#Smithsonian Institution Building

[rabbitcruiser]

Washington, D.C., was established as the capital of the United States of America on December 12, 1800.   

[garadinervi]

Response by Hanne Darboven to participation invitation sent by Ruth Iskin, Lucy R. Lippard, and Arlene Raven for 1976 "What is Feminist Art?" exhibition at the Woman's Building, March 23, 1976 [© Hanne Darboven. Woman's Building records, 1970-1992. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.]

[dlyarchitecture]

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from a review of the book, "Smithsonian Trees of North America," authored by W. John Kress, from Smithsonian Magazine:

When W. John Kress was in college and pondering what life was all about, he used to climb up into a treetop and stay there for hours at a time. “I wanted to be away from everything else and be with nature in some way,” he says now, speaking to me from his home office in leafy Vermont.

Kress is the author of a new book, an 800-page tome called Smithsonian Trees of North America. It’s an incredibly thorough guide to just about every leaf, needle, flower, seedpod and pinecone you’re likely to come across as you walk around the United States or Canada. Kress—a research botanist emeritus at the National Museum of Natural History and former interim Under Secretary for Science at the Smithsonian Institution—wrote the text and took most of the photographs.

He notes that the book doesn’t cover all the tree species in North America—a global tree assessment published in 2021 estimated that there are 1,432 of them. But the 326 species the book does include account for 98 percent of the trees on this continent, north of Mexico. (The U.S. and Canada share many more species of trees with each other than they do with Mexico, so it’s common for botanists to consider the lands south of the border as a separate region.)

“We take trees for granted a lot,” Kress says, as I glance out the window at a flowering crepe myrtle in my own backyard. “And that was the point of the book. Not every tree is the same. Another point of the book is that we’re losing that diversity. We need to start paying attention.”

When it comes to the animal kingdom, you’ll hear people talk about “charismatic species”—the elephants, pandas, lions and dolphins that never fail to attract zoogoers or sell plush toys. Conservationists hope these alluring creatures will serve as ambassadors, making people care about entire habitats and all the other forms of life within them.

With the notable exception of Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy, you don’t usually see tree toys or arboreal characters in children’s cartoons. (Let’s not talk about the dismembered heroine of Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree.) And yet trees are all around us if we’re lucky, an underappreciated backdrop of shade and greenery. Kress wants people to care about the individual trees in their neighborhoods, form relationships with them and, through that, build a deeper connection with nature.

[nancydrewwouldnever]

Clementine Hunter, Melrose Quilt, ca. 1960, textiles (Smithsonian Institute American Art Museum, Washington D.C.)

Clementine Hunter was born on a Louisiana plantation where her grandparents had been slaves. When she was twelve, her family moved to Melrose Plantation in Natchitoches Parish to work as sharecroppers. Clementine worked as a field hand, cook, and housekeeper. The Henry family bought Melrose in 1884; they restored architectural structures on the property and moved historic log cabins from the area onto the property. When John Hampton Henry died, his wife Cammie made Melrose a retreat for visiting artists. Hunter’s exposure to artists and some leftover paints led her to own artistry. She painted quotidian stories she felt historians overlooked—primarily the activities of the black workers. She also made pictorial quilts. This one depicts several notable buildings at Melrose, including the Big House, Yucca House, and African House, in which Hunter painted a now-historic mural of plantation life in 1955.

[blurredcolour]

The Night Moves | Part Two

The Night Moves Masterlist

Alternate Universe

supernatural!Bradley Bradshaw x Female Reader; supernatural!Jacob Seresin x Female Reader

Summary: An internship with the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History should have been the highlight of your academic career. The perfect addition to your resume while you worked on your doctoral thesis. An interdepartmental assignment, however, sees your reality ripped apart by incomprehensible forces. Five tumultuous days will leave you forever changed and inextricably linked to two men born centuries apart.

Warnings: Angst, Language, Alcohol, Emotional Struggles, Crying, Discussions of Violence/Blood/Gore, Supernatural Themes, Historical Inaccuracies, Institutional Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ Only

Word Count: 4795

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-Wednesday-

Your alarm had gone off at its regular time, jarring your barely-rested body rudely into consciousness. Your eyes, feeling more akin to sandpaper than anything, had only suffered being opened to mere slits, allowing you to simply grasp at your phone weakly and turn off the ever-increasing sound. There had been no internal struggle about calling in late today, nor had your supervisor had any issue with it given what you had gone through the night before.

You had pinned a lot of hope on three extra hours of sleep, and while you certainly felt more human the second time your alarm went off, it was nonetheless a struggle to throw back the covers. Untangling your limbs from the sheets you had wrenched from the mattress at some point in the night, you peeled your tired frame from the bed. Exhaustion had somehow kept you asleep, but the disarray of your bed linens spoke to the restlessness of your body during the night. Scrubbing your hands down your face while exhaling a jaw-cracking yawn, you planted your hands on the bed and leveraged yourself to standing, shuffling into the bathroom to start getting ready.

The apartment felt unsettlingly quiet, the usual white noise of the rest of the complex waking and preparing for the day absent at this hour. Toothbrush in hand, you worked the bristles along your teeth as you ambled down the short hallway passed the dining room and around the corner into to the living room to turn on the TV. Not pausing to listen, you made your way back to the washroom to spit a frothy gob of toothpaste into the sink as a local news update about an unidentified body found not three blocks from your home played unheard in the other room.

A hot shower and, what you realized was your first real meal in nearly twenty-four-hours, had you feeling nearly human and on your way out the door. Living at the terminus of the silver line in Ashburn usually guaranteed you a seat on the train, but at midday there was very little competition anyhow. Just over an hour later, you were riding the escalator up onto the Mall, blinking into the blinding light of the sun before making your way across the street and into your building.

The atmosphere at work was understandably subdued, and you had only just arrived when you were pulled into the first in a series of debrief meetings that descended down the organizational chart until you finished with the curatorial team at three o’clock. Having used all your reserves the night before, you faded quickly through the day, and your supervisor strongly recommended you take the last few hours as compensatory time for the night before rather than try and remain functional with only two working hours left.

The idea of returning home to an empty apartment, however, with six idle hours until you could somewhat justify going to bed filled you with a sense of dread that had you turning not toward the staff exit but instead through the door connecting to the public exhibits. There were just over two hours before closing, a rare opportunity for you to enjoy the displays, and you found your feet carrying you toward the Price of Freedom exhibit – specifically the area focusing on the War of Independence.

It honestly seemed counter-intuitive, to be looking over artifacts from the same era so closely tied to the horrors of the night before, yet your mind seemed unable to focus on anything else. Leaning in to get a better look at a surgical kit from the period, backdropped by a diagram of an amputation from a 1768 medical text, you were startled to see a familiar reflection in the glass. Turning to look over your right shoulder, your eyes widened in surprise as your moustachioed rescuer from the Mall was making his way through the exhibit, just a few displays behind you.

As if sensing your gaze, he raised his eyes to meet yours, grin stretching across his features as he strode forward to your side.

“Is this also part of your job? Perusing the galleries?” His tone was warm and teasing and somehow, despite everything, managed to summon a smile to your face.

“Done early today, just taking advantage of the rare opportunity to enjoy the place during open hours. I see you took my advice?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Seemed like as good a place to start as any, first one at this end of the Mall, cute girl works here, might actually remember to ask for her number if I run into her this time…”

You smothered a laugh, despite the giddy thrill that raced through you, pleased that he had the same regret about your parting earlier that morning. Unlocking your phone, you held it out to him. “Please, text yourself so there’s no mix-up, I am only marginally more functional than the last time I literally ran into you.”

You watched as he took it carefully, swallowing tightly at how small your phone appeared in his hands, pleased to hear his phone vibrate before he handed yours back. “Done. So, aside from shorter, I hope today was also better than yesterday?”

