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trashcanreddiefan · 5 years

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I’ll Always Choose You

Summary: Richie wakes up from a nightmare in which Eddie doesn't survive Neibolt and gets reassured by Eddie that he is in fact, alive.

Warnings: Canon-typical language, nightmares.

Word Count: 2600-ish.

Author’s Note: I was working on my Masterlist and realized I never had cross-posted this from AO3, so here you go. Stan’s still dead in this one, but he makes a brief appearance.

CROSS-POSTED ON AO3.

Richie runs over to Eddie. "Eds, we got him! We--"

His heart freezes as he sees Eddie's eyes fixed in a blank stare, arms hanging limply at his sides.

Suddenly the entire cavern begins to shake.

"Richie, we have to go!" Mike yells at him.

"Not without Eddie!" Richie yells back. "He's hurt, we have to help him! We have to get him out of here!"

Beverly pulls at his hand, dragging him away from Eddie's body. "He's dead, Richie, come on. Richie! Rich--"

"--Chie, Richie, honey, wake up."

Richie opened his eyes with a gasp and sat bolt upright. He looked around his bedroom, which was illuminated by Richie's bedside lamp, then over at the blurry shape of his boyfriend leaning over him in the bed. "Eds?"

Eddie smiled softly. "Yeah, Rich, it's me."

Eddie. Richie was overwhelmed with emotion and covered his face with his hands. "Oh my God, Eddie. You were dead, you were fucking dead , Pennywise stabbed you and you died and I just fucking left you there --"

He broke off on a sob.

"Hey, no, babe, it was just a dream." Eddie pulled Richie's hand to his scarred bare chest, right over his steadily beating heart. "I'm ok, I'm alive, see? I'm here. You didn't leave me, Rich. You saved me, remember?" He gave Richie a gentle kiss. "You saved me. You carried me out of there and got me to a hospital just in time. I'm alive because of you."

Richie clung to Eddie and buried his face in Eddie's neck as he thought back to what had really happened after the Losers had defeated Pennywise.

The following 2 weeks after the final battle with It had been one of the most nerve-wracking of Richie's life. Eddie had been rushed to emergency surgery and, according to the hospital surgeon, managed to survive by 'nothing short of a miracle', and had been placed into a medically-induced coma while he began to heal.

Since Eddie obviously hadn't been in a position to fill out hospital paperwork, Beverly had taken it upon herself to do so and listed Richie as Eddie's emergency contact so Richie would be allowed to stay with Eddie and get updates.

To Richie's surprise no one ever came to kick him out, nor did Eddie's wife come storming into the room demanding to know what had happened to her husband, so Richie had assumed that no one in hospital administration had bothered to verify the emergency contact information on the paperwork.

Richie had stayed in the ICU waiting room until Eddie was declared stable enough to be moved into a regular room, then spent the next week and a half constantly by his bedside, with the other Losers rotating out in order to make sure Richie ate, slept, and somewhat showered.

10 days after Eddie's "accident" the doctors had decided he was stable enough to bring him out of the coma and allow him to wake up on his own, but it had taken another 2 days for half of Richie's soul to come back to him.

Ben, who had currently been on Richie-sitting duty, was in the hospital coffee shop getting some coffee & pastries for Richie & himself, so Richie had taken the opportunity to have a private conversation with Eddie.

"Hey, Eds, the docs said that your loved ones talking to you might help you regain consciousness faster because of familiarity or some such garbage so I doubt this will help since we've literally spent 3 days together in the past 27 years, but, uh, could you do me a solid and wake the fuck up? Please? I've got some really important shit to tell you and I need you to be awake to hear it."

He took Eddie's hand in his own, subconsciously rubbing his thumb over the soft skin of Eddie's now oath-scar-free palm."I really need you to come back to me because... see the thing is I… I need to tell you to your stupidly adorable face that I've been in love with you since we were 12 years old.

I love you, Eds… Ever since we were kids I've loved you. I totally get it if you don't or never did feel the same way, I just… I just need you to know that."

He sighed and leaned his head down on Eddie's hand, placing a soft kiss to it.

Suddenly he heard a croaky voice. "Richie?"

His head popped up. "Eds?"

He watched in shock as Eddie's eyelids fluttered open.

"Richie?" Eddie said again.

Richie's throat constricted. "Yeah--" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yeah, Eds, I'm here."

Eddie slowly turned his head towards Richie. "Did we get It?"

Richie sniffled. He hadn't realized that he had started crying. "Yeah, buddy. We did. We got It."

Eddie tried to sit up and grimaced. "How long have I been out?"

Richie jumped up to help Eddie. "12 days. The docs kept you in a medically-induced coma while you started healing."

Eddie blew out a breath. "12 days. Fuck. Feels like it just happened yesterday." He eyed Richie. "You look like shit."

Richie huffed out a laugh. "Haven't been getting much sleep in the past 12 days," he admitted. "Kinda had more important things to worry about."

Eddie took Richie's hand and his face went soft. "Richie, I--"

Ben chose that exact moment to come in with their breakfast. "Rich, they were out of everything bagels so I--" His eyes widened. "Holy shit," he said, setting the coffee and pastries down and rushing to Eddie's bedside. "Hey, Eddie. How you feeling?"

"Like I've been fucking skewered," Eddie said sardonically.

Ben grinned, then flicked his eyes over to Richie and Eddie's joined hands. "I'll, uh, I'll go get the nurse and call everyone to let them know that you're awake." He started slowly backing out of the room.

Eddie nodded.

As soon as Ben was gone, he turned back to Richie. "You guys have all been taking turns to stay with me?"

Richie rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "More or less." He suddenly felt embarrassed at his refusal to leave Eddie's bedside.

"More or less?" Eddie repeated. "Wha-- oh." A look of realization came over his face.

Richie was miraculously spared further conversation by the doctor coming in. "Mr. Kaspbrak, so glad you could join us. You're a very lucky man. How's the pain?"

The next few hours were a whirlwind of doctors and nurses filtering in and out of the room, a battery of tests being run, and bandages and tubes being changed. About 20 minutes after the doctor had come in the rest of the Losers had arrived, each greeting Eddie with a gentle hug.

When everything was done and they were finally left alone, the rest of the group filled Eddie in on what had happened during the rest of the battle with Pennywise.

"So Neibolt is gone," Eddie said. "Good. I always hated that fucking house."

Soon after, the rest of the Losers left Eddie to get some rest, leaving Eddie and Richie alone once again.

Eddie reached out and took Richie's hand once again, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Thank you for saving me," he said softly.

Richie squeezed Eddie's hand back. "Literally anytime, man," he said casually.

A nurse came in to check Eddie's vitals.

She gestured to Richie and Eddie's linked hands. "Your husband hasn't moved from your side since you've been here," she commented as she checked Eddie's saline and morphine drips. "You're a lucky man, Mr. Kaspbrak. He's quite the keeper."

Richie froze. Since Beverly had listed him as Eddie's emergency contact and Eddie had been wearing a wedding ring, the hospital staff had assumed that Richie and Eddie were married -- an assumption Richie hadn't ever bothered to correct.

Eddie had just raised an eyebrow at Richie. "Yeah, he sure is," he replied.

The nurse finished her rounds and left them alone again.

Eddie turned to Richie. "So, husband, huh?"

Richie blushed. "Um, about that… Well, Beverly filled out the paperwork and put me as your emergency contact so they wouldn't ask too many questions, and I guess they just assumed--"

Eddie shrugged. "Eh. It's no big deal. You & I have always fought like an old married couple, so even though I've been unconscious for almost 2 weeks it shouldn't be surprising that people assume we are one."

Richie ran his free hand through his messy hair. "Well, now that you're awake, I'm assuming you want to call your real-life wife, so I'm gonna go so you can do that--" He stood and went to let go of Eddie's hand but was kept in a firm grip.

He looked down at Eddie's hand then back up at Eddie's face, which showed a combination of determination and exhaustion.

"I didn't tell any of the others yet, but before we left for the Neibolt house that last time I called Myra and told her that I wasn't coming home, that I wanted a divorce," Eddie said wearily.

Richie was silent for a beat, then sat back down. "Well no wonder she didn't come running in here all worried about her 'Eddie-Bear'," he joked.

He didn't miss the flinch that passed over Eddie's face. He quickly changed the subject. "Man, you've had a hell of a past couple of weeks, huh?"

Eddie snorted. "That's an understatement. In the past 2 weeks I've remembered my previously forgotten traumatic childhood, reconnected with 5 of my 6 best friends, left my wife -- who as it turns out is a carbon-copy of my mother -- was stabbed in the face by a homicidal maniac, and then was stabbed through the chest by an evil, homophobic alien clown, which my friends subsequently bullied to death. My therapist is going to have a field day during my next appointment."

Richie laughed. "I'm already planning an entire act around this and I'm sure we'll all wind up in Bill's next book." He then froze. Wait, Eddie said homophobic alien clown. Shit, I didn't come out to him or tell him about my first encounter with Pennywise when we were kids and forget that I did, did I? Well then I guess now's as good a time as any to spill.

"So um, yeah, well not only did I remember you guys," he began, "but I also remembered this massive crush I had when we were teenagers. Massive enough that it never really went away, even after all this time. Massive enough to where I'm pretty sure that it was more than just a crush since I feel the same way now as I did 27 years ago."

Richie's heart started pounding. He glanced over at Eddie, who still hadn't let go of his hand and was watching him curiously. "Oh?" He began gently rubbing his thumb on the back of Richie's hand. "On whom?"

Richie felt like his hand was on fire. He swallowed. "It was on you," he whispered, looking at Eddie's bedsheets as if they were the most fascinating thing on the planet.

After a beat of silence, Eddie cleared his throat softly. "I-- I had a crush too. When we were kids, that is."

Richie braved a look at him. Eddie was smiling warmly.

"It was on you."

Richie swore he hadn't heard correctly. "What?"

Eddie chuckled briefly. "It's always been you. When we got back here and I saw you at the restaurant everything just clicked back into place for me."

Richie blinked. "You… had a crush… on me?"

Eddie shrugged as much as he could without pulling his stitches. "I'm surprised you didn't figure it out when we were teenagers, as obvious as I was about it."

"What the fuck? How were you obvious about it?"

"Well, let's see." Eddie ticked off on his fingers, "For one, me, the germaphobe, was always touching you, one of the main ones that were always rolling around in the dirt. Two, like I said, we constantly argued like an old married couple. Three, I'd purposely pick a fight with you about the time limit on the hammock because I knew you were a stubborn-ass and wouldn't give it up, so then I could squish myself in there and cuddle with you. And finally, you understood me better than anyone else and never made fun of me for my asthma or anything, how could I not fall in love with you?"

"Woah, woah, what the fuckity fuck, you were in love with me?" Richie felt like Christmas had come early.

Eddie smirked. "Well yeah, dumbass. Still am."

Richie did the only thing he could think of. He leaned up and kissed Eddie.

He was brought back to the present by Eddie gently rubbing his back. Richie had stayed with Eddie in the hospital until his release, then immediately brought him back to California with him while Eddie finished healing and began his divorce proceedings.

Eddie gave him a kiss on the neck. "See, babe, I'm fine. I'm here. I'll never leave you. I'll never leave you, I swear. I'm gonna be nagging your ass until we're a hundred."

Richie leaned back with a laugh. "Sorry, I'm being stupid."

Eddie shook his head. "Hey, no, you're not. That shit was traumatic for the both of us."

"I just don't know why I keep having that nightmare, why I'm so afraid I'm going to wake up everything will have been a dream… that you'll be gone."

Eddie was silent for a minute, then finally said, "I saw Stan."

Richie was confused. "What?"

"After the battle, or maybe during it-- I don't know. All I know is that one minute I was with you in the cavern and the next I was in this bright white room with Stan. Adult Stan, not Stan as we knew him, but… it was definitely him. He hadn't changed much at all. And it was the weirdest thing, but there was this turtle with him…" Eddie shook his head. "Anyway, Stan told me basically the same thing that was in all of our letters -- that he did what he did because he knew that if one of us could be there and wasn't then we'd fail. Then he told me that I had a choice - that I could go with him and I could be at peace, or I could go back & get a second chance at life, at happiness… and at love. 'He loves you too'. That's the last thing Stan said to me before I woke up. I think Stan knew what my choice would be."

Richie smirked. "And you chose me? Sucker."

Eddie punched him playfully on the arm. "I'll always choose you, Rich. In fact-- wait right here just a second."

Richie grabbed his glasses from his bedside table and watched as Eddie climbed off of the bed and went over to their closet, retrieving something from one of his shoes. He climbed back into bed.

"I knew when we were kids that I wanted you by my side forever. You have saved me, over and over, and in more ways than you could ever realize. I love you, Richie, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So..." He pulled out a small, black, velvet box, which he opened to reveal a ring. "Will you marry me?"

"Holy shit, dude, really? " Richie gasped. "Are you sure you want to get married again? To ME?"

Eddie laughed. "No, dumbass, I'm just asking you to officially spend the rest of your life with me for shits & giggles. Yes , really. Be my husband?"

"Fuck YES," Richie replied happily, tackling Eddie back onto the bed and showing him just how affirmative his answer was.

Later, Richie sent a photo of him & Eddie cuddled up together in bed with sex-mussed hair and shit-eating grins -- Richie's ring proudly on display -- to the Loser's group text. Which one of you fuckers want to be my best man?

#Richie x Eddie #Reddie #tcrf writes

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thecoleopterawithana · 5 years

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Continuing to explore the songs they were singing at any particular time; also known as trying to get a clue as to what their emotional landscape was or what they were trying to communicate, by looking at the songs that were resonating with them at a certain moment or they were “sending” each other.

One of such songs was Billy Swan’s 1974 No. 1 Hit ‘I Can Help’.

Music brought us together. He’d say, “Have you heard that record?” – ‘I Can Help’, Billy Swan – “Have you heard that record?” “Oh, yeah!” He’d play it for me.

— Paul McCartney, talking to John Wilson for BBC 4′s Mastertapes (24 May 2016).

‘I Can Help’ was Billy Swan’s major hit single and was released towards the end of July 1974.

Musically, its style is considered to be rockabilly. One of the earliest forms of rock and roll music, with its country and R&B roots, it harkens back to the early 1950s rock. This genre was popularized by our duo’s childhood heroes, such as Buddy Holly, Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis, and it enjoyed a revival during the late 1970s and early 1980s.

One of such persons riding the wave of nostalgia was John Lennon, who had started recording his Rock ‘n’ Roll album in mid-October 1973, just at the start of his Lost Weekend. Comprised of covers of late 1950s and early 1960s songs, this album must have been a trip down memory lane. I can’t help but find the timing telling; that in the advent of his failed marriage with Yoko, what he chooses to do first is to return to the good old early days, back to his teenage years and all the adventures with Paul around Liverpool, trying to get a hold of the new sounds coming from America, thrilling at the passion for Rock and Roll, together.

The Hollywood sessions attracted a lot of attention and musicians, eager to participate in the John Lennon record. But in a drug and alcohol-fuelled daze, the recording process soon turned too chaotic for the creation of quality material. After a series of hurdles – such as producer Phil Spector secretly taking the master tapes home each night, suddenly disappearing with them for months, and then being involved in a car accident that left him in a coma – by the end of March 1974, the project had been practically shelved (until being picked up again for conclusion, on October of that year).

