#If I could afford to keep my horses elsewhere & move out I would absolutely have less of a filter

[kelpiemomma]

God, I had one (1) candid conversation with my mother and now she keeps telling everyone that I have no filter. Not my brother, who never watches his language and talks about going off on park rangers and road raging and how he was gonna punch the guy dropping a package off at our house for almost running into him. Not my brother who mutters shit under his breath in front of my parents, who throws fits when he gets scolded even though he's 31. Not my brother who barely has a filter at work by his own admission.

Me. Who doesn't curse in front of my parents. Who always watches what I say so I don't start a fight. Who admitted to my parents there are things I'd like to tell my brother but don't so I don't come off sounding like another parent to him.

I am the one who doesn't have a filter.

[becumsh]

Trevilieu prompt : "Stop moving for God's sake, you're only making it worse!"

Humour and angst is my favourite combination of flavours, add your ownseasonings to taste. I’m clichéd, but ugh. (this turned out to be longer than I was intended it to be)

“Stop moving for God’s sake, you’re only making it worse!”

Treville for the life of him didn’t really understand how you can make this worse. So he continued to do whathe’s always done: ignore Richelieu and proceed to do what he thinks is best.

The foundation of their over a decade long relationship, come to thinkabout it.

“Treville, stop this rightsecond!”

Treville was a straight-forward man; he approached things with asingle-minded determination. He couldn’t afford talking while he worked.

“Shut up,” he finally gritted out. “You’re distracting me.”

“And you are risking bleeding out to death sooner than it is necessary.”

Treville stopped to take a shallow breath and turned to his source ofincessant distraction and annoyance.

Richelieu raised his eyebrow and pointedly gestured at theirsurroundings.

It was Louis’ idea, to create a diversion, when the English dépêche to La Rochelle wereintercepted. At first, he was planning to burn the city to the ground, havingforgotten that it’s exactly what his troops had been trying to do for the pastmonths to little avail.

‘A plan to kidnap my First Minister,’ Louis raged.

‘Your Majesty,’ Anne tried to reason her husband. ‘I’m sure it’s amistake. George Buckingham would never have stooped so low; we’ve met him atthe ball.’

Louis pouted and when Anne had her eyes elsewhere (unfortunately toFrance and its future heir, it almost always the case), mouthed something verysimilar to a condescending ‘women’.

For he loved his Queen, Treville was in full agreement with the Kingthen. Richelieu said nothing on the matter.

‘I cannot believe you take such matters so lightly, that’s not you!’Treville seethed later, when they been on their way from Aytré.

‘Oh, you know that we are still waiting for the fort’s plans, I cannotleave the castle,’ Richelieu hissed back.

Louis ordered to spread the rumour that Richelieu and he were to head toÎle de Ré, ‘Therewill be a pleasant surprise awaiting for these fools. Leave enough men with theCardinal to fend off an attack, Captain, prepare an ambush at Pont-de-la-Pierre.’

In another lifetime if such heresy existed, Treville mused often, Louiswould’ve made a brilliant military commander. In another distant, distantlifetime.

Of course a small patrol of bloody Huguenots attempted to attack thissmall, dingy, pokey, damp, slimsy castle. Of course, because it was Treville’sregiment, thank you very much, that small patrol of damned Huguenots wasdefeated and a word to other musketeers was sent.

That sequence of events brought Treville to now, to a stalemate. Theycouldn’t leave because they risked running straight into other Huguenotswandering about, nor actually attempt to do anything but wait forreinforcements.

As Richelieu would gladly point out later, Treville forgot to mentionthat almost all his men had fallen. As Richelieu would gladly point out later,Treville himself had been wounded, poorly and hastily bandaged himself, and howcould he take it so lightly was beyond him, Richelieu. Actually, Richelieu hadbeen pointing it out to him for the past fifteen minutes.

In short, Treville was livid, bleeding, and in a terribly foul mood.

“Will you sit for a moment?” Richelieu asked primly, as if they werehaving their usual argue in Paris, not in a dingy, pokey, and sorry excuse fora castle in the middle of nowhere. “Please.”

“They might have the reinforcements standing by.”

“Jean.”

Treville winced. His side throbbed unpleasantly, and he could feel theblood soaking through the cloth. He sank down next to Richelieu, who had theaudacity to look as unperturbed on a dirty cold floor as he would during theaudience in front of the King.

“Let me,” Richelieu gently uncovered the wound to re-wrap the bandages. “Itlooks far worse. In fact, it looks absolutely terrible.”

“You overreact. I don’t feel as bad. I’ve been through worse.” May be hedid feel a little bit light-headed and tired.

“If you don’t get help within half an hour, you’ll be dead,” Richelieusaid flatly and pressed painfully against the gash. “We can’t stop thebleeding.”

“If you weren’t so stubborn and just left for the Île, none of that would havehappened.” Treville slumped against the wall. “You are fussing.”

“Andyou are, quite literally, dying to let Buckingham and the Huguenots to destroyour troops.”

“Tenyears ago you weren’t so dramatic,” Treville said.

“Ten years ago you were a reckless Montauban hero who could afford asmany wounds as he deemed necessary to get a favour from the King,” Richelieucut off sharply. “You are the Captain of the King’s Musketeers; you can’tafford dying becauseyour personal feelings cloud your judgement. This is not Vicomté deSaint-Antonin, this is not Montpellier.”

“He wasabout to stab you! If you’ve forgotten, this entire charade was set up toensure to prevent it from happening!”

“I had apistol! There was no need for you to rush headlong to him, unarmed, becausewith all due respect to your abilities, Captain, the odds for an unarmed Catholicagainst a Huguenot with a sword are not favourable.” Richelieu was breathinghard, barely keeping his temper at bay. Treville grunted when his fingers duginto his side with way too much force. Treville covered Richelieu’s hand withhis own. It trembled, every so faintly, because you didn’t survive in a worldof politics for long if you couldn’t control your body language.

But you didn’tspend ten years with a man and failed to learn his every tick and tell.

“Armand,calm down.” It was hard enough to focus and keep awake without Richelieupanicking. Oh, yes, how he could forget, the Cardinal didn’t panic. He, asalways, merely pointed out the obvious.

“I hopeyour new recruit, that chevalier, is as good at sewing as he claims.”

“Armand.”

“I amperfectly calm,” Richelieu said. He exhaled and then breathed in slowly anddeliberately.

“No, youare not.” Treville took his hand that was grasping at the dirtied folds of hisrobes and gripped it as tightly as he could manage. “For once in your life, behonest. You look even worse than I must. If I’m not careful I might believethat you worry about me.”

Richelieuturned his head and stared at him.

“Jean, youare unbelievable,” he said at last. “Of course I worry. You’ve been prancingaround the castle, looking for some imaginary Huguenots who must be lurking inthe corner. You are wounded and bleeding. And if your musketeers won’t be intime, you’ll bleed out within an hour. Why shouldn’t I worry?”

Richelieu’svoice cracked at the end. Treville didn’t like it.

“It’s beenwell over a decade,” Treville said gently. He never thought he’d have to begentle with Richelieu.

“It doesn’teven correlate to this situation in any way.”

“You know, we’ve been through this for more times than it is prudent forthe First Minister,” Treville chuckled. “I thought it was you who insisted thatpolitics doesn’t have as much swashbuckling as one might think.”

“It doesn’t.” Richelieu slipped his hand around Treville’s waist to keepthe bandage in place. “Unless you and your reckless musketeers who don’t careabout the integrity—”

“Well, I care about you,” Treville attempted to shrug but decidedagainst it. “And the integrity of your body parts.”

Richelieu fell silent for a while. The stone against the back of hishead was cold, unforgiving, and too vertical for his liking. He decided to leanto the side in search of a better prop.

“So,” Richelieu cleared his throat, “so you decided to be a recklessfool because you care?”

“I thought you didn’t need me to spell it out.” The shoulder under hischeek was bony and uncomfortable under layers of expensive fabric. Trevillefelt Richelieu’s fingers move in the tight grip of his hand. “I thought we didn’tneed to, you know, talk.”

“I think,” Richelieu’s touch was feathery-light, trembling. “I think, onthe contrary, we have talked too little.”

“Well,” Treville gasped. “Here’s an opportunity of your lifetime. I canneither walk away nor scream at you.”

“Don’t,” Richelieu asked. “Please, just… just don’t.”

Treville, for probably the first time, relented.

“Themusketeers will be here soon,” he said after a while, between laboured andshort breaths. “We still have time on our hands to kill.”

“What doyou propose?” Richelieu replied tersely, entirely focused on keeping Treville fromfalling.

Ten years was such a long time, long enough to admit that there was morebehind Richelieu’s worry than simple… well, knowing Richelieu, there was hardlyanything else behind Richelieu’s worry.

“If I promise you that I will be fine, will you stop?”

“You can’t promise me that,” Richelieu huffed, his voice thin andpapery. “There are too many variables. How fast your regiment got the message.The speed of their horses and how rested they were. If you won’t bleed out onmy robes before they arrive.”

“There’s a called hope. You should try it sometimes.” Treville winced.

“I maintain that hope stayed in Pandora’s Box for the better.” said Richelieutightly. His hand that was pressing against the gash on Treville’s side must benumb already and most likely covered in bloody crust.

Treville didn’t really know how answer that, so they fell silent for awhile. He tried to keep his breathing deep and even, fighting against thetemptation to just close his eyes and fall asleep. Richelieu propped his templeon top of Treville’s head.

Ten years was way too long to continue an affair of any kind. Especiallyif the stakes were so high. Treville rose up the ranks to the point where hecouldn’t be a thoughtless young cadet who cared only about excitement of thebattlefield. There were decisions to be made. There were decisions to fighttooth and nail against. Treville couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone butRichelieu.

Sentiment. Personal issues clouding his judgement. Care. All things thatdidn’t belong in the world of politics.

Ten years was too long to continue this.

“I hate it,” Richelieu suddenly said, jostling him out of his half-lucidreverie.

“Hate what?”

“Waiting. Stressing. Worrying. Doing nothing makes me feel—”

“—helpless?”

“—out of control.” Richelieu bit his lip. “I don’t like not controllingthings.”