Exhaling thoughtfully through pursed lips you eventually conceded with a nod, clicking your tongue against your teeth. “Not normal, but certainly more bearable.”

“You have some time to show me around?” He tilted his head, and you worked your lower lip between your teeth for a moment – not because you needed to consider his request, but because you did not want to appear over-eager.

Once you trusted your voice again you nodded. “I’d be happy to, where were you before I interrupted?”

He walked over to the display where you had been standing, even though you both knew he hadn’t gotten that far and pointed at the box lined with green velvet. “What is that?”

“A surgeon’s kit, carried by a battlefield doctor.”

“They do a lot of amputations?” He raised an eyebrow, looking at the enlarged medical diagram.

“Quite a few. Musket balls were made of lead, quite a soft material, that would flatten on impact. They left gaping wounds but still shattered bones. The primary medical treatment for such injuries was amputation, though infection was still very much an issue due to the lack of understanding of bacteria at the time.”

Nodding thoughtfully, he walked with you over to the next display before frowning. “And they were doing all that in the time of blood letting?” He pointed to the kit labelled for such a purpose and you shrugged.

“It was an important tool for treatment in that period. I shudder to think what standard practices we rely on today that will seem horribly outdated with the advancement of medicine in a few decades.”

“Or centuries, even.” He looked over the foreign instruments and you could not help but admit the idea of taking blood from an already sick and weakened individual seemed utterly ridiculous to your modern sensibilities.

“Is this really boring for you?” Bradley leaned in to ask quietly, pulling you from your thoughts and you looked to him warmly, shaking your head quickly.

“I spend most of my time with the collection in storage or newly received items, I very rarely get to visit the ones on display. And honestly, I’m trying not to bore you with too many facts.” You smirked gesturing with a set of sarcastic jazz hands that elicited a raspy chuckle from him.

The sound sent your stomach somersaulting end-over-end in your abdomen, and you were convinced it might have the power to end your life.

 “Promise it’s not possible.”

“Is that a challenge, Mr. Bradshaw?”

The pink flash of his tongue darting out to wet his lips had your knees losing their structural integrity and you took a sharp inhale through your nose before locking them back into place lest you crumple onto the exhibit floor.

“I feel like only a fool would challenge you, sweetheart.” He rasped and it took all your will power not to stare at the way his pretty lips formed words and sounds.

“Smart.” You murmured and swallowed, trying to rehydrate your dry mouth with saliva as you moved onto the next display.

Bradley remained delightfully curious and actively engaged in listening to your explanations. No longer concerned about holding back your extensive knowledge on the subject matter, you found yourself expounding at length on topics like conditions in camp, the Battle of Saratoga, and the fall of Charlestown. One conflict proceeded into the next – the War of 1812, the Mexican War, the Civil War – and as you spotted the chairs Grant and Lee sat in during the surrender at Appomattox Court House your excitement got the better of you. You grasped the cuff his jacket, barely noting the quality of the suede, and tugged him over to the glass to look them over eagerly.

“These are the chairs used during the signing of the surrender in the house of a man named McLean. Four years earlier, he had lived in Manassas, and the first battle of Bull Run took place on his land. So, he had moved further north to escape the fighting, but still somehow ended up right in the middle of it. Supposedly, he’s to have said ‘The war began in my front yard and ended in my front parlor.’”

“How could anyone get bored of things like that?” He replied, deftly lacing his fingers together with yours, overtaking your grip on his cuff. “I am in awe of your ability to recall these things with such ease.”

The warm, callous-roughened feel of his skin against yours left you flustered, words abandoning you for the first time in over an hour, so you simply smiled sheepishly and shrugged. He winked in reply, squeezing your entwined hands before moving onto the next display.

You had just made it to the Wyllis jeep from World War II, suspended from the ceiling, when the final closing announcement echoed throughout the museum. “I’m sorry we didn’t quite make it all the way through, but I think the docents might murder me if I were to linger any longer…”

“No apologies necessary if,” he paused for dramatic effect and you looked to him quickly, “you’ll allow me to buy you dinner.”

You eyed him quizzically as the pair of you exited the gallery with the last trickle of visitors. “I may only be a historian, but I am fairly confident that doesn’t really add up? I owe you so you’re repaying me?”

He stepped onto the descending escalator in front of you, smirking cockily as he leaned back against the railing to maintain eye contact with you. “I assure you my math is sound, and my offer stands. But, you’ll have to tell me where to take you because I still don’t know anything about this city.” He finished with a shrug that had you tilting your head back and laughing brightly.

“Well, what kind of food would you like to treat me to?” You asked once your laughter subsided, stepping out with him into the gathering dusk.

“Hmmm, something you’ll enjoy, nothing too pretentious but still delicious? Distance isn’t an issue, my car is just parked over here.” He gestured toward northwest fourteenth street. “In the Ronald Reagan building.”

Nodding thoughtfully, you headed off in that direction, teeth sinking into your lower lip as his hand slipped into yours once he caught up. “I think I know a place and its close to a Metro station too.”

There was a pause as he seemed to be thinking something over but whatever it was, he didn’t share with you. The pair of you headed into the building, stepping into the security line. Because the building was located so close to the White House, anyone entering was required to undergo a screening process similar to that of an airport. After placing your work bag onto the conveyor belt, you stepped through the metal detector, retrieving it once it passed through the scanner.

Bradley followed shortly behind you, collecting his keys and wallet, leading you over to the elevator. When the doors opened, it was already pretty crowded but the pair of you managed to squeeze in, pressed side-by-side.

“What floor?” A gruff, balding man ask from nearby the row of buttons.

“B1.” Bradley replied easily and you swallowed thickly at the feeling of his voice vibrating through you.

“Already pressed.”

“Great.” He replied with an easy smile, tilting his head to catch you eye, raising his eyebrow in a silent check-in.

You offered a soft smile in return before the doors opened at the Concourse level and you were both forced to step out to let a series of people get off the elevator before stepping back on. The next floor was thankfully yours. Bradley gently grasped your hand to carefully guide you over to a classic Bronco in the prettiest shade of blue you had ever seen. Had a car ever suited its owner more? Unlocking the passenger door, he opened it for you, offering a hand to help you up onto the white vinyl seat.

“Thanks.” You hopped up, setting your bag in the footwell as he closed the door carefully before coming around to the driver’s side. You tugged off your lanyard and shoved it into the front pocket of your bag, not wanting to wear your identification badge out in public any longer than you already had.

The Bronco growled to life, and you struggled not to openly stare at his command of the vehicle. Thankfully, the drive to the restaurant was less than ten minutes and a parking spot proved shockingly easy to find. Somehow you had the wherewithal to add your name to the waitlist online during the drive over, so you only had to loiter in the lobby for fifteen minutes. Scrolling through the menu together with heads bowed precariously close over your phone, the feel of his breath caressing your cheek made it difficult to focus on food and beverage choices until two seats to open up at the counter.

Seated on the bar stools with Bradley’s knee grazing against yours, it was no easier to focus on the menu. A waiter stopped by to get some drinks started; Bradley ordered a beer and you managed to blurt out the name of one of the cocktails off the list. To your great relief, when you took your first sip, it was quite delicious, and the alcohol relaxed the tension in your limbs.

Sufficiently braced with liquid courage, you leaned in asking, “So where did you live before your recent move here?”

You were treated to the sight of his tongue swiping foam from his upper lip before he replied, “Virginia Beach, born and raised.” He tucked his chin into his chest, playfully chagrinned. “Promise not to think less of me?”

Laughing warmly, you shook your head, reassuring him. The pair of you became so involved in getting to know one another, trading questions back and forth, that when the waiter returned to take your food order, you looked up to him guiltily. Bradley easily placed his order, giving you time to quickly scan though the options and choose your meal as well. Trading bites of food and bits of personal information, before you realized it two hours had passed. The crowd at the restaurant had thinned somewhat and your fatigue snuck up on you, forcing you to try and smother a yawn behind the back of your hand.

