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ussgallifrey · 6 years ago

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Up On The Housetop

✦ Summary: You meet him in the most peculiar of ways. Or, the five times Bucky was incapable of using a door and the one time he was. ✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader ✦ Warnings: Mentions of violence ✦ Word Count: 2.1k ✦ Author’s Note: I was listening to Christmas music when I had this hysterical image of Bucky crashing through a window as the song played in my head. It sparked this.

01. Journey Coffee House, Midtown Manhattan - November 13, 2026

You're already running late for work when you enter the busy cafe. The downpour outside had spurred you on in search of something warm. Anything to get your day moving in a better direction after the failed alarm and lack of matching scrubs to wear. There's a line wrapped around the front tables, stopping with you directly off to the side of the front doors.

If you bought the boss's usual order, you might be able to smooth this right over. As the minutes tick by and the line slowly eases forward, you're praying for a miracle to get you off the hook for being so late. By the time you make it down to the hospital, you'll be at least fifteen minutes behind. Maybe a few chocolate scones would need to be bought to make it pass with the head nurse.

"Oh my god," someone behind you says before the sharp crash of glass against the floor has the place thrown into a panic.

Screams ring out as a fight rages on, only feet away from you. A soaking wet mess of black tactical trying to pull some freak in neon green off his back.

They're clambering for control over broken glass shards, sending patrons scattering in the moment. With your back pressed up against the still intact window, the men struggle past you. Before the one in black sends the other down by throwing him into a table. It splits in half with the sudden weight. And then he's on top of the guy in green.

You let the breath you were holding in finally release. The man stands up, bruised and worse for wear as he sheepishly surveys the damage. And then he's hauling the other guy off the floor and out into the downpour of the street.

It takes you a full hour to get to work and by that point news footage of the Avengers fighting has taken over the TV at the nurse's station. A video pans across the devastation to show the Winter Soldier dragging the wannabe villain down the street.

02. Bank of America, Lower Manhattan - November 21

This week has Saturday as your one day to get all the errands done. Which, unfortunately, means going in to pay off a portion of your bank loan. Ever since last winter when the major storm in January took out your furnace and busted a water pipe in the apartment above you, things had been unbearably tight in the financial sense. But it was almost paid off, a damn year later.

You're almost finished up with the teller when a series of gunshots ring out in the open lobby.

A startled scream escapes your throat as the world grows hazy. Surrounded by a group of guards stands a masked man. He's saying something, but you can't really hear it with the hot wave of terror running through your veins. But as people start dropping to the ground, you're quick to follow.

If it was just a robbery, there wouldn't be all the theatrics. But it seems the main guy ranting in the center of the room has a personal vendetta against this particular bank - just your luck, of course. He's got a gun pointed at an employee in a blue suit, something about past employment being vehemently spat out.

A guard pulls your purse in search of valuables - he'll be lucky if he finds anything. Maybe a handful of quarters for the vending machine and a few dollars rolling around in an otherwise empty wallet.

And then there's a burst of glass. Shielding your eyes as the decorative ceiling falls in, you hear the drop of boots on the marble floor. And then punching, shouting, more shooting. You dare a peak, finding a flash of red and black wings. Curling in further to make yourself as small as possible between the wooden divider of the teller's booth.

A final punch brings heavy breaths and then… silence. Slowly bringing your head up, you see two of the Avengers wiping blood from their mouths as they round up the group of robbers. Another rush of team members follows shortly after as they check for damage.

The Winter Soldier meets your silent gaze and he gives you a funny look in return. A small quirk of his lips as he recognizes you from the cafe just a week prior. And oddly enough, you feel yourself smiling back before an agent walks over to check you for injuries. He's already gone once you've been cleared to go.

03. Brooklyn Hospital's Emergency Department, Brooklyn - December 4

Things have been relatively calm for a Friday. Enough time in between patients gives you and a few of the other nurses a chance to put up more of the usual decorations. Snowflake garland along the main desk. A small tree in the waiting room. Stockings behind the nurse's station bearing the names of the main residents.

"Hey, Sara? Can you hand me another one?" You ask, balancing rather haphazardly on a desk chair as you press red and green ornament stickers onto the window.

The automatic doors slide open with a rush of cold air and a loud amount of bickering. Hopping down, you catch the sight of dark crimson as two figures rush towards the desk.

"'m fine," the one says.

"Like hell you are," the other barks, seemingly holding the majority of the bleeding man's weight.

There's a flurry of people as the one is brought back to a room.

"Yeah," Sam Wilson sighs with a heavy hand against his forehead, "He jumped from the thirty-first floor."

You gape, amazed that anyone could survive that fall - let alone walk after it. And then your brain clicks together when you realize who the two men are.

Your name is shouted from the first exam room by the doctor on call, "All hands on deck!"

In an instant, you're there with three other nurses, applying pressure to the main lacerations. Squeezing down on the right forearm as the doctor applies pressure to the massive wound on the inner thigh, the Winter Soldier groans.

And then he blinks as another nurse tries to place an oxygen mask on him before he loses consciousness. He tries to bat at it with his metal hand to little avail. But then he seems to meet your gaze.

"'Course you'd be here."

And he laughs. He collapses back as he full-on laughs.

04. Flatbush Shopping Center, Boerum Hill - December 17

The mall is pleasantly warm but far too crowded for your taste. However, you're desperately scouring for a secret Santa gift for the Christmas Party and you've all but ran out of options before it starts in four hours. The opportunity hadn't presented itself until today, as you covered shifts and worked the graveyard hours more often than you would have liked.

It took enough energy just to throw your scrubs in the wash and eat a microwave meal before collapsing on your bed. You certainly hadn't had the energy left to actually shop. But now your time had run out and you were only allotted a few more hours before something had to be wrapped and delivered.

The crazed holiday shoppers don't fully overpower the sparkling decor, yet. The arches of garland, the silver and gold tinsel bells, the giant lighted candy canes. It's a nice change of pace from the homemade decor at the emergency room. And it smells better too, something warm and sweet wafting through the mall from Auntie Anne's.

And then there's a cracking and shattering spray of glass as a fight breaks out. Somehow, you're not even surprised by who you see. A flash of dark hair and gleaming metal as a jingling green elf is tackled to the ground.

A crowd's forming, phone's raised to try and capture the Winter Soldier attacking one of Santa's elves. But a spread of security guards is holding everyone back. You almost want to roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile appearing on your face.

When it's all over and the police are toting a bruised man in elf ears through the mall, he spots you still standing by the escalator with an amused smirk on your lips.

He hides his grin as he pushes his hair back behind his ear. And then, he's actually walking over to you.

Somehow, you can't help what comes out as he stops in front of you.

"So, what's with you and glass?"

He barks a laugh and it surges right to your heart.

05. Cranberry Street Apartments, Brooklyn Heights - December 24

The radio crackles on the kitchen counter as you finish another tray of cookies. A classic Christmas station guiding you through the late night as you strive to get that second batch done. The first had been horrifically burned on the bottom and you were ready to prove your baking skills to your family tomorrow.

Your apartment is well decorated this time. A little here and there over the past year led to even more lights for the windows and a decent sized tree by the computer desk. You'd even managed to buy some fairy lights for above the bed, but they were definitely staying up the full year-round.

As you slide the last few cookies onto the wire rack for cooling, the radio switches over to another song.

"Up on the housetop, reindeer pause / Out jumps good ol' Santa Claus / Down through the chimney with lots of toys / All for the little ones, Christmas joys!"

You hum along, gliding across the kitchen floor. Tapping the carrot noses of your two small ceramic snowmen on the countertop.

And then… a crack of glass.

You freeze as your living room window shatters into a mess of glittering tiny blue shards. Two bodies tumble in, over the top of your couch, crashing into your coffee table and breaking it in half with the combined weight.

Stumbling backwards into the fridge, you sink down to the floor as punches are thrown. Watching in horror as your apartment is shredded to pieces.

A broken wooden leg from the remnants of your table is used as a weapon for the Winter Soldier against a faceless enemy. It collapses onto your floor as the victor's chest heaves with deep breaths.

And then he turns, face speckled with bright red blood as he finally takes you in.

"Seriously?" you squeak from your small position on the floor.

He stands with a groan. Rubbing his hand on the back of his neck with a sheepish expression. Eyes shining with something sweet and amusing.

Moving from your spot on the kitchen floor, you offer him a fresh-baked cookie. He seems hesitant, considering the unbelievable circumstances of his appearance. But you insist. He perches on your lone barstool as you wait for the authorities to arrive to collect another bad guy.

Warm cookies and laughs shared easily between you. And despite how it happened, it's marked down as one of your best Christmas Eves to date.

+ 01. Cranberry Street Apartments, Brooklyn Heights - December 31

There's a nervous rap of knuckles against your front door. Pulling yourself from the kitchen, you hesitantly open the door - expecting another person from Stark's insurance team to tie up the loose ends of your claim. But instead, you're met with sweet blue eyes and a small smile.

Opening the door all the way, you lean against the frame as Bucky holds out a single white rose.

"Just wanted to say sorry, again," he laments as you take the flower, holding it close to your chest.

You let a laugh slip from your lips, "Like I told you the other night, not your fault. Though I am concerned about your habit of coming in through windows."

He laughs as you raise your brows with a bright gleam.

"To be fair, I did use your door this time."

You give a nod, feeling the flutter of excitement in your belly. "You did. Very commendable. Should make a habit of it."

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he rocks back on the balls of his feet. And you become acutely aware that you're still holding this conversation in the open hallway of your apartment building.

"Yeah?" He quips after a moment, "Does that apply to all doors or… or just yours?"

There's a pleasant thrum in your head as your heart sings sweetly in your chest. Holding out a hand, warm fingers tentatively take yours as you bring him inside your apartment. The promise of something new and exhilarating to bring in the new year as he squeezes your hand for the first time.

Permanent Bucky Tag List: @livvy-barnes

Want to be added? Send me an ask ❤

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes one shot #marvel fan fic #my fic

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ivy-stjames · 5 years ago

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AND THE PLANETS OF THE UNIVERSE GO THEIR WAY → ivy + leo

𝚆𝙷𝙾: @leo-mccarthy && @ivystjamess 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽: the evening of saturday, july the eighteenth 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴: mccarthy residence, basement / leo’s room 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃: in attempt to feel more herself again, ivy goes over to leo’s, things don’t exactly go as either of them planned.

possible tws: mention of abortion, breaking up

IVY: TO PUT IT SIMPLY, IVY WAS HAVING A ROUGH WEEK. after crying to julien, lemon, and her big sister, she still sort of just felt like a shell of herself. no matter how hard she attempted to train her eye to the movie playing on the screen leo had hanging on the wall at the foot of his bed, she found herself eyeing him with an odd culpability. she laid on his chest, his arm around her in their usual way, but his touch burned, and not in the good way. no longer did his fingers brushing across her hip leave her breathless, nor did his kisses against her skin make her swoon. she felt empty, shattered even, held together by encouraging words of her friends and the lingering sensation of a hug from her sister. every passing second the knot in her stomach unraveled and tightened with each breath she took. what she had done yesterday was irreversible, her and leo wouldn’t be having a child, and no matter how hard she tried to remind herself she loved him, she was blinded with resentment. all ivy wanted to do was cry, but she couldn’t. in a lame attempt to soothe herself, she nuzzled closer into her boyfriend, taking his free hand and kissing his knuckles. still, only a lonely nauseous feeling lingered. tossing about slightly to try and get comfortable, once again she just couldn’t. getting fed up, ivy sat up, hair falling in her eyes as she was illuminated only by flashing images of the movie. . . “leo,” she began softly, a certain fear in her voice. anxiously, she grabbed his hand and played with his fingers as if things didn’t feel resoundingly off. they had always walked to a beat of different drums, but now it felt like they couldn’t even hear each other’s. whether it be from avoidant glances, silent treatment, or arguing, they just weren’t settling back into the usual pace of things. sure, it had only been a day. but this? this wasn’t love. this was unbearable, “i think like. . . i think we like might need to talk about things.”

LEO: Leo felt like he’d just been going through the motions ever since Ivy told him she’d booked an appointment at planned parenthood. He felt like a shell of himself, not because he had regrets, but because he knew she was suffering. His silver lining in this mess of a situation was that he was confident they had done the right thing. When Ivy told him she was pregnant, or…no…when he guessed she was, it was clear that she was in a highly emotional state. In Leo’s opinion, she had seemed too emotional to make a logical decision. Her idealistic rambling about them starting a family together probably would’ve sent any other person who didn’t want to be a teen parent into a spiral, but he had been confident in his ability to reason and rationalize with her—to get her to come back down to earth. At least that was what he told himself as they laid cuddled up next to each other, watching an obscure arthouse film in his bedroom one day after her abortion. For the first time in a long time, it felt like they just couldn’t get comfortable. Leo kept his eyes fixed on the projector screen, trying desperately to pay attention despite Ivy’s fidgeting beside him, but his mind was elsewhere. There was a very clear elephant in the room and quite frankly, he didn’t know how to address it. He wanted to talk to Ivy about what had happened and how she felt, but he also knew he had to tread lightly. His silence was his attempt at respecting her space. So he sat there, biting his tongue with a soft smile as she took his hand and kissed it. He tightened his grip around her as she nuzzled into him, quickly kissing the top of her head and doing his best to maintain some sense of normalcy. The only way out of this empty feeling was through, so he was prepared to weather this. He would do his best to be strong for both of them. However, the second Ivy sat up and said his name, his instincts told him to run. But there was nowhere to go. So he took a deep breath, pulled his hand out of hers, and reached over to his desk to grab the remote and pause the movie they were clearly not invested in. “Okay,” he responded quietly, feeling a knot form in his stomach as his heart rushed to put up its defenses once again, “we can talk. What do you want to say?”

IVY: AT HIS QUESTION, IVY FELL MUTE. what did she want to say? while she might not of actually spoke, her eyes did a whole lot of talking. there was a heavy sadness laced with a confusion that had never graced her lively blue hues prior to this moment. her mouth opened and closed a couple of different times to speak, but over and over she couldn’t gather her thoughts. the past week had blurred together in a nightmare of emotions and numbness tipping the scale in way or another. still silent, ivy brought her hand up to leo’s cheek with a certain longing and tenderness. her heart guiding her actions before she could even think about why she was making them. in the quiet ivy brought a hand to run through leo’s hair, as if for the last time. tears noticeably welled in her eyes. in a final movement, ivy scooted close to leo, pressing her forehead to his own as if getting their brains physically close would put them on the same page. at the action, the tears began to spill down her cheeks and ivy was in a place where she felt like she knew. “leo, i think that like. . . you are so great. . .” she began, still leading with her unpredictable heart. “and i love you like i’ve loved nothing or no one before. . .” these were unmistakably the beginnings of a break up speech. where ivy had gotten the idea this was the solution had come from a place deep within herself that her heart lead her towards. part of her wished she wasn’t crying and the room was lighter, so she could admire her boyfriend’s features for what she was beginning to think would be the final time unobscured by the glassiness of her eyes or the darkness of a room. “you are my first love.” ivy choked out, bringing shaking hands to either side of his face. she felt probably just as scared as he did the more and more her heart used her tongue to enact it’s will. “but this just like. . .” a sniffle, “i-i don’t know if this is like a good fit for us anymore.”after the words spilled out of her mouth, ivy knew there was no taking them back which resulted in her gasping and choking back sobs much like she had the last time her and leo opened themselves up to one another in his bed. she loved leo, there was no doubt about that, but being with him this past day was painful. their interactions were like navigating a minefield or a beach with far too many burs. it was difficult, and the effort no longer felt worth it. they had always struggled, but this didn’t feel like a bump they could get over without losing hold of one another. “i just. . .” ivy said, pulling her forehead away from leo’s and looking at him. a dull aching was added to the pile of other achings living in her chest currently. “i love you, i can’t tell you that enough this is just like . . .” she shook her head, grasping anywhere she could think of for a feeling that was indescribable. “awful, it’s so awful. i feel like, part of my soul has been totally torn from me.” ivy cried out to him, continuing on her near hysterical ramble. “and i just like look at you and it hurts me, leo. like it hurts.” she vocalized, before crying into her hands. her heart had brought her to this point with no warning and the weight of what she had been saying was clearly starting to settle. “and like i don’t want it to be like this, but it is, so like maybe it’s time to throw in the towel.”

