#House Chaplain

[alicentsgf]

Alicent Higtower & Revelation 12:1-6, 13-18 'The Woman of the Apocalypse'

[capaldiera]

i said on the tags of a post once that mulcahy isn't homophobic and that was true but like it's just not that simple obviously and it bothered me a bit to leave it at that but the post was already a mile long and i can't elaborate further without like talking for an hour and not really saying anything by the end of it. anyway the only purpose the statement needed to serve in that post was that it's nice for gay students at the school for the hard of hearing mulcahy works at post-canon that their chaplain isn't homophobic.

[leannareneehieber]

Dears! My non-fiction essay "On Paranormal Chaplaincy", chronicling how my work as a ghost tour guide & lecturer has put me into a unique place, one I feel is a deeply spiritual responsibility, is now available via this truly amazing issue, released today. Honored to be part of it.

Buy the issue and support the magazine here, thank you!

This is a soul-searching non-fiction essay on ghosts, including some very tender moments I've never before shared in print, and it is the last of my awards-eligible releases of '23. If you're an HWA or SFWA voting member, I'd be honored if you'd consider it in any available short form non-fiction category this awards season, thanks so much!

[nyxwoodstone]

Televangelism | Part 1

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Summary: Simon offers Johnny a place to stay the night after a deployment, and Johnny gladly obliges. Much to his surprise, there's more to Simon Riley's home life than he previously thought.

TLDR: Soap doesn't know that Simon has a wife...he finds out when he goes to his Lt's house. :)

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, female reader, pregnant!reader, Simon and reader already have a toddler..., maybe a little OOC Ghost but allow it, no smut all plot, still MDNI I swear to God, idk like minor swearing but if you're from the COD fandom I feel like you should know that, let me know if I missed anything.

A/N: if you saw this previously posted to another account, no you didn't :) I don't really know what to call this type of fic, it is a Ghost x Reader, but it's got quite a bit of self-reflection and characterization from Soap. very little beta, but msg me if there's any horrendous spelling or grammar issues. i'm not American, hence the spelling differences. let's just ignore the fact that Ghost inviting Johnny to sleep at his house is more than a little too friendly for special forces guys, let's just ignore that plz!!!!!

Dictionary: SO - superior officer Civvies - civilian clothing NOD's - them night vision goggle thingo's Padre - colloquial name for Bristish Army Chaplains

-------------------------------------------------------

It was done.

Another successful operation. A difficult operation.

The entire squad had returned with just minor scrapes and cuts, and more shit to compartmentalise. Not that there was much compartmentalisation these days, the missions just rolled into each other. Sometimes there was a week break in between, sometimes a few months. Never enough time for Soap regain his footing in civilian life. Never enough time to get past the 'disruption' phase of reintegration that the chaplains were always talking about.

Every time he flew back to base, he'd get the same bleeding rundown from a different Padre. Every. Time.

"Now, there are five stages of reintegration after deployment, Sergeant."

"I know that."

"Humour me."

He'd fight back the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes, he'd just do it. The chaplain would continue.

"Pre-entry, you've done that already, psych evals and such. You know the drill. Then, reunion, you'll see your family again-"

Shit. He needed to call his sister.

"-and take some time for yourself. Next is disruption, you'll realise not everything is the same as when you left it, people will have new routines, new hobbies, it's normal to feel resentful during this stage-"

And they'd go on. Tell him about communication, then normalcy. But he never got that far. He'd go home to his apartment, visit his mother, go to coffee with his sister (she worried about him, always did), and then he would be off on his next operation. He'd get a visit, or a call, and he'd be off, with little word to family. There was never enough time. Soap wondered why the task force needed the same spiel every time they returned, it wasn’t as if this was new. It was old. This runaround was old now: United Kingdom, to some forsaken country, to back home, with more memories and less connections. It was what he loved. But it was also what he despised. 

"Johnny."

Most of the squad had dispersed, each finishing psych evals and heading off to the on-base housing,  their cars, or the mess hall. He didn't actually know if the mess was open at this time of night, he supposed it was only the wee hours of the morning, but God-knew. Johnny had just finished his packing, and was heading towards the unremarkable block of small apartments on the far side of the base. It was a fair hike, but he'd do it. There wasn't another choice, but his flight wasn't until tomorrow, and he staunchly refused to stay awake all night. He'd sleep tonight, then go to debrief, then go the fuck home.

"Johnny."

It was Ghost, in civvies, hands in his jacket pockets. Mask gone. Johnny supposed that was just the way it ought to be, he couldn't wear it everywhere, and wearing it in civvies would certainly give any onlookers, soldiers or not, reason to be curious. Attention was not what men in their position needed. Still, seeing his face was…almost unsettling.

"Lt.?"

*************************************

Simon hung up the phone and tucked it in his back pocket. He felt God-awful calling at this time of night, but he had to do it. He'd sworn to, every time he got back to base, he had to call. Johnny was staring out at the quiet base, the parade grounds just a few hundred metres away, still lit up in the night.

"Johnny."

He'd never really thought about where Johnny must go after operations, he didn't even assume anything, once they were back on the ground, once they were out of the shit, it wasn't any of business, or any of his concern.

"You're allowed to like the men you work with, love." His wife's voice rang in the back of his mind.

He did…like them. They were good lads. Got the job done. Stitched each other up. Didn't leave each other behind. But liking them outside of work? Their job was far too dangerous to make close attachments like that. In his younger days, when he wasn't in the special forces, he'd made…’friends’ wasn't the right word for it. He'd made…acquaintances with some of the soldiers on his unit, they'd go out for drinks, egg each other on in the pub, take each other home after a long night out. But special forces were another world. Here, everything mattered. Every little thing mattered. And perhaps he was just older now, he'd matured more. Back then, he hadn't had anything to lose. Now, though-now he had everything to lose. A family, a home - a life.

But despite all of that, he had grown to appreciate Johnny. He was a good man, in the shit, and out of it.

They'd talked a few times about their lives outside of the army. Nothing important, nothing below surface level. Soap had a mother who had health problems, and a sister who worked in a hospital (he hadn't told Simon what she did, or even told him her name), and who worried about him constantly. Johnny joked that she would end up a patient one day if she kept stressing so much. Simon had told him that he lived far enough from the base that he wasn't constantly thinking about work, he'd told him that he played football as a kid; that was it. Not a lick more.

Johnny gave up far more information willingly than Simon ever could. But they got along. That was enough.

The Scot stood across from him, still staring out at nothing. 

"Johnny."

Soap turned his head.

"Lt.?"

"Going home?"

“Sleeping on base tonight, sir, then got a flight tomorrow night.”

On base? After that operation? Simon sighed inwardly and observed the bent hunch of his subordinate's shoulders. He knew that feeling. Finishing a mission alive, but with more red in his ledger. That was all good and well, but the final fucking straw was those damned prison cages that the military called bedrooms. It took a moment to debate, no longer.

"Mine’s 15 minutes from the airport.”

Soap’s eyebrows raised at the Lieutenant’s offer.

“It’s alright, sir, I’ll survive here.”

“After that shit? You need a real bed, Johnny.”

The sergeant ran a hand over his face and dropped his shoulders.

“Y-yeah, alright, Lt. If that’s alright with you.”

“Let’s go,” Ghost turned on his heel and began towards the car park, taking out his phone to shoot off a quick text.

'One of the boys needs somewhere to stay. He's a good man.'

****************************************************************************************

'One of the boys needs somewhere to stay. He's a good man.'

You groggily shot back a text.

'Get home safe, love you."

Simon had been due back for a few days now, but you'd been trying to get used to the unpredictability of his work schedule.

This was nothing new, though. You knew exactly what you were signing up for when you got married to him. He had sat you down when you had first gotten serious, and showed you his will.

That had been an aggressive wake-up call. You knew how dangerous his job was. No one on the planet Earth was foolish enough to think that special forces meant 'safety.' You knew he could die any time he went away. But the long-term reality of that fact didn't set in until you sat beside him and scanned your eyes over that document. You didn't feel connected to your body. It was as if you were peering in on some other person's life, quietly staring through the looking glass to see some insane woman who was desperately in love with a man whose life meant very little up against the interests of international security. To your credit, you hadn't cried when he showed you. How badly you had wanted to. But you didn't. You grit your teeth and clenched your fists. He could die at any moment. So you had better make the most of every second you had with him.

You'd told him as much and he had accused you of not taking his job seriously. A method of self-preservation you recognized from your years of being with him. You had told him he wasn't going to push you away so easily. He had left in a huff and came back the next day with an apology on his lips, and a ring in his hand.

There was no pomp about it, just simple, and practical. So very Simon Riley. 

Simon had never been a particularly romantic man, and God, was he difficult to read. But he loved you. He did. And you adored him. And you'd made it this far, a few years of marriage, one kid in, and one on the way; you'd done it. You would keep doing it until the day you dropped cold. So would he, he'd told you so hundreds of times. 

No, he was not romantic, but he showed you in other ways. He would rub your back when you were tired, he would open doors for you, or kiss you gently when you needed it. Simon Riley was a man of few words, but frequent action. You loved him for it.

The first time you'd met him, you'd nearly gone weak in the knees. Cliché. He teased you for it endlessly, you never should have admitted that to him. But how were you to help yourself, he was a handsome, well-muscled man with a scowl that you found endearing. You still found that deep scowl endearing today, and on more than one occasion, you had gently pinched his cheek when he pulled that face. He would always chuckle and bat your hand away, biting the inside of his mouth so there was no looser skin for you to pinch again.

