#NOT EVEN THE ENDLESS FIGHTS WITH MY MOTHER OVER CONTROL OF THE RADIO

[baycitystygian]

I already know I’m autistic but if I didn’t already then the fact that I noticed the difference in mixing between the version I’m used to of “White & Nerdy” and the Dolby master on apple music wouldve for sure tipped me off

[rosemarie--h]

( zoey deutch. 25. she/her. ) i think i just saw ROSEMARIE  JANE HARMON ride by on a golf cart . at least i think it was them . after all , I MISS THE MISERY BY HALESTORM was blasting on the transistor radio . maybe they were on their way to work , i hear they’re a BARTENDER AT THE WATERING HOLE . but they totally could have been on their way to PLAY PRANKS ON THE MEMBERS. guess we’ll never know . you’ll definitely know its them when you see RIPPED BLACK JEANS, SOUND OF 90'S ROCK AND DILATED PUPILS around the country club . let’s just hope they stay off the green after hours or else the sprinklers will get them ! ( marie. 26. est. she/her. none. ) 

tw: child neglect, tw: drugs, tw: suicide

I couldn’t help myself and brought my old rebel  child back. I just love my messy and broken girl.!

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

 Matthew and Stacey Harmon where the epitome of what success should look like. They were a young couple who had come from nothing and mounted to be the most sought-after criminal defense lawyers in the United States. They were known for their poise and ability to handle high profile cases with dignity and discretion. Their clients ranged from high-grossing actors and celebrities to politicians and other government officials. And in the years since their jump into high profile, they had built up an image that both always strived to be. They had to be picture perfect. Perfectly put together. Fit the part of success. So naturally, when they became pregnant, it wasn’t something they had planned or particularly wanted. They tried to keep the pregnancy as quiet as possible, and while they had always had the option of abortion or adoption, for some reason the Harmons had allowed the pregnancy to go full term.

Rosemarie Jane Harmon was born on August 5th, 1992 and unlike most babies, Rose was not held by her mother immediately after birth. In fact, she had been refused and sent immediately to the hospital nursery. The rest of her life followed in similar fashion. Rose had come into her parents’ life as unwanted and unloved. A child ruined the image the stoic lawyers had tried to build for themselves and their practice, especially as child as lively and rambunctious as Rose had been from the start. Rose had probably been embraced by her parents only a handful of times, most of the love she received growing up coming from the Nanny – Elizabeth Green – that had been hired to raise her. But even Elizabeth – the only mother figure she had truly grown to know – was taken from her once Stacy deemed Rose old enough to take care of herself.

Growing up without any love or affection had Rose searching for it in all the wrong places from a very young age. It started off innocently enough – mostly confined to causing trouble at home, just so she could get a flicker of attention from her father or mother but that stopped working, her cries become louder. Living in Atlanta, it wasn’t hard to find trouble. In school, Rose started to hang out with the wrong crowd. Though, the more trouble she found, the less it seemed her parents cared, almost slowly fazing her out of their image.

She was 17 when she first fell from grace. At a rave, Rose stuck her tongue out, letting a tablet be pressed to her tongue for the first time. She’s been after that high ever since. It was the closest thing that she could imagine love felt like. It took her away from the feeling of worthlessness that plagued her because of her parents’ incapability of loving her as parents should love their children. It took her away from the pain of missing her only mother figure who never tried to reach out to her despite promising a young rose she would on the day she was let go. It took her away from the depression that ran through her body despite her refusal to acknowledge it.

From that moment on, Rose lived searching for the occasional high to get her feeling alive again but for the most part, she had it under control, still having a firm grip on reality. But everything began to take a different path when she met Andrew. He was older than her, a good five years. But despite their age difference, they had immediately hit things off and it wasn’t long before Rose had fallen completely head over heels for him. He was the first person she opened up to him about her home life and when Andrew heard of her misery, he had given her the option to follow him to his next destination.

With no family or real friends to hold her back, Rose didn’t hesitate to pack what she could when her boyfriend at the time asked her to run away with him. They hit the road then and Rose hasn’t been back to Atlanta since. When her and Andrew landed in Chicago, Rose’s eyes were opened to a new world – mostly for the worse. He introduced her to a world of endless fun and chemically induced euphoria. It was with him that the dependency for drugs began to really grow. It started off her a tablet of molly here or there, like she had been doing in Atlanta, and before she knew it, she was doing a line in the bathroom of a club.

About a year or so after being together, Rose’s world would soon fall apart. One morning, after a typical night of partying, she woke up to find that Andrew was dead. He had overdosed and she’d been too high too notice. By the time she had woken up, it had been too late. So, Rose got up, called the cops and ran before they got there.

Rose’s already fragile heart was shattered at losing the one person that had loved her in this cruel world. The one person she had loved unconditionally. And the grief fueled her addiction even further. 

From that day forward, Rose lived most of her minutes high or searching for the next dose. It didn’t really matter where the high came from, she just craved that feeling of euphoria, of being alive, of numbness. If it came from a tablet of molly, fine. If it was from a shot of heroin, cool. A mixture of opioids, why not? A smoke of meth- what was the harm? But her favorite way to lose herself was from a line of cocaine. Rose began to live a very nomadic life, travelling where she wanted, making connections as she went, crashing on their couches and starting all over again. There were times when she became so drugged, she would party for days, unable to settle down enough to stop and sleep. She got into fights. Spent many days in stupors, a haze. She wouldn’t have a clue of the reality around her.

Rose was twenty, when she OD’d for the first time and was admitted into rehab for her addiction. After a few months of rehab, Rose was released, and she wasted no time in falling back into her vices. She continued to jump from place to place, never staying no longer than a few weeks at a time. In her travels, she had several relapses, a couple of times causing her to be readmitted into rehab. But sadly, her addiction was stronger than her will live.

That was until she met Finely but Finley is someone Rose never talks about.

If Rose lived in shadowed lands, then Finley lived in other darkness. There was fragility around this woman that had drawn Rose to her immediately. Their initial time was spent mostly just hooking up but it was in the quiet moments that Rose fell. Finley was the other half of her, her true and tragic soulmate. Her star crossed lover. 

There was a part of her that always knew Finley wouldn’t exist on this Earth forever. There was a sadness and exhaustion that clung so tightly to her love and even when there seemed to be a little light that shined through, it wasn’t enough. 

The day Rose walked into their apartment and found that Finley had taken her life, was as expected as it was a shock. She still doesn’t know how long she clung to Fin’s body, sobbing for her to come back before she finally called for help.

Rose has never been the same. 

The loss completely eviscerated her. There was a gaping hole left in her chest and Rose went down a spiral to rock bottom, trying to fill or numb that hole. 

Rose has never been truly sober since that day 2 years ago and while she has gotten her vices under somewhat of control, she still very much relies on them on a day to day basis. Just enough to numb the hurt that never seems to go away. 

When she arrived in Highland at 1 year ago, Rose was probably at the lowest she had ever been. But trying to keep her promise to Finley, Rose has tried to make the best of things. She landed a job at the Watering Hole and has found a apartment to live in with a roommate.

And though every day is a struggle for her, Rose feels that she’s on the right track to turn her life around. Or at least, pretend to.

Important Facts: - Rose has a lot of emotional and mental issues due to her past. Mostly, she has this abandonment complex and she struggles every day with a heavy sense of worthless. - Has been clean for two and a half years. - She still clings to the party scene, though she now stays away from illicit substances, she has no issue with throwing back a few shots. - Rose hasn’t been in a relationship with anyone in about 2 years and is very happy that way. She doesn’t want to get hurt again. And she isn’t sure she can love again. - Loves animals and often volunteers at the shelter - LOVES cats and wants one but considers herself too unstable to own a pet. - Hasn’t spoken to her parents since she left Atlanta and pretends it doesn’t bother her, but it does. - On her left side, Rose has a tattoo. It’s the quote “without struggle, there is no progress” in cursive writing. - Has lived in Atlanta, Chicago, Nashville, New Orleans, a few other places until she came back to Georgia and settled in Peaches Hollow.

Personality - Rose lives impulsively, acting first and thinking later. - She doesn’t hold back and certainly doesn’t censor herself. Rose is the most straightforward person around and she will tell you how it is, whether it hurts your feelings or not. - Fun is priority in her life. Having grown up so unloved and hidden away in her youth, she is desperately trying to fill that gap in her life. She will jump from club to club, party to party, a shot of tequila in her hands always. Mostly, she is afraid that if she stops, allows herself to feel, every heartache she has ever felt will coming rushing at her. - Attachments are a no go for her, especially romantic ones. She’s fine with hook-ups, in fact she rather enjoys them, but once she or her partner start to develop feelings, she flees. If you don’t let anyone close, you can never be hurt. - Losing Finley broke something inside of Rose and she’s very keen on not giving that part of herself way. She doesn’t know if she can love again or if she has any to give. Most of the time, however, Rose tends to develop friendships with her partners. She’s pretty laid back and goes with the flow which makes everything easier. - Rose is super protective of those she considers close to her and will do almost anything for them. - Once you get past her wit and sass, Rose is the sweetest person you would ever meet, even if she’s rough around the edges. But good luck getting her to open emotionally.

[beca-mitchell]

we are the wild youth (1/5)

summary:  Beca needs some money to get out of Barden as quickly as possible. It just so happens that an opportunity all but drops in her lap: one Chloe Beale, desperately in need of a tutor to pass her last two classes to graduate.

Warnings for smut and angst and drama. Mainly smut. Rated M/E.

chapter one:  fever dream high

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

word count: 3,178

Rated M/E for depictions of coitus. This fic is an AU imagining of PP somewhat: Beca never joins the Bellas and is somewhat of a nerd, Chloe still stays back an extra three years, and there's backstory that was never part of the PP universe. But otherwise, it is set at Barden, Beca still loves music.

Fic title from “Youth” by Daughter. Chapter title from “Cruel Summer” by Taylor Swift. This fic is based on this gifset.

Read below or on AO3.

Beca just wants to graduate.

The deal she cut with her father is not the best deal in the world, but to him, a degree means something. Something meaningful. Meaningful enough that he’s willing to help her get the fuck out of Atlanta and move to New York. That kind of meaningful.

So in that sense, her degree is meaningful to her too. No time for fucking around.

But, senior year kind of means that she can start to take it easy. She’s almost there. She just needs to continue keeping her guard up long enough to ensure that Jesse still gets the hint she’s not interested in him and she just needs to pass.

Hence why this beginning-of-year party is an anomaly, but she’ll take it if there’s free alcohol and maybe the chance to unwind. Bedmate optional.

Beca isn’t one for parties. Definitely not one for house parties at a frat house.

She supposes these are the people who will end up playing her music in the future, however. Peering around, she grimaces at the very-near-public sex happening right on a couch that looks a little too used. A little too comfortable.

Start-of-term parties are always memorable in their own way. They’re almost formulaic in a sense. Guy gets girl, something valuable will be broken—maybe a television, maybe a heart—and something will go wrong.

Beca likes observing all of this from the outskirts while Jesse, who is the only person daring enough to drag her out of her apartment, floats away like the social butterfly he is.

It’s not that she hates parties, nor is she a recluse, Beca is just kind of tired of college at this point. She had promised her parents at least two years in college before she could head out to Los Angeles and really fulfill her dreams, but it turns out that she kind of needs money for that. Money which she doesn’t really have even if she’s been saving up pennies and quarters since middle school.

School is a safety net. She’s been told that all her life, with no small measure of patronization.

It also kind of sucks that Beca inherited at least a portion of her father’s intelligence. The daughter of a professor? There was no way he was letting her leave Barden without at least degree. Realistically, she inherited his knack for school because she’s kind of good at it. Physics, at least, hasn’t been a problem. Or Calculus.

It’s just fucking boring and she doesn’t even intend on using her degree. And she only chose something deeply rooted in science and math because she thought it would piss him off.

Many errors have been made. Miscalculated, even. Or perhaps more on point, horribly erroneous like a series of wrong notes in the middle of a symphony.

Beca could go on.

She can hear her father’s voice, somehow cutting through the raucous party and lodging deep in her head: “But your little music gigs, Beca? It’s a hobby. Science and math? That’ll get you jobs.” Then in the same breath, without fail: “It’s what your mother would want.”

The forced reminder makes Beca take another swig of cheap beer before she makes her way over to the keg for more. As she turns the corner, she stumbles, bumping into a shockingly solid body. As she drops her thankfully-empty cup, she reaches up to grab on to the arms that have come around her back to steady her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, lifting her gaze to make some kind of eye contact when she realizes the body she’s pressed against doesn’t belong to yet another generic frat boy. Instead, she feels soft, feminine curves and the slightest hint of firm muscle beneath the fabric of a thin leather jacket.

Shockingly blue eyes stare back at her. “Hi,” she greets.

“Hi,” Beca replies, still stunned. “Um,” she steps back from the stranger’s space. Or...somewhat of a stranger would be a more apt descriptor. She would be remiss if she didn’t acknowledge that she just nearly bowled over Chloe Beale whose last name just happens to be on at least two buildings around school. Chloe Beale who is devastatingly pretty with blue eyes to die for and red hair and a burning smile.

Chloe Beale who is staring at her like she’s seeing her for the first time.

(She probably is.)

“Beca, right?”

Beca swallows. “I—yeah. How…?” Beca shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m not usually this horribly awkward.”

Chloe smiles. “How are you, usually, then? Other than being the most talented radio host Barden has ever had.”

It’s the oddest interaction to be having with a stranger in the middle of a house party. Beca can barely hear her own thoughts.

Chloe seems to read her mind. “Want to go somewhere quieter?”

Beca has never agreed to a cliche more quickly in her life.

- - x - - 

It doesn’t take long—in fact, Beca barely gets out the question “How do you know my name?” before Chloe is in her space and pulling her in for a bruising kiss. Beca’s body immediately thrums with excitement and repressed energy and she quickly pushes back at Chloe, determined to at least put up some small measure of a fight against Chloe’s immediate dominance over her.

But she quickly realizes that it feels so much better, letting Chloe take control like this—Chloe whom Beca had no idea even knew she existed, let alone wanted to hook up with her.

Chloe’s breath is hot against her neck while she holds Beca against the dresser. “I’m going to fuck you so hard, Mitchell,” she breathes, voice dripping with promise and pure want.

Beca’s brain short-circuits then, a symphony of jangled notes and endless crescendos. She can only nod weakly, hands scrabbling up Chloe’s back and pulling at the thing fabric of her shirt uselessly before she grabs onto Chloe’s hair and pulls her in for another kiss.

Chloe groans and pushes back against Beca, tilting her further over the dresser and displacing bottles of cologne and accessories. Strong hands grab at her thighs and force her legs apart so Chloe’s hips can settle more firmly between Beca’s legs. The action alone sends shockwaves up Beca’s brain. Beca, who is no stranger to sex, realizes that she has never felt such strong arousal from just kissing before.

“Are we going to have sex?” Beca asks before she can help herself. She immediately regrets the question when it leaves her mouth. “Because I want to,” she says quickly before she loses it or before Chloe thinks that she’s having doubts. She isn’t. It’s just overwhelming, being so taken and consumed by a girl she barely knows.

Not for lack of trying, Beca supposes.

Of course, Beca has a stupid crush on Chloe Beale. It seemed like most people did, somehow. Chloe, popular by virtue of her wealth but also mysterious and aloof disposition, never seemed to be short on suitors.

A small measure of pride wells up in Beca before it is immediately replaced by a swooping tightening in her belly as Chloe’s teeth nip harshly at her neck. With the amount of suitors Chloe frequently wards off (and the smaller number that she seems to allow close to her), Beca assesses that it would also appear that Chloe didn’t need any encouraging at all. Much less direction.

Before Beca manages even a measly gasp or even a weak tug to Chloe’s hair, Chloe’s hands are already greedily grabbing at her hips, pushing and pulling at the fabric impatiently for a moment or so, getting a good grope in, before her fingers deftly find the button of Beca’s jeans.

Beca sucks in a breath.

It takes a moment, but Chloe pauses, lifting her head from her assault on Beca’s neck. Her eyes, dark and blown with desire, flicker with something nearly unrecognizable.

Beca’s eyes drift back down to Chloe’s lips in the ensuing silence.

“You’ve never had sex with a girl before, have you?” Chloe asks.

Beca blushes immediately, averting her eyes for a brief second before Chloe tilts her chin back up to catch her lips in a sweeping, full, wet kiss. It’s more romantic than it has any business being. Beca moans against her own will, lifting her hips up almost impatiently against Chloe’s still hand. She is so conscious of the ache between her legs. So conscious of how her previous encounters with men left her wanting and dissatisfied. Not all the time, but more often than not.

How she had always imagined what it would be like with a woman.

Chloe, maybe. Chloe, specifically. Chloe, who had occasionally seeped into her thoughts based on the occasional classes they shared together. Chloe, who ran around the track almost every morning, visible from Beca’s dorm window. Chloe, who had smiled at her just briefly from across the quad at the activities fair all those years ago and Beca hd simply just turned away—

Chloe, who is pressed against her, lips swollen from the force of their shared kisses.

Lips swollen from Beca.

“Beca?” Chloe asks, referring to Beca by her first name for the first time all evening.

“Yeah,” Beca rasps, hot against her newfound lover’s mouth.

It takes a few seconds for Beca to process sudden emptiness she feels—a lack of warmth, really—but she realizes belatedly that it is because Chloe is on her knees, pulling Beca’s jeans down her trembling legs. When Chloe looks up at her, fluttering long eyelashes, Beca feels an answering gush between her legs.

Fuck, Beca thinks with every last primal instinct coursing through her. Fuck me. She reaches out instinctively to thread her fingers through Chloe’s hair, swallowing at how natural it feels to tangle her hands in another girl’s hair. To enjoy it so much.

Chloe says nothing while she helps Beca step out of her jeans. The movements, though gentle and slow, do nothing to ease the growing tension gnawing at her stomach. She clenches again involuntarily and moans in response to her own actions causing Chloe to look up from where she still kneels in front of Beca.

For a moment, Beca feels powerful.

Then, Chloe’s fingertips gently hook into the elastic waistband of Beca’s underwear.

“Tell me how hard you want me to fuck you, Beca Mitchell,” Chloe murmurs, her voice permeating the thick fog of Beca’s brain. It almost stuns Beca into silence, but she realizes that what she wants even more than LA at that moment is Chloe’s fingers between her legs. Her tongue maybe. Lips. Beca’s hands through her hair, tangled all night.

The possibilities are seemingly endless.

“Hard,” she chokes out. “Just fuck me hard.”

Blue eyes flash with delight and the promise of everything to come.

- - x - -

She does come. Multiple times that night against the dresser. Then again when she invites Chloe back to her apartment. Against her own front door. In her bed, testing the strength of her boxspring mattress.

But none of that matters—what matters is how breathtaking Chloe looks when Beca unravels her. Breathless in her own way. Possessing Beca’s bed like she has nowhere else she’d rather be. The unmistakable tremble as Beca’s fingers sink into tight, wet heat. Choked off moans against Beca’s mouth.

And as Beca falls asleep, tired and spent, she thinks vaguely of the flash of red hair that fateful day at the activities fair. How she had pointedly avoided the pretty girl with blue eyes and red hair.

It feels like regret, chasing her into her dreams.

- - x - -

Beca isn’t one to dwell on things, however. She has no time for that kind of distraction, even if that distraction is the pleasant, fleeting sensation of Chloe’s lips pressing against the curve of her shoulder as she slips into a waking state.

There is something incredibly tender about the way Chloe’s fingers comb through her hair as she whispers a murmured goodbye into Beca’s ear. Her lips graze the sensitive skin on the shell of her ear, seeping into the peripheries of Beca’s dreaming state.

It feels like a dream, at least. All of it. Unattainable, super-senior Chloe Beale.

When Beca wakes up again, her bed is cold and empty and she’s pretty sure the aches coursing through her body have nothing to do with alcohol.

She peers blearily at her phone, unfortunately uncharged and nearly dead, and startles upon seeing that it is half past ten and she’s meant to meet a new student at eleven. She jolts out of bed and right into the shower, regrettably washing off all the remaining memories from the previous night. As she reaches between her own legs, she puffs out a heavy breath and tries not to think about how sure Chloe’s hands felt on her body the night before.

This new student is a special request from the Dean of Students himself, sent her way by her father. She had protested, barely, but the pretty monetary figure that had slid across her gaze had been enough to hold her attention.

“Just twice a week for the year. Both semesters. This student needs to pass,” her father emphasizes.

“Who is this student,” Beca demands, tucking the form into her jacket pocket. “Another entitled rich kid?”

Her father pinches his nose. “Look, I recommended you directly to Dean Sanders the moment I heard about this request. It’s from a special benefactor to the school and I know how much you need the money to go to L.A..”

“I wanted to go to L.A. three years ago.”

“Do you not want to go anymore?”

Beca bites her tongue to stop from saying anything else and looks away.

“I know you’re an adult, Becs, but I have your best interests in mind. I just want to see you try. If you do this, I’ll double what the benefactor pays you. I’ll match it and double it.”

Beca can hardly believe her ears. It’s a lot of money. Enough to be considered “safe”, even. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Beca nearly trips multiple times on the way to the diner—an odd background for a tutoring session—but she somehow makes it there with a minute to spare. She realizes she has no idea who she’s even meeting with and slowly slides into the closest booth, keeping an eye out for anybody who looks especially lost.

She sits uncertainly for at least fifteen minutes, downs an entire cup of coffee, and fends off awkward inquiries from the server before she pulls out her phone intent on calling her father and giving him a piece of her mind. On cue, she gets a text.

Unknown Hey, my dad gave me this number. You’re my tutor, right? Rebecca? lol

Beca groans.

Beca hey, yep i’m your tutor. I’m at Carl’s, just got a booth at the back

The door jingles somewhere in the background and Beca glances up to meet Chloe Beale’s gaze dead-on.

“You’re fucking joking,” Beca mutters.

Chloe, for her part, does not look pleased at all as she tosses her bag into the booth before sliding in across from Beca.

“Small world,” Chloe comments.

“You’re telling me.”

Chloe looks like she might say something else and Beca braces herself for the potential innuendo or lust-laden comment, but nothing comes. Instead, Chloe simply folds her hands and watches Beca intently, looking every bit like an innocent college student with a desire to pass her class.

Beca’s gaze flickers down to the neatly folded fingers.

When she looks back up, Chloe’s expression morphs into one that makes Beca swallow nervously.

“Are you nervous?” Chloe asks. “It’s just me,” she says in a tone that implies that she knows exactly what inappropriate thoughts are floating through Beca’s mind.

Beca ignores that, both the words and the tone Chloe uses, and pulls out her notebook and binder. “You’re in calculus two...then statistics next semester?” Chloe nods. “Those are usually first-year requirements, how are you getting away with this? Is this a pre-med degree?”

Chloe smiles—a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “When your father’s name is on the school’s med school building, you kind of get things handed to you no matter how much you want to fight it. I can only control so much.”

Beca scoffs before she can help herself. “Well, I don’t know if that’s entirely true. I think that there are things out of our control sometimes, but there are definitely things within our control.” Like leaving calculus and statistics until the end. Like sleeping together and wanting to do it again, but resisting.

Chloe gazes at her with renewed interest. “You’re a tutor, huh?”

“Looks like it.”

“And my dad hired you.”

Beca shrugs. “Kind of...so I guess your dad will kill me in front of the entire student body if we don’t do this.” She clicks her pen. “Come on, show me your assignments.”

“I really don’t want to do what he wants,” Chloe says, fluttering her eyes at Beca. “Want to do something else instead?”

Beca scowls. “I’m your tutor, whether you like it or not.”

“Fuck that.”

Beca tries not to smile at that. Chloe has such a pleasant speaking voice and a generally pleasant expression on her face at all times that it isn’t hard to see why she’s probably one of the most well-liked people on campus. So well-liked that it is often overlooked that she’s going for a third round of her senior year.

Still, professionalism. Beca can do that, kind of. She tutored worse people in high school. “Let’s get this over with, okay?”

It is entirely the wrong thing to say. Chloe’s smile widens and she leans forward, her shoulders hunched like a predator just about to pounce. “That’s not what you were saying last night.”

“I...oh my God.” Beca purses her lips and looks around hurriedly before settling on the glass of water to her side. Grabbing it, she sips it delicately for a few long moments while avoiding Chloe’s gaze and quenching the sudden dryness in her throat.

The cool water sliding down her throat is a nice thing to focus on.

She’s not focusing on anything else. Not the phantom sensation of Chloe’s hands ghosting up her sides. Not the phantom sensation of Chloe making her hold on to her own headboard. Not the phantom sensation of Chloe’s lips against her thighs, leaving marks and hot, wet kisses.

Not the very real sensation from Chloe’s eyes boring a hole into her forehead, like she can see right into the recesses of Beca’s minds. Every last dark, lustful thought.

But the moment ends before Beca can really process everything, like how part of her wants to shove everything off the table so she can climb over and straddle Chloe’s lap.

Chloe sighs, opens her textbook, and points out the series of problems she has to complete for the week. “There,” she mutters.

Math—math, Beca can do. Calculus. Statistics.

Chloe, not so much.

(Even though she already did.)

/end chap. 1

read the rest: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

[cinnamon-bebe]

Remember Us

(Sebastian x Reader)

Summary: Some mistakes cannot be fixed. A couple must come to terms with their loss.

Warnings: Angst, swearing, bereavement, cheating, mentions of abortions.

(’Re-purposing’ and embellishing an old storyline I had written for a fic years ago)

—————————————————————–

Sebastian

My feeble fingers fumble for the stereo in an attempt to put an end to the miserable love song on the radio but of course, I fail spectacularly, dialing up the volume with all my drunkenness.