LEO: Leo had seen Ivy sad before, he’d even been the root of that sadness before, but he’d never been on the receiving end of this particular look. He felt himself crumbling under her stare. She was struggling to speak, but if he was being honest, she didn’t have to say anything. He could tell what was coming. As he watched her open and close her mouth time and time again, he felt himself wanting to speak too. But the words never came. Time slowed when she put a hand on his cheek, then ran another through his hair. What had once been a comfort now felt like wound. Leo could see her tears starting to form and almost instantly felt himself shutting down. He closed his eyes as Ivy pressed her forehead against his. He couldn’t look at her. When Ivy started to speak, all Leo could focus on was how dry his throat suddenly was. He couldn’t stop swallowing. He wanted so badly to reach up and touch her face and run his fingers through her hair and pull her close, but he was stone. No part of him could enjoy or bask in Ivy’s words because he knew there was an inevitable ‘but’ waiting for him at the end of her ‘I love you.’ His breathing became shallow as she let herself really start to cry and he was grateful for the darkness. The last thing he wanted was for Ivy to see him looking so dejected and lost. He couldn’t bear it.’You are my first love.’ Leo felt the skin on the back of his neck and the tips of his ears burning as he sat there, close to Ivy, listening to what felt like a goodbye. The memory of Ivy passing him a note backstage during RENT rehearsals intrusively entered his mind. He hadn’t known back then that Ivy St. James, some sophomore girl he’d only heard of and admired from a distance, was going to enter his life like a hurricane. He hadn’t known back then that one kiss by the lockers would turn into months and months of sleeping next to each other and sharing secrets and taking pictures and arguing over who got to control the music in the car. Leo kind of felt like he couldn’t breathe. When Ivy said what he knew she was going to say, he nodded slowly, still unable to speak. What was he supposed to say anyway? He should’ve seen this coming. People always left. Nothing good ever stayed. Even as she sobbed and gasped through her words, all Leo could do was stare. Had he known that pushing her towards the right decision regarding their unexpected pregnancy would result in this, maybe he would’ve done things differently. Maybe they could’ve had their baby. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad. But what use was it to dwell on that now? As Ivy pulled away from him and insisted again that she loved him, he found it in him to speak. “You can stop saying that.” It was curt and possibly cruel, but he felt powerless. He didn’t know what to do. If she really loved him, she wouldn’t be leaving him. If she really loved him, she would try to work this out. She would give them a chance, like he had time and time again when she had fucked up. As Ivy started rambling and crying harder than before into her hands, Leo was at a loss. He was burdened with guilt and with each passing statement, he knew he’d carry the weight of this feeling for the rest of his life. ’I just like look at you and it hurts me, Leo. Like it hurts.’ He’d never meant to cause her this much pain. “I’m sorry,” his words came out strained and hoarse, “I’m really fucking sorry.” This whole time he hadn’t moved. He remained sat in the same spot he had been when Ivy was cuddled into him and pressing their foreheads together. But suddenly he needed to move. He cleared his throat and got up quickly, headed straight for his doorway. He flipped the light switch so they were now illuminated. No more hiding in the darkness. For a long while he just stood there, one arm around his torso to hold himself together while the hand on his other arm covered the bottom half of his face. He stared at the ground as he tried to formalize his scattered thoughts.“You’re breaking my heart,” he mumbled, feeling choked up for the first time but quickly swallowing down those emotions and refusing to speak again until he had them in check. Earning Leo’s trust was a lot like pulling an elastic band. Ivy had pulled it and stretched it farther than anyone else had, but by deciding to throw in the towel, she had released the band and it had snapped back to where it started. All that progress—all for nothing. “I’m—“ I’m in love with you. Please don’t do this. Please don’t go. “not going to beg you to stay.” He sniffled, took a deep breath, and dropped his arms to his sides in defeat. “If you want to give up, then there’s nothing I can do.” He stepped aside a little, leaning back against the wall by his doorway and not so subtly unlocking the door. If she wanted to go, then she was free to go.

IVY: IVY KNEW HER AND LEO WERE DRASTICALLY DIFFERENT. they were moon and sun, winter and summer, oil and water, but ivy liked that. she liked that they worked against all odds. but she certainly didn’t think her candid admission on this scale would be met with such a lack of reaction. she thought there would at least be some talking, some goodbye, not ‘im sorry’s’ or ‘stop saying that’s’. launched out of her excessive crying by anger, ivy followed leo out of bed and looked up at him. a dangerous look settled over her expression and in an instant her heartache about having broken up with leo was momentarily snuffed out by the fury his response had spurred. as he stood, covering half of his face in silence, ivy waited, seething until he dropped his arm. had their relationship meant nothing to him? how could leo say she was giving up when he wouldn’t even fight? guilt thickly coated her throat, leaving ivy speechless for a moment when leo insisted she was breaking his heart. it took her a moment to find her footing, but once she did, her blunt and brutal rage was unleashed. “speak like an adult leo, quit mumbling.” she demanded, cold. “i thought we were supposed to be mature?” ivy jabbed, though the tremors in her chin made it clear this outrage was rooted in a place of hurt. “i’m fucking sorry, too leo.” she continued, her voice raspy from all the crying, but her volume loud. not giving him time to respond, she continued, “i’m sorry that you’re a scared child who can’t even own up to his emotions and i’m sorry that i have always been open with someone who can’t even like articulate that he loves me one more time, and i’m so sorry for breaking your heart, but maybe, just maybe if you weren’t selfish about our future you wouldn’t have broken mine first!” any trace of tenderness was gone and the tears started coming once again in her angry rant about things that she wasn’t really sorry for. ivy rapidly tried to wipe her eyes, feeling like leo no longer deserved to see her cry. it was no use though and her anger rapidly took a turn towards a full meltdown. “i got an abortion for you and you can’t even have a mature break up with me?” ivy asked rhetorically through gritted teeth before adding, “fuck you, leo mccarthy. you broke my heart and i hope you’re miserable forever for it!” she cried out before pushing past him, up the steps, out of the basement, and eventually out of the house. though it was dramatic, ivy weirdly felt a weight off her chest the moment she crossed the threshold of the mccarthy home and ran to the haven that was her car. it was about a half an hour of crying and trying to uselessly make sense of what had happened before she even moved her car from being parked out front. part of her entertained the idea of giving another her a piece of her mind, another part toyed with forgiving him and making up, but the third part just hated him and wanted to be at home with her sister. so, once she got the tears under control, ivy started the car, and set her course for home, trying (and struggling) to leave her love for leo mccarthy behind her.

END

#leo #discord para #tw: abortion mention #//POUR ONE OUT FOR IVY/LEO YALL #//at least jbij will be happy lmao

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bluepenguinstories · 5 years ago

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Remoras Full Chapter IV: Funiculì, Funiculà

It’s been over a year and a half since the incident. To think that so much time passed and yet I find myself unable to say “a lot has changed since then.”

Still, as my therapist often told me, it was all a process.

That I had a therapist was, in of itself, a process. One which took much deliberation. Sensible or stubborn, I refused to seek help from my old place of work, and instead sought out a private therapist who would come visit every other week. There were other places I could have gone, I realize, but I was just too afraid to venture outside. Even with the idea of a brighter future ahead, I was just so afraid of the outside world and its potential to be cruel.

Our most recent session in particular was rather devastating (but each one was, just as it was devastating to have an earnest conversation with anyone) and left me drained afterward. It had went something like this:

“I thought things would be better from here on out,” I told her, who sat across from me on the sofa, and jotted notes down as I spoke. “Like, I was finally free – and I am, don’t get me wrong. But in spite of that, I’m still so scared that there are still people out there who mean to do me harm. Or that I may snap and cause them harm. I feel like such a mean person, but I don’t want to be.”

“There are scary people out there, for sure,” was her reply.

“That’s all? No ‘but’?”

She shook her head.

“But I don’t want to live in fear!” I protested.

“It’s normal to have such a response to the outside world, given what you’ve been through.”

“It’s just...I feel so weak, you know? I feel like I used to be so strong, but now I can hardly do anything. This was supposed to be the start of better things for me, but instead I’m finding it difficult.”

“It is difficult, and the start of better things often are.”

“But it feels like I’ve regressed, rather than moved forward.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I break down easily. I think about how I used to act and it appalls me. But at the same time, I miss aspects of who I was. How I could keep in all these feelings and keep a face of someone calm. I would do whatever I felt necessary in order to do the things I wanted in my life. But...I knew it was coming to an end, even then. I just couldn’t sustain myself that way. I was starting to give up. Even back then, I missed who I was before that: someone who could fight and say whatever was on her mind. I thought I accepted the idea that if I were to die the next day, I would be content, because there nothing else I could do.”

“But here you are. You’re still strong. You need to see that just because you’ve dealt with traumatic events in your life doesn’t make you weak.”

“I know, but I don’t want to be this way.”

“Battles often aren’t without their scars.”

“I guess…” I looked away for a bit. The apartment really was small. There were so many thing I still didn’t feel ready for, yet I wanted to dive right into them. “Is there nothing I can do?”

“I wouldn’t say that. It may be difficult, but I think you can live a better life. You’ve already made so much progress, I hope you see that.”

My initial thought was to ask “such as?” Instead, I thought about what kind of progress that could be.

“Yeah. I moved into a new apartment. I still don’t feel like I can work a job, but I’ve started to cultivate some plants out on the back deck and I think I want to have an orchard eventually. This apartment is really just a first step. I want to live away from the city, have a garden in a remote area, growing my own fruits and vegetables. I’m not sure if, or when, it will happen, but at least I have someone who supports me.” I took a deep breath. “I managed to seek therapy. Talk to someone other than who I live with.”

“I’m glad you acknowledge that.”

“Yeah, I, I just don’t know,” my voice started to crack. Come on, hold back the waterworks for just five minutes. She’ll be gone soon. “I want to be able to go outside without being so afraid.”

“You don’t have to go into crowds, you know. Even just going to the back deck is something.”

“Yeah, but what if I need to, like, to get groceries or something?”

“Hmm…” She pondered, tapping the end of her pen against her chin. “Maybe you could start slow. Would it help if you held your wife’s hand and took a walk around? You don’t have to go very far.”

“Yeah, I think that could work. I’m afraid of crowds, but I think I could even visit her every now and then at the Saturday Market. She’d probably like that. I think I’d like that, too.”

“Oh yeah, you told me about that last time.”

“I’m the one who encouraged her to do so, since she’s always making things, anyway. It’s surprising, but enough people like what she does that we’re able to pay rent with the earnings.”

Why is it so surprising? You wouldn’t have encouraged her if you didn’t have confidence in her skills.

“That’s great. See? That’s a strong thing right there.”

“Mm,” I looked down. “I guess. It’s just hard. Like I’m learning to be the person I want to be.”

“Life is a constant learning process.”

There were other talks after that; back and forths about mindfulness and acknowledging each moment. By that time, however, I had already zoned most of it out and was just nodding along. I was too emotionally drained. She could tell as well, so we wrapped up our session, arranged a time for our next session, and I saw her off.

Then, I leaned my head back on the couch. One problem that never got brought up was a recent development: gaps in my memory have started to resurface. Things from long ago, and even things that by all accounts, I should’ve remembered. Like the early days with the one who I would end up spending the rest of my life with. Speaking of, I decided to text her:

Me: I’m done with my session jskjsksjksjskjskjs

Then I passed out.

I woke up to feel someone nudging me.

“Oh my! I thought you were keysmashing but turns out you fell asleep with your thumbs on your phone!”

I rubbed my eyes as I groaned. “Therapy is exhausting,” I informed her, my voice groggy.

“Uh, yeah? Everyone knows that.”

“How did I ever manage it?”

She shrugged. “Beats me. You were never that good at it.” “Hey!” I retorted.

“Well, okay, you were good at making people think you were good at it. You did what you thought would help with what little knowledge you had. Presentation counts for a lot, so your colleagues probably never thought to question it.”

“Why did you ever let me go through with it?”

“I think I said at the time that you didn’t have to, but you were pretty insistent.”

Sounds about right, given what I knew about myself.

“It’s not fair,” I grumbled. “I always end up crying during these sessions. I bet therapists never cry.”

“How much you got?” She took to a sly expression. “I bet they do. They probably wait after the session and then bawl their eyes out.”

We both laughed at that remark.

“So what’d you two talk about, anyway?”

I crossed my arms. “I don’t really want to rehash it.”

“Okay, fine by me! But I’ll be around if you do.”

“...It was just about how I’m scared to go out in public and she suggested you come with me and we could hold hands.”

She gasped. “You just breached confidentiality! You have to go to jail now!”

“What?! No! That’s not how that works!” I protested. “It’s the therapist who can’t talk about the things said without express permission from the client! I volunteered that information to you!”

“Nope. Do not pass go. Sorry, babe. I don’t make the rules. I’ll miss you, but I promise to write.”

“Oh my god! You’re too much!” I burst into laughter.

“So, wanna try it?”

“Hm?” I looked at her.

“The handholding thing. Sounds fun.”

“We’ve held hands before. Practically all the time.”

“Yeah, but wanna do it...therapeutically?”

“Yeah. I think it would help.”

“And, y’know, if it helps, I could sit in on one of your sessions sometimes. Hold your hand while you tackle tough emotions.”

To that, I shook my head. “This is something I want to confront alone.”

“There you go again, bein’ all stubborn. That part of you’s never changed,” she wagged her finger.

“Well, if you want, you could sit in on me...in the bedroom…” I covered my hands over my face. “That was phrased weird. I can’t do suggestive talk.”

She rolled around the couch in hysterics, laughing it up.

“Will there be biting?” She asked, once she finally calmed down.

“Lovingly.”

“Yay!”

We walked together into the bedroom and curled up, our legs tangled in each other. She tittered, ran her fingers through my hair, and smiled. That she acted so giddy every time we would lay together made it so that I couldn’t help but smile as well. First, we started off by kissing, arms wrapped around each other, then we sat up; I watched as she unbuttoned her blouse, and I, in turn, slipped out of my shirt.

Everything was going well, with me giving her light pecks across her neck, down her chest. But then, from the corner of my eye, I saw the scar on her shoulder and remembered the cause of her injury.

“I’m sorry,” I pulled away. The tears were already starting to work their way down even though I knew she didn’t think ill of the whole thing. “I don’t think I can continue.”

“Aw, it’s okay.”

Instead, I leaned in close, and she held me tight against her. The image would have been an odd one, had I the ability to see outside of myself. Although I was taller, often times I thought of her as the bigger person.

“Would you like to take a nap?” She asked.

“Not yet,” I muttered.

“Would you like me to take over and help you feel better?”

Weak, I nodded, then I leaned back and let her shower me in affection and pleasure. It felt wrong, selfish of me, not to reciprocate, but it was just like that: images of the past come to mind and sometimes they affected me, while other times I was able to take a more active role and exist in the moment.

At least there was no desire to be aggressive. No itch for greater and greater levels of intensity. Instead, I could take my time and let it come in its own time. There would be another opportunity to bring her pleasure later in the evening. For the time being, I found myself brought to a high, and then, as I reached my peak, I fell back. She kissed my cheek, then, snuggled up to each other, we both fell asleep.

Needless to say, there were still a few difficulties to overcome. It was all an adjustment process, I knew that. But I didn’t want to find myself so needy that I couldn’t do the most basic of things, like going outside in public, unless she was around.

So a few days later, I got up out of bed, after having slept in. She had already left earlier in the morning to go work at the Saturday Market. While home alone, I bathed, then slipped into a bath robe, made myself a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and after, took to the couch and read a book.

Around noon, I began to grow restless. I knew that if I just waited a few hours, she would come back home, but that wasn’t it. I wanted to try going out on my own. After changing into a tie dye shirt and jeans and slipping on some shoes, I inched toward the door, my heart pounding all the while.

Once out, I started to feel more and more agitated. I wasn’t very far from home, but the thought that there were other people nearby already got to me.