“I should get you home to get a good night’s sleep for work tomorrow.” He sighed reluctantly, gesturing for the bill and insisting on paying the full total. “This is my thanks for the private tour, after all.” He teased in response to your protests, which were admittedly weakened by alcohol and lack of sleep.

Stepping out into the dark of evening, you hugged your jacket tighter around you as the warmth of the day had disappeared with the sun. “The Metro station is just two blocks that way,” you gestured, “so I’ll leave you here.”

“Oh, I’m driving you home, didn’t I tell you?” He shrugged when you shook your head, bewildered. “Well, I am, come on.”

“I live out past Dulles, it takes half an hour to drive out there and then you’ll have to come back to your place…” The words died on your lips as he slid his hand into yours once more and tugged you towards the Bronco.

“I don’t mind, I enjoy driving. And I’m guessing it’s faster than the Metro?” He raised an eyebrow, and you huffed in defeat before conceding with a nod. “Then it’s decided.”

Settled back in the front seat, he handed you his phone to input your address in the map app for directions. “I’m paying the tolls, though, ok?” You insisted stubbornly, pulling up a blank note on your phone. “I just need your licence plate number to pay online.” You typed it in carefully as he rambled it off easily, going to the Express Lanes website to sign up for a notification for when the tolls for today’s trips would be ready.

“Why do you live so far out of town?” He asked, turning on the radio to an oldies station but keeping the volume low, easily following the navigation instructions.

“I wanted outdoor space, a separate bedroom, and to be able to eat. That combination of things is easier to find outside DC, plus I don’t mind the commute. I listen to music and wake up slowly on the Metro. Being the first stop means I usually get a seat, too.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “So maybe living in a crappy studio with one window facing an air shaft for $1800 a month wasn’t my best choice?” He grinned ruefully.

“Leases aren’t forever? You can always move.” You nodded encouragingly. “Sometimes it takes a few times before you find the right place.”

“The included parking space is the best thing about it.” He chuckled and you laughed warmly in response.

“That will definitely have to be prioritized in any search parameters if you decide to start looking for a new place. Can’t leave this pretty vehicle just anywhere.”

He flashed you a smirk before pulling onto the toll road, glancing at his phone balanced on left his knee to confirm the exit number. You settled back into your seat lazily, watching him drive, listening to his music choice, finding an easy smile resting on your lips. It seemed all too soon that he was pulling off the exit ramp to Ashburn, heading towards your building.

Straightening in your seat, you clumsily kicked over your work bag, hearing some of the contents hit the floor mat. Cursing under your breath you leaned forward in the intermittent flashes of streetlights to gather some pens, lip balm, and your keys. Apparently, you had neglected to zip up the front pocket. You sat up as he turned into your apartment complex, a group of four apartment blocks around a play structure, barbeque area, and pool, guiding him to the building in which you lived. He pulled into a visitor parking space, and you hopped out of the car, scanning the floor to ensure you had all of your belongings before you heard Bradley’s voice behind you.

“Have everything?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You nodded, slinging your bag over your shoulder and walked with him up the stairs to your second-floor apartment. “This is me.” You turned to look at him softly. “Thank you again for driving me…and for dinner…”

“Thank you very much for a lovely day.” He smiled in returned.

The pair of you stood, neither moving, both watching the other. Perhaps waiting for an indication, or for someone to initiate something. Fearing the moment might evaporate, that he might turn and head home, you leaned forward pressing your lips against his cheek gently. He sighed softly as you pulled back and you snagged your lower lip with your teeth nervously, glancing at his face.

“We need to work on your aim, sweetheart.” He chided fondly as his hand moved to cradle the side of your face, guiding your lips to meet his warmly.

Your eyelids slid shut as you leaned into his kiss, shivering at the feel of his moustache tickling the tender skin of your upper lip tantalizingly.

“Better.” He rasped as he pulled back. “We’ll need to practice but for now you need to sleep a full night…” His hand caressed down your jaw to rest against the side of your neck, your eyes fluttering open lazily.

“Mmmhmm.” You replied wordlessly, licking your humming lips. “Good night, Bradley.” You managed to summon the words.

“Night, sweetheart.” He smiled fondly, watching you fumble with your keys until you were able to slide them home in the deadbolt and step inside.

Giving one final wave you stepped inside and closed the door with a dreamy sigh. Unfortunately for you, the fatigue from the car did not translate easily to sleep. You followed your normal routine, crawling into bed in your sleep shirt and pajama pants, turning out the light. Thoughts that had been kept at bay by the daylight, by Bradley’s warm and steady presence, immediately flooded your mind. Memories of the night before – a face contorted in centuries-old anguish, a dark and unfamiliar hallway, blood-soaked fabric, the gurgling sounds of a man drowning in his own blood, a pair of eyes vacant in death.

You must have tried for an hour, laying on each side, sticking a foot out of the covers because you were too hot, pulling it back in because you were too cold, before tossing the duvet aside in frustration. You were exhausted but sleep refused to come. Your mind refused to give you peace. Sliding a sports bra under your sleep shirt and a hoodie over top you grabbed your keys and phone, stepping outside for a walk. It had served you well in the past; when a project at work had you nervous, or when you were waiting for news of medical test results from a friend. The grounds of complex were tree-filled, safe, quiet. You could only hope a circuit of them would be enough to provide some relief tonight.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs you turned away from the parking lot, heading toward the courtyard, inhaling sharply as a man was walking towards you. Face illuminated by the security lights that ringed the building, you were struck not only by his longer sandy blond hair, pushed back carelessly from his handsome face, but his piercing green eyes. There was something unsettling about them – predatory, sinister, not unlike a cat preparing to toy with its meal. You offered a tight-lipped smile, not wanting to appear stand-offish to one of your neighbors, before continuing on your planned path. Feeling the hairs standing on end at the nape of your neck you risked a glance backward and exhaled in relief to see he was not following you.

Walking along the wrought iron fence, you made your way past the swing set, the wind moving the empty seats slightly as it picked up, and onward towards the barbeque area before your path was suddenly blocked by that same stranger from the hallway.

“Out for a stroll, Miss Intern?” He spoke smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of the South yet something about the way he spoke was utterly unfamiliar.

His gaze impaled you, your feet were rooted to the spot, and you found yourself unable to continue your walk.

“Can’t…sleep…” You murmured despite your inherent suspicion of him, your mind working as efficiently as wheels spinning in mud. Puzzling unhelpfully over the fact that his grey Henley shirt seemed several sizes too large for him.

His fingers reached out to brush along your cheek bone, the coolness of his touch making you wince. “Perhaps you are simply in need of companionship.”

“Mmmm.” you reply noncommittally, the world hazy. You watched wide-eyed as he stepped closer, his movements blurred while the sway of the tree branches in the distance behind him seemed impossibly slow.

 He slid his nose along your jaw before burying it against your neck below your ear. “You truly smell divine, please, I need to taste more. One drop is not enough.” He whispered, cool lips brushing against your flesh, making your full body shudder, goose flesh erupting across your neck. “I beg of you, Miss Intern.” His fingers curled into the thin fabric at your hips, pulling you closer.

Your eyes slid shut involuntarily. Why did he keep calling you that…

The sound of your name being shouted sharply across the courtyard pulled your attention and you turned your head in a daze to see Bradley hurrying toward you. The blond stranger was suddenly gone, sending you stumbling a few steps backward into a nearby picnic table. You leaned heavily against it, head swimming, as Bradley closed the distance between you with remarkable speed.

“Found your key card in my Bronco, thought you’d need this tomorrow” He spoke normally, not at all winded, your lanyard dangling from his index finger, but his eyes were darting around the darkened space. He leaned in closer his posture shielding you defensively. “You alright?” He looked you over, concerned.