“And I wish I could leave my bones

And my skin

And float over the tired, tired sea

So, that I could see you again

Maybe you would leave too

And we’d blindly pass each other

Floating over the ocean blue

Just to find the warm bed of our lover”

Why must the radio torment me tonight?

I try to change the station as I grip onto the steering wheel, I feel my car sway from side to side but it’s fine. There’s no one here, I’m all alone.

I soon come to realise that the music isn’t coming from the radio, rather a CD inside my stereo. Ripping out disc, my bleary eyes make out the name; Gregory Alan Isakov.

She must have forgotten this.

God, I shouldn’t be driving. If my agent knew, she’d be livid but for the sake of my sanity, I couldn’t stay at that PR sham any longer. Seeing all those phoney faces, pretending to be interested. Pretending to be into my hot new co-star, all for the sake of eliciting some publicity for our film. The only thing that made the night bearable, was the endless supply of booze. No doubt the organisers were hoping for the press to catch some drunken antics by the bevy of celebrities; we’ve got a movie to sell, all publicity is good publicity right? And I almost succumbed to it if it wasn’t for Maddie, physically holding me back from taking another swig straight from the champagne bottle. I was being every agent’s nightmare and she wasn’t afraid to tell it to my face. In fact, she ordered me straight into the men’s room to “fix myself up” before I dare make another appearance back at our table. She probably thinks I’m still in there.

I remember now. She used to love this album.

I throw the disc onto the empty seat next to me, as the house finally comes to view. I pull up on the side of the road; the lights are off, she’s not home.

The deafening silence in the car hurts. I feel my brain trying to sober me up but my mind just isn’t ready yet. I fall back against the headrest, my hands on the wheel to steady myself, to keep my head from spinning.

She’s usually home by now.

I reach for my phone, hopeful that Y/N had come around and returned one of my calls.  

Nothing.

A text from my mother at 3.

A couple of missed calls from Chris at 7.

3 voicemails twenty minutes ago from Maddie; probably figured out I was gone.

My fingers slide over my contact list until it finds a familiar number, one I have hesitated to call lately after our last encounter but I guess, the alcohol is fuelling some sort of blind courage tonight.

“Hello?”

“Liv? It’s me…Seb.” I slur. I figure the louder I speak the more comprehensible I would sound.

“Wow, you have some nerve don’t you? Did I not make myself clear last time?”

I wince at the hostility in her voice.

“Is Y/N with you? She’s not picking up her phone…I’m outside her house right now.“

“Jesus Christ Sebastian. Just leave her alone okay? She doesn’t need this right now! She doesn’t need you fucking with her head anymore!”

I’m sure Liv is just as sick of me as Y/N.

The last 5 months I have been trying to see Y/N, to tell her how sorry I am, to fix our lives but she’s manage to avoid me in every way imaginable.

Her locks are changed, she no longer frequents the places that we loved and I know she’s taken extra shifts at the hospital, all to avoid seeing me; the pariah.

Liv was my only window to her, to find out how she was doing.

Coping.

After my last attempt to raid Liv’s house for her, she’s cut off all contact from me.

I’m surprised this woman hasn’t hung up yet.

“I just want to know that she’s alright…that’s all I want to know Liv. I miss her.”

I feel as if my entire body is sinking, my shoulders grow heavy and the exhaustion of everything that has happened, all hitting me at once. Blow after blow.

I cry down the phone to her best friend who hates me.

My Olivia.

My Olivia who was always in my corner whenever I fought with Y/N, helped her see past all the stupid shit I’d do, helped her see the rational side of things whenever she had doubts. Liv was our family who had been through it all, seen all our good and plenty of the bad. God knows how many times she intervened to save our relationship.

Seems as though this time, not even Liv can salvage what is left.

The line crackles as she sighs.

“Seb…we both know this is better for Y/N. She needs to move on and you do too.”

“I don’…I can’t. I can’t lose her, not like this. I can fix this.” My cries become uncontrollable, I have ruined the expensive suit I’ve been wearing, if it wasn’t already been marred by the stench of booze.

“Seb. There’s just nothing you can do. She doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

“Liv please. Help me, I know you can help me.” I regain an inch of control over my sobs, holding onto the last sliver of dignity that I have left.

“How?“ She sighs, exasperated. “How do you expect me to fix… this?”

“Just tell me where she is.”

She pauses, I can hear her contemplating over the line.

“She’s gone on out with someone.“ She says curtly. "She should be back soon but you need to be gone by then.”

Before I could even respond, she hangs up the phone.

Is she seeing someone?

I pull my palms across my face, cleaning myself up as I run through all the possibilities of who Y/N could be out with at this hour.

I adjust myself in my seat. I’ll sit out here for as long as I need.

I have to see her tonight.

—————————————————————————–

Y/N

The car ride home was quiet. I had fiddled with my nails all the way through, scratching out bits of the red varnish I had spent so much time and effort painting on. The air conditioning was blowing directly at me, much to my discomfort but I didn’t want to break the peace and ask for it to be turned off.

It’s fine now. We’re outside my house.

“I had I great time Y/N.” Josh holds my hand, affectionately running his thumb against my skin.  

Josh.  

Handsome, smart, dependable Josh. Perfect. Just perfect. Which is exactly why I am kicking myself for feeling so miserable this whole night.

I had went all out to pump myself up for this date, even so much as buying a ridiculously expensive dress that I’ll probably never wear again.

We’ve been seeing each other for the past couple weeks, yet I feel nothing. No butterflies. No chemistry.

“Me too.” I lie.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?” He begins to stroke my face, my body fighting its urge to flinch.

Slowly, he draws me closer, planting a soft and affectionate kiss on my lips; which I return. A part of me hoping it will ignite some spark but instead, only the desire to push him off and run.  

“Good night Josh. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I pull away, hoping he misses the aggrieved expression on my face.

I can tell he is disappointed that I didn’t invite him in but I just can’t. I’m not ready no matter how many times I tell myself I am. It’s been 5 months and the thought of having another man in my house still makes my stomach turn.

I give him a final wave as I leave his car. Making my way to my door, my feet drags slowly behind on the pavement, pained from wearing the stilettos I had reserved for special occasions.

From the corner of my eye, I swear I could see a familiar car.

No. My mind must be playing tricks.

I fumble away for my keys as I reach the steps of my porch.

I halt to a stop.

My breath hitches as he emerges from the shadows, gathering himself up from where he was sitting on the floor.

“Y/N.”  

His voice. That voice that’s been haunting me, turns me immediately on my heels and sends me running in the opposite direction.

“Y/N!”

He pulls me from behind. I feel myself numb in his arms, his body pressed so tightly against mine as he holds me hostage in the dark.

“Get off Sebastian.” I try to whisper, remain as calm as my mind would allow. The last thing I want is to wake my neighbours and invite them to this little peep show.

“I want to talk to you Y/N. Please.” He’s been drinking, I can smell it from his pores.

“Get off.” I try to turn myself around, facing him so I could push his heavy chest away.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Just get off!” I begin hitting him, smacking him hard in the torso. Even just an inch between us would allow me to escape.

“We can work through this, it’s us.“

I refuse to respond.

"It’s us.” He cries, dropping his arms from around me, finding my hands instead. He rests his forehead against mine, his tears hot on my cold skin.

I upset the moment pushing him one last time. His reflexes falter causing him to stumble, permitting me to break away.

“Y/N!”

I harshly jerk from his clasp, ignoring him clamouring after me. I rush to my door with the keys shaking in my hands.

“Will you just talk to me? Please!” He gets angry with me.

The audacity.

I ignore him again, trying my best to get my hands to function, to get the key in.

“You think you’re the only one hurting Y/N?”

The keys drop from my hands, along with my every chance to get away, hitting the wooden slabs of my porch with a loud thud.

“GOD!” I scream. At him. At myself. I stare at my keys sitting so helplessly on the floor, as I fall down myself.

How have I become so weak?

I no longer recognise what I have become, what we have become.

I have spent every ounce of my energy trying to recover some form of normalcy back in my life, convincing my friends, myself, that everything is fine, that my world isn’t falling apart. I try so hard but I can never fool myself. The world can see right through me, no matter how much I force that smile.

“Y/N.“ Sebastian collapses beside me, tugging at my arm. "Look at me, please.” He grabs my wrist, propping my hands against his pain ridden face.

"I know I can’t do things over, I can’t change what happened but we can overcome this. W-we can make it through the other side.”

I sit motionless in his arms.

The night is dark, so dark it seems we were exiled from the world. It must be 2, 3 am in the morning by now, not a decibel disturbing the street.

Sebastian starts to relax his hold on me, I can feel him slowly sobering up as he rests his head on my lap, his face nestled close to my stomach. The vitality we once had has drained out of us, our lifeless vessels too weak to go on.

I look down at him, his eyes are closed as he murmurs inaudible words into my abdomen.

“We lost the baby.”  I whispered.

“I know.”

The reality of those words cut me in a million ways. I have never dared utter those words out loud, too afraid to speak the truth into existence.

“I did this, didn’t I? I made you lose the baby.” Sebastian looks up at me, his eyes vacant; dying.

I can’t find the will to respond.

I’ve spent so long placing the blame on him, why is it suddenly so hard to say it out loud now?

[greekowl87]

Fic: After Shock

A/N: I feel like I haven’t had time to breathe since I started the new job and my anxiety has made it so I haven’t been sleeping a lot either. I haven’t been writing either. So decided to rewatch ‘Wetwire’ after some friends were just rewatching and tried to bust out a quick fic. It took two weeks.I don’t know where my head took me with this. Taggin @90saolchatroom because it was one of her comments that started this idea.

P.S. I also make a reference to another fic I wrote called Sure. Fine. Whatever. Also, @90saolchatroom‘s headcanon was also the source of inspiration that well. Heck, she was the inspiration for these fics period.

P.P.S. No beta so mucho apologies for the typos. Between lack of sleep and getting used to the new job, I’m sorry.

Tagging @today-in-fic @baronessblixen @improlificinsarcasm

Scully was free to leave the hospital after a few days of observation with her mother dogging her at each step. She couldn’t blame her, especially after what had happened. Fears of trust and betrayal. Rushing to the only place where she thought she had left. Pointing a gun at her partner. Breaking down in her mother’s arms still grasping her weapon, afraid to give up control. She remembered feeling Mulder’s sad gaze linger as her mother soothed Scully. 

The same moment had entirely had been mirrored months previously with Modell control Mulder and point a gun at her. The pain Mulder realized he couldn’t control his own actions. And then with her, she had shown just the opposite. Fear. True fear. What an odd twist of fate. In shared moments of desperation, both had almost shot their respective partners. Except for this time, something resonated deeply in Scully’s heart. A deep ache that hadn’t healed.

After many promises to call Maggie Scully in the morning and assurances that Scully would be fine in her Georgetown apartment, her mother left shortly before ten. The paranoia was still fresh in her mind, however, that was one side effect she hated from the entire experience. She could remember everything. Logically, she knew there was nothing to be afraid of but that would stop checking the locks on all of her windows and triple checking the lock on her front door. Satisfied that she was safe, Scully retreated to her bathroom to draw a long bath in an effort to relax.

It still bothered Scully that she could have let herself think that: Mulder had betrayed her and broken their deeply earned trust in one another. As she slid beneath the steaming water and bubbles, she flashed back over the past three years. Tooms trying to kill her in her bathroom. Duane Barry breaking through her living room windows that lead to abduction. Then to chasing Mulder down to Puerto Rico and staying with him even after news of Melissa taking the bullet meant for her. 

Scully flinched in memory, a twinge of regret. It should have been her instead of her sister. When Missy and her mother had needed her, she was with Mulder, chasing the Truth with a capital ‘t’, finding her name amongst endless files that should not exist.

But in the hospital room, when Scully arrived at a vacant bed, it was Mulder who wordlessly held her hand in that empty hospital room and then hugged her as she became adrift with grief. But during all this, during these past three years, Scully had come to trust him more than she would have thought possible. But now that regret and anxiety lingered over her current actions. Had she destroyed it? What they had? What was there left to go back to?

Unable to help herself, Scully climbed out to tub, draining the water, and reached for her cordless phone. It was near midnight but she knew Mulder to be up. The man hardly slept. After she dialed his number and reaching is answering machine, she decided to get dressed and drive to Old Town Alexandria, her conscience weighing heavier by the minute. The midnight drive took longer than she would have liked and parking being worse than she imagined. She turned up the radio in an effort to drown out her thoughts as she parked the car. Scully could go back home and pretend she was okay for the next time they saw each other at the office on Friday morning or she could do something.

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

Scully found herself in front of apartment number 42 with her hand poised to knock but the door was quickly pulled open. “I saw you parking from the window,” Mulder greeted her softly. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

Scully tried to look beyond her tall partner and saw a reading lamp on, heard The Cranberries playing, and no blue tv light. “Um, no.” She refocused her gaze. “Um...I called and it went straight to voicemail. I was, uh…”

“Did you? I must’ve missed it. I ran out to get some food. Are you hungry?”

He stepped away from the entryway and opened the door wider so she could come in. “So no tv tonight?” 

He lowered the volume on his stereo. “I thought I would take a break from watching tv, given recent events.”

She chuckled. “Don’t stop on account of me.” Mulder disappeared into the kitchen as Scully picked the book he had been reading up off the table. “I could tell you the ending to the book your reading, Mulder.”

“I thought I would give it a go since I remind you so much of the title character. You remember our conversation when you wrecked the boat,” Mulder laughed from the kitchen. Scully looked down at the library copy of Moby Dick fondly. “And don’t ruin it.”

“Some coincidence, Mulder.”

“I guess.” He came back out with two cans of soda and one hand and two plates balanced precariously on his other arm like a waiter. “I think I remembered. Beef and broccoli with white rice instead of noodles because you want to be healthier, sweet and sour chicken for me and one single egg roll for you.”

“Mulder, that’s our normal Chinese order. I wasn’t planning on coming over tonight.”

“Call it initiation.” He paused and shrugged. “I must have done it out of habit. Now that I have, we can’t let it go to waste can we?”

“I suppose not,” Scully conceded

“So,” Mulder began, passing her the plate, “are you feeling any better? Not gonna draw your weapon at me if the rice isn’t hot enough?”

“Mulder, please don’t. I feel bad enough as it is what happens.” She sighed, looking at the food. “I still feel ashamed.”

“Scully, you can’t let it eat you like that,” he answered. “You weren’t in your right mind. Just like when Modell controlled me. We had no control over the situation.”

They sat on the leather couch so close that they were touching. Scully moved slightly in an effort to make it less awkward. She shoveled the Chinese around on the plate. “I feel like I did, in some way. Why would it make me believe that you had betrayed me?”

“It prayed on our worst fears. I guess,” he paused in thought, “I guess my betrayal is one of yours.”

“Well, it’s true. I thought you would actually betray me, kill me...I can’t believe I let myself accuse you of those things.” She shook her head in disgust. “Mulder, how can you be okay with this? Be mad. Do something. Anything!”

“Scully,” Mulder sighed, “please don’t.” She set the plate in front of her, unable to eat. He sighed and took her hand without thinking. “Please don’t let us go down that road. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“How could you be so forgiving, Mulder? I pointed a gun at you. I’ve shot you before, don’t forget!”

“Did you forget I did this same to you not a few months ago?” And he smiled sadly. “And you shot me because I was out of my mind. You saved me, remember? Who else could perform surgery both with a pistol and scalpel?” She bit her lip and tried to pull her hand away. Mulder did not let her hand go. “Neither were you. So why do you hold yourself to a set of different standards than everyone else, Scully? I’m allowed to make mistakes but you aren’t?”

“I can’t afford to be,” she answered after a few moments. She gave up fighting. “I can’t afford to be because I have to prove just as much as the next guy.”

“Not to me, remember? You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“But I accused you of…”

“You weren't in the right state of mind or have you forgotten? Let it go, Scully. Now eat something before your dinner gets cold.”

Mulder forced the plate into her hand and took a few bites of his own meal. After a moment’s hesitation, Scully followed suit. They continued to eat in silence as The Cranberries played. How could he be so forgiving of her?

 “So what’s next?” She asked as she finished her Chinese. “For us?”

Mulder shrugged and picked up the plates. “I’m not letting you travel again tonight, that’s for sure. I know you just got out of the hospital, but it would give me peace of mind. And I don’t fancy your mother’s wrath when she learns you are out and about.”

“You’re no better than my mother. I’m fine, Mulder.”

He knew a losing battle when he saw it when it came to his partner. Her independence and stubbornness matched his own. “Well, at least let me drive you home, using your car and I will catch a cab back here.”

“Mulder, you don’t have to baby me,” she said.

“I’m not babying you. I…” Mulder sighed. “I just worry about you, Scully. And care. That’s all. I’d prefer you stay here honestly. I just want to make sure you are okay.”

For a moment, Scully let her guard down. Maybe she was still tired of everything from the previous ordeal or maybe it was more. Maybe she was just tired of more than the most recent life or death situation. “And what sleep on your couch? It isn’t necessarily that big.”

“I have a seldom-used bedroom, aka the guest room as I call it. You can stay there.”

“Mulder, I’m fine.” She stifled a yawn and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “If you want to mother hen me then come back with me to Georgetown and I will call you a cab. I just want to be in my own bed.”

“Fair enough. I think you may have wasted your gas coming out here.”

“I got a free meal out of it.” 

Scully was mentally panicking. This was not going anyway she had planned. She did not feel any better about the situation. More than anything, she needed to run. Mulder reached for her hand again, and for the second time that night, he grounded her and brought her racing thoughts back to a standstill. “Scully, just stay the night. I won’t bite and you would ease my fears.”

“Mulder, I'm fine.”

“I know you are but I’m not. I worry about you, Scully.”

After a moment’s consideration, she gave into Mulder’s request. Not for her sake of course, but for him. She did remember Missy confiding how much her abduction almost destroyed him. “Okay, Mulder,” she relented. She held up a finger conditionally. “But only for tonight.”

“You got it, Scully.”

He had that boyish smile on his face and nodded towards her. “I don’t suppose you would mind if I run out to my car to grab my overnight bag?”

“Since when did you start carrying an overnight bag with you?”

“When you started to call me at odd hours to travel halfway across the country.” Something flashed in his eyes. “It wasn’t meant as an insult,” she added hastily.

“I know, Scully,” he said softly. “I’ll go make up the bed for you.”

She collected her shoes to grab her bag out of her car before taking the elevator back up to his apartment. In the back of her mind, since she had arrived at Mulder’s apartment, the entire ordeal felt off. She thought driving over Mulder’s apartment would ease some of her own worries and doubt but this entire situation was spiraling out of control. She did not know if she felt comfortable with that at all. 

She turned the doorknob to find the door in Mulder’s living room open. She heard him moving about the rarely sed room. “I hope you don’t mind the clutter,” he called. Scully stood in the doorway and watched him. “Sheets are clean. The bathroom’s through there.” He gestured at the lit doorway opposite of him. “Can you think of anything else?”

“No, I don’t think so, Mulder. I can still go home and get out of your hair.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Scully. If it makes you feel better, I won’t say anything else about the matter.”

He adjusted the quilt on the bed and gave her one last smile. “Goodnight, Scully. And I’m glad you decided to stay.”

She bit her lip as he shut the door behind him. Scully suddenly felt trapped and at odds with the war of doubt that had been brewing in her head. Hell, that was the whole reason why she had made the trek to Alexandria to begin with. Now, here she was, a prisoner in Mulder’s rarely used bedroom. She could make a run for it and go back to Georgetown, but she was tired. Scully decided that she would likely have trouble sleeping even in her own bed and decided to spend the night and try and make the best of a crappy situation.

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

The second time Scully woke up, she was disoriented and it took a moment for her to gain her bearings. The dimly lit alarm clock revealed it was 3:14 a.m. The unfamiliar bed felt foreign and she could not get comfortable. She tossed and turned before giving up and turning on the lamp. Boxes upon boxes surrounded her and in the dim light, she caught words like textbooks, photos, Samantha, and research. She shifted her attention and saw a dim light coming from the door that separated the bedroom and living room. She couldn’t hear the tv.

With curiosity biting at her, she got out a foreign bed and creaked the bedroom door open. Scully shivered and grabbed a spare blanket off the bed to wrap around her shoulders. She found Mulder wide awake lying on his couch, staring at some fixed point within his fish tank. The mollies swam back and forth and he sighed. “Am I keeping you up, Scully?”

“No,” she answered softly. “I just woke up. You know I have trouble sleeping in different beds sometimes.”

Mulder pushed himself up and patted the leather couch beside him invitingly. “Come sit with me.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was already up, Scully.” He gave her a tired smile. “I can turn on a light or something.”

“No, this is fine.” She sat gingerly on the couch next to him. “I just have been having trouble sleeping since this entire ordeal. That’s why I tried to call earlier tonight. And why I came here.” She shrugged and Mulder tugged at the blanket fondly. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” he chuckled. “I remember having the same problem after Modell.”

“What problem?”

“The lack of sleep.” He crossed his legs and rested them on the coffee table. “Well, worse than usual. I kept seeing the gun and your face. More than anything it was your eyes, Scully that always woke me up.”

“My eyes?”

He nodded and glanced at her. “It is what you mentioned yourself. Betrayal of trust. I just remember the pain in your eyes.” Mulder sighed. “I know that this...little crusade of mine has cost us both.”

Scully maneuvered the blanket around her shoulders and cast it over both of them. Mulder smiled gratefully in the dim light. She brought her knees to her chest and rested her head against her bicep. “I know,” she murmured.

“I should’ve have protected you better,” he confessed softly. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “The night on Skyline Mountain. The light. You were gone.”

“But I came back.”

“Because they decided they could bring you back to prove a point.”

“Mulder,” she whispered, “I’m not Samantha.”

“I know,” he replied. “You Scully. My Scully.” The way he repeated her surname sounded like an endearment. “But still...I can’t help but think that your sister would be alive if it wasn’t for me.”

The silence was deafening. 

“Missy said everything happens for a reason, Mulder. One Christmas, when I was still in medical school, she came home. We went to Old Town Alexandria. Not too far from here. We had a girls' night. I was drunk. She was drunk. We both decided to do palm readings from this little place on the second story off King Street next to a tobacco shop.”

He chuckled. “You, Scully? A palm reading?”

“It was her idea and I was too drunk to disprove it.” Mulder chuckled again. “What?”

“Next time we discuss one of my theories, I’ll bring the whiskey.”

She smiled and moved closer to him to the point they were almost touching. “Missy went first,” she continued, ignoring his loaded comment, “and the fortune she had, well, it was a good thing we were both drunk.”

“What was her fortune?”

“Missy was told she would die young. The fortune-teller specifically said 33 years old.”

“Scully…”

She held up a finger. “But, in the afterlife, she would do her most beneficial work.”

Mulder recalled the night he thought about taking his own life during Scully’s abduction and it was Melissa Scully that had interrupted that horrible attempt. But it was her that made him believe Scully was still there, even if she was in a coma.

“Do you think she is watching over you now?” he whispered.

“I like to think so,” Scully replied. “But what was ironic was my own fortune that strikes a chord...well, at the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were both drunk that night and I haven’t actually thought of it until now.”

“What about it?” He moved so he could face her. After a moment, he took her hand and lounged backward. She fought him initially but relented after a few minutes. It was much cozier than just sitting on the couch. “Just relax.”

“This is very unprofessional.”

“Since when is anything we did professional?”

Mulder’s hand drifted to the small of her bag and she relaxed. His fingertips grazed her bare skin giving her shivers. He pulled the blanket up around them. She relaxed. “Tell me what your fortune was?”

“I would meet my other half,” she confessed after a long moment.

“Really?”

“Quit making fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

Scully nuzzled his cotton shirt and breathed deeply. The familiar scent of whatever was ‘Mulder’ wafted through her nose. As she reflected on the fortune she had been told, at the time, she thought it meant Daniel but now, after going through the past few years, and Missy’s prodding. Maybe it meant someone else.

“But yeah. False promises on soulmates.”

“I wouldn’t call it a false promise or false fortunes.” He moved a stray piece of hair out of her face. “Maybe you just haven’t met him yet.”

“Maybe.”

His fingers drifted up under her top towards the rest of her back. “It was the trust,” she whispered. He was distracting her. She couldn’t collect her thoughts. “I feel like, after everything, I can only trust you because you know. You understand. I call you first. Then my mother. Or my brothers.”

“So when you thought I betrayed you, you went to the next place?”

“My mother’s.”

Mulder rested his forehead against hers. “You know that I would never do anything to you, Scully. Right?”

“I know, Mulder.”

She licked her lips and kissed him before she could stop herself. Mulder broke away, smiled, and attacked with renewed vigor. Words were lost between them as useless couch cushions were pushed off and Scully gained leverage to straddle his waist. Wait. No. So many no’s flashed through her head but she could not stop herself. It was an urge to feel safe, to trust, and to know that someone was there for her. Mulder was that person. But she felt the rising pressure between her legs that came from Mulder.

“We shouldn’t,” she warned.

“I know,” he breathed.

“So much could go wrong.”

“I know.”

But neither one of them made an effort to stop themselves. “Scully, we can go a step further or we can stop this. I don’t want it to stop. Tell me what you want?”

She slid slowly off his hips and gathered the blanket. “I should, uh, go back to bed. I’m sorry for what just happened.”

“Scully…” he called. 

She disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door, her last barrier to keep her from losing herself control. After the most recent episode with fearing Mulder’s betrayal and being prepared to shoot him in the face. But to her utter horror, Mulder was trailing her. The door opened with a bang and she jumped. “Jesus, Mulder.”

“Please, hear me out. Is it something I did?”

“No,” she breathed. “We just can’t, Mulder. I had a moment, that is all.”