“I have always thought you had an adventurous streak in you. But I waswrong; I mistaken it for a suicidal one.” Treville smiled.

“Jean…” a faint wisp of warmth brushed his temple, as if somebodypressed a light kiss on his skin.

“Yes, I know.” Treville lifted their joined hands to his lap. “I know.”

“No, not that.” Richelieu huffed at his inability to express thingsplainly.

“What? Hear that? Told you my boys won’t let us down.”

“Promise me.”

The sound of hooves was drawing closer. Treville’s grip on Richelieu’sfingers was still strong and sure.

Ten years was too long for any relationship to last. Hope, amongst manythings, wasn’t meant to last that long.

And yet.

“I promise.”

[evolutionsvoid]

When it comes to assumptions and myths about dryads, one of the funny ones is that dryads are happy-go-lucky creatures that are always cheery and prone to frolicking. It is kind of weird how many people believe that about our kind. Do we truly come off that way to others, or is optimism and smiling truly that rare in those parts? Sure we are pretty upbeat about things, but I never would have thought that we would give off such an impression. I guess that would make me guilty of spreading such a belief, as I am usually a pretty happy, cheery person. I am not carefree and joyful because I am a dryad, I just tend to find a good thing in every situation. I have also learned that complaining often does very little to change things when working in my field. You can bellyache all day about how hard it is to climb a mountain in pursuit of trolls, but at the end of it all, the mountain is going to make itself easier for you. Regardless, it seems to be a widely accepted belief, save for an exception. This is what makes this idea kind of funny, because a lot of people see dryads as happy little flowers, but those same people are very much aware of Conifer dryads and do not find them cheery folk in the slightest.   Conifer dryads have many unique things about them, and one of the biggest is where they live. Their species can be found in cold environments, often arctic tundras and coniferous forests. While many other dryads despise the chilly weather, they do just fine in a world of heavy snowfall and freezing nights. Another thing that makes them stand out is their size. Conifer dryads are one the the tallest of our kind, with adults reaching about eleven to twelve feet in height. Even their sapling share this incredible size, as they are three feet tall when the emerge. Their height is gained from long limbs, which are quite useful for walking through deep snow and climbing the massive trees that make up their forests. Their "conifer" title comes from their pinecone-like head cap and the green needles that cover their arms and legs. With large, thick plates, the head cap of a Conifer dryad serves as hefty armor for them. It helps protect them from falling ice from the branches high above, enemy attacks and projectiles that may be aimed at their heads. The sharp needles on their limbs serves as defense from predators and attackers, making it difficult for foes to climb up their legs without getting stabbed. To go with their natural growths, Conifer dryads often wear garments made of lichens and moss. Some claim they help warm them, but I can't see how such thin, sparse things could do anything against the freezing winds! Due to their preferred habitat, Conifer dryads are a nomadic species. They move with the seasons, relocating their camps through the forests and plains in order to keep close to a steady food source. Herds of prey are key to this cycle, as they provide the meat and furs they use to last the long, harsh winters. The dwellings of these dryads are made of leather, fallen branches, stones and bone. These huts of theirs are made to be collapsible and transportable, so that they may take them along during the migrations. Oddly enough, these dwellings are often wide and short, which would seem unfitting for such a tall species. Well it turns out that adults hardly spend any time within these houses, only going in them to rest. It is the saplings who hide within these huts, and they do not need nearly as much ceiling space. For adults, they are perfectly fine with crawling in these short doorways. Another reason these huts are so short comparatively is that they do not obstruct the dryads' line of sight. Ever vigilante, the Conifer dryads like to be well aware of their surroundings, and buildings as tall as them would block their view and give the enemy a place to sneak up from.

As I mentioned before when talking about dryad cheeriness, Conifer dryads are the exception to this rule (though not really since it is a false belief, but anyhoo). Their attitudes are much like the places they live, cold and serious. Due to the extreme weather and low temperatures, their kind cannot afford to waste time and energy on frivolous things. What matters to them is food, fur and the forest. They must make sure that their food stores are full and that they have enough warm garments for cruel winters ahead. The woods they call home is also vital, as it offers protection, a place to stay and is the burial ground of their ancestors. With all these concerns combined, Conifer dryads can come off as a harsh and hostile species. They do not like to waste time with outsiders, especially since these strangers would most likely try to take some of their resources. Even walking through their territory is enough to gain their irritated attention, as they become suspicious of an attack and are also peeved about all the game that was chased away by the intruder's blundering. Even other dryads can be met with this distaste, I know I have! When I went out to find a group that would allow me to stay close and study them, it turned out that they found me first! Apparently my intrusion was noticed and a whole squad of them dropped from the trees and surrounded me! The dramatic entrance knocked me off my roots! Immediately they wanted to know what I wanted, and I told them. They then told me to go elsewhere, as they didn't want to be bothered by my "foolishness." I tried to convince them, but apparently this annoyed them further, as one of the sisters grabbed me by the pack and hauled me off like a naughty dog. I was tossed into a snow bank and it was then that I decided to try and find a different group to befriend. Though us dryads can get a cold shoulder from their kind, other species can get it even worse. Humans are the best example of this, as Conifer dryads absolutely despise them. This is mainly due to human settlements and lumber companies moving in to chop down trees for their own uses. The pines that grow in these frozen forests are massive in size and tough in composition, which makes them prized for ship masts and sturdy homes. At the same time, these giant trees are ancestors to the Conifer dryads, and they will not let an ax even touch their bark. Yes, other dryad species are not fans of lumbering and forest cutting, but we do not protest these activities in such a...violent manner. Those who come to their forests with plans of lumbering and chopping will be met with extreme lethal force. The tales of such encounters and battles can be quite chilling, even to the likes of me! Workers found dead in the frozen branches above, horses and riders shish-kebobbed by ten-foot long spears and entire lumber camps wiped off the face of the earth. Their violent response to these harvesting attempts have made Conifer dryads famous. Those who live up north will steer clear of any forests inhabited by them and they often craft their goods from anything besides wood. These precautions are smart, as Conifer dryads are powerful fighters and great hunters. Their long limbs allow them to throw out sweeping blows, and they also add range to their weaponry. Though they look thin, they are quite strong and are capable of lifting a human-sized opponent up with a single hand. Their stone blade weapons allow them to take out foes from afar, but don't underestimate their close combat skills! I have literally seen one of these dryads punt a charging wolf across the woods, and the poor thing didn't have a good landing. Another thing to keep in mind is their armored head cap. While it serves as great defense, it also can be used for a bludgeoning weapon. Turns out that Conifer dryads like to headbutt things during hunts and battle. It may sound silly, but they can crack a skull wide open with one of these blows. There are even stories of great conifer hunters who could knock an arctic dragon out cold with an attack like this. After what I have seen, I think I can believe that! While Conifer Dryads do come off a bit cold and mean, they are not strangers to warmer feelings. You can see this anytime one of these hardened warriors is with their saplings. Though they can be strict teachers and parents, they do spend time with their offspring and can find joy in their silly antics. In fact, a large chunk of their hunting and gathering is used to collect food and furs for their young. Unlike their mothers, Conifer saplings are not able to withstand such cold temperatures and brutal winds alone. Instead, they are bundled up in thick furs and hides to keep warm, and they tend to hide within the huts to avoid the harsh weather. In most cases, outsiders will never see a Conifer sapling, as they remain indoors while their parents keep watch over the village. And don't think you can just walk into one of these dwellings to see them, as Conifer dryads are very protective of their young. In fact, it took me two weeks to earn enough trust for me to even be near on of their saplings. Even after spending a few months with them, I was never allowed to enter the huts where the saplings slept. I couldn't even look at the dwelling for too long, as that would earn me a wooden smack on the noggin from a peeved mother.   Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian

[high5nerd]

Alone Together--Chap. Thirty

Sadie and I were very discreet with our planning for the following week, as well as Sadie putting in time for her own enjoyment of being a spirit. I couldn't stop her, but from what it seems, she was having a blast just by flying around or casually floating by in whatever silly pose she felt like doing. It was both amusing and...worrisome.

What if she chose the life of a spirit? Where would that leave Alice and I? She would never age while Alice and I grew old and carried on a legacy...hopefully. If she'll say yes.

You never know what Alice will say, she's surprising like that.

Where was I? Oh, right. Worrying myself to death over Sadie's rash decisions.

All in all, Sadie has a life in front of her. If she chooses the life of a spirit, she's leaving behind not just family and friends, but what she's been working for her entire life. Before this all happened she badly wanted to help those in need and be an activist against injustice and unethical issues. She was one of the top kids in her class, she had the voice and the passion and the knowledge...was she really just going to throw it all away to living an immortal life, forever sending dreams to children she didn't even know? If I was in that situation, I would easily choose to follow what I've started, not something new that was meaningless to me. But hey, I can't talk. For most of my life I've been giving nightmares to the entire world and spreading fear like it was a plague. I'm just getting used to this human life once more.

Alice regained her health slowly, thank the stars. I guess once the stress slowly disappeared and that she knew that Sadie was okay, it helped her bring back the rosy health that she once possessed. I hated seeing her so sick and frail, so knowing that she was up and about was relieving to say the least.

Nonetheless, once she got better she was back to working and helping me understand things a human adult should know.

"I feel like I should go to college."

Alice looked up at me, the rim of her coffee mug just centimeters away from her mouth.

"What?" she asked.

I sighed and closed the book I was reading and leaned against the table, "I said I think I should go to college. That's what helps people get better jobs, right?"

Alice put down her mug, her eyes not leaving mine. She looked thoroughly shocked. We both could hear Sadie's laughter outside along with the jingling of Sandy's as they flew around above the roof of the house.

"You...you want a job?"

"Yes. You can't be the only one trying to pay off this house. Heck, this isn't even a house anymore." I gestured to the living room, "Alice, it's becoming small. It was fine for a family of two but...I don't know, have you ever thought of moving elsewhere with a better pay and a better view than the forest and the backroad?"

Alice made that slight agreement face with the small shrug, knowing I had a point. I knew she was slowly liking the house less and less and wanted something bigger, something with a really big backyard. She smiled at the look I was giving her and touched my hand with hers.