“Oh shit, thank you so much” You tug your lanyard from his hand and tucked it into the pocket of your hoodie, straightening as your head cleared. “It’s late, thank you very much for coming back with it.” You continued, not really answering his question as you weren’t entireley certain what your response would be.

“I figured it was important…” He shrugged, pulling back slightly to give you some space. “What are you doing outside?”

You sighed deeply, glancing around before looking to his concerned expression. “I’m having trouble sleeping, honestly.” You swallowed tightly before it suddenly came pouring out of you. “Someone died in front of me last night.” Once you started speaking them, you found the words did not stop. The story was disjointed, by no means linear. You doubted Bradley would be able to fully understand what happened, you surely didn’t, but he stood there in the brisk Autumn wind, near midnight, listening to you ramble about the thoughts that had been plaguing you while you had been attempting to sleep.

Eventually you ran out of steam, ran out of things to say, a hush falling over the courtyard once more before he pulled you close into a warm embrace. You burrowed your face into his neck and squeezed your eyes shut against a sudden flood of tears, but they proved as unstoppable as the flow of words. His palm drew soothing circles on your back, and he pulled you closer as you dissolved into sobs, body shaking against his.

In a tremendous show of patience, he continued to hold you, waiting for your tears to subside. Eventually you were able to take a deep breath without it catching in your throat, and the ache in your chest had eased somewhat. You straightened carefully, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, eyes glancing at his shyly.

“Sorry about that…” You croaked and he shook his head quickly.

“No apologies necessary, but you’re freezing.” He frowned as his fingers swept away the last of your tears, feeling the chill in our skin. “Can I get you inside?” He asked hopefully and you nodded with a sniffle, in desperate need of some tissues.

Sliding his arm around your shoulders he led you back past the swings still dancing in the wind, down the hallway, and up the stairs to your door. You turned and hugged him tightly once more.

“Thank you yet again, Bradley. Good night for real.”

He squeezed you tightly in return. “Get some sleep for real, ok?” He murmured, kissing your forehead tenderly before ushering you inside.

You stepped into your apartment, shivering at the warmth awaiting you there, and glanced the doors out to your balcony, suddenly filled with the unusual urge to close the blinds. Yanking on the cord repeatedly, you sent the louvres flying toward the centre of the sliding doors before you tugged on the chain to spin them shut.

You felt instantly better once the night was shut out of your home. Making a circuit past the front door to ensure the deadbolt was lock and chain was in place, you finally returned to your bed, pulling on an extra blanket. Focusing on peaceful things like the feeling of Bradley’s arms around you, and the heavy exhaustion in your limbs, you finally convinced sleep to overtake you.

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Read Part Three

The Night Moves Masterlist

Tag list: @moonyinthestars

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Mohawk ironworkers who built the Chrysler Building, ca. 1930. For more on the Mohawks who built Manhattan's skyscrapers, see here.

Photo: Smithsonian Institution via the Daily Mail

[frogshunnedshadows]

Photograph, taken on a spring day, of one of the new Smithsonian owlets who fell out of a tower of the Smithsonian Institution Building, the "Castle". Richard L. Ault recaptured the bird and brought him back into the Castle.

The owl, perched on a desk, is shown hard at work.

[chronivore]

Copeland steam-propelled tricycle at the Smithsonian Institution Building. 1888

[reasoningdaily]

February is Black History Month The Library of Congress, National Archives and Records Administration, National Endowment for the Humanities, National Gallery of Art, National Park Service, Smithsonian Institution and United States Holocaust Memorial Museum join in paying tribute to the generations of African Americans who struggled with adversity to achieve full citizenship in American society.

Cultural Expressions

Culture shapes lives. It’s in the food people eat, the languages they speak, the art they create, and many other ways they express themselves. These traditions reflect the history and creative spirit of African American and other cultures of the African diaspora. Cultural Expressions is a circular, experiential, introductory space to African American and African diaspora culture.

16 Black Artists to Know

Are you a fan of Glenn Ligon, Alma Thomas, or Gordon Parks? The National Gallery of Art paired eight Black artists you might know with eight others to discover.

Image Credit: Sam Gilliam, Wissahickon, 1975, color screenprint on wove paper, Gift of Funds from the Roy Lichtenstein Foundation, National Gallery of Art, Washington, 2023.22.17

Your Park Story: Black History and Heritage

More than 400 years of Black history and heritage are preserved in national parks and communities around the country. Discover stories shared by people who formed powerful connections with these places of history, nature, and enjoyment. Inspire others by sharing your “park story”!

Image credit: Girl takes photo in front of the “We Can Do It” sign at Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park (NPS)

Beginning Feb. 10, 2023, the museum will present a second group of portraits from Brian Lanker’s 1989 book project “I Dream a World: Portraits of Black Women Who Changed America.”

Image credit: “Althea Gibson” by Brian Lanker. Gelatin silver print, 1988. National Portrait Gallery.

For Teachers

Put the power of primary sources to work in the classroom. Browse ready-to-use lesson plans, student activities, collection guides and research aids.

Image credit: “Frederick Douglass appealing to President Lincoln and his cabinet to enlist Negroes,” mural by William Edouard Scott, at the Recorder of Deeds building, built in 1943. 515 D St., NW, Washington, D.C. (Library of Congress)

Veterans History

African Americans serving in the military service throughout U.S. history have often fought on two fronts. fighting the actual enemy and fighting a system of segregation and exclusion.

Image credit: Violet Hill Gordon, 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion, Women's Army Corps (Library of Congress)

[lucienballard]

Bob George in the ARC NYC stacks. Photograph: unknown/ARC NYC ...

‘No one else is saving it’: the fight to protect a historic music collection ...

It all started in a loft in Tribeca, New York, long before it was a trendy neighbourhood. “I had 47,000 records and nobody wanted them,” recalls Bob George, who had just published a discography of punk and new wave music. “That led a lot of people coming to me and saying you have to save this stuff; no one else is saving it. That got the ball rolling in my loft in what is now fashionable Tribeca, which was an incredibly unfashionable war zone in 1974 when I was first there.”

George turned his record collection into the ARChive of Contemporary Music (Arc) in 1985 with co-founder David Wheeler. The non-profit music library and research centre now contains more than 3m sound recordings or over 90m songs, making it one of the biggest popular music collections in the world. Donors and board members have included David Bowie, Jonathan Demme, Lou Reed, Martin Scorsese and Paul Simon.

The Arc is not open to the public but has been a vital resource for film-makers, writers and researchers ranging from Ken Burns looking for a song for his series Baseball to the new Grammy Hall of Fame and Museum in Los Angeles needing cover art for its inducted recordings. Now, however, this unique treasure trove is under existential threat.

The Arc cannot remain at its current Hudson Valley premises indefinitely and is in need of a new and bigger home. “We have to move and we don’t know when we’ll have to move and the collection is really at risk because it’s all on pallets,” says George, who dreams of a patron like James Smithson, the British scientist who left his estate to the US to found the Smithsonian Institution. “We’re looking for someone to help us buy a very wonderful property or for us to build a new building on vacant land in upstate New York.”

After growing up in Youngstown, Ohio, George moved to New York in 1974 as a visual arts student and started collecting records as a DJ. In 1981 he released Laurie Anderson’s first single, O Superman, which sold nearly a million copies worldwide and made it to number on the UK singles chart. He was a guest on John Peel’s beloved BBC radio show, sneaking in little-known records from New York, and took music to European broadcasters too. People kept giving him records that other collections turned down.

Some of the 18,000 recordings in the Keith Richards Blues Collection. Photograph: Arc NYC

“I was doing the book and then doing Peel shows and it accidentally became this large collection that nobody wanted. They kept saying, oh, we collect classical, we collect Broadway, we collect ethnic music. I said, well, I have funk, reggae, African and hip-hop and they said, oh, no, we don’t collect any of that. Forty years later, I say, you put all those together and that’s what music has become.”