“A moment,” he repeated. “That wasn’t a moment. You can trust me, Scully. I promise I won’t betray you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She brought the blanket around her shoulders instinctively like a shield. Childhood memories of distrust flashed in her head, one of the reasons why she became so private of a person as an adult. But here he was, invading her personal space just like he did the first day they met. He cupped her cheek. Her eyes closed as he gently stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Sometimes, I don’t know who to trust but I know, deep down, I always can trust you.”

“You can trust me now.”

Scully nodded into his hand. Mulder took that as a sign and gently leaned forward to kiss her soundly. The kiss sent electricity through every part of her body and unconsciously, she grasped both of his hands and held on tightly. Mulder deepened the kiss. At that moment, they were both lost. It was something about being able to trust someone with your entirety, body, mind, and soul, and not have to worry about any fears or repercussions. Just because you knew. You trusted them. The blanket fell from her shoulders. Mulder’s warm hands crept under her shirt and she shivered. They were so close to one another.

“Scully, please.” He sounded like he was begging. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

She closed her eyes, bit her lip, and give him the slightest nod. He was reverent in his movements as he let his fingers trail down her back slowly as if memorizing her. She bowed her head forward and willed herself to move, to do something. Finally, she regained control of her hands and gently peeled off his tee-shirt. She saw the puckered scar on his shoulder that still looked fresh despite it being over a year old.  He smiled slightly and kissed her tenderly. The first time Scully had let herself imagine this scenario, she imagined he would be much more vigorous in his efforts, almost like one of his films. But so fair, he kept surprising her.

“I know,” she whispered.

She walked them backwards until the back of her knees met the mattress. “It’s been a while,” she whispered.

“Same here.”

Scully felt all sorts of insecurity which she thought buried long ago bubble up. As if sensing those insecurities, he kissed her brow encouragingly and she relented. She pulled off her top in one movement and he swallowed hungrily. The small bulge earlier took on a new life. 

 “I know I’m not like…”

“You’re perfect,” he breathed.

She was tired of fighting and without hesitation, she lunged forward to kiss him, and then guide him back onto the bed. Like explorers charting the unknown lands, they began their newest adventure. He left a trail of kisses like breadcrumbs down her shoulder blades and down the valley of her breasts. She shivered at the soft touches from his lips. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she murmured. 

She leaned back into the pillows taking him with her. “I’ve wanted this for so long, Scully,” he breathed. He took a moment to meet her gaze. “I want you to trust me. I want to be the only one that you trust. More than friends.”

“I remember, Mulder.” She played with his hair. “But that was then, this is now. Things have changed between us.”

“That little small town wasn’t that long ago,” he countered.

He was intent on just lazily kissing her right now. She didn’t seem to mind. “But again, neither one of us was in our right mind.”

He paused and rolled to the side so he could watch her. “The planets hadn’t aligned properly.”

“Not then anyways.”

Mulder propped his head upon his left arm so he could watch her. Despite the wall of boxes in the unused bedroom, he had left the sole window free and clear. The blinds were half open and she could see the streetlights and shadows dance across his face. “I know you said you were ashamed during your little episode but you shouldn’t be.”

“How weren’t you affected by it?”

His hand traced down her smooth abdomen in thought and played with the elastic of her pajama pants. “Hmm? Oh. I’m red-green colorblind and according to the Gunmen, it was something like that causing it.” He saw her raised eyebrow. “In one eye. A childhood accident or something?” He switched winking at her with each eye. “My right eye is fine. My left eye...not so much.” He opened both eyes and smiled. “I can still tell you’re hair is red, not green, but it isn’t as vibrant with both eyes versus just my right eye. Now you blue eyes? Those stand out. Isn’t that funny how that is a thing?”

She chuckled. “I can think of any number of reasons how you might have become color blind in one eye, though extremely rare…” She sighed at the sensation as any rational thoughts escaped her as Mulder found her mons. “Jesus, it’s been too long.”

“Good vibrations,” Mulder sang off-key, “I’m picking up good vibrations.”

Scully laughed at Mulder’s horrible rendition of The Beach Boys before she was silenced by one of his kisses. His hand moved with an independent mind of its own as he experimented with a kiss or a slight tug on her earlobe. Each new sensation caused her to gasp and move under him or buck towards him. “Mulder, enough play.”

His fingers dipped into the ‘v’ of her thighs. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered.

They awkwardly peeled away the remains of their clothes and with unspoken communication, they sealed their union. It was quick, awkward, but all at the same time, unforgettable. Afterward, entangled together like a sailor’s knot, beneath the lightly used blankets, they lay together. It started to rain and Mulder nuzzled her neck and whispered. “You can trust me, Scully...if nothing else, we will always have each other.”

“We’ve been some dark roads,” she whispered into the night air. Mulder coiled around her. “I fear it’s only going to get worse.”

“Mmm.” He vibrated all around her and she tried to pull him closer. “While it may, you'll always have someone to trust.”

“Where does this leave us, Mulder?” she whispered.

“We’re good,” he whispered.  “We’re fine. Nothing will change.”

“We just…”

He silenced her with another kiss and she melted against him. She was tired of being unable to trust anyone and the weight of their work felt crushing in moments like this. “We’re okay, Scully. We’re going to be okay.”

“Do you trust me?”

Scully breathed deeply and tried to memorize the moment. Mulder around her. The unused bedroom that had become their private sanctuary. The rain outside beating against the window. The streetlights and the wind moving their branches. He pulled the blankets around them.

“Yes,” Scully answered. “I trust you.”

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome (again) to the Order of the Phoenix, Amos!

You have been accepted for the role of non-biography character MAURICE CREEVEY with the faceclaim of Tom Sturridge! We really enjoyed reading through your application! The idea of a Muggleborn character who is actually not all that excited about going to Hogwarts is awesome! He’s resentful that he was taken away without a choice - resentful that he can’t go back and be the same person. We’re so thrilled to have him as an addition to the cast!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Amos

AGE: 22

TIMEZONE: GMT

ACTIVITY LEVEL: You already have a pretty good idea of my activity. There is also plenty of time when I’m around and could be writing but I am either caught up on Fab or don’t have quite the right muse for him, so hopefully this new charrie can fill those gaps!

ANYTHING ELSE: nope

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Maurice Creevey

AGE: 24

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Male, He/Him, Homosexual. Gender isn’t something he’s really ever thought about. He’s pretty content in that respect. He is quite unapologetically gay though.

BLOOD STATUS: Muggleborn

HOUSE ALUMNI: Ravenclaw

ANY CHANGES: This is where you can request a FC change or a change from something in the skeleton bio.

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY: 

To sum Maurice up very concisely, he’s angry. He hasn’t always been. He was a relatively happy go lucky child, full of endless energy and enthusiasm. Then he was plucked from his life and sent away to a school to learn magic. At first that was pretty cool, after all, every 11 year old wishes they had magical abilities, the difference being they get to grow up and forget those wishes and live normal lives. He has to live with his childish fantasies for the rest of his life. And apart from that, he appears to be in a world where muggleborns are being hunted and killed by an evil wizard and his crazy cult. To make things worse, they can’t escape back to their muggle lives because of all the damn secrecy laws. So yes, he’s angry, and a lot of his actions are fueled by that. Make no mistake though, Maurice is no Gryffindor, he doesn’t use his anger in brash reckless ways, he is more calculated. You may catch it crackling under the surface occasionally, but it would take a lot to make him properly explode. Even slurs like ‘mudblood’ would only make him roll his eyes and perhaps give a snarky retort.

Maurice is a Ravenclaw. He is a big believer that knowledge is power. He did fairly well at his subjects in Hogwarts considering he didn’t try all that hard. He did not choose this path and as a consequence, resented it. He would often get his brother who was a few years older, to send him muggle textbooks when he’d finished with them. He was fascinated by science and maths and history. Of course he had some curiosity for his lessons at Hogwarts, and the things he and his magic was capable of, but the element of choice was important for him. It felt like by attending Hogwarts, a whole area of understanding was suddenly off limits. As anyone knows, forbidden knowledge is the most desirable.

He likes to ask questions about as much as any other Ravenclaw, but he is also a big observer. He likes to take time to gather information before jumping into a lot of things, especially interactions with other people. He by no means stalks people, but a few minutes, to watch, take someone in, before starting a conversation is quite usual for him. It’s all about making informed choices.  As a consequence, unexpected interactions can throw him, making him more awkward than he’d like.

He can be arrogant, he has a conviction in his beliefs that can come across as condescension if viewed the wrong way. He can get frustrated when someone is not following his thinking quite as quickly as he’d like, which is why he’d make a terrible teacher. However, this works equally in the opposite direction. His frustration can be palpable when he doesn’t understand something, and these moments are when he is least in control. A lot of his acts of protest come from anger, sure, but also the frustration of not being able to fathom how things got so bad, why they can’t just make them better now, why people can’t see it for themselves. But usually he is quiet. Unless he is invited to speak, or is so damn angry the words won’t stop, he can keep his thoughts to himself until someone is listening and his words can have an impact.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY: 

Until the age of 11 Maurice grew up in a very normal, working class family in the midlands. His mother was a typical housewife, loving but somewhat distracted, staring out of windows whilst doing the washing up, leaving the dinner in slightly too long when listening to the radio. Maurice didn’t mind, he barely noticed, and she was excellent at bedtime stories, so what was there to complain about? His father was a miner, a tough, but humorous man. He worked hard, and he always came home dirty, but played football with them in the garden the weekends.

He has one older brother. Not the brightest bulb, but the kindest person Maurice knows. Maurice always thought him brave, in a quiet way. There is no one Maurice has ever looked up to quite like his big brother, even if they squabbled and scrapped as much as any other loving siblings.

Perhaps this happy set up, along with glowing school reports and a nice bunch of friends, was why he has always resented being ripped from that life and that path. 

When he was a child, he dreamed of being an astronaut, an archaeologist, a doctor, a lawyer, and what’s more, none of these were stretches for him, with his brain and desire for learning, he could have done it, he could have gotten out of the rows and rows of back to back terraced houses that he and his family were confined to. He could have taken them with him. But he was torn away and sent to Hogwarts, and his parents only vaguely understood, were proud, but in a distant way. His brother became a milkman, a job he enjoyed, but not one that paid well. He married young, his school sweetheart, and they are expecting their first child. They all seem happy enough, they have the things that matter, enough food to eat, a roof over their head, love, but Maurice can’t help but feel he could have saved them. The terror of living paycheck to paycheck, the mundanity of their terraced hells, or just never being able to treat yourself to that little bit extra. He remembered as a child, when his father would be on strike, the unspoken fear that filled up their home. He had wanted to save them from that.

When he would return home for the summer, he would act like nothing had changed, he wouldn’t speak of Hogwarts, or of his magic. He would pretend like he was no different from them, but something had changed and something had broken, and eventually he realised that something couldn’t be fixed. Getting his Hogwarts letter had been the beginning of the end for Maurice. He hated it when summer would end and he’d have to go back, but he also hated going home in the first place.

OCCUPATION: 

Maurice works as a sound engineer at the Wizarding Wireless Network. It was not something he expected of himself, more something he fell into. A job at the Ministry would have gone against all his principals. A deep hatred for ‘the man’ but also the wizarding world in general, he wasn’t about to go work in a place trying to keep it all ticking over, and bore himself to death in the process.

He considered more academic positions, but he’d had a hard enough time concentrating at Hogwarts. Trawling magical forests for new flora and fauna, or raiding tombs and breaking their curses had no appeal to him. Which largely left working class positions or the arts. It was not a tricky decision.

The newspaper was an option, but the fact that the Daily Prophet seemed to have a monopoly on journalism in wizarding Britain didn’t sit well with Maurice. Without another widely available newspaper to oppose their horribly biased reporting, what was the point? He would not be a puppet for their propaganda. For a while, he tried to write his own pieces, publish them independently, but that wasn’t entirely successful. The pieces were convoluted, preachy, and he had no audience, no one to either agree nor criticise him.

Eventually he wound up at the Wizarding Wireless Network. Again, it irked him that there was only one major company broadcasting, but at least they had a bit more variation, and whilst they did broadcast the news, the purpose leaned towards entertainment. It’s not a cause Maurice is particularly passionate for, but it’s not one he opposes.

As a sound engineer, he’s around for recordings and broadcasts, cleans up pre recorded audio, fixes equipment, just whatever needs doing that seems like it fit within his job title. Most of it he learned on the job, but it was fascinating enough to capture his attention, and similar enough to muggle radio not to infuriate him. It also introduced him to the world of pirate radio.

About 2 years after he started at WWN, his friend and mentor quit, and in his last few days, confided in Maurice that he was leaving to start his own show. Technically WWN was the only official broadcaster on wizarding radios, but if you knew how to get a frequency, you could broadcast whatever you liked. He and some friends were setting up a station out of someone’s garage, mostly to play the music the WWN spurned.

The idea lit a flame in Maurice. Of course, the fact that it was ever so slightly against the rules, and possibly the law, made it exciting. But the idea of broadcasting whatever he liked, even if there was no one listening, putting something out there, finite and unique.

So that’s what he does with his evenings at the weekends, he broadcasts late into the night and the early mornings. The Order gives him a focus, not just long rambling opinion pieces that sounds like the inner thoughts of a paranoid conspiracy theorist. He has found a purpose now. His show, it helps spread news, it helps spread information, it helps spread hope. Of course there is the tricky business of making sure the wrong ears don’t hear it, but he’s a smart guy, there’s a way around everything.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER: 

Maurice joined the Order with best friend, Daisy Hookum. He was at the same Squib’s Rights March, right in the middle of the rioting, and landed square in the Order’s gaze because of it.

Maurice has always been an activist, even before graduating Hogwarts, he would hold small demonstrations, conquering whatever stage fright he might have for the greater good. Standing up on tables at breakfast to make impassioned speeches, chaining himself to statues and refusing to go to class, he even came very close to slashing a painting once before the painting’s occupant managed to talk him out of it.

Maurice has taken a lot of inspiration from muggle strikes and demonstration techniques. He remembers picket lines from his childhood, and grew up with the punk movement. He even had a bright red mohawk once before Daisy told him it really didn’t suit him.

These energies are what he hoped to bring to the Order. He recognises that Voldemort and the Death Eaters are the main enemy, but in his eyes, the Ministry are accomplices, and he feels just as violently about them. The Death Eaters may be the ones directly killing people, but the Ministry are letting them do it, even helping them to a certain degree. The fact that so many squeaky clean Ministry employees come to the Order to ‘do their part’ indicates to him, that there are just as many who are going over to Voldemort for the same reason. He wishes more of their actions were against the Ministry directly, but he can also do that in his own time.

Day to day, Maurice is generally a pretty good foot soldier, he isn’t crazy about the actual violence part, but he’ll do it if he has to. He’d like a louder voice at the table, but he knows how these things work, and he knows too many cooks spoil the broth. The fact that they are organised is enough for him. There is a system, and if he ever feels he needs to take something to the top, then he knows how to do that.

He has also brought his pirate radio platform to the Order. It’s a good way to spread news to people such as those being helped by the dissendium task force, and a good way to organise large groups of people. And also quite simply, it can raise spirits. Assuming that people tune in to listen. Maurice doesn’t think it’s quite being used to its full potential, but it’s getting there. The Order function on secrecy, whereas Maurice wants to inform the masses. There is clearly a conflict of interest. 

(I see this radio show as being very similar to the Potterwatch of the second wizarding war, and if it isn’t quite at that structure yet, then building it up to that during the game.)

I think although he is happy to fight with the Order, and be on the front line of the fight against You-Know-Who, his main motives are doing something about the International Statute of Secrecy, even if he is a little distracted by other things and other causes, it all really comes back to him having the choice to fight, to flee, to live his life where he pleases, taking the elements of both cultures and combining them. And he wants that choice for others as well. A lot of his anger and frustration is on a very personal selfish level, but he does recognise that he’s fighting this cause for people other than himself.

SURVIVAL: 

Being both muggleborn and publicly vocal in his opinions, does put a bit of a target on Maurice’s back. He’s had a few close scrapes in the past, but luckily that’s as much as they were. Making enemies with a lot of purebloods perhaps isn’t the most efficient way to survive this war. He doesn’t move around a lot, thankfully he’s never been traced to his home address and he wants to keep it that way. He rents a little place in Muggle London, clean and comfortable enough, but out of the way and non-descript. He wards it heavily, and takes great lengths to make sure he isn’t followed home.

He isn’t too bad at dueling, but it isn’t his greatest strength. Mostly he relies on quick thinking rather than brute strength. And paranoia. He’s seen what the other side is capable of, and he’s heard enough of Moody’s lecture like speeches to know how to watch his back.

Still, he can lay awake many nights, realising there that if he continues to fight like this, there is a large chance he won’t survive the war. Is it worth it? He usually falls asleep before reaching a conclusive answer. Needless to say, as a 24 year old, he is terrified of dying. He is just also too angry to let that stop him.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Daisy Hookum: Friends since first year, he and Daisy have a special bond. There are very few people who know him as closely as Daisy knows him. Even his family, who he loves dearly, can’t understand him the way Daisy does. They may have been brought together by class timetables and group projects, but what bonded them was their shared views of the world. Particularly as they got older, they could talk for hours and hours about their politics. They didn’t always agree on every point, but respected each other enough to hear the other out. Of course this wasn’t the only thing that kept them friends. They could have fun together, let loose, forget for a little while that things were so bad, forget how angry they were.

They joined the Order together, as they did so much together. But then Daisy left for her year in the muggle world. Since then the relationship has been strained. He understood better than most what she was trying to do, but the reality is still that he felt abandoned, and jealous, that she could go off and live her ‘muggle’ life. It’s become obvious since her return that Maurice’s idea of activism is now split from hers. She wants to take a more passive role, and Maurice couldn’t bear that.

Caradoc Dearborn: Caradoc is someone Maurice begrudgingly looks up to. On the one hand he is everything he despises, wealthy and pure blooded. But the way he conducts himself is something that Maurice admires. He can’t help but want to be in Caradoc’s good books. If he had an issue within the Order, he would most likely take it to Caradoc.

Mary MacDonald: Mary is a more recent friend. They were a few years apart at Hogwarts and so only got to know each other after they both joined the Order. A lot of Mary’s politics match up with Maurice’s, and apart from that they are very compatible on a personal level. She is one of the lucky few Maurice has let in. Of course it helps that she is muggle-born as well, he feels that with so few of them inside the Order, they really have to stick together.

He has never been the most social of people. It is not that he doesn’t enjoy company, more that he doesn’t settle. If he is going to spend time with someone, properly invest in them, he wants to be sure they are the right person. He does not do this consciously you understand, but he is constantly assessing and reassessing the people in his life. First impressions, as he’s found, are often misleading, but that doesn’t mean doesn’t heed them. He’s more inclined to search out the red flags than give someone the benefit of the doubt. The people who slip through the cracks however, get the best of him. The warmth, the wit, everything he’s been desperately been bottling up waiting for the right vessel to pour it into.

Generally, Maurice is going to feel some animosity for the richer, pure blooded members of the order, but he’ll tolerate them. He’s also going to be fairly uninterested in those who aren’t as active in the cause, or any cause for that matter. So maybe he’s made a few enemies within the Order, or at least brushed some people the wrong way. Or perhaps he’s been pleasantly surprised by others.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: No ships or antiships, I’m really open to anything. I do see Maurice as gay, so I think relationships with women would be unlikely, but I’m a sucker for some unrequited love plots, or maybe some confused one night stands. Basically anything is on the table.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

Well Maurice is a white male, so let’s start with that. I don’t think feminism is high up on his rank of causes, or racism, simply because I don’t think it’s played a huge role within his personal life experience. He probably doesn’t even realise a lot of the privileges he has as a white man.

He’s also gay, and whilst he is quite unapologetic about that, his sexuality seemed to be more of an issue in his muggle life than in the wizarding world, so it isn’t something he feels the need to fight about all the time. Again there are more important causes right now.

As a person who grew up in a working class family, he generally just resents the wealthy, and he won’t give them much chance to prove themselves to him either. This definitely stems from growing up poor, but perhaps if he’d been able to make his own fortune and save his family from their poverty, then he wouldn’t feel as strongly. In that sense it’s quite hypocritical. Now it’s also tied to the fact that the wealthy are the ones in control, both in the Death Eaters and their reign of terror, and at the Ministry, making and enforcing the laws that keep them all trapped and helpless. It hasn’t missed his attention that most of the wealthier wizards are pureblooded, so he’ll often lump them in with his disdain.

This works the other way as well. He’s willing to overlook a lot of shit that his working class/muggle born acquaintances get up to, forgive a lot of their sins. I don’t think he realises he does this, but it certainly happens.

He doesn’t necessarily hate the people who work for the Ministry, even if he has a dislike for the establishment and the way it’s run. He understands everyone has to work, and most don’t get the privilege of doing something they like or agree with entirely. There is a bit of time though where he’ll figure out their motives before he really trusts or likes them.

Law enforcement isn’t particularly in his good books either, but that is perhaps more linked to his view of how muggle police act towards protests and demonstrations.

When it comes to the issues of half-breeds, he’ll go along to the marches, he’ll sign the petitions, he’s probably up to date on all the latest views and opinions, but again, it’s not at the top of his priorities.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? You already know I love this roleplay. I’m looking forward to being more active hopefully, interacting with a wider range of characters, playing someone who is quite different to Fab as well and stretching those writing muscles.

PLOT DROP IDEAS: 

I would love to see his pirate radio show have an effect somehow, either positive or negative (but maybe more positive at least at first, I’ve already done a lot of disappointing the Order with Fab).

I would love to see how his bloodstatus affects him. If he is genuinely more in danger for being a loud annoying muggleborn, it might be nice to work that into the larger plot somehow.

ANYTHING ELSE? I haven’t put whether he’s low level or mid level in the Order, I’m happy for either, wherever you think he’d fit best.

EXTRA FOR NON-BIO CHARACTERS:

PAST: 

Maurice Creevey grew up in the midlands, part of a typical working class family. His mother was a housewife, and his father a Miner. The strikes and picket lines his father was a part of were some of his first experiences with activism, and the spark didn’t stop there. Maurice was rudely torn from his happy muggle life by the revelation he was a Wizard and the letter ‘inviting’ him to study at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. With no choice but to follow this path, Maurice has resented it ever since. He didn’t waste his time there by any means though. This was when he got his first taste for activism, protesting in the great hall and demonstrating in classes. These habits followed him faithfully into adulthood, developing until he found real urgent causes. At the top of his list, was tearing down the Statue of Secrecy that traps all muggle-borns in the wizarding world whilst an evil wizard and his cronies are attempting to pick them off one by one, and also prevents the muggles from fighting back on their own terms.

PRESENT:

It’s his activism that brought him to the attention of the Order. He is a good soldier for the Order, willing to do what has to be done and follow orders dutifully. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own intentions. Maurice works for the Wizarding Wireless Network, and a few nights a week he hosts his own pirate radio station. Sometimes his broadcasts can get hundreds or thousands of listeners, all scared but hopeful, wanting to hear what no-one else is telling them, the news the papers won’t print, the the stories the WWN won’t air. The Order value their secrecy, but Maurice knows information is power, and knowledge gives you a choice. He knows he can use his show to the Order’s advantage if only it’s given a chance.

FC CHOICES: top choice is Tom Sturridge, I’m not very good at fcs so if you don’t think he fits I’m happy to go with recommendations!

[megsblackfirewrites]

Camping Adventures

Camping Adventures

Summary: Camp Wapiti is a favourite destination for children during the summer. Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes have kept the camp running smoothly for years, but there's a darker secret creeping through the forests at night. They can control it most days, but tonight, the monster has gotten the better of them.

Jack has to move fast if he wants to protect the kids.

Jack listened to the kids screaming as they jumped in the lake. He watched from a little further back, checking off a list of duties. His earpiece was going off as the other camp councillors sounded off their daily tasks. He nodded as Ana gave the checkpoint sound-off from where she had taken the older kids, checking the box and writing in the time beside it.

“Hey, Jack, that little McCree kid’s having a bit of a panic attack,” Liao said over the earpiece. “You’re great with his sister; can you go see what’s up?”

“Sure thing,” Jack said as he headed for the shore. “Can you make sure Reinhardt gets his chores done? He’s the only one that hasn’t reported in.”

“I think I saw him up in the mess hall trying to coax one of the little ones out from under the benches,” Liao said.

“That’s alright; I just want to make sure we have food dealt with before the truck heads out for supplies,” Jack said as he headed for the little figure huddled up the path. “Hello, bud; you’re Jesse McCree?”

The ten-year-old’s head snapped up and he swallowed. Jesse nodded and reached up to rub at his eyes. He had the same colour of eyes as his two older siblings, that beautiful shade of soulful brown that Vanessa always called ‘puppy-dog’. Jack sat down beside Jesse and set his clipboard off to the side; he didn’t want Jesse thinking that he was doing this because it was a box on a check list.

“You okay? Why aren’t you in the lake with the others?” he asked.

Jesse let out a whimper and looked away. “Scared.”

“Scared of the lake?” Jack asked. “It is deep, but if you aren’t comfortable, there’re life jackets that you can wear.”

Jesse shook his head and hugged himself. “No.”

“You sure?” Jack tilted his head to the side. “It’s pretty fun.”

Jesse shook his head more. Jack reached out and gently ran a hand over Jesse’s back.

“Or, is it the first time you’ve been away from Van?” he asked gently.

Jesse’s eyes teared up and he looked away. Jack kept rubbing his hand up and down Jesse’s back. Vanessa had been just as scared when she had been left alone while Thomas went with the older kids. Considering their dad had said that his kids did almost everything together, the fear was understandable.

“Do you want to spend the day with me instead?” Jack asked. “I’m a good friend of Van’s. And Ana will tell me when they’re heading back so you know when to go see your sister.”

Jesse sniffled and rubbed at his eyes. “Okay,” he whispered.

