rose in wide-eyed terror, his complexion pale, his whole body shaking.

“Nice to see you’re well, Lord Shepherd,” Rose said. She dropped his beret back onto his head.

“You…how…” Malfore grasped for words. “You…wrestled the landslide itself, as if – as if it were some charging beast—”

Rose distantly recalled Lailah explaining that humans without resonance couldn’t quite perceive drakes – dragons were a different story, but before things got that bad, drakes could only be seen as natural disasters. Whirlwinds, typhoons. Landslides. Her escapades probably did look pretty damn weird to an outside observer.

It would be nice to tell him the truth. It would be nice to grab him by the ear, and forcibly share enough resonance with him to show him the real deal – show him what a fake he really was. But…Rose looked at Alisha, at the unhappy line of her mouth, at her bruised and battered body. She understood what was going through Alisha’s mind, even without Lailah’s voice to tell her. Alisha worked herself to the bone to improve relations with Rolance. She’d made so much progress, and they were helping so many people. As they helped people, the world’s malevolence lightened; as the world’s malevolence lightened, they helped Sorey. And to keep this going, all they had to do was humor an idiot.

Rose closed her eyes, and gently eased Alisha to stand on her own. She crossed her arms over her chest, and pressed one hand to her heart.

“I’ll tell you my secret – but only you,” Rose said, her expression grave. “I’m an alien from beyond the stars, fleeing from my planet that was destroyed when I was but a babe in my cradle. I was adopted as a baby by a simple farmer couple.  This world’s yellow sun gives me ten times the strength of a normal human, and also I can shoot laser beams out of my eyes.”

Alisha blinked slowly, then pressed her fingers delicately to her skull, as if checking for a concussion. Lailah hummed thoughtfully and continued to heal the worst of Alisha’s injuries; saving the rest for when they had privacy.

Malfore squinted as he processed this information. “But…how did you learn to tame the landslide?”

“I grew up on a farm. It was a rock farm. A farm for rocks,” Rose explained, as Edna fed ideas in her ear. “Landslides were a basic occupational hazard. You know how it is.”

Malfore shakily rose to his feet, and dusted himself off. “I was born to one of Rolance’s most ancient and noble houses, so I’m afraid the finer points of farming may be lost on me…but thank you for assisting, visitor from beyond the stars. Had I been alone, I would have been able to best the hellion in perhaps a similar – but more elegant, of course – fashion, but I was too preoccupied with ensuring the safety of you and the Princess Alisha, and, alas, it very nearly spelled the doom of all three of us. My compassion has always been my greatest strength, and my greatest weakness.”

“Yeah, okay,” Rose said. “That’s totally probably what happened. How about we get turned around and get back on the road? I’m sure your bosses in Pendrago will love to hear about you getting this taken care of.”

“Oh, silly thing,” Malfore laughed. “The Shepherd serves no master but the people. But yes, yes, the Shrinechurch will want to hear my report. Do not worry – I will keep your secret safe, and will not speak of your involvement in the incident.”

“Thanks,” Rose said drily. “You’re a real pal.”

“The seraph we saved will follow along with us to the nearest town,” Lailah explained to Rose. “We can perform the necessary steps to install them as Lord of the Land there. They should be able to extend their domain to prevent any further malevolent influence on the sensitive areas of the shipping lanes.”

That, at least, made Alisha smile. Rose sighed and shook her head as they began walking. At least something good came out of this trip.

Though at least now she knew that she could pretty confidently tackle a goat.

[sunlitroom]

Gotham s4e03 - They Who Hide Behind Masks

As I watched it, and some random observations here and there.

Previously on Gotham.

Victor crashes a wedding. Crime is legal now. Oswald keeps you safe, not GCPD.  Babs is back. Tabitha is sceptical. Selina wants more!  Jim’s not handing the city over to Oswald. Falcone can raise an army – but might kill Jim on sight.  Ed is on ice.  Ra’s al Ghul is very dramatic.  Bruce must find his true north, which is lurking about on ledges.

As always, long post will be long - reaaally long.  There are likely to be rambling digressions. Gobblepot may appear (although I welcome all shippers and non-shippers alike :)).  There will be naked favouritism and naked not-favouritism. Broader comments at the end on plotlines and parallels and general direction.

We open on a battlefield, and are informed that this is Arabia, 125 AD.  We see many corpses, one of which is Ra’s. A horseman, picking his way through bodies, dismounts and stares

It is you, at last

He carries him to a tent which contains the Lazarus Pool, and drops him in. After a wait, Ra’s emerges.  He doesn’t know how this has happened.  The man tells him the power is in the water – it imbues both life and destiny. Ra’s must find his heir as he found Ra’s.  Handing over a dagger he tells him to

Find him - be free

Ra’s takes the dagger and stares at it.

 Night-time at the docks, where Bruce is out at play on the rooftops, watching a shipment of Oswald’s being delivered.  It’s heavily guarded (4 armed men), so Bruce guesses it’s worth watching.  Alfred doesn’t want him to interfere, pointing out that his mask isn’t bullet-proof, but Bruce only flippantly says he’ll avoid being shot in the face.

Staring some more – he notices a thief approach the truck.  He points out that they are headed into a trap, and wades in to help – despite Alfred’s protestations. (How did Bruce know it was a trap?  Doesn’t seem like one)

We can see that the thief is Selina, creeping around to try and find the crate. She’s actually a little loud – would a thief prefer rubber-soled shoes?  Those boots are pretty clunky.

Bruce, in attempting to sneak up on the thief (Bruce doesn’t know it’s Selina) gets caught.  One of the men tells him it’s a bad idea to steal from Penguin, and they begin to fight.  In the process – bullets are sprayed absolutely everywhere.  I don’t know whether this is just to add more tension to the scene – or maybe to underline the recklessness/selfishness of some of Bruce’s actions right now.  He might be wearing bullet-proof armour, but the thief/Selina he was trying to help could easily have been killed.