“Not much further. I don’t need to go far,” I told myself under my breath. But each step, I thought to be more daring, and soon, I was near where the crowded streets began. Soon, the sea of others’ voices drowned out my own thoughts and both my mind and my heart were racing. I was about to turn back when one voice stood out among the others.

“How long does it take to do such a simple assignment? ‘Divide and conquer’, she said. Well, I’ve already taken care of my targets, so what’s taking her so long?” Came a low and icy voice, from someone who sounded rather annoyed.

Assignment? Divide and conquer? Targets? This isn’t good; I’m having irrational thoughts of what the implications of those words could mean.

I looked around to find whose voice that belonged to, and at last, I saw her: someone about as tall as I was in stature, with a thick red vest, who stood in the middle of the sidewalk, as if everyone around her didn’t exist. She shivered, was hunched over, and seemed to be typing at her phone.

Images of that incident flashed in my mind, but rather than run away and cower, I found myself approaching her, and then the words escaped from me:

“Rhea? Is that you?”

“Huh?” She turned around. It was more clear that it wasn’t her from up close: she had darker hair, almost blackened, but with a hint of red to it. “Do I know you?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else, but you couldn’t be her, since she died.”

“I see. That’s rather strange to come up to strangers and mistake them for dead people,” she remarked as she slipped her phone back into her pocket. Beside her were a couple of bags. “Do you do that often?”

“No, I –”

“Also, I’m Remora. Not whatever you just said.”

“Sorry. Really.”

She went back to her phone. “Seriously? She still hasn’t replied?”

“Um...may I ask what’s wrong?”

“Just my partner. We were going grocery shopping and we decided to split the list, but she’s taking forever. I’m considering just leaving without her.”

“Partner? As in couple?”

She glared, almost a scowl.

“No.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

I considered walking away, since I had already troubled that Remora person enough, but I figured she was frustrated and I thought I could try to help diffuse the situation.

“Are you in a hurry?” I asked. “If not, maybe you could find something to do in the meantime.”

She looked around, her arms still huddled as she shivered, then returned her gaze to me. “No. None of these things are perishable. What would you suggest?”

Crap. I just put myself on the spot. Great.

“Well, you could, uh...sit at a park, maybe?”

“No.” She shot me down. “Hm…who are you, anyway?”

That took me by surprise, but I told her my name.

“I see. Do you want to get a drink?”

“Like, at a bar?”

“No, at the denist’s office,” she replied. Okay. I could tell when someone was being sarcastic.

She waited for a response, but when I didn’t know what to say, she spoke again: “yes, I meant a bar.”

“Maybe I should let my wife know first. I don’t know.”

“Do you need your wife’s permission to do everything?”

“It’s...It’s not like that!”

“Well, are you coming or what?” She tapped her heel.

“Y-Yes!” I didn’t know why, but I felt like I should accept the offer and hang out with her.

She started to walk off and I hurried behind, my eagerness to interact with someone other than the person I lived with outweighing my anxiousness of being out in public.

“Sorry again, by the way. You really did seem like her from a distance, you even talk and act a little like she did.”

“People don’t come back from the dead, Vesuvius.”

“Right! I know that!”

“Pick up the pace,” she instructed. I didn’t know what it was about her, but there was something there that itched at me, as if no matter how hard it was to think otherwise, it really did seem like I was face to face with Rhea with the key exception being that we were doing something so normal as going out drinking together. It both excited and terrified me.

At the bar, we next to each other at the counter. Few other occupants resided; it must have had to do with the time of day.

“Get me a cold one,” she told the bartender.

“A cold what?” He replied.

“I don’t know. Whiskey? Vodka? Does it matter? Something strong and cold.”

Just like you?

“What about you, missy?” He turned to me. That annoyed me. ‘Missy’.

“Miss is just fine,” I replied. “I’ll just have a pomegranate martini.”

“My bad, miss.”

“Good. You’re sticking up for yourself,” she commented.

That took me by surprise. I turned to her. “I try my best. People scare me, but I still need to assert myself.”

“It might irritate other people, but that shouldn’t matter,” it sounded like she was agreeing with me. “Others can deal with it, if it’s what matters to you, you should speak up about it.”

“Um, thank you?”

“Just stating facts.”

Well, in that case, I prefer Ves.”

“What?”

“My name.”

“Oh. Then why didn’t you tell me that was your name?”

“Vesuvius is my name, it’s just that I like Ves more.”

“All right, then. Ves it is.”

“Thank you.”

She shrugged. “I’m just here to kill time. I can spare a few courtesies.”

Right, and I was just there because I mistook her for someone who used to want me dead and who I, in turn, caused her death. But yeah, let’s just say we were both killing time and I wasn’t nervous as all hell.

I turned to her and noticed her arms crossed as she rubbed her hands against her upper arms while her back was hunched over. Her back was hunched over and I watched her take labored breaths.

“Are you all right?” I asked her.

“It’s the atmosphere,” she replied, brisk and low in her tone.

“You were shivering when we were outside, too.”

“I’m not used to the climate, that’s all. I live up north.”

So that’s what it was. For a second, I thought…Ah. Here I was, sitting next to someone I had just met and all I could think about was someone I barely knew for three days before said person died. To think that the time we met was so short, but I found myself so affected by her. Not to mention, how we were enemies.

“What? Why are you crying?” She sounded genuinely surprised. I reached for a napkin to wipe my eyes with.

“Sorry, I...sometimes I cry when I get sad,” I tried to explain.

“Isn’t that normal for most people?” She gave a perplexed look.

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” I replied with a soft laugh. “I’m just not used to it.”

“I see. Why is that?”

I shrugged, then tried to explain.

“Much of my life was spent on edge. Either fighting, running, or hiding. After a while, it started to weigh on me. So I kept my emotions hidden and laid low. My pain, my rage, I just held it down and instead carried a calm demeanor.”

Our drinks arrived. Hers, a glass of whiskey (not just a shot glass, either, a rather tall glass) and my pomegranate martini. I took my finger to the rim of my glass and licked the sugar off of it.

“Mm. Yeah. That’s no good. Holding in emotions is unhealthy,” she replied after downing her drink.

“What about you?”

“I don’t have many emotions to begin with. Not much to hold in.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? Doesn’t bother me.”

“Maybe so. Sorry, you seem okay, but I still can’t help but think of this other person. I guess I’m still not over her.”

“What was she to you? An ex or something?”

“Not exactly. She tried to kill me.”

“Huh? What was her reason?”

“Well, she was hired to do so and she said I was a threat to humanity. Truth is, I could see her reasoning, being that I was pretty sick at the time and it was affecting people around me.”

“You’re better now, though, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

There were many things that filled my mind then. The events of those fateful few days – how I attempted several means to give myself a better life, but they ended up only making things worse for me. Then, I found myself saying:

“I know we were enemies, but it seemed like she was just as exhausted of fighting as I was. Even if circumstances led us to being opposed to each other, I really wish I could have gotten to know her better. Maybe I could have helped her somehow.”

She took another swig of her drink, then wiped her mouth with her sleeve and set the glass down.

“Sounds like it was for the best. Everyone has their own ideas of a ‘happy ending’. Sounds like that was hers.”

I wanted to say how it was she died, but I knew it would have been incriminating. Especially in a public place.

“I take it you killed her, huh?”

“Wait, what?” I blinked.

“If you two were enemies and she’s dead, that’s how I imagine things went down.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want to. I just think she wanted me to. At least it seems that way.”

Remora looked like she was about to speak up again, but then we both heard her phone buzz. She pulled it out from her pocket.

“Oh. Great. It’s her.”

“Your partner?”

“Hold on.” She began texting. I could hear her say under her breath what she was typing. “You do not need a sombrero. That is not why we’re here.”

Cue a few seconds later, she jolted, as if she was getting pissed off.

“No. You don’t need a set of neon green throwing knives, either. What’s taking you so long?” Then she glared at me. “See what I have to deal with?”

The phone buzzed again, and again, she recited what she was typing.

“How is that relevant?”

Puzzled, I leaned over. She must have noticed, so showed me the conversation. The first thing I noticed was the contact name, which simply said ‘Pest’:

Pest: Someone’s selling sombreros! I want one!

Me: You do not need a sombrero. That is not why we’re here.

Pest: Send me money so I can buy some neon green throwing knives! I need them to look badass! ;_;

Me: No. You don’t need a set of neon green throwing knives, either. What’s taking you so long?

Pest: I just realized that my name is so close to ‘dementia’! I need to change my name! D:

Me: How is that relevant?

Pest: YOU MAY AS WELL PUT EBONY DARKNESS IN FRONT OF MY NAME AKSJKSJFSKJF ;_;

I blinked. That sure was something.

“I can see how your guys’ personalities clash.”

She shook her head. “Too high energy for me.”

“Hey, I’m married to someone who’s high energy.”

“Married couples annoy me.”

I looked down at my drink. Still hadn’t even given it a sip. Maybe I just wasn’t in the mood for it. Shame, too. It probably tasted great.

“Hey,” she poked me. “Give me your address.”

“Why?”

“So I can tell her to meet me there.”

“Oh. Uh, I guess that’s fine. She’s not dangerous, is she?”

Remora laughed. “She’s only a danger to herself.”

“That’s a relief.”

I wrote down my address on a napkin and passed it to her. Remora went ahead and texted it to her, then she ordered another drink.

“We’re not gonna head over there?” I asked.

“Knowing her, it’s gonna take another hour before she shows up.”

“Oh, well in that case…” My thoughts drifted once again to Rhea. “Can I try something out?”

“What?”

“Can I pretend it’s Rhea sitting next to me? I know it sounds weird, but I think it would help me move on.”

“Sure, if you think it’ll help.”

“Thank you,” I cleared my throat. “Okay, here goes…”

I thought of the right words to say, as if I was having a conversation with someone I could never have. How would I address them? I figured starting with their name was a good starting point.

“Rhea,” I began.

“Yeah? What is it?” Remora replied.

“What?” I paused.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to pretend to be her or not.”

“You can respond if you want. I’d mostly like it if you listened.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“It just pains me to know that there’s so much about you I’ll never know. Like what life must have been like for you. I know you gave off the impression of a cold and merciless mercenary, but for whatever reason, you showed me mercy. Even though I killed your partner, Douglas Fir. I still wish I hadn’t done that to him, even knowing how he terrorized my home, I’m still disgusted at myself for that.”

“Eh, he had it coming,” she replied.

“What?”

“Oh. Nothing. He just sounds like a sleazy guy. Carry on.”

“Now that I think of it, it wasn’t that you simply showed me mercy. You offered me a choice I could not accept. When I refused the first time, you tried to stop at nothing to kill me. When that didn’t work, you decided to try to talk with me and see if you reach a different solution. I don’t really understand why. You could have killed me while I was recovering. I wish I could have known what it was.”

She didn’t respond that time. I continued.

“You knew about me through files written on me. Could deduce my personality just through a few sentence descriptions. But I, even from what little I saw of you, still didn’t really know you. I knew you had a condition. It fascinated me, truth be told. Thoughts like ‘I wonder what it is that made you this way’. Even if I knew, I don’t think I could have helped you, as much as it pains me to say. Whether it was a physical or mental condition, I don’t think I would have known what to do. Whether or not there really was a cure, it didn’t seem like something I could have figured out.”

“Why should I feel sympathetic when our roles were more antagonistic? I cannot say. Maybe I saw us as kindred spirits, in spite of our roles. To me, it looked like you were in pain, just as I was. It may have been expressed differently, but I still sensed a pain, a certain tiredness in you. I think that’s what affected me so deeply about your death.”

“I wonder...did you really mean it when you said I was a disappointment? I know, such a strange thing to dwell on.”

She took another drink. “If you want my opinion, the only person you should worry about disappointing is yourself.”

“Well, I’m rather remorseful of how I used to act.”

“Hmm...Remorseful...Gah! I should’ve changed my last name, too! I just couldn’t come up with a pun, so I decided to leave my last name as is!”

“...What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Remora waved her hand away. “Just frustrated. I could’ve worked with that! I only chose this name because I saw a remora at an aquarium and they seemed interesting.”

“Wait, is Remora not your real name?”

“It is. I just had a previous name. I liked to work with name puns. Giving myself this name, it felt like a sense of freedom for me.”

“My birth name was Etna,” I told her in an attempt to relate.

“Yeah, but your name is Ves. Just as mine is Remora. We don’t need to worry about past names.”

“Yeah, but what about past actions? Experiences?”

“You said you acted with the intention of being happier. Well, are you happier now?”

I had to stop and think. Was I? In a way, I had made myself unhappy. But through that, I was able to experience what I had been missing for so long, so in that sense, I found it worth it.

“Yes. It’s taken me a while to get there and it’s still a long journey, but I’m in a much better place now. It’s just been a slow process.”

“Good. That’s all you need to worry about. Is making sure you keep moving forward and realize that the journey has been worth it.”

“What about you?”

“Eh. Same. It’s an adjustment, but I’m open to it.”

“That’s good. I’m glad for you.”

“Why? You just met me.”

“I don’t know. I just feel like I’ve known you already.”

She pointed at my glass. “You haven’t finished your drink.”

“Oh. Lemme do that right now,” I held up the glass and downed it in one big gulp.

“Isn’t that the wrong kind of drink to be chugging down?”

My head was already starting to feel funny. “Yes. I. Think I’m ready to go home.”

“Oh, bother,” she held her palm to her forehead and shook her head. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I should be fine.”

Besides the fact that I felt like I was going to collapse on the sidewalk.

“Here, let me walk you home. That’s where I’m meeting my partner, anyway.” She slipped a hundred dollar bill on the counter, then stood up.

Before I could object, she carried me on her shoulders as I felt myself start to get drowsy.

While we walked home, through my sleepy voice, I continued to try to strike conversation with her.

“Do you and this person live together?” I asked.

“If you’re referring to the grocery partner, no. We just happen to work at the same place and the manager asked us to go shopping here.”

“Oh? What do you do for work?”

“I work at a restaurant. I never thought I’d see myself doing that kind of work, but it’s better than my old job.”

“What was your old job?”

“I killed people.”

Ah, for whatever reason, that didn’t sound so bad. Probably because I was just hazy enough that I didn’t think much of it.

“I used to work as a therapist, myself. But I think I did more harm than good. It’s a real shame. I think I’ve done better for both mine and others’ mental health since I quit,” I droned on.

“Sometimes you just gotta say ‘fuck work’,” she replied.

“Yeah,” I agreed, then smiled. “Fuck work.

We arrived, and she let go. I managed to stand on my own. Already, I felt more clear.

“Say, would you like to meet my wife?” I asked, rather on a whim.

Remora looked around, then shrugged. “Sure. She’s still not here yet.”

I went up to the door, unsure if she had come home yet. I could have texted her, but I figured if she didn’t show up after I knocked, I’d have my answer. After my knock, she came up right away.

“Oh hey, look at you! You’re outside on your own!”

I nodded, a bright smile upon my face. “Actually, I ran into someone.”

“Oh? Who?” She leaned her head over. After she gasped, she turned back to me. “Is that the weird stalker lady?”

“No, but the resemblance is uncanny,” I whispered. “She’s friendly. Her name is Remora.”

“Oh!” She shoved past me and ran out to see Remora up close. “It’s nice to meet you!”

“Why?” Remora asked in response.

“Because if Ves says you’re friendly, you must be friendly!”

“You’re cute,” Remora stated. It could have been interpreted in a sarcastic manner, and yet it came out so plain as to be nothing more than a general statement.

“Thanks! So are you! So is Ves!”

Remora looked like she was about to get a word in, but before she could, someone came running up with a backpack on and a shopping bag in their hand. I focused on the figure, she was someone small, didn’t even look five feet tall. Her hair, dark green and wavy. Plus, she wore a sombrero over her hair. The creature didn’t notice my wife and I, and instead focused on Remora.

“Found you! And look! I got it! There was a dollar on the ground and I was able to get it! Still missing the throwing knives, though…” She looked down at the ground, as if she suffered a great loss.

“Good for you. Did you get the groceries?”

“Of course! They’re in my backpack! What have you been up to?”

Remora pointed her thumb toward me.

The girl (pardon me for referring to her as “creature” just a bit ago) looked over and gasped. “I was too late! You seduced them both!”