It was also around this time, from March 28th to April 1st at least, that John and Paul had their LA rendezvous, their first face to face encounter since John had moved to the US. Their meetings would continue even after John went back to New York, around July 1974.

It was also around this time that Billy Swan’s ‘I Can Help’ was both hitting the airwaves and John’s core.

Lyrically, this song touches on many familiar themes that were present in their own music.

If you got a problem, don’t care what it is If you need a hand, I can assure you this I can help, I got two strong arms I can help It would sure do me good, to do you good Let me help

It’s a fact that people get lonely, ain’t nothing new But a woman like you, baby should never have the blues Let me help, I got two for me It would sure do me good, to do you good Let me help

When I go to sleep at night you’re always a part of my dream Holding me tight and telling me everything I wanna hear

Don’t forget me baby, all you gotta do is call You know how I feel about ya, if I can do anything at all Let me help, if your child needs a daddy, I can help It would sure do me good to do you good Let me help

If offering help is one of Paul’s staples, it’s not as common a theme in John’s music. One relevant exception is John’s ‘Look At Me’:

Here I am What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do? Here I am What can I do for you? What can I do for you?

In this poignant tune – composed in Rishikesh, India, in the spring of 1968 – John pleads his love to look at him, and questions who is he supposed to be and what is he supposed to do to get that to happen. He goes even further, questioning his own identity and their conjoined identity, singing that nobody knows but them.

With ‘I Can Help’, John seemed to have again resonated with the offering of help as a reach out, an attempt to reconnect, such as the one used by Paul in his 1980 No. 1 Hit, ‘Coming Up’:

You want a love to last forever One that will never fade away I want to help you with your problem Stick around, I say

With the second verse, we get another familiar theme in John’s music and life: “It’s a fact that people get lonely, ain’t nothing new.” Again going back to 1968, we know that in Rishikesh he even became suicidal in his solitude, as was clearly expressed in ‘Yer Blues’:

Yes I’m lonely want to die Yes I’m lonely want to die If I ain’t dead already Ooh girl you know the reason why

References to loneliness return in 1977, in one of his home demos of the visceral ‘Real Life’:

Woke up this morning blues around my head No need to ask the reason why Went to the kitchen and I ran back to my bed Something funny in the sky

Why must we be alone? Why must we be alone? It’s real life

We can also see the middle-eight of ‘I Can Help’ – “When I go to sleep at night you’re always a part of my dream / Holding me tight and telling me everything I wanna hear” – somewhat echoed in another verse from ‘Real Life’:

Was I just dreaming or was it only yesterday I used to hold you in my arms? And now a baby And another on the way [Indescernible] in a farm

Of course, requests for being held tight make a common enough appearance in and of themselves in a lot of Lennon and McCartney music.

Another essential theme in their relationship – despite having different meanings for each of them – is the whole business with dreams.

If for John the term “dream” is a synonym for his conscious fantasies – what he’d imagined his future reality to be or the retroactive pain of finding his past romantic idealisations a “lie” – for Paul, dreams are the place of contact with his subconscious, finally free from the restrains his controlling awake mind places on its own wonderings; it’s a place where unexpected inspiration and visits arrive.

In McCartney’s July 1972 ‘Best Friend’, we find again similar feelings of dreaming of a distant loved one:

Well, I wake up in the morning, I’m still dreaming 'bout you Tell you, pretty baby, I’m blue

(Is this perhaps the reason why, when John says he “woke up this morning blues around my head” there’s “no need to ask the reason why”? Perhaps, in their established language of references, it should be understood to mean “it’s because I’m still dreaming ‘bout you”.)

In the third verse, we have “Don’t forget me baby, all you gotta do is call”. Both parts called my attention. On the one hand, we have the request not to be forgotten, for his old friend to think about him every now and then. On the other hand, we return to the subject of phone calls.

Incidentally, as we’ve established, this song was recommended and transmitted as a message through one of their phone calls. Just a vital part of how they maintained contact with each other, it’s no wonder the theme would show up in their music as well.

Any time at all, any time at all Any time at all, all you’ve gotta do is call and I’ll be there

— ‘Any Time At All’ (1964)

And the same goes for me Whenever you want me at all I’ll be here yes I will Whenever you call You just gotta call on me, yeh You just gotta call on me

— ‘All I’ve Gotta Do’ (1963)

You know my name Look up the number

— ‘You Know My Name (Look Up The Number)’ (1969)

I’ve heard your name every night since then But I ain’t never, no no never heard you calling me Come on and call me back again Yeah call me back again

— ‘Call Me Back Again’ (1975)

If it don’t feel right, don’t do it If it don’t look right, look right through it If it don’t feel right, don’t do it Just call him on the phone

— ‘Real Life’ demo (1979)

And finally, we have “You know how I feel about ya”, and yes, I think it’s fair to say that they were – but John especially – fairly explicit about what they felt about each other in their songs.

Today I love you more than yesterday right now I love you more right now

— ‘I Know (I Know)’ (1973)

But when I see you darling It’s like we both are falling in love again It’ll be just like starting over - starting over

— ‘(Just Like) Starting Over’ (1980)

With all this, it’s really no wonder that ‘I Can Help’ made an impression on John in the first place, or that he would use it to try an communicate with Paul.

The date of this particular call remains somewhat of a mystery to me: whether it was at the time of the song’s popularity, in 1974, or if John had the record at hand in his Dakota years and played it to Paul in one of their late 1970s transatlantic chats. From the context in which it came up in Paul’s interview, I’d think the latter, but there’s really no way to be sure.

Nevertheless, it is a crucial “letter” in their across the seas and across the ages exchanges through music. Especially in a time when it was perhaps rather nerve-wracking to expose their own compositions, playing songs from other people through the phone line gave them a perhaps more relaxed avenue in which to say what they needed to say to the other.

And I find that image beautiful.

[Disclaimer: The importance of this particular song has been previously pointed out by @aceonthebass, all the way back in October 2016. Nevertheless, I felt the need to do my own analysis of it, and hopefully, increase its appreciation as valuable information to the understanding of the intricate rituals of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Also, I know the dots look odd in the paragraphs, but I'm trying to improve readability on mobile, which has seriously decreased, in my opinion, with Tumblr’s new formating. Please let me know if it makes it worse.]

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caranfindel · 5 years

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Recap/review 14.18: “Absence”

THEN: I am a Winchester! Which means I do awful and wonderful things! Like saving Sam (Saaaaaammmm!!!) and torturing Nick and doing Something Bad to Mary! And possibly losing my soul! Whoopsie!

NOW: Sam and Dean are just getting back to the bunker after the events of the previous episode. I assume they've given Donatello a ride home (which, as we've established, is x hours away), but maybe they stuck him in a cab like they did with Claire that one time. Maybe they found a car for him back at the abandoned warehouse. Sam drops his bag on the map table and they both start calling for Jack and Mary, but aren't too terribly concerned about them not being there. "They probably just stopped for a bite on the way back," Dean hypothesizes, when they settle in the library with a couple of beers. Um. Jack zapped them to Nick's cabin, didn't he? So what is on the "way back?" Are they going to zap to a McDonald's first? What is important is that Sam is still wearing that orange plaid shirt. And they're both pretty unperturbed, even for them, about what just happened.

Here's to another miraculous Sam Winchester survival. Gotta say, man, if Jack hadn't have healed you... you know, lately, it feels like we'd be up the creek without that kid. I mean, first he takes care of Michael, and then Nick...

I know, and he even got the blood out of my new orange plaid shirt, which means I can keep wearing it for this entire episode.

Yeah, I been meaning to talk to you about that. You've been adding a lot of orange to your wardrobe lately.

Just this shirt and that one jacket.

It's more orange than anyone needs. Sure, it fits you great, but so does that red and black plaid. Why don't you wear that shirt some more? Or that solid black shirt you have?

Sorry, but you know I'm a Texas fan. You're just going to have to put up with the orange.

At least I think that's how the conversation went. I could be remembering wrong.

I'm just saying. It's a lot of orange.

The point is, Dean appreciates Jack and recognizes everything he's done for them. Dean pulls out his phone to call her and they hear a buzzing, which is her phone, on the map table, right to Sam's bag. Sam, I know you're recently back from the dead (or near-dead) but it does seem like you would have noticed the phone there. (Also, how close is the library to war room? This makes it look like the map table is practically in the library.) Her keys are next to her her phone, and it's not until this very moment that I realize they didn't know she and Jack zapped to the cabin - they must have thought she and Jack drove there. Because obviously they didn't have a lot of conversation about it. Even though they had a long drive back and it does seem like Sam would have called his mother and asked how their end went.

Anyway. They're perturbed now. Sam tries to call Jack and we see him, staring, ignoring Sam's call.

Title card! (ha ha, I forgot we were still in the Now.)

The guys are making phone calls to all their contacts, and Sam reports Rowena has a spell that might be able to track Jack down. Oh, I love that Sam calls Rowena for help. LOVE IT. Dean gets a call from Cas and gives him the scoop. "Were they together?" Cas asks. “Alone?" Cas looks more Cassy than usual, and then tells Dean about the snake. "I don't think Jack is well, Dean," he says. Dean hangs up on him, which seems kind of rude, but neither he nor Sam act like the snake story is particularly significant. Then Sam gets the brilliant idea to track Jack's phone. (Sidebar: Should Cas be able to use his angelic powers to locate Mary and/or Jack? Discuss.)

Sam fires up the phone tracking website and expositions that they should be able to track him as long as his phone has power. (Listen, guys. You need Find My Friends. Best parent app EVER. It locates him in Nepal, but then he immediately appears in Peru. "Jack's flying," Sam says.

Eventually Jack tires of Paris and Lima and Madagascar and and flops to the ground back at the Cabin of Death, next to Nick's stolen truck. He pulls out his phone, revealing a low battery (so much for that plan, Sam) and several missed calls and messages from the rest of TFW 2.0. He has some flashbacks to happier times with Mary, and then in the background we notice someone standing on the porch of the cabin. They're wearing jeans, and their face is hidden in the darkness, and I'm open to the possibility that Jack actually zapped Mary somewhere instead of killing her (and according to the 14.17 poll, some of you are also open to this), so for a second I think it's going to be Mary standing there. But no.

On the TV:

Nick?

Hmm. Guess again. Hello, son.

At my house:

OH FUCK.

Sorry. I'm just really tired of him.

So, after Jack left to do more important things (Saaaaaaammmmmm!!!!), Lucifer made it back into the world? I mean, this is awful, but it would mean Lucifer is the Big Bad instead of Nick, so... not ALL awful? But it's not Lucifer either - "I'm your subconscious, or whatever," he says. Oh god, it's Hallucifer. Jack has his own version of Hallucifer, JUST LIKE HIS PRIMARY DAD. He's here to help, allegedly, though he doesn't seem all that helpful. "Buddy, you killed Mary Winchester. You cannot come back from that, and you know it." Well. I guess she's officially dead, then. Or is she? Where's the body? I mean, Hallucifer is just Jack's subconscious. So if Jack thinks he killed Mary, so does Hallucifer. That doesn't make it so. Jack tells Hallucifer that it was an accident, and he's all, sure, tell Sam and Dean that, I'm sure they'll understand. (It's funny because it's not true!)

Cut to the Winchesters, driving through the night. Sam expositions that Cas will meet them at the cabin (how do any of them even know where this cabin is?) and speculates that maybe Lucifer is behind whatever happened, not Jack. And maybe Jack thought he was being kind when he killed the snake. Because Sam is grasping for anything that exonerates his son (sob!). But Dean's not accepting it and doesn't want to talk about it. Then Sam's laptop or tablet or whatever he's using beeps with notification that Jack's signal has been lost. Uh oh. (So I guess that's how they found the cabin?) Oooh, yes, we actually get confirmation that it's in Longton "KA" (which doesn't exist and I suspect is supposed to be KS, SERIOUSLY, GUYS).

Longton KANSAS is 4.5 hours from Lebanon. In case anyone but me is curious.

When they get to the cabin, there's no sign of Jack or Mary or Hallucifer. Just the stolen truck. Sam goes inside and Dean looks outside and oh, who's going to be the one to find the body? First I'm sure it's going to be Sam, because there's a lumpy pile of blankets on the bed, but it must just be blankets, and Sam doesn't even look under them. He does find a body, but it's Nick, not Mary. And then I'm sure it's going to be Dean, because he comes across something disturbing outside and ignores Sam's calls. But what he found is... well, it's hard to see what it is in the dark. Apparently it's a blast zone. A big one.

Cas is sitting in his truck somewhere, having his own warm and fuzzy Mary flashback where she eats a candy bar after a hunt without washing her hands and refuses to let Cas heal her because she's still a little bit afraid of him. He tells her that, no matter what other things there are to deal with, Sam and Dean are glad she's here. "Finally they don't have to be so alone." Wow, that's a dumb thing to say. Mary agrees with me and says "Castiel, they were never alone. And if they were, me being here wouldn't fix that, since I'm always off doing other things." That's how I remember it, anyway. Reverie over, Cas gets out of the truck to face the music - he's at the Cabin of Death.

Inside, Sam is covering Nick's body. He and Dean have some concerned conversation about whether Nick deserved whatever Jack did to him and conclude that Jack must have made it as painful as possible or otherwise killed him in some inappropriate way. And there are very good, valid reasons for them to come to this conclusion. I mean, I can't think of them right now, after watching the episode twice and ruminating for several hours, but I'm sure something will come to me very soon. Let me just go check my Tumblr feed again. I bet they're there.

(Seriously. Nick looks like he was burned out by an angel. That's all.)

They're surprised when Cas walks in, because they didn't hear his giant truck or see his headlights in the dark Cabin of Death. They tell him they haven't found anything except the blast site that looks like something "angelic, but bigger." Dean theorizes that it could have been Lucifer, but Sam points out that Jack said he took care of Lucifer, and I'm not sure why they've reversed their positions. Because in the car, Sam was the one who thought it might have been Lucifer. Script mix-up? Someone brought Jensen the wrong pages? Anyway. Dean says "If he did something to her, if she is... then you're dead to me." Pointing as Cas, because Cas knew something was wrong with Jack. Well, that hardly seems fair. When he first told you the snake story, Dean, you didn't think it meant anything at all. But NOW, all of a sudden, it was some ironclad harbinger of doom?

"I was scared. I believed in Jack for so long. I believed that he was good. I knew that he would be good for the world. He was good for us. My faith in him, it never wavered, and then I saw what he did. It wasn't malice, it wasn't evil, it was like Jack saw a problem and he solved it, with that snake. What he did wasn't bad. It was the absence of good, and I saw that in him. But we were a family and I didn't want to lose that..."

And I'm going to stop here, because this is the most important part of Cas's speech. This is the core issue. Jack's not bad, he just might not be good either. He thought he was doing the right thing. And he's family. Is any of this familiar, Dean? Any of it at all? Cas also says that he wanted to "fix it" on his own, so he left and didn't tell anyone. Neither brother asks how he thought he was going to fix it, but I guess they'll get the story of the failed faux Samulet someday. Right now we just have Sam looking sad and guilty and Dean looking angry and guilty but mostly angry.