Simon Riley was, in your (biassed) opinion, the most handsome, most incredible, most loving man to ever live. And he was yours. Whenever he came shopping with you, or took you out somewhere, it was impossible to escape the stares that other women gave him. Part of you despised it, part of you basked in it. You'd lean in to whisper something in his ear, or pat him gently on the chest, anything to mark him as yours. See this man, he's mine. He'd swear other men did the same to you, but you didn't believe him. He certainly believed himself though, placing a hand on the small of your back or tucking a piece of hair behind your ear whenever he thought he saw eyes on you. It was sweet.

You two had this little…thing. This cocoon for just you two. The comfort and safety that flowed between the both of you had been years in the making, and had taken many, many arguments and discussions to solidify. And you had argued, sometimes into the night hours, going back and forth about trust, and patience, and understanding. You had often had to fight for his agreement, or for his trust, but you had never had to fight for his love. That had come without question, but you'd had to fight for him to show it to you, for him to allow himself one good thing in life. He was different now, all those years of being with you, and working on himself, and all the absolute hell that he had been through. He was different, and you loved the man he was, and the man he had become. No one at his job knew how gentle he could be, the softness he was capable of. No one.

Although, you supposed that was about to change. He was bringing 'one of the guys' to your house, to stay. You had told him before that you had absolutely no problem with him bringing his friends - he wasn't a fan of you calling them that - over. If they needed somewhere to stay, you were more than willing to house them, they were strong men facing down the worst of the world's threats, they deserved somewhere to feel safe, if only for one night. He'd told you he might - although you'd always suspected that he wouldn’t - allow one of his squad mates into his home, and you'd encouraged him to do so if it was necessary. Tonight was the night.

Simon had called you as soon as he could, like he always did.

"I've landed, love, I'll be heading home soon."

"Good. How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Hungry?"

"Just ate here."

"Alright, I'll be in bed, please wake me up."

"Will do. I love you."

"I love you too. Drive safe."

He sounded exhausted on the phone, nothing out of the ordinary though, he was always tired when he came home. You were remiss to admit to yourself that you were tired too. You ran a hand over your stomach. It had swelled up in the time that Simon had been gone. What a difference just a few weeks made. You'd had to attend your scheduled scan alone, and had the photos in the drawer next to your bed, ready to show Simon when he got home.

This baby had been something of a surprise. Not an enormous one, though. Simon and yourself had been significantly less careful in the months leading up to when you found out, and you'd talked about it: another kid, the whole thing. He had been apprehensive to say the least, so you had waited without resentment. He needed time, and God knew, you needed time, so you had both taken time. It had taken a year or so of discussions, he was terrified to become his father. He would never be his father, never. He was nothing like him, nothing. And he had come to his own decision. Being a father would be new, terrifying, different, but he put an ounce of faith in himself, and-

- And then you were late.

You wished you could be like those women in movies who have no idea, and have a whole revelation about being pregnant. But you were not stupid, you were practical, it was one of the things Simon often told you that he loved about you. So practicality it was. You were sure you were pregnant. Three positive pregnancy tests later, and that sealed the deal.

Then you'd burst into tears in your bathroom.

God, who were you to think you could do this? He was due to leave for a three-week operation in two days. You'd be alone in your first few weeks, with a young toddler as well, who's needs were more important than your own.

You didn't hear Simon come home from his run, you'd hardly heard the jagged tone to his voice when he pushed the door open. What a sight it must have been for him. You, curled into the bathroom wall, crying hysterically and hugging yourself. He did well to hide his panic, the soldier in him must have taken over for a few seconds. He scanned the bathroom floor, then checked you over for injuries, asking what was wrong the whole time. Then he'd scanned the bathroom counter and found the three tests lined up. He knew what they were, but bless him, he didn't know if they were negative or positive, the lines meant nothing to him.

"You're pregnant?"

You'd barely managed a nod and to his absolute credit, he did not clam up. He did not shut his mouth, or grit his teeth, or sink back onto his heels. He had reassured you, pulled you into his lap on the floor and talked you out of your hysterics. He'd waited patiently until you could talk. And you had been fine. You loved him, he loved you, and you both loved this baby. You would be fine. It had never been so hard to say goodbye to him as he left for his next mission. You'd never been so panicked whilst he had been away. You had to call your friend to come and stay with you for the time he was away, so she could help you stay out of your thoughts and help with the little toddler who was always asking where her Daddy was.

But all of that panic always subsided when he came home, when he lay beside you and breathed quietly as he slept. Everything was better when he was there. And he would be in an hour or two, so you allowed yourself to get some rest until you heard his tires in the drive.

************************************************************************************************************** 

Every few seconds, the car was forced into the dull yellow shine of the street lights. Soap wanted to ask how much longer they would be travelling, but for lack of better words than ‘are we there yet,’ he remained silent, watching identical rows of darkened townhouses amble by. It had been a long drive though, long enough that Johnny had glanced at the clock on the car's electronic display once or twice, just to make sure he wasn't losing his mind.

Suburbia was not quite what Soap had imagined when he thought of his lieutenant's home, although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where he thought Ghost might live. Far from base was all the information he had to guess from. Everyone has to stay somewhere, right? Guiltily, John realised he hadn’t much considered that Simon did in fact, live a civilian life. For weeks or months at a time. The task force wasn’t on duty 24/7, but Ghost, as a normal person? Someone you might see crossing the street? Carrying groceries? It hasn’t crossed his mind.

Strange.

Strange to think of such a deadly man in such a domestic sphere.

They were the same though, he supposed. Just as deadly as each other. Just as domestic, too.

The low rumble of a flight path ahead served to calm Soap, so used to noise as he winded down. Silence was deafening, silence was dangerous. Deep down, although he struggled to admit it, the long string of silence that met him in his own home terrified him. The emptiness, the void that greeted him when he first entered his flat, before the click of his fingers on the light switch, before he turned on the industrial fan beside his couch and before the kettle started to whistle. The silence would grip him around the neck, trying to pull him into his thoughts.

Close-knit housing soon dropped off into plots of land, with sparser houses and longer driveways. The expected pricing of these blocks didn’t escape the sergeant.

Another hour or so later, when the modern street lights had long since faded out into antiquated street lamps every hundred metres, the car began to slow.

“We’re here.” Ghost ripped the quiet in two with the gruff edge of his voice, turning off onto a lined driveway. In the dim light, the house stood modestly. Perfectly normal. Far enough away from other houses to be private, but close enough to be watchful of the neighbours. How fitting.

The ignition rumbled to a stop as Ghost turned the key and exited the car.

Boots hitting the stone, Soap immediately felt at odds with this house. It wasn’t his. It was Ghost’s, a man he knew very little about. It wasn't enemy territory, perhaps this was worse: friendly territory. Too friendly territory. A peaceful space, one that he shouldn't be encroaching on.

He followed said man to the door, crunching quietly up the drive and swinging his bag over his shoulder, a more comfortable hold for his exhausted muscles.

Ghost grunted quietly as he unlocked and pushed the door open, swearing and muttering something about getting it fixed.

“Boots off.” He spoke rather quietly and Soap responded immediately, shrugging out of his boots and sitting them next to a few others at the door. His first sign that something was…amiss, was that there were a few pairs of shoes far too small for Simon, stacked neatly on a wooden shelf next to the door.

He was greeted with a long hallway as he followed Simon through the quiet house. His second sign that something was amiss, was that this house smelled, to put it kindly, feminine. It did not smell like an empty house, nor one that was inhabited by a lone man. Unless of course, Simon Riley had a penchant for vanilla-scented candles. Soap suspected he did not.

A few photographs and decorations adorned the walls but they were impossible to make out in the dark. Soap’s fingers twitched towards his head a split second before he was pulled back to reality and realised that there were no NOD's to help him out here. A stupid instinctual move that he found himself doing more and more these days.

Compartmentalisation, his ass.

Ghost pushed a door to his right open, it creaked quietly in the silent house.

“Spare room’s in here, bathrooms to the left-“

“Thanks, Lt.”

“Take a shower, but keep it down, the missus’ll be asleep.”

And as if he hadn’t just flash-banged Soap, Ghost left, turning on his heel and heading further into the house. 

Next Part

[girlactionfigure]

This is one of my favorite photos from history.....

U.S. Army Chaplain Manuel Poliakoff (center) assisted by PFC Arnold Reich and Corporal Martin Willen celebrating Purim in March of 1945 at the former home of German Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels (without permission, of course). Goebbels's house was taken over so quickly that the trappings of Nazism had not yet been taken down. This photograph was published in Yank Magazine, but it's not known if Goebbels (or his boss) ever saw it or heard about it. Three weeks later it happened again, as Jewish GIs packed the house once more, this time to celebrate Passover. Purim is an ancient Hebrew holiday commemorating the salvation of the Jewish people from a ruler who schemed to kill all the Jews in the Persian Empire.

Historia Obscurum

#WW2#Purim

[its-the-pilot]

Dancing With Your Ghost | One-Shot

I'm not sure why I felt like writing something sad, but here it is! Working on the next chapter of Waves as well, just needed to get this out of my system first 😭

Summary: Jake "Hangman" Seresin made a promise and he's determined to keep it.

Warnings: major character death, grief, funeral, sad stuff

Length: 2.5k words

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x Female Reader, Jake Seresin x Female Reader (friendship)

| Masterlist | Rooster One-Shots Masterlist |

Dancing With Your Ghost

Jake Seresin stood in the doorway to your bedroom, a dark frown on his face as he studied the subject of his thoughts carefully. You were sitting on the bed, your knees drawn up to your chest as you stared out the window, silent tears slipping down your cheeks. He didn’t want to be there, especially not on today of all days, but he had made a promise.

He said your name quietly, not intending to startle you, but when you visibly stiffened, he realized he had. He didn’t move from his place in the doorway as you swiped at the wet trails on your cheeks with the pads of your fingers, waiting until you turned your head to acknowledge him.