“What are you talking about?” Remora asked.

“Or...maybe it was those two who did the seducing!”

“I’m lost.”

Me too. Did I know her? Did she know Juniper and I?

She took off the sombrero and set it on the ground, then reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a blonde wig, then placed it on her head. The wig in question had pigtails. With furious motions, she pointed at my wife, then herself, then looked up at Remora and opened her mouth, but didn’t make a sound, just had it open wide as if she would have yelled had she made a sound. But as she looked at Remora, she continued to point at the woman beside me.

“What is she doing?” Remora asked Juniper and I.

We both shrugged.

“I think it’s called pantomiming?” Juniper suggested. “I’ll be honest, though: I was never that good at charades.”

“Yeah, me neither,” I admitted.

The girl looked furious, took off the wig, then undid the pigtails and tried to straighten up the wig. Then, she took out a pair of glasses from her pocket, put them on, and then put the wig back on. This time, she chose to point at me, just as furious.

Her finger, at first at me, then back at the one beside me, then she faced her thumb at herself.

“Is she your guys’ daughter?” Remora asked my wife and I.

We both shook our heads.

She tore the wig from off of her head, threw it on the ground and stomped on it.

“I can’t believe you guys!” She yelled at last, as I assume she had been holding it in. “That’s my cousin!” She faced Remora, then pointed once again at my wife. “Juniper Bark!”

Wait. Something dawned on me. But before I could say it, Juniper spoke up instead.

“Oh, I remember you! From the wedding, right? Demetria!”

“Bingo. And I came to stop you!”

“From what?”

“From stealing Remora! I saw her first!”

Juniper clapped. “Good job!”

Demetria blinked. “Oh. Thanks. I mean, I’m not actually into her. I just think she’s cool. Yeah. That’s all.”

What was with her demeanor? At one point she really was high-energy, like the impression of her I got from Remora suggested, but now she seemed stunned.

“Uh, well, anyway,” She looked away, embarrassed. Of her previous actions? Hard to say. “Juniper, your brother’s still a doctor, right?”

“In a sense!”

“Is he here? Can I talk to him?”

Juniper shook her head. “He lives at the same apartment he did before, Vespiquen and I just moved to a new one. Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to ask him what the condition was when you see this tall, strong lady and your whole personality changes and all you can think about is being in her strong arms and how hot she is. I was wondering if he could diagnose me.”

Juniper put her hand over her mouth and had a devilish grin on her face. “Ohoho, I can tell you that right now.”

“What? You can?”

“Mhm. I’m afraid it’s terminal.”

“What?!”

“Yup! And there’s no cure!”

“That’s horrible!” Demetria cried out.

I nudged Juniper and gave her a glare.

“Oh, all right,” Juniper relented. “I diagnose you with gay.”

“I can’t believe you! You had me in quite a shock! I’m going to remember this!”

Although the focus had been on Demetria, I shifted my attention back to Remora, to which a scowl was forming on her face.

“Ves.”

Startled, I asked, “what is it?”

“Does the name ‘Clara Waters’ mean anything to you?”

I took a minute to think about it, but then it came.

“Actually, yes. That was one of the names Rhea had used.”

“Figured as much,” the last syllable on her breath had a tinge of a snarl to it.

“Which city was it that she died in?” Was the next question from her.

“This one. Why?” She seemed to be piecing something together.

“I see.”

“Is there something that I’m missing, here?” Demetria looked at all three of us.

“Demetria,” Remora growled.

“Eep! Was It something I did? I’ll behave!”

“Can you wait for me at the airport?”

There was a definite anger to her voice, though it didn’t sound like it was directed at Demetria, but someplace else.

“Oh. Yeah. I can do that.” Demetria picked up both the bag with the wig as well as the bag of groceries that Remora had carried just a bit ago. “Um, see you later?”

Remora nodded.

I opened my mouth, curiosity or concern having overtaken me. “What is this about?”

“I’m about to find out. It was nice to meet you. Now I must meet a corpse.”

“Huh?”

“This was never about grocery shopping and the fact that I didn’t figure it out sooner disgusts me.”

That didn’t clear anything up for me, but what was clear was that she was about to take off.

“Um, before you go…”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to be friends?”

“Why?”

“I think it’s what Rhea would have wanted.”

It felt rather manipulative of me; a dirty trick. Even if that was the case, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her that the reason was that I saw it as a second chance for me. To befriend someone so similar to Rhea.

“What does this person’s wishes have to do with me?”

Oh no. Her words sounded hostile. But then, she let out a sigh.

“All right. Fine. I’ll put your number in my phone.”

“Ooh!” Juniper jumped up. “Me too!”

“Ladies, one at a time.”

After she entered our names into her contacts, we waved goodbye to her. It was somewhat of a relief to see her off, just as it was to meet her in the first place.

“So, that was interesting, huh?” Juniper observed.

“Mhm. Didn’t expect to run into Demetria, either. I thought she was pursuing her Master’s degree. Maybe she graduated already.”

“Oh! I didn’t even think about that!”

Juniper locked her fingers within mine, and the two of us went back into our apartment. The day had turned out to be quite overwhelming, though a large portion of it was a good kind of overwhelming.

Once we were both on the couch and curled up next to each other, I pieced something together of my own.

“Remora really was Rhea.”

“Huh?” Juniper looked up at me.

“Well, not the one that we knew. If I had to guess, I’d say it was similar to how I met another you once.”

Though such a thing wasn’t something I expected to encounter ever again. Still, there was no doubt in my mind; Even if I had deduced without total confirmation, since I believed I had an answer as to why I thought of Rhea so much around Remora, I also believed that was all the more reason to treat her as if she were someone new.

#wriitng #remoras full #old friends #enemies to friends #some minor reveals #stories #vesuvius #remora #rhea #demeter #lgbt #wives

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theorynexus · 5 years ago

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As we reach 49, we near the half-way mark in the century of posts. My word, how many of these will there be?

Oh, and we are at Page 25 of Meat, which means that if the prologue were not included, this would represent a near perfect, “Two posts per page” ratio. Buuuut... things haven’t quite worked out that way, I guess.

... This all seems very ominous. Her speaking about trolls in such a way does not bode well for her mental state, I think. Hard to be certain, but... hmm. The implications of these generalizations about human nature suggest that she is either having great difficulty with the challenges Dirk is presenting to her, or that her aforementioned ascension is causing continued challenges to her mental stability. The scrutiny mention makes me lean further toward the former, but I don’t believe I can support either wholeheartedly, at the moment.

While in broad strokes I can certainly embrace this idea, no, it certainly is not sinful or dysfunctional to question it. This is because human beings are both social creatures demanding intimacy and belonging and individuals demanding singularity and personal excellence. To fully abandon one or the other is in fact to renounce humanity. In particular, to pour one’s self into a collectivist mentality that would seek to obtain a higher being via the blurring of thoughts and personae together to the exclusion of such matters as the love and concern one might feel for one’s wife is absolutely anathema to humanity, and should be repulsive to anyone who truly understands what it means to be human-- ... even if they have personally obtained a state already that sets them up as being more than human in the sense of capability and mortality.

Grrrrrr...! You’re taking her agency from her, Narrator! To take away from her choice as you suppress her powers and seemingly use them to expand your own is just... horrendous. I struggle now to properly express it, but the suppression of agency is a threat to her identity and undermines any important decisions, consent, or beliefs that she might come to express in the near future. Choosing what is or is not important for someone to know, especially when it is taking advantage of someone who’s in as vulnerable a situation as she is, is reprehensible, and absolutely sickens me, because it flies right in the face of her Classpect, as well. She should be able to understand and see the importance of what’s going on around her, and sense the information he’s suppressing, darnit!

Hmmm. ***scratches my head*** I do wonder, though. This paragraph makes it seem as if she might be in a better position than she seems to be in. To ask who is calling is not necessarily to suggest you do not know, in a technical sense, I suppose. Her hiding her actual face alludes to deception, and the ghostly image of herself seeming to speak, yet leaving the Narrator uncertain, could imply a certain degree of growing capacity to fool him, in general. I suppose this goes back to the statement that both of them think they are acting as puppet masters in their own little games. There certainly could be a sense of competition that is actively going on between them. A lack of information as far as Rose has been concerned, previously, along with the way that the previous last encounter we were able to have with her before the Kanaya calls made it seem like her body had slipped into unconsciousness, so this sudden contradictory information makes it hard to judge things.

I am sorry to see Rose react that way. That said: I now see that her earlier statements (at the beginning of the page) were largely meant as ground work in an argument that suggests she does not buy what Dirk’s trying to sell. I am very much glad to see that realization hit me, and quite obviously appreciate her point of contention. On the other hand, from a philosopher’s perspective, I also very much enjoy the fact that Dirk quite rightly brings that sort of question to the table, which is indeed necessary to answering that sort of question without doing so in a manner that is quite emotionally-based, biased based on deeply-ingrained preconceptions, or otherwise faulty in nature.

HEY, KIERKEGAARD IS GREAT!!! Also: I do in fact know that Rose is dealing with a severe migraine, and that it is likely that she might otherwise be more amicable to such discussions... albeit to what degree, it’s impossible to say.

I really do appreciate the fact that the lack of academic studies on the Kids’ parts is being actively integrated into the story. I would like to suggest that I very much do believe that many of them are quite intelligent, and have developed their minds in such a way that with time, the seeds of great philosophers might sprout inside many of them; however, I do in fact remain skeptical that Dirk has had anywhere near the life experience to be properly judging the issues he’s attempting to tackle, right now. Certainly, if their time in their universe had left the group in their later 20s or early 30s, I could see him being in a better position to make the sorts of weighty arguments and decisions he is apparently making (those of pursuing unity of consciousness and greater godhood of being, alongside the others, it would seem). Even the example of Kierkegaard, who began publishing important works relatively early in his life for a philosopher, was nearing 30 at that time.

I was quite surprised that Dirk is playful enough to admit the silliness of his prior statement of credentials, for a moment, but honestly, that is quite in-character. Whether or not this actually causes him to pause and think about things differently is an entirely different matter. I most certainly don’t think it shall do so.

This entire sequence is absolutely beautiful and hilarious. Also, Hegel’s pretty hilarious to bring up, at least to me. Specifically: Kierkegaard was an absolutely vehement opponent of Hegelian branches of philosophy, so his name coming up from Dirk shortly afterward is quite ironic, which I’m sure was quite intentional on Hussie’s part. The fact that this is all being argued via shorthand makes this all surprisingly humorous. As for the last bit he’s bringing up: that’s a nice segue into the actual argument/discussion.

Indeed, he brings up a somewhat valid point. This is part of the Ultimate Riddle. However, he fails to realize one greatly important thing: Free will is totally a thing in Homestuck. It’s just that certain timelines are important to the integrity of reality. Thus, they have to be pushed for, and the collective will of all life to persist nudges things in that direction, via interactions of Light, Void, Hope, and DOOM. It should also be particularly noted and emphasized that the decisions of individuals determine their fates, as shown especially via the death mechanics of godhood. Beyond this, there theoretically should be quite a bit of wiggle room allowed in getting from point A to point B on the “necessary stuff needs to happen” list, as shown via the fact that the Kids dawdled so bloody long in the first place before giving John their own version of The Choice, and essentially booting his butt out to face LE, in this timeline.

Yes, your flexing of narrative control in your limited, likely temporary fashion most certainly shows a lack of free will, especially in light of the feats of defiance that people have shown to your commands, and how closely your level of influence resembles that of other such writer figures in your position. My mind particularly turns to Andrew Hussie’s ghost influencing Caliborn, as well as the resulting shaking of the website as he attempted to crowbar its stability out of existence in retribution for Hussie’s mockery. Of course, that author seemed to be closer to omniscient--- or at least better at managing loose threads ---than the current ego taking up the Narrator’s seat. He certainly didn’t seem to be quite so cocky, and seemed a bit more performative in his role than the current one. Perhaps that’s because of the fact that he purposefully secluded himself from the main action of the story, unlike you.

***laughs hysterically at the irony of this amateurish lack of self-control, and the surprisingly go-with-the-flow sort of modus operandi that someone who projects such Machiavellian capacities has embraced*** This whimsical little break from the serious analysis and following of the story that I generally do has compelled a thought, a question, and an idea into my mind, it would seem. Namely: of course Dirk’s growing understanding and mastery over Heart will naturally have afforded him an understanding of the narrative nature of the world of Homestuck. After all, Heart, very similar to Light, deals with the true nature of things: while Light deals with broad categories of knowledge, information, data, code (overlapping with DOOM), luck, relevance, and fate, Heart deals with the true nature of things in a simple, core-oriented fashion-- it looks at what a person’s soul is, and what that makes them; the nature of love and of social bonds associated with them (which partially overlaps with Blood), and the core nature of Reality, Truth, and the Aspects which relate to them. Given this nature for Heart, his deepening connection with it would naturally cause him to tend toward a wider understanding of the world around them-- and specifically, the Narrative. Given his awakened awareness of this, it is logical for him to then become jaded concerning free will, and likewise, given his particular Classpect (Prince of Heart), it is natural for him to attempt to use his heightened capacities to interface and tinker with the story. The fact that his Class, which would traditionally be interpreted as a Destroyer, can be used to subvert its aspect (read: transforming the way it develops by partial destruction in the same way that a gardener pruning a plant manipulates the development of the plant in their care) can be evidenced in numerous ways. Most prominently: Dirk destroyed Caliborn’s core identity as Caliborn by fusing his soul with three others, thus forming Lord English; Brain Ghost!Dirk attempted to destroy Aranea’s identity as a living soul, not by fully rending her spirit, but by removing it from its place in contact with the Ring of Life; finally, Dirk-as-Bro radically altered Dave’s identity over the course of his lifetime, but most clearly and impactfully via the rending of his katana and the scratching of his shirt’s disk (which were both highly symbolic of Dave’s soul, if the fact that the Scratch taking place on just such a disk or his sword[s] later being able to transform from broken to whole via time magic [also an expression of Dave’s soul, and its resilience+destined transformation] didn’t clue you in). To the point: It is something of a wonder that Dirk has not yet begun to realize his limitations via the constraints that his manipulation of Narrative have placed upon them. My suspicion is that while his interface with Rose(? the way the story presents the aftermath is confusing, considering her continued seeming consciousness+own thoughts) may have increased his capacity to See Light, depending on how precisely it works, he has (as of yet) not such command over relevance and agency as he’d like us to believe. Furthermore, he is still not quite at the point that he has fully realized his understanding of Heart, either. The fact that he is questioning Free Will certainly shows that he is on the brink of an epiphany, but he seems to have become a bit lost in the reeds, as it were. Many characters have fallen at this point because they have attempted to egotistically promote their own will and desire to the subversion of others and the needs of the wider world. Aranea and Vriska come to mind, but also Lord English, assuming that he has indeed perished as the Narration would have us believe. This is a natural part of Fate, and I am quite certain that if Dirk remains on this path, he will fall afoul of that same Just end. Even if he does have the capacity to control the influence of one of the four Aspects which seem to deal most with Fate/ (which are Time [for obvious reasons of timing and timeline mechanics {including the Scratch}], Light [via Relevance, Canonicity, Luck, coherence, and Necessity], Heart [with regards to Classpects and their relation to key world interactions/expressions of self, entangling of individuals with one another, and through the reflections of Self across timelines {see Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff persisting on the Alpha Kids’ side of the Scratch, for example}], and DOOM [via most of what the aspect has to offer: rules, inevitability, factors {especially disasters} outside of one’s control, et cetera]), this does not mean that Dirk truthfully has wider control over Fate, generally, nor does it mean that he can avoid the consequences to his actions. I should also at this point randomly insert a statement suggesting that the other 8 Aspects can be split into two camps: Choice/Freedom --- Mind, Hope, Breath, Life and Mixed/Paradoxical --- Space, Void, Blood, and Rage The former of these two categorizations should be mostly obvious: Mind represents personal choice (both in the way you present yourself, and in your course of actions), Hope represents belief transcending the mundane and Possibility beyond the restrictions of what should be Real and/or opportunities beyond what would seemingly be available to you given the constraints that present themselves; Breath is all about freedom from constraints (up to and including the constraints of physical being) and the ability to fly off in various directions (often beyond the expected/normally available paths); and finally, Life, being the antithesis of DOOM, allows for the breaking of rules (see the sugary explosion of rulebreaking that was Trickster Mode) and the extension of possibility beyond what would be something’s inevitable end (healing, revival, prototyping, et cetera). As for the latter set: Space has a associations with birth, potentiality, and the breaking of barriers, but Space itself is as much a curse as a boon-- yes, it does allow for the interaction of beings with the physicality of the world, and it allows for the continuation of life; yet Homestuck is a Gnostic text, and that means that one must also take Space to be one of the principle forces which constrains action by allowing the defining and regulating of the world; and it imposes corruption upon things by allowing for a stage wherein the Aspects can mix and form more complex concepts. (Mind you, this is of course quite important for human life, and those of us who live in the material world could argue that it is therefore a “good”, from our perspective. Nonetheless, that fact-- that it enables such “corruption” demonstrates in and of itself that this belongs in a “mixed” category.) Void is a bit simpler: It is the Aspect of the unknowable, uncertain, and so on; but most importantly, these barriers which tend toward the production of impossibility do at the same time hide a very important flip-side of the coin --- that is, Void also presides over imagination, which is the force which brings forth possibility from fantasy and drags ideas into physical reality. As such, this slippery element of existence very clearly exists in a liminal state worthy of this group. Blood’s binding capacity ties one to the physical world, but it simultaneously entrenches one in the subtleties of social existence, which is above/beyond the bestial sort of being that Blood’s carnal title would suggest. Furthermore, while blood is by its nature a binding, restrictive force, it is one which allows for one to be given purpose. Binding yourself to a group of friends to cooperate with one another and find higher purpose is at the very heart of what Homestuck is. This allows for greater possibilities than what would be able to be accomplished alone-- and this is the nature of many (perhaps most) contracts and bonds that can/should be made: they allow for the formation of restrictions, but those are in exchange for other benefits. This is why Karkat would make a great leader: Blood is the Aspect that is closest to the Social Contract which underlies political life. A player who deeply relates to/embodies this Aspect in a well-fulfilled manner therefore is a natural fit for political power. Rage: ... Don’t even get me started with Rage. I’m a Capricorn and I don’t understand that nonsense. It narrows your mind, blocks out your thoughts, and skews your brain. Despite the fact that it should be the Aspect that focuses you and makes sure your head doesn’t hang out in the clouds all the fricking time, it’s like banging your head on a cinder block every single time you try to wrap your thoughts around it. Don’t bother with considering such double-edged Tragi-Comic garbage Aspect. Just... waste your time and focus your thoughts on something else. Now what the heck was I talking about...?