The signature McCree accent was already in full affect. Jack had laughed the first time he heard it because something that thick should not come out of young people’s mouths. Vanessa had threatened to fight him, which made him laugh harder because here was this little six year old bouncing out from around her father’s leg to fight him. Thomas had apologized while his father, Joel, just started laughing at his little spit-fire.

Jack offered his hand and Jesse took it. They rose and Jack showed him up the path. He let Moira know that he had Jesse with him so that she wouldn’t be a head short when she got the kids out of the water. She thanked him for the head’s up before shouting at someone not to run and jump off of ‘that’ dock. He smirked as he walked Jesse up towards his office.

“Are you the boss?” Jesse asked.

“There’s two head councillors; I’m in charge of people while Gabriel handles activities,” Jack said. “He also deals with food, which you can give us a kid’s insight if you want.”

“Okay,” Jesse smiled as they walked up the stairs to the office.

“Hey, Gabe!” Jack called as he pushed the door open. “I got…ooh, nope!”

He carefully pulled the door closed so that only his head was poking through. He gave his boyfriend a playfully glare as he made sure the innocent eyes could not see the massive dick currently flopped suggestively across his desk.

“Gabe, Jesse McCree is going to stay with us for the day,” he said, leaving the ‘please put your dick away’ unsaid.

“Oh,” Gabriel blinked before quickly yanking his shorts on. “Could have told me sooner.”

“Gabe. I just said it over the radio like, five minutes ago,” Jack rolled his eyes as he pushed the door open and let Jesse wander in.

“Was Gabe naked?” Jesse asked immediately. “Pa always reacts like that when he’s naked.”

Jack let out a snort of laughter and nodded. “Yes, Gabriel was naked,” he said. “And you have to call him ‘Gabriel’, okay? Only I get to call him ‘Gabe’.”

“Why?” Jesse wrinkled his nose.

“Because Jack’s my boyfriend,” Gabriel said as he dropped into his chair. “And only my boyfriend can call me cute nicknames.”

Jesse’s eyes widened before he looked at Jack. He hurried over to Gabriel and tugged on his hand. He leaned closer and whispered something in Gabriel’s ear. Gabriel grinned widely and winked at Jack.

“Oh, I agree, kiddo,” Gabriel said.

“I’d ask, but I’m not going to betray his trust,” Jack rolled his eyes as he sat down at his desk.

He immediately started typing up his reports, filling out the necessary forms for the owners of the camp. They liked daily updates on how everything was going, even if they only ever showed up once a season. It probably made them feel like their ‘precious baby’ was actually under their control. Jack was starting to get annoyed with the endless paperwork that kept getting dumped on him, but at least he had a pretty face to distract him.

“You think we need that many hot dogs?” Gabriel laughed.

“Yah!” Jesse laughed. “Hot dogs are the best!”

“What about material for s’mores?” Jack asked as he sent off a report.

“Yes!” Jesse squealed happily. “And cookies!”

“What kind?” Gabriel asked as he started typing on his computer.

His boyfriend shot him a small smile as Jesse excitedly started listing off a number of different cookies that he wanted. He knew that look and felt the same desire burning in his gut. He wanted nothing more than to have kids with Gabriel, to fill their modest home with happy little voices. They needed to get married first, though, or Gabriel’s mother would eat them alive. There was only so many things that Gabriel’s mother was willing to ignore about her unconventional son. Babies before marriage was not one, even if it was only adoption.

Jack had another report done and ready to be sent off when Moira poked her head into the office. She lifted an eyebrow at Gabriel and Jesse as they loudly and happily discussed which Western cowboy was better, John Wayne or Clint Eastwood, but didn’t say anything.

“Hello, Moira,” Jack smiled. “Problem?”

“Just letting you know that I’m going to be taking the kids up to the meadow for some bird watching,” she said. “The battery in my headset died, so I need a new one.”

“Of course,” Jack said as he got up and got her a new battery, taking the dead one and putting it to charge. “You think the kids are going to like bird watching?”

“I think they’re old enough to appreciate it; if not, it’s a great place for tag,” Moira shrugged. “Enjoy your afternoon, Jack.”

She left without another word, but she saw the look she shot Gabriel. Jesse glanced over at Jack as he sat back down and pulled nervously at the bottom of his shirt.

“Does she not like me?” he asked. “She was lookin’ at me weird.”

“She probably wanted to tease Gabe,” Jack smiled. “Everyone likes to tease Gabe about him having kids.”

“Hush,” Gabriel laughed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to be ashamed of the fact that I love kids.”

“No reason to be, love,” Jack smirked. “You just tend to ‘steal’ some.”

Jesse let out a giggle. “You can’t steal me!” he laughed. “Tom will take me back!”

“I’m sure he would,” Gabriel chuckled before he brought up another form. “What you think of this, kiddo?”

“Gray, don’t swing that,” Jack glared at the ten-year-old. “That was just in the fire. You could burn someone.”

He watched the kid roll his eyes as he sank down onto his seat by the fire. Gray was pouting, but Jack ignored him as he checked to make sure the others were enjoying their hot dogs. Jesse was sitting right beside him, happily chomping his everything-on-it hot dog. He could hear Vanessa cackling a few fires over and Thomas’ gentle reminder to calm down so that she didn’t choke.

Jesse glanced up at him as Jack shifted forward. Jack winked at the adorable little kid before he lowered his voice.

“Do you know the story of the Monster of Camp Wapiti?” he asked.

The kids stared at him and a few of them shook their heads. The story was pretty infamous around the camp-goers and new versions were always cropping up. Jack loved telling the story and seeing the look of fear and intrigue on the young faces.

“They say that a long time ago, this place used to be a sacred place to the local native. They would come up here for visions and bring along special meats from their kills. Because of that blood and meat left behind, the wolves started coming to the area looking for easy food,” Jack said. “The wolves were hungry because the natives were over-hunting to satisfy the spirits that they were praying to. The wolves started attacking the people, dragging them off into the forest to eat. Their screams could be heard for miles around and people got scared.

“They started killing the wolves, but their numbers never seemed to shrink. There were whispers that the spirits were coming back as wolves to kill people as they were very unsatisfied with them. They started praying for forgiveness, offering masks and necklaces instead of meat so that the wolves didn’t come back.”

Jack leaned forward so that his face was highlighted by the fire. “The spirits started killing the people begging for forgiveness and raising them as wolves,” he said. “No one knows why, but soon, the tribe was no more. The only thing left were wolves, but the wolves weren’t the same as they used to be. They say that the wolves walked on two legs and ate anything that moved. And their favourite food is children.”

At that moment, something huge jumped out of the shadows. It howled loudly, scaring the kids so that they scampered over to Jack. Jack bit his lip to keep from laughing, holding tightly onto the two kids that had thrown themselves into his arms.

Gabriel laughed as he pulled the wolfman mask off of his face. “Aw, did I scare you?” he asked.

“Gabriel!” Jesse shouted before he bolted forward and hugged Gabriel around the waist. “That’s mean!”

“What do you expect from a scary story?” Gabriel laughed as he sat down. “We started s’mores yet?”

“Not yet; everyone was just finishing off their hot dogs,” Jack said. “If they are still hungry, that is.”

The kids squealed at the prospect of gooey treats and eagerly crowded around Gabriel as he started roasting marshmallows. The kids devoured every single s’more that Gabriel made, laughing and telling their own scary stories. Gabriel handed the last s’more to Jack, smiling as they sat close to each other on their bench.

The kids started nodding off around ten, huffing as Gabriel rounded them up to head for their cabins. Jack put out the fire, making sure it was good and doused before going to see the other age groups off. It took a little while to make sure all the kids were back in their cabins and that they weren’t going to try to sneak out. He said his goodnights to the other councillors and retreated to his and Gabriel’s cabin.

He was swept off his feet as soon as he closed the door. He laughed, hanging on as his full-moon enhanced boyfriend spun him around in circles. They smiled at each other, blue eyes staring into brown-turning-yellow, and kissed. The kiss quickly turned heated as Gabriel carried him to the bed, hands roaming over Jack’s body.

“You’re so hot when you’re protective,” Gabriel growled in his ear. “Can’t wait to see you with kids of our own.”

“Me neither,” Jack groaned as he was set on the bed. He pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside, smiling as Gabriel’s hungry eyes roamed over. “Like what you see?”

“Always,” Gabriel said as he crawled over Jack.

They kissed, holding each other as Gabriel’s body twisted and bulged. Jack pushed his fingers through the emerging gray fur, smiling against hardened lips as a big, warm tongue brushing against his. He felt Gabriel flinch and wrapped his arms around Gabriel’s shoulders, holding him as the painful process reached its worst moment. Gabriel whimpered in his ear before slumping in exhaustion, his newly grown tail thumping lazily against the bed.

“Hey,” Jack murmured as he reached up to scratch behind Gabriel’s ears. “All good?”

“Mmm,” Gabriel murmured before nuzzling his cheek. “Want to mount you.”

“Just don’t knot in me,” Jack said. “I need to be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Will do,” Gabriel said as he nuzzled his neck.

It was a vigorous round of sex for them, just like it was every time Gabriel changed under the light of the full moon in Camp Wapiti. They didn’t know what had happened to him, but at some point, Gabriel started taking on the form of a wolf. He was never dangerous, still very much present when he changed, but it was still terrifying to see a werewolf running around at night. It never happened anywhere else; he never grew fur at home; but those three months at Camp Wapiti saw him turning into a wolf at least three times.

When they were finished, Jack slumped against the bed, thoroughly fucked and loving the afterglow. He snuggled into Gabriel’s warm fur, sighing softly as Gabriel’s warm hands pressed against his back. He passed out surrounded by his boyfriend’s familiar scent and the pleasant feeling between his legs.

He woke to a scream. He bolted upright, his brain stuttering as it struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. Gabriel was gone, but his scent was still fresh enough to let him know that he hadn’t left too long ago. He could hear other people screaming and scrambled to his feet, grabbing his pajama bottoms off the end of the bed and pulling them on.

“What’s happened?” he asked as he hurried out of his cabin with a flashlight.

“Jesse’s gone!” Thomas shouted as he came running over.

There was another scream and Jack’s head snapped around towards the woods. Dread filled his gut as he heard the screams continue. Gabriel couldn’t have done something, could he?

“Get the other kids and make sure they stay put,” Jack ordered. “Ana, Moira, Reinhardt, fan out. We’ll find him soon.”

He didn’t wait to hear for a confirmation from the other councillors before he took off running. He quickly outdistanced everyone, vaulting over brush and fallen logs as he tried to figure out where Gabriel would have gone. Jesse’s screams turned into sobs, carrying on the wind and directing Jack towards him. His gut sank as he realized where Gabriel had brought him; the plateau really had been a place of prayer and it was where they suspected that Gabriel had contracted his lycanthropy.

Jesse was lying on the plateau on his stomach, curled up in a ball and crying. Jack hurried forward, dropping to his knees beside the boy. He checked his body, hushing him as he looked for any signs of damage. There was drool around the scruff of his shirt and his arms and legs were torn up from the brush, but there was no signs of bites or scratches.

“I’m here, Jesse,” he soothed as he picked Jesse up. “It’s Jack.”

“Jack?” Jesse whimpered. “Jack, Jack, I’m scared! The Monster came and took me!”

“I know,” Jack said. “I know. But I’m here now; the Monster can’t hurt you now.”

“Why?” Jesse whimpered. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Jesse,” Jack said as he held Jesse close and turned around. “We’ll get you back, okay? Just….”

He fell silent and clutched Jesse to his chest. Gabriel was standing in his way, flanked by two wolves. They were as silent as graves, staring at him and Jesse as they stood on the plateau. Gabriel’s tail started wagging slowly and he looked expectantly at Jack.

“Don’t let go,” Jack said as he shifted the grip on his flashlight. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Jesse whispered. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing I want to be a part of,” Jack replied as he got ready to run. “Don’t let go.”

Jesse pushed his face into Jack’s chest and dug his nails into the flesh between his shoulders. Jack stared at Gabriel as he let out a low rumble. The two wolves took a step forward, moonlight illuminating the white of their mottled fur, but their yellow eyes looked dead and soulless in the dark. Jack took a few deep gulps before he twisted around and bolted for the edge of the plateau. He heard Gabriel yowl behind him and the heavy slam of his feet, but he had the headstart he needed.

His toes pushed down on the edge of the plateau and he launched himself off, holding Jesse close to his chest. He’d gotten just enough of a running start to propel him over the first few trees and get him level with the water below. He tilted himself back and felt himself slam into the shallow river. Stars erupted behind his eyelids as he did his best to keep Jesse’s head out of the water.

The river rushed them along down the side of the plateau and out into the lake. Jesse squealed as they went under, but he was already kicking his way towards shore when Jack surface. Jack kicked hard after him, diving under his little body to get him up on his back. Jesse accepted the piggy back ride without complaint, clinging to Jack’s shoulders as he panted heavily.

“You jumped,” Jesse whispered as Jack’s feet found bottom. “From that really high place!”

“I knew the river was there,” Jack said as he hauled Jesse up onto the shore and let him drop to the ground. “Gabe and I used to jump in there as kids. You need a good running start though or you hit the trees and drop like a rock. Broke my shoulder the first time. Let’s get you back to your brother; I’m sure he’s scared stiff.”

Jesse nodded and grabbed Jack’s hand. “That was Gabriel, wasn’t it?” he whispered. “That werewolf?”

Jack looked at Jesse for a long moment before he nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “But he’s never done this before. I don’t know what happened. He’d never do this to anyone.”

Jesse held Jack’s hand close to his chest as they walked. “Pa’s a wolf too,” he whispered. “He said that sometimes you can’t stop instinct. Maybe Gabriel wanted to eat me? Like the Monster does?”

“The Monster of Camp Wapiti is just a story, Jesse,” Jack said. “There isn’t really a pack of wolfmen running around eating little kids. The camp wouldn’t have been open for long if there was.”

“But what if there really was a monster?” Jesse asked as he tugged on Jack’s hand. “What if that’s why there’s a story at all?”

“Jesse,” Jack turned and knelt down, gently taking Jesse by the shoulders. “That story is made up. It’s like any other campfire story. It’s just meant to scare you. There’s no truth about it. Whatever it is that turns people like Gabriel or your Pa into wolfmen during the full moon does not turn them into monsters. They’re still in there and in full control. I’ll find out why Gabriel did this and I will make sure he’s punished for it.”

Jesse nodded and rubbed at his eyes. “I want to go home,” he whispered. “I want my Pa.”

“I’ll call him in the morning, okay?” Jack said. “I’m sure he’ll come get you if you tell him you’re scared.”

“Jesse!” Thomas shouted as he came sprinting around the lake. “Jesse!”

“Tom!” Jesse shouted happily. “Tom, Jack saved me!”

Jack smiled as Jesse rushed to his brother and threw himself into his arms. Thomas clutched his brother close, whispering softly to him. Thomas’ eyes flicked up to Jack’s and he could see the relief and appreciation in his dark eyes. Jack nodded to him as he heard a long, mournful howl behind him. He and Thomas looked up towards the plateau before hurrying back towards the camps.

Gabriel ducked into the cabin shortly before sunrise. Jack was waiting for him, his fear from the night boiling over into rage.

“What were you thinking?” Jack demanded as he grabbed the front of Gabriel’s shirt and shook him. “You could have seriously hurt him! You could have gotten Jesse killed! Is that what you want on your conscious for the rest of your life? Huh? Is it?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Gabriel hung his head. “Please…Jack….”

“You know damn well what you were doing! You brought him up to the plateau, Gabriel. That’s where all that Native American stuff happened. You can still see the lines carved into the rock. Don’t fucking lie to me!”

Gabriel looked away. “Jack….”

“You tell me what the fuck you were planning or so help me, Gabriel, I’ll…!”

“I want to make a pack,” Gabriel whispered.

His voice was so quiet that Jack almost missed what he said. Tears glimmered on Gabriel’s lashes as he hung his head, shoulders sinking as a broken sob pulled at his chest.

“I wanted a pack,” he repeated. “With you and…and a pup. I wanted a chance to have a pack with you, to finally get our babies. It was wrong. It was so fucking wrong and I can’t believe I let that sort of broken instinct control me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jack whispered before he hugged his boyfriend close. “You’re such a fucking idiot and you’re so fucking lucky I love you. Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again, do you hear me? This is the last year we’re coming to this camp.”

“I know,” Gabriel whispered and clung to him. “I can’t…I can’t handle this anymore, Jack. It’s like the wolf is taking me over every full moon. I can’t…I don’t want to hurt you or anyone else, especially not any child. I get if you want to leave….”

“We’re in this together,” Jack snapped as he laced their fingers together. “No matter what. I’ll get this shit sorted out, get through one more month, and then leave. Jesse’ll go home to his Pa, Ana and Reinhardt will take over, and we can try to get on with our lives.”

Gabriel nodded and pushed his face into Jack’s shoulder. “I owe you,” he whispered. “I owe you so much.”

“Ssh,” Jack soothed as he cupped the back of Gabriel’s head and slowly started rocking him. “I��ve got you. I’ve got you.”

[reyskyber]

Echo finds out Clarke is alive first and has to tell Bellamy... then we get to see Bellamy’s thought process AND (if you’re up for it) giving us that lil bellarke reunion??

Morgan!  Thank you so much for this prompt I am so sorry it took me so long to get out. But here we are!  I hope you’re ready for 3.3k of me spewing all of my becho feelings into a fic and then running!

[also on ao3]

“Here we go again,” Clarke saidmore to herself than anyone else.  She’dmoved the radio away from the rover to allow Madi to get some more sleep.  Clarke pulled the microphone closer to herface and tried a new angle on the antenna. After nearly two thousand and two hundred days of trying, it seemedpointless but this was her routine now, and Clarke had always liked following aroutine if she could.

“Bellamy, if you can hear me, ifyou’re alive, it’s been two thousand one hundred and ninety-nine days sincepraimfaya…”

Bellamy frowned as he looked outof the window of the ring.  When they’dfirst noticed the green patch after two years up in space they’d been hopefulthat it was a sign the Earth was recovering from the radiation ofpraimfaya.  Almost four years later, andit hadn’t expanded or changed from what Bellamy could see.  Still, if it could be seen from up here, itwas more than enough land for just over one thousand two hundred people.

“Soup’s ready,” Monty called ashe carried the pot across the room. Bellamy suppressed a shudder as he walked away from the window andtowards the table.  Monty started pouringout bowls of algae soup as Raven, Harper, and Emori joined Bellamy.  They each grimaced as he placed the bowls infront of them.  Six years in space andthe algae still didn’t taste any better, though at least now they could keep itdown.

“Where’s Echo?”  Bellamy asked as Monty filled the last bowl.

“I trained her on coms,” Ravenreplied as she frowned down at her bowl of green goop.  “To give Emori a break.”

Bellamy nodded, Emori had beenworking on coms for as long as they’d had them set up and she often forgot totake a break.

“I’ll go get her,” Bellamy saidas he stood up.

***

“Anyway,” came the voice on theradio, crackling and fragmented as the signal made its way through theradiation.  Still, Echo knew whose voiceit was.  She’d known as soon as she heardit, Clarke.  She was alive, and on the ground.

“I still have hope,” she saidbefore Echo cut the sound off quickly. She was alive, and they left her on the ground.  They’d left Clarke down there and she’d beenalone for six years.  Echo’s thoughtswere racing with possibilities, she felt sick.

Echo was frozen in her seat.   When she’d offered to help with coms, shethought she might be receiving messages from the bunker, not from Clarke sixyears after they’d left her on the ground to die in a radiation-soaked planet.  Echo felt like she might be sick, the otherswere going to go crazy, Bellamy-

She stopped at the thought ofBellamy, how would he react?  She had totell him.

“Echo?”  Her thoughts were cut short when she heardBellamy’s voice down the metallic corridor of the ring.

“Hey,” he said as he came tostand next to her.  He smiled and gaveher shoulder a squeeze.  She gave him asmall smile back and hastily took the headset off her head.  She opened her mouth to say something but hewas already turning away.  Her skin feltwarm where his hand had been and she cleared her throat, trying to forceherself to tell him, but she couldn’t find the words or even the place to beginto tell him.

“Dinner’s ready,” was all he saidas he walked back down the corridor he’d come from.  Echo stood up and steeled herself, Bellamydeserved to know.

“Bellamy,” she called as shestepped around the radio control panel. He turned back to face her with a questioning look on his face.  

“Yeah?”  He asked, worry crossing his face briefly.

All her courage left her and Echocouldn’t find the words, or when she did she couldn’t force them out of her.

“Nothing,” she said instead, witha small smile.  She’d tell him, she toldherself.  But for now, algae soup waswaiting.  

***

Echo was quiet through dinner,Bellamy noticed.  Well, more quiet thanusual.  She didn’t even laugh when Emorimade a snide comment about Murphy. Bellamy didn’t question it, he knew more than anyone that being on thering could take its toll some days.  Whatevershe was mulling over, she’d tell him later.

His relationship with Echo wasone that he’d never have expected to thrive in space.  Six years ago, he wouldn’t have cared ifshe’d have walked out into the radiation wave. Now, well, things were different.

It was difficult to defineexactly what Echo meant to Bellamy, it had taken three years in the confines ofspace for him to even talk to her in a civil manner.  When they were finally talking to oneanother, they realised they weren’t so different.  They both cared deeply about their peoplesand about their friends, thought admittedly they went about protecting peoplein very different ways.  

In the past few years they’dgrown closer, it started with Echo teaching the other six to fight, and thenfor Bellamy teaching Echo and Emori to read. They shared history and stories of their families and their clans.  Somewhere between the learning of English andthe trading of stories, Emori left the lessons to go and help Raven.  

Now just the two of them, it felteasy for Bellamy and Echo to become somewhat friends.  As their friends grew algae and tried toimprove the coms system, Bellamy and Echo trained and planned for life back onthe ground.  

Then somewhere along the line,Echo rolling her eyes at his jokes transformed into her smiling into his lipsas he kissed her.

They’d not defined what theywere, it was hard to when the days in space seemed endless and going back tothe ground was nothing but a dream. Telling the others had been weird; Murphy had made a comment about howthin the walls on the ring were, Emori had said she was happy for them, Harperand Monty had smiled in response, and Raven hadn’t said anything but had raiseda brow at them.  They were an odd duo,but they made it work.

***

Echo’s mind was still whirlingwith the information that Clarke was alive. She knew she had to tell Bellamy before any of the others, but shewasn’t sure how to broach the topic. Years of killing and plotting had left her numb and sterile when it cameto emotions other than anger and guilt. She’d opened up to Bellamy in the past about working for Nia and thenRoan, but this was completely different.

She looked over to Raven to seeher in an in-depth conversation with Emori about one of the flyingsystems.  They often spent their eveningslike this, as a group, since Murphy left. Echo wasn’t going to admit it, but she missed his quips and jokes, heeased the tension on nights like this.

Instead of sitting among herfriends, Echo removed herself from the group and went to Bellamy’s – their –room.  She looked around the mix of theirbelongings, his books and her weapons.  

What a match they made, shethought with a bitter smile.  They wereall sharp edges and bared teeth clashing and scratching at each other untilthey reached their bleeding hearts, trying desperately to stitch each otherback together.  Maybe they were just lonely,she mused.  

It was like the revelation thatClarke was alive had shone a light on her and Bellamy’s relationship and Echo couldsee that it wasn’t just cracked as she had thought, but transparent, neverreally there.  Things had always beendifferent in peacetime, and they’d had six years of it.

Echo made her way over to herside of the bed and sat down.  A sighescaped her lips involuntarily and she lay back onto the bed.  The ceiling of the ring was plain steel withlarge, ugly bolts to hold everything in place. When she was younger, before Queen Nia had taken her from her family,her bedroom was hand decorated by her mother. Echo let her eyes flutter closed and she tried to grasp at the wisps ofmemories of the intricate designs on the ceiling of her old bedroom.  She’d always found that they calmed her.  But now, staring up at the dull metal, shecouldn’t begin to distract herself from the hollowness in her chest.

That was how Bellamy found her;staring up at the ceiling in silence.

“Echo?”  Bellamy said from the doorway.  She turned her head to him to see him givingher a worried once over.  Some things would never change, shethought with a sad smile.  She tried tosmile over at him, to convince him she was fine, but that would be a lie and theywere supposed to trust each other now.

Bellamy, sensing her inner turmoil,made his way across the room and lay down beside her in the dim room.  The bed sagged under his added weight and shefelt the heat of his leg close to hers. Any other time, she would have felt comforted by the closeness, but nowshe just felt crowded and suffocated.

“Are you okay?”  He asked tentatively and Echo closed her eyesagain.  Any other night, she would havereached across and brushed a stray curl from his face, but now everything feltso fragile she didn’t want to risk it.

“Echo please,” Bellamy whispered desperatelyand Echo’s eyes snapped open.  “Talk tome.”

His voice was pleading and Echolet out a breath.  She stared up at themetal roof again, willing the courage to get the words out.  If she said them, she knew it would be theend of whatever they were.  Over theirtime in space, their relationship had transformed into one of support andtrust, but Echo had always known that Bellamy could never have given himself toher fully, his heart would always be with Clarke.

With each breath she took, itfelt like her throat was closing up. Echo slowly closed her eyes, trying to gain some control.  She was reminded of the winters in Azgedawhere the air was so cold she felt it move down her throat until it reached herlungs.  Except she wasn’t in Azgeda, shewas safe with Bellamy.  Bellamy, whocarried all the guilt over every little thing, things that weren’t even hisfault.  He needs to know, she toldherself.  She cleared the ice from herthroat and let the words escape quickly.

“It’s Clarke.”

Echo opened hereyes and looked at Bellamy, even in the dim light she could read him.  His expression was serious with a flash ofwhat she’d come to recognise hurt.  Itwas the same look that crossed his face whenever anyone brought up Octavia, andshe’d seen it a few times during their first few months in space when someonebrought up Clarke.