The simple goal of the archive, which has always had a peripatetic existence, is preservation. “We have no interest in quality,” George cheerfully admits. “It started that way from the very beginning because there’s no way to tell what’s valuable in the future. Everybody brings their own criteria and tastes to things in their own time. But the future is quite different, as we hope.”

The archive has never received aid from any city, state or federal organisation but its scale gives the Library of Congress a run for its money. It has absorbed major collections from musicians and fans and is home to most of Rolling Stone Keith Richards’ extensive blues inventory.

George dispatched two semi-trailers to a condemned house in Boston sinking under the weight of Jeep Holland’s set of more than 125,000 recordings and over 2,500 signed albums from the likes of the Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Marley and the Sex Pistols. “Going towards the bathroom, he has a gas stove, the pilot light is on, there are records in the oven. It was just a storage space ... His car had become so full of records that he abandoned it and rented a car.”

George has made repeat trips to countries such as Brazil, Cambodia, Colombia, Cuba, Japan, Jordan, Laos and Thailand. The Arc contains Demme’s personal collection of Haitian albums. More than 150,000 pieces of world music have been catalogued; there are plenty more to do. “We’ve tried to get as much of that material as possible so that collection is just fabulous.”

The Arc preserves copies of every recording in all known formats. It has electronically catalogued more than 400,000 sound recordings and digitised 200,000 with the Internet Archive – more than any other public university or private library in America. It also contains more than 3m pieces of material including photos, videos, DVDs, books, magazines, press kits, sheet music, ephemera and memorabilia.

The late Andy Rourke of the Smiths at Arc looking at Smiths records he had never seen. Photograph: Arc NYC

George says: “We catalogued 105,000 singles just recently; we have another 200,000 or 300,000 to go. This is the first way a band at one time got their feet in the water. They put out one or two or three singles. If they did hits, they got the chance to do an album and so much of this material does not exist on LP or CD. Little by little more of it might be streaming because of YouTube, as people can get away with murder on YouTube, which is great, but YouTube will disappear. Everything commercial will disappear.”

Among those who have turned to the archive is the Oscar-winning director Ang Lee, who wanted records by the singer Bert Sommer for his film Taking Woodstock. “The archive is amazing because we don’t know what we have until somebody needs it. We’ve been into the stacks and we found five LPs by Bert Sommer. For me, it’s like I have no idea who this guy is and what he did; he’s sort of a folkie. For Quincy Jones, we just sent him a list of the 8,000 things that he’s either produced or on.

“Research was how we basically stayed alive along with the largesse of the rock stars or celebrities that we had hooked up with. The idea was never to open to the public but that’s what we want to do now. I don’t think it’s untrue that we’re one of the largest in the world and that we want to make that available. We’ve tried to save two copies so there will always be a listening copy and then that would then become a listening library.”

George hopes the new archive will be open to students, educators, historians, musicians, authors, journalists and the general public. An anonymous donor has come forward with a million dollars to help realise that dream but more money is urgently needed. One possible new home is an abandoned IBM campus spanning 34 acres, although that would cost $8-10m. George is considering partnering with an upstate university and has plans to offer residencies for scholars.

“People could come in and produce a work, and that would go out into the world. It could be a blog, essay, tape, compilation, new recording, whatever. We’re really quite un-academic. I’m against it somewhat and I’d like people to have ideas and bring those ideas and put them back into the world as opposed to making it an interactive experience for everybody. I don’t want to be Disney World. It’s nice to have seminars. It’s nice to have listening parties. It’s nice to have dances.”

source

[rabbitcruiser]

Washington, D.C. was incorporated as a city on May 3, 1802. 

[evidenceof]

Paz Márquez-Benítez on the Philippines, Filipinos, after the Battle of Manila, after WWII:

"Except for masks of dust, all that we recovered from the fall-out, we were alive. And to the naked eye appear unscarred.  Extermination was not our lot; we were grateful and liberated to look for our own kind of dying. In being removed from the blow-up, we were not tragic in the grand sense. We are islanders; self-intoxicated, self-hypnotized. We cannot be but our own true lovers and faithful assassins; we sigh, looking at smuall parts of ourselves in tiny handmirrors held up to the cruelest light.  Enchanting no one then but ourselves, we hope to be the greatest sorcerer yet (as in Jorge Luis Borges' blinded eyes), who, by sleeping, "dreamed the universe." .../"

Manila found itself in the crossfire of the United States and Japanese forces in the Second World War, the Legislative Building, the Manila Post Office, and the Ayuntamiento among many landmarks were gunned and bombed to the ground. Imperialism is so embedded in us that we rebuilt movie theaters before we did our own houses after Manila was burned and gunned to the ground. So we could see Hollywood again. So we could shout, “Victory Joe! VICTORY JOE!” at the screens. At the same Allied forces that massacred an entire island population of Balangiga. The orders, “I want all persons killed who are capable of bearing arms in actual hostilities against the United States.” Waller asked how young. “Ten years,” Smith replied. Because we are a footnote in history, the dead are inconsequential, counted by the thousands and as backgrounds in photographs.

I'll never forget how years ago when I still worked in a museum, a representative from the Smithsonian met with us to discuss the lending 19th century Hidalgo paintings. She said, “this exhibit we want to set up might be problematic because you know the Smithsonian was one of the institutions that agreed to annexing the Philippines. We sent anthropologists and scientists to study the Philippines.”

She then very quickly laughed and said, “Thank god I wasn’t born then!”

Is pain inherited, do you think? Why is it that, I wasn’t born then, but reading the lists of the dead, seeing piles of Filipino soldiers in ditches, the ones we shipped off to World Fairs to be displayed in human zoos—why do I inherit pain while she can choose not to inherit their title as colonizer? We didn't die. Not really, not completely, not enough for the white man that made sure we remain haunted and hunted. Mangled islands trying to survive the only way we knew how. Several ways. By betraying ourselves or dying trying to fight for a nation we didn’t even know existed, for the promise of something better than a footnote.

[grison-in-space]

Currently reading A Fool's Errand by Lonnie Bunch III, which is his memoir of his time building the Smithsonian's National Museum of African American History and Culture as its first ever director. I'm struck reading it by several things: first, the warm pleasure of listening to Mr. Bunch talk about building something that is, objectively, a labor of love and a net good in the world. But I'm also struck by the skill and deftness of Mr. Bunch as a builder of people and an activist within systems: I can watch him carefully note, mention, and flatter people behind him to leave warm relationships in his wake. He balances momentum and control in the memoir such that the project of making the NMAAHC comes to seem like dancing: he controls the way he presents things according to the interests and contexts of his audience, and he often explains how members of the general public have shaped his framing and his thinking. He has a deft hand with a story to illustrate his thoughts and convey the importance of his mission, too.

Obviously this isn't the only kind of activism: Mr. Bunch is working within powerful existing institutions, which necessitates a certain amount of carefulness and political framing on his part. Activists working within institutions are most effective when paired with activists outside those institutions spurring them to change. But this kind of coalition building is incredibly effective when it comes to building organizations, no matter whether they're inside or outside the halls of power to start with. This book is almost a how to guide from a gifted master of history communication showing how to build complex, long running projects.

It's really very lovely.

[blurredcolour]

The Night Moves | Part Three

The Night Moves Masterlist

Alternate Universe

supernatural!Bradley Bradshaw x Female Reader; supernatural!Jacob Seresin x Female Reader

Summary: An internship with the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History should have been the highlight of your academic career. The perfect addition to your resume while you worked on your doctoral thesis. An interdepartmental assignment, however, sees your reality ripped apart by incomprehensible forces. Five tumultuous days will leave you forever changed and inextricably linked to two men born centuries apart.