#Homestuck Spoilers #Homestuck Theory #Homestuck Epilogue #Homestuck Liveblog #Homestuck Aspects

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clatteriing · 6 years ago

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The maids were ordered to descend to the garden, and give some water to the insects. At 1:25 pm on Tuesday, July 22, Kyoto time, we visited the grave of Lady Murasaki Shikibu: a large weed-covered mound of earth with a small stone marker at the head and a small stone altar at the base, one white teacup filled to the lip with water. A small tree was growing, its leaves reflected, without color, in the cup. I still my eyes. I see ants … We had three copies of The Tale of Genji in our house (growing up); I remember one hard cover edition in particular, with torn dust jacket … I can hear it now: bells hanging soundless at the limits of creation. Isn’t the creation a response to what is felt already to exist but as of yet without shape? Lady M died one thousand years ago, though no one knows for sure. Even her name is in dispute, so how can we trust the mound of earth? The mound of earth was growing grass and weeds with tiny, even unsightly, flowers. Maybe it was the influence of the mound of earth next to Lady M’s mound, smaller, more exposed, with fewer weeds and less grass, more dirt … it was the grave of someone who was related to a poet, not Lady M, who/where was the poet? Someone had visited the graves that morning: the white teacups were filled; someone had touched the blue hose. Gods of mercy, with curative powers, what if they, the gods, are obstructed by people; godly power is radiant, sensitive in a penetrating way, to atoms, cells, cell structures, the human body. Someone had watered the cups, the weeds were growing thick over Lady M’s feet, dust on the heads of the gods of mercy. The environment was termites and mold … the gods will know what it means to be sentient: to be forgettable, neglected, to molder on the altar … The stone structure on top of Lady M’s mound resembled a small hat, the pressure centered between the eyes, the sinuses; the voice swampy, pinched, elevated, filled with gas, the body revealing itself to be mysterious to itself as a structure within a structure (pond in a pond). In the sinuses flow one’s dreams as mucus, which, when inhaled, disperse into the mind as a light lifting off the frenetic behavior of the constituents who hold the world in transit. It took Lady M ten years to write The Tale of Genji. Black ink poured from my navel. Did you get your period? DD asked. She was worried. What is black that pours from the body? There was a pond. I don’t remember where it was or what it was doing. What does a pond do? … The light that reaches into the pond is from the universe; there are no ponds in a pond, unless the pond is space and there are holes … Appreciation and/or admiration: to enter into a third space which is a permanent reprieve made temporary: what are the looks? Being is not always looking up. The gradual blinding of looking up is familiar … But what was the pond? The sides of a pond have ears. But in the same way the hysterics of hell can be heard just below the horizon, concealed within the lower registers of a photograph are the sounds of hell, the cacophony of the underworld. As if hell could no longer wait for its patrons to arrive, but sought to expand its dominion into the world, to select its sinners preemptively. Chaos prevailed, and the gates of hell not only widened, but became all-encompassing. A steamship comes to a stop in the middle of the ocean. The engines, that have been occupying, however faintly, the sleep of young women and children, die. (Emptiness is on the ceiling.) The water settles? The ship … No more white around the ship. Gasoline between continents … I hear the water on the shore: the tide is coming … And birds, positive engines. The ants on Kurosawa’s rose … the rose is young and the consequence of a strange effort at beauty. The ants are compelled: warriors on pilgrimage to the heart (head) of fertility—a break in the war, or the ravages … No one remembers the adults enough to make use of the trauma in poems or pictures; only children peregrinations and not melancholy but the homesickness of adventure. Homesickness feels home is at the end, melancholy is waiting for not knowing what—dull smoke grows into orange. Or: you have a parasite so must remain then you are homesick for what you do not know. Some children are your siblings you will never know again, something has broken something has been invaded. If you are sick you remain childless, I swallowed the ocean unless you renounce you are a child you can go anywhere but have not trespassed the emptiness so as an immigrant are already forgotten, no trauma’s traced to you. You can carry a parasite into a new country if you renounce the country where it entered your body Or hold a jar of honey in front of your mouth. IMPLANTATION OF A LIQUID ELEMENT: The real diseases would arrive The old diseases were prohibitive The new diseases would be permissive, you have to forswear the old diseases and pledge allegiance to the new diseases. The bible is jingoism A family lived beneath the floor: in darkness but where daylight penetrated the seams of the house. They never spoke. Thinking was their creation. They were perfecting the memories of experiences from former lives they wanted to make whole and perfect for the next. A lake set into the crater of a mountain, the crater with an island, the blue blood of a horseshoe crab, atmosphere doubled upon itself, a small mound of pink camellias on a rock beside the water, teeth marks in the petals, and when a wind rides up the mountain and down into the crater, sweeping pollen across the water, the air above the lake is charged with a clarity to highlight spinning before the dark green pines rising from the island, a pair of teeth, the suggestion of a mouth bearing the teeth, a face bearing the mouth, a head the face, a body the head, an individual stormed out of the void, the accumulated life of each thought, faces once known, spinning out of the debris, lives spent in the dark beneath the feet of giants thinking of images fashioning into the space shared among the people who will make use of them, children around a fire. Children are waving long glow sticks and throwing the plastic wrappers on the ground. It is the anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. There is going to be a reenactment: at 9:30 (it should be 8:15), a fake bomb will be dropped. It is called a spectacle bomb. Everyone says it is going to be blinding; you can look, but everyone is cautioned not to. I separate from the crowd—there is an amusement park atmosphere—and stand on a hill to take notes. I discover strange sores and welts, abscessed, on my body, especially my arms, as though my body is reacting to the radiation, though the spectacle bomb is fake, and has not yet been dropped. I go back into the crowd to look for something to eat: soda, potato chips. Later, school buses bring people to the bomb reenactment site. It is 9:00. I hold my hand over the fish’s mouth—its eye grows larger. The fish breathes through its gills, my stomach knows … its condition as the grave— Rice paddies folded out from the center like petals from a single spike. The graveyard was the rice paddies folded in. Bleeding (flow) of characters moving (bleeding) down the mirrors and the wall try to speak (intone) the characters: arrested speech: You are exposed to a refrain of deep resentment. Sitting in front of a long rectangular mirror, I heard a woman’s voice talking (speaking) to someone who was not me and was not there (here). The moment I was drawn into the conversation, the woman’s voice disappeared. The mirror, an old, wise animal …

from The Grave on the Wall by Brandon Shimoda

#poetry #brandon shimoda

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clefaiiiry · 8 years ago

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i’ve been listening to self-inflicted achromatic on repeat for like an hour now time to post a fic

Companion to this.

Title: Distortion

Fandom: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Diamond & Pearl & Platinum | Pokemon Diamond Pearl Platinum Versions

Word Count: 2,031

Characters: Akagi | Cyrus, Shirona | Cynthia, Hikari | Dawn, Saturn (Pokemon), Dr. Nanakamado | Professor Rowan

Additional Tags: Friendship, recovery process, Japanese Names as Surnames, Suicidal Thoughts, Selectively Mute Dawn, (Not referenced in this particular fic but it's there), Implied Gingashipping, I guess????????????????????, not really???????????, onesided at the very most???????

AO3 Version

Distant shrieks of Seagull and the repetitive lull of the sea was all that permeated the silence. Late evening in Sunnyshore was always heavy, even in winter when the air grew drier and the sky was rarely seen in all its glory. Stargazing was impossible unless you went out to Route 222.

It wasn’t like he could leave the city this late at night. He shouldn’t have even been outside. If father found out...

He tried not to think about it.

Cyrus just focused on the sound of the waves, watching for any signs of Pokémon beneath the surface. The docks were old, no one would think twice if some kid fell in while playing around where he shouldn’t be.

He’d debated it a few times. It wouldn’t be too hard; the currents were brutal, and he wasn’t a strong swimmer. But he stayed put, going no further than dipping his toe in.

Sometimes he wished he had jumped.

The first week in the hospital was a blur. Any time he was awake, everything was so harsh and unbearable that the staff would increase his dosage until he went out again.

On rare occasion, Cynthia would be there when he woke up. She helped him breath, to steady himself in consciousness. It would never last long. Something would set him off again and she would have no choice but to call in the doctors.

He was never aware of what he was saying in those times. He rambled and babbled in a manner unbefitting of a man who convinced hundred to follow his every order. Disgust and humiliation pooled in his gut when Cynthia looked over him with pity.

He wasn’t sure when things started becoming more solid, but it must’ve had something to do with Cynthia increasing her visits. It was the only explanation he could provide.

One day, he finally woke up without the hefty nausea and migraine that had become commonplace over his time in the too white room. The scent of stale air and disinfectant was displeasing, but not overwhelming.

The bed complained as he pushed himself up, too fast, made his head swim for a few long seconds. Cynthia almost fell out of her seat, her Holo Caster barely being saved from the unsympathetic, hard floor.

“Cyrus, are you with me?” she asked, her voice oddly soft for a woman of her status.

All he could do was nod as she helped him adjust the bed so he could sit up properly. Cynthia’s expression was indiscernible.

“How much do you remember from the last few days?”

He shook his head. Cynthia sighed.

“You’re in Veilstone. Barry found you and Dawn in Turnback Cave.”

At the mention of the girl’s name, his eyes went wild and muscles tensed. “Where is-”

Soothing hands rested on his. “She’s fine. Dawn has a different room and Barry’s been taking care of her. I promise you she’s fine.”

Cyrus felt the pressure melt from his form. “That... that is good.”

“Not like you to be so worried about someone.” Cynthia’s tone was ice, her gaze hard.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. Why did the air feel so close all of a sudden? His breathing was getting uneven and his chest ached.

Cynthia was still talking but he’d stopped processing her words. It was only when she stopped that he realised he was shaking. How did that happen?

A shape descended on him and for a moment he was back in the other world. He tried to push back but it caught him and pulled him in. He thrashed, about to cry out when Cynthia’s voice brought him back down.

“It’s okay,” She said as she wrapped him in a hug, “You’re gonna be okay, Cyrus.”

When did he start crying?

Without Cynthia, his time in the pure white room would’ve destroyed him, that much he was certain of.

In the few hours a week she managed to steal between her Champion duties, she managed to keep him updated on the outside world and, more importantly, Dawn’s condition.

“Will they seriously not tell you anything?” She asked.

He shook his head, trying to adjust himself to allow Weavile to curl up on his lap. It hadn’t taken much for the hospital staff to allow him to keep his Pokémon, anything to stop him shooting awake in hysterical panic at two am was welcomed.

“Assholes...” Cynthia muttered, folding her arms across her chest.

Weavile chirped, nuzzling further into his trainer’s lap. Cynthia chuckled.

“Whenever I tried to feed them,” she started, reaching out to pet the Pokémon’s head, “they would get all pouty and stubborn until I told them you were okay.”

Cyrus blinked. “Really?”

That took her by surprise, needing a second to recover. “Of course! Pokémon always care, even if they’re trainer...”

She trailed off, but he could guess what she was going to say. Cyrus gave Weavile a small scratch behind it’s crown.

“I do not... understand...”

Cynthia sighed. “Well, you never beat them up or anything. I think they were just worried about you...”

Cyrus looked down to the snoozing Pokémon and felt his chest ache. Not in the suffocating way he was used to but... soft and warm.

He never wanted it to go.

The worst part of the hospital was the boredom. Unless Cynthia brought something in, there was little he could do to pass the time.

He’d stopped keeping track of days. Didn’t see the point. If anything of note happened, it would make its way to him eventually.

Any attempts made by the resident psychiatrists to get him to open up rarely ended well. They would try their best to tread around the most sensitive areas, but something would always manage to set him off.

He was thoroughly convinced they had given up on him.

The window was easy enough to open, a simple latch, then it slid upwards. It was a three-storey fall, but it didn’t bother him as much as it should’ve.

“If you wanted fresh air that bad, I might be able to convince them to let us in the courtyard.”

The soft voice behind him wasn’t Cynthia.

Weavile hopped off the bed, claws clicking across the floor as it ran over to greet the visitor.

Dawn crouched to offer pets. “Hey, wanna see what I got?” she asked the Pokémon. He chirped, pawing at her sleeve as she reached into the paper bag and took out a poffin. Weavile excitedly scoffed it down before she could say anything.

She laughed, straightening up as she crossed the room. “Want one? Lucas made them.”

Cyrus shook his head. She shrugged.

“More for me and Weavile,” she said as she offered another to the weasel Pokémon.

“Are you even allowed to be here?” Cyrus asked slowly. Dawn grinned.

“Shush, I snuck out. Couldn’t stand being in that room any longer so I asked Cynthia which room was your’s.”

Silence hung between them for a few moments before she started playing with her hair.

“Okay, I lied, Cynthia said you were feeling more down than usual so I wanted to keep you company for a while.”

Cyrus realised how hard he’d been gripping the windowsill and flinched slightly as he loosened his hands. Dawn frowned, but said nothing.

“What were you thinking?” She asked quietly, testing the waters. There was no point in trying to lie to her, she could always tell.

“Would this height be enough to end your life?”

Dawn was not nearly as disturbed than he expected her to be.

“I don’t think so, but you’d really hurt your legs. Not worth it unless you’re really desperate to stay here any longer.”

“I would prefer not to.”

She gave a gentle laugh. “I can’t wait to eat real food again,” she said as she crouched to shower Weavile with affection, “Remind me to show you this café in Eterna when we get out, I think you’ll like it.”

There was that warm ache in his chest again. He found himself smiling for the first time in years.

In retrospect, he supposed he should have made more of an effort to resume contact with Team Galactic... Or what was left of it. Cynthia and Rowan had told him that the organisation almost fell apart before the old commanders turned it into an energy company.