"Pitch, you're absolutely right. I've thought about it all the time. But with the paycheck I earn along with bills and Sadie's education, I don't really have much of a choice except to stay here until it's all over."

I looked down at her hand, intertwining my fingers with hers, "Okay. Well, if you could have the option of moving somewhere else, you know, with no maximum price limit, what would it be?"

She laughed at that, her eyes shining with a dream I haven't seen until now. She withdrew her hand and leaned against her chair, holding her mug in both hands.

"Hmm...probably somewhere in the countryside, just miles away from the city where I would work. Something close to endless green valleys and a river, with the view of both the sunset and the sunrise. Like a horse ranch or something. You and I could take care of a couple of horses and have a few dogs that Sadie would look after. The house size doesn't matter to me as long as it has a shaded porch with a patio swing or a hammock."

My smile soon matched hers when she looked back at me. "You see me in your future?"

Alice brightly blushed and bit her lip with a grin, "Maybe. It's just a happy thought," her smile fell along with her blush, "Are….are you serious you want to go to college to get a job?"

I nodded, trying to look serious about my decision. I was, but after listening to her dream home I couldn't help but keep on smiling. She sighed and put down her coffee cup.

"It's really expensive, Pitch, we don't have that kind of money."

"But I do," I pressed, "North and everyone else owed me a favor. I can manage four years of that."

Alice pressed her lips together in thought before glancing back at me, "What would you want to go into? You know, for a job?"

Damn. She got me there. I honestly had no clue. I remember many, many decades ago I saw my first college campus and lurked around in the shadows during a few of the lectures. I remember liking it, but can't recalling what I found most intriguing. I want to be in charge of something, of course. Have control over things so I can finally feel that authority. But I also love to tap into the inner workings of humanity, see their flaws and emotions unravel-

"Psychology?" It sounded more like a guess for myself than an actual answer from me.

Her brow rose in doubt, "You...as a psychologist?"

Uh oh. I don't like the look on that face I usually like. I shrugged and nodded, "Yeah, that's pretty much it."

She continued to stare at me like that for a while, and for a second I thought she was going to completely be against it until she broke out into a wild and excited grin, "Well I like it! It actually kind of suits you. So! When will you start?" she leaned against the table with a new amount of eagerness.

Wow. That was actually kind of easy. Maybe she just wanted to be sure that this was my choice? Still, I was all for her excitement.

"Well, I haven't exactly acted upon it just yet. I'm thinking of doing that um...you know, later."

Alice nodded, "Yeah, especially because now is sort of busy with Sadie's newfound spirithood and you're still getting the hang of being human. I get that," she looked up at me with seriousness in her dark eyes, "I just want to be clear with something, okay?"

I nodded slowly, gesturing for her to continue.

She held up one finger, "One, is that this money you'll be spending on for college can't come from us, because we don't have it. This is all from North and the other Guardians, right?"

"Correct."

"Okay," she nodded before sticking up a second finger, "Two, the college can't be too far away. If anything happens I want you closeby for safety's sake. Like if the house burst into flames or Sadie's in trouble."

I grinned and bowed my head, "Exactly what was planned."

Alice's face went from serious to bashful in a matter of seconds, a smile on her face. "Oh. Heh, sorry. I didn't know how long you've been planning this. It is kind of unexpected."

Unexpected...that reminds me, I needed help with planning on Alice's proposal. I honestly didn't know how to do it without thinking I was going to screw something up. Sadie's good with the ideas for creativity, but I should really ask someone who's done it, someone who is actually married or engaged that I knew could help me.

Wait a minute. Alice's friends Emma and Tom. They're married, and Tom and I are technically friends. He could help me!

I can't make this obvious though. The week is almost over, since today is Wednesday, and not only will Sadie's decision to either stay as a spirit or leave as a human will be made but I want all the preparation decided by then. Tom would be a huge help if he's available. I can't afford Alice to get suspicious. She's a very smart and clever woman and if anything, she knew when I lied. Which was rare, I admit it, but she's that tuned in and bright.

I had to be cautious…

"Alice, is Tom around this week? Say today or tomorrow?"

Crap, there's that surprised look on her face. Here comes the 'why.'

"Yeah, why?"

I shrugged, "He invited me to his place for a game and some food. Is that what men usually do?"

Alice giggled at that and nodded, "Yeah, that's Tom for you. He rarely invites guys over and when he does it means he's considering you a friend. I suggest you take him up on the offer! You might have fun. Besides," she winked as she got up, "His homemade buffalo wings are to die for."

Damn, I hated lying to her. Well, it wasn't really a lie, it was more of a white lie. He did invite me over, but I hated using that as an excuse to leave the house to plan a proposal. It just felt like I was lying to her, like I was sneaking around.

Tom was the first human friend I made...this is going to be interesting.

"Seriously? You wanted to ask me for help?" Tom looked genuinely shocked, flattered even.

I slowly nodded, not entirely liking his reaction, "Y-Yes? I mean, you and Emma have such a happy marriage, I thought you would know-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Tom rested a hand on my shoulder, making me sit back down at the kitchen table, "Koz, you need to understand something first. It's not the proposal that got us here, that was just a stepping stone. It's years and years of trust, a whole bunch of stuff. Believe me, it took me a while to finally want to get here. Using us as an example won't help you."

I must've sulked or something similar to the action, because he sympathetically grinned and slapped my back, "Hey. At least you're acting on it. You know you want to spend the rest of your life with her, right?"

"Yes."

Tom beamed again, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, "Good. You're ahead of half the male population. What's your plan?"

I raised a brow, "Plan?"

Tom rolled his wrist in the air, as if wanting for me to continue, "You know, a plan. You can't just go on one knee and ask. If the girl is extremely special to you for you to propose you've got to make it memorable."

I opened my mouth before closing it again. Quite honestly….that was my plan. Just get down on one knee and ask for her hand in marriage. But by Tom's face I assume that's...out of the question? I glanced over at the nearby painted wall, just noticing the wedding photos over the fireplace. Emma was scooped up in Tom's arms laughing at the sky with Tom beaming at her despite being in ankle deep seawater. The picture next to it was their hands forming a heart with their son's baby hand in between.

"That was basically the plan." my voice sounded disappointed. I guess I was, a little bit.

Tom nodded at that, "Okay, so you're just wanting something simple, right? Knowing Alice she wouldn't want a big, thoroughly planned proposal. Emma said Alice doesn't like surprises like that, where they go full on out."

"Huh...then what do I do? I want her to feel special when I ask her...let her know she's...the center of my world."

Tom grinned at that again, and this time of being a cheeky one he looked elated. He looked like he was excited for what was to happen, just by hearing those words come from my mouth.

"I know just how to help you," Tom rested a hand on my shoulder again, "But you've got to believe me when I say this. It all is up to you on how to deliver it."

"So what's the first thing I do?" I ask, smirking at him.

I had just the idea, the perfect one, something Alice will not forget. I remembered how much Alice loved swimming at the quarry. At night I remembered seeing it for the first time, how the water literally glowed a vibrant turquoise and the stars looked so bold against the blackness of the sky. She'd love that...It's right on the beach, too. Tom didn't know how I knew of this quarry but thanks to my lucky stars-if I had any to begin with-he didn't ask any more questions. He did go on to say that the most daunting task is trying to find out Alice's ring size without her knowing. He said that when he tried to figure out Emma's, she almost figured out what he was going to do. Almost. But I knew Alice wouldn't...hopefully.

You know, she's pretty smart. She'd probably figure it out if she caught me rummaging around her jewelry box.

Sure enough I came home two hours later, and Alice was sitting at the kitchen table eating a green apple hungrily as she stared at whatever was on her screen. When I stepped through the doorway she looked up, smiling a bit, "How was it?"

I slowly nodded, putting my jacket on the hanger. "He's not that bad. I think he's alright. Very excitable."

"Told ya," Alice bit into the apple again, clicking something on her computer, "The office called me in and I have to go around dinnertime. It got busier than usual. Can you keep an eye on Sadie for me while I'm gone?"

I smirked at her, "Gee, I don't know. What will it cost me?"

She grinned humorously, "An arm and a leg, pretty boy."

I kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear, "I'd give you more than that."

"Like your heart?" Alice's eyes looked purely happy.

I shrugged, slyly glancing down at her. Her smile fell into a blush. She knew what that smile of mine meant. "That, probably along with my-"

"You know I can hear you guys, right?!" shouted Sadie from her room, "Keep it freaking PG in there!"

Alice laughed, keeling over as I chuckled and headed over to her room before she could notice I was in there. That movie on her computer will keep her busy for me to have enough time to find some sort of ring that fits her.

I made a beeline over to her dresser, flipping open the top of a carved box to see a circular mirror, a few necklaces and nothing else besides that, a lace kerchief and charms. Shit. What next? I know she has them, at least one. I glanced around her room, knowing I was timed on this. If I wasn't swift she'll catch me and ask questions, and I don't know what I'd respond with. She knows how to get the truth out of me.

Sure enough on her nightstand table was some sort of hand statue, covered in faded white cloth with rings on each finger.

"Yes," I grinned and plucked a silver, woven ring on the fourth finger and shoved it into my pocket.

Thank God that was there, otherwise-

"What are you doing?"

Fuck!

I whirled around and pointed at the hand statue, "Where did you get that? I don't remember you having it."

Yep. There it was. The skeptical eye. "Sadie gave it to me. Remember? For my birthday?"

"Ooh!" I nodded, glancing at it again, "It's nice. Kind of a neat idea. I never saw one of those before. It startled me for a second."

Alice giggled and looked at it, "Yeah, it can be. I haven't used it yet though. I've been busy with work I haven't taken Sadie's off and put mine on to use it."

...What. Those were Sadie's?

"Oh, so they're...they're Sadie's. Huh. Uhm...where do you keep yours then?" I asked, asking like I was that interested in it. Honestly, it was quite boring talk.

She pointed to the drawer below it. "In there. Not much, but at least Sadie won't know so she doesn't steal mine again. Why?" she looked at me again.

...What am I supposed to say to that?

"Well, it just seemed unfair that Sadie's technically still using hers. Do you want me to help you with it?"

Bingo. Nice job, Pitch. Perfect score.