 Is this Florida?  You know, would have made me so enormously happy if this little interlude of a trip to see Falcone in retirement in Florida could have just opened like this. 

Jim, sunglasses apparently his only concession to the weather, is here to see Falcone.  We get a look around the exterior of Falcone’s home, which looks very pretty and Spanish.  In the courtyard, a young woman in full formal riding gear is dismounting. There’s a weird close up of the horse’s eye - what was that about?  It was long enough for three full screencaps.  Look:

Does the horse know something we don’t? Sofia and Jim have a good stare at each other, just to make sure we know where the plotline is going.

I’m kind of surprised Jim was just able to wander in: I’d have thought a mafia don would have more security – even in retirement, but hey-ho.  Jim announces himself as ‘unexpected’ to a disapproving-looking butler

Jim and Sofia do some more staring – just in case anyone in the audience missed the earlier staring.

The weather looks kind of grey – I thought Florida would be sunnier than this?

Jim is led out to a table and chairs at a patio overlooking the sea, where Falcone is seated.  He greets him.

Carmine.

Falcone responds with a Jim – but also making a wtf face

(An aside – I can’t say I blame him.  Apart from the nerve of showing up in the first place – what’s with the first name terms? In fact – for the duration of this scene, Jim borders on insolent.  I have no idea what he was playing at)

There’s some brief small talk, which Falcone puts to an end by commenting that the state of their relationship is somewhat past that.

The woman in riding gear approaches.  She greets Falcone with a cheerful ‘morning, daddy’ and kiss on the cheek.  Her character is established by her comments on her horse: feisty as usual – but she whipped him into shape.

(An aside - Nothing smells or feels more gross than your hair after it’s been in a riding hat – especially in hot weather.  You want to wash it immediately.  In fact, full riding gear is pretty hot anyway.  In warm and humid weather, it’s downright unbearable.  Plus – and this is unavoidable – after riding, you smell a lot like horse. It’s not a bad smell, but it’s definitely horse.  Right now, breakfast smells are a distant memory at that table.)

(Just an additional aside – Her Majesty refuses to wear a riding hat, and wears a silk headscarf instead)

She asks who this is. On hearing this is Jim Gordon, her face hardens and falls – clearly aware that Jim killed Mario.  Falcone tells Jim Sofia is his only daughter. (Wouldn’t you just say daughter?  I wonder if this points to some sort of Selina revelation later)

Sofia asks what Jim is doing here.  Jim glances to Falcone – unsure how to proceed, but Falcone tells him that he has

No secrets from my children

Jim outlines the situation in Gotham: Oswald as taken over, and GCPD has turned its back on the law. However, some families still loyal to Falcone – and Jim needs his help

(An aside.  A lengthy aside.  First of all – how is this any better than the current situation?  Jim is essentially willing to start a gang war to get his way, which will result in instability, chaos, rivers of blood on the streets.  

Also – how is it much different?  Jim is weeping and rending his garments over GCPD’s willingness to collude with and turn a blind eye to crime – but he’s offering to do the same.  He’s come to a known criminal, he’s asking that criminal to incite criminal acts, and there is the tacit assurance that he – an officer of the law – will facilitate all this and turn a blind eye.

Lastly – how and why are there families still loyal to Falcone?  Gotham is lazy as hell with the mob stuff.  I have no real sense at all of what the situation is at any given time – just that it will conveniently be whatever it needs to be as the plot demands: Fish loyalists, Falcone loyalists, entire families gunned down by Barbara and Tabitha, other families (but who was left, exactly?) meek enough to go along with them afterwards……it’s a total mess.  None of it feels real, and – as such – there’s no tension around it.)

Falcone immediately calls bullshit on Jim  

Are you it’s sure not about you and your loss of power?

Ooooops.  Jim makes his voice more gravelly and goes for grandiose crusade language to hide the fact that Falcone has just called him out

This is bigger than me

Falcone admires his fight but refuses – he’s dying of some mysterious ailment – maybe just old age, or karma.  The doctors tell him the air in Florida is better for him.  

(An aside – did he learn about this in Gotham and then move?  If so – maybe the Court deliberately infected him with something in their zeal to purge the city.  If he only became ill in Florida – maybe Sofia is slowly poisoning him?)

Sofia pulls a carefully nonchalant considering face

I'll go back

Falcone tells her to hush – she’s not ready for Gotham

Sofia is pissed about being dismissed.  I’ve read a lot of other commentary comparing her with Oswald – and it’s a very Oswald series of faces she makes her.  Bubbling frustration and anger at being dismissed as a child, and as incapable – and then a stubborn look of ‘I’ll do it anyway, and prove you wrong’.  She’s even wearing a fussy little necktie.

Falcone – after giving Jim some unpalatable truthfulness, devolves back to hot air.  He would have done anything for the city once – like terrorising it, extorting money from it, corrupting its institutions – but Jim is on his own this time.  

Sofia has been carefully watching Jim’s face – and grins when she sees his disappointed expression. She’s going to play him, and it’s going to be so easy.

Bruce is being stitched up by an annoyed Alfred at Wayne Manor.  He promises to listen next time, and says it won’t happen again.  After Alfred has finished – Bruce immediately makes to go to the docks again to try and steal the ship’s manifest.  Alfred is incredulous – but Bruce refuses to give up the chance to investigate a real crime.  When he won’t be dissuaded, Alfred manages to convince him to try other kinds of mask – and take a different approach to obtaining it.

 Babs’ House of guns – where she’s having some sort of Tupperware party – but with weapons. Selina enters the room.

(An aside - is this really what you want, Selina?  Really really?  You were so fiercely independent before, and had your own code – but this is all fine?)