Sam's phone rings - it's Rowena. She says she was unable to scry Jack because "his energy is too unstable; it's like looking at the sun." And as for Mary? "I don't know what happened, or where she is, but I can tell you with certainty - Mary Winchester is no longer on this earth." At this point, I'm still ready to accept that she's been zapped to a different dimension. I mean, there's no body. But TFW accepts it as her being dead, and Dean starts throwing furniture and Sam is despondent and flinchy (and hoo boy, I love that combination.)

So what do we do?

What do we always do when we lose one of our own?

Bad things. Very bad things. He declares "we fight to bring them back." And they will call on Rowena, because "she's got the Book of the Damned; she's resurrected herself more times than we can count." (Not to quibble, but we've only seen her resurrected twice. You yourself have been resurrected more times than that, Dean.) He orders Cas to go to Heaven and find Mary, and orders Sam to tell Rowena they're on their way. Mmmm, angry bossy Dean. I like that combination too.

Another thing I like about this scene is that it's one of those times when Sam turns into the little brother. When he looks at Dean and asks "what do we do," because that's how this works.

So much to like.

We go to Rowena's place, and if you're wondering where she lives and how far it is from the Cabin of Death, you're not alone. She's working away on her spell, though it sounds like she says cumin so maybe it's actually a chili recipe, when someone bangs on her door. "That was fast," she says. But when she answers the door... oh god, it's Jack, and for the first time in this episode I actually feel some concern. DO NOT HURT HER, JACK. (Rowena, I apologize for not appreciating you when you first arrived on the scene. I adore you now and you must remain.)

She pretends she doesn't know what happened, asking if he's well and telling him 2/3 of his dads are looking for him. He admits he accidentally killed Mary by just thinking it for a second and oh, imagine how horrible that would be, if the awful things that popped into your mind for one second actually came to pass. Or maybe I have more intrusive thoughts than y'all do. Anyway. "I need to undo it," he says. "You need to help me undo it." She explains that the magic she normally uses has to be in place before you die, so he suggest the book (I adore the way she says book) and she tells him about the spell. It requires "enormous power" but simple ingredients that could probably be found in the bunker.

Someone bangs on the door again - it's Dean. Jack accuses her of stalling, but they only talked for like 90 seconds, so, okay. She asks him to talk to his "kin," but he grabs her arm. Sam kicks the door in (with hair in his face and yes it is hot) but it's too late - Jack has zapped her out.

Sadly, I have not found a gif yet, so this will have to do.

Cut to Cas at the Stairway to Heaven, calling for Naomi. No one responds.

Jack and Rowena appear in the bunker, and he pulls her along, but happens to notice some gouges in the floor. And now we get another flashback. Mary is trying to teach him how to handle a knife, and he keeps dropping it on the floor. She's all sweet and supportive and blah blah blah, and Jack says Dean will kill him for gouging the floor when they get him back, so this must be during the Michael!Dean period. Mary pulls the table over to cover the damaged floor, but who is that in the background? It's bearded Sam! Oh, long lost Beard of Despair! How I've missed you! (Is it fake? Is it real? Was this a deleted scene? Or did they plan for what was coming, and film this before he shaved it off? Does Jared just grow a beard that quickly? I DO NOT CARE.)

He feels bad for not being there for Jack while he was busy looking for Dean, and then he apologizes for complaining to her. But she's relieved not to be the only one with "parental guilt." Because they went through so much without her, and then things were "complicated" when she got back. "I'm just saying, parenting is always a struggle. You always feel like you're failing, but then you look at them, and somehow, they're amazing. Somehow, they're literally the bravest, kindest, most heroic men on the planet." Well, this is true. Very true. And I'm glad she's giving Sam the praise and validation he SO deserves but come on, Mary. What do you know about parenting? You did it for four years. When did you feel like you were failing six-month-old Sam?

YES, MARY, I WANT TO TOUCH IT TOO

Fade to Sam. Interesting that Jack's warm fuzzy flashback turned into Sam's. (It's because Sam is his primary dad! It is known!) They're still at Rowena's, and Dean is still ranting about Cas not telling them about the snake. EVEN THOUGH DEAN DIDN'T CARE ABOUT THE SNAKE WHEN CAS FIRST TOLD HIM.

Cas, Cas should have told us. As soon as he saw Jack going Dahmer on his stupid snake, he should have told us.

Dean, it wasn't just Cas. We knew Jack was dangerous. We always knew. Long before he killed Michael. You more than anyone. I mean, from the very beginning you knew. But, you know, we fell for him, because he had a good heart and a good soul. And then, he didn't. And that's on me, too, by the way. I mean, I'm the one that made the call to bring him back. He didn't ask for that. I decided for him. And you warned me.

Oooh. Sam. No. Because:

1) Dean didn't KNOW from the very beginning. He was, in fact, WRONG at the very beginning, when he thought Jack was evil. Jack was not evil, and you insisted on giving him a chance, and YOU WERE RIGHT. Jack becoming "evil" in the future (and he's not even EVIL, he's just naive and untrained and too powerful for his own good) wasn't anything Dean predicted.

b) Dean didn't exactly fight very hard to stop Sam from bringing Jack back. Seems like most of his concern was that it wouldn't work, not that it was a bad idea in and of itself.

Then Sam says "You know, after Maggie and the other hunters died, I just left. I just dumped Jack on Cas and left." Well, I'm not a big fan of "Maggie and the other hunters" (reminds me too much of "Sting and the Police" and I don't know why Maggie - or Sting - were so damn special that they deserved to be singled out as the only ones in the group with a name), but I also don't have any memory of Sam leaving after Michael killed the other hunters. And when he did, he wanted to take Jack, but Dean wouldn't let him. But Sam says he knew something was going to happen and he's wallowing in guilt. Dean admits that he also knew there was a risk, because of what Donatello told him about not being sure. Well, thank Chuck for that. I'm glad Dean's not letting Sam shoulder all the blame for something that wasn't his fault.

Angry Dean and sad Sam, two things I adore.

Back at the bunker, Rowena is gathering her cumin and other ingredients. Jack's getting impatient, and she tells him that she could have fought him, but she didn't. "Because you want the same thing the boys want. That I want." This is a beautiful, beautiful moment, with Rowena wanting what "the boys" want, but it's interrupted by Hallucifer, who doesn't even know why Jack is doing any of this. "To ease your guilt? But you don't have guilt any more, do you, Jack? Admit it. You don't feel anything any more." Well. Everything Hallucifer says comes from Jack's head, so what do we think about this? Does Jack really not feel anything any more? I disagree. If he didn't feel anything, if he didn't want Mary back, if he didn't care about forgiveness, why would he even bother? So I think our boy does feel something. Rowena is disturbed by Jack talking to his hallucination, but she carries on and finishes the spell. They have everything they need except the body. Oh.

Stairway to Heaven. Cas isn't going anywhere until Naomi talks to him. Someone finally shows up, but it's Duma.

Where's Naomi?

Well, I'd tell you it's none of your business, but you already know it's none of your business. Naomi just gets paid more than I do, and we've already got all the regular guest stars in this episode, so we had to cut some corners.

At least that's how I remember it. She tells him Mary is at peace in "a special Heaven" and "is complete" and he should just let her be.

Jack takes Rowena to the Cabin of Death, but Mary's body isn't there. He thinks she should be able to complete the spell anyway, but she says she can't. He wants to do it himself, but she says he's in no shape, and "disposition affects execution." She tells him that whatever he brings back won't be Mary, and refuses to help him and OH I'M CONCERNED FOR HER AND HE REACHES OUT AND PUSHES HER and she just ends up being shoved back into her apartment. WHEW. She calls Sam and tells him what Jack is doing, and that it won't work because there's no body, and Jack has snapped and they need to stop him." Necromancy is a delicate art, unpredictable under ideal circumstances. In his state, I fear your boy will bring back something terrible." WELL, THAT'S ENCOURAGING. (Also, Rowena is hilarious in this scene.)

Jack sits in the corpse-less blast zone and performs the ritual and a huge swirling purple cloud appears overhead and I'm thinking, is this our out? Is Jack going to summon something awful, something that can be the Big Bad so he doesn't have to? Please? He notices the Impala nearby, and uses his powers to stop it in its tracks. Luckily it's just right outside the cabin. Sam and Dean run toward him, and we see him looking down at whatever he has summoned, but he doesn't look happy about it. Neither do the Winchesters. "It didn't work," he says, before zapping out.

Oh, the thing he brought back is Mary. Well, Mary's corpse, apparently. Dean holds her and finds her still dead, and he's sad and we get his flashback, which is just Mary leaning on him, asleep in the car, and then Sam comes and holds Dean as he holds Mary and everybody's sad, we're all sad, so terribly terribly sad and we get a crane shot and it's a very lovely scene but I can't help thinking um, correct me if I'm wrong, but we do have that missing piece now, right?

Jack ends up at some industrial kind of place, where Hallucifer tells him there's no going back. "Cas, Sam, Dean, they're never going to trust you again. And you know what that means. You can never trust THEM." And oh, this is Jack's head telling him that. Poor baby.

Bunker. Sam has his box of treasures and he's looking at the few remaining family photos. He looks up, full of hope, when Cas comes in. But Cas tells him Mary is in Heaven and at peace. Dean shows up in time to hear this, and asks if he's just going to take Duma's word for it, because she's a known liar and also might possibly be that dude from The Empty. He says no, he actually saw Mary's Heaven, and we see her door with the dates 1954-1983 and 2016-2019 on it, which of course begs the question of what Sam and Dean's doors are going to look like.

He says he saw her with John (way to bury the lede, Cas), and they're full of joy. But was it really John? Haven't we established that most people are in their own individual Heavens, and if she has a John, it's just an avatar? I mean, John's name wasn't on the door. And I expect Dean, at least, to insist they try to bring her back anyway. But Sam says Rowena told him that what Jack brought back was just an empty replica, "incapable of holding life." (I mean, I feel like that sometimes.) "So what are we supposed to do now?" he asks. And again, Sam is looking to Dean to lead them through this, and yet he's got to know what they SHOULD do. He's got to be thinking of Mary, safe and happy in Heaven, and of ripping someone (anyone, no one in particular, right Sam?) away from that and forcing them to continue on Earth just because you can't be without them. He's got to be thinking of that.

"What we always do," Dean says. And the last time he said that, in this very episode, it meant we do something awful, we throw our own lives away or make some horrible bargain or damn the world in order to bring her back. But this time, it just means that we give her a hunter's funeral. And Sam doesn't look like he was ready for that after all.

So Mary gets a very dramatic pyre, and a montage? Did anyone else get a montage? Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Kevin, Crowley? JOHN? ANYONE? A FREAKING MONTAGE? NO. Grrr. Cas tries to get closer to Dean and Sam puts out a hand and stops him. Also, Sam burns a photo of her and I don't know why.

And finally, we cut to the library table where Sam and Dean carved their initials and we see they are joined by a M.W. Um. What about John? Didn't he get to carve his intials? (NO. Those are only for people who get a montage.)

Also, now that I'm going back to get screencaps, it doesn't look like her intials were there at the beginning of the episode. So she didn't carve them, one of the guys did. And not Dad's? Cold, boys.

You know, last week, like, five or ten minutes before the end of the episode, I thought if Jack hadn't cemented his place in Dean's heart already, he's certainly there now. Because he saved Sam. No matter what else Jack did or is doing or will do, he saved Sam. And I want someone to point that out. I want Sam to say "no, I'm not ready to give up on him, and you realize the only reason I'm here to argue with you is because Jack saved me, right? And if he is soulless, he lost it by saving our asses, right?" (Is this because I watched "Clip Show" a couple of days ago and watched Sam frantically try to soothe Sarah as she died from Crowley's handiwork, and I want Jack to get the same kind of second chance that Crowley got? Maybe.) Now, I realize killing Mary is more awful than anything Crowley (or any other enemy-turned-frenemy) has done to them. But it was an accident. And HE SAVED SAM'S LIFE. Come on. That counts for something.

(Sidebar: We also learned, in that scene back in season 8, that Crowley's mother was a witch. {blows a big wet kiss to the Continuity Fairy})

So, how do I feel about Mary being gone? Here's the deal. This show, at its heart, is about two (or three) men who have a giant bleeding Mary Winchester-sized hole in their lives. Filling that hole does not make for good television. And the Show tried to make her interesting and edgy by playing against what we thought we knew about her (she can't cook! she can't stay away from hunting! she sleeps with both Arthur Ketch and New Bobby!), it tried to make her both a source of conflict and a source of comfort, and ultimately (as far as I'm concerned) it just failed. She was so much more effective as that siren song of the impossible apple pie life. I said earlier and I'll repeat it here... the fact that they had to retcon all of these warm fuzzy flashbacks, instead of using actual clips, just shows how shallow these relationships were. There wasn't anything real to fall back on. And the way they spend these two episodes trying to make us care? It had the opposite effect on me. I'm glad to be shed of her.

But maybe that's just me. Maybe absence will make the heart grow fonder. We shall see. Come on and tell me what you think, and remember, no spoilers in the comments, please!

#spn #tv recaps #recap #14.18 #spoilers #beard of despair

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visionsofus · 5 years

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Field Trips, Infinity Stones, and oh mY GOD IS THAT SPIDER-MAN?

CH1 | CH2 | CH3 | CH4 | CH5 | CH6 | AO3

|CHAPTER 7 ~ exhibits and explosions |

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Things go boom

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Peter stepped into the bustling cafeteria, the force of the heavy door that swung closed behind him ruffling his hair. He took a deep breath and after a quick scan of the room, identified Ned and MJ who were seated, luckily, at an empty table by the window. Determined to avoid the stares and whispers of the rest of his classmates, Peter walked swiftly in the direction of his friends. With each step he pushed the thoughts of the lab on Level 27 further and further from his mind.

Peter was fairly familiar with the cafeteria on floor 7, having spent many a lunch time down here with some of the other interns. Conversations had often centred around the surprisingly good food that was served, bumps they had run into in their experimentation or complaints about the restrictions placed around their projects. Peter had found the cafeteria a fun and laid-back place to relax with the other interns in between research and experimentation. They'd often had dares going on such as who could sweat talk the cooks into giving them an extra serving or who could design a gadget that would raid the vending machines near the drink fountain.

Though Peter tried to keep his eyes to the ground as he walked swiftly over to Ned's table, he subconsciously took in his surroundings. He spotted Daniel over on one of the tables with some of the interns, his eyes trained on Peter in concern. Midtown took up three tables, but the rest were largely occupied by high school students like himself but wearing two different sets of uniform blazers. Peter didn't recognise either.

Peter shied away from the eyes of his classmates and anyone else who had looked up at his entrance. All their eyes made him antsy and he almost missed the quiet seclusion of the lab he had just been in. His lab… no, Peter corrected himself, no it wasn't.

'But you've always been enough'

Peter squirmed slightly as Mr Stark's words rang through his head as he walked through the tables.

The rest of the occupants of the cafeteria chatted on unbeknownst to the attention that Peter was getting as he tugged his backpack closer to his back. Though the iron spider suit had been fairly lightweight, he already found himself missing the assurance and comfort it had provided. Had he made the wrong choice? He cast the thought from his mind as he took a seat next to Ned and across from MJ.