She rolled her eyes and jerked a thumb towards the hallway, "Get out, Pitch. You look sneaky."

I raised my hands in defense, my brows up as if I'm slightly offended. Once I was back in the hallway and she made her way to Sadie's room, I dashed back in and ripped open the drawer. Immediately grabbing a silver band, I ran back out and pocketed the band inside my jeans, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred at all.

This is going to be one tricky time, one for planning a proposal...and knowing I wasn't the only one worried about Sadie's choice in being a spirit or human…

[im-still-writing-out-of-time]

Nursing Wounds, Nursing Wombs- George Washington x Reader

Hey everybody! So I’ve been working on this one for a little bit, and I know it wasn’t a request, but I’ve had the idea for a while and it’s just been festering in my brain and wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it.

So here it is.

In all it’s self indulgent glory.

Tw: rape mention (vague, but there), childbirth, stillbirth, low key violence, blood, ANGST

Like, reblog, and comment. Lemme know what you think! Don’t forget to follow me; next follower contest is at 500! I love you guys!

Masterlist

Life as a field nurse was tough.

Life as a field nurse who was unwed and pregnant was tougher.

You walked through the tent of the wounded. There wasn’t much anyone could do for half of these men, but it was your job to make them comfortable as the life slowly slid from their eyes. Bright crimsons splashed across browns and blues that had become the colors you saw on a daily basis. The white of underclothes no longer white, tans and browns after being worn for months. Body parts had turned black on these men- improper dressing during the coldest winters many of them had ever lived. These men didn’t have much covering their feet as far as shoes, and some were lucky to even have a pair of socks.

Horse feet thundered outside, beating like the sound of the army drummers. They thrummed against the solid ground, the August weather had dried out the soil, the lack of rain cracked the hard ground. The only wind was warm as it weaved through the tent flaps, accompanied by a tall man, his eyes hard as stone, searching through the men.

“Has Alexander Hamilton shown up in your tent today?”

“No, sir,” you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. “We have not taken in any more men today. These men have all been here for three days minimum.” Your hands moved in front of your stomach. Your clothes were baggy, but you did not want to take chances that someone find out about your… predicament. “I have not seen Mister Hamilton as of recent sir.”

General George Washington stood in front of you, his eyes slowly softening as they looked at you. “Thank you, Miss-?”

“(Y/N),” you replied, holding out your hand for him to shake. “(Y/N)(L/N), sir.”

His hand encased yours easily. Everything about this man dwarfed you. “Nice to meet you, Miss (L/N). Please keep an eye out for my camp aid.”

“Of course, General,” you promised as he began to take his leave.

He stopped just short of the tent door. “Who knows of your predicament, Miss (L/N)?”

Your heart shot to your throat. “I do not know what you mean, General Washington.” Your voice was shaking and you could feel your heart pounding all the way from your stomach to your ears.

“Miss (L/N), I feel as though this conversation would be much easier if we are truthful with each other. Does your husband know of your predicament?”

Your eyes cast down to the solid ground beneath your feet. “No husband,” you whispered, ashamed. “I have never married.”

“Fine,” he stated, eyes hardened. “Your courter.”

“No courter.” The tears were beginning to prick behind your eyes.

“Do you claim to have a child of divine reasons?” His voice was as hard as his eyes were. He had slipped into his commanding voice.

“No, sir. I do not. I-”

“Are you nothing more than a common whore?” he pressed.

Your face shot up, anger burning in your eyes. “No, absolutely not! I have never willingly slept with any man, and I definitely would not sleep with men without love, without marriage. You need not worry about the condition of the nurses keeping your men resting, other than how they handle their job. I handle my job perfectly fine as I am, sir, despite my predicament.” One of the men began to moan in pain and your head jerked from its heated gaze on the general to search for the injured man. The palms of your hands swiped at the tears sparkling down your cheek in the soft light of the afternoon that shone through the tent. “Now, I have a job to do if you would see yourself out.”

You moved to the man, water bowl and ladle in hand. You were tender as you worked, George noticed as he watched from his position. You brushed the young man’s hair back from his eyes as he fell back- was he asleep? Had he expired right there before you?

George got his answer when you used your fingers to gently ease the boy’s eyes closed. You pressed a gentle kiss to the boy’s forehead, and pulled his coat over his face, shrouding him with the few materials you had. A sad smile adorned your face as you moved from man to man, bending down to help them, moving easily around your round form.

“General Washington,” you stated gently. “Mister Hamilton is not here. He has not been here. Therefore, I suggest you take your leave and look elsewhere.” Your voice was resigned, knowing he would not listen to you. You looked up at him from your spot kneeling on the ground. “These men are trying to recover from surgery and unless you plan to help, I have work to do.”

You had not expected him to remove his hat and set it down, shucking his coat to the small chair in the corner of the tent and rolling up his sleeves. “How can I help?”

“Sir,” you started.

“No, Miss (L/N), you are right. You have work to do, and if I wish to continue talking to you, I should assist you in your working on the men. How may I assist you?”

You were shocked, but took it in stride. “Go to the river and fetch some cool water,” you ordered. “This man has a fever and we need to bring it down. He has been under as many blankets as we can afford to spare and it has yet to break. So take the empty bowl and fill it with the coldest water you can find.”

He did as you asked without questioning. He returned with a bowl of water, mostly clear, with small amounts of sediment mixing in. It was hard to get clean water around here.

You ripped a small amount of fabric off your apron and dipped it in small bowl of water before placing it on the young man’s forehead. “Hold this here,” you stated before moving down to undress the man’s torso. He had a crimson bandage dressing his wound- an angry puckered surgical scar beneath his ribs, the pale skin a bright red.

You took the cloth from the water and rung it out, the cold water spilling over your hands. You had to keep his wounds clean, despite the lack of fresh water. No one had come to build your fire to cook supper for the men yet, and you had no supplies to do so yourself.

The young man’s body surged toward your hand as the water dripped over his stitches. He screamed out in pain and you winced. The sound never became easier to hear. You pat the stitches dry and dressed the wound once more with some less-than-clean cloth before you pulled his shirt back around him and covered him back up.

“You can remove the cool cloth. We must not let him get too damp.”

You bustled around, looking for something that didn’t need fire to be edible.

“What are you doing?” The general questioned incredulously.

“Looking for food that does not need cooking to be edible. We have no fire yet today,” you answered simply.

“No- You do not know how to start a fire?”

“Contrary to your beliefs, General,” you spat. “I do know how to start a fire. However, it is a bit difficult when I have no firewood, no kindling. There is no sense in starting a fire that one cannot feed and, General Washington, I have nothing to feed it. Besides, it is nearing the end of August, and most men think we need no fire at the infirmary tent.

He nodded his head slowly, thinking. “I must take my leave, Miss (L/N). Good day to you.”

“Good day to you as well, General. I hope you find Mister Hamilton.”

He smiled gently, fondly. “Mister Hamilton has more than likely just disappeared into town to see his beloved.”

“Then why did you bother coming to the tents if you knew he would not be here?”

“Miss (L/N), surely I said ‘more than likely.’ I still do not know for sure that he is in town. However, I am glad I came to the tents if it meant seeing someone as beautiful as you.”

You fisted your hands in your apron as you stared at the ground. “Surely you do not mean that,” you said.

His fingers found a place beneath your chin and he lifted your face to meet his. “Surely I did, Miss (L/N). You are more beautiful than you think.”

You cast your eyes away once more and pushed his hand away from you. Grabbing his coat and hat, you pushed them in his hands before distancing yourself. “I think you should leave now, General.”

His face screwed into a confused expression. “Miss-”

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, just go.”

“Yes, Miss (L/N).” He turned and headed for the tent flap. He paused and turned to look at you. “I hope to see you again.”

The horse’s feet clopped away much slower than they had approached and you took a moment to breathe before returning to the men. There wasn’t much you could do for any of them, but you busied yourself to keep your mind off of things. Off of General Washington, your mind smirked.

Before you knew it, night was beginning to fall. Five of your six men had expired- the only one surviving being the young boy General Washington had helped you with only hours before. You sat at his bedside- if the lumpy cot of blankets could even be called a bed- and brushed his dirty hair from his eyes. He couldn’t be much older than fifteen. You had seen his blue eyes for a while before he fell asleep. He looked so much like a child- he shouldn’t be anywhere near a battlefield, let alone dying on one.

The thundering of hooves sounded outside once more- the sound pounding to a stop outside the tent. The general’s voice sounded outside the tent flap, ordering someone to start a fire. The tent flap brushed open to reveal the general in his tall, demanding glory.

“Miss (Y/N),” he greeted. “I have brought men to start a fire for you. Are you warm enough for the time being? Here.” He shed his coat and wrapped it around your shoulders. The nighttime temperatures were starting to drop with the impending storm.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your eyes returning to the young boy whose eyes were slowly fluttering open. “Hello,” you crooned sweetly. “I was not sure if I would be able to talk you again.” Your lips pressed gently against his forehead and you pulled back smiling. “And your fever has finally broken. Do you need any water?”

He shook his head slowly before his eyes found the general looming only feet away as he walked closer. His hand shot to his forehead in a salute, crying out in pain as he stretched the stitches in his side. “General Washington, sir,” he saluted, his voice cracking.

“Please, son. None of that. Just worry about getting rest. You must wait until you are well once more before you worry about saluting.” The general kneeled down beside the young boy. “Thank you for your service young man. I pray you have a full recovery.” He stood back up after shaking the young boy’s hand. “Miss (L/N), may I speak to you out by the fire?”

You looked at the boy once more. “Do you need anything?”

“No, ma’am.”

You couldn’t help but smile softly at him. Ma'am. You weren’t that much older than he was. “I will be outside with the general. Call for me if you need me.” You released his hand and reached for Washington’s outstretched grasp. He helped you up with ease, your stomach being a little difficult to move around beneath your oversized skirts.

His large hand rested in the curve of your back beneath his jacket, the curve emphasized now that your stomach was being pulled forward. You exited the tent first, the general following immediately behind before he pulled you to the farthest end of the tent.

“I was wondering, beautiful (Y/N), if I could share a kiss with you.”

“What?” You questioned.