They’d stoppedtalking about Clarke in Bellamy’s presence after he punched through an old airvent.  He’d tried to open up about her inthe past, but he just never seemed to get the words out, not to Echo atleast.  

“What aboutClarke?”  Bellamy asked tensely, suddenlyserious.  If Echo wasn’t careful thiscould blow up into an argument.   Thathad happened quite a few times, she reminded herself with a grimace.

“Clarke’salive,” she said, looking across into Bellamy’s eyes, willing him to believeher.  

His frown grewdeeper and he moved his head back on the pillow to see her face.  She nodded at him slowly, hoping he’d knowshe wasn’t lying.  His eyes danced acrossher face and Echo saw them shine in the light. A smile broke across his features when he saw she was telling the truthand Echo felt a twinge in her chest at how young he looked.  

***

They lay in bedfor hours that night talking.  Bellamylistened as Echo explained how she’d heard Clarke on the radio.  Echo watched Bellamy transition throughshock, then happiness and then guilt.  Helooked at her with a sad smile and Echo knew they had to come to an end, it feltnatural.

“She needs you,”Echo said finally with a sad smile.

“Echo…” hestarted.  She cut his off with a fingerto his lips.

“Bellamy,” shesaid softly.  “It’s Clarke.  I understand.”  Her voice was thick with emotion as she triedto swallow the lump in her throat. Bellamy looked at her confused but she knew her mind was made up.  She stole one last kiss from his lips beforeshe got up from the bed and walked out of the room.  

Everywhere helooked he could see traces of Echo, the pillows even smelled like her, but allBellamy could think of was Clarke.  Heknew he should feel bad for the way things ended with Echo after all the timethey’d shared together but his head was spinning with the revelation thatClarke wasn’t dead.

Clarke wasalive, on the ground.  He’d left her behindand she had survived.  Bellamy felt thefamiliar feeling of guilt settle itself in his stomach.  It had been years since he’d felt like this,but after just a few hours, it had brought everything back.  Bellamy sighed and stared up at the metalroof of the small room.

Bellamy hadgrown used to having trouble sleeping in space; his dreams were often plaguedwith the faces and voices of people he should have saved.  This was different though, his mind waswhirling with millions of thoughts, all of Clarke.  How wasshe?  Was she okay?  How did she survive?  Did she get to the bunker?

The endlessstream of questions brought back memories of years ago, it almost seemed likeanother lifetime.  When Clarke had leftthe camp after they brought down Mount Weather together.  For months he’d stayed up all night,wondering if she was okay, if she was even alive.  It was awful really, this feeling, endlessquestions with no way of getting answers.

This time wasdifferent though; he could get answer.  Hehad to go back to the ground.

Bellamy was still feeling theaftershocks of landing on the ground again. Even though Emori had piloted their smoothest landing to date, it wasstill weird walking on the ground again and feeling the familiar pull of theEarth’s gravity.  Each step felt heavierthan it had in space, he felt sluggish and slow, but that might just have beenhis sense of urgency to find Clarke.

His internal mantra of Clarke, Clarke, Clarke was so loud thathe almost missed the snap of twigs in front of him.

“Put your hands up!”  Shouted a man and Bellamy suppressed the urgeto roll his eyes.  They’d been on theground all of two minutes and they were already back to the same old shit.

“We don’t mean any harm,” Bellamyreplied when he found his voice.

The two figures continued to stepforward with their weapons raised and Bellamy lifted his hands.  He opened his mouth to try to reason withthem when he heard to familiar bangs.  Funny,he thought, he’d spent six years in a safe sanctuary, but the sound of a gunfiring was still as familiar as it had been the day he left.  

The two guards fell to thefloor.  He knew they were dead even froma few yards away.  He clenched his jaw,ready to take on whoever had killed them. He was not prepared for the girl that stepped into the clearing.

“Bellamy?”  She asked as she stepped forwards.  Bellamy’s mind was whirling, trying toremember if he knew this girl.  Shecouldn’t be older than twelve.

“Clarke knew you would come,” shesaid as she stepped forwards again.  Eventhough Echo had told him she was alive, hearing it again still made his heartstutter.

“Where is she?”  He asked as he looked behind her.

“She’s in trouble,” the girlreplied and grabbed his arm.  Bellamylooked around at the others, they all looked just as shocked as he was.  His eyes met Echo’s and she gave him a shortnod.  He tore his gaze away from hers asthe girl pulled him back towards the way she had come.

The walk to the rover was tense,Bellamy didn’t know where to begin to ask about how this girl knew him orClarke.  When they reached the rover, shejumped straight into the driver’s seat and Bellamy raised a brow.  Reluctantly, he climbed in the passenger sideand she started the engine.

Bellamy found it off-puttingbeing in the passenger side, since he’d driven it more than anyone back whenthey were on the ground.  The stick shiftwas worse than he remembered and she struggled getting up the gears but theyeventually got onto some sort of path that she seemed familiar with and theride was smoother.

“I didn’t think you’d have abeard,” she said as they drove around a corner. Bellamy had been looking at the trees, trying to see if there was anyonethere but he snapped his vision over to her at this.

She glanced over at him quicklybefore starting an explanation of how Clarke found her when she was six and hadbasically raised her since then.  Bellamylistened with a small smile on his face as the girl, Madi she’d told him,recited them how they’d lived and about some of the stories she’d toldher.  The affection in her voice wasevident and Bellamy felt his heart pull when he realised how close this girlwas to Clarke.  This young girl was allClarke had, and Clarke was all she had, and now she was counting on him to saveClarke.

“We’re here,” she said as sheturned the last corner into the grounder village.

The headlights washed over acrowd of people dressed in similar uniforms. Eligius IV, he realised.  Amongall the soldiers he saw a flash of blonde on the floor and his heart leapt intohis mouth.  Clarke, he realised.  Hisheart stuttered; she was surrounded by soldiers and was on the floor, Bellamyclenched his jaw, preparing himself.

As Madi slowed the rover, dozensof guns were pointed at them and Bellamy felt his throat go dry.  Home,sweet home he thought bitterly as Madi put the handbrake on.  He saw her reach over for the door.

“Madi, no,” he said sternly.  She removed her hand from the door handle andlooked down at her hands in her lap.

“I won’t let anything happen toClarke, I promise.”  She looked up at himand she nodded.  Bellamy nodded back andstarted to get out of the rover.

***

“Two hundred and eighty-threelives for one?  She must be prettyimportant to you,” the leader of Eligius spoke. Bellamy resisted the urge to scoff at her.  Important didn’t even begin to cover it.

Through the talk, Bellamy hadkept his eyes trained on the leader, gauging her reactions.  But now, he looked down at Clarke.  Clarke, who he’d thought was dead for sixyears, who he’d mourned and tried to move on from.  

Here she was, in front of himalive and breathing.  He watched as shetried to lift herself up onto her arms before collapsing to the groundagain.  Bellamy’s heart screamed at himto go to her, to pick her up, but guns were trained on him from all angles sohe stayed where he was for the time being.

“She is,” he repliedfinally.  Clarke’s entire body exhaledwith relief as she looked up at him. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks and Bellamy could feel his eyessting as hot tears welled in his eyes.

Clarke was alive, and she waswithin arm’s reach for the first time in six years and seven days.

[indiansinuniform]

3000 Years

Citizens of earth. I come from a leaderless future in which high-tech holograms, complete with skin you can touch and an aroma – no, an odour – you can smell are projected into the past and the length of their 3000-year lifespan lets them live well into the future where they can tell the next hundred generations all the ways history should have known better than to repeat itself. This hologram, disguised as a man of roughly twenty-five, is not the only one in this city, in this neighbourhood, or in this room. There are others, and no two of us are alike.

Manufacturer’s warning: The hologram standing before you tonight does not represent the views of all holograms, nor does it represent the views of its manufacturers.

Because there is no such thing as surrogate experience,

and throughout whatever eternity my consciousness must suffer

my reality is my own, virtual or not. Twenty-five years of collecting all the treasures I could find in this crowded piece of concrete, twenty-five years of stuffing beauty into my corneas like they were starving for colour.

One of the big worries with holographic android technology is their projected lifespan of two to three millennia. They’ve just found out that holograms can reproduce, but the problem is, they’re not dying fast enough to maintain a rate low enough to be anything close to healthy growth.

Healthy growth. We made the words antithetical. There is nothing healthy about a population of seven billion getting bigger. But who wants to start that conversation? Who wants to be the person who proposes population control? Because we are all the individual products of that growth. We are the present generations locked inside the endless turning of the tides, we will be wiped out eventually. So why not say fuck you to responsibility, we are worth it, goddamn it, we are human beings. Look how special.

We are the products of population growth. And we know that life is worth fighting for

Because we are all the tenants of bodies

That list oxygen as one of their basic necessities

And seem to find a need to feed themselves two or three or more times a day because, well, we’ve got used to it this way, and who the fuck is anybody to tell me how to live my life?

Especially some self-righteous hologram that gets by on electricity.

Electricity’s not free either you inorganic, microphone-wielding hypocrite.

Citizens of earth, hear me out. I understand that it might sound patronizing to call you “citizens of earth” but I say it with a depth of reverence normally reserved for the pulpit. And I too am a culprit in these crimes against everything because the sins of the father trickle down to the son, and I’m not sure why mothers and daughters aren’t included in that one, but maybe it’s because they are women, and without trying to, I feel like I just made the room uncomfortable by generalizing about women. I’m sorry. But like I said, I’m a hologram, and what’s the use in holding a grudge against a hologram? Our eyes are programmed to collect experiences and made generalizations about the way things are. So I hope you’ll forgive me for the following statement but

Maybe the secret to living an elegant life is skepticism. To never be completely unshakable. To be able to imagine things from the other perspective. To seek connection in a sea of difference. Our job is to make metaphors. A single idea that connects two different things, that fights division through imagery. Like comparing the progress of the generations to a steamroller that looks like it’s moving slowly but it doesn’t show signs of stopping.

Now, let me ask you a question. Would you rather live three thousand years but everybody around you lives regular human lifespans, OR live a regular human lifespan while everyone around you gets to live for 3000 years.

Either way

Someday somebody will have to let you go,

let the memory of you be only that. Bury you in the ground or pulverize you into ashes or whatever vulgar act they can inject with meaning until it ends up looking like a sacrament.

The human brain seeks meaning like a child with a treasure map, leaving all the treachery out of pirates and remembering only the parrot on the shoulder and the sun-starched captain’s hat,

the curious skull-and-crossbone flag and maybe an impressive eyepatch. Remembering none of the plunderings because

we weren’t there. We weren’t there when headdresses and jeans were first fashionable because they weren’t. We’ve never seen skin melt off the bones of the living victims of nuclear radiation. We weren’t there getting our culture beaten out of us by a system drunk on its own illusions of grandeur. We weren’t there for Louis Riel or The Famous Five or Grey Owl or even Pierre Trudeau. And the name Jack Layton will be unfamiliar in two generations too. And if not two, then four, or ten, or however long it takes for somebody memorable to be forgotten. Maybe we’ll self-destruct before then.

And do you want to be here after that?

Do you want to learn to navigate the smells of abandoned cities, and develop an intimate knowledge of canned foods and when to scavenge for them? Do you want to live beyond electricity and live music and healthcare and good coffee and snowplowed roads and oxygen levels deemed “livable” by the UN’s special commission on climate somethingorother?

This may surprise you, but I have already spent one hundred and four years of my projected lifespan. I have seen radio waves transform into televised debates. I have seen votes for women turn into abortion rights, and I have seen corruption all the way through. Every history hopes to be a proud one without having to admit any hypocrisy. It’s not that we’re afraid of resting on some false sense of justice but we can’t afford to rest on any laurels of progress yet because we are a species falling drowsy at the wheel of a steamroller.

So sip the air from wherever you sit or stand and know that your life is in your hands and that we don’t all get to be Jimmy Stewart in It’s A Wonderful Life,

seeing what the world would be like without us because life is less than the best takes strung together but it is infinitely more than just a dress rehearsal. It’s a dry run and sometimes I feel like the most we can hope for is to have some fun and not worry so much about fucking up our lines.

I read a quote recently that went something like this: you’d think the fact that we’re all going to die would make us love each other more, but more often than not it fails to.

Do you ever go into a store or a coffee shop and get the strange urge to hug the person behind the counter with all the tender intimacy of friends comforting friends after the death of a loved one? I may be going out on limb of questionable strength here but let me just say that if the norms of society were to relax a little I think I would be considered quite creepy by the current standards. On top of the hugging thing I have this fantasy of having a seventh floor apartment in a cluster of skyscraping sardine cans with windows that reveal each life inside. And pretending I was Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window I’d watch all the human dramas unfolding before me as I think out instead of in, hiding behind a thin pane of anonymity, not really thinking that anybody’s watching me because I’m not them, I haven’t lived from their perspective, and like them I’m all locked inside my own private life-support system. It is bound to short circuit someday and along the way I’m afraid we will fuck up. We will stutter and forget our lines and act purely out of self-interest, and fail to show grace to people that go from citizens of earth to assholes that cut me off in traffic in a matter of seconds. We are half irresponsible but then that’s half the fun. Drinking coffee with reckless abandon and spending the waking hours wrestling with an idea about how generations turn over like a steamroller on autopilot is enough to make you look forward after the fun is over. Or watching Sarah when she’s sound asleep with a reverence so deep she’d have every right to tell me to stop being creepy. But she knows that I’m only gonna live for maybe 3000 years, so she lets me love her despite me and that’s why when we hug it’s become less like a house on fire and more like friends after the death of a loved one. Because it’s true that soon enough that loved one will be one of us and the curtain will fall on this well-worn stage and the audience will recede back into the foyer and nothing will be left but the memory of the performance and it might not even be remembered correctly so have some fun and don’t worry too much about fucking it aup.

[missvalerietanner]

The Unseen Soldier | Part 21 | Welcome Home

Subject: Hades & Persephone (aka Aiden & Sophie)

Genre: Southern Gothic retelling

Words: 1,872

Summary: Sophie adjusts to life at home after being retrieved from the forest by the Ryder brothers.

Updates every Sunday! Click to read.

“What have you done to her?”

“What you wanted. Now pay us.”

“I will not. You’ve clearly harmed her. This was not part of our agreement.”

“Oh, shut it. We brought her back, and you owe us.”

“She’s comatose. Wh--what have you done?”

“This is how we found her--”

“And the blood on her clothes, that sheer nightgown--I suppose that was your doing as well?”

“Collateral damage.”

“You expect me to believe that? I hear the rumors about ya’ll--”

“And yet you hired us because, oh wait, how many of your loyal worshippers failed?”

“Get out. You’ll get nothing from me.”

A snarl and a laugh stirred her from her delirium. She blinked. Once. Twice. She cleared the fog in her eyes, the memory of that Harvester looming over her, its claws inches from piercing her own scalp, and Aiden--

“Denise?”

A deep voice, apologetic despite the hatred in his tone. Her father. Sh--she was home?

“Pay those boys what you owe them,” Zachariah demanded from a distance, probably lounging in the living room and bored with hearing the dispute over the hushed volume of the radio perched on the table at his side.

“Listen to your hubby, Denise,” one of the brothers cooed as if she were a toddler refusing to be still and fall asleep. “You won’t like if we have to come back.”

“You think I fear you?” Her loud, barking laugh echoed off the walls of the kitchen closing in around her, shrinking and swirling. “This wasn’t what we agreed. Get off my doorstep.”

Sophie blinked, and the room righted itself, settling the nausea in her stomach.

The younger brother of the three--no, two--the Harvester--

All that blood. His horrible screams. His severed arm dropped into that endless void…

The younger brother hissed. “We’ll give you one chance, Denise.”

“Get. Out,” she ordered with a stomp of her foot to push her determination home as she lay a protective hand on Sophie’s blood-soaked arm.

“This won’t be the last time you see us,” the oldest vowed.

Then there was a strong hand at her back, shoving her forward without a bit of kindness. The heavy, copper taste in the air had been lifted, replaced by the sweet aroma of vanilla and lavender--the scent of her mother and the scent of home. As quickly as she felt the rough hand leave her back, she felt softer, sweeter arms embrace her, coiling around her tight and squeezing the breath from her lungs. Warm hands swept through her hair and down her back, soothing her and drawing her from whatever darkness she had become lost in.

That same darkness that stared back at her from the Harvester’s horrid eyes--

“Sophia, you’re home,” Denise said, releasing her and cupping her daughter’s face in her hands. “You’re safe, sweetie, and I will never, never let you go again.”

She should have felt warm. She should have felt safe and loved, but those words were so… cold.

Every movement she made or was guided to make felt distant, alien. She wasn’t in her body, wasn’t in control of it. She watched her own movements happen through a mirrors, trapped on the other side as a reflection and helpless to react, to speak.

Her mother guided her through the kitchen, past the living room and past her father who watched her every move like she was an illusion that would dissolve if he looked away. And his gaze only faltered when she was hauled into the bathroom and out of sight. She didn’t fight when her mother peeled off the stained and dirty jacket that smelt of him. She didn’t protest when she dragged the nightgown over her head and tossed both items into the trash can at their side.

Left to her bra and panties, Sophie stood deathly still while Denise grabbed a washcloth from the closet, drenched it in warm water, and began wiping away all the stains of blood and dirt and grim that clung to her weary form. Denise scrubbed away any evidence that she had ever stepped foot into those woods, and Sophie let her, never fighting and never arguing.

The warmth of the water teased her skin and warmed her blood, but all she could see, all she could feel was the icy touch of the Harvesters, those empty eye holes, and that wide jaw hanging open and ready to feast--

Ditching the washcloth into the hamper, Denise guided her to the tub and forced her to kneel before the cold porcelain. Standing over her, she bent her head back and commanded her to close her eyes as she turned on the faucet and drenched her orange locks in hot water. Sophie shut her eyes and focused on the scrape of her mother’s fingers dragging over her scalp as she worked in the shampoo and rinsed away the final remnants of the woods.

She wound a towel around Sophie’s hair and helped her stand from the floor. After shaking her hair free, Denise dropped a long cotton T-shirt over her head. The soft fabric hung almost to her knees and swallowed her form whole. Sophie frowned at the look of it, the faded design on her chest and the ratty, worn remains. The shirt returned her to the person she was before the woods, the child she was, and she hated it. It reeked of innocence, of cowardice and immaturity; things she no longer felt or even wished to feel.

Now back at home with her mother buzzing around her like a hummingbird, this was who she was expected to be: quiet, pretty, obedient, and unsoiled. With him, she had been strong, courageous even, especially that last night when the brothers--

She suppressed the urge to gag and swallowed hard, steadying the threat of bile rising in her throat at the reminder of those three wretched boys as they stood before her and Aiden, threatening to cut Sire or do worse if they didn’t get their way. And it was hard to forget that her mother--who now cooed at her--was the one who led them there.

She knew her mother loved her, knew she only feared for her daughter’s life while she was gone, knew she feared the worst. But it was a strain to pretend this had all been done for her: the endless stream of men Denise sent to die at the hands of the Harvesters, the harm done to the forest and the town--all for Sophie’s sake, and both of them would have to live with that blood on their hands.

Denise stepped to the side and ushered Sophie toward the small wooden stool nestled before the vanity and the three-paneled folding mirror sitting above it. She swept her damp hair back from her shoulders and grabbed a paddle brush from the counter. She began raking it through the wet strands in slow, methodically sweeps meant to lull Sophie to sleep as it had done so easily when she was younger.

She met Sophie’s eyes in the reflection and smiled wide. “We’ve missed you so much.”

“I know.” Her voice was void of all emotion, as dry and bland as her shriveling heart.

“We were so worried about you.”

“I know, Mother.”

Denise paused her brushing and set her hand on her shoulder, squeezing tight. “You’ll never have to go back,” she vowed with a dark bite to her words. She tightened her grip until Sophie winced from the pain. “You’ll never see that awful place again.”

Sophie released a low gasp of pain, and her mother relented, lifted her hand from her shoulder, and returned to brushing her wet hair. Dejected, Sophie bowed her head and stayed silent. Arguing would gain her no edge here, not now and not this soon after returning.

She shut her eyes tight and pretended her mother’s words were a simple lie, a fairytale not unlike the lies of the forest and its guardian that are spun to children to keep them from being too curious. Her heart hammered inside her chest as the panic rose, and she tried hard to suffocate it. But it wouldn’t leave her. Her mother’s words weren’t a lie; they were a promise, a guarantee that she would uphold no matter the cost--just as she had sent all those men to their deaths.

Sophie opened her eyes and watched her mother’s reflection, smiling proudly as she hummed a soothing song behind her and began braiding her orange hair. Denise would never agree to losing her only daughter and certainly not to the Unseen Soldier of all people. No, her mother would never be happy to let her go, and Sophie admitted then that this was going to be a fight. Battlelines had already been drawn; they were etched across the boundary the day she stepped through that forest and into his arms.

When the braid was finished, Denise gestured for her to stand, and like a perfect daughter, she obeyed. With one hand on her back, Denise guided her further down the hall where her bedroom waited for her, untouched since the day she departed, leaving home for the forest and all it promised her.

Strolling inside, Denise pulled back the sheets of the bed, nudged her daughter to lay beneath them, and covered her body with their lacking warmth and safety. Denise pressed a kiss against her temple, but it wasn’t as sweet or as tender as his had been.

“I’m so glad you’re home, sweetheart,” Denise whispered. “No one will ever take you from me again.”

Sophie lay motionless beneath the sheets. Those same threats, that same fear hung in her mother’s words, and with a hard swallow, Sophie realized that the one thing that had changed in all these days was her: her mind, her perspective, and certainly her heart no longer hummed for the life of that girl who existed before the forest. Now her life was new, belonging to a person she didn’t yet understand but locked in the shell of the girl she no longer wished to be.

Her mother’s retreating footsteps offered her little comfort, and the sound of her bedroom door shutting and locking a second later offered even less. But she didn’t care. Her mind was in tatters, and she dwelled in the darkness of the horrors that have ravaged her eyes these past hours, unable to break away from the vines that bound her inside those suffocating shadows.

She was tired, so tired buried beneath those burdens, and she shut her eyes tight just as the tears came. Curling her legs up to her chest, she drew the sheets over her head and buried her open mouth into the pillow to muffle the sobs that thundered past her lips and beat a devastating path into the soft fabric with the determination of foot soldiers storming to their deaths.

Tears burned as they were torn from her eyes, as their heat absorbed into the pillow beneath her damp hair. Her sobs became screams, stifled against the plush pillow, and neither stopped until her eyes were dry and her throat was on fire. Only then did she find some miserable fraction of peace in a subtle sleep.

[papermoonloveslucy]

LUCILLE BALL DUSTS OFF HER SLAPSTICK

by Aljean Harmetz for The New York Times, August 3, 1986

On Stage 1 at the old Samuel Goldwyn studio on a hot day in the middle of last month, Lucille Ball came back. Barking the familiar laugh that blends a strangling Airedale with a porpoise, mugging for assistant directors and stagehands who weren't even born when ''I Love Lucy'' went on the air in 1951, Lucille Ball came back to weekly television - 12 years after she left it.

Whether she was named Lucy Ricardo or Lucy Carmichael or Lucy Carter, whether she was the daffy housewife pinned to her kitchen wall by a loaf of homemade bread or the wacky widow wheedling a different sort of dough from a sour-faced banker, Lucille Ball was the queen of slapstick television comedy from 1951 to 1974. Now, a few weeks away from her 75th birthday, she is waiting to slide across a hardware store on a wheeled ladder in the first episode of a new series, ''Life With Lucy.'' It will be shown Saturday nights at 8 on ABC, starting in late September.

This time, she is Lucy Barker, a widow and a grandmother. In the initial episode, she moves into the Pasadena home of her daughter and son-in-law and her two grandchildren and takes over half-ownership of a hardware store run by the fuddy-duddy father of her son-in-law. He is, of course, played by Gale Gordon, her employer and comedic nemesis on ''The Lucy Show'' and ''Here's Lucy.'' During the past few years, Mr. Gordon, who is 80, has been traipsing around the country performing in musical comedies.

Industry observers have serious doubts that ''Life With Lucy'' will succeed. In a recent printed forecast, Joel Segal, vice president and a buyer of commercials on prime-time television programs for the Ted Bates Advertising Agency, said that Miss Ball is ''a broad physical comedienne who may have some difficulty doing boffo comedy in the midst of her eighth decade.''

''Everyone predicted 'I Love Lucy' would be a flop,'' says Bob Carroll, unconcernedly. Mr. Carroll and his partner, Madelyn Davis, have been writing for Lucille Ball for 38 years, since her radio show, ''My Favorite Husband,'' in 1948. More recently, the team spent eight years as executive producers of the CBS situation comedy ''Alice.''

Just today, Mr. Carroll and Miss Davis have discovered there is a pit under Stage 1. ''So, we can have something where Lucy goes through a tarp into the basement,'' says Miss Davis with delight. 

When ''Life With Lucy'' was being planned this past spring, Miss Davis did offer one concession to Miss Ball's age. ''I said, 'We won't fly you,' '' says Miss Davis, referring to putting a wire on an actor so he can do stunts. Miss Ball's answer: ''Oh, I can fly!'' 

At first glance, at least, Miss Ball seems to be remarkably agile and limber. ''I'm not dropping out of an airplane or jumping up and down on a trampoline this first show,'' she says. ''But the Lucy character is the same as ever. To her, nothing is impossible. She's going for it. This show is Lucy at another time in her life.'' And, indeed, as in all her earlier series, Miss Ball will be the centerpiece of every episode.