Ned, oh so reliable Ned, had gotten Peter his serving of lunch already. Peter managed a small smile when he saw the food, Friday's had always been curry days at Stark Industries. It seemed some things never changed.

"Everything ok, Peter?" Ned said quietly, looking concerned.

"Not really." Peter said honestly, sighing as he picked up his spoon. "I'll tell you… sometime." Peter loved being able to share the superhero part of his world with Ned. But there were some things that he just couldn't explain in a way that Ned would truly understand. The bond he'd had with Mr Stark was one of those things.

"Alright, whatever you need just let me know." Ned said smiling warmly and putting an arm around Peter in a sort of half hug.

"Thanks buddy." Peter said, trying to smile. He didn't like how strained his voice sounded, as though he were about to fall apart all over again.

Peter swallowed and looked down at his curry, pushing it around his plate with the spoon. He'd always looked forward to the Fridays he'd spent at Stark Industries because they had usually turned into weekend trips that May hadn’t always been wholly in support of. May really didn’t like it when Peter missed school. Peter would spend the three days researching and experimenting and sleeping in the spare room in the private Stark quarters up on the floor below the CEO's office. He'd have dinners with Tony sometimes, and Pepper if she was free but other times it would just be him and Happy. Peter had fond memories of the time that Tony had tried to cook a lasagne for dinner and had ended up setting off the fire alarm and had to explain to Friday that there was no need to contact emergency services. Both Peter and Friday had been sworn to secrecy to never tell Pepper about the disaster evening.

Peter would spend the days learning as much as he could and always dreading the arrival of Sunday night which marked his return to his ordinary life as a high schooler. On rare occasions he would be able to convince May that his time at SI was a better for his future than classes were, and she'd let him take Monday off as well. Peter felt a lump forming in his throat and in the interests of preserving his dignity, he cast the memories to the side and focused on what he was eating.

Peter glanced up from his food as he caught Ned surreptitiously sliding an apple flavoured juice pouch over to his plate. Peter raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Whattt." Ned said shrugging and zipping up his backpack which was under the table, not before Peter caught sight of four other identical juices. "They had them with the food, do you know how long it has been since I had one of these? I know you like them, you can't hide anything from me."

"Thanks." Peter said, managing a smile.

Peter unwrapped the straw and poked the juice pouch open, sniffing as he did. He should have stopped at a bathroom to grab some tissues and at least wash his face; all that crying had left his nose running and eyes sore. He sighed and sniffed again. He was tired but at least he was feeling a little hungry now, that was a good sign. With each mouthful of curry Peter tried to push the memories of Mr Stark further from his mind. He hoped that Karen wasn't angry with him for snapping at her and walking out of the lab like that. Could machines sulk? He wouldn't put it past her.

Peter sniffed again and rubbed at his eyes, scowling as he did so. It was so damn obvious that he had been crying.

Peter rested his cheek on one of his hands as he pushed the curry around his plate, taking a mouthful every now and then. Ned seemed to notice that Peter needed distracting and started to tell him about some of the intern's projects they had seen, including what Ned described as ‘mind-controlled drones’ - Peter wished that he'd had the chance to talk to the intern responsible for that project.

Peter listened to Ned's talking and nodded and made noises of agreement where it was appropriate. He let himself get lost in Ned's version of events of Flash being humiliated by one of the interns, a thrilling tale that Peter wished he had more energy to pay attention to.

MJ began fishing through her backpack, eventually pulling out her sketch book - the one that Peter had seen her use time and time again to sketch 'people in crisis' as she so liked to call it. Peter wondered how often he featured in it. Did she ever draw herself? Peter doubted it, MJ had always seemed so cool under pressure, he couldn’t imagine her ever reacting badly to a crisis. It did make him wonder how she had settled in after the Snap, he barely knew anything about her family or whether they had been dusted in the Decimation.

MJ discarded her notebook however and kept looking around in her bag, eventually pulling out a pack of tissues and throwing them at Peter. It wasn't the best of throws and would have gone well over his shoulder if it weren't for his Spidey senses. He caught the small plastic packet in two fingers and raised an eyebrow at her.

"You look like you need them." MJ said shrugging and opening her sketch book up.

"Thanks…?" Peter said and then turned to Ned to whisper, "Do I really look that bad?"

"It's not great." Ned said looking over Peter's face once.

"Great." Peter whispered, pulling a tissue out and dabbing at his nose. "I'm just going to the bathroom, I'll be right back."

"Sure thing." Ned said taking another bite of curry and craning his head to try and get a look at who MJ was sketching. She frowned and turned the sketch book further away from him[SF1] .

Peter slipped his hands into his pockets and ducked around tables and exiting the cafeteria quickly. He needed to splash his face with some water, maybe blow his nose and try and put himself back together again.

Once Peter was out in the corridor, he noticed a group of five students from one of the other high schools gathered outside the elevators. Two guys, three girls, all dressed in purple and green blazers. Peter thought about stopping but decided it was none of his business and continued onwards to the bathroom at the end of the corridor. Their visitor level clearance cards wouldn't get them anywhere anyways. Peter had already entered the bathroom before he could see Daniel join their entourage.

"Welcome to the 18th Level museum," Abigail said spreading her arms out behind her as the group entered the enormous space. "Stark Industries New York headquarters is the only one with such a display, it's one of a kind. For the next two hours you are going to be able to walk around the exhibits, look at our history and in groups of four we will be inviting you to test out some old models."

Abigail reached into her bag and pulled out a set of folded maps and began handing them out in bundles for the students to share amongst themselves. "These are maps to all the displays. The museum is divided into three spaces, in the south wing you will find the history of SI from Howard Stark until the present, the west wing holds most of our Avenger artefacts." excited murmurs broke out throughout the group.

"This space we are currently in is dedicated to the late Mr Stark's work post his accident in 2008. The actual replicas and models that you'll get the chance to experiment with are kept over that way," Abigail said gesturing to her right, past glass cases and information boards, "in the east wing."

The students had started chattering in excitement with several making a break from the group and drifting towards the east wing, hoping to be the first to try out some of the old prototypes.

"When we are done here you willbe required to walk through another detector so please do not try and remove any artefact from the museum as our AI system will immediately alert us and we will have to contact the authorities." Abigail said sternly but stepped aside to allow the eager students to rush forward and look at the exhibits.

Peter looked at Ned who had opened up his map and was struggling to decide where he wanted to go first.

"Where do you want to start?" Peter prompted, looking around the museum space and wondering how they were supposed to spend two hours here.

"I don't even know." Ned said shaking his head. From the excitement clear on Ned’s face it seemed that he would have no trouble finding ways to entertain himself.

"We could just start at the beginning." Peter shrugged, indicating the south wing which was home to the original history of SI. It seemed a safe enough place to start that hopefully wouldn't dredge up many memories for Peter.

"Good idea." Ned said nodding and started off in that direction.

Any other time and Peter probably would have enjoyed looking around the museum. He had heard about it but had never actually ventured to the 18th level himself. He wished that he could feel a little more engaged with the exhibits, but it was difficult considering the way his thoughts kept annoyingly returning to the lab ten floors above them. Peter found the best way to keep his mind off it all was to just not think about anything. He followed Ned around to each case, read the information on the boards but didn't really absorb any of it, and just let Ned go about his business. Sometimes Ned asked Peter questions, particularly when they arrived at the Avengers wing and Ned found a small case dedicated to Peter's own superhero alias.

"This is part of your first suit, right?" Ned asked, his voice hushed so that MJ, just a few feet away and reading about Black Widow’s bulletproof suit, didn’t hear them.

"Yep." Peter said sighing and looking at his deconstructed Spider-Man suit. He'd agreed to let Tony display some of his first designs as well as elements of the first prototype. As a rule, the museum didn't display any full suits that were in working condition because it was a security threat. Thus, the only parts of the suit that were displayed were some models of his web shooters and his old mask and eye goggles.

"Cool." Ned whispered and snapped a few photos, it made Peter smile. Ned had seen his suit before, and he’d seen the newer, better suit that Mr Stark had designed, yet this stuff still made him excited.

Peter followed Ned over to the huge case that held designs for Captain America's suit and shield. Peter's heartstrings were tugged at yet again as he thought of Steve Rogers. A couple of weeks earlier he had received a message from Sam Wilson, aka Falcon. Peter had sort of freaked out when he had gotten the email, wondering if he was being called in for a mission or worse, the message was actually spam. He'd had very few interactions with Falcon outside of battles and getting the message out of the blue made him worried. Instead it had been a mass email sent out to what appeared to be the rest of the Avengers (Peter had immediately saved their emails to his contacts) and detailed events that had taken place earlier that day when Steve had been sent back to return all the infinity stones to their appropriate places in history and had not returned. At least not in the same form he had left in.

"Wow Vibranium," Ned said, reading one of Cap's many information boards. "Do you have any of that?"

"I had a tiny, tiny bit to experiment with that Mr Stark had left over from remaking Cap's shield." Peter explained quietly, "But it's really, really difficult stuff to get and Wakanda is super careful about who they give it to."

"Damn." Ned said sighing. "I'd love to have a shield like that."

Peter laughed despite himself.

Once they had made it around to all the exhibits, Peter becoming very distant at the Iron Man exhibit and Ned had taken his fill of photos, they proceeded into the testing wing. By this time most of the other students had already had their turn so the line wasn't very long.

The prototypes weren't all that impressive once you had seen and experienced the real thing, Peter decided. They had two technicians helping the students to navigate the equipment. Each student had the opportunity to use a replica of Cap's shield, though it were far less impressive and seemed to actually obey the laws of physics, unlike the real thing. They could try on a replica of War Machine's helmet and interact with a bot to read and react to different situations that were presented in a sort of virtual reality environment. There were a few other pieces of equipment lying around but it seemed these two were the most highly sought after. The third item that the students were most keen to use was what shook Peter the most. It was a replica of one of Tony's suit - just the arm and there was no arc reactor powering the blasters - that melded to the arm and shifted as the wearer moved. Peter squirmed as each student tried it on, each looking more ridiculous than the last.

Peter scowled at Flash who had just stepped into the experimental space and immediately headed for the Iron Man arm. The tech helped him into it and Flash grinned as he moved his arm around and watched as the plates shifted with his movements. It was beginning to make Peter feel sick, the spectacle of it all. Here were a bunch of teenagers enjoying trying on different weapons. Though they were just replicas, it annoyed Peter to think that they were being used so carelessly when the real things belonged to people he knew and who put their lives on the line time and time again. Before Thanos, Peter might have found it amusing, he might have even stood a little taller knowing that he actually got to see the real things. But now… it made him feel sick.

Peter watched as Flash arrogantly raised his hand and looked towards the rest of the students as he obnoxiously mimicked a finger snap. Peter saw some of his classmates visibly flinch and Peter himself went stock still in shock. From what Peter had heard, finger snapping had taken on incredible connotations post the Decimation. People were afraid to snap their fingers and it became a sort of equivalent to the horrid 'go kill yourself/ kill me now' phrases that people had enjoyed lightly tossing around for a period back in 2017. Given that some of his classmates had lived through the Decimation, Peter wasn't surprised at their reactions after the way their lives had been turned upside down. It made Peter want to go up into the experimental space and punch Flash right in his stupid face.

For Peter it was different. The connotation of that motion shook him deep to his core, making him feel as though he were back on the battle field, watching Tony Stark die all over again. Peter's chest tightened and suddenly all the noises around him felt infinitely louder, the lights above and their ringing making him want to clap his hands over his ears and eyes. Even the sound of Flash moving his arm and hearing the metal plates clink sent Peter reeling. He smelt body odour in the air, mixing with deodorant and perfume and the potent smell of mint chewing gum that made his nose sting. Peter's vision began to blur, and he swallowed thickly as his heart rate quickened and his palms became clammy. He stumbled when a wave of dizziness hit, and he bumped into Ned.

"You ok?" Ned said grasping Peter's arm to support him.

"Yeah, I'll be ok." Peter said shying away from Ned's touch. "Just going to get some air I think."

Before Ned could offer to come with him Peter pushed through his classmates and made for the exit.

Peter left the museum space through the same door that they had come in and headed down the corridor towards a large window he had spotted earlier. He reached it quickly and took a seat, pressing his back against the smooth, cool concrete. He pulled his backpack off and set it in front of him, pulling out a pair of noise cancelling headphones and snapping them over his ears. Silence washed over Peter as he breathed deeply, crossing his legs out in front of him as he settled into the little outcropping beside the window.

The sensory overload was something Peter had gradually learnt to cope with better over the last few years. He'd come to accept it as just another part of the Spider-Man gig. As great as his heightened senses were in a battle, in regular life sometimes they were just too much. It didn't help that he seemed to be experiencing panic attack symptoms more frequently now.

Sometimes when his senses got too loud Peter liked to listen to music, sometimes, like now, he just liked the silence that the noise cancelling headphones provided. He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool glass and focused on calming his breathing down, practicing the counting method that Karen had taught him about.

Peter didn't have to take the headphones off or open his eyes to know that someone had joined him. He sensed the air shift as she sat down opposite him, felt the floor beneath him vibrate with her movements.

Peter let his eyes open and glanced at MJ who had taken a seat opposite him, sketch book open. Of course, she had come to sketch him. At this point he didn't feel offended and just let her draw him.

"You ok?" She asked, once Peter removed his headphones. The sounds were quieter now and Peter tried to focus on keeping it that way.

"Yeah." Peter said shrugging and watching as she pushed the graphite pencil around the page, gradually forming what resembled a head.

"You reacted pretty badly to the snap." MJ mused and Peter cursed her for being so observant.

"What do you mean?" He said, choosing to play dumb.

"I'm not an idiot, I know a panic attack when I see one." MJ said, continuing her sketching but pausing to look up at Peter every now and then. She was half right he supposed, but she couldn't possibly know about the sensory overload thing. She probably only knew it was a panic attack because of stupid Flash grabbing his phone on the bus that morning. MJ spoke again, "counting helps for me, I identify 5 thinks I can see, 4 things I can hear et cetera until I’ve gone through all my senses."

"Breathing helps me." Peter replied, tilting his head curiously. Did MJ get panic attacks?

"Yeah well it is pretty crucial." She said, her lips quirking up in what Peter took to be a sort of half smile. "But, you got snapped so how come you reacted so badly to it? We weren't even here to see the effects."

Peter looked out the window and sighed, his warm breath making the glass fog up. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you… or if you did, you'd find it dumb."

"To make you react like that, I doubt it'd be dumb." MJ said in a way that made it clear she wasn't pushing him for an answer, but Peter found that he wanted to anyway.

"I… I lost Mr Stark." Peter whispered, so quiet he wondered if she heard. He kept his eyes trained outside to the skyline, not wanting to see MJ's reaction. He heard her pencil stop moving across the paper for a few seconds before starting again. "He was my mentor, I know Flash doesn’t believe it, but he taught me a lot… he was really important to me. Losing him was like losing a part of myself, and I'm struggling to find my way back."

Peter stopped talking and bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from thinking further about the matter and MJ didn't push him further.

"See." MJ said leaning her head against the glass so as to catch Peter's eye. "Not dumb at all."

"Thanks." Peter said smiling weakly.

"And for the record, I don't think you ever really lose someone. As long as they're still here," she tapped her forehead, "and here" then her heart, “you never actually lose them."