Warnings: Angst, Language, Violence, Blood, Supernatural Themes, Historical Inaccuracies, Institutional Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ Only

Word Count: 4844

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

-Thursday-

“That’s it. Five-hundred tagged gala favors.” You exhaled in relief, tying the last bow and setting the final pouch into the box with the others.

“Thank fuck, that only took what, two hours?” Amira sighed dramatically, rolling her hazel eyes.

Chuckling softly, you shook your head at your fellow intern’s free use of curse words in the conference room. Granted it was nearly seven-thirty in the evening and the pair of you were probably the last ones in the building. “I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I volunteered to help Resource Development with this Food History Gala.”

“Hopefully the actual event is more exciting than stuffing rare seeds into velvet pouches for the well-heeled attendees.” She grinned, her uniquely asymmetrical face making the expression all the more mischievous.

“Well thanks to your dresses, we actually have a chance of blending in.” You echoed her grin, rising to your feet.

“My impeccable taste saves the day yet again.” She laughed brightly, her salon perfected platinum blonde locks brushing against her jaw as she walked with you. “Hey, my boyfriend and I are going out for Vietnamese, do you want to join us?”

“Oh, I appreciate the offer, really, but tonight I am taking a bath and crawling into bed early for the first time this week.” You shook your head emphatically, flicking off the lights and locking up the room behind you.

“Oh shit, yeah, that is completely fair. I honestly can’t believe you’re still doing this…” She shook her head as you made your way back to your shared workspace.

Shrugging your shoulders, you slid your hands into the pockets of your cozy sweater. “Looks good on the resume, impresses the facility, and RD emphasized the networking opportunities…It’ll be worth it.”

Amira retrieved all but the chosen dresses for tomorrow night’s gala, leaving those hanging in your cubicle to change into after work, while you grabbed your scarf, jacket, and work bag. Parting ways at the staff entrance, she headed for her boyfriend’s waiting Prius while you followed your usual path to the Smithsonian Metro station.

“Good evening, Miss Intern.” His voice cut through the darkness of the Mall and your head snapped in his direction as your feet stuttered to a stop.

Rising from a bench, the bench that you and Bradley had occupied just two nights previous while you awaited your ride, was the blond stranger from the courtyard last night. You watched as he tossed a takeout cup into a nearby garbage can and strode over to you easily.

“Who are you…” You breathed, flooded with a combination of both curiosity and trepidation.

“Lieutenant Jacob Seresin, at your service Miss Intern.” He grinned, teeth glinting sharply in the streetlights. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a slow, beverage-warmed kiss to your skin before slowly turning your hand in his, eyes falling to your inner wrist intently.

Furrowing your brows, the movement of your muscles slowed by some unseen force, you muttered your name, correcting him reflexively as irritation simmered within you. His eyes flickered to your face, luminated from within by something sinister as he repeated it reverently.

“What divine chance to happen upon you here. Might I tempt you with a stroll through the park?” Jacob asked as he straightened, your hand still ensnared in the dwindling warmth of his.

Your eyes ricocheted from his face to your hand and then out onto the Mall, feeling somewhat reassured by the lingering presence of tourists – it wasn’t that late, not yet eight o’clock. You turned back to eye the lieutenant sceptically, filled with a great deal of uncertainty about his invitation and yet brimming with the desire to know more about him. About why he kept showing up in the most unusual places. Why he kept calling you ‘Miss Intern.’ There was also the fact that your mouth seemed suddenly physically incapable of forming the word ‘no.’ That seemed to be the final deciding factor.

You nodded your agreement wordlessly and he grinned broadly, tucking your arm into his elbow, effortlessly guiding your body closer to his. He struck out along the path, leading you at a confident but leisurely pace. A chill bit at your skin as the night closed in and you wound your wool scarf tighter around your neck with your free hand.

“You are far too lovely to toil in a cruel place such as that.” He commented, glancing at you with a surprisingly tender expression.

“In a place like…the museum?” You tilted you head, finding it difficult, once again, to think clearly in his presence.

“A woman of your calibre ought to be cherished.” He replied and you barely registered that he was leading you away from the more popular attractions and instead guiding you across the Mall towards the temporarily closed Smithsonian Castle. “Treasured. Cared for.”

You scoffed weakly. “I like my job…” Every thought took forever to pass through your mind, as if it were flowing down a river of molasses. “Want to make a career of it…”

“You like the past, do you?” He probed as you passed the Folger Rose Garden, a place so green and cheerful during the day somehow haunting and lifeless after sunset.

As you nodded you were filled with the unsettling sensation that your head was weightless, barely tethered to your shoulders. “I find it fascinating.” You murmured as he turned the corner at the edge of Arts and Industries building, leading you into the dark collection of trees inside the Ripley Garden.

It had been quite sometime since you had passed another person, a fact that your befuddled state prevented you from registering.

“Was it fascinating the other day? Unearthing horrors that one so beautiful as you has no business being exposed to?” He raised an accusatory eyebrow and your throat clenched nervously.

“That was an unusual situa– wait…how did you…” You stumbled to a halt, and he turned back to face you.

“Never mind such vulgarities, pet.” He fairly purred, lifting your hand once again, face partially in shadow. “Please…” Guiding your inner wrist to his lips once more, he repeated his plea from the night before, “let me taste you…”

“What…” Eyes shooting wide, you shook your head, trying desperately to clear it as your pulse leapt at your throat. “Who are you?!” You asked again, voice no more than a thin hiss, trying to claw your way out of the fog that seemed to cloud your mind in his presence.

His green eyes looked up at you through his luscious lashes, glinting dangerously as you felt something sharp pressing against your skin before a searing pain blended with a scorching desire licked up your arm before spreading through your body. The desolate garden echoed with a mixture of moans echoing from each of your throats as you sank back onto a red brick retaining wall, your legs threatening to give out entirely.

Just as you began to struggle to keep your eyes open, overwhelmed by the sensations he was pulling from you, a figure collided with Jacob’s side. You yelped in shocked as his mouth was wrenched from your wrist, revealing to your eyes the welling of bright red blood. Panic rose swiftly within you, and you cast about for something to press against the now freely bleeding wound before your hand brushed against your scarf. Yanking it from your neck you wrapped it around your wrist tightly before turning your attention to the nearby sounds of struggle, blinking at the scene before you blearily.

Grunts and curses intertwined with inhuman snarling as they struggled for dominance on the brick pathway. Though the man initially had the advantage of surprise initially, Jacob rolled and pinned the attacker, striking a few blows to his face before tossing him aside carelessly. The hollow ringing of the lamppost as the man’s body collided with it had you flinching in fear, convinced he had broken his spine, and yet somehow, he was soon struggling back to his feet.

You gasped sharply as in the glow of that streetlamp, the man at last came into focus as one Bradley Bradshaw. At your sound, Jacob appeared momentarily distracted, glancing at you quickly, and Bradley took advantage of that distraction to lunge forward at Jacob once more. They tossed one another into bushes, over benches, and wrestled on the ground once more, the two men seeming a fairly equal match in strength.

A particularly brutal blow to the jaw left Jacob dazed enough to give Bradley the opportunity to reach into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing a long object you couldn’t quite discern at your current distance. That inhuman snarl fell from Jacob’s lips once more, and he shoved Bradley to the ground harshly before taking off in the opposite direction, leaving him laying on the pathway.

Pushing yourself to your feet, intent on making sure he was alright, you were startled when he was quickly at your side. He gently took hold of your forearm, lifting your scarf to take a peek at your wrist before pressing the fabric back down.

“Keep pressure on it.” He murmured, sliding an arm around your waist.

“What the fuck is going on…” You asked shakily, craning your neck to try and look over his face, assess his injuries after his brawl.