Wearing an over-sized yellow shirt over white slacks, with a gold print scarf tied loosely at her throat, Miss Ball is eating lunch in a huge dressing-room suite that her husband, Gary Morton, has already spent a week making homey. Although, to television audiences, she is indelibly married to Desi Arnaz - it was a national event when their son, Ricky Ricardo, was born on ''I Love Lucy'' in 1953 - she was divorced from Mr. Arnaz some 28 years ago and has been married to Mr. Morton, a comedian and producer, for nearly 25 years.

The walls are full of pictures Mr. Morton has hung, including a poster for Miss Ball's 1974 movie - her last movie - ''Mame.'' Oddly, it was at this studio that her film career began in 1933. She was a ''Goldwyn Girl,'' a long-legged showgirl, in ''Roman Scandals,'' starring Eddie Cantor.

There is no single reason why she has returned to the grind of weekly television. ''We went to Florida last year and did seminars, and people kept saying, 'Please come back, please come back,' and we started thinking about it,'' says Mr. Morton. ''She was bored,'' says Madelyn Davis. ''Lucy doesn't want to sit at home in a rocking chair, going through her scrapbooks.''

Certainly, money was not the lure. Miss Ball and Mr. Arnaz were the first television stars to put their series on enduring film instead of impermanent kinescope, and some old ''Lucy'' show is being run on some television channel somewhere on any given day. Since CBS refused to allow Miss Ball and Mr. Arnaz to film in front of a audience, they decided in 1951 to borrow $5,000 and create their own space in which to film their pilot live. ''That's how we came to own the show,'' Miss Ball says 35 years later, and there is still a tinge of wonder in her voice. 

She paints her lips into a huge cupid's bow and tosses the familiar red hair. ''I've missed doing a television series,'' she says. ''I didn't realize it until two or three years ago, after I had paid back all the guest appearances to Carol Burnett and Bob Hope and the others, all the promises I had made, all the charity I had to catch up on.'' 

But there was a psychological barrier to overcome. ''I missed Viv so much. And I couldn't bear the thought of going on without her,'' Miss Ball says. Vivian Vance, who died in 1979, had been Miss Ball's friend and partner-in-mischief on all the ''Lucy'' series. On ''Life With Lucy,'' Lucy Barker will be provided with no woman friend or confidante. Miss Ball pushes the idea away with her hands. ''No way, no way,'' she says. ''That's one thing I draw the line on.'' She says she decided to go for a new series because, with ''The Bill Cosby Show,'' ''the cycle for this sort of thing, family  shows, came around again. I wouldn't have to do a pilot. And Gale was available and so were my writers. Gale is the strength, the one I upset so he can hardly stand it and he recoils comedically. Hopefully, we'll find plenty for him to bluster about.'' (1)

As always, Lucille Ball has creative control. ''Young network executives are not going to walk in and tell Lucy what's funny,'' says Mr. Morton. The series is a co-venture of Lucille Ball Productions and Aaron Spelling Productions. It was Mr. Spelling who got Miss Ball excited -''like a war horse,'' he says - about doing another series. And it was Mr. Spelling who made ABC commit to a firm order for 22 episodes, an unusually high number nowadays (2). ''I'm sick of this prejudgment by age,'' he says. ''Does Bob Hope work? Does George Burns work?''

Across the television dial from ''Life With Lucy,'' at 9 P.M., on NBC's ''Golden Girls,'' the dialogue is crammed with sexual jokes and middle-aged widows bring men home to bed. Although Miss Davis speaks of ''Life With Lucy'' as ''vintage Lucy turned into a today's woman,'' the show will have no sexual humor. ''She's never cared for that,'' says Miss Davis. Instead, according to Miss Ball, ''one premise will be my first date since my husband died, with a mother-daughter switch, the daughter worrying when her mother doesn't get home on time.''

By ''bringing the Lucy character up to date,'' Miss Ball and Miss Davis mean that ''Life With Lucy'' will provide a stronger, less-dependent Lucy. ''She was always kind of childlike,'' says Miss Davis, ''afraid of her husband's disapproval, saying, 'Ricky will kill me!' We wouldn't do that today. She's into jogging and health foods, a grandmother and not a scatterbrained wife. She's gotten a little smarter through the years, and a little more worldly. In several scripts she says things like, 'Why am I clinging to the past?' And she tries to see things through her grandchildren's eyes.''

''Lucy is not as dependent on anyone, except under the blowtorch of Gale,'' says Miss Ball. ''I go into the hardware store and re-arrange everything alphabetically and give them apoplexy.'' 

She is standing inside the hardware-store set on Stage 1, waiting to rehearse among the rakes and hoses and bins of plastic tubing. The two young children who play her grandchildren pass the time by playing with flashlights on an open shelf. When the rehearsal begins, they come too tentatively into the shop. Told to walk faster, they are still too slow. Patiently, Miss Ball takes them by the hand and demonstrates. She bursts into the shop, shouting ''Grandpa!''

The hardware store was her idea. ''It gives us a lot of gadgets to work with,'' she says, grinning.

In the first show, she fights with a defective fire extinguisher. The following week, the problems will be with a guard goose. (3) ''She doesn't mind working with animals,'' says Miss Davis. ''We've had her with three sheep, a chimp and an elephant, and milking a cow.'' (4)  Eventually, she will convince Mr. Gordon to put his inventory on a computer and will manage to erase it. And there is always that sliding ladder.

There is also sleight of mind. ''We didn't have as much physical comedy as you think,'' says Mr. Carroll of the old ''Lucy'' shows. ''She wore funny outfits and was in funny situations - out on a ledge with pigeons on her head.'' (5)

In equivalent ''Life With Lucy'' scenes, she will drink a health-food concoction and turn as rubbery as an octopus. Or, in classic ''Lucy'' style, she will get her hand stuck in a saxophone. The sax is sitting on a desk in her dressing room. She really plays, although badly. In her spare moments, she is trying to strengthen her lips so she can struggle through the whole ''Marines' Hymn'' for a scene with a high-school band in a future show.

During one of the endless waits between scenes, Miss Ball's chair becomes surrounded by crew members eager to listen. ''What are you going to do now, Director Man?'' she teases Peter Baldwin. A few moments later, Mr. Baldwin tells her to deliver a line from the third step of the stairs of the three-story gabled stage house. Instantly, Miss Ball decides that the line works more amusingly from the bottom step instead. ''You don't give a chance for a laugh, if you don't wait,'' she explains to the director who is 25 years her junior.

''I didn't expect it to last,'' Miss Ball said later of ''I Love Lucy.'' ''Nobody wanted me to go into television. Everybody at Metro [M-G-M], where I was under contract, said I was out of my mind. And then, when Desi and I went on a tour and there were 5,000 people outside a steel fence at the Miami Airport and they trampled it, and people knocked down a plate-glass window at the lobby of one hotel - we didn't know what was happening.'' (6)

That was a long time ago. Today is a different country. Will re-cycled ''Lucy'' seem old-fashioned? (7)

While Miss Ball and her husband were wavering, a friend pushed them over the edge to ''Life With Lucy.'' ''Why not?'' the friend told them. ''You have nothing to lose.'' Whatever happens, says Mr. Morton, is ''icing on the cake.''

FOOTNOTES aka HINDSIGHT IS 20/20

(1) Although Lucille did not want a female co-star, the final episode aired featured Audrey Meadows as Lucy’s sister. Critics remarked on their comic chemistry and theorized that had Meadows been a regular cast member the show might have stood a chance. Too little, too late. 

(2) The series order was reduced to 13, with only 8 episodes airing. A 14th was being plan when the ax fell. 

(3) “Lucy and the Guard Goose” was filmed second, but was replaced with “Lucy Makes a Hit With John Ritter” to boost ratings with a guest star. “Lucy and the Guard Goose” was moved to episode 9, but the show was cancelled after episode 8 on November 15, 1986, and “Guard Goose” went un-aired. Ironically, a clip of the episode featuring the goose was already part of the opening credit sequence, leaving viewers wondering “what’s with the goose?” 

(4) Madelyn Martin is under-rating Lucy’s experience with animals. On “The Lucy Show” there was a pen full of sheep, not just three. On television alone, Ball has worked with seven chimps, three elephants, and milked two cows! This in addition to other animals of almost every description. 

(5) Carroll is referring to “Lucy and Superman” (1956) where Lucy Ricardo impersonates the Man of Steel to surprise her son, making her entrance through a window populated by pigeons. 

(6) Ball is remembering an experience in November 1956 when Lucy and Desi visited Miami in advance of their setting several episodes of “I Love Lucy”.

(7) Very quickly it became apparent that the answer was “no” - America and the critics did not embrace “Life With Lucy”, which was cancelled after eight episodes, much to the dismay of Ball, who was devastated by its failure. 

[The article’s text has been reprinted verbatim. The images have been added to enhance the reading experience. Some images property of Getty Images Inc.]

[pippims]

about a quarter to nine, 1/3

or, the one where Wylan is struggling to pay his rent and plays music on the streets, Jesper dances and has no restraint and may or may not dance along to a cute street musician, and everyone is embarrassed at what these dorks get up to. {ao3}

It was February, another snowstorm had just hit, Wylan Hendriks was behind on his rent again, and apparently no one on this street had ever learned the values of tipping.

For all intents and purposes, the day should have gone well. He’d set up near a museum that was usually filled with tourists, but today it was curiously empty. Wylan had also started off with playing the violin, which usually worked in more “cultured” areas, but there was hardly anyone around to even hear him. The most attention he’d gotten was a few vaguely dirty looks and a disapproving glance from a police officer. However, the worst part of the day was the man who had walked up when Wylan pulled out his guitar and started singing, seemingly enjoying his performance… and then walked away.

All in all, he made a whopping three dollars.

Cutting ties with your rich father is, unsurprisingly, costly.

Wylan trudged into his flat, tracking in mud and bits of snow from his boots. Kuwei, who was laying on the floor with a notebook in front of him, hardly looked up as the door creaked open. For a moment, Wylan worried he’d passed out until he heard him give a slight groan. Probably organic chemistry again.

Light footed, he walked around him to set down his cases and throw his satchel over a chair. Grabbing his laptop, Wylan sank into the torn yet overstuffed couch, pulled up the spreadsheet, and got to work. Maybe he just had to change up his routine? Guitar-and-voice was a classic; usually, he’d bring that out towards the end of the show and rake in some money. He only brought his flute out occasionally because, even though it was by far his strongest instrument, it was too quiet to effectively play. And as much as he enjoyed the violin, looking at the numbers…

“Shush. You’re thinking too loud.” Kuwei, at some point, had flipped himself and rolled over onto his back and was currently staring up at Wylan, hair blown over his face. “Just… relax. Enjoy the minimalistic scenery of our lovely flat.”

He’d definitely been working on organic chemistry. Nothing could send Kuwei into an apathetic, overly-calm mindset like stressing out over his worst subject. “Yesterday, you were stressing out about being able to make this month’s rent. I think you should take your own advice.”

Kuwei just pouted and rolled back over, tying his hair back and flipping through pages of organic molecules again. “I’ve given up on life. Money isn’t real, life isn’t real, time isn’t real, I’m not real…”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Wylan said, tapping absentmindedly on his keyboard. If only he’d decided to pursue a major that would actually make moneyinstead of going for music with a minor in chemistry, but there was no way he was going to listen to his father and do something practical like business. “We’ll figure it out.”

It was 11:46 in the evening on February 13 in the year 2017, and Jesper Fahey was drunk out of his mind. He wasn’t slightly tipsy and still coherent, just a bit looser with affection and words; he was full drunk with no control over his actions and absolutely no filter between his brain and his mouth.

“Inej, let’s…. let’s just get married. We can do it tomorrow! I know a priest, my uncle went to… to whatever pastor school is for like, a month, we could probably break into a church…. we could do our little solo as our first dance… we just need some musicians. And rings! But I have some old ring pops, I think that would work…”

Inej, to her credit, just laughed. She was also a little on the drunk side, but only enough that she was a bit less tightly-wound and her cheeks bore the slightest flush. “I don’t think we’re ready for that,” she said, breaking their dance just briefly to brush her hair out of her face. The tight bun she’d worn for the rehearsal before their big party had mostly fallen out, leaving strands of hair flying everywhere as they twirled. “We’re dance partners this year! How does that not imply marriage?”

“I don’t know, but we should at least go on a date first.”

“We’re dancing right now. How is this not a date?”

Jesper pulled her into another tight spin, making his head whirl in the process. Inej only seemed slightly dizzy afterwards, but she was famous for her ridiculous series of turns that left the whole room feeling dizzy just watching her. Even drunk, she was still in control of herself.

He became aware of a shadow approaching from the corner of his vision. Jesper was prepared to fight off some kind of demonic invader until the shadow was close enough for him to tell that it was tall, leaning on a cane, and very grumpy.

“Kaz! Kazoo! My best friend! My best man! How’s it going?”

“You’re drunk,” Kaz said, flat. He gave him the disappointed look that, at times, could give Matthias’s Dad Look a run for its money. Today, it didn’t work.

“I know! It’s fun! I’m having fun! That’s what you do at a party; you have fun . You don’t just hang out in the corner and drink apple juice while pretending it’s beer.”

“I don’t do that.” Kaz turned his attention on Inej for support, but she just covered her mouth with her hand and laughed. “Fine, maybe I’ve done that once. But still, you’re far too drunk and you’re going to embarrass yourself soon.”

Jesper pouted, pulling Inej closer. Kaz’s glare just intensified. “But Dad, I’m not going to embarrass myself-”

“He asked me to marry him,” Inej said. Jesper pushed her away. Traitor.

That seemed to appease Kaz. He grabbed Jesper’s arm and started to pull him away from the crowded dance floor (which, it was a miracle Kaz even got this far out , he usually didn’t leave the corners), saying, “Yeah, you’re done. Good night, Inej.”

“Night!” Inej called, turning around to dance by herself. Eventually she’d probably find Nina and they’d dance together, so Jesper didn’t feel too bad for leaving. Not that he wanted to leave, of course.

Drunk Jesper, apparently, had no sense of boundaries, because he wrapped himself around Kaz like a monkey that felt it was about to fall. Usually this kind of contact got you a punch (at best) or sent Kaz to a Bad Place, but tonight… he seemed looser, somehow; his posture more relaxed than usual and his grip on his cane not as blisteringly tight. Perhaps he had actually drank some alcohol tonight, or perhaps the mood of the room had absorbed into him somehow and left him feeling something close to happy, for once. Regardless, Jesper was proud of him.

Maybe too proud of him.

“Did I ever tell you how much I love you? I mean, you’re my roommate, but you’re so much more than that, oh my god, I love you and how Kaz you are, and you scare the hell out of me and you probably could- and would- murder me in my sleep, but.... I love you. You’re the bomb. The man .” Kaz, for the most part, ignored the endless stream of babble coming from Jesper’s mouth, which was a miracle considering he usually made some sort of sarcastic comment when this happened. (Jesper couldn’t help the fact that he was a clingy drunk and Kaz was his “designated walker”, because they were both too poor to afford a car and it was Amsterdam, you don’t need a car in Amsterdam anyway).

Jesper was in the middle of rambling about how even his dad loved Kaz when they suddenly stopped, and the moment he took a breath he knew that he was about to tell him to stop babbling, shut up and act normal for once and that no one cared, but instead Kaz pulled a wad of money out of his pocket. “I’m out of advil, and this place isn’t completely shady. Can you not die while I go and get some?” He nodded, which made his vision swim just a little bit. Maybe Jesper was a little too drunk. Just maybe.

While Kaz disappeared into the little store, Jesper leaned against a wall and tried to think about his marriage proposal to Inej. He just needed some flowers, maybe some backup music and- and yes, backup dancers , and he’d rip his shirt off and break into some-

Wait, backup music?

Jesper blinked out of his fantasy at the sound of music, old-fashioned jazz played on a violin that sounded just a hare out of tune, and he found himself stumbling towards it like a lost child. It felt- The music felt homey, for whatever reason; like the warmth of his mother and the nights where she’d sing along to the radio or she’d dance in the living room with Jesper standing on her toes, reaching up to her and following her fluid moves with chubby toddler stiffness.

“You’re not my mom,” he said when he found the source of the music. It was a kid- there was no way he was older than fifteen- sitting on a stood, violin under his chin, rapidly playing a swing tune. Based on his look of intense concentration, he was probably improvising.

Was was the keyword.

Once Jesper spoke, the song broke off suddenly before the kid held out a random note. “I’m sorry?” he said, looking up at him. His eyes were huge and impossibly blue, like every simile for blue eyes that ever been written.

“I thought you were my mom. You’re not.”

The kid raised an eyebrow, slinking back on his stool. He probably thought Jesper was some strange man trying to kidnap him, which, to be fair, was not a bad conclusion to make when someone says you thought they were your mother. “That’s… unfortunate,” he said, picking his violin back up.

Jesper stood there for a moment while the kid flipped through his book, brows again drawn in concentration. “Do you think if someone’s your dance partner you should marry them?”

This time, he wasn’t graced with a response. The kid just glared at him before starting another round of improv just as intense as the last one. He was being rejected, he knew that, but damnit Jesper was drunk, and he was clingy, and he was not going to let this kid win an imaginary argument.

So Jesper started dancing.

The street corner was crowded with people heading home after a long day/night and wasn’t very spacious to begin with, Jesper hadn’t taken a jazz class in years , and his limbs were heavy and uncoordinated, but he swayed with the music, spun when it called for it, clapped at times. Vaguely, he was aware of a crowd gathering to watch the child prodigy play while a very drunk man danced along, but it didn’t bother him. At one point the music lulled and Jesper saw the kid stare up at him, eyes wide, but instead of yelling at him the kid nodded and he resumed with renewed vigor, not bothering to worry about the amount of people he accidentally slapped.

And then a voice yelled, “JESPER LLEWYN FAHEY, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING,” and the mood died. Jesper froze in the middle of a spin, losing his balance and tumbling into the kid, who had once again suddenly stopped his song. Parting the crowd was, again, a tall, grumpy shadow holding a cane and a small plastic bag. “Jesper, I told you you were going to embarrass yourself. Let’s get home before you make out with a random stranger.” He started to turn to leave, but looked over his shoulder. “And apologize to that poor musician.”

Jesper turned his head to look at the kid, who was half-beneath him from when he fell. He pulled himself away, squatting in front of him. “Sorry about that, I’m really drunk and I guess I have no inhibition-”

“Look at my tip bag.”

“- it was wrong of me, I probably embarrassed you, God I’m so sorry, you were just minding your business and playing your amazing music and I ruined it for you, also you’re like twelve and-”

“Jesper Llewyn Fahey, I’m nineteen years old, and look at my tip bag.”

Jesper finally looked away from the kid’s eyes (well, not kid, even though he looked like a kid) and at the little sac that sat in front of his violin case. It was overflowing with money, a few coins sprinkled around the outside.

“I’ve never made this much money before. You don’t even know how much I needed that.”

Jesper was about to respond when Kaz yelled his name again and shot him a glare that meant he definitely wanted to kill him a little bit, and so he pulled himself away from the kid and walked the rest of the way home in silence.

[renaroo]

Recovery None (54/61)

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Warnings: Language, Canon-typically violence, Psychological torture & manipulation, Mentions of gore, Character death, Minor Sexual content Pairings: N/A Rating: T Synopsis: [Canon Divergence AU] When the Mother of Invention crashed, Project Freelancer was in shambles, its surviving agents scattered, its equipment stolen, and an impending investigation into the crash from the UNSC was on the horizon. To regain control of the deeply corrupted program, the Director established a new unit from his remaining supplies – the Recovery Unit.

Three former Freelancers were chosen for particular tasks: Zero is to hunt down and destroy the Meta, One is to investigate and recover stolen or missing equipment, and Two is to take down AWOL former agents.

Of course, no one’s motivations are what they seem…

A/N: This was a difficult chapter to write mostly because, well, what do you do when you kill a main POV character? You get ridiculous, that’s the Rena way ; ) Oh and also very angsty. 

Special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, @analiarvb, @thepheonixqueen, @icefrozenover, @washingtonstub, @roosterteeth-rvb-rwby-is-my-life, @every-survival, Linni, Meep, SenpaiGabby, Yin, @notatroll7, and @freshzombiewriter  for the feedback!

Recovery Two XVI: No Rest for the Wicked

North! NOOOOORTH! NOOOOOO! 

The pounding between her eyes were like little fists attempting to beat their way out of her skull. But South ignored them. She ignored the way the cracks and breaks through her visor and HUD made her dizzy. She ignored how her fist burned from the sparks that had made it through the armor mesh when she slammed her fist through the console. 

South concentrated on getting them in the air and away -- far away. Further away than she could have ever managed if she gave even one iota of a fuck about the tantrum the literal child was throwing in between her ears at the moment. 

You’re awful! I hate you! You killed him! You left him for dead! How could you? Why would you? I hate you! I hate you!!!

Maybe it was something that they had never bothered to teach her since she wasn’t implanted by the program, maybe it was something they had and she hadn’t listened out of spite during their lessons. 

But at a certain point the noises in your brain blur into a sort of cacophony where her thoughts and the thoughts of the AI were on rhythm Where the pulse in the back of her brain lined up with the beating of her heart. Where the outrage and the anger and the hurt and mourning all tuned to a single note and exploded within her. 

Yeah. North was fucking dead. And she left him to it. 

I hate you, said someone in her brain. But Theta was busy crying audibly on her shoulder. Mumbling and rocking back and forth through his tears. And hers. 

“Shut up!” South finally screamed at him. “Shut up shut up shut the fuck up!” Theta cried even louder. South’s vision blurred, her headache got worse. “I’m trying to save our lives so shut the fuck up! Shut up while I get us far away from Charon and North and Freelancer and every single fucker on this planet. Shut up so I can save us! Shut up so he didn’t die for no reason!” 

Theta didn’t stop crying. And South didn’t stop hating herself, no matter how many times she checked the miles they had traveled or the scanner for any vehicles tailing them. 

Two hundred miles, she flew lower, below detection levels. Theta’s tears weren’t letting up. She engaged autopilot after ensuring that her destruction of the console hadn’t also disabled it in some way. Her cheeks were cold and clammy with the wetness. After she set their course for another two hundred miles to separate themselves from the carnage, South could turn away from the controls. Her arms were shaking now that they no longer had preoccupation.

When all was said and done, South threw off her helmet against the nearest wall and released a deep, curdling scream. 

As the helmet bounced back toward her, she kicked it with all her might then ripped the pilot’s chair from the bolts in the floor. 

She screamed, she screamed until Theta was no longer crying, until she couldn’t smash anything anymore because there was nothing left. 

South screamed until her throat felt torn and her voice was gone. Until the shaking of her knees became so much that she collapsed on the ground and curled into it, head resting against the floor as she let out unfamiliar noises from deep within her chest. 

There was nothing left. 

She had nothing left. 

...

Silence had taken over from the awful screaming. 

The ship continued on course without South’s direction.

Instead, she sat to the side of the cockpit, her eyes glazed over as she sat with her back to the wall. At some point, her helmet had ended up back in her lap. It was dented in, broken. The main object of her abuse in the seemingly endless lapse of time. 

Her gaze was kept on the visor and its jagged, broken pieces. But she wasn’t looking at the helmet, not really. 

Really she wasn’t even looking at it as she pushed her thumbs against the fragile glass, listening to the satisfying crunch as it caved in. 

Broken glass littered her lap and the floor. 

She was a mess.

Theta appeared over her shoulder. He kept doing that -- showing up from time to time. Without invitation. 

He was buzzing with business in her brain, but it was too fast for her, even if she had cared to pay attention to it. She didn’t care what he was doing. He wasn’t screaming anymore and she liked it better when he was screaming at her. 

More glass broke off and fell into her lap.

“They keep trying to shut down your armor,” Theta finally said out loud. 

“They,” she repeated, tasting each syllable. It was ashen and bare.

South was really getting to hate that taste.

Theta stared at her, his projection crossing further into her field of vision when he realized she wasn’t going to give him the dignity of looking at him directly. “Charon,” he clarified. “They keep trying to shut down your--”

“I know who you meant by they,” she spat back, breaking the glass further in on her helmet. When Theta allowed the silence to take over again, South growled, grip tightening on her helmet until it was shaking. “I guess it’s a  goddamn good thing I have you then, isn’t it? How fortunate of me! To have an AI all of my own now. That extra piece to help me climb up on the totem pole of life. Look at me, finally proving the whole goddamn world wrong! At last!” She then raised her helmet. “All it took was my fucking brother!” 

The helmet crashed against the other side of the cockpit. Theta was left flickering back into place after his projection had been interrupted. 

They stared at each other for a long time, the engine of the ship roaring beneath them. 

South couldn’t take it. 

“Why are you still here,” she said more than asked of the AI. “Why haven’t you done something smart. Something... I don’t know. Give me a brain aneurysm? End all this bullshit? Get revenge for North.”

“I don’t do stuff like that,” Theta defended, almost sounding offended. 

“You could, though, couldn’t you?” South snorted. “It’s amazing. The kind of shit we’re all capable of at the end of the day. Just need a little push. Need a little threat to survival.” Her eyes fell heavily on the sprite. “It’s funny. When I did pay attention to those lessons in Freelancer, they always talked like there was some kinda imbalance. That we were your guardians, that we were in control of the AI. And the way you and North worked, I was stupid enough to buy into it.”

With a thud, South dropped her head back against the wall, her eyes finding interest in the ceiling. “Humans can’t control anything.”

Theta let her stew in the statement for a few minutes before he set off a dazzling spark of fireworks, drawing South’s attention and confusion. 

“We control ourselves,” he pronounced firmly. “Humans, that is.”

South scowled. “You’re not human,” she reminded him.

“I want to survive,” Theta said firmly. “What’s more human than that?”

She stared at him for another tense silence before scowling. “What do you want from me?”

“An idea,” Theta said honestly. 

“My ideas will get us killed,” she said. 