“Hey.”

Cautiously, he started moving toward you, noticing as he got closer that your hair was still damp from your shower. “It’s almost time,” he managed, hoping that the reminder would pull you out of your dark thoughts. 

You returned your gaze to the window as you nodded, a vacant look in your eyes. The skies were heavy with gray clouds and it had started raining, a light spring shower, but nonetheless a rare event in San Diego. ‘Fitting,’ he thought to himself, shaking his head as he turned his attention back to you. “C’mon… want me to send Nat in to help you get ready?”

“‘M not going,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. 

Sighing, Jake moved closer and sat beside you on the edge of the bed. “You really think that’s what he’d want?” he asked, looking down at your profile as your chin rested on your knees, making you look much younger than you were. “He’d want you to have closure, darlin’.”

“I can’t,” you croaked out, sniffling. “I can’t go and see him like that. I don’t want that to be my last memory of him.”

The past week had been hard on everyone, but understandably, as his wife you had the hardest time coping. He watched as you twisted the set of rings on your finger, the sight making his chest clench uncomfortably, a reminder of what you had lost.

-------------------------

“We’re here.”

The words sent a chill down Hangman’s spine as he looked up from where his cover rested on his lap to the front door of your house. Stepping out of the car, he walked beside the CACO officer and the chaplain wearing his service dress blues, stopping when they climbed the steps to your porch. 

Moving to the front of the group, he reached up and knocked on the door firmly, clasping his hands in front of him as he waited for you to answer. 

Inside, you were planning to tell Bradley that you were pregnant when he got home in a few hours. There was a cake in the oven and a white onesie with “Daddy” painted on it drying on the counter when you opened the door, your smile fading as soon as you saw the set of solemn faces before you.

You locked eyes with your husband’s wingman and instantly knew why they were there, not needing to be told about the malfunction Bradley had experienced with his jet earlier that day. Your knees gave out as the realization hit and Jake caught you in his arms, slowly lowering you both to sit on your porch as you sobbed into his uniform coat, looking up to his companions helplessly.

-------------------------

Releasing another heavy sigh, Hangman shook the memory from his mind and wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, hating the way you tensed under his touch. Everyone -- himself included -- had been hesitant to approach you, not knowing what the right words were. There wasn’t exactly a right way to go about comforting someone who just lost their husband and the father of their unborn child.

After a moment Jake felt you lean into him, the tension in your body relaxing some, and it made him smile a little. He squeezed you gently, silently letting you know that he wasn’t going anywhere and that if you wanted to talk, you could.

“Why did he leave me? He promised he wouldn’t.” Your voice was so quiet that he almost let himself believe you hadn’t spoken at all, simply because he wasn’t sure how to answer the question. 

“It was an accident, darlin’,” he explained, his thumb rubbing circles against your shoulder. “You know he loved you more than anything, and he would have been so happy about the baby.”

You simply nodded and wrapped your arms around your slight bump protectively. When you finally pulled away from Jake he noticed that you were wearing the NAVY t-shirt Rooster used for workouts, his scent still embedded in the fabric.

“I don’t think I can do it,” you managed, pushing yourself to your feet shakily and heading to the window. 

Jake leaned forward, his eyes never leaving you as he rested his elbows on his knees. “You can do anything you put your mind to. You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever known.”

You didn’t bother to look back at him, instead focusing your gaze on the street outside, following a car as it passed. The tension in the room was palpable, and Jake could make out the knots in your shoulders under the t-shirt you wore. 

He struggled to hold back a quiet sigh as he said your name again. When you didn’t reply, he stood and moved toward you, dropping another kiss to your cheek before squeezing your shoulder gently. “I’m gonna go downstairs, alright? We’re leaving for the service in ten minutes.”

A single nod was the only recognition you gave him before he turned to leave the room, closing the door almost silently behind him. Once he was at the bottom of the stairs, he allowed himself a moment of grief, releasing the shaky sigh he had held back moments before. Internally, he cursed himself, hating that he wasn’t strong enough to show you that you weren’t the only one in pain. 

“Did you get her to talk?”

Hangman turned at the sound of Phoenix’s voice as she stood in the kitchen behind him, a frown on his lips. “I tried. Don’t know how much good it did.”

She nodded, smoothing the front of her uniform to give her hands something to do. “This was his biggest fear, leaving her alone with a baby that would never know him,” she explained, a sadness to her voice that neither of them were ready to acknowledge.

“Yeah,” he replied, leaning against the counter heavily. “It’s not fair how history repeats itself.” 

Natasha moved to stand beside him, her heels making her slightly taller than his shoulder. When he glanced over to her, he couldn’t help but notice the way her neatly manicured nails were digging into her palms, leaving little crescent-shaped marks in their wake. 

The two pilots stood in silence, unsure of what to say to each other. It had been a week since the accident, and the Daggers had been spending time at your house in shifts so that you weren’t alone, giving them something to focus on besides their own emotions surrounding the death of their teammate.

It was Bradley Bradshaw’s only final request -- that his squad look out for you. He had pulled Hangman and Phoenix aside only days after proposing and made them promise that if anything happened to him, you would be taken care of. They had agreed, of course. You had become a part of their Dagger family as soon as Rooster introduced you to them years earlier, knowing from the start that you were The One.

The sound of your bedroom door opening pulled both Jake and Natasha from their silent thoughts, simultaneously pushing away from the counter as you came down the stairs and stopped in front of them. Your hair was pulled into a simple ponytail and your makeup was natural looking, something Bradley liked. You wore a knee-length black lace dress that wasn’t too tight around the middle, one that Nat had laid out for you that morning before you woke up. You were still early in your pregnancy but there was a slight bump that you didn’t want everyone to see yet -- only the Daggers knew about the baby.

“I think I’m ready,” you stated quietly, briefly looking each of them in the eye before stepping past them.

Moving with you toward the door, Jake lifted your coat off of the hook and helped you into it before leading you out to his truck with a gentle hand at the small of your back, Phoenix following close behind. The drive to the cemetery was silent as you stared out the window, your fingers playing with your rings again as your hands rested in your lap.

When you arrived, Jake rounded the front of the truck and opened your door, offering a hand to help you out. “Ready?”

Accepting his help out of the tall truck, you leaned up and kissed his cheek softly before turning and giving Nat a hug when she climbed out of the truck behind you. “Thanks, both of you,” you whispered, offering a sad smile before moving toward the group of uniforms near the gravesite. 

Jake closed his eyes as she walked away, taking a deep breath to center himself as Nat stood beside him. “She’ll be okay,” she assured him. “Hopefully she’ll get some closure.”

He nodded, looking over to his fellow pilot. “Yeah… I hope so.”

The funeral was standard for a Naval Officer as you stood at the gravesite, Bradley’s surrogate father Pete Mitchell on one side and Jake on the other, the rest of the Daggers nearby for any additional support you would need. You did your best to hold back tears as a folded flag was placed into your hands by Admiral Simpson, though you lost the battle when you watched Bradley’s squadron approach his coffin one at a time and pound their wings into the smooth wood. 

Finally, cradling the folded flag to your chest, you stepped forward, hesitantly brushing your fingers over the coffin that encased your husband. You closed your eyes and recited a quiet prayer, tears sliding down your cheek and landing on the casket.

After a moment the crowd began to disperse and Maverick came to stand beside you, his hand moving to rest on your back gently. You didn’t protest, leaning into him for support, having grown close to the older man over the past few years since Bradley reconnected with him. 

“I thought we would be together forever,” you whispered, your voice thick with tears as you finally pulled your hand away from the casket. “Silly, huh?”

Maverick shook his head, taking your hand when you dropped it to your side, squeezing it gently. “That’s what he wanted. He never loved anyone the way he loved you.”

Looking over to him, you offered a grateful nod, tears shining in your eyes. “Thank you,” you replied quietly, biting your lip. “It meant a lot to him to have you back in his life these last few years.”

“It meant a lot to me too,” he affirmed. “Just trust that his mom and dad are taking care of him now, and know that he wishes more than anything he could be here with you.”

A fresh set of tears began sliding down your cheeks as he spoke, clutching the flag tighter to your chest. Releasing Maverick’s hand, you swiped at the tears just as Hangman approached, offering the older man a salute. The same was returned, followed by a handshake between them. 

“I’ll let Jake get you home,” Maverick said simply, leaning in to kiss your cheek gently. “Are you gonna be okay tonight?”

You nodded, looking down at your feet to prevent your eyes from sliding back to the coffin. “I’ll be okay. I have to get used to it sometime.”

“I’ll be there,” Jake assured him, prepared to stay as long as you needed him to, taking his promise to Rooster seriously. “If you want me to, of course.”

Maverick watched as you shrugged half-heartedly, wishing that he could take your pain away. “Okay,” he nodded, giving you another kiss on the cheek before clapping Hangman on the shoulder. “Take care of her,” he whispered, his voice laced with concern for you.

“You know I will, Sir,” he replied, waiting until the older man departed before turning to fully face you. “Ready to go?”

You couldn’t stop your eyes from moving back to the casket at the question, wanting to stay there forever if you were being honest. Clutching the flag tighter, you forced yourself to look up at Jake and nod your head. His large hand found the small of your back once again as he led you back to his truck. 

“Where’s Nat?” you asked, allowing the blonde aviator to open the passenger door for you.

“She got a ride with Coyote,” Jake explained, watching you climb inside before rounding the truck and sliding behind the wheel. “I can call her when we get back to your place, if you want?”

“No,” you insisted, shaking your head. “You don’t have to stay with me either. I”ll be fine on my own.”

Jake started the truck and frowned at her reply. “‘Okay’... ‘fine’... you’re starting to sound like him,” he pointed out, beginning the drive back to your house. 