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

Bradley half carried you out of there, his arm waist bracing you tightly against his body while constantly reminding you to keep pressure on your wrist. The Bronco was waiting in the drop off zone in front the Castle, four-ways flashing, and you were promptly loaded into the front seat. He even put on your seatbelt, affording you the opportunity to observe the bruises, cuts, and abrasions to his face up close.

“You’re hurt!” You exclaimed lamely.

“I’ll be alright.” He grunted and shut your door carefully before hurrying around to the driver’s side and peeling out aggressively.

You clutched the door handle reflexively before quickly returning your hand back to putting pressure on your wrist before he had a chance to remind you again. “Bradley…”

He exhaled slowly before unlocking his phone handing it to you. “Can you put your address in again?” He licked his lips nervously, thanking you once you had returned it with navigation instructions playing. “I’m going to be as honest with you as I can be, and I apologize in advance for how difficult it may be to believe.”

“Bradley a man who keeps showing up randomly and makes me feel all weird when I’m around him and even though I know better I still follow him into dark places, just bit me…and then he threw you into a lamppost and your spine should be broken but it’s not and you’re going to be alright?!” Your voice took an a rather unattractive shrillness that had even you wincing and you swallowed, taking a slow breath before continuing more calmly. “Try me.”

“That man is a vampire. The sarcophagus opened by the Forensic Anthropology department was previously in the care of a society of individuals who very wisely keep sealed boxes shut because usually they have very bad things inside them. The fire, however, destroyed the box’s home and protector and the geniuses you work for let their curiosity get the best of them.”

Vampire. An undead, nightwalking, blood-sucking, vampire.

It was difficult to pay attention to anything he said after that word left his lips, but his glib insults directed at the Smithsonian institution raised your hackles and drew your focus once again.

“Bad things in boxes are not within the purview of scientific and historical study, Bradley.” You snapped defensively. “That sort of consideration appears nowhere in our standard operating procedures or in the risk/reward equations that are thoroughly considered before discovered remains are examined. Besides the decision was way above my pay grade.” You finished in a bitter mutter feeling suddenly rather culpable for releasing a monster from the eighteenth century into the modern world. The fingers previously holding your ruined scarf tightly to your wound shifting to rub the fabric against your skin as it began to itch a little.

Bradley’s fingers suddenly wrapped around your wrist, halting your movements with a firm yet gentle grip. “I know it’s itchy, that’s a good sign, but try not to scratch.”

You sighed heavily and leaned back into the seat, feeling an awful lot like a scolded child.

“I know you didn’t open the box.” He muttered gruffly, moving his hand to rest on your knee. “But that’s not all it took for him to get up and walk around. He would have gone centuries without blood. Someone had to wake him up.”

Glancing over at him, you watched as the intermittent illumination of oncoming headlights and streetlights highlighted his features, starting to wonder just how he knew so much about all of this when Jacob’s initial tortured, mummified appearance came back to you. “It was deeply unsettling to be in the room with him like that…I tried to convince myself that it was just because of normal desiccation but…” You trailed off.

“He would have suffered as he starved.” Bradley agreed, squeezing your knee. “You weren’t imagining it.”

“I was so freaked out I panic-signed the forms and gave myself a –” The words died on your lips, eyes widening in alarm as those three innocuous seconds; the slicing of your finger, the shaking of your hand, the scatter of blood drops, registered in a new light.

Bradley said your name, tone low and apprehensive. “What did you give yourself? What happened in there?” His grip tightened on your knee, and you tensed.

“Papercut.” You replied meekly, grimacing at he uttered a harsh ‘fuck’ under his breath.

“That’s why he’s so obsessed with you.” He turned onto the exit to Ashburn. “He had the tiniest of tastes after hundreds of years and now you’ve become some kind of fixation.”

“So, he’s going to keep following me? Trying to bite me? Because I’m a fucking klutz!?”

“I’ve honestly never seen it before, but it seems that it’s the case, yes.” Bradley replied, pulling up at your building, turning to you at your noise of dismay. “Hey, it’s going to be ok. Come on, let’s get you inside. He cannot enter your home unless you invite him. You must never ever invite him in, no matter how persuasive he is.”

He unbuckled your seatbelt before climbing out of his side, coming around to help you out but you found yourself eyeing him suspiciously. “Bradley…why do you know so much about this?” You looked him over, still seated in the car, before reaching out to grasp his jaw. “You…you’re not like him, are you?” Shifting your thumb to press against the centre of his chin you pushed down, forcing his mouth open to inspect his teeth.

All you saw were two rows of perfectly normal teeth, including average canines, and his lips twitching into a smirk. Releasing his face, you slid from the car warily.

“I am not. Can I prove it to you?” He asked and you nodded slowly, still watching his every move closely. “Let’s head up to your apartment.”

Pulling your keys from your bag, you followed him up the stairs, finding your fingers anything but dextrous as you dropped them twice onto your doormat as you tried to select the right key for your deadbolt. Bradley retrieved them for you the second time and had you to point out the correct key before unlocking the door.

“Have you ever invited me in?” He asked and you shook your head, watching him step over the threshold and into your apartment before turning back to reach a hand out to you.

Hesitating a moment, you considered the facts – he had a suspicious wealth of knowledge about vampires, and yet he had saved your life at least twice now. If he wanted you dead, it would have been quite easy to let the undead lieutenant have his way with you. Swallowing tightly, you set your hand in his, allowing him to guide you into your own home and down the hall toward the bathroom. You were somewhat soothed by the fact that he seemed to be guessing about the direction in which it lay before trying all the light switches until the room was illuminated.

Gesturing for you to sit on the edge of the tub you watched as he opened the medicine cabinet to find some rubbing alcohol and bandages before coming to kneel in front of you and carefully unwrap your scarf from your wrist. You winced, squinting one eye shut as the wool fibres pulled at the barely dried blood but did your best not to complain.

“Sorry.” He muttered, tossing the ruined garment into the garbage can behind him, before sliding you along the porcelain surface towards the tap.

Bradley turned on the water and adjusting the temperature until it was comfortably warm before guiding your arm beneath the stream. You watched as the water sluiced over the patches of dried blood, turning pink as it swirled the drain, revealing two small puncture wounds beside the tendons running up the centre of your wrist. Bradley used the soap from your counter to carefully clean your forearm before patting it dry. He then prepped a cotton swab with some rubbing alcohol and looked up to you from his kneeling position, expression apologetic.

“I’ll try to be quick, but this will sting.”

You nodded in understanding, bracing yourself as he quickly dabbed at each of the marks marring your skin. Tucking your lips under your teeth you swallowed your hiss but still flinched, the reaction involuntary in the face of the brief, stinging pain. Thankfully Bradley was quick, true to his word, and applied a wide bandage with a soothing antibacterial cream. “These heal fairly easily, just remember not to scratch.”

You nodded quickly, watching him stand and dispose of the garbage from his application of first aid. “Thank you.”

“Let’s get some food into you.” He took your hands gently, helping you to your feet and you reached out slowly to brush your fingers along a nasty cut on his cheekbone.

“Let me clean you up first.” You protested quietly. “Least I can do.”

“That’s fine, it’ll heal by tomorrow.” He insisted trying to pull you toward the kitchen, movements somewhat stiff, reminding you of his less than gentle collision with a lamppost.

“Please Bradley, let me look at your back at least…” You insisted stubbornly, stepping around him awkwardly in the limited space to carefully push up his jacket and the shirt beneath.

The ugly black bruise, streaking diagonally across his back, made you exhale shakily. “This has gotta hurt like hell…”

“I’ve had worse…” He rasped bravely and you let out an exasperated huff, rolling your eyes.

“I don’t care if you’ve been hurt worse in the past, you’re hurt badly enough right now. I’ve got bruise cream around here somewhere, can I please put some on this?”

He glanced back at you over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not going to let this go, are you.”

“The chances are slim.” You admitted with a shrug, causing his lips to twitch fondly.