Peter nodded and mulled over her words for a little longer. They remained seated across from each other by the window outcropping for some time, not speaking. The silence wasn't uncomfortable or awkward in any way, instead it was peaceful and comforting. Peter was beginning to find that he actually really enjoyed spending time with MJ.

He was mustering up the courage to ask MJ how she was doing after being brought back from the Snap, worried that any question into her personal life might make her retreat, when the hair on his arms stood up. Peter immediately became alert, looking first out the window to ensure that no alien ships were descending from the sky. He put his headphones away and slung his backpack over his shoulders, moving to push himself off the ground and pressing a hand against the cool tiling of the floor as he did. Peter paused when he felt the energy currents running beneath them and the slow but steady rumbling that was disrupting the waves. Something was growing in power beneath them. Sometime was definitely not right.

"Something-" Peter began but his voice was lost to the extreme force of the explosion that went off several floors beneath them.

#avengers endgame spoilers #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman field trip #field trip to stark industries trope #field trip trope #Peter parker #Michelle jones #Peter x mj #a little iron dad and spiderson #more mentor Tony than fatherly but still wholesome #visionsofusfics

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virtual-crisis · 5 years

Text

⭐Alpha Centauri⭐, Part Ten

I really need to crack this writer’s block. Third of this was already ready to go, then block happened. Again.

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I had a dream overnight. Lucid as always, and everything was a blur, like a picture out of focus. I narrowed in on something, and saw the vague figure of a capra—a goat demon—shuffling away. No doubt it was Scape- I’d only seen him in human form, but when you look at a demon side-by-side to their human form, you can just tell. As he faded into the jumbled void of latent imagination and dormant creativity, I felt myself fall…

I yelped, which had to have translated to a yip outside. After a brief moment of plummeting though, I landed on something soft and fluffy, like wool… It was coating the back of some long, slender and scaly figure, that was at once moving as well. A dragon? A dragon. A reverse hammock, my body said…

I looked down the length of its body. It gently oscillated up and down like a sine wave, gentle enough that I wouldn’t notice without looking. Its scales were azure, and its wool like the midnight sky. Not quite black, but close enough a blue to deceive the less-knowledgeable.

I lifted my four hands, gently placing my palms on the serpent’s back. I wanted to see its face, what was in front… It was so far away that if it was out there, my compound eyes were too feeble, even in a dream. Carefully, I heaved myself to my feet, like a toddler trying to stand on a train set. Not the smartest move, but my wings kept me steady.

I tried to bring the beast’s head to me with my lucidity, to no avail. Instead, I began to walk along it like a balance beam, following its motion through the subconscious abyss. As thoughts soared by like stars in space, I mindlessly kept on my way. Several times, I’d pass a pair of spindly arms, grasping at the nothingness and pushing it away, though still no sign of the head.

Perhaps there was no end. Was this just my mind clung to the East and its counterparts to my kind? I wanted to know the meaning to this entity. I had to…

My eyes opened, and I took in a confused breath. My head was hung over the side of my bed, and my body sprawled across it, still fully clothed. Moments later, my 7 o’ clock phone alarm went off. Great.

Chialer wouldn’t be up yet, and by all means I wasn’t supposed to be getting up for another hour [the alarm was meant to be snoozed], but beast-damnit I got to sleep early, so I’m clim—well, flopping out of bed early too.

So I trotted out of my room…. And spent an hour watching an animated movie. One with dragons and Japanese spirits, y’know the one. In the middle of the third act, Chialer trudged out in atronach form.

“...The fuck is up with that lady’s nose?” she grumbled at the TV.

I glared at her. “What the heck is up with your fa—”

“Yo that dragon’s fucking hot.”

I thumped my fists on the couch. “He’s an ageless spirit that presents himself as a preteen! You can’t fucking say that!” I spat.

Chialer’s eyes went wide, and she gulped, turning to dart into the bathroom. “Shit, fuck, yeah, got that.” she said hastily.

“Wash your whore mouth out with soap!” I called after her, going ahead and turning off the movie. Mood was shot for watching it now, so time for slightly higher-than-normal quality ramen.

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So we wouldn’t be lurking around eachother all the time, Nebb and I bunked in different dorms, so I took several minutes walking myself over there. The uni campus was nice and quiet with 8 AM classes having just started, so I enjoyed the lovely sight of the last few moths flittering away to sleep for the day, trading places with butterflies and other diurnal bugs.

For a minute, I stopped at a flower garden, staring down the various butterflies. Unlike with other humans, they looked back. I could feel the nervousness and anxiety as they looked up at me: a moth fifty or so times their size, wearing the flesh of a human and walking plainly among them. I smiled.

“I wonder how many of you will be impaled on plaques by collectors with their little nails… If you live that long, even.” I said passively, my eyes going blank. From the facing side of me, the white spots of my wings faintly showed, all watching the little bugs, each making eye contact with one.

I seized up after several moments at a sudden noise. I turned around to see another student having just opened a bag of chips as they passed by several yards away. Better only the nonsapient mortals see me being… Me.

I knocked on the front door of Nebula’s dorm, getting a rude reminder of his poor taste: three jockish frat boys burst out the door, reeking of tobacco as they barged past me. “Haha, bad timing yo, we’ve got places to be!” one said.

“Date tryouts are next week, plenty time for weight watchers!”

The trio laughed as I clenched my fists. “Hey, you Nate’s sis? Y’look like it- make him get on it too!”

I let myself into the ‘dorm’ [being generous to the frat house] as they meandered down the street. Nebula was in the kitchen, combing the messy curls of his unfittingly-bright blonde hair whilst examining some liquid suicide of a drink.

“Still haven’t arse’d those dickholes?”

“I can’t just poison whoever I want, Ally, there’s these things called laws…” Nebula said passively as he glanced over.

“Then make it look like an accident, give ‘em moonshine that’ll drop them. Lucy knows we’d be doing the gene pool a service.”

Nebb put a hand to his face, setting the comb aside before taking a swig of his concoction. “You wanna fight the police, do it yourself. I’m not here for that kinda shit.”

I sighed roughly. “Whatever. Didja get that makeup assignment done?”

“Yeah, no thanks to Ty. I watched the recording I took yesterday and reenacted it as best I could.”

“Good. Any idea what we’re gonna be yelled at about?”

Nebula slid himself over to the sink to delicately dunk his glass in. Yes, delicately. “The quiz-een day-la Fronse.” he said, waving his hands pretentiously as he dipped into an offensively bad accent. “Moan sherry, you entered at zee PERFECT time.”

I rubbed my fingers on my brow in attempt to stave off a cringe-induced headache. It wasn’t working. “Careme, Careme… So he’s talking his own specialty.”

“Yup, he says he’s named after one of the great culinary innovators from there, so you know he’s serious.”

“Riiiight.”

I looked around. The kitchen was horribly ‘maintained’ by the fraternity, and a demon of sloth was far from about to fix that. Nebula took the awkward silence as an excuse to slip away to the fridge and pitch a beer can at me. With how often he did so, I caught it reflexively.

“Get drunk, what’s up,” he said, putting his hands up. Perfect timing too, since I threw the can back and beaned him in the nose with it.

“Go chat up Bear Grylls if you wanna drink piss, I actually have a sense of taste.”

“Says the stoner?”

“Yeah, for medical purposes. I don’t see dad telling you to drink alcohol for your health.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s implied.”

I sat down at the kitchen island as two other guys came in, talking to eachother. Nebb picked the beer can off the floor and popped the dent in the side into a hole he could drink out of, courtesy of a knife handle.

“Seats taken?” one of the frat guys ‘asked’, sitting next to me. His ‘buddy’ sat on his other side.

“They are now,” I quipped boredly, leaning an elbow on the counter to prop up my chin. “Bartender, gimme a solid cup of maple syrup.”

Nebb gave me a cynical look while the other two snickered. “Seriously?” he grunted.

“Yeah? Did I fuckin’ stutter?”

The guy next to me waved a hand at Nebb. “What, thought you were mister ‘two packs is nothing’ Nate?”

“Four packs of something meant to be drunk by itself.”

“Sounds like someone’s a wussy!”

The guys went into uproarious laughter. I’d cupped my hands around my mouth to make a sound akin to a vuvuzela, and reveled in how red Nebb’s face got. The next ten minutes were primarily him ‘relenting’ and drinking pancake syrup straight from the bottle, before challenging the others and myself to do so with other condiments. I got pushed to eat a whole cup of mayo, which… Ew. When I inevitably upchucked it on Nebb, only he got laughed at as he skittered away to clean himself up.

Once he was presentable again [and in new clothes], Nebula and I made our way to the main campus, where Nebb affectionately referred to Scape’s lecture hall as its ‘belly’. Chai was lurking at the side entrance, and I pulled out a cellphone to group-text the two my frustration about having to stay in human form.

“Y’think if Careme gets enough of us in his class, we won’t have to worry about that?”

“Nah, security cameras. And the doors are windowed.”

“Fucking home.”

I glanced over my shoulder as we skulked through the halls, ensuring nobody would catch onto our whispering and muttering.

“Why’s he want us in this class anyway?” Chai grumbled.

Nebula puffed out his chest haughtily, speaking up. “He believes the more students attend his class, the more chances they’ll get to have his greatness rub off on them!” he said, teasing at nobody in particular. Chai and I both rolled our eyes, but I quickly pulled out my phone again as I got an email notification.

] (AUTOCORRECTED) You’ll be seen as under the protection of an elder demon. Makes things safer for us.

I caught Nebb’s eyes in my periphery, and we both nodded. Chai stared at us in confusion for a moment, before pulling her phone out to read the message.

When we entered the lecture hall, it was set up like a recording studio for some Iron Chef-lookin’-ass cooking show. Scape waved Chai and I down to the podium at the front, surrounded by plug-in kitchen appliances stood on three layers of tarps.

“Bonjour, salut, everyone, we have two new students in the class!” the professor said. “They’ve been taking the class online before, but now they’ve gotten a schedule opening to start showing up in person!”

Our new classmates nodded along as Nebula set the ‘make-up assignment’ on a metal folding table, before finding a seat. I was pondering what sort of job to say I had quit to make room for that excuse.

“And who better to help out in today’s lesson?”

My blank expression turned to a frown. Nevermind, I was thinking up excuses to get out of that.

“Uh, I missed this part’a the syllabus. What’re we doing?” Chai said, leaning an arm on my shoulder.

Scape planted his hands on a stove, smiling warmly at us. “Crème brûlée. Should be easy for you, yes?”

Never-nevermind. This class might just be my favorite.

#alpha centauri #She was in fact watching Spirited Away #also 'arse'd' is her shorthand for arsenic

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amaranthkick · 6 years

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The Swan Prince, Part 2

(Ao3)

Shiro saw that it was night as he finally escaped the tunnels and stepped foot outside. Darkness covered the land with a blessed full moon providing much needed light.

Shiro panted as he ran as far as he could from the Galra and stopped to catch his breath when he was deep in unfamiliar woods. Looking back he could see the the tips of old stone towers peeking over the canopy of the trees. He was imprisoned in the underground dungeon of a seemingly abandoned stone castle.

The trees… they seemed so much taller than what he was used to. The Galra had taken him so far from home, these must be native to the location. He reached out his hand to touch the tree trunk when he let out an undignified squawk at what he saw: a wing, a black feathered wing, his black feathered wing!

He looked himself over as best he could and felt numb. A swan! He became a swan!

A sharp growling cut through the quiet woods bringing a chill that overcame Shiro’s shock. He glanced to his left catching eyes glowing in the dark along with bared fangs several meters away from him. A wolf was staring him down hungrily, to it he was nothing but fair game.

Shiro ran for his life. It was easy for the wolf to catch up to him but Shiro would smack it with a heavy wing to stun it and gain precious seconds to keep ahead of it. He didn’t know he was heading towards a cliff till it was too late. The edge gave way as soon as he stepped on it and he was falling. With only one wing he couldn’t hope to fly but that didn’t stop him from trying. He fell all the while frantically flapping his wing, his saving grace was the river waiting at the bottom.

But even that wasn’t about to make it easy for him. While his new body let him float with little difficulty, he was carried away in the raging rapids. He was tossed around like a rag doll, he sputtered water as it splashed everywhere. Shiro struggled to keep his bearings as landscapes rushed by.

—

Shiro coughed out some water as he woke up. He must’ve blacked out at one point during that scary ride. Above him was clear blue skies so the river had to have carried him for quite some time. He woke up on land right next to where the river, having calmed from the intense flow, smoothly fed into a large lake.

He checked his arm and it was still a wing. Yup, he was still a swan. Shiro wondered how he can possibly undo this. It wasn’t even done on purpose, just the side-effects of a big accident.

…

His head drooped down as he couldn’t think of any mages or magically attuned persons that could help him. He didn’t even have his advisors to help look into that. And besides that, it would be difficult to communicate with them if by luck they didn’t brush him aside as a normal swan at first glance.

He tensed as he heard a distant howl, no it wasn’t the wolf. It was a tad different but he recognized it. Back home he’d here the howls of dogs that accompanied their owners on hunts as they chased game. Hunters were in the area and unfortunately, he counted as game to them as well. Shiro had no choice but to stay here till nightfall. Hopefully, his dark feathers will let him blend easily into his surroundings.

Shiro got bored waiting, bored enough to swim aimlessly around the lake. It felt strange to just float and use webbed feet to propel himself forward. After awhile he curled in on himself, he was so hungry. The Galra didn’t give him any food the day he escaped. The little fish and plants under the water were starting to look tasty to him. He was staring at the clear waters mentally debating whether to go for it or to wait when the clipping sound of a horse’s hooves caught his attention.

A young man with soft brown hair, dressed in a travel-ready blue tunic, was leading a wagon carting horse towards the lake. He untied it from the wagon to slowly lead it to the water’s edge. He smiled and petted it as it began to drink from the lake. The man himself took several strides away from his horse and took in the view of the lake. He smiled warmly to himself, sat down, and started unpacking his lunch from his bag. A simple but mouth-watering sandwich.

“Whoa, what a rare color for a swan!” Shiro jerked as his eyes met the man’s bright blue ones.

When did he get so close to the edge of the lake? Shiro cursed his hunger, he must have subconsciously paddled over to him. At least the man seemed harmless enough, no weapons at the ready or anything.

“Hey, you hungry?” He tore off some pieces of bread and lettuce and held his hand out for Shiro. “I don’t bite, I won’t hurt you, promise.”

This man he was so warm and inviting, Shiro drew closer. His hunger was the final push that led him to scarf down every bit of food in his hand. Shiro lowered his head a bit in embarrassment as the man chuckled. “Wow, you must be hungry. Don’t worry I can give you more.” He tore the rest of the bread and lettuce into bite-sized pieces and held them out for Shiro to eat.

Shiro gratefully ate the offered meal, slower this time, and watched as the man ate the slices of meat that was left. He cleaned his hands and reached into his bag to pull out large folded up paper.

He unfolded it and let it lay on his lap. He caught Shiro staring and grinned. “You interested? You can look too but its not food so don’t get any any ideas!”

Shiro wanted to roll his eyes but instead walked up to the man’s side to look with him. Shiro couldn’t almost believe his luck, the paper he had was a map!