You didn’t say anything in response as you rested your head against the window of the truck while he drove, never once letting go of the folded flag in your arms, holding it as though it was a lifeline. When he finally pulled into the driveway and parked the truck, Jake moved to your side again to open the door, tapping on the window and waiting until you reluctantly lifted your head from the glass so as to not hurt you. 

“He’s not coming home,” you declared, your voice eerily calm despite the tears that stained your cheeks. “I’m never gonna feel him hold me again.” Your eyes were fixed on the house in front of you, and Jake’s heart broke as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. 

His hand ran up and down your back, feeling the moment when your resolve finally broke, your body shaking as you sobbed into the lapel of his uniform coat just as you had on the day it happened. “Everything will get easier, darlin’,” he tried, unsure if he was trying harder to convince you or himself. “And over time… it’ll hurt less.”

“I don’t want it to hurt less, I want him to come back,” you mumbled, your voice cracking as you continued to cry. “I just want my Bradley back.”

Jake’s eyes fell shut at the sound of his wingman’s name coming from your lips, the first time he had heard you use it since he died. He knew that you understood what you were asking for was impossible, but in that moment as he held you trembling in his arms, he would have done anything to take Rooster’s place. 

If only to see you smile one more time.

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

The co-founder of The Satanic Temple has challenged Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis to a debate on religious freedom in America after the governor said this week that Satanists can't be part of a recently approved chaplains program for public schools. 

DeSantis signed House Bill 931 into law on Thursday, allowing school districts and charter schools to "adopt a policy to authorize volunteer school chaplains to provide support, services, and programs to students as assigned by the district school board or charter school governing board." The law takes effect on July 1. 

In comments made Thursday, DeSantis said...

[myemuisemo]

It's week 3 of Letters from Watson, and there is an elephant in the room.

We're going to feel the elephant's trunk, but first I want to crawl into the mindset of a contemporary 1887 reader. It's been a long time since I watched the Jeremy Brett versions of Sherlock Holmes, so if my impressions are shaped by that experience, it's in an indirect subconscious way.

Holmes' explanation of how he spotted the courier as a retired sergeant of Marines indicates that he's storing a good deal of trivia about military services in the lumber room of his mind.

Gregson and Lestrade, the best of Scotland Yard, are blessed with the Victorian compliments of being "quick and energetic." Watson, in his rush to order a cab, is also implied to value quickness and energy over whatever thought processes Holmes is about to introduce. When not humored in his rush to be useful, he falls into a sulk.

Gregson is the whitest of whitely white guys, from pale face to flaxen hair. The fact that he's not the slightest bit red-faced suggests both that he rarely sees the sun (well, London fog) and that he doesn't drink. There's very likely a teeny bit of a joke here in calling him Gregson, since Watson would certainly have been aware of the work of Joseph Gelson Gregson, the Baptist preacher and Army chaplain whose mission in the 1860s-70s was to convert British Indian Army soldiers to total abstinence from alcohol. Will our Gregson turn out to be zealous and self-righteous?

If Gregson did not arrive in a cab, and Lestrade did not arrive in a cab, then likely there are some specific sort of tire marks in the mud.

Now, the house at 3 Lauriston Gardens came close to baffling me. Obviously, when I first read the Sherlock Holmes stories as a mid-sized child, I knew only sprawling ranch tract homes, so the description of the 3-story vacant house was just "ooh, creepy!"

That numbering really suggests its an attached rowhouse, though. That would be consistent with development down Brixton Road in the mid-19th century. There are so, so many terraces of identical attached houses in yellowish brick. Here's Google Maps demonstrating 3-story terraced rowhouses on Handforth Road, just off Brixton Road. These are a little too new, dating from the 1890s, so we've got to imagine a Brixton Road area that's still far less developed -- things that look "old" to us weren't there yet.

These remind us that as London built outward, the rowhouses usually did not have two features that Lauriston Gardens has: a front garden and a center hall. The front garden suggests that the intent of the four dwellings composing Lauriston Gardens was to be a little more suburban and bucolic than the typical urban terrace. Its general aura of mud indicates that it has failed at this promise.

But move on down Brixton Road to the 300 block, and here we are with that garden! These are 3 stories, have a yard, have pillars suggested Greek Revival (1850s-60s), and are depressing af.

Maybe it's my years in the Albany-Troy (NY) area speaking, but these are exuding "we are holding onto middle class by our slipping fingernails." I think that is actually the impression Doyle intends to give: Lauriston Gardens was never quite perfectly respectable, even in its heyday, but it was trying.

That center hall still troubles me. A middle-class rowhouse typically has a side hall, which holds the staircase volume. The parlor is then either narrow (one window) or wide (two). Lauriston Gardens is built with a center hall (pointing to a more lavish lifestyle) but only one "reception" room deep. It has "offices" (butler's pantry or whatever) and a kitchen on the main floor, not in the basement.

Something like this, a titch further out Brixton Road, might be a fit if it weren't for the extra wing on the side. I think the dormer floor is a modern addition. These super-plain houses with only the pillared doorways look so grim, especially compared to the more ornamented Victorian styles.

If the reader is meant to feel uneasy at the mismatch between 3 Lauriston Gardens' pretensions and its actuality, we're there! In any case, the carpet has been pulled up (as was common, you took it with you when you moved), the florid older wallpaper is peeling, the fireplace mantle is a faux finish (yep, aspirations above our proper class), and there is a body on the floor.

Our body is wearing a frock coat, which was the formal daytime wear of a gentleman but on its way out of fashion by the 1880s. Broadcloth of the era had a felt-like feel and was known for durability. So our corpse is respectable, practical, probably conservative in habits, and possibly punching a bit above his social class.

And he has a "simious and ape-like appearance," which worries the heck out of me in a modern 2023 sense. Watson, as the late Victorian everyman, refers to common notions of facial bone structure indicating character. Simian is never good; it's an indicator of primitive, uncouth nature. I'm going to hope hard that we are solely being set up to see the dead man as representative of the worst sort of grasping, self-centered, profit-minded, uncouth American. We're definitely supposed to "get" that, as the house is failing at its pretentions, so too is the dead body trying to be something above its class.

I am nervous for next week, and I'm determined not to look ahead. I'm going to sit with my discomfort like a proper serial-reader, so don't spoiler it for me!

[turtletotem]

AU Idea: Griddlehark Bachelorette

Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House, is choosing a spouse on national TV!

Candidates include:

Judith Deuteros! Who doesn't love a girl in uniform? Rumor has it the Reverend Daughter herself considered becoming a military chaplain once upon a time!

Palamedes Sextus! He's intelligent, polite, educated, a talented necromancer -- everything Harrow has said she wants.

Ortus Nigenad! A lifelong family friend and her parents' favored candidate. Will she give him a chance?

Ianthe AND Coronabeth Tridentarius! Not just two beautiful and accomplished young women, but identical twins competing for the hand of the same girl. #DRAMA

Abigail Pent AND Magnus Quinn! A married couple looking for a third. Anonymous sources say Harrowhark may have enough mommy and daddy issues to be swept off her feet by their stability and nurturing affection.

THE SURPRISE CANDIDATE -- Gideon Nav, Harrow's childhood bestie-slash-archnemesis, sweeping in on a cloud of glory from a successful tour in the Cohort to ask How do you like me now?

Who will get a rose, and who will get the boot? TUNE IN TO FIND OUT!

[medical-anon-whau]

Looming Grump Update

tagged: @egrets-not-regrets , @kit-williams

warnings:

Update below the read-more!

So! Update on Looming Grump, which is the nickname I’ve given the Fallen Dark Angel who lives with one of my patients. 

As you  might imagine after being nearly dragged off and… Imprisoned? By Interrogator-Chaplain Asmo-whoever and his posse, Looming Grump was pretty twitchy and anxious for the rest of my shift with him. On the plus side, he was a bit less openly suspicious of me after I got the Interrogator Chaplain and most of the other Dark Angels he brought with him to leave.

I know that he was fairly distressed by the quiet whining and the way he kept pacing and pacing around his bonded’s home… I think he was probably looking for intruders or watchers. I had genuinely thought that all of the non-Fallen Dark Angels had left, more fool me, I suppose. I hadn’t seen or hard any of them, though I’m guessing that the Fallen knew that the lurker was still there.

It certainly explains the pacing and agitated behavior. Though nearly being dragged away from your loved ones for who the fuck knows what reason is probably incrediblyupsetting as well. I did inform the agency I work for about the near-invasion of the patients’  home and Looming Grump’s reaction to all of that.

The agency is currently speaking with the patient and their family. One of the things that my agency provides is assistance with housing,for those who need it for one reason or another. Being stalked by a group of astartes for mysterious reasons is one such reason. The trick is to move the patient, everything they need and whoever is living with them fast and carefully enough that the watching/stalking Astartes don’t notice.

But part of that involves getting… As you may guess… Even more Astartes involved. Some to distract the watchers, and others to help get everything moved from one place to the other fast enough as Space Marines are much stronger and faster than we humans (normal humans? I’ve heard theories that space marines are human-ish? Though they ddon’t seem to suffer the side effects of Gigantism that we normal humans do, at a similar size to them) do.

Aaand given that this Fallen seems to be a bit of a fugitive - at least among the Dark Angels - makes him incredibly unwilling to work with any other Astartes. I can’t say I blame the man, either. 

Which brings me to what happened after I finished my shift . I was walking back to my car when a huge shadow loomed over me. I’m pretty sure that he did that on purpose - either to further scare me, or to give me a moment of warning.The Dark Angel who stayed behind grabbed me and pinned me against my own car and demanded to know why I got myself involved, why I interceded and who the fuck I thought I was. Among a bunch of other questions.