Barbara asks if Tabitha is going to show up at work ever – seeing as she’s getting half of the profits. Selina reminds her it’s a third – but Barbara says that depends on whether she obtained the crate

(An aside – yes, this is a shitty deal.  This isn’t the original plan at all – which, remember, only happened because Selina persuaded Tabitha to change her mind.  If Selina is continually going to have to prove herself to maintain what was a given at the outset, then she should just walk out now.)

Underlining the fact that Selina should walk, Barbara tells her to redeem herself by mopping floors, on which Selina tells her to mop her own damn floors.

(An aside – it’s interesting to remember the class dynamic here, too: street rat and society debutante.)

 At the club, where Oswald and Victor are congratulating themselves on another excellent night of business.  Victor casually mentions the attempted robbery – which makes Oswald explode, of course.  Victor tells him to relax – they didn’t succeed.  Victor is positively flirty with his slinky walk and facial expressions. Oswald continues to fulminate. This is an important auction – and he doesn’t want it jeopardised.  He tells Victor to take him to the warehouse.  Victor looks less than happy at the telling-off, but follows him regardless, flicking the light off behind him.

When the room is in darkness, an odd looking woman creeps in, carrying a very small blowtorch – and makes straight for Ed.

(An aside - Jesus-what is Oswald’s security?)

Back at the club again – where Oswald throws a tantrum when he sees the ice melted and Ed gone

(OK – that woman must be deceptively strong or have had a wheelbarrow stashed somewhere)

Victor is placid as ever

It kinda opens up the room

Oswald screams

I want them found!  I want them dead, and I want Ed back here!

Victor smiles and leaves – in many ways, Oswald is a dream employer for Victor. He also seems endlessly entertained by him.

Oswald looks again at the destroyed ice and lurches forward – grabbing the hat.  His face is twisted with fear and rage – which - given his hallucination – makes sense.  His worst fear is apparently on the loose again.

 We see a close-up of the woman who defrosted Ed.  She’s leaning over him, in an identical shot to the one where Ed was leaning over Oswald back in s2.  Ed is slurred and confused

(An aside – all these scenes reference the ones back in s2.  The tone is different, but the essentials are the same.  Rescued by an obsessive fan who ultimately has selfish aims: Ed wanted a murder mentor, Myrtle wants to be sidekick to a criminal genius who’ll also teach her.  Both are willing to be coercive to get their own way.  Myrtle didn’t actually manipulate the memory of Ed’s dead mother to get her way, though – so moral high ground to her)

Ed asks where he is, and looks round.  There’s pictures of Ed everywhere, newspaper clippings, and two mannequins wearing his clothes.

Ed is aghast – yeah, obsessive stalking sucks, Ed

He asks who she is. Apparently, she’s some old schoolmate who’s now his #1 fan.  

Ed decides he wants to leave immediately – but panics when he realises he can’t move, thinking he’s restrained.  However, Myrtle tells him that his muscles have simply atrophied from the ice (just gloss over the science, it’ll make your head hurt).

Ed frowns – the last thing he remembers is the docks.   He asks, growing horror on his face, how long he was in the ice.  Myrtle tells him it’s been 5 months, and that Oswald has been using him as a new take on an ice sculpture.

Ed is furious

That little freak!  He put me on display like some caged animal!

(An aside - I don’t really like or get how people are quite so fast and loose with the word ‘freak’ when it comes to Oswald)

Myrtle is smiling and beatific.  She’s going to nurse him back to health so he can reclaim throne.  There’s a caveat, though – she will be his sidekick!

Doesn't that sound wonderful, my love?

Ed looks sick - confined to bed while all his own shitty previous behaviour personified prances around him – his obsessiveness and unwanted declarations of love for Kristin, his coerciveness and selfishness with Oswald.

Bruce is at the docks, pretending to be a working class boy looking for his errant uncle on behalf of his worried aunt.  Bruce’s working class/street kid ensemble looks to be roughly on a par with how Niles Crane would envisage a street kid.  Wtf is that hat?

This bored me – so long story short, he gets on board, finds the manifest, notes the presence of a mysterious dagger, gets caught, slips up by using  the word ‘assumed’, and has to be rescued by Alfred, extolling the virtues of improvisational skills.

 The Iceberg Lounge. Babs wanders in to Oswald’s office, asking if he would sell her the dagger ahead of time.

(An aside – what’s with the bizarre behaviour this week?  Jim strolls up to Falcone unannounced, fairly insolent in his manner, asking a favour despite having killed his son.  Barbara was instrumental in a plot to drive Oswald mad, torture and murder him – and she seems to think he’s going to do her a favour?)

Oswald wants to know why the knife is so important.  He sees through her explanation of a client, and guesses it’s for her mysterious benefactor.

Assured of himself, he leans back in his chair, and says he’ll overlook her clumsy attempted theft if she tells him who that is.  She claims to know nothing about the theft.  Oswald is amused

My dear!

He tells her that she’s not become a better liar in the time she’s been away.  Rising from his seat and walking towards her, he tells her he’s not interested in profit.

Leaning over the arm of her chair he looms in on her

(An aside – I found this alarmingly hot)

He’ll sell her the knife early if she tells him who the benefactor is.

She refuses, and Oswald laughs

Wow – they’ve really got their hooks into you

Barbara looks bitter. Oswald tells her to bring her chequebook.

Barbara decides to leave.

Always a pleasure, Oswald

Os scowls once she’s gone, and quickly opens the crate to look at the knife.

(An aside – this scene is interesting for what it tells us about Barbara.  She really hates the fact that other people have figured out she’s not her own boss.  Oswald’s lack of interest in her is palpable: all he wants to know is who’s funding her and giving her orders.  Barbara is only a puppet.  Given her drive for absolute control last season, we can assume that this is wearing on her)

Back to Wayne Manor

(An aside - is it me or is this episode lurching from place to place?  It feels very disjointed)

There’s some pretty boring exposition.  Bruce and Alfred figure out with some of the easiest research ever that the knife belongs to Ra’s – which makes him roughly 2000 years old.  