“I’m just reviewing the route I’m taking to make these deliveries.” He kindly explained and pointed to his cart that held his cargo as if this swan was listening, which to his credit Shiro was listening to him.

He pointed to a splotch of blue on the map and said, “We’re here at this lake near a town called Arus. That’s my next stop. My goal is here,” he pointed at a river that was rather far from where they were, “The bridge over there helps provide easy travel to and from Altea but the bridge fell so I was hired to deliver supplied to the builders there to aid in rebuilding it.”

Altea! How could he forget? The Alteans were in tune with magic, they could help him!

The man didn’t notice Shiro’s quiet revelation and chuckled sheepishly to himself. “The only horse and wagon accessible route is pretty long and can be dangerous. It’s why noone wants to deliver the supplies and why the bridge hasn’t been repaired for some time. But I kinda need the money to help my family.”

As he absentmindedly traced the route to and from his destination, Shiro’s eyes widened at one place in particular. He tried his best to point at it for the man to look at.

“The Ryude Kingdom? Hmmm… that place… it was destroyed by the Galra a year ago. I hear the castle is still standing but not much else is. No one lives there. Not many people go near it, they say it’s haunted.”

Shiro’s heart sank fast, his kingdom, his home d–destroyed? A year ago? The Galra had him imprisoned for a year?

“Do you… want to go there?” He whispered sensing Shiro saddened mood, Shiro looked up at the man in shock. “It’s half a day’s worth of a detour but we could pass through it on the way to the broken bridge.”

Yes, he nodded firmly. He wanted, no, needed to see what has become of his kingdom. The man seemed a little surprised to have received an answer from a swan but nodded in return gracefully accepting Shiro as a companion to take for this journey. Shiro had never felt so grateful and tried hugging him to show his thanks. He felt a gentle hand on his back, “aww, you are very welcome swan.”

The man folded up his map and led Shiro back to the wagon. He lifted him up and into it. Shiro peeked out of the wagon and watched the man tie his horse back to the wagon. He propped himself up onto the driver’s seat and whipped the reins to get his horse, named Blue, to cander away from the lake.

“You’re a pretty special swan, I think, to be able to understand me like you do. So since we’re traveling buddies now, some introductions are in order,” he grinned at Shiro, “The name’s Lance.”

#shance #swan!shiro #writings

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internaljiujitsu · 4 years

Text

RAGE INSIDE YOUR MACHINE: How Your Brain Makes You Mad

“The best way to control your anger is to control your body.” — Jiu Jitsu Master Rickson Gracie to Edward Norton (as Dr. Bruce Banner) in the 2008 film, The Incredible Hulk.

Bill Bixby terrified me. He’s the actor who played Dr. David Bruce Banner on the 70’s tv show, The Incredible Hulk. Bixby was a harmless looking guy, but when he’d flash those white pupils — signaling the surge in hormones that were about to transform him — I’d shit myself. The transition from man to monster, the anticipation of the horror that awaited, the build up to the inevitable carnage and destruction scared me to death. When the mild mannered scientist changed into his green alter ego, his brow widened, skin turned bright green and clothes tore from the out of control growth of his freakish muscles (while his pants always ended up making the perfect pair of shorts). Frightening.

I’d hide behind the couch whenever someone pissed Dr. Banner off. My older brother and sister thought it was hilarious, but I dreaded that moment. It reminded me that we lived with our own version of the Hulk.

My father, a giant in my eyes, would go from doting dad to terror inducing tormentor in a flash. He was the scariest monster I knew — I’d hide under desks and fake Illnesses when I knew he was angry. Given the choice, I would have taken my chances with Dr. Banner or the devil himself over my dad’s fury.

I thought I had inherited my father’s anger. Certainly, genetics played a part, but rage had also been programmed into me — to deal with a loud voice with a louder one. To conquer violence with violence. To shout down dissent in my own defense.

I worked my entire life to overcome what I and those around me deemed an anger management issue. It wasn’t frequent, but it was more intense than anyone was used to seeing. Level ten anger for a level four problem. The kind of anger that makes people of all ages want to hide under desks or behind couches.

Was I just mimicking what I’d learned as a kid? Did the build up I felt that led to the eventual eruption signify a flaw in my makeup or morality? Was I just an angry, abusive asshole at heart? All the therapy, books and lectures hadn’t helped. I still didn’t have control!

I’ve spent three decades searching for the source and solution for the anxiety and depression that made so many of my days miserable. I never examined the anger itself. The intense, rage filled outbursts I experienced were how everyone expressed anger in our home. I just happened to be the most intense of us all. I thought level ten anger was normal.

But it never felt good afterwards — I’d be exhausted. Not the good kind of exhausted, like after a grueling workout or savage sex. More like when Banner was just waking up, clothes shredded but somehow still on him, despite the fact that he was several times larger in his agitated state — fearful that he may have done some irreparable damage. I’d be groggy, sometimes in tears, breathing hard, wondering how my temper had gotten away from me again.

I ruined more than one Thanksgiving, pooped on plenty of parties and played the role of Debbie Downer on more occasions than I care to remember. Sure, the triggers were there, but my reactions were so unbelievably over the top that I was too embarrassed to go back and apologize — even though I always wanted to. Worst of all, the people I lost it on were often the ones I loved the most.

In my fits of anger, I became the meanest version of my father. Eyes bulging from his skull (partially because of his chronic thyroid condition), neck and forehead veins threatening to burst, a primal snarl through clenched teeth. Then, a voice louder than the horn on a battleship — violent hatred punctuating every decibel.

I’d punch walls or bash my own head against the nearest hard surface when I got angry. I’ve broken furniture, thrown appliances and crushed wine glasses in my hand at restaurants. The rage would only last for about twenty minutes — three or four episodes a year. The rest of the time, I was a tree hugging hippy at heart who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

That’s why it killed me so much each time I lost control. I wanted to be kind, and I knew what it felt like to be around someone scary. It sucked. Being on edge, walking on eggshells to avoid the explosions. Constant tension.

Some of my jiu jitsu buddies once nicknamed me “Buddha” because I appeared to be meditating when I sparred. They said that it seemed like I could take a nap in the middle of a match. On the days when I felt at peace, I conquered my internal demons by being calm in the face of physical conflict. In real life, when anxiety would hit, the reverse was true. Facing no real threat, fear would grip my body, and I would either whither away or explode to defend myself from an imaginary adversary.

My reactions were over the top because I felt so vulnerable. It always seemed that my mom was afraid I’d get hurt as a kid. I remember stories about how my family almost lost me as a baby or how my aunt saved me from certain death somehow. I felt weak and fragile. Seeing violence break out nearly every day on the streets of my childhood neighborhood only made the fear more real. Whether in a classroom, on the bus or in the bedroom I shared with my volatile older brother, I always had to be on my toes.

It’s no accident that I became a champion bodybuilder and martial artist. Though I wanted to focus on academics, I knew I couldn’t just rely on my mind. I needed to look strong. I needed to be confident in a fight. I didn’t want to be bothered and I didn’t want to be scared anymore. Back then, I didn’t know that it’s normal to be afraid before a fight. I thought there was something wrong with me because of it, so I worked to make that feeling go away.

But the extreme, explosive anger I exhibited as a 113 pound thirteen year old boy was the same I expressed in my twenties. I had grown into a 250 pound ball of muscle by then, and my devastating bite could be even worse than my terrifying bark. On the inside I was the same fragile person I had always been. To anyone that saw me angry, I was a scary beast.

So, like Dr. Banner seeking out Rickson Gracie to calm his inner beast, I sought peace through activity and non-activity. I gained more control over the outbursts. But when I began having episodes on days that I stuck to my rituals and felt good, I knew there had to be more to my anger than self-control. Until then, I had only addressed the depression and anxiety that I experienced since childhood. I had never looked at the anger directly, or at how it made me feel about myself.

Uncontrollable anger was the source of a lot of my shame. Self-control was always what I was after — the freedom to not be a slave to emotion. The power to never instill the kind of fear in another person that my father instilled in me. When I failed to control my anger, it was as if I devolved into my genetic predecessor — morphing into my father despite my best efforts — as if I didn’t have a choice. All the hard work of a lifetime would be gone in a burst of rage.

The realization that this anger persists under the surface inspired me to examine it beyond my triggers, or the deeply personal meanings I’ve attached to them. Rather than only experiencing and then lamenting these explosive outbursts, I wanted to understand why they happened. To do so would take being honest with myself about the circumstances surrounding triggering episodes, as well as a firmer grasp of the general causes of anger. This process has helped me to step outside my anger for the first time, depersonalizing the rage and allowing me to observe it from a distance.

I could finally understand how incredibly out of proportion my reactions were once I reexamined the triggers with my rational mind. This was aided by the fact that my latest episode took place in a hotel room covered in mirrors. I was forced to watch myself go through the entire thing. I had never seen my face — my eyes — at level ten anger. I think I may have scared myself straight.

Observing yourself in an explosive anger episode will either drive you deep into a depressive hole or kick you in the ass to figure out why you can’t seem to keep yourself together. This time, I berated myself for a day before deciding to figure out what was going on in my head, so that I can fix it.

GETTING IN YOUR OWN HEAD

The shameful hangover that persists after an episode of explosive rage will only go away when failure to self-regulate isn’t simply labeled a lack of discipline. Subconsciously reprogramming limiting beliefs that have kept you stuck in negative patterns is critical for change, but so is identifying the physiological markers of anger that serve to prep you for confrontation. Knowing that there is more happening in your head than meets the eye gives you an enormous advantage in correcting emotional disregulation. Only then can you train yourself to recognize when you need to course adjust , shutting down your body’s irrational reaction before it gets out of hand.

While traditional therapy and behavioral modification may be key in recovery, ignoring the chemical component of explosive anger is discounting the twisted scaffolding on which the ego is built. Brain function is the invisible variable that turns some of us from Jekyll to Hyde — Banner to Hulk.

There are two parts of your noggin that are key in processing anger:

The Anterior Cingulate Cortex has connections to both the prefrontal cortex (reasoning) and the limbic system (emotion).

The Amygdala — made up of almond shaped clusters inside the temporal lobes — is also a part of the limbic system, which governs emotion.

An inactive Anterior Cingulate Cortex or an overactive Amygdala can both lead to poor decision making and antisocial behavior .

The Anterior Cingulate Cortex (ACC) regulates rational cognitive function. This area of the brain affects decision making, empathy, impulse control, and reward anticipation. It connects your emotions to your actions and intercedes by considering the repercussions when your lizard brain wants to impulsively lash out at someone or something.

According to leading ADHD researcher Dr. Russel Barkley, clinical professor of psychiatry at the VCU Medical Center, the ACC does nothing in ADHD brains. There is no stopping to self-regulate the emotional state — no holding you back from making decisions that could be detrimental to a future you’re incapable of imagining.

Because ADHD is a failure of the inhibition system, Barkley says it’s critical to decouple events from responses. This can only happen when you stop and engage the prefrontal cortex to devise rational responses to triggers. Acting on impulse can be disastrous.

What Barkley describes as a “nearsightedness in time” leaves those with ADHD blind to the future. Unable to anticipate the consequences of their actions and incapable of self-regulation, they often impulsively act out against their own long term self interest. This can sometimes have severe financial, social and legal consequences.

Barkley suggests designing “prosthetic environments” to elicit behavior modification and assist in self-regulation. By externalizing pieces of information with hand written or electronic notes and reminders, envisioning future events and the sequence in which they should take place becomes easier.

In their book, Nudge, Nobel prize winning economist Richard H. Thaler and Cass R Sunstein describe the vast number of ways our decisions can be influenced by subtle suggestions. Strategically placing reminders to curtail or reinforce behavior, building in immediate rewards and consequences, and manually problem solving whenever possible can prop up executive function and lead to better decision making and fewer outbursts.

While the ACC takes into account consequences, the amygdala is a group of structures in the brain that process strong emotions, particularly fear — provoking an automatic fight or flight response. Amygdala hijack (a term coined by psychologist Daniel Goleman) occurs when the amygdala disables the frontal lobes (which govern reason and higher level cognition) and limits some unessential functions in order to prepare the body for conflict. Stress hormones flood your system, pupils dilate, heart races, blood vessels constrict and pressure rises. While being on high alert is helpful when facing life or death situations, putting your body through the emotional ringer on a regular basis due to everyday stress will break you down mentally and physically.

Setting off this chemical dance are the triggers that sit atop the surface of your mind like land mines hastily planted by everyone you’ve ever known — buried under all the shit you only think you remember. The stories you tell yourself set off a tingling sensation when someone reminds you of what you don’t want to be. Your thoughts travel and the feeling in your body transports you to a different time and place. The explosions go off, cortisol and adrenaline flood your system and you react as if you are there again.

Individuals with Intermittent Explosive Disorder (IED) exhibit repeated, explosive, sudden episodes of rage that are drastically out of proportion to the trigger. These outbursts can manifest as verbal or physical abuse, destruction of property or personal harm. A study published in the journal Neuropsychopharmacology looked at brain scans of patients with IED. Researchers found that the white matter connecting the frontal lobe (decision making, emotion, understanding consequences) and the parietal lobe (language and sensory input) had less integrity and density than in healthy brains or those with other psychiatric disorders.

With what is essentially the wiring between these two regions of the brain damaged, communication becomes limited. Unable to take in all the information available, you only hear the things that confirm the irrational notions of your lizard brain. Everything becomes an attack. You are looking for the insult that will reinforce the shitty way you feel about yourself. Acting as if everyone is out to get you will miraculously make people want to stay away.

In her book, The Upside of Anger, Dr. Kelly McGonigal argues that it’s our own interpretation of stress that turns it negative. McGonigal says that if we view stress as our body’s way of preparing us for whatever comes next, a rapid pulse can mean excitement instead of fear. McGonigal’s research shows that this shift in perspective leads to physiological changes. Blood vessels no longer violently constrict when the heart pumps faster. However, the organ itself is still fed more nutrients, making it stronger. As in the physical stress put on your body when you exercise, as long as you do not overtrain, the increased demand over time creates greater capacity. According to Dr. McGonigal, a heart pumping vigorously while blood vessels stay relaxed, “looks like what happens in moments of joy, or courage.”

Meditation is an invaluable tool for transforming your reaction to stress. Dedicating time every day to practicing stillness is the best training for both recognizing the onset of symptoms (by learning to notice subtle changes in your internal state) and shutting down a reaction before any negative physiological effects take hold by instantly being still. Building my meditation muscles before figuring out what was wrong with my wiring helped me find the quiet space between trigger and reaction to perceive my anger differently.

If you see anger as an alarm signaling that some potentially nasty shit is being released into your body, you may pump the breaks when you feel yourself losing control. Doing otherwise is knowingly poisoning yourself. Once you realize what’s happening inside you when you are triggered, you’ll be able to direct the process through conscious attention. The feelings won’t trigger irrational action, but thoughtful consideration. Not only of the steps to take next, but of the source of your emotional response — thereby allowing you to choose to react differently.

When the flutter in your chest and butterflies in your stomach signify fear to your mind, your body will act afraid and your thoughts will race. The bells and whistles that go off under your skin will take on new meaning if you train your body to sit still when your mind wants to sprint. With a little knowledge and a lot of discipline, you can, in the words of the late Ted Cassidy, “control the raging spirit that dwells within.”