He wasn’t surprised to hear Saturn was leading the new Galactic. The young man had a knack for the humanitarian side of business. What he was surprised about, however, was how fast he’d been able to flip the image of Team Galactic into something the people of Sinnoh would be willing to trust.

“Devon helped them a lot, gave them a chance and they proved themselves to be valuable business partners,” Rowan had explained when Cyrus had brought it up, “there were rumours that the Hoenn Champion had arranged for it, but that has yet to be proved.”

Outside of the occasional worker passing on the street, he was unable to experience anything from the new Galactic first hand. Apparently Saturn had sent Dawn some flowers. She mentioned that they looked expensive but said nothing more on the topic.

Some part of him felt betrayed, but he quickly quelled the foolish notion. It wasn’t like they owed him anything.

Which was why he was even more confused with Saturn showed up unannounced. He hovered in the doorway and likely wouldn’t have ever entered if Cynthia hadn’t been there to shove him in.

After initially sweeping the room for an escape route, Saturn finally sighed and settled into a seat.

“There’s... no way to make this not awkward.”

Cyrus just hummed.

“You’re not making this any easier.”

“It was not my intention.”

Saturn scowled, letting out a huff. He started bouncing his knee.

After an eternity, he finally asked, “Can I punch you in the face?”

The sheer absurdity of the question caught him off guard. “I... Excuse me?”

Saturn cleared his throat and sat up straight. “Never mind, that was completely out of order-”

“If it makes you feel better.”

“What?”

“You can punch me in the face.”

For a long moment, Cyrus was certain that he had broken him. Saturn finally seemed to process the words and nodded slowly.

“Okay, right...”

Saturn flexed his fingers for a moment before curling one hand into a fist. Cyrus didn’t even see him wind back. Pain exploded in his jaw, instinctively reaching up to check for any serious damage.

“Good swing...” he muttered.

“Huh? Oh, thanks...” Saturn looked down at his hand and frowned. “I, urh... I’m sorry.”

Cyrus just shrugged. “It is the least I deserve.”

Words seemed to fail Saturn for the briefest of moments. “I mean... Yeah, honestly.” He let out a shaky laugh.

And they went quiet again. While the silence would’ve been simpler, Cyrus felt as though Saturn would faint if it lasted any longer.

“I... I am sorry,” he said, the words feeling alien on his tongue, “for everything. I am aware that a mere apology is not enough to excuse all that I have done, but it is all I can offer you for the time being.”

Saturn stared at him as if he’d grown three heads. Then he started laughing. Cyrus failed to find the humour.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just...” Saturn’s eyes started to grow puffy, his breathing hitching in his throat. “I never thought I’d...”

The words melted away as the young man fought back against his emotions.

Acting completely on instinct, Cyrus reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s... It’s okay, you’ll be okay.”

Saturn blinked once, twice, then burst into full, ugly sobbing.

“This-” he hiccupped, “this is so unprofessional.”

“As you said, there is no way to make this... ‘not awkward.’”

Saturn hugged him. No hesitation, no second thoughts, just went straight for it. It felt... strange. More because it was unfamiliar than uncomfortable. Cyrus hummed, stiffly moving his arms to pat his back.

“Is... Is this just something people do for no reason?”

A dry laugh came from Saturn, though he didn’t look up. “Pretty much.”

“I see... This will take some getting used to.”

#fanfiction #pokemon #pokemon dppt #team galactic #team galactic leader cyrus #champion cynthia #saturn (pokemon)#dawn (pokemon)#my writing

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meganhodgkinsonfalmouth · 5 years ago

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Yayoi Kusama

A snippet of my previous essay on her...

Kusama’s practice is very visually striking with her mass repeated patterns that become intense on the eye. Currently, art is seen as a luxury with developing countries struggling to this day, however art dates back throughout history. I believe art was not just recorded as footsteps, ingredients or plans but also as decorative aesthetics. I want to look into the importance of aesthetics, in keeping humans’ minds healthy as we need to be stimulated, especially by looking at visuals. Kusama achieves this in her own work through the use of textures made from dots of paint.

Awareness of mental health has always been there but it is more currently prevalent because it is a subject more open to talk about. Nowadays, it has been categorised and labeled, for example... autism, bipolar disorder, body dysmorphia, depression, schizophrenia and anxiety to name a few. In the past, these issues in youngsters were simply seen as a problematic child, however, the improvement of education has led to increased acceptance that these can be caused by such factors as heritable traits or trauma. Kusama has been a huge inspiration of mine, she is celebrated as one of the greatest living Japanese artists. Her work has always spoken so much to me and I always thought it linked into mental illness due to how repetitive her polka dots are, it was therapeutic to simply observe. Because of the mass amount of dots I thought it was especially linked to obsessive compulsive disorder as she cleverly controls the organisation of the chaos of the work. After researching her I found out ‘she was diagnosed as a young woman with an obsessive compulsive and hysteric condition and since 1977 has been a voluntary resident in a psychiatric institution...The hospital is her “artist’s wife” and its façade enables Kusama to operate in a society that represses everything she is’ (Munroe 1996). It takes such transparency and passion to create her personal sculptures, putting her in a vulnerable position as it is not easy to admit invisible mental illness. Although viewers think that her work is directed towards the political world, it is her own exclusive journey and how the power of creating work dominates her degenerative impulses. ‘Kusama uses the freedom inherent in abstraction; in particular She notes the nature of Kusama’s mark and how its repetition can communicate shifting states of mind’ (Zelevansky 1998: 31). This is due to the excessive use of pattern making the work look psychedelic and playing around with the audience's feelings. I think this confuses emotions as to why everything is covered completely as the intensity makes the experience have a bigger impact. It makes me think of how everything is made up of cells, and how we as individuals are tiny dots within the universe. Visiting her dream world creations facilitates a small degree of escapism. I chose to discuss ’Figure One’ as it brings out all the elements her work is famous for, such as feminism and her signature dots. It reveals the stereotypical role of a housewife covered in spots and breaks barriers as this isn't the ideal lifestyle, attracting the viewer’s attention towards women's rights. Everything within the image is connected, the dots are all over the surfaces of the three female manikins and the floor. The mirrors fully immerse a viewer into an alien world unlike earth, these moments of escapism are calming. Reflecting back at her work, it shields the viewer from their everyday life, relieves the audience of exterior strong emotions and allows them to focus solely on the artwork as it is overpowering to look at. It is like germs spreading and taking over a space. I admire that you can see different things within her practice this is what I hope to replicate in my artwork. To me, it links to ink blot tests as the dots make the imagery unclear and abstract, making it open for the audience to decide on what they are seeing. Different viewers see different imagery with each artwork. ’Kusama’s trademark dots originate in these works on paper- and developed a vocabulary of biomorphic organic forms, essentially abstract but evocative of stellar, aquatic or subterranean worlds’ (Morris 2012).

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deborahdeshoftim5779 · 8 years ago

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Responses- The Marvel of Trelsi Part IV

Response to this post from BoltonEvans.

“A few assorted notes, because I just can’t keep my big mouth shut:”

:D I love these responses.

“Gabriella really doesn’t have any real respect for Kelsi or Ryan’s talent and hard work when it isn’t directly benefitting her to care about it. But, then, she doesn’t really care about anyone other than herself, either.”

The ease with which Gabriella abandons her performing commitments, despite being considered to have a love of performing astounds me. In EVERY movie, she quits for reasons that should not actually diminish her love of theatre. If every actor quit their upcoming project because of real/perceived relationship problems, we would have no films, musicals or theatre performances. The result of this selfishness is that Kelsi’s work is almost wasted on three occasions: 1)- Kelsi was excited to have competition against Sharpay and wanted to help Gabriella get the best chance to shine. Gabriella quit because suspiciously timed webcam, 2)- Kelsi took her OWN TIME to write a song for Troy and Gabriella (composing takes HOURS), only for Gabriella to quit because Italian golf shoes. This is a song that Gabriella had initially been so eager to hear. I suppose I can give Gabriella credit for managing to learn “Everyday”, but she should never have quit in the first place, 3)- Kelsi wrote music for another musical, took the trouble to pour her heart and soul into the best possible song to show off (Troy and) Gabriella’s talents, only for Gabriella to quit halfway through again because me, me, me. Not to disparage her academic pursuits, but she refused to return for prom, the musical and the graduation. The evidence is STARING KELSI IN THE FACE, and she still overlooks this each time. What will it honestly take for Kelsi to realize Gabriella simply doesn’t value her hard work and talent enough to even show up for commitments in which she wished to take part?

“One minor correction; Troy says, “The Garden Club is rooting for you.” And, that line, in and of itself, is something I talk mild issue with, since it was the Science Club maintaining the rooftop garden, in the first movie. But, this is the level of continuity I’ve come to expect from the man who changed the spelling of a secondary character’s surname between films.”

Haha! Christ!

Thanks for the correction. Noted.

“I’m extremely happy that you mentioned Troy and Ryan’s relationship as an exception to the consistent undermining of the messages of teamwork and friendship this series attempts to drill into the viewers’ heads. I did a thorough breakdown of how the sentiment, “We’re All In This Together” rings profoundly hollow in numerous areas...

...And, the little things, like absolutely no one helping Ryan up, or even asking if he was okay, after he face-planted and stained his immaculate white outfit, and the entire senior class save Ryan (who was flustered at the sight of essentially naked male bodies, more than anything else) finding the humiliation of two sophomores absolutely hysterical...

...Regardless, I appreciate the nod to the relationship this fandom collectively ignores altogether when, in actuality, it’s one of the most organic, healthy, and mutually beneficial relationships in the entire series.”

Please do share that link with me when you find it. Yes, I like several things about Troy and Ryan’s friendship: that Troy likes Ryan based on his own merits and not as an accessory to Sharpay, that Ryan doesn’t hold Troy to ludicrous standards or force him into apologizing for things he didn’t do. Chad, Gabriella and the Wildcats became friends with Ryan when they realized they could benefit from his talent and hard work. As for the fandom ignoring this-- well, I don’t know why. They appear to get along very well as far as I can see.

“Though, I do headcanon, based on Troy making the call to “bring in Rocketman”, during the state championship game in the third movie, that Troy is the team’s key strategist. He often makes the calls that win the day for the Wildcats. This was what got him voted team captain. Therefore, Chad and Coach Bolton ostensibly believing that the entire team is sunk without Troy at the helm, makes a bit more sense.”

That’s a good point, but Coach Bolton is also a strategist and should know better than to not have a Plan B. Not to mention how all this outrage is based on Troy is just rehearsing a couple of songs, with no certainty yet as to whether he might even get the role!

“Kelsi refusing to unfairly malign Troy and keeping up some level of communication with him while everyone else has chosen to give him the cold shoulder is one of the standout Kelsi/Troy moments for me. It shows that, despite her earlier questionable action of taking Troy to task over the requirements of her employment at Lava Springs when he wasn’t even the one who got her the job, she’s loyal to Troy. She didn’t immediately write him off for prioritizing his future, and doesn’t subscribe to groupthink and a mob mentality. She’s honestly one of the only two friends Troy has who acts like a legitimate friend to him, and it will forever pain me how little screentime Troy actually shares with these two characters.”

Kelsi’s earlier decision to blame Troy for a job Sharpay gave her is ridiculous, and I don’t mind saying so. Had she forgotten that Sharpay gave her the job, or was she arguing on behalf of the other Wildcats who were angry? Was she trying to show solidarity with the team? No explanation is given, but that’s usually the case, because the screenwriters didn’t give a toss about Kelsi’s life outside of the main plot.

“My one and only issue with romantic Troy/Kelsi (aside from my preference for Troy/Ryan and me not quite seeing anything romantic on Troy’s end when he interacts with Kelsi) is Kelsi’s idolization of Gabriella and Troy and Gabriella’s relationship. Whether you view Gabriella as psychologically abusive, or not, the damage she has done to Troy’s self-esteem and image of himself is undeniable. If Troy is ever going to begin recovering from this damage, he’d need a solid, stable support system who would be willing to call Gabriella out on her hypocrisy and mistreatment of him. He would need someone who is quick to point out that a lot of the things Gabriella did were selfish and wrong and Troy is totally undeserving of all of the pain and grief Gabriella caused him. As much as Kelsi cares about Troy, I can’t see her being willing to acknowledge Gabriella’s faults. Admitting that Troy and Gabriella’s relationship isn’t the picture-perfect fairy tale romance that inspires her best musical selections would shatter her entire worldview. She’s still Gabriella’s friend, as well as Troy’s, and I could see her struggling to cope with the reality that Gabriella has hurt Troy in major, major ways. She’d want to be there for Troy, of course, but while comforting him, she’d be nursing the wounds of her own betrayal, and it would take her probably just as long to finally realize that Gabriella wasn’t the sweet, compassionate, brilliant person who changed everyone at East High for the better that Kelsi thought she was, as it would take Troy to realize that Gabriella wasn’t always right and that he deserves so much better.”

This comment covers A LOT of things I will discuss later with regards to romantic Trelsi. I am VERY particular when it comes to how I believe these two would work as a couple, as I will explain later. However, I have touched on the issues you raise in my Thou Shalts/Thou Shalt Nots. It might not come across in my posts, but I don’t think the Trelsi ship would be flawless at all and much of what you’ve said here explains why. Kelsi IS incapable of criticizing Gabriella, and that does present a significant drawback. However, the fact that as his friend, she is also unable to criticize Gabriella is equally, if not more, problematic, because it limits how well she can help him heal. Whether it’s Trelsi friendship or romance, in a realistic portrayal, Kelsi would suffer for her hero worship either way. (As would Troy). That’’s why I don’t like gooey, saccharine Trelsi fics, because they don’t highlight these problems. They just replace one superficial portrayal with another.

“I love the idea of Troy being there to console Kelsi when her relationship with Jason dissolves for whatever reason. That’s a wonderful headcanon. I could also see Ryan potentially offering her the needed emotional support.”

Thanks, although it was mostly your analysis that prompted me. My analysis of Kelsi and Jason is upcoming in future posts, because that links to the potential of Trelsi romance.

Love that picture!

#Trelsi #OTP #BoltonEvans #Responses #TheMarvelofTrelsi #LiterallyTroyandKelsiForever #MoreMetaUpcoming

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okimargarvez · 7 years ago

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HURT- open wounds

Original title: Hurt.

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

Warnings: sexual content, dark thoughts.

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

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

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: multichapter.

Legend: 💏😘😈🔦🐶❗🎈👻.

Song mentioned: La tua vita intera, Tiziano Ferro.

Hurt- Masterlist

MY OTHER GARVEZ STORIES

Chapter 3-

I just I don't want to feel your Judgy McJudgerson looks on me as I daintily sip my Mai Tai.

He continues to review her serious expression as she pronounces that sentence. The way she had raised and arched eyebrows. How her lips were curled. JJ and Emily hadn't only remained in the background: they were completely gone. There was only her. Her green dress and wacky. Her ample bosom, which seemed on the verge of exploding. Her voice seemed so childish while she strives to convince him of her ability to discern between good (maximum two drinks if the next day there was no work) and evil (drunken driving). Her attempt to stay away, avoid him, but then still question him.

How loud had caught him, the desire, once again?

But he couldn't in this case telling himself the fairytale, that he needed her, to keep his mind off, out of his mind the usual album of horrifying visions. Something slowly was changing (if it already hadn't happened).

And at that time, he wasn't victim of one of his crisis. It was just a natural necessity, physics. Or maybe something more complex, but still nuanced. And at the end of the day, however, the result was that he wanted her. He wanted to be with her, smell her hair, feel her warmth on him. Because he did feel good with her, exactly as (should be) when a mother cuddling her infant.

But the last night he had had the opportunity to enjoy this privilege, he had made a serious mistake. He had said a few words, but already were too many and too heavy. He had always thought, from the first time that his eyes had placed on her, she was very insightful, as well as sensitive, the latter term meant as a "person able to more carefully grasp the nuances of what looking ", in Enlightenment meaning of the XVII century, not only as someone who was brought to suffer and share the feelings of others. And she was both. So, she had definitely understood. And that had compromised the possibility that she would continue to heal him.