Back to Jim in Florida. He’s drinking and talking on the phone with Harvey, who is apparently relieved that he struck out, since this avoids a gang war.  Jim petulantly tells him to

See how you like it with Penguin

(Harvey and Oswald don’t have your complicated sexual tension, Jim – so he probably finds it easier.)

As he ends the call, he hears a voice.

Mind if join you?

Sofia has decided to employ décolletage and a slightly toned-down manic pixie dream girl approach to play Jim.

They look over the sea. Sofia raises a glass to her father. Jim tells her he’s sorry about that – they have their differences, but he respects him

(An aside - But fucking why?!  Why, Jim? He is no different than any other criminal you despise.  And you know now he was involved in your father’s death.  He held your fiancée at gunpoint.  Wtf is this?)

Sofia finds this hard to swallow.  She tells Jim she had to schedule an appointment to see her father when she was young.  She knows who he is, and she’s not impressed with Jim’s respect.

She talks more.  She’s lived here since  she was 13 – as it was safer than Gotham.

(An aside – and it has cool alligators!  I like alligators)

She says the people are happy, and it’s sunny everyday (but not today – all the Florida stuff looks weirdly murky)

She also says she wasn’t alone – she had Mario.  Jim looks uncomfortable.

I know there's nothing I can say, but I am sorry

Sofia is stone-faced.

You're right – there is nothing you can say

She thinks for a moment, and continues, though – pointing out that Mario was infected, and Jim did what he had to do.  We end the scene with them both looking out to sea.

 Back at the Club, where Os and Victor are sitting in one of the booths.  Victor says this the word is this was an inside job.  Oswald wants the head of hiring killed, and comments nervily that there is a traitor amongst them.

 Seriously - another scene?! The last one must have lasted about five seconds. Calm down, Gotham

Ed’s house of karma – where he wakes to see acupuncture needles in his hand.  He panics.  Myrtle assures him that this is therapeutic.  She’s trying to help his muscles, and is all giddy – calling herself Riddlette.

Ed looks repulsed, and tells her rehashing someone else's idea isn't very original

(An aside - there is nothing new under the sun, Ed)

She pauses – and looks a little disgruntled.  We see mannequin Ed is reflected in the mirror – which is a nice touch.

It's an homage - and I thought you'd like it

He looks down, trying to swallow his distaste, before looking up and smiling fixedly

It’s very nice

She recovers her mood quickly.  

We’re going to have so much fun.  If only I was the criminal mastermind you were – we’d have been together sooner

Turns out she spent time to figure out Os’ schedule and come up with an exit strategy.  Although none of this should have been difficult – given that Oswald’s security seems to be awol.

Ed admits that it was impressive to be able to outwit Oswald – but quickly adds that yes, his plan would have taken less time.  Myrtle, avid, asks what his plan would have been – wanting an insight into his master villainy.

Ed opens his mouth, but can only stutter.  His eyes track – panicked.  He doesn’t know.  There’s an embarrassed pause.  Myrtle covers this by saying that she shouldn’t bombard him with silly questions, and brightly tells him the soup is ready.  Ed, meantime, looks panicked.

 New scene!  No – it’s the same scene.  We’re getting an extreme close-up of bloody acupuncture needles being dropped into a jar of water.  This is very Hannibal.  The music playing is Ed’s old ‘obsessing over Kristin’ theme. 

Myrtle is disappointed that Ed’s muscles still haven’t mended – but Ed snaps that acupuncture is snake oil.  Myrtle has a lightbulb moment – she should have been repairing his mind, not his muscles. If she does that, then his muscles will start to cooperate.  Ed, grudgingly, admits that this seems logical.  Myrtle suggests riddles.

Ed grabs at this idea, breathless, almost tearful with relief.  

Yes…riddles!  That will make me feel like myself again

(An aside.  Ed's sense of self is horribly fragile anyway - so this experience would all terrifying for him.   Not only has he lost his intelligence – central to his self-image – but someone else has adopted his identity.  He can see the clothes of his new and old personas on mannequins.  It must be pretty disorienting)  

Myrtle tries some riddles. They’re all very simple – but Ed can’t get any of them.  Myrtle frowns – suspecting that something is wrong with Ed’s brain.  He roars that his brain is fine – and she needs to bring him a riddle worthy of his name.

Jim and Sofia are bantering on the beach.  She asks if he’s even considered walking away from it all.  Jim responds with a sometimes.  It’s apparently ‘in his blood’ though – his father fought for the city and never took the easy way out.

(An aside – Hmmmm – I think we learned that Jim’s father eventually went against the Court, but was involved for quite a long time, and colluded with Falcone.  It’s interesting to learn how Jim has fashioned this into a narrative he can live with)

Sofia smiles and asks for his shoes.  Ugh – thank goodness this manic pixie dream girlishness will be short-lived.  She encourages him to come closer to the water. They look out, and Jim says he can’t remember the last time he just stood still.  They kiss, and look at each other afterwards – it’s hard to say – but Sofia’s look is possibly a little appraising.

 At Wayne Manor, Bruce is getting dressed.  Alfred tells him to adopt different personas to achieve his ends.  Right now – billionaire brat is most useful

(An aside – this is much more summarised than usual, because I found this episode pretty uneven and not particularly engaging)

 At the auction, Bruce is making a scene – outbidding everyone, and loudly declaring his love of art – trying to high five Alfred.  He loudly greets Oswald

Oswald, my friend!

Oswald is thrilled. He says he’s surprised to see Bruce. Bruce says that he should have fun like everyone else.  Oswald agrees, and tells him that his and his insanely large bank account are welcome. Spotting Babs, he grimaces and leaves.

(An aside – Oswald and Bruce’s interactions are fun)

Alfred points out that Ra’s will come after Bruce if he gets the knife.    This doesn’t make Bruce hesitate.