#mind #body #mentalhealth #anger #angermanagement #mindfulness #meditation #awareness #brain #change #behaviormodification #ied #adhd #relationships #selfimprovement #personalgrowth

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obduratemoon · 4 years

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Sedimentary City 06: Love & Violence

Love comes preceded by 3 occurrences of synchronicity, one may have been told by a street augur.

Jan first saw her walking across the aerial hallway connecting the twin towers of the Central Confederated Academy, a long and tubular walkway strung up like a strand of gossamer. Despite assurances of rigidity by its engineers, it swayed imperceptibly in the wind often causing those inside to feel unease. Eva walked passed, wan and unsteady, a hand gripped clammily on the railings.

He was struck by an instant and uncanny recognition. Who was she? Why did this stranger feel familiar? It was a dolorous and sweet sensation unexplainable as déjà vu and just beyond reach, like a ghost or figurant in a dream misplaced upon waking but remnant in impression.

He looked away just as she looked up, telegraphing exactly what he was trying to hide. What could have Eva seen in that sky suspended hallway? A diffident and clumsy school boy in the body of a gangly man, clearly Level 1 birthed and pedigreed into a family and society who knew no other level or life, a person whose every intimate and subconscious mannerism was congruent to the hallowed and beatific nest of this world’s affordances. Shiftly eyed like a thief or miscreant, he felt himself uncomfortable and self aware as he passed her. All for nothing; she was too nauseated to notice.

The second time they met was at a noodle shop, a popular stand where Jan often went to slurp thick strands drenched in spice and pungent ferment. He always ate too fast with eyes closed and rolled up like a shark in the act of feeding, his mind obviated by the sensations of the tongue and teeth, lost and devolved in a participation mystique within the penumbra of taste. And when he finally looked up from his bowl and saw her standing there with an amused smile in her eyes, eyes which laughed and expressed merimert more than her lips, Jan was once again embarrassed. His lips were cherried grotesquely like a clown from the red oil, an errant noodle dangling from a mouth slightly ajar, a simple kind of comedy that brightened her day.

The third time was at a Samuelson rally held in some interstitial and contingent space between level 1 and level 2, where he had been listening in thrall and, then at the end, joined in choral solidarity with the audience, chanting slogans and lost in the collective. Some youthful part of him thought that he had at last found a purpose, a reason like a life raft bobbing on the oceanic ennui he had been dropped into. He felt a tap on his shoulders and found her standing there, eyes again merry and lips wry with amusement.

“I didn’t know you were a Samuelson supporter,” she said.

Jan looked at her surprised, overjoyed at her presence, the thrill of the rally having touched a genuine and innocent thread in his soul causing it to efflux, overflow, and show itself in an opened and unabashed way. His eyes were lit up like twin molotov cocktails exploding at the end of graceful and parabolic arcs. “Oh, it’s you!” he said, automatic and sincere. In that moment Eva thought he looked like a smiling puppy; in that moment his face struck her as dear and lovable.

“Yea, he’s incredible isn’t he?” Jan continued, sort of breathless, “And his theory of the egalitarian imperative and his critiques of the State are undeniable! But what are you doing here? I’ve seen you at the academy right? I have no idea who you are”, the last sentence trailing off and spoken to himself. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

He was still young, some core portion of him untouched and vibrant, a sapling replete with vitality in his phloem. That he was drawn to Eva was a foregone conclusion, for she was that dusky image inside of him now reified and reflected in all objectivity. That she liked him as well was the sort of mystery the universe will guard until its final moments, when the whole association of stars and planets, of matter inverted, of memories, dreams, and stories, of those made flesh and those ghostly likewise wink out in a final and resplendent collapse snuffing it all out in a complete and orbicular death, a voiding of the here, then, and ever-will-be into a kind of non-existence that would never be imagined in the minds of sentients, who shall also be annihilated as if never’d and nothing to begin with as well.

A voice broke his reverie, “Hey, where you from, huh? You aren’t from here are you? You’re from one of the upper levels right? That’s where you come from? Hey, what’s the matter, are you hard of hearing?”

Jan turned towards the voice and saw a sharp face, nose like a beak with eyes slant and predatory. He was tall and spindly, folded like a crane on the other side of the bar, smiling a scant and untrustworthy smile. To his right sat his friend, a large and hairless man, a pink meaty face full of idiotic menace, a flesh-orb with thin colorless lips that opened to join in, said: “Yea, you from up there?” Sausage like fingers gestured approximately upwards as if pointing out some stain on the ceiling. “What’s it like up there?”

He looked at them and offered no reply, a bit stunned like an uncomprehending spectator at the beginning of a slow motion accident. Part of him thought he should do something, but he also felt paralyzed and mute even as adrenaline filled his vessel. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza from hell, Jan thought, suddenly remembering some ancient text.

The young bartender receded to the back of the bar, uninterested in any involvement. The rest of the patrons spectated with a familiar mixture of interest and boredom as if watching a rerun.

“You should reply when someone talks to you,” the sharp faced one said, voice treacly with malice. “It’s just polite, we’re just trying to make conversation.”

“Yea say something,” boomed the big one, for all his corporeality reducing himself into an insubstantial echo. Then the slender one downed his drink and approached Jan, the meatier one following like an indentured golem. Jan’s heart sank. His antagonist leaned an arm against the bar and bent at the hips to bring his keen face close enough for Jan to smell the complex notes of halitosis and ethyl. Jan noted with some relief that they did not appear to be wearing All-Suits but rather regular clothing, the tall fellow sporting a black short sleeved jerkin exposing lean and sinewed arms. The bigger guy wore a colorful assortment of loose colors and fabrics, looking like some demented jester.

“What’s your name, motherfucker? Where are you from?”

“I’m just passing through. There’s no need for any of this,” Jan replied.

“You better just tell him your name, buddy,” urged the big guy while calmly limbering up with head circles, the lack of a perceptible neck making the whole exercise look comical.

Someone in the bar interjected, “Just leave him be, Chiklin!” Thus named, Chiklin turned and spat, turning his hawk like face towards the speaker. “Shut it!” he said and then restored his malign gaze to Jan. “Get up!” he commanded.

Jan did not reply but instead remained seated, his head bowed saying nothing, one hand hidden underneath the bar as the sleeve of his All-Suit quietly extended itself to cover his hand with a glove, growing embossments of little hard pebbles over his knuckles.

“I said get up, fucker!” Chiklin repeated. Jan finally looked up at him feeling inexpressibly sad down to his core. Why this, why now, he wondered, feeling tired and demoralized by this collusion of randomness and violence.

“Hey, listen friend, we don’t have to do this. Can I buy you and your friend a drink? Whatever you like. I don’t want any trouble, I can leave if you like.”

Chiklin gave him a nasty look and then turned back to look at his corpulent friend chortling malevolently, “Look at him, Zasha, he’s about to cry!” and then turning back, “Are you about to cry? Is that what’s happening now, friend? Fuck me, you are! Haha haha!” and then suddenly serious, he said: “You’d better get up now.”

Jan commanded the All-Suit to inject hypodermic meta-amphetamines into his bloodstream, he could feel a vicious coolness spread through his arms and dissipate towards a heart which was revving up like a hard driven engine. Feeling immediately brave, he stood up while pivoting his hips to execute a cross, the All-Suit contracting and stretching subtly in order to impart the last little bit of force to that clenched hand made into trebuchet stone. The impact of the punch sent out a well described plume of spittle, pellucid but dotted with specks of red; it sent Chiklin flying backwards and crashing into a table, scattering the patrons seated there. Jan had probably broken his large beak nose and some teeth as well.

Zasha boomed: “Not very fair, using your fancy All-Suit, not very fair at all,” and in a swiftness belied by his size and slothy demeanor lunged forward and swung both arms, extending further than seemed possible, around to clap Jan’s head between two meaty mitts like two steel doors swung in upon each other.

Pain exploded in Jan’s ears, a thunderclap of jangly sounds went off in the middle of his cranium. He let out an involuntary scream that he himself could not hear, his ears now filled with a cacophonous ringing that caused him to stumble down onto one knee. Confused and vertiginous, he wrapped his arms around his throbbing head, holding it with desperate affection like a mother embracing a dying infant. The big guy then front kicked him plumb and square in the face, the hard shod feet crumpling Jan’s face with a reverberant crack. It all dimmed for him.

When he came to he was outside and on the ground, curled up in a fetal ball as Chiklin and Zasha stomped him with gusto, arbitrary furies enacting a pointless retribution. The All-Suit was protective but only partially absorbed the force of those many blows. Jan wondered at the vast and unplumbed sadism now being doled out with such casual generosity. He wondered if they would simply keep kicking him until the end of time itself.

At last he heard someone call out: “The police will be here soon.” The violence ceased and there was the sound of receding footsteps. Jan sat up to see snot and blood oozing down his chest and the young bartender regarding him.

“Damn, they really did a number on you,” he observed.

Adrenaline and speed left his body in a rapid ebb and Jan began to shiver from their sudden recession, feeling cold and hollow. A pain that had been heretofore suppressed rose up like an unwelcome moon. He felt exhausted.

Jan forced out a hoarse whisper, “Please … please don’t call the police.” Something seemed to be off within his mouth but he was not sure what, his teeth felt weird, his tongue no longer in its familiar cage.

“Too late. I don’t want to see them any more than you do. But they’ll be here soon,” the bartender repeated matter of factly.

“I have to go,” Jan mumbled to himself, “I can’t be here when they arrive.” He tried to stand up, and perhaps he even did so for a tottering second. Then the young bartender watched as Jan’s eyes turned vacant, his tall and still frame falling hard like some Icarian returned to earth.

#sedimentary city

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ettadunham · 7 years

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Day Two - Pilot

Hi-hell and welcome to day two of Fringe September and HOO BOY, there’s a lot to talk about here.

[still SPOILERS]

It’s always interesting to compare production values on network pilots and late episodes, especially ones that had a lot of hype going into them. The Fringe 2-hour pilot definitely had a bunch of money thrown into it, there are some pretty cool aerial shots, some nice explosions...

Oh, and JJ Abrams actually directed, so LENS FLARES FUCKING EVERYWHERE.

(Of course the lens flares later become a signature universe switching device, but nothing ever topped the sheer amount of it Abrams used in Olivia’s and John’s shared subconscious trip. I DON’T THINK ABRAMS EVER TOPPED IT EITHER, AND THAT’S SAYING A LOT.)

The entire pilot itself is basically Olivia steamrolling through the plot, overturning every stone to get to the bottom of her latest case and save her dying partner/boyfriend... only for him to turn out to be a traitor, at which point Olivia just chases him down, literally driving him into a deadly car accident.

YO ALL, OLIVIA DUNHAM STOPS FOR NO ONE.

We have our introductions and whatnots, a mention of at least one overarching story to come, with a soundtrack that seems to be still looking for its own personality. It’s definitely a solid pilot episode, doing everything a pilot should do and then some.

Instead of going through the entire storyline, I’m just gonna jump right into highlighting some details.

The weirdest part of the pilot looking back now, is probably the animosity between Broyles and Olivia. Turns out, as a military prosecutor (once again, for some reason I totally forgot this part of Olivia’s backstory before going into making these sets, wtf) Olivia put away some buddy of his who sexually assaulted multiple women??? Honestly, I’m glad that the show dropped this rapist(?) apologist angle on Broyles, but like... why was this even a thing.

Speaking of, the pilot also has both Broyles and Peter calling Olivia shit like ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’ when they’re angry or frustrated with her. Because I guess women always need to be portrayed as not having the respect of their male peers. And when they “”earn it””, it’s a triumph, and now they can get along just peachy with our sympathetic male characters. It hurts my soul. You can always tell when men are writing stories of women experiencing sexism in their work place.

Astrid is introduced as Olivia’s assistant in this episode. Which I'm still not sure whether or not means that she has been her assistant for some time now, or that she was just assisting her in this particular investigation as the resident science expert. I have questions.

I honestly don’t even remember what was up with Peter owning money or something? I know that it comes up in some episode later, but it’s such a periphery storyline, I have nothing.

Nina’s “I would tell this to my own daughter” line though. What kind of goddamn foreshadowing was that. The story about how she had to amputate her arm because of cancer was touching, but generic enough to be a lie, so I buy that they already had the proper backstory for that covered at that point too.

These early episodes also position Nina and Massive Dynamics as a much more ambiguous entity, which makes me wonder if there were some other directions the writers were playing around with.

First mention of the “Pattern”.

Gene here is merely introduced as a means for not-actually-human experimentation, but obviously becomes so much more. <3

SENSORY DEPRIVATION TANK! ‘Excellent, now let’s make some LSD.’. So many classics that make comebacks later as well.

#fringe talk

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totallyrhettro · 8 years

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In the Office

Sequel to In the Box, a ficlet about what might have happened while filming the magic show scene in Buddy System.

Word Count: 2065 Rating: PG Warnings: Kissing Summary: Link can’t stop thinking about what happened in that box. Rhett has a plan to break the tension. Notes: Present day AU, taking place during the filming of Buddy System. Rhett and Link aren’t married.

Link was pacing back and forth. He kept playing those few seconds back in his head, over and over. Those precious few seconds that had felt like an eternity, and had to power to ruin the rest of his life.

The rest of their lives.

There had been no conscience thought, no deliberate action. Rhett’s face was suddenly so close and something inside Link had told him to-

‘What?’ he demanded to himself, pausing in his tracks. ‘What did you think was going to happen?’ Whatever action that his foolish movements were leading to, it couldn’t be towards anything good. First of all, they were in public. Despite the illusion of solitude, any number of people could have walked by and found them in there. They were set up to be filmed, for christ’s sake. And even if no one caught them, what then? What possible good could such actions lead to?

No. It was for the best that nothing happened. It was good that they were interrupted before things got out of hand. Although, thinking back on those few seconds, perhaps it was too late. Their lips had brushed, just barely but enough. Rhett had to know it wasn’t an accident. He had to have seen the look in Link’s eye, the desire to go further.

‘He’ll hate me,’ Link told himself. ‘He’ll hate me and be disgusted by me.’ Frankly, he was a bit disgusted by himself for his stupidity and his mental lapse. Now the great life that he and Rhett had built up together for years could be torn away. His lifelong friendship could be over, and for what? A single kiss? For one brief moment of happiness? Was that worth losing Rhett?

Link had spent the rest of the day filming, pretending nothing had happened. Rhett appeared to do the same, and they got through it without any problems, but now the day was over. The crew had all gone home. All that was left was to drive back to their separate homes and forget those precious few seconds in the box had never happened. That’s all there was to it.

Then why did it feel like it was easier said than done?

Suddenly Rhett stormed in, his face a bit pinker than usual and his jaw set like a man on a mission. He strode across the room to where Link stood, frozen on the spot. His dirty blond hair was a bit out of sorts and there was a hint of crazy in his eyes, but all Link felt was fear. Was this it? Was this the end of their friendship?

“Ok, just hear me out,” Rhett began, holding his hands out as he laid out a plan. “I think… I think we should kiss.”

“W-what?” Link took a step back, as if slapped by some unseen force. He blinked hard, wondering if he was just imaging Rhett here, now, suggesting such a thing. There was no way he was saying what Link thought he heard him say.