“You have no husband, no courter, therefore no ties I should be worried about. May I kiss you?”

His hands had grasped yours, both of your hands completely encased by his own. You were suddenly aware of the warmth of his hands against yours- it wasn’t much, but it was apparent he had been near a fire of his own recently. His breath was warm against your skin and your eyes focused on his lips, slightly pursed as he breathed.

You were vaguely aware that you were nodding, and became increasingly aware as his face moved towards your own. His lips were surprisingly soft, despite being in the dry summer air all day. His hand moved to caress the back of your head, holding you to him. His other hand remained in the dip of your spine.

You were pulled apart abruptly by a horse’s hooves pounding against the dried earth and men’s frantic yells cutting through the air. The general pulled you behind him as a bleeding man was pulled into the surgical tent.

“General, the surgeon is not here. He has gone to town, he- he will not be back until tomorrow.” Your mind was still swirling from what had just happened.

“You must be able to do something, (Y/N).”

His hand was on your back, leading you into the surgical tent where you came face to face with the bleeding man. You knew him.

You would never forget him.

His body curled up as he screamed out in pain, a bayonet broken in his side. As his body coiled, he looked at you and stared before a sadistic laugh bubbled from his mouth. “Sleeping with the general, huh? Does he know the sound you make when you are-” Another yell of pain, followed by another laugh. “When you are fucked like a whore?”

You were still, physically unable to move, terrified. Your eyes were wide as you backed toward the tent flap. Your chest heaved as you took in wheezing shuddering breaths. You finally moved and stumbled as your back hit the general’s chest, his arms wrapping around you to catch you.

You pushed the general’s arms off of you, the large jacket falling to the ground, and the man who brought him in grabbed you and pulled you towards the surgeon’s table. “This is why women should not be on the battlefield. Just fix him.”

You nodded your head, terrified of being anywhere close to him but knowing you had a job to do. You grabbed a sewing kit and a musket ball and moved to him. Your stomach brushed the tall man standing as you moved to the surgeon’s table, your skirts pushing back to show your round form.

The sadistic smile returned. “And she is with child, too.”

Your eyes shot to the general’s, still wide. Had he not figured out who this man was to you yet? Why was he just standing there?

You moved around the end of the table to look at the wound. There was not much you could do, but you were going to act like there was anyway. You were glad he would die. He curled up once more as you reached the very end of the table, his legs winding up.

The pain shot through your stomach before you knew what was happening.

You fell to the floor, the man on the table laughing as you dropped. He knew he was dying as well as you did. The general moved his body and pulled the bayonet from the soldier’s abdomen, the warm blood flowing through his fingers.

The man on the table remained laughing while the soldier who had brought him to the tent stood in shock. His superior had just ensured the death of one of his men.

“You will leave this tent and you will not speak a word of this to anyone, am I clear?”

The man was shaking, his eyes wide. “Yes, sir.”

“Am. I. Clear?!”

“Yes, sir!” He saluted before running from the tent. The man’s blood was slowly ceasing to flow to the ground as the general moved around the bed to stand at your side. The laughing had stopped and the man’s eyes were clenched shut.

Never before had the tent been so well traveled as that day. Hooves drummed towards the tent once again and you could hear men talking outside. A man walked in, hair pulled back, satchel slung over his shoulder.

“General Washington, I apologize for- General?”

Your abdomen was tight as you laid on the floor. A clenching pain seared from your naval to your back before disappearing entirely. General Washington was kneeling by your side, the concern thick in his eyes.

“General?”

“Alexander, I need your help. Help me get Miss (L/N) to a cot. Please.”

The satchel dropped to the ground and Alexander surged forward. “Yes, sir.”

“I am alright,” you whimpered, pain radiating from your stomach dictating your every movement. “Just help me stand.”

“(Y/N),” he started.

“General Washington, please. Just help me stand.”

He grabbed your outstretched hand and pulled you up, holding you as your tried to find your bearings.

The aching pain returned once more and you knew the baby was on its way. You had been feeling these pains for the last month and now the time was finally here.

You were terrified. You didn’t want a baby, especially not his baby.

You managed to stand on your own and the general moved his arms away from you, taking a step back, watching not to step on the surgical supplies behind him. Your body was shaking as you moved to the surgical table.

His eyes were clamped shut, his face, even in death, contorted into laughter. The dark red blood oozed over the table slowly, clotting on the surface warmed from the summer heat.

The tears that danced down your cheeks were cold against your face. You couldn’t help the relieved smile that graced your face. “He is finally gone,” you whispered, laughing quietly. “He died.”

You walked outside and grabbed the small cart, dragging it into the surgical tent. You moved quickly, before the men could stop you. They watched your every movement as you pulled the cart beside the surgeon’s table and pushed his body in.

The blood was warm on your hands as you pulled the cart outside. Your hands slid on the cart and you stumbled as you pushed it down the hill. You fell back on the ground, your feet sliding on one of the few muddy patches of ground, your head hitting the hard crumbling, rocky ground. The cart continued down the hill, disappearing into the brush.

General Washington was by your side immediately, helping you to your feet as he watched the cart disappear into the tall grass and bushes. “(Y/N), are you-”

“I am okay. Just- just go get the cart.” Your voice was shaking, holding back tears. “Leave him there for the wolves. It is more than he deserves.” You gathered your skirts and walked back to the tent, leaving the general standing at the crest of the hill.

The general’s camp aid- Mr Hamilton- was standing at the tent flap, holding it open. He watched your movements carefully, keeping close watch as you moved around the tent.

You had to clean. You had to remove every part of him from the tent, from your life. Well, as much as you could. You grabbed dirty rags and began mopping up the blood on the table, throwing the red rags in a bucket near the table.

You could feel the contracting running through your from your naval to your back, the pain radiating through your lower back. You squat down, clenching your hands on the edge of the table. A whimper escaped your lips as the pain intensified.

“Miss-”

“I am fine, Mr Hamilton,” you whimpered. “Uhm… where is the general?”

“Call me Alexander,” he said. “General Washington is coming up the hill now.” His body was in the tent, but his head was poking out the flap looking down the hill.

You stood up, the contractions finally waving away, as the General walked through the tent. “I brought the cart back,” he said, moving toward you as you resumed cleaning.

“Thank you, general.” You were scrubbing so hard your knuckles paled at the pressure.

“George.”

Your hand stuttered, your knuckles banging into the table. “What?”

“Call me George.” His smile was soft as he looked at you, his eyes- was that affection? No it couldn’t be.

“Okay,” you whispered, suddenly realizing how close he was to you. “I have to go check on the boy in the other tent.” You ducked out, running to the other tent to find the boy laying on his back, his left leg propped up.

He looked up as you walked in- his eyes were wild. “What was happening in the surgery tent?” He whispered. “What happened?”

You dropped to the floor beside him, your fingers finding his dirty blond hair, brushing it out once more. “Bad stuff,” you whispered, trying to fight the tears from your eyes.

“Can you tell me about it?”

You took a shuddering breath and smiled at him. It was a sad smile, more to build a facade that it was all okay. “Someone brought a soldier into the tent. He had a bayonet sticking out of his side. George… the general, he asked me if I could do something for him. So I went in the tent. I knew him. I knew the solider. Well… I knew of him.”

“Go on,” he whispered.

“He was the man who stole my virtue. He attacked me outside the tent one night. I have not seen him since December, and I- is it wrong to be glad that he is dead?” You set your hand on your stomach, the contractions making an appearance once more. “I am with child- his child- and I want nothing to do with it. I would parent it like I would any other child, but I- I feel as though I will always detest him- the baby.”

“Are you laboring right now?” He asked warily, watching your forehead scrunch up in pain.

You couldn’t say anything, but instead nodded. This was the strongest contraction yet and, though you didn’t have a stopwatch, you knew they were getting closer, and stronger.

George appeared at your side, sitting beside you. How long had he been listening? “(Y/N), why did you not say anything earlier?”

“I thought-”

“You thought what?”

Your hand grabbed the cravat tied around his neck and pulled it taut, not looking at him, but effectively getting him to stop talking. Everything in your body made you want to hold your breath but your mind forced yourself to pant through the contractions. “It is supposed to take longer,” you whimpered, the contraction never leaving. “I though it would take longer.”

George looked at the boy. “What is your name soldier?”

“Bradley Allison, sir.”

“Bradley, son, can you walk?”

He nodded, terror painting his eyes. “Yes sir.”

“Go tell Mr Hamilton to order the men away, at my word. Tell him that they are not to repeat anything they have seen or heard today and tell him I need his assistance in the tent. This baby will be coming soon and there is no way to get Miss (Y/N) into town.”

“Yes sir.” He winced in pain as he moved his body, his steps irregular, his limping shuffle slow as he moved to the tent flap, to the fire the soldiers had made outside. Only moments later, horses were pounding away and Alexander was walking into the tent.

“Sir you- Good god. Sir?”

“Alexander, I need you to sit behind her and hold her.”

“Sir, I-”

“George,” you whimpered. You squatted in front of him and braced yourself using his shoulders. Your body forced you to push and it was the weirdest feeling you had ever felt. You were still wearing your underclothes, but now was not the time to remove them. You would once you lost the contraction.

“(Y/N), how can I help? Let me help you.”

“I do not want Alexander here,” you whispered as your contraction weakened. “Only us. Please, George.”

“Okay,” he whispered back against your ear. “Alexander, please leave the tent. Take care of Bradley outside please.”

Alexander looked relieved. “Yes sir. Thank you sir.” He scurried out of the tent, the tent flap quivering in the breeze.

George moved you to the cot, setting you down gently. “When were you due to birth, (Y/N)?”

“Before the end of the month,” you breathed, laying back. “That is how I figured it myself. No one else knows about me being with child.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “Do you need anything?”

“I am still wearing my underclothes. I have to remove them before I birth. Would you help me stand?”

“Lay back and allow me to adjust your skirts. I will remove your underclothes, (Y/N), so you can give birth without moving too much.”

“George?” You were suddenly terrified at the thought that he was going to see you in such a position, that you were in such a position to be readily available for… “I can- Let me do it myself.” You attempted to wrestle past your skirts, the thick fabric bunching up in the way.