He scared the absolute fuck out of me, though I made sure that I had my Calm Nursing Face on, as I figured that showing fear would only intensify this situation further. I explained to him what and why I was there - and pointed out that the Fallen in question genuinely cares for the sick and injured human who lived there, and that his removal would make their life objectively worse.

He growled at me before putting me down, told me that he would be watching, and stalked off. I hid in my car and tried not to have an obvious freak out and went home. 

[she-wolf09231982]

Chapter 2- Stuck With Me

Summary: After the German bomb run on Bastogne, the locals and American soldiers there that were able, helped piece back together what they could of the town. Medical personnel that had survived still tended to the wounded however they could with whatever supplies they had left. A deserted upper class family home that survived the bombing was temporarily designated as the new aid station until further notice. Although he was internally grieving the loss of Renée and Anna, Eugene steadily pushes through the chaos to provide aid to his fellow Easy members at a moment’s notice. Saria, on the other hand, wasn’t as resilient.  

A/N: OC/Rosaria Marie Leone (leh-OHN), EugeneRoeX!FemMedic, WW2, Post D-Day, She/Her Pronouns, Military Terminology, Band of Brothers References, Boondock Saints ‘ll Duce’ Prayer Reference, Mentions of Weaponry, Smoking, Mentions of death, Blood, Graphic Gore, Medical Terminology, Italian and French with English translations

*These stories may not fall entirely in accordance with the TV series timeline. I do not know the real soldiers the actors portray in this series, so please understand I show no disrespect. Some or most of historical events and character interactions in my fanfics are fabricated purely for the sake of the enjoyment of fiction*

Story takes towards the end of Episode 6-Bastogne and beginning of Episode 7- The Breaking Point

~~~~~~~ 

January 3, 1945

Easy Company was still holding the line outside Bastogne in the Ardennes Forest, enduring the cold, the hunger, and the lack of supplies. Not to mention the incompetence and constant absence of their current commanding officer, LT Dike, was mitigating any progress to push through Foy.  

The new aid station was set up in a deserted lavish multilevel family home. While the few nurses and local volunteers buzzed from room to room tending to patients, Saria sat in the parlor tearing bed sheets into strips to use as bandages and dressings.  

Suddenly, a litter was clumsily carried through the front door with Eugene following behind them. Upon hearing them enter, she rushed over to assist. 

“What do we got here?” Saria asked. 

“Gunshot wound to the right thigh, but-” Gene began. 

Saria began hastily assessing the wound on the exposed thigh area. 

“Saria-” Gene drummed. 

“Looks like the femoral artery’s been severed-” Saria muttered to herself thinking out loud, not listening to Eugene. 

“Saria,” Gene bellowed. 

“Che cosa!? (What!?)” Saria replied sharply in Italian, looking at him expectantly. 

“It ain’t gonna do any good.” he said pensively. 

Saria cocked her head as she furrowed her eyebrows at him, waiting for him to elaborate. 

“Il est mort. (He’s dead).” Gene clarified in French. 

Saria stared at him, absorbing the information until it finally clicked. She looked at the soldier’s lifeless, pale face. She dropped her eyes to the floor, allowing a defeated sigh to leave her lips. 

“Guess it was silly of me to think every soldier you bring here would still be alive.” she said quietly. 

Eugene only blinked, keeping his attention on her. 

Saria shook her head to reset her thoughts. 

“Take him to the garden house out back so Chaplain Maloney can say a prayer over him.” Saria instructed, lazily gesturing to the hall leading to the back door of the house before walking into the kitchen. 

“Yes, ma’am.” the two men replied as they carried the perished soldier down the main hallway towards the rear of the house. 

Eugene waited in the foyer, glancing down the hall to make sure the stretcher made it out the back door before proceeding to the kitchen.

He leaned against the doorway waiting as Saria faced the cast iron wood-burning stove. She raised a kettle from the trivet (stove surface) and poured hot water into a teacup. 

“What was his name?” Saria queried sipping her beverage with her back remaining to Eugene. 

He cleared his throat, “Hoobler. Don Hoobler. Accidently shot himself with a Lugar he got off a German he picked off.” he dejectedly explained. 

He saw her disappointedly shake her head, well aware she was contemplating the irony behind a soldier recklessly losing his life because of a foolish ‘trophy’ like a German Lugar. 

“Comment as-tu été? (How have you been?)” Gene’s usual gravelly baritone voice carried over the room to her. 

Saria remained quiet at first as she tried to piece together a response that wouldn’t raise concern. 

“Keeping busy,” she replied plainly. “Et toi? (And you?)”  

“Same.”  

“Tea?” Saria offered after a long pause. 

“No thanks.” Eugene declined kindly. 

“We have coffee.” she extended as she looked over her shoulder. 

A faint smile graced Eugene’s face.  

“Coffee would be nice, merci.” he professed as he crossed the threshold to sit at a two-seater kitchen table. 

Saria occupied herself preparing the coffee grounds and coffee press. Eugene surveyed her bustling around the kitchen, trying to get a feel for how his friend really was feeling since she was being very vague and evasive. He noticed she seemed to be very adamant about keeping her back to him. But he sat there waiting patiently while she kept herself busy with the coffee. 

Saria placed the packed coffee press onto the stove trivet, then stood by the counter where the kitchen window viewed out to the garden. Her eyes coincidently caught Chaplain Maloney walking into the garden cottage. She quickly averted her eyes to her hands fiddling with a spoon on the countertop. 

Eugene observed her carefully, his heart progressively filling with concern. 

“There’s another chair here,” he pointed out, but she didn’t budge.  

“Asseyez-vous et parlez avec moi, mon ami (Sit and talk with me, my friend).” he beseeched. 

Saria audibly sighed. Eugene got up and walked to the other chair sliding it out from under the table, inviting her to have a seat. 

“S'il te plaît? (Please?)” he gently implored with a feeble smile. 

She looked at the chair, then at Eugene. She sauntered to the table and lowered herself onto the chair as he pushed it under her. He walked over to the counter, grabbed a teacup, then went to the stove to pour himself fresh coffee from the press. 

He turned slowly towards Saria as he took his first sip. She sat gaping at the floor, lost in her thoughts. His soul ached for his mourning companion. 

“Saria-” Gene began, but she remained stoic, only closing her eyes so she didn’t have to look at him.  

He walked to her, placed the cup on the table then squatted in front of her to look her in the face. 

“Rosaria,” he asserted sternly, refusing to let her avoid him any longer. “-regardez-moi. S'il te plaît. (-look at me. Please).” 

Saria met Eugene’s troubled expression with empty bloodshot eyes, as they began to gloss over, filling to the brim with tears until droplets started to cascade down her cheeks. He studied her face for a few seconds longer, searching for any inkling of hope. He found none. 

“My French is getting rusty...” she whispered as her voice cracked from choking down the urge to sob. 

Eugene’s eyebrows drew inward, shaking his head trying to comprehend why she said what she said.

“I haven’t-” she struggled to continue as she repeatedly blinked hoping to keep the tears from spilling over anymore, “-I haven’t been practicing my French. I’m losing everything she taught me.”  

She hung her head, ashamed she had possibly dishonored Renée’s memory by forgetting the French she worked so diligently on with her. 

Gene nodded, “I see,” he discerned compassionately, now realizing where the root of Saria’s pain was coming from. 

He searched within himself for the comforting words he could say to console her, but even he was still in a state of lament over Renée’s death.  

He looked back at Saria, “So, everything I had said to you in French since I got here-”  

Saria looked at him hesitantly, waiting for him to finish. 

“How much of it did you catch?” he questioned with a impish smirk gradually appearing on his face.

Saria forced out another long exhale, “Enough for you to get me in the chair, I suppose.” she fleetingly jested. 

Eugene chuckled, which prompted Saria to briefly giggle as well. Eugene returned to his chair to finish the rest of his coffee. After a minute or so of subdued laughter, there was a deafening hush in the room as they sat in silence together. 

“Honestly, I haven’t been practicing my French because I’ve been waiting to practice with someone I'm comfortable with.” Saria proclaimed. 

“Yeah?” Gene returned genuinely intrigued. 

“Mmhm,” she replied. “Could you-” 

Eugene raised his eyebrows waiting for her to finish. 

“Pourriez-vous...um...” Saria attempted to rephrase her question in the little French she could remember. “-m'aider... avec mon français ? S'il te plaît? (Could you...um...help me... with my French? Please?)”  

Eugene’s smile widened as he leaned forward, sliding his arms across the table with his palms open, inviting her hands to hold his. Saria obliged, bringing her hands up from her lap, placing them in his.  

“Bien sûr. (Of course).” he responded as he affectionately caressed her knuckles with his thumbs. 

Saria smiled awkwardly, pushing down the heightened feeling of butterflies in her stomach. 

~~~~~~~ 

January 4, 1945 

“Bonjour, Rosaria.” a warm familiar voice greeted. 

Saria emerged from behind the bar to see Eugene standing under the oak archway leading into the parlor. 

“Eugène! Je suis tellement content de vous voir! (Eugene! So glad to see you)!” Saria exclaimed. 

Eugene revered at her as she met him under the archway. 

“What?’ she asked with a playful look of skepticism.  

“Your French. C'est déjà bien mieux. (It’s already much better).” he commended. 

“Oh-” Saria’s breath hitched, “-merci à toi (-thanks to you).”  

“De rien, mon ami (You’re welcome, my friend).”  

Eugene leaned against the oak pillar of the arch while Saria self-consciously rocked back and forth on her feet with her hands folded tightly behind her back. 

“Renée would be proud.” Eugene stated, raising his eyes to Saria’s. 

Saria drew in a deep breath when her eyes met his. He couldn’t help but adoringly gaze upon her while a soft smile stretched across his face. 