The bidding for the dagger begins.  Bruce forces the price upward and plays to the crowd.  Babs becomes increasingly frustrated, but matches the price – telling Bruce to back off, brat.  Bruce outdoes her by going to 2 million.  A delighted Oswald bangs the gavel down.  Babs looks very put-out.

A manically grinning Oswald bustles over to congratulate Bruce.  He just loves to see Barbara lose.  He offers friendly advice – Barbara is persistent, and will come for that knife.  He pats Bruce on the shoulder, and leaves.

Back at Myrtle’s apartment, Ed is still stumbling over basic riddles.  She eventually loses patience with him, and points out that they all came from a children’s book.  His ‘brilliant mind’ is as damaged as the rest of his body.  An angry Ed says his body is actually feeling fine now, and smacks her in the face with the book – knocking her out.

(An aside - like Ed with Oswald, there’s little patience when she figures out his mind is damaged, and he can’t be useful anymore.  We’ll never know if she would have continued trying, though)

 Selina is breaking into Wayne Manor to try and obtain the knife, still apparently determined to prove her worth.  Bruce, however, is waiting for this attempt.  Selina asks why he’s sitting at his desk in the dark, and they have a short argument.  She wants to know why he’s acting this way, and he wants to know why she’s Babs’ lackey now.  He assumes that Babs thought he’d just hand the knife over to Selina.  Selina admits this is the case, and basically expects him to hand it over to help her new career plan.  Bruce refuses, and she leaves.  As she does – he looks again at the knife.

GCPD, where we have a chirpy Jim.  He should just have one-night-stands more often if they improve his disposition this much.  Harvey introduces him to a new Detective – Harper – who’s just transferred, and who will almost certainly die before the season is out.  Sorry, Detective Harper.

One of the officers tells Jim he has a visitor.  Harvey’s eyes newly fall out of his head.  Jim turns and his face drops.  Apparently, what happens in Florida should stay in Florida.

Sofia’s not wearing perfect riding gear now, or the kind of white dress that’s only worn for strolls on the beach in perfume commercials.  She’s in a pinstripe suit, no shirt, and very pointed heels.

A visibly displeased Jim asks what she’s doing here.  She says she’s here to help – like he asked.  Well – she corrects – he didn’t directly ask, but men fail to see a simple solution even when directly presented.  He tersely tells her she shouldn’t have come back.  She smiles – and tells him she doesn’t need his permission, or her fathers.  She’s a Falcone, and this city is her birth right.  She’s ready now – what does Jim think she’s been doing in Florida for ten years?

Jim – typically – is more angered by the personal slight to his ego than the very real danger the city is now in thanks to his actions.  He says Sofia knew that she was going to do this all along, and everything she did was just sizing him up.   Sofia says that not everything was a ruse – but that she did have to know him better if they’d be working better.  Jim snarls that they’re not working together.   Sofia smiles – and tells him that he wanted a gangster, and he found one.

(An aside – She’s right. Jim really can have no complaint. His plan is stupid and wrongheaded, and he’s got what he wanted.  If he thinks Carmine would have been any more manageable, then he’s wrong.  As it is, though, this is now a venture almost entirely motivated by ego, spite, daddy issues, and insecurity from both of them. This can only end well, surely?

The luckless Myrtle is being interrogated by Oswald and Victor.  They learn that Ed’s brain seems diminished, and Oswald reiterates that he wants him found.  Glancing dismissively at Myrtle, he tells Victor that too many people have been stealing from him – and that Victor should make an example of her, and have fun in the process.  Victor smiles as he leaves.  ‘Adoringly’ seems too strong – but seriously – look at the screencap.

Victor tells Myrtle he loves her dress.  Myrtle thanks him, saying that she made it – before he shoots her in the head.

Ed on the street – massively conspicuous in his bright green suit.  He sees an Iceberg Lounge poster and his face contorts with rage.

 At Barbara’s house, we see her alone.  Someone approaches her, and there’s some brief fancy fighting before we see Ra’s – who seemingly is the one who rescued her and trained her.  She tells him Bruce has the knife.  Ra’s is fine with this – though.  He tells her he brought her back because she is a competent ally, and has done an admirable job.  This recognition/acknowledgment of her worth – as ever – pleases Barbara hugely.  She kisses a (vaguely surprised?) Ra’s.

General Observations

Well.  That… happened.

Not hugely engaged this week.  It felt very choppy – jumping from scene to scene constantly.  On top of that – some people’s behaviour and actions were mystifying: Jim towards Falcone, Barbara towards Oswald.  The better moments are the ones that had a little more meat to them in terms of characterisation – Ed’s panic at his loss of identity, Barbara’s bitterness over her lack of autonomy.

The best was probably Sofia Falcone.  Yes, she was established fairly quickly as a romantic interest for Jim – but we still got a much more fleshed out and complex character who has motivations beyond gazing at Jim.  From one episode alone, we know that:

She has a difficult relationship with her father that has only improved on his becoming ill – but there’s still resentment there

She was close to Mario, and may well be masking resentment towards Jim over his death.  If so, she’s controlled enough not to have lashed out

She moved to Florida at 13 for safety, but has spent the last ten years running the crime scene

She is confident in her own abilities

She was angered by being dismissed and treated like a child

She wants to prove her competence

She’s determined

She’s manipulative

She will use her sexuality to get what she wants

Compare that to what we learned about Lee when we met her: she’s a doctor and likes Jim.

So we have a female character with her own flaws and motivations from the outset.  She was well-acted and I’m interested to see where she goes.

Thoughts?

[theliterateape]

Only Lydia Knows

By Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

I have Parkinson’s. Yeah, that’s right. Parkinson’s. No cure, and the kind that comes at you hard and fast. Multiple System Atrophy. I have an over production of the protein alpha-synoclein. What does that mean to you? Nothing, most likely, but to me it means a sentence. A death sentence. It’s coming for me like a freight train, and I have to decide what I’m going do.