It wasn't just his impression. Since that night, the woman had done everything to avoid him, more or less openly. In the eyes of others, nothing had changed. Every now and then they had to talk, but there seemed to be a clear dividing line between what they did and were, when they were with other people, in the workplace, and their sporadic meetings face-to-face. As if they perform roles. But more in the first or in the second case? Or perhaps in both?

Penelope observes the bottom of her glass, lost in abstruse reflections, up to estrangement from her condition and realize that she had made a double movie quotes: either Godard 2 or 3 choses que je sais d'elle, which Taxi Driver, particularly loved by Derek. But then she gets back in herself.

She can't stop thinking about him. Every night she is plagued by dreams that had never done before. And the worst is that she not only feels a physical need, purely erotic. In short, she wants not only to do sex with him. It wouldn't be such a serious problem. He has fully demonstrated the desire in that sense. But she's not that kind of woman. The mere fact of having been with a man with which she doesn't have a stable relationship, it makes her feel bad, dirty, wrong. Without wishing to judge those which are well in such situations. But she just isn't suitable for a similar lifestyle. She needs that behind there are true feeling. The pure sex, tired her. There may also be a porn star on the other side, but if there isn't something more, she can also avoid doing this type of recreational exercise.

And for fear of falling in love with him, she had decided (again) no longer see him, only at work. To resist the temptation. Although he no longer has made only one attempt to approach her in that sense. And of course, rather than be grateful to him, she hates him. What attracted her, in him?

Going beyond the physical beauty, how his amber skin is perfectly match the dark hair, slightly curly. At the deep voice, with some accent that betrays his Latin origins.

First of all, his eyes. Those dark bottomless abysses. There is no other way to better define them. They are an abyss that attracts, as well as the ravine or water or the road below, attract the suicide just before him get down. And the analogy that comes to her mind, isn't really random. In fact, there is a fear component, each time she looks out at those black holes. It's fear that brings with it the desire to push the boundaries, to discover what lies beyond. But there's always a price to pay.

In fact, the second point is his story, or rather the mystery that hovers around him. She knows very few things about him: that he was ranger, he had worked in the task force with the task of finding bad fugitives (a kind of bounty hunter, had called him Rossi). That he was been in very dangerous war zones. Stop. She, who was once far as to hack the computer of Kevin, her boyfriend, to find out if he really was intending to propose, had decided to avoid the opportunity provided by her job to find out more information about him. Even Morgan, she had been forced to investigate once about him, albeit for help him.

And he, who was practically a stranger, she had given him the privilege of showing exclusively through himself. And what had emerged was a depth greater than that which suggested by his pupils dilated while he is staring her (thanks dr. Lightman for teaching us that this is a clear sign of excitement, not only sexual).

In his life he must have seen his good number of strong images. But she, as a computer technician, was protected by a screen, had way to alienate. Instead he, he had seen those things in person, and not only seen: he had heard in the sense of noise (roar of exploding grenades, children crying, hysterical screams) but also smells (rotting, deterioration, fear). And he had probably also touched. It didn't need to be Reid, having his IQ to know that such situations brought to develop serious psychological problems.

But the fact was that the FBI agents were frequently subjected to checks, to verify their integrity (not just mental) and moral, to make sure they were still serving conscientiously their country. And let alone if someone was coming back from the center places of serious conflicts. So, he must have surely passed these tests.

In fact, he didn't seem crazy. But he was certainly not indifferent. And those few words he'd said, before fleeing, fleeing as if he were in front of his worst nightmare, had been enough to realize that she was right. Luke must have lived had traumatic experiences, which had made him the man she saw now (and this led her to wonder how him was before, and then overlook, because so much what mattered was the present). Precise, intuitive, an excellent agent, a fortuitous purchase for the BAU. Many of his perceptions led to identifying an unsub, or otherwise direct the team in the right direction. Loyal to duty and willing to let go on a few occasions. Rare and wonderful.

When they found themselves alone in the elevator, that time just minutes from sex, he had clearly done everything to provoke her. They had done that such of drama, in which she decided on the spot to use a formal tone, to determine distances. For her it was a sort of revenge against the fate that had delivered another fine piece of man instead of Derek. For him it was probably just a game, a pastime. Or so she thought then.

But he also made an important revelation, which until now she had deliberately decided to ignore.

Roxy. My girlfriend.

If he was engaged, where she lived? Why he had decided to betray her girlfriend with a colleague just met, that wasn't (the latter, i.e. her) not even the classic beauty of the film, in president's secretary style?

She hadn't found the answers. But this was one of the reasons why she was trying to show herself happy that he wasn't there at the bar with them this evening.

Eventually he desists. He waivers. He greets with a kiss the silhouette asleep on his bed, and then takes the keys, turns it several times in the lock, make sure it's fully closed, and exits. He salts on his machine, set the browser looking for that place... what's his name? O'Keef.

And he gets there, soon enough.

He parks. What are he doing there? He had told all that he still has work to do. It was true. But he had finished hours ago. Then he had been to his house, gazing up at the blank screen of images, without understanding anything; a modern way to "staring at the ceiling."

At the same instant in which he arises thousand questions, opens the door of the room and makes his way. Nothing special, nothing particular. Every kind of person takes up more or less messy tables.

But to him it affects only one: hers. The one where is she. But he isn't going to talk to her. This didn't even cross to the hall of his brain. He wants to observe her. Spy on her. Enjoying her image without having to ask for any kind of explanation. Being a voyeur. Or the documentarian.

He identifies the perfect spot for his "shots". Where he can scrutinize her, but hardly she can see him. He makes his order without even realizing what he really bought. The eyes fixed in that direction. He first sees her chat with JJ and Emily, then one goes to the bathroom, while the other is reached by a handsome man. Probably the boyfriend of the brunette. They seem to argue for a moment; he wants to go dancing, but the woman didn't want to leave her friend alone. At the end Penelope manages to convince her and the two leave. If he wanted to get to her, this would be the perfect time.

But fortunately, it's not in his intentions, because someone is more rapid. A man, short, blond hair (the stereotype of the "Canadian boyfriend" that she wanted to make him believe that was her boyfriend), with a nice pair of blue eyes (he recognizes them despite the distance), a pair of dark blue glasses, dressed in casual way, is approaching. And from the language of her body, it's clear that she doesn't know him. But he smiles, makes clear sign if he can occupy the seat in front of her and she, after a moment, nods. They start to talk. He can't say how long goes ahead this... thing. Then the guy starts to get a little pushy, beginning touches her hand, in an almost casual gesture, but totally researched and thought. Luke tights the keys of his car until his hand bleeds, but he can remain indifferent to physical pain that he has caused alone.

And that type goes further, patting her shoulder for a split second. He would get up, have a chance to claim that thing gets his hands off her. Because she is his. This forced her to say, the last evening that they have seen each other closely. In part yes, to play, to create an atmosphere... but also because he wanted to, he wants this to be the reality. Because, again he repeats it as a kind of justification, she makes him feel good. She is helping him. And this is more than enough. He doesn’t look further. But that wretch it's threatening to ruin everything. And there is something worse than watching (helpless) another man touches her.

And it's hearing her laugh (he almost never had the opportunity to hear it, certainly not directed at him), the crystalline sound trickling from her mouth, which for now he has been able only (only!) to feel against his, to experience the feeling as her tongue moves in his skin, chasing away the ghosts. Her white teeth, just discovered, that peek at some time; he could polish them with his tongue, but this may be enough? No.

Her head spinning a little, as she walks towards her car, and certainly not for alcohol. The glasses that she's granted herself, aren't sure enough to soak her in that oblivion that she so desired. Why, while she flirting with a man, not so bad, indeed, couldn't help but notice how different they were, he and Luke? Not just physically. The guy seemed superficial. It almost certainly was her opinion, due at the moment, after they had exchanged just a few words and then... no one seemed to be able to achieve emotional intensity that was there in every look of her colleague and pseudo lover.

She bends to insert the keys into the lock, congratulating herself for not having given the unknown her own number, when suddenly a hand grabs her wrist and forces her to turn around, resting on the car door. At that she thinks it's the blond, maybe out of the club has decided to show his true nature. She's certainly not prepared to discover that in reality it's the man who was been with her throughout the evening.

-Luke!- saying his name is no longer a taboo. It's a way to make him more real, concrete and not an abstract figure, the mysterious man who will bring her, riding a white horse. A man capable of capturing serial killer. A man capable of betraying.

He instead, doesn't pronounces hers. He has done it three times at most. At work he calls her Garcia, like everyone else. Once he apostrophe her as chica, but just to make fun of her Latinized last name, and the fact she not knows a word of Spanish (and say that years ago she had tried to learn it, just to flirt with Derek more creatively), until he discovered that she had been adopted and that her parents were dead. Then he was stunned, had been silent, surely regretting, but not apologizing.

-Did you have fun, there inside?- first he asks her. But although, read printed on a book, the phrase may seem threatening or ironic, nothing, neither his expression nor his tone betraying similar intentions. He's just extremely serious. He terrifies her. But she didn't answer. And he flies over, because that's not what he really cares. He gets nearer to her. Everything, apart from their mouths, it's in contact. -Now let's go home.- without specifying what he means by "home". -You are Joan of Arc and I the inquisition.-

Again, something inside her is broken, when she understands that she would surrender again. That neither the thought of becoming the woman she ever wanted to be, or the prospect that he is cheating on someone and that she is helping him in this, may be enough to curb her. Just as long as he is in the periods in which seems to ignore her, and they are nothing but two colleagues who pinch each other.

But as soon as he returns to make her the center of his attention, she become like wax, fully malleable clay in the hands of the sculptor.

She salts in the car. She drives. She is already regret. She has already passed this stage. So, from now on, she'll be able to enjoy anything happen.

TAGS: @theshamelessmanatee @itsdawnashlie @talesoffairies @janiedreams88 @kiki-krakatoa @yessenia993 @teyamarra @c00lhandsluke @gcchic @arses21434 @orangesickle @entireoranges @jarmin @kathy5654 @martinab26 @thisonekid @thenibblets @perfectly-penelope @ambrosiaswhispers @maziikeen92 @lovelukealvez @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @ichooseno @ megs2219 @rkt3357 @franklintrixie @thinitta @chewwy123 @skisun @maba84 @saisnarry @myhollyhanna23 @thenorthernlytes

#garvez #penelope garcia #luke alvez #penelope x luke #luke x penelope #alvez x garcia #garcia x alvez #criminal minds #cm #penelope garcia x luke alvez

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sodas · 8 years ago

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The Happy Angel

title: The Happy Angel word count: 4639 summary: Indeed, the man who fashioned the Happy Angel had hoped for him to be someone whom anyone could love. (A rewrite of Oscar Wilde's 'The Happy Prince'.) notes: Wilde's short story 'The Happy Prince' has come up a few times in Rebuild canon. (Images courtesy of @gladosdark.) The actual story bears some eerie similarities to Kaworu and Shinji's relationship, so... here we are. I'm sure this is a silly endeavor, but I had it in my heart to see it through until the end. My rewrite uses only the bare bones of Wilde's story, but I hope the intended message makes it to you. You can read the original story, 'The Happy Prince', here.

@ AO3, or read under the cut.

Overlooking the vast hollow of the GeoFront, poised against the shimmer of a lake, was the statue of the Happy Angel. His body shone with silver leaves, while his great wings were gold; his eyes were set with two deep rubies, and his chest bore a round piece of garnet, brimming over the low sweep of his robes.

He was deeply loved; indeed, the man who fashioned the Happy Angel had hoped for him to be someone whom anyone could love. 'Certainly, he has a beautiful face,' admitted the Doctor. 'He is sleek as a cat.' But when she confessed this, she frowned and sucked on her cigarette. 'Yet he is only a boy,' she amended, 'and boys are quite unwise.'

The Doctor's Assistant poured coffee into the Doctor's cup. 'If all boys were like the Happy Angel, I think I wouldn't dislike them,' she said. But she would have liked it even better if boys were like the Doctor instead.

'But don't you think he's just too happy about nothing,' said a man down in the GeoFront, speaking to himself. What made him happy was his guitar, and as the Angel had no guitar of his own, the man felt uncertain about the Angel's smile.

'Isn't he wonderful,' sighed the schoolgirls, 'don't you just want to marry him,' all except for one proud girl in particular, who didn't think she liked this commotion about the Happy Angel.

'There's something off about him,' she muttered. 'And who would marry an Angel, anyway?'

Now into the summer, a small but unremarkable Magpie was summoned to the GeoFront. He had come all alone, and felt he truly had no one in all the world. Upon his arrival a beautiful woman had offered to care for the Magpie, but the cage she set in the window for him had put him into hysterics, and the seeds she fed him hurt his belly. He might have stayed despite this, but on top of it all, she was so vibrant that it frightened him. So he flew out into the open.

As the Magpie wandered through the GeoFront, he listened only to any songs around him, and never to anyone's voices. He flew further and deeper into the city, until he realized there were no more songs for him to hear. 'Oh, what has happened now?' he said to himself, for he was often morose. He looked about and saw that everything was quite dirty, and the only nearby sounds were the clangs and rumbles of human enterprise. 'Who could ever sleep here?' the Magpie asked. 'Surely not me. I had better leave.' But when he turned he spied a little pool, and at the pool he spied a little Turtle-Dove.

He was surprised to see her there, and wondered at first if she might be lost, before he saw that she was taking her meal. 'How nice for her,' he thought, but just then he noticed that her meal was nothing more than a small and shriveled piece of fruit. The Magpie's heart could not withstand the sight of such a pitiful supper, and at once he whirled away.

Night had already come by the time the Magpie rearrived at the pool, but he carried with him a bag of millet seeds. It was not a large bag, but it was far less paltry than what the Turtle-Dove had before her. 'Wouldn't you like these better?' he asked when he approached her and set the bag at her feet.

The Turtle-Dove made no move to eat them, nor even to voice her gratitude, and the Magpie wondered if she happened to be rude. He recognized then that the other side of the pool was populated by more Turtle-Doves, who idled on that further shore like corks on water, even bumping into each other. 'Oh,' the Magpie exclaimed, now self-conscious. 'Would your family like some, too?'

'No,' said the Turtle-Dove, speaking for the first time. The Magpie felt even more skeptical of her manners than before, until she cooed, 'Thank you.' The Magpie smiled for the first time in a long while, and he wanted to reach out and touch her wing. He thought right away that he loved her.

'I will bring you a bag of seeds every day,' he told her. 'So you mustn't worry anymore. It's all right.' And true to his word, he never failed to feed her.

But after some time of his caring for the Turtle-Dove, a windy day brought a message for the Magpie. That evening the Turtle-Dove met him at the pool, like always, away from her relations, and she watched him hang his head. While she watched him, she said nothing, but there was a peculiar feeling in her breast.

'My Father has called me,' the Magpie said. 'First he called me to this city, deep within the GeoFront, and now he beckons me elsewhere. He commands that I meet him at my Mother's grave.'

'I see,' murmured the Turtle-Dove. She didn't know what else to say.

'I won't be able to bring you seeds while I'm gone.'

'Of course,' she murmured again.

The Magpie hung his head even lower, fluttering his wings with an anxious ruffle. Then at once he looked up to the Turtle-Dove's face. 'Won't you come with me?' he cried. 'We can go together, and we'll have dinner together every day...'

The Turtle-Dove said, 'No.' She meant to stay quiet after that, but could hardly help but speak again when she saw the Magpie's crestfallen face. 'You have come to this pool to visit me many times,' she said to him.

'Oh, I didn't mind,' the Magpie said, demure despite his sadness. The Turtle-Dove shook her head.

'All of the Turtle-Doves must come to this pool,' she explained, 'and all of the Turtle-Doves must stay here.' As she watched the Magpie search inside himself for something to say or something to do, the Turtle-Dove knew the Magpie could never understand. It felt like something was hurting her; but despite this she thought it must be for the best. She said, 'You should go.' And she said, 'Good-bye.' Then she flew off to stay with her kin on the other side of the pool.

'Oh, Turtle-Dove. Oh, Turtle-Dove,' the Magpie cried, and he left the pool. He thought his heart was breaking. But, after all, his father was calling for him.