“Fine.” He grumbled, shrugging out of his jacket which you caught, sliding it down his arms and hanging it on the doorknob as he carelessly pulled off his thin black sweater.

You turned back to a very shirtless Bradley Bradshaw, stunned in a stupor for the second time that evening as your eyes traced over the well-defined muscles of his back. He was still tanned from the summer, skin dotted with beauty marks begging to be kissed, and more than a few scars confirming tonight had not been his first fight.

“Cream?” He prompted, voice laced with a blend of cockiness and teasing.

“Right.” You replied quickly and dove into the cupboard beneath the sink, riffling about for your less commonly used first aid supplies, surfacing with the tube of bruise cream.

Taking a fortifying breath, you applied a dollop to your fingertips before dotting it lightly along the bruise down his back. “Please tell me if I’m pressing too hard.” You urged him, waiting for his nod before carefully beginning to rub the cream into his skin.

You took solace in the fact that the tension in his back and shoulders seemed to ease as you worked, turning to wash your hands once the injury was sufficiently covered. “All done. You sure I can’t look at your face?”

He turned and sat on the edge of the tub, the unofficial treatment spot you had recently occupied, his shirt still in his hand, and looked up to you expectantly. “If you must.”

Stepping closer you leaned in to examine his face, washing the cuts and abrasions and applying some cream to the bruises. “Does it at least feel better?”

“Yes.” He admitted grudgingly. “Thank you.” He nodded and you smiled a little, cleaning up as he stood to pull his sweater back on. “Now I’m starving so you must be at the very least vaguely hungry?”

Chuckling softly, you led him to the kitchen, digging around in your cupboards for something simple to make. You glanced at him as he pulled out plates and cutlery, setting the small table in the dining room. “You know you never answered my question…How do –”

“I know so much about all this?” He finished your question for you, eyes focused on setting the forks, knives, and spoons just right. “I come from a family of vampire hunters. My father did this before me, and his father before him. I’ve been assigned to neutralize this threat.”

You brain once again snagged on one word in an explanation he provided and seemed unable to move on. Assigned. “This is your profession.”

“There’s a bit more to it than that. Genetics.” He laughed dryly. “Physical abilities I’ve inherited from my family. Anyone can learn to hunt vampires, but they don’t have the strength, speed, and healing that we do.”

“So, when you do…neutralize…the lieutenant then, you get a new assignment?” You looked back to your cutting board, continuing the bit of chopping before you.

“The lieutenant?” He raised an eyebrow and came over to lean against the counter beside you. “That man is a vampire, nothing more. The person who he was before he was turned was murdered in the process. All that remains is a creature that survives off the blood of its victims. And that creature is obsessed with you.” You swallowed tightly, setting your knife down on the cutting board and looking up at his determined face, an expression you had yet to see him wear. “So yes, once I kill him and neutralize the threat against you and all of Washington, I will get a new assignment and go take care of some other vampire.”

“You kiss all your assignments?” You asked him acidly and though you immediately regretted it, you had no idea how to take it back.

Whirling and stalking over to the stove, you tossed the ingredients from your cutting board into the hot frying pan. The only sound filling the kitchen was the sizzling as they cooked.

“That was unprofessional and I’m sorry.” He muttered after several minutes of awkward silence passed, making you jump slightly and glare back at him. “It was not supposed to happen. You were a lead and I got very,” he sighed heavily, slowly unfurling the fists clenched at his sides “very distracted.”

“Hm. I guess I should apologize too, then.” You replied though your tone was not at all remorseful.

“Don’t bother, you had no idea.” He replied flatly before running a hand through his slightly dishevelled curls. “Look, I get that you are angry. I would love to give you your space, however I think that my target will be back, and I do not feel comfortable leaving you alone.”

Loathe to admit it, Bradley did have a point. The lieutenant, you stubbornly though of him as, had been in your courtyard last night. He knew where you lived, and it would be in your best interest to keep a vampire hunter close at hand just in case. Even if he did seem to have a loose sense of professionalism.

“Good, I made too much food for just me anyway.” You replied and dished equal portions onto the plates he had set on the dining table before turning to get yourself something to drink. “Water?” You offered reaching for a second glass.

“Please.” He replied quietly and you set two full glasses on the table before tucking into your meal.

The pair of you ate in silence, the sound of cutlery on china filling the void, until that began to grate on your nerves too. And your simmering curiosity boiled over. “So, your whole family does this?” You asked quietly, taking a sip of water.

He let out a breath of relief and nodded, swallowing his bite. “My father was born into it, my mom married into it.” At the mention of his mother, he seemed to remember his manners. “Dinner is delicious, thank you for cooking.”

“You’re welcome.” You took another bite, mulling over all that he had shared since he interrupted the lieutenant in the park. “So do you…get to retire or?” He stilled a moment, bite poised just in front of his mouth, and you tensed realizing you had hit a nerve. “Sorry, forget about it.” You added quickly, shoveling the last of your food onto your fork and into your mouth before standing to go fill the sink with water to wash up.

His plate landing on the counter beside you startled you again, driving home just how tired and overwhelmed you were by the events of the last three days. “I’ll wash you dry?” He offered, rolling up his sleeves.

Nodding silently, you stepped aside to let him take over the sink, grabbing a tea towel from where it hung on the oven handle. “Most of us don’t make it to retirement.” He suddenly answered your question and you frowned.

“Bradley, I’m sorry you don’t have to…” You trailed off as he shook his head and set a clean glass in the drain tray. You picked it up to dry as he continued.

“My dad died when I was two, I really don’t remember him other than the stories people tell me about him. My uncle, who’s not really my uncle but might as well be, he’s a hunter too. Was my dad’s best friend and kind of filled in for him. He’s the oldest hunter I’ve ever heard of.” He spoke to the bubbles of dish soap in the sink as he scrubbed the cutlery, the plates, and then the pots and pans. Not once meeting your eyes.

Guilt wrenched at your heart for as hurt as you felt by his earlier revelation about what he was doing in your life, it by no means meant you wished for him to suffer. “Would you ever…want to do something else?” You asked quietly after a few beats of silence.

He looked to you for the first time in a while, face awash in confusion as though he had never once considered anything else. “I have no idea what that would be. I was born for this. Raised for it. My whole community is built around it.” He shrugged. “It is what it is.” He turned back to the frying pan, carefully scrubbing it clean before pulling the plug from the drain.

“Thanks for your help.” You commented lamely. “I’ll make up the pullout couch so you can have the bed…I don’t think you’ll fit on the pullout.” You laughed once, eyeing his height.

He blinked and shook his head. “Oh, I won’t be sleeping tonight. Night is the only time vampires can be up and about. The only time my target is a threat. Would you mind if I made some coffee, though?”

Shaking your head quickly you got him set up for his night watch before a yawn overtook you.

“You should really get some sleep.” He murmured and you swallowed painfully, very much wishing you could read more into his concern for your well being, but painfully aware that was no longer a possibility, what with his renewed sense of professionalism and all.

You should not even want him to care, anyway, not after his duplicitousness. But ‘should’ rarely mattered when feelings were concerned.

“Yeah, I think I will. Good night, Bradley.” You nodded.

“Night.” He offered a thin-lipped smile, and you paused a second, waiting for the addition of ‘sweetheart’ before realizing you were probably not going to hear that from him again.

Turning quickly, you did your utmost to walk calmly down the hall, shutting the door to your bedroom behind you, lest your complete lack of a poker face expose your disappointment.

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Read Part Four

The Night Moves Masterlist

Tag list: @moonyinthestars, @roger-that-cap, @gaminffnerd, @blckgrl-sunflower

[newyorkthegoldenage]

In 1929, the concept of "landing fields" for air mail and passenger planes atop buildings in congested cities enjoyed a vogue. This sketch proposed one such platform for the top of Penn Station and the adjacent General Post Office.

Photo: Smithsonian Institution