If something else doesn’t happen first, It’s going kill me, shake me to death.

Bad metaphor? Well it’s my metaphor bad or not. I’m sixty. Just found out a year ago. My hand was shaking, little twitches. Like when I used to drink. OK, when I drink. Nobody knows. No other docs, friends, family. Nobody. But now you do. The invisible reader. The person I let into my secret, while closing the real people out.

You may ask why. Why? I’ll tell you. Because my wife ain’t a wife anymore, my fiancé dumped me, and my kids have their own lives. And friends? It’d just mess up our friendship. How? When people know you’re sick things change. They realize you have an incurable illness that’ll kill you, they don’t know what to do. I could say “Bill I have Parkinson’s.” He’d get that look. Like, “What the fuck do I do or say now?” I don’t want that look. And I sure as hell don’t want him ducking into the bathroom to Google Parkinson’s. So I keep my mouth shut. I’d rather have that spontaneous happy relationship I have with Bill, than him fucking Googling my disease each time we hang out. It’s cumbersome, slow, muddy, a fucking pain in the ass. I don’t want that.

My doc? I don’t have a one. I am one. But do I have one? A favorite. A primary care doc? No. When the twitches started I did the research. Googled the shit out of this disease that has taken over my body. That’s what I do. I look into things. And what I got, or what’s got me, is Parkinson’s

It’s not hard to diagnose. If you went to medical school. A good one like I did. And can work a computer, which on a good day, I can. And it’s this alpha-synoclein protein shit. It’s not hard.

My type. This alpha shit comes on strong. It’s no creeper or crawler. I made the call about five months ago. Twitches. Tremors. Invisible bugs creeping up and down my legs. My age. Yes, my age. A few clicks on my Mac and there I was.

As I sit at my desk at six-thirty each morning, drinking black coffee (no longer mixed with Chivas Regal) my hand shakes. And each morning I shake a bit more and a bit longer. For some reason the coffee helps. Coffee with Chivas helped better.

Like I said, nobody knows and that’s how its going to stay. Nobody knew about the booze, so I thought, until they knew. You get that? I didn’t think they knew. They fucking knew.

My phone buzzed. I looked at the ID. Rachel. At six-thirty? What the hell does she want?

“Morning.”

“Good morning John. What are you doing?”

What was I doing? It was six-thirty. What does a normal person do at six-thirty? Forgot. (Parkinson’s has me) I’m not normal.. Nice of you to ask Rachel, I’m drinking black coffee without booze trying to get my hands to stop shaking.

“Drinking coffee, reading the paper, enjoying the beautiful morning.” That’s the kind of thing you tell your boss, when you want her to think you’re doing your job.

“I’d like to talk to you.”

The coffee jumped out of the fucking cup. Talk to me? About what? The booze? My shakes? 

“I’m busy.”

“You just said you were drinking coffee, reading the paper.”

That means I’m busy. Leave me the fuck alone!

“OK when?”

“Now. Meet me in my office in fifteen minutes.”

“Sure.” How was that? Perky? Cooperative?

My hand was covered in coffee. My shirt sleeve was stained too. If I held the cup any longer a river of caffeine would cascade down my pants and into my shoes. Exaggeration, but you get the picture. So I hit the john and did my best to not look like a guy with Parkinson’s or a drunk, of which I was both.

“Doc. Spill coffee?” Lydia Smith has worked at the hospital for twenty-five years. She cleaned everything that needed to be cleaned. Today it was the bathroom I was using to prepare to hide one of my diseases from my boss.

“Yeah. You know me. I’m a slob.”

She eyed me. She was one of the ones who I thought didn’t know about the booze. She knew. A look like that told me she knew and she’d looked at me like that about fifty times before. Who was I trying to kid? EVERYBODY.

“Let me.” She dabbed my shirtsleeve with some type of cleaner she carried on her cart and wiped my hands with the white towel that hung from her waist. “That helps.”

I need help. But I ain’t asking. We don’t. Drunks. 'Til it’s so obvious the help turns to life support.

“Thanks,” I said to her, obsessing on Rachel and our talk.

I paced down the hall listening to my heels click on the shiny marble floor. Yeah it’s one of those hospitals. We must have marble. No tile for us. We need to maintain a competitive advantage since one of our docs is a drunk and now has a fatal illness.

I look up. I’m here already. I didn’t think I could walk that fast. And why the hell was I walking that fast?

A glass wall stood before me. ADMINISTRATION. Bold black letters. A shiny silver handle inviting me to give it a yank and enter the sanctum of the judge, jury, and executioner.

No one was there to greet me. It was early. But not for me, Lydia and Rachel. I should leave. Claim confusion. No one there. No one to greet me. I was a physician. Harvard trained. I needed to be greeted. I demanded to be greeted.

“John.” I turned.

“Rachel.” Her scarf. What? Four, five hundred bucks?

“Good to see you.” Her best corporate smile.

Bullshit.

“Good to see you.” We could both sling the bullshit.

“Coffee?” Her eyes moved to my stained sleeve.

I raised it and smiled making sure she saw the evidence of my illnesses. “No thanks. I’ve had mine already.”

“Come in.” She gestured gracefully like a ballerina. I think she was one, once.

My feet no longer clicked on the marble. Now they padded silently across her hand-woven deep blue C-suite carpet.

“Please sit.” She pointed to the loveseat adjacent to her brass and glass coffee table.

I wasn’t in the mood for love. I chose a straight back chair to the side of the small couch.

OK, Boss, what do you have on your mind? You gonna lift up the covers? Come at me hard and strong? “John, you’re sick. John, you’ve started drinking again. John, I’m worried. John, you’re an asshole.” Right on all counts.

“John…”

Here it comes. I shoulda had a snort before I got here. Took something off Lydia’s cart, cleaner, solvent, anything. What the hell, why not?