“Hm,” Saria hummed, “-yeah.”  

She forced a meager smile then looked at the floor. 

“So, I got some news,” Gene declared, “They’re trying to push into Foy in a couple of days.” 

Saria cast him a look of panic, “You’re leaving?” she asked, trying to suppress the concern in her voice. 

“That’s the plan.” he replied plainly. 

Saria’s eyes darted around the room while her heart rate steadily increased.  

“But-” she began. 

Eugene stared at her, waiting for her to continue her sentence. Words failed her as she stood there in front of him with her eyebrow’s furrowed and the worry lines intensifying in her forehead. 

“But?” Eugene pushed. 

Saria refocused on him, “You can’t leave me here. Alone.” 

“You won’t be alone, mon ami.” he assured. 

“Comment ça? (How so?)” she retorted raising an eyebrow at him. 

Eugene chuckled, “You have all these people here that work with you, the locals-” 

“Please don't.” Saria interjected. 

“Don’t what?”  

“Don’t list off other people for me as if you’re expendable.” she mandated. 

He curiously cocked his head at her.  

“Because you’re irreplaceable to me.” she confessed without hesitation. 

Saria was a wreck under the surface. Racing thoughts of losing the only best friend she had left, let alone what she just admitted, had her chest painfully heaving from anxiety. Gene watched her meander to the nearest lounge chair to sit before she passed out. 

He snickered to himself before he strolled over to her. He briefly stood over her, then squatted next to her chair resting his elbow on the armrest. He weaved his fingers between hers, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze while his thumb tenderly kneaded over hers. 

“I don't like it anymore than you do, mon cher (my dear),” he began, “-but this is why we’re here. It’s what we gotta do.” 

“I know.” she grumbled looking down at their hands intertwined on her lap. 

“Please come see me before you go?” she said as she looked up at him imploringly. 

“Bien sûr ma chère (Of course, my dear).” he promised.  

~~~~~~~

January 5, 1945 

Eugene unfortunately didn’t have time to visit Saria before advancing deeper into Bois Jacques woods right outside of Foy.  

“TAKE COVER!” Sgt Carwood Lipton yelled out to Easy Company. 

German artillery fired onto Easy Company from the town as Easy soldiers scattered to the nearest foxholes to take cover. Blasts coming from all directions causing trees to fall and dirt to fly made it difficult for the men to navigate safe passages to their holes. 

After a brief break from German attacks, Sgt Bill Guarnere answered the pleas for help from a wounded Joe Toye after an explosion took his right leg off. While Guarnere did his best to drag Toye back to safety, another German shell made contact near them during the second wave of attacks, severely wounding Guarnere’s leg as well. 

After the chaos settled, the Commanding Officer, LT Buck Compton, staggered over to Toye and Guarnere lying motionless on the ground. As he approached, the aftershock rendered him speechless, leaving him unable to find his voice at first to call for help. 

“MEDIC!” he finally managed to cry out. 

Doc Roe came hoofing through, landing on his knees next to Toye getting to work on what was left of his leg. Off to the side was Guarnere leaning against a tree. 

“Just hang tight, Bill, I’ll get to ya as soon as I’m done with Toye over 'ere.” Gene told Guarnere as he quickly packed Toye’s thigh with dressing to absorb the blood. 

“Do whatchya gotta do, Doc.” Bill replied. 

Just then, another medic appeared at Guarnere’s side, already getting a tourniquet out. Gene caught sight of the new guy, unaware there was another medic available to Easy Company. This man worked briskly, effortlessly placing the tourniquet and swiftly dashing sulfur then wrapping the wound with bandages to stop the bleeding.  

“Hey, buddy, when you’re done over there can you help me with this?” Gene requested. 

Nothing prepared him for what happened next. A voice of a woman responded. 

“Be right there, pal.”  

Gene looked over at her, perplexed that this was in fact a woman working out here next to him. As he continued handling Toye, she scampered over to him kneeling at his side. 

“What do you need me to do?”  

He looked up to see it was Saria. He stared at her in utter disbelief, almost forgetting he was caring for Toye. 

“Saria? What the hell are ya doin' out here!?” Gene asked shocked, but mostly perturbed. 

“I’ll explain later, tell me what you need me to do.” Saria countered urgently. 

“Hold this.” Gene begrudgingly instructed her to hold Toye’s thigh up so he could use both hands to wrap. 

Two men rushed in with a stretcher. 

“Bill, you go first.” 

“Whatever you say, Doc.” Bill replied. 

“Over here. Take this man.” Gene ordered pointing at Guarnere. 

~~~~~~~ 

January 7, 1945 

There was hardly a chance for Eugene to sit and revisit why Saria was there after they prepared Toye for transport. The next few days the 506th had cleared the West and East side of the woods, which temporarily allowed little resistance from the Germans. 

Saria sat in the foxhole she dug for herself, restocking her carrier bag. Eugene peered over the edge to look in. 

“Rosaria.” He greeted her dryly. 

 She looked up at him, “Well hi, Eugene.” she chirped. 

He jumped into the foxhole landing on both feet then sat in the dirt next to her. 

“Mind telling me how the hell you ended up out here?” he suggested in a parent-like tone. 

“I was reassigned to Easy Company per the request of LT Dike. Before his final leave of absence, that is." she explained. 

“LT Dike? He was never around. How would anyone get his signature to approve your orders to get assigned to us if nobody could ever find him?” Gene rationalized. 

Saria revealed a mischievous grin, “Nobody can confirm nor deny that my orders are legit if the CO is never available to say otherwise.”  

Eugene wasn’t amused, “You forged orders to get assigned to Easy Company??”  

Saria looked at her boots. 

“Pourquoi?? (Why??)” 

“Eugene, I couldn’t stay in Bastogne any longer. It only reminds me of Renée and Anna. Then you were going to leave, so-” she trailed off, not really knowing what else to say. 

Eugene released a frustrated huff, shaking his head disapprovingly. 

“Tu vas être ma mort (You’re going to be the death of me).” he growled to himself. 

Saria did her best to push back a snicker, knowing Gene was genuinely disappointed with her for committing such an act of dishonesty. When a scoff escaped through her nose, he shot her an exasperated side-eye.

"You think this is ok? Rosaria, it’s dangerous out here.” his tone low and disgruntled.

“Eugene, please spare me the lecture. You don’t think I’ve seen how dangerous it can get out here? I’ve seen more wounded men than I can count at that church that came from out here. I know it’s no walk in the park.” she proclaimed. 

He forced another annoyed breath, then rubbed his tired eyes with his forefinger and thumb. 

“You’re stuck with me, now-“ 

“Yeah, you got that right.” Gene retorted. 

“-so there’s no use in arguing about it. Don’t act like you’re not glad to have me here. You guys needed another medic anyway-” 

“That wasn’t for you to decide!” Gene snapped with resentment behind his eyes. 

Saria looked away from him, unable to stomach how angry her best friend was with her. Eugene ran his hand roughly through his hair, immediately regretting raising his voice to her. He shifted to face her. 

“I am glad to have you here,” he started, “-but you don’t understand that you out here with me is a distraction.” 

Saria looked back at him inquisitively. 

He shifted again, “If the Germans rain hell on us again, and they will, I’m gonna be worryin’ more about you the whole time.” he explained. 

Saria’s eyes dropped to the ground beneath her heels, feeling ashamed she hadn’t considered his perspective. 

“Ya get what I mean, Mon cher?” he asked her softly, tilting his head to glimpse into her eyes. 

“Oui.” she uttered as she shivered from the cold. 

Eugene looked her over, “Venez ici (Come here).” he directed as he scooted closer to her, snaking his arm across her shoulders to pull her into him. 

Saria rested her cheek on his chest, nestling into him as he pulled a wool blanket over them.  

“Good?” he questioned. 

Saria nodded, “Grazie, Eugenio (Thank you, Eugene).” She said in Italian before drifting off to sleep.

Eugene pulled her in tighter, daring to kiss the top of her head before whispering a prayer over her: 

“Je te compterai parmi mes brebis préférées et tu auras la protection de tous les anges du ciel (I will count thee among my favoured sheep, and you shall have the protection of all the Angels in Heaven)…