“Miss (Y/N), I promise, my intentions are pure. I only intend to assist you in birthing your child, I swear on my honor as a general of the United States Army.” His jacket was pushed back on his shoulders and he pulled it off, laying it out on the floor beside him.

You nodded your head fast, too ashamed to look at him as he eased your underclothes off and folded them, setting them on the jacket he had shed. He barely had time to look back at you before you were struggling to your feet to push. Squatting was the most comfortable for you, though your skirts made it difficult.

You braced yourself once again, using George’s shoulders to hold yourself upright. Your water broke, soaking tour skirts from your waist down, and your face blanched. No man should ever see a woman in this position. It was unbecoming.

“Alexander!” George called, and his aid peeked his head in through the tent flap tentatively. “Ride the horse to town and get new clothes for Miss (Y/N). Anything will work, even if you have to get men’s clothes.”

“Yes sir,” he saluted, escaping the situation as soon as possible.

You were already getting tired from pushing. Squatting was easiest on your body, but your knees and ankles ached and you wanted nothing more than to sleep. “Is anything even happening?” You questioned with a sob.

“I cannot currently see, my (Y/N), but as I removed your underclothes, I could see your child’s head crowning. I promise, o beautiful (Y/N), your work is not all for naught. Would you mind if I lift your skirts out of the way?”

“Go ahead,” you said, bracing yourself against him to push once more. He lifted your skirts waist high on you- just enough to see what was happening. “George, what can you see?”

“You almost have the shoulders out, (Y/N). You are almost done. One more push.”

You listened to him and pushed once more, your grip losing his shoulders as his arms lunged forward to catch your baby. You fell back on your cot as he caught her, pulling her to his chest. God, you were so tired.

“She’s not breathing, (Y/N),” he said frantically. “Alexander, I need a knife and something to tie off the naval!”

Bradley’s voice floated through the billowing tent flap. “Alexander went to town sir, but worry not. I will fetch something from the surgeon’s tent.”

His gait was odd as he shuffled into the tent, knife and surgery thread in his hands. “Here, sir,” he said, handing them over.

George moved the small baby into his lap and cut the umbilical cord, tying it off with the thread. His finger moved inside her small mouth, pulling mucus from her airway. “Please breathe little one. Please.”

Every part of your body felt heavy as you watched him, your eyebrows drooping closed as George held the baby. She was barely bigger than his hands. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, watching his rapid movements. How cruel could a god be to someone? Why would He force a man on an innocent woman? Allow her to get pregnant? Why could you not have met George before that fateful summer night?

He was rubbing her back, patting her back, anything to try to get her to breathe, to start her heart. “Come on!” He cried, tears streaming down his face.

Bradley stood behind him. “Is she-?”

“No! She can’t be. I- There must be something I can- I have to save her.” He pressed his lips to the baby, pushing air in her lungs. Anything to try and save her. “I have to save her.”

Bradley took a blanket from the ground beside you, the blankets you had placed on him for days. He draped it over you as your eyes drooped closed once more, covering you from anyone else’s gaze who might enter the tent, before grabbing another and gently easing the baby from the general’s hands.

“She was born like this, General Washington. Maybe it is divine reason that the child be born dead. The nurse, she… she wished the baby away, sir. It was god’s will. You should not fret about things that you could never control.”

He wrapped your baby in the blanket as though she had lived, swaddling her so only her face was showing- damp curls pasted against the crown of her head. George moved the afterbirth from the ground and placed it in one of the bowls you had laying around before adjusting your legs to what he thought would be a more comfortable position. He pulled your skirts back down around your legs. Though still damp, he would not remove your clothing with Mr Allison still in the tent.

The baby was placed on the nearest cot to you and Mr Allison limped back out of the tent to sit beside the fire. George couldn’t leave your side. He made sure you were sufficiently comfortable before he laid beside you, his face resting beside yours.

You looked even younger as you slept. Were you even older than Bradley Allison, just outside this tent? Your face was pale- dangerously so, in George’s opinion- and your chest was barely fluttering.

“I think I love you,” he whispered at your sleeping body. “Though I barely know you.”

Unfortunately for him, you weren’t sleeping as deeply as he thought. “I think I love you as well George,” you mumbled. “Even if you are a nosy war general who finds innocent nurses and accuses them of whoredom.”

You laid on the cot beside him in a comfortable silence. “May I hold you in my arms?”

You stayed silent but moved your body to curl into his arms. For the first time in a long time, you felt safe.

“I am so sorry for not being able to save your daughter,” he whispered against your hair.

It was a girl? You could feel the tears skittering out the sides of your eyes; sliding down your nose, your cheekbone. “It was a girl?” You weeped, holding back the sob that was trying to escape. “I always wanted a daughter.”

Sobs racked your body as guilt filled you. You had listened to all the tricks your mother had for telling gender during a pregnancy. They always worked for her. She was always right. How were you so wrong? You were confident it would be a boy. You were confident he would end up being a disgusting snake like his father.

And it was a girl.

Part of you was glad she had died; you didn’t want any reminders of him. But you always wanted a baby girl.

“You will have one some day, (Y/N). I promise.” The pad of his thumb brushed the tears off your face before he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Or maybe if we are lucky, we will have a daughter.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his words, tears still streaming down your face. “You have known me for less than a day and yet you are already planning our future, Mr Washington?”

“Of course,” he said back, his eyes smiling at you, though his mouth was the usual sternness as you had become accustom to. “If I have to convince you, I will. But I happen to think (Y/N) Washington has a beautiful ring to it. And we could live at my place in Mount Vernon, and we’ll have as many babies as you want, or as few as you want. I want to court you, (Y/N). Would you permit me to write you letters?”

“Why would you write me letters if I’ll be following your troops from camp to camp?” You smiled at him softly.

“You still plan to work the infirmary tent?”

“I haven’t seen my family for over a year and I have nowhere else to go. The humid New York summer, with hot days and cold nights makes me despise the area, so as long as you move to somewhere with dryer air, I’ll follow you.” Your arms balled up in the shirt he was wearing. “Where will I bury my baby?” You whispered.

“I could find a way to send you to Mount Vernon. You could bury her there. After all, you aren’t just stringing me along for heartbreak, are you?”

You leaned onto his shoulder. “It is not in my plans, dear George. I would- Could we really- Can we bury her at Mount Vernon?”

George pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Of course. If that is what you would like.”

“I would,” you whispered. “George?”

“Yes, my (Y/N)?”

“I feel so cold,” you whimpered, curling further into his side. “And so, so tired.” That heavy feeling was pushing down over your whole body again and your muscles fell limp. “George, I…”

Your eyes closed and George tightened his arms around you. “(Y/N)? Please stay awake. Please,” he pleaded. “Alexander will be here soon with your clothes. And we can warm you up and- and we will be happy. Please, wake up.”

“George,” you whispered. “Please George, it… so cold.”

“I know. I know darling.” His forehead pressed against yours and he held you close. The night air was cooling fast and though it felt beautiful to George, it was taking its toll on you.

“Can I see her?” You whispered, fighting your eyes open.

George pulled away, nodding his head. He turned over and sat up, reaching for the blanketed infant. He cradled her in his arms, staring at her face. She looked so peaceful, like she was sleeping, but her tiny body didn’t move- not once.

He laid the infant beside you, her face laying beside yours. “When did you last feel her move?”

“This morning,” you whispered, studying her face. “She looks like him.”

“She has your eyes. Your lips, your ears. Your hair color. She would have been a beauty, just like her mother.”

“No, she looks like him,” you cried. “Take her away.”

George picked the baby up and cradled her again staring at her. You were wrong, but you were blinded by hate. She had his nose and eyebrows, but everything else was you. She was beautiful.

George wished she was his daughter.

He set her back down on the cot she had been on and laid beside you again. “(Y/N), we need to get you out of these wet clothes. Please, let me undress you. Again, my love, my intentions are pure, on my honor.”

“Okay,” you whispered, too tired to move, to fight. He was gentle with you as he shifted your body to unlace the back of your dress. He was gentle as he stripped your clothes, layer by layer, and folding them, setting them on his coat. He stripped to his underclothes and crawled beneath the blankets, holding your naked body close to his.

His body was warm against you, the hard lines of his body surprisingly comfortable as he laid against your back. He was comforting to be with. You weren’t afraid that he was trying to hurt you. His arm moved beneath your head, acting as a pillow, the other draped over your torso, holding you close.

“This has saved many of my men in the field during those many cold winter nights,” he said, his breath dancing against your ear. “I will gladly share my body heat with you if it means I can spend the rest of my life with you.” You turned over to face him, your every movement making your torso ache.

“On top of being cold, and really tired, I think I could be hungry.”

He smiled at you. “That is good; not that you are hungry, but partially because you can feel hunger. That is a good sign. But darling, it is not cold outside.” Horse feet were heard clopping around outside- multiple horses. “I hope that is Alexander, though I have no idea who he brought with him.”

You only hummed a response, anticipating the tent flap being thrown open.

You were too tired to care about your image anymore, too cold to worry about fighting anything. All you could focus on was the feeling of George’s arms around you, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. The crisp smell of the outdoors that covered his skin. Your eyes closed gently and you basked in the feeling of safety and love.

You heard the tent flap whip open and Alexander’s voice filled the room. “Sir, I procured some clothes, food, and supplies. It was hard to convince shop owners, but I managed to guilt them into it.” The sound his boots made against the ground stopped abruptly. “Is she-?”

“She is… still alive,” he sighed, easing your head off his arm and sitting up beside you. “Her body temperature is high, yet she feels cold and she is fatigued, but she is alive. I hope she is asleep.”

“I am awake,” you mumbled as the blanket pulled down on your body. “Though I must admit, I would much rather be asleep. Lay with me and I will soon be sleeping.”

You didn’t see the loving smile that graced his face, but he smiled at you before laying back down beside you. The cot was barely large enough for the two of you, and was only inches off the ground, but it was better than sleeping on the ground; as you were well aware of- you had spent many nights curled in the corner when all the cots were taken up.

It wasn’t long before you were sleeping and George stood up, grabbing his clothes and pulling them on.

“How’s the baby?” Alexander whispered.