“… we’ve noticed…”

That my hands shake like a man out in the cold. The freezing fucking cold.

“… that your surgeries…”

Are taking twice as long, that I cut and then need to stop, focus, grab my twisted fingers and straighten them before I proceed.

“… are taking longer…”

Longer and longer, and the staff standing next to me is afraid to say anything, to challenge me, so they say nothing, and hope and pray, as I do, that I don’t kill the poor sonofabitch on the table.

“… to begin, and I’m sorry for that. I apologize. We are working on procedures to improve our turnaround time. We will get better. We have to. We respect your time, and ours too. Let’s face it, turnaround time is the key to efficiency and quality.”

And profit, dollars, revenue, and keeping the other cutters happy.

Nothing — not a thing about Johnny’s shakes. His rockin’ and rollin’. His Parkinson’s. His post-Johnnie Walker heebie-jeebies.

I was home free. In the clear. My secret remained hidden.

“That’s it?” I sounded too short. Too indifferent. I was a surgeon. That’s how we act. Try again. “I mean,” I softened my voice. “I mean, I understand. Running a place of this magnitude, with all the moving parts must be a real challenge, and keeping all of us surgeons happy, well I hope you feel like I’m not one of those,” I was laying it so fucking thick, “kinds of docs who is not a team player.”

Rachel stood. She shook my hand. My sweaty shaky hand. Gripped it firmly then spoke. “I assure you we will improve. You are,” She emphasized 'are' like she had been trained for this, “a team player and we value you.”

Value me? That? What?

“Thanks Rachel. We will work together,” I lied.

I exited the C-suite’s lush carpeting, sparkling glass and overstuffed love seats, smug, smiling ear to fucking ear. I had conned her. Conned everybody. I could continue with the secret that only you and I know.

I even had a spring in my drunk ass Parkinsonian feet.

I hit the marble floor bounding down the hallway enjoying every click.

I darted into the Mens to straighten my Jerry Garcia tie and to make sure I knew how proud of myself I was. The bathroom was cool. A minty aroma drifted through the air making me smile and wink at myself in the mirror. “Champ,” I said with disgusting cockiness. “You got away with it. You’re golden.”

“Bullshit.” Her voice bounced off the beautifully tiled walls “You ain’t foolin’ me.”

I turned. Lydia. “I thought you was...” She shook her head with contempt.

A good man? A respected doctor? A what?

“… different.”

“Lydia? What do you mean?”

“You know what the fuck I mean.”

I did. I knew exactly what she meant.

I left the sweet smelling bathroom of the prestigious hospital where I perform complex surgeries on unsuspecting victims.

I know what Lydia meant.

Exactly.

But I have Parkinson’s. My error. It has me. And I’m a drunk.

So I have an excuse. A reason.

“You have no excuse Dr. John.” She didn’t look at me as she left.

I did. I have Parkinson’s. I am a drunk.

[theliterateape]

American Shithole #19 — 500 Days of Bummer

By Eric Wilson

I don’t want this summer to be a bummer. Last year was the Summer of Puppy where Stella stepped in to fill the void of a loss so terrible, I still can’t write about her — my sweet Layla. That summer though, followed 365 days less Trump. That is decidedly less Trump.

Those days are hell and gone.

Is anyone else feeling a little out of gas after 500 days of Trump? I sure am. This is all so spectacularly gross; and taxing. Turd sandwich after turd sandwich makes my tummy ache. Another day? Another turd sandwich. Check the midday news? Turd Sandwich. Did you choke down that turd sandwich too fast? Well never you mind, here’s the evening news with a shit milkshake to wash it down.

Mm, tastes like Giuliani.

But alas, we must carry on; forward we push, on to the pressing questions of the week!

Now that I have been proven horribly wrong in my prediction that Scott Pruitt would lose his job long ago, I figure it’s time to get back to my seer's roots. Back to a source that has never let me down. Back to the Oracle, baby. Let’s consult the Magic 8-Ball for (answers) to this week’s big questions. Here we go:

1.      Did the dick dictator dictate? (It is decidedly so.)

2.      Will Mueller’s investigation gather any high-hanging fruit before our collective will to live is extinguished? (Ask again later.)

3.      Did this administration — via inaction and gross negligence — effectively murder thousands of Americans in Puerto Rico? (You may rely on it.)

4.      Will there be another school shooting between now and five minutes from now? (Outlook not so good.)

5.      Did Jefferson Sessions commandeer a former Walmart with blacked-out windows to house the hundreds of children he has separated from their mothers and fathers, and was a U.S. Senator from Oregon barred from entering that detention center for migrant children, with the officials on site going so far as to call the local police on the Senator? (Signs point to yes.)

What the fuck, Jeffery?

6.      And finally, when adrift at sea — a sea of lying liars — is there an island I can float away to, somewhere I can play the fucking ukulele all day long, and spend my nights looking up at the stars? Preferably an island that isn’t on fire as it is mercilessly ravaged by rivers of molten lava? (My sources say no, loser!)

Hey, wait a minute. I’m pretty sure that last one’s not an official Magic 8-Ball answer…

(Whatever, loser!)

Whatever, 8-Ball. It’s a geyser of bullshit in Washington, America. I’ve watched enough CNN in 500 days to drown myself in it. I can say with confidence, if it weren’t for the deplorables, we would have flushed this guy already.

“Surely his base must tire?” I have asked a thousand times.

“Surely their reality must be tethered to some distant lamppost in their conspiracy-addled minds that can still illuminate the truth?” I’ve cried.

“Surely enough of these mono-browed, knuckle-dragging troglodytes will cease spelunking their own assholes for five fucking minutes; just long enough to catch wind of the geyser of fucking bullshit erupting from the White House?”

For far too many, it seems not. These modern day zombies may prove to be the end of us.