…with all my heart.” 

~~~~~~~

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"The Progressives’ design for the penitentiary did alter the system of incarceration. Their ideas on normalization, classification, education, labor, and discipline had an important effect upon prison administration. But in this field, perhaps above all others, innovation must not be confused with reform. Once again, rhetoric and reality diverged substantially. Progressive programs were adopted more readily in some states than in others, more often in industrialized and urban areas, less often in southern, border, and mountain regions. Nowhere, however, were they adopted consistently. One finds a part of the program in one prison, another part in a second or in a third. Change was piecemeal, not consistent, and procedures were almost nowhere implemented to the degree that reformers wished. One should think not of a Progressive prison, but of prisons with more or less Progressive features.

The change that would have first struck a visitor to a twentieth-century institution who was familiar with traditional practices, was the new style of prisoners’ dress. The day of the stripes passed, outlandish designs gave way to more ordinary dress. It was a small shift, but officials enthusiastically linked it to a new orientation for incarceration. In 1896 the warden of Illinois’s Joliet prison commented that inmates “should be treated in a manner that would tend to cultivate in them, spirit of self-respect, manhood and self-denial. . . , We are certainly making rapid headway, as is shown by the recently adopted Parole Law and the abolishment of prison stripes.” In 1906, the directors of the New Hampshire prison, eager to follow the dictates of the “science of criminology” and “the laws of modern prisons,” complained that “the old unsightly black and red convict suit is still used. . . . This prison garb is degrading to the prisoner and in modern prisons is no longer worn.” The uniform should be grey: “Modern prisons have almost without exception adopted this color.” The next year they proudly announced that the legislature had approved an appropriation of $700 to cover the costs of the turnover. By the mid-1930’s the Attorney General’s survey of prison conditions reported that only four states (all southern) still used striped uniforms. The rest had abandoned “the ridiculous costumes of earlier days.”

To the same ends, most penitentiaries abolished the lock step and the rules of silence. Sing-Sing, which had invented that curious shuffle, substituted a simple march. Pennsylvania’s Eastern State Penitentiary, world famous for creating and enforcing the silent system, now allowed prisoners to talk in dining rooms, in shops, and in the yard. Odd variations on these practices also ended. “It had been the custom for years,” noted the New Hampshire prison directors, “not to allow prisoners to look in any direction except downward,” so that “when a man is released from prison he will carry with him as a result of this rule a furtive and hang-dog expression.” In keeping with the new ethos, they abolished the regulation.

Concomitantly, prisons allowed inmates “freedom of the yard,” to mingle, converse, and exercise for an hour or two daily. Some institutions built baseball fields and basketbaIl courts and organized prison teams. “An important phase in the care of the prisoner,” declared the warden of California’s Folsom prison, “is the provisions made for proper recreation. Without something to look forward to, the men would become disheartened. . . . Baseball is the chief means of recreation and it is extremely popular.” The new premium on exercise and recreation was the penitentiary’s counterpart to the Progressive playground movement and settlement house athletic clubs.

This same orientation led prisons to introduce movies. Sing Sing showed films two nights a week, others settled for once a week, and the warden or the chaplain usually made the choice. Folsom’s warden, for example, like to keep them light: “Good wholesome comedy with its laugh provoking qualities seems to be the most beneficial.” Radio soon appeared as well. The prisons generally established a central system, providing inmates with earphones in their cells to listen to the programs that the administration selected. The Virginia State Penitentiary allowed inmates to use their own sets, with the result that, as a visitor remarked “the institution looks like a large cob-web with hundreds of antennas, leads and groundwires strung about the roofs and around the cell block.”

Given a commitment to sociability, prisons liberalized rules of correspondence and visits. Sing-Sing placed no restrictions on the number of letters, San Quentin allowed one a day, the New Jersey penitentiary at Trenton permitted six a month. Visitors could now come to most prisons twice a month and some institutions, like Sing-Sing, allowed visits five times a month. Newspapers and magazines also enjoyed freer circulation. As New Hampshire’s warden observed in 1916: “The new privileges include newspapers, that the men may keep up with the events of the day, more frequent writing of letters and receiving of letters from friends, more frequent visits from relatives . . . all of which tend to contentment and the reestablishment of self-respect.’? All of this would make the prisoners’ “life as nearly normal as circumstances will permit, so that when they are finally given their liberty they will not have so great a gap to bridge between the life they have led here . . . and the life that we hope they are to lead.”

These innovations may well have eased the burden of incarceration. Under conditions of total deprivation of liberty, amenities are not to be taken lightly. But whether they could normalize the prison environment and breed self-respect among inmates is quite another matter. For all these changes, the prison community remained abnormal. Inmates simply did not look like civilians; no one would mistake a group of convicts for a gathering of ordinary citizens. The baggy grey pants and the formless grey jacket, each item marked prominently with a stenciled identification number, became the typical prison garb. And the fact that many prisons allowed the purchase of bits of clothing, such as a sweater or more commonly a cap, hardly gave inmates a better appearance. The new dress substituted one kind of uniform for another. Stripes gave way to numbers.

So too, prisoners undoubtedly welcomed the right to march or walk as opposed to shuffle, and the right to talk to each other without fear of penalty. But freedom of the yard was limited to an hour or two a day and it was usually spent in “aimless milling about.” Recreational facilities were generally primitive, and organized athletic programs included only a handful of men. More disturbing, prisoners still spent the bulk of non-working time in their cells. Even liberal prisons locked their men in by 5:30 in the afternoon and kept them shut up until the next morning. Administrators continued to censor mail, reading materials, movies, and radio programs; their favorite prohibitions involved all matter dealing with sex or communism. Inmates preferred eating together to eating alone in a cell. But wardens, concerned about the possibility of riots with so many inmates congregated together, often added a catwalk above the mess hall and put armed guards on patrol.

Prisoners may well have welcomed liberalized visiting regulations, but the encounters took place under trying conditions. Some prisons permitted an initial embrace, more prohibited all physical contact. The rooms were dingy and gloomy. Most institutions had the prisoner and his visitor talk across a table, generally separated by a glass or wire mesh. The more security-minded went to greater pains. At Trenton, for example, bullet-proof glass divided inmate from visitor; they talked through a perforated metal opening in the glass. Almost everywhere guards sat at the ends of the tables and conversations had to be carried on in a normal voice; anyone caught whispering would be returned to his cell. The whole experience was undoubtedly more frustrating than satisfying.

The one reform that might have fundamentally altered the internal organization of the prison, Osborne’s Mutual Welfare League, was not implemented to any degree at all. The League persisted for a few years at Sing-Sing, but a riot in 1929 gave guards and other critics the occasion to eliminate it. One couId argue that inmate self-rule under Osborne was little more than a skillful exercise in manipulation, allowing Osborne to cloak his own authority in a more benevolent guise. It is unnecessary, however, to dwell on so fine a point. Wardens were simply not prepared to give over any degree of power to inmates. After all, how could men who had already abused their freedom on the outside be trusted to exercise it on the inside? Administrators also feared, not unreasonably, that inmate rule would empower inmate gangs to abuse fellow prisoners. In brief, the concept of a Mutual Welfare League made little impact on prison systems throughout this period.

If prisons could not approximate a normal community, they fared no better in attempting to approximate a therapeutic community. Again, reform programs frequently did alter inherited practices but they inevitably fell far short of fulfilling expectations. Prisons did not warrant the label of hospital or school.

Starting in the 1910’s and even more commonly through the 1920's, state penitentiaries established a period of isolation and classification for entering inmates. New prisoners were confined to a separate building or cell block (or occasionally, to one institution in a complex of state institutions); they remained there for a two- to four-week period, took tests and underwent interviews, and then were placed in the general prison population. In the Attorney General’s Survey of Release Procedures: Prisons forty-five institutions in a sample of sixty followed such practices. Eastern State Penitentiary, for example, isolated newcomers for thirty days under the supervision of a classification committee made up of two deputy wardens, the parole officer, a physician, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, the educational director, the social service director, and two chaplains. The federal government’s new prison at Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, opened in 1932 and, eager to employ the most modern principles, also followed this routine. All new prisoners were on “quarantine status,” and over the course of a month each received a medical examination, psychometric tests to measure his intelligence, and an interview with the Supervisor of Education. The Supervisor then decided on a program, subject to the approval of its Classification Board. All of this was to insure “that an integrated program . . . may lead to the most effective adjustment, both within the Institution and after discharge.”

It was within the framework of these procedures that psychiatrists and psychologists took up posts inside the prisons for the first time. The change can be dated precisely. By 1926, sixty-seven institutions employed psychiatrists: thirty-five of them made their appointments between 1920 and 1926. Of forty-five institutions having psychologists, twenty-seven hired them between 1920 and 1926. The innovation was quite popular among prison officials. “The only rational method of caring for prisoners,” one Connecticut administrator declared, “is by classifying and treating them according to scientific knowledge . . . [that] can only be obtained by the employment of the psychologist, the psychiatrist, and the physician.” In fact, one New York official believed it “very unfair to the inmate as well as to the institution to try and manage an institution of this type without the aid of a psychiatrist.”

Over this same period several states also implemented greater institutional specialization. Most noteworthy was their frequent isolation of the criminal insane from the general population. In 1904, only five states maintained prisons for the criminally insane; by 1930, twenty-four did. At the same time, reformatories for young first offenders, those between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five or sixteen and thirty, became increasingly popular. In 1904, eleven states operated such facilities; in 1930, eighteen did. Several states which constructed new prisons between 1900 and 1935 attempted to give each facility a specific assignment. No state pursued this policy more diligently than New York. It added Great Meadow (Comstock), and Attica to its chain of institutions, the first two to service minor offenders, the latter, for the toughest cases. New York‘s only rival was Pennsylvania. By the early 1930’s it ran a prison farm on a minimum security basis; it had a new Eastern State Penitentiary at Grateford and the older Western State Penitentiary at Pittsburgh for medium security; and it made the parent of all prisons, the Eastern State Penitentiary at Philadelphia, the maximum security institution. Some states with two penitentiaries which traditionally had served different geographic regions, now tried to distinguish them by class of criminals. In California, for instance, San Quentin was to hold the more hopeful cases, Folsom the hard core.