“I- I just… I can’t stand this stupid tension around us, since the… the box…” Rhett explained. “It’s been weighing on my head and it’s driving me crazy. Now I don’t… know exactly what happened but… I think that we should kiss and…” He searched Link’s eyes, looking for understanding, or maybe something else, but Link couldn’t talk. His mouth felt drier than the mohave desert and his voice was nowhere to be found. Rhett ran a shaky hand through his hair before continuing. “Well, whatever, we’ll kiss, and it’ll be weird and then it will be over. It’ll be weird and then we’ll know.” Link licked his lips, trying to bring moisture to the desert.

“Know what?” he managed. Rhett shrugged.

“We’ll know there was nothing to dwell on.” So that’s it. It was a question of spark. That’s all it was. A kiss to prove they didn’t want to kiss. A kiss to prove they were nothing but friends. It was an elegant solution, if unorthodox, but then, that made it all the more them. Link quickly nodded, agreeing completely. He needed to know, needed to make sure it had been a passing thought, a fleeting impulse and nothing more. He was certain Rhett was right. They would kiss, and it would be gross and awkward; they’d probably laugh about it later, but it then would be over. Then they could go back to normal.

Neither was sure were to begin. They stood, toe to toe, arms at their sides and just stared at each other for the longest time. Link stared at his friend's plaid shirt, unable to look the man in the face. Rhett’s eyes were down at Link’s head, noting how many of the dark hairs were out of place, more than usual for Link. He must have been just as distracted as Rhett to let his hair get so messy.

“It’ll be quick,” he assured him. Link looked up, meeting those green eyes with his own soft cerulean gaze. Eyes that he had known for almost his whole life, yet barely knew. Eyes that dazzled in the sunshine and never grew dull in the dark. They could be the most brilliant green, or cloudy grey, or even a subtle blue, but they always had a shine about them, a light that somehow came from within. Link had noticed them countless times without noticing, and now he couldn’t look away. He could only nod.

Locked in place, Link watched as Rhett stepped closer, nervous but determined. He tried to look scientific, calculating, as if this no more than an experiment, and not anything else. Not an excuse to-

“Rhett…” Link breathed. Rhett ignored him, placing his broad palms on sides of Link’s shoulders and holding them gently but firmly. His little tongue peeked out from his bushy beard for just a moment as he prepared his lips for contact. As he leaned down, he tilted his head to the side so their noses wouldn't get in the way, and Link lifted his head so he could more easily reach. It was instinct; his neck craned before he could even begin to understand what he was doing. He needed this. Deep in his subconscious he needed this, for more reasons than those Rhett had proposed, and in the far recesses of his mind he wanted this. Wanted to make this moment happen. That part of his brain that hesitantly caressed Rhett in the box not a few hours ago, it was rejoicing, but Link couldn’t hear. All he could hear was his heart pounding his his ears, and the short, ragged breaths he was trying to keep steady.

“Hold still,” Rhett whispered, his voice lighter than wind. Link couldn't have moved if he’d tried; he was nailed to the spot, unable and unwilling to break the spell that was being cast on this surreal moment. Rhett moved almost in slow motion as he brought their faces closer until finally they were as close as they had been in the box. Agonizingly close. It was an agony Link knew all too well and suddenly he remembered it had always been there. There, in those moments when Rhett got too close, when they sat next to one another at the GMM desk, when sketches and wheel endings brought their heads to almost touching, it was there. An agony of close and yet so far away. Link knew it, and he hated it. Suddenly he remembered he hated it. Hated it and wanted it to end. There was only one way to kill it.

He couldn’t be sure who closed the final gap between them, if it was Rhett with his calculating stance and his tentative movements. Maybe it was Link, shaking off those last shreds of delusion and accepting at long last that he had wanted this a long time ago, he’d just been afraid to take it. Whether for love or sanity, their lips at last pressed together, and it was a mess of sensation and emotion for both of them.

Rhett’s beard was a bit scratchy, but not unpleasant, definitely not like the clean shaven faces of girls that Link had kissed before. The man’s lips, nestled inside, were soft and plump. Despite him often noting how small his mouth was, Rhett’s lips didn’t feel small as they wrapped themselves around Link’s. It started with just placement, but then they caressed themselves into place, like a puzzle piece finding its home. More than anywhere this was there they belonged.

Link welcomed it without reservation, his own mouth eager and compliant. He took Rhett’s kiss willingly, letting him press in without a hint of rejection. The scruff of his day old beard was more tantalizing than harsh and Rhett couldn’t help but move his lips over the rough skin as his lips found their way around this new mouth. Tasting what he never realized he wanted to taste. Feeling what he never would have admitted he desired to feel.

It was supposed to be a chaste kiss, a peck to break the tension, but in the silence of the office, where reality and fantasy could actually collide, he no longer cared for his tenuous reasons for doing this. He lifted a hand to Link’s jaw, cupping it gently as he turned to find a new angle and kiss again. Link didn’t pull back, or object but turned with him, extending the moment as long as he could. His hands clung to rhett’s shirt, pulling him closer. Outside in the real world, when this was all over, things might be different. He feared this was a brief reprieve from the truth of their lives. That this couldn’t be. This could never be. Yet in that kiss there was another story, another truth.

Rhett was lost. He didn’t know, couldn’t know that he was in the same mist that had enveloped Link in that box. It turned his brain to automatic and was now swirling around to envelope his mind. Moving without thought, only doing what his body knew, Rhett breathed deep, inhaling the scent of his best friend as he never had before. How had he never realized how much he loved this smell? It was so subtle, so barely there, like a fading aroma after a storm. It wasn’t new; he’d smelled it almost all of his life. It smelled like days by the river, and nights under the stars. It smelled like Buies Creek. It smelled like home.

But they weren’t home. They were in an office, in Los Angeles, in a studio building filled with the life they had created over the course of many years. It was a life they had worked hard to put together, spending time, energy, blood and sweat to make it was it was today. People depended on its existence, and it was selfish to throw it away for this moment. As the universe came back into Rhett’s periphery, he opened his eyes. He hadn’t even noticed he’d closed them. Link’s eyes were closed too, his eyelashes delicately fluttering. So beautiful.

‘What have I done?’ Rhett pulled away, their lips parting with an audible smack. Link looked up at him, unquestioning, unjudging, just open and waiting. Waiting for his friend’s conclusion. What shall it be? Was tension broken, or had they made it worse? Was this passing foolishness or something more?

Did Rhett want it to be more?

Rhett turned and straightened out the hairs on his beard, scratching his chin in an effort to hide they way his fingertips were exploring his own lips. Link had kissed these lips. Link. Kissed. It had been Rhett’s idea, but he never really expected him to agree, nor for him to melt into it like it was more than welcome. Rhett. Kissed. Kissed his best friend and, even though he didn’t want to say it, he had enjoyed it. He thought maybe it was because he liked kissing, and it could have been anybody, but that wasn’t true. Glancing back at the face he had known for so many years and yet never knew, Rhett realized what the truth was. A truth that Link must have also known, or he wouldn’t have tried anything back in that box.

They could be more than friends.

And they both wanted it to be real.

To be continued. . ?

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#Rhett #link #rink #fanfic #in the office

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nerdy-cait05 · 8 years

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“It’s Gonna Be Me”

part 1, part 2 (tumblr versions 1 & 2)

Summary: Shiro is in “Dad Mode™” and has it bad for Allura part 3/5 so please read the others first!

Read it on Ao3 here!

NOTE: Shiro has flashes of PTSD-induced dreams, none of which are intense or go into graphic detail, but I wanted to let you all know that in case it bothers you

Shiro was tired. Tired of worrying, tired of thinking, just tired. All he wanted to do was pull an Allura and fall asleep for 10,000 years. Preferably a dreamless sleep, void of anything and everything his subconscious decided to thrust upon him in the night. Hopefully as empty as the expanses of space, and as endless.

The Black Paladin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was at least 2 hours earlier than he normally woke up in the mornings, and he had somehow wandered into the room where Sendak had been kept as prisoner. When he had nightmares, Shiro usually ended up making his way here, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

That night’s horrors had been more vivid than usual, with fresh new memories and occurrences of his year as Hagar’s plaything. Worst, though, was when the dreams evolved into fictitious, yet all too real-seeming events: Voltron being destroyed, his teammates being captured and tampered with like he had been, and the Princess—

Shiro shook his head violently, trying to shake the darkness from his mind. He couldn’t think about this right now. His pulse was already tripping, breath starting to come in uneven bursts. He needed to calm down.

“Shiro?” a gentle voice asked.

The black paladin whirled around to see Pidge standing near him, her laptop tucked under her arm.

“Oh Pidge,” Shiro sighed, trying to calm his erratic pulse, “It’s just you. What are you doing up so early?”

The girl shrugged, “I don’t sleep much,” she took in his worn expression, “Are you okay?”

He tried for a smile, “I’ll be fine, Pidge.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

Shiro grinned at that, “You sounded just like your father there.”

Pidge’s eyes went wide at that and then composed herself, “What’s up? Are you having the nightmares again?”

“How did you—”

“There’s only 7 of us, Shiro. There aren’t any secrets to keep,” she interrupted and adjusted her glasses, “Want to talk about it?”

Shiro took a deep breath and conceded defeat; as usual, the green paladin’s logic was infallible. “They change all the time, which just makes it that much harder to deal with them. Sure, there are recurring themes, but each night is new and as terrible as the last.”

“Wow,” Pidge said after a moment, “And you have them every night?”

Shiro shook his head, “Not every night, but more often than not.” He paused, unsure whether to say his next thought, “They got worse after the Princess was taken by Zarkon.”

“Allura?”

He nodded in response.

“Shiro, you can’t keep beating yourself up for that; we got her back, didn’t we?”

“You don’t understand,” Shiro sighed, flashes of his latest nightmare coming back, “If I let her get captured once, who’s to say it won’t happen again? And what if, next time, Zarkon will take permanent control over the Black Lion, and you all are taken, and Allura would become the prize of the Galra, a slave to whatever—whomever—wishes. The things that could happen in the Galra prisons, especially to a beautiful princess—”

“Shiro, stop!” Pidge commanded.

The older paladin hadn’t realized that he’d been hyperventilating until he looked at the small girl beside him.

“Shiro, it’s okay, everything’s okay. Allura’s safe, your Lion is safe, we’re all safe here in the castle,” she grabbed his flesh wrist and squeezed it gently, “It’s okay.”

Shiro took deep breaths, trying to let Pidge’s words sink in. She was right; all of this was just in his head, everything was alright. They were safe, for now.

He hung his head and stared at the small, delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist, the part of him untouched by the Galra. Her hands were as small and soft as a child’s. Not for the first time Shiro felt a fierce protectiveness for the paladin with him. He swore to himself he wouldn’t let anything else happen to any of the paladins and Coran. And he’d never let Allura become the Galra’s prize. The Princess was no one’s trophy.

Shiro finally took a deep breath and met his teammate’s eyes, “Thanks, Pidge.”

She flashed him her impish grin and released his wrist, “I’m going to go get some space goo, you’re welcome to join if you’d like!”

Shiro smiled and followed the young girl out to the light of the beginning day.

***

Later that day Shiro sparred with Keith like he always did, but he could tell something was up. Keith didn’t seem near as focused or as driven as he usually was, and nearly got knocked out several times before Shiro decided to say anything.

“Got something on your mind, buddy?” he asked in between strikes, “You seem a little off.”

Keith growled slightly, “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Shiro didn’t believe that one bit, but he knew Keith could tell he hadn’t slept well and didn’t say anything about it, so he kept his mouth shut, too.

When they finally finished sparring, the red paladin surprised him, “Does it ever bother you? The seeming lack of dedication by the others, I mean.”

Shiro reeled a bit from the blunt force of Keith’s words and thought for a moment. Did it bother him? He supposed he could get frustrated occasionally at the other paladins’ lack of focus, but he cracked that up to be the fact that they were all teenagers with limited attention spans. Besides, looking at Keith, he didn’t think that was really what was bothering the red paladin.

“Is this about Lance?”

Shiro felt a small bit of satisfaction from Keith’s spluttering responses, knowing full-well how he felt toward the blue paladin. He also knew how much it bothered the younger boy when Lance constantly flirted with anyone they came into contact with.

“Hey, it’s okay for you to be jealous; just don’t let it affect the team, okay?”

The red-faced paladin nodded, and Shiro exited the room only to run straight into Allura.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, the tablet in her hand clattering to the floor, “Shiro!”

“Princess! I am so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s quite alright,” she shook her head, “I should have been paying closer attention to my whereabouts.” She reached down to grab the fallen tablet.

“Here, let me—” Shiro bent down at the same time and their fingers brushed, “Sorry if it’s broken, I’ll—” his thoughts came to a halt when he looked up and met eyes the color of the galaxies. He suddenly wondered if he was so winded from training that he felt he couldn’t breathe.

“It’s really not a big deal. It takes more than a little drop to really damage Altean tech,” she said quietly, not breaking eye contact.

“Yeah, of course,” Shiro muttered, continuing to stare. He knew he should move, that he looked idiotic, that this was very grade-school of him. But she hadn’t moved, either. He could still feel her fingers ever so slightly touching his, and when they twitched is what shook him awake.

Shiro cleared his throat, rescinding his fingers from the tablet and the Princess’s lovely touch. Allura didn’t meet his eyes again as they both stood. A piece of her cascading hair had fallen out of place, and Shiro had to cross his arms to keep from fixing it.

“I’d better hit the showers,” his brain finally gave him to say, “I’ll see you later, Princess,” he turned to leave.

“Shiro?”

The paladin turned back around to face Allura, “Hm?”

“I—” she started, then seemed to rethink her words. It was the first time Shiro had seen her like this, unsure and—embarrassed?—and something inside him tipped slightly. “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for rescuing me all those weeks ago.”

An emotion Shiro wasn’t aware he’d been feeling deflated in his chest, “Of course, Allura. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

“I know,” she nodded and then met his eyes again, “That’s one of the things I admire most about you. I also hope the next time I go with you will end better than the last. I’d like to protect you as much as you protect me.”

The Princess smiled at him, and Shiro thought, not for the first time, that such sincerity should come with a label: WARNING— EXPOSURE TO SMILE MAY OBLITERATE ALL COHERENT THOUGHTS.

Needless to say, Shiro managed to avoid spluttering like Keith and walked away from the princess with most of his dignity intact.

***

Shiro wasn’t sure at what point he realized it, but he found himself working beside Allura a lot more than he had been. He followed her around as she did her castle duties, asking her questions about Altea and the old Voltron paladins. She always humoured his questions, and asked several herself about Earth and what it was like, which Shiro was more than happy to answer. Even if it was something as ridiculous as explaining one of Lance’s memes, she was always eager and curious.

But the paladin found he loved every moment he spent with the princess, and as much as he worried about Zarkon taking her prisoner, he was always happy when she went on missions with him and the other paladins. She gave him more confidence and drive, and soon enough he stopped having nightmares of her capture in lieu of memories where they walked across alien planets after a successful day as Team Voltron.

Their hands might have brushed during those walks by “accident”, but he found he liked that, too.

#cait writes #Shiro has it bad #and Allura is too much for him #you guys have given such good responses from the first two that I just had to continue thank you so much!!#voltron #shallura #klance

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