“Or they’ll get us free,” Theta said firmly. 

South pressed her lips to a thin line. “I shouldn’t be trusted. I’ll save my own neck above anything else, kid. You know that.”

“I know,” Theta said. “But I trust you.”

“You trust me?” South scoffed. 

“I do,” Theta nodded. 

"That’s idiotic,” South snapped. “You saw what happens when people trust me, kid. I know you’re not that dumb.”

Theta was undeterred. “It’s my nature,” he said. “I trust you.”

South’s cheeks were beginning to feel cold and wet again. “Can you... Can you scan radio waves? Listen in for anything?” she asked. 

“Yeah, I can do that,” Theta said. 

“Okay,” South said with a sniff, roughly rubbing her face with her gauntlets. “We need to find another ship. A ship with someone else already in it.”

...

"Okay, this one coming in only has three soldiers boarded. They seem to be the survivors of some place called Valhalla? I guess they’re Reds,” Theta tracked. 

The little AI was sitting cross-legged about four feet from South while she continued to break out the glass in her visor. Pressing piece by piece through with her thumbs. Her lap and the floor was covered in shining green. 

“No,” she said clearly. “If they managed to kill the other team at their base and there’s three of them, they’re just dumb enough and lucky enough to get a lucky shot. I don’t feel up to a big fight right now. And neither do you.”

He didn’t argue with her, glancing over her before nodding and continuing to scan the the airways. 

South stopped her newly formed habit for a moment, looking with some distress at the helmet. 

The helmet to her Charon experimental armor. The armor that, in many ways, begun the descent into madness where she currently found herself. 

Bearing her teeth, South listened to the satisfying crunch of the glass again.

“Hey, South,” Theta spoke up, drawing South’s gaze. 

“What?” she asked snappishly. 

“I get that the plan’s to take someone’s identity who’s going to leave the planet,” Theta said. “That’s why I’ve been scanning the radios since we landed. It makes sense... “

Eyes narrowing, South waited for the but. 

Never one to disappoint, Theta rubbed his neck. “But, what are we going to do with the real person? The person whose identity we steal? Won’t thy catch on after a while? Isn’t identity theft a big deal?”

“You found someone,” she realized.

“One passenger, heading to Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha. Female. No military experience,” Theta said lowly. 

“Good,” South said, getting to her feet. The glass from her lap fell onto the floor in a string of chiming noises. She didn’t pay it any mind. “Get ready to help the ship’s navigation to intercept the other ship. We’ll jump from above and use our grav boots. It’ll be a transport pelican so we should easily be able to access the roof hatch that way.”

South did not miss the skip of a beat in her mind as Theta processed the plan.

“Why do we have to kill someone for that?” Theta asked lowly. “That seems... like a bit much. They haven’t done anything to us--”

“Because I don’t have anything else to do!” South roared, drowning out the noise of the AI in her head. 

Somewhat surprisingly, Theta did not disappear, though. He sat before her vision, looking at her questioningly. 

It reminded her so much of North, South almost puked. 

Instead, she pointed toward the windshield. “There’s a ship inbound for some piece of shit place called Blood Gulch. I’ll take the place of the people on that ship, it’ll work from there. It has to,” she said, upset. “Why? Because we don’t have any other options. This is it. This is the one.” She then pointed back strongly toward where they came from. “That was where he was heading. You saw it yourself.”

Theta tilted his head. “So we’re running away from the Meta now?”

“Yes,” South said. “We’re surviving now. That’s... It’s the only thing that matters.”

Theta somehow refrained from calling her on the obvious. That if she had valued survival to begin with, that if she had given North input, he might have still been there with them. 

He nodded instead. “Okay. I trust you.”

South suppressed another scream.

.

Everything worked according to plan. There was the drop, her grav boots slamming into the metal of the Pelican beneath the autopiloted Charon ship. Theta whispered calculations in the back of her mind since her HUD could no longer project across her visor as he worked. 

With the augmented strength of her armor, South nearly ripped the metal clasps off the roof door before dropping down into the passenger ship with a resounding thud.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting inside, but it wasn’t what she got.

“Holy fucking shit!” the naked woman said, gripping her yellow armor. “A ninja!” 

South was taken aback more than she would have liked to admit. She stood up and stared at the woman. “Why the fuck are you naked?”

“Have you ever worn one of these things?” the woman asked, holding up the breast plate. “These things are so restricting! I mean, look at these puppies! How’re they supposed to fit in there? I guess I could use some lube. Wouldn’t be the first time I used ‘em on my titties.”

“Yeah,” South found herself saying out of bafflement. “I mean, wait, what?”

“Anyway, I was looking through my bag for the lube -- I brought a ton. So if your tits are having a problem in the ninja armor you could borrow some,” she continued, running a hand through a mess of long, curly locks. “I mean, you never know how much lube you need at an army base.”

South opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find words to come out. 

Theta appeared over her shoulder just as stunned.

Head snapping back toward Theta, South leered at the little AI. “Turn off your optical receptors,” she snapped. 

“Ohhhh who’s that?” the mystery woman said, raising her brow. “I’ve never seen a gray guy that little.”

“I’m not gray, I’m Red and Blue,” Theta responded, looking down to his projection. 

“You can do that?” she asked. “Shut the fuck up! The guy at the recruitment office said I had to pick one or the other. Whoo! Go Blues!”

“Theta, turn off,” South demanded.

“No, little dude, it’s totes cool to stay turned on!” the woman cackled. 

"I understand your breastplate is improperly sized,” South said, taking stock in just how true that statement was. “Why aren’t you wearing the rest of your attire?”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Because I drop it like it’s hot?” She then looked South over. “Are you, like, some sorta escort?”

“Something like that,” South said, fingers dancing over her gun handle. 

“Oh, good. Y’know, I used to be one of those. They dropped me after I sued them to pay for the abortions, though,” she explained flippantly.

“Yeah,” South said before shaking her head. “No. Wait, what? I’m ... a soldier-- aren’t you a soldier?”

“Now I am, hellsyeah!” she said, punching the air. 

South gripped her gun. “What’s your name, soldier?” 

“Private Grif,” she said easily. “But that’s gonna be confusing when we land ‘cuz I think my bro’s a private, too. So I’m just gonna go by Sister.”

Her grip on her gun slipped at the pronouncement, the gun clattering to the ground. 

“Hey,” Private Grif snorted, mid-laugh. “You dropped your gun. Or are ya just happy to see me?”

South stared at her. Stared at... Sister. 

She wanted to scream again, but it wasn’t likely to do anything. 

“If she has a family member waiting on her, we can’t just... take her place. They’d figure it out,” South said to Theta.”The plan is a disaster. This whole fucking thing is a disaster.”

“That’s what my bro calls me!” Sister claimed with another bout of snorting laughter. 

Theta looked at South. “I trust you. What’re we going to do?”

Chewing on her lip, South looked back to Sister. “You have a full name? I won’t go into details but I’m not... comfortable with your nickname.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she responded with a shrug. “My name’s Kaikaina -- which kinda means sister. So I guess we’ll think of a codename for me that won’t make you uncomfortable. I used to go by Hot Pants--”

“Kaikaina’s fine,” South said. 

“And what about you, mystery ninja?” Kaikaina asked, shaking her head to get the curls out of her eyes “You’ve seen everything about me, but I can’t see anything but your pretty purple eyes.”

Reluctantly, South reached up and took off her helmet -- she wasn’t even sure why she did it. Why she... why she trusted so much. But she did. And she looked into Kaikaina’s eyes. 

“I’m South,” she said. “I’m your bodyguard. Command sent me. Don’t bother checking in -- it’s a secret mission.”

“Sounds hot,” Kaikaina said, smiling brilliantly. “Like you.”

South didn’t even know what to say to that. She didn’t even know what the fuck she was doing. 

She just hoped it worked. 

[bigskydreaming]

LOL because @solvola has got me all nostalgic for BSG again, I went hunting for some old Battlestar fic I wrote like....ugh ten years ago at least, lmao. I had to dig up my old livejournal to even find it still posted anywhere. But here Miguel, have some Lee being fucked up and unhealthy and torn between Dee and Kara without actually making any actionable decisions at all. Trigger warnings for suicidal ideation though, because well, its BSG and its Lee.

It’s easy to fall in love with Dee. Quickest way? Strap into a Viper, eject into the vast tomb of space, and wage suicidal war on endless legions of Cylons. That’s how Lee did it. It starts with the shrill whine of an alarm, a barking voice that blares “This is not a drill” from mounted wall speakers. A dead sprint through the corridors, a preflight check so ingrained by now its not even second nature, it’s replaced his first – he actually has to stop and remind himself to breathe. Countdown to ignition that blurs by so fast it seems rather pointless. The weight of the world presses down tight on his chest, a real, literal physical weight; G-forces slam him back in his seat and hold him there, glued tight as thrusters engage. Sharp sudden velocity. Speeds that would rip the skin right off his bones if not for the airtight canopy so small and shrink wrapped around him it practically demands a claustrophobic reaction. Seconds whiz by, the dark at the end of the tunnel grows bigger, blacker, hungrier, threatens to swallow him whole and then he’s through it and he’s out there. A tiny speck lost in that impossibly big canvas. One meant to contain planets, stars, entire galaxies – nothing so small and insignificant as him. Racetrack’s screaming in his radio and a Raider’s plunging straight towards him and there’s no more time for feeling humble. Now he’s supposed to be Apollo, supposed to be a god, and that makes him just want to laugh. A high, sharp hysterical thing he manages to turn into a carefully controlled order. He tells Crashdown to watch his six, there’s a Cylon gunning right for his tail, snaps at Hot Dog to brake hard right, there’s a whole damn wave of the bastards headed straight on an intercept course for him. And gods, but if there’s a bigger frakkin’ hypocrite in this whole fleet he’d love to meet them. He’s been banking to the left and quick as Jupiter’s lightning he dives to the right and backwards in a barrel roll. A tight, controlled spin and he’s behind the Raider and level with it. Snaps his guns over and across and thick, heavy armor piercing rounds spatter its wing like rain drops; rain sent from the heavens by a god, harsh and punishing enough to break the wing right off, knocking the whole Raider into a tailspin that takes it out of the fight. It’s done for. Good hunting Apollo, voices praise him from his radio, but he just barks at them to look alive, there’s plenty more where that came from. His mind fragments, compartmentalizes. There’s a part that tracks the Raiders across the stark vista of space, a focused, calculating part that’s just waiting for the perfect moment to strike each one. There’s a part that keeps his eyes darting from his nine to his three and back again, quick, jittery glances that dance him safely through a storm of enemy fire; a part that holds his voice collected and in control, calmly snapping orders to his pilots while they bob and dodge, duck and weave across the heavens. There’s a part that glances down to where his hands are gripped tight around the controls, slick with sweat and white knuckled from the strain – and it panics, shakes, what if he loses his grip, what if that lever jams, what if he puts too much pressure on the brake at exactly the wrong moment. Why have they never streamlined the control system, why so complicated, so many things that can go wrong? Even though he knows damn well why, knows the adrenaline, the fear, the complex mechanisms designed to keep the mind sharp and the body on edge, its all necessary, a pilot can’t get too complacent or a pilot gets dead. Flying’s fifty percent instinct, fifty percent skill and a hundred percent gods-blessed luck. He’s known this since he was fifteen years old but it doesn’t keep his heart from slamming into his ribcage with enough force he figures he could punch through a basestar with it. And then its over, it’s done. All the Raiders are gone, either dead or fled, and he really couldn’t give a damn which at the moment. He’s too busy trying to make sure he didn’t crap his pants during the fight. Chatter’s buzzing loud over the comm systems, phantom voices congratulating him, praising him, and he’s such a frakkin’ farce it makes him want to puke. Instead he sweeps back around, searching for any lingering hints of a Cylon presence, but they’re really gone, and they’re really alone again. Somehow during the chaos he put a moon between himself and Galactica and it just now sinks in that he can’t see it anymore, just black empty space as far as the eye can see. Once more panic sets in, breath starts getting hoarse, shoulders start to shake, and he realizes, this is how he’s going to die. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but this is where he’ll be when it finally happens, this is what it’s going to look like. And then his radio comes to life again. This time there’s only one voice, her voice. Petty Officer Dualla, her words crackling with static and laced with gentle concern as she calls the A-Ok for the pilots - for him - to come back aboard. There’s nothing sweet or dulcet about her tones, at times it’s scratchy, almost coarse, but listening to it he’s sure he’s never heard anything more beautiful in his life. His breathing slows; his eyes stop watering, he looks down and watches the white around his knuckles fade away as he lets her voice guide him home. Back through the launch doors and gently atop the landing pad, down, down and he’s out of the cockpit. Artificial gravity reasserts itself and he shifts from foot to foot, testing his weight, testing the firmness beneath him til he’s sure he can stand straight, and it’s only then that he can breathe again. He’s back, and its over, and somehow he beat the odds again and lived to fight another day. ‘Welcome home, pilots’ she signs off cheerfully, and in that moment he wants nothing more than to hug Petty Officer Dualla and plant a great big kiss right on her lips. The moment passes. But that’s only the first time. Alarms sound again, day after day after day. Vipers launch into space, week after week after week. The battles get harder, the distances get further, the despair gets thicker, so thick it’s tangible, its palpable, its damn near edible, and there’s enough of it for the whole fleet to choke on. He’s lost count of the times he’s sat here, right in this same spot – because really, in space who can tell the difference anyways – convinced that this is it, he’s finally dead but he’s been living in hell for so long he can’t even tell the difference. And each time her voice speaks up and proves him wrong. Strong, steady, without deviation. Utterly reliable no matter how many times his guidance systems crash or his engines misfire. Always there to welcome him home, and every time it makes him want to hug her and kiss her and never let go. And each time, the moment passes, and its back to business - until the day it doesn’t. And just like that, he’s in love with Dee. And he knows he’s more than a little in love with Kara too, and so he wills it a passing fancy and waits for it to go away. Until the day it doesn’t. And it’s not rational, and it doesn’t make sense, but its space and nothing makes sense in space. Every direction is the same as any direction and up might as well be down, and somehow time passes and there’s a proposal and he’s down on bended knee. And it’s not even until later he realizes it’s him that did the proposing and it’s her that said the yes - and maybe there was a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, and maybe there was a voice in the back of his head that whispered Kara. But its space, and they’re all hopelessly lost anyways. Right? So here he is, in this tiny space they share together, doting husband and loving wife. The knot in his throat thickens, revulsion and self-contempt lending it weight and substance. He leans over the sink and splashes water on his face, looks up in the mirror and stares back at himself with bloodshot eyes. Except it’s not himself, but its not some stranger, it’s….its some other Lee. Familiar yet strange, and gods, but he doesn’t know how he got here. Hair messy and unkept, eyes watering from all the liquor he chased down his throat at the bar. Shirtless, chest marked with tiny nicks and scratches, and he runs one hand across them, self consciously. Not Dee’s work, never Dee’s work, because Dee makes love; its Kara who makes him fight for every scrap of pleasure he can get from her. And just like that, reality’s reality, and it hits him hard. He’s cheating on his wife, he’s having an affair, he, Lee Adama of the uptight rules and regulations, ‘paragon of values and morality,’ president of the do it because its right club is betraying his wife, his marriage, his gods – and even that knowledge isn’t enough to make him stop. A sudden, wild thought chases the self-hatred around his brain, what would his mother say if she could see him now. He slams his eyes shut and pictures her in mind’s eye, gentle, stern – faceless. He can barely remember what his own mother looks like. Like the waters of the river Lethe, the vast dark empty of space has worn that away until only a memory of a memory is left. Like rain, he can’t remember the feel of rain on his face – even though they’ve stopped planet side more than once. Can’t remember what a child’s laughter sounds like, real laughter, genuine, innocent, free of cares and worries. Can’t remember what it feels like to sink down into a chair and just drift off to sleep, relaxed, no concerns, secure in the knowledge he’s on leave for a whole week and he’s going to see Gianne tomorrow. Can’t remember what it feels like to be him, to be Lee, when he knew who he was and he was damn proud to be him. Maybe that Lee could have been the Apollo everyone needs now, but he’s not him, oh gods, he’s not him at all. Just a pale, cheap imitation of the original. There’s enough scorn in that thought to jerk his head back up to the mirror, study himself, study that face in front of him hard. Scrutinize every last each for a hint of plasticity, metallic numbness – a sign of something unreal, something fake. Maybe he’s really not Lee, maybe he’s just another Boomer. A frakkin’ toaster that doesn’t even know it’s a toaster, just goes around living and breathing and dying like everyone else, a weapon waiting to be primed and activated so it can attack or maybe even self destruct. Hell, even if he was, there’s no way he could actually know. The thought sends a chill down his spine, but as chills go its not nearly cold enough. The thought not nearly frightening enough. Just one more reason to stop pretending, to just…..stop. Just head out the nearest airlock, don’t come back the next time they drop planet-side, maybe just jump down a Raider’s guns, go out a ‘hero’, with a bang. And all that right there’s just one more way he’s not Lee Adama, not any more. Fabric rustles behind him, there’s footsteps against the ground and shadows on the wall. He doesn’t know when she came in the room, how long she’s been standing there just watching him. Long enough, though, right? Shouldn’t she be able to see what he sees in the mirror? She comes to stand behind him, and he shuts his eyes before he can see her. He doesn’t want to see her, doesn’t want to look in those big, dark eyes of her and face the worry and betrayal he’ll find in equal measure there. He’s such a coward, but as long as no one else can see it in his eyes, as long as no one else calls him on it, he’ll keep on pretending. He’ll go on being their precious Apollo even though he knows that’s not going to be good enough, they need him to be more than that now -he- needs himself to be more than that. “Lee?” She questions softly, that beautiful, strong voice - and just like that, he knows he can never leave her. Starbuck or no Starbuck, he needs this, he needs her, one single word and that’s all it takes and he’s hanging to it like a lifeline, clinging to it with all his strength, like it’s the only thing that can save him. And maybe it is. She’s guided him home enough times, maybe she can do it again. Maybe she can bring him all the way back home, back to when he was really Lee. Time freezes, trapped in the echo of her voice, and just like the proverb wild hope springs eternal. Maybe he really could be Lee again, maybe he could be the Apollo they all need. And he knows its not right, he knows its not rational. He’s not that far gone. Lee’s not a stupid man, he knows what he’s doing. He knows he’s put her on a pedestal, fallen in love with an ideal that’s as superficial and arbitrary as the name Apollo, and if the damn President of all Twelve Colonies can say they need him, then why can’t he need her? It’s not fair to her – gods, he knows its not fair, but where’s the fair in twelve home worlds lying dead and radioactive in their wake? Where’s the fair in all the dead friends, lovers, family, where’s the fair in great expectations and looking to one man, one woman, one vision, one anything to be the salvation for an entire race? Where’s the fair in Boomer not being Boomer and Chief drunk at the bar while Cally watches the baby and Helo being so in love with Sharon and she’s not really even Sharon? Where’s the frakkin’ fair in any of it? “Lee?” She asks again, resting a hand on his back. He flinches, but just for a moment. Then leans back into it, the rough, calloused skin of her hand, worn down from years of selfless service to her people. Eyes still closed, the back of his eyelids starts to look like space, tiny pinpricks of white shining through. He’s so frakked up and she’s so frakked up and they’re all such a frakked up people – but then, they always have been, haven’t they? He reaches behind him and pulls her tight up against his body, and its not an act. He might love Starbuck but he knows damn well he’s in love with Dee, and maybe that really can be enough. She’s rigid and unimpressed at first but then she gives in and lets him draw her close, and he can feel her looking up at him but his eyes are still closed, waiting for her to say something else – lost in the black, waiting for her voice to find him and prove he’s still alive, so she can guide him home again.

[ecoorganic]

The Improbable Story of Boxing's David Benavidez and His Fighting Family

Disputes, death, a shooting, a drug suspension and now, a pandemic—José Benavidez Sr. and his two sons have persevered through it all in their collective chase for championship belts. Now it's up to David Benavidez, one of boxing's youngest champions, to keep the family's dream alive.

The latest home for one of boxing's youngest champions is the last place anyone would look. There are reasons for that, starting with the gunshots back in Phoenix that split apart and redirected the paths of the fighting Benavidez brothers, threatening to derail their father’s dream. José Benavidez Sr. had stolen food, slept in cars, carried guns, boosted stereos, learned a sport, opened gyms, fought off rivals. And then, finally, on the verge of grasping all he desired, the plan he scratched and begged and worked tirelessly for started to fall apart.

After all of that, he says his life became “a little bit more complicated.”

Three years after the shooting upended all his sacrifice, Senior and his sons—José Jr. and David, who won his first belt at 20—can be found in the greater-Seattle area in Renton, Wash., a hotbed for elite youth basketball near the waterfront headquarters of an NFL power. Their gym is tucked into a strip mall of impossibly diverse options: fish house, halal market, teriyaki restaurant, copy spot, haircut place, climbing space for kids and the massage parlor, Blissful Knead. The windows to the gym are covered in the likenesses of the Brothers Benavidez, who have been trained, goaded, prodded, protected, angered and managed by their father their entire lives. The artwork serves dual purposes, at once announcing that boxing’s most challenged—and perhaps most challenging—family has arrived, while also blocking anyone hoping to peer inside.

In 23 years, David Benavidez and his family have lived something like 23 lifetimes. Even in boxing, a sport where complicated father-son relationships trend toward the extreme, the Benavidez boys present an outlying case study in family dynamics. They have shot guns and been shot at. Been threatened with lawsuits and sued. Moved to five different states. Confronted everything from rival promotional companies, internal discord, reports of their “toxic” relationship, the shooting, the death of a beloved uncle, a drug suspension and, now, a pandemic. All to arrive here, of all places, preparing for Aug. 15, when David is favored to batter Roamer Alexis Angulo at the Mohegan Sun Arena in Connecticut on Showtime.

The story of David’s improbable boxing climb—and Junior’s sudden fall—is a tale soaked in violence, heightened by hyperbole and grounded in unwavering confidence. And it’s almost impossible to believe. It’s the story of a father and his two sons, the boys on which he imposed his ambitions, creating champions and chaos and three perspectives on one dream. A family that stands perpetually on the precipice of greatness and remains in danger of losing everything.

Senior: Mexico, 1970s

Before Senior knew anything about boxing, he was just a boy who had been abandoned his entire childhood. His parents separated when he was two; his dad walked out on the family, and his mom left for the United States, leaving her son with her mother, who was in her 80s and too frail to care for a young child. So before he raised two boxing champions, Senior, as he likes to say, raised himself.

His stories can sound apocryphal to the point that even his sons wonder where they might be embellished or touched up. Senior says that until age 11 he worked in fields, harvesting or planting corn. He says he also stole food, and when he couldn’t find any scraps to pilfer, he ate leaves sprinkled with salt, discarded fruit he found in garbage bins, “little animals from the mountains,” plus dirt. Yes, dirt.

He says he moved to California at 11, summoned by his mother. He says his stepdad kicked him out. He says that he quit school after eighth grade, ran with gangs and even started one of his own, teaching fellow members how to steal radios from cars. He says he sold drugs, sleeping with a 9 millimeter under the pillow. He says he never considered another life, until …

Senior: Phoenix, 1992

Senior can still remember the first day he saw his namesake, that beautiful little boy he would call Junior, the first of his four children. Still a teenager, Senior moved to Arizona with his family and secured a job at the Ritz-Carlton, ascending from dishwasher to banquet captain over the next 15 years. He bought a house, settled down and was happily married for a time.

If Junior’s birth marked a revelation, David’s arrival, in 1996, only reinforced Senior’s desire to succeed regardless of what it took. Even in his relatively peaceful new existence, he still worried constantly about his children, wondering whether they would pay for his mistakes. “I always thought for some reason I was going to die,” he says. “I could see this moment, my death. So I said, God, give me another day, so that I can make them stronger.”

Senior placed his children into soccer and baseball and distance running and swimming, strengthening them in any way that he could find. But they appeared drawn to one sport above all others: boxing.

Senior: Phoenix, 1990s, early 2000s

When Senior decided to become a trainer, manager and boxing aficionado, all he knew at that point was the greatness of Oscar De La Hoya. Still, he proved an eager student, showing up at gyms, pestering anyone who would entertain his endless questions, buying instructional videos and tapes of old fights until he wore out the family VCR.

Senior says he started to wake Junior at 5 a.m. for roadwork at “age two or three.” He made mini pads for the little boy to hit. Before Junior was in kindergarten, Senior started to place him with opponents of increasing skill level, for longer durations, wanting to drain his son’s hyperactive energy. This, he told both boys, is what sacrifice looks like.

David: Phoenix, 2000

The boy his father calls “our ugly duckling” also began training as a toddler, although with far less acclaim. If his brother was the prodigy who hardly watched fights, David was the fan, who always did. Hoping to bond with his father, he studied Marco Antonio Barrera, “Prince” Naseem Hamed and Roy Jones Jr. at the same time he watched cartoons. He also woke up at 5 a.m. to run two miles, just like his brother, who, once he started school, would jog the mile from the family home each morning, doubling the distance with a longer route.

By age eight, Junior had won dozens of amateur fights. His parents would divorce. Junior would go to live with his father, while David went to stay with his mom and younger sister. This marked the first time the brothers’ paths diverged.

David: Phoenix, 2008

At home with mom, David stopped boxing and took up a new hobby: eating away his feelings of not measuring up to his father’s expectations or his brother’s immediate success. After school, David would make two packages of ramen noodles, down both, then slam an Oreo sleeve, then scarf down dinner and dessert. He favored hot Cheetos, cake with extra frosting, nacho cheese, Taco Bell and Mountain Dew Code Red. He never ate Happy Meals, starting instead on the value combos, even supersizing them. He gained 80 pounds, ballooning to 260 or so by age 12.