But invariably, these would-be therapeutic innovations had little effect on prison routines. They never managed to penetrate the system in any depth. Only a distinct minority of institutions attempted to implement such programs and even their efforts produced thin results. Change never moved beyond the superficial."

- David J. Rothman, Conscience and Convenience: The Asylum and Its Alternatives in Progressive America. Revised Edition. New York: Aldine de Gruyter, 2002 (1980), p. 128-134

[contemplatingoutlander]

Putting chaplains in public school is the latest battle in culture wars

Here comes the American far-right "Christian Taliban," all set to indoctrinate a new generation of Americans into a warped, right-wing "Christianity."

Our Founders must be spinning in their graves.

Lawmakers in mostly conservative states are pushing a coordinated effort to bring chaplains into public schools, aided by a new, legislation-crafting network that aims to address policy issues “from a biblical world view” and by a consortium whose promotional materials say chaplains are a way to convert millions to Christianity. The bills have been introduced this legislative season in 14 states, inspired by Texas, which passed a law last year allowing school districts to hire chaplains or use them as volunteers for whatever role the local school board sees fit, including replacing trained counselors. Chaplain bills were approved by one legislative chamber in three states — Utah, Indiana and Louisiana — but died in Utah and Indiana. Bills are pending in nine states. One passed both houses of Florida’s legislature and is awaiting the governor’s signature. [color/emphasis added]

[See more under the cut.]

The bills are mushrooming in an era when the U.S. Supreme Court has expanded the rights of religious people and groups in the public square and weakened historic protections meant to keep the government from endorsing religion. In a 2022 case, Justice Neil M. Gorsuch referred to the “so-called separation of church and state.” Former president Donald Trump has edged close to a government-sanctioned religion by asserting in his campaign that immigrants who “don’t like our religion — which a lot of them don’t” would be barred from the country in a second term. “We are reclaiming religious freedom in this country,” said Jason Rapert, a former Arkansas state senator and the president of the National Association of Christian Lawmakers, which he founded in 2019 to craft model legislation, according to the group’s site. Its mission is “to bring federal, state and local lawmakers together in support of clear biblical principles … to address major policy concerns from a biblical world view,” the site says. The group hosted House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) late last year at its gala at the Museum of the Bible in Washington. The chaplain bills, Rapert said, are part of an effort to empower “the values and principles of the founding fathers.” Critics who compare such efforts with theocracy, he said, are creating “a false flag, a boogeyman by radical left to demonize everyone of faith.” Rapert says he’ll push in the next round of chaplain bills to make the positions mandatory. Heather Weaver, senior staff attorney at the ACLU Program on Freedom of Religion and Belief, called allowing chaplains into public schools “a constitutional time bomb.” “It definitely would be a much more direct route to promoting religion to students and evangelizing them than we’ve seen in the past.” she said. [color emphasis added]

[edited]

[hesgomorrah]

Until a few minutes ago I've never thought about Trapcahy but it seems intriguing tbh. Can you maybe share a few Trapcahy moments to get me started?

(Also I'm totally looking forward to the Trapcahy spanking fic now!)

Oh my god, hi, thank you for giving me an excuse to talk about them! Admittedly Trapcahy is a crackship that got wildly out of hand so there isn't actually a ton to point to in the show itself, a lot of it is just extrapolating, but they definitely have their moments that you can watch with shipping goggles on. Also sorry this is so many words, you activated my trap (heh) card. The important bits are in bold.

I tried to pick a top three episodes, but really it's a top four: Requiem for a Lightweight, Showtime, Life With Father, and Alcoholics Unanimous are probably the ones that give us the most to work with in terms of their dynamic. But they have lots of little moments sprinkled throughout the show! Trapper "shooting craps with the chaplain" (😏) in Sometimes You Hear the Bullet, their conversation in Mail Call, the opening scene of Rainbow Bridge ("Be good, and if you can't be good, be careful." "Aren't we lucky to have such a nice Father?"). Mulcahy watches Trapper make out with a nurse in L.I.P. (twice if you count Bulletin Board) and Trapper feeds him by hand in House Arrest and kisses his cheek in Kim. And I can't for the life of me remember the episode, but there's a scene where Trapper is pouring Mulcahy a drink at a party, and he says "Not too much, I'm praying later :)" and Trapper gives a side glance as if he'd been thinking he was about to get laid this whole time. (EDIT: It's Dear Dad Three!)

But mostly what interests me about Trapcahy is more their potential than what we actually see on-screen, just due to the relatively low-drama, ensemble nature of the seasons of MASH that Trapper was actually in. It's never explicitly stated in the show, but it's heavily implied on a number of occasions that Trapper was raised Catholic and now has a rocky at best relationship with the Church; I'm also very interested in the reading of Mulcahy as a closeted gay man, but each of those could be an essay unto themselves. The way I see them, they're two people with the specific experience of growing up both queer and very Irish Catholic in a big city, surrounded by suburban WASPs, and that gives them the unique potential to both heal and hurt each other in a way I don't think any other shipping partner could give either of them. They're mirrors in a way, two wildly different individuals that are the product of incredibly similar circumstances, and I think that's a fascinating space to play in!

[girlactionfigure]

This is one of my favorite photos from history.....

U.S. Army Chaplain Manuel Poliakoff (center) assisted by PFC Arnold Reich and Corporal Martin Willen celebrating Purim in March of 1945 at the former home of German Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels (without permission, of course). Goebbels's house was taken over so quickly that the trappings of Nazism had not yet been taken down. This photograph was published in Yank Magazine, but it's not known if Goebbels (or his boss) ever saw it or heard about it. Three weeks later it happened again, as Jewish GIs packed the house once more, this time to celebrate Passover. Purim is an ancient Hebrew holiday commemorating the salvation of the Jewish people from a ruler who schemed to kill all the Jews in the Persian Empire.

Historia Obscurum

[baronetcoins]

So. The US has a speaker of the house(*). If you've seen the memes floating around for the past few days, you might find yourself wondering: how did that happen? Buckle in folks, this was a bit of a ride.

(*) for now

When we last left our... main characters, Kevin McCarthy had failed an 11th ballot to be elected speaker, down 20 Republican votes when he could afford a maximum of five defectors. The house then voted to adjourn until 12 eastern time on January 6th. Overnight, some deals happened, because for the first time since day 1 there was a significant movement in votes. Round 12 saw 14 of the representatives who had previously been defectors voted for McCarthy—not enough to give him the speakership (lmao, imagine?), but enough to prove his chances of victory weren't entirely dead. Important for later, three representatives were absent—Ken Buck (R-Colorado), Wesley Hunt (R-Texas), and David Trone (D-Maryland).

Round 13 went much the same in actual voter count, with one more of the never-Kevins peeling off to vote for McCarthy, though it was the first round in which there was not another republican candidate formally nominated. Trone came out of his voluntary surgery to vote for Hakeem Jeffries, and there was a motion to adjourn so the republican caucus could continue haggling, which passed. Setting the house up to reconvene at 10 pm eastern time, and some of the most dramatic hours we've seen in this whole glorious train wreck.

Signs suggested Kevin was feeling good—when asked why he felt confident he had the votes to clinch this, he responded "because I count." Two of the more notorious never-Kevins (Boebert and Gaetz) seemed open to negotiating. The press reported Buck and Hunt would be returning for the evening vote. A cart loaded with giant boxes of Five Guys burgers rolled into the speaker's office.

The hours pass. 10 pm rolls around, and the air is thick with anticipation. The house chaplain offers a prayer in which she suggests the gridlock may finally be over. Patrick McHenry (R-North Carolina) gives a nominating speech for McCarthy with not one but two jokes that fell extraordinarily flat, all the while wearing a bow tie.

Now, the votes for speaker are conducted as roll call votes. The poor, probably underpaid, long-suffering house clerk reads off the name of each representative in alphabetical order, then goes through a second time calling the name of any representative who didn't vote the first time. This takes... a while, but what it means is that when you know who's vote to watch, you spend a while in anticipation of that person's name being called, listening to the alphabet.

The other thing to understand, as this gets deep into the weeds, is a little more of the nuts and bolts of how the count works. The speaker of the house is elected by a majority of the votes cast—that is to say, the number of representatives-elect who vote for a name instead of not voting or voting present, divided by half, plus one.

M = [ (# reps elect - # of reps elect not voting - # of reps elect voting present)/2 ] + 1

The US House, while normally filled with 435 reps, currently has 434, due to one death. 212 of those are democrats, the remainder are republicans. If all 434 vote, the threshold for a majority is 218 (434/2, +1). If, say, two members vote present and everyone else votes, the threshold is 217.

The remaining detractors were Biggs, Boebert, Crane, Gaetz, Good, and Rosendale. Biggs, first on the list, voted for a non-Kevin guy, Jordan. Boebert, second in line, voted present. This was a difference that got audible applause from the chamber. For one brief, beautiful, shining moment, it seemed like we might have a resolution. And then Crane votes for Biggs, which. Fine. Kevin can spare a few losses. And then, Gaetz doesn't. vote. Not voting present, which is a different thing. He just lets the first round skip him. Good votes for Jordan. Rosendale votes for Biggs. At which point, the math is as follows. 434 congresspeople, 432 votes, 217 to win. McCarthy has 216 votes. It all comes down to Gaetz: if he votes for McCarthy, Kevin wins. Anything else, and we're doing this again.

Gaetz. Votes. Present.

At first, this gets cheers and claps. And I look at my mom, who's watching the vote with me, and wonder "what the fuck?" The reaction makes me doubt my math. The floor is in chaos. Pretty quickly, it seems people realize that McCarthy is not, in fact, speaker of the house. Kevin runs back towards Gaetz and starts "negotiating" (fig 1)

Fig. 1: things get heated

A democrat heckles from the distance, yelling "On your knees!" To Kevin as he approached Gaetz. There are calls for order. Mike Rogers, R-Alabama, has to be physically dragged away from Gaetz (fig 2)

Fig. 2: lol, and furthermore, lmao

All this, followed by a motion to adjourn until Monday that at first appears to be successful, until Kevin runs to the front to tell members to change their votes. It appears a deal has been struck—and ballot 15 proves it. All the remaining holdouts vote present, lowering the threshold to 215, and allowing Kevin's 216 votes to take him over the line. Truly, our long national nightmare has come to a middle.

What does this mean? Probably bad things. The rules package and committee assignments are yet to be formalized (that'll come on Monday), but expect the house ""freedom"" caucus to be more or less running the show (*) (*pending a long and bloody battle over the rules, which is, IMO, still on the table).

I could go through the speeches, but it's 2:30 am and I've got a flight tomorrow so I would literally Rather Perish so instead, to conclude, i'll leave you with this.

(3: source)