And with the lying from everyone involved within this administration being so effectively pervasive, so ubiquitous and insidiously destructive, I can’t even bring myself to watch Giuliani or Sanders spin the president’s words and actions this week. It’s too much. It’s just too damn much.

Uncle.

Oh, and can someone please find Bill Clinton’s handler and fire that worthless sack of shit for not keeping Bill the fuck off television? Jesus fucking Christ, can someone please keep the fucking Clintons off the goddamn television? Hey Bill, hey Hillary, shut the fuck up!

He is literally like the grandfather that comes to Thanksgiving and  — during the huge family row — takes his fucking pants off. We have important family issues Pepaw; put your fucking pants back on and shut the fuck up!

Jesus fucking Christ. You’re on a book tour, because you wrote a book — a work of fiction I might add — with your buddy James Patterson, that no one wants to read while the country is ON FIRE, and you answer questions about Lewinski, sounding tone-deaf as shit about apologies, you stupid, insensate, doddering old lecher!

Could someone please fucking show the Clinton’s the EXIT sign.

Someone needs to give them a Hicksian reverse maître d’ — “Thanks for coming, street’s outside.”

Fucking hell, Bill. STFU.

(Sigh)

(Author's Note: President Clinton appeared on Late Night with Stephen Colbert after the writing of this column, with an admirable, even commendable performance. I love you Bill, but please shut the fuck up until this fucking monster is out of office.)

I am having one of those days, one of those “poor me” days. I was so frustrated and angry this morning — mostly due to chronic pain (for which I do my very best to keep a positive attitude, about 99 percent of the time) — and my temper flared, and I scared the dogs. So I have been feeling like shit about that all afternoon.

I woke up to my foot in puppy poop because someone had too many human dinner treats last night. It went downhill from there.

Here’s the thing about stepping in poop — it’s much worse with just a sock. The sock/poop combo really brings home the experience.

It’s just been one of those days.

It’s been one of those days where every outcome was somehow annoying — everyday tasks proved unnaturally difficult — and the walls felt like they were leaning in on me, trying to trip me, or throw me off balance, every time I’d round a corner. It’s been a day of obstacles and irritants. Every outside stimuli one would normally dismiss, was a buzzing bee, or a blaring siren.

Today was a buzz hassle. Today was a bummer.

As my friend Awyn put it in a private group this morning where I expressed dismay regarding my bummer predicament:  

“This seems like a pretty common occurrence for the average American. Most of us have no money and tons of debt and we either do shitty jobs that kill us a little more every minute, or we starve and die more quickly. Government doesn't care which, so long as we are quiet about it.”

America's new slogan: Get Busy Dying. “We took the one from Shawshank and shortened it.”

All I know is, being able to see a doctor when you're sick shouldn’t be the pot of gold at the end of the American rainbow. I just want to be able to see the right doctor — like many, many Americans. That’s it. I can handle the rest.

Yet apparently we ask too much of our country’s billionaires — who have fought universal healthcare tooth and nail with hundreds of millions, perhaps billions of their filthy dollars over decades.

Healthier people are unfortunately happier people; and happy people don’t fear the bogeyman. For obscene wealth inequality to work, billionaires need lots of bogeymen — and of course, lots of terrified poor people.   

Wasn’t it Christopher Hitchens who marveled that there are groups of Americans whom actually believe we aren’t awful enough to each other?

My medical adventure hasn’t yet reached a satisfactory or unsatisfactory conclusion — I am in Limbo — worried about insurance and coverage and pain and death and surgeries and recovery like so, so very many Americans. I won’t be pulling the trigger on American Shithole’s take on healthcare just yet; but I long to tell that story. I hope it ends well. Before it ends.

My experience so far is that every institution I have come in contact with involved in healthcare — from the pharmaceutical companies, to the insurance companies, to the hospital boards, as well as many of the doctors and the nurses — everyone involved is gaming the system.

None of them have your best interests, first.

Coming to this pitiful realization has siphoned my reservoir of hope more than Trump ever will. The disregard for the Hippocratic Oath in America — particularly regarding the opioid crisis — is at its heart, a betrayal by the scientific community. Greed apparently knows no boundaries. That’s what saddling healthcare with capitalism brings. Capitalism unleashes greed on our most desperate hour.

Our cruelty and indifference to our sick, our disabled, our dying, is appalling.

Anyway, back to the giant orange idiot, and how much he clearly does not give a fuck. I am starting to sense that Komàndant Bonespurs has pivoted from his “zero fucks given” default position at the outset of his presidency, to a somewhat more revved-up, 500+ days “negative fucks” attitude.

What’s the biggest story of the week — did daddy tell junior what to say about the Ruskies?

What was his response? He’s got Guiliani on television saying he can shoot the former head of the fucking FBI. Yep, put that one in the history books. He doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks or says at this point.

Are you numb yet?

Sure, legally it matters if he dictated the lies about the Trump Tower meeting that involved his son, but I’m not confident it matters in any sense involving the opinions of his base. With all the chum his legal team and the White House staff are heaving into the waters, the deplorables can feast for years without any need to belabor the facts — while the rest of us slowly drown in an ocean of deceit.

They are pirates on the high seas of American democracy, these filthy swashbucklers, riding the ugliest wave of populism since the 1930s. I look out on to the ocean that is America, and I dream of a blue tsunami — and yet all I see is Lady Liberty walking the plank.

What's on the horizon for America, you ask? Undiscovered country.

Will anyone bring these privateers to justice before it’s too late? Let’s ask the Magic 8-Ball one last time. (Don't count on it.)

B.S. Report

"Beginning June 15th at the Peace March in Chicago, the tour — dubbed March for Our Lives: Road to Change — will make 50 stops around the country over the course of 60 days. A separate tour led by March for Our Lives activists will make stops in all 27 of Florida’s congressional districts. Both tours will focus on registering young people to vote and educating the community about where their candidates stand on gun reform, and which of them have ties to the NRA." — Rolling Stone

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