George swallowed hard. “It was a stillbirth. I tried to revive her, start her heart, anything, but nothing worked. That bastard disgrace of a soldier killed that baby before she even had a chance to live, and all as part of some sick joke. He stole her virtue, and he stole that baby’s life.” The tear that slipped from his eyes was a mixture of anger and sorrow. “She was such a beautiful baby. (Y/N) said that she felt her moving this morning. That baby was alive this morning, Alexander.” He stopped talking to think for a moment. “She wished the baby away. Was it the lord’s will to have that baby die, or just a disgusting turn of events?”

Alexander was quiet for once. “I do not know sir. I would not think a holy god would kill an infant who has done nothing wrong but be conceived at the wrong time, but I know not the inner workings of an all powerful god. I, however, would like to think that it was only an unplanned turn of events. At least the child will not live a life of sorrow.”

“No, she won’t,” he murmured.

“I managed to find a gown for the baby, and something to diaper her with. We could still dress her to honor her.”

George nodded solemnly. “Yes. That is a good idea.” He transferred the tiny infant on the cot to his arms gently, carrying her to Alexander. “She’s so small.”

He unwrapped the thin blanket and laid it over his shoulder, the baby’s body pale against his own hands. Alexander wrapped the diaper on the baby and pinned it in place before gently pulling the gown over the baby. “Does she want a burial for the baby?”

“Yes,” George said, never taking his eyes off the still body in his hands. “She shall be buried at Mount Vernon.”

A small smile found its way to Alexander’s face. “You care for (Y/N).”

“Very much. I can imagine a life with her, Alexander; a marriage, children, retirement. Walking in our house at Mount Vernon and kissing her as she cooks supper. She said she will move with us from camp to camp, follow us until the war is over. We have to end this war, Alexander. I want to move her to Mount Vernon as soon as possible. She cannot live this life much longer.”

“We can move the men south. We can move to Virginia, bury the baby at your home, and work down there. There is no reason for us to be this far north in New York, we have barely fought any battles as of recent. We have no reason to be here anymore.”

“You have a valid argument; we will move the men to Virginia. We can bury the baby, I can leave (Y/N) at my house and we can finish the war. It is nearing its end as we speak, maybe we can finish it off.”

You left New York only days after giving birth. You felt feverish as you rode the general’s horse. He had refused to ride his horse and force you to walk, so he led his horse by the reins and walked with his men.

A supply cart carried a small pine box, your daughter placed inside, shrouded by a baby blanket someone had given Alexander when he went to town. They had clothed her. You woke up to find her clothed in a small white gown, and the men of George’s troop had built the small box out of whatever supplies they could find. George promised to finish the box at his house in Mount Vernon, promised to make it the perfect final resting place for your baby girl.

Your guilt only grew as you traveled. George was planning to go to Virginia immediately; to bury the baby- whom you had named Abigail- and then to finish the war. George wanted you to stay at Mount Vernon while the men fought.

How could you stay at a house you didn’t know- and alone? You laid on the horse’s neck and let your limbs fall limp. You just wanted to rest. You felt warm- feverish- and you felt as though your clothes were constructing your rib cage. You were lightheaded as you and the men crossed over the Virginia border; next stop- Mount Vernon.

You rode silently, George stopping to ask you if you needed anything every so often. Each time, you responded with a curt shake of the head. No matter what your temperament was, he would always respond with a chaste kiss to the cheek, or forehead.

You slept by his side every night, his arm wrapped around your waist, his chest originally pressed against your back until you turned yourself around nestled your face in his neck. He was never willing to push you farther than you wanted to go and that made you admire him even more.

You loved this man- this man you barely knew- but the more you learned about him, the more you loved him. You laid on his horse’s neck, watching him. No matter how tired he was, his posture was immaculate- head up, shoulders back- you could balance a book on his head. He looked at you and smiled in utter adoration and you couldn’t help but avert your eyes from his gaze and smile.

Never before had someone made your heart flutter with a simple smile. But he did. His smile brightened up your day every time you saw it.

But you had never seen him smile as big as he smiled when he saw Mount Vernon. His home.

Green grass waved in the wind as far as the eye could see. Horses were grazing in the pasture, the air smelled fresh and wildflowers grew everywhere.

“Welcome to Mount Vernon, (Y/N). This is my home, our home.”

You sat up on the horse for the first time and looked at the surroundings. It was absolutely beautiful. Workers walked across the fields, tending the crops. Women worked in the gardens, pulling weeds, harvesting any crops that were ready. A carriage sat in the driveway, the horses being led into the barn, a gorgeous driving team of chocolate quarter horses.

You could almost feel your fever ebbing away as you drank in the beautiful tranquility. The men had stopped a while back, not wanting to intrude on George’s home. They were setting up camp while you and George moved down the path, Alexander following on horseback. You leaned against the horse’s neck and grabbed the reins from George’s hand, grinning as you broke into a canter down the rest of the drive.

The wind pushed your hair out of your face as you neared the barn and you pulled the reins in, slowing the horse down, your heart racing as you saw George laughing down the driveway. You threw your legs over the horse’s side and dropped to the ground. You buried your face in the horse’s neck and inhaled, waiting for George to make it up to the stable.

He reached you, a smile still brightening up his face as he took the reins from your hands. Your arms wrapped around him. “Would you like me to bury my nose in your neck now?” You joked, nuzzling into his neck. It was your favorite place to be to start with. Now was no different.

“Let me take care of the horse and I’ll show you around, my (Y/N).”

He led the horse into the stable and took care of her. You moved to the field and disappeared into the tall grass to pick the wild flowers. You laid in the grass and closed your eyes, basking in the warm Virginian sun.

You could hear George calling for you but you didn’t want to move your body. You were at peace for the first time in months.

“I’m in the grasses, my dear!” You called to him. You listened to him wading through the tall grass to find you, before he tripped over your feet and caught himself hovering above your body. “Hello,” you breathed, his face close only inches away from your own.

“Hello yourself,” he said, shifting his body weight to one arm so he could brush away a lock of hair from your face.

“I picked you some wildflowers,” you smiled, pushing the flowers up between you, the flowers brushing against the tip of his nose.

George scrunched up his nose and snorted, causing you to laugh beneath him. “They are absolutely beautiful, my sweet, but they are also tickling my nose.” He took the flowers from you and shifted his body. He was no longer hovering above you, but sitting at your feet, fiddling with the flowers. His hands moved elegantly as he weaved, placing a ring of flowers on your head.

“A flower hat?” You laughed.

“No,” he started. “A flower crown. For the only girl I wish to spend my life with for the rest of our lives.”

“Oh, George,” you crooned.

He stood you up before grabbing your hands, his eyes piercing yours . “(Y/N), though we have not known each other for long, I know there is no one else I would rather take as my wife. You are beautiful, you are strong, caring, and hardworking. I wish to see you grow round with child, or cook supper in the kitchen. I wish to swing with you on the porch on nights like last night. I wish for you to ride horses with me through the fields. (Y/N)(L/N), will you do me honors of becoming my wife?” He fell to one knee in the middle of the grass you both had knocked down, a gorgeous ring in his hand.

You started crying, your body shuddering with sobs. “Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely yes!”

He stood up and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, breaking away to slide the silver band on your ring finger. You jumped into his arms, knocking him backwards as you caught him off guard. “I love you,” he said, his forehead pressed against yours.

“I never thought I could love a man, but George, I love you. I love you with all my heart.” You pressed a kiss to his lips, and another. Another. Another. Over and over until he pulled at the strings on your stays. “Make love to me, George,” you whispered in his ear.

“I will, my sweet. Never worry about that.”

[schemesanddreams]

Part Two – The Imposter

As the calendar rolled to 2004, Lee and I became quick friends, or so I thought.  It’s funny now, how nervous I was the first time I called her, considering the relationship we eventually developed.

With bi-weekly phone conversations, letters and e-mails abounding, one can imagine we discussed more than just Dorothy’s death - and one would be correct. Lee regaled me with tales of her lunching at Sardi’s and indulging in one too many gin and tonics; something I would quickly discover her penchant for.  It was more than her stories which tuned me in to her alcoholism. Nonsensical, rambling voicemails about her cats, parcel with addresses written sloppily and postage affixed upside down and one particular e-mail going on about penguins were only a few instances in which her troublesome relationship with alcohol became glaringly obvious.

I vividly remember her cackling over the receiver once, detailing her failure of burning a turkey for a dinner party she was hosting.  Another time, she absolutely demanded that I read Pentimento, a book by Lillian Hellman.  She urged me to read Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs, as we had been discussing banned literature at the time.  She confided in me that she was looking to write a screenplay about Dorothy and to “keep it under [my] hat.” Often times, she used antiquated phrasing – things such as something being “rotten in Denmark” and a “bee under one’s bonnet.”  It didn’t take me long to become quite fond of her, with all of her quirks and eccentricities.

Still, I knew something was off about Lee Israel.  I couldn’t put my finger on it but something didn’t feel right.  I didn’t fully trust her but she was releasing crumbs of information to me that I was unable to find elsewhere.  Having sent me copies of Dorothy’s handwritten autopsy report and several police reports I had requested from her, I knew that there was more Lee had yet to share with me.  I had to keep her placated and happy in order to receive the information I wanted, despite how distrusting I was of her at the time.  She only released the bare minimum to me, afraid that I would surpass her research and become the new “Queen of the Kilgallen Story” – the last bit of fame Lee clung to.  I was competition, she realized.  She was not dumb; she knew I was befriending her for information and she did her best to carefully keep me at bay.  It was quite the twisted relationship, in retrospect.

With those realizations, paired with my instinct, I did some late-night digging and ended up uncovering an ancient notice to all New York Public Libraries that Ms. Israel was forever banned from them.  Well, that’s curious, I thought…

It turns out that my somewhat-of-a-friend, confidant, theory-buddy and information provider had quite a dark secret.  When I confronted her with what I had found, Lee’s tone turned icy.

“That is NONE of your business,” she hissed.  “Keep your nose out of things that aren’t relevant to you,” she added.  I was stunned at her sudden change in demeanor. In that moment, Lee was downright cold.