At school, kids did what kids do. When David told others that he boxed, they pointed at his physique and cracked jokes. “Fat ass!” they taunted. “You don’t box!”

Senior: Los Angeles, 2009

While David stayed in Phoenix, his father and brother moved to Hollywood, like some pugilistic Clampetts, so that Junior could turn pro. By then, Junior was an 11-time national champion with more than 100 amateur victories, a prodigy in every sense who had won the National Golden Gloves title at 16. Sometimes, the Benavidez boys slept in their car, or with Freddie Roach, who welcomed them to Wild Card Boxing Club, his famous training ground at the corner of Santa Monica and Vine.

Then, David called his dad one day. At age 13 and overweight, he wanted to move back in with them and return to boxing.

“If you do,” Senior told him, “you will become champion of the world.”

José Benavidez Sr. and his two sons

David: Los Angeles, 2010

When David stepped into Wild Card for the first time, his father did a double take. “Dang,” he said. “You’re just so god--- fat.” Many at the gym laughed like David’s classmates. They knew Junior, who was ripped, handsome, charismatic and marked for stardom. David? A teenaged Butterbean, with speed despite his size and newfound power behind his punches. “In my mind, he felt depressed,” Senior says. “He didn’t talk to nobody. He would only talk to me.”

The Benavidez boys resumed their regimen. David cut out all drinks except for water. He stopped eating rice, bread and pasta, save for the occasional treat. He ate fish, chicken and salad after waddling through every morning run. The weight dripped off him, but he retained the power. Senior started to run his mouth about his youngest, saying things that seemed unbelievable at the time. “He’s better than Junior!” he would shout. “He has more heart! He’s more grounded!”

“I tried to convince people,” Senior says now. “They would laugh in my face.”

Junior: Los Angeles, Phoenix, 2011–13

One year after turning pro, Junior had already notched 14 victories with 12 KOs. His career remained the family’s shared aim. But the more he won, the more the circle expanded, and tension escalated between Senior and the crew at Wild Card. To rebuild a cocoon, Senior moved back to Arizona and opened his own gym. He fell in love again, remarried and had another daughter. With four kids now relying on one pro and his father-trainer, Senior became even more strict, assuming absolute control. His boys couldn’t go to the movies. They rarely saw their friends. “It was bad for them,” he admits. “They had no childhood.”

Back in Phoenix, Senior says his sons rebelled. Junior says the brothers had grown weary of all the rules, all the I-ate-dirt stories. They didn’t have to struggle the way Senior had, but he never ceased to remind them of his sacrifice. Senior says that sometimes he believed that Junior “hated” him, a notion that Junior denies, saying he understood his father’s methods, the cost of training and national tournaments and his dad’s desire to maximize his immense talent. He knows his father often pulled up at McDonald’s with $2 and change, bought a pair of double cheeseburgers off the value menu and gave one apiece to each son while his stomach rumbled. “I did have a rough childhood,” Junior says. “But that’s how my dad was: rough. The thing about him is he’s always going to find a way.”

David: California, 2012

With Junior firmly established as a contender, Senior spent more time trying to elevate David to the same place. That meant David would spar grown men at age 15. He dropped a 200-pounder with a chiseled frame. One suffered a broken nose; others crumpled to the canvas. At that point, Senior suggested that David try his skills against professionals and world champions, and David learned one of the great lessons of boxing—that every fighter feels fear every time they fight and that anyone who says otherwise is lying. He felt scared when he stepped into the ring for sparring sessions with Kelly Pavlik, Peter Quillin and Gennady Golovkin, all champs who hit so hard he’d lose his breath.

GGG came to advise David like an older brother, offering strategy tips and even suggesting the services of his trainer, the highly regarded Abel Sanchez. Father and son shot GGG a quizzical look. This was prime GGG, set to make his U.S. debut and become a pay-per-view star. Surely, he was simply being kind. No, he told them, I’m for real.

David: Mexico, 2013

As the young boxer’s confidence rose, Senior decided that David, at 16, should also turn pro. By then, David had dropped to almost 100 pounds to 170. But he would have to fight in Mexico, with only 15 amateur bouts on his résumé, because no sanctioning body in the U.S. would ever approve an opponent of that age.

The bout took place in Rocky Point, the fishing and resort town southwest of Phoenix, over the border. “I was,” he admits, “super scared.” Senior heard all the complaints. “A lot of people told me I was crazy,” he says. “That I’m stupid. That I want to get rich off of my kids. It got in my mind, you know. Like, maybe I am. Maybe I’m making a mistake.”

David had never fought without headgear, in front of a real crowd. But his family packed into the stands, including his favorite uncle, his mother’s brother, U.S. Army veteran Moises Balladares. David won by knockout, in the first round, against an opponent who would never fight again. The danger was real but not as heavy as he’d imagined, the result of another Senior calculation, all part of the plan.

The family dream shifted in that moment. Now, Senior and his boys all wanted the same thing: for both David and Junior to hold belts at the same time.

Still, the Benavidez boys were broke. What they made went back into their operation, or to the whims of the boys who took the risk inside the ring. Senior continued to crisscross the country, bolstering his training methods, visiting respected camps like those run by the Diaz brothers, Sanchez and Robert Garcia. The plan had fallen perfectly into place. Now, he planned to build on it.

His oldest won a world title first, just as Senior had designed. In Las Vegas, against Mauricio Herrera, Junior nabbed the WBA super lightweight belt by unanimous decision in 2014. He had no idea that night when he celebrated that he would fight only three more times before The Incident—and only six more times in the next six years.

No one could have anticipated the wild, dubious, impossible sequence yet to come.

Junior: Phoenix, 2015

Senior saw his namesake’s behavior change. Every dime that Junior made from fighting he seemed to spend on fast sports cars or put toward fancy guns. He bought a Colt .38 with an image of the grim reaper carved onto the handle. Senior would hear his boy speeding away from the gym, in one souped-up ride or another, the engines revving like on the infield at Daytona. Every time he heard a helicopter overhead he thought the police were giving chase. When someone torched one of Junior’s rides, a Mercedes, many around the family speculated that someone had tried to collect on one of Senior’s unpaid debts. False, he says.

After months of sleepless nights, Senior decided to confront his oldest. “Guess what?” he thundered, taking aim at his son’s reckless lifestyle. “You’re going to get in trouble. You think you’re a superstar, you’re a champion, you get free s---, you can do whatever you want? You could end up dead.”

He always yelled the same thing at Junior. You’ll understand when you’re a parent!

David: U.S. Virgin Islands, 2015

Even though David won his first 10 fights, with nine KOs, any interest in signing him remained scarce. Top Rank Boxing passed. So did Golden Boy Promotions. Senior started to lie to his son, telling David there was interest, while all but begging for deals in the background. He worried his mere presence helped more than it hurt, and he felt like he couldn't help either boy achieve their dream.

The trajectory changed that summer, when undefeated boxer Julius Jackson, who had won the WBA super middleweight title the year before, invited David down to picturesque St. Thomas for sparring. David could hardly believe his luck—a free, all-expenses paid trip to a tropical island where he’d stay at the oceanside mansion of a prominent politician and bank $1,200 per week for a month.

A woman picked up Senior and David at the airport on a cloudless afternoon. “I hope your son doesn’t get hurt,” the woman said, highlighting the perceived danger in the matchup.

On the first day, the first time they engaged, in the first round, David battered Jackson into an early submission. That’s super rare in sparring and almost unheard of for the champion/host. “I’m not even playing, I landed like an 18-punch combination,” David says.

Jackson’s trainer called Sampson Lewkowicz, the boxing manager and promoter, and told him: You’re dumb if you don’t sign this guy.

“After that, his life changed,” Senior says of David. “I didn’t know he was that good. He was the ugly duckling. Nobody had believed in him but us.”

Junior: Phoenix, 2016

On the night that three lives changed, Junior went outside the home that he shared with his girlfriend to walk his Schnauzer and what he claims was a $10,000 cat, the exotic pet indicative of his warped perspective. Outside, he started down the street, his head buried in his phone, immersed in Snapchat updates. After the dog started barking, Junior noticed a man standing nearby, wearing, oddly, a dark hoodie in the triple-digit summer heat.

As the man slowly approached, Junior noticed his mustache, sideburns and a familiar expression he often saw from opponents—fear. The man asked whether his dog bit. No, he responded, as he bent down toward the dog and heard the first shot from the gun that pierced the femoral artery in his right knee. Junior raised his right hand in front of him, and the bullet meant for his head instead glanced the edge of his pinkie finger.

“Dude,” Junior told his assailant, “you a b----.”

Junior called his father first, then David. He worried more for his career than for his life. He screamed into the night, until an ambulance’s siren drowned out his wails. He told his father that he failed him, ruining the dream they shared. He told his brother not to worry, that he would be all right. As the news spread, extended family and friends expressed shock, outrage. But not Senior. “When I heard he got shot, I knew it was coming,” he says.

The Benavidez boys believe that someone close to Junior ordered the shooting, after a dispute over a woman that Junior had “stolen” from one of his gangster friends. His father had warned Junior, both of what might happen and what he stood to lose if anything went wrong. But despite all the sacrifice, all he’d done and all he’d left behind, he couldn’t save Junior on that night.

Senior started to sink into a depression. His oldest had turned into his old self. He pointed the blame inward and thought: I created a monster.

That was only half of it.

David: Las Vegas, 2017

One brother’s rise continued while the other brother’s halted on that street, their paths diverging once again. Junior was shot where the knee bends, just under the kneecap, and, as the ligaments and cartilage healed, everything twisted into knots. Doctors wondered whether he would walk again, let alone fight, ever. The shooting had forced the family to again opt for relocation, at first back to Los Angeles. “It just made me paranoid,” David says. “Just being there in Phoenix. I still really don’t go back much. It’s something you never forget.”

David won on ShoBox, the prospect showcase for Showtime. He fought at bigger venues, like the Barclays Center, the MGM Grand and AT&T Stadium. More knockouts. More buzz. And, finally, a title fight, scheduled for Sept. 8, 2017, against Ronald Gavril at the Hard Rock in Las Vegas. The whole brood planned to be there, again, just as they had for his first pro bout in Mexico.

With three weeks left in camp, David received a frantic phone call from his mother: Her brother and David’s beloved uncle, Balladares, had been fatally shot in Arizona in a standoff with the police, the circumstances murky. The cops said he was threatening to kill himself. David worried about his brother, that he might lapse and seek vengeance for his uncle’s death. He took three days off from training to consider canceling the title shot. Ultimately, he believed his uncle would have wanted him to fight—not just for himself, but for his brother, whose dream and knee had both been shattered.

As the fight drew near, David came down with the worst flu of his life. He could hardly get out of bed and he still had to drop eight pounds in the final 24 hours before the weigh-in. Boosted by intestinal fortitude—and guilt over his family’s saga—David made weight, dragged his weary body into the ring and scratched out a split-decision victory, good for the family’s second world title.

At age 20, David was officially boxing’s youngest champion, but he hardly felt like celebrating. He went to the hospital afterward, to receive treatment for a broken hand, and he could hear the nurses, incredulous, talking to the man in the next bed over. A drawn curtain separated them. As the doctor ticked off the man’s injuries, listing a concussion, a broken nose and a broken jaw, David realized that it was his opponent sitting next to him. He felt bad in that moment and wondered: What was the purpose of all this? Why him? His father? His family?

All their futures now hinged on him.

“I do this to make you happy,” he told his older brother after he won the title.

“Don’t,” Junior responded. “You’re going to have problems if you’re not happy with yourself.”

David: Las Vegas, 2018

The higher David climbed, the heavier it became to carry his family history and burdens. For a while, that worked in his favor, serving as the best kind of motivation, intrinsic and essential. In February 2018, he dominated the rematch with Gavril to retain his title. But he also started down the familiar path of self-destruction, of women and parties and drugs.

David wanted to move back to Phoenix, his father says, to party with his friends, the exact path that Junior had taken to nearly fatal results. His father wanted to scream. Instead, he tried to calmly lay it out for David. He had left everything—his house, his gym, his second family—to help David secure the belt that hung around his waist. And David wanted to throw all that away? For drugs? If that was his choice, Senior dared, then take it. David stayed.

They moved to Oregon, then Las Vegas, where the Benavidez boys found trouble yet again. David signed with Top Rank behind his father’s back, then changed his mind, then decided to go with Lewkowicz, who paid back David’s $250,000 signing bonus and assumed control of his career.

Months later, still in Vegas that September, David tested positive for cocaine. His third title defense was canceled. He lost his belt without losing a fight and was suspended for four months. His family lost something worse. Their dream. His father’s dream. Again.

Senior: Las Vegas, 2018

The father says he struggled more than his sons ever knew. Late at night, unable to sleep, Senior wondered if his methods had caused their collective downfall. “I felt terrible,” Senior says. “I really wanted to kill myself. I just wanted to give up. I’m sacrificing my wife, my little girl. I’m f------ broke. And I’m supposed to be protecting them.”

Story of my life, he says. Push, prod, inch higher. Ignore those who question motives. Make something from literally nothing. “And, then, boom,” Senior says. “Something happens.”

Senior, Junior and David: Renton, Wash., 2019

Through all the mishaps and bad decisions and the shooting, Senior continued to move camp. Both he and his youngest son desired the same aim. Something closer to normalcy. A place to begin to reclaim all that they had lost.

Eventually, they all settled outside Seattle, near the airport. One of David’s friends grew up near there, and he swayed David with his descriptions of the summers, plus the chance to build a boxing haven in one place nobody would ever expect. David bought a house near the water. Junior got a spot nearby. Senior opened one gym, grew it and then opened another, in that strip mall, with images of his homegrown champions covering the windows, preparing for business to boom in the spring of 2020—until the coronavirus pandemic hit.

After topping J'Leon Love in his postsuspension comeback fight, David won back his belt in September 2019, knocking out another world champion in Anthony Dirrell at the Staples Center in L.A. Three fights he expected to be made never materialized. But despite his own career stall, the positive test, the death of his uncle, the injury to his brother and COVID-freaking-19, he had found something near Seattle that he had never had as an adult. Stability felt good. His girlfriend became pregnant with his first child, a boy he plans to mold into a fighter, another link in the family business. She’s due in September. “It seems like home now,” David says. “Like how it felt back at the beginning.”

David: Renton, Wash., 2020

David knows what’s possible, starting with his next fight. Should he continue to win, the options at super middleweight appear endless, from Canelo Alvarez to Caleb Plant and Callum Smith and Billy Joe Saunders and Gilberto Ramirez. He wants all of them, he says, especially Plant. Should David make a run through that gantlet, he’d be staring at pay-per-view millions, a Hall of Fame career and a lucrative move up to the 175-pound division. Big if, of course, but hardly more far-fetched than what has taken place to now. David also knows he’s not even 24 years old, still a year or three from really entering his prime.

“I really want to see the Canelo fight,” Junior says of boxing’s top draw, a candidate for defining fighter of the post-Mayweather-Pacquiao era. “I guarantee he’ll beat the f--- out of him.”

David says, “I want them to mention me and Canelo, like they mention Manny and Floyd.”

As for Junior, David says, “I want to take care of him, too. I told him, if you ever need anything, just let me know.”

Junior: Renton, Wash., 2020

The first champion in the Benavidez family isn’t sleeping much these days. That’s due mostly to his daughter, born four months ago, the impetus behind extending his break from boxing. Junior had never really taken time off before, except after the shooting, when he came back in less than two years and even fought Terence Crawford, perhaps the top boxer alive, for the WBO welterweight belt. Senior advised against that matchup, saying Junior wasn’t fully recovered, and yet Junior acquitted himself well, going deep with the formidable champion, who scored a final-round KO.

Through all that, Junior understands, finally, what Senior told him. He is, after all, a parent.

Now, he says, “I’m going to be back. I will be world champion again.”

David simultaneously worries about Junior and believes in his comeback chances. Sometimes, he feels guilty. For two healthy legs. For two world titles. For all that’s still in front of him. He still wants both brothers to hold belts at the same time, making all three dreams reality. “The thing that sucks is he’ll never be the same,” David says. “I try and motivate him, but [the shooting] stuck with him. It was probably the people around him who did that. I don’t know. It just sucks. He has—what is it?—PTSD.”

Senior: Renton, Wash., July 2020

Despite the unfathomable adventure that led here, Senior would seem to have everything he ever wanted. At last. His oldest boy is a former world champion who survived two bullets and turned his life around. His youngest boy, also a world champion, still has countless opportunities in boxing, despite the drug suspension. By September, God willing, both boys will be parents, and Senior will be a grandfather twice over. His gym is open now, with plenty of customers and space carved out for his boys to train in pristine cleanliness so as to avoid COVID-19. Senior says that David’s fight against Angulo on Saturday isn’t the culmination of their life’s work, it’s closer to the beginning of what’s possible. Nobody is eating dirt.

Perfect, right?

But everything, as usual with the Benavidez boys, is not exactly as it seems. Unprompted, Senior begins detailing another fight outside the ring. Their fortunes have changed again, but he still seems to see disaster looming, always and forever. He worries that he and his sons are no longer aligned, that he's losing his influence as they grow older. “People are going through their heads, you know,” he says. “They want more. They gotta think about their own families. Sometimes, I wonder: do they care about me?”

The tenor of the conversation changes. It’s darker from then on. Would he do everything again? “Well, I’m broke,” he says. He pauses for so long it seems like he has stopped answering. But he eventually continues. “I don’t know, man. It’s so much sacrifice. At the end of the day, people say I’m a thief. Me!”

He cites the promotional companies that turned him down, the nights spent in those cars, the double cheeseburgers he watched his sons eat. He mentions the long list of boxers who lost millions in divorce courts, even their own belts. It’s like there’s what he knows he should say and what he wants to say and those notions are warring in his head. “Sometimes, it just hurts so much,” he says. “When you work so hard, and you don’t get a little bit of credit. Or they would prefer listening to other people.”

His eyes well with tears. “I just want a big f------ hug, you know,” he says. “I don’t need money. I’m here, with my little girl, training the boys, doing what I love doing. I want that hug. It’s more important than anything.”

Senior pulls back the curtain on the private training space. He points to a framed picture hanging from the wall. It’s him and his two boys, just children, and they’re posed inside the ring, smiles stretched wide across their faces. That picture means everything to him, perhaps even more than the belts. “See,” he says, “when they were little, before …” He trails off, the implication clear.

Read more of SI's Daily Covers stories here from Blogger https://ift.tt/2E0GVLN

[hankeverythingwillbefine]

Thrashed, Lost, and Found

Day 7 hurt as much as every day has. It still started out with a forceful morning workout, my cousin has asked me a couple of times if I’d go with her to her gym in the afternoon but working out is something I have to do alone. I know she can do her routine and I can do mine but even the commute needs to be a separate thing. I was dragged to church, even though it’s Catholic I went and listened to what the priest had to say. I kept getting lost in thought and spent time admiring the architectural brilliance of the church. I wanted to go out by myself, I thought it’s time to shave the beard and needed razors (maybe it was just the only excuse I had). I took the bus and we were robbed, even though I was scared I was still aware of how dangerous the state has become thanks to increasing foreign migration. I don’t mean to sound xenophobic and I’m not even blaming the South American migrants, I’m blaming the people that come from other states to those that had stable security in their endless turf wars or those from the capital that have become so wanted by their local enforcement agencies to flee and do what they’re doing here. Anyhow, this short guy in his mid 20′s comes into the bus and asks to hold on a moment before paying. The bus starts moving at this point because the buses are in a hurry. It’s not too packed which is great for my anxiety and I’m looking out the window because I’m a melancholic fuck that needs serotonin and sunlight helps with that. I see some people in front of me shuffle suddenly and it made me startle and grasp the situation... hey we’re getting robbed. I didn’t notice the guy in the back with the backpack collecting money, phones and jewelry until it was my turn. As confident I am of my self-defense abilities, I’m no match for a guy with a gun. My anxiety manifested in a form of angry annoyance instead of fear. I gave them my broken iphone (which thankfully I only took the spare one that I use as an ipod but also has whatsapp installed and all of my contacts... it’s too long a story to explain now), my wallet with an estimated equivalent of $10 dollars and my wired headphones. I could tell that backpack guy was somewhat disappointed in everything they gathered but what do you expect on a Sunday afternoon in a half empty bus that’s going AWAY from the capital. I applaud your efforts, you sad elementary school dropout but thieving doesn’t give participation trophies or a pat on the back (unless you’re a prison bitch, then I guess it’s more than pats on the back). They quickly pointed the gun at the driver and made him pull over by an empty lot, my mind went to “we’re getting executed” which made me angrier. The one that gets to kill me is ME, that much has always been decided and I don’t even mean that in a suicidal way. If I die because of a mistake I made or an action I knowingly took that sent me to my demise, I’d be okay with that. My point is, they ran away and I wanted to go after them but getting shot is not in my to do list. The bus driver had radioed someone to call the police, they came in what felt like 10 minutes-ish and a forever for their police reports. I told them everything I saw, I gave them all my necessary information and details of the items that were stolen. I didn’t see much point in cooperating since the police are famous for being useless in this country and the four that arrived reeked of incompetence and Sunday laziness. I walked back home after that, it was a 30 minute walk... always has been. I realized I took 2 and a half hours between all of that when I got home. I told my mother I went for a walk and got distracted, went to my room and that’s when everything started sinking in. I grew up in a dangerous neighborhood no matter where I lived, having a gun pointed at was something that’s never going to stop being terrifying but the impact lessens over time. After some time of empty staring, I got the phone my father sent a year ago and activated that one, it has less memory and all I really need is music but it’s the thought that counts. I saw a couple of messages from you asking if I’m there and looks like you wanted to talk. I told you I got robbed, you didn’t believe me but this isn’t one of those things to lie about. There’s nothing impressive about getting robbed at gunpoint. My anxiety didn’t go off the rails despite the lack of Xanax in my system, it was a strange feeling and did not know how to rationalize it. I tried to pass it off as being okay, talking to you makes everything easier. You told me you’re redoing the house and talking about your self-worth. Telling me to tell my therapist how strong you are and how beautiful you are and how you’ve shouldered everything for the past year. How fucking dare you, of course I have but I’ve also talked about how controlling you’ve been and the thing I don’t want to do is go from patient to psychologist trying to compare results based on notes and observations about you. Therapy is where I make me about me, it’s step one on a healthy dose of selfishness. So we talked about how you’re Marie Kondoing and suggested I do the same, I told you that I’m not in a head space where assessing joy is a good idea. We talked about how we both need the man I used to be, how tired you are and the things you deserve. I mentioned that my stepdad finally got himself together and I was very surprised, these past 10 years haven’t been very kind to us and he got lazy and complacent and irresponsible. After having been dumped by my mom was when he went back to being hardworking and providing for her and my brother. He’s been incredibly supportive of whatever this thing I’m going through is. We spoke in a way that can only be described like we needed to cheer each other on, and then another “I don’t believe you got robbed” stab. As much as I would like your support yet not seeking it because I’m respecting your space, I really don’t need your doubt. I told you I was looking forward to our monthly in-person meet, which you forgot and it hurt. That was probably the most crushing moment of our whole conversation but powered through it. Sometimes I think I should just divorce you because you’re too much of a coward to ask for it because that is what you really want and I want to work on this but won’t get the chance to get there. We had a nice conversation and cut it short, sleep was calling to me. I woke up late at night and saw that you texted again, I don’t know if you were battling with loneliness again and wanted to talk to me. A part of me wants to tell you to fuck off and seek solace in the Facebook friends you arduously ignored me for but I think you’re doing that and it’s not working as well as you’d hoped. I think we’re both fighting that codependency we have for each other, leading to struggles with our own loneliness. I can’t really speak for you and can only assume. I just told you I went for my late night drink of water. We texted a little on Day 8, sent you a funny ad I got on a website while working. I’m still worried that you’re not eating well and haven’t found someone to pay to cook for you or deliver a healthy meal to you. I spent all of Day 8 hating myself out loud because I had the house to myself and trying not to text you. I also spent it playing GTA 5 and watching how Michael lost his family and is slowly getting them back in their own organically dysfunctional way while having Chicago’s “if you leave me now” playing on the radio station of the car he got in. Rockstar, you’re not fair to me right now. After so many years and changing availability, I still haven’t finished the game but it’s hitting so many sore spots for me right now. Great job, me, you’ve replaced your dependency from Xanax to video games and enjoy neither. I’ve helped my stepdad clean his car during the weekend, Hank sees me near the car and he behaves like we’re going back home. He scratches my leg, getting permission to get in but doesn’t see that it’s just to clean it and not to make a 2 hour trip back to a place we thought everyone was happy in. You sent me a philosophical quote about healing, I looked it up and thanked you for it. I went on to spend my night playing mindlessly, reading on and off about endogenous depression because I stumbled upon a paper I was reading about it in my closet here. Grad school B paper, no easy feat. I spent my night torturing myself internally. Weening off Xanax to help me sleep has not been kind, I’m down to a quarter a day again.

Day 9. I’m proud of myself for not reactivating my Facebook to stalk you since Friday-ish or Thursday. I needed one of the links I had saved and checked your posts since I was already there. Still, I need to stop. I’m getting everything out in a public way while maintaining myself anonymous and you’re getting everything out in a more “everybody, this marriage has been so shitty despite having my husband change jobs and work outside the house in order to pay for everything”. Yes you did the housewife thing and you did it great, I just needed you great and not a clean house or a highly elaborate meal but that’s what I came home to and a wife that had just enough energy to kinda eat. Your mother and my father did come to our rescue one too many times before we got married and while I started my new job. When you said you were told about Stratus, I encouraged you and said I wanted you happy but whatever floats your boat. Day 9 is just starting with sarcastic clients and a very annoyed me. If parting is such sweet sorrow, I don’t have many assets but I’m still meeting an attorney this Friday to set up a will. Just in case.