So he flew through the GeoFront, desperate to go but afraid to leave. He flew in every direction. He must have looked quite strange.

Before long the lights in the GeoFront were dimmed for the duration of the night. There was of course no moon, and so there was little to see by: just street lamps. 'Well I can't go on in the dark like this,' said the Magpie, knowing full well it was an excuse; but he wheeled around looking for a place to stop anyway. Finally he came upon the lake, and at the edge of the lake stood the Happy Angel. The Magpie blushed, and he thought, 'It won't be a bad night if I can say here. Just until morning.' So he swept low and settled between the statue's sandaled feet.

Right as he was ready to sleep, the Magpie felt a large droplet land upon his body, and he nearly fell over from shock and disappointment. He ruffled the water away from himself, and tried to nestle down again. But there was another droplet, and this one hit him square on the head. 'Oh no,' he sighed, as he did commonly. 'The GeoFront should be safe from rain, but here it is, and I will shiver all night. How is this happening?' He shook himself again. 'I wonder if the Turtle-Dove will be all right in this mysterious rain. But didn't she choose to stay at the pool! Oh, I need better cover than this,' he muttered, and made ready to take wing. But yet another drop came down, and this time the Magpie looked up. He meant to spot the ceiling, searching for its somehow-clouds, but instead his eyes found the Happy Angel's face.

What he saw made him so surprised that he closed his wings and stayed put. The statue of the Happy Angel was crying! His eyes were overwhelmed with tears, and they flowed over his cheeks, dropping off from his chin and onto the Magpie's head. His silvery body looked sweet and shining even in the lacking light, and the Magpie felt as if he could share the statue's sorrow.

'Who are you?' he asked.

'I am the Happy Angel.'

'But you are weeping,' pointed out the Magpie, 'even with a name like that.'

'Yes.' When the Angel sighed, the Magpie noticed how much nicer it sounded than his own sad sighs.

'Why?'

'When I was alive,' began the statue, 'I was a boy, but I was unlike other boys.'

'Indeed he is quite unlike other boys even now,' the Magpie said to himself, not exactly critically. But he didn't want to be rude.

'I didn't know this, however,' continued the Angel. 'There were many Angels, my siblings. Our mother was great and beautiful, and we perched upon her wings, our bodies the size of her feathers. We lived with her at a vast bright ocean, singing songs and playing in the light. But I was the littlest of my kin, and they never let me beyond the shore. They warned me of war and peril. I never saw another creature outside of the Angels. I thought I was happy with that, but my siblings started dying. They perished one by one, each becoming stars and moons in the far away sky.'

'You can't even see the stars in this hollowed out place,' thought the Magpie.

'Now I am here,' carried on the Angel, with a voice like a soft familiar song; 'and now I see many creatures, Humans and Cats, and Turtle-Doves and Magpies. And I have heard about their war and peril, and every day I watch them, and every day I fear for them. Do you know how simply a creature like that can die?'

'Quite simply,' the Magpie said, uneasy.

The Happy Angel's face was still sparking with tears, but his ruby eyes were gentle. He announced, 'To-night, we have met for a reason. Far off in this hollow GeoFront, two children are living and dwindling away. A little girl is lying in bed, waning in her illness, and her older brother does all that he can to feed her. But a bird has stolen his coin purse, and he cannot buy her medicine. Dear Magpie, sweet Magpie, I beg that you take a ruby from my eye and deliver it unto the steadfast brother. My feet are intended only for this stone.'

'My Father has called me,' said the Magpie, 'and he is waiting even now. He means for me to meet him at my mother's grave. Perhaps you haven't seen it, but a graveyard is cluttered with gleaming headstones, and the ashes and bones of many ancestors hold communion beneath the earth. A grave holds a body. A body nests inside a coffin made of beautiful, glossy wood and lined with soft white silk. Many families burned many coffins, then picked through the bones and entombed them. But my Mother has no bones. There are no pictures and no ashes to revere. Seeing the stone at her grave is the only way I can know her.'

'Dear Magpie, sweet Magpie,' said the Angel, 'I ask only for one night with you, and for your services: please, the ruby. The girl's sickness has left her grey-skinned and bony, and it pains her brother to see her.'

'I don't know anything about sisters or brothers,' griped the swallow; 'I don't know anything about girls or boys. They only lie and disappoint me—and I know I will disappoint them, too.'

At this the Happy Angel looked so sad and so beautiful; but what added to his beauty is that he didn't seem disappointed with the Magpie, even after that. The Magpie thought he would do anything to keep disappointment off the Angel's face. 'My Father has called me,' he said again. 'But I will stay with you tonight, and I will do this thing for you.'

'Thank you, dear Magpie, sweet Magpie,' said the Angel.

The Magpie was frightened to pick out a ruby eye, but the Angel made no sound of pain or discontent; so the Magpie flew high and away, cutting straight across the GeoFront.

He crossed the lake and its diamond caps. He flew past the pyramid, paying no attention to the old man who watched the arc of his wings, having loved a Magpie himself. He passed a garden, sectioned off into rows of lush greens, and the man who stayed there late to tend the fruit. 'They're growing well,' said the man with his watering can. 'That's joy for you.'

Finally he came to the little home of the poor children. The sister lay in her bed, wheezing and whistling and wasting away. The brother had left the window open to try and ferry in fresh air for her, but he swatted at once at the Magpie when the Magpie entered the room.

'You again!' said the brother, swatting and spitting. 'I don't have anything more for you to steal. My sister is all I have left.'

The Magpie was quite alarmed, and dropped the ruby from his beak. It rolled onto the bedside table and gleamed. 'What's this? Is this for us? Why, I could buy all the medicine in the world,' cried the brother. He looked at the Magpie for a long time, and the Magpie looked back at him, and at last the boy held out his hand. The Magpie was afraid, but he hopped into the boy's palm. 'Well maybe a bird is better than I thought,' said brother to bird. 'You're a rightful fellow; I'll leave crumbs out for you.'

And the Magpie flew away.

When he returned to the Happy Angel, he felt very light, exhilarated. 'Don't you think it's odd,' he said to the statue, 'but I feel good that he held out his hand, and I feel good that I took it.'

'It is because you have made a friend,' said the Angel. They were both quiet for several moments, until the Angel asked, 'Have you anything else to tell me?' And so the Magpie spoke to the Angel late into the night, about many sad and wonderful things, until he fell asleep.

As he awoke in the morning, he felt a sense of dread and duty. 'To-night I must go to my Father,' he said; 'I must go to my Mother's grave.' He left to see the GeoFront one last time, for he knew not what his father might ask of him after he reached the gravesite. He passed the Doctor, who batted at him and sucked in smoke. He passed the proud girl, who was disgusted by birds. And he stopped in the evening to spy on the beautiful woman who had tried to give him a home. But he couldn't stand to see her weeping, so he flew off quickly.

The lights were again all dim when he returned to the Happy Angel. 'This is the last time I may look upon you,' he said, 'for now I am away, to see my Father, to see my Mother.'

'Dear Magpie, sweet Magpie,' said the Angel, 'I beg that you stay with me just for this night.'

'You said that before,' said the Magpie warily. 'And I stayed with you through the night, and I even ran your errand. But my Father has called me, you know.'

'I am calling you now,' said the Happy Angel, 'here and now, I am calling you.' The Magpie could scarcely breathe for the beauty in the Angel's voice and face and form. So the Angel continued: 'There is a boy who is waiting to go and meet his father. His father is fighting in the war.'

'Ah,' said the Magpie, 'the war,' and he felt quite cold. His own Father had many important things to do about the war. The Magpie had learned few things about his Father, but he knew this: his Father was merciless in all respects. Perhaps war suited him.

The Angel agreed, soft and sad, 'The war. This boy, he wishes to enlist into the soldiers' ranks, so he may join his father. No one has spoken to dissuade him, for his mother is dead. But for now he is too young. All he can do is send his father photographs of himself as he grows into a strong young man. Now you see, sweet Magpie, this boy has no mother; he has no money with which to send his father pictures. He sells newspapers, so he might buy himself bread, but that is all he has. There isn't enough left over even for sending a letter. Dear Magpie, sweet Magpie, will you not take my other eye and set it in his hands, so he may show his father that manhood is nearly upon him?'

The Magpie was shaking long before the Angel spoke of his other eye. The war, the boy, the solace of a father, all of these things made his heart and body quake. But as the Angel asked to be relieved of his remaining eye, the Magpie thought he might start crying. His voice was a whisper and frightened and shy when he said, 'I cannot take that final ruby. I couldn't leave you unable to see.'

'I have seen so much,' sighed the Happy Angel. He sounded quite content with that. 'I have been looking out this way for time enough that I don't mind if it ceases now. All I would miss to look upon is here, close to me, and that much is ample. Magpie, take the ruby, let the boy and his father rejoice.' The Magpie took the ruby and left for the soldier hopeful, all the while feeling like he would choke on the Angel's eye.

The boy was drinking from a tin cup, when the Magpie found him. The boy's face was dirty, and freckled underneath that, and the Magpie wondered if such a boy would really become a man soon. 'Is a father truly worth so much,' went muttering the Magpie, 'that the Angel had to lose his only eye?' But although he felt spiteful, he knew he was awful for it. The Angel had asked for this. And so the Magpie left the ruby with the boy, and made his way back to the Angel (which in his mind he had started to call 'home'). As he went to lie at the Angel's feet that night, he thought about the boy's yearning for his father. And the Magpie thought he might never need a Father of his own.

During the next day, the Angel was humming, and so it woke the Magpie. He did not get up once he opened his eyes. All he did, for what seemed like hours, was rest below the Angel and listen to his voice. At last he rose, and shook himself. The Happy Angel looked very happy indeed, despite his lack of eyes. 'Hello, dear Magpie, sweet Magpie.' The endearments sounded like lyrics in his mouth. 'To-day, to-day, you'll go and meet your Father, won't you?'

'Oh, no,' sighed the Magpie. He shook himself again, and then nestled against the Angel's ankle. 'The boy, from before, he can do as he likes with fathers and that's enough of that, at least for me. Angel, I'll stay with you for always, and I'll watch the GeoFront for you. I won't leave you alone without any eyes.'

The Angel's empty eyes, though void, seemed to be brimming. 'Magpie,' murmured the Angel, 'you told me so much about your Mother's grave. Don't you want to go and see it?'

But the Magpie set his head upon the Angel's marble flesh. He announced, 'I shall not see anything which you cannot also see. Angel, let's stay here; let's listen to songs.' And so they listened to the songs straining up from the GeoFront.

At last the Angel murmured to the Magpie one more. 'Dear Magpie, sweet Magpie, I beg you leave my side for now.' Immediately the Magpie began his protest, but the Angel, though gentle, was swift. 'I am far away from all the music, for I am far away from all the people. But before I died and rose up here, I heard many songs, and I know them by heart. The speech of human beings, though, is newer to my ears. They have special things to say each day, but there are things even I cannot hear. I have asked so much of you, dear Magpie, but I ask this of you now: go further into the GeoFront, and for once neglect the songs. Instead, listen to what every person has to say. When you return, tell me the stories you heard from them.'

'I'm not such a good storyteller,' the Magpie said. He felt uncertain of all of this. But the Angel told him, 'You are the only storyteller I need,' and so the Magpie went.

He flew past the pyramid. The old man was murmuring about the beauty of Magpies. The Doctor was lamenting the death of her cat. He flew past gardens, where a man was tending fruits as young. He flew past schools and heard the stories wavering between friendship and isolation. He flew past homes and listened to all things joyous and full of sorrow. At the end of the day, he returned to the Angel. His wings were tired, but his eyes were bright. The Angel knew this, though he could not see it.

'Angel! Oh, Angel. I heard so much I never thought I would. I will stay here and tell you everything.' And the Magpie spent the whole of the night telling stories to the Angel, who glimmered in faint lamplight with peace and adoration. When morning came the Angel asked, 'Which of these stories struck your heart hardest?'

The Magpie had to think about this. 'Struck it? That's a painful thing,' he reasoned, and so sought back to the most painful story. When he thought of it, he told the Angel, 'I flew past a kitchen window. Inside the kitchen was a girl, and she spent her evening cooking. Dutifully, she feeds her two sisters, but above all does she desire to feed the love of her life.' This was something the Magpie could respect; to feed and be fed is an important thing. The Magpie's heart was thinking of the Turtle-Dove, whom he had fed in the past; but more than once had the Magpie wished he could bring dinner to the Angel. 'Of course, he doesn't need that sort of thing,' the Magpie muttered, and the Angel continued gleaming. So the Magpie drew himself up to carry on his story. 'She doesn't have enough to provide for that love of hers as well. I saw her cooking soup for her sisters, but she cried over the pot for how she wished to feed her heart's great yearning. In that moment, I wanted to fill her kitchen with goodness. But I could never do something like that.'

The Angel was more radiant than the lighting of the city, and the Magpie could not explain what the Angel's rosiness meant. But the Happy Angel sounded happy indeed when he said, 'I think you could, and it would be a wonderful thing. Magpie... Dear Magpie. Sweet Magpie. I am asking something of you.'

Where before was warmth, the Magpie now felt dread. 'I won't leave you again,' his heart was saying; 'Don't make me do it.' But his mouth said, 'What is it, Angel?'

'Go to this girl,' said the Angel. The Magpie had known he would. The Angel continued: 'Take the garnet from my chest. Fill her kitchen with goodness. If you do this thing, you will surely be at peace.'

The Magpie was beginning to cry. 'Your last and beautiful jewel,' he moaned. 'I can't do it. Oh, Angel, I cannot take the last of you.' But the Angel was still shining, seeming as if there could be a sun in this deep place.

'Take the garnet,' the Angel said. 'Sit with me a while, if you must, but take the garnet to the girl.' And so the Magpie sat with the Angel, weeping gently and resting his head once more at the Angel's ankle. At last he rose up to the Angel, and took the garnet from his chest.

He flew once more through the GeoFront, but this time he heard neither music nor stories. The only thing his heart deciphered was echoes of the Angel's voice: Dear Magpie, sweet Magpie. Only that gave the Magpie strength enough to find the kitchen window.

The girl found the garnet some time after the Magpie left it. She gasped and turned quite red in her delight, and cried, 'I could cook a feast if I sell this; I could bring him dinner, and even enough for his sister, too.' The Magpie had filled her kitchen with goodness. But he did not see this joy, for he was again with the Angel, tucked between a marble wing and shoulder. 'Now you have no heart,' he sobbed, 'and I will never leave your side again. Angel, don't make me do it; I cannot do it another time.' But the Angel was calm, and his wing was soft, though it was made of gold and stone.

'Dear Magpie, sweet Magpie, that jewel was not my heart,' he said. 'My heart has settled at my feet these past nights. Without that piece of garnet, I will grow weary, and I will fall asleep: but I don't mind a thing like that, if you will sleep here with me for this final night.'

'This night, and all others,' the Magpie said. 'Will you sleep for long?'

The Angel had never slept before; never once in life, nor during his time as a statue. But he knew his first sleep would also be his final. 'When I sleep,' he said instead, 'I will dream of you.' And he mellowed so much that it became a slumber, and the shine of his body dimmed like a dying lamp.

'When you wake up,' the Magpie told him, 'we will hear more songs and stories.'

The Angel never woke, unable to do so without his garnet. But the Magpie stayed nestled against him, for he had truly meant it when he said he'd stay for all other nights. The faint music from the GeoFront did nothing to warm his body. He only longed for songs from the Happy Angel's lips. When the Magpie finally died, he was glad at least that his body would stay close to the Angel's.

With the heart and soul of these creatures dead, an Angel wiser than all other Angels looked upon their bodies. She saw the tiny Magpie in its dedication. She saw the statue of the boy who was not her own. Her eyes found them to be good, enough to be beloved, and she wished to hold them in her great white hands. She whispered to her darling, who lived at the edge of a pool, and told the darling to bring the dead things unto her.

The Turtle-Dove flew across the GeoFront until she reached the corpses of the Magpie and the Happy Angel. She touched them gently, and led them to the wisest Angel. Neither the Magpie nor the Happy Angel ever wept again.

#neon genesis evangelion #evangelion #kawoshin #fic tag #eva

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