Funny, I thought. This woman who had written an exclusive and detailed biography about the life of a person that wasn’t relevant to her was lecturing me, a person who came to her with my nose already buried in things that weren’t relevant to me, on not digging into something that wasn’t relevant…  I had struck a nerve and Lee made it obvious.  I backed off but continued to dig – shocked at what I continued to uncover.

My New York Times Bestselling Author of a “friend” was a pathological liar.  Additionally, she was a thief and a felon, to boot.  In retrospect – and having befriended another of her ilk – I recognize her behavior and traits to be quite obviously sociopathic.  The woman gave zero shits about anyone other than herself – and her past and present actions at the time made that perfectly clear.  

Lee had major success with the biography of Dorothy Kilgallen.  Similarly, she received tremendous praise for her biography of actress Tallulah Bankhead (who will become relevant later in this tale).  Riding high on the success of her writing, Lee began yet another biography.  Except, the subject of this one was very much alive and did not appreciate the unauthorized work.  Estée Lauder and Israel ended up in a race to the presses, with Lauder trying to beat Lee to publication with her own autobiography.

Lee’s book was an abject failure.  She was so ashamed of it, even so many years later, that she strictly forbade me from reading it.  (Something I complied with until many years after our falling out; finally, out of spite, I read the book and it was indeed a complete piece of trash.)

Having fallen off the high horse of success, Lee was strapped and living in an exclusive apartment on Riverside Drive in New York City.  She was in way over her head and struggling to make ends meet.  While she blames her felonious misadventures on the sickness of a beloved pet cat and her financial inability to afford treatment, I not-so-secretly believe that her theft was a direct reflection of her own selfish greed.

Lee sneaked documents out of the highly-secure historical reading rooms of the New York Public Library system.  Taking letters penned by very famous people, she would gently fold them, quietly slip them into her shoe, take them home and copy their signatures.  Her brand of forgery was especially inventive, as she used the light from an upturned television set as a back-light to trace the signatures. Using a variety of typewriters which she later admitted to trashing in various cans around the city once the FBI was onto her, she fabricated letters by famous people, forged their signatures and sold the fake letters as authentic.  She made a ton of money.  That is, until she was caught.  

This was information which, at the time, really surprised me.  I carefully suggested she monetize her story, afraid of the verbal backlash.  After all, it was interesting, I reminded her.  Instead of laying into me, she scoffed.  Yet, several years before her death on Christmas Eve 2014, she published a slim memoir called “Can You Ever Forgive Me?” to much success and fanfare. 

An aside that will make much more sense as my story progresses: I found out about Lee’s death through a google service that instantly reports to my e-mail any news featuring Dorothy Kilgallen.  I was absolutely taken aback when I absentmindedly checked my e-mail on Christmas and found that headline. 

“Keith,” I said, shocked, to my husband.  “It’s over.  She’s dead.” 

We high-fived and I decided in that moment, that her death was the best Christmas present I had ever received.  Before you cast me as a heartless, ruthless bitch, finish my series and then revisit that moment with the information you’ll receive...  My joy, relief and happiness will appear far less cold-hearted and in fact, very justified...

With much retrospect, I see just how dastardly Lee Israel was.  At the time, while I was certainly entertained by her, I knew that she merely kept me around for the attention.  Lavishing me with over-the-top stories and acting as if she was wealthy beyond her means, she basked and reveled in having an audience in me.  When I had planned a trip out to New York City to sightsee Dorothy’s house and haunts, as well as to do coffee with Lee, the façade crumbled and her lies came crashing down upon her.

There were no fancy luncheons at Sardi’s.  Not surprisingly, Lee had lied.  Sure, there was plenty of gin but I highly doubt they were expensive martinis, as she had suggested.  Certainly, they were sad drinks from plastic, bottom-shelf bottles.  There was no turkey dinner to be burnt. Lee had no friends to invite over.

“I’m penniless,” her e-mail read.  “I’m ashamed,” she told me.

Lying about her whereabouts during my trip (she was most definitely holed up in her embarrassingly cluttered apartment on Riverside Drive), she claimed to be in California on business.  Convenient.

Shortly after she so transparently stood me up, I experienced a major devastation by way of the death of a beloved family member.  Having recently moved to a new area and not yet having my feet solidly on ground in the social department, I called her hoping that in her, I could find a sympathetic ear.  She sent me to voicemail.

Not long after I left a very upset message, quickly filling her in on my situation, I received an e-mail.

“Due to our differences, I think it is best we no longer talk.”  

What differences? Sure, we weren’t politically amicable but that was about the only thing that we didn’t have in common.  I found it curious that she would dump me as a friend while I was in such a situation – after I had been there for her, for several years, during her tough times.

I was soon to surpass her on Kilgallen research, having spent a vacation talking with a forensic pathologist mooring next to the boat I was on.  Having contacted Kerry, quick to learn that he and Lee had also had a falling out.  Having received previously classified Kilgallen information from both the FBI and CIA.

I realized that she often had “falling outs” with people.  Kerry and I weren’t the only ones.  One person she blacklisted was crucial in the Kilgallen case.  His name was Ron Pataky and he was Dorothy’s secret boyfriend, seen with her on the night of her death.

“Don’t ever contact him,” Lee had admonished.  “He’s a violent alcoholic.  He’s very dangerous,” she told me.

Telling me of a time that she had gone and visited him – implying quite transparently that the two had gotten drunk together – she told me that he had flipped out and scared her. No other details were given about the story but her warning was stern.  I heeded the advice until 2011, when I was asked to be a guest on the syndicated radio program Coast to Coast.  They wanted me to spend a segment talking about Dorothy on their annual Kennedy Assassination show and I didn’t feel right about going on the air without having talked to the one man who I strongly believed killed Dorothy.

It was Lee who had tried to keep me isolated, warning me about DK’s son, Kerry and about Dorothy’s boyfriend Ron, alike.  It was Lee who made me promise to “never put any of this on the internet,” when she sent me the autopsy and toxicology reports.  It was Lee who feared me surpassing her as the subject matter expert on Dorothy when I broke my promise, creating the most comprehensive Kilgallen website to date and it was Lee who ended up making my life a living hell…

[jgreenuniverse-blog]

Character sheet

Loves:

Tea: Since I was young i’ve been quite partial to a cup of Tea, and like to have one with almost at all times whilst at work. I have my own personal Kettle, teapot and tea set both at work and at home. Nobody else my drink from my teacup, though I may occasionally offer a cup of tea in a meeting or interview.

Money: money make the world go round, and if i’m to get anywhere in the world, It’ll be comfortably sat on a pile of cash. it is the only way to get my to get my dream speed boat and Holiday homes. it allows to me to sit back whilst other, working class people make my dinner, nice clothes and china teacups. 

Hierarchy: Without a hierarchy there would be no order to things, and I wouldn’t get an overpaid Job which pays for my holidays in Tuscany and cruises in Canberra. 

Ford: I’m very passionate about the company, and want it to do well. I will do everything I can to keep up it’s successful reputation, and must deliver the 1600E Cortina to the public, which could come with a promotion...

Hates:

Disorder: disorder comes hand in hand with lowered productivity, and as Managing director that’s something I can’t afford. Ford workers must be organised and productive. Never mix tea sets up, it’s confusing and look terrible. if every thing falls to chaos/disorder, hen it is difficult find and eliminate problems. Disorder must be illuminated. 

Strikes: strikes create disorder. they  have the potential to cripple a firm, and are outside the normal procedures and control of a company. a strike can lead to a phone call with my superiors, and if that happens, i’m not doing my job properly, and I could lose it. To disband a strike, find the ring leader, find their weakness (children, money, nice clothes, chocolate) and exploit it.

Mugs: A particularly strong pet hate. Absolutely fine if you’re foreign, working class (in your own home) or drinking coffee, but Tea drank out of a mug is an abomination and a habit which must be stamped out.

Hopes

Lisa will calm, down and see the light educated women can’t work. Se drops hints about working which i promptly ignore, as it’s completely absurd, but if she gave up with the idea and forgot about it she’d be much happier. in the meantime, i have bought her a horse in the hope that’s she takes up riding. A wife who can ride would be something to boast about at a party.

Also, Mr Tooley would approve if ever he must come to visit, and and as he is an accomplished rider and horse enthusiast, it could make a good impression.

I won’t have my superiors on  his back, for the remainder of my time at Dagenham. If i’m lucky, no more strikes will occur, and my transition from work to retirement will be smoother, without Mr Tooley breathing down my neck.

One day, i’d like to retire with lots of money in the bank and holiday homes in Cornwall and Tuscany, with regular cruises to Canberra.

Fears

Ford Dagenham will close and blamed on me: being held responsible for he closure of Ford dagenham would result in public humiliation. I would never be trusted with a job elsewhere, and my career would come to an end. I might even have to sell the house in essex and downgrade to a 6 bedroom county home with but 10 acres. It would also blow all chances of a knighthood out of the water.

Lisa will move Perry from school again: An irritating idea which will only cause disorder in the Hopkins household. It all started with her problem with corporal punishment, Perry gets caned a couple of times, and she starts on about moving schools.

Public embarrassment: Never good for work, if ever i’m embarrassed in public, I might resign and make a break for Europe.

Dreams

I would absolutely love to be knighted by her majesty Queen Elizabeth II, for services to the country.

Ambitions:

Becoming an executive of Ford

Additionally: here's sin clip of me and Lydia performing our breakfast scene in a full run: https://youtu.be/LNqsVrmM5Dg

Although I think this looks much better, there's is still work to be done. I’m still wobbling round a little to much, which I need to change for the same reasons as mensioned before. 

It's also really important That I fill my briefcase with stuff, although I do want to change what i’m doing with that. I think it looks good that I shut the briefcase as i talk about corporal punishment, but it looks a bit odd that i then open it up again when I'm finished, it doesn't really fit my objectives or my character. 

Instead, i’m going to try locking my briefcas, and (once we’ve found one) have my jacket hanging in the back of the chair, and whilst she's talking about setting fire to the women's institute i’ll be putting it on ready to leave with the line”"sorry darling, go R tom rush”. Th should make the scene run smoother and more realistically.

For a but of comedy, as i’be now decided my character loves tea I going to try packing the teacup and scarcer in my briefcase too, and see if I get many laughs.